by James R Benn
“What the hell are you not telling me?” I asked, eyeing the thick envelope containing our orders. It seemed like more than the usual paperwork. Big Mike took another drink.
“The airbase is in Russia. That’s where we’re going,” he said. And drank again.
“What do two dead Russians have to do with us?” I said, as I leaned forward in my chair and tried to take in the reality of what Big Mike had told me.
“One dead Russian, one dead American,” he said. “You remember Bull Dawson?”
“Sure. Army Air Force colonel. Helped me out in Northern Ireland, and we met up with him again a few months ago at air force headquarters in High Wycombe,” I said. Big Mike nodded and waited for me to make the connection. It didn’t take long. “Shuttle bombing. He was working on a plan for shuttle bombing missions. Take off from England, land and refuel in Russia, then hit the Germans again on the way back. Keep ’em guessing.”
“Right. Except now Bull’s a general, and he’s stationed at one of those bases. Poltava, in the Ukraine. He has an international incident on his hands and got in touch with Sam.”
“Who volunteered our services. Nice of him,” I said, and downed the last of my whiskey.
“He didn’t have much choice,” Big Mike said. “Our ambassador in Moscow was already calling for help. The Russkies are blaming us and demanding we hand over the guilty party. They finally agreed to allow a team to be sent in to work with their investigators.”
“Russia,” I said, hardly able to take in what Big Mike was telling me about diplomats and dead men. “We’re going to Russia. How the hell do we get there?”
“You might want another drink,” he said.
We had a driver to take us to Thorpe Abbotts. We tried to sleep in the back seat, which was easy for Big Mike. Me, I tended to dwell on what was coming next. A briefing at 0430 hours, which was army talk for way the hell before the sun came up. Then a long flight over Nazi Germany. Swell.
I’d had to pack my Class A uniform, because the brass wanted us to look spiffy for our Russian allies. I had no idea how we were going to conduct a joint investigation, but at least I’d impress the Soviet coppers with my shiny buttons.
I managed to doze for a while. After the driver got us to the base, we were directed to a tent with a couple of cots and lots of scratchy blankets. Big Mike sawed logs while I worried. About what was coming. About Kaz, recovering from his medical procedure and caring for his kid sister, who’d been through a brutal ordeal.
About how Diana was doing. She hadn’t been in Gestapo custody long, thank God, but any amount of time in the clutches of those Nazi bastards was too long. I wanted to be by her side, not flying off into the wild blue. Yeah, I wanted to be with her, to make sure she healed up well in mind and body, but also to make sure to she didn’t get any crazy ideas about going on another SOE mission.
Of course, I was hardly the one to talk.
I must have slept, because the next thing I knew a guy was shining a flashlight in our faces and hollering for us to get up. We followed the line of grumbling, yawning aircrew to the latrines, washed up, and made for the mess hall. It was a damp, chilly morning. In our army fatigues, we stood out like two left thumbs, surrounded by men in leather jackets and flight suits.
No one talked to us as we wolfed down powdered eggs and sausage, accompanied by steaming hot joe. Men leaned over their food, their voices a low, steady murmur. A few guys just sipped at their coffee, eyes focused on the far wall, their thoughts straying from the eggs and sausage congealing on their plates.
Home. Death. Dismemberment. Survival. Fear. I’d seen that searching look on muddy battlegrounds, but on these clean-shaven faces it was a first. Didn’t do much for my appetite.
Somebody called out for officers to assemble in fifteen minutes for their briefing. That meant pilots, copilots, navigators, and bombardiers. Enlisted men, all sergeants, were to head to their aircraft. Nobody acknowledged the guy, but men began to drift off, leaving the room half empty in a minute.
That made it easy to spot Colonel Harding. Tall, stiff-necked, and steely-eyed, Sam Harding commanded attention. And me, which often led to a whole lot of trouble for Mrs. Boyle’s eldest boy.
“Sam!” Big Mike shouted, waving him to our table. The colonel drew himself a cup of coffee at the urn before heading our way. Big Mike was a staff sergeant who often disregarded the niceties of rank. He was on first-name basis with more generals than I cared to count. I couldn’t carry it off, but, then again, with those shoulders, Big Mike could carry off an ox. He also had a scrounger’s magical ability to come up with whatever was needed without reams of army paperwork. Most officers loved that, especially when it worked to their benefit. But with Sam Harding, it was different. They’d become real pals since Big Mike joined us in July of last year after giving me a hand when I needed it in Sicily.
As far as Harding and I went, let’s just say we respected each other. I don’t think I’d ever called him Sam, and right now, I had a few other choice names for him, but I kept them to myself.
“Colonel, tell me this is a big joke,” I said, as soon as he sat down.
“No joke,” Harding said, glancing around to see who was listening. No one had sat near us, and more guys were headed out, so we weren’t about to be overheard. “We’ve got a dead Soviet and a dead American in strange circumstances. Moscow is raising hell and demanding we turn over the killer.”
“Who must be a Yank, of course,” I said.
“That’s their take. Crime is a symptom of capitalist decay, after all,” Harding said.
“I didn’t take you for an expert on Marxist ideology, Colonel,” I said.
“I’ve picked up a few things from their communiques,” Harding said. “That’s the most flattering one. I need you two there, Johnnies-on-the-spot.”
“Why?” Big Mike asked, gulping the last of his grub. “Gotta be a safer way of getting there than on a bombing run.”
“Safer, yes, but slow. What worries Ike is the possibility of the Russians grabbing one of our guys and charging him with the killings. Then we’d have to react, and before long there could be a standoff.”
“And since the airbase is surrounded by a whole lotta Russia, they’d win the standoff,” I offered.
“Right,” Harding said, pausing to have another go at his joe. “Which could get nasty. We have three airbases over there. Poltava, where you’re headed. That’s designated as Station 559, and it’s where the heavy bombers are based, along with a smaller field at Mirgorod. The third, Pyriatyn, is for Mustang long-range fighters.”
“Nasty enough for them to grab our hardware?” Big Mike said.
“It’s a possibility. If we fly them all out, then the Soviets could accuse us of reneging on our deal with them. If we leave everything in place, they could snap it all up. Either way it would be a political nightmare and interfere with the war effort,” Harding said, his coffee forgotten.
“So we’re supposed to uncover the murderer,” I said. “With help from some Russian cop?”
“That’s the idea. A joint investigation. The American Military Mission in Moscow got the Russians to agree to that much,” Harding said. “Here’s the thing, though. If the killer turns out to be a Russian, good luck with ever bringing him to justice. If he’s American, get him out of there as soon as possible. We’ll put him on trial, but not where the Soviets control things. Your first priority is to contain this thing. Make your best case, and protect any Americans involved.”
“You think the Russians will really cooperate?” I asked.
“No. They’re not known for playing nice. But they have assigned an English-speaking officer to the case, so at least you can talk to him.”
“But what about talking with other Russians?” Big Mike asked. “We can’t depend on him for speaking with witnesses or suspects.”
“No. But you can depend on Lieutenan
t Kazimierz. He’ll arrive several days after you do. With his language skills, he’ll be a big help,” Harding said.
“You sure, Sam?” Big Mike asked. “He hasn’t been out of the hospital that long.”
“But he’s healthier than before,” Harding said. Kaz had some repair work on his ticker, which had been giving him trouble. Bad trouble. But Harding was right, Kaz had healed up just fine.
“But not healthy enough for this trip,” I said, jerking my thumb in the direction of the officers making for the briefing.
“Listen, I know this is a tough assignment, but I didn’t see any reason for Lieutenant Kazimierz to undergo the stress of a long and unpressurized flight at high altitudes. He’ll go by Sunderland flying boat. It’s a hotel compared to the B-17. It’ll take him via Cairo and Tehran, then up to Poltava on a regular C-47 resupply flight.”
“No, I’m glad,” I said. “We can handle it until Kaz gets there, right Big Mike?”
“Sure. If Sam says we gotta get there PDQ, then we’ll take the express. It is important, isn’t it, Sam?” It wasn’t exactly insubordinate, but Big Mike had made his point. He wanted to know if this mission was on the level.
“It’s very important,” Harding said, fixing Big Mike with a stare. “So important that the orders came from high up. I had all I could do to get Lieutenant Kazimierz on that slower flight.”
“By high up, you mean Uncle Ike?”
“The general himself,” Harding said. General Dwight David Eisenhower, commander of SHAEF, was a distant relation. A second cousin or something along those lines, but I’d always called him Uncle Ike on account of how old he was. He was the reason I was here, on his staff. My dad and uncle, both detectives on the Boston police force, cooked up a scheme for me to stay safe and sound during this war. They got me appointed to Uncle Ike’s staff in Washington DC, where he was pushing paper as an unknown colonel. What we didn’t know was that he was about to be tapped as head of US Army forces in Europe. He got a promotion to general and me to take along as his special investigator.
Now what Uncle Ike couldn’t have known was that for the Boston Irish, the police department is sort of like a family business. It gets handed down, which usually involves someone being compensated for the favor. But enough gossip about the good old Boston PD. The upshot was although I’d just made detective grade right about the time Pearl Harbor took a shellacking, I didn’t really have the experience needed. What I had was an uncle on the promotions board and a father on the homicide squad, and they were both teaching me the ropes. When I paid attention.
More times than I can count, I’d wished I had focused more on what they were telling me. But I didn’t want to fail Uncle Ike, and I also didn’t want to be sent off to the infantry to take a chance on the average life expectancy of platoon leader. So I worked at remembering what they’d tried to drum into my head, and Uncle Ike was never the wiser. I think.
Anyway, I’d managed to get myself promoted to captain, which was nice. But as I thought about this mission, a foxhole on the front lines became strangely appealing.
“Let’s get to the briefing,” Harding said. “I’ll introduce you to your crews. I’ve split you up.”
“In case one doesn’t make it?” Big Mike said. “That’s cheery.”
“No. Weight requirements. Besides, you both could get shot down,” Harding said, his face twisting itself into an attempted smile as he stood. It took me a second to realize he was joking. Harding was career Army, a West Point graduate. Humor hadn’t been issued to him, so it was strange to hear him attempt it.
“Comforting, Colonel,” I said as we made for the door. “Are you sure you’ve told us everything about this case? It still seems to me that something’s missing.”
“What?” Harding asked, his voice slightly higher than normal. That was his tell.
“A lot of Russians have died in this war. Joe Stalin doesn’t seem like the kind of leader to care much about one more corpse. What makes this Russian so special?”
“He’s NKVD,” Harding said. “The People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs.”
“The Russian version of Hitler’s Gestapo,” Big Mike said.
“Essentially, yes. But don’t say that when you’re their guest. It might turn into a permanent stay,” Harding said, opening the door to the Quonset hut where the briefing was about to start.
“You’ve got to be kidding, Colonel,” a first lieutenant said, striding forward toward us. He wore a crush cap and a pencil thin mustache that probably looked great on a movie star from his youth. Which wasn’t all that far in the rearview mirror. “This guy’s too big. We’ll have to leave a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bomb behind.”
“Seriously, Colonel,” another officer said. “There isn’t enough room on a B-17 for an extra guy his size. Where we gonna put him? Why can’t we have the skinny one?”
“Lieutenant Franks, Sergeant Miecznikowski has been assigned to your aircraft,” Harding said. “I will leave the details to you. Carry on.”
“I hope Sweet Lorraine gets off the ground,” Franks said. “And I hope we have a parachute in your size, Sergeant. Come with me.”
Harding and I shook hands with Big Mike and wished him luck. Franks told his copilot to bring Big Mike to the rest of the crew assembling to check the aircraft, then hustle back.
“Don’t worry, there’s only one size parachute, Captain,” another first lieutenant said, extending his hand. “I’m Bert Willis, skipper of the Banshee Bandit. We’ll be giving you a lift.”
“Call me Billy,” I said, appreciating his welcome. “I’ll try not to get in the way. What’s with Franks?”
“Your sergeant is a big fellow,” Willis said. “Can’t blame Franks for wondering where he’s going to stash him. I figure I can squeeze you in the nose and you’ll man one of the cheek machine guns. The navigator switches back and forth as needed, but if you stay pasted to the wall, you won’t be in anyone’s way. Can you hit a barn door?”
“Pretty sure I can, long as it’s not flying.”
“Okay, just don’t shoot at the Sweet Lorraine. They’ll be off our starboard wing. Now let’s listen up. The show’s about to start,” Willis said.
“Looks like Big Mike drew the short straw,” I whispered to Harding as we took our seats.
“Franks and his crew have completed twenty missions,” he said. “They know what they’re doing. You have to admit, making room for Big Mike is a challenge.”
“Speaking of challenges, any more details you haven’t shared?” I asked as a bird colonel took to the stage, where a curtain covered a large map board where the mission would be laid out.
“Only one. The OSS is involved. They have men on the ground at Station 559.”
Great. The Office of Strategic Services, our own spy outfit. That could complicate things.
“Gentlemen, the mission for today,” the colonel intoned, pulling back the curtain. “The oil refineries at Chemnitz.”
A groan rippled through the room. It was a long way to Chemnitz, over the Netherlands and into the heart of Germany. After hitting the target, it was an even longer trip to Poltava.
We’d have fighter escort all the way, long-range P-51s with drop tanks.
That was the good news. The bad news?
Everything else.
Chapter Three
“Little friends joining up, three o’clock high.” That was Heller in the top turret. Our fighter escort had gone high during the bombing run and flak barrage. Now they were back as the bomber stream reformed into the box pattern, maximizing the defensive fire of all those .50 machine guns.
“Watch for enemy fighters, they’ll be back too.”
I could make out the P-51 Mustangs above us, sunlight glinting off their gleaming, nimble airframes. They were little friends indeed, the only friends we had for hundreds of miles. We still had nine hundred
to go to get to Poltava, almost half of that over enemy territory. If it wasn’t for the Mustangs, the Luftwaffe would have plenty of time to chew us up.
“Here they come, twelve o’clock low,” the skipper announced. I could barely make out a series of black specks in the distance, climbing to intercept the formation. Four Mustangs zoomed down on them, sending the line of German aircraft into a sprawling, circling dogfight, breaking up their frontal assault even as the bulk of our escort kept pace above us.
“Keep your eyes peeled, that was just the opening act,” Willis said.
Things were quiet for a while. Then I noticed a B-17 ahead of us slowly losing altitude, smoke sputtering out of an inboard engine. Flak damage, maybe. Whatever the cause, the Fort was headed lower and slower, not a healthy combination in these parts.
“That’s Mad Mary,” Heller said. “O’Brien’s crew. They’re new.”
“How far to the Russian lines?” Willis asked.
“Checking,” Carter replied, and came back on the intercom in a minute. “Two hundred and eighty miles, assuming our info is accurate.”
Nobody spoke. I watched as Mad Mary fought to maintain airspeed and altitude. It was a slow but steady process, and as the Fort faded from view beneath our wing, I fixed my gaze on the sky ahead, trying not to think about the fate of the crew. Even if a couple of P-51s stayed with her, they wouldn’t be able to hold off the German fighters who were sure to swarm any damaged bomber trailing the main formation. In the terrible calculation of death at twenty-five thousand feet, Mad Mary was on her own. Even if the crew managed to get her across the Russian lines, it was a long way to any airbase. The Luftwaffe was still strong on the Eastern Front, and their range would extend deep into Russia.
Mad Mary’s best bet was to make it out of Nazi territory and crash land in a nicely plowed field. What was more likely was they’d be shot down before they got twenty miles, once they lost the protective firepower of the box formation and the escort fighters.
It wouldn’t be long. Maybe they’d decide to bail out and settle for a long stretch as POWs. From all reports, the food was lousy, but the Luftwaffe didn’t treat American kriegies all that badly. Kriegsgefangener was the mouthful for prisoner of war in German. Kriegie made it sound almost friendly and welcoming. After all, no one was trying to blow you out of the sky in a POW cage.