Dandridge looked perplexed. “Wouldn’t the concussion from the baby’s hit be enough to kill or cripple everyone in it, sir?”
“I’d like to think so,” Tommy replied, “but I’d rather we come up with a way to be sure. A way that wouldn’t involve ground-pounders walking into another trap.”
“That’s kind of over my rank, sir,” Dandridge said.
Tommy knew the sergeant was right. And he knew something more: It’s over my rank, too.
As the mothership touched down on A-90’s runway, the answer to Tommy’s question was sitting on the 301st’s ramp, plain as day, in the form of an L-4 spotter plane. He recognized her markings as well as the bazooka tubes mounted on her wing struts; she belonged to Major Bob Kidd—Rocket Man.
That’s the guy who can get in low and slow enough to see exactly what’s going on.
Major Staunton was waiting for the mothership on Zebra Ramp. They’d already advised him while still in flight that the practice run was a great success. No one in Operation Bucket had ever seen him so jubilant. He even gave Tommy a congratulatory slap on the back.
But he didn’t share Tommy’s concern over confirming the results of the baby’s strike. “That’s not really my call, Lieutenant Moon. But believe me, if we hit that place on the money, as you and Sergeant Dandridge say we should, there won’t be enough left of it to worry about.”
True, 20,000 pounds of Torpex would yield a far bigger explosion than Tommy had ever seen. Still, he pleaded his case, if not for his sake, for his brother’s.
Tommy was glad he hadn’t mentioned anything about using Rocket Man to confirm their success, because the next words out of Staunton’s mouth were, “And of course, anything that divulges information about Operation Bucket in advance to unauthorized personnel is expressly forbidden.”
Then, with breezy indifference, he added, “So arrange whatever you want, Lieutenant. Just so it doesn’t compromise the execution of Operation Bucket in any way. Anything that happens after that execution is not my concern. Our job is complete once the baby impacts, another page in the history books.”
By the time Tommy made it across the airfield to the 301st’s ramp, Rocket Man’s plane was still there. His P-47, piloted by Colonel Pruitt, was just pulling into its parking spot. Its weapons pylons were now empty. Pruitt had rid her of the two napalm canisters they hadn’t used in the Culver’s terminal practice run.
The colonel gave a thumbs up to Sergeant McNulty as he turned over the ship’s logbook to the crew chief. Then he jumped off the wing and approached Tommy.
“Great machine you’ve got here, Moon,” Pruitt said. “I hope my new one flies as sweet as she does.”
“Yes, sir, she’s a keeper,” Tommy replied. “Where’d you dump the rest of the napalm?”
“Some tank outfit around Driant was asking for it, so I was happy to oblige.”
Shit. A tank outfit near Fort Driant is in contact with Krauts as we speak. Good chance that’s Sean.
Stay out of trouble a little bit longer, big brother. If you can.
Tommy motioned toward Major Kidd’s L-4 and said, “You know whose plane that is, sir?”
“Sure. It’s Bob Kidd’s. I’ve known him a long time.”
“I just met him yesterday over at my brother’s outfit,” Tommy replied. “Maybe he can do us a favor, sir.” Then he explained his concerns about damage assessment after the baby’s attack on Fort Driant and how he figured only a low and slow flyer like Rocket Man could tell them what they needed to know.
The colonel didn’t seem taken with the idea.
“I’m not as well versed on this Operation Bucket as you are, Half, but I thought the plan was to blow that fort to kingdom come. Do you really think we’re not going to be able to tell if we did that or not?”
“From whizzing around high up in the air? No, sir, I don’t. And I really think we owe the ground-pounders some good information so maybe they won’t have to pay a price in casualties finding it out for themselves. I’m thinking someone in a spotter plane—someone who knows how to do low-level recon—is just the ticket for getting that information. And I can’t think of anyone better at it than Major Kidd.”
Pruitt mulled it over a few moments, knowing full well what was behind Tommy’s request: He’s looking out for his brother. Can’t fault a man for that. But still…
“Don’t you think you’re asking a lot of the major, Tommy? I mean, he could get his ass riddled to shit flying low over that fort.”
“From what I’ve seen of him in action, sir, he’s kind of used to that risk.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Tell you what…let’s go talk to him.”
“But, sir, you know we can’t tell him—or anyone—about Bucket.”
“Nobody’s going to tell anybody anything, Half. Just leave it to me.”
They found Major Kidd in the officers’ mess, drinking coffee with a few pilots from the 301st. Pruitt told Tommy to take a seat at a table on the other side of the mess. Then he called out to Kidd, “Hey, Bob, grab a seat with us for a minute. Need to talk to you about something.”
“Good to see you, sir,” Kidd said, “and good to see you again, too, Lieutenant Moon. Wasn’t it just yesterday we were having breakfast together?”
“Yes, sir, it was. Over at Thirty-Seventh Tank.”
“That’s great,” Pruitt said. “Glad you two know each other. You going to be hanging around long, Bob?”
“Just as long as it takes to get some gas for my bird, sir. Usually, the armor boys fill me up with some of their supply. But they don’t have any to spare today.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Pruitt said. “I just did a little work for them myself. Looks like they’ve got their hands full.”
Tommy tried to hide the apprehension all this talk about the tank units being in battle was causing him.
Kidd asked, “So what’d you want to talk to me about, sir?”
“Well, Bob…me and Lieutenant Moon here have a little project we’re working on, and it involves that damn Fort Driant. We’re going to need some up close and personal bomb damage assessment…and I figure you’re just the guy to do it.”
“The photo recon guys can’t handle it, sir?”
“When I say up close and personal, that’s exactly what I mean, Bob. I’m not talking pictures from ten thousand feet up—or even low-level obliques—that take hours to be developed and interpreted. I need real live eyes on the scene who can get that assessment to us on the double.”
“So I’ve got to buzz Fort Driant, in other words.” He wasn’t brimming with enthusiasm for the idea.
Colonel Pruitt looked at him as if what he’d just asked was the most natural thing in the world. “In a nutshell, Bob, yes.”
Tommy marveled at the great snow job the colonel was throwing down:
Some guys just have the knack for getting you to do things you ordinarily wouldn’t even think of doing in your right mind. You trust everything they tell you. I guess that’s what the military calls leadership. It worked on me when I “volunteered” for Bucket, that’s for damn sure. He’s got Kidd on the hook already, and he hasn’t given up one piece of information about who’s doing what, either.
Amazing.
“When is this supposed to happen, sir?” Kidd asked.
“In three days, Bob…the fourteenth. Weather permitting, of course.”
“Well, sir…weather permitting, I don’t know who exactly I’ll be supporting in three days. I may be miles away from where you need me.”
“Don’t worry about that, Bob. We’ll get orders temporarily attaching you to us here at the 301st. I’ll take care of it personally.” Then the colonel, a big grin on his face, turned to Tommy and asked, “Lieutenant, did you ever hear the story of how ol’ Bob here almost got himself court-martialed?”
Incredible! The colonel’s got him on the hook, so now he’s changing the subject, pumping the major up real good, like he’s already part of the team. I guess this is going
to be a funny story, so I might as well take the bait and keep this con game going.
“No, sir,” Tommy replied, “but I’d sure love to hear it.”
“You tell it, Bob,” Pruitt said.
“Well, it was like this,” Kidd began. “I was having a little trouble with my ship, so I was on the ground with this tank unit I’d been flying aerial observer for. Great timing on my part, because just then some Kraut tanks attacked. It was total chaos…I ended up in the turret of a Sherman whose tank commander was missing. Next thing I knew, I was the tank commander, standing up in that turret, telling the crew who to shoot at.”
He took a sip of coffee and then continued, “Right in the middle of this brawl, this thing starts coming straight at us…I had no idea what it was. Never seen anything like it. Looked like a big box with a gun sticking out of it. Figured it was some kind of new-fangled German tank…so I told them to shoot it.”
Pruitt was anticipating the punch line now, trying to keep himself from laughing out loud.
“Turns out this thing I was looking straight at was the blade of one of our dozer tanks,” Kidd said. “We blew that blade halfway to Paris before I realized I’d ordered the tank crew to shoot at one of our own. Fortunately, the blade was the only thing that got hurt. The GIs in that tank were all okay. We didn’t know that, though, until after the Krauts had given up and withdrawn.”
Pruitt, knowing what was coming next, was now red-faced with laughter.
“Turns out some regimental commander decided I was fighting for the other side. Brought me up on charges.”
“And that’s a firing squad offense,” Pruitt added, still laughing.
Kidd continued, “He added willfully destroying US Government property to the charge sheet, too. I guess he was trying to cover all the bases.”
Pruitt added, “Have you ever heard anything so dumb? That regimental commander couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”
“So I’m guessing there was no court-martial?” Tommy asked.
“Ahh, you catch on fast, Lieutenant Moon,” Kidd replied. “Ol’ George Patton shit-canned the charges and gave me a medal instead. Said my actions were a major contributing factor to the Krauts being defeated in that battle.”
Sergeant McNulty popped his head through the mess hall doorway. “Major Kidd,” he said, “that little bag of sticks you call an airplane is good to go. Your little fueling problem has been dissolved.” Then he vanished just as quickly as he’d appeared.
Looking confused, Kidd asked, “Dissolved? You guys from New York sure got an interesting way with the language.”
“He probably means resolved, sir,” Tommy offered. “He’s my crew chief. I get to translate for him a lot.”
Kidd stood to say his goodbyes. Pruitt asked him, “So we can count on you to help us out, Bob?”
“I guess so, sir,” Kidd replied. “Hell, it isn’t something I don’t do every day, anyway.”
Then he left them and made his way to the ramp.
Pruitt smiled serenely at Tommy and said, “You see how easy that was, Lieutenant? I’ll bet you’re happy now.”
“Yes, sir. It couldn’t have worked out better. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, Half. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to do a little politicking on the landline.”
Bob Kidd touched his L-4 down on the grass landing strip at 4th Armored Division HQ just as the sun was dropping below the trees. That was cutting it close, he told himself. Another minute or two and I would have needed a vehicle with its headlights on to point me to the runway…and keep me out of the trees.
A messenger was waiting as he shut the L-4 down. “This just came in for you, sir,” the messenger said. “It’s from Third Army, and it’s marked urgent.”
Kidd pulled out his flashlight to read it. In the typically terse language of military orders, it directed him to report to A-90—with his aircraft—not later than 1000 hours, 13 October 1944, for temporary assignment to 301st Fighter Squadron.
Thirteen October. The day after tomorrow. Colonel Pruitt didn’t waste any time, did he? Hell, I was just having coffee with him a couple of hours ago.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lieutenant Jimmy Tuttle walked in on Tommy as he was packing his AWOL bag. “Where you off to tonight, Half?” he asked.
“I’m going over to Nancy—”
“Ahh, shit, Tommy. Don’t tell me you’re going to commandeer the jeep all to yourself. A bunch of us are planning to go into Toul. C’mon…don’t make us walk.”
“No, Jimmy, you guys take the jeep.”
“Gee, thanks, Half. But how the hell are you getting to Nancy? That’s fifteen miles. You aren’t going to hitchhike, are you?”
“A couple of our mechanics fixed up some derelict motorcycle they found laying around. They’re letting me borrow it for the night.”
Tuttle let out a whistle of surprise. “A motorcycle, eh? They’re like gold in these parts. Just make sure you secure that thing real good, or it’ll be gone in no time flat, for sure.”
“Don’t worry, Jimmy. You ought to see the padlock and chain that comes with it.”
The sound of the motorcycle—a Moto Guzzi with a loud and distinctive industrial rasp—attracted quite a bit of attention as Tommy cruised the streets of Nancy, searching for Café Rimbaud, the place he hoped to find Sylvie. But he was having no luck. And he was half-frozen from the brisk ride on this chilly October evening.
Well past sunset, there seemed to be no one on these streets except aimlessly wandering GIs searching for entertainment of their own. He finally saw a civilian, an old man walking a leashed dog. His noisy approach set the dog to frenzied, uncontrollable barking.
The annoyed old man yelled something in French at Tommy that he didn’t quite get, but it was obviously not How nice to see you this fine evening, my friend.
Summoning what he hoped was his best French, Tommy apologized for upsetting the dog and explained he was lost. A glimmer of recognition replaced the old man’s scowl, if just for a moment, when he spoke the name Café Rimbaud.
But the scowl quickly returned. Without saying another word, the man hurried away, pulling the yapping dog behind him.
This better not be like back in Alençon, Tommy told himself, when her own relatives would protect Sylvie’s maquisard identity by pretending not to know her. Maybe that Café Rimbaud is a maquis front or something. If it is, no Frenchman’s ever going to tell a stranger how to get there.
Or maybe he’s just pissed off I scared the hell out of his mutt.
Nancy was a big town, but he was prepared to search each and every one of her streets until he found Café Rimbaud. Even if it took half the night.
Which it just might.
He remembered Sylvie saying the café was on a main street near the river. Tommy checked the Michelin map he’d stuffed into his leather flight jacket. She must mean the Meurthe River. That’s the eastern border of the town. Looks like there’s about ten streets on that side of town this map considers “main” roads. He found a street sign at an intersection, got himself oriented, and composed a search plan.
He had just turned onto the third street in his search plan when he came across a rowdy knot of GIs. One of them ran into the thoroughfare as if to flag the motorcycle down. The soldier was yelling something unintelligible over the racket of the Moto Guzzi. He was waving like a madman, too, as if trying to flag him down.
The guy must be drunk. Or an MP.
As he braked the bike to a stop, Tommy realized the GI was definitely not an MP. In fact, he recognized him. It was Fabiano, his brother’s gunner.
“Ain’t this one hell of a coincidence, Lieutenant,” Fabiano said. Despite the distinct odor of alcohol about him, he sounded surprisingly sober. “We’ve been hearing that bike of yours tooling around town for God knows how long. You ain’t looking for your brother, are you, sir?”
“Sergeant Moon’s here? Sean’s here?”
“Yeah, he’s just up the blo
ck, finishing his supper. C’mon, I’ll show you.”
Fabiano hopped on the motorcycle’s back seat and pointed straight ahead. “This way, sir.”
They’d only driven about a hundred feet when Fabiano yelled, “This is it, sir…that little place on the right.”
Tommy wondered, Maybe he’s more drunk than I thought? Hell, I could have pushed the bike to here. But still, I owe him my gratitude.
“Right in there, sir,” Fabiano said. “He’s chowing down with some of the other big wheels.”
Tommy began the tedious process of securing the motorcycle to a streetlamp’s steel pillar, unwrapping the chain from the seat post. “You don’t have to do that, Lieutenant,” Fabiano said. “I’ll watch it for you.”
“Don’t you want to get back with your buddies?”
Before Fabiano had a chance to reply, an MP jeep screeched to a halt beside them. The driver, a burly, snarling buck sergeant with a foghorn voice, said, “You two touch-holes…what do you think you’re doing with that motor-sickle?”
Any GI who’d been around long enough to earn three stripes should have known even in the dark of night that Tommy Moon was probably an officer, and an Air Force officer at that. The crusher cap, the leather flying jacket, and the khakis—something ground troops in action rarely carried or were even issued due to their constant need of laundering—were dead giveaways. Yet he’d spoken that profane and insubordinate slur.
As Tommy turned to face the jeep, the glow of the streetlight reflected off the silver lieutenant’s bar on his shirt collar like a beam of rectitude. The MP’s tough guy façade shattered and his body stiffened, as if trying to come to a seated position of attention. “Gee, Lieutenant, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize you—”
Tommy cut him off. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“Dickens, sir. Lamar J. Serial number 3462—”
“Hold on a second, Sergeant Dickens. You’re not a POW. I just asked for your name.”
Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2) Page 19
