to reconnoiter the gun emplacements in Saint-Martin-de-Varreville, as well as an artillery garrison billeted in the nearby hamlet of Mézières, where the Germans had appropriated a cluster of eleven farmhouses, barns, and stables for their use. Coded W-X-Y-Z by G2 Intelligence, the complex had been bombed twice in a week, the first time by the RAF in late May, then again earlier that night by B-26 Marauders from the U.S. Air Forceâs 394th Bombardment Group, stationed at the RAF airfield at Boreham, Essex. But the chiefs in no way trusted the job to airpower alone. Dickson had been ordered to assess the strength of the enemy forces there and determine an overland route that the 502nd Infantryâs 2nd Battalion could use to attack and destroy the gun emplacements.
But things did not at all go as planned for his team. As the last three men to exit Plane 1, they were seriously affected by the delay caused by Mangoniâs stumble and did not clear the door until Crouch had doubled back over the peninsula and sped up for his trip home. Consequently, theyâd landed far from Lillyman and the other paratroopers without having the slightest idea where they were relative to their location . . . and, more critically, to the position of the gun batteries they were supposed to scout out.
Dicksonâs jump itself went smoothly, and for that he was thankful. Heâd barely had time to feel himself falling through the air when he came down in tall grass, moonlight pouring over him from the cloudless sky, washing over the grass so it almost looked like a carpet of silver tinsel. The night was silent around himâalmost eerily so. He could hear nothing but his own anxious breath.
Still gathering his wits, he had some trouble escaping his parachute harness and set his M3 submachine gun down on the ground while working free of it. When he finally got that accomplished, he collected and repacked his gear and started to move off to find his men.
The lieutenant had gone about a dozen yards when he froze in his tracks, as if struck by cold lightning. Heâd left the grease gun somewhere behind him in the field.
With a quick about-face, Dickson scrambled back to the spot where heâd dropped from the skyâor what he thought was the same spot. The grass was everywhere around him, coming up to his knees, one area resembling the next in the darkness. Cursing his stupidity, he squatted down on all fours and desperately felt around for the weapon, patting the ground, groping for it at the bottom of the high, flowing blades of grass.
The lieutenant expelled a long sigh of relief when his hands finally touched the grease gunâs cool metal barrel. He didnât know what had guided them to it in the darkness, and didnât much care. The main thing was heâd found the weapon. Any fool knew you couldnât fight a war without a gun.
Standing up out of the grass like a surfacing diver, Dickson shouldered the weapon and got back to looking for his men. The countryside was quiet around him; he heard nothing but the night sounds one might have expected in any meadow anywhere: insects humming and chirruping, owls hooting, frogs croaking, and over and around it all the whisper of the breeze as it shifted through the field. He could have been in Kansas, Nebraska, or even Western Maryland, where heâd attended college . . . except that the hedgerows growing on all sides were undeniable reminders of how far he was from those places.
Alone and disoriented, Dickson moved off along the troop carrierâs line of flight. For him, the silence had an almost perilous quality, leading his mind in unwanted and unsettling directions. What if the weather had taken a bad turn after the Pathfinder flights left England, forcing the invasion to be postponed again? If there hadnât been enough time to recall the troopers before theyâd jumped? It didnât seem a likely scenario, but
what if
?
But things did not at all go as planned for his team. As the last three men to exit Plane 1, they were seriously affected by the delay caused by Mangoniâs stumble and did not clear the door until Crouch had doubled back over the peninsula and sped up for his trip home. Consequently, theyâd landed far from Lillyman and the other paratroopers without having the slightest idea where they were relative to their location . . . and, more critically, to the position of the gun batteries they were supposed to scout out.
Dicksonâs jump itself went smoothly, and for that he was thankful. Heâd barely had time to feel himself falling through the air when he came down in tall grass, moonlight pouring over him from the cloudless sky, washing over the grass so it almost looked like a carpet of silver tinsel. The night was silent around himâalmost eerily so. He could hear nothing but his own anxious breath.
Still gathering his wits, he had some trouble escaping his parachute harness and set his M3 submachine gun down on the ground while working free of it. When he finally got that accomplished, he collected and repacked his gear and started to move off to find his men.
The lieutenant had gone about a dozen yards when he froze in his tracks, as if struck by cold lightning. Heâd left the grease gun somewhere behind him in the field.
With a quick about-face, Dickson scrambled back to the spot where heâd dropped from the skyâor what he thought was the same spot. The grass was everywhere around him, coming up to his knees, one area resembling the next in the darkness. Cursing his stupidity, he squatted down on all fours and desperately felt around for the weapon, patting the ground, groping for it at the bottom of the high, flowing blades of grass.
The lieutenant expelled a long sigh of relief when his hands finally touched the grease gunâs cool metal barrel. He didnât know what had guided them to it in the darkness, and didnât much care. The main thing was heâd found the weapon. Any fool knew you couldnât fight a war without a gun.
Standing up out of the grass like a surfacing diver, Dickson shouldered the weapon and got back to looking for his men. The countryside was quiet around him; he heard nothing but the night sounds one might have expected in any meadow anywhere: insects humming and chirruping, owls hooting, frogs croaking, and over and around it all the whisper of the breeze as it shifted through the field. He could have been in Kansas, Nebraska, or even Western Maryland, where heâd attended college . . . except that the hedgerows growing on all sides were undeniable reminders of how far he was from those places.
Alone and disoriented, Dickson moved off along the troop carrierâs line of flight. For him, the silence had an almost perilous quality, leading his mind in unwanted and unsettling directions. What if the weather had taken a bad turn after the Pathfinder flights left England, forcing the invasion to be postponed again? If there hadnât been enough time to recall the troopers before theyâd jumped? It didnât seem a likely scenario, but
what if
?
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