The Parachutist By Camilla10.pdf

The Parachutist By Camilla10

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5732101/1/

Chapter 1 Operation Avalanche

The German soldier emits just a low gurgle when Caputo slits his throat. The

other German, the one I felled with my useless carbine's butt, is still breathing,

however. Caputo gives me a very hard stare, then proceeds to do what I am

obviously reluctant to do myself and dispatches him. I try not to wince and help

my comrade to bury the bodies under a pile of rubble inside the bombed house.

So far, so good. We climb to the second floor, from where we can see if

somebody is coming, and prepare for a long wait. He passes the canteen to me

and we both drink. It is hot and nightfall is still very far away. Obviously, Joe

Caputo believes I am a pansy, and I wonder what he would think if he knew that

I play the piano too. At least I used to. He is from Trenton, New Jersey, a place

where real men, and particularly the ones of Italian descent, surely don't play the

piano. They might own a car repair shop, like Joe's parents, or pursue other

manly professions. However, he has decided that he will be my protector till we

get back to the lines. If we do get back to the lines, that is. We have lost contact

with the rest of our platoon, and we fear that many are now dead or captured.

I wonderwhat my problem is. At the beginning of Operation Avalanche a few days

ago, when we were parachuted over Avellino, I went about my pathfinder job

quite coolly, ignoring the fact that after a while our small group, the first to be

dropped, was discovered and fired upon.

This is my first war action. When we were sent to North Africa I did not

participate in Operation Torch, as I was asked to give extra training to new

recruits, and I was not selected for the disastrous El Djem mission. Then, during

the landing in Sicily, the 509th was held in reserve.

In Avellino we soon realized that a full panzer division had positioned itself

between us and the rest of the landed Anglo-American army. I fought, trying to

save my life and that of my comrades, and to inflict damage, if I could. I have

surely killed, watched enemy soldiers fall under my shots. But to cut somebody's

throat in cold blood is an obscenely intimate act, and I found I could not stomach

it, despite my training.

Those two Germans under the pile of rubble had been exactly where we ourselves

wanted to be, inside a ruined house that would be perfect in which to wait for the

night and then run down from the back of the building into a small valley that

was well covered by bushes and trees. From there, Ciro had assured us, we could

find the shortcut allowing us to bypass the Panzerdivision and reach our lines

undetected.

So we decided to dispose of them. I lured the two enemy soldiers out of the

building by speaking their language. They came out, and I took the first down

with the butt of my carbine, while Caputo crept behind the other.

"How come you speak German?" Caputo now asks me.

"My late maternal grandmother was Austrian," I answer "and she insisted I learn

the language." What would my Oma think of me being here now, fighting the

enemy of her most famous countryman, whom, since the Anschluss, she had

hated and despised from the depth of her heart? She would probably be very

happy, but very concerned for my safety, too.

And she would have reason to be. If it had not been for Ciro, I would be dead by

now. Our platoon had been ambushed by a much larger enemy force. We were

pinned to a wall, answering to the fire, but clearly succumbing. Caputo and I

were near the corner of the wall encircling a farm house, crouching behind a

broken hand cart. A whispering voice had called us in dialect: "America, venite cu

'mmia," telling us to follow him. And, miraculously, we had been able to turn

around the corner unseen and follow the farmer, Ciro, who drew us inside

through a gate. "Trasite int'o pozzo" he had said, indicating the well and giving us

a straw each, mimicking the action of breathing through it.

So we went into the well, relatively easy to descend into due to many protruding

stones, and slid under the dark water, carbines and everything, The water was

shoulder deep. When we heard German voices we ducked also our heads in,

breathing through the straws.

We remained there a very long time, frozen by the cold water, until Ciro came for

us, after the Germans had long gone.

In the following days, brave beyond belief, Ciro had concealed us, fed us, lent us

something to put on while our uniforms and equipment dried, the carbines and

pistols probably ruined. It was clear that we had no other course now than try to

go back, as indeed our engagement rules dictated, namely saying that, when one

or two soldiers lost contact with their comrades and could not fight effectively

anymore, they should try to avoid capture and find their way back to their lines.

Finally, when night comes Caputo and I leave the bombed house from a back

window and go down the slope, starting to run when we are under the tree cover.

Ciro has given us very clear instructions, describing our road to safety perfectly.

At a certain point, however, Caputo stumbles and falls, uttering a string of

profanities. A sharp, nasty metal wire has cut through his boot. He manages to

rise again and, limping slightly, resumes his run at a slower pace.

We march all night and some of the following day. Finally, thirsty and famished,

we hear voices. We approach cautiously, concealed behind some bushes and,

thank God, they are speaking in English. We have made it!

We report to Headquarters, eventually, and we are told vaguely to wait for

further orders, and then we are dismissed. It is not surprising to learn that the

509th has had heavy losses and even our Commander is missing in action, dead

or captured. It is highly probable that now our battalion will have to be re-

organized.

Finally, Joe has the time to attend to his injured foot. It appears immediately that

the situation is worse than he thought. His boot is full of dried blood, and he can't

even take it off to assess the damage.

I help him to the nearest field hospital, as he now has serious troubles walking.

"You are lucky," says the orderly while I wait. "Doctor Frankenstein is in; he is

the best." He uses the disconcerting nickname with affection, as he adds. "Poor

guy, had a terrible accident when a container of acid fell on him. His eyes were

spared, but his face and the back of his hands..." He shudders. "But still he

volunteered..."

A lot of time passes, and finally a doctor comes out and walks toward me. I

salute and try to keep my face expressionless. Indeed, his eyes were spared and

they are a beautiful light brown, like dark honey. But the face is a hideous mess,

despite the efforts done to put it together again. It is covered in scars, some

puckered, others unnaturally smooth, like milk skim.

"At ease," he says, his voice soft and melodious. You are a friend of Lieut.

Caputo?

"Yes, Sir," I answer, identifying myself, "we just came back from Avellino."

"Congratulations," he says. "It must have been though. I am Captain Cullen, and

I have just amputated two toes from your friend's right foot. He will walk again,

eventually, but his parachuting days are at an end, I am afraid. He is sedated

now, but please, come back to visit him, if you can. He is not very happy."

I say that I'll do it, salute and leave the hospital, going in search of something to

eat.

Chapter endnotes

What is Capt. Carlisle Cullen, who is the vampire we know, doing in Salerno in

1943 and what happened to his face? Don't worry, it will all be explained. In the

meanwhile, please, leave me a review.

A panzer division was an armored division in the German Army. These divisions

usually consisted of one tank regiment, two motorized infantry regiments

(including one mechanized battalion), an artillery regiment, and several support

battalions (reconnaissance, anti-tank, anti-aircraft, engineers, etc). Source:

Wikipedia

A pathfinder is a paratrooper who is dropped at the very beginning of an action,

in order to set up and operate drop zones, pickup zones, and helicopter landing

sites for airborne operations, air resupply operations, or other air operations in

support of the ground unit commander. Pathfinders use a wide array of skills,

including air traffic control, ground-to-air communications, sling load operations

and inspections, and drop zones in order to ensure the mission is a success.

The Anschluss (German for "link-up"), was the 1938 incorporation of Austria into

Greater Germany by Hitler.

Oma means granny in German.

All I know about Trenton NJ comes from the wonderful novels of Janet Evanovich.

This is my homage to her and I hope it does not offend anybody.

Chapter 2 Avoiding the casino

Now that Salerno has been conquered, followed by Naples, I am living a sort of

suspended life, while the powers that be decide what is going to happen to the

509th. I have problems of my own, because I now realize that being a pathfinder,

something I trained for and like doing, isn't going to shield me from typical

commando actions, once I am dropped. I have been trained in hand-to-hand

combat but, after the experience in Avellino, I know that I may hesitate to use a

knife, which could mean my death, or to be branded a coward.

I almost envy Caputo, no, I do envy him. He is out of this shit. Not that he has

taken the loss of his two toes well. So, if our circumstances were reversed, you

would have two happy parachutists, instead of two miserable ones. I go to see

him frequently, trying to cheer him up, and so today also I am visiting the field

hospital, bringing him some magazines I fished around for; one in particular,

called "Beauty Parade", is full of pin up's photos I am sure he will relish. He is not

interested in books.

I tell him that everybody in our barracks is off-duty, and everyone but me has

gone out to sample the amenities that Salerno can offer. Amenities that I don't

need to describe in detail, he knows where most of our comrades have gone. To

the casino, as legal and state controlled whorehouses are called in Italy. He might

be grateful that I have come to see him instead, but it all confirms his concept of

me being a pansy. Well, whatever.

When I am leaving, I find Captain Cullen sitting on a bench outside the hospital,

smoking. I salute, but he waves away all military formalities and invites me to sit

with him. I notice the extreme elegance with which he wears his uniform, not a

crease on him, He has gloves on and I notice his very good scent. Ah, he uses

perfume. Well, when your face is hideous to look at, you have to compensate in

some way, I suppose. He offers me a cigarette, which I politely refuse. I don't

smoke; another petal of my pansy character.

"So, how come you have not gone to town with your comrades?" He asks.

OK, I am tired of being misinterpreted, so I decide to answer his question

bluntly."Whores do not appeal to me." His lips, which also have been spared by

the acid and are quite red among the pale scars, distend in a grin."Fine, you

should not be ashamed of it."

"I am not ashamed," I answer, "only, it makes people think I am not normal." I

have never been so open with anybody since I enlisted in the Army, but there is

something compelling about this doctor, something that rejects evasions and

meaningless talk.

"Well, I might not be normal also," he says "because my wife, whom I adore, has

been the first and the only woman for me."

He has understood me completely, my need of not separating love and sex… and

my determination to wait until I can have both. I am amazed by his frankness,

and also appalled. He adores his wife… how do they manage the fact that his face

is a ruined mess? Can a loving woman overcome this? Of course I can't ask him,

and, anyway, he changes track and asks me about my choice to be a parachutist.

"I was already parachuting for hobby, or sport, if you like," I answer, "so when I

decided to volunteer it was a natural follow-up.

"It must have been different in the army, though," he observes.

"Yes, "I confirm, recalling my first experiences at Fort Bragg. "When you are

parachuting for sport, you try to drop as slowly as possible, while in a war action

you are meant to land as quickly as possible. You need to get going as you are a

sitting duck while you are floating. For this reason the parachute is smaller. Plus,

I had to learn to jump from the plane door using the static line and also to jump

from the hatch in the plane floor, while, as a civilian, I was used to drop alone

and not from military planes, of course. And paratroopers have to carry a lot of

equipment, too. But I was OK, seen my previous experience. For inexperienced

people, a three weeks training is not a lot."

As I don't like to brag, I don't tell him of my nickname "Banana Masen" referring

to the fact that I always manage to execute a perfect 'banana roll' when landing,

whatever the burdens I have to carry with me. Of course the nickname leads my

comrades to add a lot of innuendos that have nothing to do with parachuting, but

I have learned to take them in my stride.

"Were you at the university before enlisting?" he asks.

"No, Curtis Institute of Music in Philadelphia" I say, and shut up. This is cutting

too near to the bone. He is also silent and lights another cigarette. But the

damage is done. It all comes back to me: waking up in the hospital with a slight

concussion and minor bruises, the compassionate lies, until finally I was told the

truth: My parents were dead. And it was my fault.

A so-called precocious musical genius and certainly a spoiled brat. That is what I

was. Giving my first piano concert at 14, while continuing my musical studies. My

parents worshipped me; I could have had whatever I wanted. When I discovered

parachuting, I was allowed to practice it, despite their fears. My father paid for

everything and often drove me to the different airfields, until he bought me a car.

And I did not want to miss a thing. The night of the accident I had played at

Allegheny College in Meadville but, the morning after I wanted to participate to

an informal parachuting competition near Philadelphia again. Therefore we did

not stay another night in the hotel after the concert, like it would have been

reasonable, but my father set himself to drive the over 300 miles needed to take

me where I had to go, insisting that I slept on the back seats. Of course he was

also tired, so he must have lost control of the car.

I was devastated. My greed for enjoyment had brought this on. The loss of my

mother, a loving, warm friend before being a parent, has been the hardest thing

to bear. She knew all my secrets, including the random telepathy episodes I was

subjected to occasionally and that nobody else knew about. And my father was

the rock on which my very life was pinned. They had gone and left me stranded.

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