Bright stars dotted the clear night sky.
It was a perfect night for flying, but Logan secretly wished for a few more clouds to cover the lone parachute that would soon be floating down from the heavens to the earth below. Not a few agents more experienced than he were captured the instant their feet touched the ground. Logan did not want to be one of them.
Crouched over the opening of the Whitley’s fuselage, at about six hundred feet in the air, Logan could just barely make out some of the distinct features of the landscape below. He caught a glimpse of one or two farmhouses, but because of the blackout and the fact that it was three a.m., he couldn’t tell whether they were occupied or deserted. He hoped he would not have need of them, for a small reception committee was to meet him at the drop site to see that he got safely on his way to Paris. Beyond the farmhouses, Logan saw a stretch of open countryside, fringed with a belt of trees.
“We’re goin’ t’ try an’ land ye close t’ that clump o’ trees, so ye willna be far frae cover,” came the voice of the plane’s navigator from behind where Logan sat.
“Not too close, I hope,” said Logan. He could not keep his knees from trembling a bit at the thought of the jump that lay ahead, but the warmly familiar burr of the navigator’s Scottish accent helped soothe his natural fear. The fact that the navigator happened to be a fellow countryman was perhaps a small blessing, but a blessing nonetheless. “By the way,” added Logan, “I’m from Scotland too.”
“I thought I heard a wee bit o’ the Glaswegian in yer tone, but no enocht, t’ be sure. Ye been awa too lang, laddie!”
“Yes, perhaps I have,” mused Logan.
“Noo,” continued the navigator good-naturedly, “ye needna worry aboot oor pilot’s aim. He’s one o’ the best, an’ he’ll see that ye land as gently as if ye were one o’ his ain bairns—an’ Joe’s got three o’ them, so he kens what he’s aboot!”
Logan smiled. “I’ve a child of my own back home,” he said. It felt good to get his mind momentarily off what he was about to do.
“Do ye noo?” The navigator’s ruddy face spread into a warm grin. “Weel, he’ll have good reason t’ be prood o’ ye when he sees ye next.”
“It’s a she . . . my daughter.”
With each word, Logan’s tone grew with pride. Perhaps he did not think of himself as a father often enough.
“Weel, in that case, ye better make good an’ certain ye jump clear o’ them trees!”
Then came the pilot’s shout: “Get ready!”
Logan had made four practice jumps in training. But they had not become easier with repetition. The supreme moment of terror when he had to leap out into thin air, certain each time that he would meet his death, was a fear far beyond any he had ever known on the ground. It was a totally unnatural thing for a man to do. Those practice jumps had been the most paralyzing experiences of his life, no matter that each lasted only about fifteen seconds from the moment he left the plane to the instant his body hit the ground. And they had been done on lighted, well-secured fields in England. His reception committee of French resistance fighters couldn’t guarantee that they’d be able to use any lights, and from the dark look of the ground below, Logan had to assume he was going to have to jump blind. Not knowing where the ground was in a fall of twenty feet per second could result in two broken legs—or worse.
Logan sat on the edge of the bomb port, his legs dangling outside the plane. He double-checked his rubber helmet and body pads, and made sure his small suitcase was firmly attached to his pack. Then the navigator attached his parachute strap to the static line. If all went well, the weight of his body would automatically open the chute. If it didn’t, he’d have to grab the cord himself and hope for the best.
“She’s in tiptop shape,” assured the navigator, as if he had read Logan’s thoughts.
“Go!” cried the pilot from the cockpit.
Logan could not hesitate a moment now, for even a delay of two or three seconds could carry him miles off course and most likely into the trees.
“I hate this . . .” he breathed, as he let his body slip through the port.
“God bless ye, laddie!” shouted the navigator, but Logan only heard the words fading quickly away from him as if in a dream.
The draft of the plane threw him violently back, and that jolting was followed almost immediately by a hard jerk on his armpits. The chute had opened safely—as they usually did.
If jumping from the plane had been terrifying, then those next few seconds made up for it slightly. With the deafening racket of the plane’s engines quickly fading into the distance, suddenly Logan was surrounded by a deep ethereal silence. The overwhelming sense of peace and well-being was almost so great as to make the terror of jumping worth it. Unfortunately, it was all too brief.
As much as he would have liked the silent sensation of floating weightless to go on and on, time was ticking rapidly away in unforgiving seconds, not eons, and he had to force his attention to the earth, slanted away below him. He thought he caught a brief glimpse of figures on the edge of the wood, but he couldn’t be certain. All was black below him, but he thought he saw a deeper blackness, which must be the ground. Closer and closer it loomed, rushing at him like a giant speeding train. He bent his knees in readiness, trying with all the intensity he could muster to judge the moment of impact.
Suddenly his feet slammed against the solid ground at fifteen mph.
He let his knees buckle to absorb the blow, and in the same motion rolled to his side.
His body rolled over itself, distorting his perceptions, and in another instant he felt the silky parachute floating down upon him. Instead of the soft earth, his shoulder hit a rock and he cried out in pain. At least it wasn’t my head, he thought with indistinct gratitude.
In a couple of seconds he lay still, trying to right his senses. But before he had a chance to settle back into a normal state of awareness and determine “up” from “down,” he heard shouts.
“Dear Lord,” he murmured, “please be with me.” It was the first prayer he had uttered in a long time, and though it had popped out without forethought, never had he meant a prayer more sincerely.
The approaching voices were near now—and they were speaking French.
He felt hands untangling him from his chute and the lines.
“Bonsoir! Bonsoir, mon ami! Michel Tanant, n’est-ce pas? You made it!”
In his relief and exhilaration at seeing friendly, smiling faces, Logan forgot his recognition code. He jumped to his feet and grasped the fellow’s hand, shaking it fervently.
“Oui, monsieur!” answered Logan. “Yes, I’m Michel Tanant!”
Logan could hardly contain his ebullience at having successfully completed this hazardous and enervating stage of his mission. He was safely in France! But the better part of his adventures still lay ahead.