by Phil Ward
Sergeant Major Mike “March or Die” Mikkalis called the formation to attention, “RIGHT FACE, FORWARD MARCH, EYES RIGHT . . .”
As the troops marched past the 575th PIR regimental sign, the men saw the word JUNGLE had been neatly X’d out by 9mm bullet holes.
Beautiful women, a trick-shooting colonel and not a single word from anyone about their military bearing—or lack thereof. The men of the 575th were beginning to get the impression that they were strangers in a strange land—or at least assigned to an outfit like no other.
And the troops did not even know about the upcoming combat jump yet.
Col. Randal and Lady Jane went inside the main building up to their third-floor suite. Lieutenant Mandy Paige was trailing along behind. She was trying to keep up and write down the instructions Col. Randal was dictating rapid-fire.
King was already at the security desk when they arrived.
“Major McCloud, Captain McKoy, Captain Jaxx and Captain Slater first,” Col. Randal said, as he and Lady Jane went past into the suite. “Hold Major Beauchamp until I call for him.”
“Roger that, Chief.”
Lady Jane disappeared into her bedroom. Lt. Mandy dashed off to locate the people Col. Randal wanted to report to him. The day had taken an unexpected turn. Nothing had gone as expected.
Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy was the first to arrive. King sent him straight in. He found Col. Randal standing in the small briefing area of the suite, studying the wall map.
“Jungle Rangers,” Capt. McKoy said. “What a hoot.”
“Pick out an isolated target,” Col. Randal said. “One you’ve already raided before. We’ll drop the Five-Seven-Five on it tonight.”
“Now that sounds like a plan, John,” Capt. McKoy said. “I’d say we ought to hit that place with the airstrip next to it we took down about six months back—Fort No. 9.”
“Good choice,” Col. Randal said, locating the position on the map with his finger.
“The Italians ain’t gonna put up much in the way of a fight,” Capt. McKoy said. “And more important, there’s no enemy in any sized force within two hundred miles to send out a rescue column.”
Major Travis McCloud, Capt. Jaxx and Capt. Slater arrived.
“Travis, do you remember the first patrol you went on with Raiding Forces?” Col. Randal asked.
“How could I forget, sir?” Maj. McCloud said. “Charging an enemy fort in a fully topped-off aviation fuel tanker with explosives wired to a pressure plate on the front bumper and the fuse lit on a landmine strapped to the back.”
“You and Duke were Airborne Tactics instructors,” Col. Randal said. “Now’s the chance to put your experience at the Infantry School to work and plan a drop for the Five-Seven-Five on that target—Fort No. 9, for tonight. Time is tight and we’re going to need a full Operations Order.”
Maj. McCloud looked startled.
“Jack,” Col. Randal said, “I need you to jump in with a Pathfinder team to mark the drop zone. Put together a team—select your men from the Five-Seven-Five. I want this to be an all-American operation as much as possible.”
“Yes, sir!”
“You’re letting that rabble make a combat jump, Colonel?” Maj. McCloud said. “First night off the boat—that’s totally crazy, sir.”
“Well, Travis,” Col. Randal said, sticking one of Waldo’s cigars between his front teeth. “That’s why we’re doing it.”
“Pam’s here, Chief,” King called from the door.
“Send her in,” Col. Randal said.
“Wilco.”
“Here’s the general idea,” Col. Randal said, wrapping up the meeting as the Vargas Girl-looking Royal Marine pilot walked in.
“Drop the regiment, take down the objective, followed by a fifty-mile forced march to a rendezvous with a convoy of Jack Merritt’s trucks.
“Questions?”
“We’ll have a lot of them, Colonel,” Maj. McCloud said. “Try to not to venture too far from RFHQ until we get this done, sir.”
“I’ll be in the area,” Col. Randal said. “Organize the Five-Seven-Five into two elements—a Support Element and Assault Element. Travis, you command the Assault Element.
“We’ll let Major Beauchamp command the Support Element. Captain McKoy, you’ll be attached to advise him—get with the major as soon as possible to provide him first-hand intelligence on the target.”
“Will do, John.”
“Duke, you take command of one of the assault units. I want Roy Kidd in charge of another. The concept of the operation is to let the Five-Seven-Five have a tune-up battle and get their initiation into combat over with—under the most experienced commanders we can field.
“At this point I don’t know any of the new officers, so use as few of ’em as possible for key tasks—but try to find a way to make it look like we’re not doing that.”
“Understood, sir,” Maj. McCloud said.
As they were leaving, Col. Randal pulled Maj. McCloud aside. “Travis, I’m thinking about putting you in command of the Five-Seven-Five after tonight—how’s that sound?”
“I would like that, sir—a lot.”
“Good,” Col. Randal said. “Don’t be surprised when we reorganize it. The battalion is of no use to us as it’s configured now.”
“Understood sir.”
After they departed, Lieutenant Pamala Plum-Martin said, “You wanted to see me, John?”
All along, the plan had been to have the 575th PIR make a demonstration jump in full sight of Cairo the afternoon of their arrival. There were three reasons: to show the new arrivals that in Raiding Forces they could be expected to do operations on short notice, to accomplish a training mission for the new United States Army Air Force (USAAF) 37th Airlift Squadron of C-47s recently arrived in Middle East Command, and to impress the denizens of Cairo and the attendant enemy agents in the city that a major U.S. Paratroop formation was now on scene.
“Pam,” Col. Randal said, “we’re going to cancel the demonstration jump. As you heard, instead we’re going to drop the Five-Seven-Five in this area here later tonight.”
Col. Randal pointed to the map with the tip of his cigar. “Will you notify Wing Commander Gordon about the change of mission?”
“The original plan was to give the C-47 troop transport pilots a training mission,” Lt. Plum-Martin said. “An actual combat drop—better yet. The U.S. Air Corps pilots will all get to brag they’re veterans.”
“Yes, they will,” Col. Randal said.
“I shall make the arrangements with Ronnie,” Lt. Plum-Martin said.
“One more thing,” Col. Randal said. “We’re violating the principle of reconnaissance. Do you think the Wing Commander could manage to have the RAF do a flyby—make sure Rommel hasn’t parked a Panzer Division at Fort No. 9?”
“Possibly he and I can fly it,” Lt. Plum-Martin said.
“I’ll let you off your mandatory stand down from flying a couple of days early,” Col. Randal said, “since you never paid attention to my orders anyway.
“You can drop Jack’s Pathfinder team tonight.”
“Thanks, John.”
“Tell Mandy to have Roy Kidd report to me,” Col. Randal ordered as she was leaving.
“Lieutenant Montgomery, Chief,” King said. “Major Beauchamp is here as well.”
“Send Karen in.”
Raiding Forces’ Chief Rigger walked in. She had been a civilian rigger at No. 1 Parachute School, then commissioned and transferred to Lady Jane’s Royal Marines on the day the Raiders graduated.
“Karen,” Col. Randal said, “we’ve canceled the training jump. In its place, the Five-Seven-Five will be making a combat drop tonight. That means instead of a Hollywood jump with no weapons or equipment, you’ll have to rig for combat.
“Any problem?
“Negative, John,” Lt. Montgomery said. “The Five-Seven-Five brought T-6 parachutes with them from Ft. Benning and they should have all their other gear as well. If not, t
he men can make the jump with weapons exposed the way Raiding Forces does.”
“Let’s do that anyway,” Col. Randal said. “Might as well get the Five-Seven-Five used to the way we operate right from the start.”
“U.S. Airborne doctrine,” Lt. Montgomery said, “calls for dropping heavy weapons like mortars and machine guns by door or wing bundles.”
“Drop the mortars in bundles,” Col. Randal said. “Machine gunners need to jump with their MGs on lowering lines.”
“Yes, sir,” Lt. Montgomery said.
She was very capable—the highest praise a serving member could receive in Raiding Forces.
“King,” Col. Randal called as Lt. Montgomery was leaving.
King stuck his head in the door.
“We need to assign someone to shadow Karen while she gets the Five-Seven-Five rigged,” Col. Randal said. “There aren’t any women riggers in the U.S. Army.
“Someone needs to keep an eye on her to make sure our new troopers comply with her instructions—no questions asked.”
“Allow me, Chief,” King said. “Flanigan can sit in here.”
“Good,” Col. Randal said. “Plan to jump with Jack’s Pathfinders or accompany me on the main drop as part of my command party—your call.”
“I can drop in with Jack,” King said, “then link up with you on the DZ.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Col. Randal said. “Keep your eyes open this afternoon, King. I want a comprehensive report on the Five-Seven-Five—in private.”
“My pleasure,” King said. “Lieutenant Kidd’s here.”
“Send him in.”
Lieutenant Roy Kidd came in, “Yes, sir?”
“Roy,” Col. Randal said, “you’re an American citizen serving in the Indian Army—how would you like to transfer to the U.S. Army?”
Lt. Kidd said, “Is that a possibility, sir?”
“Promotion to captain is part of the deal,” Col. Randal said, “if you do.”
“I’m in, Colonel.”
“OK,” Col. Randal said. “I’m going to use you with the Seven-Five-Seven as a company commander on a combat jump tonight—don’t be thinking you’re going to get a permanent slot after it’s over.
“You’re far and away too valuable as Scout Patrol Leader to have you running a company of paratroopers.”
“Understood, sir.”
“Report to Major McCloud,” Col. Randal said. “He’s planning the mission and commanding the assault element.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have Major Beauchamp come in on your way out.”
Maj. Beauchamp reported ramrod straight.
Col. Randal said, “Where you from, Major?’
“New Orleans, suh—ROTC at Louisiana State. I’m NG, Louisiana National Guard.”
“You’re a long way from Bourbon Street,” Col. Randal said. “Did you get your men settled in?”
“Yes, suh, those pyramidal tents down on the beach make excellent barracks,” Maj. Beauchamp said. “My men—or at least the ones from Panama—are used to heat. This is a drier climate. I think they’ll adapt reasonably well, Colonel.”
“Good—tell me about the Five-Seven-Five.”
“We formed in the Canal Zone before the war started, suh, with troops shipped in fresh out of Jump School at Ft. Benning,” Maj. Beauchamp said.
“The War Department was concerned the Panama Canal might be subject to attack—or at least sabotage. Originally the plan was to have a full regiment, but the army never got around to assigning the other two battalions—we’re what they call a ‘bastard outfit,’ suh.”
“Yeah,” Col. Randal said, “I can see that.”
“Then,” Maj. Beauchamp said, “we were alerted to jump on St. Martinique and turned over our security responsibilities to the 551 PIR.
“Not long after that, suh, the Five-Seven-Five was relieved from the St. Martinique mission and ordered to Ft. Benning for immediate overseas deployment to Egypt.
“We spent the majority of our time doing jungle training or patrolling the Canal, suh,” Maj. Beauchamp said, “then we switched to a crash course on fighting in built-up areas for the St. Martinique jump.
“Our CO was a West Point man and a fine training officer. He worked us hard, but they transferred him out when we arrived at Ft. Benning—bumped me up from S-3 to command.”
“How would you rate the regiment?” Col. Randal asked.
“I’d say the Five-Seven-Five was a pretty good outfit, suh, or it was before the ‘Airborne Mafia’ click at Benning assigned every jump-qualified misfit and malcontent, to include criminals, on the post to us before the regiment shipped out.”
“Here’s what’s about to happen,” Col. Randal said. “Major McCloud is going to assume command—you’ll be his XO, at least initially. Expect a complete unit reorganization—we don’t do things by the book in Raiding Forces.”
“That’s what I hear, suh,” Maj. Beauchamp said.
“Raiding Forces is a small-scale, pinprick Combined Operations outfit,” Col. Randal said.
“Most of our missions are classified. I’m not exactly sure how to work a parachute infantry battalion-sized element into our current plans. One thing is a given, the Five-Seven-Five has a lot of rigorous training ahead of it—followed by an even more intensive schedule of combat operations.”
“Yes, suh,” Maj. Beauchamp said with a glint in his eye. “We’re only a half battalion, so reorganizing shouldn’t take that long. These men are ready to get at the enemy, suh.”
“We have a set of rules which you’ll get to know by heart,” Col. Randal said. “One of them is ‘Right Man, Right Job.’ Our goal is to put round pegs into round holes—you’ll find there’s a lot of opportunities in Raiding Forces.
“Those troopers—to include officers—who don’t measure up are out, is that clear?”
“Perfectly, suh.”
As Maj. Beauchamp was leaving, King announced, “The general is here, Chief.”
Jim walked in. “That was ugly—a half-strength battalion of yardbirds.”
“You didn’t think the U.S. Army was going to send us a crack parachute regiment, did you, General?” Col. Randal said.
“Claimed they were,” Jim said. “One could always hope.”
“I’ve canceled the demonstration jump for this afternoon,” Col. Randal said. “We’ll drop on Fort No. 9 tonight instead—a little attention-getter for the Five-Seven-Five.”
“Now that,” Jim said, “is an excellent idea.”
Lady Jane came out of the bedroom after Jim had rushed off to call Col. Clarke to advise him to send over the camera crews. Kitting up for a combat jump being the absolute best material ever for what the A-Force commander desired, which was to enhance his deception that large-scale American ground forces were making their initial entry into Middle East Command.
And going straight into combat.
Lady Jane said, “I love the Five-Seven-Five—what a perfect little regiment.”
Some of the paratroopers had been so drunk during the walk-through inspection, their buddies had to prop them up.
21
SOBERING UP FAST
Colonel John Randal issued the first part of the Warning Order to the
assembled paratroopers of the Five-Seven-Five. The men were sitting in portable bleachers that Major the Lady Jane Seaborn had arranged to have delivered from one of the Cairo schools and set up inside the RFHQ compound.
The drinkers in the regiment were sobering up fast.
“Situation,” Col. Randal said. “You men are the first American ground combat forces to arrive in Middle East Command. This is an active theatre of operations. You have been alerted for a drop tonight at 2200 hours.
“Mission: Capture an Italian strongpoint known as Fort No. 9.
“Execution: You will be flown to the target in C-47 aircraft—drop on a DZ that will be marked by an advance party of Pathfinders. Attack and overrun the fort. Then, march overland to a pick-up point fifty
miles east of the objective, where you will be met by a convoy of trucks that will return you to Raiding Forces Headquarters—a desert journey that will take approximately six days, most of it behind enemy lines.”
There was absolute silence in the bleachers.
“Now,” Col. Randal said, “before Major McCloud comes out and briefs you on Command and Signal and Administration and Logistics, I have a couple of comments.
“You are about to make airborne history. First combat parachute jump by the U.S. Army in WWII—I’ll be leading the stick on the first C-47 over the DZ.
“Next, the 2nd Battalion is no more. Tonight you’ll be jumping under your new name.
“575th Rangers, Strategic Raiding Forces.”
• • •
As Major Travis McCloud briefed the rest of the Warning Order, Colonel
John Randal took Waldo Treywick around back behind the bleachers.
“Stand at attention, Mr. Treywick.”
The grizzled ex-ivory poacher, soldier-of-fortune, former slave, newly-minted millionaire and California land baron looked startled but did his best imitation of snapping to. However, Waldo forgot to take the custom-rolled cigar out of his mouth.
“In the U.S. Army,” Col. Randal said, reaching in his pocket, “Counterintelligence Corps officers, no matter what their rank, wear officer’s U.S. insignia on both lapels of their uniform blouse or on the collars of their shirts. That way, no one ever knows what they are. Could be a private—could be a general.”
Col. Randal pinned brass U.S. insignia to the lapels of Waldo’s tailor-made khaki bush jacket.
“Get the picture?”
“Which one am I?”
“Be anything you want to be,” Col. Randal said, handing Waldo a laminated U.S. Army military photo ID card prepared by the forger, Major Edward Twitterington, aka Twitters the Taster, of A-Forces Printing Section (Type X).
“These should keep you out of trouble now that America is in the war.
“On the other hand . . .”
• • •
Captain Billy Jack Jaxx came around behind the bleachers where he had seen Colonel John Randal and Waldo Treywick disappear.