Since no replacements had come aboard the Alabama, the lookout tower was far less crowded than usual. It was a common situation throughout both the ship and the rest of the fleet. There had barely been time to take off the wounded and bring on some badly needed ammunition and food before the order had come to get up steam and depart immediately. Now!
As a result, Ens. Terry Schuyler was again the senior man in the lookout post. His arm still ached awfully and there were many other bruises to remind him of that climactic day of battle, but he could still function as a junior officer. His mother, whom he barely remembered, would have referred to it as the resilience of youth. Resilience, hell. He hurt. But he had sworn an oath to his nation and he had a duty to fulfill. Too many of his friends were dead or wounded for him to let his injuries impede him. Besides, after what he had seen and done, he no longer considered himself a youth.
Charley Ackerman, the other officer in the tower, was an ensign like Terry, but slightly junior to him in time in grade. “What a magnificent view!” young Ackerman exclaimed.
Terry agreed. Ackerman had spent the last battle on the navigating bridge and had seen very little of the action. Too many senior officers had clogged up all the good viewing spots.
They looked ahead at the line of battleships in front of them. This time they were not fourth. Instead they were much farther back, second from the last of the battleships and ahead of the armored cruisers, because of their reduced firepower; the damaged stern turret had not been repaired. They had gotten the bodies out, and the sight had sickened them. Those blackened pieces of meat had once been men, friends.
Since none of the other big ships had lost any of their main armament, they went ahead. Behind the Alabama came the ungainly bulk of the Maine. The presence of the successor to the second-class battleship that had been blown up in Havana by the Spaniards was a tribute to the desperation that drove the U.S. Navy and the willingness of people to work around the clock and take chances with their lives. The ship had been launched in July, and completion should have taken more than a year. However, she had taken her place in the line of battle with only half her main gun turrets and none of her secondary guns. Her superstructure was incomplete, and Terry had no idea how she was commanded and controlled. But she had her engines, armor, two big guns, and a crew that had demanded the right to accompany the other battleships as replacements for the sailors of the sunken Texas and the Kearsarge.
It was said that Dewey nearly wept when he was confronted with their belligerent insistence. The presence of the clumsy and incomplete ship buoyed the spirits of all who saw her. Ahead and on both flanks, as well as to the rear, were the cruiser squadrons of Remey and Evans. It was a magnificent sight. Terry picked up his Kodak box camera and took a few pictures. The last time he had been unable to take photographs because of the press of people and the uncertainties caused by his junior position.
“Terry, you know where we’re going?” asked Ackerman.
“To sink more Germans.” He winced as he recalled that Ackerman’s parents were born in Germany. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Y’know, I got a letter from my pa just before the big battle. He told me he had given it a lot of thought and that I shouldn’t feel bad about fighting people I might even be related to. Basically, he said if they were so stupid that they stayed and fought for their fool kaiser, then fuck ‘em.”
Terry laughed. “Is that a direct quote?”
“Not quite, but close enough.” Ackerman squinted at the bulk of a distant land mass off their starboard. “Hey, is that Long Island?”
Ludwig Weber continued to think dire thoughts. Even though the deep rumblings of the battle were miles to the rear, he had a nagging feeling that this current period of silence couldn’t last forever. He and the others had been keeping a sharp eye on the woods in front of them. The treeline was only a quarter of a mile away. A good marksman could hide in the shadows and start picking them off. If Ludwig knew they were going to stay awhile, he would dig in. At least he might consider it after he got something to eat.
A rabbit burst from the woods. The men watched entranced as it darted first one way, then another in panic and confusion. “Lunch,” someone yelled, and there was laughter. A second rabbit, then a third sprinted into the open. Ludwig heard Sergeant Gunther loudly assigning rabbits to specific riflemen as they came closer. One of the soldiers fired and the first rabbit tumbled over to raucous cheers. Let’s see, Ludwig thought, three rabbits divided by thirty-eight wouldn’t go far.
A long line of flashes from the woods, followed almost immediately by the bark of guns, stunned him. Ludwig’s first thought was that the rabbits were shooting back. Then he realized there was a large number of men in the woods, and they were firing rapidly, creating a hailstorm of bullets. A whistle pierced the air, followed by the thud of an artillery shell landing nearby. He quickly identified it as a 75mm field gun. A light gun. The goddamn Yanks were in the woods!
As he hugged the ground, Ludwig heard shouts and screams. Bullets whistled about him and kicked up clouds of dirt. He looked up to see a horde of brown-uniformed Americans emerging from the woods. They formed up and advanced rapidly, firing all the while. More shells pounded the ground and a machine gun added its voice to the insane din.
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 the
y 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.
Disgusted, he lay down on the grass and stared at the sky. Let the mighty ones he was protecting gaze at the smoke towers and try to figure out where they were. He almost giggled at the thought of some stupid Bavarian staff officer having to admit they were, while not quite lost, not quite certain just where they were. They could only assume that much of their army was in action a few miles away.
“Lieutenant!” Hoff sat up and looked where a soldier was pointing. A row of horsemen had emerged from the woods and a second was forming behind it. Columns of cavalry commenced to gallop both to his left and to his right. As he watched in astonishment, the double line began to move forward. Toward him.
He jumped to his feet and yelled for his men to mount up, which they did with alacrity. He had only one troop. It appeared that several hundred of what he now easily identified as Americans were about to envelop his position. His actions had attracted the attention of the senior officers, and he saw them scrambling for their horses and carriages.
In dismay, Hoff saw that the rapidly moving flanking columns would easily cut off most, if not all, of the fleeing Germans on horseback and certainly all of the slower carriages. Even if he managed to survive this debacle, his career was ruined.
“Open fire!” he shrieked, and his men let loose a ragged volley that appeared to accomplish little. Suddenly, he realized that the enemy cavalry all had dark skins. “Blacks!” he screamed. It was too much. In a blind rage he spurred his horse forward. He pulled a revolver and emptied it as the black horsemen swirled passed him. His horse stumbled, and Hoff fell heavily to the ground. As he attempted to pull his saber from its scabbard, a careening horse ran over him and he felt his legs snap. Before the waves of agony could reach his brain, he looked up at his assailant and saw an iron-shod hoof descending on his head.
On the hill, the fight deteriorated into a short-lived melee. At arm’s length, carbines and revolvers emptied into living flesh. The Germans fought hard to protect their charges, but they were soon overwhelmed. As Hoff had guessed, none of the carriages escaped. In one, an old man flailed about with a saber in one hand and a pistol in the other. As a young black trooper reached for him, the old man shot him in the face. On the other side of the carriage, Maj. Esau Jones saw this and emptied his revolver at point-blank range into the back of the old man, who crumpled onto the floor of the carriage.
Then Jones looked about. His men had taken a number of prisoners, and virtually all of them appeared to be officers. “Who speaks English?” asked Jones.
A little man with a bad cut on his cheek, which had drained blood onto an immaculate light blue uniform, responded that he did. The man approached cautiously and looked into the carriage. “God help us,” he said. Then he looked up into the stern face of Jones. “Do you know what you have done?”
“You tell me.”
“You have just killed Field Marshal Count Alfred von Waldersee, commander of the Imperial German Army.”
News of the c
ounterattack brought Roosevelt rushing back to the war room. “About time. The papers are beginning to run extras about our total incompetence and what they think has happened. Hearst says I have sent dumb recruits to be slaughtered. Goddamn him!”
Roosevelt looked at the changes on the map. “Leonard, it happened, didn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. At least so far. The four brigades brought over from the Philippines were successfully carried by train from Springfield and joined the one brigade in line. They pushed aside the German screening force rather easily and are now in the German rear.”
Roosevelt fought the urge to chortle. When MacArthur had first proposed bringing his regiments back from the Philippines, he had said no. The trip was too dangerous. With no American ships in the Pacific to protect them, the German Asiatic squadron could attack and slaughter them. And there was the danger that the Filipinos would revolt and kill the troops and administrators left behind. No, he had said, too great a risk.
But then came word through the British that the Germans had pulled their ships as well. John Hay proposed a treaty of understanding with the Philippine leader Aguinaldo, which had been hammered out quickly by the American governor in the Philippines, William Howard Taft. Specifically, the Philippines would be independent one year after the end of the war with Germany, and the United States would guarantee independence from other predatory countries in return for a naval base at Subic Bay and coaling rights at Cavite. A similar agreement was quickly reached with the Cuban insurgents, who were scheduled for independence in a few years anyhow. The Democrats would crow and some of the more radical Manifest Destiny types would scream betrayal, but twenty-five thousand good American troops had been freed for use against the Germans.
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