On Wings of Fire Read online

  Ben Mark waited for the light to change and then drove into the parking lot. “Belline and I will check inside,” he said to Min-yo as the three climbed out of the car.

  “Then I look on platform.” Min-yo volunteered.

  Belline matched Ben Mark’s stride as they walked to the double doors of the building.

  Once inside, Belline saw that the hot station was crowded with women, children, and crying babies—not a pleasant place with the odor of sweating bodies, the smell of milk gone sour, and the strong scent of disinfectant drifting over the transom from the restrooms all but overpowering. She turned up her nose. Before the war, few people used the station other than those who lived on the smart north side of the city. Now, to Belline, the station was different—spoiled.

  “Belline, check the restroom,” Ben Mark ordered as he looked up and down each bench.

  “All right,” she said grudgingly. “But I can tell you now that Alpharetta wouldn’t be caught dead in there.”

  Belline reached into her white summer purse and quickly pulled out a handkerchief before she touched the knob on the door to the public restroom. The door closed behind her, and she gingerly surveyed the empty room. Hanging on a wooden peg next to the washbasin was a straw sailor hat with yellow ribbons—exactly like the one—

  Belline stopped, listened to the soft sobs coming from the enclosure. She hastily spun around and fled from the restroom.

  “Well?”

  She stared at Ben Mark. “I think we’re wasting our time,” Belline murmured.

  He nodded. “She’s probably at the main terminal.”

  “How about the bus station?”

  “I hadn’t even thought of looking there,” Ben Mark confessed.

  “If only we knew in which direction she was going. . .” Belline sympathized. On her way to the car, Belline wore a satisfied smile as she deposited her handkerchief into the trash bin attached to the lamp post.

  Later, after dropping Min-yo at the bus station, Ben Mark and Belline traveled toward Spring Street and the downtown rail terminal.

  Many times the size of Brookwood on Peachtree Road, the main terminal had an altogether different ambience. Unlike the smaller station, it had a sense of urgency. At Brookwood, the only military uniform was a mock sailor suit worn by a six-year-old, but here clusters of khaki and sailor-white moved back and forth. Interspersed with civilians, the servicemen walked faster, talked faster, with surreptitious glances toward the clock running out of time for them.

  Ben Mark, also aware of the clock, frantically searched the sea of faces for familiar red hair and endearing green eyes. While he stood and watched the boarding of the passenger trains, a wave of young women rushed past him. They all looked alike—brown-haired, solemn young women, with no distinguishing features to tell one from the other. When the last one had disappeared, a disappointed Ben Mark turned to Belline.

  “She’s not here, either,” he said.

  Two miles north, a tear-stained Alpharetta emerged from Brookwood Station and took her place on the platform. In five minutes, the train arrived; her luggage was hoisted to the baggage compartment, and boarding a passenger car, Alpharetta Beaumont left Atlanta behind.

  Chapter 2

  In the rapidly plunging temperatures of early evening, Lieutenant Daniel “Marsh” Wexford, stepbrother to Belline, shifted the weight of his paratrooper equipment on his back as he stood with his friends, Gig and Laroche, under the wings of one of the C-47’s waiting to take off from the Tunisian airfield.

  The three men had come a long way since their basic training together at Fort Benning, as members of the 82nd Airborne Division. Although Marsh was now an officer, he still felt a special kinship with Gig and Laroche, who were as different from each other as night and day, not only in looks, but in personality, too. Laroche, small, dark, and taciturn, was the perfect foil for the taller, sandy-haired Gig, with his high spirits inclined to get him into trouble as soon as he opened his voluble mouth.

  In silence Marsh glanced down at the slip of paper handed him—to verify the secret destination not divulged by the high command until the actual moment of lift-off.

  Soldiers of the 505th Combat Team:

  Tonight you embark upon a combat mission for which our people and the free people of the world have been waiting for two years.

  You will spearhead the landing of an American force upon the island of Sicily. Every preparation has been made to eliminate the elements of chance. You have been given the means to do the job and you are backed by the largest assemblage of airpower in the world’s history. The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of every American go with you . . .

  James M. Gavin

  Crumpling the paper in his fist, Marsh Wexford looked up as an irreverent whistle escaped between Gig’s teeth. And Laroche said in his soft Louisiana Cajun accent, “You think we’ve fooled the Axis, Lieutenant?”

  Towering over the dark-complexioned Laroche by more than eight inches, the tall blond giant shook his head. “The Germans, maybe. But not the Italians.”

  “Well, they fooled me,” Gig conceded. “I took Sardinia.”

  Marsh laughed. “How much did you lose on the bet?”

  “The price of a camel,” he readily admitted, glancing in the direction of the tents.

  Like desert flowers, the tents had blossomed overnight, stripes of red and green in vertical lines hobbled to the ground by large wooden stakes. The wind now swept over the land bereft of trees, and caused the openings of the tents to flap in rhythmic sequence. Sensing the change from an earlier calm, the camels lowered themselves awkwardly to the ground.

  Soon the tents would be taken down and the Berbers, with their camels, would vanish into the vast expanse beyond the Kasserine Pass, for the long awaited day had finally arrived.

  As the paratroopers began loading, a uniformed corporal from the weather station ran toward the group and stopped before Colonel Gavin, who stood slightly apart from the others.

  With his voice rising above the roar of the engines, the corporal shouted, “Sir, we’ve just received word that the wind is now up to thirty-five miles an hour. I thought you’d want to know.”

  The three paratroopers, overhearing the ominous message, halted in line and stared at the colonel. Most had never jumped when the wind was blowing more than fifteen miles an hour. Yet Marsh knew it was far too late for the invasion to be postponed. The entire Allied war machinery had been set in motion and there was no turning back.

  The colonel, silent for a moment, thanked the corporal and gave the signal to continue loading.

  Marsh, Gig, and Laroche found seats in the rear of the transport, but their brief camaraderie and humor had suddenly changed to sober realization. By the time the moon reached its zenith, they would be thrust downward into the steel-jawed mouth of the enemy. And to make matters worse, they were flying to meet their fate on wings of the dreaded sirocco, the hot, dust-laden wind that swept over the portion of the Mediterranean like a devil unleashed from the dungeons of Hell.

  Seated in the rear of the C-47 with Gig and Laroche on either side of him, Marsh could feel the buffeting of the high winds against the plane. It would be difficult to maintain course in such a gale and practically impossible to parachute to a designated spot. Marsh should know.

  He shifted his body uneasily and thought of another day of high winds, when he had landed five miles off course in the swampy terrain of the Chattahoochee River bottoms near Fort Benning. He had not only acquired blisters from his walk back to camp that afternoon, but had also received the nickname that had stuck to him like the thick, sucking mud to his boots.

  For the past hour, the paratroopers had watched for the red light over the door. And now Laroche, putting into words the question on every paratrooper’s mind, joked, “You think the pilot will find the island, Lieutenant?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Hey, maybe we’re going to Sardinia. Maybe I haven’t lost my bet after all,” Gi
g remarked over the steady loud drone of the plane.

  Just then, antiaircraft fire sounded in the distance. Navy guns flashed red from the flotilla of ships making its way toward the island that for centuries had been labeled the stepping-stone between Africa and Europe. Tonight, if everything went according to schedule, Axis-held Sicily would be the rock that stubbed the military toe of the great boot of Italy.

  As the sky turned red, the alert light inside the C-47 also turned red. Soon it would be time to bail out, to engage the enemy waiting below. The men stood up and attached themselves to the line.

  The green light came on; the cargo door opened and Gig responded immediately. But then he stopped, causing Laroche directly behind him to lose his balance, as the rhythm of the jump was interrupted.

  The commanding officer, seeing the balk, ordered in a harsh voice, “Jump!”

  “Sir, we’re still over the ocean,” Gig shouted, as he gripped the umbilical cord that still attached him to the plane.

  The officer swore; the cargo door closed as the copilot realized his mistake. The men sat down again while the light went out.

  Ten minutes later, when the light came on again, there was no mistake. They were over the rugged terrain where the fighting had already begun.

  In smooth formation the paratroopers left the plane. Gig first, Laroche next—and then Marsh Wexford, followed by the others.

  Like great white blossoms unfolding in midnight-blue fields, the paratroopers of the 82nd Airborne filled the sky. To Marsh, the jump began in the same manner as all the others—the initial surprise, like touching an icy patch and having his feet slip out from under him. Then a rapid descent. But along with the sameness was a new feeling—of fear, that he would be out of the fighting before it actually started.

  This was the moment he had inwardly dreaded—the suspension of time that held him pinned in the blinding glare of the klieg lights, that moment of impotence when his rifle was of no use, when he had to trust to lady luck and God, not to become a casualty before he ever hit the ground. For this was no practice jump. There would be no truck waiting below to take him and his buddies back to camp—only the enemy waited, with live weapons in hand, to prune the fragile blossoms of silk before they had a chance to take root on the rocky hillsides.

  Whipped by the wind, another parachute came perilously close to colliding with his own. A burst of shells exploded a few feet from Marsh. He plunged rapidly, past the other paratrooper whose suit was now covered in blood, his ammunition kit still attached to his left leg. The sudden descent caused Marsh to look to his own parachute. Through the fretwork of holes he could see the sliver of moon above. He pulled the rip cord of his auxiliary chute and once again Marsh was jerked upward. The sky now contained a blossom of a different color—gray silk amid the field of white.

  He continued to plunge, driven by the wind, until the uneven landscape came up to meet him. Thrown at an angle, he managed to hit ground, knees bent, head and arms in fetal position, the jolt of his descent absorbed by every bone in his body, like a jump from a runaway merry-go-round with the calliope going full blast in his head.

  He had no time to recover from the jolt. Marsh rolled toward the protection of rocks a few feet away. Within seconds, he had retrieved his weapons kit and divested himself of both parachutes. Marsh Wexford smiled. He had survived the first test, but the second would begin all too soon. With his carbine rifle in his hand, he started along the road toward the sound of battle.

  Pierre Laroche, landing on the other side of the stone wall, was not so fortunate as Marsh. Despite protection by his strong combat boots, Laroche’s right ankle had taken the brunt of the fall. “Hell,” he muttered, and then caught himself. He had to be careful not to make any unnecessary noise. Quickly, he cut himself loose from the parachute’s harness and reached for his rifle. But he knew that his oath and his noisy movements had already called attention to him.

  Marsh, hearing the commotion on the other side of the wall, dove for cover, leaping from the road into the grapevines beyond. There he waited with his finger hugging the trigger, ready to fire.

  At the witching hour, with the moon overhead, the roar of great guns in the distance, the two paratroopers began to stalk each other, not able to tell friend from foe. Finally, Marsh, taking a chance, called out, “George.”

  Laroche, recognizing the code, felt a great relief. “Marshall,” he responded, and limped toward the road to meet Marsh Wexford.

  Soon there were nine of them, all certain of merely one thing. They had not landed at Gela, their destination. With no idea how many miles away and with their only compass the sounds of the intermittent guns to the west, they trudged—one limping from a bad sprain, another with a superficial arm wound, and yet another with a phosphorus burn to his cheek.

  Along a sixty-mile stretch of land, paratroopers fell from the sky, some so far off course that they landed on the opposite side of the island, in front of the British army. Even then, they were luckier than their British counterparts. One out of every three gliders carrying the British paratroopers plunged into the sea.

  And so, with one hand, the wind brought tragedy, while it also gave cover to the sitting-duck convoy of ships, LSTs and LCVPs on their way to unload the Allied armies on the rocky shores of the island. Certain that no enemy would be about in such weather, the Axis felt safe enough to ground their observation planes until the gale lifted.

  Yet, the island was not unprotected. Its strong defense was made up of airfields—more than thirty of them—and strong, concrete pillboxes several stories high, linked together in concert over the rugged land.

  Marsh and the others with him stopped to examine their small cache of weapons—four carbines that had already jammed with sand grains; three M-1s; a bazooka; assorted grenades; knives and pistols—none alone capable of demolishing either the dreaded German Tiger tanks, with their 88mm guns, or the stoutly built pillboxes of the Italians.

  Cautious of the tall towers of death that loomed in the darkness, Marsh and the men had gone less than a mile when they attempted to pass a pillbox overseeing an intersection on the main road on which they traveled.

  A rapid fire from the pillbox suddenly pinned them to the ground. They exchanged fire with the soldiers inside, but their weapons were no match for the enemy’s.

  Marsh, crawling past Laroche, said, “Cover me, corporal.” He began to edge toward the side of the pillbox. Laroche had no time to see what Marsh planned to do. He emptied his clip, firing straight ahead to keep the Italians busy returning his fire. Marsh suddenly stood, hurled a grenade through a side slit of the pillbox, and fled. In seconds, the concrete walls exploded and crumbled to dust.

  Into the night the paratroopers went, cutting lines of communication, answering small-arms fire with their own; hurrying, yet chafing at their slow progress toward the beach. Laroche said nothing, but Marsh knew the walking was painful for him.

  As they stopped for a brief respite, in an olive grove by the roadside, Marsh whispered, “How’s your ankle, Laroche?”

  “Damned sore,” he responded. Yet when the rest was over, Laroche was the first to begin walking again.

  As they marched toward Gela, Marsh hoped the majority of the troopers had landed close enough to the combat zone to keep the Axis on the high ground busy while the amphibious landing of American troops, tanks, and heavy guns took place.

  Marsh looked at the luminous dial on his watch. It was now 02:45, and the moon had almost disappeared. He waited for the shelling to begin in earnest, but the only sound he heard in the night was a Sicilian coming down the road on his donkey.

  The nine took cover and waited. The Sicilian, with a blanket draped over his stooped shoulders, hummed a song in his ancient, cracked voice, to the steady clop of the donkey’s hooves. He seemed completely oblivious to the invasion in progress.

  “Do you speak Italian, Giraldo?” Marsh whispered to the paratrooper at his right.

  “Just a few words.”


  “Then ask the old man the way to Gela. And requisition his donkey for Laroche.”

  Giraldo nodded and removed the knife from his boot. He waited until the donkey had almost passed, then rushed to the road. “Scusi, signore. Dovè. . .”

  Giraldo stopped. He was staring at the barrel of an M-1 rifle pointed between his eyes. The old man sat erect, with no evidence of a curved spine. He took his time, examining the uniform of the man who had stopped him. Finally, he spoke in English. One word. “George.”

  With an embarrassed laugh Giraldo responded, “Marshall.”

  “Glad to see you,” the man on the donkey said, grinning and lowering his rifle. As Marsh and Laroche watched the shadows, the blanket fell to the ground, revealing the uniform of the 82nd Airborne.

  “Gig,” Laroche called out, recognizing his friend. “Durned if it isn’t Gig.”

  The paratroopers, who had been hidden at the side of the road, emerged, and a happy Gig Madison joined Marsh and Laroche.

  Chapter 3

  In a villa high in the hills halfway between Viscari and Gela, an SS officer, Heinrich von Freiker of the Siegfried Panzer Division, swore at the news. The enemy had landed on both sides of the island.

  While his aide waited discreetly outside the door, Heinrich sat up on the side of the bed and tried to assemble his thoughts.

  It was not surprising that the British had chosen to land at the ports of Siracusa and Augusta on the southeastern tip. But for an amphibious force to try to land on the rugged west coast in high seas, with no adequate port, was a foolhardy venture. Yet the Americans had done it. And his orders now were to get his Tiger tanks to the ridge overlooking Gela as quickly as possible.

  That meant he would have to backtrack in the vulnerable staff car to the Kampfgruppe where his men were billeted, with the danger of meeting enemy paratroopers on the way.

  He looked toward Paulina, with her tousled black hair spread over the white pillowcase. Suddenly he reached over and gave her a smack on her backside. “Wake up, Paulina,” he said in Italian, the soft sibilant sounds marred by his gruff, guttural accent.