1920: America's Great War-eARC (31 page)

“The only reason the shells aren’t falling are that they aren’t yet close enough and they’ve got military targets closer in. Watch out if they break through and the fighting becomes street to street. They’ll destroy everything and, if they win, rebuild later, except it will all look like a town in Bavaria.”

Shelters and trenches had been dug around the hospital and every other occupied building in San Francisco.

She disrobed and stepped into her tub. The water was chill but it refreshed her. She couldn’t help but think of a more innocent time when she’d taken baths like this at her ranch. She wanted to cry, but she was just too damn tired. She wanted Luke to come and press his hard body against hers. Like her, however, he was busy. Moments together were few and far between.

Food was served at the hospital, and she had learned to eat without listening to the cries or smelling the stench of the wounded. She hadn’t grown immune to the sounds of agony, but she could block them out. And they kept telling her that this was only the beginning. Wait until the real battles began and then the casualties would pile up.

She heard noises, familiar noises, at the door to the apartment and she smiled. It had to be the dog and cat. She hadn’t named them yet. She didn’t even know if they’d stay or if she wanted them to. They’d attached themselves to her for the simple reason that she’d fed them some scraps and given them some water. They were an unlikely pair and must have lived together in past times. In a city emptying of humans, many animals had been left behind and could be heard howling pathetically. More casualties, she thought. If she and the two animals survived, she’d take them with her and give them proper names.

Finished bathing, Kirsten dried herself and put on a robe. Then, with a revolver in her hand, she checked the door. The two animals stared up at her as if she was God. She laughed and they trotted in happily and raced to their food dishes.

* * *

Damned British arrogance, thought Admiral von Trotha. Every few days, all or most of the British battleship squadron would emerge from Puget Sound and steam around for a day and then return. They did not stop and identify themselves, nor did they ask permission. Arrogance, he seethed. Still, they were in international waters and there was no war between Great Britain and Imperial Germany, at least not yet.

Like any German naval officer, he longed for the day when his capital ships could send the British battleships to the bottom of the Pacific. Like all German officers, he was concerned that the British were finding ways around the limitations imposed on them by the Peace of 1915. True, there had been no increase in the number of British battleships, but the treaty had large holes in it. For instance, there was no prohibition on submarines, a mistake which Trotha found appalling. He knew what damage German U-boats had done to British and French shipping in that short war. Intelligence said the Limeys were launching subs in large numbers.

It was further rumored that the British were experimenting with using ships as platforms for airplanes. Rumor said that a half-completed battlecruiser had been reworked with a landing deck so that planes could be launched and landed. Trotha didn’t think the impact would be large in the short run, since only small airplanes would be able to land on such a ship and small planes carried small bombs. Still, it was something to think about as planes got larger and more deadly. The warplanes of 1920 bore little resemblance to the tiny things of 1914.

Something else to think about was the three-battleship British squadron, with attendant destroyers and cruisers, that was steaming just over the horizon. His picket ships had identified the three British ships and he would not impede their progress, however much he would like to. He would ignore them with the same contempt the British showed him.

Trotha turned to Roth, his aide. “Another pleasure cruise. I wonder if the Limeys sell tickets.”

Roth smiled dutifully. At least the admiral wasn’t in his usually foul mood when the British exited the Sound. “One of these days, Admiral, I pray that the pleasure will be ours.”

Later that night, lookouts on the picket ships spotted the British returning. However, there was one disturbing problem. Instead of three battleships, only one was headed back to Puget Sound, with fewer escorts. Two light cruisers and a pair of destroyers also seemed to have disappeared.

Trotha received the information in silence. His stomach curdled and he tasted bile. Where the devil were the two other two British warships? Had they steamed west to Hong Kong or some other British possession? They could be on their way to India, for that matter, and he prayed to his Lutheran God that they were. But why would the British weaken their squadron in the face of the German one?

Or? His stomach erupted in acid. When he got control of himself he sent a radio message to a contact in what was, allegedly at least, neutral Canada. How many British warships remained in the Sound? How many Americans?

It took an eternity lasting only until midday for the response to come. All British warships, especially battleships, were present and accounted for. However, two American battleships, the
Arizona
and the
Pennsylvania
, were nowhere to be seen.

He sank heavily into his chair. His enemy had slipped the leash and were somewhere in the vastness of the Pacific.

* * *

If Crown Prince Wilhelm was surprised to see Foreign Minister Arthur Zimmerman, he was far too poised and imperial to show it. After a quick lunch, champagne and cigars were provided. Zimmerman relaxed slightly.

“Highness, I’m certain you’ve heard rumors that the Mexican alliance is going to hell.”

“Of course,” he snapped. Had Zimmerman come all this way to tell him that?

Zimmerman wiped his brow. He’d had a miserable trip. He’d been in Mexico City making a courtesy call on the Carranza government when the regime changed. He’d been there to try and bolster Mexico and ensure that she stayed the course as an ally of Germany. Now all that was ashes. Damned foolish Mexicans, he thought. They would pay for this betrayal.

As quickly as possible, he’d taken a train from Mexico City north and west, carefully avoiding possible fighting at Monterrey, and then on to San Diego, where he’d been driven north to the crown prince’s headquarters.

“I wanted you to know that it appears to be the worst possible outcome,” Zimmerman said. “With Carranza dead, it is only a matter of time before the Mexicans abandon us.”

The prince smiled tolerantly. Did Zimmerman think he was a fool? Of course he’d been aware of the possibility that Mexico would abandon Germany and that the thousands of Mexican soldiers in his command would either become prisoners or deserters. He did not think they had the guts to become his enemies. They would become prisoners.

In short, poor Zimmerman had wasted a trip. He should have exited Mexico via Vera Cruz and been on his way to the comforts of Berlin. Still, the foolish little man was his father’s envoy.

“More champagne?” he offered and Zimmerman nodded. The servants had been sent away, so Wilhelm filled their glasses himself.

“I’m glad you came, Minister, and you can be assured that your information is greatly appreciated. I think you will be pleased to know that we have had contingency plans ready to put into effect should the ungrateful Mexicans decide to so treacherously leave us.”

“I’m glad,” said Zimmerman, then yawning hugely. The effects of the long trip and the champagne were beginning to tell. Zimmerman was in his late sixties and the trip would have been exhausting for a younger man. His heavily-waxed handlebar mustache was beginning to droop, which Wilhelm found amusing.

“Everything will be under control thanks to your initiative,” Wilhelm said soothingly.

“Wonderful, sir. However there is one other thing. I received a cable from your esteemed father just before leaving. He is concerned that this campaign is taking too long in light of emerging problems in Russia and the apparent resurgence of England and France. He wishes California secured as soon as possible.”

Wilhelm nodded. He understood fully that his beloved but insecure father was vacillating once again. The kaiser was the one who had told him to move cautiously and carefully and chance nothing. Now he wanted California secured and that meant taking San Francisco as soon as possible.

Damn.

* * *

Admiral Hipper hid his anger over the incompetence of von Trotha and his captains. Complacency had reared its ugly head and there was nothing he could do about it. The two American battleships were gone and that was that. Would he be hearing from them? Of course.

Captain Wilhelm Canaris, Hipper’s chief of staff, looked at him inquisitively. The admiral shook his head. There would be no recriminations. Trotha would handle the scolding and disciplining of the captains who’d failed to get close enough to the escaping ships to make sure of their identity, and Hipper would chastise Trotha for failure to control his captains. No heads would roll, if only because there were no replacement captains or admirals available. The young German Navy would hide its mistake, but Trotha would likely never see a promotion or an independent command again.

“Admiral, you are aware that the British are denying everything.”

“I’m not surprised. The British would lie about the time of day if it would serve their purposes. What in particular are they saying?”

Canaris looked over the admiral’s shoulder. “Sir, Admiral Beatty said that three battleships went out and three came in and if we saw only one, perhaps it was because our lookouts had been drinking schnapps while on duty. Admiral Beatty alleges to be offended by our inference that he’d aided the Americans into escaping.”

“Offended, my ass,” Hipper snarled.

“Sir, may I ask why all three American battleships didn’t break out?”

Hipper scowled. “Because the
Nevada
, the one left behind, is the oldest and smallest of the three and, after our victory at Mare Island, the American ships have only the ammunition they carried with them. The
Nevada
was probably stripped of ammunition which was sent to the other ships and she was left behind.”

Hipper paced a few times. “Send a message to Trotha. He and his capital ships are to depart Puget Sound and steam to Los Angeles. He is to leave only a token force to watch the remaining American battleship. There is no reason to use so many ships to guard a nearly empty harbor.”

The admiral pounded his desk. “Damn it, Canaris, we have convoys heading for Los Angeles. They cannot fall prey to the Yanks. They carry vitally-needed ammunition and additional troops for the crown prince. Trotha’s ships will be required to find the Americans. I only wish I knew whether the Americans will be hunting together or separately. Either way, it will be a daunting task to find them in the vastness of the Pacific. I can only hope they will try raiding along the routes that close in on Los Angeles.”

“Not San Francisco or San Diego, sir?”

“Who the devil knows? However, we have a larger force by far blockading San Francisco, and San Diego is shrinking in importance since Los Angeles is so much closer to San Francisco.”

“Does the crown prince know of this situation?”

“Not yet. He has more important things on his mind.”

CHAPTER 19

Luke hunkered down in a dug-in position about a mile behind the first line of American defenses. The first line was wreathed in smoke and was being pulverized by a massive German artillery barrage.

Beside him was Reggie Carville. “Now
this
,” Carville said happily, “is a bombardment.”

The earth was quivering beneath their feet. It felt as if it was turning to mud, even jelly, the same as it had seemed to those who’d lived through the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Luke wondered just how the poor men closer to the front were enduring it. Or were they going mad from fear? Most of the men would be hiding in reinforced concrete bunkers and would not emerge until the bombardment stopped.

Thunderclaps rolled over them. Both men had placed cotton in their ears to protect their hearing. American guns were not yet dueling with the Germans. There were just too few of them. The Americans would wait. Overhead, a flight of German Albatros fighters patrolled. Their job was to interdict reinforcements coming down the roads to the area under attack.

Reggie grabbed Luke’s arm and pointed. Waves of German soldiers had emerged from their own trenches and were advancing. While they were hardly in parade ground formation, separate units were distinct. They had a good mile to cross before they encountered American barbed wire. A few moments later, American artillery finally opened fire. Explosions erupted among the Germans, sending bodies skyward. Some shells were timed as air bursts which shredded the people beneath them. What had been a pleasant green field was turning into a bloody and cratered charnel house.

Some German artillery lifted and tried to find the American guns. Carville slapped Luke on the shoulder. “Beautiful. You actually are hurting them. Liggett and Harbord do know what they’re doing. Just a shame you’re going to lose anyhow. Just too damn many Germans, y’know.”

Overhead, a German plane’s engine sputtered. It was trailing smoke and began tumbling to the ground. Luke smiled grimly. “We had some of our precious machine guns hidden along those roads, Reggie. Now their damned planes will be more careful when they attack our trucks. A little bird told us where the attack would come.”

“Ah, a little bird. God bless little birds, warm puppies, and fluffy kittens. Have a drink.”

Luke accepted. He and Ike had a number of little birds hidden behind German lines, risking their lives and reporting on the massive buildup of forces in this sector. The reports had come by short wave or, incredibly, by telephone. The Germans had neglected to cut all the lines. The Germans were so contemptuous of the American Army that they hadn’t even made a real attempt to hide what they were doing. Yes, they would doubtless carry this defense line, but their arrogance would cost them.

“Good grief, look at that!” Reggie exclaimed. A score of armored trucks had crossed from the German trenches and were advancing, their machine guns spitting fire.

“This, Major Martel, might just be the wave of the future, the gas-driven vehicle used as a weapon.”

The German bombardment stopped suddenly. The Germans were still more than a quarter of a mile away from the American trenches.

“A ruse,” Luke exclaimed and Carville nodded his understanding. The Germans would wait until the bunkers had emptied of men and the trenches were full. Then they would shell the trenches, although briefly, as their men were getting very close and might be hit by their own shells.

As predicted, the Germans again opened fire. Luke and Reggie looked at each other. The men had been warned about this trick. Had they enough discipline to wait?

The Germans were at the barbed wire and their guns ceased, although American artillery and trench mortars picked up the pace. Again, Germans fell by the score, proving that Americans were alive in the trenches, but they kept on advancing. The German armored vehicles tried to push their way through the barbed wire and, in many cases, failed. Several halted, stuck in shell holes, while others hung up in thickets of wire where they were easy targets for American machine guns. Only a few made it to the trenches, where they were raked by guns. Soft spots were found and the halted trucks began to burn and blow up.

Germans infantry were within yards of the trenches and began hurling their distinctive potato masher grenades. American threw their own grenades in a brief but bloody duel.

However, nothing stopped the German infantry who cut their way through the wire and pushed on to the American trenches. Some Germans fell onto the wire so their comrades could climb across them. More Germans were shot, but still more Germans came on.

“Nobody said the fucking Huns weren’t brave,” Carville muttered.

The Germans clambered into the American trenches and Luke could only begin to imagine the horror of close in, hand-to-hand combat. Along with their Springfields, many Yanks had submachine guns and sawed off shotguns, ideal for killing at close quarters. The Germans had their MP18 9mm automatic weapons with their thirty-two round magazines. They might be awkward and difficult to aim, but did it matter when you were trying to kill someone at a distance of ten feet?

American soldiers began pulling back from the trenches. Some were running for their lives, understandably, Luke thought, while whole units began to disintegrate.

“I think we should leave,” Carville suggested and Luke concurred. “The Huns won’t advance any farther this day. You’ve hurt them, but, like I said, they will prevail. They will clear out the trenches to their left and right and gather for a second attack.”

Luke picked up his gear. He had a report to give to Ike and perhaps Liggett. “When?”

“A couple of days. No more than that.”

* * *

Martel was filthy and disheveled, but Liggett wanted information immediately. Carville had prudently disappeared, doubtless to communicate to his British masters.

Even though the first of three fortified lines had been lost, Liggett and the other generals were somewhat pleased. Their soldiers had endured a heavy bombardment, the likes of which hadn’t been seen on American soil since Gettysburg, and had prevailed. They had emerged from their bunkers and mowed down large numbers of Germans soldiers.

D.W. Griffith had provided film coverage that had transfixed them. The film canisters would be sent north to Canada as diplomatic mail and make their way to the East Coast. When properly edited, the American people who would finally see war in all its horror. Griffith’s films showed the dead and the dying in graphic detail.

“How many casualties did we suffer?” Liggett asked.

“Rough estimate is five thousand,” Ike responded.

“And theirs?”

“Based on what Martel and I have seen and discussed, probably close to the same.”

Liggett shook his head. “Attackers are supposed to lose more than defenders.”

“Perhaps it will happen that way the next time, sir,” Harbord said. “Our men are becoming experienced and, even though they reacted well, the next time they will perform even better. To use a cliché from a previous war, they have seen the elephant.”

Liggett reluctantly concurred. “However, we cannot get into a battle of attrition. They still outnumber us significantly, even if some of their troops are heading out to take over the defense of the passes from the Mexicans.” Liggett paused. “Anything else of note?” he asked.

“One thing, sir,” Luke said. “Their armored trucks were a disaster on wheels. They sent about twenty of them in the attack and lost at least half. Trucks can’t traverse dug-up ground and they don’t have the power to bull a path through concentrated barbed wire. You need a much bigger and stronger vehicle for that.”

Luke caught Liggett and Harbord glancing at each other. What were they not telling?

Harbord leaned forward. “Yet our armored trucks performed well in Texas, did they not?”

“Yes sir, but circumstances were very different. For one thing, the terrain was fairly flat and, for another, the Mexicans were out in the open and not dug in. That also meant not much in the way of barbed wire. My counterpart in Lejeune’s corps also said that a number of trucks still had difficulty. I hate to repeat myself, but today’s trucks just aren’t strong enough.”

“Good observation, Major,” said Liggett, “Very good indeed.”

* * *

Major General Douglas MacArthur was livid with scarcely contained fury. Theirs was the first in a long series of troop trains and they had been stopped just outside of Seattle. The plump army major in front of MacArthur was named Small but was standing tall before MacArthur’s attempts to dominate him. MacArthur wasn’t all that tall himself, but he was intimidating. A few yards away, Sergeant Tim Randall and Lieutenant Taylor tried to make themselves very, very tiny. They were concerned that they had just picked a terrible spot to rest.

Major Small folded his arms across his ample stomach and glared back. “I understand your frustration, General, but I have my orders. It’s more than eight hundred miles from Seattle to San Francisco. There’s effectively just about one rail line going that way and a lot of it goes through some godawful terrain and, oh yes, it’s still winter.”

MacArthur’s face had begun to turn red. “Major, I fully understand the weather and distance, but I am in the forefront of three divisions, nearly fifty thousand men, ready to assist the brave young men who are holding the lines at San Francisco. They are laying down their lives and fifty thousand good men are just sitting here. We must have trains. Or do you expect us to walk those eight hundred miles?”

Tim and the lieutenant looked at each other. Walk eight hundred miles through snow-covered mountains and forests? That would be madness. They had the nagging feeling that MacArthur might consider such an alternative.

“Three months,” Taylor whispered. “It would take us at least three months and probably a lot longer to walk to San Francisco. The weather and terrain would slow us to a crawl. By then the war would be over.”

They had to go by rail. Hell, Tim thought. Neither he nor Lieutenant Taylor had realized they were still that far from their destination. Like many young Americans they were learning just how large the United States was.

Small continued. “General, the dilemma is obvious. Do we send supplies down to the men who have so little, or do we send men carrying only the supplies on their back? It’s a helluva choice, but General Liggett’s orders are specific and he outranks you. Your men are to wait until the most needed supplies make it down there. We’re sending supply trains as fast as we can, but it’s still not enough. And sending men without additional supplies would exacerbate the problem.”

Tim quickly did the math. At forty men to a car, and fifty cars to a train, each train could carry two thousand men. Averaging twenty miles an hour, they could begin to arrive in San Francisco in two or three days, depending on interruptions, and not three plus months by shank’s mare. So near yet so far. Of course, it would take at least a day to load up each train and it would take a good twenty-five or thirty trains.

“Someday, I will have your hide, Major.”

“Someday I’ll be a civilian again, General.”

MacArthur wheeled away and, to Tim’s horror, spotted them. “You heard that, I presume?”

The two men stood and snapped to attention and Tim responded. “Couldn’t much help it, sir, and if I may say so, we’ve got to get down to San Francisco. We are useless as tits on a boar sitting up here. To be blunt sir, I didn’t enlist so I could sit on my ass in Seattle while my fellow Americans are fighting in San Francisco.”

MacArthur’s features showed surprise at Tim’s bluntness and then softened. His men were agreeing with him and he liked that. He was about to respond when Major Small came trotting up, huffing from the exertion.

“General MacArthur, I don’t know what the hell’s going on but General Liggett’s changed his mind. He wants your division down south as fast as you can go. I don’t know what the devil’s happened but he wants you yesterday. You get your men ready while I round up the trains.”

MacArthur’s face split into a grin. He shook both Tim and the Taylor’s hands. “You men are good luck.”

MacArthur strode briskly away, looking for his aides and bellowing orders. Taylor shook his head. “Tim, that little speech of yours was more bullshit than I spout in a year of lawyering. You sure you don’t want to be an attorney?”

Tim grinned. “Funny thing is, sir, I meant a lot of it.”

And now they were going to San Francisco.

* * *

Martina Flores stood and stared at the prisoners as she carefully hand signaled her message—tonight.

Joe Sullivan pulled on his ear lobe, the response that he understood. He got up and found Captain Rice. “Martina says tonight, sir.” Rice nodded. Their long days and nights of waiting were over.

It seemed to take forever for the sun to set. The men lay down in their blankets and pretended to sleep. Rice and other key men watched as their Mexican guards took up station. It got darker. The stars came out and a coyote howled in the distance.

And then they were gone. The Mexicans had disappeared. There were no guards watching over them. Rice and his men stared at each other. Where their eyes playing tricks? Were the Mexicans truly gone or were they lying in wait?

Rice took a deep breath. It was time. “Now,” he said softly.

A score of men rose up and ran with him to the main gate. Rice fumbled with the key Martina had given. He almost dropped it but caught it and stuck it in. The lock opened.

Rice and others pushed it aside and ran to the building that housed the weapons. A few kicks and the outside door was smashed open. There was no guard inside, but a metal door barred them. Another key and it was open. Jubilant Americans began passing out rifles and ammunition. The weapons were a miscellany of Krags, Winchesters, and Springfields. They grabbed as much ammunition as they could. It would have to be sorted out later. Gunfire from outside had begun and was getting heavy. There was no time to dither.

“Who the hell do we shoot?” someone yelled.

“Germans!” Rice answered. “And anybody who shoots at us.”

* * *