As a tradition, the men of the First Battalion, the Paracommando Regiment, Royal Belgian Army, continued to use the English-language jump commands the battalion had learned in England in World War II.
"Outboard sticks, stand up!" The two outside files of men inside Chalk One stood up and folded up their nylon and aluminum pole seats back against the fuselage wall.
"Inboard sticks, stand up!" The two inside files rose to their feet and folded their seats.
"Hook up!" Everybody fastened the hook at the end of his static line to a steel cable.
"Check static lines! Check equipment!" Everybody tugged at his own static line to make sure it was securely hooked to the cable and then checked the harness and other equipment of the man standing in front, that is to say, in the lines which now faced rear and led to the exit doors on either side of the aircraft.
Now the jumpmaster switched to French: "Une minute!" and then back to English: "Stand in the door!" Chalk One was down to seven hundred feet or so and all
dirtied up: flaps down, throttles retarded, close (at 125 mph) to stall speed.
"Go!"
Jack Portet was the sixth man in the portside stick.
He felt the slight tug of the static line almost immediately after exiting the aircraft, and a moment later felt his main chute slithering out of the case. And then the canopy filled and he had a sensation of being jerked upward.
There was not enough time to orient himself beyond seeing land beneath and slightly to the left of him, and to pick out the Immoquateur building downtown, before the ground suddenly rushed up at him. He knew where he was now.
He was on the tee of the third hole of the Stanleyville Golf course. He landed on his feet, but when he started to pull on the risers to dump a little air from the nearly emptied canopy, there was a gust of air and the canopy filled and pulled him off his feet. He hit the quick release and was out of the harness a moment later and looked over and saw that the sky was full of chutes from chalk two and Chalk Three.
Then there were peculiar whistling noises, and peculiar hisses, and after a moment Jack realized that he was looking at tracers but that there didn't seem to be anybody to shoot back at. All of a sudden, there was.
There were Simbas firing from the control tower, of all places.
Jack went to the ground, worked the action of the FN assault rifle and took aim at the tower. Which, as he lined his sights up, disappeared in a cloud of dust. In a moment he had the reason for that. Two paratroopers had gotten their machine gun going.
Jack got to his feet and ran toward a trio of Belgian officers.
There was transportation-either something captured here- jeeps or the odd-looking three-wheelers which the aircraft were supposed to land-the officers would get first crack at them and Jack wanted to be there when it arrived. He had to get to the Immoquateur and he needed wheels to do that.
Someone drove up in a white pickup with a Mobil Oil Peg--~ on its doors.
One of the Belgian officers looked around and then pointed to Jack- l'americain-knows the town. Put half a dozen troops in back and make a reconnaissance by fire." Then he made his little joke: you better hope you get killed, because Ie grand noir was here for you and couldn't find you." He paused and looked at the other man. Le grand noir-the Big Black-was of Lieutenant Foster. "He said he was going to kill you if he ...... .... in Belgium, and if you managed to come along, he would pull your legs and arms off, one by one, if you came along."
Jack smiled and climbed on the running board of the Mobil Oil pickup, holding the FN in one hand.
But he was suddenly very frightened. Not of fighting, or even of dying, but of what he was liable to find when he got to the Immoquateur.
They first encountered resistance three hundred yards down the road, just past the Sabena guest house. A Simba wrapped in an animal skin, with a pistol in one hand and a sword in the other, charged at them down the middle of the road. Behind him came three others armed with FN assault rifles. They were firing them on full automatic. The pickup truck screeched to a halt. Jack went onto his belly his rifle to his shoulder. As he found a target, he was baffled to see that the Simba's weapon was firing straight up into the air There was a short burst of 7mm fire over his head. The Simba with the sword stopped in midstride and then crumpled to his knees. Before he fell over, a torrent of blood gushed from his mouth.
The Simbas with him stopped and looked at the fallen man in absolute surprise. Then they stopped shooting and started to backup. There was another burst of the fire from the pickup, this time from several weapons. Two of the tree Simbas fell down, one of them backward. The remaining Simba, the one in Jack's sight; dropped his rifle and ran away with great loping strides. There was another burst of fire from the truck, no more than five rounds from a paratrooper's assault rifle. The Simba took three more steps and then fell on his face to the left.
Jack scrambled to his knees and turned to look for the truck. It was already moving. He jumped onto the running board as it came past, almost losing his balance as the driver swerved, unsuccessfully, to avoid running over the Simba who had led the charge with a sword.
There was a furious horn bleating behind them, and the pickup pulled off the shoulder of the road. A jeep raced past them, the gunner of the pedestal-mounted .30 caliber Browning machine gun firing it in short bursts at targets Jack could not see.
The pickup swerved back onto the paved surface, almost throwing Jack off.
There was the sound of a great many weapons being fired, but none of the fire seemed directed at them. They reached the houses. There were more Simbas in sight now, but none of them were attacking. They were in the alleys between the houses and in the streets behind them.
The jeep that had raced past them was no longer in sight, but they could still hear the peculiar sound of the Browning firing in bursts.
The Mobil Oil pickup truck came to an intersection and Jack looked at the driver.
"You're supposed to be the fucking expert," the driver said to Jack. Which way do we go?"
"Right." Jack ordered without really thinking about it. The Immoquateur was to the right.
The pickup jerked into motion.
A hundred yards down the road they came across the first European, three of them, mother, father, and a twelve- or thirteen year old. They were sprawled dead in pools of blood in the road.
They had obviously been shot as they had tried to run.
~ :ell nausea rise in his throat, but managed to; hold it back.
Then over the roofs of the pleasant, pastel-painted villas, he saw the big bulk of the Immoquateur.
Rifle fire was fire directed at them.
The pickup screeched to a stop in the middle of the street.
Jack felt himself going, tried valiantly to stop himself, and then, he fell off the fender, fell onto the pavement on his face.
He felt his eyes water, and then they lost focus.
"Jesus Christ! I've been shot!
He felt his head, then put his hand to his face. There was blood, warm on it.
I've been shot in the face!
Someone rushed up to him. Indistinctly, he made a face, the paratroopers leaning over him, felt his fingers on his head and then the sonofabitch laughed.
"It's right," he said. "All you've got is a bloody nose."
He slapped Jack on the back and ran ahead of him.
When his eyes came back in focus. He looked at his lap and saw blood dripping into it.
He circled around and saw his assault rifle on the street six feet away from where he was sitting. He scurried on his knees to it, and fired a burst in the air to make sure it was still working and then looked around again, this time at the Immoquateur. There were bodies on the lawn between the street and the door on the ground floor. Simba and European. He got to his feet and moved toward the Immoquateur.
(Three)
Jack recognized one of the bodies on the lawn before the Immoquateur. It was the Stanleyville station manager of the C
ongo River Steamship Company. He had met him when they had shipped in a truck. The man had been shot in the neck, probably with a shotgun, from the size of the wound. The stout, gray haired woman lying beside him with an inch-wide hole in her forehead was almost certainly his wife.
Jack ran into the building itself. There were two dead Simba in the narrow elevator corridor. One of them had most of his head blown away. The other had taken a burst In the chest as he came out of the elevator. It had literally blown a hole through his body. Parts of his ribs-or his spine, some kind of bone anyhow were sticking at awkward angles out of his back.
He was lying in the open elevator door. The door of the elevator had tried to close on his body. When the door encountered the body, it reopened and then tried to close again. It had been cycling like that since the man fell there.
Jack laid his FN assault rifle against the wall, put his hands on the dead man's neck, and dragged him free. The elevator door closed, a melodious chime bonged, and the elevator started up "Shit!" Jack went to the call button for the other elevator and pushed it. It did not illuminate. He ran farther down the corridor and pushed the service elevator call button. It lit up, but there was no
sound of elevator machinery. He went back to wait for the first elevator. One of the Belgian paratroopers from the pickup truck came into the corridor. He was in a crouch with his rifle ready.
"The Sergeant said you are to come back to the truck," he said.
"Fuck him my mother's upstairs."
The paratrooper ran back out of the building. The elevator indicator showed that It was on the ninth floor. Then It started to come down.
The paratrooper came running back into the building. Jack wondered if he was going to give him any trouble.
"I got a radio," he said. "They are leaving us." Jack felt something warm on his hand, looked down, and Saw blood.
The elevator mechanism chimed pleasantly and the door opened. Jack stepped over the dead Simba. The Belgian paratrooper followed him inside and crossed himself as Jack pushed the door button.
The door closed and the elevator started to rise.
It stopped at the fourth floor.
The Simba in parts of a Belgian officer's uniform did not have time to raise his pistol before a burst from Jack's assault rifle cut into his midsection.
The noise in the closed confines of the elevator was painful on his hearing. Jack's ears rang enough for him to doubt whether he would be able to hear anything but the loudest of sounds for a long time. The paratrooper with Jack jumped in a crouch into the corridor and let loose a burst down the corridor. It was empty.
The Simba he had shot had backed into the corridor wall and collapsed to the floor, leaving a foot-wide track of blood down the wall. Jack thought he saw life leave the Simba's eyes.
He took the Simba's pistol, a World War II-era Luger, from the simba's hand, stuffed it in the chest pocket of his tunic, and walked back into the elevator. The paratrooper backed into it. The chime sounded melodiously again, the doors closed and the elevator started up again.
When the door opened they were on the tenth floor. There was no one there.
Neither Jack nor the paratrooper moved.
The chime sounded again and the door closed.
Jack reached out with the muzzle of his FN and rapped the upper edge of the door. The door started to open again.
Copying what the paratrooper had done on the fourth floor, Jack leaped in a crouch into the corridor. But the corridor was empty.
He ran to the door of the Air Simba apartment. There were bullet holes in it, and it was battered as if someone had tried to force his way in. He put his hand on the doorknob. It was locked.
He banged on it with his fist.
"Hanni!" he shouted. "Hanni, c' est moil C' est Jacques!" there was no answer.
He raised the butt of the FN and smashed at the door in the area of the knob. The butt snapped off behind the trigger assembly. He felt tears well up in his eyes. He pulled the trigger to see if would still work, and there was another painful roar of sound, and a cloud of cement dust as the bullets struck the ceiling.
He raised his boot and kicked at the door beside the knob with all his might. There was a splintering sound and the lock mechanism tore free.
Jack kicked it again and it flew open. The Belgian paratrooper rushed into the apartment in his now-familiar crouching stance.
There was not the expected burst of fire.
Jack ran into the room. Hanni was standing in front of the bedroom door, white-faced.
"Bonjour, Madame," the Belgian paratrooper said.
Hanni saw Jack.
Oh, my God! It is you! I thought I was losing my mind!"
"Hanni!" Jack croaked.
The bedroom door opened. Jeanine appeared.
"Jacques!" she screamed.
And there was somebody with her. Black. Wearing an animal skin.
"Don't shoot!" Hanni screamed. "He's a friend!"
"Jacques, don't!" Jeanine said when Jack trained what was left of the FN at him.
"Who the hell is he?"
"Captain George Washington Lunsford," the man in the animal skin said. "United States Army, at your service, Sir." He walked into the room with his hands above his shoulders.
"Jacques, for God's sake," Hanni said, "he saved our lives Put the gun down." Jack saw Ursula Craig holding the baby in her arms in the bedroom. Beside her, a large knife in each hand, was Mary Magdalene. Jack went to the bedroom. Mary Magdalene dropped the knives and enveloped him in her massive arms. As her huge body heaved with sobs, and tears ran down her cheeks, she repeated over and over, "Mon petit Jacques.. .mon petit Jacques."
"I hate to break that up," Lunsford said, "but there are savages all over the building and I'd feel a lot more comfortable if I had my rifle." Jack freed himself.
"You OK, Ursula?"
"I am now," she said.
Jack, turned to Lunsford.
"Captain, I don't know what you're doing here, but I'm grateful."
"He knew what the Simbas would do once they saw the paratroopers," Hanni said. "He came to protect us."
"If I go get my rifle," Lunsford said, nodding at the Belgian paratrooper, "does he know what's going on, or-"
"re suis a votre service, mon capitaine," the paratrooper said, came to attention, and then added proudly, "I speak good the English."
Lunsford went into the bedroom and came back with his rifle.
"Does the radio work?" certain, man capitaine," the Belgian said.
"Can you get on it and tell somebody important where we are and to come fetch us."
"Oui, mon capitaine."
"Close the door," Lunsford ordered Jack. "We'll put the women back in the bedroom until the cavalry gets here."
"Yes Sir," Jack said.
Stanleyville International Airfield, Stanlyville, Democratic Republic of the Congo . . . Hours 25 November 1964
The first four vehicles of what Operation Dragon Rouge referred to as Van der Wade Column One made contact according to schedule with Belgian forces at 1100.
There were four armed jeeps. Captain Karl-Heinz Wagner, of ::r- 7-~mgese Special Gendarmerie, was in command. According to Dragon Rouge, when they approached the outskirts of Stanleyville near the airfield, they fired three green signal rockets and then waited for the Belgians fired two orange rockets before proceeding.
There is always a shock when driving to Stanleyville through the jungle. The virgin jungle suddenly gives way to civilization.
Now the shock was even greater. Just as they left the jungle, a jet aircraft flashed over their heads on takeoff, so low that they could feel the vibration of the engine, and then a moment later smell the fuel -the not completely burned JP-4 fuel. And before they saw halfway down the length of the runway, there was another aircraft on it, this one landing with an awesome roar as the pilot changed the pitch of his props for braking.
The airfield held as many of the large transports as it possibly could. Capt
ain Karl-Heinz Wagner saw the Belgian paratroopers setup a perimeter defense of the airfield. He also saw a U.S. Army T-23, a glistening VIP transport dwarfed by the C-130s, across the runway from the terminal building, and he wonder what the hell that was doing there.
The command post, he decided, would probably be set up in the airport terminal building, so he headed there. His orders were to report to the Belgian paratrooper commander, Colonel Laurent, and inform him that the head of the column was thirty to forty-five minutes behind him. And then to prepare for Van der Waele's forces to relieve the paratroopers.
The New Breed Page 49