by Phil Ward
In the future, Col. Randal planned to have the Five-Seven-Five jump British X-type chutes with quick release and U.S. reserves. Lady Jane already had it on her “To Do” list to obtain the chutes, which was not going to be easy, there being a severe shortage of British parachutes.
Jim gave him a quick jumpmaster inspection.
From the Pathfinder C-47 came a loud engine backfire that sounded like a pistol shot, followed by a high-pitched wheezing as a propeller slowly turned over and started rotating. Then the Dakota’s engine broke into a full-throated roar—rough-sounding, like a Harley Davidson motorcycle.
The second engine popped, started wheezing, slowly turned over and then both engines were purring, smooth as silk, sounding powerful—straining at the leash, ready to get going.
Lt. Plum-Martin wasted no time. She sent the C-47 hurtling straight down the strip and lifted off into the night. The mission was on.
Tension on the departure airfield was at the boiling point.
Lady Jane, Lt. Mandy and the Clipper Girls arrived at Col. Randal’s aircraft about the same time as Brandy and Captain Penelope “Legs” Honeycutt-Parker drove up in another jeep.
The men of the Five-Seven-Five—those who volunteered to be in the regiment in Panama and those who had been shanghaied at Ft. Benning—could not help noticing that Raiding Forces personnel, men and women, had gone to the trouble to turn out en masse on their own time to assist with the marshaling preparations and to see them off on their mission.
This was a military organization that looked out for its own.
• • •
The red light came on ten minutes out. Colonel John Randal made his way to the front of the C-47 to take a look out the windscreen. The 37th Airlift Squadron’s CO, Lieutenant Colonel Randolph Johnson, was flying the plane. He had the best navigator in the squadron in his crew tonight.
Up ahead through the star-filled sky, nothing at all could be seen at this point. The Dakota was hurtling through space. Col. Randal had hoped to see some sign of the railroad flares the Pathfinder team would be putting out on the DZ—no joy.
“Six minutes in thirty seconds,” Lt. Col. Johnson said over his shoulder, alerting Col. Randal that he was going to have to get back to the rear of the plane and start his sequence of jump commands. “Happy landing, sir. Don’t worry, I’m going to drop you on target, on time—right on the money.”
“I’ll stand the first round at the Long Bar if you do,” Col. Randal said.
He made his way down the aisle between the two rows of paratroopers in the back. The Air Corps loadmaster had the door open and the wind was howling. When Col. Randal reached the back, he turned and faced the seated jumpers, stuck both palms out and shouted, “SIX MINUTES!”
Then he braced both of his canvas-topped raiding boots against each side of the open door, reached up and with his fingertips, grasped the channel that ran around the door and arched his body outside the Dakota. Up ahead, he still could not see anything at this point. However, off to the side to the rear, tucked in tight formation, was the second C-47 in the two-ship serial.
Major Travis McCloud was on board that airplane and Col. Randal knew he would be going through the same sequence of jumpmaster tasks. Six more serials of two Dakotas each were flying behind and would be arriving over the DZ in one minute intervals—the 575th Rangers would all be put out in seven minutes.
The classic airborne carpet.
The conditions for the jump were near-perfect. A lot can go wrong with weather in the desert. Tonight, for a change, there were no sudden cloudbursts, the winds were not excessive, and there was no sign of the dust storms that can spring up at a moment’s notice. Still, Col. Randal would have felt a lot better if he could see the burning arrowhead Jack Cool was going to mark the DZ with.
“STAND UP AND HOOK UP!”
The jumpers struggled to their feet. The men unhooked the snap links from the canvas carrying handle on their reserve parachute on their chest. The yellow static line was strung over their right shoulders. They attached it to the steel cable running down the length of the roof of the C-47 and jerked down, locking it. Then came the tricky part—inserting the safety wire dangling on the string into the tiny hole at the base of the snap link. Once that was accomplished, the wire was bent down with the trigger finger—all done while trying to maintain balance in a swaying airplane.
“CHECK STATIC LINE!”
The rasping sound of metal on metal filled the compartment as the paratroopers vigorously rattled their snap links back and forth on the steel cable.
“CHECK YOUR EQUIPMENT!”
While the men checked their equipment, Col. Randal went back to the door and arched outside again to take a quick look down the length of the fuselage of the C-47 toward the DZ, hoping to see the burning arrow. Nothing.
Col. Randal was beginning to have second thoughts about this mission. This was the largest airborne operation he had ever been involved in. He did not know the troops he commanded—they didn’t know him. The Five-Seven-Five had never heard a shot fired in anger.
And for all Col. Randal could tell, right now they were getting ready to drop into the middle of nowhere. The 37th Airlift Squadron was the first USAAF troop carrier unit in Egypt, they had never conducted a parachute operation before and they had virtually no experience with desert flying at night. There was no guarantee the squadron could even find Fort No. 9.
What could possibly go wrong?
“SOUND OFF FOR EQUIPMENT CHECK!”
“OK! OK! OK! . . .”
Col. Randal went back to the door and arched outside. He spotted a glimmer on the ground up ahead. Capt. Jaxx was on the DZ. It was marked.
Relief swept over him as Col. Randal swung back inside. He glanced at his Rolex.
“ONE MINUTE!”
Tension in the aircraft shot up to pressure cooker level. The troops wanted to go. The Rangers started rattling their static lines back and forth.
Col. Randal went back to the door, arched out to make a final check and could see the shape of an arrow of red burning railroad flares. There was no sign of tracers, which would indicate fighting on the ground.
“CLOSE ON THE DOOR!”
The stick shuffled forward, doing the “Airborne Shuffle,” never picking up their boots to eliminate the possibility of tripping.
Col. Randal swung into position in the door, advanced his right boot until half of it was in space, knees bent, reached out and slapped his palms flat down on the outside skin of the aircraft. He could feel the rivets.
When the burning arrow was off the edge of the toe of his unpolished raiding boot, he leaned his head back inside the aircraft and shouted, “Let’s go!”
Then he launched out the door in a tight body tuck—head down, hands on the ends of his reserve parachute, elbows in tight against his sides, feet and knees together. The prop blast from the C-47 tumbled him over and over. Behind him the static line was deploying his parachute.
Tonight they were jumping at one thousand feet—twice as high as a normal combat jump to reduce the possibility of jump injuries. When Col. Randal’s parachute cracked open, he looked down between his boots and saw he was coming straight down, right on the tip of the burning arrow—not drifting at all.
A pair of faces on the ground were looking up at him. Col. Randal took up the prepare-to-land position, rocking his knees to make sure they were not locked, boots touching, elbows in, and put his chin on his chest and mentally geared up for his PLF. He could have made a stand-up landing, but since those were prohibited for a reason, he went limp.
Captain Billy Jack Jaxx and King grabbed him before he could make his parachute landing fall—so it was a “sort-of” stand-up landing.
Parachutes were drifting down silently on the DZ. The second serial was overhead, and jumpers were spilling out. The 575th Rangers were executing a textbook combat parachute jump far in the enemy’s rear.
Major Everard Beauchamp arrived at the assembly point with Captain
“Geronimo” Joe McKoy and Waldo.
Capt. McKoy said, “Ain’t this really somethin’?”
22
SMOKE ’EM
The second serial came overhead and began to discharge its load of Rangers.
Major Travis McCloud arrived at the assembly point with his command party. Captain Roy Kidd came by with part of A Company and immediately set off to his ORP—the rest of his men had orders to follow as soon as they landed. Parachutes were descending all around.
Colonel John Randal found himself on the ground, behind enemy lines in close proximity to the objective, armed to the teeth, but without a job. At this point, he was a mere spectator. He did not like the feeling one bit, although it was quite an adrenalin rush to be observing this operation unfold all around him.
Everyone had their orders and they were rushing by, intent on carrying them out. So far, not a shot had been fired. It was unclear if the Italians in Fort No. 9 actually realized there were parachutists on the ground—they might have believed the airplanes were a flight of bombers en route to bomb Tripoli.
Or, the Blackshirts may have been paralyzed with fear—maybe they had already decamped over the back wall like the last time Raiding Forces had paid a call.
Major Everard Beauchamp was supervising the recovery of the wing-dropped bundles containing the four 81mm mortars. The Louisiana National Guard officer appeared very unruffled for being on his first combat operation a long way behind enemy lines.
With no winds of any substance to scatter the bundles, he had his battery in place and firing on Fort No. 9 in record time. Shortly after, the first mortar round went down the tube. The battery of eight M1919 .30 caliber Browning Light machine guns (LMGs) was engaging the fort as soon as they could be set up.
The firing intensified as additional LMGs engaged.
Although Maj. Beauchamp had his men in action quickly and the mortar men of the Five-Seven-Five were performing with the precision of a Swiss watch—being highly trained in the drill—unfortunately, the peacetime army did not have the luxury of much actual live firing. The 81s were not hitting a lot, but they were creating fear and despondency on the objective.
The eight .30 caliber Browning LMGs, once they found the range, were hammering the mud walls of Fort No. 9. The problem was, the walls were about two feet thick. So while the eight guns—firing approximately six hundred rounds per minute each—were splattering the building with a hailstorm of steel-jacketed rounds, they were not causing much damage.
Parachutes were still coming down as the final serial thundered overhead. As the jumpers landed, they struggled out of their harnesses, dropped their chutes where they lay and dashed off on a dead run for their Objective Rally Point.
At the ORP, Maj. McCloud had his Assault element under tight control. The Rangers had strict orders not to begin firing until given the command. He wanted to assemble as many of his men as possible prior to launching the attack on the fort. The idea was to deliver a heavy dose of concentrated fire by B and C Companies acting in support of A Company’s attack.
With covering fire, it is not necessary to inflict casualties, although it’s good if you do. The purpose of the exercise is to make the bad guys keep their heads down and not shoot back as the assault goes in.
To that end, it doesn’t hurt to have the attacking element screaming and yelling like wild men when they attack, with the bayonet touching off a round every time their left foot hits the ground—carrying out walking fire.
Maj. McCloud’s intent was to obtain the maximum element of shock in order to enhance the element of surprise. He was hoping the Italians were not aware he had enfiladed Fort No. 9. Having taught Airborne Tactics at the Infantry School, Maj. McCloud knew exactly what he was doing tonight and why he was doing it.
Col. Randal decided to walk over and have a word with Maj. Beauchamp. He found him in the thick of things at the mortar battery, which was firing to beat the band. The mortarmen were really laying it down.
“Major,” Col. Randal said, “I want you to start displacing your LMGs two at a time to Major McCloud—he can use them to support his attack and they’ll be useless here once the signal goes up to shift your fires.”
“Roger, suh.”
“Also,” Col. Randal ordered, “change of plans. When the time comes to shift your mortar fires, start breaking down three of your 81s. We’ll be loading them on captured trucks when the Five-Seven-Five pulls out.
“Keep one 81 firing on the fort—illumination rounds only, no HE. Clear?”
“Yes, suh.”
Col. Randal did not want to mention he was concerned the mortar crew might accidently drop a short round on A Company when it went in for the attack.
A Ranger ran up and saluted. “Sir, Private Komansky reports.”
“Well,” Col. Randal said, returning the salute. “Go ahead, Komansky—report.”
“Captain Jaxx sends his compliments—the hangars are secure, sir.”
“Very good.”
“Jack Cool . . . I mean Captain Jaxx said to tell you there’s an Italian plane parked in one of the hangars, sir,” Pvt. Komansky said. “He believes it’s like one your blond pilot Lieutenant Plum-what’s-her-name has, sir.”
“Inform Captain Jaxx,” Col. Randal said, “I’ll be there in zero-five.”
“Yes, sir!”
Col. Randal turned to Maj. Beauchamp, who was snapping out orders to everyone in sight, rapid-fire. “Is there anyone in the Five-Seven-Five with a private pilot’s license?”
“I have one, suh,” Maj. Beauchamp said. “Our S-4, Captain Reacher, does as well.”
“Reacher any good?”
“Oh, yes,” Maj. Beauchamp said. “Wealthy family—father owns the plane, a twin engine Beechcraft I believe, suh. Had a pilot’s license since he was fifteen.”
“Have Captain Reacher report to me at the hangars,” Col. Randal ordered. “Whatever you have him doing, find someone else to take over.”
“Mackalroy,” Maj. Beauchamp ordered one of his paratroopers, “locate Captain Reacher; have him report here immediately.”
“Sir!”
“King,” Col. Randal asked, “who’s the best AVG navigator along tonight?”
“Pettigrew, Chief.”
“Get him—meet me at the hangars.”
“On the way.”
Col. Randal and Jim walked to the hangars, where they found that Capt. Jaxx had the I&R platoon setting up a perimeter. Captain “Geronimo” Joe McKoy and Waldo were inspecting the trucks—a Chevrolet, a Ford and a Bedford—all captured from the British and reflagged with Italian colors. Now they had been captured back.
Lt. Coogan was working on the fuel tanker.
“There was no one home when we arrived, sir,” Capt. Jaxx reported. “Thought you might like to see the airplane we found.”
They walked into one of the hangars and turned on their hook-nosed flashlights. The little green plane was an IMAM Ro.63. The same type Raiding Forces had captured and pressed into service.
Jim said, “I can fly it out of here. No sense letting this Ro.63 go to waste.”
“There’s a Captain Reacher on the way to be your co-pilot,” Col. Randal said. “King’s rounding up Pettigrew to navigate—I’d fly to Oasis X.”
“Good idea,” Jim said. “I shall start my preflight, and we can be airborne straightaway. This is a great capture, Colonel.”
“We’re just about up, sir,” Capt. Jaxx said. “I’ve arranged with Maj. McCloud to shift his fires on my signal—a pair of red flares.”
“Move out when ready,” Col. Randal said.
King arrived with Cpl. Pettigrew at about the same time a tall captain from the Five-Seven-Five walked inside the hangar—Capt. Reacher. Jim and the captain began looking over the IMAM Ro.63.
Jim ordered, “Pettigrew, plot a course to Oasis X. We are taking off in three minutes.”
“Yes, sir!”
Capt. Jaxx and Lt. Coogan climbed on board the ten-ton fuel tanker. With Ja
ck Cool at the wheel, they slowly rolled out.
As they came by, Col. Randal said, “Light ’em up, Jack.”
Capt. Jaxx shouted, “Dick set charges on the bomb dump out back of the hangars, sir—a one-hour time fuse. There’s about forty-five minutes left on the burn.”
“Glad you mentioned it,” Col. Randal said, as the ten-ton tanker truck picked up speed.
“Me too,” Waldo said. “That ain’t no minor news flash.”
Capt. Jaxx fired his flare pistol signal to Maj. McCloud. Seeing the flare Maj. McCloud fired his flare pistol signal to Maj. Beauchamp.
Maj. Beauchamp gave the command, “Shift your fires!”
As ordered, three of the mortars immediately ceased fire while one began putting up illumination rounds over Fort No. 9. The 81mm parachute flares cracked open and began slowly floating down from the sky, creating a mellow-yellow, otherworldly glow.
Then Maj. McCloud signaled B Company and C Company to commence firing their personal weapons. M1s, Thompson SMGs and BARs opened, putting out grazing fire aimed at the palm grove behind the fort. The eight belt-fed .30 caliber M1919 Browning LMGs, having been displaced, opened simultaneously. The sound of the combined weapons was like a massive thunderstorm breaking.
M1s, being semiautomatic, put out an impressive volume of fire, making it seem like there were a lot more riflemen present than there actually were.
“Jack doing what I think, Chief?” King asked.
“Roger that,” Col. Randal said, sticking one of Waldo’s thin cigars between his front teeth.
Capt. McKoy strolled over, “You reckon that same tubby little Regia Aeronautica tenente is still in command of the fort, John? His girlfriend, if she’s still around, ain’t gonna like this next part one little bit if he is.”
Col. Randal said, “We’re getting ready to find out.”
“Is Jack gonna try to blow that place up like you and Maj. McCloud did last time we was here, Colonel?” Waldo asked.
“Affirmative.”
Waldo said, “Uh-oh!”
The IMAM Ro.63 roared into life. Jim taxied out of the hangar, waved out the window, then the beautiful little aircraft rolled past the mortar that was firing the illumination rounds, picked up speed and took off in an incredibly short distance. It disappeared into the night.