Moon Above, Moon Below
Page 20
Webster was back on the frequency. “Thanks for the help, Gadget Blue,” he said. “You guys still loaded for bear?”
“Affirmative.”
He read Tommy the coordinates of German tanks attempting to block the highway in front of 4th Armored. “We don’t have a good line of sight on them. They keep ducking behind a rise.”
“Mark the target line with willy petes,” Tommy replied.
“Will do. Stand by.”
The radio fell silent for almost a minute until Webster reported, “Shot, over.”
Tommy dropped her left wing to get an unobstructed view of the target area. Fifteen seconds later, Webster said, “Splash.”
Five seconds after that, two white puffs appeared in the sky to the north, about a thousand feet below Blue Flight’s altitude.
“Got it,” Tommy said. “Shut off the artillery. We’re going in.”
“Time for some rockets, boss?” Tuttle asked.
“Afraid so.”
Circling behind the target line in the sky, Tommy counted eight tanks.
Where the hell did they come from? Were they supposed to be the roadblock while those other guys we hit sprung the ambush? Looks like the Krauts are throwing in the kitchen sink to stop this trap from closing.
“Let’s work the line from both ends,” Tommy said. “I’ll take left, you take right.”
“Roger, boss. How many you gonna salvo?”
“Two at a time.”
In a shallow descent for the rocket attack, Tommy lined up the left-most tank in his gunsight. I’ve got a clean shot right up his ass, but he’s moving, dammit. Just so he doesn’t turn.
A little closer...a little closer…Now!
Two rockets streaked from their launcher tubes, one from each wing. He pulled Eclipse up and rolled her left. As near as he could tell, no one was firing at him. With the target hidden beneath the belly of his turning aircraft, all he could do now was pray the rockets were on the mark.
Once Eclipse had come around full circle, he could see they’d missed. The tank looked perfectly intact. And it was still moving.
Tuttle’s luck wasn’t much better. “Well, maybe I got it dirty a little,” he said. “Gonna try again.”
They made two more passes apiece until the six launcher tubes on each plane were empty.
Not one of the German tanks was hit by a rocket. What Blue Flight did accomplish, though, was to force those tanks into 4th Armored’s field of fire, where rounds from artillery and tank destroyers proceeded to chew them to pieces. But not before the Germans had knocked out three Shermans.
“Close but no cigar with those damn rockets,” Tommy reported to Webster. “Got something that needs strafing? That’s all we’ve got left.”
“Negative. But maybe you could do a little recon up north? See what else is in our way?”
“Roger. We can do that.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Blue Flight climbed to 5000 feet and headed north up the highway toward Vimoutiers. They’d have about 30 minutes for the recon Webster had requested before needing to return to A-14 and refuel. But they could cover a lot of ground in those 30 minutes.
And as soon as I land, Tommy vowed, they’re taking these fucking rocket launchers off this airplane. I’d rather carry an extra bomb than those useless stovepipes. At least I can hit something with that.
There wasn’t much to see at first. As they flew farther north, the gently rolling terrain was becoming hillier, almost mountainous in spots. If it looks craggy to me from way up here, Tommy thought, the ground pounders are going to feel like they’re going up and down Mount Everest…
And there’ll be more good hiding places—on high ground—for the Germans to defend from. This won’t be getting any easier for us or the Brits, wherever the hell they are.
Something caught his eye down below: a cloud of dust hugging the ground. Beneath it, a small convoy—Tommy counted five vehicles—was moving along a dirt road that wound its way to the peak of the highest hill in the area. His first impression was they were Germans; he dropped lower for a better look, with Tuttle wide off his right wing.
Once down to a thousand feet, the convoy looked anything but German. The lead vehicle was an American-made jeep with mounted machine gun. The next in line was an armored car—a British Humber, I think—and the rest were light trucks, also British. The vehicles’ occupants were waving enthusiastically at the P-47s.
Tommy marked the spot on his map: a place labeled Hill 262.
“You really think they’re Brits?” Tuttle asked.
“Maybe…but based on how far east we all are, they’re probably Canadians. Or maybe Polish. But it’s all the same British Army. Looks like some kind of recon party.”
“Yeah, just like us,” Tuttle replied with laughter in his voice. But that voice tensed and raised in pitch with his next words: “We got company again, Tommy…and it ain’t the RAF this time.”
Tommy’s head swiveled to find the threat, but he could see nothing. Tuttle’s next shriek told him why: “One on your tail!”
A look in Eclipse’s rear view mirror did no good: Damn thing’s fogged up again! Happens every time you descend, dammit!
There weren’t many options what to do next. Their lack of altitude was hemming the jugs in, forcing them to fly into narrow channels between the hills.
And the guy on your tail always has the advantage.
“Can you get him off me, Jimmy?”
“I’m trying, boss. Can’t maneuver much in these damn hills, though.”
And there was the problem: they’d have to climb—the one thing any German fighter could do better than a jug. Especially one with six rocket launcher tubes hanging below its wings, creating loads of drag.
Tommy had no choice but to stay low. He told Tuttle, “Just keep turning with me. How many others are there?”
“At least two more, waiting up high.”
Waiting to pounce as soon as we do something stupid, in other words.
Tommy pulled a tight left turn around a hill and stole a quick glance over his shoulder. The plane on his tail was an Me-109, its long, square nose, fat prop spinner, and slab-sided canopy impossible to mistake.
I haven’t seen any tracers whizzing past me, so if he’s fired already, he missed by a mile.
Or maybe he’s just biding his time while he lines me up.
Close as he is, if he gets me in his sight I’m in big trouble.
Another peek over his shoulder: the 109 wasn’t in the same position now. The warmer air at low level had cleared Tommy’s rear view mirror and he could see the German behind him, struggling to match Eclipse’s steep turn. But he still didn’t have a good shot—he fired, but the tracers sailed over the jug’s right wing.
Tommy throttled back a little and tightened his turn. The 109 tried to match the move but swung wider to the outside.
I don’t think this guy’s much of a low-level flyer, Tommy thought. Maybe I’ll give him a little test.
He rolled Eclipse level, dove to the treetops, and aimed her at a narrow notch between two hills.
Tuttle’s anxious voice was in his earphones immediately: “What the hell are you doing, Tommy?”
“Just follow me, Jimmy.”
Tommy ignored the green blur of trees just feet below him as he focused on the notch. They hadn’t even reached it yet when Tuttle screamed, “Holy shit! The Kraut just went in! He bought the farm!”
Tommy’s first thought: One down, two to go.
His second thought: Or maybe we let sleeping dogs lie and get the hell out of here. We’re not configured for dogfighting with these damn launchers hanging out.
Blue Flight stayed down on the deck and headed south with throttles to the stops. The German fighters followed, but stayed high. After a few minutes, they were nowhere to be seen.
Tommy radioed in what they’d seen on the recon to 4th Armored: little evidence of Germans on the ground but an apparent British Army recon party on Hill 262.
His elation over besting a foe—without even firing a shot—didn’t last long: It was just luck I was up against a rookie who couldn’t handle his airplane very well. A veteran pilot on my tail like that would’ve made mincemeat out of me. Maybe the brass are right when they insist the Luftwaffe is running out of experienced pilots. They sure seem to be running out of airplanes, few as we’ve seen.
There was a call for air support. Another P-47 squadron had caught a retreating German column near the crossroads town of Chambois, eight miles west of Gacé. “It’s a turkey shoot, boys,” the flight leader reported. “Nothing but soft-sided vehicles. We’re empty now, so come on over and help yourselves.”
Tommy checked his fuel gauge and then told Tuttle, “I’m getting low, but I’ve got enough for a pass or two. And it’s only about eight minutes back to base from there. How’re you looking?”
“I’m good. I figure we could do it.”
Two highways and a number of smaller roads crisscrossed at Chambois. Every one of them was packed with slow-moving traffic: German soldiers on foot, horse-drawn wagons, trucks that would be traveling much faster if not engulfed in this sluggish parade.
The jugs that preceded Blue Flight had made it a point not to shoot up the town; if a German soldier made it there, he’d be safe for a little while. But he had to make it there first, and many hadn’t been able to do that.
The roadways just west of town were a slaughterhouse. Bodies of soldiers by the hundreds lined the roadsides, intermixed with scores of dead horses, shattered wagons, and burned-out trucks.
Those guys weren’t fighting anymore. They were just running.
The stench of death had risen high into the sky. It filled their cockpits; Tommy struggled to hold down the vomit rising in his throat. Even his oxygen mask didn’t protect him from the damning odor. He pulled it off, more afraid he’d puke into it and choke.
More Germans kept coming down those roads. How they were able to make their way through all that carnage, Tommy couldn’t imagine.
They’ve got to be running on pure fear.
The urge to just leave them alone—to fly on home without firing a shot—was almost overpowering. But he knew they had to be stopped. Otherwise, he—and his brother—would just have to fight them someplace else.
And maybe then the odds wouldn’t be in our favor. Not like they are now.
He forced down the nausea once more—and with it, swallowed any hint of mercy.
“We’ll do it two-abreast,” he told Tuttle. “Keep our rounds spread wide so when they try and run off the road…”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Tuttle knew he was going for the maximum kill zone.
Minutes later, out of bullets, fuel, and any sense of remorse, Tommy turned Eclipse to final approach at A-14. His only thought:
I hope and pray I can forget all this once it’s finally over.
But as her wheels touched safely home, he knew that could never happen.
Chapter Thirty-Six
ALLIED GROUND FORCES DIRECTIVE
FROM:
MONTGOMERY--COMMANDER, ALLIED GROUND FORCES
DATE--TIME OF ORIGIN:
15 AUG 44/1800 HRS
TO:
BRADLEY--COMMANDER, 12TH ARMY GROUP
COPY (FOR INFO):
SHAEF (EISENHOWER); HODGES--US 1ST ARMY; PATTON--US 3RD ARMY; DEMPSEY--2ND BRITISH ARMY; CRERAR--1ST CANADIAN ARMY; CONINGHAM--RAF 2ND TAF; QUESADA--IX TAC; WEYLAND--XIX TAC; BRERETON--9TH AIR FORCE
THIS COMMAND POSSESSES IRREFUTABLE AERIAL RECON EVIDENCE THAT ELEMENTS OF YOUR 12TH ARMY GROUP HAVE CREATED A DANGEROUS AMERICAN SALIENT IN THE AREA OF THE GACÉ-VIMOUTIERS HIGHWAY PROJECTING SOME 12 MILES NORTH OF YOUR ASSIGNED POSITION.
THESE FORCES OF YOURS ARE DANGEROUSLY EXPOSED TO SUPERIOR GERMAN FORCES FROM THREE DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS SIMULTANEOUSLY. WHATEVER FOOLHARDY VENTURE YOU ARE UNDERTAKING RISKS THEIR ENCIRCLEMENT AND COMPLETE DESTRUCTION AS WELL AS EXHIBITING AN INSUBORDINATE DISREGARD FOR THIS COMMAND’S ORDERS. WE CAN ONLY PRAY IT HAS NOT ALREADY COME TO CATASTROPHE.
YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO IMMEDIATELY WITHDRAW THESE FORCES TO THE FLERS-ARGENTAN LINE.
THIS COMMAND WILL EXPECT A COMPLETE ACCOUNTING IN WRITING OF THE ACTIONS THAT CREATED THIS RECKLESSLY UNWISE SITUATION, WITH THE NAMES OF THOSE RESPONSIBLE, NLT 1200 HOURS OF 16 AUG 44.
SIGNED,
MONTGOMERY
Omar Bradley read Montgomery’s directive in a state of furious silence. When he was finished, he ripped it into little pieces and told his chief of staff, “Well, the cat’s definitely out of the bag now. Get Ike on the landline right this damn second.”
It wasn’t Bradley’s phone call that set Dwight Eisenhower stewing. It was the cable he’d received from Washington earlier that afternoon. Its author was General Marshall, the Army Chief of Staff. The words in its closing paragraphs had stung like sand flung in his eyes:
You would be wise to remember, General, that political talent can be a great asset to a soldier, but not when politics interferes with his soldierly duties. Churchill only leans on you because he realizes he can expect no further favors from the President and reckons you are more easily bent to his wishes. But never forget it is the President and not the British Prime Minister who is your commander-in-chief. Political expediency must never be portrayed as a substitute for the strategic initiative your commander-in-chief demands. Such expediency is what you’ve succumbed to, I believe, by placing Montgomery as overall commander of your ground troops.
Now his proven sluggishness is once again threatening to let a golden opportunity slip through our fingers, something your American subordinates have had no difficulty recognizing and are taking the initiative to correct. It is no surprise that Patton has once again “interpreted” an order in a way more to his liking. I suggest you should choose not to punish his success, even if that choice means ruffling some British feathers.
You’ve successfully dealt with conflicts between the personalities involved several times before in the past two years. It has never been more important that you do so once again, without delay.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
SHAEF DIRECTIVE
FROM:
EISENHOWER--SUPREME COMMANDER, SHAEF
DATE--TIME OF ORIGIN:
16 AUG 44/0001 HRS
TO:
MONTGOMERY--COMMANDER, 21ST ARMY GROUP
COPY (FOR INFO):
BRADLEY--12TH ARMY GROUP; HODGES--US 1ST ARMY; PATTON--US 3RD ARMY; DEMPSEY--2ND BRITISH ARMY; CRERAR--1ST CANADIAN ARMY; CONINGHAM--RAF 2ND TAF; QUESADA--IX TAC; WEYLAND--XIX TAC; BRERETON--9TH AIR FORCE
EFFECTIVE THE DATE AND TIME OF THIS DIRECTIVE, THE DUTIES AND RESPONSIBILITIES YOU EXERCISED AS COMMANDER, ALLIED GROUND FORCES, REVERT TO SUPREME COMMANDER, SHAEF. YOU WILL RETAIN THE DUTIES AND RESPONSIBILITIES OF COMMANDER, 21ST ARMY GROUP, UNTIL OTHERWISE ADVISED.
SIGNED,
EISENHOWER
SHAEF DIRECTIVE
FROM:
EISENHOWER--SUPREME COMMANDER, SHAEF
DATE--TIME OF ORIGIN:
16 AUG 44/0100 HRS
TO:
BRADLEY--COMMANDER, 12TH ARMY GROUP; MONTGOMERY--COMMANDER, 21ST ARMY GROUP
COPY (FOR INFO):
HODGES--US 1ST ARMY; PATTON--US 3RD ARMY; DEMPSEY--2ND BRITISH ARMY; CRERAR--1ST CANADIAN ARMY; CONINGHAM--RAF 2ND TAF; QUESADA--IX TAC; WEYLAND--XIX TAC; BRERETON--9TH AIR FORCE
THE DIRECTIVE FROM COMMANDER, ALLIED GROUND FORCES, DATED 15 AUG 44, 1800 HRS, IS RESCINDED. 12TH ARMY GROUP WILL CONTINUE ALL EFFORTS TO CLOSE THE FALAISE GAP. THE FLERS-ARGENTAN “HOLD LINE” PREVIOUSLY ESTABLISHED IS NO LONGER IN EFFECT.
21ST ARMY GROUP IS DIRECTED TO CLOSE WITH 12TH ARMY GROUP FORCES IN THE VICINITY OF VIMOUTIERS WITH ALL DELIBERATE SPEED. ANY FURTHER DELAY IN OBTAINING THIS OBJECTIVE WILL RESULT IN SIGNIFICANT PORTIONS OF THE GERMAN 7TH ARMY ELUDING THE TRAP WE ARE ATTEMPTING TO SET.
SIGNED,
EISENHOWER
George Patton seemed ready to bite off the head of the aide who w
oke him. “Another of Ike’s goddamn directives? That’s what you woke me for?” After he read it, though, a relieved smile settled on his face. It was the look of a man who knew he’d just escaped the hangman’s noose. Again.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Patton said. “Looks like Ike’s little love affair with the Brits just might be hitting a rough patch. Or maybe he finally decided to stop playing diplomat and grow some balls.”
Bernard Law Montgomery had made it a standing order never—repeat, never—to wake him with administrative details. Eisenhower’s directives, arriving in the dead of night as they did, fell into the strictest definition of that category, despite the fact one relieved him of a command and the other countermanded an order he’d given. So instead of immediate delivery, the directives arrived at his caravan on the breakfast tray. They destroyed far more than his morning meal.
His aide had never seen the usually self-satisfied general so upset. He paced the caravan like a petulant schoolboy for a few minutes, shaking his head in bewilderment, muttering things like bloody Yank idiots and clueless amateurs playing at soldiering. Finally, in a sputtering voice, he told the aide, “Get Field Marshall Brooke on the line. No, no…wait. Make it the Prime Minister.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight