Silent Invaders: Combat Gliders of the Second World War by Gary A. Best

Author:Gary A. Best [A. Best, Gary]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Fonthill Media
Published: 2014-10-25T16:00:00+00:00

“Bulldozers and Engineers were at it, grading and filling.”

Word came over from the other clearing station that there would be a burial of English and Americans, shortly because the jackals were already howling. It was the first time I had heard them howl in daylight. There was a burial in one grave regardless of rank or nation, with John Michael Matthew, the little Burmese Chaplain from the Rangoon diocese attached to the King’s, reading the service and everyone fervently followed with the Lord’s Prayer. Motors high in the air could be heard but no one looked up or moved to take cover until the rough wooden cross had been planted and the last spade-full of earth was in; then there was a scattering in all directions. But it was our top cover, cruising far above, during the daylight hours, according to careful plan.

All through the forenoon the Engineers toiled in the gathering heat. Doc Tulloch came back from his jungle trek empty handed. The captain with the broken foot had been too dazed to keep his directions straight. Doc got another set of direction from the injured sergeant and went in again. But again the directions were wrong and again Tulloch came out empty handed and dead-beat with cutting through jungle growth for upward of ten miles.

Brigadier Calvert roughed in the casualty list as it was known to us and as we could guess it from known missing gliders. It was amazingly small for what it had purchased. In another six hours thousands of troops would pour in in power ships on this airport of ours, the airport that some of the first wave men had died to secure.

There was the hum of light motors in the sky and over the treetops came the tiny planes of Major Rebori, jaunty, frail and insolent in their perfect formation. They had come across the vast enemy-held terrain at tree-top level, with belly tanks to get them here.

We got one of them to cruise the jungle and he located the crash that Doc had tried so hard to find. The pilot brought back the exact bearing, we shot the azimuth and cut into the rank growth of jungle and after an hour found the crash. Two men had survived it and we got them out. Jerry Dunn was in there, to stay. So were the rest. He had been wrong “You mustn’t talk about it, you mustn’t think about it.” When you have an appointment in Samara, you will keep it, whether you talk or not.

The American Engineers toiled on throughout the long, steaming afternoon, smoothing the strip for the power ships, lengthening it, making the airport. Their officer lay in there in that jungle crash with the rest of them, the third officer they had lost to date. “Every time we get a job in Burma we lose an officer.” They stood around for a moment, helpless, bewildered, angry deep inside themselves, then young Brackett, the last lieutenant they had, said, “O.K. Two more hours of daylight.

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