Chapter 36
ITALY, AUGUST 1944
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?”