House of Ghosts (41 page)

“I can’t see a thing,” Hornish replied with the smoke growing denser. “Not the ships on either side of us, or the flak.”

The
Avenger
bounced with each exploding German artillery shell. Pieces of shrapnel ricocheted around the cabin. Paul felt their heat as they passed his face. Voices poured over the intercom, making deciphering the messages difficult. “Clear the line,” he yelled. “I can’t understand what you guys are saying. You sound like a bunch of old women.”

Crawford broke in, “One minute to the IP.”

“The aircraft is yours,” Paul called to Ellington.

“Bomb bay doors opening,” Ellington replied, looking for his aiming point through the bombsight.

“Bogeys at three o’clock!” Vinnie screamed. The fighters were back, attacking in all directions. The Germans were breaking convention by putting themselves into the hell of the flak barrage.

“They’re defending the target at all costs,” Paul said to Hornish.

“B-17 going down,” Torkling, the tail gunner said. “The 96th is taking a beating.”

“Six bogeys at 11 o’clock!” Hornish screamed. The 20th was again the focus of the attack. “Kranz is in deep shit.”

Every gun on the
Avenger
was firing in support of
Boxcar Betty
that was two planes to the rear. Tracer rounds flew in every direction. “Sap, you got him!” Howard the top ball turret gunner yelled.

“I think the poor bastard flew into my rounds,” Sapienza replied. A Me-109 exploded just under their right wing.

Flak blew the nose off of
Boxcar
back to the cockpit. The B-17 stalled, and then nose dived. “Kranz was scheduled to go home,” Hornish said.

Paul didn’t answer. He ran a glove across the
Boeing
emblem in the middle of the half steering wheel.

“Bombs away,” Ellington said, releasing the bomb load precisely at the aiming point. The
Brooklyn Avenger
hopped fifty feet as the load left the plane.

“Let’s get out of here,” Paul said, pulling on the yoke with all his strength to turn out of the target. He could see the ragged formations behind the 20th being attacked. “The poor bastards are taking the heat.” He would never admit to anyone that he didn’t care. The
Brooklyn Avenger
had made it half way. If more of his compatriots had to take a pounding to get The
Brooklyn Avenger
back to Amendola, so be it.

“MR. MORGENTHAU IS HERE,” Florence Higgins announced over the intercom.

“I’ve got a mountain of papers on my desk,” Preston said, putting a folder into his satchel. “It was clean when I left two weeks ago.”

“Show him in,” John McCloy replied, suppressing his irritation knowing what was in store. Treasury Secretary Henry Morgenthau, Jr. had the president’s ear, and foremost he was Jewish. McCloy adjusted his shirt cuffs to show exactly one half-inch beyond his suit jacket sleeve. “I want you to stay.”

With a swoosh, the silver haired Mrs. Higgins opened the door for one of the original New Dealers. The fifty-three year old New Yorker had chaired the Federal Farm Board and Farm Credit Administration from 1933 to 1934 before being appointed Treasury Secretary in 1934.

McCloy rose behind his desk. “Henry, this is indeed a surprise,” he said with a broad smile. “Not many cabinet members make it across the river.”

Taking his cue, Preston followed standard operating procedure. He carried a tray consisting of a coffee carafe, two cups, and finger pastries to the Stanton table, then returned to his original position near the windows overlooking the Potomac.

McCloy met Morgenthau in the middle of the office. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, sweeping a hand toward the “setup room.” “Henry, you know Captain Swedge.”

Preston had accompanied McCloy to several of the Refugee Board’s meetings where McCloy served as Secretary of War Stimson’s representative. Stimson viewed the Refugee Board as a nuisance. McCloy was dubious of its need. “Nice to see you again, sir,” Preston said.

“Likewise,” Morgenthau said, taking a seat on the sofa. “Since our last meeting, the Hungarian situation has become more desperate.”

Morgenthau was referring to the War Refugee Board, established by President
Roosevelt on January 22, 1944 “to take all measures within its power to rescue the victims of enemy oppression who are in imminent danger of death.” Its establishment followed a letter from Morgenthau to Roosevelt in which he condemned Assistant Secretary of State Breckenridge Long’s “indifferent, callous and perhaps hostile” attitude to the Jewish issue. State had held up funds to rescue Romania Jews and ordered representatives to refuse reports of Nazi atrocities by persons other than authorized employees. The War Refugee Board gave hope to Jewish groups dealing with rescues and emigration.

“I would categorize it as difficult,” McCloy countered, pouring two cups of coffee. “Horthy stopped the Hungarian deportations.”

Admiral Horthy was the nominal head of the Hungarian government approved by Berlin. Morgenthau took a cup, dropping one sugar cube into it. “The Hungarian offer to send its Jewish population to any country that will open its borders is an empty offer. The United States, Britain, Australia or New Zealand can’t or won’t absorb them in sufficient numbers.” Morgenthau paused, “The deportations are ongoing. In addition, trains from France, Holland, and Yugoslavia have made their way to Auschwitz.”

The Germans had managed to mask their activities inside the killing complex at Oswiecim, Poland until June 1944 when a report from two Czechs escapees made its way to Switzerland. The eye witness report detailed the gassing and cremation of four thousand Czechs. McCloy had received a confidential assessment from Office of Strategic Services’ Allen Dulles in Geneva that a million and a half Jews had already been murdered in Auschwitz, and that the Nazis were geared to complete the ‘Final Solution’ despite the Russian advance.

McCloy took a sip of black coffee. “Finding takers for the Hungarian Jewish population is a political issue, not a military issue.”

“Seven-hundred thousand souls are awaiting their fate,” Morgenthau solemnly said. His hands shook as he held the white china cup. “They’re the last European Jews to be deported. Three-hundred thousand will be murdered in the coming weeks. Their only hope is bombing the gas chambers and crematoria.”

This wasn’t the first request that air power be used to stop the killing in Auschwitz and its associated camps. Months before, John Pehle, chairman of the War Refugee Board, had made a request to bomb the rail lines leading to the concentration camp. At that instance McCloy forwarded a memo from General John Hull of the Operations and Planning Division that nixed the idea with the following, “the most effective relief which can be given victims of enemy persecution is to insure the speedy defeat of the Axis.” McCloy attached his own memo which read, “The War Department is of the opinion that the suggested air operation isn’t
practical. It could be executed only by the diversion of considerable air support essential to the success of our force now engaged in decisive operations and would in any case be of such doubtful efficacy that it would not amount to a practical project.”

McCloy knew Hull hadn’t conducted any feasibility studies and was amazed Pehle took both memos at face value. “Eisenhower could be across the Rhine in a couple of weeks. The Russians are advancing. The war in Europe is in its last days.” McCloy removed his cigar case from his jacket pocket, offered one to Morgenthau, then lit the stogie with a match struck against his shoe. “I wish we could smash the place to bits, but none of our planes fly that far east.”

Morgenthau put his cup on its saucer. “I thought we were supporting the Warsaw ghetto uprising.”

“Only with volunteer crews. Most of the planes ran out of fuel on the return leg and were lost. The operation has been abandoned,” McCloy said, exhaling a large plume of smoke. “Auschwitz is farther than Warsaw. B-17s don’t have the range to make the return trip.”

Preston listened, pressing himself to the window ledge. He had delivered to McCloy reconnaissance photos taken on June 26 by the Fifteenth Air Force over Manowitz, Poland, a paltry four miles from the center of the concentration camp in preparation for a bombing campaign against the I.G. Farben synthetic rubber and oil plant. The main camp Auschwitz I, Auschwitz II also called Birkenau, and Auschwitz III the camp closest to the I. G. Farben plant were clearly seen. The irony wasn’t lost on the son of the American financier who provided the capital for the plant’s construction. McCloy feigned indifference to the pending destruction, considering he had smoothed the way for Herbert Swedge in gaining the contract.

Morgenthau shook his head in despair. “I hoped that something could be done.”

With a puff of his cigar, McCloy rose, signaling the close of the meeting. “Henry, trust me. Everything that can be done to stop the killing is being done.”

Morgenthau gathered himself. “I understand.” He turned to Preston saying, “You’re fortunate to be assigned to Mr. McCloy.” Morgenthau exited the office looking as if he aged ten years in a few minutes.

McCloy returned to his desk clenching the cigar between his teeth. Preston remained sitting on the windowsill. “Something on your mind?” McCloy asked.

Preston looked across the Potomac toward the Washington Monument. “You lied.”

“There’s a bigger picture that has to be considered,” McCloy said. He leaned
back in his chair.

Preston bowed his head. “Nothing can justify lying about our ability to bomb the camps.”

“In January, a handful of American Zionists persuaded a number of congressmen to introduce a resolution. Palestine would be open for free entry to Jews in order that they may ultimately reconstitute Palestine as a free and democratic Jewish commonwealth. Jews trapped in Bulgaria, Romania, and Hungary possessing visas would go to Palestine.” McCloy flicked the cigar against a metal ashtray shaped from a Japanese bomb casing found on the sunken battleship Arizona. “The resolution blindsided me. I made a quick study of the issues involved and discovered back in 1922 a similar resolution was brought before Congress. The few Middle East experts in Army Intel confirmed the impressions I formed three months ago on a fact finding trip to Jerusalem. Unrestricted Jewish immigration into Palestine is sure to worsen the tensions in the region. The Jews and Arabs are already at each other’s throats. Both sides are armed to the teeth, waiting for the opportunity to pounce.

“The second issue is oil. There are negotiations taking place with Saudi Arabia to lay a new oil pipeline from the Persian Gulf to the Mediterranean. If the Saudis think there’s a possibility of increased Jewish immigration, I believe they’ll back out of the proposed deal.”

Preston squared to McCloy. “There’s enough oil in Texas to serve all our future needs. Who gives a damn about the Saudis?”

McCloy shifted in his chair and propped a foot on the edge of the desk. “Our lines of communication throughout Africa are to an important degree dependent on the cooperation and good will of the Arabs. The Abadan refinery at the head of the Gulf is the only Allied source of aviation gas outside of the western hemisphere. It would require a substantial number of troops to protect it in the event of disorder.”

“So this is really about oil,” Preston said in shock. “Hundreds of thousands are to go up the chimneys to ensure that black gold keeps flowing. If the inmates in Auschwitz are killed, they can’t go to Palestine at the end of the war. This is making a deal with the devil, and some day whoever is involved is going to have to answer for it.”

“You may be right, but I have to deal with the present. This war is all but won. We have to consider the Russians as our enemy. They’re going to control half of Europe in the best scenario. Who knows where the final lines are going to be drawn.” McCloy countered.

“How do the British factor into this, considering they run the Middle East?”

“Churchill is for a bombing campaign if that’s the only option to stop the Nazi extermination plans. However, the Foreign Office, especially Anthony Eden, is dead set against such action. He feels the situation is explosive and doesn’t want to set the fuse. I’ll agree that it’s heartless, but none-the-less, realistic.” McCloy said. The direct line to Secretary Stimson rang. McCloy answered with two syllables, “O-kay.”

McCloy moved the seascape oil painting on the wall behind his chair. The picture frame hinged to the wall opened like a bathroom medicine chest to reveal a safe. He removed a red colored binder, checked the contents, and held it out at arms length. Preston hesitated as though it was a lit stick of dynamite. “Preston, take the damn binder and read it over. I have to see Stimson.”

Preston placed the “Ultra Sensitive-Eyes Only” binder on the adjacent leather chair. He didn’t want to open it, sure that McCloy’s remarks were the portent of something bad. It had been years since he felt anxiety like he did in the backseat of his father’s Packard on arriving at Princeton for his first semester. He was perspiring. Reading the thirty-five page report twice didn’t change the facts.

McCloy returned, reached into the bottom drawer of the desk and removed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured two shot glasses and pushed one across the desk. “From the look on your face, you didn’t like what you read.”

Preston swallowed the drink in one gulp.

“The Jewish action group that caused those scars on your face has placed people into the Fifteenth Air Force poised to take matters into their own hands.” McCloy sipped the sour mash. “A mission is on the board for the twentieth of this month.”

Preston fought to control his breathing. “You’re giving me a week to get to Italy.”

“You’re spot on,” McCloy said, draining his glass. “You’re to evaluate the situation and take whatever measures necessary to prevent unauthorized attacks.” He waited for a reaction. It was the time to find out if Preston had a backbone or was to be written off as a favor gone badly.