quickening, some with their heads bowed in silent prayer.
Finally the transport smacked into the Channel with a loud, wrenching crump, tossing the men about the cabin.
After that there was nothing around them but water.
6.
In Crouchâs lead plane, Bluford Williams had abruptly noticed some confusion up front near the door. He didnât know how long it had been since Lillyman ordered the men to jump with a hollered â
Letâs go!
â It could have been a minute, or several minutes. He couldnât tell. His sense of time had been washed away in a heady rush of adrenaline.
Standing at the end of the stick, heâd risen from his aluminum seat prepared to nudge along anybody who lagged or froze up with sudden hesitation. But that didnât seem to be the problem. From where he stood, it appeared that one of the guysâMangoni, he thoughtâhad gotten his rifle hung on the edge of the door.
The M-1s were supposed to be broken down and carried in a heavy padded leg case called a Griswold bag, but none of the troopers had been able to figure out who was responsible for that idea. Surely, theyâd complained, it was some genius whoâd never jumped from a height of five feet, let alone five hundred. Like their other leg bags, which had been invented by the Brits for their own airborne forces, the Griswolds were ungainly impediments to movement.
Most of the men had chosen to jump without one of them, just as theyâd decided against using their reserve chutes. Instead, they had kept their fully assembled rifles tucked under their harness straps, where they could reach for them quickly after making landfall.
Lillyman had given his tacit approval by turning a blind eye, even knowing there was a risk involved: the wind would tear at them when they dropped, sweeping off whatever gear wasnât properly secured. But he was a combat officer, not a pencil pusher, and he understood the situations his troopers would face on the ground. When a soldier came down in hostile territory with enemy soldiers shooting at him, the last thing he wanted was to squander precious seconds reassembling his M-1. Taking fire without a functional weapon in hand was a far deadlier prospect than getting momentarily caught in the jump door.
Still, Mangoni had gotten his rifle snagged, or so Williams would recall. Dickson, the S-2 commander from regimental HQ, thought one of the paratroopers, saddled with a heavy load of equipment, had tripped over one of his leg bags and lost his balance. Neither of them had the clearest view from where they stood, but it was undebatable that somebody was having problems. In the commotion, Lillyman stepped out of position to help him.
Then McFarlen felt a hand on his back, urging him toward the door. The plane was already making its pass of the DZ and in moments would turn back toward home. There wasnât time to think or hesitate. He would no longer be the third man to exit the transport, but the first.
The troopers had wanted to use the jump cry âGeronimoâ after cooking it up to match their Indian warrior haircuts. But it would have to wait for another time. The ailing General William C. Lee was commander of the 101st, and the father of the U.S. Army airborne. In the days before the invasion, it had gotten around that the troopers would honor him by calling out his name instead.
McFarlen remembered that as he moved into the doorway and gazed down at the fog-shrouded Normandy countryside, his ears filling with the merged thunder of the wind, the aircraftâs engines, and his own savagely beating heart.
âBill Lee!â he shouted into the void.
And leaped.
7.
Coming down with their landing lights on, Captain Taylor and his copilot, Harold Sperber, had at first seen only water in front of them, bright green in the moonlight. Then, suddenly, the huge form of a ship. Steeling himself against the worst, Taylor wrenched at his control column and managed to turn
Finally the transport smacked into the Channel with a loud, wrenching crump, tossing the men about the cabin.
After that there was nothing around them but water.
6.
In Crouchâs lead plane, Bluford Williams had abruptly noticed some confusion up front near the door. He didnât know how long it had been since Lillyman ordered the men to jump with a hollered â
Letâs go!
â It could have been a minute, or several minutes. He couldnât tell. His sense of time had been washed away in a heady rush of adrenaline.
Standing at the end of the stick, heâd risen from his aluminum seat prepared to nudge along anybody who lagged or froze up with sudden hesitation. But that didnât seem to be the problem. From where he stood, it appeared that one of the guysâMangoni, he thoughtâhad gotten his rifle hung on the edge of the door.
The M-1s were supposed to be broken down and carried in a heavy padded leg case called a Griswold bag, but none of the troopers had been able to figure out who was responsible for that idea. Surely, theyâd complained, it was some genius whoâd never jumped from a height of five feet, let alone five hundred. Like their other leg bags, which had been invented by the Brits for their own airborne forces, the Griswolds were ungainly impediments to movement.
Most of the men had chosen to jump without one of them, just as theyâd decided against using their reserve chutes. Instead, they had kept their fully assembled rifles tucked under their harness straps, where they could reach for them quickly after making landfall.
Lillyman had given his tacit approval by turning a blind eye, even knowing there was a risk involved: the wind would tear at them when they dropped, sweeping off whatever gear wasnât properly secured. But he was a combat officer, not a pencil pusher, and he understood the situations his troopers would face on the ground. When a soldier came down in hostile territory with enemy soldiers shooting at him, the last thing he wanted was to squander precious seconds reassembling his M-1. Taking fire without a functional weapon in hand was a far deadlier prospect than getting momentarily caught in the jump door.
Still, Mangoni had gotten his rifle snagged, or so Williams would recall. Dickson, the S-2 commander from regimental HQ, thought one of the paratroopers, saddled with a heavy load of equipment, had tripped over one of his leg bags and lost his balance. Neither of them had the clearest view from where they stood, but it was undebatable that somebody was having problems. In the commotion, Lillyman stepped out of position to help him.
Then McFarlen felt a hand on his back, urging him toward the door. The plane was already making its pass of the DZ and in moments would turn back toward home. There wasnât time to think or hesitate. He would no longer be the third man to exit the transport, but the first.
The troopers had wanted to use the jump cry âGeronimoâ after cooking it up to match their Indian warrior haircuts. But it would have to wait for another time. The ailing General William C. Lee was commander of the 101st, and the father of the U.S. Army airborne. In the days before the invasion, it had gotten around that the troopers would honor him by calling out his name instead.
McFarlen remembered that as he moved into the doorway and gazed down at the fog-shrouded Normandy countryside, his ears filling with the merged thunder of the wind, the aircraftâs engines, and his own savagely beating heart.
âBill Lee!â he shouted into the void.
And leaped.
7.
Coming down with their landing lights on, Captain Taylor and his copilot, Harold Sperber, had at first seen only water in front of them, bright green in the moonlight. Then, suddenly, the huge form of a ship. Steeling himself against the worst, Taylor wrenched at his control column and managed to turn
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