His fingers wouldn’t respond. The detonator cord wouldn’t stay put. He tried again. Bullets kicked up beside him. “Stand up!” someone yelled. The Americans were getting closer. “Get away from that damn plunger!”
The devil he would. Not after all his efforts. Finally, it was done. Something slammed into his back, throwing him forward. His left arm wouldn’t respond. He was on his hands and knees. The plunger was in front of him. Another bullet smashed into his leg. The pain was sudden and beyond belief. He screamed. With the last of his strength, he pushed the plunger down.
As his vision faded, he saw the bridge rise up and disappear in clouds of debris.
Fifty-seven Gotha V bombers were lined up in neat rows. There had originally been sixty. Two had been shot down and one was thought to have crashed due to engine failure or pilot error, but there were no survivors so no one would ever be certain.
It was the middle of a clear and starry night and only a handful of guards were about. The airfield had the look of a temporary facility. As soon as the stubborn city of San Luis Obispo fell, the German lines would move forward and the bombers would be stationed ever closer to San Francisco. It would not be an easy move. The rugged Albatros fighters could take off and land from any field that was fairly smooth, but the great bombers were more fragile and needed an airfield that had been specially prepared for them.
In the meantime, they were basically grounded. Two additional attacks on the city had exhausted their supply of bombs and much of their fuel. No matter. More supplies were en route. Then they could pound the city into surrender.
At least that was what Captain Helmut Krause hoped. He was in charge of maintenance and security for the planes and it galled him that his beautiful and magnificent bombers were on the ground. However, it had given him the time to have his crew perform additional maintenance on the behemoths. And they were huge. Their length was nearly forty-one feet, their wingspan almost seventy-eight. Fully loaded, they weighed in at more than four tons. Sometimes he held his breath as they tried to leave the ground and, so far, they all had succeeded in defying gravity. And the next time there would be no mechanical failures. All fifty-seven would attack or he would have somebody’s head.
Even well maintained, the Gothas had their problems. They were underpowered by Mercedes engines that were too small and, as a result, the bombers could only do a rather ordinary ninety miles an hour. Still, they were fearsome things once aloft with their deadly cargoes. It never ceased to amaze him that man had first begun to fly less than twenty years earlier when the Wright brothers had taken the pathetically small steps at Kitty Hawk that signified mankind’s first controlled flight. He thought it was a shame that the first flier hadn’t been a German. Perhaps the Wrights were of German descent, he thought and chuckled.
Krause was alone except for the handful of guards on the perimeter of the base. The pilots and the mechanics, their day’s work done, were a couple of miles down the road, drinking and whoring. Helmut Krause had a wife and three children at home. A drink he didn’t mind, or even several, but whoring? Nein. So many of the whores were Mexicans, uglier than sin and a lot of them had the clap to boot. Get the bombers bombing and end the war so he could go home was his plan. He was a reservist who’d been called up for the Mexican venture. Only later had it turned into an invasion of the United States.
He caught motion to his left. A column of horsemen was coming down the dirt road towards the gate. Now what? Krause was delighted to see one of his four young and inexperienced guards actually get up and challenge the newcomers. There was hope for the boy yet. Whatever was said must have been satisfactory. The gate was unlocked and the riders entered. Krause noted that the two leaders were Germans and the others Mexicans. One of the leaders was a major, the other a sergeant. He drew himself to attention and saluted the superior officer. He was mildly puzzled by the fact that the riders were fanning out.
“How may I help you, Major?”
Luke returned the salute and responded in German. “It has been decided to give you more security. There are rumors that the Yanks might try a raid. Where are the rest of your guards? Please call them in so we can coordinate our efforts.”
Krause was a good German and automatically obeyed the man with the higher rank. As his few men gathered, he tried to place the major’s accent. He had obviously not gone to a good school, and Krause wondered how he’d gotten a commission. Within minutes his men stood behind him.
The major smiled. “Take their weapons.”
A score of rifles were pointed at the astonished Germans. Within seconds they were all disarmed and hands bound behind their backs.
“You seem like a decent sort, Captain, so if you don’t make trouble, nothing will happen to you or your men. Otherwise, we will be forced to slice your throats.” He gestured to one of the Mexicans, who pulled a large knife and grinned wickedly. Krause suddenly knew overwhelming fear and tried not to wet himself. He failed.
He watched sadly as the dismounted riders raced from plane to plane, setting charges. His great beautiful beasts were going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. Worse, he would bear the brunt of the blame and rightly so.
“Major, leave me a gun so I can shoot myself.” Krause spoke in English to what were obviously American raiders.
“That would be too nice,” the American sergeant said with a wide and engaging smile. “You and your planes have killed more than a thousand innocent civilians, women and children, and wounded many more. You should all be hanged as the barbarians you are.”
Krause’s head slumped in despair. Eisenhower, the “sergeant,” looked on him with contempt. Luke directed the preparations for the planes’ demolition, which included removal of the several 7.92mm machine guns they carried. Ike commanded the column with Luke as his second. Luke, however, wore the rank of a German major because he spoke German fluently. Ike’s German was miserable at best, which both men considered ironic considering his ancestry. Montoya led the Mexicans.
When they were done, the Americans pulled back. Ike grinned infectiously. “Care to do the honors, Luke?”
“Your show, Major.”
Fuses were lit and fires snaked across the field. One by one, the bombers exploded. Their fuel tanks were almost empty, but what was in them and the accumulated vapors ensured the fiery destruction of each plane. The plywood-framed behemoths quickly became torches.
“Like the Fourth of July, only better,” Joe Flower laughed.
The nearly empty fuel storage tanks followed. The sky was lit by scores of fires, large and small, and man-made thunder rolled about them.
On the other side of the base, facing the road leading to town, Tomas Montoya and his men awaited. They had four machine guns propped up and ready, along with their own rifles.
They didn’t have long to wait. Scores of men from the beer halls and whorehouses down the road came running to see what was happening to their precious planes.
At fifty yards, the machine guns and rifles poured bullets into them. The Germans fell like scythed wheat. In a moment, the massacre was over. The road was filled with the dead, the dying, and the badly wounded. Not only were the Germans without their bombers, but many of their pilots and skilled mechanics had just been slaughtered.
Payback for the people of San Francisco, Luke thought as he observed from a distance.
Montoya’s men mounted their horses, took the machine guns and what ammo they could carry, and joined up with Eisenhower and Martel. “A very good night’s work,” said an elated Eisenhower. It was his first time in combat. He would have something to tell Mamie. Perhaps news of this victory would take her mind off their son’s illness, at least for a few moments.