Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

Sean spun around for a better look through his open hatch. Sure enough, four aircraft began to orbit high overhead. He couldn’t pick up a definitive silhouette as they banked steeply in the circle, showing only side views. But he told himself, They sure look like jugs. Too bad I can’t talk to them and tell them what’s going on, because they’ll never be able to figure out who’s who in this little standoff we’ve got going on here. They need to be looking for Krauts farther up the road, anyway.

  One plane broke the circle, rolling hard on her back and plummeting almost straight down toward him.

  Holy shit…it looks like she’s attacking. What the fuck would a jug be doing that for?

  Showing only her front profile, the plane seemed almost stationary in the dive for interminable seconds—until she pulled out. Then Sean could see the planform of her wings clearly for just a moment before she streaked past.

  Ain’t that shape all wrong for a jug? The wings should look like butter knives. That plane’s are kinda squared off...

  Maybe she’s British?

  Nah. There’d be invasion stripes on those wings if she was, just like every other Allied plane’s got. And I sure as hell didn’t see any.

  Or maybe I did?

  The aircraft had left a reminder of its dive behind: a small, almost invisible dot at first, growing larger with each rapid heartbeat as it fell straight toward him like a fly ball to a perfectly positioned center fielder.

  Like Coach used to say, it’s got my name on it.

  But there was something Sean used to say, too, and he spoke it out loud in those last seconds when everything that’s ever happened before was replayed and then erased forever:

  “Just a matter of time.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Blue Flight left the column of vehicles they’d bombed and strafed ablaze and battered. Circling so the other three jugs could form back up on him, Tommy felt the elation of the successful strike quickly draining away. It was being replaced by a vague dread: If anyone asked me right now what kind of vehicles we just attacked, all I could answer is “German.” And I wouldn’t even be certain of that.

  We won’t know what we hit until the intel guys see the gun camera footage later…and maybe not even then. I’m not looking forward to that debrief. Not one bit.

  Sample had just tucked up on Tommy’s left wingtip. For a split second, Tommy thought he could see Tuttle and Esposito climbing out after their final pass—but then he realized it couldn’t possibly be them. There were more than two planes closing on him…Three. No, four. And though he could only see them head-on, there was no mistaking them for P-47s, Tempests, Typhoons, Mustangs, or any other single-engined fighter in the Allied inventories: They’re Focke-Wulfs. FW-190s.

  He didn’t recognize his own shrill voice as he said, “SAMPLE, BREAK LEFT NOW. BREAK, BREAK.”

  Sure the Germans would overshoot, Tommy banked and pulled Eclipse hard to try and come around on their tails. He was relieved to see Sample doing the same, holding a perfect wingman’s station off his leader’s wingtip.

  What he didn’t see, though, was the trailing two FWs had pulled straight up, trading speed for altitude and advantage. Pulling hard over the top, they swooped down onto the Americans’ tails. Two quick bursts sent Sample’s plane tumbling down. If there was a parachute, Tommy never saw it.

  But he couldn’t help but see the flashes of bullet strikes on the top of his own wing, their sound like marbles being dropped on a hard floor.

  He called to Tuttle, “Sample’s down. Can you get this guy off my tail, Jimmy?

  “Love to, Half. As soon as I get these two off mine.”

  Tommy’s head swiveled rapidly, one side to the other and back again, trying to put eyes on his attacker. But he saw nothing but the sky swirling behind him.

  He looked up to where the rear view mirror used to be. Whether it would have done him any good didn’t matter now. All he knew was that it wasn’t there, and he wished it was.

  The Kraut must be underneath me now. I’ll have to—

  It was all happening too fast. Before his brain could tell his hands and feet what to do, bullets announced themselves with a rapid thunk-thunk-thunk as they punched holes in the aluminum of the fuselage. Those bullets had done their job: finding the range for the cannon shells which followed in the blink of an eye. Their much louder POOM-POOM-POOM sounded like death breaking down your door.

  Eclipse’s engine began to sputter as flames licked from beneath the cowl flaps. The control stick in Tommy’s hand didn’t seem to be controlling very much of anything anymore. She’d begun a slow roll that no amount of aileron input corrected. Her nose was dropping steadily. Her rudder pedals had gone limp against his feet.

  He was already pulling the emergency release on the canopy. It was time to get out.

  Just before noon, the lead elements of 4th Armored fought their way to the north side of Hill 262, pivoted west, and sealed the Falaise Gap. The rest of Patton’s 3rd Army began to push in behind them, forcing the German counter-attackers away. The hundred thousand or more German soldiers now completely surrounded had three choices: surrender immediately to the Americans west, south, and east of them; stagger north until they met the British, whose lines were still some five miles away; or fight to the death.

  Very few elected the final choice. But a surprisingly large number turned north, toward the British.

  Colonel Abrams pondered a possible reason: “Maybe they think they still have a chance for a breakout through Monty’s boys?”

  “That’d be my guess,” General Wood replied, “although it’d be just wishful thinking at this point. But I’m guessing ol’ Georgie Patton is enjoying the hell out of this. He did say that if Montgomery wouldn’t come to the Germans, he’d push the Germans to him. And that’s exactly what’s happening.”

  Wood turned serious as he asked, “Your boys did a real fine job turning that corner, Creighton, but I know it was a hell of a rough ride. In your estimation, is your 37th Tank Battalion a viable combat unit at this time?”

  “Negative, sir. We’re little more than a glorified company now. I’ve got more dead and wounded than I’ve got able-bodied troopers.”

  It was difficult for him to speak that last sentence. Colonel Abrams turned away so the general might not see the tears welling up in his eyes. Softly, he said, “I just hope to God we bagged enough of those bastards to make this all worth it.”

  The door to the cellar slammed open, startling Lieutenant Peterson awake. Another American officer—a pilot—was being pushed down the stairs at gunpoint by his German guard. The pilot’s arm was in a sling. He looked like he’d been through hell.

  The guard departed, slamming the cellar door behind him. Peterson heard the sliding bolt on the upstairs side of the door clank into place. The pilot, his slight frame now slumped into a corner, forced a smile and said, “My name’s Tommy Moon, Three-oh-First Fighter Squadron. What are you in for?”

  Peterson found himself smiling, too. This poor bastard looks like he’s had the shit beat out of him, and yet he can still manage to crack wise. Gotta respect that.

  “I’m John Peterson,” he replied, “I’m a rifle company commander with Fifth Infantry Division…or at least I used to be. Moon, you say your name is? You wouldn’t happen to have a brother who’s a tanker, would you?”

  Tommy sat straight up, as if the pain of his injuries had been suddenly overridden by a far more important consideration. “Yeah, I do. His name’s Sean. He’s with the—”

  “That’s the guy I’m talking about. Staff Sergeant Sean Moon.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “As a matter of fact, I ran into him two nights ago in the village of Survie. We were both part of a clever little plan to hit Second SS Panzer’s HQ in Champosoult, which is exactly where we are right now. He was supposed to come back with a whole damn armored command—CC Baker, they called it—but they never showed. Now I ain’t blaming your brother—I know a staff sergeant doesn’t
run this damn war—but those tankers left me and my guys high and dry.”

  Peterson’s head dropped back against the wall, and he stared at the wood-beamed ceiling, bracing himself for the pain that would accompany the words coming next.

  “I can only pray some of my guys got away,” he whispered.

  “What the hell happened, John?”

  “We got cut to ribbons in a night fight. My own goddamn fault. I walked us right into a trap. At least twenty of my men were captured, though, along with me. The Krauts marched them off to someplace else. Can’t put the officers and enlisted men together, you know.” He raised his hand in a mock toast before adding, “So welcome to the officers’ quarters, Tommy Moon.” He shook the slop jar that served as a toilet. “Real deluxe accommodations.”

  “But Sean was okay when you last saw him?”

  “Yeah. Fit as a fiddle. He’s a tough cookie, your brother.”

  Tommy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know he is. So we’re in Champosoult? At a panzer division HQ?”

  “That’s right. Second SS Panzer. I keep expecting to get hustled off any minute to Germany and some POW camp, but the Krauts seem to be pretty busy with other matters at the moment. Can’t see a damn thing from down in this cellar, but I can hear them upstairs yelling orders all hours of the day and night. And about every ten minutes, this whole building shakes when some tanks roll by. I guess you got shot down?”

  “Yeah, this morning. I think I broke my arm bailing out. Must’ve hit the stabilizer or something. Hurts like a son of a bitch. And let me tell you, it’s pretty hard operating a parachute with only one good arm. Ended up in a damn tree. By the time I got myself down on the ground—and that was no small feat, either—they were all over me. I know my wingman got shot down, too. Don’t know how the other two guys in my flight made out.” It was Tommy’s turn to forlornly contemplate the rafters in the ceiling as he added, “And I’m not real sure what the hell we were attacking.”

  “But are we winning, Tommy? Do we have those Krauts in the Gap trapped yet?”

  “As of a couple of hours ago…no, I don’t think we do.”

  “Shit. Another golden opportunity slipping through our fingers. It’s all that slowpoke Montgomery’s fault. That man’s going to be late to his own funeral.”

  Lieutenant Jimmy Tuttle walked across the ramp at A-14, trying to ignore the two empty parking spots where Tommy’s and Sample’s planes should’ve been parked. The mission debrief had been torture; he hadn’t known the answers to so many of the intelligence officer’s probing questions. Everything had happened much too fast, and there was so little of which to be certain.

  To a debriefing officer, uncertainty smelled like negligence, carelessness—even guilt. He harped on the fact that Blue Flight had initiated an attack without positive identification of its target. “You do understand, Lieutenant, that there are procedures in place to prevent friendly fire incidents, and from what you’re telling me, your flight didn’t comply with any of them.”

  “Of course I understand that, sir,” Tuttle had replied, “but they don’t call it the fog of war for nothing, you know. How it was today is what it’s like a good part of the time. We did the best we could with the little info we got.”

  Tuttle desperately needed the vindication of the gun camera footage. He swore the evaluation of that footage had never taken so long. When he saw Colonel Pruitt heading his way, he braced himself for the verdict.

  “You took out a whole column of Tiger tanks and Ferdinand assault guns,” the colonel said. “Excellent results. The intel boys are giving Blue Flight credit for seven armored vehicles destroyed outright and at least half a dozen more damaged and out of action.”

  Pruitt cast a solemn glance to the empty parking spots. “Hell of a price, though.”

  Across the ramp, Sergeant McNulty was searching for something in the parts shed. His eyes fell on the rear view mirror he’d removed from Tommy’s plane. Reverently, he removed it from the shelf and placed it on the workbench. Then he picked up a heavy crescent wrench and began beating it into oblivion.

  He’d struck the mirror a dozen blows already—the glass was long shattered, the fairing mangled almost beyond recognition—before Colonel Pruitt appeared in the shed’s doorway.

  “AT EASE, SERGEANT,” the colonel said.

  McNulty turned to him, arms outstretched, a teary-eyed child in a man’s body.

  “Do you realize the penalty for willfully destroying government property, Sergeant?”

  McNulty laid the wrench down. Lowering his head, he clasped his hands before him in an act of contrition. “I’m well aware, sir. I’m ready to take my medicine.”

  “Very well. Come with me, Sergeant.”

  They walked in silence to the officers’ mess. The colonel directed McNulty to take a seat on a bench outside. “I’ll be right back,” Pruitt said. “Stay put.”

  When he returned, he took a seat on the bench, produced a flask from his pocket, and placed it in the startled sergeant’s hand.

  “This is the only medicine I know for times like this,” the colonel said. “Bottoms up, Sergeant. And when you’re done, pass that thing back.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  21ST ARMY GROUP COMMUNIQUE

  FROM:

  MONTGOMERY--COMMANDER, 21ST ARMY GROUP

  DATE--TIME OF ORIGIN:

  19 AUG 44/2130 HRS

  TO:

  EISENHOWER--SUPREME COMMANDER, SHAEF

  COPY (FOR INFO):

  BRADLEY--12TH ARMY GROUP; HODGES--US 1ST ARMY; PATTON--US 3RD ARMY; DEMPSEY--2ND BRITISH ARMY; CRERAR--1ST CANADIAN ARMY; CONINGHAM--RAF 2ND TAF; QUESADA--IX TAC; WEYLAND--XIX TAC; BRERETON--9TH AIR FORCE

  I AM PLEASED YOU HAVE SELECTED ME TO RECEIVE THE SURRENDER OF THE GERMAN FORCES NOW SURROUNDED IN THE FALAISE-ARGENTAN POCKET. THIS IS ONLY FITTING, SINCE IT IS UNITS UNDER MY COMMAND THAT HAVE FOUGHT OUR ENEMY TO A STANDSTILL AND BROUGHT THIS EXODUS TO A STOP.

  BE ADVISED THIS SURRENDER WILL TAKE PLACE TOMORROW, 20 AUG 44, 0730 HRS, IN THE VILLAGE OF HORDOUSEAUX.

  BE FURTHER ADVISED THAT ALL POW COLLECTION RESPONSIBILITIES SHOULD REST WITH BRADLEY’S 12TH ARMY GROUP, AS THIS COMMAND WILL BE IMMEDIATELY ADVANCING TO SECURE THE VIMOUTIERS-LISIEUX HIGHWAY. THERE IS NO NEED TO REMIND YOU, I AM SURE, THAT SPEED IS OF THE ESSENCE IF WE ARE GOING TO PREVENT A FORMIDABLE GERMAN DEFENCE AT THE SEINE.

  SIGNED,

  MONTGOMERY

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  His staff had seen plenty of Patton’s fits of rage, but this one was setting a new standard. He’d begun to boil over at the very first line of Montgomery’s communique, and it was all downhill after that:

  “That little son of a bitch. Ike selected him to receive the surrender? Selected? I’m not sure what’s crazier, gentlemen…that the Limey procrastinator might actually believe it’s true he was selected, or that Ike is so much more a kisser of British ass than we all realized—and it actually is true. I closed the Falaise Gap—me and my men did. Not some fucking little English clerk. And he can’t be bothered collecting POWs because he’s too busy rushing off to do battle with the Germans at the Seine? What balls, gentlemen…what balls. Bernard Law Montgomery has never rushed off anywhere in his life. He doesn’t know how.”

  He stepped over to the map on the wall. “Where the hell is this Hordouseaux, anyway?”

  When his G3 pointed the village out, Patton said, “Really? Monty himself couldn’t possibly be that far south yet, unless he’s playing point man for his whole fucking Army group. I’ve got a good mind to beat him there, just like at Messina.”

  “I’m not so sure about that, sir,” the operations officer replied. “You’d either have to trust your security to Monty’s forces or cause a major flap by having a unit of ours crossing army group boundaries. Again.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn what kind of flap I cause, Colonel. I will not let Montgomery claim honor and glory that rightfully belongs to my men…and those Polish troops of his he sacrificed on
that hill.”

  “And we’d have to do it in the dark, too,” the G3 added. “That could easily lead to confusion and friendly fire incidents. Hell, we might not even find the place. We don’t know the roads north of here.”

  That seemed to take some of the wind out of Patton’s sails. “I see your point, Colonel. But I don’t like this. Not one little bit. And I won’t forget about it, either. No matter how Ike tries to smooth over the fact that he’s knelt down to his British pals once again.”

  Dawn was still an hour away. The first boules were already coming out of the oven at the Vimoutiers bakery. Angelique’s staff had baked them in the extra-large style the Germans demanded; the domed, round loaves were each big enough to feed a dozen men. They were also big enough to bisect through their circumference, hollow out, and place plastique explosive inside.

  As Dominique went looking for the German mess sergeant, Sylvie and Eva rigged the bread bombs for Opération Pain Chaude—Operation Hot Bread in English—in the corner of the bakery behind the storage shelves. “Ten pounds of plastique, a dozen timers, each with a small battery, and four cartons of nails,” Sylvie said as she inventoried the crate Pierre had delivered in the dead of night. “These bombs should clean out the Boche headquarters mess at Champosoult very nicely.”

  Eva checked the clock on the wall. “We need to hurry, Sylvie. If the van arrives late, the mess may be empty.”

  “Don’t rush me while I’m wiring explosives, Eva. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “Speaking of time,” Eva said, “are you sure it’s a good idea to set the timers to just a few minutes and wait until we’re almost there to start them running?”