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Authors: Thomas H. Taylor
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particular plaudits from Wolverton or Sink but no pratfalls either. McKnight was comfortable with that, satisfied with continuing Shettle's high standards and not pressing for major changes. As the man closest to McKnight's shoulder, it was for Joe to reassure his fellow enlisted men that though I Company was changing quarterbacks before the big game, it was still a winning team. The game plan was so immense and comprehensive, I Company's component so subordinate, that staying the course was tantamount to success.
McKnight's attitude was the prevalent one in I Company: let's just get to the kickoff fairly rested. Those above him, however, Wolverton and especially Sink, felt their team could not be overtrained—latrine graffiti notwithstanding. Lives lost from inadequate training would be the colonel's responsibility, as would the onus of writing letters to widows. Better to be safe than sorry, even if Blues felt overworked. Like Antaeus they were expected to regain strength as soon as then-feet struck the earth.
During this exhausting run-up to a marathon, flashbacks came to Joe: how the FFI were over there, not that far away, waiting to detonate in the German rear somewhat as the 101st would, albeit the latter explosion would be infinitely stronger. He wished he could have told the FFI how strong. His mind encompassing both sides of the Atlantic Wall, Joe longed for the day that would link them. He felt it would be during the invasion.
Not quite.
NO CIVILIAN WAS PRESENT this time, and Wolverton had even less to say, yet when they saluted, something passed between them, an acknowledgment from the officer that the enlisted man had been there, done that—a tip of the hat. With nothing prefatory, Wolverton smiled and said that brother Bill had taken a turn for the worse. Did Joe wish to visit him again?
Yes, sir! A week of escape and evasion in France would be like rest and recuperation. Once again Joe was jeeped to the Hungerford train station and again joined there by two men.This time, to his surprise, they claimed to be Screaming Eagles. Their cover story was special training at Bournemouth Airport. Joe didn't tell them he'd been through this before, and it was their turn to be surprised when the three went out to a hangar and drew golden bandoliers.
More excited than apprehensive, the paymasters joshed with their pilot that they would skyjack the plane and spend the rest of the war in Swiss luxury. He was a Battle of Britain pilot whose wounds had disabled him from ever flying Spitfires again. Without irony he announced that these days the RAF never put enough fuel in paymaster planes to reach Switzerland.
The young Americans looked at one another, unsure if he was kidding. They had little comprehension of British weariness, how years of mortal struggle against Hitler's tyran-nosaur had either killed, drained, or enervated the few to whom so much was owed by so many. In 1944, from sheer fatigue, Great Britain was not reluctant to hand off the heavy lifting to America, rightfully considered to be both the United States and Canada. Like a tag team the three nations were hell-bent on taking down Hitler from the west, but with the freshest members wondering why their veteran partner seemed most patient for victory.
IN FLIGHT JOE'S PARTNERS nattered so much about going over the wall, going to France, that he worried whether they could stop talking about it when back with their units. We're going to be the first! they exulted. No, you're going to be the second and third, Joe reflected, wondering if there was something he should say about their upcoming FFI experience that would help them get through the adventure. He held his peace. Though his tips would be useful, what if either of these guys was captured?
Joe wouldn't be—he refused to believe he could be—but what about the others? If his description as a second-time paymaster circulated in German security channels, it might make it more difficult for the FFI to
McKnight's attitude was the prevalent one in I Company: let's just get to the kickoff fairly rested. Those above him, however, Wolverton and especially Sink, felt their team could not be overtrained—latrine graffiti notwithstanding. Lives lost from inadequate training would be the colonel's responsibility, as would the onus of writing letters to widows. Better to be safe than sorry, even if Blues felt overworked. Like Antaeus they were expected to regain strength as soon as then-feet struck the earth.
During this exhausting run-up to a marathon, flashbacks came to Joe: how the FFI were over there, not that far away, waiting to detonate in the German rear somewhat as the 101st would, albeit the latter explosion would be infinitely stronger. He wished he could have told the FFI how strong. His mind encompassing both sides of the Atlantic Wall, Joe longed for the day that would link them. He felt it would be during the invasion.
Not quite.
NO CIVILIAN WAS PRESENT this time, and Wolverton had even less to say, yet when they saluted, something passed between them, an acknowledgment from the officer that the enlisted man had been there, done that—a tip of the hat. With nothing prefatory, Wolverton smiled and said that brother Bill had taken a turn for the worse. Did Joe wish to visit him again?
Yes, sir! A week of escape and evasion in France would be like rest and recuperation. Once again Joe was jeeped to the Hungerford train station and again joined there by two men.This time, to his surprise, they claimed to be Screaming Eagles. Their cover story was special training at Bournemouth Airport. Joe didn't tell them he'd been through this before, and it was their turn to be surprised when the three went out to a hangar and drew golden bandoliers.
More excited than apprehensive, the paymasters joshed with their pilot that they would skyjack the plane and spend the rest of the war in Swiss luxury. He was a Battle of Britain pilot whose wounds had disabled him from ever flying Spitfires again. Without irony he announced that these days the RAF never put enough fuel in paymaster planes to reach Switzerland.
The young Americans looked at one another, unsure if he was kidding. They had little comprehension of British weariness, how years of mortal struggle against Hitler's tyran-nosaur had either killed, drained, or enervated the few to whom so much was owed by so many. In 1944, from sheer fatigue, Great Britain was not reluctant to hand off the heavy lifting to America, rightfully considered to be both the United States and Canada. Like a tag team the three nations were hell-bent on taking down Hitler from the west, but with the freshest members wondering why their veteran partner seemed most patient for victory.
IN FLIGHT JOE'S PARTNERS nattered so much about going over the wall, going to France, that he worried whether they could stop talking about it when back with their units. We're going to be the first! they exulted. No, you're going to be the second and third, Joe reflected, wondering if there was something he should say about their upcoming FFI experience that would help them get through the adventure. He held his peace. Though his tips would be useful, what if either of these guys was captured?
Joe wouldn't be—he refused to believe he could be—but what about the others? If his description as a second-time paymaster circulated in German security channels, it might make it more difficult for the FFI to
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