by John Dalmas
The next day, transportation was sent to the 47s on the dry lake, and the rest of the battalion was trucked north to the airfield. The American armor there was needed for the assault on Oran, so its commander turned the airfield over to 2nd Battalion to defend, and left. In the hills, a lone French howitzer kept lobbing in 75mm shells, and the Spitfires couldn't find the well-camouflaged gun. The battalion took more casualties from the shelling. Meanwhile, the men who'd made the long march took advantage of the barracks there, and slept.
Macurdy dreamed, half-wakened, and dreamed again, dreamed of beaches and monsters and death. Then the platoon was rousted out for muster in the morning, leaving brief dregs of dream, baleful and menacing.
But roll call, the mess line, and rumors banished them. At breakfast it occurred to him that sixty hours earlier he'd eaten supper in England, in what seemed like a different world. Not as different as Yuulith, where he'd fought his last war, but different enough.
16
Dancing in a Vacuum
Oran surrendered on the second day-Algiers, farther east, ' had already surrendered to the British-and all of Algeria was nominally in allied hands. Mostly the French had not fought very hard; they'd had their orders and a Gallic sense of honor, but their hearts weren't in it. Surrendering may have hurt their pride, but most of them disliked or even hated being allied with the Nazis.
Meanwhile, the Allied high command was concerned that the Germans would move to occupy the airfields in eastern Algeria and neighboring Tunisia, where there was a power vacuum. The Ales had only a few divisions in all of Algeria, concentrated in the north. On the other hand, though nominally Field Marshal Erwin Rommel's Afrika Korps occupied neighboring Tunisia, his forces there were concentrated near the east coast, where they were engaged with the British 8th Army near the Libyan border.
So on November 15th, most of 2nd Battalion jumped on Youks les Bains Airfield, half expecting to be met by German paratroopers. Instead there was a small number of poorly equipped French infantry, who preferred Americans to Nazis. With no fighting necessary there, Colonel Raff sent a company on foot to take and hold Tebessa Airfield nine miles away, near the Tunisian border. They found no Germans there either. Raffs assigned responsibility was the defense of Youks les Bains and Tebessa airfields, which stretched his battalion thin, but he phoned Allied headquarters in Algiers, asking permission to occupy the central Tunisian town of Gafsa, which controlled key mountain roads. The French told him there still were no Germans there. General Clark approved only a reconnaissance, however, and "not one step farther" than Gafsa Then the British General Anderson, in charge of allied ground forces in Algeria, countermanded even that limited permission.
Raff pretended he hadn't gotten the countermand, and his idea of a reconnaissance was more than liberal. It seemed to him that Gafsa and its airfield were a prize the Germans would grab if he didn't. Besides, he was looking for a fight.
As Gafsa was eighty miles southeast of Tebessa via a mountain road, the French commander at Tebessa provided him with two dilapidated, green and white civilian buses, so covered with dirt as to be nearly camouflaged by it. Raff, his broken ribs taped and padded, loaded twenty men in each bus, and started off with them down the road. Macurdy was included because he spoke fluent German. Being within easy range of German fighter planes, Raff had a machine gun mounted atop each bus, with gunners to man them. He had no artillery and no air support.
As reported, there were no Germans in Gafsa, just a French unit of thirty chasseurs, light reconnaissance cavalry stationed there to keep a finger on the local pulse. The French commander really did have his finger on that pulse-in fact on the pulse of all Tunisia-and knew the country intimately. So the two commanders set about to do as much with their tiny forces as they could.
Meanwhile the distant generals decided it had been a good idea after all, and the paratroopers in Gafsa were increased to all of eighty-five.
Back in England, British airborne officers had told Raff that the Germans didn't like operating at night. So Raff sent men by jeep, civilian car, even a hitchhiker on a train, on small nocturnal demolition raids and reconnaissance patrols. Sometimes troopers went out on their own. Macurdy tried his hand at that, with a sergeant named Cavalieri, whose Italian was as good as Macurdy's German.
Then Macurdy got transferred to Kasserine, just in time to miss a sharp fight-the "Battle of Gafsa"-with German troops and Italian light tanks. Fortunately Raff's tiny army just been reinforced by a company from the 1st Infantry Division, and a platoon from the 701st Antitank Battalion.
Meanwhile the troopers had just learned that their battalion was no longer part of the 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, and hadn't been for weeks. The 503rd, with a new 2nd Battalion, was being shipped to Australia, halfway around the world; Raffs Ruffians had been redesignated the 509th Parachute Infantry Battalion. The plan was to expand it to a full regiment, when enough qualified troopers were available.
It was at Kasserine that Macurdy's mail caught up with him. He got seven letters from Mary, and realized he'd written her only once since leaving England. Her most recent letter said she'd miscarried again, and he sensed her deep disappointment. That night he wrote her a three-page letter -long by his standards. It would have been longer, but as he pointed out, there wasn't that much to say that the censors wouldn't delete.
Then, having written Mary, he wrote his parents for only the third time in his life.
Rommel began taking more interest in western Tunisia, and in the first week in December, German and Italian troops occupied the strategic but undefended Faid Pass. The further enlarged Gafsa garrison was sent to take it from them. The troopers at Kasserine were also sent, and arrived in time for the second (and final) day of fighting, which ended with the surrender of the surviving Axis troops. It was Macurdy's first taste of real combat since he'd left Yuulith-his first ever that involved firearms instead of swords, bows, and pikes.
Soon afterward, the paratroopers at Gafsa were replaced by straight infantry. Macurdy's company was moved to the airfield at Thelepte, to protect it and carry out patrols. It was the only company of 509ers left in Tunisia. The rest of the battalion had been sent to Boufarik on standby, several hundred miles northwest, near Algiers.
17
Von Lutzow
It was evening when it happened. Macurdy, who now wore staff sergeant's chevrons on his sleeves, was settling down to read awhile before hitting the sack, when Lieutenant Shuler came into the barracks. "Macurdy, get your boots on."
As Macurdy reached for his boots, Shuler elaborated. "Captain Buckman's got a job for you and me. He's waiting to brief us." In the orderly room, the captain filled them in. Operating by night, a light British plane had picked up two spies-one British, the other American-wearing German uniforms, and been hit by small arms fire during takeoff. Later it had crash-landed on a mountain road. The pilot was badly injured, but he'd gotten off a Mayday call, giving their approximate location. Both spies were injured too. Algiers wanted them picked up; they were supposed to be very important.
The Germans would also have gotten the signal, and would undoubtedly send men to capture them. Probably by truck; it would be a long drive, but feasible. However, it was possible they'd jump paratroops in.
Captain Buckman told Macurdy to pick eighteen men and get them ready: He and Shuler would go over the quick and dirty operations plan. Macurdy and his men were to be at the taxi strip in twenty minutes, with three stretchers, and K rations for three days. Major Marden would be their pilot.
Macurdy left wondering if three stretchers would be enough: Twenty men jumping at night in the mountains could easily result in two or three of them getting busted up on landing.
It wasn't windy, and the moon had just risen, something more than half full, but even so…
He supposed the spies had confidential information, and wearing German uniforms, they'd be executed if caught-pumped of what they knew, then shot. While if the Germans caught him on the mountain with a broken le
g, he'd probably, hopefully, just end up in a POW camp. Still, he took five stretchers. They could always leave what they didn't need.
And they had one thing going for them besides themselves: Their pilot had a reputation. Major Rollie Marden didn't have to find places. He just sort of went to them, like some of the mountaineers in Yuulith. It was like an instinct. There was no way he'd miss the drop spot.
Macurdy knew without thought what men he'd take, and not one of them bitched at foregoing his night's sleep. He told them to bring no weapons heavier than M Is, and no more grenades than they could take in their thigh pockets. This was a rescue operation, not a combat mission; they needed to travel light.
Ten minutes after he'd given them their instructions, they trotted to the C47s warming up on the taxi strip, leaving the rest of the platoon jealous.
Shuler arrived a few minutes later. Two minutes after that, they were on board, taxiing to the runway. Shuler handed out French army topographic maps, and briefed the troopers as they flew. They'd take the rescued spies and pilot to a road, where they'd be met by trucks and troops of the 26th Infantry and taken to Gafsa. From there they could get air cover if needed-some of Major Cochran's P40s would be standing by, ready to take off on a moment's notice.
It seemed like no time at all before they were over the jump spot, hooked up and ready. Shuler was jump master. The green light came on and the lieutenant jumped, the rest of the stick following almost in lockstep, Macurdy last, the cleanup man, shouting the battalion's jump cry: "San Antone!"
He looked up, checking his canopy, then down, orienting himself. The landscape was a mosaic of moon-wash and black shadow. He could see the primitive road, even the plane lying on it, almost at the summit of a grade. Right on target, he thought. I need to look up Marden, when I have a chance, and tell him how much that means to us. And so damned quick! it'll take a hell of a lot longer getting out than it did in.
He hit the ground about two hundred yards beyond the broken plane. Shuler almost slammed into it when he landed. Almost. What he actually hit was a boulder, or more likely two of them. The result was a broken leg, and despite his steel helmet, a severe concussion. Two blasts on Macurdy's whistle oriented any troopers who might have missed seeing the plane. Except for Shuler, none had injuries severe enough to hamper them seriously. All in all, Macurdy thought, they d been damned lucky. They even found their equipment package, in this case the stretchers, with no trouble at all.
Two of the crash victims were still in the plane. The mission medic checked them first. One of them, the pilot, had bled to death, the radio mike in his lap. The other, in a German uniform, was unconscious, his breathing shallow. Macurdy had a man take the pilot's dogtags, go through his pockets, and look the cabin over for envelopes, papers-anything like that. Others gathered up any chutes visible from the road and stashed them out of sight.
The second spy, an American, had gotten out of the plane and seen the drop. He was walking, which meant they wouldn't have to carry him-at least not all the time-but he was also groggy, and his scalp was peeled half off. After cleaning both scalp and skull, the medic laid the flap back where it belonged, and fastened it in place with a bandage. Strongly built and about six feet tall, his patient wore a German officer's field uniform, sharply tailored, with a captain's insignia.
Macurdy, trying to get him into the here and now, asked him his name. "Vonnie," the man muttered, then, in a monotone, "Captain William Von Lutzow."
That he could give his name was encouraging. Macurdy shook Von Lutzow's hand. "Mine's Macurdy. Sergeant Curtis Macurdy. Can you remember what happened?"
Von Lutzow stood a moment without answering, and when he did, it was in the same monotone: "We got shot at, taking off. Bullet hit the gas tank; we could smell the gas. Another one hit the pilot, but he said he was all right."
Concussion, Macurdy told himself, but not really bad, or he wouldn't remember so much. "We're going to get you out of here," he said. Then, because the winter night was near freezing, and Von Lutzow shivering, he put his hands on him and flowed warmth, drawing on the Web of the World, while the medic got the unconscious spy and Lieutenant Shuler strapped onto stretchers. Macurdy would have taken the dead pilot, too, but that would mean carrying a third burden more than twenty miles through mountains, with the prospect of enemy fighter planes hunting them by day, and perhaps troops by night. He'd settle for taking out the dead man's dogtags and wallet. Von Lutzow would hike out.
Macurdy checked once again; everyone was there. "All right," he said, "let's get going," and led off. They'd follow the road as long as it was safe.
They'd gone about half a mile when they heard distant trucks grinding up a steep grade on the other side of the crest behind them. Germans, Macurdy realized. They'd reach the plane soon, and have to stop until they could drag the wreckage off the road. Meanwhile they'd search the plane, and look around for the missing spies. It wouldn't take a genius to realize they'd been rescued, especially if the stashed chutes and stretchers were found.
The road took the troopers downward across the long slope, and when they reached the bottom, Macurdy halted them. Up on top, the trucks had stopped. Meanwhile the road turned southwestward, down the ravine. Macurdy took a topographic map from a tunic pocket and turned to the next ranking noncom. "Cavalieri," he said, "I'm taking Williams, Montague, Cherbajian and Luoma with me. And Captain Von Lutzow. The rest of them are yours. I want to make sure we get at least one of these two guys out of here safely for debriefing."
"I'll keep going west down the road as long as the krauts let me." Head one of the others hold a pen light on the map, and traced a route with his finger. "You head northeast up the ravine; they won't expect that. In about half a mile, a draw enters it from the northwest. Take it; the grade looks pretty moderate, and it tops out in a saddle. Cross the saddle and follow down the draw on the other side. It opens into a wide ravine that runs west. The map shows a camel road down it, so it ought to be decent hiking. Eventually it'll hit Road 163; you'll see it on your map. By then it ought to be daylight, or close to it; you'll probably want to hole up and rest."
Cavalieri nodded, awed. It was, he thought, as if Macurdy had memorized the topographic map on the plane, and things fell into place for him as needed.
"Stay with 163 to the Gafsa-Tebessa Road," Macurdy continued, "then use your own judgment. If we get out first, we'll tell them to look for you there." He took some of the extra K rations from his musette bag. "Turn around," he said. Cavalieri turned, and Macurdy shoved the rations into the man's musette bag. "For the limey," he added, "in case he wakes up hungry." Then he shook Cavalieri's hand. "Good luck, partner. See you at Thelepte."
Cavalieri grinned. "Good luck yourself. And don't do anything I wouldn't." Then he led his men off the road into shadowed darkness.
Macurdy didn't stay to watch them disappear. Up on the ridge, the trucks had started again; the Germans had gotten the plane out of the road. Presumably whoever was in charge would send part of his force in pursuit. No doubt others word continue searching above. On Macurdy's order, his people, even Von Lutzow, quickened their pace. Two minutes and a sixth of a mile farther, he turned off the road, crossing the ravine bottom to lead them angling up the ridge on their right.
With a little elevation, they could see three trucks comin down the road from the crash site, headlamp beams brow and bright in the night, light security ignored. Spotlights played over the roadsides as they growled down the grade in third gear. There wasn't effective cover, only thin spiny shrubs, rock outcrops, and minor terrain irregularities. "Come on, you guys," Macurdy ordered, "kick her out of neutral! We'll need to be farther up the hill than this, or we're dog meat. They'll have machine guns and lots of Schmeissers on those trucks."
They hunkered down, digging for uphill speed. Von Lutzow's concussion hadn't lessened his will to survive; he hustled with the rest of them. The trucks reached the bottom of the ravine and never paused, just rolled on down the road in a thick cloud of
dust. Their spotlights swept the bordering slopes, but never reached high enough to find the gasping, puffing troopers. The Americans stopped to rest, watching.
"We lucked out, sarge," someone said quietly.
"That wasn't luck, Monty," Macurdy growled, "that was legs." There were still two trucks by the wreck, spotlights playing in the distance. There'd be a whole damned platoon up there searching; they'd find the chutes for sure, if they hadn't already.. Not that it'll do them any good, he told himself, then added they ready do want these guys. He looked speculatively at Von Lutzow, who seemed about ready to puke, whether from exhaustion or concussion, Macurdy didn't know. Maybe both.
When they'd gotten their wind, he moved them on again toward the crest, now at an easier pace. It seemed to Macurdy they had the situation whipped, even if they did have a long way left to hike. When they reached the top, he stopped again. "Take a break," he said, and the men flopped down, lying back on their musette bags. Macurdy sat on the ground beside a prostrate Von Lutzow. The man's aura was shrunken, and there was a black hole in it above the forehead.
"How are you doing?" Macurdy asked. In German.
The spy looked up at him and answered in English. "My head hurts." He paused. "And my scalp burns." Another pause. "I'm worried about Morrill."
The words were still somewhat monotone; his mind was functioning at maybe fifty percent, Macurdy thought. He switched to English, too. "Morrill's your partner?"
Von Lutzow barely nodded, probably because his head hurt. "Cavalieri will get him out; I'd bet a month's pay on it. And he's got the medic with him." Macurdy stood. "Sit up, captain," he said. "Let's see if I can do anything for your headache."
Von Lutzow sat up and Macurdy knelt behind him, putting a hand on each side of the spy's head, holding them there for long seconds, frowning slightly, then moved one to the forehead on the other opposite. After another ten seconds he asked, "How's that feel?"