Paul, without looking away from the entrance, cleared his throat. “We were below a thin layer of clouds when fifty to sixty Me-109s and at least twenty-four FW-190s began their attack. One force approached from the rear, while the others hid behind the clouds.”
Agitated, Hune interrupted, “Through the haze, we spotted the fighters to the rear, but they arrived when our escorts were to arrive. The bad guys were flying in a P-51 formation. The head on profiles of an ME-109 and a P-51 are almost identical. Before we realized what was happening, the combined enemy forces dove, overwhelming our defenses before we got a shot off.”
Wullien began pacing. “I want to hear about the nine planes lost. Let’s begin with Wolf Pack.
“I had a good angle,” Graham said. “Fighters made a single pass blasting away at Wolf Pack. A burst of fire from Rothstein’s aircraft helped finish her off.” He looked squarely at Paul.
“There’s no way,” Paul protested.
Otto Schrup, a lower ball turret gunner on Hune’s plane shouted, “Bullshit. Your waist gunner firing at one of the fighters took out the windscreen. A plane can’t fly without a pilot or co-pilot.”
Sapienza bowed his head. “It was fucking crazy up there.”
“Wolf Pack fell like a stone.” Graham took a seat, rocking on the chair’s rear legs and enjoying the skirmish. There was no love lost between him and Paul from their first meeting at bomber flight school. He said to Preston, “The responsibility is the pilot’s.”
“Rothstein didn’t fire the machine gun,” Preston countered.
“Doesn’t matter,” Graham replied with a grin.
The hall grew eerily silent. Melvin sprinted across the room, body slamming Vinnie onto his back. “You stupid piece of shit,” the pilot from Alabama, a veteran of thirty missions, said punching Sapienza in the mouth.
Paul joined the fray, pulling the former running back from Auburn University away. “You know how chaotic it was. We took fire from inside the box.”
Paul relaxed his grip on Melvin’s flight jacket, allowing Melvin to push away. Melvin shouted, “You’re a damn Jew who can’t control his crew, especially this here I-talian. This isn’t the first time your crew screwed up, just the first time it got somebody killed.”
Shep Peterson stepped between the combatants. “Nobody did anything on purpose, simmer down.”
“Enough!” Wullien shouted.
“What’s this all about?” Preston asked Graham who was standing next to him.
“Melvin and the pilot of the Wolf Pack were best buddies,” Graham explained. “A lot of guys don’t like Jews and fellows with names ending in a vowel. Peterson and Tom Hornish, Rothstein’s co-pilot are the only officers who cotton to him.”
“You’re not a pilot,” Graham said, lighting a cigarette. “What’s your game?”
“Evaluating morale and the effect of missions like today on the crews,” Preston said, watching three of Melvin’s crewmen help the heavily perspiring pilot to a chair.
“You a shrink?” Graham asked suspiciously.
“No. A roving bean counter.”
Graham grabbed a cup of coffee. “Meet me later, say about 19:00 at the Officer’s Club and we’ll talk more.” He moved off to a table on the other side of the room.
A hand shot in the air. “Peterson, something to add?” Wullien asked.
“A P-51 didn’t try to engage when Wolf Pack was under attack. I don’t know whether he had a mechanical problem, or a problem with his backbone.”
“Catch a tail number?” Wullien asked.
“457,” Peterson said. “The asshole, Johnson.”
A fighter pilot not coming to the aid of a bomber was unheard of. “I’ll check into it,” Wullien said. The lead debriefing officer pointed to his watch. Wullien was breaking protocol. Standard procedure was to get the crews to the debriefing officers while their recollections were fresh. “To the tables.”
Chapter 35
ITALY, AUGUST 1944
PAUL SHIFTED BOOT TO BOOT in the olive grove three-hundred yards from the bivouac. Shadows cast by a half-moon didn’t help his anxiety. There was movement to his left. Slinking behind one of the three-hundred year old trees, Paul eased the safety off on his .45 automatic. The night before, a pack of wild dogs mauled one of the enlisted men lubricated on the abundant local wine. The scuttlebutt carried the word of the kid being turned into a eunuch. One burst of a flashlight signaled the arrival of Vinnie Sapienza. Paul returned two flashes, moved the safety to the on position, and tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants.
“Sorry, Paulie,” Vinnie said. A wad of bills stuck out of his shirt pocket. “The schnooks woulda shit bricks if I left. I was on fire.” A night didn’t pass without the roll of the dice. “I made the rounds. Unfortunately, you’re right.”
“I knew Swedge’s appearance wasn’t by chance.”
Vinnie cupped a match and lit a half-smoked cigar. “My man inside Wullien’s office says Swedge showed up without warning.”
Paul took Vinnie’s cigar and took a pull. “Hornish stopped by my tent on his way from the club to tell me that Swedge has struck up a friendship with Chuck Graham.”
“Like my mother used to say, assholes flock together,” Vinnie said, taking the cigar back.
“I think she meant birds of a feather,” Paul laughed.
“You didn’t know my mother,” Vinnie said, choking on the cigar’s smoke. He pulled a new cigar from his pocket, throwing the old stub into the weeds.
“Do you have another?” Paul asked.
“Does your mother know you smoke?” Vinnie cracked as he split the Italian stogie in half, giving Paul the rolled end. “You nervous or something?”
“Like a cat on a hot stove.” Paul struck a match against a tree and puffed the DeNobli Toscani to life.
They sat on a rotting tree stump, the cigar smoke keeping the bugs at bay. “What did Buckley tell you?” Paul asked. Staff Sergeant Barney Buckley doubled as the town crier and Wullien’s aide. “Give it to me straight.”
Vinnie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Swedge strolls into group headquarters, flashes a letter from the assistant secretary of war and Wullien wets himself. Swedge asked for the personal files of everyone in the group. Our colonel complied without as much as a why.”
“What in hell is he looking for?”
“I think it’s a smokescreen,” Vinnie said as he spit out a piece of frayed tobacco. “He asked if the records for the crew of the Brooklyn Avenger were complete and then quizzes him about each of us. For Buckley, every officer is an enemy. He gave Swedge a pile of shrugs and I don’t knows.”
“Swedge is onto us, isn’t he?” Paul asked, looking at his glowing cigar.
“Swedge’s boss made a name for himself battling German spies and is responsible for locking up the Japs in California. The government has known about you and Jake’s amateur friends since day one.”
“Jake knew this all along.” Paul said dejectedly. “He was acting funny when he saw me off when I left for bomber training.”
“Why do you think I was at Ephrata to welcome you?” Vinnie pushed himself off the stump.
“My brother always treats me like a kid. He should have told me.”
Vinnie shrugged his shoulders. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing except you would’ve been watching over your shoulder instead of concentrating on learning how to fly.”
“And I was convinced that one of the crew wagged his tongue,” Paul said.
“I would have smelled something rotten with a nose like mine.” Vinnie touched his thrice broken centerpiece. “Swedge came to this garden of Eden already knowing that Jake got you placed. For all I know, he’s got me pegged too.”
Paul threw his cigar into the mud. “How come I haven’t been dragged off to the brig? He could have me busted in a minute.”
“Wullien wouldn’t let some asshole roll in here and take one of his pilots. Me, he couldn’t give a shit about, but one of hi
s officers would be another story,” Vinnie said with a chuckle. “No, Swedge has to stop the plan by himself.”
“I can’t even come up with even a wacky idea how he could manage that,” Paul said.
Vinnie inhaled the cigar. “That my friend you leave to me. Remember, I was raised to think like a criminal. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”
Chapter 36
ITALY, AUGUST 1944
PRESTON SAT AT THE DESERTED BAR in the officers club of the 325th Fighter Group at Lesina. A cold beer had barely removed the dust that invaded his throat during the two hour drive north from Amendola in an open Jeep. Preston didn’t check in with the base commander. This visit was off the record.
Unlike Amendola, Lesina had traditional barracks and amenities for officers and enlisted men. The private tending bar tried to make small talk with the unnamed captain. “You from New York?”
“You wouldn’t have been a cop before the war?” Preston joked. “Can’t deny it. New York through and through. Where are you from, private?”
“Chicago,” he said, wiping a glass.
Preston checked his watch. Assigned escort duty for the 2nd Bomb Group mission to bomb a synthetic gasoline production facility in Upper Silesia, Poland, the 325th had been on the ground for more than an hour and a half. The debriefing session was taking an inordinate amount of time. “A White Sox fan?”
The private spit into a garbage can. “I’m a Cub’s fan. I wouldn’t set foot in Comiskey.” He finished stacking a supply of glasses. “Here they come.”
The fighter jockeys filtered in. Preston didn’t turn around. The pilots still high on adrenaline paid no attention to him as he watched in an ornate mirror hanging behind the bar. Hands diving and arcing through the air reenacted dogfights with enemy planes.
“Come on gopher brains, four bottles of beer. By now, you should have the routine memorized.” The voice was the same and so was the tenor.
Cringing at the lambasting, Preston kept an eye on the private’s right hand as it wrapped around the neck of a bottle, expecting to see it sail at his tormentor’s head. It would have been shear folly to believe that two years would have changed the loud mouth’s behavior.
With the pilot’s back to him, Preston said, “The Detroit Tigers couldn’t beat a girl’s softball team. They’re nothing but a bunch of pansies.”
For a moment, Clark Johnson froze then placed his bottle on a table. A broad smile crossed his face. “The City of New York is the receptacle for the unwanted.” He turned around to face Preston, moved to the bar and wrapped his arms around his ex-roommate. “I can’t believe it,” Clark said. He grabbed his beer and moved to the seat next to Preston.
“I was in the neighborhood and couldn’t pass on the opportunity to see an old friend. You haven’t mellowed.”
“It’s amazing that we’re winning the war with morons like him,” Clark fumed, pointing a finger at the private who had moved to the other end of the bar. He eyed the silver bars on Preston’s collar, snapping off a smart salute. “Moving up in this man’s army.”
“And this man’s army has done wonders,” Preston said, tapping Clark on his thinned down waist. “You’ve lost your Michigan baby fat. Is there anyplace we can go for some privacy? I have a few things to discuss, and I don’t want an audience. Your buddies are wondering who I am. It would be the smart thing to introduce me.”
“Guys,” Clark said, turning around. “This is my roommate from college. Say hello to Captain Preston Swedge.” Clark waited for the round of hellos to end. “I’m going to show him what an airplane looks like.”
Clark put on his aviator sunglasses as they stepped into the still phosphorous white sun. “Let’s walk toward the flight line.” Fighter planes were staggered not more than the length of a football field away. “I have to admit that I haven’t been too conscientious with my letters to Gloria. The base is one big locker room. There are a lot of temptations.”
Ten fuel trucks rumbled past, sending up a mammoth cloud of dust. “Son of a bitch. This country is either dust or mud,” Preston said, wiping grime off his face. “Remember my friend, this war isn’t going much longer. If you survive, Gloria will never want to see your face. Millie decided that we’re getting married in November.”
Clark stopped and pumped Preston’s hand. “Congratulations.”
“Maybe yes and maybe no.” Preston said shaking his head. “There’s a small hitch. It seems I’ve become a father.”
Clark slapped his leg. “Who’s the mother?”
“A gal in California I met inspecting bases for McCloy. If Millie finds out…”
“Lieutenant,” one of the mechanics called out. “The gasoline line got nicked. You’re lucky the girl didn’t go boom.”
“I’m like a cat with nine lives,” Clark yelled back. They continued walking. “Don’t tell Millie, don’t have any contact with the woman, and don’t get involved with the kid.”
“She’s my daughter,” Preston said with a sigh.
“Those few minutes of pleasure will ruin your life.” Clark stopped. “Now that we’ve covered the society news, tell me why you’re here.”
Preston took a deep breath. “McCloy has got me involved in some nasty business.”
“I knew one day he’d collect on the IOUs we signed for arranging things.” Clark cleared his throat. “My father works the same way. He wouldn’t give you ice in the winter without conditions.”
Preston didn’t have time to debate McCloy’s motives. “I’ve learned that a Jewish defense group was behind the bombing at the Garden. The formation of what they call the Faction was a reaction to the rhetoric of America First, Lindbergh, Father Coughlin and the other anti-Semites. They saw what was happening to their European brethren and asked why it couldn’t happen to them.”
Clark fished a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jumpsuit. “It would never have happened…”
“It’s a moot point,” Preston interrupted. “They managed to place operatives in positions in the army chain of command where orders could be cut, moving three pilots into the Fifteenth. Two have subsequently been lost, the third is flying with the 2nd.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Clark asked coolly.
“Have you heard about the killing centers the Nazis setup in the occupied territories?”
“Just bits and pieces,” Clark said, lighting the smoke. “Hard to believe the numbers.”
They reached the parked fighters where ground crews were going through their maintenance procedures. Several P-51s were missing engines. “The one with tail number AAF 457 yours?” Preston asked.
“Yeah, how did you know?” Clark asked, deeply inhaling the cigarette smoke.
Preston continued, “Their plan is for the remaining pilot to bomb the Auschwitz death camp.”
“I still don’t follow what you’re saying. A pilot can’t plan his own mission. So what’s the big fucking problem?”
“I’ve seen the target calendar. In two days, the I.G. Farben synthetics rubber plant four miles from the concentration camp will be hit. My guess is that’s when an attempt is going to be made.”
Clark lit another cigarette with the nub of the first Lucky. “It’s pretty ironic that your father worked so hard to raise the money for the development of synthetic oil, and now we are bombing the shit out of them. Pray tell, how do I fit into this?”
“You fly a P-51 fighter escort, correct? You escort B-17s of the 2nd almost every mission, and you get paid to shoot down airplanes.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Clark asked, wildly waving his arms. “How do you expect me to get away with something like that, if I was insane enough to agree?”
“I figure Paul Rothstein will lag behind the formation then make his move. When a Seventeen falls from the formation, a fighter escorts the plane. That’s when you take the marauder out. Oh, I left out one detail.”
“I can’t imagine what’s next,” Clark said, losing the sharpness in his voice.
Preston locked eyes with Clark. “I attended a debriefing session at the 2nd. One of the crews bitched that a P-51 with the tail number AAF-457 made no attempt to fend off a ME-109 as it attacked the squadron.”
Clark paled. “What’s his nose art?”
Chapter 37
ITALY, AUGUST 1944
THE 2ND HAD BEEN GROUNDED for three consecutive days of high winds and rain. Endless games of poker and dice took up time and diverted thoughts of the next mission.
“Paulie, I just got the word. Manowitz in two days,” Vinnie said excitedly. They were standing behind a supply shed in an attempt to keep out of the sight of the ever-peering Captain Swedge. In the past week, Paul was sure to find Swedge in the mess, briefing and debriefing sessions, and at The Cave. If his intention was to spook Paul, he was succeeding.
“Swedge had to show up and cause all this shit,” Paul said, adjusting his rain poncho. Heavy rain had turned to a drizzle and was forecast to end by the time of the evening mess. Despite the near 80-degree temperature, Paul felt a chill run up his back. “You’re sure about the target?”
Vinnie nodded. “As sure as one can be in this man’s army.”
“I have to talk to the guys.” Paul said, trying to stay calm. “If one of the crew has any doubt, I’m not going to go through with it.”
Vinnie grabbed Paul by his shirt. “You can’t squash the plan because of one yellow belly. Too many are going to die if we don’t go. You said so yourself, that’s why you got it sold. Maybe you’re the one who has doubts?”
“Fuck you!” Paul fumed.
Vinnie looked up at the lifting gray clouds. “My buddy in the motor pool tells me the Park Avenue cowboy came in two days ago early in the morning, signs out a Jeep. He brings the gut rattler back when it is almost dark. That by itself isn’t incriminating evidence, so I ask him where Swedge went. Mind you, my friend is no brain surgeon, and I get nothing. So I ask him what did he see Swedge do before he left. He thinks for a while then says that he went and looked at the map on the wall, like he was studying for a test. I checked that map where my buddy thought he was pointing. I could only find one place that made any kind of sense. Lesina.”
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