The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  The plane began to lose altitude, and he snapped awake, stared at the dark place near the open doorway. After a long moment, the red light erupted, the men reacting with a sharp motion, low grunts. The flight had been shorter than most expected, nothing like the tortuous route they had taken to Sicily. They stood immediately, and Adams hooked his chute to the wire overhead, went through the routine once more. Gavin was at the door, would be the first man out, and Adams stood three men away from him, saw the colonel staring out, heard a loud curse.

  “Nothing! Damn them!”

  Gavin glanced toward the front of the plane, toward the pilots, and Adams watched him, the man’s face bathed in red light, hard fury, Gavin’s hand slapping the edge of the doorway. Adams felt a chill, thought, something’s wrong. Are we lost? Not again! Can’t anybody get this right? What the hell we supposed to do…

  The light turned green.

  Gavin was quickly gone, the men following close behind. Adams did not hesitate, put his hands outside on the plane’s skin, tucked his chin tight, faced forward, was out, falling, wind pulling him. He braced himself, the chute pulled open, the straps now jerking him from below. He could see the first chutes below him, drifting slowly, and he stared at the ground, tried to see shapes, saw nothing, black emptiness. He searched frantically, any sign of what they were jumping toward, brush or trees, deadly obstacles. Gavin’s curse was still in his mind, a flicker of fear, and suddenly a bright light was beneath him, a strange orange light, the shape of a T. Fire. He blinked away the light, was blinded now, braced himself again, knew it was close, the last seconds, tightened his knees together, his toes down, thought of the pathfinders below, lighting the fire, idiots, too late to do them any good, the pilots finding the zone anyway. Damn. Good job.

  B y morning, Gavin’s twenty-one hundred men had formed a line alongside the men of the 504th, adding considerable strength to the American position, and sealing a major portion of the gap that threatened the entire front. Though the Germans pushed forward once more, their commanders realized that their greatest opportunity had passed, that the Americans would not simply be driven into the sea. Rather than continue a costly assault, the Germans began to pull away, strengthening their positions to the north and east.

  In the south, Montgomery’s troops had advanced up the “toe” of Italy with virtually no opposition, and British forces had landed at the “arch” and “heel” of the boot as well. The Germans responded as expected, Kesselring showing that he did not want a broad confrontation with the Eighth Army. Instead, the Germans gathered their strength, spreading troops across the Italian peninsula along natural defensive terrain, making good use of the rivers and mountain ranges. Though Clark’s Operation Avalanche had finally succeeded, the risk had been extraordinary, the contest far too close for Eisenhower to accept. Blame immediately fell on Ernest Dawley, who had relied too heavily on his untested troops. Dawley’s misfortune was that he shared the same enthusiastic confidence of many American commanders. To Eisenhower’s dismay, Dawley’s assumption that his troops could sweep aside anything they encountered had nearly resulted in an Allied catastrophe. Within days after the victory at Salerno, Ernest Dawley was relieved of his command.

  As the Allies expanded their strongholds along the coast, the 505th was shifted toward the Italian town of Amalfi, marched out to the high ground that overlooked the Sorrento Peninsula, which gave the paratroopers an astounding panoramic view of the city of Naples. For two weeks, the Allied troops had numerous firefights, each side testing the other’s strength, but the Germans continued to pull away just enough to avoid a full-scale confrontation. As Gavin’s men pressed forward, they were attached to a British mechanized unit, allowing them greater mobility as they shifted positions to meet the enemy’s movements. With Naples as the ultimate goal, Gavin had finally been ordered to move his men off the heights, the paratroopers expecting to battle their way into the city. On the morning of October 1, after a brief stand, German resistance simply melted away. Jim Gavin and the men of the 505th marched into Naples virtually without a fight.

  The Allied forces continued their pressure against the Germans, and the 505th advanced out to the east of the city, support for British and American infantry units who continued to seek some way to outmaneuver the German defenses. But Kesselring’s withdrawal had been carefully organized, the Germans giving ground reluctantly, allowing them time to fortify a strong defensive position in their rear. Clark’s forces continued their slow progress along the coast, and Montgomery’s troops were surging northward in the center and along the east coast of the Italian boot. But Kesselring’s plan had now become apparent. The Germans had anchored themselves in the rugged terrain along the Volturno River, and farther east, German infantry and panzer units had made effective use of the gift the rugged Apennine Mountains provided them. Any major confrontation now would come at a place of Kesselring’s choosing.

  NAPLES—OCTOBER 5, 1943

  The order had come from Captain Scofield, the men sent off the road to rest in a grove of lemon trees. Adams was surrounded by them now, twisted, gnarled branches, protected by enormous thorns. They were similar to the olive trees, ancient and twisted, but the fruit was strange, enormous globes of yellow fruit that looked more like melons. He had already suffered through the stupidity of the experiments, so many of the men obsessed with tasting this absurdly freakish fruit, no resemblance to anyone’s idea of what a normal lemon should look like. As Adams expected, the lemons were bitter and stunningly sour, the men quickly convinced that no Italian could possibly know what good lemonade was supposed to taste like.

  He looked for a place to rest his back, avoided the thorns beside him, laid the Thompson across his legs. He saw Scofield up on the road, the captain spotting him, turning toward him. Scofield sat, pulled out a tin of crackers, held it out toward Adams.

  “No, thank you, sir. I had a tin of stew.”

  “Better than these, that’s for certain.”

  Scofield drank from his canteen, and Adams waited, sensed there was something more to the captain’s choice of where to sit.

  “We have new orders, sir?”

  Scofield lowered the canteen, looked at him, then away, pointed to the white road. “Romans built these roads, you know. Probably cultivated lemons in this same field. Lot of history in this place. Every time we blow some building to hell, I wonder how long it had been there. Same way on Sicily. The Romans built these roads to move their troops, keep control of their empire. We’re marching in their footsteps, Sergeant. Somehow I think they’d appreciate that.”

  “Yes, sir. I suppose they would.”

  “Even the tanks don’t tear them up. Some of our road builders back home could take some lessons.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scofield poked at the crackers. “I’m going to hate to lose you, Sergeant. Nobody gets these boys into shape like you do.”

  Adams sat up straight. “Lose me where?”

  Scofield ate another cracker, and Adams saw a brief smile.

  “What’s going on, sir?”

  Scofield tossed the empty tin aside, unscrewed the top from his canteen. He took another drink, replaced the lid, and Adams could see he was enjoying himself.

  “Sir…”

  “Sergeant Adams, Colonel Gavin has been relieved of duty with the Five-oh-five.”

  “What?”

  “Relax, Sergeant. General Ridgway has recommended him for promotion to brigadier general. He’s to become Ridgway’s second-in-command of the entire division.”

  “Damn! We’re losing the colonel?” Adams was suddenly angry, held his words, saw the slight smile on Scofield’s face. “I don’t get it, sir. This is terrible news. I mean, it’s good for the colonel, but nobody is going to be happy about this.”

  The jeep came past now, slid to a halt, and Adams saw the driver searching the faces.

  Scofield stood, waved. “Here!”

  The driver climbed out, moved into the grove. “Captain, I
’m looking for—”

  “Yes, I know, Corporal. This is Sergeant Adams.”

  The corporal was older, surprisingly, the face of a veteran. He scanned Adams, appraising, a slight frown. “Sergeant, I’ve been ordered to fetch you, bring you to Colonel Gavin’s command post.” He stood back, held out a hand. “After you, Sergeant.”

  Adams was baffled, looked at Scofield, at the faces of the men gathering, as curious as he was. Adams was growing nervous now. “What’s going on, Captain?”

  “Orders, Sergeant. Go with the corporal.”

  Adams stood, hoisted the Thompson onto his shoulder. He looked toward the men, no smiles, one low voice.

  “The sarge in trouble? What’s he done?”

  Scofield held out a hand, and Adams hesitated, realized what the captain was doing. He took the man’s hand, felt a hard grip, a firm handshake, and Scofield said, “You take care of yourself, Sergeant.”

  Adams felt a wave of cold spreading through him, his mind forming a protest, no, I’m not going anywhere.

  “You sending me home, sir? Why?”

  “Home? Hell no, Sergeant. You’ve still got some work to do.”

  505TH PARACHUTE INFANTRY REGIMENT, MOBILE COMMAND POST—OCTOBER 5, 1943

  “Sit down, Sergeant.”

  Adams obeyed, the chill still rolling through him, his hands shaking. He said nothing, watched as Gavin spoke to an aide, the man disappearing out the door. Gavin turned toward him now, and Adams was squirming, felt uncomfortable, thought, you should be standing up. Nobody sits in front of a damned general.

  Gavin pointed to him. “Cigarette?”

  “No, sir. Thank you.”

  “You’re from the Southwest, right?”

  “New Mexico, sir.”

  “Beautiful country. Wide-open spaces. Good place to grow up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What you aiming to do when you get back home? You ranch? Farm?”

  “It’s mining country, sir. I may not go back, exactly.”

  “Mining? Can’t blame you. I grew up in Pennsylvania, coal country. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Looks like I found my spot. Expect I’ll be in the army the rest of my life. You consider that?”

  “No, sir. I should, I guess, sir. Not sure what I want to do.”

  Adams was swimming in questions, thought, what does he care? What the hell have I done? Gavin moved to a small table, and Adams looked around now, realized there were curtains on the windows, someone’s home. Of course, you idiot. They wouldn’t just build a house for us to use. Some Italian probably bitching like hell.

  He focused again. “Sir? Begging your pardon, but I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “You need to know that, Sergeant? You need all the answers?”

  He realized now, there was meaning to the question. “No, sir. Absolutely not, sir.”

  “Good. Because you’re not getting the answers just yet. You’re here because I sent for you. I’m being pulled out of here. You hear about that?”

  “Yes, sir. Captain Scofield said you were being promoted. Congratulations, sir.”

  “Stuff that crap. I screamed like hell when General Ridgway told me that. No, that’s not quite right. You don’t scream anything to Ridgway. But…turns out this promotion’s not such a bad thing. There’s more to it than just a rank. I’m pulling out of Italy. I can’t talk about it in detail, but I’ve been given a new assignment, to be part of the planning for a new operation. And I’m taking you with me.”

  “Me? Excuse me, sir—”

  “It’s not open to discussion, Sergeant. I know all about you. I know how you handle the men, how you handle yourself under pressure. I told Ridgway that I thought it was wrong to take good combat soldiers out of combat, that we should be using men like you—and me—where we do the most good. That kind of argument doesn’t wash in the army. As I said, this is all about the planning of a new operation. I need the best men with me, and you’re one of them.”

  “Thank you, sir. I still don’t get it. What kind of operation? Where are we going?”

  “I told you, no questions. You got your gear?”

  “Yes, sir. Right outside.”

  “You can leave your Thompson, your grenades. They’ll find a good home. You won’t be needing any of that for a while.”

  NOVEMBER 18, 1943

  His uniform was clean, his hair cut, and he still wasn’t sure if this were some sort of bizarre nightmare. He missed the Five-oh-five, Scofield, Unger, the rest of them, but there was no time for bellyaching. Gavin seemed to understand, and in between the long hours of work, Gavin had spoken to him of the missions and the memories. Adams had come to understand that Gavin had every intention of jumping out of airplanes again, that no matter this new duty, the new responsibility, all the administrative work, Gavin was no different from him. There was one difference, of course. Gavin was a brigadier general, and Adams had been impressed to learn that the promotion had made Jim Gavin the youngest general in the American army.

  Within a few weeks, the secrets began to be revealed, Gavin passing along the first details of what Adams and Gavin’s other staffers were about to begin. There were no dates, no specifics as to troop movements, targets, who or where the enemy might be. But every day the urgency seemed to grow, unmistakable preparations for Gavin to finally embark to the new headquarters of this new assignment.

  With only days to go, Adams finally received word. He was going to England.

  T he flight had been agonizingly long, stops in Algiers and Marrakech. On the last leg, they had flown all night, the men stretched out on the floor of the heavy transport plane, seeking whatever sleep the frigid air would allow.

  Adams had been awake for several hours now, far too nervous to sleep, sat on a bundle of mail, stared out the window of the crowded transport, had watched the sun rising over a far-distant coastline. He glanced at his watch, nearly noon. Well, maybe not here. Eleven, maybe. God knows. I should pay more attention to maps.

  He looked down, the wing just in front of him, two of the plane’s four big engines easing off slightly, the plane beginning to drop. A solid layer of clouds was below, the plane settling into the foggy whiteness, nothing to see. He stared downward, waited, thought, how bad can the weather be? Bad I guess. Always heard that, rains all the time.

  The clouds were suddenly gone, the plane emerging beneath the soft gray layer. Land was beneath them, thick carpets of green, dotted by small towns. He pressed his face close to the frigid glass, studied the countryside, so different from the bleak landscapes of North Africa and Sicily. The plane continued to drop, and he felt his stomach tighten, the air in the plane still sharp and cold, not as cold as the ice in his chest. He was more nervous now than he had ever been on the C-47s, and even after weeks in Gavin’s office, he still had the nagging fear, the uncertainty about what he was expected to do. It was still too strange, too different, the men around him too calm, and he thought, I’m not like them. What the hell am I doing here? I’m just a sergeant. I yell at idiot recruits and I jump out of airplanes. He thought of Gavin, several rows in front of him, thought, why do they need someone like you? Are we some important part of this new operation? Well, yeah, dammit, or we wouldn’t be here. I have to write Mama. Nope, not yet. Can’t tell her a damned thing. She wouldn’t get it anyway. How the hell am I supposed to be a hero in England?

  He looked out toward the green again, saw the airfield, knew it was Prestwick, Scotland. He looked toward Gavin again, thought, you promised me we’d jump again. If you’re gonna take me away from my platoon, if I have to be on your staff for a while, all right. But when this Overlord happens, you better damned well send me out there toting a parachute.

  AFTERWORD

  T hroughout November and December, Allied forces continue to push northward up the boot of Italy. Besides eliminating Italy from the war, and possibly gaining the use of Italian troops and equipment against the Germans, the invasion of Italy is also designed to tie d
own and possibly destroy a significant number of German troops, troops who might otherwise be available to resist the eventual invasion of France. The strategy works, but not in the way the Allies hope. German troops are indeed tied down, but there is no quick victory for the Allies. Instead of rapid success, Clark’s Fifth Army confronts a stubborn enemy, and German forces put up a far more vigorous fight than expected. Predictions of the rapid capture of Rome are proven woefully optimistic. The city does not fall into Allied hands until June 4, 1944, two days before the launch of Operation Overlord. General Mark “Wayne” Clark is faulted for what seems to many to be his plodding advances and ineffective tactics, but credit must be given to the German commander, Albert Kesselring, and the tenacity of the men in his command, whose efficient use of Italy’s natural defenses insures that the Allies suffer a far more costly and time-consuming struggle in Italy than anyone expects.