Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  “About half a load.”

  “Good. There’s still a little mopping up to do. Hurry on back…and watch your six, Tommy.”

  The tankers of 37th Battalion quickly exploited the successes of the P-47s. By 1000 hours, they had pushed the few miles to the southern and eastern base of Hill 262. They left a killing field of dead soldiers and shattered vehicles from both sides. Once the GIs secured the north side of the hill, the Poles who’d survived the carnage would be rescued and the enemy’s escape route to the east would be sealed. The Germans still fighting to keep that route open were being dealt the full wrath of the American fighter support.

  Now that his tank had returned—alone—to Baker Company, Sean Moon found himself leading a different unit. Captain Newcomb told him, “With the Second and Third Platoons wiped out, we’re down to two. Smitty will take the Second, you take the Fourth.”

  “No lieutenants in charge, sir?”

  “Nope. They’re all gone,” Newcomb replied. “Simpson’s still alive but his war’s over. He’s burned real bad. It’s down to you four-stripers now. By the way, neither one of you has all his tanks, either. The B-17s knocked out three of our Shermans, counting Sposato’s. The Krauts got the rest. But what the bomber jockeys did manage to actually drop on the enemy did a pretty good job. Of course, most of their fucking bombs didn’t hit a damn thing, but that’s par for the course, I guess.”

  “That’s for damn sure, sir,” Sean replied.

  “But the P-47s put those eggs right where we needed them. Tell your brother thanks for me when you see him again. Opened up the playing field like a crowbar.”

  “My brother? You know he was flying one of those jugs?”

  “No, I have no idea. Just guilt by association, I guess. Maybe Lieutenant Webster can tell you for sure.”

  “Do you know where the lieutenant is, sir?”

  “Yeah. He and some of the artillery FOs are headed up Hill Two-Six-Two for a better view. You’ve got some work to do, though, don’t you?”

  “Where the hell are we going now?” Fabiano asked Sean as Eclipse led the two other tanks in Fourth Platoon along a ridgeline road. “Ain’t we done enough for one fucking day?”

  “Apparently not, pal,” Sean replied. “The colonel wants that road junction at the northeast corner behind Two-Six-Two sealed up. He don’t want no surprises when the whole damn division moves up this way. There’s already a couple of infantry companies holding it down, but they’re gonna need some Zippo support if any panzers show their faces.”

  Fabiano shook his head in disgust. “I’ll bet you volunteered us for this shit detail,” he said.

  “I don’t volunteer for nothing, fuckhead. But you and that big mouth of yours just did.” He called to his driver. “Hogan, stop the vehicle.”

  Eclipse clanked to a halt near three abandoned German tanks.

  “Now, Fab,” Sean said, “take a bucketful of them thermite grenades and roast all them tanks the Krauts were so thoughtful to leave unattended.”

  Fabiano didn’t like the sound of that one bit. “I ain’t getting out of this tank. We’re in fucking Indian country. No place to be strolling around with my dick in my hand.”

  “You got a real taste for shit, Fab. Here’s the deal: you can do it the easy way...or you’re gonna do it with my size twelve up your ass. Your choice.”

  Fabiano’s defiant expression and body language would indicate he had no intention of complying. Yet, he was already climbing out of the turret, mumbling, “This is bullshit, Sarge.”

  “Everything we do is bullshit, Fab. You oughta be used to it by now. Now hurry the fuck up. We ain’t got all day.”

  Fabiano opened the case of thermite grenades tied to the aft deck. “And ain’t it unsafe to have these fucking things sitting on the hull like this?”

  “Would you rather have them inside with us? So they can roast our asses before we even have a chance to get out? Keep thinking like that and you ain’t never gonna get your own tank.”

  “I don’t want my own fucking tank, Sarge.”

  “I can live with that, too, Fab. No sweat off my nose.”

  Fabiano walked toward the nearest panzer, his Thompson strapped over his shoulder, his arms laden with grenades.

  “Uh uh, Fab,” Sean called out. “Not that one. Start with the farthest and work your way back, so you don’t have to walk through a firestorm on the return trip. Let’s use a little common sense here.”

  Sean couldn’t hear what Fabiano mumbled in reply over the thrum of Eclipse’s engine, but he imagined it was something like, If you had any common sense, we wouldn’t be doing this shit in the first fucking place.

  Sean called out, “Fabiano, you just volunteered again, didn’t you?”

  Hogan stood up in the driver’s hatch, turned to Sean, and asked, “These Kraut tanks ain’t even damaged. Why the hell’d they just leave them here?”

  “It’s the latest thing, Private,” Sean replied. “They see fighter planes coming, they jump out and take a powder. They’re scared shitless of them planes. Not sure why, though. To hear my brother talk, them flyboys only score hits on stuff by accident.”

  Hogan replied, “I wish they’d take a powder when they see us coming.”

  “Me, too, Hogie. Me, too.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  General Patton seemed more fired up than usual. Enthusiastically slapping General Wood on the back, he said, “I’ll be a son of a bitch, John. Once again, your Fourth Armored has done one hell of a job.”

  Glad for the praise but in no mood to celebrate quite yet, Wood replied, “Thank you, sir, but we haven’t turned the north corner of Two-Six-Two yet…and we’ve gotten the shit kicked out of us just getting to where we are.”

  He might as well have been barking at the moon. Patton’s enthusiasm was undamped as he spread a map across the hood of his jeep. “Ah, but you will, John…and very soon. And when you do, that German exodus is going to turn north like diverting a great river, straight toward Monty. It’s got nowhere else to go. We’ve got them blocked, Bradley’s kicking them in the ass…and Monty’s taking his sweet fucking time joining the fight, as always. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he started backing up when the Germans start coming at him. It’d be just like him.”

  Wood replied, “You really think that would happen, sir?”

  “Hell, yes, I do. That little Limey clerk doesn’t know a damn thing about pursuit. Hell, Ike doesn’t, either, but at least he’s learning. But Monty’s so convinced the sun rises out of his asshole, he’ll never learn a damn thing.”

  “Couldn’t agree with you more on that score, sir,” Wood said.

  “Now listen up, John. You’ll be taking more prisoners than you ever dreamed possible. We’re setting up POW camps outside every town along the Argentan-Gacé highway. The one we set up at Nonant-le-Pin is already full to the gills. Over fifteen thousand of Hitler’s finest in that camp alone. It’s the same story at the camps First Army set up, too. Our engineers are doing nothing but building corrals for them right now.”

  “How many POWs are we expecting, sir?”

  “At least one hundred thousand, John, when all is said and done. Maybe a whole lot more. Hell, we’re talking about a whole Kraut army here…and maybe more. I’m hearing rumors we may bag some of Fifth Panzer Army, too.”

  Wood blew a whistle of surprise, like the sound of a bomb falling.

  “Just keep those POWs out of your way, John, and don’t slow down for anything. Use every admin trooper you got to play prison guard. Don’t you dare take one man off your front line to babysit prisoners, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand,” Wood replied.

  Blue Flight was on their third sortie of the day. Their mission remained the same: protect the right flank of 3rd Army. Despite the abundance of targets on their first two sorties, they’d been lazily orbiting their area of responsibility for 30 minutes with no calls from the ASOs and no Germans in sight.

  “Maybe t
he war ended and they forgot to tell us,” Jimmy Tuttle offered.

  Their headsets spit the reply, “In your dreams, Blue Flight.” It was the voice of Charlie Webster with 37th Tank. He read off a string of coordinates and then added, “Something strange going on over that way. How about doing a little recon for us…and whatever else you feel is righteous?”

  Two minutes later, Blue Flight was over the area Webster identified. At first, Tommy and his pilots saw nothing out of the ordinary, just another patch of hilly French farmland crisscrossed by a few narrow roads that were little more than trails. As Tommy dropped Eclipse lower for a better look, he told his pilots, “Don’t forget—if we get jumped again, pickle those bombs before you try to tangle with them.”

  Despite the tinny, filtered audio quality of their aircraft radios, the tone of an indifferent adolescent came through loud and clear in Tuttle’s voice: “Yes, mother. You really don’t need to tell us that, you know.”

  Descending below a thousand feet, something began to look very strange to Tommy: a mass of gray was flooding over one of the roads, surging to the south like spilled oil.

  At 500 feet there was no doubt what that mass was: German soldiers, hundreds of them, walking slowly—reluctantly—as if on some forced march. Their faces were looking up at Tommy. Some waved their arms. Others waved white flags of surrender.

  “You aren’t going to believe this, guys,” he said, “but there are a bunch of Krauts surrendering to us.”

  “You’re right,” Tuttle replied, “I think you’re pulling my leg. Gotta be some kind of Kraut trick.”

  “I don’t think so, Jimmy. They look pretty keen on surrendering. I’m going to try and wrangle them south. Once they hit the highway, there’s bound to be an American unit to reel them in.”

  “How the hell are you going to wrangle them?”

  “Just watch me.”

  Tommy brought Eclipse around in a full circle that encompassed the Germans. Then, heading south, he flew low over their heads straight down the road, waggling his wings the entire pass as if he was waving back. “There,” he said, “complete with a gesture of good will. Let’s see if they got the message.”

  They did. The Germans trudged off toward the highway, white flags flying. When Tommy advised Charlie Webster of what was coming down the road toward the GIs, the ASO thought his leg was being pulled, too.

  Fifteen minutes later, Blue Flight was back on station with 37th Tank, dropping their bombs on Germans who were definitely not surrendering. In the middle of it all, Webster relayed a message from General Wood: Congratulations! Before today, I’d never seen with my own eyes a case of ground troops surrendering to aircraft. It’s a sure sign we’ve got them beat. Well done!

  The trip would take all afternoon, they were sure. The four maquis—Pierre, Sylvie, Eva, and Dominique—were bicycling from Orville to Vimoutiers. Not that the distance was great—it was just a little over six miles, a trivial stretch to people who pedaled everywhere—but the Boche had the highway totally clogged with men and vehicles in both directions, often forcing them to walk their bikes along the rough shoulder rather than ride. Fresh troops and tanks were trundling toward the fighting just a few miles west, what the Americans were calling the fight for Hill 262. Haggard, exhausted soldiers—the once-proud defenders of Normandy—staggered in the opposite direction, grateful for a moment to have escaped what they, too, had termed the triangle of death. But they knew their salvation would be a short one, for they’d be reorganized into surviving units and thrown back into battle against the Allies somewhere else.

  “Look at them,” Eva said of the escapees, “they’re nothing but tired old men and terrified little boys.” To the annoyance of the other maquis, she hadn’t bother to keep her voice down.

  “Are you trying to get us all killed, woman?” Pierre whispered angrily in her ear.

  “No, I believe that’s your job, monsieur,” she replied, without a hint of the respect the term usually implied.

  “Both of you, be quiet,” Sylvie said. “Why don’t we rest in the shade of those trees over there for a little while?”

  Eva and Dominique liked that idea very much. They were already pushing their bikes that way when Pierre protested, “We cannot stop. We’re already late.”

  Sylvie faced the highway and spread her arms wide, a gesture meant to take in the scope and impassibility of the traffic snarl before them. “There is nothing we can do about being late,” she said. “If they can’t wait for us, let them do whatever they have in mind without us.” She looked up at the gathering clouds and said, “I’m a bit surprised the American planes haven’t attacked. Once it gets overcast, they’ll have missed their chance. Such a shame…the Boche look like such easy targets on this road.”

  Finding a shady spot to her liking, Eva parked her bike against a tree and lay down in the grass, luxuriating in the refreshing coolness. Sylvie and Dominique quickly joined her. Pierre remained standing, nervously smoking a cigarette. He cast an eye skyward and warned, “Sylvie is right about one thing—the weather will change very soon. You know how summer afternoons can be.”

  “So what? We’ve been wet before,” Eva replied, cackling at her double entendre.

  Sylvie and Dominique couldn’t help but smile.

  “You’re disgusting,” Sylvie said, pretending to scold but failing miserably to sound serious.

  Eva suddenly stopped laughing. Her head reared back like a snake about to strike. “Is that so?” she snarled. “That’s a very interesting comment from someone who whored for the Boche.”

  Dominique slid between them. “That’s not true, Eva. You know she was—”

  “Shut up, Dominique,” Sylvie interrupted. “I can fight my own battles.”

  “Pretty young thing,” Eva taunted. “Those Boche couldn’t keep themselves from planting their filthy pricks between your legs, could they?”

  “I played the part I was told to play. Nobody was at greater risk than me. And you’re all still alive because I played the part so well.”

  Eva spit on the ground in disgust. “Such merde. You loved every minute of it.”

  “I hated every minute of it, Eva.”

  “Rubbish. Your connard of a husband loved every minute of it, too, I’ll bet.”

  Sylvie thought that one over for a few moments. Then, without a hint of anger, she replied, “You’re probably right on that score, Eva.”

  They realized Pierre was looking on, his mouth agape, his face a ghostly shade of white. He’d overheard the entire exchange. He looked so shocked, so scandalized, so ridiculous, that they couldn’t help themselves. The women collapsed flat on the ground, laughing hysterically.

  Once she could catch her breath, Sylvie said to him, “War is hell, no? Or didn’t you realize?”

  Pierre had no reply. He just walked away into the woods, hoping, perhaps, not to hear any more.

  Eva asked, “So tell me, Sylvie, with all that fucking, did you ever get pregnant?”

  “No, not once.”

  “You must have used some very good prophylactiques, then. Certainly not those Boche or French abominations that feel like barbed wire scraping out your vagin.”

  With an air of embarrassment, Dominique asked, “What’s wrong with French prophylactiques?”

  Sylvie snapped her reply: “Oh, is that what my husband used with you?” She watched the look of alarm spread across Dominique’s face, letting the thunderous silence grow for a moment before adding, with an apologetic smile, “I’m only joking with you, Dominique.” She leaned over and gave the trembling woman a hug. “No hard feelings, please?”

  “Only men get hard feelings,” Eva chimed in, reveling in the double entendre once again, “and the bastards get them all the fucking time. But you never answered my question about the prophylactiques, Sylvie.”

  “There is no answer. I didn’t use any. It wasn’t necessary. Not for me.”

  The silence loomed between the women once again until Eva took Sylvie in he
r motherly arms. “Oh, I’m so sorry, mon amie. Are you positive you can’t conceive?”

  “Three doctors say so.”

  On the verge of tears, Dominique whispered, “That is so sad.”

  “No, it really isn’t,” Sylvie replied. “For now, it’s been a blessing. But I don’t know how I’ll feel about it later, though, when everything is different.”

  Blue Flight wouldn’t get to fly a fourth sortie that day. Thunderstorms were sweeping across Hill 262 and the battlegrounds surrounding it. All the squadrons supporting 3rd Army were grounded until they passed and the skies cleared.

  “It’s a damn shame,” Colonel Pruitt told his pilots. “Patton had his sights set on securing Hill Two-Six-Two before sunset today. But since the weather’s preventing us from flying maximum effort in support, that one final push is going to have to wait until tomorrow. Be ready for wheels up at sunrise. Have a good night, gentlemen.”

  “Ain’t that great news?” Jimmy Tuttle said. “We’ve got plenty of time to go have supper and a few beers in Alençon and still grab a couple of hours’ sleep before breaking ground again. The hell with the officers’ mess.”

  “Yeah,” Tommy replied, “sounds like a great idea. I’ll catch up with you guys in a bit. I want to check a couple of things over with Sergeant McNulty first.”

  He found the crew chief at the supply shed, rummaging through stacks of sheet metal. “Your Lieutenant Sample is a lucky man,” McNulty said. “There are exactly seventeen holes in his aft fuselage. It’s a fucking miracle nothing important got hit. It’s all just tin damage. I trust you gave him a right earful, sir?”

  “Yeah, I don’t think he’ll be leaving our ass end uncovered like that again. Not if he can help it, anyway.”

  McNulty was holding out something in his hand. Tommy didn’t recognize it for a few moments. Then it hit him: It’s my rearview mirror.