“War is imperfect,” the prince said. “After we take San Francisco, I will detach a corps and send it south to squash the Americans before they can bring additional troops. Yes, you may join in the attack on the city. It will occur in only a few days and, yes, the idea of your ships rampaging in San Francisco Bay is intoxicating. I almost wish I could be on the bridge of the Bayern when you blast the Americans.”
Hipper laughed. “Consider yourself invited, sir.”
The prince smiled. “But understand that you may be fog bound when we do attack. You must not take unnecessary risks with the fleet.”
“Trust me, sir. I will be brave, but discreet. If we cannot see the Golden Gate, we will not move. I have absolutely no intention of going down in history as the German admiral who rammed his fleet onto the California coast.”
* * *
“When and where?” Ike wondered and Luke had no answer. The American lines ran about fifty miles across from just south of Santa Cruz on the Pacific coast to south of Modesto where they veered north and petered out in the foothills. Each side scouted the other to prevent an end around, but the Germans didn’t seem interested in trying such a maneuver and the Americans lacked the capability to pull it off.
The German works paralleled the American’s and were, on average, a mere mile away from them. There was sniping and patrolling all along the lines. Casualties were light, but this was scant comfort to those who were killed and wounded in the skirmishes. Each side was waiting. The Germans were gathering their strength and the waiting would be over very shortly.
A knock on the door to his office and a burly sergeant stuck his head in, “Got a prisoner for you, sir. General Eisenhower thinks you should talk to him.”
Luke smiled and stood up. “What the general wants, the general gets.”
The prisoner was under guard in a converted conference room. A pair of thuggish goons from the provost marshal’s office glared down at him. They had billy-clubs in their hands and twirled them menacingly. The German was in his very early twenties and looked frightened. A slight, wiry youth, scarcely out of his teens, his eyes darted around the room and at the angry Americans who looked like they wanted to kill him, which was the impression that Luke wanted them to give.
Luke sized up the situation and ordered the others out. Now he would be the good-guy interrogator. He offered the young man water and food. The boy brightened considerably.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Hans, sir, Hans Kessler.”
“And where are you from?”
“Sir, I was born and raised in Innsbruck.”
Luke stiffened. Innsbruck was in Austria and, even though the Austrians had declared war on the United States as dutiful allies of Imperial Germany, the act hadn’t meant much. Austria was a long ways away. Or was it? Had the young Austro-Hungarian emperor, Karl I, been talked into a more active role by the belligerent and domineering kaiser?
A roast beef sandwich arrived along with a couple of cookies and a glass of Coca Cola. Kessler proceeded to devour them as if he was starving. Of course, a healthy young man like him could be desperately hungry in a matter of hours.
“What did you do before you joined the army, Hans?”
“I worked on the mountains with my father and brothers. Sometimes we taught tourists how to ski and sometimes we had to rescue the fools when they got hurt or lost.” He grinned. “Sometimes the women were very grateful.”
Luke laughed along with the prisoner and thought that maybe he wasn’t as young or innocent as he first thought. “Along with skiing, did you do any real mountain climbing?”
Kessler rolled his eyes. “A lot, sir, and that’s why I’m here. I got drafted into the Alpine Corps and then my regiment was sent here. They say we volunteered for it, but I don’t remember volunteering for anything.” He shrugged. “Of course, nobody in any army ever volunteers for anything.”
* * *
Ike had found the prisoner’s information intriguing enough to ask for an audience with the two senior military commanders.
Luke summarized the prisoner’s testimony. “In short, he’s a member of an elite Austrian Alpine regiment that’s now in California and listed as volunteers. Their job is to probe the hills and mountains around San Francisco and gather information as well as finding weak points in our defenses.”
Liggett leaned forward. “And these so-called volunteers are assigned to General Hutier?”
“Yes sir, at least this man’s regiment is. He didn’t know of any other Austrian units in California and I believe him.”
Sims was puzzled. “Why is his attachment to Hutier of such a concern?”
Liggett answered. “Hutier is an innovator. He may be a genius or a fool, depending, of course on whether or not he succeeds. He may have read of the Union General Emory Upton in the later stages of our Civil War, since his own theories mimic Upton’s. In short, Hutier believes in brief, intense bombardments followed by sharp, limited attacks at weak points that have been identified by people such as those in an Alpine regiment. Perhaps they will even use poison gas. The attackers swarm through in limited fronts, bypassing strongpoints, leaving them for followup forces to destroy.”
“Then Hutier’s corps is going to carry out the main attack?” Sims asked.
“Not likely,” Liggett answered. “There are too many logistical and geographic problems. Hutier’s corps is separated by bad terrain from the rest of the Germans, which limits the forces that can be used against the city. I am confident that the main German attack will come along the east side of the bay and try to sweep north of a monumentally outnumbered and outgunned American army in San Francisco, which must then either surrender or be pounded to pieces.
“Hutier’s attack, however, could be devastating if he manages to punch through to the city proper. It’s a digression without much cost. We must defend against it. If it succeeds, they will have won an inexpensive victory. In theory, Hutier’s tactics will work for a while, but his troops will sustain heavy casualties and run out of energy when dealing with a defense in depth. Unfortunately, the Germans are already through two of our three levels of fortification; thus, we do not really possess a defense in depth. If we are distracted by a massive assault elsewhere, Hutier may try to punch his way into the city and he may succeed.”
“We need to reinforce the city, sir,” said Ike.
“Easier said than done,” answered Liggett. “We’d have to strip lines where we think the main attack will come. In the meantime, I am creating a floating reserve by stripping badly needed men and guns from our trenches and placing them in a position where they can reinforce the point of attack.”
“Excellent,” said Sims.
“Possibly,” said Liggett. “The Germans will have doubtless anticipated this and will use their aerial superiority to interdict any attempt to reinforce the main army. We will use every plane we have to protect those troops moving up.”
Sims nodded. Not every plane, thought, he thought. “General Eisenhower, do you have a good idea where the attack will come?”
“Yes, Admiral,” He walked to the map and pointed to an area ten miles east of the bay in the middle of General von Mackensen’s army. Like Hutier, Mackensen was an exponent of sharp, limited attacks. Although seventy years old, the general was still a very competent field commander. “Our spies and the few flyovers we’ve managed to make indicate a major buildup in this area.”
Sims was puzzled. “Far be it for me to question army tactics, General, but why not reinforce the threatened area now? Why wait until the attack begins when it is reasonably obvious that’s where it will fall?”
Liggett mulled it over. Part of him hated being told his job by a damned admiral, no matter how close they’d become. But did Sims have a better idea than his? Damn. He remembered the dictum that he who defends everything winds up defending nothing. If he kept his army where it was, it would be too weak to repel a major assault. If he immediately reinforced the likely area of a
ttack, he would strip other areas of what men and weapons they had. But then, they would be defeated anyhow. If he reinforced the area now and didn’t wait for the attack, he wouldn’t have to worry that much about German planes.
“We’ll do it,” he decided. “However, we do have men coming down by train from Seattle. When they arrive, they will immediately be sent to San Francisco. These are the men who made it across the Columbia River. It’s maddening that it’s taking so long for them to get here, but there is only one railroad line and virtually no other roads through the north that are useable this time of year.”
“I pray they will be in time,” said Sims. “But in the name of God, what about poison gas? Could the Germans be barbaric enough to introduce it?”
Poison gas had not been used by either side in the 1914 War, but the Germans had used it in Russia against the Reds. The horrific results had stunned the world and further cast the kaiser in the role of Attila the Hun.
Liggett glared. “When you consider their other atrocities, why not?”
“With respect, sirs,” Luke injected, “I think it’s highly unlikely they’ll introduce gas. The prevailing winds are from the west-northwest, which means they’d likely blow the gas back over the German lines.”
“What a pleasant thought, Luke. Are you a hundred per cent certain of that?” Liggett asked.
“No sir, I’m not. There could always be exceptions. Also, I have no idea how many German casualties the kaiser’s oldest son is willing to accept in order to achieve victory. Having gone this far, however, I think they Germans would be willing to accept enormous casualties to achieve their goals.”
CHAPTER 22
The final bombardment began at first light. The shells landed on the area where Luke and Ike had predicted. Now they could only hope it wasn’t a well-orchestrated feint. There was no corresponding shelling of American positions on von Hutier’s front.
This time, Luke was prudently far back. Still, as before, the ground shuddered and shook. He recalled the feeling of terror he’d had just a few days earlier when the shells rained down on the bunker. Kirsten was already at the hospital and this time she would be helping with the growing influx of wounded. Letter writing and bookkeeping could come later.
“Poor bloody infantry,” said a familiar voice.
“Hello Reggie, and are you supposed to be here?”
“Dashing young correspondents can dash about wherever they wish,” Carville said as he dumped down a suitcase. “And I have a chit from Liggett that says so, and another one from the kaiser himself if I should happen to be picked up by those nice people from Berlin. Just don’t ask how I happened to come by it.”
Overhead, scores of German planes dipped and swooped like gulls skimming the sea. Only they were strafing the trenches and not looking for fish. Or were they, Luke thought. Maybe they were looking for human fish. Gotha bombers dropped their loads from height and succeeded in hitting not much at all. The explosions, however, were impressive, and must have added to the primal fear of the men underneath them.
Reggie laughed. “High-level bombing is very much a work in process.”
“Thank God.”
“Ah, and here comes the infantry, entering stage left.”
As before, waves of Germans flowed out of their trenches and around their own barbed wire. They hadn’t gone far before the American barrage opened up on them, this time with much more intensity than before. There was no longer reason to save shells or hide guns. The American front had been strengthened by troops from other areas. Luke could only hope that neither the crown prince nor General Mackensen realized that the rest of the American line was virtually defenseless.
This time concentrated machine-gun fire came from the Americans and not the Germans, and Luke exulted. Men were dying in great bloody piles, but they were Germans, not Americans.
But the Germans were coming on. More left their trenches and began the inexorable move to reinforce the first wave. Behind them, Luke made out a third wave forming and a fourth. Mackensen had done the same thing Liggett had. All of the German Army was in front of him. He felt the sickening reality that the German weight of numbers and firepower would still prevail. He got up.
“Where to now?” Reggie asked.
“Back to headquarters. Liggett will want to know about this firsthand. What are you going to do?”
Carville smiled, and Luke noticed that his eyes were cold. “Why, I believe I’ll just sit here until the Germans arrive and see if any of them want to be interviewed.”
* * *
Admiral Hipper received word of the main infantry attack. He angrily paced the bridge of the Bayern. He was frustrated. The moment of glory was at hand and all he could see was fog, damned bloody fog. He couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of him. He heard one of the junior officers joking that he had just made an obscene gesture to himself and couldn’t see it. He felt like strangling the little snot.
The German fleet was approximately ten miles off the coast of California and, if his navigators were any good, directly in front of the Golden Gate, the entrance to San Francisco Bay.
But he couldn’t do anything. Not only because of the promise he’d made to the crown prince, but because moving towards the coast would be foolhardy, not brave. And if he managed to ground one or more of his battleships, or God help him, the whole fleet, he and the German Navy would be disgraced for all eternity.
However, he had to do something. The ship moved forward at dead slow, barely moving. The other behemoth battleships crawled slowly as well in response to his orders. They were in line abreast, which meant there was little or no danger of a rear end collision. When—if?—the damned fog lifted, they’d be in position to move quickly. That is, if the minesweepers could clear the channel in enough time.
“Oh,” someone said and the ship was suddenly bathed in wonderful, miraculous sunshine. And straight in front of them was the Golden Gate. Hipper exultantly pounded his fist into the palm of his hand while others clapped and cheered. Not only had the fog lifted, but, thanks to superb navigation, he’d managed to creep close to the American shore without being seen. He laughed. Perhaps fog wasn’t a bad thing after all.
“Send in the minesweepers.”
Hipper gave the order and it was relayed to the small, M-Class minesweepers that had all been built in the previous couple of years. The need for them hadn’t existed until the Royal Navy had sown thousands of mines in the waters off Germany in the 1914 War.
The task of the sixteen knot, 360-ton craft was doubly dangerous. First was their primary purpose—finding and removing mines so the fleet could charge through the channel to the bay. Second, they had to do this while enduring the American shore batteries at nearly point-blank range. Hipper thought all the crews of fifty men on each ship deserved medals.
“They’re doomed,” said Trotha from his position behind him.
Hipper didn’t want to look through his binoculars at what likely to be their destruction. He simply nodded. In a few moments, the American shore batteries opened fire. Near miss shells lifted enormous amounts of water much higher than the puny sweepers as they pushed forward.
Suddenly, one of them disappeared as a shell struck it, causing it to disintegrate in a cloud of splinters and human flesh. Hipper winced and Trotha cursed. Still, the brave little ships attempted to do their duty. They were inside the channel and taking fire from two directions. Now gunfire came from a third direction, as the guns from Alcatraz Island joined in. A second minesweeper was hit, and then a third was turned into a flaming ruin. All the batteries focused on the remaining one. A message blinked from a signal light. Her radio must be gone, Hipper thought. A shell struck her and she too began to sink. The American guns ceased fire. All four brave ships were destroyed, but had they succeeded?
He translated the Morse code from the last mine sweeper—No mines. “Damn them to hell,” Hipper raged. No mines. He had sacrificed four ships and two hundred men for nothing.
&
nbsp; But had he? They now knew exactly where the American guns were located and how big they were. This would help immeasurably when he sent in his battleships.
Trotha was reading his mind, “When, Admiral?”
It was nearly noon. Hipper made up his mind quickly, “Now.”
* * *
Luke found Patton and his huge metal creatures a few miles from where the Germans were attacking. They were in a large grove of trees and hidden from sight. The thunder of battle, however, was loud and clear. With others around, he kept it formal and saluted.
“Change of plans, General.”
Patton poked his head out from the turret of his command tank. He was grease-covered and filthy, a long way from the officer who was so punctilious about his uniform.
“What the hell are you talking about, Acting Major Martell? I’m ready to launch a counterattack in a matter of moments, and it’s all based on the fact that the intelligence you and Ike gave me is proving accurate. You have noticed the firing off to the west, haven’t you?”
“I have indeed, Acting General Patton, and that’s the concern.”
“The hell with anybody’s concerns,” Patton snapped. “When the Germans are tied up in our trenches I’m going to hit their flank and roll them up. We’re gonna go through them like shit through a goose.”
Luke shook his head. “Harbord wants your tanks behind our lines as a means of blunting their attack.”
Patton turned red. “Bullshit. Not only is that bad tactics but it’s damned near impossible as well. Using tanks like that would be a waste of their potential. They’d get ground up in a fight and destroyed. No, we use them as planned.”
Luke glanced around and whispered. “Harbord’s given orders, George.”
“Look about and what do you see?”
Luke did as told. “George, I see scores of tanks and what look like armored trucks hidden under tarps and covered with branches. I also don’t seem them being attacked by any German planes. Good job, George.”
1920: America's Great War Page 36
