Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Read online

  “Sounds like a plan to me, Sergeant Major.”

  “There is something else I have been wanting to mention to you, sir,” the sergeant major said with a thoughtful look on his face. “The lads have been making fun of the Germans ever since the night they saw the film of the Fallschirmjägers doing belly flops in their parachutes.”

  “No kidding? What do you make of it?”

  “For the first time, sir, the Nazis do not seem quite so invincible. I believe it is a good sign.”

  “I think maybe you’re right.”

  The next day, as soon as he had an opportunity, Major Randal had a quiet word with Sergeant Reupart, who listened carefully while the major explained that he needed some way to discreetly evaluate the men in the other training syndicate and why this was necessary.

  “Next week is jump week, sir,” said Sergeant Reupart. “I believe I can arrange with the senior Royal Air Force instructor to have some of your key people intermingled with the other syndicate so they can observe the students dealing with the stress of actual parachute descents.

  “Also, I can speak to my counterpart over there and see if he has any recommendations on specific candidates for you, sir.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant Reupart.”

  “My pleasure, sir. You understand, of course, you are going to owe me.”

  “You can name your poison.”

  “In that case, sir, I shall make it happen.”

  The final exercise for the week was to make a descent from one of the two seventy-foot towers. The student jumper was strapped into a parachute harness, the chute was fully inflated inside a bell-shaped wire cage, and the jumper was hauled up to the top of the apparatus and released. Once the student had been pulled to the top and had released the safety line securing him to the apparatus, there was only one way to get down, and that was to drop. Although a fan system counteracted the fall of the parachute, the student jumper enjoyed the full sensation of what a real jump was like.

  Releasing the safety line while dangling seventy feet in the air required substantial intestinal fortitude from the student doing the releasing. There was a lot of Comanche yelling as the Raiders and Commandos floated down to the ground. For once, the parachute instructors did not seem to take offense.

  The tower jump was a serious exercise, and much to Major Randal’s regret, two men—old originals from the Household Cavalry polo teams— came to see him that evening and requested to be returned to unit. They explained that they did not have a head for heights. The seventy-foot tower had been the straw that broke the camel’s back and convinced them they did not have any future as military parachutists.

  It was a bitter pill, but better to find it out now rather than later. Major Randal knew that just because a man did not have what it took to jump out of airplanes did not mean that he was not a good soldier. He wrote them both glowing recommendations and arranged for them to be allowed to transfer to the Commando unit of their choice or to return to their regiments.

  The two were escorted from Ringway immediately.

  Major Randal sat and reflected on his command as a whole. He was looking for calm, cool, self-assured soldiers. He wanted troops who could dig down deep inside themselves and be able to perform at peak performance level when the going got really tough: reliable people who could think on the move, adapt to rapidly changing situations, and improvise when things did not go according to plan. His Raiders needed the self-control to continue the mission when surrounded by total chaos; they needed to be men who never gave up. Major Randal knew that military skills could be taught; character could not.

  In general, the hard training at Ringway was having a positive effect on the men in his company. From the original band of enthusiastic bunglers that started out on the first raid, they were gradually being transformed into a group of highly motivated professionals. The achievement was a slow, painful, polishing process, and it did not come without a price for some.

  Major Randal had his eye on two men in particular. The relentless stress of the past two weeks had revealed personality flaws in them that weren’t obvious before. One, the major noticed, tended to become belligerent when exhausted; the other constantly complained because he believed he was being singled out by the parachute instructors.

  The Small-Scale Raiding Company commander was in the process of making up his mind whether the two would be invited to stay in the raiding company after parachute training school. It would be interesting to see whether Sergeant Major Hicks already had the two men on his list of those to be RTU’d. Major Randal was willing to bet money that he did.

  If you are on time in the Grenadier Guards, you are five minutes late... Sergeant Major Maxwell Hicks never was.

  ~ * ~

  12

  JUMP WEEK

  AS HAD VIRTUALLY EVERY DAY SINCE THEIR ARRIVAL AT THE Circus, the first morning of jump week dawned heavy with fog. Parade was at 0530 hours. The student parachutists had to spend a long time outside, waiting for something to happen, which only gave them more time to ponder the great unknown and unexpected.

  “If you are not able to see the ground, there is no jumping,” Captain Terry Stone opined with the tone of a condemned man anticipating a stay of execution. “I can barely even see all the way across this street.”

  Secretly, Major John Randal felt guilty about feeling so relieved by the inclement weather.

  Major John Rock pulled up in front of Hardwick Hall at the wheel of his Humber staff car. He tossed each of them a long, sand-green denim jacket. “Denison smock, just the ticket for parachutage. I took the liberty of drawing yours, gentlemen, and having your rank insignia sewn on.”

  Major Randal and Captain Stone admired the three-quarters-length jackets. The Denison smock was one of those great pieces of military clothing that looked exactly right.

  “These are prototypes. Afraid we cheated on them a bit,” Major Rock added. “Captain Denison and I took some stills from that training film of Nazi paratroopers you saw, and he basically copied the German pattern. About the only difference is that theirs are camouflaged and ours are plain sand-green. Right now we do not have any camouflage material, but Captain Denison is experimenting with having three shades of brown camouflage splotches hand-painted on the smocks when we get them into mass production. The troops absolutely love them. We named it after Denison because he headed up the project. Besides, ‘Rock smock’ is not the best of names for a parachute jacket, ha-ha.”

  Major Randal liked his Denison smock the instant he put it on. It not only looked right, it felt right. “Where we headed?” he asked, as he and Captain Stone climbed into the Humber.

  “Tatton Park,” Major Rock answered cheerfully. “Your men will be transported in buses. It’s about nine miles’ distance. We could go a faster way and save about a mile and a half, but Lord Egerton refuses to allow us the use of the front entrance. Are you two stalwarts ready for your first jump?”

  “In this weather?”

  “We never cancel balloon jumps for anything less than a typhoon, and we have never had one of those. Besides, this pea soup might be a good thing after all.”

  “Why might that be?” Captain Stone asked from the backseat.

  “When you are jumping from an airplane, the altitude does not seem real, somehow. The noise of the engines, the slipstream, the parachute popping open really fast, and the speed all work to distract your mind, and there is no sensation you are falling. Not the case with a balloon, gentlemen.

  “Jumping from a balloon is a much more cold-blooded experience. It is tethered to the ground, they winch you up in a rickety, unstable, canvas cage in perfect silence, and when you leap out, you fall for four seconds before your parachute opens. You feel like a stone falling from the sky. You will be amazed at how long four seconds can be at a time like that.

  “Then, too, the enhanced sensation of vertigo you suffer from the ride up in the basket contributes to the unpleasantness,” Major Rock rambled on. “Quite frankly, the whole bal
loon experience is positively hideous.

  “At least in this fog you should not be able to see the ground. I recommend you simply try to imagine you are sitting on the edge of a swimming pool and slip in to test the water. That should help—at least initially. Not to worry.”

  Major Randal looked over his shoulder at Captain Stone. The usually devil-may-care Life Guards officer had a sick smile pasted on his face. His skin color roughly matched that of his new parachute smock. He grinned weakly. “Remember, old stick: It’s always darkest before pitch black.”

  The road to Tatton Park was narrow and winding. Creeping along in the dense fog, the convoy took nearly two hours to cover the nine miles. Major Rock regaled them the whole way with his adventures as the developer of Airborne Forces doctrine. “Can you believe some idiot actually submitted the idea we wear special jump boots with springs in the heels? The fool never explained how to walk in them after the landing. Besides, anyone mad enough to land on his heels will shatter every bone in his feet, ankles, and legs, all the way up to his pelvis, springs or no springs.”

  It was a long ride.

  When they pulled into Tatton Park at last, the rest of their training syndicate was right behind them in the buses. Suddenly, a brisk wind picked up, and the fog blew away in a matter of minutes, leaving them to enjoy a pale sun that provided no warmth at all.

  “So much for the bloody fog making things easier,” Captain Stone muttered. “I would dearly love to put a throttle hold on Major John Rock, Airborne Pioneer!”

  When it was Major Randal’s time to draw his parachute, the WAAF rigger who issued it seemed more pleased to see him than was absolutely necessary. She flashed a radiant smile and gushed cheerfully, “Good morning, Major. Here is your chute. I packed this one myself, sir.”

  “How long, exactly, have you been packing parachutes?” Captain Stone asked as he slung his over one shoulder.

  “The standard answer to that question, sir, is always, ‘This is my very first day of on-the-job training.’”

  The handsome cavalryman looked as if he had suddenly developed a gallstone.

  “However, Captain Stone, I am not going to tell you that today because Captain Seaborn explicitly ordered me to make sure you and Major Randal received the VIP treatment. The truth is, sir, I am the best rigger in the business. Periodically, we are required to jump a chute we pack, and the one we jump is always chosen at random. You have nothing to worry about, sir. I would jump this parachute. As a matter of fact, if it does not work to your complete satisfaction, bring it back and I will issue you another, sir.”

  The men waiting in line to draw their parachutes all guffawed. Since they did not have reserve chutes, everyone knew a parachute failure was an automatic death sentence. Still, the WAAF rigger was a showstopper, and her confidence was infectious. The tension in the air ratcheted way down.

  Whatever they’re paying her, thought Major Randal, ain’t enough.

  He asked, “You mean Midshipman Seaborn, don’t you?”

  “No, sir, Captain Lady Seaborn.”

  “You know Lady Jane?”

  “Yes, sir. Perhaps I should introduce myself, Major. My name is Karen Montgomery, soon to be Lieutenant Karen Montgomery, Royal Marines— the officer in charge of your parachute rigging detachment.”

  “Well, congratulations, soon-to-be Lieutenant,” Major Randal said, reaching out and shaking her hand. “Welcome aboard, Karen. How’d you know who we were? There are a lot of officers in training, and Terry and I are not wearing name tags.”

  “Lady Seaborn gave me a description of you, Major.”

  “Must have been pretty good.”

  “Actually, it was easy, sir. Particularly after she informed me you would be accompanied by a Life Guards captain who looked exactly like the cinema star Errol Flynn.”

  Unfortunately for Captain Stone, a large contingent of Raiders and Commandos had gathered round the WAAF, panting like a pack of hungry Doberman pinschers eyeballing a piece of prime rib. To say the troops were bitterly disappointed to hear that she was destined to become a commissioned officer and therefore off-limits would be a major understatement.

  To compensate, the men commenced ragging Captain Stone unmercifully. “Zorro!” someone called, and the damage was done. The men took up the chant: “Zorro, Zorro, Zorro ...” In the British Army, when the other ranks liked an officer—and sometimes when they did not—they tagged him with a nickname. Forever after in military circles, Captain Terry Stone would be known as Zorro, even though Errol Flynn never played that role.

  Captain Terry “Zorro” Stone turned as red as a beet. It was the first time any of them had ever seen him blush.

  “I can see we’re going to have a lot of fun with you, Lieutenant Montgomery,” Major Randal said with a grin. “Let’s go, Errol... I mean, Zorro. We’ve got a balloon to catch.”

  Captain Stone glared at the WAAF. “It’s going to be a long war, Montgomery.”

  “Not if I packed your parachute incorrectly. Have a nice day, sir.”

  “Oooooooohhh!” chorused the Raiders and Commandos.

  She was really good. The class received the day’s last lecture, the culmination of a mind-numbing series of presentations on parachute canopies, lines, risers, osculation, D-rings, quick-release switches, parachute landing falls, the five points of contact, and on and on and on.

  Major Rock delivered the pre-jump briefing. “Men, today you will be jumping from a tethered balloon at an altitude of five hundred feet. The name of the balloon, for those of you who are interested, is Bessie. She was perfected for parachute jumping by the RAF Balloon Development Establishment at Cardington. You will be jumping an X-type parachute called a statichute. The canopy is twenty-eight feet in diameter and deploys canopy-last, activated by a static line ...”

  Major Randal had heard this all so many times before that he faded off. To be perfectly honest, he really did not care if his canopy deployed first, last, or sideways—as long as it deployed.

  The order was given to “chute up.” They were divided into jumping parties of four and numbered off one through four within each party; Major Randal was number one in his party. Rank had its responsibilities as well as its privileges; he was going to lead the way, as usual.

  There was a saying going around the parachute school to the effect that the brave men were actually the ones who were afraid, admitted their fear, fought it, and overcame it. Fearless men were not actually brave; they were merely fearless, and possibly stupid. There would be a lot of brave men on the ground and in the air at Tatton Park that day—and a few who would prove to be fearless.

  ~ * ~

  Flight Sergeant Bill Beaverton, was to be the dispatcher. He gave each jumper a quick but extremely thorough inspection. Then the party climbed aboard the rickety canvas cage, one man to each side of the square, and crouched there, clinging desperately to the handles to avoid falling through the gaping hole in the floor. The jumpers were crammed like sardines into the surprisingly tiny and fragile basket. The canvas contraption was flimsy beyond belief; the idea that men would be sent aloft in it seemed criminal. Major Randal was momentarily outraged.

  Flight Sergeant Beaverton was that rare individual who was a legend in his own time. He had made hundreds—some claimed thousands—of descents by parachute. A steely-eyed glance from him could send a chill down the spine of the toughest trainee. Fie stood at the end of the basket and hooked each man’s static line up to the strap that hung down from a steel bar in the cage. After he connected the static line, he showed it to the jumper.

  The student jumpers in the basket had the look of cornered rabbits. Major Randal hoped he did not look like a cornered rabbit. Fie felt as though he had been strapped into an electric chair, waiting for the executioner to throw the switch. Major Rock’s description was dead-on: It was a horrible experience, and the balloon had not even left the ground yet.

  Up, up, up went the skittish balloon, dancing like a kite to the harsh, monotonous grin
d of the winch playing out. The feeling of insecurity increased when the huge, ungainly airbag yawed from time to time, staggering about the sky like a drunken whale, causing the floor of the unstable canvas cage to assume a terrifying tilt that made the student jumpers feel as if the flimsy basket might collapse at any moment.

  The ascent was totally demoralizing. No one on board except the dispatcher had ever ridden in a balloon before. None of the passengers would dare to even so much as glance at the hole in the floor, which took a tremendous amount of willpower on their part, considering that the hole took up virtually all the floor space and their legs were dangling out of it. Major Randal remembered one of the remarks that Major Rock had flippantly tossed out during the ride over: “Jumping from a balloon is exactly like committing suicide, with the strong possibility—which you sincerely doubt—that your attempt might fail.”