Our Ally, Our Enemy (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 3)

by William Peter Grasso

Amen to that, Sean told himself as he took one last glance at Newcomb’s tank, now his funeral pyre. Just remind me never to cheer again when we’re not first in the column…because it don’t matter where you are when your number’s up.

  Chapter Nine

  At least we’re finally in the air again.

  Even though he was wearing tinted goggles, Tommy Moon found himself squinting into the bright morning sun. Blue Flight was winging east through a crystalline sky; the storms that had kept them grounded these past days had swept northeast toward the German-Polish border, their clouds shining like towering pillars of brilliant white far in the distance off the left wingtips of the P-47s.

  They were higher than they’d been in a while, too, cruising at 20,000 feet. With that altitude came the cold; Tommy stamped his flying boots on the cockpit’s metal floor, trying to keep the circulation going in his chilled, tingling feet.

  Even in the damn European summer, it’s freezing up this high. I’ve heard how those guys in the Pacific fly around in their shirtsleeves all the time. How I envy them right now.

  If we were flying ground attack like usual, it’d be a lot warmer down at low level. But Ninth Air Force has us doing escort duty for a squadron of B-26 Marauder bombers.

  Escort duty is something we don’t do very much. I’d be lying if I said I’m not nervous as hell. Those bomber jockeys down below us are in our hands…

  And if any of those Kraut jet interceptors show their faces, there’s not going to be much we can do about it except wave at them as they flash by.

  I just hope to hell the rest of the jug boys are giving the ground-pounders the support they need today—and tomorrow—and a whole lot of days after that, too.

  Maybe then my brother won’t give me such a ration of shit the next time I get to see him.

  The target for today was the marshalling yards of Augsburg, Germany, a rail and road hub some thirty miles west of Munich. The objective of the bombing raid was to interdict supplies and personnel moving west to support the fight against Patton’s US 3rd Army as well as General Patch’s US 7th Army and General Tassigny’s French 1st Army on the southern flank of Patton’s forces.

  The Marauders had proved themselves most effective from medium altitude. That’s where their formation of twelve aircraft was—12,000 feet—putting them 8,000 below Blue Flight’s P-47s.

  “Watch your fuel, guys,” Tommy radioed to the other jug pilots. “I’m about ready to go dry on the drop tank. You should be, too.”

  Perhaps it was too much a motherly thing to tell experienced pilots who knew full well how to manage their fuel loads. Hopefully, it would be taken as nothing more than a gentle reminder, since they hadn’t needed to fly with extra fuel in a drop tank since their missions from England before Overlord. But escorting bombers would take much more time—and cover much more distance—than their ground attack missions. Without the extra fuel in that drop tank hanging beneath her belly, a jug couldn’t do the mission.

  And it wouldn’t be the first time some hotshot aviator forgot to switch from a tank that was bone dry, Tommy told himself. I know a guy who forgot and had his engine quit on him as he was diving on a target. Textbook fuel starvation. Lucky for him, the dive had given his jug just enough energy to pull out and stay airborne while he threw the tank selector over to one full of fuel and restarted his engine.

  I won’t name names…but the pilot in question is sitting in this cockpit.

  Tommy braced himself for a sarcastic reply from one of his pilots, but the only voice that spilled into his headphones was from the B-26s below.

  “We’ve got company,” the bomber pilot said, the tension in his voice unmistakable. “Two bandits, eleven o’clock…a little above us, closing fast.”

  That meant the jug pilots had to look down and around their ships’ bulky noses for a fleeting glimpse of the approaching intruders. For two of the four pilots—Tommy included—the noses blocked the view completely.

  “Holy crap!” a bomber pilot reported. “They were only a couple of feet away when they went past, I swear to God!”

  Another voice from the bombers added, “They didn’t fire, though, did they?”

  “Negative, don’t think so.”

  Charlie Fusco in Blue Three got the best look, and that was just a quick peek as the intruders streaked past in the opposite direction. “Looked like an RAF Hurricane,” Fusco radioed, “but not quite.”

  “Roger,” a voice from the bombers added. “That’s what we thought, too.”

  “Negative, negative,” Tommy replied. “There aren’t any Hurricanes in this AO.”

  Then he thought, Except maybe the Russians are flying Hurricanes now?

  Tommy craned his neck to see over his right shoulder. He could just make out the two dark specks in a wide, high-speed turn that, if taken completely around, would bring the bandits back toward them. At the brisk speed they were flying, that reversal of direction would take almost a minute.

  But at least they’re not jets.

  The bombers were over their IP now, the initial point where they’d begin the straight-in run to the target. Although the jug pilots couldn’t see it from above, their bomb bay doors would be open in preparation for the drop, adding the drag that would make evasive maneuvers all the more difficult.

  If somebody planned to jump the B-26s, they couldn’t have picked a better time.

  “Blue Three and Four from Blue Leader,” Tommy called, “maintain top cover. Blue Two, you’re with me. Punch off the drop tank, NOW.”

  The belly tanks dropped away from both planes, empty and expendable. They’d tumble to the ground and smash themselves to pieces, becoming nothing more than another contribution to the detritus of war.

  Then Tommy said, “Break right on my count, hold your altitude. Ready, one…two…three…BREAK.”

  They were still turning when Joe Wilkinson—Blue Two—asked, “You think they’re coming back at us, boss?”

  “Yeah, that’s why we’re staying high. We’re going to need the energy if we plan on turning behind them and not get left in the dust.”

  The bandits had eased their turn but not their speed. If Tommy planned on intercepting them, they’d just made it a little easier for him.

  “Let’s get closer,” Tommy told Wilkinson.

  The jugs went into a descending left turn that would match the bandits’ course and speed in a matter of seconds.

  As the jugs closed on the bandits, Tommy got his first good look at them. Big red stars adorned the bandits’ fuselages and wings.

  “Holy shit, they are Russian. Yak-9s, by the looks of them.”

  “Yeah, they do look a little like Hurricanes from far off,” Wilkinson said. “But they’re a little smaller, I think. And up close, the cockpit’s all wrong.”

  They were almost wingtip-to-wingtip with the Russians now. Tommy could plainly see the face of the pilot in the lead Yak. That face wasn’t smiling.

  Tommy tried a wave, a hand salute, and a hand cupped over an earphone—a request for communications. None of the gestures were returned.

  Ornery sons of bitches, ain’t they? I’d try to talk to him on the radio, but I’ve got no idea what frequency they’re on. I don’t even see an antenna on that ship.

  Ah, what’s the difference? We probably don’t speak the same language, anyway.

  Without warning, the Russian leader pulled his ship’s nose up sharply and rolled right over the top of Tommy’s plane. His wingtip couldn’t have been more than a few feet from Eclipse’s canopy.

  Then the Russian wingman performed the same maneuver, not quite as close to Eclipse this time but still a dangerous move, meant to insult and intimidate.

  “Let’s stay on them, Joe,” Tommy told Wilkinson.

  The two Yaks closed ranks and sped toward the B-26s again. The jugs were close behind them.

  “What the hell is going on here, boss?” Wilkinson asked.

  The B-26 squadron leader had a more pointed question: “Blue
Leader, are these guys hostile or what?”

  “Negative, don’t think they’re hostile in a shooting kind of way,” Tommy replied. “But they aren’t happy to see us, that’s for sure.”

  “Are you going to engage?”

  “Negative, not unless they fire. We’re supposedly on the same side, right?”

  “You could’ve fooled me, Blue Leader.”

  “I think they’re going to buzz you again. Just hold tight.”

  “Got no choice but to hold tight. We’re on final to the drop.”

  The buzz on the lead B-26 was nothing short of a near-miss as the Yaks streaked over from her tail to nose, buffeting the bomber in their wake. The shaking of his aircraft, plus the sudden appearance of two fighter planes seemingly inches in front of her glazed nose disrupted the lead bombardier’s concentration. His drop was late.

  Since the squadron’s SOP was to drop when the lead ship did, everyone’s drop was late. Their bombs would fall into Augsburg but miss the target area by hundreds of yards.

  The Yaks sped away to the east. They’re going back to Austria, probably, Tommy told himself. The Red Army is supposed to be sweeping through there now.

  Their bombs wasted, the American aircraft turned one hundred eighty degrees and headed back to their French bases. There was no chatter between the bombers and their escorts on the flight home.

  Tommy was sure of one thing: When we get back, this is going to be one hell of a debrief.

  Tommy was right: the debrief, usually an affair that was wrapped up in about forty-five minutes, went on for over two hours. The highlight came during a conference phone call that included all the lead players who’d been in the air, their squadron commanders, as well as the commanding generals of IX Bomber Command, XIX Tactical Fighter Command, and 9th Air Force.

  “This mission was a complete and total failure,” the bomber squadron commander, a colonel named Willis, said. “And it’s all the fault of the inept escort work from the Three-Oh-First. They failed to protect my people from those Russian bastards.”

  There were several moments of anxious silence before General Anderson, commanding IX Bomber Command, broke it. “What would you have them do, Colonel? Shoot down our own allies?”

  “I don’t care how they do it, sir,” Willis replied. “Just keep my people safe. I mean, those Three-Oh-First pilots didn’t do anything…just let those Russkies have their little fun.”

  Tommy decided he had nothing to lose at this point by speaking up. In the next few moments, he’d either be exonerated or brought up on charges. He doubted anything he could say would change one outcome to the other: These things have a habit of being preordained.

  “With all due respect, sir, I really would like to hear what we were supposed to have done in this situation.”

  There was another awkward silence. This one was broken by none other than General Vandenberg himself, commander of 9th Air Force and the ultimate boss of everyone involved.

  “Captain Moon, is it?” Vandenberg asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m reading from your after-action report that just came off the teletype. It says you approached the Soviet aircraft in an attempt to identify and establish communication with them. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s correct, sir,” Tommy replied.

  “Were you able to establish communications with them, Captain?”

  “No, sir. They didn’t acknowledge my hand signals. And we have no information on what frequencies they use. Or if they even speak English, because we sure as hell don’t speak Russian. I’m not sure their aircraft had radios, anyway. I observed no antenna on them at all.”

  “That’s a pretty good indication they don’t have them,” Vandenberg replied. “The signals people have been trying to work up communications protocols for joint operations between us and our Soviet allies, with the expectation we’ll be overlapping each other’s areas of operation on a regular basis fairly soon. Let’s just say that, so far, the effort has been futile…and not for lack of trying on our part. The language barrier alone is a formidable one. One more question, Captain Moon. What would the Russians had to have done for you to engage them?”

  “They would have had to start shooting at us, sir. After their initial pass at the bombers, I positioned my flight to engage if necessary.”

  “Yes, I see,” Vandenberg said. “It says here you were sitting on their tails as soon as you were able to do so.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “All right then, gentlemen, I believe I’ve heard enough. Everyone but Generals Anderson and Weyland is to ring off now. The rest of you, carry on with your duties.”

  Once he was sure the switchboard had disconnected them from the call, Colonel Pruitt, Tommy’s squadron commander, let out a long sigh of relief. “To be honest, Half,” Pruitt said, “I was a little worried at first how that was going to go. Not that you did anything wrong, mind you…but the blame game is always political, and it can get fubar in a heartbeat. Would’ve been a whole different story if you’d shot down one of those Yaks, though. The shit would be rolling downhill from SHAEF like an avalanche. Can’t you just see the headlines now? Allies Ignore Germans, Fight Each Other. But we’ve heard stories that the Reds are going to be a pain in the ass to deal with. I guess this proves it.”

  “That’s putting it mildly, sir,” Tommy said. “Too bad the bombing run was a washout, though.”

  “Hey, that’s the bomber jockeys’ problem, not ours. If their bombardiers shit themselves every time there’s a little action, well…we can’t help them with that one.”

  “I’m still a little confused why the Reds would do something like that, sir,” Tommy said. “Now that we’re all close enough to be in range of each other, do you think they feel threatened by us in some way?”

  “Half, from what I hear of the Soviets, they feel threatened by just about everything and everybody. You ever read Tolstoy?”

  “I read War and Peace, sir.”

  “Me, too. As I recall, it was a little light on the peace.”

  Chapter Ten

  Fourth Armored’s column advanced another ten miles before coming up against the next German strongpoint. A sizeable German infantry unit—a regiment or more backed by artillery—had turned the valley through which the Americans were traveling into a potential killing field.

  But the GIs’ response was different this time because they weren’t on their own anymore. With the weather having finally cleared, they had tactical fighter support once again. Within minutes of receiving the mission, P-47s located and neutralized the German artillery batteries, sent the panzers scurrying up the road toward Bad Kreuznach, and decimated the infantry who’d just lost the support of their heavy weapons. The mopping up by the GIs on the ground was quick and efficient; the only difficulty was the large and unexpected number of prisoners they took. Marshalling those prisoners to holding pens in the rear would clog the road, slow the column’s progress, and eat up a considerable amount of manpower as guards.

  Lieutenant Fagan seemed genuinely surprised by the volume of POWs. He climbed onto Eight Ball’s deck and asked Sean, “Do they always surrender in droves like this?”

  “Yeah, this seems to be the new thing, sir.”

  The lieutenant was still in his first hours as the new commander of Baker Company, 37th Tank. Before that, as the very experienced leader of that company’s Recon Platoon, his job had been to scout, bait the Germans into revealing their positions, and then get his platoon of lightly armed Stuart tanks the hell out of trouble. Rarely had he slugged it out head-to-head with large enemy units.

  He had another question for Sean: “Do we always attack positions like this with some kind of envelopment maneuver, Sergeant?”

  “Captain Newcomb always preferred it that way, Lieutenant. Whenever the terrain permits, of course. Cuts off the Krauts’ ability to pull back. We’d rather only fight the same bastards once, you know what I mean?” Then he added, “If you want to
do it different, though, Lieutenant…”

  “No, Sergeant, that’s fine with me. If it worked for Captain Newcomb, it works for me, too.”

  Sean nodded grimly and replied, “Damn right, sir. Don’t fix it if it ain’t broken.”

  They were rolling again. Beyond the valley where they’d just fought was a stretch of flat, open country that was rare in this region of Germany. The column could move even faster now, but there were fewer places to seek cover and concealment if a threat emerged.

  Fabiano needed a breath of air. He’d been cooped up inside the turret, glued to his gunsight, amidst the acrid odors of expended ammunition, gasoline, grimy clothing, and unwashed bodies. “I gotta get outside for a while, Sarge,” he told Sean. “I’m gagging down here. Everybody else got a break up top but me.”

  “All right, all right. God forbid we offend that big guinea nose of yours another damn minute. Put Bags in your seat. You come up here and man the fifty cal.”

  “You want Bagdasarian as gunner? He ain’t never done it before.”

  “Then he needs the practice, don’t he? Who’s running this boat, Corporal? You or me?”

  Fabiano decided to shut up and take the fresh air. But the moment his head popped through the hatch, what he saw in the sky made him howl with terror. He dropped back inside the turret.

  Before Sean could say a word, two jet aircraft streaked low overhead, making a pass up the column from rear to front. They were low enough that the sound of their shrieking engines could be heard over the ear-splitting growls of the tanks…

  And low enough to see the balkenkreuz insignia on their wings.

  Sean didn’t need to see those crosses to know the planes were German: The Allies ain’t got no jets.

  But the planes weren’t strafing and didn’t drop any bombs. They flew out of sight as quickly as they’d appeared.

  When Sean looked down from the commander’s hatch into the turret, Fabiano was sitting on the floor, his knees pulled to his chest, his back against an ammo rack.