“Nah,” Tommy replied, “they’re too busy having a good time right now. And I want to get away from all that shit they’re shooting straight up into the air. It comes down, you know, and quicker than you think. The farther away from it we get, the happier I’ll be.”
McNulty liked the sound of that. As he slammed the truck into gear, he sang out, “Fucking A. Brooklyn, here we come…I hope.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
There was an air of celebration at the American command post across the river, too. They just didn’t see the need to expend ammunition over it. The GIs would much rather talk about finally going home.
The intelligence officer debriefing Tommy and his team—a soft-spoken colonel from the American South—found their story fascinating. “You should sit yourself right down and write a book, Captain Moon,” the colonel said. “That’s one amazing tale y’all tell.”
“I’ve got a few things to do before that’s going to happen, sir,” Tommy replied. “But the war really is officially over, right?”
“Damn right, Captain. We got the word this morning. Came down all the command nets. I guess it took a little longer for our Russian allies across the river to find out.”
Tommy replied, “Take it from me, sir….they’re not our allies. And they’re definitely not our friends.”
The colonel had a sadness in his eyes as he said, “I know, son. I know. Ol’ Patton’s been telling us not to give them an inch beyond the stop lines. He’s ready to tangle with those Reds right now.”
The first thing Tommy needed to do was get in touch with 301st Fighter Squadron at Eschborn. The communications officer wasn’t terribly optimistic about the chances of that happening anytime soon. “The Kraut surrender has the whole damn world going crazy. Traffic on the landlines has been at overflow level all day, Captain,” he told Tommy. “And radio is just…well, just forget about that. But you’re going to be Priority Four traffic, and we’re only handling Priority One and Two right now.”
“I think once you tell them who’s on the line, sir, it’s going to become Priority One real fast.”
The commo officer just shrugged. “We’ll do our best for you, Captain…but don’t get your hopes up, okay? Where’re you going to be?”
“Division CP, sir, grabbing some chow.”
Two hours and four cups of coffee later, a private from the commo section found Tommy at the mess tent. “We’ve got the line for you, sir,” the private said, “and boy, are they wanting to talk to you in the worst way.”
Colonel Pruitt himself was on the line at the 301st. The first thing Pruitt said was, “When we stopped getting messages from you, we figured you were dead, Tommy. You’re on the books as MIA at the moment.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d fix those books right away, sir…before my family starts getting telegrams.”
“Consider them fixed, Tommy. Now give me a down and dirty report I can feed to Ninth Air Force until you get to write it all up formally.”
It took Tommy a good fifteen minutes to relate what had happened in those last days with the Russians. When he was done, Pruitt said, “So you’re a dead man in Moscow? They don’t sound much like allies to me.”
“They’re not, sir. Believe me, they’re not. This bit about your enemy’s enemy is your friend doesn’t always work once that enemy’s beaten.”
“Too bad we can’t pin a medal on that little Russian girl who helped you out, though. But that would probably just get her killed, too, right?”
“Yeah, let’s not do that, sir. For her sake.”
“And those bastards took our plane…and your gun film, too! But you know the regs, dammit…we can’t confirm a victory without it.”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Not to change the subject, Tommy, but someone’s been looking for you. A certain French lady.”
“Sylvie’s there? When did she show up?”
“Just this morning.”
“How long is she going to be there?”
“I don’t know, Tommy. She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, though. But here’s the deal…there won’t be a plane to pick all you guys up until the day after tomorrow. Things have gotten really crazy all of a sudden. I used to think war was hard. But peace breaking out is even harder.”
“Let’s hope it really is peace, sir.”
But Tommy had the nasty feeling it wouldn’t be.
It didn’t take long for Tommy to figure out that 37th Tank—and, with any luck, his brother—were only about ten miles away in Perg.
Perg…that’s where that farmer said not to go because the Americans and Russians were killing each other.
Hitching a ride on a supply truck, he was at Perg near sundown. The CP of 37th Tank was in a vacated church on the edge of town. The first person Tommy saw as he stepped inside the chaotically busy hall was his brother Sean. He was seated at the front desk—the one where a senior NCO always sat in a headquarters such as this one, controlling the flow of human traffic and information, maintaining order and sanity in an atmosphere where such things rarely flourished. He had a phone to each ear, relaying information from one caller to another. Engrossed in his work, he was too preoccupied to notice his little brother leaning against the pews that had been cleared out of the way, as if God himself had been swept aside for the duration.
But Tommy noticed something right away: Sean was now a master sergeant. His brand spanking new three up and three down insignia of rank looked like they’d been hastily sewn to his sleeves about five minutes before. And Sean was actually clean, not soiled and greasy like a tanker usually looked. Tommy surmised this might be the first time his brother actually looked this groomed since the last time they were together. That was last Christmas in Paris, before the Germans prematurely canceled their leaves by breaking through in the Ardennes.
Watching his brother in action, a surprising—and chilling—thought occurred to Tommy: With the war officially over, Sean’s got more than enough points and combat stars to walk out of here right now. But he just got promoted…and the Army’s not in the habit of promoting people who are about to run out the door.
“Affirmative, sir,” Sean said into one of the phones. “Able Company is commencing its live-fire exercise at The Pit now.” He listened for a moment and then replied, “Correct, sir. The Russian column has…has…wait one, sir…just give me a second…Okay. Yes, sir, I’m fine. And yes, the Russians have stopped at Two-Mile Junction.”
In the middle of those sentences, he’d finally noticed Tommy standing there, smiling at him. He might be a top sergeant now, but the surprise and delight at seeing his little brother—still alive—was enough to choke him up. Even if just for a second.
Sean told one of the other NCOs in the room to man the desk for a minute. Then he stood and limped over to hug his little brother.
Before he could be caught in his much larger brother’s bear-like grasp, Tommy asked, “Another Purple Heart, you moron?”
“Nah, it don’t qualify. It was a friendly fire incident. No big deal, though.”
“You’ll have to tell me all about it. When’d you get the new stripe?”
“Yesterday. I’m battalion ops sergeant now. First day on the job.”
“What was all that stuff on the phone about? Problems with the Russians?”
“You better fucking believe it, Half.” He related the hair-trigger situation at Purgatory and all along the stop line. “The stuff you overheard…we keep continuous live-fire exercises going with tanks and artillery in this valley just south of town.” With a wink, he added, “Training, you know? We keep the valley hot and dangerous so the Reds gotta stay out. They’re dying to slip past us through there and claim some more Austrian terrain. Maybe get themselves all the way to the German border, maybe even farther. They’re treacherous bastards…but I don’t imagine you’ve seen much of them, right?”
Tommy started to laugh. “Quite the opposite, big brother. It’s a hell of a long story…”
>
“Save it, Half. I’m off duty in an hour. Then you can tell me all about it.”
Over a hot meal at the battalion mess—once a social hall for the church that housed the CP—they exchanged their stories. Tommy had gone first, and when he was finished, Sean said, “You guys weren’t the first GIs to kill yourself some Russians. And I don’t think you’re gonna be the last, neither. This Mexican standoff we got going on here ain’t gonna last much longer. Patton’s ready to kick their asses all the way back to their own country.” He smiled slyly as he added, “But you can imagine the shit-fit that kind of talk must be causing Bradley and Eisenhower. Truman, too.”
Tommy replied, “You’re not kidding, brother.”
Then Sean told his story: the Russian tanker shot dead; the battle line drawn at Perg. When he was done, he said, “So I guess we agree on one thing, Half…this Kraut surrender ain’t the end of nothing. It’s just a break between rounds. One way or the other, we’re gonna square off with those Russian bastards. And real soon.”
“And you’ve just got to be here for it. Am I right, big brother?”
Sean had the look of a man who just realized his pocket had been picked. “What? Are you reading my mind now, Half?”
“Don’t have to, Sean. That stripe…it means you’re staying in. All that talk about getting home alive to pick up where we left off was just so much bullshit?”
“What fucking pieces do I got to pick up, Tommy? So I can go back to being an assistant pressman at the Herald Tribune again…if I’m lucky enough to get the job back, that is?”
In those two sentences, Tommy realized how the last three years had changed his brother. The war—and the Army—had given him a purpose he perceived as far more important than anything else he’d ever be able to do in life. He was a proven combat leader, and nothing else he might attain could ever measure up.
And there was one more thing: Sean excelled at a job few could do, and that job as he saw it wasn’t finished yet.
There was a moment of silence between them, perhaps in respect for the death of dreams past or a wordless pledge to seize the new challenge before them.
Maybe both.
Then Sean asked, “So what is it for you, Half? The Pacific? Or did you get your ticket home already?”
“My outfit’s not going to the Pacific, Sean. It’s staying right here. Apparently, they figure you’ll still be needing the jugs.”
“But what about you, Half?”
Sean read the smile that came over his brother’s face perfectly. And it made him mad.
“You fucking idiot. Don’t stay, Half. If you don’t need to be here, you shouldn’t be.”
“I could say the same to you, Sean.”
“No, you can’t. It’s apples and oranges, Half. You got a shot at a real good life—to go back to Fordham, to be somebody. I already got where I’m going. Let some other hotshot flyboy tangle with…”
His voice trailed off as revelation spread across his face.
“Wait a minute. It’s that French jane, ain’t it?”
“Not entirely, Sean.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Tommy. You’re real serious about her, ain’t you?”
“You could say that. But I don’t want you having all the fun when it comes time to kick the Russians in the ass, either.”
“You’re out of your fucking mind, Tommy. You know that, don’t you?”
“Well, Sean…if I am, I’m in real good company.”
For just a second, Sean looked as if the axis of his world had been knocked off kilter. But regardless of that jarring displacement, that world was still turning.
And his little brother was right there, still a part of it, turning right with him. It filled him with a pride like he’d never known before.
“Okay, Tommy, but I gotta add you to the list, then.”
“What list is that?”
“The list of people for whom Sean Moon would jump into the fire just because they asked him to. And it’s a pretty short list, Tommy—General Patton, Colonel Abrams…and now you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
As the C-47 began its descent to Eschborn, Tommy walked up to the cockpit to have a good look at the place; he’d only landed there once before. Turning to final approach, the co-pilot asked him, “You aren’t the same Moon they named this runway after, are you?”
Tommy had no idea what the man was talking about.
“Well, if you don’t know, it’s called Moon’s Half-Acre,” the co-pilot said. “Somebody named Moon chewed up about a third of it with a crappy landing. They still don’t have it all fixed.”
Tommy turned to McNulty, who was red-faced. “Did you know anything about this, Sarge?”
“Yeah, sorta, Captain.”
“What do you mean sorta? You either knew or you didn’t. And if you did, why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Figured you had enough on your mind with them Russians and all.”
“Yeah, but a little heads-up would’ve been really appreciated, Sarge.”
Tommy waited until the landing was done and they were parked on the ramp before setting the co-pilot straight. “For the record, Lieutenant,” he said, “that was not a crappy landing. My ship’s landing gear got damaged by a hunk of loose runway mat and collapsed, so it sure as hell wasn’t my fault the runway got chewed up. Next time, get your story straight before you start spreading bullshit.”
He was still pissed off as he stepped from the airplane. After salutes and a welcome back from Colonel Pruitt, who’d met them at planeside, Tommy excused himself and stalked off to the operations shack.
Pruitt asked McNulty, “What’s with the bug up Captain Moon’s ass, Sergeant?”
“Well, sir, he just found out about that Moon’s Half-Acre shit from the crew on that crate, and he ain’t too thrilled about it. That’s all he needed after the couple of weeks he just had.”
“Maybe that sweet little French girl will calm him right down,” Pruitt said.
“With all due respect, sir…sweet little French girl, my ass. Don’t let the wrapper fool you. She’s a pretty tough cookie, the way I hear it.”
“Women do what they have to in war, Sergeant, just like men. That doesn’t make them bad people.”
Tommy’s personal gear was waiting for him. It formed a haphazard pile in a corner of the room he shared with three other pilots. His old wingman, Joe Wilkinson, had been thoughtful enough to pull his rumpled khakis from the duffle bag and have them laundered and pressed. They were hanging on the wall with a note from Joe that said, You can thank me later, boss.
Clipped to the massive stack of paperwork waiting for him was a note listing Sylvie’s location on the base: the nurses’ quarters. Delighted to actually get her on the phone, he told her he’d be there within the hour. Then he showered, shaved, donned that clean uniform, and raced out the door.
She was waiting for him on the hospital steps. They dissolved into a long, wordless embrace, punctuated at the beginning and end by a deep kiss that would stop time.
Tommy finally broke the silence: “You know a good place to eat around here, Syl?”
“The only place I’ve eaten has been here at the hospital,” she replied.
“The hell with that,” he said. “Let’s go see how good this new officers’ club is.”
The club was what one would expect from a fledgling venture: disorganized, with only the most basic menu. But at least it was well stocked with smuggled booze. Over a bottle of Scotch whiskey—half-empty and watered down, no doubt—they began a conversation that would last until dawn. They had two months’ worth of catching up to do.
Without delving into anything that had happened to him, he told her right away that he’d be staying on in Europe.
“But why, Tommy? I thought you wanted so much to go home.”
“You thought wrong, Syl. There’s going to be too much to do.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll get to that.”
Even though she had no idea what it was he’d be getting to, an enormous weight had been suddenly lifted from her shoulders. She grabbed his hands in hers and said, “Isn’t this strange? I came here because I thought this is where we’d have to say goodbye.”
She’d never been so happy to be wrong in her life. But she couldn’t wait another minute to hear the reason he was staying, and she told him so.
He poured them both another glass of whiskey. “This is going to be a very long story,” he said.
Then the whole sordid tale of his ordeal with the Russians came spilling out. Before it was over, they’d emptied the bottle.
“Sean’s staying, too, you know,” he said. “He feels the same way I do: those Russians—they’re different and they’re dangerous. They’re the closest thing to feral animals on two legs we’ve ever known. And we come from Brooklyn, where there are plenty of people who fit that bill. Those Reds will take over all of Europe if we give them half a chance. But we can’t let that happen.”
He paused, shaping his words for the last thing he needed to say.
“And one more thing, Syl…I’m pretty sure you don’t want to come back to the States with me. You couldn’t just up and leave France.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” she replied, with a laugh that made him think it was just the liquor talking. “But I think I’ve had too much to drink, Tommy. Can we walk and talk at the same time? I could use the exercise.”
“Sure. Let’s give it a try.”
Outside in the cool night air, Tommy told her, “I guess it’s time for you to tell your story now.”
She did. By the time she’d gotten to the part about the German physicists—and the SS man she’d had to kill—Tommy had gone white as a sheet.
“Geez, Syl…are you ever going to be able to stay out of trouble? I thought you were doing some boring little desk job…”
She made no apology, just pressed on with her story. “And at the end,” she concluded, “your Americans again dismissed the physicists’ work—and mine—as a waste of their precious time, just like they dismissed the rockets at Engelhardt Farm.”
Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3) Page 32
