The Spymasters (Men at War 7)

1820 30 May 1943

Stepping slowly away from the flight deck—the only lights burning on the aircraft were on the control panel, and these had been dimmed as low as possible—Dick Canidy moved in the dark toward the bulkhead door. He glanced up at the astrodome, the clear Plexiglas bubble used for celestial navigation. Some—not much—natural light was coming through it from the twinkling blanket of stars and the sliver of a crescent moon. He then heard the droning of the Twin Wasps grow slightly louder and at the same time felt the angle of the aircraft nose up. Hank Darmstadter had started his slow ascent, headed for eight thousand feet.

Canidy went through the bulkhead door and closed it behind him.

It was noisier than hell in the back. The aircraft’s walls weren’t insulated, of course, and he essentially was standing between—and within feet of—both engines, albeit separated by the thin skin of aluminum alloy that was the fuselage. The trooper door aft had been removed, and the slipstream was howling at the opening.

The temperature at Dellys had been just above ninety when they had taken off, and the salty-smelling sea air in the plane was still humid and hot. That would soon change as they gained altitude. The temperature of air dropped five-plus degrees with every thousand feet of elevation. Reaching eight thousand feet, they would lose forty or so degrees. Chilly, but not unbearable, especially considering everyone was wearing an extra layer of clothing—black coveralls.

Standing at the bulkhead, Canidy strained to make out shapes.

It’s damn-near darker back here, if that’s possible.

After grabbing a rib of the fuselage for balance, he took a step forward—and immediately tripped.

Damn it!

He caught himself, then looked around trying to see what his boot had found.

While the folding metal seats lining either side of the fuselage were capable of holding twenty-eight parachutists, Canidy knew there were only two people in the back of the C-47—and he’d just found one of them.

Twenty-four-year-old Second Lieutenant Jeffrey Kauffman was the beefy copilot—he stood six-foot-two, 230—who would relieve Darmstadter after serving as jumpmaster and making sure Canidy and van der Ploeg had safely exited the aircraft over the LZ.

Kauffman was now curled up against the foot of the bulkhead, lying on a woolen blanket and resting his head on one of the four big black duffel bags stacked there under the cargo netting. He was in the process of bending his knees, pulling his feet closer to him—That’s what I hit, his feet—but otherwise not paying any attention to Canidy.

Smart guy—getting some shut-eye while he can.

Sorry to disturb your slumber.

Canidy looked at the bags of gear, with parachutes attached, and that brought back the memory of earlier in the day, when he found out what John Craig van der Ploeg planned to bring.

* * *

While Dick Canidy and Stan Fine remained at the teak table on the villa balcony and went over last-minute details concerning who to message about the mission into Sicily—and more importantly who the hell not to message—John Craig van der Ploeg had gone downstairs and begun pulling together what gear to take.

He had been there an hour by the time Dick Canidy entered the vast storeroom and found him in a far corner.

John Craig was looking at a sheet of paper with a neatly hand-printed list. Near his feet were four well-worn Italian leather suitcases. All were open and empty. A variety of clothing and gear was spread out on the floor around the suitcases.

“What the hell is this?” Canidy said.

“The suitcases?” John Craig said. “Francisco Nola’s fishing boats have been smuggling families here from Sicily. We bought their suitcases—and what clothes they would sell us—so that we’d blend in when we went there.”

“No . . . what the hell is all this?”

“What do you mean?” John Craig said, holding up the sheet of paper. “This is what we always did in Boy Scouts before a trip. We made a packing list, then laid out everything before packing, checking it off the list as we went.”

Canidy looked at him—Jesus! We’re not going to Camp Two Teepee to roast marshmallows—then walked over to where everything was spread out.

In front of one suitcase, John Craig had put a mess kit, two bath towels, a package of handkerchiefs, a toilet kit—and his clothes.

Canidy reached down and counted six pairs of socks, six boxer shorts, six T-shirts, six outer shirts, and six pairs of pants.

How the hell long is he planning on staying?

He then looked at what was next to the second suitcase. There was an olive drab canvas musette bag and, beside it, a web belt and harness and a Colt .45 ACP pistol and two extra magazines with two boxes—a hundred rounds—of full metal jacket ball ammo. And there was a blackjack. And gold Swiss coins and what looked to Canidy to be some of the OSS “aged” Italian paper currency.

“That’s fifty thousand dollars in gold,” John Craig offered. “And another hundred grand in lire.”