The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  Adams had already met too many replacements, men who came through the Replacement Depot, or repple depple. They were the army’s orphans, men who were drafted and had been assigned to no particular unit in the States. It was the necessity of war, a means of plugging gaps in the ranks of the frontline units. It made perfect sense to Adams. If a man had no idea where the army was going to put him, why not volunteer for the most elite unit there was? Let someone else worry about whether he could cut it or not.

  Gavin drank his coffee, seeming immune to the taste; Adams glanced at his own cup, fighting the need to drink.

  “Scofield’s getting his oak leaves,” Gavin said. “He’ll be a major by this weekend. Still command the company, though. I tried to get him booted up to battalion commander, but Ridgway had his own people in mind. I’ve got the list right here, all the promotions. Your name’s not on it.”

  “That’s all right, sir. I wasn’t expecting—”

  “Your name’s not on it because I wanted to talk to you first. I ran this by Scofield, but he thought it ought to come straight from me. One thing the army doesn’t usually give anybody is options. But I have a couple for you.”

  Adams felt a stirring inside, saw Gavin reach for another piece of paper.

  “I’ve written a letter about you to General Ridgway, and he has endorsed my recommendation. But nothing’s final.” He stopped, looked up at Adams. “You know how damned rare this is?”

  “No, sir. I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  Gavin smiled again. “You have a choice. That’s what’s so damned rare. I’ve put in for you to receive a commission: second lieutenant, effective immediately. But there’s a catch, and that’s why you have a choice. If you accept your commission, you will return to the States: Fort Benning, actually. As I said, there are a wad of new men volunteering to jump, and we need a whole load of new instructors. Those instructors need the best training they can get, and in my mind you’re the man to train them. In addition, you’ll be designated as the Five-oh-five’s senior jumpmaster. As such, you will determine who receives jumpmaster training and who makes the grade.”

  Adams digested the words. Fort Benning, one word rising up: Georgia.

  “Well?”

  Adams still didn’t respond, felt a cold gloom flooding his brain. Gavin seemed unusually patient, and after a long moment Adams said, “Is that my…choice, sir?”

  “I knew you’d ask that. That’s one choice. The other is a bit less glamorous. The paperwork can be completed on this one pretty quickly. You will be promoted to first sergeant and return to your assigned company. You will remain under the command of Major Scofield and God knows which lieutenant. They’re falling out of the sky around here every day. If you’re lucky, you’ll get a West Pointer.” Gavin paused. “There’s a catch to this one too. We’re beginning a new training regimen for the entire division. No details yet, but there are expectations that the Eighty-second isn’t ready for the dustbin just yet. In other words, you’ll resume your place as the company’s senior jumpmaster and qualify as many new men as you can.”

  “And I won’t be going to Benning, sir.”

  Gavin shook his head. “No. You’ll be staying here. You’ll still be mine. And when we get our next assignment, you’ll still be carrying that damned Thompson. That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? You dumb son of a bitch.”

  “It’s not a hard choice, sir.”

  “No, it’s not. I’d do the same thing.”

  MARKET HARBOROUGH, NEAR LEICESTER

  JUNE 24, 1944

  The day had been long and muddy, and every new man in the company was learning to hate him. Even the veterans had begun the new round of physical training, and those who had slogged their way through the French bocage were discovering that they weren’t in nearly as good shape as they thought they were. Already, Adams had heard the groans, a five-mile jaunt through the English countryside that had given them blisters and sore ankles, cramped legs, and gasping exhaustion. And it was only the first day.

  He still had not met his new lieutenant, word filtering down that too many officers were not making the grade, that the qualification training had washed out a sizable percentage of the young lieutenants who had thought themselves capable of bringing down Hitler all by themselves. The replacements in the ranks were annoying enough, and Nusbaum had slipped easily into the role that Adams had once enjoyed, the sergeant with no tolerance. As Nusbaum pushed his men through their paces, the new men were hating him too, something Nusbaum actually seemed to enjoy. Adams had laughed at that, the first real laugh he had experienced in England, Nusbaum mimicking so many of the curses and blistering insults that Adams had long ago laid on him.

  As daylight faded, the men stumbled back to the barracks, all of them anxious for the signal that the mess hall was open. It was as it had always been before, the men ordered to run everywhere they went, and it was no different now. Adams had already given word that they be allowed ten minutes to nurse sore feet and probe the various wounds from the long jog, a low chorus of misery Adams had heard too many times. He was suffering as well, a pain in his knee, remnants of something from France, flashes of memory he tried not to digest. He fought the need to limp and watched Nusbaum, chiding a new man unmercifully, following him into the barracks. Adams stopped, flexed his knee, and took a long breath: more pain, the stiffness in his ribs always there. He moved toward the barracks thinking of his cot, delicious, his private space at one end, a small piece of luxury for the new first sergeant. I need five minutes, that’s all. Just five.

  “Hey, Sarge!”

  Unger was running toward him from across the parade ground. Adams was not in the mood for anyone’s cheerfulness.

  “Sarge! Look! Look here!”

  Unger had reached him, breathing now in heavy gasps, pointing to his shoulder. He was wearing a corporal’s stripes.

  “How about that, huh, Sarge? I got a promotion! My mama’s gonna be so proud!”

  “I know, kid. I put you in for it.”

  “Wowee! Thanks, Sarge! Thank you!”

  Adams couldn’t help laughing. Unger made that five-mile run, and he’s ready to go out and do it again. He began to move, slow steps, struggling not to limp, the barracks door achingly far away. Unger moved in beside him.

  “I gotta ask you something, Sarge. I’ve been having a lot of trouble getting any sleep. Not sure what to do. I don’t feel sick or nothing. I’m just wide awake, for hours, maybe.”

  Adams stopped, nursed the pain in his knee, saw a dark seriousness in Unger’s eyes.

  “Sorry I mentioned it, Sarge. You’re hurting. We ought to head inside.”

  “Who says I’m hurting?”

  He regretted the anger in his voice, but Unger didn’t react to it. “It’ll pass, I guess. Not sleeping, I mean. Whole lot better than what those boys in the hospital are going through. Heck of a thing, though. When I was a kid, I always wanted to stay up all night, see what it’d be like. Now, all I want to do is get some sleep. I guess we stayed up too many nights already. Maybe I’m used to it.”

  “Shut up. You think you’re the only one who can’t sleep?”

  He voice was rising, and he felt helpless, couldn’t control the anger now, saw Unger flinch, surprised.

  “Sorry, Sarge….”

  Adams forced himself to look away. He was still angry, his brain shouting in meaningless fury. Unger seemed to watch him, and Adams looked at him again, saw the darkness, that small flicker in the eyes of this man who had learned to kill.

  “How old are you really, kid?”

  Unger looked down, seemed to debate the response, then looked up into Adams’s eyes, cold and direct. “I’m eighteen, Sarge. Three weeks ago. The day Dexter died.”

  Adams fought the image: Marley’s leg gone, the man’s cries, the medic with too much work to do. He thought of Unger too, that same fight, running past Adams with the grenade and taking out the machine-gun nest, the sort of act that earns medals.
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br />   “Eighteen. It’s a damned good thing.”

  “Sorry I lied to you, Sarge. I had to—”

  “I don’t care about that now. And I don’t want to hear about Private Marley or any of the rest of it. You got that?”

  “Okay, Sarge.”

  They stood silently, Adams ignoring the pains, a cold hand tightening a grip in his chest. He wanted Unger to go away, push all this from his mind. But the words came, unstoppable.

  “I’ve been having a little trouble too. Sleeping.”

  Unger studied him, nodded. “Yeah, I know. Seen you a few times, could tell you were awake. What’s it mean, Sarge? It’s just…sleep. I’m tired as heck, feel like I could go to sleep in the chow line. But at night…I just lie there.”

  Adams thought for a moment. “All I know is that I’m so damned sick of lying in that cot and hearing…nothing.”

  Unger nodded again. “Awful darned quiet in that barracks.” He paused. “You think they’ll send us to France again? I really wanna go back, Sarge. I think I miss it.”

  Adams absorbed the words, saw the dark in Unger’s eyes.

  “That’s it, kid. You miss it. So do I.”

  * * *

  40. EISENHOWER

  * * *

  On July 18, Montgomery finally launched Operation Goodwood, designed to crush the final German lines of resistance around Caen and allow the British tanks to surge south into open ground. The advance had been preceded by another extraordinary effort from British heavy bombers, one more attempt at cooperation with Montgomery’s plans. The goal, again, was to obliterate the enemy before the British ground forces would have to confront them. Seven thousand tons of bombs were dropped on German positions, and the bombardiers were far more accurate than before. Once the bombing had ceased, the British ground forces advanced into damage they could plainly tell had been horrific. But it was not horrific enough. Though frontline troops and their heavier weapons were shattered, the German tactic below Caen called for a stronger second line, to contain any immediate breakthrough. The British bombers damaged those positions as well, but large pockets of tanks and artillery were left unscathed. As the British armor advanced, expecting to find a disheartened and defeated enemy, they drove instead straight into batteries of eighty-eight-millimeter antitank guns, the most devastating ground weapon the Germans had.

  Montgomery had given Eisenhower and everyone else loud assurances that Operation Goodwood would create a significant rupture in the German lines and allow the British forces to drive as far south as the town of Falaise, a boast that invigorated everyone at SHAEF. But reality interrupted Montgomery’s hopes. Sensing problems with his advance, Montgomery altered his own plans, tempering his ambitions considerably. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, Montgomery neglected to tell anyone at SHAEF that his plan had been drawn in. Worse for Montgomery, ongoing German resistance far exceeded his expectations. Montgomery recognized that pursuing Goodwood any further could lead to losses that the British could not absorb. On July 20, two days after it began, Montgomery called off the attack. Instead of the capture of Falaise, which would have required a breakthrough of some twenty-five miles, the British had a tentative gain of only seven miles of ground.

  The original schedule for Goodwood had called for Montgomery’s assault to begin two days before Bradley’s Operation Cobra. Ideally, with Montgomery’s attack in full swing, the Germans facing him would be held fast, and German commanders might even be persuaded to draw reinforcements from the troops who faced Bradley. Once again, what was drawn on paper did not happen in the field. Bradley’s plans for Cobra required the same sort of heavy air support that had preceded Montgomery’s attack, but by July 20 the weather had turned again, heavy rains and fog preventing the bombers from leaving the ground. Bradley was forced to delay his attack until July 24. The Germans would certainly determine that Montgomery had taken his best shot south of Caen and failed. The most logical plan for the Allied command would now be to launch the Americans against the German left flank, at the base of the Cotentin Peninsula. Eisenhower understood that the delay caused by the weather had negated any benefit to Bradley from Montgomery’s operation. The Germans who faced the Americans in the bocage country would have ample time to prepare themselves for whatever Bradley was going to do, knowing they still held the defensive advantage in the hedgerows and swamps.

  Montgomery’s failure was one more straw on Eisenhower’s back. The hostile grumbling, particularly among the British air commanders, was growing more fierce every day. Once again they had offered heavy bomber support to the ground forces and had virtually nothing to show for it. Whether or not they shared the blame, the “bomber barons” were openly outraged by Montgomery’s apparent sluggishness. More and more, they just wanted him gone.

  SHAEF FORWARD COMMAND POST, PORTSMOUTH

  JULY 24, 1944

  Eisenhower stood outside his tent, stared skyward. There had been reports of V-1s coming in much closer to Portsmouth, and he could not ignore them. Though the buzz bombs continued to take a horrific toll on the British citizenry, the Royal Air Force had been increasingly successful at targeting the flying bombs before they reached their targets, intercepting some of them far out over the English Channel. The V-1s were faster than even the fastest fighter plane, but the pilots were growing more skilled at interception. On the ground, the gunners were gaining skill as well, new technology emerging in the form of radar-sighted antiaircraft guns. But the quantity of V-1s had increased, hundreds in the past two weeks, and no matter the effectiveness of the efforts to intercept them, a number of them continued to get through.

  He listened, heard the drone of aircraft engines, a squadron of fighters low on the horizon, nothing for him to see. Tedder emerged from the tent behind him, papers in his hand.

  “Harris and Leigh-Mallory are in perfect agreement about this. Damned rare, that one. They’re claiming Monty sold them a bill of goods, convinced them to toss all their eggs into his basket, then pulled the rug out.”

  Eisenhower looked at him. “How many metaphors can you put into one statement?”

  “Sorry. Thought I’d toss a smile your way. Not appropriate, I suppose. But I’ve been chewing on this for a while now. I’ve not grumped as much about Monty as some of the others, you know that. It’s not a simple task to come down hard on one of our own.”

  “Since when? Dammit, Arthur, one of the parts of this job I’ve grown used to is the bitching. I’ve heard it all, from your people and mine, and the French as well. Nobody’s happy, ever. We win this thing, they’ll be bitching about what happens next, who’s in charge of what, all that political crap.”

  He paused.

  “Monty has damned sure screwed up. We can’t keep launching these attacks and sucking up these casualties when we accomplish so damned little. Seven thousand tons of bombs for seven miles gained. If that’s how much this real estate is going to cost us, we’re not going to make it to Germany. Churchill is raising hell every day, pushing me to use my judgment, his way of telling me to get off my ass and do something. The newspapers in the States are raising hell about Monty, as though he’s losing us this war. Marshall’s soaking up a lot of that, but it’s still kicking me from behind, and I’m damned tired of it. I wish I could tell those jackasses that, by God, we are doing something to try to win this war, that Bradley’s people are on the move. Damned know-nothings with all the answers.”

  “Ike, some of your own people are saying you have to sack Monty, and if you don’t you’re selling out to the British. I’m hearing more and more of that.”

  Eisenhower had rarely been angry at Tedder before but he felt the burn, the explosion building. “Don’t you tell me what my people—” He grabbed the next words, pulled them back, spun around, and moved into the tent. Tedder came in behind him. Eisenhower sat on the cot, tried to hold his temper. “Dammit. I’m doing it too. Your people, my people. Sorry.”

  “Ike, I’m your second-in-command. I know how much bull is floating
around. I know all about rivalries and patriotic spirit. I also know you’re above all that, no matter how annoyed you get, with Monty or me or anyone else. I’m not suggesting you take any action with Monty one way or the other. But you have to know what the weather’s like in your command.”

  “Look, I could fire Monty today. Churchill would raise a glass to me, every American general in this army would salute me—and then what? The British newspapers would spew out every invective that exists. Every damned story I get here refers to Monty’s troops. From the very beginning the British papers were calling this Monty’s invasion, Monty’s paratroop drop, Monty’s victories. I’ve had to take steam for that from the States and from right here. But, fine, I understand what the British papers are doing, how badly your people need him. If I sack Monty, your Parliament will erupt like a volcano. Churchill has enough problems as it is; he’d be facing a revolt.”

  He paused, shook his head.

  “Brooke would never speak to me again. And he’s my superior. And if Monty goes, who replaces him, Dempsey? He’s a good man, but he hasn’t set any records at Caen either. The best man might be Crerar, but he’s Canadian. There’s a laundry list of good people in the British command and, I guarantee you, every one of them would think twice about stepping into Monty’s shoes. And, what about this command? How effective would I be in dealing with anyone who thinks Monty got a raw deal? Damn it all, from the very beginning—in North Africa, in Italy—this command has always been about cooperation. It’s the toughest thing I’ve ever tried to do. We are allies, but no matter how hard I try to change things we’re two separate armies with two separate goals. Churchill says he admires me because I’m on the fence. He thinks that’s a compliment, so I guess I should take it that way. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you. I’m up here because I have to be. It’s the most important part of my job.”

  “What the British are trying to preserve, Ike, is more than a victory. It’s pride, survival of the empire, all that. It’s a damned chain around the neck of every British general. We’ve lost so much already, and now the cupboards are bare. Every division we lose is…lost. Every pilot, every tank driver. Every mother’s son.”