I liked your book a lot. A lot of us wives had trouble understanding just why our husbands were dying, dropping bombs on tiny towns that didn't look like they'd be worth anything to anybody. I liked your book because it made me understand for the first time that my husband was actually contributing and doing something important instead of just throwing his life away which is what we all thought for so long. I'm glad at last that somebody told us something. We all are, though a lot of us wives have trouble believing it, even still.
But I know that if Lawrence was alive today, he'd like your book too, on account of he was a part of what you describe so well. And the fact that it was you, personally, that did so much to help our country win the war, not only coming up with the idea of the big bombing missions but also making the decision to go ahead with the A-bomb, I know that would have impressed him no end. Of course, I didn't know who you were then, during the war I mean, and I doubt that Lawrence did, either, but I know that if he wasn't dead, he'd know who you are now and be grateful. I know that I am.
God bless you. I hope things work out all right for you.
Very truly yours,
Mrs. Catherine M. Tuposky
CHAPTER SEVEN
Dr. Nelson: I walked into the project director's office that first Monday, I recall it very clearly, and I was mad as a drowning hornet. I said, "Who is this jerk?" I figured I'd worked for twenty years, and now was no time for some idiot with no experience and a lot of nerve to come and tell me what to do, war or no war. It was the wrong way for the president to go about things, I thought. Roosevelt was always like that, even in his first five or six terms, if you'll remember. But, like I say, the matter was settled, and I didn't have anything to say about it. We were at war. We needed another heavy bomber to fill in on certain kinds of missions on which the B-17 had demonstrated a kind of vulnerability. The project director said to me, "This guy Effinger wants you to make something out of this." He tossed me a picture of a 1974 Chrysler Imperial Le Baron four-door hardtop. A beauty of a car. Well, I didn't know as much about the situation as the president or you did. I thought about all the work we did to rig up a heavy bomber out of the Lincoln Continental. I didn't want to have to go through all of that again. But what could I say?
Dr. Johnson: This was my first big project. I was very excited about it. I can still picture Dr. Nelson fuming and raging at his desk, but I never shared that feeling. I was still very much impressed by your development of the long-range bombing attacks against the enemies' industrial complexes. That showed a certain sophistication that I admired. Up until that point, the bomber was used only to support troops and armored attacks—in short, limited raids. But both Germany and Japan were learning the hard way that we meant business.
Dr. Nelson: It was a kind of perverse rebellion that forced me to include many of the Le Baron's luxury extras as standard equipment on what eventually came to be the B-24 Liberator. It was only later that I learned from B-24 crew members that these things which I intended as a harmless slap at the government, hitting it in the budget so to speak, actually saved many lives and greatly added to the crews' driving pleasure.
Dr. Green: The B-24 had certain advantages over the B—17, although some B—17 pilots say the same about their own bombers. Still, the Liberator was fitted out better in some respects, particularly the leather trim inside, rear radio speaker, glove compartment vanity mirror, carpeted luggage space in the trunk, and an interior gas cap lock release. These things had been left off the B-17 for monetary reasons, but they showed up on the B-24 as Dr. Nelson's little joke.
Dr. Nelson: Still, they saved many lives and undoubtedly shortened the war.
Dr. Johnson: And you, Mr. Effinger, you were with us through all of it, with the B-17, the B-24, and, later, with the B-29. I'll never forget how much I hated your guts.
Dr. Green: Still, our country will always be grateful.
Dr. Nelson: Still.
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT
February 7, 1981
Dear George:
It's been a long time, I know, since we've last had the time to talk. Well, after all, I'm president now, you know. I sometimes miss the old days, before FDR died and I accepted the burden that so wears me down these days. I miss the pinball contests in the Executive Mansion. I miss the table-tennis matches with the Senate Majority Leader whose name I've forgotten, he's dead now. I miss being able to sneak out for some miniature golf and not being recognized.
It's silly to live in the past. They all tell me that, every day. Even Miss Brant says the same thing. Am I living in the past? That's a kind of mental illness, isn't it? I suspect that they're trying to convince me that I'm unstable. Sometimes I'm thankful that we don't have the vote of confidence in this country.
What brought all this on was I found the enclosed while moving a file cabinet this morning. Thought you'd like to have it. We all live in the past, just a little.
Regards,
Bob
Robert L. Jennings
President of the United States
RLJ / eb
Enc.
FROM THE OFFICE OF THE PRESIDENT
August 21, 1979
Dear George:
How are things going with the you-know-what? Have you heard from the Manhattan District boys lately? Are you working on the delivery vehicle for the you-know-what? I suppose you are, but I can't help worrying that Uncle Adolf will beat us to it. Hitler is an even ninety years old this year. He dodders when he speaks these days, you can see it in the newscasts. I'm ninety-seven, but at least I have an excuse not to have to stand up. 1 do all my doddering with a shawl on my lap.
War is hell, did you know that? It's also futile. And inhuman, if you listen to the right people. But it can be glorious, and no one can deny that marvelous things come out of war. For instance, if you recall your history, the elimination of a lot of odd little Balkan states (a wonderful thing, I wish they'd thought of that in my childhood) and, of course, the you-know-what. Hurry it up, will you?
I hope you're not feeling the weight of responsibility for the you-know-what. I mean, it'll shorten the war, won't it? Try to think of it like that.
I remember when it looked like this war was going to be fought forty years ago. I thought about all the wonderful patriotic movies that could have been made: Fred MacMurray as a pilot, Pat O'Brien as a tough old naval officer, John Wayne in the Marines, James Stewart as a bashful hero. Who do we have today? Robert Redford? O’Toole? Newman? Gatelin? I miss radio.
Eleanor tried Diana's recipe for chicken in honey sauce. In fact, she tried it on some Englishman over here for something or other. He said he knew for a fact that it was a dish that Rudolf Hess asks for a lot in prison. Hess calls it Poulet au Roehm; he always gets a laugh from ordering it, poor man.
So. Keep up the good work. Push on with the you-know-what, keep me posted, and let's have you over for supper some evening when I'm back on solid food.
Hello to Diana.
Best,
F.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt
President of the United States
FDR/sf
CHAPTER NINE
Major Erich von Locher, German fighter pilot: I am frequently ... Can you hear me? I am frequently ... How is that?
Effinger: Fine. Fine.
Von Locher: All right, I suppose. I am frequently asked these days to comment on what I feel to be the reasons for the sudden deterioration of the Luftwaffe after the Battle of Britain. I generally avoid that question. It is too complex. I would be doing my former comrades an injustice by trying to answer.
Instead, let me speculate on the relative strengths of our "aircraft," such as they were. I feel I have more experience and more confidence to discuss such a concrete problem.
The chief workhorses of our fighter-interceptor arm were the Me 109, which the Messerschmitt people had built from the beautiful little Porsche 911-T, and the FW 190, which came later, a development of the ungainly Volkswagen Beet
le. With the introduction of disposable fuel tanks, these two fighters had great range, great mobility. They were unmatched in the air during the early part of the war. However, it was not long before the Allies came up with planes that equaled and, finally, surpassed them. Much has been made of the supposed even match between our Porsche and the English Triumph Spitfire "Spitfire." As far as I'm concerned, it was an even match only when neither was destroyed. That did not happen often.
I piloted a Volkswagen during most of the war, first in the west, then on the Russian front. Is that all right?
Effinger: You're doing fine.
Von Locher: You don't think I'm being too pedantic? I don't want to sound like a professor or something.
Effinger: No, no. Just keep going like you were. It's fine. Von Locher: Where was I? Effinger: Here, I'll play it back.
Von Locher: Was destroyed. That did not happen often. I piloted a Volkswagen during most of the war, first in the west, then on the Russian front. Is that all—
Oh, yes. Well. I remember one particular battle. A whole gang of American bombers was coming east, along the northern route. Our spotters along the way had counted over five hundred bombers, all Lincoln Continentals and Chrysler Imperials, the big ones. They had landed in France and driven across Belgium, then southeast toward Augsburg. This was '79, when the Allied bombing missions were going on night and day, without much resistance from the weakened Luftwaffe. Anyway, our Operations people had the facts on this wave, but all we could do was wait. That was the hard part, sitting in our Volkswagens with the engines revving, waiting.
Suddenly we got the call: the bombers had taken the freeway to Berlin. I felt a cold chill; this was the first actual attack on our capital. It had a tremendous symbolic meaning for us. We all gritted our teeth and swore to defend Berlin. Still, even then, all we could do was wait. The drive from France to Berlin was very long, even on the good roads. The Allied crews would have to stop in motels along the way. Our nerves were worn thin, if that is possible with nerves. At last our group leaders ordered us to pull out. We drove in squadrons, spaced out over all four lanes of the divided highway. We did not anticipate running into any civilian traffic, so we drove on both sides of the median strip. The civilians were mostly taking the trains at the end of the war, leaving the highways to the Luftwaffe.
We met the Allied bombers about 170 miles from Berlin. There we got the greatest and most horrifying surprise of the war. The bombers were escorted by fighter planes, the Ford Mustang "Mustang." Until this time the bombers were escorted by Plymouth Duster "Thunderbolts" and Chevy Vega "Tomahawks," which could not carry enough fuel to make a long journey into Germany and then return. The bombers were usually on their own during the last stages of their missions. That's when we had our greatest success. But the "Mustangs" changed that. Even Goering realized this fact. That's when he finally admitted that the end had come. And besides their range, the "Mustangs" were our superior in most offensive categories as well.
We did our best, weary and low in morale as we were. We were defending Berlin. I ignored the "Mustangs" and went straight for the bombers. I drove at about eighty-five miles per hour, approaching at a right angle to the path of a Lincoln ahead of me. The bomber's gunner began firing, but my Volkswagen made a small target. I also could turn quicker than he could; it was shortly after dawn, and the sun was rising in the Lincoln pilot's eyes. I drove out of the sun, swung in to him, and raked the side of the car with my 20-mm cannons. The bomber exploded, then swerved off the road and through the guardrail. The battle was less than five minutes old, and already I had a confirmed kill. My squadron leader congratulated me over the radio. I did not take time to relax. A "Mustang" was trying to position itself on my tail. All around me the battle raged; tires screamed as evasive maneuvers were made; burned cars, American and German, littered the highway, making tactics and strategy more difficult. By the end of the morning I had six kills. The Americans lost hundreds of planes, but enough got through to Berlin to shock our leaders into an awareness of just how defenseless the Reich had become.
We drove back to our base in a subdued —
Effinger: I'm sorry, I think the tape's running out. Let me change ... no, doggone it, that's the last one.
Von Locher: I wanted to talk about the time I held off three Ford Pintos while my machine guns were jammed.
Effinger: Tomorrow. As soon as I g—
June 18, 1980
Dear George:
I hope you understand. I just can't take it anymore, that's all. I suppose people will think I'm unpatriotic, but they don't know how much I've given to the war effort. I sit home every night alone, watching television, wondering what you're doing. And you're always saying that you're with those scientists of yours, trying to come up with a better airplane. Well, we're supposed to be married. Germany surrendered already, remember? Japan isn't going to last much longer, either, as far as I can see. Still, you have to go to "meetings." I'm beginning to wonder.
Last Monday you said you were going to have a meeting with the president. But did you know that at just the time you were supposed to be huddling with him in the Oval Office he was on TV addressing the nation? Did you know that? I won't even bother to ask you where you were. It doesn't matter anymore. I've left you before, and the Secret Service boys always convinced me to come back, for reasons of national security. But what about my security? Nobody seems to worry about that.
You spend all day tinkering with Imperials and things, and what does the government give us to drive? A Mercury Comet. I think it's ridiculous.
Don't think that I don't love you, because I still do. But it's just gotten to be too much. I really mean it.
What's-her-name, that old bag secretary of yours, can take care of you. She can learn to make macaroni and cheese, and after that you won't miss me at all. That's about all you needed me for, anyway. And don't worry about money or things like that. I'm not going to bleed you. I think I'll go back to Matamoras for a while, and then I think I'll go into the theater. I've already got an offer of a job from Mickey.
All good wishes,
Your wife,
Diana
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tanora Keigi, Japanese fighter pilot: Now here's an interesting point. Today in America many people believe that the kamikaze pilots were religious fanatics or superpatriotic men hypnotized by their devotion to the emperor. As I recall it, this was not the case. We were merely defending our homeland and our families. The B-29 bases in the South Pacific were too numerous and too well-defended to be destroyed. With the fall of Iwo Jima to the Americans, the long-range "Mustang" fighters could be based close enough to the Japanese home islands to accompany the bombers on their missions. All that the dwindling Japanese air force could accomplish were attacks against the aircraft carriers that ferried bombers and fighters from the more distant American bases. And ammunition production was down, and fuel was scarce. We suicide pilots took our inspiration from several high-ranking officers who crashed their planes against American craft in demonstration of their love for their countrymen. It was not long before suicide squadrons were organized on a regular basis.
It was very difficult to crash an automobile against a ship, especially if the ship was still at sea. Therefore, our tactics called for waiting until the American ships dropped anchor near our shores, and the bomber cars and the fighter cars were landed on the beach. We could attack these enemy cars, or the landing craft, or, with the aid of the navy and our own motorized rafts, we might be able to crash into the American ships themselves. Few of us were that lucky.
We had very strange procedures, once these decisions to give our lives in suicidal attacks were made. A friend of mine who drove a Toyota Corolla "Zero" was given a large bomb to throw. The idea was that he would toss the bomb, the bomb would damage his target, and a few seconds later he would crash his Toyota into the same target. Of course, he had to throw the bomb from very short range. The odds were that the target would be shooting back at
my friend. As it turned out, he threw the bomb too soon, the bomb hit the ground and bounced up, my friend's "Zero" hit the bomb, which exploded. My friend was already dead when the flaming mass of his car struck his target. He was a hero, and we praised his name from a position of safety about a half mile away.
I had my opportunity to emulate my friend the next day, but bad luck caused me to overshoot my target and waste my precious bomb. Three days later I was ordered to drive my Datsun into a flight of Cadillac Fleetwood "Superfortresses." Again, the gods willed otherwise. Although I weaved through the American bombers for nearly an hour, I did not hit a single target. The bombers passed me by, and I was left out of gas on a highway seven miles from the small town of Gogura.
I kept trying. My commanding officers were very sympathetic. One by one my comrades met glorious death, while I found only frustration. At last the war ended before I found my own moment of honorable sacrifice.
Today I am a moderately successful and prosperous automobile dealer, with a Toyota showroom in San Diego, California. I bear no ill will toward the people who slew so many of my friends and relatives. They seem to harbor no resentment toward me, at the same time. Years have passed, and old disagreements are forgotten. A group of fellow businessmen from Japan have joined me in forming a syndicate, and we are currently buying golf courses in America, athletic teams, and opening franchised fast-food stands. Everything is fine. Everyone is happy. The emperor must have been right, after all. My service mates did not die in vain.
December 10, 1983
Mr. George Alec Effinger
c/o Ofermod Press
409 E. 147th Street
Cleveland, Ohio 44010
Dear Mr. Effinger:
I recently had the pleasure of reading your book, Target: Berlin! which was published a few years ago. I don't exactly know why I picked it up, except for the fact that I enjoy reading memoirs of famous people. Sort of like high-class gossip. Also, I've had acquaintances with several people mentioned in your book. I liked your book very much, though much of it was way over my head. I learned a lot from it.
The Aliens Who Knew, I Mean, Everything ; Target- Berlin! Page 4