The harsh interior didn't bother Foreign Minister Vyacheslav M. Molotov, hunched over a rough wooden desk, as icily indifferent to the cold as he was to everything but his work. With his narrow-set unblinking eyes behind a pince-nez and his unsmiling mouth under a Stalin-like mustache he was the personification of an executioner.
Within the next hour, Molotov would determine whether Scriabin lived or died. Caldwell had convinced Scriabin that the McNaughtons were sound—and he had not paid attention to the warning cues from his colleagues. Scriabin had made the recommendations, Molotov had approved them—and the planes were failures.
A mechanic leaned into the cabin and whispered to Molotov's aide, who hesitantly relayed the landing warning to the Foreign Minister as if it were a mortal offense. Molotov ignored him, picking up yet another file to scan.
Scriabin huddled on the floor where he could glance upward out the windows on each side. The leaden sky, a sump of weather-baggaged clouds, abruptly changed to green walls, and he knew that his fate would soon be decided. He could sense the Li-2 pilot's skill as they crept in at the edge of a stall, the plane hanging on the power of its engines, struggling to touch down on the very edge of the short, narrow strip hacked out of a forest. The landing was firm, and Scriabin could feel the gradual application of brake as they slowed in the snow. At the end of the strip, the pilot had to apply power to taxi off toward the reception committee—a dour-looking group headed by Colonel Arkady Kosokov, whose savage report on the inadequacies of the McNaughton Sidewinder had precipitated Molotov's unprecedented visit to the front.
The rear door swung open, and they could hear the ragged tinny sounds of a pickup military band in the background. Molotov moved slowly down the cluttered aisle; his mind might be indifferent to the cold but his muscles were not, and he almost fell climbing down the short aluminum ladder.
Scriabin stood to one side as the formalities went on. It was strange; all the rituals the Communists had so proudly discarded in 1918—the saluting, medals, and epaulettes, all the signs and privileges of rank, the military ceremonies—were now back in force and with a vengeance. He saw that fighter planes, McNaughton Sidewinders and obsolete Polikarpov I-16s, were tucked into bays thrust among the trees, expertly camouflaged with cut boughs that made them invisible from the air.
Kosokov was introducing Molotov to an ace, Major Ivan Poryshkinov, just back from a mission flown in a grimy bemedaled jacket and a leather helmet too small for his massive skull.
"So, Major Poryshkinov, tell me about the McNaughton fighter."
Poryshkinov, obviously ill at ease and not sure of what was going on, looked in wild-eyed desperation at Kosokov, who nodded impatiently.
"It is a fine airplane, Comrade Commissar, a fine airplane. I just shot up a Fritz tank."
Molotov reached over to Kosokov's chest, pointing to the Order of Glory medal, suspended on its red-black-red-striped ribbon.
"Take that off."
Kosokov stiffened to attention, then unpinned the medal and handed it to Molotov.
"Major, I decorate you in honor of your honesty and of your victory over the German tank." He pushed the medal into Poryshkinov's hand, nodded contemptuously to Kosokov, and walked to the small wooden shack that sat at the side of the runway. He slid in the door and a covey of mechanics and pilots scrambled out, appalled to have been caught keeping warm instead of watching the ceremonies. Kosokov followed him. A moment later the door opened again, and Molotov beckoned to Scriabin to enter.
The room was no more than four meters square. An oil drum, its U.S. markings still visible, served as a stove, while boots and foot wrappings hung on the walls drying, lending their own distinctive stench to the smoky fug of the room. Yet it was a shield against the wind, and the temperature was above freezing, reason enough for the troops to pack it between sorties.
Kosokov was a fighter, and he was obviously not going to let the matter die on the basis of his pilot's comments.
"Don't pay any attention to Poryshkinov; he was still excited from the combat, and he was trying to say what he thought you wanted to hear. Believe me, Comrade Foreign Minister, the McNaughton is shit! We can't keep it maintained, and the ones we get in the air the Germans shoot down. You've read the reports I've sent in. Why can't we have some Spitfires, or even some Hurricanes? Or, if we have to have American junk, let it be P-47s or P-38s."
"Just give me your complaints, and leave the question of new aircraft to me," Molotov said impatiently.
Kosokov was not cowed at all. "I've written all the complaints down in my report, and I'll stand by every word."
Molotov's words were colder than the wind outside. "Tell me, Comrade Kosokov, how did you like our MiG-1 fighter?"
Kosokov now looked apprehensive at the direction of the conversation, but he spat out, "It was a killer on takeoffs and landings. The record shows that clearly."
"Yes, and how did you like our MiG-3?"
"Fast, but a poor fighter—no maneuverability."
"So, and tell me what did you think of our I-16?"
"In Spain, in 1937, it was fine; now it is obsolete, a pig!"
"You really don't like any fighters, do you, Kosokov? Perhaps you'd be better off in a bomber regiment, or in the infantry?"
Perspiration beaded on Kosokov's brow, but Scriabin could see that he was frustrated, not frightened.
"I've lost too many good men to the McNaughtons, Comrade Foreign Minister; your line of questioning is not fair."
"How many?"
"In eight weeks of operation, we have lost thirty-two pilots. Almost four per week, more than one hundred percent attrition for the squadron."
Molotov's voice dropped half an octave. "Thirty-two. My, how tragic." He paused, letting the tension build, and when he spoke again, his voice was savage, chipping at Kosokov's ego like a chisel on marble. "Do you know how many people die in Leningrad every day of starvation? Four thousand! And do you know how many we lost last June at Sevastopol? In three weeks, one hundred thousand! That's more than thirty-three thousand a week, more than four thousand a day! And you talk about four killed per week?"
Kosokov was silent; he knew Molotov's mind was made up, that his own career and maybe his life were over, and that there was little point in pushing him further.
"The problem is not the airplanes, Colonel Kosokov. The problem is you. Certainly you are going to lose men; I would have been happier if you told me you had lost thirty-two hundred; at least you would have been doing something."
Kosokov had fought in Spain. In June 1941, he had rammed his propeller through the tail of a Heinkel; he'd bailed out and was back in combat that afternoon. Since then he had risen to command a squadron and had not even counted his victories. He'd been shot down four times. And he had never been frightened. Till now.
He sputtered, "Trained pilots are in short supply—"
"The only thing in short supply here is courage. You are relieved of your command and confined to your quarters. I'll send you further orders soon. Come, Scriabin, away from this pigsty!"
The flight back to Moscow had been made in silence. Only when they landed did Molotov beckon to him.
"I'm going to confide in you, Scriabin. We have the chance of a great victory at Stalingrad. As it develops, I'll present the report on the McNaughton situation to Stalin. I am going to tell him that the McNaughton is performing well enough, but that Kosokov is a bad leader. He'll be so enthusiastic about beating the Germans that he'll accept my views on this. You're in the clear... for the time being."
The severity of his tone told Scriabin just how close to death he had been. Molotov went on: "Try very hard to get other kinds of airplanes from the Americans. If for some reason you cannot, then take the Sidewinders, or anything else they send. I will have instructions sent to the squadrons through the Stavka that casualties are unimportant, but dead Germans are."
"And what if Kosokov complains again?"
Molotov pulled out an ancient stem-winder pocketwatch a
nd glanced at it.
"Kosokov has been dead for thirty minutes."
*
Stockholm/December 14, 1942
The wrought-iron bridges that connected Stockholm's islands were covered with hoarfrost. Caldwell gazed from his hotel window across the glistening icefield of the bay to the snow-covered turrets of the Royal Castle. The layer by layer frosting of November mists had lacquered everything, castle granite and bridge iron, into a single filmy pearlescence.
The Grand Hotel was painted in subdued tones of gray and yellow, a six-story structure that rambled outward from the small central castellated building into irregular wings built during its ad hoc expansion over the years. In front, a huge striped awning provided protection for the stream of black official cars constantly pulling up, the smooth lines of the Mercedeses, Volvos, and Chevrolets humpbacked with big charcoal-burning gas generators.
A gray blanket of wood smoke hung over the city, mixing with the pervasive dank odor of wet timber and fouling the normally crisp Swedish air. Coal was in short supply, so everywhere, in the streets, the parks, the docks, huge piles of wood were stacked three or four yards high, waiting to be sold for a pittance. The Swedes covered the sides of the piles with posters, and one in particular made Caldwell a little uncomfortable. It showed soldaten 56 karlsson, the G.I. Joe of the newly militant Swedes, with his fingers to his lips, saying,
"THE SPYS ARE BUILDING A PUZZLE KEEP YOUR PIECE."
Caldwell had flown in from Scotland in a RAF Dakota, a Lend-Lease C-47, on a long and dangerous route that overflew Norway. Scriabin had come in an Aeroflot Lisunov Li-2. Painted in arctic camouflage, it had flown at night over Finland and the Gulf of Bothnia, vulnerable to any chance interception. Now Scriabin was alone with Caldwell in his hotel room, hunched over a two-kroner glass of brandy, still shivering from the stupefying cold of the unheated transport.
"I'm glad you agreed to meet with me ahead of time, General Caldwell. I'm going to speak plainly because I can't be away from my colleagues for too long. And I'm happy we're having the meeting in Stockholm; it's good for us all to get out of the Kremlin—you can't imagine the climate there. My men enjoy the chance to relax a bit and get a few decent meals."
Caldwell shrugged; it showed how relative things were. Swedish food and drink were patterned along German lines, running heavily to overcooked fish, potatoes, and the ubiquitous dolmas, the stuffed grape leaf delicacy that had made its way from Turkey to Sweden via the troops of Charles XII. Caldwell had lost five pounds on the previous trip. Even in the Grand Hotel restaurant, where Scriabin declined to eat on the basis of its being "too capitalistic," the food was poor by American standards. The one great advantage of the Grand was that there was plenty of liquor—at a price, of course—and for those that fancied it, "taxi girls," who would enter inconspicuously at a side entrance and walk up the stairs to avoid the elevator operator.
"General Caldwell, let me be blunt. The McNaughton aircraft you've sent us under Lend-Lease are inadequate for frontline service. We have the situation under control—at least temporarily—but if things blow up I could be shot."
"You're not going to be shot over the McNaughton! It is not inadequate. Your air force must not be employing them correctly."
"Not so. We are using them the only way they can be used, as ground attack aircraft against tanks. They are just cannon fodder for the Messerschmitts."
"But—"
"Let me interrupt you. I don't have a great deal of time to spend here. The only thing that has saved my neck so far is that Foreign Minister Molotov has claimed great successes for Lend-Lease, and for the McNaughton aircraft in particular."
Scriabin drank and went on. "Molotov is ignoring our losses in the air, insisting that we use infantry tactics—mass attacks, wave after wave, regardless of losses. That's why we need more airplanes so desperately. We've squandered everything we've gotten so far, killing tanks, but we've made a lot of German aces in a very short time."
"Easy, Giorgi. Our boys are using them, too. One of my best friends was shot down in the South Pacific. But by the middle of next year I'll be able to send Sidewinders with new engines and much better performance."
"It may not be soon enough. What can you send us in the meantime?"
"Well, some P-40s, and more Sidewinders. We can't switch now; we've got the production lines geared up, and the delivery routes prepared."
"I'm instructed to tell you that we'll take what we can get. But when can you give us something decent?"
"We'll try to begin sending P-47s next year. I can't promise anything. But let me show you a sketch of the future."
He pulled out a sheaf of drawings. "This is a turbine jet-powered aircraft, and it will be one hundred miles an hour faster than any plane flying today."
Scriabin was clearly intrigued.
"Where's the propeller?"
"That's just it. No propeller; it's a totally new concept, and McNaughton is ahead of the world on it. You can start getting these in mid-1944, if you want them."
The message was implicit: "You'll get these if you take the Sidewinders." Scriabin understood; he hoped Molotov would understand as well.
After Scriabin left, Caldwell glanced at his watch. He just had time to make it to his next meeting, the real reason for his visit: the reunion with a man who once was a friend. He changed into the workman's coat and hat he'd bribed the hall porter to get for him and left by the stairs.
The lights of the city were already on—the earlier blackouts had caused more accidents than an accidental bombing raid would have. But the energy shortage kept lighting at a minimum, and Caldwell was cautious as he threaded his way through the narrow streets.
Caldwell's map led him to one of the tunnels the practical Swedes had made through the ice-age moraines that divided the islands. As he scurried through the dark passageway, he realized that he felt perfectly secure; crime wasn't a problem in Sweden.
He emerged from the tunnel and found his destination immediately outside. It was the Damberg, the huge, sprawling working man's restaurant selected by his onetime friend as their meeting place.
As soon as Caldwell entered the dingy low-ceilinged room he could see that "restaurant" was a euphemism; the Damberg was a drinking man's establishment, and no mistake. He ordered a Swedish boilermaker—a beer and a branvin, and was somewhat startled when the drinks were served with a gray papier-mache imitation sandwich. Swedish law required the serving of food with drink, and he soon noticed that there was a brisk trade in handing the artificial sandwiches back and forth as drinks were dispensed and replenished.
As he sipped—the pale brown fluid reminding him of the near beer of Prohibition—he thought about the meeting ahead of him. He decided at once that there would be no questions or recriminations; what was over was over. Hafner wanted to do business, and he would just have to see what it was.
It was dangerous business. Hap Arnold had at first refused to let him even think about it—but Caldwell had persuaded him to let him do it at his own risk. A secret meeting with an enemy was a court-martial offense—five years ago he wouldn't have considered it; today it meant nothing more to him than a possible opportunity.
Caldwell was uncharacteristically optimistic, for things were going well. He'd managed to smooth things over with Scriabin, and surely the re-engined Sidewinder would perform better.
A tap on the shoulder caused him to whirl around. There was no one there, and he thought it was a joke until he looked down and saw, barely recognizable through his twisted smile, Bruno Hafner.
"My God, Bruno, you startled me. When did you get here?" The thought that Elsie could never love this grotesque-looking cripple brightened him momentarily; then he felt a savage rush of jealousy that this man could ever have known her, possessed her, made her groan and moan as he had. Hafner had had Elsie in her youth—My God, he thought, this monster took her virginity. Caldwell wanted to reach down and throttle him in his wheelchair.
"Hello, Henry. It's
good to see you after all these years. I've been here all along; people tend not to see men in wheelchairs. Some sort of defense mechanism, I guess."
All of the usual polite comments on meeting a former friend failed Caldwell. He couldn't say, "You're looking well" or "How is your family," for Bruno Hafner was not looking well, and he had killed his own wife.
"I was surprised to get your message, Bruno. It's been a long time."
Hafner nodded as the burly man who stood behind him moved down the bar, out of earshot.
"Sergeant Boedigheimer is my combination bodyguard and nurse. Pushes a mean wheelchair, he does. Were you surprised at the messenger?"
"Yes, certainly. I hadn't heard from Lyra Gortchakov since Kristallnacht."
"Spare me. We know that you've been in contact with her at least six times. So far I've been able to keep the Gestapo away from her by telling them that she was working for me, not you. I don't know how long I can keep that up, especially if you persist in running those obvious newspaper ads."
Caldwell regrouped—Hafner had him cold. He should have foreseen this, remembering how well the man had always prepared his business dealings. Sparring for time, he asked, "What does her Luftwaffe friend know of this?"
"Helmut? Absolutely nothing. It would kill him. He wants to marry her! And he has such a future—already a big ace, production expert. He'll be a general someday ... if he lives."
They were silent for a while, sipping and smoking, their eyes searching the room, Caldwell trying to forget that this was Elsie's first lover, concentrating on the bombshells Hafner had dropped. The conversation lapsed into reminiscence. Bruno told him of the fight over Guernica and his long convalescence.
"So you see, you can't get rid of a tough bird like me. Odd, isn't it, that a stepson-in-law almost killed me?"
Eagles at War Page 18
