At best, therefore, the Gotha raids were nuisances. He didn’t think Liggett would let Ike and him try another raid to destroy them. This time the Germans would have the airstrip well secured.
* * *
D.W. Griffith was ecstatic as he examined the packages before him. “I love you, my fair Elise.”
Elise smiled tolerantly. It was not the first time she’d heard the pun between her name and “Für Elise,” the elegant and delightful solo piano piece by Beethoven. She took it as the compliment it was.
The boxes contained what Griffith craved even more than publicity—film. The war was an insatiable beast and Griffith’s men had been filming anything and everything and sending copies out east via Canadian rail. The rest of the country was now able to view scenes of carnage and destruction, which helped galvanize American attitudes. The films of the burning of Los Angeles and the bombing of San Francisco had outraged the American public. So too had scenes of dead on the battlefield and the badly wounded and terribly maimed young men lying in hospitals.
Griffith had also filmed large numbers of terrified Americans trying to flee north and east. All of these served to fuel American anger.
“David, I sincerely hope you realize that these packages represent ammunition and other war material that didn’t get through.” It was a small lie. The Canadian government wouldn’t let weapons and ammunition be shipped on their neutral railways, but film was allowed.
“I know and please tell both Liggett and Sims that I am profoundly grateful.”
As well you should be, she thought. In a couple of hours she would be with Josh. At least he wasn’t out in a ship or on some secret mission. Today he was involved in something to do with naval construction.
* * *
How to hide an elephant in a small room, was the question. The answer was simple. You didn’t. Admiral Sims had reluctantly come to the conclusion that he’d made a mistake; ergo, he would have to own up to it. The elephant was just too big to hide.
Having his few big naval guns pointing out to the Pacific would do no good whatsoever in stopping the Germans from crashing through the Golden Gate and into San Francisco Bay where there would be no American defenses. No, most guns would have to be placed where they could fire directly at the Germans as they attacked the narrow Gate and directly on them if they made it into the bay itself. Once the German fleet was inside the bay, guns pointing out to the Pacific would be useless. A couple would be kept pointing out to the Pacific to keep the Germans honest along with a number of dummy guns, but the rest would be moved.
Even though the guns belonged to the Navy, overland engineering expertise belonged to the army. The chief Army engineer, a genial, ruddy-faced major named Scully, had taken on the obduracy of the challenge with equanimity. Everybody admitted that the easiest way would have been to lower the disassembled guns onto ships by way of cranes. However, that would have enabled to Krauts to see what was up, and might have precipitated an attack.
So that left moving them overland, and Scully happily said it reminded him of what he’d read about the Egyptians building the pyramids. While visiting, Sims overheard the comment and reminded Scully that he didn’t want pyramids, just the damn guns moved. Scully didn’t take Sims’ anger seriously.
Detached from their firing mechanisms and supports, the gun barrels were the major problem—some weighed well over twenty tons.
“Would be nice if we had a railroad,” Scully had mused, “but we don’t.”
The closest thing was the cable-car system and nobody thought the cars and tracks could support the weight of a twelve-inch gun barrel.
Then there were the hills. Scully said the guns could probably be manhandled up, but the thought of trying to control them on the way down was frankly terrifying. Josh concurred. He had a nightmare vision of a gun barrel rolling down Nob Hill and crushing houses, cars, and people in its path.
So that left dragging the damn things over level ground, which is what they did, dragging them down San Francisco’s streets with literally hundreds of soldiers, sailors, and civilian volunteers pulling on control and guide ropes while trucks pulled in tandem.
To add to the difficulty, it all had to be done at night in order to keep German reconnaissance planes from discovering the secret and attacking. German pilots had come to respect the truck-mounted antiaircraft machine guns, but a photo plane didn’t have to fly within their range.
But they did it. Over the course of two nights, eight twelve-inch guns were moved and reassembled in their new sites facing inward onto the bay. Josh had to admit that it was indeed an epic evocative of building the pyramids or, as Scully said, a place in England called Stonehenge.
Dummy guns, consisting of telephone poles painted black, were left in their place to confuse the Germans. Sims congratulated the insufferable Scully, who informed the admiral that it had been a piece of cake and that he should have called on the Army sooner to bail him out of hot water. Sims was too pleased to take offense.
Off in the channel, Josh could see Oley Oldendorf out in his trawler, the very lucky Shark, laying more mines. Oldendorf, now a lieutenant commander, was out sowing his crop of mines almost every day. The Germans were clearly watching but had made little move to interrupt his efforts, except to lob some shells at extreme long range. Josh hoped the threat of mines would at least slow down the Germans.
It was mid-morning when an exhausted and dirty Josh Cornell dragged himself to Elise’s apartment. He’d been given the day off by Sims to rest and cleanup as Josh had given his best pulling on the tow ropes even though his injured shoulder now hurt like the devil. He had no hopes of seeing Elise. She would be at work with Sims. What he really needed was a chance to sleep.
He was just about to use his key on her apartment door when it opened and a smiling Elise stood there, wearing a long blue robe. Her bare feet poked out from under it. He suddenly felt awake and alive.
She grabbed him by the arm. “Come in, you silly boy. You’re dirty and tired and you need little Elise to take care of you.”
* * *
Lew Dubbins awoke with a start. The feel of cold steel against his throat was as great a shock as could be imagined and his bladder almost released. He’d gone to sleep in what he called his spider hole, a narrow slit in the ground hidden from view by a rock overhang and made comfortable by the fact that it was in the shade most of the afternoon. He and the hole were also covered by a blanket. When he peered through the bushes, it also commanded a good view of the Raleigh area.
The pressure of the knife increased and he felt even more extreme pressure to void his bladder. “Don’t talk, don’t move,” a man’s voice hissed. “You understand me? Blink a lot if you do.” Dubbins blinked like a man possessed.
The pressure eased a little. “You’re Dubbins, aren’t you?”
Dubbins nodded. There was no point in denying it. Who the hell else could he be? Olson and the Germans had finally caught him and he was going to hang. He could only hope that he would die bravely. “Who are you?” he managed to croak.
“My name is Joe and I’ll wait to tell you my last name, ’cause you might laugh and then I’ll really have to kill you. You see, I can’t stand people laughing at me. I’m a scout with the U.S. Army.”
Dubbins felt like crying with relief. “Jesus, I’ve been waiting a long time for you guys to come. They killed my brothers and they’re hurting a lot of soldiers down there.” The knife disappeared. “You could have killed me, you know. What if I’d jumped?”
Joe Flower laughed mirthlessly. “I used the blunt edge, you asshole.”
Dubbins turned and saw the grim face of Joe Flower glaring at him. This man is an Indian and very dangerous, he thought. “You here to help the prisoners?”
“No, I’m prospecting for gold and then I’m going to plant cotton,” Flower said. “Yeah, and I hope you’re gonna help me.”
“Can I kill Olson and Steiner?”
“Can’t make any promises,” Joe said, �
��but I’ll do everything I can to make it happen.”
Dubbins had a sudden fear of the two of them taking on the Germans and the Mexicans. “You alone?”
“No.”
Dubbins smiled. “Good. Then let me out of this hole so I can take a piss and I’ll let you in on what’s happening down there. You do know we have someone inside, don’t you?”
Joe Flower did not know that. Something more to let Montoya and the dozen Mexican-American cavalrymen he’d brought in on.
* * *
General Oskar von Hutier watched his men maneuver. The training wasn’t going to be perfect given the limited amount of time he had, but he was confident it would be enough. It had to be. He was thankful that the American Army was so awful. Had it been any better, the combination of good troops and rugged terrain would have either stalled the advance or made it so costly as to be unsustainable.
As it was, climbing up and down the rugged, brush-covered foothills was exhausting his men, and using up food and supplies at an enormous rate. He was thankful also for the fact that the German Navy controlled Los Angeles, which meant a steady stream of ships bringing those badly-needed supplies.
He saw one of his favorite young officers. “I trust all is going well, Captain Richter.”
Captain Horst Richter saluted and grinned. “Very well indeed, General. The Yanks will get a tremendous shock when our storm troopers swarm all over them. I only wish we had started this training so much sooner.”
“So do I, Richter, so do I. But we must make do with what we have. And besides, the Yanks weren’t holding still for us to attack and kill them like we wished.”
“Indeed, sir.” Richter saluted again and the general moved away to watch some other units train themselves to ignore fire and swarm enemy defenses. It was a simple truth that modern soldiers in the defense could lay down such a withering fire that slowly approaching attackers would be cut to pieces. It was also true that attacking soldiers being fired on would very logically go to ground to protect themselves from such a deadly rain of fire.
Thus, it was necessary to move quickly and punch hard at selected points, ignoring strong ones, and rushing through the weak. If it worked, his men would be in the American rear as an unstoppable force.
That is, if it worked.
* * *
Kirsten thought that her work on a ranch had inured her to the sight of blood. As a ranch owner, she’d helped mend the cut flesh and broken bones of her ranch hands. She’d stitched them and splinted them and, while some had complained, none had died. She’d known to use basic sanitation, which was still an undiscovered art in some places.
And of course, she’d helped her husband, Richard, while his infected leg grew gangrenous and caused his death. She cursed the fact that there was no doctor in the vicinity at that time, and that poor stubborn Richard had kept his injury a secret for so long. A bruise was all he’d called it until his leg had swollen up and red lines extended from the “bruise.” When she’d finally gotten him to a hospital in San Diego, the doctors there had amputated the leg, but the infection had already spread too far.
St. Ignatius College, located on the corner of Hayes and Schrader Streets, was the site of the new military hospital. Several of the Jesuits on the faculty had also volunteered and a few even had some medical experience, although informal and from the school of hard knocks.
She was stunned by the sights and smells. Even though so-called experts, including journalists, said that the fighting had barely begun, there were hundreds of casualties in St. Ignatius and elsewhere.
Kirsten’s decision to volunteer had come from the fact that she was no longer needed to distribute ration cards to civilians. Most civilians had departed, leaving San Francisco a garrisoned ghost town. Those few civilians who remained were, like her, part of the war effort.
The first time she’d seen a man disemboweled she’d vomited. Doctor Rossini, the surgeon who headed her group, had congratulated her on being able to make it outdoors before puking on his floor. Since the floor was already covered with blood and dirt, she assumed he was being sarcastic. He wasn’t. Rossini wanted the place clean and, after a brief and terse discussion, cleaning it up was Kirsten’s new job.
Over the next few days, she slowly graduated to getting supplies for the harassed doctors and nurses. When they found that she could keep her lunch down and could both read and follow directions, she was considered an asset. Even the acid-tongued Rossini grudgingly gave her respect.
If Luke was occupied, which was usually the case, she spent her spare time talking to the wounded and comforting the dying. It was a task she hated, but if she could give comfort to someone in agony, or terrified of being a cripple, or, worse, of dying, then it was her duty. She did not quite think of volunteering as an honor, but one other volunteer did.
Rossini came over and grabbed her arm. “I need a nurse and you just volunteered. Congratulations.”
He took her to a surgical table. A young man, he couldn’t have been in his twenties, lay naked on his back and on the table. Another doctor was picking pieces of shrapnel and other debris out of his body. The boy was only marginally unconscious. He groaned and tried to turn, but others held him still.
“Hold this,” Rossini said and handed her a tray. She held it while the doctors dug into the boy’s shattered body and plunked items into it.
Rossini laughed bitterly. “When he really wakes up, he’s going to be in a sea of pain and not realize how lucky he is. He’ll have a ton of sores and scars, but nothing vital was touched. All he has to do is avoid infection.”
“My husband couldn’t do that,” she blurted. “He died of gangrene despite all I and anyone else could do.”
Rossini’s expression softened a little. “I didn’t know, of course. Can you deal with this?”
“Now I can handle anything you want me to.”
Rossini laughed again, this time with a bit of humor. “Congratulations, you are now my assistant.”
CHAPTER 18
The earth erupted and debris fell down on Luke’s helmet, making a tinny, pattering sound that would have been amusing, even pleasant, under other circumstances. Today it reminded him that death was only inches away.
Luke turned to his companion in the muddy trench, the alleged British journalist, Reggie Carville. “Is this what you would call a barrage?” Luke asked.
Carville smiled tolerantly. The Englishman was about Luke’s age, lean, and had the look of a greyhound about him. Certainly, he was an aristocrat and Luke tried not to let that intimidate him.
“A barrage? No, not even a whiff of one. This, my dear Martel, is just probing fire, not a barrage.”
Several other shells went off in the area, but other than shaking the earth, they did no harm to anyone in the trenches. The trenches were narrow, which meant that only a direct hit would cause casualties, and the trenches zigged and zagged which, along with providing flanking and covering fire, would minimize casualties in the event of a direct hit. The shock wave would be funneled and then dissipated. Luke thought it would be minimal good news if he was directly hit.
The trenches were also dirty, muddy, and cold. Luke’s toes felt clammy and he wondered if he shouldn’t have worn different boots. He noticed that other soldiers didn’t have better boots and wondered if this was something that needed to be corrected. Certainly a long siege would result in serious foot problems.
Carville peered through a firing slit at the German lines. Much of the brush and small trees on the hill had been cleared away to provide clear lines of fire. Unfortunately, this had the negative effect of showing the Germans exactly where the American lines were. Areas around the growing German trench lines had likewise been cleared. Through his binoculars, Luke could see German soldiers moving around. They had no serious fear of American artillery. If and when they desired, the Germans could launch a barrage, but not so the Americans, who were starved of cannon.
Carville turned and sat down in the trench. His
expensive-looking civilian suit was getting dirty but the man didn’t seem to care. He took a drink from his flask and from the way he grimaced, Luke deduced that it didn’t contain water.
“Ah, that was good. I’d offer you some, but it may be against the rules of being an international journalist to share alcohol with combatants. Drinking might also make you lose control and want to kill someone, like those damned Germans. No, this pitiful bombardment is far from serious. German gun theory is quite simple and based on everybody else’s. When the time comes, the Krauts will simply line up all the artillery they have, some hundreds of guns, and pack them wheel to wheel. Then they will fire them all at the same time and at roughly the same place; thus pulverizing it. They did it a few times in 1914 and later, and it was damnably effective. I understand it sometimes drove good men simply insane and unable to function, except their bladders and bowels which empty continuously.”
“Sounds terrible, Mr. Carville. Effective, but terrible.”
Carville took another swallow, changed his mind and offered the flask to Luke who took a small swallow. It was scotch. “Please call me Reggie and quit looking at me like that. A soldier might get the wrong impression.”
Luke savored his drink. “I think you are more than you say.”
“Nonsense, I’m a writer for the London Times.”
“And I’m the Pope. Benedict the Fifteenth to be precise.”
Carville grinned. “Then hear my confession, Benedict, for I have surely sinned in thought, word, and deed. You are right, of course, I am more than I seem, but aren’t we all? Even if I was, say, an English officer with experience fighting the Germans in France and with a background at Eton and Sandhurst, it would be veddy inappropriate for me to admit that. After all, England is neutral and cannot be seen by your enemies as giving advice and comfort to you. Therefore, please don’t speculate as to my background and I won’t ask how many Mexicans you killed under Pershing in 1916 in order to become an officer up from the ranks.”
1920: America's Great War Page 30
