Robert Conroy - 1901

Patrick Mahan pored over the piece of paper on his field desk and didn’t look up when Ian Gordon and Lieutenant Colonel Harris entered.

“You called, beloved general?” Ian asked.

“I did. Look at this.” Patrick handed them the paper. “Just about the strangest orders I have yet received. According to what I read, I am to pull in my troops from their extended screening formation and stay within new brigade boundaries. The boundaries are very small and I am supposed to be ready to attack the Germans from the confines of those strange boundaries. All of this is to be accomplished within one hour.”

Gordon handed back the paper. “That is indeed what it says.”

“Gentlemen, does it make sense?”

“Not really,” said Harris. “If we attacked the local Germans in a tight formation, I’m confident we could easily punch a hole in their lines. However, they could hurt our flanks and rear while we were pushing on to hit the main German force.”

Ian added, “Even if we were then to make contact with that main force, it would outnumber us perhaps ten to one overall and would chew up our little brigade and spit out the pieces without much difficulty. I think I agree with you, Patrick-an attack would be suicidal. Our brigade is much too small to cause any significant damage. So, what are you going to do?”

Patrick shook his head sadly. “I am going to obey orders. The concentration of force is already under way, and we will indeed be ready to move out within an hour. But I do not think of myself as suicidal. I will attack if I must, but if it looks as though we are going to be overwhelmed, I will order a retreat as quickly as I can and the hell with what the history books might say.” Getting home to Trina was another motivation. He didn’t like the thought of her in widow’s weeds after such a short marriage.

Ian agreed. “Good plan. I always did want to live to a ripe old age.”

Patrick was about to remind Ian that he really didn’t have to be there in the first place when a sentry opened the tent flap and stuck his head in. “Sir, General Schofield is arriving.”

Patrick reached for his hat. “Shit. What the hell is the old man doing here?”

Ian Gordon sighed. “Probably wants to make sure you obey your orders.”

When Schofield arrived he went directly into Patrick’s command tent. He plucked the orders from where Patrick had laid them. “What do you think?”

“General Schofield, I am completely at a loss. If I didn’t respect both you and General MacArthur, I would consider the mission suicidal.”

Schofield smiled. “So you’ve doubtless been planning a way of not quite disobeying them, haven’t you?”

When all else fails, why not tell the truth? Patrick reasoned. “Absolutely, sir. The thought of my brigade attacking all those Germans alone is not a pleasant one. It’s not that any one of us wishes to shirk our duty, but this attack is doomed to fail. My brigade would not be able to do anything much against the Germans. We will attack as ordered, General, but I am planning on being able to beat a hasty and prudent retreat when the time comes.”

Schofield took off his campaign hat and sat in Patrick’s chair, a look of feigned puzzlement on his round face. “Why Patrick, whoever said you’d be alone?”

Trina saw the tracks and heard the train at the same time. It would beat her to the crossing, so she eased up on the reins and let the horses slow to a stop. Racing trains to a crossing was not her idea of a morning’s fun.

“How is everyone? Isn’t this a jolly trip?” she asked. Molly stuck out her tongue and Heinz moaned in mock agony. He was uncomfortable and in some pain but was really bearing up well. Molly, on the other hand, had thrown up her breakfast.

Trina checked and saw the people in other wagons and carriages in her group taking advantage of the enforced break to get out and stretch, and a few walked discreetly into the trees to relieve themselves. Stretching, she thought, was a splendid idea. She nodded and smiled at Mrs. Harris, and the two women walked toward the tracks. About time someone sent a train, she thought, but who was left to evacuate? She watched the thick, low column of smoke as it neared. It was, she realized, a very large train. Intrigued, she walked closer to the tracks.

The train rounded the final bend and came straight at her, moving at a good rate of speed. As it roared past, she realized there were three engines. Why? she wondered. The answer came as the flatcars rolled into view. At first she did not believe her eyes, did not trust herself to think. Then she realized what she was indeed seeing and, equally important, hearing as the sound of additional trains echoed in the distance. Along with talks of love and their future together, Patrick had confided in her and told her everything about the army-its strengths, its weaknesses, and its potential. Thus she understood quickly and totally the significance of the spectacle unfolding before her. Each of the many flatcars was jammed with hard and confident-looking armed men in American uniforms. Unlike the pasty- and flabby-looking recruits she’d seen, these men were tanned and fit, and there were some Asian faces mixed among the white. They had come. The American army was back from the Philippines.

Involuntarily her body convulsed. Uncontrollable tears poured down her cheeks and she clutched her chest as the train rolled by, causing unbearable waves of emotion that overwhelmed her. Annabelle Harris understood as well, and ran up to her. They held each other and sank to the ground. Trina grabbed a chunk of dirt and flung it skyward. Both their faces were wet with tears and they tried to yell over the sound of the rushing train. On board, only a few pairs of eyes noticed the two crazy-looking ladies sitting on the grass and crying hysterically.

Admiral Diedrichs sat up slowly in his bed. His head ached horribly and he was only beginning to keep food down. He kept his left hand under the covers to hide the fact that it had begun to quiver. He was reminded of how the kaiser pretended his left arm wasn’t withered. Diedrichs was on board his flagship, the battleship Barbarossa, in the lower bay of New York harbor. The remainder of the German main battle fleet had been deployed to deny access to the harbor should the Americans foolishly try to force entry.

An aide handed him a message, which he read quickly. “Damn.”

He signaled to his senior staff officers, who entered his stateroom and approached his bed. They looked dispirited, whipped. Diedrichs held up the message. “According to the kaiser’s supposedly infallible intelligence services, the American fleet is believed to have departed Boston Harbor, probably yesterday. Proper emphasis should be placed on the word ‘believed.’”

“What should we do?”

Diedrichs sank back on the pillow. His headache was returning. Perhaps he should have some broth. What he really wanted was an end to this humiliating war.

“Gentlemen,” he answered in a near whisper, “it is only believed that the Americans have sailed. Until we can confirm that, and then confirm their destination, we will do nothing.”

A young aide was aghast. “But sir, if they enter the Sound, they can support the American perimeter.”

Diedrichs rubbed his head with his right hand. “Then let them. The German army has long bragged of its ability to whip the Yanks without us; well, now they will have the chance. When we know the Americans’ destination, we will take action. Not before. Would you have me leave this anchorage and let them sneak in behind us? I think not.” As he spoke, the distant crump of a shore gun sounded as yet another shell was lobbed at long range into the Narrows. “On the other hand,” he sighed, “perhaps we should sail away and let them have this awful place.” He waved them out. “Please turn off the lights when you leave.”