Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3)

by William Peter Grasso

  “They can’t keep this up forever,” Tommy said. “I’m betting they don’t have the gas to stay up much longer.”

  Pulling hard to come out of the dive and line up one of the jets in his sights, the momentum of Tommy’s jug proved difficult to check. By the time he leveled off, he was directly behind the lead Arado at a distance of two hundred yards and closing fast.

  Well, I guess I just got the answer to that question, he told himself. If she had a tail gun, she’d be shooting me with it right now. I’m looking right at her tail cone and it’s nothing but a smooth fairing. That’s good news.

  He knew he was dangerously close. But he couldn’t stop himself from squeezing his trigger anyway, shooting great chunks of metal off the jet’s tail surfaces and aft fuselage. It was only luck that none of the liberated metal struck his aircraft.

  Dammit! What the hell’s wrong with me? Tommy pulled his ship away sharply, racing just feet past the Arado’s left wingtip.

  Wilkinson was having an easier time of it. As he eased out of his dive, he was looking down on the top of the other Arado.

  She flew right into my gunsight. I don’t have to do a thing…

  Except squeeze the trigger.

  Wilkinson was already climbing away when the Arado he’d engaged began to trail smoke and then faltered, falling to earth two miles short of the runway.

  The jet Tommy had shot up staggered to within a mile of the runway threshold before she crashed. The next time he laid eyes on her, she was on the ground, a twisted pile of metal.

  Not even a fire, the Americans collectively marveled. Probably not enough fuel left on board to start one.

  As Blue Flight re-formed at 5,000 feet, Tommy made a few mental notes for the mission debrief:

  An Arado can turn very nimbly, even at slow speeds.

  Their pilots are definitely very skilled.

  Contrary to rumor, they don’t have any tail armament.

  Now, if only we could catch the damn things when they’re doing something other than landing.

  He made one more mental note, one he wouldn’t be sharing at the debrief:

  I’m one lucky son of a bitch. I could’ve tore the hell out of my ship—even gotten myself killed—if I’d collided with that garbage I knocked off that jet at such close range.

  I’ve got to remember never to do that again.

  And I mean never.

  Chapter Three

  As Tommy Moon taxied his P-47—named Eclipse of the Hun III—into her parking spot, he could see his crew chief walking alongside, already giving the ship the once-over from nose to tail. Maybe I did pick up some of that garbage off the Arado and tore her up somewhere I can’t see from here. If it did, McNulty’s going to give me an earful, that’s for sure.

  He was worried about the wrong scolding. Tech Sergeant McNulty had a completely different earful in mind as he helped Tommy from her cockpit. “You gentlemen nearly gave us cardinal arrest with taking so long to come back and all. I was laying odds the whole damn flight ran out of gas. I swear, Captain, if the front lines get any farther away from here, you’re gonna be needing drop tanks again.”

  Cardinal: he was pretty sure McNulty meant cardiac. Over the past year, though, he’d gotten so used to the sergeant’s mangling of the English language that he didn’t bother to correct him anymore. Corrections had never really been necessary between them, anyway; despite their differing levels of education and fluency, they both hailed from Brooklyn. With that shared culture came instinctual understanding.

  McNulty did have a point about the distance to the front lines. Their airfield—Forward Airfield A-90—was in Toul, France, now over one hundred miles behind the front lines. The 301st Tactical Fighter Squadron had been based at Toul since early fall of 1944—almost six months now. There had been little reason for them to move in all that time, as the advance of Patton’s 3rd Army had been stalled short of Germany’s West Wall due to weather, shortages of gasoline, and Eisenhower’s decision to tidy up a sprawling front line that ran from the Netherlands to the French-Swiss border.

  The collapse of the German offensive in the Ardennes over Christmas had changed all that. Once that assault had been turned back, 3rd US Army—in fact, all the American and British Armies—had finally pushed into Germany and were making slow but steady progress eastward as their Soviet allies converged on the faltering Third Reich from the opposite direction. It was like the heady days of summer 1944 all over again, when 3rd Army had raced across central France with the aircraft of XIX Tactical Fighter Command in direct support.

  As he thumbed through the ship’s logbook, McNulty asked, “You liking the bubble better, Captain?”

  The bubble. This ship, Eclipse of the Hun III, was Tommy’s fourth since going into action in Europe and the first to have the bubble canopy instead of the birdcage of the older-style razorback jugs. He’d given his second ship the same name as his brother Sean’s tank at the time: Eclipse of the Hun. He got shot down in that one, but he’d probably still be flying Eclipse of the Hun II if the one and only Luftwaffe air raid on A-90 hadn’t turned her into a pile of scrap metal right there on the ramp.

  “The bubble’s okay, actually,” Tommy replied. “I’m getting used to the feeling of sitting in a fishbowl. But you sure can’t complain about the extra visibility…and the cockpit feels a little roomier, too.”

  McNulty just smiled. He didn’t dare say what was going through his head: Any cockpit would seem roomy to a little guy like you, Captain. Ain’t nobody ever gotta ask how you got the nickname Half.

  The photo techs were wasting no time removing the gun camera film from the jug. McNulty said, “I hear we’re gonna like what’s on that film, Captain. Got you one of them blitz bombers, didn’t you?”

  “Looks that way, Sarge. Lieutenant Wilkinson got one, too.”

  McNulty glanced up at the victory markings stenciled below the cockpit rail. He’d long ago lost track of exactly how many kill symbols adorned Tommy Moon’s various aircraft. There was row after row of cartoon bombs, tanks, cannons, and locomotives, representing missions flown and confirmed ground kills. Above them was a single swastika-adorned flag, representing an air-to-air kill.

  “I’ll have Vincent Van Goldbrick standing by to paint on another one of them swastikas as soon as you give us the high sign,” McNulty assured Tommy. “And this’ll be a real one. Not that rattle-trap Junkers you caught two feet off the ground.”

  When Tommy shot him an acid look, the crew chief added, “And I don’t mean that in no bad way, neither, Captain. That kill was kinda like having your cake and fucking the baker, too.”

  It wasn’t every day that the commanding general of XIX Fighter Command attended a squadron debrief. But for Tommy Moon, it hadn’t been just any day. There the general was, sitting at the big table in Operations, thumbing through after-action reports with the squadron commander, Colonel Pruitt. This was the first time Tommy had seen the general up close.

  “General Weyland, sir,” he said, snapping to attention.

  “At ease, Captain Moon,” the general replied. “It looks like your Blue Flight did some fine work today. Have a seat. Let’s talk.”

  Pruitt slid the intel report to Tommy and said, “The camera footage confirms it, Captain. You and Wilkinson both scored.”

  The general added, “Yes, excellent kills. But you certainly believe in getting right up on a bandit’s ass before you pull the trigger, though, don’t you, Captain?”

  He didn’t sound as if he considered that practice a good thing.

  Weyland continued, “We were all wondering how long it would be before we’d see these schnellbombers down in Third Army’s zone of operations. General Quesada has been telling me about their sporadic appearance in the northern zones, but his men haven’t had a confirmed kill against one in the air. What you did today tells us a lot, Captain. Was that your first air-to-air kill?”

  Fresh from McNulty’s disparaging remark about his first kill, he sounded almost ap
ologetic as he replied, “No, sir, my second. I got a JU-52 last summer.”

  “A Kraut’s a Kraut, Moon,” the general said. “Any kill is a good kill.”

  Then he turned serious. “We’ve been real worried about this ever since the 8th Air Force escort pilots started tangling with those jet and rocket-powered interceptors late last year. They warned us there was nothing we could do about them unless they were damn near standing still. Until we have something that can match their speed—and we won’t, for the foreseeable future—our only hope is to get them in those moments when they’re vulnerable in flight or just flat on the ground. But thanks to you, Captain Moon, we learned two very important lessons today.”

  Tommy braced himself. He had a feeling his near-fatal error today was about to become a teaching point for the entire USAAF.

  “First off,” Weyland said, “those Arados didn’t have tail guns, so the intel people were quite wrong about that. That opens up a whole new way for us to attack them.”

  Tommy held his breath. The bad news had to be next.

  “Second, Captain, you engaged much farther from their airfield, before they’d slowed all the way to approach speed. It was a faster, tougher intercept that way, too. But you made it work, and in doing so, you were never at risk from the airfield’s flak, which, as you can see from the aerial recon photos, is formidable. We’ve lost a lot of good pilots for no damn reason who got too close to a German airfield. But you showed an excellent command of the situation and the aerodynamics of the intercept, risking none of your pilots in the process. Damn well done, Moon.”

  As Tommy breathed a sigh of relief, the general had a final question: “What would you do differently, Captain, if you had it to do all over again? Aside from crawling right up on the Kraut’s ass and dodging his debris, of course.”

  “Well, sir…if I had another setup just like that one, I’d attack a bogie in pairs, with the wingman in each pair trailing his leader.”

  The general leaned forward, very curious what Tommy was going to say next.

  “That way, sir, when the target jinks away from the leader, the trail ship is in position to shoot him.”

  The general smiled. “Sounds like a plan, Captain. Unless you’ve got anything else of interest to share, you’re dismissed. Have a beer on me.”

  Tommy did have one further question. “Do we expect the Krauts to have more tricks up their sleeves, especially as we get deeper into Germany?”

  “We’re sure there’ll be more surprises, Captain. Maybe a lot more, I’m afraid.”

  Chapter Four

  With their tanks nestled in a dense woods several miles beyond the German city of Trier, the platoon leaders of B Company, 37th Tank had just received a briefing from their commander, Captain Newcomb. The first week of March 1945 was coming to a close, with the city firmly in 3rd Army’s control.

  “And I hear General Bradley had said taking Trier would take weeks, maybe months,” Newcomb told his cadre. “I heard some talk he was afraid it would turn into another Metz.”

  “Why would he think that, sir?” the Third Platoon leader asked. He was a young lieutenant named Bridger, who looked barely old enough to shave. He’d joined this outfit—and the war—for the first time in January, just two months before. “Metz had all those forts that we just pounded with artillery until they collapsed, right? Trier didn’t even have any forts, so it was even easier. Piece of cake.”

  Captain Newcomb thought for a moment that Sean Moon—his most volatile, intimidating, and experienced platoon leader—would choke that foolish shavetail half to death for giving such short shrift to the bloody fight for Metz. But he was startled to see the sergeant calmly raise his hand, as if asking a teacher for permission to speak.

  He told himself, Maybe Moon’s really been giving some serious thought to taking that direct commission, and he wants to show he’s got the tact and personnel skills to be an officer.

  Warily, Newcomb yielded the floor to Sean.

  When Sean rose to address the young lieutenant, he seemed the picture of officer material.

  Then he opened his mouth.

  “Begging your pardon, Lieutenant…and with all due respect and all that jazz…but you don’t know shit from shinola about what happened at Metz. You weren’t there. I was…and I’m here to tell you it was a fubar bloodbath. And we only got our asses saved by…well, let’s just say it was some kinda fucking miracle.”

  The lieutenant cast a panicked glance Captain Newcomb’s way, as if begging his commander to put this surly and arrogant sergeant in his place. But Sean wasn’t finished.

  “And as far as your theories about how easy it was to take Trier, you might as well tell your story walking, Lieutenant. Or better yet, tell it to the guys who just made Graves Registration’s roster.”

  The lieutenant’s eyes were still beseeching Newcomb to save him. But the captain looked right past him and asked everyone, “Well, there you have it, from a man who knows. Are there any more questions about this afternoon’s objective?”

  There were none.

  “Then let’s get to it.”

  As Captain Newcomb expected, Lieutenant Bridger lingered as the others hurried back to their platoons. His look of panic after Sean’s rebuke had turned to one of indignation. “I want to press charges against Sergeant Moon, sir,” Bridger demanded.

  “And exactly what charge would you be pressing, Lieutenant?”

  “Insubordination, sir.”

  “Bullshit, Lieutenant,” Newcomb replied. “Nothing insubordinate about it. That’s the way we talk around here when someone runs his fool mouth. Get over it. Now get back to your platoon and get it ready to move out.”

  “Can I ask a question, sir?” Bridger said.

  “Make it fast.”

  “Why is it that Second Platoon doesn’t have a lieutenant in charge, just Moon as platoon sergeant?”

  “Simple economy, Lieutenant. Sergeant Moon’s more experienced than all my other platoon leaders and sergeants put together. As short on lieutenants as we always seem to be, I’d only be wasting one if I assigned him as platoon leader of Second Platoon.”

  The tanks of Baker Company rumbled toward their objective, a road and rail junction ten miles northeast of Trier. Along with a battalion of infantry from 76th Division, they were to take the junction in the four hours that remained before nightfall and hold it until relieved.

  “The only chance the Krauts are gonna get to move people to or from this area is after dark,” Sean reminded his crew. “Some train driver’s gonna be real surprised when he tries to run a gauntlet of Zippos tonight.”

  Zippos: The GIs’ less than flattering nickname for their Sherman tanks which, like the cigarette lighter of the same name, could be brought to flame with little effort.

  “Let’s hope we actually get there tonight,” Fabiano, his gunner, replied. “And I hope to hell they ain’t got us running into no damn gauntlet. It’s too fucking quiet around here, if you ask me.”

  “I wasn’t asking, Fab.”

  True, they hadn’t encountered any resistance along the first five miles of road. But that could change in less than a heartbeat. They’d never hear the sound of the anti-tank round ripping through her hull, turning its interior into an inferno of molten steel.

  “Don’t get your panties in a knot,” Sean replied. “This ain’t our first dance. And look up—we even got air cover.”

  Despite the solid deck of low clouds, an artillery spotter plane scud running beneath the overcast was scouting the road ahead. When Fabiano saw it, he muttered a curse word, raised a middle finger to the tiny plane, and said, “Quit pulling my leg, Sarge. When you said air cover, I thought you were talking about the real thing. I shoulda known better.”

  “Relax, Fab. I hear the weather’s gonna break any month now. Then the sky’ll be full of the Ninth Air Force again.”

  “And until then,” the gunner fumed, “we’re still down here on our fucking own.”

  Six minut
es and another mile later, the tank’s radio came alive with Captain Newcomb’s warning: “Red Sky Six to all Red Sky units, Little Friend in the Sky reports enemy strongpoint two thousand yards ahead. Two guns, no tracks. Probable seventy-five millimeters.”

  Okay, Sean thought. They’re towed Pak 40s, not panzers or eighty-eights. Boy, I hope there ain’t no time lag getting our own artillery on that strongpoint, though. At least when it gets here, it’s probably gonna be big-caliber stuff from Corps Artillery.

  Then Newcomb added instructions for Lieutenant Bridger’s platoon, riding lead in the column. “Red Sky Three-Six from Six, pick up a wedge formation. Maintain speed, continue advance.”

  Sean’s Second Platoon was next in line behind Bridger’s, with Sean’s tank—call sign Red Sky Two-Six—in the lead.

  “This oughta be interesting,” Sean said. “I’ll bet the ninety-day wonder just shit his pants. He ain’t never been point platoon before when we made contact.”

  The voice of Kowalski, Sean’s driver, filled their headphones: “I guess the good lieutenant is about to face his trial by fire.”

  “You ain’t kidding,” Sean said. “Shit’s gonna hit the fan any damn second.”

  “How about we button up now, Sarge?” Kowalski again.

  “Yeah, you and Bags go ahead.”

  Bags: PFC Bagdasarian, Eight Ball’s bow gunner and assistant driver.

  Sean kept his head outside the turret hatch, a risky proposition but the only way to see everything that was going on. What he saw ahead startled him.

  Then it made his blood boil.

  Rather than adopting the wedge Captain Newcomb had instructed—with the Shermans of his platoon forming an inverted V that flanked and trailed Bridger’s lead tank—his platoon had veered off the road in a ragged echelon and entered the woods.

  At the middle of the company column, Newcomb had no clear view of Bridger’s platoon but could tell something wasn’t right. The lieutenant, however, wasn’t responding to his calls. After several tries, the captain asked Sean, “Can you see what the hell’s going on with Three-Six?”