Mike Resnick - The Other Teddy Roosevelts

“The circumstances were different then, Mr. President,” said McCoy. “The terrain offered cover and solid footing, and you were facing Cuban peasants who had been conscripted into service, not battle-hardened professional German soldiers.”

“I know, I know,” said Roosevelt. “But if we knock those machine guns out, how many American lives can we save today?”

“I don’t know,” admitted McCoy. “Maybe ten thousand, maybe none. It’s possible that the Germans are dug in so securely that they can beat back any American charge even without the use of those machine guns.”

“But at least it would prolong some American lives,” persisted Roosevelt.

“By a couple of minutes.”

“It would give them a chance to reach the German bunkers.”

“I don’t know.”

“More of a chance than if they had to face machine gun fire from the hill.”

“What do you want me to say, Mr. President?” asked McCoy. “That if we throw away our lives charging the hill that we’ll have done something glorious and affected the outcome of the battle? I just don’t know!”

“We came here to help win a war, Hank. Before I send my men into battle, I have to know that it will make a difference.”

“I can’t give you any guarantees, sir. We came to fight a war, all right. But look around you, Mr. President — this isn’t the war we came to fight. They’ve changed the rules on us.”

“There are hundreds of thousands of American boys in the trenches who didn’t come to fight this kind of war,” answered Roosevelt. “In less than an hour, most of them are going to charge across this sea of mud into a barrage of machine gun fire. If we can’t shorten the war, then perhaps we can at least lengthen their lives.”

“At the cost of our own.”

“We are idealists and adventurers, Hank — perhaps the last this world will ever see. We knew what we were coming here to do.” He paused. “Those boys are here because of speeches and decisions that politicians have made, myself included. Left to their own devices, they’d go home to be with their families. Left to ours, we’d find another cause to fight for.”

“This isn’t a cause, Mr. President,” said McCoy. “It’s a slaughter.”

“Then maybe this is where men who want to prevent further slaughter belong,” said Roosevelt. He looked up at the sky. “They’ll be mobilizing in another half hour, Hank.”

“I know, Mr. President.”

“If we leave now, if we don’t try to take that hill, then Wilson and Pershing were right and I was wrong. The time for heroes is past, and I am an anachronism who should be sitting at home in a rocking chair, writing memoirs and exhorting younger men to go to war.” He paused, staring at the hill once more. “If we don’t do what’s required of us this day, we are agreeing with them that we don’t matter, that men of courage and ideals can’t make a difference. If that’s true, there’s no sense waiting for a more equitable battle, Hank — we might as well ride south and catch the first boat home.”

“That’s your decision, Mr. President?” asked McCoy.

“Was there really ever any other option?” replied Roosevelt wryly.

“No, sir,” said McCoy. “Not for men like us.”

“Thank you for your support, Hank,” said Roosevelt, reaching out and laying a heavy hand on McCoy’s shoulder. “Prepare the men.”

“Yes, sir,” said McCoy, saluting and riding back to the main body of the Rough Riders.

“Madness!” muttered Roosevelt, looking out at the bloated corpses. “Utter madness!”

McCoy returned a moment later.

“The men are awaiting your signal, sir,” he said.

“Tell them to follow me,” said Roosevelt.

“Sir…” said McCoy.

“Yes?”

“We would prefer you not lead the charge. The first ranks will face the heaviest bombardment, not only from the hill but from the cannons behind the bunkers.”

“I can’t ask my men to do what I myself won’t do,” said Roosevelt.

“You are too valuable to lose, sir. We plan to attack in three waves. You belong at the back of the third wave, Mr. President.”

Roosevelt shook his head. “There’s nothing up ahead except bullets, Hank, and I’ve faced bullets before — in the Dakota Bad Lands, in Cuba, in Milwaukee. But if I hang back, if I send my men to do a job I was afraid to do, then I’d have to face myself — and as any Democrat will tell you, I’m a lot tougher than any bullet ever made.”

“You won’t reconsider?” asked McCoy.

“Would you have left your unit and joined the Rough Riders if you thought I might?” asked Roosevelt with a smile.

“No, sir,” admitted McCoy. “No, sir, I probably wouldn’t have.”

Roosevelt shook his hand. “You’re a good man, Hank.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Are the men ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then,” said Roosevelt, turning his horse toward the small rise, “let’s do what must be done.”

He pulled his rifle out, unlatched the safety catch, and dug his heels into his horse’s sides.

Suddenly he was surrounded by the first wave of his own men, all screaming their various war cries in the face of the enemy.

For just a moment there was no response. Then the machine guns began their sweeping fire across the muddy plain. Buck O’Neill was the first to fall, his body riddled with bullets. An instant later Runs With Deer screamed in agony as his arm was blown away. Horses had their legs shot from under them, men were blown out of their saddles, limbs flew crazily through the wet morning air, and still the charge continued.

Roosevelt had crossed half the distance when Matupu fell directly in front of him, his head smashed to a pulp. He heard McCoy groan as half a dozen bullets thudded home in his chest, but looked neither right nor left as his horse leaped over the fallen Maasai’s bloody body.

Bullets and cannonballs flew to the right and left of him, in front and behind, and yet miraculously he was unscathed as he reached the final hundred yards. He dared a quick glance around, and saw that he was the sole survivor from the first wave, then heard the screams of the second wave as the machine guns turned on them.

Now he was seventy yards away, now fifty. He yelled a challenge to the Germans, and as he looked into the blinking eye of a machine gun, for one brief, final, glorious instant it was San Juan Hill all over again.

18 September, 1917

Dispatch from General John J. Pershing to Commander-in-Chief, President Woodrow Wilson.

Sir:

I regret to inform you that Theodore Roosevelt died last Tuesday of wounds received in battle. He had disobeyed his orders and led his men in a futile charge against an entrenched German position. His entire regiment, the so-called “Rough Riders”, was lost. His death was almost certainly instantaneous, although it was two days before his body could be retrieved from the battlefield.

I shall keep the news of Mr. Roosevelt’s death from the press until receiving instructions from you. It is true that he was an anachronism, that he belonged more to the 19th Century than the 20th, and yet it is entirely possible that he was the last authentic hero our country shall ever produce. The charge he led was ill-conceived and foolhardy in the extreme, nor did it diminish the length of the conflict by a single day, yet I cannot help but believe that if I had 50,000 men with his courage and spirit, I could bring this war to a swift and satisfactory conclusion by the end of the year.

That Theodore Roosevelt died the death of a fool is beyond question, but I am certain in my heart that with his dying breath he felt he was dying the death of a hero. I await your instructions, and will release whatever version of his death you choose upon hearing from you.