The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  “Gentlemen,” interrupted Middleton as he waved them closer to the big map. “It’s great to see the airborne here. How far behind are your troops?”

  “Sir, I have orders from General Hodges,” Gavin began. “Hundred and first is temporarily attached to VIII Corps and ordered to defend Bastogne. Eighty-second is on its way to Werbomont to be attached to V Corps.” Gavin handed the written orders to Middleton.

  “You mean we’re not fighting the two airborne divisions together?” asked McAuliffe.

  Gavin shook his head in the negative.

  “Nuts,” declared McAuliffe.

  Middleton scanned the orders quickly then turned to the map. “We’ve identified three German divisions bearing down on Bastogne.” He waved his hand up and down the map in the general direction east of the city. “The Second Panzer, Panzer Lehr and the Twenty-sixth Volksgrenadier Division make up the Forty-seventh Panzer Corps under Manteuffel and are closing in on the city. I’m pushing out armored columns along these three roads to hold them back until we can fortify the town.” Middleton ran his index finger along the roads to Noville, Longvilly and Ettelbruk.

  “Is that all you have to stop them?” asked McAuliffe. “What happened to the Twenty-eighth Infantry Division?”

  “They were overrun.” Middleton rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Two regiments of the Hundred and sixth Division are surrounded and cut off on the Schnee Eifel. Both these divisions held up the Krauts while outnumbered at least five to one. They blew up Jerry’s timetable and bought us the two precious days we needed to fortify Bastogne.” Middleton shook off the bad news and straightened up. “They paid a hefty price. Let’s not waste it.” Then he looked at McAuliffe. “So, where is your column?”

  McAuliffe answered by pointing at the map just to the west of Bastogne. “Right about here, sir. We’ll be in the city in strength by the morning.”

  Middleton nodded. “Good, because I’m pulling corps headquarters out of the city tomorrow. We’re re-establishing in Neufchateau about twenty miles southwest of here.” He placed his hand on McAuliffe’s shoulder. “The city is all yours to defend and I have to say there is nothing to stop Jerry from flowing behind Bastogne and cutting you off. You’ll be surrounded in short order. No doubt about it.”

  McAuliffe chuckled. “We’re always surrounded, sir. That’s how we make our living.”

  Middleton continued. “Your orders are to deny the Krauts use of the road network that flows through this city.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “And, one more thing, the Seven-oh-five tank destroyer battalion is on its way here. That’s all I can give you, Tony. Everyone in Bastogne will be under your command.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well, gentlemen,” Middleton concluded the impromptu conference. “Good luck.”

  The two generals walked toward the door. McAuliffe spoke first. “It appears I’m going to have to hold Bastogne with the second string.” He was referring to the fact that the division’s regular commander and many of the line officers were out of theatre and not present.

  “Second string for the airborne is still enough to beat the crap out of the Krauts.” He patted McAuliffe on the shoulder. “You’ll do just fine here, Tony. Maybe even make history.”

  Gavin took his M-1 from against the wall and clamped the sling onto his shoulder. His jeep was waiting outside, engine running and ready to go.

  “Where to, boss?” asked Sky.

  “Back to Werbomont. The way we came is the fastest.”

  The jeep pulled out and made its way through the center of town. The main road was lined with trucks and tanks from Combat Command B. The jeep veered left at a fork onto Highway N-15. They observed an armored column bearing right at the same fork on the way to Longvilly. Team Cherry, Gavin remembered. N-15 was a straight, hard packed macadam highway and in thirty quick miles Gavin would be back with his division.

  As they proceeded north they began to pass a row of trucks and Sherman tanks pulled over to the side. Gavin concluded it was Team Desobry. When he saw the command jeep, the one with multiple high whip antennae, he asked Sky to pull over. Major Desobry was in the front seat. He snapped a salute as Gavin startled him.

  “What’s the holdup, Major?”

  “We’re waiting on our supply train, General Gavin. It’s overloaded with everything we need and I don’t want those trucks traveling up this road without the protection of my armor.”

  “It’s your call, Major, but getting to Noville first, before the Krauts, is more important.”

  “I’ve sent a recon team up ahead. Scouts out on the flanks. If they see or hear any Krauts we’ll haul ass up there. It’s only about five miles.”

  Gavin nodded. “Good. I’d love to wait around and drive up with you but I’m in a bit of a hurry. So we’ll be on our way. Good luck, Major.”

  Gavin’s jeep jerked into motion and disappeared into the swirling fog.

  “And good luck to you, sir,” Desobry mumbled at the mist shrouded road.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Wichita, Kansas - December 19, 1944

  “I am not afraid. I was born to do this.”

  Joan of Arc (1412 - 1431)

  December 19, 1944

  Dear Derek,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I must confess I find myself missing you. I’m writing from Wichita, Kansas, which has been home for the past few months. Boeing has a plant here that builds the new B-29 Superfortress. Dora and I are members of the Engineering Flight Test Unit for Boeing. We’ve also been learning how to fly this monster. My God, Derek, it is such a beautiful airplane. It’s twitchy because it has some teething problems, little things like engines that are prone to catch fire, but it’s a dream to fly.

  It’s funny how it all worked out. This officer, Colonel Paul W. Tibbets, was in charge of training up a special bombing unit but his men were hesitant about the B-29. It had a bad reputation as a widow-maker when it first came out and the men were nervous. So Colonel Tibbets contrived a plan and checked out Dora and me on the plane. After much patient and exacting instruction and encouragement from the colonel, we ferried a brand new B-29 from the Wichita plant to Wendover Field, Utah, where the colonel had his training unit. You should have seen the looks on the faces of those pilots when Dora and I popped out of the crew hatch. Their jaws dropped when they saw that we were just two little old girls who could barely reach the pedals. The colonel had no more trouble convincing his men the plane was “safe and reliable” after that. No more complaints. I don’t know what his mission is but he seemed desperate and his ploy worked! When the Air Staff found out about his little trick, they forbade any more WASPs from flying the Superfortress. But we continued to fly them on occasion anyway under the covers. In fact I’m scheduled to ferry one out to Fairmont Army Air Base, Nebraska, this afternoon.

  Derek, this is the best job I ever had. I even got to fly a Jap Zero and an early-version Bf-109 Messerschmitt. Who else could ever get a chance to do that? Right now we fly three-quarters of the planes ferried in the States with a lower accident rate than the men. We also do other jobs the guys won’t do. Our gals tow target planes and get shot at. The ladies are also test pilots in repair depots to make sure repairs were done properly. Others were assigned to Training Command as flying cadet navigators and instrument instructors. Some fly experimental planes for evaluation because the more senior of us have nearly 3,000 hours in the cockpit and know damn well what the hell we’re doing!

  But it’s all going to end soon. The WASPs will be officially deactivated tomorrow – that’s why I have to ferry this plane out today. It seems we’re no longer needed like we once were. Combat pilots coming home want the ferry jobs to help them get the hours they need each month to make flight pay. And there are higher-ups who never accepted women pilots from the beginning. So, the WASPs will officially cease to exist tomorrow. It’s a sad day for me. But maybe we advanced the cause of women’s aviation
by our contribution in the War. Just maybe they’ll be aviation jobs for us after it’s over. If not for us, then for our daughters and granddaughters because they can never deny what we did for our country when she needed us most.

  I’m not complaining. It will be the same for all the women who joined the WACs or WAVEs or picked up a welding torch or a rivet gun and did a man’s job while their men were off fighting. We’ll all be expected to go back to the kitchen, to raise our families while the jobs go to the returning veterans. It may not be fair but that’s the way it will be. Some women will do it happily. Others, like myself, would rather still be flying. I think we’ve earned that opportunity.

  Nancy Love is my inspiration and my idol. Along with Amelia Earhart, who as you know I met when she was an aviation advisor at Purdue. I’m proud to have been among the 28 pilots Nancy recruited to demonstrate women could contribute to the war effort. She calls us her “Originals”, a nickname I accept proudly. She also has been trying to get all us women pilots into military status so we can enjoy the same benefits as servicemen. So far she has been unsuccessful but she is determined never to quit. Not many people know what we have been doing so Nancy gathered some startling statistics and shared them with us. In our 28-month life, the WASP organization attracted over 25,000 applicants; 1,830 were accepted, 1,074 won their wings, and 38 were killed in their duties, 11 in training and 27 on active duty. We ferried more than 12,000 aircraft of 78 different types more than 60 million miles, served without military benefits, and were paid two-thirds as much as the male civilian ferry pilots who we replaced.

  I know first hand that we frequently endured the worst kind of discrimination, yet I also know many of the girls would gladly continue ferrying aircraft for no salary at all. So would I. We would do it just for the love of it and the opportunity to be respected for what we can do. Perhaps someday we’ll even be treated as equals. Where do we find such strong and loyal women?

  But no one will be able to deny the contributions of American gals to this war effort. They can make us go back home to the kitchen but they can never take away what we did. Things will never be the same in this country, ever again, thanks to these brave women. I’m so proud of all my sisters in America, especially the WASPs. We ‘dames’ proved we could get the job done; make guns and ammo, build ships and tanks and planes and fly them too! It will make a big difference to all the women in this country, if not today, then someday in the future.

  I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Boeing has offered me a job and…

  Roxie Rawls looked up from her letter as Dora Dougherty stuck her head in the door of the small bedroom. “Gotta go, Roxie. You’re gonna be late, dearie.”

  Roxie screwed the top back on her fountain pen and gently placed it on the incomplete letter still attached to the writing pad. She softly closed the cover of the pad. “Thanks Dora, I’ll finish it when I get back.”

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Bastogne, Belgium - December 19, 1944

  “The merit of the action lies in finishing it to the end.”

  Genghis Khan (AD 1162 - 1227)

  Dawn broke nearly invisible on the morning of 19 December. Only the shift of color to a paler gray gave a hint the sun had risen beyond the impenetrable blanket of fog enveloping the eastern sky. The overnight trip from Mourmelon took place under a misty rain with the temperature hovering at forty degrees. The Screaming Eagles were transported packed tightly together in open trailers. If they slept at all, it was standing upright.

  After dismounting, the paratroopers formed up in a bivouac area immediately outside of Bastogne as their senior officers rushed into VIII Corps Headquarters to receive orders. The unexpected warmth of the previous evening gave way to a crisp northwest breeze that blew steadily through the low man-made canyons of the town. The wind foretold the return to colder temperatures with a subtle promise of snow. When the officers returned, the entire division was rousted from snatches of fitful sleep and formed up on the main road into town. Thundering cannon fire testified that battles were still raging and men were still dying east of the city.

  The long lines of Screaming Eagles, exhausted from the long trip and their short naps, began streaming into town on both sides of the main road. Despite being cold, wet and hungry, they walked with a confidence and a swagger that bordered on arrogance. Each face sported a mean and ugly disposition. The unspoken message seemed to be the paratroopers have arrived and the situation would soon be under control. They had won the race to the obscure farming town of Bastogne by the slimmest of margins.

  The 506th PIR followed the 501st into Bastogne. They marched past the buildings, small storefronts and an occasional church that lined the main road. The morning wore on and the sky brightened slightly. Out of the misty fog, like ghosts coming to life, troops and vehicles began moving in the opposite direction between the two files of paratroopers. The Screaming Eagles strutted taller as these soldiers retreated toward the rear. But this group was not the expected ragtag wounded and dispirited gaggle of men retreating from a lost battle. They were cleanly dressed, well armed and traveling in good order. Abruptly, the paratrooper column came to a halt.

  “What outfit?” Jake asked a GI as he walked past.

  “Corps Headquarters,” the embarrassed soldier answered. “We got orders to set up our HQ in the rear.” The young soldier, probably a clerk, seemed uncomfortable as he watched other men head into the firestorm he was walking away from.

  “Got any extra ammo?” Johnny asked as he walked up.

  The soldier slipped off a bandolier of .30-caliber ammo and tossed it to Johnny.

  “Thanks, Mac,” Johnny waved. The soldier lowered his head and kept walking.

  All along the line paratroopers were scrounging weapons and ammo from the withdrawing soldiers. The men with the white on blue VIII Corps shoulder patches had been ordered to the rear. Some 10th Armored Division HQ personnel were mixed in and they all willingly parted with ammo or medical supplies as they passed.

  “I could sure use some forty-five ammo,” Jake intoned.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll get some,” Johnny assured.

  “I’m not worried,” Jake answered staring into the eastern sky.

  “You know, Jake,” Johnny spoke to the back of his head. “This is a suicide mission.”

  Jake turned around. “Johnny, every mission we go on is a suicide mission. It never bothered you before.”

  Johnny nodded and pulled an envelope from his pocket. “If anything happens to me, you need to give this letter to Rose. Promise me!”

  Jake turned his back on his friend. “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

  “Jake!”

  “No, I’m not taking it.”

  “Look, Jake, I’ve sworn into all your blood pacts and you know you can count on me. I know I can count on you, too. That’s why I’m giving this to you. So, take it.”

  Jake turned around and faced Johnny. “All right. But I’m giving it back once we get out of this shit.” He reached for the crumbled envelope but Johnny pulled it back.

  “No, you need to hold it. This goes to Rose if anything happens to me no matter when. And you have to do it in person!”

  Jake nodded impatiently and took the envelope from Johnny’s hand. “Sure, sure, but Jeez, you have to rewrite the damn thing once we get out of here. This looks like a mess!”

  Johnny smiled. “Okay.”

  Jake stuffed the letter into his battle blouse pocket and buttoned it.

  “And don’t read it,” Johnny pointedly admonished.

  They heard the distinctive sound of a deuce-and-a-half before they saw it. It crawled forward between the files of paratroopers. When it passed, Johnny pointed to the officers hanging out the back. They were wearing “pinks and greens”, their dress uniforms. They were nabbed from leave and were being rushed up to their unit. The truck proceeded eastward until it disappeared into the fog. They had not seen any transport come this far into town and assumed the officers were
of sufficiently high rank to warrant risking the vehicle.

  They marched through town for ten or fifteen more minutes and were ordered to stop. Suddenly, through the fog, came a ghostly procession of soldiers in various states of disarray. Some were without helmets or without jackets or overcoats. Others wore bloody bandages and were being helped along by a buddy. Some ambled along slowly, dragging their feet zombie-like. There was the “thousand yard stare” from the hollowed out eyes of blank expressions. Some faces showed abject fear, while others appeared shocked and vacant of any emotion. A few were murmuring cries of despair. “They got tanks”, we can’t stop them, we’re all gonna die”. This small army of the damned appeared hopeless beyond redemption.

  Johnny noticed the red keystone patch of the 28th Infantry Division. That Pennsylvania National Guard unit had been involved in some of the most brutal fighting of the War, which had earned their patch the nickname “Bloody Bucket”. Mixed in with them were GIs from the 106th Infantry Division with their distinctive Golden Lion patches along with the Checkerboard patches of the 99th Infantry Division. Other patches from various tank destroyer units, artillery units and armored formations were too numerous to count. It was a slovenly, dispirited group that straggled through the two lines of paratroopers who continued to beg for weapons and ammo with mixed results. Some retreating soldiers gave up their rifles easily and therefore felt relieved from their obligation to fight. Others hung on with stubborn determination, refusing to give up any supplies.

  Johnny stepped in front of a technical sergeant from the 28th Division who was carrying a Thompson. He was hoping to scavenge some ammo for Jake.

  “Tell me Sarge, what’s going on up there?”

  The sergeant was a big man with a course beard and bushy eyebrows. His field jacket was ripped and tattered and dirt and grime covered his clothes and smeared his face. His expression was more of exhaustion than fear. “Got any water?”