Dark Full of Enemies(14)

“That Aussie you decked? I explained to the Colonel. Don’t worry—you’re not bound for the brig when you get back. Nothing to fret about.”

“Well, I might just fret a little.”

The Major looked at him and finally nodded. “I’m sorry about the briefing.”

“Commander Bagwell?”

“Yes, we hadn’t expected that. Thing is, he and some other limeys dreamt this thing up. He insisted we have him at the briefing this time.”

“This time?”

The Major looked away. “If anyone can get this done, it’s you.”

McKay felt embarrassed, looked at the floor. He had never grown accustomed to praise—even a little felt fulsome. And the Major had sidestepped his question.

“Sir, what’s going on here? Really.”

The Major answered absently, like a child reciting his lessons. “You’re making trouble for the Krauts in an out of the way place. If you can deprive them of electricity in that area, all the better. Whatever draws troops away from western Europe and keeps them away for a while.”

The answer did not satisfy McKay, but he saw that he would get no further if he continued to question him. He said, “All right.”

The Major looked at him, and then away again.

It was nearly time. The men gathered their gear, slung on packs and webbed belts and looped the straps of duffel bags over their shoulders. McKay led them from the hangar onto the tarmac under the surrounding night. Dawn at this time of winter would not come for another two hours. Somewhere overhead a flight of British bombers droned back from Germany. McKay and his team waited in the stinging wind and snow and, five minutes before 0600, the plane arrived.

The C-47 landed and chugged up out of the night onto the tarmac, gunned its engines once, and pivoted back toward the darkness. Heyward and Barnes ran forward and opened the fuselage door. McKay and his team moved forward.

He helped Stallings up into the plane and stood aside. Graves, draped with bags and gear, hauled himself aboard easily and Ollila climbed in after him. McKay turned to follow when the Major stopped him.

They stood in the prop blast, the Major with his cover clapped to his head with one hand. He held out the other. McKay looked at it, at the Major’s face, and shook. The Major slapped him on the shoulder.

“Bust hell out of that dam, Joe,” he said. He nodded, as if affirming some truth only he had heard, and said, “Don’t let anything stop you. Good luck.”

He walked away.

McKay climbed in. He set his gear on the floor and sat on one of the benches running the length of the fuselage. A crewman shut the door behind him and walked back up to the cockpit. The plane trembled and vibrated as the pilots taxied into position for takeoff. The engines revved and strained and the plane bumped a few times on the grassy field before lifting off and settling into a smooth climb. Graves, Ollila, and Stallings all lit cigarettes and started talking. Graves offered one to McKay, who declined. He smoked to alleviate tension, and he had flown in cargo planes before.

McKay still had his copy of Thucydides in his coat pocket, but the bay of the plane was lightless—there would be no reading. He held the book in his hands and ran his thumbs over the pilled and threadbare cover. He thought about the Major. He had praised and encouraged him, slapped him on the shoulder, wished him luck. But he had looked at McKay as though he would never see him again.

McKay shut his eyes and rested his hands on his book. Something was wrong, he knew. He would think about it later.

A moment later, he sat up and took out his cigarettes and his lighter.





3





The plane had flown quietly for ten minutes when the crewman smelled the cigarette smoke. He came aft from the cockpit and chewed Stallings, Graves, and Ollila out. He did not turn toward McKay, the ranking officer, but McKay felt himself included in the blistering harangue. They could have the cabin light on, the crewman said, or they could smoke, but they would have to open the cargo door and there was no damn way they were opening the cargo door. The three men ground out their smokes and the crewman returned to the cockpit, where he switched on the dim yellow light. McKay ground out his cigarette but did not otherwise stir.

He forced his worries from his mind, concentrated on the details, the logistics. The flight would take a little over four hours, and he planned to spend all of it sleeping. Despite the team’s chatter—Stallings was already indulging Graves and Ollila in stories—the dull light, and the thought of the dam, he dropped off and slept.

Sometime later, his grip on Thucydides loosened and the book slid off his lap. He jerked and blinked.

“Have a good nap?” Stallings said.

“How long have I been out?”

Stallings shrugged. “About fifteen minutes.”

McKay swore and closed his eyes. He had begun having trouble sleeping in college, despite his exhaustion from drill, classes, baseball practice, and work. Among the reasons he had joined the Marine Corps during graduate school was the faint and desperate hope that real fatigue would give him a good night’s rest, every night. Despite the early days of OCS, when his terror of the drill instructors kept him awake despite twenty hours of drill and training, it had worked out. He had graduated, been commissioned second lieutenant, and trained for infantry. He was waiting for an assignment when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.