“Dear God,” said Roosevelt.
The next scene was of New York harbor. It showed German warships moving about with the city in the background. The view of German ships around the Statue of Liberty almost moved him to tears.
Abruptly, the scene changed and he could see puffs of smoke coming from the ships’ guns as they bombarded Brooklyn. This was followed by scenes of the fire and its aftermath—blocks and blocks of charred and smoking buildings. Even there, the cameramen found bodies to film.
Another scene showed German infantry marching down the blackened streets from the waterfront. They marched in precise steps, as if on parade and without a care in the world. It was chilling.
This was followed by scenes of refugees, thousands of them, moving about and living in wretched conditions, their faces gaunt, eyes dimmed by fear and exhaustion. The worst part was the crying children. If only there were sound, Roosevelt thought, it would bring tears to the hardest of hearts.
The last scene also showed bodies. These were dead American soldiers lying facedown in a field. The caption was simply, “Murdered.”
The lights went on. The entire viewing had taken less than ten minutes. Roosevelt’s cheeks were wet. “Your camera operators are very brave.”
The man grinned cheekily. “And very sneaky. At one point I hid in the second floor of a collapsing warehouse to get the shots of those soldiers marching by.”
“Good for you! John Hay, thank you for showing me this. Now, how can we use it best?”
Hay was pleased. “Sir, Mr. Edison has agreed to make more than a hundred copies at his expense and distribute them throughout the United States. They will be shown in vaudeville houses and other theaters as motion pictures are shown now. We can anticipate a very emotional response from the American public. Even better than when Mr. Edison showed films of the Spanish war. We may also send copies to other sympathetic countries. But I am most anxious that all Americans see what has happened and just what we are fighting against and fighting for.”
Roosevelt smiled thinly. “Bully!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MOLLY AWOKE SLOWLY from her deep and dream-filled sleep. She realized that something had disturbed her. The night was warm and sticky, and the windows were open in a vain attempt to catch a night breeze. She lay still and listened. Very quickly she was rewarded with the sound of what might have been a whimper. She continued to listen and it was repeated. A cat? Some other kind of animal? Carefully, so as to not disturb Katrina, who slept in the other bed, she arose and walked to the window. When she heard the sound again, she realized that it came from within the small house she and Katrina shared.
Padding softly on bare feet, she went to the bedroom door and opened it. There was a small squeak, but Katrina slept on, her breath coming in almost a soft snore. Molly smiled fondly. Damned Dutchies could sleep through an earthquake.
She entered the hallway and looked about. The sound, now more like an animal in pain, was coming from the bedroom across the hall where Heinz was sleeping. Heinz had arrived at Katrina’s rented cottage late the evening before and had cheerfully informed them that both he and Patrick Mahan had survived the disaster unharmed, and the general had sent him ahead with that message. Patrick would come by as soon as he could.
When it had come time for Heinz to leave, Katrina would not hear of him trying to find quarters elsewhere. Lieutenants were the lowest form of life in a village filled to overflowing with refugees, lost troops, and the walking wounded. Heinz had protested that it would not be appropriate for him to stay with the two women, and Katrina had nearly exploded. “Who gives a damn what people think? Propriety? The hell with propriety! There’s a war on, isn’t there?”
Heinz had sheepishly given in and agreed to take the bedroom that had been Molly’s, which accounted for her bunking with Katrina. In retrospect, it seemed that Heinz hadn’t protested all that much.
Molly closed the door behind her, walked over to Heinz’s room, and placed her ear to his door. While she did this, she hoped fervently that he would not suddenly open the door and confront her, barefoot as she was, clad only in a thin cotton nightgown, and with her ear pressed to his door. A person could get the wrong idea.
She hesitated, then opened the door. Heinz was in his bed, his large body contorted and his face twisted as his closed eyes saw something she could not. His mouth opened and a small wail of pain emerged. Molly closed the door and walked across the room to stand by him. He had kicked off his covers and was clad only in his underwear. Molly was, quite frankly, astonished by the size and bulk of the young man. When he was clothed it was apparent that he was tall and powerfully built, but now she realized just how muscular he was.
Heinz moaned again. Was this, she thought, so different from the dreams that poor dead Cormac sometimes had? She knelt beside Heinz and began to whisper his name, calling for him to awaken, to emerge from his nightmare, her voice a comforting purr.
He awoke and looked about, trying to register where he was. When he saw Molly his eyes widened in astonishment, making her smile as she stood up. He grabbed the bedclothes and covered himself, the futile gesture amusing her even more. A boy, she thought, a lieutenant in the army but still a large boy. How could she have chided him as a potential enemy?
“Molly,” he whispered. “What’re you doing here?”
“You were having a bad dream. I heard you crying out.”
“Oh, God,” he said and sagged farther back into the down pillow. “I keep seeing them. It’s so awful.”
Molly was puzzled. “Seeing what?”
“Them. The dead. The wounded. Oh, God, Molly, I never, ever thought it could be like that. I never saw a battle before, never saw what could happen to a man when a bullet hit or, worse, a cannon exploded. The word ‘horrible’ doesn’t even begin to cover the sights, the sounds, and the smells. I don’t think there are any words in any language that can.”
He looked at her and she saw how drawn his face was. No, this was not her brother Cormac coming back from a night of fighting and carousing; this was a confused young man trying to comprehend what had happened to him. She felt deeply moved by his genuine distress.
“I’d never seen battle. I missed that little ambush General Mahan and General Funston cooked up, so when this big one occurred, I was thrilled. I was all dressed up in a spiffy new uniform and had a sword and pistol and was going to be the brave hero, a twentieth-century knight-errant.” He laughed harshly. “Fat lot of good that did! I saw the men go forward and wanted to be with them, so brave they looked, but I had to stay with General Mahan, and generals don’t lead charges anymore. At the time I didn’t know how lucky I was.”
He sighed and looked up at the cracked ceiling. “Then I saw the troops come back, all bloody and filthy and torn. And whipped. They were crying and hurt. When the fighting finally stopped and they sent people out to help the wounded, I volunteered. By that time many of the wounded had died from bleeding or shock. Some of them may have drowned in shell holes that were filled with rain from the storm. Anyway, we gathered up as many as we could and took them back to the field hospitals. Some died on the trip. I tried to keep one boy from bleeding to death from where his arm had been torn off. I squeezed his exposed and bleeding veins with my fingers, but they were too slippery and he died anyhow and I got his blood on my uniform. I’m not sure he would have survived under any circumstances. The crowds of wounded waiting for care at the hospitals were so large.”
Molly sat on the edge of the bed and drew his uncomplaining head to her shoulder. How could she have ever thought of this young man as her enemy? “You did what you could,” she said soothingly, running her hand through his thick blond hair.
“It wasn’t enough! You know, some of the worst wounded didn’t even make a sound? Maybe they couldn’t. When I was younger, I read of the Civil War where the operating tents were surrounded by piles of amputated limbs. I thought that was horrible and, stupid me, I thought those days were over. They’re not, Molly, they’re not. I saw mountains of arms and legs all covered with blood and flies and realized that they could have been mine.”