Man, it felt good to sit for a while. My new squad sat along with me in two opposing rows along the C47.
I already did the things I wanted to do. I left all my European souvenirs and a letter to my father, responding to the last letter I got from the rest of my family. I was so happy when Gabriel managed to piss off the recruiter so much with so many "why" questions that he was stricken from the draft! I have never been so angry with him for being rude with people, but so happy with his life now secure. But I was still fighting my own war.
We rearmed in Hawaii, prepared to rondevu in Iwo Jima with the Marines, before paradropping somewhere in Japan. Over the trip for the next couple of days, I got to know some of my guys better.
We've already met Travers. While we were stateside, I offered him a promotion to a tech sergeant, T-4, for his value and luck in combat. I'd trust him with my life in a heartbeat. I have a good feeling about him. We now call him Sergeant Travers. He still carries his trusty M1, only now he is one of three in the squad to carry a rifle Grenade launcher.
Sergeant Roger Kish, assistant squad leader. I was told he talks real cryptic like. Almost like he never wants to actually give orders, rather suggestions. But he really likes dynamite, which I can approve of. I heard he talked his company commander into letting him come with us on the bases of winning the war or something in the other. A real mysterious but competent guy. No one knows how he found himself an automatic carbine with a folding stock.
Tech-Corporal Lawrence Wessly, our designated marksman with a rare sniper M1 rifle, C class, fresh off the press in Springfield. I learned he dropped with Travers when they attacked Adanti, Sicily, in Operation Husky. The damn Navy, the branch my father served in the last war, fired on us. They somehow made it out alive, only to be counter-sniped. But then Travers counter-sniped the countersniper. Ha. He's a quiet guy, but he talks in his sleep. He has a vendetta against the Axis for killing his friend Harding and will stop at nothing to put a nice tunnel through the head of any enemy he comes across.
Tech-Corporal Clayton Goldman, big, burly guy. He was so tall, that he nearly smacked his head on the roof of the plane. Well built for a paratrooper, I heard he spent a fortune just getting a chute that held him. With a standard combat load, plus all of him, he was too darn heavy for the T-5 parachute. They had to make one specifically for him, dubbed the T-5A. Otherwise, he passed all his physicals with near-perfect scores, the highest I've ever seen. He lugs this big ass, modified, aircraft machine-gun made by Hastings specifically for him. How he managed to convince him to do it? He probably "asked" for his help or his lunch money. I don't want to know. What cracks me up, is that he also carries a tiny para carbine as well, fricken hilarious sight. From what I've heard around, he's a bit of a bloodlust. His former sergeant guessed that's why he joined in the first place. But having someone like that on my squad, in a fight, he'll be worth his weight in gold. Probably literally.
Corporal Danial Hastings is Goldman's assistant. He's a bit of a gun nut like me but knows more about our weapons than their own mothers. Not scrawny, but thinner than average. He also seems to hold his lip, likely not to piss off his other squad mates. And how the hell is he an Airborne with bifocal glasses? Whatever he did to make his way in, he's prepared for almost any occasion. If we were stranded on a deserted island, I would want myself and Hastings by my side.
Tech-Corporal Nicholas Towne carries one of our B.A.R.s. He also served with Travers, dropping with him in Normandy. He's a big teddy bear and cares as much as I do about the squad. The mystery around him is that he also carries a German Luger pistol, PO8. How he managed to get it, no one knows. However, everyone thinks there was no chance he looted it from a fallen officer. The question still stands, however. He's good friends with Rossum, despite the rank difference. I don't really care, as long as they do their jobs, and do them well.
Corporal Christopher McManis is a true old head. He's jumped on dozens of missions, from Operation Husky with Travers, to Operation Varsity with both of us. He's tangoed with the SS' finest: Tigers and panzergrenadiers. In fact, when he dropped on the factory in Essen, he managed to nab a superior weapon like mine. He calls it a mix between a kraut G-43 and a K-98. Whatever it is, it's semi-automatic like an M1, with ten rounds on tap instead of eight, and it can also function like a bolt action in case something breaks. A real piece. And he's also a bit of a pack rat. He carries the biggest backpack I've ever seen, with enough ammunition for an entire battalion. While he seems rough on the outside, I've heard he secretly cares as much as Towne does about his squad's fate. With the experience we're both packing, I had a feeling me and him would get along just fine.
Corporal Richard Reed, is another pack rat. I had to enter him as a rifleman just to get past the quartermaster. Yet, we managed to sneak his B.A.R. and a recoilless rifle into one of his crates. A walking armory, he has the weapons to take on any damn thing he comes across. Word got around that he wanted to be a Ranger and an Airborne. He trained in his youth to pass the Ranger exam, that was his dream. But when he volunteered, he could only choose one MOS, so he chose Airborne. While he's barely in the height restrictions, he looks like he could lift a Stuart all by his lonesome. You could say he's a slightly smaller Goldman, but definitely not by much. He still has dreams and has made it clear he wants to climb the ranks to form the first Airborne Ranger unit. But nonetheless, it's still a dream. A dreamer on my squad with little experience; even if he is good, it's still not the best sign.
Now we have our two Privates. PFC Sammy Rossum is armed similarly to Travers, humping an M1 and rifle grenades. He may be low on the food chain, but he somehow gets away with more than he should. Probably in part because of his relation with Corporal Towne, but I digress. He also served with Travers, as a member of the 82nd before he got transferred over to me. He's totally not looked at like an outsider by everyone else. But so far, he hasn't been hazed or otherwise disturbed to my knowledge. But a rifle is a rifle, and I'm glad to have more hands with me.
Lastly, we have Private Peter "Gosling" Gossing. Another rifle grenadier, but everyone hesitated when I entrusted him with rifle grenades. He's only been through basic training in the states and hasn't even seen another country yet. He hasn't been found out by anyone either, a real rookie wildcard. I just hope he doesn't make stupid decisions that either get himself — or the rest of us — killed.
With the loud drone of the Skytrain's engines, I had to shout to think. It was chilly, but then again, I was sitting adjacent to the leaky door.
At the helm were two of the finest pilots in the entire Army Air Force.
Pilot James "Jimmy" Patterson and his Co "Joe" Jonathan, no last name ever given. They have flown me on dozens of missions, and even survived a couple of crashes at Normandy and Essen. They've got the luck of the devil, same as me. I trust them with my life.
I decided to look out my window. The right side of the skytrain. Ocean, an endless ocean. Something stirred inside me, my thoughts strayed to the worst-case scenario.
What would happen if we were knocked out? What would we do if we had to ditch, here... in the ocean? I mean, we have rafts and enough supplies to last a long while, but how would we get rescued? If we got rescued, and not caught by the Japs. Oh God, the Japs. I've heard they torture American POWs. But I would survive that, I'm strong enough. Ain't I?
"Lieutenant!" I heard a scruffy voice call out to me. I looked back, spotting McManis slouched in his seat, using his rifle to support him. "Stop worrying about shit that's not gonna happen."
I took a look around, nearly all of my squad was asleep, strapped in, yet still guarding their possessions closely.
"You keep worrying, then it's gonna happen! Get some sleep Lieutenant, we still have a couple more hours! I'll keep watch and wake you when we get there!"
I took a moment.
Yeah, I was a bit tired staying awake the entire time. But what about thieves? I know my MKB is a great prize to use or sell.
But I saw in his eyes he was telling the truth.
I have a good feeling about McManis.
I nodded, slouching in my seat myself. I set up my jump bag so I could rest my head on it as a makeshift pillow. Closing my eyes, I let the constant and familiar drone of plane engines lull me to sleep.
Turns out, I didn't sleep well. As soon as I went under, I found myself back in the dark forests and sandstone ruins of Italy. I remember... Operation Avalanche, the first time I dropped as a member of the U.S. 82nd Airborne. I remember dropping down in the middle of the night, I saw searchlights around the derelicts of Paestum. They scanned the skies wildly, lighting the clouds with white, blinding, beams. As I drifted down helplessly, I prayed in a whisper.
"Please don't see me. Please don't see me. Please don't see me. Please don't see me."
They didn't see me.
I greased my landing like I had trained myself to do. Cutting my chute and coming up with my trusty pistol ready to rock and roll. But there was no one else there. My squad was completely scattered, and the pathfinder green flares were too far away to be seen.
I was alone, in the night.
After watching the area for a few minutes, I slipped off my pack and began to assemble my M1. I trained so many times in the night, it felt as easy as walking in darkness.
But then, I heard a crack. I hushed my gasp, looking to where the sound came from. I kept building my rifle, attaching the bayonet to go investigate. Loading my rifle with my right. After, I took out my grasshopper with my left. Keeping the M1 planted in my shoulder, I slowly inched my way closer. Only the faint crunching noise of dirt tramping, and the desert animals droning. I carefully pressed down on my little tin toy, making a click sound. Suddenly, a huge rustle, and a shadowy figure appeared in the bush. I saw a glimpse of a rifle. I aimed by instinct and fired, and my aim was good. That was when I killed my first enemy.
Suddenly, I was thrust back into the plane. Alarms were sounding! The engines over-reviving! My squad panicking! I lunged for the door, swinging it out. The left engine was on fire! We were going down! The ground came up fast, imperceptibly fast! I screamed in agony and terror.
I took a deep gasp, McManis and Travers were standing over me, hands raised.
"Lieutenant! Calm down!"
I managed to take in the situation, still hyperventilating. My pistol in hand, I was sweating hard.
"Are you okay, Lieutenant?"
I took a deep breath, wiping my brow. "We're not dead?"
"No sir."
"Alive and kicking."
"But what the hell happened to you?"
"Don't tell me our squad leader's a coward."
I'm no coward jackass. I wanted to say to Goldman, but I bit my tongue instead.
"Everything alright back there?" I heard Jimmy's voice shout.
"Yeah! We're okay! We're okay." I said softer the second time.
Now assured the SL wasn't going to kill them, my soldiers returned to their seats. But I pondered over what just happened.
That dream, it all seemed... real. Maybe a lucid dream? I've heard of those before. They're harmless but have a connotation of witchcraft and sorcery. Neither of which I needed to be labeled by my men.
But they kept looking over at me, worry plastered on their faces.
I've seen that look before, I've even worn it myself. I had already lost a majority of the trust I had built up, they didn't think I was made of the good stuff.
How can I lead a squad effectively if they don't trust me?
While I struggled to find a good course of action, another migraine rapidly formed.
"Ngnahh!" I whimpered, putting my hands to my head.
I saw it again. The plane crippled, going down, my squad in turmoil. I felt the heat of fire engulfing the passenger compartment. Waterfalls came in quickly through the smashed windows. I saw my men crying out in agony as the fire consumed them.
Then I found myself back in the seat.
"Stop!" I found myself yelling. "Stop the plane! Get us down from here!" I pushed away the soldiers blocking me from the cockpit. Forcing the door open and surprising Jimmy and Joe.
"Marvin? What are you-"
"We need to get down. Now!"
"Why?" The other pilot asked, confused.
"Something's going to happen, guys. I don't know how, but we need to get this bird down!" I franticly relayed my order.
"Land isn't for another two hours!" Jimmy said, looking back at me for a moment. "Where would we land? Ditch in the water and get captured by the Japs?"
"I don't why, but something's gonna happen to our out-in-nowhere plane, we need to land now!" And before anyone could contest, a rainstorm appeared out of nowhere. The white, fluffy clouds quickly faded to dark and angry. The sharp, rapid impacts of water drowned out all other sounds. Just as quickly as it started, the tone shifted. Small little groups of mush appeared on the windshield.
This wasn't rain, it was hail!
Suddenly, cracks spiderwebbed up the glass, letting cold air rush in.
"This is not good!" Joe cried.
Jimmy leaned forward, focusing on his instruments.
I heard a loud clang, followed by a splutter. I turned and rushed back, looking out the window as my men looked on in terror. Unable to see anything, I slammed open the door. Shards of ice fell inside the plane, ripping holes through the thin skin of the skytrain. I tried to lean out, but my face was instantly cut up by shards. Still, I caught a glimpse.
"JIMMY!" I cried forward. "LEFT ENGINE'S OUT!"
"I know!" I barely heard his muffled voice.
"CAN WE MAKE IT BACK TO HAWAII?" I shouted.
A brief silence was broken up by the pelting of rounds against our aircraft.
"No way, you'll have to jump!"
"What are you crazy!" A soldier shouted.
"WE'RE NOT OVER THE DZ!" I looked out again, the water was churning, but we might have a better chance. I made the executive decision.
"STAND UP! HOOK UP!"
My men stood, nervously hooking their carabiners while trying to communicate over the chaos. I took my position on the opposite side of the door, to guide my men out. The jump light illuminated to red, blinking rapidly and irregularly as our plane was hammered by the hail. Our aircraft shook but kept diving.
"Any planes on this frequency, we are hit and losing altitude!" Jimmy transmitted over the radio.
I watched the sea, hoping I could spot an island, something, anything.
"We can't do it!" I heard another say.
"700 feet!"
I strained my eyes.
"We're all gonna die!"
"600!"
The ice cut my face, I tasted blood.
"500!"
Wait! What's that?
The light turned green.
"GO!" Someone shouted!
"WAIT!" I blocked the door with myself, before I pushed aside my men aside once more, making my way back to the cockpit.
"Look there!" I pointed through the windshield.
The fog opened up for a moment, there was something. I felt Jimmy's eyes widen.
"Land!"
I swung back. "CLOSE THAT DOOR! BRACE FOR IMPACT!"
Kish fought the wind and ice to close the door, everyone was hanging on for dear life in a panic. I held tightly to the chairs of the pilots, guiding them to the place I saw.
"A beach! Land in the marsh!"
"Where are we? Enemy Territory?" Joe cried.
"It's too late now!" Jimmy flared up. He lined up to the damp sand.
Please, God, don't let us die! I hoped as I braced.
Land came up quickly, then the sand ran up the window. It held for a few, brief, moments, before it shattered, throwing sand and glass around the cockpit. The utter roar as we were buried. I felt something cut me, and I screamed into my arm covering my eyes. Then we lurched forward. My foot got caught on something when I fell, filling me with an intense pain.
"Aghh haaa!" I hissed.
Then everything stopped.
The roar fell silent.
Only the pain remained.
I tried to get up, working through the shock. My foot was lodged under something. The chair, covered in sand. I immediately tried to dig it out, trying to rescue my foot.
"Marvin!" Jimmy said, buried halfway in sand.
He saw what happened, digging himself out, then helping to dig me out. With both our strength, I managed to release my foot.
"You're hurt. You're bleeding! Let me see your foot."
I pulled it out of the sand. It stung like all hell. When it finally got out, it was limp and bent the wrong way. The sight brought up an acidic taste in my throat, I put my fist over my mouth to keep my food in.
"Marvin, your foot is dislocated. It needs to be reset. It's going to hurt." He shook his head, not holding back.
I nodded as I undid my service belt, setting the dirty leather and off-balanced steel weights between my teeth. I braced myself. I felt a sharp, indescribable pain rocket up my foot, leg, to my groin. The sickening crunch as I heard my bones snap back into position. I groaned loudly into the leather belt, tears streaming down my dirty face. I closed my eyes, red flashed through the black. Jimmy fastened a splint for me, supporting my foot.
"Morphine." I heard him whisper.
I opened my eyes to see him brushing off dirt on one of the medic kits. He took out the syringe, flicking it twice. He held down my leg, and I tried to keep still. I felt the needle penetrate me, only enhancing my pain. He shot it in, and the pain began to dull. Jimmy looked back to see my reaction. I was looking at him, eyes wide and breathing hard. He nodded, finishing it up by bandaging my injured, bleeding leg. He tossed me a roll, and I tended to a few other bleeding spots.
"You'll live, Marvin." He sighed.
"Thank you, Jimmy. Come on, help me up."
He started for me, then stopped.
"Wait. Joe."
I looked at the copilot's chair I had freed myself from. There was Joe, motionless. Jimmy felt over his neck, but I saw his face. Cuts all over, pieces of glass embedded in his orifices. His lips were split open, he was bleeding from his nose. His eyes.... his eyes were shredded by glass shards. If he wasn't dead, he would die from blood loss and infection. But he was still. His face... It was nothing like I'd ever seen. No groans, no agony breathing. He was still. I looked back to Jimmy, tears in both our eyes. Jimmy only stared at me in blank shock, he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Help me. We can't stay here."
He nodded with a shaky breath, pulling me out of the sand. The door opened out, the wet sand slid down the new slope. Jimmy let me down first, I broke the impact with my good left leg. Pain still radiated warmly up, throbbing with each heartbeat, but I managed to stifle my cry. I helped Jimmy also slide down. Wrapping my arm around him, he helped walk me out the back door.
The passenger compartment fared better than the cockpit, only the sand we let in spread around the floor. A small layer of water did seep through onto the catwalk though.
"It's taking on water, we can't stay here."
Thankfully, it looked like all the supplies had already been evacuated. Jimmy helped me out and down from the plane, the seawater lighting up my injuries. My stricken squad milled around the beach, before they noticed our struggles.
"Lieutenant!" Travers and McManis ran to support me. Towne unveiled his chute. Laying it out like a tarp.
"Over here!"
They laid me down easy, with a groan, on our makeshift stretcher. Jimmy, Towne, and Wessly took a good long look at my foot.
"It's dislocated, obviously."
"Yeah, but can he stand?"
"He probably could, but he'll need a better splint." Towne sighed. "That rudder, it's about coming off. Get me that and something flat and straight."
With pieces of the plane and a trunk of driftwood, Towne fashioned a splint I could walk on. Travers and McManis on either side, they gave me my own weight back. I could stand, though my leg still had a dull, throbbing, pain.
"I can walk now. I doubt I'll be able to run." I could, but it'll hurt like hell.
Once they saw I could stand, my squad gathered around me once more. I was so busy worrying about Jimmy and myself, that I didn't even check on my squad. They had no major injuries, minus a few cuts and scrapes. They were scared, they were shaken. But they realized, with a new, faint voice at the back of my head, that they were alive.
My squad lead may be crazy, but he knew this would happen. Somehow.
We're lucky we survived the crash.
McManis stepped up, gripping his rifle, he held a silver chain in his other hand.
"Lieutenant."
My crucifix! It must've shaken off in the crash.
I took it off him. Motioning my gratitude. "Thanks." Resting it around my neck once more.
"Orders... sir?"
I looked over at my men, they looked up to me for guidance, even if they were taller themselves. I took a shaky breath, breathing out slowly, remembering that I was the one in command.
"Security," I said, breathless. "Scouting and security. Find out where the hell we landed, and if there are any Japanese on this island."
The fog had cleared moreso, leaving a calm beach. There was a forest nearby, with mountains I could spot in the distance.
"We'll set up a camp in the forest, reorganize, and scavenge what we can." I breathed heavily, watching my men nod.
"Let's hop to it then. I need three volunteers"
We quickly set up camp a small ways away from the crash site, more into the forest. We scavenged everything we could from the plane before the tide blocked up the door. We got a small FOB set up, only lacking long-range communication equipment and a proper amount of men.
I had to steel myself for small unit action. The riflemen, in two-man pairs, would scout the East and West ends of the shore, looking for signs of activity. The rest of us would fortify the FOB and work to be self-sustaining. We were alone, only 13 of us. I have led units smaller and larger before, in fact, I would say I was rather good at it. But I never operated all on my lonesome before. I always used to have some guardian angel looking over my shoulder. Whether that be Uncle Sam himself, his allies, or even my own team of snipers. But now, I had nothing but my own rifle, my tactical ability, determination to go home, and God. So I would use them to the fullest. By sundown, the scouts were to report back any contact, possible food or water resources, and possibly any landmarks that could help pinpoint this place.
Even this late in the war, we Airborne never got our quota of handy-talkies, used by the grunts to communicate at platoon level. Those things had a hell of a potential in the airborne. But, sadly, the war committee deemed our lowly elite units not worth the newfangled equipment. So we had to do with runners, two-man teams.
We dug trenches, and utilized our parachutes as makeshift camo netting. By the end of the first day, we had a basic FOB set up, nine tents, foxholes, and prone trenches, and even a smokeless Dakota campfire pioneered by yours truly.
Our scouts came back with valuable intel on the area around us. To our east, there was a rainforest. Great, that meant abundant food supplies, but dangerous animals also likely lived there. To our west, was a desert. An unlikely position that the enemy would take, but with open fields of fire, ideal for the majority of what my guys were packing. A range of Mountains bordered our north, providing an unlikely avenue of attack. To the south was the sea. Our plane and possible fishing food source if it comes to it.
To mark the end of the day, we had everyone around roasting what Reed, McManis, and I determined to be chestnuts. Benefits of having a few survivalists in our squad. They tasted sweet, and the consistency reminded me of the potatoes my Momma would make. My half-squad ate first, while Kish's stood guard, then swapped for the next hour. Our call was good, as none of us got any food poisoning.
For the night, we had two-man fire guards patrol the camp at two-hour intervals, periodically checking in and rotating with another two once their time was up. We would be well rested in the morning, and in a better position to search for supplies.