We left Biddulph just as quickly and silently as we arrived. We hadn’t been there a month when the order to move out came through. It was two days of getting everything in order and we left in the night on trains again. We all knew, in general, what we were going to do but none of us knew when or where, not even field officers knew as well as all the non-coms and enlisted men being kept in the dark. And when we arrived, we were literally in the dark. There didn’t seem to be any moon and the clouds made it even darker. We get out of the trains, and, of course, are told to pitch tents. Pitching tents in the dark on an open field is a good trick. I’m tenting with Gettinger, who has taken Corbeil’s place. He makes a good tent mate, doesn’t snore or roll around too much. Also, he’s one of those rare people who seem to fall asleep as soon as they stretch out. I’m definitely not that way, but I try not to twist and turn. A pup tent is a very small place for two grown men. Luckily neither Gettinger nor I is very big.
Three days after we arrive, we start beach landing maneouvres with the Landing Ship Infantry, called LSI and the Landing Ship Tanks, called LST. It’s the beginning of summer but in England it’s still cold and the water is icy. We slog through that cold water, looking out at the white cliffs above the beaches, trying to keep our rifles dry and hoping that France doesn’t have any cliffs like those. Getting our clothes dry each day is another problem. Half the time it’s raining. We only have two pair of OD trousers and shirts plus our field jackets. As far as I can see, we are all going to have pneumonia before the Germans even have a chance to shoot at us. It’s strange to be camping so close to the enemy and having it be so quiet. At night we can hear the planes flying over and there are huge balloons all along the coast. It doesn’t look as if anybody is really trying to keep a secret about what’s going on, except from us.
Now begins an experience that I not only didn’t tell my children, but I’ve told no one but my wife. In this particular set of events, I not only behave like the young fool I was, but I’m set up with a situation which is so incredible, I didn’t believe it then or even understand it now.
It all starts with a command car rolling through our little tent city just after chow. I’m finishing up some fruit cocktail dumped over the last bit of my mashed potatoes and hash. There’s too long a line at the clean up pail to wait around again. It all comes together in my stomach anyway. I’ll clean up my mess kit after everybody’s finished.
It seems the Lieutenant in the command car driven by a Staff Sergeant is looking for me. I don’t know what to expect, maybe they’ve changed their minds about sending a cripple with varicose veins in his balls and a lump on his heel into combat. I couldn’t have been more wrong.
It’s the first time I’ve been in a command car. They’re certainly a lot roomier than a jeep. I have the entire back seat to myself. I wave to Gettinger and some other guys as I roll along, weaving our way through the tents. They don’t wave back, only stare.
We go about three miles, always away from the beach. It’s looking good. Then we come to a big house. There are armed guards all around this place, even up the pebble driveway to the front. We stop. The Lieutenant motions me to follow him. Now I’m worried. What could they have possibly cooked up for me. I hope it isn’t a court martial for something I’ve overlooked. No, it wouldn’t be something small like that. This is big.
I’ve just gotten out of the command car when I realise I’ve forgotten my rifle; I was eating when they came. At least I have on my helmet. We’re supposed to wear those heavy pots on our heads no matter what we’re doing; even in the tent, we’re supposed to keep them near our heads when we sleep.
I follow the Lieutenant into the house. It’s a regular house with furniture and rugs, actually a very fancy place to be in the middle of a war. The Lieutenant still hasn’t said a word to me. It isn’t a good idea to start up a conversation with a Lieutenant, so I don’t, that’s his job.
Finally we go into a big room. I can see it was once a library. There are books all along the walls. Huge windows going down to the floor are blacked out. It’s still light outside but the lights are turned on in here. The Lieutenant shows me where to sit in a chair along the wall and then leaves. There are three officers around a huge desk in the middle of the room. They’re all looking down at something. At first, I can’t see it, but then one of them motions me forward. I stand at attention and salute. He gives me a careless salute back.
‘At ease, Soldier.’
I go into my personal version of ‘at ease.’ I peek down at the desk. What they’re looking at are my drawings of the maps I did in Biddulph. What now? Are we going to invade England? I’m beginning to be scared because I don’t understand.
‘Soldier, you’re the one who did the maps for the town of Biddulph here?’
It’s definitely a question. I nod, then pull myself together.
‘Yes, Sir. They were ordered by Major Love.’
I’m wondering if they’ve found out how I copied them from the maps in the library. Could that be some kind of military offence?
‘These are very good maps. I see from your records you’ve also been exceptionally good using the 506 radio and can take Morse code. Is that correct?’
What are we getting at. Maybe I’ll be transferred to G2 doing some kind of secret work.
‘Yes Sir. In high school, in a class before school, I learned it. We did it in the typing room and typed out messages from records. I wasn’t particularly good at it, but neither was anyone else.’
‘It says here you typed at sixty-two words per minute and took code even faster than that.’
I don’t really remember. I took the class for fun because our bus always arrived early and the principal of our school would set up anything to help the ‘war effort’. They don’t need to know that.
‘That’s right, Sir. I don’t know how fast I could do it now because I haven’t had much practice.’
‘That’s all right.’
He pauses, starts talking to the officer beside him. It’s then I notice he’s a bird colonel, the same as our Regimental Commander, but I’ve never seen him before. He turns back to me.
‘Soldier, you’re also in Regimental Intelligence and Reconnaissance and you have had jump training at Fort Benning. Is that right?’
He has to know this. It’s in my service record and I can see it on the desk right beside the map. I decide to keep my mouth shut. The rule we’ve been told is when we’ve been captured we give only our name, rank and serial number. I’ve been captured here all right. Maybe these are Nazi spies who have gotten hold of US equipment and uniforms. I decide that’s ridiculous. They wouldn’t call me in. But then, I’ve already seen some ridiculous things in the army.
‘We have a mission for you, Soldier, a special kind of patrol. Your record as a patrol leader is also good.’
I wait, my heart literally in my mouth. How can we have a patrol when we aren’t even in combat yet?
‘This mission must remain top secret, Soldier. You’re not to mention it to anyone. Don’t talk about it to any of the members in your regiment. Do you understand me?’
I don’t, really, but I nod my head.
‘It is a very important mission. We can’t force you to do it, but you are the best candidate.’
Now, he has my attention full out. I try not to keep my mouth from opening.
‘There will be three different invasions going up those beaches over there. One is the American, then the British and the other, Canadian. We’ll all be going in at the same time in very close formation, wave after wave. Do you understand?’
I do, but I don’t want to. This is not something they should be telling a mere PFC. Crazy as the army is, this is too much.
‘We want to drop you by parachute behind the main German defences. There is something of no-man’s land there. The rest of the German defensive forces have been driven back by our long range artillery.’
He pauses. I wait for him to go on. This all sounds like a very poor movie. Where’s Van Johnson, John Wayne? All 4F, I guess. They know how to do these things. I just stand there waiting.
‘Are you willing to serve your country, young man?’
What would happen if I say no? But I say yes, a small, almost inaudible, ‘yes’.
‘Congratulations. If you succeed I shall see to it that you are awarded at least a silver star. Do you understand?’
He’s staring me in the eyes again. That almost inaudible ‘yes’ must have tipped him off. I didn’t even say Sir.
He looks over his shoulder. He nods one of the other officers forward.
‘Major McGeehan here will explain the patrol to you. If you don’t think you can do it, you can always back out. Nobody will hold it against you. Got that, Soldier?’
I got it all right, basically no way out. I stand there as Major McGeehan rolls out some other maps over mine. He motions me forward. I come and look down at the maps. They’re not as good as mine, but then, after all, I cheated.
‘You see we’re here. The British are there and the Canadians are there. When we have some reasonable weather and the supreme commander gives the word, we take off for these beaches here.’
He points with his fingers to the coast of France. I don’t really know one part of France from the other, no one’s mentioned it.
I only nod. He doesn’t look up. He starts making arcs with his fingers on the maps.
‘These are the general areas of penetration for each group but you don’t want to know too much detail. You might be captured and we want the enemy to know as little as possible.’
I’m wondering how those Germans can capture me. Are they about to invade England? Nobody’s said anything about that. We aren’t even dug in, just splashing around in the water, sleeping in wet clothes and being miserable. Only then I realise they’re going to capture me in France! I’m ready to quit.
‘You will be driven from here to a small airfield not far away. From there in the dead of night, actually early morning, you will be flown over the Channel.’
He points out the so called no-man’s land, then pulls out another map. It’s a photographic blow up.
‘This was taken by our aerial reconnaissance team. You can see there’s a large tree which was blown down here in our artillery barrage.’
He points to a blurred smudge on the map. I peer. What’s this got to do with anything?
‘A small plane will drop you with a black parachute near this tree in the dark.’
He smiles at me as if he’s a magician who has just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
‘You will be carrying a combat pack filled with K rations, enough for several days. On your chest will be strapped a radio well padded for the impact of landing. Of course you will also have the parachute which will be hanging low. On your webbing belt will be a small pistol.’
So, with this pistol I’m supposed to fight off the entire German army? How can I get out of this? I don’t really want to be a hero; in fact I’m not sure we should even win this war. I’m willing to learn German.
‘You must be very careful with your landing. You must land on your back holding your arms around the radio. The radio is the most important thing.’
I look at him to see if he’s kidding. He isn’t.
‘Then after you’ve landed, and you’re okay, you gather in the chute and dash to the shelter in the roots of this tree. This will need to be done quickly because there’s a chance someone might have seen you coming down.’
He’s serious. I can’t believe it. He’s got the wrong guy. They must have made a terrible mistake.
‘You’re to spread out the chute in the hole left by the roots. Cover yourself with the parachute as night camouflage and get the radio operating. Try to make contact with us or our allies. Warrant Officer Mullen will tell you which frequencies to search.’
He stops, looks at me again.
‘Any questions?’
‘How do I get out of there, and when?’
‘There will be French Freedom Fighters, “Les Maquis”, with whom we are in contact who will be watching for you. They know where you’re being dropped and they’ll help you if the invasion is delayed for any reason.’
‘What am I supposed to be doing there? I still don’t understand.’
‘You have several missions. At first, you will be trying to get in contact with the British and the Canadians, as well as the Americans to assure them that they won’t veer and begin shooting at each other in the dark. There is always that possibility in a situation such as this. Next, as soon as possible, you will deliver the radio to the French. They know what to do with it. They’ll take care of you and help you get out. Don’t worry, Warrant Officer Mullen will explain all this in more detail to you.’
He stops, looks at his watch, his job is finished, I’m totally confused. He leans across the desk and shakes my hand.
‘Good luck, Soldier. The driver is outside and will take you back to your outfit so you can gather up your things. You won’t need your helmet, rifle, bayonet or any M1 ammunition. Warrant Office Mullens will provide you with all you will need. Remember, you’re not to say a word about anything you’ve heard here, or about your mission. We’re counting on you.’
On some kind of cue, the driver comes in to pick me up. The Lieutenant isn’t in the command car. I sit up front with the Sergeant and go over in my mind all that’s happened in the past hour or two. I almost begin to think I’m going crazy, or this is some kind of joke and tomorrow everybody will have a big laugh out of it.
We arrive at our tent city and he drives off. We haven’t spoken a word. I come back to my tent and it’s almost dark. Gettinger wants to know what it’s all about.
‘Stan, if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it. I can hardly believe it myself. Don’t ask too many questions. My head is spinning so I have a headache.’ He rolls over, and, as usual, is directly asleep. I pack my few things in my duffel bag and deliver them to the kitchen truck. I’ll leave my shelter half, pole and pegs with Stan. I feel like a husband sneaking out of a marriage, but with no lover to greet me.
The command car is there just after breakfast. I wash the eggs out of my mess kit, stuff the mess kit into my duffel bag, shoulder it and am off, way off. We drive for almost an hour, this time along the beach when we can stay close to it. It’s the same Staff Sergeant and we have just about as much conversation as before, that is, none. Maybe he’s a guy with a hearing deficiency who the army keeps to drive people like me on suicide missions.
We arrive at a small airport. The Sergeant motions for me to stay in the car and goes into a hangar. In a few minutes he comes out and motions me to pick up my gear and go in. I struggle out of the command car, the last one I ever get driven in, and go into the hangar.
Inside is a Warrant Officer. He introduces himself as Pat Mullens. A warrant officer is between a commissioned officer and a non-commissioned officer, sort of a limbo in officialdom. Usually warrant officers have some technical speciality. I can see Officer Mullens’ speciality behind him. It’s a small airplane painted a dark mottled grey not olive drab like most army equipment. He takes me into a little office behind the plane. He moves a chair for me to sit in; no ordinary officer would ever do that.
‘Look, Wharton, this is the craziest mission I’ve ever heard of. I’m not the one who thought it up. I’ve heard all kinds of things, but from what I hear it’s some high ranking staff officer who got the idea, but he doesn’t want anyone to know who he is. How do you like that for army secrecy? You and I are going on a mission neither one of us knows anything about.’
My heart jumps a beat.
‘You mean you’re coming with me?’
‘Well, I’ll be flying you across the Channel.’
‘But I’ve only been in an airplane one time in my life and that was when I was six years old. My father paid five dollars for the two of us to have a ride in a two winger, a biplane, at Wilson Airfield in Philadelphia. I was scared to death we were going to fall out. So was my father. There was no strap or anything to hold us in.’
‘One of those old Barnstormers, I guess. Well, we’ll be flying in little Sally there, but we won’t be going very high. You did do five jumps at Fort Benning, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, but that was different. It was daytime and we were all hooked together. I didn’t exactly jump. I was pulled out and the chute opened by itself.’
‘This will be different. We’ll go across the Channel only about ten feet above the water. We don’t want them to see us. When the time comes, after I’ve gotten some altitude, I’ll just tip the plane and you’ll slide right out. You’ll need to pull your own ripcord the minute you’re out of the plane.’
‘What’s a ripcord?’
He looks at me as though he’s just seen me.
‘I’ll show you. Come follow me and we’ll set everything up.’
I go out with him to the airplane. It has a top wing, no bottom one, like the Taylor Cubs I used to see down at Wilson Airport when I’d bicycle down there as a kid. We walk into the depths of the hangar. The Warrant Officer walks ahead of me. He has everything ready, all the way down to heavy gloves, a jump suit and a parachute. I stare at them.
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 the 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.
‘So, you’re still alive.’
‘That’s right, Sir, I think.’
‘What happened? Why didn’t you get in touch with us? We’ve been scanning for your radio but could find nothing. One trouble was no one thought to register the code number of our equipment.’
‘Yes, Sir. I called the bands I’d been given every hour on the hour but all I could find were Germans broadcasting. I’d been told not to broadcast because I would be triangulated and located.’
‘My God, what a fuck up.’
I don’t know whether he’s referring to me, or the whole operation. I don’t think I fucked up, but the entire operation was useless.
‘Well Soldier, considering the situation, you did a good job. Did you get the radio to the Free French?’
‘No Sir, they never came.’
‘Where is it then?’
‘I left it there, hoping they’d finally show up and find it. They must have known about that tree where I was hiding.’
He’s looking down at his desk. He looks up at me.
‘Do you have the watch?’
I unbuckle it and hand it to him.
He checks the time.
‘Well, your outfit hasn’t jumped off yet. It could be several weeks before the beachhead is widened enough to handle them. I’ll get you back to them right away.’
He acts as if I should thank him. But I don’t. He’s a bit like that doctor with my varicocele and calcaneus spur. He’s doing me a favour.
He puts out his hand and we shake. A sailor comes into the room.
‘See that this man gets back to his outfit.’
He tells him the number of my regiment. We salute and I go with the sailor. No mention of my silver star.
I’m transported over three days back to my outfit in England. Gettinger still has my place reserved in the tent. I go gather up my duffel bag. Gettinger wants to know where I’ve been for the last week. I figure I might as well tell him. The mission is over, if not completed. He can’t believe it any more than I can.