THE TEN THOUSAND

by Harold Coyle

  Despite her anger at losing her only chance to clean up, Kozak couldn't help but smile at Stokes's shy country-boy approach when he was trying to tell her that something had come up that needed her attention. "What seems to be the problem, Top?"

  "Well, ma'am, it seems some colonel's wife decided that she didn't need to go home with the rest of the dependents when they were evacuated last week."

  Though she knew what was coming, Kozak didn't rush Stokes. Instead she brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "And?"

  "Well," Stokes continued, "she and her two kids just showed up in front of 2nd Platoon's position and asked to see an officer about food and evacuation."

  With that, Kozak let her head drop down between her shoulders and began to shake it from side to side. "Great, fine. We're about to go charging off with the mission of ripping off the head of a German panzer division and suddenly we have camp followers." Looking up at Stokes, Kozak sighed. "Where is she?"

  "Right outside, ma'am."

  That there was the possibility that the woman had heard Kozak's comment didn't bother her. Instead she told Stokes to help her into the Bradley while Kozak moved some gear out of the way. As Stokes helped Mrs. Emma Louisa Richardson climb into the vehicle that was so foreign to her, Kozak studied her. In her mid-forties, Emma Richardson looked haggard but still very dignified. Reflecting on her own state, dirty hair and stripped down to combat boots, BDU pants, and T-shirt, Kozak could only reflect how officers' wives, regardless of what the circumstances, always took great pains to maintain that look and air of dignity. Once she was settled, Emma Richardson looked over to Kozak, cocked her head to one side, reached out with one hand to touch Kozak's arm, and smiled. "Oh, thank God. You're a woman."

  In an instant Nancy Kozak understood what the woman meant. Mrs. Emma Richardson apparently was under the impression that because Kozak was a woman she would be treated differently and that all her troubles were over. Though the worst was in fact over for Emma Richardson and her children, Kozak couldn't help but reflect how far from the truth that woman was about her. The very idea that Kozak would do something different than a male Army officer under the same circumstances slapped Kozak across the face like a wet towel. Though both women had been raised by the same society and as children and teenagers been molded and judged in the same manner, the worlds that Emma Richardson and Nancy Kozak moved through now bore no resemblance. For while Emma Richardson went to college and chose to follow a career and lifestyle acceptable to a female that allowed her to continue to move through life using her natural and learned feminine skills, Nancy Kozak had turned her back on the conventional and gone into a pursuit that was anything but feminine.

  The art of war as practiced by Western societies is a most barbaric and brutal pursuit. The skills and practices of a soldier, when applied, are physically and psychologically demanding in the extreme, even to the strongest man. With few exceptions, the Western military traditions are a celebration of masculine values, virtues, and prowess. Anyone and everyone desiring to be a soldier and to be accepted as one has to accept those traditions and measure up to them without question, without fault. Early on at West Point Nancy Kozak learned that this requirement was more than a simple initiation or a rite of passage. It was a hard, brutal necessity. For soldiers in combat must be able to depend on each other and on their leaders. They must have unflinching trust and confidence in themselves, in their fellow soldiers, and in their leaders. Anyone who for whatever reason does not measure up to those demanding standards is viewed by any competent soldier as a danger to himself and those around him. So Nancy Kozak found that she had to leave the safety of being a woman, something that her parents and her society had prepared her for, and enter a gray area where, despite her skills, despite her achievement, she would always be on trial, a woman having to conform without question to a very male world. These hard truths, never far from Kozak's mind, weighed heavily on her as she listened to Emma Richardson talk.

  "I'm so glad to be back in the arms of the American Army. My husband, Lieutenant Colonel Frank T. Richardson, the commander of the 126th Maintenance Battalion, always said that the Army takes care of its own, and, you know, he's right."

  Forcing a smile, Kozak pulled her dark thoughts back to the matter at hand and shook her head. "Yes, Mrs. Richardson, I suppose he was right."

  "But of course he was right, dear. Frank is always right."

  The patronizing tone of Emma Richardson and reference to her, Kozak, as dear, irked Kozak. Yeah, Kozak thought, this is a colonel's wife, half of a "command team," a concept in which the Army expected a commander's wife to take charge of the other wives in the unit. Deciding that she didn't want to waste any more time with this woman and in a less than subtle move to put Mrs. Colonel in her place, Kozak let her face go into a stone-cold stare. "This, Mrs. Richardson, is a combat unit. We will be moving in the next few minutes and have little time to spare for civil-military concerns. My first sergeant will evacuate you and your children back to the battalion aid station, where they should be able to take care of you. Other than that, there's nothing that I can do. Now if you would excuse me, I need to finish washing up and get dressed. My company is waiting for me."

  The reaction that Kozak elicited from Emma Richardson couldn't have been any more devastating if Kozak had punched Emma Richardson in the face. Like a child being scolded by a parent, Emma Richardson sat up straight as the warm smile that she had plastered across her face was replaced with a look of genuine shock. She couldn't understand, Kozak concluded, how another woman, especially one junior to her in age and status, could treat her like that. Though for a brief second Kozak felt bad about what she had done to the older woman, that thought quickly passed. Instead Kozak rationalized to herself that the pompous ass deserved it. Perhaps, Kozak thought, Mrs. Colonel Emma Richardson will think twice before treating an officer in the Army like she was one of her little Army-wife friends.

  Turning to Stokes, who had been standing in the open door of the Bradley throughout this whole scene and trying hard not to laugh, Kozak nodded. "If you would, First Sergeant, arrange for transportation back to the aid station for this lady and her children so we can get on with the business of the day." Finished, Kozak reached down, fished the washcloth out of the bowl of soapy water between her feet, and paid no more attention to Emma Richardson as she made her way out of the Bradley.

  Finished with his second briefing of the day to Chancellor Ruff and glad to be afforded the opportunity to flee the press of politicians and reporters that crowded the corridors and offices of the Chancellery, General Lange began his headlong flight back to his operations center. Even his brisk pace and choice of less well used exits, however, was not enough to ensure his unhindered escape. Lange was about to leave the building when a shout from Colonel Kasper, Ruff's military aide, stopped him. "General Lange, a moment of your time, please."

  Upset that he had not even made it out the door without being summoned back to answer another absurd question, Lange paused and turned to face Kasper as he approached. That Kasper had framed his request more as a command and less like a question did not escape Lange and increased his anger.

  As the young colonel approached, the general watched him like a cat watches a strange dog. He did not trust Kasper. No one, in fact, on the General Staff trusted Kasper. He was to them an opportunist, a General Staff officer who used his training and proximity to the Chancellor to benefit his own career. A few who had dealings with him openly wondered if Kasper was singlehandedly trying to resurrect the old Prussian king's adjutant. Under that system, a relatively junior officer assigned to the king to handle administrative matters often served as a personal advisor to the king. Depending on how the king felt about the officer and the General Staff, the junior officer, or king's adjutant, could have power that was greater than his rank or experience warranted. The more Lange saw of Kasper, the more convinced he became that the talk of his staff might not be far from wrong. Looking at his watch just as K
asper came up to him, Lange gruffly reminded him who was the leader and who was the led. "I have, Colonel, already spent far too much time here. Whatever it is will have to wait."

  Kasper, used to such efforts to brush him aside, ignored the general's rebuff. "This will not take more than a moment, Herr General. First I would like to apologize for the Chancellor's ramblings and short temper. You see, Herr General, he has been under a great deal of pressure and is not well equipped to handle it."

  Though he felt like shouting back that everyone was operating under the same pressure, Lange merely grunted.

  Though he saw the look of disdain in Lange's face and felt in his heart Lange's curt response, Kasper continued. "There is much concern with the manner in which the Army has been responding to orders. The Chancellor is not pleased with the lack of drive General Kiebler has shown in close contact with the American Tenth Corps. The Chancellor noted several times over the past days the vast difference between the performance of the 2nd Panzer and the—"

  Lange cut him off, for he knew where the conversation was going. "General Kiebler is the commander of that division and he is carrying out his orders in a manner that he judges suitable for the situation, the enemy, and the terrain which he faces. I will not, so long as I am the chief of staff, second-guess my commanders in the field." He was about to add that Kasper needed to tell the Chancellor that there was a vast difference between the view in Berlin and conditions as they actually existed in the field, but again he held himself in check.

  Not that he had to. Kasper already understood what Lange was leaving unsaid. Seeing that there was little use in easing into the subject, Kasper opted for the direct approach. "What I would like to convey to you, Herr General, is that the Chancellor is losing his confidence in certain senior leaders. He feels that they are intentionally holding back, that they are in fact attempting to do everything within their power to allow the Americans to escape and embarrass this government. The collapse of the Luftwaffe's command structure due to absenteeism, failure to follow orders, and the active sabotage of aircraft is only serving to heighten his suspicions."

  By "certain" senior leaders Lange knew that Kasper was referring to those of the old Bundeswehr who unlike the easterners had been lectured for years that being an officer in a constitutional army required more than simply following orders. Seeing that the shadow boxing was over, Lange also got to the heart of the matter. "Doesn't the Chancellor appreciate the position in which he has placed us?" Lange, now animated, thrust his index finger at Rasper's chest. "You, Colonel, you are an officer. Don't you feel the pressure? Haven't you stopped to consider what's going on here?"

  Lange paused, turned his head to look out the door at the leaden gray sky, then back at Kasper. What the hell, Lange thought. If he was here to feel me out for Herr Chancellor Ruff, he might as well get it all. Placing his briefcase on the tile floor next to his foot, Lange folded his arms across his chest and leaned forward closer to Kasper as he lowered his voice to a whisper. "My God, the Parliament has called for an immediate armistice, a call that Herr Ruff is happily ignoring as he continues to hide behind the emergency powers clause of the constitution. He, better than anyone else, knows! Every officer in the Bundeswehr, except for the easterners, has been taught that his first responsibility is to his conscience, and the selection process for our officers has always emphasized the need for officers who believe that morality and responsibility to the German people are more important than blind obedience. Every senior officer from the old Bundeswehr that I have talked to feels like he's being pulled by four plow horses all going in different directions. Herr Chancellor continues to run blindly off into the darkness, dragging us and the German people into a crisis of his own design. The Parliament insists that it has constitutional control of the Army and that the emergency war clause does not apply. The German people and our responsibility to them are not being served by blowing up our own countryside, and they are making it known. And finally, most of the officers of the old Bundeswehr cannot in all good conscience support a government whose motivations they do not trust."

  Kasper listened in silence. He wondered if he had missed something. The frustrations of the German Army officers corps that Lange was pointing out to him were a surprise. Could they, his fellow officers, be so out of touch with the reality of the political situation? Could they be so absorbed by the military situation or their own mystical code of ethics that they did not see how precariously Germany's sovereignty and future hung? Or was he the one out of touch? Were the rumors true? Had Ruff adopted a bunker mentality and refused to see the situation as it really was? Were his actions those of a man serving the German people or were they self-serving? Kasper's head was still trying to absorb these questions when Lange continued.

  "I do not know any longer, Colonel, what is right and what is wrong. Neither do the majority of the officers and the soldiers out there. Since the shooting started this morning, the debating has stopped. Now it is time to decide. And I will tell you and anyone here in Berlin with the good sense to listen that I do not know what is going to happen." Lange reached down and picked up his briefcase. When he stood up, he looked down at the floor rather than at Kasper as he continued in a very reflective, almost mournful tone. "As each unit closes with the Americans, our ability to influence the situation is slipping from our hands. Starting today, what is right and what is wrong is no longer ours to decide." As he looked Kasper in the eye, Lange's face grew taut. "That, Herr Colonel, will now be decided by each and every captain and lieutenant, every sergeant and every landseer on the forward edge as the battle is joined. Your Chancellor may threaten and scream, shout and stomp all he wants. He can even roll on the floor frothing at the mouth and chewing on the rug if he pleases. That, however, isn't going to change a damned thing. It is, and probably always has been, out of our hands."

  Kasper began to say something, then stopped. He didn't know what to say. For the first time, Lange realized that Kasper's face betrayed the confusion that Lange had just created in the young colonel's mind. Maybe, Lange thought, I have been wrong about this officer. Maybe he was after all really one of us? That he hadn't had time to determine that before saddened Lange. It would have been useful to have a reliable officer close to Ruff. There was no time, however, to concern himself over what should have been done. The American President was preparing to announce her response to the opening of armed hostilities, and Lange wanted to hear it firsthand. That response no doubt would overshadow the events in central Germany that were still in the balance and cause Lange and his staff long hours of hard work. As he had said himself, the debating was over. Now was the time of decision.

  In a tone that was somewhat friendly, Lange excused himself and walked out into the cold Berlin afternoon, leaving Kasper behind to deal with his new concerns and, of course, Chancellor Ruff.

  While she quietly sipped her coffee and listened to the White House spokesperson on screen deliver the prepared text, Jan Fields-Dixon glanced over to the President. She, like Jan, was listening intently to the spokesperson as she calmly sipped her second cup of coffee. Jan, used to working with politicians, knew this was a setup. She knew from the moment the conditions of the interview had been set that Wilson had something specific in mind and that she, Jan, was part of that plan. Still Jan, asked for by name, agreed. So with camera crew and notebook Jan tromped into the Oval Office fifteen minutes before the White House spokesperson was scheduled to go on and joined the President for a light breakfast of sliced fruit, danish, and rolls. The fact that the President was having her breakfast then and there made Jan suspect that she had been unable to have it upstairs in her private quarters before coming down to the Oval Office. Odds were, Jan thought, President Wilson had come up from the White House War Room instead, where she would have received an update on the current fighting taking place in central Germany.

  Looking back at the screen, Jan watched as her colleagues from the White House press corps jumped up, to a person, madly waving
their hands and calling out as soon as the spokesperson finished reading the prepared text. The camera couldn't help but catch the crestfallen expression on the spokesperson's face as he surveyed the sea of waving hands and tried to pick the easiest mark in the crowd. Again glancing over to Wilson, Jan smiled to herself. The President was no fool. She knew that the White House press corps would react like that. She knew that it would be impossible to control them. Therefore she had sent her spokesperson out to deliver the message and take the full brunt of the initial volley of questions while she, safely tucked away in the Oval Office, could watch and listen to the questions that the media felt were most pressing. Then with a single trusted member of the media, Jan, she would be able to answer those questions at her leisure in a calm setting where she would be able to think without competing with shouts, flashes popping, and hands waving to gain her attention. No, Jan thought, Wilson was no fool.

  Wilson's abilities and skill as a politician, of course, were well known. She was good. She had to be in order to survive in a world that was not only male dominated but one in which her abilities and conduct were measured against standards established by those who had gone before her, all of whom were male. Jan had in a way highlighted Wilson's problem when she had asked Wilson how she felt about questions like "Is she tough enough to handle Congress?" or "Will she be able to fill the shoes of her predecessor?" during her race for the office. Wilson pointed out to Jan that skill and cooperation, not strength, were just as effective in dealing with people and securing their cooperation. Then with a smile Wilson also pointed out that she had no desire to wear her predecessor's shoes, since their style was not to her liking.

  Jan understood all of this, having had to deal with similar concerns and issues in her own profession. So it was with a sharp eye that Jan watched Wilson as she redefined the image and role of the President to fit her. Though often accused of being "unpresidential," Wilson seldom failed to carry the day and come out every inch a leader and a lady. Today, Jan thought, was a perfect case in point. Rather than throw herself into a situation that was already degenerating into a shouting match, one in which passions and tempers would run high and words could easily be misunderstood, Wilson had chosen to distance herself from that while still dealing with it. Jan watched Wilson's face and her manner. Her face betrayed no strain, no apprehension. Instead, Wilson sat there rather impassively sipping coffee while studying the television monitor as she listened to her press spokesperson field the press's questions. Jan would be able to record Wilson's own version of those responses in a few minutes and then be able to have them on the noon broadcast, showing the nation and the world that the President of the United States was both in control of herself and the situation.