Canidy watched as the enormous aircraft filled the windscreen, hung there a moment, then very slowly started to grow smaller.
Damn that was close!
And in another moment they would’ve seen us alongside.
And then what?
With the Gooney Bird standing on its starboard wing and slipping away to the right, there suddenly came from the rear of the aircraft a familiar heavy vibration.
What the hell?
That feels like automatic gunfire!
In the next instant, long flames began to light the sky above them. Canidy could now make out that the big and boxy aircraft had a swastika on the vertical stabilizer.
Then came more heavy vibration, a steady endless stream of it.
That sonofabitch!
It’s the Browning!
And damn he’s burning through ammo!
The flames grew longer across the sky—That’s fuel that’s catching fire! He hit a fuel cell!—and then suddenly the German aircraft’s starboard wing was engulfed in flames.
Then came a bone-rattling BOOM!
Darmstadter and Canidy shielded their eyes, the intense, sudden light nearly blinding them.
The explosion sheared off the burning wing. The airplane, its fuselage now rapidly burning away, pitched violently left—and began to spiral downward.
Darmstadter yanked the yoke to level out the Gooney Bird, then slammed the yoke and throttles forward.
The nose dropped and the airframe began making a louder and louder hum as the airplane rapidly lost altitude.
Canidy watched the airspeed needles spin.
“Airspeed two-twenty,” he called out as the aircraft approached its top speed of 250 miles per hour.
“Two-forty . . .
“Two-sixty . . .
“Two-eighty-five . . . Hank?”
Darmstadter did not reply.
“Three-ten, Hank!” Canidy called.
He’s going to tear the goddamn wings off!
Just then, shy of 325 miles per hour, Darmstadter pulled back on the throttles.
The hum of the airframe was deafening—but it slowly began to ease.
“Two-seventy,” Canidy then called out.
It took him a moment to realize that the heavy, steady vibration from the Browning had stopped.
Canidy rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on the control panel. They were still losing altitude but not nearly as fast. The altimeter indicated 5,500.
“Airspeed two hundred,” Canidy announced, “and we’re dropping through fifty-five hundred feet.”
Darmstadter, scanning the night sky, eased back on the yoke. The aircraft began leveling off. Canidy saw that the altimeter was now indicating 5,100 feet, the airspeed 180, and he called that out.
Darmstadter maintained that level and speed for five minutes, quietly scanning the sky. Then he turned and looked at Canidy.
“Nice flying,” Canidy said.
“What the hell was that, Dick?”
“Goddamn big. And goddamn close.”
“I noticed.”
“And goddamn German, for sure. I saw the enormous swastika on the tail.”
“Yeah, so did I,” Darmstadter said, his tone sarcastic. “It was nicely lit, I recall.” He paused, then repeated, “What the hell was that?”
Canidy answered with a question: “Did you count six engines?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure I did. So, a Giant? What the hell is a Giant doing out here alone?”
“Trying to wipe us out of the sky, for one. A Giant would explain how the Browning ate up the wing and maybe the fuselage, too. They’re fabric.”
The six-engine high-wing Messerschmitt Me323 Gigant had an airframe built of lightweight tubing and covered in doped canvas, giving the aircraft a twenty-ton payload. It had clamshell doors that formed its nose, through which it could quickly load and unload everything from 88mm flak cannons to half-tracks to Panzer IV tanks to 120 troopers.
“Maybe it’s one of those that got away,” Darmstadter said after a moment. “Last month, some P-40s and Spitfires scrambled after a couple dozen Giants that were being escorted not far from Pantelleria. We shot down all but six or so.” He paused. “Maybe that was one of the six.”
Darmstadter was quiet a long moment. Canidy noticed that he still had his hand firmly on the throttles, and now that he finally was letting go, and flexing his fingers, he saw why.
His hands are trembling. . . .
Canidy said, “Well, beyond there being one fewer Giant for the Third Reich, there is good news.”
“What?”
“You get to paint your first kill on the nose of this bird.”
Darmstadter didn’t respond to that. Instead, he said: “Speaking of that, do you want to go back there and kick his ass? Or do you want me to do it?”
“Why?”
“Damn it, Dick, those Giants have four thirteen-millimeter machine guns!”
“Five, normally,” Canidy offered.
“Okay, then five! To our one!” He scanned the sky again. “And what if there’d been escorts?”
“I don’t know that John Craig is fully at fault, Hank.”
Darmstadter turned to look at Canidy.
“Meaning?” he challenged.
“I was thinking that you may have been as responsible for that as him.”
“How in hell do you figure that?”
“When you stood us on the starboard wing, you put that giant aircraft right in John Craig’s sights. Who wouldn’t take a great shot like that? I’m tempted to go back there and tell him if you can find him four more, and he shoots them down, he will become a certified Ace.”
Darmstadter shook his head in disgust.
After a moment, he added more than a little throttle.
“I just want him off my damn airplane, and the sooner the better.”
[FIVE]
Thirty minutes later, Darmstadter began a slow descent for the deck.
Canidy heard his voice, a much calmer voice now, come over the headset: “About that time, buddy.”
Canidy nodded, then unfastened his harness.
“I’ll check back with you shortly,” Canidy said.
He removed his headset and left the flight deck.
* * *
It was still noisier than hell in back. And now very chilly.
Canidy found the beefy Kauffman moving the first of the gear—two large duffels and the two wooden crates of Composition C-2—from the bulkhead to the aft door. He was impressed by how Kauffman carried his bulk with a casual ease. And how he came across as completely self-confident. Nothing seemed to bother him.
When he came up on the flight deck after we took out the Giant, he acted like that was a daily thing for him.
The anchor-line cable ran the length of the ceiling, from the bulkhead at the flight deck all the way back to the aft bulkhead at the troop door.
Canidy, sliding his hand along the cable, casually walked aft, then suddenly stepped on something small and round, and immediately felt both feet start to go out from under him. He caught himself with the anchor-line cable, dangled for a moment, then regained his footing.
He looked down.
The fucking deck’s awash in a sea of spent .30 cal!
He really let loose with that Browning. . . .
Canidy kicked at the brass shells as he walked to the back. He found John Craig van der Ploeg now sitting in the last seat on the port side, next to the troop door. The smell of vomitus remained, but only slightly.
The Browning machine gun had been moved backward on its track, clearing the doorway. In a pile next to it, their hinged lids open, were four empty .30 caliber ammo cans.
That’s eight hundred rounds.
How the hell did he quickly reload three times?
And without melting the barrel?
Or maybe he did melt it. . . .
Van der Ploeg looked up at Canidy and saw him staring at the ammo cans.
Between the sound of the pro
pellers and the engine exhaust and the whistle of the slipstream, the noise at the troop door was close to a roar. Van der Ploeg had to almost shout to be heard.
“They shot first,” he announced in a dazed monotone.
“What?”
“They shot first,” he said in an even louder dazed monotone. “So I shot back.”
Canidy looked at him.
They did? Or did he get excited and imagine it?
I didn’t notice any muzzle flash.
But everything happened so damn fast, it’s possible I missed it.
And he had to have one helluva view of that bird.
“That was one helluva shot,” Canidy finally said.
John Craig shrugged. “Hard to miss something that big that close.”
Canidy chuckled.
Which was what I told Hank.
Canidy said, “Ready to jump?”
He nodded.
“I’m ready to get the hell off this airplane!”
Which, interestingly enough, is what Hank told me.
Kauffman was putting the two big black duffel bags in line at the doorway. Each had its own parachute, and Kauffman then hooked up their static lines to the anchor-line cable. Next, with some effort, he used the sole of his boot to push the two wooden crates behind the duffels, and hooked up their static lines.
“Better get your chute on,” Canidy said. “I’ll be right back.”
* * *
Canidy—having shared van der Ploeg’s version of events with a doubtful Darmstadter and then saying they’d be in touch—had returned strapped into his parachute. He now was sitting in a port-side folding seat just forward of van der Ploeg’s.
The Gooney Bird had crossed over the coastline of Sicily ten minutes earlier, and as far as they knew the invisible black bird had evaded any notice—and certainly any flak from antiaircraft welcoming committees.
* * *
The pitch of the Twin Wasps changed, and the aircraft bled off speed. Kauffman, now prepared to serve as jumpmaster, was leaning against the bulkhead, arms crossed, and looking out the open door as if he could actually see the drop zone in the dark.
A light above Kauffman’s head came on, glowing red, and he looked at it for a second.
Coming up on the DZ, John Craig thought, as he felt his pulse start to race.
Stay calm. You’ve done this.
Breathe in . . . breathe out . . .
“Stand up!” the jumpmaster called out.
John Craig, with more than a little effort under the weight of his pack, pulled himself up using the ribs of the fuselage. He continued holding on with his right hand to keep steady on his feet.
“Hook up!” Kauffman called out.
John Craig reached up and clipped his static line hook onto the anchor-line cable.
“Check static lines!” Kauffman called out.
As Canidy confirmed that van der Ploeg was properly hooked up, Kauffman stepped over and did the same with Canidy’s.
“Stand in door!” Kauffman then called out.
This last command they did not take literally. The first to exit the aircraft would be the duffel bags and wooden crates of C-2. The jumpers would go last.
That had been Canidy’s order. He said that he did not want to jump first and be floating blissfully to earth while, say, the chute failed on the C-2 and a hundred-pound wooden crate plunged onto his head.
The red light was replaced with green, and Kauffman kicked the first duffel out the door. After a moment, its static line went taut, popping the parachute. Kauffman, using one-second intervals, was already kicking out the second duffel and following it with the first of the two crates of C-2.
Kauffman had his foot on the second crate as John Craig van der Ploeg now literally stood in the doorway.
Deep breath in, then breathe out . . .
Kauffman could sense his anxiety.
“Don’t you worry one bit!” the jumpmaster shouted, his voice strong and encouraging. “For you, jumping in the dark will be just like jumping during the day.”
Van der Ploeg looked over his shoulder and shouted back: “How is that? I’ve done this—”
“You close your eyes during both—so either way it’s dark!”
Kauffman then laughed heartily at his own joke as he kicked the second crate out the door.
John Craig thought he heard Canidy chuckling behind him.
He stared out into the star-filled night sky.
And then he did close his eyes for a moment.
“Our Father, Who art in Heaven—”
“Go!” Kauffman shouted.
John Craig at once felt Kauffman give him a hard slap on the back—That was a push!—and the sudden sensation of being thrust into the hundred-mile-an-hour rushing air of the slipstream.
“Hallowed be Thy name . . .”
Feet together, knees bent . . .
He almost immediately came to the end of his static line. There was a slight tug, then it popped his chute, and as the canopy quickly filled he was violently yanked upright—then, nearly as quickly, was gently and slowly floating downward.
“Thy Kingdom Come, Thy will be done . . .”
Breathe!
Inhale . . . exhale . . .
Above and behind him, the sound of the airplane became smaller and smaller. He began to make out what few sounds there were around him—mostly rushing air making his parachute lines vibrate—and heard that there was absolutely no sound coming from the ground.
“On Earth as it is in Heaven,
“Give us this day our daily bread
“And forgive us our trespasses
“As we forgive those who trespass against us.”
He saw down past his feet the parachutes of the gear. Beyond them, he could make out a couple roads—the asphalt reflecting light, causing it to look like a river—and a very few lights from what he guessed were houses.
And then he saw the canopies of the gear collapse, telling him that they had found the ground.
Okay. I’m next.
Feet together, knees bent, get ready to roll . . .
“And lead us not into temptation
“But deliver us from evil . . .”
He thought he could now vaguely make out parts of the ground.
“For Thine is the kingdom,
“And the power and the glory
“For ever and ever . . . Amen.”
Something smacked his legs—“Goddammit!” he cried out—and next came the sensation of being beaten by a thousand canes.
The thrashing was intense, and he automatically shielded his face with the crook of his arm.
Something then ripped at his right foot, and there immediately came a burning sensation.
Then suddenly he was jarred to a stop, and felt a great burning as the webbing of his harness dug into his thighs.
And then he was hanging in the dark, with all quiet.
And then the burning in his foot became intense.
And then he passed out.
VI
[ONE]
OSS London Station
Berkeley Square
London, England
1020 31 May 1943
“Pull that door shut, please, Helene,” Chief of Station David Bruce said, standing by the window of his office and sipping at a steaming china mug of coffee, “and see that we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel,” Captain Helene Dancy, Women’s Army Corps, replied over her shoulder as she left carrying the tray that had held the fresh coffee service.
The door clicked shut, and Bruce looked at Lieutenant Colonel Ed Stevens, who wore his usual perfectly tailored worsted uniform and sat on the couch and poured coffee.
Bruce walked over to his desk, picked up a sheet, and handed it to Stevens.
“Wolfgang Augustus Kappler,” Bruce announced, pronouncing each syllable pointedly. “Until yesterday, I had hardly known the man. And now he is suddenly the focus of everything I’m supposed to do?”
> Stevens took a sip of coffee as his eyes went to the message:
* * *
TOP SECRET
OPERATIONAL PRIORITY
31MAY43 0810
FOR OSS LONDON -- COL BRUCE
OSS ALGIERS -- CAPT FINE
COPY OSS WASHINGTON -- GEN DONOVAN
FROM OSS BERN
BEGIN QUOTE
DAVID AND STANLEY,
AS PROMISED IN MY MESSAGE OF 30MAY43, I SHARE WHAT I HAVE JUST LEARNED FROM MY MEETING WITH WOLFGANG KAPPLER. TO WIT:
1. FRITZ THYSSEN. WE KNEW THAT THYSSEN FLED GERMANY WITH HIS FAMILY AND THEN HITLER NATIONALIZED HIS STEEL WORK INDUSTRIES. WE NOW KNOW THAT FRITZ IS NO LONGER HEADED TO ARGENTINA, THAT INSTEAD VICHY FRANCE TURNED HIM AND HIS WIFE OVER TO THE GESTAPO, THAT HITLER HAS HAD THEM LOCKED UP IN A BERLIN ASYLUM, AND THAT THEY SOON WILL BE INTERNED IN A CONCENTRATION CAMP.
2. WOLFGANG KAPPLER. MARTIN BORMANN HAS ESSENTIALLY THREATENED KAPPLER WITH SAME FATE AS FRITZ. TO START, HITLER HAS NATIONALIZED HIS CHEMISCHE FABRIK FRANKFURT. AND BORMANN HAS THREATENED HARM TO KAPPLER’S FAMILY IF HE TRIES TO FLEE GERMANY AND/OR HIS DUTIES TO THE THIRD REICH. THE WIFE AND DAUGHTER -- HANNAH, 53, AND ANNA, 19 -- ARE LIVING IN BERLIN. SON OSKAR, 32, AN SS-OBERSTURMBANNFUHRER, IS SECOND IN COMMAND AT SS PROVISIONAL HQ IN MESSINA. I OFFERED -- AND WOLFGANG DECLINED -- FOR OSS TO GET WIFE AND DAUGHTER OUT OF GERMANY. KAPPLER WORRIES THAT SHOULD THAT HAPPEN, BORMANN WILL TARGET SON. IT IS CRITICAL TO THE SUCCESS OF WOLFGANG’S MISSION THAT HE NOT WORRY ABOUT THE SAFETY OF HIS FAMILY. TINY IS REACHING OUT TO SON TO GAUGE HIS COMMITMENT TO NAZISM. IF IT IS DETERMINED THAT SON MUST BE TERMINATED -- WE COULD LAY BLAME ON SS OR ITALIAN SECRET POLICE -- SO BE IT. TO THAT END I AM REQUESTING (A) THAT DAVID PUT TOGETHER A CONTINGENCY PLAN THAT WOULD HAVE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER DISAPPEAR TO SAFETY AND (B) THAT STAN PUT TOGETHER SAME FOR SON -- AND HIS POSSIBLE TERMINATION -- IN SICILY. BOTH OPS SHOULD BE ACTIONABLE WITHIN SEVEN (7) DAYS OF THIS DATE.
3. SS-STURMBANNFUHRER KLAUS SCHWARTZ. KAPPLER SAYS HE WORKED FAITHFULLY FOR HIM AS CHIEF CHEMIST AT CHEMISCHE FABRIK FRANKFURT FOR TEN YEARS BEFORE HIMMLER QUOTE POISONED HIS MIND UNQUOTE AND SCHWARTZ RADICALLY EMBRACED NAZISM. WITHIN LAST WEEK SCHWARTZ WAS KNOWN TO BE TRAVELING UNDER ORDERS OF HIS BOSS, WERNHER VON BRAUN, BUT HIS WHEREABOUTS ARE BEING KEPT QUIET DESPITE INQUIRIES BY TINY’S SOURCES. KAPPLER IS LOOKING INTO WHAT IF ANY UNUSUAL PROJECTS SCHWARTZ MAY HAVE HAD WORKING AT CHEMISCHE FABRIK FRANKFURT BEFORE HE LEFT TO ASSIST VON BRAUN.
The Spymasters: A Men at War Novel Page 18
