The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  “I wish to welcome Your Majesty to these proceedings. Mr. Prime Minister—” There was a loud banging on the door, and Montgomery stopped, clearly annoyed. “What in blazes…?”

  Eisenhower rose, saw heads turning toward the back of the room, saw the door open with a loud clatter, a white-helmeted MP staring in, silently apologetic. Eisenhower thought, Who the hell would be late? An officer strode past the MP, silver helmet glistening, moving quickly down the aisle, silently finding a seat. It was Patton.

  All eyes were on Eisenhower. He glanced at the king, who looked up at him with a benevolent smile, Churchill as well watching him with polite expectation. I’m not an orator, dammit. Don’t look at me like I’m supposed to win the war on this stage. He glanced toward Montgomery, Bradley, Tedder, more faces, the division and corps commanders, naval officers, and airmen. There were no glimpses of the derision he had heard so much about, no one showing hints of their discontent either with Eisenhower’s style or with his orders. It was there, of course, too many annoying reports of sneers and insults from some of these same men, spewed about in back rooms. No matter how much I insist we work together, we are two different people. No matter what I say or how much cooperation we’ve worked for, we can still spit at each other like alley cats.

  But the faces that watched him showed none of that now, every man in the room seeming to recognize why they were there and how important the briefings would be. He drew energy from that, could feel a sense of cooperation, the backbiting and rivalry suspended, at least for a few hours. This will never happen again, he suddenly realized, not like this, not all of us in one place. He felt himself straining to hear outside, some telltale sign of an air raid, a siren, or the gut-churning drone of German bombers. But there was nothing, only silence, the men watching, waiting, each one there because he was a part of something much larger than these men themselves, much more significant than any of them could ever have imagined. He felt a strong confidence now, so many of the faces familiar in a way that suddenly inspired him. All right then. Let’s get on with it.

  “We are on the eve of a great battle. We have come here in this assembly to deliver to you the various plans made by the different force commanders. I would emphasize that I consider it to be the duty of everyone in this room who sees a flaw, in any part of this plan, to speak up. There must be no hesitation. I have no sympathy with anyone, whatever his rank or position, who will not accept criticism of what he considers to be his own perfect strategy. We are here to get the best possible results, and those results rely on every man in this room.

  “This briefing will start with the three principal commanders, ground, sea, and air, beginning with General Montgomery.”

  Eisenhower stepped down from the stage—full of nervous energy, his heart pounding—moved to his seat, studied the map again and heard Montgomery begin his presentation.

  “This is an excellent plan. We have a sufficiency of troops, we have all the necessary tackle. We will confront a man, Field Marshal Rommel, with whom I am familiar. He is an energetic and determined commander and has created a formidable obstacle for us to breach. But breach it we will. He will do his level best to Dunkirk us. He will try to force us from the beaches, and he will defend the towns of Caen, Bayeux, and Carentan with his usual vigor. But he is too impulsive for the set-piece battle. His method is disruption. He is best at the spoiling attack. We will instead do what we can to spoil him.”

  After three brutal hours, they adjourned for lunch and then resumed the meeting, the presentations and discussions lasting all afternoon. Every senior commander offered details of the plan, some capturing the attention of the throng more effectively than others. Through it all, the commanders had given out a variety of details: the timetable for the amphibious landings, the troop movements beyond the landings, the goals that Montgomery’s staff had illustrated on the great map.

  On June 5, the paratroopers would go in first, just after midnight, the British 6th Airborne on the far left flank, the American 82nd and 101st on the right. If the drops were effective, the paratroopers would seriously disrupt German movements behind the beaches by capturing bridges and key intersections at various small villages.

  Immediately after dawn, the amphibious landings would begin on five designated beaches. Two, Omaha and Utah, fell into the American zone to the west. Farther east, the British would land at beaches labeled Gold and Sword, the Canadians at Juno. It had been a surprise to many that the landings would come at low tide, the troops to be deposited by landing craft far from the high-water line. But the work of the commandos and reconnaissance planes had convinced the planners that the landing craft and their cargoes of men and equipment would fare better if Rommel’s enormous barriers of underwater obstacles were exposed. The disadvantage for the first waves of troops would be the wide-open ground they would have to cross, several hundred yards of wet sand, which would surely be a shooting gallery for German machine gunners and riflemen in the heights beyond the beaches. The choice of a dawn landing had been hotly debated, some believing the attack should come well before daylight, offering the infantry the cover of darkness. But the navy and the air forces had swayed that argument.

  Even as the landing craft made their way to the beaches, an enormous armada of naval power would be called upon to blanket the German fortifications that faced the sea with a devastating barrage of fire that could suppress German opposition. In addition, vast waves of Allied bombers would drop their payloads on German positions along the beaches. To avoid friendly fire, the bombers and air gunners would require at least minimal daylight. Though the ground troops would be visible from shore, if the attacks by the air and naval forces were effective, there might be very little left on the beaches to oppose them.

  As the infantry and engineers made their initial landings, they would be accompanied by armor, dozens of self-propelled amphibious tanks, odd contraptions that still inspired some skepticism, tanks surrounded by tall inflatable skirts to keep them afloat while a propeller drive pushed them to shore. The timetable of the landings had been designed carefully and methodically, additional waves of men and equipment pouring onto the beaches in a rhythm that would ensure that foot soldiers were supported immediately by additional manpower, as well as armor and artillery, allowing them to push inland as rapidly as possible.

  Throughout the day at St. Paul’s School, the details poured forth to the assembled mass of officers and officials, most of it matter-of-fact and specific, with only occasional bursts of hyperbole. The king had spoken as well, an effective display of encouragement and temperament, more subdued than most of the military men, but a positive message of hope and optimism.

  By the end of the day, the plans had been fully spelled out. Throughout it all, there were no cheers, only a few laughs, no applause, and no ceremony. At four-thirty in the afternoon, Eisenhower rose to speak again, the day complete, the nagging fear that had gripped him all day finally releasing itself.

  “In one half hour, we shall have vacated this place. It is apparent to me that Hitler will have missed his one and only chance of destroying, with a single well-aimed bomb, the entire high command of the Allied forces.”

  As the room emptied, the collective exhaustion kept the conversation to a minimum. Eisenhower knew that each man carried away from this extraordinary gathering much of the knowledge and planning of the others. The parts had given way to the whole. Late in the day, as the speakers completed their tasks, Churchill had come forward. His speech had been fiery and eloquent, with his usual flare for dramatic language. But Churchill had offered one brief phrase that had driven into Eisenhower with sharp meaning. For so many months there had been wrangling and argument, debate and disagreement, what Eisenhower believed were fundamental doubts among so many of his superiors, that Operation Overlord might not work at all.

  Now Churchill looked directly at him. “I am hardening toward this enterprise.”

  It wasn’t gratuitous, no mindless optimism, no political grandst
anding or patriotic cheerleading. Eisenhower didn’t know if the prime minister had absorbed something new from the meeting itself, some clarity about pieces of the puzzle he hadn’t understood before. But it was perfectly clear to Eisenhower that, finally, after so much rancor and so many disagreements, Churchill was offering a message to the Americans and to the rest of the British high command. There was one goal now, one purpose: to devote themselves fully to the success of Operation Overlord.

  * * *

  12. ADAMS

  * * *

  BRAUNSTONE PARK, NEAR LEICESTER

  MAY 28, 1944

  “All leaves are canceled and, effective immediately, all officers and enlisted men are confined to base. MPs will be patrolling the perimeter of this compound and will be regulating all vehicle traffic both in and out of base.” Colonel Ekman looked up from the paper, seemed to dare a response. “Good. I don’t want to hear any griping about this. You have a problem, tell it to your sergeant. Should you feel that need, he has my permission to slap hell out of you.” He paused again, and Adams saw his eyes dart across the sea of faces. “This is the real thing, boys. There will be no further practice jumps. Those of you who are injured will have a few days to recuperate. And you will recuperate. I don’t believe there is a single man in the Five-oh-five who will shirk from this duty. General Ridgway is counting on me, and I am counting on all of you. I have promised General Ridgway that we will deliver…and I’ll be damned if anyone is going to make a liar out of me. You are dismissed.”

  Ekman stepped down from the makeshift platform, seemed to vanish behind a flock of officers. The hum began now, the inevitable questions, and Adams moved away from the crowd, staring out toward the distant rows of C-47s. He felt a strange coldness and clenched his fists, a chill in his hands. We’re really going. Again. Son of a bitch.

  The others were moving past him, the entire regiment pouring out of the hangar, the voices coming, loud calls, a few whoops, the sounds digging into him. He wanted silence, but there was nowhere to find it now, nowhere to go to escape the idiotic loudmouths, the men who truly had no idea what was about to happen. The veterans streamed past him as well, silent and subdued. Most of them were familiar to him, the faces if not the names. He had learned, they had all learned, that names didn’t matter. Even the men in his own platoon could be no more to him than a rifle or a submachine gun, a grenade, a radio, and those precious few, a Browning Automatic Rifle, what everyone knew as simply the BAR. No matter the weapon, if one went down, another would follow, and every step they took along the way was one step closer to the unthinkable.

  He thought of walking out, far into the field, but aircraft were in motion. Keep your ass inside, he thought. Nothing for you to do out there but get in the way. He glanced up at the thick gray sky, the inevitable rain. Too damned cold for this. No need to stick my boots into some muddy hole.

  He had feared his ribs had been broken, the pain more severe than any injury he had suffered before. The lieutenant had ordered him to report to the doctor, an older grouch of a man, whose name seemed only to be Doc. Adams had been surprised by his own reaction to the examination, pure panic that a busted rib might actually send him home, take him right out of the war. But the doctor had dismissed him with a casual wave, said it was nothing more than a heavy bruise, had even complimented Adams on the exceptionally colorful results, a saucer-shaped patch of blue below his heart. The bruise was nearly gone now, a faint yellow stain, and he ignored it. Dammit, he thought, if I’m going to get hurt, it’s not going to be from some useless practice jump. The voices were still swarming all around him, and he tried to avoid them, so many of the men spilling out their stupidity or their fear. Adams couldn’t help his anger; he had felt this way with every wave of replacements. He hated them for their inexperience.

  Over the past few weeks, the Eighty-second had made several practice jumps, good weather and bad, more screwups, more injuries. With every jump, he had grown more impatient, every hard landing reminding him that this was just play, artificial, meaningless. The men didn’t need more lessons. They had all become proficient at packing their chutes, and they didn’t need him to shove them out the gaping door of the C-47. The shirkers and malcontents were long gone. It was the same throughout the army. Every unit that had seen combat had the old and the new, and the untested would always harass the veterans for pieces of wisdom, what it was like, what the enemy would do, how it felt. It was happening again, all through the hangar, the new men jabbering nervously, responding to the hints of urgency from Colonel Ekman.

  “Sergeant Adams!”

  He knew the voice and turned, his hand twitching from instinct, prepared to raise the salute. There was a cluster of officers; Scofield, with more of the company commanders. He saw Lieutenant Pullman moving through them, and now the tall thin man, no smile, the man pointing his finger toward Adams. It was Gavin.

  “Over here, Sergeant,” Pullman said.

  Adams moved that way, the salute coming up, Gavin motioning to the other officers. “Dismissed. I’ll be back around tomorrow.”

  “Sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pullman seemed to linger, and Gavin said, “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’d like a word with your sergeant.”

  “Of course, sir. Sergeant, I’ll speak to you later.”

  Adams threw the salute toward Pullman, said, “Yes, sir.”

  He looked at Gavin, none of the warmth, Gavin pointing toward the offices at the far end of the hangar.

  “The Five-oh-five still make the worst coffee in England?”

  “I believe so, General.”

  “Good. I could use some. Follow me.”

  They moved to a metal door. Adams saw two men emerging, lieutenants who seemed surprised to see Gavin. They passed with quick salutes and sharp glances at Adams. Wonderful, he thought. They either think I’m teacher’s pet or I’m about to be court-martialed. He could smell the coffee, a small hot plate in one corner, saw a staff sergeant sitting at a desk, writing on a pile of papers, seemingly oblivious to the sudden appearance of a one-star general.

  Gavin moved toward the coffeepot. “Take a break, Sergeant. You know how to stand up?”

  The man rose with a clatter of his chair. “Certainly, sir. The coffee’s fresh, just made it a couple hours ago, sir.”

  The man hurried out. The office now empty, Gavin handed Adams a cup.

  “I wouldn’t drink this stuff alone. Chances are one of us could end up poisoned. We’ll need a witness.”

  He moved to the lone chair, sat, scanned the papers on the desk, pushed them to one side: no expression. Adams filled his cup halfway, stopped pouring. Fresh…two hours ago? he thought. It’s paint thinner by now.

  “I’m guessing the boys will be pretty pissed off about the order to close the base,” Gavin said. “Those pubs in town are already dead empty. Probably break the hearts of half the damned women in England. Hard to believe how well these boys have done with the fairer sex. I expect the British have every reason to bitch about us. I’ve heard too damned much of that; we’re overpaid, oversexed, and over here. Not sure what we’ve got that their men are lacking. Don’t want to know, now that I think about it.”

  Adams knew not to speak. He had heard these monologues from Gavin before.

  There was silence for a long moment, and then Gavin said, “You heard that the Five-oh-four finally got here, right?”

  “I’ve heard rumors, yes, sir.”

  “You know that Ridgway and I had been begging General Clark to turn them loose, get them the hell out of Italy. But Clark wouldn’t do it, said he needed them at Anzio, so they got chewed all to hell. I had hoped they’d be ready for this mission, but Ridgway says they’re too shot up. He’s grounded them. You know what that means?”

  Adams knew the answer already, the one word in his mind: veterans. How much more do those boys need to go through? He knew, as they all did, that the 504th had been the victims of the horrific friendly fire incident off
the Sicilian coast, nervous naval gunners ignoring their orders not to fire on the slow-moving transports that flew over them in the darkness. It had been a disaster for everyone involved, the 504th suffering more than two hundred casualties. Despite serious misgivings about the effectiveness of airborne drops, the 504th had been called on again, a crucial drop into Italy, which Adams and the 505th had followed. Then the 505th had been ordered to England, but the 504th stayed put and for several miserable months had been bogged down at Anzio.

  Gavin didn’t wait for him to speak. “It means, Sergeant, that we’re going into France with one hand behind our backs. It means that right now, the Eighty-second will count, as its parachute regiments, the Five-oh-five, plus the Five-oh-seven and Five-oh-eight. So two-thirds of us are green, not a lick of combat experience. I bitched like hell to Ridgway—well, as much as anyone can bitch to Ridgway—but he wouldn’t budge. Colonel Tucker’s screaming like hell, and I bet every man in that outfit is pretty upset, but, hopefully, they’ll get into this thing before it’s over. Meanwhile, the Eighty-second is going to jump into the enemy’s latrine with only one tested regiment.”

  Adams was uncomfortable now; it was not like Gavin to complain about anything. He waited through more silence. Why is he telling me this?

  Gavin looked at the coffee in his cup, set it to one side. “Keep this stuff away from the gasoline tanks.” He stood, moved to the one small window, stared out. “You know damned well not to repeat this, right?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “We had a hell of a fight at HQ a while back. You missed a good one. Word came from Washington that General Marshall wanted us to jump close to Paris, that we ought to raise hell with German installations, bridges, all of that. A hundred miles behind the lines. Apparently, General Marshall forgot that the Germans have tanks, and that a flock of paratroopers don’t fare too well against armored vehicles. Thank God someone talked him out of it, Ike probably. I’ve got a lot of respect for General Marshall, but sometimes, these damned armchair types—”