“Yes, everything is to scale,” Wolff answered and continued. “Everyone except First Squad, Second Platoon will attack the pillbox complex and secure the road junction. Nothing gets by us to the beach. Nothing!” Wolff paused for affect and then continued. “Now this is important, First Squad under Lieutenant Clark will set a signal fire on this hill at exactly zero-two-hundred hours.” Wolff rested the pointer on a bulge in the sand table. “We’re lighting the way for the Sixteenth Infantry Regiment of the Big Red One,” Wolff explained. “They’ll land where they see the beacon, so this mission must be picture perfect.”
“Sir,” a voice called from the crowd. “Where is this place? Where are we going?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. Right now I want each officer to bring his platoon up to the table one at a time and explain their exact mission down to the squad level. Your officers and sergeants have already been briefed.”
“Sir,” another voice called out. “That drop zone is pretty tight, isn’t it?”
“I know, son,” Wolff answered. “I’ll talk to the pilots…see what we can do.”
Wolff looked around at his company. “All right men, gather around the table.” He turned to First Lieutenant George E. Clark Jr.
“George, pick two men and come with me,” ordered Wolff.
“Yes sir. Where are we going?”
“To find my pilots.”
Lieutenant Clark quickly scanned the group and pulled out Jake and Johnny. Wolff grabbed the smaller original reconnaissance photos and the four men exited the tent and climbed aboard a waiting jeep. Johnny jumped into the driver’s seat.
Wolff tapped Johnny on the shoulder. “We’re heading for the Three-fourteenth TCG area, this way.” He pointed to a row of large tents in the distance. Johnny gunned the engine and the jeep kicked some dirt as it briefly spun out and headed toward a row of four-man tents. Johnny stopped directly in front of one of them.
“Wait here,” Wolff ordered. Photos in hand, he pulled the tent flap back and entered. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Captain William R. Bommar.”
A figure rose up from one of the bunks and swung his feet to the bare dirt floor. He was resting on his bunk, fully clothed with his boots on. “I’m Bill Bommar.” The other officers in the tent grunted and rolled over in their bunks.
Wolff reached out and shook his hand. “I’m Captain Lou Wolff. Glad to meet you. I’m told you’re the flight leader of the group that’s taking my company on this mission.”
“I am. I’ve been expecting you.” Bommar tapped the bunk beside him. “Have a seat. I’ve been studying the problem.” Bommar paused. “Do you have any ideas?”
Wolff was immediately impressed with Bommar’s business-like manner and spirit of cooperation. Wolff pulled out the aerial photos and Bommar fished a flashlight from his musette bag along with a map. Together they studied the pictures alongside the map.
“Look here,” Wolff pointed to the map. “When we hit the coast, we should be able to see this river coming out to the sea. The full moon should reflect off of it nicely. Then we can track the river up to this huge inland lake, follow the lake west until we spot this railroad track which should lead us to this major road and we should hit the mouth of the valley and drop zone right on target.” Wolff traced the photo as he spoke and Bommar marked the map.
“The Acate River and Lake Bivieri,” Bommar noted. “I agree on the lake.” He pointed to the photo taken in daylight. “But the Acate River is dry. It shows up in this photo but it won’t be easy to spot at night. The lake should be easy to find under a full moon once we hit the coast.”
“Roger that.” Wolff continued to be impressed by the young aviator. He certainly did his homework. Wolff had another request. “Can you be the last group of nine planes in the serial?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to ask you to approach the drop zone with your planes one behind the other and not spread out in echelon. The drop zone is far too narrow for the standard jump pattern. And if you’re last, you won’t get all tangled up with the rest of your group.”
Bommar contemplated the request. “I can arrange that.”
“Great, thanks.” Wolff replied. “Now I know why they picked you for this mission. But I got one more request.”
“Sure.”
“The landmark for the drop, the point at which we can get all of our guys on the target, is this white house right here,” Wolff pointed to a white dot along a road that was just a bit bigger than the white pillboxes near it. “As we come up the valley, this house is only visible from the right side of the plane. I’m asking if you would sit on the right side.”
Bommar stiffened. The right seat was the co-pilot’s seat. He looked directly at Wolff. “Sir, I don’t sit on the right side.”
“I know, I know,” Wolff replied. “As the lead plane commander you sit in the left seat. I get that, but hear me out.”
Bommar nodded but he was visibly uncomfortable. Wolff continued. “That landmark is hard to spot near all those pillboxes. If we drop on the right landmark we’ll land where we’re supposed to be. If we’re late, we miss the DZ. If we’re early, the tail end planes drop my boys into the lake. The whole mission depends on recognizing this one right spot. The guy who makes that decision and turns on the green light needs to be exceptional, on top of everything. I need that guy to be you. So, Captain, just this once, for me and my boys, would you please sit in the right seat and be that guy who decides when to drop us?”
Bommar deliberated on Wolff’s logic. He could not let his ego get in the way of the mission’s success. Sitting in the right seat for one mission was inconsequential when compared to the lives of the paratroopers that would be in his hands. “Yes, sir.”
“Great! Thanks.” Wolff shook his hand. “I’ll be flying in the lead plane with you. See you on the flight line.”
The fully burdened boys of 1st Squad pushed and shoved each other up the small steps and through the door onto their C-47. The plane rocked as they struggled forward and into their seats. Captain Wolff handed each man a piece of paper. Johnny began reading it.
Soldiers of the 505th Combat Team
Tonight you embark upon a combat mission for which our people and the people of the free world have been waiting for two years.
You will spearhead the landing of an American Force upon the island of SICILY. Every preparation has been made to eliminate the element of chance.
“Sicily!” Johnny mumbled. He looked to the bottom to see it was signed by Gavin. Struck by the historical significance and the simple eloquence of the letter, he decided to save it. He folded it carefully and slid it into his jacket pocket after taking his seat. “So, it’s Sicily, again.”
Jake turned toward him. “Again?”
“Yeah, again. We’re invading the most conquered island in history. Those poor people were invaded by the Greeks, Romans, Muslims, Vikings, Spanish, Franks, Italians, Normans.” Johnny closed his eyes and looked up. “Let’s see, did I leave anybody out?”
“Hmm,” Jake mused. “Did they ever stop anybody? Defeat them, I mean?”
“Not one,” Johnny answered without hesitation. “The stepping stone between Africa and Europe was always raped but never loved.”
“You make that up?” Jake asked.
“Nah. I read it somewhere.”
“Hey Dom,” Private Danny Peregory shouted down the line of seated paratroopers. “You have people here? Maybe get us a homemade meal?”
“Nah,” Private Angelo answered. “But wait till we get to Naples. My people are there. Teddy has people in Sicily.” He pointed to Private Carmine Tedesco.
“Yeah, I got relatives in Palermo.” Tedesco was from the Bronx. “They don’t have no use for Mussolini. They’re farmers, not Fascists. I just hope they’re smart enough to keep their heads down when the shit hits the fan.”
The men settled in, trying to find comfortable positions for the long plane ride. The same scene was repeated all over
the small airfield as the forty-five planes were loading up.
Captain Wolff was the jumpmaster. Sergeant Copping was the pusher and was seated at the end of the stick, closest to the pilot’s cabin. Bancroft was seated near Wolff by the exit door. The sergeant insisted on calling Jake “Enema” and Johnny knew Jake seethed every time he heard it so he sat between them. He would never let Jake get too close to Bancroft.
Abruptly, the familiar whine of the starter motors broke the calm. The sputtering, explosions of the fourteen cylinder engines produced loud coughing and jerking as the Hamilton Standard propellers picked up speed. The smell of smoke, gasoline and oil permeated the cabin. In a few moments both engines were running smoothly. The cabin vibrated with the familiar drone of the radial engines as the pilots ran them up to speed. Slowly, they began to move.
Their plane moved in line with other C-47s as they taxied toward the head of the runway. From the portholes the men could barely see other C-47s taking off in the opposite direction through the swirling clouds of dust being kicked up in every direction.
They were near the end of the line, among the last planes in the serial as Wolff and Bommar had agreed. Their plane began the slow 180-degree turn to line up with the runway. When the turn was completed, the pilots stood on the brakes and ran the engines to full speed. The cabin rocked violently as the torque of the engines tried in vain to twist the structural backbone of the heavily laden transport plane. The pilots released the brakes. Slowly, the fully loaded 25,000-pound aircraft heaved forward and headed, nearly blind, down the runway.
The transport lifted gently off the ground and into the heated desert air. Once the landing gear was up, the pilot banked the plane and smoothly fell into formation as the lead plane in the last nine plane V-of-Vs. They were on their way to Sicily.
The flight plan was a difficult one. The route almost doubled the straight-line distance from Kairouan to the drop zones in Sicily. In addition, they would have to keep formation in near total darkness. While the C-47 had a service ceiling of 24,000 feet, they would fly this leg at 300 feet above the waves for the entire 415 mile trip. It would require tremendous concentration.
The first leg would be easterly until the pilots sighted the special beacon on Malta. Then a sharp course change to due north would line up the flight with the southeastern tip of Sicily. Upon reaching that waypoint, the planes were to turn due west and run along the southern coast until reaching their landmarks. At that point they were to turn inland, ascend to jump level, find their drop zones and release their paratroopers. The challenge itself was daunting enough but nature had a surprise. Immediately upon leaving the ground and heading east, a stiff crosswind from the north began driving the entire air armada slowly but inexorably off course.
The cabin quieted as each man settled into his own personal routine. They camouflaged their fear and anxiety in different ways. Some would talk in hushed whispers. Others slept or pretended to sleep, heads bobbing to the rhythmic motion of the airplane. A few fingered Rosaries or had their Bibles out and were struggling to read in the darkened cabin. Specs of light glowing brighter then dimmer betrayed the handful that chain-smoked their way through the flight, illuminating their faces in an eerie glow.
All of them felt the buffeting as the crosswinds relentlessly pounded the planes further and further south of their intended flight path.
Johnny turned toward Jake whose head was leaning back against the bulkhead. A moment ago, Johnny thought he saw Jake reading but now he seemed to be sleeping. “Jake. You awake?”
“I am now,” Jake smiled without opening his eyes.
“Seriously, we need to talk. I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, that’s always dangerous.” Jake’s smile broadened even wider as he opened his eyes and looked at his friend. “What about?”
“About the jump.” Johnny hesitated. For a moment he couldn’t find the words. Finally, he blurted out, “If things get rough out there and we get in a tight spot…”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jake interrupted. “We’ll be fine. We’re the most trained and best led infantry in the world. Nothing can happen to us. Krause said so!”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. You and me, we’ve had each other’s back since jump school. Remember the brawls in Phenix City, those survival night exercises at Camp Billy Mitchell, all of the shit we’ve been through? We always looked out for each other.”
“And we always will,” Jake interrupted again as he slipped a stick of gum into his mouth to relieve the pressure building in his ears. Over the long months of training they had bonded into inseparable friends, fond of and loyal to each other.
Johnny replied. “But this is combat and no one knows how they’ll react. I don’t want to let anyone down.” Johnny let out a slight cough. “Ahem. If I freeze up or lose my nerve, just make sure you kick me in the ass or do something to shake me up and get me going again.”
“Okay, Yank, I won’t let you freeze.” Johnny nodded his thanks. Jake’s confidence always inspired him.
Jake sat back, closed his eyes and faced forward. “Me too. Don’t let me freeze up either.” And one more thing,” Jake said without opening his eyes or turning toward Johnny. “I don’t intend to be taken prisoner. I’ll do whatever I have to do. If that’s a problem, as much as I like you as a friend, you shouldn’t hang close to me.” Jake looked directly at Johnny for the answer.
“That’s not a problem. They’re not taking me, either.”
Johnny reached a clenched fist out in front of Jake. Jake struck it with his own fist. With that simple gesture they entered into a blood pact. Because their personal honor meant everything, their word to each other was unbreakable.
As the formation soared on into a darkening sky, the young pilots struggled mightily against the wind to maintain formation. The cabin of the C-47 was silent yet filled with a palpable anxiety. Without warning the plane banked hard into a left hand turn and steadied on a course of due magnetic north. The crosswind now became a headwind and the buffeting turned into a disquieting turbulence as the twin radial engines clawed their way through the defying winds. Bommar sent word down the cabin for Captain Wolff. With the help of steadying hands and despite his gear load, Wolff made his way through the shuddering cabin to the cockpit.
The C-47 Skytrain had a seated position just aft of the pilots for the radioman-navigator. Since this flight would be made in complete radio silence and Bommar’s flight was the last in the serial, they did not deploy the third crewman in order to save the precious weight. Wolff sat in the vacant chair and leaned forward between the pilots. True to his word, Bommar was seated in the right hand seat, the co-pilot’s seat. He turned to Wolff.
“We missed the beacon on Malta,” he shouted above the engine noise. “We should have seen it fifteen minutes ago,” Bommar pointed to his aviator’s watch. “The group leader turned the whole group north.”
Wolff knew missing the waypoint was critical. They could not be sure where they were. If the formation came apart in the turbulence, most of the planes without navigators would be unable to find their way.
Wolff leaned forward, shook his head and hollered, “We can’t go back.”
“I know, I know,” Bommar agreed. “We probably missed Malta on the south side based on the crosswinds. Turning north should get us somewhere in the vicinity of Sicily. Maybe even the toe of Italy…depending on how far we overshot the waypoint. Once we hit land, I can find our landmarks.”
Wolff nodded emphatically in agreement. “Mind if I stay up here?”
“Suit yourself. We’re still about an hour from landfall if I got this figured right,” Bommar answered. “One more thing. I got word just before take-off that the ground winds in Sicily were over thirty-five miles an hour.”
Wolff shook his head at the news. They would be jumping into winds much higher than they ever trained for. So be it!
Wolff looked out of the front windscreen. The moon was low in the sky and
shimmering off of the water of the Mediterranean Sea. The moonlit waves flashing by gave the sensation of great speed. Up ahead, slightly above the horizon, the faint flicker of engine sparks from the planes ahead was the only visible object in an inky black sky.
The two pilots worked together, feeling each other’s movements on the yoke and pedals. It was the only way they could manage the difficulties of the tricky buffeting and near-zero visibility. The same scene was likely playing out in every plane of the 52nd TCG.
One hour to go. Wolff looked back into the cabin. There was little motion. Only the slight rocking of heads with partially closed eyes on blackened faces broke the stillness as the C-47 bounced and swayed on the wind currents. The men all appeared relaxed, their special chinstraps loosened and dangling, while bodies jerked slightly with each shudder of the plane. He suspected that they were anything but relaxed.
Wolff closed his eyes and leaned his helmet back on the bulkhead. Just a little rest was all his burning eyes needed. His thoughts turned to home. No, not that. Not now! He replayed the mission plan in his mind. His thoughts drifted to contingencies and what to do if certain things went wrong. Who could he trust? Who might be shaky?
The whole purpose of the airborne drop was to keep the Italians from counterattacking the invasion beaches. Being mountainous, southern Sicily had only a few major roads leading inland from the sea. All the 505th RCT had to do was block these few roads. That’s all!
The town of Niscemi was about ten miles from the coast. Wolff didn’t know much about the 3rd Battalion of the 504th PIR but they got the job of dropping just south of Niscemi to block the main road to the seacoast town of Gela. The 3rd Battalion, 504th must be a good one, thought Wolff, otherwise they wouldn’t have been picked for the job.
The 1st and 2nd Battalions of the 505th were to land further south on the Niscemi-Gela Road and block a major road junction called Objective “Y”. This road junction also joined a major crossroad that ran parallel to the coast to the large city of Vittoria. Objective “Y” was the single most important blocking position to control both of these major roads.
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 23