The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (45 page)

Adams said, “Sit still! That’s only shrapnel, spent ack-ack. If we get hit by something heavy, we won’t have time to worry about it. Every one of you, grab hold of your straps, keep your arms in tight! We gotta be getting close.”

Scofield was still talking to the pilots, said, “There! A lake! It’s on the maps. Turn north.”

The captain backed away from the cockpit, looked down at Adams. “I think we’re okay. Landing zone coming up.” Scofield began to move back through the plane, made his way slowly past the men. “Hang on, boys. There’s a few planes still out there with us, and we’re about to move over land. There’s bound to be a reception for us.”

The plane bounced hard again, the wings rolling to one side. Adams sat back, knew there was nothing to see now, no reason to do anything but sit and wait. The plane began to climb, gaining altitude, hard rocking of the wings. The plane jumped again, another flash of light, men reacting, the reflex, sharp cries. There was a new sound, another rattle, different, like a spray of small rocks. Shrapnel again, he thought. We’re flying right through the stuff. He looked toward the cockpit, the pilots focused forward, holding the plane as steady as possible, still climbing, long streams of white tracers rising up in front of them. The plane dipped again, a hard turn to the right, Adams’s stomach trying to catch up, more bumps, the plane leveling out again.

The red light suddenly blinked on, startling him, the others reacting with a mixture of shouts and grunts.

Scofield stood, called out, “Hook up! Check equipment!”

The men rose, struggling under the weight of their gear, moved into line, each one hooking his static line to the overhead cable. Adams did the same, couldn’t see the doorway now, ran his hands over his belts and pockets, did the same for the man in front of him. He heard a voice, low, could barely hear the words. It was Scofield again.

“God bless you boys.”

Adams leaned to the side, could see Scofield at the door, staring out, waiting. No one spoke now, no sound but the dull roar of the plane motors, the rush of wind, flickers and flashes of light in all directions, streams of machine-gun fire like small fountains on all sides of them. He felt his heart racing, cold in his fingers, stared past the man in front of him, every man frozen, all eyes on the red light. His legs quivered, and he closed his eyes, tried to fill the black, empty space, some image, some memory, his brother. But there was nothing there, nothing in his mind but the red light, and he opened his eyes, stared at the light, angry at the light, holding them there, keeping them in this deadly box, this tin coffin. Damn you!

And then, it was green.

The word burst out from the rear of the plane, rolling forward, cutting through them, pulling them toward the door, the final cry from Scofield:

“Geronimo!”

A
dams lay still, his heart pounding hard, sorted through the pains, held tightly to the straps, pulled the parachute toward him, flattening it, slow, steady rhythm. He stayed on his back, could see streaks of white fire, the rattle of machine guns, no direction, no aim. They were everywhere. The parachute was flat now, and he slipped out of the harness, rolled away, pulled the Thompson from the straps behind his back, felt the pockets, the heavy bulges, ammo clips, grenades, everything still where it was supposed to be. He rolled over to one side, eased a clip into the machine gun, slowly, pushing, the
click
making him flinch. He pulled the bolt back, held it, let it slide forward slowly, chambering a round, the gun loaded, ready, the power of that rolling through him. Thank God. At least I can fight somebody.

He rolled over to his back again, stared up, stars, the moon low on the horizon, sinking, the white streaks fewer now. He saw tree limbs, silhouetted to one side of him, thought,
woods.
All right, that’s a good place to be. He rolled over to his knees, raised himself up, tried to see anything, kept himself motionless, an animal, listening for prey, for any movement, the only sound the quick, hard thumps in his ears, his own heart. The machine guns rattled on, but farther away now, much farther, no danger, and he looked toward the black woods, gripped the Thompson in his hand, touched the cloth bag of grenades again, began to move.

The ground was grassy, and he was moving downhill, slow and steady, soft steps, eyes sharp, nothing to see, black trees, brush, and now, a low wall. He stopped, squatted, peeked up over the wall, good cover, good place to sit. He listened again, no sounds, felt a sudden burst of fear, anger at himself, where the hell is everybody? He wanted to call out, what? Something…hell, the call sign.
George.
No, not yet. Krauts could be anywhere. Machine guns.

He looked up, searched the sky, saw the Big Dipper, the edge of the “cup” pointing to the North Star. It was procedure that once they were on the ground, the last man in the stick would move in the same direction the plane had flown, the best way to find the others. And when we jumped, he thought, we were flying north. He leaned against the wall, tried to calm himself, slow his breathing. Good wall. Thick rock. Dammit, can’t stay here. Scofield, where the hell is Scofield? North of here, for sure. We couldn’t be that far apart. Where the hell is everybody else? There were too many planes, have to be guys all over the damned place. Somebody’s gotta be hurt, there’s always somebody hurt. But, keep quiet, no screaming, not now, not here.

He heard sounds now, a motor, stared toward the noise, saw a glimpse of motion, reflection, a truck. The truck moved slowly past, no more than fifty yards away, no lights, low voices. He gripped the Thompson, froze, perfect stillness, good cover against the rock. Don’t go shooting at anything. There could be a hundred more. They’re just looking around. They know we’re out here. No searchlight, thank God. They think we don’t hear them? He was breathing heavily still, closed his eyes, clamped his arms close in tight, slow, easy. Just…find somebody.

The truck was gone now, silence, more gunfire, far in the distance, voices, behind him, beyond the wall. He froze again, the voices silent, now one man, foreign, meaningless words, soft-spoken, a whisper. Adams felt ice in his gut, sweating hands holding the Thompson, the grenades beneath him, unreachable. Damn! There were footsteps, close behind the wall, one man laughing, low, soft, another voice, angry, silencing the man. Adams stared at his own legs, realized one was extended, the wall barely three feet high, his boot reflecting moonlight, like some bright, glistening light on the dark ground. Dammit! Dammit! The footsteps still moved, past him now, moving away, and now another voice, beyond the wall, from the trees.

“George!”

The men at the wall stopped, silence, and Adams tried to see them in his mind, staring at the strange sound, pointing, silent commands. Adams was pulsing with anger, thought, no you jackass. You stupid…who the hell…what the hell is the matter with you? Don’t just call out! The footsteps moved away quickly, the rustle of grass, the men away from the wall, and Adams pulled his leg in close, one long, slow breath, pulled himself to his knees, raised up, peered over the wall. There was nothing, black woods, moonlight on gnarled trees. He could see the path now, where the men had been, a wide track on the far side of the wall, a cart path. He waited, listened, nothing, pulled himself up, stepped high, swung his legs over the wall, on the other side now. He dropped down again, strained to hear, the voice again.

“George!”

He felt his insides turning over, no, no, damn you, and now another cry, the same voice.

“Hey!”

And then the short, high scream.

He stared at the sounds, the voices coming again, calling out, foreign words, shadows emerging, four men, coming onto the cart path, moonlight on rifles, helmets, the men a few yards away, moving off. He pointed the Thompson, thought, a quick burst, take them all. But there was another truck now, on the road beyond the wall, coming fast, and he pulled the machine gun back close to his chest. No, don’t be stupid. You’d have a hundred of these bastards on you in no time.

He stayed low, moved away from the wall, slipped into the tall grass, then past, the ground hard and flat. The trees were around him, a low limb punching his helmet. Damn! He ducked, dropped to one knee, moonlight broken by the thick clusters of branches, realized, an orchard, rows of trees. He moved farther in, to where the sounds had been, soft steps, the Thompson pointed forward, saw a bright mass, moonlight on a parachute, the chute draped across the top of a tangled tree. He moved closer, could see the dark mass beneath it, the man hanging a few feet above the ground, silent, still, and Adams was there, put a hand on the man’s boots, felt cold wetness, the hard smell of blood and urine, the smell of death.

He backed away, turned toward the road. I can find them, the bastards. The sons of bitches! He was helpless!

“George!”

It was a hard whisper, behind him, and Adams froze, stood silently, his mind wrapping around the sound, the meaning. He felt a rush of energy, tried to speak, dry crust in his throat, the word coming out in a hoarse croak.

“Marshall!”

The man came toward him, another, and Adams felt his breathing again, cold turns in his stomach. Thank God!

“Private Fulton…Company A.”

“O’Brien—”

“It’s Adams. Shut up, you jackasses.”

“Sarge! Oh, hell, Sarge!”

The whispers were growing louder, and Adams pulled Fulton by the shirt, a low, urgent growl:

“Shut up! Enemy all over the place!”

O’Brien moved to the dead man. “We heard him, Sarge. We got here too late to help him. Kraut bastards.”

Adams pulled them both to the ground, whispered, “Guineas, probably. Shouldn’t be many Krauts here. Let’s cut him down, then move north. We should find some more guys. We gotta find the captain.”

Adams reached into a pants pocket, pulled out his small switchblade, the same knife they all carried, for the single purpose of cutting the straps in case you found yourself hung up in a tree. It was one more piece of the training, but Adams knew it was false comfort, since if you came down in a tree, you might be too torn up to do much of anything about it. The straps were cut, the man lowered, and Adams leaned low, pulled the man’s helmet away.

“Oh, Christ. It’s McBride.”

The others were low beside Adams, and Fulton said, “We gotta bury him.”

“Not now we don’t. We know where he’s at. We’ll come back for him. We have to move north, and right now!”

He couldn’t let them hesitate, no emotion, not now, not with so much still to be done. They were three men out of three thousand, and they were lost in the enemy’s backyard. Adams moved away, the others close behind him, made his way ducking low through the trees, keeping close to the edge of the orchard. He looked to the sky again, the North Star. In the stark clarity of the New Mexico skies, he had spents night learning the stars, scanning for meteors, naming the constellations. Now, they were his guide, and for now it was the only guide they would need.

H
e had five men behind him, the squad fanning out slightly, easing through patches of thick brush, more walls, low boundaries that seemed to divide open grassy fields and orchards. The moon was gone, the last orange glow below the horizon, but his eyes had grown sharp, absorbing the features of the ground, landmarks sticking in his brain, shadows that had meaning.

The machine-gun fire had come again, mostly distant, several directions, no way to tell if anyone was actually in an organized fight. As they moved northward, the orchards had ended, and he kept the men close beside a wide drainage ditch, one man dropping down low, testing, confirming the depth, a soft bottom of mud and water. On the near side of the ditch, the ground rose up, a wide hillside flecked with dark patches. Adams gathered the men in close, whispered through heavy breaths.

“Let’s head up to the higher ground. Maybe we can see a village, some kind of reference point. Keep low. Don’t make a silhouette!”

They fanned out again, and he heard one man grunt, stumbling, the ground rocky and hard. He cursed to himself, but there was nothing to say, no one needing a reminder that the enemy could be anywhere around them. He focused on one large cluster of bushes, led them that way, thought, cover at least, maybe there’ll be something to see. It would be nice to know where the hell everybody is.

He was breathing heavily, reached the brush, a thick mass of thorny bushes, the men pulling up close to him. He jerked at his canteen, shook it, still nearly full, took a short drink.

“What now, Sarge?”

“Let’s keep moving. We’re not doing a damned bit of good here. Go toward the crest, but stop just short. Let’s take a look around.”

“George!”

They froze, heads darting around, each man trying to locate the voice.

“George, you morons.”

Adams smiled, breathless relief, knew the voice. “Marshall, sir.”

It was Captain Scofield.

The brush in front of them was alive with movement now, and Adams saw Scofield slipping toward him, others emerging from the brush. He realized close to a dozen men were on the hillside, the brush offering them perfect cover. They said nothing, small grunts, Scofield moving close, and he put a hand on Adams’s shoulder, a low whisper.

“Six of you? That’s it?”

“All we’ve seen, sir. They killed McBride.”

“They killed several, Sergeant, and we’ve got several more badly busted up. We made an aid station back in a drainage ditch, base of this hill.”

“We saw the ditch, sir.”

“If you’d have kept going, you’d have walked right into them. We saw you coming up the hill, let you get close enough so we could tell who the hell you were. I heard you talking. Eyeties don’t speak English.” Scofield stopped, looked back toward the crest of the hill. “Enemy machine guns are anchored along the next ridge, four or five hundred yards north. Several pillboxes, looks like. Maybe a house too. Trucks coming and going. They were shooting at shadows for a while, but somebody in charge probably shut ’em up. Eyeties, most likely. Krauts would have come out here looking for us. Eyeties would rather stay put. We got fifteen men now. Two mortar carriers, one bazooka. That’s enough to get something done. I’m not going to just sit here and wait for daylight. We’re supposed to engage the enemy, and he’s right out there. I’d rather do it in the dark.”