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

by William Peter Grasso

  “Affirmative. Took himself a detour into the woods to our left.”

  There was still no response from Bridger. And the American artillery still hadn’t put a shell on the Germans blocking the road ahead.

  Count our lucky stars the Krauts ain’t fired yet, either.

  Newcomb asked Sean, “Two-Six, can you take the lead?”

  “Roger. Can you talk direct to the guy in the sky?”

  “Affirmative,” the captain replied. “I’ve got the arty FO riding my aft deck. He’ll relay.”

  “Outstanding. Ask him to spot for me, too. I’m gonna start lobbing rounds from our main guns on the move, at least until the big stuff shows up. Gotta try and keep them Krauts’ heads down somehow.”

  “You go ahead and do that,” Newcomb replied. “What’s the range?”

  “Fifteen hundred yards, give or take. We got a snowball’s chance in hell of being accurate but we gotta do something.” As Sean was saying it, the tanks of his platoon fired their first rounds.

  “Take your best shot,” Newcomb said. “I’ll deal with Third Platoon.”

  “Better hurry, Six. Looks like they’ve stopped now. If there are Kraut infantry in those woods they’re gonna eat them alive.”

  Sean’s tanks forged ahead. They’d fired their fourth volley before word from the aerial observer was finally relayed to him: You’re getting them dirty but you haven’t hit anything. Friendly rounds on the way now.

  Within seconds, the German gunners got off their first shots. One buried itself in the roadway just yards in front of Sean’s Number Two tank, hurting nothing but the pavement.

  Sean felt the shock wave of the other round as it streaked past his turret, a miss of mere feet.

  Before he could take another breath, the German strongpoint erupted in the cataclysmic explosions of the American artillery rounds.

  Whoa…heavy shit, too, just like I figured. Damn good thing we’re still a thousand yards away.

  When the platoon reached the German position, there was little left of it—just splintered wood, two destroyed Pak 40 guns, four burning trucks, toppled crates of ammunition, and a scattering of dead Germans. A hulking barricade of felled trees that had been cobbled together across the road had somehow survived the carnage. After checking it for mines, Sean’s Number Three tank pushed it out of the way of the oncoming GI column.

  Ain’t enough dead Krauts here to man two guns, Sean thought. Maybe that’s why it took them so damn long to get off a shot. But if there were more swinging dicks here, they took a powder.

  Now that the roadblock was neutralized, the biggest problem for Baker Company was the fiasco Lieutenant Bridger had caused. There had been Germans in the woods, more by accident than tactical design. But they were an effective unit, apparently just a platoon or two. They knocked two Shermans out of action with little more than grenades and the courage to climb on their decks and deliver them down the intakes.

  Most of Bridger’s formidable weapons were rendered useless by the confines of the woods. Turrets couldn’t traverse fully without the main gun tubes striking tree trunks. Those same trees severely restricted maneuverability of the vehicles, too. Almost all their firepower was pointed the wrong way.

  Before the GI infantry could arrive to flush the Germans off the tanks, those Germans had fled without so much as a shot being fired after them. The only miracle was none of Bridger’s men were killed. The crews of his two vanquished tanks had been able to escape the death traps with only minor injuries. Bridger’s tank, along with his Number Two, survived unscathed only because the small contingent of Germans couldn’t get to them in time.

  Once this skirmish was finally over, a livid Captain Newcomb got right in Bridger’s face, spittle flying, demanding a simple answer: “Just what the hell did you think you were doing, Lieutenant? I told you to form a wedge to advance on that strongpoint, not take a fucking drive in the forest.”

  Braced at attention like a cadet, Bridger replied, “We needed more space to form the wedge properly, sir. So we tried to shift over to the left, but things got a little confused, we bunched, and then the radio went on the fritz and—”

  “Can it, Lieutenant,” Newcomb interrupted. “We don’t always get to do the textbook solution out here. In fact, we almost never get to do the goddamned textbook solution. Don’t blame your radio, either. Seems to be working just fine now…and you fucked up long before that. You had a choice between operating on a less-than-optimum width of roadbed or handcuffing yourself on terrain unsuited for tanks. You picked the wrong damn one. Count your lucky stars you didn’t get anyone killed. Now take what’s left of your platoon and fall in at the rear of the column.”

  To everyone’s surprise and relief, the Germans had left the road and rail junction undefended. There were still two hours of daylight left. The infantry battalion quickly established a wide perimeter and dug in. Baker Company’s Shermans provided roving firepower while its Recon Platoon—operating M5 Stuart light tanks—set out to explore farther down the rail line.

  They weren’t gone fifteen minutes when they radioed Captain Newcomb’s CP. “We ain’t exactly believing what we just laid eyes on,” the platoon leader said. “Maybe you ought to come have a look for yourself.”

  Newcomb told Sean, “I’ve got to go to a meeting at Battalion. The XO and first sergeant are tied up with supply problems. You go and see what the hell Lieutenant Fagan is talking about. I’ll be on the radio if you need me.”

  The coordinates the recon boys sent were just over a mile away, along a railroad siding. As Eight Ball crested a rise a few hundred yards from Recon’s position, her crew let out a collective gasp.

  Sean was the first to put his amazement into words: “Get a load of the size of that son of a bitch.”

  “Son of a bitch, my ass,” Fabiano replied, his voice sounding like he’d just seen a ghost. “That’s a super gun—a wonder weapon—just like that fucking rocket ship that almost sunk our asses.”

  Neither Sean nor any of his crew had ever seen a cannon that big. They estimated the tube was over sixty feet long and sitting two stories off the ground. The carriage was a massive railroad car with far more wheels than they could count from a distance. An enormous camouflage net dangled sloppily from one side of the piece, as if someone had tried to either cover or uncover the gun but gave up with the project only half-completed.

  Bagdasarian, the bow gunner, sounded petrified, too, when he said, “That thing’s pointed right where we came from.”

  “I don’t know how concerned I’m gonna get about this monstrosity,” Sean said. “It don’t look like no weapon to me. Looks more like a target.”

  The man in charge of Recon Platoon—Lieutenant Fagan—walked over as Eight Ball shuddered to a halt some thirty yards from the massive gun. Before he could say a word, Sean asked him, “Don’t you think you need to set up a perimeter, Lieutenant? Those puny Stuarts you call tanks are all lined up like they’re in the Saint Patrick’s Day parade.”

  “I was just getting around to fixing that, Sergeant,” Fagan replied.

  Bullshit, Sean told himself as he looked at the gawking members of Recon Platoon wandering around the giant gun like tourists. It don’t look like you were getting around to fixing nothing. And you should’ve done it the second you got here.

  But to the lieutenant, he said, “Outstanding, sir. How about I leave my Zippo right here covering the eastern quadrant? And once you got them tanks of yours repositioned, maybe most of the crew should actually be inside them? I mean, in case we gotta fight our way out of here or something? They’ve probably seen enough of that thing by now, anyway. How about we let my guys have a chance to do a look-see?”

  Fagan ran off to give the order to his men. A minute later, the Stuarts of Recon Platoon were positioned with Eight Ball in a tight perimeter.

  “That’s more like it,” Sean told his own crew. “I’m a little surprised the lieutenant had his head so far up his ass like that. He ain’t no rookie. O
kay, who wants to go have a look first?”

  “Me,” Fabiano replied. “I gotta see this thing up close. And rank has its privileges.”

  Sean shook his head. “In this vehicle, that only applies to me, Fab.”

  The gunner seemed crushed, like a kid who had just been told there was no Santa Claus.

  But Sean relented. “Okay, you go first. But just give it a once-over and then get your ass back here.”

  As Fabiano climbed out of the turret, Sean told his loader, “Lorenzo, take over the gunner’s seat until he comes back.”

  “And then it’ll be my turn to have a look, Sarge?”

  “No, then you cover Bags’ thirty cal until he and Ski have their turn.”

  Lorenzo sounded disappointed. “So I go last?”

  “No, Private. I’m the one who goes last. You understand why I’m doing it this way, don’t you?”

  Hesitantly, Lorenzo answered, “So the old girl can still drive and shoot all her weapons all the time, even if we’re down a man?”

  Sean smiled and patted the young man on the back. “Very good, Roberto. You’re learning fast.”

  During Lorenzo’s turn, Lieutenant Fagan climbed up on Eight Ball’s deck for a chat. He asked Sean, “So Captain Newcomb’s not coming to have a look at this thing?”

  “Nah, not now. He had to go up to Battalion.”

  “Dammit. I’m not sure what to do. We’ve got to make sure that we keep this thing out of action. But I sure as hell don’t want to stay out here all night doing it.”

  “I think the Krauts already got the keeping out of action part covered, Lieutenant. From where I’m sitting, it looks like they sabotaged the breech.”

  Fagan looked back to the gun, squinting into the late afternoon sun. “Yeah, I think I see what you mean now. Can’t believe I missed that.”

  That same setting sun was shining through a hole in the middle of the open breech where the firing mechanism should have been. The breech’s operating handle was missing, too. For a mechanism as large and heavy as that breech, the handle would have taken the dimensions of a baseball bat, not easily overlooked.

  “Yeah,” Fabiano added. “If that thing was a ship, consider it scuttled. Still, if they got more like that…”

  Lorenzo was jogging back to Eight Ball now. “I guess it’s my turn, Lieutenant,” Sean said. “Wanna have another look?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Standing on the gun’s massive steel carriage, Fagan said, “I don’t see any way to traverse this thing. How the hell do they make deflection adjustments?”

  “Maybe they don’t,” Sean replied. “Just point the damn thing down a track in the general direction and let her rip.”

  Then he noticed the strange track layout of the siding. Ahead of the gun the track gently curved, almost like a giant question mark covering hundreds of yards across the ground. The ties, rails, and spikes looked considerably newer than those of the main line from which it split, as if just laid recently.

  “I think I got it figured out, Lieutenant. They gotta move the whole fucking gun carriage along the spur to adjust left and right. See how the track curves? They could get a deflection of about forty-five degrees each way. I’m guessing they built this spur special, just for that purpose.”

  “Yeah,” Fagan replied. “It could work that way, couldn’t it?”

  “You know what else gets me, though, Lieutenant? It must take a hundred guys to man this beast. Imagine how big and heavy the ammo is. I bet it can only fire a round every hour or so. And they’d need a special train just to bring the ammo up so that crane on the ass end of the carriage could lift it up to the gun. Like I told my boys, this thing ain’t no weapon. It’s a target. In daylight, they’d need a couple of flak batteries all around it to keep the flyboys from turning her into scrap iron. And day or night, the sound and flash ranging outfits would have her pinpointed pretty quick. Then our artillery would start raining down like it was going out of style.”

  “I’m sure you’re right about that, Sergeant. So what do you think? Is it safe to leave this thing alone out here tonight?”

  Sean thought about it for a moment. Then he replied, “It will be, Lieutenant, if I use my Zippo and the towing cable to rip up the spur where it branches off the main. Then we throw the rails on our decks and cart them back with us. The Krauts won’t be able to get no ammo to her. They’d never be able to manhandle that shit all that way. Even if they could put the breach back together, they’d have no rounds to shoot.”

  Lieutenant Fagan needed no further convincing. “Sounds like a great idea, Sergeant Moon. Let’s get busy. I want to be home before dark.”

  It took only minutes to rip up the track and load the rails on the tanks’ decks. They were halfway to rejoining the rest of Baker Company back at the junction when Fabiano started up again about super guns and wonder weapons.

  “For cryin’ out loud, Fab,” Sean said, “knock it the fuck off, will ya?”

  “But really, Sarge…what if they got more of them guns?”

  “So what? It ain’t like they don’t got enough ways to kill us already.”

  “But look at the bore on that thing…it’s fucking huge!”

  “I make it at about fifteen inches, Fab. So yeah, it’s big. But it’s still a slow-firing, vulnerable piece of crap. You know, they had those things in the last war, too. And they didn’t do much then, either. Bigger ain’t always better. And by the way, did you notice the data plate on that gun? It’s French. The Krauts must’ve just borrowed it.”

  “I don’t know, Sarge…some of them guys in Recon were telling me they heard them Krauts got even bigger ones than that. And they’re pretty damn clever with the stuff they build, ain’t they? I still can’t get the sound of that fucking rocket ship out of my head.”

  Sean had had enough. “I don’t want to hear no more about this shit, Fab. Don’t be going all Section Eight on me again.”

  Darkness fell soon after Sean and Recon Platoon returned to join the rest of the unit. The officers and sergeants of Baker Company settled down to a debrief over a meal of heated C rations—a treat after days with nothing but the bare caloric subsistence of K rations. “With any luck,” Captain Newcomb said, “we’ll get a real hot breakfast up here in the morning.”

  A murmur of approval rippled through his hungry subordinates. Then he continued, “By the way, Colonel Abrams is very pleased how we handled that railway gun. Trapping it in place was the best thing to do under the circumstances. The ordnance people are very interested in having a look at it. We’ll probably see them tomorrow, too.”

  Newcomb directed their attention to the map board hung on the fender of his Sherman. “Here’s the plan—we’ll be relieved sometime tomorrow afternoon, just as soon as the rest of Seventy-Sixth Division finishes mopping up in Trier. Once we rearm and refuel, the whole damn Fourth Armored is moving east, straight to Worms—and the Rhine.”

  Just hearing those words—the Rhine—was as uplifting as receiving mail from home. Even though the river really wasn’t that deep into Germany and nowhere near Berlin, it was a symbolic threshold—a mythic boundary—that once achieved, there would be no doubt the end of the Third Reich was inevitable. The fact that it was still seventy-five miles away through mountainous terrain didn’t dull that expectation one bit.

  “I’ve got a good story to tell you, too,” Newcomb added. “It seems that yesterday General Bradley sent General Patton a message instructing him to bypass Trier, as it would tie up too many divisions capturing it. Patton replied, Have already taken the city. Do you want me to give it back?”

  Chapter Five

  Whores and typists. That’s all General de Gaulle and his lackeys think women are good for.

  Sylvie Bergerac thought better of spewing those words out loud. She was in enough trouble with Colonel Duval already.

  At his bullying best, the colonel said, “Madame Bergerac, despite my best efforts, you still do not seem to understand your position at th
is headquarters. You are an agent de communications, not an agent secret. You transport messages. You do not engage in subterfuge. Your latest calamité nearly resulted in a company of fine French infantry being overpowered and sacrificed.”

  He kept inching closer, as if all his angry bluster was yet another tactic to slide a hand up her skirt.

  Allowing him to molest me would absolve me of my sins, no doubt.

  Sylvie deftly backed away, as she’d done every time he’d come within arm’s length of her. Not the least bit ruffled, she replied, “Quite the contrary, mon colonel. My actions resulted in the capture of an entire Boche regiment without a shot being fired. They were ready to surrender. They just needed a safe avenue to do so. I provided that avenue.”

  “Had your little bluff failed, madame—”

  Just like this little bluff of yours is failing? she thought.

  Then she said, “Ah, but it didn’t, mon colonel.”

  “Regardless, Madame Bergerac, I cannot tolerate your putting the men of this command at risk, as you just did, or allow you to interfere in this command’s business anymore. This is not La Résistance, and you are no longer a maquisard.”

  “So I’m getting the sack, mon colonel?”

  “Oui, madame. Just as soon as I can have the papers prepared.” He began to add, “In the meantime, you can—”

  But she was already striding out of the office.

  The heady exhilaration of being shown the door—the sense of freedom and renewed possibilities it brought—didn’t last as long as Sylvie hoped. Within minutes she felt empty and desperate, as if the last five years in La Résistance—fighting the Boche any way she could—had been washed away, rendered irrelevant and unappreciated.

  Her only hope for salvation now: Colonel François Marchand.