The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  A yawning gap of fourteen miles separated the southern boundary of the 82nd Airborne and the northernmost objective of the 101st Airborne at Veghel. Major General Maxwell D. Taylor assigned the 501st PIR to capture the four bridges over the river Aa and the Willems Vaart Canal. In the center of his sector, Taylor tasked the 502nd PIR with capturing the bridges at St. Oedenrode and Best. He ordered the 506th PIR to capture the roadway bridge over the Wilhelmina Canal near the village of Zon and four bridges over the Dommel River in Eindhoven four miles further south.

  Sitting at the start line thirteen miles further south was XXX Corps of the British Second Army. It was their job to attack north and charge up the corridor over the captured bridges.

  The men of HQ Company, 506th PIR, were gathered around a hastily constructed sand table in a large briefing tent. They were told the Brits were going to make a run at entering Germany. All the airborne needed to do was to capture and hold the bridges leading north to Arnhem.

  It would be a daylight drop. Some men groaned. They would be easy targets. The Normandy veterans silently approved. Jumping into a night sky full of tracers, too fast and too low, in the wrong place and unable to see where they were landing was by far the scariest moment in most of their young lives. They would take their chances in the daylight.

  Unlike Normandy, there would be no clickers, no gas masks, no impregnated clothing and no password. They would have to get off of the drop zone immediately since the DZ had to be cleared for the next serial. Small groups of paratroopers would be dispatched to their objectives as soon as they had an officer. There was no time to wait for the coalescing of larger formations. Enemy resistance was expected to be light. Old men and young boys were guarding the bridges. But the Germans would react quickly so rapid deployment was essential. After securing the bridges, the single highway had to be kept open until the British armor arrived.

  “We’re jumping from a thousand feet and we land here, on DZ Charlie, with the rest of the Five-oh-six.” First Lieutenant Frank West held a pointer on the sand table. It was aimed at a spot north of the Wilhelmina Canal and west of the village of Zon. “We’re in the first serial so you’d better get off the damn DZ hubba-hubba or shit from the sky will be raining down on you.”

  There was some nervous laughter. The veterans held a new respect for Casper. West had proven in combat he had a spine of steel. He continued in his trademark soft-spoken demeanor.

  “I’m not kidding, guys. The next serial will be only four minutes behind us. When they drop their para-packs you’d better not be standing there.” West was referring to the equipment bundles loaded with weapons and ammo that fell much faster and hit the ground much harder than a paratrooper. “Drop your chute, gather your gear and get the hell off the DZ fast. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied a weak chorus of voices.

  “Good.” West cleared his throat. “Head south out of the DZ to this forest.” He moved the pointer. “It’s called the Zonsche Forest. That should give us the cover we need to reach the Wilhelmina Canal undetected. Then we turn east and take the bridge at Zon.” He moved the pointer again to the bridge. “Questions?”

  “What about these damn patches, sir?” Private Homer Smith asked the question and the murmur around him indicated he was speaking for more men than just himself. “What the hell is this First Allied Airborne Army crap anyway? We’re Americans, sir.”

  West nodded. They were ordered to sew on the new patches by the high command of the newly formed First Allied Airborne Army. It was a crest-shaped gray patch with a gold winged white numeral one above crossed swords. Across the top was the legend “Allied Airborne”. The men of the 101st universally disdained the patch because they had to cover the American flag on their right sleeve to accommodate it. They would have reacted the same way if they were ordered to cover the Screaming Eagle patch on their left shoulder. Unit pride grew stronger as the casualty lists grew longer.

  West responded. “All right men. If you haven’t had time to sew on the new patch, just forget about it.” Muted whoops and hollers followed. “We have more important things to do today than worrying about patches.” West looked cautiously around the tent. “If anyone asks, just tell them you never got the darn patches.” With that, the few men who had sewn them over their American flag patch unceremoniously ripped them off to the delight of their comrades.

  “Any other questions?”

  “Who’s up ahead of us, sir?” someone from the back asked.

  “Eighty-second. They have two large bridges to capture at Nijmegan and Grave.”

  “And the last bridge, sir?” asked PFC Leland Brewer, the platoon medic.

  “The Brits have that one, Beerman. The bridge at Arnhem.”

  “Are we under British command?” asked Brewer.

  “We are. Monty’s running the show.”

  “Aw, fuck,” someone mumbled out from the crowd.

  West reacted. “What was that?”

  “Aw fuck, sir,” the same voice repeated. It was Sergeant Christian. The men laughed.

  Christian explained. “Their rations are shit, sir. Pardon my language Lieutenant but we can’t eat that bully beef, pudding pie and tea and the rest of the crap they eat. It ain’t human food.” The company broke out in agreeable laughter.

  West replied to all the men. “I understand. Hopefully, it won’t be for that long.”

  “Right, give me three days of hard fighting…” someone in the back yelled out in satirical mimicry of Taylor’s D-Day promise. The men laughed again.

  West continued after the noise subsided. “After we take the bridge, we go four miles south to Eindhoven and capture that town and the four bridges over the Dommel River. We secure the highway and wait for the Brits there. They’ll be starting off sixteen miles from Eindhoven at the Meuse-Escaut Canal. They should be linking up with us by the end of the day.”

  West looked around the tent trying to make eye contact with each man while waiting for the next question. After a few moments when no one spoke, he did. “The Screaming Eagles have a fifteen mile stretch of highway to keep open and a bunch of bridges to seize and hold until the Brits arrive. That’s our mission, open the road and keep it open! Any questions?” No one responded. “All right! The trucks are outside. Saddle up. I’ll see you on the flight line.”

  The 120 men of HQ Company filed out of the tent and piled onto three two-and-a-half-ton trucks. It was a typical misty, damp, fog-shrouded morning in England. The men were advised the weather was better over Holland.

  After a few minutes they were delivered beside one of the ninety C-47 Skytrain transport planes lined up neatly alongside the main runway at Membury Airdrome. The men dismounted and gathered beside their assigned C-47 with a huge J7 painted behind the cockpit. This was the unit designation for the 303rd Troop Carrier Squadron, one of four in the 442nd Troop Carrier Group. On the nose of the plane was a painting of a beautiful woman in a sitting position wearing a bathing suit. Under the nose art was the legend, Tallahassee Lassie.

  The veterans of D-Day tended to stay together in small groups. They considered themselves living on borrowed time; fugitives from the law of averages. Some of the men were loading a mortar, bazooka and ammo into A-5 para-packs to be fastened under the wings and released when the squad jumped. Jake and Johnny were in a group with Smith, Goldbacher and Brewer. They were loading up on ammo and K-rations when Lieutenant West walked over.

  “Everything okay here?” The men nodded. West looked at Johnny and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be here, Johnny. You’re not right just yet.”

  “Lieutenant West, sir. I’ll be fine. I won’t let you down.”

  West nodded. He looked at Jake. “Keep an eye on him. Watch out for him.”

  Jake flashed his trademark smile. “I always do, sir.” Johnny gave Jake an affectionate shove on the shoulder.

  Many men carried non-issue personal weapons such as brass knuckles, hunting knives and revolvers or pistols bought or sent from home. Jak
e still had his .45 from the Rome Job. Johnny had lost his .45 in the waters off Normandy but traded a Nazi belt buckle to a rear-echelon officer for a pistol. Jake picked up magazines for his Thompson and shoved them into his pockets.

  “Don’t worry about the standard combat load. Take what you need.” It was West. He was telling his men to ignore the rules regulating the amount of ammunition each man was to jump with. That was another reason they loved him.

  Another pile contained the main and reserve parachutes and they began to strap them on.

  “What the hell is this?” Goldbacher asked holding up one of the parachutes. It was different and distinctive by virtue of the white straps leading into a central round buckle.

  “Relax, Goldbrick. It’s one of the new harnesses the British are using,” Christian answered. “Quick release!”

  Goldbacher gave Christian a skeptical look.

  “It’s sort of late in the game to introduce new equipment, Sarge,” Smith chimed it.

  “No, look Homo, there’s nothing to it. It’s a standard T5 chute with a new harness.” Christian strapped on a parachute and adjusted it to his body. “Look, here.” The men gathered around as he snapped the straps of the harness into the buckle. “Now watch.” Christian rotated the large button in the center and punched it with the side of his fist. All the straps simultaneously released with a loud metallic click and the parachute and harness dropped to the ground.

  “Quick release. Pull the pin, turn the button and whack it. Bingo, the chute’s gone.”

  “Clever, but I don’t trust anything the Brits invented,” Jake joined the conversation.

  West was observing this scene. “If it makes you feel any better, these gizmos were invented by an American company called the Switlik Parachute Company.” West looked around to see the impact of his pronouncement. Most of the men seemed assured by that information.

  “Well in that case…” Goldbacher reached into the pile and strapped on a parachute. The rest of the men followed.

  Strapping on his chute, Jake turned to Johnny. “Yank, what kind of soldiers were those Rangers you fought with?”

  Johnny pondered the question for a moment. “Besides being a scraggly-looking bunch, they were damn good soldiers. Kind of like us.”

  “In what way?”

  “Too light to fight, too stupid to run!”

  Jake nodded. While the paratroopers were among the toughest, most highly motivated and intelligent combat soldiers in the field, they lacked the firepower to be successful in all situations. The airborne planners developed a parachute artillery element but delivering the 75-millimeter howitzer and ammo using gliders was always an iffy proposition. Even when they successfully deployed this artillery, re-supply was always a challenge for men fighting behind enemy lines.

  More often than not, paratroopers would find themselves up against tanks and artillery without sufficient firepower to answer back. In the battle of flesh against steel, it was only the courage and determination of the individual paratrooper that turned a would-be rout into a contestable skirmish. They won battles they should have lost by dint of their amazing unit loyalty and cohesion. These accomplishments were all the more remarkable because they were designed to be light-infantry; quick hitting, fast moving and swiftly withdrawn. They proved to be hard-hitting and fast moving but never rapidly withdrawn. Despite their lack of organic support elements, the paratroopers were always kept on the line much longer than they should have been.

  Jake knew exactly what Johnny meant by his short answer. The Rangers were designed and trained to be the same fast moving, hard-hitting shock force as the paratroopers. The longer they stayed in one place, the more their weakness in firepower was exposed. But the longer they held on and made a fight of it, the more reluctant the brass was to relieve them.

  As the paratroopers filled every available space in their uniforms, an American Red Cross coffee van drove up the flight line. Two young ladies moved from plane to plane, serving coffee and doughnuts to the waiting paratroopers.

  “Who likes it black?” asked the young redheaded volunteer with a thick British accent.

  “Here,” said Christian, Jake and Brewer in unison.

  She handed out three cups of black coffee from her van.

  “Milk and sugar,” Johnny asked. “Me too,” Goldbacher announced.

  “Milk’s in it, love. Sugar’s right there,” she pointed to the packets of sugar.

  The replacements lapped up the coffee and doughnuts. Most veterans ate the doughnuts and sipped the coffee since there was no place to take a piss in a crowded C-47 at 2,000 feet.

  An army ambulance, olive drab with a huge red cross on a white square on the roof and sides, made its way down the flight line. It was the familiar three-quarter ton, four-by-four Dodge truck-ambulance designated WC-54. As the paratroopers geared up, the army nurses moved from group to group making sure they had adequate medical supplies, morphine Syrettes and attending to any latent injuries. The nurses treated wounds that were not completely healed or scars that were tender and painful. They also provided blank V-Mail forms to any paratrooper who requested one and then tucked the hastily written letters into a pouch slung over their shoulders.

  Jake took a V-mail form and a pencil. He leaned on the back of Johnny’s parachute and began writing in big block letters. He spoke as he was writing. “I need to send another letter to Macie. She always says I don’t write enough.”

  “When did you write last?” Johnny asked.

  “Well, I sent a V-Mail a week after we got back from France and started writing a long letter. We got busy with replacements and then finding out you were in the hospital, I didn’t finish that letter for a couple of weeks.”

  “Don’t blame me,” Johnny chided. “You didn’t write that much before I got wounded.”

  “I know…I’m trying,” Jake confessed. “But I love this V-Mail.”

  The United States military copied the idea from the British. There was usually insufficient space aboard transports to haul the tons of mail passing between the Homefront and the troops. In order to save space, V-Mails were photographed to microfilm at the point of origination. The Eastman Kodak Company provided the high tech equipment to both compress and expand them at their destination. A normal letter size form would be shrunk to the size of a postage stamp and filed on a roll of microfilm. A single reel of microfilm, about the size of a deck of cards and weighing only twelve ounces, carried more than 1,600 letters. A musette bag of V-Mail microfilm replaced over sixty sacks of conventional mail.

  V-Mail forms could be obtained at post offices back in the States and were readily available to GIs overseas. When completed, the originator folded the letter so the destination address was visible. All of the V-mails were routed to the few centrally located photographic stations where the letter would be censored and photographed onto microfilm at 2,500 letters an hour. The original letters were kept until verification was received that the microfilm had reached its destination. If there were difficulties, the batch was re-photographed and resent.

  It cost three cents to mail a V-Mail from the States and about twelve days to get to Britain. It took a few more days to reprint the letter from the microfilm before it entered the standard paper mail delivery system at its destination. The average time for a regular letter was about a month.

  When the form was folded, they were easily recognizable by the red border on top and the legend, V dot-dot-dot-dash MAIL; the dots and dash being Morse Code for the letter V. The restrictions on V-mail did not deter its popularity. Since the reproduction was half the size of the original, it was important to write in large, dark, clear letters to assure legibility on the receiving end. With practice, most people adjusted to the restrictions.

  Jake finished his V-Mail. “You writing one?” he asked Johnny.

  “Already done and mailed,” Johnny smiled back.

  Jake folded his and handed it to the nurse. He had no way of knowing his V-Mail of a few weeks ago had to
be reprocessed because the PBY-5 Catalina carrying the original microfilm had crashed. His regular letter was still winding its way through the bureaucratic maze of bulk paper mail. As of that day Macie had not yet received either of his letters.

  Almost without notice, the fog burned off and the morning sun began peeking through the clouds. As the time for loading came nearer, it became eerily quiet on the flight line. The only audible sounds were those of truck engines and the click and clatter of equipment as the men helped each other gear up. Individual paratroopers took on the grotesque shape of a hunchback as the heavy burden weighed them down and they struggled, zombie-like, to hobble around.

  The flight crew of the Lassie arrived and boarded the plane and the men followed. Pushing and pulling each other through the door, the paratroopers painstakingly squeezed aboard. Jake was first in as he was the designated pusher. The smell of leather, hydraulic fluid and oil permeated the plane. It brought back memories of the other jumps. Johnny was right next to him. He would kneel for the take off and stand right behind the flight deck for the rest of the flight.

  When all the C-47s were loaded, the planes taxied into takeoff position. At ten second intervals it took only fifteen minutes to launch all ninety planes. Off the English coast over Bradwell Bay, this serial rendezvoused with others from various airfields. The elaborate plan lined up the 424 C-47 transports that would haul more than 6,700 paratroopers and seventy gliders of the Screaming Eagles to Holland. The line of transports on this southern route would be one hundred miles long and ten miles wide. Tallahassee Lassie was in the first serial.

  Planes and gliders transporting the 1st British Airborne and American 82nd Airborne Divisions would fly the northern air route. Before it was over, Operation Market-Garden would land 20,000 airborne troops and 500 vehicles supported by over 4,700 planes. The most powerful airborne force ever launched was winging its way to seize the vital bridges of Holland.