Moon Above, Moon Below

by William Peter Grasso

  “All you assholes, listen up,” Sean thundered. “This here’s my little brother Tommy. He’s a big deal fucking pilot, one of them Thunderbolt jockeys who keep our asses covered. Don’t none of you ever forget he’s an officer and all that shit. If you don’t respect him all proper-like, you won’t have to worry about no court-martial because you’ll be answering to me. Is that fucking clear?”

  Eight heads nodded and mumbled acceptance.

  “Outstanding,” Sean said. “Now get your sorry asses back to work. We ain’t gonna be pullin’ our puds in bivouac forever.”

  The brothers Moon settled on a stack of wooden ammo boxes. Sean lit up a cigarette from a K ration pack, then offered one to Tommy. He waved it off.

  “You still don’t smoke, you little pussy?”

  “Nope. And I can’t believe you guys smoke around ammo.”

  “It’s in a fucking box, Half. It ain’t gonna go off.” He pointed to the Sherman, adding, “Besides, we fight inside those Zippo lighters over there. You don’t have to smoke to go up in flames in one of them.” He pushed the sleeve of his coveralls up to reveal the mottled, waxy skin of the burn that covered his arm, like lava that had cooled and hardened.

  “Remember? My souvenir of North Africa,” Sean said.

  “Yeah,” Tommy replied, a sickening foreboding coming over him. He’d seen that burn before, when they were both in England in the months before Overlord.

  “You still worry about fire in that airplane of yours? You know, burning up with nowhere to run?”

  “Every damn day, Sean.”

  “Well, that makes two of us, brother. You in that plane, me in that tank. But enough of this sad sack bullshit. What do you hear from Mom?”

  The tank battalion’s field kitchen was set up in an old barn. As they lined up for the supper meal, Tommy was sure there wouldn’t be enough food for some 200 tired, filthy, and hungry men. When he saw the miniscule portions the cook doled into his mess kit, however, he realized how they were making ends meet. He’d never thought his fighter squadron was being overfed, especially not since they’d repositioned to France. But seeing the tankers’ rations, he realized he and the other pilots were eating like kings.

  Most of all, he could see the lack of calories in his brother’s face. Sean, at six feet, was a good seven inches taller than him, with a sturdy, broad-shouldered frame and a ruddy complexion in better times. Now, that face had gone sallow and gaunt, the body wiry but somehow still strong, his temperament still blustering and commanding. Though the close-cropped GI haircut tried to hide it, Tommy was sure he could see traces of gray in the sandy hair around the temples…

  And Sean’s only twenty-four.

  Twenty-four. An old man in this man’s army.

  They picked the base of a tree outside the barn to eat their supper, close enough to the others so Sean could keep an eye on his crew but far enough so they could talk in private. “My gunner over there—Fabiano—he’s been getting into some pretty bad fights lately,” Sean said. “Now, between you, me, and the lamp post, that guinea’s off his fucking rocker. But he’s a pretty cool customer when the shit’s flying. Don’t want to lose him.”

  Tommy replied, “So you’re sticking up for him like you stuck up for me all those years?”

  “Apples and oranges, Half. You wasn’t no fighter. Your little ass needed protection from the goons. He, on the other hand, needs protection so he don’t go berserk and kill someone. You get the firing squad for that. There’s plenty of ways to die around here without a bunch of brass hats canceling your ticket.”

  A jeep pulled into the mess area. A major in spotless battle dress jumped out and yelled, “LIEUTENANT MOON. I’M LOOKING FOR A LIEUTENANT MOON.”

  “Ahh, shit,” Sean mumbled. “This can’t be good.”

  “OVER HERE, SIR,” Tommy replied. He started toward the jeep but Sean stopped him. “Whoa…go slow, Half. You’re gonna take it in the shorts, for sure. He’s from Division. How the hell they even know you’re here?”

  Tommy pulled away. “Relax, Crunch. I can take care of myself now.”

  “Where the fuck you hear that nickname?”

  “It seems like everyone knows it. Apparently, you’re some kind of legend, Sean.”

  “Do me a fucking favor, Half. Don’t call me that, okay?”

  Tommy started to salute but the major batted his hand down. “You trying to get me killed, Moon? This isn’t the goddamn Air Force. No saluting outdoors. There could be snipers everywhere.”

  You could’ve fooled me, Tommy thought as he looked at all the men sprawled around the field kitchen, relaxed and enjoying their chow.

  “No, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Ninth Air Force has—”

  The major had stopped in mid-sentence to glare at something over Tommy’s shoulder. “Can I help you, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” Sean replied. “It’s just that the lieutenant here is my kid brother. I wanted to hear firsthand what kind of shit he’s getting into.”

  “Hmm. Brother, eh? Well, suit yourself, Sergeant. What I’m going to say isn’t exactly top secret.”

  The major turned back to Tommy. “Here’s the deal, Moon. You’ve been assigned as an air support officer to Fourth Armored. The G3 is putting you here with the Thirty-Seventh.”

  “But I’m on a three-day leave, sir. I don’t have any of my field gear.”

  “Well, I’m here to tell you your leave’s been canceled, Lieutenant. I’m sure Battalion can fix you up with whatever you need.”

  Stepping around Tommy to get face to face with the major, Sean said, “Hang on a minute, sir. Ain’t it a rule brothers can’t be in the same unit in a combat zone?”

  “Sean,” Tommy said, “knock it off, will you? That’s not—”

  “No, really. Ain’t it a rule?”

  The major shook his head. “You’re both volunteers, right?”

  Tommy and Sean nodded in unison.

  “Then none of that crap applies,” the major said. “Lieutenant Moon, report to the battalion CP in three-zero minutes.”

  As the major drove off, Tommy told himself, You knew this was coming, you idiot…with Kirkland out of action and all. But I needed to see my brother. And I think he needed to see me.

  Chapter Eight

  ALLIED GROUND FORCES DIRECTIVE

  FROM:

  MONTGOMERY--COMMANDER, ALLIED GROUND FORCES

  DATE--TIME OF ORIGIN:

  9 AUG 44/1700 HRS

  TO:

  BRADLEY--COMMANDER, 12TH ARMY GROUP

  COPY(FOR INFO):

  SHAEF (EISENHOWER); HODGES--US 1ST ARMY; PATTON--US 3RD ARMY; DEMPSEY--2ND BRITISH ARMY; CRERAR--1ST CANADIAN ARMY; CONINGHAM--RAF 2ND TAF; QUESADA--IX TAC; WEYLAND--XIX TAC

  12TH ARMY GROUP WILL EXECUTE IMMEDIATE TURNING MOVEMENT NORTH TO ENCIRCLE GERMAN FORCES RETREATING EASTWARD THROUGH THE FLERS-FALAISE-ARGENTAN TRIANGLE.

  12TH ARMY GROUP FORCES WILL ESTABLISH AND MAINTAIN--REPEAT, MAINTAIN--AN EAST-WEST LINE THROUGH FLERS AND ARGENTAN. 21ST ARMY GROUP FORCES WILL CLOSE FROM THE NORTH ON AN EAST-WEST LINE THROUGH FALAISE TO COMPLETE THE ENCIRCLEMENT. ALL UNITS SHOULD BE IN THE POSITIONS INDICATED ABOVE BY 0600 HOURS, 14 AUG 44.

  SIGNED,

  MONTGOMERY

  Chapter Nine

  In the crowded tent, Tommy Moon was beginning to wonder if the tank battalion commander even knew he was there. Watching from the shadows, Tommy stood in a corner not bathed in the harsh glow of the bare electric light bulbs strung between the big tent’s poles. The C.O. had just returned from Division. He was explaining the changing tactical situation to his staff and company commanders: the German 7th Army—the defenders of Normandy—were falling back in retreat. It was a tooth-and-nail fighting retreat, for sure, he told them, but a retreat nonetheless.

  For 15 minutes, the commander, a light colonel named Abrams, looking older than his 30 years, stood at the large-scale map hung on a side curtain, making sweeping motions with his arms meant to illustrat
e the movements of the major units in the fight. Tommy had become so engrossed in the map study—trying to add all those details to the broad stroke aerial view already in his head—that, for a moment, he didn’t realize the C.O. was talking about him.

  “Over in the corner there,” Colonel Abrams said, “stands something—excuse me, someone—we’ve waited a long time for. Lieutenant Moon just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, so he’s going to be the air support officer we’ve so sorely needed. Take a bow, Lieutenant.”

  As Tommy acknowledged the colonel’s introduction, he thought, The wrong place at the wrong time. Ain’t that the truth.

  “You’re familiar with all the terrain I’ve just been talking about, Lieutenant Moon?”

  “Yes, sir. Been flying over it for months now.”

  “Very fine. We’ve gotten some great air support—”

  Abrams paused as some grumbling rose from the crowd and then continued, “From you fighter guys, mostly. The bomber boys…well, let’s just say they’ve been less than impressive.”

  “Impressive, my aching ass,” a voice called out. “They’ve only bombed us twice. Accidentally, of course.”

  “All right, knock it off,” the colonel commanded, silencing the tent. Then he turned back to Tommy. “What we’re trying to say, Lieutenant, is it sure will be good to have someone who understands these problems from the flyboys’ perspective and can work them out for us. Without any more self-inflicted fiascos. You guys have done a hell of a job keeping the skies clear of the Luftwaffe, so don’t try to do the Krauts’ job for them.”

  Tommy knew they were talking about Operation Cobra, the Normandy breakout a few weeks ago, where high-flying American bombers killed over 100 GIs: But that was due to shitty planning by the top brass. With the paths to target they laid out for the bombers, they were damn lucky they didn’t kill even more GIs. Not much an ASO could have done to change that. But then he thought of all the times that he—even at low level—hadn’t been 100 percent sure what—or who—he’d been attacking, either.

  “I’ll do all I can to help, sir,” Tommy said.

  “Outstanding. Now I’m told our Sergeant Moon is your brother?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Excellent. Couldn’t be better.”

  Colonel Abrams returned to the map and, taking a grease pencil, sketched a straight line across its acetate overlay. The line linked two towns some 30 miles north of their present position at Mayenne. “This is the line Twelfth Army Group is to establish and hold. Argentan marks its center. First Army covers west of Argentan. Third Army—that means us, gentlemen—covers the east. We’re supposed to be there by sun-up, Fourteen August, five days from today.”

  “Wait a minute, sir,” one of the tank company commanders said. “If we’re supposed to be encircling the Krauts—and we’re holding this straight line—who’s going to close the trap?”

  “That’ll be Twenty-First Army Group’s job,” the colonel replied.

  More grumbling—louder this time—rose from the tankers.

  “Really?” a captain said. “Montgomery and his Brits are going to close it? In what year?”

  “At ease,” the colonel said. “Those are our orders.”

  “Then those are really dumb orders, sir,” the captain replied. “Just where is Montgomery at the moment, anyway? Wait a minute…let’s ask our ASO. He’s had a bird’s eye view of all this. Let’s get it straight from the horse’s mouth, not some charlie-charlie up at SHAEF with a vivid imagination.”

  All eyes swung to Tommy Moon.

  Abrams said, “Care to step up to the map, Lieutenant?”

  Tommy knew it was an order, not a request.

  “Well, I haven’t been up in a couple of days,” Tommy said, “but here’s about where the Brits were at the time.” He sketched in a line on the acetate.

  “Oh, fuck,” the captain said. “That’s it? Just a little south of Caen? So they moved about five fucking miles in the last couple of weeks while we’ve been making five, maybe ten, a day, kicking Kraut ass the whole time?”

  “Looks that way,” Tommy replied.

  The captain flung his helmet to the dirt floor. “Oh, that’s just fucking swell,” he said. “Tell you what. I’ll bet ten bucks right now that the Krauts will be long gone before any of Monty’s boys show up to close that trap.” Pulling the bill from his wallet, he waved it in the air and asked, “Who’s game?”

  There were no takers.

  The battalion XO, a pipe-smoking major, said, “You know, when I was up at Patton’s HQ last week, the Brit liaison there was still singing that same old song about Monty facing the bulk of the German Armor, while we’ve got it easy.”

  “With all due respect, sir,” the captain replied, “that’s a bullshit excuse. They’re up against panzers, we’re up against panzers. There isn’t any fucking difference.”

  “At ease, gentlemen,” Colonel Abrams said. “We all agree the Brits don’t go anywhere fast. But as I’ve already said, we have our orders.”

  Stumbling through the darkness of the tankers’ bivouac with only pale moonlight to guide him, Tommy finally found the tent where Sean and his crew bunked. Throwing open the blackout curtain to enter, he was met with a tirade of curses from Fabiano, Sean’s hot-headed gunner. Once Tommy stepped inside, the lieutenant’s bar on his collar reflected just enough of the tent’s dim lantern light for Fabiano to soften his tune.

  “Gee…sorry, Lieutenant,” the gunner said. “Nothing personal, but you gotta keep light discipline. Slip in and out through that crack in the curtains, not throw them open like you’re waltzing into the five and dime. You can see one little speck of light for miles at night, and the Krauts are looking, believe you me.”

  “Ain’t that the God’s honest truth,” another voice drawled from a dark corner. “Nothing fucks up sack time like artillery coming down on your ass.”

  If Tommy felt like debating the point, he might have mentioned their position was about as secret as an airfield. There was nothing stealthy about a battalion of tanks coming into a position such as this one. Those bellowing engines could be heard a mile away, maybe more. From the air, the track marks they left in the ground were like signposts pointing to their location, no matter how well concealed that location was. But this was their house, and they lived on the tip of the spear. Anyone who didn’t play by their rules was asking for trouble.

  “No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Tommy said. “I should’ve known better. Can one of you men tell me where my brother is?”

  Fabiano shrugged. “No, sir. He keeps an eye on us, not the other way around.” As Tommy turned to leave, the gunner added, “Hey, Lieutenant, how many Krauts you shoot down?”

  “None. Don’t really see a lot of German airplanes in the air these days.”

  Tommy took great care slipping through the curtains on his way out. Back in the darkness, with his night vision compromised by the tent’s lantern, it only took a few steps to realize he’d lost his bearings. He had no idea in which direction the battalion CP—with the cot they’d loaned him—was located.

  Like a blind man, he searched for some clue that would get him oriented—and then, as his night vision slowly returned, he thought he’d found one. Ahead was an empty grayness, distinct from the black labyrinth of trees. He remembered passing through a clearing between the CP and the tank park: I’m pretty sure it looked just like this. Maybe I’ll find my bed, at least. But I wish to hell I could have found my brother.

  Plodding ahead, a dot of orange light appeared. It seemed so far away at first, but then Tommy realized what the dot really was: a cigarette. It only took a few steps before he was standing next to the smoker, who was seated with his back against a tree. He didn’t need to see the man’s face to know it was his brother.

  “Geez, Sean…I just got my ass reamed by your gunner for poor light discipline, and you’re out here lighting up the whole damn world like sniper bait. Do you realize how far y
ou can see a cigarette’s glow in the dark? You got a death wish or something?”

  Tommy wasn’t sure if Sean heard him. He didn’t move, just stared into the infinite darkness, the tell-tale cigarette still pressed between his lips, inviting disaster.

  “You going to talk to me or what, Sean?”

  With a slow, studied motion, his brother stubbed out the cigarette on the heel of his boot. When he finally did speak, his voice wasn’t the bellicose trumpet it had always been. Now, it was a low, forlorn monotone.

  “You think we’ll be home by Christmas, Half?”

  Tommy would’ve done anything to cheer his brother up—except lie to him.

  “I seriously doubt it, Sean.”

  “Yeah, I don’t believe that shit, either.”

  Sean leaned his head back against the tree. His face caught the moonlight just right, showing Tommy a melancholy expression he’d never seen before. To cap it off, a small, glistening spot rolled down his cheek.

  Holy shit. He’s crying.

  Tommy sat down next to his big brother, put his arm around his shoulder, and pulled him close. They remained in silence, all the while Tommy thinking:

  Ain’t this something? When we were kids, it was always Sean looking out for me, protecting me and Mom and the girls from Pop’s drunken rampages, always standing up to the neighborhood tough guys. Hell, he could be more of a hood than the hoods.

  But now, all of a sudden, I’m the one doling out the comfort. Me, the little brother.

  War is such a shitty deal, isn’t it?

  They sat that way for a few minutes, brother to brother. Then, in an even softer voice, Sean said, “Just a matter of time, Tommy.”