Hearing Sean’s condensed version of the story, Bennett was incredulous. “Sergeant Moon, what’s going to stop them from seizing that convoy—or this one, for that matter—with a lot more force than just a couple of little armored cars?”
“They ain’t that organized, Lieutenant. And they don’t communicate all that well, neither. It’ll be hours before the word gets out what just happened. In the meantime, we better skedaddle.”
“Wait a minute, Sergeant. You say they’re not well organized. How the hell do you know that?”
“I just saw it with my own eyes, Lieutenant. Seen it before, too…a bunch of times.”
Bennett looked up and down the road. There were no Russians coming after them.
He asked Sean, “You do realize what you’ve just done, don’t you?”
“Lieutenant,” Sean interrupted, “can we worry about this shit later?”
They had to get moving, and Bennett knew it. The lieutenant knew something else, too: This will be out of my hands the minute we get back to the American zone. And I won’t be taking the fall for this, either—I wasn’t even there.
There was only one thing left for him to say. “You’ll be court-martialed for this, Sergeant Moon. You assaulted a Soviet officer.”
“He was gonna shoot me, Lieutenant. I got witnesses.”
Sean kept his final thought to himself: Yeah, I could get court-martialed. But I ain’t real worried about it.
Chapter Six
As Butternut Flight taxied to their parking spaces on the Bremen ramp, Tommy could see the ground crews poised to refuel the aircraft. That was a sure sign they wouldn’t be on the ground long. Wherever they were going, it promised to be a long mission, too: drop tanks on carts were lined up, ready to be fixed to the jugs’ bellies. Already early afternoon, it looked like a good bet they’d be pushing darkness by the time they returned. The pilots gulped down sandwiches and coffee while waiting for the briefing officer to make his entrance; they knew never to pass up food when it was offered. There’d be no telling when they’d get to eat again.
When they saw that the briefing officer was a full bird colonel from 9th Air Force HQ instead of the usual captain or major, they knew the mission would be something of crucial importance to Ike and his staff at SHAEF. What he was telling them sounded exactly like the briefings they’d received flying with the RAF out of Stralsund: “We expect provocative actions by the Soviet Navy in the Baltic, gentlemen. Washington has no doubt the Soviets would like to expand their zone of influence along the entire German coast, into Denmark and even the Low Countries. The American-controlled ports here at Bremen, as well as Bremerhaven to the north, must be protected at all costs or the entire US occupation effort is put in extreme jeopardy. It’s USFET’s highest priority at the moment.”
He’d pronounced USFET use-fet. The acronym meant United States Forces in the European Theater.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Tommy said, “but USFET—is that what SHAEF’s going to be renamed?”
“Affirmative, Captain Moon. Technically, Supreme Headquarters will still be called SHAEF for three more days, until fourteen July. Might as well get into the habit of calling it USFET now.”
He uncovered a marked-up map on the wall that made it clear they wouldn’t be flying patrols over Bremen and Bremerhaven.
“We figured it would be something like this, sir,” Tommy said, tracing the lines drawn on the map with a fingertip. “When we saw those drop tanks, we knew we’d be going a lot farther.”
“Farther, indeed, Captain. All the way to Gdansk Bay. It’s the farthest zone we patrol.”
“This is a lot of overwater flying, sir,” Tommy replied. “I take it there’ll be a navigation ship with us?”
“You beat me to the punch, Captain Moon. I guess it’s no secret now why your flight was chosen for this particular mission. You’ve been out in the Baltic before. And yes—there will be a navigation ship, one of our photo recon Mosquitos, with a navigator and radio operator on board, equipped with HF radio for long-range communications.”
“So what’s our mission, sir?” Tommy asked. “Recon or interdiction?”
“Recon, primarily, Captain Moon.”
“Primarily? So our secondary mission just might be to attack Soviet warships?”
“Negative, Captain Moon. Negative. Your mission is to locate and closely shadow any Soviet warships approaching Allied-controlled territory.”
“Shadow…you mean harass them, sir?”
“Affirmative, Captain. That’s another way of putting it. You’ll be the last patrol of the area before dark. So far, none of the earlier flights—both ours and the RAF’s—have turned up anything. But if Russian ships are going to be on the move, we expect it to be closer to nightfall.”
The rest of the briefing—the formalities of radio call signs and procedures, alternate landing fields, and weather—was dealt with quickly. When that was finished, the pilots pulled out their whiz wheels—the circular slide rule they used for flight planning—and ran the numbers for the mission.
“Okay, boys,” Tommy said to his pilots, “it looks like we get forty minutes on station at 10,000 feet. That gets us back home at Bremen six minutes before sunset. Check or hold?”
In unison, his three pilots replied, “Check,” which meant they all agreed on the calculation. Hold would mean someone came up with a different solution and it was time to recheck their work.
“Good,” Tommy said. “We’ll be cutting it pretty close on daylight, but if we’re a little late, at least this place has runway lights. And if something keeps us out over the water more than an hour, primary alternate is Stralsund. We can get there before nightfall, and since we know that field well, it won’t be an issue if we have to use it.”
“Very well,” the colonel said. “Are there any questions?”
Tommy replied, “Yeah, I’ve got a couple, sir. First off, is there any change to the standing rules of engagement?”
“Negative, Captain Moon. No change. You may only engage if attacked.”
“In other words, we’re supposed to be flak fodder.”
“Negative, negative,” the briefer sputtered. “Washington doesn’t see it that way.”
“Washington’s not the one playing the fodder, sir,” Tommy replied. “But just so we’re clear, we’re to recon, harass, and report back on what we find. Correct?”
“Absolutely correct. That’s why you’ll have the long-range radio of the Mosquito at your disposal.”
“The Mosquito…is it ours or the RAF’s?”
“Ours, Captain, from Eighth Photo Recon Squadron.”
“Understood,” Tommy replied. Then he asked, “Are we ever going to get any help from US Navy ships in the Baltic, sir?”
“Surely you’re kidding, Captain Moon. With the war still going on in the Pacific, our Navy will not be making an appearance. Maritime presence in the Baltic will be strictly up to the Brits.”
“Speaking of the Brits, sir, is this harassing of the Soviets really Washington’s idea? Or is it London’s?”
“This is an allied effort,” the colonel replied, “just like it’s been the last three years.”
As the pilots of Butternut Flight walked back out to their ships, Tony Jansen—Tommy’s wingman—asked, “That thing about Washington or London…what were you getting at?”
Tommy replied, “We know London is hot to take on the Russians. We’ve seen that with our own eyes. But they don’t stand a prayer of doing it without us. I’m just wondering how far Washington wants to go along with them.”
“I don’t know, boss…I don’t get the feeling Ike wants to get into a brawl with the Russians. Not the way he’s been catering to them.”
“You may be right about that, Tony. But Ike works for Marshall and Marshall works for Truman. Any reading on what the president thinks depends on which general here in Germany you talk to.”
“You’ve worked with the Russians, boss,” Jansen said. “You think we could
take them?”
“If we keep sending guys home as fast as we are, I’m not so sure. I don’t see any Russians demobilizing, do you? If that horde comes screaming across the line between us and them…”
Tommy left the sentence dangling, as if he didn’t want to think about the consequences. Once at the flight line, he huddled his three pilots for a last-minute review of procedures. “Okay, you guys, if we find some Russian warships, we’ll orbit them low and fast—no more than a hundred feet off the water—so their flak gunners will have a hell of a time tracking us. If we encounter Soviet fighters, remember they’ll stay grouped together and come at us in line formation, either from behind or head-on. If it happens at altitude, we’ll peel the banana on my command and get behind them.”
Tommy paused, making sure he had nothing but looks of unequivocal acknowledgment from his pilots. Then he continued, “And if they try to jump us while we’re down on the deck…well, just remember the only performance advantage a jug’s going to have is speed, so if we’re jumped down low, our best shot is to stay low, pour the coals on, and run like hell for home. Don’t even think about turning yourself into a slow-climbing sitting duck. Any questions?”
Lieutenant Bobby Lescault, his number three, had one: “What do we do if our nav ship gets jumped, boss? Do we try to bail her out?”
“Don’t worry about the Mosquito. She can outrun anything the Russians have. Maybe even us, too.”
The voice of the Mosquito’s radio operator blared in Tommy’s headphones. “Butternut Leader, this is Snapshot Four-Eight. Welcome to your hunting ground. In two minutes, execute ninety-degree left turn on my mark. Unless, of course, you’d rather visit Lithuania.”
Tommy added forty minutes to the current time of 1545 hours and wrote the result on his kneeboard.
That’s how much time we’ve got to play.
The jugs were at 10,000 feet in echelon left formation. The Mosquito flew high above at 20,000 feet. Stretching in all directions below them, the Baltic’s blue waters shimmered in the clear skies and lowering sun of late afternoon. The Polish coast was a hint of grayish green on the horizon off their right wingtips. If there was a ship on the water anywhere in the thousands of square miles of open water they were scanning, it hadn’t made itself apparent yet.
“Butternut, this is Snapshot. On my mark…three, two, one, TURN.”
The jugs pivoted smoothly left in their echelon formation like shining dancers gliding across a crystalline dance floor. Tommy smiled at the crispness of the maneuver, telling himself, Not bad. My guys are doing real good for a bunch of latecomers to this war business.
He remembered when this flight had been put together last month, after Germany surrendered and the veterans he led packed up and went home. On paper, his three new pilots were still rookies, with the most experienced one—his number four, Lieutenant Jack Parrish—logging just shy of one hundred hours of combat flying, all of it ground attack.
I’ve got nearly two thousand hours, most of it ground attack but with two air-to-air kills. I can teach them a lot. Hell, I have been teaching them a lot. But what worries me most is I haven’t figured out everything they don’t know yet…
And I may not figure that out until the shit hits the fan one day.
Still, there was not a vessel in sight on the Baltic below.
The nav ship called for another left turn in two minutes, adding the caveat, Unless y’all were planning on supper in Sweden.
For a moment, the pilots of Butternut Flight took that suggestion to heart. The prospect of a feast in Sweden, served by friendly blonde waitresses whose dispositions hadn’t been altered by war’s suffering, sounded most appealing. But despite that appeal, the jugs made the turn on the Mosquito’s count, if somewhat reluctantly. Now they were headed west, with the late afternoon sun in their faces.
But still, there was not a ship in sight on the Baltic.
Tommy checked his preflight calculations against fuel used. Everything looked right on the money. They’d be able to make two complete circuits of the patrol box within their allotted forty minutes, with a little extra time for investigating any sightings below, and still make it home with reserve fuel intact. They’d emptied the drop tanks long ago but would keep them attached as long as no combat maneuvering was required.
Ten uneventful minutes passed before it was time to turn again. This one would put them on a southerly heading, straight toward Gdansk Bay on the Polish coast. And it would get the sun out of their eyes.
As they rolled out of the turn, the Mosquito saw it first. “I’ve got a wake,” the nav ship reported. “A couple of them, actually. I’m putting it at ten miles outside the mouth of the bay.”
At their lower altitude, the jug pilots couldn’t make out the wakes at first. But after a few minutes of flying toward them, the wakes—and the ships making them—came into view. “I’m looking at one capital ship with two much smaller escorts,” Tommy said. “Possibly a battleship and two destroyers.”
“I’m calling it in,” the nav ship replied.
“Roger,” Tommy replied. Then he told his pilots, “Butternut Flight, follow me down the chute in trail. Break on my command.”
But they never got the chance. As Tommy maneuvered his flight to begin the dive, he noticed something odd happening to the capital ship. Its wake was changing; rather than the long, foamy trails of a ship at full speed, that wake was washing away as quickly as it was churning the face of the sea. The big ship was slowing quickly to a stop.
Dense clouds of steam appeared from her stacks which, just a few moments ago, had been spouting the wispy, dark gray exhaust of oil-fired boilers.
Then, as if in slow motion, she heeled onto her side and went dead in the water.
“Change of plans,” Tommy told his flight. “That ship’s got big problems. I’ll go down to take a quick look. You guys orbit right here.”
Rolling Eclipse onto her back, he began the plummet toward the sea. Not wanting the Soviet seamen to think he was trying to dive-bomb them, he picked a point several miles from the stricken ship as the bottom of the dive.
They may not even notice me, considering how they’re preoccupied with not drowning at the moment.
At 3,000 feet, Tommy began to pull her out of the dive, finally leveling at 300 feet. Only then did he turn toward the sinking ship.
Better switch the gun camera on. Maybe I can get a shot of her superstructure before it goes under so the intel boys can identify her.
Dropping lower—down to 150 feet now—he lined up for a fast pass over the vessel from stern to bow. Tommy could see her name on the fantail, but it was written in the Cyrillic alphabet and impossible to decipher.
Definitely Russian. No surprise there. Maybe the name will show up on the gun camera film and some interpreter can read it. Sure looks big enough to be a battleship.
The two destroyer escorts had turned in complete circles to stand alongside the sinking ship. They’re going to rescue her crew, Tommy surmised.
He wasn’t worried about anti-aircraft fire; he was fairly sure that Eclipse was moving too fast and too low for a gunner to track. Especially gunners on a steeply canted deck who probably had a more important priority at the moment than shooting at him.
But I don’t dare make more than this one pass. A warship’s just like an airfield: make one pass and one only. The second pass, the flak’ll be ready for you.
But what the hell happened to that ship? There wasn’t any explosion, like she was hit with a torpedo or something.
It’s almost like they’re scuttling her.
He pulled Eclipse’s nose up, starting the climb to rejoin his flight.
Butternut Flight remained at 10,000 feet as they continued their patrol. As Tommy put it, Not much point in “harassing” a sinking ship. We need to keep our eyes peeled for ones that can do some real damage.
But they never saw anything else on the Baltic. As they completed their second sweep, the clock on Eclipse’s instrument p
anel was signaling that time was up. The Mosquito confirmed it: “Okay, Butternut…all the sand’s out of the hourglass. Unless y’all can swim real good, we’d better call it a day. Fly heading two-five-zero. That oughta put the sun at your eleven o’clock and bring you straight home.”
It would take an hour and a half of flying to get back to Bremen. They’d be racing the setting sun all the way.
Thank heavens that field has runway lights, Tommy thought. By the time we’re on approach, the sun will’ve dropped below the horizon. The sky will still be lit up a little, but the ground’s going to be pretty damn dark.
He touched a gloved finger to Sylvie’s picture at the corner of the instrument panel as he murmured, “Wish us luck, baby.”
They’d need that luck sooner than he thought. Tommy could count the four dots miles ahead in the sky, turning to put the setting sun behind them and set up for a head-on pass at the jugs.
“Butternut Flight, we’ve got company coming, twelve o’clock level,” Tommy broadcast. “Yank the tanks. Arm guns. Peel the banana on my count.”
Yank the tanks: the empty drop tanks fluttered to the sea below, each liberated by a pull on a cockpit lever.
The aircraft coming at them were single-engined, just like the jugs. Tommy couldn’t see enough of their outline to identify them, but he could already tell those engines weren’t radials.
That narrows it down a bit. They’re either P-51s, Spitfires, or it’s the Russians…
And I don’t think it’s the first two.
Good thing the setting sun’s not nearly as blinding as one high in the sky. We’d have never seen them.
At a closing speed of over five hundred miles per hour, the opposing aircraft would come together in a matter of seconds. Tommy keyed his mic and said, “On my count…three, two, one, BREAK.”
It had been closer than he wanted. He swore he could count the rivets on the nose cowl of the Yak fighter just an instant before he broke hard right. Craning his neck to see behind through the fishbowl of the jug’s bubble canopy, he was relieved to see his three rookies playing their part in peeling the banana perfectly: as the rightmost ship in the formation, Tommy had broken right in a tight, 180-degree turn; his number two had gone straight up and over; number three straight down, now rolling inverted to complete the split-s that would reverse his ship’s direction; number four doing the mirror image of what Tommy’s ship was doing. Drawn on paper, the paths of the aircraft resembled a banana peel being opened for consumption. Once the maneuver was complete, they would be back in formation but flying in the opposite direction from which they’d started.
This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4) Page 6