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“Women’s hosiery?” John Craig said.
“Even better than gold. Especially if you’re interested in getting laid.”
John Craig looked as if he might blush.
Canidy then went to the cases of Haig & Haig and pulled out two bottles.
He carried them over to the musette bag.
“Wrap these bottles in those towels of yours—and anything else that will protect them—and put them in this bag. Do not pack them in a suitcase. As much as I’d hate to have a bottle break when we jump, I’d hate even more for the scotch to ruin the radios.”
“Got it,” John Craig said, and noted that on his list.
Canidy pointed to a stack of wooden crates.
“That’s C-2 plastic explosive,” he said, then added mock-seriously: “Unlike your boxer shorts—which may well be explosive—you can never have enough C-2. That’s taught in my throat-cutting and sabotage school; I’m deeply disappointed that you failed to absorb such a critical point.”
John Craig avoided eye contact as he wrote “C-2” on his list.
Canidy said: “Grab two crates, plus primers and det cord.”
John Craig noted that.
Canidy then put his hands on his hips and surveyed his work.
“All right. That and a few other items I have should be all we need.”
Starting with Q-pills for all. . . .
* * *
Canidy turned away from the gear at the bulkhead and glanced around the darkened C-47 interior.
Now, where the hell is John Craig?
He started aft, careful of any other obstacles as he went. Halfway down, he began to make out the vague shape of the Browning machine gun by the trooper door—and then the human form behind it.
What is he doing?
As Canidy reached the rear of the aircraft and inhaled, there was no question what John Craig van der Ploeg was doing.
Oh, Christ! he thought, getting an even stronger whiff of the vomitus that almost triggered a sympathetic gag. That’s what. He’s airsick!
The closer Canidy stepped to van der Ploeg, the stronger the foul acrid odor became.
And the stupid bastard is sitting in the worst place.
Please don’t tell me he tried to hurl out the door.
Canidy got a better look at him, and around him. John Craig was sitting next to a dozen olive drab ammo cans stenciled with 200 CARTRIDGES .30 CALIBER M-1919 in yellow. He was leaning against the aft bulkhead, his eyes closed and his head drooped toward the open door. The recent contents of his stomach were widespread.
He did try to hurl out the door—and the slipstream fed it right back to him.
“Hey!” Canidy said over the roar. “You okay?”
John Craig’s eyes cracked open.
“I’ve been better.”
