Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2)

by William Peter Grasso

  “A wrinkle, sir?”

  “Yeah. I’m assuming responsibility for returning said tech sergeant to his unit. For the record, my name’s Moon, Thomas P., First Lieutenant.”

  “I can’t do that, sir,” Dickens replied.

  “Well, then, Sergeant, I guess I’ll just have to file those charges. Let me see…what was it again? Called an officer a touch-hole, I believe?”

  “That’s blackmail, sir.”

  “No, Sergeant, it’s a test to see how smart you are. What’s it going to be?”

  Tommy watched as the process of decision-making churned across the MP’s face. It didn’t take very long.

  “All right, sir, you win. But just one thing…I need that tech sergeant’s name.”

  “Hmm,” Tommy said, “it was touch-hole, right?” He made a tsk-tsk sound, and then added, “What a shame. A busted-down private who used to be an MP in the stockade.” He twisted his face into a grimace. “I hate to even think about it.”

  The MP bit his lip, about-faced, and walked back to his jeep. In moments, the entire procession of GI vehicles had driven off down the street.

  When Tommy returned to Sylvie, Sean and Delphine were still going at it in the next room. “I can’t believe that noise didn’t carry all the way down to the street,” Tommy said. “Is this round two or three?”

  “It’s still round two. So what was going on down there, Tommy?”

  “Leaves are cancelled. I’m going to have to take Sean back right now.”

  Sylvie pointed to the pulsating wall. “Right now? Are you sure? They’ll probably kill anyone who tries to separate them.”

  “I did plan to wait until they’re finished,” Tommy replied. “Seems the brotherly thing to do. But I’d better not give them a chance to start up again.”

  It was another ten minutes before round two ended. Tommy and Sylvie ventured into the hallway and knocked on Sean and Delphine’s door.

  “Go away or I’ll break your fucking head!” Sean’s voice.

  “Sean, it’s me,” Tommy said. “Your leave’s been cancelled. Something big must be going on. Those MPs were looking to come and grab you. I made a deal with them, but I’ve got to take you back to your unit now.”

  “Bullshit, Half. I ain’t falling for that.”

  “No bullshit, Sean. I’m not kidding. Get dressed and get out here.” Then, reluctantly, he added, “That’s an order, Sergeant.”

  There was mumbling and shuffling from behind the door. A minute later, it swung open and Sean, back in uniform, stepped into the hallway. A confused and distraught Delphine, hair tousled, face flushed, and clad only in a full slip, lingered in the doorway. She looked just like a woman on the cover of a racy dime store novel, complete with ample breasts about to topple from the bodice.

  Tommy explained to her in French why Sean had to leave. She understood, but disappointment was written all over her. Her only comment: “Merde!”

  Sylvie followed the brothers down the hall. She asked Tommy, “Will you come back? It’s not even eleven o’clock.”

  “I’ll be back real soon unless I get arrested or stuck in a traffic jam.”

  Sean leveled an accusing gaze at his brother. “Don’t you have to get back to your unit, too, Half?”

  “No, Sean. Nobody’s looking for the Air Force tonight. Sorry.”

  His brother’s mumbled, aggravated reply: “You lucky son of a bitch.”

  On the street, Sylvie hugged Sean goodbye and bestowed him with kisses on each cheek once again. He ambled across the street to unlock the Moto Guzzi, casting longing glances at the building where he’d planned to spend the night.

  As they kissed goodbye, Sylvie told Tommy, “You must come back tonight, because tomorrow I will be gone.”

  “Wait a minute. When will you be—”

  She put a finger across his lips. “Do not ask. Just come back tonight.”

  He was back in Sylvie’s arms by half past midnight. Finally free of distractions, they reveled in each other’s bodies until sleep overtook them both. They didn’t wake until the sunrise lit the room.

  “There is fresh bread and coffee at the café,” Sylvie said as she dressed.

  “Great, I’m starving,” Tommy replied. “When do you have to leave?”

  “Ten o’clock this morning.”

  “And when will you be back, Syl?”

  He needed only to see the sad look in her eyes to know she had no answer to that question.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It had taken far longer to round up all the 3rd Army troopers on passes than their commanders had planned. It was mid-morning before every unit around Metz could report their GIs were all present or accounted for. But that hadn’t slowed down the preparations for the next assault on Fort Driant.

  “We’ve got the plans to the damn place,” Colonel Abrams told the officers and senior NCOs of 37th Tank Battalion. “We now know where every hidden machine gun nest, every tunnel, and every trap door in the place is located.”

  Hanging on the wall before them, the diagrams looked like an artist’s renditions of some medieval citadel. Captain Newcomb, Sean Moon’s company commander, took a good look at them and asked, “How do we know they’re genuine, sir, and not some Kraut trick?”

  “Because Third Army attests to their accuracy, Captain, and that’s all we need to know. It took some great intel work to dig them up, I can tell you that. And we’re certainly going to take advantage of it.”

  Pointer in hand, Abrams got down to the specifics of the attack’s operations order. “Second Infantry Regiment is sending in a battalion with elements of Seventh Combat Engineers attached. They’ll enter Driant’s tunnel system at this point here, on the side of Bunker Number Three and—”

  Abrams paused, acknowledging the raised hand of Sean Moon. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said, “but that’s the same place where we got our asses handed to us a couple of days back.” Murmuring voices in agreement with Sean floated above the assembled cadre like a cloud of discontent. “How the hell are we just going to walk into their secret tunnel entrance through all the lead they’re going to be throwing at us?”

  “I figured that question was coming,” Abrams replied, “so I’m glad you asked it, Sergeant Moon. This is why having diagrams of the fort changes everything. We all know the Krauts are damn good engineers, and when they design something—like Fort Driant, or Feste Kronprinz, as they call it, as you can see from the legend on these plans—you can bet your life on its functionality.”

  As soon as he’d said you can bet your life, he wished he hadn’t: that’s exactly what every man in this room had done in that last assault. Some GIs no longer present had made that bet, too. And lost.

  The murmuring, which had died out on its own, returned even louder.

  “All right, all right,” Abrams said, staking sole claim to their attention again. “I want you to take a good look at this diagram, especially the design of the entryway to the tunnel.”

  He paused, letting them focus on Driant’s plans.

  “Notice that you won’t be in a field of fire from any fortified position inside Driant when you’re at that door. That’s because when the Krauts built this place forty years ago, they didn’t have to worry about sappers with special explosives and welding torches. So, once our tanks lead the infantry around the northern flank of the bunker, the engineers will be able to blow the door to the tunnel without much interference from the Krauts. And then we’ll be inside.”

  Sean’s hand rose again. “Sir, we shot doors like that with seventy-five millimeter at close range. It bounced right off.”

  “As we expect it would, Sergeant Moon,” Abrams replied. “This time, the engineers will be using shaped charges specially designed for this purpose. And as I’ve already mentioned, if that fails for any reason, we’ll bring in the torches to finish the job.”

  The room fell into that usual, uneasy silence all combat briefings do when you’ve heard the plan, want to believe in
it, but for some inexplicable reason, you don’t. All you know is there’s this voice deep inside of you insisting, It’s not going to work. It can’t work…

  But even if it somehow does work, I’m going to get my ass killed doing it.

  “Are there any questions?” Abrams asked, hoping there would be none. Maybe he was hearing that voice from deep inside himself, too.

  But he got his wish. There were no questions.

  “One more thing,” the colonel said. “Ninth Air Force will be pasting the hell out of the adjacent forts during our attack, so interdicting fire from them on Driant should be at a minimum, if at all. Now, the S3 will go over your specific assignments.” He checked his watch. “It’s exactly 1045 hours. This operation kicks off at 1300 hours.”

  When Tommy arrived at Zebra Ramp, he found Sergeant Dandridge sitting on Culver 1’s wing. From a distance it looked as if Dandridge was talking to the little plane.

  “No, I wasn’t talking to her, sir. Just myself,” the sergeant told Tommy. “I was doing some preflight checks.”

  That’s an improvement, Tommy thought. He called the Culver a “her,” not an “it.” He’s either getting attached to the things…or he’s just starting to talk like a real pilot. Either way, I’ll bet he’s feeling bad we’re going to crash her today.

  Inside the operations tent, Major Staunton rushed through the pre-mission briefing. Like yesterday, a target would be marked with a napalm fire. Then, the last Culver would be crashed into that burning target. Once that was finished, the mothership, while still airborne, would do a complete test of the baby’s systems while that plane remained on the ground at A-90. This would be the last chance to check out the baby, for once the Torpex arrived tomorrow, there could be no power on the sacrificial ship while the explosives were being loaded or anytime after, until it was time for her final mission.

  “I don’t have to remind any of you,” Staunton said, “that the smallest spark, the tiniest static discharge, will blow everyone on this airfield to oblivion. Absolutely no metal tools or other equipment, such as pens, keys, cigarette lighters, dog tags, collar brass, or belt buckles, will be on your person or within fifty yards of the aircraft while the Torpex is being loaded. Is that perfectly clear?”

  Every man in the Operation Bucket team nodded. They knew the drill all too well.

  The mothership took to the sky just after 1300. Fifteen minutes later, the Culver was in the air as well, with control handed off to Sergeant Dandridge. All systems seemed to be working like a charm.

  He pushed the control box toward Tommy and asked, “Want to fly her for a bit, sir?”

  “Sure, I’ll take her.”

  Tommy put the drone through a few simple maneuvers. She responded well, but he noticed something a little different in her handling today. “The weathermen weren’t kidding,” he said. “The winds aloft are a hell of a lot stronger than they were yesterday. If we do the dive out of the west—out of the sun—we’re going to be doing it against a pretty stiff crosswind.”

  Dandridge asked, “You think that’s going to blow us off the target line, sir?”

  “Yeah, it will. But there are ways we can correct for it. Let me do a practice dive and see what it takes.”

  “But we’re not over the target area yet, sir.”

  “Any reference point will do for now, Sergeant.” He glanced through the nose plexiglass and picked a spot. “How about that little bridge a couple of miles ahead? There shouldn’t be anyone there to get upset when the Culver comes screaming down on them.”

  “Okay, I see it, sir.”

  “Outstanding. Now get our pilot on a parallel course with the river while I get the Culver turned around. Oh, and tell Colonel Pruitt to stand by. This will only take a couple of minutes.”

  It all fell into place quickly. Satisfied with the Culver’s top-of-dive position, Tommy closed her throttle and nursed her toward the stall.

  “This is interesting,” he said. “I think she may stall without the wing waggle.”

  “How do you account for that, sir?” a puzzled Dandridge asked.

  “The crosswind’s doing it. It’s killing our airspeed…and our lift. Whoa! Here we go.”

  The Culver had stalled with no help from Tommy. Her nose dropped and the dive to the simulated target of the bridge began.

  “Yeah, the wind’s pushing her hard off track,” Tommy reported. “I’m putting in some downwind aileron to correct for it.”

  “Couldn’t we just uncouple the rudder and crab her to the target?”

  “I suppose we could,” Tommy replied, “but the rudder’s not very easy to work with this box. Too much fumbling with switches. I guess the designers weren’t planning on a lot of crosswind work, just bank and yank.”

  The drone had plummeted another thousand feet before he said, “The aileron correction’s working. I’m dead on the bridge. I’ll pull out at two thousand. Coming up on two thousand five…four…three…two…one.”

  He eased the Culver out of the dive. Once again, Dandridge thought he had her trimming the treetops.

  “What’s the altimeter read, sir?”

  “One hundred fifty.”

  “Damn, it looks a lot lower than that.”

  “It always will from way up here, Sergeant.”

  Once the Culver was climbing again, he handed over the control box. “Here, Sergeant. You try it now.”

  Dandridge brought the drone back to altitude and started the practice dive. “Oh, yeah,” he said, “I see what you mean, sir. It’s like a big hand pushing her sideways. I’m going to add in some rudder.”

  “You sure it’s not going to mess up the other controls? You need them a lot worse right now.”

  “It’s okay, sir. I know how to do it.”

  But after a few moments, Dandridge said, “It’s not working as well as I thought. Hard to keep the target in frame with the rudder kicking the nose to the right like that.” He flipped the switch on the box to return the controls to normal mode. “Now I’m trying it your way.”

  Within seconds, he added, “That’s much better.”

  “Altitude?”

  “Three thousand, sir. Two thousand nine…eight…”

  Tommy smiled. Dandridge had gotten up the courage to take her down to 2,000 feet before pulling out, just like he’d done.

  “Three…two…one…”

  Tommy watched through the nose dome as the Culver pulled smoothly out of the dive and seemed to be skimming the ground. “What’s your altitude now, Sergeant?”

  “Two hundred fifty feet and starting to climb.”

  “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “I’ll let you know when my heart stops pounding, sir.”

  A few minutes later, with the Culver back at altitude, Tommy asked, “You need another practice dive? Or are you ready for the big time?”

  “Definitely ready for the big time, sir.”

  “You’re on,” Tommy replied. Then he told Lieutenant Wheatley at the controls of the mothership to proceed to the target area. That done, he advised Colonel Pruitt they were on the way.

  Pruitt was more than ready to deliver the napalm. He told Tommy, “Standing by. But I’m sending you the bill for all this gas I burned tooling around up here on this beautiful day.”

  It truly was a beautiful day; a blue sky, clear as a crystal dome, the nearest clouds a hundred miles to the southwest. The airborne visibility was so exceptional that the mothership’s eagle-eyed flight engineer, manning the top turret, saw the four distant specks—at a much higher altitude—off their left wingtip.

  His voice tightened with each word as he said, “Engineer to Crew, we got bogies at nine o’clock high.”

  “Are you sure they’re not our escorts?” Lieutenant Wheatley asked.

  “Negative, negative. They ain’t P-38s, that’s for damn sure. Not with just one engine, they ain’t. And speaking of P-38s, I’m looking all over but I don’t see our top cover anywhere.”

  Wheatley a
sked, “How far out are the bogies?”

  “Not far enough. They’ll be on us before you know it.”

  “Pilot to Radio, have you got contact with our escorts?”

  “Negative. No reply.”

  “Pilot to Crew, abort. Repeat, abort. We’re turning back.”

  Tommy wanted to say something to stop what he considered a panicky rush to judgment. Looking through the navigator’s astrodome, he could see the bogies now. But the engineer was right; they were too far away to identify.

  Sure, they’re unidentified, and all single-engine fighters look pretty much alike from this distance. They don’t even look like they’re coming toward us. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen Luftwaffe planes that just passed right by without ever trying to engage.

  But this isn’t my ship…and it isn’t my call.

  Still, the question needed to be asked: “Observer to Pilot, just what are we aborting, exactly?”

  “This whole damn mission, Moon.”

  “So you’re taking us back to A-90?”

  “Damn right I am.”

  “So we can be a sitting duck on the ground?” Tommy asked. “At least up here, we might have a few options. If they really are Krauts, that is.”

  “Negative. We’re on our own, and we’re getting the hell out of here. End of story.”

  Tommy replied, “Well, Lieutenant, you can take your ship anywhere you please, I imagine. But it seems like Sergeant Dandridge can still run this drone mission…while you’re running away.”

  Dandridge’s eyes may have been pressed to the video monitor’s hood, but Tommy could see his mouth break into an amused grin for just a moment. Watching officers cut each other up could sometimes be enjoyable. Even in the face of danger.

  “Controller to Pilot, Lieutenant Moon is correct, sir. All I need is the drone on course with good video, and I’ve got that. It doesn’t matter much where the mothership is at this point.”

  Colonel Pruitt was on the air now, too. “Almighty Four-One, this is Gadget Blue. Where the hell are you going?”