Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2)

by William Peter Grasso

  Then the conversation drifted to a more private matter. Sean asked, “When’re you gonna see that French tomato of yours again?”

  “You mean Sylvie?”

  “What? You got another one, too?”

  “No. Just her. But I have no idea when I’m going to see her again. Alençon is a long way from Toul.”

  “Hey, you got an airplane.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, Sean. I got a couple of letters from her, though.”

  “So you’ve been chatting, then.”

  “I wouldn’t call it that. I’m not really sure how I’m getting her letters, as screwed up as the mail is and all. But I’m pretty sure she’s not getting mine.”

  “So you miss her, then?”

  “What do you think, Sean?”

  He’d expected his brother’s reply to be some crude sexual gesture. But he was in for a surprise.

  “Can’t say I blame you, Half. She’s something special, that Sylvie Bergerac.”

  Tommy expected him to follow up with something like don’t see what the hell a dame like that’s doing with a chump like you…

  But he didn’t.

  Exhaustion was catching up with them. They both had things to do and places to be once the sun rose in a few hours, and they’d need whatever recharge a few hours’ sleep might provide. There’d still be time for more talk over breakfast.

  And maybe, on another rainy day, they’d be close enough to see each other again.

  Tommy had been able to smell breakfast cooking as he tossed and turned, listening to the patter of rain on the canvas over his head, trying to get comfortable on the rickety cot the tankers had loaned him. He’d set up that cot in Baker Company’s CP—his brother’s company. He would’ve been perfectly happy sleeping in the squad tent with Sean and his tank crew, but they wouldn’t have him.

  “Sorry, Lieutenant, but this tent ain’t no place for gentlemen,” Sean had said. Walking his brother to the CP, he’d added, “I feel real bad about this, but you know how it is, Tommy. Can’t be fraternizing. Even with family.”

  The sun was still a long way from rising when Sean roused him.

  Through bleary eyes, Tommy thought, Look at him. He looks like he just got ten hours’ sleep.

  And I feel like warmed-over shit.

  The field kitchen was a huge tent—a circus tent in GI lingo—with four mess section deuce-and-a-halfs backed up to one end. The serving line’s specialty of the morning: scrambled egg sandwiches—the eggs piled thick within slices of fresh-baked bread—with all the fried Spam and hash browns your mess kit could hold. Of course, they were powdered eggs—most GIs hadn’t seen a fresh egg since their time in Great Britain, and that was only if they’d been lucky—but the cooks tried their best to fluff them with some bartered-for fresh milk and season them liberally so they almost tasted good.

  Sean asked, “You remember what this means, don’t you, Half?”

  Tommy just nodded. He remembered his first morning as an ASO with 37th Tank back in August. He’d learned its meaning then: scrambled egg sandwiches—considered a delicacy by the GIs—meant you were going into some big action that day.

  “This wouldn’t be related to that thing you were talking about last night, would it, Half?”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Sean replied. “You mean we still got more surprises coming?”

  “Afraid so, brother.”

  There were tables set up in the tent for the officers. Tommy glanced their way and did a double take. Seated at one of them was Jimmy Tuttle and Herb Clinchmore, engaged in what seemed like friendly conversation.

  What the hell’s going on here? Last night, Jimmy said he hadn’t forgiven him. This morning, they look like asshole buddies. That sure was a quick change of heart.

  Tommy still hadn’t forgotten—or forgiven—that Clinchmore, once a member of Blue Flight, had abandoned that flight during combat and fled back to base. Questioned why he’d done such a thing, he lied and claimed there was a problem with his airplane’s radio.

  There hadn’t been a thing wrong with that radio. When confronted with that fact—and after a few too many drinks in an Alençon café—he’d loudly proclaimed that he didn’t give a damn about the ground troops he was supposed to be supporting. A bunch of equally inebriated infantrymen who’d overheard him would have beaten Herb Clinchmore to within an inch of his life if Sylvie Bergerac hadn’t artfully defused the situation.

  Being drunk was no excuse, though; that comment got him shipped off to ASO duty for re-education. True, Colonel Pruitt had issued the order sending him away, but it had been at the instigation of Tommy Moon, his flight leader.

  Lieutenant Herb Clinchmore could have been court-martialed for running out on his flight. Or at the very least, become a pariah in the squadron, a festering sore of disunity and discontent. Neither the colonel nor Tommy wanted either of those options; morale is a delicate and finicky commodity, easy to lose, difficult to regain. Sending him off to learn a hard lesson had seemed a much better solution.

  There was a third officer seated at the table as well, a major wearing a flight jacket with pilot’s wings. He seemed more interested in his chow than the lieutenants’ conversation.

  Tuttle caught sight of Tommy and waved, bidding him to come over.

  “You’ve got to hear this,” Tuttle said as Tommy drew closer. “Ol’ Herb here’s found religion now.”

  Clinchmore was on his feet, pumping Tommy’s hand like a politician on the stump. “I’m glad you’re here, Half—may I call you Half?”

  “Yeah, sure, Herb. Why not? You always did before.”

  “Well, Half, I just wasn’t sure, after…well, you know. And I’m sorry about all that. I really and truly am. But you were right. I needed time with the ground troops. It sure has changed me…for the better. In fact, I’ve put my papers in for a transfer.”

  “A transfer? To what? A ground outfit?”

  “Well, sort of, Half. I’m going to be an aerial observer, just like Major Kidd here.” He turned to introduce the man, who was hurriedly washing down his latest mouthful with a big gulp of coffee so he could actually speak.

  “Holy cow! Major Bob Kidd,” Tommy said, offering his hand. “You’re Rocket Man, aren’t you?”

  “In the flesh,” Kidd replied. “But if I keep getting good chow like this, I’m going to be in too much flesh. Never thought that would be much of a problem over here.”

  Tommy found the comment odd, since the major was as skinny as most GIs. Four bones stuck together, as his grandmother used to describe it back in Brooklyn.

  “We worked together not too long ago,” Tommy said. “I’m Tommy Moon, Gadget Blue Leader from the 301st, the jug outfit out of A-90.”

  Kidd’s face brightened as recognition set in. “Yeah, I remember you guys. We worked over some panzergrenadiers in a forest east of the Moselle. You guys put those bombs right on the smoke. Great job.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you, sir. And the invitation for a beer at A-90 still stands, anytime. So you’re ready to take on Herb Clinchmore, eh?”

  “I sure am. He’s got the knack for it…sees things from above and below pretty darn well. I could tell the first time he rode with me. And he’s figuring out how to handle one of those rag bags pretty darn fast, too.”

  “Rag bag, sir? You mean an L-4?”

  “Yeah. Good nickname for a bunch of sticks covered in fabric, don’t you think? So what brings you to these parts, Lieutenant?”

  “Just visiting my big brother.” He nodded toward Sean, who’d avoided the officers’ area entirely and parked himself on a crate in a corner of the tent. “He’s a tank platoon sergeant here. If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’m going to go join him. No telling when we might see each other again.”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant Moon. Good meeting you. You jug boys keep giving them hell, okay?”

  “You bet, sir. You do the same.” He nodded to Tuttle and said, “As soon as we’re done with
breakfast, we’d better hit the road.”

  “Yeah, great,” Tuttle mumbled. “My turn to drive, right? And you get the leaky roof.”

  “Sure. Your turn.” Then Tommy nodded to Clinchmore, offered a smile, and said, “You take care of yourself, Herb.”

  Back with his brother, Tommy relayed the story of Herb Clinchmore’s conversion. “I guess it worked out pretty well for everyone concerned,” he concluded.

  “Nah, you should’ve broken it off in his ass the minute he pulled that shit, Half. Anyone who fucks his buddies like that ain’t worth a bucket of warm piss.”

  “C’mon, Sean, we all make mistakes. No one’s perfect.”

  Wordlessly, with one sour look, Sean managed to reject Tommy’s opinion and express his unremitting belief that his kid brother was too often a naïve fool.

  The food vanished from their mess kits all too quickly. Captain Newcomb, Sean’s company commander, had hurried by, telling Sean to be at a battalion briefing in fifteen minutes. There was nothing left to say except goodbye.

  Tommy was startled by the ferocity of his brother’s hug as he said, “Listen up, Half. You already fucked up and volunteered your scrawny little ass for some bullshit, whatever the hell it is. Don’t make it worse by having Mom and Dad read what a fucking hero you were off some goddamn telegram from the War Department. The one that tells them where you got buried. If they ever find your body, that is.”

  “I could say the same to you, Sean. Hell, I should be saying the same to you.”

  When their clinch finally ended and they could look into each other’s eyes, neither tried to hide his tears.

  “See you whenever,” Sean said.

  “Yeah, count on it, brother.”

  As Tommy turned to walk away, Sean said, “Hey, Half…this thing you were talking about. It’s gonna be real soon, right?”

  “Yeah. I think so.”

  Jimmy Tuttle cursed his luck. It had only been a few minutes since they’d driven away from 37th Tank’s bivouac, and already the rain had slowed to a gloomy drizzle. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “When you were driving, the rain poured through that leaky roof all over me. Now you’re riding the right seat and it’s slowed down to almost nothing. I’m telling you, Half…you’re one lucky bastard. You must’ve backed into the golden doorknob or something.”

  “I can’t help you with that one, Jimmy. Take it up with Mother Nature.”

  Suddenly, there were dark shapes looming just ahead. Tuttle slammed on the brakes: an elderly farmer was urging his herd of reluctant cows across the roadway. Over the jeep’s idling engine—its clattering purr like the sound of a hundred sewing machines— and the foghorn moos of the annoyed cows, he and Tommy could hear the shrill, terrifying whistle of artillery shells passing high overhead.

  “It’s coming from the forts, I’ll bet,” Tommy said, looking up anxiously into the dull gray overcast. “Sounds like they’re shooting up the Moselle crossings again.”

  Tapping his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, Tuttle added, “That’s one thing about artillery…it works just the same no matter how screwed up the weather is. We of the aviator persuasion, on the other hand, get to sit on our asses whenever the weather turns to shit and do fuck all.”

  “Fuck all, Jimmy? Now there’s an expression I haven’t heard in a while. Are we back in England all of a sudden?”

  “I wish,” Tuttle replied.

  A line of GI trucks was backing up behind the jeep, waiting for the bovine roadblock to clear. “Maybe I ought to have a word with this guy and get him to hurry it up a little,” Tommy suggested, “before those trucks behind us start mowing those cows down.”

  “Yeah, good idea, Half. At least you can parlez vous their stupid language. To me, it always sounds like they’re trying to spit out something that tastes really awful.”

  But you didn’t have to be fluent in French to see the farmer was in no mood to be hurried. After a few moments of unsmiling conversation, punctuated by the Frenchman’s provocative hand gestures, Tommy was back in the jeep.

  “I’d say that farmer hates Americans only slightly less than he hates Krauts,” Tommy said. “I didn’t get a couple of the words—probably curse words anyway—but he basically said that every minute he wastes having to talk to an Ami imbecile like me is another minute the road stays blocked.”

  Tuttle laughed. “How about that, Tommy? We’ve run into a wise man. And here I was, thinking he was just another ungrateful frog.”

  They watched in silence as the rear guard of animals began to lumber across the road.

  It was Tuttle who broke that silence. “So you’re not even going to give me a hint about this top secret project of yours, are you?”

  “Look, Jimmy…you broke my chops all the way out here and I didn’t tell you a damn thing. What makes you think the ride back’s going to be any different?”

  “Suit yourself, Half. I’ll bet you told your brother, though.”

  “Negative, Jimmy. Negative.”

  “So you’re all clammed up, eh? But you know, there’s been some talk around the squadron…and we think we’ve got a couple of ideas what you’re up to.”

  “Whatever the hell they are, keep them to yourself. Tell the other clowns to do the same, dammit.”

  Tuttle looked surprised. “Really? It’s that big a deal?”

  “It could be, Jimmy. It just could be.” He paused, measuring his words, before continuing, “We don’t need any bigmouths screwing it up, even if they don’t have a damn clue what they’re talking about.”

  “You mean like loose lips sink ships?”

  “Yeah, Jimmy. That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was a little after 1000 hours when the jeep bearing Tommy and Tuttle drove onto A-90. The rain had finally stopped for good about an hour before, but a low overcast still hung over northeastern France. “Doesn’t look like we’ll be doing any flying until that stuff breaks up,” Jimmy Tuttle said as he scanned the gray cap of clouds. “Where do you want to go first, Tommy? Operations or quarters?”

  “Let’s sign in at Operations. Then I’ll have to get back over to Zebra Ramp and see what the hell’s going on over there.”

  “Okay…and when you come back, maybe you’ll be ready to tell the rest of us?”

  “Don’t count on it, Jimmy.”

  Tommy didn’t think anything of the ladies’ bicycle with its mud-splattered fenders parked by the operations shack door. There were no fences around A-90, save the recently created bastion known as Zebra Ramp. French civilians frequently visited, sometimes just to watch the airplanes, sometimes bearing small amounts of food and wine as gifts for the airmen and ground crews. The more cynical among the Americans—Tommy’s crew chief Sergeant McNulty was in this group—were sure the French came bearing their modest gifts just for the chocolate bars and cigarettes they received in return. The rest, more sympathetic to what the French had gone through in the Occupation, harbored no such suspicions and were more willing to accept the gifts as tokens of appreciation. Besides, some of the visitors were young French women, and to be in the presence of any woman—even one with whom you couldn’t manage a conversation—was better than no woman.

  And occasionally, a guy could even get lucky. According to Sergeant McNulty, it wasn’t uncommon to encounter several trysts going on at the same time in the supply shed or an amorous couple sequestered in the bed of a parked truck. He’d never had the heart to break up a rendezvous, though. To do so would have been counterproductive, anyway; the encounters rarely lasted longer than a smoke break and were far more conducive to morale.

  Tommy’s first impression when he walked into Operations was that there was no one there. Then he heard spirited voices and laughter from a far corner of the room and realized every man on duty was huddled in that corner, obviously enchanted by something—or someone—in their midst.

  From inside that circle of men, a voice emerged—a young woman’s voice, engaging, confi
dent—speaking excellent English but obviously French.

  Even though he couldn’t see her yet, hidden by that crowd of admirers, he had no doubt to whom that voice belonged.

  As if in slow motion, the men parted, fell silent, and revealed the woman who’d been captivating them…

  Sylvie Bergerac.

  She walked toward him slowly, a beautiful vision in ordinary clothes suitable for cycling: full pleated skirt, wool jacket, oxfords and socks on her feet, a black beret on her head. In her hand was a bottle of Coca-Cola, a straw protruding from it like the stalk of a plucked flower. An obvious offering from her American admirers.

  She looked like so many American girls relaxing with friends at a stateside soda fountain. But no American girl ever had to do what Sylvie Bergerac had done as a member of the Resistance. A sobering thought crossed Tommy’s mind as she closed the distance between them:

  Sylvie is the only person in this room who knows for certain she’s killed Germans. We pilots probably have…but maybe not. Where’s our proof? Maybe it’s better we don’t have it.

  And the ground personnel—the staff officers, the mechanics, the armorers, the admin clerks—have never been in a kill-or-be-killed situation and probably never will be.

  But she knows. She’s seen the faces of men she’s killed.

  Looked into their eyes.

  And yet she seems an angel…

  An angel who’s tougher than all of us put together.

  An angel who sleeps at night with no regrets about what she’s done.

  Then she was before him, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss.

  He was grinning like an idiot but couldn’t seem to move a muscle.

  The words that escaped his mouth did nothing but restate the obvious: “You’re here.”

  A voice called out, “Moon, if you don’t kiss her, I sure as hell will.”

  She held him in a curious gaze, sure of herself but not so sure of him. In French, she said, “Have you forgotten me already, Tommy?”