Beyond the Call (34 page)

Breathing perfume and alcohol over each other, they ended up on the bed. Gazing hungrily into his eyes, Lydia slid her hand along Robert's thigh … and asked him about his parents. And his schooling, and his religion. In a pie-eyed stupor, Robert wondered what was going on. Lydia, continuing the seduction with her eyes and hands, questioned him intimately about his mission in the USSR.

When he returned to the base next morning with a hangover that would split tree trunks, all he could recall was Lydia's questioning, together with a vague memory of passing out. He didn't believe he'd answered her questions (not coherently, anyway) but couldn't swear to it.

The drink hadn't flowed nearly as freely at the embassy reception, and when the beautiful lady stumbled and asked Robert to put his arm around her to steady her, he instantly recalled Lydia. ‘Captain, you're so handsome,' the lady breathed, looking up at him with Rita Hayworth eyes. She really was unbelievably beautiful. But he wasn't
plastered this time, and knew perfectly well that all she was interested in was the information locked up inside his head.

With profound reluctance, and fighting against every masculine urge, Robert made an excuse, disengaged himself gently from the lady's hold, and retreated back inside the building.

It had been a narrow escape. He was just a small-town boy at the mercy of these professionals. He had no training in espionage, and missing home and Eleanor the way he did, he lacked the strength to resist this kind of seduction for long.

In the taxi on the way to his hotel, he thought over the evening he'd had and wondered how long he could keep up this business of politics and leadership. Was it all just a game to these people? The soldiers and civilians on the front line – were they just pieces to be played for and sacrificed in the winning of power?

The next morning, he went back to the embassy, hoping to secure a meeting with Ambassador Harriman or General Deane. He felt he couldn't go back to Poltava empty-handed; just a personal message that the gods in Moscow were thinking of their people and doing all they could to look after their interests would suffice. Neither Harriman nor Deane was available. Instead Robert was given a tour of the embassy. The facilities for the staff were amazing. In the recreation center there were senior officials enjoying a rousing game of indoor tennis. Some folks in the diplomatic corps, he realized, had had themselves a pretty nice war.

Poland had been sacrificed. The government in exile had been cut off over the Katyn dispute and supplanted by a Soviet puppet. And now Russia wanted a slice of Polish territory.
²⁷
Lwów, with its mix of Poles and Ukrainians, had become a gaming chip. Stalin had demanded it on the grounds that it was part of the historic territory of medieval Russia. In time it would be granted to him, renamed Lviv, and a thick strip of eastern Poland would be torn off with it, becoming part of Ukraine.

Robert Trimble couldn't stomach it. He really wasn't cut out for politics. Or so he believed. He wasn't to know that this was how politics felt to many of those who lived their lives inside it.

Looking back on this era, Winston Churchill would reflect sadly, ‘I have always been astonished, having seen the end of these two wars, how difficult it is to make people understand the Roman wisdom, “Spare the conquered and confront the proud.” … The modern practice has too often been, “Punish the defeated and grovel to the strong.”'
²⁸

General Deane disliked the way he was forced to bow to the Russians, just as much as Captain Trimble did, especially over the evacuation of American prisoners of war.
²⁹
So did Ambassador Harriman. Even speaking as a pragmatic politician, General Deane would come to regret the appeasement of the Soviet Union by America. ‘Whenever we did take a firm stand,' he would recall, ‘our relations took a turn for the better.' He came to the same conclusion that both Captain Trimble and Colonel Wilmeth had discovered during their time at the sharp end in Poland: ‘Soviet officials are much happier, more amenable, and less suspicious when an adversary drives a hard bargain than when he succumbs easily to Soviet demands.'
³⁰

Back in 1941, Adolf Hitler had made a grave error about the United States; looking at their democracy, their personal liberties, and their decadent jazz culture, he had concluded that Americans were weak. He heard the soft voice, and failed to notice the big stick. Germany had paid a heavy price for that mistake. Now it seemed that Stalin might be thinking the same way. He saw the generosity and openness of America – the Lend-Lease supplies, the ready sharing of intelligence, the soft-footed diplomacy – and believed that this was a nation that could be bullied.

But as the war drew to a close and the Iron Curtain began to fall, the British and the Americans were playing a delicate, dangerous game. As Churchill would reflect, ‘Appeasement from weakness and fear is alike futile and fatal. Appeasement from strength is magnanimous and noble and might be the surest and perhaps the only path to world peace.'
³¹

What Robert Trimble lacked that Deane, Harriman, Churchill, and Roosevelt all had was the ability to reconcile morals and politics.
Or maybe he just lacked the experience. The small-town boy, the ordinary American who had become a decorated combat veteran, the combat veteran who had become a secret agent and diplomat, was too low down the ladder to have a clear view of the landscape. He believed that he was no longer doing any good. The stress and the anger were growing, and the cracks were beginning to show.

Chapter 19

THE LONG WAY HOME

23 JUNE 1945: POLTAVA AIR BASE

I
T WAS
E
ASTERN
Command's last day. The war in Europe was well and truly over, and their job was done.

Four transport planes, warming up and idling, stood on the steelmat taxiway, fluttering the grass with their propeller wash. Nearby a small group of officers stood ready to board. During the past week, daily flights of C-46 Commandos had been moving out supplies, equipment and personnel, and now all that remained was this core group. The few dozen enlisted men had boarded the last two C-46s, and the officers were waiting to embark in the two C-47s.

Their leaders were conducting a final look-see around the base, and taking their time over it. Finally a jeep came speeding from the direction of the headquarters site and pulled up near the planes. In it were Captain Trimble and Brigadier General Ritchie, chief of staff from the Military Mission in Moscow, who had come down the day before to oversee the final checks.

The closing down had been stretched over more than a month, fraught with constant bureaucratic delays. The postal service had been shut down prematurely, nobody had had any mail for weeks, and everyone was on edge. Eastern Command's vast stores – built up for a big command hosting huge numbers of shuttle bombing crews – had to be inventoried and shipped out. Thousands of tons of surplus supplies were handed over to the Soviets on Lend-Lease.
¹
They nitpicked every item, claiming things were in poor condition, so as to reduce
the recorded value. Even machine guns that had never been removed from their sealed packaging were claimed to be ‘dirty'. Candy bars and packs of cigarettes were stolen in their thousands, and ended up being sold by urchins on the streets of Poltava.

It wasn't a period that Robert Trimble would look back on with any fondness. The strain of keeping the place running and being diplomatic with the Soviets, constantly reining in his annoyance and impatience, added to the stresses that were slowly pulling him apart inside.

He'd made some good friends, and there were happy memories along with the bad and the sad. In April, at the height of the flying ban, when tensions were high, Bill Kaluta, a young Corps of Engineers lieutenant, had married his girlfriend, Lieutenant Clotilde Govoni, a nurse in the base hospital. Kaluta was a lively soul, a beautiful accordion player, and a Poltava veteran who'd been with Eastern Command since its early days.
²
For a day, everyone's spirits were lifted. As commanding officer, Robert acted as substitute father of the bride. The ceremony took place in the city hall, with a congregation of Russians and Americans. Outside, an audience of bemused Ukrainian citizens looked on as the happy swarm of uniforms filed in and out, laughing, joking, and distributing candy to the local children. When called on to kiss the bride, Robert gave Clotilde a quite unfatherly smackeroo on the lips that left her giggling. That one day of laughter and goodwill between Russians and Americans was a bright spot in those dark weeks.

Kaluta was waiting now, as the jeep pulled up beside the idling planes. Robert would be taking one C-47 to Moscow, en route to USSTAF headquarters in Paris, while Kaluta was going with the other C-47 via Cairo. He had charge of all Eastern Command's records, which the Soviets would have given a lot to get their hands on. The packages of documents, which were to be destroyed if necessary, were leaving Russia by the shortest route, and avoiding Moscow. A story went around that the last item of American property to be taken care of had been a previously undiscovered cache of secret weapons and equipment belonging to the OSS, found by General Ritchie in
a warehouse. It was apparently a relic of the aborted OSS/NKVD cooperation. To prevent it falling into Soviet hands, Ritchie had the gear loaded aboard a truck in the dead of night, then personally drove it to a nearby lake and dumped it all in.
³

The officers said their farewells and boarded their planes. After General Ritchie had gone aboard, Robert stepped up into the doorway of the C-47 and glanced back. A midsummer sun shone down on the ruined buildings and the barracks blocks and glittered on the steel-mat runways. It was all very different from the first view he'd had; the mellow warmth a world away from the lacerating cold that had hit him on that February day. Robert marveled at how little time had elapsed since he'd arrived, primed with false promises of an easy racket that would see him through the rest of the war. He'd never believed that he could accomplish the task that he'd been sent into Poland for, but he'd done his best. Hundreds of men and women had been brought from perdition to safety.

It was all off the record, and the only recognition was indirect and muted. In May, in a letter to General Carl A. Spaatz, commander of USSTAF, General Hill had requested promotion for Captain Trimble to the rank of major, exempting him from the normal requirement of twelve months in current rank. Hill came as close as he could to acknowledging Robert's extraordinary service in Poland: ‘I consider that the exceptional nature of Captain Trimble's duties during the past three months warrant waiver of the current requirement.'
⁴
Robert's performance, both as a flight commander with the 493rd Bomb Group and as CO of Eastern Command, had been rated Superior, but his service as assistant operations officer – the cover for his secret work in Poland which could never be openly spoken about – was rated Excellent.

In all his endeavors he had done better than anyone could have expected, not least himself. ‘This has been one of the most difficult periods since the organization of the command,' wrote General Hill. ‘Captain Trimble has displayed outstanding diplomacy, energy and devotion to duty under the most trying conditions.'

Later that same month, General Deane joined his voice to General Hill's, also calling for promotion and also referring obliquely to ‘the exceptional nature of Captain Trimble's duties and performance'.
⁵

Captain Trimble himself was never told exactly what his generals had said about him. As far as he knew, he'd done all right, but no better. Oh well, it was all by and done with now. He ducked inside the plane and slammed the door.

T
HE WHEELS OF
the last C-47 came unstuck from Poltava's runway. The last contact was broken. America had been here, and now it was gone. The tiny, fragile island of Western liberty was inundated by the Red waters that had encircled it.

Captain Trimble paid a high price for what he'd achieved. He'd seen and experienced things that were beyond the ken of an aircombat veteran. The dead haunted him. But worse than that was the feeling of betrayal – the way, in his eyes, America had bowed the knee to Stalin and sold out Poland in a fool's bargain.

With Poltava receding, Robert believed he was leaving it all behind – the fear, the frustration, the sickening truths about the conduct of war – but he wasn't. He took it all with him, locked up inside. The war had exacted a price, and he wasn't done paying yet.

T
HE
C-47
CALLED
at Moscow, where there was bureaucratic business to deal with and General Ritchie resumed his post at the embassy. Robert's promotion to major had never materialized, and Ritchie – who'd become a friend during their brief acquaintance – promised to look into it and back him up. But nothing came of it. Robert, who was hardly thinking straight at all these days, was left to wonder if he'd made some kind of misstep during his time as CO. The memory of ‘Lydia' and that awful drunken night came back to him, turning his skin cold; but he wasn't aware that anyone had ever known about it. He'd certainly not been reprimanded for it.

Most likely, the promotion never came simply because there was no longer any role for him. With the war ending, Eastern Command dissolved, and demobilization on the horizon, there was no call for dynamic new majors. There was another possible reason too, which suggested itself during another stopover on the way home.

From Moscow, the C-47 flew to Berlin and Frankfurt. For the first time, Robert stood within the homeland of the enemy, the soil upon which he'd dropped so many tons of bombs. The place was utterly devastated – as bad as anything he'd seen in Russia or Poland – and the proud, bellicose people of the Reich were reduced to beggary. It wasn't something he wanted to contemplate, and he couldn't get out of there fast enough.

He took the controls at Frankfurt and flew the next leg himself. In Paris, for the first time in months, it felt like he was re-entering the free world. Here was a city barely touched by battle or bombs, where the West was in force. Having been part of a tiny minority in a semi-hostile country, he found it strange to see British and American GIs everywhere, lounging in sidewalk cafés, strolling openly arm in arm with local girls. At long last,
home
started to seem like a real thing – a place that had an actual, solid existence.

In Paris Robert received a surprise invitation. A farewell party was being held for General Carl A. Spaatz, who was stepping down as commander of USSTAF and heading off to the Pacific to take command of the air forces there.
⁶
Robert took a ride out to the headquarters at St Germain-en-Laye, a former royal retreat to the west of Paris. The place was dominated by the vast château which until a year ago had been the headquarters of the German Army. Once more Robert found himself in elevated company; on this occasion he was the only captain in an exclusive party of generals. They were the commanding officers of the constituent arms of USSTAF, a club in which Captain Robert Trimble was still notionally a member. He was even more out of his depth than he had been at the Moscow party.

Toward the end of the evening, General Spaatz approached Robert and shook his hand. Like many of the generals Robert had known, he
was a surprisingly kindly-looking fellow in his mid-fifties, with the impression that there was steel underneath the soft features. Spaatz had heard good reports of the young captain's work in Russia. In the course of small talk they discovered that they were both south-east Pennsylvania boys. Spaatz had grown up in Boyertown, a small community about 60 miles from Camp Hill, son of a local newspaper-man and politician who'd had a seat in the Pennsylvania Assembly at Harrisburg.
⁷

‘We used to play ball against Boyertown in the American Legion,'
⁸
Robert said, caught up in memories of boyhood and not thinking what he was saying. ‘We always beat the dickens out of 'em!'

The general spluttered indignantly: ‘What the hell are you talking about?'

Robert reddened and started to backtrack, but Spaatz laughed and brushed the insult to his home town aside. ‘Join me for a cigar, Captain?' he suggested. ‘I'd like a quiet talk with you.'

They stepped out onto a balcony with a view over St Germain in the summer evening twilight. Spaatz, done with small talk, got straight to business. ‘I'm heading out to the Pacific in a couple of days,' he said. ‘I just lost one of my aides, and I need a good man to replace him.' He looked at Robert through a wreath of cigar smoke. ‘That man could be you. I've heard good things about you.' It was a stunning offer. Robert didn't know what to say or think. ‘If you accept,' Spaatz added, ‘you'll certainly get that promotion your superiors have been pestering me for.'