Robert Conroy - 1920 - America's Great War

Tim and the lieutenant looked at each other. Walk eight hundred miles through snow-covered mountains and forests? That would be madness. They had the nagging feeling that MacArthur might consider such an alternative.

“Three months,” Taylor whispered. “It would take us at least three months and probably a lot longer to walk to San Francisco. The weather and terrain would slow us to a crawl. By then the war would be over.”

They had to go by rail. Hell, Tim thought. Neither he nor Lieutenant Taylor had realized they were still that far from their destination. Like many young Americans they were learning just how large the United States was.

Small continued. “General, the dilemma is obvious. Do we send supplies down to the men who have so little, or do we send men carrying only the supplies on their back? It’s a helluva choice, but General Liggett’s orders are specific and he outranks you. Your men are to wait until the most needed supplies make it down there. We’re sending supply trains as fast as we can, but it’s still not enough. And sending men without additional supplies would exacerbate the problem.”

Tim quickly did the math. At forty men to a car, and fifty cars to a train, each train could carry two thousand men. Averaging twenty miles an hour, they could begin to arrive in San Francisco in two or three days, depending on interruptions, and not three plus months by shank’s mare. So near yet so far. Of course, it would take at least a day to load up each train and it would take a good twenty-five or thirty trains.

“Someday, I will have your hide, Major.”

“Someday I’ll be a civilian again, General.”

MacArthur wheeled away and, to Tim’s horror, spotted them. “You heard that, I presume?”

The two men stood and snapped to attention and Tim responded. “Couldn’t much help it, sir, and if I may say so, we’ve got to get down to San Francisco. We are useless as tits on a boar sitting up here. To be blunt sir, I didn’t enlist so I could sit on my ass in Seattle while my fellow Americans are fighting in San Francisco.”

MacArthur’s features showed surprise at Tim’s bluntness and then softened. His men were agreeing with him and he liked that. He was about to respond when Major Small came trotting up, huffing from the exertion.

“General MacArthur, I don’t know what the hell’s going on but General Liggett’s changed his mind. He wants your division down south as fast as you can go. I don’t know what the devil’s happened but he wants you yesterday. You get your men ready while I round up the trains.”

MacArthur’s face split into a grin. He shook both Tim and the Taylor’s hands. “You men are good luck.”

MacArthur strode briskly away, looking for his aides and bellowing orders. Taylor shook his head. “Tim, that little speech of yours was more bullshit than I spout in a year of lawyering. You sure you don’t want to be an attorney?”

Tim grinned. “Funny thing is, sir, I meant a lot of it.”

And now they were going to San Francisco.

Martina Flores stood and stared at the prisoners as she carefully hand signaled her message—tonight.

Joe Sullivan pulled on his ear lobe, the response that he understood. He got up and found Captain Rice. “Martina says tonight, sir.” Rice nodded. Their long days and nights of waiting were over.

It seemed to take forever for the sun to set. The men lay down in their blankets and pretended to sleep. Rice and other key men watched as their Mexican guards took up station. It got darker. The stars came out and a coyote howled in the distance.

And then they were gone. The Mexicans had disappeared. There were no guards watching over them. Rice and his men stared at each other. Where their eyes playing tricks? Were the Mexicans truly gone or were they lying in wait?

Rice took a deep breath. It was time. “Now,” he said softly.

A score of men rose up and ran with him to the main gate. Rice fumbled with the key Martina had given. He almost dropped it but caught it and stuck it in. The lock opened.

Rice and others pushed it aside and ran to the building that housed the weapons. A few kicks and the outside door was smashed open. There was no guard inside, but a metal door barred them. Another key and it was open. Jubilant Americans began passing out rifles and ammunition. The weapons were a miscellany of Krags, Winchesters, and Springfields. They grabbed as much ammunition as they could. It would have to be sorted out later. Gunfire from outside had begun and was getting heavy. There was no time to dither.

“Who the hell do we shoot?” someone yelled.

“Germans!” Rice answered. “And anybody who shoots at us.”

On the other side of the camp, Steiner’s thin line of German soldiers, most of them clerks, had opened fire on the fleeing Mexicans. Men screamed and fell, and Steiner laughed. The Mexicans had tried to be silent, but he’d posted men to watch them. It was so easy and they were so obvious. One of the first Mexicans to die had been their treacherous sergeant, Sanchez.

Steiner’s men might not be combat troops, but any German was better than a group of confused and disorganized Mexicans. Beside him, Olson brought up his own men. Steiner waved him off.

“Go back and watch the prisoners.”

As Olson moved to comply, rifle fire opened up from outside the camp. A pair of Germans fell screaming. Steiner looked at the flashes of gunfire. Mexicans or Americans? It didn’t matter. More gunfire erupted, and this time to his rear. What the devil? The prisoners must have escaped and gotten weapons. Steiner swore. He was no longer in charge and the situation was deteriorating.

With that, Steiner blew a whistle and his Germans, like trained dogs, gathered around him and began a fighting withdrawal to the railroad tracks.

Men were shouting in English. Most were yelling at others not to shoot them, while some of Olson’s men were trying to surrender. Steiner could see Olson crumple and start to scream. Seeing him fall, the rest of his men disappeared into the night, leaving Olson alone on the ground. Soon, Steiner and his men were long gone.

In a few minutes, Olson was surrounded by the now heavily armed former prisoners, while some Mexicans in American uniforms watched. “Okay,” he said through his pain. “You win. I’m your prisoner.”

The prisoners’ leader, Captain Rice, looked down on him and spat in his face. This amused the others. Olson saw Martina walk toward him and it was suddenly difficult to breathe. Martina looked like a tigress stalking prey.

Martina pulled a large knife from her belt. In Spanish, she asked for Montoya’s men to hold Olson. They happily complied, and with one motion, she ripped open his stomach. He stared in disbelief at the blood pouring from his gut. The men holding him let him go, and ignored his screams. Olson curled up into a ball and groaned while he bled to death. Martina was not a good surgeon.

Josh stole a moment to get some food from the Army’s mess hall at the Presidio. More meetings were going on and he was not needed. A mere lieutenant junior grade was not going to impact the war. Sometimes he had the feeling that Admiral Sims barely tolerated his presence. Perhaps it was because of Elise or maybe the admiral thought he was a good messenger. Either way, he was not involved in combat and, however Elise felt about it, it ate at Josh.

Of course, the Navy at San Francisco wasn’t in a position to do much of anything except point a few shore guns at the Germans who now prudently stayed out of range, and prepare for the inevitable German ground assault. The reported escape of the Arizona and the Pennsylvania from Puget Sound had electrified everyone in San Francisco. The drawback of the escape was that the German battleships previously assigned to blockade them were now stationed off San Francisco.