This Fog of Peace (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 4)

by William Peter Grasso

  Sean Moon put it this way to Colonel Abrams: “Sir, if we don’t find a way to keep these Krauts amused real soon, we’re gonna have a riot on our hands. It don’t matter a hill of beans to these guys that they lost. They still think they’re the cat’s ass…better than us, even.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Sergeant,” Abrams replied. “But I think I’ve got just the thing to keep our Aryans happy. Step up to the map. This is going to be right up your alley.”

  On the map, Abrams had drawn two red arrows running out of Klatovy toward the town of Pisek some forty miles to the east on the Otava River. One arrow was drawn a few miles south of the other but extended farther; it hooked around Pisek all the way to the Vltava River, which was another ten miles to the east of the town.

  Abrams explained, “General Patton’s getting a lot of political flak that he stopped short of Pisek back in May. That put it in Soviet territory, making it the only city in Western Czechoslovakia not in Allied hands. Some Czech politicians are none too happy about that—unofficially, of course, since they’ve still got Soviets crawling over most of their country. So now Patton wants to tidy up the stop line so it encompasses Pisek and extends to the Vltava.”

  Sean looked skeptical. “Ain’t the Reds there gonna have something to say about that, sir?”

  “That’s the thing, Sergeant…there are hardly any Reds in or around Pisek. Most of their troopers are tied up at Prague, and their motor transport’s gone to shit since we started cutting off their gasoline. We had word they were going to try to barge troops from Prague down the Vltava, but it hasn’t happened. They don’t have the boats, either.”

  “So how many are hardly any, sir?”

  “A thousand, give or take.”

  “What about armor and artillery?”

  “Practically none. A handful of tanks and some armored cars with heavy machine guns.”

  Sean asked, “Do the Reds at least have air support?”

  “Ninth Air Force says they’ve got us covered. Russian planes won’t bother us.”

  “So we’re just gonna go in and take what we want, figuring the Reds won’t give us any shit?”

  “You catch on fast,” Abrams said. “I guess that’s why you’re the top sergeant in this outfit.”

  “Okay, I think I’ve got the picture, sir. But just where do our Krauts figure into all this? We ain’t ready to give ’em guns for keeps yet, are we?”

  “No, we’re not going to arm them. But we are going to turn some of them over to our engineers, who will put them to work as Bailey Bridge teams. Short as the engineers are on manpower, it sounds like a good deal for everyone.”

  Looking at the map, Sean could see the most direct route into—and around—Pisek involved crossing the Otava River. There only appeared to be one bridge over it anywhere near the town, though.

  “Let me guess, sir,” Sean said. “This bridge is about the only place the Reds fortified, right?”

  “Bingo, Sergeant.”

  “So we’re going to build a Bailey or two on this southern route…and go right around them?”

  “Exactly right,” Abrams replied. “I’m going to lead Able Team, which will confront the Russians at the bridge. Our job will be to hold them in place while Major Vreeland—with your assistance, Sergeant Moon—leads Baker Team around Pisek to the Vltava, cutting off the Russians trapped between our two teams.”

  Sean liked what he was hearing but had two nagging doubts. The first one: “Everyone upstairs is okay with us goading the Reds like this, sir? I’d hate for us to get hung out to dry by the big boys when this starts to get ugly.”

  “They’re more than okay with it, Sergeant. It was their idea in the first place.”

  Abrams could tell there was something else on Sean’s mind. He said, “You’ve got another question, Sergeant?”

  Sean hesitated, struggling for the least offensive way to express his other nagging doubt. It came out like this: “Major Vreeland, sir…and with all due respect…but are you sure he’s got the balls for this? Don’t know much about him, but from what I’ve heard, he’s luggage.”

  Colonel Abrams smiled; he’d heard Sean’s definition of luggage before. It meant someone who never did anything, but you had to carry him around anyway.

  Abrams put a fatherly hand on Sean’s shoulder and said, “To be honest, Sergeant, I’m not sure if you’re right or not about the good major. Haven’t seen enough of him to make up my mind. But he’s all I’ve got right now…and if he needs help learning to command, I couldn’t think of a better man than you to do the teaching.”

  Sean asked, “When do we go, sir?”

  “Tomorrow, at first light.”

  “Got it, sir. But the first thing I’d better do is get these maps marked up so there’s no confusion over these fucking rivers.” He blew out a sigh of exasperation before adding, “Otava and Vltava…for cryin’ out loud! Could these Czechs come up with two damn names that were any harder for us dumbass GIs to confuse?”

  Able Team—the company of Sherman tanks with attached infantry led by Colonel Abrams—approached the Russian-held bridge. The sun had just risen above the hills to the east of Pisek, bathing the town and the Otava river in its warm orange glow. The Shermans stayed on the road from the high ground in single file until the bridge came into view a thousand yards ahead. Then Abrams dispersed them into a wedge with his tank—named Thunderbolt VI—at the apex. The colonel stood in her turret as he always had, leading from the front, a big cigar clamped between his teeth. The infantry dismounted from their armored half-tracks and took up positions behind the Shermans, providing them protection from sappers and teams with anti-tank rifles.

  Thunderbolt VI didn’t slow as it approached the bridge. It raced all the way across, not stopping until two Russian tanks blocked its path once it reached the far end. Back across the river, just a few hundred yards away, nineteen American tanks lined the bank, their main guns ominously zeroing in on their adversaries’ positions.

  Abrams was soon eye-to-eye with the Russian officer-in-charge of the bridge. Neither could speak the other’s language and there were no translators. With hand gestures, each stated their position: Abrams pointed toward Pisek; the Russian held up his hands like a traffic cop signaling stop.

  The Russian soldiers behind their officer stared nervously at the American tanks just across the river. They had far more men on hand than the Americans, but they only had those two tanks—against nineteen. And the guns of those nineteen didn’t need to cross the river to do them harm.

  The fruitless gesturing came to a stop. Abrams climbed back into his tank and radioed for the rest of the company to start across the bridge one at a time. Then, an impromptu ballet of steel behemoths began. Thunderbolt VI backed up about one hull length, until her tracks were on the threshold of the bridge again. But suddenly, she stopped, and then lurched forward, veering around the tanks that had blocked her. The two Russian tank commanders scrambled to reposition their vehicles to again block Abrams’ Sherman, but before they could, another Sherman was across the bridge. Two squads of GI infantry followed on foot. Overhead, two flights of American fighter-bombers appeared, orbiting like vultures selecting their prey.

  Outgunned, the Russians were in obvious disarray, not wanting to start a live-fire skirmish yet being ordered to block the American advance. For a precious moment, there was nothing stopping Colonel Abrams’ tank from driving straight into Pisek.

  But that wasn’t the plan. Able Team was meant only as a decoy and blocking force. With the two Russian tanks pursuing Thunderbolt VI, there was nothing left but foot soldiers—not inclined to suicide—to stop the rest of Abrams’ tanks from crossing the bridge and encircling the Red strongpoint.

  With deliberate and unnerving speed, the GI tankers did exactly that.

  Once he’d traveled a few hundred yards from the bridge, Abrams commanded his driver to stop. This was as far as he planned to advance. With any luck at all, the frantic Russian officer-
in-charge was summoning every piece of armor his army had in the area to block this American incursion—and in the process, keep them away from Baker Team, the bulk of his armored force—who were reporting they were in position a few miles to the south.

  “All Shortstop units,” Abrams radioed the elements of Able Team, “let’s start the party.”

  With that command, the GIs broke out cartons of American cigarettes and cases of vodka. Then, bearing these gifts and shouting “Tovarisch”—comrade—they approached their startled Russian counterparts.

  Abrams watched as the furious Russian OIC ran from one knot of commingled soldiers to another, berating his men to stop fraternizing with the Americans and trying without success to grab the vodka bottles away from them. “Look at that idiot,” he told his crew. “He doesn’t know whether to wind his ass or wipe his watch. This is working out better than I hoped, so far. Good thing, too…rounding up all that contraband vodka cost me a bunch of favors.”

  While Able Team froze the Russians at the Pisek bridge in place, Baker Team had moved into position on the Otava. They’d gotten there on schedule despite Major Vreeland getting lost in the predawn darkness and turning the head of that long column of vehicles onto the wrong trail, one that quickly dead-ended in a thick patch of woods. It was only luck that just one tank and a handful of trucks had actually left the road before they hit the roadblock of trees and came to a grinding halt.

  “It’s this damn map,” Vreeland raged to Sean, who’d driven his jeep up from the tail end of the column to see what the holdup was. “Who’s responsible for drawing it?”

  “I’m responsible for the damn map, Major,” Sean replied. “That’s one of the things an operations sergeant does, remember?”

  He took the map from Vreeland and spread it on the hood of his jeep. By the glow of a flashlight, he compared it to his own copy.

  “Not a damn thing wrong with this map, sir. You just turned off this road too soon. We’re looking for an intersection, not some cow path like this thing. We gotta go about three-tenths of a mile more.”

  The major pulled out his pocket notebook and began to write furiously.

  Sean asked, “Making notes, sir?”

  “Yes,” Vreeland replied. “There’ll be disciplinary actions taken when this operation is over. I guaran-damn-tee it, Sergeant Moon.”

  As Sean walked to the last truck that had left the road, the major’s driver, a corporal who was four points shy of being shipped home when the exodus began right after VE Day, approached him and said, “He’s gonna try to blame me, Sarge. That’s the kind of asshole he is. Believe me, because I’ve driven him before. I tried to tell him that place we turned wasn’t far enough to be the road we were looking for—shit, it wasn’t even a road!—but he wouldn’t listen. Now I’m gonna get my ass court-martialed because—”

  Sean cut him off. “Quit whining, O’Reilly. If he’s writing anyone up, it’s me. And that’s no skin off my back. Yours, neither.”

  Turning a column of trucks around in tight confines was hard enough in broad daylight. In the darkness, though, it would take care and skill, reversing and turning the big trucks one at a time, to get the entire convoy back on the road without running over any of the men on the ground clearing the way. I should count my lucky stars it’s only seven vehicles, Sean told himself. And thank God none of these lost little girls are pulling trailers. If they had been, we’d likely never get ’em turned around without a whole lot of manhandling in the dark. Talk about getting guys run over…that’d do it, for sure.

  Dawn had just broken when Baker Team reached the bank of the Otava. The first step in their operational plan was for a company of infantry in assault boats to row across the river in several waves, setting up a security perimeter hundreds of yards deep on the far side. Their task was to keep any Russians across the river from interfering with the construction of the Bailey Bridges. Sean positioned a platoon of tanks in hull-down positions behind a rise on the near bank; they’d provide fire support for the infantry if they called for it.

  The German construction teams unloaded the components of those prefab bridges from the trucks faster than Sean had ever seen it done before. When first told of their bridge-building assignment, the former SS men were not happy. They were even more unhappy to learn they would not be issued weapons. But then a clever engineer captain had presented it to the Germans as a challenge. He told them an American team could assemble a two-hundred-foot-span Bailey in two hours. After given instruction on how to assemble the bridge, the Germans—who considered themselves superior to American soldiers in every aspect—announced they could assemble a Bailey Bridge in one hour and twenty minutes. On hearing that, General Patton told his commanders, “Tell those Krauts that if I can walk across that bridge no more than eighty minutes after they start building it, they can have all the weapons they want.” To make it more interesting, Colonel Abrams wanted two bridges constructed to get his armor across faster. That would require two German teams—who would relish competing against each other.

  The gauntlet had been thrown down. The Germans eagerly picked it up.

  Sean asked an engineer sergeant, “You think them Krauts got a chance in hell?”

  The engineer shook his head, “I’ve put fifty-six of these things together all across France and Germany, not counting the ones we did during training. A two hundred footer’s never been done in less than one hour and fifty-five minutes. And they ain’t even seen the goddamn thing until the other day.”

  Watching the legendary German efficiency in action, Sean replied, “I think they’re gonna give you a real good run for your money. I don’t see them wasting a damn step.”

  It was time for the last wave of infantry to cross the river. Sean saw Major Vreeland gathering his gear and heading toward the boats.

  Hurrying to catch up, he asked Vreeland, “Going somewhere, sir?”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I’m going to accompany the covering party in this critical phase of the operation.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Sean replied, “but the most critical phase is sitting right over there, with Krauts all over it.” As he spoke, he pointed to the furious activity of the Bailey Bridge teams. “You being with the infantry ain’t part of the plan. You belong right here. Lieutenant Waldner don’t need no supervision.”

  “Are you questioning my judgment again, Sergeant Moon?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I’m just pointing out that you’re wasting that good judgment of yours by putting yourself on the other side of this damn river.”

  “Your opinion is noted, Sergeant. Now excuse me.” He climbed into an assault boat and told the men on the oars to get paddling.

  Maybe he’s doing us a favor, Sean thought as he watched the boats set out. But I’d better tell Captain Carpenter he just became the C.O. of this bridgehead.

  He found Carpenter checking that the company of tanks he commanded were well deployed in their defensive perimeter. He’d only joined the outfit recently, but Sean could tell he was an officer who could earn his keep: He used to be a tanker NCO himself and took a direct commission. Sure, he wasn’t in 37th Tank—or even 4th Armored—but he knows his shit.

  Sean recalled the first conversation he’d ever had with Carpenter. The captain had asked, “How many Zippos have you had shot out from under you, Sarge?”

  When Sean replied, “Seven. I was working on number eight when the Krauts packed it in,” Carpenter was suitably impressed. He said, “Hardcore! I only went through six.”

  There was more for them to bond over, as well. They both distrusted the ex-German soldiers.

  And they both despised the Russians.

  Across the Otava, Lieutenant Waldner had deployed the eighty soldiers in his company in a wide perimeter, an arc that covered almost a quarter of a mile, with the river at their back. The average distance between his men was nearly four yards. He wasn’t comfortable with them being any farther apart.

  Half these guys are greener t
han that tall grass they’re lying in. If they get where they can’t see the man next to them—or hear their squad leader—they’ll get too jumpy and do something stupid. They’re nervous enough as it is.

  Major Vreeland had other ideas. He told Waldner, “Push your perimeter out more, Lieutenant. We want a big cushion for that bridging site.”

  “Begging your pardon, Major,” Waldner replied, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He began to explain the reasons why, but Vreeland quickly became exasperated.

  “Do I have to do everything around here my damn self?” the major asked no one in particular. Then he told Waldner, “I’m giving you a di-rect order, Lieutenant,” the accent on die. “We’re going to push this perimeter out. Just follow me.”

  Waldner had to hide his smirk when he heard the words follow me. Those words had been attributed to an Army general who’d spoken them to urge his pinned-down men off a Philippine invasion beach in 1944. The story—and that expression—spread worldwide through the rest of the Army like wildfire. It had become an iconic phrase spoken by those leading from the front to motivate men forward into combat.

  But it sounded wrong coming from a man who’d spent the war pushing nothing more lethal than a pencil.

  Vreeland was insistent. “We don’t want those bridge builders to be in range of Russian mortars, do we, Lieutenant?”

  “They may very well be, sir…but since you can’t actually see the bridgehead from here, they’d need a forward observer for mortars, artillery, or rockets to hit anything, and he’d have to be a hell of a lot closer to the river. We would’ve stumbled over him and that big radio of his a long time ago. And being out in the middle of nowhere like we are, it’s not likely they’ve got that bridgehead site zeroed-in in advance, either. Per the ops order, our job is to keep Russian small arms and vehicles away from the bridgehead, period. If there are any heavy weapons around, we call the flyboys in to take care of them.”