The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  “You got ammo?”

  Marley put his hands against the pockets of his jumpsuit, said, “Yes, sir. Sixty rounds. Lost my bandoliers in the jump.”

  Scofield didn’t react. Sixty, Adams thought. Just what he jumped with. Never fired his rifle. He looked at Marley, no sign of the smart-assed grin.

  Adams moved close, said in a low voice, “I’ve got your back, Private. You damn well better have mine.”

  Unger was there now, grabbed Marley by the arm, said, “We’re ready to move out, Sarge.”

  Adams turned toward Scofield, saw a subtle flicker of understanding.

  “Your men fit to travel, Sergeant?” Scofield said.

  “They’re fit, sir.”

  Adams heard a voice far down the field, saw a man standing, waving his arms. There was another man moving with him, head low, scampering frantically through the grass.

  “What in hell is that about?” Scofield said. “That guy’s not one of mine. He runs like a staff officer.”

  The two men joined them, the second man older, breathing heavily. Adams saw the smudged oak leaf on the man’s helmet.

  “Hello, Major,” Scofield said. “Welcome to our fortress. You just happen by?”

  The man was catching his breath.

  “Captain! Thank God!” he said in quick gasps. “I’ve been searching all over for anyone who could lend a hand. We’re scattered all over hell out here. And the enemy was just as likely to be in this field as you were.”

  Scofield glanced at Adams. “We specialize in lending a hand. Do you know where we are?”

  The major seemed surprised at the question.

  “I haven’t the first inkling, Captain. But I do know where General Gavin is. He ordered the few staff officers he could find to come out here and bring in whatever strength we could locate. There’s a road back that way, out past the far side of this field. The general has established a command post of sorts about a mile to the west.”

  The men close by were rising up from their foxholes, expectant faces. Adams saw a sergeant, unfamiliar, the insignia of the 101st, and Scofield motioned to him.

  “Gather up the men. I’m pretty sure General Gavin has something useful for us to do. At least we might get a chance to kill some more Krauts.”

  The major seemed surprised at the number of troops who were suddenly appearing from their cover. “Yes. Most excellent. Um…Captain, tell me. General Gavin was most specific about my asking this. It seems the general has been unable to contact anyone, to find out—well, anything. We lost our radios in the jump, and nobody we’ve found has one. Do you?”

  Scofield pulled his forty-five from his holster and checked it. “Of course not, Major. Why would anything out here go according to plan?”

  * * *

  22. ADAMS

  * * *

  NEAR LA FIÈRE BRIDGE, WEST OF SAINTE-MÈRE-ÉGLISE

  JUNE 6, 1944, 9 A.M.

  They marched alongside the narrow road, hemmed in by the endless confinement of the hedgerows. But now there were men in foxholes, Americans, spread out through every glimpse of open space, some along the ditches that bordered the road.

  Gavin’s staff officer had assured Scofield that there was no danger. In his energetic efforts to gather up more troops, he had seen no sign of German patrols and nothing to prevent Scofield’s men from reaching Gavin’s position. But Adams understood Scofield’s caution. In this strange hedgerow country, every field was a hiding place, every intersection a perfect place for an ambush. Scofield kept the men ready, two columns walking close beside the shallow ditches on either side of the road. Adams led one column again, avoiding the wide potholes in the road, blasted dirt and brush, the remnants of an artillery barrage. In the open fields, he could see men still digging, either narrow trenches or their own foxholes. Around them, the ground was ripped and smoking still; he caught the hard smell of explosives and saw equipment turned into rubble. Across the road, Scofield walked with the major, no conversation between them. Gavin’s staff officer was clearly nervous, flinching at the sound of clanking metal, taking quick steps and pulling ahead of the column, eager to return to some kind of sanctuary. As they moved into the open ground, Adams could see more men, clusters of foxholes, gear and guns, a bazooka crew assembling to check a box of their rockets, the only antitank weapon these men could carry on their backs. Despite the numbers, Adams kept a wary eye on the distant hedgerows. The edges of each field had the same kinds of boundaries, thick rows of brush, tangles of vines and low bushes, rows of taller trees. But now there were rows of men, some up, lining the embankments, machine guns pointed out, well protected by the cover. There were more bazookas, and Adams saw more boxes of the small rockets beside each man. He had vivid memories of the clumsy weapon, Sicily, one lucky shot into a German tank by a man who did not live to brag about it. But the worst memory was of a duel, one man against a German Tiger tank, Lieutenant Colonel Art Gorham, responding to the chaotic nightmare of a fight by standing his ground against the massive machine. Gorham lost the fight, but Adams still kept the image in his mind, one man’s extraordinary courage. It was the bravest act Adams had ever seen.

  The exhaustion was still inside him, slow ponderous steps, wetness in his boots—mostly sweat this time—his uniform stiff and stinking. Adams had given up cursing the supply officers or engineers or whoever had come up with the idea that these jumpsuits could become shields against poison gas if they were soaked in some kind of chemical. Adams had heard no reports of gas from anyone. Idiots, he thought. One more case of the cure being worse than the disease.

  They reached a wide opening in a hedgerow, the major pointing the way, and Adams saw the machine gunners, the lookouts, short nods, tired relief on their faces, as they watched Scofield’s fifty men march past. Adams, behind Scofield, heard Gavin’s staff officer chattering, his own kind of relief at surviving his particular mission. Adams ignored the talk, looked across the field, focused more on the machine guns, tripods, the heavier guns that had been bundled beneath the wings of the C-47s, guns that had survived the drop. Thank God, he thought. Not everything landed in the water. He began to scan for familiar faces, some sign of anyone from his own platoon—Hovey, Simpson, Moretti, Whidden—men he had not seen since they left their plane. But the faces who watched him pass were dark and dirty, the eyes sheltered by helmets pulled low. He thought of the lieutenant. Did he make it? If Pullman is here, someone oughta know that. Officers are supposed to make sure we know where the hell they are.

  As they moved through the field, Adams saw more gear spread out on the ground, the far hedgerow more like a small wood, taller, parachutes draped through trees and tangled in the brush. There was a road there too, another narrow lane, ripped backpacks in the ditch, a broken rifle, and, now, a row of bodies. The major stopped. “Over there. General Gavin is the tall one.”

  Scofield glanced at Adams. “We know General Gavin, Major. Thanks for being our guide.”

  “Oh, certainly. Have you had any rations? We found a large drop bundle, food and water. Damned fortunate, that one. Your men can take what they need, if there’s any left.”

  Scofield turned toward the men, a straggling line gathering, and Adams saw the lieutenants moving close, questioning.

  “Unless General Gavin says different, spread them out right here,” Scofield said. “Looks like everybody’s digging in, so let’s get to work. Send half a dozen men with the major here, get some grub, fill some canteens.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scofield motioned to Adams to follow, stepped around a muddy hole, the dirt churned and burnt, scraps of metal from…something. Good time for a shovel, Adams thought. The Krauts sure as hell know we’re out here.

  He heard the clanking of metal, more shovels, and a canteen, and was suddenly enormously thirsty. He hadn’t thought of that until now, the hunger churning inside of him as well, the tension that gripped him so hard finally letting go. He saw men eating, small piles of tin cans tossed aside, more clanking ca
nteens, and beyond, among a group of men in dirty jumpsuits, the lanky frame, one foot up on the dirt embankment, staring at a map: Gavin. The men around him leaned in close, Gavin speaking in low tones, a quiet briefing. Adams knew what it meant. They put them in the same uniforms we have, but it can’t hide them. Officers stand out.

  Gavin looked up, studied the new men spreading out in the field, and recognized Scofield. “Captain. Good to see you. Those men belong to you?”

  “Not exactly, sir. I picked up some men from the One-oh-one, and there’s a few from the Five-oh-seven.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ve got about six hundred here, altogether. A lot of Five-oh-seven guys, plus strays from every damned unit that jumped. I guess than includes you.” He looked at Adams now, put his hands on his hips. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve gotta say, Sergeant, you look like hell. Makes you kinda miss London, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s good to see you too, sir.”

  Gavin rolled up the map and handed it to one of the officers.

  “Anybody have any questions? Give it about fifteen minutes, time for these new men to grab a breath. Then we’ll move out.”

  The officers moved away, each heading toward his own place in the field, and Gavin sat slowly on the embankment with a low groan.

  “Sir, I’m sorry to report that we don’t have any radios.”

  Gavin rolled his head to one side, blinked, and looked at Scofield through tired eyes. “Of course not. That would be too helpful. You lose them in the water?”

  “Or busted ’em to hell on the drop.”

  Gavin punched a fist into his hand. “Damn! This is a royal bitch, Captain. I heard a report that the landing on Utah Beach was called off. Could be a rumor, but it’s one hell of a rumor, and I have to take it seriously. If we’re not supported pretty quickly from the coast, the enemy’s going to chew us up piecemeal. Except for Colonel Kellam, I haven’t heard from the regimental or battalion commanders at all, except that Krause and Vandervoort are both out of action. General Ridgway is…back that way somewhere. That’s all I know for certain. We’ve got men on the far side of the river too, but I have no idea if anyone’s still in charge over there, or if the whole lot has been snapped up by the enemy.”

  There was a sharp whistle, a tumbling rip in the air, men shouting, a blast erupting in the middle of the open ground. Men scrambled for cover, dropping down. Gavin rolled over, on his knees, and shouted, “Cover! Now!”

  He crawled rapidly to a narrow slit trench and disappeared, and Adams flattened out in the short grass, Scofield beside him. The blasts came in a rhythm now, punching the ground around them, one blast shattering the brush behind them, Gavin’s voice came again. “Get in here!”

  Adams didn’t hesitate, followed Scofield to the trench, both men rolling across the ground and dropping down, Adams landing on Scofield with a hard grunt. They lay still, the ground pulsing beneath them with each impact. There was no other sound, just the hard claps of thunder, and Adams put his hands over his ears, felt one hard jolt, close, dirt falling on his back. He could smell the thick stink of explosives, sulfur smoke rolling over them, his lungs burning. The blasts slowed now, separate punches, and then silence. Adams eased his hands away from his ears, tested his hearing, blew a sharp breath, tried to clear the smoke from his chest. Close beside him, the voice of Gavin.

  “You two can get the hell off of me now. This trench was made for one. Wish you’d been here ten minutes sooner, you’d have dug your own.”

  Scofield said, “Sorry, sir. It was…convenient.”

  Adams crawled out and rolled into the short grass, Scofield up as well. Gavin stood in the trench, thigh-deep, searched the field, and called out, “Anybody hit?”

  Adams saw hands waving, medics gathering, shouting responses.

  Gavin cursed. “Been like this all damned day. Ten-minute artillery attacks. They’ve been hitting every field around here, trying to soften us up. I don’t think they know exactly where we are or how many. You can’t see a damned thing from one field to the next.” He squinted at Adams. “You remember all those observer reports, all that aerial photography? Everybody thought these hedges were three feet high. Some French farmer told me this morning, they’ve been here since the damned Romans. It would take a Kraut eighty-eight to blow a hole in this stuff.” He scanned the field again.

  Adams saw the wounded, medics working over them. Only three men hit, he thought. I guess that’s good.

  “We don’t know where the Kraut guns are, but I’m ready to do something about that,” Gavin said. “Our first objective was La Fière Bridge, but we have that in our pocket. The enemy put up a fight there, but it wasn’t too hot. They had some machine guns in the farmhouses, maybe fifty Krauts, and we bagged most of them. Colonel Lindquist is the senior man there, and so far he’s done the job. I’m a hell of a lot more concerned with the second bridge, about two miles south of here, Chef-du-Pont. Your CO, Ekman, is supposed to be there, but I haven’t confirmed that. It’s been quiet down that way, and that could mean trouble. Either we have nobody there, or the Krauts are dug in so heavily our boys have backed away. But those bridges are why we’re out here in the first place, and sure as hell the Krauts know we’re coming after them. We’re not sure how many of our boys are cut off on the other side of the river, but if we raise enough of a ruckus down there, it’ll give ’em a place to head to, and we might hit the bridge from both sides.” Gavin paused, looked at Scofield. “Any chance you salvaged any of the field artillery?”

  Scofield shook his head. “I know one of them came down in the water, sir. It landed right next to me. It’s buried deep.”

  Gavin shook his head again, climbed up out of the trench, moved back to the embankment, sat. “We lost two of them right out here. One fell into the swamp about a mile to the north, and the Krauts have so many machine guns covering that ground, nobody could retrieve it. Another came down on dry ground in too many pieces. We reassembled the damned thing, only to find out the breechblock was missing. It’ll make some French farmer a nice yard ornament. So, no artillery support, and no radios to let anyone know what the hell we’re doing out here. And if that damned rumor about Utah Beach is accurate, we’re doing all this alone. Captain, see to your men. We’re going to move out toward Chef-du-Pont in a few minutes. I’ll give the word. Anybody bitches, tell them they might be glad they have those holes waiting for them if this little party goes to hell. Leave your sergeant with me for now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Scofield moved away, and Adams watched him through a fog, the hunger returning, dust in his mouth. He brushed dirt from the stinking stiffness of his uniform. “Sir, is there a canteen around here I could use? I lost my gear in the drop.”

  Gavin pulled his own from his belt, handed it up to Adams. It was half full, and Adams took a brief swig, the water warm and perfect. He handed it back.

  “What happened to your gear?” Gavin said.

  Adams moved the last remnants of water around his mouth, the last swallow. “I came down in deep water. Had to cut myself free. But most of it left me in the air.” He wanted to say something about the pilot, the idiot Texan, but thought, No, let it go. There’ll be time for that jackass later.

  Gavin searched the field. “Major! Get the sergeant here some rations. Whatever we have in that crate over there.”

  “Sir, I can get it myself. No need to—”

  “Sit down, Sergeant. I know you too well. You’re beat to hell, and you haven’t had a damned thing to eat. We did find a crate of C rations. Only good luck we had today. That’s a hell of a lot better than those damned K rations. Never figured out what deviled ham is anyway. But in the Cs, you can actually eat the beef stew. And the fruit cocktail’s not bad.”

  The major hurried close, carrying a handful of small cans. He seemed nervous.

  “Here you go, Sergeant. General, I wish you would stay down in the trench. The enemy artillery has been pretty consistent. They could begin again an
y time.”

  “Worry about yourself, Major. Use my trench if you want. The sergeant here seemed to like it. But don’t get comfortable. We take that second bridge, I’ll need you to send word to General Ridgway. I expect somebody from his staff will be nosing out here pretty quick, once the shooting starts again. First, go find Captain Grayson. Tell him to pass word to the officers. We move out in ten minutes.”

  Adams watched the major hurry away, dug into the beef stew with two fingers, then turned the can up and slurped the contents down his throat. He picked up a second can, hesitated, stuffed it into a pocket in his jacket. Yep, save that one for later. Gavin’s right about that deviled ham stuff. But right now it wouldn’t matter. Spam would work too. He noticed Gavin watching him, no smile, could see that Gavin was thinking, planning, his brain always working.

  “This has been one hell of a mess, Sergeant. I’m not happy that all we’ve done is stir up the countryside and put our people on one bridge. Rommel’s too smart not to sort things out, and when he does, those bastards will be coming. If they had any idea how much confusion there is in these swamps and hedgerows, they’d have hit us already. I’m surprised as hell we haven’t had any Messerschmitts buzzing us. And I haven’t heard anything about Kraut armor yet, but it’s out there, and sooner or later it’s coming too. If we don’t get our people into a strong position by nightfall, we could get chewed up pretty badly.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gavin reached for a can of the rations and stared at it for a moment, rolling it in his hands. Adams felt a question brewing: If the bridges are close, we’re not that far from the designated drop zones.

  “Sir, where did all that water come from? I saw the maps. The Merderet—”