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

by William Peter Grasso

  Warsaw stretched below them now, a city that from above still seemed to exude a certain baroque grandeur despite its large swaths devastated by the war. Tommy thought back to flying with that Russian squadron out of Vienna in April and May:

  Every takeoff and landing took you low over the city. The contrasts below you were startling—some of Vienna seemed pristine and glorious, untouched by war. Other parts were nothing but desolate, burned-out shells of their former selves. Warsaw looks just like that, too.

  Let’s see if any flak batteries here get trigger happy.

  But no anti-aircraft fire rose to meet them.

  The lead elements began the wide, gentle right turn that would bring the procession around toward Prague. That turn took the left side of the broad formation within a hundred miles of the Polish border with Belarus and Ukraine, the western edge of the USSR.

  Every airman’s mind shared the same thought: If the Reds are going to put on a show of their own, this’ll probably be the place.

  They were right. It was impossible to get an accurate count even in this crystal clear sky, but there were at least fifty Soviet fighters approaching from the east, slightly higher than the American bomber formations. They flew nearly wingtip to wingtip in two ragged lines, which appeared to be heading straight for the B-24 squadron the 301st was tasked to protect.

  Colonel Pruitt came over the radio. “Nascent Two from Nascent Leader, got a suggestion how to block them out, Half? You know their tactics better than anybody.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy replied, “let’s come around to their ten o’clock and push them off to the north.”

  Another voice was on the radio now, a P-51 squadron leader flying roving top cover well above the rest. “Nascent Two, this is Echo Six. Copy your plan. While you do that, we’ll close on their tails. When we all merge, you guys go down and right. We’ll go over the top.”

  “Roger, Echo,” Tommy replied. “That okay with you, Nascent Leader?”

  “Affirmative, good plan,” Pruitt replied. “All Nascent ships, break left on three. One…two…THREE.”

  Like a giant flying wedge, the squadron of jugs wheeled toward the Russian ships.

  The Ivans love to attack in line formation, Tommy told himself, but they’re hitting us from the wrong direction. If we can’t turn them away, they’ll just pass through the bomber stream on the slant with a good shot at only a couple of our ships. Talk about a bad target solution…

  If they’re going to use a line formation, they’d be much better off going at us head to head or back to front. Too late for them to do it on this pass, though. This will all be over in a couple of seconds.

  The Russians reacted as Tommy expected. Seeing the jugs racing at them from ten o’clock, they broke right—to the north—and their formation discipline promptly collapsed. Suddenly, Yaks and Lavochkins were going in a variety of directions—but none were attacking the bombers.

  Following the plan, the jugs broke down and right. Tommy and Colonel Pruitt found themselves on the tails of two Russian ships that promptly collided with each other, one destroying its propeller as it sliced off the other’s tail section. When last seen, both were tumbling to the ground.

  Not a shot had been fired.

  “Well done, Nascent,” Pruitt said to his squadron. “That collision will make for some great film at the debrief. Now regroup and get back on station. Leave the pursuit to the P-51 jockeys.”

  As the aluminum procession continued to lumber through the turn toward Prague, neither Pruitt nor any of his pilots believed that would be the last they’d see of Russian interceptors.

  They wouldn’t be disappointed.

  More than half the American force had made the turn to the southwest when Russian interceptors appeared again. At first, they were just countless dots in the brilliant sky to the south, flying parallel to the American formation but at greater speed.

  They’re trying to get ahead of us, Tommy surmised. Maybe they’re getting in position for a head-on attack, like they should’ve done the first time.

  The radio was alive with fighter squadron leaders directing their ships into position to ward off this next anticipated attack. The feeling was universal: Let’s get them now, before they have a chance to come at us again.

  Only one consideration might hold them back: in the mission guidelines, they’d been instructed to only engage Russian interceptors if, in fact, the Russians engaged them. Even though no shots seemed to have been fired in that first encounter, they all wanted to believe that it met the definition of engagement.

  The mission commander, a brigadier general from 8th Air Force riding in a B-29 at the column’s head, made it official: “All rovers: go get them.”

  The rover squadrons—four in total, some sixty aircraft—took over the frequency, quickly organizing themselves into high and low attack elements. The high element would attack from above and behind; the low would attack from ahead and below. It was hard to tell with the Russians still so far away, but it looked like the rovers would probably have numerical advantage. Within a minute, they’d left their posts high above the bombers and streamed toward the Russians.

  Escort squadrons like the 301st climbed higher into the airspace vacated by the rovers, ready to intercept any Russians who slipped through the onslaught.

  The rover squadrons knew they wouldn’t be surprising the Russians; in a sky this clear, they could see you as easily as you could see them. But the Yaks and Lavochkins didn’t break formation until the rovers were a mile from them.

  Then they scattered. Some went south, some went east.

  This didn’t look like a regrouping maneuver. They appeared to be fleeing.

  Flying on the left side of the bomber formation—the side closest to the action with the Russians—Tommy had a front-row seat to what was transpiring. Observing how disorganized the Russian ships quickly became whenever they broke formation, he thought, They never did care much about protecting each other. To them, “wingman” just means who you’re flying next to, with no responsibility to protect that guy like our doctrine says. Once they’re in a fight, it always breaks down to every man for himself.

  Then he noticed two Russian ships coming straight for the bomber formation. No rovers were pursuing them.

  Pruitt’s voice spilled from the radio. “What’s the deal with these guys? Didn’t they get the word to run away?”

  Tommy replied, “There’s always somebody who doesn’t get the word, right? Or maybe they’re going to take us on all by themselves.”

  “Let’s change their minds,” Pruitt said. “I’ll take the one in front.”

  Both jugs broke from the formation, lining up to take on the approaching Russians head to head. The intruders were close enough now to be identified as La-7s, the radial engines’ round cowlings marking them unmistakably as Lavochkins.

  “They’re fast,” Tommy said, “but they’re pieces of wooden crap with crummy engines. I’m surprised they got a couple of them off the ground at the same time.”

  “Just watch out for those cannons,” Pruitt said, mindful of the Lavochkin’s 20-mm armament.

  Seeing the jugs in their path, the lead La-7 pulled straight up. Pruitt latched onto her tail in a near-vertical climb. Tommy bore down on the trailing ship, who decided to break down. Two more of the 301st’s ships jumped into the fray to pursue her.

  Protect your leader, Tommy told himself as he caught fleeting glimpses of the La-7 clawing for altitude, with Pruitt close behind. If they stay like that, they’re both going to stall. I’ll stay below for when the Lavochkin falls out.

  It didn’t take long for the Russian to stall. His ship seemed to hang in the air for a moment, the prop’s torque revolving her a sluggish quarter turn about her longitudinal axis.

  Then she swapped ends with breathtaking suddenness. With her nose now pointed straight down, she plunged toward the earth below.

  Rolling Moon’s Menace onto her back, Tommy was ready for the La-7 as it streaked past
. With one hard pull on the stick, she was following the Russian ship down just a few hundred yards off her tail.

  Well in range, Tommy thought as he eased the gunsight’s pipper over the Lavochkin. This clown doesn’t really think he’s going to out-dive a P-47, does he? The only thing that can dive better than a jug is a submarine.

  But apparently, that’s exactly what the Russian thought he could do. Still dropping like a rock, he tried a few jinks and feints to disrupt Tommy’s aim. Each of those maneuvers ate up precious time and altitude; they’d begun this downward chase at only 9,000 feet. At their rate of descent, they’d meet the ground in less than two minutes…

  And if the La-7 kept plummeting like this below 2,000 feet, she’d never pull out in time.

  Tommy was keeping a close eye on the altimeter: 3,500 feet and spinning down fast. In fifteen seconds, they passed through 2,500 feet.

  “That’s enough, pal,” Tommy said aloud. “You may have a death wish…but I don’t.”

  He began to ease Moon’s Menace out of the dive. Approaching level flight, he dropped her left wing so he could watch the Russian, who was still trying to pull out of his dive.

  He didn’t make it. A hillside rose before him. The La-7 splattered against it and erupted in a fireball.

  Pruitt was on the radio: “I’ve got your backside, Half. Did you score?”

  “Never fired a shot. He did it all by himself.”

  Two more hours of flying put the American formation past Prague. An hour after that, they were over Berlin again. There had been no further challenges from Soviet planes, and nowhere did anti-aircraft fire rise to meet them.

  After flying down the Berlin air corridor into Allied territory, the formation dissolved as individual elements picked up headings to their home bases. As Tommy suspected, a few aircraft were reporting they were dangerously low on fuel. B-26 Marauders proved the most susceptible, the medium bombers barely having the range to make the scheduled circuit in the first place. It had been calculated that since they carried no bomb load, their range would be boosted by several hundred miles, giving them the added endurance they’d need to return to their bases in Germany and southern France. What hadn’t been factored into the calculation was that many of the pilots were new to the aircraft and not yet proficient in getting the most out of their ships. They’d end up in a variety of airfields across Western Germany rather than their own.

  Several hours later, after all the aircraft were safely on the ground, a brief preliminary report on the mission was published by USFET and distributed to Allied and Soviet headquarters organizations. It stated:

  Operation Muster, an aerial exercise to demonstrate American goodwill and strategic capabilities to the people of Central Europe, was accomplished this date as planned. No American aircraft were lost to any cause, notwithstanding two dozen aircraft which were forced to abort and return to Allied airfields due to mechanical issues, yielding an impressive sortie completion rate of 97.5 percent. Several Soviet aircraft seen observing Operation Muster were confirmed lost in accidents apparently unrelated to the mission.

  There was no mention whether Operation Muster had accomplished its real objective or not.

  That answer would not come until just after midnight. The quiet of the Berlin night was suddenly disturbed by the loud revving of Soviet tank engines city-wide. But the tanks did not advance toward the Allied positions they’d menaced for the past forty-two hours.

  Instead, the tanks backed away in a slow and noisy rear march, not stopping until they’d reached the eastern outskirts of the city’s Soviet sector.

  A number of them broke down shortly into the movement; some would later estimate ten percent; others would say as much as twenty-five percent. There was no exact count. Whether their incapacities were due to mechanical faults or simply lack of fuel, no one could say.

  But until they were unceremoniously towed away in the early morning hours, these immobile hulks became nothing more than static gun positions on the streets of Berlin, every bit as vulnerable, ineffective, and foolish as all static defensive positions had become in the age of mechanized warfare.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Harry Truman was a happy man. He’d gone to bed this mid-September night knowing the Soviet tanks had backed down from their threatening posture in Berlin. Why they did it would be anyone’s guess—a man would be foolish to expect veracity from the Russians—but he chose to believe the gamble of Operation Muster had been the cause of their retreat. The half of a city he’d been so afraid to lose was still safely in Allied hands, at least for the time being.

  The morning brought the inevitable Soviet communiqué. Secretary of State Byrnes read it to the president at the war staff’s White House breakfast meeting.

  “So they’re claiming they turned back our intrusion into Soviet air space, are they?” Truman said, mildly amused. “Some bullshit artists, eh? Sounds to me like we flew through their airspace to our heart’s content. But how do we suppose they’re defining Soviet airspace?”

  Byrnes passed that question to General Marshall, who said, “Mister President, considering that Soviet aircraft posed no threat whatsoever until our own aircraft reached their closest point to the border of the USSR, it would appear they’re talking about the airspace above the Soviet Union proper and not the airspace above the territory of the European nations they currently occupy.”

  Admiral King took a different perspective. “I think we just got lucky, Mister President. We took the Reds by surprise, that’s all. I doubt we’ll be able to crap on their heads again like we just did. They’ll be ready for it next time.”

  “Our aircraft were over Soviet-occupied territory for some six hours, Admiral,” Marshall rebutted. “That sounds like more than enough time to lose the element of surprise.”

  Downing a mouthful of soft-boiled egg, Truman pointed his spoon at King and said, “I’m inclined to agree with General Marshall on this one, Admiral.”

  King grumbled and slumped back into his chair. He knew when he was being told to shut up. But he couldn’t resist one more gibe: “Still, it was one hell of a gamble, Mister President.”

  Byrnes then said, “I’ve been composing a draft of our response to the Soviets and—”

  But Truman cut him off. “Hell, no, Jimmy! We won’t be making any damn reply. The fact that Stalin pulled back his tanks tells the world all they need to know. He blinked first, because they’re an exhausted force. That’s all there is to it, gentlemen. Everybody knows not to pay attention to anything the Russians say, anyway. Hell, they don’t even believe their own bullshit.”

  He paused as the steward poured him a fresh cup of coffee. Then he continued, “What I really want to see, gentlemen, are the plans to ensure they won’t be able to pull off any crap like that again. And I want to see them damn quick. General Marshall, what can you tell us about that?”

  “Our force structure on the ground has become somewhat unwieldy for the occupation as it’s developed, Mister President. The Army will be reorganizing its major units in Germany into constabulary forces, highly mobile armored cavalry regiments which will be better able to rapidly respond to challenges such as the one we just faced.”

  “Cavalry, eh?” Truman replied as he mulled it over. “I think I like the sound of that.”

  “Armored cavalry, Mister President.”

  “Even better, General,” Truman said. “But one more thing—I’m now convinced our Air Force can do pretty much what it wants in Europe. The Russians just don’t have the stuff to control the skies like we can, and they know it. By the way, that was a brilliant stroke putting those B-29s in the show. Stalin knows full well that one of those babies can drop an atom bomb right on his head, God forbid. I wonder, though…what if by some stroke of luck the Soviets did manage to isolate our forces in Berlin, shutting down the autobahn and rail lines completely. Could we keep our boys supplied by air alone?”

  Byrnes added, “And what about the civilians in Berlin we’re respo
nsible for, Mister President? Could we keep them alive, too?”

  Truman’s reply seemed an unenthusiastic afterthought: “Yes, of course, Jimmy. Them, too.”

  Marshall was shaking his head. “Such a situation—a complete blockade—would be highly unlikely, Mister President.”

  “Oh, horseshit, General. Humor me. Could airpower alone do the job?”

  “It would be a massive task, Mister President…”

  “But not an impossible one?” Truman suggested, like a salesman moving to the assumed close.

  “No, sir, not impossible, I’m sure. But it would take all the air transport resources of our Air Force, with help from the Navy, the British, and the French.”

  King, not thrilled to hear his Navy being volunteered by a soldier, interjected, “The Navy’s going to be pretty busy in the Pacific for a long, long time. You might want to think about impressing civilian air transport instead, just like we did during the war.”

  “Why not?” Truman replied. “Sounds like a great idea. So it’s possible, General Marshall?”

  Marshall paused as if doing a mental calculation. Then he said, “Yes, Mister President. I’d say it’s very possible.”

  Marshall paused again, taking that moment to squelch any hint of enthusiasm that might’ve crept into his voice before adding, “I just hope to God we never have to do such a thing, Mister President.”

  The 301st didn’t fly the whole week after Operation Muster. Like every other Air Force unit in Europe, they were afraid to waste the gasoline. The ships sat on the ramp, fully fueled for the moment. But if that fuel was burned off, nobody was quite sure when they’d be able to tank up again. A few squadrons closer to Berlin were flying daily patrols to let the Russians know they were still around but kept those flights short. Every airman knew it was a temporary shortage; an emergency resupply of aviation gasoline—nearly twenty million gallons—was on board five tankers already crossing the Atlantic. Much more would be coming on the heels of that shipment. But until it arrived and was distributed to airbases throughout Europe, the USAAF on the Continent was an exhausted force, just like the Russians.