Robert Conroy - 1920 - America's Great War

But had he? They now knew exactly where the American guns were located and how big they were. This would help immeasurably when he sent in his battleships.

Trotha was reading his mind, “When, Admiral?”

It was nearly noon. Hipper made up his mind quickly, “Now.”

Luke found Patton and his huge metal creatures a few miles from where the Germans were attacking. They were in a large grove of trees and hidden from sight. The thunder of battle, however, was loud and clear. With others around, he kept it formal and saluted.

“Change of plans, General.”

Patton poked his head out from the turret of his command tank. He was grease-covered and filthy, a long way from the officer who was so punctilious about his uniform.

“What the hell are you talking about, Acting Major Martell? I’m ready to launch a counterattack in a matter of moments, and it’s all based on the fact that the intelligence you and Ike gave me is proving accurate. You have noticed the firing off to the west, haven’t you?”

“I have indeed, Acting General Patton, and that’s the concern.”

“The hell with anybody’s concerns,” Patton snapped. “When the Germans are tied up in our trenches I’m going to hit their flank and roll them up. We’re gonna go through them like shit through a goose.”

Luke shook his head. “Harbord wants your tanks behind our lines as a means of blunting their attack.”

Patton turned red. “Bullshit. Not only is that bad tactics but it’s damned near impossible as well. Using tanks like that would be a waste of their potential. They’d get ground up in a fight and destroyed. No, we use them as planned.”

Luke glanced around and whispered. “Harbord’s given orders, George.”

“Look about and what do you see?”

Luke did as told. “George, I see scores of tanks and what look like armored trucks hidden under tarps and covered with branches. I also don’t seem them being attacked by any German planes. Good job, George.”

“Damned straight it’s a good job. I’ve assembled all fifty tanks and more than a hundred lightly armored trucks with machine guns to follow up the tanks when we attack. It’s taken me more than a week to bring them here without anybody noticing and camouflage them from the German planes, which, if you and General Harbord haven’t noticed, rule the skies. If I even attempt to move them where Harbord wants them, every German plane they have will attack them. At least most of the tanks should make it through a strafing, but the trucks will be slaughtered. Their side armor isn’t that thick and they have nothing on top. In short, nearly half my force won’t make it to where Harbord thinks he wants them.

“And one other thing, Major Martell, even if the tanks did make it, it won’t be today. I just can’t pick them up and change their direction like that. They aren’t fucking chess pieces and Harbord knows that.”

Luke was of the opinion that Patton was trying to blow smoke up his ass regarding the time necessary to move his outfit—that was typical Patton. But the man did have good points. Tanks were radical new weapons and certainly not designed to slug it out in the trenches. Striking the German flank and rear, like cavalry of old, did seem like the logical way of using them. He decided to change the subject a little.

“George, what are those things draped on the tanks?”

Patton grinned happily, “Another one of my brilliant ideas. Those are heavy rope cables and I got them in Seattle. It occurred to me that the wheels and tracks of the tanks and trucks were the most vulnerable, so I’ve draped woven ropes where they’re most needed. The ropes are lightweight and bulletproof.”

Luke wondered just what the hell else was going on in Patton’s fertile mind. “George, when are you attacking?”

“In an hour or so.”

Luke rolled his eyes and looked skyward. No German planes were in sight. He made his decision. “I suggest you make it sooner, George, and I never found you.”

Once upon a time, Tim Randall thought trees were beautiful and loved to spend as much time as he could in a park or in the country. Not now. Everywhere he looked in Washington, Oregon, and northern California there were trees. The Pacific coast states were nothing but one long pine forest, and a snow-covered pine forest at that.

What he’d naively proclaimed would take only a couple of days had taken more than a week and they still hadn’t arrived at their destination. Everyone grudgingly admitted that they were closing in on San Francisco, but you couldn’t tell it by looking out a window. The troops saw nothing but snow-covered trees.

Nor had the trip been totally safe. Stuffed as they were in boxcars, many soldiers came down with colds that devolved into pneumonia. Always present was the fear that influenza would again rear its ugly head. Their company commander was in a hospital a couple of hundred miles to their north, which meant that Lieutenant Taylor was now the CO and Sergeant Tim Randall now ran the platoon. Christ, Tim thought, next thing, they’d make him an officer. Would that be such a bad thing? His family would be proud, sort of. The latest letters he’d received still bitterly held him responsible for Wally’s death. He’d pretty well decided he wasn’t going back to Camden. He couldn’t bring himself to hate his parents, but he’d be damned if he would let their bitterness dominate his life. He hadn’t put a gun to Wally’s head and forced him to enlist. No, Wally had been an adult and had volunteered. Wally had been as insistent as Tim that they join the Army. Who the hell knew a bug would kill him?

At least the letters he continued to get from Kathy Fenton were uplifting. After a rocky beginning, the two of them were getting to know each other pretty well as a result of their correspondence. He’d told her he wasn’t returning to Camden and implied that she should join him wherever he landed and she’d seemed intrigued. First, of course, there was the little matter of the war.

He yawned. General MacArthur had done a great job of getting them headed south. Tim was actually on the first train. Scores of other trains were coming along behind him, sooner or later. More than fifty thousand men were en route to San Francisco, which, according to MacArthur’s frequent bulletins and announcements, desperately needed them.

One of his men looked out the cracked door of the boxcar. They were fairly warm and out of the wind as long as it was closed, and by now they were used to sleeping on either the hard ground or the hard wooden floor of the boxcar. At least it wasn’t snowing inside. He seemed to recall reading that California was sunny and bright, but obviously the author of that epistle had been terribly misinformed.

The train began to slow. Damn, another stop. They’d get out, stretch their legs, piss, and wait to get started up again. At least pissing while standing on the ground was better than aiming a stream through one of the many cracks in the floor while the train was moving. Like little kids, some of the guys had made a contest of it.

“Everybody out and take all your shit!”

They didn’t know who said it, but they all complied. They wondered what the hell was happening now. They formed up and walked forward and past the engine. They paused and stared. A large body of water lay before them and a couple of miles beyond that was a city. South of the city, greasy black smoke rose skyward and now they could just hear the sounds of artillery.

They had reached San Francisco, or, more precisely, Oakland, California. Oakland had once been the western terminus of the Transcontinental Railroad. Originally, ferries were used to ship railroad cars across to San Francisco, but now it was the hub from which other lines led, including the Dumbarton Railroad Bridge at the southern end of the bay. However, the Dumbarton Bridge, which ran into the southern part of the peninsula, had been damaged by German shelling. Realization that the fighting they’d seen in Texas would be as nothing in comparison with the hell the Germans were serving up was beginning to sink in.