Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  “Not so fast, Iggy,” Sean replied. “Them engines…they don’t sound like something with Uncle Sam’s initials on ’em. They’re Maybach engines, I’m betting.”

  “Maybachs? You think it’s Kraut tanks coming?”

  “Yep.”

  “Fuck, Sean…what the hell are we gonna do?”

  “We’re going to stay real quiet and out of sight and let them pass.”

  “But what if they spot our Zippos?”

  “That’d be some trick in the dark, Iggy. But if they do, we’re fucked, ain’t we?”

  The intersection of the two highways formed a cross like the cardinal points of a compass. CC Baker was expected from the west. The German column was coming from the south.

  “How could they be coming that way?” Sposato wondered aloud. “I thought we held everything south of here.”

  “Apparently not. Or maybe they’re part of the big Kraut pullback from the east…and they’re lost as shit.”

  Sean’s theory seemed to have some merit. The blacked-out lead vehicle—its silhouette in the moonlight unmistakably a Panther tank—drove halfway through the intersection before juddering noisily to an abrupt stop. In the darkness, the Americans couldn’t see the line of vehicles behind it, but the sudden hush of their idling engines made it a certainty they had stopped, too.

  Standing on the ground in front of his powered-down tank, Sean could hear the soft mechanical whir of its turret as Fabiano manually traversed the main gun onto the German tank, waiting for his commander’s order to fire. But everyone knew if they had to fire, they were as good as dead, anyway. That was enough to keep fingers off the triggers and impulses in check.

  A kübelwagen pulled alongside the Panther. The man in the passenger’s seat climbed onto the tank’s deck and began arguing with its commander in the turret hatch. Each man unfolded what appeared to be a map. Then they argued some more.

  “Come on, come on,” Sean whispered, imploring the Germans too far away to hear. “Make up your fucking minds. Just don’t go west.”

  West: right into the face of Combat Command Baker.

  “Why don’t we just call in artillery on them?” Sposato asked. “We’re well inside their range here.”

  “Iggy, has it crossed your mind that the Panther might be the lead vehicle of a battalion, maybe? Or even a division? Unless we light the place up with illum, we won’t know how many we’re dealing with. And if we light the place up—”

  Sposato finished the sentence for him. “If we light it up, then they’ll see us, too.”

  “Damn right they will.”

  “Okay, Sean. You win.”

  “Experience before youth. Wins every time, Iggy.”

  The German from the kübelwagen walked over to the road sign marking the intersection. He lit it with his flashlight, and then yelled something at the Panther commander, who yelled something right back. Their disagreement, apparently, wasn’t over yet.

  “I guess they don’t believe the signpost,” Sposato said.

  “Or their maps, either. Face it, they’re fucking lost, Iggy. Just sit tight and watch what they do.”

  It took the Germans several minutes more to come to some sort of agreement. Then the Panther revved its engine and continued north. The rest of the column—all driving without lights like their leader—rolled by in what seemed an endless parade. When the last vehicle finally passed Sean’s position, they had counted 46 tanks, 10 assault guns, a dozen half-tracks, 21 trucks, and a handful of kübelwagens. Whether it was their intention or not, they were all headed straight into the boiling cauldron of Hill 262.

  “Where the hell are all these Kraut bastards coming from?” Sean said. “We’ve got to get the word to battalion what we just saw.”

  “But ain’t we still supposed to be keeping radio silence?”

  “Fuck radio silence. They’ve got to know this.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Sposato replied, not sounding at all convinced. “But I’d still like to know where the hell CC Baker is.”

  “Wouldn’t we all, Iggy?”

  It was going to be a long night for Sergeant McNulty at airfield A-14. Shaking his head, he asked Tommy Moon, “I’m not sure I see the necessarity in all this, Lieutenant. You really want them rocket tubes off?”

  “Yep. I can’t hit shit with those damn things. Get rid of them.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be so self-defecating, sir, just because—”

  “Deprecating, Sergeant. Self-deprecating. But I’m not blaming myself—it’s the whole design. Those rockets are more wishful thinking than an effective weapons system.”

  “I could have sworn just the other day you thought them rockets were the answers to a virgin’s prayer, Lieutenant.”

  “Then I guess I’m not a virgin anymore, Sergeant. And I sure as hell stopped praying a long time ago. Even if I did pray, I’m pretty sure no one’s listening.”

  “As you wish, sir,” McNulty replied, “but what about the rear view mirror? You really want to lose that, too?”

  “Yep. Good riddance to it.”

  “Look, Lieutenant…the rockets are one thing, but I sure wish you’d reconnoiter the mirror.”

  “You mean reconsider, don’t you, Sarge?”

  “That’s what I said, ain’t it? And you ain’t gonna get much more speed out of her by taking it off.”

  “I know that,” Tommy replied, “but every time I need the damn thing, it’s fogged up. They either need to put a heater in it…or just throw it away. I’ll take the measly couple of miles per hour extra it’ll give me when it’s gone.”

  McNulty shook his head once more and asked, “So you’re planning on lugging three bombs and eight guns for the duration?”

  “Until something better comes along, you’re damn right.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  At his CP a few miles south of Hill 262, General Wood felt like punching the map hanging on the tent wall. It had only been 24 hours since being freed from Montgomery’s chains. That freedom had plunged them headlong into a ferocious battle with a German Army that didn’t seem to know it was beaten.

  Wood still held in his hand the message Sean had sent, the one advising of a battalion-strength panzer force moving north near Survie, probably to add to the formidable forces already facing 4th Armored and the Poles on the hill. The general told Colonel Abrams, “Those boys of yours…they did a great job.” He sounded like he was paying tribute to the dead.

  “Sergeant Moon’s an old hand, sir,” Abrams replied. “If there’s a way for him to get out, he’ll find it.”

  “All right, gentlemen,” Wood continued, “as you’ve already figured out, Combat Command Baker isn’t going to happen tonight. We got to hold on to this position, and it’s going to take every ounce of strength we’ve got to do it. It was a good idea in theory, but we can’t afford to disengage any of our forces right now to make up an ad hoc maneuver unit. The rest of the whole damn Twelfth Corps is trying to get up here and help us out, but the Germans have held them up, too. And there’s still no sign of the Brits coming to the rescue, either. By all accounts, they’re still ten miles away. Maybe more.”

  Abrams had a question. “Sir, did we find out why those Poles were in such a damn hurry to sacrifice themselves on that hill?”

  Wood shook his head. “We still don’t know, Creighton. Maybe they believed Monty’s bullshit, too. Damn shame, I’d say. They seem like the only outfit in Twenty-First Army Group showing any initiative at all.”

  “And they’re paying one hell of a price for it,” Abrams replied.

  General Wood smacked his pointer against the map. It made a sharp, electrifying sound, like the crack of a bullwhip.

  “Listen up, gentlemen,” he began. “This is what we’re going to do. General Patton sees this fight we’re in as a grand opportunity. Monty might be slow as molasses coming to meet us, but we can sure as hell push the Germans to him. Once we do that, this thing we call the Falaise Gap will be closed, whether the Brits
move another mile closer or not. Now, it’s going to take a hell of a lot of artillery and air power to help us do that. Patton’s ordered all corps and division artillery units to be on the road tonight.”

  An infantry commander asked, “You mean they finally got some gas, sir?”

  “Affirmative, Colonel. By sun up, our guns will be much closer than they are today and should be able to reach well past Hill Two-Six-Two. That’ll be a big help. And the heavy bombers of the Eighth Air Force will be helping out our Ninth Air Force boys by flying multiple sorties against targets we’ve specified, starting at dawn.”

  A collective groan rose from his officers. “What’s the matter?” Wood asked. “You don’t want their help?”

  “No, sir,” Abrams replied, “it’s not that at all. It’s just that every time the heavies agree to lend us a hand…well, you remember what happened during Cobra. And all those other times, too.”

  “That’s the risk we’re going to have to take, gentlemen,” Wood said. “We need the firepower, and we need it bad. If we take a few errant bombs in the process, well…”

  There was no need to finish the sentence. The assembled officers all knew what those next words would be: tough shit.

  Wood continued, “Patton said something I think you’ll all get a kick out of. He supposes that Monty’s dragging his feet at Falaise is just the Brits paying back the favor Hitler did them at Dunkirk.”

  The general waited a few moments for the smirks and laughter to fade. Then he said, “All right, let’s figure out how we’re going to save these Polish fellows come morning…and where we’re going after we do.”

  Sean wasn’t lost; he could tell you the exact coordinates of his two tanks on the map. The trouble was, he couldn’t figure out how to retrace his steps in the dark. The roads and trails they’d used in yesterday’s late afternoon recon couldn’t be found with any certainty in the blackness of night. They’d already had to double back on a dead-end trail taken in error and nearly gotten Sposato’s tank mired in a mucky depression in the process. Now, at 0230, he decided the best course of action was to lay low off the highway until dawn and take his chances finding the way back in broad daylight.

  “We got about four hours until sunrise,” he told both tank crews. “That’s two-hour shifts. Half of us on guard, the rest catch some shut-eye. Everyone stay in the vehicles.”

  “Ahh, come on, Sarge,” Fabiano whined. “It’s hot as a bitch in there. And you guys all smell something awful. A little fresh night air might be nice.”

  “Too fucking bad,” Sean replied. “I don’t need to have to come looking for any of you if things go tits up. And if things get crazy all of a sudden, I don’t want to accidentally run over anybody, either. So you’re all staying inside the Zippos.”

  Fabiano thought about saying, Hell, Crunch, you never worried about running over people before. But he thought the better of it. They were in deep enough shit already. No sense making it worse by antagonizing the man in charge.

  And they could hear another parade of armored vehicles rolling down the highway, the sound of their engines decidedly not American.

  Sylvie hadn’t told Sean the whole truth about where she and her companions were going. They weren’t headed to Vimoutiers. They’d just arrived in the dead of night at their real destination, a small village called Orville on the main rail line. Cautiously, they cycled past the maquis safe house, looking for the blue light in the upstairs window that meant all is well.

  “The light…I see it,” Sylvie said. Per their instructions, they rode into the courtyard behind the house, hid the bikes in the storage shed, and knocked on the back door. A man in late middle age opened it just a crack, allowing the women to see the long scar running down a cheek of his weathered face. He held one arm in an awkward pose that made them sure he was concealing a pistol behind his back. Who the bullets in that pistol were meant for—himself or the Germans coming to arrest him—was better left a mystery.

  Sylvie asked him, “How much is the price of milk today?”

  “More than you can afford,” the man replied. “Would you prefer wine instead?”

  “I never drink wine on an empty stomach.”

  The password ritual completed, he swung the door open and beckoned the three women to come inside as he tucked the pistol—an ungainly Walther broom-handle no doubt taken from a dead German—into his waistband. “I am Pierre,” the man said with an air of great authority. “I am your capitaine now.” He directed the women to seats around a large, bare table.

  Pierre launched into what the Brits and Americans called a pep talk. “You’ve been chosen because you are all thought to be reliable—”

  Sylvie interrupted, “And all the maquisards in your unit have gotten themselves foolishly killed one way or another. Spare us the words of praise and encouragement. They aren’t necessary. Just tell us what we are to do.”

  The other women smirked and nodded in agreement. They were no more willing than Sylvie to be patronized. They’d been through too much to put up with that.

  “Very well,” Pierre said, his tone now dispassionate but no less commanding. He unfolded a map. “We are to sabotage the rail line here”—his fingertip traced a pronounced curve in the tracks halfway between Vimoutiers and Orville—“at the foot of this downhill bend. The Allies try to bomb the tracks in daylight but have yet to cause any serious damage. At least nothing the Boche can’t quickly repair. As a result, far too many of them are reaching the fighting each night, when the troop and supply trains move without fear of attack from the airplanes.”

  Eva, the oldest of the three women at 32—and the coarsest and most cynical by far—asked, “And you need three vagin from Alençon to do this for you? Are you afraid of loud noises, scarface?”

  “No, madame, I certainly am not. But no matter—the only loud noise you will hear is the crash of a train derailing.”

  The three women looked at each other quizzically. Surely he’d meant they were to blow up the tracks with dynamite, as they’d done a few times before. And those times, each step of the process—from detonation to derailment—had been plenty loud.

  “Ahh, I see you don’t understand,” Pierre said. He grabbed a satchel from beneath the table, lifted it with a mighty grunt, and placed it before them. “You will not use explosives. You will use these instead.”

  He turned the satchel over, spilling its contents. An assortment of long, stout wrenches clattered out and came to rest on the tabletop. He watched as recognition of their meaning quickly lit the women’s faces.

  “We’ve found this to be a much more effective method,” Pierre said. “We remove key bolts holding the track sections together. When the locomotive hits those sections…voila. The track separates and the train runs off the rails to ruin.”

  Sylvie asked, “And you will show us where these key bolts are?”

  “Yes. It will take two of us to remove the bolts while the other two act as lookouts.”

  “So there will be Boche guards?”

  “Occasionally. That’s why we need lookouts. But lately, the Boche don’t seem to be able to spare the manpower to guard miles and miles of track. The speed of the train becomes its primary defense…and our greatest ally.”

  The old grandfather clock in the next room chimed three.

  “When will this operation take place?” Sylvie asked.

  “Immediately,” he replied. “The bend is only two miles from here, as you can see. That give us plenty of time to cycle there and do our dirty work under cover of darkness. Are you all armed?”

  Sylvie replied, “With pistols, yes. But perhaps you can supply submachine guns for us?”

  “Of course,” Pierre replied as he loaded the wrenches back into the satchel. “Follow me, vagins.”

  They were at the tracks in less than half an hour. Stashing their bicycles among the trees lining the tracks, they walked to midpoint of the curve. Pierre pointed out the bolts on four rails—32 bolts in all—that were to be rem
oved. “Get them all off and we’ll have maximum results,” he said.

  At the women’s insistence, they drew sticks for who would be the lookouts. Eva and Pierre drew the short ones and trudged off to stand guard from the woods near the top of the curve. Sylvie began to work on the tracks with Dominique, a quiet woman of 26. It took a few minutes to find the correctly sized wrenches and figure out how to exert the necessary torque without the cantankerous tools slipping off the bolt heads and nuts. They quickly realized their arms lacked the strength for the job, but the solid push of a foot, with one’s entire body weight behind it, succeeded in breaking the first bolt free. “Thirty-one more to go,” Sylvie muttered. “The rest will be much easier, now that we know how.”

  She was mostly right. Ten minutes plus several bruised knees and knuckles later, they had 12 of the bolts removed. As they moved on to the 13th bolt, Dominique startled Sylvie by asking, “So your marriage to Bernard is finished?”

  “Merde! Is that common knowledge already?”

  Dominique nodded and then added, “And so is your American lover, that flyer.”

  Merde, Sylvie repeated to herself. In a world where keeping secrets means staying alive, how could these secrets of mine be shattered so easily? Then she laughed at herself, for on one count, the blame was solely hers. At least as far as Tommy Moon is concerned, I should have expected as much, bringing him to Papa’s House like I did. But how did she know about Bernard and me, unless…

  “Dominique, are you sleeping with Bernard, too?”

  Her silence provided the answer.

  “Does your husband know?” Her words were sisterly, not harsh.

  “I don’t think so,” Dominique replied, more in hope than conviction.

  Either the bolts were getting tighter or the two women were tiring faster than they realized. Each stomp on the wrenches was now accompanied by a loud grunt and followed by the need to catch their breath.