The rest of 3rd Battalion, minus Item Company, would seize the high ground south of Objective “Y” and provide a firewall between the beach and the enemy. If the Italians blew through the rest of the 505th, Krause would be the last line of defense.
Wolff believed Major Krause to be a poor leader who caused problems wherever he went. Under their breaths his officers called him the “shitstorm artist”. For this drop, however, Wolff and his company were thankfully detached from Major Krause.
Once dropped, Wolff and his 119 men and nine officers had their work cut out for them. Lieutenant Clark would take 1st Squad on a three-mile hike to light the signal fire. The rest of Item Company would block the road to the beach. But the priority of his mission, Wolff reasoned, was the signal fire. He had to make sure Clark successfully completed that mission.
If all went according to plan, the carpet the airborne would lay down along the key roadways would stop any enemy force from reinforcing the beaches. But when does everything ever go according to plan? What was it that he learned at West Point? Was it von Moltke who said that the best plans never survive first contact with the enemy? How many men would be dropped on target and how many would be scattered all over the island? The endless variations of potential pitfalls gripped his thoughts. The missions, orders, drop zones, objectives and combat leaders all swirled around in his head in an endless cacophony and he struggled to make sense of it. I can’t just think of everything that might go wrong. I have to stay positive.
Suddenly, he was overcome by the strange sensation that he had forgotten something. He and all of his troopers were loaded down with all sorts of gear but the nagging feeling that something was left behind gnawed at his subconscious. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t figure it out. Without intending to do so, he subliminally reviewed the standard paratrooper combat load.
Besides the main parachute and reserve, each man carried his weapon, usually an M-1 Garand Rifle with 150 rounds of .30-caliber ammunition. However, most of the men figured out how to scrounge an extra load of ammo. They also carried four fragmentation grenades, a smoke grenade, a Gammon grenade plus a ten-inch bayonet, trench knife and their Schrade-Walden switchblade knife. Some men carried an essential item for one of the crew-served weapons such as a mortar round or a bazooka round or a belt of .30-caliber machine gun ammunition.
In addition to their helmets, tunics and gloves, they were each issued two extra pair of socks and shorts, a handkerchief, silk escape map, wristwatch and compass. Each man carried a musette bag for personal hygiene items such as toothbrush, toothpowder, soap, safety razor and blades. The musette bag also held a mess kit, four “K” rations, ten packs of cigarettes, paper, pencil, matches, cigarette lighter, Halizone tablets for water purification, a thirty foot rope, blanket, a water filled canteen, shelter half, entrenching tool, two first aid kits and a gas mask. Officers and NCOs also carried a .45-caliber sidearm with extra ammunition. A Type B-4 inflatable life preserver, called a Mae West by the troops for the buxom-blessed movie star, rounded out the standard over water combat load.
For the life of him, Wolff couldn’t figure out what he left behind. Or was it a person? Did I leave Superman or Captain America behind? They would sure come in handy in this fight!
“Land ho,” Bommar shouted. Wolff’s eyes snapped open. He had dozed off just slightly beneath consciousness. He was near that dream state on the thin edge of sleep where sense and nonsense coexist and the hour flashed by quickly. “We’re going up to take a look. They already know we’re here.” Anti-aircraft “flak” and tracers were rising up from the shadows of the land. It was not yet heavy and it served to highlight the location of the landmass.
Bommar followed the engine sparks in front of him, as he pulled back on the yoke and rose up to 2,000 feet and leveled off. “There,” Bommar pointed forward out the left window. “Southern coast of Sicily. We’ll make our run along the beach like we planned.”
Wolff nodded, keeping his eyes on the planes in front. They slowly banked left until the land was on the right side. They traveled west along the southern coast of Sicily for a few minutes. Suddenly the planes in front banked sharply left. Bommar found himself the lead pilot of his own little nine-plane serial.
“You’re not going to follow them, are you?” Wolff asked.
“Nah, I know my way from here,” Bommar answered as they both watched the entire group turn back south over the Mediterranean and away from Sicily.
“Where the hell are they going?” Wolff asked out loud. Before anyone could answer, Bommar pointed forward to the right. There, shimmering in the distant moonlight was the unmistaken outline of Lake Bivieri running parallel to the coast. Wolff looked toward the eastern end and found the faint outline of the dry bed of the Acate River, which he visually traced to the sea. Bommar nosed his plane over, banked slightly right and headed for the riverbed. The other eight planes in his V followed at 500 feet.
“That’s it!” Wolff was excited. “There’s the river and the lake. How long?”
“Hard to say. Strong winds up here. Ten minutes give or take,” answered Bommar.
“Tell me when we’re about five minutes out.”
Bommar nodded. The anti-aircraft fire and multi-colored tracers were coming up from their right. It was not all aimed at them. Other flights of C-47s were also drawing their share of fire. Bommar maneuvered his plane up the riverbed and then across the lake. He picked up the railroad tracks and followed them to the southern section of the Niscemi-Gela Road. It would lead him right to the head of the valley.
“Let me line up my ducks,” he said flashing his landing lights. On queue, the eight planes behind the leader moved from an echelon formation to a loose straight line and closed up on the leader. “Five minutes,” he said over his shoulder.
Wolff took a deep breath and smiled. “There’s a case of scotch with your name on it if you drop us on the mark.”
“Johnny Walker Black,” Bommar answered without interrupting his search for the landmarks. He reached a hand back over his left shoulder. “Good luck, sir,” he said to Wolff.
“Thank you, sir,” Wolff shook his hand and made his way to the back of the cabin.
“Five minutes,” Wolff repeated as the seated troopers helped him clump back to the rear.
When he reached the rear of the cabin Wolff turned to look toward the cockpit. Bommar was looking over his shoulder flashing the thumbs up signal. He had spotted the key landmark. Wolff snapped off a sharp, respectful salute. If we had more guys like Bommar, Wolff thought, we’d win this goddamn war in six months!
The red light alongside the door flashed on. Wolff took his planeload of paratroopers through the equipment check sequence quickly. He then gave the order to stand in the door and took his position at the head of the stick. The rest of the troopers pressed together toward him like a coiled spring under tension, both ready and anxious to release.
The red light turned green. With a deep breath, Captain Louis Wolff pulled himself out of the door and into the darkness.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
L’Enfant Plaza Hotel – January 13, 1997
“Happy the man who has been able to learn the causes of things.”
Virgil, (Publius Vergilius Maro) (70 BC - 19 BC)
The waitress reached for the unfolded napkin. A hand shot in from behind her and snatched it. “I got it.” J.P. pulled the napkin into his lap as he sat down and smiled at the three elderly men.
Cynthia returned just as the waiters began to serve dinner. The conversation slowed as the group began the main course; the slight plinking of forks and knives on plates the only sound at the table.
J.P. reflected on what he had learned thus far. The secret apparently had something to do with the War. Since his father had spoken so little about it, almost everything he learned from the three men was news. He knew his father was a smart man. After all, he was a teacher. But he never realized his father had a photographic memory.
What exactly had he lear
ned about the mysterious secret? Not much, he had to admit. He was sure if he had enough time with these men and with Lincoln, he would eventually figure it out. Unfortunately, the conversation was going more slowly than the dinner.
Sky had been doing most of the talking. He was a vintage version of the “surfer dude”, with that distinctive west coast laid-back approach to life and an edgy attitude that continually challenged authority. J.P. concluded that Sky must have been a handful in his younger days. He knew Sky’s involvement with his father was soon to end after Italy when his dad was transferred to another division.
J.P. had also determined Frank West was the professor of the group. He was intelligent, articulate and opinionated. Frank was fit and disciplined as further demonstrated by his dinner of Alaskan Halibut and baked potato without butter or sour cream. In addition to seeing the War first hand, Frank obviously studied the accounts of the War. He was a knowledgeable student of history. J.P. found himself anxious to hear Frank’s recollections.
Harley Tidrick was a bit of a conundrum. He could easily be taken for a typical redneck, but J.P. knew that would be an oversimplification. Perhaps it was his attire or his flush face with large jowls that indicated simple good-old-boy backwoods folk but there were other clues in his demeanor that led J.P. to think otherwise.
Without saying much, Harley seemed to be controlling the conversation. The other two men seemed to defer to him and paid particular attention to his answers. When J.P. left the table for the men’s room, Harley was doing most of the talking as he was earlier in the day in the White House. Why was he the assertive one? Was he hiding something? J.P. concluded there was more to Harley Tidrick than met the eye and he should not underestimate him. He would have to listen to his surreptitious tape recording at his earliest opportunity.
For the present, however, J.P. was surprisingly mesmerized at learning of his father’s wartime exploits. And he did learn one important fact. His father’s close friend, Jake Kilroy, never made it home.
Cynthia Powers sensed the discussion would not conclude before the end of dinner. She nudged J.P. “Do you want me to arrange another meeting with these gentlemen tomorrow?” She spoke loud enough for all to hear.
Sky answered first. “I have a flight back to L.A. in the morning. But there’s not much more I can add. We went through Sicily together and after Sicily, Jake and Johnny literally disappeared. Next I hear they’re in the Screaming Eagles.” He jerked his thumb toward Frank. “I saw them briefly in England before D-Day and in Holland and Rheims...” Sky hesitated as he suddenly choked up. “And the parade in New York in forty-six.”
Harley interrupted Sky. “Those two airborne divisions worked closely together so Frank can fill in all those blanks.”
“Right, the parade, too,” Frank offered. “I was there.”
“That’s not important,” Harley barked but quickly regained his poise. “What I meant was you’re done with Sky after Sicily anyway. If Frank can stay tomorrow he can fill in the rest.”
“What about you?” J.P. asked.
“I’m driving back to Bedford tomorrow but I’ll leave you my number in case you want to talk some more.”
J.P. nodded. He made a mental note to look up the New York parade in forty-six. He briefly considered broaching the subject of the secret directly but thought better of it. If they were hiding something, confronting them would just shut down the discussion. He would glean as much information as gently as he could. It would be a slow process. If he deceived them into thinking he was only interested in getting to know his father better, perhaps one of them would slip and reveal something, if they even knew anything at all. It would be a risky, time-consuming game, particularly due to their ages, but J.P. decided it was the best course of action. He looked at Frank. “Can you and I meet tomorrow and talk further?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Frank.” J.P looked at all three. “In the meantime, can we continue tonight for as long as we can?”
The three elderly men smiled and nodded. Sky wiped his nose and composed himself. “I guess it’s still me. Okay, where were we?” He squinted his eyes and set a pensive look on his face. “Right,” he said to himself. “Sicily!”
Chapter Thirty
Sicily - July 10, 1943
“The soldier trade, if it is to mean anything at all,
has to be anchored in an unshakable code of honor.”
Carl von Clausewitz (1780 – 1831), On War
Private Jake Kilroy knew he was right behind his buddy Johnny out the door. But now, on the ground, he couldn’t see any other parachutes in the landing zone. He rolled up on his knees and slowly pulled his chute into his arms as quietly as possible. Still, he could not avoid the soft metallic sounds as his harness buckles and gear clinked together. The landing had been a decent one considering the high winds and broken terrain. He had just missed a stone wall and the weight of his load carried him violently into the hard baked ground. He shook off the cobwebs and strained to orient himself.
He tensed to listen to his surroundings but the drone of the planes and the distant crack of small arms and anti-aircraft fire made hearing nearby sounds impossible. His heart was pounding and he felt the familiar surge of adrenaline course through his body. Visibility was getting better as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could see the shadowy outlines of the high ridges both to the east and the west. Item Company was dropped right smack on the money.
After Jake cleared his parachute and gathered it into his arms he released the bellyband harness and the reserve chute. Still on his knees, he shoved the bundle of silk and canvas into a nearby hedge and slowly removed his gas-operated M1918A2 Browning Automatic Rifle from its Griswold case. He set the selector to “slow-auto” to conserve ammunition. This was really stupid, he thought. If he contacted the enemy, they would certainly not wait for him to unpack and load his weapon. He slammed a twenty round magazine of .30-caliber ammunition into his B-A-R and racked the bolt to chamber a round. It sounded louder than he expected.
“George,” the voice in the dark whispered.
“Marshall,” Jake replied.
A figure came out of the darkness. It was Sky Johnson. “You alone, Jake?”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s roll up,” Sky said and began walking. Since they were at the beginning of the stick, they would walk in the direction the plane was heading. The troopers at the end of the stick would walk the opposite way in order to meet somewhere near the middle.
The two boys walked carefully, making as little noise as possible. They came upon a paved road in the direction of their line of advance and slowly proceeded in that direction. If it was the same road as on the maps, it would lead them to a junction that was their rally point.
“George, ” said another voice from the darkness.
“Marshall,” Sky replied. Joe Boothe, Dominic Angelo and Johnny Kilroy stepped out of the shadows. “It’s Boots, Yank and Dom,” said Angelo. “Who we got?”
“Jake and Sky,” answered Jake as he tapped Johnny on the arm. They were both relieved to see each other.
The group moved out along the road with Jake and Johnny bringing up the rear. After a few moments Jake heard something on the other side of the wall. Johnny heard it too. It sounded like a whimpering animal. Until now, the group had not fired a shot and not been exposed. They could not take the chance of being discovered so Johnny leaned his M-1 on the wall and took out his bayonet. He peered over the wall slowly and made out a figure curled up in a fetal position with his face buried in his arms. He carefully hopped over the wall holding his bayonet in a striking position. Slowly, he disappeared below the wall.
“Jake,” Johnny whispered as his head popped up. “You’re never going to believe this. Come on over.”
Jake propped his B-A-R against the wall and hopped over. There was a soldier uncontrollably whimpering while trying to stifle the sounds. Jake bent over to get a better look. It was Staff Sergeant Gene Bancroft. Jake stood
up and looked at Johnny who shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Lying at their feet was the toughest, meanest, nastiest bastard they had ever met in the army and he was crying like a newborn baby.
“C’mon Sarge, let’s get you out of here, “ Jake said feeling nothing more than pity for a man who had completely lost it on his first combat jump.
“Enema? Is that you?” Bancroft sobbed. Jake’s pity immediately turned to anger.
Johnny kicked Bancroft in the rump and slapped him on the helmet. “Snap out of it you sorry piece of shit.” Johnny pulled Bancroft to his feet. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he whispered while wiping the dirt from Bancroft’s tunic with hard slaps and rough hand brushes.
Bancroft struggled to gain his self-control. He took off his helmet, shook his head and wiped his tear-streaked face on his sleeve. “I don’t know what happened,” he sniveled. “I’m all right now. Don’t tell the rest of the guys, okay?”
Jake was about to say something but Johnny stepped in front of him. “I’ll tell you how it’s going to be, Sarge.” Though Johnny was speaking in low tones, the anger was hissing through his teeth. “The next time you call him Enema, the whole fucking battalion is going to know how we found you tonight. This is Jake. As long as he’s not Enema, your secret is safe with us.”
Bancroft took a deep breath. He was regaining his courage. He nodded and picked up his gear. “Fair enough.”
“That way,” Johnny pointed. All three hopped over the wall. Bancroft led the way.
“Whew,” Jake whispered to Johnny. “Thanks!”
“You’re welcome. That rat bastard deserved it. We’ll have to watch our backs from now on. That scumbag just might try to get even.”
“Fine. But somehow he doesn’t intimidate me so much anymore.”
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 24