Chapter 39
ITALY, AUGUST 1944
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.”
Manowitz was a wish come true. It would count toward the fifty missions required to rotate home and wouldn’t draw a bead of sweat. The 2nd had seen their share of smoke and flak. Scattered flak was equal to a bunch of pea shooters. It was the swarming Me-109s that caused havoc. Manowitz was going to be a “milk-run.” The lights at the rear of the stage were lowered. The first reconnaissance photo was projected. Bradford continued, “This is the IP four miles from the I.G. Farben complex.” Four chimneys surrounded by acres of military style barracks filled the screen.
Preston had seen this photo of the Birkenau section of the Auschwitz concentration camp in McCloy’s office a month earlier. Bradford made no mention of the concentration camp. Preston wasn’t surprised— only a select number of the intelligence community were privy to the details.
The next slide was put up. Bradford moved close to the screen. “This is the heart of the target. The chimney on the boiler house is four-hundred feet tall.” He traced the wood pointer across the screen. “A power line runs north from a transformer station to a gas generation plant. It’s the least protected in the concrete installation. You hit it, production is kaput, and you don’t have to go back.”
Preston stared down the row. Paul Rothstein wasn’t enjoying the moment with his fellow pilots. Paul turned. A broad smile filled the pilot’s face as he flashed the thumbs up. Preston nodded his head in recognition. A surreal bond was forged, like two heavyweight boxers standing in their corners for the start of the fifteenth round.
Colonel Wullien concluded the briefing by warning, “It’s real easy to lose your edge when you don’t think you’re going to get your ass shot off. Stay alert and come back safely.”
The assembly snapped to attention. Wullien and Dexter descended the stage. The crews gathered their belongings and began filtering to the ready room. Paul sidestepped Hornish walking directly toward Preston. “Captain Swedge, you have the uncanny resemblance to someone I knew back in New York who hung around Madison Square Garden. I asked him why he spent so much of his time there. You know what he said? Because it was such a blast.”
Preston didn’t flinch. “I must resemble more than just one handsome fellow in the city.”
Paul closed the distance till they were nose to nose. “The guy had a friend who I’d bet would make a helluva fighter jockey.” Paul adjusted his cap, took two steps back, and saluted.
Preston’s rubbed his clammy hands together resisting the old demons that overcame him in the back seat of his father’s Packard that summer day in 1938 on the drive to Princeton. He rested against the wall, thinking about how he became involved in such craziness. Bradford having caught bits and pieces of the conversation slipped un-noticed to his side. “Anything wrong?”
“Lieutenant Rothstein was mistaken in thinking we had met in New York,” Preston said, recovering his composure.
Bradford had argued the finer points of Yale-Princeton football with Preston the day before in The Cave. “How about joining me for a cup of coffee?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I have a few things to wrap up before leaving for Washington,” Preston replied, not wanting to extend the conversation.
Bedford shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe we’ll meet at one of the games.”
Preston figured the odds were slim and none. “I look forward to it.”
In groups of six and eight, crews boarded the trucks waiting to ferry them to their ships. Paul and Shep Peterson exchanged handshakes with the big Texan bending down to speak into the smaller New Yorker’s ear. Preston marveled at the unlikely pair’s friendship.
Returning to the bivouac, Preston walked the rows of tents, making certain the area was deserted. It wasn’t uncommon for pilots who weren’t flying for medical reasons to be in their tents. He made his way to The Alamo. Gigham mentioned that Rothstein kept a diary and he was determined to find it.
The footlocker stenciled “Rothstein” on the side yielded two uniforms and five books, the bed nothing. Preston moved to Peterson’s cot. Under the pillow were two letters addressed to Paul’s family. Knowing that Rothstein couldn’t take the diary onto the plane, it had to be in the tent, doubting Paul trusted anyone other than Peterson to keep it.
With limited places available to conceal an object, he focused on the wood slat floor. Lines scribed into the ever-present film of dirt led to the legs of Peterson’s cot. Using his pocketknife, he pried up a one-foot square section, revealing a .30 caliber ammunition box.
Preston extracted the metal box. Releasing the latches on the lid, Preston found what he was after—a manila envelope. He replaced the box into the floor, and returned the cot to its original position. Tearing the envelope open, Preston removed four composition size notebooks, making sure they were Rothstein’s. Putting the letters and the diaries into the envelope, he tucked the package under his tunic.
Secluding himself into the office provided by Wullien, Preston read Paul’s diaries, questioning if he would have possessed the character necessary to complete the mission conceived and planned by his older brother if the roles were reversed. “Captain,” Buckley yelled through the thin pine door, “the birds are returning to the nest.”
Preston packed his satchel and picked up his travel bag. Buckley didn’t look away from his typewriter. “I’m signing out one of the Jeeps,” Preston said. “I’ll make sure it’s returned from Foggia.”
Buckley didn’t miss a beat at the Remington. “Wave that piece of paper from Mr. McCloy when you get there…”
Preston didn’t wait for Buckley to finish turning the knife. The drive up the mountain seemed to be longer and the stairs to the tower seemed a little steeper. Acknowledging the controllers, he made his way to the observation deck. Preston felt the weight on his chest growing heavier and had to make an effort to engage Wullien in a conversation. “The crews were saying this was going to be a milk run. Is there really such a thing?”
Wullien lit his pipe. “This one should be a piece of cake, but the Seventeen sometimes does funny things. A free-wheeling prop, lost oil pressure or an exploding engine can take out a crew.”
The familiar shout of incoming planes was heard. The ground crews began their choreographed welcoming dance. Despite the presumption of an easy mission, the medical personnel were ready for the worst.
Lips moved in unison, counting aircraft. The sky remained flare free, there were no wounded. It was indeed a milk run. The count was started. There was an aircraft unaccounted for. “Now you see, Swedge, why I’m going gray,” Wullien grumbled. “I didn’t have a one until I took this command. Sergeant, find out who it is.”
The sergeant returned holding his clipboard. “It’s the Brooklyn Avenger, Rothstein’s plane.”
Weston tapped his pipe against the railing. “You want a ride back for debriefing?”
Preston made a point of checking his watch. “I have to get back to Foggia.” For a second, he could see Wullien question why he had bothered to go to the control tower if he wasn’t going to the debriefing session.
“When you get back to Washington, tell them what life is really like over here.”
“Colonel, my report will reflect your concerns,” Preston said. He needed to get a message to “Uncle John.”