McNulty, Hammersmith, and Mischenko were assigned the first watch. Once that shift was done, they’d be able to sleep until it was time to hit the road again. “I need my main driver and my translators as sharp as possible,” Tommy explained.
It was near 0100 when Mischenko thought he heard a noise. At first he thought it was an animal skulking through the underbrush. Maybe a dog. Or maybe a fox or a wolf.
Do they even have foxes and wolves in Austria?
A pair of particularly loud crunches convinced him they were human footsteps. The panic rising within him, he yelled to McNulty, “SARGE, SOMEONE’S COMING.”
At that same moment, he squeezed the trigger on the Russian submachine gun in his hands.
Nothing happened.
He wasn’t sure if the safety was still on or if the ammo drum was properly installed. Every bit of instruction McNulty had given him in its use just a few hours ago had fled his mind in fright. And he couldn’t see what he was doing, anyway.
McNulty slipped noiselessly to Mischenko’s side. “For cryin’ out loud, Adam, why don’t you let the whole fucking world know where we are?”
“This gun, Sarge…it doesn’t work!”
“Here…take mine and give me that piece of Russian shit.”
A voice from the darkness cried out, “ENGLANDER, DON’T SHOOT.”
Hammersmith had joined them now. Softly, he said, “That’s a German accent. And Englander is how they refer to us Brits.”
“So?” McNulty asked. “Should we shoot the bastard?”
“No, wait. Don’t.”
Hammersmith exchanged a few sentences with the voice in German. A flashlight clicked on: the German illuminated himself first, then swept the beam to his sides, trying to show he was alone.
“Like that fucking proves anything,” McNulty mumbled. He let the bolt slam closed on the balky submachine gun, satisfied it was ready to fire. “I better go cover our back door. This could be some kind of Kraut trick.”
“I don’t think it’s a trick,” Hammersmith replied. “The man’s hurt. I believe we have a downed flyer on our hands.”
Tommy and Lambert had been jolted awake by all the yelling. Pistols in hand, they stumbled out of the truck bed, trying to get some grasp of the situation.
“Looks like we’ve got a Kraut airman surrendering to us, sir,” Mischenko explained, pointing to the man in the flashlight’s glow walking their way.
“Surrendering? He’s only got one hand in the air, and that’s to hold the flashlight.”
“He says he’s injured, sir. I guess that’s why the other arm’s pinned up against his side like that.”
Tommy tightened his grip on the pistol. “Where the hell’s McNulty?” he asked.
“I’m right behind you, Captain, watching our backs.”
Tommy sent Lambert to help McNulty and then turned his attention to the German. He was within arm’s reach now. Hammersmith took the man’s pistol from its holster.
“So you are Englanders and Americans working together?” the German asked in respectable English.
“We even have a Frenchman,” Tommy replied.
“Ah, a true Allied effort. My name is Klaus Schweiger. I am a hauptmann in the Luftwaffe. Or what’s left of it, at any rate.”
“Are you a pilot?” Tommy asked.
“Yes. I see from the wings on your jacket that you are, too. What do you fly?”
“I’ll ask the questions, if you don’t mind, Klaus. My name’s Moon. How about telling me how you happen to be here?”
Schweiger launched into a rambling story about how the remnants of his geschwader—his squadron—had tried to mount a last-ditch effort, flying south from Prague in their FW-190 fighter-bombers to stem the advance of the Russian horde. It was doomed from the start, as they had only five serviceable aircraft remaining. Yesterday, they ran into a swarm of Russian fighters and were all shot down.
“I broke my arm parachuting from my stricken aircraft,” Schweiger said. “I’ve been walking north ever since.”
They could see now why he held his arm so tightly to his chest; he’d made a sling from parachute cord.
“So you broke your arm bailing out,” Tommy said. “Funny, but I did the same thing last year.”
McNulty materialized out of the darkness. “What’s all the damn chit-chat? We gonna shoot this Kraut son of a bitch or what, Captain?”
“No, Sarge, he’s our prisoner. And we don’t shoot prisoners.” Turning to Schweiger for confirmation, he asked, “You have surrendered to us, right?”
“Yes, of course I have.”
“Okay, then we’re not going to shoot him, Sarge. Not unless he does something stupid. You got me?”
McNulty’s answer was less than enthusiastic. “Yeah, I got you, Captain. Loud and clear.”
“You are a true gentleman, Captain Moon,” Schweiger said. “I am sure the Russians would not have been so gracious.”
Tommy replied, “Don’t get too comfortable, Klaus. We’re in the middle of Russian territory at the moment. We may run into them again.”
Now Schweiger was confused. “But if this is Russian territory, why are you here?”
“That’s a real long story,” Tommy replied. “Have a seat. Let’s talk a while. I’ve got some questions I’m just dying to ask a Luftwaffe pilot.”
The big question on Tommy’s mind: the German jets. Schweiger was more than willing to talk about them at length since he’d been training to fly one until their inventory dwindled so low that new pilots weren’t a priority. An ace with fourteen kills, he was surprised to learn that Tommy had actually shot down two jets.
“But I’ll never get credit for the second one, Klaus. The damn Soviets stole my gun camera film.”
“That’s all you’ve shot down, though? Just three in total?”
“Yeah,” Tommy replied. “I do ground attack. Don’t get to mix it up with the Luftwaffe much.”
“Ah, yes…you fly the vaunted Thunderbolt. And you Americans have thousands of those wonderful aircraft. That’s where the Führer and that fat deviant Göring went wrong. They believed in miracle machines and thought just a few of them would carry the day. But if we’d had a thousand jet interceptors—which were all actually capable of flying at the same time and not broken down for one reason or another—we could have swept you from the sky. Instead, they only built a few hundred, only a handful of which were airworthy at any given time. There were never enough spare parts, and the engines lasted little more than ten hours before they had to be replaced. Then they insisted on diverting some of the few interceptors we did have available to their ridiculous schnellbomber program.”
“That means fast bomber, right, Klaus?”
“Correct, Tommy. They never learned what your leaders apparently always knew: bombers don’t need to be fast. They need to be plentiful.”
Dawn would be breaking shortly. McNulty, Mischenko, and Hammersmith, the last shift to sleep, were awake now and getting ready to hit the road again. McNulty was still uneasy about their German captive. He asked Tommy, “What makes you think the Kraut’s gonna behave, Captain?”
Schweiger overheard and answered the question himself. “My good conduct is assured, Sergeant, because I’m very happy to be captured by you rather than the Russians. I thought I made that clear last night.”
McNulty had another problem. “We ain’t got enough gas, Captain. We won’t get far.”
Schweiger proposed a solution. Pointing south, he said, “There’s a disabled Panther tank a kilometer or so that way. I watched some locals siphoning petrol from it yesterday afternoon. Perhaps there’s some left for us.”
McNulty was skeptical. “South, eh? That’s taking us out of our way. We’re gonna burn up more gas on this Kraut’s hunch?”
Tommy asked, “A kilometer, you say?”
“Maybe a little more, maybe a little less,” Schweiger replied.
“Let’s give it a try, Sarge,” Tommy said. “We don’t have much to lose
.”
“There’s a trail just ahead,” the German added. “It will take us there directly.”
Within a few minutes they were at the Panther. True to Schweiger’s word, a siphon hose lay on the aft deck. The tank appeared undamaged. Perfectly serviceable.
McNulty asked, “Who’s gonna be the poor bastard to suck on that hose to get it started?” He certainly didn’t look like he was going to volunteer.
But Schweiger did. “Consider it thanks for not shooting me last night,” he said.
It took a few good pulls on the hose, but he got the gasoline flowing into the three-quarter ton’s tank. He spent the usual minute or two doubled over after spitting out the inevitable mouthful of gas, retching to try and clear the pungent metallic taste.
But there was a foul smell about the tank far more powerful than the aroma of gasoline. Tommy recognized it right away: There’s something dead around here.
The Panther’s hatches were open, so he climbed onto the deck and peered into the turret.
“Ah, shit,” he said, backing away from the hatch.
“Let me guess,” Hammersmith said. “There are dead men inside.”
“Yeah. Looks like the whole crew took one each in the head. Like an execution.”
“Typical Russian behavior,” the Englishman added. “The crew must’ve tried to surrender but got a bullet for their trouble.”
Schweiger had gotten over his mouthful of gasoline. “Those Russians…they’re animals,” he said. “Nothing but barbarians.”
Tommy shot him a scathing look. “I’m sure the Soviets feel the same way about you Germans.”
“That’s nonsense,” Schweiger replied indignantly. “Germans committed no atrocities in the Soviet Union. Any atrocities that may have happened were undoubtedly the work of those who fought the Soviets with us, like the Hungarians, Romanians, Bulgarians…and the Cossacks. We Germans are pure and noble warriors, not savages.”
“That isn’t my take on it, Klaus,” Tommy replied. “We’ve heard all about your massacres, like killing all those GI POWs at Malmedy…and worse. That sounds like the work of savages and barbarians to me.”
Schweiger looked at him as if he’d just been told the Earth was flat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the German replied.
Chapter Thirty-Three
By noon, they were on the heights overlooking the Enns River. Just beyond its west bank, they could see an American position that wasn’t bothering to conceal itself, as if on an administrative, rather than tactical, bivouac. “Couldn’t hide them Sherman tanks if they tried,” McNulty said. “Looks like we’re just about home.”
The river ran swiftly and left no doubt in anyone’s mind that it was deep. Fording it would be out of the question. Swimming across it would be risky without a rope line to hold on to, but even if they had a way to get it to the opposite bank, they had no rope. “There’s supposed to be a bridge a little to the north,” Tommy said, studying the Russian map. “Let’s give it a try. Maybe it’s still intact.”
Driving along a trail on the treed ridgeline overlooking the river, it only took a few minutes to get there. The bridge was indeed intact. But it was guarded by what looked like a company of Red Army soldiers who seemed more interested in horseplay than sentry duty. They were a few hundred yards from the Russian roadblock when Tommy told McNulty to stop the truck.
“How the hell do you wanna play this one, Captain?” McNulty asked.
Directly across the bridge, they could see an American roadblock manned by GIs as relaxed and disinterested as their Soviet counterparts.
Hammersmith offered, “Perhaps we should wait until dark and try to bluff our way across?”
“Shoot our way across is probably more like it,” J.P. Lambert replied. “I’m not sure how we’re going to bluff our way across anything. The Russians must be on the lookout for us by now.”
“First thing we’ve got to do,” Tommy said, “is get the hell away from here. Sarge, turn this truck around.” Then he said to Schweiger, “And the second thing is for you to lose all your insignia. Throw it over the side.”
The German understood Tommy’s meaning immediately. They might be able to talk their way past the Russians, but that possibility wouldn’t extend to a readily identifiable Luftwaffe pilot. In the hands of the Russians, he’d be as good as dead.
The three-quarter ton had barely begun to move when Hammersmith called out from the back, “Stop! We’ve got trouble right behind us.”
Tommy and McNulty spun around to look out over the tailgate. A Russian armored car was rolling to a stop right behind them, its heavy machine gun pointed right into their truck.
“Adam,” Tommy said, “stick to the story about transporting downed Allied airmen back to their lines. It’s the only one we’ve got.”
McNulty was already cradling the submachine gun. “If they got the word about those Reds we iced yesterday…”
Tommy replied, “If they know about that, we’re dead men already. Just put the gun down. Let’s see what Adam can do.”
It turned out that Adam could do quite a lot. The Russian lieutenant seemed to be buying his story about the downed Allied airmen. When the lieutenant asked why they were all in different uniforms—he was eyeing Schweiger suspiciously as he said it—Mischenko crafted an answer on the spot:
“He’s a Dutch volunteer in the RAF. His flight suit was torn up in the crash landing. This was the best he could find on short notice.”
The Russian summoned one of his soldiers to the truck, telling him something that made Mischenko’s face go tense. When the soldier barked something at Schweiger in German, Schweiger replied in kind. After they exchanged a few sentences, Mischenko added one more in Russian. Then he and Hammersmith conferred in whispers.
The Russians huddled in animated conversation.
“What’d you guys tell them?” Tommy asked.
“It boils down to this, sir,” Mischenko replied. “We told them that of course he speaks German. He’s Dutch, for cryin’ out loud. Almost everyone in Holland can speak German.”
“Is that true?” Tommy asked.
“It might as well be,” Mischenko replied. “The Reds don’t seem to know one way or the other. But they’re still dickering over his uniform. I guess they’ve seen some German airmen before.”
McNulty took that as dismal news. “If they don’t buy him, they probably ain’t gonna buy us, neither. But at least they ain’t got the word we’re on the lam.”
The lieutenant stepped back to the three-quarter ton and said something to Mischenko. When he was finished speaking, he took a step back and folded his arms across his chest as he awaited an answer. That cocky pose, plus the smug look on his face, made him look like a Slavic Mussolini.
“He demands we answer two questions,” Mischenko explained. “First, he wants to know if I’m an American soldier who happens to speak Russian or a Russian in the wrong uniform.”
“Don’t try to lie, Adam,” Tommy replied. “Give it to him straight. What’s the second question?”
“He wants to see our travel orders.”
McNulty exhaled loudly in frustration. “I think we just reached our oh, fuck moment, Captain,” he said.
Tommy had to agree with him. Struggling to come up with something—anything—that might sound convincing, he scanned the faces of his men, hoping one of them had some glimmer of an idea about what to say. But it only took one look to know that none of them did.
So it’s down to me, he told himself.
It took a few seconds, but it finally came to him: Let’s say that some Russian officer back up the road demanded our papers and then kept them. Make that officer a colonel. Claim he said he’d call ahead and arrange safe passage for us. That ought to throw sand in their gears while they try to check it out, and then just maybe we can figure out—
He thought he was a dead man before he could speak a word. There was a deafening roar of small arms fire, far more of it than he’d ev
er heard as an ASO with the ground troops.
But if you can hear it, it didn’t get you. Isn’t that what the ground-pounders say?
From the looks on their faces, the others on his team—and their German prisoner—all thought they just might be dead, too.
But look at that Russian lieutenant. He looks ready to shit his pants. What the hell’s going on here?
The fear ebbed just enough to allow Tommy to make sense of what was happening. Sure, there were plenty of rounds being fired, but they were all going straight up into the air. The Russians down by the bridge were the ones doing the shooting. They were screaming their heads off, too, but they weren’t the blood-curdling cries of terrified men in combat. They were cries of celebration. And it didn’t look like they were going to stop celebrating until they ran out of ammunition.
A soldier wearing a radio headset began shouting something from the armored car. The lieutenant had to run closer to hear him over the noise of all the gunfire. But once he had, he jumped into the vehicle, which then raced off to the men down by the bridge. As they drove past the three-quarter ton, the lieutenant yelled something to them.
At first, Mischenko seemed in shock. Then his face brightened into a beaming smile. “He says the war’s over. It’s official—the Krauts packed it in.”
Everyone except Schweiger reacted just like Mischenko: first shock, then euphoria. But the German suddenly seemed a world apart, slumping against the sidewall, a bemused look of resignation on his face.
“Okay,” McNulty said, “so the war’s over. What the hell do we do now?”
“Follow that armored car,” Tommy replied.
“And then what?”
“Keep going right across that bridge.”
“Wait a minute, Captain. You trusting those Russian bastards all of a sudden?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me, Sarge. Of course not. I hate them with a passion.”
“So ain’t you afraid they’re gonna turn some of that lead on us if we try to beat it out of here?”
Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3) Page 31
