“Until what, Sean?”
He hugged his little brother as if he was saying goodbye.
“Just a matter of time, Tommy. Just a matter of fucking time.”
Chapter Ten
Sunrise had barely begun to brighten the eastern sky. Tommy had little appetite for breakfast. He took the scrambled egg sandwich the cook insisted on giving him—“This delicacy is a ritual when we’re moving out, sir,” the cook insisted—but delicacy or not, Tommy couldn’t eat it. Coffee was all he could stomach. He was too nervous, and he knew why:
I know the drill in the air. But down here on the deck I’m a raw rookie—and rookies make dumb mistakes that get people killed.
Sean came striding up and asked, “You gonna eat that?”
When Tommy shook his head, his brother’s hand swooped the sandwich from the mess kit and he downed it in three quick bites. Pointing to the carbine his little brother had been issued, he asked, “You flyboys even know how to use those fucking things?”
“Hey, we’re dead shots with fifty cals, rockets, and bombs. I’m pretty sure we can handle little pop guns like this.”
“I hope so, Half, because you just might need it where we’re going.”
Sean gave an amused once-over to the ill-fitting tanker’s coveralls Tommy had been issued; the sleeves and trouser legs had to be rolled up to keep from covering his hands and feet. “I know you pilot-types get to go to English tailors and all that shit, but I see you’re learning that around here, we only got too sizes: too large and too small.”
Tommy couldn’t help but smile. The old Sean had returned. Whatever had transpired last night between them receded to some obscure corner of his memory.
Now maybe I can concentrate on not fucking up my first time out.
“You’re gonna ride with Baker Company,” Sean told him. “That’s my company…and it’ll be leading the battalion column. You know what you’ll be riding in?”
“They told me at last night’s briefing I’d be in a tank destroyer with the company commander. I thought he’d have his own Sherman, though.”
“Ordinarily, he does,” Sean replied, “but as low on Zippos as we are at the minute, and the fact that our brand new ASO might actually want to see something besides the inside of a hull, we borrowed one of those contraptions just for you.” With a sarcastic laugh, he added, “Ahh, don’t worry. You’ll love it. It’s like driving through a shit storm with the top down.”
Tommy wasn’t sure what his brother meant until he climbed onto the deck of the M10 tank destroyer. From the ground, it looked just like a tank, with tracks, machine guns, armored hull, and the tube of a big gun protruding from its turret. Once on the deck, though, Sean’s comment came into focus: This fucking turret has no top! You’re riding in a big bathtub…with absolutely no protection from airbursts except your damn helmet, for all the good it’s going to do.
Baker Company’s commander—that same captain who’d disparaged British capabilities at last night’s briefing—was already in that bathtub. He smiled when he saw the perplexed look on Tommy’s face. “What’s the matter, Lieutenant Moon?” he asked. “You don’t like convertibles?”
“No, sir…I just wasn’t expecting—”
“Don’t sweat it, Lieutenant. It’s a lot better than a jeep. At least you’ve got armor on the sides, and there’s a whole mess of Krauts between here and Argentan just dying to bounce some bullets off it. Now climb in and get yourself organized on the double. We’ve got to get moving.”
Tommy swung himself into the turret. It was a tight squeeze; besides the captain, there were two enlisted men to man the main gun and the bank of radios. The captain offered his hand and said, “By the way, my name’s Al Newcomb. I don’t believe we got properly introduced last night.”
He watched as Tommy scanned the vehicle’s radio equipment. “Got it all figured out?” Newcomb asked.
“Yeah, I think so. This one here…this is strictly for air to ground, right?”
“Yep, that one’s all yours.” Pointing to one of the enlisted men, he added, “DeLuca here is our radio wizard if you need any help.”
“What about artillery, sir? I figured one of their observers would be riding with us.”
“Negative, Moon. There’s an arty FO riding with battalion HQ. Plus, there’s usually a little spotter plane or two working with Division puttering around up there, weather permitting, of course…and assuming they didn’t get shot to shit on their last mission. Down here on point, though, we pretty much call our own artillery when we need it. And if we need any special coordination, we’ll go through that FO up at Battalion.”
“Special coordination,” Tommy said, “like if we don’t want to knock down our own planes?”
“Now you’re seeing the big picture,” Newcomb replied.
There was a roar of engines from the woodline as Shermans emerged. To Tommy Moon, each seemed a fearsome and impregnable rolling fortress, belching clouds of exhaust smoke as it headed for the road.
“EASTWARD HO, BOYS,” Newcomb called out. “LAST ONE TO BERLIN’S A ROTTEN EGG.”
The column of tanks had traveled five miles down the Mayenne-Alençon highway without a hint of opposition. As the narrow pavement emerged from a grove, there was a sickening SLAM and blinding flash as the lead Sherman was turned inside out by a round from a German 88-millimeter anti-tank gun. Four vehicles back, Tommy couldn’t see much of the carnage. It took him a few seconds to realize the thing he’d seen shooting into the sky like a bottle rocket was the lead tank’s commander being blown from his open hatch atop the turret. It took another second to reassure himself it wasn’t his brother’s flaming death he’d just witnessed. Sean’s tank was several vehicles behind Tommy in the M10.
“Fucking Krauts are in that next treeline,” Newcomb said, scanning ahead with binoculars. Then, with surprising casualness, he asked Tommy, “Where are the jugs?”
“About five minutes out.”
“This’ll probably be over before they even get here,” Newcomb said.
Tommy watched as the company commander issued a string of terse orders over the radio, each so clear even this flyboy newcomer to ground warfare understood exactly what they meant. Using the burning lead tank as cover, the second in the column began to pepper the far treeline—some 400 yards away—with machine gun and 75-millimeter fire from its main gun. The remaining two tanks of the lead platoon left the road, took up hull-down positions amidst the trees, and added their fire.
Two more shots from the German guns streaked toward the Americans. One hit the hull of the already flaming lead tank, showering sparks and metal fragments on the Sherman sheltering behind it but doing no damage.
The second shot cleaved the turret of one of the hull-down tanks in two.
“Fuck,” Newcomb mumbled. “Three shots, two of my tanks dead.”
The three tank platoons behind Tommy and the M10 had fanned out wide—one north, two south—leading half-tracks full of infantrymen to attempt a double-envelopment of the Germans. Tommy watched as those flanking elements drew and returned fire. He wasn’t sure which tank—or even which element—contained his brother.
The smoke of battle had grown thick over the German and American positions. It was getting difficult to see into the distance.
“It’s just a couple of eighty-eights,” Newcomb said. “Once we flank them, they’re finished. They can’t fire in three directions at once.”
The radio crackled with the voice of the P-47 flight leader. They were two minutes from the reference point Tommy had given them to begin an attack.
“Have them hold off,” Newcomb said. “We’re going to put some airbursts over those Krauts.”
In the 30 seconds that followed, two more Shermans and one half-track were turned into infernos. Airbursts from American artillery a mile back in the column filled the air above the Germans with gray puffs of smoke. Like low-level flak, those bursts rained shell fragments on the ground below.
“Fuc
k, they’re short,” Newcomb said. Keying the microphone, he told the artillery, “Add five-zero, up ten. Repeat.”
Another shot from the Germans sliced through the line of American vehicles on the northern pincer, hitting none. Its only victim was a shattered stand of trees.
The next volley of GI artillery arrived, splashing its airbursts right on target. There wasn’t another shot from the 88s.
Straining to see through the smoke, Newcomb said, “They’re either pulling back…or they bought it.” Grabbing the microphone again, he urged his two flanking elements to close in quickly. Then he told Tommy, “Call off the jugs, Lieutenant. We don’t need our asses riddled by the Air Force today.”
The flanking elements rolled into the German gun position. After a few brief bursts of machine gun fire, the radio blared their all clear. The M10—along with the two surviving Shermans of what had been the lead platoon—advanced to join the rest of the company. As they passed the smoldering hulks of the last two Shermans to get hit, Tommy was almost too afraid to look at the names and artwork their crews had painted on the turrets. But neither carried the name Eclipse of the Hun or the sketch of a cartoon-character Hitler dangling by the seat of his pants from the thin crescent of a nearly full lunar eclipse. That meant Sean’s tank, at least, had survived.
Once inside the beaten position, the tankers dismounted to flush out any remaining Germans. Tommy found his brother briefing Captain Newcomb. Sean’s Thompson submachine gun was at his hip like some Chicago gangster as he said, “Only two eighty-eights, sir. They were either manned real light or a bunch of them cut and run on foot. Left all their vehicles behind.” He pointed toward a stack of enemy bodies; there were only eight. “You’d expect there to be twice that many manning two guns.”
Newcomb shook his head. “Ain’t that some shit? Eight fucking Krauts…and we’ve got about thirty killed or wounded, counting those infantry guys…and the company’s down another four tanks—four out of the fifteen we set out with today.”
He paused, scanning the battered German guns and vehicles. Then he asked, “Get any prisoners, Sergeant?”
Sean shrugged. “Negative, sir. Didn’t work out that way.”
Tommy thought his brother’s answer was a bit too vague. He’d always heard that German troops usually fought until it was hopeless and then surrendered as if it was all just part of the game. They’d come out with their hands up shouting Kamerad…as if to say, We’re done fighting. We can all be friends now.
If Captain Newcomb thought his sergeant’s answer was a bit too vague, he didn’t press the issue. He didn’t seem concerned if his men had killed surrendering Germans or not.
Just then, a four-plane flight of P-47s passed overhead and then circled for a better look.
Tommy said, “That’s our air cover. You want me to have them scout up the road for us?”
“Great idea,” Newcomb replied.
Sean’s sullen gaze swept across the open ground to the four destroyed tanks and the infantry half-track. His lips moved silently, as if counting the dead and wounded.
Then it occurred to Tommy his brother wasn’t counting at all—he was saying, over and over again, Just a matter of time.
They’d been back on the highway 10 minutes when the P-47s radioed their scouting report. “There’s an armored unit on the road about five miles ahead,” Tommy related. “They’re either stopped or moving real slow.”
“That can’t be good,” Newcomb replied. “Nobody’s supposed to be in front of us but Germans. Are your flyboys going to engage them?”
“Negative, sir. They say they’re Shermans.”
Newcomb scowled. “Shermans? How the fuck could that be?”
DeLuca, the radioman, had a theory: “Maybe they’re captured Shermans, sir…and the Krauts are using them to set us a trap?”
Captain Newcomb found that funny. “Why the fuck would Germans want our Zippos? Their Panthers and Tigers are five times the tank a Sherman is.”
Tommy asked, “What makes you say that, sir?”
“Because every damn time we engage one, it blows up about five Shermans before someone can finally get around the bastard and put one up his ass. That’s about the only way we can kill them.”
“Let me ask you this,” Tommy said. “Ninth Air Force has been telling its squadrons to hang white phosphorous bombs when we know we’ll be going after German armor. The burning stuff sticks to the tank and supposedly screws up their sighting systems. Plus the fumes get sucked inside and force the crew to abandon the tank. You find that to be true, sir?”
“Yeah, it is,” Newcomb replied, “as long as you flyboys actually drop it on the fucking tanks in the first place. But that doesn’t seem to happen very much. Stick with putting rockets and APIs up their asses. That seems to be a lot more reliable.” He told DeLuca to radio Battalion. “Maybe they know who the hell that is up the road.”
Captain Newcomb had his answer in less than a minute: Battalion didn’t know anything. But their orders didn’t change: Continue the advance. Engage as necessary.
Chapter Eleven
Captain Newcomb figured his column had covered another three miles down the highway toward Alençon. In the sky ahead, he caught glimpses of the P-47s flying high, wide circles. Tommy confirmed everyone’s suspicions as he relayed the flight leader’s transmission: “Whoever they are, they’re stopped right on the road, but they’re not in any kind of fight. No sign of Krauts anywhere. The pilots estimate fifty tanks and a slew of support vehicles.”
“That’s a fucking battalion’s worth,” Newcomb said.
Soon, his lead tanks crested a rise in the road. It gave the M10—now third in the column—a splendid view of the traffic jam less than a mile ahead. With binoculars, they could now identify the tanks for themselves. They were indeed Shermans, and they bore the Cross of Lorraine on their turrets.
“They’re Free French,” Newcomb said, as if he didn’t believe his own words. “What the hell is the French Second Armored doing all the way over here?” He took another disbelieving look at his map. “They’re not even supposed to be on this road…and they’ve got it clogged up like a stuck drain. They don’t even have any security out, like they’re on some damn admin march.”
As they rumbled closer, they were in for another surprise. DeLuca expressed it first: “Holy shit…they’re all darkies.”
“Get used to that,” Captain Newcomb replied. “Most of the Free French troops are African colonials.”
DeLuca asked, “How come, sir?”
“Because most of the white guys in France couldn’t exactly get to North Africa to enlist,” Newcomb replied. “But there’s got to be white guys in charge, though.” He jumped down from the M10 in search of a white French officer, beckoning Tommy to follow him: “You said you spoke some French, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Better come along, then. I might need a translator.”
They found a French colonel at the head of the column, relaxing in a jeep as he dined on American C rations. He seemed unconcerned his stalled column was blocking the progress of 37th Tank Battalion—and the rest of the US 4th Armored Division behind it.
When Captain Newcomb pulled out his map and asserted the French were not where they were supposed to be, the Frenchman halted Tommy’s translation with a casual wave of his hand and said, “I speak English.” Then he pulled out his own map with a completely different set of unit boundaries drawn in. “I have been instructed by my general to wait here for further orders.”
Newcomb was fast losing his temper. “But you’re in our fucking way, Colonel,” he said. “You need to clear the road immediately.”
“Just go around, Captain,” the colonel replied. He made a sweeping motion with his arm that implied the rest of the countryside was at the Americans’ disposal.
“Negative, sir,” Newcomb said. “The terrain around here is like another one of your damn bocages—tough for tracks, impossible for wheeled vehicles.” He look
ed at the line of French vehicles claiming the road—actually American vehicles in French markings—and added, “But I guess you’ve figured that one out already.”
The colonel was more interested in the canned fruit from his C ration box.
“Look, sir,” Newcomb said, “if you won’t clear the road, I’ll get my colonel up here. And if that’s not good enough for you, we’ll get the fucking division commander.”
“You can get Eisenhower himself,” the Frenchman replied, “and it will make no difference. This is France, and I follow only the orders of General Leclerc. And he follows only the orders of General de Gaulle.”
“And whose orders does General de Gaulle follow?”
“Only God’s, Captain.”
In the best French he could muster, Tommy asked, “But Colonel, are we not allies?”
The colonel replied in English. “Do not patronize me, Lieutenant. We both fight the Boche, so yes, we are your allies, as you say. But we are not your servants.”
It took six hours—with many frantic radio calls by American officers of ascending rank to Corps and Army headquarters—to get the French off the road and the 4th Armored moving again. The Americans covered only 10 more miles before darkness forced them to bivouac in the concealment of a thick forest for the night. They were still five miles from the waypoint of Alençon and 25 miles from their objective, Argentan. “At this rate,” Sean Moon fumed, “the Krauts will be back in Paris sipping beers before we get anywhere near this fucking Falaise pocket, let alone close the bastard.”
“Speaking of closing the bastard,” Captain Newcomb said, “I saw the intel report from Division. Looks like the Brits are making worse time than we are.”
“So what else is new, sir?” Sean replied with disgust. “Maybe they’re fighting the Germans and the French, too, just like we are?”
“Hell of a way to talk about our allies, Sergeant. But it’s worse than that: those frogs we passed…they’re supposed to be covering our left flank.”
Moon Above, Moon Below Page 4
