“Lieutenant Frank West, sir. Headquarters Company, Five-oh-six.”
The general shook his hand. “Your men look ready and eager, Lieutenant.” Eisenhower seemed strangely uneasy.
“They’ve trained hard, General. They’ll do their jobs.”
West noticed the general’s gloomy demeanor. It was almost as if he came to say good-bye rather than to inspire them. What West didn’t know was Eisenhower had been given dire casualty projections for the airborne operation, codenamed Operation Neptune. His senior officer in charge of all air operations, Air Marshal Sir Trafford Leigh-Mallory of the British Royal Air Force had projected casualty figures as high as seventy percent. The year before, after the 82nd Airborne suffered twenty-seven percent casualties in Sicily, Eisenhower became convinced the airborne divisional formation was too large and the risk of losses outweighed any benefits gained. His subordinates eventually convinced him otherwise and he reluctantly agreed to an airborne component to Operation Overlord. All of this weighed heavily on his mind in the hours before the invasion and compelled him to visit some airdromes and meet and encourage as many of the young paratroopers as he could. He went on to the next soldier.
Before the general could say anything, the soldier spoke. “Private Robert Goldbacher, New York City, sir.”
Eisenhower shook his hand and moved on to the next paratrooper. After a few more minutes of exchanging pleasantries with the men, he stepped back into the center of the circle. By now more paratroopers had joined the group and surrounded him. They strained to see and hear the general over the heads of their comrades.
“Men, you have a most important mission on D-Day…secure the causeways behind Utah Beach. The Hun is a tough soldier but you’re tougher, better trained and better equipped. The only thing they have over you is combat experience and that advantage will disappear within minutes of your landing. I know you will you do your duty. Good luck and God bless you all.”
As the general turned to walk away, Jake Kilroy stepped into the circle. “General Ike, sir. Jake Kilroy, Virginia. Are we going tonight or do you think it will be postponed again?”
Johnny rolled his eyes as Lieutenant West covered a feigned cough. Jake was determined to get an answer from the only person in the world who knew for sure.
Eisenhower looked Jake straight in the eyes and said with a grim smile, “We go tonight!”
The group erupted in a cheer as the general and his staff retreated back to his sedan and made off in a hurry.
“You love screwing with generals, don’t you? You can’t help yourself.” Johnny smiled.
Jake had a big grin on his face. He really liked flaunting authority and immensely enjoyed tweaking the Supreme Commander. “At least I got an answer.”
Just before sunset, the planes began loading. Sergeant Stockett assigned Johnny as the pusher because he had already made a combat jump.
Johnny was first into the transport. Privates Billy Christian, Homer Smith, Robert Goldbacher, Stanley Zebrosky, Leland Brewer, the platoon medic, and Corporal Manuel Sosa, the assistant squad leader, climbed in after Jake. The rest of the stick followed. They struggled through the door with their heavy loads, getting pulled from within and pushed from behind. Each man was given a piece of paper as he boarded. Johnny read it as he worked his way up forward to the pusher position immediately behind the flight cabin.
Soldiers, Sailors, Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force.
You are about to embark upon the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven these many months. The eyes of the world are upon you.
It was a long note signed by General Dwight D. Eisenhower. He had seen this kind of note before, in Sicily, so he tucked it into his tunic pocket. He would save it and read it later.
When all of the C-47s were fully loaded, the engines began firing up. As more and more planes revved up their twin engines, a mechanical symphony began to play out. In a few minutes every plane had its engines humming smoothly and they began to taxi into position. The vibration was so strong that the ground beneath them began to throb and shudder as the massive armada positioned itself for take-off. It was at once both terrifying and beautiful.
Jake tilted his helmet back, his chinstrap dangling and his eyes closed. Johnny leaned forward, resting his chin on his reserve chute. Each man sought out his own personal place of comfort both in his seated position and in his personal thoughts. The trooper across from Johnny spoke above the engine noise.
“Hey, Yank.”
“What, Goldbrick?” Private Robert Goldbacher was one of the hardest working soldiers in the platoon. Some nicknames had nothing to do with attributes or flaws but rather simply a corruption of a name.
“What’s it like to be in combat?”
Ever since the Kilroys joined the Screaming Eagles and it became common knowledge they had jumped in Sicily, they had been asked this on numerous occasions. There simply was no answer to that question. It was a different experience for each individual. Regardless of how many times they were asked both Jake and Johnny agreed it was impossible to put into words.
Goldbacher was a smart Jewish kid from the Lower East Side of Manhattan and a hard-nosed soldier. Johnny gave him the most introspective answer he could muster. “Put it this way, Goldbrick. Combat is when you first find out that you can’t live up to your own expectations.”
Goldbacher nodded vigorously as a confused look gathered on his face.
Christian looked across the aisle at Smith. “Hey Homo,” he hollered over the engine noise. “In case another general asks, your name is Private Homer Smith.”
The nearby paratroopers laughed heartily at the barb…anything to break the mounting tension. Smith cocked his head to the side. “Yeah, yeah. I got nervous in the service.”
Buzz Buggy taxied to the start point and took off in sequence. It maneuvered gracefully into a precisely choreographed formation designed to place 800 planes over their drop zones, on time, on target, in the dark. Although it would take barely an hour to make the 136-mile trip, it would take nearly five hours for all of the planes to deliver their loads. They were in the eleventh of twenty serials. Each serial was comprised of forty or more aircraft.
As their plane lifted into the darkened sky, Jake shoved a stick of gum into his mouth and leaned toward Johnny. “We need to be careful…stay together. Anything can happen tonight.”
Johnny nodded. Jake looked more apprehensive than normal. They both felt invincible on their first two jumps but this time Jake appeared to feel vulnerable. It was a product of what they had both been through in Sicily. Sometimes a soldier felt strong and other times he felt his nerve slipping away. It happened to Johnny in New York when he couldn’t bring himself to leave Rose. Both Jake and Rose convinced Johnny to gather himself and report back for duty. The two friends never spoke about that incident again.
Johnny turned to look out the oval window. The plane was banking sharply and on his side he could see the murky shadows of some of the farms in the English countryside by the faint light of dusk. He began to murmur softly. “We few, we happy few, we band of brothers, for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.” Johnny shifted in his bucket seat and looked directly at the dim outline of one of the larger blacked out farmhouses and spoke louder. “And gentlemen in England now abed shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhood cheap whiles any speaks that fought with us on…” he hesitated, looked at Jake and changed the quote. “On D-Day.”
“What’s that?” Jake asked.
“Shakespeare…from Henry the Fifth. At least the part I can remember.”
Jake shook his head and chuckled. “You’re something buddy. Quoting Shakespeare on our way to hell.”
Johnny snorted a dismissive chuckle. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
The C-47 clawed for its cruising altitude of 1,500 feet and settled into a staggered position in one of many V-of-Vs. The stream of planes took a southwest heading out of England ove
r a spit of land called Portland Bill. From there they skirted the right side of the invasion fleet heading south in the English Channel toward the beaches of Normandy. The plan was for the air contingent to skirt the German occupied Channel Islands of Guernsey and Jersey and make a left hook onto the west side of the Contentin Peninsula. The Contentin was twenty-three miles wide at its base with all six of the drop zones within the last five miles. Once they released their loads, the planes would fly straight north, out over the English Channel and return to England flying directly over the invasion fleet but in the opposite direction.
After some time, Jake nudged Johnny to look out the oval window. Below them was the most spectacular sight they would ever see. From horizon to horizon, visible by virtue of the reflected moonlight, was an unending and countless mass of ships of all shapes and sizes. The invasion force was enormous and was relentlessly plowing the choppy seas toward its destination. The immensity of the flotilla was a great comfort to him. They shouldn’t be behind enemy lines for too long before link up.
Jake spoke first over the engine noise. “General Lee once said this division would have a rendezvous with destiny.” He shook his thumb at the scene in the window. “He was right. This is bigger than anything we’ll ever see again.”
They sat in silence for a few more minutes. The cabin was dark and each trooper was occupied in his own pre-jump ritual. There were smokers, sleepers, daydreamers and those who simply prayed. Each one lost in his thoughts and reflections and most making some sort of deal with his God for a safe return.
Johnny leaned to Jake. “Jake, I need to ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“Me and Rose want you and Macie to be the godparents for our kid.”
Jake was caught off guard. “Are you sure? Me? And you don’t even know Macie.”
“Hey, we talked about it in our letters and we want the godparents to be a couple. You and I are closer than brothers. Besides, if you hadn’t taken in that movie back in New York, the kid would have never been born.” Johnny laughed.
“That’s true,” Jake joked back, “But you two looked like you were ready to do it right there on the kitchen table!”
Johnny laughed again. “I think you’re right.” He paused to look at Jake. “Well?”
“It would be an honor. I accept.”
Johnny slapped Jake on the knee to seal the deal. “Great. That settles it. Now don’t you go and get yourself killed on me.”
“I won’t. You neither.”
The C-47 bucked and banked and skidded to the right. The view outside the window became cloud shrouded. They had flown into a low-lying fog bank as they crossed the coast and were flying blind. In an effort to avoid mid-air collisions, the pilots began to veer away from each other. The tightly packed formation began drifting apart and was irrevocably broken. All unit cohesion was immediately lost.
It seemed longer than the few minutes it was, but when the plane cleared the fog bank it was already well inland and heading into a steady stream of ground fire. The plane rocked and twisted as the pilots tried to evade the flak. Paratroopers were being thrown about the cabin. The shrapnel from the flak banged against the skin of Buzz Buggy like stones on a tin roof. Suddenly a salvo of bullets came up through the floor of the plane and exited the roof. The pilots continued to jerk the plane around while at the same time trying to join up with the few other planes around them. They may not be from the same serial but if they could match speed and altitude, the troopers would be dropped in some semblance of a group.
Sergeant Stockett was looking at Johnny with an anxious expression. He appeared to be asking Johnny why there was no light signaling four minutes from the drop zone. It was getting dicey and the plane continued to take hits and bounce around the sky. It didn’t seem likely they would survive for four more minutes. If the C-47 took a fatal hit while the troopers were still seated, they would never get out.
Johnny looked into the flight deck. The crew was panicked. He answered Stockett’s query with a firm thumbs up gesture. The sergeant nodded back and yelled, “Stand Up!”
The entire plane stood and Stockett gave the hand sign for hook up and the paratroopers hooked their static lines to the overhead cable. “Count off,” hollered Stockett. It was the fastest equipment check Johnny had ever seen and before it worked its way completely to the door, he was already pushing in and compressing the stick. The boys leaned heavily against each other and were being held up by one another as the plane bounced and rocked and twisted in a fruitless effort to evade the flak. Buzz Buggy was still absorbing a great deal of punishment.
Johnny looked back into the cockpit to see the pilots struggling to find the drop zone. Another brace of 20-millimeter anti-aircraft shells stitched the cabin behind the cockpit. The muscular wide-eyed navigator was looking back at Johnny with stark terror in his eyes.
“Let’s go!” some were yelling. “We gotta get out!” The plane continued to bounce and shudder wildly. Johnny looked back into the cockpit. “Let’s go,” he yelled.
Suddenly the plane sped up and pitched up slightly. The red warning light went on and turned quickly to green. Johnny yelled, “Go, go, go,” and leaned on Jake’s back, literally pushing the frightened stick out of the plane.
The paratroopers, some with injuries, shuffled quickly along the blood-soaked deck and sprang out of the door in one continuous stream. We must be setting some kind of record for getting sixteen guys out of a plane, Johnny thought. No one wants to be left behind, including the wounded. As Johnny neared the door he pushed hard on Jake’s back. As Jake went through the door, there was a loud explosion from the front of the plane. The C-47 shook violently and twisted as the nose dropped. Johnny was thrown back inside the plane and stumbled forward, off balance and out of control. He stopped rolling halfway down the cabin and looked up toward the cockpit. The plane’s windshield was shattered. Blood and gore was splattered all over the instrument panel. The navigator was struggling to his feet. Both pilots appeared lifeless and the plane was diving out of control. The navigator reached forward over the slumped body of his co-pilot, grabbed the yolk and yanked back with all his might leveling the plane and then pitching it up. He turned to see Johnny struggling to stand up, get untangled and regain his balance.
“Get out, now,” the navigator yelled as the plane pitched up further. Johnny scrambled back to the door, aided by gravity and the transport plane’s nose-up attitude but struggling under his heavy load. He crawled to the door and looked back only to see the navigator straining to keep the damaged plane’s nose up. Johnny nodded, a weak but heartfelt thank you as he rolled out of the door into the tracer-streaked sky.
Jake got to his feet when he had recovered sufficiently and strained to hear what was around him. But the constant droning of the continuous stream of C-47s, punctuated by the torrent of anti-aircraft fire, drowned out all other sounds save for that piercing church bell. He stripped his yellow Mae West life preserver and shoved it into the hedge. Next came his harness and his reserve chute. The .45-caliber pistol was still in its shoulder holster and he silently thanked Colonel Gardiner for not taking it back after the Rome Job. Besides a few grenades, it was his only weapon. He racked the slide, chambered a round and started walking.
Jake moved carefully in the shadows of the shrubbery. He came upon a road and moved along it. Up ahead on a slight crest he saw and heard a German “flakwagon” firing skyward at the planes. The rapid-fire 20-millimeter anti-aircraft guns were tearing the bellies out of the transports. He felt for a grenade, cut the safety tape and crept into throwing range.
All of a sudden there was an explosion and the gun went silent. The blast was followed by rifle fire as two paratroopers jumped up on the flakwagon and emptied their M-1 Garands into the Germans manning the gun. Jake let a few minutes go by and edged closer to the smoking vehicle. Then he heard the ominous single click of the cricket device. He groped for his but couldn’t locate it in his pocket. The challenger repeated the c
lick and Jake knew if he didn’t answer quickly he would be shot. “Flash,” he whispered as loud as he could through a dry throat.
“Thunder,” came the reply. “Jesus, Jake, is that you?” Two men stepped out of the shadows. “Where the fuck is your clicker?” It was Private Billy Christian breathing hard and trying to remain quiet. “Me and Homo here almost shot your ass.”
“It’s in here somewhere, I think. Shit, I lost everything on the jump. Too low and way too fast,” Jake was groping in his pockets. “You guys take out that AA gun?”
“Yeah, that was us,” Private Homer Smith answered, also excited and breathing heavily. “And Goldbrick here.” Private Goldbacher walked over to the group.
“Good job,” Suddenly Jake remembered he hung the cricket device around his neck. His was issued with a small lanyard. He felt for it, found it and breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at Christian. “You guys figure out where we are yet?”
“No idea!” Christian was an outdoorsman, comfortable in the woods and always did well in night navigation exercises. If he had no idea, it would not be easy to find out where they were.
“Anybody see Johnny?”
The three heads shook negatively.
Jake looked around. He was a private like the rest of them but with three combat jumps he figured he outranked them all. “Okay, let’s get to some high ground, take a look around and figure out where the hell we are.” Before anyone could object he started walking. “Follow me.”
They did.
Chapter Forty-Six
Pointe-du-Hoc, France - June 6, 1944
“One man with courage makes a majority.”
Andrew Jackson (1767 - 1845)
Johnny Kilroy dove out of the plane at a bad angle and knew he was in imminent danger of fouling his shroud lines. The snapping impact of his parachute opening jarred him breathless. He groaned as his lungs expelled his air. Despite the shock and pain, he looked up thankfully to a full canopy. Before he could feel relief he looked down to see only the wide, angry moonlit ocean. He was about to experience a paratrooper’s worst nightmare; a night water landing.
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 40