Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3)

by William Peter Grasso

  J.P. Lambert seemed surprised to hear that. He asked, “You have an air-to-air kill on a jet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you catch it?”

  “Wasn’t too hard, actually. You just have to wait for them to be on landing approach. They can’t outrun you then.”

  Lambert laughed. “I see. That does seem to be the only way, doesn’t it? I believe I destroyed one on the ground, but I don’t have confirmation. For all I know, it might not have even been airworthy. I’ve never seen one in the air, however.”

  “I guess we should thank our lucky stars there doesn’t seem to be a lot of those jets around,” Tommy said. “If they had them in numbers, we could probably kiss our bombers goodbye. They wouldn’t stand a chance. Their escorts couldn’t help them.”

  He locked Hammersmith in a probing gaze and asked, “Is that a good enough answer for you as to why I’m here?”

  The Englishman replied, “Yes. Quite good, in fact.” He seemed sincere, too. But he had one more question: “Don’t you think that if this mission was so earth-shatteringly important, someone far higher in rank than us would be doing it?”

  “The thought has crossed my mind,” Tommy said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The B-26 began her descent toward Schwechat, an airfield just outside Vienna. “This must be the place,” Captain Mason said as he and his navigator took one long, last look at the map. He left the escorts west of the city, the P-51s still orbiting at 10,000 feet. They’d have enough gas to do that for twenty minutes, providing they throttled back. If the bomber didn’t rejoin them in that time, they’d have to head for home without her.

  Mason made a point not to fly over the heart of Vienna, preferring to hug the outskirts where anti-aircraft guns would be far less concentrated. “I know we’ve got clearance to be here and all,” Mason told Tommy, who had squeezed behind the pilots for a better view. “But these Russians…they’re an unknown commodity, as far as I’m concerned. I trust them about as far as I can throw them.”

  They were three miles from the runway and down to 1,000 feet when Mason turned the ship for final approach. As they passed over a large industrial complex, a string of tracers from two o’clock streamed upward toward the bomber. Mason immediately began evasive maneuvering, dropping her lower, speeding up, and flying an erratic zigzag that still kept them closing on the runway threshold.

  Lambert, even though he couldn’t see outside the ship from his seat behind the cockpit, knew exactly what was happening at the first zig. Hammersmith and Mischenko—the only non-airmen on board—were oblivious. The Frenchman told them, “I’d advise you to sit on the parachute pack and tuck yourself into a ball, just like I’m doing.”

  The non-airmen caught on quickly after that. Their adrenaline suddenly flowing, they did what they were told.

  “Thank God this girl lands fast,” Mason said, working her controls feverishly. “Speed on the deck makes for a poor target. Ain’t that right, Captain Moon?”

  “You’re right, so far,” Tommy replied. He hadn’t felt that telltale thunk of lead piercing aluminum yet.

  And they never did. After a few more hair-raising moments of watching tracers arcing close—but without harm—through the sky, the bomber’s tires kissed the runway. So far, they’d used eight minutes of the escort’s twenty-minute loiter time.

  Tommy glanced back and caught the wild-eyed stares of Hammersmith and Mischenko. “First time you guys ever got shot at?” he asked them.

  They didn’t need to say a word for him to know the answer was yes.

  “Congratulations, then. You’re not virgins anymore.”

  As the ship slowed to taxi speed, Mason wondered aloud, “You don’t suppose they’ve got a follow me truck, do you?”

  “Maybe not a truck,” Tommy said, pointing at ten o’clock, “but how about a flag man?”

  Sure enough, a person in the middle of the hardstand was waving a large red flag on a short staff. “You see anyone else he might be waving at?” Mason asked.

  But despite the large number of Russian aircraft—mostly single-engined ships—on the field, no plane but theirs was moving at the moment. As they taxied closer, they realized the flag man was a flag woman.

  “That’s a girl…unless Russian soldiers wear skirts these days,” Mason said as he turned the aircraft toward her. “What’s she telling us to do now?” She was making sweeping horizontal motions with the flag while jogging toward the bomber’s left wingtip.

  “I think she wants us to turn left,” Tommy offered. “I guess that’s to line us up with all the other ships on this ramp.”

  “Okay, I’ll try that.”

  Apparently, that’s what the flag woman wanted. When the turn was complete, she gathered the flag while holding the staff over her head.

  “I guess that means stop? Either that or she wants to joust with us.”

  He pumped the brakes, and the ship bobbed to a stop. Then the flag woman started to make chopping motions with the flag staff.

  “Oh, fuck no,” Mason said. “I’ve got a real good idea what that means. I am not—under any circumstances—shutting engines down. I don’t know what kind of ground power units they’ve got here, and I’m only going to be here a minute. As soon as you guys get off, I’m gone.”

  “Corporal Mischenko and I better go talk with them,” Tommy said. “We might want to lodge a protest about the fireworks display we got treated to on approach…and make sure it doesn’t happen again when you leave.”

  “Yeah,” Mason replied. “Good idea. But make it quick…and I mean quick. And for God’s sake, watch out for the props. I don’t want to grind anyone up for lunch meat.”

  The bomb bay doors opened. As Tommy prepared to slide out, he told Lambert and Hammersmith, “You guys get all our bags off and pile them up by the right wingtip. Let’s get Mason and his boys out of here as quickly as possible.”

  A small crowd of men in uniform had gathered around the flag woman. One of them was older and wore much more ornate shoulder straps than the others. He’s got to be an officer, Tommy told himself.

  Mischenko did a masterful job as intermediary. In a matter of moments, the officer—a major of aviation—assured Tommy it was perfectly all right to leave the engines on the B-26 running. Also, her immediate departure was already cleared with the control tower.

  As to their being fired on while landing, the major apologized profusely, assuring Tommy it was all a terrible misunderstanding: the anti-aircraft units had been told to expect five American aircraft. When only one appeared, they assumed it was an intruder and opened fire.

  Tommy realized where the number five came from: they were expecting the four P-51 escort fighters to land, as well. But once the fighters had delivered Mason’s ship to Vienna airspace, there was no reason to land or even descend. Another takeoff, or just climbing back to cruise altitude, would wipe out their fuel reserves for the trip home.

  The answer to Tommy’s question—How do we make sure they’re not fired upon as they depart?—was less than reassuring.

  “We will do all we can to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” the major replied, “but time is very short, and the gunners are illiterate peasants. Of course, if your pilot would like to wait until we can pass the information down and get the necessary confirmations, that would be the safest course of action.”

  “That’s no good,” Tommy said before Mischenko had finished the translation. “Every second he sits here, he burns his gas and the escorts’ gas, too. Fuel they need desperately for the return trip.”

  “But we can offer you petrol, Captain Moon.”

  “He doesn’t want it, and there’s no time. He needs to leave. Now. Can we make that happen?”

  The major began to bark orders at one of his men. Mischenko explained he was telling the man to have the commanding officer issue a five-minute stand-down order to all anti-aircraft units, beginning immediately.

  The soldier sprinted into what appeared to
be the airfield operations building. In seconds, he popped back outside, giving a signal that meant all set, according to the major.

  They’d used up thirteen minutes of the escorts’ twenty-minute loiter time.

  Tommy yelled the results of the negotiation up to the cockpit window. Mason replied, “Thanks a bunch. Good luck dealing with those Russkie lunatics, Moon.”

  As soon as Tommy was clear of the aircraft, Mason began the taxi to the end of the runway. Tommy couldn’t remember seeing a bomber rolling that fast without trying to take off.

  “That man wants to be out of here in the worst way,” Hammersmith said.

  Tommy replied, “Can you blame him?”

  Mason had the engines at takeoff power before he’d even completed the turn onto the runway. Lighter now without her passengers and only slightly more than half a full fuel load, the B-26 was airborne quickly. Her nose high, she clawed for altitude like it was a matter of life and death.

  No tracers heralded her departure.

  Tommy and his team had piled into a small truck driven by a soldier who might as well have been a mute. Despite his best attempts, Mischenko could coax nothing out of him about where they were going. The only reply he received was a solitary term he took to mean command post. The others had little choice but to put their faith in their translator and hope for the best.

  On their way to this unknown destination, they were treated to a tour of the flight line. Through pilots’ eyes, Tommy and J.P. noticed the same thing right away: about a third of the aircraft they passed weren’t serviceable. There were too many pieces lying around on the ramp—or just plain missing—to qualify those ships as airworthy. And as they’d noticed when they first arrived, almost all the ships were single-seat fighters, the rest a scattering of ground attack aircraft and transports.

  “This is strictly a tactical air force,” J.P. said. “They have no bombers. At least not at this airfield.”

  Toward the end of the last line of aircraft, Tommy noticed a ship he was sure he’d seen before: the white Yak-9. The left wingtip—the one that had rammed Marcy Jo—had been repaired with fresh sheet metal but was, as yet, unpainted. As they passed it, he asked Mischenko, “That writing on the fuselage—what does it say?”

  “It’s a slogan, Captain. It means For Stalin.”

  Off the ramp now, the truck approached a building bustling with activity. Soldiers and airmen streamed in and out. One thing became quickly obvious: the flag woman on the ramp wasn’t the only female on this base. Every fourth person in uniform seemed to be a woman. Many of them were in flying clothes.

  Mischenko was more than intrigued. “I could really get to like it here, sir,” he told Tommy. “There are girls all over the place. And I know their language.”

  “Hey, you worked in SHAEF. Weren’t there women all over that place, too?”

  “Not as many as you would think, sir. And most of them were only interested in bedding the officers.”

  Tommy laughed and said, “What makes you think this place is going to be any different?”

  Mischenko decided to try his luck. He called out to two female soldiers—young, pretty, and smiling—dressed in soldier’s tunics, knee-length skirts, and jackboots just like the male soldiers wore. Both carried submachine guns. Whatever he said to them made them gasp in surprise and then smile.

  They waved at Mischenko, still smiling, but walked on.

  Hammersmith asked, “What did you say to them?”

  “Oh, nothing special, sir. Just passing the time of day.”

  “I’d be real careful if I were you, Adam,” Tommy said, pretending to scold him. “They’ve probably killed more guys than you can shake a stick at. Adding you to the mass grave wouldn’t be any big deal.”

  They all got a chuckle out of that piece of black humor. Then Tommy said, “I’m confused, though. Just what are these people? Ukrainian? Russian? I mean, this is the Second Ukrainian Front, isn’t it?”

  “That’s just a political name,” Hammersmith replied. “While most of the soldiers will come from Russia or the Ukraine, we’ll still find plenty from a number of other regions in the Soviet Union. Don’t be surprised if you see some that look Oriental.”

  Tommy asked, “So what do we call them if we don’t know where they’re from?”

  Hammersmith’s answer: “Simple. We call them Soviets.”

  The truck parked next to the building. They were escorted inside to what appeared to be a conference room. After a flurry of instructions in Russian, Mischenko told them, “They say the general will be with us shortly.”

  Then the door was shut and they were left alone in the room.

  “This place smells like cigarettes and death,” Hammersmith said, “like everything Soviet.” Then he reached into his bulky briefcase and removed an unopened bottle of vodka. He placed the bottle on the table and slid it toward Tommy, who asked, “What’s this?”

  “It’s the gift of welcome you’re going to give to the ranking officer as soon as he enters.”

  Tommy couldn’t read the Russian writing on the label, but he was sure of one thing: it looked expensive.

  “This is the good stuff?” he asked.

  “The very best,” Hammersmith replied.

  “Where the hell did you get this?”

  The Englishman said nothing, just smiled.

  And then they waited. Single minutes clustered at a snail’s pace into multiples of ten. Forty minutes passed with agonizing slowness.

  Yet still they were alone.

  “This is a standard Soviet tactic,” Hammersmith explained. “They like to keep you waiting. It makes them feel powerful, and they’re sure it tips the scales of negotiating power their way.”

  The explanation did nothing to quell Tommy’s impatience. “So what do we do about that?” he asked.

  “Nothing. We wait. Calmly. Show them we’re not in a rush…and that such ploys leave us unimpressed.”

  Another ten minutes passed before they could sense great activity beyond the frosted glass of the conference room door: the murmuring of voices; the pounding of footfalls on the wooden floor.

  The Soviets were coming.

  The door flung open. A functionary stepped into the room, blurting something which Mischenko promptly translated: “He’s announcing Major General of Aviation Gennady Kozlovsky.”

  Hammersmith added, “We should stand, gentlemen.”

  As they did, General Kozlovsky strode into the room, a stocky, balding man of medium height. He wore a big, blue-trimmed star on the ornate gold brocade of each shoulder board. He took a seat at the head of the table and spoke what sounded like a command.

  Mischenko translated: “Please be seated.”

  Three more people filed in. Two were air force officers, one a captain, one a lieutenant. The stars on their shoulder boards—four and three, respectively—were considerably smaller than the general’s and the boards themselves far less elaborate. They took chairs flanking Kozlovsky. Finally, a very pretty woman in uniform—young and blond—entered and stood behind the general.

  Then Kozlovsky surprised them by pointing to Mischenko and saying, in broken English, “This man…he is translator?”

  When Tommy answered, “Yes, sir, he is,” the general instructed the woman to take the chair next to Mischenko. “I have translator, too,” the general said. “We will have no misunderstandings then?”

  “Let’s hope so, sir. No misunderstandings.”

  Hammersmith nudged the bottle of vodka, a gentle reminder.

  Tommy offered the gift to the general, who took it eagerly but offered no words of thanks.

  Introductions were made in Russian and then in English. It was explained that the other two Soviet officers were members of the general’s staff. They could be counted on, Kozlovsky assured them, to provide whatever technical and administrative assistance they might need during their stay here with 4th Aviation Regiment. The female interpreter was introduced as Junior Sergeant Alexiev.


  The general started to speak in English but was quickly stumbling for words. He switched to Russian.

  Mischenko provided the translation: “The general would like to hear the first item on your agenda, Captain Moon.”

  As soon as he was done speaking, Sergeant Alexiev nodded to the general. Apparently, the American’s translation had passed muster. Then she turned to Mischenko, nodding and smiling as if she was telling him, Good boy!

  Tommy wouldn’t have been surprised if she patted him on the head, too, like you’d praise a dog. And Mischenko would really love that. Look at him—she’s been in here two minutes and already he’s got the biggest crush on her.

  He took a quick look at the papers before him and said, “General, our biggest issue is the repeated interference by Soviet aircraft with Allied flight operations.”

  A look of mild disbelief came over the general as he listened to Mischenko’s translation. He didn’t wait for his translator’s verification before asking, in English, “Where? Tell me where.”

  “May I use the map, sir?” Tommy asked, pointing to one hanging on the wall.

  Kozlovsky nodded, not waiting for a translation.

  At two points over Germany, Tommy drew circles with his finger to indicate where he’d encountered Russian aircraft, naming the nearest city in each case.

  The mild disbelief on the general’s face turned to outright rejection. “Nonsense,” he replied. “Impossible. Too far.”

  “Apparently not, General. I was a participant in both incidents. And as one aviator to another, I can assure you that I knew exactly where I was when they occurred.”

  Kozlovsky waited for the translation this time, and he wanted it from both translators. Once he’d gotten those identical translations, he sat quietly for a few moments, twiddling a pencil as he formulated his answer.

  Finally, with seeming reluctance, he told his staff lieutenant, “Bring Major Vukonikov to me.”

  Still speaking in Russian, he announced there would be a break before the meeting resumed. Then the general left the room. His staff captain and translator were right behind him.