CTC2

BEVERLY

VARNADO

Coming to Curahee

Prologue

Somewhere over the English Channel, June 6, 1944

The familiar roar of the C47 engines reverberated in Silas Braham’s head. What time was it anyway? He examined his watch. Only a few minutes had passed since he last checked.

He closed his eyes and began to drift. Shaking his head, he tried to think of something to keep himself alert. Once more, he mentally reviewed the jump procedure, but he felt like he could do this jump in his sleep, having practiced it so many times.

“Hey, Silas.” Reed punched him on the shoulder. “You gettin’ sleepy?”

“Yeah, must be those motion sickness pills we took.”

“That’s what I was thinkin’. You know this ain’t no practice. This is the real thing, buddy.”

“The real thing.” He rubbed his hands nervously on his legs.

He and Reed as well as the rest of the men in the seats around him had started training together back at Currahee. At the time they all hated the relentless exercises which included three mile runs up the mountain. Now he was thankful for it. However, in spite of the confidence that comes with the best training, he found himself wrestling with icy fear. Before them were variables for which no amount of training could really prepare them. The eighteen year olds in the company didn’t understand this. He was just a few years older than men like Reed, but he’d already outlived his feelings of indestructibility.

“Are you scared?” Reed asked with a grin and punched him in the shoulder again.

Silas debated on whether to admit it. “Yeah, I’m scared. Are you?”

Reed shrugged.

Silas remembered General Eisenhower’s words to them just before they left. “Full victory--nothing else.” Full victory. So much rested on the success of this mission. There could be no turning back.

He checked the security of his gear and felt the uncomfortable drag of the packs on his legs. He wasn’t used to jumping with so much gear--cargo almost equivalent to his body weight. He patted his left breast pocket, and felt the rectangular outline inside. Yes, it was still there-- her picture.

“Oh, excusez moi, monsieur,” she’d said on that first day when she bumped into him at the village market.

“Excuse me ma’am,” he’d responded delighted over a collision with someone so beautiful. He scrambled to the floor to help her pick up the market items that spilled out of her basket.

“I’m so, how do you say--clumsy. I was not watching where I was going,” she said in very good English but with a lovely French accent.

“It sounds like you might be from France, ma’am.” He dropped several potatoes in her basket, helped her to her feet and asked, “How long have you lived in England?”

She looked up at him. “Ma mere et mon pere sent me here to live with ma tante several years ago. Ma tante is married to an Englishman. My parents were afraid France would be occupied by German forces, and of course she was. I have not heard from them in a very long time.”