Airborne!
Martin Guiterrez
The 101st Airborne had been in the British Isles since September of 1943. They had been training for most of that time for their drop which was three days away, June 5, 1944.
One of them, a stout fellow from the Bronx named Private Eddie Caparzo was clustered with several of his Airborne pals at a pub in London. "Hey, McDowell, what in the hell does the MG in MG34 mean again?"
"Maschinegewher, machinegun." said Corporal Miles McDowell, a 2nd generation Irish immigrant with a pronounced accent.
"How'd you know that?" said Mason, a lanky nineteen year old from West Virginia.
"My wife's German." said McDowell, "Her family came here after World War I so she grew up in America."
A group of soused British paratroopers were at the table near them. They appeared to be downing their ale with increasing frequency and it appeared to be soaking through a few of their hides.
"You're wife's a bloody Jerry." said one of them, a youngish kid named Cromwell, "Better make sure she isn't a spy for Hitler."
At this McDowell stood up. "He ain't worth it." said PFC Vargas, a short but fairly muscled youth. He was sort of a leader among the younger troops and in fact a lot of them wouldn't have been surprised if Vargas wound up either a sergeant or with a commission by war's end.
"Take it back ye bleedin' Saxon or His Magesty's Army is going to be short one soldier before the bloody landing!" said McDowell.
The drunken Englishman paid no heed and resumed his taunt, "She's probably selling secrets to Hitler right now..."
"Oh lay off Perry," said one of the Englishmen, the most sober of them. The Americans weren't all sober either. "Here," said the man, introducing himself as Ficketts, "I'll buy you drink. Perry's just a little drunk."
"How appropriate, Kraut lover." said Perry Cromwell, swaying unsteadily, his ale coursing through his system.
At this McDowell charged, his fist making contact with Perry's jaw, knocking him to the ground. "Fight!" said one of the others, "Hey fight!"
Over a dozen British paratroopers that had been sitting with Cromwell moved in to watch. Vargas came in and said, "Break it up."
"C'mon McDowell!" said Mason.
"Kick his a$$!" said Caparzo. The Englishman fighting McDowell had been throwing snide comments meant for the Americans to overhear throughout the night, McDowell, the most incindiary of the group, kept throwing comments back.
The fight was broken up when Ficketts, who wore no badges of rank, came in and bodily yanked McDowell off of Cromwell, who was bleeding through his mouth and a split lip. McDowell didn't get off easy either, there was a black mark under his right eye and his nose was bleeding.
"For heaven's sake!" said Ficketts, "The enemy's the bloody Krauts, not each other!"
"Oh ease up,Ficketts, I didn't mean those comments literally. I was just..." said Cromwell.
"That's SERGEANT Ficketts to you," said Ficketts, though he was three inches shorter than Cromwell, his raised voice made him appear to be ten feet tall, "You said those comments to bait these Yanks into a fight. You baited one. That's one thing to start a fight, but to insult one's wife, mother, or family, that's quite another. Apologize."
"And you." Ficketts said, "What do those stripes on your arm mean?"
"Corporal sir." said McDowell.
"How the bloody hell did you get those stripes if you knock around some lad who doesn't know better?" said Ficketts, "Now shake hands."
Both did, grudgingly. "C'mon, McDowell, let's get out of here." said Vargas, the calm one in the group.
Elsewhere, the leader of 1st Platoon, Lieutenant Jean Razak, was enjoying a quiet evening with his wife. She had been able to get to England to spend some time with her husband and this was the final night they could be together.
"Jean," said Miriam Razak, "What's wrong?"
"Miriam, in three days I'm going into action." said Razak, "I'm just a little worried I'm not coming back out again."
"Jean, you've lived this long through the war, you'll come back out." said Miriam. This was the Jean Razak none of his men saw. A family man, an educator. If he were in civilian clothing and back in the States, one would think of him first as an educator, not a warrior.
Elsewhere, Staff Sergeant Francis Brutto was standing beside a Private Max Brutto, his son, drafted into service and now serving with Company A of the 1st Division, Rangers. This was a side of the tough veteran paratrooper few ever saw, the side of a loving father and loyal husband.
"Max, remember what I told you." Brutto said.
"Yeah dad, check my gear and make sure my action's clean..." said Max.
"No Max, I meant remember that a frightened soldier is a defeated soldier, that means control your fear. Fear is natural, but it can be controlled." said Brutto. His tone softened, a tone he usually reserved for his wife and his son, "I love you son."
"I love you too dad." said Max. Both tried to forget that they were days away from combat and possible death, but the thought still lingered. At the moment, though, they were just a father and a son looking out at the stars.
The day before the drop was a tense time for all. Men were checking their equipment, their weapons, and most importantly thier parachutes. PFC Jeff Gossard, the man on the BAR, was nervously going through all his equipment to cover his nervousness.
Sergeant Brutto was rushing the platoon out of the barracks and to the airstrip. Once they were aboard the C-47, Lieutenant Razak said, "Alright boys, this is it. Our objective is to secure or destroy the bridges of the canals near Normandy. We need to deny Rommel any access to the bridges so he can't reinforce his beach defenses or counterattack. That pretty much covers it, so land safely, I'll see you at the rendezvous point."
Vargas lit a cigarette. "Funny," he said, "I didn't use to smoke before the war."
"That's your fifth one in the past three hours." said McDowell.
"You been keeping track?" said Vargas.
"Someone has to." said McDowell.
"So, you're married huh?" said Vargas.
"Yeah." said McDowell. He produced a picture, on the chain of his dogtags, that was covered by a small lockett. "My wife gave that to me the night before I shipped out to England."
The woman in the picture was probably in her early twenties, as was McDowell. Her hair was a light shade of brown and her eyes were dark. "Where's she now? said Vargas.
"She's home." said McDowell, "In San Diego, where she's studying literature at the university there."
Corporal Johnnie Rico had his own thoughts, his own worries. He remembered Carmen Ibanez, the woman he tried everything to impress. As far back as he could remember, he was in love with her. She was a free spirit, no doubt, as evidenced by her barnstorming adventures. She flew cross country in a decomissioned S.E. 5 aircraft and it was her love of flying that made Rico become a paratrooper because he had failed to become a pilot and thereby impressed Carmen. She now served with the Woman's Air Corps, ferrying aircraft from the Lockheed plant, to airbases around the country. He was reading a letter from her to get his mind off the jump.
He had no sooner read the 'Dear Johnnie,' line when the aircraft bucked wildly. Several 88 mm rounds bucked the C-47 like a childs toy. "Drop now." said Razak.
Brutto opened the door and the first squad jumped clear. McDowell, Vargas, Caparzo, Gossard, and Mason all disappeared out the door, their chutes opening. Then it was Rico's squad jumping. The blossoming parachutes seemed to fill the skies of Norhthern France...