Trina laughed. “Well, if you’re staying for dinner, will I have to cut your food this time?”
“Do you want me to stay?”
For an answer, she moved into his arms and they were embracing before either realized it and despite Patrick’s arm. “Am I hurting you?” she asked.
“The agony is overwhelming,” he murmured, “but I shall try to endure.”
She laughed again, the sound muffled by her mouth against his chest. Trina was both elated and confused. This was something that had never happened to her before. A quiet intimacy had developed between them almost without either of them noticing. What truly confused her, however, was what she should do now.
“I love your hair,” he murmured teasingly, kissing the top of her head.
“At least it’s long enough to see. Now I can go into town and not worry about frightening children, or having to wear a hairpiece that makes me look like some peasant woman from Poland or a refugee from a convent.”
They stepped apart and he took her hand. “I cannot imagine you in a convent. Perhaps as a Polish peasant, but definitely not a nun.”
Noises in the kitchen reminded them that they were not alone. Molly was preparing the promised meal. Heinz would not be there this evening. He was working on the myriad reports that an unfeeling higher command always required, war or not.
“I will stay for dinner, but I must get back to my men before it gets too late. I never realized I had so much to do.”
They ate quietly and alone. A very tactful Molly excused herself from becoming a third party by pleading a headache and the need to write some letters. After dinner, as the late-August night started to darken, they sat side by side on a couch in the small living room.
“Patrick, I think I like having your brigade just a few miles down the road.”
Patrick smiled. “Well, I like it too. I just don’t think we’d better get too used to it. We could be moved at any time and for any reason.”
“But you are—what was the term you used?—’strategic reserve,’ aren’t you?”
“Yes, but that’s only because the higher-ups don’t think my unit is quite ready for Broadway yet. My job is to whip them into shape and get them prepared for war. When that’s done I think we’ll be moved into the Housatonic line, probably on a rotating basis.”
“Well, don’t feel you have to hurry the process,” she said grimly. “Now, tell me all about your command.”
It was, he told her, officially called the 1st Provisional Brigade and it initially consisted of the two regiments of infantry that were originally intended to become the German Legion. That idea had flopped because neither Governor Nash of Ohio nor Governor La Follette of Wisconsin could agree on what American of German descent would command the Legion. Only the fact that both were Republicans prevented the argument from becoming more serious and permitted the compromise whereby Patrick Mahan, a decided non-German, was given command.
“I think Teddy Roosevelt might have beaten them up pretty badly if they hadn’t gone along,” he added.
His command gave him close to four thousand poorly trained and ill-equipped would-be soldiers. “The first thing I did was act on a hunch that there were immigrants from Germany who’d actually served in their army as well as men who’d served in ours. We searched and found more than a hundred. Although some of them were already in positions of command, most weren’t, and valuable experience was being wasted. I’ve been reviewing their records and placing them where I think they belong. The big problem with that idea is that some of them don’t speak English very well or not at all. It also means some people who were already in command positions, and who aren’t qualified, are being displaced. And,” he added ruefully, “most don’t particularly like the idea. One of our good American Bürgermeisters got drunk a couple of days ago and took a punch at me.”
“Goodness!”
“Fortunately he missed. Heinz hit him hard in his stomach and he spent the rest of the night in great pain trying to give up a week’s worth of meals. He is also now a plain private and lucky he’s not breaking rocks at some federal prison.”
“It’s almost funny.”
“On the good side, the immigrants are so eager to learn. They are also going to be quite useful. I’ve suggested to General MacArthur that small units be sent into German lines to provide hard intelligence and spread a little mischief, such as inducing others to desert. Since virtually all of them read and speak the lingo fluently, I think they could be of great assistance.”
Good God, she thought, don’t send Heinz. Molly would be hysterical. As if reading her thoughts, he asked about the relationship between the two. “Well,” she answered, “the fact that you are so close by means he slips over here as often as he can.” She did not add that Heinz had no qualms about leaving his wonderful army to spend the night in the arms of his beloved. She was not sure how Patrick would take that. She whispered, almost embarrassed, “They are still cohabiting. I am terribly afraid she will become pregnant. In fact, I think she already is.” There, maybe that small fib—was it a fib?—will keep him from permitting Heinz to do something reckless to satisfy his sense of manhood.
When she decided that Patrick had had enough time to mull this over, she asked, “But you now have other regiments, don’t you?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I just got the 9th and 10th Cavalry of the regular army—all colored troops and all dismounted except for one battalion of the 10th. Horses are in short supply.” He laughed sharply. “Of course, everything seems to be in short supply for Negro regiments with Negro officers. You can make a man a major, but in the eyes of every supply sergeant in the army, he’s still a nigger.”
“Terrible. What are you doing about it?”
He smiled grimly. “Well, every now and then I have to go and assert my rank. I don’t like to do it too often, because my officers, white or black, need the confidence to get things done on their own.”
“Goodness, I never realized you were such a liberal in your attitude toward race.”
“I’m not. I really don’t know where I stand with Negroes and their problems. I just feel we should fight one war at a time, and right now the main enemy is the German army.”
“And these two regiments aren’t ready for combat either?”
“Actually, they’re very ready. Stripping them of their white officers to help fill another division cost them some manpower, but what remained was a solid core of professional soldiers with a lot of experience. And that numerical loss is being made up by new enlistments of Negroes who are plain tickled to be in units commanded by men of their own color. It’s just that the move created yet another bastard unit like the German Americans. Nobody knows what to do with them, so they’re all mine. Just to complete the picture, there’s a rumor I’ll be getting a battalion of Poles from Chicago.”
Her sarcasm was mild. “How wonderful for you.”
He chuckled warmly and squeezed her hand. “They are now calling it Mahan’s Bastard Brigade. When I’m done it will be the pride of the army. Well, at least the talk of it. Now, what have you been up to?”
In their few remaining moments together she told him that although her work with refugees was diminishing as the flow of those unfortunates appeared to have slowed, her work with the wounded and other soldiers was increasing. “We try to arrange transportation home for the wounded who have healed enough to travel. Then we try to arrange for visits from home for those who cannot yet make such journeys. Some,” she added sadly, her eyes moistening, “will never leave hospitals. I am glad I didn’t try nursing. I don’t think I could ever do it. Although, I suppose one never knows, does one? I certainly never thought I could do the work I’m doing now.”
True enough, he thought.
“Also I write letters for the soldiers and try to arrange for some wholesome recreation for them, like baseball. Football and basketball are too rough.”
“War isn’t?” he chided.
She admitted the point. “Well, as a general you surely don’t want the men injured playing football when that would cause them to miss the next battle.”
Finally he realized he had to leave. Once again it would be a night on a cot in a tent. Lucky Heinz. He took Trina’s arm and stepped outside. Molly had brought his horse around and tethered it out front. Because of his sore shoulder, mounting it would be a little difficult, but he could manage.