“First off, sir, the artillery doesn’t shoot napalm. The closest thing they have is white phosphorous, and all that’ll do is make clouds of white smoke—”
Dandridge jumped in: “Which I won’t be able to do much with, anyway.”
“Exactly,” Tommy replied. “And even if you could see it clearly on the monitor, the smoke from willy petes could get so dense it’ll cover the entire top of the fort, so we’d lose our aiming point completely.”
The light was starting to go on in Staunton’s mind. He seemed ready to buy into the idea.
“Also,” Tommy added, “the marking will have to be very tightly time-controlled with our mission, to keep the aiming point precise. Like a minute before the baby hits. No more than that. A napalm fire can spread, or it can go out all by itself, too. Even if the artillery could shoot what we needed, we can’t talk with them directly to coordinate. Our radios don’t work on the same frequencies. But we can talk directly with the jugs.”
Staunton was almost there. He wanted to believe, but he had another question.
“And your pilots can put napalm on the exact spot we need to target, Lieutenant?”
“Have you ever heard the expression close enough for government work, sir?”
“Yes, of course I have.”
“Well, then, sir…you have your answer.”
“Very fine,” Staunton replied. “How much advance warning do your boys need for a napalm mission?”
“Just a few hours, sir. Most of that is the time needed to bomb-up the aircraft.”
“And they don’t need any mission details other than the target point?”
“That’s correct, sir. And it won’t be anything they haven’t done before, so they won’t suspect what’s really going on.”
After another thoughtful pause, Major Staunton said, “I like this, Lieutenant Moon. I like this very much. I’m entrusting you with coordinating the target marking.”
“Very good, sir. It’ll be my pleasure to do it.”
Dandridge asked, “Will we be flying any more missions with the Culvers, sir?”
“Absolutely,” Staunton replied. “Let’s get in all the practice we can manage.”
“Speaking of practice, sir,” Tommy said, “would it be all right if we crashed a Culver or two into simulated targets? You know…just to see how good our aim really is?”
Dandridge cringed. He’d thought this was already a dead issue.
Staunton had that near-wild look in his eyes so common to men under extreme pressure to succeed. But his answer was not what the sergeant expected.
“That’s what we brought them for, Lieutenant. They’re disposable aircraft, so let’s make the most of them. Just make sure we continue to perform the interference checks on a daily basis…and anything we crash comes down in Allied territory, so the Germans can’t get their hands on our equipment.”
“No problem, sir,” Tommy replied. “How about we put them into the area we dump our unused ordnance? Everyone steers clear of that place…civilians and GIs.”
“Sounds like that’ll work just fine, Lieutenant.”
Tommy unfolded the paper with the address Sylvie had given him earlier that day. He read it aloud: “Thirty-Seven Rue de Claret.”
How hard can it be to find a street named after wine? Or is it some famous guy’s name, too?
Once the MPs had dropped him off after the drive across A-90, he’d hoped to slip unseen into his quarters—a small shack with no amenities other than a decent roof he shared with three other flyers—and change into fresh khakis before hurrying into Toul to be with Sylvie.
He’d hoped for too much. Fresh from their mission debrief, the pilots of the 301st descended on him, eager to pump him for information on what he was up to over on Zebra Ramp. This time, they weren’t asking questions; they were floating theories.
“I know what’s going on, Half,” a pilot from Red Flight said. “You guys are doing some kind of special photo recon of the West Wall. Those little remote-control jobs go right down on the deck so they can see every Kraut pillbox and fox hole. Maybe even take portrait shots of the Krauts themselves.”
“Ah, bullshit,” his flight leader said. “That wouldn’t explain what that B-17 painted yellow is all about. I’m betting that’s the formation ship for a whole squadron of heavy bombers they’re gonna put right here to support the Russkies coming through the Balkans. I’m right, aren’t I, Moon? And just you watch…when those heavies show up, we’re going to get kicked out of here.”
Tommy didn’t bother to answer. He just kept packing his AWOL bag.
“Going somewhere, Tommy?” Jimmy Tuttle asked. “You’re looking all spic and span, like you got a hot date. So I guess it’s true that a certain lady friend from Alençon is in town, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, that’s it, Jimmy. You’ve figured out my secret. Now if you guys will excuse me…”
A pilot from Green Flight blocked his path. “No, wait, Half. You didn’t tell us who’s right about what you’re up to over on Zebra.”
“And I’m not going to, pal.”
“Ah, come on, Tommy. Cut us a little slack.”
“How about you guys cut me some slack?”
“Well, suit yourself, Half. But I’m telling you, I—and only I—know exactly what’s going on over there. I’ve been talking to a buddy over at Ninth Air Defense Command, and they say you’re probing Luftwaffe air defenses around the West Wall with those disposable little drones. And they should know, because that’s their business. But it doesn’t look like you’ve lost any of those little crates yet, so I guess you’re not probing real well.”
Another pilot piped up, “Or the Krauts are too smart to take the bait.”
Yet another added, “Once you offer up that big yellow B-17, though, I’ll bet you they take that bait. Did you volunteer to fly that thing, too?”
“I didn’t volunteer for anything,” Tommy said, fully aware he was one of the world’s most unconvincing liars.
“Bullshit. That’s not the Tommy Moon we all know. That doesn’t make you a bad person, though. A little crazy, maybe…”
Tommy just shook his head and made for the door. But before stepping outside, he turned back to them all and said, “Really interesting theories, guys. Don’t lose any sleep over them, okay?”
Sergeant McNulty was waiting behind the wheel of a jeep. Tommy hopped in and told him, “Get me the hell out of here before I say something stupid.”
McNulty tossed a half-assed salute toward the other officers and then dropped the jeep into gear. “Sounds like they’re breaking your balls, Lieutenant. Maybe driving you nuts with all that specification?”
“You mean speculation, right?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, ain’t it?”
“Then I guess you’re right, Sarge. They are breaking my balls.”
“Well, that just pisses me off, then,” McNulty replied. “I’m your crew chief. That’s supposed to be my job. That, and looking out for your ass.”
Tommy woke from the dream with a start. Sylvie’s bemused face hovered above his, her elbow propped on the pillow they shared, her hand supporting her head.
“You kept mumbling bucket, bucket,” she said. “What were you dreaming about?”
“Dream? More like a nightmare,” he replied, his voice still groggy. “I don’t remember anything about it, though. Just that it was awful.”
“But what does a bucket have to do with your dream, Tommy?”
“Maybe it comes from a conversation I think I remember overhearing. It was about this military operation—Operation Bucket. But that wasn’t the original name. It was supposed to be Operation Trebuchet—with proper French pronunciation and all. You know, that thing that hurls boulders and—”
“I know what a trebuchet is, Tommy,” she interrupted.
“Yeah, I guess I’m not surprised. But the Americans, as usual, couldn’t pronounce the French right. So they started calling it three buckets, and finally just
bucket.”
“So you think this conversation actually happened in real life?”
“Yeah, maybe so. But I’m still half asleep. Not real sure of anything right now.”
“Well, it’s certainly believable,” Sylvie said. “If you GIs are any example, Americans are not the most linguistically talented nation on Earth.” Then she kissed him on the forehead and added, “Except you, my Tommy. Imagine! An American who almost speaks two languages!”
She fell back on the pillow, giggling like a schoolgirl, leaving no doubt she was poking fun at him. “What should I expect, though, from someone who learned his French from Irish nuns in America?”
“Hey, not just any place in America—Brooklyn, New York. The hub of civilization.”
She shot him a withering look. “I doubt that very much, Tommy.”
“Okay, Miss Worldly-Wise. If you know so much, how about you tell me about these forts at Metz? You said you studied them in school.”
“Is that what’s really giving you nightmares? The forts?”
“They’re giving everyone nightmares, Sylvie.”
She pulled him close, as much to comfort as share the warmth of their naked bodies beneath the threadbare blanket. “Maybe I can help you, then,” she said. “Yes, we studied the forts at school. They are part of our history, after all. Where to begin?”
She fell silent for a few moments, staring into the darkness of the boarding house’s little bedroom as if looking back in time.
“We should start,” she said, “with the War of 1870. You Americans, as well as the British, I believe, refer to it as the Franco-Prussian War.”
Sylvie paused, looking for a glimmer of comprehension in his sleepy face. After a moment, she realized she wouldn’t get it. Recalibrating the depth of her lecture to a more basic level, she launched back into it.
“As I’m sure you’re well aware, we French and the Boche have rarely been on friendly terms. In 1870, when Germany was still just a collection of independent states, the most powerful of them was Prussia in the north. Bismarck, the Prussian chancellor, wanted to consolidate the southern German states into a powerful Prussian confederation to dominate France. We could not tolerate this prospect and attempted to destroy the German forces massing on the border between Metz and Luxembourg. Unfortunately, the army of Napoleon the Third was not victorious. Ultimately, in 1871, Metz and the entire region surrounding it was taken from France to become part of a unified Germany. Metz was then, as it is now, a fortress city and strategic transportation gateway between Germany and France, with abundant road and rail facilities. The Germans fortified it further, building additional forts around the city, equipping them with the advanced artillery that had just been developed. But they fully intended to use Metz as a secure base for attacks against France, too. By the time of the Great War, all the forts you’re encountering today had been built.”
She took a sip from the wine bottle on the nightstand. “Ahh, that feels much better,” she said. “I am talking so much, my throat is dry. Now where was I? Oh yes…the Great War. Oddly enough, after all that construction the forts played almost no role in it. And at the end, of course, Germany had lost, and the region with all its forts was returned to France. Eager to make sure the Germans could never again invade France, those forts became part of the Maginot Line.”
“And we all know how well that worked out,” Tommy said. He didn’t mean it as an insult. But as soon as it came out of his mouth, the angry look on her face made him wish he hadn’t said it. At least not that way.
She hissed her reply: “We were betrayed in 1940 by our allies as well as our enemies.”
“Okay, fine. I don’t want to fight about this, Sylvie.”
“Good. Then be quiet and let me finish.” She wasn’t annoyed with him, and he knew it. But he also could tell how much she was enjoying playing the stern schoolmistress, so he resolved to lie quietly and just listen.
“In the early years of the German occupation,” she continued, “the forts again served no strategic role. Their artillery was scavenged for Hitler’s Atlantic wall, and the structures themselves were used merely as storehouses and training camps. Only in the summer of this year, as Patton’s army rolled steadily to the Moselle, did the cannons return and the fortress line manned to at least partial fighting strength. It is so ironic that after fifty years and two wars, those forts are finally fulfilling one of the purposes for which they were built: to keep a foreign army out of Germany.”
Tommy asked, “How’d you know all that stuff that happened since 1940? You were already out of school, weren’t you?”
“Out of the lycée, yes. But after that, the maquis was an even more demanding school.”
There was that word again: maquis. She was still part of it, even if she no longer fought with the Resistance and was just a courier now, as she claimed. But the thought of it still terrified him.
“How long are you going to be here in Toul, Sylvie?”
“I leave in the morning for Nancy.”
“Do you know how long you’re going to be there?”
“I’m not sure. A week, maybe more. But I suspect I’ll be there until Sixth Army Group moves up from southern France to join forces with Patton. Half of Sixth Army Group is the French First Army. I expect I’ll be doing much work for them.”
“I’ve been to Nancy already,” Tommy said.
“I know. You told me.”
“I told you my brother’s around there, too, right?”
“Yes, you did. When you go there again, find Café Rimbaud. Ask for Isabelle Truffaut.”
“Who’s that?”
“It’s me.”
“You mean like a pseudonym?”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Yes, Tommy. Of course it’s a pseudonym.”
Asking why she needed one would be pointless because he already knew the answer: she was still doing dangerous things. Things that might get her killed.
And she’d never tell him what those things were, anyway.
Courier, my ass, he told himself.
“So when I ask for this Isabelle Truffaut, what happens then?”
“They’ll get a message to me. I will come to you. If I can.”
Chapter Twenty
The sound of a jeep’s engine on the deserted streets of Toul was unmistakable in the stillness of predawn. Tommy looked down from the bedroom window as it rolled to a stop in front of the boarding house. He was already dressed and ready to go. Sylvie was awake but still in bed, trying to summon the courage to throw off the covers and leap into the chill of the unheated bedroom. She was in no hurry, though. Her bus didn’t leave for hours.
They kissed for what was probably the thousandth time since falling into that bed last night. “See you in Nancy,” he said as he stood and grabbed his AWOL bag.
“I hope so,” she replied. “Be safe.”
Even in the shadows, she could see the yearning in his face as he repeated her farewell: “You, too. Be safe. I mean it. I’m not kidding.”
“Neither am I, Tommy.”
Sergeant McNulty seemed surprised when Tommy came bounding out the door only a minute after he’d pulled up to the curb. “Ain’t this a serendeputy,” he said. “I figured I was gonna have to come in there and drag you out in your birthday suit.”
Tommy started to correct his crew chief’s fractured syntax once again but thought better of it: serendeputy…serendipity…at this hour of the morning, it’s all the same.
“Weather report for today’s good, surprisingly,” McNulty said as they rumbled over the cobblestone streets. “I guess you and the mystery planes across the field gonna be flying again, doing whatever the hell it is you do?”
“Yeah, no doubt we will. What about the squadron?”
“You know the old song, Lieutenant: blue skies, jug flies.”
Tommy asked, “Is Colonel Pruitt taking good care of our ship?”
“Not to worry, sir. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Where do you
want to get dropped off?”
“Take me to Ops, Sarge. I’ve got to talk with the colonel.”
“Sure thing. But let me ask you something, Lieutenant. You got any idea how long this secret project of yours is gonna go on?”
“A couple more days, Sarge.”
The answer surprised McNulty. “That’s all?” he said. “Hell, you took leaves longer than that.”
Tommy’s discussion with Colonel Pruitt lasted all of five minutes. They were on the same wavelength from the opening sentences. “I agree,” Pruitt said. “There’s no better way to put this practice napalm down for you guys than to have me—and only me—do it. That way, it won’t fuel any more speculation in the squadron than we already have.”
“And from the speculation I’ve heard, sir,” Tommy replied, “nobody but you and I know what the hell is going on, anyway. The rest of them don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground.”
“Let’s try to keep it that way, Tommy. Just a couple more days until this is all over, right?”
“That’s the way I understand it, sir. The Torpex is supposed to arrive tomorrow, 12 October. We should be ready to fly the mission on Driant the following day. Weather permitting, of course.”
“Yeah, the damn weather,” Pruitt said. “We’d better do it by then because it’s supposed to turn crappy again on the fourteenth. So where are we going to do these practice runs?”
“I was thinking we’d do them in the ordnance jettison zone, sir. It’s in the middle of nowhere, and everyone on the ground already knows that area’s off limits.” Tommy went over to the map and pointed to a spot in an area outlined and cross-hatched in red. “This trail junction—it’s in the middle of a burned-out part of the zone and it’s pretty easy to spot from the air. But because it’s all burned-out like that—and nothing but shades of black and brown—it might be a little hard to distinguish on the television gear, just like the top of Fort Driant is. So put some napalm right on that spot. We’ll see how well the camera picks the flames up.”
Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2) Page 17
