This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4)

by William Peter Grasso

  But if it comes down to strafing, hopefully I’m a little better shot than I was a year ago. I’ve certainly had plenty of practice in the meantime.

  When they leveled off at 8,000 feet, the E-boats were still a mile or so short of the picket line and far to its right flank. Two of the fast corvettes were steaming on an intercept course, but they were still a few miles off.

  Those little deck guns on those corvettes won’t do much damage unless they score a bull’s-eye.

  And the E-boats can shoot back. They have deck guns, too. Maybe even torpedoes.

  The voice of the lead destroyer boomed into Tommy’s headphones: “Butternut Leader from Neptune Magnet, you’re clear to attack.”

  “Roger,” Tommy replied. Then he told his pilots, “I’ll take the lead boat. Tony, take the second in line. Jack, go for the tail-end Charlie. One bomb at a time, guys. Punch the tanks off NOW.”

  Within seconds, the three empty drop tanks began their fluttering tumble to the sea below.

  Jack Parrish, flying number three, asked, “I never dove on a moving boat before. How much should we lead one, boss?”

  “They’re not going any faster than the trucks and tanks you’ve bombed. I’m going to lead mine by a boat length. Your target’s a little smaller, so lead it by a little more than its length.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Parrish replied.

  The jugs rolled out of their orbit and began their steep plunge.

  Like riding a bicycle, Tommy told himself. Once you get the hang of it, you never lose it. Okay…matching that boat’s speed is pretty easy. Now let’s shallow out this dive angle just a little bit…there, that’s the lead I’m looking for.

  Ah, shit…they’re shooting, but it’s going all over the place. Those Russians mustn’t have had a chance to practice with those German weapons. Still, the closer we get, the better their odds of hitting something.

  But big as a jug is, she still makes a crappy target head-on. Just not enough silhouette to aim at.

  Hmm…you’d think these guys might try to zigzag or something, knowing three bomb-laden aircraft are screaming down on them. But they’re not.

  Just about at the bottom of the chute…another couple of seconds.

  As the altimeter spun through 3,000 feet, Tommy pickled off his first bomb and pulled hard out of the dive. She’d lose another 1,500 feet before achieving level flight.

  The tracers from the E-boats seemed like angry fireflies whizzing all around.

  But I haven’t felt a hit yet. Let’s keep it that way.

  Once he was well ahead of the boats, he pulled up and turned sharply left to rejoin Jansen and Parrish. It would also be his first chance to take a good look at what they’d done to their targets…

  If anything.

  But Tony Jansen’s voice was an ecstatic shriek: “I got her dead on the money!”

  “Beginner’s luck,” Parrish offered.

  Sure enough, Jansen’s target—the second boat in line—had been blown apart. Nothing was left of her but chunks of smoking debris littering the surface.

  Jansen’s enthusiasm was still in high gear. “Do I get to paint on one of those sunk ship stencils now?”

  “Sorry, Tony. We’re still not authorized to do that,” Tommy replied.

  The other E-boats looked unscathed, still plowing without apparent concern through waters only slightly roiled by the five-hundred-pound bombs.

  Tommy reported to the lead destroyer, “One down. We’re going back up for another run.” He asked Jansen, “Great drop, Tony. How much did you lead her?”

  “I’m not real sure. It wasn’t a boat length, though. Maybe half.”

  “Okay, we’ll try half this time. Tony, you have the honor of targeting the lead boat.”

  Tommy told Parrish to have another crack at the trailing boat. He’d go after the remaining one in the middle.

  Down came the jugs, Jansen in the lead this time. Maybe the helmsmen had read Tommy’s mind, because as soon as the jugs started diving, the three boats abruptly changed course, two to the left, one to the right. It was too soon to tell if these moves would turn into a zigzag maneuver.

  Zig all you want, you bastards, Tommy thought. You’re just boats, not race cars…and not that hard to track, no matter how fast you can go.

  Just try and keep that half-a-boat-length lead on the damn thing.

  All three jugs released their second—and last—bomb.

  There were no direct hits this time.

  But Tommy’s bomb must’ve impacted close alongside the middle E-boat—close enough for the water pressure of the detonation to fracture her hull. She slowed, her path an agonized curve as she took on water.

  She never adopted much of a list, just settled straight down into the water. Within a minute, her deck was awash.

  In another minute, she disappeared beneath the surface.

  “Close enough for government work,” Parrish remarked.

  The trail boat—the one Parrish had been attacking—had apparently tired of this deadly game. Her helmsmen pointed her straight to shore.

  “Looks like they’re going to beach her,” Tommy said. “That would make three down.”

  Parrish asked, “You want me to go after her, boss?”

  “Negative. She’s no threat if she’s running herself aground. Save your rounds for that lead bastard.”

  But the lead E-boat—the lead bastard—was proceeding at full speed toward the canal. The corvettes intercepting her were nearly in firing range.

  “Let’s see if we can soften her up for you,” Tommy told Neptune Magnet, the lead destroyer. “Give us a strafing pass, and then we’ll stand clear.”

  “Anything you can do would be greatly appreciated, Butternut Leader.”

  Tommy told his pilots, “Come at her real low. Jack, take the first pass dead on her bow. Then Tony, you hit her from astern. I’ll come in last from the bow again.”

  The three jugs split up, positioning for their strafing runs. Tommy put Eclipse through an extra orbit to give himself space behind Jack Parrish’s head-on attack.

  “Don’t let her get broadside to you,” Tommy warned. “She’ll be able to put all her flak guns on you that way. Stay on her nose and tail…oops, excuse me…make that her bow and stern.”

  He added one more caution: “But don’t get so target-fixated that you fly right into the drink, either.”

  Those were words that needed to be said. Shadows cast across rippling water in late afternoon, coupled with the narrowed perspective of a low-level attack, could tragically alter a pilot’s judgment. Even if he retained perfect positional awareness, those lengthening shadows could make vessels seem much larger than they actually were. That could easily lead to a tracking mistake that could only be resolved by trial and error.

  But that takes time, Tommy knew all too well, and time is something you don’t have on a fast gun pass.

  Whoever was commanding the E-boat had grown fond of brisk maneuvering. Surprisingly nimble for a vessel her size, she was proving quite adept at turning all her anti-aircraft guns toward the attackers.

  Parrish’s pass was anything but head-on. Unable to keep his jug right on the turning E-boat’s bow, he pounced from her two o’clock, the pipper in his gunsight dead on her wheelhouse. In his two-second burst, he watched the first few rounds fall short, sending up thin geysers as they struck the water’s surface. The rest found their mark, raking her deck and superstructure.

  Then his jug streaked over her, no more than 10 feet above her mast.

  The E-boat didn’t seem to falter a bit.

  With Parrish clear, Jansen raced in from her stern. He’d watched her movement during that first strafing pass and thought he saw a pattern. He swung wide left, anticipating that her next turn would be to the right.

  That’s exactly what she did. The move put Jansen effortlessly over her stern and able to rake her entire length with .50-caliber fire.

  But it didn’t stop her.

  It wa
s time for Tommy’s pass. He’d been doing some anticipating of his own, and it put Eclipse dead on the E-boat’s bow.

  She’ll try to turn at the last minute…I don’t know which way. But maybe I can force her hand. Trick her into screwing up.

  Still a few hundred feet above the water, he put Eclipse in a hard left bank that was a knife-edge maneuver rather than a turn, her wings perpendicular to the water’s surface. The jug’s course across the water changed hardly at all.

  I can’t hold this for more than a couple of seconds…she’s losing altitude like a brick. Jugs weren’t designed for this. Rudder’s too damn small.

  But the ruse had the desired effect. Thinking the oncoming aircraft would turn left, the boat abruptly began a turn to her left, away from the attacker.

  Tommy immediately rolled Eclipse 180 degrees to the right, reversing the knife-edge. Easing in up elevator, the jug tracked directly to the boat, staying almost dead on her bow. Then, with the target only a few hundred yards ahead, he snapped the wings level and squeezed the trigger switch.

  In the fleeting moment that followed, he watched his bullet strikes dance along the deck and superstructure, each hit a dazzling pinpoint of brilliant light as metal met metal…

  And then the E-boat exploded.

  What was once a whole vessel was torn amidships into two halves whose fractured ends rose from the water like a broad, inverted V.

  The boat’s explosion was loud enough for a startled Tommy to hear over the roar of Eclipse’s engine. He could hear other sounds, too: several loud THUDS and THUNKS, each accompanied by a violent shudder from his airplane.

  Oh, shit! I flew right through the blast! Must’ve got hit by all kinds of flying crap.

  It’s like strafing a locomotive and having it blow up in your face.

  Maybe worse.

  But somehow, Eclipse kept flying.

  It was a struggle getting her back to Bremen. From the cockpit, Tommy got a glimpse of how badly she was damaged. The leading edges of both wings were severely battered; there was nothing but mangled aluminum where her right wingtip used to be. The sheer veil of her propeller arc—usually a perfect semi-circle as viewed from the cockpit—appeared jagged at the outer edge now. Attempting to get anything near full power from her engine with that damaged prop caused a jaw-rattling vibration.

  The mighty snarl of the jug in flight had devolved to a collection of aberrant mechanical noises, each a harbinger of impending engine failure.

  But still she kept flying.

  She’s a tough old bird, Tommy thought, more in hope than certainty. C’mon, ol’ girl…just ten more miles.

  The slow flight home had eaten up almost all that was left of daylight; the sun was a low orange ball in the western sky as he gingerly turned the aircraft to final approach. The runway stretched before him like a welcoming red carpet, but one that had turned colorless in the fading light.

  He extended the landing gear, exhaling a sigh of relief when he got down and locked indications across the board.

  Just pray that those wheels still have tires on them…and those tires are still full of air.

  The flaps wouldn’t go fully down.

  Screw it…half flaps is going to have to be good enough.

  The moment those tires kissed the pavement, he let out another sigh of relief. He could feel they were intact; there was no tendency to pull off the runway or go on her nose, no squealing noises, no showers of sparks…

  And most importantly, no landing gear collapse.

  The brakes didn’t feel right, though. By the second pump of the pedals, they became mushy and sagged to the mechanical stops without slowing the airplane further.

  But there was plenty of concrete ahead. Tommy began to gently s-turn, weaving back and forth across the runway, trading distance for deceleration.

  Then, in a final act of resignation, her engine quit with the clatter of a toolbox dropped to the floor.

  Eclipse of the Hun IV rolled majestically onto the turnoff apron and came to a stop of her own accord. There was nothing else for Tommy to do but select a few switches to off and climb out.

  It was 0200, Washington time, when President Truman was awakened for a telephone call. It was General Marshall on the line.

  “Sorry to wake you, Mister President, but we may have just had the plausible incident you’re looking for,” Marshall said. Then he proceeded to explain what had happened at the approach to the Kiel Canal.

  Truman asked, “We’re absolutely sure it was Russians driving those boats, General?”

  “Yes, Mister President. The British took several Soviet naval personnel into custody at the conclusion of the incident. They also believe an unknown number of Soviet seamen were killed during the encounter.”

  “Were any American boys killed or wounded?”

  “No, Mister President.”

  “Hmm…I see. But could those E-boats, as you call them, actually pose a threat to the canal, General?”

  “The British seem to think so, Mister President.”

  “Dammit, General, I’m not much interested in what the British have to say. I want to know what our intel people think about it.”

  “That analysis may take a few days, Mister President.”

  “Fine, General. I’ll wait. Good night.”

  And then Harry Truman went back to bed.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  This was the night.

  In her room, Sylvie unscrewed the false bottom of the shampoo bottle, removed the vial of chloral hydrate solution, and slipped it into the hip pocket of her skirt. As she made her way through the hotel to the lobby bar, she had the uneasy feeling that everyone she passed could see the faint outline of the vial beneath the worn black fabric.

  Yet nobody’s giving me so much as a second look…

  Once she took up her duties behind the bar at 1800 hours, time seemed to race. The Russian officers arrived from the dining room in their usual groups of two or three, their supper meal complete. They were ready for some serious drinking.

  The NKVD officers had proved themselves not as beholden to strict schedules as the regular army men. It seemed that tonight might be one of those times they made no appearance at all.

  Just so Colonel Yanov keeps to his unbending routine.

  Sure enough, as the old cuckoo clock on the wall behind the bar chimed 1930 hours, Yanov walked in and took a seat at an empty table. She didn’t bother taking his order; she just poured the first brandy—the one not laced with the knockout drops—and brought it to his table.

  “A brandy for the colonel,” she said, laying the glass down.

  “Ah, good evening, my sweet Sylvie,” Yanov replied. True to his unbending routine, while still seated he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her tight to him. Each time he’d done that, her breasts couldn’t help but graze the top of his head.

  And the bastard always seems to stretch his neck to get the full effect.

  If she hadn’t already removed the vial from her skirt pocket and stashed it beneath the bar, he would’ve been able to feel it pressing against his ribs.

  She excused herself and moved off to tend to the other patrons. He delved into a folder full of papers as he sipped his drink.

  He won’t be ready for his second—and final—brandy for a good twenty minutes.

  During that time, a lone officer had decided to camp at the end of the bar. Nursing a vodka, he sat with his head down, either sulking about something or embracing the solitude. She smiled his way but decided not to chat him up.

  Even though he doesn’t seem to be watching me, he’s still in a position to see what my hands are doing.

  Merde.

  She needed a way to ensure the doctoring of Yanov’s second brandy was completely unseen. When four other officers stepped up to the bar, she figured she had an opportunity.

  In his fumbling German, one of the officers said, “We’ll save you the walk to our table, Fräulein Sylvie. Four vodkas, please.” Then he
turned back to the others and joined in a loud, animated discussion.

  It was loud enough to get the attention of the lone Russian at the end of the bar.

  In one deft motion, she palmed the hidden vial and popped off its cap. Then she lined up five glasses beneath the bar—four for the just-ordered vodkas, the fifth for Yanov’s brandy—and poured the vodka. As she poured, she slipped the contents of the vial into the fifth glass.

  “There you go, gentlemen,” she said as she placed the vodkas on the bar.

  They snatched up their drinks and headed to a table. The lone man at the end of the bar went back to his private thoughts, staring off into space at some infinite point only the self-absorbed could see. He never saw the vial disappear from Sylvie’s hand into a bar rag, which quickly found its way to the trash can.

  She glanced Yanov’s way. He gave no sign that he was ready for his second brandy. As she waited on other patrons, she kept an anxious eye on the colonel’s table.

  Please let this not be the night he has a taste for only one drink.

  Another ten minutes passed. Yanov’s glass appeared empty, but still there was no signal for another.

  The man at the end of the bar had snapped from his private meditations and was watching her intently. Whenever she looked his way, he’d smile and raise his glass. It wasn’t because he needed another drink. He’d decided to flirt with her.

  Don’t tell me that’s why he parked himself there. That’s all I need right now.

  Yanov was still engrossed in his papers. She considered bringing him that second glass of brandy without being asked…

  But what if he refuses it?

  So she waited.

  The officer at the end of the bar motioned for her to come over. In Russian, he said, “I’ll have another vodka, but first I must ask you a question.”

  She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the bar while resting her chin in her fists. It was a flirting pose, one she’d seen struck by a coquette on a movie poster back at the American cinema in Frankfurt.

  “If you must,” she replied, with an inviting smile.

  “Is it wonderful to be so beautiful and talented at the same time?”