“What this sound like to me is essentially a large-scale Special Operation,” I concluded. “The militia absorbs the attention of their centralized, computerized system, while we slip in a few small units to bring that system down by hitting its central nodes. Does that make sense?” I saw nods all around the table.
“If anyone disagrees or has a better idea, speak up now. If you don’t, you share equal responsibility for the result.” That was the old General Staff rule. Nobody spoke. “OK, write it up in a paper of less than ten pages, double-spaced. That will be our campaign plan. Now all we need is that militia army.”
Sometimes when a problem seems too hard, the best thing to do is walk away from it for a while. So that’s what I did. The next day, I headed home to Hartland, the Old Place, and Maria.
Other than a couple days at Christmas, I’d stayed away from Hartland. I needed to let my emotions about Maria cool down. At Christmas, I’d been on the go so fast between relatives that we weren’t together much. This time would be different.
The railroad now ran to Hartland, as it had many years ago. Cousin John met me at the station with his wagon, which we needed to haul all the books I’d brought with me up to the farm. While every military situation is unique, none is wholly so, and I wanted time and quiet to study some campaigns with similarities to ours: Von Lettow-Vorbeck in German East Africa, T.E. Lawrence against the Turks, the Tet Offensive from the North Vietnamese side.
By the time two massive Clydesdales had dragged and skidded us through the mud to home, pulling as if they themselves were powered by steam, it was evening. Maria met us at the door, welcomed me home, and said she had dinner ready for John and me both. Her manner was friendly but also formal, as befitted both her heritage and her present position. That came as a relief, as it would help keep some distance between us even at close quarters. I expect she knew that.
John took the horses to the barn, curried them, and fed them while I unloaded the wagon. He would stay the night. No point is going out on bad roads after dark if it could be helped. In the old days, he would probably have thought that a was waste of time. But people didn’t think that way any more. The world had slowed down, and few regretted it.
The house was clean, ordered, warm, and welcoming. I could feel a woman’s touch, and perhaps the house could as well. Maria served our dinner in the dining room, waiting until we were done to eat her own alone in the kitchen. Again, the distance was welcome.
Dinner was excellent: a roast chicken , tasting as only a free-running, fresh-killed bird can, oven-browned potatoes, and fresh fiddleheads. The food was Yankee, not Mexican, but it wasn’t cooked Yankee. Some sage here, some chives there, a piquancy in the skin of the chicken suggested a touch from somewhere south of New England. I looked forward to what summer and a garden might bring.
Cousin John’s presence made the first night easier. By the time he left the next morning, Maria had made the rules clear. Whatever we felt about each other, our relationship was that of Holmes and Mrs. Hudson: intersecting but separate spheres. My responsibility was my work as Chief of the General Staff, and her responsibility was to create an environment where I could do that work without distraction.
Yet as the days went on, Maria showed me there was more to it than that. Despite my books, I could still see no solution to my problem. In the best of times, California had not been famous for its martial vigor—if the United States had been Europe, California would have been Italy—and now I was supposed to create an army from Californian men who had run away from women.
My frustration grew. But it didn’t boil over into calling Bill Kraft and saying it couldn’t be done. Maria created an atmosphere in the Old Place that helped my Marine brain to remain calm, open, and functional. Good meals were part of it, and domestic order was also a part. But there was more, something I could feel but not put my finger on. Perhaps it was the suggestion that if she could do her duties so well, I should be able to do mine.
And we talked. Some people work best in silence and isolation, but I was not that kind. By laying a subject out for others, I enabled myself to see it in new ways. And so, in breaks from my books and her housework, I explained to Maria what we were planning in Azania and the problem I was up against.
Maria understood that I did not expect answers from her. She was my sounding board, from whose echoes I might spot something new. She was content to be that. But the blood of the Duke of Alva still flowed in her veins.
On the evening of April 7th, after a fine omelet of six fresh eggs, potatoes, and onions, Maria brought me my usual apple brandy and cigar, on a small silver tray. But instead of retiring to the kitchen to eat her own meal, she pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me.
“Señor John, you have spoken to me of your great difficulty in finding an army for this war against the crazy women. As a woman, I understand nothing about how to fight a war. But there is something women do know that men do not always understand.”
“What is that, Maria?”
“Men fight when women want them to.”
I took a few minutes to think about that. Years ago, I’d heard the Israeli military historian Martin van Creveld explain why war exists: because men like to fight and women like fighters. As a Marine, I knew men liked to fight. But I’d never really thought much about the second part, probably because I was too busy fighting.
“Well, sure, we’re getting involved in Azania because the women of the Northern Confederation want us to.”
“But what about the wives and daughters of the men from Azania, the men who you want for soldiers?”
“What do you mean, what about them?”
“Señor John, if those women want their men to fight, they will.”
Now that was a new idea. The dim green bulb in my own brain housing group began to flicker. Assuming they weren’t all gay, Maria was right: not even California men would want to appear weak and fearful to their own women.
“How could we get the women to want their men to fight?” I asked Maria.
“I do not know,” she replied. “But I helped your sisters and your mother and aunts carry the petition for the referendum from door to door, here around Hartland. One woman we visited said her sister was a member of the Council of Conscience, the group of women who coordinated the petitions. She heard her say that they were corresponding with some of the women among the Azanian exiles. Perhaps they could help you.”
The next morning I was on the train again, heading for Boston. That’s where the Council of Conscience met, and a quick call to Bill Kraft had secured an invitation for me to meet with them that same evening.
I had been given an address on Commonwealth Avenue. It proved to be the apartment of the Council’s chairman, Mrs. Rutherford P. Bingham. I rang promptly at eight, and was met at the door by Mrs. Bingham’s butler. The Brahman’s trust funds had made it through another revolution intact.
The Council was made up of two representatives from each state in the Confederation, for a total of twenty-two. The ladies were gathered in Mrs. Bingham’s ample parlor, and Mrs. Bingham herself was waiting for me at the parlor door, smiling warmly. “Welcome, Captain Rumford,” she said. “It’s always such an honor to have a man in uniform here. We’re all looking forward to hearing you, but I’m afraid you may not have had time to get dinner on your way down. A place is set for you in the dining room. May I tempt you with some lamb chops while we transact some dreary business?”
“You may, ma’am,” I replied. “No real soldier ever passes up chow.”
“Good. Alonzo, bring a bottle of the Chateau Lafite '82 for our distinguished guest. Captain, just ring if there is anything you need. It’s such a delight to have you at our table.” The butler bowed, and I thought how nice it was to once again have women who could set the course of state while preserving the graces of ladies.
Mrs. Bingham escorted me to the dining room, excused herself and left me facing an entire rack of lamb. I wondered briefly if I had done the right
thing in accepting the offer of dinner, then reflected that there wasn’t much point in fighting for civilization, yet refusing it.
At about half-past the hour, Alonzo came in to tell me that when I was finished, I was welcome to join the ladies for dessert. I’d already packed most of the lamb under my belt, and not wanting to hold things up, I said I was ready. I hoped the rest of the Chateau Lafite wouldn’t go to waste. The color of Alonzo’s nose told me that wasn’t likely.
Mrs. Bingham again welcomed me and introduced me around the room. Some names were from the history books—Mrs. Thomas Weld, Mrs. John Cabot, Mrs. Russell Sage, Mrs. William Schermerhorn—and others were new to me. But all were ladies, in hats and gloves and some, in the cool of a Boston spring, wearing those little fox stoles with the head and beady little glass eyes. No stringy-haired, horse-faced, jeans-clad professorettes here. The words matrons came to mind.
Then there were éclairs and coffee and, for me, a cognac and a Davidoff Churchill. “We do hope you smoke, Captain,” Mrs. Weld said. “We so enjoy the aroma of a good cigar.”
“It is a very good cigar,” I replied. “I will smoke it with pleasure.” For so many decades, things had only changed downward. Now, they were changing up again.
After dessert and some pleasant drawing-room conversation, Mrs. Bingham took the floor. “Captain, let me say again how honored and delighted we all are that you would take from your valuable time to visit with us. We think we know why you are here. You would like us to withdraw our ballot initiative, so our country does not face war. I am not certain we will agree with you, but we are most eager to hear with respect what you have to say.”
“You show remarkable hospitality to someone you think is here to argue against you,” I replied.
“Captain, among ladies hospitality is always more important than politics,” Mrs. Bingham chided gently.
“Well, as it happens, I have nothing to say against the referendum. That is for the people of the Northern Confederation to decide. If they choose to intervene in Azania, I will do my utmost to accomplish the task they set. In fact, I am here to ask your assistance with that task. Are you in communication with the women from Azania, the ones who fled and are now in exile?”
I saw some uneasy glances around the room. “Yes, Captain, we are,” Mrs. Cabot finally said. “Some of their women heard of our effort and wrote to us. We wrote back. At our urging, they have formed Committees of Correspondence, and we have communicated our progress to them. We thought that if our initiative passes, we would need some type of support out there. I hope we have not done anything wrong.”
“Not at all,” I reassured them. “In fact, what you’ve told me is very good news. You were looking down the pike before I was.”
I then laid out my problem, and Maria's proposed solution. I needed to get the men among the Azanian exiles to fight, and the key to the men was the women. Would the Council of Conscience be willing to write their correspondents among the exiles and promote the war?
The answer required little discussion. Matrons knew their own minds. “Of course we will, Captain,” Mrs. Bingham replied. “But as a woman, I know the importance of the personal touch. I cannot speak for others, but I am fully prepared to go out to the Rocky Mountain states myself and help inspire the people there.” Old Hiram Bingham would have been proud, I thought.
“Mrs. Bingham speaks for me as well,” Mrs. Schermerhorn said. Quickly, the rest of the room chimed in with their agreement.
“Thank you very much,” I replied. “But I am not at all certain that sending women to a war zone is consistent with what the Northern Confederation represents. War is properly a man’s business. Bombs and missiles will be falling in the Rocky Mountains as soon as the Azanian feminazis figure out what we’re up to. Men’s duty is to keep that sort of thing away from their women, not send women into it.”
“Captain, no woman in this room has any illusion that women can be soldiers,” Mrs. Bingham replied. “But that is not my intention. You will never see me in camouflaged fatigues, unless a floral print dress counts as such when working in the garden. But as the people who have brought on this war, we also have duties to perform in it. The women of London and Berlin did their duty under bombs and missiles, as I dare say did the women of Hanoi. We aren’t sissies, Captain. If you think we are, I invite you to join us at a sale in Filene's basement. I tell you, I’m going.”
A good soldier knows when to beat a retreat. “Very well, ladies,” I replied. “As Chief of the General Staff, I am prepared to accept volunteers.” In fact, I knew their on-scene efforts would make my task a great deal easier. “How soon after the referendum passes can you be ready?”
“Alonzo, pack my valise!” Mrs. Bingham ordered her goggle-eyed butler. “I can leave this very evening.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I replied. “But if the women exiles from Azania will show as much spirit, I think I’ll soon have my army.”
Come May 15, the Northern Confederation’s men offered a conditional proof of Maria’s theorem. Not wishing to seem less bellicose than their women, they pushed the referendum through to victory with an overwhelming 86 percent. As the returns came in, the radio stations began playing, “California, Here I Come.” The eternal war between men and women was about to become the shooting kind.
As always, we sought to move quickly. Some pieces of the puzzle were already in place. The Rocky Mountain Confederation had consented to let us use their territory as a base, even though it guaranteed they would suffer missile and air strikes from Azania. They were also a Christian nation, and regarded Azania as the perversion it was. All they asked from us was air defense, since they had only a handful of operable fighters. The Boys from Utica were already deploying their ground crews and antique, anti-stealth long-wave radars. F-16s would soon follow.
Dano’s guys were already in action, roaming the hills of eastern Azania and collecting sample sensors. Some they found by setting them off, but the Azanians couldn’t believe we’d be there so soon so they filtered the returns out as noise. Our wireheads had set up a skunk works in an old garage outside Portland and were starting to disassemble the first of Ron’s little presents.
On May 21st, Mrs. Bingham and 81 other ladies—our 82nd Airborne Division, some wags called it—boarded a Russian Antonov for the trip to Salt Lake City. The Tsar also didn’t think much of a nation of harpies. If the feminists could find international support, so could we.
Once in Salt Lake, the ladies paired off in two-woman teams to evangelize the countryside. The Mormon Legion sent a sergeant with each team whose job was to prevent the Azanians from targeting them. At first, that looked like a difficult problem. The meetings needed to be publicized so the exiles could find them. We had to figure the Azanians would pick up on the publicity and send a missile as their carte de visite. Against a fixed target like a meeting hall or even an open field where people were gathered, their hi-tech weapons were deadly.
A Mormon NCO came up with the solution. When people got to the advertised site of the meeting, they found a sign directing them someplace else. There was no way the Azanian gizmos could pick that up real-time. Cardboard and magic markers triumphed over high-tech.
By the end of May, the ladies’ circuit riding had become a triumphal procession. They were welcomed by throngs wherever they went. War was in the air, not only among the Azanian exiles but among the local residents as well. The women were galvanized when they saw genuine ladies taking the lead against the Azanian feminists, and the men were shamed. By early June, a cadre of men from the Azanian exiles had signed up to fight, and they followed our ladies wherever they went, offering the King’s shilling. Large numbers of Rocky Mountaineers were joining too, with the blessings of their states.
Maria had been right. I would have my army.
On June 12, the Azanians responded. They did so in exactly the way we anticipated. That evening, a dozen cruise missiles hit the locations in a dozen cities and towns where our rallies had
been advertised. Because the meetings were never held in the advertised locations, the blow fell on air. But the missiles had their usual effect. They made the local people angry and helped our recruiting.
After that, the missiles kept coming, with similar results. At our advice, the Rocky Mountain states announced the missile strikes and the handful of casualties, but did not explain why the casualties were so low. We wanted to draw the Azanians out.
At first, the Azanian response was more missiles. When that didn’t work, they took the bait. On June 22, they sent aircraft. They figured aircraft could give them immediate BDA and solve the mystery of the low body count.
Our radars had been netted into a good GCI system, and we watched six flights of four F-35s each come over the mountains. We positioned two F-16s, flying in trace with a couple miles separation, high and behind each flight of F-35s. The first F-16 drew off the rear pair of F-35s, which were escorts. Then, the second F-16 went for the bomb-carrying F-35s. It was a tactic the North Vietnamese had used with good success against the U.S. Air Force.
It worked for us, too. In every case, when the lead F-35s came under attack from the second F-16, they had to jettison their bombs in order to maneuver. That was the end of the air strike.
More interesting was what happened next. Once the second F-16 had done its job, the first turned back into the escort while the second continued to mix it up with the bombers. We got what we wanted: furballs where we could gauge the quality of Azania’s female fighter pilots.
As expected, they stank. As soon as the unexpected happened, they started to come unglued.
Everyone kept yelling “Break!” so often no one knew who was warning whom. Three-dimensional maneuvering—the Boys from Utica made lots of use of the vertical—was more than the female sense of space could handle.
It ended up a turkey shoot. The F-35 was as bad as its pilots, a real flying piano. We lost one F-16 to a mid-air collision when a befuddled and panicked woman turned into our aircraft. Eleven of the 24 F-35s were shot down, most with cannon fire, and some of those that made it home were pretty shot up. Our guys came back to their bases whooping and hollering.