The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  T he details of ground operations had been turned over completely to Alexander, and Eisenhower appreciated that for a while anyway, he would not have to be involved with anyone’s controversy about which division should take what piece of ground. The spitting matches between Patton and Montgomery had settled into more subdued arm-wrestling contests, arguments over air support and the distribution of naval supply ships. But the men in charge of those decisions were making progress, parceling out the support both invasion forces would need to keep either from bogging down. Once the officers were focusing on the enemy and not on each other, the machine was beginning to operate efficiently again. There were difficulties of course, from personality clashes to logistics to shortages of every imaginable kind. But the controversies had passed beyond his hands, were being handled by the men who understood that this was, after all, a joint effort.

  It had surprised everyone, the invitation coming from the British that George Marshall accompany Churchill on the prime minister’s tour of the various Tunisian battlegrounds. The invitation seemed sincere enough, neither man holding any antipathy toward the other, and Eisenhower understood that Churchill’s gesture was designed to communicate that fact to both sides. The newspapers had long portrayed Churchill as a stubborn bulldog, a description Eisenhower had no reason to fault. But Churchill was perfectly aware that Germany would not be defeated unless the Americans were as committed to their plans as he was.

  JUNE 8, 1943

  They called Pantelleria the Gibraltar of the Sicilian Strait, but it was more of a rock pile than an impregnable mountain fortress. The island was the larger of two garrisons that posed continuous problems for any Allied sea traffic that sailed through the narrow stretch of the Mediterranean between Tunisia and Sicily. The Italians had long used both Pantelleria and the smaller island of Lampedusa as military outposts, and the Germans had made considerable use of the larger island as a staging area for bombing runs into North Africa. It lay seventy miles southwest of the Sicilian coast, and if any invasion was to be pushed ashore on the south coast of Sicily, enemy activity on both islands had to be silenced.

  Pantelleria was protected by fortified shore batteries that could devastate any landing force, and the British infantry commanders who received the assignment had expressed considerable skepticism that any landing could be made without terrible cost. The argument boiled over into yet another controversy, but there was no time for argument, the capture of the islands a high priority. Eisenhower finally laid out his own plan. The first strikes would come from the air and the sea, intensive bombardment from a massive wave of British bombers, supplemented by an assault from British destroyers, cruisers, and light patrol boats. The plan was designed to minimize casualties among the landing parties, using long-distance firepower to damage or destroy the enemy’s ability to defend the island. Once the naval and air forces had done what they could to silence the shore batteries, the infantry would then push ashore.

  After a daylong bombardment of the island, the shore batteries ceased any kind of effective response, and the order was given for the final phase of the assault. As the ground troops prepared for their landing, Eisenhower received word in Algiers that the enemy’s defenses at Pantelleria had not merely been silenced, they had been obliterated. Before the first British soldier could step ashore, the entire garrison, eleven thousand Italians, offered their surrender. The effect on the Italian garrison at Lampedusa was immediate, and that island fell with even less of a fight. By mid-June, the door to Sicily had been pushed wide-open.

  PART THREE

  We shall not fail or falter; we shall not weaken or tire. Neither the sudden shock of battle, nor the long-drawn trials of vigilance and exertion will wear us down. Give us the tools, and we will finish the job.

  WINSTON CHURCHILL

  I’m sick of people telling me to “have a good jump.” A good jump is one that doesn’t kill you.

  SERGEANT JESSE ADAMS

  505TH PARACHUTE INFANTRY REGIMENT

  30. ADAMS

  NEAR OUJDA, MOROCCO

  JUNE 8, 1943

  T here was no talking, and no reason to. The loud groan from the twin motors of the C-47 filled them all, two rows of men facing each other in the darkness, pressed tightly in their hard seats, each man buried under the weight of his gear. The only light came from the cockpit, faint red specks, the instruments on the dash. Through the cabin, there were scattered specks as well, the brief glow from a half dozen cigarettes.

  Adams guessed at the time, thought, nine, probably. Sun’s been down maybe an hour. So, we’ve been up here for half that. Should be soon. Why in hell do they have to make these training jumps so far out into nowhere? We could do this five minutes from the airfield. The whole damned country is a drop zone.

  There was a small burst of red, the jump light coming on above him, and the men knew the routine, pulled themselves to their feet. Adams moved close to the open doorway, squatted down, one knee close to the edge of the doorway, shouted to them above the wind and the roar of the motors, “Stand up! Hook up!”

  The men obeyed, perfect rhythm, attaching static wires to the cable above them, the wires that would automatically pull the parachutes from the canvas packs on their backs.

  “Check equipment!”

  It was the essential order, each man examining his own equipment first, checking for open pockets, loose gear. Then, each one checked the back of the man in front of him, those things a man couldn’t see for himself, buckles fastened, no snags or tears, nothing coming loose from anyone’s pack. Adams knew that the darkness made no difference, the men having gone through this routine so often in training that they could feel their way.

  “Sound off!”

  The man closest to him shouted out, “Eighteen! Okay!”

  Then the man behind him followed. “Seventeen! Okay!”

  He listened for each one, no hesitation, the count going down to one.

  There was a pause now, each man’s eyes focused on the red light. He felt the soft flutter in his stomach, the plane’s motors slowing, the C-47 dropping, the pilot leveling off at the correct altitude. He looked out the doorway, saw flickering sparks from the motor, and below, nothing, deep blackness, thought, a thousand feet, no more than that. Suddenly the red light changed to green, a soft glow on eighteen faces. Adams edged closer to the side of the door, still on his knee, braced himself with one hand, tapped the first man on the leg, shouted, “Go!”

  The man was out and away, and the others stepped forward, the same routine, filing past him. He kept them spaced just so, a second apart, then the hard tap on each man’s leg. The green light above him gave him all the light he needed, allowed him to see their hands, right now the only thing that mattered. Each man followed the training, grabbed the outside of the door frame, pulling himself into the empty darkness, dropping into space. If a man put his hands up on the inside of the plane, it was the first sign that he wouldn’t jump. Even if a man hesitated, with his hands outside he could be prodded from behind. Adams had seen it so often, that one frozen second, the rational part of a man’s brain screaming at him to step back, safe inside the plane. Most of the men who hesitated still made their jumps, but there was always the chance, especially now, especially in the blind darkness, that the training would simply go away, all the weeks of jump school, all the jumps over the rugged Georgia countryside forgotten by a man who was suddenly paralyzed by fear. If he couldn’t be moved out quickly, it was Adams’s job to prod him, a hard command into the man’s ear. If that didn’t work, if a man simply wouldn’t go, Adams had to jerk him out of the way. Anyone who held up the line could hurt the entire stick, cause them to become separated on the ground. And in the dark, separation could be a disaster.

  But there was no hesitation now, Adams keeping them in perfect rhythm, waiting for the last man, the dark shape now past him in one quick motion, disappearing into the darkness, falling silently away from the plane. It was his turn now, and he stood, did not hesitat
e, put his hands on the outside of the plane, pulled himself into black space.

  The jumpmasters didn’t hook a static line; his parachute was the same as what the pilots used, smaller, a rip cord now tight in his grip. The wind pulled at him, shaking him, a hard quiver from the heavy lumps of weight in his pockets. He fought to keep himself upright, listened to the fading sound of the plane’s motors, didn’t count seconds, had long forgotten that simplistic bit of training. By now it was instinct, and in the darkness, when the ground could not be seen, he had to rely on the pilots, on their ability to read an altimeter, to level off steady at a thousand feet. Without a parachute, a man would drop that far in eight seconds, and there was no time to think. He yanked hard on the rip cord, the chute exploding off his back, braced himself, a brief pause, his body suddenly jerked hard, the straps beneath his groin digging in, the parachute above him billowing wide, slowing his fall. He grabbed the risers beside his head, the guidelines that attached him to the chute. It was the most entertaining part of his training, learning to guide the chute, to twist and dip by pulling on the risers, slipping them toward a target on the ground, or a better landing place. But there was no landing place now, no target he could see, just moonlight and bits of stars, the sky straight above him hidden by the chute, the ground below him a dark blank canvas. He caught the reflection from the moonlight on chutes below him, ignored that, flexed his feet and knees, prepared for the impact. There would be no time to think about it, no time to recite lessons. It was instinct in all of them now, to hit the ground and roll, to spin off the energy of the fall as much as possible.

  He felt it, more instinct, the smell and feel of the ground coming at him, pointed his toes, legs together, pulled his arms in tight, and now he hit, tumbled quickly to one side, a hard, jarring thump, his body rolling over, a tangle of cords, his own equipment rattling and bouncing him along the hard ground. He fought to stop, his feet digging in, arms still locked tight. He stopped, felt no breeze, thank God, nothing to grab the chute and drag him painfully across ground he still couldn’t see. His mind counted one full second, his own routine, a quick check for damage, an inventory of his pains. There was always pain, an ankle, a knee, and he tested, nothing broken, put his hands out, felt rocks, soft dirt. He pushed himself up to his knees, grabbed for the buckles, unhooked the straps, slipped the harness off his shoulders, stood. His steps were slow and careful, boots probing for rocks. The moon was soft and yellow, low on the horizon, and he could see enough to tell that the ground was a flat plain, small, dark shapes around him, more rocks. The chute behind him was silent, no rustling to block out sounds, and he moved back toward it, rolled the straps carefully in his arms, kept rolling, folding the chute, gathering it into a neat pile. It was another routine, from their first jump at Fort Benning, every man responsible for his own chute, from checking the lines and the threaded seams to packing it before each jump. For now, they would continue the pattern, haul their chutes and walk to the target area, trucks waiting to take them back to Oujda.

  He held the chute in a neat pile, then froze, stood in silence, listened hard for any sounds, heard them now, idiotic cheers, and then, one man screaming. He heard a truck engine closing on him, slowing, and a spotlight cut the darkness in front of him, blinding him. He closed his eyes, faced down, opened them slowly, stared at the ground, stumbled on a rock, fought to see his feet, the fat bulges in his pant legs, all the tools, the ammunition, grenades, every piece of the hundred pounds of equipment each man had carried. Men were calling out, the truck moving close to the jump zone. He shaded his eyes, thought, dammit, this isn’t a county fair. Turn that son of a bitch off. The truck engine cut off now, silence again, only the sounds of men, and he listened for new sounds, airplanes, the caution passed on to every squad. There was always the chance of bombers, Germans on the way to Casablanca. The spotlight was too convenient a target for them, and so he knew the light would not stay on for long. It’s been too long already, he thought. A lantern would work just fine. What else is there to see out here?

  The spotlight moved, scanned the open ground away from him, easing the blindness, thank you, and he saw men carrying their chutes, coming toward the truck, some limping. The single scream was silenced, medics doing their job, and he searched the lit ground, thought, who was it? Holman? Hates jumping at night, all he talks about. Serve him right if he busted a leg. I don’t need griping.

  He moved toward the truck, could see a jeep out to one side, a heavy machine gun on top, another jeep close beside it. There was a bullhorn now, the voice thunderous, the voice of the regiment’s commander, Jim Gavin.

  “Pick it up! Let’s go! This isn’t Georgia!”

  Adams reached the truck, saw the stretcher bearers coming across the open ground toward him, carrying a crumpled mess of a man, white bandages in a large lump on the man’s knee, blood on his face.

  Adams moved that way. “Who is it?”

  The medic glanced at his stripes. “Cornwell, Sarge. Bad leg. Nasty. Cracked his egg on a rock too.”

  Adams turned away, would deal with Cornwell later. Damn. Good man too. He looked out past the lit area, more spotlights in the distance, more jump zones, hundreds of men gathering up, some as broken as the man on the stretcher. Adams walked out into the open ground, saw men still coming in, began to count, his mental list. The bullhorn came again, behind him.

  “Gather your men, Sergeant. Let’s go! We’re not on a damned picnic!”

  Adams froze at the sound, turned, searching, fought the spotlight again. But he knew the voice, had not been surprised that Gavin would already be in his jeep, would be the first to reach the truck, would go all along the jump zone until every man had been accounted for. Gavin had made the same blind jump, preparing himself the same way he was preparing his men, something Gavin had done through every part of their training. To some, he was the old man, the name attributed to every commanding officer in every unit of the army. But Gavin was only thirty-six, and already a full bird colonel. It was a mark of respect and recognition, different from the loyalty and dedication he got from the men of the 505th. The respect came from above as well, from the Eighty-second Airborne’s commander, Matthew Ridgway, and as far as Adams knew, from the high brass as well. Adams agreed with every man in the regiment: if Ike himself didn’t pin those birds on Gavin’s shoulders, he should have.

  Adams ripped a salute. “Yes, sir! I’m checking off the names now, sir! Looks like a clean jump. One casualty in my stick.”

  He saw Captain Scofield now, the company commander, moving up toward Gavin’s jeep. Scofield said something to Gavin, then called out toward Adams, “Keep it moving, Sergeant!”

  Adams saluted again, knew that Scofield’s command was as much for Gavin as it was for the men. Scofield was a far more cordial man than the colonel, a Texan who had been with the airborne units as long as anyone in the company. Adams moved back out away from the officers, watched his men coming forward, hustling quickly toward the truck. His mind was working now, counting, seventeen still walking, only one badly hurt. Thank God. He knew Gavin would watch him, just long enough to see the job done, making his own note of the casualties. Adams heard the jeep kick into motion, the colonel moving on, leaving the company in Captain Scofield’s hands. Scofield was close to him now, stood silently, and Adams knew it was all part of the test, one more jump, one more bit of experience, the officers knowing far more than their men about just what it was they were training for.

  Adams shouted out, “Let’s move! The trucks won’t wait for you! Unless you want to walk back to base, pull your ass up here!”

  They didn’t need his prodding, were coming forward on their own, some men jogging, another piece of their training. Nearly everything they had done at Fort Benning had been accompanied by running, from calisthenics to meals to latrine breaks. It was simply a part of them now, even in this absurdly miserable stretch of desert. They didn’t need him shouting at them, his threats meaningless, and he didn’t care, had yelled
at these men and many more like them for months. It had been drilled into him from the officers that the sergeant ruled by intimidation, and whether Adams thought the exercise a little ridiculous, he had obeyed. Throughout the training, he had yelled at them and cursed them at Fort Benning, at Fort Bragg, on the trains to Camp Edwards in Massachusetts. When they boarded the troopship, the Monterrey, he yelled again, and in early May, when they debarked at Casablanca, Sergeant Adams was the first man who told them to move their butts into Africa. But yelling alone didn’t carry much of a threat anymore, not to the men who had made it through airborne training. He had learned that lesson himself, that well-trained soldiers are quick to spot a noncom or an officer who is more voice than muscle. Adams had made certain that his authority carried some meaning, that he was tough enough to do anything that he would demand of them. He took the lesson from Gavin, and now, in the desert wasteland that spread out along the Moroccan-Algerian border, Gavin’s grip on his own authority, the lessons and the discipline, had far greater meaning. They were no longer jumping off towers, no longer weeding out the weak links, no longer showing off for local dignitaries who came to exhibitions at Benning and Bragg. They were in Africa for a reason, and all that shouting by the sergeants no longer mattered. The jumps had a new meaning, a grim seriousness, and if the men cursed or feared the darkness, there was meaning to that as well. Each man had boarded the C-47s fully loaded with every tool of war, every piece of equipment. Despite a thousand rumors, they had no idea what their mission was to be, where and when they would jump when the enemy might be waiting. And if they were making training jumps at night, it wasn’t some officer’s brainless need to damage good men. Every man knew, without Adams yelling it into his face, that one day soon, when they boarded the C-47s, it would most likely be nighttime, and it would be the real thing.