1901

7

P ATRICK MAHAN REGRETTED the delay in his journey to the front, but there was little he could do. With the death of the two servants in the attempted robbery, he had assumed responsibility for Katrina Schuyler and the refugee, Molly Duggan. The first thing to do was see to Molly’s health. They found a doctor who treated her physical wounds and assured them she would be all right with time. What mental wounds she’d incurred were beyond anyone’s estimate. It sometimes seemed to Patrick and Katrina that the whole ugly incident with the German soldier had been blotted from Molly’s mind once she told them of it. But then something about Germany or the Germans would arise in conversation and they could see her hatred. Nevertheless, with the resilience of a youth who was still almost a child, she soon became relatively cheerful and talkative, and assumed the role of assistant to Katrina. Patrick almost thought of her as Katrina’s maid, but that wasn’t quite right. The girl was very bright and reasonably literate, considering her tough urban background and her history as an immigrant. Until recently, she had been well cared for.

Katrina accepted the inevitability of the situation and seemed to enjoy Molly’s company. Although Katrina had been shaken by the attempted robbery, she seemed to have put it behind her. She was, however, aware that she was growing more and more dependent on Patrick, and she wondered about it. He certainly did not resemble what she had once thought a knight-errant should look like, but he was quite attractive. He was tall, about six feet, and surprisingly muscular. And, as befits an officer, he had a commanding presence. But it quickly melted when they talked quietly together. He had a slightly receding hairline, and she imagined he would be bald in a decade or two and decided it might suit him. There was a small scar on his cheek and she wondered what caused it. A Spanish bayonet? She was also pleased and surprised to find him almost as well traveled and educated as she was. She had a strong dislike for stupid men and men who thought Katrina Schuyler was stupid. Patrick Mahan did not possess either flaw.

All three of them, while relieved to find the escape portion of their journey over, were saddened at breaking up. The women would stay behind while Patrick rode on to find the armies. To no one’s surprise, there was a Red Cross camp north of Stamford, Connecticut, where Katrina’s and Molly’s services were gratefully accepted. When they parted, Molly gave Patrick an impulsive hug, and Katrina felt compelled to follow suit. Although amused at Molly’s embrace, Patrick seemed a little taken aback at Katrina’s. His response amused her. Brave soldier!

Patrick was thinking of that hug and the surprising warmth and strength of Katrina’s slender body, and how involuntarily monastic a soldier’s life often is, while he rode westward alone toward White Plains, New York. He halted as the distant sound of thunder rumbled from the hills to his front.

Thunder? Thunder, hell! That was artillery! He spurred his horse to a gallop and rode in what he thought was the right direction. What had Napoleon said? Ride to the sound of the guns! At least and for once, he was wearing a proper uniform.

He had heard disturbing information that a number of militia units had been called up by the governors of at least three states and were converging westward in the general direction of the rumored location of German outposts, just east of White Plains. What in God’s name, he asked himself, were they going to attempt? Was there a plan? A leader? He doubted the existence of either. If the militia’s dismal performance in the Spanish war was any indicator, the best that could occur would be chaos, and the worst, disaster.

Patrick had passed a number of poorly armed and poorly dressed militia units heading in the same direction as he was, but he had also seen others heading north, which further reinforced his conclusion that no one was in charge and that there was no coherent plan.

After a while, he slowed his horse to a trot and listened as the cannonading became sharper and was punctuated by the distant rattle of rifle and machine-gun fire. Then it seemed to cease altogether and the land became eerily silent as the sounds of birds and buzzing insects returned.

The first soldiers he saw were individuals running in panic. He made no attempt to stop them. They were the first casualties and they wouldn’t be useful until their terror abated. God only knew what they’d just seen, but they were through for at least this day.

Even so, he yelled at them and tried to get information. “Boys, what the hell’s going on? Why’re you running?”

One skinny, terrified lad who looked little more than fifteen stared at him, eyes wide with fear. “Everybody’s dead. Germans killed ‘ em all. You better run too!”

Patrick rode on to a fork in the dirt road that commanded a good view. After a while he was able to discern groups of men coming through the brush and trees. As he saw more, he realized that some were coming back in relatively good order, whereas others appeared leaderless and confused, separated from their units by the shock of whatever battle had just transpired.

No use going after individuals, he decided, and urged his horse over to a group of a hundred or so men led by a stocky and sweaty-faced major who slogged along on foot.

“Major, who is in command here?” Patrick asked.

The major, who looked to be in his midforties, responded without raising his head. “Colonel Blaney of Massachusetts, if the dumb shit is still alive, that is.” The major was angry, his face reddened by exertion.

Patrick leaned over in the saddle. “And who are you?”

“Jonathan Harris, Connecticut Militia. Now, who the fuck are you?”

“Major,” Patrick snarled, deciding to take immediate control of the situation, “as of this instant I am your commanding officer, and unless you wish to be shot for insubordination as well as for running from the enemy, you will acknowledge that simple fact and commence obeying orders.”

Major Harris blinked and took in the fact that the man on horseback was not only his senior but regular army and immediately decided to obey. “Yes, sir,” Harris said as he smiled slightly and actually saluted. “What’ya have in mind?”

Patrick ordered Harris to take his men and fan out in a screen to gather in as many of the retreating soldiers as possible. They were to direct them to a large and reasonably open field, where officers were to identify themselves and begin rounding up men in their units.

Patrick watched for a few minutes until he was confident that his orders were being obeyed. He was puzzled by the absence of actual casualties. Had everyone run before the guns could do much damage? There was only a handful of wounded, but most of the men looked scared. It did not appear to have been a good day for American arms.

Patrick then galloped hard down the dirt road and repeated the performance every time he found a good-sized group of men who appeared to have a leader. He was surprised at how readily he was obeyed, the major’s first reaction notwithstanding. The men were, of course, confused and in desperate need of direction.

“Colonel Mahan, sir.”

Patrick turned. Who the hell besides Harris knew his name? The speaker was a stocky black man with the uniform and insignia of a sergeant major in the 10th Cavalry. “You know me, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. Esau Jones, battalion sergeant major, 10th Cavalry, sir.” Jones saluted.

Patrick returned it. “Good to see you, Jones,” he said, although he couldn’t remember the man. He had spent only a few months as a young lieutenant with the 10th, and later they were the “other” unit that stormed San Juan Hill. History immortalized the Rough Riders and conveniently forgot the black soldiers of the 10th Cavalry who charged alongside them.

“Jones, steal a horse and come with me.”

Jones simply took one from a confused private and rode on with Patrick as he tried to halt the flow of men. After a while, they returned to the field where Major Harris, his face even redder than before, was trying to bring order from chaos. There were now several thousand men in the field, and dozens of officers marched back and forth hollering the names of their units and trying to attract followers. Had it not been so tragic, it would have been farcical.

Patrick saw casualties and realized that Harris’s group had been lucky. There were scores of moaning, crying wounded lying in rows and being attended to by volunteers who did their best in the face of horror. Some of the silent had already died. Patrick could only nod when Harris told him he’d sent to the nearby towns for medical help and to find permanent places to care for the wounded. There was nothing else to be done.

It was beginning to look as though Patrick had gathered up the greater portion of the “army” that had taken part in an abortive attack on an advancing German column. He could count six militia regiments represented on his field: three from Massachusetts, two from Connecticut, and one from New York.

In conversations with Harris, Jones, and others, Patrick learned that the major culprit was indeed a Massachusetts colonel named Charles Blaney. Blaney, whose brother-in-law was a congressman, had arrived from his home in Springfield, Massachusetts, at the head of his local regiment and was deferred to by the other Massachusetts officers because of his political influence. In all fairness to the man, Patrick realized he must have also been a natural leader who saw a job that needed to be done and tried to do it.

Upon being informed that a force of Germans was to his front, Blaney had prevailed upon all three of his state regiments and at least three others to advance against the enemy. He had foolishly believed that his force would prevail and he would be able to drive back the German force.

“Of course,” said Harris, “we did no scouting and had no artillery. We moved out for about an hour when we saw our first Germans. Skirmishers. We shot at them and they moved back. We stupidly thought they were retreating, then we stumbled onto the entire German column. Shit, they cut us to pieces.”

Sergeant Jones agreed. “Colonel, it was awful. One minute we were runnin’, whoopin’, and hollerin’, and the next minute machine guns and rifles we couldn’t see were cutting our men down. Then they started firing their cannon into us. Nothing missed. Some of us fired back for a few minutes, but it was too much. Then we all just ran.” He shook his head sadly. “Wasn’t nothin’ like Cuba. Nothin’ at all.”

Jones’s part of the tale had an even sadder ending than the simple defeat. He, along with three others from the 10th, had been in the area to recruit from the sizable colored population and had had the bad luck to be there when Colonel Blaney decided to forge an army. Blaney thought it appropriate for the four regular army men to accompany him as he led the assault. Although they didn’t think it right, they also knew better than to disobey the orders of white officers.

“Blaney stood there for a minute when the Germans opened fire,” Jones said. “It was like he never expected nothin’ like it. He wasn’t no coward, not at all. He just stood there until he took a bullet in the gut and started screamin’. Then the others ran off and left him. He has to be dead by now.”

German skirmish lines moved out to take the field back from the retreating Americans. It was then that Sergeant Jones realized the other three men weren’t with him. “I looked back and saw all three lying there. Two weren’t movin’, but one was tryin’ to get up. I started to run to him but I stumbled. When I got back up I saw that a couple of Germans had reached him and were stickin’ him with their bayonets. You know what? They was laughin’. Then someone blew a whistle and the Germans pulled back.”

Patrick wished the story had never been told. But then, was it so different from Cuba, where victorious Americans had killed Spanish wounded? He looked at the lengthening shadows and realized that night would come shortly. He gave orders to expand the area and form a defensive perimeter, with the wounded and unarmed men inside. Even though they had no digging implements, he told them to prepare such barricades as they could. If nothing else, it would give them something constructive to do and take their minds off the debacle.

He also had each unit send out reliable men as scouts and pickets to warn of any German advance. If the enemy came, Patrick would gather his flock and retreat in the general direction of Bridgeport, Connecticut.

The night was one of little or no sleep for most. Medical help finally began to arrive, and the wounded-those who could be transported in wagons-were sent out; the slightly wounded were patched up and returned to duty or left to rest through the night. The gravely wounded were given comfort; they would either get better or they would die.

On a more mundane level, there were the questions of food, water, and ammunition to resolve. Although the soldiers could go a little while without food, they desperately needed water to fill canteens gulped dry during the warm day. Units were assigned to bring back as much water as they could from nearby springs and wells. The food they would have to find tomorrow.

Ammunition was a problem-there wasn’t any. Each man had about ten rounds for his single-shot Springfield rifle. Both the rifle and the ammunition were old. The Springfield was totally outclassed in rate of fire by the five-shot magazines of the German Mausers. Worse, the Springfield used only black powder, which gave away the shooter’s location. In a duel with a Mauser, a man with a Springfield was at a serious disadvantage. Again Patrick realized that little had changed since the war with Spain.

Patrick was now better able to get a grip on the numbers of soldiers involved. According to senior officers remaining, the six regiments totaled about 8,500 officers and men. They could account for 116 definitely killed, including Blaney, and 170 wounded. There were almost 2,000 missing. Most of these, however, were simply runaways like the frightened boy he’d first seen. Some, however, were doubtless uncounted dead and abandoned wounded who would die if they were not found and treated. Patrick could only wonder if the Germans had taken any prisoners.

Morning finally came and with it reports from the scouts that the Germans had pulled back west of White Plains, although certainly not as a result of the fight. The Germans who had mauled the raw militia were probably only part of a large scouting force who had gathered all the information they needed. The American scouts also reported the disquieting news that there were no wounded on the battlefield, only dead-another eighty or so-and some appeared to have been executed.

More positively, additional runaways had started returning, often reduced to shamefaced tears by the hoots and curses of those who had stayed the course. Patrick allowed each regiment to send men to their prior encampment to retrieve supplies and gear left behind, and he tried further to get his little army organized.

It was near noon when they received the stunning news that President McKinley was dead of a heart attack and Teddy Roosevelt was now president of the United States. It seemed appropriate and comforting to have brief prayer services, and each regiment held its own. Patrick stayed quietly to himself and wondered about the man he’d met just a few days ago, and the startling fact that brash, young Teddy Roosevelt was now the president.

It was after the last service that Patrick finally took stock of his own personal position. Without authority, he had assumed control of what amounted to a brigade. The officers, many older and more senior in state rank and grade, readily accepted him. Apparently, they believed he knew what he was doing. He also showed no urge to lead them again to the slaughter, and he didn’t hold it against them that they’d run so quickly. It later occurred to him that they would be quite willing to blame him for whatever foul-up might result from his leadership.

He was now in charge of more than six thousand men. Although he was a career officer, he had never commanded more than a company. His senior officers had always thought of him as the perfect staff officer, literate and well organized, rather than a leader of men. It was intoxicating and fulfilling to be in command.

One of the returning work parties brought with it Colonel Blaney’s large and elaborate tent as well as his camp furniture, and they insisted Patrick use it. There was no reason not to. It was a perfectly acceptable alternative to sleeping on the ground, even though the weather remained warm and dry.

The next day, a captain from the New York regiment brought with him a trunk of clothes and a little man he identified as a tailor. “Frankly, sir, we kinda noticed you didn’t have any baggage with you and figured you might need some changes of clothes before you, ah, get too gamey. These belonged to one of our people who, uh, isn’t going to need them again. He was kinda your size and, if you need some tucking and sewing, the corporal here is a real good tailor.” The captain grinned. “Only reason we keep the little shit.”

Ever practical and never prone to look a gift horse in the mouth, Patrick accepted. At least now he didn’t have to worry about the unlikely possibility of his baggage ever catching up with him.

If it hadn’t been for the omnipresent concern about the now-sedentary Germans, the next couple of days might have been pleasant. Patrick continued to organize, patrol, and drill, and was bemused by the almost worshipful way the men looked up to him. In their minds he had arrived at just the right moment to save them and, so far, had done all the right things. He could only wonder just how long the acceptance would last. If the Germans moved on them in any force, they would have to retreat. His six regiments were armed with only single-shot rifles. They had no machine guns and, of course, no artillery. That they were poorly trained to use what equipment they had was almost irrelevant.

Finally there was a small break. Sergeant Esau Jones, patrolling alone, actually located the Germans. They were digging in and fortifying an area about ten miles away and showed no signs of moving. Now that they were located, they could be observed, and Patrick set about organizing it. He also found from Jones that there seemed to be only a single regiment of Germans. Patrick realized sadly that his brave little army had been whipped by a German force one-fifth its size.

There had to be more Germans. They wouldn’t leave one regiment hanging out to dry.

Theodore Roosevelt lit a small cigar and eyed the golden hue of a well-aged brandy in a crystal goblet. “Well, Elihu, what do you have to tell me?”

Secretary of War Elihu Root put down his own goblet. Once he had wanted to be president himself and had campaigned shamelessly for the office. A brilliant lawyer and a solid Republican, he thought it the next logical step in an outstanding career. But as he looked at the younger and more vigorous man before him, he knew his time had passed. Perhaps it had begun to pass when, years before, he had defended some Tammany Hall Democrats in a criminal trial. Ah, well, hindsight. Now all he could do was to make as great an impact as he could in his loyal support of a president who was young enough to be his son.

“Sir, I-we-have a problem.”

“And that is?”

“Lieutenant General Nelson Miles.”

Roosevelt chuckled. “Ah, the charming and lovable commanding general.”

“It’s more serious than that.”

“Elihu, do you want him replaced?”

“It may come to that. I do not have much confidence in his skill should he command against the Germans. I doubt that he is capable of commanding the large force we both know will be needed. Worse, his ideas about combat are considered by many to be archaic.”

Roosevelt pondered. He knew that Root-who wanted very much to change the way the army commanded itself, did business, and fought-was opposed by an old guard, led by Nelson Miles. They wanted to retain the status quo of a small frontier army.

“Elihu, is this the proper time? Miles is a distinguished old soldier who has served his country well. And, after all, he is the commanding general. Who would replace him? Wasn’t he a great Indian fighter?”

“Sir, it took him three thousand men and several years to capture a score of Apaches. And Lawton, not Miles, actually captured Geronimo.”

“And Lawton ’s dead, killed in the Philippines, if I recall. A shame. But what about Puerto Rico? He took that, didn’t he?”

Root knew he was being tested. “Hardly a campaign, sir. His five thousand men took four casualties. The whole Spanish island garrison surrendered virtually without firing a shot. But that’s not the point. He actually thinks that fool Blaney’s a hero. He wishes to attack the Germans in overwhelming numbers as soon as the army is large enough. He doesn’t realize the current qualitative differences between the German soldier and ours-in training, in equipment, and in leadership. It will be a worse slaughter than Cold Harbor or Marye’s Heights,” he said, referring to Civil War incidents where thousands of Union soldiers had been killed in futile attempts to dislodge well-dug-in defenders.

“What do you propose?”

“Sir, I have seen Miles’s list of suggestions for expanding the army. In all fairness to the man, many of them have merit. I propose we act on those with which we concur and defer on the others. In particular we must avoid giving Miles overall field command. In the meantime, we can commence with his basic suggestions, which are to enlarge the number of available generals to command the larger army, and go about getting the modern equipment needed to outfit that larger army.”

“Does he wish himself a fourth star?”

“Not in so many words, but the implication is clear. Indeed, sir, someone may have to have a fourth star if the army is to be as large as we think will soon be necessary.”

Roosevelt grunted and asked for the list of names. He read it and grunted again. His cigar was out and he lit it. Then he took a pencil and began making notations, his brow furrowed in deep thought. “Elihu, don’t we have any young officers?”

For Patrick Mahan the next several days were notable only for their similarity. The weather remained constantly sunny and unthreatening, and the encampment took on the convivial look and feel of a boys’ camping ground. Had it not been for the weaponry, the constant patrols, and preparation for defense that he insisted upon, most of the men could almost be described as having a good time. He tried to drill them but not too hard, as he was well aware of the volunteer soldier’s long-standing antipathy toward close order drill. He did find them receptive to combat training. That was something they could see a purpose to. But to expect them to act like spit and polish soldiers was more than he could reasonably expect.

At least, however, he could keep them busy and prevent them from brooding over the defeat. The drilling might just turn them into decent soldiers someday, but the digging of defensive works was pure make-work. It tired the men’s bodies, and the sight of the dirt walls gave them the illusion of safety. Patrick declined to tell them that news of a sizable German advance would cause him to call an immediate retreat. He had no desire to lead his army in a slaughter.

He had now amassed about ten thousand men under his highly unofficial command as other states called up their militias in response to a presidential order. Additional units from states as far away as Ohio had arrived in his area as a result of the battle and the general knowledge of his encampment. Still more stragglers had remembered their duty and found their way to what most were calling Fort Blaney, in derisive salute to their fallen first leader.

The Germans continued their policy of inaction. They had been spotted in several regiment-sized locations about a day’s march away and so heavily dug in that they were easy to observe. This lack of aggressive pressure brought a semblance of rude civilization to Fort Blaney. First came the merchants selling all manner of goods and services, from clothing to liquor to sex. Although Patrick was a long way from being a prude, he chased out the hookers and rationed the liquor. He informed his senior officer that if the men wanted sex, they would have to get leave and go to a city. Brothels would not come to them. There was grumbling, but most saw the sense of it. Besides, his prohibition against whores wasn’t that effective; all it did was keep things quiet and out of sight, which was exactly what he wanted.

This was soon followed by the inevitable visits by friends, relatives, and other loved ones whose shrieking and often tearful presence further lightened the atmosphere. At times it seemed there were so many private carriages on the roads about the camp that the army couldn’t move. These visits were encouraged as long as they didn’t interfere too much with training and defense requirements; they definitely increased morale.

Communication with the outside world came in the form of newspapers, some only a day old, from nearby towns. These the men devoured immediately; given the lack of any real command structure in the area, newspapers were the only reliable source of information. Through newspapers they learned of the fall of Manhattan and the imprisonment of thousands of American soldiers. They also learned that their battle, although acknowledged as a defeat, was praised to the skies as a valiant effort to rid the country of the invaders. This was a great boost to their morale. The reading and passing around of newspapers became an afternoon ritual not to be trifled with.

Patrick was walking about and simply observing when several men, lolling and reading their papers, noticed him.

“Hey, Cunnel, come here a minute.”

Patrick winced. In a real army enlisted men do not summon their commanding officer so cavalierly. But he had to remind himself for the hundredth time that day that these were volunteers and not regulars, and their training in such arcane matters as saluting was, at best, negligent. Doing as he was bid, he tried not to laugh.

“What’s up, boys?”

“Just a question, sir.” The speaker was a young private with glasses and a stringy beard. He had obviously been reading aloud for the benefit of the others. “Is your first name Patrick?”

He was puzzled. “Yes, why?”

“Well, according to the Hartford paper, you’ve just been made a general.”

Patrick swore and grabbed the offered paper. Yes, there it was, Patrick Mahan, brigadier general, U.S. Army. The rank was temporary, of course, but temporary or not, he was a general! He scanned the list and saw the names of a score of others both appointed and promoted. At last, something was happening.

The men gathered around and offered handshakes, which he took eagerly. They pumped his arm and pounded his back. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled that enlisted men don’t do this in a regular army. But the front of his mind didn’t give a damn, and he exulted in it. The private who had first summoned him insisted on his keeping the newspaper as a souvenir. Why not? he laughed, and stuffed it in his pocket.

Later that afternoon and following congratulatory drinks, he and several other officers were gathered in his tent-the one he had inherited from Blaney-to discuss the next day’s training and patrol routine. On his collar he wore the star of a brigadier, courtesy again of the little tailor from New York.

The men paused when they heard the sound of a horse outside and a man dismounting. Through the thin wall of the tent a voice bellowed, “Where the hell is that ignorant Yankee asshole who thinks he’s a general? Jesus Christ! Did the army run out of qualified Southerners and have to promote ignorant Michigan farmers who don’t know how to wipe shit from their boots?”

The others in the tent froze in astonishment and shock, but Patrick flushed and grinned and found his own loud voice. “The Confederacy lost! Damnit, why do slow-learning rednecks who never figured out how to spell Confederacy have to be told that simple fact over and over again?”

Patrick rushed outside. “General Wheeler!” He gave a salute, which the other, much older and smaller man returned. Then, never one for formality, he grabbed Patrick’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. Major General Joe Wheeler of the U.S. Army, hero of the Spanish-American War and ex-Confederate States of America, grinned happily. The man his soldiers called Fighting Joe had arrived.

After quick introductions, Patrick chased the other officers out and sat down with Wheeler, who looked in amazement at the elaborate tent. “Boy, you don’t have anything to drink in this canvas whorehouse, do you?”

“I sent Blaney’s personal effects back home,” Patrick said, reaching into a trunk. “I did not consider his liquor to fall in that category.”

“Spoils of war,” said Wheeler, taking a glass. “To your promotion, my command, and death to the goddamn Germans.”

Patrick took a swallow. It was good whiskey and a mighty toast. Joe Wheeler was sixty-five years old and had served the Confederacy as a brigadier general himself almost forty years ago. Later, he’d been resurrected and given command of a division against Spain in what had been described by some as a sop to the South to show that the Civil War was really, once and for all, over. It had worked. Wheeler, white bearded and in his sixties but still wiry and spry enough to look like a jockey, had performed well and inspired his men. But what was he doing here?

“Patrick, lad, I hope you aren’t too fond of these troops, because your talents are required elsewhere. Washington, to be precise. Your president calls you for more help, anticipating what the nasty shithead Germans might do.”

“And what about my little army?” The whiskey was starting to warm him. With Wheeler here, he frankly felt better, further assured that people elsewhere were aware of what was going on.

“I’m going to take it from you and make it part of my division. I’ve got one division. Funston and Pershing have been promoted to major generals and will each get a division. Baldy Smith will command the entire corps.”

A good choice, thought Patrick. Major General William Smith, forever known as Baldy, had served under Grant in the Civil War and with Wheeler in Cuba. It was an interesting reunion of two old protagonists. But the appointment raised a question.

“Not Miles?” Patrick asked.

Wheeler poured each a generous refill, looked at the glasses, and added some more. “Nah. Our beloved commanding general will remain in Washington for the time being, overseeing the entire operation in his own unique and lovable manner.”

“How soon do they want me in Washington?”

“Leave in the morning. Show me around this evening and introduce me to your key people. Later we can have dinner and see if there’s any more of this liquor around. It ain’t bourbon, but it’ll do.” It was Scotch and quite expensive. “By the way, you got anyone on your staff who speaks German?”

Patrick grinned sheepishly and confessed he didn’t. It was an embarrassing oversight, but one that Patrick thought was immediately correctable. There was an Ohio regiment nearby with a number of German-speaking men in it. There had to be one who would qualify. Wheeler agreed. “And get yourself a German-speaking aide as well. Hell, you’re a general,” he laughed, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile. “You might as well start acting like one.”

Later that night, Brig. Gen. Patrick Mahan looked up from where he was seated and stared at the hulking young man standing nervously at attention before him. The note handed him earlier had said the man’s name was Heinz Schmidt. He was from Ohio and had been recommended for duty as Patrick’s aide. With only a few hours before he left for Washington, there wasn’t much time to be choosy.

“You are literate in German?” The question seemed superfluous, given the man’s name and recommendation, but he asked it anyhow.

“Sir, it was my first language. My parents are both from Cologne, ‘Köln’ to them. I was born here but all I heard for my first six years was German. I didn’t learn English until I went to school. Then my parents insisted I keep my German skills as I grew up. It was a fortunate decision. I have found myself in the position of helping new immigrants get settled, and that is very satisfying.”

The general nodded. “And what were you doing before this war?”

“Going to college, sir, at the University of Cincinnati. I wish to be a lawyer.”

The general grinned. “I took you to be smarter than that.”

Heinz responded with a small smile of his own. The general was younger than he thought and seemed to be fairly well educated himself. Not a lard-ass like so many of the senior officers in the militia. “Sir, despite what Shakespeare said about killing all the lawyers, a quote that is usually taken entirely out of context, there may be room for a few. Frankly, sir, I’ve seen too many of my relatives bilked of their money and property because they didn’t understand American laws. I am confident I will be useful there.”

“After the war, that is.”

“Yes, sir, after the war. I am committed for the duration.”

The strapping youth did not look much like a lawyer. Or a clerk. With his brawn he could easily be mistaken for a laborer or a farmworker. Yet he seemed intelligent enough. “All right, you’re hired as my aide. I’m giving you an immediate rank of second lieutenant. I wasn’t going to do that, but my good friend General Wheeler reminded me that generals do not have privates as aides.”

Heinz was stunned and could only stammer his thanks. An officer? Perhaps this assignment wouldn’t be as bad as he had feared. Now he felt embarrassed that he had complained to the colonel, his uncle, about leaving a fighting unit to become a glorified clerk. A lieutenant, hot damn!