Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  As Eclipse plowed onward toward her unit and Hill 262, Sean fought back his tears. A bitter voice in his head said, Like it ain’t hard enough just fighting the fucking Krauts…

  But what’s the damn difference? It’s just a matter of time.

  The heavy bombers had done their worst and were headed back to England. Now it was time for the fighters to reclaim the sky over Hill 262. Tommy Moon slid into Eclipse of the Hun’s cockpit as Sergeant McNulty completed the last of the preflight checks.

  “Okay, sir,” McNulty said, leaning into the cockpit. “You’re good to go.” He thrummed his fingers against the top of the windshield frame, where the rear view mirror Tommy had insisted he remove used to be. “Keep an eye on your six,” he added. “With that mirror gone, you’re gonna have to do a whole lotta head swiveling. And you’d better, too, because I’d like all that hard work me and my boys put in on this bird to last a while.”

  “As do I, Sergeant. As do I. Who’s going to ride the wing for taxi-out?”

  “I thought I’d do it myself today, if that’s okay with you, sir.”

  “It’d be my pleasure to have you along,” Tommy replied.

  The safety man gave the clear to start signal as McNulty lay prone on the wing, his head over the leading edge. Tommy completed the pre-start checklist and engaged the starter. The big radial chugged to life with the usual cloud of bluish smoke. Chocks were pulled from the wheels, the throttle bumped up, and she began her slow roll. With a sharp left turn on McNulty’s hand signal, Eclipse took her place in line on the taxiway.

  It had been SOP for quite some time to have a guide ride the wing while taxiing. The pilot of a P-47 couldn’t see a blessed thing over the ship’s nose with the tail wheel sitting on the ground. Once some speed was gained on the takeoff role and the tail came up, he could finally see straight ahead. But a man on the wingtip during taxi always had an unobstructed view forward. Using hand signals, he’d guide the pilot to the runway threshold, then drop off and join the other ships’ guides in the truck that shuttled them back to the ramp.

  Before they began using the wingtip guides for taxi, the old procedure had been for the ship to s-turn back and forth across the taxiway as she moved forward. It afforded some semblance of a forward view at the 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock positions. But even then, there were big blind spots. Occasionally, a pilot got his rudder slashed to ribbons by the now-mangled prop of the plane behind, scrubbing both ships from the mission. Even more pilots put a wheel off the taxiway while zigzagging and got stuck in the soft mud, holding up the conga line of trailing ships as grumbling ground crews dug the mired plane out. And all that weaving back and forth wasted a lot of precious aviation gasoline. Tommy’s squadron—the 301st—hadn’t used the s-turn procedure since their first months in England.

  Eclipse was at the runway threshold now, the next to take off. Tommy braked Eclipse to a stop so his wing rider could hop off. Rather than give the customary salute before leaving, though, McNulty offered what seemed a melancholy wave goodbye, as if he wasn’t expecting to see Tommy for a long time. Or ever again.

  At first, Tommy was amused, as if it was all some act the ground crewmen had cooked up. What’s Sarge playing at? he asked himself.

  All of a sudden, it wasn’t funny at all. A little unnerved, Tommy asked himself another question: What does that son of a bitch know that I don’t?

  But there was no time to ponder unanswerable questions. He steered Eclipse onto the runway, locked the tailwheel, opened the throttle, and began the mad dash to get his heavily laden ship airborne.

  Chapter Forty-One

  10, Downing Street,

  Whitehall

  August 18, 1944

  MOST SECRET

  My Dear Montgomery,

  I feel the need to supplement our telephone conversation of August 16 with a few heartfelt thoughts that I am sure are in the best interests of this critical allied endeavour in which we are all so deeply involved. As I stated at that time, your opinions of General Eisenhower’s abilities as Supreme Commander are well noted. But I must remind you once again of the significance of the word “supreme.” Your statement that Eisenhower’s “ignorance on how to run a war is absolute and complete” is far too easy to discount and does our collective cause no favours.

  I urge you, dear fellow, to take whatever pains necessary to appreciate that there are often higher priorities than the ones in which we toil day to day. In those higher priorities, we often find political factors that are every bit as important as those of pure military consequence.

  Field Marshall Brooke shares my opinion that in the campaign you are currently waging the initiative has passed from your command to the forces of our American allies. While we may not always agree with the direction our American friends take, and we may occasionally have no choice but to reward their failures, we must never be seen as trying to punish their successes.

  Therefore, your request to initiate a review of the Supreme Commander’s stewardship at the highest levels of state will not be pursued by His Majesty’s government. But take heart, Monty, and remember that while all good things come to those who wait, your wait may not be as long as you fear.

  Winston Churchill

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The clouds that had hindered the 8th Air Force heavy bombers just an hour earlier were breaking up now, their remnants pushed eastward toward Germany by the steady prevailing wind. The pilots of Blue Flight had a far better view of the ground—and the fleeing Germans—than the bombardiers who came before them had experienced.

  The eager rookie flying Blue Three—Lieutenant Bobby Sample—could barely contain his excitement at the spectacle unfolding below. “Look at those Krauts!” he blurted into his microphone. “It’s like a traffic jam down there! You won’t even have to aim. You’re bound to hit something. That briefing officer wasn’t kidding when he called it the triangle of death.”

  That name was proving quite appropriate. The triangle was 10 square miles bounded by two towns—Trun and Chambois—and Hill 262. Within that three-sided hell, the fleeing Germans seemed bumper to bumper, shoulder to shoulder. Their exodus looked like a river of feldgrau surging eastward, being decimated by Allied artillery and then slamming against the dam of ever-strengthening American forces and the battered Poles still clinging to the hill.

  “Knock off the chatter, Three,” Tommy scolded, “and don’t get any ideas about shooting them up, either. They’re the artillery’s job, not ours. Stay well clear of the triangle unless you want to get knocked down by our own guns. Those shells won’t care what they hit. We’ve got other fish to fry, anyway.”

  Other fish to fry: protecting Patton’s wide open right flank. His headlong advance to close the Falaise Gap had turned 3rd Army into a narrow salient over 10 miles long, curving north toward the British lines still miles away. The left flank of that salient faced the fleeing and panic-stricken former defenders of Normandy. They were still a formidable fighting force, just like any cornered creature, but they were quickly running out of ammunition and hope.

  The Germans the 3rd Army faced on their right flank, where Colonel Abrams’ 37th Tank Battalion was one of the units holding the line, were a different story entirely. Heavy in armor, well supplied and with room to maneuver, they were determined to slice through the American offensive and allow the breakout of their trapped comrades. Only the fighters of XIX Tactical Air Command were available to cover Patton’s right flank. The four P-47s of Tommy Moon’s Blue Flight were just a small part of that covering force.

  The radio was alive with the familiar voices of 301st Fighter Squadron pilots serving as ASOs. Herb Clinchmore was one of them. He would’ve been flying Blue Four right now had not his loudly expressed lack of empathy for the ground troops singled him out for some on-the-job training. I don’t care if he was drunk when he said it, Tommy told himself. He had it coming…and it’ll do him good.

  It sounded like Clinchmore’s education was progressing nicely;
he was already hard at work directing air support for 5th Infantry Division, guiding jugs from another squadron to attacks on the highway junctions south of Survie.

  Charlie Webster was on the air, too. The sound of his voice sent a chill down Tommy’s spine: Where Webster is, so’s my brother. And voices don’t lie…when the pitch goes up an octave, they’re in one hell of a fight.

  “Roger, Halfback,” Tommy transmitted, “copy your coordinates, target concentrated vehicles with armor. Can you mark me a target line?”

  “Negative, negative on the line, Gadget Blue. Things are a little crazy right now. Point marking only, yellow smoke. Come in top to bottom, okay?”

  Top to bottom: attack out of the north. Less chance of hitting the GIs to the west that way.

  With one terse transmission, Tommy organized Blue Flight for the attack run. Samples, the rookie flying Blue Three, would stay on his wing. Jimmy Tuttle, in Blue Two, would lead the other rookie in Blue Four, Lieutenant Ray Esposito.

  Tommy and his rookie flew one high orbit over the target area to get oriented. Tuttle led Esposito around a wider orbit to buy time and distance behind Blue Leader’s run. But Tommy’s view of the melee below was troubling. Every tank and truck—American or German—looked alike from the air. And Webster’s target marking wasn’t helping distinguish them: Yellow smoke, my ass. The only smoke I see is gray or black. I wish to hell they had the spare guns to give me a line in the sky.

  “Halfback, this is Blue Leader. I need more smoke, and with a splash this time. Can’t tell you guys down there apart.”

  “Roger, coming right up. Stand by.”

  Tommy banked Eclipse hard for a wider view of the ground. Any second now…

  It took almost another full orbit before Webster reported, “Splash, over.”

  One one thousand, two one thousand, three—

  There it was, a tiny puff of smoke barely distinguishable as yellow.

  If I take my eyes off it, I’m going to lose it.

  “Blue Three from Leader. Stay with me, Bobby. We’re going in. Pickle ’em all at once on my mark.”

  “Roger.”

  Tommy nosed her over into a descent for glide bombing, a brisk enough downhill ride but not as breathtaking as the screaming plummet of dive-bombing, where the pointers of the altimeter seemed to be spinning right off the post. He figured it would be a safer initiation for a rookie: I shouldn’t have to worry about him getting so target fixated he doesn’t remember to pull out until it’s too late.

  Passing through 3000 feet, the sunlight began to play off the battlefield smoke, turning it a satiny gray that masked the yellow marker and obscured Tommy’s view of the ground. He could still make out the shapes of vehicles—but they could be anyone’s vehicles now. I think I’ve got a good enough reference point for the drop, though. And Webster says we’re right on the target line…so even if I miss, I won’t kill anyone I’m not supposed to.

  That last thought echoed in his head, a troubling question now instead of a statement: I won’t kill anyone I’m not supposed to?

  But there was no time for questions like that, only decisiveness. “On my mark, Bobby…three, two, one, RELEASE.”

  He pushed the button on the control stick that salvoed her bombs—the pickle switch. Eclipse lurched upward, suddenly 1500 pounds lighter as her three bombs fell away.

  Climbing out, Tommy asked, “You still with me, Three?”

  A breathless voice replied, “Roger, still here.”

  Tommy looked over his right shoulder, where Sample was supposed to be. But he saw no one.

  “Where exactly are you, Bobby?”

  “I’m back here on your six.”

  “Get up on my right wingtip, where you belong, dammit. We ain’t playing follow the leader.”

  A few seconds later, Sample’s voice went from breathless to terrified. “OH MY GOD, THEY’RE EVERYWHERE! SHIT! SHIT! GET ’EM OFF ME!”

  Then it was Tuttle’s voice in Tommy’s earphones, agitated but at least not panicking. “We’ve got bandits, Tommy. FWs are all over the place.”

  His head swiveled from side to side but he couldn’t see anything behind him, not a jug, not a Focke-Wulf 190, either. He instinctively glanced up to where the mirror used to be, forgetting for a moment he’d ordered it removed. Then he cursed it and himself: “Fucking thing would’ve been fogged up, anyway.”

  Getting caught in a climb was the last place he wanted to be. He reminded himself that jugs better be able to dive because they certainly won’t climb.

  And his out-of-position wingman had put himself in a trap from which neither he nor Tommy could provide easy relief.

  “Bobby, are you still climbing?”

  In the high-pitched shriek of a frightened child, Sample replied, “Yeah, yeah, I am.”

  “Do a split-s out of there right fucking now.”

  Tommy put Eclipse into a diving right turn, hoping for a better view and a chance to help his hapless wingman. He never picked up Sample’s diving plane, but he didn’t have to look very hard for the Focke-Wulf. It sped right over his canopy, apparently trying to match Eclipse’s turn but going too fast to achieve it.

  That put Tommy right on his tail, but only for a second. The German kicked his rudder left and right a few times, fish-tailing his ship in an attempt to create confusion which direction he’d turn. Then he broke hard right.

  This guy’s no rookie. But I think I can keep up with him.

  “Blue Three from Blue Leader, what’s your status?”

  There was no response.

  “Blue Two from Blue Leader, are you guys okay, Jimmy?”

  “Affirmative,” Tuttle replied. “I think we scared a couple of ’em away.”

  “Any sign of Sample?”

  “Negative. You need help?”

  “Could sure use some, but find Sample first.”

  “Roger. Where are you, Tommy?”

  “I’m not sure. East of you, I think, at angels six. Working my ass off trying to get a bead on this guy.”

  “Don’t see you. You going up or down?”

  “Up, at the moment.”

  Up took Tommy and the Focke-Wulf into a lingering deck of patchy clouds. The German plane could outclimb a P-47, but this pilot seemed reluctant to try, instead leading his pursuer on a twisting, turning rollercoaster ride across the sky.

  Maybe he’s their leader, and he’s afraid to get too far from his rookies and leave them to the wolves. Good thing these clouds aren’t too thick or I’d lose him for sure.

  So far, Tommy had squeezed off three short bursts, to no apparent effect. Wasted rounds, dammit. I’m not close enough.

  The Focke-Wulf broke left. It only took a second for Tommy to realize why: there was a bank of cumulus building in that direction, fluffing higher and wider by the minute. Once a stalked plane vanished into those clouds, its pursuer would have no idea where it might come out.

  Gotta cut off his turn.

  He pushed her throttle to the stop. Then he gingerly grabbed the supercharger lever.

  I know I’m not supposed to do this, but…

  He inched the lever up, watching the supercharger and prop rpm gauges climb to their red lines.

  The roar of her engine took on a frightening, higher-pitched tone Tommy had never heard before. Eclipse leaped ahead like a scalded cat, closing the distance on the German in seconds.

  Tommy fired another burst. He could see the flashes of bullet strikes on the Focke-Wulf’s aft fuselage. She didn’t falter, just reversed direction rapidly and headed up toward the peaks of the clouds.

  It was all stick-and-rudder instinct from that point on. The two planes twisted and turned, vanishing for a second in downy puffs of cumulus, only to reappear and the dizzy dance continue.

  The German kept going higher. I guess he’s finally trying to outclimb me, Tommy thought. He fingered the supercharger lever again: Do I dare?

  They must have been climbing almost straight up. There was no reference to judge
the aircraft’s attitude, and the airspeed was bleeding off rapidly. The clouds had erased the Earth’s horizon; the artificial horizon in Eclipse’s cockpit was pegged uselessly against its stops.

  The only thing that matters now is I get a good shot at this Kraut before we both stall.

  Eclipse’s controls were getting mushy, making it almost impossible to line up the German in his gunsight. He’d never seen an airspeed indicator read that low on an aircraft that was still—technically—flying. But she wouldn’t be flying much longer; the pre-stall buffeting had begun.

  Just give me one damn shot!

  He thought he had it. The Focke-Wulf slid into the gunsight’s reticle. Before Tommy could squeeze the trigger, his prey suddenly went straight up and out of view.

  UP? What the fuck is going—

  And then the answer struck him like a brick between the eyes:

  We’re inverted. The Kraut stalled first. He didn’t fall up. He fell down…just like I’m about to do if I don’t get this nose level and roll upright.

  By the time Tommy recovered his plane and broke out below the cloud deck, he was alone in the sky. The Focke-Wulf was gone.

  “Blue Two from Blue Leader, you guys okay?”

  “We’re good. We got Sample back in the fold, too. Did you score?”

  “Negative,” Tommy replied. “You still in the target box?”

  “Affirmative. Where are you?”

  That was a good question. He’d been trying to figure that one out since the ground came back into view. But at least now he could see the smoke from the battle around Hill 262. “Looks like I’m about ten miles east. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. How’d we do with the bombing? I haven’t been paying attention.”

  “We did outstanding work,” Tuttle replied. “The dogfaces will be buying our beer tonight, that’s for damn sure. Got any rounds left?”