CHAPTER 4
Charley and Fred had worked together as customs agents for several years on the border between California and Mexico. Their customs station was slightly east of Tijuana and was lightly used. It was just too easy to bypass. Sometimes, not even the tourists coming back from wild forays into the sin centers of Mexico bothered to stop.
Still, this night had proven even quieter than others. It was as if a curtain had been drawn down, covering Mexico. Nothing unusual in that, they thought. The presence of German soldiers and the simmering fighting south of the border meant that nothing was normal anymore.
Regardless, Charley and Fred didn’t mind the quiet. Although decent guys, they were nearing retirement and weren’t too interested in working hard and generally spent the night reading magazines or playing checkers. Occasionally, one or both would walk outside of their small, kerosene-lamplit shack. Nor was it unknown for them to bring in a bucket of beer to make the night more congenial, as they had this time.
Charley nodded to his friend and stepped outside. As a matter of decency, he strode several yards away from the shack to relieve himself, which he did hugely and with a contented sigh.
He was buttoning up when the night sky was split by the insane chatter. Charley quickly recognized it from his days in the National Guard as machine-gun fire. He watched in horror as scores of bullets ripped through the thin wooden walls of the guard shack. What the hell was going on? he wondered. Had Villa’s raiders moved to California? Jesus, and what about poor Fred? A widower, he had recently remarried and had a wife and two kids.
Another burst of gunfire hit the shack, sending splinters of wood flying into the starry sky. The kerosene lamp had tipped over and the wooden building was burning. Charley dropped to the ground and began to crawl towards where his friend was trapped and likely badly hurt.
The sound of horses’ hooves froze him and, a moment later, a long column of horsemen came into view. He recognized them as German Uhlans from the pictures he’d seen. They trooped past the shack in a column of fours, trotting insolently past and into California.
“No,” Charley yelled.
Fred had staggered out of the shack. His clothing was smoldering. He was heading with agonizing slowness towards the riders. Two of the Germans broke out of the column and looked down on Fred, who had raised a bloody arm in supplication.
Charley watched in horror as the two Uhlans ran their lances through Fred’s body. They shook him off like a rag and left him lying by the road. Charley groaned. It didn’t take a genius to realize that his friend and coworker was dead.
More cavalry trotted by, and they were soon followed by quickly marching infantry. Charley wiped tears from his eyes as he wondered what to do. The glow of the fire was protecting him from being seen by the Germans. He took a deep breath and decided he would move a mile or so farther east and then north. He had to find a working telephone or maybe a radio. Somebody must be told what was happening and somebody must know what to do.
* * *
The ringing of firebells had been the decided-upon method of warning all the ranchers and farmers, although everyone acknowledged the method’s shortcomings. So what if the bells do ring, they’d argued, where the hell do we go? If smoke was visible or gunfire could be heard, the answer was easier, but there still had to be a place for everybody to gather, especially if a ranch was under attack. Showing up piecemeal was a recipe for disaster.
They decided on Kirsten’s place since it was roughly in the middle of the Raleigh area. Kirsten reluctantly agreed. She thought it would be nice to know what the problem was and where they might be going before congregating, but she had to admit that it might be expecting too much.
She recalled reading something that the term “firebells in the night” might have been written by Thomas Jefferson and was something about a slave uprising. Of course, they didn’t have slaves in California, although some of the landowners treated their Mexican and occasional Indian workers as little more than slaves, which was the landowners’ loss. She’d found that people—and Mexicans and Indians were people—worked harder, smarter, and better if you treated them with respect and didn’t destroy their pride.
The firebells rang at three in the morning. Kirsten jumped out of bed and looked out her window. Flickering lights glowed off in the distance and she thought she heard thunder. And all of it was coming from the south, the direction of Raleigh and Mexico.
More bells added to the distant din. She dressed quickly, this time in her functional jeans, got her rifle, and went outside to wait. She’d been wearing her late husband’s pajamas, which had scandalized her cousins the first time she’d done it. Not only were they more comfortable than the traditional nightgown, but they reminded her of her husband. Sometimes, she felt she could still sense a hint of the smell of his body, and it then awakened longings.
Her cousin Ella had awakened and said she’d make coffee. Might as well do something, Kirsten thought. Too bad Leonard was spending the night in town. He’d said it was a card game with friends, but Ella thought it was because he’d had a fight with Ella and Leonard just wanted to get drunk. She didn’t think he’d gone there to get laid. There were no hookers that she knew of and there were precious few women in town who weren’t married or who might be interested in Leonard.
In a surprisingly short while, riders began showing up. All eyes were on the south. The thundering seemed to have stopped, but the flickering lights continued. Fire, was the consensus, and it was in Raleigh.
With about a dozen men gathered, Roy Olson took the lead and they headed out. They’d gone only a mile or two in the growing light when they saw a Model T racing towards them and being steered erratically. Leonard, Kirsten thought, and she was right. Her cousin braked the car sharply and nearly fell out.
“The town’s being bombed,” he managed to gasp. He could hardly stand. His eyes were wild and crazy.
Olson glared at him. “You’re drunk. What the hell do you mean? Ain’t no planes bombing anything.”
Leonard returned the glare. “Damn right I’m drunk and maybe the bombing’s coming from cannon and not planes, but Raleigh’s being destroyed. Buildings are being blown up and people are being killed. That and I think I saw soldiers coming up from the border.”
“Mexicans?” asked Olson, slightly abashed. Leonard was indeed drunk but who could deny that something terrible was happening to the town?
“You just wish,” Leonard said. “Naw, I saw those lances and funny headgear silhouetted by the fire. They weren’t greasers, they were Germans.”
* * *
Martel stared at the information on the notes before him. Once was an incident. Twice could be a coincidence. But three times was a pattern and he was looking at a developing pattern. He walked to the base’s telegraph station, made a few inquiries, and confirmed his suspicions. He picked up his notes and went to Colonel Nolan’s office only to be told that the colonel was in conference with General Liggett. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, Luke thought.
An astonished civilian clerk tried to stop him, but Luke ignored him and knocked firmly on the general’s closed door. He entered, closing the door behind him. Let the damn clerk wonder, he thought. He’d find out soon enough. Nolan and Liggett looked up at him in mild surprise.
“You have a good reason for this, I presume,” Nolan said, not ungently.
“General, Colonel, I think it’s beginning.”
Liggett gestured him to sit. “Go on.”
“Sir, there’s a pattern developing. Telegraph and telephone lines are down between here and the east. Also, there are reports that railroad bridges are down on at least three of the tracks connecting us to the rest of the country. My bet is the rest will report they’re out before the day is finished.”
“Conclusion, Luke,” ordered Nolan.
“Sir, I’m sadly confident that German saboteurs are striking as we talk and that they are isolating us from the rest of the United States by destroying the rail lines running eastward. They are also severing communications by cutting telegraph and phone lines. It’s a logical immediate precursor to an actual invasion.”
“Are you certain telegraph lines are down?” Liggett asked.
“Sir, before coming here I checked with our telegraph office and they said they can’t get through to the east. Of course, they said it has happened before and could be the result of the weather, but, coupled with the rail problems, makes me believe the Germans are finally on the move.”
They looked at the map of California that was pinned on the wall. Only six rail lines connected California to the east and two were so close together that they might as well be one. In the south, there was a line running from Yuma, Arizona, but it was so close to the border with Mexico that it would never be of use and would be quickly overrun if the Germans crossed the border.
Farther north, lines ran from Albuquerque and Salt Lake City to San Francisco, and other lines ran from Salt Lake City and Spokane and over to Portland and Seattle.
There was silence. Liggett finally spoke. “I agree, Lieutenant. It is now time to notify Governor Stephens that his state of California is in terrible jeopardy and that he should call out the Guard.”
“General, will you be informing the naval stations and coastal batteries?” Luke asked.
Liggett chuckled bitterly. “It may be a little too late, Luke. What we were discussing before you barged in was reports that saboteurs have already struck at the Army’s coastal batteries and done a marvelous job of destroying them. Quite a welcoming for Admiral Sims, I dare say.”
Rear Admiral William S. Sims had arrived only the last week as the newly appointed commander of the United States Pacific Fleet, replacing Admiral Hugh Rodman. The sixty-two year old Sims was considered by many to be a genius for his part in developing an electronic range finder that had vastly improved the accuracy of American gunnery. Prior to its development, accuracy had been a joke in the Navy. Ninety-eight per cent of shots fired in the Spanish American War missed their targets entirely. It was even more humiliating when it was realized that the Spanish ships in the Battle of Manila Bay had been anchored. The electronic range finder had greatly resolved the issue. Some people were beginning to call the calculating device a “computer.”
It was also rumored that Sims had angered his superiors for making disparaging comments about draconian cost cutting and the future of battleships, and had been sent away from Washington as a form of penance. It was also understood that this would be Sims last posting before his retirement.
“Yes, I will do that as a matter of courtesy. Of course, Sims doesn’t report to me nor I to him, so we’ll see what good that does. But you are right again, Lieutenant, if the German Army is out, one can only wonder what the German Navy is up to.”
* * *
The U.S.S. Fox was a very new destroyer, launched only a year earlier in 1919. At just under twelve hundred tons, she carried a crew of one hundred and twenty-two men. Swift, she could do thirty-five knots, and her main armament consisted of turretless four-inch guns on her main deck. The Fox was called a flush deck because of her clean, straight lines and, since she had four smokestacks, ships like her were also called four-pipers.
This morning she was doing nowhere near her top speed. Instead, she was scarcely crawling through the gentle swells off the California coast. The cold and clammy fog had her totally imprisoned and her captain was not going to risk a collision with anything larger than a seal. The waters north of San Francisco were just too busy with commercial traffic to take such a chance.
Fine by me, thought Ensign Josh Cornell as he squinted through his binoculars at a blank wall of fog. He was standing at the very bow of the ship after getting the wild idea that being as far forward as possible would help him see better. It hadn’t helped at all, and he was beginning to feel a little foolish.
Only a year out of Annapolis, Josh originally thought assignment as a junior officer to a destroyer was a setback to his career. Most of his classmates thought serving on a battleship was the fastest way to promotion, and he’d been teased when they’d learned that he was on his way to a lowly destroyer.
Cornell was rethinking his original thoughts. On a destroyer, an officer was expected to know a lot about everything instead of being a specialist, like a gunner, although firing the great guns had to be one of the most exciting things possible. He also liked the dramatic way the destroyer knifed through the seas. To him it evoked memories of reading about Viking longships.
To his astonishment, he hadn’t gotten seasick, which the rest of the crew found surprising as the Fox’s other newcomers spent the first few days of the cruise puking their guts out and fouling the ocean. He was from Nebraska and hadn’t even seen a large lake, much less an ocean, until enrolling at the Naval Academy. Even though he was slightly built, thin haired, and looked younger than twenty-three, the men had begun to accept him. He did his work without complaint and didn’t pretend to know everything just because he’d gone to Annapolis. He asked questions and respected sailors who asked him about a variety of things.
Cornell was puzzled regarding the destroyer’s current assignment. Something was stirring and either nobody knew what it was or nobody was talking. The Fox was patrolling off San Francisco and their home base at Mare Island in the northern half of San Francisco Bay, and everyone wondered why. Since the battleship Arizona had almost flown out of the base the day before and the two remaining battlewagons, the Nevada and Pennsylvania, had left before dawn this morning, the rumors were rampant. Some had the U.S. in a war with Germany, which Josh thought was utterly implausible. The destroyer’s skipper said they should be prepared for anything. Or maybe the whole thing was a damned surprise maneuver.
Suddenly, the lookout above screamed, “Ship, dead ahead!”
Cornell froze. He squinted as if he could will the fog to clear. He saw nothing. No, wait…There was a large and shapeless object in front of him and moving closer. It was another ship and it was dangerously close. Dear God, would they collide? On the bridge behind him, he could hear the captain calling for a sharp turn to port and for more speed from the engine room.
The stranger was only yards away. It was a massive vessel whose hull towered above the Fox. They would not collide, but it would be close and the giant stranger’s powerful wake would rock them brutally. They could handle that and Cornell started breathing again.
As the stranger slid by, he saw massive turrets and guns. Jesus, it was a warship, a battleship, but which one? It had to be reinforcements from out east. As the Fox pulled away, guns from the battleship’s secondary battery suddenly opened fire and shells ripped through the helpless and outgunned American destroyer.
“What the hell is going on?” he heard the captain yelling. “Get on the radio,” he said before another shell struck the bridge, silencing him and sending mutilated bodies flying about like toys.
The Fox staggered like a losing prizefighter. Debris rained down on Josh. He ran back to the ruins of the bridge. Shattered bodies and limbs were everywhere and blood ran in torrents on to the deck and into the ocean. Josh knew they should be fighting back, but with what? Her four-inch guns were popguns against a battleship, and, besides, none of the crew was at their battle stations. Finally, a machine gun on the Fox opened fire, impotently strafing the armored hull of the battleship.
More shells struck the Fox and she exploded with a deafening roar. Josh found himself flying through the air like a bird. He hit the water and it knocked the wind out of him. The cold Pacific grabbed him with icy claws. Something was wrong with his left leg. Pain was shooting up from it. He gasped and tried to breathe.
Instinctively, he tried to swim. A piece of debris floated by and he grabbed on to it. A handful of other crewmen were doing the same thing. A very small handful, he realized sadly as someone grabbed him and steadied him.
Finally, the fog cleared a little and he could see a line of gigantic battleships heading for what he presumed was the Golden Gate and the base at Mare Island. He caught sight of a flag. They were German. Since when were we at war with Germany? he wondered as he fought off the pain from his leg. He caught the name of one of the ships, the Bayern. According to the latest Jane’s she was one of Germany’s newest and mightiest battleships and carried fifteen-inch guns. What the hell was she doing here?
And if she was headed for San Francisco Bay and Mare Island, there was nothing he could do about it. His first and only priority was to survive. His leg was killing him and he’d swallowed salt water which was making him vomit, and he was rapidly freezing. Still, he was an officer had to lead, had to live.
He called and gathered about him the half dozen men floating in the water. They connected their pieces of debris into something resembling a raft and climbed on. The ocean swells kept washing over them but at least they weren’t in danger of drowning if they didn’t fall off and if the sea remained fairly calm.
Finally the sun came out, warming them slightly, and they could see to the horizon. Josh could see nothing to the east. The coast was too far distant and the German ships had disappeared. They were far out to sea. He wondered how long they’d have to float. They had no food or water and he’d already begun shaking from shock and the cold. One of the men was praying for a miracle. Josh joined him.
It came. After a couple of hours, a fishing boat sighted the Fox’s survivors and hauled them on board, where they lay gasping and shaking. The crew had them strip, dried them, and gave them blankets and hot soup. They gave the injured Navy men first aid and put a splint on Josh’s leg. Of course the boat had no radio. Josh knew that would have been too much to ask for.
Hours later, as they approached the Golden Gate, they saw smoke arising from the old coastal batteries at Fort Point, along the shoreline by the Presidio complex, and well to the northeast where Mare Island was situated.
A motorized Navy launch filled with men armed with rifles and submachine guns, intercepted them as they turned and headed north to the Mare Island base. Josh lurched to his feet and to the boat’s rail. He recognized a petty officer named Mahoney.
“What happened, Mahoney?”
Mahoney blinked and then recognized Josh. “The fucking Germans paid us a surprise visit, sir. I guess that was why those three big ships of ours had left. Three older battleships were anchored in the bay and they were sunk or badly damaged, and then the damned Germans shot up the facilities,” shouted Mahoney. “Came right through the Golden Gate like they were invited to dinner. They pounded our coastal forts which didn’t fire back very much at all. Scuttlebutt says they were either abandoned or sabotaged or, hell, both.”
“Jesus,” said Josh.
“And then they opened fire on our ships when they came in range. Thank God they didn’t land any men. They might still be here if they had. Now what happened to you, sir?”
Josh explained that his ship had been ambushed by the Germans and that almost the entire crew was dead. Mahoney said that the medical facilities at Mare Island and the city of Vallejo were swamped. He suggested the fishing boat try a civilian hospital in the city and Josh concurred. So did the skipper of the fishing boat who wanted them off his vessel as soon as possible. If war had begun, he wanted no part of it. Josh didn’t blame him one bit.
* * *
Many of Kirsten’s neighbors left the group, understandably fearful about their own properties. Kirsten shared that feeling, but she felt a desperate need to find out what was actually going on. Surprisingly to her, Olson was one of those who left them. So much for leadership, she thought.
Thus, only four of them approached the town of Raleigh. So far they hadn’t seen any German soldiers, although they had noticed planes in the air. Kirsten suggested they dismount and spread out so as to not attract attention and the men agreed, looking nervously skyward. German planes carried machine guns.
Finally, they reached the summit of a gentle hill and looked towards the town. Black smoke was billowing from a number of buildings and several others had been smashed flat. It looked like half the town was gone. Many men were moving around in the ruins. Kirsten and the others all had binoculars and there was no question. They were looking at several hundred German soldiers in the little town of Raleigh, California.
“Would somebody explain this to me?” one of the men asked.
Nobody had an answer. Their presence above the town was useless, and they decided to leave. Now it was indeed time to return to their homes, pack up, and go. However, they soon sighted German patrols between them and their destinations and it was several hours before Kirsten decided the coast was clear enough to try to reach her ranch.
As she neared her home, she thought she saw wisps of gray smoke coming from its stone walls. She fought the urge to gallop and, instead, dismounted and approached her home with the same caution she’d used to examine Raleigh.
Her home was gone. The main house and the barn had been gutted. The walls were standing but that was it. There were bodies on the ground and there was no sign of life. Or Germans, for that matter. Whoever had attacked her home had moved on.
She carried her rifle in the crook of her arm and led her horse. She walked carefully into the compound that had been her home. The first body was Leonard’s. Her cousin had been shot and his body hacked at with what she assumed were sabers. His own broken rifle lay beside him, so maybe he had gotten one of the invaders. She hoped so.
Two more bodies were those of men who worked on the ranch. She would have a lot of burying to do, she realized grimly.
“Over here.” It was a woman’s voice and Kirsten turned in the direction it came from. Her cook, Maria, was waving to her from a shed that hadn’t been destroyed. She ran over and embraced Maria. They both cried at the simple pleasure of being alive and having found each other. Maria was older, in her forties, and had come with Kirsten from Texas.
Maria looked away. “Your other cousin, Ella, is in there,” she said, pointing at the shed.
Kirsten entered. She heard animal gruntings and sobs that took her a moment to realize came from a huddled figure in the corner. It was Ella and she was wrapped in a blanket. Kirsten pulled the blanket aside. Ella was naked and her body was a mass of bruises.
Maria entered and hugged Ella, rocking her telling her everything was all right. Ella screamed and pushed her away. Finally, Ella calmed a little and Maria stood up.
“The Germans came, maybe a dozen of them and all on horseback. Leonard tried to stop them so they killed him. He managed to wound one of them and that made them very angry, so angry that they shot the other men after they finished killing Leonard. Me they left alone. I guess I was too old and fat for them. Ella, they didn’t. They stripped her naked in the yard so all the men could see her and laugh at her, and then took her inside and tied her to her own bed and raped her. That was where I found her, all covered in blood and shit.”
Kirsten was sickened. “All of them?”
“Probably not. Maybe only six of them. After a short while they came out. They had a young officer who was the first to rape her and he ordered the men back on their horses and to continue the patrol. The officer told me to get Ella out of the house because they were going to burn it.”
Maria looked down at the ground. “I did as I was told. Ella has been like this since then. I’ve seen other women like this in Mexico after they were gang-raped. Sometimes they change and get better. Sometimes they don’t.”
Kirsten felt guilty. Leonard was dead and Ella had been ravished and here she was, unharmed. Ella’s mind was full of shame and pain and fear. Ella was a fragile person and had always led a protected, sheltered life, even on the ranch. Maria was right. Ella might not ever get over the shock.
If Kirsten hadn’t gone to Raleigh to see what was going on, she would have been home when the Germans had attacked. Would she have made a difference or would she have been just one more rape victim? She knew the answer. She would have suffered like Ella had.
Two more of her hired hands showed up. They’d been away in the fields and had prudently kept it that way. Kirsten had them help her search through the charred rubble for anything useful. Only the interior of the buildings had burned since the walls were made of adobe and stone.
They were not going to stay at the ranch. No, she decided they would take to the hills and make camp. At least she and Ella and Maria would. The two hands could come along if they wished. She wouldn’t blame them at all if they ran for safety. If they got to the hills, they could rest and figure out what to do.
And what would that be, she wondered despairingly? Her world was destroyed. All tangible memories of Richard, like the pajamas she’d worn, were gone in the fire. Could she start over? Would the Germans and Mexicans allow her to start over? In the meantime they would go for the hills.
* * *
Major George Patton led his tiny command, a score of Americans from the 7th Cavalry, right at the unsuspecting German force. It was a brave but futile effort. There were close to two hundred German cavalry including dozens with those intimidating medieval lances. At a hundred yards, Patton ordered his men to stop, pull out their rifles, and fire several shots in the Germans’ direction. He thought they’d hit a few, but couldn’t be certain.
With a whoop, the Americans turned and raced away. Looking over his shoulder, Patton saw the infuriated German cavalry thundering towards him. Bugles sounded and still more Germans joined the atack. He had half a mile to the crossroads and his lightly encumbered men easily kept their lead, even increasing it. The Germans opened fire but their shots went wild. This is wonderful, Patton thought jubilantly.
They passed the crossroads and continued on with the Germans in hot but ragged pursuit. When the Germans were within two hundred yards of the road, the remainder of Patton’s force from the 7th Cavalry, three hundred strong, opened fire from their concealed positions.
The Germans panicked. Men and horses fell, tumbling over each other and creating ghastly mixed piles of human and horse flesh. God damn, Patton exulted. Didn’t the Germans give a stinking crap about the possibility of an ambush, or were they so confident and arrogant they didn’t care? He only wished he had a larger force, then he’d really kick some German ass. Too damn bad that the 7th Cavalry was scattered all over the place, same as all the other American units.
The Germans were withdrawing in great haste. Patton and his men mounted up and moved out cautiously. “We gonna chase them, Major?” asked a young private, his face flushed with excitement.
Patton laughed. The boy was a fighter. Good. The Army needed fighters. Too many men had gotten soft thanks to undemanding garrison duty. “Not this time. They’re headed to their main force and ain’t no way we can take them all on. Maybe next time.”
They counted the German casualties. Thirty-one dead and another sixteen wounded had been left behind. Two Americans had been slightly wounded. Not a bad day’s work, Patton thought.
A shriek from above shocked them. A German biplane was diving on them, its machine guns firing at all the foolish Americans the pilot had caught out in the open.
Now it was the turn of Patton and the rest of the Americans to panic. Bullets tore through flesh. Men and horses screamed in pain and fear. They scattered, instinctively trying to give the German pilot little to shoot at. They scattered like three hundred rabbits running in every direction. Patton drew his new 1911 Colt Automatic and fired at the plane. The .45 caliber pistol kicked like a mule but Patton’s fury overcame it. He hit nothing.
The German made pass after pass, shredding Patton’s command. Finally, the German flew away. Out of ammunition or low on fuel, or maybe just bored and out of targets. Patton didn’t care, just so long as it left. For whatever it was worth, he’d identified it as a Fokker VII, normally a high-altitude fighter.
Patton was lucky to be alive, shaken but alive. Planes like the German fighter usually did not fly alone, but this one had. Had there been others, the American force would all now be dead. He gathered his men. He’d suffered twenty-four dead and forty seriously enough wounded to be out of action. One of the dead was the boy who wanted to chase the Germans. What a fucking waste, he thought. The boy was a fighter, damn it.
Ironically, three captured German wounded had been killed by their own plane. Tough shit, Patton thought angrily. At least he still had some prisoners to be grilled. He doubted they could do anything but tell the obvious—Germany had invaded California.
Patton’s victory was now ashes. General Connor had ordered him to avoid fighting and only gather intelligence. Connor was going to rip his ass and, deep down, Patton knew he deserved it.
* * *
Count Johan von Bernsdorff had been Imperial Germany’s ambassador to the United States for a number of years. Ordinarily, he was a genial man who seemed to attract attention and didn’t care whether or not he scandalized what he considered the sometimes puritanical people of the United States. He was frequently found in the company of women of ill repute and even more frequently overindulged in alcohol. Photos of him with prostitutes had even appeared in newspapers. When the 1914 war had broken out, the British had sought to discredit him by publicizing his personal life, but Bernsdorff had confounded them all. He simply didn’t care and neither did his masters in Berlin.
He was ushered into the Oval Office where the new President of the United States awaited him. He sighed. He’d dealt with Robert Lansing on matters of state in the past and this was not going to be a pleasant meeting.
Lansing directed him to a chair. It wasn’t very comfortable. Bernsdorff was mildly surprised that they were alone. There was not even anyone to take notes. Interesting, he thought. Conversations between two people can always be denied, however frank and candid they might be. Well, he could play that game as well.
Lansing began. “Let me blunt, Count. Before your despicable and dastardly attack on our helpless ships in San Francisco, I was willing to negotiate and publish a fiction that the invasion of California was nothing more than a misguided raid against Mexican rebels. However, your attack on our ships makes it abundantly clear that Germany wants war. Tell me, sir, is all-out war with the United States what Germany desires?”
Bernsdorff felt himself starting to perspire. A shame he had drunk so much champagne the night before, but he didn’t think he’d be permitted to stay in the United States very much longer and wished to enjoy what time was left. One particular prostitute had been particularly creative. A shame he would never see her again.
He took a deep breath. It was time to enlighten President Lansing as to how the world now worked. “With regrets, President Lansing, immediate peace will not occur until you make it happen by acquiescing to our needs. Our goals and those of our ally, Mexico, are far more extensive than simple raids.”
Lansing shoved a piece of paper across his desk. Bernsdorff took it and read it quickly. Lansing glared at him. “Then this, Count, is correct? Assuming it is, your foreign minister, Zimmerman, has countenanced the invasion of my country and the severing of California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas from the United States.”
Bernsdorff didn’t bother to look at it. “It is entirely correct. However, it is up to you whether or not you wish to minimize the damage to the rest of your country. To use your words, you are the one with the power to contain the potential tragedy, not Imperial Germany.”
Lansing was taken aback. “What do you mean?”
“Simply put, sir, Germany is the mightiest nation in the world, stronger than any alliance that can be put against her. Take a look at a world map and what do you see? As a result of the 1914 war and the subsequent treaty brokered by your pathetic predecessor, Woodrow Wilson, the nations of Belgium, Holland, and Luxembourg are now essentially part of the Second Reich, and Germany now controls the channel ports of Cherbourg and Dunkirk. France has been required to discharge the bulk of her army and decommission most of her navy. Without France as an ally, England is helpless to impose her will on anyone. France is a helpless shell and England is impotent on land. Germany now has bases in Mexico, and in what used to be Indo-China. And Ireland, of course, is allied with us since we forced England to grant her full independence.
“Because it serves our interests, we permit Denmark, Switzerland, the Scandinavian countries and a handful of others to pretend they are neutral and independent. Our allies also include the inept but gigantic Austro-Hungarian Empire, the sick but cruel Ottomans, and the chaotic and farcical creation called Italy. Germany and Austria are propping up the Romanovs against revolutionary threats, which means that Russia is now beholden to Germany as well. Your United States is the only remaining power that could possibly pose a threat to future German ambitions and you are now being cut down to size. The Kaiser is getting older and wishes to pass on to his son and to the people of Germany an empire like none the world has ever seen. I would suggest you face reality, Mr. President. Pax Germanica is the order of the day, and your nation will never be more than a second-rate power.”
As Lansing recoiled from Bernsdorff’s words, the German smiled tightly and leaned forward. “Now it is my turn to be even more blunt. In conjunction with Mexican forces, we are seeing to it that property stolen from Mexico is returned to her. That stolen property is, of course, what you refer to as the states of Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico, which the United States ripped from Mexico about sixty years ago. California will become part of Germany. If you allow this absolutely just action by us and Mexico to occur, the remainder of the United States will be left alone. If you resist, your nation will incur the full wrath of the Kaiser’s Reich.”
“Your kaiser is insane.”
Bernsdorff laughed. “Quite possibly, but, as you say, crazy like a fox. The kaiser is totally unlike your saintly and naïve fool President Wilson. By the by, don’t even think of a formal declaration of war. If you do that, the remainder of the German High Seas Fleet will leave German waters and commence the destruction of America’s east coast ports, after, of course, destroying your small navy. Following that, the mighty German Army will invade your east coast at points of its choosing and crush what remains of the United States. The result will be a peace that deprives you of far more than the four states now involved. Sign a peace and you will be able to retain northern California, Oregon, Washington, and the territory of Alaska. Don’t and you will lose them as well, along with God knows what else along the east coast. Perhaps we’ll take Florida and New Orleans.”
Lansing’s face was turning red. “Bernsdorff, have you forgotten the extent to which the United States mobilized in previous wars, such as our Civil War? This is now a nation of more than a hundred million people and they will not stand to have four states taken from her.”
Bernsdorff laughed. “Your people will accept reality. France has had to deal with the loss of Alsace and Lorraine and parts of the Normandy coast, and has survived, although as a bloody mess. Denmark lost Schleswig and Holstein in the last century, and other nations have lost territories as well. Such fluctuations and corrections are the way of the world. Borders are fluid and sophisticated nations, not childlike ones like yours, understand that reality. After all, didn’t you enhance your borders as the expense of Mexico? You are not being asked to like it, merely accept it as reality and move on.
“And as to your population of more than a hundred million, don’t forget that many of them are ethnic Germans who will not support you in a war against us and will likely rise up against you in a second civil war that will totally involve and overwhelm your disreputable little army. You will have a bloodbath within your borders as you try to defend against us. And as to the rest of your population, many of them are immigrants who don’t speak English and can’t even spell America. Did you know, sir, that fully three quarters of the population of New York City is foreign born? No, we are not afraid of your numbers. They are an illusion.”
“Get out of here.”
Bersndorff blinked. “Sir?”
Lansing stood. His face was red with fury. “Get the hell out of here! You attacked innocent people without provocation or warning. Dastardly! You people are cowardly barbarians.”
Bernsdorff stood and walked towards the door of the Oval Office. His dismissal was nothing more than what he expected. He had a message to deliver and had done it. Now he would have to leave a country he rather enjoyed and return to a rather sterile Berlin. A shame, he thought. He would really like to remain and see just what the Americans would do and how they would do it.
He turned. “I will prepare a more diplomatic memorandum than what just transpired between us in privacy. Perhaps it will provide you with some political shelter.”
Lansing laughed harshly. He was breathing hard and his pulse was racing with anger. “Don’t bother. Thanks to Thomas Edison’s marvelous phonograph, all of what you said was recorded. Copies will be made and sent about the country while transcripts are provided to national and international news services. Your perfidy will be totally public.”
Bernsdorff was shocked. “That is not gentlemanly, sir. Our conversation was between the two of us.”
Lansing stood and wanted to punch the man. “Is a surprise and sneak invasion of another nation a German’s definition of gentlemanly? Once again, get the hell out of my office before I have you thrown out.”
“Since you have chosen this route, President Lansing, a word of warning to the people of California. We will deal fairly and honorably with military prisoners of war, but not with civilians who oppose us. Such Franc-tireurs are nothing but terrorists and will be executed summarily as we did in Belgium and elsewhere. Good day, sir.”
* * *
Martel crawled over the crest of the hill over to where Major George Patton lay peering through binoculars.
“Don’t stand at attention and don’t even think of saluting,” Patton muttered.
“Glad to see you too, Major.”
“Drop it,” Patton said, referring to rank. It was just the two of them. “How’d you get down here so quickly?”
“Another plane. I’m almost getting used to them. The pilot was some lunatic teenager named Lindbergh and I’ll swear he stayed at three feet above the ground to avoid German planes.”
The sound of machine-gun fire interrupted them. They both looked through their binoculars.
“Okay, George, what do you see down there?”
Patton chuckled, “Germans, Germans, and still more Germans. They are moving ever so slowly on San Diego, which they should have taken ten minutes after crossing the border. Hell, it’s only sixteen miles from Mexico.”
An artillery shell screamed in and landed a hundred yards in front of them. Martel winced and Patton laughed. “You afraid, Hammer?”
“Hell, yes.” Patton liked to show off his knowledge of military history by occasionally calling Luke “Hammer.”
Charles—“the Hammer”—Martel had defeated the Moslems at Tours in the eighth century in an epic battle that had stopped the Moslem advance into Europe and possibly changed the course of history. To the best of Luke’s knowledge, he was not descended from the early medieval French warrior, but that didn’t stop Patton from teasing him.
Luke peered through his own binoculars. He saw infantry and lots of it, but no cavalry, and they were all moving very slowly and carefully. He noted the presence of several armored trucks. He thought they would be far more dangerous than cavalry in a modern war. He wondered if Patton agreed with that. Patton was a horse man.
“I can’t believe they’re moving so slowly,” Patton said.
“I can and it’s all your fault.”
“What?”
“One of the prisoners you took was a staff major and needed morphine to dull the pain of his wounds. Of course, I wouldn’t give him any until he talked at length and then I gave him some more and he talked at even greater length.”
Patton laughed, “Luke, you are a class-A shit. I am so proud of you.”
Luke grinned. “Thanks, George. At any rate, he said his division had been told to expect light resistance, but to be careful not to leave their flanks hanging. Apparently, they actually understand how close their win at the Marne in 1914 truly was and don’t want to make the same nearly fatal mistake again. They are more than willing to sacrifice speed to maintain the integrity of their formations. Also, it was understood it would take time to get their army across the rugged and constrained border between California and Mexico and in position to fight. Thus, they were directed to move slowly on the defenses of San Diego.”
Patton snorted, “Defenses of San Diego? What defenses of San Diego are they talking about? The place is absolutely wide open.”
“George, according to their thinking it is inconceivable that a major port like San Diego wouldn’t be protected by major fortifications. The Kraut major said they were to move forward and locate them. He said his senior officers would be stunned when they found out about your attack on their formation since they assumed us stupid Americans would wait in our forts to be attacked and then pulverized. He said your attack proved two things: One, that there is a major American presence in the area, and, two, San Diego would be well defended. Congratulations, George, if the major is correct, you’ve just bought us some time.”
“Jesus.”
“Oh yes. Did your men actually shoot at that German pilot?”
“Hell, yes. Every swinging dick in my command shot at the son of a bitch. And who knows, maybe we even hit him.”
“And what do you think he reported?”
Patton grinned wickedly. “He’s a pilot and all pilots lie like rugs, even the crazy ones and they’re all crazy. He probably said he’d spotted a major American force moving on German positions, and that he bravely attacked it through a hail of bullets and barely escaped with his life.” He laughed. “Hell, I’m even smarter than I thought I was.”
Luke rolled his eyes. “Christ, George.”
Another shell crashed into the ground in front of them, close enough for them to feel the vibrations. They didn’t think the Germans were shooting at them. Instead, they were firing at places where they thought American units might be hiding. It was time to leave.