Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  “Yeah, rapidly is the key word there, sir,” Abrams added. “You know what they say: if you want something done quickly, don’t give it to Monty.”

  After the chuckling died down, Wood continued, “But here’s the problem: General Bradley’s just had himself a fit when Patton finally told him what we’ve been doing here. He went running to Ike, and as usual, Ike’s hemming and hawing, trying to find a way to politic his way out of the fact that we all just stepped on Monty’s toes in a big way and Churchill’s going to climb up his ass. But Ike knows full well if he or Brad orders us back to that silly stop line, we might as well kiss goodbye our chance to finish off an entire German Army right here and now. And of course, that means we’ll just have to fight them somewhere else—a whole lot closer to their homeland, if not actually in their homeland, and for God knows how long.”

  An infantry colonel asked, “But, sir, how is it possible Monty and the Brits don’t know we’re here? They’ve been flying recon, haven’t they?”

  Wood replied, “I think I’ll let Colonel Abrams answer that one. Creighton?”

  “My boys got attacked by the RAF yesterday,” Abrams said. “We might’ve even shot one of them down. We rescued that pilot, and he said they thought we couldn’t possibly be Yanks, as though no one would have the balls to cross Monty’s line. I’ll bet they still don’t think we’re Yanks.”

  Wood added, “That’s probably very true. In fact, Patton said Monty’s communique from last night was bragging about a devastating RAF strike on a German armored unit just east of Gacé. Gentlemen, they could only be talking about CC Fox. They were the only sons of bitches there.”

  “Where’s that pilot, anyway?” the infantry colonel asked. “He knows better now. He could spill the beans on us.”

  “Don’t worry,” Abrams replied. “He’s convalescing in Alençon, at the field hospital there. And we’ll keep him there as long as necessary.”

  “So, gentlemen,” General Wood said, “you’re probably wondering what all this means for our future plans. Well, I’m here to tell you it don’t mean jackshit. While the politicians play their silly games, Patton wants us to keep moving north until we meet up with some Brits—wherever the hell they are—and close this trap. Then maybe we can end this fucking war. After all his foot-dragging at Caen, we can’t afford another Montgomery victory.”

  Tommy made it to the flight line just as Jimmy Tuttle was climbing into the cockpit of Blue Two. Sergeant McNulty had Eclipse of the Hun armed, preflighted, and ready. Staring down from his perch on her wing, the crew chief patted the freshly painted swastika—a “kill” symbol—below the canopy rail. Then he said, “Don’t rush yourself none, Lieutenant. The war’s gonna wait for certified knights of the sky like you.” His voice dropped a few decibels before he added, “Irregardless that it was just a li’l ol’ Junkers you knocked down.”

  As he hoisted Tommy’s flight kit into the cockpit, he added, “I figured you’d be a little late and all, busy as you were with celebrating your kill and all that cherchez the femmes jazz. Not to mention the drumming out of Lieutenant Clinchmore.” He pointed to Clinchmore’s plane, sitting idle in its parking spot, as evidence. “It’s a shame. A perfectly good airplane going to waste.”

  “Wait a minute, Sergeant. Nobody’s drumming out Lieutenant Clinchmore. Colonel Pruitt decided he might benefit from some time with the ground pounders as an ASO—maybe get a little better appreciation for what the guys he’s supposed to be helping are up against.”

  McNulty gave him a sly smile and replied, “I don’t suppose you made that preposition to the good colonel, did you, Lieutenant?”

  “You mean proposition?”

  “That’s what I said, ain’t it?”

  “Well then, Sergeant—maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. And I’m depending on you to dispel any rumors among the enlisted men about Lieutenant Clinchmore getting drummed out, is that clear?”

  “Absolutely, sir. Now let’s get you airborne before them other squadrons steal all the good pickings.”

  A note for Sylvie had arrived at Papa’s House right after sunrise. She read it, burned it, and then began to pack her musette bag.

  Her father, passing in the hallway, asked, “Taking a trip, little girl?”

  She smiled, said nothing, and then took her Welrod pistol from its hiding place in the wall. Placing it in the bag, she said, “Papa, I need to borrow a bicycle.”

  “Of course. Take Claude’s. May I ask where you’re headed?”

  He expected her answer: “No, Papa. You may not.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The morning sky was a crystal dome of brilliant blue. It had seemed empty and tranquil when they first left the ground, but once Blue Flight climbed above 3000 feet, it looked like every aircraft in the American and British inventory was in the air, darting about like the specks in a shaken snow globe.

  Just so none of those planes are Krauts, Tommy told himself.

  The radio frequencies were buzzing with constant exchanges between airmen and ground liaisons coordinating their fires. On the receiving end of those bombs and shells, the retreating columns of the German 7th Army—sandwiched in that 12-mile gap between Falaise and Argentan—were being hammered by Allied artillery and air power. From the air, it seemed the perfect representation of how this morning’s briefing had summarized the grand strategy: bottle them up and let the artillery and Air Force finish them off.

  Except the Germans weren’t bottled up quite yet. Despite enormous casualties and destruction of combat equipment, they were still flowing slowly but steadily eastward, trying to reach the River Seine and become part of a coherent defense which would deny the Allies Paris and beyond.

  For Tommy, Tuttle, and the other pilots of the 301st, their business was some 16 miles farther east, providing recon and flank protection for 4th Armored. The division’s long, slender column poked north like a probing finger reaching for the British, who were still too far away to touch.

  The voice of Charlie Webster, ASO with Colonel Abrams’ 37th Tank Battalion, was on the radio, directing elements of the 301st—including Blue Flight—to an area northeast of Gacé. German armored units were heading west—toward the exodus of their comrades fleeing east—in an attempt to ensure their breakout from the Allied trap.

  This must be part of the Kraut counterattack the brass have been worried about, Tommy thought. He had to push the thought of last night with Sylvie from his head. But as he did, though, another thought tried to take its place, a far less pleasant one: If Webster’s calling the shots on Fourth Armored’s line of advance, that means Sean’s outfit is in the lead again.

  Webster transmitted, “Heavy armor reported on the Gacé-Bernay highway. Repeat, heavy armor.”

  That puts them on Fourth Armored’s right flank, Tommy told himself as he glanced at the map on the clipboard strapped to his thigh. Our guys are pushing straight north, up the Gacé-Vimoutiers highway. That’s all they need—Kraut tanks hitting them broadside, trying to slice their column to pieces.

  They passed over Gacé and started to descend, looking for the German armor Webster had called out. It didn’t take long to find a column of tanks, half-tracks, and trucks stretching along the arrow-straight Gacé-Bernay highway like an ominous dotted line, with one end aimed straight at 4th Armored.

  “Halfback One-four, this is Gadget Blue,” Tommy called to Webster. “We got ’em, about two miles east of you. Got to be at least fifty vehicles. Vector a couple of more flights this way. We’re going to need some help.”

  They flew abreast of the column to its rear before reversing direction to attack. “Some of those half-tracks look like they might be flakwagens,” Tommy said to Tuttle. “We’ll hit them first. Looks like four or so in the front half of the line. I’ll take them, you take the back half. Any trucks we take out in between will be a bonus.”

  “Roger. You gonna use guns or rockets, boss?”

  “I think I’m going to save the rockets for the tanks.
Give them one more chance to see if they’re worth a shit.”

  They swept in low and fast, just a hundred feet above the treetops, zigzagging up the highway to keep the flak gunners’ sight pictures constantly shifting. Tuttle hung well back to give himself a split second to dodge any explosions Tommy’s shooting might leave directly in his path:

  It’d be a crying shame to get knocked down by flying chunks of the thing your buddy just blew up.

  Attacking at such high speed, the ground below was just a blur. Tommy did his best to align his gunsight with his targeted halftrack, still hundreds of yards ahead. He squeezed the trigger on his stick, tapping his rudder pedals left and right to sweep the road with .50 caliber. The scene before him dissolved into a blurry canvas of dirt and pavement being hurled into the air, bright flashes of bullets striking metal, licks of flame, and moving shapes that could only be men running away from the vehicles being ripped apart by API rounds.

  He counted the four half-tracks he’d assigned himself as they slipped beneath Eclipse’s belly and then pulled hard left, clinging to the treetops to escape the German column’s fire. Am I too low? he wondered. I don’t want to have to bring her home like Dunphy did that time, with his prop tips all green and mangled from skimming trees. That beat-up prop damn near shook the engine off her mounts.

  But Eclipse’s big radial was still snarling with her usual smoothness, all 18 cylinders working in perfect harmony. Far enough away from the German guns now, Tommy climbed to get a good look at what Blue Flight’s attack had done so far. He expected to see Tuttle’s plane over his left shoulder, but there was nothing there.

  “Blue Two from Leader, where the hell are you?”

  “I’m on your six, boss.”

  Tommy checked the rear view mirror on top of the windshield frame but could see nothing but a dull sheen. The mirror had frosted over. Again.

  “Get on my wingtip where I can see you, Jimmy. Damn mirror’s fogged up again.”

  “Yeah, what else is new? Coming up on your right side. Looks like we’ve wreaked a little havoc down there, boss.”

  Jimmy Tuttle’s last remark was something of an understatement. Tall flames and thick black smoke were billowing from the middle of the German column, a sure sign of burning fuel. “One of us must’ve set a gas truck on fire or something,” Tuttle added.

  “Yeah, great,” Tommy replied, “but with the wind the way it is, that smoke’s going to ruin visibility if we attack from the north or east. You see any flak?”

  “Too busy to notice. I don’t think anything hit me, though.”

  “Me either. How about we go high and do a little dive-bombing on the tanks up front? The smoke won’t bother us then.”

  “Tally-ho,” Tuttle replied.

  It took a few minutes to climb to 8000 feet, where they’d start the dive-bombing run. From that altitude, the war below seemed an abstract, nothing but plumes of wind-whipped smoke in a palette of grays and black hugging the rolling hills, now flattened by the perspective of height. The German column was almost invisible. The highway they drove on was just a pencil line sketched through fields of brown and green.

  “Hey, boss,” Tuttle transmitted, “let me go first this time.”

  “Sure. Have at it.”

  “Okay, then. Meet you downstairs.”

  Banking Eclipse left, Tommy set up an orbit that would give him a clear view of Tuttle’s downhill run while allowing himself to keep an eye on his own tail. That’s all I’d need: to get jumped while I’m fat with bombs and rockets…and all alone.

  By the time Eclipse completed one circle, Tuttle had released his bombs, pulled out of the dive, and was making his escape to the south. From Tommy’s perspective, the bomb strikes were almost imperceptible: But they look damn close to the lead tanks. Maybe he even hit one? Or at least came close enough to scare the crap out of its crew?

  “All yours, boss,” Tuttle reported.

  Tommy rolled out of the orbit and throttled back, ready to start his dive. There was something he always found so unnerving—almost sacrilegious—about nosing over and starting down, as if he was turning this magnificent flying machine into nothing more than a brick. But it was the best way for a single-seat fighter to accurately deliver a bomb—provided the plane and its pilot could withstand the merciless aerodynamic forces involved in diving and pulling out. You know what they say, Tommy reminded himself, if there’s one thing a jug can do, it’s dive. It had better—because it certainly won’t climb. He swallowed hard and pushed the stick forward, like he’d done so many times before.

  Halfway down this roller-coaster ride, Tommy was locked on his target: two tanks pulled up next to each other, moving slowly if at all. Hell, if I can’t hit at least one of them, I’d better turn in my wings.

  He caught a quick glimpse of what Tuttle’s bombs had done; a tank hull spewing smoke and flames was straddling the road, its turret blown off and laying upside down on the roadside.

  But this was no time to sightsee. His own targets were rapidly filling his gunsight reticle. The wildly spinning altimeter would pass through 3000 feet in a brief moment. He punched off the bombs and began the pull-out, straining against the g-forces pushing him hard into his seat.

  Level at 1500 feet, he found his wingman orbiting a few miles to the south. “Did you hear Halfback calling us?” Tuttle asked.

  “No, I was a little busy. What’s up?”

  “Don’t know. Something strange going on. They’re calling for air-to-air help.”

  “Any of the P-38s responding? They’ve got top cover today.”

  “Negative. They’re tied up.”

  “Then let’s get over there.”

  They picked up the Gacé-Vimoutiers highway and flew north along 4th Armored’s column at 4000 feet, low enough to give nervous GI gunners a clear view of the P-47’s distinctive silhouette; high enough that those gunners probably couldn’t hit them. Not at the speed they were traveling.

  “Shit, we’ve got company,” Tuttle said. “Check your three o’clock low.”

  It took a few moments for Tommy to fully grasp what he was seeing. There were what looked like a dozen fighter aircraft—maybe more—below them, their mottled green wings and fuselages difficult to see against the backdrop of the terrain. They seemed to be swarming to attack the spearhead of 4th Armored.

  “I think they’re FWs,” Tuttle said, meaning the planes were Focke-Wulf 190s, the Luftwaffe’s formidable multi-role fighter.

  “No,” Tommy replied, “I don’t think so. The noses aren’t right for FWs—too long. They’re Typhoons. It’s the RAF.”

  “Then they’re fucking lost, boss. The bad guys are east of here.”

  “Halfback One Four, this is Gadget Blue. You got those Brits on the horn?”

  “Negative. They don’t respond.”

  “Swell,” Tommy replied. “Let me try.”

  He thumbed frantically through his signals booklet to find the RAF’s frequencies. Tuning to one, the voices of British pilots began to spill from his earphones, all sharing a common Taffy call sign.

  “Taffy Leader, this is Gadget Blue Leader. We’re the P-47s just to your west. Do you copy? Over.”

  “Hello, Gadget Blue,” came the cheery reply. “Care to join us while we bash the Jerries down below?”

  “Negative, negative, Taffy Leader. Those are not Jerries. Repeat—they are not Jerries. The Krauts you want to bash are a couple of miles east, on the Gacé-Bernay highway.”

  “Gadget Blue…if they’re not Jerries then who the bloody hell are they? There are no Yanks or frogs this far north.”

  “And there are no Krauts who speak English like they do, either. Did you ask them to authenticate?”

  “Negative. We don’t ask the enemy for permission to attack.”

  “Look, friend,” Tommy pleaded, “we’re all wasting gas like crazy up here for nothing. Try authenticating with them. Is that too much to ask? Or are you big fans of own goals?”

  “Perhaps I
should ask you to authenticate, friend.” All the cheer was gone from his voice.

  “Go ahead. Lay it on me.”

  The frequency fell silent. I guess they switched over for a private chat, Tommy told himself.

  Two of the RAF planes had climbed to Blue Flight’s altitude and formed a Lufberry—a defensive circle that made it difficult for any plane outside the circle to attack those within.

  Okay, Tommy thought, if that’s the way they want to play it. He signaled Tuttle to form a Lufberry of their own.

  Taffy Leader was back on the frequency. “Gadget Blue, authenticate mike victor.”

  After a few more flips through the pages of the signals booklet to find the day’s code sheet, Tommy had the answer: “I authenticate queen.”

  The cheerfulness returned to Taffy Leader’s voice as he said, “Very good, Gadget Blue. I suppose that makes us officially mates.”

  “Damn right it does. Now how about doing the same for those boys down there?”

  “Negative, Gadget Blue. We’ll take your word for it. But this is highly irregular. Some Yank down there’s asking for a good hiding from Monty.”

  “How about we save the hidings for the Krauts? Like I said, there’s that armored column a couple of miles east that could stand another dose.”

  “We’ll see what we can do. Cheers.”

  All but two aircraft of Taffy Flight turned and headed east. The two that didn’t flew away to the northwest.

  “Where do you think those two are going?” Tuttle asked.

  “I’m betting they’re heading home,” Tommy replied. “Maybe they can’t wait to spill the beans on this highly irregular situation they found.”