Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  Once they shut off the jeeps’ engines, they could hear the rumble of the tanks moving slowly up the highway, still hundreds of yards to the south. “Looks like we got here just in time,” Sean said. “Now listen up…me and my guys will take the other side of the road and spread out good. When the lead tank gets even with this trail here, my guys’ll knock out the first and last tank. As soon as we do that, Sergeant Algood’s team will take out the three in the middle from this side of the road. Got that?”

  The five men nodded.

  “Remember what I said about where to hit them bastards,” Sean continued. “No matter what type they are—and you may not be able to tell that for sure in the dark—hit ’em high on the hull just aft of the turret. If you happen to end up behind one, put it right up her ass. Do not waste rounds shooting at the front. If they’ve got shit hanging off the sides and turret for extra armor, hit it twice. The first one will knock all that shit off. Then you’ll have a clean target for the second shot. We’ve got a dozen of these panzerfausts—that’s two per tank with two in reserve if we need ’em. We’ll be too fucking close to miss, so don’t waste them. And for God’s sake, don’t shoot them in the sprockets or road wheels. That’ll stop them from moving but all their guns’ll still work. Go for the quick, clean kill. Those crews’ll be driving with the hatches open, for sure, so blow them right out of them fucking hatches like Fourth of July fireworks. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  “Oh, yeah…one more thing. Don’t fuck up, okay?”

  Once satisfied Algood’s team was positioned properly on the near side of the road, Sean led his men across the pavement. Still unseen in the darkness, the blacked-out German tanks lumbered closer, the clanking and squeaking of their tracks now as plain as the thrumming of their engines. Slow going with no headlights, Sean told himself. Take your time, Adolph…we got all fucking night.

  But it didn’t take quite that long. In a few minutes, the Germans rolled into the gauntlet. The GIs held their fire—just like they’d been told. As soon as the leader—a Panther tank—was even with the trail, Sean let his rocket fly.

  The tank commander, standing steadfast and imperious in his turret hatch, began screaming to his crew when he saw the glow of the rocket streaking toward him. But there was no time for the Germans to convert commands into action; the trap was sprung. The sound of the rocket’s explosion on impact with the aft hull was surprisingly weak, but its effect was surprisingly deadly.

  The rest of the GIs let loose with their panzerfausts. In an instant, the first four tanks brewed up and spit their flaming crews through the hatches just like the fireworks display Sean had envisioned.

  But the last tank in the column—another Panther, obvious from its close silhouette—caught a break. It was lagging behind the one before it, and that gave PFC Farley a longer shot with a poor angle, more head-on than lateral. Still trying to target the vulnerable spot on the aft quarter of the hull Sean had dictated, his first rocket missed, skimming over the tank and flying harmlessly into the night.

  The glowing trail of the rocket motor painted a line in the air that pointed back to Farley like an accusing finger. The tank turned toward him; the crew ducked into their hatches and buttoned up. His second rocket struck the front armor, exploded, but hurt nothing other than the tankers’ eardrums. Their machine gun fire raked the tall grass, hitting Farley in the legs without their even knowing it.

  They’d seen the rocket trails that killed the four tanks in front of them, too, so they knew they faced a team of killers lurking invisibly in the darkness. And they had no infantry support of their own to keep those killers off their back. The tank lurched to a halt and then reversed, backing away from the killing zone. She kept spitting machine gun fire blindly to cover her escape.

  “RAKOFSKY,” Sean called to his remaining team member, “GIMME THAT FUCKING ROCKET AND GET FARLEY BACK TO THE JEEP! I’M GONNA GET BEHIND THAT BASTARD.”

  Sean sprinted through the waist-high grass, his Thompson in hand, two panzerfausts slung over his shoulder. He heard the staccato bursts of Thompsons from Algood’s team behind him and thought: Maybe every crewman in those brew-ups didn’t get roasted after all.

  As he ran, he’d watch the turret traverse and then dodge left or right to avoid its next burst of blind machine gun fire. Forget the bow gun, he told himself. It can’t get me. Just keep watching that fucking turret.

  Running through a field in the dark is always a risky game. Sean stumbled and fell several times, each one sending his weapons clattering along the ground. With each tumble the tank’s lead on him increased.

  Gotta stop him…but it’s a bow shot. All I can do from this angle is knock off a track.

  Dropping to one knee, he fired a panzerfaust. It hit and shattered the right track’s drive sprocket. The tank began to pivot as the severed track fell off its road wheels. The pivoting stopped with its right side facing Sean.

  He fired his second—and last—rocket. He was too close to miss that vulnerable aft quarter.

  But even with its hull breached, the tank refused to brew up. Someone was trying to crawl out of the commander’s hatch. Sean sprayed the turret with Thompson fire. The crewman dropped back inside.

  Did I hit that son of a bitch…or does he want to play hide and seek?

  The turret began to swing Sean’s way, but he had no trouble scrambling out of its field of fire.

  I’ve got to smoke these bastards out.

  He climbed onto the rear deck, pulled a thermite grenade from his belt, and stuffed it against a vent grille.

  That oughta do it. Now we’d better get our asses clear.

  Sean caught up with Rakofsky, who hadn’t made it far with the wounded and wailing Farley draped across his shoulders. They watched as the thermite grenade began to do its job, its intensely hot fireball melting its way through the tank’s ventilation system. “Anybody still alive in there will be trying to get out in a second or two,” Sean said, readying his Thompson.

  The thermite grenade’s fire was bathing the dying tank in light as bright as a welder’s torch. “No matter which way they try to get out, we’ll see ’em, for sure,” Sean said.

  They waited 10 seconds, 15, 20—and then a man slithered from the driver’s hatch on the bow, slid down the glacis plate on his belly, and hit the ground face first. He was trying to get to his feet but not succeeding. At least not at first.

  Sean leveled his Thompson at the tanker. But then he jerked its barrel skyward.

  “What the hell are you doing, Sarge?” Rakofsky asked. “He’s dead meat.”

  Sean didn’t reply. There was something about this tanker. He couldn’t say what it was, precisely. Maybe it was the fact the young man was short—very short. Like his brother. Maybe it was because he’d been fighting to escape a fiery hell—just like a tanker would or a pilot trapped in his burning cockpit would, too. Maybe it was the earnestness in his face when, once on his knees, he raised his hands over his head and pleaded Kamerad!

  Or maybe Sean Moon had had enough killing for one night.

  Flames were now licking from all the Panther’s hatches. There couldn’t be anyone left alive inside. Slowly, Sean approached the surrendering tanker.

  “Careful, Sarge,” Rakofsky said, “it could be some Kraut trick.”

  “It ain’t no trick, Rak. This poor fucker’s finished.”

  He pulled the tanker to his feet and led him away.

  “I’ll bet this night didn’t go like you planned,” Sean said to his prisoner as he prodded him toward the jeeps, not knowing or caring whether he understood. “You watched your buddies get cooked by your own weapons, and you—the sole survivor of this little fight—end up a guest of Uncle Sam for the duration. Congratulations, pal, you just beat the odds. But for the rest of us bastards, it’s just a matter of time.”

  “Hey, Sarge,” Rakofsky called, “speaking of a matter of time, you hear those engines?”

  “Yeah, Rak, I hear them. That’
s why we’re getting the hell away from this road, on the fucking double. We need to get Farley here to the doc but quick, too.”

  They were halfway back to CC Fox when Sean brought the jeep to a halt. Algood, driving the jeep behind, couldn’t understand why.

  “What the fuck’s the deal, Sean?” Algood asked. “Ain’t we done enough for one night?”

  “I want to see who’s making all that noise. You take Farley and your guys back to Fox. And make sure you loosen his tourniquet in five minutes. Don’t lose the Kraut, either.”

  “Yeah, sure…but Sean, you’re going to be out of gas before you know it. This ain’t no time to play recon. Let’s all just go the fuck home.”

  “No can do. Home could turn into a pretty shitty place if we let some Krauts waltz right in on us. Now load up Farley and the Kraut in your jeep and get the hell out of here. That’s an order.”

  “That jeep’s gonna be pretty damn full, Sean. Too damn full.”

  “We’ve done worse. Get a move on.”

  “Suppose the Kraut makes a run for it?”

  “He ain’t going nowhere, Algood. Look at him…he’s happier than a pig in shit. He knows his war’s over.”

  “I don’t know, Sean…he may have a little accident or something on the way back.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare, Algood. He’s my catch, and we’re gonna turn him over to the S2 upright and breathing, so keep your hands off. Now why are you still here?”

  It didn’t take much driving to find out what all the racket was. Sean parked the jeep behind a small hill, and then he and Rakofsky climbed to its top. Half a mile to the north they could see the shadowy outlines of at least two dozen German tracked vehicles, with long guns mounted on their hulls. They weren’t tanks; they were tank destroyers. Despite having to overcome the disorder of the darkness, the destroyers were being noisily positioned as a defensive stronghold.

  “Fuck,” Sean mumbled, “I think they’re Ferdinands.”

  “What the hell is that, Sarge?”

  “A Tiger chassis with an eighty-eight mounted on it. Never seen one before, just heard stories. They can turn a Zippo inside out from way off.”

  “But they’ve got no turret,” Rakofsky said.

  “Right,” Sean replied, “that’s their weakness, just like our M10s. The crew’s got armored shields on the front and a little on the sides, but they’re wide open on top to airbursts. Come on…we gotta get to the radio.”

  Back at the jeep, Sean unfurled his map across the hood. “Okay, we’re here,” he said, marking the spot with a pencil, “and they’re there.” Jotting down the coordinates, he went to the jeep’s radio and called in the fire mission to CCF’s artillery. That call ended with the following: “Tank destroyers with exposed crew. Shell HE, Fuze Time, Adjust fire, over.”

  “Stay with the radio, Rak,” Sean said. “I’m going back up to the top. I’ll yell the corrections down to you.”

  “How the hell are you gonna see anything without illum rounds, Sarge?”

  “I’ll do it by sound. Maybe if they start running we’ll light ’em up. But for now, let’s not ruin the surprise.”

  The first adjustment round seemed at the perfect burst height—about 40 yards high—but a little long.

  “Drop one hundred,” Sean said.

  The next airburst was a little short, just as Sean hoped it would be.

  “Rak, tell ’em add five-zero, fire for effect.”

  For the next few minutes, the Germans’ disorderly attempt to establish a position collapsed in the relentless steel rain as Sean raked the artillery fire back and forth across their position. A few crews abandoned their guns and ran. Some tried to drive their vehicles away. A few made it; most didn’t.

  After the last rounds fell, the only sound was the murmur of idling engines from a few abandoned Ferdinands. Sean thought about calling for some illumination rounds now and trying to finish off those crewless vehicles with direct hits from HE rounds with Fuze Quick, but he let the idea go.

  There’s gotta be a few of them Krauts still around who ain’t dead or dying. And I’ve been in one place too damn long already.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tommy awoke with a start and checked his watch. Ahh, shit! It’s almost 0500. I’ve got to get back to A-14.

  Sylvie was still asleep beside him, her naked form half-covered by the rumpled bedclothes. She stirred as he rolled out of bed.

  “Wait, Tommy,” she whispered. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

  Stepping into his trousers, he replied, “I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “That’s okay. We don’t have a lot of breakfast, either.” She pulled on a robe and shuffled from the tiny bedroom.

  In a few minutes, she returned, a cup of bitter ersatz coffee in each hand. Handing one cup to him, she retrieved a hunk of bread from the crook of her arm and handed that to him, too. Then she sat on the bed, patting the mattress beside her in invitation. “Come back to bed, lover,” she said with an inviting smile. “Talk to me before you run off. Will you be flying today?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  She waited for him to say more, but he’d filled his mouth with bread.

  “You don’t speak much in the morning, do you, Tommy?”

  He held up a finger as if to say wait as his teeth worked on the chewy crust. When he finally got it all down, he said, “Actually, there are a few things we need to talk about.”

  “Like what?” she asked, hoping the quaint Catholic morality he’d dismissed last night was not about to make a comeback.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when his first question was, “Why’d your uncle deny knowing you the other night?”

  “Perhaps you would prefer every stranger inquiring about a member of the maquis be given detailed instructions where to find her?”

  Tommy felt silly for asking. “No, I suppose not,” he replied. “I should have figured that was the case.”

  She tousled his hair and said, “I think you are afraid that maybe I am a woman of great mystery—a prostitute, a spy, an assassin—with many false names.” She threw her head back and cackled with gusto. “I’m laughing at myself, Tommy, not you.”

  He wouldn’t have cared if it was directed at him. He’d never heard her laugh like that before. It sounded so wonderful, so carefree.

  With what she’d been through in these years at war, he admired—no, he was jealous—that she could still laugh at all. And he still knew so little about her. She may have been through so much more he didn’t know about. Not yet, anyway.

  He had another question. “With your husband and all the others getting pulled into the Free French Army now, where does that leave the maquis?”

  “We knew this was coming for a while, Tommy, ever since you Americans and British managed to not get thrown back into the sea. True, now the maquis will more and more be nothing but old men and young women, but we’ll still have our job to do behind the Boche lines.”

  “But you’re not behind the Boche lines anymore, Sylvie.”

  She smiled wistfully and replied, “Today, perhaps. I cannot speak for tomorrow.”

  Time was too short. He gulped the rest of his coffee and said, “You’re safe now. Stay here in Alençon. Don’t go doing anything stupid.”

  Kissing him, she replied, “I never do anything stupid, Tommy.”

  She’d meant it to be comforting. He found it anything but.

  At the door, he told her, “If you happen to see my brother again, tell him I’m going to kick his ass all the way back to Canarsie.”

  “I don’t understand, Tommy. Is that a joke?”

  “Not really. But don’t worry. He’ll understand.”

  “That little POW of yours is singing like a canary,” Colonel Abrams said to Sean Moon. “According to him, the Krauts got one hell of a FUBAR circus going on. They’re trying to pull back and consolidate to keep us from closing off this gap, but we’re creaming them every time they make a move—like bringing up tho
se Ferdinands you knocked out.”

  “That’s the thing, sir,” Sean replied. “We didn’t knock out the Ferdinands, just took out a lot of their crews. I think we oughta go back there right now with a crate of thermite grenades and put them all to the torch before more gunners show up and make them operational again. I was just lining up some—”

  “Whoa, Sergeant! Take it easy. You’ve done enough for one night. Get yourself some chow and let someone else do the demolition work. The infantry boys will handle it. And grab a little sack time while you can.”

  “Sleep, sir? I don’t think I’ll be getting much of that. Why should today be different from any other? Anyway, I want to check on my guy who got wounded.”

  “Better hurry, Sergeant. I just got the morning casualty report. Your man is Farley, right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I believe PFC Farley’s war is over. He’s being evacuated. Probably all the way back to the States. The doc says he’s trying like crazy to save his legs, but…”

  “Farley’s a fighter, sir. All us micks are. He’ll make it.”

  “Let’s hope so. By the way, Sergeant…how do you rate the panzerfausts?”

  “If I was an infantryman, sir, I’d grab every last one I could and ditch the bazookas.”

  The sun was up, and the few German troops left in Gacé—little more than a company or two of infantry with no heavy weapons support—capitulated quickly to the overwhelming force as CCF moved in from the north and the rest of 4th Armored approached from the south.

  With 4th Armored came the fuel tenders, a long-awaited blessing as dozens of CCF’s Shermans ran out of gas as they swept the town’s streets clear of surrendering Germans. Colonel Abrams’ rolling stock would finally get their gas tanks filled, but slowly; the process would take all morning as the scant fleet of tenders worked their way through the thirsty tanks and trucks.

  General Wood gathered his commanders alongside the highway just north of Gacé. Spreading a map on the hood of his jeep, he began, “Colonel Abrams, you’ve done one hell of a job up here, despite your hands being tied for lack of fuel. Besides the forces you’ve fought and destroyed around Gacé, your presence has forced the Germans pulling back from the west to swing their retreat to the north. So, as Patton says, we’re doing Monty a big favor by pushing the Krauts to him, instead of him having to move his forces rapidly south to engage them.”