This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4)

by William Peter Grasso

  Goodpaster glanced at the covered body of Horace Pickens, letting out a disappointed sigh in the process. “This just ain’t gonna work, Sean. One city, four zones of occupation…we’re patrolling the Russian zone and they’re patrolling ours…German civilians causing all kinds of problems wandering from zone to zone whenever they damn please. Can’t say I blame them though…they’re just trying to stay fed. I understand there’s got to be some politicking, but this Berlin occupation is the most jacked-up piece of bullshit I’ve ever been involved with. I’m telling you, this shit ain’t gonna stop until someone puts up a damn wall across this city between us and those Red bastards.”

  “Amen to that, Huey. Or better yet, until we drive their Red asses right back to Moscow.”

  They didn’t realize Lieutenant Cheatwood was standing behind them, hands on hips, impatiently drumming his fingers. He’d gotten over his little sulk and was ready to assert the silver bar on his collar once again.

  “Sergeant Goodpaster, I’ll need a report on the stolen materiel immediately, if not sooner,” the lieutenant said.

  Taunting Cheatwood through a mask of sincerity, Goodpaster replied, “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant, but I thought you said you were running a murder investigation.”

  “Can’t you see how it’s all related, Sergeant?” Cheatwood replied, his face growing red. “I suspect this is part of a black market operation that—”

  Sean interrupted with, “So you agree that Privates Meacham and Slattery couldn’t have had anything to do with it, then, Lieutenant?”

  That pushed Cheatwood over the edge. He began to rant, “I agree with nothing of the sort! Those men could still be deeply involved! It’ll be the firing squad for both of them if I have—”

  Sean cut him off again. “Hold on a minute, Lieutenant. Everything we’re seeing here confirms Private Slattery’s story pretty damn well. And if Private Meacham’s alibi pans out, well…”

  Cheatwood cast his eyes and arms skyward, as if beseeching the heavens to help him. Then he addressed the heavens, too: “Did they send all the smart NCOs home and leave me with these two…” He paused, fumbling for a suitable derogatory term.

  Sean offered, “Maybe the word you’re looking for is numbnutzes, Lieutenant?”

  Goodpaster added, “I was thinking more like sad sacks myself. Or maybe old war horses.”

  “Besides, Lieutenant,” Sean said, “who the hell would profit from a black market in GI truck parts? We get the parts for free, and the Russians, well…they need to use the shit, not sell it.”

  “Oh, use your imagination, Sergeant,” Cheatwood said, like a teenaged know-it-all scolding his stupid parents. “It’s a German black market ring. They know the Russians are hurting for the parts, so they steal them and sell them—”

  Sean and Goodpaster shook their heads, trying not to laugh.

  “A couple of problems with that theory, Lieutenant,” Sean said. “The only German in this place last night was apparently some blonde woman servicing the late Sergeant Pickens. And why would the Russians—who seem to be broker than we are at the moment—pay for something they could just as easily steal themselves?”

  Cheatwood’s mouth was open as if trying to say something. But no words were coming out. His brain hadn’t caught up yet.

  Then it did. He said, “But why would thieves with firearms stab someone when it’s so much easier just to shoot him?”

  “Guns make noise, Lieutenant,” Sean replied. “Lots and lots of noise. And there are lots and lots of people in the area to hear it, even in the middle of the night. There’s an airfield right across the street full of flyboys, remember? Gunfire attracts attention.”

  “But…but,” the lieutenant said, motioning toward Pickens’ shrouded corpse, “but maybe Sergeant Pickens was in on the whole thing…and he got double-crossed…and…” His voice drifted away. He’d run out of conspiracy theories.

  Sean said, “Let’s not speak ill of the dead, okay, Lieutenant? This man died in combat for his country. We just ain’t got around to declaring war on the savages who killed him yet.”

  Chapter Three

  He hated the latest call sign 9th US Air Force HQ had given his flight: Butternut. Every time Captain Tommy Moon announced himself over the radio as Butternut Leader, he could swear the RAF pilots his flight was supporting would chuckle. Or maybe laugh out loud into their oxygen masks.

  Butternut sounds kind of sissy, Tommy thought, but I guess as call signs go, at least it’s distinctive and hard to confuse, even if the tinny audio of our aircraft radios makes it sound like you’ve got a mouthful of marbles. Some desk jockey in the comm section at HQ got the bright idea to use call signs based on nicknames of the States. It seems “Butternut” is the nickname for Tennessee—the Butternut State.

  I’m from Brooklyn. How the hell am I supposed to know that?

  I asked if maybe we could use “Empire” instead, for New York, the Empire State.

  But my C.O. wouldn’t go for it. He was afraid it might annoy our British allies, with them being subjects of the British Empire and all.

  God forbid we annoy our allies, right?

  Wait until my brother Sean gets a load of this call sign. A big tough master sergeant like him will laugh his ass off. Probably suggest our next one should be “Daffodil” or something like that.

  And wait until the day we’re told to fly missions with our Soviet “allies.” Boy, do I have a bookful of call signs that will annoy them. Those weeks I spent with them back in April and May were an education I’ll never forget.

  So on this bright July afternoon in 1945, two months after the War in Europe had come to a close with the German surrender, Butternut Flight—four P-47D Thunderbolts under the command of Tommy Moon—was at 20,000 feet flying top cover for two flights of RAF Tempest fighter-bombers. They’d flown cooperation missions with the Brits and the French from time to time in the past, but now it was an everyday thing. Tommy understood the reason why: It’s no surprise we’ve got to help them out. One look at the RAF airfields in northern Germany will tell you all you need to know: the Brits are sending their soldiers and airmen home even faster than we Americans are.

  Pooling our resources looks like it’s going to be the only way to make this occupation work.

  The Tempests were down at 8,000 feet, scouting for a pair of British submarines currently cruising on the surface along the Baltic coast of Poland. Tommy and his pilots had been briefed that the scouting was purely for “safety” reasons: to prevent collisions in the heavy maritime traffic that served the Baltic ports while the subs conducted diving drills and other training exercises. But Tommy—as well as any other Yank who paid attention to the unspoken agendas of postwar politics—knew the British subs would be seeking out Soviet warships, and the Tempests could help them do that by providing eyes that could look over the horizon. What exactly the submarines would do if Soviet warships appeared—shadow them, harass them, or take the unthinkable step of torpedoing them—was being kept close to British vests.

  Tommy knew that one more point begged an answer, as well: Why would the RAF planes need top cover in the postwar skies? Could it be that they think the Soviets are wise to their game and planning some interdiction of their own?

  There had been so many rumors in the past two months concerning the tensions between the Soviets and their Western Allies. Anyone who’d spent some time with the Brits had heard the expression square deal for Poland, a Churchillian gambit intent on ending the Soviet occupation—and domination—of that nation.

  But Tommy was sure of one thing: If there’s going to be anyone ending the Soviet domination of any country in Eastern Europe, it isn’t going to be Churchill, that’s for damn sure. Not as worn out by the last five years of war as Britain is. No matter how badly he wants to atone for turning his back on Poland both before and after the war.

  Or is this the time and place he finally decides to draw the line against Uncle Joe Stalin in Eastern Europe? After giving u
p the store to him at the Yalta conference.

  But where’s the muscle to pull this off? The US forces still in Europe are in slightly better shape than the Brits. But not by much. Sure, there are a few divisions of Free Polish troops still at Churchill’s disposal. And I’ve heard rumors in both British and American circles about rearming that big pool of ex-Wehrmacht soldiers—something like one hundred thousand of them who are still fit for combat—and drafting them to fight with us against the Soviets.

  But if you add all those heads up, the Soviets we’re facing still outnumber us by something like three to one.

  And Truman is a hell of a lot more interested in getting Uncle Joe’s help to finish off Japan than pushing him out of Eastern Europe.

  The Tempest flight leader was on the radio, his voice crisp with excitement. His message was coded, but Tommy had little doubt what it meant: They’ve sighted Soviet warships headed toward Gdansk Bay. It’s the submarines’ show now. We’re supposed to pull back with the Tempests to the German coast and hold near Hiddensee. We’ll loiter there until the subs call for help or we get low on fuel.

  I’m laying odds this is all a big bluff that’ll let some bigwigs say how “vigilant” we’re being. Those subs won’t do a damn thing except wave at the Soviet ships.

  In the hour that followed, there were no further reports from the British submarines. At the limits of their fuel endurance, the P-47s and Tempests broke off their mission and returned to Stralsund, an RAF airfield on the German Baltic coast. It would be dark soon, anyway, ending their ability to provide protection and reconnaissance for the subs.

  After supper, the pilots retired to the club for a few rounds of drinks while they speculated what the submarines might be doing in the dark of night. Pontificating from his perch on a barstool, an RAF wing commander offered his assessment. “The Reds are keen to turn the Baltic into a Russian lake, right down to controlling the Kiel Canal, giving themselves quick and easy access to the Atlantic via the North Sea. They’d never again have to fight the ice of the Arctic Ocean or the choke points of the Bosporus and Gibraltar. Of course, Ten Downing Street is equally as keen to prevent that from happening.”

  Tommy Moon asked, “So how are two submarines going to stop Soviet battleships, cruisers, and destroyers from going wherever they please…without sinking them, sir?”

  The wing commander gave a condescending sigh, the ones the Brits reserved for their amusement with those bloody stupid Yanks. “It’s really very simple, Captain Moon. They will provoke the Russians into an embarrassing incident, one that will give us bargaining chips to keep the Soviets in their bloody place.”

  That answer didn’t satisfy Tommy. “What kind of incident are we talking here, sir? Like your subs letting the Russians sink them?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Captain Moon. That’s not what I mean at all. But since we’re both aviators and not seafaring men, we’d be fools to speculate in specifics. Let’s just say that His Majesty’s Navy has a far greater command of the sea than the Reds could ever dream of. I’m sure they’ll come up with something devilishly clever.”

  He’d barely dropped off to sleep when an RAF orderly roused him. “There’s a call for you at Operations, Captain Moon,” the orderly said. “They say it’s quite urgent.”

  Tommy checked his wristwatch; it read 0235.

  “Who the hell is they, airman?”

  “It’s aircraftman, sir, not airman. AC for short. And they identified themselves as Headquarters, Ninth US Air Force.”

  “Ahh, shit,” Tommy mumbled. “What could be so damn important it couldn’t wait another couple of hours?”

  “I’m afraid that’s a bit over my head, sir,” the aircraftman replied.

  An impatient voice at the other end of the line identified himself as Colonel Bailey, duty officer at 9th Air Force HQ. Then he told Tommy, “Make your apologies to the Brits and then get you and your boys back to Eschborn at first light. The shit’s going to hit the fan any second, and the general wants all units at full strength.”

  “Understood, sir,” Tommy replied, “but can I have at least a hint what kind of shit we’re talking about?”

  “You may not, Captain. Just get your ships back home. And make it quick.”

  Without another word, the colonel rang off and the line went dead.

  “Dammit,” Tommy mumbled to no one, “first the Brits clam up…and now our own HQ does it, too. Is anybody going to tell us what the hell’s going on?”

  He thought about something his big brother Sean always told him about Army life: anyone who isn’t confused doesn’t really understand the situation.

  By 0500, Tommy’s three pilots were awake, chowed down on bangers and mash, and pre-flighting their aircraft. They found the lack of a reason they were hurrying back to their home base just as frustrating as their flight leader. Tommy’s wingman, a lieutenant barely twenty years old named Tony Jansen, put it this way: “We were all just getting used to English food again, boss. Our stomachs aren’t going to like this.”

  Coming from a replacement pilot like Jansen, who didn’t even get overseas until a few weeks before Germany surrendered, the complaint didn’t cut much ice with Tommy. Not when you considered that he and the other old hands had been flying out of England for a year or more before the invasion of the continent. He asked, “When did you ever have a chance to get used to English food, Tony? How long were you there? A week or two when you were in transit to France, maybe?”

  “Hey, cut me some slack, boss,” Jansen replied. “Food that good makes a quick and lasting impression on a growing boy. I think I gained a couple of pounds on English butter alone.”

  “Save it for your mother, Tony.”

  The RAF operations officer didn’t want Butternut Flight to leave Stralsund, either. But the paperwork releasing them from cooperation duty spilled off the printer just as Colonel Bailey had promised Tommy it would. There was little the RAF could do but sign off on their departure.

  “I can’t imagine why they have you in such a bloody rush to leave,” the ops officer said. “What’s on their minds back at your HQ?”

  “Wish I knew,” Tommy replied, gathering up his flight paperwork.

  The dull gray of pre-dawn was yielding to a beautiful sunrise as the pilots of Butternut Flight climbed into the ships everyone called jugs. Thunderbolt may have been the proper name for the P-47, but the nickname had reigned supreme throughout the war, and now after.

  Tommy was nestled in the cockpit of his jug—named Eclipse of the Hun IV—and was halfway through the pre-start checklist when he saw the RAF officer running toward his ship. He was startled when he recognized who the officer was: the wing commander from last night’s drinking and bullshit session. He wasn’t used to seeing men of that rank—equivalent to a lieutenant colonel in the US Army Air Forces—running to speak with anyone, especially someone of lower rank. They’d just summon you by sending a junior officer or NCO.

  Maybe somebody finally knows something important, and he’s coming to tell us, Tommy surmised. Or maybe one of us neglected to pay his bar tab and he’s hell-bent on collecting.

  Bounding up the wing root to the cockpit, the RAF man leaned over the canopy rail to be heard over the roar of the other three jugs starting their engines. His face was flushed, maybe from the sprint to the flight line, maybe from the urgency of his message. Or both.

  “Needed to catch you before you left us, Moon,” the wing commander said. “I thought you’d want—no, perhaps need—to know this. Your comments in the bar last night appear more insightful than I thought at the time. Soviet radio intercepts are reporting a major explosion on the Baltic late last night. A vessel of some sort.”

  “Ours or theirs, sir?”

  “We don’t bloody know, Moon. Not yet, anyway.” He patted Tommy on the shoulder and then added, “Good flying to you. Stay alert, for everyone’s sake. Welcome back any time.”

  With the wing commander clear of his aircraft, Tommy cranked her engin
e. Butternut Flight was airborne a few minutes later. A brilliant morning sun seemed perched on their left wingtips as they flew south through clear skies toward Frankfurt and their base at Eschborn Airfield.

  They leveled off at 10,000 feet and settled in for the two-hour flight. Tommy looked over his right shoulder, checking that the other three were correctly positioned in their echelon right formation, like shimmering metal birds in staggered trail off their leader’s right wingtip. The air was silky smooth; holding formation would be easy, even with that constant bobbing up and down—those slight variations in altitude of a few feet that even the most experienced pilots couldn’t avoid.

  Then Tommy glanced at the photograph affixed to the corner of the instrument panel. It was a picture of Sylvie Bergerac: former fighter for the French Resistance, former civil administrator for French 1st Army—and his lover for the past year, whenever the war had allowed them to be together.

  And now she’s signed on with some American intelligence agency as a “translator.” Sure, she speaks a bunch of languages, but she’s fearless and she craves action.

  She’d never be “just” a translator. That’s a good cover story, but I don’t believe for a minute that’s all she’s doing.

  She’s a spy again, dammit…some kind of undercover agent. I can feel it in my bones. But this time, she’s not doing it for France. She’s doing it for Uncle Sam…

  And against the Russians.

  He gazed at her photo all he dared while guiding this powerful aircraft, drinking in the smiling schoolgirl face that shined with youthful innocence. But he knew that was a deception: Beneath that sweet smile, she’s ten times tougher than I’ll ever be.

  Chapter Four

  H.M. NAVAL SERVICE

  WHITEHALL, LONDON

  11 July 1945

  SUBJECT: Official Statement of Fleet Commander, R.N.S. Concerning Actions in the Eastern Baltic