When we’ve been searched he tells us to stand and then whistles softly toward the bushes. A short, sprightly figure emerges wearing classic Tyrolean clothing with a gray goatee and bearing a mountain wanderstuck. He makes me think of Heidi’s grandfather from the classic movie. In short order it becomes apparent that he is the boss. He tells the big guy to blindfold us and move out. We’re given bags for our heads and with our rucksacks slung over our shoulders told to put a hand on the shoulder of the man in front of us and follow. We shuffle what may be half a mile through the woods in the gathering snow. There’s a smell of wood smoke becoming stronger.
A stairway, apparently, then a porch landing and creaking hinges mark a doorway. A glow of lanterns permeates the burlap of the bag over my head. We shuffle inside where it is much warmer. The bags are removed and we see the inside of a mountain lodge. A large stone fireplace has been well stoked. A dining table and chairs at one end, more furniture and two bunk beds at the other then a narrow stairway up to a loft. Dick and I are each seated on a wooden chair at the far end of the room from the fire and the table. A third man works at the table where a car battery is attached to what is apparently a telegraph key and a crystal set. He is unpacking a briefcase.
I’m dragged to the table and asked my name and rank. The third man takes my right hand and it becomes obvious that he is going to fingerprint me. He fills out a card with my name and then turns to Dick to repeat the process. Nothing more is said. The clack of the telegraph key about fifteen minutes later indicates communication with someone somewhere. Reply takes about an hour, during which time we are isolated and largely ignored.
After another half hour, there is a hurried conference over the table. They look at me and then approach. “What was your first car?” It is the first of five questions kept on file from my E&E card. That classified card is the backup identification process for all combat crews to insure the enemy doesn’t attempt to decoy rescue or aid efforts by using someone’s name. The questions are highly classified and only to be used once.
“A ’58 Olds convertible.” It’s the right answer. We are now accepted. Our fingerprints had been coded and the codes transmitted by Morse over a simple carrier wave radio. Mine was smudged and two of the five codes did not match the record on file. The backup questions had done their job. We are welcomed to the fire and offered a shot of grappa. I’d always thought grappa was a lot like kerosene, but not as good. After a week in the mountains, this is the finest cognac. Some bread and cheese make up the rest of the meal. After eating we are directed upstairs where our bunks have been prepared, each with our rucksack on it and a Playboy centerfold unfurled to offer us sweet dreams.
Morning dawns with half a meter of snow outside the lodge. The fire is down to embers and Heidi’s grandfather is already donning his mountain jacket. He signals us to get ready. The football player, the telegraph guy, Dick and I fall into trail behind the old man as he breaks the trail for the youngsters. He hardly seems winded as we huff and puff along behind him. No blindfold today for our journey through the forest. Five kilometers and we emerge into a pasture with another white stucco mountain lodge. This one once supported a small herd of sheep and possibly a crop or two in a small field. Smoke drifts from the chimney and a man with wrap-around sun glasses in an unlikely black trench coat stands in the doorway smoking a Parodi cigar. He looks like an extra from a Fellini movie. He waves to our guide.
As we enter the lodge, we are greeted by two more of our evader group, a pair of Naval aviators from the Nimitz. Several more Italians are in the main room. The sailors show Dick and I to a bunk room with eight beds in a row. We grab two and dump our packs. The Italians are gathered before the fireplace animatedly discussing the storm. Behind them on a table next to the wall is a what apparently is a UHF radio with microphone and speaker. It hums and crackles then rattles in Italian. A conversation on the weather is going on. A few hours later two more American evaders are brought in. From a box on the table, one of the Italians dispenses civilian clothing to us. We are outfitted in Levis and black turtlenecks. Flight suits go into our rucksacks. It’s becoming very Bond-ish.
Food is Italian combat field rations. We joke that this is why they may have lost the war. The food is excellent, but they forego considerations of dimensions and weight in favor of traditional Italian cuisine. A shoe-box sized container spills out a bottle of sparkling water and a half-liter of red wine, a small baquette apparently only a few days old, a small wedge of cheese, a link of salami, a pack of biscotti and a small can of pasta in sauce that puts Chef Boyardee to shame. If we are to be evaders, then this is the way to do it. Things are looking up.
Three days pass in the lodge. The storm breaks, the sun shines and we gather in the field to construct a ten foot tall snow-woman with Rubensque hips and tremendous breasts. Mid-day on the second day an Italian Air Force helicopter arrives to resupply us with a forty liter demi-john of wine, makings for pasta sauce, loaves of fresh bread and a supply of pasta. Life is quite good. We’ve named all of the Italians. The Tyrolian grandfather is Gepetto. The football player who captured me displays a blond crew cut when his ski mask is off, so he is Paul Hornung. Mr. trenchcoat and sunglasses is from Rome and with his pointy toed shoes obviously unsuited for field ops. He is Fellini. Telegrapher is Marconi.
We are told it is our last night in the field. We must consume our helicopter delivered supplies. A huge vat of spaghetti is made and wine is consumed in great quantities. From their packs the Italians deliver various bottles of liquor. Some grappa and a particularly evil Slivovitz. We laugh and tell stories that at least half of the group doesn’t understand. Morning will arrive with horrendous hangovers.
The next evening we are marched down the mountain to a village with a waiting van. The van rolls down the mountain highways through village after village. We cruise out into the flats of the Po Valley and in the dark of night it is impossible to tell our direction or location. After several hours we pull onto the shoulder of a deserted road and are hustled out into the tall grass edging a mown field. The van departs and we are left with four Italians. One tells us in broken English that a helicopter is coming. He will land in the darkness. He will be on the ground for two minutes—no more. We are to be on it or be left behind. Don’t forget to duck the rotor as we approach.
Three of the net-members signal with flashlights and fan out into the open field. The whup-whup tells of an approaching Huey. The three men lay their flashlights on the ground pointing toward the center of the field, forming a dim glow like a Mercedes star. In the dark the chopper lands at the junction of the lights as the Italian next to me jabs me in the ribs and mouths “run” in my ear. The six Americans rush crouching across the new-mown hay and jump into the grasping arms of a Green Beret sergeant who pushes us into jump seats and thrusts lap belts into our hands. We are airborne. It is just after mid-night.
It takes about a half-hour flying time to arrive over Aviano, but the airfield is closed at this time of night. On the ground, a small team of Special Forces are climbing the stairs to Aviano tower in full battle dress. The night tower operator is there for emergencies only and unsuspecting as the door opens and three troopers burst in. “Turn on the field lights and floods on the parking ramp. Get the UHF on 287.7 and turn it up. Now!”
“Who the hell are you guys? I’ve got no orders to do anything like that.”
“Get out of the way.” The controller is pushed aside and the trooper hits the light switches for the runway lights and floods, then cranks the dials on the UHF. He hands the controller the microphone and tells him he is authorized to say, “cleared to land” and then shut up. He nods.
Our Huey is about five miles out when the airfield comes alive. The SF sergeant tells us to hit the deck running and head for the white sedans which will be waiting. Don’t stop, don’t talk, don’t worry. We nod understanding as the chopper flares to touchdown. Flashing blue lights of security police vehicles can be seen hurtling down the ramp and on the road approaching the tower. In the glare of the floods we see three Fiat sedans with rear doors open. We run and in seconds we are speeding away down the perimeter road toward the secondary Victor alert area. We are home. Exercise over.
No one in the Aviano command structure beyond the Wing Commander knew of the operation until after it was over. The SF seizure of the tower was part of their training. The exfiltration helicopter was an Italian Special operations unit that did covert insertions and extractions in Communist Yugoslavia. Gepetto had been in the E&E net since World War II. Fellini was a shoe salesman from Rome. Paul Hornung was a banker from Milan. Marconi was a ham radio operator who did TV repair in nearby Pordenone. All were real NATO operatives.
Of the six two-man teams of evaders, two teams failed. One gave up almost immediately and withdrew. A second team had a member fall ill and be taken out. In the six teams, only one team succeeded in avoiding detection during their evasion. Every other group had been seen and reported, some several times. The undetected team was so successful, the exercise controllers considered a broad recall of all players to see if someone had been badly injured. That team? Let’s just say they blended in. “Buon Giorno!”
Sometimes volunteering isn’t so bad, after all.
1 comment:
Wonderfully told! I grinned throughout...
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