“And Lawton’s dead, killed in the Philippines, if I recall. A shame. But what about Puerto Rico? He took that, didn’t he?”
Root knew he was being tested. “Hardly a campaign, sir. His five thousand men took four casualties. The whole Spanish island garrison surrendered virtually without firing a shot. But that’s not the point. He actually thinks that fool Blaney’s a hero. He wishes to attack the Germans in overwhelming numbers as soon as the army is large enough. He doesn’t realize the current qualitative differences between the German soldier and ours—in training, in equipment, and in leadership. It will be a worse slaughter than Cold Harbor or Marye’s Heights,” he said, referring to Civil War incidents where thousands of Union soldiers had been killed in futile attempts to dislodge well-dug-in defenders.
“What do you propose?”
“Sir, I have seen Miles’s list of suggestions for expanding the army. In all fairness to the man, many of them have merit. I propose we act on those with which we concur and defer on the others. In particular we must avoid giving Miles overall field command. In the meantime, we can commence with his basic suggestions, which are to enlarge the number of available generals to command the larger army, and go about getting the modern equipment needed to outfit that larger army.”
“Does he wish himself a fourth star?”
“Not in so many words, but the implication is clear. Indeed, sir, someone may have to have a fourth star if the army is to be as large as we think will soon be necessary.”
Roosevelt grunted and asked for the list of names. He read it and grunted again. His cigar was out and he lit it. Then he took a pencil and began making notations, his brow furrowed in deep thought. “Elihu, don’t we have any young officers?”
For Patrick Mahan the next several days were notable only for their similarity. The weather remained constantly sunny and unthreatening, and the encampment took on the convivial look and feel of a boys’ camping ground. Had it not been for the weaponry, the constant patrols, and preparation for defense that he insisted upon, most of the men could almost be described as having a good time. He tried to drill them but not too hard, as he was well aware of the volunteer soldier’s long-standing antipathy toward close order drill. He did find them receptive to combat training. That was something they could see a purpose to. But to expect them to act like spit and polish soldiers was more than he could reasonably expect.
At least, however, he could keep them busy and prevent them from brooding over the defeat. The drilling might just turn them into decent soldiers someday, but the digging of defensive works was pure make-work. It tired the men’s bodies, and the sight of the dirt walls gave them the illusion of safety. Patrick declined to tell them that news of a sizable German advance would cause him to call an immediate retreat. He had no desire to lead his army in a slaughter.
He had now amassed about ten thousand men under his highly unofficial command as other states called up their militias in response to a presidential order. Additional units from states as far away as Ohio had arrived in his area as a result of the battle and the general knowledge of his encampment. Still more stragglers had remembered their duty and found their way to what most were calling Fort Blaney, in derisive salute to their fallen first leader.
The Germans continued their policy of inaction. They had been spotted in several regiment-sized locations about a day’s march away and so heavily dug in that they were easy to observe. This lack of aggressive pressure brought a semblance of rude civilization to Fort Blaney. First came the merchants selling all manner of goods and services, from clothing to liquor to sex. Although Patrick was a long way from being a prude, he chased out the hookers and rationed the liquor. He informed his senior officer that if the men wanted sex, they would have to get leave and go to a city. Brothels would not come to them. There was grumbling, but most saw the sense of it. Besides, his prohibition against whores wasn’t that effective; all it did was keep things quiet and out of sight, which was exactly what he wanted.
This was soon followed by the inevitable visits by friends, relatives, and other loved ones whose shrieking and often tearful presence further lightened the atmosphere. At times it seemed there were so many private carriages on the roads about the camp that the army couldn’t move. These visits were encouraged as long as they didn’t interfere too much with training and defense requirements; they definitely increased morale.
Communication with the outside world came in the form of newspapers, some only a day old, from nearby towns. These the men devoured immediately; given the lack of any real command structure in the area, newspapers were the only reliable source of information. Through newspapers they learned of the fall of Manhattan and the imprisonment of thousands of American soldiers. They also learned that their battle, although acknowledged as a defeat, was praised to the skies as a valiant effort to rid the country of the invaders. This was a great boost to their morale. The reading and passing around of newspapers became an afternoon ritual not to be trifled with.
Patrick was walking about and simply observing when several men, lolling and reading their papers, noticed him.
“Hey, Cunnel, come here a minute.”
Patrick winced. In a real army enlisted men do not summon their commanding officer so cavalierly. But he had to remind himself for the hundredth time that day that these were volunteers and not regulars, and their training in such arcane matters as saluting was, at best, negligent. Doing as he was bid, he tried not to laugh.
“What’s up, boys?”
“Just a question, sir.” The speaker was a young private with glasses and a stringy beard. He had obviously been reading aloud for the benefit of the others. “Is your first name Patrick?”
He was puzzled. “Yes, why?”
“Well, according to the Hartford paper, you’ve just been made a general.”
Patrick swore and grabbed the offered paper. Yes, there it was, Patrick Mahan, brigadier general, U.S. Army. The rank was temporary, of course, but temporary or not, he was a general! He scanned the list and saw the names of a score of others both appointed and promoted. At last, something was happening.
The men gathered around and offered handshakes, which he took eagerly. They pumped his arm and pounded his back. Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled that enlisted men don’t do this in a regular army. But the front of his mind didn’t give a damn, and he exulted in it. The private who had first summoned him insisted on his keeping the newspaper as a souvenir. Why not? he laughed, and stuffed it in his pocket.
Later that afternoon and following congratulatory drinks, he and several other officers were gathered in his tent—the one he had inherited from Blaney—to discuss the next day’s training and patrol routine. On his collar he wore the star of a brigadier, courtesy again of the little tailor from New York.
The men paused when they heard the sound of a horse outside and a man dismounting. Through the thin wall of the tent a voice bellowed, “Where the hell is that ignorant Yankee asshole who thinks he’s a general? Jesus Christ! Did the army run out of qualified Southerners and have to promote ignorant Michigan farmers who don’t know how to wipe shit from their boots?”
The others in the tent froze in astonishment and shock, but Patrick flushed and grinned and found his own loud voice. “The Confederacy lost! Damnit, why do slow-learning rednecks who never figured out how to spell Confederacy have to be told that simple fact over and over again?”
Patrick rushed outside. “General Wheeler!” He gave a salute, which the other, much older and smaller man returned. Then, never one for formality, he grabbed Patrick’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. Major General Joe Wheeler of the U.S. Army, hero of the Spanish-American War and ex-Confederate States of America, grinned happily. The man his soldiers called Fighting Joe had arrived.
After quick introductions, Patrick chased the other officers out and sat down with Wheeler, who looked in amazement at the elaborate tent. “Boy, you don’t have anything to drink in this canvas whorehouse, do you?”
“I sent Blaney’s personal effects back home,” Patrick said, reaching into a trunk. “I did not consider his liquor to fall in that category.”
“Spoils of war,” said Wheeler, taking a glass. “To your promotion, my command, and death to the goddamn Germans.”
Patrick took a swallow. It was good whiskey and a mighty toast. Joe Wheeler was sixty-five years old and had served the Confederacy as a brigadier general himself almost forty years ago. Later, he’d been resurrected and given command of a division against Spain in what had been described by some as a sop to the South to show that the Civil War was really, once and for all, over. It had worked. Wheeler, white bearded and in his sixties but still wiry and spry enough to look like a jockey, had performed well and inspired his men. But what was he doing here?