With a grin, Max jumped. Scotti turned and waved to the plane’s co-pilot, then stepped into space shouting “Geronimo!” It always seemed a little strange to him to call out his own first name when he jumped. But he didn’t smile about it tonight. Jumping in the darkness was no light-hearted task, and the week ahead of them was filled with responsibilities such as he had never shouldered before.
“Most of the others are down by now,” he said to himself. “Hope they’re not in trouble.”
He tried to look below, but there was nothing but blackness, just a little blacker than the sky around him. In the skies to the northwest he saw the bursts of antiaircraft fire from the German batteries, trying to find the American bombers that were coming over the railroad tracks. Searchlights stabbed the sky, cutting sharp white lines in the blackness, and Scotti was glad, despite his wish for a little light, that they were not searching for him.
Tony Avella was on the ground already. He, who seemed worried the least about landing on a wooded hillside at night, had no trouble at all. He came down in a little clearing, hit the ground with a hard jolt because he was not expecting it quite so soon, and rolled down the slope about ten feet. His ’chute had collapsed of its own accord and he slipped out of the harness quickly. Then he set about trying in the darkness to find his two containers of radio material.
Jumping in the Darkness Was No Lighthearted Task
“Probably can’t locate a thing at night,” he muttered to himself, “but think of the time I can save if I find even one of them. Dick was right behind me. Wonder if he made out okay.”
Dick Donnelly did not have the luck of Tony. At that moment he was hanging head down in a tree. One leg was over a heavy branch, and his ’chute shroud lines were caught far above. His face and hands were badly scratched by the branches as he had plunged into them, but he was not worried about such minor trifles. He was struggling to pull himself up to a sitting position on the branch. Every time he tried, his shroud lines seemed to tug him in the other direction. Finally, however, he succeeded in getting the other leg over the branch. Then he snaked his pocket knife from his trousers and reached back to cut the shroud lines which held him.