Captain Walter put his field glasses back in their case. “Oh, they’ll try something. Latest rumor is that an untrained militia will be sent against us in a few days.” He chuckled. “If that’s all they have, the fact that they outnumber us won’t mean a thing. On the other hand, it would be nice to have ammunition by then. I trust we’ll have some before long.”
“And food too, sir.”
Walter slapped him on the shoulder. “Good German soldiers never admit to being hungry.”
The corporal managed a small smile as the captain walked away on tired, unsteady legs. Ludwig was still hungry, and he decided he wasn’t a very good soldier. Hell, he knew that already. In a little while it would be his turn to sleep. He prayed he would not dream of the barbed wire and see the dead lying across it like flies entrapped in a spiderweb.
He watched as the captain walked from man to man, checking each. Sadly, it didn’t take long. Of the 120 who’d landed on Long Island in June, only 38 were present for duty this morning. More than 30 men were dead, wounded, or missing from yesterday alone. Maybe one or two would show up as the day wore on, but somehow Ludwig didn’t think that very likely. The Yank fire had been just too deadly.
He tried not to think of the friends who now lay dead or bloody and mangled. There were too many. One of the Schuler boys was dead, killed in the crossing, and the remaining brother was inconsolable. Ludwig could hear the sound of his sobbing from farther down the widely spaced defensive line.
Battle had changed Ludwig, hardened him both physically and mentally. Once he had been an innocent and very naive itinerant schoolteacher. Now he had killed, and others had tried to kill him. His comrades respected him and he could lead them. Even Kessel no longer caused him fear. The scarred bully and thief was indeed a damned coward. A few weeks earlier, Kessel had finally cornered him in a supply tent and tried to fondle his buttocks. “C’mon, pussy boy, let me show you a real man.” Ludwig had whirled and locked an iron grip around his throat. “Even think of touching me again, you fucking prick, and I’ll kill you.” Kessel had recoiled in shock and fled from the tent. Ludwig had surprised himself; it felt wonderful.
He would never be an officer in what he felt was the obscene German military machine, but he would be a force in whatever endeavors he took up. Teaching was still a real possibility, but he would now be a different sort of teacher. First, he reminded himself, he had to make sure he survived this battle.
He glanced upward. Funny, but he almost thought he heard the sound of a train whistle.
Theodore Roosevelt left the war room and tried to relieve his stresses by pacing up and down the second-floor corridor of the White House. Major General Leonard Wood poked his head out and watched his friend the president. Finally, Roosevelt paused.
“Leonard, now I finally and truly do understand what Lincoln went through during those awful battles. How maddening it is to do nothing but sit by a telephone and wait for it to ring, or by a telegraph in hopes it might start chattering. How utterly useless I feel!”
Wood glanced about to see who else could hear. “Theodore,” he said, taking in private the liberty of using his first name. “I would a hundred times rather be actually doing something than waiting, waiting, waiting. You mention Lincoln, but what about McKinley while you and I were tramping through the Cuban swamps?”
Roosevelt laughed. “Damn, those were good days.” His face clouded quickly. “But waiting for news of the battle is driving me crazy. The newspapers are pillorying me because the Germans are driving us back, and they predict an awful defeat that will end the war on very unsatisfactory terms. They blame me for the failure of the country to be ready. In a way, I guess they’re right. After all, I was the vice president. Mr. Bryan and his friends are calling this the culmination of a policy of failure. In the Spanish war, Bryan had the decency to put on a uniform, but not this time.”
“Well, at least the fleet has sailed,” commented Wood.
“But to what avail? The German army will be well out of range, and the German navy can stay safely where it is. Oh, I suppose Dewey had to do something. Perhaps he can force his way into Long Island Sound and prevent the Germans from bombarding our perimeter.”
Wood was no longer listening. He had gone to a window and was looking out at Lafayette Park. “Theodore, come here.”
The president came and peered over his shoulder. “Goodness, what do they want?” Outside, in the park, were thousands of men, women, and children. They were staring at the White House in almost total silence. Even from a distance he could see the grim, sad looks on their faces.
“Sir,” said Wood, formality returning. “I believe they want to see you.”
Roosevelt looked again at the somber faces. “I should go speak to them. No,” he said, smiling slightly, “I will go and ask them to pray with me.”
The journey north had been a hard one for a man as old as James Longstreet, and he felt it in every bone in his body. Yet could he be elsewhere? He allowed his aide to help him down from his carriage and walked the few steps to where MacArthur and Schofield waited. Schofield looked a little more rested than Longstreet, but he had arrived a day earlier. Longstreet returned their salutes. “How is it within the perimeter?”
MacArthur answered. “Still holding. We have just about reached the water on our eastward swing and are digging in like mad. So are the Germans.”
Longstreet nodded. He did not ask how long they could hold out. “With you up here, Mac, what’s the command structure?”
“I’m still in overall command, of course, and keeping in touch via wireless and telegraph. We buried a number of lines between here, Bridgeport, and New Haven, and the Krauts haven’t thought to dig them up yet. Baldy Smith is in tactical command within the perimeter and Joe Wheeler has taken over his corps. Chaffee commands the second corps. Division commanders are Funston, Pershing, Lee, Kent, Merritt, and Scott. Bates commands north along the Hudson, and Ludlow commands the Jersey shore. Both might as well be on the moon for all the good they’ll do us in this fight.”
Longstreet realized that these were the cream of the American army command. If they were lost, then the army was effectively beheaded as a fighting force. What had he done? By answering his country’s call, James Longstreet had put himself in position to preside over the greatest defeat in the young nation’s history. Hell, a man in his eighties should be home watching his favorite hound sleep. But here he was, ancient and hard of hearing, trying for one last battle. He must be a fool.
The distant sound of a train whistle brought him out of his reverie. He took his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “Schofield, is it true the trains run on time in Germany?”
Schofield kept a straight face. “Everything runs on time in Germany. Everything is done precisely and to the numbers, and that includes the pious act of copulation for the betterment of the fatherland.”
Longstreet was about to ask him what a man of his age recalled of the pious act of copulation when the train whistle sounded again, this time closer. Longstreet looked at the others and saw the expectant expressions on their faces. Working with Stonewall had taught him something about trains, and a stint as commissioner of railroads, a largely ceremonial position, had taught him even more. Yes, the German trains always ran on time; by comparison, exact scheduling in the United States was often a joke. But sometimes, just sometimes, they got it right.
The kaiser looked at his map and watched as staffers again moved the pins denoting a further surge eastward by his army. “Von Schlieffen, I am still concerned about that mob they have up north in their training camp. Although it might not be much, there is little to stop it from bursting into our rear and doing a great deal of mischief.”