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.