The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  NEAR COLLEVILLE-SUR-MER

  JUNE 3, 1944

  He rode with Ruge, the two men passing between heavy rows of tall dense brush, the same bocage country he had driven through a dozen times before. The car bounced hard, splashing into deep pools of muddy water, the rain incessant, turning many of the farm roads into soft ooze. He stared to the side, searching the occasional gaps in the brush for a glimpse of the larger fields. Along many of the hedgerows, his men had dug deep trenches and placed heavily disguised machine-gun nests and mortar positions. Out in the open fields, more men continued to plant the upright poles, his asparagus, the men then connecting them together with long clotheslines of steel wire. To add to their effectiveness, Rommel had requested that the ordnance depots furnish him with a supply of otherwise useless artillery shells, even obsolete calibers, and captured French munitions, anything that still had the ability to explode on contact. For an incoming glider or other small aircraft, the asparagus would be made even more deadly by attaching an artillery shell to the pole, the tip protruding upward, so anything descending onto it would detonate the explosive. But no one in the ordnance sections seemed to take him seriously, so the shells were slow in coming. It was one more frustration. Rommel knew that thousands of tons of French ammunition had been captured in the campaigns of 1940, piled uselessly in some warehouse or stacked in some long-forgotten supply dump. Every time it rains like this, he thought, the shells rust a little more, deteriorate a little more, when I could be putting them to marvelous use right here. Idiots.

  They continued to move past his troops, some stopping their work to stare and wave, others saluting, officers mostly, men who recognized the pair of armored staff cars. They passed again into a narrow ribbon of roadway, squeezed on both sides by the wetness, the dark dense hedges. Rommel wiped a coat sleeve on the foggy glass of the car’s window and stared into the brush: nothing to see, no sign that on the far side his men were making all manner of preparation for an enemy they might never see. The rain seemed to slow, and after a long moment, the hedgerow to one side fell away. The field beyond was revealed, a small green rectangle, and Rommel was surprised to see a single farmer standing among a scattering of cows. The man waved, oblivious to the weather, a casual show of cordiality. It was no surprise, most of the French farmers seeming not to care what was happening around them as long as the Germans did not interfere with what Rommel had to believe were excruciatingly boring lives. The car slowed and Rommel looked forward; the road ahead was partially blocked by a team of four horses and a carriage, towing something Rommel could not see.

  Ruge said, “Those are our troops. What are they doing?”

  “Sergeant Daniel, halt the car.”

  The man obeyed silently, the vehicle rolling to a stop. Behind him, the second staff car did the same, both easing slightly to the side of the narrow road. The horses plodded forward, just in front of them now, and Rommel could see that Ruge was right: two German soldiers huddled in rain gear, up on the seat of a small farm carriage, one man holding the reins. The men seemed to recognize him and pulled up sharply, halting the horses. Both men stood up high on the jostling carriage and saluted, unsmiling. Rommel opened the car door and stepped out toward them, catching the musky smell of wet horses. Behind the carriage trailed a decrepit artillery piece, which he stared at for a brief moment, mystified, unable to identify it. It was like no cannon he had ever seen.

  The men held their salute, the horses jerking them slightly, and Rommel said, “You may be at ease. There is no need for you to fall off that thing and break your necks. What is your unit?”

  One man spoke, a sergeant. “Division Seven-oh-nine, Field Marshal. Reserve artillery battalion.”

  Rommel continued to stare at the cannon they were towing. “What in God’s name is that?”

  The sergeant kept his gaze to the front. “That is a one-hundred-millimeter artillery piece, sir.”

  Rommel saw rust stains, a wet barrel green with corrosion, rubber tires barely in evidence.

  “Whose artillery piece? We don’t make a one-hundred-millimeter gun! Where did you get it?”

  The man seemed to relax a bit. “Forgive me, sir, but it is definitely ours now. It is Czechoslovakian. We have a few more like it. Also, they have sent us pieces from Romania, Greece, and of course Russia, sir.”

  The man seemed surprisingly proud.

  “They? Who? Ordnance supply?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rommel stared at the cannon. “Have you fired it?”

  “Um—well, no, sir. The ammunition has not yet arrived. Captain Riese said to expect it at any time.”

  Rommel heard Ruge emerge, saw him squeezing along the wet hedgerow on the far side of the car, also fixated on the odd cannon.

  Rommel pointed down the road and said to the soldiers, “You may proceed.”

  Both soldiers stiffened as well as the moving carriage would allow, saluted him, and said in unison, “Heil Hitler!”

  Ruge responded with the straight-armed salute, Rommel holding up his hand. The carriage moved away now, the horses’ hooves splashing through more of the puddles. Ruge laughed.

  “I admit I don’t know much about field artillery, but that appeared to be an antique. Where did they find it?”

  Rommel leaned against the hood of the car. “They didn’t find it, they were issued it. It will most likely explode in their faces, if they ever get a shell that will fit the damned thing. It seems that, on top of every other war I must wage with the supply people, I must accept that they have provided us a veritable museum of artillery pieces.” He paused and shook his head. “Does no one understand that we are fighting a war here?”

  “Fine horses, I thought,” Ruge said. “Don’t know much about those either, I suppose. Not many horses in the navy.”

  Rommel knew Ruge well, knew it was his way of taking Rommel’s mind away from the daily aggravations they confronted on every inspection. It had not even occurred to Rommel to think about the horses, something he was growing accustomed to now. All along the coastal defenses, the poor quality of so many of the troops had been equaled by the quality of their transportation. Trucks were becoming far too scarce. There were shortages of gasoline and oil, tires, and spare parts. Now, a sizable percentage of the German supplies and even the men themselves were being transported by horse cart.

  He heard the familiar drone, glanced skyward. “Another bombing raid. That’s the reason, you know. It must be better weather inland. The enemy has targeted our factories back home too often; now they are hitting us in France as well, rail centers and bridges. The raids have grown more frequent. It is logical, of course, just one more piece of the puzzle. It is the preparation for their assault.”

  Ruge stared up too. “I spoke to General Sperrle in Paris yesterday. He says our fighter planes have taken an enormous toll of the enemy’s bombers. He insists the raids will soon stop because the Luftwaffe has made it too costly for the enemy to continue them.”

  Rommel sniffed, staring up into the thick gray sky. “And yet there they go. Who would you believe? General Sperrle is Göring’s man, and he will only say what Göring tells him to say. It is daylight, so those are American bombers. Tonight it will be the British, like clockwork. And no matter their targets, we cannot stop them. And out here in the mud, our most powerful army, the most modern army in the world, is issuing its men artillery pieces suitable for the Crimean War, drawn by horses we have no doubt stolen from French farmers. You may believe Sperrle if you wish. I believe what I see and what I hear above those clouds.”

  CHTEAU LA ROCHE-GUYON

  JUNE 4, 1944

  The rain was steady, soaking the gardens, keeping the groundskeepers out of sight. It had come again during the night, and he welcomed the chance to stay indoors. There were disadvantages to the bad weather of course, so much more difficult for the teams of construction workers to do their jobs. But they will work still, he thought. A man can still sweat in the rain. What no one can do is drop
bombs on a target you cannot see.

  Speidel sat on the far side of the desk, making lists on a pad of the officers Rommel had not visited in a while, places where inspections were a high priority. The room was mostly silent, just Speidel’s pen on the pad and the soft feathery brush of rain on the windows.

  Rommel put his hands on the glass, wiped at the cold film of moisture, rubbed the wetness between his fingers. For the first time in many days, the pains were not with him, his mood buoyed by reports he had seen from the weather stations. This rain would continue, possibly several days if not longer, gloomy patterns of rain, fog, and dense cloud cover that had surprised the experts, a weather front rolling across the Atlantic seemingly more suited to winter than late spring. Even better, along with the rains, the weathermen had reported that the tides along the beaches were wrong for any kind of amphibious landings. Rommel agreed with von Rundstedt—with all of them—that when the Allies came they would most certainly come at high tide, the high water allowing landing craft to deposit their troops closer to the enemy they would have to combat. It was precisely the reason he had built the beach barriers as he had, to be hidden in high water, so the enemy’s boats would be struck and ripped from below. A landing at low tide simply made no sense, especially along the shallow coastline of northern France. Low tide meant several hundred yards of flat open sand, a far more deadly obstacle for infantry to confront and a perfect shooting gallery for Rommel’s riflemen and machine gunners.

  Despite the misery the weather inflicted on his troops, there were those who loved the rain—French farmers, certainly, anxious that their fields be lush and green—and on this day Rommel shared their joy. He continued to stare out the tall window, an unusual peacefulness in his mind. He could see bits of the building around him, marveled at the architecture, tried to imagine when it had been built, the craft, the labor required to bring to life this medieval castle on the Seine. He locked his hands behind his back, rocked slowly on his heels, enjoyed the gray gloom that blanketed the sky, and thought, Thank you, thank you.

  “I have never seen such beauty in bad weather, Hans.”

  “Sir?”

  “Rain, Hans! There could be days and days of rain! Weeks, perhaps. Surely, you know what this means.”

  Speidel smiled, resumed his work. “Yes, sir. It means we can get some work done here.”

  Rommel turned to him. “You know as well as I do that it means much more than that. We have been given a reprieve. Right now, while I am enjoying the pure serenity of this day, across the English Channel, someone else is looking out at this sky and cursing his poor fortune. Our work can go on, yes, be certain of that, but over there, no matter their planning and their timetables, no one is about to launch an amphibious assault—or any kind of assault at all. It is the gift of time, Hans, the one gift I have asked for. We are stronger every day, and the more the enemy must delay, the more it will cost him.”

  He moved to his desk, opened a small notebook, flipped a page, smiled.

  “This could be perfect timing, perfect. This will please her enormously.”

  “Sir?”

  “Put that paperwork aside for the moment. I want you to arrange a trip for me. Official business, of course. With the weather this poor, I will take the opportunity to visit the Führer to discuss our progress. He continues to send me his heartiest compliments on our work here, so perhaps this time I can make use of his good spirits to convince him to listen to my strategies. But I want you to schedule the transportation to allow me a couple days in Herrlingen. I can leave even today. The Führer is presently at Berchtesgaden, which is but a short journey from my home. Yes, she will be greatly surprised and greatly pleased if I am there. This weather has opened the door. It is perfect timing.”

  “If I may ask, sir, is it a special occasion?”

  “Quite special. I have been instructed not to reveal this, you understand.”

  Speidel smiled. “Anniversary, sir?”

  “Not quite. Lucie is turning fifty. Her birthday is only two days away, on June sixth.”

  * * *

  16. ADAMS

  * * *

  SPANHOE AIRFIELD, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE

  JUNE 5, 1944, 11 P.M.

  The day had passed with painful slowness, the natural letdown from so much adrenaline the night before. It was every veteran’s nightmare, that once the call came, you geared yourself into that mindless mode, moving with precision, relying on the automatic memory from so much training, from having done it all before. But then the mission had been aborted. He had climbed out of the C-47 in a haze of despair, cursing as they all cursed, but the weather had turned truly awful, a hard blowing rain that soaked them through their jumpsuits.

  The officers had hustled them quickly into the hangars, most of the men sleeping right there, on a vast sea of cots that had been set up days before. Spanhoe was the home for the 315th Troop Carrier Group, one part of the enormous armada of transports that would ferry the paratroopers and gliders into France. The paratroopers of the 505th had been hauled company by company to Spanhoe, one of several airfields where the C-47s would begin the mission, but this one was nothing like Adams had seen before. There were no sleeping quarters, no mess hall. What barracks there were at Spanhoe were already occupied by the huge number of ground and flight crews, so the paratroopers had slept in the hangars. The men groused, but only for a while, their attention caught more by the vast parade of C-47s that continued to land, coming in from airfields throughout England, great flocks of green birds, gathering in long rows along the various landing strips.

  Their briefings had been more intimate this time, down to the company and platoon level, senior officers passing along detailed instructions to their subordinates, junior officers passing those details to the noncoms. Captain Scofield had gathered his company’s lieutenants and noncoms into a cramped recreation room, the first time since Adams had served on Gavin’s staff that he had been privy to a map of their part of the operation. It was the familiar shape of the Cotentin Peninsula, but now the map was marked in red: the angular, circuitous routes the transports would fly to sweep into France from the west, which Adams thought was someone’s very good idea, staying far away from the naval ships along the invasion beaches. There were circles on the map as well, the drop zones, inland from where the American Fourth Division would push ashore, at the place someone had named Utah Beach.

  Adams had seen these kinds of maps a year before, drop zones neatly circled on the maps of Sicily. Then, the perfectly precise plans on paper had become a disastrous comedy of bad weather and inept flying, green pilots scattering their paratroopers over a sixty mile swath of Sicilian countryside. But the paratroopers, led by men like Jim Gavin, had turned the disaster into victory: They had held the immense power of German armor back away from those landing beaches, allowing the infantry to come ashore and establish the critical beachheads. Now, the paratroopers had been asked to do it again, but this time, the numbers were immense. Instead of the three thousand who had made the first drop in Sicily, in Normandy the Americans would drop fourteen thousand men, two full divisions. Whether or not the pilots would do a better job of finding the drop zones was a question Adams tried not to think about.

  The night before, they had gone through their usual preparation, blackening their faces and loading themselves down with more than a hundred pounds of equipment, from weapons to toilet paper. But first there had been another custom to observe: the evening meal, a spectacular bounty of fried chicken and gravy, fresh vegetables, and mashed potatoes that Adams swore had been drenched in butter, one of the rarest commodities of the war. The jokes had come, of course, their Last Supper, a final display of gratitude for men who were to begin an operation that would take them far from any kind of comforts.

  When word came that the mission had been postponed, the mess officers had been as surprised as everyone else, and so one day later there was one more Last Supper, a chaotic affair tossed together by kitchen staffers at Spanhoe wh
o scrambled and scrounged to find something for these two thousand men to eat, men who weren’t supposed to be there. Stew, Adams thought. That’s what they called it. They said it was beef, but who the hell knew? He rubbed a hand on his stomach, felt a rumble, but he couldn’t fault the mess staff. I felt the same way last night, and it wasn’t because I ate too much fried chicken. Nobody’s guts are working too well right now.

  “Line up here! If you can haul it, you need it!”

  The men obeyed, Adams bringing up the rear of the line. In front of him, men pushed past tables and crates, loading up their pockets and belts, no one speaking except the ground crews, low voices, casual greetings, useless words of encouragement. The crews were handing out ammunition, grenades, and all the rest of the cumbersome gear the men would carry. There was no talking, none of the raucous kidding around, much of that exhausted the night before. The first time, it had been something of a ridiculous party, so many frayed nerves betrayed by bad jokes and off-key singing, especially the new men, but tonight even they were quiet, absorbing the urgency and the fear. There had been some effort to get a card game going, but no one had enthusiasm for it, the poker players seeming to understand that luck was something best saved for what might happen in the morning.

  The men were making slow progress in front of him, but Adams wouldn’t be impatient, wouldn’t gripe at anyone. Then, off to one side, he suddenly heard a voice, one man singing.