Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  Ward Moore, U.S. Army, 1942.

  His meeting with Gene in North Africa the year before had been a blessing, and an opportunity to apologize for having been such a jerk during the days leading up to his leaving home for basic training. He was happy his little brother was playing ball. Knowing Gene was in Louisiana guarding prisoners instead of walking around with a rifle in his hand and a life expectancy of a few weeks was very comforting. Ward knew one day, his brother was going to be an amazing ballplayer—probably one of the best in the country.

  The 13th Armored Division had traveled quite a distance, but had yet to account for many dead Germans. The Black Cat outfit had occupied countless French villages, and even wrested a few away from light enemy resistance. The Germans had not put up the tough fight Ward and his comrades had expected, but everyone had been warned the level of combat would change once the Americans began driving into Germany.

  As a tank driver, Ward was responsible for many things, including keeping the tracks on firm ground to prevent the machine from sliding into a steep muddy ditch. It never ceased to amaze him how easy it was to get a 30-ton tank stuck or throw its tread. When the order arrived to stop, he threw the tank into neutral and turned to Lieutenant Banks. “You think they know we’re coming?”

  “They should, unless they’re deaf,” the young lieutenant responded sarcastically. “Ward, get moving again. I think the staging area is just about half a mile that way,” he added, pointing to and through the tank they were following.

  All Ward knew was a village ahead of them was occupied by German infantry, and elements of the 13th Armored Division were serving as one flank of the attacking column. No one could tell him the strength of the enemy, but it really didn’t matter. The Americans couldn’t turn around, and they couldn’t go around the town and leave the enemy in their rear. This village was directly in their path and on their way to Berlin, so defeating the Germans was the only viable option. “If the going gets too tough,” their colonel had told them the night before, “there are plenty of reserves to call upon to help break the logjam.”

  “Moore!” Lieutenant Banks called out as he tapped Ward’s helmet. “We’re being waved over. Follow the directions of that sergeant. This must be the staging area.”

  As Ward maneuvered his Sherman next to the tank traveling in front of it, Lieutenant Banks climbed down and approached a group of officers congregating near the front of the line. Ward and the other three members of his crew also climbed off to stretch their legs and take a look around.

  “Son-of-a … it’s General Patton!” someone yelled. “In the jeep—look!”

  The congregation of soldiers, some already parked and others still pulling up, were electrified by the news. General Patton had already assumed mythical proportions in the ranks. Ward didn’t have much of a feel for history, but he sensed that being able to stand close enough to hear Patton speak, or even to set eyes on him, would be something he could tell his children and grandchildren about one day.

  The general stood up in the back of his jeep and lifted one booted foot up on the top of the front seat, nodding in approval as the men gathered around him. The shine from his black knee-high boots caught the sun. Someone shouted out, “The general’s wearing gold spurs!” Ward muscled his way to the front of the group of soldiers. Patton was a sight to behold. As he stood there surveying his tankers, Ward thought the entire setting was something straight out of a painting … a work of art.

  Ward had once bumped into General Omar Bradley in a mess tent in North Africa, but didn’t even realize who he was until someone pointed it out to him. Bradley looked like every other officer. General Patton was different. An energy moved with him when he walked.

  “Hello, boys!” the general shouted as he jumped onto the hood of his jeep to address the troops. He was decked out in a green jacket and khaki riding pants. Ward edged to the left a couple feet to get a look at Patton’s hips. Sure enough, ivory-handled revolvers were strapped there. Patton made quite a show of removing his black leather gloves. From out of no where he produced a riding crop.

  “You have heard rumors about me. Some of them may even be true!” he shouted. Patton laughed aloud at his own joke; everyone around him joined in. “One thing no one will ever say about me is that I lead from behind! I am here today with you to tell you each, personally, how grateful I am for your service to your country. You men have performed magnificently. I am damned proud of each and every one of you. Damned proud! Up ahead a few miles we will be engaging the enemy. The village and terrain around it they hold is just one more obstacle standing between us,” Patton paused, scanning the faces of the soldiers assembled before him, “and Berlin!” Another cheer and shouts of support erupted from the tankers.

  “Our Russian allies are planning to take Berlin before we can get there and that is, quite frankly, horse dung. Berlin is ours. Hitler is ours. The faster we crush the resistance ahead, the faster I can personally kick that rotten bastard Hitler in the ass!” Patton waited for the laughter to die down. “At that time, we will welcome our ‘so-called’ Russian allies into an American-occupied Berlin!” More laughter and applause. Patton’s presence and words of encouragement instilled courage.

  The general lowered his voice a bit and became more serious. “You know your jobs. You know what to do. And I know you will do it.” With that, Patton jumped off the hood of his jeep and began walking from crew to crew, shaking hands and making small talk. Ward could barely contain himself. Patton was heading his way.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “Ward Moore, sir. Sergeant Moore.”

  “Where you from, Sergeant?” asked the general.

  “Sesser … Sesser, Illinois, sir.”

  “Coal mining country!”

  Ward was amazed. “Sir, yes it is.”

  “Are you a coal miner, son?”

  “No sir, I’m not.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a sergeant in the 13th Armored Division of General George S. Patton’s Third Army, sir. This tank is going to lead the way for you to enter Berlin, and we’re gonna have a front row seat while you personally kick that rotten bastard Hitler in the ass. Sir!”

  Patton broke out in a loud laugh and reached over and put his arm around Ward’s shoulders. “Now here’s a soldier who knows exactly why he’s here!”

  Patton stood back and looked at Ward. “Sergeant, will you take the lead into that village ahead?”

  “You’re damn right I will, sir,” Ward proudly responded.

  Patton turned to yell to all the assembled men. “Follow Sergeant Moore and his tank to victory! May God bless every last son-of-a-bitch in the Black Cat Division!” He turned back to Ward and nodded. “I’ll see you in Berlin, son.”

  Lieutenant Banks climbed back onto the tank and began shaking his head. “Sarge, do you understand what just happened here?”

  “Sir?” Ward asked.

  “The rest of us watched a tiny slice of history unfold, but you got to play a part—you lucky bastard!” The lieutenant laughed. “I’m jealous. I can’t believe it. I’m not talking to you until the war is over. I will probably have to, though.”

  Ward was laughing. “Why?”

  “Because you volunteered our tank would lead the way.”

  “Could you say ‘no’ to General Patton, sir?” Ward asked.

  “Of course not.” The smile left the lieutenant’s face, “We’ll lead the way. Someone has to be first. Might as well be us.”

  The fighting began with light rifle fire when advanced infantry screens from both sides made contact outside the village. Thirty minutes later the tanks on both flanks arrived on the scene and opened fire, bombarding the nameless place for about an hour before the Black Cats were ordered to roll ahead. The streets in the village were strewn with debris and corpses, but the resistance was still intense.

  Ward winced each time he heard a bullet ricochet off the front of his tank. “I thought we were meeting someone
else here,” Ward hollered over his shoulder up to the lieutenant. “Is anyone else moving in with us?” German Wehrmacht soldiers were running from building to building, crossing rubble-strewn streets, and shooting from windows. They were everywhere. “We are sitting ducks here!” yelled Ward.

  Lieutenant Banks knocked on Ward’s helmet. “Over there—there’s the problem!”

  An American tank had been hit by something heavy and slammed into a building, which had collapsed on top of it. There was just enough of the tank sticking out into the narrow street to block the armored units attacking from the other side of town. Ward was going to back up but another tank was ten yards behind him—way too close for comfort. He looked up at the Lieutenant, “Give me some cover with the machine gun, and I’ll dig those guys out!”

  “No! It’s too dangerous. Back up and get that guy’s attention that we need to get outta here!”

  “Lieutenant, we can’t back up, we can’t move forward. It’s more dangerous to sit here. Those guys are screwed if we don’t help them!”

  Banks thought for a second and said, “Okay—but not until I say go!” The lieutenant ordered the soldier manning the Browning .50 caliber machine gun to provide covering fire for Ward’s mad dash to the crippled tank. Banks bellowed out another order and the turret slowly turned to the left front.

  “Fire!” he yelled.

  The building across the street from the trapped tank was full of German infantry. It erupted in a geyser of whitish-gray smoke and flying bricks and mortars.

  “Go!” the lieutenant shouted.

  Ward, already breathless and wondering what in the world he was doing, jumped out of the tank, hunched over, and ran down the street to the buried Sherman. Enemy bullets whizzed past his ears as he instinctively ducked and bobbed his way toward the trapped crewmen. It was as if he was moving in slow motion, his feet coated in heavy clay. He finally reached the tank, breathless but exhilarated; three infantrymen joined him there a few seconds later. While two provided covering fire, Ward and the remaining man dug through the rubble to reach the hatch.

  When the hatch was exposed, Ward rapped on it with a brick to warn the men inside they were friends. At least, that’s what he hoped they would think. The last thing he wanted was to have them open the hatch and start shooting. When the hatch popped open, a young soldier, his eyes wide with fright, looked up from inside the trapped tank. The tanker looked up, first with surprise, and then with a big smile pasted on his face.

  “Ward Moore? What in the hell are you doing here?”

  Ward was equally stunned, but the whining bullets whistling through the air cut the reunion shorter than either would have wanted. “I guess I’ve come four thousand miles to save your ass!” Ward replied as he reached down and helped the soldier and his buddies climb from the crippled tank.

  The jaw-dropping coincidence was one the people of Sesser would speak of for decades to come. At the barber shop, in the grocery store, on the local ball diamond—everywhere there was talking that needed to be done, the story of how Ward Moore saved John Brown’s life was mentioned. The grateful face beneath the hatch was another native of Sesser, Illinois. John Brown and Ward Moore had grown up and attended school together. John had played ball with Gene when they were pre-teens. And now, years later and thousands of miles away, with men dying all around them, war had brought the two hometown friends together again.

  The rest of the crew bailed out quickly and crouched behind the remnants of a demolished wall looking for a way to safely withdraw without being cut down by the crossfire. When the firing slackened a bit, they ran as fast as they could toward the American lines.

  Ward was a few feet from his tank when he stumbled and fell. “Ward, you okay?” John yelled, reaching back to help Ward to his feet as the two hobbled the last few feet and collapsed behind the Sherman.

  John repeated the question. “Crap, no!” Ward winced, rolling to his side and grabbing his rear end with one hand. “One of the damn Nazis shot me in the butt!” The bullet had entered one of his buttocks and exited the other side. It was deep and bled quite a bit, but it was not serious. A few minutes later, another bullet grazed his back.

  More American infantry poured into the area, but the fighting continued for some time until the Germans were finally cleaned from the village. John summoned a medic, who arrived to treat Ward’s wounds and get him to a makeshift hospital tent erected outside the town. The injury in his rear end was more embarrassing than damaging. For the rest of his life, whenever he was asked how it was the Germans were able to shoot him in his behind, Ward would reply, “Because the Krauts weren’t fast enough to shoot me in the front!”

  Ward Moore was awarded the Purple Heart for his wound and the Bronze Star for his bravery.

  Chapter 22

  The Final Innings

  The defeat of German forces in the Ardennes at the Battle of the Bulge was a clear indication that Germany had lost the war. Germany itself, however, remained to be conquered.

  February and March of 1945 were bloody months as the Allies walked, fought, rolled, and died their way through and over a long series of anti-tank traps and fortifications dubbed the Siegfried Line, which marked the western border of Germany. Cologne was the first major German city to be captured by the Americans. It fell on March 5, 1945. The next advance carried the Allied troops into the Ruhr—the industrial heart of Nazi Germany.

  The next and last major barrier was the Rhine River. By the third week of March, the Allies had a bridgehead across it thirty-five miles wide and twelve miles deep, though the fighting in many places was fierce. Once the Rhine was crossed, there was little to hold back the Allies in the west. The Russians were advancing from the East, their eyes set firmly on Berlin.

  “Moore, come in and have a seat son,” Colonel Arbeiter ordered, motioning him to a chair.

  “Thank you, sir,” Gene replied, wondering why he had been summoned to the commander’s office.

  “How’s the game going?” asked the officer, dropping himself into his seat behind the giant and as always, messy desk.

  “Good, sir,” Gene answered, studying the colonel’s face in an effort to figure out what he had in mind for this meeting. “We’re all playing well, and the Germans, they’ve really caught on.”

  “You know, Moore, when I watch you play, it’s often hard to tell who is on what side. Those Krauts are enjoying themselves.” Arbeiter stood and began pacing. “I have to confess, this has been hard for me—hard. They are the enemy. We can’t forget that.”

  Gene fidgeted but remained confident. “I understand, sir. I won’t forget. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Good. The reason I’ve asked you in today is to talk about the end, how we wind things down here.” Arbeiter flipped open his Zippo, flicked it with his thumb, and lit a Lucky. He was about to offer one to Gene when he thought better of it. “Forgot. You don’t smoke.”

  Gene shook his head. “Wind what down, sir?” He looked at the colonel with a puzzled expression. “The end of what?”

  Arbeiter leaned over the desk and put his palms down flat on the only two clear areas available. “Moore, I guess you don’t follow the war too closely, but the end is in sight. Our so-called Russian allies are knocking down the door to Berlin, Patton and other generals are advancing from the other side. This war in Europe could be finished next week. It wouldn’t surprise me if Hitler’s own men were trying to kill him right about now just to save their own sorry hides.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke with the cigarette dangling from his lips. “Any way you slice it, the war will be over sooner rather than later.”

  A sense of panic began rising inside the catcher. “So what does that mean for us, sir? Here, I mean.”

  “I am just giving you a head’s up. We might be closing down our operation and shipping the prisoners elsewhere. I doubt they’ll be going home for a while, but they might not be staying here too long, either.”

  The news stunned Gene. He had not given much thought to
the end of their time in Louisiana, and baseball with the Germans had been endlessly interesting and exciting. And now it could all end—sooner than any of them had expected.

  “Is there something wrong, Moore?”

  “No, sir. That’s great news, sir.”

  “Well, you don’t seem too damned happy about it!”

  “I’m delighted, sir.”

  “The hell you are,” he snorted. “I hope you’re not feeling any attachment to these damned Nazis. You are still playing with the enemy, and we are still at war—for a while longer, anyway.”

  “Of course, sir. There is no confusion on that score, and never has been,” Gene answered.

  Arbeiter straightened up once more. “I just wanted to let you know that word could come down tomorrow, next week—hell, it could arrive this afternoon—that we are all out of business here.” His voice softened before he spoke again. “I wanted to give you time to prepare, son. I know how much time you have put into this, and I never thought it had a prayer, frankly. You’ve done a good job organizing and motivating everyone. I know the locals have loved it, and the other guards—they can’t get enough.”

  Gene smiled at the unexpected kind words, thanked the colonel, saluted, and walked out. Arbeiter was a tough guy, but he had a kind streak in him a mile wide.

  The end of the war meant returning home, seeing his family and friends again, and picking up where he left off with his baseball career. The prospect excited Gene. On the other hand, the end of the war meant Heinrich and his team would also return home. For the first time, Gene fully understood how much he had grown to like some of the Germans—Heinrich, especially—even if they were the enemy.