House of Ghosts (44 page)

Vinnie inhaled the cigar. “That my friend you leave to me. Remember, I was raised to think like a criminal. It’s the only reason I’m still alive.”

PRESTON SAT AT THE DESERTED BAR in the officers club of the 325th Fighter Group at Lesina. A cold beer had barely removed the dust that invaded his throat during the two hour drive north from Amendola in an open Jeep. Preston didn’t check in with the base commander. This visit was off the record.

Unlike Amendola, Lesina had traditional barracks and amenities for officers and enlisted men. The private tending bar tried to make small talk with the unnamed captain. “You from New York?”

“You wouldn’t have been a cop before the war?” Preston joked. “Can’t deny it. New York through and through. Where are you from, private?”

“Chicago,” he said, wiping a glass.

Preston checked his watch. Assigned escort duty for the 2nd Bomb Group mission to bomb a synthetic gasoline production facility in Upper Silesia, Poland, the 325th had been on the ground for more than an hour and a half. The debriefing session was taking an inordinate amount of time. “A White Sox fan?”

The private spit into a garbage can. “I’m a Cub’s fan. I wouldn’t set foot in Comiskey.” He finished stacking a supply of glasses. “Here they come.”

The fighter jockeys filtered in. Preston didn’t turn around. The pilots still high on adrenaline paid no attention to him as he watched in an ornate mirror hanging behind the bar. Hands diving and arcing through the air reenacted dogfights with enemy planes.

“Come on gopher brains, four bottles of beer. By now, you should have the routine memorized.” The voice was the same and so was the tenor.

Cringing at the lambasting, Preston kept an eye on the private’s right hand as it wrapped around the neck of a bottle, expecting to see it sail at his tormentor’s head. It would have been shear folly to believe that two years would have changed the loud mouth’s behavior.

With the pilot’s back to him, Preston said, “The Detroit Tigers couldn’t beat a
girl’s softball team. They’re nothing but a bunch of pansies.”

For a moment, Clark Johnson froze then placed his bottle on a table. A broad smile crossed his face. “The City of New York is the receptacle for the unwanted.” He turned around to face Preston, moved to the bar and wrapped his arms around his ex-roommate. “I can’t believe it,” Clark said. He grabbed his beer and moved to the seat next to Preston.

“I was in the neighborhood and couldn’t pass on the opportunity to see an old friend. You haven’t mellowed.”

“It’s amazing that we’re winning the war with morons like him,” Clark fumed, pointing a finger at the private who had moved to the other end of the bar. He eyed the silver bars on Preston’s collar, snapping off a smart salute. “Moving up in this man’s army.”

“And this man’s army has done wonders,” Preston said, tapping Clark on his thinned down waist. “You’ve lost your Michigan baby fat. Is there anyplace we can go for some privacy? I have a few things to discuss, and I don’t want an audience. Your buddies are wondering who I am. It would be the smart thing to introduce me.”

“Guys,” Clark said, turning around. “This is my roommate from college. Say hello to
Captain
Preston Swedge.” Clark waited for the round of hellos to end. “I’m going to show him what an airplane looks like.”

Clark put on his aviator sunglasses as they stepped into the still phosphorous white sun. “Let’s walk toward the flight line.” Fighter planes were staggered not more than the length of a football field away. “I have to admit that I haven’t been too conscientious with my letters to Gloria. The base is one big locker room. There are a lot of temptations.”

Ten fuel trucks rumbled past, sending up a mammoth cloud of dust. “Son of a bitch. This country is either dust or mud,” Preston said, wiping grime off his face. “Remember my friend, this war isn’t going much longer. If you survive, Gloria will never want to see your face. Millie decided that we’re getting married in November.”

Clark stopped and pumped Preston’s hand. “Congratulations.”

“Maybe yes and maybe no.” Preston said shaking his head. “There’s a small hitch. It seems I’ve become a father.”

Clark slapped his leg. “Who’s the mother?”

“A gal in California I met inspecting bases for McCloy. If Millie finds out…”

“Lieutenant,” one of the mechanics called out. “The gasoline line got nicked. You’re lucky the girl didn’t go boom.”

“I’m like a cat with nine lives,” Clark yelled back. They continued walking.
“Don’t tell Millie, don’t have any contact with the woman, and don’t get involved with the kid.”

“She’s my daughter,” Preston said with a sigh.

“Those few minutes of pleasure will ruin your life.” Clark stopped. “Now that we’ve covered the society news, tell me why you’re here.”

Preston took a deep breath. “McCloy has got me involved in some nasty business.”

“I knew one day he’d collect on the IOUs we signed for arranging things.” Clark cleared his throat. “My father works the same way. He wouldn’t give you ice in the winter without conditions.”

Preston didn’t have time to debate McCloy’s motives. “I’ve learned that a Jewish defense group was behind the bombing at the Garden. The formation of what they call the Faction was a reaction to the rhetoric of America First, Lindbergh, Father Coughlin and the other anti-Semites. They saw what was happening to their European brethren and asked why it couldn’t happen to them.”

Clark fished a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jumpsuit. “It would never have happened…”

“It’s a moot point,” Preston interrupted. “They managed to place operatives in positions in the army chain of command where orders could be cut, moving three pilots into the Fifteenth. Two have subsequently been lost, the third is flying with the 2nd.”

“What’s that got to do with
me
?” Clark asked coolly.

“Have you heard about the killing centers the Nazis setup in the occupied territories?”

“Just bits and pieces,” Clark said, lighting the smoke. “Hard to believe the numbers.”

They reached the parked fighters where ground crews were going through their maintenance procedures. Several P-51s were missing engines. “The one with tail number AAF 457 yours?” Preston asked.

“Yeah, how did you know?” Clark asked, deeply inhaling the cigarette smoke.

Preston continued, “Their plan is for the remaining pilot to bomb the Auschwitz death camp.”

“I still don’t follow what you’re saying. A pilot can’t plan his own mission. So what’s the big fucking problem?”

“I’ve seen the target calendar. In two days, the I.G. Farben synthetics rubber plant four miles from the concentration camp will be hit. My guess is that’s when an attempt is going to be made.”

Clark lit another cigarette with the nub of the first
Lucky
. “It’s pretty ironic that your father worked so hard to raise the money for the development of synthetic oil, and now we are bombing the shit out of them. Pray tell, how do I fit into this?”

“You fly a P-51 fighter escort, correct? You escort B-17s of the 2nd almost every mission, and you get paid to shoot down airplanes.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Clark asked, wildly waving his arms. “How do you expect me to get away with something like that, if I was insane enough to agree?”

“I figure Paul Rothstein will lag behind the formation then make his move. When a Seventeen falls from the formation, a fighter escorts the plane. That’s when you take the marauder out. Oh, I left out one detail.”

“I can’t imagine what’s next,” Clark said, losing the sharpness in his voice.

Preston locked eyes with Clark. “I attended a debriefing session at the 2nd. One of the crews bitched that a P-51 with the tail number AAF-457 made no attempt to fend off a ME-109 as it attacked the squadron.”

Clark paled. “What’s his nose art?”

THE 2ND HAD BEEN GROUNDED for three consecutive days of high winds and rain. Endless games of poker and dice took up time and diverted thoughts of the next mission.

“Paulie, I just got the word. Manowitz in two days,” Vinnie said excitedly. They were standing behind a supply shed in an attempt to keep out of the sight of the ever-peering Captain Swedge. In the past week, Paul was sure to find Swedge in the mess, briefing and debriefing sessions, and at
The Cave
. If his intention was to spook Paul, he was succeeding.

“Swedge had to show up and cause all this shit,” Paul said, adjusting his rain poncho. Heavy rain had turned to a drizzle and was forecast to end by the time of the evening mess. Despite the near 80-degree temperature, Paul felt a chill run up his back. “You’re sure about the target?”

Vinnie nodded. “As sure as one can be in this man’s army.”

“I have to talk to the guys.” Paul said, trying to stay calm. “If one of the crew has any doubt, I’m not going to go through with it.”

Vinnie grabbed Paul by his shirt. “You can’t squash the plan because of one yellow belly. Too many are going to die if we don’t go. You said so yourself, that’s why you got it sold. Maybe you’re the one who has doubts?”

“Fuck you!” Paul fumed.

Vinnie looked up at the lifting gray clouds. “My buddy in the motor pool tells me the Park Avenue cowboy came in two days ago early in the morning, signs out a Jeep. He brings the gut rattler back when it is almost dark. That by itself isn’t incriminating evidence, so I ask him where Swedge went. Mind you, my friend is no brain surgeon, and I get nothing. So I ask him what did he see Swedge do before he left. He thinks for a while then says that he went and looked at the map on the wall, like he was studying for a test. I checked that map where my buddy thought he was pointing. I could only find one place that made any kind of sense. Lesina.”

“What’s he doing up at the 325th?” Paul asked.

Vinnie was more than his normally animated self, waving his arms like a Southern preacher. “Clark Johnson. Maybe Swedge goes up there just to see his
goombara cheech
, maybe he don’t.”

“I don’t like him visiting Johnson. We have to assume that Swedge has enlisted him, and for only one purpose.”

“Yeah, shoot our asses out of the sky if we make a move,” Vinnie stated without hesitation. “The best defense is a good offense. If we get the chance tomorrow, I say we take AAF-457 out. I already got a reputation for shooting down our own planes.”

“You can’t go and pop a guy on hunches, and that’s all we have,” Paul said. “Swedge might have a backup for Johnson if he should go down. How many are we going to kill?”

Vinnie shrugged his shoulders and walked away.

WITH THE KEROSENE LAMP HARDLY putting out enough light to read, Paul struggled to complete notes to his family and make what might be a final entry into his diary at a writing desk fashioned from milk crates and a wing flap from a junked B-17. He didn’t want to waste a moment of privacy. Shep Peterson was snoring on the other side of the tent. The two other cots were without occupants since the devastating mission to Moravska Ostrawa, Czechoslovakia. Peterson wanted to send the empty cots to the scrapheap, claiming they were jinxed. No pilot managed to call them home for more than three months.

His letters home were a mixture of emotions. To Jake, he wanted to assuage any guilt that his brother might feel. The decision to complete this mission was his alone having entered into the plan with open eyes.

Paul explained to Sarah, that by her receiving his letter, he was either dead or a prisoner of war. He needed to make amends for the deception perpetrated for the past five years. There were occasions when he thought Sarah was being coy, seeing things but not letting on. While the events of the world had placed their lives on hold, they were the reason for their relationship. Cousin Minnah had brought the evil of Germany and its terror to Brooklyn.

“Briefing at 04:30!” Sergeant Barney Buckley sang his regular tune. Shep Peterson didn’t move. “Lieutenant Rothstein, can you do me a favor and roust Lieutenant Peterson. When he’s snoring like a grizzly I hate to mess with him.”

Paul turned up the kerosene lamp to its maximum, casting the tent in a strange yellow light. He picked up a pair of socks from the clapboard floor, firing them at the unconscious Texan. Buckley tipped his cap and moved on.

Peterson opened his eyes, momentarily not knowing where he was. He checked his watch and pushed the mosquito netting away from his cot. “What the hell are you doing?” Peterson asked. “Getting a head start with Santa Claus?”

“I’m catching up on letters, and I’m wondering if you could do me a favor?”

Peterson sat on the edge of his cot. “What do you want me to do?”

“In case I don’t come back, I want you to mail these letters. One other thing, I want you to keep my diaries. When you get home, send them to my brother.”

Peterson shook his head. “What’s this shit about you not coming back?” He eased into his boots. “You talk like that and bad things happen.”

Paul addressed a large envelope to Jake’s office address at the pier. “The letters should make it through the censors, but my diaries won’t pass. Make sure nobody gets their hands on them.”

PRESTON SHIFTED TEN ROWS FORWARD from his usual spot to the left of the entrance and an unobstructed view to the crew of the
Brooklyn Avenger
as Dexter completed roll call. All were present. With targets being defended by the Germans at all costs, losses continued to stress the replacement and substitution lists. Every available officer was in the Quonset and would soon be in the air. Bradford unveiled the target— Manowitz, Poland, another deep penetration raid of 760 miles. “We’re hunting for oil again,” Bradford opened, drawing the usual chorus of groans. Every target but one to support the invasion of southern France in the last four weeks had been against oil installations and a minimum of seven hours in the air. “The GAF in this region of Poland is for all intents and purposes non-existent. Scattered flak batteries and smoke generators are the prime defenses.”