“Better than nothing,” Lansing muttered.
Hughes continued. “I have directed our railroads to try to rent line space from the Canadians in the form of a detour north from the broken line, into Canada, and then south. If it is done as a private venture, without the direct collaboration of the Canadian government, we might get away with it until the bridge is rebuilt.”
“Will that happen?” Lansing asked.
“Not until the Canucks and the Brits are certain we can win and they’re on the right side, and right now they can’t be confident of that.”
Railroads were something always taken for granted. One could take a train from virtually anywhere in the United States to any other place in the large and sprawling nation. And, since the highways and roads were generally quite miserable, going by train was virtually the only viable way to travel any sort of distance. The disruption of the lines between California and the rest of the world had shocked everyone. Someday there would have to be paved highways connecting at least the major cities of the United States. Right now, most roads outside major cities were little more than the same dirt trails pioneers had traveled on in the previous century.
“And I’m sure you’re aware of the success we had in destroying their bomber fleet,” March said proudly. “I am recommending Major Eisenhower and Captain Martel each for a medal. It was exceedingly well done.”
Lansing beamed. “It indeed was.” The name Martel sounded familiar. Then he recalled the young officer who’d been with him that fateful night when he became president.
“And what of the Navy’s foray?” he asked.
“Successful,” said Navy Secretary Daniels. “Shots were exchanged, and the German fleet got stirred up and aggravated. They chased our ships back to the sound while the cruiser squadron slipped out unnoticed. After resupplying our subs at Catalina, the cruisers will sail forth as independent commerce raiders, while the destroyers will work in conjunction with the submarines.”
“Excellent,” said Lansing, “but too slow. We need something to inspire the American people. The delivery of supplies, however critical, is too prosaic. We need something dramatic.”
General March smiled. “Will you take Texas?”
“Sarge, what the hell did that sign say?”
Tim Randall yawned. He’d been sleeping soundly, something that hadn’t been happening all that much lately. The rocking of the train, however, was calming and helped him forget his personal agonies.
“What the hell do you think it said?” he answered grumpily. He had to teach these children who thought they were soldiers that you just don’t go around waking up sleeping sergeants. “You can read, can’t you?”
“Actually, he can’t read all that well, Sarge,” said one of the other men. “He’s from Poland. But the sign did say we’d just entered Texas, and that’s where we’ll be fighting, right?”
“It is,” Tim said, “but don’t get your knickers twisted. For those of you who’ve never seen a map, Texas is larger than most countries.”
“Jeez, Sarge, does that mean it’s larger than Camden?”
Tim stifled a grin. Every group had at least one smartass, and it looked like he had several. “Your sergeant requires sleep, so you do whatever you want. Just stay out of trouble, Private Asshole.”
Tim still couldn’t believe he was on a train, one of scores of them, rolling south through Texas. He had a squad of men and he was part of the Twelfth Infantry Division, which consisted of two Marine Corps regiments and two infantry regiments that had been cobbled together out of units from Pennsylvania and New Jersey. The regiments were all understrength as a result of the flu. A normal American division consisted of twenty thousand men. He’d heard that the Twelfth had fewer than fifteen thousand, all lightly trained and still lacking heavy weapons.
The flu. God, he wished he could forget about it. He’d stopped off in Camden to visit his family. He found his parents mourning the loss of their youngest son and leaving Tim with the vague feeling that they held him responsible for his brother’s death. On a whim and a need to get out of a house filled with despair and blame, he’d gone to visit Kathy Fenton. She had written him a couple of times while he was in training. She’d apologized to him for being so presumptuous their last night together and blamed it on the drink. He’d written back, apologizing for getting so stinking drunk and pawing her like a pig, although he’d phrased it a good deal more tactfully.
Kathy was in mourning too. Like Tim, she’d survived a touch of the flu, although it had been late in the season and fairly mild. However, she’d lost her sister and a cousin to the disease. She had lost a lot of weight, and was pale and grey. Her eyes looked haunted. He’d sat on her couch with her head on his shoulder while she cried. Then she’d looked in his eyes, seen his pain, and put his head on her shoulder, holding him tightly, like a baby, while he wept bitterly. Later, they parted. They’d kissed each other on the cheek and hugged. Yes, they said, they would continue to write. Tim wondered just where this would ever go.
He now commanded ten men on their way to kill other people. He knew he was inexperienced but what was truly frightening was the fact that his men were even rawer than he was. Some had only fired their rifles a couple of times. He wondered if the men in charge of the Army and the country had any idea what they were getting their men into. He’d read enough about the Civil War to know that inexperienced generals often get their men slaughtered. Pershing commanded the entire Texas Front army, while some Marine named Lejeune commanded the division. That too was funny. What the hell was a Marine doing in charge of an Army division?
“Sarge, any idea where the hell we’re going in this godawful big state?” Private Asshole asked.
“No,” he said, “but I’ll bet there’ll be Mexicans around.”
D.W. Griffith worked the projector. He barely glanced at Elise who smiled at being ignored. She was history. Griffith was in his element. The screen on the wall showed the German crossing of the Salinas River at San Luis Obispo.
Patton’s defensive positions were well sited, but he had too few men to seriously hinder the German onslaught, and the Salinas wasn’t all that much of a barrier, even with water rushing down from the nearby mountains. It was more of a nuisance than a moat. With more men and guns, the rugged terrain would have heavily favored the defense, but Patton was short of both.
Still, the Germans had paused to consolidate and bombard Patton’s defenses, which gave the defenders of San Francisco a little more time to prepare.
There were muted gasps from the dozen or so in the conference room as scores of small boats pushed off from the southern shore. Each carried a dozen German soldiers.
“I think they could have waded,” muttered Nolan.
“The second group did,” answered Griffith. “Patton said it was terrible intelligence work on the Germans’ part. Their commander’s some guy named von Seekt, and I am not impressed.”
Nor was anyone else, it turned out. The overcautious Germans had missed an opportunity to overwhelm the American defenders.
As they watched, American riflemen on the north shore began to shoot up the boats and the handful of Hotchkiss machine guns and Browning Automatic Rifles the Americans possessed chewed them as well. Bodies tumbled into the bottom of the boats or into the river. In one instance a boat capsized, bewildered survivors standing up to their waists in water.
Nolan nudged Martel. “If people weren’t dying that would’ve been funny.”
All humor vanished when German machine guns on the south shore began to kill Americans. Griffith shook his head sadly. “Patton said they had fifty machine guns for each one we had. With respect, General Liggett, when the devil are we going to get our own?”