House of Ghosts (39 page)

“Why did he run away?” Alenia asked, pulling into Joe’s driveway.

Joe looked at the Swedge house. “Cohen split when he figured I didn’t have a second set of diaries.” He got out of the car. “We’re going across the street. They’re in there someplace.”

Alenia shook her head in the negative, rolling down her window. “Harry is coming home.”

Joe removed two flashlights from the Volvo’s trunk. “Let’s go.”

Sticking out her
tongue
, Alenia got out of the Mercedes. “It’s getting dark. The house gives me the
villies
.”

An orange plastic mesh fence surrounded the Swedge property. Joe helped Alenia step over the three feet high barrier. The couple rounded the curve behind the grove of evergreens. The house looked sad as it awaited its fate. A John Deere bulldozer was parked nose to nose with a dump truck. “They’re going to bring the old girl down tomorrow. Let’s go through the back door.”

There wasn’t any door. The inside of the house was painted in shadows. Preston’s state-of-the-art 1950s kitchen had been stripped. Gaping holes were punched in the walls to strip the copper pipes.

“I feel ghosts,” Alenia whispered. “Where do we start?”

“When in doubt, trust a hunch,” Joe said, moving toward the basement steps. “The stuff that brought me into this puzzle was in the basement.” He aimed his flashlight down the steps, freezing on the landing.

The cat urine smell was still present. “It stinks,” Alenia said, squeezing next to Joe.

“Be careful! A few of the steps are loose,” he warned, proceeding down. Sweeping the base of the steps with his flashlight, Joe stepped on the concrete floor.

The heating system had been removed, leaving a depression in the floor. Grease stains led across the room to the set of metal doors which opened to the rear yard. Disconnected air conduits hung from the floor joists like curlers in a head of stick straight hair. Joe moved to the middle of the room trying to think like Preston.

Alenia slipped on the second to last step, almost landing on her rear. “Jozef!” she yelled, wiping cobwebs from her face.

“
Itsy bitsy spider
,” Joe sang, crisscrossing the basement. “I don’t think the opening has to be much larger than a notebook. The real estate people re-painted the basement. Try to find differences in the contours and colors.”

“Everything’s the same gray in this light,” Alenia said, sweeping cobwebs away from her face. “I want to go home.”

Light taps came from the kitchen floor above. “Sssh! Turn off your flashlight,” Joe whispered. “Move to the back of the cellar.”

“Jozef,” Alenia whispered. “The bad man?”

Joe reached for his Glock secured in its shoulder holster beneath his sports jacket. Another step. He aimed the flashlight with his left hand, giving one pulse. Two yellow eyes reflected back. Joe turned the flashlight on. “It’s Nelson, Ed Stoval’s cat.” Giving a sigh of relief, he returned the pistol to its holster. The twenty pound black and white tomcat slinked up the steps.

“He’s smart. I want to go with him,” Alenia said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Harry’s going to be home soon.”

Joe moved to the steps. “Six down, three across.”

“Crossword puzzle. Jozef, you’re crazy.”

Joe tapped each step with the five-iron as he climbed. “It was on a scrap paper in Preston’s satchel,” he said from the landing. Shine your light up here.”

Alenia moved to the base of the steps, focusing the light at Joe’s feet. “You’re going to kill yourself.”

“Six,” Joe counted the steps as he descended. He swung the flashlight to his left. The beam caught nothing but floor joists. He turned to the wall to his right, moving for a closer look. The white painted plaster was intact.

“Jozef, there’s nothing,” Alenia said, climbing two steps. “The paper is junk like the bag.”

Joe tapped the grip end of the five-iron on the wall. “Solid.” He shifted three inches to the left, tapping twice. “Bingo, it’s hollow.” Using the blade end of the club, he smashed the wall, sending gypsum wallboard flying. He reached into the opening and took hold of the same type of twine that secured the volumes found in the upstairs study. He held a bonanza of six books.

Alenia climbed the steps. “Those are your new girl friends,” she said. “You don’t need me anymore.”

STAZ DI AMENDOLA, TWELVE MILES NORTHEAST of Foggia, Italy was home to the 2nd Bombardment Group consisting of six squadrons, the 429th, 49th , 96th, and the 20th. A tent city had been hastily erected for its initial inhabitants in an olive grove in January 1944. Regular army barracks were planned, but five months later, the tents were still standing and would serve as homes for pilots and crewmen for the duration of the war.

Amendola was in constant motion. The airfield was shared with the 97th and a RAF unit that participated in British night raids. Two runways were laid just south of the hills where local shepherds grazed their sheep. Occasionally, wayward animals would stray onto the runways.

Before leaving the States, Second Lieutenant Paul Rothstein was counseled that he and the other replacements were going to be considered outsiders by a close knit fraternity which didn’t accept newcomers until the pledge had passed the test. With the high rate of casualties, new men didn’t last long. It was better not to get too friendly, friendships were hard to forget.

Paul was assigned quarters with three other pilots of the 20th squadron. Stenciled above the tent’s canvas flap was
The Alamo
. It didn’t take thirty seconds for Paul to figure out who was responsible for naming the digs. “Welcome to
The Alamo
and sunny Italy, it’s sure nice to have company. Been kind of lonely around here for a couple of days. Take one of the empty cots, ain’t anybody using them.”

“Liquid sunshine,” Paul quipped, shaking water off his rain poncho. Rolled mattresses on the three cots bore an ominous message. Paul evaded a kerosene lantern hooked to the center tent support and a coal burning Franklin stove to drop his duffle on a cot opposite Peterson’s. The clapboard floor, resting on pilings driven into the mud, swayed with each step. G.I. olive-drab steamer trunks in front of each cot provided storage. “What happened to the previous renters?”

The slow Southern drawl belonged to First Lieutenant Shep Peterson of
Lufkin, Texas. “Foley is in the hospital and is going to be sent home. Crane and Heeler went down in Romania two days ago.”

Paul played with the mosquito netting suspended around the cot, wanting to take back the question. It was a rookie mistake. The cardinal rule was never to ask about the missing. He changed the subject. “Nice digs,” he said, closing the lid on his trunk. “Uncle Sam sure knows how to spoil us.”

“It isn’t so bad, kinda reminds me of camping with my grand dad.” The big Texan, six-one and two-twenty, took a liking to the kid with the funny Brooklyn accent. For Peterson, anyone not from Texas had a funny accent. “This is sure a first, a fly boy from Brooklyn and a Jew to boot,” he whooped loudly. “I reckon you could use some chow.”

Paul and the other replacements landed at Amendola just after the noon mess closed. The balance of the afternoon was spent processing interminable forms, taking an umpteenth medical exam, and a pep talk by the base commander. “My stomach is going to sue my mouth for non-support.”

“Take off your gold bars so we can slip into the enlisted mess. The quartermaster there barters stuff with the locals—candy and smokes for fresh fruit and vegetables. The dumb ass who runs the officer’s chow palace says he won’t stoop to deal with the farmers around here.”

A short walk of a hundred-fifty yards brought them into the mess and recreation areas. The common area was a sea of mud after three days of rain. “Be careful where you step,” Peterson cautioned. “This Italian mud is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Back home we have some ungodly earth when it gets soaked, but it doesn’t compare. Shit, a five-ton truck will sink to its axles if it should run off the roads.”

Peterson was correct about the enlisted men’s mess. It was the best army chow Paul had eaten in months. “Put your bars back on, we’re going to pay a visit to the officer’s club. The guys spend down time in
The Cave
. I guess booze is more important than food, because the liquid served is
par excellence
.” Peterson sidestepped a mud puddle. “Can’t say enough about, excuse the expression, Yankee ingenuity. The Italians have been mining limestone for centuries around here, leaving a slew of excavated caves. They’ve had various uses. The Italians used the caves as wine cellars, followed by the Germans who housed prisoners and horses. When we got our turn, Chaplain Allen saw their potential. He suggested converting them to enlisted men and officers clubs. Another was adapted into a theater for shows and movies. One of the sergeants hung the name
Rock Fella Social Center
on the theater. I kinda like it.”

Paul followed Peterson into
The Cave
, which was cool as though it was air conditioned. A twenty-foot mahogany bar and twenty round banquet tables were
liberated from a hotel destroyed in the ground fighting done by the grunts of the 5th Army. One of the replacement pilots held court in the far corner, regaling his new cohorts of his abilities with a B-17. “Who the hell is the hotshot?” Peterson asked. “He hasn’t flown one mission and already considers himself top dog. Well, he’s going to get his chance tomorrow. The weather guys say this rain is going to lift from here to Ploesti. We’ve been there three days in a row, and I doubt that we’re going to get a break. Grab a seat, and I’ll get a couple of beers.”

Paul found a table with two vacant seats and introduced himself. Immediately he was asked about the new loudmouth. “That’s Jake Graham. He’s a legend in his own mind,” Paul informed them.

Peterson returned with the brews. “I was telling my new tent mate that tomorrow his buddy over there is going to get his chance to shit his pants if we catch what they threw on the past three trips.”

Ploesti, Romania, the main oil refinery servicing the Nazi war machine, was the third most heavily defended target on the continent, producing tremendous losses upon attacking formations of Fifteenth bombers. It was on these raids that the former residents of
The Alamo
were lost.

“Briefing at 04:30,” Sergeant Barney Buckley yelled through the flap of
The Alamo
, shining his flashlight on the sleeping faces.

Sleep was difficult most nights for Paul. Before his first mission, it was impossible. He looked at the radium painted dial on his Hamilton—02:00. He hadn’t caught more than two hours. The chatter among crews the previous night was Ploesti. A betting pool was giving 1:3 odds that it was still high on the target list. Thinking about flying into the man made Hell churned his stomach.

Peterson buried his head under his pillow. “I’d like to find the brain who ordered missions times before the roosters get up.” He ripped the mosquito netting to the side, swinging his feet into his boots. “The target ain’t going anywhere. It’ll be there at 12:00.”

Paul lit the kerosene lamp. “Make sure you have nothing on you except your dog tags,” Peterson counseled. “They’re going to check your pockets for personal stuff anyway, but you don’t want to look like a rookie.” The Texan tidied his cot, carefully tucking in the blanket. It was a ritual among pilots to make their beds, indicating their faith in returning from the mission.

Paul gamely followed suit. The two dressed in silence, hit the latrine and made their way to the officer’s mess hall for the traditional pre-flight breakfast of eggs,
flapjacks, and coffee strong enough to remove the corrosion on a propeller.

Conversations were short and muted. Paul barely choked down two forkfuls of eggs and a quarter mug of coffee. Getting sick wasn’t an option.

Peterson worked on his second plate of eggs. “You better eat something. These missions keep gettin’ longer and longer. Seven hours is a long time to go with nothing in your gut.”

At 04:15, pilots, navigators, and bombardiers dumped their meal trays. Unrelated curses broke the silence of the pre-dawn quiet as the procession totaling ninety-six made its way to the mission briefing in a Quonset hut next to squadron headquarters.

A dozen six-by-sixes waited to take them to their planes. Peterson eyed his pasty looking tent-mate. “You worry me pardner. Not a good way to go into the wild blue yonder.”

“I’ll be alright,” Paul said with a shrug as they filed through the entrance guarded by a pair of MPs.

“I’ll see you after the briefing,” Peterson said, joining his crew members.

Paul squeezed between his co-pilot Tom Hornish and his bombardier Monroe Ellington. Navigator Will Dalrymple nervously twirled a red grease pencil between his thumb and index finger. Captain Lindsey Bradford, the group’s intelligence officer, stood at parade rest on a raised stage. Covered by a black sheet, a map detailing the route to the target challenged eyes that didn’t want to look but couldn’t resist.