1920: America's Great War-eARC (24 page)

Lansing nodded, “And all this because Nicholas decided to lead his armies in person? Dear God that would be as foolish as if I took a direct field command. Or are you telling me this so I won’t think of trying it?”

Hughes smiled. “The generals did suggest it as a subtle reminder not to; however, there are more compelling reasons for discussing it.”

In 1919, the Russian peasants had finally exploded in a bloody revolution that was quickly taken over by the Communists, or Bolsheviks, under Leon Trotsky. The Romanov family and government were quickly overwhelmed and its survivors appealed to their fellow monarchs for help. Forgetting old differences and the fact that they’d been on opposite sides in the War of 1914, both Germany and Austria pledged aid. Manpower came primarily from Austria and, for a while, it seemed that the Romanov regime would be returned to power.

But the incompetently led Austrians had squandered their advantages and much of their army. They were now on the run north towards Petrograd, the old St. Petersburg. The tsar-led White Russian Army had just suffered the defeat that led to the capture of the tsar and its disorganized and panicked remnants were also streaming north. Despised and feared Russian Communists appeared to be in charge and Communism on the rise. Thus, enter Germany as the Romanovs’ savior.

“Interesting,” said Lansing, “even intriguing. But what does that have to do with the situation in Texas or California, or the price of tea in China?”

General March answered. “It means that the Kaiser will have to send German soldiers to prop up the Romanovs and, even though Germany has a vast army, its numbers aren’t unlimited. In order to send an adequate and sizeable army to Germany, the kaiser has several choices. First, he can call up reserves, which he will be extremely reluctant to do since it would send a message that his large standing army can’t control events.

“Second, he can send first-rate troops to Russia by stripping the Channel ports and other garrisons of much of their strength, something that would delight the British by lessening the threat of a possible German invasion. Either way, he will have fewer and fewer good troops to send to the United States to reinforce either the crown prince or Carranza.”

“Now that is indeed interesting,” Lansing admitted. “But it might not be relevant for a while, if ever. What are the final figures from Pershing?”

March glanced at a paper. “Approximately thirty thousand Mexicans were killed, wounded, or captured in the battle for San Antonio against approximately eight thousand American casualties. The largest number of Mexican casualties consists of prisoners. Carranza himself escaped and it’s rumored that he’s headed south of the Rio Grande and for Monterrey where he’ll try to gather another army.”

“Will that happen?” asked Hughes.

March laughed. “Not if Pershing has his way. Unless you tell him not to, he intends to cross the Rio Grande and move on Monterrey. That will put him on the German supply line between Vera Cruz and California. With the Mexican Army so badly mauled and with more American divisions on the way to Mexico, the Germans might have to use their own troops to try and keep supplies flowing. Either way, we win.”

Lansing nodded thoughtfully, “Very good, General. Now, pray tell, what will happen to the foolish Tsar Nicholas?”

“If Trotsky and his comrades can’t get him to abdicate the throne,” Hughes said, “they’ll doubtless cut off his head.”

“A shame,” said Lansing, “but the man is clearly a bloody fool.”

Lansing had not met the tsar, but had dealt with several of his relatives and diplomats in his career and found them, almost without exception, to be living in a fairy tale land of princes, privilege, and splendor while their Holy Mother Russia rotted around them. They deserved the revolution they were getting, but not all the butchery—and did the world deserve the Bolsheviks? An insane bunch, he thought. Ironically, he hoped the Germans would defeat Trotsky’s bloodthirsty hordes. Perhaps a new tsar would be less of an autocratic fool, but he doubted it. Russia was a mess.

Lansing continued. “But all of this, including Pershing and Lejeune’s victory over the Mexicans, will be for naught if the Germans take San Francisco. Kindly tell me you will have that problem resolved.”

There was silence. Finally General March spoke. “We are working day and night and trying, almost literally, to move mountains in our efforts to get men and supplies to Liggett. The best I can say is that it will be close. Realistically, we are likely to lose San Francisco despite what happens in Monterrey or Moscow.”

* * *

The view atop the hill offered a splendid view of the ocean and the line of German warships approaching, which was why it had been chosen as the site for one of several command centers. Admiral Sims, General Liggett, along with a guest, British Admiral David Beatty, watched the panorama though their binoculars.

“I make it four light cruisers and two destroyers,” said Sims. Beatty concurred.

Liggett deferred to their knowledge. To him all warships looked alike at that distance. “But what the devil are they doing?” he asked.

Beatty grinned. He was fifty-one, jut-jawed and considered handsome by many, including himself. He had arrived in Puget Sound a few days earlier with two more modern battleships and two battle cruisers. Battle cruisers were large ships that were “almost” battleships, but more lightly armored to give them speed. Sims thought they’d be of dubious value in a slugfest battle with true battleships, but it did make the British force in Puget Sound a very powerful one.

“Gentlemen,” Beatty said, “I firmly believe they will try to probe your shore defenses. I am quite frankly astonished that they haven’t done it sooner.”

“As are we,” said Sims as he continued to look at the German ships, “but no one’s complaining. I agree with your assessment. In a moment those ships will turn parallel to our coast and commence shooting at us. It will be an attempt to entice us to return fire and, by doing so, give away our positions and sizes of our guns. We will not comply with their wishes.”

Somewhat by virtue of the fact that the twelve-inch guns came from the warships damaged or sunk at Mare Island, Sims commanded the shore batteries. Many of the gunners were from the ships.

Liggett was surprised by Sims’ comment. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to let them just shoot at us?”

Sims grinned. “Indeed not.”

As predicted, the German cruisers turned into a neat line running parallel with the shore and began firing with their six-inch guns. The shells came up short, splashing into the water, frightening the daylights out of a handful of foolish people who’d gathered to watch, as well as a horde of seagulls who rose, screeching in panic. Civilian and military police quickly herded the people away.

A few yards behind their leaders, the respective staffs waited. Luke glanced over to Josh Cornell, who shrugged. He had no idea what his admiral was up to either. Since their respective girlfriends were rooming together they’d become friends and the four of them had shared several meals. Luke considered Cornell intelligent and, for all his bookish appearance, brave enough. His medals and wounds attested to that. For his part, Cornell thought Martel was something like a Viking or Vandal from the Dark ages and was astonished, like so many were, at the depth of Martel’s knowledge and intelligence.

The German shells began crawling closer to the American shore batteries. The batteries had been painfully built of untold tons of concrete and thousands of sandbags. This particular battery had four twelve-inch guns. It was connected to the command center by telephone, telegraph, and radio, and, if necessary, by semaphore. Sims had once snarled that they’d use smoke signals or pigeons if it was necessary to maintain communications.

“Can they hit us up here?” asked Liggett.

Sims shook his head. “If we thought they could, we’d be inside the blockhouse and not on top. We’re out of their range up here, but our batteries aren’t and I am not going to allow the Germans to pot at them all day.”

He picked up a telephone and spoke into it. “You may use one gun in response, nothing else. Aim at the lead cruiser and fire at your convenience. Oh yes, do try to do what I taught you.”

Sims smiled at Beatty and Liggett. “The battery commander was a retired naval officer who became a math teacher. He rather liked my electronic range finder and has everything out there as preplotted and preplanned as shooting at a body of water can be. He has ranges already calculated.”

“Are you saying he can make a first shot hit?” said Beatty incredulously. “If that’s what you’re promising, I’ll take that bet.”

“Never. He’ll be close, but a first shot hit would be more due to luck instead of skill.”

The gun fired and everyone cheered. Martel watched the dot that was the shell fly through the air. He’d heard you could see them, but hadn’t believed it. He did now. Down it came, splashing a few yards short of the German cruiser. A miss, but close enough to spray the enemy ship with water and shell fragments. And maybe close enough for the water pressure from the exploding shell to damage the cruiser’s hull.

“Well done!” enthused Beatty. “What about a second shot hit?”

Sims was too absorbed to answer. Battles between ships had to contend with multiple variables—the fact that both ships were moving, generally in different directions and at varying speeds, which was just too much for the human mind to handle. Thus, his invention of the electronic range finder which did in seconds the work that would have required hours to calculate otherwise. This time the fact that only one of the protagonists, the ships, was moving, simplified the calculations.

Again. The shell arched toward the German who was turning to port and, quite possibly, trying to get away. The first shell had been too close for comfort. The second shell landed a hundred yards long, raising another huge splash. The cruiser was clearly in trouble and attempting to pick up speed, while her comrades were scattering.

There was an agonizing pause. They all wanted a third shell. Sims would not expose his other guns by having them open up. It was all up to this one gun and a retired math teacher.

Wham! The shell again arched skyward and they held their breath until it smashed and exploed on the cruiser’s stern, destroying one of her rear turrets. Seconds later, more explosions ripped through the German. She shuddered and went still in the water as fires began to consume her.

“Don’t anybody cheer,” said Sims with Liggett nodding. “Kindly remember that the poor bastards out there are dying,” he said, paraphrasing Admiral Dewey’s comment made during the Battle of Manila Bay in 1898.

“Please don’t tell me the German admiral sacrificed one of his ships on purpose?” Liggett inquired.

“I very much doubt it,” said Beatty. “I rather believe a mistake was made somewhere. Perhaps a capital ship or two were supposed to be there as the primary players, and not just a cruiser. No, Hipper is a hard man but he doesn’t throw away lives like that.”

“Glad to hear it,” Liggett muttered.

The Germans on the sinking cruiser were climbing into lifeboats or jumping in the water. The other warships were departing. They would not be permitted to approach to pick up survivors. Had they been merchant ships, perhaps he would have let them, but not warships. Any survivors who could not row away to safety would be picked up by American small boats which were already en route.

Both Luke and Josh were clearly stunned by the demonstration of firepower. Nor was there cheering from the thousands of people who’d watched the duel. They all knew that what they’d just seen was nothing more than the opening salvo of the battle for San Francisco.

CHAPTER 14

“May I see your passport, sir?” asked the butler, who grinned impishly. He was a sailor from a torpedo boat and was dressed as a pirate. He looked ridiculous and was having a great time. He was also getting paid for his efforts.

Luke smiled and handed the man ten dollars. “Does this qualify, my good man?”

The sailor added the tenner to a pile and handed them each a ticket. “You both are now qualified to enter,” he said with mock solemnity.

Luke laughed and took Kirsten’s arm and guided her into the crowd. “Luke, what in God’s name have you taken me to?”

The combined headquarters command had begun a series of Saturday night parties at the multi-storied St. Francis Hotel on Powell Street. The hotel had largely survived the 1906 earthquake and fire, and had become a refugee center in the weeks after the quake. When the refugee crises abated, it quickly reverted back to its earlier glory.

The parties had started small but had grown with each passing week. Several hundred, mainly men, now attended. The rules were simple. Officers only, dress uniforms, minimal adherence to rank, and don’t get so drunk as to be a slob or a disgrace. The enlisted men and NCOs had their own parties at another hotel.

The buffet table food was plentiful and good, although mostly seafood. The drinks were of a surprisingly high quality, causing some to be thankful that the Prohibition Amendment had been defeated.

Aides and other junior personnel spent a lot of time scrounging and trading to make these events successes, and neither Liggett nor Sims minded. If there was an opportunity for those who might have to place their lives on the line to have a little fun, who the devil cared?

There was little deference to rank. As an Army captain, Luke was one of a crowd of men with similar rank. Kirsten had insisted he wear his medals and, only slightly reluctantly, he’d concurred. Some of the younger men who were also his peers in rank might have thought him old and savage-looking, but they respected his awards and many staffers knew him for what they were not: a warrior.

The more senior officers moved easily with their juniors, although the lower ranking officers made certain to not carry informality too far.

These parties had been going on for several weeks, but Luke had managed to avoid them. Mingling and laughing insincerely at jokes simply wasn’t him. Kirsten’s presence made him think otherwise. After all she’d been through, he thought that perhaps she’d like an opportunity to let loose a little and, more important, to dress up like the beautiful woman he knew she was. It took her all of about five seconds to say yes.

Kirsten had managed to find a light blue gown that bared her shoulders and arms and showed the merest hint of delicious cleavage. Her gown came to mid calf and Luke thought her mid calves were excellent, as were her shoulders and cleavage. In short, he felt damned lucky to have her on his arm.

Despite being in deep mourning from the recent loss of her son, Mamie Eisenhower had offered to help and suggested a secondhand dress shop to Kirsten and it was where she’d found the dress. Kirsten gratefully accepted her help. She knew that doing something to help someone was one way for Mamie to cope with her terrible personal loss.

Pragmatically, Kirsten hadn’t yet decided whether she would keep the dress or sell it back next week as so many women did after a big event.

They’d eaten from the bountiful buffet—grilled salmon had tempted them and they’d succumbed—and had a glass of local wine by Inglenook which was surprisingly good. They followed with a glass of Krug champagne.

A band was playing in the corner, but no one paid it much attention. Luke was intrigued by the stares they were getting. Beauty and the Beast, he decided, and he knew which one he was.

A slightly high pitched man’s voice intruded. “My dear, I have no idea who you are, but you could have chosen better blindfolded.”

Luke grinned. “Kirsten, allow me to introduce you to Major, I mean Colonel,” as he saw the eagles on Patton’s shoulder, “George Patton, sometimes mentor, sometimes aggravating, but always a friend.”

Patton reached over, kissed Kirsten’s hand, glanced down her cleavage, and said something in French. To his astonishment, she responded in kind.

“My God, Luke, where did you find this beautiful pearl beyond price?”

Kirsten squeezed Luke’s arm. “I was a damsel in distress and he my knight errant. After that, it was impossible not to like him.”

“You are truly meant for each other,” Patton sighed.

“And when did you become a colonel, George?” Luke asked.

Patton shrugged. “About ten minutes after they took me from the 7th Cavalry and said they had something special and important for me to do. Don’t ask, because I don’t frankly know what it is and, if I did, probably couldn’t tell you much at all. Secrets, you know. All I do know is that I’m to be in Seattle on Monday, and, trust me, I have no idea why. Some special project with the Brits is the rumor, and that may be good news. The Brits have been snuggling closer and closer to us. I don’t think they’re quite ready to jump in on our side, but a few months from now? Who can tell?”

He laughed. “And as to the rank, who knows. Maybe I’ll be come a field marshal if this war lasts long enough.”

After a few more comments, Patton departed. Luke and Kirsten socialized with those they knew and found that number surprisingly large. Of course, all his acquaintances wanted to meet Kirsten, not chat with him, and he felt a twinge of jealousy. What the hell did she see in him, anyhow? He told himself to stop acting like a little kid. There were five men to every woman at the party, so of course Kirsten would be the center of attention and why shouldn’t she enjoy the hell out of it. After all, wasn’t that why he’d brought her, so she could get out and enjoy herself? Luke, he thought to himself, sometimes you are a complete jackass.

About eleven, Kirsten suggested they leave and Luke concurred. Things were getting just a little bit rowdy; the senior rankers had departed. As Luke turned towards the hotel entrance, she took his arm and steered him to an elevator. “Eight,” she told the stone faced operator.

Like a lamb, Luke allowed himself to be led down a hallway to a door on the eighth floor. Kirsten took a key from her purse and unlocked it. It was not a hotel room. Instead, it was a suite and it had a stunning view of the city.

“I believe in planning ahead, Luke. I hope you don’t mind. The suite belongs to Mr. Griffith and Elise borrowed it from him. He believes in helping our soldiers, while the Army, of course, helps him with his movies.”

“How could I possibly mind?” he said. Was this really happening?

“Help me undress.” Yes it was.

He did as ordered and, when she was naked, she undressed him. They looked on each other for a second and then couldn’t contain themselves. They rushed into each others arms and barely made it to the bed. Their coupling was frantic and intense, a tangle of bare legs and arms and clawing hands.

A short while later, their second time was a good deal more sensual and sedate as they took delicious moments to explore each other.

Later, they sprawled in the overlarge tub in the ornate bathroom and sipped glasses of Beringer wine that Kirsten had arranged for. “You will marry me, won’t you dear Kirsten?”

“Of course, dear Luke. I love you more than you can imagine. But I won’t marry you until this damned war is over. I have no urge to be a widow a second time. Maybe I could deal with losing a lover, but never another husband.”

She ran her hands over his body, pausing at the many scars. “Just how many times
have
you been wounded?”

“I’m not too sure. I suppose it depends on how you define the term.”

“Well, stop it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She slid on her side, exposing a luscious pink nipple. He leaned over and kissed it and she giggled. “Now you tell me—do you plan on staying in the Army?”

“No. I made that decision a while after I met you. I realized that I couldn’t expect you to be a wife of an officer who would never rise very far, regardless of his abilities.”

“Well then, just how do you plan on supporting me?”

“Southern California is rich and lush and people are dumping prime properties at pennies on the dollar, sometimes pennies on the ten dollar. The pessimists seem to think the Germans might win. I don’t, so I’ve been putting my savings into buying farms and,” he sipped his wine and grinned, “some wineries. I don’t know much about either, but I know I can learn.”

She nodded thoughtfully. He was taking a chance with all his hard-earned money and his future in the military on her behalf. By leaving the Army, he was also throwing away a pension, however small.

As to their investing in wineries, the Prohibition Amendment appeared truly dead. Only thirty states had ratified the amendment and it seemed to be losing what popularity it had. Wine-making was an intriguing thought and one she’d looked into for herself. There were more than two hundred vineyards in the Sonoma Valley alone.

She smiled as she realized that she’d been idly stroking his manhood as she used to do with her husband, and it had responded magnificently. Dear, dear, she thought, it has been a while for the poor man. And for herself as well, she added.

She straddled him carefully, so as to not splash water on the floor, and guided him into her. Like the first times, she gasped with pleasure and half closed her eyes as he filled her. He thought she looked like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse and he was the mouse.

“Go slowly,” she purred, “Very, very slowly.”

* * *

George Catlett Marshall hated being called a genius. All he wanted to do was do his job in the best manner possible. Nature, however, was conspiring just now to make him look like a fool. He stood on the east bank of the Columbia River tributary and looked across the rapidly flowing water. His engineers were crawling all over the bridge destroyed by Klaus Wulfram, and had already determined that, yes, it could be rebuilt, but, no, it wouldn’t be anytime soon. It was all he had expected, but he was supposed to solve the problem. After all, he was a genius, wasn’t he?

Therefore, he had to figure a way to get the mountains of equipment accumulating on the east side across the swollen and ice-choked river. And let’s not forget the tens of thousands of men freezing their tails off in tent cities all along the rail line.

Worse, when he looked across the river he could see his compatriots on the other side. Sometimes they waved to each other. So near, yet so far.

The first part of his plan was to build railheads at each side of the river and this had been done. The second part of the plan called for the westbound trains to halt at the river, unload, and have the men and material ferried across the river or, in case of soldiers, marched across via pontoon bridges. It would be slow and labor intensive, but it would work.

But the river wouldn’t cooperate. Pontoon bridges were built and then swept away, killing several of the engineers, and Marshall put a halt to their construction. Too dangerous for the men involved, he’d said.

Flat-bottom barges had been brought in by train with the idea that they could be pulled back and forth by a combination of ropes and pulleys. Again, it would have worked if the river had cooperated. After losing some equipment and nearly losing more men, this idea was abandoned. The pulley combinations simply didn’t generate enough strength to enable the barges to bull their way through the soft ice and maintain control in the current.

Even adding newfangled Evinrude outboard motors had only helped a little. Material could be shuffled across the river but only in very small quantities and it was considered too dangerous to send soldiers, a fact greatly appreciated by the troops.

He’d even sent key men and a tiny quantity of supplies by plane.

Marshall was of the opinion that the problem might be an engineering one. Therefore he had brought west with him the world’s preeminent mining engineer, Herbert Hoover. If Marshall was considered dour, he was positively gregarious and loquacious in comparison with Hoover, a man who rarely spoke. It was hard to believe that such a silent man had been the driving force in providing food to the starving people of Belgium until the Germans decided they did have an obligation to feed their newly captive nation. Marshall could wait no longer, “Your thoughts, Mr. Hoover?”

“How many pontoon bridges can you build and how quickly can you build them if the river cooperates?”

Marshall blinked. The question was long enough to be an oration for Hoover. “If the river cooperates, I can get three or four across in eight hours. We could move men marching in two columns and trucks if we spaced them carefully. We could move an army in two weeks. Unfortunately, that army would still be at least a week away from San Francisco, which is why it is imperative that we move quickly.”

Again the maddening silence from Hoover, who was obviously thinking deep thoughts. He kept turning his head left and right as he surveyed, literally, the situation.

He turned to walk away, then paused and stared at Marshall. “Get ready.”

* * *

Joe Sullivan was gaunt and forever hungry. It had been this way since he’d been captured by the Germans when Los Angeles fell to them. There simply wasn’t enough food provided to fill the bellies of both the soldiers and the prisoners. Their numbers dwindled as many sickened and died. There was plenty of food, but little for the prisoners. The warehouses were filled with it and the POWs could only stare at it as they loaded crates of rations onto northbound trains.

Their neglect was Roy Olson’s fault and they wanted to hang him from a tree after skinning him alive. Olson was the worst of all men in their opinion. He was a traitor, a collaborator. He was rich and getting richer on the sweat, blood, and lives of American prisoners of war. Hell, if the son of a bitch only bought and sold supplies or booze to Krauts, you could argue that he was simply making a living. But no, the prisoners had to work for Olson, slave for Olson, along with helping Olson suck up to his German masters.

Joe had first thought that Martina Flores was nothing more than a cocksucking whore and a female version of Olson. She was a lot prettier than he thought a whore should be and that bothered him. But then, his knowledge of whores came from lurid stories and cheap novels. He was nineteen and a sophomore at Southern California University in Los Angeles.