1901

Yes, Patrick felt that he knew both Germany and modern warfare, and liked neither. The casualties from the war had been horrendous: more than twenty-five thousand American dead and wounded, and nearly forty thousand German dead. An additional twenty thousand Germans had surrendered that day; the remainder formally negotiated an end to the war a few days later. They might have held out far longer but for the fact that Brooklyn had been recaptured and Pershing had stormed a two-mile length of mighty defenses. Moltke had then given in to the inevitable. Had Pershing not made his assault, the Germans would have dug in behind their forts and used their untapped reserve divisions to sweep the Americans back from New York City and Brooklyn. There had been speculation that the Germans would have withdrawn to Long Island and set up for a long siege. Without supplies and low on ammunition, the German army would have faced certain defeat. It would have been a protracted and bloody affair with many lives needlessly lost on both sides. Patrick shuddered at the potential cost of taking that island. Thank God for Wheeler and Pershing.

“Well?” Katrina kissed him gently on the cheek, interrupting his thoughts.

“Sounds very interesting. Would you mind being a congressman’s wife?”

“I would enjoy it immensely. Imagine what damage I could do on behalf of women while at the seat of power. Besides, Washington would be a fine place to raise a child.”

“What?”

“Not yet, dear general. But soon, perhaps, the way we are going.”

He laughed and told her he wanted to stretch his legs and see if the porter had somehow gotten a current newspaper. He buttoned his uniform jacket and stepped into the narrow passageway. So much had changed in the past few weeks. Ian had returned to England, and Harris to his factory. Heinz and Molly had finally gotten married and were in Cincinnati. Longstreet was back in Gainesville, Georgia, and Schofield and MacArthur were organizing a new army. Dewey and the navy were in their glory and there was talk of additional submarines.

But MacArthur’s boy was crippled, and most of his Apaches had apparently disappeared into thin air, reluctant to return to reservation life. The Negro cavalry had their white officers back, although some of the blacks, like Esau Jones, who was once again a sergeant, had their own medals. No one knew what to do about Blake Morris. His suicide had helped to further decapitate the German command, but no one was certain whether or not he had actually been in the army at the time. Roosevelt said they’d probably name some schools after him.

A glint of metal on Patrick’s chest distracted him. Full uniform meant medals as well. He had been a little embarrassed about being given the Medal of Honor. He didn’t feel he had done anything to deserve it.

“Of course you did.” Roosevelt had been insistent. “I know there were many heroes out there; perhaps, if it will make you feel better, think of it as being for all of them. But damnit, Patrick, you did a splendid job of attacking the Germans and pinching off their retreat. That won the day for us. You’re a hero and you’d better get used to that fact. You won’t be permitted to forget it.”

So be it, Patrick thought. As he walked through the coach car, two thin and pale young men in ill-fitting clothes immediately jumped to their feet on seeing his rank and stood at attention. “Relax, boys,” Patrick said, assuming they had just left the army. They hadn’t. His stars and medals were just too intimidating. “You were in the army?” asked Patrick. One, slightly younger and with his arm in a sling, nodded and mumbled an accented yes. “Which unit?” Patrick asked.

They looked at each other, and finally the younger of the two answered. “Imperial 4th Rifles.”

Patrick blinked back his surprise. He had heard that many prisoners had chosen not to return to Germany, much to that country’s chagrin. He told them who he was and that he knew of their unit. After all, his brigade had overrun it.

“General Mahan, was your command a mixed unit of blacks and Germans?”

Patrick laughed. During the rush of battle, many smaller units from the different regiments had gotten mixed up, with interesting sociological results. “Yes, it was.”

The younger man smiled shyly. “Then I think your people made us prisoners. I am Ludwig Weber and this is my ex-captain, Hans Walter. His English is not as good as mine, but he does understand well.”

“So you decided to stay?”

“I decided a long time ago. My captain only recently. We are on our way to Milwaukee, where we both have relatives.”

“Well,” Patrick said, holding out his hand for them to shake. “Welcome to America.”