Medics had rushed in and were frantically working to stop the bleeding from General Connor’s leg. The general’s face was ghastly pale. He reached up for something and Luke grabbed his hand. “You’ll be all right, General,” he said, knowing it was a lie. The general was dying. No one could lose that much blood and live.
Connor blinked and seemed to recognize Luke. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. After a couple of minutes more, the medics gave up. The bullet had hit an artery and Fox Connor, a friend and mentor to many young officers, had bled to death.
“Sorry, sir,” the lead medic said to General Liggett, “but his artery was shredded. We couldn’t find a way to stop it.”
Liggett nodded sadly. “You did your best.”
They withdrew to Liggett’s office while the conference room was cleaned up. There were decisions to make and most of them were Liggett’s.
“We lost good friends today, but we still have to continue. We are not unlike a line outfit that just lost a couple of buddies in a skirmish with the enemy. We will not be permitted the luxury of mourning.
“Therefore, I have determined the following. First, General Nolan will be put in for a medal for his heroism in storming that door. Captain Martel, we will do something for you as well, just don’t ask me what.
“Next, we must have replacements. Eisenhower will replace Nolan. For a number of reasons, not the least that you’re far too junior and inexperienced, I cannot promote you, Captain Martel.”
“Understood, sir.” Luke actually felt relief. He didn’t feel qualified to step in for Nolan.
“Good. And what the devil is that you’re playing with, Luke?”
“Sir, I took it off one of the Germans. It’s a German submachine gun, 9mm, Model MP18. This version came with a thirty-two shot magazine which actually might have saved some lives. The thirty-two shot magazine is considered very awkward to use, unlike ones with a twenty-shot magazine, which is much more stable. We may have been lucky that they used the wrong weapon.”
Luke handed the weapon to Liggett who examined it briefly, muttered something, and gave it back.
“To continue, General Cameron will succeed General Connor as corps commander. Other changes will have to be made, but those can wait at least a little while. I also want Mr. Hearst to send a reporter here to view the carnage and let the world know what barbarians the Germans are, not that the Germans care. I am frankly stunned that the German Navy would stoop to murder and assassination. Yes, I know we are all soldiers and, therefore, prime targets, but it is one thing to be shot on a battlefield and quite another to be killed while gathered around a conference table. I didn’t think Admiral Hipper would stoop to that.”
“Perhaps he didn’t,” Sims said.
“Pardon?” said Liggett.
“Gentlemen,” Sims said, “the Office of Naval Intelligence is getting information that neither the German Army nor the German Navy are in total lockstep with their superior officers. In the German Navy in particular, the ship captains are very frustrated that they have been relegated to boring blockade duties, while the Army gets the glory of fighting us.”
“Some glory,” said Harbord.
“Agreed, but the German Navy is the new and junior service, very insecure, and very testy when it comes to getting a slice of the action. Like that stupid attempt to bombard our batteries that cost the Germans a cruiser, this too may have been an independent action by some overaggressive and overzealous junior commander. Gentlemen, they either want to fight us in a glorious fleet action, or get back to Europe and try to entice the British into fighting them in a high-seas battle. The German Navy has to prove its worth to a country that never really had a navy until relatively recently. It may even be possible to use that insecurity to our advantage if we can get the German Navy to do something truly foolish.
“Gentlemen,” Sims continued, “I will contact Admiral Hipper under flag of truce and tell him what his people did. I would bet money that he will issue an apology of sorts and claim that he didn’t know anything about it, which is possibly the truth.”
Luke left shortly after. A flag of truce to complain about shooting an enemy general? What the devil was the world coming to? Joe Flower would have sliced throats or cut off balls, while Luke would have shot every German officer he could.
Josh Cornell ran up. “Where the hell have you been?” Luke asked.
“Sims sent me out to the country to check on something. Jesus, is it as bad as they say?”
“Define bad, Josh,” Luke said grimly. “Connor and Nolan are dead, but Sims and Liggett are fine. There’s still hope for the world, but damn, it hurts.”
“Hey, Lieutenant, I hear we got a new division commander. Should I be concerned?”
Lieutenant Taylor yawned hugely and stretched out as far as he could in his seat in the passenger car of the slow moving train. “Normally, Sergeant Randall, I would agree that those of us so far down the ladder would have nothing to worry about, but I’ve heard some intriguing things about this Douglas MacArthur character.”
Tim laughed and continued cleaning his Springfield. “I hear character is the really tactful word for him.”
The Twelfth Division had undergone a major reorganization. Gone were the two Marine regiments and with them went General Lejeune. He now commanded a true Marine division of four regiments and was en route to the Mexican border, if he hadn’t already reached it. Two additional and very inexperienced infantry regiments were added to the 12th and so too was a new division commander, Major General Douglas MacArthur.
The Twelfth had managed to cross the Columbia before the water rose and the pontoon bridges were swept away. A trickle of supplies still made it across on motor-powered barges, but it would be a while before large numbers of troops and supplies could cross again. The Twelfth was not the only unit to make it across, but Tim didn’t know just how many other men were now on trains heading for Seattle and then south to San Francisco.
Rumors of the new commanding general had emerged only minutes before MacArthur himself had strolled down the train, speaking briefly to the men. Tim admitted he was impressed. MacArthur was taller than average, lean, and had eyes that pierced you. He was young, maybe forty, and had a deep, dramatic, and compelling voice. He wore a rumpled officer’s hat and Tim guessed it was for effect. Others joked that he couldn’t afford a new one.
“MacArthur’s going to be interesting,” said Taylor. “The man’s an unquestioned genius. He broke almost all academic records at West Point and he reorganized the place as its commandant. He’s also a man of unquestioned personal courage. It’s rumored that he personally gunned down some Mexican bandits during the 1914 incursion at Vera Cruz.”
“Nothing wrong with courage, Lieutenant.”
“Not unless it’s my courage he’s playing with, Sergeant. Keep it under your hat, but the dark side of the rumor mill says he’s a glory hound, and that means he could lead us into some reckless messes.”
“Damn,” said Tim.
The lieutenant’s frank assessment was unusual. Most times officers banded together and presented a wall of silence instead of permitting criticism of a brother officer, but Tim and the lieutenant had been through a lot together in a short time, and an easy relationship had formed. Tim looked out the soot-covered window. Despite the dirt covering the glass, he could see massive stands of snow covered pine trees and deep valleys. Every second took them closer to the front and the likelihood that they’d be fighting first-line German soldiers who would be a lot more lethal than the disorganized and poorly-trained Mexicans they’d whipped outside San Antonio.