The Steel Wave (12 page)

Leigh-Mallory moved out the door, his aide following. Adams felt an almost overwhelming need to follow him and plant a fist into the man’s smug face. There was a momentary hush in the room.

“He has a rather loose grip on history,” Bradley said. “The German paratroop drop in Crete was launched directly into the teeth of the British defensive position. I intend that you gentlemen drop your people
behind
the lines, not
into
them. Or is that too much common sense?”

HQ, EIGHTY-SECOND AIRBORNE DIVISION, BRAUNSTONE PARK, LEICESTER
MARCH 24, 1944

“When was your last jump, Sergeant?”

Adams hated to answer, hesitated. Gavin nodded.

“Yeah, I know. Last year sometime. Me too. Ridiculous. Never expected I’d be away from the airfields as much as this. Even if we had the time to join the men in their training jumps, the weather here is so bad we can’t put anybody into a regular schedule. Never saw so much damned rain.”

“I’d be happy to jump in the rain, sir.”

Gavin laughed, sat back in his chair, pointed across the office. “Maybe. Until you jumped blind into some Brit’s barn. Grab that chair. Sit down.”

Adams obeyed, his pen in one hand and pad of paper in the other, ready to write, the routine every morning. He gripped the pen and waited.

“Hate this place, don’t you?” Gavin said.

Adams hesitated again. “Not always, sir. It has been an education.”

“An education in what, how much bull there is in every HQ? How many morons are running this show?”

Adams didn’t respond. He had seen Gavin in this kind of foul mood before and knew when to shut up. Gavin pushed a folder toward him.

“Here, look at this. Latest recon photo of the drop zones behind Utah Beach. Our drop zones.”

Adams slid the photo from the folder. Short dark lines were scattered in blocks of gray fields. Gavin continued.

“The air recon people wait until late in the day to let the sun create shadows, so we can see what the enemy is doing. We couldn’t figure out what those were until they started to grow in number. Those little specks are shadows cast by some kind of posts or poles, which the intelligence people believe are designed to disrupt our airborne landings. Could play hell with the gliders. One more can of gasoline for Leigh-Mallory’s fire. Damn that pessimistic son of a bitch.” Gavin stopped and looked at Adams, a sharp glare. “You didn’t hear that. Ike is pretty touchy on anyone bitching about the Brits. We have a good plan, Sergeant, a damned good plan.”

Adams studied the photograph. Pretty damned smart of the recon people to wait for the shadows to come. I guess that’s why I’m in this office, and not out taking pictures. Gavin continued.

“Bradley impresses hell out of me, and General Ridgway—well, he’s the best man to run this division. They should have given tactical air command to someone who knows what’s really happening on the ground. Ridgway would have been perfect. Too many high-ranking Brits ahead of him, though.”

Adams looked up. “Yes, sir. I agree, sir.”

Gavin smiled. “I see you’ve been properly indoctrinated. I’ve had my share of arguments with General Ridgway, which is pretty rare in this outfit. It’s best to keep your conversations with the general short. You disagree with him, tell him why as carefully as you can, then shut the hell up while he tells
you
why you’re wrong. He doesn’t tolerate much discussion about anything. Tough bird. Difficult. Believes he knows what’s best, and most of the time it’s hard to disagree. In this outfit there’s the right way, the wrong way, and the Ridgway.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve heard that often, sir.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Sergeant. You hate this place, right? It’s all right, I do too. That photo, pretty interesting stuff. But all it shows me is where I want to be. I miss those damned C-47s; I miss strapping on a chute. Nothing I can do about that, not yet anyway. Pretty proud of this job, Sergeant. Never thought a kid like me would get to shout at generals to their faces. Learned that from Ridgway. He’s good at it too. But, dammit, I need to see a chute over my head, jerk some risers, feel the grease of a carbine. I see those damned green jump lights in my sleep.”

Adams couldn’t help a laugh, stifled it.

“What?”

“Me too, sir. Can’t stop thinking about Sicily, the dark, trying like hell to find someone who didn’t want to kill me.”

Gavin stared at him for a long moment, said nothing. Adams waited for orders, straightened the pad of paper, the pen ready. There was little chatting with Gavin.

“I’ve been giving this some thought, Sergeant. Damned selfish of me, pulling you off the line.”

“Oh, no, sir. I was honored. Surprised you even knew who I was.”

“Knock it off, Sergeant. Every man in the Five-oh-five knew who you were. There’s probably a silver star somewhere with your name on it.”

Adams let the words flow past him. What the hell is going on here?

“I doubt that, sir. Begging your pardon.”

“Answer my damned question, Sergeant. You hate this place?”

Adams stiffened, had a sudden flash of memory: a week ago, some British general ordering him to get coffee, Gavin standing up for him, no, he’s not a mess orderly. Adams was grateful for the chance Gavin had given him, an honor indeed, even if the job was more clerical than anything he ever expected. He took a breath.

“Sir, I feel like I’m suffocating here.”

“So do I, Sergeant, so do I. Problem is, I still have work to do here. You’ve been an enormous help. Good work, fine work. But we’ve got replacements coming into the Eighty-second who don’t know a damned thing about the enemy, who are going to be a part of this operation when the only jumps they’ve made are at Benning or Bragg. We’re going to get our asses shot off if we’re not ready, and right now we’re a long way from ready.” Gavin reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Had this here for a couple days. Debated like hell telling you.”

“Sir?”

“Read it.”

Adams took the paper, saw the insignia of the Eighty-second Airborne, General Ridgway’s official letterhead.

Sergeant Jesse Adams is hereby ordered to report to Colonel William Ekman, Commanding Officer, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, where Sergeant Adams will resume his post as jump instructor, with full seniority over the regiment’s other noncommissioned instructors.

“I wanted to make you a first sergeant, but that will have to wait. Ekman suggested we give you a commission, make you a damned lieutenant. He thought it might be a good bribe to get you out of this place and back into jump boots. Told him you wouldn’t need that. The last thing I want anyone to say about you is that you’re a ninety-day wonder. And I don’t really think you’re officer material, Sergeant. That’s not an insult, I promise you. Just look around this place.”

Adams felt his brain swimming. “No, sir. I understand, sir.” He read the orders again, could not hold the smile, and looked up at Gavin, who smiled as well. “Thank you, sir.”

“You might not thank me when this is over. This isn’t Sicily we’re going after. But dammit, we need the best people out there, people who know what the enemy looks like. I’ll be out there too, eventually. I feel like I’m turning into corn mush in this office, my belly’s as soft as Jell-O. So there’s no way in hell you’re going into France without me. Ridgway will be there too, count on that. When I get back out there, when I can finally get my ass into a C-47, I want to see you at the end of the line, and I want every damned one of those troopers to be more afraid of you than they are of the Krauts. Now get the hell out of here.”

Gavin had stopped smiling. Adams, still hesitant, stood slowly, stiff and straight, and stared at the wall over Gavin’s head.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be waiting for you.”

He turned, felt like running out of the office but held tightly to his composure, moved out through the door, and passed slowly through the outer office, the staff at work, low hum of voices, men watching him, curious, someone calling his name. He moved out into the chill, glanced up at gray skies, heard the soft drizzle of rain, and stopped on a narrow porch, steps in front of him, soft green grass between many, many buildings. He tried to hear Gavin’s words again, the compliments, the duty in front of him, felt the old burn returning, a smoldering fire, wanted to run, to feel the churning in his legs, the hard breaths. He had no idea where he would go, just out, away from the dead air and stifling work. He realized he had the pen and notepad still in his hand, the fixtures attached to him for so many months. He moved to one side toward a fat green garbage can, tossed the pad in, gripped the pen and threw it across the open grass like a small spear, held the energy inside, and walked out into the perfect rain.

7. ADAMS

BRAUNSTONE PARK, NEAR LEICESTER, ENGLAND
APRIL 11, 1944

H
e stared at the rain, thick and gray, shrouding the C-47s in a ghostly haze. The gloom was complete, another frustrating day, little to do but drill the men once more on their preparations, packing their chutes, stuffing backpacks and belts and pants pockets with their equipment. It had been this way for a week now, either rain or a misty fog so heavy that every training jump had to be canceled. Outside, long rows of C-47s sat empty, silent, mostly under camouflage netting, someone’s attempt to disguise them from German fighters and recon planes.

Adams glanced up. Who in hell do they think is flying in this stuff? he thought. I haven’t seen a German fighter since I’ve been here. How hard would it be to figure out this is an airfield, anyway? If I saw a clump of bushes anywhere near a runway, I’d bomb hell out of it.

His boredom was blossoming into raw frustration. Adams had never been good at clamping his feelings down. During the months as Gavin’s aide, it had been Gavin himself who had intimidated Adams into silence. The message from Gavin had been clear and brutal: I have to put up with this, so you have to put up with this. Adams had no trouble obeying Gavin. He had an instinctive feeling that he never wanted to be on the receiving end of the man’s temper. Gavin felt the same way about Ridgway; everyone in headquarters knew the commanding general’s fury was a spectacle to behold, as long as it was directed elsewhere. Adams had begun to suspect that, above them all, Eisenhower probably commanded the same kind of fear, maybe more so. Maybe Ridgway is as scared of Ike as I am of Gavin. And I’m supposed to make these logheads scared of
me.
Hell of a way to run an army. He backed away from the wide opening of the hangar and turned toward the rows of long tables: several hundred men, dutifully packing their chutes. He focused on his own squad, his corporal moving among them, coaching, cursing, but, most important, allowing each man to complete the job on his own. It had been the most basic of lessons, begun at jump school at Fort Benning: Each man packs his own parachute. It was the one part of the classroom experience you could count on to get the full attention of the men. No one shirked, no one fell asleep. Every man understood that packing your chute incorrectly would most likely kill you.

Adams tried to ignore the dull throb in his temples, the wet chill that soaked his bones. He walked toward the men, the corporal eyeing him. Adams didn’t particularly like the man, a skinny runt named Nusbaum from somewhere in northern California. Nusbaum had only been there a few weeks, but runt or no he had earned his second stripe by good work at Benning, something Adams had to accept. The man had an annoying whine to his voice, an attitude that spoke of privilege. There was nothing specific to Adams’s dislike of the man, nothing Nusbaum had said or done. And Adams knew very well that any man who emerged from training at Benning had already proven himself as much as anyone could without actual combat. If you survived the training there, you had to have that peculiar brand of courage that allows a man to jump from an airplane, as well as physical stamina and enough brains to learn the basic techniques of the jump and, more important, the landing. Nusbaum had accomplished his training with that something extra that had caught the eye of the captain, so Nusbaum was now Adams’s corporal, his second voice. But Adams still didn’t like him.

The lieutenant was a different story. His name was Pullman, and Adams guessed him to be the youngest officer in the entire division. Pullman commanded the platoon, sixty men, of which Adams commanded one of the four squads. Gavin’s order had given Adams seniority over every other sergeant in the 505th, but Adams knew it was a symbolic gesture. He would rarely have any contact with the other squad leaders. If the issue ever arose at all, it would probably be in some crisis situation, the worst kind of chaos on the battlefield, the possibility of two sergeants suddenly butting heads over the next move they should make. Adams couldn’t think about that; there was no kind of planning or drill that would prepare a man to face such a ridiculous scenario. You don’t shove your orders into the face of another soldier when the machine guns are firing. You make a decision, you hope it’s the right one, and if the men respect you they accept your control. But you damn well better be right. I wonder if Lieutenant Pullman knows that?

Monroe Pullman had come to Benning from the Virginia Military Institute and never hesitated to mention that General George Marshall had passed through the same historic hallways. The men in the platoon weren’t nearly as impressed by that as Pullman himself. Adams knew that Pullman was barely his own age, twenty-two, and the fact that he had made lieutenant was an eyebrow-raising surprise. The lieutenants were the most unpredictable group in the army, some earning the label
ninety-day wonders
and never rising past it. Adams scanned the hangar, searched for Pullman, didn’t see him. Probably getting coffee. Man drinks more damned coffee than anyone I’ve ever seen. Not sure what that means about his leadership, but if he does that in combat, at least he’ll be awake.

He moved close to one of the long tables, scanning the rows of packs, the chutes mostly secured, a few of the men still struggling with the folds. He had no patience for the slow ones. How many times had they done this? And they still can’t do it right?