Behind Hitler's Lines (10 page)

“Remember what you did, what you were to accomplish,” Wolverton announced solemnly. “That's what we'll do in France. The operation is called Overlord. Our part in it is called Neptune because we'll be protecting the amphibious forces.”

Two days later, under even tighter security, the Currahee enlisted men were bigoted, then confined like prisoners. It seemed that if all the MPs guarding them would ship out for France, Ike might have an extra division to hit the beaches on DDay.

Screaming Eagles were to jump into action hours before the landings; D Night it was called unofficially, and D Night objectives came as a surprise to many. Most bets had been on
an invasion east of Normandy, but thanks to Camille's tip, Joe had a winning wager because Normandy is such a big province. Duber approached him as soon as I Company was bigoted.

“Good guess, Joe, but sorry, you can't collect right away. This whole Overlord-Neptune thing could be to fool Rommel. Bets will be paid off if we actually jump on Normandy.” Joe began to exhibit his Most Obvious Temper. “Not my policy, trooper,” Duber said. “It's the guys running the casino.” He held up his hand. “I know you're pissed, but I'll make you a side bet, double or nothing. I think Normandy is just a feint.” Duber threw out his left, quickly pulled it back. “To see what Rommel does. We're going in somewhere else, pal.”

The Class Shark took him up: a thousand dollars if they indeed jumped into Normandy. Collection shouldn't be hard because Joe and Duber were assigned to the same D Night stick. Macabre joking like that became common between creditors and debtors, how the former if necessary would heroically save the lives of the latter in combat.

At Exeter there was but one more rehearsal, a full-dress battalion tactical jump that didn't go much better than Exercise Eagle. The 101st didn't participate in the worst rehearsal snafu, a practice amphibious landing at Slapton Sands. Recon-noitering German torpedo boats slipped in and sank several ships with great loss of life. There was no official word about Slapton Sands; Screaming Eagles learned about it through the grapevine. What it told them was that Rommel knew the invasion was coming but not when or exactly where.

The grapevine constantly carried negative information, so officers were constantly admonished to ignore it. Naturally Currahees didn't, but when rumors circulated about how final rehearsals for Operation Overlord had been botched, the negativity was shrugged off. In bull sessions they reasoned that their job was doable—not that they understood everything, but they knew enough so that if they landed anywhere near their objectives, those objectives would be seized. Yes they would, no matter how many Germans stood in the way.

At the same time, what the Currahees would do, they real-
ized, was but a small patch in the stupendous parquetry Eisenhower had put together. That was Ike's ultimate talent, demonstrated from 1943 to 1945, for which the world owes him ultimate homage. Neither Joe nor his buddies knew anything about Ike except that he had come up from the Mediterranean Theater and had a German name. That seemed ironic, and they wondered if it did to the Germans too.

Ike was a principal archangel, God being Roosevelt. As remote as he was, Eisenhower came down to the 101st several times, including a last visit as they loaded up on D Night. His British air adviser had told him that 80 percent of them were being sent to certain death. Paratroopers are picture takers. From D Night the most famous of their photos was of Ike speaking with vehemence to a Screaming Eagle lieutenant as blackface troopers listen with intent seriousness but scant worry. Depicted is the paradox of the Allied supreme commander, visiting to encourage his men and instead finding encouragement himself
^*

The other big-name generals were better known to Screaming Eagles than Eisenhower. Omar Bradley had commanded the 82nd before it split into the 101st, so Bradley was okay even if he was a straight leg. He'd lived up to his nickname, “the GI's general,” and they were glad he had overall command of the American half of the invasion. He'd know what the Airborne could do and the kind of support they'd need to do it. Joe had heard of “Blood and Guts” Patton but in a negative way because Ike had relieved him for slapping a GI in Sicily.

The other celebrity general was Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, the overall Overlord ground commander. The British put titles before a man's name, like Sir or Earl or
Duke, but also after his name if he had won some famous victory. For that reason Monty—a nickname as well known as Ike—signed himself “Montgomery of Alamein.” In Rams-bury, Third Battalion had been shown a British-produced documentary war movie,
Desert Victory,
about how Montgomery finally routed Rommel in the desert at El Alamein. Jack liked the film so much he asked Joe and Orv to see it again with him. This was after the second paymaster jump, and Joe declined because he was separating war movies from war experience in his mind. Clips of German POWs, hands on head, jarred with his memory of German voices snarling behind guns. To capture those guns and the men who held them, he had come to realize, was not going to be the romantic adventure that Jack looked forward to. There was no one to dissuade him, for there were no combat veterans among the Currahees.

At Exeter came the last sign that combat was nigh—the issue of live ammunition. In exercises, maneuvers, and rehearsals there usually weren't even blanks because it was feared that if civilians heard what sounded like torrents of gunfire, they'd think the Germans were invading England. So if a trooper carried a rifle, he went,
“Bang-bang.”
If he was a machine gunner, he went,
“Duh-duh-duh-duh.”

Now dumped in Joe's platoon bay were clips, bandoliers, and belts of sharp-pointed, hard-metal bullets. Troopers dipped into them and looked at one another. What weighed on their minds was the weight of the ammo. They'd have to saddle it on like burros, jump with it like anchors, pick it up and carry it till they could unload on the Wehrmacht. Nevertheless they liked the heavy lethality of what was called their “basic load.” The
bang-bang, duh-duh
of “voice fire” had made the most serious rehearsals a little childish.

Now they were no longer boys doing a man's job, they were unquestionably the men. Yet they rubbed their peach fuzz when orders for D Night came down: don't shoot until fired upon. Throw grenades instead to keep the DZs secret. Bullshit, Duber snorted; six thousand parachutes would give that away like a circus coming to town.

In addition to his basic load, each paratrooper was to carry ammo he'd never personally use, like a howitzer round in his leg bag. He would carry it to someplace near the DZ assembly area and leave it for artillerymen who would arrive later. Joe's nonpersonal munitions included an antitank mine and belts of machine-gun ammo he was to drop off by a certain barn after finding Captain McKnight and moving out with him to I Company's objective.

Yes, real objectives were at last revealed. Finally, at the eleventh hour, the troopers were shown exactly what they were to do in the vertical invasion. Maps and aerial photos were unsealed, sandboxes with models unveiled, and everything put on display for excruciatingly serious study.
Memorize, memorize
was the watchword and requirement for repeated quizzes. Study that barn from every angle, Beyrle. Imagine how it's going to look at night. What color is it? It appeared tan from the photo of a prewar tourist. Brochures from travel agencies were also helpful for appreciating the landforms, agriculture, and foliage. Details—for example, the cows around Drop Zone D were predominantly white—were provided by the most titanic intelligence effort in the history of warfare.

What to do if, despite intimate knowledge of the barn, Joe never found it? That was up to him. There were dozens of such dumps planned on the expectation that many would never be established. Not everything had to work for success, just enough things that exploited possibilities till they became probabilities. Combining good odds, the planners reasoned, put the overall odds in the 101st's favor. That too was the way Joe's young mind was thinking as, around midnight, he saddled on a herculean load for his third jump into Normandy. H Hour of D Night was scheduled for 1:40 in the morning, double daylight saving time, so in that part of the world midnight in midsummer is not very dark, especially with a moon.

For Screaming Eagles, D Night Eve produced tension like a turnbuckle, not so much seen as felt: a trooper scribbling a last letter, another sharpening his knife even though it was already so thin it seemed nearly transparent, someone else
practicing pigtail splices on commo wire. And briefings, briefings, briefings. If the vertical invasion failed, no one could be blamed for not repeating enough the plans of what had to be done and how to do it, even if little went according to plan.

Plans focused on objectives, soon firmly planted in everyone's mind. The 101 st's initial objective was to seize and hold the exits from Utah Beach where the 4th Infantry Division would be coming ashore. Protected by the 101st, the 4th would swing north to capture the vital port of Cherbourg. That was the overall plan, and every trooper knew how his DZ was located to support it. If you land somewhere else, join up with whoever is there and help them take their objective. At some point the generals would sort things out. This was inculcated by briefing after briefing.

Briefings and brief-backs definitely kept the troopers occupied, but what to do with the extra time after a twenty-four-hour weather delay was announced? Officers feared a nervous idleness—it could lead to greater fear. The chain of command felt their men should concentrate on what was coming up but at the same time not think about it too much, a most difficult balance to strike.

Troopers took it upon themselves to show what they were thinking and how to deal with it. A buddy of Joe's from Michigan, George Koskimaki, kept a diary of what was going on: crap games clustered everywhere, other little groups who tested their memory by sketching the Norman road net without looking at a map. Each man had been issued a silk map in three pieces. When the pieces were joined it was about a yard square and showed the whole Cotentin Peninsula, the portion of Normandy to be invaded. Most troopers wore the map as a scarf.

They were told the challenge and password for the first twenty-four hours of the vertical invasion. It was reckoned that the Germans couldn't pronounce the word “thunder” the way Americans did. They'd say “donder,” so for D Night the challenge in the 101st was “flash” and the password was “thunder”—pronounced like an American.

But the 101st obtained a better identifier than that. Cautioned by his staff about the hazard of friendly fire when Screaming Eagles used enemy weapons, and from experience with the 82nd's jump in Sicily, General Taylor was vehement about the need for an audible and unmistakable recognition signal for paratroopers milling around in the dark among Germans. He asked an old friend on Eisenhower's staff to come up with a solution. It was both lightweight and light-hearted, the simplest of toys, not much bigger than the trinket that amused children when they emptied a Cracker Jack box. Taylor's toy made the sound of a cricket; research by an army entomologist confirmed that there was a similar species native to Normandy. The FFI was requested to send some over. The insects were auditioned and the mechanical cricket tuned so it could be distinguished from a real one.

Not long before D Night, the Overlord pipeline spewed out enough mechanical crickets for the 101st, the only division to use them. The source was P. H. Harris & Co., a British toy manufacturer who must have been mystified when the Allied high command, at the crucial point of the war, ordered rush production of frivolous baubles—seven thousand of them.

The cricket went
click-clack.
That sound asked “Who's there?” Two
click-clacks
(no more or less) was the answer: “a friend.”

From his French experience Joe didn't have to be told that the cricket could mean life or death. Duber kept saying that on D Night there would be more to fear from Screaming Eagles than from Germans. So the cricket couldn't be buried in some pocket, taking seconds to retrieve. Each trooper punched out a hole allowing it to be laced onto a cord around the neck; then all he had to do was reach for his throat and make the cricket chirp.

AT EXETER EVERY MAN
checked over a personal arsenal in light of his D Nighttasks. Viewed officially, Joe's task as a radioman called for him to be armed with a folding-stock carbine— regarded as not much more than a peashooter—so he had
added a pistol and Thompson submachine gun, both firing .45-caliber slugs. In the 101st that wasn't considered heavily armed at all. Unauthorized weapons proliferated because officers were taking along plenty of extra firepower themselves. Sink's was said to be a sawed-off shotgun.

Besides two half-pound blocks of nitro starch, Joe stuffed grenades in his cargo pockets and taped blasting caps to his ankles and helmet. Bray looked at him skeptically: “Joe, if a bullet hits your pot, don't worry about a headache; you won't have a head.”

More important than his head was Joe's back, to transport the most vital radio, an SCR 300, the principal way for McKnight and Wolverton to communicate. All told, Joe's load, no heavier than most, was hundreds of pounds, so it took two men to raise him up the ladder into his C-47.

Instead of a million-dollar bandolier he'd been given ten dollars' worth of crisp new French money just minted in Washington. Little brass compasses and big English life vests were issued. Troopers were encouraged to shave their heads because it might be a long time till the next haircut. Many did to look more warlike. In the marshaling area everyone was engrossed with skin and helmet camouflage.

Before loading out from Exeter they cased their weapons, some in leg bags; they checked ammo for dents that could cause misfires, broke down K rations, and lined up kit bags containing their chutes. Then it was waiting time—waiting, the synonym for worry—waiting for something, whenever it came. In the next hour, line up chutes and leg bags, then form up by sticks. In the next minutes, assemble at your plane. In the next seconds, gather your thoughts. Waiting time divided quite like the jump commands they knew as well as then-names: Stand up. Hook up. Stand in the door.