1901

27

A DMIRAL DIEDRICHS SAT up slowly in his bed. His head ached horribly and he was only beginning to keep food down. He kept his left hand under the covers to hide the fact that it had begun to quiver. He was reminded of how the kaiser pretended his left arm wasn’t withered. Diedrichs was on board his flagship, the battleship Barbarossa, in the lower bay of New York harbor. The remainder of the German main battle fleet had been deployed to deny access to the harbor should the Americans foolishly try to force entry.

An aide handed him a message, which he read quickly. “Damn.”

He signaled to his senior staff officers, who entered his stateroom and approached his bed. They looked dispirited, whipped. Diedrichs held up the message. “According to the kaiser’s supposedly infallible intelligence services, the American fleet is believed to have departed Boston Harbor, probably yesterday. Proper emphasis should be placed on the word ‘believed.’”

“What should we do?”

Diedrichs sank back on the pillow. His headache was returning. Perhaps he should have some broth. What he really wanted was an end to this humiliating war.

“Gentlemen,” he answered in a near whisper, “it is only believed that the Americans have sailed. Until we can confirm that, and then confirm their destination, we will do nothing.”

A young aide was aghast. “But sir, if they enter the Sound, they can support the American perimeter.”

Diedrichs rubbed his head with his right hand. “Then let them. The German army has long bragged of its ability to whip the Yanks without us; well, now they will have the chance. When we know the Americans’ destination, we will take action. Not before. Would you have me leave this anchorage and let them sneak in behind us? I think not.” As he spoke, the distant crump of a shore gun sounded as yet another shell was lobbed at long range into the Narrows. “On the other hand,” he sighed, “perhaps we should sail away and let them have this awful place.” He waved them out. “Please turn off the lights when you leave.”

Since no replacements had come aboard theAlabama, the lookout tower was far less crowded than usual. It was a common situation throughout both the ship and the rest of the fleet. There had barely been time to take off the wounded and bring on some badly needed ammunition and food before the order had come to get up steam and depart immediately. Now!

As a result, Ens. Terry Schuyler was again the senior man in the lookout post. His arm still ached awfully and there were many other bruises to remind him of that climactic day of battle, but he could still function as a junior officer. His mother, whom he barely remembered, would have referred to it as the resilience of youth. Resilience, hell. He hurt. But he had sworn an oath to his nation and he had a duty to fulfill. Too many of his friends were dead or wounded for him to let his injuries impede him. Besides, after what he had seen and done, he no longer considered himself a youth.

Charley Ackerman, the other officer in the tower, was an ensign like Terry, but slightly junior to him in time in grade. “What a magnificent view!” young Ackerman exclaimed.

Terry agreed. Ackerman had spent the last battle on the navigating bridge and had seen very little of the action. Too many senior officers had clogged up all the good viewing spots.

They looked ahead at the line of battleships in front of them. This time they were not fourth. Instead they were much farther back, second from the last of the battleships and ahead of the armored cruisers, because of their reduced firepower; the damaged stern turret had not been repaired. They had gotten the bodies out, and the sight had sickened them. Those blackened pieces of meat had once been men, friends.

Since none of the other big ships had lost any of their main armament, they went ahead. Behind theAlabama came the ungainly bulk of theMaine. The presence of the successor to the second-class battleship that had been blown up in Havana by the Spaniards was a tribute to the desperation that drove the U.S. Navy and the willingness of people to work around the clock and take chances with their lives. The ship had been launched in July, and completion should have taken more than a year. However, she had taken her place in the line of battle with only half her main gun turrets and none of her secondary guns. Her superstructure was incomplete, and Terry had no idea how she was commanded and controlled. But she had her engines, armor, two big guns, and a crew that had demanded the right to accompany the other battleships as replacements for the sailors of the sunkenTexas and theKearsarge.

It was said that Dewey nearly wept when he was confronted with their belligerent insistence. The presence of the clumsy and incomplete ship buoyed the spirits of all who saw her. Ahead and on both flanks, as well as to the rear, were the cruiser squadrons of Remey and Evans. It was a magnificent sight. Terry picked up his Kodak box camera and took a few pictures. The last time he had been unable to take photographs because of the press of people and the uncertainties caused by his junior position.

“Terry, you know where we’re going?” asked Ackerman.

“To sink more Germans.” He winced as he recalled that Ackerman’s parents were born in Germany. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Y’know, I got a letter from my pa just before the big battle. He told me he had given it a lot of thought and that I shouldn’t feel bad about fighting people I might even be related to. Basically, he said if they were so stupid that they stayed and fought for their fool kaiser, then fuck ‘em.”

Terry laughed. “Is that a direct quote?”

“Not quite, but close enough.” Ackerman squinted at the bulk of a distant land mass off their starboard. “Hey, is that Long Island?”

Ludwig Weber continued to think dire thoughts. Even though the deep rumblings of the battle were miles to the rear, he had a nagging feeling that this current period of silence couldn’t last forever. He and the others had been keeping a sharp eye on the woods in front of them. The treeline was only a quarter of a mile away. A good marksman could hide in the shadows and start picking them off. If Ludwig knew they were going to stay awhile, he would dig in. At least he might consider it after he got something to eat.

A rabbit burst from the woods. The men watched entranced as it darted first one way, then another in panic and confusion. “Lunch,” someone yelled, and there was laughter. A second rabbit, then a third sprinted into the open. Ludwig heard Sergeant Gunther loudly assigning rabbits to specific riflemen as they came closer. One of the soldiers fired and the first rabbit tumbled over to raucous cheers. Let’s see, Ludwig thought, three rabbits divided by thirty-eight wouldn’t go far.

A long line of flashes from the woods, followed almost immediately by the bark of guns, stunned him. Ludwig’s first thought was that the rabbits were shooting back. Then he realized there was a large number of men in the woods, and they were firing rapidly, creating a hailstorm of bullets. A whistle pierced the air, followed by the thud of an artillery shell landing nearby. He quickly identified it as a 75mm field gun. A light gun. The goddamn Yanks were in the woods!

As he hugged the ground, Ludwig heard shouts and screams. Bullets whistled about him and kicked up clouds of dirt. He looked up to see a horde of brown-uniformed Americans emerging from the woods. They formed up and advanced rapidly, firing all the while. More shells pounded the ground and a machine gun added its voice to the insane din.

Ludwig could not believe his eyes. He had never seen so many Americans. Worse, they did not look like raw militia. They were advancing very quickly and in good order; some were firing as others darted forward under the cover thus provided. Ludwig was getting the shock of his life. He rose and ran in a crouch to where Captain Walter was looking at the advancing enemy.

“Captain, those aren’t militia or recruits. Those are regulars.”

“I know.” The Americans had covered about a third of the way and were not going to be stopped. “Everybody pull back!”

There was no need to repeat the order. The men of the company commenced retreating immediately at a quick trot. As they did, they instinctively drew together in their fear, which made them an even better target for the American guns.

“Ludwig,” yelled the captain. “Run like hell to the rear and tell battalion we’re being overwhelmed.”

Ludwig turned to go and stopped short. Wordlessly he pointed to his right. A column of horsemen had emerged from the woods and was already passing them on their way to the German rear. Ludwig was about to say something when a shell landed nearby and lifted him off the ground, sucking the air from his chest.

Maybe he lost consciousness for a moment. He lurched to his knees and gagged. Then he saw Captain Walter crumpled on the ground a few yards away and slithered over to him. He checked for a pulse and found it. Kessel ran by.

“Otto, come over here and help me move the captain.”

Kessel turned his savage face to the Americans, who were now only a hundred yards away and coming on at a trot. “Fuck you, pussy boy! Save him yourself, if the Yanks don’t kill you first,” he cackled. Kessel swung his rifle, and the butt crunched against the meat of Ludwig’s shoulder, causing him to scream and fall. The last Ludwig saw of Kessel was his back as he ran away.

Ludwig became aware that the firing had almost stopped. It occurred to him that the Yanks had run out of targets. He looked at the captain and saw his eyes blinking. Ludwig took the piece of paper he had kept from the American spies so long ago, raised his good arm, and began to wave it. Please God, let them not kill me, he prayed.

American shapes surrounded them and grabbed their weapons. Ludwig screamed when someone spun him around looking for a hidden knife. His shoulder was hurt and so was his chest. Maybe a rib or two was broken; at least there were some bad bruises. He started to say something when a large, red-faced American sergeant with squinty eyes told him in excellent German that he should stay where he was and a guard would take care of him and the others. It was then Ludwig noticed that he was not alone. Perhaps a score of his company had also been captured, and there were still more Americans pouring from the woods. Where the hell had they come from?

“Ludwig?”

“Yes, Captain?” Walter waved his arms as if trying to find something to grab. Ludwig pushed him back to the ground. “Don’t try to move just yet.”

“What has happened?”

Ludwig sat on the cold ground and picked up a chunk of dirt. American dirt. “Captain, I think our part of the war is over.”

Major Esau Jones pulled out of the column and watched as the first company of his mounted battalion trotted past. They were on point and had the responsibility for scouting ahead. The job of Jones’s battalion, more mounted infantry than true cavalry, was to ride on ahead and try to find the exact location of the main German force. With some reluctance, Jones had suggested to General Mahan that it might be better to split his unit into small groups to cover more ground, but the general had said no, keep the cavalry together. They would need all the men they had when they found the Germans. Major Jones had agreed with pleasure. His secondary orders were to destroy anything that might look useful to the Krauts.

He chucked his horse in behind the lead company’s last platoon, and his messenger followed. At last they were going to war. The quick ride through the thin German lines had been an incredible tonic. For the first time he’d seen Germans running, Germans surrendering. And his Buffalo Soldiers had helped. He knew from bitter experience that many of the white soldiers despised the black troops, whether they had white officers or not. Having black officers had only made matters worse; white soldiers ignored them. The tabs on Jones’s shoulder said he was a major, albeit temporary rank, and therefore an officer and a gentleman to be respected and obeyed. But the color of his skin told too many whites that he was nothing but a dressed-up nigger. He had long since decided that this world was not yet ready for colored gentlemen.

A rider galloped up beside him. He recognized a studious, young private the men teasingly called the Professor. “Sir, the captain’s compliments, and would you stop the column and join him at the point immediately?”

Major Jones couldn’t help but grin. “Now, son, that does not sound like my friend Captain Tyree. What exactly did he say?”

The Professor gulped. “He said you should stop this fucking circus train and get your ugly black ass up with his as soon as possible. And quietlike.”

Esau Jones guffawed, gave the order, and spurred his horse forward into yet more woods. He had gone only a little way when a soldier emerged from behind a tree and stopped him, urging silence and caution. Jones dismounted and, following the soldier, went cautiously to the crest of a low hill where Tyree lay on his stomach, field glasses to his eyes.

“What’s out there, Tyree?” He could easily see several score of men, horses, and wagons on a hill a half mile away.

“God and his angels, I think, Esau.” He handed Jones the binoculars. When he brought the scene into focus, he whistled. His assignment had been to find the German army. Although this group of people was not the whole army, its importance was obvious. Was he justified in exposing his presence? It was apparent that the people on the hill had not heard the sounds of the battle behind them. They were all looking away from him and at something that was causing much smoke in the distance. Jones made up his mind.

“Tyree, tell the Professor to bring all the company commanders here, and pronto. Also damned quietly.” He grinned at temporary-Captain Tyree. “We’re gonna deliver some paybacks for all the shit we been takin’ the last few months.” He also recalled some of his men being skewered on German bayonets that awful day in early June. “Damn fine binoculars,” he said as he handed them back to Tyree, who put them in a case bearing the insignia of the Imperial German Army. “Someday you gotta tell me how you got those.”

Lieutenant Sigmond von Hoff hated every moment of his present existence. He was a Prussian and a Uhlan, an elite cavalryman, by God, not a damned babysitter. Or a nanny! Perhaps there were those who would consider his current position as guard to the high command both an honor and a safe place to be, but he was not one of them. All about him were the sounds and smells of battle, glorious battle, but he and his fellow Uhlans were not part of it. There was some feeling at headquarters that this was not the right war for cavalry armed with lances.

It infuriated him. Why had the Imperial General Staff shipped them over if not to use them? Some peabrains in headquarters had stripped them of their lances and given them carbines, which they barely knew how to operate. Now they were considered useless soldiers fit only for ornamental guard duties like this.

Hoff was personally considered much worse than useless. He was a pariah. What had he done wrong? His orders had been to execute American prisoners, and all he had done was to follow those orders. And, by God, those orders had come from the kaiser himself. When Hoff’s actions caused such a stink, everyone had conveniently forgotten the fact that he hadn’t acted alone. Now no one wanted to even talk to him. Still more galling was the fact that others had achieved promotion in this war, whereas he was still a lieutenant at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

Disgusted, he lay down on the grass and stared at the sky. Let the mighty ones he was protecting gaze at the smoke towers and try to figure out where they were. He almost giggled at the thought of some stupid Bavarian staff officer having to admit they were, while not quite lost, not quite certain just where they were. They could only assume that much of their army was in action a few miles away.

“Lieutenant!” Hoff sat up and looked where a soldier was pointing. A row of horsemen had emerged from the woods and a second was forming behind it. Columns of cavalry commenced to gallop both to his left and to his right. As he watched in astonishment, the double line began to move forward. Toward him.

He jumped to his feet and yelled for his men to mount up, which they did with alacrity. He had only one troop. It appeared that several hundred of what he now easily identified as Americans were about to envelop his position. His actions had attracted the attention of the senior officers, and he saw them scrambling for their horses and carriages.

In dismay, Hoff saw that the rapidly moving flanking columns would easily cut off most, if not all, of the fleeing Germans on horseback and certainly all of the slower carriages. Even if he managed to survive this debacle, his career was ruined.

“Open fire!” he shrieked, and his men let loose a ragged volley that appeared to accomplish little. Suddenly, he realized that the enemy cavalry all had dark skins. “Blacks!” he screamed. It was too much. In a blind rage he spurred his horse forward. He pulled a revolver and emptied it as the black horsemen swirled passed him. His horse stumbled, and Hoff fell heavily to the ground. As he attempted to pull his saber from its scabbard, a careening horse ran over him and he felt his legs snap. Before the waves of agony could reach his brain, he looked up at his assailant and saw an iron-shod hoof descending on his head.

On the hill, the fight deteriorated into a short-lived melee. At arm’s length, carbines and revolvers emptied into living flesh. The Germans fought hard to protect their charges, but they were soon overwhelmed. As Hoff had guessed, none of the carriages escaped. In one, an old man flailed about with a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other. As a young black trooper reached for him, the old man shot him in the face. On the other side of the carriage, Maj. Esau Jones saw this and emptied his revolver at point-blank range into the back of the old man, who crumpled onto the floor of the carriage.

Then Jones looked about. His men had taken a number of prisoners, and virtually all of them appeared to be officers. “Who speaks English?” asked Jones.

A little man with a bad cut on his cheek, which had drained blood onto an immaculate light blue uniform, responded that he did. The man approached cautiously and looked into the carriage. “God help us,” he said. Then he looked up into the stern face of Jones. “Do you know what you have done?”

“You tell me.”

“You have just killed Field Marshal Count Alfred von Waldersee, commander of the Imperial German Army.”

News of the counterattack brought Roosevelt rushing back to the war room. “About time. The papers are beginning to run extras about our total incompetence and what they think has happened. Hearst says I have sent dumb recruits to be slaughtered. Goddamn him!”

Roosevelt looked at the changes on the map. “Leonard, it happened, didn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. At least so far. The four brigades brought over from the Philippines were successfully carried by train from Springfield and joined the one brigade in line. They pushed aside the German screening force rather easily and are now in the German rear.”

Roosevelt fought the urge to chortle. When MacArthur had first proposed bringing his regiments back from the Philippines, he had said no. The trip was too dangerous. With no American ships in the Pacific to protect them, the German Asiatic squadron could attack and slaughter them. And there was the danger that the Filipinos would revolt and kill the troops and administrators left behind. No, he had said, too great a risk.

But then came word through the British that the Germans had pulled their ships as well. John Hay proposed a treaty of understanding with the Philippine leader Aguinaldo, which had been hammered out quickly by the American governor in the Philippines, William Howard Taft. Specifically, the Philippines would be independent one year after the end of the war with Germany, and the United States would guarantee independence from other predatory countries in return for a naval base at Subic Bay and coaling rights at Cavite. A similar agreement was quickly reached with the Cuban insurgents, who were scheduled for independence in a few years anyhow. The Democrats would crow and some of the more radical Manifest Destiny types would scream betrayal, but twenty-five thousand good American troops had been freed for use against the Germans.

Getting them home had proven less difficult than he had thought. Ships were chartered and the men brought to Vancouver, where they were put on trains and shipped across Canada and down through Maine to the camp at Springfield. By traveling through sparsely populated Canada, they managed to move in relative secrecy. Those who did see and wonder were told they were American recruits, nothing more.

Bringing them home had been MacArthur’s idea. Coordinating the move from Springfield to the battle area had been the task of Longstreet and Schofield. One after another and only moments apart, the great trains had run down, their flatcars jammed with men and equipment. After weeks of practice, it took only minutes to get each train unloaded and the men on their way. The empty trains had then gone on a long, looping journey in the general direction of Boston and out of the way. “For all I care, they can run them into the ocean once they’re unloaded,” had been Longstreet’s comment.

Roosevelt stared at the map. The blue pennants representing American units were encroaching on the red ones representing Germans. He exulted; we have thirty thousand soldiers in their rear! An aide moved a blue pennant across the Hudson and onto Manhattan. Roosevelt smiled. A brigade of marines in barges and longboats was landing on Manhattan. The marines were beginning to enjoy amphibious assaults.

Kaiser Wilhelm’s voice was a screech. “What is happening? Why hasn’t von Waldersee kept in touch?”

Schlieffen tried to mask his anxiety. “Perhaps he is too busy.” The news of the American counterattack had shaken them. It was too soon, and too strong. Something had gone horribly wrong. The German army had been attacked in the rear by a large force and could easily be crumbling. Worse, Waldersee was not in control of the battlefield and did not appear to be doing anything about it. No one knew where Waldersee was. Probably moving from one place on the field to another, but the fact of his being out of contact at this critical time made Schlieffen extremely nervous.

“Then where is Hindenburg? Why haven’t we heard from the younger von Moltke?” he asked, referring to the two corps commanders involved in the main attack. “Von Schlieffen, we have been betrayed. The Americans knew that we were going to attack, and they were prepared. How else could they have moved their army so quickly?”

How else indeed? thought Schlieffen. Although, in hindsight, should they not have presumed the Americans would do exactly what they have done? Had he and Waldersee been too arrogant and assured of success? If so, they would pay a high price for it. Schlieffen was, however, more concerned by the quickness with which the attack had punched through and destroyed the screening force. This indicated to him that they were not dealing with simple militia. He had a nagging thought and rejected it. They could not have done it. Impossible.

A junior officer at the telegraph gestured and Schlieffen approached. “What?” asked the kaiser.

Schlieffen paled. “In the continued absence of von Waldersee, young von Moltke has assumed command. He is going to order von Trotha’s reserves to attack the new American force. Several of our divisions have been badly mauled and a number of supply depots and artillery sites overrun. Von Moltke is urging a retreat back to our original defenses; he says that many of our regiments will be cut off no matter what we do.” The message ran onto another page. “He also says the Americans have launched attacks across the Hudson onto Manhattan as well as across the Harlem River.” Schlieffen handed the papers to the disbelieving kaiser. “Sire, you said we’d been betrayed, and this proves it. Along with knowing when and where we would attack, the Americans knew we had stripped our defenses elsewhere. That was a closely held secret, just like the decision to divide our navy. There must be a traitor.”

Wilhelm looked at the papers that told him of defeat. He had to salvage something from this travesty. The problem of locating the traitor would have to wait. “Von Moltke-can he save the army?”

“Sire, he will do his utmost.” Schlieffen’s calm words belied his inner turmoil. Moltke was the nephew of the great leader of the army against the French. But young Moltke was a lightweight in comparison with his famous uncle. So much so that, although he thought of himself as von Moltke the Younger, others talked of him as von Moltke the Lesser. Schlieffen would have much preferred that the older and more stable Hindenburg had taken command.

The kaiser became aware that Bulow and Holstein had also arrived in the chancellery office. Bulow looked terrified and Holstein angry.

“Dear kaiser,” said Holstein solemnly, “I have further bad news for you. The Reichstag has heard about the impending defeat and has voted to demand that you end the war.”

Wilhelm surged to his feet. “They have not that right. Disband them! I will rule by decree!”

“It may be too late,” Bulow stammered. “People are gathering in the streets, and I do not believe they will accept the Reichstag’s being sent home without great violence.” He did not add that a number of army units, largely reservists, had begun to join the growing mob.

“What other misfortunes can befall me today?”

Holstein provided the answer. “Von Tirpitz is dead, sire. He committed suicide.”

Admiral Diedrichs received word of the sudden assault across the Hudson only after it was over. Motor launches and tugs had pulled barges and lines of longboats linked like sausages across the river in a matter of moments. The boats, filled with American marines, had landed virtually without incident or opposition. Again, it was Diedrichs’s fault. The few ships patrolling the Hudson and East Rivers were out scouting for the American fleet, while the remainder of his battle fleet waited outside the Narrows in the lower bay.

As Diedrichs contemplated this new disaster, he received a report that the Americans were attacking and rolling up the Harlem River defenses, easily defeating the small force the army had left behind. That would open the way for the Americans in the north to pour onto the island and across into Brooklyn. It didn’t take much imagination to realize that his port was about to be taken from him.

A line of tall splashes rose from the Narrows. The Americans had moved their damned big guns closer and had now bracketed the slender channel. Any attempt to reestablish control over the area would be costly.

And, Diedrichs realized, futile. Without infantry to control the area, his ships could do little but steam up and down outside the harbor. There was no decision to make; the pitiless fates had made it for him.

“We will depart in one hour.”

“Where to, sir?”

His skull throbbed. “Back to Germany.”

Major General Joe Wheeler virtually bounced into Baldy Smith’s headquarters. Despite Wheeler’s diminutive size, his presence was immediate and dramatic.

“Baldy, we got them by the balls,” Wheeler said gleefully.

Smith had always liked that expression. “It is beginning to look that way,” he said. His forces had begun attacking northward in an attempt to link up with Schofield’s brigades, which were pressing south. Reports had German units starting to stream in some disarray toward the west and the presumed safety of their old lines.

Wheeler stood directly in front of Smith and put his hands on the taller man’s shoulders. “Now, old rival, we got to finish the job.”

“What do you mean?”

“Baldy, I got Pershing here in Bridgeport with an entire division that ain’t done shit yet. They’re ready, primed, and pissed. I want to turn them loose.”

“Where?” Smith asked. The map showed that any movement northward by Pershing’s division could entangle it with other American units that had been pushed south by the Germans. Smith was also suspicious of a German force reported to be gathering west of the Housatonic for its own counterattack.

“Baldy, I want to move Pershing west and into those German defensive positions before the Germans can reoccupy them and keep us from pushing on to New York. We do that and the Krauts won’t have a place to retreat to. In effect we’ll be in their rear, and those great defensive works they spent so much time building will be just so many piles of dirt.”

Weeks earlier, Smith had ridden out to observe the defensive lines the Germans had constructed; he considered them better than anything he’d ever seen. “Joe, they’ll be murdered.”

Wheeler shook his head vehemently. “Those lines are empty. You can count peckers as well as I can, and all their troops are north of us, not in those lines. Maybe skeleton forces, but nothing of consequence. Look, Pershing cheated a little and kept two battalions on the west side of the Housatonic, so he can cross without opposition. From there they can dash up and rush those lines while there’s still time.”

Smith paused. He thought of another time and another war. He had been granted the opportunity to end the Civil War, but he had procrastinated, thinking the lines about Petersburg were full when they were empty. The rebels had fooled him, and it was a shame he had borne for decades.

But he still had to question. “And if their defenses are full of soldiers and not empty?”

“Then Pershing gets his nose bloodied and pulls back. Look, we don’t have to take all the old German line; just taking some of it will make the rest irrelevant, and Pershing can do that. Baldy, just think of the lives that’ll be saved if we don’t have to root them out like you Yanks had to at Petersburg.”

Smith remembered the ten-month agony of that siege. And all because of his error. He would not make the same mistake again. He had been given the opportunity to purge himself. “All right. Send them. How soon will we know?”

Wheeler turned to depart, a satisfied grin on his face. “A couple of hours.”

Smith looked at the map and his watch. An expression of disbelief crossed his face. “You goddamn little shit reb son of a bitch! You sent him already, didn’t you?”

Wheeler spat on the dirt floor and laughed while junior officers ran for cover. “Shit, Baldy, I trusted you. I knew you wouldn’t make the same dumb fucking mistake twice in your life.”

Johnny Two Dogs was cold, but he was almost used to that. The comings and goings at the farmhouse fascinated him. He never worried overmuch about white people, but he did wonder how Blake and Willy were faring.

Thus he was surprised when the door to the storm cellar opened and Willy emerged with some wires looped across his shoulder. He could see that Willy’s face was pale; the man looked terrified.

Suddenly, there was the sound of gunfire and a rush of soldiers running toward the house. Willy dropped the wires and ran almost directly at Johnny. Willy hunched visibly at the sound of further shots, but they were directed at someone inside the house, and he continued his mad dash. As he passed, Johnny reached out and tripped the frightened man.

At that moment, there was a flash of light and a loud bang that blew out the insides of the brick house in sheets of flame. Johnny grabbed Willy and they ran until they reached the safety of a nearby grove of apple trees. When Willy finally stopped gasping for breath, he gazed in disbelief. “You, you’re the injun who’s been trailing us.”

So much for being hidden, Johnny thought. I must be getting old. “What the hell happened in there?”

“The other guy, Blake, decided he was gonna do something really big to the Germans to get back at them for what they did to his family. He took some dynamite sticks and some caps and stuck them in his shirt. Then he told me to get the hell out of there. I didn’t want to, so he pushed me.” Not likely, thought Johnny. The little thief had doubtless run at the first opportunity. “Jesus, he killed himself.”

Johnny looked to where the house was burning. Although the brick walls had held, the roof had collapsed and the structure had become an inferno. Anyone inside was dead. “So what did Blake do that was so big?” Johnny framed the words carefully. His English was not the best, even after all these years. “Who did he kill?”

“Some guy he thought was a big German general. Name was something like Trotha.”

The battle was only a few hundred yards below and in front of them as Patrick, Ian, and Harris looked on from the crest of the hill. They watched in silence as the immense tableau unfolded. Before them, they could see thousands of men moving and swirling, fighting and dying. Somehow they knew such a scene would never occur again in their lifetimes. Nor would they ever wish it to happen again.

Ian was the first to break the spell. “Your General Sherman once said that war is hell. This has to be what he meant. I have never seen anything like this in my life.”

Patrick’s thoughts ran the same way. The sight was both astonishing and horrifying. “Ian, this must have been what it was like at Waterloo or Gettysburg.”

“Of course.” Ian watched as Patrick’s brigade surged forward, almost into the densely packed German river of men trying to flee to the safety of the west. Beyond them and plainly visible was the American force advancing north. The Germans were being squeezed, and soon the two American forces would converge and the Germans would be surrounded. “Perhaps even Agincourt.”

Patrick watched appalled as American gunfire scythed through the German mob, piling up bodies three and four deep. In most cases German discipline still held, and the return fire was almost as devastating. There seemed to be as many brown- as gray-clad bodies.

A new and hideous clatter joined in the torrent of sounds. The northward-approaching Americans had brought together a number of machine guns and were using them as massed weapons. The effect was devastating. German soldiers fell like wheat before a diabolical mechanical reaper.

“I’m sorry,” said Ian. “What I saw previously was no hell. This is. Patrick, I believe we are seeing the future. Machines of mass destruction and using rows of machine guns are only the beginning.”

The result was a parting of the German human sea, and the Americans joined forces. As the afternoon droned on, many of the trapped Germans attempted to break out, but their attacks were disorganized and fragmented and easily beaten back. Sometimes a few would make it through and run on, but they were the exception. Even more telling was the fact that no attempts were made by the Germans to link up from the west. The German command seemed to have written off its trapped soldiers.

“Behind you,” hissed Ian. Schofield and MacArthur were approaching. They were prudently alone and on foot. Two more men joining the three on the hill would not attract undue attention from maddened German gunners.

Schofield spoke. “Well done, Patrick. It would appear we’ve bagged a large number of them.”

Patrick mumbled appreciation and watched as MacArthur moved away from the little group. His face seemed tight and strained. Schofield explained. “He just got word that his son was badly wounded. He hasn’t gotten a chance to confirm anything.” Patrick nodded and gave the other man room for his silent grief.

There was an awareness that the sound level had decreased markedly, and the men turned again to what they could see of the battlefield, now strangely silent.

MacArthur stirred himself and came over. He shielded his eyes with his hand and stared into the distance, as did the others. “Thank God,” he said softly. “They’re surrendering.”

As they watched, German soldiers started throwing down their weapons and holding their arms up in the air.