The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  T he sound of the tanks was clear and distinct, and Adams could feel the rumble of steel deep in his gut. The men huddled low again, another ridgeline, not much higher than the last, fewer of them now, wounded men dragged back into a low area, a deep cut in the hillside, blessed shade.

  There was no shelling now, the Germans in motion, their officer finally making a decision, the column of armor pushing forward. Adams listened to the sounds, heard what they all heard, the tread of the tanks rolling on the hard-packed road, hidden only by the dust clouds and the lay of the land. He had not seen Gorham in a while, assumed him to be down on the flank, some preparation to defend the line from that direction. Adams lowered his head, touched the rim of his helmet on the Thompson. Hell of a mess, Jesse. I always thought it was the Marines who had it tough. How the hell we going to get out of this? Where the hell is everybody else? “Hell.” He repeated the word out loud. Pretty well describes this. Not for Fulton though. Damn! He tried not to see the man’s face, Donnie Fulton, the man with the weak stomach. That shell. It must have come straight through the ground, clipped right into those guys. The other guy…who the hell was it? Won’t know until this is over, who’s missing. Pieces scattered all over Sicily.

  Scofield was behind him, said, “Listen up! There’s tanks heading out on our left flank. I’m taking three bazooka crews out that way, see if we can do some good. Sergeant, you come with me. The rest of you stay tucked in here. Pull out only when ordered. You got that? We still have a job to do, and right now, it’s slowing the enemy down. You remember what the colonel said. We’re a roadblock. So, block the damned road. We don’t know what’s happening at the beaches, but we have to give the infantry every minute we can. Any man leaves this spot, I’ll shoot him myself. Let’s go, Sergeant.”

  Adams followed him, saw the bazooka carriers now, six men, one for each tube, one for each box of shells. They moved in silence, Scofield leading the way, Adams bringing up the rear. The dirt was softer here, and Adams heard the thick brush cracking under his boots. The heat was draining him, sweat in his eyes again, and he wiped his face on his shirt, rough grit on his skin. They dropped into a gully, dry white sand, softer still, the men struggling with the heavy boxes. Scofield pushed on, the gully narrowing, thick brush at the end, tall bushes. He stopped, held up his hand, and Adams heard the tanks, farther out, Scofield pushing up into the brush, staring out.

  “Four hundred yards. They’re spread out, heading to our left. They’re trying to get behind our position.” He turned. “You boys done this before?”

  Most of them shook their heads. One man holding a bazooka said, “Only in training, sir. I was pretty good at busting up the old pickup trucks.”

  “Shooters, what’s your names?”

  “Gilhooly, sir.”

  “Darwin, sir.”

  “Feeney, sir.”

  Scofield looked at Adams. “Well, we’re going to make veterans here, Sergeant. Can’t say I know a damned thing about a bazooka, but this looks like a good spot for an ambush. Spread out, find a good place to shoot. Get comfortable. Sergeant, you move out on the left flank. I’m betting these boys can knock out one of those tanks on the first shot, and you and I might get a tank crew to shoot at.”

  Adams looked at the six faces, all young, scared men. The sounds of the tanks were closer now, and Scofield said, “Get in position. Pick a target, aim low on the turret. Hell they taught you that much, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adams flattened out against the side of the gully, dug his boots into the soft sand, pushed himself up, was surprised to see a tank rolling close, a hundred yards, black belching smoke, black cross on the turret. There was another behind it, four more to one side. He stared, felt the rumble of the tank engines all through him, the ground shaking as they rolled closer to the gully. His mind froze, his eyes staring at the long gun, short stumps of machine guns pointing out in every direction. He focused on the closest tank, eighty yards, closer, slowing, turning to avoid the gully. His hand gripped the Thompson, his mind screaming at him, useless damned weapon. The tank was within fifty yards now, Scofield’s voice again, hard urgency.

  “Anytime now. Anytime now.”

  The bazooka closest to Adams fired, startling him, the shell erupting at the base of the tank’s turret, smoke and fire. The other two fired now, a direct hit on the second tank, more fire, thick smoke drifting over both machines. Adams stared, amazed, my God, it worked. The tanks were motionless, coils of smoke erupting from the hatches, men screaming, smoke drifting across the open ground, hiding the other tanks. Adams pointed the Thompson, searched for targets, nothing, no movement, the sounds again, the other tanks still coming. There was machine-gun fire now, the air ripped above him, the men ducking down, tank engines in a loud roar, closer, moving around the gully.

  Scofield shouted, “Pull back! Stay in the gully, stay low!”

  The men moved in one motion, Adams in the lead, and he looked back, saw the young men moving quickly, driven by the pure terror, the enormous machines rolling alongside the gully, past them, in front of them now. Adams stopped, saw the closest tank, the turret swinging around, a voice behind him.

  “Get down!”

  He was pushed from behind, his face in the soft sand, a loud explosion above him, a bazooka firing, Scofield pulling him up.

  “Let’s go! Keep moving!”

  Adams ignored the sand in his eyes, ran, stayed in the low, soft ground, the sounds of men behind him, tank engines, machine-gun fire. The gully flattened out, and he stopped, searched frantically for cover, some low place, the ridgelines familiar, gentle slopes.

  Scofield was past him now. “This way! Get over that hill!”

  There was a thunderous blast, the ground rising under Adams’s feet, tossing him up, rolling him. He tried to see, motion, a man running, another, and he followed, staggered, pain in his leg, his side, stumbled up the hill, machine-gun fire chopping the ground behind him. He was over the crest now, saw Scofield, another man, sliding down. Adams looked back, one man running hard, machine-gun fire, the man collapsing, the bazooka still in his hand, bouncing on the ground. Adams fired the Thompson, useless rage, the tank turning toward him. He dropped down the hill, protection, Scofield calling to him, “Move! Let’s go!”

  His legs were rubber, his heart ripping his chest, Scofield in front of him, pointing.

  “There!”

  Adams followed, the two men dropping into a cut in the hillside, the third man there quickly. Adams looked at the man, one of the ammo carriers, no ammo, no bazooka, Scofield shouting into his face, “What happened to the others? Did you see them hit?”

  The man was frozen, stared at Scofield with wild animal eyes, and Adams said, “I saw one man go down, Darwin I think. Didn’t see the others. We can’t stay here, sir.”

  “The hell we can’t. Those tanks aren’t going to waste fuel chasing us all damned day. They’re behind our flank, and there’s not a whole hell of a lot we can do about it without a weapon. We have to find a way back to the colonel, get everybody pulled back toward the beach. I know what he said, but we can’t hold the tanks back. We’ve done the best we could. Unless we get the hell out of here, we’re just going to end up as prisoners. You ready to be captured?”

  “Not today, sir.”

  “Where are the tanks? Let’s see what direction—”

  There was a high ripping sound, louder, the roar of a freight train, and now the impact came, the ground shuddering beneath them. Adams ducked low, and Scofield said, “What the hell?”

  It came again, another thunderous blast, out beyond the ridge, the three men shrouded in dust, the stink of explosives. Adams held himself tight against the ground, waited, another shell, the same impact, the ground shaking him. Scofield crawled up beside him, peered out, then dropped quickly down, covering his head.

  “Artillery fire! Big stuff!”

  Adams tried to hear the tanks, to hear anything else, his ears a fog of deafness, ano
ther shell impacting, farther away, two more, Scofield suddenly slapping him.

  “Coming from the south! The navy! It’s naval fire!”

  The third man was down below them, grabbed Adams’s boot, pointed out behind them, beyond the ridge.

  “Sir! Infantry!”

  Adams turned, the Thompson coming up, saw a dozen men, crawling forward, one man with a radio, the wire whip in the air above him.

  Scofield said in a low voice, “Easy, boys. Those look like the good guys.”

  Adams slid down, followed Scofield out of the crevice, saw Scofield raise his arms, thought, yep, damned good idea. He held the Thompson up high, waited for the young private, followed the man into the open. The shelling had stopped, the air thick with the smells, gunpowder and gasoline, black smoke rising up from beyond the ridge. Scofield kept his own Thompson in the air, and the soldiers began to rise, calling out, the ringing deafness in Adams’s ears clearing just enough, voices reaching him, the man with the radio, another beside him, an officer.

  “Awfully close. Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. Those panzers were about to cause your people some serious trouble. Looks like we chased them away for now.”

  Adams lowered his gun, blinked through the crust and filth in his eyes, saw smiling faces, another man calling out, “Hey Lieutenant, they don’t seem glad to see us.”

  The officer saluted Scofield. “Frank Griffin, sir. Sixteenth Infantry Regiment. Colonel Crawford’s boys.”

  Scofield returned the salute, and Adams saw now, the shoulder patch, every man. The young private had been right. They were infantry. It was the Big Red One.

  34. ADAMS

  HILL 41, NORTH OF PIANO LUPO MOUNTAIN, SICILY

  JULY 10, 1943

  A s the fighting quieted with the end of the daylight, Gorham’s paratroopers were attached to the Sixteenth Infantry, men who filled the hillsides around them, holding the ground just north of Piano Lupo, what they knew now as Hill 41, waiting, as the paratroopers waited, to see if the German armor would come yet again. With nightfall, the confusion on both sides had been complete and stifling. Gorham’s men could still not locate any more of the 505th, had no way of knowing that when the jumps had been made, the C-47s had been scattered by the gale across a front sixty miles wide, some coming down as far away as the British zones to the east. But there had been benefit to the chaos, and though few of the paratroopers had found more than a few of their own, the small squads of men had vigorously attacked whatever enemy positions they could find. Telegraph poles and phone lines had been cut, rear-echelon outposts assaulted, German and Italian troops encamped miles from the front lines suddenly set upon by what the enemy supposed were tribes of war-painted maniacs. With so much scattered confusion, the interruptions in the communications between front line and rear headquarters posts gave rise to fantastic rumors. Eventually, word filtered back to the highest levels of the Italian command, estimates that more than a hundred thousand Americans had come out of the sky.

  For Gorham’s paratroopers, the day ended very near where it had begun, the men still holding to the ground that protected the beachheads, where American infantry, artillery, and armor continued to come ashore, strengthening and securing what was still a vulnerable position.

  A dams drank the last gulp from his tin cup, cold, bitter coffee, twisting his tongue. In the darkness around him, men worked, digging in, some taking time to eat or just lie flat and sleep. Colonel Gorham had kept Adams close by, using him as a liaison to the infantry that added to their strength. Throughout the early evening, Adams’s job had been to help move the infantry into position, working alongside young, untested lieutenants, men who regarded the paratroopers as grizzled veterans, the men who had faced the enemy and survived. No matter that the experience that so inspired the admiration of the slick-faced infantry officers had come in only one full day of combat.

  Adams didn’t know where Scofield had gone, but there was work to be done all along the perimeter, men energized by the sounds coming across the rolling hills around them, German armor gathering, waiting, as they waited, for the first hint of daylight. For now, Adams’s work was done, and he had returned to Gorham, had time to tend to his own foxhole, his own meal, to prepare himself once more for the enemy, which even now was using the cover of darkness to edge closer to the American position.

  “What’s your name, Sergeant?”

  “Adams, sir.”

  “I know. Your first name.”

  “Jesse, sir.”

  “Good work today, Jesse. Damned fine work. Some of these your men?”

  “Yes, sir. Several. I found most of our stick. We jumped with Captain Scofield.”

  Gorham put a piece of dry bread in his mouth, and Adams searched his pockets for another piece of his dinner, found a tin of the instant coffee, poured it into his cup, black glue now in the bottom of his cup. He felt for his canteen, nearly empty again, had done what many of the men had done, filling it from a small stream at the base of the hill. He poured the water into the cup, swirled it with a dirty finger, poured it down his throat, his throat clenching tight, a struggle to keep it down.

  Gorham seemed to hear his grunt. “Vile stuff. Nasty. I’d settle for a glass of Italian wine about now. I’m sure the Krauts have their share.”

  “Yes, sir. We’ll find some.”

  Adams looked out over the hillside, nothing to see, darkness hiding the men. There could be no fires, nothing to draw enemy observers, the men huddling low in makeshift foxholes. He pulled his jacket tighter, had not expected the harsh chill, the darkness bringing a blanket of cold across the open scrub.

  Gorham made a crunching sound with his teeth. “Damn. This stuff must be left over from San Juan Hill. Remind me, Sergeant, we get back to where somebody important might be, put in a requisition for some decent rations.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adams saw Gorham looking at him, couldn’t see the man’s expression.

  “Don’t talk much, do you, Sergeant?”

  Adams chose his words carefully. “I haven’t spent a lot of time talking to senior officers, sir. But when I did, I always thought it best to do more listening.”

  “Me too. You ever been in a powwow with a half dozen generals? Well, no, probably not. It’s a little like that coffee you just drank. Hard to swallow.”

  Adams was surprised by Gorham’s openness, had heard much of the man’s nickname, Hard Nose. Gorham had a reputation for gruff discipline, little tolerance for anyone who simply didn’t measure up. It wasn’t supposed to be that way, not from a senior officer anyway. The army had seemed to insist that anyone who couldn’t endure paratroop training not be ridiculed for it. There were plenty of good soldiers outside the paratroop regiments, including men that Adams knew were on the hillside around them now, men of the Big Red One who could handle themselves against the enemy as well as anyone. But Gorham was said to have no hesitation to break a man with words, if that man was not making the grade. Adams had no problem with that, thought that the army should be training the paratroopers to be something special, an elite force, what most of them accepted as their role anyway. From their uniforms, boots, insignia, they were different from the infantry, and every man in the Eighty-second Airborne considered himself a superior soldier. Whether or not the army wanted them to brag about it, Adams didn’t really care. Apparently, neither did Gorham.

  Adams felt the weariness crawling over him, searched the ground, soft dirt, good place for a shallow dug-out bed. He rolled his pack over, pulled the shovel out.

  Gorham said, “You mind if I use that when you’re done? Mine seems to have disappeared.”

  “I’ll dig a hole for you, sir. Where would you like it?”

  Gorham laughed. “So, you don’t think lieutenant colonels should work for themselves? Or maybe you think I forgot how to dig a hole in the ground? You get done there, give me the damned shovel.”

  Adams held it out. “You first, sir.”

  Gorham laughed again. “Dig you
r own, Sergeant. I can wait.”

  In the darkness there seemed to be something in Gorham’s voice, something Adams hadn’t noticed before. Youth.

  “Excuse me, sir. You a West Pointer?”

  “Yep. Class of 1938.”

  “You get a late start, sir?”

  “Is that your way of asking me how old I am, Sergeant? I’m twenty-eight. Same as Captain Scofield, I think. You?”

  “Twenty-one, sir. Didn’t mean to be personal.”

  “Stuff that. Any man who gives you orders that might get you killed, you have a right to know who the hell he is. I’m from Brooklyn, New York, originally. Grew up in Ohio. My wife is at Bragg right now. I have a son, six months old. Might get to see him again before he goes to college. You married?”

  Adams choked on the question. “Good God, no, sir. I mean…sorry, sir, never had the opportunity. Not too many available girls where I come from. They either marry right out of high school, or, the smart ones, they just leave. Men too. Copper country, New Mexico. Not a place likely to attract anyone looking for West Pointers.”

  “Why you decide to jump out of airplanes?”

  “I like it, sir. Pay’s good. They made me a sergeant pretty quick, said there’d be more to do than yell at grunts on latrine duty.” He paused. “They were right.”

  “You know much about the history of the paratroopers? Interesting stuff. Think about it, Sergeant. Imagine the first fellow that said, gee, today I’m going way the hell up in a hot-air balloon and then jump out. Maybe I won’t die.”