Operation MARKET GARDEN: The Jump
Looking around the belly of the C-47, Captain Lewis Nixon can't help but feel like he's been here before. His brain rattling in his helmet, organs rattling in their respective cavities, the propellers' roar killing any hope of conversation. A plane full of paratroopers, some praying, some obsessively checking equipment, some looking around quickly, more like rabbits than grown men. Their boots last touched solid ground an hour ago, on the tarmac of an English airstrip. Nixon leans forward, forearms on his knees.
Similar but not the same. He wears a pair of captain's bars now, under his jump jacket. The sky that flies past the open door is grey and cloudy, yes, but unmistakably day. (Kids and old men, Nix reminds himself. Kids and old men.) These are not the men he jumped into Normandy alongside. Those men are back with 2d Battalion - the ones who survived France. Some of the soldiers in this particular stick have done this before. They stare stoically at the bulkheads. One lieutenant appears to be asleep.
Nixon learned long ago to sway with the sharp movements of an airplane in flight rather than to try to fight against them. Two of the replacement officers haven't made that discovery yet. They sit stiffly side-by-side, twin monoliths with rifles and with expressions that Nixon is sure they believe to be grim and fearless.
Remembering his Shakespeare, he smiles darkly, teeth faint.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,
In liberty of bloody hand shall range
With conscience wide as hell.
They’ll understand soon enough, Nixon thinks, that nobody’s asking them to be.
The C-47 shakes as badly as Captain Dick Winters remembers from the last time he was in one. Except, this time, he has more of a feeling he'll live to see the sun come up tomorrow. When they jumped into Normandy, he wasn't even sure he'd live to make it to the ground.
Winters looks at the faces of the men in his stick, noting that the majority of them look more tired than worried. He goes over the intel he'd recieved in the last briefing he'd been at - little resistance in the town, should be able to hold the place with little difficulty.
Shifting in his seat, he angles his body so he can see out the door a bit more. The C-47's engines drown out all the noises around him, cocooning him in their droning vibrations. It's funny, really, that he should find peace in an airplane a thousand feet above the earth. However, somehow, today, he feels almost relaxed and accepting of what lies before him.
Across the stick from Winters sits his XO, Lieutenant Harry Welsh, sound asleep with his head rolling with each bump and movement of the C-47, with his trademark cigarette dangling (unlit) from between his lips. How the little Irishman has managed to fall asleep with such movement could easily excape anyone's thoughts save for the few replacement officers who sit stiff in their seats.
One particular motion nearly sends the lieutenant falling foward, forcing him awake in an instant. Welsh looks around with sleep-filled eyes before finally catching sight of Dick looking out the door. "That anxious to jump?" Welsh yells over the roar of the engines.
Winters can barely make out Harry's voice calling to him over the noise of the aircraft. Leaning forward slightly while trying to keep his balance as the plane bumps and jerks up and down, side to side.
"Might as well get it over with," he hollers back. "No use in dragging things out." Another sudden jolt of the C-47 nearly sends Winters sprawling onto the floor. As it is, he manages to catch himself a bit so he only halfway falls out of his seat.
Harry snorts a laugh just about the time that the plane is jerked about nearly having a dogpile onto the CO thanks to not being prepared for the lurch himself. "Fuck!" he says as he loses the cigarette, trying his best to catch it before the wind gets ahold of it and . . . out the door it goes.
Scowling at Winters, Harry can't help but start to laugh. "That's it. The pilot owes me a cig." Helping the other man back upright is hard as they are bumped about again, this time sending a few of the newer officers onto the floor as well. "How much longer do we have?"
Winters shoots Harry a look as the other man starts to snicker at his less than graceful trip to the floor. However, he can't help but chuckle a bit at Harry's forlorn expression as his cigarette flies out into the clouds.
"Thanks," he says, as Welsh reaches down to help pull him back up. "I'm not certain. We should be getting close to the DZ before long, though it's hard to tell with the clouds where we are."
Even if Dick can't hear it, the expression on Harry's face clearly shows that he isn't too thrilled to be stuffed inside the plane again. He knows they haven't been in the air long but the anticipation of the jump and not really knowing what they were going to find is enough to make the plucky little man anxious. Reaching into a pocket, Welsh starts to dig out his carton of cigarettes again. Eindhoven was going to prove interesting.
Winters watches Harry dig for his cigarettes and sighs. To all outward appearances, he seems calm and ready for the jump. However, the peace he felt earlier is beginning to fade as they near the DZ. He looks around the plane once more and wishes he had something to do with his hands. He tips his head back and feels the edge of his helmet catch against a groove on the wall.
Harry shifts in his seat a little, and another cigarette replaces the one that went missing, this time with lighter in hand. No way in heck is the officer going to lose this one. Finally after a moment or two he points at the lower ranking officer who is sitting beside Winters and motions for him to switch places with him.
The other man gives a bewildered look before he and Welsh are soon changing places, giving Harry a chance to talk to his CO. "You think Regiment is right about the Krauts?"
Dick watches with amusement as Harry convinces the offcer to swap seats. Even sitting side by side, it is still rather difficult to hear. "I don't know. The intelligence on this one seems pretty good, but you never know." He sighs. "Old men and kids. Guess we'll have to wait and see."
With a shake of his head, Harry blows out a puff of smoke that's quickly caught by the door. "I don't know. Old men and kids? Doesn't seem fucking right." But . . . it was Nixon. Nixon was rarely wrong with his reports like these, so anything was possible.
Maybe the German army was that desperate to fill uniforms.
Winters knows Harry has doubts. He has them himself, but doesn't have any choice but to believe what he's been told. He has nothing else to go on. "Well, at least we're jumping while it's light still. That'll make things a bit easier for us, be able to see where we're going."
And being the snarky type of person that he is - most of the men on the stick are used to that by now - little Harry Welsh has to be an ass towards the newer officers. "Good chance for them to pick us out of the sky better than they did on D-Day!" Raising his hands he makes a rrrrbpt noise, sounding exactly like a German machine gun.
This causes some of the newer replacement officers to go a little green around the gills.
This causes Welsh to be on the receiving end of what one could almost call a glare from Dick. "Harry," Dick says warningly, watching the nervous-looking officers and raising an eyebrow at the man next to him. "Leave them alone. Mess with them after the jump, but not now." He refuses to admit Harry has a point.
It's not that common for Harry to be on the receiving end of one of 'those' looks from straight-laced Dick Winters. When he gets them, however, it's enough to cause the XO to slip down into his seat a little more. "It won't be that bad," he adds, "just until we get onto the ground!" One last jab before offering the replacements a very gap-toothed grin.
Rolling his eyes, Dick gives up. Harry will be Harry, there's nothing he can say that'll stop that. "Just remember, Harry, when we get on the ground, they're going to be watching your back. If I were you, I wouldn't want them so nervous they can't do that, would you?"
That instantly shuts up the shortest of the men on the stick. Some of the other more experienced men laugh, though it's hardly heard over the roar of the engines. "Hell, sir, I was just playin' with them." Looking down the stick Harry waves to get their attention. "It won't be like D-Day. Old men and kids don't have good aim at all. More than likely they'll be running back to Germany!"
At this point, Winters is actually beginning to look forward to jumping out of the plane.
However, he must admit it is amusing watching Harry's antics and the reactions he's receiving. "Next time, Harry, you're staying on your side of the plane."
"Ahh for fuck's sake!" Throwing his hands into the air, the shorter man on the row just gives an exasperated sigh and roll of his eyes. "What? I did take a shower before we got on the stick, sir."
Some of the newer officers force a laugh though they are clearly nervous as heck now.
"I'm serious!" Harry continues. "They won't be able to hit us if they are that green - no offence."
This time Winters gives Harry a full force glare. "For crying out loud, Harry, that's not what I meant. It's not doing anyone any good to get even more nervous before the jump." It's not often that Winters allows his emotions to be so clearly seen, but the look on his face dares Harry to argue with him.
So Harry shuts up pretty quickly when he knows he's in trouble and with Dick being one of his friends, he has no problems sinking lower into his seat. The expression he gives is almost that of a kicked dog or a hurt puppy. "I was just sayin . . . "
Dick notices Harry's hurt expression and feels a bit bad. He hadn't intended to come off quite so harsh, but Harry had been pushing things a bit.
"Yeah, Harry, I know you were 'just sayin', but some things are better left unsaid, don't you think?"
Again the plane jerks the men inside about, causing Harry to slip from his seat and become wedged between the man he swapped places with and the bench. "Ahh, fucking hell!"
Winters was about to continue when the plane gave another lurch, throwing Harry forward and onto the ground. Maneuvering his body and equipment a bit, Dick is able to reach over and help pull his friend back up and into his spot on the bench.
It's one of the advantages of being shorter than most that it's easier to get back into one's seat. Reaching around Harry rubes at a cracked elbow, giving a good long mumble that Winters should be glad he can't hear.
"Eh . . . which is worse? Them seeing it first hand and not being prepared, or being prepared and then seeing it?" Harry's hurt expression is gone, replaced quickly with that gap-toothed grin.
Dick is glad to see the fall onto the floor didn't damange Harry's sense of humor at all. And, unbeknownst to the other man, he had managed to hear what he'd mumbled, but decided it'd be easier to ignore it.
"Harry, we're in a plane, a thousand feet in the air, getting ready to jump into Holland. You really think what you're saying to them is going to make a difference at this point?"
A slight shrug of his shoulders is the only thing that really can be said is an answer to the question. Hell, if Dick had heard half of the conversation he and his stick had on the way to Normandy, no doubt Harry would have been busted back down to private again. When he also notices his cigarette is done, Harry gives an exasperated sigh. There wasn't any way he'd be finding his pack again. The expression upon the XO's face also is to the point of begging for a drink.
Winters notices Harry's dejected look as his cigarette is finished. With an amused sigh, he reaches into his musette bag and pulls out one of the packs they all carried for smoking, or, in his case, trading. "Here," he said, tossing the pack to his friend, hoping his smoking will give him something to do other than agitate the stick.
Cigarettes and booze are about the only things aside from Kitty that make Harry a very happy man. Having a fresh new pack of Strikes to now occupy him is just what he needs to shut up. Tearing into the pack with his teeth he stops with the carton to his mouth as he catches sight of some of the newer officers watching. He nearly growls as if saying 'Better not even fucking ask for one!' as he rips the plastic off.
As Winters stares at Harry for a moment, all he can think of is how the scence before him reminds him of a piece of meat being tossed to a hungry lion at a zoo.
"Easy there, Harry," he says, eyeing the other man.
The roar of the C-47's engines is deafening to the men aboard 1st Platoon's stick. It isn't anything like on D-Day, when some swore they heard the engines predicting their death. Of course, for the most part, it was just that feeling of going into a first combat situation. A good portion of the men within this particular stick are vets, all having survived the thirty some odd days within Normandy to return to England. The newer men, however, look green around the gills, and as jumpy as they had all been then.
From where George Luz sits closer to the door, he looks down the line of men behind him. Some sleep while others read books. A few even are trying to play cards if that is even possible. Luz is content nursing a cigarette and waiting. It is all a waiting game to the radioman who for once is content at sitting still.
Across the plane from George is one of the platoon medics, looking just as sullen as even. Eugene Roe had been slowly opening up again to many people until that one fateful day at a certain place that neither of them is allowed to openly talk about. Something happened during that brawl at Milliways, and now he was right back to where he had been after the jump into Normandy.
George tries to give the Cajun man a reassuring smile, but all he gets in return is an emotionless nod of the medic's head. Opening his mouth to yell a question to Gene, Luz is interrupted as the red light came on.
Are they so close already?
"Stand up!" their jumpmaster says, sending everyone scrambling to get cigarettes, cards, or books packed up.
"Hook up! Equipment check!"
The shouts start far back in the plane. Not that you can hear them, but Nixon knows what’s being shouted.
“Six okay!”
“Five okay!”
“Four okay!”
A hand roughly tugs on his gear and taps his shoulder. Nix takes a big lungful of air and bellows, “Three okay!”
He checks the parachute and reserve chute of the lieutenant in front of him, then hits the man, hard, on the shoulder.
“Two okay!” the louie shouts.
“One okay!” The plane's jumpmaster - sanctimonious sonofabitch replacement - turns and moves into the door, and he's gone, fast.
The lieutenant in front of Nix drops just as quickly, and by the time that Nixon gets to the door, the wind is pulling and roaring its siren song, and he steps out into the sky.
Similar but not the same. He wears a pair of captain's bars now, under his jump jacket. The sky that flies past the open door is grey and cloudy, yes, but unmistakably day. (Kids and old men, Nix reminds himself. Kids and old men.) These are not the men he jumped into Normandy alongside. Those men are back with 2d Battalion - the ones who survived France. Some of the soldiers in this particular stick have done this before. They stare stoically at the bulkheads. One lieutenant appears to be asleep.
Nixon learned long ago to sway with the sharp movements of an airplane in flight rather than to try to fight against them. Two of the replacement officers haven't made that discovery yet. They sit stiffly side-by-side, twin monoliths with rifles and with expressions that Nixon is sure they believe to be grim and fearless.
Remembering his Shakespeare, he smiles darkly, teeth faint.
The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,
In liberty of bloody hand shall range
With conscience wide as hell.
They’ll understand soon enough, Nixon thinks, that nobody’s asking them to be.
The C-47 shakes as badly as Captain Dick Winters remembers from the last time he was in one. Except, this time, he has more of a feeling he'll live to see the sun come up tomorrow. When they jumped into Normandy, he wasn't even sure he'd live to make it to the ground.
Winters looks at the faces of the men in his stick, noting that the majority of them look more tired than worried. He goes over the intel he'd recieved in the last briefing he'd been at - little resistance in the town, should be able to hold the place with little difficulty.
Shifting in his seat, he angles his body so he can see out the door a bit more. The C-47's engines drown out all the noises around him, cocooning him in their droning vibrations. It's funny, really, that he should find peace in an airplane a thousand feet above the earth. However, somehow, today, he feels almost relaxed and accepting of what lies before him.
Across the stick from Winters sits his XO, Lieutenant Harry Welsh, sound asleep with his head rolling with each bump and movement of the C-47, with his trademark cigarette dangling (unlit) from between his lips. How the little Irishman has managed to fall asleep with such movement could easily excape anyone's thoughts save for the few replacement officers who sit stiff in their seats.
One particular motion nearly sends the lieutenant falling foward, forcing him awake in an instant. Welsh looks around with sleep-filled eyes before finally catching sight of Dick looking out the door. "That anxious to jump?" Welsh yells over the roar of the engines.
Winters can barely make out Harry's voice calling to him over the noise of the aircraft. Leaning forward slightly while trying to keep his balance as the plane bumps and jerks up and down, side to side.
"Might as well get it over with," he hollers back. "No use in dragging things out." Another sudden jolt of the C-47 nearly sends Winters sprawling onto the floor. As it is, he manages to catch himself a bit so he only halfway falls out of his seat.
Harry snorts a laugh just about the time that the plane is jerked about nearly having a dogpile onto the CO thanks to not being prepared for the lurch himself. "Fuck!" he says as he loses the cigarette, trying his best to catch it before the wind gets ahold of it and . . . out the door it goes.
Scowling at Winters, Harry can't help but start to laugh. "That's it. The pilot owes me a cig." Helping the other man back upright is hard as they are bumped about again, this time sending a few of the newer officers onto the floor as well. "How much longer do we have?"
Winters shoots Harry a look as the other man starts to snicker at his less than graceful trip to the floor. However, he can't help but chuckle a bit at Harry's forlorn expression as his cigarette flies out into the clouds.
"Thanks," he says, as Welsh reaches down to help pull him back up. "I'm not certain. We should be getting close to the DZ before long, though it's hard to tell with the clouds where we are."
Even if Dick can't hear it, the expression on Harry's face clearly shows that he isn't too thrilled to be stuffed inside the plane again. He knows they haven't been in the air long but the anticipation of the jump and not really knowing what they were going to find is enough to make the plucky little man anxious. Reaching into a pocket, Welsh starts to dig out his carton of cigarettes again. Eindhoven was going to prove interesting.
Winters watches Harry dig for his cigarettes and sighs. To all outward appearances, he seems calm and ready for the jump. However, the peace he felt earlier is beginning to fade as they near the DZ. He looks around the plane once more and wishes he had something to do with his hands. He tips his head back and feels the edge of his helmet catch against a groove on the wall.
Harry shifts in his seat a little, and another cigarette replaces the one that went missing, this time with lighter in hand. No way in heck is the officer going to lose this one. Finally after a moment or two he points at the lower ranking officer who is sitting beside Winters and motions for him to switch places with him.
The other man gives a bewildered look before he and Welsh are soon changing places, giving Harry a chance to talk to his CO. "You think Regiment is right about the Krauts?"
Dick watches with amusement as Harry convinces the offcer to swap seats. Even sitting side by side, it is still rather difficult to hear. "I don't know. The intelligence on this one seems pretty good, but you never know." He sighs. "Old men and kids. Guess we'll have to wait and see."
With a shake of his head, Harry blows out a puff of smoke that's quickly caught by the door. "I don't know. Old men and kids? Doesn't seem fucking right." But . . . it was Nixon. Nixon was rarely wrong with his reports like these, so anything was possible.
Maybe the German army was that desperate to fill uniforms.
Winters knows Harry has doubts. He has them himself, but doesn't have any choice but to believe what he's been told. He has nothing else to go on. "Well, at least we're jumping while it's light still. That'll make things a bit easier for us, be able to see where we're going."
And being the snarky type of person that he is - most of the men on the stick are used to that by now - little Harry Welsh has to be an ass towards the newer officers. "Good chance for them to pick us out of the sky better than they did on D-Day!" Raising his hands he makes a rrrrbpt noise, sounding exactly like a German machine gun.
This causes some of the newer replacement officers to go a little green around the gills.
This causes Welsh to be on the receiving end of what one could almost call a glare from Dick. "Harry," Dick says warningly, watching the nervous-looking officers and raising an eyebrow at the man next to him. "Leave them alone. Mess with them after the jump, but not now." He refuses to admit Harry has a point.
It's not that common for Harry to be on the receiving end of one of 'those' looks from straight-laced Dick Winters. When he gets them, however, it's enough to cause the XO to slip down into his seat a little more. "It won't be that bad," he adds, "just until we get onto the ground!" One last jab before offering the replacements a very gap-toothed grin.
Rolling his eyes, Dick gives up. Harry will be Harry, there's nothing he can say that'll stop that. "Just remember, Harry, when we get on the ground, they're going to be watching your back. If I were you, I wouldn't want them so nervous they can't do that, would you?"
That instantly shuts up the shortest of the men on the stick. Some of the other more experienced men laugh, though it's hardly heard over the roar of the engines. "Hell, sir, I was just playin' with them." Looking down the stick Harry waves to get their attention. "It won't be like D-Day. Old men and kids don't have good aim at all. More than likely they'll be running back to Germany!"
At this point, Winters is actually beginning to look forward to jumping out of the plane.
However, he must admit it is amusing watching Harry's antics and the reactions he's receiving. "Next time, Harry, you're staying on your side of the plane."
"Ahh for fuck's sake!" Throwing his hands into the air, the shorter man on the row just gives an exasperated sigh and roll of his eyes. "What? I did take a shower before we got on the stick, sir."
Some of the newer officers force a laugh though they are clearly nervous as heck now.
"I'm serious!" Harry continues. "They won't be able to hit us if they are that green - no offence."
This time Winters gives Harry a full force glare. "For crying out loud, Harry, that's not what I meant. It's not doing anyone any good to get even more nervous before the jump." It's not often that Winters allows his emotions to be so clearly seen, but the look on his face dares Harry to argue with him.
So Harry shuts up pretty quickly when he knows he's in trouble and with Dick being one of his friends, he has no problems sinking lower into his seat. The expression he gives is almost that of a kicked dog or a hurt puppy. "I was just sayin . . . "
Dick notices Harry's hurt expression and feels a bit bad. He hadn't intended to come off quite so harsh, but Harry had been pushing things a bit.
"Yeah, Harry, I know you were 'just sayin', but some things are better left unsaid, don't you think?"
Again the plane jerks the men inside about, causing Harry to slip from his seat and become wedged between the man he swapped places with and the bench. "Ahh, fucking hell!"
Winters was about to continue when the plane gave another lurch, throwing Harry forward and onto the ground. Maneuvering his body and equipment a bit, Dick is able to reach over and help pull his friend back up and into his spot on the bench.
It's one of the advantages of being shorter than most that it's easier to get back into one's seat. Reaching around Harry rubes at a cracked elbow, giving a good long mumble that Winters should be glad he can't hear.
"Eh . . . which is worse? Them seeing it first hand and not being prepared, or being prepared and then seeing it?" Harry's hurt expression is gone, replaced quickly with that gap-toothed grin.
Dick is glad to see the fall onto the floor didn't damange Harry's sense of humor at all. And, unbeknownst to the other man, he had managed to hear what he'd mumbled, but decided it'd be easier to ignore it.
"Harry, we're in a plane, a thousand feet in the air, getting ready to jump into Holland. You really think what you're saying to them is going to make a difference at this point?"
A slight shrug of his shoulders is the only thing that really can be said is an answer to the question. Hell, if Dick had heard half of the conversation he and his stick had on the way to Normandy, no doubt Harry would have been busted back down to private again. When he also notices his cigarette is done, Harry gives an exasperated sigh. There wasn't any way he'd be finding his pack again. The expression upon the XO's face also is to the point of begging for a drink.
Winters notices Harry's dejected look as his cigarette is finished. With an amused sigh, he reaches into his musette bag and pulls out one of the packs they all carried for smoking, or, in his case, trading. "Here," he said, tossing the pack to his friend, hoping his smoking will give him something to do other than agitate the stick.
Cigarettes and booze are about the only things aside from Kitty that make Harry a very happy man. Having a fresh new pack of Strikes to now occupy him is just what he needs to shut up. Tearing into the pack with his teeth he stops with the carton to his mouth as he catches sight of some of the newer officers watching. He nearly growls as if saying 'Better not even fucking ask for one!' as he rips the plastic off.
As Winters stares at Harry for a moment, all he can think of is how the scence before him reminds him of a piece of meat being tossed to a hungry lion at a zoo.
"Easy there, Harry," he says, eyeing the other man.
The roar of the C-47's engines is deafening to the men aboard 1st Platoon's stick. It isn't anything like on D-Day, when some swore they heard the engines predicting their death. Of course, for the most part, it was just that feeling of going into a first combat situation. A good portion of the men within this particular stick are vets, all having survived the thirty some odd days within Normandy to return to England. The newer men, however, look green around the gills, and as jumpy as they had all been then.
From where George Luz sits closer to the door, he looks down the line of men behind him. Some sleep while others read books. A few even are trying to play cards if that is even possible. Luz is content nursing a cigarette and waiting. It is all a waiting game to the radioman who for once is content at sitting still.
Across the plane from George is one of the platoon medics, looking just as sullen as even. Eugene Roe had been slowly opening up again to many people until that one fateful day at a certain place that neither of them is allowed to openly talk about. Something happened during that brawl at Milliways, and now he was right back to where he had been after the jump into Normandy.
George tries to give the Cajun man a reassuring smile, but all he gets in return is an emotionless nod of the medic's head. Opening his mouth to yell a question to Gene, Luz is interrupted as the red light came on.
Are they so close already?
"Stand up!" their jumpmaster says, sending everyone scrambling to get cigarettes, cards, or books packed up.
"Hook up! Equipment check!"
The shouts start far back in the plane. Not that you can hear them, but Nixon knows what’s being shouted.
“Six okay!”
“Five okay!”
“Four okay!”
A hand roughly tugs on his gear and taps his shoulder. Nix takes a big lungful of air and bellows, “Three okay!”
He checks the parachute and reserve chute of the lieutenant in front of him, then hits the man, hard, on the shoulder.
“Two okay!” the louie shouts.
“One okay!” The plane's jumpmaster - sanctimonious sonofabitch replacement - turns and moves into the door, and he's gone, fast.
The lieutenant in front of Nix drops just as quickly, and by the time that Nixon gets to the door, the wind is pulling and roaring its siren song, and he steps out into the sky.