Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  Patton’s face hardened into a narrow-eyed glare. “What reprisals are you referring to, General?”

  “I refer to the wanton slaughter you’ve been inflicting on troops that are no longer a threat to you. Again, I use the term barbaric to describe the Allied behavior.”

  Patton leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “General, I can assure you that surrendering troops have been treated with all due military courtesy and will continue to be treated as such. I further assure you that troops who resist, however—and there have been vast numbers of them right up to this moment, based on my casualty reports—will be neutralized by all means possible.”

  “And I can assure you, General Patton, that all troops within the encirclement have ceased resistance. The troops to the east, however, beyond the encirclement, are not under my control and are not surrendering. You do understand this, do you not?”

  “Yes, General, I do. But I’m sure once your surrender is complete, the capitulation of the remaining elements of Germany’s forces will follow in short order. There will simply be too few of you left to stop us from celebrating Christmas in Berlin.”

  Now it was Eberbach doing the head-shaking. “Talk like that is delusional coming from a general who has not yet reached Paris, let alone Berlin. I must be sure you understand the scope of this surrender document before I sign.”

  “Oh, I understand fully, General. But allow me to remain convinced your signing marks the imminent end to this war.”

  Eberbach laughed dismissively as he put pen to paper. “I suppose, General Patton, that will depend on your definition of imminent.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  I need this place like I need a hole in the head. All I’ve got is a broken arm and the holes left by a bunch of wood splinters the size of pencils in my ass. But that damn doc won’t release me…got to hold me a few days more to make sure there’s no infection. Hell, aren’t the three days I’ve already been here enough for that?

  Haven’t slept much in all that time, either. Maybe that’s why I’m getting so cranky. Can’t sit down or lie on my back because my ass hurts. Can’t lie on my stomach or my side because of this damn cast on my arm. So I’m wandering around this hospital like some sort of zombie. Sure, I can’t fly for a while—not with one arm, anyway. But there must be some way I can be of use back at the squadron.

  Half the GIs in this place aren’t even wounded…they’ve got VD. “Whores de combat,” the nurses call them. With smirking delight, I might add.

  Speaking of nurses, here comes one now. She looks all cranked up about something, too. Probably just can’t wait to tell me I’ve wandered out of bounds again.

  Nearly breathless from running, the nurse said, “Lieutenant Moon, there’s someone back at the ward waiting to see you.”

  Who the hell could it be this time? Another personnel officer, trying to figure out if I actually qualified as a POW or not?

  But the nurse shook her head when he asked. Then she replied, “No, Lieutenant. It’s another patient. He says he’s your brother.”

  There was no pain that could keep him from running back to his ward. Sure enough, Sean was parked next to his bed in a wheelchair, thumbing through the months-old copy of Life magazine that had been Tommy’s only reading material the past three days.

  When his brother rushed in, Sean smiled as best he could with a head swathed in bandages and said, “So what’s all this shit about you kicking my ass all the way back to Canarsie?”

  Despite the hindrance of their wounds, they managed some semblance of an embrace. That done, Sean said, “Have a seat, little brother. Let’s talk a while.”

  “Mind if I stand?” He explained about the splinters in his ass and how they’d gotten there.

  “You got strafed by your own guys, Half?”

  “Some jug outfit did it, that’s for sure.”

  “Maybe we’ve got something in common then, little brother.”

  If it hadn’t been for Colonel Pruitt’s visit yesterday, Tommy might have died a little right then and there. But what Pruitt had told him left no doubt he wasn’t the one who’d nearly killed his brother.

  Sean told his story, or at least as much as he could remember. When he got to the part of watching the bomb coming down, he said, “It got like slow motion, you know? And then…well, you remember being in the movies when the film gets jammed? It got kinda like that—like watching that real bright light burn that film up from the inside out, real quick. I don’t remember nothing after that. I come to find out my Zippo got flipped upside down.”

  As his eyes began to glaze with tears, he continued, “Two of my guys bought it—my driver and bow gunner. The rest of us up in the turret got our brains beat in bouncing around inside.” After a deep sigh, he added, “Hey, at least we didn’t fucking burn.”

  Tommy let his brother compose himself before asking, “You think it was a jug that hit you?”

  “Half, I ain’t fucking sure of nothing. Maybe it was a Kraut. I don’t know. But it wasn’t you, right?”

  Tommy took the copy of the after-action report Colonel Pruitt had given him from under his pillow. Like the piece of evidence that sets the defendant free, he held it up for his brother to see. “I got it in writing, Sean. It wasn’t me.”

  “Well, ain’t that good news?” Sean replied. “And those French skirts…they’re all right?”

  “Yeah. They got a little scratched up, but nothing serious. I was glad to see the Army treated them like the heroines they are. Gave them a limo ride back to Alençon and everything.”

  “Great,” Sean said, “but I still feel kinda bad about that Lieutenant Peterson, the way he got left out on a limb that night. But hey…it wasn’t my call. At least he’s all right. Too damn bad about the rest of his company, though.”

  “Yeah, he feels the same way, believe me.”

  Sean leaned closer to read the writing on Tommy’s cast. It seemed every nurse in the ward had signed it. But standing out prominently was a message in French. It was signed, simply, Sylvie.

  “What’d she write, Half?”

  “It says you’re a real swell guy and I wish you luck.”

  “Bullshit. That ain’t it. Tell me what it really means.”

  “Nope.”

  “C’mon, you little asshole. Tell me.”

  “That’s lieutenant asshole to you, Sergeant. And the answer’s still nope.”

  “Okay, suit yourself, sir. But it ain’t gonna matter a rat’s ass because this is all gonna be over before you know it. It’s just a matter of time, Half. Just a matter of fucking time.”

  When Tommy had first heard his brother speak those words two weeks ago—Has it really only been two weeks? It feels like a lifetime—they’d sounded like a death sentence.

  “It’s good to hear you say it like that, Sean.”

  “Damn straight,” Sean replied. “This war’s as good as over, Tommy. Everybody knows it.”

  Chapter Fifty

  10, Downing Street,

  Whitehall

  August 25, 1944

  MOST SECRET

  My Dear General Eisenhower,

  I was aghast to learn that word of Montgomery’s promotion had somehow come to be known to the press before I was able to inform you personally. We in His Majesty’s service fully understand the rumours and suppositions which could come to life if such information was not dispensed within the proper protocols. Unfortunately, and as you are well aware, those rumours and suppositions have indeed come to life with a tenor and ferocity that have astounded even those of us accustomed to being under the scrutiny of the fourth estate every second of our lives. For this accidental but inexcusable breach, I offer my most sincere apologies.

  Please read nothing into the fact that Montgomery, now a field marshal, technically outranks you. I can assure you that I, as well as every last man in His Majesty’s government, continue to look to you as the Supreme Commander of our allied effort in Western Europe, just as we always have. Mont
gomery remains your superbly experienced subordinate in all matters tactical and strategic. He understands his position completely, as I know you do yours. He looks forward to providing his wise counsel in the same manner you have always enjoyed.

  The decision to promote did not come easily, I can assure you. But I beg you to remember you are not the only one expected to perform a delicate ballet to keep all aspects of the Allied effort moving forward in concert. You must understand the position I am in as the elected leader of the British people, who have suffered far greater hardships in this conflict than our American cousins across the sea and for far longer. For the sake of morale, they need to be reassured from time to time that all is going according to plan, effort is being rewarded, and the end of this terrible ordeal is in sight. Would it not be unfair to deny them some token of this final victory, inevitable but not quite upon us yet, which we all so desperately crave? That token is what we have provided with Montgomery’s promotion. As to the ravings of the press as to what it all actually means to the running of the war, I will do everything in my power, as will every member of His Majesty’s government, to keep speculation in check and expectations realistic.

  Of course, it is the nature of things that none of this will happen overnight, so I beg you, dear Eisenhower, to face this unfortunate episode with the wisdom, patience, and fortitude you have never failed to show in the past.

  With an undying commitment to our collaboration, I remain,

  Winston Churchill

  Kay Summersby couldn’t pretend to be asleep any longer. The American general in bed beside her—the American general in the war for Europe—was so agitated by what he was reading their entire bed seemed to be trembling. When the aide had delivered the envelope to the cottage on the Thames late that evening, she had hoped the general wouldn’t bother to open it until morning. But she knew better. He’d promptly switched on the reading light clamped to the bed’s headboard and unfolded what looked like a typewritten letter.

  Now that he’d read it, over and over again, she knew that whatever it said, it wouldn’t do a bloody thing to calm the tensions that had gripped SHAEF Headquarters since the Daily Mail’s morning delivery.

  “What bullshit,” Eisenhower said, addressing not her but the author of the letter in his hand. “You actually had the balls to write, Somehow come to be known to the press. Somehow, my ass. That was no accident. You deliberately leaked it.”

  She was sure his blood pressure must be through the roof. Pretty dangerous for a man who hadn’t had a normal reading in months. Even with his head in shadow, she could see the blood vessels at his temple pulsing their rapid cadence. Gently, she touched his shoulder and asked, “Maybe I should call for the doctor, Dwight?”

  He snarled his reply: “That’s the last person I need to see right now, Kay.”

  She hated this position, the one she’d been thrust into all too often: the de facto shield between the Supreme Commander and a stroke.

  But it’s all part of the job, she supposed, right in there with driver, secretary, confidante, companion…

  “You know, Dwight, maybe this is a good thing. Now they’ll have to promote you, too.”

  “You know that’s impossible. There’s no general rank above four-star in the US Army. This is just the clever little British way of pissing in my face all over again.”

  “Then maybe your army should create such a rank.”

  “That’s not the point, Kay. Bad enough I have to put up with that pompous little ass Monty, but your Prime Minister is a duplicitous son of a bitch.”

  That made Kay Summersby laugh. “Darling, all you brass hats are sons of bitches. That’s how you came to be brass hats in the first place, isn’t it?”

  Whether it was the Irish lilt of her laughter or the words she’d spoken, it didn’t matter. The desired effect was achieved. She could feel the tension drain from his body.

  “You’re probably right…on both counts,” he said. “Maybe this is just the incentive the War Department needs to slip a five-star authorization bill through Congress. We can’t have our allies one-upping us now, can we?”

  “Now you’re talking, Dwight. With clever thinking like that, you might want to consider going into politics when this is all over.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The atmosphere in the Paris café was surprisingly subdued, considering it was full of GIs on leave and a week before Christmas 1944. Each man’s disappointment centered on one shattered dream: the holidays were here, but they were in Paris. Not Berlin like their leaders had promised. Not Chicago or Wichita or Boston, either—or any other place a GI might call home.

  And the war was nowhere near over. Four months after crushing the Germans in the Falaise pocket, no Allied army had so much as a toe-hold across the Rhine.

  Tommy and Sean Moon shared a table in a dark corner of the café, nursing the bottle of whiskey between them. It was Sean who finally broke the dispirited silence.

  “What the hell happened, Tommy? We had it knocked…and our generals threw it all away.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Sean.”

  “Yeah, I know. But it just pisses me off so damn much. After we sewed up The Gap at Hill Two-Six-Two, we could’ve pushed them right back across the Rhine…”

  “Easy does it, Sean. We had to push them across a bunch of other rivers first.”

  “But you and I were there, Tommy. We both saw it. You up high, me down low. The Krauts were ready to throw in the towel. And we let them get back on their feet.”

  “There? What do you mean by there? I was shot down and a prisoner there. And you, well—”

  “Hey, I did my fucking job. Not one of them Kraut bastards got past me. Not then, not ever.”

  Tommy raised his whiskey in a toast. “All right, then—to my brother, and a job well done.”

  They clinked glasses and drank them dry.

  Sean wasn’t finished spewing his displeasure, though. “But really, Half, ever since—when we should have been steamrolling straight to Berlin—we’ve been fucking up left and right. Up north, that stupid Montgomery tries to push a bunch of divisions up one fucking road in Holland, gets a lot of guys killed to accomplish exactly nothing. One fucking road for a column thousands of vehicles long—and this guy’s supposed to be some kind of tactical genius? Any fucking traffic cop in Brooklyn could tell you that was never going to work. In the middle, First Army got tired of looting and catching the clap in France, so now they’re doing the same damn shit in Belgium and Luxembourg.”

  “And what about Patton?” Tommy asked. “That obsession with taking Metz didn’t make any sense. Why were we wasting time attacking old forts like it was the Middle Ages? He got a lot of GIs killed for nothing.”

  “Now you’re preaching to the choir, brother,” Sean replied. “So here we sit, still in France, almost out of gasoline again and freezing our asses off without proper winter uniforms.”

  “And no Christmas presents from home, either,” Tommy added, “since the brass figured we wouldn’t still be here come Christmas.”

  “I coulda really used those socks Mom sends me, too,” Sean said.

  “You get socks? You lucky son of a bitch! Hell, all I get are books. And soap.”

  Sean laughed. “I guess she knows her boys pretty well then, eh?”

  The waiter brought another bottle.

  As Sean poured, he said, “But you know, Half, I ain’t understanding why the hell you’re still here. Ain’t it a rule that an escaped POW pilot gets shipped home?”

  “Not home, Sean. He gets shipped to the Pacific. Or at least he used to, because he supposedly knew too much about the maquis who helped him escape, and if he got shot down again and broke under interrogation, that knowledge could put them in danger.”

  “So? Ain’t that exactly what happened to you? You were a POW, your maquis girlfriend saved your ass, right?”

  “True, but the maquis is pretty much out of business now, so by the time my arm was healed
and my paperwork got to the adjutant general’s desk, there wasn’t much reason to ship guys like me out anymore. Most of the maquis men are in the French Army now, and the women, well…they just went home. Besides, I was never technically declared a POW.”

  “Speaking of the women, Half, when is Sylvie supposed to show up, anyway?”

  “Later tonight.”

  “She ain’t riding her bicycle all the way from Alençon, is she?”

  “No, she’s coming on a bus, I think.”

  “And you’re gonna make that long trip worth her while, right?”

  “Hope so. Got a cozy little garret reserved at the hotel. Cost me a bundle.”

  “You pay for it one way or another, brother. But you’re an officer. You can afford it.”

  There was a commotion by the door. Several MPs entered the café, a lieutenant in the lead.

  “ALL PERSONNEL ARE ORDERED TO RETURN TO THEIR UNITS AT ONCE,” the lieutenant said. “ALL LEAVES ARE HEREBY CANCELED, BY ORDER OF SUPREME COMMANDER, SHAEF. PROCEED TO YOUR DESIGNATED TRANSPORT POINT IMMEDIATELY.”

  A voice called out from the throng, “What happens if we don’t, Lieutenant?”

  “THEN YOU’LL BE ROUNDED UP AND CHARGED WITH DESERTION IN THE FACE OF THE ENEMY.”

  Desertion in the face of the enemy: a guilty verdict could get you a firing squad.

  Sean walked up to one of the enlisted MPs and asked, “What the hell’s going on, buddy?”

  “Krauts got a breakthrough going on in the Ardennes Forest, Sarge,” the MP drawled. “I hear tell they just about wiped out the Twenty-Eight Division, and there ain’t no stopping them, neither.”