“Thank you, Grandfather,” she choked back a tear. “But I’m so proud of you, too. For all you did and the Medal you won.”
Lincoln overlooked the compliment. “Grab life, young lady. There is nothing you can’t do. There are no obstacles that you cannot overcome. You are a child of God, live up to your promise.” He felt funny lecturing her. She had her feet solidly on the ground but he sensed she was conflicted about the state of racial discourse in the nation.
“America is far from perfect,” he changed the subject to what he thought she was concerned about. “Political correctness and hidden agendas will always be a way of life. Hell, we even left Kilroy’s Medal out of the ceremony. If it wasn’t for him, not only would there be no Medal of Honor for your grandfather, but there would be no grandfather,” he snickered at his little joke. “But America eventually gets it right. We’re a nation with a deep and relentless conscience. We’re the world’s last best hope...an imperfect union striving for perfection.” He let the words drift away, finished, nothing else to say on the matter. He hoped his explanation was compelling enough to span the generations, overcome the distortions and convince her she alone was accountable for her own success.
“He seemed like a nice man, although a little bit hyper.” Her words snapped him out of a momentary lapse in thought.
“Who?”
She laughed. “That old white guy they left out of the ceremony.”
“Oh, yes. Mister John Patrick Kilroy Jr.” Lincoln pursed his lips and nodded his head. “That young man is on a quest and I’m pretty sure he will wind up here some day.”
“Really?” she asked. “Are you going to tell him the truth about his father?”
“I’d like to but I don’t think so,” he answered and then deliberated for a moment. “I did swear an oath.” Lincoln coughed and leaned back. “Of course, it’s all a moot point if I die before he gets here.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Normandy, France - June 6, 1944
“Perish yourself but rescue your comrade.”
Field Marshall Prince Aleksandr V. Suvorov (1729-1800)
The dark object came up quickly and Jake couldn’t avoid it. He smashed into it violently, his chute collapsed and he fell hard to the ground. The landing on his side was vicious and he lost his breath. Did he hit the side of a barn or building? Whatever it was, he was still alive!
The sky was lit up like a fireworks display. Colored tracers reached into the night like wiggling fingers of death. The noise was deafening. The rattling gunfire was continuous and the drone of the C-47s only a few hundred feet above him was thunderous. The rhythmic clatter of a distant church bell sliced through the cacophony of sounds. It quickly occurred to Jake that he could move and make some noise without revealing his position so he dragged himself to the base of a hedgerow. His senses were acute and his eyes were wide but the shadowy shapes on the ground were still indistinguishable.
He realized he wasn’t breathing. The crash had knocked the wind out of him and he gasped for air. When his breath finally came it was heavy and labored. He cut away his parachute with his switchblade while he lay on the cold, wet ground. A brisk breeze grabbed the empty chute and blew it away. The confused crack of gunfire was sporadic but continuous. Jake struggled to breathe and strained to see while kneeling at the base of the hedge.
First he had to find Johnny. Before he could do that he had to orient himself and take inventory of his equipment. His leg bag was gone; a frayed, broken rope the only clue something had once been attached to him. His padded Griswold bag that contained his M-1 Garand rifle was nowhere to be found. It must have slipped clean out of his bellyband during the opening shock of his bone jarring parachute deployment. It nearly tore him apart. He needed a few minutes to clear his head and he nestled more closely into the hedge.
At the end of May, the 101st Airborne Division left their enclaves and bivouacs in Wiltshire and Berkshire for their marshaling areas. The 506th PIR said good-bye to Aldbourne. They marched through the narrow streets of the small hamlet to the silent tears and muted waves of the villagers who had come to adopt and love them for the past nine months. The waiting trucks and trains transported the regiment southwest to an encampment near Exeter in Devonshire. It was made up of long lines of large pyramidal tents. This enclosed area was adjacent to the airfield at Uppottery and was completely sealed off from the outside. Wire fences and British guards in German uniforms, to acclimate the paratroopers to the silhouette of armed Nazi soldiers, ensured no one slipped out after being sequestered.
By 3 June the officers of the 506th had been briefed and began briefing their companies and platoons. The paratroopers of 2nd Battalion were herded, a company at a time, into large tents with huge sand tables representing the topography of the drop zones and the essence of their missions.
They were told the 4th Infantry Division would land at Utah Beach at dawn. Four causeways were the only exits from the beach because the Germans had flooded the tidal marshlands. They all had to be secured from the land side. Failure to do so would leave the 4th Infantry Division stranded on the beach and jeopardize the landings.
The 506th was also briefed on the missions of the other regiments so they had a more comprehensive picture of the overall battle plan. Wherever they landed, they would know where to go and what to do. The radical theory that properly trained light infantry, stranded behind enemy lines, would take the initiative to carry out any mission was about to be tested.
Along with constant briefings and unit discussions, the paratroopers were issued ammo and grenades. They were each given a silk escape map of France, an American flag to sew on their right jacket sleeve and a compass. It would be another night jump so identification was essential. Each man received a small metal clicker that was supposed to sound like a cricket. One click was to be answered by two clicks. If this non-verbal means of identification didn’t work, then the challenge “Flash” was to be answered by the password “Thunder”.
The boys were kept busy cleaning weapons and sharpening knives. Some opted for Mohawk haircuts. Officers removed their rank insignia. The helmets of the four regiments were painted with the white symbols from a deck of cards. The 506th was spades. The 501st used diamonds. The 502nd took hearts and the 327th Glider Infantry Regiment became clubs.
On the evening of 4 June, the paratroopers were issued their parachutes and the rest of their gear. They would be going that night. The evening meal consisted of steak, peas, mashed potatoes, white bread and ice cream for dessert. Of all the meals, this one was by far the best. Just before they were to board the planes, they were ordered to stand down. Ike postponed Operation Overlord, the codename for the invasion, for twenty-four hours.
England had been in the grip of a spring storm for a number of days. The evening of 4 June was one of the worst. The wind-driven rain soaked everything in sight. Streams flooded, small bridges washed out and roads turned to mud. The visibility was poor and the conditions were brutal. The high waves and churning tides of the English Channel were not at all conducive to releasing the armada of 5,000 ships and 150,000 men to storm the shores of France. All along the southeastern English coast, in the great seaports of Southampton, Plymouth, Portland, Dartmouth, Portsmouth and others, ships and barges laden with men and material bobbed in the churning waters like corks in a raging river. All the scheduling, all of the planning, all the movement to the staging areas had come down to the moment when these massive forces were to be let loose on the enemy. But the unstoppable power of nature compelled General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Forces, to reluctantly delay the greatest invasion armada the world had ever seen.
The next day broke clearer and drier. Visibility had improved and the winds subsided. Late in the afternoon, the paratroopers of HQ Company, 2nd Battalion were trucked to the large hangar to collect their gear. Lieutenant Frank West pulled his 2nd Platoon around a large sand table. He was a quiet officer his men had come to like. He w
as easy to embarrass and the boys always seemed to have some fun at his expense. He didn’t drink, smoke or curse. His glasses, soft-spoken manner and shy demeanor played into the stereotype. Even though he was tall and muscular, the general opinion was he was soft by paratrooper standards. The only aspect of this officer that the men didn’t understand was his obsession for bayonet drills. 2nd Platoon would drill with the bayonet more than any other unit in the Screaming Eagles. In spite of this contradiction, they gave him the nickname “Casper”, after the timid comic strip character Casper Milquetoast.
“Gather around men, get closer,” ordered West. He pointed to a spot on the sand table. “Let me repeat for the hundredth time. This is our objective. DZ Charlie. We’re being dropped by the 439th Troop Carrier Group of the 50th Troop Carrier Wing.” The young lieutenant paused, “Just in case anyone gets lost out on the tarmac.” A few laughed lightly.
“Our mission is to take Sainte-Marie-du-Mont, about six miles south of the larger town of Sainte-Mere-Eglise, and secure the exit to Causeway Two. We also have to secure the exit to Causeway Number One, near the town of Pouppeville. Exits three and four belong to the Five-oh-two.” He pulled back the pointer and waved his arm across the sand table. “If you get miss-dropped anywhere in Normandy, join up with anyone headed for the causeways. If we don’t secure those roads, the Utah Beach invasion will bog down and fail.”
The hangar was silent. West was speaking louder than he normally spoke. There was a determined look in his eyes. “They gave us this mission because we’re paratroopers. And we’ve been given the right flank of the invasion. The right of the line, the position of honor for the best soldiers throughout history.” He thought the notion was inspirational.
“Why?” he continued. “Because we’re tougher than any troops on the battlefield. That’s why! We are better motivated than our enemy.” His voice seemed to get louder. “Remember this if you remember anything. You’re fighting for the guy on your left and the guy on your right. They trust you so don’t let them down!” He paused to let them all contemplate that. “If you’re separated and too far away from your objective, whether alone or in small groups, you will engage the enemy. Cut their communication wires. Ambush their vehicles. Attack gun positions and otherwise raise holy hell.” West paced back and forth for a moment. “Use your bayonets at night. Don’t give yourself away. That’s why we practiced so long and hard with those stickers.”
There was some shuffling of feet. Most of the troopers didn’t like to use the bayonet. It wasn’t easy to get up close and pierce a man’s body with it. The idea repulsed even the most hardened soldier. However, since they were so adept at it, they could do it if they had to.
“Try not to hurt any civilians,” West lowered his voice again. “But don’t take any unnecessary chances. Bringing you back alive is more important to me than some French farmer.” There was an affirmative murmur in the crowd. “Questions?”
“What about the diamonds?” someone asked.
“The Five-oh-one will drop southeast of us and secure the locks over the Douve River so Jerry can’t flood the whole damn peninsula.” West thought for a moment. “And one more thing. You don’t need to take any prisoners unless you need intelligence. There’s no way you can guard prisoners in the dark behind enemy lines and still complete your mission. And there’s no way you can let them go to kill more Americans.” He left the obvious alternative unspoken. “I’ll say the words if I have to, but you need to know I won’t be asking any questions or second-guessing anyone when you get back. Believe me, I don’t think they’ll take you prisoner either. They’ll probably shoot you in your chutes on the way down if they get the chance! I trust you men. What each of you decide to do is good enough for me.” One could hear a pin drop. Most became true believers right then and there. They decided on the spot that he would look out for them and do his best to get them home alive. That’s all a soldier ever needed to know. They would follow him once that irrevocable bond of trust had been forged. They would still refer to him as Casper behind his back but it became a respectful epithet rather than one of derision.
Jake and Johnny carried their gear to the two-and-a-half-ton truck that would ferry them to their C-47. They followed their squad leader, Sergeant Clint Stockett, an amiable man with a wide friendly face and thin wispy blond hair. His eyes squinted when he laughed. Stockett was a truck driver in Cincinnati before the War. On this day he wore a cardboard placard around his neck with the number seventy-nine scrawled on it. The two young men threw their gear up onto the truck bed along with the rest of their squad-mates.
The heavily laden vehicle drove toward an air fleet of nearly ninety dark green C-47s poised in revetments lining the runways. This same scene was repeated in eighteen airdromes across southwest England. Places with colorful names such as Cottesmore, Merryfield, Folkingham, Saltby, Spanhoe, Ramsbury, Nottingham, Membury, Welford, Greenham Common and Exeter. Before the sun would rise on the following day, more than 800 airplanes would drop over 13,000 American paratroopers into occupied France.
After a few minutes the truck pulled up near one of the planes and unloaded the troopers. The plane had a large number seventy-nine stenciled in chalk on the nose just below its name, Buzz Buggy. In addition, it had three broad white stripes painted around the fuselage and around each wing. They were called “invasion stripes” and they would identify every Allied plane in the air on D-Day. Rumor had it that there was not a single bucket of white paint left in all of England.
The paratroopers dropped their gear on the ground under a wing and gathered around the tail section. There would be sixteen troopers in this stick along with two A-5 para-pack equipment bundles attached underneath the wings. Their new jump suits were impregnated with a treatment to protect the men against a chemical attack of mustard or lewisite blister gas. It made the cloth stiff and trapped body heat and moisture. It was a dreadfully uncomfortable combination as the cuffs and collars chafed on the sweaty skin of the uneasy troopers.
Stockett was giving last minute instructions. “Listen up! Come and get your airsick pills.” He held up a small glass jar of tiny white tablets.
“What the hell is that for, Sarge? We ain’t never used no airsick pills before,” complained Private Billy Christian, a miner from Coalwood, West Virginia.
“Orders are orders.” Stockett picked up a bag attached to a long rope. “Also, everyone come and get one of these. The Brits invented these leg bags. You fill them full of stuff, tie them to your leg and go out of the plane with them.”
“Jesus, Sarge,” questioned Private Homer Smith, a steelworker from Pittsburgh. “Don’t you think we got enough shit to carry?” Smith had a simple face with close-set eyes and an eager expression that said he was anxious to please.
“Stop bellyaching, Homo. Just take a bag and fill it before you saddle up.”
They lined up and collected their pills and bags. In addition, many troopers were blackening their faces with burnt cork or greasepaint. Some were shaving their heads while others were applying war paint in the tradition of the great American Indian warriors.
Johnny was blackening Jake’s face when Jake asked, “What about these pills and the bag?”
“Not for me. We didn’t train with them, I’m not using them.”
“Screw the pills, I agree,” Jake nodded. “I think I’ll try the bag, though.”
“Suit yourself, buddy.” Johnny finished applying the face-black and gave the stick to Jake. When both their faces were blackened, they started cutting strips of burlap with their razor sharp switchblades to weave into the netting of their helmets. The camouflage was designed to break the stark outline of their steel pots and make them harder to distinguish in the dark. Despite the lack of war paint they both looked ferocious.
The two men reacted quickly to a commotion behind them. They turned to see three military sedans pull up along side their group. One of them had a stiff flag with four stars attached to the front fender. General Eisenhower s
tepped out of the back seat. A British major stepped out of another sedan and beckoned to the troops to gather around.
Eisenhower and his entourage joined in with the group of stunned paratroopers. They didn’t know whether to stand at attention or at ease. The general broke the silence.
“As you were, men.” He waved his arms in the air. “Gather around.” The paratroopers closed in a rough circle.
“Where are you from soldier?” He addressed a paratrooper with a blackened face. He was holding his battle helmet under his arm.
“West Virginia, sir.”
“What’s your name?”
“Private Billy Christian, sir.”
“Good luck, Private.” The general shook his hand and moved to the next soldier. It was another private and he was wearing his helmet and had his musette bag hanging over his chest. His pockets were bulging with equipment. “What’s your name, son?”
Private Homer Smith was so flustered by the presence of Eisenhower he froze. After an awkward moment of silence, he answered with what he could remember.
“Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, sir.”
“They make good steel in Pittsburgh. Keep up the good work, son.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
At the appearance of the staff cars West hurried over from his plane, number twenty-three, which was parked in the next revetment. He stepped into the circle now surrounding Eisenhower and extended his hand.
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 39