George Washington's Ghost

The German Minister had learned that further ‘disturbances’ had flared-up, and were ‘ongoing’ in the Rhineland and the Palatinate, and in Bavaria, where the state government in Munich had declared, in unison with neighbouring Baden-Württemberg, a ‘state of emergency’ and summoned a ‘joint representative council to consider the promulgation of a Declaration of Independence from the German Empire.’

Short-wave radio broadcasts from Europe also spoke of Kriegsluftflotte III – the Third War Air Fleet – of the Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte (German Air Force) which was based in Hesse, Bavaria and Württemberg, having sided with the civilian administration in Munich.

The whole situation was a nightmare.

Kriegsluftflotte III, in addition to its twenty or so operational staffeln – squadrons – of modern fighters and medium bomber aircraft, also included several cutting-edge specialist units: the

Hochgeschwindigkeitsflug Entwicklungsgruppe (the High-speed Flight Development Group) at Regensburg, the Düsenturbinenantrieb Experimentalflügel (the Jet Turbine Propulsion Experimental Wing) at Nuremburg, and the Rakete und geführt Design-Mitarbeiter (the Rocket and Guided Minitions Design Staff) at Augsburg.

The most organised, arguably the best-educated, certainly the most militarised continental European power had, practically overnight, begun to fracture.

Consequently, right now nobody in Germany gave a damn about a ‘piss pot concession’ like Guaynabo. Almost overnight, Von Schaffhausen and his fetid little fiefdom had turned from a sub-tropical paradise – of sorts – into an open-air prison at the mercy of the Dominicans.

The German Minister struggled to put aside his darker premonitions.

“My repeated requests that the Wilhelmstrasse be asked to arrange for the repatriation of Commander Cowdrey-Singh’s men have thus far met with no response…”

“What of the message from Philadelphia, Herr Minister?” The Anglo-Indian asked pointedly. So far as he was concerned the Germans could carry on shooting at each other for as long as they wanted. In fact, the longer the better!

Von Schaffhausen hesitated.

“In the interests of clarity, I must re-iterate that the message in question was actually sent to the Dominican Government. Its form was that of an unconditional demand that you and you people should be placed on board a ship and sent home by noon tomorrow. The communication spoke, apparently, of the severest repercussions for the leadership in particular, and for the Dominican people in general, in the event that any of you are harmed in any way, or are not returned as demanded.”

“Well, what are the fools going to do?” Wallendorf inquired.

“Nothing. They claim that our British guests are in fact our prisoners and that it is up to us to take them home.”

The German officer shrugged.

“Why don’t we, Herr Minister?”

“We don’t have a ship,” von Schaffhausen replied tartly, “and even if we did the Dominicans would never let it out of the harbour.”

Peter Cowdrey-Singh was unimpressed; wondering how long it was going to take his ‘hosts’ to join up the pieces and realise that they were in as bad a position as he and his men!

“How many German nationals are there within the Concession?” The question was asked rhetorically. “A thousand, perhaps?”

The German Minister nodded.

“There were about three hundred and fifty adults and seventy or eighty children and young people below the age of eighteen years, before the men from the Weser

and the Emden came ashore,” Angela von Schaffhausen said, helpfully. “So, that’s around five hundred people.”

“And what,” Peter Cowdrey-Singh continued, “do you think is going to happen to you all when the Triple Alliance has got hold of all your ships and the Royal Navy starts to blockade the Greater Antilles and the Caribbean? Or when the first fifteen-inch shells start falling on their coastal cities in the middle of the night?”

The others were silent.

“I think it is high time we all put our cards on the table,” he went on. “I think you know exactly what those people across the bay and their Inquisitors will do. Dammit, there’s a bloody ironclad out there in the bay pointing its bloody guns at you!”

Still, the others said nothing.

“Up until now they’ve been waiting to get their hands on the Emden. In a day or two they’ll have looted her from stem to stern, and then they’ll warp her out into the bay and see if they can figure out which levers to pull and switches to flick, assuming they haven’t completely wrecked her, to get her back to sea. Then, what use will they have for you?”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that,” von Schaffhausen objected, without real conviction.

“They tried to disarm your men when they disembarked from the Emden!” The Anglo-Indian snarled. “Open your bloody eyes, man!”