After all the women were inside, a smiling Sylvie Bergerac emerged, now dressed more casually in trousers, oxfords, and a beret the French would instantly recognize as the mark of the maquis. She walked toward the grand-rue and Tommy Moon.
“Hello, Lieutenant,” she said in English. “You are going to the meeting now?”
“Yeah. And where are you off to, Madame Bergerac?”
“I am invited to your meeting, too.”
“Really? They invited you?”
“Is it so strange, Lieutenant, that your general might want the continued advice of the maquis?”
“I suppose not, ma’am. But can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“That house you just came out of. Is that what I think it is?”
“If you think it is my father’s house, you are correct, Lieutenant.”
She knew her evasive answer didn’t satisfy him, so she added, “And yes, it is also a house of prostitution, ever since the Boche came.”
“But those women…they’re all married, aren’t they? And aren’t you?”
His questions amused her. “Does that disqualify us?”
“No, but…” He didn’t know what to say next.
“Times have been very difficult, Lieutenant. We all must do what we can to survive.”
Tommy looked more confused than ever. “But I’ve seen what they did to women who took up with the Germans. The shaved heads, the shaming parades…”
“We did not take up with the Boche, Lieutenant. And we are not collaborators. Spying on the Boche is never collaboration, no matter how you do it.”
“You really got a lot of information out of your…ahh, clients?”
Sylvie rolled her eyes. “Were you not here last night? Was the information I provided not accurate?”
Point taken, he told himself.
“So I guess your father’s house is open for business with the GIs now?”
“The times are still very difficult, Lieutenant. And will be for quite a while, I’m afraid.”
Trying to lighten the conversation, he asked, “Does that mean you’ll be spying on us, too?” He meant it as a joke.
She didn’t take it that way. “Not as long as we are on the same side, Lieutenant.”
“Okay, fair enough. May I ask where your husband is, ma’am?”
“You are about to meet him, Lieutenant,” she replied as they stepped into the town hall.
General Wood opened the meeting on a somber note. “I’ve got bad news, gentlemen—” with a nod to Sylvie, he added, “and lady. It looks like our fuel won’t arrive until late this afternoon. We’ll be fueling most of the night, by the looks of it, so the division as a whole won’t move out of Alençon until tomorrow.”
“What’s the hold-up with the fuel, sir?” Colonel Abrams asked.
The general blew an exasperated sigh before replying. “Some idiot up at Twelfth Army Group thought it would be a good idea to refuel the French Second Armored first. By the time Third Army could point out we were already miles ahead of the French, it was too late to change horses.”
It was Colonel Abrams’ turn to be exasperated. “So the damn French are holding us up again, and without actually being in our way this time. Unbelievable.” As an afterthought, he offered a contrite look to Sylvie and her husband Bernard, the maquis commander at Alençon, and added, “No offense meant to present company, of course.”
When Sylvie offered Bernard’s translated reply to the room, its cordial tone seemed quite the opposite of what he’d spat out in French: “Of course, mon colonel. None taken.”
Tommy was pretty sure Bernard had actually said, “Tell these buffoons if they insult us again, we are leaving.”
“Naturally,” General Wood continued, “this blows our schedule all to hell. Twenty-five miles to go to Argentan, against probable stiff resistance the closer we get, and a little less than two days to do it in.”
He tapped a pointer on the map hung on the wall. “I don’t plan for us to just sit here, twiddling our thumbs, though. By robbing Peter’s fuel tank to fill Paul’s, we’re going to send a recon team—in force—up the highway to Sées and, if possible, beyond. Sées is a little more than halfway to Argentan. G2 thinks the Germans have pulled out of there just like they did here at Alençon. If the recon team finds that to be the case, the rest of the division, once refueled, can barrel up the road at night and make up for some lost time.”
General Wood scanned the room, seeking to find a battalion commander eager for the challenge he’d just outlined whose eyes would actually meet his. Only Colonel Abrams did so, if just for the most fleeting of moments.
“It’s yours, Creighton,” Wood said.
“Very well, sir,” Abrams replied. “How big a team are you thinking? We can probably only scrounge up enough gasoline for two tank companies, tops, and a platoon or so of mounted infantry for security.”
“Sounds like an excellent start to me, Creighton,” Wood replied. “Pick your team and be ready to move out by noon.”
Throughout the general’s map exercise, Sylvie and Bernard were in animated conversation. Now that Wood seemed to be bringing the meeting to a close, Sylvie begged for his attention.
“Mon général, your information about the Boche leaving Sées is incorrect. They are not leaving.”
Wood replied, “And how do you know that, Madame Bergerac?”
“Because there are maquis there, as well. They informed us.”
“How’d they manage to do that, ma’am?”
Finding it hard to control the exasperation in her voice, she replied, “Because we have telephones, mon général. This country is not as primitive as you suppose.”
Now it was Wood’s turn to be exasperated. “You mean to tell me they just dialed you up and told you where the Germans are?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“And you aren’t afraid, madame, that the Germans might have compromised your communications system? Maybe even used it to spread false information?”
“Again, mon général, we are not primitives. We use a code. The Boche have never broken it. Bernard and I stand here as living proof.”
Wood scowled. He wanted to believe her. But an army is like a boulder rolling down a hill. Once it starts moving, it’s impossible to alter its course without begging for disaster. Besides, nobody contradicts a general. Not even a beautiful, gutsy young woman.
“But you won’t mind, Madame Bergerac, if we check this intel of yours out for ourselves by running this little mission of mine?”
“If you must, mon général. But we have more information to share with you, as well.”
“All right, let’s have it.”
“My husband and I have received much information about the Boche retreat through this Falaise-Argentan pocket, as you call it. True, they are hounded by your airplanes, but the vanguard of their column will be much farther east than you realize by the time you get to Argentan, and airplanes alone do not stop those they do not kill. And they do not fly at night, when the Boche are marching the greatest distances. You are already too late to trap them if you move against Argentan. You will merely bump into their right flank and risk being encircled yourselves. To cut off their retreat, you must go farther east—to Gacé, perhaps. Maybe beyond.”
Ain’t that hot shit, the general told himself. Monty says stop at Argentan and wait for the Krauts and his Limeys, but the Resistance says that train’s already left the station.
Wood took a grease pencil and extended eastward the “stop” line that ran through Argentan. The town of Gacé sat about four miles north of that line—into the zone Allied Ground Commander Montgomery had forbidden the Americans to go.
Four fucking miles, Wood schemed. I’ll bet ol’ Georgie Patton wouldn’t bat an eyelash at a little “going over the line” like that.
“This is very interesting intelligence, Madame Bergerac,” the general said. “I’ll discuss this with higher headquarters immediately. Of cour
se, if it turns out you’re wrong about Sées, though, it won’t be worth spit.”
“But Gacé is beyond the stop line, sir,” the division G2 said. “Our orders specify—”
“I know where it is, dammit,” Wood interrupted. “I’d like to move on now, because I’ve got some good news to share, too. More than just fuel is coming today. We’ll be getting a dozen replacement Shermans and eight M10s to fill our losses. They’re coming partially crewed, so we’ll have to fill the empty seats from our existing roster. This will be a chance to move up our most promising crewmen to gunners and tank commanders.”
Captain Newcomb raised his hand. “Sir, will the Shermans be A1 models with the bigger gun?”
“Afraid not, Captain. But on the bright side, all the tank destroyers will be up-gunned with the higher-velocity seventy-six millimeter.”
“Gee, that’s great,” Newcomb replied. “Too bad they still won’t be worth a damn in a maneuvering fight.”
“Are you telling me you don’t want the extra firepower, Captain?”
“Negative, sir. Negative. We’ll try and make good use of them.”
As the meeting broke up, the division G3 called Tommy over. “Lieutenant,” he said, “I’ve just gotten word your replacement is coming in with the new vehicles. It looks like you’ll be back in a cockpit before you know it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Task Force Newcomb was ready to roll at noon, as planned. Since its mission was recon, it was designed for speed and light on firepower. Of the eight Sherman tanks left in Captain Newcomb’s Baker Company, six were repaired, refueled, and ready to go, as was the captain’s M10. Another four light tanks—M5 Stuarts of Dog Company—and a 40-man infantry platoon crammed into three armored half-tracks rounded out the force.
Sean Moon’s tank, Eclipse of the Hun, would be the lead vehicle. He wasn’t happy to see his brother climbing aboard the captain’s M10. “You shouldn’t be coming on this mission, Half,” he said. “You’re getting relieved. You should be packing your bags and heading back to flyboy-land.”
“Ahh, you’d miss me if I didn’t come along,” Tommy replied. “Especially being out of artillery range and all. You just might need a little flyboy support.”
“Yeah, but it didn’t have to be you. Only an idiot volunteers…and you ain’t no fucking idiot.”
Tommy winked as he replied, “I’m not worried. I’ve got my big bad brother to protect me.” He was expecting at least a smile in reply. But he got nothing.
The 12-mile drive north to Sées across the verdant, rolling countryside would have seemed idyllic if not for the constant, nerve-racking vigilance required. Given an opportunity like this, surrounded by natural beauty unspoiled as yet by the ravages of combat, your soul wanted to forget you were at war. But your nerves wouldn’t let it. At any moment, an anti-tank gun could turn your armored cocoon into a white-hot cauldron of death. Your only chance was to kill it before it killed you.
They saw the town from almost two miles away, the twin spires of its ancient cathedral rising like signposts, its old stone buildings varying shades of gray in the early afternoon sun. “Just what I was afraid of,” Captain Newcomb said, binoculars pressed to his eyes. “If there are Krauts up there in those steeples, they can see for miles. Lieutenant Moon, how far away are your fighters?”
“Ten to twelve minutes, sir, once we call for them.”
Newcomb shook his head. “Shit. That’s a long fucking time.”
They rolled a mile closer. If there were any Germans in Sées, they were well concealed. In the lead tank, Sean Moon’s attention was drawn to several low stone buildings on the outskirts, straddling the narrow road. Calling the captain on the radio, he said, “That’d be a hell of a place to stash a couple of guns. How about we spread out a little?”
“Yeah, good plan,” Newcomb replied. “Let’s get off the road.” Then, in a few brief transmissions, he redeployed his force from column into line formation and continued the advance toward the town. “They can’t shoot us all if we’re spread wide.”
But the Germans could easily shoot one or two. Nobody saw where the first anti-tank round came from. It ripped through the engine compartment of a Stuart moving through the open field west of the highway. Tommy Moon counted all four of her crew as they quickly escaped before she started to burn fiercely.
A few seconds later, another round landed on the road just a few yards in front of the M10, pelting the tank destroyer with dirt, paving stones, and shell fragments that caused no damage and injured no one.
“Well,” Captain Newcomb said, “if the Krauts are supposed to be pulling out of here, I guess someone forgot to tell them.”
The Shermans were approaching those stone structures from the east when they saw the muzzles of the German guns. “Looks like they’ve got seventy-fives in those bunkers,” Sean reported. “At least three. They’ve got logs piled on top, too, so don’t waste any mortar rounds on them. They won’t do a damn thing.”
“Can you get behind them?” Newcomb asked.
“Negative, not without showing our flanks. Gotta keep our good side facing ’em.”
The main guns of three Shermans fired at the bunkers—old farm buildings turned into miniature fortresses—from 500 yards. When the dust of their impact settled, the only damage was cosmetic.
There was no need to tell Tommy to get the P-47s coming. He already had them on the radio.
“I’m gonna send the Stuarts around the back,” the captain said, hoping their greater speed and the smaller targets they presented would get the three remaining light tanks safely through the killing zone to envelop the Germans. That order given, Newcomb directed his M10 and the infantry half-tracks to move right—to the east—and support the Shermans.
Churning across the open field at nearly 20 miles per hour, the Stuarts were quickly outside the fields of fire of the bunkers’ guns. Taking advantage of harassing fire from the Shermans’ main guns and .50-caliber machine guns, they flanked the German position within minutes and started their turn to assault them from the rear.
The lieutenant in charge of the Stuart platoon came up on the radio net: “How far out is the Air Force?”
Tommy replied, “Six minutes.”
“Good. Plenty of time.”
The lieutenant swung the line of his three tanks around to blast the bunkers. They were only halfway through that maneuver when his Stuart blew apart like a fragile toy.
“Shit,” Newcomb growled as he pressed the binoculars to his eyes. “They’re taking fire from farther inside the town. Can’t tell if it’s from a tank or an eighty-eight or what.”
The two surviving Stuarts—now without their leader—kept advancing on the bunkers, looking for a soft spot—a door, a window, any opening—where their light 37-millimeter rounds wouldn’t just bounce off.
What they saw instead was a German soldier armed with a panzerfaust popping up from behind a log barrier right in front of them. He was quickly cut down by a burst of .30-caliber machine gun fire from a Stuart.
But that burst came at the second he’d squeezed the panzerfaust’s trigger. As bullets knocked him backward, the rocket fired, propelling itself nearly straight up into the air—and out of the buttoned-up tankers’ limited field of vision. For all they knew, it would come straight back down on them—and be every bit as deadly as if the weapon had been fired on a level trajectory.
Another soldier with a panzerfaust popped up. He fired—and missed—before the Stuarts had a chance to train their machine guns on him.
But where the hell is the one coming straight down?
Both Stuart commanders arrived at the same, instantaneous conclusion: This is too hairy. We’re driving through infantry with no infantry support of our own. There could be Krauts on our deck any second, stuffing grenades into the vents. Shit, they could be there right now…
And we’re in range of that gun that got the lieutenant.
Both tanks turned and fled in the direction they’d
come.
Like a gesture of good riddance, the errant rocket completed its vertical trajectory just yards behind them, its blast deeply cratering the ground and sending a geyser of dirt high into the air.
I’m really fucking this one up, Captain Newcomb told himself. I should have sent some infantry with the Stuarts. Or not sent them at all. And the town is hot, dammit. The division isn’t going to be high-balling it through this place day or night, that’s for damn sure. At least now we can give Colonel Abrams his answer…if we get our asses out of here alive.
Who am I kidding? If we don’t come back, he gets the same answer.
Tommy was relieved to see how relatively smoke-free this battle scene was. He’d given up trying to get the mortars to mark the target with airbursts just like he and Baxter had done with artillery; their fire direction procedures were just too rudimentary. One smoke round on the ground would have to do. “Just put a willy peter on the road in between the bunkers on my command,” he told the mortar sergeant.
“Once your planes hit the bunkers,” Newcomb told Tommy, “have them hang around and keep our asses covered so we can get the hell out of here. The Krauts won’t try a counterattack if your boys are hanging around up there.”
“No problem, sir. They can stay with us all the way back to Alençon, if you want.”
They could see the P-47s now, four high and fast-moving silver specks to the northwest. “Topeka Flight, spiral down right,” Tommy told the flight’s lead pilot. “Do not overfly Sées at low level. The town’s hot. Repeat, the town’s hot.”
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