Free 1920: America's Great War-eARC by Robert Conroy

long while.
    Wulfram made a decision. They would stay with the wreck and the badly injured survivors until rescuers came close enough, then they would head south and try to escape. He didn’t think it would take the Americans very long at all to realize that this was all part of a plan, a pattern.
    Wulfram recalled reading that war was hell. He looked at one of the children who stared vacantly at the sky as her life ebbed away. Hell was not the proper word.

CHAPTER 4
    Charley and Fred had worked together as customs agents for several years on the border between California and Mexico. Their customs station was slightly east of Tijuana and was lightly used. It was just too easy to bypass. Sometimes, not even the tourists coming back from wild forays into the sin centers of Mexico bothered to stop.
    Still, this night had proven even quieter than others. It was as if a curtain had been drawn down, covering Mexico. Nothing unusual in that, they thought. The presence of German soldiers and the simmering fighting south of the border meant that nothing was normal anymore.
    Regardless, Charley and Fred didn’t mind the quiet. Although decent guys, they were nearing retirement and weren’t too interested in working hard and generally spent the night reading magazines or playing checkers. Occasionally, one or both would walk outside of their small, kerosene-lamplit shack. Nor was it unknown for them to bring in a bucket of beer to make the night more congenial, as they had this time.
    Charley nodded to his friend and stepped outside. As a matter of decency, he strode several yards away from the shack to relieve himself, which he did hugely and with a contented sigh.
    He was buttoning up when the night sky was split by the insane chatter. Charley quickly recognized it from his days in the National Guard as machine-gun fire. He watched in horror as scores of bullets ripped through the thin wooden walls of the guard shack. What the hell was going on? he wondered. Had Villa’s raiders moved to California? Jesus, and what about poor Fred? A widower, he had recently remarried and had a wife and two kids.
    Another burst of gunfire hit the shack, sending splinters of wood flying into the starry sky. The kerosene lamp had tipped over and the wooden building was burning. Charley dropped to the ground and began to crawl towards where his friend was trapped and likely badly hurt.
    The sound of horses’ hooves froze him and, a moment later, a long column of horsemen came into view. He recognized them as German Uhlans from the pictures he’d seen. They trooped past the shack in a column of fours, trotting insolently past and into California.
    “No,” Charley yelled.
    Fred had staggered out of the shack. His clothing was smoldering. He was heading with agonizing slowness towards the riders. Two of the Germans broke out of the column and looked down on Fred, who had raised a bloody arm in supplication.
    Charley watched in horror as the two Uhlans ran their lances through Fred’s body. They shook him off like a rag and left him lying by the road. Charley groaned. It didn’t take a genius to realize that his friend and coworker was dead.
    More cavalry trotted by, and they were soon followed by quickly marching infantry. Charley wiped tears from his eyes as he wondered what to do. The glow of the fire was protecting him from being seen by the Germans. He took a deep breath and decided he would move a mile or so farther east and then north. He had to find a working telephone or maybe a radio. Somebody must be told what was happening and somebody must know what to do.
    * * *
    The ringing of firebells had been the decided-upon method of warning all the ranchers and farmers, although everyone acknowledged the method’s shortcomings. So what if the bells do ring, they’d argued, where the hell do we go? If smoke was visible or gunfire could be heard, the answer was easier, but there still had to be a place for everybody to gather, especially if a