Colin Forbes - The Leader And The Damned

'A parachute drop is my bet,' said Murray-Smith. 'A major operation. Down we go. Let's just hope they've dug all the rocks out of that airstrip. We'll know soon enough, won't we?'

Jaeger, with Schmidt alongside, equipped with their chutes ready for the drop, sat in the command plane. The flight from Zagreb had been uneventful, the first off-key occurrence being when Colonel Stoerner, the paratroop commander, had been urgently summoned to go and see the pilot.

'We must be bloody near the target,' said Schmidt. 'And I'm sweating…'

'Who isn't?'

The paratroopers sat in two rows, facing each other along the fun length of the aircraft. The drop controller stood by the door now. Jaeger glanced along the rows of faces frozen in rigidity, beads of perspiration on their foreheads. No one was speaking. Jaeger could smell the tension, the raw fear.

The men stared straight ahead. Unnaturally still. The only sound the steady purr of the plane's motors, the creak of a harness. It never got any easier with each drop. With every operation there was a ten per cent ratio of nervous breakdowns. Among those who did survive.

'Funny,' Schmidt whispered, 'our last time was Maleme airfield in Crete. I can't even recall which year that was. I can't think…'

Jaeger looked up as Stoerner came back from the pilot's cabin and grasped his arm. A bullet-headed veteran, he looked odd; he had hardly any eye-lashes. He tugged at Jaeger's arm.

'A word with you. Up front…'

Which meant a crisis had arisen before the operation had even started. Jaeger puzzled over possibilities as he followed the paratrooper down the centre of the aircraft. An hour earlier a small plane had flown towards the target, keeping well clear of the plateau. The pilot had reported back that the Partisans were still in position. So…

He entered the cabin, crouching to ease his parachute through the narrow opening. Stoerner, able – but impetuous – in Jaeger's opinion, closed the door. He pointed ahead with a stubby finger. Jaeger could see the Dakota clearly.

'We're just in time,' Stoerner said throatily. 'Watch that English pilot run for it…'

'He isn't going to,' Jaeger replied. 'He's landing – he's got guts…'

'He's a maniac!' Stoerner stared ahead. 'He hasn't the time…'

'Don't count on it. I'm going back. Send me out of the aircraft first. Then Schmidt and the rest.'

'You want to be brave? Be brave…'

Stoerner made a gesture as much as to say you wish to commit suicide it's OK by me. The gesture was wasted. Jaeger had left the cabin. This time he did not return to his seat. He waved to Schmidt to join him and stood by the drop controller.

The red light was on. Jaeger attached his snap catch to the overhead wire as the door was opened. A blast of chilly air dispersed the sweat-laden atmosphere inside the fuselage within seconds. Schmidt attached his own snap catch.

'Trouble?' he asked, his mouth close to Jaeger's ear.

'The British are taking Lindsay out. At this very moment a Dakota is landing on top of the plateau. It will all hinge on minutes. When we hit the ground shoot up the Dakota – stop it taking off. That's the first priority.'

As he spoke Jaeger double-checked his machine- pistol. Satisfied that it was in working order, he took off the magazine and thrust the weapon, butt first, into the breast of his jacket.

There was a stirring of systematic activity inside the aircraft as men made their way to join the queue.

The usual mix of relief and apprehension on their faces, Jaeger noted. Relief that the waiting period was over. Apprehension as to what was going to greet them on the plateau – if their 'chutes opened. Stoerner had earlier told Jaeger that over half of them had only made one practice drop. Germany was running out of time – and trained men. Jaeger waited for the green light.

'A bee's bum it is,' Squadron-Leader Murray-Smith said cheerfully as the plateau rushed up to meet them.

'God! They were told the minimum length,' Conway gasped.

The landing wheels touched down, bumped, the wingtips hardly wobbled. Murray-Smith slowed the machine at the extreme limits of safety. He pouched his lower lip, a sign of intense concentration as the Dakota swept on towards the northern rim where the plateau fell into eternity.

He had almost stopped when he performed a manoeuvre that almost gave Conway a nervous breakdown. He circled the machine through one hundred and eighty degrees, ending up on the airstrip – facing south, ready for immediate take-off. Against all regulations he did not switch off the engines.

'Open the cargo door,' he snapped at Conway. 'We've got to get this gang of Wogs moving.'

He opened the cabin door and jumped to the ground, an absurdly small figure among the Partisans crowding towards him. He spotted the man limping forward with a stick, the stained and worn RAF jacket, the smashing blonde by his side.

'Lindsay?'

'Yes. I…'

'Which wallah is in charge of this show?'

'Heljec here. Paco can interpret for you…'

'No time for flaming interpreters. They'll understand me. Just watch…'

They won't let me board the plane till they have the guns and ammo…'

'Won't they, by God! We'll see about that…'

He ran to the cargo door where Conway had already lowered several wooden boxes with rope handles into the hands of the waiting Partisans. Flicking open the catches on one box, he threw back the lid, gathered up a random collection of sten guns and thrust them into Heljec's arms. Grabbing hold of Lindsay with one hand he gestured into the aircraft with a stabbing thumb, talking non-stop to Heljec.

'You've got your bloody guns! I've risked my life to bring you this frigging lot! Lindsay goes aboard now! In case you haven't noticed, you've got visitors – not the sort I'd ask to my mess…'

He was miming madly. Pointing to the aircraft. Making more stabbing gestures towards the Luftwaffe armada which was almost on top of the plateau, shouting at Heljec as though he were dressing down some useless mechanic.

It was comic, if the situation hadn't been so desperate. The small man standing up to the six foot two Heljec. And he had been right, he needed no interpreter. Heljec stared at him in amazement, then began distributing the sten guns and magazines.

'Well, get aboard, for Christ's sake!' Murray-Smith told Lindsay. 'Conway, give him a hand – he's got a gammy leg. Expect me to do every flaming thing? As usual…'

The exchange took place very rapidly. The cargo hold was emptied. Lindsay was hauled aboard, Conway helping from above, Hartmann from below. Next the German hoisted Paco aboard and Reader climbed inside by himself.

'What about Hartmann?' Paco snapped.

She reached down and helped him inside. Conway closed the door as Murray-Smith appeared from the direction of the cabin. His manner was abrupt and urgent.

'Come on through here! We've got seats. This isn't one of those Yank Liberators where you roll about like peas out of a pod. Sit down in the bloody seats! Strap yourselves in with the bloody belts! This is going to be a rough take-off – a very rough take-off. Turbulence won't be the word for it…'

'And turbulence isn't the word for you, mate,' Reader said as he sagged into a seat.

He was talking into a void. Murray-Smith was already back in his cabin, seated behind the controls. He peered out at the umbrella-like objects blossoming above in increasing numbers.

'Here they come, Conway. Whole flaming army of them. Time we used our return ticket…'

The Dakota seemed to commence take-off with incredible slowness as Paco watched from her window seat. They were crawling when she saw the first German land, roll over, detach himself from his harness and crouch, aiming his machine-pistol.