All It Takes

June 6, 1944

Happy Thursday guys!  I hope you enjoy this chapter, and are enjoying the story.  Don't forget to vote and comment.  :)

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Waking up wasn't hard when it was to the sounds of anti-air fire rattling the air around the plane, missing, but not leaving them unscathed. Mitchell sat up in his seat, and set his bag on the floor, held upright by his knees as he checked his watch. It was morning already, but the light outside the plane was nonexistent, the sun still yet to rise for several hours.

He hadn't felt worried until today, even when he wasn't the one about to be storming the beaches of Normandy. Those boys had it bad, but the 82nd Airborne were paratroopers and so they were to drop down behind enemy lines, landing in German occupied France. The long trip had begun in Britain, and now here they were about to descend on the countryside that was Normandy. He pulled out the cross his mother had given him, and whispered a small prayer as the Lieutenant stood near the door of the plane, preparing for the drop. The silence that remained in the cabin was stifling, each man focusing on their own worries and fears, their faces though remained stony, betraying nothing of their inner battles. He simply knew how he felt himself.

Almost too quickly, the red light appeared near the door, the Lieutenant motioning for them to stand, and shouting to hook up. Mitchell did as he was told, attaching his hook to the line near his head, standing in front of Turner. Next came the equipment check, each man shouting back that they were okay, and everything was in order. In jump school, the green light usually came immediately after, but that had been in clear blue skies that had lacked the dense fog and booming explosions of artillery.

They stood like that for minutes, waiting and rocking in the belly of the plane, watching the Lieutenant, who had yet to show any sign of worry to his relief. Outside, the battle of the sky continued, the sounds of planes descending all too quickly sending chills down his spine. His hand tightened on the rope with his hook, like it was already his lifeline. He took deep breaths, trying to steady himself, but the effort was nearly useless as the green light flicked on, the command to jump coming right after its arrival. It was time. One by one, they dropped from the plane, deploying their chutes as soon as they were away from it.

Mitchell jumped out, and deployed his parachute, hanging onto its wires as it opened up, his body jolting at the sudden counteracting force. Gravity must have really wanted him, the jolt sending the air right out of his lungs. Above him the planes continued their path into France, many ascending into higher and safer altitudes, but some falling out of the air, their hulls engulfed by raging fire. He focused his gaze on the ground below which was nearly empty, most of the enemy fire centered on the exiting planes, and not the thousands of tiny blimps that were the 82nd and 101st airborne.

From where he still descended, he could see the farmland below, illuminated by the burning body of a C-47, only half of its hull still intact. His hands shook as he pulled at the rope of the parachute guiding himself down, and out of range of the burning debris.

When he got in reach of dirt, he began to stick out his legs, knees bent, and toes pointed up, ready to land. His arms and hands stiffened around the ropes of the parachute, bracing for impact. He recalled the proper landing he had learned in training, the five points that started with the balls of the feet, and then went to the side of the calf, thigh, hip, and back. They had practiced the jump so many times, the soldiers going up in the planes, and then once in the air, parachuting down in order to stay at camp. It was a combination of muscle memory, and learned knowledge. There wasn't such a thing as a paratrooper who couldn't make the drop.

The two though failed him as he landed roughly on the ground, the five points gone the second his right foot connected with the compact earth. Even with the sounds of anti-air, and shots going off in the distance he could hear the distinct sound of bone breaking, the pain lancing up through his leg. It took all of his willpower not to scream out, his body falling to the ground in a ball, hands reaching out to the injured limb. When his fingers grazed over the ankle, he already had a feeling how bad it truly was, his hand receiving a thick coating of blood.

"Sh-," he began to curse, but stifled it as he heard the snap of a twig nearby, his body instantly flattening on the ground, his only chance when there was zero cover nearby. The hand that had managed to avoid blood tightened around his rifle, bringing it against his chest. He counted off the seconds after the snap, his ears listening out for any sign of someone approaching him.

That was when he heard the low and quick set of clicks that was the friendly signal, his gun falling to the side as he relaxed with relief.

"Werner, is that you?" Turner stooped next to him, helping him sit up on the ground, and taking the gun. "Well, this makes things difficult."

Mitchell tried not to glare at him as he examined his ankle, pulling out the small strip of gauze from his first aid kit, and wrapping it around the useless ligament. "Are you trying to be funny right now?"

"No," Turner replied, a slip of anger entering his voice. "I'm stating the truth. Do you think you can make it across the field?" He pointed at the small stretch of trees on the opposite end of the open fields, and nodded, even if it wasn't an honest answer.

"Alright, I've got your rifle." He offered Mitchell a hand, and pulled him up, letting him latch onto his shoulder. "God, if I knew you were this heavy I wouldn't have offered."

"Shut it, Gaylord."

Turner stood to his full height at that moment, forcing Mitchell to put weight on his bad ankle. "Don't call me that," he hissed down at him, a small smirk gracing his lips.

"Sorry, buddy."

They could only walk at a slow pace, Turner almost completely carrying Mitchell across the field, stopping when Mitchell's grip on his shoulder weakened or when he would nearly fall altogether. He looked up for a moment in one of his limping hops, and saw that most of the men were no longer descending in the air, the reality of his situation not lost to him.

"I'm going to be grounded after this, aren't I?" He hadn't realized his voice had sounded so weak until Turner stopped him next to a tree, and laid a hand on his shoulder as Mitchell inserted himself into a large bush. The look he was given then silenced any of the fears.

"I will go get a medic and be right back. You need to stay out of sight, Mitch. Okay?" He laid the rifle back in Mitchell's lap, placing one of Mitchell's hands on the weapon. "You've got this, Mitchell L. Werner. I know you do."

All Mitchell could manage was to nod back at that, watching silently as Turner darted across the field; a shadow disappearing into a throng of bushes.