Robert Conroy - 1920 - America's Great War

“Go to hell, Lieutenant.”

Women prisoners was an intriguing thought, even more so if one was indeed an American. What the devil was going on, and was it worth betraying themselves and giving away their presence? If the women actually were prisoners, then whose and why? He looked at Joe, who shrugged.

The group was moving very slowly, so it was no problem for Luke and Joe to circle around them and take up positions in front and to either side. They hid their horses and lay prone in the dirt. When the group was about fifty feet away, Luke and Joe emerged, their rifles aimed on the group.

“Hands up,” Luke ordered in a loud voice and the shocked riders complied. They ordered the men off their horses and quickly disarmed them. Luke might regret such high-handedness at some future time, but he felt it was far better to apologize later then to be sorry. He did not release the women. For all he knew, they were ax murderers like Lizzie Borden.

A heavyset man, obviously the leader from the way the other men looked to him, glared at Luke. His face was red with scarcely controlled rage. “Dear God,” he said angrily. “You’re deserters from the American Army, aren’t you? The real American Army is as extinct as Darwin’s dinosaurs.”

Luke smiled tightly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but we’re part of a column,” Luke lied. “Now, who are you and why are these women tied up?”

The man looked confused. “My name is Roy Olson and I am the law, the sheriff, in this area and these two women are under arrest for a number of crimes.”

Sheriff? And way behind German lines? “And who appointed you sheriff, Mr. Olson?” Luke asked quietly. He had a discomfiting feeling he knew the answer.

The white woman looked up. There was a massive bruise on her face and anger in her eyes. “The Germans gave him the job so he could abuse real Americans. Look what he did to me. And my crime? I gave food and water to people who apparently might have beaten up one of Olson’s precious German soldiers and that’s a hanging crime, according to Mr. Olson.”

“Comment, Mr. Olson?”

Olson glared at the woman and turned to Luke. “Part of it’s true. Of course, the Germans are in charge where we live, and, yes, we have to cooperate with them, and yes, attacking a German soldier is a capital offence. I do not make the laws, ah, Lieutenant, but I do have to obey them and I have been directed to bring these people in.”

The woman sneered. “And did that include beating me and trying to rape me? The Germans burned our home, hurt and abused my cousin and now he wants us to go back with him and live in a concentration camp or, if he decides I’m a criminal, be sent to a prison in Mexico City. Unless, of course, I become his mistress. He beat me up just to make his point.”

“Lying bitch,” Olson snarled. “She fell off her horse.”

Luke made his choice. He told Joe to cut the two women free. As he did so, one of Olson’s men lunged for his rifle. The knife flew from Joe’s hand and buried itself in the man’s throat. A second man reached for a pistol he’d hidden in his boot, and Luke shot him in the chest. He screamed and fell back into Olson, covering him with blood. Olson fell backwards with his dead companion on top of him.

Luke chambered another bullet, and Joe had his rifle aimed at Olson and his two thoroughly shocked surviving companions.

“The Germans are going to hang you for this!” Olson said as he tried to stand up. He was covered with the other man’s gore. “And maybe they’ll hang hostages, too, and it’ll all be your Goddamn fault.”

Luke laughed. “And maybe you’ll hang for being a traitor when we come back. In the meantime, you’re going to give us your horses, your weapons, your boots, and anything else we think might be useful. We will leave you enough water to last you a couple of days so you don’t die of thirst before you can be hanged for treason. When we come back with more of our men, I strongly suggest you be nowhere near here.”

They mounted and rode off, leaving a thoroughly cowed three men behind them. Luke noticed that the woman—she’d told him her name was Kirsten—was really rather pretty in a wholesome, suntanned kind of way, or would be when the swelling on her face went down.

“That was wonderful,” she said. “I had just given up all hope of seeing an American Army again. So tell me, how far away is the rest of your column?”

Luke shrugged. “Maybe five hundred miles.”

German warships had begun blockading all major west coast ports including Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle. Admiral Sims quickly realized that, even though the Germans had a numerical advantage in ships, there simply weren’t enough of them to keep a tight blockade or watch the rest of America’s lengthy Pacific coastline. Of course, when Los Angeles inevitably fell, that would free up additional ships to tighten the blockade, but there still would never be enough enemy vessels to cover every cove and bay.

Before the Germans took Los Angeles, however, Sims wanted to take some positive steps. Like everyone in the military, he was sick and tired of waiting and watching. The United States should never be used as a punching bag and that, he thought, was exactly what was happening. It was time to strike back, however small that attempt might be.

Thus, Ensign Josh Cornell found himself on the deck of a squat, ugly fishing boat not unlike the one that had rescued him off San Francisco. This one, however, was registered to the U.S. Navy as a miscellaneous ship and her crew was all U.S. Navy personnel. Despite his still gimpy leg, Josh was present to observe on Sims’ behalf. Lieutenant Jesse Oldendorf commanded the ship they’d facetiously renamed the Shark . Her armament consisted of a couple of machine guns taken from the hulks at Mare Island and she carried a cargo that needed to be delivered to the Germans.

Oldendorf was also an Annapolis man and a decade older then Josh. Oldendorf’s friends called him “Oley.” Since “Oley” was two grades higher, Josh called him “sir.” Like Josh, Oldendorf was thrilled to be out at sea even though his warship was a stinking former fishing boat that the Navy hadn’t even bothered to repaint, which Josh quickly realized was intentional. There had been serious discussions with Admiral Sims as to whether or not the Germans would recognize the Shark as a U.S. Navy ship if she was captured, and if the crew be treated as prisoners of war under the Geneva Convention.

Sims’ response had been succinct. “Don’t get captured.”

Oldendorf kept the Shark as close as possible to the beautiful but rugged shoreline as they slipped south towards San Diego, chugging along at a sedate ten knots. He had no concern about being spotted. She would be seen by many and there would be no attempt to hide her. The Shark looked like what she had been, an innocuous fisher, just one of hundreds still on the water. Keeping close to shore meant they could turn and ground the ship if a German did decide to take a close look since there was no way they could outrun or outfight much of anything. That way the twelve-man crew stood at least a small chance of escaping overland and the issue of whether they were covered by the Geneva Convention would be moot.

The Shark ’s cargo was two dozen contact mines. These would be dropped in San Diego’s shipping channel and anchored to the ocean bottom, leaving the mines to bob at or just below the surface. Hopefully, an unwary ship would hit one and be sunk.

They reached their destination without incident. It was dark but not very cloudy and the crew of the Shark felt vulnerable and naked as they slipped into San Diego Bay’s narrow channel. Oldendorf muttered that he couldn’t believe the Germans’ inertia. He didn’t even see a patrol boat. Were they that confident? He grinned wickedly. Maybe they were overconfident.