Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  Tuttle added, “I ain’t too crazy about trying to get home without any bullets, you know.”

  And I’m not too crazy about leaving my brother in the lurch.

  “Just relax, Jimmy,” Tommy said. “When’s the last time you saw the Luftwaffe, anyway? Those guys down there need our help, bad.”

  Webster came back on the air. “That looked great, Gadget Blue. Looks like the Krauts in the woods are kaput. Nice job. Now give us a little armed recon of what’s between here and Gacé, over.”

  They climbed to 1000 feet and headed north. There were still tanks on the road—maybe 10 or 12 now—but they were driving with great haste away from the fight, back toward Gacé. Charlie Webster sounded thrilled to hear it.

  The jugs began a descending orbit of the road, lining up for one last strafing run. Wings steeply banked gave the pilots a startling panorama of the ground below out their side canopies: like a classroom’s sand table exercise come to life, CCF was surging forward on a broad front across the battlefield. This battle’s critical mass had finally been reached, decidedly in the Americans’ favor.

  “Let’s give those Krauts a goodbye present,” Tommy called to Tuttle.

  “You mean you want to dump all our rounds?”

  “Affirmative. And make them all count.”

  It took only a few seconds of firing before the P-47’s guns were empty. As they turned and streaked back toward CCF, Tommy was pretty sure he’d gotten a glimpse of two German tanks being abandoned by their crews.

  A few moments later, as he sped over the American vanguard, he got a fleeting image of a Sherman commander standing in the turret hatch, waving to him. Waggling his wings in reply, he wanted desperately to believe he’d just exchanged greetings with his brother.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  By midafternoon, Combat Command Fox had bypassed the German strongpoint at Gacé and taken up defensive positions on forested high ground two miles east of the town. From there, they could command three highways the Germans might use to flee the Falaise-Argentan pocket. But whether or not they could exercise that dominance was in doubt. They were low on fuel and nearly out of ammunition. The supply convoy that was supposed to remedy that situation hadn’t shown up.

  “Division doesn’t know what happened to the convoy, sir,” the staff logistics officer—the S4—told Colonel Abrams. “There’s been no word. But they should have been here two hours ago.”

  “I know,” Abrams replied. “I’ve been watching the damn clock, too. So what are we doing about it, Major?”

  “If the first one doesn’t turn up soon,” the S4 said, “Division can cobble together another convoy, sir. But it won’t be here before tomorrow, when the rest of Fourth Armored moves up to join us.”

  Abrams walked off to ponder in silence. Dammit, did I just fuck up? I didn’t dare try and take Gacé as low on ammo as we were after that big brawl south of town. So I did the next best thing…just drove around the place and set ourselves up as a roadblock. That’s what we’re trying to do, right? Block the whole German army from escaping Normandy…but one more big fight without resupply and we’re finished.

  Back in Alençon, the French Underground already knew what had happened to the supply convoy. Sylvie Bergerac rushed to 4th Armored HQ in the town hall with the bad news.

  “They were on the wrong road,” she told General Wood. “Then they were captured.”

  Wood looked at the map in disbelief. “How the hell could they make a wrong turn?” he fumed. “There aren’t that many turns to make, for cryin’ out loud.”

  But one thing was certain: Combat Command Fox was in deep trouble if it wasn’t resupplied with ammo and fuel ASAP.

  “There’s nothing we can do about their fuel situation tonight,” Wood’s division logistics officer—the G4—said. “There are just no more tanker trucks to get it there, even if we had the reserve fuel on hand, which we don’t. And you don’t refuel an armored unit out of jerry cans, five gallons at a time. Not unless you’ve got a week to do it.”

  “But we’ve got the ammo, dammit,” the general replied. “We just need to scrape together some trucks to carry it.”

  The G4 seemed shocked at the suggestion. “Sir, if we empty our dump and send it up the road, then we’ve got no reserve.”

  “We’re not in contact with the Germans, Colonel,” Wood replied. “They need it worse than we do at the moment.”

  “But there’s no way to get it there, sir.”

  No sooner had the G4 said those words than five empty deuce-and-a-halves rumbled to a halt outside the town hall. Their drivers climbed down from their cabs and began to smoke and joke with some GIs on the street.

  “Don’t tell me we can’t find the trucks, Colonel,” Wood said, pointing out the window to the idle vehicles. “An armored division is loaded with wheeled transport. If we can’t figure out how to help Abrams and his boys—and I mean right fucking now—we should all be busted down to private.”

  Visibly shaken, the colonel replied, “Very well, General. Just one question—how do we make sure this convoy doesn’t get lost, too? By the time they’re loaded up and on their way, it’ll be dark. And those drivers have never been where they’re going.”

  Sylvie Bergerac provided the answer: “I would be happy to lead them, mon général.”

  There was time for one more sortie by Blue Flight before sunset. It would mark the first time all four planes in the flight would be in the air together under their new leader, Tommy Moon.

  “Glad you’re back, Half,” Blue Three’s pilot, Lieutenant Joe Rider, told Tommy. “I was getting sick and tired of getting farmed out to fill slots in other squadrons. How’s your new ship?”

  “A little squirrelly when she’s bombed up, but otherwise, she flies just like a jug.”

  A mechanic readying Tommy’s plane overheard his comment. “Begging your pardon, sir,” the mechanic said, “but are you saying she’s slow to roll with an external load?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly it, Corporal.”

  Walking over to a bomb on its wing pylon, the corporal, Marv Goldberg—the man Sergeant McNulty had referred to as Vincent Van Goldbrick—said, “I’ve seen this before, when I was with the Fifty-Sixth in England, sir. This is an RA bird, not an RE, meaning the Republic factory in Indiana built it, not the one in New York.” He pointed to the data stencil on the side of the fuselage to prove his point. “Somebody in that factory doesn’t know how to shim the wing mounts for these pylons right. Hang a bomb on it and it messes up the airflow under the wing just a little. It’s an easy fix, but we need a lot of ground time, just like I’ll need that ground time to get your artwork painted on. That’s a great cartoon, by the way.”

  McNulty, the crew chief, was listening to Goldberg’s explanation, too. “That’s real good poop, Van Goldbrick. Why’d you never say anything about it before?”

  “Nobody ever asked, Sarge. And it’s Corporal Goldberg, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yeah, yeah…sure,” McNulty replied. “Now let’s get the lieutenant and his team up in the air where they can do some good. You going back to Gacé, sir?”

  “Yep. Some Fourth Armored guys still need looking after.”

  “Is that where your brother is?” McNulty asked.

  At first, Tommy couldn’t put together an answer. He didn’t know if his brother was there or even of this Earth anymore. Anything he said would be an expression of hope, not knowledge. But there was no point getting into it now—and no time. He simply replied, “Yeah.”

  As McNulty helped him get strapped into the cockpit, Tommy said, “That Goldberg sounds like he’s just as good a mechanic as he is an artist. Maybe you oughta cut him a little slack with the nicknames.”

  “Ahh, he knows I don’t mean nothing by it. But I tell you, he don’t swing a wrench near as good as he does a paint brush. But maybe I did misunderestimate the lad just a bit.”

  “They’re going to come soon,” Captain Newcomb said, his binoculars trained on t
he outskirts of Gacé. “It’s no secret where we are, not with all the noise we made getting here.” Since taking up positions in the forest, they’d made it a point to continue making as much noise as possible, or as least as much as they could within the limits of their dwindling fuel supply. Charlie Company had been detailed to drive a platoon of Shermans around their wooden redoubt, hoping to give the impression from the constant sound of engines there was a far larger force nestled in these woods. Once they’d taken careful stock of their fuel situation, a platoon of noise-making Shermans had, by necessity, been whittled down to only two.

  Newcomb handed the binoculars to Sean Moon, who, after scanning the town, said, “I see five Panzer Fours, plain as day…and one more who thinks he’s hidden behind that building, but his gun’s sticking out. By the looks of the muzzle brake, it’s a Panther.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t see everything we need to from here,” Newcomb replied. “We’ll get the Air Force to have another look when they get back.”

  Sean took in the panorama of the empty sky, still bright despite the late afternoon shadows slicing through the forest. “Where the hell are the flyboys, anyway, sir? I ain’t seen or heard a plane in a good hour.”

  “Lieutenant Webster says they’re beating up a column headed this way about eight miles west. Those Krauts were headed straight for us, too.”

  “Ain’t that swell,” Sean replied. “With a little luck, maybe most of that column will never get here.”

  Tommy Moon couldn’t believe his eyes: Horses! We’re shooting goddamn horses again.

  The German column Blue Flight was decimating at the moment—even though it was led by a few tanks and had anti-aircraft guns on a half-track at its midpoint—was composed mainly of horse-drawn artillery pieces and supply wagons.

  Two of the planes in Blue Flight—Blue Two and Blue Four—were armed with rockets. It was wise to fire them first, before they used their machine guns. Otherwise, there was a chance the ejected cartridges from the .50 calibers would damage the exposed wiring to the launcher tubes hung beneath the wings. Tommy sent Blue Two to use her rockets against the anti-aircraft half-track and Blue Four to do the same against the tanks. He and Blue Three followed close behind, dumping 500-pound bombs along the length of the column. After two passes, the rockets and bombs were expended, wreaking havoc on everything but the tanks which, despite the pilots’ excited claims of direct hits, were scattering, apparently unhurt. Blue Flight formed into pairs and made two strafing passes.

  As the remnants of the German column passed beneath him, Tommy tried to count the horse-drawn conveyances devastated by his jugs. He couldn’t; there were too many. Fifty, at least…and it looks like each one was pulled by at least four horses.

  Horses. Two hundred dead or wounded horses. Transporting what was once considered the most mechanized and deadly army on the planet. The wounded ones thrashed in their harnesses, their agony unmistakable even to a man in a speeding airplane.

  “One more pass, guys,” Tommy announced.

  Jimmy Tuttle, flying Blue Two, asked, “What the hell, Half. Didn’t we kill those bastards enough?”

  “Not the horses, we didn’t. I said do it again, dammit. Put the poor bastards out of their misery.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The lead deuce-and-a-half of the ammunition convoy, inching along the road illuminated only by the faint glow of its solitary blackout headlight, shuddered to a stop. Sylvie Bergerac was riding in the cab with the driver and the convoy’s lieutenant-in-charge. She jumped out and walked to a signpost, inspecting the arrows pointing to several towns, one of them Gacé.

  Just as I thought, she told herself. This is one of the crossroad signs we tampered with to misdirect the Germans. She ran her fingers over the gouged wood and bent nailheads, telltale signs those nails had been pulled and hammered back into the post. Then, after the ambush, we never undid this little mischief…and now an American convoy has paid the price, too.

  The lieutenant was standing beside her now. “So we have to turn right to get to Gacé, Madame Bergerac?”

  “No, the sign was changed to deceive the Germans. We must go left.”

  “Changed? By who?”

  “We of the maquis, I’m afraid.”

  The lieutenant studied his map in the dim glow of his blackout flashlight. “Hmm…yeah. We’re here, right?” He pointed to an intersection about halfway between Alençon and Gacé.

  “That’s correct. You see that taking the left road is the correct way to go.”

  “Yeah. Absolutely.” He checked his watch. “So that’ll put us to CC Fox by about 2000 hours.”

  “Yes, in one-half hour,” she replied and then began tugging at the errant sign to yank it loose.

  The lieutenant pulled her away. “No time for that now, Madame Bergerac. We’ll get it on the way back. I’ve got it marked on the map now. We won’t get fooled again.”

  Their time estimate was right on the money. Just before 2000, as the eight-truck ammunition convoy crept down a narrow trail that bypassed Gacé and led into the forest, an American captain emerged from the darkness. After a brief discussion with the convoy’s lieutenant, the captain put his fingers to his lips and blew a sharp whistle. A team of GIs materialized, each jumping on the driver’s side running board of a truck to guide it to the various places its cargo was needed. Before the lead truck pulled away, the lieutenant asked Sylvie, “Where do you want your bicycle, Madame Bergerac?”

  “Right here would be fine, Lieutenant. Could someone please lead me to Colonel Abrams?”

  It was the captain who replied, “My pleasure, ma’am. Right this way.”

  Colonel Abrams was surprised to see Sylvie. “I figured it would be a Frenchman acting as guide, but a French woman? I’m in your debt, ma’am. Merci. But what are you planning to do with that bicycle?”

  “I’m going to ride it home to Alençon, mon colonel.”

  “But that’s over twenty miles! And it’s nighttime! Ride back with the empty trucks.”

  Sylvie found his concern funny. “My bicycle has a generator and lights, as you can see, mon colonel. And twenty miles is not very far at all. I am used to riding much farther. But I’ll be traveling a much shorter distance. Tonight, I’ll be going directly to Gacé. My grandmother lives there. I want to visit her.”

  Abrams looked more concerned than ever now. She could sense the words forming in his head: But the Germans…

  “Mon colonel, we have lived with the Boche for four long years. Do not worry about me. My papers are in order.”

  “But you’re maquis.”

  “The Boche do not know that.”

  “But are you carrying that British pistol of yours?”

  “Of course not. That would make me a combatant, no?”

  “Well, if I can’t convince you otherwise, let me just say again, Merci, Madame Bergerac. Bon Voyage.”

  “Just one more thing, mon colonel. Could I appeal to you to spare Gacé as you spared Alençon?”

  “Alençon was easy—the Germans pulled out. It’ll be up to them what happens here in Gacé.”

  “And it will be up to your Air Force, too, I suppose.”

  “You suppose correctly, ma’am.”

  “Well, then, au revoir, mon colonel. Bonne chance to all of us.”

  He detailed a sergeant to escort her through CCF’s position and out to the road. On the way, they passed through Baker Company. A GI called down from the turret of a Sherman, “Hey, lady, ain’t you the jane from that house of horizontal refreshment who helped us out at Alençon?”

  She recognized him instantly. “Ahh…the ill-mannered Moon brother. So nice to see you again, Sergeant. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  “Speaking of my brother, I hear you and him were getting pretty chummy. You ain’t seen him, have you?”

  “Not since last night. And I doubt I’ll ever see him again.” She kept on walking, pushing the bicycle at her side.

  “Don’t get that pretty li
ttle ass of yours all shot up now, toots.”

  “I’d be more worried about yours, if I were you, Sergeant.”

  Within 20 minutes, Sylvie was bicycling through the darkened streets of Gacé. It hadn’t been difficult getting past the Boche checkpoint at the edge of town. The guards were jumpy; they knew the Americans—the Amis—were close by and coming soon. They are so young, she thought. It was probably only recently they traded their Hitlerjugend short pants for the feldgrau of the Wehrmacht. Les Boches must be getting very desperate for manpower. Their trembling hands fumbled her papers as they struggled to read them. An older unterfeldwebel finally bellowed at them to stop pulling at their penises and let her pass.

  She smiled as she pedaled away: I’ve certainly learned quite a lot of German in these last four years. I understood every word they said.

  Her grandmother’s old but tidy house was at the end of Rue de Manet. Resting her bicycle against the front steps, she knocked—a gentle knock, so no one would mistake it for the imperious pounding of the Boche to which they had become accustomed.

  “Mon petit chou!” her delighted grandmother said as she opened the door. “What are you doing here? Come in, come in.”

  As they shared some wine, Sylvie explained the reason for her visit. “The fighting will start very soon, Grand-mère. I need to take you with me to Alençon.”

  The old woman kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “Dear sweet Sylvie…I will not leave. Damn the Boche and damn the Amis, too. They cannot drive me from the home your grand-père built…where your mother was born and grew to womanhood, may God rest their souls.”

  “But Grand-mère, it will be very bad when it happens. I need to keep you safe.”

  Her grandmother smiled but was unmoved. “This is not my first war, Sylvie…and French houses are built with stout basements so the barbarians can kill each other all they like above us. I will be fine.”