helmet scraping down along its surrounding rock wall. The helmetâs metal shell may have saved his life, and it certainly spared him from a traumatic blow to his skull, but the collision had been noisy, and that wasnât a good thing.
Tumbling to the ground with a grunt, the wind knocked out of him, heâd lain flat on his back in the darkness for several seconds. A signal-light man, Jones was so weighted down with equipment he could hardly move, no less get his Holophanes and other gear out from under his harness.
Confused, he looked around and saw a rustic stone building just yards away. A light was on inside it, leaching across the court from the narrow space under the door.
Jonesâs brow filmed with sweat. He remembered the sandbox models showing German barracks at the northern end of the drop zoneâold country farmhouses theyâd confiscated for the use of their troops. It seemed likely heâd fallen outside one of them.
He quickly pulled himself together. If the structure was in fact a barracks, it would be patrolled by sentries, and the loud clanking of his helmet against the stone wall could have easily alerted them to his presence. But he couldnât yield to panic. He would need all his wits about him to avoid enemy soldiers and had only a short while to set up his lights for the paratroopers of the 502nd.
Pushing up to a sitting position, Jones fumbled around under his chest packs until he was able to work open the harness. Then he extricated his carbine and signal lights and rose to his feet. He could only guess at his location, and had no idea where his teammates might be. Somehow, heâd have to gain his bearings and then go find them.
Jones scurried off, hugging the wall, relying on his wrist compass to help him move back along his jump stickâs line of dispersal. He searched for an opening, a gate, some way out of the yard. When he couldnât find one, he planted his hands on the wall and boosted himself over the top.
The weight of his packs made him take another stumbling misstep as he came down on the opposite side. Then the night upended and he was once again sprawled on the ground.
When Jones got up, he was surrounded by tombstones. Like the farmhouse from which heâd fled, the cemetery was ages old. Partly surrounded by hedgerows, its burial plots were covered with moss, their cracked, leaning markers bleached chalk-white from exposure to the elements.
Peering across the uneven rows of graves, he saw the outlines of three men near a bordering hedge and froze.
Tensely alert, he stood near the wall in silence as they came closer.
13.
Landing in the same enclosed courtyard as Jones, Frank Rocca had also seen the light under the stone buildingâs front door and guessed that its occupants might be wide awake. But for him there was no mistaking the structure for a farmhouse or German military barracks. As heâd done on the firing range, quickly knocking out human-shaped targets from every angle like he had two sets of eyes, the blocky little private made a snap assessment of his surroundings. In the midst of his descent, heâd seen a high church steeple beyond the wall of the courtyard, a cemetery outside another part of the wall, and determined that the house with the light shining from it was the parsonage.
After he touched down, Rocca had gotten out of his chute rig without a hitch, gathered up his equipment, and leapfrogged over the wall into the adjoining cemetery. There were a lot of places that would have been outwardly more dangerous than a church caretakerâs front yard, but he knew the Germans had occupied many local homes, and wasnât eager to alert anyone to his presence.
Although he and Rocca did not encounter each other in the courtyardâJones may well have left it before Rocca crashed to the groundâthe Pathfinders both headed off in the same general direction, seeking to retrace Lieutenant Crouchâs flight path
Tumbling to the ground with a grunt, the wind knocked out of him, heâd lain flat on his back in the darkness for several seconds. A signal-light man, Jones was so weighted down with equipment he could hardly move, no less get his Holophanes and other gear out from under his harness.
Confused, he looked around and saw a rustic stone building just yards away. A light was on inside it, leaching across the court from the narrow space under the door.
Jonesâs brow filmed with sweat. He remembered the sandbox models showing German barracks at the northern end of the drop zoneâold country farmhouses theyâd confiscated for the use of their troops. It seemed likely heâd fallen outside one of them.
He quickly pulled himself together. If the structure was in fact a barracks, it would be patrolled by sentries, and the loud clanking of his helmet against the stone wall could have easily alerted them to his presence. But he couldnât yield to panic. He would need all his wits about him to avoid enemy soldiers and had only a short while to set up his lights for the paratroopers of the 502nd.
Pushing up to a sitting position, Jones fumbled around under his chest packs until he was able to work open the harness. Then he extricated his carbine and signal lights and rose to his feet. He could only guess at his location, and had no idea where his teammates might be. Somehow, heâd have to gain his bearings and then go find them.
Jones scurried off, hugging the wall, relying on his wrist compass to help him move back along his jump stickâs line of dispersal. He searched for an opening, a gate, some way out of the yard. When he couldnât find one, he planted his hands on the wall and boosted himself over the top.
The weight of his packs made him take another stumbling misstep as he came down on the opposite side. Then the night upended and he was once again sprawled on the ground.
When Jones got up, he was surrounded by tombstones. Like the farmhouse from which heâd fled, the cemetery was ages old. Partly surrounded by hedgerows, its burial plots were covered with moss, their cracked, leaning markers bleached chalk-white from exposure to the elements.
Peering across the uneven rows of graves, he saw the outlines of three men near a bordering hedge and froze.
Tensely alert, he stood near the wall in silence as they came closer.
13.
Landing in the same enclosed courtyard as Jones, Frank Rocca had also seen the light under the stone buildingâs front door and guessed that its occupants might be wide awake. But for him there was no mistaking the structure for a farmhouse or German military barracks. As heâd done on the firing range, quickly knocking out human-shaped targets from every angle like he had two sets of eyes, the blocky little private made a snap assessment of his surroundings. In the midst of his descent, heâd seen a high church steeple beyond the wall of the courtyard, a cemetery outside another part of the wall, and determined that the house with the light shining from it was the parsonage.
After he touched down, Rocca had gotten out of his chute rig without a hitch, gathered up his equipment, and leapfrogged over the wall into the adjoining cemetery. There were a lot of places that would have been outwardly more dangerous than a church caretakerâs front yard, but he knew the Germans had occupied many local homes, and wasnât eager to alert anyone to his presence.
Although he and Rocca did not encounter each other in the courtyardâJones may well have left it before Rocca crashed to the groundâthe Pathfinders both headed off in the same general direction, seeking to retrace Lieutenant Crouchâs flight path
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