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

by William Peter Grasso

  He walked up a rise alongside the road to take his reading. Relieved to find that they were still heading northwest, the captain called to his lounging men, ordering them to get back on board the trucks. They’d taken advantage of this stop to stretch their cramped muscles and relieve themselves in the tall grass. When they seemed in no hurry to comply, he reminded them that the Soviet Army still had thriving punishment battalions, and malingerers could find themselves assigned to one very quickly.

  But he reminded himself of something else, too: Officers deemed incompetent don’t go to punishment battalions. They just get a bullet in the head.

  OP Baker was the American observation post farthest from Pisek, some two miles northeast of the town. In daylight, it had a commanding view of the highway from Prague and the terrain surrounding it. At night, it became a well-positioned listening post, one of a dozen outposts protecting the American garrison at Pisek.

  This night, five men from 37th Tank were manning OP Baker under the leadership of a staff sergeant named Loudermilk. The position was a well-fortified log bunker reinforced with sandbags; the team inside it was equipped with a .50-caliber machine gun, a backpack radio, and a field telephone wired directly to the CP in Pisek. This was their third consecutive night of OP duty. The sergeant, an infantryman by trade, had seen action with 3rd Army during the shooting war. The four GIs under him, all PFCs, were tourists.

  Loudermilk heard the motors first. “Everybody shut the fuck up and listen,” he told his men. “Something’s coming.”

  But whatever that something was, it wasn’t coming down the highway. It was moving across their right front quadrant.

  “What the hell are trucks doing over there?” the sergeant asked himself out loud.

  “Maybe they’re Ivan tanks, Sarge,” a petrified GI said.

  “Nah,” Loudermilk replied. “Those are truck motors. Deuces…or something like that.”

  As the sounds grew closer and louder, he added, “They ain’t no GI trucks, either. Not sounding like that, that’s for damn sure. Get the CP on the landline.”

  “They’re coming straight for us!” another GI said, his eyes so wide with terror that Loudermilk could see the whites clearly in the darkness of the bunker.

  “Try not to shit your pants, kid,” the sergeant said. “You stink bad enough as it is. And didn’t I tell you to shut the fuck up? Now pay attention, all you ladies.”

  They still couldn’t see the approaching vehicles, which were shrouded in trees and the darkness of the moonless night. But from the sound alone they could sense their nearness, the motors laboring now as the drivers downshifted on the upslope leading to the OP.

  “They’re right in front of us,” Loudermilk said, positioning himself over the machine gunner’s shoulder. Using his finger as a pointer, he added, “They’ll pop up right about in the direction I’m pointing. Hold your fire until I tell you.”

  His voice trembling even in a whisper, the gunner asked, “How do we know for sure they’re not GIs, Sarge?”

  “Because we’re the only assholes dumb enough to be out here, that’s how.”

  “CP wants to know if we need help,” the man with the field phone to his ear said.

  “Tell them fuck yes we need help. Ah, give me that fucking phone.”

  Loudermilk told the CP they needed an illumination round immediately, using the bunker’s coordinates as the targeted location.

  Fifteen seconds later, the voice from the CP announced the round was on the way with the words, “Shot, over.”

  Loudermilk estimated the time of flight of the mortar’s illum round at twenty-two seconds.

  And if it takes any longer, those fucking trucks will be right on top of us when that flare pops.

  He began the countdown in his head.

  The overcast was lower than Loudermilk figured. When the illum round’s flare deployed and ignited, it was still hundreds of feet above the low cloud deck. Rather than the usual harsh glare, the flare—now filtered by clouds—turned the landscape around OP Baker a dull, ghostly gray.

  But it was more than enough light to see the column of trucks driving without lights about two hundred yards distant, moving diagonally from right to left in front of the OP. Struggling up the grade, the trucks were getting closer with each passing second.

  “Where the fuck do they think they’re going?” Loudermilk said. “They ain’t even on a road.”

  To his amazement, the column of trucks stopped.

  Then the flare dropped below the overcast, finally bathing everything in floodlit glare and vivid dancing shadows as it swung in its parachute.

  At first, the Russian convoy commander had mistaken the illum round for a signal flare, probably from a friendly unit. Now that it was below the clouds, there was no mistaking what it actually was.

  But if it was the Americans who’d fired it, he had no idea where they were.

  All he knew was they had to get out of this targeted zone as quickly as possible.

  The lead truck accelerated; the rest of the column did the same.

  Closer now to the OP in the brilliant light of the flare, the GIs had no doubt the vehicles were Russian. They looked similar to American-made deuce-and-a-halfs, but the markings were all wrong.

  They could see the faces of the men on the trucks now, each with an expression just as terrified as their own.

  And racing toward the OP like they were, the GIs had no doubt they were under attack.

  “FIRE,” Loudermilk commanded, repeating the word three times.

  The .50 caliber opened up, its sound conveying the full furor of industrialized death.

  But after firing four rounds, it jammed.

  Those four rounds, had they been on target, could have dismantled a truck with frightening ease. But the gunner had been jumpy and squeezed the trigger with his eyes closed. They were the first shots he’d ever fired in anger. At that, he’d done well, at least; many soldiers wouldn’t have fired at all. They’d be cowering in their holes, just like two of his fellow GIs on OP Baker were doing at the moment.

  With the gunner and his assistant frantically trying to clear the jam and Loudermilk trying to kick the two cowering GIs out of their fetal positions on the floor of the OP, nobody was firing at the onrushing Russian trucks.

  All those four shots from the .50 caliber had done was point out to the Russians where the bunker was. Even in the brilliant light of the flare, the muzzle flashes of the heavy machine gun had shone like a beacon.

  And now the Russians were firing back.

  Sean and Tommy were a half mile from OP Baker when they received the warning over their jeep’s radio. “We gotta get the hell over there,” Sean said. Handing the microphone to Tommy, he added, “Tell ’em to fire up the Zippos and move ’em up to Line Zebra.”

  Tommy made the transmission. When he was done, he asked his brother, “You really get to call that shot? What happened to your C.O.?”

  “Colonel Tardy? He’s still trying to find the latrine.”

  It took Loudermilk’s experienced hands to get the .50 caliber unjammed. He’d given up trying to get his two reluctant warriors to fight. As soon as he’d turned his attention to the weapon, they’d fled the bunker.

  With Loudermilk working on the .50 caliber, the machine gunner and his assistant were laying down some effective fire with M1 rifles. A few Russians tried and failed to storm the bunker on foot. They lay in the no man’s land between OP Baker and the Russian vehicles.

  The American mortars were now providing continuous illumination; a new flare would pop overhead every twenty seconds or so until the fire mission was canceled. Loudermilk would have requested they fire HE rounds on the trucks if he could, but he was too busy fixing the machine gun.

  If those trucks weren’t so damn close, I’d have those mortars drop white phosphorous on ’em, too. Burn ’em right to the fucking ground.

  But he knew for certain that the two men still in the bunker with him had no idea how to direc
t mortar fire: Probably just get us all killed bringing it down on our heads. And once I get this son of a bitch firing again, let’s hope we ain’t gonna need no mortars.

  With the loud clack of the bolt slamming forward, the .50 caliber was ready once more. Loudermilk stayed at the trigger, firing short bursts that dismantled the lead truck with terrifying efficiency. Then he swung his aim down the line of trucks.

  Yelling to his two GIs over the gun’s roar, he said, “If those Ivans are smart, they’ll try to get behind us and chuck some grenades in here. You two make damn sure that don’t happen, you hear me?”

  As Loudermilk shot up each truck in turn, the firing from the Russians dwindled. If they’re still alive, he told himself, they’re looking for new places to hide.

  “It’s like fucking daytime around here, ain’t it?” Sean said to his brother. “We’re gonna ditch the jeep on the back of this rise. OP Baker sits just over the peak.”

  “You mean it’s on the military crest?”

  “Ooo…I love when one of you flyboys tries to talk like a real soldier. But yeah, it’s on the fucking military crest. Get on your belly and low-crawl when we get near the top—there’s a ditch that’ll take us right into the bunker. Don’t wanna be standing up because them flares’ll light you up against the skyline like a Christmas tree. Then again, a little guy like you won’t make much of a target…”

  “Hey, Sean, how about you go fuck yourself?”

  They could hear the hammering of the .50-caliber machine gun before Sean even shut off the jeep’s motor.

  “Sounds like Loudermilk’s boys are giving somebody hell,” Sean said as they began the climb to the top of the rise.

  They hadn’t gone ten yards when a human figure popped out of the shadows right in front of Tommy. The rifle he carried was leveled right at Tommy’s chest, just inches away.

  Without hesitating, Tommy dodged sideways and butt-stroked him across the face with his carbine. The man fell to the ground in a heap, his helmet bouncing away in one direction, his rifle in another.

  “Wow, that was fucking impressive for an officer and all,” Sean said. Then he jerked the man off the ground by his web gear and stood him up.

  “What’s your name, numbnuts?” he asked, still with a firm grip on the man.

  The surly reply: “Who the fuck wants to know?”

  “Master Sergeant Moon, that’s who the fuck wants to know. Now what’s your fucking name, soldier? Or do I have to rip the name tag out of your skivvies?”

  Only slightly chastened, he replied, “The name’s Brady, Sergeant.”

  “That’s better. And where the hell are you supposed to be, Private Brady?”

  The man motioned with his head toward the top of the rise.

  “You with Sergeant Loudermilk?”

  Another nod of the head.

  “Good, because we’re all gonna go have a little visit with him right now.” With faux cordiality, he added, “Join me and the captain here, won’t you?”

  Everything had gone dead quiet. No one was firing anymore.

  A minute later they crawled over the top of the rise. Sean gave the password to the GI protecting the bunker’s flank. Then they were inside.

  “Hey, Harry,” Sean said to Loudermilk as he pointed to Brady, “this wise-ass mick belong to you?”

  “Yeah, he does. Where the fuck you been, boy?”

  Brady didn’t say a word.

  Then Loudermilk asked, “How about Kelly? You got any idea where he is?”

  “I think he got hit.”

  “Well, that’ll teach his sorry ass to run away from a nice safe bunker,” Loudermilk replied.

  They surveyed the carnage before them. The only Russians they could see were the half dozen who were lying between the OP and the shot-up trucks. They weren’t trying to move; they weren’t even moaning. “Pretty sure those Ivans are KIA,” Loudermilk said. “And those trucks of theirs sure don’t burn much. I riddled them six ways to Sunday and all we got is those couple little puddles of flame under them.”

  “Probably ain’t got no gas in ’em,” Sean replied. “By the way, this captain here’s my brother Tommy. He’s the new ASO for Thirty-Seventh Tank.”

  “Glad to have you aboard, Captain,” Loudermilk said, his gaze still fixed on the killing field through the sights of the .50 caliber.

  Then he asked Sean, “We got help coming?”

  “Yeah. Block’s platoon is on the way up. You think this show’s over, Harry?”

  “Pretty good bet, I’d say.”

  They waited for first light before venturing out among the destroyed Russian trucks. The count was fourteen Russian dead, three wounded. One of the wounded was the captain commanding the convoy. He was conscious, wounded in both legs. But they’d need a translator to interrogate him or any of his men. If any other Russians had survived the fight, they were long gone.

  Private Kelly’s body was found near the peak of the rise behind the bunker. “Fucking shame,” Sean said as the dead GI was rolled up in a groundsheet and loaded onto a truck. “Stupid bastard had to learn the hard way there ain’t nowhere to run.”

  It didn’t take much inspecting of the trucks—or what was left of them—to figure out what sort of unit they were from. “Look at this stuff,” Sean said, rummaging through the gear the trucks and their trailers carried. “Sound and flash ranging gear, periscope binoculars, plotting boards, enough maps for a company to wipe their asses for a week…and Uncle Sam gave them Reds all this shit, too. These Ivans are from an artillery target acquisition outfit, that’s for damn sure.”

  Colonel Hardy, the new C.O. of 37th Tank Battalion, said, “What the hell were they doing around here? They’d be well in front of their own guns.”

  “That’s real true, sir, but I think these Ivans were just lost as shit and stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time. Let’s see if that captain or his other wounded guys have anything interesting to say when we get ’em to the intel shop.”

  When Sean and Colonel Hardy returned to the CP in Pisek, they were met by an MP lieutenant. “This PFC Brady we’ve got in custody,” the MP said to the colonel, “what are the charges you’re filing against him, sir?”

  Hardy passed that baton to Sean. “The charges?” Sean said. “How about dereliction of duty, deserting his post, assaulting an officer, insubordination to an NCO…and that’s just for starters.”

  “Well, Sergeant,” the lieutenant replied, “the private wants to press charges of his own. He claims a captain physically assaulted him, and you helped.”

  “Oh, this oughta be rich,” Sean said. “Where’s that little scumbag?”

  The lieutenant pointed him to a room at the end of the hall. An MP corporal was posted at the door. The guard didn’t bother to challenge Sean as he stomped down the hallway. He wisely stepped out of the way.

  Brady was sitting sullenly in a corner, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t bother standing when Sean entered.

  Seen his type before. Acting real tough, but he’s as nervous as a whore in church, I guaran-damn-tee it.

  Smirking, Brady said, “I’m pressing charges for assault against you and that captain. Turns out he’s your brother, ain’t he?”

  He looked like he was leading with his jaw, as if expecting Sean to hit him.

  He wanted Sean to hit him.

  But instead, Sean pulled up a chair, spinning it around so the backrest faced Brady. Then he straddled that backward chair and sat down, leaning in close to the young private.

  “Where you from, kid?” Sean asked.

  “Boston,” came the reply, the first o spoken as a broad, flat a, like a sheep bleating.

  “Let me tell you something, pal,” Sean said. “The only thing that’s saving your shanty Irish ass from a firing squad—or, if you got real lucky, a life sentence in Leavenworth—is the fact we’re not technically at war right now. If we had been, you’d be facing a misbehavior before the enemy rap on top of all the other stuff we can throw at you.�
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  “Who you calling shanty Irish, Sarge?”

  “You, you dumbass. Take a good look at me. Don’t you think it takes one to know one?”

  Brady didn’t have a smart-alecky reply for that one.

  Sean continued, “And apparently, you’re real lucky, anyway, pal, because neither me nor the captain shot you dead right then and there when you leveled that weapon at him…and we would’ve gotten away with it, too. Plus you managed not to get your ass shot dead like that other peckerhead you took off with. But you’re kidding yourself if you think you’re gonna smartass your way out of this shit. You ain’t no punk on the streets of fucking Beantown no more, and those mick rules you played by back there don’t apply here. And believe me, I know them rules real well, because I’m the son of a bitch who invented them. So spare me the tough guy act and the shithouse lawyer bullshit and maybe I could see my way clear to talk the colonel outta some of them charges he wants to bury you under. Like the ones that carry serious time, for instance.”

  The surliness had vanished from Brady’s face and body language. But he still sounded a bit skeptical when he asked, “You’d do that for me, Sarge? Really?”

  Sean stood up and walked toward the door, stopping only to say, “Try me. The choice is yours, Paddy.”

  The news about OP Baker came off the Washington teletype machines just in time for breakfast. George Marshall had skipped the meal; his first order of business was to get to the White House.

  He relayed to the president what had happened half a world away.

  Truman asked, “Those Russian vehicles…they were storming our position?”

  “Yes, Mister President.”

  “And an American boy was killed by the attackers?”

  “Yes, Mister President.”