House of Ghosts (43 page)

Fire trucks and ambulances were parked with their engines idling along the flight line. Well rehearsed in rescuing injured from burning aircraft, maintenance crews lounged along the main runway smoking cigarettes, tossing baseballs or taking in the sun.

Colonel Wullien searched the horizon through a pair of binoculars. A briar pipe was stuck between his front teeth. The colonel reminded Preston of a nervous father watching for his kids coming home on the first day of school. Wullien turned from the rail. “Did you get the material you requested?”

“Thank you. The personnel files have been a real help,” Preston said, shielding his eyes from the Mediterranean sun.

Wullien continued to sweep the sky. “Doesn’t make any sense to me, but when the assistant secretary of war says to cooperate…” He had dealt with head hunters from the Pentagon before and learned the easiest way to defang the beast was to comply.

“Five minutes, colonel,” one of the controllers yelled.

“Ever have a machine gun bullet wiz by your head, Captain Swedge?” Wullien asked, drawing on the pipe.

Specks on the horizon became larger as they closed the distance to the base. “The closest I’ve been to any action was a secretary throwing a pencil past my ear when I criticized her typing,” Preston admitted.

Wullien turned back to the rail. “I’ll arrange a ride before you skedaddle back to Washington.”

Preston could see Wullien’s lips move as he silently counted the returning planes. Counting the dots in the sky was a ritual that tested nerves. Not until the last plane was on the ground could he think of relaxing.

One of the planes fired a red flare indicating wounded on board. The
Dixie Queen
would have landing priority. Rescue crews ran to their vehicles. Wullien counted aloud, “Nine, ten, eleven…” Nine were missing. The flock that took off that morning totaled twenty. Wullien pushed up the bill of his hat. The color had washed from his face. “Nine lost,” he grumbled. “Ninety men in the shitter. Let’s go.”

Wullien took the ten steps down two at a time with Preston on his heels to his Jeep sitting in the shadow of the control tower. The remaining ten planes landed in quick succession. Preston tried to read the names on the noses of the grey breasts as they rolled by, hoping that the
Brooklyn Avenger
was among the missing. Wullien slipped the Jeep into first gear. With the last bomber rumbling past, he accelerated across the runway to the bomber parking area, looping around emergency vehicles to slide to a stop beside the
Dixie Queen
. The bottom ball turret gunner was being carried from the plane on a stretcher. Blood covered his face and flight suit.

Wullien crouched over the wounded airman, whispering into his ear as medics worked to stem the hemorrhaging. Wullien helped lift the gurney into an ambulance then returned to the Jeep. “That kid got his arm blown off. Amazing he didn’t bleed to death.” He climbed behind the wheel. “Losses and casualties have been going down. I hate to think of them as numbers, but the numbers are what the Pentagon is interested in. Ours have been great until today.”

Preston looked at the planes. Not one of the eleven was without damage. He couldn’t comprehend what it was like flying at 22,000 feet in an open aircraft with enemy fighters heading dead on with multiple guns blazing away. There it was, three aircraft up the line—the Rothstein plane. “I don’t know how you can do this day after day.”

“Neither do the brass back home,” Wullien said, relighting his pipe.

“I’ll do my best to reflect your concerns,” Preston replied, keeping his eyes on the
Brooklyn Avenger
.

Crews, emerging with frostbitten blotches on skin not covered by their oxygen masks and goggles, stripped off flight jackets and suits. Several pilots huddled in animated conversation, pointing toward the
Brooklyn Avenger
. Preston strained to hear, catching one loud “Jew bastard.”

Cigarettes dangling from lips waited to be lit away from the gasoline fumes of near empty fuel tanks. Seven hours without a smoke came to an end as they climbed into the rear of six-by-sixes for the return trip to group headquarters.

Wullien led the procession, winding down the hills to the plateau below. The crews climbed from the trucks without words. One hundred-ten bodies filed into the assembly hall. Fifteen minutes was allotted for latrine use and grabbing a cup of coffee with a handful of doughnuts before debriefing commenced. Preston stayed near the entrance.

Wullien addressed the group. “I want to hear what happened, without dramatics.”

First Lieutenant William Hune of the 20th squadron which flew “tail-end-Charlie,” the last position in the last group in the bomber stream, began, “After the formation crossed the Adriatic, we were falling behind.”

“The squadron?” Wullien asked.

“No, the entire group, sir,” Hune replied. “Things got worse after we entered Czech airspace. Lagging from their squadrons,
Wolf Pack
from the 429th and a 17 from the 49th fell into our area.”

His co-pilot First Lieutenant Frank Finn chimed in, “A British B-24 was in trouble and losing fuel also fell in.”

Wullien turned to First Lieutenant Mike Melvin, a pilot in the forward 429th squadron. “From your vantage point, where was the 20th?”

Melvin looked at Hune. “They were lagging 1,000 to 2,000 feet below and 500 to 2,000 yards behind the group.”

Second Lieutenant Albert Dearing of the 49th squadron held up his hand. Wullien nodded for him take the discussion. “I think Gerry figured out that our P-51s leave the formation naked to clean the air over the target. We had no protection.” His hands shook so badly he wasn’t able to light a cigarette.

Paul caught sight of the new face standing near the entrance, having the strange feeling they had met.

“Rothstein,” Wullien said, shaking his head. For months he’d been saying to Fifteenth command that the tactic of fighter escorts leaving the formation was inviting disaster.

Paul, without looking away from the entrance, cleared his throat. “We were below a thin layer of clouds when fifty to sixty Me-109s and at least twenty-four FW-190s began their attack. One force approached from the rear, while the others hid behind the clouds.”

Agitated, Hune interrupted, “Through the haze, we spotted the fighters to the rear, but they arrived when our escorts were to arrive. The bad guys were flying in a P-51 formation. The head on profiles of an ME-109 and a P-51 are almost identical. Before we realized what was happening, the combined enemy forces dove, overwhelming our defenses before we got a shot off.”

Wullien began pacing. “I want to hear about the nine planes lost. Let’s begin with
Wolf Pack
.

“I had a good angle,” Graham said. “Fighters made a single pass blasting away at
Wolf Pack
. A burst of fire from Rothstein’s aircraft helped finish her off.” He looked squarely at Paul.

“There’s no way,” Paul protested.

Otto Schrup, a lower ball turret gunner on Hune’s plane shouted, “Bullshit.
Your
waist gunner firing at one of the fighters took out the windscreen. A plane can’t fly without a pilot or co-pilot.”

Sapienza bowed his head. “It was fucking crazy up there.”

“
Wolf Pack
fell like a stone.” Graham took a seat, rocking on the chair’s rear legs and enjoying the skirmish. There was no love lost between him and Paul from their first meeting at bomber flight school. He said to Preston, “The responsibility is the pilot’s.”

“Rothstein didn’t fire the machine gun,” Preston countered.

“Doesn’t matter,” Graham replied with a grin.

The hall grew eerily silent. Melvin sprinted across the room, body slamming Vinnie onto his back. “You stupid piece of shit,” the pilot from Alabama, a veteran of thirty missions, said punching Sapienza in the mouth.

Paul joined the fray, pulling the former running back from Auburn University away. “You know how chaotic it was.
We
took fire from inside the box.”

Paul relaxed his grip on Melvin’s flight jacket, allowing Melvin to push away. Melvin shouted, “You’re a damn Jew who can’t control his crew, especially this here
I-talian
. This isn’t the first time your crew screwed up, just the first time it got somebody killed.”

Shep Peterson stepped between the combatants. “Nobody did anything on purpose, simmer down.”

“Enough!” Wullien shouted.

“What’s this all about?” Preston asked Graham who was standing next to him.

“Melvin and the pilot of the
Wolf Pack
were best buddies,” Graham explained. “A lot of guys don’t like Jews and fellows with names ending in a vowel. Peterson and Tom Hornish, Rothstein’s co-pilot are the only officers who cotton to him.”

“You’re not a pilot,” Graham said, lighting a cigarette. “What’s your game?”

“Evaluating morale and the effect of missions like today on the crews,” Preston said, watching three of Melvin’s crewmen help the heavily perspiring pilot to a chair.

“You a shrink?” Graham asked suspiciously.

“No. A roving bean counter.”

Graham grabbed a cup of coffee. “Meet me later, say about 19:00 at the Officer’s Club and we’ll talk more.” He moved off to a table on the other side of the room.

A hand shot in the air. “Peterson, something to add?” Wullien asked.

“A P-51 didn’t try to engage when
Wolf Pack
was under attack. I don’t know whether he had a mechanical problem, or a problem with his backbone.”

“Catch a tail number?” Wullien asked.

“457,” Peterson said. “The asshole, Johnson.”

A fighter pilot not coming to the aid of a bomber was unheard of. “I’ll check into it,” Wullien said. The lead debriefing officer pointed to his watch. Wullien was breaking protocol. Standard procedure was to get the crews to the debriefing officers while their recollections were fresh. “To the tables.”

PAUL SHIFTED BOOT TO BOOT in the olive grove three-hundred yards from the bivouac. Shadows cast by a half-moon didn’t help his anxiety. There was movement to his left. Slinking behind one of the three-hundred year old trees, Paul eased the safety off on his .45 automatic. The night before, a pack of wild dogs mauled one of the enlisted men lubricated on the abundant local wine. The scuttlebutt carried the word of the kid being turned into a eunuch. One burst of a flashlight signaled the arrival of Vinnie Sapienza. Paul returned two flashes, moved the safety to the on position, and tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants.

“Sorry, Paulie,” Vinnie said. A wad of bills stuck out of his shirt pocket. “The schnooks woulda shit bricks if I left. I was on fire.” A night didn’t pass without the roll of the dice. “I made the rounds. Unfortunately, you’re right.”

“I knew Swedge’s appearance wasn’t by chance.”

Vinnie cupped a match and lit a half-smoked cigar. “My man inside Wullien’s office says Swedge showed up without warning.”

Paul took Vinnie’s cigar and took a pull. “Hornish stopped by my tent on his way from the club to tell me that Swedge has struck up a friendship with Chuck Graham.”

“Like my mother used to say, assholes flock together,” Vinnie said, taking the cigar back.

“I think she meant birds of a feather,” Paul laughed.

“You didn’t know my mother,” Vinnie said, choking on the cigar’s smoke. He pulled a new cigar from his pocket, throwing the old stub into the weeds.

“Do you have another?” Paul asked.

“Does your mother know you smoke?” Vinnie cracked as he split the Italian stogie in half, giving Paul the rolled end. “You nervous or something?”

“Like a cat on a hot stove.” Paul struck a match against a tree and puffed the DeNobli Toscani to life.

They sat on a rotting tree stump, the cigar smoke keeping the bugs at bay. “What did Buckley tell you?” Paul asked. Staff Sergeant Barney Buckley doubled as the town crier and Wullien’s aide. “Give it to me straight.”

Vinnie leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Swedge strolls into group headquarters, flashes a letter from the assistant secretary of war and Wullien wets himself. Swedge asked for the personal files of everyone in the group. Our colonel complied without as much as a why.”

“What in hell is he looking for?”

“I think it’s a smokescreen,” Vinnie said as he spit out a piece of frayed tobacco. “He asked if the records for the crew of the
Brooklyn Avenger
were complete and then quizzes him about each of us. For Buckley, every officer is an enemy. He gave Swedge a pile of shrugs and I don’t knows.”

“Swedge is onto us, isn’t he?” Paul asked, looking at his glowing cigar.

“Swedge’s boss made a name for himself battling German spies and is responsible for locking up the Japs in California. The government has known about you and Jake’s amateur friends since day one.”

“Jake knew this all along.” Paul said dejectedly. “He was acting funny when he saw me off when I left for bomber training.”

“Why do you think I was at Ephrata to welcome you?” Vinnie pushed himself off the stump.

“My brother always treats me like a kid. He should have told me.”

Vinnie shrugged his shoulders. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing except you would’ve been watching over your shoulder instead of concentrating on learning how to fly.”

“And I was convinced that one of the crew wagged his tongue,” Paul said.

“I would have smelled something rotten with a nose like mine.” Vinnie touched his thrice broken centerpiece. “Swedge came to this garden of Eden already knowing that Jake got you placed. For all I know, he’s got me pegged too.”

Paul threw his cigar into the mud. “How come I haven’t been dragged off to the brig? He could have me busted in a minute.”

“Wullien wouldn’t let some asshole roll in here and take one of his pilots. Me, he couldn’t give a shit about, but one of his officers would be another story,” Vinnie said with a chuckle. “No, Swedge has to stop the plan by himself.”

“I can’t even come up with even a wacky idea how he could manage that,” Paul said.