Olson agreed. Once he might have been upset at killing Americans, but those days were long gone. He’d felt a tremor of panic when that young American officer momentarily convinced him that the U.S. Army was just over the horizon, but he quickly realized the man had tricked him. Steiner said he’d been played for a fool and Steiner was right. They’d dug in and waited several days for an American attack that never came. Now he knew that the Germans were definitely here to stay and he was damn glad to be on the right side, the winning side.
Steiner smiled. “You’ve made a good life for yourself, Mr. Olson. You live in a large house, you’re making a lot of money and you have a lovely Mexican mistress who actually believes her husband stays alive because she lets you fuck her. He is alive, isn’t he?”
“He died weeks ago.” Olson said. He felt no regret. The woman, Martina, was still better off with him than whoring about the countryside. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine she was Kirsten Biel. He wondered just where she’d gone to and whether she was fucking the young officer she’d rode off with. Probably, he thought.
“When this is over,” Steiner continued, “you will be well rewarded in many ways. By the way, you’re not Jewish are you?”
“Of course not,” he said angrily.
“Good. Neither the kaiser nor his son nor anyone in a senior position can abide Jews. Of course they are a necessary evil and some will rise to a certain level of authority based on merit, especially in banking and finance, but no Jews will hold a truly senior position in the German government. Or, if I have my way, in the province of California.”
Steiner laughed. “In Germany, there are some radical organizations suggesting that all the Christ-killers be deported to someplace like Africa, but that is impractical. A pleasant thought, but impractical. It is as unlikely as actually killing all of them.”
Olson smiled and shrugged. He didn’t give a crap about Jews, Negroes, Chinese, Malays or anyone else. He just wanted to become an important man in the German Reich and make a lot of money. And when he got tired of little Martina—and she was starting to bore him—there would be others. Maybe someday he’d find out what happened to Kirsten Biel. Hell, she still owned property in the area, maybe she’d come back. Well, if she did, he had a big treat in store for her.
For most it began with a simple cough. Hell, everyone had a cold and everyone coughed and everyone coughed on everyone else. With so many bodies jammed so tightly in the barracks of Camp Dix, it was impossible not to.
The winter weather was wet and clammy and the barracks were a disaster. With so many openings in the walls, the soldiers joked that the walls didn’t really exist, that they were just white paint on the sky. Staying warm and dry was impossible.
Of course, the training took place outside in that same wet and clammy weather. Woolen uniforms got wet and soggy and clung to already cold and tired bodies. Overcoats hadn’t arrived yet. Soon, they were told, but soon might be July the way the Army ran things. Even Sergeant Smith was concerned by the whole unhealthy state of affairs, but of course, couldn’t show it.
The sneezing and sniffling evolved into coughing and the coughing into great hacking coughs with gobs of phlegm hurled about. The coughs then became fevers and men began going on sick call. Their numbers were few at first, because nobody wanted to go on sick call. That was for sissies. Real men would gut it out. After all, it was only a damn cold and colds went away after a few days, didn’t they? Even the really sick refused to seek medical help. They were there to train to fight and kill the enemy, and to hell with a cough. They didn’t want to be left behind.
Drill sergeants like Sergeant Smith made a point of going through the barracks and ordering the truly ill to go to the infirmary. Reluctantly, they went, and soon the medical facilities at Camp Dix were overwhelmed. Worse, recruits had begun arriving already feeling sick and transfers from other bases were showing up in the same condition, sometimes even worse. One train from the Midwest arrived with several dead soldiers on it, shocking everyone.
Tim couldn’t take it any longer. Wally was sick and there was no denying it. One moment he was well and a moment later he was sick. Now his face had a blue tint to it and he was having great difficulty breathing. Tim didn’t feel all that well himself. He felt weak and had begun coughing, too, which scared him. There was no way he could handle his brother and get him on sick call, so he got some of his buddies to help him take Wally to the hospital.
The hospital was hell. Tim had heard that a large number of his fellow doughboys were sick, but never realized just how many were down. Every bed was taken and patients were lying on the floor, covered with a blanket and trying to sleep in their own filth. Harassed medical personnel were trying desperately to cope and some of them looked sick as well.
He finally got someone to tell him where to put Wally. Tim and the others laid him down on the floor by a cot where a man looked like he was going to die. When he did, Wally could have the cot. Their buddies made Wally as comfortable as they could and said they’d be back to check on him and Tim. The doctors wanted the extra people out. They were in the way. No problem. Tim’s friends wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of this house of death. They nodded and nearly ran outside.
Tim looked down on Wally and wondered if his baby brother understood just what was going on. He doubted it. Wally’s eyes looked vacant and empty and all his efforts were concentrated on drawing the next breath. Tim tried to confront the likelihood that his younger brother was going to die and couldn’t deal with it.
After an eternity, a doctor stopped by and quickly checked on Wally. He shook his head and didn’t look at Tim.
The horror of the scene was overwhelming. He sat on the ground beside Wally. He would stay and keep him company until he was booted out. He overheard some other doctors wonder whether the disease had originated in the U.S. or had come from Europe. Tim wanted to say he didn’t give a damn. He wanted his brother cured.
Nobody noticed when he pitched forward and then rolled onto his side. He was just one more desperately ill soldier who was likely going to die.
Generals March and Pershing wanted to congratulate the solemn young man who had wrought miracles in getting so much in the way of supplies and equipment to this staging area outside Kansas City. Newly promoted Brigadier General George Catlett Marshall didn’t want approbation; he wanted results and they weren’t forthcoming, at least not in the manner he wished. There were those who considered Marshall a genius and cited the vast quantities of supplies he’d gathered as proof. But the supplies weren’t going anyplace and that was the problem.
Marshall had coerced a reluctant Henry Ford into manufacturing a thousand army trucks and more were coming. An additional two hundred were armor plated and awaited the machine guns or small cannon that would give them a lethal mobility like the German armored vehicles had. Other, smaller, automobile companies, like General Motors, were also supplying vehicles, and Harley Davidson was providing motorcycles, some with a sidecar that could also hold a machine gun.
Warehouses in Kansas City were stuffed with uniforms and other paraphernalia, including helmets, underwear, overcoats, boots, and socks. The Springfield Arsenal in Massachusetts had supplied a quarter of a million of the rifles that bore its name along with millions of rounds of ammunition. There were assurances that machine guns and the new Browning Automatic Rifles were on the way as well as artillery, but no one had seen anything yet. The factories were still tooling up. Production would begin soon, whenever the hell soon meant. Everyone knew that when the wheels of industry began to roll, there’d be weapons and ammunition galore, just not quite yet.