Those Who Dare - [Raiding Forces 01] Page 13

  He leaned over and whispered to Sergeant Major Maxwell Hicks, “I haven’t heard a single man admit to being afraid yet. My guess is, ninety-eight percent of ‘em are faking it and the other two percent are crazy. At the end of the training day, if you think any of our people fall into the two percent crazy category, RTU them before the sun goes down.”

  “My pleasure, sir!”

  Abruptly, the moaning, grinding sound of the winch ceased. There was a tense moment of silence, broken only by the sighing of the wind through the balloon’s rigging. From below came the grating blast of the horn from Major Rock’s Humber staff car: once, twice, three times—the prearranged signal. It was the last nail in Major Randal’s emotional coffin.

  “Bessie” was at five hundred feet and had settled into a suitable position. The ground staff was satisfied that the cable was at a sufficient angle to ensure that the jumpers would not collide with it and become entangled on the descent—which implied that this must have happened sometime in the past. Real, primal fear set in. It was time.

  All things considered, this was the worst experience Major Randal had ever suffered through—including Calais. The wind whistled through the overhead wires, the unstable canvas basket yawed in the breeze and danced sideways, and Major Randal’s knuckles whitened as he gripped its sides.

  Trying to ignore the hole in the basket’s floor, he gazed out over the green expanse of Tatton Park. In the distance he could see the town of Altrincham and several tiny hamlets scattered across the horizon. Tatton and Rostherne meres and several smaller lakes sparkled in the distance like highly polished mirrors.

  He shivered, unsure if it was from the cold or pure, raw terror. Even under fire he had never felt this type of electrifying, nonstop fear.

  Flight Sergeant Beaverton was leaning over the side of the wobbly, unstable contraption, watching for the last and final signal from down below. Finally, the Aldis lamp blinked. It was showtime.

  There was absolute, total, dead silence. Everything became perfectly still.

  “Action stations, Number One!”

  Major Randal sat rigidly, dangling both legs out of the hole and staring straight ahead to avoid looking at the ground. He was also being extremely careful not to accidentally slide out when Bessie skittered.

  Before he had time to think, the dispatcher barked the staccato command: “Go!”

  Major Randal went.

  It never occurred to Major Randal as he fell that his parachute would open. He considered himself a dead man. He had his eyes clenched shut, in violation of everything he had been taught to the contrary, though he did not actually realize it at the time.

  So, he was not surprised to feel himself falling, falling, falling, falling for a long time. It was what he had expected to happen. He fleetingly wondered if it would hurt much when he hit the ground. His life did not pass in front of his eyes, but he did flash to the night he had first met Lady Jane Seaborn, and he experienced a feeling of serene disappointment.

  There came a gentle fluttering sound; he felt a mild jerk, then a heavier tug, and suddenly he found himself sitting easy in the saddle, floating down exactly as he had been briefed he would.

  Wow, they told the truth!

  A voice in his brain that sounded like his own screamed, Check canopy! an instant before a voice on the megaphone below barked, “Check your canopy, Number One!”

  Major Randal opened his eyes, looked up, and saw the magnificent silk parachute fully deployed. There were no twists in the lines; he was not osculating. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen—ever! To the paratrooper dangling down beneath it, nothing beats the sight of a fully deployed parachute.

  He felt an intoxicating thrill. The sky was the bluest blue it had ever been, and life was sweet. He had never felt so good. The experience was sensational.

  “Lovely exit, Major!” he heard Flight Sergeant Beaverton shout down over the side of the basket.

  But Major Randal had no time to attend to mere dispatchers; he was the Emperor of the Universe! This was the most outstanding single triumph he had ever achieved. Time stood still—for all of about ten seconds.

  “Let’s get those feet and knees together, number one!” Major Rock bellowed over the megaphone. “Prepare to land!”

  Unlocking his knees so that they swung loosely; rocking back and forth; touching his legs together from his knees down to the soles of his boots; pulling his elbows in tight against his chest so they actually touched together; pulling his head down tightly, with his chin pressed hard down on his chest, Major Randal mentally prepared to land.

  The ground suddenly blazed sideways beneath him. He felt a rushing sensation, the trees blurred out of the corner of his peripheral vision, and he felt a vague tinge of uneasiness as he remembered that landing was the really dangerous part.

  WHAM! He was down and rolling, executing a textbook-perfect parachute landing fall better than any he had done in training. Everything came together—he was still alive. Unbelievable!

  Major Randal could not restrain himself. He jumped to his feet and threw back his head.

  “YEEEEEEHAAAAAA!”

  “All right, Major, let’s not have any more of those Comanche yells,” Major Rock boomed over the megaphone. “This is not the Alamo! Roll up your parachute, turn it in at the assembly point, and draw another one. You have one more jump to make today.”

  Bring it on, Major Randal thought. Airborne!

  ~ * ~

  13

  GRADUATION

  THE SECOND BALLOON JUMP WAS MUCH MORE FRIGHTENING THAN the first. Major John Randal would never have believed such a thing possible, but it was primarily because he knew what to expect. The ride up in the balloon was particularly terrifying because of the ground-induced vertigo. He must have been so scared the first trip, he did not notice it to the same extent.

  It was a long ascent, and it seemed as though they were a mile high, or maybe two. The wait for “Go!” took forever. And it gave him time to think, which is really not a good thing for a novice, one-jump paratrooper to be doing.

  On his second jump he managed to keep his eyes open. Well... almost.

  Over the next three days, men of the Small-Scale Raiding Company completed a total of five jumps from ancient and decrepit Whitley Mark Ills.

  Jumping from a Whitley was a nightmare. Maybe not as big a nightmare as the balloon jumps had been, but a very real nightmare nonetheless. The Whitley converted bomber-troop transports, as advertised, flapped their wings like a pterodactyl. Actually, the flapping was an intentionally engineered design feature, but on every flight it seemed as if the wings were going to break and fall off.

  The jumpers had to crawl down a long, dark, narrow tunnel inside the fuselage to reach the exit hole cut in the bottom of the aircraft. Five men sat on each side of the hole, leaning back against the skin of the airplane. It was cramped in the tight, claustrophobic space—the Whitley had been designed to drop bombs, not parachutists—and the close quarters were made worse by the fact that they were strapped in their parachutes and wearing their odd padded jump helmets. The jump helmet came in handy, though, when they bumped their way, headfirst, along the narrow tunnel in the dim light.

  On Major Randal’s first jump from a Whitley, Flight Sergeant Bill Beaverton crawled past, took the lid off, and straddled the hole. The dispatcher was wearing an intercom headset and listening to it intently.

  “Running in!” he shouted to the student jumpers.

  “About time,” Corporal Jack Merritt of the Life Guards muttered anxiously.

  “Action stations!”

  Major Randal swung his legs into the exit hole and assumed the exit position.

  The jump light turned green. The flight sergeant shouted, “Number One!”Then he slashed his arm down and barked, “Go!” Major Randal was more than happy to comply; jumping out of a Whitley seemed a lot safer than riding in it.

  The next four jumps tended to blend together. To Major Randal’s surprise, he g
ot a strange kick out of being tumbled around by the blast of prop-wash turbulence created by the churning of the giant propellers during the exit before the parachute opened. He kept that piece of information to himself; no sense sounding like one of the fake tough or crazy brave.

  Conquering fear was a rewarding intellectual challenge, he concluded. Jumping out of an aircraft in flight seemed to be ninety-five percent mental state and five percent technique. He reflected that most people simply would not be able to understand the mind-set of those who volunteered, and those who did jump found it virtually impossible to explain to non-jumpers why they did it. Major Randal knew he would never be able to explain his true feelings about the experience in any terms that did not sound totally insane.

  Further, he was embarrassed to admit to himself that he had experienced a brief “jumping out of airplanes is what real men do” moment until it had occurred to him that Jane and Karen Montgomery did not fall into the beat-your-chest, he-man category. Furthermore, both of them acted a lot more casual about parachuting than he felt. Nonetheless, Major Randal was secretly pleased with himself for overcoming his fear of heights. It had not been easy. He would be proud to wear parachute wings.

  A small ceremony was scheduled for after the last qualifying jump. Since everything done at the British No. 1 Parachute Training School was cloaked in secrecy, only a few outsiders would be in attendance. The officer commanding No. 2 Commando, Lieutenant Colonel CIA Jackson, Captain the Lady Jane Seaborn, Royal Marine Pamela Plum-Martin, and Captain “Geronimo Joe” McKoy constituted virtually the entire official guest list. Vice Admiral Sir Randolph “Razor” Ransom turned up at the last minute to watch his grandson parachute and to be there to pin on his wings.

  ~ * ~

  Squadron Leader Louis Strange, the commanding officer of No. 1 Parachute Training School, sitting at the wheel of his Humber staff car, screeched up as Major John Randal was walking toward the assembly point to turn in his parachute after making his final qualifying jump.

  “Climb in, Major!” he shouted. “We have a little surprise in store for you.”

  Feeling flushed with success at having just completed parachute school, Major Randal pitched his parachute into the boot of the Humber and climbed in, appreciating the ride. It was, he decided later, one of the larger mistakes he had made.

  The squadron leader roared off the drop zone and headed back to the airfield at Ringway, traveling at breakneck speed.

  “Have a nice jump?” he inquired.

  “Perfect,” Major Randal answered truthfully, beginning to let go and relax for the first time since beginning training three weeks before. “It went just fine.”

  “Outstanding!” Squadron Leader Strange actually reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. “Good to hear it. Then you won’t mind making one more, a special demonstration jump for the class and the guests!”

  “What?”

  “Major, you have been selected to make a demo turret jump. When you land, we will pin your wings on right there. Should make a nice show for the crowd.”

  “A turret jump?”

  The look on Squadron Leader Strange’s face made him seem as innocent as a lamb. “This is your chance to show all the lads how parachuting should be done.”

  “Strange, you’re not trying to get back at me for those Rebel yells, are you?”

  “Rebel yells? Is that what your side shouted at Bunker Hill? Staff told me all that screaming your men have been doing was something to do with red Indians.”

  So much for historical accuracy, thought Major Randal, shaking his head. What is a turret jump, anyway?

  It was a good thing he didn’t know.

  ~ * ~

  On Drop Zone Tatton, the entire class was formed up in their sand-green Denison smocks and padded jump helmets. The guests, staff, and dignitaries were seated in a small set of portable bleachers.

  In the Ringway control tower, direct contact was maintained with the regional air-raid authorities to ensure the earliest warning in the event of hostile German aircraft approaching. At that very moment, high overhead, Major John Randal and Flight Sergeant Bill Beaverton were crawling down the long, narrow tunnel in a wheezing Whitley that was flying along, flapping its wings at just barely above stalling speed.

  When they reached the tail of the aircraft, Major Randal realized that part of it had been cut out! More accurately, the rear machine-gun turret had been removed, leaving a gaping hole through which the wind came howling in. The hideous screeching sounded like something out of a horror show.

  “You do not like heights much, do you, sir?” the flight sergeant asked conversationally as they inched forward. It was not really a question.

  Ignoring the dispatcher, Major Randal was really curious about why the gun turret had been removed. The frightening, high-pitched, wounded banshee sound of the wind made him shiver involuntarily.

  “Neither do I, sir, not really,” Flight Sergeant Beaverton continued, matter-of-factly. “The thing is, it is not necessary to like it. You just have to do it.”

  The two men locked eyes.

  “Here is what is going to take place, sir. You are going to crawl through the cutout and climb up on the little platform we installed outside where the rear machine gun used to be mounted.”

  Major Randal stared at him in horror-struck disbelief.

  “Back out onto the platform, keeping your face toward me at all times. Hold on to the iron safety bar with your left hand and place your right hand on the D-ring on your chest. You may have noticed that there is no static line attached to your parachute, sir.”

  No, he had not noticed!

  “When I give you the command ‘Go,’ reach over with your right hand—fingers extended and joined, elbow bent at a ninety-degree angle— grasp the D-ring on the left side of your harness in the palm of your hand, and with a sharp, vigorous motion, pull it as hard as you can. Then, quickly reach back and grab the safety bar again with your right hand to stabilize yourself in the upright position. It is okay if you drop the D-ring, sir; it will have come free in your hand.

  “While you are stabilizing yourself, the canopy will be spilling out and deploying in the slipstream. When the canopy pops open and reaches the end of the lines, taking the slack out of the risers, you will be plucked backward off the platform. Make sure you let go of the safety bars at that point. Nothing to it, sir. Airborne!”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Major Randal screamed at the dispatcher.

  “Sir, if you think you are going to have any trouble pulling the D-ring, I can reach out and give it a yank for you.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “One other thing, sir. When I complete my tour of duty here, do you think there is a possibility you might have an opening for me in the Small-Scale Raiding Company?”

  ~ * ~

  On Drop Zone Tatton, Squadron Leader Louis Strange shaded his eyes and looked up into the sky. He picked up the microphone and it gave a shrill screech. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have approaching the DZ Major John Randal, MC, the famed American volunteer pinprick raider, aboard a converted Royal Air Force Whitley bomber. Shortly, Major Randal will be demonstrating what is known in Airborne Forces as a turret jump. Keep your eyes on the tail of the airplane.”

  All eyes turned to the lumbering bomber-troop transport as it was coming into sight, straight and level. A tiny stick figure appeared out the back. Suddenly, a burst of white silk spilled out and the crowd, especially the guests, said, “Oooohhh!” The silk streamed out farther and farther, then blossomed open into a full-blown canopy with an audible crack. The tiny figure was plucked off the tail of the Whitley, and the plane droned on.

  It was a spectacular show. The Raiders and Commandos were cheering and the spectators screaming.

  ~ * ~

  Major John Randal floated down as light as a feather. He could have made a stand-up landing, but he refrained; not because stand-up landings were prohibited, but because his knees had completely turned t
o jelly from pure terror and were simply too weak to support him. He bounded up, quickly rolled up his parachute, and jogged up to the reviewing stand.

  Squadron Leader Strange made a grand show of pumping his hand, pounding him on the back, and congratulating him on his successful completion of training. At least that’s what it looked like to the crowd. When he leaned toward Major Randal, however, what he actually said was: “Did you know, Major, that half my staff came to me and actually asked me to make those ridiculous Comanche yells a formal part of Airborne Training? The other half begged permission to volunteer for your Small-Scale Raiding Company. Just who do you think you are? I want you off this base immediately.”