Robert Conroy - 1920 - America's Great War

The loss of the Nassau and Posen would prove that a blood price had been paid and that German naval courage could not ever be doubted.

The survivors from the two battleships had been picked up and the wounded were being cared for. In a short while it would indeed be prudent to seek the open ocean, but what was the rush? From the sounds of it, there was fighting in San Francisco proper and it was inconceivable that the main attack had failed. Yet, that was what the miserable and static-filled radio communication seemed to indicate. Technology was so wonderful except when it didn’t work.

He’d launched a floatplane to fly over the battlefield but some fool on one side or the other had shot it down.

Twilight was coming and he didn’t want to rush through unfamiliar waters in darkness. It was either leave now or wait until morning.

A confirmation was radioed in. Something had gone horribly wrong with the main attack and Mackensen’s army was pulling back, presumably to try again tomorrow, Hipper thought. Leaving now, therefore, was the right thing to do. If they remained, they would be at the mercy of American field artillery which, while more annoying than anything else, might still present a danger to his precious ships. As to what was happening in San Francisco, it was clearly not any of his immediate concern.

He gave the order to Canaris, who began to relay the proper commands to the other ships. Eight great capital ships were at anchor and it would take a few minutes haul them up and begin their way out. No matter. With the Yank shore batteries silenced, the German fleet could return tomorrow if needed. If not, then honor had been satisfied.

“What the devil?”

A burst of fire erupted from the deck of the battleship Kaiserin and billowed skyward. In the light of the flames, he could see dots, like moths, flitting about. They were planes, he realized with horror, American planes.

Amelia Earhart flew low, extremely low, over the ground and then over the blue water of San Francisco Bay. A German cruiser was in front of her and she had to gain altitude to clear it. As it was, she saw shocked faces beneath her. She thought about waving.

Scores of other little airplanes had commenced departing their secret airfield. The total number of Fireflies would be close to two hundred. She was to drop her load and return to the airfield for another and, God willing, another and another.

Today’s cargo consisted of one female pilot and a number of containers rigged to drop from the plane when she pulled the appropriate handle. The containers were filled with gasoline and had a crude detonator for each. Even though the gasoline made takeoffs extremely dangerous, she had convinced a couple of mechanics to go along with her plans. Without a second person in the plane, it meant she could carry that much more gasoline.

Something exploded to her right and she saw a ship on fire. Good, the Germans were beginning to pay. Oops, bad. Now they would be alert. As she thought that, glowing fingers of tracer bullets leaped from the German ships but didn’t touch her.

“Look at that,” she said to herself.

A truly massive ship was coming up fast. She gauged the distance and pulled a switch. Two of the containers dropped. She banked the plane to see and yelled with delight as the ship’s rearmost turret began to burn. Gas was thinner than water. The gasoline would find cracks and crevices that would stop the thicker liquid. The gas didn’t even have to ignite immediately. Sooner or later, it would likely come in contact with something hot or burning and flare up. She visualized gallons of flaming gasoline going down hatches and into the interior of the huge ship, coming in contact with red hot shells.

Her plane shuddered. Oh, Christ, she thought. Her left wing was damaged and the rudder wasn’t responding. Nor were her legs, she realized. Blood was running down them and into he boots. She’d been shot and didn’t know when.

The plane began to cartwheel and Amelia Earhart knew she was going to die. She whimpered as the sea drew closer. Her last thought as the plane struck the water and exploded was the fervent hope that at least some of her body would be found so her parents could give her a proper funeral.

MacArthur’s detractors in the small American Army, Luke included, might have considered him arrogant or pompous, but he wasn’t a coward. His actions at Vera Cruz a few years earlier had proven that. Yelling and screaming, he charged into the Germans. Luke fired into the chest of a German only a few feet away, wheeled and stuck another in the gut with his bayonet. He tried to pull it out and it stuck. The German howled and tried to grab the rifle.

Luke fired, killing the Kraut and freeing the bayonet. He slid in a fresh clip and continued firing. More Americans had joined what was now a brawl. Suddenly, the rifle was knocked from his hands. He pulled his pistol and looked for someone to shoot.

A middle-aged man was staggering in front of him. The man looked confused and disoriented. He also looked important. Luke grabbed him by the lapel and jabbed the pistol under his chin. “Surrender or I’ll blow your fucking head off,” he said and then repeated it in German.

The man looked startled. His eyes were glazed. He raised his hands. “ Bitte , bitte ,” he said, please, please. As he did, other Germans began to do the same thing.

A younger German officer approached tentatively, his hands open. “My name is von Richter. It’s over. Let me help my general.”

Luke’s mind whirled. General? What the hell had he just gone and done? “Great, but who is this guy?”

Von Richter smiled wanly as the sounds of battle faded into unnatural silence. “Please let me present General Oskar von Hutier.”

Hipper was outraged and frustrated. A tiny plane had dropped something on the Bayern ’s rearmost turret and now the damn thing was burning furiously. Damage-control parties were working hard to contain the blaze lest the flames reach the ammunition in the turret or, God forbid, an ammunition magazine and cause a catastrophic explosion. His beautiful ship, the Bayern , was damaged and one quarter of her weapons were out of action.

Little planes, like little bugs, swarmed around the ships, sometimes flying so low they couldn’t be seen and sometimes flying between ships so guns couldn’t be fired for fear of hitting another German ship.

The little planes, gnats he thought, were wreaking havoc. If it wasn’t so tragic, it would be funny. Everyone knew that planes couldn’t bomb warships and do much damage, but everyone had assumed the bombs would be explosive, not flammable. How wrong could they have been?

Many of the little gnats had been blown from the sky, swatted like the bugs they were. Perhaps dozens had fallen, but there were still so many that the ships’ guns couldn’t kill them all. In a corner of his mind, Hipper made the mental note that future warships would have to have many, many more antiaircraft guns as everyone would soon know of this despicable trick pulled by the Americans. Also, seals around turrets and hatches would have to be tighter. He wondered if he would live long enough to transmit this information.

Two other of his battleships, the Koenig and the Thuringen , were burning badly. As he watched, the front turret of the Koenig exploded, sending wreckage into the air. The turret itself lifted off the ship and fell into the ocean with a mighty splash. The Thuringen ceased moving and men began throwing themselves off the burning wreck and into the relative safety of the bay. Some of the German sailors were themselves on fire and Hipper allowed himself a moment of pity before he realized what he had to do.