ledded
Herder of monkies
We were like gods once... [...and into the fire]
Smitty had to yell a second time at Moose over the droning of the C-47 engines to get his attention.
“Yo! Smoke?”, offering up his pack of camels.
Moose started, lost in thought, and shook his head no.
Smitty flicked his zippo, breathed out smoke, and reclined against the plane’s thin wall.
“You okay Moose?”, he shouted.
Moose, looking pale, nodded. “Just… just a little scared, dontcha know. Ground’s a long way down dere.”
“I… I just never flew before, ‘least not awake, eh.”
Smitty glanced out of the small window, then looked back at Moose and smiled. He reached over and slapped Moose on one massive leg playfully. It was like slapping a stone.
“Ah don’t worry about it man, the jump is gonna go just fine. Hell, it ain’t the fall that’ll kill ya, it’s that abrupt stop at the end”, Smitty joked, smacking his hands together at the end of it for emphasis.
Moose just gulped, leaned back, and closed his eyes while gripping one of the two BAR rifles he had on him until his knuckles turned white.
Hank grinned as the plane bucked and weaved. “Yo thar dingdangit ol’ Moose buddy, it’s gonna be danged ol’ fine, man, ol’ Smitty’s just messin’ with ya”, he chattered as he leaned forward, placed his helmet on his seat, and then promptly sat in it.
Moose looked at Hank as he spoke, his expression turning quizzical at Hank’s choice of seating.
“Whatcha doin’ with yer helmet dere, Hank?”, Moose asked.
Hank, straight-faced, looked down as if wondering what Moose was talking about and then casually replied, “Oh, that’s so when the dingdang flak starts, Jerry don’t shoot yer danged ol’ balls off”.
Moose’s eyes flew wide, and he looked to Smitty as if for verification. Smitty just shrugged and placed his helmet under his backside and resumed slouching casually in his seat.
Moose snapped a look towards John, who it seemed had sat on his helmet a while back and then dozed off with his head pillowed against the structural frame of the aircraft.
Right then the aircraft jumped under a patch of rough air, and Moose scrambled to release his helmet, cursing, and quickly but clumsily jammed it under his rear end, spilling some of his gear as he did. His huge frame teetered comically on the comparatively small helmet.
The other three roared with laughter and put their helmets back on while Moose flushed and smiled, realizing what they had done.
John slid closer on the bench and patted him on the back. “It’s ok, man, when the light comes on, look at Hank, then just hook up and jump like we taught ya”.
Moose just nodded dumbly and secured his gear.
“Looks like this is where we peel off boys”, yelled back one of the pilots from the open cockpit door as the plane began a turn, gaining speed and losing altitude as they did. Moose nervously jammed his feet down and both arms out against the unexpected movement. Smitty just smiled and reclined against the wall, not even bothering to clip on his jump gear. Moose looked back at the flock of C-47’s and the sea of parachutes opening beneath them.
Hank glanced at his watch and began timing their run. Only six minutes to their drop zone, though it was closer to any possible hostiles. He faced the others, and put up both hands balled into fists, then made the number “six”, followed by an index finger pointed down towards the ground. Moose and John finished securing and checking equipment. All Smitty did was make sure the bandolier holding his rifle case was slung, and light another smoke.
The plane gained altitude on the new heading, increasing its shaking and bumping as it started hitting some rougher air, continuing onwards for several more minutes in relative peace, each man lost in his own thoughts and preparations.
Poom. Pa-pa-pa-pa-poom.
The sounds of anti-aircraft fire came to them. The Germans had spotted them.
Poom. POOM. There was a rattling noise, like rocks hitting a tin roof, and Moose jumped.
John looked at him with the casual calmness of a man who has been shot at in the air quite a few times. “Just a little shrapnel scattering against the skin. Don’t worry, it’s not a problem”.
Hank kept an eye on his watch, and looked out of the open door for landmarks, all cool professionalism. John looked ready but relaxed. Smitty looked as if he was about to doze off, and still hadn’t bothered with the jump gear piled at his feet. Moose felt like he was about to wet himself as he stared intently at the jump indicators.
Poom. Pa-pa-poom. More rattling.
Hank whistled, and when everyone looked up at him, he held two fists toward them and made a number ‘three’ with his right, then pointed towards the door. Three minutes, Moose thought, maybe this wont be so bad after all…
Ba-BOOM. Pa-pa-pa-PA-BOOM!
Glass shattered from the windows of the left side of the plane, metal and glass spraying and ricocheting around the inside of the jump cabin. Hank ducked cursing, John flinched and rolled away from the blast, Smitty’s cigarette fell from his mouth, and Moose squawked, glancing out wild-eyed at the holes in the wing and the smoke starting to trail from the left engine.
He shot a look at John, who was trying to get his feet under him from the floor, and pointed out of the shattered windows.
John took one calm look at the damage, clapped Moose on the shoulder, and said “Okay, now *that* might be a problem. Guess it’s a good time to start worrying”. He went forward towards the cabin carefully on the slanted and rocking floor.
Moose grabbed the jump line in his hand and stood, staring at the damage as the plane started shuddering violently and heeling towards the left; he could hear the opposite engine revving wildly to compensate as the one smoking sputtered and coughed. He saw the red light come on, immediately hooked up and headed for the door. Smitty’s hand on his chest stopped him, trying to scream over the increased noise.
Pa-Poom. Pa-pa-pa-POOM. boomBoomBOOM. The fire was increasing, and Moose could see the 20mm exploding shells streaking nearby the C-47.
Moose looked at Smitty, and saw Hank behind him screaming into the cockpit as John tried to get closer to see if he could help. He couldn’t hear Hank, but could tell from his pantomime of pointing at his watch that it wasn’t time to jump yet. The pilots were getting skittish and wanted to get them out.
He’d heard about this at Normandy, how paratroopers missed drop zones by miles because the pilots jumped the gun. Now he was regretting ever thinking ill of those guys; he couldn’t blame them at all. If it were up to him they’d already be out of this flying coffin and on the ground. It’s not like he minded walking. A nice walk in the countryside would be swell right now, even if it was filled with Krauts trying to kill him. Hell, at least then he could see the ones shooting at him and do something about it.
Smitty patted his shoulder as John moved by them. He screamed up into Moose’s ear with a cupped hand “It’s alright, we just need another minute or tw…”
KA-BLAM!
The cockpit exploded in a shower of sparks, glass, burning metal, and blood.
John swung away from the open doorway on the jump line in his hand, barely missing shrapnel as he hurled himself into the wall opposite the open jump door. Hank sprawled, sliding away from the cabin on his stomach, blood and gobbets of flesh and brains sprayed all over his face and uniform.
Smitty reached out and caught him as he virtually slid out of the jump door, legs kicking into the open air and scrambling for purchase. Then the plane started rolling towards the left and falling, Hank slid back from where he came, and Smitty lost his grip on him and the jump line. Moose grabbed Smitty as he fell towards the opposite wall.
John, struggling to get inside the pilot’s cabin, glanced back and screamed, “ *Definitely* a problem guys!!! These guys are FUBAR! Hank! Quite screwing around and give me a hand!!!”
“Oh sh*t oh sh*t oh sh*t”, was all Moose could think to say as he held on to Smitty and the jump line, muscles tense like steel.
Hank leapt towards the open cockpit door that John was trying to pull himself through as the plane made ominous grinding and revving noises and started falling sharply towards the ground in an ever tightening spiral.
“Moose… please… let… go… you’re hurting… me…” Smitty gasped, accompanied with banging on the arm Moose had around him in a death-grip.
“Oh, s-s-sorry Smitty”, Moose yelled and let him go, trying not to throw up. Smitty landed nimbly on the pitching floor and threw himself into the jump master’s position under the lights opposite Moose. He actually smiled at Moose. That guy’s gotta be crazy or somethin’, thought Moose, awed by Smitty’s apparent nonchalant lack of fear.
John pulled what was left of the pilot out of his seat and threw him on top of the copilot. He wished he could do more, but several exploding 20mm shells had hit directly below the cabin and blown through the men and the equipment; they were both dead before they knew what hit them. Unfortunately, in John’s opinion so was this bird. The windows were blown out, instruments were smashed, and the co-pilots stick was completely gone. Hell, he could see the friggin’ ground through the floor in places, and it was spinning and getting close. John Brighton gritted his teeth and threw himself into the pilot’s seat, years of experience and training taking over as he laid into the controls with all his strength.
“Oh hell… no… you… don’t, you fat-bellied b*tch… you’re not gonna go down on me… two… times… is… enough…”, he growled at the shuddering C-47 through clenched teeth.
Hank’s head popped into the room for a second, eyes wide, then promptly threw up on the blood-and-flesh slicked floor.
“If you’re done there, could you see if you could do something about the controls… I’ve got no control surfaces on the right side, the left engine’s about to totally blow out on me, and the right’s about to follow… if I don’t pull out of this spiral we’re gonna die”, John rattled off at Hank as fast as he could.
Hank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, nodded, and dove onto the floor, both hands reaching through gaping holes into the ruined equipment. Hank concentrated and the plane came to him like he was reading a diagram of it with his hands. He could feel the metal pieces, could feel what was wrong. He pulled at a couple of things that were supposed to have a series of wires between them, probably for control. Thinking quickly, he made a mental picture of pieces of the aircraft’s thin metal skin peeling inwards from where the shells had torn them, quickly rolling and stretching out thin, and attaching themselves into the areas where he felt they should be. He just hoped they didn’t need any of the pieces that he was imagining tearing off…
John fought for all he was worth but it was no use. With no control on the right side and the engines browning out, possibly about to ignite, they were heading for the ground like a freight train. He extended a shaking hand towards the jump light on the wall across from his seat, fighting the stick to keep the plane from completely turning up on its wing and diving straight down. Hell, at least a couple of them might make it out…
Suddenly, there was a horrible tearing, screeching noise, and something was hitting the stick violently as it jerked in his hand. Screeeeech-crunk-spang!
Abruptly the stick shot right in John’s hand. He hadn’t realized how much strength he was pushing into it, and now unexpectedly he had partial control again. The plane weaved crazily as he fought it out of the spiral. “Holy sh*t Hank! What did you… hey, do somethin’ about those engines if you can…”, John began, but was interrupted by noise from the engines.
Errrruuuunnkkk-Cough-cough-cough-Vrrrooooooooom
The left engine accompanied the right in firing up, and John used every ounce of his considerable piloting skill, fighting the wounded and dying C-47 for all it was worth, coaxing, begging, and cursing it back onto something resembling a normal course.
He looked forward, and they were flying relatively straight now, but he had no idea where. All the instruments were blown out, and there was flak still bursting here and there around them.
Smitty knelt up beside him, grinning, and John clapped him on the shoulder. “Damn good job, Hank! You saved us! Now how the hell are we gonna get back on course?”
“There. Head there”, came Smitty’s voice as his hand pointed ahead of them, to their left. Peering as best he could, John could just barely make out some smoke, and maybe… yes, that looked like it might be a bridge support. Damn, he must have eyes like an eagle, thought John, realizing he probably wouldn’t have noticed the Arnhem bridge from this distance and elevation.
“Alrighty, hold on, I’m gonna get us as close to the drop zone as I can”, John yelled.
They flew for a while, Hank kneeling beside him estimating their speed and time. John glanced back at Smitty, who was holding the jump line and yelling something at Moose, who was looking pretty pale. He went ahead and hit the red light as Hank shouted the time to him.
They were heading back into the worst of the flak now. It was almost like the Jerry’s knew their drop zone or something, they must have parked a half dozen flak cannons around the area, while with the Polish paratroop’s planes they had seen no flak at all. Just his luck.
Pa-pa-pa-pa-Poom. Pa-pa-poom. Boom. BOOM.
Spang-spang-spang-spang-spang
Moose felt the plane shuddering violently, and looked back. There were huge ragged holes blowing upwards from the rear of the aircraft forward, like some invisible monster were jogging up from the tail and tearing open the floor with each clawed step.
In the cockpit, John looked at Hank. “Gettin’ close, we might want to get ready to..”
CRASH-PHOOM!
The left engine exploded into flame.
“…go… goGoGO!”, John finished as he struggled to get out of his seat. Hank took off like a shot out of the cockpit.
Moose was just wondering if he should just go ahead and jump when he saw Hank stand up, wild-eyed, and step out of the cockpit.
“Hey dere Hank, izzit ‘bout time ta…”, Moose began to yell, but Hank lurched past him without a look, running, clipped onto the line and threw himself screaming out of the door in front of Moose. A nice blooming chute opened just below the aircraft.
Moose looked up at Smitty. Smitty smiled and made a “shooing” motion with his hands. He didn’t need any more encouragement. As he hooked up, Moose caught a glimpse of John stumbling out of the cockpit fighting the dying C-47 as shells slammed into it from everywhere, jump hook in hand and reaching shakily towards the jump line. Moose stepped out of the door.
The wind tore at him with unexpected fury, and he felt himself bang into the side of the rapidly disintegrating C-47 as he spun over and over for what seemed like an eternity. It was oddly quiet compared to the roaring and creaking inside of the C-47, nothing but the wind whipping at his clothes and the distant sound of the flak cannon. Then there was a hard jerk on his chest and shoulders, and he was floating towards a field below him.
Smitty grabbed at John’s hook as the plane started to break up, snatching it, hooking him up, and shoving him out of the door flailing.
Then Smitty concentrated on being light like he did when hunting as a kid. Willing his every molecule to push itself somewhere else. Being like a ghost.
He opened his eyes as the aircraft whipped by his face, and felt the oddest sensation as the remainder of the C-47 passed through his body and exploded, spraying him with unfelt fragments. Like a ghost, he floated downwards under his own power towards the ground.
Hank was getting worried. He looked up, but didn’t see anyone else coming out yet… wait, there was someone’s chute opening. Then another a few seconds later. Good. He felt better now that he was pretty sure they were out. That good feeling ended when he realized that the flak cannon that just ended their plane was sweeping its fire towards him now, and the flashes of cannon shells and zipping of small arms fire was walking in closer with every second.
Hank remembered his training and pushed his will outwards towards anything metal. He felt as much as heard the plane detonate, and with his mind like an invisible, magnetic hand he reached out to the shredded pieces of falling metal and pulled them to him, spinning them around him in an oscillating globe-shape. He felt a 20mm shell explode near him, scattering against his magnetic shield and leaving him unharmed, and smiled a silent “thanks” to the Nazis below as he gathered the fragments of the rounds into his ever-growing shield.
Smitty watched the plane break up and burn, falling towards the ground as a strange stream of debris pulled off and flowed upwards towards Hank’s parachute. He could see the flak cannon now, at the edge of the field they were flying over, and he tried to will himself closer to it. He could feel the occasional burst of a cannon shell or small arms fire zip through him, but while a bit alarming, it left him otherwise unharmed in his disincorporated state.
Hank hit the ground and bounced, keeping low as the flak crew tried changing their weapon’s elevation to bring fire on him. John hit the ground near him and rolled, ripping himself out of his parachute and immediately loping off towards the gun crew, dodging the fire from a few Krauts hiding behind the gun’s forward shield.
Moose thumped into the dirt hard, drug for a second, and tore his chute gear off in one hand, letting it go in the wind. He calmly knelt, unslung one of his BARs and jacked the slide.
John weaved and ducked, running twice as fast as Jesse Owens as he gained on the platform. He saw several Germans stand up from behind the cannon and take aim with MP-40’s. Then they all jerked like marionette’s with their strings tangled, sparks flying off of the cannon’s front shield, as the heavy rounds of Moose’s BAR tore into them.
John was abruptly there, jumping lithely to spin in the air and land on the back of the platform, and pulled the icy cold from inside him into being like a nimbus of deadly frost.
The last two Germans barely had time to register the numbing, killing power of a wave of cold before John’s fists snapped out, one-two, and ended their lives.
He was just pushing the sphere of icy death around him back inside as it was making frost on the gun and quickly feezing the bodies and blood from the slain Nazis, when Smitty calmly floated down from the sky and landed beside him. He could almost see through Smitty in a few places, which was strange, but now he understood why he never put on his jump gear. Smitty suddenly seemed to gain solidity as Hank and Moose came running up.
“About time you fellas got here, we got work to do”, Smitty quipped at them with a smile and lit himself a smoke.
They gathered up their gear, Smitty checking his rifle’s scope and Moose reloading and priming both BARs, settling the pouches of ammo and grenades he was carrying.
“Alrighty then, dingdangit, I reckon we’re about right thar”, Hank said, pointing to the map, “which puts us a few dagnabbit dingdang miles from whar we wanna danged-ol’ hook up in Arnhem. Which o’ you fellers wanna take the dingdang point?”
Moose, knowing he was pretty quiet for such a big guy and having the most firepower, began to raise his hand.
Smitty piped up “I think I can handle it”, and then promptly disappeared from sight all together. Moose only saw his boot prints in the dirt moving away from them, but couldn’t even hear his steps this close. He quickly turned his half-raised hand into a point in Smitty’s direction.
“Um, yeah dere I think that Smitty’s got it, eh?”
They gave him a little time to get ahead, then fell into line and headed towards their objective. Distant booms and small arms fire came to them, but it was hard to tell just what they were running into. Not that it mattered. What mattered to the four of them was that they had a job to do, and lives depended on it.
……
Frogbot squatted quietly as several more British paratroopers ran past him, not noticing him in their haste to flee. He had overheard their leader, the wounded Colonel Frost, tell them to get every man who could run and try to get away.
Three Nazis rounded the same corner, hot on the paratrooper’s tails, and stopped in the alley to aim at their unprotected backs.
Frogbot unfolded himself from hiding position and stepped towards them.
The last thing the three of them heard was a snikt! and then their lives were torn from them before they even knew it.
Frogbot snapped his wrists outward, flinging the blood off of his steel claws before re-sheathing them. He glanced around the corner, and saw the German soldiers leading wounded British out of the mostly destroyed building they used as a command post. He could see Colonel Frost, wounded and bleeding, speak with a German commander as tanks and SS troopers moved past.
He restrained the urge to immediately leap into the fray against the Germans, calculating his chances against several hundred soldiers with halftracks and tanks to be close to only 8.8723% success probability. Not acceptable, as he had a mission. One that depended on another team of allied talents to get here, though they were late.
He silently hoped they would get there soon, and then took a moment to wonder how his programming had been damaged to convey the sensation of ‘hope’ to his circuits. Slightly confused, he slipped into the mass of ruined buildings to hide, wait, and watch for the other team. He figured he would help what allied paratroopers he could while he took time to consider these unaccustomed ‘feelings’.
Smitty had to yell a second time at Moose over the droning of the C-47 engines to get his attention.
“Yo! Smoke?”, offering up his pack of camels.
Moose started, lost in thought, and shook his head no.
Smitty flicked his zippo, breathed out smoke, and reclined against the plane’s thin wall.
“You okay Moose?”, he shouted.
Moose, looking pale, nodded. “Just… just a little scared, dontcha know. Ground’s a long way down dere.”
“I… I just never flew before, ‘least not awake, eh.”
Smitty glanced out of the small window, then looked back at Moose and smiled. He reached over and slapped Moose on one massive leg playfully. It was like slapping a stone.
“Ah don’t worry about it man, the jump is gonna go just fine. Hell, it ain’t the fall that’ll kill ya, it’s that abrupt stop at the end”, Smitty joked, smacking his hands together at the end of it for emphasis.
Moose just gulped, leaned back, and closed his eyes while gripping one of the two BAR rifles he had on him until his knuckles turned white.
Hank grinned as the plane bucked and weaved. “Yo thar dingdangit ol’ Moose buddy, it’s gonna be danged ol’ fine, man, ol’ Smitty’s just messin’ with ya”, he chattered as he leaned forward, placed his helmet on his seat, and then promptly sat in it.
Moose looked at Hank as he spoke, his expression turning quizzical at Hank’s choice of seating.
“Whatcha doin’ with yer helmet dere, Hank?”, Moose asked.
Hank, straight-faced, looked down as if wondering what Moose was talking about and then casually replied, “Oh, that’s so when the dingdang flak starts, Jerry don’t shoot yer danged ol’ balls off”.
Moose’s eyes flew wide, and he looked to Smitty as if for verification. Smitty just shrugged and placed his helmet under his backside and resumed slouching casually in his seat.
Moose snapped a look towards John, who it seemed had sat on his helmet a while back and then dozed off with his head pillowed against the structural frame of the aircraft.
Right then the aircraft jumped under a patch of rough air, and Moose scrambled to release his helmet, cursing, and quickly but clumsily jammed it under his rear end, spilling some of his gear as he did. His huge frame teetered comically on the comparatively small helmet.
The other three roared with laughter and put their helmets back on while Moose flushed and smiled, realizing what they had done.
John slid closer on the bench and patted him on the back. “It’s ok, man, when the light comes on, look at Hank, then just hook up and jump like we taught ya”.
Moose just nodded dumbly and secured his gear.
“Looks like this is where we peel off boys”, yelled back one of the pilots from the open cockpit door as the plane began a turn, gaining speed and losing altitude as they did. Moose nervously jammed his feet down and both arms out against the unexpected movement. Smitty just smiled and reclined against the wall, not even bothering to clip on his jump gear. Moose looked back at the flock of C-47’s and the sea of parachutes opening beneath them.
Hank glanced at his watch and began timing their run. Only six minutes to their drop zone, though it was closer to any possible hostiles. He faced the others, and put up both hands balled into fists, then made the number “six”, followed by an index finger pointed down towards the ground. Moose and John finished securing and checking equipment. All Smitty did was make sure the bandolier holding his rifle case was slung, and light another smoke.
The plane gained altitude on the new heading, increasing its shaking and bumping as it started hitting some rougher air, continuing onwards for several more minutes in relative peace, each man lost in his own thoughts and preparations.
Poom. Pa-pa-pa-pa-poom.
The sounds of anti-aircraft fire came to them. The Germans had spotted them.
Poom. POOM. There was a rattling noise, like rocks hitting a tin roof, and Moose jumped.
John looked at him with the casual calmness of a man who has been shot at in the air quite a few times. “Just a little shrapnel scattering against the skin. Don’t worry, it’s not a problem”.
Hank kept an eye on his watch, and looked out of the open door for landmarks, all cool professionalism. John looked ready but relaxed. Smitty looked as if he was about to doze off, and still hadn’t bothered with the jump gear piled at his feet. Moose felt like he was about to wet himself as he stared intently at the jump indicators.
Poom. Pa-pa-poom. More rattling.
Hank whistled, and when everyone looked up at him, he held two fists toward them and made a number ‘three’ with his right, then pointed towards the door. Three minutes, Moose thought, maybe this wont be so bad after all…
Ba-BOOM. Pa-pa-pa-PA-BOOM!
Glass shattered from the windows of the left side of the plane, metal and glass spraying and ricocheting around the inside of the jump cabin. Hank ducked cursing, John flinched and rolled away from the blast, Smitty’s cigarette fell from his mouth, and Moose squawked, glancing out wild-eyed at the holes in the wing and the smoke starting to trail from the left engine.
He shot a look at John, who was trying to get his feet under him from the floor, and pointed out of the shattered windows.
John took one calm look at the damage, clapped Moose on the shoulder, and said “Okay, now *that* might be a problem. Guess it’s a good time to start worrying”. He went forward towards the cabin carefully on the slanted and rocking floor.
Moose grabbed the jump line in his hand and stood, staring at the damage as the plane started shuddering violently and heeling towards the left; he could hear the opposite engine revving wildly to compensate as the one smoking sputtered and coughed. He saw the red light come on, immediately hooked up and headed for the door. Smitty’s hand on his chest stopped him, trying to scream over the increased noise.
Pa-Poom. Pa-pa-pa-POOM. boomBoomBOOM. The fire was increasing, and Moose could see the 20mm exploding shells streaking nearby the C-47.
Moose looked at Smitty, and saw Hank behind him screaming into the cockpit as John tried to get closer to see if he could help. He couldn’t hear Hank, but could tell from his pantomime of pointing at his watch that it wasn’t time to jump yet. The pilots were getting skittish and wanted to get them out.
He’d heard about this at Normandy, how paratroopers missed drop zones by miles because the pilots jumped the gun. Now he was regretting ever thinking ill of those guys; he couldn’t blame them at all. If it were up to him they’d already be out of this flying coffin and on the ground. It’s not like he minded walking. A nice walk in the countryside would be swell right now, even if it was filled with Krauts trying to kill him. Hell, at least then he could see the ones shooting at him and do something about it.
Smitty patted his shoulder as John moved by them. He screamed up into Moose’s ear with a cupped hand “It’s alright, we just need another minute or tw…”
KA-BLAM!
The cockpit exploded in a shower of sparks, glass, burning metal, and blood.
John swung away from the open doorway on the jump line in his hand, barely missing shrapnel as he hurled himself into the wall opposite the open jump door. Hank sprawled, sliding away from the cabin on his stomach, blood and gobbets of flesh and brains sprayed all over his face and uniform.
Smitty reached out and caught him as he virtually slid out of the jump door, legs kicking into the open air and scrambling for purchase. Then the plane started rolling towards the left and falling, Hank slid back from where he came, and Smitty lost his grip on him and the jump line. Moose grabbed Smitty as he fell towards the opposite wall.
John, struggling to get inside the pilot’s cabin, glanced back and screamed, “ *Definitely* a problem guys!!! These guys are FUBAR! Hank! Quite screwing around and give me a hand!!!”
“Oh sh*t oh sh*t oh sh*t”, was all Moose could think to say as he held on to Smitty and the jump line, muscles tense like steel.
Hank leapt towards the open cockpit door that John was trying to pull himself through as the plane made ominous grinding and revving noises and started falling sharply towards the ground in an ever tightening spiral.
“Moose… please… let… go… you’re hurting… me…” Smitty gasped, accompanied with banging on the arm Moose had around him in a death-grip.
“Oh, s-s-sorry Smitty”, Moose yelled and let him go, trying not to throw up. Smitty landed nimbly on the pitching floor and threw himself into the jump master’s position under the lights opposite Moose. He actually smiled at Moose. That guy’s gotta be crazy or somethin’, thought Moose, awed by Smitty’s apparent nonchalant lack of fear.
John pulled what was left of the pilot out of his seat and threw him on top of the copilot. He wished he could do more, but several exploding 20mm shells had hit directly below the cabin and blown through the men and the equipment; they were both dead before they knew what hit them. Unfortunately, in John’s opinion so was this bird. The windows were blown out, instruments were smashed, and the co-pilots stick was completely gone. Hell, he could see the friggin’ ground through the floor in places, and it was spinning and getting close. John Brighton gritted his teeth and threw himself into the pilot’s seat, years of experience and training taking over as he laid into the controls with all his strength.
“Oh hell… no… you… don’t, you fat-bellied b*tch… you’re not gonna go down on me… two… times… is… enough…”, he growled at the shuddering C-47 through clenched teeth.
Hank’s head popped into the room for a second, eyes wide, then promptly threw up on the blood-and-flesh slicked floor.
“If you’re done there, could you see if you could do something about the controls… I’ve got no control surfaces on the right side, the left engine’s about to totally blow out on me, and the right’s about to follow… if I don’t pull out of this spiral we’re gonna die”, John rattled off at Hank as fast as he could.
Hank wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, nodded, and dove onto the floor, both hands reaching through gaping holes into the ruined equipment. Hank concentrated and the plane came to him like he was reading a diagram of it with his hands. He could feel the metal pieces, could feel what was wrong. He pulled at a couple of things that were supposed to have a series of wires between them, probably for control. Thinking quickly, he made a mental picture of pieces of the aircraft’s thin metal skin peeling inwards from where the shells had torn them, quickly rolling and stretching out thin, and attaching themselves into the areas where he felt they should be. He just hoped they didn’t need any of the pieces that he was imagining tearing off…
John fought for all he was worth but it was no use. With no control on the right side and the engines browning out, possibly about to ignite, they were heading for the ground like a freight train. He extended a shaking hand towards the jump light on the wall across from his seat, fighting the stick to keep the plane from completely turning up on its wing and diving straight down. Hell, at least a couple of them might make it out…
Suddenly, there was a horrible tearing, screeching noise, and something was hitting the stick violently as it jerked in his hand. Screeeeech-crunk-spang!
Abruptly the stick shot right in John’s hand. He hadn’t realized how much strength he was pushing into it, and now unexpectedly he had partial control again. The plane weaved crazily as he fought it out of the spiral. “Holy sh*t Hank! What did you… hey, do somethin’ about those engines if you can…”, John began, but was interrupted by noise from the engines.
Errrruuuunnkkk-Cough-cough-cough-Vrrrooooooooom
The left engine accompanied the right in firing up, and John used every ounce of his considerable piloting skill, fighting the wounded and dying C-47 for all it was worth, coaxing, begging, and cursing it back onto something resembling a normal course.
He looked forward, and they were flying relatively straight now, but he had no idea where. All the instruments were blown out, and there was flak still bursting here and there around them.
Smitty knelt up beside him, grinning, and John clapped him on the shoulder. “Damn good job, Hank! You saved us! Now how the hell are we gonna get back on course?”
“There. Head there”, came Smitty’s voice as his hand pointed ahead of them, to their left. Peering as best he could, John could just barely make out some smoke, and maybe… yes, that looked like it might be a bridge support. Damn, he must have eyes like an eagle, thought John, realizing he probably wouldn’t have noticed the Arnhem bridge from this distance and elevation.
“Alrighty, hold on, I’m gonna get us as close to the drop zone as I can”, John yelled.
They flew for a while, Hank kneeling beside him estimating their speed and time. John glanced back at Smitty, who was holding the jump line and yelling something at Moose, who was looking pretty pale. He went ahead and hit the red light as Hank shouted the time to him.
They were heading back into the worst of the flak now. It was almost like the Jerry’s knew their drop zone or something, they must have parked a half dozen flak cannons around the area, while with the Polish paratroop’s planes they had seen no flak at all. Just his luck.
Pa-pa-pa-pa-Poom. Pa-pa-poom. Boom. BOOM.
Spang-spang-spang-spang-spang
Moose felt the plane shuddering violently, and looked back. There were huge ragged holes blowing upwards from the rear of the aircraft forward, like some invisible monster were jogging up from the tail and tearing open the floor with each clawed step.
In the cockpit, John looked at Hank. “Gettin’ close, we might want to get ready to..”
CRASH-PHOOM!
The left engine exploded into flame.
“…go… goGoGO!”, John finished as he struggled to get out of his seat. Hank took off like a shot out of the cockpit.
Moose was just wondering if he should just go ahead and jump when he saw Hank stand up, wild-eyed, and step out of the cockpit.
“Hey dere Hank, izzit ‘bout time ta…”, Moose began to yell, but Hank lurched past him without a look, running, clipped onto the line and threw himself screaming out of the door in front of Moose. A nice blooming chute opened just below the aircraft.
Moose looked up at Smitty. Smitty smiled and made a “shooing” motion with his hands. He didn’t need any more encouragement. As he hooked up, Moose caught a glimpse of John stumbling out of the cockpit fighting the dying C-47 as shells slammed into it from everywhere, jump hook in hand and reaching shakily towards the jump line. Moose stepped out of the door.
The wind tore at him with unexpected fury, and he felt himself bang into the side of the rapidly disintegrating C-47 as he spun over and over for what seemed like an eternity. It was oddly quiet compared to the roaring and creaking inside of the C-47, nothing but the wind whipping at his clothes and the distant sound of the flak cannon. Then there was a hard jerk on his chest and shoulders, and he was floating towards a field below him.
Smitty grabbed at John’s hook as the plane started to break up, snatching it, hooking him up, and shoving him out of the door flailing.
Then Smitty concentrated on being light like he did when hunting as a kid. Willing his every molecule to push itself somewhere else. Being like a ghost.
He opened his eyes as the aircraft whipped by his face, and felt the oddest sensation as the remainder of the C-47 passed through his body and exploded, spraying him with unfelt fragments. Like a ghost, he floated downwards under his own power towards the ground.
Hank was getting worried. He looked up, but didn’t see anyone else coming out yet… wait, there was someone’s chute opening. Then another a few seconds later. Good. He felt better now that he was pretty sure they were out. That good feeling ended when he realized that the flak cannon that just ended their plane was sweeping its fire towards him now, and the flashes of cannon shells and zipping of small arms fire was walking in closer with every second.
Hank remembered his training and pushed his will outwards towards anything metal. He felt as much as heard the plane detonate, and with his mind like an invisible, magnetic hand he reached out to the shredded pieces of falling metal and pulled them to him, spinning them around him in an oscillating globe-shape. He felt a 20mm shell explode near him, scattering against his magnetic shield and leaving him unharmed, and smiled a silent “thanks” to the Nazis below as he gathered the fragments of the rounds into his ever-growing shield.
Smitty watched the plane break up and burn, falling towards the ground as a strange stream of debris pulled off and flowed upwards towards Hank’s parachute. He could see the flak cannon now, at the edge of the field they were flying over, and he tried to will himself closer to it. He could feel the occasional burst of a cannon shell or small arms fire zip through him, but while a bit alarming, it left him otherwise unharmed in his disincorporated state.
Hank hit the ground and bounced, keeping low as the flak crew tried changing their weapon’s elevation to bring fire on him. John hit the ground near him and rolled, ripping himself out of his parachute and immediately loping off towards the gun crew, dodging the fire from a few Krauts hiding behind the gun’s forward shield.
Moose thumped into the dirt hard, drug for a second, and tore his chute gear off in one hand, letting it go in the wind. He calmly knelt, unslung one of his BARs and jacked the slide.
John weaved and ducked, running twice as fast as Jesse Owens as he gained on the platform. He saw several Germans stand up from behind the cannon and take aim with MP-40’s. Then they all jerked like marionette’s with their strings tangled, sparks flying off of the cannon’s front shield, as the heavy rounds of Moose’s BAR tore into them.
John was abruptly there, jumping lithely to spin in the air and land on the back of the platform, and pulled the icy cold from inside him into being like a nimbus of deadly frost.
The last two Germans barely had time to register the numbing, killing power of a wave of cold before John’s fists snapped out, one-two, and ended their lives.
He was just pushing the sphere of icy death around him back inside as it was making frost on the gun and quickly feezing the bodies and blood from the slain Nazis, when Smitty calmly floated down from the sky and landed beside him. He could almost see through Smitty in a few places, which was strange, but now he understood why he never put on his jump gear. Smitty suddenly seemed to gain solidity as Hank and Moose came running up.
“About time you fellas got here, we got work to do”, Smitty quipped at them with a smile and lit himself a smoke.
They gathered up their gear, Smitty checking his rifle’s scope and Moose reloading and priming both BARs, settling the pouches of ammo and grenades he was carrying.
“Alrighty then, dingdangit, I reckon we’re about right thar”, Hank said, pointing to the map, “which puts us a few dagnabbit dingdang miles from whar we wanna danged-ol’ hook up in Arnhem. Which o’ you fellers wanna take the dingdang point?”
Moose, knowing he was pretty quiet for such a big guy and having the most firepower, began to raise his hand.
Smitty piped up “I think I can handle it”, and then promptly disappeared from sight all together. Moose only saw his boot prints in the dirt moving away from them, but couldn’t even hear his steps this close. He quickly turned his half-raised hand into a point in Smitty’s direction.
“Um, yeah dere I think that Smitty’s got it, eh?”
They gave him a little time to get ahead, then fell into line and headed towards their objective. Distant booms and small arms fire came to them, but it was hard to tell just what they were running into. Not that it mattered. What mattered to the four of them was that they had a job to do, and lives depended on it.
……
Frogbot squatted quietly as several more British paratroopers ran past him, not noticing him in their haste to flee. He had overheard their leader, the wounded Colonel Frost, tell them to get every man who could run and try to get away.
Three Nazis rounded the same corner, hot on the paratrooper’s tails, and stopped in the alley to aim at their unprotected backs.
Frogbot unfolded himself from hiding position and stepped towards them.
The last thing the three of them heard was a snikt! and then their lives were torn from them before they even knew it.
Frogbot snapped his wrists outward, flinging the blood off of his steel claws before re-sheathing them. He glanced around the corner, and saw the German soldiers leading wounded British out of the mostly destroyed building they used as a command post. He could see Colonel Frost, wounded and bleeding, speak with a German commander as tanks and SS troopers moved past.
He restrained the urge to immediately leap into the fray against the Germans, calculating his chances against several hundred soldiers with halftracks and tanks to be close to only 8.8723% success probability. Not acceptable, as he had a mission. One that depended on another team of allied talents to get here, though they were late.
He silently hoped they would get there soon, and then took a moment to wonder how his programming had been damaged to convey the sensation of ‘hope’ to his circuits. Slightly confused, he slipped into the mass of ruined buildings to hide, wait, and watch for the other team. He figured he would help what allied paratroopers he could while he took time to consider these unaccustomed ‘feelings’.
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