Luke was of the opinion that Patton was trying to blow smoke up his ass regarding the time necessary to move his outfit—that was typical Patton. But the man did have good points. Tanks were radical new weapons and certainly not designed to slug it out in the trenches. Striking the German flank and rear, like cavalry of old, did seem like the logical way of using them. He decided to change the subject a little.
“George, what are those things draped on the tanks?”
Patton grinned happily, “Another one of my brilliant ideas. Those are heavy rope cables and I got them in Seattle. It occurred to me that the wheels and tracks of the tanks and trucks were the most vulnerable, so I’ve draped woven ropes where they’re most needed. The ropes are lightweight and bulletproof.”
Luke wondered just what the hell else was going on in Patton’s fertile mind. “George, when are you attacking?”
“In an hour or so.”
Luke rolled his eyes and looked skyward. No German planes were in sight. He made his decision. “I suggest you make it sooner, George, and I never found you.”
* * *
Once upon a time, Tim Randall thought trees were beautiful and loved to spend as much time as he could in a park or in the country. Not now. Everywhere he looked in Washington, Oregon, and northern California there were trees. The Pacific coast states were nothing but one long pine forest, and a snow-covered pine forest at that.
What he’d naively proclaimed would take only a couple of days had taken more than a week and they still hadn’t arrived at their destination. Everyone grudgingly admitted that they were closing in on San Francisco, but you couldn’t tell it by looking out a window. The troops saw nothing but snow-covered trees.
Nor had the trip been totally safe. Stuffed as they were in boxcars, many soldiers came down with colds that devolved into pneumonia. Always present was the fear that influenza would again rear its ugly head. Their company commander was in a hospital a couple of hundred miles to their north, which meant that Lieutenant Taylor was now the CO and Sergeant Tim Randall now ran the platoon. Christ, Tim thought, next thing, they’d make him an officer. Would that be such a bad thing? His family would be proud, sort of. The latest letters he’d received still bitterly held him responsible for Wally’s death. He’d pretty well decided he wasn’t going back to Camden. He couldn’t bring himself to hate his parents, but he’d be damned if he would let their bitterness dominate his life. He hadn’t put a gun to Wally’s head and forced him to enlist. No, Wally had been an adult and had volunteered. Wally had been as insistent as Tim that they join the Army. Who the hell knew a bug would kill him?
At least the letters he continued to get from Kathy Fenton were uplifting. After a rocky beginning, the two of them were getting to know each other pretty well as a result of their correspondence. He’d told her he wasn’t returning to Camden and implied that she should join him wherever he landed and she’d seemed intrigued. First, of course, there was the little matter of the war.
He yawned. General MacArthur had done a great job of getting them headed south. Tim was actually on the first train. Scores of other trains were coming along behind him, sooner or later. More than fifty thousand men were en route to San Francisco, which, according to MacArthur’s frequent bulletins and announcements, desperately needed them.
One of his men looked out the cracked door of the boxcar. They were fairly warm and out of the wind as long as it was closed, and by now they were used to sleeping on either the hard ground or the hard wooden floor of the boxcar. At least it wasn’t snowing inside. He seemed to recall reading that California was sunny and bright, but obviously the author of that epistle had been terribly misinformed.
The train began to slow. Damn, another stop. They’d get out, stretch their legs, piss, and wait to get started up again. At least pissing while standing on the ground was better than aiming a stream through one of the many cracks in the floor while the train was moving. Like little kids, some of the guys had made a contest of it.
“Everybody out and take all your shit!”
They didn’t know who said it, but they all complied. They wondered what the hell was happening now. They formed up and walked forward and past the engine. They paused and stared. A large body of water lay before them and a couple of miles beyond that was a city. South of the city, greasy black smoke rose skyward and now they could just hear the sounds of artillery.
They had reached San Francisco, or, more precisely, Oakland, California. Oakland had once been the western terminus of the Transcontinental Railroad. Originally, ferries were used to ship railroad cars across to San Francisco, but now it was the hub from which other lines led, including the Dumbarton Railroad Bridge at the southern end of the bay. However, the Dumbarton Bridge, which ran into the southern part of the peninsula, had been damaged by German shelling. Realization that the fighting they’d seen in Texas would be as nothing in comparison with the hell the Germans were serving up was beginning to sink in.
Lieutenant Taylor came up. “Well, weren’t you anxious to get to California? Now what do you think?”
“I remember an old phrase, sir—be careful what you wish for, it might come true.”
* * *
General Lejeune was angry. His face was flush with barely restrained fury. “Tell me again, young lady, precisely what has happened in this little town, Raleigh.”
Martina Flores was not intimidated by the general’s glare. She repeated what she knew. Maybe two hundred Americans had been held prisoner in Raleigh. They had been starved, beaten, tortured, and, in a couple of cases, executed by a German named Steiner and aided by an American collaborator named Olson. No, she corrected herself, the Americans had not been executed, they’d been murdered. She added that American civilians had also died at the hands of the Germans and American collaborators.
When she’d fled from the fighting that had liberated the prisoners and after killing Olson, she’d found a horse and ridden wildly away from the scene. It had been an act of mindless relief and terror and, when she’d finally stopped runnning, she’d then wondered how and if she could bring help to the prisoners. Granted, they’d been freed by Dubbins and Montoya and the Apache with the ridiculous name, but how long could they remain at large and safe in a land dominated by Germany? For all she knew, Steiner was hunting them down like animals.
Thus, when she’d given it some thought, she’d decided to head east and try to find the Americans who were heading towards California.
“I cannot believe an American like this Olson character would do anything so base and vile,” Lejeune snarled. “The bastard is up there with Benedict Arnold and John Wilkes Booth.”
Oh, she thought, you have no idea how base and vile Olson was. She thought of the humiliation she’d endured while kneeling between his thighs and servicing him. Or the times he lay upon her, his bulk crushing her, while he forced himself into her while she tried not to cry out in pain and shame. And all the time she knew that he hated her because she was Mexican, or that she wasn’t some American woman who’d scorned him.
“And what happened to this Olson?” Lejeune asked.
“Last time I saw him, he was lying on the ground and probably bleeding to death.”
“And why was that?” Lejeune asked.
“Because I stabbed him in the gut,” she answered calmly.
Marcus Tovey kept his face expressionless. Last night, she had told him the story of her abuse at Olson’s hands. She had shaken and sobbed almost hysterically as she’d purged herself of the terrible memories. He’d held her until her quivering subsided and she’d fallen asleep against his shoulder. When she awoke, she’d begged forgiveness for what she called her sins and he told her he didn’t see any sin on her part. She’d been forced to do what she did, and the true sinners were Steiner and Olson. The American collaborator had paid a terrible and just price for his sins, while Steiner remained at large.
Martina trusted him and he liked that. There were only a few Mexicans he thought hig
hly of, and she was on the list. He reminded himself never to piss her off in the future, if they ever had a future.
“General, I do have an idea,” said Tovey.
“You always do, but do I have to remind you that we are moving very slowly because some German officer has gathered up the remnants of that regiment and they are fighting a masterful retreat.”
The name of the German leader, Erwin Rommel, had come from a prisoner. This Rommel had organized several hundred men into a unit and, while some tore up the tracks, others harassed the Americans and slowed their advance. As a result of constant skirmishing, Rommel now likely had fewer than a hundred men, but he was still doing damage and moving just fast enough to keep the rest of his men out of their way.
Tovey began to pace. “General, if the objective is Raleigh and the freed prisoners, give me a cavalry unit and we’ll bypass the tracks and the Krauts. From what other prisoners have said, there’s nobody between us and Raleigh or even San Diego.”
“How many of my Marines do you want?”
Tovey laughed. “Not a damn one, unless they’re really good horsemen, and I kind of doubt any are.”
Lejeune agreed reluctantly. “Most of my Marines don’t know which end of a horse goes first.”
“General, give me all the horses we have and I’ll mount up as many of my Texans as we have horses, and we’ll go to Raleigh.”
Lejeune nodded. “All of my horses? That means I’ll have to give you my personal horse and that beast has carried my butt for several years.”
Martina smiled. “I’ll ride him and take good care of him.”
“You’re going too?” Lejeune asked. He was not surprised.
She shrugged. “Like here, it’s my territory. I can take Marcus where we need to go.”
Lejeune smiled to himself. “Very well, but as to my horse, you will not ride him and or take good care of him.”
Martina was puzzled, “Why not?”
Lejeune grinned wickedly. “Because Daisy’s not a him.”
* * *
The shells were indiscriminate. Even though the hospital was clearly marked with red crosses, mistakes were made. Kirsten hoped they were mistakes. She had a hard time believing that the kaiser’s army would be so base and cruel as to intentionally shell medical facilities. Luke didn’t share her beliefs. He felt that the Germans were capable of almost anything. He’d read of their atrocities in Belgium and northern France in 1914–15, and in Africa a decade earlier. Luke had told her that the cousin of one of the German admirals, von Trotha, had been instrumental in the massacre of thousands of helpless Herero tribesmen. If monsters like the von Trothas were to be victorious, she thought, God help the people of California.
The German fleet was probing the Golden Gate, the channel to San Francisco Bay, and both sides were lobbing shells at each other. One struck the hospital, sending scores of already badly mangled young men to an even more badly mangled death. Kirsten helped pick up the bodies, and the pieces of bodies. This, she realized, is what it must be like at the heart of the battle now raging a few miles to the south and east.
She felt worse when someone told her the shell that struck the hospital had come from an American battery on the north side of the channel. Doctor Rossini had simply shrugged and told her things like that happen. “You shoot an arrow in the air and who knows where it comes down. The same thing applies to rifle and cannon fire.”
The wounded were coming in droves. The battle for the third line of defense was intense. It looked, however, that the American lines were holding, at least for a while. Good, she thought, make the German bastards pay.
To take her mind off the horrors around her, she tried to think of her home and the town of Raleigh. Would she ever go back there? Likely not, she decided. If she and Luke survived this, and if the United States prevailed, she and he would make their homes closer to San Francisco and either farm or grow vines and make wine.
Then she thought ruefully that she’d spoken two very big ifs.
* * *
“Mr. Griffith, just how many cameramen do you have available?” Elise asked coolly.
“At the moment four, my dear young lady. Why, do you have uses for them?”
“Where do you have them?”
“One is in the trenches where the attacks are taking place. I am so proud of our American boys who are holding up the Germans.”
So far, she thought.
“And I was instructed to have another with a young officer named Patton, while two others are watching the German fleet.”
“Mr. Griffith, I am about to let you in on at least one military secret. The German fleet is going to force the channel and wind up in San Francisco Bay. Therefore I would suggest you have at least one of your men on the Oakland side to watch what is going to happen when they begin to duel with our other guns.”
“And what will happen, Elise?”
She smiled grimly. “Admiral Sims wishes to destroy them all. It is something called Firefly.”
* * *
Captain Horst Richter urged his men forward, “Hurry, you ugly sons of bitches! Move or they’ll kill you.”
The Alpine troops, the Austrian “volunteers,” had done a marvelous job of picking a path through the American wire and other defenses. Now it was time for the shock troops, the spearpoint of Hutier’s attack on San Francisco, to make their move.
According to plan, the artillery barrage had been short and intense, just enough to keep the Americans’ heads down. When it lifted, the first line of his shock troops were within a hundred yards of the American trenches and through the wire that had been cut the night before by the Austrians. Up and over, the Germans went, screaming like wild men, shooting and stabbing at anything that moved. In the face of such ferocity, American resistance wavered and soldiers fell back. Some gathered themselves and tried to retake ground seized by the Germans. The fighting was bloody and intense.
Richter shot an American defender in the face with his Luger. “Forward!” he screamed. “Keep moving forward. Leave them for the follow-up troops.”
In the heat of battle, most of his exhortations were lost and he had to physically grab men, sending them out of this trench and onward to others. The breach made was small, and others would widen it. A German fell dead beside him. The Americans were recovering and fighting back. Too late, he exulted. He waved his men forward.
Richter and a score of his fighters emerged from the American trenches. Some astonished rear-echelon soldiers either ran or tried to surrender. Richter ignored them. His little band pressed forward. He looked behind and saw more coal-scuttle helmets and soldiers in field gray. He laughed. They were through. Hutier’s tactics were working.
He paused and looked forward. In the distance he could not yet see downtown San Francisco, but buildings and houses were in plain view. More important, there was no sign of any further American defenses. They were through and before him lay the city of San Francisco. Richter knew he had to wait, if only a little while. Twenty men would not take the city. Nor could a few hundred. Others were joining him as the breach was widened, but it would be a while before he had an attack force. He laughed as he saw that Hutier was joining them. The old general was out of shape and breathing heavily. His once immaculate uniform was filthy, but he was grinning happily.
“Excellent work, Richter. You will be promoted and given a medal.”
“Thank you, sir, but it was all your idea. The men really executed it.”
“No modesty, please. Now, let us gather a force and head to San Francisco. Great God, we have waited so long for this. With a little bit of luck, we will have supper in the officers’ club at their Presidio. Perhaps General Liggett will join us, eh?”
Richter grinned impishly. “Perhaps we can serve him humble pie.”
CHAPTER 23
Admiral Hipper was not a coward, so it galled him to place his flagship, the mighty Bayern, fifth in the line of ships steaming towards the Golden Gate and the confines of San
Francisco Bay. It galled him, but it was necessary. The American shore batteries would be strong and deadly as the ships passed through the narrow confines of the curiously named Golden Gate.
The Nassau and Posen would lead. They were older and had smaller guns than the other ships. They would be the sacrificial lambs or “forlorn hopes” whose job was to duel with the shore batteries and destroy them. If they were sunk or damaged, so be it. It would be a bitter price, but far less than losing the Bayern. All ten German battleships were present, but Hipper had to keep in mind the fact that there were three American battleships loose in the Pacific. He would need the Bayern’s fifteen-inch guns if they should show up.
Equally perturbing was the fact that the British squadron under Beatty had also left Puget Sound. It was presumed that they were en route to their base at Hong Kong, but then came the word that a second large British detachment had sailed from Hong Kong and was on its way God only knew where. A rendezvous with Beatty? If so, why?
The remaining German ships off Puget Sound had gotten a measure of revenge. With all the capital ships gone and her forts without guns, a handful of cruisers and destroyers had entered the sound and bombarded Seattle’s waterfront, causing extensive damage and large fires. Explosions were noted by the German captains and they could only have been ammunition stored for shipment south to the Americans in San Francisco.
Gunfire brought his attention back to reality. The Posen and Nassau had begun dueling with the Yank guns as they advanced. Splashes near the warships lifted water high and the Germans were able to estimate their weight. Twelve-inch and eight-inch guns were the largest and there were more of the sixes, especially firing down from Alcatraz Island.
The spacing between ships was greater than he would have liked, but he was acutely aware that his lead ships might be hit and disabled, and a ship dead in the water was a collision danger. His ships needed room to maneuver.
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