The company of German soldiers at Nonant-le-Pin could see the smoke, too. They were mostly old men and young boys, infantrymen left in the village to guard a cache of supplies. All were fully aware that once the American tanks rolled through Sées, they’d be the next ones beneath the tracks of the Shermans. They seemed more terrified than the refugees huddled in the village square, trying to decide which way to run.
“We should turn west,” one refugee woman said.
“No,” another replied, “that will take us straight into the teeth of the fighting. We must go east.”
“No, no, no,” an old man said. “There is nothing but the Boche to the east.”
A group of refugees had already made up their minds. They’d turned back north, toward Gacé, hoping to return to the safety of the basements they’d chosen to forsake just a few hours ago.
They didn’t get far. German soldiers blocked their path and herded them to a church, not hesitating to club with rifle butts any civilian who protested or moved too slowly. Sylvie got as close as she dared and stole a peek inside the church. It was already full of French civilians under guard.
They’re going to use them as human shields when the Amis come, she told herself, or lock them inside and set the church ablaze in some sort of reprisal. You’d think these frightened amateur soldiers would run for their lives…or surrender.
A squad of soldiers stomped down the cobblestone street and began to corral the rest of the dithering refugees. Still separated from that group, Sylvie was able to duck behind a chicken coop and stay out of sight. She worked her way from there to behind a pig pen—and then a German soldier noticed her, yelled Halt! and ran toward her. He didn’t get far. Trying to round a corner of the pen, he slipped in a runoff of pig excrement and fell hard, cursing as he went down. She heard the thunk of his helmet like a dropped pot against a fence post, the muffled clatter of his rifle as it tumbled into the muck. Before he could find his feet again, she was gone. There was nothing the soldier could do but curse some more.
Running through high grass on the village outskirts, Sylvie rejoiced in her luck: That’s twice today I’ve been saved by fortune—once by an American bomb, once by pig shit.
Avoiding the roads for now, she headed northeast across open fields. My only safety is with the Americans now, and the closest ones must be Colonel Abrams and his men in the forest near Gacé.
Not before a dozen air-to-ground rockets had smashed into CCF’s position, a score of .50-caliber machine guns had flung long bursts at the intruding aircraft, seven GIs lay wounded, and one of the Typhoons crashed into the forest just beyond CCF’s perimeter did the other three RAF planes fly away to the northwest.
“I don’t think they believed we’re an American unit,” Charlie Webster said, microphone still in his hand and on the verge of tears after trying to convince the RAF to break off their attack. “I think they’re just out of ammo.”
The damage assessment was surprising short: only one vehicle destroyed, an empty deuce-and-a-half blown up by a lucky British rocket; of the seven GIs wounded, only one required evacuation for a chest wound—and that was from a spear-like shard of a shattered tree.
Even more surprising, the pilot of the crashed RAF Typhoon suffered only a broken arm and a collection of bruises. A team of GI infantrymen freed him from his smashed cockpit and brought him to Colonel Abrams’ CP. As a medic set his arm, Abrams asked the young pilot, “Just what made you boys decide we were fair game?”
He replied with only his name, rank, and service number, as the assembled Americans shook their heads in amused disbelief.
“Son, you’re not a POW,” Abrams said. “We’re Americans—your allies. We’re on the same side. Now tell just why the hell you decided to attack us.”
The young Englishman repeated his name, rank, and service number.
“Look, Pilot Officer Darby,” Abrams said, “you’re obviously a little shook up. We’ll take good care of you while you come to your senses.” Then he told the medic, “Put this man in the doc’s care until he comes out of it.”
As the pilot was led away, Abrams asked the infantry lieutenant who’d brought him in, “Did we shoot that lad down, or did he just crash?”
“From the looks of his plane, sir, it’s hard to tell. But we didn’t see a bullet hole anywhere.” Hesitantly, he added, “I did have to stop my men from beating the shit out of him, though.”
“Well done, Lieutenant. Believe me, they’re not the only guys who want to kick some Limey ass right now. But we’re not going to do that. I’m assigning you to make sure no one else tries to attack that pilot.”
“Yes, sir…but permission to speak freely?”
“Granted.”
“Why are we being so nice to the guy, sir? He did try to kill us.”
“And we were trying to kill him, Lieutenant. I’m not sure how, but he and his buddies fucked up, plain and simple. It isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. You know your Bible, son?”
“Yes, sir. A little.”
“Then maybe you remember this verse: Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Abrams then turned to Charlie Webster and said, “And speaking of sinners, Lieutenant, I’m assigning you, my ASO, to make sure an air attack on us by friendlies never fucking happens again. Is that clear?”
The colonel went back to studying the latest orders just in from 4th Armored. “They’ve cleared Sées,” he said, “and they’ll start coming up the highway to Gacé in the next hour or two. If they don’t get hung up too badly around this pissant little town called Nonant-le-Pin, they’ll be here before nightfall. Now here’s the thing…they want us to stage a coordinated attack with them on Gacé. We strike from the north while they hit it from the south.”
The operations officer looked confused. “But we’re already blocking any Germans trying to escape the town, sir, even with our hands tied the way they are. Can’t we explain to General Wood that—”
“It won’t cut any ice. He’s got different ideas, apparently.”
“But, sir, if we come out in the open and then have to fight our way into the town and our tanks start running out of gas…”
“Tell me something I don’t already know, Major. Let’s stop feeling sorry for ourselves and think of something clever to keep General Wood happy without getting our asses cooked.”
The operations officer looked no less confused.
“Remember,” Abrams added, “Fourth Armored’s got our fuel. Let’s make it as easy as possible for them to reach us. We’ve already been stuck in one place too damn long.”
It was 1400 hours and CCF still didn’t have a viable plan to attack Gacé. “The only thing that makes sense,” the operations officer said, “is for us to execute a double envelopment of the town. Otherwise, we just squirt Krauts out of the place like a tube of toothpaste. Maybe even get ourselves enveloped in a counterattack.”
His brow furrowed, Colonel Abrams replied, “Maybe…but I just can’t believe there are all that many Germans left in Gacé. I wish we could prove that, though. Those aerial photos from this morning don’t give us much to go on. What’s the latest on Fourth Armored’s position?”
“The lead elements are just leaving Sées now, sir,” the operations officer said. “Even if they met no resistance at all, it’d be almost dark by the time the bulk of the division got here.”
That was the worst news Abrams had heard all day. “And we’ve got a German armored column of unknown strength still bearing down on us, retreating from the west. I don’t reckon our Air Force or the RAF is going to kill anywhere near all of them before they get here. And if they don’t show up until dark, either…well, shit, I don’t even want to think of the chaos that’s going to happen when all these forces collide in the night.”
Charlie Webster had information he thought might help. “Actually, sir, all reports are that our air power is tearing the hell out of that German column near Exmes.”
Without enth
usiasm, Abrams replied, “I’ll believe that when I see it, Lieutenant. You flyboys have a bad habit of grossly exaggerating your kills. The fact is, your planes put on a great show against Kraut armor, but they don’t kill all that many tanks, despite what you think you see from the air. But while we’re on the subject, can you shed any light on why the RAF attacked us?”
Webster swallowed hard before answering. “Well, sir, everything points to them just being lost. As I figure it, they were farther east than they thought. Once they caught sight of us—or at least caught sight of those dead tanks out there and all the tank tracks into these woods—they just assumed there had to be Krauts lying low here.”
A voice with an English accent added, “I believe I can confirm that, Colonel.”
Pilot Officer Darby had returned to lucidity. He stood before them, his broken arm set and in a sling, ready to come clean. Pointing westward with his good arm, he said, “I’m told that town over there is Gacé. We…well, we thought it was Exmes.”
“I see,” Abrams replied. “Were you the flight leader, son?”
“Oh, no, sir. I’m quite junior.”
No shit, every one of the Americans thought. You look about twelve years old, kid.
“We really didn’t see how there could be any cock-up, sir,” Darby added. “You Yanks aren’t supposed to be here.”
Abrams asked, “How do you know that?”
Darby pulled a map from his flight suit and handed it to the colonel. A thick red line, straight as an arrow—Montgomery’s stop line—had been drawn from west to east across the map. Where they stood at the moment was a good six miles beyond that line.
“You’re well north of Monty’s line, sir,” Darby said. “Like I said, you aren’t supposed to be here.”
“But dammit, Darby,” Abrams replied, “we had panel markers out, clearly marking us as an Allied unit. Didn’t you see them?”
“Yes, sir, we did. But the Krauts have used our panel markers to mislead us before. We’ve been instructed to ignore them.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, sir. Those are our instructions.”
“Well, ain’t that fucking great?” Abrams said, studying the map. Then he asked, “These markings for the British, Canadian, and Polish positions—are they current?”
“As of this morning, sir.”
Abrams whistled in disbelief. “That’s as far as they’ve gotten? They’re not even past Falaise yet? You could drive the entire Wehrmacht through the gap between us and them.”
Darby shrugged. “They’re doing their best, sir. We all are.”
“I’ll tell you what, Pilot Officer Darby…we’ll get you out of here just as soon as we can, okay?”
“Take your time, sir,” the young Englishman replied, rocking the broken arm in its sling that made him useless as a pilot. “I’m in no bloody hurry.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Blue Flight, minus the fallen Joe Rider, was back in the air again, covering 4th Armored’s right, or eastern, flank as they rolled north up the highway from Sées. There were intelligence reports of a German infantry division on the move from L’Aigle toward Gacé on a roughly parallel highway along that flank. Several flights of P-47s and P-38s had mauled it already. Now it was Blue Flight’s turn to join the fray.
Tommy played Eclipse’s throttle and prop lever, trying to coax a little more speed from her. Lots of drag with all these bombs and rockets hanging off the wing. I should’ve had them take the fucking rocket tubes off. You can’t hit a tank with them worth a damn, anyway. But this mission’s supposed to be against soft targets—no armor to speak of—so I’ll give them another try. Especially since the last guys in reported the Krauts were loaded with flakwagens. Nobody’s said anything about eighty-eights, though, thank God.
They were over the highway now, and dispersed groups of German trucks and horse-drawn artillery were clearly visible. But a little farther to the east, Tommy noticed something even more interesting: Holy shit! Am I seeing things? There must be half a dozen Ju-52s on the ground, with trucks backed up to their loading doors. Are they flying in supplies or pulling troops out?
“Blue Flight from Blue Leader, how about we shoot up some Iron Annies on that makeshift airfield over yonder?”
“Count me in,” Jimmy Tuttle replied, “but don’t forget the cardinal rule, boss.”
“Yeah, I remember: make only one pass at an airfield. Okay…Jimmy, you’re with me. Herb, give us top cover.”
“Roger,” Clinchmore replied, “but if any Kraut fighters pop up, I’m sounding the alarm and diving straight for the deck. I’m dead meat without a wingman covering my ass.”
Tommy replied, “Sounds like a plan, Herb.”
Together, Tommy and Tuttle dropped lower, lining up to attack the landing field from the east. “They’re parked in such a nice, straight line,” Tommy said. “I’ll go for the far three. Jimmy, you take the near three.”
“Roger, boss. Tally ho.”
“Okay,” Tommy replied, shoving her throttle forward, “let’s pour the coals on and be bad targets.”
“Hey,” Tuttle said, “flakwagen at two o’clock.”
“Good eyes, Jimmy. I’ll get him. You stay on the planes.”
The German gunner spit a line of tracers in his direction as he struggled to find the range. That gave Tommy an idea: No point getting too close. Seems like rockets might be perfect for this job. He swung Eclipse’s nose dead onto the target, and squeezed off two rockets. Rolling hard right and diving for the treetops, Tommy couldn’t see the ribbon of tracers chasing his tail, failing to keep up with him. He couldn’t see if the rockets had done any damage, either, until he’d turned almost 180 degrees and gained some altitude again.
Once Eclipse came around, Tommy saw the billowing black smoke of a burning vehicle. Through the smoke came the rapid sequence of flashes from ammunition cooking off in the blaze.
Damn, I guess I did hit it. No time to pat myself on the back, though. Where the hell are the rest of my guys?
Clinchmore was just a voice on the radio, unseen but still in position high above as top cover. Tommy found Tuttle’s plane, just a speck to the south after finishing his attack on the Ju-52s. All six of the German planes were still on the ground, two of them consumed in flames. Tiny figures of men were scurrying to get away from them.
Looks like Jimmy had a great pass—two destroyed, three damaged, maybe.
But one of the planes—the first in the parking line—was moving, taxiing to the edge of the broad clearing serving as an airfield.
She’s trying to take off.
By the time Tommy had wheeled his ship around and dove on the Ju-52, she was off the ground, struggling for altitude, and flying so slowly Eclipse would streak past her in a matter of seconds. But the big, cumbersome Junkers was filling Eclipse’s gunsight. He squeezed the trigger.
Bullet strikes twinkled along the top of the Ju-52’s wings and fuselage. Big chunks of her corrugated metal skin flew off. With Tommy’s second burst, the left wing folded at its root and the Junkers plunged to the ground. She became a ball of fire on impact.
Holy crap! I just got an air-to-air kill! Those gun cameras better be working.
He was so wrapped up in the adrenaline rush he didn’t hear Jimmy Tuttle’s first mayday call. But the second call, in the high-pitched screech of a man scared half to death, was impossible to miss.
“I’m losing her,” Tuttle wailed. “Prop’s running away…too low to bail out.”
Tommy replied, “I’m coming, Jimmy. Try switching tanks.”
There was no reply for a moment, and then Tuttle’s voice—sounding embarrassed and relieved—said, “Ahh, shit…I didn’t switch tanks before we went hot. Rear one’s reading about zip now. Forgot how long we’ve been up.”
“So everything’s okay now?”
“Roger, boss. Back to normal.”
“Great. Hate to have you pack it in now, after you just chalked up two destroyed and thre
e probables damaged.”
“Really? I did that good?”
“Affirmative. You did a great job.”
“That only adds up to five, Tommy. What about the other one?”
“I got him in the air.”
“No shit! Looks like ol’ Vincent Van Goldbrick’s gonna be busy tonight. He’d better have a stencil for those German crosses.”
“He does. Now let’s show some radio discipline and get back to work.”
Tommy and Tuttle climbed to 8000 feet to rejoin Clinchmore. With Blue Flight re-formed, they turned their attention back to the German column moving north on the road to Gacé.
“You see that thunderstorm coming?” Clinchmore said. “Been getting bumpy up here for a while. Maybe we ought to abort and get behind it.”
“Negative,” Tommy replied. “We’ll finish up here first. We’ve got time.”
Tuttle added his two cents: “T-storm’ll kill us as quick as the Germans, boss.”
“Both of you, keep your drawers on, dammit. The guys on the ground don’t get to take weather breaks.”
Tommy took another look at the approaching storm. The towering column of cloud, lit from within by flashes of lightning, suddenly seemed so much closer.
We’ve got time, he told himself, not quite as sure as when he’d said it out loud a few moments ago. Then he said, “I’ll do the drop, you guys do the sweep. Break…now.”
Tuttle and Clinchmore banked hard and pulled away, reversing direction while diving lower to get into attack position. Tommy orbited as he prepared to dive-bomb the highway, targeting what appeared to be the command element of the German column: a collection of small vehicles—probably kübelwagens—and larger trucks. Since experienced troops and vehicle drivers scattered when they were about to be bombed, Tuttle and Clinchmore would sweep in right behind his bombs, one over each shoulder of the highway, making a low strafing or rocket pass as needed. There would be no safe haven on or off the road for the Germans.
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