President Lansing and Secretary of State Hughes beamed. “Ambassador Grey, what a pleasure. Come in and please sit down.”
Grey sat on a couch and Lansing sat across from him. Hughes took a chair behind Lansing. A clearly flustered Mrs. Tuttle entered with tea, coffee, and cookies. “Now, sir, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” inquired Lansing.
Grey sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad tidings. His Imperial majesty, Kaiser Wilhelm, is protesting the loose manner in which both Canada and the United States are paying attention to the integrity of their respective borders.”
“Oh dear, dear me,” said the president.
“Indeed. The kaiser now has information that military goods are being shipped from Canada and into the United States via rail to Seattle.”
“I’m shocked, devastated. Please have a cookie.”
“Thank you, and my compliments to Mrs. Tuttle.”
“I believe she has a crush on you.”
Grey smiled. “Ah, and who can blame her. Now, as to the border, our foreign office has informed the kaiser that our border agents are checking what comes into Canada, and are not particularly interested in what goes out, in this case to the United States. The task of checking what goes into the United States belongs to the United States. We told him we sincerely doubted you Americans would voluntarily halt the flow of badly needed war materiel to your country.”
“Did he take it well?”
“Actually, no. He called us duplicitous liars and closet allies of America.”
“The nerve of the man, calling you duplicitous after he’s invaded France, Belgium, and the United States, among other places.”
Grey continued with additional mock solemnity. “They have further informed us that they have reasons to suspect that American merchant ships are running their Puget Sound blockade by flying British flags and carrying false manifests. The Germans are aware that Admiral Beatty has told British merchant captains that, under no circumstances, may Germans board and inspect our ships and we’ve informed the Germans that such would constitute piracy or something like that. They are not concerned about our feelings, but they are worried by us Brits. Beatty has told them they may check manifests, but from a small boat alongside the merchant, and that is all. The Hun right now respects that because he does not wish to risk another war with Great Britain. At least, not yet.”
Lansing nodded solemnly and glanced at Hughes who maintained a good poker face. It had taken too much time for someone to come up with the scheme. British-flagged ships were now loaded with war material at either Boston, New York, or, with the strange Italian Golitti’s assistance, in Lisbon. They transited the Panama Canal, still solidly in American hands, and sailed insolently up the Pacific to Puget Sound and Seattle where they offloaded and returned. So far more than a score of ships had made the journey, and others were en route. If the output of America’s factories could not be sent overland, they would go by sea.
The first ships had unloaded fourteen inch shells for the Nevada, which was now ready to attack the smaller German ships still blockading the Sound. Other ships brought artillery, machine guns, and ammunition. If Lansing recalled correctly, half a hundred crated airplanes had also been unloaded. Their pilots had traveled the land route as Canadian citizens and simply crossed the border without incident. The planes were now being assembled under the direction of an officer named Mitchell.
Lord Grey smiled. The president’s mind was easy to read. “I am concerned, Mr. Lansing, that the Germans will grow impatient and do something rash like searching a British flagged ship and then finding contraband in its hold. That would be quite embarrassing. What would we do? Would we scold the Germans for violating the sanctity of the British flag, however fraudulent its use, or would we chastise you for using our flag for immoral purposes?” Grey sighed expansively. “I just don’t know what we will do. Are there any more cookies?”
Hughes passed a new tray. “I believe Mrs. Tuttle would marry you if she could.”
“If only for the cookies, I might take her up on it. Family might not approve, however. Where were we?”
“Your options,” said Lansing.
“Yes. Indeed. Should a ship be found carrying contraband, we would profess shock and dismay that it occurred, and tell the kaiser that we will work diligently to ensure that it doesn’t happen again. We would ask for and get an apology from you for your actions.”
Lansing smiled wickedly. “I will write it now if you’d like.”
* * *
Twenty feet below ground in a dimly lit man-made cavern, Luke felt the earth tremble from the massive explosions. It felt as if the Germans were trying to destroy all life on the earth. He was beyond fear. He was terrified. He could die at any moment, and the thought made him want to whimper. How the hell did people endure it? Because they had to, was the only answer.
A real question might be what the devil made him volunteer to come to the front for information at just the time the Germans were launching another offensive. During the previous assault, he’d been a spectator and off to the side. This time he was right in the middle of the titanic battle.
Some of the other soldiers in the bunker looked to him for leadership. The cement roof above them vibrated and quivered. Martel saw the fear on their faces and hoped it wasn’t reflected on his own. The air in the bunker was clammy and some of the men felt weak from the poor circulation, but at least it was safe. Some fools even smoked cigarettes, which further fouled air that was already ripe with the smell of urine, sweat, shit, and fear.
They might be relatively secure in the well-constructed bunker, but they would soon have to emerge to a new and frightening surface where they would confront the prospect of horrible and violent death.
Dust trickled down from the ceiling and covered them all with a light film as enemy shells hit above them. The soldiers, Luke included, were lucky; they had helmets that kept their heads reasonably clean. Small pieces of debris patted like raindrops on their helmets.
The young captain who commanded the troops in the bunker sat beside Luke on the wooden bench. His name was Ward and he was a friendly sort, even though he was harsh when it came to dealing with subordinates. He was trying to convince them that he knew what he was doing and wasn’t afraid of the Germans.
The shelling had been going on for hours. It was beyond Luke’s comprehension and belief. There was nothing in his experience to even remotely compare with what was going on above him. And it was all prelude, the real battle had yet to commence.
It had also been a most unpleasant surprise. Luke’s intentions had been to visit the front, observe, take some notes, and leave, but the sudden and unexpected shelling had trapped him. Now he wondered if his coming to the front was going to be a tragic mistake.
Ward laughed hesitantly. “At least the bombardment keeps the Krauts away, sir. When it stops, it will mean that their damned infantry will be well on their way to our trenches. While they’re trying to keep us pinned down, they’ll attempt a barrage in front of their advancing troops.”
At which point, the Americans would pour out of the bunker and into their own trenches, and rain small-arms fire on the attackers. Luke knew all this, but understood that Ward felt a need to talk, to prove that he knew what was happening and that neither he nor his men should be fearful.
A crack appeared in the roof of the bunker and dirt poured onto the floor. For a moment they all thought it was going to collapse, but it didn’t and they began to breathe again. “It’s like an earthquake,” Luke said.
Ward nodded. “The ground, the solidest earth, seems to be turned into mud by the shelling. It has no substance. It must be what an earthquake is like.”
“Wouldn’t know,” Luke said. “And I’d prefer to keep it that way.” Ward laughed and a couple of soldiers within hearing distance nodded appreciatively.
Martel turned and looked at the infantrymen stare at him and Ward. They were the poor bloody bastards who we
re going to try and stop the Germans who would soon be assaulting from their positions.
If the bunker in which he cowered was any indication, the German artillery had been ineffective. There had been numerous direct hits on the roof of the bunker, but it had withstood them all. Even the new crack above them seemed stable. They understood that German infantry doctrine would have the cannon fire stop well before the actual assault to prevent hitting their own troops. It was a prudent measure, but the brief warning caused by the halt would enable the Americans to take their positions and begin killing Germans.
Luke tried to act relaxed. “Captain Ward, has anyone considered what might happen if a shell blocks our exit?”
“That, sir, is why we have built several exits. If all else fails, I have thirty men who will dig like fools to get ourselves out before we suffocate.”
The firing seemed to diminish. Ward barked an order and two men went to the tunnel that led up to the trench. They opened the door and one of them gingerly went out and up the stairway. The second followed behind him.
Martel heard the crack of an explosion and the last soldier was thrown back into the bunker, engulfed in a cloud of smoke. A long metal splinter from a shell had been driven into his chest. He screamed once and fell silent as blood poured from the wound. Incredibly, the first soldier returned unhurt as the shelling picked up again.
“Not clear yet, sir,” the soldier reported quickly and unnecessarily.
The shelling intensified and reached a new crescendo. “This is the end of it,” Ward said. Luke agreed. It was like a Fourth of July fireworks display with everything fired as the climax and finale.
There was a sudden and ominous silence. Ward took a deep breath and looked at his frightened troops. He was as scared as they, but he would never let them know it. Suddenly, Luke wanted to stay in the bunker for the rest of his life.
Incongruously, the phone rang. The buried phone lines hadn’t been severed by the bombardment. Ward answered it and listened for a second before hanging up.
“Come on,” he said with a calmness that impressed Luke, “let’s kill some Germans.”
Luke waited until the last soldier had left the bunker. They had positions to go to; he did not. As he emerged into the smoke-filled daylight, he choked, then blinked to regain his vision. Automatically, his mind began to assess the damage done by the German artillery. It was surprisingly little.
In some places, a trench had been hit and the walls collapsed, but these were infrequent. Shell craters pocked the land in front of and behind the trenches, but the trench lines themselves were basically intact. So too were the thickets of barbed wire. Some had been tossed about and rearranged, but, like the trenches, they were fundamentally undamaged. Luke made another mental note.
He took a deep breath. In place of the clammy air of the bunker was the scent of cordite and the sickly-sweet stench of burning flesh. It told Martel that the dug-in American Army had not escaped entirely unscathed, although common sense told him that much of the burning flesh was more likely horse than human.
The infantrymen had taken their places on their firing stations and were aiming their rifles down the slight slope. The Americans had one real advantage; they held the high ground. The hill wasn’t much, but it enabled them to look across the valley and down to the German lines. It also meant that their trenches were fairly dry, and not filled with mud and muck.
“Krauts!” Ward hollered.
Martel squinted into the distance. The smoke caused a whitish haze, but he saw wavy rows of dots in the tall, thick grass. He looked through his binoculars and the dots became men trudging towards him. Their rifles were at the ready and they were burdened with packs. They seemed to move slowly, agonizingly slowly, even though he knew they were trotting.
As before, American artillery opened up and shells hit in and above the advancing ranks. Men dropped or were hurled aside like toys, while other shells ripped flesh to pieces. Martel felt ill at the killing. This was not fighting. It was murder on an assembly-line basis, warfare designed by Henry Ford.
The smoky haze from the artillery served to further obscure the advancing Germans from few American machine-gunners. Luke thought it ironic that the American artillery trying to kill the Germans was helping to save them.
The Germans were close enough for the riflemen to fire at. Methodically working their Springfields, their massed fire wreaked further havoc. As yet there was little return fire from the Germans. The effect was a bloody drill.
Still the Germans came on. German light artillery opened up and Martel was covered by a shower of dirt from a near miss. Someone screamed and an American soldier fell wounded in the trench beside him. Luke fought the urge to run back to the bunker. This was not like any kind of war he’d ever seen. He had an overwhelming urge to piss. For a moment he recalled the three deserters and felt he could empathize with their urge to flee.
Luke put down his binoculars. He no longer needed them to pick out the individual features of the oncoming enemy. Nor did he want to see the contorted facial expressions of men who were about to die. Bullets began to smack into trenches as some of the Germans paused to shoot at their tormentors. More Americans fell. Luke saw a young man he’d spoken to earlier in the day fall back with a bullet in his face. With only their upper bodies exposed, head wounds were common.
The first German soldiers reached the barbed wire. Some paused and tried to find their way through, while others continued to shoot at the Americans. A bullet struck near Martel and he ducked to the bottom of the trench. In some areas, the Germans were stalled by the effects of their own artillery where it had piled up the barbed wire into an impenetrable mass.
The Germans were less than a hundred yards from the American soldiers, who continued to pour fire into them. That so any of the Germans remained alive was a miracle and likely due to the tendency of soldiers to fire wildly in battle.
And then the Germans were in the trenches. Scores of screaming enemy soldiers poured over the American defenses, shooting and stabbing with bayonets and trench knives. Luke had his pistol out and shot a German in the chest. The man fell back, a look of shock on his face. Another German lunged at him with a bayonet and Luke fired quickly, hitting him in the leg.
“Get out, sir!” screamed Ward. He motioned to a communication trench that led to the rear. American soldiers were already running down it.
* * *
Luke picked up a Tommy-gun that someone had discarded. A helluva lot better than a pistol, he thought. He backed his way down the communications trench with Ward squeezed at his side. A pair of Germans tried to follow and Luke fired a burst. One dropped and the other ducked.
Ward gave a gurgling scream and fell. A bullet had blown off his jaw. Luke picked him up and carried him over his shoulder to the secondary trench line, a few hundred yards behind, while other soldiers covered them.
He arrived exhausted and handed over his bloody burden. A medic took Ward and laid him on the ground. “Sorry, sir, but he’s dead.”
Luke was about to reply, when something struck him in the chest and he collapsed to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. The medic checked him quickly. He laughed bitterly and handed Luke a piece of metal.
“Your lucky day, sir. You got hit by a spent bullet. Otherwise you’d be lying there with your buddy.”
Yeah, Luke thought as he put the distorted bullet in his pocket, my lucky day. We just lost the second of three defensive lines and I’ve got a piece of lead for a souvenir.
CHAPTER 21
A few hours later, Luke stood before Liggett and Sims. The general glowered at him in mock anger. “Just once I’d like you to report to me wearing a clean uniform. Good lord, is that blood?”
“It is sir, but not mine.” He told them about carrying the dying Captain Ward away from the trenches.
“That was well done; however tragic the results, but your adventure was ill-advised. Had you been killed I would have lost a valuable officer. Had you been ca
ptured, the Germans would have been given a key member of my intelligence staff. They would have interrogated you, even tortured you, in order to find what you knew. In plain English, your presence in the trenches was an act of consummate stupidity.”
“Yes sir.” Luke declined to comment that he’d realized that the instant the shells began to fall. He also didn’t add that he’d had no plans to be taken alive. However, he did wonder if he had the courage to kill himself.
“You will promise me that you will not go near the front lines again.”
“Promised, sir. I will absolutely stay away from the front lines.”
Liggett’s expression softened while Sims remained impassive. “Unless, of course, the front lines come to you, which could happen if the Krauts breach our third and last line of defenses. If that happens, your being captured and tortured for information will have become moot since the city will have fallen. Also, I’ve heard it that you killed a dozen Germans while covering the retreat. Any truth to that?”
“I killed maybe two and wounded a third.”
Liggett actually smiled. “We’ll let the rumors swirl. We need a hero and if a little exaggeration makes you qualify, we’ll let it happen. Now, get the hell out of here and go clean up.”
He was on his way to the officers’ quarters when Kirsten ran up and grabbed his arm. Her eyes were red from crying.
“You are a fool, a complete idiot,” she said as she first grabbed his arms, then let go and began pounding on his chest. “What on earth were you thinking of, risking your life like that? They gave you rank and responsibility so you could stay safe and use your brain, not your gun.”
“I’m sorry,” he said lamely. A scolding from a three-star general he could endure. Kirsten’s wrath, never.
“You almost made me a widow a second time and we’re not even married yet.”
“Do you want to marry me?”
“Yes, but not until after this is over.”
“And why aren’t you at the hospital?”
“Because they don’t need me right now. There’s been an influx of trained personnel from up north, so now I’m back to being a clerk, cataloging the wounded and trying to notify their families. It’s important, sometimes even heartbreaking, but it can wait a few hours.”
1920: America's Great War-eARC Page 34