Sims was intrigued. “Indulge me, Colonel.”
Mitchell spoke for only a moment. Sims paled. He was horrified, in part because he was a sailor and what Mitchell was proposing was a sailor’s worst nightmare scenario. What Mitchell was thinking was an abomination that might even be against the Geneva Convention and the rules of war. But what good were rules in time of war? The enemy possessed flamethrowers, poison gas, and had brutally invaded his country and terrorized American citizens. Rules of war? To hell with the rules of war.
“And what will you call this monstrosity?”
“Operation Firefly.”
Sims pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Please work on it.”
CHAPTER 10
Marcus Tovey surveyed his empire. It wasn’t much, just flat, scarred land and a handful of ruined buildings. Nothing much he could build a strong defensive position on, but somehow he had. Several Mexican attacks had been beaten off, as attested to by the bloated and stinking corpses frying in the Texas sun. But now the Mexican’s dander was up and they were massing to his front. His scouts said it was a full division, more than enough to overwhelm him.
The fifteen hundred men in his command called him “general,” even though nobody had actually authorized his promotion. It had just happened and he thought it amusing. Other senior officers had either gotten themselves killed or had proven themselves inadequate under the circumstances. Those had either run off or been chased away by their own men. As a result, Tovey accumulated men who’d survived other battles and inferior commanders. They seemed to welcome his commonsense approach to fighting.
His approach was quite simple—all Marcus Tovey did was kill Mexicans. Well, not all Mexicans. Even he’d had to agree that there were good Mexicans and his command now included two companies of them. Some of his Mexicans were refugees who rightly thought that the current Mexican government wanted to murder them, and some were “Tejuanos,” which meant they’d been born in Texas of Mexican parents. It also meant they were American citizens. Tovey had never given a thought to their loyalties and now realized that most of them considered themselves as American as he. To his surprise, he’d even developed friendships with some of them.
After one particularly nasty skirmish, Governor Hobby had stopped by to congratulate Tovey and his men on their gallant stand. Tovey’d smiled and accepted the accolades, but thought that the governor was an utter idiot. It had been a gallant stand, but it had resulted in yet another retreat. A few more gallant stands and Mexico will have taken back all of Texas. Fuck Hobby, he thought and spat on the ground. And fuck the Texas government’s attitude that they didn’t need help from the Federal government in Washington. Hell, Tovey thought with a laugh, if he’d take help from tame Mexicans, he’d take help from Washington. He’d heard rumors that things were changing in this regard, but rumors didn’t put more soldiers in the trenches.
The really bad news about being a general meant he couldn’t be in the front lines with his men where the fighting was. He understood and accepted the logic. He had to command and, in order to command, he had to know what was going on in all parts of his command. Anyone in the front lines of a fight sometimes didn’t know what was happening ten feet away. Just as significant, generals in the front lines had a nasty habit of getting killed and leaving their armies leaderless at a critical time.
Tovey was in a secondary trench line, a quarter of a mile behind the primary one. He had telephone and telegraph contact with his other units in front of him, but wires had a bad habit of breaking or being cut. He prayed that one particular wire stayed intact for the duration of the day. He’d buried it deep enough so that—please God—it would be safe.
For dependable communications, he would depend on runners, flags, and flares. If he’d had pigeons or trained dogs, he’d have used them as well.
Six thousand Mexicans opposed his fifteen hundred men. A mile behind him lay the ruins of the Alamo. The Goddamned Mexicans had spite-shelled the sacred place and now it was a small pile of rubble. He wanted to cry. Better, he wanted to kill more Mexicans.
Trumpets blared to his front, and six thousand Mexicans surged out of their trenches, screaming as they ran towards the Texan trenches. Covey’s fifteen hundred opened fire with their rifles, and the couple of Gatling guns they’d acquired spat rapid-fire death as well. The Gatlings had been ancient a generation ago, and there was very little ammunition. Covey’s two cannon opened fire. They had been taken from an armory and were pre-Spanish-American war vintage. Again, there was very little ammunition, so the gunners fired slowly and carefully. A home-made mortar dropped shells on the advancing Mexicans, but quickly ran out of ammo.
Mexicans fell by the score, by the hundreds, but still came on. As before, he had to give them credit for bravery. They were closing in on his first trench line. They would overwhelm it. They reached the barbed wire and paused. The wire was much thicker and deeper than before, but this time the Mexicans had learned. They used cutters and were delayed only momentarily. As the cutters eliminated the wire, other Mexicans lay down withering covering fire. Damned Mexicans had learned a lot, he thought. But so too had his men. They were well dug in and firing slits were well sited. The slow, the dumb, and the unlucky on both sides were long dead. What was left was as mean as a rattlesnake with the clap.
“Pull them back,” he ordered. In a moment, his men left their trenches and retreated in good order, bringing their equipment and their wounded and even some of their dead. Good, he thought.
With a wild cheer, the Mexicans poured into the abandoned American emplacements. Tovey spat on the ground. They would not attack again, at least not for a while. They had expected a much tougher fight for Tovey’s trenches, and Tovey had bet there were no plans for a further advance. The Mexicans would stay put for a while and get themselves organized for the next push. At least that was what a Tejuano informer had said, and so far, the man was right.
More Mexicans entered the trenches, which were now filled with humanity. The Mexican flag was planted and the enemy cheered it loudly. They thought they’d won the day. Like hell.
Tovey turned to his officers. He hoped that one line buried so deep was still intact. If it wasn’t, he was going to look like a total asshole.
“Do it,” he ordered.
A sergeant turned a handle and pushed it down. For a second that lasted an eternity, nothing happened. Then explosions rippled down the line of the trenches now jammed with Mexican soldiers, detonating the dynamite so lovingly placed there the day before. Explosions became eruptions as smoke and debris, much of it human, filled the sky. Then there was silence, followed by the sounds of screams. Waves of surviving Mexicans ran away, retreating in panic to their old positions, while wounded men started to crawl back.
Tovey grinned. He estimated he’d just killed at least a thousand of the Mexicans in front of him and wounded a helluva lot more. That was one Mexican division that wouldn’t be doing much fighting for a while.
A courier from Governor Hobby’s staff stood behind him, white-faced with shock. “What the hell’d you expect?” Tovey snarled, “A fucking beauty pageant?” He had little use for Hobby’s staffers. Most were a bunch of pale-faced young pussies back from college out east.
The courier gulped. “No sir, just some news. Governor Hobby is relinquishing command to General Pershing.”
Pershing for Hobby? Now that was good news indeed, Tovey thought. That was as good a trade as Ty Cobb for a used jock, except that Hobby wasn’t as good as a used jock. Tovey had ridden with Pershing against Villa. He thought that Pershing was a pompous little bastard, but a damned good general. Hell, that news was almost as good as killing a thousand Mexicans.
* * *
Elise carefully fed Josh his Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup as he sat on the couch. He was totally relaxed and happy as a clam. His boots were off and his uniform jacket was draped across a chair.
They both knew he could feed himself fairly well now, but she wanted to pamper him a
nd he rather liked the idea. The wound in his shoulder had left his arm weak, but the doctors assured him that much of his strength would return in time and he could return to active duty. Elise wanted him to get stronger, but active duty? No more, especially if it meant going out to sea to fight the Germans. Two Purple Hearts were more than enough. If his wounds kept him land bound that would be fine. She thought of him as more of a thinker than a fighter anyhow.
He had left the hospital and returned to junior officers’ quarters at the Presidio. There was no privacy there, of course, so Elise had taken him to the apartment she shared with Kirsten. If any of the other women in the building thought his presence was immoral or scandalous, they kept to themselves. After all, Josh walked with a crutch and one arm was in a sling. The two Purple Hearts were pinned on his chest. If Elise wanted to bring him home for lunch, the resident busybodies probably thought he was too helpless to take advantage of frail little Elise.
Little Elise, however, did not think of herself as frail. She thought that others would be surprised at how strong she was, both mentally and physically. Perhaps she’d never be able to stab somebody in the hand like Kirsten had done, but who knew?
She took the soup away. She didn’t offer him any more. He’d had three bowls. “I’d say getting away from hospital food is good for you,” she said with mocking primness.
“As a term, hospital food is an oxymoron. You are spoiling me, you know.”
“Do you mind?”
“Not for a moment,” he said and took her hand. The crutch was on the floor and the sling was on top of it. He tried not to bother with them anymore, but Elise had suggested the crutch to impress her neighbors.
“You know I am going back to work tomorrow,” he said. “Once more I’ll be a very junior member of the admiral’s staff.” And I’ll be able to see you every day, he thought.
“Nothing wrong with that, and don’t forget to wear your medals. It’ll remind them that you’ve done your duty.” Admiral Sims was insistent on that matter. Medals, especially combat related, would be worn.
Elise sat on the couch beside him. He was very much aware of her clean and fresh scent and the warmth of her presence. She wore a stylish dress that would have been considered shockingly short back where he came from. Here in San Francisco, it was normal and he liked it.
“Josh Cornell, it has occurred to me that life has become intense, violent, and potentially short. Therefore, I would like to ask you a very blunt question.”
“Go ahead,” he answered, puzzled.
“Do you like me? And not as a friend, of course, but as a woman.”
“Absolutely and both. I think you are a remarkable and lovely woman, and I’ve wondered if you truly like me, or if you are caring for me out of compassion.”
“Don’t worry about that,” she said and slid across his lap. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
“Not at all,” he answered. It did hurt, but only a little and he’d be damned if he’d admit it. She might move away if he did and he loved the feel of her against him.
“I won’t break if you kiss me.”
He grinned, “You certain?”
They kissed tenderly and gently. She pulled away and looked at him, a small smile on her lips.
“Josh, I’m old-fashioned, but not totally so. Right now I am a virgin and will still be so when you leave this room. Do you understand that?”
He nodded. It was suddenly hard to speak. She unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. His undershirt followed. His chest was pale and her fingers lingered over the scars on his shoulder. She kissed where the stitches had left their mark. She couldn’t help tears from falling onto his chest. Damn Germans.
With shaking hands, he removed her jacket and blouse, then slid her undergarments down to her waist. Her breasts were small but lovely and he cupped them, caressing her nipples with his fingers and then his lips. She smiled and bit her lip. Farm boys weren’t all that innocent, she thought.
“Remember, we’re not going all the way,” she said in a whisper.
“I understand.”
“But if you’re a very good boy, I’ll make sure we both have a wonderful afternoon.”
He laughed, “Promise?”
“Absolutely,” she said as she let her tongue explore his ear.
Deep down, he wondered what would happen if Kirsten Biel chose to come home. He decided he didn’t care. He also thought he heard thunder. Or was it his heart beating?
* * *
Luke returned the salute of an enlisted man and walked over to where Kirsten stood. They were outside the Civic Center where civilians continued to be processed for ration cards.
Kirsten was taking a break. As supervisor of the group of clerks, she now rarely dealt directly with their customers. Her job was to resolve problems, and she generally did that by issuing a temporary card. Err on the side of mercy was her motto and nobody argued with her, although some of her coworkers cheekily made comments about making a stab at solving their problems.
A heavily-bandaged Will and his two companions had departed north on the first train the military could get them on. Luke had wanted to draft them into the Army, but decided against it. He thought it might be detrimental to the Army’s morale to associate with dumb shits like them. Will and his chums had managed to become the laughing stock of San Francisco. Their replacements in refugee work had all been women which had brought an element of compassion to the office. She had to admit the work wasn’t all that hard and helping people was indeed rewarding.
For once the sun was shining brightly and there were few clouds in the sky. It was easy to forget there was a war on, and that the Germans were approaching San Luis Obispo, opposed by only two small American infantry divisions.
There’d been another major change as a result of her confrontation with Will. The entire area was now under martial law. General Liggett had said the abuse of refugees was the final straw. Admiral Sims had concurred. Mayor Rolph had fumed and raged, some said he’d literally stomped his feet, but to no avail. Liggett was too tired of bureaucratic incompetence to much care what Rolph thought.
It should have happened long ago, Luke thought as he approached Kirsten. She was smiling. “And what makes you so happy today?” he asked.
“Among other things, a blue sky and a handsome man to share it with. That and the fact that the number of refugees seems to be dwindling, which makes my work so much easier. Of course, the general will likely put us all on trains when the last refugee departs.”
“I hope not. I would miss you terribly.”
Although a part of his mind said he was being selfish for wanting her near, she would be far safer up north and out of the way of the approach of the Kaiser’s legions. But then he recalled how catastrophically her last journey had turned out and wondered just what was the right thing to do.
“I am also wondering just what is going on right now in the apartment,” she said and briefly explained that Elise had brought Josh over for “lunch.”
Luke chuckled and thought of the quiet young couple. “Still waters do run deep, don’t they? Want to just happen to drop in on them?”
She punched him on the arm. “We’ll do no such thing. Let the young lovers have their moments.”
“And when will we have ours?”
She took his hand, “Soon. Maybe someday very soon. Just don’t push. I’m very fond of you and you are the only reason I’m staying here, but I don’t want to rush into anything.”
Luke understood and was somewhat satisfied. He would take things one step at a time. He heard thunder and looked up. It couldn’t be raining, could it?
* * *
The flight of fifty Gotha V bombers was escorted by a score of Albatros fighters. The bombers came in at a height of ten thousand feet. They were unopposed. No American planes flew to meet them and no anti-aircraft guns could reach them. A few machine-gun batteries did open up, but were quickly silenced by their commanders. They were wasting ammunition shooting at
targets that high and they weren’t accurate in the first place. Worse, the shells had to come down and, like the proverbial arrow, who knew on what and where. Shooting at the Gothas was an exercise in futility.
As Luke and Kirsten watched, the bombs started to fall, like dropping fruit, straight down and into the heart of the city to the bay side of the Presidio. They instinctively ducked as the explosions began even though no bombs had yet fallen anywhere near them. Ironically, it was the part of the city burned by the fire of 1906 that was being bombed.
Several bombers separated from the main force and dropped their loads on coastal batteries.
Kirsten grabbed his arm. “Look.”
A handful of American planes had begun to attack the bomber formation. It was a futile gesture. They were swarmed over by the escorting Albatros fighters. A couple of American planes spiraled downward, smoke trailing behind them, while the survivors raced for safety.
But, out of luck or skill, one of the bombers was hit and began to smoke and lose altitude. People on the street cheered the sight and both Luke and Kirsten joined in. The crippled plane was angling for a landing in the bay. Luke quickly realized that the military had to get to the wreckage first.
The remaining bombers and fighters were departing. It had taken but a few seconds for them to deposit their loads. Luke left Kirsten and ran to the waterfront. A Navy launch was just arriving. He hailed it and was soon on his way.
The wreckage was a couple of miles offshore and sinking slowly when they arrived. A couple of private boats were already there. Damn, he thought.
“Private boats get back,” he called out. “This is military property.”
A grizzled seaman looked at him. “Kiss off, soldier. I found it and I’m keeping whatever I want. Salvage, it’s called.”
1920: America's Great War Page 19
