by Jack Fernley
‘I don’t care what the British would do. I only care what we do. What we stand for.’
‘What we stand for? That’s the point, we stand for something now. When we started it was all a lot of hot air about freedom and liberty an’ all that, but did anyone believe all that? Those posh, rich, fancy people, those people you look up to in the Congress or whatever, I don’t see many of them freezing their bollocks out here or getting shot at in Trenton. Where are they? Some nice warm house in Philly or Boston or New York. Those people like John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, with their powdered wigs and perfumes and tights and what have you, they’re no better for the likes of people like me and these lads than King George and all his nobs. They don’t give a fuck about us li’l people. Whoever wins, those people will be all right, but not now.’
‘Well said, Pat,’ said one of the Riflemen, giving the others confidence to grumble their agreement.
Ignoring the others, Hand replied, ‘Not now?’
‘No, not now, because we’re finally for something now, we’re fighting for National Socialism, that’s what we’re going to create here.’ He looked at his former mentor. His face was puzzled. ‘You really don’t know what I’m talking about do you?’
Hand did not.
‘If you had come to more of Werner’s meetings and listened and debated, you’d know. You’d understand then, but you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself because you’re not the main man any more, fella. Werner, Hanna, the baron, all of them, they’ve brought us these ideas and educated us into more than we were before. Look around you, every single member of the Riflemen, look how proud they are now to be wearing that swastika on their arm. They asked us, you know that? The Stormtroopers, they asked us. They wanted to know if we would do them the honour of wearing their swastika. They asked us! The honour was all ours, believe me. I’ve never been so proud.’
Again, echoes of agreement from the other men.
‘Like you were when they burned that Jewish village.’
‘There you go again. Those Jews were supplying the Brits. They were keeping food an’ supplies an’ all back for the Brits. And they attacked some of the lads.’
‘No, they didn’t.’
‘They bloody did. Franzy Mueller is covering in bruises and cuts, they had a right go at him.’
‘Well, they did, but only after Conze had killed one of their children.’
‘Thought you said they didn’t attack our boys? Turns out they did, eh? Look, Ed, it’s simple: you’re either wi’ us or agin us. And the boys all think you’re agin us.’
‘And what do you think, Sergeant?’ Hand looked at the faces of his men. They had stopped cleaning the muskets. They were all staring at him. There was aggression in their eyes.
‘Well . . . well, I think this war might not be for you any more, Ed. You should go back to Trenton or wherever and take up your doctor’s bag and start practising medicine agin, fella. You’d do more good for ev’ryone there, cause if you stay here . . . well, I worry that we won’t be friends for much longer.’
TWENTY-NINE
The following morning they moved out from Hummelstown, down to the Susquehanna River and then up towards Queen Esther’s Town.
This was the village of the so-called Queen Esther, an Iroquois woman who had married the leader of the Munsees, one of the Delaware tribes, and assumed leadership on his death. The scouting report was clear: she remained sympathetic to the British and there was the possibility of British troops hiding in the settlement and a weapons cache.
They approached by the icy river road, two abreast. There were in total 400 of them in the joint unit, Conze at the head, the Stormtroopers followed by the Riflemen.
It was one of the rear Riflemen, Simon Haigh, who saw the Iroquois first. Or perhaps he saw nothing of the kind, still innocent as the tomahawk flew through the air, splitting his skull open. He staggered backwards, the blade wedged deep in his head. As he stumbled into the line, there were shouts from the back and Hand raced around. Haigh had collapsed, crimson brine staining the ice-cold ground. The line was still moving ahead, with the exception of Hand and the seven or eight Riflemen around the fallen body.
‘Better look sharp, boys,’ Hand said. ‘Simon’s gone. Let’s get back to the line and look lively. Send word up front.’
He hardly needed to do so, for out of the woods ahead of them came charging four or five Iroquois, heads shaved, their tattooed torsos seemingly impervious to the bitter cold. They charged, tomahawks raised, into the main body of the Stormtroopers, cutting and hacking, not stopping as they ran through the lines down to the river. Then from the bushes came the first gunfire, spraying the line, more accurate than expected, Hessians and Americans falling wounded or dead.
Both Conze and Hand screamed orders at their men to form three lines facing in the direction of the wooded area. The professionalism of the Stormtroopers and the new-found confidence of the Riflemen became apparent. Oblivious to the shots pelting around them, the Pennsylvanians steadied themselves, the line prepared their muskets and within a minute were returning fire. Shot peppered the wood, one volley followed quickly by another, to the sound of branches and skin being ripped apart.
But then from the rear returned the braves who had cut through the ranks, their numbers increased to twenty or more. Conze screamed: ‘Hintere Linie, um die Kurve!’ and the Stormtroopers’ rear ranks turned at once. They fired off a round, largely without effect as they had little time to line up their targets before the Iroquois were on them, hacking away at them with tomahawks. In return, the Hessians fought with their own knives and axes. It was brutal. It was senseless. Men from both sides simply hacking at anything in a mad desperation.
Above the fray, Conze shouted, ‘Colonel Hand, have your men march towards the woods and get them out of there!’
Hand followed the orders, the Riflemen set off towards the woods, firing as they did so. Now the Iroquois came out of the woods, running at speed, tomahawks flailing in the air. The two sides clashed and there were now two separate hand-to-hand fights along the road, each as bloody as the other.
For more than fifteen minutes, the fighting continued. Then the Stormtroopers finished off the last of their Iroquois, inevitably the final axe blow coming from Lothar Kluggman. Their position secure, they ran towards the Riflemen. Seeing them come, the Iroquois, still fighting, withdrew into the woods. The Americans and Germans chased them into the thickets, but stopped before the trees became too dense. They had victory. If they moved deep into the woods, they feared the savages would yet win the day.
The Stormtroopers and Riflemen trooped back towards the road. The sight before them was pitiful.
The river road was littered with bodies, the icy pathways melting from the hot red blood, turning to a hot pink slush underfoot. Men lay moaning on the ground from their wounds. There was no mercy: any Iroquois still alive had their throats cut where they lay. They counted them up: twenty-three dead Indians. Of their own forces, four Riflemen and three Stormtroopers were dead, but there were many injuries. There was hardly a man who did not have a sizeable wound, but some had hacked arms, thighs sliced open, fingers missing. Tourniquets were applied, but several other men were unlikely to see the next morning.
The men were exhausted, but at the same time, that strange sense of elation that follows those victorious in battle came over the group. There was much hugging, and laughter now, Stormtroopers and Riflemen together; they had survived, they were alive, that was enough.
Hand put his training to good measure, tending to the men. Conze wandered over, saying formally, ‘What needs to be done for these wounded men, Colonel? Can any be saved?’
‘There are four or five who are unlikely to make it through the night. We should perform amputations on another two, one below the knee, the other more difficult. The rest we can bandage up. As long as we get back to Hummelstown within an hour or so.’
‘We are not doing that.’
‘What do you mean?�
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‘We are close to this Queen Esther’s village. That was her welcoming party. We will destroy that village and her savages with it. You can stay here with the wounded if you have no stomach for it, but these men want revenge for their fallen comrades. We go now. We’ll collect the wounded when we return.’ And then coldly, ‘We won’t be long.’
‘If we don’t get these wounded to Hummelstown for proper treatment, they will die.’
Dispassionately, Conze replied: ‘Then they die. They will be of little use anyway. We will not allow this Queen Esther to roam the land slaughtering others.’
‘You don’t know if this was her party. It bears the hallmarks of an Iroquois raiding party. They’re as much a threat to an Indian village as they are to us, they—’
‘What a surprise. Now you are on the side of the savage, Hand.’
‘I’m not on their side, I’m saying you need to know the facts before—’
‘Facts! I have no need for facts! I have my eyes. My instinct. Queen Esther will pay for this, her and every one of her filthy swine.’ Walking away, he ordered: ‘Men, form up, let’s go and treat that bitch Queen Esther to a lesson.’
The village consisted of around seventy log cabins, of various sizes. In the centre was one larger than the rest, with a chimney and porch, presumably the home of Queen Esther. The settlement was eerily quiet, no one was outside, but the smoke of fires from some of the cabins suggested there were people at home.
Conze stood on the edge of the clearing and looked around him. ‘Set every fucking building alight and have all the savages that don’t burn rounded up down by the river.’
Immediately, the men went to work. They used their flints to start fires and within minutes the thatched roofs of the buildings were ablaze.
Now there was noise, terrible screeching, ear-splitting shrieks, and from the buildings, men, women and children came running out in a crazed frenzy. They were fleeing everywhere, and the soldiers did their best to stop them, at first trying to hold them back, but soon there was more violence, as the soldiers struck anyone they came in contact with. The Indian men tried to fight back, but they were outnumbered and weaponless. From the big house came Queen Esther. A large, round woman, neatly dressed in buckskin, with her two teenage sons, young braves.
‘Monstrous villains!’ she bellowed in English. ‘What crime is this? You devils!’
‘Queen Esther?’ asked Conze, walking towards her, surrounded by five Stormtroopers, rifles at the ready. ‘You sent some braves out to meet us. We are merely returning your hospitality.’ Turning to his men, he said, ‘Kill the boys, but keep this old hag alive for now,’ and he walked away as the Stormtroopers slaughtered the sons and tied up Queen Esther.
The village was an inferno. Every building on fire, already bodies scattered around it, those still alive herded down towards the water, where they stood, shaking from both the cold and fear.
There were about seventy women and children, of all ages, and a few men. Most of the males had been slaughtered in the mayhem, and those that remained were pitiful, bloodied and beaten. The troops formed a semicircle, Conze stood at their centre and Queen Esther was dragged along the ground and then thrown at his feet.
‘See what you have done, Queen Esther. See what you have achieved by attacking us?’
‘You devil, you are as stupid as you are evil. We are not warriors. We plant corn, we have pigs, hens, we trade. Most likely you were attacked by a Lenape raiding party. There is one around this place.’
‘Of course, of course. How silly of me. We come to your village, known for siding with the British, we are attacked and it has nothing to do with you. Of course not. Well, we have no time to debate this. The issue is clear. You will watch your tribe perish and then I will kill you and that will be that. Men, arm yourselves.’
The soldiers primed their weapons and raised them towards the shivering group, but then there was a shout of ‘No!’
It was Hand, running towards the group, putting himself in front of the Indians.
‘No. I will not let this happen again. These are women and children and a few wounded men. This is not what we are. We end this here, now. We have destroyed their village, their animals, their crops. That is more than enough, even if they are guilty. We walk away with our wounded and end this now.’
Conze shook his head. ‘I don’t believe this. Will no one rid me of this man, this friend of no one but our enemies? Move, Hand, or you will suffer the same fate as these savages.’
‘I will not move.’
Unflinching, Conze replied, ‘Then you will die. Fire!’
Without hesitation, the joint force of Stormtroopers and Riflemen let fire at the group and, with it, Hand. The combined fire was so ferocious that it threw many bodies into the icy water of the Susquehanna.
‘Reload and fire at will,’ shouted Conze, and soon another round was fired into the remaining bodies, until all were down on the shoreline, or in the water.
‘You devil,’ spat Queen Esther. ‘Deliver my people from the water to me so I may bury them as is our tradition.’
‘Bury them? You’re not going to bury anyone, old lady. String her up from that tree and leave her there for the crows. And throw all those bodies in the lake or leave them for the crows, whatever you like, it means nothing to me. Then let’s get out of this shithole.’
Three Stormtroopers dragged the screeching woman away, other men walked to the water’s edge and started throwing the bodies into the river, the current dragging them slowly out. Lothar Kluggman strode among them, looking for one body in particular. He was not disappointed. Edward Hand, in his blue Pennsylvanian coat, lay across some teenage girls, blood seeped from a wound in his shoulder, his face red from his blood mixed with others. Kluggman did not care to see whether the colonel was still alive or not, simply picked the body up in his giant paws and threw it into the fast-running waters of the Susquehanna.
At the water’s edge, Pat O’Leary had watched it all unfurl. ‘I warned you, Ed. I told you,’ and he spat on the ground and turned on his heel.
THIRTY
‘It is driving me insane!’ Reitsch exploded. ‘This primitive land, where nothing is as it could be, where everything is so, so, so damn primitive!’
Von Steuben laughed out loud. His lover’s penchant for drama was a source of amusement to him: Hanna’s constant anger at the ineptitude of the Colonists, the lack of any modern technology, the poor food and drink, the itchy, cumbersome nature of the clothes. Best of all was her dislike of the smells of the eighteenth century.
‘Don’t laugh. Travel around these colonies and what do you meet? Small-minded men with no imagination. I tell them I want forty thousand blankets. What do they tell me? I can get you five hundred. What good is that? And these people, they are after dollars for themselves. Every single price negotiated. And the worst? The worst are the Jews, of course. They tell me there are no Jews in America. Well there are and they are doing one thing: trading. Trading with us, with the British, even with the Indians. They don’t care, they sell to whoever offers the most money.’
‘You are witnessing the birth of capitalism, my dear. When everything went to shit in the nineteen twenties, you could have drawn a line right back to this time, where the seeds were first planted, and are germinating already. The cult of the individual, the obsession with personal freedom, the pandering to large business at the expense of the state, market instability, a lack of overall planning.’
‘And these towns. Such shitholes. Even Berlin bombed to the edge of death is better than Philadelphia or Boston. There are no buildings to speak of, everything temporary, barely any paved streets, mud and shit everywhere. No sense of art, even decadent art would be welcome here. Anything to escape the monotony of the lives of these people. What I would do for one proper cup of coffee! One cup of coffee from Café Bauer, instead of this ground dirt! A coffee and schnapps from Café Bauer, that’s what I want!’
‘When we’ve won this d
amn war, we’ll build you your own Café Bauer on your own Unter den Linden in whichever town we decide to make the capital of the Reich, my darling. But for now, remember where we are. This is the eighteenth century. These people are surviving on the edge of the world, Hanna. You expect art, opera, theatre, fine dining and wines. They expect an Indian to come through the doors and scalp their families.’
‘In Boston? I hardly think so. You see plenty of Indians there. They aren’t about to start a revolt, they’re lying down in the mud, drunk. They have given up. You’ll find nothing of the noble savage there, believe me, Friedrich. The stench of those places. Urgh, terrible. You want to retch every metre. Even this camp smells better than the towns.’
‘So I take it my dear, your colognes and perfumes have not arrived from Paris?’
‘You, you dog!’ she screamed, laughing at herself and hitting him with a pillow around the head.
They fell into an embrace, hot, damp, passionate kissing. She had been away for two weeks, meeting the suppliers, negotiating better deals, putting into place a modern supply chain. She had loved that, but she had missed him. And he had missed her too.
She enjoyed his strong, masculine presence, his quiet force. She had rarely, if ever, seen him lose his temper, yet all who served under him knew there was a beast under that sophisticated veneer that would come out raging if necessary. It had seen him from the beer halls of Munich through the Luftwaffe years. In Germany, people did not look to cross Robert von Greim and here in America they were not looking to cross Baron Friedrich von Steuben.
And he enjoyed her company as much as the physical thrill of her body. He had not shared his fellow Nazis’ conservatism on the role of women. Rather, he actively sought out strong, fierce women. He enjoyed Hanna’s combative nature, her searing intelligence and refusal to accept second best in anything. She was driven by righteous desire, whereas he at fifty-four had calmed down. He trusted her judgement in every matter. She had never once been wrong about anything. And he loved her, deeply.