The Steel Wave (13 page)

“Speed it up! It’s almost time for chow, and no one in this squad goes to the mess until every chute passes inspection!”

One man spoke, unfamiliar, from the far end of the table.

“Hey, Sarge, I didn’t come all the way over here just to stand in the rain. Does it ever stop? I heard them planes out there are just fakes. I coulda stayed home if all we was gonna do was go swimming.”

Adams stepped that way. One of the new men, Dexter something. He saw the man’s chute still on the table, saw the smart-assed smile as the man turned away from him. Adams felt the anger rising. I have no patience for this, he thought. No patience for anyone’s bitching, no patience for anything at all.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Private Dexter Marley, Sarge.”

“Marley. You’re new.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

“Look at me, girlie.”

The man turned toward him. Adams ignored the others, knew they were all watching.

“Name’s Marley, Sarge.”

“Not in this outfit. Not until you learn to get your chute packed as quick as the rest of us. And not until you learn that bitching about the weather just pisses people off. You ever actually jump out of a C-47, girlie?”

Adams saw the man inflate, preparing for an argument, the man’s pride taking over. Beside him, a hand gripped Marley’s arm.

“He’s OK, Sarge. Dex doesn’t know the drill yet.”

Adams knew the voice: Unger, the kid, pimples and all.

“Shut up, Unger.”

Marley was looking at him now, and Adams saw the glint of defiance, a big man who believed he could stand up to his short stocky sergeant. It was another spurt of fuel on Adams’s fire.

“So, girlie, you’ve made some friends here. Well, right now you don’t have any friends. I think you’re a screwup, and in this company, we handle screwups one way.” He was pulsing mad, saw a hint of fear on Marley’s face, more fuel. “You listen to me, Private. The next time we jump, you’ll be right next to me, I’ll be the one checking your gear. I’ll be the one who shoves you out the door of that damned plane, and I’ll be the one who might accidentally unhook your line.”

He stopped, hollow silence in the massive hangar, felt himself sweating, knew he was being abominably stupid. Marley’s defiance was gone, replaced by blinking fear, and Adams held his stare, the man several inches taller, broad-chested, thick arms. Adams felt the fight coming, felt his hands balling up, focused on the man’s chin, the target.

“Morning, Sergeant. Everything all right here?”

The voice punched him from behind, firm and unpleasant. He let out a breath, unclenched his fists, turned, and saw two men, Lieutenant Pullman and a face he had not seen since he had been back with the division, the familiar face of Ed Scofield.

“Captain…sir.”

Adams threw up the salute, could see Scofield’s hard stare, softening now.

“We have a problem here, Sergeant?” Pullman said.

“No, sir. Just trying to get the men to pack their chutes with a little more…efficiency.”

He knew Pullman wouldn’t buy it, but the lieutenant eased past him, close to Marley.

“Private, you having trouble remembering how to pack your chute?”

“No, sir.”

“Then pack the damned chute!”

“Yes, sir.”

Marley began to work on the fabric, the folds. Men were murmuring now, the ones who were farther away going back to their business. Pullman always seemed to be careful around Adams, had never chewed him out for anything, and Adams knew he wouldn’t do it now. He noticed the man’s coffee cup. Of course.

“Sergeant,” Pullman said, “Captain Scofield tells me you have some history together.”

Adams saw a smile on Scofield’s face. “Yes, sir. That we do.”

Scofield said, “Lieutenant, do you mind if Sergeant Adams walks with me a bit? Things seem to be under control here.”

“He’s all yours, sir.”

Scofield looked past Adams, scanning the tables, the rows of men. “You men had better listen to Sergeant Adams, every damned word. You want to survive this war, he’s the man who will keep your butts in one piece. You hear me?”

There was a sharp chorus.
“Yes, sir!”

Scofield continued to examine the men and their equipment, then looked at Adams again. “Let’s go, Sergeant.”

Scofield walked away and Adams followed, moving toward the wide opening of the hangar. He felt a strange energy. He had not seen Scofield since Italy, since the day General Gavin had chosen Adams to go to England. Scofield was the company commander, and Adams had served with him throughout the fights in Sicily and after. There was no uncertainty about Scofield, no need for guessing whether or not the man was a leader. In Sicily, Scofield had been everything a soldier needed to see, and Adams had learned to trust him with a loyalty many veterans knew was rare.

The captain led him out into the rain, lighter now, more of a thick mist. As Adams followed, Scofield moved close to one of the C-47s, its camouflage netting pulled away. Adams saw the cockpit: Two pilots were in place, unexpected. Scofield turned to him.

“We’re going up. The entire damned division. General Ridgway is sick of sitting on his ass, so the word came down a half hour ago. The weather is better, supposed to clear up a good bit more, give us some chances at a jump or two. Have your men recheck their chutes, load up their packs. I don’t trust weathermen, and I’m not sure why General Ridgway feels any different, but orders are orders.”

Scofield was looking at him, and Adams saw a smile.

“It’s good to see you too, sir.”

Scofield put a hand on his shoulder, a hard grip. “This is eating you alive, isn’t it, Sergeant?”

“Not sure what you mean, sir.”

Scofield looked up, squinted through the wetness on his face. “I feel it too. Every veteran I’ve spoken to is chewing nails to get on with it. Most of us thought we were done after Italy. Figured someone else would pick up the slack. But, hell, I knew better than that. We’re the best this army’s got. And from what I hear, that’s what we’re going to need.” He paused, removing the hand from Adams’s shoulder. “I had a feeling you’d go crazy as a staff sergeant. Gavin never changed your designation, you know. Did that on purpose, left it so you could come back to the company. I suspect you know more about our mission than I do, and that’s fine with me. I’ll learn what we’re supposed to do when Colonel Ekman decides to tells me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scofield looked at him, hard in the eyes.

“Good. Keep your damned mouth shut. I was hoping you wouldn’t spill your guts. Hell, I knew you wouldn’t. You’ve been drinking tea with British generals, and we’ve been out here fielding rumors. Lots of rumors. All bull. Well, hell, you know that. But those replacements, they’ll listen to anything.” He paused. “Now that you’re back, you see what we’ve got here. We’re not ready, are we?”

Adams hesitated, then shook his head, wiped a hand through wet hair. “They’re fit, sir, but they’re not combat ready. The last group of replacements, those fellows that came in a week or so ago: plenty of hotshots, big-mouths. It’s a mystery to me where the hell we’re getting these guys. But if we don’t get some jumps in soon—”

“We will. Starting today. I’m a little concerned about the big-mouths too. One in particular.”

Adams understood. Scofield had heard too much of his idiotic attack on Private Marley.

“Sorry, sir. Just trying to put some steel in the new ones.”

“That’s crap, Jesse. Those men aren’t raw recruits, they’re fully trained. You know what it takes to get through jump school, and every man in this outfit is here because he earned it. Steel? They’ve got plenty. What they need is
experience.
You’re just pissed off, and you’re taking it out on the men. Save some of that for the enemy.”

Adams looked down. “I haven’t made a jump in six months, sir. I feel like a damned rubber tire, all gut.”

“None of us have jumped, Sergeant. But you and me—the veterans—we have to lead the way. We know what the enemy looks like, and what it feels like when our buddies die. That’s the one thing missing from these new men.”

“I can’t teach them that, sir.”

Scofield put his hands on his hips and stared up at the clouds. Adams could feel the mist growing lighter, saw a sliver of blue in the distance.

“The weather boys might be right,” Scofield said. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough. Get your men ready to load up.”

Adams saw a jeep in the distance, three officers, moving out through the formations of parked planes.

“The get-rich-quick boys,” Scofield said. “Major Turner, Captain Fish-man. Don’t know the other one. They’re trying to get their five jumps in so they can be ready for the mission. Scares hell out of me, Sergeant. We’ve got officers in this division who’ve never seen combat at all. General Ridgway can’t be happy about that, but we’ve got no choice. I’d trade a dozen of those guys for one Jim Gavin.” He looked at Adams. “Get those boys ready. You want to beat hell out of some smart-mouth private, I’ll look the other way, and Lieutenant Pullman will do the same, as long as you don’t make a habit of it. But you don’t have to show them how tough you are. Hell, they’re already afraid of you. I can see it in their faces. I need you to show them why they should
follow
you.”

“I understand, sir.”

Far across the field, lines of men began to emerge from the rows of hangars, filing toward the waiting planes. In the distance, C-47s began to wake up, clouds of black smoke rising, the cough and sputter of engines.

“That’s the Five-oh-eight. They’re first to get moving. We’ll follow the Five-oh-seven. Double time, Sergeant. Time to knock off the rust.”

T
here was no hint of blue sky. Adams was jumpmaster, sat farthest from the cockpit, kept his eyes on the eighteen men, two rows, facing each other. The plane bounced once, a sharp drop, the familiar groan from those with the weaker stomachs. He knew some of them were struggling, no one wanting to be the first to show the sickness, to be responsible for stinking up the plane. As Adams had promised, Private Marley was closest to him. The man was silent, subdued, obviously surprised that Adams had been serious. Adams ignored him, knew that by now, Marley had developed a perfect fear of his sergeant. At Benning, silencing the big-mouths had been fun, and later, when the men had been in combat, the mouthing off had mostly stopped. These replacements had brought a new wave of talk, all that cheerleading about what they were going to do to the enemy. The veterans mostly ignored it. Adams looked across at Unger, small and skinny, relaxed, no sign of nervousness. Yeah, Unger, you’re Marley’s friend, aren’t you? Probably told him not to screw with the sergeant. Good advice.

Wallace Unger had been with the squad since Sicily. Adams was certain he was well underage, must have lied to sign up. But the files showed Unger to be eighteen, and whether or not Adams believed it, Unger had endured every challenge and faced the enemy as well as Adams himself. More, Unger had shown himself to be a natural marksman. With the M-1 or even the Thompson, Unger could shoot as well as any man in the squad. Adams stared and caught a look from Unger: sharp bright eyes, a quick smile. Damn you, you’re sixteen. I know it.

The plane banked, and Adams looked out through the wide opening beside him, still nothing but gray. He could feel the plane descending, saw motion along the rows of men, the plane dropping to the jump altitude. Adams tried to turn in his seat, to see farther out the wide jump door, but there was too much gear, every man carrying exactly what he would if this were the real thing. Dammit! How the hell are we supposed to jump if we can’t see what’s below us?

The plane continued to descend, and suddenly the red signal light came on. Adams stood quickly. “Stand up! Hook up!”

The men obeyed, automatic, each man hooking the static lines from his chute to the cable above their heads.

“Check equipment!”

It was the routine order, each man checking the gear on the man in front of him, no dangling straps or buckles that had come loose. Adams watched carefully, then turned and looked out the doorway; solid gray, wet mist soaking the inside of the plane. What the hell is going on? The weather isn’t better, it’s worse, and if I can’t see the ground, neither can the damned pilots. Dammit! He focused on the men again, the red light still glaring above him.

“Count off!”

Marley, close in front of him, staring past him, shouted, “Eighteen! Okay!”

Behind him, each man followed suit, counting down, until the last man closest to the cockpit shouted, “One! Okay!”

Adams looked at the signal light, still red, and glanced outside again, a low curse growling through his brain. Wonderful. Just wonderful. He tried to see past the row of men to the cockpit. What the hell are you jackasses thinking? Now the light turned green, the answer to his question, and there was no thought, just the training. Marley moved to the doorway, quickly out and gone, the next man a second behind him. They moved past him quickly, no one slowing, no hesitation. Adams waited for the last man and followed him out into the gray mist.

T
he ground came up quickly, a house, fence lines, and he jerked the riser, tried to spin to one side, saw a small rooftop, a low stone wall, round, a
well.
He dropped close beside the roof, hit the ground hard, crumpled sideways, awkward, tried to roll to ease the shock, but his back slapped into the stone, stopping him cold, his helmet popping off his head. The chute came down around him, no wind, thank God, no jerking him across the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his side and lay still for a few seconds, his own routine, testing, checking each bone. There were pains all along his legs, but the worst jolt came from his ribs. He kept the pain inside, no sound—the training—and thought, What the hell did you do? His legs were moving now, and he tried to push forward, away from the stone, his face rolling into muddy water, a puddle, dammit! The chute was on top of him, draping the well itself, a soft white tent, and now he heard voices.

“I say! What have we here? Oh, my God! Henry!”

There were more sounds now, a woman shouting, footsteps on the muddy ground. He tried to stand, grabbed at the chute, to pull it away, to see, but there was something in his back now, pushing him down into the mud.