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

by William Peter Grasso

  She didn’t imagine it would be long before they came back out, and she was right. In less than ten minutes, they were back outside with the four scientists in tow. On the driveway between the buildings they held what looked like a military formation, with the scientists lined up in a rank. As Becker paced behind them, Sturmbannführer Hoffman stood before Offenberg and his team and began to issue instructions. She watched from her hiding place, just a few yards from the BMW.

  “The rottenführer and I will return in no more than three hours,” Hoffman told them. “Have your personal gear and all boxes of important documents ready to load at that time.”

  I guess they’ve got their eyes on a likely vehicle to steal, then, Sylvie thought.

  “Timing is critical,” he continued. “We face a long and treacherous drive to safety. Any man who is foolish enough to compromise that effort will be shot immediately. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”

  When the scientists murmured their assent, Hoffman snapped to attention, held out his right arm in the Nazi salute, and shouted, “Heil Hitler!”

  The scientists returned the oath with nearly the same enthusiasm. The SS men made their way to the BMW.

  Becker climbed behind the wheel of the left-hand drive sedan as Hoffman took the front passenger’s seat. Once inside, he rolled down the window.

  How convenient, Sylvie told herself as she rushed silently through the darkness to that open window. Now I won’t have to shout through glass.

  Hoffman laughed when he saw her standing there with her pistol pointed right at him.

  “There are two of us, you stupid little girl,” he said. “You will never—”

  The flash of the pistol shot in the darkness caught the astonishment on Hoffman’s face as she shot Becker in his right hand. He’d been going for his pistol.

  But then Becker tried to reach for his pistol with his left hand. It was an awkward move across his seated body, taking too many precious milliseconds.

  She shot him in that hand, too.

  “No,” she said to Hoffman. “There’s only one of you who can shoot now. Care to try?”

  He thought better of it and raised his hands. Hoffman managed to make this gesture of surrender look defiant.

  “Very good,” she said. “Now exit the car, very slowly.”

  She kept her distance from the big man as he stepped from the vehicle, hands still raised. He could knock her senseless with one swing of those powerful arms.

  But not if she was out of reach.

  “Herr Doctor,” she called to Offenberg, “come and take his pistol. From behind, please.”

  The scientist did as he was told.

  “Now come and give it to me.”

  He did. She tucked the Walther into her belt.

  “Now go and disarm the rottenführer.”

  Leaning into the car, Offenberg relieved the wailing Becker of his pistol.

  She knew Hoffman was scheming to reclaim control. His body seemed coiled, ready to lunge.

  He’s strong and dangerous, she thought. I should just kill him. But as long as he doesn’t have a weapon…

  Now she had both their pistols.

  “This will take two of you,” she told the scientists. “Remove Rottenführer Becker from the car. Bring him into your quarters.”

  But Becker proved difficult to move. Thrashing about in pain and protest, he head-butted a scientist, the one she figured was Baumann based on the white-blond hair Offenberg had described. Stunned from the blow, he stumbled away from the sedan and toppled to the ground.

  Braun, the scientist who’d been yesterday’s lookout in the tree, tended to Baumann. The last scientist—This has to be Switzer, she thought—hurried to the passenger side of the car to help Offenberg remove Becker.

  She saw the danger coming: Switzer would pass directly in front of Hoffman, a clear mistake.

  “NO, NO,” she shouted. “NOT THAT WAY!”

  But Switzer, whether too determined or too confused to heed her warning, continued to the passenger-side door.

  He never got there. Hoffman seized him in a choke hold and, using the scientist for a shield, proceeded to open the BMW’s back door.

  If Sylvie’s suspicion about the satchels containing weapons was true, and if one of those weapons was a machine pistol, Hoffman could spit a barrage of bullets, shooting all of them from behind his human shield in no more than a second.

  I have no choice.

  She leveled her pistol with both hands and fired at Hoffman’s head, the only part of him showing behind the shorter Switzer.

  The shot missed. But its shock wave passed close enough to make Hoffman jerk away from the car. Switzer was still firmly in his grasp.

  She rushed forward, cutting the distance to the entangled men in half. Hoffman hesitated for a moment, torn between trying to back away with his gasping hostage in tow or reach into the car’s back seat.

  Sylvie fired from ten feet away.

  The bullet ripped through Hoffman’s ear, tearing half of it away before streaking into the darkness.

  She took a few steps closer, close enough to reach out and touch Switzer, almost close enough for the SS man to grab her.

  It would be the devil’s miracle if her third shot missed.

  But it didn’t. It struck Hoffman between his eyebrows, blowing him over backward. He took the terrified but uninjured Switzer down with him.

  Once the sturmbannführer was flat on his back—and dead as a doornail—the scientist escaped the chokehold and scampered back to his colleagues. He shrieked at Sylvie, “ARE YOU CRAZY, WOMAN? YOU COULD HAVE KILLED ME.”

  “I could have,” she replied. “But he would have.”

  They took a moment to catch their collective breaths. Then the scientists succeeded in extricating Becker, with his shattered hands, from the car. As he wailed like a paddled schoolboy, Braun and Switzer led the rottenführer to their quarters. Baumann, aside from a bloody nose, was none the worse for wear from the head butt.

  Sylvie’s search of the BMW turned up the two Schmeisser machine pistols she’d feared were in the satchels. She slung them over her shoulder and stuffed their spare magazines into her jacket pocket. The rest of the gear in the satchels were hand tools—necessary for vehicle theft, she supposed—and a bottle of schnapps.

  I guess they planned on celebrating their heist right away, she thought.

  There was also a box of matches and several pairs of handcuffs in the satchels. She pocketed the matches and gathered the cuffs in her hand.

  With everyone clear of the BMW, Sylvie stepped to its rear, opened the boot, and fired two shots from her pistol through its floor and the petrol tank below. She stepped back quickly, listening to the faint burble of the leaking fuel. A puddle was spreading rapidly beneath the vehicle.

  She thought about moving Hoffman’s body from beside the car but decided against it. “Let’s make it a Viking funeral for the sturmbannführer, shall we?”

  Pulling out the box of matches, she lit one and threw it beneath the BMW. Within seconds, the vehicle and Hoffman’s body were engulfed in flames.

  When she entered the scientists’ quarters, a baffled Offenberg asked her, “Why on earth did you burn the car? You don’t really think we would have used it to escape, do you?”

  “Let’s just say I considered it a possibility, Herr Doctor.”

  Throwing the handcuffs on the floor next to Becker, she told the scientists, “Secure him to that post.”

  “Not by his injured hands!” Offenberg protested. “That’s barbaric!”

  “Then use your imagination,” she replied. “Cuff him by his ankles instead. And by all means, bandage the poor man’s hands. But don’t worry…he’ll live.”

  They linked the handcuffs to form a chain, then used it to secure Becker to the post. When done, Offenberg asked, “Where are the keys?”

  Sylvie patted her pocket. “They’ll be safe with me. I’ll be leaving shortly, just as soon as the sun comes up. Your ins
tructions are no different than the ones the late sturmbannführer gave you: have yourselves and all your technical materials ready to go when I return.”

  “How long will you be?” Offenberg asked.

  “I expect to be back with suitable transportation before noon. And at that time, you’ll begin your stay as guests of the Allies.”

  Offenberg took in Sylvie’s impressive arsenal: three pistols and two Schmeissers on her person. He asked, “Surely you’ll be leaving a weapon or two?”

  “I doubt you’ll be needing them, Herr Doctor.”

  MAY 1945

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As far as Tommy Moon was concerned, two good things had come from the fortnight with the Soviets in Vienna. The first was that the incursions by their fighter planes into the Western Allies’ airspace over Germany had stopped. He wasn’t sure if he and his team had had anything to do with that, but Ninth Air Force, as well as SHAEF headquarters, was giving them the credit. Or at least that’s the way it sounded in the cryptic radio messages they’d been receiving.

  The second good thing was that he’d been reunited with his repaired P-47, Eclipse of the Hun III. A day ago, it had been ferried from Eschborn to Schwechat Airfield by his wingman, Eddie Dugan. At the same time, a B-26 arrived carrying his crew chief, Tech Sergeant McNulty, some commonly used spare parts, and cases of engine oil, hydraulic fluid, and .50-caliber ammunition.

  McNulty’s first words to him: “Just so you know, Captain, for all intensive purposes, I’m here under protestation. I got no interest in playing patty cake with these Russian SOBs. But I can’t leave the old girl and you alone in this godforsaken place to fend for yourselves, so…”

  Tommy had added, “And I’m guessing Colonel Pruitt ordered you to come here, right?”

  “Fucking A he did. And what the hell’s the name of this place, anyway? Swiss Cheese or something?”

  “Schwechat, Sarge. Shwee-chat.”

  “Yeah, I got it. Swiss Cheese.”

  Once the B-26 had been unloaded and Dugan bundled inside, it took off and headed back to Eschborn. McNulty had watched wistfully as she flew away.

  Looking at all the unfamiliar Soviet aircraft on the ramp, McNulty said, “I kinda feel like I just got dropped into some strange new world here, Captain.”

  “Welcome to the club, Sergeant. Welcome to the fucking club.”

  By the next morning, McNulty was fully up to speed. With translation help from the team’s interpreter, Corporal Mischenko, he was giving the three Russian mechanics he’d been loaned a crash course on the care and feeding of the P-47. But he still felt like a fish out of water.

  He asked Tommy, “Those other officers you got with you—the Limey and the Frog. Are they doing us any good?”

  “Actually, yeah, they are, Sarge. Lieutenant Lambert—the Frog—is being treated like royalty by the Russians. It seems there are a few squadrons of Frenchmen in the Soviet Air Force, and they’ve given a pretty good account of themselves. The Russians are a real secretive bunch—they don’t like you knowing shit about what they’re up to—but their pilots tell Jean-Pierre a lot of stuff they wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Like what?”

  “For example,” Tommy said, “it looks like we’ve figured out how we kept bumping into Yak-9s deep inside Germany when they shouldn’t have the range to be there. Turns out a few of their pilots lean their engines out beyond the book values to save fuel and bump up the range. But when they do it, that cuts the engine’s service life down to something like ten hours.”

  Technical gossip like this was right up McNulty’s alley. “So they do a flight or two,” he said, “and then the wrenches gotta change the engine?”

  “Exactly, Sarge.”

  “Those stupid Russkie sons of bitches. And their wrenches don’t kill them?”

  “I figured you’d take a real dim view of that,” Tommy said, “but no, their ground crews don’t kill them, apparently. Anyway, since we’ve been here, they’ve been staying out of our airspace. At least that’s the report from Ninth Air Force.”

  “How the hell are you talking with the Ninth from all the way out here in the Borscht Belt?”

  “We’ve been using their commo center, Sarge. It was all part of the deal. We exchange radio messages every night, either with the Ninth, Third Army, or even SHAEF. Our call sign is Tourist One-Three.”

  “These messages…they’re coded, I hope,” McNulty said, an eyebrow raised warily.

  “Of course they’re coded.” Tommy patted the breast pocket where he kept the code book. “And our Corporal Mischenko is one hell of a telegrapher, so it’s been pretty easy to stay in touch.”

  McNulty was impressed. He asked, “What about the Limey? What’s he bringing to the party?”

  “Flight Lieutenant Hammersmith brings a whole lot of diplomatic experience with the Soviets to the table, that’s what. He knows how to deal with these people…and that isn’t easy, considering a no can mean yes, and a yes doesn’t necessarily mean jack shit.”

  “Flight lieutenant, eh? That mean he’s a pilot, too?”

  “No, he just flies a desk. But he’s in the RAF, so…”

  “I don’t know, Captain. It seems a guy who don’t fly shouldn’t be called flight-anything.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sarge. He’s earning his keep.”

  McNulty broke away from the conversation. Pointing to a mechanic doing something he didn’t like, he told Mischenko, “Tell that Russkie shithead he gotta ground the hose to the ship first. Then he can stick the nozzle in the fuel tank, not before. Unless, of course, he’s trying to blow us all the fuck up.” He gave Tommy a skeptical look and added, “Assuming this avgas of theirs even burns at all. You sure this stuff is high enough octane for a jug, Captain?”

  “Uncle Sam built them the refinery to make it, Sarge.”

  “Well, just watch your power settings. Don’t blow no cylinder heads on me. I couldn’t fit no spare engine in that B-26.”

  Mischenko relayed McNulty’s scolding. The mechanic replied, the words incomprehensible but the body language unquestionably defensive.

  “He says that’s how they do it with their aircraft, Sergeant,” Mischenko said.

  McNulty jumped up onto the wing, seized the fueling hose from the mechanic, and performed the steps of fueling slowly and theatrically in the order he wanted them done. His instruction finished, he unhooked everything and handed the hose back to the Russian. As he did, he told Mischenko, “Tell Ivan here that if he wants my foot up his ass, keep giving me lip. He works on my ship, he does it my way.”

  When he heard the translation—even as nicened up as Mischenko had made it—the Russian mechanic snarled. But he proceeded to perform the process exactly as the crew chief had just demonstrated.

  “Sometimes,” McNulty said, “you just gotta show ’em how. Don’t want nothing getting misconscrewed.”

  Satisfied that everything was in order now, he asked Tommy, “So you were saying about this Limey, this Hammer-head guy. What’s he done for you?”

  “It’s Hammersmith, Sarge. Oliver Hammersmith. He figures out how to best represent our position in negotiations with the Soviets.”

  McNulty looked confused. “Soviets? Russians? Is there a difference, Captain?”

  “Yeah, sort of. A Russian is always a Soviet, but a Soviet may not be Russian.”

  The sergeant thought that over for a moment. “You mean it’s like macaroni, right? Spaghetti is always macaroni, but macaroni is not always spaghetti?”

  “Exactly. The Soviet Union is a big place. A bunch of different countries and nationalities all under one roof. Almost everyone you’re going to meet here, though, is either Russian or Ukrainian.”

  McNulty asked, “How do you tell the difference?”

  “You don’t. But Corporal Mischenko or Flight Lieutenant Hammersmith can tell you who’s who.”

  “Yeah…that Hammer-head guy. You were telling me what he does around here, remember?”

&n
bsp; “He’s been doing all the negotiating legwork,” Tommy replied. “For example, he’s been trying to arrange a line that neither our planes nor the Soviet planes cross. It would have to be something easily distinguishable from the air, like a river. It just so happens that the rivers Salzach, Inn, and Danube all connect and form a pretty good line dividing Germany from Austria and Czechoslovakia.”

  “So that’s the line everyone’s keeping to now?” McNulty asked.

  “Hell, no, Sarge. Neither the Russians nor our headquarters will agree to it yet. Not formally, anyway.”

  “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy replied. “Me, too. Welcome to the big, bad world of diplomacy.”

  “You mean where no means yes?”

  Tommy nodded. “And yes don’t mean jack shit, Sarge. But enough bullshitting, okay? Let’s get the pre-flight started.”

  Eclipse looked in fine shape. The repairs to the landing gear and flap looked fresh from the factory. Her logbook was clean, too. The check pilot who had flown her post-repair at Eschborn had recorded no squawks. Neither had Dugan after the ferry flight to Schwechat.

  “So you’re really gonna fly with these Russkie bastards, Captain?” McNulty asked.

  “I already have, Sarge. Twice.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I took up one of the Yak-9s. Flew patrols with them.”

  McNulty was incredulous. “You actually put your ass in one of those tinkertoy pieces of shit and left the ground? They’re made outta wood, ain’t they?”

  “Some of the skin panels, yeah. Most of it’s metal, though.”

  His crew chief gave him a look he usually reserved for those he considered too stupid to live.

  “Really, it wasn’t so bad, Sarge. I’ll tell you what—the jug’s faster and dives better, but that Yak is a whole lot more maneuverable, that’s for damn sure. The armament’s a little on the light side, but if you actually hit someone just once with that cannon, it’s all over for the poor bastard.”