The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  Reimer looked toward the lieutenant, a sad young man named Hochman, who said, “Colonel Goth does not mean what he says. You are the finest unit in this army. The colonel must say those things to keep you sharp. He will certainly say the same things to every platoon at every inspection. I am confident in you. You are dismissed. Return to your stations.”

  Reimer waited for the others to leave, spreading out in the darkness, low mumbles. He glanced up: a thick wet night, a hard chilling breeze rolling up off the beach. He tugged at his coat and moved closer to the lieutenant.

  “What do you want, Corporal?” There was no energy in the question.

  “Sir, Private Dieter says we have received additional ammunition. I have not yet seen any. My weapon has only six boxes, and should we drill again today I will use much of that.”

  “I have never seen a man so concerned with his ammunition supply. Every machine gunner in this regiment has sufficient supply. Are you so poor a shot that you would waste it?”

  “Certainly not, sir.”

  “No, I know that.” He paused. Reimer tried to see his face in the darkness. He liked the lieutenant, had never heard the man indulging in the mindless berating of his men so common to some of the other young officers. “Corporal, I have heard no orders about firing practice today, so I would suggest you concern yourself with keeping your weapon clean. But Private Dieter is right. A wagon came forward earlier, with ammunition for the machine guns and several boxes of grenades. I will be sure they are distributed. Your loader is…Schmidt?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your duty will end at eight this morning, so before you retire to the bunks, send him back to the depot, the one beyond the minefield. Two boxes more should be sufficient for you.” He paused. “Wait for daylight, and tell him to stay in the road. There is a reason we put warning signs in place. I will not have any of you become casualties of our own mines.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant looked upward. “Daylight soon. At least it’s stopped raining. I must write a letter to my wife. She is complaining again. What am I supposed to—?” He seemed to catch himself, and Reimer turned away, would not invade the lieutenant’s privacy. “Never mind that. Man your post, Corporal.”

  Hochman moved away. Reimer hunched his shoulders against the cold, stepped carefully, and tried to avoid the mud, a futile effort. A stout wall loomed up in front of him, concrete, and he ducked, leaned into the narrow opening, stepped down onto concrete steps. The air was ripe with the smell of tobacco, delicious and intoxicating: Schmidt and his ever-present pipe; the man had an amazing ability to find something to smoke besides dried cow manure. The concrete walls were nearly a full meter thick, the floor of the bunker set down below ground level, and he welcomed the shelter from the wet chill, moved through a maze of pathways. The bunker had been completed for only a short time, a month perhaps, but Reimer had not been a part of that effort. He had arrived only two weeks before.

  When the orders had come to move the grenadiers to the coast, most of the men accepted the new assignment without complaint. But there were always those who believed it was just more stupidity, generals shifting their units around the French countryside just because they could. Reimer hated that kind of talk, but it had become inevitable, so many of the men having already survived life on the Eastern Front, fighting not only the Russians but their own commanders, men who seemed unable to lead them to a victory.

  Reimer knew a great deal about that. He had been summoned to the army the autumn before, as surprised as his officers were to learn he had an eye for marksmanship. The Germans were desperate for skills of any kind, and Reimer was gratified to be promoted to corporal in a grenadier regiment after only a few short weeks of training. But no training prepared him for the post he was first assigned to, a march eastward into the desolation of the front lines that were barely holding back the savage onslaught of the Russians.

  He had an eager smile that brought him friendships, but when he arrived at the front he found men who had no use for smiles, who spoke in subdued curses. Despite his persistence, few would speak of their experiences. Very soon, the experiences found him, and his childlike eagerness to become a part of something glorious was replaced by utter misery. Deep into the numbing Russian winter, the two armies seemed content to pick at each other with halfhearted efforts. But the orders still came, plans hatched by generals whose feet were warm, and when word came to push forward, to launch some offensive effort in the deadly cold, Reimer soon learned why the men cursed their commanders. If the Russians were willing to wait out the worst of the winter, Reimer learned what many of the veterans already knew: The real enemy came with the first days of warming weather, and it was not the Russians. Like the German soldiers who came before him, Reimer had not been trained or equipped to suffer a march in sucking rivers of mud, knee-deep in fields of melting snow that dragged the army into paralysis. In early spring, neither army had attempted any kind of serious campaign. In the lull, the German High Command seemed to awaken to the notion that some of these men had seen enough of this particular horror and there might be a reason to add their waning strength to another part of the war. Reimer had never been wounded, but in one of those confounding mysteries of the army his name was placed on the list of those to be transferred out.

  The orders that brought those fortunate few out of Russia were met with dreamlike disbelief. Railcars carried them westward, through soft hills and sunshine, a long glimpse of Germany itself, and then through the paradise of France. Reimer found himself reassigned to the 916th Grenadier Regiment, the High Command’s efforts to strengthen Rommel’s defensive forces along the Atlantic Wall. To the men who made the long train ride with him, the move had been a desperate relief, many carrying wounds, others broken down in so many other ways. As the spring warmed them, they grew more fit, but their spirit had been shaken, and despite the encouraging words from his new lieutenant, Reimer wondered if the men who were supposed to add power to the 916th had any strength left for another fight.

  Throughout April and into May, the 916th Grenadier Regiment enjoyed the mundane duties of an army of occupation, mostly overlooked by the Allied bombing raids and overlooked even more by their own commanders. Despite the lack of adequate supplies, the men were doing well, the wounds of the veterans healing, and they continued to train, some contributing long weeks to Rommel’s construction efforts. The 916th was one part of the 352nd Division, which had been formed the previous November. The 352nd had been brought up to what the army labeled full strength, and with the months of peaceful training, the German High Command had confidence that the 352nd was one of Germany’s most efficient fighting units. Though Reimer heard grousing about their blister-inducing efforts as construction workers, he appreciated that digging into fortified positions along a stretch of peaceful coastline was far more enjoyable than what he had endured in Russia.

  He had been assigned to a position in a massive concrete bunker that gave him a wide view of the rugged coastline. The bunker was sunk into the rocky cliffs, high on a bluff, protected by steep sandy walls, swept clear of brush and debris by the engineers. For long hours he would stare out to sea. Most of the men around him found the hypnotic peacefulness utterly boring, but Reimer’s routine was pure joy: almost daily practice with his machine gun, an amazingly efficient MG-42, weapon of choice for so many of the grenadiers. The gun was lightweight and portable, belt-fed by his loader, the pipe-smoking Hans Schmidt. The MG-42 usually sat on a tripod, essential to protect the gunner from its amazing kick. The light weight meant recoil, and the rate of fire—fifteen hundred rounds per minute—meant that no man was strong enough to fire the gun from his shoulder. He had practiced firing a single round, nearly impossible; most of the gunners were able to fire only as few as three rounds with a quick flick of the finger. The speed of fire made the MG-42 a magnificent weapon, but it was the sound that inspired Reimer to volunteer as a gunner. The rate of fire was so rapid it didn’t sound like a m
achine gun at all, no popping of individual shells. It was more like a loud ripping of cloth, a sound that gave the gunner a power on the battlefield that the riflemen envied. Reimer loved his MG-42.

  There were a half dozen machine guns spread through the bunker, the gunners mostly lying flat, their loaders taking turns with them staring into darkness. In one corner was a stack of gun barrels, replacements for the MG-42s, several of the men having been designated as mechanics for the job, should the need arise. In the darkness, there were low comments, small conversations. Reimer moved toward his gun and checked the tripod, the legs anchoring the gun flat on the concrete floor. Schmidt was in the corner to one side, his back against the wall, sitting on the stack of ammunition boxes, his usual perch.

  “The lieutenant offer to tuck you in this morning? Almost bedtime, you know.”

  Reimer had heard this before. “I asked him about ammunition. He told me to send you back to the depot, the larger one close to the village. Dieter is right. A wagon brought some more boxes up.”

  Schmidt held the pipe in his mouth, a soft glow coming from the bowl, brighter now, more smoke. “Now? You’re going to make me leave this comfortable seat, just so you can stuff this place with your damned cartridges? How many do you need?”

  Reimer pressed his hands on the concrete and peered out, the breeze chilling his face. “I want all they’ll give me. And, yes, you can go right now, if you don’t mind having to stand on your feet. But be careful. The lieutenant was concerned that you might wander off into a minefield. Stay on the road.”

  Schmidt laughed. “The Calvados is gone, I promise.”

  There was laughter to one side, the mention of the liquor stirring a response.

  “Damn you, Dieter,” Schmidt said, “I never should have told you I found it. Three bottles, and not a drop left.”

  Reimer stared at the sea. “You’re both fortunate the lieutenant didn’t find out. It was bad enough you got drunk. You could have cost me my rank.”

  “Oh, so I should worry they might break you down to my lowly level, Corporal? It was one night, one party. There was no harm, and no one wandered into a minefield. We earned a little celebration after that train ride. I’m beginning to love the French. Those little farmhouses have all sorts of treasures inside.”

  A voice in the dark—Dieter—added, “And they don’t try to stick a knife in your throat, like the Russians.”

  Schmidt groaned and pulled himself to his feet, the pipe still in his mouth. “I wonder if Rommel will come out here. They say his inspections are worse than the colonel’s by far. If he blisters you, you stay blistered.”

  Reimer shrugged; he had never seen Rommel. But every man had heard the stories, some more ridiculous than others. Reimer turned away from the breeze and looked toward the glow of Schmidt’s pipe.

  “Just go get the ammunition. And carry more than one box this time.”

  Schmidt tapped the pipe softly against the concrete wall, then stopped, silent for a moment. “You hear that?”

  The conversations quieted, and Reimer turned toward the opening again. The ocean was a soft black blanket. In front of them, below the cliffs, he could see a faint reflection of wide sandy shore. It was low tide. He heard the hum now, and another voice came out of the dark.

  “Bombers. Some lucky factory’s going to get it.”

  “Or a railroad somewhere.”

  Reimer had heard the same sounds for two weeks, the planes coming in high over the beach, usually to the east. The planes seemed to subdue the men, the conversations over, silence in the bunker. Nothing we can do about that, he thought. They fly too high for even the eighty-eights to hit them.

  Behind him, Schmidt said, “I thought we’d hear more from the fighters up here. I expect the Luftwaffe is hanging back a little, letting those boys get too far from home. I’d hate to be up there. Give me some concrete and my feet on the ground.”

  There was low laughter, more of the talk beginning, and Reimer focused on the wide stretch of sand. He could see flecks of black, the closest shore obstacles just visible, the first hint of daylight. The hum of the planes was louder. He looked up into concrete, thinking, That’s strange.

  Schmidt was beside him now. “What the hell? They’ve turned. Sounds like they’re coming this way.”

  The men were all up, faces at the openings in the concrete, the sound of the planes droning overhead ever louder. Reimer heard a whistle, cutting through the hum, and backed away fast. “Down! Get down!”

  The blast shook the ground beneath him, and he flattened out, men scrambling over one another, tumbling down: more blasts, hard rocking quakes. The explosions shook the concrete, dust raining down; for long seconds, there was no other sound but the hard roar of bomb blasts. Reimer closed his eyes, his face in his helmet, his arms in tight, holding the terror inside. But then, just as quickly, the blasts moved away, back behind the bunker, a thousand giant hammers, punching the ground farther away from the beach. He raised his head, one hand pulling his helmet on straight; he could still feel the shaking in the concrete beneath him, but the deafening blasts were distant, hollow. He blew dust out of his mouth. Men were coughing around him, and now a voice—the lieutenant—said, “Stay down! We’re safe in here!”

  No one answered. Reimer focused on the sounds, the bombs raining down far behind them, and then a different chatter of sounds, small bursts in a long chorus. “The minefield,” the lieutenant said. “That sound…they’re bombing the minefield!”

  In short minutes the bombing had stopped, no sounds at all. The men were rising slowly, wiping concrete dust from the guns. Reimer’s ears were ringing.

  “They missed us!” Schmidt said. “They damned well missed us!”

  The lieutenant was up now. “Anyone hurt?”

  No one responded. Reimer saw him moving away, checking the others. No one responded, every man searching himself for injury, clearing his brain of the noise and the dust. Reimer pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, leaned close to the gun, and wiped the mechanism.

  Schmidt punched him on the back. “Good thing I didn’t get up like you wanted and rush back to the depot. I told you, give me concrete every time.”

  Reimer, still gaining his hearing, shook his head and thought of the depot, the new boxes of ammunition. Damn! “Lieutenant, you think they hit the depot?”

  “I don’t know, Corporal. We’ll find out soon enough. For now, we should remain here. There could be more bombers, and these bunkers have saved us.”

  “My God. My God!”

  Reimer turned. One of the others was staring out, his face pressed close to an opening in the concrete. He moved that way, saw the gray softness of daylight spreading out over the beach to the open water. For two weeks he had watched the horizon, the first glimpse of dawn revealing the water, either smooth and glassy or broken by waves and whitecaps. But now there was something else. The lieutenant was close beside him.

  “Those are ships,” he said in a low voice. “It’s a whole fleet.”

  Reimer felt a jolt of ice in his legs. His eyes fixed on the sight: dark shadows, small ships and large. No words, no talk from anyone. His mind was racing: questions, a rising surge of fear.

  Schmidt, close to him, said, “They’re ours, right? That’s the German navy. Somebody’s going to catch some hell today.”

  “I don’t know,” the lieutenant said. “I need to get to the radio, see what’s happening. Stay alert here!”

  Reimer kept his eyes on the ships, the farthest ones, enormous, larger than any he had ever seen. He heard the low hum again, but faint, a single plane, rattles of gunfire, farther down the beach. There was a shout, somewhere outside, more machine-gun fire, the sound of the plane’s engine drifting away. He kept his eyes on the ships, his mind swirling with questions, one man in the bunker said, “Spotter plane. I bet that was a spotter plane.”

  “Spotting what?”

  There were flashes now, flickers and specks of light all across the horizon, and Re
imer pulled back from the concrete. Those aren’t our ships at all.

  He glanced to the side, the lieutenant still there, frozen, staring out, and the lieutenant said, “Spotting us.”

  The awful noises returned: screaming wails, the air above them ripped and shattered. The shells began to thunder above them, jolting him, the men tumbling again, more dust, the concrete shaking, deafening blasts. He lay flat, held his helmet to his head, curled his legs in tight, felt himself bouncing on the concrete, his hands hard on his ears, his brain screaming into the roar of fire, the terror grabbing him, pulling him into a complete and perfect hell.

  After forty minutes it stopped.

  Silence hung over them in the thick dusty air. Reimer felt it first in his chest, the hard quaking inside him suddenly quiet. His hands were still against his head but he opened his eyes, saw whiteness, the breeze pushing through slits in the concrete, daylight and dust, the air slowly clearing. Men were moving, crawling, some with hands still locked over their ears. Reimer saw faces, wide-eyed shock, eyes fighting to see, and he pulled his own hands away, hesitant, expecting more of the shocking blows, but there was silence, no sound at all. The lieutenant was there, close to him, a hand on his shoulder, and Reimer nodded, couldn’t hear the man at all, struggled to his knees, then up to his feet. He saw Schmidt, on his feet as well, adjusting his helmet, blood on the man’s face, a cut on his nose. Schmidt looked at him, gray dirt accenting the whites of his eyes, the sounds starting to come back, soft murmurs, and said, “You all right?”

  The words were hollow and soft against the numbness in his ears, and Reimer nodded. He looked past Schmidt, saw the machine gun lying on its side, the tripod pointing in the air, and moved quickly, instinctively, righting the gun. Schmidt was there as well, and then a hard hand on his back and the voice of the lieutenant.