1920: America's Great War-eARC (36 page)

Lieutenant Taylor came up. “Well, weren’t you anxious to get to California? Now what do you think?”

“I remember an old phrase, sir—be careful what you wish for, it might come true.”

* * *

General Lejeune was angry. His face was flush with barely restrained fury. “Tell me again, young lady, precisely what has happened in this little town, Raleigh.”

Martina Flores was not intimidated by the general’s glare. She repeated what she knew. Maybe two hundred Americans had been held prisoner in Raleigh. They had been starved, beaten, tortured, and, in a couple of cases, executed by a German named Steiner and aided by an American collaborator named Olson. No, she corrected herself, the Americans had not been executed, they’d been murdered. She added that American civilians had also died at the hands of the Germans and American collaborators.

When she’d fled from the fighting that had liberated the prisoners and after killing Olson, she’d found a horse and ridden wildly away from the scene. It had been an act of mindless relief and terror and, when she’d finally stopped runnning, she’d then wondered how and if she could bring help to the prisoners. Granted, they’d been freed by Dubbins and Montoya and the Apache with the ridiculous name, but how long could they remain at large and safe in a land dominated by Germany? For all she knew, Steiner was hunting them down like animals.

Thus, when she’d given it some thought, she’d decided to head east and try to find the Americans who were heading towards California.

“I cannot believe an American like this Olson character would do anything so base and vile,” Lejeune snarled. “The bastard is up there with Benedict Arnold and John Wilkes Booth.”

Oh, she thought, you have no idea how base and vile Olson was. She thought of the humiliation she’d endured while kneeling between his thighs and servicing him. Or the times he lay upon her, his bulk crushing her, while he forced himself into her while she tried not to cry out in pain and shame. And all the time she knew that he hated her because she was Mexican, or that she wasn’t some American woman who’d scorned him.

“And what happened to this Olson?” Lejeune asked.

“Last time I saw him, he was lying on the ground and probably bleeding to death.”

“And why was that?” Lejeune asked.

“Because I stabbed him in the gut,” she answered calmly.

Marcus Tovey kept his face expressionless. Last night, she had told him the story of her abuse at Olson’s hands. She had shaken and sobbed almost hysterically as she’d purged herself of the terrible memories. He’d held her until her quivering subsided and she’d fallen asleep against his shoulder. When she awoke, she’d begged forgiveness for what she called her sins and he told her he didn’t see any sin on her part. She’d been forced to do what she did, and the true sinners were Steiner and Olson. The American collaborator had paid a terrible and just price for his sins, while Steiner remained at large.

Martina trusted him and he liked that. There were only a few Mexicans he thought highly of, and she was on the list. He reminded himself never to piss her off in the future, if they ever had a future.

“General, I do have an idea,” said Tovey.

“You always do, but do I have to remind you that we are moving very slowly because some German officer has gathered up the remnants of that regiment and they are fighting a masterful retreat.”

The name of the German leader, Erwin Rommel, had come from a prisoner. This Rommel had organized several hundred men into a unit and, while some tore up the tracks, others harassed the Americans and slowed their advance. As a result of constant skirmishing, Rommel now likely had fewer than a hundred men, but he was still doing damage and moving just fast enough to keep the rest of his men out of their way.

Tovey began to pace. “General, if the objective is Raleigh and the freed prisoners, give me a cavalry unit and we’ll bypass the tracks and the Krauts. From what other prisoners have said, there’s nobody between us and Raleigh or even San Diego.”

“How many of my Marines do you want?”

Tovey laughed. “Not a damn one, unless they’re really good horsemen, and I kind of doubt any are.”

Lejeune agreed reluctantly. “Most of my Marines don’t know which end of a horse goes first.”

“General, give me all the horses we have and I’ll mount up as many of my Texans as we have horses, and we’ll go to Raleigh.”

Lejeune nodded. “All of my horses? That means I’ll have to give you my personal horse and that beast has carried my butt for several years.”

Martina smiled. “I’ll ride him and take good care of him.”

“You’re going too?” Lejeune asked. He was not surprised.

She shrugged. “Like here, it’s my territory. I can take Marcus where we need to go.”

Lejeune smiled to himself. “Very well, but as to my horse, you will not ride him and or take good care of him.”

Martina was puzzled, “Why not?”

Lejeune grinned wickedly. “Because Daisy’s not a him.”

* * *

The shells were indiscriminate. Even though the hospital was clearly marked with red crosses, mistakes were made. Kirsten hoped they were mistakes. She had a hard time believing that the kaiser’s army would be so base and cruel as to intentionally shell medical facilities. Luke didn’t share her beliefs. He felt that the Germans were capable of almost anything. He’d read of their atrocities in Belgium and northern France in 1914–15, and in Africa a decade earlier. Luke had told her that the cousin of one of the German admirals, von Trotha, had been instrumental in the massacre of thousands of helpless Herero tribesmen. If monsters like the von Trothas were to be victorious, she thought, God help the people of California.

The German fleet was probing the Golden Gate, the channel to San Francisco Bay, and both sides were lobbing shells at each other. One struck the hospital, sending scores of already badly mangled young men to an even more badly mangled death. Kirsten helped pick up the bodies, and the pieces of bodies. This, she realized, is what it must be like at the heart of the battle now raging a few miles to the south and east.

She felt worse when someone told her the shell that struck the hospital had come from an American battery on the north side of the channel. Doctor Rossini had simply shrugged and told her things like that happen. “You shoot an arrow in the air and who knows where it comes down. The same thing applies to rifle and cannon fire.”

The wounded were coming in droves. The battle for the third line of defense was intense. It looked, however, that the American lines were holding, at least for a while. Good, she thought, make the German bastards pay.

To take her mind off the horrors around her, she tried to think of her home and the town of Raleigh. Would she ever go back there? Likely not, she decided. If she and Luke survived this, and if the United States prevailed, she and he would make their homes closer to San Francisco and either farm or grow vines and make wine.

Then she thought ruefully that she’d spoken two very big ifs.

* * *

“Mr. Griffith, just how many cameramen do you have available?” Elise asked coolly.

“At the moment four, my dear young lady. Why, do you have uses for them?”

“Where do you have them?”

“One is in the trenches where the attacks are taking place. I am so proud of our American boys who are holding up the Germans.”

So far, she thought.

“And I was instructed to have another with a young officer named Patton, while two others are watching the German fleet.”

“Mr. Griffith, I am about to let you in on at least one military secret. The German fleet is going to force the channel and wind up in San Francisco Bay. Therefore I would suggest you have at least one of your men on the Oakland side to watch what is going to happen when they begin to duel with our other guns.”

“And what will happen, Elise?”

She smiled grimly. “Admiral Sims wishes to destroy them all. It is something called Firefly.”

* * *

Captain Horst Richter urged his men forward, “Hurry, you ugly sons of bitches! Move or they’ll kill you.”

The Alpine troops, the Austrian “volunteers,” had done a marvelous job of picking a path through the American wire and other defenses. Now it was time for the shock troops, the spearpoint of Hutier’s attack on San Francisco, to make their move.

According to plan, the artillery barrage had been short and intense, just enough to keep the Americans’ heads down. When it lifted, the first line of his shock troops were within a hundred yards of the American trenches and through the wire that had been cut the night before by the Austrians. Up and over, the Germans went, screaming like wild men, shooting and stabbing at anything that moved. In the face of such ferocity, American resistance wavered and soldiers fell back. Some gathered themselves and tried to retake ground seized by the Germans. The fighting was bloody and intense.

Richter shot an American defender in the face with his Luger. “Forward!” he screamed. “Keep moving forward. Leave them for the follow-up troops.”

In the heat of battle, most of his exhortations were lost and he had to physically grab men, sending them out of this trench and onward to others. The breach made was small, and others would widen it. A German fell dead beside him. The Americans were recovering and fighting back. Too late, he exulted. He waved his men forward.

Richter and a score of his fighters emerged from the American trenches. Some astonished rear-echelon soldiers either ran or tried to surrender. Richter ignored them. His little band pressed forward. He looked behind and saw more coal-scuttle helmets and soldiers in field gray. He laughed. They were through. Hutier’s tactics were working.

He paused and looked forward. In the distance he could not yet see downtown San Francisco, but buildings and houses were in plain view. More important, there was no sign of any further American defenses. They were through and before him lay the city of San Francisco. Richter knew he had to wait, if only a little while. Twenty men would not take the city. Nor could a few hundred. Others were joining him as the breach was widened, but it would be a while before he had an attack force. He laughed as he saw that Hutier was joining them. The old general was out of shape and breathing heavily. His once immaculate uniform was filthy, but he was grinning happily.

“Excellent work, Richter. You will be promoted and given a medal.”

“Thank you, sir, but it was all your idea. The men really executed it.”

“No modesty, please. Now, let us gather a force and head to San Francisco. Great God, we have waited so long for this. With a little bit of luck, we will have supper in the officers’ club at their Presidio. Perhaps General Liggett will join us, eh?”

Richter grinned impishly. “Perhaps we can serve him humble pie.”

CHAPTER 23

Admiral Hipper was not a coward, so it galled him to place his flagship, the mighty
Bayern
, fifth in the line of ships steaming towards the Golden Gate and the confines of San Francisco Bay. It galled him, but it was necessary. The American shore batteries would be strong and deadly as the ships passed through the narrow confines of the curiously named Golden Gate.

The
Nassau
and
Posen
would lead. They were older and had smaller guns than the other ships. They would be the sacrificial lambs or “forlorn hopes” whose job was to duel with the shore batteries and destroy them. If they were sunk or damaged, so be it. It would be a bitter price, but far less than losing the
Bayern
. All ten German battleships were present, but Hipper had to keep in mind the fact that there were three American battleships loose in the Pacific. He would need the
Bayern
’s fifteen-inch guns if they should show up.

Equally perturbing was the fact that the British squadron under Beatty had also left Puget Sound. It was presumed that they were en route to their base at Hong Kong, but then came the word that a second large British detachment had sailed from Hong Kong and was on its way God only knew where. A rendezvous with Beatty? If so, why?

The remaining German ships off Puget Sound had gotten a measure of revenge. With all the capital ships gone and her forts without guns, a handful of cruisers and destroyers had entered the sound and bombarded Seattle’s waterfront, causing extensive damage and large fires. Explosions were noted by the German captains and they could only have been ammunition stored for shipment south to the Americans in San Francisco.

Gunfire brought his attention back to reality. The
Posen
and
Nassau
had begun dueling with the Yank guns as they advanced. Splashes near the warships lifted water high and the Germans were able to estimate their weight. Twelve-inch and eight-inch guns were the largest and there were more of the sixes, especially firing down from Alcatraz Island.

The spacing between ships was greater than he would have liked, but he was acutely aware that his lead ships might be hit and disabled, and a ship dead in the water was a collision danger. His ships needed room to maneuver.

The
Nassau
was already burning. He swore and pounded his fist on the railing of the bridge. “It cannot be helped, sir,” Canaris said. Hipper was not comforted. Those were good German sailors dying on the battleship.

Still, she was steaming forward, although at a much slower speed and the
Posen
was already almost through the channel. Now the other, larger ships, including the
Bayern
, entered the fray. The thunder of the other ships’ great guns shook the
Bayern
even though she was a mile away. The American batteries continued to fire, but there were fewer guns and their rate of fire was much slower.

It was suggested that everyone don earplugs and the men complied. A moment later and the
Bayern
’s guns joined the others. Despite the earplugs, the sound was deafening. The shock wave almost knocked them over. The firing from the shore ceased. Hipper exulted. In moments they would be in the bay.

A shell struck the hull of the
Bayern
, just beneath the bridge. Hipper and others were thrown to the deck, and there were screams from the wounded. Not
all
the American guns had been silenced, Hipper thought bitterly.

The damage report came quickly. The damage was negligible. The
Bayern
’s armor was almost fourteen inches thick. The Americans had nothing on shore that could penetrate it.

As they entered the bay and began to circle, the American guns facing the inner bay opened up. Again, no surprise. Spies in the city had reported on their position and the German warships quickly pulverized them.

Canaris grabbed his arm. “Sir,” he said and gestured. The
Nassau
was burning from stem to stern and the
Posen
was listing to port and sinking. Hipper cursed the Americans and he silently cursed the kaiser who had sent him only one of the four mighty fifteen-gun ships. Why hadn’t he sent at least one of the
Bayern
’s sisters and left the old ships like the
Nassau
and
Posen
back in Germany?

The German Navy had paid a heavy price, but they were in San Francisco Bay. The city’s waterfront was burning. Could surrender be far behind? If the army had accomplished half what it had intended to do, the Americans would come crawling as they realized that their position in San Francisco was utterly untenable.

Better, the future of the German Navy would be golden.

* * *

Josh Cornell and the rest of the joint Army-Navy headquarters staff could only stare helplessly as the German warships bulled their way through the channel and into San Francisco Bay.

So much for our well-laid plans, he thought bitterly. All the digging of fortifications and the dragging of guns through the city had been for naught. The German warships had pounded the American works to dust. Yes, they had badly damaged, perhaps sunk, at least two of the enemy ships, and others had been hurt to varying degrees, but the remainder were now safely ensconced in the bay.

“Will we surrender?”

The question came from a Hearst reporter who had managed to attach himself to the group. Both Liggett and Sims glared at him. “Hell no,” Sims said. “I have not yet begun to fight.”

Liggett shook his head sadly, “Not very original but my sentiments exactly.” He spotted Cornell. “Is Firefly ready to commence?”

Josh looked at the sky. It was cloudy and gloomy. Twilight would arrive fairly soon. “In a short while, sir.”

A very young Army private ran up. He was filthy and out of breath. He looked at both Sims and Liggett in confusion. He’d doubtless never seen an admiral or a general and now he had both to contend with.

“Report to me, son,” Liggett said gently.

The private took a deep breath. “General Bullard’s respects, sir, but the Krauts have broken through and are only a couple of miles away.”

* * *

Joe Flower and Tomas Montoya had taken the freed American prisoners under their wing. They now had another hundred and fifty mouths to feed and shelter. Fortunately, the Germans had squirreled away enough foodstuffs to solve that problem for the foreseeable future. The Germans had also left enough clothing to cover the raggedy prisoners although a few grumbled at having to wear portions of German uniforms. When asked if they preferred going naked, they stopped complaining, although they took steps to ensure they didn’t look too much like German soldiers.

They had rifles and ammunition enough, again thanks to the German stockpiles, but what they didn’t have was real numbers or a destination. With potentially angry Mexicans to the south and definitely angry Germans to the north, there was no safe place to go. The decision was made to stay put and hope for a rescue, while evading German patrols.

That the Germans were interested in what was going on in Raleigh was obvious. Small patrols from San Diego scouted the area routinely, but were kept away with only minor skirmishing. Dubbins had been killed in one such fight. Nobody mourned him. Without vengeance as a motive, he’d taken to stealing things from the other Americans.

No major German force had yet shown up, but they felt it was only a matter of time. To forestall this, they had taken to the hills. It meant sleeping in tents or out of doors, but it might ensure safety. Captain Barnes and his men moved about a mile away and out of sight.

Flower and Montoya had chosen what they felt was a good defensive position facing west toward German-occupied San Diego. They were on a hill and in the distance they could see the abandoned prison camp. They both were shocked and angry when they suddenly realized that a large force of mounted men had just been spotted approaching from the east. Although too distant to make out specifics, it was clearly a military outfit, but whose? They didn’t ride in a crisp formation like the Germans. They were more like a gaggle of geese, like the Mexicans. Only, they didn’t seem to be Mexicans. At least Flower and Montoya were out of sight. With some irony, they were in the rabbit holes made by the late and unlamented Dubbins when he was spying on the camp.

“I think we’ve been outflanked, Joe.” Montoya said with dismay in his voice. Only his men and a handful of others were mounted. The freed prisoners were half-trained infantry at best, and men who had not yet regained their full physical strength. If they had to run for it, they’d be caught in a short while and slaughtered.

“Maybe,” Flower said, “And maybe not.”

“Please make sense,” Montoya snapped. Even though the two men still had feelings of ethnic enmity, they’d established a working truce. It was either that or chaos.

They were joined in the hole by Barnes. Below them, the mounted men fanned out and moved easily through the ruins of Raleigh and what had been the American’s prison. They stopped in the center of town where a naked flagpole stood. They watched intently as two men attached a flag and ran it up. The wind snapped it.

“Jesus Christ,” gasped Flower. His eyes were better and he had the binoculars.

“What?” chorused Rice and Montoya.

“It’s the stars and stripes. They’re ours.”

* * *

A few minutes later, the two groups had united with much cheering and backslapping. As the ranking officer, Tovey took charge and the others were happy to let him do it. He quickly sent a patrol west to make sure nothing was coming from that direction. As he did, a thought was forming.

Barnes again pumped his hand. “I gotta ask, General, how did you know we were here?”

“Thank her,” he said, pointing to where Martina Flores sat on her horse. She took off her wide brimmed hat and waved shyly.

“Holy hell,” yelled Barnes, “Tina came back. Now’s she’s saved us twice!”

With that, dozens of cheering former prisoners surrounded Martina and lifted her off her equally startled horse. Sitting her on Barnes’ shoulders, they began parading her around while chanting “Tee-nah! Tee-nah!”

At first confused, she broke into a wide smile and then happily waved her arms as tears began to stream down her cheeks. Tovey watched in satisfaction as more of her tormented past was purged. After a few moments they put her on the ground where she hugged and kissed a number of them, especially a young man named Sullivan who, Tovey was told, had been her contact with the prisoners.

Finally, she stood beside Tovey and discreetly took his hand, establishing ground rules that very much pleased Tovey.

“Gentlemen and lady,” Tovey announced. “I have it on good authority that a full U.S. division is about a half day behind us under a nasty Marine general named Lejeune, and that other units are right on his tail. He has wiped out some Krauts who were delaying him and now is riding the rails and making good speed. Therefore, I have a proposal. How many of you want to stay here and wait for him?”

“What’s your other choice?” asked Montoya.

“Simple. I don’t think there’s much of anything between us and San Diego but hills. You men can do as you see fit, but I’ve always wanted to see San Diego.”

* * *

Tim Randall was part of a confused mass of armed humanity trying to push and shove its way onto ferries. “Tickets, please,” someone yelled in a mock falsetto and the response was a chorus of obscenities.

Tim, Lieutenant Taylor, and the rest of the company were in the bow of the large, stubby ship. It had been designed to carry railroad cars, not men, and it had no accommodations for them. This was a mixed blessing as they were exposed to the weather, which was calm and clear for the moment, but did give them a view of what they were about to do. The lack of cover also meant that any German plane could see what they were up to and possibly strafe them. Tim hoped that all the German planes were occupied supporting their army.

Packed elbow to elbow with soldiers, the ferry cast off and slowly churned the water of San Francisco Bay. “I get seasick,” said the same voice that cried out for tickets. “I’m going to puke.” It was followed by more obscenities.

“My God,” said Taylor, “look where we are again.”

Douglas MacArthur was in the small cabin, standing behind the captain, and only about fifteen feet away.

“Maybe we really are his lucky charm,” Tim said.

But just how lucky were they, he wondered. They could hear explosions in all directions. Most disconcerting was the fact that there was fighting in the Golden Gate channel. Tim envisioned German warships pouring through while the totally unarmed ferry was still in the bay.

Taylor had heard a messenger explain that MacArthur’s division was to go directly to the city as an unexpectedly heavy attack on it had been launched by some German general named “Hooter.”

The remaining two divisions that were coming behind them would fill in the trenches to the east of the city and where a major attack by the whole German Army was taking place. MacArthur had commented that the decision to send his men over was the right one. If the city fell to General von Hutier, as MacArthur corrected the pronunciation, then there was no point in continuing the fighting elsewhere.

About halfway across the bay, Tim saw in horror that a German battleship was emerging through the channel. It was burning and the men cheered. A moment later, they stopped as one of the guns in her secondary battery opened fire on the flotilla of ferries. More guns fired from the burning ship and shells began to land around them. The captain of the ferry announced that he was turning back.

“The hell you are,” snarled MacArthur, “keep on towards shore. Forget about Fisherman’s Wharf. It’s too dangerous.”

“So’s going on ahead,” whined the captain. “I’m turning back before you get us all killed. I’m captain of this goddamn ship and what I say goes.”

MacArthur pulled his .45 automatic, cocked it, and placed it against the ferryman’s head. “If you don’t go on, I will shoot and kill you and your ship will have a dead captain. I’ve killed before and shooting one more sniveling coward won’t matter. If you go on, you at least have a chance at living.”