1920: America's Great War

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.

“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.”