Now, God be Thanked

by John Masters

  Thus it happens that the Russians almost everywhere advanced without much difficulty, rounding up Germans and chasing them like packs of frightened animals towards the Vistula. ‘The Cossacks are coming’ is a cry in East Prussia today sufficient to stampede an entire village, albeit, so far as one can judge from dispatches printed here, the Cossacks are positively lamblike when compared with certain Uhlans operating in Belgium.

  Cate read the piece again. It was odd that information about the Russians advancing should have to come via New York. One would have thought that the Telegraph would have had Our Own Correspondent in St Petersburg, if not closer to the front. And the tone of the report made him uneasy. He could understand German civilians running like hares from a Russian army, but German soldiers? A German army? It seemed unlikely, unless they were very much outnumbered – which they were, of course. In the very early days of the war, the newspaper strategists had carefully explained that the Germans would leave their eastern borders as thinly defended as possible, and use the troops so saved to knock out France. So what was happening in East Prussia, when you took out the emotional language, was that the campaign was going according to plan – the German plan.

  He returned to the paper. A French General de Lacroix had given his estimate of the military situation in the Temps. He said,

  ‘Germany is in danger. She has brought the greater part of her force against us and attacks us with extreme violence because it is imperative for her to remove a portion of her forces which we are fighting and to send them against the Russians. Our northern army must not be content with resistance. It must, even after a retreat, return to the attack. It is only by the offensive that we shall learn when the Germans reduce their forces on their west front.’

  Easier said than done, Cate thought; but the general was probably right. It would be a subtle matter of timing, wherein a day or two might make the difference. It would certainly be a long and hard war if the Germans did manage to knock France out of action within the next week or so, as they obviously intended to. Whether they succeeded would depend finally on General Joffre and the French soldiers … and Quentin and his men, too, of course. The Kaiser would live to regret having called them a ‘contemptible little army’.

  12 New York: Friday, August 28, 1914

  The board of directors of Fairfax, Gottlieb was meeting in the airy boardroom on the 27th floor of the building on Lower Broadway. Sitting beside his father, his chair a little drawn back so that he would not appear to be at the table itself, Johnny Merritt waited, notepad and pencil in his lap, for the present discussion to end. His father, as chairman of the board, was listening to a final explanation from the director with the most experience in the subject: Johnny, as his private secretary, would record what his father had recommended, and other points of interest; the secretary to the board, sitting at the far end from his father, would make the official record of the meeting, the voting, and the decisions.

  The speaker finished and Stephen Merritt waited a moment, stroking his chin, before making his recommendation. The directors accepted it unanimously. Johnny made his note.

  Then Stephen said, ‘The next item is the proposal to go into the manufacture of commercial – freight carrying – road vehicles in England. As you will see in the notes to the agenda, it is proposed to form a limited liability company with Mr Richard Rowland, of Hedlington, England. We would own the majority and controlling equity interest. The rest of the common stock would be distributed between Mr Rowland and a British merchant bank, in proportions to be agreed … As you know, for some time now we have been seeking a suitable opportunity to invest in the automobile business. We have discussed what we are looking for – good management, plentiful skilled labour, and existing network of good roads. Britain meets all those requirements, and I believe Mr Rowland to be at least a competent manager – though, if we approve the agreement in principle, I would propose to go over to England and thoroughly investigate Mr Rowland’s production plans and ideas, before proceeding further. Let’s have some discussion on the general idea, though. Morgan?’

  Morgan L. Fairfax II, president of the bank, said, ‘I’d like to hear some other opinions first.’

  ‘George?’

  George Neidorf, a railroad president by profession, said, ‘I have been for the idea of investing in automobile manufacture all along … and in Europe. But is this the time?’

  ‘You mean the war?’

  Neidorf nodded. ‘Yes. We are looking for a country with a growing economy, where increasing prosperity will enable a higher proportion of small businessmen to buy the vehicles we will make. But the war is going to bankrupt all the nations in Europe if it goes on for more than a month or two.’

  ‘It won’t,’ another director said. ‘The Germans will be in Paris in another three days. By this time next week, it will all be over.’

  ‘That I doubt,’ said a third, ‘and England may fight on, in any case.’

  ‘What with? Their army will be killed or captured en masse as soon as the French surrender, and then what can they do, however many battleships they have?’

  Johnny longed to speak up: England would not be defeated, would not give up – he knew it in his deepest being; but he said nothing, only making a note on his pad.

  Neidorf said, ‘At least we must all agree, Stephen, that the situation looks grim for Britain. Is this the moment to consider investing in anything there?’

  ‘No,’ said two directors simultaneously.

  Then no one spoke for a time until Stephen Merritt said, ‘I am, in principle, for the proposal. I do not myself believe that France will fall so quickly … nor Britain. If the war continues, there will be a great demand for commercial vehicles to carry munitions and supplies to the fighting fronts. Roads cannot be put out of commission so easily as railroads. Yet I agree that the risks are severe, at this moment.’

  One of the directors said, ‘I think we should definitely keep out of Europe until the war’s over.’

  Stephen said, ‘The situation is so fluid that perhaps we would be unwise to make a firm decision now. I move that we reconsider this proposal at the next board meeting a month from now. By then we should have a much clearer notion of the future course of events.’

  ‘Second,’ George Neidorf said.

  The motion was carried 7-2.

  Later, in his father’s large office overlooking Upper New York Bay, the Statue of Liberty greenish on her island, Staten Island ferry boats dragging steam trails across the dancing waves, Johnny said, ‘I think the board is making a mistake.’

  Stephen said, ‘I’m not sure. We are really in the dark, but there was no alternative. If I hadn’t suggested the postponement, the motion would have been to drop the whole idea, and it would have carried handily … We can afford to wait and it is the wisest thing to do.’

  ‘They’re fighting and dying over there,’ Johnny said, ‘while we sell them munitions, and make money out of their misery.’

  ‘Their folly, too, Johnny. It’s not our war, and pray God it never becomes so.’

  Johnny said nothing. During the war’s twenty-eight days he had come to think that it was every civilized country’s war, particularly America’s, to help defeat the jackbooted Huns and their power-mad Kaiser; but he knew it was pointless to say so. His father had heard his views, many times.

  The Heskeths’ house in Nyack was barely two hundred yards downstream from the Merritts’, on the river front. The Heskeths were giving the dinner and dance, and they had invited Carol Ruttledge, of course. She was on Johnny’s arm now, as they strolled slowly across the grass below the big house. The moon was half-full, the Hudson gurgling softly at the pilings by the boathouse. A dozen other couples were walking the lawn, washed by the ragtime music and electric light streaming down from the open windows and doors of the house. Carol spoke little, just enjoying the evening, and his company. She was a nice girl. He only wished everyone would not assume that because he often danced with her, and had known
her since grade school, he was madly in love with her, and therefore push them into each other’s company at every opportunity. He liked her; she was a good dancer, pretty, shapely, kind, and reasonably intelligent; and her parents were very rich. He just did not love her.

  The lights and the water and the music reminded him of Henley and the Phyllis Court Ball. That had been another night like this, even though that English river was so quiet and small, hardly more than a creek, the music different, the trees so heavy, the grass so green, and everywhere, intangible, a pervasive sense of history. And Stella.

  Some of her family would be in the war already – the navy commander who’d been walking the towpath with the boys – and Stella had told him that another uncle was a major in the army. Perhaps the major had been at Mons, or that other battle two or three days ago, at Le Cateau. Perhaps the commander had been in the sea fight off Heligoland, which was in this evening’s papers. Perhaps one or both of them was already dead.

  Carol Ruttledge said, ‘What are you thinking of, Johnny?’

  ‘The war,’ he said briefly. ‘Let’s go inside. I have to dance this one with my sister.’

  ‘Don’t sound so gloomy about it,’ she said, laughing. ‘Lots of young men would jump at the chance to dance with Betty.’

  ‘I know, but she’s my sister.’

  He straightened his white tie, patted his stiff shirt front into place and, having left Carol with her mother, went to find Betty. She was in one of the front rooms, sitting with two young men, a glass of white wine cupped in her hand.

  ‘My dance,’ Johnny said, holding out his hand. He heard the jazz band strike up a ragtime twostep.

  ‘You don’t really want to dance with me. Sit down and have a rest. You look as if Carol wore you out.’

  Johnny poured himself a glass and sat in an easy chair opposite the two young men, his sister at his side.

  One of the young men said, ‘We were talking about the war. Betty says you’re all for us going in.’

  Johnny knew them both slightly. The speaker was Carl Zinnemann, the other Floyd Botsford. Zinnemann was a senior at Princeton, Botsford two years out of Columbia.

  He said, ‘Yes, I do. We have special ties with England – and Scotland and Ireland – the roots of our country are there, our constitution, law, history …’

  ‘Not my roots,’ Zinnemann said.

  ‘It’s a war for civilization,’ Johnny said.

  Zinnemann said, ‘I think the Germans have as much civilization as the British … Beethoven, Goethe, Wagner, Liszt, Schiller – ’

  ‘Attila, the Kaiser’s hero, Bismarck …’

  Zinnemann flushed. ‘Bismarck was a sight greater statesman than any Britisher. If he were still alive and in power the war would have been over already. As it is, it won’t last another week.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be over in a week if we went in.’

  ‘Why not? What can we do?’ Zinnemann sneered. ‘It would take us at least a year to get a big enough army raised and trained. People like you could go off individually and fight for the Limeys, but how many of you are there? Not more than there are of us, who’d go and join the German army tomorrow, if we thought we could get over there in time.’

  Johnny felt his neck getting red. His fists were doubled. He said, ‘I knew you had German ancestry, Zinnemann, but I didn’t know you admired the baby-killing nun-raping Huns who are waging this war.’

  Zinnemann was on his feet. ‘You take that back …’

  Betty jumped up and grabbed his arm. ‘Sit down, Carl! And you apologize, Johnny!’

  Johnny said, ‘I will not apologize. I will be at the boathouse for the next quarter of an hour if your German friend wants to tackle someone stronger than a Belgian nun.’ He stalked out.

  They parked the Cadillac at the Erie railroad station in Tuxedo and set out on the trail that led north-east out of the village and up the slopes of Pine Hill. It was a hot day and soon they were both perspiring freely as they climbed through the oak and rhododendron forests, Johnny wearing knickerbockers, knee stockings, stout woodsman’s boots, a cotton shirt open at the neck, and a light jacket. His sister wore a grey skirt several inches shorter than was customary for a young woman of her age, a white blouse, and also woodsman’s boots. After an hour and a half’s hard going, saying little, they crossed Black Ash Swamp and reached the summit of Tom Jones Mountain. They flung themselves down on the exposed glacier-scored rock, Betty fanning herself with her straw hat.

  She said, ‘Next time we come here, Johnny, I’m going to wear breeches, like you. I swear it.’

  ‘They’ll throw you in the stocks in Tuxedo,’ he said.

  ‘A girl I know at Smith went mountain-climbing in Switzerland last summer with her parents. She told me the women climbers there – the good ones – wear breeches and stockings, and a long skirt over them. Then, as soon as they’re out of sight of the village, they take off the skirt, leave it hidden under a rock, and put it on again on their way back.’

  Johnny laughed. He’d seen one or two musical comedies where actresses appeared as dashing hussars or the like, and very attractive they looked too, in a rather indecent way. But ordinary women, in trousers … he couldn’t get used to the idea. Next thing, someone would say that men ought to wear skirts … well, Highlanders did, of a sort.

  The Kanawauke Lakes spread out below, the water glistening slate blue in the shade of the densely leaved trees round the banks. Little Long Pond lay directly under them, Lake Sebago further south. The ridges of the Ramapos undulated blue green in the heat haze to the west, the isolated hump of High Tor blocked out the Westchester Hills to the east.

  Johnny said, ‘It was good of you to come with me today, Bet. I desperately needed to get out, and have a good sweat, but if I’d come alone, I might have jumped off a cliff.’

  She said, ‘You haven’t said a word about what happened last night. You don’t look as though you had a fight.’

  ‘We didn’t,’ he said. ‘Zinnemann turned up at the boathouse ten minutes later, but by then I realized I shouldn’t have said what I did, so I said I’d fight if he wanted to, but first I would say I was sorry. He seemed glad … I’m bigger than he is! Let’s get on.’

  She held out her hand and he pulled her to her feet. His own hair was dark brown, hers much lighter, her eyes dark blue, the skin of her face marked with a few fading tomboy freckles. She was five-foot-six, lithe and slim, small bosomed. She had a lovely smile, and he had always been very fond of her; in fact, now that she was nineteen and would soon be someone’s wife, he knew he would feel jealous of her husband – for a time at least. And if the husband mistreated her, there’d be trouble.

  She walked in front of him along the rocky trail leading northwards over the grey rock of the Hudson Highlands. She threw back over her shoulder, ‘Do you really think the British and French are so much better than the Germans and Austrians, Johnny?’

  He did not answer until he had time to collect his thoughts. Then he said, ‘None of the countries is perfect, including us. But I really think Germany wanted the war. She already has the most powerful army in the world, and she means to have the most powerful navy, and then she’d be master of the world … including us.’

  Betty said, ‘Could they beat us?’

  He said, ‘I don’t know. But if they came on at once, after beating the French, we would be nowhere near ready.’

  ‘But … would the British let them?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But then we’d depend for our existence, eventually, on the British navy. If we go in now, we’ll be playing our proper part.’

  She said, ‘Did you see in the morning paper that the Germans have won a big battle over the Russians somewhere in the east?’

  ‘Yes. And in the west the Germans are only thirty miles from Paris. I hardly slept all night, Betty. I was thinking …’ He stopped.

  After a few minutes Betty said, ‘About what?’ They had started up Hogencamp Mountain, and the trail was not easy
to find in places.

  He said, ‘What I ought to do … I’ve thought a lot about this war and I really do believe it’s a war for civilization, as I said to Zinnemann. If that’s true, we should get into it, or give up any pretence of being civilized.’

  Another long pause: then she said, ‘But we aren’t in it. And Mr Wilson’s swearing we never will be.’

  ‘Then it’s up to each of us as individuals. I’m thinking of going to England, to join the British army.’

  She stopped so suddenly that he ran into her, treading on the heel of her boot – ‘Johnny! You’re going to run away to the war?’

  He said, ‘Go on, Betty!’ They started forward. ‘It’s not running away. I’m over twenty-one, and no one can stop me. I’ve been working in Dad’s bank for a month now, and I suppose it’s interesting … or could be when I learn more about it – but Great Scot, I can’t keep my attention on bonds and debentures and percentages when men are dying so that we can live in comfort, and hold our elections, and bring up our children the way we want.’

  ‘Are any of the Cates in it yet?’ she asked.

  She was not teasing him, and he answered the question as seriously as it had been put. ‘None that I know. Her uncle Tom Rowland, the navy man, will be. I had a letter from Stella yesterday. She’s joined something called the Voluntary Aid Detachments, and is going to do work in hospitals. You know what I think of her, but what I feel about the war has nothing to do with that.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, still serious.

  ‘I’m not thinking of going just for her sake. It would be kind of silly, wouldn’t it, to get myself killed for her, personally, when I want to marry her.’

  ‘You really do? You’ve never said it right out before.’

  ‘I do. I must see her again, and spend more time with her, so that we can get to know each other better – but I’m certain. Dad said I’d soon forget her – there are many other girls in the world, he said … and I suppose that’s why everyone’s been throwing Carol Ruttledge at my head … but, heavens, Betty, Stella has just possessed me. I dream of her, of being with her, talking to her, dancing with her. I can’t think of anyone else.’