The name of the German leader, Erwin Rommel, had come from a prisoner. This Rommel had organized several hundred men into a unit and, while some tore up the tracks, others harassed the Americans and slowed their advance. As a result of constant skirmishing, Rommel now likely had fewer than a hundred men, but he was still doing damage and moving just fast enough to keep the rest of his men out of their way.
Tovey began to pace. “General, if the objective is Raleigh and the freed prisoners, give me a cavalry unit and we’ll bypass the tracks and the Krauts. From what other prisoners have said, there’s nobody between us and Raleigh or even San Diego.”
“How many of my Marines do you want?”
Tovey laughed. “Not a damn one, unless they’re really good horsemen, and I kind of doubt any are.”
Lejeune agreed reluctantly. “Most of my Marines don’t know which end of a horse goes first.”
“General, give me all the horses we have and I’ll mount up as many of my Texans as we have horses, and we’ll go to Raleigh.”
Lejeune nodded. “All of my horses? That means I’ll have to give you my personal horse and that beast has carried my butt for several years.”
Martina smiled. “I’ll ride him and take good care of him.”
“You’re going too?” Lejeune asked. He was not surprised.
She shrugged. “Like here, it’s my territory. I can take Marcus where we need to go.”
Lejeune smiled to himself. “Very well, but as to my horse, you will not ride him and or take good care of him.”
Martina was puzzled, “Why not?”
Lejeune grinned wickedly. “Because Daisy’s not a him.”
The shells were indiscriminate. Even though the hospital was clearly marked with red crosses, mistakes were made. Kirsten hoped they were mistakes. She had a hard time believing that the kaiser’s army would be so base and cruel as to intentionally shell medical facilities. Luke didn’t share her beliefs. He felt that the Germans were capable of almost anything. He’d read of their atrocities in Belgium and northern France in 1914–15, and in Africa a decade earlier. Luke had told her that the cousin of one of the German admirals, von Trotha, had been instrumental in the massacre of thousands of helpless Herero tribesmen. If monsters like the von Trothas were to be victorious, she thought, God help the people of California.
The German fleet was probing the Golden Gate, the channel to San Francisco Bay, and both sides were lobbing shells at each other. One struck the hospital, sending scores of already badly mangled young men to an even more badly mangled death. Kirsten helped pick up the bodies, and the pieces of bodies. This, she realized, is what it must be like at the heart of the battle now raging a few miles to the south and east.
She felt worse when someone told her the shell that struck the hospital had come from an American battery on the north side of the channel. Doctor Rossini had simply shrugged and told her things like that happen. “You shoot an arrow in the air and who knows where it comes down. The same thing applies to rifle and cannon fire.”
The wounded were coming in droves. The battle for the third line of defense was intense. It looked, however, that the American lines were holding, at least for a while. Good, she thought, make the German bastards pay.
To take her mind off the horrors around her, she tried to think of her home and the town of Raleigh. Would she ever go back there? Likely not, she decided. If she and Luke survived this, and if the United States prevailed, she and he would make their homes closer to San Francisco and either farm or grow vines and make wine.
Then she thought ruefully that she’d spoken two very big ifs.
“Mr. Griffith, just how many cameramen do you have available?” Elise asked coolly.
“At the moment four, my dear young lady. Why, do you have uses for them?”
“Where do you have them?”
“One is in the trenches where the attacks are taking place. I am so proud of our American boys who are holding up the Germans.”
So far, she thought.
“And I was instructed to have another with a young officer named Patton, while two others are watching the German fleet.”
“Mr. Griffith, I am about to let you in on at least one military secret. The German fleet is going to force the channel and wind up in San Francisco Bay. Therefore I would suggest you have at least one of your men on the Oakland side to watch what is going to happen when they begin to duel with our other guns.”
“And what will happen, Elise?”
She smiled grimly. “Admiral Sims wishes to destroy them all. It is something called Firefly.”
Captain Horst Richter urged his men forward, “Hurry, you ugly sons of bitches! Move or they’ll kill you.”
The Alpine troops, the Austrian “volunteers,” had done a marvelous job of picking a path through the American wire and other defenses. Now it was time for the shock troops, the spearpoint of Hutier’s attack on San Francisco, to make their move.
According to plan, the artillery barrage had been short and intense, just enough to keep the Americans’ heads down. When it lifted, the first line of his shock troops were within a hundred yards of the American trenches and through the wire that had been cut the night before by the Austrians. Up and over, the Germans went, screaming like wild men, shooting and stabbing at anything that moved. In the face of such ferocity, American resistance wavered and soldiers fell back. Some gathered themselves and tried to retake ground seized by the Germans. The fighting was bloody and intense.
Richter shot an American defender in the face with his Luger. “Forward!” he screamed. “Keep moving forward. Leave them for the follow-up troops.”
In the heat of battle, most of his exhortations were lost and he had to physically grab men, sending them out of this trench and onward to others. The breach made was small, and others would widen it. A German fell dead beside him. The Americans were recovering and fighting back. Too late, he exulted. He waved his men forward.
Richter and a score of his fighters emerged from the American trenches. Some astonished rear-echelon soldiers either ran or tried to surrender. Richter ignored them. His little band pressed forward. He looked behind and saw more coal-scuttle helmets and soldiers in field gray. He laughed. They were through. Hutier’s tactics were working.
He paused and looked forward. In the distance he could not yet see downtown San Francisco, but buildings and houses were in plain view. More important, there was no sign of any further American defenses. They were through and before him lay the city of San Francisco. Richter knew he had to wait, if only a little while. Twenty men would not take the city. Nor could a few hundred. Others were joining him as the breach was widened, but it would be a while before he had an attack force. He laughed as he saw that Hutier was joining them. The old general was out of shape and breathing heavily. His once immaculate uniform was filthy, but he was grinning happily.
“Excellent work, Richter. You will be promoted and given a medal.”
“Thank you, sir, but it was all your idea. The men really executed it.”
“No modesty, please. Now, let us gather a force and head to San Francisco. Great God, we have waited so long for this. With a little bit of luck, we will have supper in the officers’ club at their Presidio. Perhaps General Liggett will join us, eh?”
Richter grinned impishly. “Perhaps we can serve him humble pie.”
CHAPTER 23