1920: America's Great War

CHAPTER 17

President Robert Lansing looked at the grisly photos. He wanted to turn away but couldn’t. This too was part of his job. The gaping wound in the back of Carranza’s head was clearly visible. He put them face down on his desk, and swallowed to keep his stomach from rising.

“Incredible,” he said. “And now the new Mexican government has the audacity to accuse us of murdering Carranza? I knew nothing was ever straightforward in Mexican politics, but to now have the Obregon government nominating that butcher Carranza for sainthood is a little much. It’s incredible after all we did to protect Obregon and his people.”

Secretary of State Charles Evans Hughes chuckled mirthlessly. “It is, of course, just their little way of deflecting blame to another source. Since we took Texas and the other states from them seventy years ago, we have been their favorite monster under the bed.”

“And what will come of this?” General March asked.

Hughes answered. “I believe a very pragmatic new government in Mexico City will ponder matters for a while and then sue for peace while they still have enough of a country left to run. The last thing a new Obregon government wishes is to have us gobble up more Mexican territory. Monterrey is an important city and a major railhead. I believe we can let them, well, huff and puff for a while and then begin back door peace talks.”

March agreed. “They also know that Pershing is consolidating his hold on the Monterrey area and is awaiting word as to whether he should push farther south. In the meantime, his men are digging in and awaiting a Mexican counterattack, which, if we sit there long enough, will surely come.”

“And what are the Germans doing in Vera Cruz?” the president asked.

March grinned. “They appear to be packing up. Vera Cruz is useless to them.”

“As is Mexico,” Hughes injected.

“Agreed,” said Lansing. “And here is what we will do. First, we will continue to reinforce and resupply Pershing. His army must become strong enough to repel any Mexican attacks. Tell him he may probe aggressively, but I do not want the army risked farther south. He may also probe from El Paso and Brownsville. Hopefully, this will frighten Obregon into thinking that we might annex northern Mexico and motivate him to the peace table.”

“And if it doesn’t?” March asked.

“Then we will annex northern Mexico,” Lansing said.

A few more comments and General March departed, leaving Hughes and Lansing alone. “Tell me, Charles, what are the British up to? Will they ever come in on our side?”

Hughes sighed. “I wonder. I’ve been in contact with Winston Churchill and he is of the opinion that the Royal Navy lusts after war with Germany, but that the British Army isn’t quite ready.”

“The British Army may never be ready,” Lansing muttered. “It is far too small and there’s no interest in enlarging it except for defensive purposes. They see Germany across the Channel and they are rightfully concerned, but worry about us and go to war for us? Never.”

Lansing sighed. “A naval confrontation between Great Britain and Imperial Germany, with us aiding the British, is a marvelous vision.”

“I’ve heard it said that the Germans have warned the British in their part of Puget Sound not to try and exit the Sound either at night or without forewarning the Germans. I understand the British are contemptuous of such requests.”

“Charles, are you saying an incident might occur?”

Hughes smiled. “One can only hope so.”

Even though he was only thirty-five, the younger guards had begun calling Pedro Sanchez “grandfather.” Of course, most of them were so much younger than he, mere children in their mid teens. What the hell was the Mexican Army coming to, he wondered, if it enlisted children who were barely out of diapers?

As to his position as a guard at the camp in southern California, he had only himself to blame. He had supported Carranza, supported the changes needed to be made in the way Mexicans lived, and, worse, had believed in Carranza’s promises. He now realized that Carranza never had any intention of keeping those high-sounding promises.

Now he was hundreds of miles away from his home in a village that was south of Ciudad Juarez, which was just across the border from the American city of El Paso. Worse, as rumors spun out of control, he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever see it or his family again. At first, joining the army had seemed like a lark. He’d never been more than a few miles away from his home and he’d wanted to see a little of the rest of the world before he died. He’d been to Monterrey, but that was it. Now he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Staring at a couple of hundred sullen and half-starved American prisoners was nobody’s idea of seeing the world.

San Diego and the ocean were only a few days march away, but he was convinced he’d see them when he was in heaven and looking down. Even more annoying were the Germans. Their arrogance was beyond belief. Did they think he was an animal? A slave? He spat on the ground. To hell with Carranza and the Germans he’d invited in to help rule Mexico.

Because of his age and apparent maturity, Captain Torres had grandly proclaimed that Pedro was the senior sergeant in the overlarge platoon sent to help guard the Americans. Thus, the men in his platoon, his children, often came to him for advice. Rumors were spinning out of control and the men were worried. Well, so was Sergeant Pedro Sanchez.

He’d tried to ask Captain Torres, but that man was too busy either stealing German supplies or screwing a Mexican whore in Raleigh to bother. Still, Pedro had figured out that all was not well with Mexico’s campaign to drive the Americans out of Texas. He thanked his lucky stars and the Virgin Mary, whichever worked best, that he was not involved in the bloody fighting in Texas.

Communications between Mexico City, Texas, and California were miserable at best and nobody thought to inform the illiterate creatures who were the enlisted men. Captain Torres was the worst. When asked, he’d caustically told Sanchez and the others to do their duty and let officers like him do the thinking.

His only source of possibly accurate information was the Mexican woman who was the mistress of the pig of an American who worked with the Germans. Sanchez despised traitors and Olson had betrayed his country.

Martina Flores had confirmed the bloody defeat of the Mexican Army in Texas and had then given him several pieces of additional bad news.

First, she said that Carranza was dead. If that was really true, and Martina’s source was a good one, then who did he owe his allegiance to? Obregon? How about to himself, he was thinking.

Second, and most horribly, the Americans were in Monterrey. His family had fled to Monterrey. He didn’t think they’d be molesting his wife. She was grossly overweight, bad tempered, and had few of her teeth left, all of which had influenced his decision to enlist. However, he had a daughter who was fourteen and ripening into a beauty. He became coldly angry at the thought of Americans touching her pale skin and frustrated because he was so far away that he could not protect his little angel.

The third thing that Martina told him, had shocked him to the depths of his soul. If the Germans pulled out, his men were supposed to kill the American prisoners. Mother of God, he could not do that. He supposed he could kill in battle, or in self-defense, or to protect his daughter’s fragile virtue, but he could not massacre the Americans who had done nothing to him. Some of them had been quite pleasant, even friendly, and he’d been surprised that so many spoke his language. Murder them? But what would he do if either Torres or the German, Steiner, ordered him to? Or what would he do if the Germans began to massacre the Americans? He dimly recalled the now discredited parish priest once telling him that people who do nothing in the face of evil are sinners as guilty as those who actually commit the act. If he did nothing, he concluded, he would go to Hell.

Mother of God, he repeated, what had he done to get into this mess? Not counting his drunken ass of a captain, Pedro Sanchez had forty men looking to him for guidance and leadership and all he wanted to do was go home. Mother of God.

Pedro Sanchez worried about his future.

Luke heard the drone of distant engines and looked into the cloudless sky. He assumed it was another visit from German fighters. German Albatros D-III fighters were common as they photographed the American fortifications or occasionally strafed an exposed position. American machine guns, mounted on trucks with their barrels elevated, functioned as antiaircraft guns and their accuracy was getting better as they got more practice. Several Albatroses had been shot from the sky and others had been sent running back to German lines with smoke streaming from their engines.

But this sound was deeper, more ominous. Luke shielded his eyes and stared to the south. Bombers. The Gothas had risen from the dead. Escorted by a swarm of fighters, a dozen of the monsters flew in at heights well above the antiaircraft guns. Once again, the American Army was impotent to stop the Germans.

Still, the American gunners opened fire and Luke watched as the tracers arched skyward and then fell back to earth. An Albatros fighter peeled off from his escort position and followed the tracers down to the offending gun. Bullets shredded the truck and the gunners and the victorious German pilot flew off. Luke could only shake his head. The American gunners had forgotten a basic fact: tracers traced both ways.

How had the Gotha bombers returned? His job was Intelligence and he was supposed to know these things. Hadn’t he and Ike destroyed their bomber fleet? Had they managed to ship additional planes to Los Angeles or had resourceful German mechanics been able to cannibalize the destroyed planes for enough parts to create this smaller Gotha fleet?

Since American spies had not detected the arrival of new planes, he decided it was likely the latter and reluctantly gave credit to that Captain Krause. He had been almost weeping with despondency at the loss of his planes. Now, somehow, he had gotten a number of them airborne. Luke didn’t think he’d want to fly in something held together with strings and baling wire, but Krause obviously found pilots and crew.

Luke recalled that they hadn’t had time to look for and destroy the ammo dump where the bombs were stored. As explosions rocked the area, he regretted that fact. The Germans were raiding again.

But for what purpose? It was a virtual given that the American defenses could not be seriously harmed by the handful of bombers. Terror? Possibly, but the risk to the handful of planes was too great for that purpose.

The planes continued overhead. In a few moments he heard more explosions to the north and realized the source. They were aiming for the Dumbarton Railroad Bridge that connected San Francisco with the rest of the world.

Luke chuckled mirthlessly. Even if the Krauts managed to hit the bridge, a highly unlikely event, the bridge could be repaired and rather quickly. And while it was being repaired, the Army would resort to using the barges and ferries that had been in use before the bridge’s completion ten years earlier.

At best, therefore, the Gotha raids were nuisances. He didn’t think Liggett would let Ike and him try another raid to destroy them. This time the Germans would have the airstrip well secured.

D.W. Griffith was ecstatic as he examined the packages before him. “I love you, my fair Elise.”

Elise smiled tolerantly. It was not the first time she’d heard the pun between her name and “Für Elise,” the elegant and delightful solo piano piece by Beethoven. She took it as the compliment it was.

The boxes contained what Griffith craved even more than publicity—film. The war was an insatiable beast and Griffith’s men had been filming anything and everything and sending copies out east via Canadian rail. The rest of the country was now able to view scenes of carnage and destruction, which helped galvanize American attitudes. The films of the burning of Los Angeles and the bombing of San Francisco had outraged the American public. So too had scenes of dead on the battlefield and the badly wounded and terribly maimed young men lying in hospitals.

Griffith had also filmed large numbers of terrified Americans trying to flee north and east. All of these served to fuel American anger.

“David, I sincerely hope you realize that these packages represent ammunition and other war material that didn’t get through.” It was a small lie. The Canadian government wouldn’t let weapons and ammunition be shipped on their neutral railways, but film was allowed.

“I know and please tell both Liggett and Sims that I am profoundly grateful.”

As well you should be, she thought. In a couple of hours she would be with Josh. At least he wasn’t out in a ship or on some secret mission. Today he was involved in something to do with naval construction.

How to hide an elephant in a small room, was the question. The answer was simple. You didn’t. Admiral Sims had reluctantly come to the conclusion that he’d made a mistake; ergo, he would have to own up to it. The elephant was just too big to hide.

Having his few big naval guns pointing out to the Pacific would do no good whatsoever in stopping the Germans from crashing through the Golden Gate and into San Francisco Bay where there would be no American defenses. No, most guns would have to be placed where they could fire directly at the Germans as they attacked the narrow Gate and directly on them if they made it into the bay itself. Once the German fleet was inside the bay, guns pointing out to the Pacific would be useless. A couple would be kept pointing out to the Pacific to keep the Germans honest along with a number of dummy guns, but the rest would be moved.

Even though the guns belonged to the Navy, overland engineering expertise belonged to the army. The chief Army engineer, a genial, ruddy-faced major named Scully, had taken on the obduracy of the challenge with equanimity. Everybody admitted that the easiest way would have been to lower the disassembled guns onto ships by way of cranes. However, that would have enabled to Krauts to see what was up, and might have precipitated an attack.

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.”