House of Ghosts

by House of Ghosts (epub)

  With two outs, runners on first and second took their leads. The pitcher from the 96th squadron took a walk behind the pitcher’s mound. “In Brooklyn you may go for a base hit, but in the man’s game we play in Texas, we go for the fences,” Peterson yelled back, sweat seeping through his shirt.

  Clenching a cigar between his teeth, Vinnie approached the 20th’s bench. “Lieutenant, a moment,” he said to Paul.

  Paul shot Vinnie a quizzical look, holding up a hand to wait. “Mighty Casey’s about to swing.”

  Peterson spit on his hands, re-gripped a cherry wood bat turned in the machine shop and dug his combat boots into the dried mud. The pitcher took the sign from his catcher, wound up, throwing a blooper ball to the plate. Peterson dribbled the pitch down the first base line, tripped over his feet, and fell flat on his face.

  “Way to go!” Paul yelled, turning to Vinnie. “What can I do for you, sergeant?”

  Vinnie plucked the cigar from his mouth. “The man wants to see you.”

  Peterson bowed to the crowd that was serenading him with a chorus of boos. “When and where?” Paul asked.

  “Foggia. 13:00. A shithole of a place called Carmine’s,” Vinnie said, bringing the cigar back to life. Smoke hovered over his head. “You’re as white as a ghost.”

  Paul felt nauseous. “I can’t believe it’s going to happen.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

  “It’s the reason we’re in the land of my ancestors.” The ex-New York enforcer spit a piece of tobacco, wishing Jake was there to smack his little brother. He handed Paul directions. “Memorize and get rid of them.”

  Paul glanced at the scrap of paper and stuffed it into his fatigues. “Anything else?”

  “The password is egg cream, the counter—nothing would be better,” Vinnie said, coolly. “Capisce?”

  “I got it,” Paul said, averting his eyes away from Vinnie.

  Vinnie snuck a peek at Peterson who was coming back to the bench. “The southern hick at twelve o’clock.” Paul needed an excuse to get away. He said loudly, “I don’t know lieutenant, all they said was you’re wanted at headquarters.”

  With equipment in short supply, the teams shared gloves. Peterson waited for the opposing’s right fielder to trot in. “What about headquarters?”

  “I have to go to Foggia to get a Red Cross message. I’ve been worried about my father since the last letter from my brother.” Paul said, taking Vinnie’s cue.

  Peterson screwed up his face. “They normally bring Red Cross messages up here.”

  “Shep!” called the right fielder, flipping the decrepit glove.

  “Get back for the second game,” Peterson said, pounding the pocket of the Spalding special. He turned back toward the field. “Czerchowski, you’re playing short.”

  Paul stood locked in place. “You’ve got less than an hour and fifteen to make your appointment,” Vinnie said. “I got a chauffeured ride lined up, let’s go.”

  Paul jumped from the cargo hold of a six by six truck. “Piazza de Il Duce” was still visible where the letters had been chiseled off the red brick wall surrounding the square’s fountain. With Mussolini’s capture, an attempt was made to remove all references to the dictator. American personnel, despite the rules of occupation prohibiting selling personal allotments of cigarettes, slowly trolled the streets showcasing cartons under their arms. Military police looked the other way.

  Paul crossed the plaza. Looking into the shops, he saw a common denominator—little or no goods. The city dweller was more disadvantaged than the farmer who had first crack at the meager crops he managed to raise. A resourceful underground economy found ways of procuring supplies from American bases. The black market was booming and the prices were astronomical.

  Following Vinnie’s directions, Paul wandered through a rabbit warren of side streets. It was ten minutes to the meeting time. Nestled under a towering Mediterranean Cypress, an elderly street vendor worked a feather duster on a treasure trove of fresh vegetables. A boy, Paul judged to be around ten or twelve drew pictures along side the cart in the mud with a stone.

  “Camel cigarette?” the boy asked, gesturing like he was smoking. The kid’s yellow shirt and brown pants were one step above rags.

  Paul shook his head. It wasn’t uncommon to see seven and eight year olds chain smoking. Cigarettes were easier to obtain than food. The kid looked at Paul with a slanted smile, pointing to the old man. “For my grandfather,” he said in halting English. A pack of Lucky Strikes stuck out of a hole in his back pocket.

  Paul offered a pack of gum. “Cigarettes will stunt your growth.” It was the line his mother used when her sons wanted something in Schwartz’s candy case, something she didn’t have money for.

  The kid shrugged his shoulders, snatched the gum, and stashed it in his other pocket. “Want girls?”

  “Not today.” Paul held up a dollar bill, watching the miscreant’s eyes grow wide as the melons on his grandfather’s cart. “Take me to Carmine’s and it’s yours.”

  The kid looked at the old man. Gesticulating hands matched the cadence of their rapid Italian. “Joe,” he said. Every American was Joe. “I will lead,” he said confidently, darting across the street, cutting between two horse drawn wagons.

  Paul skirted the wagons. The kid was no where on the street. “Joe!” the kid called from midway down an alley. Paul’s hand itched toward the .45 automatic he carried when on a mission. The Boston cop Flannery warned ad-nausea of muggings and G.I.’s being rolled by hustling “Italian tomatoes.” This wasn’t a Brooklyn alley wide enough to back a garbage truck down. He needed to twist sideways.

  The kid stood smoking a cigarette oblivious to rats as large as cats running from an open sewer. Navigating around a pile of debris from a building hit by a bomb, they turned a corner in the alley. “There Joe,” the kid said, pointing to Carmine scrawled into bullet tattooed alabaster stucco, souvenirs of a fire fight when Allied troops took the town in September, 1943. Two MPs armed with wood Billy clubs stood over a G.I. lying in the alley. Blood covered the grunt’s nose and saturated the front of his tunic.

  Paul stared at the opened door. The kid stuck out a palm, wiggling his fingers. “Joe.”

  “You did good.” Paul placed the bill in the kid’s hand.

  “See ya, Joe. Come back tomorrow. I take you everywhere,” the kid said, lighting another cigarette before running off.

  Paul returned the MPs’ salutes as he approached the threshold. With coal in scarce supply for the town’s generators, candles on the bar and tables provided minimal light. Paul looked for his contact. In three corners of the cramped cafe, G.I.s whispered into the ears of female “hospitality specialists.” An air force captain with a football player’s build sat alone at the century old bar.

  Paul cautiously approached. “I could go for an egg cream on a hot day like today,” he said, taking a stool.

  “Nothing would be better.” The unnamed captain nodded. “Angelo, vino per mie amico.” He removed his hat, running a hand through a field of red hair.

  Angelo appeared to be older than the century old walnut bar, poured a glass of Chianti, placing the fingerprint laden vessel before Paul. The captain lit a cigarette with one of the candles. “I’d suggest lunch, but unless you care for goat cheese, you’re out of luck.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Paul murmured, trying to place the captain’s mid-west accent to Chicago where Jake made numerous trips, referring to his contact as the “red headed putz.”

  The captain took a prolonged sip of his wine. “It’s been a tough ten days.”

  “Only for crews pulling themselves through the belly hatch,” Paul shot back, failing to hide his dislike for desk jockeys.

  In unison, the three couples left their tables. “Areever derchee,” one of the army guys said to Angelo.

  “Imbecille,” Angelo said, waving a dish towel over his head. The American linguist stumbled to the door. “First the Black Shirts, then the Germans, now these.
Dio mio.”

  The captain laughed at Angelo’s remarks. “Let’s take a table,” he said, leading the way to a table in the far left corner. Wall sconces flickered and then glowed bright. “A miracle has occurred.”

  Paul tested the wicker seat of a rickety chair and sat with a pronounced slump. He ran a hand across the table engraved with the names of towns spanning the map of the United States. “I’ve got a ballgame to get back to. What do you have for me?”

  From an inside of his uniform jacket, the captain removed three 5x8 aerial reconnaissance photos, holding them like playing cards in a poker game. “In April, a photo recon mission captured this image when looking at oil production facilities in the Silesia area.” He placed one of the photos before Paul. “A freight train of cattle cars rolling onto a siding.”

  Paul bent over for a closer look. “I can see people being herded off the trains,” he said incredulously. “Where was this taken?”

  “Auschwitz, the main killing center for, as the Nazis say, untermenchen, the sub humans,” the captain said, lighting another cigarette. He placed a second photo on the table. “The round structure is the main gas chamber.” He moved his index finger to another spot on the photo. “The smoke rising from the four chimneys are from burning bodies in the crematoria.”

  Paul finished his wine. “My and my wife’s aunts, uncles and cousins have most likely come down this ramp at the siding and ended up the chimneys. How many have died in the place so far?”

  “The estimates range from one to two million. Could be more,” the captain took the last drag on his cigarette. “Three hundred thousand Hungarian Jews are waiting deportation. There aren’t going to be any missions against the camp or the rail lines that lead into the facility.”

  “Somebody wants those people dead. It would be too easy to wipe out the trains and the camp,” Paul said.

  “The I.G. Farben synthetic oil and rubber plant in Manowitz, about four miles from Auschwitz, is now on the target list, penciled in for August twenty.”

  “That’s in three days,” Paul said, shaking his head.

  The captain leaned toward Paul. “You’re the only pilot in the network who’s in position to do what should be official policy.”

  “I thought more pilots had been placed in this Theater.” Paul felt his knees twitching.

  “We had two others, but both were shot down within days of each other.” The captain handed Paul the last photo. “Use the three intersecting power lines as the IP.”

  Taking off his cap, Paul placed his hands on his temples. “How am I going to pull this off?”

  “I don’t have any words of wisdom. You’re going to get just one chance at the plate. It’s the bottom of the ninth in this game of life and death. The only way we can win is for you to hit a home run.”

  “And if I hit that home run, what will the final box score read?” Paul asked.

  “Hundreds of thousands saved. If you live to tell the tale, a court’s martial will be waiting for you. Maybe you can make up a story why you hit the wrong target. Blame your bombardier. To be honest, I don’t think any excuse is going to cut it.” The captain checked his watch. “I have to be going.” He pat Paul on the shoulder and left.

  Paul scratched at the dust on the floor.

  Chapter 34

  ITALY, AUGUST 1944

  PRESTON RESTED HIS BACK against the rail. Thirty feet above field level, the observation deck on the Amendola control tower provided a panoramic view of the two parallel runways. Inside, controllers directed the homebound bombers of the 2nd Heavy Bombardment Group. The day’s target was the small Privoser oil refinery at Moravska Ostrawa, Czechoslovakia, near the Polish border.

  Preston attended the pre-dawn briefing at 04:30. This was a deep penetration raid past Klangenfurt, Steyr, Weiner Newstatdt and Vienna, Austria and Gyor, Hungary and Blechhamer, Germany where the 2nd had suffered serious loses in July. The light-hearted mood inside the Quonset hut turned tense when the map outlining the route was uncovered. The raid was intended to finish off the remaining Czech oil production. A diversionary raid to Szeged, Hungary with feints to Budapest and Vienna were designed to draw German fighters away from Ostrava.

  Fire trucks and ambulances were parked with their engines idling along the flight line. Well rehearsed in rescuing injured from burning aircraft, maintenance crews lounged along the main runway smoking cigarettes, tossing baseballs or taking in the sun.

  Colonel Wullien searched the horizon through a pair of binoculars. A briar pipe was stuck between his front teeth. The colonel reminded Preston of a nervous father watching for his kids coming home on the first day of school. Wullien turned from the rail. “Did you get the material you requested?”

  “Thank you. The personnel files have been a real help,” Preston said, shielding his eyes from the Mediterranean sun.

  Wullien continued to sweep the sky. “Doesn’t make any sense to me, but when the assistant secretary of war says to cooperate…” He had dealt with head hunters from the Pentagon before and learned the easiest way to defang the beast was to comply.

  “Five minutes, colonel,” one of the controllers yelled.

  “Ever have a machine gun bullet wiz by your head, Captain Swedge?” Wullien asked, drawing on the pipe.

  Specks on the horizon became larger as they closed the distance to the base. “The closest I’ve been to any action was a secretary throwing a pencil past my ear when I criticized her typing,” Preston admitted.

  Wullien turned back to the rail. “I’ll arrange a ride before you skedaddle back to Washington.”

  Preston could see Wullien’s lips move as he silently counted the returning planes. Counting the dots in the sky was a ritual that tested nerves. Not until the last plane was on the ground could he think of relaxing.

  One of the planes fired a red flare indicating wounded on board. The Dixie Queen would have landing priority. Rescue crews ran to their vehicles. Wullien counted aloud, “Nine, ten, eleven…” Nine were missing. The flock that took off that morning totaled twenty. Wullien pushed up the bill of his hat. The color had washed from his face. “Nine lost,” he grumbled. “Ninety men in the shitter. Let’s go.”

  Wullien took the ten steps down two at a time with Preston on his heels to his Jeep sitting in the shadow of the control tower. The remaining ten planes landed in quick succession. Preston tried to read the names on the noses of the grey breasts as they rolled by, hoping that the Brooklyn Avenger was among the missing. Wullien slipped the Jeep into first gear. With the last bomber rumbling past, he accelerated across the runway to the bomber parking area, looping around emergency vehicles to slide to a stop beside the Dixie Queen. The bottom ball turret gunner was being carried from the plane on a stretcher. Blood covered his face and flight suit.

  Wullien crouched over the wounded airman, whispering into his ear as medics worked to stem the hemorrhaging. Wullien helped lift the gurney into an ambulance then returned to the Jeep. “That kid got his arm blown off. Amazing he didn’t bleed to death.” He climbed behind the wheel. “Losses and casualties have been going down. I hate to think of them as numbers, but the numbers are what the Pentagon is interested in. Ours have been great until today.”

  Preston looked at the planes. Not one of the eleven was without damage. He couldn’t comprehend what it was like flying at 22,000 feet in an open aircraft with enemy fighters heading dead on with multiple guns blazing away. There it was, three aircraft up the line—the Rothstein plane. “I don’t know how you can do this day after day.”

  “Neither do the brass back home,” Wullien said, relighting his pipe.

  “I’ll do my best to reflect your concerns,” Preston replied, keeping his eyes on the Brooklyn Avenger.

  Crews, emerging with frostbitten blotches on skin not covered by their oxygen masks and goggles, stripped off flight jackets and suits. Several pilots huddled in animated conversation, pointing toward the Brooklyn Avenger. Preston strained to hear, catching one loud “Jew bastard.�
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  Cigarettes dangling from lips waited to be lit away from the gasoline fumes of near empty fuel tanks. Seven hours without a smoke came to an end as they climbed into the rear of six-by-sixes for the return trip to group headquarters.

  Wullien led the procession, winding down the hills to the plateau below. The crews climbed from the trucks without words. One hundred-ten bodies filed into the assembly hall. Fifteen minutes was allotted for latrine use and grabbing a cup of coffee with a handful of doughnuts before debriefing commenced. Preston stayed near the entrance.

  Wullien addressed the group. “I want to hear what happened, without dramatics.”

  First Lieutenant William Hune of the 20th squadron which flew “tail-end-Charlie,” the last position in the last group in the bomber stream, began, “After the formation crossed the Adriatic, we were falling behind.”

  “The squadron?” Wullien asked.

  “No, the entire group, sir,” Hune replied. “Things got worse after we entered Czech airspace. Lagging from their squadrons, Wolf Pack from the 429th and a 17 from the 49th fell into our area.”

  His co-pilot First Lieutenant Frank Finn chimed in, “A British B-24 was in trouble and losing fuel also fell in.”

  Wullien turned to First Lieutenant Mike Melvin, a pilot in the forward 429th squadron. “From your vantage point, where was the 20th?”

  Melvin looked at Hune. “They were lagging 1,000 to 2,000 feet below and 500 to 2,000 yards behind the group.”

  Second Lieutenant Albert Dearing of the 49th squadron held up his hand. Wullien nodded for him take the discussion. “I think Gerry figured out that our P-51s leave the formation naked to clean the air over the target. We had no protection.” His hands shook so badly he wasn’t able to light a cigarette.

  Paul caught sight of the new face standing near the entrance, having the strange feeling they had met.

  “Rothstein,” Wullien said, shaking his head. For months he’d been saying to Fifteenth command that the tactic of fighter escorts leaving the formation was inviting disaster.