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

by William Peter Grasso

  He offered them a business card. As Mirka examined it, Sylvie replied, “Yes, we do, Mister Pearson. But I must ask, how many languages do you speak?”

  He made what the Americans called an aw, shucks gesture—a self-conscious smile, a playful tilt of the head—and said, “Languages? Me? I can barely speak my own.”

  Snapping back to French, she demanded, “Then why were you eavesdropping on our conversation so intently, if you didn’t understand a word we were saying?”

  He dropped the aw, shucks act for a smug grin. He’d understood every word she—and they—had said in French. Back in English again, Pearson said, “Okay, you caught me.”

  Without being invited, he squeezed onto the bench next to the women. Then he added, “Perhaps you could tell me a little more about this assignment of yours, and who this Franz fellow is.”

  Mirka replied, “Are you even authorized to be in this building, Mister Pearson?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied, producing a piece of paper from his worn leather portfolio. It was a press pass, adorned with official stamps and the signature of the chief of staff.

  “If you hold this pass,” Mirka said, “then you must be aware that attempting to interview individual staff members is prohibited and will result in your expulsion from the occupied zones. Am I correct?”

  Throwing up his hands as if surrendering, Pearson replied, “Hey, we’re just having a friendly little chat here. Off the record, of course. No harm done. Besides, it’s not every day I get to meet real-live operatives.”

  The women stood up abruptly and began to briskly walk away. Over her shoulder, Sylvie said, “Off the record, Mister Pearson, that’s a load of bullshit.”

  They walked briskly to the MP checkpoint at the building’s entrance and reported Jim Pearson for violating the terms of his access. Less than a minute later, they watched through the lobby’s glass doors as two more MPs arrived to escort Pearson away.

  Climbing the staircase back to the briefing room, Mirka asked, “Do you think we gave anything important away?”

  “Aside from the name Franz, no. And there must be half a million men by that name in Germany.”

  They both started to laugh, for Franz was nothing but a code name, anyway. When they reached their floor, Sylvie said, “We have some time before Major Donleavy returns. I’m going to telephone Bremen and try to talk with Tommy. Maybe I can catch him on the ground today.”

  “You haven’t told him anything about the mission, have you?”

  Her voice cold as ice, Sylvie replied, “The answer is no, Mirka. If you don’t trust me, report me.”

  “No, no...it’s nothing like that, Sylvie…”

  “Good. Then don’t ever ask me again. I’ll do you the same favor.”

  Tommy wasn’t on the ground to receive Sylvie’s call. He and his flight were engaged in what 9th Air Force referred to as asserting dominance. The pilots had another name for it: being targets. Allied aircraft would intentionally patrol the skies over the Soviet zone of occupation to test their response. Until now, being over that zone was something that had only happened by accident.

  Butternut Flight was on its second mission of the day, flying through clear skies in the vicinity of Rostok, Germany, a city on the Baltic coast one hundred fifty miles from their temporary base in Bremen. They flew fast at medium altitude—8,000 to 10,000 feet—trying to see what interest they could rouse in the Russians on the ground and in the air.

  So far, there had been no flak sent up to meet them. There had been no sign of Soviet aircraft, either.

  Pretty surprising, Tommy told himself, considering all that noise the Soviets started making about staying out of the airspace above their territory—except those three air corridors they allow between Berlin and the Allied zone.

  Is that just more Russian hot air?

  Or are we in for a big surprise real soon?

  Of course, they’ve flown over our territory a bunch of times, too…

  And we didn’t do a damn thing about it. Everybody’s still trying not to overreact to provocations.

  Maybe that’s all about to change now.

  Tommy’s number four man—Jack Parrish—saw them first. The trouble was, he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

  “Bandits at two o’clock low,” Parrish reported. “Twin-engined aircraft; I count eight. They might be PE-2s…or Mosquitos, maybe ours or the Brits. Can’t tell.”

  Tommy had to drop Eclipse below Butternut Flight’s formation to get a better view of the bandits. He was worried that Parrish had been confused about the type of aircraft.

  “Yeah, they’re PE-2s,” he told the flight. “Can’t be Mosquitos—these things have twin tails. Keep your eyes peeled up high. Bombers usually have escorts.”

  The PE-2: a versatile Soviet light bomber, fast but with minimal defensive armament.

  If those bombers didn’t change course, they were headed straight for the British zone. Not far beyond that was the American enclave of Bremen and Bremerhaven. They passed quickly below Butternut Flight from right to left on a perpendicular course.

  “Okay, boys,” Tommy said, “climb one thousand feet per minute with left turn to bandit’s heading on my mark…three, two, one, NOW.”

  His pilots needed no explanation of what they were doing and why. They knew Tommy’s plan was to shadow the Soviet bombers while maintaining a big altitude advantage in case escorts did appear. What they didn’t know was what Tommy planned to do if the bombers passed into Allied territory.

  Tommy wasn’t sure what he planned, either. Right now, they’re over their own territory, so we’d better leave them alone. We’re the ones out of bounds.

  But even if they cross the line, we still aren’t supposed to shoot unless they do.

  What if they don’t shoot at us but try to drop bombs?

  Do we have to wait for those bombs to fall before we can do anything?

  That doesn’t make much sense.

  I pray those sons of bitches change course pretty damn soon.

  Getting closer to the boundary of the Allied zone with every passing minute, the Russians showed no intention of turning away. There was still time…

  But not much.

  They were past Wismar now, less than twenty miles from the boundary, less than five minutes’ flying time. Tommy could already see the outlines of Lübeck, an ancient Baltic port city just beyond that boundary in the British zone.

  It might be nice to get some help, too…from our guys, the RAF, I don’t care who.

  But his call on the hailing frequency went unanswered.

  He tried again. Still there was no reply.

  Looks like we’re going to be on our own, dammit.

  Now Lübeck was off their right wingtips. They were over the British zone. The sprawling city of Hamburg was dead ahead, plainly visible, and only twenty-five miles away.

  The PE-2s began a gradual descent, altering course slightly, but still heading straight for the city. These unescorted bombers were either planning to buzz Hamburg…

  Or bomb it.

  If we get too close to the city, the British might get excited and start putting up flak. Will they know the difference between the Russians and us when they’re in a panic?

  Probably not.

  Only one thing to do…and I hope I haven’t waited too long to do it.

  He told his pilots, “Blowers to max, guys. We’ve got to get in front of them.”

  Four hands nudged the turbocharger levers on their throttle quadrants gently forward until those blowers had achieved maximum power from the jugs’ engines. In a few moments, they’d be flying over fifty miles per hour faster than the PE-2s below. The jugs would pass high over them, positioning themselves to confront the Russians head-on.

  “On my mark, in trail,” Tommy said. “We’ll split their formation and spread them out. Gun cameras on, guns armed. Conditions for live fire remain the same.”

  The same: you can’t fire unless the other guy fires first.


  “One more thing,” Tommy added. “When we close, pass beneath them. They’ve got a limited field of fire on their ventral guns.”

  When he figured they were about two miles in front of the Russians, Tommy called, “Break on my mark…one, two, three, BREAK.”

  Plummeting straight down, then pulling out right into the path of the PE-2s, the head-to-head confrontation was over with breathtaking speed. Tommy had lined up on the lead bomber, watching her quickly fill his gunsight before passing closely beneath her. The bomber’s prop wash fiercely buffeted his ship as he did.

  Not a shot was fired.

  Tommy pulled Eclipse into a climbing right turn to regroup his pilots as they, in turn, completed their taunting passes at the bombers.

  When Eclipse had turned enough to see the Russians again, their line formation had become somewhat staggered but was surprisingly intact. Coming head to head with the jugs hadn’t spooked them very much, if at all.

  “These Reds are hardcore,” Tommy announced, “so let’s try something a little different. Spread wide, get on their tails.”

  Jack Parrish—the last man to make his pass—was on the radio now. “We’ve got company upstairs. One o’clock, real high. Single engines. Three flights of them, total of twelve, it looks like.”

  Tommy’s head swiveled until he found them, too, bright sparkles at a much higher altitude. But it was unlikely they were Russians. They were headed the wrong way—from west to east. From their planform view, they looked more like American P-51s. He suspected they were on some sort of asserting dominance mission, just like his own flight.

  He tried calling them on the hailing frequency, even specifying their location, heading, altitude, and aircraft type.

  Nobody replied. The aircraft overhead continued on, unaware or uninterested in the confrontation below.

  What the hell? Is everyone stuck in his own little “pretend” war today or what?

  Boy, times sure change fast. Back in the big circus, when you hollered, “Hey, Rube,” everybody came running.

  They’d be over the outskirts of Hamburg in two minutes. Tommy’s fear of indiscriminate British flak gnawed at him again.

  The jugs crept up on the tails of the PE-2s, close enough to see the muzzles of the dorsal machine guns in the rear of the cockpits tracking them.

  Still, nobody fired.

  But the Russian planes were weaving back and forth now, their formation becoming ragged. Tommy recognized the movement for what it was: That’s not evasive maneuvering. The pilots are getting really nervous now and aren’t sure what to do. Their heads are swiveling all over the place—I can see a few of them actually doing it—and their flying’s getting real sloppy as a result.

  I’ll bet I know what they’re thinking:

  If we open fire, they’re sitting ducks.

  If they open fire, they’re still sitting ducks.

  If they open their bomb bay doors…same damn thing.

  The streets of Hamburg would begin to pass beneath them in less than a minute.

  The Russian planes held their course.

  Still trailing them, Tommy dropped Eclipse slightly below the bombers for a better view of their undersides—and their bomb bay doors.

  Are they going to open now, over Hamburg?

  Or are they headed for Bremen?

  They’ll pass over both on this heading.

  Or are they “asserting dominance,” just like us?

  It was a familiar but sickening feeling to have his finger caressing the trigger switch on the control stick. Every time he’d squeezed that switch in the war, it was always with the greatest of dread, for there would be lives taken and history written, whether it was just a line, a page, or perhaps an entire book. Pulling that trigger could make you a hero or a pariah. Whatever the result, you’d take it to your grave. And maybe beyond.

  We’re not even at war, supposedly. But just one flick of this finger could start one.

  But what the hell are these guys trying to do?

  The Russians I knew weren’t suicidal…although their crazy tactics sure made them seem that way sometimes.

  He looked to the cockpit of the Russian leader, asking a question that pilot was probably asking himself:

  What’s it going to be, pal?

  And then Tommy had his answer.

  The bomb bay doors on the lead plane didn’t open. Instead, something quite unexpected was happening: the Russian pilot was extending his landing gear.

  In air combat, that was an act of surrender.

  The other seven planes were lowering their landing gear, too.

  Now ain’t this some shit.

  Tommy reported the situation over the command frequency, hoping they weren’t still too far for Bremen to hear.

  An unmistakably British voice replied promptly, telling Butternut Leader to bring the surrendering aircraft to RAF Hamburg. But an American controller in Bremen broke in, saying, “Negative, negative. Butternut Flight is ordered to proceed to Bremen with the surrendering aircraft.”

  Hmm…how about that? A pissing contest between us and the Brits.

  There was no doubt in Tommy’s mind that Bremen was the preferred option. Going to Hamburg would involve turning this gaggle of strange aircraft one hundred eighty degrees to land at an airfield with which he was unfamiliar.

  On the other hand, Bremen was a straight-in shot.

  Bremen it is.

  He eased Eclipse next to the Russian leader, just off his right wingtip so he could see into the cockpit clearly. Tommy motioned the pilot to follow me.

  The Russian saluted.

  I guess that’s better than a thumbs up from these guys.

  Tony Jansen’s voice was on the airwaves now, asking, “You think it’s a trick, boss?”

  “Don’t think so. But just to be sure, I’ll lead them from out front. You guys keep an eye on things from the rear.”

  None of the American pilots breathed a sigh of relief until, as they circled their jugs overhead, all eight of the Russian bombers had touched down at Bremen and taxied into the arms of the MPs gathered to greet them.

  Maybe I’m wrong about this “I’m not gonna be court-martialed” stuff, Sean Moon told himself. Because they’re sure in a big rush all of a sudden to get me back to Third Army HQ.

  Early that morning, he’d been stuffed onto a courier flight at Tempelhof and flown to Munich. A jeep manned by two silent and unsmiling MPs was waiting for him. They drove the winding mountain roads thirty miles south to Tegernsee, where Patton had set up his headquarters in a sprawling residence he’d appropriated from a Nazi official now in custody. It was mid-afternoon when they finally arrived.

  Then Sean got to sit outside Patton’s office for another thirty minutes while the general’s aide and his secretary—an attractive German woman—eyed him suspiciously without ever saying a word. By the time the aide informed him, “The general will see you now, Sergeant Moon,” he’d already inflated his expected sentence to ten years, with reduction to private and forfeiture of pay. Standing at parade rest before Patton’s desk, he hoped his trembling knees weren’t obvious.

  The general seemed preoccupied but friendly. “Moon,” he said, “you’re one of Colonel Abrams’ men, aren’t you?”

  “Affirmative, sir.” He’d replied so loudly out of nervousness that he startled himself.

  “At ease, son. At ease,” Patton said. “Haven’t I decorated you a few times?”

  “Affirmative, sir.” He was having trouble slackening his parade rest posture into something more at ease. It was almost impossible to do when he didn’t feel at ease at all.

  Patton opened a folder on his desk. He scanned the papers within it for a few moments. Then he asked, “So you knocked this Russian son of a bitch on his ass?”

  “I thought he was going to shoot me, sir.”

  A big smile came over Patton’s face. “I’m sure you’re right, son. You can’t trust any of those Mongols. But you realize that General Eisenhower wan
ts everyone to get along all lovey-dovey, don’t you? He’s very upset with your actions.”

  “I know the rules, sir. But was I supposed to wait until he shot me?”

  Now Patton laughed out loud. “No, Sergeant, of course not. I, for one, think you showed amazing restraint. And unlike our Supreme Commander, I would’ve had no problem at all if you’d shot him dead. So here’s what I’m going to do. Do you know what a reprimand is, Sergeant Moon?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Good. Because you just got one. Now I’ve got something else we need to talk about. Have a seat, son.”

  Whatever relief Sean had allowed himself to feel vanished. Ah, shit…I’ll bet there’s some stink brewing about me taking that Zippo out on the autobahn.

  But he was wrong again.

  “How do you feel about being detailed to the Berlin garrison, Sergeant Moon?”

  “Can I speak frankly, sir?”

  “Please do.”

  “I hate it, sir. It’s just another crap detail you gotta live with. I’d rather be with my unit.”

  “Of course you would, son. So this is what I’m going to do. This Berlin temporary duty nonsense is going to end sooner rather than later, just as soon as Ike gets off his ass and designates a permanent unit to handle the city and that damn autobahn. But in the meantime, I’m exempting you from Berlin duty. I don’t need my proven leaders wasting their time as road guards and nursemaids. With experienced men going home by the boatload, what I do need is combat veterans like you training those raw replacements we’re getting so when we start tangling with those Red bastards, they’ll know what the hell they’re doing. Do you read me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. I read you loud and clear.”

  Chapter Nine

  (The following is a decoded teletype message)

  MOST SECRET

  FROM: Churchill—London

  TO: Truman—Washington, D.C.

  14 July 1945

  My Dear Mr. President,

  Before we embark upon our meeting with Premier Stalin at Potsdam, I believe it to be essential we are of a similar mind on the topics I am about to discuss.