HEAVY JETS

September 10, 1945 It was an impressive limousine. Long and black, it had a chrome grill like a submarine’s prow and sleek flowing lines that made it look both fast and somehow sinister. Originally built for a Nazi general, the oversized car reeked of power and dominance. Fender posts that once held small Nazi flags were broken and all swastika insignia removed. Now it was a humble motor pool car for use by American staff officers like Major James Cole. A lanky man, Cole was a full head taller than the average of that time with arms and legs that just never fit quite right, even in this huge vehicle. He sat alone in the expanse of back seat uncomfortably shifting and crossing his legs, aware that his uniform of olive drab wool smelled of the damp. Worse, his soggy clothes released odors long stored in the car’s shaved lambskin seats. There were lingering scents of Nazi officers’ cigarettes, sour liquor, whiffs of perfumes, and an acrid odor that might be urine or maybe even stale blood. The huge car was a rolling library of olfactory horrors. Outside the window, the passing world was shrouded in mist and rain. Cole muttered, “They think the war is over.” “How’s that, Sir?” The driver had to shout over his shoulder to be heard above pounding rain. Cole hadn’t meant to start a conversation. He hadn’t really even meant to say the words aloud, but it was done. He crossed his cramped legs and, with a sigh, did what he always did. He assumed a role. Why not entertain the young man for a while? As he did so, his expression, his posture and his voice changed to resemble the suave actor, Stewart Granger. “I said the war isn’t really over. Look at those women. Trummerfrauen they’re called. Rubble women, they push their wheelbarrows and hand carts endlessly, even in this rain they try to rebuild their precious city one brick at a time. They’re like ghosts, digging and hauling and digging some more.” He hesitated for effect. “But they remember. They remember that Vienna was once capital and crown jewel of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. They remember the greatness and they aren’t giving up.” The driver flashed an overly friendly smile. “Well, we did defeat them, Sir. Kicked their asses pretty good I’d say.” “Yes,” Cole unwrapped a damp cigar. “That toppled statue we just passed was of one of their Nazi blonde supermen. Now it’s scrap. They were the Aryan master race, supposed to rule the world. Now, look at them.” “Yes Sir.” Cole rolled the cigar between his palms and continued in his role. “Things are changing fast. We can lead this country into real democracy or watch it degenerate into a morass of ideological clans at war with each other.” The cheerful young soldier turned to look back at his mysterious passenger. “You sound like quite the philosopher, Sir.” James Cole shrugged as he hunched over to light his soggy cigar. “Not really. Victors become heroes. Losers become philosophers. This is a ruined place and a ruined people with fear in every face. Let’s just hope that fear doesn’t rule them. And driver, keep your eyes on the road, there’s debris everywhere and this rain’s getting heavier.” Cole was bored with the conversation. Chastened, the driver turned back forward and continued into the storm as he mumbled beneath his breath, “Well, we won, damn it. There’s no need for us to be philosophers.” For a long time, there was no sound but the monotonous smack of the wipers and the occasional thump of a pothole. They passed emaciated women in dark scarves and dripping, tattered coats struggling with loads of brick and stone. There were no men. As the car passed, every sullen eye turned to watch the only vehicle on the street. After a time, Cole decided to continue his lecture, “If you look at these people you would say they were too docile to be a threat.” Still playing Stewart Granger, his voice deepened dramatically. “But there are still Nazis among them. They aren’t giving up and they aren’t becoming docile.” Cole made a sly effort at a smile and proclaimed, “I am here to wipe the Swastika’s stain from the soul of this nation.” His smile widened into a grin. He knew that people tend to remember really outrageous statements and the people who made them. This driver would probably remember him, Major James Cole. “Sounds like you have some really big plans, Sir.” Then changing his tone, the driver became a salesman pitching a potential customer. “You know Sir, Vienna can be a pretty tough place to operate. If you need anything, I just might be able to help you.” Cole puffed. “Need anything? Do you mean the black market?” “Oh, no Sir, that’s against the law. It’s just that I know some people who know some people who can get almost anything for a price. I’m sure it’s all quite legit.” “Quite legit, Corporal? Just what can you get?” The driver shrugged, “Most anything you want, Major. And, by the way, I’m back to private. I just haven’t had my stripes changed yet, had to take a demotion to stay in the Army after President Truman’s cutbacks. I know it sounds crazy but I like this place and I see a lot of opportunity here.” “All quite legit?” Cole smirked and continued, “Okay son, get me some Reichsmarks. I’ll pay with greenbacks so there is no record.” Now the driver was all business. “How much do you want?” “Two thousand US dollars’ worth.” The driver whistled low. His voice was reserved, cautious. “If we’re going to do that kind of business you might as well call me Billy. Everybody calls me Billy, Billy Connors. Major, $2,000 is big money. You could buy a nice house for that much and I could go to Leavenworth for dealing that much.” “Son, I’m in Intelligence. In fact, I’m a new detachment commander. You won’t be going to any prison. Help me and I’ll take care of you. I’m going to need a lot of help during my time here and you could profit handsomely. Think it over while you wait for me outside Colonel Mather’s office.” Billy Connors grinned. “You bet I will, and while you’re there, give my regards to that cute little Fraulein Gint.” His bravado done, Cole slipped out of his role, sat back and faced his own uncertainty. He had been a successful intelligence agent during the war but always working alone or on a small team. Now, he was going to be a commander. How would he handle it? He hated groups. The bigger they were the more he hated them. He stretched his neck to calm a facial tic as they arrived at the headquarters.