The glider riders at Melun were on the flight line to finish loading their equipment. Two serials would be taking off from A-55, each consisting of thirty-six twin-engined C-47s towing a pair of gliders. Stuffed into the 144 gliders would be several companies of glider infantry, the regiment’s anti-tank unit, and part of the headquarters element.
The replacements that had arrived just before the unit departed Châlons were now seeing a glider in person for the first time. Many were unsettled by its apparent flimsiness; one trooper lamented, “It looked like a reinforced egg crate and I admit I had my doubts.”
Dillon’s platoon split up to stow several cases of 60mm mortar rounds, crates of rifle ammunition, litters, water cans, rations, and entrenching equipment. When done with their gliders, they fanned out to help other squads with the heavier stuff. To ease loading, five or six troopers would heave the glider’s tail up and prop it into position with two-by-four braces. This lowered the nose, and once the cockpit had been locked open, jeeps could be gingerly backed in. The width of the cargo area barely accommodated a jeep; it was a tight fit and the maneuver required patience.
Once loaded, everything had to be securely lashed into place, as cargo shifting in flight or during landing could be fatal. Heavier equipment, such as the jeeps and howitzers, was chained to tie-down rings embedded on the edges of the honeycombed-plywood floor, which had an impressive load-bearing capacity of over 4,000 pounds. The lighter equipment—machine gun ammo, land mines, picks, shovels, bazooka rounds, water cans, and boxes of rations—was tied down with hemp rope.
Farther down the same flight line, Captain Bill Barrett supervised as his company loaded multiple gliders with jeeps, trailers, and the regiment’s nine towed 57mm anti-tank guns. Barrett’s unit used British guns owing to their cargo hold–friendly narrow carriage. The crews worked together on the awkward process of getting the massive “six pounders” (as they were called because of the weight of their projectile) on board: one trooper would put all his weight on the long barrel to lift the tail; then, with several men bracing themselves to pull, others took a running start to get the 2,000-pound beast up the small ramps and into the glider. It was a tight fit, and the blanket-wrapped barrel protruded into the cockpit between the two pilots. During the flight, Barrett’s six-man crews would be divided across multiple gliders since only three could ride with the gun due to its weight.
The troopers were responsible for loading and lashing the equipment, but the glider pilots were ultimately responsible for conducting the final inspection to ensure everything was shipshape for a safe flight. Except for a handful of the curious, though, there weren’t any pilots around. They were still unaware of tomorrow’s operation; to the glider riders waiting for them, it was a typical Army SNAFU.
On the flight line, correspondent Hamilton Whitman watched several troops killing time by partaking in what many thought to be the airborne’s official pastime: putting a razor-edge on their M3 fighting knives. For a nineteen- or twenty-year-old airborne trooper, looking cool was part of the job. Sharpening a knife looked cool, and witnesses got the message: I’ll get as close as it takes! In addition to their fighting knives, troopers often carried bayonets or machetes, sometimes even a backup switchblade, just in case. At least one always needed a finer edge. Of course, a sharp blade had a practical purpose: hacking at half-inch hemp with a dull knife could cost vital minutes, or even lives, when trying to extract equipment under fire.
• • •
Not far from the hubbub of the A-55’s flight line, glider pilot Bob Casey waited to be told what was happening. Upon entering the mess tent that morning for his breakfast pancakes, he’d learned that all pilots were restricted to base. The twenty-two-year-old Casey had flown glider missions into Normandy and Holland and was considered an old hand. He liked to wear his flight hat at a rakish angle as if to confirm his status. Like everyone else on base, he knew something was going on and was keen to find out what. The briefing would start shortly, at 13:00.
When after lunch Casey finally took a seat in front of the operation’s briefing tent, the atmosphere was casual and everyone had on what they’d worn to the chow line: leather flying jackets, short-waisted Ike coats, olive-drab sweaters, garrison caps, flight hats, knit beanies, and various scarves and mufflers.
At other bases the briefing procedure called for squadrons to be trucked to the closest town theater, with armed MPs guarding the doors. But at Melun, the briefings took place outside, in front of a large tent. Regardless of where they were conducted, the format was nearly identical. In many cases, like what occurred with the 439th Troop Carrier Group, the briefing opened with a chaplain’s prayer, asking “God to give those going on the mission the strength, the skill and the courage [to] successfully and safely perform their dangerous mission on the morrow.”
Briefing officers, with a microphone in hand, stood before large maps—mosaics of pieced-together aerial photographs and oversized drawings of the LZs. The lectures were divided by topic and delivered one after the other over a period of five hours.
After a review of the forecast—visibility was expected to be over four miles with no low cloud cover—the flight routes were discussed. Indicated by colored yarn stretching across the maps the routes were masterworks of intricate mathematics and precision timing. They accounted for the varying airspeeds of C-46s, C-47s, C-47s pulling a single glider, C-47s towing two gliders, and RAF bombers towing the larger British gliders, all of which consumed fuel at different rates, but were expected to deliver the two divisions simultaneously.
The armada of over 1,500 powered aircraft and 1,300 gliders, which was departing from twenty-three airfields in England and France, would converge over Belgium. The town of Wavre, code-named MARFAK, would serve as the Command Assembly Point, over which all serials should pass to change course for their run to the Rhine. At MARFAK the armada would form three lanes, spaced one and a half miles apart, with the glider serials flying at a higher altitude so that the faster parachute serials, which should arrive over the Rhine first, could overtake and pass under them. Casey and the rest of the pilots flying out of Melun would form two serials, which would cut loose over LZ S after the two lead serials—flying out of airfield A-58 with 160 gliders—arrived before them.
Since it was a daylight flight, navigational challenges figured to be minimal—but both radio beacons and visual markers would be set up at key checkpoints with colored smoke and panels marking each lane’s crossing point over the Rhine. Flight leads for each serial would have navigators on board; for those behind them, it was more a case of following the leader. Pilots were to maintain radio silence during the flight in; there’d be no asking for navigation assistance.
In glider pilot Bill Knickerbocker’s briefing, the operations officer noted a final navigational checkpoint: “Now this is a small town called ‘Wesel,’ right on the river bank. But I wouldn’t try to use it as a landmark, because when you fly over—it won’t be there.”
Harder than staying on course would be maintaining the proper airspeed. Rather than attempting to hit their LZs at a specified time, the pilots were instructed to fly a steady course. The daisy-chain effect of lead serials reducing or increasing speed to adhere to their timeline would create havoc for the pilots behind them, who might react by climbing to avoid collisions. The stacked-up formations would result in gliders being released at higher altitudes, exposing them to prolonged enemy fire. Preventing that pandemonium would be more important than releasing the gliders over the LZ at a precise time.
According to the math, and if each flight lead followed the plan, it should take two hours and thirty-seven minutes from the moment the first paratrooper jumped until the last glider cut loose from its tug. Tight formations and proper airspeeds would be critical.
Approach routes and obstacles on the landing zone were pointed out next: fences, tree heights, bomb craters, and houses all needed to be avoided. Each glider pilot received an eight-by-ten, black-and-white overhead r
econnaissance photo of the LZ for further study. If he followed the manual, each pilot should “have a definite part of the area assigned to him in which to spot [land] his glider. Such a procedure . . . will eliminate ‘jockeying for position’ on the approach as is the case when no particular plan is followed.”
But Bill Knickerbocker, staring at the big maps through the haze of cigarette smoke, scoffed at the idea of a neat and orderly landing. In his experience, once they cut loose from the tugs the sky would be filled with gliders trying to get to the ground first.
He later wrote, “You could give odds that a large number of gliders would head for the obvious fields.” He preferred “to pick a field that looked too short or had other undesirable qualities; then there’d be less competition for the landing space.”
But what about the enemy? Despite their tremendous losses, intelligence estimated that the Luftwaffe had nearly 900 available offensive aircraft. The mention of approximately 500 single-engine fighters and 75 twin-engine jets got the most attention. The Messerschmitt 262s, in particular, made everyone nervous. Just a week prior almost thirty had swarmed an American formation, downing seven B-17 bombers in just eight minutes. If the 262s pounced on the lumbering unarmored troop transports and gliders, they could wreak absolute chaos.
To mitigate the threat the Air Force had spent the last three days bombing every enemy airfield within flying range of VARSITY’s objectives. What they gave away in surprise, they equaled in brute force. Air Force planners hoped that between the damaged airfields and Allied fighter cover the Luftwaffe would be kept at bay. Escorting the American column would be over 300 Air Force P-47 Thunderbolt and P-51 Mustang fighters; the British would have another 200 fighters for their column.
Everyone liked fighter cover, but to the pilots sitting in the briefings, the bigger threat was enemy anti-aircraft guns. Almost the entire flight route, except the last five or six miles, would be over friendly territory; but that brief exposure could get plenty hot, thought the pilots.
Pointing at the map, an operations officer said, “Those orange pins represent flak positions, but [we] expect to clean out most of them before Saturday.”
The pilots erupted in laughter and jeers at that one. They knew that for every AA gun spotted in an aerial photograph plenty more went undetected. Indeed, the senior operations officer at Troop Carrier Command warned that “antiaircraft fire might inflict losses such as the command had never before encountered.” And the RAF’s tactical air commander, Air Marshal Arthur Coningham, called flak his “chief anxiety.”
Indeed, the Germans kept moving in more guns. They may have been running short on tanks and armored vehicles, but they had plenty of antiaircraft guns. Unknown to the Allies at the time, Germany had committed one-third of its industrial artillery production to building AA guns.
Intelligence officers had been dutifully keeping their maps updated as the guns poured into the VARSITY area. Estimates varied, putting the number of 37mm and 20mm AA guns around Wesel anywhere between 300 and 400, plus another hundred or so of the heavier 88mm guns.
The Allies would be using artillery and fighter-bombers to neutralize the flak threat before the troop transports and gliders arrived. The lighter 20mm four-barreled guns posed the biggest challenge. They were easy to move, hard to locate, and could shred attacking aircraft. In MARKET GARDEN anti-flak attacks nearly decimated two fighter groups. Attacks on identified batteries were being held off until the next morning so as not to spook the AA crews into hiding. Artillery and aircraft would have to cease their attacks before the armada arrived, both to avoid hitting the descending aircraft and to allow the smoke and dust to dissipate.
The briefer concluded his section with sage advice: “Don’t forget to wear GI shoes,” a reference to possibly having to make a run for it after getting shot down. The quip served as the cue for the next officer, who reviewed escape and evasion procedures. He warned the pilots not to expect help from the locals as they had in previous missions—this was an invasion, not a liberation. If they crashed in enemy territory, they should evade capture and link up with advancing friendly forces. If capture seemed unavoidable, they should surrender to uniformed military personnel. Reportedly, civilians had recently taken to hanging downed airmen or beating them to death.
The biggest news for the pilots going into LZ S was their ground mission: assisting the 194th glider riders in perimeter defense. The glider pilots were being organized into a provisional battalion composed of four companies, each formed by pilots from the same squadron. The senior squadron pilot would serve as the company commander. Like their infantry brethren, the pilots were subdivided into squads and platoons.
Given that Colonel James Pierce’s 194th would be a battalion short—Miley had designated his 3rd Battalion as divisional reserve—the 875 glider pilots would bring his regiment almost back to full strength. After the pilots landed, the 194th troopers were to assist in unloading their cargo and move out to their squadron assembly points. From there, having formed into their company-sized elements, they’d occupy their designated positions: two of the companies, including Bob Casey’s, would plug gaps in the perimeter; a third would provide protection for one of the field artillery units; the fourth would guard POWs and civilians.
To ensure there were enough copilots to fly CHOKER II, the VARSITY glider pilots needed to get back for flight duty as soon as the tactical situation allowed. Briefers reminded the pilots they were “responsible for reporting promptly to their Group assembly area and will be held strictly accountable for their actions if they fail to report as instructed.” Command was serious this time. Any pilot unaccounted for in a timely manner would be reported as missing in action. Pilots would have to weigh their desire for thrill seeking against putting their families through the anguish of receiving a Western Union telegram.
Clutching their black-and-white photograph of the LZ, the glider pilots departed with a lot on their minds. There were those orange pins sprinkled all over the map, each indicating an AA gun. Weapons needed to be drawn from supply; maps needed to be studied; there was a great deal to accomplish before takeoff. And the briefer’s closing comment weighed on many minds: “Well, here we go again! May your dog tags never part!”
• • •
While the pilots got their brief, Dillon and his platoon sat through a final briefing of their own. Aerial photographs, taken that morning, revealed freshly dug defensive positions on the LZ, and intelligence had confirmed enemy anti-airborne units had moved into position. Dillon knew everyone had the same question, Do they know we’re coming?
One trooper remembered, “Most of the men were on edge and that news didn’t help any.”
Word was passed around that, after chow, movies would be shown for those unable to sleep. The films would start at 21:00 and end around 02:00 the next morning. Dillon made the rounds to check on his men and noticed that those not at the movies “spent the last few hours before going to bed writing a last letter, oiling their weapons, putting a razor-edge on their trench knives . . . or going over and over with their buddies the plan for tomorrow.”
Clyde Haney, also at A-55, attended a Catholic service to take Communion. Outside in the open air, the men knelt on the grass. One attendee observed, “It was mighty solemn. . . . During that Mass they knelt and bowed their heads more reverently than I’d ever seen it done before. They were going over the Rhine the next morning, and they weren’t all coming back.”
Corporal Melvin Manley, a glider rider, remembered all the activity as “exciting and thrilling and yet the undercurrent of danger was there.” Not everyone, however, found the events exciting or thrilling. To some they were overwhelming—a portent of certain doom. One of Manley’s comrades, Private Rocco, shot himself with his carbine. Wounded, he was evacuated to a hospital.
• • •
The division’s medical unit would be using 53 of the division’s 900-odd gliders to carry in their equipment and personnel, including two attached surgical tea
ms. These medics and doctors had the responsibility of triaging and caring for the wounded until such time as they could be evacuated back across the Rhine to field hospitals. The medics loaded jeeps, adorned with red crosses on white backgrounds, into twenty-five of the gliders; another twenty-six would carry the trailers stuffed with medical supplies; and two gliders carried the larger, bulkier medical equipment. There were enough supplies to treat the estimated number of casualties for two days.
The plan called for three of the teams, each consisting of a doctor and three assistants, to join each regiment as soon as they could get their jeep unloaded and find a trailer. The division surgeon had put the medics and doctors through their paces, overseeing a dry run of setting up tents and conducting mock operations to ensure all of their equipment was accounted for and operational.
Also going into LZ N would be six gliders of the division’s quartermaster unit. Flight Officer Don Pinzel climbed into the back of his glider to see what he’d be transporting: a jeep trailer filled with body bags. He found such a stark omen unsettling.
Four Hours of Fury Page 20
