The Germans would also have gotten the signal, and would undoubtedly send men to capture them. Probably by truck; it would be a long drive, but feasible. However, it was possible they’d jump paratroops in.
Captain Buckman told Macurdy to pick eighteen men and get them ready: He and Shuler would go over the quick and dirty operations plan. Macurdy and his men were to be at the taxi strip in twenty minutes, with three stretchers, and K rations for three days. Major Marden would be their pilot.
Macurdy left wondering if three stretchers would be enough: Twenty men jumping at night in the mountains could easily result in two or three of them getting busted up on landing.
It wasn’t windy, and the moon had just risen, something more than half full, but even so …
He supposed the spies had confidential information, and wearing German uniforms, they’d be executed if caught–pumped of what they knew, then shot. While if the Germans caught him on the mountain with a broken leg, he’d probably, hopefully, just end up in a POW camp. Still, he took five stretchers. They could always leave what they didn’t need.
And they had one thing going for them besides themselves: Their pilot had a reputation. Major Rollie Marden didn’t have to find places. He just sort of went to them, like some of the mountaineers in Yuulith. It was like an instinct. There was no way he’d miss the drop spot.
Macurdy knew without thought what men he’d take, and not one of them bitched at foregoing his night’s sleep. He told them to bring no weapons heavier than M Is, and no more grenades than they could take in their thigh pockets. This was a rescue operation, not a combat mission; they needed to travel light.
Ten minutes after he’d given them their instructions, they trotted to the C47s warming up on the taxi strip, leaving the rest of the platoon jealous.
Shuler arrived a few minutes later. Two minutes after that, they were on board, taxiing to the runway. Shuler handed out French army topographic maps, and briefed the troopers as they flew. They’d take the rescued spies and pilot to a road, where they’d be met by trucks and troops of the 26th Infantry and taken to Gafsa. From there they could get air cover if needed-some of Major Cochran’s P40s would be standing by, ready to take off on a moment’s notice.
It seemed like no time at all before they were over the jump spot, hooked up and ready. Shuler was jump master. The green light came on and the lieutenant jumped, the rest of the stick following almost in lockstep, Macurdy last, the cleanup man, shouting the battalion’s jump cry: “San Antone!”
He looked up, checking his canopy, then down, orienting himself. The landscape was a mosaic of moon-wash and black shadow. He could see the primitive road, even the plane lying on it, almost at the summit of a grade. Right on target, he thought. I need to look up Marden, when I have a chance, and tell him how much that means to us. And so damned quick! it’ll take a hell of a lot longer getting out than it did in.
He hit the ground about two hundred yards beyond the broken plane. Shuler almost slammed into it when he landed. Almost. What he actually hit was a boulder, or more likely two of them. The result was a broken leg, and despite his steel helmet, a severe concussion. Two blasts on Macurdy’s whistle oriented any troopers who might have missed seeing the plane. Except for Shuler, none had injuries severe enough to hamper them seriously. All in all, Macurdy thought, they d been damned lucky. They even found their equipment package, in this case the stretchers, with no trouble at all.
Two of the crash victims were still in the plane. The mission medic checked them first. One of them, the pilot, had bled to death, the radio mike in his lap. The other, in a German uniform, was unconscious, his breathing shallow. Macurdy had a man take the pilot’s dogtags, go through his pockets, and look the cabin over for envelopes, papers–anything like that. Others gathered up any chutes visible from the road and stashed them out of sight.