The Steel Wave (11 page)

“Was that ever real? Now it is you who are creating the illusion! Hitler has slaughtered hundreds of thousands of people in concentration camps all over this land. Civilians, many of them German citizens! I know you are skeptical of that, of the numbers, of the reasons. But how many soldiers have died, some in your own command, killed in a hopeless fight, killed because of insane orders you had to obey? Is your fight not hopeless now? In the east, the Russians have every advantage. Don’t ask me how I know. It is a fact. It is only a matter of time before they cross the Polish frontier and their forces reach our own borders. That was unthinkable four years ago—three years—but it is truth now. Can you keep the Americans and the British out of France? Can your friend Kesselring prevail in Italy? How many enemies can we fight at one time, on how many battlefields? How many wars?”

Rommel felt himself weakening, felt his strength giving way. Damn you. Damn
them.
I am only a soldier. He looked down for a long moment, then raised his head and stared at Strölin.

“What is your plan?”

Strölin shook his head. “It has not yet advanced to that. There are many among us who are in disagreement.”

“Whether or not you should murder him.”

“I cannot speak of that. All I ask of you is that you offer us your name, let us be encouraged by your endorsement.”

Rommel tried to sort through the thoughts in his brain, but the heat in the closed room was overwhelming him.

“I will not support any effort to assassinate the Führer. No soldier will allow that. The army would never support you. Remember that, Karl. It would be a catastrophic mistake.”

“There is no plan to kill him. That is all I can say.”

Rommel stared again at the desk, thought of von Rundstedt, his generals, the griping about his orders. I am a soldier, I will always be a soldier, and when the enemy comes, I must fight him, and if I can I will destroy him. I
must
destroy him. This must be the only thing that matters.

“Karl, I cannot put myself at the head of some kind of conspiracy. I love my country, and I love the army, and I will do what I believe to be the best for Germany. I am not even certain what that might be, not now, not with all you have said. I cannot dismiss you, I cannot ignore what you say. No matter what you do now, you must use great caution. I do not want to hear anything of your movements or who you talk to. I cannot support such a plan, not now, perhaps not ever. No matter what you say, I am still a loyal officer of the Reich, and I will obey the orders I am given. And right now I have to fight a war.”

PART TWO

Gashed with honourable scars, low in glory’s lap they lie, Though they fell like stars, streaming splendor through the sky.

JAMES MONTGOMERY (1771—1854)

In war, there is no prize for runner-up.

GENERAL OMAR BRADLEY

6. ADAMS

MEMBURY, BERKSHIRE, ENGLAND
MARCH 18, 1944

H
e was one of the few enlisted men who stood with the officers, the reviewing stand dotted with uniforms of various colors: Sergeant Jesse Adams, on the highest row, the very back, just behind General Gavin, who in turn was behind those men who outranked him, the most senior officers placed along the front row. There was no mistaking the importance of this show, more brass gathered in one place than Adams had seen since he came to England. He had grown more comfortable around gatherings of officers, more comfortable keeping his mouth closed, knew that Gavin brought him to these assemblies for one reason: to pay attention, particularly to what the air force people had to say, especially the Brits. It had been more than four months since Gavin had come to England, to serve as senior airborne advisor to General Sir Frederick Morgan. Morgan’s COSSAC plan had become the backbone of what was now Overlord, and Gavin’s role, with Adams serving as one of his staff, had been to push forward any plan that would involve the airborne forces, the paratroopers and glider troops that Gavin and the more senior airborne commanders believed would be essential to the Normandy invasion. From the first meetings he had attended, clipboard in hand, a silent witness, Adams had seen the patronizing cloud of superiority that the air commanders had blown toward Gavin—indeed toward anyone who advocated the paratroopers’ mission. Despite their ultimate success during the Sicily invasion, many among the bomber and fighter commands placed no value in the men who jumped out of airplanes. Fortunately for the airborne divisions, Omar Bradley had been one of their primary champions.

Following orders, Sergeant Adams had stayed close to Gavin throughout the endless days of meetings and conferences, map studies and engineering lectures, all those ingredients that now comprised Operation Overlord. Hundreds of officers and specialists were still contributing, defining what it was that Eisenhower would actually command, what would actually occur sometime around the end of May. Adams had witnessed Gavin’s remarkable endurance in arguments, hot disputes with all levels of strategists and tacticians, especially those who had no concept of fighting any war that did not involve enormous numbers of troops marching forward in massed attacks. But it was the air commanders who most infuriated the young sergeant, as they had infuriated General Gavin. Gavin could speak out, but Adams was just one more anonymous aide, silent in front of these colonels and generals spouting their tactics.

Despite the clean uniforms, good food, and close quarters with the high brass, Adams had been frustrated by much of his job. In Sicily and Italy, Adams had toted a Thompson submachine gun. Now his weapon was the pen, his duties involving taking notes and recording appointments, all those jobs that would normally be done by some nameless secretary. But Gavin had made it clear that Sergeant Adams was
involved
and would accompany him as a silent aide—or silent witness. For reasons Adams still did not completely understand, Gavin trusted him, respected him, and even, on occasion, used him as a sounding board. It was the greatest compliment of Adams’s life.

The men on the viewing platform all stared toward the far horizon, toward the growing hum, the planes hidden by a gray pregnant sky that hovered close overhead. Adams scanned the crowd, more interested in the ranks around him than in the drone of four dozen C-47s. Close in front of Gavin was the Eighty-second Airborne’s commander, Matthew Ridgway, chewing the ever-present cigar, his face a permanent scowl. Ridgway was in his late forties, but his relative youthfulness among the division commanders didn’t prevent every man in his command from referring to him as the old man, though no one would dare let Ridgway hear it. Down that same row was Maxwell Taylor, new in command of the 101st Airborne, the man whose appointment had surprised everyone, especially the officers of the 101st. The 101st had been commanded by Bill Lee, who had been the energetic force behind the creation of America’s first airborne units and Jim Gavin’s first airborne commander. But after a massive heart attack in early February, Lee had been sent home.

Lee’s sudden collapse had devastated the morale of the 101st, and those men had every reason to expect one of their own would rise to fill Lee’s shoes. Taylor had been the Eight-second Airborne’s chief of artillery, but in Washington, his name outshined many of the candidates from the 101st, mainly because Taylor had considerably more experience in combat zones than anyone else on the list of prospective commanders in the division. Adams knew enough of loyalty among the enlisted men to wonder if Taylor would ever be accepted by his new command.

Down the row in front of Ridgway were the British, and Adams focused on the blue coat of Trafford Leigh-Mallory, the dapper square-jawed commander of the Allied tactical air forces. Adams knew Leigh-Mallory was Gavin’s nemesis; he had made it clear that he considered paratroop and glider operations to be far too costly and a gigantic waste of time. Now, with the drone of the C-47s growing louder, Leigh-Mallory stood in the thickening chill, staring up toward the sound, and Adams could only believe that as the squadrons of transport planes drew closer, Leigh-Mallory was expecting some kind of debacle.

Down below a shout rose up, hands pointing. Looking that way, Adams caught the first glimpse of the formations, the C-47s barely visible in the low-slung clouds. Behind each plane were two gliders, attached by invisible tow lines. Adams watched intently. Gavin had said that this exhibition had one useless purpose: to convince everyone what the Americans already believed. If the gliders landed successfully, the proponents of the airborne operation, men like Taylor and Ridgway, would confirm what they already knew, that gliders were an asset and would be an essential part of the landing operation. If there were problems, it would only give ammunition to those who were still fighting to keep the airborne out of the Overlord plan altogether.

As the planes roared overhead, Adams measured the altitude in his head: five hundred feet, too low probably. But those damned clouds. The glider pilots had to be able to see the field. He was surprised to feel a hard pounding in his chest, the excitement spreading through all of them, the twin engines on each plane drowning out anyone’s comments. What the hell are you so nervous about? You’ve bailed out of those damned planes a hundred times. But still he focused, stared at the lead squadron, waited for the telltale sign. It came now, the two gliders suddenly veering away, the towlines released from the C-47 that pulled them along. The others began doing the same. Adams didn’t count them; he knew there were forty-eight.

The small American Waco CG-4A was the glider that would primarily carry the infantry or a single artillery piece. Behind would come the larger, heavier British Horsas, capable of hauling both men and a great deal more equipment, including a pair of cannon or jeeps. As each glider was released from its tow, it began to circle, the pilots focusing on the wide airfield, just another drill they had practiced dozens of times before. Adams shivered and shook his head, unable to avoid a strange fear. No damned way they’re getting me in one of those gliders, he thought, no matter how well they’re supposed to fly. Give me a chute and a plane I can leave behind. I’d a whole lot rather be a one-man target than stuck inside some big floating box.

He heard a cracking sound, an audible gasp from the men around him, looked out to one side, and saw two gliders locked in a shattering embrace. They had crashed together and tumbled downward, a sickening sound of cracking timbers, crushed metal—and men. What the hell happened? Adams stared at the heap of wreckage, bits of metal and wood still drifting to the ground and heard Gavin in front of him:

“Dammit! Dammit to hell!”

Men were shouting, one jeep moving quickly, men running, and now there were new sounds, a rumble of wheels on the smooth grass, gliders landing all across the open ground. Adams heard another crash, saw one glider standing on its nose, the tail straight in the air, the fuselage cracking, the tail section collapsing, men tumbling out onto the ground. Another came in low in front of the reviewing stand, one wing dipping, the tip catching the ground, the glider in a half cartwheel. In front of him, officers began moving away, more jeeps coming out from behind the platform, medics, shouting men. Adams waited for Gavin to move too, so he could follow his commander, but Gavin waited, seeming to absorb the scene: more gliders coming in, many more landing without any problems at all. All across the field, the attention was on the wreckage, some men pulling themselves out from the carcasses of their gliders, some retrieving the injured, medics scrambling into the chaos, officers close behind them. Adams wanted to say something to Gavin, thought, We have to help, but Gavin lowered his head, removed his hat, slapped it hard against his leg. Adams looked below, at another man not moving at all, the blue uniform of Trafford Leigh-Mallory. The British air marshal looked back toward Gavin with a grim stare.

“
I
would anticipate fifty percent casualties, and that is optimistic. No commander I know would subject his men to such a certain calamity. I truly do not believe this sort of operation is possible.”

Adams, sitting close behind Gavin, knew what was coming.

“We just did precisely this kind of operation in Sicily!” Gavin said. “With considerable success! There is nothing impossible about it! Dangerous? I have no doubt there are dangers, there are dangers to the infantry who are going to cross those beaches, dangers to the navy men driving the landing craft, danger to every man engaged in this operation.”

Gavin took a breath. Adams watched Leigh-Mallory and saw no change of expression. To one side, a new voice joined the argument. It was Bradley.

“Gentlemen, I agree that this operation carries risk, but the greatest risk is to the enemy. We must not forget that the purpose of the airborne operation is to disrupt and destroy the enemy behind his beachfront fortifications. Once our paratroopers and glider troops are on the ground, their orders are quite specific; they will patrol aggressively. General Gavin is quite correct. Our success in Sicily owed a great deal to the paratroop drops, most specifically in the American sector. Our experience there and at Salerno demonstrated that a nighttime drop will cause complete havoc in the enemy’s position, his communication, and his ability to mobilize an organized front. General Eisenhower has granted his full approval of the airborne assault. I do not see what can be gained by further pessimism.”

Leigh-Mallory seemed unaffected by Bradley’s encouragement. “I cannot in good conscience support this part of the Overlord plan. The disaster during the glider demonstration only strengthens my resolve.”

Bradley stood. “Marshal Leigh-Mallory, you may certainly exercise whatever resolve you feel is necessary, but my orders are to include two American airborne divisions in my planning, and Monty has included the British Sixth Airborne in his. We are depending on your tactical air support, and I know of no reason why that should not be forthcoming.”

Leigh-Mallory stood, slipped his hat beneath his arm. “Gentlemen, I must return to my headquarters. I would only ask that you consider that there are other historical lessons besides the campaign in Sicily. Recall if you will the enemy’s disaster in Crete. Our boys there destroyed most of Hitler’s paratroop forces, and only by a series of unfortunate command decisions was the enemy allowed to drive us away. Only the Nazis would consider their excessive losses in that campaign a worthwhile price to pay for such a victory. Good day, gentlemen.”