1920: America's Great War

CHAPTER 13

“Those look like pie tins,” Tovey said genially to a Marine Sergeant named Daly. The rugged Irishman grinned.

“These helmets protect my head a lot better than that bad excuse for a cowboy hat you’re wearing, General.”

Tovey laughed. Lejeune now had seven thousand Marines in the lines around San Antonio and, so far, the Mexicans hadn’t been able to make a dent in them. Word had it that Mexican President Carranza himself had come up from Mexico City to see San Antonio fall and was extremely angry that it hadn’t happened yet.

Even though they were holding out, Tovey was still worried about the ultimate outcome of the fighting. San Antonio was virtually surrounded. Carranza poured more and more men into taking the city and the Alamo.

Lejeune slid in beside Tovey. Their command trench was only fifty yards behind the main American trenches and some would argue they were way too close to the front lines. Others would argue that there wasn’t all that much to the defenses and that almost everything had become the front lines.

Mexican artillery, never very good or numerous, opened up and a number of shells landed near them. Everyone prudently kept their heads down and, as debris rained on them, Tovey began to wonder if his men shouldn’t get helmets, too. Sergeant Daly read his mind.

“See what I mean, General?”

Tovey shook the dirt from his campaign hat. “Up yours, Sergeant Daly.”

“Here they come,” someone yelled, followed by, “Oh Jesus, look at them all!”

From everywhere they could see, great waves of humanity poured out of the Mexican lines and rushed towards them. The Mexicans yelled and screamed while officers waved swords and pistols, urging them on.

Rifle and machine-gun fire from the Americans cut huge swaths in the Mexicans, but they kept coming, filling the places of the dead. They reached the barbed wire. Men with cutters worked frantically and brave Mexican soldiers used their bodies to crush down the wire. It worked. First in a trickle and then in a flood, the Mexicans poured through, screaming hatred and shooting wildly.

Firing was almost at point-blank range. Daly glared at Lejeune. “Begging both the generals’ pardon, but I don’t much feel like dying in no fucking hole in the ground.”

“Fucked if I do either,” said Tovey as he lurched out of the trench and headed forward.

Daly leaped across the main American trench and waved his rifle over his head. “Come on, you sons of bitches. You want to live forever?”

Marines and Texans climbed out of the trenches and, bayonets fixed, advanced slowly towards the Mexicans.

The lead Mexicans were shocked to see the thin line of Americans coming at them, their faces contorted in fury. Their slight hesitation was fatal. The Americans fired once more at point-blank range, dropping the Mexicans into more piles of dead and dying, and then took them with the bayonet.

The Mexicans were not used to bayonets, and had little training with the primitive but psychologically fearsome weapon. When confronted with a bayonet charge, most reasonable men will look for ways to get themselves elsewhere, and the Mexicans were no exception. Those in front who’d survived the withering rifle fire either hacked futilely with their own bayonets or tried to get away. However, the press of humanity pushing behind them wouldn’t let them retreat. Many of the Mexicans turned on their American tormenters and fought back desperately while others tried to claw their way back to safety.

Tovey’s bayonet caught in a Mexican’s chest and he lost his rifle. He pulled out his Bowie knife and his revolver and began to shoot and stab. It was nothing more than a gigantic bar brawl with thousands of Mexicans and Americans literally at each other’s throats. Tovey’s revolver was soon empty and he used it as a club. His knife sliced flesh every time he moved it. A Mexican screamed in his face and Tovey rammed the knife through the man’s throat. Tovey was knocked down and jabbed the knife upwards into a Mexican’s groin. The Mexican screamed like a burning cat.

Finally, it was too much for the Mexicans. The Mexican front lines, now thoroughly fought out, managed to bull their way through the rear ranks who promptly realized that the day was over. As Tovey and Lejeune watched, exhausted and incredulous, the Mexican host pulled back. The thin American lines were much thinner and everyone was covered with blood. Lejeune was nursing a sliced shoulder and someone had shot Tovey in the leg. He could barely stand. It didn’t look like an artery’d been hit, though, so he thought he might live.

Lejeune looked at the carnage. A few feet in front of him, the bodies were piled three and four deep and not all were Mexicans. Some of the Americans had started looking for survivors, or at least pulling their own dead back from the grisly field.

“We’ve won,” Tovey said. “But I’m gonna guess we’ve lost half our men.”

“Easily,” replied Lejeune. He’d taken a rifle butt in the jaw and talking was painful but necessary. “But they won’t try this again. Carranza will have his men finish surrounding us and take us from all sides. Tomorrow at the earliest.”

“Then we’d all better hope that the rest of your plan shakes out. And by the way, where the hell is Daly?”

“Right here,” Daly said. His uniform was almost totally covered in blood and he looked like he’d fallen into a vat of red paint. Otherwise he didn’t seem hurt and was grinning widely.

“Wasn’t that a helluva battle, General Lejuene, sir, and respects to you too, General Tovey. I would say we kicked the Mexicans’ asses right up between their ears.”

Trains, trains, and more trains. However, there was no more riding across the country in reasonably comfortable passenger cars that had seats and windows and johns.

At Corpus Christi, Tim Randall’s unit had disembarked and switched over to a freight train. Twenty men and all their supplies were jammed into a freight car and the train seemed to have scores of freight cars. And it was headed west, not south.

It could have been worse, Tim reminded himself. He’d seen some flatcars with soldiers sprawled on them. At least the boxcar kept them out of most of the weather and there wasn’t much danger of falling off.

His platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Alfred Taylor, was with him in the car, a mixed blessing at best. The men didn’t feel they could relax with an officer so close and the lieutenant was not the type to let down his hair or get familiar with the men.

Tim thought the lieutenant was all right. Maybe twenty-two, but looking fourteen, and with a degree in philosophy from Harvard, which made him officer material as far as the Army’s standards were concerned. So far he hadn’t done anything stupid, nor had he done anything to endear him to his men or make them want to follow him in battle. Tim sighed. He wondered if his squad would follow him when the time came.

Tim knew his men’s names, but that was about it. Sergeant Smith had given him one last piece of advice before Tim had departed from Dix. He said don’t ever get too close to men you might have to send out to die. Learn their names so you can yell at them, but don’t learn about their families, their sweethearts, their kids, their old widowed mothers, or their ambitions. You do that, Smith said, and it’ll tear you apart when they die, or worse, you’ll sit back and play God when it comes time to send men out to do something dangerous. For instance, Smith said, you might be tempted to send a bachelor out on patrol and keep the man with two kids safe.

First, Smith continued, it wasn’t fair to the single guy, and, second, maybe the married guy is the best man for the job, or it’s just his turn and the men will hate you for showing favoritism. Either way, keep the men’s personal lives at arm’s length. After losing Wally, Tim thought he understood.

Soon enough they would find out how good they were. While the Fifth and Sixth Marine Regiments, added to the original Texas garrison, held on to a perimeter in San Antonio. The rest of the division, along with two others, was racing along the rail lines to the east of San Antonio. Racing was a relative term. With so many trains lined up, speed was not possible.

But they did not go all the way to San Antonio. The trains stopped in the middle of the night and soldiers poured out, confused and lost. Officers checked all their weapons and the empty trains moved again towards the west while the men formed up and began marching south. A lucky few rode in trucks or Ford cars, but those were senior officers and the vast majority walked. A half-dozen armored trucks accompanied them. Machine guns poked reassuringly from the sides and front of the strange, sinister-looking vehicles.

Tim thought he saw Pershing in a staff car but wasn’t certain. Some soldiers bitched, but Tim thought it felt good to be walking. It wasn’t very hot yet and someone had used his head in planning the march. There were stations with food and water along the way. There weren’t many towns, but in what little ones there were, people came out with more food and water. At the very least they waved. Some had American flags and one confused old man waved the Confederate flag and loudly thanked Jesus that Lee had finally arrived.

“Where we at?” he asked an older woman who was maybe fifty.

“You’re close on to Pleasanton,” she said and Tim grinned. She had no teeth.

“Sir, where and what the hell is Pleasanton?” Tim asked the lieutenant who just shrugged. He wasn’t going to admit he didn’t know squat either. Officers didn’t admit ignorance.

In the distance and to their right, lights flickered and they could hear thunder. It was an artillery duel and the dramatic sights and sounds sobered them. They were going into battle.

Suddenly, rifle fire erupted in front of them. They all dropped to the ground until the lieutenants and sergeants told them to get their asses up and form skirmish lines.

More rifle fire, but it was sporadic and they began to feel foolish about hitting the ground until a soldier screamed and fell over, clutching his leg. He was followed by another and another. My God, Tim thought in disbelief, someone’s shooting at me.

“Forward! Faster!” Lieutenant Taylor yelled and, all along the line, men began to run. The armored trucks fanned out with them and machine guns started blazing away.

There was a cluster of buildings to their front and Tim saw people running around. Christ, they were Mexican soldiers. Lieutenant Taylor ordered a halt and his men loosed a ragged volley at the enemy. Now it was the Mexicans turn to drop and writhe and scream.

Without further orders, the Americans rushed forward, the armored trucks first and then the infantry. In seconds, they were in between the buildings and the Mexicans were running for their lives. There hadn’t been very many of them in the first place, and some were trying to surrender, while others lay on the ground, dead or wounded. Tim looked at a man who had half his head blown away. He wanted to puke, but held it down. Some of his men didn’t.

They pushed through to what had been a clearing. It was piled high with wooden cases and barrels. They’d just grabbed a Mexican supply dump.

“Burn everything,” came the order and, like little kids, the Yanks complied until the field was an inferno with flames soaring hundreds of feet in the air. Some idiot set fire to ammo which exploded in a massive fireworks display. A couple of Americans got hurt, but not seriously.

Taylor grabbed Tim’s arm. “Get your men organized. The whole company’s heading north, to San Antonio.”

“Just the company, Lieutenant?” Tim asked, not fully comprehending.

Taylor laughed and Tim began to think that the boy lieutenant was okay. “The company, the battalion, the regiment, the division. The whole fucking army’s heading north to San Antonio.”

The men nearby roared their approval and Tim wondered just when, where and why Harvard philosophy majors learned to use the word “fuck” in their philosophical conversations.

“Christ, it stinks,” Tovey said. No one argued. The recent additions to the piles of dead had joined the earlier piles of bloated, maggot-filled corpses. Vast clouds of flies periodically erupted for unknown reasons and then landed to continue their obscene dinner. Crows were having a feast.

“Now somebody tell me what all that smoke is?” Tovey asked casually. Nobody answered. His men knew their general was talking to himself again. It looked like the pillars of smoke were at least five miles away and, whatever it was, the Mexicans were strangely quiet.

General Lejeune ran up, grinning. “Get your men up and moving, General Tovey. We got a linkup to make.”

The survivors of the battles for San Antonio moved forward slowly and tentatively. Crossing the killing field was difficult. First they weren’t certain they wouldn’t be shot at, and second, there was so much human debris that it was almost impossible not to step on something soft that squished horribly when a boot landed on it. Worst were the severed limbs and disconnected skulls that stared up at them. Tovey gagged. He’d killed men before, but this was murder on a massive scale.

Gradually, the numbers of Mexican dead dwindled, the stench faded, and it became apparent that nobody was shooting at them. Only a handful of Mexicans remained, and most of them were wounded. They held up their arms pathetically and cried out that they were surrendering.

They could hear small-arms fire in the distance. They continued to move on, now even more cautiously. They could see large numbers of Mexicans approaching, but in disarray. The firing was getting closer and it dawned on them that the Mexicans were being herded north and towards them.

On seeing the Americans, the Mexican host halted. Somebody in the Mexican ranks yelled an order and they all threw down their weapons.

Lejeune slapped Tovey on the shoulder. “Let’s get all these people organized. Pershing’s got plans for us.”

“Tell me, General.”

“South to the border at Laredo, and then God only knows where.”

For President Lansing and his key advisors, it was all too easy to focus on the war with Germany and Mexico and ignore what was happening in the rest of the world.

“Mr. President, there are events occurring in Russia that are of great interest,” reported Secretary of State Hughes. “The Bolsheviks have announced that the Tsar has been captured, although it does seem that the rest of his family escaped and are en route to safety in Berlin. If true, it is a tragedy for the Imperial cause. However, the presence of his family in Germany will ensure that the dynasty will continue.”

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.