1920: America's Great War

by Robert Conroy

  Damn.

  * * *

  Admiral Hipper hid his anger over the incompetence of von Trotha and his captains. Complacency had reared its ugly head and there was nothing he could do about it. The two American battleships were gone and that was that. Would he be hearing from them? Of course.

  Captain Wilhelm Canaris, Hipper’s chief of staff, looked at him inquisitively. The admiral shook his head. There would be no recriminations. Trotha would handle the scolding and disciplining of the captains who’d failed to get close enough to the escaping ships to make sure of their identity, and Hipper would chastise Trotha for failure to control his captains. No heads would roll, if only because there were no replacement captains or admirals available. The young German Navy would hide its mistake, but Trotha would likely never see a promotion or an independent command again.

  “Admiral, you are aware that the British are denying everything.”

  “I’m not surprised. The British would lie about the time of day if it would serve their purposes. What in particular are they saying?”

  Canaris looked over the admiral’s shoulder. “Sir, Admiral Beatty said that three battleships went out and three came in and if we saw only one, perhaps it was because our lookouts had been drinking schnapps while on duty. Admiral Beatty alleges to be offended by our inference that he’d aided the Americans into escaping.”

  “Offended, my ass,” Hipper snarled.

  “Sir, may I ask why all three American battleships didn’t break out?”

  Hipper scowled. “Because the Nevada, the one left behind, is the oldest and smallest of the three and, after our victory at Mare Island, the American ships have only the ammunition they carried with them. The Nevada was probably stripped of ammunition which was sent to the other ships and she was left behind.”

  Hipper paced a few times. “Send a message to Trotha. He and his capital ships are to depart Puget Sound and steam to Los Angeles. He is to leave only a token force to watch the remaining American battleship. There is no reason to use so many ships to guard a nearly empty harbor.”

  The admiral pounded his desk. “Damn it, Canaris, we have convoys heading for Los Angeles. They cannot fall prey to the Yanks. They carry vitally-needed ammunition and additional troops for the crown prince. Trotha’s ships will be required to find the Americans. I only wish I knew whether the Americans will be hunting together or separately. Either way, it will be a daunting task to find them in the vastness of the Pacific. I can only hope they will try raiding along the routes that close in on Los Angeles.”

  “Not San Francisco or San Diego, sir?”

  “Who the devil knows? However, we have a larger force by far blockading San Francisco, and San Diego is shrinking in importance since Los Angeles is so much closer to San Francisco.”

  “Does the crown prince know of this situation?”

  “Not yet. He has more important things on his mind.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Luke hunkered down in a dug-in position about a mile behind the first line of American defenses. The first line was wreathed in smoke and was being pulverized by a massive German artillery barrage.

  Beside him was Reggie Carville. “Now this,” Carville said happily, “is a bombardment.”

  The earth was quivering beneath their feet. It felt as if it was turning to mud, even jelly, the same as it had seemed to those who’d lived through the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. Luke wondered just how the poor men closer to the front were enduring it. Or were they going mad from fear? Most of the men would be hiding in reinforced concrete bunkers and would not emerge until the bombardment stopped.

  Thunderclaps rolled over them. Both men had placed cotton in their ears to protect their hearing. American guns were not yet dueling with the Germans. There were just too few of them. The Americans would wait. Overhead, a flight of German Albatros fighters patrolled. Their job was to interdict reinforcements coming down the roads to the area under attack.

  Reggie grabbed Luke’s arm and pointed. Waves of German soldiers had emerged from their own trenches and were advancing. While they were hardly in parade ground formation, separate units were distinct. They had a good mile to cross before they encountered American barbed wire. A few moments later, American artillery finally opened fire. Explosions erupted among the Germans, sending bodies skyward. Some shells were timed as air bursts which shredded the people beneath them. What had been a pleasant green field was turning into a bloody and cratered charnel house.

  Some German artillery lifted and tried to find the American guns. Carville slapped Luke on the shoulder. “Beautiful. You actually are hurting them. Liggett and Harbord do know what they’re doing. Just a shame you’re going to lose anyhow. Just too damn many Germans, y’know.”

  Overhead, a German plane’s engine sputtered. It was trailing smoke and began tumbling to the ground. Luke smiled grimly. “We had some of our precious machine guns hidden along those roads, Reggie. Now their damned planes will be more careful when they attack our trucks. A little bird told us where the attack would come.”

  “Ah, a little bird. God bless little birds, warm puppies, and fluffy kittens. Have a drink.”

  Luke accepted. He and Ike had a number of little birds hidden behind German lines, risking their lives and reporting on the massive buildup of forces in this sector. The reports had come by short wave or, incredibly, by telephone. The Germans had neglected to cut all the lines. The Germans were so contemptuous of the American Army that they hadn’t even made a real attempt to hide what they were doing. Yes, they would doubtless carry this defense line, but their arrogance would cost them.

  “Good grief, look at that!” Reggie exclaimed. A score of armored trucks had crossed from the German trenches and were advancing, their machine guns spitting fire.

  “This, Major Martel, might just be the wave of the future, the gas-driven vehicle used as a weapon.”

  The German bombardment stopped suddenly. The Germans were still more than a quarter of a mile away from the American trenches.

  “A ruse,” Luke exclaimed and Carville nodded his understanding. The Germans would wait until the bunkers had emptied of men and the trenches were full. Then they would shell the trenches, although briefly, as their men were getting very close and might be hit by their own shells.

  As predicted, the Germans again opened fire. Luke and Reggie looked at each other. The men had been warned about this trick. Had they enough discipline to wait?

  The Germans were at the barbed wire and their guns ceased, although American artillery and trench mortars picked up the pace. Again, Germans fell by the score, proving that Americans were alive in the trenches, but they kept on advancing. The German armored vehicles tried to push their way through the barbed wire and, in many cases, failed. Several halted, stuck in shell holes, while others hung up in thickets of wire where they were easy targets for American machine guns. Only a few made it to the trenches, where they were raked by guns. Soft spots were found and the halted trucks began to burn and blow up.

  Germans infantry were within yards of the trenches and began hurling their distinctive potato masher grenades. American threw their own grenades in a brief but bloody duel.

  However, nothing stopped the German infantry who cut their way through the wire and pushed on to the American trenches. Some Germans fell onto the wire so their comrades could climb across them. More Germans were shot, but still more Germans came on.

  “Nobody said the fucking Huns weren’t brave,” Carville muttered.

  The Germans clambered into the American trenches and Luke could only begin to imagine the horror of close in, hand-to-hand combat. Along with their Springfields, many Yanks had submachine guns and sawed off shotguns, ideal for killing at close quarters. The Germans had their MP18 9mm automatic weapons with their thirty-two round magazines. They might be awkward and difficult to aim, but did it matter when you were trying to kill someone at a distance of ten feet?

  American soldiers began pulling back from
the trenches. Some were running for their lives, understandably, Luke thought, while whole units began to disintegrate.

  “I think we should leave,” Carville suggested and Luke concurred. “The Huns won’t advance any farther this day. You’ve hurt them, but, like I said, they will prevail. They will clear out the trenches to their left and right and gather for a second attack.”

  Luke picked up his gear. He had a report to give to Ike and perhaps Liggett. “When?”

  “A couple of days. No more than that.”

  * * *

  Martel was filthy and disheveled, but Liggett wanted information immediately. Carville had prudently disappeared, doubtless to communicate to his British masters.

  Even though the first of three fortified lines had been lost, Liggett and the other generals were somewhat pleased. Their soldiers had endured a heavy bombardment, the likes of which hadn’t been seen on American soil since Gettysburg, and had prevailed. They had emerged from their bunkers and mowed down large numbers of Germans soldiers.

  D.W. Griffith had provided film coverage that had transfixed them. The film canisters would be sent north to Canada as diplomatic mail and make their way to the East Coast. When properly edited, the American people who would finally see war in all its horror. Griffith’s films showed the dead and the dying in graphic detail.

  “How many casualties did we suffer?” Liggett asked.

  “Rough estimate is five thousand,” Ike responded.

  “And theirs?”

  “Based on what Martel and I have seen and discussed, probably close to the same.”

  Liggett shook his head. “Attackers are supposed to lose more than defenders.”

  “Perhaps it will happen that way the next time, sir,” Harbord said. “Our men are becoming experienced and, even though they reacted well, the next time they will perform even better. To use a cliché from a previous war, they have seen the elephant.”

  Liggett reluctantly concurred. “However, we cannot get into a battle of attrition. They still outnumber us significantly, even if some of their troops are heading out to take over the defense of the passes from the Mexicans.” Liggett paused. “Anything else of note?” he asked.

  “One thing, sir,” Luke said. “Their armored trucks were a disaster on wheels. They sent about twenty of them in the attack and lost at least half. Trucks can’t traverse dug-up ground and they don’t have the power to bull a path through concentrated barbed wire. You need a much bigger and stronger vehicle for that.”

  Luke caught Liggett and Harbord glancing at each other. What were they not telling?

  Harbord leaned forward. “Yet our armored trucks performed well in Texas, did they not?”

  “Yes sir, but circumstances were very different. For one thing, the terrain was fairly flat and, for another, the Mexicans were out in the open and not dug in. That also meant not much in the way of barbed wire. My counterpart in Lejeune’s corps also said that a number of trucks still had difficulty. I hate to repeat myself, but today’s trucks just aren’t strong enough.”

  “Good observation, Major,” said Liggett, “Very good indeed.”

  * * *

  Major General Douglas MacArthur was livid with scarcely contained fury. Theirs was the first in a long series of troop trains and they had been stopped just outside of Seattle. The plump army major in front of MacArthur was named Small but was standing tall before MacArthur’s attempts to dominate him. MacArthur wasn’t all that tall himself, but he was intimidating. A few yards away, Sergeant Tim Randall and Lieutenant Taylor tried to make themselves very, very tiny. They were concerned that they had just picked a terrible spot to rest.

  Major Small folded his arms across his ample stomach and glared back. “I understand your frustration, General, but I have my orders. It’s more than eight hundred miles from Seattle to San Francisco. There’s effectively just about one rail line going that way and a lot of it goes through some godawful terrain and, oh yes, it’s still winter.”

  MacArthur’s face had begun to turn red. “Major, I fully understand the weather and distance, but I am in the forefront of three divisions, nearly fifty thousand men, ready to assist the brave young men who are holding the lines at San Francisco. They are laying down their lives and fifty thousand good men are just sitting here. We must have trains. Or do you expect us to walk those eight hundred miles?”

  Tim and the lieutenant looked at each other. Walk eight hundred miles through snow-covered mountains and forests? That would be madness. They had the nagging feeling that MacArthur might consider such an alternative.

  “Three months,” Taylor whispered. “It would take us at least three months and probably a lot longer to walk to San Francisco. The weather and terrain would slow us to a crawl. By then the war would be over.”

  They had to go by rail. Hell, Tim thought. Neither he nor Lieutenant Taylor had realized they were still that far from their destination. Like many young Americans they were learning just how large the United States was.

  Small continued. “General, the dilemma is obvious. Do we send supplies down to the men who have so little, or do we send men carrying only the supplies on their back? It’s a helluva choice, but General Liggett’s orders are specific and he outranks you. Your men are to wait until the most needed supplies make it down there. We’re sending supply trains as fast as we can, but it’s still not enough. And sending men without additional supplies would exacerbate the problem.”

  Tim quickly did the math. At forty men to a car, and fifty cars to a train, each train could carry two thousand men. Averaging twenty miles an hour, they could begin to arrive in San Francisco in two or three days, depending on interruptions, and not three plus months by shank’s mare. So near yet so far. Of course, it would take at least a day to load up each train and it would take a good twenty-five or thirty trains.

  “Someday, I will have your hide, Major.”

  “Someday I’ll be a civilian again, General.”

  MacArthur wheeled away and, to Tim’s horror, spotted them. “You heard that, I presume?”

  The two men stood and snapped to attention and Tim responded. “Couldn’t much help it, sir, and if I may say so, we’ve got to get down to San Francisco. We are useless as tits on a boar sitting up here. To be blunt sir, I didn’t enlist so I could sit on my ass in Seattle while my fellow Americans are fighting in San Francisco.”

  MacArthur’s features showed surprise at Tim’s bluntness and then softened. His men were agreeing with him and he liked that. He was about to respond when Major Small came trotting up, huffing from the exertion.

  “General MacArthur, I don’t know what the hell’s going on but General Liggett’s changed his mind. He wants your division down south as fast as you can go. I don’t know what the devil’s happened but he wants you yesterday. You get your men ready while I round up the trains.”

  MacArthur’s face split into a grin. He shook both Tim and the Taylor’s hands. “You men are good luck.”

  MacArthur strode briskly away, looking for his aides and bellowing orders. Taylor shook his head. “Tim, that little speech of yours was more bullshit than I spout in a year of lawyering. You sure you don’t want to be an attorney?”

  Tim grinned. “Funny thing is, sir, I meant a lot of it.”

  And now they were going to San Francisco.

  * * *

  Martina Flores stood and stared at the prisoners as she carefully hand signaled her message—tonight.

  Joe Sullivan pulled on his ear lobe, the response that he understood. He got up and found Captain Rice. “Martina says tonight, sir.” Rice nodded. Their long days and nights of waiting were over.

  It seemed to take forever for the sun to set. The men lay down in their blankets and pretended to sleep. Rice and other key men watched as their Mexican guards took up station. It got darker. The stars came out and a coyote howled in the distance.

  And then they were gone. The Mexicans had disappeared. There were no guards watching over them. Rice a
nd his men stared at each other. Where their eyes playing tricks? Were the Mexicans truly gone or were they lying in wait?

  Rice took a deep breath. It was time. “Now,” he said softly.

  A score of men rose up and ran with him to the main gate. Rice fumbled with the key Martina had given. He almost dropped it but caught it and stuck it in. The lock opened.

  Rice and others pushed it aside and ran to the building that housed the weapons. A few kicks and the outside door was smashed open. There was no guard inside, but a metal door barred them. Another key and it was open. Jubilant Americans began passing out rifles and ammunition. The weapons were a miscellany of Krags, Winchesters, and Springfields. They grabbed as much ammunition as they could. It would have to be sorted out later. Gunfire from outside had begun and was getting heavy. There was no time to dither.

  “Who the hell do we shoot?” someone yelled.

  “Germans!” Rice answered. “And anybody who shoots at us.”

  * * *

  On the other side of the camp, Steiner’s thin line of German soldiers, most of them clerks, had opened fire on the fleeing Mexicans. Men screamed and fell, and Steiner laughed. The Mexicans had tried to be silent, but he’d posted men to watch them. It was so easy and they were so obvious. One of the first Mexicans to die had been their treacherous sergeant, Sanchez.

  Steiner’s men might not be combat troops, but any German was better than a group of confused and disorganized Mexicans. Beside him, Olson brought up his own men. Steiner waved him off.

  “Go back and watch the prisoners.”

  As Olson moved to comply, rifle fire opened up from outside the camp. A pair of Germans fell screaming. Steiner looked at the flashes of gunfire. Mexicans or Americans? It didn’t matter. More gunfire erupted, and this time to his rear. What the devil? The prisoners must have escaped and gotten weapons. Steiner swore. He was no longer in charge and the situation was deteriorating.