was P. H. Harris & Co., a British toy manufacturer who must have been mystified when the Allied high command, at the crucial point of the war, ordered rush production of frivolous baubles—seven thousand of them.
The cricket went
click-clack.
That sound asked “Who's there?” Two
click-clacks
(no more or less) was the answer: “a friend.”
From his French experience Joe didn't have to be told that the cricket could mean life or death. Duber kept saying that on D Night there would be more to fear from Screaming Eagles than from Germans. So the cricket couldn't be buried in some pocket, taking seconds to retrieve. Each trooper punched out a hole allowing it to be laced onto a cord around the neck; then all he had to do was reach for his throat and make the cricket chirp.
AT EXETER EVERY MAN checked over a personal arsenal in light of his D Nighttasks. Viewed officially, Joe's task as a radioman called for him to be armed with a folding-stock carbine— regarded as not much more than a peashooter—so he hadadded a pistol and Thompson submachine gun, both firing .45-caliber slugs. In the 101st that wasn't considered heavily armed at all. Unauthorized weapons proliferated because officers were taking along plenty of extra firepower themselves. Sink's was said to be a sawed-off shotgun.
Besides two half-pound blocks of nitro starch, Joe stuffed grenades in his cargo pockets and taped blasting caps to his ankles and helmet. Bray looked at him skeptically: “Joe, if a bullet hits your pot, don't worry about a headache; you won't have a head.”
More important than his head was Joe's back, to transport the most vital radio, an SCR 300, the principal way for McKnight and Wolverton to communicate. All told, Joe's load, no heavier than most, was hundreds of pounds, so it took two men to raise him up the ladder into his C-47.
Instead of a million-dollar bandolier he'd been given ten dollars' worth of crisp new French money just minted in Washington. Little brass compasses and big English life vests were issued. Troopers were encouraged to shave their heads because it might be a long time till the next haircut. Many did to look more warlike. In the marshaling area everyone was engrossed with skin and helmet camouflage.
Before loading out from Exeter they cased their weapons, some in leg bags; they checked ammo for dents that could cause misfires, broke down K rations, and lined up kit bags containing their chutes. Then it was waiting time—waiting, the synonym for worry—waiting for something, whenever it came. In the next hour, line up chutes and leg bags, then form up by sticks. In the next minutes, assemble at your plane. In the next seconds, gather your thoughts. Waiting time divided quite like the jump commands they knew as well as then-names: Stand up. Hook up. Stand in the door.
Something was stronger than even tension as the clock ticked down on D Night. Currahees felt beyond ready to do what training had exhaustively prepared them for. For eight months they'd been at it in England, a year before that in the States. They had reached the peak, with no further to go be-fore falling on the Wehrmacht, the most feared and infamous force in the world. The whole world would be watching.
The 101st had no combat experience, but that didn't preclude a cocky attitude. They'd be rushing in, but that didn't make them fools. Youth and testosterone were big parts of it, but the biggest part of all was the unwavering will to fight to the death for your buddy, the death of either or both of you because you knew he felt the same way. That feeling was the strongest, but unspoken.
The overarching motivation was that Overlord must not fail. If it did, everything had to start over, with thousands fewer buddies. The Wehrmacht too had its ultimate motivation— that if they couldn't repel the invasion, they didn't have a chance of stopping the Red Army that had pulsed out from Stalingrad like schools of piranha attacking a bleeding
The cricket went
click-clack.
That sound asked “Who's there?” Two
click-clacks
(no more or less) was the answer: “a friend.”
From his French experience Joe didn't have to be told that the cricket could mean life or death. Duber kept saying that on D Night there would be more to fear from Screaming Eagles than from Germans. So the cricket couldn't be buried in some pocket, taking seconds to retrieve. Each trooper punched out a hole allowing it to be laced onto a cord around the neck; then all he had to do was reach for his throat and make the cricket chirp.
AT EXETER EVERY MAN checked over a personal arsenal in light of his D Nighttasks. Viewed officially, Joe's task as a radioman called for him to be armed with a folding-stock carbine— regarded as not much more than a peashooter—so he hadadded a pistol and Thompson submachine gun, both firing .45-caliber slugs. In the 101st that wasn't considered heavily armed at all. Unauthorized weapons proliferated because officers were taking along plenty of extra firepower themselves. Sink's was said to be a sawed-off shotgun.
Besides two half-pound blocks of nitro starch, Joe stuffed grenades in his cargo pockets and taped blasting caps to his ankles and helmet. Bray looked at him skeptically: “Joe, if a bullet hits your pot, don't worry about a headache; you won't have a head.”
More important than his head was Joe's back, to transport the most vital radio, an SCR 300, the principal way for McKnight and Wolverton to communicate. All told, Joe's load, no heavier than most, was hundreds of pounds, so it took two men to raise him up the ladder into his C-47.
Instead of a million-dollar bandolier he'd been given ten dollars' worth of crisp new French money just minted in Washington. Little brass compasses and big English life vests were issued. Troopers were encouraged to shave their heads because it might be a long time till the next haircut. Many did to look more warlike. In the marshaling area everyone was engrossed with skin and helmet camouflage.
Before loading out from Exeter they cased their weapons, some in leg bags; they checked ammo for dents that could cause misfires, broke down K rations, and lined up kit bags containing their chutes. Then it was waiting time—waiting, the synonym for worry—waiting for something, whenever it came. In the next hour, line up chutes and leg bags, then form up by sticks. In the next minutes, assemble at your plane. In the next seconds, gather your thoughts. Waiting time divided quite like the jump commands they knew as well as then-names: Stand up. Hook up. Stand in the door.
Something was stronger than even tension as the clock ticked down on D Night. Currahees felt beyond ready to do what training had exhaustively prepared them for. For eight months they'd been at it in England, a year before that in the States. They had reached the peak, with no further to go be-fore falling on the Wehrmacht, the most feared and infamous force in the world. The whole world would be watching.
The 101st had no combat experience, but that didn't preclude a cocky attitude. They'd be rushing in, but that didn't make them fools. Youth and testosterone were big parts of it, but the biggest part of all was the unwavering will to fight to the death for your buddy, the death of either or both of you because you knew he felt the same way. That feeling was the strongest, but unspoken.
The overarching motivation was that Overlord must not fail. If it did, everything had to start over, with thousands fewer buddies. The Wehrmacht too had its ultimate motivation— that if they couldn't repel the invasion, they didn't have a chance of stopping the Red Army that had pulsed out from Stalingrad like schools of piranha attacking a bleeding
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