A Bitter Wind, page 26
“I assume you’re here because of 101 Squadron,” Johnny said in barely a whisper.
“Partially,” I said. “Do you know a Major Frederick Brockman?”
“Of course,” Johnny said. “Yank. He’s in charge of outfitting his aircraft with some of our special equipment. Why?” I could see Johnny’s eyes narrow with concern as he tried to figure out what was up.
“Don’t worry. We’re not going to talk about what you do. Not here, anyway,” I said. “But we do know some of that special equipment pulled a disappearing act. Major Brockman knew as well.”
“You didn’t come all this way to accuse me, did you?” Johnny asked, a laugh escaping his lips. “We were both concerned about it.”
“We came all this way because you told Sally Miller you knew who was behind it,” I said. “When she visited you in the men’s barracks, the night before your last mission.”
“My god. Sally. How is she?”
“She’s fine. Squadron Officer Conan Doyle had to send her off to a small listening post down the coast. Apparently, Lieutenant Walters reported her for the crime of entering the men’s barracks.”
“That sot,” Johnny spat out. “Full of himself and none too friendly when it comes to Jews. He once let slip a comment about people sticking to their own kind. He wasn’t happy Sally and I were seeing each other.”
“Back to the thefts,” I said. “You told Sally you knew who it was.”
“Yes,” Johnny said. “It was the wiring diagram she brought me, the one for the H2S ground-mapping radar that tipped me off.”
“Johnny, who is it?” Big Mike said.
“Bigs, the little rat,” Johnny said. “I knew he was mad about electronics and radios, but I never had him figured for a thief. There’s nowhere to sell that stuff. What’s in it for him?”
“Wait. You’re talking about Bigsby? Leading Aircraftman Roscoe Bigsby?” I said. “He’s a kid.”
“I began to get suspicious and asked around. He was always underfoot when something went missing,” Johnny said. “He was always eager to learn and willing to lend a hand, so at first I didn’t think much of it. But when Sally told me about finding that diagram, I knew it was Bigs.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He’d been asking me about the ground radar and how it worked. At first, I was impressed with his interest and depth of knowledge. But when I told him I could only go so far explaining H2S without a wiring diagram, he stopped pestering me about it.”
“You think he stole the diagram?” I asked.
“I know he did. It disappeared right after that. He must’ve figured he didn’t need me if he got a hold of the diagram,” Johnny said. “Bigs was the last of the ground crew in my Lanc. I watched him enter after the others were done and just chalked it up to a last-minute check. But I had my suspicions, so I followed him. He was in front of the H2S screen, fiddling with it, the diagram laid out on his lap.”
“What did he say?”
“That if I told anyone, he’d kill me,” Johnny said. “Then he claimed he was just curious about the mechanism, but he’d be ruined if anyone reported him. I said it was all very suspect what with the rumors of missing electronics, and he got very angry. I grabbed the diagram, and he threw a punch. We tussled about but it was too cramped to have a proper set-to. I pushed him away and said I’d be talking with Major Brockman after my mission.”
“You took the diagram?” I asked.
“Thought I did. I’d stuffed it in my pocket, but it must’ve come out in the struggle. I guess Bigs didn’t notice that either.”
“But Sally found it. She must have seen Bigsby after you left,” I said.
“Yes. I went to grab some sleep. When Sally showed me the diagram, she thought I had left it and wanted to save me from trouble with Walters. I was worried for her, so I told her not to say a thing. I was going to talk with Brockman after my mission. But right then, I needed sleep with my round trip to Berlin starting in a few hours. Guess I should have gone to the major instead.”
“Brockman had a list of missing hardware,” I said. “H2S was on it.”
“Had to be Bigsby,” Johnny said as he leaned back and rubbed his chin. “But that doesn’t explain why you’re here. You could’ve waited in Italy, or England, for that matter.”
“It’s not just about the thefts, Johnny,” I said. “We got involved because Major Brockman was murdered. Do you see Bigsby as capable of murder?” There was more news to deliver, but I wanted Johnny thinking straight for as long as he could.
“I didn’t think he’d be capable of theft, especially military hardware, so who’s to say?” Johnny said. “What happened to Brockman?”
“He was bludgeoned and thrown off the Dover cliff outside Capel-le-Ferne,” I said. “Smashed in the back of the head with something like a lead pipe.”
“Bloody hell,” Johnny said as he shook his head in disbelief. “I wouldn’t have thought Bigsby a killer, but he was right single-minded about electronics. Had a hard time taking no for an answer when I had to end one of our talks for my kip.”
“Even though he threatened to kill you?”
“I thought he was just running his mouth,” Johnny said. “I knew he was mad, but not murderous.”
“What else can you tell me about him?” I asked.
“He grew up in a rough part of London. Hackney. Gangs and bullies around every corner, that sort of thing. Told me once that he began fiddling with his father’s shortwave radio after he died to keep off the streets and out of trouble. He became fascinated and decided that was how he was going to make his living,” Johnny said.
“Right. We were told he was a voluntary interceptor with the Radio Security Service before he was old enough to enlist,” I said.
“He mentioned it often,” Johnny said. “And his desire for a job in electronics after the war so he could support his mum in her old age. She’s in poor health and depends on what he sends her, which is little enough. Come to think of it, the only time he left base was to take the train up to see her.”
“Father dead, his mother poorly and barely getting by. Fairly sad stuff,” I said.
“So, yes, I could see him striking out if someone was going to threaten the things he cares about. Radios, electronics, plans for the future, and his mother. Prison would mean shame and failure. A murder might be worth it to him,” Johnny said.
“If he was pushed around on the streets of Hackney, he might have a real fear of prison,” Big Mike offered. “Did he look like a guy who could take care of himself?”
Johnny and I agreed he didn’t. Slight of build, very focused mentally, but not strong enough physically to stand up to a tough guy. The more I thought about it, the more I could see how appealing a quick whack to the head would seem to him.
“You don’t think he’s selling this gear to the enemy, do you?” Johnny asked.
“I don’t see how he could manage it,” I said. “But I do wonder what he’s doing with it.”
“Selling it on the black market?” Big Mike said. He shifted around in his chair, trying to get comfortable. Or stay awake. “Maybe to some Hackney gang?”
“This isn’t the sort of thing you hook up to the radio receiver in your sitting room,” Johnny said. “This is advanced gear. I imagine a lot of it will lead to improvements after the war, but right now it’s fairly limited to finding the target and fooling the Luftwaffe.”
“Then we have to consider it’s being sold to the enemy,” I said. “Through a neutral nation, perhaps. We should inform MI5.”
“It won’t be that easy,” Johnny said. “The RAF keeps a tight lid on radar countermeasures. I doubt they’d share much with other intelligence services. You’d best work with Conan Doyle and have Bigsby isolated so he doesn’t do any further harm.”
“Okay,” I said. I rose and stretched my stiffening back. “But he’s already done further harm. You’re friends with David Cohen, aren’t you?”
“Oh no,” Johnny said as his hand covered his mouth. “Not David too?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say. Killed in his own Lancaster while it was being repaired. He took a blow to the head just like Brockman. Traces of machine oil were left behind in both cases,” I said.
“Any idea why he would have been attacked?” Big Mike asked.
“I’d told him about the missing hardware,” Johnny said. “We all expected things to be misplaced, that’s normal in such a big operation. The ground crews work hard, and they take the job seriously. They get things done without a lot of regard for paperwork. David was angry when he heard it might be deliberate theft. After my kite went down, he may have taken up the cause.”
“It’s a helluva thing,” I said. “To escape the Nazis and end up murdered by one of your own.”
“One of their own? Not every Englishman thinks that, Captain. But when you’ve seen your father beaten in the streets of Leipzig, a few stray words here and there don’t seem all that serious,” Johnny said.
“You don’t think anti-Semitism played any role in these killings?” I asked. “Major Brockman was Jewish as well.”
“I had no idea,” Johnny said. “And no, I don’t think so. The English are pretty wary of foreigners to begin with, so I tried not to take it too seriously. One fellow called us Yids and then said he didn’t know it was a derogatory term. It’s just what he’d always heard. For the most part, we special operators can deal with that kind of everyday ignorance. The actual bigots, I simply ignore.”
“What about being called a Jonah?” I asked.
“That’s the worst part,” he said. “Because it’s based on the truth. As far I know, the rest of my crew is dead. It was chaos up there, all fire and explosions, but once I bailed out, I was alone. Just like Jonah about to be swallowed by the whale.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
DOWNSTAIRS, SANJA POURED three glasses of slivovitz. “Do you know what day it is?” she asked.
“Sunday?” I guessed. The days of the week were a blur to me.
“No. Tomorrow is the eve of the New Year,” she said. “We may not be back in Pranjani in time to celebrate properly. So, a toast, while we can make one.” She raised her glass. “Srećna Nova Godina.”
“Happy New Year to you,” Big Mike said. “Let’s hope it’s a better one.”
“Home alive by ’45,” I said as we looked each other in the eye and drank. That was the phrase GIs had come up with to replace “Out the door in ’44.” I hoped we didn’t need to come up with a rhyme for the next New Year.
Sanja tossed wood into the stove. All I wanted to do was curl up on the floor and let the warmth sink into my bones like an old dog. But first, I had to get a message out. The local radioman could contact Rudy, who’d relay the message to Bari. From there, Colonel Harding could take care of the rest.
Except for getting us out of harm’s way. For that, we were on our own.
“Sanja, we need to contact Rudy,” I said.
“You must wait,” she said as she shut the door on the woodstove. “The radio team is hiding in the forest. They cannot be taken.”
“How far away?” Big Mike asked. “We’ve got to get a message out now.”
“No one knows. That is the plan,” Sanja said. Of course. Anyone who was captured would ultimately reveal the truth after the pains of torture grew intolerable.
“We need to get that message out,” I said, then made the mistake of sitting in a comfortable armchair.
“What’s the plan, Billy?” I knew it was Big Mike, and I knew it was important to talk about, but all I wanted to do was close my eyes for a minute. I struggled to speak, tried to open my eyes, but gave up the fight and drifted away as the warmth from the woodstove enveloped me.
I jolted awake moments later. I glanced at the luminous dial on my wristwatch. Correction, hours later. It was dark, except for a flickering candle on the kitchen table. Sanja was asleep in a chair across from me, and Big Mike was curled up in a blanket on the floor. I knew I should rouse myself, but instead, I enjoyed the satisfaction of knowing Flint was no longer a threat: dead, dressed, and trussed, ready for his final curtain. And that we now knew who’d killed Major Brockman and Sergeant Cohen.
But all that was worthless unless we got out of here alive, soon, and got the lowdown on Bigsby to Colonel Harding.
How?
Flint was ready to play his part, costarring in this charade as Flight Sergeant Johnny Adler. What we needed was a big-name star to pull off the con job I had in mind.
A big name.
Hmm.
If Flint was playing Johnny Adler, then why couldn’t Johnny take on the starring role?
“Sanja,” I said. She woke in an instant, her hand producing a pistol from under the thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Big Mike rustled on the floor.
“What?” she gasped.
“Those officers’ uniforms in the barn. Do you know the rank and unit for each man?”
“No. We can ask Tomas,” she said, barely awake. “I think he has Soldbuchs for both.” The Wehrmacht Soldbuch was the standard identity document in the German military. It allowed the owner to draw pay and identified his current and former units. It also included his rank and personal information.
“Let’s do that now,” I said. “Big Mike, wake up.”
“Jeez, Billy, it’s hardly three o’clock,” Big Mike grumbled as he gave out a great yawn.
“Then we ought to have just enough time,” I said.
Sanja woke up Tomas, and he went to grab the uniforms from the barn. She explained that this was his house, and his mother would put together breakfast while we discussed my plan. Big Mike got Johnny and Nick downstairs, and, within a few minutes, a bleary-eyed crowd was staring at the German uniforms laid out on the kitchen table.
“Just to make sure I’m not wasting everyone’s time, am I right, Johnny, that your German is flawless? I know you were a child when you left.”
“It has to be, in my job, remember?”
“Okay. This idea assumes two things,” I said. “First, that the SS sends the Ustaše in along the mill road. To test our defenses and serve as a distraction as they hit us from the ridge above. It’s a smart tactical approach, so I think the chances are good. Second, that one of these uniforms fits you, Johnny, well enough to be convincing.”
“And that you’re willing to do it, mate,” Nick said.
“Do what, exactly?” Johnny said.
“Have you ever played poker?” I asked.
“No, but I have wanted to learn,” he said.
“Well, knowing how to bluff is very important. This will be your first lesson,” I said. “Now let’s check these fancy duds.”
The SS uniform was in excellent shape, except for some bloodstains on the collar. According to the Soldbuch, it once belonged to Sturmbannführer Alfred Hansen of the 21st Waffen SS division. That rank was equivalent to a major and would allow Johnny to throw some Teutonic weight around. The Wehrmacht uniform belonged to a lowly lieutenant, so it made sense to go with the SS uniform with the shiny boots.
Johnny traded his civilian clothes for the Sturmbannführer’s uniform, and it was a fair fit, as long as the belt was cinched tight. Herr Hansen had a few pounds on his former countryman, but the folds of fabric weren’t noticeable. With an extra pair of socks to fit into the oversize boots, Johnny looked ready to take the stage in his debut performance.
“You look good,” Tomas said. “So good, I want to shoot you.” He handed over a German greatcoat, which Johnny shrugged on, doing a turn to show off the fit. Tomas’s mother came into the kitchen and pointed a knife in his direction, saying something that gave Tomas and Sanja a chuckle.
“I wouldn’t take a walk in that getup,” Nick said. “Your throat will be cut in no time.”
“Nick raises a good point, Captain,” Johnny said. “How do we proceed?”
“It’s okay to call me Billy,” I said. “Everybody does.”
“I shall stick with captain for now. It gives me confidence that you actually know what you’re doing, if you don’t mind,” Johnny said. “Now, what exactly are you doing?”
“To Nick’s point, we need to clear all the fighters out of the village,” I said. “It’s easier than explaining our plan, and there’s not enough men to defend the place anyway.”
“We can do that,” Sanja said, and gave Tomas a quick rundown in case he’d missed anything. “We agree it is wise.”
“Okay,” I said. “How about a truck? Something in decent shape, fit for a Sturmbannführer?”
“Yes,” Sanja said, after consulting with Tomas. “We have a Fiat. Italian army. It is hidden in the woods. But there is not much fuel.”
“That’s not a problem. We won’t be going far,” I said.
We made our plans. First, the village had to be cleared of Chetnik fighters. Then we needed our own small force of Black Legion types. Tomas said both would be easy. He’d tell his men to scatter, except for four whom he could outfit with Ustaše caps and crests. Two of them spoke enough German to be understood. He’d be the boss, wearing Flint’s black coat.
“Maybe instead of scattering, those guys stage a distraction,” Big Mike said. “Somewhere south of here, they shoot off a few rounds. Could get the Krauts to investigate.”
“Good idea,” Sanja said. “Everyone has a part to play.”
We went over timing as Tomas’s mother served coffee made from acorns and a few other ingredients I didn’t ask about. It was hot, and it helped wash down the dense bread she doled out.
The phony Ustaše would be positioned on the ridge overlooking the village. Not to repel the Germans, but to greet them with the news that an Englishman had been captured. Figuring that the attack along the mill road would happen first, Johnny would be there in the Fiat, with Flint’s corpse in the truck bed. The real trick was to contact the enemy without getting shot up. Then convince them to take the body to their SS commander, with the Sturmbannführer’s compliments.
“Hold on,” Big Mike said as he chewed on the crusty bread. “Johnny’s gonna need someone to translate, ain’t he?”
