Post by 2nd Lt. John P. McCreary on May 30, 2011 14:16:19 GMT
September 17th, 1944
1835 hours
Holland, just north of Son
John jumped out of the plane and drifted down towards the ground. He felt the enormous jerk of his parachute opening up, and peered down at the ground. It was an open field, nice and flat—nothing like Normandy with its endless rows of hedgerows and trees. He’d seen many paratroopers unfortunate enough to get caught in a tree and bayoneted by the Germans. He’d seen even worse things done to his comrades and it made him angry. Every time a man was killed he was more determined to kill Germans and complete his objective. It was what fueled him, what kept him going. It gave him strength.
He landed perfectly and rolled onto the soft grass. He hurriedly detached his chute and pulled off his life preserver, exposing the new OD field uniform he and the other men had been issued for this mission. Code-named Operation Market Garden, the objective of the 101st was seize the bridge over the Wilhelmina Canal at Son, Holland. On the way they were to clear out any resistance from Son to Eindhoven to make way for the British troops who were headed toward Arnhem. If this plan worked, then the war might be over by Christmas.
And then he’d be home. Home. At some points he’d thought he may never see home again—he very well might not. Despite the confidence of his superiors, he knew this wouldn’t be a walk in the park and he’d told his men that. They’d all do their jobs but he didn’t want any of them to get reckless. They were still at war, the Germans still had a chance of winning, and they should not underestimate them. They were a fierce fighting force to be reckoned with, but he did have faith in his men. Airborne all the way. The Screaming Eagles were also a force to be reckoned with, and he was convinced that they’d teach the Krauts a thing or two.
John gathered up his equipment and jogged to the edge of the field to avoid the equipment dropping from the air as well as the gliders. “Come on, move it, let’s go. Let’s go!” he yelled over at the men of his platoon who had just landed. They quickly checked their gear and sprinted over to the lieutenant. “Everybody here?”
Sergeant Walter Grimes, his platoon sergeant, nodded. “Yes, sir. Here comes Lieutenant Travers right now.” he answered, pointing to the sky.
His XO, Henry Travers, was one of his closest friends in the unit. Travers was from Texas and had been studying law in college before the war broke out. He was a baseball fan and was on the regimental football team that he coached. He was one of their most valuable players, a running back, just as John had been in his freshman year of high school.
Travers made his way over to the rest of the group and asked, “How far are we from the DZ?”
“Right on the mark.” John confirmed, taking his map from his pocket. “We’re about nine miles from Eindhoven. Son should be just up ahead. Alright, 1st platoon! Square away your gear and move out.” They trudged down the road, their eyes darting this way and that in order to spot enemy resistance. All was quiet, which made John a bit uneasy. Perhaps it was that the Jerries didn’t know they were here? In Normandy they’d known, or else his plane wouldn’t have almost been shot down from flak. The jump was smoother here, and there was no one there to meet them when they landed. Maybe everything was going according to plan. He stayed wary however, since the Germans had a dirty habit of popping up out of nowhere.
He halted the column at the edge of the town, unsure whether or not the townspeople were harboring Germans, as some of the French had done. “Proceed carefully, don’t break formation until my command, got it? Let’s move.” He waved them forward and kept walking, turning up his collar to hide his gold 2nd lieutenant bar. Travers did the same. He didn’t want the bars to be spotted by the Germans, they’d be too march of a target.
As he entered the town his ears were filled with screams in Dutch. “Welkom, bevrijders!” they shouted jubilantly, waving their little orange flags. A priest walked up to his men and started handing out cigarettes. He grinned at John and pressed a few of them in his hands. “Dank je, Amerikaan! Dank je wel!” John smiled back and nodded. “Bedankt voor de sigaretten.” He raised one to his mouth when a hand tore it away from him and planted a kiss on his lips. His eyes blinked in confusion as he looked down at the blonde in front of him. She blew him a kiss before walking away.
He felt Travers’ hand resting on his shoulder, and Travers let out a low whistle. “You gonna go after her, chief?”
John raised an eyebrow. “Are you nuts? We’ve got a job to do.” Just then Travers was kissed by a brunette. He rolled his eyes and Travers let out a sigh. “Gotta love the Dutch. Say if you don’t want her can I have her?”
“Come on, Romeo, let’s go. Keep moving!” He shouted over the noisy din, but he was assaulted by another wave of Dutch girls. This is going to be a very long day…
___________
Welkom, bevrijders!—Welcome, liberators!”
Dank je, Amerikaan! Dank je wel!—Thank you, American! Thank you!
Bedankt voor de sigaretten.—Thanks for the cigarettes.
1835 hours
Holland, just north of Son
John jumped out of the plane and drifted down towards the ground. He felt the enormous jerk of his parachute opening up, and peered down at the ground. It was an open field, nice and flat—nothing like Normandy with its endless rows of hedgerows and trees. He’d seen many paratroopers unfortunate enough to get caught in a tree and bayoneted by the Germans. He’d seen even worse things done to his comrades and it made him angry. Every time a man was killed he was more determined to kill Germans and complete his objective. It was what fueled him, what kept him going. It gave him strength.
He landed perfectly and rolled onto the soft grass. He hurriedly detached his chute and pulled off his life preserver, exposing the new OD field uniform he and the other men had been issued for this mission. Code-named Operation Market Garden, the objective of the 101st was seize the bridge over the Wilhelmina Canal at Son, Holland. On the way they were to clear out any resistance from Son to Eindhoven to make way for the British troops who were headed toward Arnhem. If this plan worked, then the war might be over by Christmas.
And then he’d be home. Home. At some points he’d thought he may never see home again—he very well might not. Despite the confidence of his superiors, he knew this wouldn’t be a walk in the park and he’d told his men that. They’d all do their jobs but he didn’t want any of them to get reckless. They were still at war, the Germans still had a chance of winning, and they should not underestimate them. They were a fierce fighting force to be reckoned with, but he did have faith in his men. Airborne all the way. The Screaming Eagles were also a force to be reckoned with, and he was convinced that they’d teach the Krauts a thing or two.
John gathered up his equipment and jogged to the edge of the field to avoid the equipment dropping from the air as well as the gliders. “Come on, move it, let’s go. Let’s go!” he yelled over at the men of his platoon who had just landed. They quickly checked their gear and sprinted over to the lieutenant. “Everybody here?”
Sergeant Walter Grimes, his platoon sergeant, nodded. “Yes, sir. Here comes Lieutenant Travers right now.” he answered, pointing to the sky.
His XO, Henry Travers, was one of his closest friends in the unit. Travers was from Texas and had been studying law in college before the war broke out. He was a baseball fan and was on the regimental football team that he coached. He was one of their most valuable players, a running back, just as John had been in his freshman year of high school.
Travers made his way over to the rest of the group and asked, “How far are we from the DZ?”
“Right on the mark.” John confirmed, taking his map from his pocket. “We’re about nine miles from Eindhoven. Son should be just up ahead. Alright, 1st platoon! Square away your gear and move out.” They trudged down the road, their eyes darting this way and that in order to spot enemy resistance. All was quiet, which made John a bit uneasy. Perhaps it was that the Jerries didn’t know they were here? In Normandy they’d known, or else his plane wouldn’t have almost been shot down from flak. The jump was smoother here, and there was no one there to meet them when they landed. Maybe everything was going according to plan. He stayed wary however, since the Germans had a dirty habit of popping up out of nowhere.
He halted the column at the edge of the town, unsure whether or not the townspeople were harboring Germans, as some of the French had done. “Proceed carefully, don’t break formation until my command, got it? Let’s move.” He waved them forward and kept walking, turning up his collar to hide his gold 2nd lieutenant bar. Travers did the same. He didn’t want the bars to be spotted by the Germans, they’d be too march of a target.
As he entered the town his ears were filled with screams in Dutch. “Welkom, bevrijders!” they shouted jubilantly, waving their little orange flags. A priest walked up to his men and started handing out cigarettes. He grinned at John and pressed a few of them in his hands. “Dank je, Amerikaan! Dank je wel!” John smiled back and nodded. “Bedankt voor de sigaretten.” He raised one to his mouth when a hand tore it away from him and planted a kiss on his lips. His eyes blinked in confusion as he looked down at the blonde in front of him. She blew him a kiss before walking away.
He felt Travers’ hand resting on his shoulder, and Travers let out a low whistle. “You gonna go after her, chief?”
John raised an eyebrow. “Are you nuts? We’ve got a job to do.” Just then Travers was kissed by a brunette. He rolled his eyes and Travers let out a sigh. “Gotta love the Dutch. Say if you don’t want her can I have her?”
“Come on, Romeo, let’s go. Keep moving!” He shouted over the noisy din, but he was assaulted by another wave of Dutch girls. This is going to be a very long day…
___________
Welkom, bevrijders!—Welcome, liberators!”
Dank je, Amerikaan! Dank je wel!—Thank you, American! Thank you!
Bedankt voor de sigaretten.—Thanks for the cigarettes.
