by John Dalmas
Training continued, but they weren't there long. Long enough to learn that their objective was Sicily, and to be briefed on their units' missions, drilling them on sand tables. Remembering the confusion on the flight from Land's End to Algeria, Macurdy wondered how meaningful those drills were. And this drop would be at night.
There was a shortage of troop planes for the division. Thus it would have to be flown on consecutive days, the 505th jumping on the first day, along with one battalion of the 504th. The heavily loaded C47s would take three and a half hours to fly the 420-mile dogleg course, using the island of Malta as a checkpoint. Then they'd return to Kairouan and bring the rest of the 504th the next day.
The veteran 509th would remain in Tunisia as a reserve. Macurdy could guess how pissed off they'd be.
* * *
Appropriately it was Melody, his spear-maiden second wife, of whom Macurdy dreamed that last night in Africa. Daylight and shrilling whistles woke him, and the dream slipped away, leaving behind only that it had been of Melody. After an early breakfast, the 505th lined up to draw ammunition and field rations, along with atabrine pills to prevent malaria, pills to purify water, and antifatigue pills.
They were scheduled to take off at dusk; it would, Macurdy thought, be a long day of hurry up and wait.
The men sat and stood around until shortly after noon, when the shouted order, "Load on the trucks," echoed down the line from the battalion commander to the company commanders. The trucks took them to various small airfields in the vicinity, where they waited again, now in the shadows of their planes. Macurdy field-stripped his BAR—so far as he knew, he was the only platoon sergeant who carried one of the 18-pound automatic weapons—then checked and reassembled it, less from concern than for something to do. He did the same with his .45. One big thigh pocket bulged with fragmentation grenades, and the Fairbairn knife he'd traded for in England was on his belt; he preferred the double-edged British weapon to the GI trench knife with its brass knuckles. His folding stiletto was in its concealed inner pocket, available to cut himself free if his chute hung up, or slit a throat and escape if captured. There were bandoleers of magazines for the BAR, and a canvas bag with additional grenades. Along with boots, steel helmet, trenching tool, first-aid kit, musette bag, map case ... and of course his two chutes—main and reserve. He told himself wryly that with all of that, he'd weigh well over three hundred pounds, but there was none of it he'd willingly leave behind.
A mess truck rolled up to the company, with aproned men in back, and Macurdy got to his feet. "What the hell is that all about?" someone asked. "It's only half past four."
It was an early supper, suggesting they'd take off before too long. They got out their mess kits and lined up by squads, while a cook lowered the tailgate. It was far the best meal they'd eaten in Africa—roast turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy ... even ice cream.
"The Army's version of the Last Supper," someone quipped. It didn't get many laughs; a lot of men only picked at their food. Macurdy ate all of his; God only knew when they'd have time to eat again. He wondered what Mary would serve tonight. His mail hadn't followed him to the 505th; maybe it never would. But he'd written to Mary about his new outfit, so her future letters should find him. Thus far he hadn't gotten on the 505th payroll, either—that would probably take a legal transfer—but there'd be time enough to worry about that when he'd left Africa and the provost marshal behind.
After supper they lay around digesting as best they could, when a jeep rolled up, and Macurdy saw Captain Alden get out, one of the 509th's battalion surgeons. Briefly Alden spoke with Colonel Gavin, the regimental commander, then walked around among the troops, pausing to speak to some of the company officers. Macurdy felt concern. Had the 509th learned where he was? Was Alden looking for him? The officer came nearer, then recognized him and walked over, peering as if he couldn't believe it.
"Is that you, Macurdy? What the devil are you doing here? The last time I saw you—hell, it wasn't a month ago!—you were in the hospital with one of the goddamnedest sorriest-looking legs I'd want to see. Bigger than a melon! What are you doing in the 505th? Hell! How are you even walking?"
The comments from the 509th officer caused nearby heads to swivel.
Macurdy grinned, reassured: Doc wasn't there to pick him up. Of course not. It wasn't something they'd send a battalion surgeon to do, and if they did, Doc would carefully not see him.
"At the hospital," Macurdy answered, "they said I'd never be fit for combat again, so someone in base command transferred me to the MPs. But I'm the fastest healing sonofabitch in the army, so after about a week, a guy smuggled me a hacksaw blade to cut off the cast, and a guy in the next bed—from the 505th—got me in here."
Alden laughed, shaking his head. "You're not very strong on regulations, are you Macurdy? I won't tell your buddies till after you've taken off. They'll be jealous as hell." He gestured with his head at the C47 beside them. "That's why I'm here; thought I might get a seat in one of these gooney birds, and go alone, but your CO wouldn't have it." He reached, shook Macurdy's hand. "Fast healing? That took more than fast healing; it took a damn miracle." He paused, frowning, as it struck him how miraculous Macurdy's recovery really was; he'd seen the x-rays. "Well," he said, "good luck. I'll see you when we catch up to you."
"Uh, sir?"
"Yes, Macurdy?"
"Will you do me a favor? Get my mail forwarded to me, to B Company, 505th?"
"B Company, 505di. Sure." They shook on that too, then Alden left.
When he'd gone, one of Macurdy's troopers asked, "Who the hell was that, sarge? He's got medical insignia on his collar, a slung carbine, and a .45 on his belt. You don't see that combination very often."
"The limeys have had medics picked off by snipers, so Doc had his men take off their arm bands and carry guns."
Someone laughed. "Medics carrying guns? And he said you weren't too strong on regulations. Where'd he get that red beret? That sure as hell ain't regulation."
"General Browning gave it to him. The limey airborne general. I guess he likes guys a little crazy."
"What happened to your leg he talked about?"
"It got run over by a loaded truck. Looked worse than it was, though."
"Jesus! A fucking truck?! When was that? He said it wasn't a month ago, and you've been with us three weeks, I'll bet."
"I heal fast."
His men stared at him with new respect, a couple of them with awe. He removed his attention from them, and after a minute they returned to their thoughts. Macurdy had one of his own now: If his mail could catch up with him, might the provost marshal as well? Provost marshals had long arms.
* * *
The sun was nearly down when the word came to buckle their chutes. They'd put them on earlier, leaving them unbuckled. It won't be long now, Macurdy thought; so did 3,400 others.
It had been breezy all afternoon. Now it was downright windy, enough that the plane shuddered from it. If this were a training jump, he told himself, they'd have cancelled it hours ago. Thirty miles an hour, he guessed. The order came to load, and bent by the snug parachute harnesses, the troopers waddled to the ladders and hauled themselves aboard, to sit in two rows, facing each other. Shortly the engines started, the bird taking life. No one said a word. The abrupt engine acceleration of the final warm-up check made her quiver, then she calmed. After a couple of minutes, Macurdy heard and felt the power swell, and gradually the plane began to move, taxiing. Briefly it stood still again, then rolled into line. Plane after plane surged down the runway, taking off. His own began to roll, vibrating, accelerating, quivering. The tail rose, and they lifted. He looked around at the other troopers. Without exception their faces were serious.
Across from him, one of them spoke, more to himself than to anyone else. "Three and a half hours to drop time. I wonder what I'll be doing four hours from now?"
* * *
It would be a long three and a half hours. The plane bobbed and swayed i
n the wind, and a few men lost their turkey supper. "It's that damn ice cream," one of them said, drawing scattered laughs.
Macurdy was seated across from the door, an opening snarling in the slipstream. Through it he watched twilight thicken, become moonlit night. After a long time, he spotted a fleet in the moonlight. Not the assault fleet, he thought; probably supply ships. Nonetheless the sight troubled him. Their planned flight course was to keep them well clear of the fleets, so they wouldn't be fired on. Shit! he thought, I suppose we're lost, like we were on the way to Algeria. But surely the damned airplane jockeys must see them down there!
The ships were soon left behind, and the planes hadn't drawn their fire. Then there was nothing, until someone saw land ahead in the night. Minutes later, tracers rose past the plane, seeming to float upward almost lazily. White tracers; American and British were red. On this plane he was senior, and jump master, so he got up and waddled to the door. There were flashes as well as tracers, antiaircraft shells exploding, and he realized how thin were the aircraft's aluminum sides. He could feel the plane climb. Nearby, another exploded in a ball of orange flame; tracer hit a gas tank, he supposed.
Beside the door, the red light flashed on. Four minutes, supposedly. "Stand up!" Macurdy bellowed, and the men stood. "Hook up!" Each man snapped his static line hook onto the jump cable that ran the length of the troop compartment, tugging on it to make sure it was secure. Then they checked each other's chute packs.
"Stand in the door!" he shouted, then positioned himself with his toes over the edge, a hand on each side, and the line of men shuffled forward, nearly touching, guts churning. The plane rocked, bobbed, shook in the wind.
It should be losing altitude, not climbing, he thought, and the sound of the engines told him they were going too fast; the pilot was supposed to slow to one hundred miles an hour. Spooked by the flak, Macurdy decided. I hope to hell the sonofabitch remembers to raise the tail, or he'll kill half of us.
Next to the door, the green light flashed on. Too soon! Too soon! Macurdy thought as he launched himself. The prop blast flung him backward: The plane was going close to top speed, he realized, and felt brief anger. The men were going to be scattered all over hell.
His chute opened, the shock slamming him, then the gale swung him like a pendulum. If this is a thirty-mile wind, he told himself, we'll hit at thirty miles an hour horizontally and maybe twenty-five feet per second downward—plus or minus the pendulum speed. There'll be injuries tonight for damn sure. Miles away he could see the constant strobing of artillery, probably coastal guns and naval vessels. Hopefully the enemy was getting pounded.
At least the sky was clear. The terrain below was a wash of pale moonlight and dense shadow. It did not look difficult. When he hit, luck was with him: he was oscillating upward, forward, his risers didn't twist, and he got his chute collapsed almost at once. He hit the harness release, then lay listening for a moment, hearing nothing except the rumble of distant artillery: The planes had already passed beyond hearing.
Getting to his feet, he scanned around. About two hundred yards away was an aura, dimly visible—another trooper shedding his chute—and in another direction a second. The pilot had jumped them from well above the 600 feet specified; more like 1,500, he decided. It had taken far too long to get down, more than a minute. God only knew where the rest of his men were.
He shouted to bring them, then unlimbered his BAR and scanned around again, finding none of the landmarks he'd hoped for. All he knew for sure was, he was on mildly rolling upland. Somewhere in southern Sicily, he told himself wryly. Now he could see a third trooper hiking in his direction, and while waiting, considered what to do. If he was anywhere near where he should be, which he doubted, then the Ponte Corvo airfield should be southwest.
The first two men reached him, one of them limping a little, and together they waited for the third, who was approaching slowly, apparently also injured. While they waited, they heard machine gun fire, and Macurdy registered the direction. In the absence of anything to the contrary, they'd head there, along with any others they found. When the third trooper arrived, Macurdy asked how he was. "I hit like a load of bricks," he answered. "I think my fucking ankle's broke; something grates in there when I walk. Hurts like hell."
"You got your compass?"
The man felt for it. "Yup."
The machine gun fire repeated. "Good. Stay here. We'll head for the shooting; take an azimuth on it now, in case it quits. If you see any of the others, send them after us. If a machine gun or mortar crew shows up without their weapon, tell them to find the sonofabitch. Same with demolitions."
They left. Shortly the firing stopped, and it occurred to Macurdy that he hadn't heard any return fire, just the one heavy machine gun, its cyclic rate too fast to be American. After about ten minutes of walking, they came to a dirt road that ran roughly in the right direction. It had been graded, presumably by the military, and bore the light tread marks of what Macurdy guessed were tracked German weapons carriers. He angled off, paralleling it at about a hundred yards. Bordered by scattered small trees, it was easy to keep in sight.
In something like another mile he saw more trees ahead. When he reached them, he found they marked the rim of a shallow, sparsely wooded ravine, so he turned right, toward the road. When the road reached the rim, it turned sharply left, angling down the slope to ease the grade. Near it, the trees had been cut as if to clear a field of fire, and he could see a bridge below. Near its far end, the west end, were the overlapping auras of three men, who seemed to man a machine gun. The bridge was concrete, not what he'd expect on a country road in Sicily, where the word was the locals used only mules and horses. So then, built by the military. There'd no doubt be a low-profile, dug-in pillbox on the west side, probably on the rim, not visible at night from where he was.
The central question was, what should he do about the bridge? Destroy it—assuming someone came up with explosives—so the enemy couldn't use it? Or prevent it from being blown, so that seaborne forces could use it? All the briefing in the world didn't help when the goddamned airplane jockeys dropped you in the wrong county.
"Anderson," he murmured, "you're in charge. Take cover here where you can watch the road. More guys should be coming. I'm going to check the bridge for explosives; I'll be back before long. If any krauts or eye-ties come along, lay low and let them pass."
With that he left, the other two following him with their eyes. When he reached the first trees, he disappeared, seemingly swallowed by shadow.
* * *
Cloaked, Macurdy worked his way down the side of the ravine as quietly as possible. The bottom was sand, with occasional large rocks too heavy to be carried away by the torrents of the rainy season. A man sat dozing at the base of a bridge piling. His uniform was Italian, and a submachine gun lay across his lap. He smelled of wine. Carefully Macurdy lifted the man's gun, sprinkled dirt in the action and barrel, then laid it down beside him.
The bridge had been mined, the caps wired for electrical detonation; obviously the Italians would rather blow the bridge than let the invaders take it, but wanted it available as long as it was in their hands. After removing the wires, he drew his trench knife and cut them far too short to be reattached. Then he buried the caps in sand—he hated the touchy damned things—and moved back down the ravine again before climbing out.
As he climbed, heavy machine gun fire began again, one gun, then another, not from the bridge, but from the rim above the ravine, repeating sporadically as if at scattered targets briefly glimpsed. From where they were, the gunners could no doubt see the road approaching the ravine from either direction; probably they'd spotted more troopers coming. He speeded up. Now he heard the hammering of an American machine gun; obviously more guys had arrived, hopefully quite a few of them. Almost at once there was more enemy machine gun fire. German, he thought. They favored the 7.62, its high cyclic rate unmistakable.
Back on top he found quite a few more troopers, but they
were pinned down, less by the pillbox across the ravine than by two armored half-tracks with the German military cross, black edged with white. Remaining invisible, he slunk along just below the rim, counting men and assessing the situation. The troopers were under the command of an officer now, and still invisible, Macurdy approached him from behind, then dropped his cloak. "Lieutenant," he said. The man started in surprise.
He didn't know Macurdy, but he did know the bridge. His company's mission was to take and hold it. Unfortunately he had no idea where most of the company was, except that a plane carrying fifteen of his platoon had been shot down. With only a dozen of his own men, some with landing injuries, he was glad to have Macurdy's troopers, most of whom had shown up.
Just now it was a standoff, he said. Some of the troopers had grenade launchers for their M1s, though the supply of grenades was limited, and when a trooper had launched one almost into the rear of a half-track, the Germans had backed away. They seemed satisfied to pin the Americans down, as if expecting reinforcements. He'd send men to take out the machine gun at the bridge, which so far hadn't fired on his positions, though the pillboxes—there seemed to be two of them—had fired sporadically at them. Italians, he thought. Germans would be more wholehearted about it.