“What’s he doing up at the 325th?” Paul asked.
Vinnie was more than his normally animated self, waving his arms like a Southern preacher. “Clark Johnson. Maybe Swedge goes up there just to see his goombara cheech, maybe he don’t.”
“I don’t like him visiting Johnson. We have to assume that Swedge has enlisted him, and for only one purpose.”
“Yeah, shoot our asses out of the sky if we make a move,” Vinnie stated without hesitation. “The best defense is a good offense. If we get the chance tomorrow, I say we take AAF-457 out. I already got a reputation for shooting down our own planes.”
“You can’t go and pop a guy on hunches, and that’s all we have,” Paul said. “Swedge might have a backup for Johnson if he should go down. How many are we going to kill?”
Vinnie shrugged his shoulders and walked away.
Chapter 38
ITALY, AUGUST 1944
WITH THE KEROSENE LAMP HARDLY putting out enough light to read, Paul struggled to complete notes to his family and make what might be a final entry into his diary at a writing desk fashioned from milk crates and a wing flap from a junked B-17. He didn’t want to waste a moment of privacy. Shep Peterson was snoring on the other side of the tent. The two other cots were without occupants since the devastating mission to Moravska Ostrawa, Czechoslovakia. Peterson wanted to send the empty cots to the scrapheap, claiming they were jinxed. No pilot managed to call them home for more than three months.
His letters home were a mixture of emotions. To Jake, he wanted to assuage any guilt that his brother might feel. The decision to complete this mission was his alone having entered into the plan with open eyes.
Paul explained to Sarah, that by her receiving his letter, he was either dead or a prisoner of war. He needed to make amends for the deception perpetrated for the past five years. There were occasions when he thought Sarah was being coy, seeing things but not letting on. While the events of the world had placed their lives on hold, they were the reason for their relationship. Cousin Minnah had brought the evil of Germany and its terror to Brooklyn.
“Briefing at 04:30!” Sergeant Barney Buckley sang his regular tune. Shep Peterson didn’t move. “Lieutenant Rothstein, can you do me a favor and roust Lieutenant Peterson. When he’s snoring like a grizzly I hate to mess with him.”
Paul turned up the kerosene lamp to its maximum, casting the tent in a strange yellow light. He picked up a pair of socks from the clapboard floor, firing them at the unconscious Texan. Buckley tipped his cap and moved on.
Peterson opened his eyes, momentarily not knowing where he was. He checked his watch and pushed the mosquito netting away from his cot. “What the hell are you doing?” Peterson asked. “Getting a head start with Santa Claus?”
“I’m catching up on letters, and I’m wondering if you could do me a favor?”
Peterson sat on the edge of his cot. “What do you want me to do?”
“In case I don’t come back, I want you to mail these letters. One other thing, I want you to keep my diaries. When you get home, send them to my brother.”
Peterson shook his head. “What’s this shit about you not coming back?” He eased into his boots. “You talk like that and bad things happen.”
Paul addressed a large envelope to Jake’s office address at the pier. “The letters should make it through the censors, but my diaries won’t pass. Make sure nobody gets their hands on them.”
Chapter 39
ITALY, AUGUST 1944
PRESTON SHIFTED TEN ROWS FORWARD from his usual spot to the left of the entrance and an unobstructed view to the crew of the Brooklyn Avenger as Dexter completed roll call. All were present. With targets being defended by the Germans at all costs, losses continued to stress the replacement and substitution lists. Every available officer was in the Quonset and would soon be in the air. Bradford unveiled the target— Manowitz, Poland, another deep penetration raid of 760 miles. “We’re hunting for oil again,” Bradford opened, drawing the usual chorus of groans. Every target but one to support the invasion of southern France in the last four weeks had been against oil installations and a minimum of seven hours in the air. “The GAF in this region of Poland is for all intents and purposes non-existent. Scattered flak batteries and smoke generators are the prime defenses.”
Manowitz was a wish come true. It would count toward the fifty missions required to rotate home and wouldn’t draw a bead of sweat. The 2nd had seen their share of smoke and flak. Scattered flak was equal to a bunch of pea shooters. It was the swarming Me-109s that caused havoc. Manowitz was going to be a “milk-run.” The lights at the rear of the stage were lowered. The first reconnaissance photo was projected. Bradford continued, “This is the IP four miles from the I.G. Farben complex.” Four chimneys surrounded by acres of military style barracks filled the screen.
Preston had seen this photo of the Birkenau section of the Auschwitz concentration camp in McCloy’s office a month earlier. Bradford made no mention of the concentration camp. Preston wasn’t surprised— only a select number of the intelligence community were privy to the details.
The next slide was put up. Bradford moved close to the screen. “This is the heart of the target. The chimney on the boiler house is four-hundred feet tall.” He traced the wood pointer across the screen. “A power line runs north from a transformer station to a gas generation plant. It’s the least protected in the concrete installation. You hit it, production is kaput, and you don’t have to go back.”
Preston stared down the row. Paul Rothstein wasn’t enjoying the moment with his fellow pilots. Paul turned. A broad smile filled the pilot’s face as he flashed the thumbs up. Preston nodded his head in recognition. A surreal bond was forged, like two heavyweight boxers standing in their corners for the start of the fifteenth round.
Colonel Wullien concluded the briefing by warning, “It’s real easy to lose your edge when you don’t think you’re going to get your ass shot off. Stay alert and come back safely.”
The assembly snapped to attention. Wullien and Dexter descended the stage. The crews gathered their belongings and began filtering to the ready room. Paul sidestepped Hornish walking directly toward Preston. “Captain Swedge, you have the uncanny resemblance to someone I knew back in New York who hung around Madison Square Garden. I asked him why he spent so much of his time there. You know what he said? Because it was such a blast.”
Preston didn’t flinch. “I must resemble more than just one handsome fellow in the city.”
Paul closed the distance till they were nose to nose. “The guy had a friend who I’d bet would make a helluva fighter jockey.” Paul adjusted his cap, took two steps back, and saluted.
Preston’s rubbed his clammy hands together resisting the old demons that overcame him in the back seat of his father’s Packard that summer day in 1938 on the drive to Princeton. He rested against the wall, thinking about how he became involved in such craziness. Bradford having caught bits and pieces of the conversation slipped un-noticed to his side. “Anything wrong?”
“Lieutenant Rothstein was mistaken in thinking we had met in New York,” Preston said, recovering his composure.
Bradford had argued the finer points of Yale-Princeton football with Preston the day before in The Cave. “How about joining me for a cup of coffee?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I have a few things to wrap up before leaving for Washington,” Preston replied, not wanting to extend the conversation.
Bedford shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe we’ll meet at one of the games.”
Preston figured the odds were slim and none. “I look forward to it.”
In groups of six and eight, crews boarded the trucks waiting to ferry them to their ships. Paul and Shep Peterson exchanged handshakes with the big Texan bending down to speak into the smaller New Yorker’s ear. Preston marveled at the unlikely pair’s friendship.
Returning to the bivouac, Preston walked the rows of tents, making certain the area was deserted. I
t wasn’t uncommon for pilots who weren’t flying for medical reasons to be in their tents. He made his way to The Alamo. Gigham mentioned that Rothstein kept a diary and he was determined to find it.
The footlocker stenciled “Rothstein” on the side yielded two uniforms and five books, the bed nothing. Preston moved to Peterson’s cot. Under the pillow were two letters addressed to Paul’s family. Knowing that Rothstein couldn’t take the diary onto the plane, it had to be in the tent, doubting Paul trusted anyone other than Peterson to keep it.
With limited places available to conceal an object, he focused on the wood slat floor. Lines scribed into the ever-present film of dirt led to the legs of Peterson’s cot. Using his pocketknife, he pried up a one-foot square section, revealing a .30 caliber ammunition box.
Preston extracted the metal box. Releasing the latches on the lid, Preston found what he was after—a manila envelope. He replaced the box into the floor, and returned the cot to its original position. Tearing the envelope open, Preston removed four composition size notebooks, making sure they were Rothstein’s. Putting the letters and the diaries into the envelope, he tucked the package under his tunic.
Secluding himself into the office provided by Wullien, Preston read Paul’s diaries, questioning if he would have possessed the character necessary to complete the mission conceived and planned by his older brother if the roles were reversed. “Captain,” Buckley yelled through the thin pine door, “the birds are returning to the nest.”
Preston packed his satchel and picked up his travel bag. Buckley didn’t look away from his typewriter. “I’m signing out one of the Jeeps,” Preston said. “I’ll make sure it’s returned from Foggia.”
Buckley didn’t miss a beat at the Remington. “Wave that piece of paper from Mr. McCloy when you get there…”
Preston didn’t wait for Buckley to finish turning the knife. The drive up the mountain seemed to be longer and the stairs to the tower seemed a little steeper. Acknowledging the controllers, he made his way to the observation deck. Preston felt the weight on his chest growing heavier and had to make an effort to engage Wullien in a conversation. “The crews were saying this was going to be a milk run. Is there really such a thing?”
Wullien lit his pipe. “This one should be a piece of cake, but the Seventeen sometimes does funny things. A free-wheeling prop, lost oil pressure or an exploding engine can take out a crew.”
The familiar shout of incoming planes was heard. The ground crews began their choreographed welcoming dance. Despite the presumption of an easy mission, the medical personnel were ready for the worst.
Lips moved in unison, counting aircraft. The sky remained flare free, there were no wounded. It was indeed a milk run. The count was started. There was an aircraft unaccounted for. “Now you see, Swedge, why I’m going gray,” Wullien grumbled. “I didn’t have a one until I took this command. Sergeant, find out who it is.”
The sergeant returned holding his clipboard. “It’s the Brooklyn Avenger, Rothstein’s plane.”
Weston tapped his pipe against the railing. “You want a ride back for debriefing?”
Preston made a point of checking his watch. “I have to get back to Foggia.” For a second, he could see Wullien question why he had bothered to go to the control tower if he wasn’t going to the debriefing session.
“When you get back to Washington, tell them what life is really like over here.”
“Colonel, my report will reflect your concerns,” Preston said. He needed to get a message to “Uncle John.”
Chapter 40
PRINCETON, NJ DECEMBER 2000
“SON OF A BITCH!” MANNY SAID, slamming the last installment of Preston’s diaries on his desk. For nearly two hours, the corpulent publisher sat at the scarred desk that had been in the office before Lincoln was elected. “I can’t fucking believe it.” He removed his foam neck support from the bottom desk drawer and adjusted it under his chin.
“Three hundred thousand Hungarian Jews died after Rothstein was shot down,” Joe said. “I’m positive that Gloria Johnson knows all about her husband having his hand in it.”
Manny finished the last of the doughnut holes that Joe bought on his way into town. “You have to call Driscoll. If Jake Rothstein is alive, he might be of value in finding him. Bob asks about you whenever we speak.”
Robert Driscoll was the FBI agent in charge of the case when Joe and Manny suffered their injuries. Joe held Driscoll responsible and hadn’t spoken to the special agent after being released from the hospital. “I’ve done it. The putz is supposed to get back to me.”
Manny re-adjusted his neck brace. “After Clark’s murder, I was amazed how the young widow handled things so well. In retrospect, Ellis Price did her a favor. Let’s go over to Gloria’s and relieve her of the burden of having to conceal Clark’s dirty little secret.”
Manny insisted that they take his car. “I have to make a quick stop,” he said, pulling into Princeton Gardens. He ran into the store, returning with an assortment of orchids. “Gloria’s favorite. They’ll throw the old girl off.”
Steel gray skies and a dropping thermometer produced a mixture of snow and sleet. “Looks like the weathermen might be right for once,” Joe said, cracking the window of the ten year old Saab. He lit a cigarette. “The old lady is going to have a shit fit when she sees me. She’ll use the flowers as a weapon.”
“I’ll run interference,” Manny said, making a left from Nassau onto Cedar Lane. Sounds of whirring chains saws and splintering wood drowned out the jalopy’s rattles. A hollow stump was the remains of a Dutch Elm in the center of the lawn. The main trunk was sectioned and stacked in the rear of a dump truck from Skillman Nurseries. Two laborers were feeding small limbs into a wood chipper.
Manny parked across the street. “I’ll draw the prey to the door. Skirt along side of the driveway and be ready to pounce. Give me thirty seconds head start.” Darting across the no-man’s land of heavy equipment and tree debris, he cut directly to the fieldstone landing. Hiding the bouquet behind his parka, he gave the brass knocker two sharp raps.
Gloria Johnson appeared with the scraping of the deadbolt cylinder. “Manny! I thought it was the tree-man.” A broad smile eradicated the innumerable lines on her face.
With a sweeping motion, Manny presented the flowers.
Gloria’s blue eyes beamed with delight. “They’re beautiful!” she said. Out of the corner of her eye, the Princeton matron saw Joe leaning on the five-iron at the side of the walk. Her smile turned to ice. “I didn’t realize you knew each other.”
“We need to talk,” Manny said.
Gloria took the flowers, stepping back into the foyer. “You both know the way to the kitchen. I’ll find a vase.”
Joe closed the door. In the two months since his first visit, Gloria had re-papered the hall. Gone were the falling leaves, replaced by a pale green grass weave. He stopped to view the family picture gallery, zeroing on Clark’s “look at me, I’m the cat’s pajamas” picture. “Now that was one heck of guy,” he whispered to Manny, smudging the ruddy face with a spit laden thumb.
Manny and Joe sat at the kitchen table while Gloria busied herself cutting the stems and arranging the orchids with the accompanying greens. She placed the cut crystal vase on the center island next to her handbag and keys. Not looking at her guests she said, “I baked these this morning.” Her trembling hands clawed at the clear wrap covering a plate of cookies. “I had a feeling I was getting company.”
Without hesitation, Manny took a chocolate chip. “We were in the neighborhood and decided to say hello.”
Gloria scowled at Joe. “Don’t patronize me. This isn’t social, it’s about Preston and my husband.”
“The jig is up. Preston’s diaries landed in my lap,” Joe said. “Did Clark talk about a mission that he flew on August 20, 1944?”
“If he did, he did it with Preston,” she said with considerable unease.
“Come on Gloria,” Manny snapped. “Clark
and his good buddy were bonded not only by their Princeton days but also by the blood on their hands. No matter how he tried, Clark couldn’t wash it away. Maybe that’s why he fell into the bottle.”
Gloria became unglued. “Why must you stir things up?” she asked, searching through her bag. “I don’t see any good in rehashing the past.” A pack of Merits tumbled to the counter. Gloria clamped a cigarette between her lips.
Joe, watching her fumble with her lighter, fished his Zippo from his jacket and pushed away from the table. He flicked the Vietnam relic, producing a welder’s flame. Gloria swept her pageboy out of harm’s way and lit the cigarette. “Take a seat,” Joe said, guiding an unsteady Gloria by the elbow.
“No one wanted those people,” she said defiantly. “Do you want examples?”
“Like the ship the St. Louis?” Joe asked.
“Yes,” Gloria said, looking into the distance. “Roosevelt did nothing to allow it to dock in Florida where it was floating off the coast for days.” She took a deep pull on the low tar cigarette. “Roosevelt’s sister wasn’t even for bringing Jewish children here, because she said they were like kittens—they grew up.”
Manny chomped on a cookie. “So it’s all right that three-hundred thousand innocent people including my grandfather’s brother were gassed and cremated after August 20, 1944 when one bomb could have destroyed the means to kill them?”
“Who am I to say what was right? Many decisions were made during the war that now seem callous,” Gloria said. “This was Preston’s doing. He brought the orders from John McCloy. Clark was in a no win situation”
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