Away from the coast, they changed their story. Now they were mining engineers headed into the mountains to find leftover traces of gold and other minerals for investors out east. Again, nobody noticed or cared, because it wasn’t at all unusual. People were always looking for unfound remnants of the Gold Rush of 1849, or perhaps even a new mother lode. Local Californians shrugged and smiled at the new treasure hunters, wished them luck, and privately thought they were insane.
One storeowner allowed that there had been a number of young German men coming into California recently. He’d been told that they were students researching the history of Spanish missions. Wulfram had smiled in what he hoped was an engaging manner. He said that California was such a lovely state and had such potential that there might soon be many more Germans entering the area. He did not add that they would be part of the German Army.
After adding horses and mules to their party, the Germans headed east. The weapons they carried excited no curiosity. After all, they were going into the rugged mountains where bad people and the shattered remnants of the Indian community still roamed and wouldn’t hesitate to steal or even kill if they saw weakness.
The Sierra Nevada range was the first they saw. It was impressive but the Rockies beyond awed them with their immensity and their grandeur. Wulfram had seen and climbed the Alps and considered the Rockies to be even more impressive. He ached for the chance to climb these new challenges. The soldier in him recognized the obvious—given the right circumstances, the mountain ranges could be a virtually impregnable barrier to an army advancing from the east. It was his job to begin that process.
Wulfram found it tempting to dwell on the mountains’ majesty, but he had his duty. Where others saw beauty, he saw trestles, bridges, and vulnerability. Only a half dozen rail lines connected California with the rest of the United States and they all ran through the mountain passes that were already filling with snow. His task, and that of the other teams he knew to be searching the other passes, was to destroy those trestles and bridges and sever the connection between California and the rest of the United States.
Whatever they destroyed could be rebuilt but, with the weather turning bad, Wulfram knew that reconstruction would not even begin for a number of months. By that time it would be too late.
As Wulfram and his men headed east through the mountains, they blew up trestles and bridges with cold efficiency. The first was a small bridge that let them test their skills. The explosion was loud and the bridge crumpled and dropped into a creek, a total ruin, as Wulfram’s men cheered. Better, they had used their limited supply of dynamite sparingly and skillfully. Wulfram was not a murderer, so he left a warning in plain sight that the bridge was out. As they continued their work, he continued to leave signs. He hoped the American engineers driving the trains would get the message. He also hoped no train would come from the east without first seeing that something was terribly wrong.
They trekked eastward, destroying bridges and cutting telegraph and telephone lines. The weather was getting steadily worse. Large wet flakes of snow covered the ground, and collected on their hats and coats. Walking was becoming difficult, and the horses were struggling through the deep slop. They were running out of time. Soon they would have to concern themselves with their own survival, and not about any rail lines.
Wulflram was a man with a sense of duty. He needed to make sure he’d done his part in isolating California from the rest of the United States. Before the inevitable happened and they had to give in to the weather, he hoped for a target that would really cripple this particular line through the mountains.
And there it was. He gazed in wonder at a cut made in the side of a mountain to accommodate the tracks and realized the potential for long-term destruction. Where a bridge could be rebuilt, a mountain could not. A new cut would have to be made, carved like this one into the living rock. Certainly not impossible, since the Americans had done it, but definitely an awesome project that would take a considerable amount of time and resources. If the cut was destroyed, it would be a long time before trains came through this section of the mountains.
He placed a good deal of his remaining supply of dynamite into holes drilled below the tracks and into the mountainside. They connected the wiring and retreated to the other side of the steep valley. This would be their last demolition. They would head east and out of the mountains, hopefully to warmer places. His men deserved a respite and so did he.
Wulfram pushed the plunger and a number of explosions erupted in a line along the cut. For a second, nothing seemed to happen; then the entire side of the mountain slide down into the valley. Two hundred yards of track and earth had simply disappeared into the valley below.
He and his men were congratulating themselves when they heard the whistle of a train coming from the east. They stared at each other in surprise and dismay. For safety’s sake they were a couple of hundred yards away from the demolished cut and the intervening terrain was extremely rugged. There was no way they could get to the other side and warn the oncoming train.
The train’s whistle sounded again and this time dramatically closer. Wulfram prayed that it was a freight train, which would lessen the number of innocent lives lost if the engineer couldn’t stop.
It wasn’t. As it rounded the last bend, he saw four passenger cars connected to the coal burning engine and coal car. He was close enough to see people looking out the windows and he swore they were staring at him, damning and accusing him as if they already knew their fate. At nearly the last instant, the engineer saw the danger and slammed on the brakes which let out an obscene screech.
The train shuddered and slowed, and the Germans held their breath, hoping it would stop in time. It almost did. But, slowly, horribly, it reached the break and fell with majestic slowness down into the valley, with the cars tumbling over and over like toys thrown by a demonic child. The sound of the cars crashing and disintegrating was covered by the roar of the of the engine’s boiler exploding. Clouds of white steam and brown clouds of dust surged skyward. Moments later, flames began to flicker from the now silent wreckage.
Wulfram and his men ran down into the valley to rescue as many of the passengers as they could. What they found, however, was a valley strewn with wreckage and mangled corpses. Only a literal handful had survived, and two of those were small children. Wulfram wept as did several of his men.
He gave orders to tap into the telegraph lines and report the “accidental train wreck,” but the lines to the West Coast had already been severed by his men. They sent the message eastward and got a response. Rescuers were on the way, but it would be a long while.
Wulfram made a decision. They would stay with the wreck and the badly injured survivors until rescuers came close enough, then they would head south and try to escape. He didn’t think it would take the Americans very long at all to realize that this was all part of a plan, a pattern.
Wulfram recalled reading that war was hell. He looked at one of the children who stared vacantly at the sky as her life ebbed away. Hell was not the proper word.
CHAPTER 4
Charley and Fred had worked together as customs agents for several years on the border between California and Mexico. Their customs station was slightly east of Tijuana and was lightly used. It was just too easy to bypass. Sometimes, not even the tourists coming back from wild forays into the sin centers of Mexico bothered to stop.
Still, this night had proven even quieter than others. It was as if a curtain had been drawn down, covering Mexico. Nothing unusual in that, they thought. The presence of German soldiers and the simmering fighting south of the border meant that nothing was normal anymore.
Regardless, Charley and Fred didn’t mind the quiet. Although decent guys, they were nearing retirement and weren’t too interested in working hard and generally spent the night reading magazines or playing checkers. Occasionally, one or both would walk outside of their small, kerosene-lamplit shack. Nor was it unknown for them to bring in a bucket o
f beer to make the night more congenial, as they had this time.
Charley nodded to his friend and stepped outside. As a matter of decency, he strode several yards away from the shack to relieve himself, which he did hugely and with a contented sigh.
He was buttoning up when the night sky was split by the insane chatter. Charley quickly recognized it from his days in the National Guard as machine-gun fire. He watched in horror as scores of bullets ripped through the thin wooden walls of the guard shack. What the hell was going on? he wondered. Had Villa’s raiders moved to California? Jesus, and what about poor Fred? A widower, he had recently remarried and had a wife and two kids.
Another burst of gunfire hit the shack, sending splinters of wood flying into the starry sky. The kerosene lamp had tipped over and the wooden building was burning. Charley dropped to the ground and began to crawl towards where his friend was trapped and likely badly hurt.
The sound of horses’ hooves froze him and, a moment later, a long column of horsemen came into view. He recognized them as German Uhlans from the pictures he’d seen. They trooped past the shack in a column of fours, trotting insolently past and into California.
“No,” Charley yelled.
Fred had staggered out of the shack. His clothing was smoldering. He was heading with agonizing slowness towards the riders. Two of the Germans broke out of the column and looked down on Fred, who had raised a bloody arm in supplication.
Charley watched in horror as the two Uhlans ran their lances through Fred’s body. They shook him off like a rag and left him lying by the road. Charley groaned. It didn’t take a genius to realize that his friend and coworker was dead.
More cavalry trotted by, and they were soon followed by quickly marching infantry. Charley wiped tears from his eyes as he wondered what to do. The glow of the fire was protecting him from being seen by the Germans. He took a deep breath and decided he would move a mile or so farther east and then north. He had to find a working telephone or maybe a radio. Somebody must be told what was happening and somebody must know what to do.
* * *
The ringing of firebells had been the decided-upon method of warning all the ranchers and farmers, although everyone acknowledged the method’s shortcomings. So what if the bells do ring, they’d argued, where the hell do we go? If smoke was visible or gunfire could be heard, the answer was easier, but there still had to be a place for everybody to gather, especially if a ranch was under attack. Showing up piecemeal was a recipe for disaster.
They decided on Kirsten’s place since it was roughly in the middle of the Raleigh area. Kirsten reluctantly agreed. She thought it would be nice to know what the problem was and where they might be going before congregating, but she had to admit that it might be expecting too much.
She recalled reading something that the term “firebells in the night” might have been written by Thomas Jefferson and was something about a slave uprising. Of course, they didn’t have slaves in California, although some of the landowners treated their Mexican and occasional Indian workers as little more than slaves, which was the landowners’ loss. She’d found that people—and Mexicans and Indians were people—worked harder, smarter, and better if you treated them with respect and didn’t destroy their pride.
The firebells rang at three in the morning. Kirsten jumped out of bed and looked out her window. Flickering lights glowed off in the distance and she thought she heard thunder. And all of it was coming from the south, the direction of Raleigh and Mexico.
More bells added to the distant din. She dressed quickly, this time in her functional jeans, got her rifle, and went outside to wait. She’d been wearing her late husband’s pajamas, which had scandalized her cousins the first time she’d done it. Not only were they more comfortable than the traditional nightgown, but they reminded her of her husband. Sometimes, she felt she could still sense a hint of the smell of his body, and it then awakened longings.
Her cousin Ella had awakened and said she’d make coffee. Might as well do something, Kirsten thought. Too bad Leonard was spending the night in town. He’d said it was a card game with friends, but Ella thought it was because he’d had a fight with Ella and Leonard just wanted to get drunk. She didn’t think he’d gone there to get laid. There were no hookers that she knew of and there were precious few women in town who weren’t married or who might be interested in Leonard.
In a surprisingly short while, riders began showing up. All eyes were on the south. The thundering seemed to have stopped, but the flickering lights continued. Fire, was the consensus, and it was in Raleigh.
With about a dozen men gathered, Roy Olson took the lead and they headed out. They’d gone only a mile or two in the growing light when they saw a Model T racing towards them and being steered erratically. Leonard, Kirsten thought, and she was right. Her cousin braked the car sharply and nearly fell out.
“The town’s being bombed,” he managed to gasp. He could hardly stand. His eyes were wild and crazy.
Olson glared at him. “You’re drunk. What the hell do you mean? Ain’t no planes bombing anything.”
Leonard returned the glare. “Damn right I’m drunk and maybe the bombing’s coming from cannon and not planes, but Raleigh’s being destroyed. Buildings are being blown up and people are being killed. That and I think I saw soldiers coming up from the border.”
“Mexicans?” asked Olson, slightly abashed. Leonard was indeed drunk but who could deny that something terrible was happening to the town?
“You just wish,” Leonard said. “Naw, I saw those lances and funny headgear silhouetted by the fire. They weren’t greasers, they were Germans.”
* * *
Martel stared at the information on the notes before him. Once was an incident. Twice could be a coincidence. But three times was a pattern and he was looking at a developing pattern. He walked to the base’s telegraph station, made a few inquiries, and confirmed his suspicions. He picked up his notes and went to Colonel Nolan’s office only to be told that the colonel was in conference with General Liggett. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, Luke thought.
An astonished civilian clerk tried to stop him, but Luke ignored him and knocked firmly on the general’s closed door. He entered, closing the door behind him. Let the damn clerk wonder, he thought. He’d find out soon enough. Nolan and Liggett looked up at him in mild surprise.
“You have a good reason for this, I presume,” Nolan said, not ungently.
“General, Colonel, I think it’s beginning.”
Liggett gestured him to sit. “Go on.”
“Sir, there’s a pattern developing. Telegraph and telephone lines are down between here and the east. Also, there are reports that railroad bridges are down on at least three of the tracks connecting us to the rest of the country. My bet is the rest will report they’re out before the day is finished.”
“Conclusion, Luke,” ordered Nolan.
“Sir, I’m sadly confident that German saboteurs are striking as we talk and that they are isolating us from the rest of the United States by destroying the rail lines running eastward. They are also severing communications by cutting telegraph and phone lines. It’s a logical immediate precursor to an actual invasion.”
“Are you certain telegraph lines are down?” Liggett asked.
“Sir, before coming here I checked with our telegraph office and they said they can’t get through to the east. Of course, they said it has happened before and could be the result of the weather, but, coupled with the rail problems, makes me believe the Germans are finally on the move.”
They looked at the map of California that was pinned on the wall. Only six rail lines connected California to the east and two were so close together that they might as well be one. In the south, there was a line running from Yuma, Arizona, but it was so close to the border with Mexico that it would never be of use and would be quickly overrun if the Germans crossed the border.
Farther north, lines ran from Albuquerque and Salt Lake City
to San Francisco, and other lines ran from Salt Lake City and Spokane and over to Portland and Seattle.
There was silence. Liggett finally spoke. “I agree, Lieutenant. It is now time to notify Governor Stephens that his state of California is in terrible jeopardy and that he should call out the Guard.”
“General, will you be informing the naval stations and coastal batteries?” Luke asked.
Liggett chuckled bitterly. “It may be a little too late, Luke. What we were discussing before you barged in was reports that saboteurs have already struck at the Army’s coastal batteries and done a marvelous job of destroying them. Quite a welcoming for Admiral Sims, I dare say.”
Rear Admiral William S. Sims had arrived only the last week as the newly appointed commander of the United States Pacific Fleet, replacing Admiral Hugh Rodman. The sixty-two year old Sims was considered by many to be a genius for his part in developing an electronic range finder that had vastly improved the accuracy of American gunnery. Prior to its development, accuracy had been a joke in the Navy. Ninety-eight per cent of shots fired in the Spanish American War missed their targets entirely. It was even more humiliating when it was realized that the Spanish ships in the Battle of Manila Bay had been anchored. The electronic range finder had greatly resolved the issue. Some people were beginning to call the calculating device a “computer.”
It was also rumored that Sims had angered his superiors for making disparaging comments about draconian cost cutting and the future of battleships, and had been sent away from Washington as a form of penance. It was also understood that this would be Sims last posting before his retirement.
1920: America's Great War Page 6
