1920: America's Great War

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.”

On the other side of the camp, Steiner’s thin line of German soldiers, most of them clerks, had opened fire on the fleeing Mexicans. Men screamed and fell, and Steiner laughed. The Mexicans had tried to be silent, but he’d posted men to watch them. It was so easy and they were so obvious. One of the first Mexicans to die had been their treacherous sergeant, Sanchez.

Steiner’s men might not be combat troops, but any German was better than a group of confused and disorganized Mexicans. Beside him, Olson brought up his own men. Steiner waved him off.

“Go back and watch the prisoners.”

As Olson moved to comply, rifle fire opened up from outside the camp. A pair of Germans fell screaming. Steiner looked at the flashes of gunfire. Mexicans or Americans? It didn’t matter. More gunfire erupted, and this time to his rear. What the devil? The prisoners must have escaped and gotten weapons. Steiner swore. He was no longer in charge and the situation was deteriorating.

With that, Steiner blew a whistle and his Germans, like trained dogs, gathered around him and began a fighting withdrawal to the railroad tracks.

Men were shouting in English. Most were yelling at others not to shoot them, while some of Olson’s men were trying to surrender. Steiner could see Olson crumple and start to scream. Seeing him fall, the rest of his men disappeared into the night, leaving Olson alone on the ground. Soon, Steiner and his men were long gone.

In a few minutes, Olson was surrounded by the now heavily armed former prisoners, while some Mexicans in American uniforms watched. “Okay,” he said through his pain. “You win. I’m your prisoner.”

The prisoners’ leader, Captain Rice, looked down on him and spat in his face. This amused the others. Olson saw Martina walk toward him and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. Martina looked like a tigress stalking prey.

Martina pulled a large knife from her belt. In Spanish, she asked for Montoya’s men to hold Olson. They happily complied, and with one motion, she ripped open his stomach. He stared in disbelief at the blood pouring from his gut. The men holding him let him go, and ignored his screams. Olson curled up into a ball and groaned while he bled to death. Martina was not a good surgeon.

Josh stole a moment to get some food from the Army’s mess hall at the Presidio. More meetings were going on and he was not needed. A mere lieutenant junior grade was not going to impact the war. Sometimes he had the feeling that Admiral Sims barely tolerated his presence. Perhaps it was because of Elise or maybe the admiral thought he was a good messenger. Either way, he was not involved in combat and, however Elise felt about it, it ate at Josh.

Of course, the Navy at San Francisco wasn’t in a position to do much of anything except point a few shore guns at the Germans who now prudently stayed out of range, and prepare for the inevitable German ground assault. The reported escape of the Arizona and the Pennsylvania from Puget Sound had electrified everyone in San Francisco. The drawback of the escape was that the German battleships previously assigned to blockade them were now stationed off San Francisco.

Lieutenant Commander Jesse Oldendorf was seated alone at a small table in the large but half empty dining hall stuffing food into his mouth. Despite shortages, the cooks had done their usual excellent job and the aromas were enticing.

Josh envied the man. Almost every day, he was out there on the noble former trawler, the Shark, laying or inspecting the minefields. And just to keep things interesting, every now and then the distant Germans would lob a shell in his direction. They’d never come close, but a lucky hit was always a possibility. Even a near miss would send water a hundred feet into the air and create pressures that would crush the Shark’s hull.

Oldendorf saw him and waved him over. “How are things with the gods on Mount Olympus?” he asked cheerfully. “And how are you with the beautiful Miss Elise? Still seeing her or has she come to her senses?”

Josh laughed. “The gods tell me very darn little, and Elise has not yet regained consciousness.”

“Then don’t let her. She’s a prize.”

“She doesn’t want me out on any more combat missions.”

“And smart, too.” Oldendorf finished devouring a slightly overcooked pork chop which was just the way he liked it. “Of course, the Navy hasn’t had much to do with half a dozen Kraut battleships watching us like German hawks.”

The German warships patrolling Puget Sound had arrived and four had promptly departed in pairs. Obviously, their job was to try to search out the Arizona and the Pennsylvania. If the American warships stayed together, any battle with a pair of German ships would be fairly even, but the Americans could not afford to lose any ships, while the Germans could replace their losses. If the American ships split up, which Josh considered likely, then they would be outnumbered two to one if they met up with either German squadron.

Of course, it was a very big ocean, and intercepted intelligence said the German ships would return in a few days. That news was ominous. There was only one reason for them to return and that was to attack.

“At least you are doing something useful, Commander.”

Oldendorf looked at him curiously. “And just what am I doing, Lieutenant?”

Josh was puzzled. “Why, you’re out their laying mines for the time when the Germans try to bull their way through the Golden Gate.”

“You think they’ll try to do that?” he asked with a grin.

“They have to, sir. The Kraut officers want action and they won’t get it sitting out there while the army takes San Francisco. No, sir, they will bull their way in and we will try to stop them with our shore guns and your mines.”

Oldendorf pushed his empty plate away. “And how many mines have you seen the Shark lay?”

Now Josh was truly confused, “Maybe hundreds.”

Oldendorf smiled sadly. “I am now going to let you in on a little secret, Josh. You haven’t seen me lay a single mine. They’ve been rocks, Josh, rocks. You’ve seen the Shark and her loyal crew throw rocks overboard every day. Both you and the Krauts think we’ve been mining the entrance, which means they’ll come in real slow and cautious. When they do, our shore guns will try to pound the crap out of them. If we’ve fooled a man as keen as you, then we’ve fooled them as well.”

Josh felt his jaw dropping, “Rocks? And you’re not kidding?”

“Nope. We only had a handful of mines when the war started, and we used them all trying to stop the Krauts from leaving San Diego. You do remember that little escapade, don’t you?”

Josh shook his head, “I still can’t believe that was all of them.”

“Every last stinking one, young Lieutenant. Now, Josh, I’ve gone and told you a deep dark military secret. I want you to tell me something.”

“Shoot.”

“What the hell is ‘Operation Firefly’?”

Captain Heinz Muller was commodore of the convoy and its escorts. It consisted of a dozen transports, freighters, and fuel tankers all traveling slowly and in formation. Neat and tidy like good little Germans, Muller liked to think. Muller had a decent sense of humor and his crew, except for the Communists and anarchists among the enlisted men, liked and respected him.

Muller had retired from active duty five years earlier and held the rank of captain in the naval reserves. At age sixty, he fully expected to finish his life in a rocking chair with a beer in his hand and a buxom young fraulein to hop off his lap and keep the glass full. He was a bachelor and the fantasy came easily to mind. But then came the war and the surprise order from the kaiser to take command of both the ancient pre-dreadnaught battleship Preussen and the hastily gathered convoy.

Four destroyers and the light cruiser Pillau accompanied him and his battleship as additional escorts.

The fourteen thousand ton Preussen was a virtual museum piece. She’d been commissioned in 1905. She was primitive in comparison with modern ships, such as the Bayern or, he shuddered, the American Arizona or Pennsylvania. Since the 1906 launch of the British super-ship, the Dreadnaught, naval architecture and warship design had been revolutionized. It was ironic that the Dreadnaught herself was now considered obsolete after only fifteen years of existence.

The Preussen carried a mere four eleven-inch guns and a number of 6.7 inch guns, none of which could stand up to the Americans who had escaped from Puget Sound. If it hadn’t been for the damned American submarines, now long dead, Muller and his ship would have been back in Germany and the transports steaming on their own. The destroyers were there to herd the civilian ships and the light cruiser’s job was to watch over the destroyers. The Pillau could steam at twenty-seven knots, but carried only six-inch guns. Nobody had expected that they would have to look out for American battleships.

The Yank submarine menace was gone, but, even before the escape of the Americans, there was the fear of Yankee surface raiders. Not every destroyer or cruiser had been accounted for and the Americans certainly had other subs, but they were in the Atlantic. At least that’s where German intelligence said they were. He harrumphed to himself. German intelligence had been far from perfect so far.

“Ship on the horizon!” a lookout yelled and Muller cursed.

“Two ships,” the lookout corrected.

Scores of telescopes and binoculars were instantly trained on the distant smudges, upperworks just beginning to appear over the horizon. Muller’s heart skipped a beat. They were large and their design wasn’t German. Please let a merciful God make those ships British and not American, he thought.

God was not merciful. A few moments later and Muller’s worst dreams had been realized. He had found the Arizona and the Pennsylvania. “Order the convoy to scatter and run for their lives. The destroyers and the Pillau will follow me.”

They were two hundred miles away from Los Angeles, and, while his radio was broadcasting the alarm, he knew it was a fruitless gesture. Were there any German warships in the vicinity? Highly unlikely, he admitted to himself.

Flashes on the American ships showed that their great fourteen-inch guns had fired. A moment passed and shells fell short of the Preussen. Muller fired his forward turret. His own shells fell well short. He had fired just to show the Yanks that the Preussen had teeth. Maybe it would delay the Americans and give his sheep a chance of escaping. The Americans fired again and this time the shells landed long. They were bracketed.

“Tell the destroyers and the Pillau to try to escape,” Muller ordered sadly. “And keep trying to raise our fleet. They have to be out there someplace, damn it.”

More shells landed, and water splashed over the German battleship. Fragments from the shells struck down on the deck. A dozen crewmen fell in screaming bloody heaps.

Suddenly, Muller was lying face down on the deck of the bridge. Bodies lay around him. The ship was rocking violently and flames were shooting out from a score of places. A human arm lay near him. It was his. He tried to get up but hands held him down and placed a tourniquet on the stump of his shattered arm.

“Status!” Muller screamed through waves of pain. The report was dismal. The forward eleven-inch turret had been destroyed and the engines were not responding. His ship was dead in the water and sinking. He sobbed and gave the order to abandon ship. The Preussen hadn’t lasted ten minutes against the Americans.

As he was being lowered into a lifeboat he realized that the Americans were no longer firing at the helpless old battleship. A small mercy, he thought. A shell struck the Pillau and the five-thousand-ton cruiser broke in half. One of the American battleships was in with the transports, sinking them with her secondary battery of five-inch guns. One did not use fourteen inch shells on a transport any more than one used a shotgun to kill a fly. It also occurred to him that perhaps the Americans didn’t have an abundance of fourteen-inch shells.

A couple of transports struck their colors. Their crews began abandoning ship. There weren’t enough boats for the men on the troop transport and they spilled into the water. Many would drown. God help them, Muller thought.

Two hours later, the Preussen still stubbornly held onto life. From where he sat in a lifeboat, Muller could see that she listed well to port and would sooner or later capsize. A brave ship, Muller thought. More ships were appearing over the horizon. The German Navy had arrived. Finally, Muller thought bitterly. The Americans had wrought their havoc and long since disappeared.