Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  “You sure you don’t want me to stick this back on, sir?”

  “No, Sarge. I’m fine without it. Really.”

  McNulty tossed the mirror back onto a shelf. “As you wish, sir. You still happy with the extra bomb instead of the rockets, too?”

  “Blissfully happy, Sarge. They actually land pretty damn close to where you’re aiming.”

  “You know, Lieutenant, I saw the tech specs for the new five-inch rocket insulations coming down the pipe.”

  “You mean installations, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. I’m telling you, sir…they look slicker than snot. Got the imprint of a one-oh-five cannon, too.”

  I’m sure he means impact…but I’ll let it go.

  “That may be, Sarge, but can you actually hit what you’re aiming at? Do the tech specs say anything about that?”

  McNulty just shrugged. Then he asked, “You see your gun camera film yet? Did you hit that Kraut bastard?”

  “Yeah, it looks like I did. But he must’ve been lucky like Sample. My rounds hit nothing important, apparently. The son of a bitch flew away.”

  “Maybe you can claim a probable?”

  Tommy laughed. “I don’t think so, Sarge. He’s got to actually go down. Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

  “I don’t know, Lieutenant…if you can get a credit, I say take it. Don’t cut off your nose despite your face.”

  Jimmy Tuttle was looking for a good meal. He led the two rookies of Blue Flight—Sample and Esposito—to his favorite bistro on Alençon’s grand-rue. Tommy Moon was looking for something else, though.

  “Where’s the boss going?” Esposito asked as Tommy hurried away toward Café Madeleine.

  Tuttle replied, “He’s looking for a little horizontal refreshment, Espo.”

  “You mean he’s going to that whorehouse? They told us that place was off limits. We’d get court-martialed if we got caught there.”

  “Kid, if they did that, every swinging dick in Third Army—and the Nineteenth Tac Fighter Command—would be in the stockade. They’d have to call off the war, and that’s certainly not going to happen. No, laddie…our fearless leader’s got himself a much sweeter deal than what you buy in a cathouse.”

  Sample asked, “You mean he found himself a hershey bar?”

  Tuttle shook his head, like a schoolmaster disappointed with his naive pupil. “No, son. Hershey bars are so desperate they’ll do it for candy. Maybe even cigarettes. Nothing desperate about the lady Tommy’s shacked up with, believe you me.”

  From his station behind the bar, Sylvie’s uncle Honoré had been on the lookout for Tommy the past four nights. He had no trouble picking out the diminutive man wearing pilot’s wings from the sea of Americans flooding Café Madeleine. Catching his eye, he motioned for Tommy to come to the bar.

  Without saying a word or offering a smile, the uncle poured Tommy a beer and set it in front of him. Next to the glass, he placed an envelope. “This has been waiting for you, Lieutenant,” he said in French, and then walked away to tend to some other GIs crowding the bar rail.

  He didn’t want to open it at first. It’s a goodbye letter. She’s going to say how sweet and tender it was, how she’ll never forget me, blah blah blah…but the bottom line’s going to be she really can’t, she really shouldn’t…

  So fuck off.

  But he opened it anyway. In English, she’d written:

  My dear sweet Tommy,

  I’m counting on you to destroy this note as soon as you’ve read it.

  I’ve been called away. I don’t know what I’ll be doing or for how long. I couldn’t tell you even if I did know. You understand why.

  I hope with all my heart you’ll still be at the airfield at Alençon when I’m able to return. In the meantime, I beg you not to worry about me. Let it be enough for us that I worry constantly about you.

  It’s only been a few hours but already I miss you terribly. Until we meet again,

  Love,

  S

  Beneath her name was the lipstick impression where she’d kissed the paper.

  His elation only lasted a few seconds, pushed aside by the dread of whatever unknown jeopardy she was in right now. He had to flee the café; he was in no mood to be surrounded by boisterous GIs, celebrating that, for at least this one night, no one was telling them to kill or be killed.

  But somewhere—probably not too far away, either—he was sure someone was telling that very thing to the woman he loved. And all the begging she could muster couldn’t stop him from being worried out of his mind.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Sean had thought about it all night, and now that the sun was coming up, he was more convinced than ever: We’re screwed. When our guys try to round the north end of Two-Six-Two, this road we’re sitting on is the one the Krauts are gonna come barreling down to stop them. And all we’ve got to hold them off is three Zippos and what’s left of two infantry companies.

  This terrain ain’t even good tank country…too hilly, too wooded, narrow roads running through valleys, trees cutting visibility in every direction. Our tanks are just fixed guns in steel tubs, with nowhere to maneuver. At least if we gotta go head to head with the Kraut armor, it’ll be at real short range, so we might have a chance of a first-round kill. But if we miss, they’ll turn us inside out. And with high ground all around us like this, these radios don’t work for shit. Our only commo with the outside world is a relay through the artillery FO on that ridge behind us. Something happens to him, it’s all over.

  Kowalski, the loader and backup gunner, was the only man in Eclipse’s crew who’d managed a nap during the night. Everybody else passed up their turn. They were too keyed up to sleep. “Hey, Sarge,” Kowalski said, “now that the sun’s coming up, how about I go outside, start a little fire and heat up this coffee?”

  “No, Ski. No one’s getting out of the fucking tank.”

  “What if I gotta take a leak?”

  “Piss out the escape hatch on the bottom like everyone else.”

  “Ah, come on, Sarge. Just for a couple of minutes. I need my joe.”

  “I said negative, Private. For all we know, there are Krauts fifty fucking feet away in those woods. They had all night to sneak up here.”

  Sylvie slid the baker’s peel into the stone oven, slipping it beneath the big round loaves of bread called boules. With a smooth motion, she pulled the peel from the oven and deposited the boules on a waiting cart. The bakery’s owner, a woman in her fifties named Angelique, nodded her approval. “You’re getting the hang of this, young lady,” Angelique said. “Très bon.”

  The owner cast a wary eye to the old German sergeant lounging in a corner. He was a mess steward by trade, detailed by the local Wehrmacht commander to ensure maximum output and no trickery from this commandeered bakery at Vimoutiers. He’d found the duty most pleasing, since all the bakers were women. With the exception of that crone Angelique, most weren’t too bad looking, either, in his estimation. Especially those three new ones who’d joined the staff just this morning, signing on to help keep the Wehrmacht fed. He’d written down their names to help him remember: Eva, Dominique, and Sylvie.

  There were other benefits of this posting, as well. His supervisory duties weren’t very taxing; the women required little oversight, since they’d worked as bakers even before the occupation. Free from the prying eyes of the officers, the sergeant could take a nip of schnapps whenever he wanted. Much more than just a nip, usually. Once he got to feeling really happy, he found it great sport to stroll among the women as they toiled, pretending to take interest in what they were doing so he could rub against them, sneaking peeks down the front of their work dresses, unbuttoned to their brassieres in the sultry heat of the bakery. He found the rivulets of sweat running down between a woman’s breasts to be a thing of fascinating beauty. Once he’d downed half a bottle, he’d be concocting schemes to convince one of the women to let him lick that sweat off. He didn’t
care who, just so it was anyone younger than that old cow Angelique.

  Sylvie was pushing another cart of bread onto the delivery van when she saw Pierre standing across the alley behind the bakery. He wore a white flower in the lapel of his worn suit jacket. “That’s the signal,” Sylvie told Angelique. “The plastique has arrived. Opération Pain Chaude happens tomorrow.”

  When she walked back inside the bakery, Sylvie nodded to Eva and Dominique. Each woman grabbed a full cart and pushed it out to the delivery van. The German sergeant didn’t notice; the bottle of schnapps was nearly half empty. Very soon, he’d be in his happy frame of mind.

  “We’ll need to distract that old Boche bastard when the time comes,” Eva said.

  Sylvie replied, “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

  Eva gave her a leering look. “Oh, I see. Your specialty, is it not?”

  Before Sylvie could say a word, Dominique spoke up: “No. I’ll do it. You two are better with the explosives, anyway.”

  “Fine,” Sylvie said, pulling Angelique into their circle. “Now remember,” she told the old woman, “none of the other women—and I mean absolutely no one—must know what we’re doing. We can’t trust any of them to keep their mouths shut, especially if they’re interrogated by the Boche. Is that clear?”

  “Yes,” Angelique replied. “Quite clear.”

  Sean’s tankers had been hearing the distant rumble of engines since dawn, but not one vehicle had challenged them. From Eclipse’s turret, Sean could only see about a quarter of a mile ahead, to the bend in the road. He’d asked the captain commanding the infantry to put an observation post at the bend or even beyond, to give at least a few extra moment’s warning of the Germans’ approach. But the captain had refused, claiming he didn’t have enough field telephones or working radios to stay in touch with an OP. “Besides,” the captain had said, “that’s what the FO on the ridge behind us is for.”

  Sean protested; he’d already talked with the FO and knew that from his position he couldn’t see the road beyond the bend, either, just the tops of trees flanking it. “Maybe he’ll see the smoke from their exhausts, sir,” he’d told the captain, “but that’s about all.”

  “That’ll have to be enough, then, Sergeant,” the captain had replied.

  It wasn’t enough. The first panzer—a Panther—rounded the bend unannounced. They’d heard her coming, but judging distance and direction as the sound echoed around the hills and valleys proved impossible. It was like watching a bad dream unfold as the muzzle of her main gun appeared first, quickly followed by the ominous gray bulk of her hull.

  “You got him, Fab?” Sean asked, practically breathing down his gunner’s neck.

  “Yeah,” Fabiano replied, his finger on the firing button. “On the way.”

  Eclipse rocked with the recoil of her own shot.

  The round hit the Panther squarely on the split line between hull and turret. Her commander, standing in his turret hatch, was launched high into the air like human fireworks. She came to an abrupt stop, her main gun slightly off-center but not traversing, its tube sagging below the horizontal.

  “Crank the engine, Hogan,” Sean said. “Fight’s on.”

  An infantry lieutenant was running toward Eclipse. From the corner of his eye, Sean saw him coming and watched as the bullet struck him in the chest, knocking him backward off his feet. He couldn’t hear a sound over the roar of Eclipse’s engine coming to life, but he felt that sickening phftt-splat of the round streaking to and hitting its target all the same.

  Shit! They really do have snipers in the woods.

  Sean felt sure he knew what the lieutenant was planning to tell him: It’s too hot! We’re pulling back!

  He told his crew, “I think our infantry’s gonna pull out, if they haven’t already. Kowalski, get on the horn and tell the other two Zippos to circle the wagons and button up. We’ve got snipers out there somewhere. Then get the FO to relay to Lieutenant Webster so he can call in the jugs. Hogan, pull up behind that Panther we just knocked out.”

  Eclipse lurched forward as Hogan asked, “You really sure we knocked it out, Sarge?”

  Thick smoke was starting to waft from the Panther’s hatches and vents. The commander who’d been launched from his turret had been the only man seen to leave the tank.

  “Yeah, Hogan, I’m pretty damn sure. Get us there, right fucking now.”

  “Hey, Sarge,” Kowalski said, “the FO said he’d relay the message, but he’s pulling out, too.”

  Sean replied, “Well, ain’t that just fucking ducky? You’d think these guys have never been in contact with the enemy before.”

  Hesitantly, Fabiano joined the discussion. “If everybody else is leaving, maybe we should be pulling back, too, Sarge?”

  “Bullshit. We don’t take orders from some scared-shitless infantry captain. The colonel wants us to hold this road, and that’s what we’re gonna do.”

  Eclipse lumbered ahead. When it reached the dead Panther, Sean told his driver, “Okay, turn into her so the main gun’s over her foredeck. Yeah, that’s good. Just like that.”

  “You don’t want me to push her out of the way, do you, Sarge? I don’t think we can.”

  “Fuck no. We’re gonna use her for cover. If their armor’s so damn good, let’s take advantage of it. Any Kraut coming up the road’ll have to shoot through her to get to us.”

  “But she’s already burning, Sarge. What if she blows up?”

  “We’re in a tank, numbnuts. Who gives a shit?”

  Sean poked his head out of his hatch to check the positioning of the other two Shermans. They’d circled the wagons like he’d commanded, forming a close, three-pointed star with their aft ends facing each other and all their firepower facing outward. “Good job, guys,” he said over the radio. “If our own infantry won’t keep the Kraut infantry off our backs, we’ll do it ourselves.”

  He didn’t bother adding, Of course, if we get smacked by aircraft while we’re bunched up like this, we’re fucked. But we ain’t seen much of the Luftwaffe since hitting France, anyway, so what the hell?

  A second Panther rolled into view around the far bend, climbing the road toward her shattered sister. Watching the approaching tank, Fabiano asked, “She don’t look too concerned. I can count their heads. All the hatches are still wide open.”

  Sean replied, “I don’t think they can even see us, unless they got some clown up a tree somewhere. With this dead panzer in front of us and all the smoke she’s making, we might as well be invisible.”

  “When do you want me to plug her, Sarge?”

  “Take her at three hundred yards, Fab.”

  “That’s cutting it awful close, ain’t it?”

  “Just want to be dead sure we kill her with one shot.”

  At 300 yards, that’s exactly what Fabiano did, forsaking the thick frontal armor to knock another turret askew. “That’s two,” he muttered, as he watched the enemy tank brew up through his gunsight.

  By the time the third Panther appeared, the German tankers had figured out the game. She was still nearly a thousand yards away when she stopped and fired. The round struck the dead Panther right in front of Eclipse, showering her harmlessly with sparks and metal fragments. The concussion made Sean’s crew feel like they’d been hit in the balls with a hammer. But that was the extent of the damage.

  “Should I take the shot?” Fabiano asked.

  “Don’t waste it. Let her get closer.”

  “Maybe she’s not gonna, Sarge. Maybe she’ll just sit there and lob rounds our way until this carcass in front of us blows itself apart.”

  “And when that happens, Fab, it’ll be our cue to scram.”

  Blue Flight didn’t recognize the voice of the ASO giving them the mission. It wasn’t Charlie Webster or Herb Clinchmore; they were sure of that. But the authorization was per the code list, so they proceeded to the coordinates a few miles to the northeast of Hill 262. The target, they were told, was a column of German armor t
hreatening this crucial pivot point in the push to surround and secure the hill.

  Tommy wasn’t happy the ASO didn’t have eyes on the target. Even worse, there would be no smoke marking by artillery. Blue Flight would have to locate the target, identify it, and then attack it. That would be no easy task in the uneven terrain below, where an object might only be in plain sight for a brief moment in the constantly shifting view of a low-level pilot. In the next moment, that object could very easily have vanished into the shadows of a defile or the cover of trees.

  I hate this shit, Tommy told himself. This is how mistakes get made.

  He caught a hint of smoke rising from a road winding through the hills.

  Exhaust smoke? Or a burning vehicle?

  A hard bank, a quick change of direction to keep the smoke in view.

  Holy cow…there’s a shit-load of tanks down there on that road. But whose are they? The road runs north-south. Anybody could be coming from either direction.

  Wait…there are some trucks way back in the column that don’t look anything like GI deuce-and-a halves. And something small that looks like a jeep…but it’s too angular. Probably one of those kübelwagen things.

  These got to be the Krauts.

  “Blue Flight from Leader. Target identified. Let’s get ’em.”

  The third panther hadn’t moved an inch from where it had fired its first shot. It had just put its fourth round into the carcass of her sister, Eclipse’s first victim, now serving as her shield. “C’mon, Sarge,” Fabiano pleaded, “let me take a shot at that bastard.”

  “No,” Sean replied. “Bouncing one off her ain’t gonna change a damn thing. Just hold your water a little longer.”

  There was a call on the radio from one of the other Shermans: “Hey, looks like the jugs are here, at your three o’clock. Keep your head down, though…that fucking sniper just dinged one off my turret.”