1920: America's Great War-eARC (29 page)

Patton turned to Harbord, who glowered. “General, along with insufficient numbers, your men are simply not well enough trained or experienced to attack what will be formidable German defenses. Also, the Germans will have their own artillery, particularly those damned 75s on line and my tanks cannot stand up to them, particularly since, according to your plan, the tanks will be forced to move as slowly as the infantry. When the Germans arrive in a few days, they will immediately dig in and that will present problems for infantry.”

“But not for armor?” Harbord asked.

“No sir,” Patton responded. “Tanks are tracked vehicles and can go across rugged terrain, and that includes bridging trenches. The Germans will dig theirs narrow to protect against our mortars and that means they can be crossed by tanks. Barbed wire won’t hinder tanks at all, although they would slow down or even stop infantry.”

Patton lowered his voice to a conciliatory tone. It was difficult since he knew he was right. He so much wanted to shove his version of the truth down their throats. Where the hell was Eisenhower to help him keep his emotions in check?

“I know this is radical and desperate, but these are desperate times calling for desperate measures. We have a chance to shock the hell out of the Krauts and reduce their numerical advantage. Gentlemen, this is not only our best chance, it is our only chance.”

* * *

The Germans were a mile or so away and digging in. They weren’t present yet in great numbers, but would soon be. The handful of them shoveling away were the first in a great host that would besiege San Francisco. In the distance Luke saw dust where the German columns were coming down the road.

“Ike, if you have some artillery, now would be a good time to use it.”

Eisenhower just shook his head. “Look at them. All lined up like they were on parade. Yeah, Luke, if we had our own guns we could blow them back to Berlin.”

Other German units were closing in on the American lines. Soon the city of San Francisco would be under siege. In a short while, the Germans would bring up their own heavy artillery. These would not be the truly big siege guns they’d used to smash the fortifications at Liege and Paris in 1914, but they would be large enough at 155mm.

An American artillery piece boomed and, seconds later, a cloud of dirt erupted from in front of a German trench, scattering Germans in their coal-scuttle helmets. Jake idly wondered if they were better then the pie tins some American soldiers wore. Most Americans didn’t have anything more than hat and hair to protect their skulls. Guns and ammunition had priority, not helmets.

German guns quickly responded. They were the smaller caliber ones and did no real damage. Relatively speaking, the siege was opening with a whimper, not a bang.

Luke peered through his binoculars. The Germans were already back at their digging and more men had arrived. Any chance of sortieing out and smacking them before they were dug in was quickly disappearing. Liggett had forbidden it anyhow. He would not squander his troops in a meaningless attack.

“Y’know, Ike, when they get a few miles closer, their guns will be able to hit the bridge from across the bay.”

“I know,” Ike said.

The Dumbarton Railroad Bridge had been completed in 1910, but it crossed the southern end of the bay which would put it in range of German artillery fairly soon unless, by a miracle, the Germans were halted in their tracks. Neither man believed in miracles.

German trucks were now arriving and rolls of barbed wire were thrown on the ground with practiced skill. “They’ve done this before, haven’t they?” Ike asked with grim humor.

More German shells hit near their position. American soldiers cringed in terror. Sergeants had to physically restrain a couple from running in panic for the rear. The men weren’t really cowards, just part of a poorly-trained garrison that hadn’t seen any combat, and weren’t aware that they were safer in their trenches than running around unprotected by dirt walls.

It was time to go. Martel and Eisenhower grabbed their equipment and moved back and away from the front lines. They were painfully aware of angry glares from soldiers who had to stay. Luke heard someone mutter “rear-echelon cowards.” He turned angrily but everyone was looking at the sky.

Ike grabbed his arm. “Let it be, Luke. If I had to stay here while some brass headed for a warm bed, I’d be pissed too.”

* * *

Mexican President Venustiano Carranza and his staff had commandeered a large hacienda a few miles north of Monterrey. It was located on a hill and Carranza could see for miles to the north. The Americans were coming in their thousands and he needed help to stop them. But his army, the one that had invaded Texas, no longer existed.

From his hilltop, the Mexican president sent message after message back to Mexico City calling for reinforcements. The gringos under Pershing were only a few miles away. If they took Monterrey, it would be an enormous blow to Mexican pride. Monterrey was one of the largest cities in Mexico, capital of Nueva Leon province, and a center of Mexican industry. Loss of Monterrey would also mean that the German overland supply line running west from Vera Cruz would be threatened.

An aide ran in gasping. “Horsemen coming from the south, your excellency.”

“How many?”

“Perhaps a hundred, sir.”

A hundred, he thought. That’s all? But maybe they were the advance guard of a much larger relief force. Yes, that must be it.

A little while later he heard the clatter of hoofs and the shouts of men. He heard a name and shuddered. Villa. Pancho Villa had arrived. Impossible. Villa was the bandit fool who’d started the 1916 war with the United States by attacking Texas towns and ranches thus causing an American army, again led by Pershing, to invade Mexico. It had taken almost a year to get rid of the Americans and now Pershing was back with an even larger army.

Carranza had another worry. Which side was the bandit on today?

“Excellency!” Villa boomed as he entered the living room where Carranza sat. “I bring wonderful news from Mexico City.”

Carranza forced a smile. He neither liked nor trusted the stocky, filthy, and heavily mustachioed Villa. But if he had good news and reinforcements, he would put up with the barbarian.

“Then don’t keep me waiting, General Villa,” he said with feigned warmth. “Tell me.”

A servant had brought fresh cold water that Villa gulped, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Mexico City is not a happy place, but that would not surprise you. The loss of so many men, even if most were merely captured, is an enormous blow to Mexican pride. They are wondering how you will redeem it.”

Carranza felt himself flushing. How dare this oafish shit talk to him like that? “If the government in Mexico City, my government, will get off their asses and give me a new army, I will not only stop the Americans before they get to Monterrey, but I will destroy them.”

“Brave words,” Villa said and Carranza wanted to strangle him.

“They will be more than brave when I get my army. When will the rest of it arrive? The Americans are almost here. If we lose Monterrey we will be humiliated.”

Villa shrugged several more of his men had entered the room and taken station beside him. “Mexico City feels that the fall of Monterrey is inevitable and that the war with the United States was a huge and tragic mistake, and one that must be rectified.”

“Indeed?” said Carranza. “If that is what Mexico City thinks, then they are wrong. Give me another army and we will win. And once we have won, we will negotiate a treaty from a position of strength. Anything less and I will personally be humiliated.”

“Martyred,” said Villa.

“What?” said Carranza, sudden desperation growing in his voice.

“You will be revered as the President of Mexico who was brave enough to give his life for his country.”

Villa pulled a revolver from inside his shirt and fired three bullets that struck Carranza in the chest. One of his men shot Carranza’s aide. Villa himself administered the
coup de grace
, a bullet to the back of Carranza’s head and then to the aide’s. He detailed a squad to remain in the hacienda, while the remainder of the men who’d accompanied Carranza ran away from the killings.

Villa’s men still had a job to do.

* * *

General Lejeune watched as Tovey’s men approached the white stone hacienda at the top of the hill. Reports said there were Mexicans holed up in it. The building had to be cleared as it commanded the approach to Monterrey.

The Texans fanned out and moved cautiously up the hill. Lejeune had to admit that Tovey was a damned good general and his men fought well. And, somewhat surprisingly, there had been little in the way of discipline problems in Mexico. A few men had gotten drunk and one man was in jail accused of rape, but the drunks had their asses kicked by their sergeants, and the alleged rapist was scared to death. He’d be released later as an investigation showed that the alleged victim was a prostitute. The benefit of the doubt would go to the soldier. Still, Tovey’d decided to let the stupid kid stew in jail for a couple of days, thinking he was going to spend the rest of his miserable life in prison breaking rocks. Hopefully, he’d realize that no piece of ass was worth that much.

Gunfire erupted from the hacienda, only a few scattered shots, but enough to send Tovey’s men to ground. An American machine gun opened up and, after a few long bursts, the fire from the hacienda ceased.

Tovey’s men ran cautiously up to the hacienda and into it. There was no more gunfire. Lejeune swore as he saw General Tovey far too close to the action.

Moments later, Tovey emerged and waved towards Lejeune who swore again. The crazy Texan wanted him to come over and climb up that hill.

Tovey greeted the Marine general outside the hacienda. “I think we got something Washington isn’t going to like.”

Lejeune took a deep breath. He was fifty-three and maybe getting too old to climb mountains, although he’d be double damned if he’d ever admit it.

“Come on in here, General,” Tovey said and Lejuene followed.

Two men lay on the floor. One was a young officer and the other an older man with a full beard. Lejeune recognized him from his photos. Carranza.

“Did we kill him?”

Tovey shrugged. “Not damn likely, but we’ll get the blame. Carranza’ll be a hero for standing up to us and dying for dear old Mexico. There’ll be statues of the fat asshole all over Mexico in a few days and he’ll be a rallying cry for them like the burning of Laredo was for us. No, he was shot and killed well before we got here.”

“How do you know that?”

Tovey laughed. “I was a Texas Ranger, which meant I had to know a little about police work, and even I can tell you those bodies are pretty damn cold for fresh casualties, and, oh yeah, one more thing.”

“What?”

“Along with gunshots to the chest, both those poor sons of bitches were shot in the back of the head.”

CHAPTER 17

President Robert Lansing looked at the grisly photos. He wanted to turn away but couldn’t. This too was part of his job. The gaping wound in the back of Carranza’s head was clearly visible. He put them face down on his desk, and swallowed to keep his stomach from rising.

“Incredible,” he said. “And now the new Mexican government has the audacity to accuse us of murdering Carranza? I knew nothing was ever straightforward in Mexican politics, but to now have the Obregon government nominating that butcher Carranza for sainthood is a little much. It’s incredible after all we did to protect Obregon and his people.”

Secretary of State Charles Evans Hughes chuckled mirthlessly. “It is, of course, just their little way of deflecting blame to another source. Since we took Texas and the other states from them seventy years ago, we have been their favorite monster under the bed.”

“And what will come of this?” General March asked.

Hughes answered. “I believe a very pragmatic new government in Mexico City will ponder matters for a while and then sue for peace while they still have enough of a country left to run. The last thing a new Obregon government wishes is to have us gobble up more Mexican territory. Monterrey is an important city and a major railhead. I believe we can let them, well, huff and puff for a while and then begin back door peace talks.”

March agreed. “They also know that Pershing is consolidating his hold on the Monterrey area and is awaiting word as to whether he should push farther south. In the meantime, his men are digging in and awaiting a Mexican counterattack, which, if we sit there long enough, will surely come.”

“And what are the Germans doing in Vera Cruz?” the president asked.

March grinned. “They appear to be packing up. Vera Cruz is useless to them.”

“As is Mexico,” Hughes injected.

“Agreed,” said Lansing. “And here is what we will do. First, we will continue to reinforce and resupply Pershing. His army must become strong enough to repel any Mexican attacks. Tell him he may probe aggressively, but I do not want the army risked farther south. He may also probe from El Paso and Brownsville. Hopefully, this will frighten Obregon into thinking that we might annex northern Mexico and motivate him to the peace table.”

“And if it doesn’t?” March asked.

“Then we will annex northern Mexico,” Lansing said.

A few more comments and General March departed, leaving Hughes and Lansing alone. “Tell me, Charles, what are the British up to? Will they ever come in on our side?”

Hughes sighed. “I wonder. I’ve been in contact with Winston Churchill and he is of the opinion that the Royal Navy lusts after war with Germany, but that the British Army isn’t quite ready.”

“The British Army may never be ready,” Lansing muttered. “It is far too small and there’s no interest in enlarging it except for defensive purposes. They see Germany across the Channel and they are rightfully concerned, but worry about us and go to war for us? Never.”

Lansing sighed. “A naval confrontation between Great Britain and Imperial Germany, with us aiding the British, is a marvelous vision.”

“I’ve heard it said that the Germans have warned the British in their part of Puget Sound not to try and exit the Sound either at night or without forewarning the Germans. I understand the British are contemptuous of such requests.”

“Charles, are you saying an incident might occur?”

Hughes smiled. “One can only hope so.”

* * *

Even though he was only thirty-five, the younger guards had begun calling Pedro Sanchez “grandfather.” Of course, most of them were so much younger than he, mere children in their mid teens. What the hell was the Mexican Army coming to, he wondered, if it enlisted children who were barely out of diapers?

As to his position as a guard at the camp in southern California, he had only himself to blame. He had supported Carranza, supported the changes needed to be made in the way Mexicans lived, and, worse, had believed in Carranza’s promises. He now realized that Carranza never had any intention of keeping those high-sounding promises.

Now he was hundreds of miles away from his home in a village that was south of Ciudad Juarez, which was just across the border from the American city of El Paso. Worse, as rumors spun out of control, he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever see it or his family again. At first, joining the army had seemed like a lark. He’d never been more than a few miles away from his home and he’d wanted to see a little of the rest of the world before he died. He’d been to Monterrey, but that was it. Now he knew he’d made a terrible mistake. Staring at a couple of hundred sullen and half-starved American prisoners was nobody’s idea of seeing the world.

San Diego and the ocean were only a few days march away, but he was convinced he’d see them when he was in heaven and looking down. Even more annoying were the Germans. Their arrogance was beyond belief. Did they think he was an animal? A slave? He spat on the ground. To hell with Carranza and the Germans he’d invited in to help rule Mexico.

Because of his age and apparent maturity, Captain Torres had grandly proclaimed that Pedro was the senior sergeant in the overlarge platoon sent to help guard the Americans. Thus, the men in his platoon, his children, often came to him for advice. Rumors were spinning out of control and the men were worried. Well, so was Sergeant Pedro Sanchez.

He’d tried to ask Captain Torres, but that man was too busy either stealing German supplies or screwing a Mexican whore in Raleigh to bother. Still, Pedro had figured out that all was not well with Mexico’s campaign to drive the Americans out of Texas. He thanked his lucky stars and the Virgin Mary, whichever worked best, that he was not involved in the bloody fighting in Texas.

Communications between Mexico City, Texas, and California were miserable at best and nobody thought to inform the illiterate creatures who were the enlisted men. Captain Torres was the worst. When asked, he’d caustically told Sanchez and the others to do their duty and let officers like him do the thinking.

His only source of possibly accurate information was the Mexican woman who was the mistress of the pig of an American who worked with the Germans. Sanchez despised traitors and Olson had betrayed his country.

Martina Flores had confirmed the bloody defeat of the Mexican Army in Texas and had then given him several pieces of additional bad news.

First, she said that Carranza was dead. If that was really true, and Martina’s source was a good one, then who did he owe his allegiance to? Obregon? How about to himself, he was thinking.

Second, and most horribly, the Americans were in Monterrey. His family had fled to Monterrey. He didn’t think they’d be molesting his wife. She was grossly overweight, bad tempered, and had few of her teeth left, all of which had influenced his decision to enlist. However, he had a daughter who was fourteen and ripening into a beauty. He became coldly angry at the thought of Americans touching her pale skin and frustrated because he was so far away that he could not protect his little angel.

The third thing that Martina told him, had shocked him to the depths of his soul. If the Germans pulled out, his men were supposed to kill the American prisoners. Mother of God, he could not do that. He supposed he could kill in battle, or in self-defense, or to protect his daughter’s fragile virtue, but he could not massacre the Americans who had done nothing to him. Some of them had been quite pleasant, even friendly, and he’d been surprised that so many spoke his language. Murder them? But what would he do if either Torres or the German, Steiner, ordered him to? Or what would he do if the Germans began to massacre the Americans? He dimly recalled the now discredited parish priest once telling him that people who do nothing in the face of evil are sinners as guilty as those who actually commit the act. If he did nothing, he concluded, he would go to Hell.

Mother of God, he repeated, what had he done to get into this mess? Not counting his drunken ass of a captain, Pedro Sanchez had forty men looking to him for guidance and leadership and all he wanted to do was go home. Mother of God.

Pedro Sanchez worried about his future.

* * *

Luke heard the drone of distant engines and looked into the cloudless sky. He assumed it was another visit from German fighters. German Albatros D-III fighters were common as they photographed the American fortifications or occasionally strafed an exposed position. American machine guns, mounted on trucks with their barrels elevated, functioned as antiaircraft guns and their accuracy was getting better as they got more practice. Several Albatroses had been shot from the sky and others had been sent running back to German lines with smoke streaming from their engines.

But this sound was deeper, more ominous. Luke shielded his eyes and stared to the south. Bombers. The Gothas had risen from the dead. Escorted by a swarm of fighters, a dozen of the monsters flew in at heights well above the antiaircraft guns. Once again, the American Army was impotent to stop the Germans.

Still, the American gunners opened fire and Luke watched as the tracers arched skyward and then fell back to earth. An Albatros fighter peeled off from his escort position and followed the tracers down to the offending gun. Bullets shredded the truck and the gunners and the victorious German pilot flew off. Luke could only shake his head. The American gunners had forgotten a basic fact: tracers traced both ways.

How had the Gotha bombers returned? His job was Intelligence and he was supposed to know these things. Hadn’t he and Ike destroyed their bomber fleet? Had they managed to ship additional planes to Los Angeles or had resourceful German mechanics been able to cannibalize the destroyed planes for enough parts to create this smaller Gotha fleet?

Since American spies had not detected the arrival of new planes, he decided it was likely the latter and reluctantly gave credit to that Captain Krause. He had been almost weeping with despondency at the loss of his planes. Now, somehow, he had gotten a number of them airborne. Luke didn’t think he’d want to fly in something held together with strings and baling wire, but Krause obviously found pilots and crew.

Luke recalled that they hadn’t had time to look for and destroy the ammo dump where the bombs were stored. As explosions rocked the area, he regretted that fact. The Germans were raiding again.

But for what purpose? It was a virtual given that the American defenses could not be seriously harmed by the handful of bombers. Terror? Possibly, but the risk to the handful of planes was too great for that purpose.

The planes continued overhead. In a few moments he heard more explosions to the north and realized the source. They were aiming for the Dumbarton Railroad Bridge that connected San Francisco with the rest of the world.

Luke chuckled mirthlessly. Even if the Krauts managed to hit the bridge, a highly unlikely event, the bridge could be repaired and rather quickly. And while it was being repaired, the Army would resort to using the barges and ferries that had been in use before the bridge’s completion ten years earlier.

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.