Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  As the 16th bolt broke free, Sylvie said, “Don’t worry, Dominique. Your secret is safe with me, at least.”

  They loosened two more. Dominique, who was kneeling with one knee against a rail, suddenly stood up, ramrod straight. “The track,” she said. “It’s shaking. Feel it.”

  Sylvie laid her hand on the rail, feeling the faint but steady vibration, like a mild electric shock running up her arm. She strained to hear the metallic clacking of the approaching train, but only the constant murmur of big guns miles to the west rode the night breeze.

  “We must work faster,” Sylvie said.

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” Dominique replied, struggling against the dead weight of the wrench to engage the next bolt. With all the exhausting effort, their tools now felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. “We’ll never get all four sections loose.”

  “But we can finish three, I’m sure,” Sylvie replied.

  “Is that enough?”

  “It’ll have to be.”

  Three sections, Sylvie told herself. That’s twenty-four bolts. Only five more to go.

  Adrenaline had kicked in, giving both women strength they hadn’t realized they possessed. They’d loosened three more bolts when Eva came running from the trees, waving her arms in warning. “It’s coming,” she said. “We can see the glow of its headlight down the straightaway.”

  Sylvie asked, “How far?”

  “A mile. Maybe a little more.”

  Dominique dropped her wrench into the satchel. “Wait,” Sylvie told her, “We’ve got at least two minutes before it gets here. And we only need a minute to get away into the woods.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “If you’re not going to help me, at least leave me your fucking wrench.”

  Dominique was about to do just that: drop the tool at Sylvie’s feet and run off. But she hesitated and then changed her mind. She returned to their work, her wrench once again in concert with Sylvie’s. Together, they quickly broke another one free.

  “Last one,” Sylvie said as they moved to the final bolt. But it wouldn’t budge.

  The sections they’d already loosened weren’t just vibrating anymore; they were rattling loudly as the train, still invisible somewhere beyond the curve, grew closer.

  Eva was pacing frantically in place, casting nervous glances up the track. “Come on, you stupid cows! Run! There’s no need to die for that shithead Pierre!”

  The rattling of the loosened sections grew louder, more urgent, like the angry drone of a buzzer announcing time’s up.

  “SHUT YOUR BIG MOUTH AND HELP US, EVA,” Sylvie said, straining as their feet pushed against the unyielding wrenches.

  For a moment, they thought Eva would simply abandon them and seek the safety of the woods. But to their surprise, she suddenly lunged at Dominique’s wrench, hurling her body weight full against it. The collision sent all three women sprawling.

  But it did the trick: Sylvie spun the loosened nut off the bolt. When it came free, it dropped to the track bed and began bouncing about like dice in a shaken cup. It wasn’t just the loose track sections rattling anymore; the ground was trembling beneath their feet.

  They could hear the screech and growl of steel against steel now, but the wooded curve prevented them from seeing the locomotive. “Go! Go!” Sylvie said, scooping up the two wrenches as if they were suddenly feather-light. On the dead run, she was the last to make it to the cover of the trees, getting there just as the train entered the curve.

  It popped into view like a one-eyed phantom, its headlight piercing the night, the dark outlines of the locomotive and cars creating an ominous sense of invincible power. It seemed to be hurtling much too fast, closing the distance to the loosened track sections in the blink of an eye.

  When it reached those sections, there was no discernible change in the locomotive’s momentum; the only sign something might be awry was a brief shower of sparks from beneath the drive wheels. It kept plowing forward as if the sabotaged rails were nothing more than a mere inconvenience.

  But then, as the three women looked on in wide-eyed amazement, the silhouette of the locomotive began to shift, growing inexplicably shorter until they realized what was happening: the locomotive was heeling over like a sailboat in a strong wind. It hung in that angular limbo for a moment that seemed like an eternity, and then it crashed on its side to the earth beside the track, sliding along like a felled behemoth on ice, tearing down sturdy trees in its way as if they were matchsticks. If it was slowing, the women couldn’t tell.

  The cars behind the locomotive fared no better. Following the locomotive’s ruinous course, the first few in trail were dragged from the tracks, the wooden superstructure of the cars shredding themselves to the timbers from which they were built as they toppled. The rest of the train uncoupled from the forward contingent and, as they reached the sabotaged rails, each car derailed in turn. They piled into the accumulating wreckage at trackside and flew apart, disassembled by violent forces of impact they were never intended to withstand. To Sylvie, the hiss of escaping steam and the crunch of the cars’ sequential disintegration sounded just like the ancient thresher on her uncle’s farm as it slashed through the wheat—only a thousand times louder.

  Pierre joined the women midway through the train’s orgy of destruction. Once the entire train had left the tracks, he asked, “How many cars?”

  Sylvie replied, “Who knows? Fifteen? Twenty? All we know is they are all destroyed.”

  “I guess three sections of track were enough,” Dominique said.

  “Three was all you women could manage?” Pierre said, as if scolding children.

  “Yes,” Sylvie replied, her tone defiant. “Is there some problem with that?”

  “No, there’s no problem because you were very lucky, madame. Very lucky, indeed.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it,” she replied. “It was simple physics.”

  They lingered for a few minutes to see if any survivors emerged from the rubble. If there were, though, the darkness was protecting them. The symphony of demolition which had filled the air as the train wrecked itself was reduced to nothing more than a one-note postscript: the shiiissshhh of steam escaping from the mortally wounded locomotive. “Let’s take our victory and get out of here,” Pierre said.

  Back at the safe house in Orville, Pierre said, “Try and get some sleep, ladies. There’ll be much more for you to do in the coming days.”

  “Good idea,” Sylvie replied. “Where should we sleep?”

  “There are mattresses in the basement for—”

  “No, absolutely not,” she replied. “Basements are traps if the Boche come. We’ll sleep on the main floor.”

  Eva and Dominique stepped behind her, the three forming a phalanx of defiance.

  Pierre adopted a defiant pose of his own. “Are you women always so impertinent to your capitaine?”

  “It’s not a question of impertinence,” Sylvie replied. “It’s one of experience. We women have been killing the Boche for four years now, and we’re all still alive. That’s more than we can say for the men of your unit, I believe.”

  Eva added, “And Sylvie has given more of herself for France than any man ever could, scarface. Unless, of course, you like the Boche up your—”

  Sylvie cut her off. “That’s enough, Eva. Let’s not spit on the capitaine’s hospitality before we’ve had a chance to enjoy it.”

  Pierre began to worry he’d need to sleep with one eye open. He’d been expecting novices, women who wore the black beret and but did little more than clean up after the maquis men. These women, however, possessed the poise, confidence, and knowledge of experienced fighters. And they appeared to have no qualms at all about killing; they’d been baptized in blood long ago. They’d be just as adept at knifing him in his sleep as killing the Boche. Perhaps the question of sleeping quarters wasn’t so important, after all.

  “Fine,” he said. “Sleep wherever you like, mesdames.
”

  Chapter Forty

  The dawn was breaking, allowing Sean Moon the first real look at the place he had decided to lay up his tanks for the night. He was shocked to find the trees he’d considered good concealment in the darkness of night were little more than ornamental. Both of his tanks were in plain view from all directions, including the sky. They were much too close to the highway, as well.

  This whole damn thing looks like some rookie mistake, he told himself. But he couldn’t beat himself up too badly; lots of experienced troopers had made breathtakingly bad errors in the dark: Like that artillery battery on the Cotentin that had one gun laid backward from the other five. Damn thing had to fire a round for them to realize their mistake…and that round landed right in the middle of our bivouac. We were damn lucky nobody bought it.

  “Drop the cocks and grab the socks, boys,” he said as he roused those crewmen whose turn it had been to sleep and one whose turn it hadn’t been, his assistant driver, Linz.

  “Welcome to Sergeant Moon’s shit list, Linz,” Sean said as he shook the man awake.

  “Gee, Sarge…I must’ve just dozed off. Really, I—”

  “Save it, Linz,” Sean replied. There were so many more threatening things he could say right now about the punishments for sleeping on guard duty, but they all seemed to pale in comparison to the danger they were in. He was sure every man in his crew—himself included—would rather be in the stockade than where they were at the moment, alone in this no man’s land.

  And there was the sound of more vehicles coming up the road. “We gotta get the hell outta here, Sean,” Iggy Sposato yelled. “We’re wide open to get creamed.”

  “Calm down, Iggy. Just listen.”

  There was something about the sound of the engines. They weren’t German.

  “Sounds like Dodge deuce-and-a-halves to me,” Sean said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Let’s fucking hope so.”

  Sean climbed onto his tank’s turret. “Hogan,” he said to his driver, “pull her onto the road, with her right side facing that oncoming traffic.”

  “Are you sure, Sarge?” Hogan replied. “You want to show ’em our flank? Friendly or not, they could put a round right through us that way.”

  “I want ’em to see that big white star on her side. Now get moving.”

  Hogan did as he was told, but his fears made it far from easy. He ground her gears badly before Eclipse started to move. Once he stopped her in the middle of the road as Sean had ordered, he slid down in his seat and pulled his hatch closed, putting as much steel as he could between himself and the mayhem he expected any second.

  Linz, manning the machine gun across from the driver, asked, “What are you doing, Charlie? They ain’t gonna shoot. They’re waving like they’re real happy to see us, for cryin’ out loud.”

  An American captain came bounding from the column to the tank. “Sure am glad to see you, Sergeant,” he yelled up to Sean in the turret. “You must be from the tank support we’re to meet up the road.”

  Sean eased himself through the hatch and onto the deck. “You’re the second officer who’s told me that since yesterday, sir. But I’m here to tell you the answer’s still no. We ain’t those guys.”

  Sean couldn’t decide if the captain was annoyed or confused. As if unsure what to say or do next, he glanced back at his trucks stopped on the road. They were just a long line of soft targets, full of infantrymen and supplies, vulnerable to just about everything. Thirty-caliber machine guns were their heaviest weapons. A few panzers could decimate them.

  “Maybe you could come along and help us out, anyway, Sergeant.” It was spoken as a statement, not a question.

  “No can do, sir. We’re a recon team, and we were supposed to be back with our unit hours ago. Love to help you out, but—”

  “Hang on just a damn minute, Sergeant. If you’re recon, what can you tell me about the road ahead to Vimoutiers?”

  “I can tell you it’s crawling with Kraut armor, sir. Couple of battalions passed this way during the night.”

  The captain unfurled his map against Eclipse’s sloping front armor, using his fingers as a ruler, sliding them from the scale in the corner to a point on a road. Looking over his shoulder, Sean knew it was the wrong road. He leaned in and planted the tip of his forefinger on their actual location.

  “This ain’t the Gacé-Vimoutiers highway, sir. You’re way the hell over here.”

  Now the captain really looked confused. “That can’t be, Sergeant.”

  “Afraid it is, sir. You missed a turn back there somewhere.”

  The captain puzzled over the map for a few moments, and then said, “But this road goes to Vimoutiers, too. How many tanks have you got?”

  “Just two, sir, and like I said, we’ve gotta get—”

  “Never mind that, Sergeant. Put your tanks at the front of my column and lead us up the road.”

  “Sir, I just told you this road’s crawling with Kraut tanks. Two li’l ol’ Zippos ain’t gonna help you a damn bit.”

  “I’m giving you a direct order, Sergeant.”

  Sean climbed onto Eclipse’s deck. “Ain’t gonna happen, sir.”

  “Goddammit, Sergeant, I said I just gave you a direct order!”

  Sliding into his turret hatch, Sean replied, “Then I guess I’m giving you a direct refusal, Captain.”

  “What’s your name, Sergeant? I’m going to have your ass court-martialed.”

  “The name’s Mouse, sir. Michael. No middle name.”

  “Spell that, Sergeant.”

  “Standard spelling, sir. M-O-U-S-E.”

  The captain had written down the first few letters in his little notebook before he realized just how hard his leg was being pulled: Michael NMN Mouse. Mickey Mouse.

  Eclipse was already backing away, the captain chasing after her, yelling over the roar of her engine, “WHO IS YOUR COMMANDING OFFICER, YOU INSUBORDINATE SON OF A BITCH?”

  “SAME AS YOURS, SIR,” Sean yelled back. “FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT.”

  In the light of day, Sean quickly found the trail that had eluded him in darkness, the one that would lead them back to 4th Armored. He told his crew, “Now we’re cooking with gas. We’ll be home before you know it, boys.”

  He expected an enthusiastic response from his crew but got none. For a moment, he wondered why. And then it hit him: Maybe my choice of words wasn’t that great. A Zippo can turn into an oven in a heartbeat. Nobody who rides around in one wants to think about cooking or gas…or any of that burning shit.

  At 4th Armored’s HQ, General Wood looked up at the sky with a growing uneasiness. The heavy bombers of the 8th Air Force were coming—they should be overhead any minute—and the low cumulus clouds which hung overhead would be anything but conducive to accurate, high-altitude bombing. The general thought those clouds resembled broad, flat swaths of cotton bandage roughly torn from a roll, leaving them with jagged holes in many places. Maybe those holes would be enough for the bombardiers above those clouds to see the ground clearly and drop their bombs on target.

  Or maybe not.

  He turned to Colonel Abrams and said, “I hear tell Monty asked to have this bombing raid called off because of the cloud cover. Ike gave him a flat out no. Said his Brits would actually have to be close enough to be in danger from an off-target drop…and they certainly aren’t close. The Supreme Commander got that one dead on the mark.”

  His head bowed as if at a funeral, Wood paused before adding, “But those poor Polish bastards…they’re certainly close enough. Hell, they’re right in the damn middle of it all.”

  Abrams replied, “We might be, too, sir, depending on how bad their aim is.”

  Sean figured they were halfway to 4th Armored when the sky began to darken. It wasn’t due to the weather; there seemed to be an armada of aircraft—an aluminum overcast—above the layer of patchy clouds. He couldn’t hear the low-pitched hum of their engines over the noises of his tank. But he coul
d see them—a big B-17 here, a few more there—through the gaps in the cloud deck. Some of those planes would pass right overhead.

  “They’re our guys,” he told his crew. There were cheers in response.

  They were still cheering when Sean saw the first sticks of bombs plummeting downward. It was too late to do anything but button up the tanks. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

  Each collision of bomb with earth felt like the tank was being struck by a giant mallet. Shrapnel bounced off her hull, sounding like driven rain on a tin roof to the tankers inside. They clamped their hands against the earphones of their helmets to keep the pressure surge of the blasts from rupturing their eardrums. They wished they had third hands to clamp over their crotches, because it felt like they were being kicked in the testicles by a mule. Squeezing their thighs together would have to suffice.

  It all lasted less than a minute. The blasts became distant; a drumbeat of death by steel marching quickly away. Sean popped open his turret hatch to have a look outside.

  Eclipse looked like she’d been sandblasted, the surfaces of her turret and hull scored deeply in countless places. Some of the track sections they’d hung on her front and sides—both as spare parts and a little extra steel between themselves and enemy fire—were either badly mangled or gone completely, having sacrificed themselves to save the hull beneath.

  But when he turned rearward to check on Sposato’s tank, his stomach gave a sickening lurch. Anytime, Baby—or what was left of her—was stopped dead about 100 yards behind. Her scorched turret lay nearby, upside down like an overturned turtle. The foredeck of her hull looked like it had been cleaved open by an ax. Flames roared from that rupture and the big, empty ring where her turret had once been attached. Every few seconds, the flames would yield to a fireball which shot dense gray smoke and sizzling metal fragments skyward as more of her ammunition cooked off in the blaze.

  Sean knew what had happened to her: Some fucking bombardier got himself a direct hit. A one-in-a-million shot, but on the wrong damn target. What the Brits call an “own goal.” They’ll probably give that fucking bomber jockey a medal for it, too.