Eventually the talk petered out, and briefly Macurdy watched the ocean below. That Von Lutzow’s led a really interesting life, he thought. Entirely overlooking his own.
Then he turned his thoughts to the mission, rehearsing its steps from arrival to completion. In his rehearsal, nothing went wrong, not a thing.
They arrived in Casablanca as intended, and almost at once caught another 47 to Algiers, where they were told nothing was flying to Italy because of bad weather there. They did, however, catch a flight to Tunis, and from there, Von Lutzow talked their way onto a B25, an urgent flight taking several high-ranking CID officers to Trapani in western Sicily.
The next noon, Monday, found them in Naples, but Von Lutzow was reluctant to tap the standard OSS sources of equipment: He was afraid there’d be an order waiting for him from Berntvoll, to return at once to London. Evading orders was one thing, disobeying them was something else. And anyway he assumed he could manage with charm and bullshit.
But things had changed. The 5th army was there, waiting for better weather to dry the roads-waiting to launch a major offensive northward and liberate the army at Anzio, trapped on its beachhead and pounded on by the Germans since January. Resources were tight, and the base in Naples ran pretty much “by the book.” People weren’t dealing fast and loose the way they had when a fluid situation required it.
The next day, Von Lutzow said they might have to settle for a land plane. Aside from twin-engined PBYs, large and noisy, there were very few amphibians at the base, and he hadn’t come close to getting one of them.
The following morning, he took the risk he’d hoped to avoid: He contacted the OSS project that flew support to Yugoslav guerrillas across the Adriatic. Yes, there’d been a message from the acting CO, but the project commander disliked Bemtvoll–“the stick,” he called him-and was willing to ignore the order, on the grounds that the general would be back soon, and hopefully overrule the man. Besides, he said, it’d be a shame to let the OSS become just another chicken-shit, by-the-book outfit.
He didn’t have an amphibian Von Lutzow could borrow, but he could loan him a single-engined utility aircraft. A pair of freefall chutes came with it, and he could throw in supply chutes if needed. It also had an improvised interior gas tank for refueling in the air from 4 or 5-gallon cans. Using it stank up the cabin pretty badly and carried a risk of explosion, but it was useful for long flights.
That afternoon, the two mavericks reviewed their plan. The plane, of course, could not be landed on the lake, and the waning moon, slender now, wouldn’t rise till almost 0230 AM; landing on the country road would be hellaciously risky. So Macurdy would jump; he insisted on it. He had what he needed: From England he’d brought a musette bag stuffed with K rations, a towel, and a few other things, plus a curved plywood pack frame, a canvas supply-drop bag fitted with lashing rings, and a coil of nylon line for lashing it onto the pack frame. And the working tools: blasting caps and 30 feet of fuse.
“I hate like hell to leave you there,” Von Lutzow said.
“I’ll be okay. I was well trained for getting out crosscountry before I went the first time. And I’m in uniform; if they catch me, there’s a decent chance they won’t shoot me.”
Von Lutzow took a deep breath: He was skeptical of that “decent chance.” This didn’t seem as good an idea as it had in London, but then, he reminded himself, things seldom did. “No second thoughts?” he asked.
Macurdy shoo his head firmly. “I know what the stakes are,” he said. “I’m probably the only one who does. Even Anna doesn’t, really. The Voitar didn’t give her the depth of training they gave me, nor anything like the close contact.” He grinned, taking Von Lutzow by surprise. “Besides, no one’s going to see me unless I screw up.”
“Well,” Von Lutzow said, “let’s pray for decent weather.” The forecast had not been favorable, but it seemed to him, just then, that the weather would be fine.