by John Dalmas
Then, having written Mary, he wrote his parents for only the third time in his life.
* * *
Rommel began taking more interest in western Tunisia, and in the first week in December, German and Italian troops occupied the strategic but undefended Faid Pass. The further enlarged Gafsa garrison was sent to take it from them. The troopers at Kasserine were also sent, and arrived in time for the second (and final) day of fighting, which ended with the surrender of the surviving Axis troops. It was Macurdy's first taste of real combat since he'd left Yuulith—his first ever that involved firearms instead of swords, bows, and pikes.
* * *
Soon afterward, the paratroopers at Gafsa were replaced by straight infantry. Macurdy's company was moved to the airfield at Thelepte, to protect it and carry outpatrols. It was the only company of 509ers left in Tunisia. The rest of the battalion had been sent to Boufarik on standby, several hundred miles northwest, near Algiers.
17
Von Lutzow
It was evening when it happened. Macurdy, who now wore staff sergeant's chevrons on his sleeves, was settling down to read awhile before hitting the sack, when Lieutenant Shuler came into the barracks. "Macurdy, get your boots on."
As Macurdy reached for his boots, Shuler elaborated. "Captain Buckman's got a job for you and me. He's waiting to brief us."
In the orderly room, the captain filled them in. Operating by night, a light British plane had picked up two spies—one British, the other American—wearing German uniforms, and been hit by small arms fire during takeoff. Later it had crash-landed on a mountain road. The pilot was badly injured, but he'd gotten off a Mayday call, giving their approximate location. Both spies were injured too. Algiers wanted them picked up; they were supposed to be very important.
The Germans would also have gotten the signal, and would undoubtedly send men to capture them. Probably by truck; it would be a long drive, but feasible. However, it was possible they'd jump paratroops in.
Captain Buckman told Macurdy to pick eighteen men and get them ready: He and Shuler would go over the quick and dirty operations plan. Macurdy and his men were to be at the taxi strip in twenty minutes, with three stretchers, and K rations for three days. Major Marden would be their pilot.
Macurdy left wondering if three stretchers would be enough: Twenty men jumping at night in the mountains could easily result in two or three of them getting busted up on landing. It wasn't windy, and the moon had just risen, something more than half full, but even so ...
He supposed the spies had confidential information, and wearing German uniforms, they'd be executed if caught—pumped of what they knew, then shot. While if the Germans caught him on the mountain with a broken leg, he'd probably, hopefully, just end up in a POW camp. Still, he took five stretchers. They could always leave what they didn't need.
And they had one thing going for them besides themselves: Their pilot had a reputation. Major Rollie Marden didn't have to find places. He just sort of went to them, like some of the mountaineers in Yuulith. It was like an instinct. There was no way he'd miss the drop spot.
Macurdy knew without thought what men he'd take, and not one of them bitched at foregoing his night's sleep. He told them to bring no weapons heavier than M1s, and no more grenades than they could take in their thigh pockets. This was a rescue operation, not a combat mission; they needed to travel light.
Ten minutes after he'd given them their instructions, they trotted to the C47s warming up on the taxi strip, leaving the rest of the platoon jealous.
Shuler arrived a few minutes later. Two minutes after that, they were on board, taxiing to the runway. Shuler handed out French army topographic maps, and briefed the troopers as they flew. They'd take the rescued spies and pilot to a road, where they'd be met by trucks and troops of the 26th Infantry and taken to Gafsa. From there they could get air cover if needed—some of Major Cochran's P40s would be standing by, ready to take off on a moment's notice.
It seemed like no time at all before they were over the jump spot, hooked up and ready. Shuler was jump master. The green light came on and the lieutenant jumped, the rest of the stick following almost in lockstep, Macurdy last, the cleanup man, shouting the battalion's jump cry: "San Antone!"
He looked up, checking his canopy, then down, orienting himself. The landscape was a mosaic of moon-wash and black shadow. He could see the primitive road, even the plane lying on it, almost at the summit of a grade. Right on target, he thought. I need to look up Marden, when I have a chance, and tell him how much that means to us. And so damned quick! It'll take a hell of a lot longer getting out than it did in.
He hit the ground about two hundred yards beyond the broken plane. Shuler almost slammed into it when he landed. Almost. What he actually hit was a boulder, or more likely two of them. The result was a broken leg, and despite his steel helmet, a severe concussion. Two blasts on Macurdy's whistle oriented any troopers who might have missed seeing the plane. Except for Shuler, none had injuries severe enough to hamper them seriously. All in all, Macurdy thought, they'd been damned lucky. They even found their equipment package, in this case the stretchers, with no trouble at all.
Two of the crash victims were still in the plane. The mission medic checked them first. One of them, the pilot, had bled to death, the radio mike in his lap. The other, in a German uniform, was unconscious, his breathing shallow. Macurdy had a man take the pilot's dogtags, go through his pockets, and look the cabin over for envelopes, papers—anything like that. Others gathered up any chutes visible from the road and stashed them out of sight.
The second spy, an American, had gotten out of the plane and seen the drop. He was walking, which meant they wouldn't have to carry him—at least not all the time—but he was also groggy, and his scalp was peeled half off. After cleaning both flap and skull, the medic laid the flap back where it belonged, and fastened it in place with a bandage. Strongly built and about six feet tall, his patient wore a German officer's field uniform, sharply tailored, with a captain's insignia.
Macurdy, trying to get him into the here and now, asked him his name. "Vonnie," the man muttered, then, in a monotone, "Captain William Von Lutzow."
That he could give his name was encouraging. Macurdy shook Von Lutzow's hand. "Mine's Macurdy. Sergeant Curtis Macurdy. Can you remember what happened?"
Von Lutzow stood a moment without answering, and when he did, it was in the same monotone: "We got shot at, taking off. Bullet hit the gas tank; we could smell the gas. Another one hit the pilot, but he said he was all right."
Concussion, Macurdy told himself, but not really bad, or he wouldn't remember so much. "We're going to get you out of here," he said. Then, because the winter night was near freezing, and Von Lutzow shivering, he put his hands on him and flowed warmth, drawing on the Web of the World, while the medic got the unconscious spy and Lieutenant Shuler strapped onto stretchers. Macurdy would have taken the dead pilot, too, but that would mean carrying a third burden more than twenty miles through mountains, with the prospect of enemy fighter planes hunting them by day, and perhaps troops by night. He'd settle for taking out the dead man's dogtags and wallet. Von Lutzow would hike out.
Macurdy checked once again; everyone was there. "All right," he said, "let's get going," and led off. They'd follow the road as long as it was safe.
* * *
They'd gone about half a mile when they heard distant trucks grinding up a steep grade on the other side of the crest behind them. Germans, Macurdy realized. They'd reach the plane soon, and have to stop until they could drag the wreckage off the road. Meanwhile they'd search the plane, and look around for the missing spies. It wouldn't take a genius to realize they'd been rescued, especially if the stashed chutes and stretchers were found.
The road took the troopers downward across the long slope, and when they reached the bottom, Macurdy halted them. Up on top, the trucks had stopped. Meanwhile the road turned southwestward, down the ravine. Macurdy took a topographic map f
rom a tunic pocket and turned to the next ranking noncom. "Cavalieri," he said, "I'm taking Williams, Montague, Cherbajian and Luoma with me. And Captain Von Lutzow. The rest of them are yours. I want to make sure we get at least one of these two guys out of here safely for debriefing.
"I'll keep going west down the road as long as the krauts let me." He had one of the others hold a pen light on the map, and traced a route with his finger. "You head northeast up the ravine; they won't expect that. In about half a mile, a draw enters it from the northwest. Take it; the grade looks pretty moderate, and it tops out in a saddle. Cross the saddle and follow down the draw on the other side. It opens into a wide ravine that runs west. The map shows a camel road down it, so it ought to be decent hiking. Eventually it'll hit Road 163; you'll see it on your map. By then it ought to be daylight, or close to it; you'll probably want to hole up and rest."
Cavalieri nodded, awed. It was, he thought, as if Macurdy had memorized the topographic map on the plane, and things fell into place for him as needed.
"Stay with 163 to the Gafsa-Tebessa Road," Macurdy continued, "then use your own judgment. If we get out first, we'll tell them to look for you there." He took some of the extra K rations from his musette bag. "Turn around," he said. Cavalieri turned, and Macurdy shoved the rations into the man's musette bag. "For the limey," he added, "in case he wakes up hungry." Then he shook Cavalieri's hand. "Good luck, partner. See you at Thelepte."
Cavalieri grinned. "Good luck yourself. And don't do anything I wouldn't." Then he led his men off the road into shadowed darkness.
Macurdy didn't stay to watch them disappear. Up on the ridge, the trucks had started again; the Germans had gotten the plane out of the road. Presumably whoever was in charge would send part of his force in pursuit. No doubt others would continue searching above. On Macurdy's order, his people, even Von Lutzow, quickened their pace. Two minutes and a sixth of a mile farther, he turned off the road, crossing the ravine bottom to lead them angling up the ridge on their right.
With a little elevation, they could see three trucks coming down the road from the crash site, headlamp beams broad and bright in the night, light security ignored. Spotlights played over the roadsides as they growled down the grade in third gear. There wasn't effective cover, only thin spiny shrubs, rock outcrops, and minor terrain irregularities. "Come on, you guys," Macurdy ordered, "kick her out of neutral! We'll need to be farther up the hill than this, or we're dog meat. They'll have machine guns and lots of Schmeissers on those trucks."
They hunkered down, digging for uphill speed. Von Lutzow's concussion hadn't lessened his will to survive; he hustled with the rest of them. The trucks reached the bottom of the ravine and never paused, just rolled on down the road in a thick cloud of dust. Their spotlights swept the bordering slopes, but never reached high enough to find the gasping, puffing troopers. The Americans stopped to rest, watching.
"We lucked out, sarge," someone said quietly.
"That wasn't luck, Monty," Macurdy growled, "that was legs." There were still two trucks by the wreck, spotlights playing in the distance. There'd be a whole damned platoon up there searching; they'd find the chutes for sure, if they hadn't already. Not that it'll do them, any good, he told himself, then added, they really do want these guys. He looked speculatively at Von Lutzow, who seemed about ready to puke, whether from exhaustion or concussion, Macurdy didn't know. Maybe both.
When they'd gotten their wind, he moved them on again toward the crest, now at an easier pace. It seemed to Macurdy they had the situation whipped, even if they did have a long way left to hike. When they reached the top, he stopped again. "Take a break," he said, and the men flopped down, lying back on their musette bags. Macurdy sat on the ground beside a prostrate Von Lutzow. The man's aura was shrunken, and there was a black hole in it above the forehead.
"How are you doing?" Macurdy asked. In German.
The spy looked up at him and answered in English. "My head hurts." He paused. "And my scalp burns." Another pause. "I'm worried about Morrill."
The words were still somewhat monotone; his mind was functioning at maybe fifty percent, Macurdy thought. He switched to English, too. "Morrill's your partner?"
Von Lutzow barely nodded, probably because his head hurt.
"Cavalieri will get him out; I'd bet a month's pay on it. And he's got the medic with him." Macurdy stood. "Sit up, captain," he said. "Let's see if I can do anything for your headache."
Von Lutzow sat up and Macurdy knelt behind him, putting a hand on each side of the spy's head, holding them there for long seconds, frowning slightly, then moved one to the forehead and the other opposite. After another ten seconds he asked, "How's that feel?"
Von Lutzow's jaw had sagged slightly. "The headache's not half what it was!"
"Good." Macurdy removed one hand, while the fingers of the other traced lines in the space immediately above Von Lutzow's bandaged scalp. This continued for perhaps half a minute, then he worked his fingers gently down the spine, pausing here and there while his fingertips wove patterns, shifting threads of energy. Von Lutzow only blinked. Finally Macurdy sat back.
"How's the scalp?"
"Tingles like a son of a bitch, but the burning's gone. The headache too, now." Von Lutzow's monotone had been replaced by thoughtfulness.
A nearby voice commented, with an accent that reminded Macurdy of the Saari brothers. "My mother would love to watch you, sarge," Luoma said. "She's always talking about stuff her grandma did like that, back in the old country."
Other eyes had watched, too, and other ears had listened. They'd known and liked the fact that their sergeant was different, peculiar, but this healing business was new to them. Macurdy stood up. "Time to move," he said. "On your feet."
They got up, Von Lutzow rising without help, and Macurdy led off, westward along the broad crest.
* * *
Over the next three hours, Macurdy pretty much observed the standard breaks—ten minutes on the hour. On that basis, troopers with full field gear could push fifty miles in twelve hours, on a road. But these guys had been on patrol all afternoon before coming out on this mission. And the German trucks had returned up the ravine and up the hill the danger seemed over. At least until daylight, when Messerschmitts might come hunting them. Besides, the moon had climbed higher, shortening the shadows. So Macurdy had set no watch on this break. Men dozed, and his own lids too slipped shut. The ground was hard and stony, and like the night, cold. At worst he wouldn't sleep longer than a few minutes.
The same sound wakened them all, a quiet voice perhaps 120, 150 feet away, speaking German, ordering, "Take a break. Pass it on." Other voices repeated it at intervals in both directions.
None of the six Americans moved. They occupied an area not twenty feet across. "Come to me," Macurdy murmured softly. "On your bellies. Now." They did, wondering, until all of them would have fitted under an eight-foot-square tarp. But it wasn't a tarp Macurdy planned to cover them with. This time his voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "Take out your .45s, but no one move or shoot unless I say so, or I'll see your ass on a fence post. Just lay still. They won't see us as long as you keep quiet." He chuckled softly, deliberately. "Trust me; me and my Aunt Varia. If you pray, do it under your breath. God'll hear you."
Then he spread his cloaking spell to cover them, using his hands because he'd never spread it over an area before.
How long had he dozed? he wondered. Surely not more than ten minutes. And what were Germans doing up there? Looking for them, obviously; but why there?
It seemed to him he knew: The feldgrau, the Germans, had found the chutes; obviously American paratroopers had taken the spies. And where would they have gone with them? Unless they were hiding near the plane, they'd have gone in a westerly direction, toward the American outposts, probably following the road. So the German commander had sent three truckloads of men after them, commanded by a junior officer.
But after a few miles, having found no one, they'd look at
other options. The Americans might have left the road and followed the crest, which after the road gave the best hiking. So the trucks had returned empty, and the feldgrau were working their way back on foot. It was a low percentage sort of action, done so they could say they'd covered all the prospects. They didn't really expect to find anyone.
Apparently the German breaks were ten minutes long, too; that's how long it was before a voice said in German, "On your feet," then after a moment, "move out. And stay alert!"
Macurdy lay on his side, the heavy Colt in his fist, thumb on the half-cocked hammer. His M1 lay on the ground beside him. If it came down to it, he'd empty the Colt at whatever targets offered themselves, then pick up the rifle. The Germans approached, more than half a dozen he could see. By their helmets and coveralls, they were Fallschirmjäger—German paratroops. With submachine guns.
