Acquiring the knowledge of his whereabouts called for a celebration, she decided. There had never been a shortage of fine wine at 1st Army Headquarters, and she’d managed to appropriate a case for her staff. One evening that first week in May, she treated them to some after-supper drinks at their main warehouse. It was just a simple affair, with her right-hand men Luc Vachon and Philippe Ledoyen as well as three Senegalese troopers who’d been detailed to her group as warehousemen joining her.
After one drink each, Vachon and Ledoyen had left the warehouse, Luc to a rendezvous with a Swiss nurse, Philippe to the cinema to see Humphrey Bogart in the war drama Passage to Marseille. That left Sylvie and the three black soldiers to finish the wine.
They talked well into the evening, each relating how glad they were that the end of the war was imminent and how much they missed their homes. Rather than lapse into melancholy, they began singing As Time Goes By in a mixture of English and French, laughing riotously when they’d mangle the lyrics in both languages.
They were making enough noise to attract some passing military policemen who heard the accents of the African voices and suspected they were drunk, a guaranteed trip to military jail for a colonial trooper. When the four policemen burst in, what they saw was a white woman surrounded by three colored soldiers. Unable to distinguish merriment from drunkenness, the policemen settled on a drunken sexual assault in progress.
There was no discussion, no time for explanations. Despite Sylvie’s protests, the three terrified black men were manacled and dragged off. The last man to leave the warehouse was the police sergeant in charge. As Sylvie continued to protest, he spat at her. His voice a hideous snarl, he said, “Salope.”
It meant slut.
She unleashed a torrent of abuse at the sergeant, laden with every swear word she could think of. Some were in French, some in English.
His arrogant reply: “Tais-toi, putain.”
The translation: Shut up, whore.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
J.P. Lambert had finally figured out what the other Russian pilots called Major Vukonikov: Kovich.
“That’s funny,” Tommy said. “I heard that word over the radio a whole bunch of times when we were flying, but I had no idea what it meant. Live and learn, I guess.”
McNulty added, “If you’re talking funny, I still think Who-cut-your-cock-off is a better name for him.”
“It is, Sarge. Believe me, it is,” Tommy replied. “Let’s just keep that one between us, okay?”
If he was going to keep flying with the Russians, he still needed to establish at least basic verbal communication with them. Otherwise, their collaboration was a disaster waiting to happen. But Vukonikov hadn’t seemed to care about it at all. Tommy had little doubt the Russian considered him as just along for the ride and expected nothing from him. Basic hand signals were the only effort he’d made while they were in flight, and sporadically, at best. That had to change.
Sonia Alexiev provided a possible answer. “The major does understand a few basic expressions in English,” she told Tommy. “Maybe we can set up a few commands in your language. It would be much easier than teaching you to pronounce the Russian. Where would you like to start, Captain?”
Tommy replied, “How about simple break commands, like break left and break right?” With his hand symbolizing an aircraft, he demonstrated what those maneuvers looked like.
“What about up and down?” she asked.
“Not important. Let’s just work on left and right for now.”
He watched the dismissive smirk on Vukonikov’s face as she explained the phrases to him. When she was done, the major replicated the hand movements, banking them back and forth as he said break left and break right.
He did it three times. After the last repetition, he scowled and asked, “Okay?”
Tommy started to give the thumbs up but managed to stop himself. He used his outstretched hand to make a three-ring sign instead. Then he told Vukonikov, “Da…okay.”
The major smirked, said something to Alexiev, and then walked away.
Once he was out of earshot, Tommy asked her, “What was that last thing he said?”
She hesitated for a few moments, finally replying, “He said, How nice that the American gentleman is multilingual.”
“In those exact words?”
The mischievous smile on her face was all the answer he needed. But she added, “That expression you Americans use when you doubt something…take it with a grain of salt, I believe?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Well, Captain, I hope you have a pocketful of salt.”
Western Czechoslovakia, to include the city of Prague, was the last refuge of German forces fleeing the crush of Americans from the west and Soviets from the east. It was the best place to hunt the remnants of the Luftwaffe. The weather had finally cleared, and that’s where Vukonikov led his flight of three Yaks and Tommy Moon’s P-47.
Tucked behind the white Yak’s wingtip, Tommy listened to the major give instructions to his other two pilots, not understanding a word that was said. When the talking was done, the two peeled off and dove toward a large airfield whose open spaces and paved, intersecting runways stood out plainly from its urban surroundings.
I guess they’re going after planes on the ground. Sure looks like there are a lot of them, too. Easy pickings…just so the flak doesn’t get you. Be interesting to see if these guys follow the same rule we do: only one pass at an airfield.
Tommy and Kovich stayed at 9,000 feet, flying a wide hunter’s box. Before turning to patrol another side of the box, the Russian had actually informed Tommy with hand signals first, much to his surprise.
Gee, how considerate. I wish the hell we were higher, though. I’d like to have that diving energy for extra speed when you bounce someone.
At this altitude, we’re the ones who could get bounced, though. But this is where the Russians seem comfortable. They don’t like it up high where they need help breathing. J.P. doesn’t think they trust their oxygen systems very much. I’m sure glad my bottle is still full of “grade-A aviator’s happy gas” from good old Uncle Sam. If I had to use their stuff, I probably wouldn’t trust it, either.
I know what Vukonikov is up to. He’s looking for a jet…and the only way he’s going to get one is if it’s on approach for landing. For that, we’re at a pretty good altitude.
But only for that. Everything else that comes our way, we’re on the defensive. At least it’s a clear sky…no clouds for anyone to hide in.
They’d used about half their available loitering fuel when Tommy saw the Germans bearing down on them from seven o’clock.
Shit. Looks like two of them…low-slung engines on the wings. They’re jets…ME-262s. They’ll be on us in a couple of seconds.
“KOVICH, BREAK LEFT.”
The Russian responded instantly. But he broke right.
Tommy was breaking left, as Vukonikov should’ve been doing. Eclipse’s windshield filled with the shape of the white Yak as it shot across her path just feet in front of her propeller.
A split second later, she rocked in the wake turbulence of the lead jet as it streaked by. The jug in a hard left bank, Tommy looked out the top of her canopy and saw the trail jet flash past, as well. He didn’t think either of the Germans got off a shot at him—the target angle was too extreme, as he hoped it would be with a left break.
He wasn’t sure if Vukonikov had been so lucky. His break in the wrong direction might’ve given the jets a better firing angle on him. Tommy reversed his turn now to search for the white Yak.
She wasn’t hard to find. The Russian was a thousand feet below, turning to get behind the ME-262s. The Germans were descending, too, and though still far ahead seemed to be slowing as if preparing to land.
This could be our chance, Tommy thought. But if we’ve got to stay full throttle just to keep up with those jets, we’re going to start burning up our “going home” fuel.
The jets be
gan a wide spiral down, one behind the other, losing altitude quickly while keeping their pursuers in view.
They can always break out of that spiral and take us on. It all depends on how much fuel they’ve got left. If they’re trying to land, though, I still don’t see the airfield. But according to the intel maps, there are a bunch of them around here somewhere.
I wish to hell I was higher. But I don’t dare risk climbing and burning all that extra fuel. I should get back on Vukonikov’s wing.
Gingerly, he eased the throttle forward. If the Russian maintained his speed, Tommy figured he’d close the distance between them in less than a minute.
And I’ll probably be on fumes by the time we get back to Schwechat…
If we get back to Schwechat.
The American lines can’t be too far west of here if we get desperate. But with no known friendly airfields, the odds of a crash landing or a bailout are pretty damn high.
The Germans rolled out of the downward spiral and headed north in a more gradual descent.
There’s got to be an airfield ahead of them somewhere, but I still can’t see it. Hell, it could be a grass runway for all I know.
Down to 3,000 feet, Tommy caught up with Vukonikov. The Germans were at their ten o’clock and about a thousand feet lower. The lead jet was still too far ahead to engage, but his trailing partner was slipping into gun range.
And their flaps are starting to come down. They’ve got to be landing.
Vukonikov made his move. Diving on the trail jet’s four o’clock, he had a great firing angle…
And I’ll bet this month’s paycheck that Kraut’s going to break right any second and ruin Kovich’s angle. It’s not like I haven’t seen this setup before. And I’m real sure the Kraut won’t break the wrong way, either. Not like my partner here.
Tommy slid Eclipse to the right. If the jet broke that way, he’d be ready for it.
Vukonikov was firing short bursts with his machine guns now, looking for the range. Once those bullets struck the jet, he’d let loose with the cannon. Devastation from those cannon shells would be almost assured.
But Tommy still didn’t see the telltale glint of bullets against metal. The machine gun tracers were passing below the German without a hit.
And then—just as Tommy suspected—the ME-262 broke right. Vukonikov said something over the radio, a bitter exclamation that was probably a string of swear words. No matter how hard he tried to match his prey’s turn, he wouldn’t get the jet back into his gunsight. The angle was too tight, the speed too great.
But for Tommy, the angle was just right. Putting Eclipse into a gentle right turn, he easily tracked the 262 that was now almost stationary in front of him. With the range a textbook three hundred yards, his sight picture led the jet slightly. He squeezed his trigger and let the German fly right into the hail of .50-caliber bullets.
There was no question these bullets were finding their mark. The flash of their strikes looked like a sea of paparazzi cameras going off at a Hollywood opening. Large chunks of the jet were falling away. Black smoke was trailing from her right engine.
Tommy kept her in his gunsight for another second or two, putting a few more bursts into her, before she fell away and started down. Eclipse hadn’t finished even one orbit over her dying prey before the German jet smashed into the ground in a ball of fire.
Chalk that one up to experience. Fool me once, shame on you…
But there was no time to celebrate the victory. He had to resume his duties as Vukonikov’s wingman.
First, he had to find him.
A turning fight in the air can be disorienting. It took Tommy a few moments to regain his bearings. Checking his fuel remaining, he told himself, I’ve got about another minute of playing around before I’ve got to go home.
And Kovich has got to be north of here. He probably started chasing the leader once he lost the guy I just knocked down. But I’m so damn low now that I can’t see him. He’s probably lost against the backdrop of those hills.
How damn hard can it be to see a bright white airplane?
If he’s chasing the leader, though, he’s getting awfully close to an airfield…
And with airfields come flak guns.
Tommy stayed low—around six hundred feet—and flew north. Too much climbing would burn more gas than he could afford. Schwechat was one hundred eighty miles away, much of that flight over 3,000-foot mountain peaks.
It wasn’t Vukonikov’s aircraft he saw first. It was the streams of tracers—heavy-caliber anti-aircraft fire—rising into the sky. There was an excellent chance it was the Russian they were shooting at.
Tommy pushed toward the guns but stayed wide of them. There was an airfield ahead—he could see it now—a long grass runway bounded by trees which served as concealment for aircraft on the ground. An ME-262 was on the ground at the far end of that runway.
That’s got to be the leader, Tommy told himself. Doesn’t look like he’s damaged to me. I think he’s taxiing under his own power.
In the woods well beyond the airfield, there was a column of thick black smoke rising into the air. He nudged Eclipse toward the smoke, banking hard left for an unobstructed view of its source.
There, on the ground at the end point of a swath hacked through the trees, lay the burning wreckage of a white aircraft. In the instant it took for Eclipse to flash past, Tommy could just make out the bold red marking on the fuselage side, the one that read For Stalin!
Sylvie felt like she was being pursued, although no one was chasing her. She’d raced to Military Police headquarters at sunrise, intending to demand the release of the three Senegalese soldiers who’d been arrested from her warehouse last night. While the lieutenant at the desk was courteous to her and horrified to hear of the disrespect the MP sergeant had spewed at her during the arrests, he was powerless to heed her request.
“The colonial soldiers in question have been taken to the prison, madame,” the lieutenant said. “In preparation for…”
His voice trailed off, as if he couldn’t speak the words that should have come next.
“In preparation for what?” she demanded.
A voice boomed from an open door behind the lieutenant’s desk: “For their execution, of course.”
A captain stepped through the door, adding a surly face to the voice.
“On what charge?” she asked, her voice nearly a shriek. “Since when does the French Army execute its soldiers for drinking wine?”
“No, madame,” the captain replied. “The charge is rape…of a white woman.”
“Rape? Of whom?”
“It doesn’t matter whom, madame. Rape is rape and is punishable by death.”
She knew what the captain really meant: punishable by death if you’re a Negro.
“No such rape occurred, Captain,” she said. “In fact, I am the woman in question.”
The Captain merely shrugged. “Then perhaps you should choose your company with greater care, madame.”
As she ran from the police to her uncle’s office, at least now she knew who—or what—was chasing her: an injustice of biblical proportions. And I allowed it to occur.
“It’s out of my hands, Sylvie,” her uncle—Colonel Marchand—told her. “The tribunal has found them guilty. There’s nothing I can do.”
“What tribunal?” she spat. “They die on the uncorroborated words of pig-headed military policemen?”
“You don’t understand, Sylvie,” he said. “The colonial soldiers are difficult enough to control as it is—”
“And murdering them for a crime they didn’t commit will make that better?”
Marchand was unmoved. “They must behave in civilized ways when they represent the glory and honor of France.”
“So murdering them for a crime they didn’t commit…that’s civilized?”
“It is the system, Sylvie.”
“Then your system is a piece of shit, oncle. Nobody raped me. Nobody assaulted me. It was no differ
ent than drinking in a café where there happened to be a woman present.”
Marchand wouldn’t even look her in the eyes.
“You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?” she asked, hardly contrite. “Why? What have I done wrong?”
He hesitated before answering, “I had hoped you’d show better judgment. Really, Sylvie…with Negroes?”
“I told you…there was nothing sexual about it, despite what your small minds choose to see. It’s simply not fair. They’re good enough to fight and die for France, are they not? In fact, if we didn’t have the colonial troops, there wouldn’t be much of a French Army, would there? The three men are educated, with superb organizational skills. Why do you suppose they were assigned to me in the first place?”
“As I said, Sylvie, it’s out of my hands.”
There could be only one pair of hands that could not make that claim, and they belonged to General Tassigny. Sylvie barged into his headquarters, dodging the aide-de-camp who tried to block her path, and burst into the general’s office. When Tassigny looked up at her from behind his desk, the look on his face shifted from surprise to contempt.
“Ah, it’s Truffaut-Bergerac,” he said, “l’enchanteur de Negres. It seems your poor behavior has spilled over into this very rude entrance of yours, young lady.”
Sylvie knew right away that there was no point trying to appeal to the general’s sense of justice. It didn’t exist. Not in this case.
Instead, she offered him a deal. “Banish me, mon general, and spare the colonials. It’s all my fault. They should not be held accountable for my misjudgment.”
He said nothing at first, just appraised her with a jaundiced eye as he weighed what he stood to gain by playing her game.
Then he said, “So you admit you were provocative with the coloreds?”
She had no choice but to reply, “Yes, mon general. I admit it freely.”
Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3) Page 27