The Other Teddy Roosevelts

1917: Over There

I respectfully ask permission immediately to raise two divisions for immediate service at the front under the bill which has just become law, and hold myself ready to raise four divisions, if you so direct. I respectfully refer for details to my last letters to the Secretary of War.

— Theodore Roosevelt

Telegram to President Woodrow

Wilson, May 18, 1917

I very much regret that I cannot comply with the request in your telegram of yesterday. The reasons I have stated in a public statement made this morning, and I need not assure you that my conclusions were based upon imperative considerations of public policy and not upon personal or private choice.

— Woodrow Wilson,

Telegram to Theodore Roosevelt,

May 19, 1917

The date was May 22, 1917.

Woodrow Wilson looked up at the burly man standing impatiently before his desk.

“This will necessarily have to be an extremely brief meeting, Mr. Roosevelt,” he said wearily. “I have consented to it only out of respect for the fact that you formerly held the office that I am now privileged to hold.”

“I appreciate that, Mr. President,” said Theodore Roosevelt, shifting his weight anxiously from one leg to the other.

“Well, then?” said Wilson.

“You know why I’m here,” said Roosevelt bluntly. “I want your permission to reassemble my Rough Riders and take them over to Europe.”

“As I keep telling you, Mr. Roosevelt — that’s out of the question.”

“You haven’t told me anything!” snapped Roosevelt. “And I have no interest in what you tell the press.”

“Then I’m telling you now,” said Wilson firmly. “I can’t just let any man who wants to gather up a regiment go fight in the war. We have procedures, and chains of command, and…”

“I’m not just any man,” said Roosevelt. “And I have every intention of honoring our procedures and chain of command.” He glared at the President. “I created many of those procedures myself.”

Wilson stared at his visitor for a long moment. “Why are you so anxious to go to war, Mr. Roosevelt? Does violence hold so much fascination for you?”

“I abhor violence and bloodshed,” answered Roosevelt. “I believe that war should never be resorted to when it is honorably possible to avoid it. But once war has begun, then the only thing to do is win it as swiftly and decisively as possible. I believe that I can help to accomplish that end.”

“Mr. Roosevelt, may I point out that you are 58 years old, and according to my reports you have been in poor health ever since returning from Brazil three years ago?”

“Nonsense!” said Roosevelt defensively. “I feel as fit as a bull moose!”

“A one-eyed bull moose,” replied Wilson dryly. Roosevelt seemed about to protest, but Wilson raised a hand to silence him. “Yes, Mr. Roosevelt, I know that you lost the vision in your left eye during a boxing match while you were President.” He couldn’t quite keep the distaste for such juvenile and adventurous escapades out of his voice.

“I’m not here to discuss my health,” answered Roosevelt gruffly, “but the reactivation of my commission as a Colonel in the United States Army.”

Wilson shook his head. “You have my answer. You’ve told me nothing that might change my mind.”

“I’m about to.”

“Oh?”

“Let’s be perfectly honest, Mr. President. The Republican nomination is mine for the asking, and however the war turns out, the Democrats will be sitting ducks. Half the people hate you for entering the war so late, and the other half hate you for entering it at all.” Roosevelt paused. “If you will return me to active duty and allow me to organize my Rough Riders, I will give you my personal pledge that I will neither seek nor accept the Republican nomination in 1920.”

“It means that much to you?” asked Wilson, arching a thin eyebrow.

“It does, sir.”

“I’m impressed by your passion, and I don’t doubt your sincerity, Mr. Roosevelt,” said Wilson. “But my answer must still be no. I am serving my second term. I have no intention of running again in 1920, I do not need your political support, and I will not be a party to such a deal.”

“Then you are a fool, Mr. President,” said Roosevelt. “Because I am going anyway, and you have thrown away your only opportunity, slim as it may be, to keep the Republicans out of the White House.”

“I will not reactivate your commission, Mr. Roosevelt.”

Roosevelt pulled two neatly-folded letters out of his lapel pocket and placed them on the President’s desk.

“What are these?” asked Wilson, staring at them as if they might bite him at any moment.

“Letters from the British and the French, offering me commissions in their armies.” Roosevelt paused. “I am first, foremost, and always an American, Mr. President, and I had entertained no higher hope than leading my men into battle under the Stars and Stripes — but I am going to participate in this war, and you are not going to stop me.” And now, for the first time, he displayed the famed Roosevelt grin. “I have some thirty reporters waiting for me on the lawn of the White House. Shall I tell them that I am fighting for the country that I love, or shall I tell them that our European allies are more concerned with winning this damnable war than our own President?”

“This is blackmail, Mr. Roosevelt!” said Wilson, outraged.

“I believe that is the word for it,” said Roosevelt, still grinning. “I would like you to direct Captain Frank McCoy to leave his current unit and report to me. I’ll handle the rest of the details myself.” He paused again. “The press is waiting, Mr. President. What shall I tell them?”

“Tell them anything you want,” muttered Wilson furiously. “Only get out of this office.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Roosevelt, turning on his heel and marching out with an energetic bounce to his stride.

Wilson waited a moment, then spoke aloud. “You can come in now, Joseph.”

Joseph Tummulty, his personal secretary, entered the Oval Office.

“Were you listening?” asked Wilson.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there any way out of it?”

“Not without getting a black eye in the press.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” said Wilson.

“He’s got you over a barrel, Mr. President.”

“I wonder what he’s really after?” mused Wilson thoughtfully. “He’s been a governor, an explorer, a war hero, a police commissioner, an author, a big-game hunter, and a President.” He paused, mystified. “What more can he want from life?”

“Personally, sir,” said Tummulty, making no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice, “I think that damned cowboy is looking to charge up one more San Juan Hill.”

Roosevelt stood before his troops, as motley an assortment of warriors as had been assembled since the last incarnation of the Rough Riders. There were military men and cowboys, professional athletes and adventurers, hunters and ranchers, barroom brawlers and Indians, tennis players and wrestlers, even a trio of Maasai elmoran he had met on safari in Africa.

“Some of ‘em look a little long in the tooth, Colonel,” remarked Frank McCoy, his second-in-command.

“Some of us are a little long in the tooth too, Frank,” said Roosevelt with a smile.

“And some of ‘em haven’t started shaving yet,” continued McCoy wryly.

“Well, there’s nothing like a war to grow them up in a hurry.”

Roosevelt turned away from McCoy and faced his men, waiting briefly until he had their attention. He paused for a moment to make sure that the journalists who were traveling with the regiment had their pencils and notebooks out and then spoke.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we are about to embark upon a great adventure. We are privileged to be present at a crucial point in the history of the world. In the terrible whirlwind of war, all the great nations of the world are facing the supreme test of their courage and dedication. All the alluring but futile theories of the pacifists have vanished at the first sound of gunfire.”

Roosevelt paused to clear his throat, then continued in his surprisingly high-pitched voice. “This war is the greatest the world has ever seen. The vast size of the armies, the tremendous slaughter, the loftiness of the heroism shown and the hideous horror of the brutalities committed, the valor of the fighting men and the extraordinary ingenuity of those who have designed and built the fighting machines, the burning patriotism of the peoples who defend their homelands and the far-reaching complexity of the plans of the leaders — all are on a scale so huge that nothing in past history can be compared with them.

“The issues at stake are fundamental. The free peoples of the world have banded together against tyrannous militarism, and it is not too much to say that the outcome will largely determine, for those of us who love liberty above all else, whether or not life remains worth living.”

He paused again, and stared up and down the ranks of his men.

“Against such a vast and complex array of forces, it may seem to you that we will just be another cog in the military machine of the allies, that one regiment cannot possibly make a difference.” Roosevelt’s chin jutted forward pugnaciously. “I say to you that this is rubbish! We represent a society dedicated to the proposition that every free man makes a difference. And I give you my solemn pledge that the Rough Riders will make a difference in the fighting to come!”

It was possible that his speech wasn’t finished, that he still had more to say…but if he did, it was drowned out beneath the wild and raucous cheering of his men.

One hour later they boarded the ship to Europe.

Roosevelt summoned a corporal and handed him a hand-written letter. The man saluted and left, and Roosevelt returned to his chair in front of his tent. He was about to pick up a book when McCoy approached him.

“Your daily dispatch to General Pershing?” he asked dryly.

“Yes,” answered Roosevelt. “I can’t understand what is wrong with the man. Here we are, primed and ready to fight, and he’s kept us well behind the front for the better part of two months!”

“I know, Colonel.”

“It just doesn’t make any sense! Doesn’t he know what the Rough Riders did at San Juan Hill?”

“That was a long time ago, sir,” said McCoy.

“I tell you, Frank, these men are the elite — the cream of the crop! They weren’t drafted by lottery. Every one of them volunteered, and every one was approved personally by you or by me. Why are we being wasted here? There’s a war to be won!”

“Pershing’s got a lot to consider, Colonel,” said McCoy. “He’s got half a million American troops to disperse, he’s got to act in concert with the French and the British, he’s got to consider his lines of supply, he’s…”

“Don’t patronize me, Frank!” snapped Roosevelt. “We’ve assembled a brilliant fighting machine here, and he’s ignoring us. There has to be a reason. I want to know what it is!”

McCoy shrugged helplessly. “I have no answer, sir.”

“Well, I’d better get one soon from Pershing!” muttered Roosevelt. “We didn’t come all this way to help in some mopping-up operation after the battle’s been won.” He stared at the horizon. “There’s a glorious crusade being fought in the name of liberty, and I plan to be a part of it.”

He continued staring off into the distance long after McCoy had left him.

A private approached Roosevelt as the former President was eating lunch with his officers.

“Dispatch from General Pershing, sir,” said the private, handing him an envelope with a snappy salute.

“Thank you,” said Roosevelt. He opened the envelope, read the message, and frowned.

“Bad news, Colonel?” asked McCoy.

“He says to be patient,” replied Roosevelt. “Patient?” he repeated furiously. “By God, I’ve been patient long enough! Jake — saddle my horse!”

“What are you going to do, Colonel?” asked one of his lieutenants.

“I’m going to go meet face-to-face with Pershing,” said Roosevelt, getting to his feet. “This is intolerable!”

“We don’t even know where he is, sir.”

“I’ll find him,” replied Roosevelt confidently.

“You’re more likely to get lost or shot,” said McCoy, the only man who dared to speak to him so bluntly.

“Runs With Deer! Matupu!” shouted Roosevelt. “Saddle your horses!”

A burly Indian and a tall Maasai immediately got to their feet and went to the stable area.

Roosevelt turned back to McCoy. “I’m taking the two best trackers in the regiment. Does that satisfy you, Mr. McCoy?”

“It does not,” said McCoy. “I’m coming along, too.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “You’re in command of the regiment in my absence. You’re staying here.”

“But — ”

“That’s an order,” said Roosevelt firmly.

“Will you at least take along a squad of sharpshooters, Colonel?” persisted McCoy.

“Frank, we’re forty miles behind the front, and I’m just going to talk to Pershing, not shoot him.”

“We don’t even know where the front is,” said McCoy.

“It’s where we’re not,” said Roosevelt grimly. “And that’s what I’m going to change.”

He left the mess tent without another word.

The first four French villages they passed were deserted, and consisted of nothing but the burnt skeletons of houses and shops. The fifth had two buildings still standing — a manor house and a church — and they had been turned into allied hospitals. Soldiers with missing limbs, soldiers with faces swathed by filthy bandages, soldiers with gaping holes in their bodies lay on cots and floors, shivering in the cold damp air, while an undermanned and harassed medical team did its best to keep them alive.

Roosevelt stopped long enough to determine General Pershing’s whereabouts, then walked among the wounded to offer words of encouragement while trying to ignore the unmistakable stench of gangrene and the stinging scent of disinfectant. Finally he remounted his horse and joined his two trackers.

They passed a number of corpses on their way to the front. Most had been plundered of their weapons, and one, laying upon its back, displayed a gruesome, toothless smile.

“Shameful!” muttered Roosevelt as he looked down at the grinning body.

“Why?” asked Runs With Deer.

“It’s obvious that the man had gold teeth, and they have been removed.”

“It is honorable to take trophies of the enemy,” asserted the Indian.

“The Germans have never advanced this far south,” said Roosevelt.“This man’s teeth were taken by his companions.” He shook his head. “Shameful!”

Matupu the Maasai merely shrugged. “Perhaps this is not an honorable war.”

“We are fighting for an honorable principle,” stated Roosevelt. “That makes it an honorable war.”

“Then it is an honorable war being waged by dishonorable men,” said Matupu.

“Do the Maasai not take trophies?” asked Runs With Deer.

“We take cows and goats and women,” answered Matupu. “We do not plunder the dead.” He paused. “We do not take scalps.”

“There was a time when we did not, either,” said Runs With Deer. “We were taught to, by the French.”

“And we are in France now,” said Matupu with some satisfaction, as if everything now made sense to him.

They dismounted after two more hours and walked their horses for the rest of the day, then spent the night in a bombed-out farmhouse. The next morning they were mounted and riding again, and they came to General Pershing’s field headquarters just before noon. There were thousands of soldiers bustling about, couriers bringing in hourly reports from the trenches, weapons and tanks being dispatched, convoys of trucks filled with food and water slowly working their way into supply lines.

Roosevelt was stopped a few yards into the camp by a young lieutenant.

“May I ask your business here, sir?”

“I’m here to see General Pershing,” answered Roosevelt.

“Just like that?” said the soldier with a smile.

“Son,” said Roosevelt, taking off his hat and leaning over the lieutenant, “take a good look at my face.” He paused for a moment. “Now go tell General Pershing that Colonel Roosevelt is here to see him.”

The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “By God, you are Teddy Roosevelt!” he exclaimed. Suddenly he reached his hand out. “May I shake your hand first, Mr. President? I just want to be able to tell my parents I did it.”

Roosevelt grinned and took the young man’s hand in his own, then waited astride his horse while the lieutenant went off to Pershing’s quarters. He gazed around the camp: there were ramshackle buildings and ramshackle soldiers, each of which had seen too much action and too little glory. The men’s faces were haggard, their eyes haunted, their bodies stooped with exhaustion. The main paths through the camp had turned to mud, and the constant drizzle brought rust, rot, and disease with an equal lack of Cosmic concern.

The lieutenant approached Roosevelt, his feet sinking inches into the mud with each step.

“If you’ll follow me, Mr. President, he’ll see you immediately.”

“Thank you,” said Roosevelt.

“Watch yourself, Mr. President,” said the lieutenant as Roosevelt dismounted. “I have a feeling he’s not happy about meeting with you.”

“He’ll be a damned sight less happy when I’m through with him,” said Roosevelt firmly. He turned to his companions. “See to the needs of the horses.”

“Yes, sir,” said Runs With Deer. “We’ll be waiting for you right here.”

“How is the battle going?” Roosevelt asked as he and the lieutenant began walking through the mud toward Pershing’s quarters. “My Rough Riders have been practically incommunicado since we arrived.”

The lieutenant shrugged. “Who knows? All we hear are rumors. The enemy is retreating, the enemy is advancing, we’ve killed thousands of them, they’ve killed thousands of us. Maybe the General will tell you; he certainly hasn’t seen fit to tell us.”

They reached the entrance to Pershing’s quarters.

“I’ll wait here for you, sir,” said the lieutenant.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?” asked Roosevelt. “You can find some orderly to escort me back if it will be a problem.”

“No, sir,” said the young man earnestly. “It’ll be an honor, Mr. President.”

“Well, thank you, son,” said Roosevelt. He shook the lieutenant’s hand again, then walked through the doorway and found himself facing General John J. Pershing.

“Good afternoon, Jack,” said Roosevelt, extending his hand.

Pershing looked at Roosevelt’s outstretched hand for a moment, then took it.

“Have a seat, Mr. President,” he said, indicating a chair.

“Thank you,” said Roosevelt, pulling up a chair as Pershing seated himself behind a desk that was covered with maps.

“I mean no disrespect, Mr. President,” said Pershing, “but exactly who gave you permission to leave your troops and come here?”

“No one,” answered Roosevelt.

“Then why did you do it?” asked Pershing. “I’m told you were accompanied only by a red Indian and a black savage. That’s hardly a safe way to travel in a war zone.”

“I came here to find out why you have consistently refused my requests to have my Rough Riders moved to the front.”

Pershing lit a cigar and offered one to Roosevelt, who refused it.

“There are proper channels for such a request,” said the general at last. “You yourself helped create them.”

“And I have been using them for almost two months, to no avail.”

Pershing sighed. “I have been a little busy conducting this damned war.”

“I’m sure you have,” said Roosevelt. “And I have assembled a regiment of the finest fighting men to be found in America, which I am placing at your disposal.”

“For which I thank you, Mr. President.”

“I don’t want you to thank me!” snapped Roosevelt. “I want you to unleash me!”

“When the time is right, your Rough Riders will be brought into the conflict,” said Pershing.

“When the time is right?” repeated Roosevelt. “Your men are dying like flies! Every village I’ve passed has become a bombed-out ghost town! You needed us two months ago, Jack!”

“Mr. President, I’ve got half a million men to maneuver. I’ll decide when and where I need your regiment.”

“When?” persisted Roosevelt.

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“It will have to be.”

“You listen to me, Jack Pershing!” said Roosevelt heatedly. “I made you a general! I think the very least you owe me is an answer. When will my men be brought into the conflict?”

Pershing stared at him from beneath shaggy black eyebrows for a long moment. “What the hell did you have to come here for, anyway?” he said at last.

“I told you: to get an answer.”

“I don’t mean to my headquarters,” said Pershing. “I mean, what is a 58-year-old man with a blind eye and a game leg doing in the middle of a war?”

“This is the greatest conflict in history, and it’s being fought over principles that every free man holds dear. How could I not take part in it?”

“You could have just stayed home and made speeches and raised funds.”

“And you could have retired after Mexico and spent the rest of your life playing golf,” Roosevelt shot back. “But you didn’t, and I didn’t, because neither of us is that kind of man. Damn it, Jack — I’ve assembled a regiment the likes of which hasn’t been seen in almost 20 years, and if you’ve any sense at all, you’ll make use of us. Our horses and our training give us an enormous advantage on this terrain. We can mobilize and strike at the enemy as easily as this fellow Lawrence seems to be doing in the Arabian desert.”

Pershing stared at him for a long moment, then sighed deeply.

“I can’t do it, Mr. President,” said Pershing.

“Why not?” demanded Roosevelt.

“The truth? Because of you, sir.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’ve made my position damnably awkward,” said Pershing bitterly. “You are an authentic American hero, possibly the first one since Abraham Lincoln. You are as close to being worshipped as a man can be.” He paused. “You’re a goddamned icon, Mr. Roosevelt.”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“I am under direct orders not to allow you to participate in any action that might result in your death.” He glared at Roosevelt across the desk. “Now do you understand? If I move you to the front, I’ll have to surround you with at least three divisions to make sure nothing happens to you — and I’m in no position to spare that many men.”

“Who issued that order, Jack?”

“My Commander-in-Chief.”

“Woodrow Wilson?”

“That’s right. And I’d no more disobey him than I would disobey you if you still held that office.” He paused, then spoke again more gently. “You’re an old man, sir. Not old by your standards, but too damned old to be leading charges against the Germans. You should be home writing your memoirs and giving speeches and rallying the people to our cause, Mr. President.”

“I’m not ready to retire to Hyde Park and have my face carved on Mount Rushmore yet,” said Roosevelt. “There are battles to be fought and a war to be won.”

“Not by you, Mr. President,” answered Pershing. “When the enemy is beaten and on the run, I’ll bring your regiment up. The press can go crazy photographing you chasing the few German stragglers back to Berlin. But I cannot and will not disobey a direct order from my Commander-in-Chief. Until I can guarantee your safety, you’ll stay where you are.”

“I see,” said Roosevelt, after a moment’s silence. “And what if I relinquish my command? Will you utilize my Rough Riders then?”

Pershing shook his head. “I have no use for a bunch of tennis players and college professors who think they can storm across the trenches on their polo ponies,” he said firmly. “The only men you have with battle experience are as old as you are.” He paused. “Your regiment might be effective if the Apaches ever leave the reservation, but they are ill-prepared for a modern, mechanized war. I hate to be so blunt, but it’s the truth, sir.”

“You’re making a huge mistake, Jack.”

“You’re the one who made the mistake, sir, by coming here. It’s my job to see that you don’t die because of it.”

“Damn it, Jack, we could make a difference!”

Pershing paused and stared, not without sympathy, at Roosevelt. “War has changed, Mr. President,” he said at last. “No one regiment can make a difference any longer. It’s been a long time since Achilles fought Hector outside the walls of Troy.”

An orderly entered with a dispatch, and Pershing immediately read and initialed it.

“I don’t mean to rush you, sir,” he said, getting to his feet, “but I have an urgent meeting to attend.”

Roosevelt stood up. “I’m sorry to have bothered you, General.”

“I’m still Jack to you, Mr. President,” said Pershing. “And it’s as your friend Jack that I want to give you one final word of advice.”

“Yes?”

“Please, for your own sake and the sake of your men, don’t do anything rash.”

“Why would I do something rash?” asked Roosevelt innocently.

“Because you wouldn’t be Teddy Roosevelt if the thought of ignoring your orders hadn’t already crossed your mind,” said Pershing.

Roosevelt fought back a grin, shook Pershing’s hand, and left without saying another word. The young lieutenant was just outside the door, and escorted him back to where Runs With Deer and Matupu were waiting with the horses.

“Bad news?” asked Runs With Deer, as he studied Roosevelt’s face.

“No worse than I had expected.”

“Where do we go now?” asked the Indian.

“Back to camp,” said Roosevelt firmly. “There’s a war to be won, and no college professor from New Jersey is going to keep me from helping to win it!”

“Well, that’s the story,” said Roosevelt to his assembled officers, after he had laid out the situation to them in the large tent he had reserved for strategy sessions. “Even if I resign my commission and return to America, there is no way that General Pershing will allow you to see any action.”

“I knew Black Jack Pershing when he was just a captain,” growled Buck O’Neill, one of the original Rough Riders. “Just who the hell does he think he is?”

“He’s the supreme commander of the American forces,” answered Roosevelt wryly.

“What are we going to do, sir?” asked McCoy. “Surely you don’t plan to just sit back here and then let Pershing move us up when all the fighting’s done with?”

“No, I don’t,” said Roosevelt.

“Let’s hear what you got to say, Teddy,” said O’Neill.

“The issues at stake in this war haven’t changed since I went to see the General,” answered Roosevelt. “I plan to harass and harry the enemy to the best of our ability. If need be we will live off the land while utilizing our superior mobility in a number of tactical strikes, and we will do our valiant best to bring this conflict to a successful conclusion.”

He paused and looked around at his officers. “I realize that in doing this I am violating my orders, but there are greater principles at stake here. I am flattered that the President thinks I am indispensable to the American public, but our nation is based on the principle that no one man deserves any rights or privileges not offered to all men.” He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “However, since I am contravening a direct order, I believe that not only each one of you, but every one of the men as well, should be given the opportunity to withdraw from the Rough Riders. I will force no man to ride against his conscience and his beliefs. I would like to you go out now and put the question to the men; I will wait here for your answer.”

To nobody’s great surprise, the regiment voted unanimously to ride to glory with Teddy Roosevelt.

3 August, 1917

My Dearest Edith:

As strange as this may seem to you (and is seems surpassingly strange to me), I will soon be a fugitive from justice, opposed not only by the German army but quite possibly by the U.S. military as well.

My Rough Riders have embarked upon a bold adventure, contrary to both the wishes and the direct orders of the President of the United States. When I think back to the day he finally approved my request to reassemble the regiment, I cringe with chagrin at my innocence and naivete; he sent us here only so that I would not have access to the press, and he would no longer have to listen to my demands. Far from being permitted to play a leading role in this noblest of battles, my men have been held far behind the front, and Jack Pershing was under orders from Wilson himself not to allow any harm to come to us.

When I learned of this, I put a proposition to my men, and I am extremely proud of their response. To a one, they voted to break camp and ride to the front so as to strike at the heart of the German military machine. By doing so, I am disobeying the orders of my Commander-in-Chief, and because of this somewhat peculiar situation, I doubt that I shall be able to send too many more letters to you until I have helped to end this war. At that time, I shall turn myself over to Pershing, or whoever is in charge, and argue my case before whatever tribunal is deemed proper.

However, before that moment occurs, we shall finally see action, bearing the glorious banner of the Stars and Stripes. My men are a finely-tuned fighting machine, and I daresay that they will give a splendid account of themselves before the conflict is over. We have not made contact with the enemy yet, nor can I guess where we shall finally meet, but we are primed and eager for our first taste of battle. Our spirit is high, and many of the old-timers spend their hours singing the old battle songs from Cuba. We are all looking forward to a bully battle, and we plan to teach the Hun a lesson he won’t soon forget.

Give my love to the children, and when you write to Kermit and Quentin, tell them that their father has every intention of reaching Berlin before they do!

All my love,

Theodore

Roosevelt, who had been busily writing an article on ornithology, looked up from his desk as McCoy entered his tent.

“Well?”

“We think we’ve found what we’ve been looking for, Mr. President,” said McCoy.

“Excellent!” said Roosevelt, carefully closing his notebook. “Tell me about it.”

McCoy spread a map out on the desk.

“Well, the front lines, as you know, are here, about fifteen miles to the north of us. The Germans are entrenched here, and we haven’t been able to move them for almost three weeks.” McCoy paused. “The word I get from my old outfit is that the Americans are planning a major push on the German left, right about here.”

“When?” demanded Roosevelt.

“At sunrise tomorrow morning.”

“Bully!” said Roosevelt. He studied the map for a moment, then looked up. “Where is Jack Pershing?”

“Almost ten miles west and eight miles north of us,” answered McCoy. “He’s dug in, and from what I hear, he came under pretty heavy mortar fire today. He’ll have his hands full without worrying about where an extra regiment of American troops came from.”

“Better and better,” said Roosevelt. “We not only get to fight, but we may even pull Jack’s chestnuts out of the fire.” He turned his attention back to the map. “All right,” he said, “the Americans will advance along this line. What would you say will be their major obstacle?”

“You mean besides the mud and the Germans and the mustard gas?” asked McCoy wryly.

“You know what I mean, Hank.”

“Well,” said McCoy, “there’s a small rise here — I’d hardly call it a hill, certainly not like the one we took in Cuba — but it’s manned by four machine guns, and it gives the Germans an excellent view of the territory the Americans have got to cross.”

“Then that’s our objective,” said Roosevelt decisively. “If we can capture that hill and knock out the machine guns, we’ll have made a positive contribution to the battle that even that Woodrow Wilson will be forced to acknowledge.” The famed Roosevelt grin spread across his face. “We’ll show him that the dodo may be dead, but the Rough Riders are very much alive.” He paused. “Gather the men, Hank. I want to speak to them before we leave.”

McCoy did as he was told, and Roosevelt emerged from his tent some ten minutes later to address the assembled Rough Riders.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “tomorrow morning we will meet the enemy on the battlefield.”

A cheer arose from the ranks.

“It has been suggested that modern warfare deals only in masses and logistics, that there is no room left for heroism, that the only glory remaining to men of action is upon the sporting fields. I tell you that this is a lie. We matter! Honor and courage are not outmoded virtues, but are the very ideals that make us great as individuals and as a nation. Tomorrow, we will prove it in terms that our detractors and our enemies will both understand.” He paused, and then saluted them. “Saddle up — and may God be with us!”

They reached the outskirts of the battlefield, moving silently with hooves and harnesses muffled, just before sunrise. Even McCoy, who had seen action in Mexico, was unprepared for the sight that awaited them.

The mud was littered with corpses as far as the eye could see in the dim light of the false dawn. The odor of death and decay permeated the moist, cold morning air. Thousands of bodies lay there in the pouring rain, many of them grotesquely swollen. Here and there they had virtually exploded, either when punctured by bullets or when the walls of the abdominal cavities collapsed. Attempts had been made during the previous month to drag them back off the battlefield, but there was simply no place left to put them. There was almost total silence, as the men in both trenches began preparing for another day of bloodletting.

Roosevelt reined his horse to a halt and surveyed the carnage. Still more corpses were hung up on barbed wire, and more than a handful of bodies attached to the wire still moved feebly. The rain pelted down, turning the plain between the enemy trenches into a brown, gooey slop.

“My God, Hank!” murmured Roosevelt.

“It’s pretty awful,” agreed McCoy.

“This is not what civilized men do to each other,” said Roosevelt, stunned by the sight before his eyes. “This isn’t war, Hank — it’s butchery!”

“It’s what war has become.”

“How long have these two lines been facing each other?”

“More than a month, sir.”

Roosevelt stared, transfixed, at the sea of mud.

“A month to cross a quarter mile of this?”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“How many lives have been lost trying to cross this strip of land?”

McCoy shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe eighty thousand, maybe a little more.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “Why, in God’s name? Who cares about it? What purpose does it serve?”

McCoy had no answer, and the two men sat in silence for another moment, surveying the battlefield.

“This is madness!” said Roosevelt at last. “Why doesn’t Pershing simply march around it?”

“That’s a question for a general to answer, Mr. President,” said McCoy. “Me, I’m just a captain.”

“We can’t continue to lose American boys for this!” said Roosevelt furiously. “Where is that machine gun encampment, Hank?”

McCoy pointed to a small rise about three hundred yards distant.

“And the main German lines?”

“Their first row of trenches are in line with the hill.”

“Have we tried to take the hill before?”

“I can’t imagine that we haven’t, sir,” said McCoy. “As long as they control it, they’ll mow our men down like sitting ducks in a shooting gallery.” He paused. “The problem is the mud. The average infantryman can’t reach the hill in less than two minutes, probably closer to three — and until you’ve seen them in action, you can’t believe the damage these guns can do in that amount of time.”

“So as long as the hill remains in German hands, this is a war of attrition.”

McCoy sighed. “It’s been a war of attrition for three years, sir.”

Roosevelt sat and stared at the hill for another few minutes, then turned back to McCoy.

“What are our chances, Hank?”

McCoy shrugged. “If it was dry, I’d say we had a chance to take them out…”

“But it’s not.”

“No, it’s not,” echoed McCoy.

“Can we do it?”

“I don’t know, sir. Certainly not without heavy casualties.”

“How heavy?”

“Very heavy.”

“I need a number,” said Roosevelt.

McCoy looked him in the eye. “Ninety percent — if we’re lucky.”

Roosevelt stared at the hill again. “They predicted fifty percent casualties at San Juan Hill,” he said. “We had to charge up a much steeper slope in the face of enemy machine gun fire. Nobody thought we had a chance — but I did it, Hank, and I did it alone. I charged up that hill and knocked out the machine gun nest myself, and then the rest of my men followed me.”

“The circumstances were different then, Mr. President,” said McCoy. “The terrain offered cover and solid footing, and you were facing Cuban peasants who had been conscripted into service, not battle-hardened professional German soldiers.”

“I know, I know,” said Roosevelt. “But if we knock those machine guns out, how many American lives can we save today?”

“I don’t know,” admitted McCoy. “Maybe ten thousand, maybe none. It’s possible that the Germans are dug in so securely that they can beat back any American charge even without the use of those machine guns.”

“But at least it would prolong some American lives,” persisted Roosevelt.

“By a couple of minutes.”

“It would give them a chance to reach the German bunkers.”

“I don’t know.”

“More of a chance than if they had to face machine gun fire from the hill.”

“What do you want me to say, Mr. President?” asked McCoy. “That if we throw away our lives charging the hill that we’ll have done something glorious and affected the outcome of the battle? I just don’t know!”

“We came here to help win a war, Hank. Before I send my men into battle, I have to know that it will make a difference.”

“I can’t give you any guarantees, sir. We came to fight a war, all right. But look around you, Mr. President — this isn’t the war we came to fight. They’ve changed the rules on us.”

“There are hundreds of thousands of American boys in the trenches who didn’t come to fight this kind of war,” answered Roosevelt. “In less than an hour, most of them are going to charge across this sea of mud into a barrage of machine gun fire. If we can’t shorten the war, then perhaps we can at least lengthen their lives.”

“At the cost of our own.”

“We are idealists and adventurers, Hank — perhaps the last this world will ever see. We knew what we were coming here to do.” He paused. “Those boys are here because of speeches and decisions that politicians have made, myself included. Left to their own devices, they’d go home to be with their families. Left to ours, we’d find another cause to fight for.”

“This isn’t a cause, Mr. President,” said McCoy. “It’s a slaughter.”

“Then maybe this is where men who want to prevent further slaughter belong,” said Roosevelt. He looked up at the sky. “They’ll be mobilizing in another half hour, Hank.”

“I know, Mr. President.”

“If we leave now, if we don’t try to take that hill, then Wilson and Pershing were right and I was wrong. The time for heroes is past, and I am an anachronism who should be sitting at home in a rocking chair, writing memoirs and exhorting younger men to go to war.” He paused, staring at the hill once more. “If we don’t do what’s required of us this day, we are agreeing with them that we don’t matter, that men of courage and ideals can’t make a difference. If that’s true, there’s no sense waiting for a more equitable battle, Hank — we might as well ride south and catch the first boat home.”

“That’s your decision, Mr. President?” asked McCoy.

“Was there really ever any other option?” replied Roosevelt wryly.

“No, sir,” said McCoy. “Not for men like us.”

“Thank you for your support, Hank,” said Roosevelt, reaching out and laying a heavy hand on McCoy’s shoulder. “Prepare the men.”

“Yes, sir,” said McCoy, saluting and riding back to the main body of the Rough Riders.

“Madness!” muttered Roosevelt, looking out at the bloated corpses. “Utter madness!”

McCoy returned a moment later.

“The men are awaiting your signal, sir,” he said.

“Tell them to follow me,” said Roosevelt.

“Sir…” said McCoy.

“Yes?”

“We would prefer you not lead the charge. The first ranks will face the heaviest bombardment, not only from the hill but from the cannons behind the bunkers.”

“I can’t ask my men to do what I myself won’t do,” said Roosevelt.

“You are too valuable to lose, sir. We plan to attack in three waves. You belong at the back of the third wave, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “There’s nothing up ahead except bullets, Hank, and I’ve faced bullets before — in the Dakota Bad Lands, in Cuba, in Milwaukee. But if I hang back, if I send my men to do a job I was afraid to do, then I’d have to face myself — and as any Democrat will tell you, I’m a lot tougher than any bullet ever made.”

“You won’t reconsider?” asked McCoy.

“Would you have left your unit and joined the Rough Riders if you thought I might?” asked Roosevelt with a smile.

“No, sir,” admitted McCoy. “No, sir, I probably wouldn’t have.”

Roosevelt shook his hand. “You’re a good man, Hank.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Are the men ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then,” said Roosevelt, turning his horse toward the small rise, “let’s do what must be done.”

He pulled his rifle out, unlatched the safety catch, and dug his heels into his horse’s sides.

Suddenly he was surrounded by the first wave of his own men, all screaming their various war cries in the face of the enemy.

For just a moment there was no response. Then the machine guns began their sweeping fire across the muddy plain. Buck O’Neill was the first to fall, his body riddled with bullets. An instant later Runs With Deer screamed in agony as his arm was blown away. Horses had their legs shot from under them, men were blown out of their saddles, limbs flew crazily through the wet morning air, and still the charge continued.

Roosevelt had crossed half the distance when Matupu fell directly in front of him, his head smashed to a pulp. He heard McCoy groan as half a dozen bullets thudded home in his chest, but looked neither right nor left as his horse leaped over the fallen Maasai’s bloody body.

Bullets and cannonballs flew to the right and left of him, in front and behind, and yet miraculously he was unscathed as he reached the final hundred yards. He dared a quick glance around, and saw that he was the sole survivor from the first wave, then heard the screams of the second wave as the machine guns turned on them.

Now he was seventy yards away, now fifty. He yelled a challenge to the Germans, and as he looked into the blinking eye of a machine gun, for one brief, final, glorious instant it was San Juan Hill all over again.

18 September, 1917

Dispatch from General John J. Pershing to Commander-in-Chief, President Woodrow Wilson.

Sir:

I regret to inform you that Theodore Roosevelt died last Tuesday of wounds received in battle. He had disobeyed his orders and led his men in a futile charge against an entrenched German position. His entire regiment, the so-called “Rough Riders”, was lost. His death was almost certainly instantaneous, although it was two days before his body could be retrieved from the battlefield.

I shall keep the news of Mr. Roosevelt’s death from the press until receiving instructions from you. It is true that he was an anachronism, that he belonged more to the 19th Century than the 20th, and yet it is entirely possible that he was the last authentic hero our country shall ever produce. The charge he led was ill-conceived and foolhardy in the extreme, nor did it diminish the length of the conflict by a single day, yet I cannot help but believe that if I had 50,000 men with his courage and spirit, I could bring this war to a swift and satisfactory conclusion by the end of the year.

That Theodore Roosevelt died the death of a fool is beyond question, but I am certain in my heart that with his dying breath he felt he was dying the death of a hero. I await your instructions, and will release whatever version of his death you choose upon hearing from you.

— Gen. John J. Pershing

22 September, 1917

Dispatch from President Woodrow Wilson to General John J. Pershing, Commander of American Forces in Europe.

John:

That man continues to harass me from the grave.

Still, we have had more than enough fools in our history. Therefore, he died a hero.

Just between you and me, the time for heroes is past. I hope with all my heart that he was our last.

— Woodrow Wilson

And he was.