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By David H. Whittier With 82nd
PARATROOPS IN HOLLAND. - In bright sunlight today from a dear
blue sky thousands of red, white, blue, green and camouflaged
parachutes settled Into the Dutch countryside as American
paratroops descended and secured their immediate objectives in
the path of a retreating German army.
Veteran American paratroopers who ate a combined
breakfast-dinner of sausage, cereal, French toast, tomato juice,
coffee and fried chicken in England, three hours later were
drinking milk and munching hard-boiled eggs in Holland proffered
by an overjoyed civilian populace
Sitting packed in rolling, pitching C-47s, bodies constricted
within a mass of cumbersome equipment, the paratroopers roared
over England's undulating countryside and fought off the nausea
of air sickness accentuated by an irrepressible excitement.
The jumpmaster of our ship, hovered around the open door in a
manner that didn’t ease the turbulence in my stomach. Always a
sufferer from acrophobia, my insides writhed as I watched him
moving around half in and half out of the door with nothing more
than gravity and a sense of balance holding him to the floor of
the ship.
After about an hour we came over the Dutch coast, part of the
area flooded by the Germans, and now only distinguishable from
the sea by scattered red rooftops and strips of high ground. A
Flying Fort lumbered along on our right looking very powerful
and protective as the sun glinted along its sleek silvery
fuselage. Fighters would occasionally slip into view as they
weaved above us.
Speeding inland, we became possessed of mixed feelings—below us
Dutch people stood by their little red houses in their green
fields and waved handkerchiefs (to us; around us black puffs of
ack ack blossomed in the sky. One plane ahead began disgorging
paratroopers. A moment after the last man jumped, the ship
swerved and plunged to the ground where it burst into a ball of
orange flame and black smoke. We gulped and then watched three
fighters go into a perpendicular dive over what was apparently
an anti-aircraft position.
The crew chief of our plane, a fellow who divided his time
between sleeping on the floor and rearranging the buckets
interspersed at regular intervals along the length of the plane
for the purpose of catching what some men couldn't bold, began
hurriedly to don his flak suit The flak suit resembled a
baseball catcher's chest protector except that it covered part
of the back as well as the front. “What about your behind,” or
words to that effect shouted a witty private, veteran of the
Sicilian and Italian invasions.
Oh, that—the air corps says it’s expendable," bellowed the air
chief.
The man who sat opposite me had been reading WESTERN MAGAZINE
all the way. How he could sit there calmly immersed in a |
pulp magazine at a time at a time like that, I'll
never know. Most of us were half sick, terribly
uncomfortable and scared.
Our mission was a tough one—the objectives had to be taken at
all costs and from advance intelligence reports the objectives
would be exceedingly well defended. There was plenty to be
anxious about . There always is in this sort of an operation and
we were sweating.
Then we arrived over the river. It looked much bigger than it
bad on the map and it seemed to wind all over the countryside.
We'd get the order to ..Stand up and hook up” any second now. I
thought about my Mae West buried someplace under my equipment.
I’d never be able to get at it if we landed in the river—with
this equipment on I'd sink like a stone. I tried not to think
about anything and grabbed my rifle tighter and waited.
“Stand up and hook up,” shouted the jumpmaster. We struggled to
our feet, snapped our static lines to the anchor line that ran
along the reef of the ship, grabbed our weapons still more
tightly and waited.
Our ship was a C-53, which is exactly the same as a C-47 except
that it is not equipped to carry cargo and therefore has a much
smaller exit door. I'm over six feet and, as we stood under the
anchor line, I worried about getting out of the door. It is not
easy for a man six feet two inches tall to jump
through a door four and one half feet by two and one half feet
wide under any circumstances. When he is leaded down with a
pistol, rifle, bandoliers of ammunition, a pack, a bed roll, a
dispatch case, gas mask, Mae West two parachutes and sundry
other minor items—brother, he’s got something on, and a C-53
door looks like a chink of daylight.
The “Jumpy" shouted “Go.” Immediately, all thoughts of Germans,
flak, upset stomach, rivers and C-53 doors flitted from my mind.
I was number fourteen man and I could see the rear ends of the
men in front of me as they turned into the door. I could hear
the prop blast catch each chute and “plop” it
There was a great rush of air and a tremendous “wham" as my
chute burst open. All the world see-med suddenly quiet — as in a
dream. There was still the roar of engines, but it sounded far
away.' I got a glimpse of vari-colored chutes around me and on
the ground I could see more colors;
the red ones looking like puddles of blood.
I slung my rifle over my arm and reached up to grasp the risers
in order to slip into a plowed field where I could see other
paratroopers running around, but I couldn't make it as the wind
was too strong and blew me into a strip of trees bordering the
field, I crossed my arms in front of my face, crossed my legs
and crashed through the trees to the ground.
A fellow rushed up and started to help me out of my harness.
“Where are we?” I asked.
In a turnip patch," he said.
“I thought we were in Holland,” I replied strickenly. That’s how
excited I was. |
