The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  “Hundred and sixteenth regiment, sir, Twenty-ninth Division,” Harley answered. “What outfit is this?” There seemed to be a little over twenty men coming through the hedgerow.

  “I’m Lieutenant Charles H. Parker Jr., Able Company, First Platoon, Fifth Rangers. What are you doing here, Sergeant? Where’s your outfit?”

  “They’re all dead on the beach. I hooked up with the Second Rangers. We were fighting on the bluffs above the Vierville draw when I got separated.”

  Parker pulled out a map. “Show me!”

  Harley pointed. “They’re here.” Then he pointed to the beach area directly in front of the draw. “My company was wiped out here on Dog Green. Most of the second wave, too.” Harley looked at the lieutenant. “They stopped sending landing craft in. Did the invasion fail?”

  “No,” Parker answered. “We came across the beach near the border of Dog White and Easy Red right between two strong points.” Parker was fingering the map as he spoke. “Between the Vierville and the Les Moulins exits. We took some fire but we made the seawall, crossed the road and came up the bluffs.” Parker paused. “Seems like the Krauts fortified the beach exits up the ass but not so much in between them. Took us a while to find the soft spots. Things are kind of fouled up down there and it’s rough in places but the landings are still on.”

  Harley exhaled loudly. Parker continued. “Rangers from the Second and Fifth Battalions and soldiers from the Twenty-ninth made it up the bluffs and got behind the beach defenses.” Parker looked to the north toward the beach. “What’s over there?”

  “Charlie Beach and plenty of Krauts between here and there. Where are you headed, sir?”

  Parker pointed. “We’re headed west for Pointe-du-Hoc. We missed the rest of the battalion at the assembly area. They’re probably way ahead of us by now.” Parker took a sip from his canteen. “We’ll probably catch hell for being late. We got three or four more miles to go. Our guys may need our help taking out those big guns up there. Care to join us, Sergeant?”

  Harley looked around. What choice do I have? It’s a miracle I’m still alive and hanging with the Rangers has been good to me so far. He slung his rifle. “Count me in, sir.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Neuville-au-Plain, France – June 6, 1944

  “We fight, get beat, rise, and fight again.”

  Major General Nathaniel Green (1742 – 1786)

  Armed only with his .45, Jake Kilroy led his small band of paratroopers through a sunken lane between two immense hedgerows. They moved quietly and stayed in the moon shadows of the overhanging shrubbery. Planes were still flying overhead and tracers and flares were still sprinkling the sky with deadly colors. The incessant noise masked their movement.

  Jake asked Christian to bring up the rear as they sandwiched Goldbacher and Smith between them. At the end of the sunken lane they came upon a paved road. In the intermittent light of the anti-aircraft artillery reflecting off the low clouds, Jake saw a square stone pillar astride the road with brass plaques affixed to the side.

  “Stay here,” he ordered Goldbacher and Smith. He waved at Christian. “Billy, on me.”

  They looked up and down the road and crossed over to the base of the stone pillar. Jake read the plaque in the moonlight. “This is Route Nationale Thirteen.”

  “Yeah, but where on N-13?” Billy whispered.

  Jake looked at the second plaque. “Monteberg. Fifteen kilometers.” He deliberated for a moment trying to envision the sand tables. “We’re northwest of Sainte-Mere-Eglise.”

  Christian nodded and they scampered back to the shadows of the sunken lane. Jake gathered the small group in a circle and knelt down. Jake looked into the faces of the young men not sure what to expect and saw a look of determined confidence on each man.

  “We’re way off the mark. The drop was screwed.” They all knelt down with him. “There’s a village called Neuville-au-Plain about a mile north of Sainte-Mere-Eglise right here on N-13. If we take this main road we’ll have to pass through that village. Or we can go cross-country. Either way we’re staying together.”

  Christian spoke first. “I feel a lot better staying off the roads and going cross-country.”

  Goldbacher and Smith indicated agreement. In the midst of their conversation the planes suddenly stopped flying overhead. The guns fell silent and their whispers seemed unusually loud. They froze in silence and strained to hear anything at all. Only the dim sounds of small nighttime creatures and the distant sounds of gunfire could be heard. Jake nodded his agreement, got up and began moving down the sunken lane away from the road. The three men followed. They had only traveled a hundred yards when they heard the sound of hobnail boots back on the paved road. The Germans were patrolling Highway N-13. Jake was relieved they made the right decision.

  The eerie silence of the night was disturbed by an occasional crack of small arms fire, emanating from every direction. The sporadic bursts of gunfire signaled small engagements and firefights, confrontations and withdrawals, unexpected encounters and clashes in the night as opposing forces of varying sizes stumbled upon one another. Jake knew they would have to get to their objective by daylight when German counterattacks were bound to come in organized units and with considerable force. Christian took the lead. They continued to work their way through hedgerows, across open fields and down sunken lanes. Progress was slow as they zigzagged across the countryside, unable to move in a straight line because of the patchwork of hedgerow protected fields. Christian kept his easterly direction by using the North Star. They moved quietly and alertly, weapons at the ready.

  They came to another paved road running northeast to southwest. Christian halted them and signaled for Jake to come to the front. Jake looked up and down the road and tried to envision it in his mind’s eye.

  “Wait here,” he instructed Christian and slipped away to find a road marker. A few minutes later he returned. The group gathered around in a small circle and took a knee.

  “Ravenoville,” he pointed northeast up the road. “Sainte-Mere-Eglise,” he pointed in the opposite direction down the road. Then he made a chopping motion with the knife-edge of his left hand toward the southeast, perpendicular to the road. “Sainte-Marie-du-Mont. I remember this road on the sand table. We’re about ten miles away from our objective, cross-country as the crow flies. Through more hedgerows and swamps. Maybe a small river or two.”

  Goldbacher observed, “We’ll never make it before daylight.”

  Jake looked at his watch. “It’s oh-four-hundred. I think we should head up this road to Ravenoville and try to find a causeway exit near the coast.”

  “The Krauts are bound to be watching the roads,” Christian warned.

  “Yeah, maybe we could hold up here and wait it out?” Smith suggested.

  “We have to keep moving,” Jake stood up. “We can’t be out here alone when the sun comes up. If it’s between the coast road or cross-country, I say let’s make for the coast.”

  They all stood up. “Ravenoville it is,” concluded Christian and he stepped out onto the paved road to lead the way. The group moved along the roadside in single file. A distant drone could be heard that became increasingly louder. After a few minutes the familiar sound of C-47 engines filled the sky. The men looked skyward. The C-47 Skytrains were towing small American CG-4A Waco gliders. Jake quickly counted six nine-plane V-of-Vs. Shortly the drone of the engines faded into the north as the tow planes slipped their cables and released their gliders onto silent currents of air. It took a moment for Jake to grasp that the distant sound of splintering wood was from gliders crash landing violently into hedgerows, trees and man-made obstacles called “Rommel’s Asparagus”.

  In short order the tiny group was once again engulfed in the scattered but muted sounds of the night. Insects and critters chirped, small arms fire erupted and cracked in the distance. Allied bombers barely audible at high altitudes dropped their bomb loads on railroad yards and marshalling areas well inland. Christian
hugged the side of the road as he stepped quietly and carefully. The three other troopers followed, eyes and ears searching the darkness.

  “FLASH!”

  They all heard the challenge from the shadows and froze in their tracks.

  “THUNDER,” Christian answered. Three other paratroopers stepped out from the hedgerow alongside the road. The relief in their voices was all too obvious.

  “Jesus, we glad to see you guys. What outfit?” whispered a corporal with his arm in a makeshift sling. He was also carrying a .45.

  Jake stepped forward. “Hundred and first, Five-oh-six. What about you?” They spoke in hushed tones.

  The corporal tapped his arm. “Dislocated my shoulder on landing. We’re Eighty-second, Five-oh-five.”

  Jake’s old outfit! He didn’t recognize the trooper in the dim moonlight. Jake’s instincts told him the entire airborne drop had been a complete fiasco and this encounter proved it. Troops seemed to be scattered all over the countryside and nowhere near their objectives and now even the two American airborne divisions were intermixed. “Where are you headed?” Jake asked.

  “Our rally point. Sainte-Mere-Eglise. What about you?”

  Jake looked up the road toward the coast. “Sainte-Marie-du-Mont.”

  “It’s crawling with Krauts up the road,” Corporal Sling answered pointing over his shoulder with his pistol. “We just came from up that way.” One of Sling’s men nudged him and jerked his head toward the brush. “Oh yeah, shit, you gotta see what we found.”

  The corporal moved up the road a few yards and pulled back the shrubbery. Lying on the ground, barely visible in the moonlight, were two dead paratroopers. They were stripped naked of clothes and equipment except for a musette bag with some orange panel markers used to identify friendly troops during air strikes. Each soldier had a large hole that almost obscured their faces, the exit wounds from a shot to the back of their head. Both of them had their genitals removed and stuffed into their mouths. It was a horrendous sight. Goldbacher threw up.

  Jake recognized the thin wispy blond hair of Sergeant Stockett. He fought off his own revulsion and stepped closer to identify the other trooper. The Mohawk haircut told him it wasn’t Johnny. That was all he wanted to know. He turned to Christian. “Billy, we need to find out what Kraut unit was stationed around here. There will be payback!”

  “Fucking-A,” whispered an equally furious Christian. “Who was that with the Sarge?”

  Smith answered. “It was Manny. I could tell by the tattoo on his arm.” He recognized assistant squad leader Manuel Sosa.

  Jake stepped back from the gruesome scene, tried to contain his outrage and turned to the corporal from the 82nd. “We’ll join your group and head toward Sainte-Mere-Eglise with you. It’s almost sunrise and we’ll never make it to our objective in time anyway.”

  The corporal nodded nervously. He seemed more than willing to defer to Jake.

  “Okay, then. I’ll take the point. Billy, you bring up the rear. Everyone stay alert!”

  Jake led the group back down the road from where they came. Their pace quickened as the sun brightened the eastern sky. Soon they came across the smaller outer buildings of a village. The steeple of a church was visible through the morning haze on the southern horizon.

  “FLASH!” Jake heard the loud challenge clearly, even though he could not see anyone.

  “THUNDER,” he answered and a dozen fierce looking paratroopers came out of hiding with their weapons trained on the small group. A second lieutenant approached the group and noticed Jake’s Eagle patch. “We got a bunch of your guys in the center of town. Head for the church. Watch out for snipers.”

  Jake looked up at the spire of an old stone Norman church some distance away. He led his small detachment toward it as the 82nd members of his small party broke off to find their own units. Corporal Sling nodded a brief farewell, which Jake acknowledged with a thumbs up.

  The group picked their way cautiously along a street leading into the town square. Jake noticed the street sign said Rue du Cap de Lain. The shops were boarded up and closed on both sides of the street. There was no sign of civilians as they made their way deeper into the town.

  A few hundred yards farther they came across a large two-story building with a sign that read Hotel de Ville. As they neared the building, an American flag shot up the large flagpole in front. It was a nine by twelve foot, tattered, forty-eight star banner. A colonel had personally run the flag up. There were some muted cheers from nearby paratroopers. The colonel then jogged toward the center of town. Jake knew him immediately. It was Lieutenant Colonel Edward. C. “Cannonball” Krause, CO of the 3rd Battalion, 505th PIR. That exact same flag had flown over Gela, Sicily and the main post office in Naples, Italy. Jake quickened his pace to keep up.

  The courtyard of the old stone church faced the wide town square of Sainte-Mere-Eglise. Jake led his group toward the square. As they walked past the church they saw the bodies of dead paratroopers lining the road. They were wrapped in their parachutes and laid carefully. Jake’s companions stiffened at the sight. The smell of human blood mixed with cordite was palpable. Jake had smelled the wicked brew and seen the dead before. He simply lowered his head.

  They continued to walk. Parachute canopies were still hanging from the trees, a few with dead paratroopers in grotesque positions still in their harnesses. Some of the paratroopers were in the process of cutting them down. It was a grisly scene. The cold dark gray stone blocks of the old church were flecked with slashes of light gray shrapnel marks and bullet gashes. An empty dappled green parachute still fluttered from the church steeple. Must have been some damn fight for this town, Jake thought to himself.

  Krause jogged over to a group of American officers in the square. Another colonel was sitting in a jeep. Jake walked over to report in.

  “First town liberated in France, Ben,” Krause smiled to the other colonel. Jake noticed the colonel had his left leg splinted and it was dangling out of the side of the jeep. He was injured on the jump and the jeep had come in by glider. Jake recognized the colonel. It was Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin H. Vandervoort, CO of the 2nd Battalion of the 505th PIR. He wasn’t happy.

  “Right, Ed. Now all we have to do is hold the damn town!” Vandervoort grimly replied. He felt Krause was showboating with the flag stunt. Their personalities could not have been more different. Krause was fiery and loud while Vandervoort was reserved and soft spoken.

  “We’ll hold it just fine, Ben, now that your Second Battalion is here.”

  Krause’s 3rd Battalion seized the town at 0400 hours after a concentrated drop. The German troops had unexpectedly abandoned the town after they defeated a small group of Screaming Eagles who had been miss-dropped into the center of the town while the townspeople were fighting a fire at 0100 hours. Those paratroopers were slaughtered in their parachutes as they descended into the lighted square.

  Colonel William E. Ekman, who succeeded Gavin as the CO of the 505th PIR, was unaware Krause had already captured the town so he ordered Vandervoort to seize it. Now, there was the better part of two battalions defending Sainte-Mere-Eglise.

  A small group of paratroopers entered the town from the southwest. Jake could tell by their equipment they were Pathfinders. The men sat down under the shade of a tree while their leader walked toward the command group. Jake recognized him. It was Corporal Danny Peregory. Danny paused slightly to look at the dead paratroopers still hung up in the trees. Just as Jake was about to holler out, Krause noticed the men sitting and immediately challenged them.

  “What the hell are you men doing?” Krause screamed.

  Danny stepped up to the colonel. He had been in the 3rd Battalion as long as anyone and absolutely despised Krause and his obnoxious behavior and abusive ways.

  “This isn’t a rest camp, Corporal,” Krause continued hollering before Danny could say a word. “Turn those men around and set up a blocking position on that road.”

  “Yes, sir,” Danny answered and
turned to his team who had heard the whole exchange. They started to get off the ground slowly and began laughing at Krause’s behavior. They found it amusing that Danny got chewed out. Their laughter sent Krause into a rage.

  “You men, there! What the hell do you think is so goddamn funny? Get your asses in gear you bunch of stupid, yellow bastards!” Krause turned to Danny. “Your men are not taking this seriously, Corporal. See that they get moving and pronto.”

  Danny was furious. His men had just successfully completed a dangerous mission and instead of praising them; he was chewing them out. Danny and his team had hauled their lights, signal panels and Eureka sets from the original drop zone south of Sainte-Mere-Eglise, to another drop zone northwest of the town. It was backbreaking work, at night under combat conditions but his Pathfinders had pulled it off. They guided the glider force in exactly where they had been ordered to land them. That the second drop zone was too small and somewhat obstructed was not their fault. The field became a junkyard of smashed gliders and the glider men suffered dreadful casualties. But the much-needed supplies made it in.

  Danny stood toe to toe with Krause and had had enough. He did something a paratrooper never did in combat and something that stunned everyone present. Danny stiffened to attention and snapped off a perfect salute. “Yes, sir.” He held the rigid salute awaiting a return.

  Krause instantly understood. He was immediately at risk that an enemy sniper would target him. Everyone in the square held their breath expecting the report from a sniper’s rifle. It seemed like an eternity before Krause returned Danny’s salute with a half-hearted flip of the hand. Danny held his salute a few more seconds as if to emphasize the point and then dropped his arm. Krause pretended to be oblivious to the danger and continued to bark out orders.

  Jake stepped into the area and was immediately challenged by a major. “Where are you going, soldier?”

  “Sainte-Marie-du-Mont.” Jake replied.