Shrapnel Page 6

  He looks at me.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this? We can always back out of it you know. I’m pretty sure I can get you there, but the rest, I don’t know.’

  This, for sure, is where I should have opted out. I know now, I was caught up in the great male double bind. For one thing, all the preparations, the expectations, it seemed to have a real life of its own. For another, it was in the same category as any risky, fascinating challenge such as skiing, driving a car fast, all of it. I’m stupidly challenged. At first, I’m interested in just how I’m to be dressed for this patrol, what kind of costume, like a football player, I would be wearing. In many ways I’m still a child, no question.

  He’s even rigged a way for me to carry that heavy radio across my chest. He picks up the jump suit from the seat of his plane and holds it out to me, watching to see what I’ll do. I take it, try it on. It fits. They must have my measurements filed somewhere. I pull up the zippers, snap all the snaps; he helps me with this. Then he lifts the radio from the back of the plane. It’s all wrapped in blankets to cushion it and keep dirt out, I presume. He lifts it and settles it on cushioned braces over my shoulders, tightening it down. It settles on my chest and he straps it down around me. He pulls out a leather cap, the kind old time aviators used to wear and fits it on my head, snaps that. He reaches into the plane again and pulls out a webbing belt with a knife and pistol on one side and a double canteen (two strapped together) on the other. He steps back to look at me.

  ‘You look something like a deep sea diver. Let’s hope that will not be the case. You know I didn’t work all this gear out. There were two other WOs and a T4 who came in with this equipment and rigged it up. I’d never seen them before.’

  ‘I’m getting hot in this crazy outfit. Is it okay if we take it off now?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He starts unbuckling and unstrapping me. I help him with the zippers. It feels good to wiggle out of the whole rig. I’m scared but it’s hard to be really scared of something you know nothing about.

  ‘Sir, what do you know about this patrol? It sounds impossible to me.’

  ‘Don’t Sir me. Call me Pat. We’re in this together.’

  ‘I’m Will.’

  ‘Okay, this is what I know. I’m to fly out of here, cross three miles north, flying about ten feet above the water, depending on how rough the channel looks. I’m to display no lights, which is going to make this quite a maneouvre in this dark. Before we go, we’ll need to sit in total darkness here to get rid of the visual purple in our eyes so we can see at all. Then we’ll start off.

  ‘Those technician guys have put special mufflers on poor Sally so she hardly makes any noise at all. I’ve experimented flying with them and she loses a lot of power, but she’s quiet. I’ll need to top off my gas tanks to make it across and back because she’s not so fuel efficient this way.’

  He stops. I watch his face. He’s sweating. I was in that hot suit and he’s sweating.

  ‘The problem is going to be picking just the right place to rev her up fast so I can make five hundred feet, go into an almost stall, and tip you out.’

  He takes a deep breath and looks down at his feet.

  ‘So, what do you know, Will?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell anybody about this, but since you’re in it too with me, it’s probably okay.’

  ‘I’m supposed to land, protecting the radio, bundle up the chute, then hide in a tipped up, bombed out tree where the roots have left a hole. From there I’m supposed to scan all the bands with the radio, especially three bands I’ve been given. I’m not supposed to broadcast, so the Germans won’t have a chance to triangulate on me. Then, some French Freedom Fighters are supposed to come for the radio and get me out of there. I don’t know how. I don’t think I’m supposed to know how.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ! That’s wild. Sure you don’t want to back out?’

  ‘I’m not sure of anything. I’m still thinking about it.’

  ‘Well, you have about eight hours to make up your mind. I’ve been told they’re going to hold up on artillery in the landing zone for one hour between three and four in the morning. I guess if we get you down and in there safely, they’ll hold off longer.’

  He puts his hands on his hips, then starts stuffing the jump suit, radio and the rest in the plane.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m supposed to show you these.’ He pulls out a full box of K rations, padded and strapped the way the radio is. ‘I’ll drop this just after I tip you out. They should land near you.’

  ‘You’re really going to just tip me out?’

  ‘That’s what I’m supposed to do. See, I’ve taken the door off on your side. With all that equipment and the jump suit you could never get out on your own.’

  I wonder why I don’t just call it off right there. I’m scared enough. But that’s all past now. I’m in for it.

  At half past two, I’m dressed, strapped up and in the plane. Herb’s in the pilot’s seat. A soldier, who came out of the depth of the dark hangar, twists the propeller, and on the third twist, it starts. Pat has a little half steering wheel to guide the plane and a joystick between his legs.

  As a kid I’d sent in some box tops and received a small booklet from Little Orphan Annie or Bobby Benson, I forget which, that was supposed to show me how to fly an airplane. I’d practise down in the cellar using the top of a broom as my ‘joystick’. Mom came down and asked me what I was doing. I told her I was playing with my ‘joystick’, learning how to fly. She was mad at first, but when she saw the directions for flying I was reading she went upstairs.

  It’s great to see a real joystick. Pat has his hand on it, but mostly he’s pushing pedals with his feet and steering. We speed down the runway and rock a little when we leave the ground. I look out that open door. We’re going fast and the ground seems to be sliding away under us. I decide not to look. We take off out over the water. I can just pick out the small flecks of waves as we go over them. We’ve steadied some and I’m not so afraid of falling out but I hold onto what looks like the dashboard of a car.

  I don’t know how long it is we fly, and Pat’s concentrating to keep us in the air and not in the water. Sometimes there are bumps of some kind and he needs to adjust for them. The water is getting rougher and it’s cold. I’m glad for the jump suit and gloves.

  When we see the French coast he turns toward me.

  ‘I’m going up a bit to fly over the German defensive positions. They can’t see us soon enough, or fast enough, to ever hit us but it’s best to be safe.’

  I can pick out what look like concrete houses. Pat tells me these are built in bunkers. Then we come to what look like empty space. There are no lights. Pat turns to me.

  ‘I’m going to go up as steep as I can until I almost stall, then I’ll tilt your way and you’ll slide out. Don’t forget to hold onto and pull that ripcord. Try to land on your feet and fall backward keeping your arms ahead of you wrapped around that radio.’

  Quickly, the plane is going almost straight up and is slowing. He tilts, and, before I know it, I’m out and in the air! I pull the ripcord, and it seems forever before the chute opens. Then I’m swinging back and forth and the land is coming up to me fast. I bunch myself over forward. It isn’t two minutes later when I hit. My legs almost fold under me but I go backwards, holding onto the radio. Then I black out in the dark.

  I have the wind knocked out of me and can’t get my breath. I slowly roll over onto my knees. The chute is catching air and pulling me toward it. It pulls me over on my side. I’m still trying to get some air in my lungs, at the same time pulling with the guidelines of the chute to bring it toward me. It takes all the strength I have left. When I finally feel the black chute in the dark, I flop out on it to hold it down. I lie there listening and trying to breathe. I don’t hear anything but my own hard breathing. From the ground, I can just pick out the roots of that big twisted tree against the sky.

  Crawling on my knees, I pull the rest of t
he chute and pack it close against my chest, over the radio. I stand and start running toward the tree.

  The hole is deep enough and I slide down the muddy side. It’s about there I remember the box with the rations. I’m not exactly hungry, but if somebody finds it out in this seemingly open field, they’ll look for me.

  I unstrap myself from the chute, which comes up between my legs and over my shoulders. Then I lift off the radio. After those straps are undone, it’s easy to shuck it off by leaning forward so it slides to the ground. It should hold the parachute down. I’m still breathing hard. I’m scared to death and my hands are shaking so badly I have a hard time releasing myself from all the straps. I decide to keep the jump suit on for now, although it’s all sweated up. My face is cold.

  I slide up to the edge of the hole and peer around for the rations. I think I see the box off to the left of where I came down. I creep over toward it looking all around me as I go. I don’t take the pistol out. I find the rations and drag them along behind me holding on by one of the straps. I pull them down in the hole with me. I’m absolutely pooped.

  I should unwrap the radio and start searching the bands, but I’m out of steam. I guess this is combat; I haven’t heard a shot or seen anybody, but I’m a nervous wreck. Some kind of soldier I’m going to make. What’ll I do if I ever need to duck small arms fire or hide down in a hole during an artillery bombardment. I hate to think about it.

  I spread the parachute around in my little tree hole to cover up as much mud as I can feel. I look at my watch and it’s almost five o’clock. It’s June, so the sun will be up soon. I stretch out on my parachute with its pouch for a pillow and I’m out before I know it. I didn’t have any sleep the whole night before from worrying and normally I’m asleep by ten or ten thirty at the latest. I’m definitely in the wrong business.

  When I wake, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. I’d slept nine hours. Except for my sore back and the sore backs of my arms, I’m in reasonable shape. It’s raining and some of the rain is seeping into my hole. I gather up rocks and build a dam across to help keep the hole dry and the rain out.

  Next, I unwrap the radio and hope it will work. It looks okay. When I toggle the switch, it lights up and I start cruising the bands I’ve memorised where I’m supposed to call, but I’m getting nothing. The temptation is to put in a short broadcast myself so they’ll know I’m okay, but I resist. I pull the antennae to its maximum length but still nothing. I’m hungry.

  I crack open the provisions but it’s only boxes of K rations. I open a lunch ration with the cheese, cracker, candy and the cigarettes I have no use for. I gnaw on the cheese and try to settle my stomach. I wonder how long I’ll be out here alone.

  Maybe they’ve already started the invasion and I don’t even know it. Maybe they’ve decided to call it off, after all.

  The food settles me down. I mix some of the Nescafé powder in some cold water from one of my canteens. The canteen is inside a fitted cup so I fill the cup about half with water. I’m thinking of water rationing already. The powder just turns into a sticky gum. It’s supposed to be used with hot water. But by constantly swishing it around with my finger it finally starts to dissolve. I drink it but it’s worse than water alone. I won’t try that again.

  When I’m finished eating, I scan the bands one more time, hoping for the best. Still nothing. I try other bands and all I get is what sounds like Germans talking. Just that scares me. I settle back and decide there’s not much I can do. I peer out from my hole and in the misting rain can’t see anything but a bombed out field. Nothing is alive in it, not even grass. I’d like to set up a guard but I’d be the only one on guard duty and that wouldn’t work very well. I’ll just need to keep a watch on things.

  I decide I’ll try the radio every hour on the hour. It sounds like something a real radio operator would do. I’ll try not to sleep in the daytime. At nights I know I can’t stay awake, but with the bumpiness of this hole, rocks and everything, I won’t sleep much. I’ll take a look around every time I wake and do another search with the radio. I’m wondering where the French Freedom Fighters are and when they’ll arrive. I assume they know I’m under this uprooted tree. But maybe I’m assuming too much. I build another two rows of rocks along the perimeter of the hole and pack them with dirt. I’m not only better protected from the wind and rain, but I have more space, less rocks to sleep on. I’ve taken the pistol and the canteens along with the webbing belt off and have them in a dry high place, hanging on one of the roots of the tree. I hope I don’t need to use that pistol. I won’t. If Germans find me, I’m just going to give up. I can’t fight off the entire German army myself. I don’t want to even try.

  I work out a regular routine. Every hour I turn on the radio and listen to the Germans talk. I can’t do it for long because I’m afraid of wearing out the battery. Then I eat my K rations at seven in the morning, noon and six at night. I wind the watch while eating my dinner ration.

  The weather lets up some. There are mixed clouds and sometimes a bit of sun shines through. France certainly has lousy weather for June. I haven’t given up hope but I’m thinking about it. I know it would be suicide to try working my way back through the German defences, coming up on them from the rear. Those guys must be as nervous as cats; they wouldn’t even give me a chance to think of surrendering. No, I’m stuck. I should never have gotten into this thing. My only chances are the Americans or British or Canadians breaking through to me, or those phantom French Freedom Fighters coming to my rescue for the radio. There’s nothing to do but wait. I have enough rations for four days, after that, I’ll need to do some thinking. I look down at myself. The jump suit is covered with mud. I look like something from a Flash Gordon movie when he’d go to some other planet in the twenty-fifth century.

  The days go by. Nothing happens. I can hear the artillery pounding away all around me, but nothing much comes where I am. They’ve already pounded this stretch into virtual oblivion. I watch, scan with the radio, eat my rations, cat nap and wind the watch.

  Three days go by. Then, out in front of me, I see some men moving in coming across the field. They have their rifles out and are in combat patrol formation, but running. How long do I wait? I strip off the jump suit to make myself look more like an American soldier. I take off my aviator’s hat which has kept my ears warm. I can see from the helmets these are not Germans, but they don’t look like American troops either. I start yelling in English while I’m still down in my hole. I leave everything including the pistol, the radio and the rations. I come out of the hole with my arms out shouting I’m an American! Don’t shoot! I’m an American!! They stop in their tracks. I stand and slowly walk toward them. They’ve dropped to their stomachs and have their rifles trained on me.

  ‘Stop right there.’

  I stop.

  One of them comes toward me. I keep my arms over my head. We talk. He speaks English with an English accent, but it turns out they’re Canadian troops. I show him my dog tags. He believes me. I take him forward to my hole.

  ‘Jesus! You Yanks will try anything. Nobody told us you’d be out here.’

  ‘French Freedom Fighters were supposed to come and get me, mostly for the radio I have in the hole there. Is there any way you guys can get me back to my outfit in England? I’m running short of rations.’

  We work it out. He advises me to carry the pistol. The chute, jump suit and the remaining rations we leave in there. He asks me all kinds of questions about the situation here. They’re moving blind. I can’t tell him a thing, of course, except that I haven’t seen anyone moving around here until they came.

  He assigns one of his squad to take me back to the beach. It seems the invasion started three days ago. He says it was a ‘bloody’ affair and they thought they’d never really get a foothold but now things were a bit better. More and more troops were being landed. He said to watch out for mines. Also, there were still some German snipers holed up in some of the bunkers.

  We
make it through without any trouble. I still haven’t been shot at that I know of. There are freight train-like artillery shells going over us but nothing coming down. At the beach it’s like a military trash heap. Equipment is scattered everywhere, even down into the water. Dead soldiers are sprawled all over the beach. Medics are running back and forth trying to move the wounded into the landing craft after they bring in new troops. It’s hard to believe.

  A Lieutenant, after being convinced by my guard and after I’d shown my dog tags, allows me to climb into one of the landing craft going back. Here, for the first time, I’m really under fire. The Germans are trying to stop the landing crafts, both coming in and going out. We have two shells explode at the sides of the boat. All those who aren’t wounded duck over the wounded; and the sailors in charge of the boats are going as fast as they can out of there.

  We reach a large ship, at last. The wounded are transferred out first, then I’m allowed to go aboard. The equivalent of an American SP takes me in charge. He holds me safe against a wall on deck while another SP goes forward. About five minutes later, we’re ushered into a comfortable cabin with an English officer sitting at a map strewn desk. I explain the whole thing, as much as I know about it, to him. He keeps his head down until when I tell about jumping from the open door. He takes off his cap. He’s bald.

  ‘Extraordinary! So you say you’ve been out there in front of us for the past three days.’

  ‘Four Sir, counting the day I came down.’

  ‘Let me check this out. It’s hard to believe.’

  He pulls one of the phones on his desk toward him. He swivels his chair around so his back is to me. After about five minutes he turns back again and hangs up the phone.

  ‘Soldier, you’re being transferred to an American ship. A certain Colonel Munch wants to talk to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  Orders are given, transport arranged, and quickly I’m aboard an American ship and being ushered into another well-furnished room. Sitting there is the Colonel who started this whole thing. He looks up at me, smiles.