Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [63]
The wind at the Dakota jump door jolted me. I stood at the edge. I was not afraid! I hurtled out into space, then slowed. All about me chutes billowed open like a fleet of sailboats setting spinnakers.
I wanted to freeze the moment forever. Maybe even reverse my direction and float off into galaxies unknown.
As the formation of Dakotas banked and raced back to Israel, their engines hushed and faded altogether. We were alone, far behind enemy lines. I became aware of the flapping of the chutes and little whumping noises that abruptly ended the short but magnificent odyssey.
Real world below! Laborious grunts, curses, sharply delivered commands. I had kept my legs in good shape over the years, if not my liver, but my knees had been trashed out from years of skiing and motorcycling. Most writers try to imitate the tough-guy image. Having neither the desire nor stomach to murder unarmed animals, I drifted away from my imitation Hemingway routine and let myself become Gideon Zadok, whatever he might be. But it had all come too late to save the knees.
My feet barely brushed the ground when my body swung over like a pendulum and I whammed down hard on my right hip and was dragged along a stretch of ground. It had been much easier than I contemplated—or so I thought until I tried to move about.
Although my hip was numbed from the blow, I was still able to wrestle with my chute and Shlomo was all over me getting me unharnessed.
JESUS! GOD! I’D DONE IT! I FELT GREAT! GIDEON ZADOK! YOU’RE GREAT! GREAT! GREAT!
When Shlomo and I hugged each other like reunited refugee brothers, I realized my celebration was premature. I collapsed in his arms, then fell to the ground. While Shlomo helped me test my leg, the battalion was engaged rapidly in the organized chaos that follows a night drop. Officers and NCOs snapped orders in Hebrew that were responded to with amazing speed and efficiency, considering the blackness. They gathered into units at a rendezvous point around Major Ben Asher.
Shlomo assisted me as I hobbled to a medical tent where the injured were being collected. There were a dozen of us, mostly sprains but a few serious injuries.
Dr. Schwartz and a medic ran a flashlight over my body. My hip was ballooning and darkening, but after a few excruciating tests the doctor felt there was no break or fracture.
“What is it?”
“Nice, plump hematoma. You broke an artery that will collect a quart or so of blood.”
“Prognosis?”
“It’s going to be painful for the first night but in three days or so you should be able to start moving around.”
The doc lifted my shirt in search of further injuries and shook his head as he saw Natasha’s handiwork on my back.
“What the hell did you land on? A cactus?”
“Wound from a previous engagement,” I said.
“Remain here with the injured,” he ordered and went to the next man.
The officers gathered around Ben Asher as the Lions secured the landing. There was some argument and confusion among them. Apparently we had been dropped three miles off target.
So far, shithouse luck. No response from the Egyptians, who we believed were holed up inside Mitla Pass. They certainly must have seen and heard us come down. Ben Asher ordered his crack outfit, the Recon platoon, to move up close to the Pass and prevent any Egyptians from breaking out, then looked over the injured. The final tally was remarkably low. We had assorted sprains and bruises and only two paratroopers with broken legs. There was no way the injured could keep up with the rest of the battalion which had to force-march and dig in behind the Recon platoon. Two squads were left to guard us as the battalion moved out.
There were to be continuous air drops of supplies during the night, including jeeps. If and when they arrived, the jeeps could move the injured up to battalion.
A night of feverish activity lay ahead for the battalion to reach the proper site and