I won’t even get stitches to go with my Purple Heart. By the way, Steve, you realize you’re the senior lieutenant. That means you command this fucked-up company until somebody else is assigned.”
“Aw, shit,” Steve said and sat down on a rock beside him. Sawyer was correct. If by only a few weeks, he was the senior lieutenant. And as to somebody else being assigned, that could take quite a while.
“So what are you going to do?”
Farris smiled grimly. “Act like I belong, I guess. First, we continue to take care of the wounded, then we arrange to bury the dead. I guess the Thirty-Second Infantry has a cemetery, but I have to admit I never gave it a thought. And right after that, I want what remains of the headquarters moved to a much better, less obvious spot. We will not repeat Lytle’s mistake.”
Sixth Fleet headquarters was in a state of confusion as frantic reports flowed in. So far, at least twenty attacks on American towns and military bases along the coast of California had been reported.
Once again, Japanese cruisers, destroyers, and submarines had darted in, fired a number of shells at mainly civilian targets and raced away into the night, leaving hundreds dead and wounded and multitudes of fires burning up and down the Pacific shore. The coast of California was in panic and there were reports of several large-scale exoduses from the coastal cities. It appeared that several hundred thousand people were moving inland. Where the people would go, nobody seemed to know.
It was another reminder of what skillful warriors the Japanese were. At least no battleships or carriers had been involved. These were pinprick raids, although the towns and cities hit were in an understandable state of panic. Dane could just visualize the recriminations, the newspaper headlines, and the angry citizens. Where’s the navy? Where’s the army? Didn’t we have some planes? What the hell are our tax dollars going for?
Just as important, everyone wanted to know just how the Japanese had managed to get at them with literally hundreds of American planes in the air at all time looking for them. Someone suggested that our patrol patterns had become predictable, which meant the enemy could time them and slip through unnoticed. Another suggestion was that the Jap ships were pretending to be American escorts shepherding dummy convoys.
However, the Japanese had not gotten away unscathed. At least three destroyers and one cruiser had been sunk, along with a pair of submarines. Sub kills were harder to confirm, but the one just off where Tim’s nephew was stationed was definite. The smoking hulk was still somewhat afloat and experts were trying to tow the thing ashore where it could be examined. A numbers count showed that the Japs had lost the actual battle but won the public relations war.
A quick phone call had confirmed that Steve had indeed been involved in the fighting, but was safe and that he now commanded the company following the death of his CO.
Steve had then cheekily invited his uncle and Amanda over for a cookout on the condition that Amanda bring a friend for him. Tim sighed. Didn’t Steve know there was a war on? He replied that he thought it would be a little while before things calmed down enough for him to take another day off. He didn’t tell his nephew that he’d been meeting Amanda each evening, going for walks and dinner, although he was quickly running out of money.
As predicted, physical contact between them had been minimal. A few kisses were about it. The more he thought about it, the more Tim thought the idea of another cookout on the beach was a splendid idea. Maybe in a week or so things would calm down a little bit.
Wilhelm Braun cheered the news of the Japanese attacks and the subsequent panic that was causing thousands of civilians to head for the hills and perceived safety. However, he was convinced that in a few weeks the panic would wear off and most of the refugees would sheepishly return to their homes. After all, it wasn’t as if the Japanese had won a great victory. They hadn’t, but it was a slap in the face for the arrogant Americans, and Braun loved it.
He and Krause celebrated the news by getting a little drunk on some cheap American whisky bought in a shabby bar filled with sailors. They couldn’t afford better. They were painfully aware that what had seemed like so much money a while back was proving inadequate for their current and future needs. Their communications with comrades in Mexico had become even more terse and infrequent. Braun and Krause were of the opinion that his superiors in Berlin were disappointed with their results so far, and that they were on their own, at least until they actually accomplished something.
Braun had begun to think that either getting jobs in a defense plant or actually doing something with Swenson Engineering might become necessary. Working in a plant had its merits. They might have access to areas that might otherwise be restricted, which could put them in a position to cause damage.
That lovely thought was quickly crushed when they watched how packages, even mundane items like lunchboxes, were checked by guards admitting workers to their job sites.
They had discussed assassinating prominent Americans but found the ones they’d like to kill, like Nimitz or DeWitt, too well protected, while civilian targets like Governor Olson or his probable replacement, Earl Warren, were not important enough. The deaths of politicians would not affect the American war effort. There was also the uncomfortable truth that, in order to murder someone with a rifle, the killer had to be within two hundred yards of his target and even closer if he wanted to use a pistol. Using a gun meant a high chance of discovery, capture, and subsequent death, which neither man wanted. Nor could they figure out a way to get a bomb anywhere near a human target.
Reluctantly they considered robbery as a means of funding their operations, but that carried its own inherent dangers. They might be recognized, or they might leave clues that local and federal police might follow. They were soldiers, not professional criminals, and might easily make mistakes.
A final alternative was gradually becoming the most attractive, at least to Krause. They would do as much damage as they could with the resources that remained. When these ran out, they would simply abandon their base in San Diego and head into the American heartland where, they hoped, they could disappear, picking up new identities and living quietly until Germany won the war. Braun balked at the thought. He admitted it might someday become necessary, but was convinced that they still a duty to perform and orders to obey.
They returned to the apartment above the phony engineering company, pleased that they had made a decision.
Krause sat down heavily on a tattered overstuffed chair in their living room above the shop. “So, what will our target be this time?”
Braun smiled knowingly. “With the chaos caused by the Japanese bombardments, I believe the Americans will be looking outward, not inward. Thus, I am comfortable with another attempt on their trains. Perhaps this time we’ll get lucky and hit one loaded with people. That will get their attention.”
Krause nodded agreement and raised his arm in salute. “Heil Hitler,” he said and then added sarcastically, “Heil Japan.”
Braun shook his head. “Fuck Japan.”
Farris and the other company commanders snapped to attention when the grim little major entered the room. They were in a small office in what had been their battalion’s headquarters. Farris thought in the past tense because he’d heard rumors of big changes afoot.
The major nodded. “At ease and be seated, gentlemen. I am Major George Baylor and I’m fresh from the Thirty-Second Infantry. I will be this battalion’s commanding officer. Major Harmer is being reassigned back east.”
This was said with a half smirk. Harmer had been a good buddy of Captain Lytle’s all the way back in Pennsylvania. When Lytle didn’t feel like drinking alone, he drank with Harmer. In the opinion of many in the unit, Lytle completely dominated the older Harmer. There were other rumors that Harmer owed Lytle money from back in civilian life. Farris felt that many complaints against their late and unlamented company commander were backstopped by his good buddy from back home. At least this Baylor character looked like an officer. Despite a lack of height, he looked fit and trim, and carried himself with what some called a command presence. Farris smiled to himself and wished he could do that. Maybe command presence was something that grew on you.
Baylor continued. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors that the battalion is moving; well, they are correct. In a few days we will commence packing up and heading north. The powers that be have decided that the campaign in Alaska is moving in dangerously slow motion and needs to be goosed along. They are also seriously concerned that the Japs in Anchorage may be getting desperate and are going to attack what few troops we have in Fairbanks.
