WORSE

 

Major Blaine finds an unexpected ally

in Lady Churchill

who proves dangerous

WORSE

“There is no sickness worse for me than words that to be kind must lie.”

- Aeschylus

 

Before the Army and Sentient shanghaied me, I thought Military Science was a true science like astronomy. 

Now, after being in the Army for two years (some of which I even remembered), it seemed more like astrology … but less dependable.

Patton gave me a hangman’s stare. “So, soldier, you obviously believe we have mismanaged the paratroopers, too. How?”

Lucy Churchill walked to his side. “Major. His name is Major Blaine. He lost his hands defending his men and those poor survivors. What have you ever lost in this war besides sleep?”

“Lucy!" cried her husband. "He is a general!”

She harumphed. “A general nuisance if what I overhear at Whitehall is any indication.”

The Prime Minister’s face went from angry bulldog to inflamed catcher’s mitt, and I spoke quickly to spare her an angry retort.

“Madame Churchill, the whole paratrooper affair has been handled with all the foresight of a hastily thrown together boarding school play but with less common sense.”

“I say, Major,” snapped Montgomery.”

“Entirely too much,” snapped back Lucy. “And usually about yourself. Listen to the man before you criticize him.”

She turned gracefully to me. “Yoo were saying, Major Blaine.”

“General Eisenhower wants the invasion to begin June 5^th ….”

The general in question squirmed and Lucy sighed, “Obviously, all here know that date, sir.”

“The weather will not permit that, but he will still launch the paratroopers at midnight, though there will be heavy cloud cover.”

Patton snorted, “We can’t base our plans on your tea leaves reading.”

Sentient took control of my right hand which swirled in an intricate loop. A billowing image of planes flying into a thick cover appeared in front of us.

“The pathfinders will go in first. They will precede the main body of troops by an hour or so. Their mission is to mark the drop zones with automatic direction-finder radios and the useless Eureka sets.”

Bradley started to speak but Lucy shushed him, and I continued, 

“Because of Eisenhower’s orders for radio silence, they will not warn the following paratrooper planes which would have saved them from being scattered to hell and gone.”

I sighed, 

“Those pilots will be afraid. For most of the pilots of Troop Carrier Command, this will be their first combat mission. They have not been trained for night flying, or for flak or bad weather. Their C-47s were designed to carry cargo or passengers … not paratroopers. They are neither armed nor armored. Their gas tanks are neither protected nor self-sealing.”

“Oh, my dear Lord!” hushed Lucy Churchill, whose husband was beginning to look troubled himself.

“It gets worse,” I said.

“Worse?” grumbled the Prime Minister.

I nodded sadly. “The possibility of a midair collision will be on every pilot’s mind. The pilots will be part of a once in a lifetime gigantic air armada:

It will take 432 C-47s to carry the 101st Airborne to Normandy, about the same number for the 82nd. They will be flying in a V-of-Vs formation, stretched out across the sky, 300 miles long.”

Bradley shook his head. “That long?”

“And it gets even worse.”

“Even worse?” Lucy groaned.

“The planes are 100 feet from wingtip to wingtip in their groups of nine, 1,000 feet from one group to another, with no lights except little blue dots on the tail of the plane ahead. That’s a tight formation for night flying in planes that are sixty-five feet long and ninety-five feet from wingtip to wingtip.”

I took a deep breath. “Then, disaster will hit.”

The fingers of Lucy’s slender right hand went to her mouth as I said, 

“When they cross the coastline, they will hit a heavy cloud bank and lose their visibility altogether. The pilots will instinctively separate. Some descending, some rising, all peeling off to the right or left to avoid a midair collision. When they emerge from the clouds, within seconds, they will be hopelessly separated.”

“Words,” scowled Admiral Ramsey. “We of the Admiralty are not scared by mere words.”

“Really?” scoffed Lucy Churchill. “Sentient, do be a dear and put all of us in the center of the action, would you?”

“No!” I shouted …  but too late.

It seemed I was sitting in a plane all cinched up in a parachute as outside the plane’s row of windows, all hell broke loose. Searchlights, tracers, and explosions filled the sky.

My ears were deafened by them.

The plane sped up and rolled in a useless attempt to avoid the flak and bullets. 

But the rolling did make my eyes water and stomach churn.

The generals all through the auditorium must have seen and felt the same thing. They screamed and cried in terror.

I, and they, felt the plane get hit by machine-gun fire, 20mm shells, and the heavier 88mm shells. They saw planes going down to their right and left, above and below them. They saw planes explode.

I smelled charred flesh and burning petrol. The plane's engine screamed and its death wail vibrated the metal beneath my boots.

The generals had no idea where they were.

I did. We were in deep merde.

If any of us got hit by a bullet, would we die?

Would Sentient care?

At least one plane outside the window was hit by an equipment bundle.

 It tore off almost three feet of wing.

Bullets were ripping through the wings and fuselage. They made a sound like corn popping as they passed through … or more like rocks shaken in a tin can.

The generals and colonels screamed like frightened girls.

Our plane got hit by three 88mm shells. The first struck the left wing, taking about three feet off the tip. 

The second hit alongside the door and knocked out the light panel. 

The third came up through the floor in an ear deafening explosion that I felt in my very bones.

It blew a hole about two feet across, hit the ceiling, and exploded, creating a hole four feet around, killing three men and wounding four others.

“Sentient!” screamed Lucy. “Oh, please stop. Stop!”

My ears popped, and my eyes watered.

Suddenly, we were back in St. Paul’s Auditorium. Everybody but Lucy and I were sprawled on the floor. Most were retching and heaving.

The smell of vomit was rank and foul in the air. I felt Lucy tremble in my arms.

The assorted high dignitaries were no longer prim and proper … and more than a little worse for wear.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “the Germans will be waiting for the scattered paratroopers this night. It will be a slaughter … unless you take heed of this warning.”

“Never!” gasped Eisenhower.

Sentient mocked above us. “THEN, ON TO OMAHA BEACH!”