Thus, Ensign Josh Cornell found himself on the deck of a squat, ugly fishing boat not unlike the one that had rescued him off San Francisco. This one, however, was registered to the U.S. Navy as a miscellaneous ship and her crew was all U.S. Navy personnel. Despite his still gimpy leg, Josh was present to observe on Sims’ behalf. Lieutenant Jesse Oldendorf commanded the ship they’d facetiously renamed the Shark. Her armament consisted of a couple of machine guns taken from the hulks at Mare Island and she carried a cargo that needed to be delivered to the Germans.
Oldendorf was also an Annapolis man and a decade older then Josh. Oldendorf’s friends called him “Oley.” Since “Oley” was two grades higher, Josh called him “sir.” Like Josh, Oldendorf was thrilled to be out at sea even though his warship was a stinking former fishing boat that the Navy hadn’t even bothered to repaint, which Josh quickly realized was intentional. There had been serious discussions with Admiral Sims as to whether or not the Germans would recognize the Shark as a U.S. Navy ship if she was captured, and if the crew be treated as prisoners of war under the Geneva Convention.
Sims’ response had been succinct. “Don’t get captured.”
Oldendorf kept the Shark as close as possible to the beautiful but rugged shoreline as they slipped south towards San Diego, chugging along at a sedate ten knots. He had no concern about being spotted. She would be seen by many and there would be no attempt to hide her. The Shark looked like what she had been, an innocuous fisher, just one of hundreds still on the water. Keeping close to shore meant they could turn and ground the ship if a German did decide to take a close look since there was no way they could outrun or outfight much of anything. That way the twelve-man crew stood at least a small chance of escaping overland and the issue of whether they were covered by the Geneva Convention would be moot.
The Shark’s cargo was two dozen contact mines. These would be dropped in San Diego’s shipping channel and anchored to the ocean bottom, leaving the mines to bob at or just below the surface. Hopefully, an unwary ship would hit one and be sunk.
They reached their destination without incident. It was dark but not very cloudy and the crew of the Shark felt vulnerable and naked as they slipped into San Diego Bay’s narrow channel. Oldendorf muttered that he couldn’t believe the Germans’ inertia. He didn’t even see a patrol boat. Were they that confident? He grinned wickedly. Maybe they were overconfident.
They coasted to a dead slow speed. A ramp was opened and, one by one, the mines were dropped over. The Shark maintained enough speed to get out of the way of the mines when they bobbed back up to the surface.
“Be a helluva note to be sunk by our own mine,” muttered one of the sailors. Oldendorf laughingly agreed and slapped the sailor on the back.
In minutes it was over. Their deadly cargo was gone and they turned to go north, to San Francisco. Finally, a searchlight popped on and a finger of light swept the area they’d just left. They all held their breath as they steadily pulled away. The searchlight went off just as suddenly as it went on and they all commenced breathing again.
Oldendorf stood beside Josh. “Well, Ensign, do you think this night’s effort was worth it?”
“Frankly sir, not really.”
“Oh?”
“Sir, before the peace of 1915, both the Germans and the British sowed thousands, maybe tens of thousands of these mines, and all we dropped were twenty-four. Sorry sir, but this isn’t even a pinprick.”
Oldendorf was about to reply when a second searchlight flashed on and this one bathed them in its glare, forcing them to shield their eyes. A machine gun opened up from the nearby shore and a cannon boomed. A geyser of water erupted in front of them and bullets stitched the Shark’s wooden hull, spraying splinters over her crew. Something struck Josh’s shoulder and knocked him down. He pulled himself up and looked at the devastation. Several of the Shark’s crew were lying on the deck and moaning, and Oldendorf, while still standing, was covered in blood from a gash in his head. Something hot, wet, and sticky was running down Josh’s chest.
The minelayer’s machine guns opened fire in the general direction of the searchlight and, to their astonishment, it winked out. It seemed unlikely that they’d hit it, so Josh thought they’d possibly scared the operators into turning it off.
Before they could take a deep breath, a crewman sighted ships coming from San Diego Bay. “Lead ship looks like a destroyer,” Oldendorf said. “We’ll run as far as we can and if we can’t shake her, we’ll head to shore and beach the Shark.”
Josh watched in morbid fascination as the destroyer sliced through the water, cutting the distance with every second. It was as if the Shark was standing still. The destroyer was almost out of the channel and there were two patrol boats trailing her. The destroyer fired one of her deck guns and another geyser erupted a few yards off the Shark’s bow.
“I’m getting damn sick and tired of this!” Oldendorf yelled.
Suddenly, a flash of light erupted along the hull of the destroyer and she appeared to lift out of the ocean. The force of the explosion caused her to heel over and almost capsize. For an instant before the light faded, Josh saw men tumbling overboard. When the German destroyer righted herself, it was apparent that her back was broken and she was going to sink.
There was no more pursuit. The confused German patrol boats milled about the dying destroyer and began taking off her crew. Oldendorf again stood by Josh. “You hurt bad, Josh?”
“I don’t think so, sir. It hurts like hell, but everything moves okay. I’m just a little tired of getting wounded.”
Oldendorf nodded. “Amazing. The Brits drop thousands of the damned things and get little in the way of results, while we drop a couple dozen and kill a destroyer.”
Josh sat down. His world was beginning to spin. Shock was again setting in. Josh thought ruefully that this was the second time he’d seen a destroyer sink.
* * *
The journey to Los Angeles was helped by Corporal Joe Flower’s finding and liberating a carriage from a farmhouse. One look at his angry face and the occupants declined to argue. This meant that Ella and Maria could ride in relative comfort and the party moved along with greater speed. Ella continued to show signs of physical improvement, although her eyes had not lost their blank look. Kirsten was extremely concerned. What had happened to her had clearly been too much for her mind to handle. Ella had lived in a world where women were respected and put on pedestals, not stripped in front of a crowd and then gang-raped. Poor Ella hadn’t even been in favor of women voting. She’d agreed with those men who felt that women weren’t psychologically up to the heavy responsibility. Kirsten’s hatred of the Germans continued to increase. So did her contempt for Roy Olson.
On the positive side, she and Luke Martel had gotten to know each other fairly well. He was a lot smarter then she’d first assumed and, like her, was self educated and well read. And the scar on his face was just that, a scar, and not part of his personality, although it would frighten small children on Halloween. She decided she would ultimately halt her journey in San Francisco. It was a decision based on the facts that Luke was stationed there and that she had no place else to go.
Thus it was with a degree of regret, if not sadness, that they parted at the railroad station in Los Angeles. Luke had managed to find Maria, Ella, and Kirsten spots on a train headed north to safety. This was easier said than done since the sprawling city of Los Angeles was evacuating itself. Thousands of people were streaming north and away from the Germans who, it was said, were just a few hours away. The evacuation had been going on for days and there were still many tens of thousands of people in the sprawling city. People were beginning to panic as the sounds of guns and the sight of distant smoke became evident and moved ever closer.
There was a stench in the air that Luke identified as burning oil. Good. Someone was taking care of denying the Germans the oil stored in L.A.
Luke was embarrassed and frustrated to admit he was a United States soldier
. He saw no other uniforms in the city that had once had a population of more than half a million. Now it was becoming a ghost town. It shocked him to see Americans moving north like hordes of beggars or migrants with nothing more than suitcases or even bags of goods to call their own. Some had no more than the clothing on their backs and few had any food. This can’t be the United States of America, he thought.
Some of the fortunate ones had cars or carriages and these were jammed to overflowing with people and their possessions. The lucky ones had horses. Cars and trucks would only go as far as their gas tanks would take them, assuming they didn’t break down in the first place, while horses could still travel on an empty stomach and leave congested roads; avoiding traffic jams.
Owners of vehicles of all kinds were charging exorbitant rates to move people away from the oncoming Germans. Rumors of German atrocities abounded, and Luke recognized some of them from the early days of the 1914 war, and these included massacres, mass rapes, and the impaling of pregnant women and children on bayonets. He didn’t believe the impalements, but the murders and rapes had occurred, both in Belgium and now in California. Kirsten’s cousin was proof of that.
Despite the lack of an army presence, there were large numbers of armed men congregating in Los Angeles, and they all seemed to be reporting to someone named Joseph Harper, a wealthy merchant who had taken a semblance of control of the deteriorating situation. Luke decided it was time to find this man.
Luke found Joe Harper near the Hollywood section of town, where the movie industry had relocated only a few years earlier. Now the sight of sets and production buildings in the background seemed grotesque. So too was the rumble and thunder of approaching artillery. The German Army was just down the road. Several dozen armed Mexicans lounged around, resting their horses. A young man who looked like he was their leader glared at Luke as he passed by.
Joe Harper was in his fifties and seemed a friendly sort, although clearly exhausted and stressed. “Where’s the rest of your army, Lieutenant?”
“I wish I could say they’d be arriving momentarily, but I can’t. May I ask what your plans are, Mr. Harper?”
“I hope to defend the city. I would not think of blaming you personally, but I hope you realize that the absence of the United States Army means we have to do it ourselves.”
“And is that wise? I managed to pass through several large German units on my way here, and I estimate at least fifty thousand enemy soldiers converging on Los Angeles as we speak, as is obvious from the sounds and the smoke. How many men do you have?”
Harper looked visibly shaken. He clearly hadn’t thought there’d be that many Germans. “Maybe ten thousand,” he said softly.
Luke shook his head. The man was going to get a whole lot of people killed. “Ten thousand poorly armed, inadequately trained men, and led by people who mean well, but you’ll be fighting against the highly professional and well-equipped German Army. With respect Mr. Harper, they will cut you to pieces. More bluntly, they will go through your army like shit through a goose. Thousands of your men will be killed or wounded and nothing will be accomplished except unnecessary bloodshed.”
Harper was angry. His face reddened. “And what do you propose we do? Leave our homes and businesses to the Hun without a fight?”
“It’s better than dying for nothing. How do you have your men set up?”
Harper explained that his ten thousand, if there really were that many, were scattered about in a number of positions that he called strong points. When Luke again said his men would be overrun, Harper bristled.
“Look, Lieutenant, I was an officer in the Spanish-American War and a lot of what you’re saying is right. But I just can’t go abandoning people’s homes. We’ll stand and fight, and if we get whipped, we’ll pull back and fight some more.”
Luke pointed to the hills to the east. “Los Angeles is a state of mind, not a city. It’s sprawled all over the place. Los Angeles has been gobbling up small communities for years and there is no one central place to defend with your small force. You simply don’t have the men to defend the town, and I’ve seen a couple of your so-called strong points. They are nothing but sandbagged houses.”
“We will do what we must with what we have.”
“And Los Angeles is located in a bowl, surrounded by high ground.” Luke pointed to the foothills of the overlooking San Gabriel Mountains. “Have you at least put men up there? If you don’t, the Germans will and they’ll pound your men to pieces with their artillery. The Germans travel with 105mm howitzers that can easily reach you from those hills.”
Luke wasn’t so certain about that statement. The German guns had a range of about six miles, and the foothills might be farther than that. But he did want to shake Harper, shake some sense into the man, but Harper would have none of it and angrily told Luke to leave.
As Luke did so, he saw the apparent leader of the armed Mexicans staring at him. The man walked up to Luke and introduced himself as Tomas Montoya, a rancher from outside the city of Los Angeles. He was in his thirties, a trifle overweight, and looked angry.
“I could not help overhearing your conversation with the esteemed but very ignorant Mr. Harper. He means well but he will lead his men to disaster.” The sound of artillery from the south had grown much closer. “And it may have already begun.”
Both men were silent as they tried to gauge what was happening down the coast road. Finally, Montoya spoke. “I offered Harper fifty men, all armed and mounted, but he said he didn’t want Mexicans in his command. He said we were the cause of the whole problem.”
“Curious,” Luke said. “I thought the Germans had something to do with it.”
“I don’t blame him,” muttered Joe Flower. “I don’t like Mexicans either.”
Montoya glared at him. “And I don’t like Apaches.”
“Enough,” Luke said. “Like I said, the Germans are to blame for this, not Mexicans or Apaches.”
Montoya smiled tightly. “Agreed. May I ask what your plans are?”
“To watch and then head north and report to General Liggett.”
“When you leave, my men and I would like to go with you. You would be in charge, of course.”
Luke accepted the offer and they waited. The sound of firing got louder and closer. Messengers came and went from where Harper was trying to control events.
The first signs of disaster were the men who ran by. Some of them still had weapons, but the majority were unarmed. They had panicked and tossed their rifles away. Some were wounded and they all looked terrified. Harper tried to stop some of them but quickly gave up.
The trickle of panic-stricken men became a flood and the chatter of small-arms fire was a distinct sound. “Let’s move out of here,” Luke said and his new command followed to what they hoped was a safe place. “This part of town is going to draw a lot of attention very soon.”
As predicted, German howitzers from the hills did have the range. They began to pound Hollywood, and the retreating survivors of the fighting ran for their lives. Luke saw Harper still trying to bring order out of the chaos when a salvo of German shells landed on his position. A second later, Harper and a couple of other men who’d been with him had become little more than red smears on the ground.
Luke smiled grimly. “If you are under my command, Mr. Montoya, here is my first order. We ride like hell out of here.”
“An excellent idea,” said Montoya. “But perhaps there is something you would like to see first? Are either of you fine gentlemen good at blowing things up? If so, there are some, ah, facilities in and around Los Angeles that definitely should not fall into German hands. They are called refineries. Harper did blow up the oil storage tanks, but he neglected the refineries.”
Luke looked towards Joe Flower. “The corporal is outstanding at breaking things. Shall we proceed?”
* * *
Camp Dix was located almost in the center of New Jersey, north and east of Camden. It was big, sprawling, raw, and unf
inished. The barracks were made of poorly cut and treated wood and there were gaping holes in the walls, letting the wind whip through. The roofs leaked badly, even in a mist. The result was that all of the recruits were miserably cold and wet. Most caught colds, or even pneumonia, and a scandal was growing in Washington. Still, Dix wasn’t any different from the dozen or so other basic training camps springing up throughout the United States.
Even worse were the sleeping and sanitary facilities. The wood slat bunks were too narrow and too short and nobody could believe that somebody had actually gone and ordered square toilet seats. The jokes about them were too numerous to count. And the toilet paper could have stripped rust from a pipe.
Wally and Tim had been called up, trucked to Dix, and jammed into barracks, where they’d waited. After two days, they were issued uniforms that didn’t fit, so they traded around with others with similar problems until they were reasonably comfortable. The food was uniformly bad and the wooden bunks were covered with thin straw mattresses. They were having serious second thoughts about the wisdom of their enlisting. If this was the Army, the Germans and Mexicans were going to have no trouble marching all the way from California to Camden.
They’d spent the two weeks waiting for a call up learning all they could about Germany, Mexico, Texas, and California. They spent time listening to a friend’s short-wave radio and hearing about events in Texas. California was too far away and the reports from there dire but vague. Newspapers were full of gloom and doom and the crowds at the telegraph office were glum as well. The Germans were moving up California and the Mexicans were doing the same thing in Texas, and nobody was doing much about it. To make matters worse, there were rumors of German warships off New York and elsewhere.
The night before they were shipped to Camp Dix, Tim had actually managed to get kissed. Kathy Fenton was nineteen, pretty enough, and lived down the street. She was a cashier at a Woolworth’s. They’d gone out a couple of times before and he wondered if they had a future. They’d all gotten more than a little drunk on some home made beer. Prohibition wasn’t the law, yet, although some said it was coming. Home brew seemed like a good way to practice for it. It had tasted like bad piss but it did contain alcohol, which gave everyone a buzz.
1920: America's Great War Page 14