Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2)

by William Peter Grasso

  “I appreciate that, Sarge,” Tommy replied. “Anything else I should know about?”

  “Nah, you’re babying her just fine, Lieutenant. No problems. Not so far, anyway. The rest of the ships in Blue Flight are in good shape, too.”

  A fine, cold rain began to fall. The mechanics on the wing scrambled for a tarp to protect themselves and their wiring work from the rain. Tommy joined McNulty in the truck’s cab.

  “Don’t look like you gentlemen will be committing no aviation anytime soon,” McNulty said. “Forecast is for low clouds, rain, and fog all damn morning.”

  “Yeah. Looks that way.”

  “I’ll bet them ground-pounders will be cursing you flyboys all over again, not being able to support them and all.”

  “I wish there was something I could do about that, Sarge. I really do.”

  McNulty closed the logbook on his lap. In the glow of the flashlights they’d rigged in the truck’s cab, he looked troubled, like a man with a confession to make.

  “You know, Lieutenant…I still feel kinda bad about that thing I said yesterday.”

  “What thing, Sarge?”

  “That thing about saying fuck all this and sitting out the war in Switzerland. I think I was just feeling a little homesick or something, that’s all. I don’t want you to be misconscrewing no meanings.”

  Tommy smiled. His syntax might be tortured, but McNulty’s heart was usually in the right place.

  “I don’t remember you saying anything like that, Sarge.”

  “Oh yeah? Then what did I say, Lieutenant?”

  “Something about if I fucked your airplane up again, you’d be kicking my ass all the way back to Brooklyn.”

  Now McNulty was smiling, too. “And don’t you never forget it, neither, sir.”

  Chapter Seven

  In the thick fog of pre-dawn, the men of 37th Tank Battalion were about to receive their orders. One tanker held his hand out in front of his face and said, “I always thought my old man was joking when he said can’t see your hand in front of your face. But it ain’t no joke, is it? Not this morning, anyway.”

  Colonel Abrams, the battalion commander, told his assembled officers and NCOs, “Here’s the deal. We’re going up to Metz and help Fifth Infantry Division take some of those forts blocking their way into the city. It’s about a forty-mile drive. Should take us a good three or four hours provided nothing slows us down.”

  A grumble of disgust swept through his audience. “That isn’t even Fourth Armored’s AO,” Captain Newcomb, Baker Company commander, said. “Isn’t Sixth Armored supposed to be direct support for the Fifth?”

  There was irritation in Abrams’ voice as he replied, “Areas of operation are wherever Corps decides they are, Captain. And yeah—that’s where Sixth Armored has been working, but now the 37th is going to be helping them out.” He paused to scan the downcast faces before him, the shadows, no doubt, hiding just how unhappy they were with the news.

  “Are there any more questions?” the colonel asked.

  There were none. The rumble of tank engines warming up was the only sound.

  “The S3 will now hand out the operations order with your various routes of march described in detail,” Abrams said. “Since the companies are so spread out, we won’t form into a battalion column until we all meet up just short of Nancy.”

  Captain Newcomb scanned Baker Company’s orders with his platoon leaders. They found one thing troubling: they’d never been on some of the roads they were to take in their drive west toward Nancy. “We’re gonna be driving along the division’s northern flank,” Sean Moon said as he studied the map. “There could be Krauts to our right in force. We’d better hope they’re as blind in this pea soup as we are. Otherwise, we’re gonna be bobbin’ along just like targets in a shooting gallery.”

  The fog hadn’t lifted a bit. Baker Company’s tanks crept along, their drivers struggling to keep their vehicles on the narrow pavement and off the marshy shoulders. Keeping the tank in front of them in sight without running into it when it suddenly stopped was a challenge. Reading the few road signs was proving difficult in the poor visibility, too. As another signpost loomed out of the mist, Sean Moon, commanding the lead tank in the company column, stopped his Sherman, got out, and walked over to read it.

  He didn’t like what the sign told him.

  Captain Newcomb, who’d been several vehicles back in the column, jogged up to join him. “I guess I fucked up, sir,” Sean said. “I must’ve missed the turn. According to this damn sign, Freezin’ Soul is two kilometers behind us.”

  Freezin’ Soul: the GI’s tortured pronunciation of the town Fresnes-en-Saulnois.

  “Shit,” Newcomb mumbled. He had no reason to doubt Moon was right; it was hard to be sure at their slow pace, but he reckoned they’d been headed down this road for much too long. There was no reason to lay all the blame on Sergeant Moon, though. Neither Newcomb nor anyone else in the column had spotted the turnoff they were supposed to take as they rolled past it in that pea soup.

  “Don’t worry about it, Sergeant Moon. I don’t know where the fuck we are, either.”

  Spinning a column of fifteen tanks around on a narrow road was asking for trouble. Maybe some of them would get stuck in a roadside ditch or bog. Precious time and gas would be wasted hauling them out. Even if they managed the about face without disaster, they’d still be blundering through the same soup, just in the opposite direction.

  Silently, Newcomb speculated, At least if there are any Kraut tanks or 88s nearby, they can no more see us than we can see them at the moment. But German infantry with panzerfausts—they could walk practically right up and blow us to Hell.

  “Keep going,” Newcomb told Moon. “About two more miles, there should be a dirt road—probably more of a farm trail—to the left. Take it. It should get us back to Highway Seventy-Four pretty quick. I’ll radio Battalion about our change of plans.”

  Sean traced the proposed route on his map. “Yeah, I see it. But what about the river, sir? We already missed the bridge we were supposed to take. There ain’t gonna be any other bridges that can support a Zippo’s weight. You sure it’s gonna be shallow enough to ford with this rain we’ve been getting?”

  “I don’t think the Seille river is over three feet deep anywhere around here, even with all the rain,” Newcomb replied. “We’ll cross it.”

  Let’s fucking hope so, Sean thought.

  Somewhere above this dull, back-lit murkiness, the sun shone brightly. But it’s sure taking its sweet time burning this damn fog off, Sean told himself. Still on the paved roadway, they were making no more than five miles per hour. And we’ll be making a lot less when we’re on that dirt trail…if I even find it. I’ve already fucked up once this morning. Please don’t let me do it again.

  He did the rough math in his head one more time: two miles at five miles per hour. It should take a little over twenty minutes.

  He checked his watch. They’d been on the move again for nineteen.

  “Kowalski,” he said to his driver, “hold up a second. I’m getting out.”

  “Getting out? Where the hell are you going, Sarge?”

  “I’m gonna be your ground guide, Ski. Can’t miss the fucking turn again. Try to keep me in sight and don’t run my ass over, okay?” Then he told his gunner, “Fabiano, you’re in command of this vehicle until I get back. Don’t fuck up.”

  Walking along the road, Sean felt cloaked in some strange, mythic armor. It was as if his invisibility in the fog protected him better than the steel hull of his Sherman. Jogging faster than the tanks could drive, he was soon well ahead of them, so far that the hum of their engines at low throttle no longer masked the sound of his heavy breathing. Or the pulse pounding in his ears.

  The darkened silhouettes he saw ahead seemed like nothing more than dense roadside shrubbery at first, like the bocages of Normandy where they’d fought three months before.

  But the emerging shapes were too regular—too hard-
edged—to be vegetation. And there was a sudden roar, like the Maybach engine of a panzer revving up. And a voice shouting commands that were definitely German.

  Sean turned and sprinted back to his tank. He hadn’t realized how far ahead of it he’d gone; it seemed like forever before it loomed back into view through the mist.

  He jumped onto the forward hull and told Kowalski, “Stop right here. Don’t go another foot.”

  Then he climbed to the turret and grabbed the radio headset from Fabiano.

  “Papa Gray 6 from Papa Gray 2-6,” he called to Captain Newcomb. “We got trouble ahead. Need you up here on the double.”

  Newcomb was there in seconds. Together, he and Sean walked forward into the soup, toward the German tanks.

  “How many you figure?” Newcomb asked.

  “I can only see three, sir. Don’t hear any more than that, either. Can’t tell for sure what type they are, but I’m betting Panther.”

  “And they’re broadside to the road,” Newcomb said, peering into the mist. “That isn’t any way to set up a roadblock.”

  “I don’t think they’re a roadblock, sir. I think they’re as lost as us. I could hear one of them yelling Zurich or something like that. Ain’t that how the Krauts say go back? Or maybe back up?”

  “Yeah, the word’s zurück, I think. But I don’t imagine he’s talking about going to Switzerland, although that doesn’t sound like such a bad idea right about now.”

  Sean said, “If they ain’t gonna move for a minute, why don’t me and Spinetti creep up on them and let ’em have it? The ground’s firm enough here for off-road, two abreast. They’ll never hear us coming over the racket those Maybachs are making. And they sure as hell won’t see us until it’s too late.”

  “Do it,” Newcomb replied. “Just don’t miss.”

  “At this range, it’d be harder not to hit them, sir.”

  As they jogged back to their tanks, Sean said, “Funny thing, sir. If I hadn’t dismounted we wouldn’t’ve seen or heard those Krauts until we were right on top of them. They could’ve had us for lunch.”

  In a few quick bounds, Sean was back in his commander’s hatch. Spinetti’s tank—the next in the column—pulled alongside Lucky 7. Together they slowly advanced—why did the distance seem farther driving than on foot?—until the dark shapes of the German tanks could be seen as if floating in the fog. The panzers were moving now, going back, perhaps, in the direction they’d come. Still showing their vulnerable flanks, they were no more than fifty yards away.

  With the gunners’ shouts of On the way, both Shermans fired, one hitting the lead tank, the other the trail tank. Sean’s loader rammed in another round—and with it, Fabiano dispatched the tank in the middle.

  Three brilliant orange blazes—the funeral pyres of three panzers—pierced the veil of fog like floodlights, proving Sean correct: those dying tanks were alone.

  As the column rolled past the burning panzers, Sean took a moment to reflect: I’m one lucky bastard, I guess. How many times is it now that I shoulda been dead…but I ain’t? Well, I fucked up but good today and got away with it. But those Krauts fucked up, too…and they bought it.

  The dirt road they were looking for proved not as hard to find as they’d feared. Fresh, muddy tank tracks on the pavement—German, no doubt—led them directly to the turnoff, a wide and well-churned thoroughfare cut through marshland.

  This soft, wet crap ain’t exactly tank country, Sean thought as Lucky 7 pivoted onto the dirt road. Let’s just hope those fresh tracks came from those three panzers we just turned into ovens…and not some other Krauts still hanging around here.

  As if the Germans weren’t enough to contend with, Mother Nature wasn’t finished throwing obstacles into Baker Company’s path. The fog had finally dissipated, yielding to a steady rain that turned the dirt road beneath their tracks into a morass almost as treacherous for vehicles as the marshland bounding it. Sean Moon saw it this way: It looks like they took all the cow shit in France and tried to make a road out of it.

  It was slow going, still; three of Captain Newcomb’s fifteen tanks lost traction and slid into the marsh, bottoming their hulls in the soggy earth so firmly that tracks spun uselessly over their sprockets and road wheels, propelling nothing. They’d need a tow from other tanks—sometimes two working together—using steel cables to pull the mired ones out while struggling not to slide off the trail themselves.

  The rain had finally brought the mixed blessing of at least partial visibility. They’d be less likely to blunder into Germans as they had just an hour ago. From a distance, though, in the veil of rainfall, their column could look very German to nervous, trigger-happy GIs who might be in the area.

  As every GI was all too aware, friendly fire killed you just as dead.

  Sean’s radio came alive with Captain Newcomb’s voice. “Papa Gray 2-6, this is 6. There should be a bridge over the Seille in a couple hundred yards. Take a look—let me know if it’s a good place to ford.”

  There was a bridge. It was old, made of stone, and only wide enough for a farm tractor, the cart it was pulling, or a small car. Sean doubted the old structure would support more than a ton or two. Certainly not a Sherman, even if a tank could fit between its railings.

  Worse, swollen with rain, the Seille was swift and seemed much deeper than the three-foot fording depth of the company’s Sherman and Stuart tanks. There was only one way to know for sure. He told Kowalski to stop the tank.

  Climbing down from the turret, he stripped off his pistol belt and jacket, took a long, thin rope coiled on the tank’s deck and began to tie one end around his waist. As he did, he told his driver, “Ski, come here and tie this rope off to the towing shackle.”

  “Where the hell are you going now, Sarge?”

  “I’ve got me a new job—depth gauge. Be thankful I ain’t making you do it. You’re the next tallest after me.”

  Kowalski said nothing in reply. He was thankful Sean hadn’t designated him the depth gauge. Though only about thirty yards wide at this point, the Seille looked cold and more than powerful enough to sweep a man away to drown. It looked sinister, too, with a ghostly mist rising off its surface like the moors they’d seen in Scotland, when they were awaiting Overlord and the plunge into France.

  “If I go under,” Sean said, “you better pull me out or you’re gonna be on my permanent shit list.”

  Fabiano yelled down from the turret, “Hey, I’m already on his permanent shit list. It ain’t no big deal.”

  Sean smiled and said, “Congratulations, Fab. You just rose to the top of the list. See how big a deal that’s gonna be.”

  Draping the Thompson submachine gun across his shoulders, Sean walked to the river bank. “Now, Ski,” he called back, “if I get halfway across and it don’t go over my belt buckle, bring the old girl across and tell the captain we found the spot.”

  He slogged through the bulrushes at the riverbank and waded into the water. The current was swift, but he managed to keep his footing even as the water level approached his waistline. Don’t get no deeper than this, Sean silently urged the river, or I’m gonna have to do this all over again someplace else. Hell, maybe I’ll make it Kowalski’s turn next time.

  He was surprised that once he was down in it, the mist rising off the river obscured his vision just as thoroughly as the morning’s fog had done. Walking a few moments more, he started rising out of the water with each step. He was beyond the river’s midpoint; it was shallow enough for a Sherman to ford. But when he turned to signal Kowalski to bring Lucky 7 across, he couldn’t see the tank through the mist.

  And if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.

  Sean felt the bullets whizzing over his head before he heard the sound of them being fired. He looked up to see tracers flying in both directions, like surreal streaks of brilliant white light blazing their way through his hazy world.

  Starting back toward his tank, he heard her engine rev. The rope suddenly tightened around his wai
st and he was jerked off his feet, being pulled through the water—sometimes under the water—until, flat on his back, he was dragged up the muddy bank and into the bulrushes.

  He heard Lucky 7 squeal to a halt and the rope went slack. He could see her now through the tall stems, her turret traversing left, the tube elevating a bit, as machine gun bullets from across the river bounced off her hull and turret.

  Then her main gun fired.

  An explosion resounded from the far side of the river.

  His tank fired again.

  Another explosion, and the German bullets stopped coming. Sean scrambled to his feet and sprinted to his tank.

  Fabiano called down from the turret hatch, “You okay, Sarge? We didn’t drown you or nothing, did we?”

  “No, not quite, numbnuts. But why the fuck did you back up like that?”

  “Had to, Sarge. Couldn’t get a good shot with that fucking bridge in the way.”

  Once up in the turret, Sean could see what his crew had done. Two German half-tracks sat burning in a tree line beyond the river’s far bank.

  Sean asked, “When the hell did they pop up?”

  “As soon as you went into the water. Is it okay to cross?”

  “Yeah, but not yet. Let’s get the rest of the platoon up here first and cross all together and cover each other…just in case there’s still some Krauts over there with panzerfausts and what-have-you.”

  “I did good, right, Sarge?” Fabiano asked. “You know, second-in-command taking over in the heat of the shit flying and all?”

  “Don’t pat yourself on the back too hard, Fab. It’s what the gunner’s supposed to do when the TC’s not around.”

  “But I did good, right?”

  “Yeah, you did good.”

  “So…am I off the shit list now?”

  “Not off, Fab. Just a couple of notches lower, maybe.”

  Sean glanced down to see the muddy water dripping off him, forming a puddle on the turret floor. “Dammit,” he said, “I didn’t figure on swimming to Metz, though.”