“Useless mouths. Have you a solution?”
“We are working on one. It will probably involve the forced expulsion of most of the useless ones.”
“Excellent.”
“And,” Schlieffen sighed, “we still have several thousand of their prisoners to administer. They refuse parole, and the Americans aren’t so stupid as to exchange one of our trained soldiers for one of their scum. Besides, we hold more than twice as many prisoners as they do. No, the actual daily tonnage of food needed to sustain the enterprise is well above the amount I mentioned. And as the war grinds on, we will commence shipment of winter uniforms and replacement equipment as well. I might add that some of our more enterprising soldiers are already liberating winter blankets and such from local houses. Again, I can hardly blame them for being prudent, however much it outrages the locals.”
Schlieffen paused and cast an anxious look at the clouding sky. Rain was imminent. “There is another reality to confront regarding supplies. Simply put, the longer the Yanks refuse to negotiate, the more likely it becomes that we will have to continue with the part of the original plans that calls for us to march on toward Boston to teach them a further lesson. When we prove that we can march across their country at will, they will act more reasonably toward our demands. That march, of course, will require copious amounts of supplies of all sorts, not just food and ammunition. You must understand that an army on campaign and doing battle uses supplies at an enormous rate-much greater than an army in a static environment. Sadly, we seem to have underestimated the stubbornness of the Americans regarding the islands in question. A European power would have negotiated a long time ago. Neither I nor the kaiser can understand this reluctance on the part of the Yanks.”
“Then I take it you cannot be pleased with the overall situation.”
“Von Holstein, no man likes another to be master of his destiny. So far, the navy has done an excellent job shepherding ships to safety, but we are also hearing rumors that the American navy is, belatedly, going to start attacking our transports. If they are successful in causing a major interdiction of our supplies, we could have a crisis.”
Holstein mulled over the comment. A crisis. What a polite way of saying that the German army, isolated in the land of plenty, could starve to death. Schlieffen had also confirmed the fact of the desertions. Although he might try to pooh-pooh them, the reality was that a few desertions could easily become a torrent, which would disable the army. And the man had inadvertently thrown him another piece of information by acknowledging that sabotage, however minimal, had occurred.
Holstein paused and politely sniffed a nameless flower. After a few trivial comments and amenities he said, “We must have these little chats more often, General.” Then they went their separate ways.
17
J OHNNY TWO DOGS was happier than he had been in a long time. It had been five years since he’d last tracked a man, and that had been to help bring to ground his revered leader, Geronimo. Even though that final hunt had been successful and resulted in the capture of the southern Chiricahua leader, it had saddened Johnny to see the proud and grizzled old man surrender to the overwhelming might of General Miles’s army. It had made him perversely proud to see that only a score or so of Apaches had kept such a mighty host at bay. Geronimo might have been bent in body, but not in spirit.
In years past, Johnny had ridden with Geronimo, but that had been back when he was young, full of pride and fire, and possessed by the hope that the white man could be driven off the sacred Apache lands. Then the toll of years and the deaths of his comrades mounted, and with them came the realization that the white man was too strong, too numerous, and too damned greedy to be deterred. The only way any Apache would survive would be to make peace with the conquering whites. It had even been the whites who had given him his name of Johnny Two Dogs, thinking his old and twisted body bore a hilarious resemblance to two dogs fucking. He had an Apache name, of course, but that was his alone and he did not share it with the whites. Let them call him what they wished.
Making peace with the whites did not come before he had exacted his price-his pound of flesh, literally. There were several blue bellies whose bones were bleaching in the sands of New Mexico as a result of his deadly shooting and his stealth in stalking the ultimate enemy-armed human game.
Johnny had resigned himself to spending the rest of his years with the remnants of his nation on the grounds of Fort Sill, Oklahoma, where, even though he had helped track Geronimo, he had been interned along with Geronimo and his band. All the Apache scouts had been treated thus. The white bastards were consistent, at least, in their treatment of the red man. Unfair, but consistent.
Geronimo had understood Johnny and forgiven him. Now-and the thought made Johnny’s face crinkle in a rare grin-the old man was becoming a Christian and urging the Apache children to stay in school. He was also making a fair living selling autographed pictures of himself to the fat tourists who wandered onto the grounds and wanted to see the legendary warrior. Talk about adapting!
Until a couple of weeks ago, all Johnny could see coming down the road was age, not tourists. Who would want his autograph, even if he could write? He was nothing but a squat, unwashed little man in his middle fifties who dressed in rags, lived on the government dole, and would likely die on the handouts of rotten food and shabby blankets if the cheap liquor didn’t get him first. But then came word that the Apache scout’s particular talents might be needed again by the army. And, hallelujah, he would be paid for killing the goddamn whites.
The fact that two white nations were at war with each other, and that one set of whites was paying for the privilege, was mildly interesting but unimportant. He’d agreed promptly and, along with a score of other equally delighted Apaches, entrained for unknown lands back east.
On arrival in Connecticut, he saw that the whites lived in an astonishingly lush and crowded land. Johnny and his fellow Apaches had passed through countless towns and seen farms and dwellings more numerous than the stars in the sky. It was an awesome display of the white man’s power, and Johnny again resolved never to challenge it, at least not head-on. He’d almost changed his mind and gone back to the dismal but predictable comforts of Fort Sill, but the twin urges of money and the satisfaction of killing his ancient enemy held him in this strange and verdant land. Here he was given instructions on how to tell good whites from bad whites by the way they dressed and talked. That amused his fellow Apaches, who were convinced that the only good white devil was a dead one. They knew that the statement was similar to what whites said and thought about red men, and they silently reveled in the irony. They were shown pictures of warriors from the German nation and told to kill them all anytime and anyplace. The Apaches were specifically told not to kill women or civilians and, especially, not to kill their new comrades-those same blue bellies who, until recently, had been trying to kill all the Apaches. There was some grumbling about the exclusions, but one of the blue soldiers explained that there were more than enough Germans to satisfy the Apaches. They doubted this but allowed the man to continue. Could these Germans have more soldiers than Generals Crook and Miles had used against the Apache? They thought not. Not, at least, until they realized the immensity of the camps of soldiers of the great white father in Washington.
Johnny sighed. It was an imperfect world, but it was his world and he was still alive in it. And he had permission to kill. He was told that he was a member of the 1st Scout Company, which reported directly to Gen. Arthur MacArthur. The scouts were pleased. This was a great honor, since General MacArthur’s frontier skills and experiences were legendary. In actuality, however, the company reported to the general’s young son, who had been born and raised on the frontier and who also respected the Apaches’ unique fighting abilities. The dark-haired puppy was very young, but he seemed to know what he was doing.