1920: America's Great War

by Robert Conroy

  He finally got someone to tell him where to put Wally. Tim and the others laid him down on the floor by a cot where a man looked like he was going to die. When he did, Wally could have the cot. Their buddies made Wally as comfortable as they could and said they’d be back to check on him and Tim. The doctors wanted the extra people out. They were in the way. No problem. Tim’s friends wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of this house of death. They nodded and nearly ran outside.

  Tim looked down on Wally and wondered if his baby brother understood just what was going on. He doubted it. Wally’s eyes looked vacant and empty and all his efforts were concentrated on drawing the next breath. Tim tried to confront the likelihood that his younger brother was going to die and couldn’t deal with it.

  After an eternity, a doctor stopped by and quickly checked on Wally. He shook his head and didn’t look at Tim.

  The horror of the scene was overwhelming. He sat on the ground beside Wally. He would stay and keep him company until he was booted out. He overheard some other doctors wonder whether the disease had originated in the U.S. or had come from Europe. Tim wanted to say he didn’t give a damn. He wanted his brother cured.

  Nobody noticed when he pitched forward and then rolled onto his side. He was just one more desperately ill soldier who was likely going to die.

  * * *

  Generals March and Pershing wanted to congratulate the solemn young man who had wrought miracles in getting so much in the way of supplies and equipment to this staging area outside Kansas City. Newly promoted Brigadier General George Catlett Marshall didn’t want approbation; he wanted results and they weren’t forthcoming, at least not in the manner he wished. There were those who considered Marshall a genius and cited the vast quantities of supplies he’d gathered as proof. But the supplies weren’t going anyplace and that was the problem.

  Marshall had coerced a reluctant Henry Ford into manufacturing a thousand army trucks and more were coming. An additional two hundred were armor plated and awaited the machine guns or small cannon that would give them a lethal mobility like the German armored vehicles had. Other, smaller, automobile companies, like General Motors, were also supplying vehicles, and Harley Davidson was providing motorcycles, some with a sidecar that could also hold a machine gun.

  Warehouses in Kansas City were stuffed with uniforms and other paraphernalia, including helmets, underwear, overcoats, boots, and socks. The Springfield Arsenal in Massachusetts had supplied a quarter of a million of the rifles that bore its name along with millions of rounds of ammunition. There were assurances that machine guns and the new Browning Automatic Rifles were on the way as well as artillery, but no one had seen anything yet. The factories were still tooling up. Production would begin soon, whenever the hell soon meant. Everyone knew that when the wheels of industry began to roll, there’d be weapons and ammunition galore, just not quite yet.

  Even more frustrating, so much of the precious supplies they did have were just sitting there, out in a field, and gradually being covered with snow. With only one rail line working through the mountains to the northwestern states and then south to California, the bottleneck was enormous. And now it was the middle of the winter and a series of blizzards had struck, temporarily overwhelming any efforts to keep the tracks clear.

  All three generals had come to the reluctant conclusion that significant aid to California might not be possible until late spring. General Liggett and the entire Pacific Coast Command were on their own until then. They could only hope and pray that Liggett could hold onto San Francisco. Or, barring that, at least maintain a military presence south of Portland. Or at least Seattle. Experts and intelligence said the Germans had no plans to go that far north, but who knew what the Germans would decide to do if San Francisco fell.

  “If we can do nothing about California at this time, then we will move on Mexico,” Pershing said and March nodded. Marshall looked away. He clearly didn’t care which enemy was struck at first. He just wanted the supplies used against at least one of America’s enemies.

  “We have to do something,” Pershing added, “and also be seen to be doing something. The American people are utterly frustrated by our lack of response and I cannot blame them for their anger. Between the lack of supplies, the lack of transportation, and the pneumonia in our camps, the American people are outraged. If we cannot cross into California, then we will have to take on the Mexicans and relieve the Texans.”

  Fighting in Texas now centered on San Antonio where a state of siege existed. The Mexicans were finding the Texans a hard nut to crack and National Guard units from nearby states had already reinforced the hard-fighting but beleaguered Texans. It was felt that Mexico was vulnerable to a strong counterattack.

  A soldier on a motorcycle drove up to them, dismounted, saluted, and handed General March an envelope. March read it and paled.

  “What we do may not matter at all,” he said. “The disease striking our training camps has been identified as a particularly virulent form of influenza. It has apparently originated in the United States and not in Europe or Asia like epidemics normally do. Surgeon General Cumming believes this is the case because the influenza has only now begun to strike Europe. He has ordered all military facilities quarantined until further notice. All training must cease and no new recruits will be admitted. He now feels that perhaps a quarter of our army will die of this influenza; therefore, all emphasis must be on the survival of those who have not yet gotten the flu.”

  He crumpled the note and threw it on the ground where a puff of wind took it and spun it. “If the surgeon general is correct, we could suffer hundreds of thousands of dead without firing a shot!”

  Marshall looked at the mountains of supplies and the acres of parked vehicles. Was it possible that there would be no one to use them?

  CHAPTER 9

  Work or get out of San Francisco was the gist of the blunt directive signed jointly by General Liggett and Admiral Sims. Despite the fact that thousands of people had been evacuated from San Francisco, many tens of thousands more had arrived from the south. The already tight situation regarding food and shelter was rapidly becoming critical. Useless mouths had to be sent away. Anyone who wished to enlist in the military or get to work on the city’s defenses was welcome to stay. Others had to leave unless they could prove themselves to be useful to the defense forces.

  This did not go over well with some of the population. Those who’d just arrived as refugees were exhausted, often sick, and had no inclination to flee further. Like refugees everywhere, they often had little in the way of clothing, furniture, and had no idea where to stay. Those who had been living in San Francisco had survived earthquakes and fires, and didn’t feel that any damned army had the right to make them leave. There were confrontations and violence. Mayor Rolph didn’t like having his power usurped and let everyone know it. A couple of newspapers, in particular Hearst’s San Francisco Examiner, printed editorials saying the military administration was illegal and called for Californians to resist what it called an unlawful and unconstitutional occupation. General Liggett solved that problem by arresting an astonished Hearst and shutting down the Examiner. Skulls got cracked and a couple of people were killed by the military police. Finally, people began to get the message.

  Kirsten thought the phrase “work or get out” had a marvelous ring to it. Right after arriving and getting settled in Elise’s small apartment, she had volunteered to work in food distribution. That it was pretty much what Roy Olson and the Germans had been forcing the people Raleigh to live with was a bit of irony that was not lost on her.

  Before going to work, however, she’d presented a handful of drafts drawn on the Bank of Italy to its San Francisco office. The bank wasn’t in Italy, of course, it was in San Francisco and had been founded by a man named A.P. Giannini. It had survived the earthquake of 1906 and Kirsten had felt that made it a solid choice for her savings, which included the proceeds from her late husband’s insurance policies. She’d
taken out some cash which enabled her to help Elise with some furniture issues as well as buying suitable clothing for herself. Both furniture and clothing were readily available at distressed prices.

  Kirsten and a number of other clerks worked at tables in San Francisco’s massive Civic Center Auditorium. It had one hundred and twenty-two thousand square feet of floor space. The vast auditorium had been the site of the Republican Convention that had nominated the disgraced Warren Harding the previous summer. She could only wonder what might have happened had Harding won the presidency.

  Kirsten confronted a very long line of confused and sometimes belligerent people. The people were hungry, tired, and confused, and why not? They’d been uprooted from their homes by an invading army that threatened to imprison them at best, murder and rape them at worst. This sort of thing just didn’t happen in California. Several refugees had actually told this to Kirsten, as if she could personally do something about it.

  Her job was to register their names and issue appropriate ration cards. The “useless mouths” received temporary cards good for one week. At the end of that week it was hoped they’d be in another city and somebody else’s problem. They would get second cards only in the case of emergencies. She’d heard that Mayor Rolph and General Liggett were not in agreement over this, but political infighting was none of her concern.

  Dealing with the refugees was heartbreaking and made her realize just how small her own problems were. She had lost her cousins and her ranch, but many refugees had lost far more. The number of people looking for missing relatives was appalling, as was the number who informed her that loved ones were dead or injured. Especially heartbreaking were the people looking for small children who’d been separated from their families in the rush north. A high school nearby was being used to feed found children and she directed those families to that location. Sadly, many of them had already been there.

  Kirsten reflected that she still had her life, a good deal of money, and had struck up a friendship with an interesting gentleman in Captain Luke Martel, who was supposed to take her for a walk after work. That is, if work ever stopped. It was already late in the afternoon and the lines showed no sign of shortening. Policemen would close the doors promptly at five and only those inside would be handled. Anybody else could come back tomorrow. Kirsten thought they should work around the clock in shifts, but the managers hadn’t yet come to that conclusion.

  There was a commotion at the adjacent table. A Chinese family looked distraught, while the relief worker behind the counter laughed. “What’s the problem, Will?” she asked.

  Will Baker continued to laugh. He was a short thin man with glasses. She thought he was very self-important. “Chinks think they got a right to food, that’s what.”

  Kirsten was puzzled. “They don’t?”

  “Not while there’s white people in line they don’t.”

  “Don’t Chinese get hungry?”

  Will’s smile changed to a glare. “Who cares? Look, you’re the new girl here, so do as you’re supposed to. Food goes to Americans, not to the Chinks.”

  “And not to niggers, Indians, or Mexicans,” one of Will’s buddies added from another table. “Not that there’s a whole lot of niggers here, but you have to set rules. White people first and everybody else last.”

  Kirsten nodded. “Will, you’re right, I am new here and I don’t know the rules. Who gave that order?”

  “Right from the mayor.”

  Ah yes, Kirsten thought. The mayor. Sunny Jim Rolph was a major booster for the town and, it was rumored, was one of a group of businessmen who’d once issued brochures denying that the earthquake of 1906 had ever taken place. The fire, yes; it could not be denied. But an earthquake? Heavens no. That would be bad for potential business. But would Sunny Jim Rolph order Chinese people to starve? She didn’t think so. San Francisco’s Chinatown, while resented by many, had been around for decades. She concluded that Will Baker was making his own rules.

  She waved the Chinese family over to her table and issued temporary cards. They nodded and thanked her profusely in broken English. They departed quickly and fearfully, as if concerned that someone would try to take the precious documents.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the doors closed and there would be no more refugees until tomorrow when it would start all over again. She was about to stand up when she noticed Will and two others by her table.

  “Look,” Will said, his pinched face red with anger, “I don’t know who the hell you are and what you think you’re doing, but don’t put me down in front of Chinks and don’t give ration cards to them either.”

  Kirsten kept her calm. “Aren’t they supposed to eat?” she said sweetly. “Or don’t they bleed or get hurt? They are human, aren’t they?”

  “Don’t get smart with me, bitch,” Will snarled. The two others nodded. None of them was particularly large or intimidating, but there were three of them. “Maybe we should take you outside and give you some punishment. Uppity women like you think you own the world since you can vote now. Maybe just an old fashioned spanking on your sweet bare ass would be a good idea and make you realize you’re not welcomed here.”

  “Really?” she smiled.

  “There’s a natural order to things, Mrs. Biel, and don’t forget it. White men are on top and white women are underneath them.” He laughed hugely as he realized the sexual implications of what he’d. “Yeah, that’s right. White men are always on top of white women.”

  Will’s buddies thought that was hilarious as well. “Chinks, Indians, and Mexicans come last in this world. Hell, if the Chinks get hungry, let them eat flied lice,” Will said and roared at his own humor. He reached out and cupped her chin in his hand, squeezing it. “You got that young lady?”

  She pushed his hand away. “Let me show you something.”

  Kirsten raised her skirt above her knee, exposing an expanse of calf and thigh. Will and the other two stared. “Oh look what I’ve found,” she said sweetly.

  With stunning swiftness, the stiletto strapped to her thigh appeared in her hand and she plunged it down, impaling Will’s hand to the table. He looked in shock at his mangled hand and then screamed. Kirsten removed the knife and blood poured onto the table and down to the floor.

  “Silly me,” she said. “I just dropped my knife. I think you ought to have that little cut looked at, don’t you?”

  Will and the others ran out, bumping into each other like clowns at a circus. She wiped the knife on her handkerchief and returned it to its resting spot. She had a Derringer pistol in her handbag and a large hatpin in her hair. In these tumultuous times, weapons made her feel secure.

  “Remind me not to get you angry,” Luke said, walking up to her. He grabbed her hand which was still shaking.

  She took a deep breath and tried to get control of her emotions. “How long were you standing there?” she said softly.

  “Long enough to be prepared to step in and stop them if I thought I was needed. Obviously I wasn’t. All of you were so preoccupied you didn’t see me. Why don’t we go for that walk, find us a bite to eat, and you can tell me what that was all about. Hopefully you’ll keep that knife in its most intriguing resting place.”

  Kirsten laughed. “A walk and a bite to eat sounds interesting. Dealing with fools like those makes one just so hungry.”

  * * *

  The success of German U-boats in the short war of 1914 had shocked the military world. Not only had scores of civilian ships been sunk, but several supposedly invincible Royal Navy battleships had been sent to the bottom with great loss of life. Most tragically, the old Royal Navy battleships Cressy, Aboukir, and Hogue had been sunk by one sub, the U-9 in September, 1914. Fourteen hundred British sailors had died in the catastrophe while their ships’ captains looked on in disbelief. Thoroughly confused, they had wondered just what had happened to their ships. Attack by a sub was so unlikely, they thought the first ship had struck a mine and they had stopped to help which made the
m sitting ducks for the U-9.

  As a result, many nations took a long look at their submarine fleets and the United States was no exception. When the war with Germany began, there were eight submarines stationed at Mare Island. Five were the longer range O-class, and three the shorter range coastal defense R-class subs. All eight subs were immediately sent to Puget Sound, where it was quickly determined that they were useless at that location.

  Thus, when the British squadron made its entrance to the Sound, it was the five O-class subs that slipped out unnoticed and headed south to Catalina Island, close off the coast of California. The idea was for them to interdict German shipping to either San Diego or Los Angeles. The R-Class subs would remain in the sound and protect against any German attempt to force the entrance.

  Catalina Island was rugged and beautiful and had not been given much thought by the Germans, despite the fact that it was so close to the California coastline. The American subs quickly found a home a few miles north of the developing resort town of Avalon, and the few fisherman who lived there cheerfully provided the crews with food. The main concern of the American sailors’ was using their meager supply of fuel and torpedoes efficiently. They could not afford to waste either.

  Lieutenant Ron Carter commanded the O-7. Along with not being claustrophobic, the men of any submarine had to be able to handle cramped quarters and the stench of unwashed bodies, backed up toilets, and oil. Subs weren’t called pig boats for nothing, and the food tasted like crap as well. On the other hand, Carter mused, she was a warship and she was on a cruise with him in command.

  Each of the five subs had four torpedo tubes in the bow and each carried a total of eight torpedoes. The boats also had one three-inch deck gun and a couple of machine guns, and carried a crew of thirty. They could do fourteen knots surfaced and half that submerged. Contrary to popular belief, submarines spent most of their time on the surface, saving their energy-guzzling ability to submerge for emergencies or special occasions, as when silent stalking was needed. Like now.