“I am honored,” said Hutier who currently commanded a small corps in Mackenson’s army. Taking over from von Seekt would give him almost an independent command.
Honored but not surprised, Hutier thought. Von Seekt, a solid and professional senior staff officer had requested a field command and been given it. He’d been in charge of the two division corps moving up the California coast and, until a few days ago, had been doing a credible job. However, he had stopped short at the Salinas River and hesitated to cross it until he’d brought up boats and heavy artillery. This delay had taken the better part of a week. The crown prince, on the other side of the mountains, had no reason to doubt the need for the halt until it was pointed out that the river was only about a hundred yards wide and could have been waded. Von Seekt quickly became the butt of numerous jokes from both the Germans and the Americans; thus, his “promotion” to Berlin.
“There are those who think I am too cautious,” the prince said, “and they are at least partly right. I am seriously constrained by the fact that my army must be fed and equipped and that those supplies must come a very great distance. And we all know that a defeat on the field could be catastrophic; hence my desire to progress slowly and cautiously. Although,” he shook his head and laughed, “not quite as cautiously as von Seekt.”
The prince rose and stood before a map. “We are now only a hundred miles from San Francisco and what the Americans are developing into a formidable series of defenses, and those defenses must be taken. General Hutier, you have quite a reputation. It is said you are aggressive and wish to strike, like a panther. Correct?”
Hutier smiled at the compliment. “Indeed, sir.”
“They say you have devised a way of infiltrating enemy lines and bypassing strongpoints, which will enable you to pierce Liggett’s works.”
“I am confident the tactics will succeed.”
The prince was pleased. “I wish to rein in your predatory impulses until the right time, which will be when we attack San Francisco. Until that time I wish you to curb your ambitions and coordinate with the armies moving inland along the Great Valley. When the time comes, your corps may just be reinforced into an army, and become the spearpoint which we will use to kill the Americans. Until then, we must all restrain our impulses to take precipitous actions against Liggett’s army, however tempting some targets may be.”
“How large do you estimate that army, sir?”
“According to our intelligence experts, Liggett has approximately fifty thousand, but most of them are still poorly trained and even more poorly armed. The destruction of the last bridge to Seattle was a devastating blow and one which will cripple them. They will have some advantage by being in defensive positions, which is why you will be needed to rupture those defenses.”
“I’m honored and gratified for your confidence in me, sir,” Hutier said softly. He was barely able to hold back his emotions. “I will not fail you or Germany.”
“Until the happy day that we can bring this campaign to its ultimate conclusion, Hutier, I must be cognizant that we are halfway around the world from Germany. In the last war, if I needed reinforcements, six divisions would be put on trains and be in the lines in a matter of days. Now it would take six or more months to get them to California and then I would be unable to feed and supply them. Therefore, I must constantly remind myself that we must fight with what we have, and not what we wish we had. Some additional forces are en route, but not in great numbers. We have three divisions in Hanoi, but they are to be used to take Hawaii and the Philippines if the Americans do not see reason.”
He declined to add that the German force would not leave Indo-China until the American Navy had at least been contained. There had been too many sinkings by submarines and now by American light cruisers working as surface raiders.
The crown prince stood, and Hutier followed quickly. The meeting was coming to an end. “Good luck, von Hutier. We will need you in the coming weeks.”
CHAPTER 13
“Those look like pie tins,” Tovey said genially to a Marine Sergeant named Daly. The rugged Irishman grinned.
“These helmets protect my head a lot better than that bad excuse for a cowboy hat you’re wearing, General.”
Tovey laughed. Lejeune now had seven thousand Marines in the lines around San Antonio and, so far, the Mexicans hadn’t been able to make a dent in them. Word had it that Mexican President Carranza himself had come up from Mexico City to see San Antonio fall and was extremely angry that it hadn’t happened yet.
Even though they were holding out, Tovey was still worried about the ultimate outcome of the fighting. San Antonio was virtually surrounded. Carranza poured more and more men into taking the city and the Alamo.
Lejeune slid in beside Tovey. Their command trench was only fifty yards behind the main American trenches and some would argue they were way too close to the front lines. Others would argue that there wasn’t all that much to the defenses and that almost everything had become the front lines.
Mexican artillery, never very good or numerous, opened up and a number of shells landed near them. Everyone prudently kept their heads down and, as debris rained on them, Tovey began to wonder if his men shouldn’t get helmets, too. Sergeant Daly read his mind.
“See what I mean, General?”
Tovey shook the dirt from his campaign hat. “Up yours, Sergeant Daly.”
“Here they come,” someone yelled, followed by, “Oh Jesus, look at them all!”
From everywhere they could see, great waves of humanity poured out of the Mexican lines and rushed towards them. The Mexicans yelled and screamed while officers waved swords and pistols, urging them on.
Rifle and machine-gun fire from the Americans cut huge swaths in the Mexicans, but they kept coming, filling the places of the dead. They reached the barbed wire. Men with cutters worked frantically and brave Mexican soldiers used their bodies to crush down the wire. It worked. First in a trickle and then in a flood, the Mexicans poured through, screaming hatred and shooting wildly.
Firing was almost at point-blank range. Daly glared at Lejeune. “Begging both the generals’ pardon, but I don’t much feel like dying in no fucking hole in the ground.”
“Fucked if I do either,” said Tovey as he lurched out of the trench and headed forward.
Daly leaped across the main American trench and waved his rifle over his head. “Come on, you sons of bitches. You want to live forever?”
Marines and Texans climbed out of the trenches and, bayonets fixed, advanced slowly towards the Mexicans.
The lead Mexicans were shocked to see the thin line of Americans coming at them, their faces contorted in fury. Their slight hesitation was fatal. The Americans fired once more at point-blank range, dropping the Mexicans into more piles of dead and dying, and then took them with the bayonet.
The Mexicans were not used to bayonets, and had little training with the primitive but psychologically fearsome weapon. When confronted with a bayonet charge, most reasonable men will look for ways to get themselves elsewhere, and the Mexicans were no exception. Those in front who’d survived the withering rifle fire either hacked futilely with their own bayonets or tried to get away. However, the press of humanity pushing behind them wouldn’t let them retreat. Many of the Mexicans turned on their American tormenters and fought back desperately while others tried to claw their way back to safety.
Tovey’s bayonet caught in a Mexican’s chest and he lost his rifle. He pulled out his Bowie knife and his revolver and began to shoot and stab. It was nothing more than a gigantic bar brawl with thousands of Mexicans and Americans literally at each other’s throats. Tovey’s revolver was soon empty and he used it as a club. His knife sliced flesh every time he moved it. A Mexican screamed in his face and Tovey rammed the knife through the man’s throat. Tovey was knocked down and jabbed the knife upwards into a Mexican’s groin. The Mexican screamed like a burning cat.
Finally, it was too much for the Mexicans. The Mexican
front lines, now thoroughly fought out, managed to bull their way through the rear ranks who promptly realized that the day was over. As Tovey and Lejeune watched, exhausted and incredulous, the Mexican host pulled back. The thin American lines were much thinner and everyone was covered with blood. Lejeune was nursing a sliced shoulder and someone had shot Tovey in the leg. He could barely stand. It didn’t look like an artery’d been hit, though, so he thought he might live.
Lejeune looked at the carnage. A few feet in front of him, the bodies were piled three and four deep and not all were Mexicans. Some of the Americans had started looking for survivors, or at least pulling their own dead back from the grisly field.
“We’ve won,” Tovey said. “But I’m gonna guess we’ve lost half our men.”
“Easily,” replied Lejeune. He’d taken a rifle butt in the jaw and talking was painful but necessary. “But they won’t try this again. Carranza will have his men finish surrounding us and take us from all sides. Tomorrow at the earliest.”
“Then we’d all better hope that the rest of your plan shakes out. And by the way, where the hell is Daly?”
“Right here,” Daly said. His uniform was almost totally covered in blood and he looked like he’d fallen into a vat of red paint. Otherwise he didn’t seem hurt and was grinning widely.
“Wasn’t that a helluva battle, General Lejuene, sir, and respects to you too, General Tovey. I would say we kicked the Mexicans’ asses right up between their ears.”
* * *
Trains, trains, and more trains. However, there was no more riding across the country in reasonably comfortable passenger cars that had seats and windows and johns.
At Corpus Christi, Tim Randall’s unit had disembarked and switched over to a freight train. Twenty men and all their supplies were jammed into a freight car and the train seemed to have scores of freight cars. And it was headed west, not south.
It could have been worse, Tim reminded himself. He’d seen some flatcars with soldiers sprawled on them. At least the boxcar kept them out of most of the weather and there wasn’t much danger of falling off.
His platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Alfred Taylor, was with him in the car, a mixed blessing at best. The men didn’t feel they could relax with an officer so close and the lieutenant was not the type to let down his hair or get familiar with the men.
Tim thought the lieutenant was all right. Maybe twenty-two, but looking fourteen, and with a degree in philosophy from Harvard, which made him officer material as far as the Army’s standards were concerned. So far he hadn’t done anything stupid, nor had he done anything to endear him to his men or make them want to follow him in battle. Tim sighed. He wondered if his squad would follow him when the time came.
Tim knew his men’s names, but that was about it. Sergeant Smith had given him one last piece of advice before Tim had departed from Dix. He said don’t ever get too close to men you might have to send out to die. Learn their names so you can yell at them, but don’t learn about their families, their sweethearts, their kids, their old widowed mothers, or their ambitions. You do that, Smith said, and it’ll tear you apart when they die, or worse, you’ll sit back and play God when it comes time to send men out to do something dangerous. For instance, Smith said, you might be tempted to send a bachelor out on patrol and keep the man with two kids safe.
First, Smith continued, it wasn’t fair to the single guy, and, second, maybe the married guy is the best man for the job, or it’s just his turn and the men will hate you for showing favoritism. Either way, keep the men’s personal lives at arm’s length. After losing Wally, Tim thought he understood.
Soon enough they would find out how good they were. While the Fifth and Sixth Marine Regiments, added to the original Texas garrison, held on to a perimeter in San Antonio. The rest of the division, along with two others, was racing along the rail lines to the east of San Antonio. Racing was a relative term. With so many trains lined up, speed was not possible.
But they did not go all the way to San Antonio. The trains stopped in the middle of the night and soldiers poured out, confused and lost. Officers checked all their weapons and the empty trains moved again towards the west while the men formed up and began marching south. A lucky few rode in trucks or Ford cars, but those were senior officers and the vast majority walked. A half-dozen armored trucks accompanied them. Machine guns poked reassuringly from the sides and front of the strange, sinister-looking vehicles.
Tim thought he saw Pershing in a staff car but wasn’t certain. Some soldiers bitched, but Tim thought it felt good to be walking. It wasn’t very hot yet and someone had used his head in planning the march. There were stations with food and water along the way. There weren’t many towns, but in what little ones there were, people came out with more food and water. At the very least they waved. Some had American flags and one confused old man waved the Confederate flag and loudly thanked Jesus that Lee had finally arrived.
“Where we at?” he asked an older woman who was maybe fifty.
“You’re close on to Pleasanton,” she said and Tim grinned. She had no teeth.
“Sir, where and what the hell is Pleasanton?” Tim asked the lieutenant who just shrugged. He wasn’t going to admit he didn’t know squat either. Officers didn’t admit ignorance.
In the distance and to their right, lights flickered and they could hear thunder. It was an artillery duel and the dramatic sights and sounds sobered them. They were going into battle.
Suddenly, rifle fire erupted in front of them. They all dropped to the ground until the lieutenants and sergeants told them to get their asses up and form skirmish lines.
More rifle fire, but it was sporadic and they began to feel foolish about hitting the ground until a soldier screamed and fell over, clutching his leg. He was followed by another and another. My God, Tim thought in disbelief, someone’s shooting at me.
“Forward! Faster!” Lieutenant Taylor yelled and, all along the line, men began to run. The armored trucks fanned out with them and machine guns started blazing away.
There was a cluster of buildings to their front and Tim saw people running around. Christ, they were Mexican soldiers. Lieutenant Taylor ordered a halt and his men loosed a ragged volley at the enemy. Now it was the Mexicans turn to drop and writhe and scream.
Without further orders, the Americans rushed forward, the armored trucks first and then the infantry. In seconds, they were in between the buildings and the Mexicans were running for their lives. There hadn’t been very many of them in the first place, and some were trying to surrender, while others lay on the ground, dead or wounded. Tim looked at a man who had half his head blown away. He wanted to puke, but held it down. Some of his men didn’t.
They pushed through to what had been a clearing. It was piled high with wooden cases and barrels. They’d just grabbed a Mexican supply dump.
“Burn everything,” came the order and, like little kids, the Yanks complied until the field was an inferno with flames soaring hundreds of feet in the air. Some idiot set fire to ammo which exploded in a massive fireworks display. A couple of Americans got hurt, but not seriously.
Taylor grabbed Tim’s arm. “Get your men organized. The whole company’s heading north, to San Antonio.”
“Just the company, Lieutenant?” Tim asked, not fully comprehending.
Taylor laughed and Tim began to think that the boy lieutenant was okay. “The company, the battalion, the regiment, the division. The whole fucking army’s heading north to San Antonio.”
The men nearby roared their approval and Tim wondered just when, where and why Harvard philosophy majors learned to use the word “fuck” in their philosophical conversations.
* * *
“Christ, it stinks,” Tovey said. No one argued. The recent additions to the piles of dead had joined the earlier piles of bloated, maggot-filled corpses. Vast clouds of flies periodically erupted for unknown reasons and then landed to continue their obscene dinner. Crows were having a feast.
<
br /> “Now somebody tell me what all that smoke is?” Tovey asked casually. Nobody answered. His men knew their general was talking to himself again. It looked like the pillars of smoke were at least five miles away and, whatever it was, the Mexicans were strangely quiet.
General Lejeune ran up, grinning. “Get your men up and moving, General Tovey. We got a linkup to make.”
The survivors of the battles for San Antonio moved forward slowly and tentatively. Crossing the killing field was difficult. First they weren’t certain they wouldn’t be shot at, and second, there was so much human debris that it was almost impossible not to step on something soft that squished horribly when a boot landed on it. Worst were the severed limbs and disconnected skulls that stared up at them. Tovey gagged. He’d killed men before, but this was murder on a massive scale.
Gradually, the numbers of Mexican dead dwindled, the stench faded, and it became apparent that nobody was shooting at them. Only a handful of Mexicans remained, and most of them were wounded. They held up their arms pathetically and cried out that they were surrendering.
They could hear small-arms fire in the distance. They continued to move on, now even more cautiously. They could see large numbers of Mexicans approaching, but in disarray. The firing was getting closer and it dawned on them that the Mexicans were being herded north and towards them.
On seeing the Americans, the Mexican host halted. Somebody in the Mexican ranks yelled an order and they all threw down their weapons.
Lejeune slapped Tovey on the shoulder. “Let’s get all these people organized. Pershing’s got plans for us.”
“Tell me, General.”
“South to the border at Laredo, and then God only knows where.”
* * *
For President Lansing and his key advisors, it was all too easy to focus on the war with Germany and Mexico and ignore what was happening in the rest of the world.
“Mr. President, there are events occurring in Russia that are of great interest,” reported Secretary of State Hughes. “The Bolsheviks have announced that the Tsar has been captured, although it does seem that the rest of his family escaped and are en route to safety in Berlin. If true, it is a tragedy for the Imperial cause. However, the presence of his family in Germany will ensure that the dynasty will continue.”
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