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.