Fortress Falling (Moon Brothers WWII Adventure Series Book 2) Read online

  “Well, they’ll just have to do it in the daytime, then.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bradley replied. “I’m not going to waste Ike’s time with this. He’s got enough problems.”

  “Come on, Brad…at least run it by your air staff. Let’s get Pete Quesada on the landline.”

  While the communications officer had his switchboard operators work their magic, Patton moved back to the original issue. “I can’t just isolate and bypass Metz, Brad. There are at least two German divisions in the city and the surrounding forts. To keep them out of our hair would require at least two of my own divisions to bottle them up. I need those divisions to exploit Fourth Armored’s breakthrough east of Nancy. My army is on the best route into Germany, and you know it. Look, Brad, I’m telling you I can be across the Saar in—”

  “George, you’re not listening to me. You’re not going to be exploiting anything for a while. Ike wants your lines tidied up…and since it doesn’t look like you’ll be advancing past Metz anytime soon, that means you’ll have to pull Fourth Armored back. It’s that simple.”

  The debate went on for another five minutes—with arms waving and fingers stabbing at points on maps—before the communications officer announced, “General Quesada on the line, sir.”

  Brigadier General Elwood “Pete” Quesada was commander of IX Fighter Command, USAAF, an expert on tactical air support and the man responsible for providing that support to Bradley’s 12th Army Group. He listened as Patton and Bradley expressed their needs and concerns. When they were finished, he asked, “Is this line secure, sir?”

  Patton looked to the communications officer, who nervously replied, “As secure as possible, General. There’s no guarantee any line is perfectly secure.”

  When told that, Quesada said, “Not good enough, sir. I have some information that might be of help to you but it’s classified. I can fly over to your headquarters first thing tomorrow morning, if that’s okay?”

  Not caring he was stepping on Bradley’s toes, Patton rushed to reply, “Make it today, Pete. You’ve got great flying weather for a change.”

  A silence fell over the line as Quesada tried to figure out how to respond. He’d just been given an order from a man he did not work for while the man he did work for seemed suddenly mute, neither confirming nor overriding Patton’s presumptuous directive.

  Not wanting to step on his boss’ toes, Quesada prodded, “General Bradley, is that your wish as well?”

  Red-faced and glaring at Patton, Bradley replied, “If it’s not too much trouble, Pete.”

  “No, sir. I need to clean up a few details here first, but I can be there by 1400.”

  Once the call ended, Bradley added, “George, I put up with a lot of shit from you because, quite frankly, you’re worth it. But don’t ever fucking embarrass me like that again. Am I clear, General?”

  Like a contrite schoolboy, Patton replied, “Yes, General. Perfectly clear.”

  But it was all an act, and Bradley knew it. The bottom line was simple: George Patton had gotten away with it again.

  It was a few minutes before 1400 when Pete Quesada landed his AT-6 hack near 3rd Army Headquarters at Verdun. A jeep whisked him from the airstrip to the chateau where Patton and Bradley were waiting.

  This time, Bradley would be doing the talking. He began by asking, “What’s such a secret you couldn’t tell us over the phone, Pete?”

  “Well, sir,” Quesada replied, “if you want one big bang on the target, the Air Force has a way to do it.”

  “Let me guess,” Bradley said. “You’ve borrowed some RAF heavy bombers that can carry that big bomb?”

  “Negative, sir. We’ve got a bomb of our own. Let’s just say the RAF inspired us.”

  Patton murmured, “Inspired, my ass. Jealous of the Brits’ bigger planes is more like it. It’s classic dick-measuring.”

  “Actually,” Quesada continued, “it’s a flying bomb. We modify some tired B-17s and B-24s for the job. Strip them bare, load them up with explosives, and fly them right into the target.” Seeing the stunned look on their faces, he added, “Unmanned, of course.”

  Bradley looked skeptical. “Unmanned? How the hell do you get them into the air?”

  “Let me clarify that, sir. For safety reasons, a pilot takes the plane off. Then he bails out and radio control takes over.”

  It took several minutes and a few diagrams to explain the workings of Operation Aphrodite. Bradley seemed flummoxed by the whole proposition. “Has the Air Force actually used any of these flying bombs yet?”

  “We’ve tried eight missions so far, sir, all very hush-hush. None of them have gone well. Four crashed before we got the remote-control system upgraded and working halfway decently. The rest got shot down by flak or missed the target completely, due either to bad visibility or human controller error. By the way, the Air Force has lost two pilots due to parachute mishaps. The Navy tried a mission, too. That one went even worse.”

  Bradley asked, “What do you mean, worse? And what the hell does the Navy have to do with all this?”

  “Well, sir, it was worse because the two Navy pilots on board got killed outright. Plane blew up right after takeoff. Nobody’s sure why. As to why the Navy’s involved, I suppose they didn’t want to get left out. They’ve got maritime patrol bombers that are worn out and headed for the scrap yard, too. So why not try to put them to good use one last time?”

  Patton couldn’t keep his silence any longer. “It isn’t good use if it doesn’t work, Pete. How’s all this failure going to help me?”

  Quesada smiled. He knew that question would be coming. He’d been polishing his answer all day. “I think there’s a high degree of probability we can put a baby on that fort of yours without much problem, sir. My pilots in the area, the ones flying your ground support, know exactly where it is—hell, they’ve been hitting it every damn day—and the flak in the area’s reported as fairly light. There’s very little Luftwaffe presence, as well, so chances of the baby being shot down are pretty small. As long as we’ve got halfway decent visibility, we should be able to blow that fort to smithereens.”

  It was Patton’s turn to smile. “So in other words, the Air Force is looking for an easy target to redeem this Operation Aphrodite disaster?”

  “In a nutshell, sir, that’s it.”

  “Outstanding,” Patton replied. “Now what flyboy’s ass do we have to kiss to make this happen?”

  “That would be General Spaatz’s ass, sir.”

  “Ahh, the theater commander himself.” Patton looked to Bradley, adding, “Sounds like pretty high-level shit to me. Well, Brad, do you want to talk to Tooey, or should I?”

  “Good lord, no, George,” Bradley replied. “Let me handle it. And I think Ike might have something to say about it, too.”

  Patton laughed out loud. “Ike will only care if we’re trying to take something away from his precious little Montgomery. And we’re not doing that, are we, Pete?”

  “No, sir,” Quesada replied. “We wouldn’t be doing that at all.”

  Chapter Six

  The men of 37th Tank Battalion thought it was a good sign: a convoy of fuel trucks was rumbling into their assembly area under cover of darkness. Soon they’d have the gasoline to push ever closer to the German border, less than forty miles to the east. It was what they wanted most: to drive on Berlin, end the war, and go home.

  It was also what they feared most: fighting on the soil of the Fatherland. The closer they got, the more the equations of fighting and dying changed. There had only been one enemy in France: Germans in uniform. If a Frenchman fought as a partisan, he was fighting with the Allies.

  Would it be different inside Germany? Whose side would the civilians be on now? Would there be saboteurs in every village, picking off GIs one by one and then vanishing into the populace? Worse, there were rumors fanatical SS units—far more fierce and proficient than the unskilled troops they’d faced lately—would be in the forefront of homeland de
fense. If the Allies—American, British, and Russian—were fought to a standstill at the German frontier, would this war end in stalemate under a negotiated armistice?

  There was one possibility no man of the 37th dared speak out loud: the Allies could still lose this war. It wasn’t impossible. Maybe those rumors of Nazi superweapons might be true, and the resulting devastation in France, England—and maybe even the US—would force the Allies to sue for peace.

  Or perhaps all of Germany would be overrun by nobody but the Russians, who would proclaim themselves the sole victors. From what the GIs had heard, the Ivans were a swarming horde, fueled by the need to avenge four years of invasion, plunder, and genocide at the hands of the Third Reich. Their steamroller advance westward to Berlin only seemed to be gathering unstoppable momentum and bloodlust on a daily basis. Maybe they wouldn’t stop at Berlin, flooding right up to the stagnant American and British lines in France and the Low Countries.

  The Americans and British, at best, were plodding, bickering, and blundering their way slowly eastward. Their momentum was anything but assured and, at the moment, nonexistent. A sluggish American or British army might still find itself enveloped, encircled, and forced to surrender, just like the Germans at Stalingrad. And with that surrender would come the somber knowledge that every one of their comrades killed in the fight against Hitler had died for nothing.

  Sergeant Sean Moon tried to push all that pessimistic speculation from his mind as his Sherman tank—Lucky 7—eased alongside the fuel truck. This gas is going to take us across the German border, he told himself. With a little luck, we’ll be wrapping this thing up real soon and going home.

  As his crew clambered down from the tank to stretch their legs in the cool night air, Sean remained perched on her rear deck, smiling as the precious gasoline quenched his Sherman’s thirst.

  A voice called to him out of the darkness: “That sure is a sweet smell, isn’t it, Sergeant?” It was his company commander, Captain Newcomb.

  “You got that right, sir,” Sean replied. “I’m betting this gas can take me and my guys all the way to Saarbrücken.”

  He’d expected enthusiastic agreement from his captain. But all he got was an awkward silence until Newcomb said, “I’m afraid that’s not the plan, Sergeant Moon.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I mean 37th Tank isn’t pushing east. We’ve been called back to the Moselle.”

  “You mean we’re withdrawing, sir?”

  “No,” Captain Newcomb said, “Fourth Armored’s not withdrawing, Sergeant. The rest of the division will hold the line east of Nancy. But our battalion is going back to help out with something. Don’t know what exactly it is yet, though.”

  Sean could feel the anger rising in him; getting his Irish up, like they said back in Brooklyn. He jumped down from the tank’s deck to stand face to face with the captain.

  “With all due respect, sir,” Sean said, “how the hell—”

  But Newcomb interrupted him. With the calm but unmistakable authority a man acquires as a combat commander, he said, “Knock it off, Sergeant Moon. This isn’t my first dance, and I’ve got a pretty good idea what with all due respect really means. If you’ve got something to say, let’s hear it, man to man.”

  The captain’s words chilled Sean’s ire like a cold shower. “Honest, sir, no disrespect or anything. But ain’t it a real kick in the teeth—after all we’ve done here—to be finally getting some gas just so we can retreat?”

  “I’m telling you, Sergeant, we’re not retreating. Now I don’t know what they’ve got in store for us—I’m not even sure Colonel Abrams knows at the moment—but it must be pretty damn important if they need 37th Tank to do it.”

  Newcomb’s words worked their magic. Even a hardened veteran like Sean Moon, who’d survived more than enough combat in North Africa and France to be irredeemably jaded, couldn’t help but feel the unit pride welling up inside him.

  “I see your point one hundred percent, sir.”

  “Excellent, Sergeant. Your platoon will be ready to roll at sun-up, then?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  Lieutenant General Carl “Tooey” Spaatz, USAAF, commander of US Strategic Forces in Europe, was annoyed he’d been awakened in the middle of the night for this conference call. Since it was General Eisenhower’s switchboard that had put the call through, however, he had no choice but to get on the line.

  “Tooey,” Omar Bradley said, “this is Brad, and I’ve got George Patton here with me. How’s everything back in England?”

  “It’s dark, Brad. Very dark. And very late. To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

  Bradley told him what Pete Quesada had proposed the Air Force do to Fort Driant.

  “Absolutely not, Brad. Ike specifically said Aphrodite missions were only supposed to be flown against strategic targets. What you’re describing sounds strictly tactical.”

  “George and I consider this far more strategic than tactical, Tooey. This is the twentieth century. We can’t get our soldiers bogged down in a sixteenth century siege when we’ve got the technology to blow that fort sky high. Ike agrees with us. He says if you’ve got the wherewithal, we should go ahead and do it, and as quickly as possible. There should be a communiqué from him coming over your headquarters printer to that effect as we speak. We wanted to call you first so you didn’t get blindsided.”

  “I appreciate that, Brad. But let me ask you and George something. I’m guessing Pete’s already filled you in on all the problems we’ve had so far with this remote-controlled bomb project. Do you really want to let one of those things loose when you’ve got your own troops in the vicinity? You could be begging for something far worse than the Operation Cobra fiasco. We only killed about a company’s worth of men that time. Are you trying for a battalion’s worth now?”

  “I’d be lying to you if I said I wasn’t concerned about another disaster like that,” Bradley replied, “but we need serious firepower—far more than we’ve got at our disposal at the moment—to take Fort Driant down. And the only people who can provide it are you or the RAF.”

  “Forget about RAF Bomber Command,” Spaatz said. “They work alone in Arthur Harris’ own little world, and they lost interest in daylight precision bombing a long, long time ago. This isn’t the job for them, even if they were up for it.”

  “Better we keep it an all-American operation, anyway,” Patton added. “The Brits would just start with those full-of-shit lies about how they bailed out the inexperienced Yanks again.”

  “Hold on a minute, both of you,” Spaatz said. “I haven’t said I’m going to be able to help you out yet. There’s going to be a lot of logistics involved, a lot of details to work out. It might even be out of the realm of possibilities entirely.”

  “When will you know?” Patton asked.

  “I can give you an answer in a couple of days. If it’s a go, it’ll probably take a week or two to put it all together.”

  “Can we hurry it up a little, Tooey?” Patton asked. “I’ve got good men dying here.”

  Even through the phone lines, they could sense the sudden anger in Spaatz’s voice. “We’ve all got good men dying, George. I just don’t want any more of them to die by accident. And I’m afraid there’s a real good chance I just might kill a bunch of your men—again—and maybe some of mine.”

  Before Patton could get in another word, Bradley replied, “We’re not arguing that point, Tooey. We just need your help…in the worst way.”

  “I know, Brad. I know. But if I can do this for you, I want one thing perfectly clear: I want it in writing from Ike’s headquarters that I recommended against using remote-controlled bombs on Fort Driant.”

  “Duly noted, Tooey,” Bradley replied.

  Tommy Moon couldn’t sleep, so he wandered across the ramp to watch maintenance being pulled on the squadron’s aircraft. He’d always marveled at the deep knowledge the young mechanics possessed and how they never quit on a new and nebu
lous problem until they’d found the solution. It seemed they could tear the P-47 apart on a nightly basis yet always have it back together and ready to fly at first light. They loved the machines as much as the pilots who flew them. Maybe more so.

  Their stamina impressed Tommy, too. They rarely slept at night; there was always so much maintenance to do on the planes. When their aircraft was out on a mission, then—and only then—would they nap until the word came the returning ships were in range of the field. Then they’d drive to the end of the runway and wait, counting the jugs on final approach, praying theirs wasn’t among the missing.

  If their prayers weren’t answered, they’d suffer the agony of wondering if maybe something they did—an errant adjustment, some bolt not properly installed, an electrical connector not secured—had caused their ship and her pilot to go down rather than German gunnery. That agony might persist for the rest of their lives, too, because unless the pilot survived to tell his story, the reason for a lost aircraft was rarely, if ever, known in full. Failed to return on the mission status board glossed over myriad reasons and exonerated no one’s sense of guilt.

  Tommy found his crew chief, Tech Sergeant McNulty, sitting in his truck, poring over his plane’s maintenance records. He also noticed two of McNulty’s mechanics busily opening wing panels.

  “What’s the matter, Lieutenant?” McNulty asked, checking his wristwatch. “It’s three-fucking a.m. Can’t sleep? Or are you just getting back from searching the femmes in town?”

  “I’ve had enough sleep, thanks. Just thought I’d see what you guys were up to. What are they doing up on the wing?”

  “Well, sir, I don’t see in these here documents where they ever did no gun heater check at the depot,” McNulty said, “so we did it tonight. And guess what…two of them flunked. Pulled zero amps. Good thing it ain’t real cold yet and you don’t fly real high anyway. A couple of guns woulda been froze up on you, for sure.” He pointed to the two mechanics. “So those two fine young wrenches are changing them heaters out for you.”