“The supplies in question were liberated two nights ago,” Vachon said, “between nineteen hundred and twenty hundred hours. Right after dark, right before curfew. The inventory chits have obviously been altered.”
“How perfect,” she replied. “Do we know what type of vehicle was used?”
“L’Académique is working on that.”
L’Académique: Vachon’s nickname for Philippe Ledoyen, the bookish university student of mathematics turned reluctant soldier. In short order, he’d constructed the flawless numerical models and protocols Sylvie’s people were using to keep track of their inventory and distribution system.
“There were no trucks on the streets between those hours that didn’t belong to the French Army,” Ledoyen told them.
A skeptical Vachon asked, “How can you be so sure of that?”
“I questioned every sentry on duty that night. A non-military truck—rare as they are—wouldn’t have gone unnoticed.”
Vachon nodded, willing to concede the point.
“So the vehicle was probably horse-drawn?” Sylvie asked.
Vachon added, “Or they carried it away on their backs.”
Ledoyen frowned, as if he’d just heard the stupidest suggestion in the world. “You don’t easily carry all that flour and milk on your back. It would have taken a platoon to do it all at once. And that, too, would have been very obvious.”
Vachon replied, “Who said they did it all at once?”
“You did, you imbecile, when you established a one-hour window for the theft.”
To Sylvie’s surprise, Luc didn’t lunge for Philippe. Despite his reddened face, he remained in his chair, arms folded, glaring at his partner.
“All right, both of you…can we try to be civil with each other? After all, this is Affaires Civiles.”
Both men nodded. Whether they were sincere or not was another matter.
Ledoyen said, “My guess is they’ll try to raid the warehouse again in two days, soon after our next resupply arrives.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Sylvie replied. Then she turned to Vachon to ask, “Who was supervising the warehouse on the night in question?”
“Elsner.”
Sylvie’s face lit with surprised delight. “Really? Hans Elsner…Vogel’s son-in-law? The guy with the bad leg?”
“The very same.”
Ledoyen smiled, too, as he muttered, “This is too easy. We should ready the guillotine for all these Boche idiots right now.”
Chapter Twelve
Bad Kreuznach fell to the Americans with barely a fight. That came as quite a relief, as the town showed the damage from heavy Allied bombing raids. Usually, all that rubble made for excellent defensive positions.
The only thing the German command had managed to do before fleeing the town was blow up the wide vehicle bridge across the Nahe River, the waterway that bisected the city. Without that bridge, 4th Armored would be stalled on the west bank until the engineers could erect another. They’d have to work through the night if the American tanks were to be back on the move at first light.
Colonel Abrams summed up the situation this way: “Like General Patton says: Too many battles are lost because an army stopped on the wrong side of a river.” Then he told his company commanders, “Make damn sure those engineers get to do their work unmolested tonight. Understood?”
Advance battalions of 5th Infantry Division had followed 4th Armored into Bad Kreuznach and then crossed the Nahe on the two foot bridges that were still intact. They’d secured a bridgehead in the eastern half of the town some half mile deep before darkness fell. Hopefully, that would provide a comfortable barrier behind which the bridge-building engineers could do their work.
It was a false hope.
Just before midnight—when the bridge was only half-finished—a company or more of panzers bore down on the American infantrymen from the high ground to the east. From where Sean’s platoon was positioned, all they could see of the panzers’ approach was their powerful floodlights searching out the GIs, the orange muzzle flashes of their main guns as they fired, and the brilliant white streaks of tracers from their machine guns.
“Stupidest thing I ever seen,” Sean Moon said as he picked targets for his platoon. “Searchlights and tracers...and less than a thousand yards away. Like they want to make it easy for us to hit ’em.”
He identified a panzer for Fabiano to shoot. But the gunner offered no confirmation.
“Hey, you listening to me, Fab?” Sean said.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep your shirt on, Sarge. Target confirmed. On the way.”
Eight Ball rocked with the recoil from her round. Sean watched the glowing white dot fly across the river, over the heads of friendly engineers and infantry, mingling with the other ordnance arcing across the sky until it was lost in the glare of the panzers’ searchlights.
There was the red flash of impact; the sound of the distant explosion came a split-second later.
And right after that came the secondary explosions of the stricken panzer’s fuel and ammo brewing up, each one a sparkle with its own time-delayed pop or boom.
“Nice shot, Fab. Got him right in the turret, looks like. Knocked that searchlight to kingdom come, too.” Then he identified the next target for his gunner.
That done, he yelled to Bagdasarian, who was manning the radio. “That artillery coming sometime tonight, Bags? Hate to think we’re gonna have all the fun.”
“Roger. We just got shot, over, Sarge.”
Fabiano got off one more round before the artillery barrage impacted, the brilliant white flashes of the exploding shells tinged with orange.
The infantrymen across the river were calling cease fire. The panzers that could still move were withdrawing. The GIs would deal with the ones that couldn’t on their own. Less chance for friendly fire accidents that way.
But Sean had a question for his gunner, and it had to be asked in private. “Hey, Fab, come up top with me a minute.”
With them both sitting on the turret roof, Sean asked, “What was the holdup with that first round? Problem with the sight or something?”
Fabiano didn’t answer right away. He squirmed as if he’d give anything not to answer. But he could tell Sean was losing his patience.
“You remember War of the Worlds, Sarge?”
“Yeah, that Orson Welles guy, right? When was that, anyway?”
“Thirty-eight,” Fabiano replied. “Do you remember it?”
“Sure, I was listening to the radio that night. What about it?”
“You remember how he described those space machines coming at them? With them death-ray things shooting everywhere?”
“Yeah, of course, Fab. So what?”
“Were you scared?”
“Fuck no. Only saps got scared over shit like that.”
“Well, I was scared. I almost shit myself.”
“C’mon, Fab….what’s this gotta do with you having your thumb up your ass on that first shot?”
“War of the Worlds, that’s what, Sarge. It looked like that through the scope, with them searchlight beams looking like them Martian death rays. It got me a little fucked up for a minute, that’s all. I couldn’t stop thinking, What if them Krauts got death rays now?”
“For cryin’ out loud, Fab, we ain’t on this super weapons kick again, are we?”
“Hey, I fired where you told me…and I hit the son of a bitch first shot, didn’t I?”
“That you did, Fab. No argument there.”
“So I ain’t gonna hear another speech about me going all Section Eight again, am I?”
“No, but—”
Sean didn’t finish his sentence. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen the shadowy outlines of a commotion going on down the street. He couldn’t hear it—not over the rumble of Eight Ball’s engine—but he could see the silhouettes of GIs in a wide circle, spectators to something going on within. It was the kind of mob that formed around two men fighting it out with the
ir fists…
Or around a lynching.
Sean slid off the turret roof to the deck. He told Fabiano, “I’ll be right back. You’re in charge here until then. Gotta see what the hell’s going on over there. Nobody else leaves the vehicle. Is that clear?”
“Affirmative, Sarge.”
When he got to the circle, he was relieved none of the GIs in it were from his platoon. If any of them had been, he would’ve made each and every one very sorry their mothers had ever given birth to them. The tank commanders who’d let them wander away from their duties would’ve been very sorry, too.
But the GIs weren’t tankers; they were infantrymen. They’d formed the circle around a quartet of frightened and battered German soldiers with hands on their heads. One of the Americans—a buck sergeant—was marshalling the Germans into a row, shouting in crude German and prodding them with the butt of his rifle until he was satisfied with the straightness of the rank.
Then he commanded the prisoners to their knees.
The GIs were getting quite a kick from all this, whooping and hollering with a bloodlust Sean hadn’t seen from his fellow soldiers since the fight in the Ardennes. The sergeant motioned to two of the GIs, who took positions behind the prisoners.
Maybe he hadn’t been there at first, but Lieutenant Fagan was definitely there now, a few paces behind the circle, saying and doing nothing.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” Sean called out before he’d covered half the distance to the man, “you gonna stop this bullshit or what?”
Lieutenant Fagan turned to him but said nothing. His face was drawn, the shadows of night accentuating each contour, turning him into a jarring portrait of a confused man under extreme stress. He seemed to be processing information—perhaps the same information over and over again—without coming to any conclusion.
Can’t tell what the lieutenant’s more scared of—making them stop or letting it happen.
He probably don’t know, neither.
“Shit or get off the pot, Lieutenant,” Sean said. “You don’t want to be no witness to murder here, do you?”
Still, Fagan couldn’t—or wouldn’t—act.
The circle was parting in front of the prisoners as GIs got themselves out of the line of their comrades’ fire. The taunting grew louder, with a viciousness that sounded deranged. It would be only a matter of seconds before one of the GIs pulled his trigger.
There was a time, Sean knew all too well, that I’d have been right in there with those touch-holes. Maybe I’m getting too old for this shit.
He barged into the middle of the circle, yelling, “WHICH ONE OF YOU DOUCHEBAGS IS LOOKING TO GET A MURDER RAP HUNG ON HIM?”
There was that moment when those submerged deep in the depravity and sinfulness looked to the righteous voice in their midst with mocking disregard. Surely, the wicked fervor that had swept them up could conquer a lone dissenter.
And even if that voice refused to be silent, they were so absolute in their convictions that no authority could possibly hold sway over them.
None of the GIs lowered his weapon.
“Oh, that’ll make it real good,” Sean said. “Kill me, too. Great move.” Then he pointed to Fagan and added, “And while you’re at it, why don’t you kill the lieutenant over there? You’ll be real big heroes to the other dead meat in the stockade, with shooting an officer and a senior noncom and all. At least for a little bit, anyway…right up until they put you in front of the firing squad, that is.”
“You don’t understand,” the infantry sergeant said. “These scumbags are SS. They just killed a squad of our guys. A whole fucking squad! We’re just returning the favor.”
“Negative, numbnuts,” Sean replied. “You captured ’em and brought ’em here, so they’re POWs now. If you were gonna kill them, you shoulda done it when you first laid eyes on them. Now it’s just murder.”
“But they’re SS, dammit. They’d do the same to us if they had the chance.”
“Still don’t make it right,” Sean replied. “You agree, Lieutenant?”
“Affirmative,” Fagan replied with enthusiasm, like he was giving testimony in church. Then he turned to the infantry sergeant and asked, “Give me your name and unit.”
How about that? Sean thought. The lieutenant got religion all of a sudden.
As he wrote the reply in his pocket notebook, Fagan said, “You men are dismissed. Return to your outfit. I’m taking charge of these prisoners.”
The disgruntled infantrymen shuffled off, unwilling to push their dangerous game any further. Sean told Fagan, “I’ll get some of my guys to bring these Krauts to the collection point, Lieutenant.”
“Good. They could probably use the business. Didn’t get much of a POW haul here in Bad Kreuznach. Most of the Krauts just withdrew. Hardcore, I guess. Ain’t got the surrender bug yet.” The tone of the lieutenant’s voice—like making small talk—seemed startlingly out of place considering the enormity of what had nearly occurred just moments ago.
As Sean got the prisoners back on their feet, Fagan added, “I want to thank you for what you just did here, Sergeant Moon. I’m forever indebted to you.”
The darkness swallowed Sean’s long, icy stare until he replied, “No need for thanks, Lieutenant. But I know what forever indebted really means.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“It means you’re never gonna pay me back.”
Sergeant Meeker’s tank was the closest. Sean walked the prisoners to it and then told Meeker, “Al, I’m gonna take one of your guys and one of mine to walk these POWs to the collection point.” Then he told him how they’d come to be his prisoners.
Meeker asked, “But you say they’re SS, right?”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Nothing…it’s just…well…it just seems kinda funny, with you being so worried about killing prisoners all of a sudden. I remember a time—”
“Never you mind, Meeker,” Sean interrupted. “I don’t want to hear none of that shit. Not now, not ever. You read me?”
“Yeah, I read you loud and clear, Sean. But are you trying to tell me now that none of that shit ever happened?”
“No, you dumb fuck. Of course it happened. Can’t never change that. But it ain’t gonna happen tonight, okay?”
“Sure, boss. Anything you say, Sergeant.”
Sean had only been back at his tank a few minutes when the runner from the battalion CP arrived. “Colonel Abrams wants to see you, Sergeant Moon,” the runner said.
“Tell him I’ll be right there,” Sean replied.
Then he climbed into Eight Ball’s turret and started thumbing through his notebook.
“What’re you sitting here for, Sarge?” Fabiano asked. “Ain’t the colonel looking for you?”
“Yeah, but I can drag it out a couple of minutes. I want to wait until Kowalski gets back from that POW detail. Don’t want to leave you two guys down.”
“We’ve done it before. What’s the big deal? Looks like the Krauts shot their wad for tonight, anyway.”
“Maybe I know what he wants to talk to me about…and I ain’t in no hurry to hear it.”
But still, he knew he couldn’t keep the colonel waiting forever. Fifteen minutes later—with Kowalski back at the tank—Sean stepped into the battalion CP.
Colonel Abrams was seated at a field desk. He looked up from what he was writing and summoned Sean to take a seat next to him. Then Abrams showed him what he was working on—a letter.
“I’ve got to send this to Captain Newcomb’s wife,” the colonel said. “These letters of condolence have to be the worst part of a commander’s job.”
“Yeah. I can imagine, sir.”
Abrams pushed the stationery out of the way. “I know we’ve all got lots to do, Sean, so I won’t beat around the bush.”
Oh, shit. The first-name-basis crap. I was right about why he called me here.
“Have you given any more thought to taking that direct commission?”
Sean had known th
is meeting would come eventually. Now that it was here, he was surprised how little hesitation he felt to speak his mind.
“Yeah, I’ve given it a lot of thought, sir…and the answer is thanks, but no thanks.”
“Can you tell me why, Sean?”
“Simple. I don’t exactly see myself as officer material, sir.”
“Maybe you ought to let me—and Captain Newcomb—be the judge of that.”
Sean would have given anything to be able to just get up and walk out of the tent. But he owed the colonel some semblance of an explanation; he had too much respect for his battalion commander to do anything less.
“I appreciate that, sir. I really do. But the way I see it, there’s three types of swinging dicks around here. There are fighters, there are leaders, and then there’s baggage.”
“Baggage, Sean?”
“Yeah…baggage. It don’t do nothing, but you gotta carry it around anyway.”
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Abrams said, genuinely amused. “I never heard it put quite like that before. But taking this a step further, are you telling me that you think we have some officers who are baggage in this outfit, Sean?”
“We got a couple, sir. Present company excluded, of course. But I’ll bet you’ve got a better handle on it than me.”
“Okay, fair enough. What about the other two types—the fighters and leaders?”
“Self-explanatory, sir, the way I see it. Leaders gotta be fighters but fighters don’t gotta be leaders.”
“And which are you, Sean?”
“I’m just a fighter, sir.”
“There are a lot of people here who think you’re a whole lot more than that, present company included. Hell, if there was a poster for natural leader I’d put your face on it.”
“Again, I appreciate it, sir. But my answer’s still no. I’m right where I belong.”
Tommy couldn’t sleep. Rather than stare at the ceiling for the two hours until morning chow, he climbed into his flying clothes and walked over to the flight line to watch maintenance being performed on the squadron’s aircraft.
Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3) Page 10
