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practical benefit of jumping from a very low altitude: It didn’t leave them with time to think about their vulnerability, feel the bottoms drop out of their stomachs as gravity hauled them downward, or for that matter think or feel much of anything at all. The experience passed so quickly it was a blur. There was the prop blast whipping them toward the C-47’s tail, the shock of their chutes blossoming open and jerking their harnesses up into their crotches, and then, about twenty-five seconds after they left the aircraft, the ground racing up to meet them.
    The men had been taught to control the drops with their canvas risers—the straps that connected to the shroud lines running up to the canopy. If a trooper pulled his left front riser, he would turn left. If he pulled the right riser, he’d float over in that direction. If he pulled both of them at the same time he would accelerate his descent, spilling air from the front of his chute. The harder he pulled, the more air he released in the appropriate section of the canopy, and when he pulled hard enough the canopy would deflate to allow for his landing.
    Simple in theory, but a paratrooper’s abilities were honed through innumerable tower drills, dozens of jumps out of flying aircraft, and many months of arduous physical fitness training for strength, stamina, and coordination. The Pathfinders, moreover, had gone through an additional level of intensive preparation at North Witham, where they were trained to set up and operate the special equipment they would bring behind enemy lines.
    Descending quickly, Lillyman sailed over the treetops and tugged on his forward risers, convinced the open field below would be a good place to land. His chin tucked low, knees slightly bent, he went into a practiced sideways roll as the chute collapsed with a fluttery whisper and then poured to the ground in a loose heap.
    His landing accomplished, he scrambled to his feet and shucked his harness. The stogie was still jutting from his teeth, a good indication his luck would be holding up.
    But not all the signs were that reassuring. Even as the full realization that he was on enemy ground sank in, Lillyman realized he was alone in the field. He heard bursts of machine-gun fire an uncertain distance away, saw 40mm tracers flaring like otherworldly lightning above the treetops. But there was neither sight nor sound of his men or their security detail. For some reason—he conjectured it was the delayed jumps when Mangoni got fouled up in the plane—the troopers seemed to have been widely scattered across the area. With Crouch flying about 110 miles an hour, a half minute’s holdup for Mangoni would have resulted in the men behind him jumping hundreds of yards from those who’d preceded him out the door.
    Lillyman continued to evaluate his situation, his hands automatically dropping to his carbine. The field looked different from the ones he’d seen in the sand table diagrams and reconnaissance photos. Much smaller, for one thing. He’d known about the hedgerows bordering the peninsula’s roads and farmlands. But the growth around the pasture was closer to fifty feet high than the fifteen his briefings had led him to expect. The foliage looked old, even ancient, each hedge a wildly overgrown jumble of shrubs, trees, and roots. They seemed almost impassable to him at first glance.
    He was trying to orient himself, figure out where he was relative to the DZ, when he heard a sound across the field. Something had moved in the darkness at its edge, near a tall, tangled line of bushes. The breath catching in his throat, he turned his gun toward the noise. His orders were to do no shooting, to avoid betraying his position. He was supposed to be a ghost, a phantom stealing through the night, taking evasive action if he encountered enemy forces. Unless he had no other choice.
    A moment or two passed. Biting into his cigar, his eyes narrow and alert in his