1901

A few feet away, the skipper of the craft struggled with the rudder. “Gonna be a bad one?” Blake asked.

The skipper, a weather-burned old man whose name he didn’t know, spat over the side. “No such thing as a good storm. If anything good comes of it,’twill be to make us a little less visible to the Heinies.”

Blake eyed the sky and sensed the direction of the swirling clouds. They appeared to be coming from the south. That made it likely that the storm was the remnant of a hurricane and not an isolated squall. Although Blake was not a seaman, he had seen the devastation wrought by such storms along the New York and New Jersey coasts as well as farther south, and he asked about the intensity of this one.

“This fucker’s about shot its wad,” said the old sailor. “It’ll be a nasty one, but we have these all the time. Nothing to write home about-that is, if you can write.”

“It won’t hurt the Germans?”

“Aw, it’ll make ‘em puke a lot, but it shouldn’t really hurt ‘em. Most of ‘em will just make for the harbor and wait it out. Those that have to stand duty out in the ocean will simply endure it. Hell, my boat’ll make it, so why should a battleship have a problem?”

A wave hit the sailboat and engulfed them both in spray, silencing any further comment Blake might have made. He was aware of a couple of other figures scampering around doing whatever sailors do in choppy seas. He realized that the Sound was somewhat protected by the existence of Long Island and that the open ocean would be even more turbulent. Give me solid ground anytime, he thought.

“Hey, soldier, enough talking. Get your ass down in there and keep that hatch closed so the water don’t pour in. I’ll tell you when it’s time to come up,” the skipper cackled. “Speakin’ of pukin’, if you ate anythin’ in the last day or two, you’ll probably be seein’ it again real soon.”

Ludwig Weber shivered. Not only was his uniform soaked by the rain, but the blanket he’d used to cover his shoulders when he went out to the latrine was also drenched. Nice move, asshole, he told himself, remembering too late that he had to sleep under that same blanket.

The storm, now in its second day, had caused a breakdown in the delivery of supplies. Food was even more miserable than usual; tonight it had consisted of a congealed, tasteless, soggy mess that he barely managed to keep down. Worse, several of the men were ill, and not just with colds and sniffles. The weather was causing fevers and hacking coughs, and there was worry that some illnesses would deteriorate into pneumonia. Keep the men warm and dry, he was told. How the hell do you do that when the entire world is a sea of rain and mud? He wanted to ask the question, but prudence deterred him.

Now it appeared that the rain was getting colder; some of the men were saying they could see half-frozen flecks of ice in the drops. Could sleet and snow be far behind? Ludwig had no idea how severe winters could be in this part of North America, but if this were any indication, chances were the soldiers would be even more miserable, and very soon.

Rumor had it that their issue of winter uniforms had been held up because of sabotage in Brooklyn and the fact that shipping was having a harder time than expected getting through. The nights now had a distinct chill to them and he hoped the delay would not be too long. He also wanted a dry blanket.

His feet were wet as well, and some of the men were complaining about rashes between their toes. Again, the advice was to keep dry. But now the men of the 4th Rifles were back in the trenches, occupying one of the northernmost forts on the line facing the main American army. As a result of the rains, the trenches were ankle deep in mud, and in some places water rose up to the knees. Some of the trench walls had collapsed, which required working in the storm to repair them in case the damned Yanks used the cover of weather to attack. Fat chance. They’d drown before they got close.

Ludwig put his hands in his pockets in a feeble search for warmth and found the tightly crumpled flyer he’d taken off the Americans. His fingers caressed it and his mind recalled virtually every word on it. There was no reason for him to keep it; it was probably foolish for him to do so. But he could not yet convince himself to dispose of it. For one thing, it said that possession of it guaranteed the bearer safe passage through the American lines. He knew that it also guaranteed the bearer a prompt hanging if he were found with it by the Germans. The Germans? Wasn’t he a German? Yes, he realized with sudden clarity, but not one of those Germans. He made up his mind that, should the time and opportunity ever arise, he would make it through to the Americans and begin a new life here. He did not want to return to the kaiser’s Germany. Let fools like Kessel return to serve the Reich; he would become an American.