American soldiers began pulling back from the trenches. Some were running for their lives, understandably, Luke thought, while whole units began to disintegrate.
“I think we should leave,” Carville suggested and Luke concurred. “The Huns won’t advance any farther this day. You’ve hurt them, but, like I said, they will prevail. They will clear out the trenches to their left and right and gather for a second attack.”
Luke picked up his gear. He had a report to give to Ike and perhaps Liggett. “When?”
“A couple of days. No more than that.”
Martel was filthy and disheveled, but Liggett wanted information immediately. Carville had prudently disappeared, doubtless to communicate to his British masters.
Even though the first of three fortified lines had been lost, Liggett and the other generals were somewhat pleased. Their soldiers had endured a heavy bombardment, the likes of which hadn’t been seen on American soil since Gettysburg, and had prevailed. They had emerged from their bunkers and mowed down large numbers of Germans soldiers.
D.W. Griffith had provided film coverage that had transfixed them. The film canisters would be sent north to Canada as diplomatic mail and make their way to the East Coast. When properly edited, the American people who would finally see war in all its horror. Griffith’s films showed the dead and the dying in graphic detail.
“How many casualties did we suffer?” Liggett asked.
“Rough estimate is five thousand,” Ike responded.
“And theirs?”
“Based on what Martel and I have seen and discussed, probably close to the same.”
Liggett shook his head. “Attackers are supposed to lose more than defenders.”
“Perhaps it will happen that way the next time, sir,” Harbord said. “Our men are becoming experienced and, even though they reacted well, the next time they will perform even better. To use a cliché from a previous war, they have seen the elephant.”
Liggett reluctantly concurred. “However, we cannot get into a battle of attrition. They still outnumber us significantly, even if some of their troops are heading out to take over the defense of the passes from the Mexicans.” Liggett paused. “Anything else of note?” he asked.
“One thing, sir,” Luke said. “Their armored trucks were a disaster on wheels. They sent about twenty of them in the attack and lost at least half. Trucks can’t traverse dug-up ground and they don’t have the power to bull a path through concentrated barbed wire. You need a much bigger and stronger vehicle for that.”
Luke caught Liggett and Harbord glancing at each other. What were they not telling?
Harbord leaned forward. “Yet our armored trucks performed well in Texas, did they not?”
“Yes sir, but circumstances were very different. For one thing, the terrain was fairly flat and, for another, the Mexicans were out in the open and not dug in. That also meant not much in the way of barbed wire. My counterpart in Lejeune’s corps also said that a number of trucks still had difficulty. I hate to repeat myself, but today’s trucks just aren’t strong enough.”
“Good observation, Major,” said Liggett, “Very good indeed.”
Major General Douglas MacArthur was livid with scarcely contained fury. Theirs was the first in a long series of troop trains and they had been stopped just outside of Seattle. The plump army major in front of MacArthur was named Small but was standing tall before MacArthur’s attempts to dominate him. MacArthur wasn’t all that tall himself, but he was intimidating. A few yards away, Sergeant Tim Randall and Lieutenant Taylor tried to make themselves very, very tiny. They were concerned that they had just picked a terrible spot to rest.
Major Small folded his arms across his ample stomach and glared back. “I understand your frustration, General, but I have my orders. It’s more than eight hundred miles from Seattle to San Francisco. There’s effectively just about one rail line going that way and a lot of it goes through some godawful terrain and, oh yes, it’s still winter.”
MacArthur’s face had begun to turn red. “Major, I fully understand the weather and distance, but I am in the forefront of three divisions, nearly fifty thousand men, ready to assist the brave young men who are holding the lines at San Francisco. They are laying down their lives and fifty thousand good men are just sitting here. We must have trains. Or do you expect us to walk those eight hundred miles?”
Tim and the lieutenant looked at each other. Walk eight hundred miles through snow-covered mountains and forests? That would be madness. They had the nagging feeling that MacArthur might consider such an alternative.
“Three months,” Taylor whispered. “It would take us at least three months and probably a lot longer to walk to San Francisco. The weather and terrain would slow us to a crawl. By then the war would be over.”
They had to go by rail. Hell, Tim thought. Neither he nor Lieutenant Taylor had realized they were still that far from their destination. Like many young Americans they were learning just how large the United States was.
Small continued. “General, the dilemma is obvious. Do we send supplies down to the men who have so little, or do we send men carrying only the supplies on their back? It’s a helluva choice, but General Liggett’s orders are specific and he outranks you. Your men are to wait until the most needed supplies make it down there. We’re sending supply trains as fast as we can, but it’s still not enough. And sending men without additional supplies would exacerbate the problem.”
Tim quickly did the math. At forty men to a car, and fifty cars to a train, each train could carry two thousand men. Averaging twenty miles an hour, they could begin to arrive in San Francisco in two or three days, depending on interruptions, and not three plus months by shank’s mare. So near yet so far. Of course, it would take at least a day to load up each train and it would take a good twenty-five or thirty trains.
“Someday, I will have your hide, Major.”
“Someday I’ll be a civilian again, General.”
MacArthur wheeled away and, to Tim’s horror, spotted them. “You heard that, I presume?”
The two men stood and snapped to attention and Tim responded. “Couldn’t much help it, sir, and if I may say so, we’ve got to get down to San Francisco. We are useless as tits on a boar sitting up here. To be blunt sir, I didn’t enlist so I could sit on my ass in Seattle while my fellow Americans are fighting in San Francisco.”
MacArthur’s features showed surprise at Tim’s bluntness and then softened. His men were agreeing with him and he liked that. He was about to respond when Major Small came trotting up, huffing from the exertion.
“General MacArthur, I don’t know what the hell’s going on but General Liggett’s changed his mind. He wants your division down south as fast as you can go. I don’t know what the devil’s happened but he wants you yesterday. You get your men ready while I round up the trains.”
MacArthur’s face split into a grin. He shook both Tim and the Taylor’s hands. “You men are good luck.”
MacArthur strode briskly away, looking for his aides and bellowing orders. Taylor shook his head. “Tim, that little speech of yours was more bullshit than I spout in a year of lawyering. You sure you don’t want to be an attorney?”
Tim grinned. “Funny thing is, sir, I meant a lot of it.”
And now they were going to San Francisco.
Martina Flores stood and stared at the prisoners as she carefully hand signaled her message—tonight.