The Bavarian Gate By John Dalmas

Though neither Macurdy nor Captain Szczpura realized it, Fred Keith might soon have returned, not that day as he’d hoped, but within three or four, and at worst with only a reprimand on his record. But it didn’t work that way, not because of the MPs, who in his case didn’t really care much one way or the other. But because of the surgeon in charge of his case, who insisted he be assigned to a month in a rehab company. As a physician with the rank of lieutenant colonel, he felt wronged and insulted that the trooper had made him look bad.

19

Sicily

A few days later, the 505th loaded onto trains and rolled out of Oujda eastward, with twenty men and their duffel bags to a small boxcar. It could have been worse–the official capacity stenciled on the cars was forty men or eight horses-but they had eight hundred miles to go, and given the traffic, and the state of the equipment, tracks and bridges, it would probably take them four days or more. Twenty to a car was more than enough.

The trip ended in eastern Tunisia, where they camped near the holy Muslim city of Kairouan. The countryside wasn’t as desolate as that around Oujda. It actually had trees, even if some of them did resemble cactus.

Training continued, but they weren’t there long. Long enough to learn that their objective was Sicily, and to be briefed on their units’ missions, drilling them on sand tables. Remembering the confusion on the flight from Land’s End to Algeria, Macurdy wondered how meaningful those drills were. And this drop would be at night.

There was a shortage of troop planes for the division. Thus it would have to be flown on consecutive days, the 505th jumping on the first day, along with one battalion of the 504th. The heavily loaded C47s would take three and a half hours to fly the 420-mile dogleg course, using the island of Malta as a checkpoint. Then they’d return to Kairouan and bring the rest of the 504th the next day.

The veteran 509th would remain in Tunisia as a reserve. Macurdy could guess how pissed off they’d be.

Appropriately it was Melody, his spear-maiden second wife, of whom Macurdy dreamed that last night in Africa. Daylight and shrilling whistles woke him, and the dream slipped away, leaving behind only that it had been of Melody. After an early breakfast, the 505th lined up to draw ammunition and field rations, along with atabrine pills to prevent malaria, pills to purify water, and antifatigue pills.

They were scheduled to take off at dusk; it would, Macurdy thought, be a long day of hurry up and wait.

The men sat and stood around until shortly after noon, when the shouted order, “Load on the trucks,” echoed down the line from the battalion commander to the company commanders. The trucks took them to various small airfields in the vicinity, where they waited again, now in the shadows of their planes. Macurdy field-stripped his BAR-so far as he knew, he was the only platoon sergeant who carried one of the 18-pound automatic weapons-then checked and reassembled it, less from concern than for something to do. He did the same with his .45. One big thigh pocket bulged with fragmentation grenades, and the Fairbairn knife he’d traded for in England was on his belt; he preferred the double-edged British weapon to the GI trench knife with its brass knuckles. His folding stiletto was in its concealed inner pocket, available to cut himself free if his chute hung up, or slit a throat and escape if captured. There were bandoleers of magazines for the BAR, and a canvas bag with additional grenades. Along with boots, steel helmet, trenching tool, first-aid kit, musette bag, map case … and of course his two chutes-main and reserve. He told himself wryly that with all of that, he’d weigh well over three hundred pounds, but there was none of it he’d willingly leave behind.

A mess truck rolled up to the company, with aproned men in back, and Macurdy got to his feet. “What the hell is that all about?” someone asked. “It’s only half past four.”

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