“It’s just about getting light over to the east,” he said quietly, and the men looked up. The co-pilot stepped through the door from the cockpit at that moment, and spoke to the lieutenant.
“About three minutes,” he said. “All set?”
“All set,” Scotti replied with a smile, and got to his feet. Before he could utter his command, the men were on their feet attaching their long ripcords to the cable that ran the length of the fuselage over their heads.
“Got ’em trained, haven’t you?” the co-pilot commented. “Don’t have to give them any orders.”
“Not this gang,” Scotti replied. “They know what to do better than I do.”
The men all smiled at that, pleased with themselves. They weren’t tense any more. The time for real action was here at last, and they were ready for it.
The side door was opened, and the men braced themselves against the blast of air that swept against them.
“Remember—low jump, men,” Scotti said. “Okay—go ahead, Dick.”
Clutching the Reising sub-machine gun across his chest, Donnelly leaped into space with a shout. But to the customary “Geronimo!” he added the word, “Scotti!” But the lieutenant did not hear, for the blast that caught Dick swept him thirty feet from the plane by the time the second word was out of his mouth. And Scotti was already giving his curt order to the second man to jump.
In rapid-fire order they went, piling out of the plane only two seconds apart. When the last man had jumped, Scotti and the co-pilot grabbed up two large containers with parachutes attached and tossed them, with the lieutenant following them immediately.