by Jeff Shaara
LA FIÈREBRIDGE
JUNE 9, 1944, 10 A.M.
The assault the night before had lit up the sky with streaks of light, flashes of fire that inspired Adams and then frustrated him. Around him, the men had cheered, but then, with the fight continuing past midnight, the enthusiasm turned to frustration. If there had been success, Adams knew they would have been ordered to advance across the causeway, adding power to those men who had driven the Germans back. But the order never came. Then, as the sleepless troopers continued to wait in their foxholes, frantic officers had come and radios had crackled around Gavin’s command post, reports of horrific cost and no substantial gains. There had been one positive word, however, passed along to Adams from Scofield. The location of at least two groups of Americans had been confirmed, those men mostly from the 508th, who had come down on the west side of the river. It was valuable strength that Gavin hoped to call upon to lend a much-needed hand. Any enthusiasm for that report was dampened by the knowledge that the Germans were just as eager to gather up those stranded paratroopers as Gavin was. Though the stranded men had done what they could to aid the new attack, in the darkness, and with such a staunch defense by the Germans, there could be no rescue. Those men were still out there.
With so little communication, and the rampant energy of rumor, Adams had no idea who might be on the far side of the river. The river itself still held the visible bodies of men and their parachutes, dark smears in the grassy water, tangled parachutes in the brush. It was a constant reminder that a great many men had come down in water as Adams had come down, many of them not lucky enough to survive. But across, beyond the swampy marshes, there were only the sounds of scattered fighting, mortars and machine guns and hints of rifle fire. With each firefight, the Germans were consolidating, bringing more people to the front, still seeking one more way to eliminate those paratroopers cut off on the west side of the river.
Adams stared out that way, across flat grassy marsh. I never thought the five-oh-eight would be worth a damn, he thought. Too fresh, too much talk, and no experience. But there’re some tough bastards over there. I’d like to shake somebody’s hand, if they survive.
To one side, a mortar shell impacted, with no warning. He had grown nearly immune to the shock of the constant surprise, so many shells, the strange security of his one small hole. The officers continued to move about, Gavin as well, and Adams had cringed, thinking, All it takes is one lucky jackass over there, and we lose the best man we’ve got. But Gavin still came forward, holding the binoculars, giving fresh orders, officers scampering close, then back to their men. Adams would watch him, Gavin never flinching. It was too strange. Adams’s thoughts went back to the offices in London: clean uniforms, all those weeks of planning and meetings, maps and arguments, with men who would never do this, who would never know what it was like to go about your business with the enemy trying to kill you. Then Gavin would be gone again, and Adams tried to visualize that as well: Gavin somewhere back by the railroad tracks, with staff officers, radios, even General Ridgway. I’ll never be an officer, he thought. I have one job, and it’s the best job in the army. Kill the enemy. To hell with arguments and generals. But not Gavin. God help him. If I don’t survive this, I hope like hell he does.
Throughout the morning, more of the precious artillery had come forward, a total of seven of the snub-nosed howitzers now dug in, facing the causeway. There had been the sound of tanks as well, a glorious racket that pulled the men up from their holes. All through the village and beyond, a dozen Sherman tanks had appeared, sent forward by commanders who had brought their armor across Utah Beach. The tanks had spread out in whatever cover they could find, some of the crews digging shallow pits, the hulls of the tanks set low, only the turrets visible to the enemy across the way.
The arrival of the armor and artillery gave every man at the causeway a reason to breathe easier, talk drifting through the foxholes that with so many new teeth in the American position the Germans were not about to try another assault. But Adams heard other talk as well, talk that made more sense, coming from men who knew what was about to happen. He watched them now, Gavin coming again, standing low over a narrow slit trench, two infantry officers in clean uniforms beside him, dropping down, keeping low, a telltale radio aerial, the tool of the artillery observer. Gavin was pointing across the open ground, and Adams heard the words.
“Right there. The road on the causeway leads into Cauquigny, which is eight hundred yards or so beyond those trees. The enemy has it, and we’re going to take it. I want you to blow hell out of the place, and anything else you see that looks like a target. How many 155s?”
“By now, sir, we should have all twelve in position.”
“Good. Pick a target out there, and start zeroing them in. Let me see what they can do.”
Adams heard low talk, one man using his radio, and in a few seconds, Adams heard a ripping shriek, the shell coming from behind, passing overhead, and then, a hard thump across the causeway. Now another shell came, another punch of thunder, smoke rising, men around him quieting, watching the spectacle.
Adams looked at Gavin again, saw him standing upright, binoculars, shouting, “One more time!”
The shelling continued, guns far behind the causeway seeking the range, zeroing in on the woods across the way. Gavin turned and scanned the men around him, helmets popping up across the sloping ground, more men gathering in the narrow streets of the village. Gavin motioned to an aide, a radio coming forward, the men ducking low, Gavin still upright. He spoke into the radio; Adams couldn’t hear the words, but now the guns close by began to fire, then a sudden burst from a tank, then more, the entire village erupting with cannon fire. Adams held his ears, couldn’t help a smile, watched Gavin again, the tall man seeming to wait, enjoying the moment, the power in his hands, one arm waving, a signal to the officers. Scofield was up now, motioning to Adams and the others, pointing, the order to fire drowned out by the roar of the big guns.
Around Adams, the heavier machine guns opened up, the beautiful rattle of the BARs, the men caught up in the enormous turmoil, firing their rifles. Adams raised the Thompson, aimed high at the dull tree line across the way, fired a short burst, then emptied the magazine. He stared out toward the causeway, streaks of white, impacts on the far side, trees across the way tumbling into fire, thick plumes of smoke rising. Save your ammo, he told himself. This thing isn’t any good at long range. Let the big boys do the job. But damn. I do need to fire this thing once in a while. I need to smell the powder.
He searched for Gavin again, but the general was gone, back to his command post, where more of the radios connected him to Ridgway and to the men farther behind, the vast wave of infantry waiting to roll over this miserable stretch of open ground. Out front, closer to the causeway itself, the glider men had slipped into place, the men who would lead the assault. One man rose up from a foxhole, an officer Adams didn’t know, a quick wave of his arm, a voice lost in the cascade of fire. The men rose up with him, several hundred from the cover of the stone bridge itself, a surge of green pressing across, moving onto the narrow mouth of the causeway.
Adams watched them, no sound except for the solid wall of firing from the tanks and artillery, the chatter of rifles and machine guns close by. They were on the causeway now, slow jogs, some staying close to the rows of brush on either side of the open lane, a futile grab for cover even as they made their advance. More men filed in behind, a single tight wave, helmets bobbing, rifles across their chests. They reached the slight curve in the causeway, still moving forward, nothing slowing them but their own tired legs, and Adams felt a knot in his chest. My God, keep going! Go! Faster! They were halfway across now, the shouts of the officers pulling them forward. Adams stared into the smoke, the artillery fire still blasting the far side of the flooded plain, but the smoke was drifting to one side, trees were visible, a spire from the village in the distance, and now from the smoke came streaks of fire, flickers and bursts from all across the
far bank.
He flinched, pulled his shoulders in tight, hands hard on the Thompson, could see men falling on the causeway, the wave of green staggering, some men stumbling into the water, no cover, no protection. But the men in front pushed on and Adams couldn’t turn away; he held the Thompson up in frustration, useless at this range, others around him aiming their M-1s to the side, to the enemy who fired back from cover so far away. He tried to see, but smoke was pouring over the causeway, mortar rounds coming down among the glider troops, flashes of fire, dirt in the air, men falling, staggering, some seeking cover in the water. The surge had slowed, so many of the men were down on flat ground or packing into the shallow ditches along the causeway. But others still moved forward and reached the far side, disappearing into smoke, hidden by the stream of men that came back, some wounded, some just running.
Adams stared in cold horror, felt his legs strengthening, tight springs, thought, Get out there, help them! What the hell are we doing back here? The fight seemed to taper away, scattered shooting on the far side of the river, but the artillery had stopped its fire, the targets just as likely to be friendly. Officers were moving around the bridge, back up the rise toward Adams, toward the men who stared out as he did, the horrific sight, bodies on the causeway, blasts of mortar fire still falling, tossing the dead in the air, men flung into dark water.
There was a new sound behind him, the rattling roar of a tank, and Adams turned and saw the Sherman rolling toward the bridge and crossing quickly, men scrambling to clear the way, dragging the wounded and dead to the side of the road. More tanks began to fire up, moving into line, and the first tank was on the causeway now, the gun firing. Adams was suddenly furious. What the hell? You’ll run people over! Where the hell were you when this started? Why weren’t you in front? The tank bounced and rolled forward, a mortar shell coming down behind it, another to one side, a plume of water rising. The other tanks were moving toward the bridge, and Adams saw a flash of fire far out on the causeway, and the first tank spun sideways and tilted down, its gun pointed uselessly to the side, boiling black smoke. The other tanks halted now, the first tank a perfect roadblock, and Adams wanted to scream, jam his fist into someone’s face. What stupid son of a bitch did that? He thought of the German tanks, wrecked on the causeway two days before, gone now, pulled into the water by the good work of demolition teams. Now we return the favor?
“Sergeant! Get ready to move! We’re going in!”
Adams saw Scofield pulling himself out of a foxhole, others rising up all along the near side of the water. He saw Gavin as well, the thin silhouette, leaning against a small stone wall. Gavin was staring across the causeway, a man behind him shouting furiously into a radio. Gavin pointed to Scofield and said, “We’re going across! The glider boys need some help!”
Scofield didn’t look at him. Adams saw streams of sweat on the man’s face, the hard stare in the eyes, and around them his own men were rising up, wide-eyed with fear.
Adams climbed up quickly and moved toward them.
“Those boys need us!” he shouted. “You got that? It’s time to go to work!”
More men were gathering, most ignoring the cracks and whistles from guns across the river, other sergeants calling their men out from their cover, officers on the stone bridge. Adams tapped his heavy pants leg, a bundle of magazines for the Thompson, felt the grenades hooked to his chest. Unger was beside him now, talking, high-pitched words; Be careful. Adams tried to ignore him; I don’t need that kind of stupidity, he thought. “Shut the hell up! Save it for the enemy!”
He looked past Unger, glanced at Marley, Nusbaum, and the others; he didn’t want talk from any of them. They were strangers now, all of them, helmets and rifles and dirty uniforms.
Scofield shouted out, “Follow Captain Rae! Double-time! Let’s go!”
Adams waited for the others to start moving and slipped in behind Marley. No one stops, he thought. No one turns around. A new flow of men was already on the causeway, pushing past others who were coming back. Around them, the enemy fire was increasing, mortar shells dropping again, some in the water, the smoke from the burning tank rising to one side, no cover at all. Men were down all around him, the glider troops, dead and wounded, green men who had not survived their first fight. Others were crawling, some in the water, hard cries, drowned out by the sheets of fire over their heads. Adams was close to the tank, a cluster of men seeking cover, an officer grabbing a man by the shirt, screaming profanity, the man up, moving forward again. The ditches were thick with men, some of them weaponless, no wounds, and there was another officer, pistol in hand, firing in the air.
“Get up! Move or I’ll kill you!”
Adams didn’t pause, stepped through the fallen men, one of them curled up, his hands over his head, and Adams felt rage, kicked the man. “Get up! Let’s go!”
The man ignored him, paralyzed, and Adams could not wait, saw others rising up from the ditches, moving into the road again. In front of him, a man slowed, and Adams pushed him with his hand: Marley, the big man hesitating. A sharp crack went past Adams’s ear, and he shouted, “Keep moving! No cover here! Get to the other side!”
Marley seemed to respond, jogging forward, more men on the causeway beside them. The trees ahead were filled with smoke; rifle and machine-gun fire rolled over them. Adams saw the ground rising, the causeway ending, the road narrowing, disappearing into a hedgerow. He tried to breathe, searing pain in his chest, saw men scattered in the grass, some firing into the trees. To one side, a cluster of gray, Germans, on their knees, hands in the air, one man’s rifle pointed at their faces. Adams pushed past, saw Scofield, waving them forward, saw trenches now, German trenches, men dropping down into cover, firing into the trees. He scanned the ground on both sides of the road, searched frantically, men still going down, saw a thin trench, moved that way. Men were already there, one man firing, the others just curled up, weaponless, terrified, a dead German in the grass. He moved past, felt a hard blast behind him, a mortar shell, screams, and ducked low, looked back, and saw more men coming, spreading out away from the causeway, officers shouting, pointing, cover in the trees, bodies, bloody black shapes, a German helmet, the hard stink of explosives.
The fight was all around him, and he searched again for cover, saw a low rise, fresh dirt, and climbed up, his legs weak, stumbled, rolled forward, the ground falling away sharply. He was on his side now, hard jarring impact, the Thompson jammed into his face, but he kept his grip, fought to see, was down in a trench, soft dirt, more stink, a uniform, gray, the helmet, Kraut. He spun himself hard, jerked the Thompson forward, fired a burst, his own voice screaming as loud as the submachine gun. He fired again, the man’s chest ripped apart, saw the face now, black tar, lifeless, realized—a corpse. He stared for a long moment, the sounds of the fight above him, a blur of noise, machine-gun fire and screams, and he held tightly to the Thompson, smelled the smoke from the barrel, the stink in the trench, felt the blind fury, his own terror, the animal taking over, and he stared at the dead man’s empty eyes and pulled the trigger again.
They had driven forward to the village of Cauquigny, the Germans giving ground slowly, a brutal hand-to-hand fight, bayonets and hand grenades. By late afternoon the Germans had mostly pulled away, leaving Cauquigny a shamble of shattered buildings, smoke and dust and debris, the paratroopers digging into whatever cover they could find. Behind them, on the causeway, the wreckage of the Sherman tank had been cleared, the men astounded that the one officer who rushed forward to oversee the job had been General Ridgway himself.
With the causeway cleared, three more tanks rolled across, led by Gavin. The sight of their commanders was enough to rouse many of the cowering men from their terror, and all along the causeway, men found the strength to rise up and push forward to the village. With officers gathering, a command post was established at a small blockhouse, the command falling upon the senior officer in the town, Colonel Herb Sitler, executive officer of the glider regiment.
As darkness settled over the swamps and villages west of the river, the fight grew more scattered, any panic in the men replaced by utter fatigue. With the lull came new orders, Gavin still at work, other officers doing what they could to organize and prepare their men for anything the Germans might do. Adams had been sent north, along the river, a squad of men led by Captain Scofield. They had one simple mission: Do what they could to locate any pockets of stranded paratroopers.
WEST OF THE MERDERET RIVER
JUNE 10, 1944, 10 P.M.
The ground was wet and soft, one more narrow farm lane, set deep between tall hedgerows. To one side, the steep mounds served more as a dam, holding back the flooded Merderet. But there were gaps, low places, and Adams had stepped through water on the road, shuffling his feet, harsh words for the men who were clumsy, careless, whose boots made any kind of splash. During the fighting around Cauquigny, there had been signs that a fight had broken out to the north, a half mile or more above the town, the telltale rumble of American grenades, the pop of the M-1s, something Adams had heard himself.
Scofield kept to one side of the road, Adams across from him. They were fifteen men. Bringing up the rear was a lieutenant Adams didn’t know, a name he had already forgotten. He moved with slow automatic steps, testing, the ground hard again: small rocks, tedious steps, urgent carefulness, nothing to break the silence. He stared ahead, fought to see any movement, the darkness alive with small sounds, insects mostly, some strange screeching bird. Birds, he thought. Wonder what they think about all this? Cussing us out probably. Men ripping their little piece of heaven all to hell. At least they can get out of the way. Not like us. He thought of the causeway, so many men, stepping through the dead. Someone’s back there working on that right now. Gotta be. The graves people. Miserable damned job. More miserable than this? He looked to the side, the shadow of Scofield, and heard a stumble behind him, one man’s boots skidding to a halt. He froze, and the others reacted, all of them still. The closest man moved up, a faint whisper.
