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

by William Peter Grasso

  “I said negative, Sergeant Moon. I don’t want to split my forces unless it’s an absolute necessity. Too much chance of isolated forces getting destroyed piecemeal.”

  Sean had never missed Colonel Abrams more than at that moment. It was painfully obvious that Hardy lacked Colonel Abe’s acute understanding of the tactics of mobile warfare as well as his natural aggressiveness. For the sake of every man in the outfit, there had to be a way to make this armchair tactician see reason.

  “Sir, if I may,” Sean said, “a double envelopment ain’t the same as throwing units into a fight piecemeal. Quite the opposite…it’s a real effective way to mass forces on an objective. I can’t tell you all the times Colonel Abe used it to—”

  “Colonel Abe isn’t here anymore, Sergeant. I’m calling the shots now, and we’re sticking to Plan Atlanta.”

  Tommy had watched the discussion from a respectful distance. Once Hardy moved off, he said to his brother, “What the hell is his problem?”

  “His problem is he ain’t never done this before…but he thinks he knows how.”

  “Ah, shit…”

  “You ain’t kidding, Half. We ain’t even moved an inch yet and we just made our first big fucking mistake.”

  The column was ten miles down the road when they made first contact with the Russians. Still in predawn darkness, rounds from Russian anti-tank rifles knocked a track off the lead Sherman, bringing it to a halt. Captain Carpenter swiftly moved his platoons off the road. Forming wedge formations, those platoons plunged blindly forward, hoping to find and kill the Russian gunners or at least send them scrambling away. As they did, the rest of the battalion column halted and took up defensive positions off the roadway.

  The lead tank of Charlie Company’s 1st Platoon stumbled onto the gunners in a copse of trees, her crew only realizing the Russians were there when their vehicle was hit with flank shots to the engine at close range. The normal industrial racket of the engine shifted to the raucous clattering of a dying machine and then fell silent. The gunners had let the tank pass by and then put several of their armor-piercing rounds through her thin side armor.

  But firing in the dark had been the gunners’ undoing. Sighting on the bright muzzle flashes of the anti-tank rifles, the machine guns of the platoon’s trailing tanks silenced the Russians.

  Racing in his jeep to the head of the column, Sean joined Carpenter as he stood over the dead bodies of six Russians.

  “We got any casualties, sir?”

  “No,” Carpenter replied, “just two Zippos out of action.”

  “Any sign of an Ivan vehicle or radio?”

  “No, Sarge. Just what you see here.”

  “Well, that’s a break,” Sean said. “Maybe they still don’t know we’re coming. I figure we’ve got another five miles or so before we’re in range of that artillery trap. If they’re smart, they’ve got an FO with a radio watching the road somewhere around here. The commo team’s been sweeping the Ivan frequencies, but they don’t hear nothing.”

  “Let’s hope to hell that FO’s not using a landline,” Carpenter said.

  “Amen to that, sir.”

  They both knew that in that five-mile distance was their last good shot at adopting Plan Biloxi. Past that point, they’d have to backtrack to pick up the alternate routes, not something a miles-long column of heavy vehicles did easily.

  Sean’s driver was calling him back to the jeep. “Six is on the horn, Sarge. It’s urgent.”

  Six: the battalion commander, Colonel Hardy.

  Carpenter went with Sean to his jeep. But it wasn’t the colonel himself on the radio. It was the sergeant commanding the tank—the TC—on which Hardy was riding.

  “Six is down,” the sergeant said. “Repeat, Six is down.”

  “Be right there,” Sean replied. Then he broadcast a call to Major Lowe, the battalion XO and next in the chain of command.

  There was no reply.

  “I guess that puts me in charge,” Carpenter said, “at least until the XO decides to join the party, anyway. How about I get back on the road but take it real slow while you sort this out?”

  “Sounds like a plan, sir. I’ll let you know what the hell’s going on as soon as I know myself.”

  Colonel Hardy was indeed down, but he hadn’t been wounded by enemy fire; he’d fallen into the turret, banging his bare head fiercely on the guard rail for the main gun. Bouncing off the rail to the rear of the turret, he then struck his head soundly once more on the radio rack.

  “I tried to give him a tanker’s helmet,” the TC explained, “but he wouldn’t take it. Wanted to keep his steel pot on. The minute he heard all that shooting, he tripped the hatch seat to come inside, but I don’t think he was ready for that quick drop. Lost his steel pot, fell off the seat, smacked his head.”

  Hardy was lying on the turret floor, groggy and bleeding. When he tried to speak, it was an incoherent babble. He looked in no shape to command anything.

  “Get the medics up here to take him off your hands,” Sean told the TC. “I gotta find the XO and tell him he just got promoted to battalion commander.”

  “Maybe the XO knocked himself out, too,” the TC offered, only half joking.

  “Nah, we couldn’t be that lucky,” Sean replied.

  According to the order of march, Major Lowe was supposed to be near the rear of the column. He’d be in a position to police up stragglers and coordinate with the trailing units.

  But he was supposed to be on the radio, too. Despite Sean’s repeated calls to Five—the XO—there was still no reply.

  Even now that dawn had broken and they had some light from the dingy gray sky, it would be slow going driving the jeep against the flow of traffic on this narrow highway, built more for cars and small trucks than armored behemoths. Sean and his driver spent most of the ride bouncing along the rough shoulders, holding on for dear life to keep from pulling a Hardy by getting ejected from the open jeep. They were weaving their way through the column’s last element—the direct support artillery battery of 105-mm howitzers—when Captain Carpenter came back on the radio.

  “We’ve got contact with Russian armor,” Carpenter said. “Big stuff, too, but pretty far off. Looked like IS-2s, maybe four or five of them. They fired a few rounds and then beat it up the highway. I think they’re sucker bait, like they want us to chase them.”

  “What’s the score?” Sean asked.

  “Nothing-nothing. They didn’t hit us, we didn’t hit them. If we’re going to activate Plan Biloxi, we’d better do it damn soon. Am I still the head guy in this outfit?”

  “Affirmative,” Sean replied. “No luck with Five yet. Shouldn’t be too far away, though.”

  A few minutes later, Sean stumbled into something he wasn’t expecting. They’d reached the end of 37th Tank’s column—and there was nobody behind them. According to plan, there should have been a mechanized infantry battalion directly behind the 37th. Beyond the infantry should’ve been numerous other units of 4th Armored Division.

  But Sean saw no one. The highway was as empty as a wallet before payday.

  I ain’t believing this shit…

  And then Major Lowe—call sign Omaha Five—was finally on the air.

  Lowe relayed his position; it was almost two miles behind the present location of 37th Tank’s tail end.

  When told that command had passed to him, his reply was surprisingly noncommittal: “Roger. I’ll look into it.”

  What the fuck is wrong with this guy? I didn’t make it sound like I was giving him an option, did I?

  “C’mon,” he said to his driver, “let’s go find the XO and straighten him out.”

  They found him right where he said he was, leaning casually on the hood of his jeep as he watched the work party of ex-SS men unloading roll after roll of barbed wire from several deuces. Sean knew what they were doing: building a detention camp to hold the Russians captured during Operation Curveball. A platoon of MPs in jeeps patrolled the perimeter of the site.
Whether they were there to protect the Germans or keep them from running away was anybody’s guess.

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear on the horn, Major,” Sean said, “but you’re in command now. Colonel Hardy’s out of action.”

  “What happened to him, Sergeant?” The question sounded like Lowe was making casual conversation, not dealing with a crisis of leadership.

  Sean told him about the head injuries. Lowe seemed unconcerned.

  “That doesn’t sound all that bad, Sergeant,” the XO said. “That happens to you tankers all the time, doesn’t it? I’m sure he’ll be fine. Let’s not get everyone all confused about who’s in charge.”

  “Nobody’s confused, Major. The colonel’s down for the count. You’re in charge.”

  Lowe didn’t answer. He just went back to watching the Germans.

  “So you’re not coming, sir?”

  Lowe replied, “Once I’m satisfied this work is proceeding satisfactorily, I’ll rejoin the column.”

  There was no point arguing with the major. Sean had dealt with officers like this before: they’d busy themselves with matters of overinflated importance—anything that would keep them out of harm’s way.

  “Suit yourself, sir. If you’re not gonna take command, that makes Captain Carpenter the walking boss of this outfit. He’s fixing to execute Plan Biloxi.”

  “Negative, Sergeant,” Lowe replied. “That was not Colonel Hardy’s intention, and it’s not mine, either. Remain with Plan Atlanta.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but we’ve had contact twice with the Ivans already and—”

  Lowe interjected, “I’m well aware of that, Sergeant. I do have a radio, you know.”

  Gee, you might try using it sometime was what Sean wanted to reply. Instead, he said, “And we still got no air support…but you want to do a Hey Diddle Diddle, Straight up the Middle and drive right into that artillery trap?”

  “We have our own artillery, Sergeant. They’ll give effective counter-battery fire.”

  “How, sir? Where the hell are the big guns, anyway?” He pointed down the vast stretch of empty highway in the direction of Pisek. “Even if they showed up right now, it’ll still take them a good half hour, maybe more, to get laid in. And we can’t shoot blind—the guns ain’t registered in on that turf and we ain’t got no eyes on the target to adjust fire yet. We could shoot all damn day and never hit the sons of bitches. And if we’re real lucky, maybe we won’t kill our own guys.”

  “I said negative, Sergeant Moon. Continue with Plan Atlanta.”

  “I’ve got one more question, sir. Speaking about the big guns, where the hell are all the other units that are supposed to be behind us?”

  “They’ll be along, Sergeant.”

  “Well, sir, until they are, we’re vulnerable from every fucking direction. Maybe while you’re nursemaiding the Krauts, you can get the rest of Fourth Armored moving this way?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Lowe replied, without a hint of urgency in his voice. “But I’d advise you to mind your tone. And remember what I said: continue with Plan Atlanta. That’s an order, Sergeant.”

  Sean turned and walked away. He had no intention of following Major Lowe’s order.

  I don’t care if they put me in the can for it, neither. I ain’t getting guys killed because some desk jockey got his head up his ass.

  Back within 37th Tank’s column, Sean quickly realized it was coming to a stop like a long train: one car at a time, from front to back. At least it made it easier to get to Captain Carpenter at the head.

  “Forget Major Lowe,” Sean told the Captain. “He’s off doing God’s work with the Krauts. Says he’s not taking command because he’s sure Colonel Hardy’s wounds ain’t that bad.”

  “Well, when the ambulance headed back to Pisek passes him, maybe he’ll change his mind. But I never expected him to be worth a flip, anyway, so let’s not get distracted—what do you figure our next move is? If we’re going to do Biloxi, we’ve got to do it right here and now.”

  “Just be advised that the major gave me a direct order not to execute Biloxi.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Did he say why?”

  “No. I guess him and Hardy are from the same school—frontal assault or nothing.”

  “Fuck that,” Carpenter said. “Okay, you told me what he said. Now it’s on me. We’re going to do Biloxi right fucking now.”

  Sean was nodding his agreement before the captain had finished speaking. Then he said, “Roger, sir. But one more thing…the units that are supposed to be covering our ass—they ain’t shown up yet. We’d better provide our own rear security right quick.”

  “Shit, yeah. What do you suggest?”

  “Let’s put the recon platoon on it. The Stuarts ain’t gonna do us all that much good anyway when we move in on that Ivan artillery.”

  “I agree,” Carpenter said. “Good plan. Let’s do it.”

  As they prepared the radio message to redirect 37th Tank’s mission to Plan Biloxi, Tommy’s three-quarter-ton truck, with its powerful radio, drove up. “I just got word the weather’s breaking to the west,” he said. “Shouldn’t be long before we see a break in the clouds here, too…maybe in a half hour, maybe a little more. The jugs’ll be taking off within fifteen minutes.”

  “Well, there’s one piece of good news, anyway.”

  Carpenter asked, “Should we still go ahead with Biloxi?”

  “Affirmative,” Sean replied. “Let’s cover our bases both ways. Just in case.”

  Five miles west of Pisek and nearly twenty miles from 37th Tank, officers of 4th Armored Division staff were desperately trying to undo a colossal traffic jam at a critical road junction. The mechanized infantry unit that was supposed to follow 37th Tank had gotten off to a late start. The battalion commander’s excuse: “The fuel trucks were supposed to hit us first. Somehow their orders got fucked up, though, and we were scheduled last. When they didn’t show on time, we scrambled to get it sorted out, but we still lost over an hour before we were on the road.”

  At least they’d tried to make it right. But rolling late like they did, they arrived at the junction simultaneously with a heavy artillery unit approaching on the intersecting road. A pissing contest promptly ensued as to who should have priority to pass through. The result was that traffic slowed to a crawl, and neither outfit advanced through the intersection intact. Now hopelessly disorganized, both commanders had pulled their scattered vehicles off the road as they came out of the intersection, trying to regain some sense of command and control. As they struggled, though, the rest of the division was backing up behind them, creating a parking lot miles long.

  General Prestwick, Patton’s replacement as 3rd Army commander, arrived on the scene after his jeep had snaked its way through the jam. He told his staff, “Dammit, gentlemen…Thirty-Seventh Tank is now completely on their own in the middle of Soviet territory. Even their heavy artillery support is stuck here, out of range to help them.”

  “What’s your preference, sir?” a regimental commander asked Prestwick. “Put the artillery back on the road first? Or the mech infantry?”

  It was a tough call. Without the protection to their rear, 37th Tank could easily be encircled by a fast-moving enemy. But if the heavy artillery was allowed to lag farther behind, it would be several hours before they would be in range to provide fire support to anyone.

  General Prestwick made his decision quickly. “The Thirty-Seventh is full of resourceful lads. Always has been, I’m told. I’m confident they’ll figure out how to cover their own asses. Put the artillery on the road first.”

  No sooner had he said that than his aide raced up, saying, “You’re wanted on the radio immediately, General.”

  “Who the hell is it?” Prestwick replied, annoyed at the distraction.

  “USFET, sir. And they say it’s most urgent.”

  The general vanished into the communications van for a good five minutes. When he returned, he was ashen-f
aced.

  “All units have been ordered to halt,” Prestwick told his officers. “Operation Curveball is on hold, pending further orders”

  “What about the Thirty-Seventh, sir?” his G3 asked.

  “Until we get a clearer picture of our orders, they’re on their own, I’m afraid.”

  It was nearly 2200 hours in Washington, D.C., when the first flash message from Eisenhower chattered from the teletype. Within thirty minutes, the nation’s military leaders were assembled in the Oval Office. They’d all been briefed by telephone on the contents of Eisenhower’s message before they’d left their homes for the White House. None of them had anticipated the event it described. Each man harbored the secret hope that the news was too fantastical to be true.

  But those were false hopes. General Marshall summarized what was known so far: “General Eisenhower reports that no less than three Soviet armored regiments have entered Berlin. They’ve taken up threatening positions within yards of every major Allied facility and checkpoint in the city, American, British, and French. At the same time, Eisenhower received a message from Marshall Zhukov demanding all Allied forces be withdrawn from the city within twenty-four hours.”

  “Or what?” an incredulous President Truman asked.

  “There’s no further information in our possession yet, Mister President,” Marshall replied. “But I think it’s safe to assume that the Soviets will apply extreme pressure to eject us if we don’t comply. With the arrival of these new regiments, they certainly have the immediate power to do it.”

  Truman slumped into his desk chair, still trying to grasp the enormity of what was happening. His next words were nearly a whisper, spoken more to himself than his war leaders: “I can’t lose Berlin. Not after all this.”