T HE BRIDGE ACROSS the small stream was a fairly solid-looking stone structure that easily supported the weight of a wagon loaded with materiel or the marching feet of fifty or so armed men. Until recently, the bridge hadn’t even been necessary. Generations of Long Islanders had simply eased themselves down the gentle banks on each side and walked across the stream, sometimes barely getting their feet wet. Even in a flood, the stream was rarely more than a few feet deep, and today it was quite shallow.
But a bridge was meant to be crossed and that meant traffic took advantage of its existence all day long and sometimes into the night. Blake Morris sat comfortably in the shade of a shrub and watched the quaint little bridge, barely two hundred yards away. The three men with him were all of his little band that he’d allotted to this task. The rest were in the warehouse area of Brooklyn, or what was left of that lovely city, and had their own assignments. There had been some discussion as to the wisdom of dividing up their small force, but the men in charge of the Brooklyn operation were more than qualified. They would hurt the Germans in the area of materiel; he would hurt their souls. As the Apaches on the mainland made the Germans fear the night, he, Blake Morris, would make them fear the day and cause what had been familiar and friendly to suddenly seem sinister and hostile.
Which was why the bridge, so quaint and charming, gently spanning a stream whose name he didn’t know, was such an appropriate choice.
“What time is it?” Blake hissed, unnecessarily quiet. The response came that it was a little past two in the afternoon. Blake sighed and continued to wait. If all had gone well in Brooklyn, that event was already over. Perhaps he should have gone there with his men. No, he reminded himself, this would strike at the enemy’s soul, if the Germans had souls.
A tremble, a murmur, passed through the air. He looked and the others had heard it too. There was the soft exhalation of their own breath. The wondrously punctual Germans were arriving.
Shortly, the sounds took on definition. The bastards were actually singing! A few minutes later he could see them as they approached the bridge, his bridge. His cute little bridge. First came a lead group of ten, a squad. These were followed by a handful of mounted officers and then the remainder of the battalion, hundreds of men in columns of four. They were in step, he noticed. Despite the fact that they were in the country, their commander had evidently continued to insist they march in step rather than walk at a natural pace. What a fool! Did he think the creatures in the meadow were watching his parade? He must be loved by his troops.
Blake’s three men checked for outriders and saw none. It wasn’t a surprise. There had been no outriders yet when the battalions changed positions, as they did every Tuesday at this time. When this battalion reached the encampment a few miles up the road, the one currently out there would return down the same road to the dubious comforts of Brooklyn.
The head of the column reached the bridge and crossed without breaking stride. It didn’t take long. It was such a little bridge.
Blake waited until the officers and the first company of infantry were completely across. The lead squad was near the red-leaved bush he’d arbitrarily designated as the end of the target area. “Now,” he ordered himself aloud and pushed down on the plunger. For the barest second nothing happened. There was the inevitable momentary fear that the device had failed, then the bridge lifted into the air and seemed to come apart, stone by stone, soldier by soldier. Before the Germans had a moment to even blink, lines of additional explosions walked down the dirt road in both directions from the now-atomized bridge structure. Almost immediately, the sound of the explosions and the shock waves engulfed them. Then there was silence.
It was several seconds before the screaming started. Because of the slow-settling clouds of dust, Blake couldn’t actually see what he’d done, but he was fairly certain the battalion no longer existed.
Later, he would meet up with the crew sent to Brooklyn. If all had gone according to plan, a score of the German warehouses had gone up in smoke and flame. His only regret was that they were not ammunition warehouses. Those were kept under tight guard within the inner German perimeter. What he had been able to gain access to were the stores of food and uniforms; thanks to his other crew, these had doubtless been dynamited as well.
The fucking Krauts wouldn’t starve or go cold any more than they would stop coming down the road and crossing the stream. But it would make them think every time they took a step or opened a door.
Tonight when he slept, maybe his wife would come to him and nod her approval. He smiled.
If there was anything more boring than guard duty, Ludwig Weber couldn’t think of it. Even peeling potatoes was more rewarding. Unless, of course, he had to work with Kessel. However, as a corporal and the captain’s aide, he really didn’t have to perform kitchen police and usually got out of pulling guard duty as well.
But this, as Sergeant Gunther calmly explained over Ludwig’s mild protests, really wasn’t guard duty. It was a roadblock and, because of the recent incidents of sabotage and worse, the idea was to check on who was coming up and down the road. So it was that he and a handful of others watched a dusty and largely untraveled route behind the German lines in Connecticut. At least, thanks to his exalted rank of corporal, he was in charge of the little group. Better, Kessel was not with them. Thank you, Sergeant Gunther, for that small favor.
Although not all of the men at the roadblock had been with him during that fateful stay in New York, they all had been touched by it. As far as he and his men were concerned, the whore who had murdered Ulli had not been found. Of that he was certain, even though a woman had been executed for the crime. Perhaps even worse than Ulli’s murder and castration was the fact that some poor woman who fit the general description of the prostitute had been arrested, shown to them, and, over their protestations, shot.
Ludwig shuddered. He hadn’t seen the woman who seduced Ulli, but the Schuler boys had, and they had tearfully insisted that the retarded-looking slattern with the greasy dark hair whom the military police had picked up wasn’t her. The German police simply insisted that she had to be because she had been found in the area and fit the general description. They had the company watch as a firing squad pulverized her with bullets. The poor thing had been wide-eyed and slobbering with terror. Her mouth was deformed and she wasn’t even able to speak, only grunt. It was then that Ludwig realized with a chill that the police were more concerned with closing the case than with solving the crime. Bastards. The event had seared them all. The death of dumb Ulli was such a waste, such a shame. What bothered him more than anything, except the attitude of the police, was the fact that some of his men, speaking in whispers, blamed the German military for having them here where they could be killed and not the slut who’d cut off Ulli’s cock.
And Ludwig had a hard time disagreeing with them.
“Hey, Ludwig, wagon coming.”
Ludwig shaded his eyes with his hand. Yes, it was a wagon. One lone wagon with two German soldiers in it, and it was pulled by one slow, old horse. Yes, it was a real threat. He rose slowly and started to walk the score or so strides from the shade to where the sun shone on the hastily improvised roadblock. This consisted of a length of wood on a stone stretched across the road, and a hand-painted sign that read “Halt.”
One of the Schuler boys offered to go with him, but Ludwig told him to go back to sleep. He could handle this massive threat to their security all by himself. It was only the third or fourth time anyone had come down the road all day. Ludwig stood in front of the sign and held his hand palm outward, and the wagon stopped. He could see that the two men were a little older and their uniforms didn’t fit that well, which made him fairly certain that they were reservists. Ludwig may have hated the army, but he took pride in the way they looked. This pair looked like slobs in comparison with the regulars. Perhaps he was being too harsh. Ludwig also didn’t recognize their unit, but that wasn’t surprising either. With all the reservists about, he hadn’t heard of half their regiments. After all, he thought, stifling a yawn, he was a teacher, not a soldier.
One of the men in the wagon was a sergeant; the driver was a private. Well, Ludwig thought, reserves or not, the sergeant has more stripes than I do and that makes him God if he wants to be. The sergeant didn’t want to push it, however. He smiled amiably and asked what the matter was.
“Nothing much.” Ludwig grinned back. “This is the most important road in America and we’re watching it for the Reich.”
The two men laughed and agreed. They knew make-work when they saw it. Funny, Ludwig thought, he didn’t quite recognize their accents, and he thought he knew all the regional nuances. “Where to?” he asked.
“Just going in to the supply center,” the sergeant replied. “We got a shopping list and specific directions from our captain. Jesus, what an old lady.”
Ludwig grinned and looked around. It wasn’t proper to criticize an officer that harshly. He and his friends did it privately, but not to a perfect stranger. He asked them what unit they were from and was told they were with the 141st Infantry, a reserve regiment. Well, that confirmed his guess and was probably why they were so critical of their commander. Rumor had it the reserves were not overwhelmed with joy at being here. For that matter, neither was he.
As he looked in the back of the wagon, Ludwig idly asked the sergeant where his hometown was and was given the name of a village he didn’t recall. It didn’t matter. He was getting bored again. The only things in the back of the wagon were a steamer trunk and the soldiers’ rifles, which lay flat on the floor. He noticed that the trunk was unlocked and the hasp had worked its way open. A piece of paper was protruding. He decided to do them a favor, so he pulled out the piece of paper and opened the trunk to reclose it properly.
He gasped. It was full of sheets of paper. Thousands of them. And they all had similar messages. “Surrender,” they read, or “Stay in America,” “Live Free,” or “Americans Are Your Friends-Not the Kaiser.”
His knees weakened and he had to grab the side of the wagon for support. He looked at the two men, who were staring at him, their faces suddenly pale and their expressions frozen. In his mind, he started to cry out for help, call for the others, but no sound came. Dear God, these are Americans, not Germans. No wonder their accents are so strange. Either they never lived in Germany or had lived there so long ago their accents had changed. Oh, God. Help.
Instead, a hand-it was a stranger’s, although he knew it was connected to his arm-closed the trunk and fixed it tight. Then a voice-it sounded like his-told them in a hoarse whisper to leave. Leave now. Get the fuck away from here! Now, now, now!
With forced slowness, the driver eased the wagon around the slight barricade and trotted on down the road. The sergeant turned and looked incredulously on the source of his good fortune, his survival. Had they been caught in German uniforms they would have hanged. Ludwig stood there, his body drenched in sweat, and tried to regain control of himself. He felt himself quivering. Finally he gathered the strength to return to his squad. He was certain they knew what had happened. He had let the Americans go, and the fact of his treason had to be emblazoned on his face. Instead, no one was even looking at him. One of the Schulers had found a toad and they were trying to make it jump by sticking it with a penknife. Ludwig leaned against a tree and tried to breathe.
“Hey, Ludwig, you look like hell.”
Ludwig forced a thin smile. “I made a big mistake. I ate that sausage crap you cooked for lunch, and now I gotta take a shit. You people watch the road for me. Let me know if you see the kaiser.”
They laughed and returned to their mindless game, and Ludwig walked into some bushes where he knew he would be left alone. Then he pulled the piece of paper from his pocket and started to read.
“General von Schlieffen,” Holstein began, practically purring, “I understand that you concur with the actions recommended by General von Waldersee. Quite frankly, I am surprised.”
“Dear count, I had no choice but to support the commander of our forces in the field. He is a continent away and in daily contact with local hostiles. His position, although hardly untenable, requires drastic action to prevent it from becoming so.”
Holstein nodded sagely. “I have no doubts as to the military necessity of the action, but the political implications will be enormous.”
“Are you concerned,” Schlieffen asked bitterly, “that we might find ourselves with yet another enemy? Who is left? Ecuador? No, dear count, I find myself in broad agreement with both the kaiser and von Waldersee that the war must be won first and the politics cleaned up later. I think you will agree with me when I say that a victor is forgiven many transgressions, even crimes against humanity. After all, is what we are doing to the Americans so different from what the British are doing to the Boers? Or what the Spanish did to the Cubans? No, I think the idea of expelling useless and dangerous mouths from the zone of occupation and requiring the remaining Americans to be incarcerated in concentration camps is now a necessity. We have lost too many men and too much equipment to their depredations.”
Holstein arched an eyebrow quizzically. “And supplies are now a problem?”
“Not for the military, and certainly not yet. The destruction of so many of our supplies simply means that we cannot afford to feed the Americans within our lines unless their presence outside would be dangerous to us, or if they have skills useful to our effort.”
“They will resist.”
It was Schlieffen’s turn to shrug. “Then they will be shot. We have given them one week to register with us. We will then determine whether they will be expelled or imprisoned. Anyone we find roaming loose after that who is not working for us as a collaborator will be executed as a spy and saboteur. I have given responsibility for the task to General Lothar von Trotha. Do you recall him?”
Holstein shuddered. “Yes. He did some of the kaiser’s best work in China. General von Schlieffen, the man is a butcher. Why not Hindenburg or von Moltke?”
“They declined.”
“General, there will be mistakes,” stated Holstein. “Surely you do not hope to reach every small child or old woman hiding in a slum basement. Would you kill them?”
“And why not?” answered Schlieffen. “The women in America are quite cunning with knives and very supportive of the men. As to children, sir, they are being used as messengers and deliverers of weapons and ammunition. Please do not scold me with prattle about innocent children.”
Holstein did not respond. He was surprised at the kaiser’s actions in expelling all Americans, but he was not shocked. American irregulars behind German lines were causing terrible losses. Schlieffen might try to downgrade the loss of the warehouses in Brooklyn, but they represented two weeks’ worth of food for the German army. It was getting more and more difficult to resupply them, since part of the American navy was now sitting in a rough arc running from Brest in France to Penzance in England; a second group sat off Dover, where the Channel was only a score of miles wide. Every German ship now had to travel by convoy, and each convoy had to fight its way through the American cruiser lines. The result of this had been the slowing down of supplies reaching the army as well as the siphoning off of warships from their coastal defense and fleet duties in order to protect the convoys.
Most of the ships got through, but a surprising percentage did not. The Americans tried to attack with a force larger than the warships shielding the convoy. Thus, although the convoy guards tried to protect themselves and their charges, American ships were almost always available to slip into the convoy and cause damage before being driven off. The Americans seemed to not want a major battle. Rather, they preferred to nip and snap, like a wild dog after a large prey, causing a multitude of small wounds rather than a single large one. Holstein recalled that the Chinese had a name for such a torture. They called it something like the death of a thousand cuts. Well, he sighed, Germany was being sliced and bled by very sharp American scalpels.
“Yet, General, the battles have not all been one-sided,” said Holstein.
“Certainly not. On several occasions, von Tirpitz’s new navy has given a good account of itself. The Yanks are without at least one cruiser, and a couple of others are temporarily out of action. Sadly, we have lost a little bit more heavily than they. The score or so of merchant vessels sunk by them is a matter for concern. So too, by the way, is the question of how they find out about the force and composition of the convoys. It almost seems as though someone is telling them.”
Holstein laughed. “Who would have to? By the time the convoys form off our coast, a thousand eyes have seen them and reported. When they try the Channel off Dover and Cherbourg, they might as well be on display. Better we should eliminate any confusion or mistakes by sending the Yanks our sailing schedules. No, by the time our ships reach Plymouth, the Americans know exactly what is coming at them. I’m surprised we aren’t sending more around Scotland.”
“According to von Tirpitz, it wouldn’t accomplish that much,” explained Schlieffen, “and it would extend the trip at least a week in what are quickly becoming cold and dangerous waters.”
Holstein shuddered. He had seen the North Sea in anger once. It was not a place for any but the strongest sailors. “There is another rumor that you are pulling your soldiers back to a small perimeter in Brooklyn and effectively conceding the rest of Long Island to the Americans.”
“With regrets, that is true,” acknowledged Schlieffen. “With the need to keep so many in the trenches against the Americans, we found ourselves unable to protect our facilities scattered about the area. We are not afraid they will suddenly land an army on Long Island and attack us. Our navy is in complete control of Long Island Sound. I think of it as a consolidation, not a retreat.”
Call it what you will, Holstein thought, but it looks, smells, and sounds like a retreat. Were these fairly innocuous acts the first indication that a crisis was approaching?
Holstein thanked the chief of the Imperial General Staff for his time. Then he sat in his office and brooded.
Johnny Two Dogs watched intently from where he hid in the shrubs as the long line of people walked slowly eastward down the road in the general direction of the American lines in Connecticut. They were still behind the German defenses and had many miles to go. A shame, he thought; so many of these people looked either too old or too young to be out in the open, even though the weather mercifully continued to be mild.
The column, although broken here and there, seemed virtually endless. Only a handful of Germans guarded the forlorn civilians as they shuffled along, their slumped bodies exuding despair. Johnny was puzzled. These people were not a threat. How could this be? Were these the same white tribes that spawned the soldiers who finally took Geronimo? These people were weak and thin, often dressed in tatters, and they carried what they could of their belongings in bags and sacks. He saw few suitcases and no carts or wagons. Reason told him the Germans had confiscated anything that looked like a horse or a cow. He had no way of knowing that these sad-looking people were largely recent immigrants for whom this trek was yet another march away from a tyranny they’d left Europe to escape.
It was hard for Johnny to feel any mercy or regret for the white people parading dismally before him. How many of his people had died when shipped from Arizona and New Mexico to the stinks of Florida and then to Oklahoma? How many of the Cherokee had died in their long march from the white man’s land to Oklahoma in years past? He spat on the ground. The Cherokee dead were no great loss to him. The Cherokee were women. They had sold their souls to the white devils and had adopted many of the white man’s ways, so many they were called the civilized tribes. It didn’t help to be civilized when the whites wanted their land. Later, he knew that many of the Cherokees, Chippewa, and others had picked the losing side when the North fought the South. He wondered if he’d picked the right side in this war and decided he didn’t care. When it was over, he and many of the others had decided they would not return to the hellish conditions on the reservation. They would go elsewhere, somewhere.
One of the Germans grabbed a bundle from an old man and spilled it on the ground. Then he used his booted feet to stir the man’s possessions in a search for valuables. Johnny knew that the soldier was wasting his time. These refugees had already had to surrender much of what they owned at earlier roadblocks set up to ensure that nothing taken from the city could be used against the Germans. He had crept close to one and watched while the Germans stole watches, jewelry, and anything else that took their fancy. That included some of the women, who were taken into tents and raped while their families were held at gunpoint.
The German said something to the old man, who wailed and raised his arms. The soldier reacted quickly and smashed a fist into the man’s face. The old man fell to his knees and the German kicked him in the head. Finally the old man lay still. No one, Johnny mused, had come to help him.
Hell, let them all die. It’s their turn.
In Washington, Theodore Roosevelt was livid with rage. He paced his war room and cursed under his breath. John Hay, who ordinarily felt comfortable dealing with the temperamental man when he was in a foul mood, knew better than to interrupt now.
When Roosevelt finally gathered himself to speak, his voice was high, almost squeaky, with barely contained anger. He was trying mightily not to take it out on the people close to him. His friends were not the ones at fault. “They will pay for this outrage. They will pay dearly. They will not expel our people from their homes as though they were the Israelites being taken into captivity. No, sir, they will not. What a tragedy our country is enduring.”
He sat down in a chair so hard that his feet came off the floor. “They will pay,” he repeated. “This merely strengthens my resolve to defeat them. The devil with Bryan and his peace-loving sheep! How can we ever deal with a country that commits such atrocities?” he asked, his voice now nearly a roar.
John Hay, the presenter of the news that the rumored expulsions were actually taking place, was far more relaxed. “Theodore, it is indeed an awful thing, but let us look at how we can use it to our advantage, and legitimately so. First, although not very many have died en route, some have. We will certainly play up each death as the tragedy it is. The dead all have names and families, and we will remind the press that either they or their forebears came from other lands in search of liberty. Instead, they found this mad kaiser and his army chasing them, hounding them, expelling them from hearth and home, and dooming them to live as refugees. The recently arrived we will describe as being chased from their homelands to the ends of the earth by that madman.” He smiled. “And the best thing is, it’s all true.”
“Humph. That’s not exactly what I had in mind. I want that kaiser bastard in chains.”
That is not very likely to happen, thought Hay. “A worthy goal; however, not a particularly realistic one under the circumstances. The brave kaiser is quite safe in Germany, and he will not leave that land while they are at war. His only real danger lies in being burned by the flames of outrage sweeping Europe. The English and French papers are calling him a despot and comparing him to Attila the Hun. One French paper said Attila was preferable to the kaiser. Even Russia has called for a cessation of the expulsions, and Austria has hinted broadly that they should stop. The kaiser’s reaction, unfortunately, has been to withdraw into a shell. He feels that time will pass and all this will be forgotten. Sadly, he is probably correct.”
“Damn people and their short memories.”
“It also means we are hurting him. The Germans cannot feed and control that large a local population. Our saboteurs are becoming extremely effective. They are denying the Germans a safe haven anywhere on this continent.”
“Sabotage. It all sounds so unsporting.”
“Theodore, this isn’t a baseball game. We are at a serious disadvantage and must use every means at our disposal to win.”
Roosevelt nodded agreement. “You’re right, John, you’re always right.”
“I certainly try to be. Unfortunately, Theodore, that is not the end of the bad news.”
“Spare me; I’ve heard enough for today.”
Hay ignored his request. “As the Germans contracted their perimeter on Long Island and, in effect, gave the Island back to us, they burned or destroyed just about everything they could not use in order to deny it to us. The land is a ruin.”
“Dear Jesus.”
Hay looked at him sadly. “I am truly sorry to report that one of the places destroyed by fire was your home at Sagamore Hill.”
There was a stunned silence for a moment, then Theodore Roosevelt began to weep tears of pain and impotent fury.