And your brother, too.
“By the way,” Staunton said as Tommy was leaving, “every one Aphrodite mission counts as five on your service record. I’ll see to it that you get credit for those five.”
“Thanks, sir, but that doesn’t matter very much around here. I can usually log five missions every couple of days. Weather permitting, of course.”
Tommy drove back to his squadron’s ramp and parked beside Eclipse of the Hun II, his P-47. Sergeant McNulty was working in her cockpit, the canopy closed to keep out the steady rain. That also caused the canopy to fog up; he didn’t slide it back to have a look outside until he heard footsteps on the wing.
“Did the colonel take good care of her?” Tommy asked.
“The old man did her just fine,” McNulty replied as he climbed out and quickly slid the canopy shut again. “Let’s get in the vehicle and out of this damn rain.”
Under the canvas roof of the jeep, McNulty asked, “You been in Operations lately, sir?”
“No. Why?”
Eyes downcast, he replied, “You just better go in and hear it for yourself, Lieutenant.”
At the operations shack, Tommy was handed a standard message form. It read:
To: Moon, Thomas P, 1LT, 301st FS, XIX TAC
Subject: Next of Kin Advisory
Moon, Sean J, T/SGT is listed as missing in action, effective 13 October 44, 1530 hours.
Signed,
Abrams, LTC
CO, 37th Tank Bn
Chapter Thirty-Three
Colonel Pruitt knew one thing for certain: there’d be no point trying to talk Tommy Moon out of the wild goose chase he was proposing. Third Army was moving—and moving quickly—all across its front, capitalizing on the sudden removal of its prime obstacle, Fort Driant. He has a snowball’s chance in hell of even finding his brother’s unit, let alone one man. It’s chaos out there, no doubt, just like it always is when things start to happen really fast.
But Tommy was dead set on finding Sean. Or at least finding out what happened to him.
If I tell him no, Pruitt thought, he’s upset enough to go AWOL.
“I’ve got to know what the story is, sir,” Tommy said, his voice a reflection of the torment within him. “If I had anything to do with it, I’ll—”
The colonel cut him off. “Come on, Tommy...you’ve got to get thoughts like that out of your head once and for all. Like you said, what are the odds?”
“I’ve still got to know, sir. We won’t be flying for a couple of days, anyway. Please…give me leave and let me take care of this.”
Pruitt tore the leave slip he’d already signed out of the book and handed it over.
“Of course you can go, Lieutenant. I’ll give you seventy-two hours. But I’ll need you to check in via landline once a day. I don’t want to have to declare you as MIA, too.”
“And this leave doesn’t start until first light tomorrow, sir?”
“Sure. That’s fine with me.”
Tommy stuffed the leave slip into his shirt pocket. “Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it.” Then he made straight for the door.
“I’m serious, Half,” Pruitt called after him. “Seventy-two hours.”
Forty-eight hours later, Tommy still hadn’t located the 37th Tank Battalion, much less his brother. He’d been back and forth along the roads between Nancy and Metz, sleeping rough for just a few hours, scrounging water and coffee from support units not on the move. He’d only eaten twice, more snacks than meals, both times at small cafés in villages whose names he couldn’t remember.
The continuing rain had cast a slick, gray pallor over everything and everyone. Twice the jeep had become mired in roadside muck as he was forced to make way for GI convoys under instructions to stop for nothing. The first time, some cooperative civilians helped push the jeep out. The second time, he had to dig it out all by himself, using his GI blanket as a traction pad beneath the wheels. He’d never be able to use the sodden, filthy blanket to sleep in again. But that was the least of his problems.
In the late morning of his third—and final—day of leave, he blundered into a roadblock manned by 4th Armored Division MPs outside St. Nicholas, a town southeast of Nancy. “Sure, Lieutenant, we know where Thirty-Seventh Tank is,” an MP corporal said after Tommy told his story. Pointing east over his shoulder, he added, “It’s about ten miles that-a-way.” As Tommy dropped the jeep into gear and gunned her engine, the corporal added, “But hang on a minute, sir…we can’t let you pass. No unauthorized traffic allowed.” As soon as he said that, a column of deuce-and-a-halfs blew past, the MPs eagerly waving them through. Each truck was loaded to the frames of its cargo tarp with supplies. On their fronts and sides were large chalk markings indicating their convoy serial number.
“If my lieutenant wasn’t watching, sir, I’d let you slip on by,” the MP told Tommy. “But I’ve been on his shit list long enough, if you know what I mean.”
“That’s okay, Corporal, I’ll figure something out.”
“I’m sure you will, Lieutenant. And I sure hope you find your brother, too.”
Tommy remembered a transportation battalion marshalling yard he’d passed near Nancy. Maybe all I’ve got to do is get over there and hitch a ride with one of those convoys.
He’d worry about how to get back later.
At the marshalling yard, an old master sergeant listened to Tommy’s story—and his request for a ride-along.
“I can do you one better, Lieutenant,” the sergeant said. “Maybe two better. You don’t want to lose these wheels of yours. You’ll never see them again if you leave them here, I guaran-damn-tee it. So how’s about I get you marked up with one of these serial numbers?” He waved a fat stick of white chalk in the air. “Then you’ll be part of the convoy and them sumbitching MPs will have to let you through, no questions asked.”
“Sounds good to me, Sergeant,” Tommy replied. “But what did you mean by two better?”
“You say your name’s Moon, sir?”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Well, there’s a bunch of tankers got shanghaied into driving trucks for us a couple days back. One of them’s a real big tech sergeant. A New York fella just like yourself. Don’t exactly recall, but his name just might’ve been Moon.”
“Where is he right now, Sarge?”
The sergeant thumbed through the papers on his clipboard and then shook his head. “Don’t rightly know, sir. But he’s got to be somewhere east, between here and Dieuze. That’s where we been running today.”
It had been a long, tiring afternoon of driving, looking into the cab of every truck that passed in the opposite direction. At least the rain had stopped, if only for a while.
Just outside the town of Dieuze was another marshalling yard, with tenders lined up to refuel the glut of GI vehicles blanketing the roads. Deuce-and-a-halfs by the dozens were offloading supplies and troops and then tanking up for their next run.
There he was, directing trucks to the gas line like a Times Square traffic cop. Even though Sean’s back was toward him, Tommy would’ve known his brother even without the tanker’s clothing that set him apart from the rest of the fatigue-clad, olive drab GIs.
He would’ve known his brother in the dark.
Tommy walked up behind him and called out, “Hey, Sergeant…you look pretty good for someone who’s missing in action.”
Sean turned, the smile of recognition already on his face.
“What the fuck you doing here, Half? And what’s this missing in action shit?”
He showed his brother the next of kin notification. Sean’s face first registered true surprise and then real anger.
“What the fuck’s wrong with these assholes?” he said, pounding his fist on a truck’s fender. “Some fucking major gathered up us guys who came off Driant and put us to work with these truckers temporary-like, until our units could pick us up. And they were supposed to notify our units we were upright and breathing, too. Stupid sons of bitches.”
He balled up the notification and threw it on the ground. “Ol’ Abe—I mean Colonel Abrams—he didn’t sign that, neither. He’d know better and wait a bit. That was his shithead of an adjutant who did it, I’m sure. Or some knucklehead admin sergeant.”
Then he straightened up like he’d just gotten an electric shock. “Dammit! They didn’t send one of these things to Mom, too, did they? I’ll fucking kill ’em…”
A clog of trucks were trying to jockey past each other to be next at the gas nozzle. None of them were winning, just blowing their shrill horns in frustration, causing a traffic jam while the nozzle sat idle and precious time was wasted.
“Hang on, Half,” Sean said as he stormed off to straighten out the mess. “Meet me over at the ready shack in a couple of minutes.”
As Tommy started walking that way, he could hear Sean bellowing, “NEXT ONE OF YOU NUMBNUTZES WHO LEANS ON HIS FUCKING HORN’S GONNA NEED IT SURGICALLY REMOVED FROM HIS ASS.”
“So you were at Fort Driant?” Tommy asked as they settled onto stools with cups of coffee. “When?”
“Two days and a night, right up to when that fucking B-17 fell on it and blew it to shit. We just barely got our asses out of there in time.”
Tommy fell silent for a few moments, trying to figure out the right way to break his news. Finally, he decided to say it this way:
“I did that, you know.” It wasn’t meant to sound apologetic, but somehow it did.
Confused, Sean replied, “Did what? You didn’t shoot it down or nothing, did you?”
“No, no. I was…I was the pilot. Well, not exactly. I was the remote controller.”
“Wait a minute,” his brother said, looking very skeptical. “What do you mean, remote controller? Is this all part of that big thing you volunteered for, you idiot?”
Tommy explained the whole business of Operation Bucket. When he was done, Sean asked, “So when’re you gonna do it again? That was the greatest thing since sliced bread. Just give us a little more warning next time.”
“Don’t think there’ll be a next time, Sean. Looks like the Air Force pulled the plug on the whole deal.”
Sean leaned back, shaking his head. “Ain’t that always the damn way?”
“So what’re you going to do now?” Tommy asked.
“They’ll come get us in a day or two, as soon as there’re some replacement tanks to go fetch. I sure as hell hope the next batch has that seventy-six millimeter gun. Getting real tired of watching my rounds bounce off stuff. What about you?”
“Back to the jugs,” Tommy replied. “I’ve got an idea, though. See if you can get leave around Christmas. You must have enough time coming to you. I know I do, even after I just burned these three days looking for you. Maybe we can get together in Paris. Or maybe Berlin.”
Sean looked at him like he was out of his mind. “We ain’t gonna be in no Berlin by Christmas, Half. No fucking way.” Then he smiled, adding, “But Paris sounds good. I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. Maybe you can bring along them French girls, too?”
Chapter Thirty-Four
November 1944 was brutally cold, and they were told the worst of the winter weather was yet to come. Between the freezing rain, sleet, and abundant snowfall, good flying days had been few and far between. The relentless chill had brought progress on the ground to a halt, as well. The Allied armies were knocking on the German West Wall all along the front, from southern Holland to the Swiss border. But there were still many swift and wide rivers, snow-glazed mountains, and bewildering forests to cross before they would reach Berlin. Perhaps too many.
It was on a rare sunny day that a note was waiting for Tommy Moon when he returned from the day’s mission. It said simply:
Back in Toul for a few days. Meet me tonight, if you can. Same place.
S.
He laughed as he rolled her words if you can over in his head.
I’m pretty damn sure I’ll find a way.
It seemed almost as cold on the evening streets of Toul as the cockpit of his jug at altitude. His flying boots crunching on the snow-packed sidewalk, Tommy made his way to the front door of the boarding house. He was surprised when Sylvie greeted him with her coat buttoned up and snow boots on.
“Let’s go eat first,” she said, “I’m famished.”
She waited a moment for his dismay to peak. Then she threw the coat open to reveal she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath.
“Only kidding,” she said, and then pulled him to the bed.
The lovemaking was quick but wonderful, leaving weeks of loneliness and apprehension shattered in its wake.
Later, as they settled down to supper at a café just a short walk from the boarding house, Tommy asked, “How long are you going to be in Toul?”
“A few days.” Then she smiled wickedly and added, “Just long enough for you to get tired of me.”
“Not likely, mademoiselle.”
He saw the frown come over her face.
“So it’s still madame?” he asked.
She nodded sadly. “Annulment takes time, Tommy. So much time.”
They fell quiet as the waiter brought ersatz coffee and sweets. When they were ready for their second cup, she asked, “So where have you been flying?”
“Actually, we’ve been flying pretty deep into southern Germany. Practically to Czechoslovakia. Nobody in the squadron—or Third Army—is very happy about that, either.”
“Why? Are the Boche resisting strongly there?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the reason. We want to be going more northeast—toward Berlin. We’ve got orders not to bomb those Kraut airfields in southern Germany, just strafe them. I guess they figure we’re going to be moving in there real soon, and they want them in as good a shape as possible for immediate use.”
“I don’t understand,” she replied. “Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s bad because we always thought the Allies coming up through Italy would take care of southern Germany, plus Austria and Czechoslovakia, too. Now it looks like Third Army and Nineteenth TAC—in other words, us—are going to be the ones to do it. That means the prize of Berlin goes to someone else.”
Sylvie stifled a laugh. “I didn’t realize the Allied armies were in a competition. I thought you just wanted to finish the job as quickly as possible and then go home. But you’re wrong about Italy. The Allied armies there now will never be able to come north and assist you.”
“What makes you say that, Syl?”
“The Alps, Tommy. The Allies will never dislodge the Boche from those mountains. Trapping them—cutting them off from Germany—is your only hope.”
Looking skeptical, Tommy said, “And how do you know so much about what’s going on in Italy?”
“I was there for a while, Tommy.”
“Weren’t you in the south of France all this time?”
“I was for most of it. But I’m a courier. There were dispatches to be carried. I was available, so…”
“But Italy, Syl? What business does the Underground have there?”
“We’re not the Underground anymore, Tommy. We’re very much above ground now.”
“But there aren’t even any French forces in Italy,” he said.
She gave him that smile she saved for when she had secrets. “Oh, really? How would you know, Tommy?”
“Okay, you’ve got me on that one. I surrender.”
She took no joy in her small victory because there was more to tell him.
“I learned something in Italy,” she said. “Something I find very frightening. You may find yourself face to face with it very soon.”
“Really? What’s that, Syl?”
“I was introduced to several Yugoslav partisans who were negotiating for arms from the British. They tell some incredible stories.”
“You mean a Yugoslav resistance, like your Underground?”
“Exactly. They’ve been fighting the Germans for almost as long as we here in France have, you know. But now they
find themselves with a new enemy, one that calls itself a liberator, yet it murders, rapes, and loots those it liberates with a savagery that makes the Boche look almost civilized.”
“Who the hell are you talking about, Syl? What kind of liberator does stuff like that?”
A world-weary look came over her face, one that made her look so much older than her twenty-two years.
Then, in a whisper, she answered his question:
“The Russians, Tommy. Our allies, the Russians.”
* * * * *
About The Author
History is a parade of chance outcomes, influenced by any number of natural forces and human whims. As a lifelong student of history and lover of alternative historical fiction, William Peter Grasso’s novels explore the concept change one thing…and watch what happens. The results are works of fiction in which the actual people and historical events are weaved into a seamless and entertaining narrative with the imagined.
Focusing on the WW2 era, Grasso’s novels have spent several years in the Amazon Top 100 for Alternative History and War.
Retired from the aircraft maintenance industry, Grasso is a veteran of the US Army and served in Operation Desert Storm as a flight crew member with the Civil Reserve Air Fleet (CRAF). These days, he confines his aviation activities to building and flying radio-controlled model aircraft.
Contact the Author Online:
Email: William Peter Grasso
Connect with the Author on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorWilliamPeterGrasso
Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2) Page 31