Shrapnel (6 page)

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.