Robert Conroy - 1920 - America's Great War

More shells landed, and water splashed over the German battleship. Fragments from the shells struck down on the deck. A dozen crewmen fell in screaming bloody heaps.

Suddenly, Muller was lying face down on the deck of the bridge. Bodies lay around him. The ship was rocking violently and flames were shooting out from a score of places. A human arm lay near him. It was his. He tried to get up but hands held him down and placed a tourniquet on the stump of his shattered arm.

“Status!” Muller screamed through waves of pain. The report was dismal. The forward eleven-inch turret had been destroyed and the engines were not responding. His ship was dead in the water and sinking. He sobbed and gave the order to abandon ship. The Preussen hadn’t lasted ten minutes against the Americans.

As he was being lowered into a lifeboat he realized that the Americans were no longer firing at the helpless old battleship. A small mercy, he thought. A shell struck the Pillau and the five-thousand-ton cruiser broke in half. One of the American battleships was in with the transports, sinking them with her secondary battery of five-inch guns. One did not use fourteen inch shells on a transport any more than one used a shotgun to kill a fly. It also occurred to him that perhaps the Americans didn’t have an abundance of fourteen-inch shells.

A couple of transports struck their colors. Their crews began abandoning ship. There weren’t enough boats for the men on the troop transport and they spilled into the water. Many would drown. God help them, Muller thought.

Two hours later, the Preussen still stubbornly held onto life. From where he sat in a lifeboat, Muller could see that she listed well to port and would sooner or later capsize. A brave ship, Muller thought. More ships were appearing over the horizon. The German Navy had arrived. Finally, Muller thought bitterly. The Americans had wrought their havoc and long since disappeared.

Why me, thought Luke as he stood in front of what was thought to be an empty wood-frame house. Because you’re the only one available, that’s why, he thought as he answered his own question. He gripped his .45 automatic and waited while the rest of the detachment, six soldiers from the provost marshal’s office, came up. Four took up positions by the front door and two in the rear.

The house looked as if it had survived the earthquake of 1906, but might not make it much longer. Windows were shuttered and paint was peeling.

Luke took a deep breath. He wasn’t a cop but he was going to have to act like one. “We know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up or you’ll get shot.”

There was silence and then a voice cried out. “I’m not going back!” Luke picked up on the sense of desperation in the man’s voice.

A second voice added, “We’ve got guns and we’ll use them. Leave us alone. That’s all we ask, just leave us alone.”

Of course they have weapons, Luke thought. They’re soldiers, or once upon a time they were. Now they’re deserters and would hang if caught. A police patrol happened to see motion in what was thought to be an abandoned house and shots were fired when the cops went to investigate. Fortunately, no cops had been hit in the skirmish, but it had proven that the deserters were indeed desperate.

Even in peacetime, desertion was a problem, and now it was especially severe. After the major German attack on the trenches, Luke had seen hundreds of men running in panic towards safety in the rear. That happened all the time with inexperienced troops. Men broke and ran. Most of them came back after a while, all sheepish and shamefaced. Sometimes they were punished with extra duty and sometimes a sympathetic commander let them back in their units with little more than a scolding. Every soldier understood terror. Modern battle was a terrifying thing.

But the men in the house had not come back to duty. They’d stolen food, shot at cops, and now were a threat to Luke and his men. He couldn’t just leave them there despite their entreaties.

“If you surrender and come out, I promise you a fair trial and that you won’t hang if you’re guilty.”

Of course they’re guilty, he thought. They wouldn’t be in that house if they weren’t. The not-hanging promise had been concurred with by Liggett. A long and hard prison sentence awaited them, with them probably breaking rocks for most of the rest of their lives. Maybe hanging would be more merciful, he thought. With the Germans only ten miles away from the city, no one was inclined to be merciful.

“Fuck you, soldier!” someone yelled from the house.

Luke turned to the corporal in charge of the enlisted men. “Well, that settles it. I don’t think they like us. Throw in some tear gas.”

The corporal grinned wickedly and he and his men lobbed tear gas grenades through the windows, smashing what remained of the glass. The original owners of the house are going to be pissed when they come back, Luke thought.

They could hear coughing and choking from inside. Someone fired wildly through a window and they ducked. “Stupid sons of bitches,” snarled the corporal. “Should we shoot inside, sir?”

“No. Hold off for a minute.” The house was frame and he was concerned that bullets would go right through and innocent people would be hit by strays. Already, a crowd of spectators had gathered and police were having a hard time keeping them out of the way.

“More gas,” he ordered and a half dozen more grenades added to the choking fumes.

A moment later, the front door opened and a man came out. He had a revolver and fired it wildly. The corporal did not need an invitation. He fired and hit the man in the chest. The deserter went down, flapping his arms.

The two others emerged, also blinded and firing wildly. Luke’s men returned fire and both men fell, wounded. The corporal and another man dragged the three deserters from the doorway. The first man was dead and the others seriously wounded. With luck they would live until they were hanged. Liggett had been adamant on that further point. There would be no mercy if they didn’t surrender.

One of the deserters, a boy about eighteen, was crying and not just because of the tear gas. He was hurt and he was going to die. Maybe not today, but very soon, and he was scared to death. Luke wondered if the others had led him on. Too bad. He was old enough to make his own decisions and he had made a tragically bad one.

A couple of trucks were driven up and the prisoners were dumped inside. One of the wounded screamed. Luke thought he should chide the corporal for letting that happen, but what the hell. Those men had let down their comrades and then tried to kill Luke and the other soldiers. Maybe the people who wrote the Geneva Convention wouldn’t like it, but Luke didn’t recall signing the damned thing.

The Dumbarton Railroad Bridge ran from the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay to the village of Menlo Park, just south of the city of San Francisco. It was essential to the existence of the city since no other railroads ran into the city. A spur line ran from the bridge north to the heart of town, but the Dumbarton Bridge stood alone.

The bridge had been completed in 1910. Prior to its existence, food, supplies, clothing, and anything else that arrived in Oakland were either ferried across the bay or driven the long way around it.

And now its existence was being challenged. German artillery had begun firing at it from long range. Granted, the shelling was inaccurate, but it was only a matter of time before the bridge was struck and the city would be back once again to its dependence on ferries.