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Suddenly they entered fog. It was heavy enough to blot out the blue light at the tip of the wing. Woody's heart raced. For planes flying in close formation this was very dangerous. How tragic it would be to die in a plane crash, not even in combat. But Bonner could do nothing but fly straight and level and hope for the best. Any change of direction would cause a collision.
The plane left the fog bank as suddenly as it had entered it. To either side, the other planes were still miraculously in formation.
Almost immediately, antiaircraft fire broke out, the flak exploding in deadly blossoms among the serried planes. In these circumstances, Woody knew, the pilot's orders were to maintain speed and fly straight to the target zone. But Bonner defied orders and broke formation. The roar of the engines went to full throttle. He began to zigzag again. The nose of the plane dipped as he tried for more speed. Looking out of the window, Woody saw that many other pilots had been equally undisciplined. They could not control the urge to save their own lives.
The red light went on over the door: four minutes to go.
Woody felt certain the crew had put the light on too soon, desperate to dump their troops and fly to safety. But they had the charts and he could not argue.
He got to his feet. "Stand up and hook!" he yelled. Most of the men could not hear him, but they knew what he was saying. They got up, and each man clipped his static line to the overhead cable, so that he could not be thrown through the door accidentally. The door opened, and the wind roared in. The plane was still going too fast. Jumping at this speed was unpleasant, but that was not the main problem. They would land farther apart, and it would take Woody much longer to find his men on the ground. His approach to his objective would be delayed. He would begin his mission behind schedule. He cursed Bonner.
The pilot continued to bank one way, then the other, dodging flak. The men struggled to keep their footing on a floor that was slimy with vomit.
Woody looked out of the open door. Bonner had lost height while trying to gain speed, and the plane was now at about five hundred feet--too low. There might not be enough time for the parachutes to open fully before the men hit the ground. He hesitated, then beckoned his sergeant forward.
Defoe stood beside him and looked down, then shook his head. He put his mouth to Woody's ear and shouted: "Half our men will break their ankles if we jump at this height. The bazooka carriers will kill themselves."
Woody made a decision.
"Make sure no one jumps!" he yelled at Defoe.
Then he unhooked his static line and went forward, pushing through the double row of standing men, to the flight deck. There were three crew. Yelling at the top of his voice, Woody said: "Climb! Climb!"
Bonner yelled: "Get back there and jump!"
"No one is going to jump at this altitude!" Woody leaned over and pointed at the altimeter, which showed 480 feet. "It's suicide!"
"Get off the flight deck, Lieutenant. That's an order."
Woody was outranked, but he stood his ground. "Not until you gain height."
"We'll be past your target zone if you don't jump now!"
Woody lost his temper. "Climb, you dumb fuck! Climb!"
Bonner looked furious, but Woody did not move. He knew the pilot would not want to return home with a full plane. He would face a military inquiry into what had gone wrong. Bonner had disobeyed too many orders tonight for that. With a curse, he jerked the control lever back. The nose went up immediately, and the aircraft began to gain height and lose speed.
"Satisfied?" Bonner snarled.
"Hell, no." Woody was not going to go aft now and give Bonner the chance to reverse the maneuver. "We jump at a thousand feet."
Bonner went to full throttle. Woody kept his eyes on the altimeter.
When it touched one thousand he went aft. He pushed through his men, reached the door, looked out, gave the men the thumbs-up, and jumped.
His chute opened immediately. He dropped fast through the air while it spread its dome, then his fall was arrested. Seconds later he hit water. He suffered a split second of panic, fearing that the cowardly Bonner had dropped them all in the sea. Then his feet touched solid ground, or at least soft mud, and he understood that he had come down in a flooded field.
The silk of the parachute fell around him. He struggled out of its folds and unfastened his harness.
Standing in two feet of water, he looked around. This was either a water meadow or, more likely, a field that had been flooded by the Germans to impede an invasion force. He saw no one, enemy or friend, and no animals either, but the light was poor.
He checked his watch--it was three forty A.M.--then looked at his compass and oriented himself.
Next he took his M1 carbine out of its case and unfolded the stock. He snapped a fifteen-round magazine into the slot, then worked the slide to chamber a round. Finally he rotated the safety lever into the disengaged position.
He reached into a pocket and took out a small tin object like a child's toy. When pressed, it made a distinctive clicking sound. It had been issued to everyone so that they could recognize each other in the dark without resorting to giveaway English passwords.
When he was ready, he looked around again.
