Robert Conroy - 1920 - America's Great War

Tim and Wally thought that was great news. “Corporal Scanlon, may I ask a favor of you?” Tim asked.

“Go ahead?”

“Would you join us for a beer?”

Scanlon beamed. “Lads, I thought you’d never ask.”

Rain and wind lashed the waters of the entrance to Puget Sound. Only the bravest, hardiest, and most foolish were outside on the shore to watch the approach of the British squadron. Two modern battleships, the Lion and the Queen Elizabeth , led a covey of cruisers and destroyers. The battleships ignored the stormy seas, bulling through them with quiet dignity while their smaller sisters rolled and shook like wet dogs.

The British, with typical arrogance, simply ignored the German squadron that was trying to blockade the sound. Britannia rules the waves and all that and, even though they’d lost the last war, the Royal Navy was not to be trifled with. The only naval blockades the Royal Navy would respect would be her own, and the Royal Navy certainly had the right to make a courtesy call on her Canadian cousins. And the Royal Navy most certainly had the obligation to ensure that the aggravating German squadron stayed well away from Canadian waters.

On board the battleship Bayern , the fifty-two year old Admiral Adolf von Trotha seethed as he watched the British ships steam past. He commanded Hipper’s Northern Squadron of five battleships and he was supremely confident that he could blow the arrogant British back to London.

However and unfortunately, Germany and England were no longer at war. Along with his other brother officers, he felt disappointment that the war of 1914 had ended before the German High Seas Fleet could have sunk the British Home Fleet. They routinely hoisted beer steins to that pleasant but remote possibility.

Trotha was ambitious and confrontational. Not only was he frustrated by the state of peace that existed between England and Germany, but he’d been astonished by the just received report from his engineers telling him not to waste oil. The fleet had used more than anticipated crossing from Indo-China to California and would have to husband its resources until oil could be shipped from southern California, and that could be a while. Thus, unless he wanted his magnificent ships to become little more than large and aimlessly floating children’s toys, he’d watch his Ps and Qs, that is, pints and quarts of oil.

Like everyone, Trotha’s eyes were focused on the British warships. Even though he hated them, he had to admire the stately and confident way they maneuvered around his ships and into the Sound. There was no sight of any American warships; the British were the only show in town.

Sharp eyes would have been needed to see that the British squadron was well inside the invisible boundary that separated the American portion of the Sound from the Canadian. Even on a very clear day, extremely sharp eyes would have been needed to even get a hint of the small gray shapes that were leaving the sound as the British entered, and moving so slowly that they scarcely made a ripple, much less a wave. The waves of the sound and then the ocean that surged over the small vessels made them even less visible then they normally were.

And nobody on the mighty German warships noticed those small gray shapes. Later, it would be agreed that the entire maneuver was extremely well planned and marvelously well choreographed.

Kirsten was livid. How could the Dubbins brothers have run to her hideout after their brother was hanged and after they’d later gotten drunk and beaten up a German soldier? She’d always known the Dubbins brothers weren’t very bright, but this was beyond absurd. What were they thinking of, endangering her and the others like they’d done?

“Well, where else were we supposed to go?” lamented the older brother, Lew. “We worked for you and you said you were our friend.”

“Lew, if I look towards the south I can see a little wisp of dust in the air and that means someone’s coming. My bet is that it’s either a German patrol or Roy Olson has organized a posse and they’ve come to haul you in.”

“You’ll defend us, won’t you?” Lew pleaded.

“With what? Two other women and me are all that’s here, and Ella’s hurt. The other men and their families have all gone north. There is no way on earth I am going to get in a gunfight on your side against what’s coming here. However, I will let you take what you need of our food. I’ve got a feeling, thanks to you fools, that we’re not going to be up here much longer. When you’ve gone we’ll tell Olson or the Germans that you forced it from us and hope to God they believe us. Now take it and get out.” She shuddered. If her tale wasn’t believed, would she suffer like Ella had? Or, dear God, would Ella suffer again?

The two Dubbins brothers quickly grabbed some supplies and rode off. Kirsten anxiously watched as the dust cloud grew larger and became a group of five horsemen. As they drew still closer, she easily recognized the bulk of Roy Olson in the lead. She was relieved to see no Germans in the group. Ella seemed to be improving, however slightly, but God only knew how she’d take seeing people in field gray uniforms.

Roy and the others pulled up and dismounted. Kirsten noticed with perverse satisfaction that they were tired and flushed. And Roy, a large man, was taking it the worst. He was caked with dirt and sweat and his face was almost beet red.

He plunked himself down in the shade and took some deep swallows of water, “God, that felt good. Now, where the devil are the idiot Dubbins brothers?”

“They came, they robbed me, and they rode off. Now what did they do this time?”

Olson blinked. “They robbed you? But you’ve got weapons.”

“And I’ve known them for years and didn’t expect trouble. I also decided that it wasn’t worth resisting if they wanted some food. So what did they do?”

“One brother was executed for cutting a telegraph line, and the others are wanted for beating up a German soldier. I finally have witnesses to that little shindig, and Captain Steiner wants the matter settled. When I bring them in, they’ll hang too.”

“Since when did beating somebody become a hanging offense?”

Olson laughed harshly, “Since the Germans came to town. How long ago did the boys leave?”

“Maybe two hours, maybe three. You really think you can catch them? Your horses look dead.”

He looked around. The others were listening. “Come with me,” he said. “We need to talk.”

Olson took her by the arm and led her about a hundred yards away and behind some rocks. He pushed her against the rocks and stood in front of her, towering over her.

“You’re right, Kirsten, I can’t catch them. But I can bring in second prize, and that’s you and the other two women, and I’m going to throw all of you in jail.”

Kirsten was shocked at his barely controlled rage. “Why? What for?”

Olson wiped his sweaty brow with a once-white handkerchief. “Because you aided and abetted fugitives in fleeing from justice. You claim they robbed you and, if the Germans are satisfied with your story, you’ll be allowed to go free. Of course you’ll have to live in a camp in Raleigh along with everybody else.”

“A concentration camp?”

She nearly spat out the phrase. The British had used such camps to imprison Boer civilians in the Boer war and the Spanish had invented the term to try to put down the rebellion in Cuba. In each case the camps were filled with innocent civilians who had died by the hundreds, perhaps thousands, as the result of neglect, bad food and water, disease, and generally unsanitary conditions.