Welcome to Dispatch: U.S. Military History Magazine. This is “This Week in U.S. Military History,” where we walk through key moments that share this week on the calendar. Today we’re exploring events from March third, two thousand twenty six through March ninth, two thousand twenty six.
Across these same days in earlier years, the calendar lines up with some of the most consequential and debated moments in United States military history. Sailors and Marines stormed island forts to secure precious powder, volunteers held their ground in a doomed mission at the edge of empire, and soldiers opened new fronts from the deserts of the Southwest to the forests of Germany. This span of early March carries us from the age of sails and smoothbore cannon through ironclads, industrial war, and the dawn of the helicopter and jet age. Along the way, amphibious operations, national mobilization, border security, and overseas commitments all change shape, even as the need for courage under fire does not. This Week in U.S. Military History is part of Dispatch: U.S. Military History Magazine, developed by Trackpads dot com, and these stories show how fast the character of war can shift while sacrifice and duty remain constant.
Jumping ahead to March sixth, eighteen thirty six, we come to the fall of the Alamo during the Texas Revolution. After nearly two weeks of siege, Mexican forces under Antonio López de Santa Anna stormed the old mission compound in San Antonio, where a mixed group of Texian settlers and volunteers from the United States had chosen to stand and fight. They held their ground despite orders to withdraw, hoping their sacrifice would at least delay the Mexican advance. In the final assault the garrison was overwhelmed and killed almost to the last man, including leaders such as William Travis, James Bowie, and David Crockett. At the time the Alamo was a clear defeat, but it very quickly turned into a powerful rallying symbol, summed up in the cry “Remember the Alamo.” When the United States and Mexico fought a larger war a decade later, many American soldiers carried that phrase and the story of the mission into battle, making the Alamo a crossroads of regional rebellion, continental expansion, and the emerging idea of a particularly American heroic last stand.
On March ninth, eighteen forty seven, a generation after New Providence, the United States undertook a far larger and more complex amphibious operation near the Mexican port of Veracruz. General Winfield Scott’s army, supported by a strong naval flotilla, came ashore by surfboat in carefully planned waves along an open beach. Thousands of soldiers landed in good order with remarkably few casualties in the first assault, then tightened a ring around the city. The siege that followed forced Veracruz to capitulate and opened the road inland toward Mexico City, allowing the United States to strike directly at the enemy’s heartland. The Veracruz operation showed that an army could be projected from sea to shore in strength, supplied over a beachhead, and used to attack deep inland. It became a case study in coordination between the Army and the Navy, with hard-earned lessons about embarkation, ship-to-shore movement, and coastal logistics that were studied again before landings in North Africa and across the Pacific, marking a shift from frontier campaigns to large overseas expeditions as a central military problem.
Early March of eighteen sixty two reminds us that the Civil War’s western theater included more than great river battles. On March seventh, eighteen sixty two, Union forces under General Samuel Curtis met a Confederate army led by Earl Van Dorn near Pea Ridge, along the Missouri–Arkansas border. The fighting unfolded over two days in tangled woods and at key crossroads such as Elkhorn Tavern, where control of roads meant control of supply and movement. Van Dorn attempted an ambitious march to envelop the Union line, but difficult terrain, poor coordination, and tenacious Union resistance blunted his attack. When the battle ended, Confederate hopes of reclaiming Missouri had largely collapsed. The Union victory at Pea Ridge helped secure the state and the central Mississippi Valley, protected important supply routes, and freed Federal forces for operations elsewhere in the western theater, illustrating how logistics, leadership, and local geography can outweigh numerical bravado.
Just two days after Pea Ridge opened, another revolution in warfare took place on March ninth, eighteen sixty two, on the waters of Hampton Roads in Virginia. The Union ironclad Monitor faced the Confederate ironclad Virginia, rebuilt from the scuttled Merrimack, one day after the Virginia had badly damaged wooden Union warships. For hours the two armored vessels circled, rammed, and fired at close range, with shots that would have shattered older hulls glancing off thick iron plating. The duel ended without either ship sinking the other, but the verdict was clear: wooden ships of the line were now obsolete against armored, steam-powered vessels. Navies around the world took careful note, and both Union and Confederate shipyards accelerated work on new ironclads and coastal defenses. For the United States, the Monitor’s stand preserved control of a vital harbor and marked the beginning of a long preoccupation with technological edge at sea, from revolving turrets and steel fleets to aircraft carriers and submarines.
As the Civil War ground into its third year, the Union’s volunteer pool began to thin, and the government faced the hard truth that enthusiasm alone would not sustain huge field armies. On March third, eighteen sixty three, the Enrollment Act became law, creating the first nationwide system of conscription in United States history. The act required eligible men to enroll for potential service but allowed individuals to pay a fee or hire substitutes, a compromise that tried to balance military necessity with political realities. In practice the draft helped keep regiments filled and provided a framework for tracking manpower across states, making it easier to plan and sustain campaigns. At the same time, it exposed deep class and racial tensions, most dramatically in the New York City draft riots later that summer. For the Army, the Enrollment Act represented a shift toward centralized control of recruitment and a recognition that modern war demanded sustained national mobilization, an idea later revisited in selective service systems and continuing debates over how best to raise and maintain a force in times of crisis.
On March ninth, nineteen sixteen, just before the United States entered the First World War, the Army found itself responding to a different kind of threat much closer to home. In the early hours of that morning, fighters loyal to Mexican revolutionary leader Francisco “Pancho” Villa crossed the border and attacked the town of Columbus, New Mexico, along with a nearby Army camp. The raid killed soldiers and civilians, burned buildings, and shocked a country that had long assumed the borderlands were relatively secure. President Woodrow Wilson ordered a Punitive Expedition under General John J. Pershing to pursue Villa into northern Mexico, a campaign that tested new tools such as motor trucks and early military aircraft. Although Villa himself was never captured, the operation gave future First World War leaders valuable experience in large-scale movement, supply, and combined-arms tactics in difficult terrain. It also underscored that the defense of the United States homeland could be challenged by irregular forces, not only formal armies.
By March seventh, nineteen forty five, in the closing months of the Second World War in Europe, the Rhine River stood as a major natural barrier shielding the heart of Germany. Soldiers of the United States Ninth Armored Division reached the town of Remagen and were astonished to find the Ludendorff railroad bridge still standing despite repeated German attempts to demolish it. Acting quickly, small assault groups dashed across under fire, secured a foothold on the far bank, and allowed engineers to strengthen the structure against further attacks. Within days, thousands of troops, tanks, and trucks were streaming over the bridge and associated pontoon crossings, building a bridgehead that outflanked German defenses along much of the river. The seizure of the Ludendorff Bridge sped the collapse of organized resistance west of the Elbe River and became a textbook example of seizing fleeting opportunities in combat. For the United States Army, Remagen highlighted the value of initiative at the small-unit level and the importance of bridging and engineering units in modern warfare.
That same date on the calendar, March ninth, nineteen forty five, three years and an ocean away from Hampton Roads and decades after Veracruz, marked one of the most destructive air raids in history. On that night, United States Army Air Forces B twenty nine bombers carried out a low-level incendiary attack against Tokyo, dropping a mix of bombs designed to ignite the city’s tightly packed, largely wooden neighborhoods. Fanned by strong winds, the resulting firestorm consumed entire districts, killed tens of thousands of people, and left large parts of the capital in smoking ruins. Strategically, the raid signaled a shift from high-altitude precision bombing to area firebombing aimed at breaking Japan’s industrial capacity and civilian morale. It also raised enduring questions about the human cost of strategic bombing campaigns, questions that would only deepen with later attacks on other Japanese cities and the use of atomic weapons. For American air planners, Tokyo’s devastation seemed to confirm the power of air-delivered fire to alter the course of a war, even as it forced leaders and citizens to grapple with the ethical boundaries of modern airpower.
Two decades after Remagen and Tokyo, another conflict drew the United States into a deeper and more visible commitment far from home. On March eighth, nineteen sixty five, United States Marines waded ashore near Da Nang in South Vietnam, officially arriving as combat troops to protect the important air base there. Until that point, most American personnel in the country had been framed as advisors and support teams, even as their numbers grew and their roles blurred into combat. The image of Marines stepping off landing craft in full combat gear, greeted by South Vietnamese officials and cameras, signaled a new phase in the war and a significant escalation of American involvement. Over the months that followed, troop levels surged, and fighting shifted from a limited advisory mission to sustained ground combat against both Viet Cong guerrillas and North Vietnamese regulars. The Da Nang landing has come to stand as a dividing line in United States military history, marking the transition from indirect support to direct large-scale intervention in Southeast Asia.
Across these seven days on the calendar, we can trace an arc from small colonial raids to mass firebombing, and from frontier forts to industrial river bridges and distant air bases. Each event reflects a moment when the United States military was pushed to adapt to new technologies, new forms of conflict, or new political realities, whether in the form of ironclads, conscription laws, motorized columns, or jet-age air campaigns. The stories of New Providence, the Alamo, Veracruz, Pea Ridge, Columbus, Remagen, Tokyo, and Da Nang also remind us that decisions made in committee rooms, command posts, and cockpits have lasting consequences for those who fight and for those who live in the war zones around them. For veterans, families, and students of history, revisiting these anniversaries offers a chance to see connections across eras and to reflect on how today’s force carries forward both lessons learned and burdens inherited.