1920: America's Great War-eARC (30 page)

So that left moving them overland, and Scully happily said it reminded him of what he’d read about the Egyptians building the pyramids. While visiting, Sims overheard the comment and reminded Scully that he didn’t want pyramids, just the damn guns moved. Scully didn’t take Sims’ anger seriously.

Detached from their firing mechanisms and supports, the gun barrels were the major problem—some weighed well over twenty tons.

“Would be nice if we had a railroad,” Scully had mused, “but we don’t.”

The closest thing was the cable-car system and nobody thought the cars and tracks could support the weight of a twelve-inch gun barrel.

Then there were the hills. Scully said the guns could probably be manhandled up, but the thought of trying to control them on the way down was frankly terrifying. Josh concurred. He had a nightmare vision of a gun barrel rolling down Nob Hill and crushing houses, cars, and people in its path.

So that left dragging the damn things over level ground, which is what they did, dragging them down San Francisco’s streets with literally hundreds of soldiers, sailors, and civilian volunteers pulling on control and guide ropes while trucks pulled in tandem.

To add to the difficulty, it all had to be done at night in order to keep German reconnaissance planes from discovering the secret and attacking. German pilots had come to respect the truck-mounted antiaircraft machine guns, but a photo plane didn’t have to fly within their range.

But they did it. Over the course of two nights, eight twelve-inch guns were moved and reassembled in their new sites facing inward onto the bay. Josh had to admit that it was indeed an epic evocative of building the pyramids or, as Scully said, a place in England called Stonehenge.

Dummy guns, consisting of telephone poles painted black, were left in their place to confuse the Germans. Sims congratulated the insufferable Scully, who informed the admiral that it had been a piece of cake and that he should have called on the Army sooner to bail him out of hot water. Sims was too pleased to take offense.

Off in the channel, Josh could see Oley Oldendorf out in his trawler, the very lucky
Shark
, laying more mines. Oldendorf, now a lieutenant commander, was out sowing his crop of mines almost every day. The Germans were clearly watching but had made little move to interrupt his efforts, except to lob some shells at extreme long range. Josh hoped the threat of mines would at least slow down the Germans.

It was mid-morning when an exhausted and dirty Josh Cornell dragged himself to Elise’s apartment. He’d been given the day off by Sims to rest and cleanup as Josh had given his best pulling on the tow ropes even though his injured shoulder now hurt like the devil. He had no hopes of seeing Elise. She would be at work with Sims. What he really needed was a chance to sleep.

He was just about to use his key on her apartment door when it opened and a smiling Elise stood there, wearing a long blue robe. Her bare feet poked out from under it. He suddenly felt awake and alive.

She grabbed him by the arm. “Come in, you silly boy. You’re dirty and tired and you need little Elise to take care of you.”

* * *

Lew Dubbins awoke with a start. The feel of cold steel against his throat was as great a shock as could be imagined and his bladder almost released. He’d gone to sleep in what he called his spider hole, a narrow slit in the ground hidden from view by a rock overhang and made comfortable by the fact that it was in the shade most of the afternoon. He and the hole were also covered by a blanket. When he peered through the bushes, it also commanded a good view of the Raleigh area.

The pressure of the knife increased and he felt even more extreme pressure to void his bladder. “Don’t talk, don’t move,” a man’s voice hissed. “You understand me? Blink a lot if you do.” Dubbins blinked like a man possessed.

The pressure eased a little. “You’re Dubbins, aren’t you?”

Dubbins nodded. There was no point in denying it. Who the hell else could he be? Olson and the Germans had finally caught him and he was going to hang. He could only hope that he would die bravely. “Who are you?” he managed to croak.

“My name is Joe and I’ll wait to tell you my last name, ’cause you might laugh and then I’ll really have to kill you. You see, I can’t stand people laughing at me. I’m a scout with the U.S. Army.”

Dubbins felt like crying with relief. “Jesus, I’ve been waiting a long time for you guys to come. They killed my brothers and they’re hurting a lot of soldiers down there.” The knife disappeared. “You could have killed me, you know. What if I’d jumped?”

Joe Flower laughed mirthlessly. “I used the blunt edge, you asshole.”

Dubbins turned and saw the grim face of Joe Flower glaring at him. This man is an Indian and very dangerous, he thought. “You here to help the prisoners?”

“No, I’m prospecting for gold and then I’m going to plant cotton,” Flower said. “Yeah, and I hope you’re gonna help me.”

“Can I kill Olson and Steiner?”

“Can’t make any promises,” Joe said, “but I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”

Dubbins had a sudden fear of the two of them taking on the Germans and the Mexicans. “You alone?”

“No.”

Dubbins smiled. “Good. Then let me out of this hole so I can take a piss and I’ll let you in on what’s happening down there. You do know we have someone inside, don’t you?”

Joe Flower did not know that. Something more to let Montoya and the dozen Mexican-American cavalrymen he’d brought in on.

* * *

General Oskar von Hutier watched his men maneuver. The training wasn’t going to be perfect given the limited amount of time he had, but he was confident it would be enough. It had to be. He was thankful that the American Army was so awful. Had it been any better, the combination of good troops and rugged terrain would have either stalled the advance or made it so costly as to be unsustainable.

As it was, climbing up and down the rugged, brush-covered foothills was exhausting his men, and using up food and supplies at an enormous rate. He was thankful also for the fact that the German Navy controlled Los Angeles, which meant a steady stream of ships bringing those badly-needed supplies.

He saw one of his favorite young officers. “I trust all is going well, Captain Richter.”

Captain Horst Richter saluted and grinned. “Very well indeed, General. The Yanks will get a tremendous shock when our storm troopers swarm all over them. I only wish we had started this training so much sooner.”

“So do I, Richter, so do I. But we must make do with what we have. And besides, the Yanks weren’t holding still for us to attack and kill them like we wished.”

“Indeed, sir.” Richter saluted again and the general moved away to watch some other units train themselves to ignore fire and swarm enemy defenses. It was a simple truth that modern soldiers in the defense could lay down such a withering fire that slowly approaching attackers would be cut to pieces. It was also true that attacking soldiers being fired on would very logically go to ground to protect themselves from such a deadly rain of fire.

Thus, it was necessary to move quickly and punch hard at selected points, ignoring strong ones, and rushing through the weak. If it worked, his men would be in the American rear as an unstoppable force.

That is, if it worked.

* * *

Kirsten thought that her work on a ranch had inured her to the sight of blood. As a ranch owner, she’d helped mend the cut flesh and broken bones of her ranch hands. She’d stitched them and splinted them and, while some had complained, none had died. She’d known to use basic sanitation, which was still an undiscovered art in some places.

And of course, she’d helped her husband, Richard, while his infected leg grew gangrenous and caused his death. She cursed the fact that there was no doctor in the vicinity at that time, and that poor stubborn Richard had kept his injury a secret for so long. A bruise was all he’d called it until his leg had swollen up and red lines extended from the “bruise.” When she’d finally gotten him to a hospital in San Diego, the doctors there had amputated the leg, but the infection had already spread too far.

St. Ignatius College, located on the corner of Hayes and Schrader Streets, was the site of the new military hospital. Several of the Jesuits on the faculty had also volunteered and a few even had some medical experience, although informal and from the school of hard knocks.

She was stunned by the sights and smells. Even though so-called experts, including journalists, said that the fighting had barely begun, there were hundreds of casualties in St. Ignatius and elsewhere.

Kirsten’s decision to volunteer had come from the fact that she was no longer needed to distribute ration cards to civilians. Most civilians had departed, leaving San Francisco a garrisoned ghost town. Those few civilians who remained were, like her, part of the war effort.

The first time she’d seen a man disemboweled she’d vomited. Doctor Rossini, the surgeon who headed her group, had congratulated her on being able to make it outdoors before puking on his floor. Since the floor was already covered with blood and dirt, she assumed he was being sarcastic. He wasn’t. Rossini wanted the place clean and, after a brief and terse discussion, cleaning it up was Kirsten’s new job.

Over the next few days, she slowly graduated to getting supplies for the harassed doctors and nurses. When they found that she could keep her lunch down and could both read and follow directions, she was considered an asset. Even the acid-tongued Rossini grudgingly gave her respect.

If Luke was occupied, which was usually the case, she spent her spare time talking to the wounded and comforting the dying. It was a task she hated, but if she could give comfort to someone in agony, or terrified of being a cripple, or, worse, of dying, then it was her duty. She did not quite think of volunteering as an honor, but one other volunteer did.

Rossini came over and grabbed her arm. “I need a nurse and you just volunteered. Congratulations.”

He took her to a surgical table. A young man, he couldn’t have been in his twenties, lay naked on his back and on the table. Another doctor was picking pieces of shrapnel and other debris out of his body. The boy was only marginally unconscious. He groaned and tried to turn, but others held him still.

“Hold this,” Rossini said and handed her a tray. She held it while the doctors dug into the boy’s shattered body and plunked items into it.

Rossini laughed bitterly. “When he really wakes up, he’s going to be in a sea of pain and not realize how lucky he is. He’ll have a ton of sores and scars, but nothing vital was touched. All he has to do is avoid infection.”

“My husband couldn’t do that,” she blurted. “He died of gangrene despite all I and anyone else could do.”

Rossini’s expression softened a little. “I didn’t know, of course. Can you deal with this?”

“Now I can handle anything you want me to.”

Rossini laughed again, this time with a bit of humor. “Congratulations, you are now my assistant.”

CHAPTER 18

The earth erupted and debris fell down on Luke’s helmet, making a tinny, pattering sound that would have been amusing, even pleasant, under other circumstances. Today it reminded him that death was only inches away.

Luke turned to his companion in the muddy trench, the alleged British journalist, Reggie Carville. “Is this what you would call a barrage?” Luke asked.

Carville smiled tolerantly. The Englishman was about Luke’s age, lean, and had the look of a greyhound about him. Certainly, he was an aristocrat and Luke tried not to let that intimidate him.

“A barrage? No, not even a whiff of one. This, my dear Martel, is just probing fire, not a barrage.”

Several other shells went off in the area, but other than shaking the earth, they did no harm to anyone in the trenches. The trenches were narrow, which meant that only a direct hit would cause casualties, and the trenches zigged and zagged which, along with providing flanking and covering fire, would minimize casualties in the event of a direct hit. The shock wave would be funneled and then dissipated. Luke thought it would be minimal good news if he was directly hit.

The trenches were also dirty, muddy, and cold. Luke’s toes felt clammy and he wondered if he shouldn’t have worn different boots. He noticed that other soldiers didn’t have better boots and wondered if this was something that needed to be corrected. Certainly a long siege would result in serious foot problems.

Carville peered through a firing slit at the German lines. Much of the brush and small trees on the hill had been cleared away to provide clear lines of fire. Unfortunately, this had the negative effect of showing the Germans exactly where the American lines were. Areas around the growing German trench lines had likewise been cleared. Through his binoculars, Luke could see German soldiers moving around. They had no serious fear of American artillery. If and when they desired, the Germans could launch a barrage, but not so the Americans, who were starved of cannon.

Carville turned and sat down in the trench. His expensive-looking civilian suit was getting dirty but the man didn’t seem to care. He took a drink from his flask and from the way he grimaced, Luke deduced that it didn’t contain water.

“Ah, that was good. I’d offer you some, but it may be against the rules of being an international journalist to share alcohol with combatants. Drinking might also make you lose control and want to kill someone, like those damned Germans. No, this pitiful bombardment is far from serious. German gun theory is quite simple and based on everybody else’s. When the time comes, the Krauts will simply line up all the artillery they have, some hundreds of guns, and pack them wheel to wheel. Then they will fire them all at the same time and at roughly the same place; thus pulverizing it. They did it a few times in 1914 and later, and it was damnably effective. I understand it sometimes drove good men simply insane and unable to function, except their bladders and bowels which empty continuously.”

“Sounds terrible, Mr. Carville. Effective, but terrible.”

Carville took another swallow, changed his mind and offered the flask to Luke who took a small swallow. It was scotch. “Please call me Reggie and quit looking at me like that. A soldier might get the wrong impression.”

Luke savored his drink. “I think you are more than you say.”

“Nonsense, I’m a writer for the
London Times
.”

“And I’m the Pope. Benedict the Fifteenth to be precise.”

Carville grinned. “Then hear my confession, Benedict, for I have surely sinned in thought, word, and deed. You are right, of course, I am more than I seem, but aren’t we all? Even if I was, say, an English officer with experience fighting the Germans in France and with a background at Eton and Sandhurst, it would be veddy inappropriate for me to admit that. After all, England is neutral and cannot be seen by your enemies as giving advice and comfort to you. Therefore, please don’t speculate as to my background and I won’t ask how many Mexicans you killed under Pershing in 1916 in order to become an officer up from the ranks.”

Luke laughed, “Touché.”

“I will cheerfully admit to being a British officer in 1914 and to fighting the Huns in France. I will admit to being in trenches, wounded, and serving time as a prisoner before being returned to England and then becoming, ah, a reporter.”

Luke was impressed. “Now, from nothing more than a reporter’s perspective, what do you think of our fortifications?”

Carville took another swallow and again handed it to Luke. “Potentially excellent, but totally inadequate. I love the fact that you actually have three separate defensive lines mutually supporting each other. Someone paid attention during classes at West Point. Obviously, you hope that the Huns will destroy themselves trying to force their way through and, in a different world, you might be right.”

“But this is not that world, is it?”

“Not hardly, as you people so ungrammatically put it. You don’t have enough machine guns or artillery to hold the Germans at bay and you don’t have enough ammunition for the guns you do have. And you certainly don’t have enough planes to keep theirs from bombing and strafing your trenches. You can harm their planes, but you can’t stop them. Also, your men are, for the most part, enthusiastic amateurs, most of whom haven’t been in the army more than three months. To say their training has been inadequate would be a gross understatement. I have it from good sources that many of your men have never fired a rifle in their lives. Oh yes, and there aren’t enough men to compensate for their inadequacies. You can’t overwhelm the Germans by weight of numbers like the Russians tried. This can’t be news to you.”

“Not hardly,” Luke agreed sadly.

Carville went on to say that the trenches lacked proper drainage, although the bombproof bunkers were quite strong, and that much more barbed wire was needed.

Another shell landed reasonably nearby, causing both men to duck. “However, Luke, the Hun may be doing you a favor with this very sissified shelling. Most of your men have never been under fire, and now they will have been when the big German attack comes, and they will know that it is indeed possible to survive.”

The flask was empty. Luke handed it back. “Will they survive a real barrage when it comes?”

“You’re the intelligence man, so you tell me. You and Eisenhower have gotten information from clandestine observers at Los Angeles; therefore, you know that the Germans have landed some very large pieces of artillery, the type that broke up the Belgium fortifications and the kind that crushed us, I mean the British, south of Paris.”

My, my, Luke thought, the Brit was on the ball. Was someone in his office feeding him information? The Germans had just landed a number of 210mm howitzers and 170mm artillery pieces.

Carville read his mind. “General Liggett and Admiral Sims some time ago decided that, ah, my people and yours should share information. You should be congratulated, Luke. You, Ike, and the late General Logan have set up a first-class intelligence gathering apparatus in an astonishingly short period of time.”

“Two things astonish me, Carville.”

“And what might they be?”

“One is that we share such sensitive data with reporters who are known to blab, and, second, why you brought such a bloody small flask.”

* * *

Sir Edward Grey had been Great Britain’s foreign secretary in 1914 and was now ambassador to the United States. He was admitted to the Oval Office by a beaming Hedda Tuttle. He had been waiting but a few moments and had charmed her to the point where she was weak-kneed and giggly. In 1914 and as Foreign Secretary, Grey had been the author of the comment that the “lights were going out all over Europe.” They hadn’t quite. After the defeat in France, England’s lights were indeed dimmed.

Robert Lansing rolled his eyes at Hedda’s immature behavior and bade the ambassador to take a seat. “To what do I owe the honor, Ambassador?”

The world of diplomacy is a small one, and the two men had known each other for years. While not exactly bosom friends, there was a high degree of mutual respect between the men. There was also a realization that England was supportive of the United States in its war with Imperial Germany, even though the British were understandably reluctant to provide more than advice and information. The Royal Navy was still mainly intact and superior to the kaiser’s, but the British Army remained small in comparison to the hordes that Germany could unleash if she could somehow cross the Channel and invade England. Discretion, therefore, was the British policy of the moment. Action might come later.

“Mr. President, I have the honor of representing Mexico as a third-party honest and honorable peace broker. Insofar as Mexico no longer has an embassy here, they have asked me to discuss certain matters with you.”

Lansing nodded thoughtfully. It was interesting that the Mexicans had asked a
de facto
American ally, England, to be its spokesman rather than another Hispanic country, such as Brasil or Argentina.

Mrs. Tuttle served tea and departed, flushed and happy. “And what matters do you wish to discuss?” Lansing asked.

“You will not be surprised to know that Mexico wants peace. They desire a return to the status quo antebellum, or at least as close as they can get to it. They feel that, with a new administration in Mexico City, bygones can be bygones and the past essentially forgotten. They wish to move on in mutual harmony to a new and bright future.”

Lansing snorted. “Is that what they told you?”

Grey smiled benignly. “Yes.”

“Did you tell them they had a snowball’s chance in hell of it happening?”

“Of course, but they had to try. They are in a desperate situation and want out of it. Let’s face it, they’ve lost nearly half their army of almost two hundred thousand men killed wounded, captured, and missing, and they’ve lost a large part of a major province as well as the vital city of Monterrey. They feel they have suffered very badly.”

“As have we, Ambassador. At last count, at least fifteen thousand American soldiers were killed or wounded fighting Mexico, and approximately three thousand civilians were killed or wounded, most in the massacre at Laredo. And may I remind you that both Laredo and San Antonio were utterly destroyed. Laredo, in particular, was treated savagely. Her people were brutalized and civilian homes were burned. Of course we will have peace, but Mexico will pay a price for us to withdraw.”

Grey sighed and began to take notes. “Mexico is pathetically poor. If you want money, she doesn’t have it.”

“She has mineral wealth and we will have concessions to exploit those resources. I hope Senor Obregon realizes that it will also provide jobs for Mexicans.”

“He will.”

“Aside from consolidating our defenses at Monterrey and scouting out Mexican positions, we will not advance any farther south except in response to Mexican attacks. In return, we expect Mexico to expel the Germans from Vera Cruz.”

“The Germans may be too strong for Mexico to accomplish that. Obregon might not even be able to get his army to attack the Germans.”

“Then tell Obregon that Vera Cruz must at least be isolated. Further, there are approximately twenty thousand Mexican soldiers performing support duties for the Germans in California. They must be recalled to Mexico immediately.”

Grey understood fully. The Mexicans were helping to guard the mountain passes as part of their support duties. “They will simply be replaced by Germans. Of course, Mr. President, that will weaken the main German force by the number they have to use to hold the passes and perform other guard duties.”

“There is more, Ambassador. Obregon must announce that we did not kill Carranza. We have it on good authority that it was Pancho Villa who actually pulled the trigger and, since Villa is a bandit, he can be the villain. Blaming us for the murder has enraged people in other Central and South American countries. This has resulted in the beatings, even deaths, of American civilians.”

“Obregon will be so informed, “Anything else?”

Lansing smiled grimly. “Right of passage. We demand the right to send our army westward through Mexican territory as needed.”

Ambassador Grey wrote quickly. My, my, he thought. This is going to get very interesting.

* * *

Kirsten dragged herself up the stairs to her apartment. She no longer shared cramped quarters with Elise. With so many civilians evacuated north, there was a surplus of living quarters for the remaining civilians. They each now had a pleasant apartment in the same building. Their landlady had also departed north, which meant they now lived rent free, as if that was important with a war raging just a few miles south. The landlady simply asked them to do their best to protect her property and then promised to pray for them.

Kirsten was exhausted. She smelled of blood, sweat, and God only knew what other odors. She generally wore a smock at the hospital, but smocks couldn’t stop an eruption of blood or pus when a wound was penetrated by Dr. Rossini’s scalpel.

The work was awful, but she was pleased that she was doing something useful, although useful seemed too trite a word.

That she had helped save lives was true, but it was also true that many young men had died. Nor were all the casualties soldiers and sailors. Civilians were also hit in the now almost continuous skirmishing. German artillery had not yet targeted San Francisco proper, and there were rumors that they wouldn’t hit the city intentionally because they wanted it intact for themselves. But plenty of shells had fallen on civilian areas, causing more casualties, whether on purpose or not. She wondered just what the hell civilians were doing, remaining so close to the lines? Staying in their homes because that’s where they live, that’s what.

Would the Germans ultimately decide to shell San Francisco if the siege dragged on? In 1914, they’d had no qualms about destroying Brussels, Louvain, and much of Paris, so why wouldn’t they level San Francisco? Rumors, bloody damned rumors, said that the kaiser wanted the city spared so it could be the capital of his new province of California. Luke had laughed at that idea.