“Betty Grable,” Larson pulled a wrinkled photograph from his shirt, barely visible in the glow of the blue light over the door to the C-47’s cockpit. “Soon’s I get back, gonna call her.” Meade laughed. “You and a million other GIs.” Out the side window the tiny of the ships crossing the Channel and their silvery wakes were gone. Meade spotted a flicker of light though the small window. Likely one of the cow islands, Jersey or , or one of the signal ships the G-2 briefer told them the armada would fly past. “Soon, Will.” Larson tucked the photo back in his heavy jump suit and tightened his chin strap. The leather chin cup scrubbed the stubble into Meade’s chin when he followed suit and buckled his strap. Should have shaved closer. Should have gotten a job as a welder and stayed in the shipyard like his brothers. He ran his tongue around his mouth. It tasted like it was stuffed with moldy rags. He couldn’t work up a bit of spit. Must be the air sickness pills the medic had given him, or just plain fear. No, not fear. Ike had told them “…he had full confidence in our courage.” Meade had the sheet of paper from Ike in his pocket that said so. Still, his stomach churned. Synchronized leaners, all in a row the paratroopers tilted toward the back of the as the pilots pulled up, climbing away from the water. Hope Ike knows what the hell he’s talking about. The radio operator leaned though the cockpit door. The cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth danced as he shouted down the aisle, “Twenty minutes.” Below, the glitter of the moon reflecting from the slid beneath a thick mantle of clouds.
Tracer fire from the machinegun angled over and caught the charging German, flinging him to the ground. Larson untangled his pack and pulled out a fresh magazine as leaves and twigs fell all around him, chopped down by the charging German. He shook off the twigs, snapped the magazine in and poked his head back around the tree. The German lay still. “Hey,” he called out to the men by the track. “You guys all right?” “I’m shot. Leg. Don’t think I can walk.” Larson could hear the pain in the soldier’s voice. He scuttled over to the two men, using the rails as cover. When he peeked over the rails, a line of tracer fire swept over the trees and a low building. “Lars. You O.K.?” Meade called out. “I’m O.K.,” Larson answered. “Guys are hit down here.” He knelt by the wounded man. “Let me get an arm under you.” He started to lift the soldier up. “Wait, leave me be. Levine, the radar whiz kid laying up there. I think the krauts got him. He was trying to blow up the damn radar, but all I had was the phone. He said the blasting cap needed DC. Phone ringer’s AC, so he was on his way back to blow the C-2 with his pistol when they got him. Crank that phone again. Maybe you can get up enough amperage to cook it off.” “How about if I do something else,” Larson said. He opened the canvas case. “Got a screwdriver?” The soldier pulled out his TL-29. He snapped open the screwdriver blade and handed it to Larson.
“You blew it all to hell and back. Come on, let’s get out of here.” Larson caught Levine as he started to get up. “Stay flat on the ground. I’ll drag you back till we can get up.” “Where’s Stimson?” “The other guy? Sorry. Fucking krauts shot him. Come on.” He grabbed Levine’s collar and dragged him down the slope toward the trees. “Lars?” a voice called out. Meade appeared at the tracks with the machinegun at his hip. “Down here.” “Germans are clear. We got to go. That rocket smacked the armored car right on the nose.” Larson helped Levine to the wrecked armored car, steam shooting and hissing from the block. He shook his head at what he saw, at the guys, not the fool car. Three other GIs limped up. One had a bandage around his head. Another held his ribs. The third propped up the one with the bandaged head. All of them looked like they were on the edge of death. “Think you can get that command car down by the building to run?” Meade asked. “We aren’t going to get far on foot.” “Like I said, ain’t nothing I can’t start, if it’ll run at all.” And to prove his point, in minutes Larson had the vehicle, a big long open Mercedes convertible by the ornament on the hood, chugging along the track. Meade and the men, with a chorus of groans, climbed in the ostentations vehicle. At least they weren’t defenseless with the pair of German machineguns pointing out the right and left sides. Larson guided the long vehicle
The sixteen missing planes, by Planeload (stick/chalk) number and unit, as indicated on the maps in Rendezvous with Destiny. The unit designation on the left indicates the principal unit, but often others were mixed in, especially support troops like communications, medical and engineers: 501st PIR 13 – 1/501 29 – 1/501 30 – 1/501 31 – 1/501 33 – 1/501 18 – 3/501 54 – 2/501 32 – 3/501 502nd PIR 14 – 1/502 4 – 2/502 81 – 3/502 506th PIR 17– 1/506 18 – 1/506 66 – 2/506 11 – 3/506 15 – 3/506