He pointed at the third suitcase and said, “Same in there?”
“Exactly.”
“You tested them?”
John Craig nodded. “Touch them.”
Canidy did.
“They’re still warm,” he said.
“They just came down from the commo room.”
Canidy made a satisfied face, then put the false bottom back in place.
He turned his attention to what was in front of the suitcase.
“Everything we take is going to fit in two suitcases. Got it?”
John Craig didn’t look convinced.
Canidy reached down and grabbed four pairs of pants and four shirts, then tossed them in the nearby corner.
“What?” John Craig said.
Canidy looked over his shoulder and said, “Were you planning on visiting—or moving to Sicily?”
Then Canidy did the same with the four T-shirts, four pairs of socks, the handkerchiefs, and one of the towels. Finally, he threw out the sleeping bag and gas mask and mess kit.
Canidy then walked over and scanned the items on the shelving. He took a quick inventory and then pulled four cartons of Camel unfiltered cigarettes from one section. He tossed two cartons in each of the suitcases that had a W/T.
“I didn’t think you smoked cigarettes,” John Craig said, visibly surprised.
“I don’t. Those are for what’s known as bribery. They’re worth their weight in gold in most places.”
Canidy looked back to the shelving and pulled more packages off and tossed them in the suitcase.
“Women’s hosiery?” John Craig said.
“Even better than gold. Especially if you’re interested in getting laid.”
John Craig looked as if he might blush.
Canidy then went to the cases of Haig & Haig and pulled out two bottles.
He carried them over to the musette bag.
“Wrap these bottles in those towels of yours—and anything else that will protect them—and put them in this bag. Do not pack them in a suitcase. As much as I’d hate to have a bottle break when we jump, I’d hate even more for the scotch to ruin the radios.”
“Got it,” John Craig said, and noted that on his list.
Canidy pointed to a stack of wooden crates.
“That’s C-2 plastic explosive,” he said, then added mock-seriously: “Unlike your boxer shorts—which may well be explosive—you can never have enough C-2. That’s taught in my throat-cutting and sabotage school; I’m deeply disappointed that you failed to absorb such a critical point.”
John Craig avoided eye contact as he wrote “C-2” on his list.
Canidy said: “Grab two crates, plus primers and det cord.”
John Craig noted that.
Canidy then put his hands on his hips and surveyed his work.
“All right. That and a few other items I have should be all we need.”
Starting with Q-pills for all. . . .
* * *
Canidy turned away from the gear at the bulkhead and glanced around the darkened C-47 interior.
Now, where the hell is John Craig?
He started aft, careful of any other obstacles as he went. Halfway down, he began to make out the vague shape of the Browning machine gun by the trooper door—and then the human form behind it.
What is he doing?
As Canidy reached the rear of the aircraft and inhaled, there was no question what John Craig van der Ploeg was doing.
Oh, Christ! he thought, getting an even stronger whiff of the vomitus that almost triggered a sympathetic gag. That’s what. He’s airsick!
The closer Canidy stepped to van der Ploeg, the stronger the foul acrid odor became.
And the stupid bastard is sitting in the worst place.
Please don’t tell me he tried to hurl out the door.
Canidy got a better look at him, and around him. John Craig was sitting next to a dozen olive drab ammo cans stenciled with 200 CARTRIDGES .30 CALIBER M-1919 in yellow. He was leaning against the aft bulkhead, his eyes closed and his head drooped toward the open door. The recent contents of his stomach were widespread.
He did try to hurl out the door—and the slipstream fed it right back to him.
“Hey!” Canidy said over the roar. “You okay?”
John Craig’s eyes cracked open.
“I’ve been better.”
Kauffman’s going to love this but . . .
“Come sit up at the forward bulkhead. Back here in the tail is where you feel the most motion.”
“I’m okay here. I need to see out.”
“But I don’t want you fucking falling out!”
John Craig then held up a static line. Canidy saw that one end was tied to his waist and the other was hooked into the deck rail that held the machine gun. He also saw that there was virtually no slack in it.
Well, he won’t be slipping out the door.
“You know how to use the Browning?”
Canidy saw John Craig’s mop of hair bob, indicating that he had nodded. He also thought he saw some chunks of vomitus fall out.
“We don’t want to attract any attention up here. There will be one helluva lot of muzzle flash, even with that suppressor. So do not—repeat do not—engage unless we are fired on first. Is that clear?”
The mop of hair bobbed again.
Canidy added: “It’s critical to the mission we stay invisible. Got it?”
More bobbing.
“All right, then. Can I get you anything?”
He held up his canteen and said, “I’ll survive.”
I’m not so sure about that. . . .
“Hang in there, Apollo. Work on being the god of healing. I’ll check back in a bit.”
John Craig didn’t say anything. He just let his head drop back to the bulkhead. Canidy saw him close his eyes.
What a way to start . . .
What the hell could possibly happen next?
[THREE]
German Trade Ministry
Messina, Sicily
1010 30 May 1943
Oberleutnant zur See Ludwig Fahr removed his suit coat, put it on a hanger, then hung that on the hook behind his office door, taking care not to damage the small white rose pinned to the lapel.
Fahr’s modest office, on the second floor of the ministry building, held little more than an old wooden desk, a pair of wooden armchairs before it, and another wooden chair, this one on metal rollers, behind it. His window overlooked the Port of Messina where the ferryboats arrived adjacent to the commercial fishing dockage.
He went behind the desk and took his chair. Only two of the chair’s four wheels actually rolled, and it made a grinding sound as he pulled it closer to the desk and turned to use the typewriter.
On the desk next to his portable Olivetti typewriter was a pair of Kriegsmarine-issued high-powered Zeiss binoculars. He had taken them off the submarine after he had reluctantly agreed to give up his command of U-613. Fahr now used the fine optics to keep watch on activities in the port—especially the pretty young Italian women as they disembarked the ferryboats. If he liked the looks of one enough—and usually there were two or more candidates—he could run down and intercept them, offering coffee or, if the hour was right, something stronger.
Fahr had to admit that he missed commanding the submarine and his men and a life at sea. Those feelings flooded back every time a U-boot called on the Port of Messina, which was every week now.
But he also had to admit that this wasn’t exactly a bad life, either. And, besides, he knew there was no going back. When Admiral Canaris had come to him a year ago and explained that the war was changing and that Fahr had more important things to do for the Fatherland, starting with again working under Canaris, Fahr knew that that was exactly what he would do.
Canaris was the kind of leader one followed without question.
Ludwig Fahr rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, tapped his fingertips together as he glanced out at the harbor and composed his
thoughts, then began typing:
* * *
HIGHEST SECRECY
TO—
BRIGADEGENERAL HANS OSTER, DEPUTY DIRECTOR
ABWEHR HEADQUARTERS, BERLIN
FROM—
HERR ERNST BECK, DIRECTOR
GERMAN TRADE MINISTRY, SICILY
1125 HOURS
1943-05-30
BEGIN MESSAGE
AS PER YOUR DIRECTION, URGENT MESSAGE FROM FATHER TO SON WAS DELIVERED THIS DATE AT 0800 HOURS.
I PERSONALLY WATCHED HIM READ MESSAGE.
THERE IS NO QUESTION (A) THAT THE MESSAGE WAS IN FACT BELIEVED TO BE FROM THE FATHER AND (B) THAT THE DETAILS OF THE MESSAGE ITSELF WERE BELIEVED TO BE GENUINE.
ADDITIONALLY, THERE DID NOT APPEAR TO BE ANY REAL SURPRISE -- SUCH AS ANGER OR DENIAL -- ABOUT THE GRAVITY OF WHAT THE FATHER WROTE.
THE REASON FOR THAT, I THINK, IS THAT IN THE COURSE OF OUR CONVERSATION IT BECAME CLEAR THAT THE SON ALREADY BELIEVED AS THE FATHER DOES.
FINALLY, SON UNDERSTANDS THAT THIS CHANNEL IS NOW OPEN AND AWAITS FURTHER WORD.
STANDING BY.
BECK
END MESSAGE
HIGHEST SECRECY
* * *
Oberleutnant zur See Ludwig Fahr tugged the sheet of paper from the typewriter, read over what he had typed, penciled two corrections, then noisily slid his chair back.
He stood, and took a long look at the harbor and then the sea. Out in the strait, he saw that a sleek Kriegsmarine Schnellboot—literally “fast boat”—was reducing its speed between the outer channel markers, making an approach to enter the mouth of the port. He grinned appreciatively.
What beautiful lines she has!
Fahr, having briefly commanded one before moving to U-boats, was quite familiar with the fast-attack S-boats. Built in slightly different designs, they all were about one hundred feet long with wooden hulls and massive engines—one variant packed triple two-thousand-horsepower Daimler-Benz diesels—and were capable of hitting more than forty knots.
S-boats were heavily armed with 4cm Bofors, four-barrel 2cm flaks, and 53.3cm torpedoes. To deliver the torpedoes on target, it would wait in the dark to ambush a submarine or ship, then strike quickly. Then it would run, as it carried only the fish in its tubes. The weight of additional torpedoes would slow the boat’s fast attack—and faster departure.
Fahr looked beyond the S-boat and saw an unarmed, unattractive bulky barge-shaped vessel—and grinned even more broadly.
A ferryboat was following the S-boat into port.
If I hurry, I can have this sent and be back here in time to watch the ferry unload!
He quickly walked out of his office and marched the message up to the radio room on the top floor.
[FOUR]
Latitude 37 Degrees 81 Seconds North
Longitude 10 Degrees 96 Seconds East
Over the Mediterranean Sea, West of Sicily
2010 30 May 1943
A loud noise suddenly shook Dick Canidy out of a deep sleep, and he slowly realized that it had been his own snoring that had awakened him. He quickly scanned around him and in the glow of the instrument panel lights saw that he was strapped in the copilot seat and that Hank Darmstadter still had the left seat.
Canidy turned back the left sleeve of his black coverall to check his Hamilton wristwatch. According to the chronometer, they had right at two hours behind them.
So, another hour plus or minus . . .
He sniffed, then cleared his throat.
He thought he could still smell vomitus but figured that had to be a product of his imagination.
Wonder how John Craig is doing back there.
With any luck, he’s slept the entire time.
Canidy then thought he saw that Darmstadter had glanced his way. That was confirmed when he heard Hank’s voice in his headset.
“You might want to give it a little longer, Dick.”
“Give what?” he said, yawning.
“That beauty sleep of yours didn’t take.”
Canidy balled his fist and raised his index finger in Darmstadter’s direction.
Canidy then said: “Anything exciting happen while I was out?”
“Nothing since you came back and filled the flight deck with that delightful barf odor.”
“I thought that was my imagination. Sorry.”
“How do you think he’s doing back there?”
“I was just wondering that myself. With any luck, he’s been passed out the whole time.”
Darmstadter then pointed out the windscreen at about three o’clock.
“Pantelleria is about sixty miles that way,” he said. “I’m sure we’ve been picked up on the Freya RDF, but maybe the Krauts won’t bother with just one blip way out here. If we don’t get any action from Pantelleria, it’ll likely come at Sicily.”
When Canidy had studied the photo-reconnaissance images of Sicily—taken from thirty thousand feet by USAAF P-38 Lightnings with the belly painted sky blue—he’d also viewed the images of Pantelleria.
While the photos had shown no massing of troops or matériel on Sicily—which could have meant that there were none . . . or none yet . . . or that they were being very well concealed—the photos did show that Pantelleria, a solid forty-two-square-mile rock in the middle of the Strait of Sicily, was heavily fortified.
Ringing the island were at least fifty easily recognized concrete gun emplacements, some seventy-plus Italian and German fighters and bombers at Marghana Airfield, and U-boats and S-boats almost daily calling at the two ports. The recon images also pinpointed the distinctive tall antennae of the Freya radio direction finder stations.
There was no argument among the AFHQ brass that Pantelleria in Axis hands would cause serious problems with the invasion of Sicily and, conversely, that Pantelleria in Allied hands would be a great asset for staging fighter aircraft to provide close air support during OPERATION HUSKY. Thus, Eisenhower laid on OPERATION CORKSCREW, with its secondary purpose being to gauge the amount of high explosive needed to pound the enemy into submission. Knowing how much HE it took there would help them prepare enough HE for Sicily. The first attack by air had occurred on May 18.
The heavy round-the-clock bombing of Pantelleria begins “next Wednesday,” Canidy thought, recalling John Craig van der Ploeg’s announcement. Major General Jimmy Doolittle’s Northwest African Strategic Air Forces would begin sending more than a thousand bombers each day.
Over the intercom, Canidy said, “Maybe we should have waited a week. Then they really will be too busy to worry about us.”
“Yeah,” Darmstadter said with a chuckle, “but damage is done. All we can do is hope they can’t find us up here.”
Canidy scanned the night sky but saw only the sea of stars above and, below, the stars reflecting on the sea itself.
A few minutes later, Darmstadter’s voice was back.
“We’re about an hour out from Marsala. I’ll get back down on the deck when we’re twenty miles out. Then, crossing the coast, I’ll pop up to seven hundred AGL for putting you in the DZ. After you guys jump, I’ll continue eastward, making three or four turns to throw off anyone who might figure out we were over your LZ. And on the way out, I’ll pass over Palermo while Kauffman scatters those psy-op leaflets. Then we head home. Sound good?”
He glanced at Canidy and saw that he was giving him a thumbs-up.
We should be fine, Canidy thought. Their ack-ack couldn’t hit shit over Tunisa, and judging by the aerial recon photos of Sicily, the Krauts haven’t even put in any antiaircraft defenses yet.
And all the Me-109s and FW-190s were at the Messina airfield. None at Palermo.
Of course, there’s always the possibility that that all could have changed an hour ago. . . .
Darmstadter finished: “With any luck, no one will ever know we were here. And if they do see us coming in low, they’ll think I’m an idiot who had trouble finding Palermo just to drop a bunch of flyers.”
The OSS Morale Oper
ations Branch produced psychological warfare—everything from radio broadcasts to leaflets designed to cast doubt—and despair and worse—that the Axis did not have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning the war.
Back at Dellys, Canidy had seen Kauffman loading boxes of the “psy-op” matériel on the aircraft. It had come from a print shop in Algiers that Stanley Fine had taken over.
“You gotta see what they’re coming up with,” Kauffman had said to him, cracking open a few boxes and pulling out samples. “It’s great stuff.”
The first eight-by-ten sheet Kauffman handed him showed a sketch of a wooden cross with a German helmet on top and the single word: You?
The next one had a sketch of a leering Nazi SS storm trooper with his boots on the throats of a young man and woman holding Sicilian flags. In Italian were the words: How Much Longer?
Another simply read: Why Die for Hitler?
“And here’s the best,” Kauffman said, handing Canidy a stack of very thin paper squares that he realized was meant to be toilet paper. Each sheet was imprinted in German with: “Let’s stop this shit, Comrades! We do not fight for Germany—but only for Hitler and Himmler. The Nazi Leaders lied to us, and now they are saving their own skin. They send us to die in the mud, saying hold out until our last bullet. But we need our last bullets to free Germany from this SS shit! Enough! Peace!”
Canidy asked Darmstadter, “Did you get a look at those leaflets?”
“Yeah, they’re pretty good—” He suddenly pointed out the windscreen, above them at ten o’clock. “Shit!”
Canidy quickly leaned over and looked past Darmstadter.
He saw that they were closing in on an airplane.
Exhaust glow! Multi-engine.
That’s one big sonofabitch . . . a transport?
And we almost ran right up its ass—
No! We’re about to!
“It’s fucking descending on us!” Darmstadter announced, and automatically began an evasive maneuver, pulling back on the throttles as he banked the aircraft to the right.
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 17