Point of No Return

The hull of the C-47 shook violently as the wheels lifted off the runway, propelling the plane into the cold, dark early morning English sky. The olive drab paint job disappeared into a bank of clouds minutes after takeoff. Strong turbulence rocked the wings to and fro, and the hum of the propellers reverberated inside the plane’s cargo area, cutting the eerie palpable silence that hung like a dense cloak over the men.

Pfc McVie sat with his back against the hull’s left side, his fingers nervously moving from one rosary bead to another as he silently mouthed the prayers, his right leg jackhammering up and down. This was the big day, the day he and the rest of his brothers-in-arms had trained for and come to fear. Their sergeant had told them it would be a little over a half hour till they hit the point of no return. Once they passed the beacon point in the middle of the English Channel, there would be no chance of the invasion being called off this time. McVie would never admit it, but he prayed that in those first thirty minutes, someone, maybe even General Eisenhower himself, would call it all off. He wasn’t prepared for this call of duty and was confident that many of his fellow brothers were not either. Duty was duty, and he would face it head-on no matter what, but the fire inside his guts screamed at him, warning him he would never see home again.

“You use that thing a lot, don’t you, McVie,” Corporal James T. Bragg questioned.

Tyler McVie had gotten used to being called by his last name; in the military first names seldom existed. He took his eyes off the rosary beads and glanced at the corporal with steel blue eyes, the kind of eyes that pierced right through a person. “I suppose so. Force of habit, I guess,” McVie nervously responded.

Bragg nodded; he understood. “Never was much of a religious man myself. Tried that thing once but couldn’t remember all the damned words to the prayers or what order they came in. You know?”

McVie was happy for the small talk. These had been the first words uttered in the entire cargo area of the sky trooper plane since before takeoff. Small talk had a way of calming the nerves and building camaraderie – you just hoped to create a bond with a man who might have your back out there. “Mostly, I remember them. It’s the Fatima Prayer that I usually forget about. Easy to do, there’s not really a bead for it, but, in times like this, seems fitting to say a prayer from Fatima.”

Bragg nodded again, even though he didn’t really have any idea how to relate. “You a big churchgoer back home?”

“You could say that,” McVie said as he reached under the zipper of the jumpsuit and tugged at a white collar.

“My apologies, Father.”

McVie slightly shook his head. “No, not Father – well, at least not yet. Church sort of gave it to me honorary like, see? I was supposed to be ordained when the draft notice came in.”

“Little young to be a priest? I’d put you bout, what, twenty-one, twenty-two, tops,” Bragg asked as he reflected on the baby face of the man sitting across from him. It was in stark contrast to his own weathered complexion, the gray starting to crowd his temples even as the early forties began eating away the remainder of his youth.

“Not really. I knew I wanted to be in the ministry ever since I was a child. My dad back home encouraged it. Every Sunday, we’d go to mass, sit in the pews, sing the hymns, and socialize with the clergy afterward – usually discussing how good the sermon was.” McVie fell silent as he reflected upon those simpler days.

After noticing he was losing his companion, Corporal Bragg fired off another question. Secretly he wanted to keep talking, for his nerves were on fire with anxiety, his palms dripping with sweat. “Where you from, McVie?”

Snapping back to the conversation, “Youngstown. Never thought I’d miss seeing those ironworks. Bet my old man is back there, as we speak, sweating over the hot blast furnaces, doing his part to support us.” A half smile spread across his face at the thought. “You know, he’s a pretty big deal back there. Owns one of the plants. Was first in line to get one of the government contracts from FDR for the war effort,” McVie went on before pausing. “Didn’t help me much, though,” he picked up, lamenting his situation. “Tried to petition the draft board to get his boys out of the draft. Told them he needed us back at the plant, that we’d be helping the war effort right there in Youngstown. The board agreed for my younger brother to stay, but I had to go. Such is life, I guess.”

“Sad tale, my friend,” Bragg responded. “I’d say most of the boys on this here plane have similar tales. Me, I’m the dumbass that enlisted voluntarily. What’s worse, I signed up for this jumper stuff voluntarily too. Now, I’m sitting here thinking I should have had my head examined instead. Left my wife and two small babies back home for this,” he concluded as his hand instinctively grabbed at the picture he kept of his wife in the breast pocket of the jumpsuit.

“What’s that you got there,” McVie asked.

“Just a picture of my wife, Camila. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Hair of fire and a temper to match. But you know what, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Both men smiled at the heartfelt sentiment.

“What you guys chattering on about,” Sergeant Rollins asked as the C-47 dipped hard through an air pocket.

“Just talking bout back home is all, Sarge,” Bragg stated as he informally addressed Rollins. “Just taking the time to think about the good ole days. Wondering what our families are doing. You know.”

And Rollins did know. Not a minute of the day went by when he didn’t think about his little piece of heaven in West Texas. A nothing Podunk little town, just a blip on the map and seldom a main road in sight, but it was home. In a town of only a few hundred, everyone knew everyone else, and, in Rollins’ case, everyone knew the moment his draft notice came in at the local post stop before he did.

The Army caught him early in the war effort. Rollins would swear it must have been a minute after Hitler declared war on the USA that ole Uncle Sam started typing his name on a little piece of paper. Now, in the belly of the troop transport, he reflected upon how fast things moved. Basic hadn’t been so bad. Sure, the drill sergeants were pieces of work, but they were kitty-cats compared to the action he encountered in North Africa. The hot desert sun, the wind-whipped sand, and the constant shelling were a true test of a man’s nerves. When his commanding officer looked for volunteers to ship to England, he quickly begged off the sand duty.

“This your first action,” Rollins asked of the two men as he motioned for another private to slide down some so he could take a seat next to McVie.

Both Bragg and McVie hesitated before affirming. Something about the warrior instinct commanded both men to lie and say they had been somewhere before, had done something before. Maybe Rollins calls them on it, and maybe he doesn’t. In the end, the truth won out.

“Nothing to be ashamed of, boys. Lots of good men on this plane. Some are as fresh as you; others seen a thing or two. No matter which side of the aisle you fall on, nothing will have prepared you for what we are about to do. You know, they say nothing like this has ever been attempted before in the history of all military engagements. Humph… something to be said for that,” Rollins said, descending into a diatribe of fake bravado in the hopes of masking his own fear. These were his boys; he had to put on a brave face to motivate them. But memories of mortar fire and flying bullets screaming past his head in the North African desert did little to assuage his inner doubts about a suicide mission.

“You think they’ll be many Jerrys where we land,” the private that slid over for the sergeant asked.

“Hard to say,” Rollins responded through grimaced teeth. He knew the reality stood tall with the prospect of thousands of Hitler’s finest waiting to cut them down as they floated through the sky. “I suspect they’re going to try to drop us in the safest place possible. Get behind the enemy lines so we can attack them from the rear. Give our boys on the beach some much-needed help.”

“Safe place… sure,” Bragg sarcastically muttered under his breath. “Like they would know.”

“Don’t, Bragg, just don’t,” Rollins commanded through gnashed teeth. “Not here. Not now. Just don’t.”

Sowing seeds of fear and doubt had its place, and that place was back on the ground days before any troops loaded onto the plane. Giving the men enough details to understand what they were getting into prepared them and kept them sharp. That time and place had long since expired. In less than an hour, they would be over their jump zone. Riling up men with unnecessary fear served no purpose. And neither did boisterous admonishment of a soldier stepping out of line. Rollins knew the facts, probably more than any paratrooper on the plane. The score was fixed with many of the men dying in the air, either by malfunctioning equipment or anti-aircraft and machine gun fire. In his mind, he could already picture the lifeless bodies drifting through the sky and then hitting terminal velocity as they approached the ground when the static lines of the chutes failed to open. At the same time, others wafted, their bodies riddled with bullets. He prayed they all would make it safely to the ground but knew such a prayer would go unanswered.

“Your wife, Camila, she a good cook,” McVie asked Bragg, trying to break the rising tension.

Bragg averted his glare from Rollins back to McVie. “Camila? Hell no! The woman can’t even butter bread right. I do most of the cooking when I’m home…” he trailed off, wondering how his wife was getting on without him. Thoughts of her having to move on because his body was buried in some makeshift grave on some unknown hill in the middle of northern France plagued him; Bragg shuddered at the thought.

For his part, McVie tried to laugh at the comment, but the look of dismay painting itself on Bragg’s face cut the poor attempt short. He could tell turmoil played the devil’s dance within Bragg. McVie felt the urge to try to console his new friend; however, the words wouldn’t leave his throat. Instead, his mind wondered how his father and brother would get along if he never came home. Sure, their lives could proceed without any financial impact, but the emotional scars could be too much to bear. McVie knew his father was a patriot and would understand losing a son to protect the country's freedom, but could he withstand the emotional scars of never seeing his boy come home?

The three men sat in silence for the next several minutes, contemplating their own mortality. Nothing as profound as whether life after death existed; each man, in his own way, came to grips with the possibility that a pitch-black emptiness may be all that awaited them – faith could only carry them so far when the reaper pawed his hooves at the ground below waiting for them to jump into his awaiting grasp. No, they pictured two futures. One filled with happy homecoming welcomes for the weary warrior and the other with the hope their loved ones found peace when the War Department pulled its black car up to the curb and came knocking on the door.

“Look alive, gentleman,” Rollins shouted as he stood up, hovering over McVie. “We’ve now passed the point of no return.”