"If you go back down to the highway you can be in a nicer bed in a couple of hours." Jennifer, the purple-haired young desk clerk seemed to be handling things perfectly. Her voice remained level and her skin tone normal. "I'd be happy to call ahead and reserve a suite on your behalf." Everything in her body language suggested everyone would be better off should this couple heed her advice. Case admired her poise. He decided to lend a hand.
"Excuse me, Jennifer. Do you have any postcards?"
"Right over there."
Case walked over to the rack. The tall man sent him a withering just who the hell do you think you are kind of look, but the call girl took the opening and stroked his hand. "Honey, I'm tired of driving and I need a bath. Why don't we just take a nap here? A bed is a bed." The stroking sent a different, more erotic message. "Then we can just get back on the highway after dinner, when it's cooler. We'll still be at the Hilton around midnight."
Somewhat mollified, Sugar Daddy made a show of producing a roll of cash. "I suppose you're going to play gouge the tourist and charge me for a full night even if we only stay a few hours, right?"
Without dropping a beat, Jennifer gave him a bright smile. "We'll still have to scrub the tub and toilet and wash the sheets all the same, right?" The call girl bit her lower lip and barely held in a giggle.
The man took the cash back and handed Jennifer a credit card. "Here," he said. "Just for that smart-ass little remark we're going to put it on plastic so you'll have to declare this to the IRS."
Jennifer kept the smile. "Oh, darn." She looked down at the American Express card and reached for the registration book. "Welcome to Salt Lick, Mr. Williams. And shall I assume that this overdressed young lady is Mrs. David Williams?" Without waiting for a reply, she wrote their names in the book and dropped it back into a shelf just below the counter.
Case watched her carefully.
Mr. Williams scowled and sputtered. "Are you suggesting something here…?"
The woman took his arm. She pinned the desk clerk with a wide smile as icy and artificial as Jennifer's own. "She's just a little hillbilly slut, honey. Don't let her get you all worked up."
Jennifer's cheeks finally went pink. She broke eye contact first. Mr. Williams bumped into Case on the way out and neglected to apologize.
14
1:37 PM, June 6th, 1944
Over the English Channel
The noise is overwhelming—a clattering and banging, the high squeaks and squeals of trembling metal and strained rivets. Everything vibrates. The aircraft is packed with weapons, chutes and terrified young men in GI green. You pull the steel pot helmet down over your face, adjust your weary ass on the leg bag and try to get some rest. Every now and then someone asks you if you have any cigarettes left, but you're tired of answering so you don't even bother to respond.
Besides, you've given them all away hours ago...
You all know the drill. You check your watch. The eighteen Pathfinder teams are scheduled to drop right about now; their task is to mark the landing zones with "T" formations via Holophane lights so that the more than twenty thousand paratroopers will know where to come down. But the clouds are hanging low to the ground, obscuring everything, and you can already hear the WHUMP, WHUMP of anti-aircraft fire.
Rumor has it the pilots in Troop Carrier Command are pretty raw guys and haven't even been trained for night flying. They are going to have to haul the men in terrifyingly low to avoid enemy radar; maybe down as close as five hundred feet at times, although jump distance is supposed to be six. Either way, they will be little sitting ducks on a target range. So the scuttlebutt is that the pilots will likely panic, take evasive action and end up dropping 'sticks' like yours all over the neighborhood. Maybe right into a Kraut command post.
You glance down the row of silent, wan faces. Captain Paul Eppleston has his eyes closed and seems to be praying. A chill runs through you. If Eppleston is scared, this D-Day thing is bound to be rough. You again try to get comfortable, but it is difficult. Each man aboard is a beast of burden—he carries weapons, medical supplies, a chute and a backup, cans of food, sleeping gear, a shovel and a food bag packed with even more shit some rear-echelon moron decided was essential.
You have your own plan in mind.
The minute you hit the ground you're going to jettison anything likely to slow you down. A man who can move rapidly through the night, without clanking and banging, has a far better chance of survival.
The Dakota rocks a little. The ack-ack fire is closer now and some bright lightning-like starbursts are flaring in the far distance. You can see them because the cargo door is already open so that Eppleston can look out into the night. This is the jump of a lifetime. The men call it the Ten Grand jump because they have all been required to purchase a life insurance policy worth ten thousand dollars. Not a pleasant thing to put into a written order.
The Dakota flies on, the thumping sounds of gunfire get louder. The C-47's seem to be pulling away.
Looking out the door you see a bank of what looks like fog. Visibility vanishes within a matter of minutes. You can feel the Dakota dropping lower and banking a bit as the frustrated, nervous pilot tries to avoid an accidental collision with another one of the transport craft crowding the skies over Normandy.
You look the other way down the row and realize how little you actually know about the kids in your stick. They come from all over; the deep American South, Chicago, New York, even largely uninhabited places in the West. You know that the majority of you are volunteers, although one kid called Nevada was drafted and then volunteered for airborne after the fact, saying he figured that if he was going to fight he may as well fight with the best.
The Dakota wobbles badly, and some tracer fire rips a row of polka dots in the metal walls. Everyone grunts, cries out, ducks.
The pilot struggles to get the craft down to ninety miles an hour, the proper jump speed. But the combination of the slow speed and low altitude also makes the pilots painfully aware of how vulnerable they are.
Through the open doorway, you watch as another Dakota just below yours creeps forward into view. The tracer rounds and explosions are now creating a real fireworks show. You can clearly see the pilot of the other plane struggling with the controls and arguing with his copilot and then his head simply explodes into a reddish grey wad of blood, bones and brain. The panicked copilot starts dumping kids out of the plane even as he yanks on the stick, gaining altitude.
The light near the door starts flashing red. Captain Eppleston fights his way up to a standing position. He motions with his right hand. "Stand up and hook up!"
Everyone follows his example, swearing and slipping. Soon your stick is lined up and counts off. When they get to you, you scream TEN ready, and hear NINE ready, EIGHT ready all the way down to Eppleston himself. Your mouth is dry and you suddenly have an overwhelming urge to urinate.
WHOOM! All hell breaks loose. The sky lights up yellow, orange, red, blue and white and planes around yours are moaning and sinking in a spiral or exploding into fragments before your eyes. Scraps of aircraft spin by the doorway and slap into the side of your plane. It feels like the entire damn Kraut army has zeroed in on the 101st Airborne and your ass is really in a sling.
Suddenly you know—beyond the shadow of a doubt, you know—that this mission is entirely FUBAR and you are not going to make it down to the ground. A gunner down below tap dances a magazine of machine gun ammunition along the wing just behind you. You think: We are all going to die up here.
Someone calls out, voice thick with terror: "Let's go! Let's go!"
But Eppleston, your CO, is jumpmaster now that the light is red. He holds fast, one eye on his long string of men and one out the open doorway at the horrific slaughter that is taking place. "Not yet!"
The light goes green.
"Go! Go!"
Eppleston motions for the first man, who leaps out into the bloody hell of the Normandy night. The next man, the next. The plane just above yo
u is hit. The trooper who is next stops in the doorway because of a huge sunflower of exploding gasoline. But Eppleston shoves him out anyway and he goes, screaming GERONIMO at the top of his lungs.
RATATATA…
…The guy ahead of you does an odd jitterbug in the doorway as wet red dots blossom on his uniform. He drops to his knees, already dead or dying. Captain Eppleston kicks him out of the craft. His chute opens and he floats to the ground, likely bleeding out.
You are next. You fumble your way to the doorway, spread-eagled with feet and hands wide. Eppleston doesn't have to shove you, you want out of this damn Dakota; think whatever waits down below can't be half as horrible as what you have just witnessed. You are, of course, dead wrong.
You drop, your heart pounding. The chute opens and you immediately assume a higher altitude. The heavy leg bag you were given, a brand new dumb idea, pops free in seconds and drops like a rock into the night. Oh, hell. Well, less to worry about.
Around and below you are parachutes and dangling soldiers, floating down into the inky terrain below. Some of the men are screaming silently, badly wounded; some wave to you like kids at the county fair. You are surprised to be whispering an old forgotten Baptist prayer. You look up at the white canopy above you and watch with a chill as machine gun fire rips tiny holes in one quarter of the blossoming silk.
It is chaos. Pieces of equipment dangle below open chutes or come whistling by, their chutes disabled or torn. Bloody body parts and empty, dented helmets and even boots drift past, one with a foot and leg, all borne aloft on the wind. A spittle of warm blood splatters against your cheek. You hope it is not your own.
Down below you can see Jerry gathering a knot of men in the middle of a French village. An officer is racing around, desperately trying to coordinate the defensive fire. For a sickening moment you wonder if you are destined to land right in the middle of that village, a shot-to-crap piece of paratroop burger.
The rips in your canopy have other ideas. They slip some air from the chute and force you toward some open country to the rear of the German positions. Soon you are floating in relative darkness and the firing has died down. You know your mission. If you survive the drop you are to link up with other members of the 101st and knock out some gun emplacements expected to be harassing the beaches come sunrise. Your job is to risk your life to save the lives of the Army Rangers landing in at the beach dubbed Omaha.
You spill a bit more air out of your chute. Below you the fields seem to have been flooded with water, probably to drown as many paratroopers as possible. If a man were to come down face first he would be likely to die before he got loose of his heavy equipment. You want to avoid the flooded area and find some trees or soft ground.
You look around and see another chute a few hundred yards away. A few more seem to be heading straight into the field, the poor bastards. Someone else, like you, is aiming for the blacker area, where the full moon is not reflected in the water.
The ground arrives before you can prepare yourself, but that is a good thing, for you roll in a loose ball and have a reasonably soft landing. Your palms touch muddy grass.
Still praying in a whisper, you gather up your chute, bury it in a shallow grave and free up your heavy BAR. You jettison everything you think is dead weight, but you keep your medical kit, rations, knife and extra ammo. You get to your feet and move away into the darkness as silently as possible.
You have never in your life felt so young or so afraid.
But at least you're still alive.
"Damnit!"
Someone on the other side of the hedgerow. You fumble through your pockets for the clicker you were given to let others know you were with the Allied troops, but you can't find the bastard. Screw it, Krauts don't swear in English.
"Airborne," you whisper. "Who's there?"
"It's me. Nevada. You're the BAR guy, right?"
"Yeah, it's me. Stay put, I'll come to you."
"Three feet down there is an opening in the hedgerow," Nevada whispers. "Watch out for the thorns when you crawl it, and keep your voice down."
He must have some terrific night vision. You can't see a damned thing. You take him at his word and move down about a yard. You can feel the opening with your fingers. You roll over onto your back to protect the BAR and clumsily work your way through the opening. Nevada grabs your collar and with one seemingly effortless move pulls you down into a trench. You roll over again, excited to have found some company, and start to ask him a question. Nevada grabs your collar again, tugs you closer.
"Shhh," he breathes in your ear. "Somebody's coming."
You flatten yourself, taste the mud. You strain to hear something, anything, but the night is silent, except for distant booms and the popping of small arms fire that seems to be miles away and further toward the channel.
You are about to tell Nevada that he's mistaken when you hear it too: A vague squishing sound; boots being sucked at by mud. And then two guttural voices, whispering in German. Hot damn, this is it—contact with the enemy! You start to slide the BAR into position, but Nevada pushes your arm back down. You lower the weapon and slide your hunting knife from your boot with a faint SNICK. Because Nevada is correct, of course. Why give away your position? After all, you don't know how many there are, where they are—hell, where you are for that matter.
Nevada slips into the hedgerow, silent as the wind. He did not tell you what he expects you to do, so you are momentarily frozen and uncertain.
The sounds that follow are brief, vague and somehow horrifying. There comes some kind of growling; a guttural groan and then a wet ripping noise. Your mind flashes back on childhood, on watching a dog fight. But before you can explain that reference to yourself it is all over and silence falls again.
"Nevada?"
The cloud cover parts a bit and you can see out into the ditch. A man's arm lies in the mud, wearing a German sleeve. It has been severed at the shoulder; you glimpse the ragged flesh and pale white bone. There is a rustling in the bushes and a Kraut helmet rolls down the hill as well. The head is still in it. More wet smacking sounds and a lapping like a puppy at a bowl of milk. You wait until your heart is about to burst and then whisper:
"Nevada, what the hell is going on?"
A breeze parts the clouds. The full moon lights up the meadow. You can see a patrol of Germans coming from across the flooded field, wading knee-deep in the water. They are bayoneting paratroopers who are wounded or drowning. You count an entire platoon and you tremble from fear.
"We got to get out of here!"
Nevada still doesn't answer. Desperate, you crawl forward on elbows and knees. The heavy BAR slows you down. You try to decide whether or not to set it up and make a stand. What has happened to the other paratrooper? Is Nevada dead or alive, still here or have you been abandoned?
You crawl past the severed arm and the decapitated German, whose moonlit face looks up in shock and awe as if asking God how any of this madness has come to be. You slide halfway up the muddy slope and peer into the next hedgerow. Nevada's rifle lies flat in the muck, as do several rags that seem to have been ripped from his uniform. In fact, there are scraps of cloth scattered all over the kill zone along with strings of guts, internal organs and chunks of Kraut meat.
You cannot back up without running into an entire platoon of the enemy. You cannot crawl forward without sinking into the gore and viscera before you. Your horror and fear are beginning to sap your courage.
"Nevada?"
The snuffling growl comes again. The hedgerow parts. You finally release your full bladder into your muddy pants. Because what emerges from the darkness is a blur of bloody fur, curved fangs and claws. Whatever it is has a bloody mass clenched in its savage teeth. Two gigantic yellow eyes roll skyward with what appears to be a mixture of rage and pleasure. You struggle with the BAR but the thing before you bats it away like a toothpick.
"Oh my Lord!"
You scramble backwards, faster than you would have ever thou
ght possible, through both rows of roots and plants. You emerge into the field and fall on your ass in a splatter of mud and a clattering of gear. The BAR falls into the water.
"Achtung! Schnell!"
You roll over onto your face. Screw the BAR. No sense in trying to surrender; they are already firing at you and standing up would be suicide. You crawl as rapidly as possible, stay as low as possible. The firing sputters to a stop.
"Juergen, Gott, was ist das?"
You slip into the water, shrug out of your pack. One deep breath and you swim for your life. When your lungs are on fire and you can no longer stand the pain, you bring your mouth and nose up into the moonlight to grab some air. The firing rises to a second crescendo. Men are shrieking in agony and bellowing panicked orders in German. You risk a peek, your eyes barely clearing the surface of the water.
Whatever the creature is, it has already savaged the entire German platoon. The surface of the hedgerow is soaked with gore and festooned with flesh and entrails. You catch another glimpse of it; man-sized but impossibly quick and feral. It has those massive teeth clamped around the throat of the platoon leader. One ruthless twist and a gout of blood ejaculates into the night air.
It feeds.
You take another breath and swim away.
Like many of the paratroopers dropped that night, you are at first hopelessly lost. You eventually hook up with a few men from other units. Silence is at a premium, so there is no one to share the story with. A few more men join the group. An officer from the 101st manages to coordinate an assault on the German guns just at dawn. You are near the point when the unit comes under enemy fire. You are shot three times, in the abdomen, the left leg and ankle. You don't remember getting hit, just lying in the warm dirt feeling sick to your stomach. You pass out.
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