The Bavarian Gate By John Dalmas

34

Troll in the Cellar

Late that afternoon, Von Lutzow and Macurdy filled the auxiliary tank. Then, stinking of aviation gas, they ate supper in the visiting officers’ mess at the airfield, and took off after dark, headed east. The sky was clear-a break in the weatherbut the moon wouldn’t rise till well after two, and only a sickle moon then.

They scarcely spoke, all the way up the Adriatic. Macurdy dozed much of the time; he didn’t know when he’d have a chance to sleep again. And dozing, dreamed of Corporal Trosza. They were walking along a beach below chalk cliffs, and he was trying to tell Trosza something. Meanwhile Trosza had severe stomach cramps. Macurdy could see inside him-the Voitu’s abdomen was half full of blood–and he tried to distract him so he wouldn’t notice.

Trosza put an arm around Macurdy’s shoulder and squeezed him light. “I’ll be all right,” he said, “I’ll be all right.”

It was Von Lutzow’s voice that wakened Macurdy. “We’re crossing the north shore,” he said. “Venice is off west a bit. If you’ve had any further thoughts, now’s the time to talk them over.”

Macurdy straightened in his seat, contemplating the dream still vivid in his mind. It was not, he thought, one that would slip away and be forgotten. He’d have no qualms about killing Kurqosz or Greszak, or even Landgraf, for whom he felt affinity. This was war, and they were the enemy. But Trosza? The Voitik corporal had had no part in this war. He’d even been friendly.

He shook free of the dregs, but not of the dark mood the dream left him with.

Von Lutzow’s comment seemed an invitation to cancel, but he wasn’t about to do that. Mentally, Macurdy reviewed his plans and gear: He’d never jumped with a freefall chute before, but felt comfortable about it. What he didn’t feel comfortable about was the predicted wind; his preflight optimism had died in his sleep. The Air Corps’ meteorological office in Naples had told him to expect winds of fifteen to twenty-five mph in southern Bavaria, and he worried about trusting his gear to a supply chute which might get lost in the night.

So far the drop bag contained little except his musette bag, fuse, and blasting caps. It was lashed to the pack frame and didn’t weigh much. Now, given the wind, he decided not to drop it with a supply chute. Instead, he’d tie it to his web belt with a length of nylon cord, and toss it ahead of him when he stepped out the door. It would hang about a dozen feet below him, hitting the ground a fraction of a second before he did.

The blasting caps were in a small drawstring bag, and originally he’d planned to carry it in one of his numerous pockets. But he’d thought better of it. He had a thing about caps-they were touchy-so instead he’d packed them in the drop bag, with the fuse. Now he had third thoughts. Suppose he came down on the bag?

He knew from his OSS training there’d be small orange drift chutes aboard, used before making supply drops. Leaving his seat, he took one from an equipment chest, and digging caps and fuse from the drop bag, stuffed them into the chute’s small ballast bag. He’d jump with it, then toss it three or four seconds before he hit the ground.

By the time he had everything repacked and ready, the Dolomitic Alps loomed in front of them, peaks snow-covered in the starlight, and he sat back down with the drift chute in his thigh pocket. His next concern was Von Lutzow finding the jump site.

He was prepared to jump in any open field though, if need be, and find his way to the schloss as best he could.

Von Lutzow found der Kiefersee without difficulty. Like MacNab, he bypassed it at a distance, then approached it from the north. It was dark enough that Macurdy could distinguish nothing except lake, forest, and open ground. There remained the problem of the wind, which Von Lutzow estimated at 20 miles per hour.

Macurdy knew the drop site he wanted-a pasture near the lake’s south end, less than a mile from the schloss. Between pasture and lake lay a stretch of woods where he could hide the chute. Crouching by the door, he peered out, pack frame in one hand. Von Lutzow had cut power and lost altitude; despite the wind, they were to be at 1,000 feet when Macurdy jumped. He’d have preferred 400 to reduce wind drift, but they’d agreed that Von Lutzow should glide in on reduced power till after he was well past the schloss, and that required more elevation.

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