Chapter 1
There were only a few hours left.
An invasion that had taken years to plan, prepare, and lay the groundwork for, was now just hours away from happening. By tomorrow morning, over 100,000 Allied soldiers, not only from the United States and Britain but also from Canada, France, Poland, Norway, New Zealand, Holland, Australia, and almost every other country the Nazis had invaded in Europe, would be hitting the beaches of the Normandy region of France's northern coast. A further 24,000 would be arriving by air in the very first hours of June 6th.
The U.S. Army's 82nd and 101st Airborne were both tasked with numerous objectives in the Cotentin Peninsula, to the west of the American seaborne landing zone called Utah Beach. The British Army's 6th Airborne Division was assigned to capture intact a number of key bridges over the Caen Canal and the River Orne. And the Free French 4th SAS Battalion would be going after objectives in Brittany. These airborne forces were the vanguard of the main invasion force, responsible for securing bridges and roadways, blowing up anti-air guns and silencing artillery batteries. This was the largest deployment of parachute infantry in human history, involving the use of more than 1,000 C-47 transport aircraft. These troopers had much expected of them. The success or failure of the whole invasion, of Operation Overlord itself, might well depend on what happened after the airborne troops hit the ground.
It was very fitting, then, that the first commander of the 101st Airborne Division, General William "Bill" Lee, had said the Screaming Eagles had "a rendezvous with destiny." He had been more right than even he might have known.
The big jump had actually been called for and then canceled a time or two already. The men had been called up, told to get ready and prepare all their gear, moved to the assembly areas where the rows of C-47's waited. Then, seemingly after everyone had finally gotten every piece of equipment ready and prepared themselves mentally, the jump was cancelled and the troopers told to stand down.
But this was farther than they'd ever come before. The general consensus was that there would be no cancellation tonight. This time it was happening.
This was the feeling of a lot of the men in the 502nd Parachute Infantry Regiment, one of several regiments in the 101st. It was what Captain Legrand K. Johnson had told his platoon leaders when they gathered at his tent earlier in the day. And it was what 2nd Lieutenant Lynn "Lynn" Jackson, commander of 3rd Platoon, had told the men when he briefed them not long after meeting with the captain.
The 22-year-old junior officer had been with the 101st for almost a year, going directly to airborne school after graduating from the Virginia Military Institute in 1943. Lynn had attained the rank of Cadet Major, the 2nd Battalion executive officer, and he'd majored in History. He planned on becoming a teacher in that subject somewhere down the road, and was always reading some history book, some magazine, or visiting a historical site. In his free time, Lynn had managed to see almost all of London's big landmarks, plus the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, Britain's equivalent to West Point, and the Royal Air Force College Cranwell, primary officer training school for the RAF.
He was a thinker, a writer, exceptionally good at remembering names, dates, places, and details. An odd background, in a sense, for an officer in the paratroopers. But Lynn Jackson was also quick-thinking, skilled and practiced in the tools of his trade, and as fit as anyone his age. He may have been somewhat socially awkward, shy, hardly the partier or rough working man a lot of the troopers were, but Lynn was also a pretty damn promising platoon leader. He could read maps as well as anyone else in the company, studied infantry tactics with dedication, and chose an ordinary M1 Garand over the smaller weapons more popular with officers. The young officer also avoided putting on airs, and was remarkably modest about the VMI degree he had- something many enlisted men expected officers to be very smug about, the same way they'd expect it from someone from West Point.
There wasn't any big secret to how well Lynn had done at earning his men's respect, from his arrival in 3rd Platoon to his many long days leading them in field exercises and practice jumps here in England. Lynn had actually struggled to acclimate to VMI in his Rat (freshman) year, and had ranked around the middle of his class both there and at airborne school. The 'secret', if there was one, was that Lynn Jackson worked damn hard. He rose earlier, went to bed later, and carried more responsibility than anyone else in 3rd Platoon.
All he hoped now was that it would be enough. He'd be finding out pretty soon.
XX
"That's about the eighth time I've seen you strip and reassemble your weapon, sir."
The dark-haired junior officer looked up, letting go of the bolt on his M1 and letting it slide forward again. He spotted the hints of a smile on the normally stern and businesslike face of his platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Greg 'Mac' Hassay. Tough, stoic, an absolute master at everything an infantry sergeant should know, Mac had backed up Lynn from day one, even though the young lieutenant knew he didn't exactly deserve it. Here he was, claiming to be the superior of a man who was a full 14 years his senior, who'd been in the Army for 10 years compared to Lynn Jackson's one. But as he got down on his knees by his bedside every night to say his prayers, Lynn often added a special thanks to God for giving him Staff Sergeant Hassay. There was only one way to say it: Mac was a magnificent soldier.
Smiling self-consciously, Lynn observed that, at this moment, that he was alone as he worked over his gear near the tail of the plane. "Just nervous, Sergeant," he said. "Better if I give myself something to do."
"Everybody's on edge, sir. It's not just you."
Now Lynn smiled a little more. "Except you, Sergeant. I hear you career noncoms have trained yourselves to never show fear."
"True, sir, but never showing it and never feeling it aren't the same."
Mounting the leather sling back on his M1, Lynn gestured at the rows of pieces of equipment and gear, laid out neatly on his unfolded reserve chute. "Look at this, Sergeant. I've got a compass, entrenching tool, canteens, bayonet, fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades, 'frog' clicker, wire cutters, gas mask, a damn land mine, plastic explosives, my M1911, three days' worth of rations, maps, rain jacket, my helmet, two chocolate bars, two hundred francs in ten-franc bills… and then I still got my chute, reserve chute, six pistol magazines, twelve eight-round clips of .30-06, my Mae West and my M1!"
"What's your point, sir?" A quick glance back at Hassay showed the veteran sergeant was actually being facetious. It was just so hard to tell with how calm and even-keeled he always was. You had to spend some time around him to notice the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, the only sign that Mac was making a joke.
"Jesus Christ," Lynn exclaimed, half to himself, "this stuff weighs as much as I do!"
"Feel your pain, sir!" Corporal Joe Hartsock called, as he wandered by on the way to the next plane. "I feel your pain."
"Thank you, Corporal!" Lynn called back. "Nice to know we're all in the same boat, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir!"
A few minutes later, Sergeant Matt Baker stopped by as Lynn was hard at work repacking all his gear. The junior sergeant had been promoted to E-5 after 3rd Squad's original leader had broken his arm in a practice jump. He hadn't exactly asked for the promotion, but both Lynn and Mac had seen him as the ideal choice. The Missourian was the same age as Lynn, and had a hardworking, no-nonsense attitude that Lynn very much appreciated. He expected Matt Baker would do well as a squad leader once they landed in Normandy, whether or not he'd actually wanted the job.
"3rd Squad's good to go, sir," Baker said, nodding since he was loaded down with all his gear and had his M1 in hand. "I've checked everybody over. We're as ready as we'll ever be."
"Thank you, Sergeant," Lynn answered. "I'll be stopping by in a little while, once everyone's boarded the planes."
"Sounds good, sir," Baker replied, nodding and moving off.
"He's a better soldier than he thinks he is," Lynn remarked, looking after him.
"Runs in the family," Hassay answered simply.
"I don't doubt it," Lynn replied. Colonel Joseph Baker, Matt Baker's father, had served alongside Mac when they were both instructors at the infantry school at Fort Benning, Georgia. Colonel Baker had saved Hassay's life during an accident in a demolitions training exercise, and Hassay remained convinced that Matt Baker had the same potential to act swiftly and decisively in a life-threatening situation, and that he could become as accomplished a soldier as his father had been.
Lynn had by then just about finished repacking his gear. Hassay assisted him with getting it all loaded on his harnesses, and stowing his rifle and some other weapons and equipment in his leg bag, a long canvas bag the 101st had adopted from the British airborne. The idea was that you would jump out of the plane, dropping the leg bag as you descended. You would land on top of your bag and have its items ready for use immediately, instead of digging them out of your pack.
As he stood up, weighed down heavily by more than 100 pounds of gear, Lynn was thankful- and not for the first time- that he was such a fitness nut. Anybody carrying his own body weight on his back and shoulders would naturally find the task difficult, but somebody in sub-par physical condition might well find the task impossible. It was hard enough to stand in it, and when Lynn had first begun training with the airborne. Back then, fighting under such a load seemed impossible. But here he was, about to do it anyway.
The junior officer and veteran sergeant watched as the last few of 3rd Platoon's troopers boarded the two C-47's allotted. There were 15 men in each plane, cutting the platoon exactly in half. The first plane would take a "stick" of troopers consisting of 1st and 2nd Squad, with Lynn Jackson as jumpmaster. Staff Sergeant Hassay was the jumpmaster for the plane taking 3rd and 4th Squads.
M1's, M1 carbines, M1911s, BAR's, M1919 .30-caliber light machine guns, plus two bazookas in 2nd Squad. Fragmentation grenades, smoke grenades, orange and green signal smoke grenades, land mines, plastic explosives, a bayonet and entrenching tool for each man- the troopers were all carrying a hell of a lot of stuff. But the good news was, in exchange for bearing up under all that weight, once they hit the ground, each man in the Screaming Eagles had everything he needed to wage war by himself. Together, they were a force capable of putting a boot to the egg that was Adolf Hitler's vaunted "Fortress Europe". Soon enough they'd be crushing it.
"The men all got their air-sickness pills?" Lynn asked, trying to make sure he didn't forget anything last-minute.
"They did, sir," Hassay answered.
"Have you taken yours?"
"Yes. How about you, sir?"
There. I forgot something, sure enough. Lynn unbuttoned one of his breast pockets, took out the little pill that command had wanted passed around to everybody in the airborne forces, got one of his canteens out and swallowed the pill with a swig of water. Recapping the canteen and putting it away, Lynn smiled sheepishly. "Yes, I have, Sergeant."
Mac almost actually smiled at that one. "Very good, sir."
XX
At 2300 hours, twenty minutes before the massive fleet of C-47's would commence takeoff, then form up in the air for the flight across the channel, Lynn made his way to the second C-47 carrying the men in his platoon. Still wearing the 100+ pounds of gear, he grunted with the effort as he had to practically wedge himself out of the door of the plane. But he managed, and met Staff Sergeant Hassay halfway. They'd agreed beforehand to meet up one more time before takeoff.
"How're 3rd and 4th, Sergeant?" he asked.
"Ready to go, Lieutenant," Hassay answered. "It's a good thing they said 15 to a plane, though."
Lynn laughed. "Yeah. Make it much more than that and there'd be no room for the pilots."
"How's 1st and 2nd?"
"Doing fine," Lynn answered. "Everyone's actually pretty relaxed. For the circumstances, anyway." He paused, looking out towards the partly-clouded night sky, lit only by the moon.
"I'm not as scared as I thought I'd be," he said, half to himself. "I was more worried during my first practice jumps."
"It might be those pills," Hassay speculated. "They're supposed to help with calming your stomach down in the air, but they might wind up calming the rest of you down, too."
Lynn smiled, taking off his helmet and looking at the single white vertical stripe on the back of it- the only indication there was that Lynn Jackson was an officer. "In that case," Lynn said, "I'm glad they passed those out. Even if it's some extra effect nobody anticipated."
The two men paused, gazing up at the night sky in silence. Around them, ground crews were moving around, making ready for the takeoffs, and also the landings to come as the empty C-47's came back. A few troopers were still on the ground too, but not many. By now, even Colonel Moseley, CO of the 502nd, was probably mounted up in his plane.
Well, there wasn't much time left. Lynn knew he'd better do two more things and then return to his plane- he'd have just enough time and not much more.
Clipping his helmet back on after inspecting it yet again, Lynn looked at Hassay, wondering again how he'd managed to so fully earn the respect of a soldier and man so many years his senior. It was humbling, to say the least, to realize that Hassay, like many of the men in 3rd Platoon, simply trusted him.
I better not let them down, Lynn thought, and suddenly, fiercely felt himself add, I'd rather die than let them down.
"Sergeant," he said, "I want you to have something."
"What's that, sir?"
"This."
Sliding his Virginia Military Institute, Class of 1943 ring off his finger, Lynn Jackson held the ornate band of gold out in one hand. It was a heavy, expensive thing, not just because of the sizeable amount of gold but also because of the red gemstone set atop it. On the inside band was inscribed his name- Lynn Everett Jackson, III, a fancy name he rather disliked and almost never used- and his social security number. Four long, hard years at one of America's most challenging colleges had earned him this ring. It was one of his most valued possessions and always would be. Lynn had worn the ring in Officer Candidate School, Airborne Infantry School, and every day he'd been assigned to the 101st. He'd become an officer and earned his silver jump wings while wearing it.
But now the young officer handed it over to the older man, who looked back in puzzlement.
"What's this for, sir?"
"It's my ring. You know what it means to me. I want you to have it."
"Why?"
Lynn hesitated. He tried to think of one, but there was no other way to say it.
"In case something happens to me." He added after a moment, "If I don't make it, you hold onto it. Even the best sergeant in the Five-Oh-Deuce could use a good luck charm, and this ring has been worn by men who've done incredible things."
Hassay looked back at him, his expression unreadable. "I don't want this, Lieutenant. I don't want a man like you sounding like he thinks he ain't gonna make it."
"Take it, Sergeant."
"Sir-"
"Please. Just take it."
The veteran sergeant sighed, his hand closing around the band of gold. "All right, sir. But I'm making one condition if I take this."
"What's that, Sergeant?"
Looking the younger man steadily in the eyes, Hassay said, "When we both make it down and get the platoon together, the first thing I'm gonna do is give you this ring back." He set a hand on the butterbar's shoulder, perhaps sensing the nervousness that Lynn was a little too proud to openly give away. "You're gonna make it, Lieutenant. The best LT in the Five-Oh-Deuce needs to give his own good luck some credit."
The dark-haired 22-year-old actually blushed a little, his cheeks heating in embarrassment. "I'm hardly that, Sergeant."
"Sir, I trust your judgment as much as any officer in this regiment." Hassay said it firmly, without hesitation. It was unbelievable. He meant it. "Now, sir, was there anything else?"
"I'll see you to the plane," Lynn said. His voice was a little choked, but Hassay either didn't notice, or more likely pretended not to.
They walked back to the C-47 together, and the lieutenant helped the staff sergeant squeeze himself back in the open door of the transport. Then Lynn climbed up to the doorway himself and stood there, looking in at the two rows of troopers seated on either side of the aircraft, facing inward towards each other.
Baker, Hartsock, Allen and Garnett, Corrion, Hassay, Leggett, Campbell, Marsh, McConnell, and the unpopular misfit of the platoon, the 19-year-old William Paige. Them and all the others- 29 men. In this plane alone there were not just fifteen paratroopers. That was what only a bystander saw, someone totally detached from what was going on. Lynn Jackson saw fifteen mothers and fathers, counting on this random 22-year-old college graduate to bring their sons home. Brothers, sisters, wives, girlfriends, children. All of them now looking to Lynn E. Jackson, through the eyes of their brothers, fathers, uncles and sons.
The thought occurred to him one more time: I'd rather die than let them down.
In the big scheme of things, his own life wasn't that significant. Losing it was nothing if it happened to be the price of bringing his men home. Lynn had no idea why he was trusted by these men, why they actually seemed to think- to believe- that he knew what the fuck he was doing, and would keep them alive when they landed in Normandy.
But if they believed it, if Hassay believed it… maybe it was true.
Lynn was sure as hell gonna give it his best shot. Give it your best, holding nothing back. That was all you could do.
Looking around, Lynn raised his voice after a few moments.
"I oughta tell you guys that just a couple of days ago, I wrote a letter to Berlin, telling them they still have time to do the decent thing, throw in the towel and save everyone a lot of trouble. Naturally, they didn't give a shit."
Rumbles of laughter answered him, from every man on the plane. Even the pilots, busy doing last minute checks and going over their gauges and flight controls, gave a laugh in response.
Lynn smiled, then went on more seriously, "You've all heard the big speeches from General Eisenhower, General Taylor, Colonel Moseley and everybody right on down to the Captain. I don't have much to add next to what they've already said."
Meeting eyes with every man in 3rd and 4th Squad, he spoke solemnly, carefully pronouncing every word. "Fight hard, look out for the man next to you, and remember our motto in the Deuce: Strike. No matter what happens to us when we cross the Channel, I promise you, the Germans will be sorry they were born by this time tomorrow."
More grins and laughs, and grunts and hungry growls of agreement. The men really liked that idea.
"Enjoy the free plane ride, guys," Lynn said in closing. "Good luck to you. I'll see you on the ground."
Then he backed down the boarding step ladder, and got out of there before he made a fool of himself and started crying. Lynn felt like he had no real way of knowing if his words meant very much to the men- if, indeed, they meant anything at all. But he felt it was his responsibility to say something before the big jump. It was something officers were just supposed to do. Assure the men that they were going to be all right. Remind them they had good leaders who would be there sharing the risks, looking out for them.
The fact was, not all of these men were going to make it through the next twenty-four hours. 3rd and 4th Squad would almost definitely have at least one man killed or wounded, as would 1st and 2nd. Maybe they'd lose more than that. Maybe one whole plane would go down, or a squad would go missing. There was no way to know. But you didn't talk about any of that, not in front of the men. They already knew what the dangers were, the fact that some of them just weren't coming back. You just reminded them that there was also a chance that they were gonna be okay.
Lynn didn't plan on being reckless. He didn't intend to do anything that would needlessly jeopardize his own chances of returning to the United States alive. He had parents, a kid brother at Hargrave Military Academy, his old Virginia boarding school, plus two more younger brothers at home in Clifton Forge. He had a family hoping for his safe return just like anyone else. But he was also tasked with responsibility for 29 family's sons, fathers, uncles, nephews, and cousins. And those 29 lives mattered more than his own did. That was the reality of what you took on when you became an infantry officer- and Lynn had volunteered for that, too.
XX
Boarding his own C-47, Lynn Jackson repeated the first two-thirds of his speech, then sat down and shut up. As the two Air Corps lieutenants piloting the Dakota got the two powerful engines started and the plane began to roll down the runway, taxiing into place to wait for its turn to take off, Lynn became just another anonymous trooper. Just one of the thousands riding in an iron-assed bird just like this one, so out of his mind that he'd volunteered to jump out of a perfectly good airplane.
It was a hell of a way to take the war to Uncle Adolf, the gigantic pain in the ass that had started all this. But it also meant you were in the company of solid men- all volunteers, all men you could trust- who were as committed to doing this right as you. There were no draftees in Fox Company. Not one in 2nd Battalion, not one in the 502nd, not one in the 101st. There was no such thing as an unwilling Screaming Eagle.
This was the moment General Lee had been talking about. The rendezvous with destiny. It was the final half-hour of June 5th as the C-47 roared down the English runway and rose into the air, lifting its landing gear and climbing to join the others. There were many places, many units, that were safer. Where Lynn could have far more easily done his time in the war. But none of them- not one- was a place Lynn Jackson would rather be.
It was very simple: either the Nazis would destroy their enemies and win this war, or the Allies would. And Lynn was here in no small part because of his deep, fierce conviction that not one of his brothers should ever have to say "Heil Hitler" or read a single sentence of Mein Kampf. He wasn't normally a gambler, but starting tonight, he was betting everything on the Allies.
As the pilots worked their way into formation with the other 8 C-47's in their group, Lynn got out his own copy of the message from Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. He unfolded it and read it another time.
Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen of the Allied Expeditionary Force!
You are about to embark on the Great Crusade, toward which we have striven this many months. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty-loving people everywhere march with you. In company with our brave Allies and brothers-in-arms on other Fronts, you will bring about the destruction of the German war machine, the elimination of Nazi tyranny over the oppressed peoples of Europe, and security for ourselves in a free world.
Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely.
But this is the year 1944! Much has happened since the Nazi triumphs of 1940-1941. The United Nations have inflicted upon the Germans great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. Our air offensive has seriously reduced their strength in the air and their capacity to wage war on the ground. Our Home Fronts have given us overwhelming superiority in weapons and munitions of war, and placed at our disposal great reserves of trained fighting men. The tide has turned! The free men of the world are marching together to Victory!
I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full Victory!
Good Luck! And let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God on this great and noble undertaking.
Dwight Eisenhower