The Steel Wave (21 page)

Over the past few weeks, the Eighty-second had made several practice jumps, good weather and bad, more screwups, more injuries. With every jump, he had grown more impatient, every hard landing reminding him that this was just play, artificial, meaningless. The men didn’t need more lessons. They had all become proficient at packing their chutes, and they didn’t need him to shove them out the gaping door of the C-47. The shirkers and malcontents were long gone. It was the same throughout the army. Every unit that had seen combat had the old and the new, and the untested would always harass the veterans for pieces of wisdom, what it was like, what the enemy would do, how it
felt.
It was happening again, all through the hangar, the new men jabbering nervously, responding to the hints of urgency from Colonel Ekman.

“Sergeant Adams!”

He knew the voice and turned, his hand twitching from instinct, prepared to raise the salute. There was a cluster of officers; Scofield, with more of the company commanders. He saw Lieutenant Pullman moving through them, and now the tall thin man, no smile, the man pointing his finger toward Adams. It was Gavin.

“Over here, Sergeant,” Pullman said.

Adams moved that way, the salute coming up, Gavin motioning to the other officers. “Dismissed. I’ll be back around tomorrow.”

“Sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pullman seemed to linger, and Gavin said, “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’d like a word with your sergeant.”

“Of course, sir. Sergeant, I’ll speak to you later.”

Adams threw the salute toward Pullman, said, “Yes, sir.”

He looked at Gavin, none of the warmth, Gavin pointing toward the offices at the far end of the hangar.

“The Five-oh-five still make the worst coffee in England?”

“I believe so, General.”

“Good. I could use some. Follow me.”

They moved to a metal door. Adams saw two men emerging, lieutenants who seemed surprised to see Gavin. They passed with quick salutes and sharp glances at Adams. Wonderful, he thought. They either think I’m teacher’s pet or I’m about to be court-martialed. He could smell the coffee, a small hot plate in one corner, saw a staff sergeant sitting at a desk, writing on a pile of papers, seemingly oblivious to the sudden appearance of a one-star general.

Gavin moved toward the coffeepot. “Take a break, Sergeant. You know how to stand up?”

The man rose with a clatter of his chair. “Certainly, sir. The coffee’s fresh, just made it a couple hours ago, sir.”

The man hurried out. The office now empty, Gavin handed Adams a cup.

“I wouldn’t drink this stuff alone. Chances are one of us could end up poisoned. We’ll need a witness.”

He moved to the lone chair, sat, scanned the papers on the desk, pushed them to one side: no expression. Adams filled his cup halfway, stopped pouring. Fresh…two hours ago? he thought. It’s paint thinner by now.

“I’m guessing the boys will be pretty pissed off about the order to close the base,” Gavin said. “Those pubs in town are already dead empty. Probably break the hearts of half the damned women in England. Hard to believe how well these boys have done with the fairer sex. I expect the British have every reason to bitch about us. I’ve heard too damned much of that; we’re overpaid, oversexed, and over here. Not sure what we’ve got that their men are lacking. Don’t want to know, now that I think about it.”

Adams knew not to speak. He had heard these monologues from Gavin before.

There was silence for a long moment, and then Gavin said, “You heard that the Five-oh-four finally got here, right?”

“I’ve heard rumors, yes, sir.”

“You know that Ridgway and I had been begging General Clark to turn them loose, get them the hell out of Italy. But Clark wouldn’t do it, said he needed them at Anzio, so they got chewed all to hell. I had hoped they’d be ready for this mission, but Ridgway says they’re too shot up. He’s grounded them. You know what that means?”

Adams knew the answer already, the one word in his mind:
veterans.
How much more do those boys need to go through? He knew, as they all did, that the 504th had been the victims of the horrific friendly fire incident off the Sicilian coast, nervous naval gunners ignoring their orders not to fire on the slow-moving transports that flew over them in the darkness. It had been a disaster for everyone involved, the 504th suffering more than two hundred casualties. Despite serious misgivings about the effectiveness of airborne drops, the 504th had been called on again, a crucial drop into Italy, which Adams and the 505th had followed. Then the 505th had been ordered to England, but the 504th stayed put and for several miserable months had been bogged down at Anzio.

Gavin didn’t wait for him to speak. “It means, Sergeant, that we’re going into France with one hand behind our backs. It means that right now, the Eighty-second will count, as its parachute regiments, the Five-oh-five, plus the Five-oh-seven and Five-oh-eight. So two-thirds of us are green, not a lick of combat experience. I bitched like hell to Ridgway—well, as much as anyone can bitch to Ridgway—but he wouldn’t budge. Colonel Tucker’s screaming like hell, and I bet every man in that outfit is pretty upset, but, hopefully, they’ll get into this thing before it’s over. Meanwhile, the Eighty-second is going to jump into the enemy’s latrine with only one tested regiment.”

Adams was uncomfortable now; it was not like Gavin to complain about anything. He waited through more silence. Why is he telling me this?

Gavin looked at the coffee in his cup, set it to one side. “Keep this stuff away from the gasoline tanks.” He stood, moved to the one small window, stared out. “You know damned well not to repeat this, right?”

“Of course, sir.”

“We had a hell of a fight at HQ a while back. You missed a good one. Word came from Washington that General Marshall wanted us to jump close to Paris, that we ought to raise hell with German installations, bridges, all of that. A hundred miles behind the lines. Apparently, General Marshall forgot that the Germans have tanks, and that a flock of paratroopers don’t fare too well against armored vehicles. Thank God someone talked him out of it, Ike probably. I’ve got a lot of respect for General Marshall, but sometimes, these damned armchair types—”

Gavin turned around.

“This make you nervous, Sergeant?”

“No, sir.”

“It ought to. It’d be awfully good for someone in your position to believe that those folks up the ladder know what the hell they’re doing. I know what the hell
I’m
doing, and Ridgway knows what the hell
he’s
doing. I suppose Ike does too. But some of those others fellows—I just found out they changed the mission on us. New jump zones. You know the mission?”

“No, sir.”

“Hell, no, of course you don’t. That’ll come later. You’ll be briefed when SHAEF says it’s time. But it’s gonna be hot. That’s Rommel over there, and you can bet he’s waiting for us. You still remember how to use that Thompson?”

“Definitely, sir.”

Gavin nodded, still no smile. Adams could feel the weight in the room, the smell of dust and burnt coffee.

“This is important, Sergeant. Most important damned thing we’ve ever done. You understand that?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so, sir.”

Gavin seemed mystified now, looked at Adams with a tilt of his head. “You recall why I wanted to see you?”

“No, sir. I assumed…maybe you wanted to talk to me about my work, something I screwed up.”

Gavin smiled. “Nope. As much as I miss you on my staff, I’m not about to yank you out of here again. These boys would miss you a hell of a lot more than those paper pushers at St. Paul’s.” He paused, looked down, put a hand on the papers. “Damn. My brain’s mush, Sergeant. I need this war to end so I can get a real night’s sleep. I’ve told Ekman the Five-oh-five has some good people to carry the load. He knows that, of course, and it probably pisses him off when I tell him his business. No commander listens to advice from his predecessor. Even if he should.” Gavin looked at his watch, shook his head. “Have to meet with Ridgway in an hour.”

He looked at Adams now, moved around the desk, close to him, suddenly held out a hand. Adams took it, his own hand engulfed by the hard thin fingers.

“Once this thing starts,” Gavin said, “I expect you to kill some Germans. Not sure where I’ll be when D-Day comes, but you can damn well bet I’ll be jumping somewhere close by. Try to find me if you can. I want a good point man in front of me. If I don’t see you again—well, I expect—I expect both of us to get home in one piece.”

BRAUNSTONE PARK, NEAR LEICESTER
MAY 30, 1944

They sat in a semicircle, braced against the hard chill, the wind whipping across the open ground. In the center, the doctor dropped to one knee, held up one arm of the man lying flat beside him on a wool blanket.

“Now, listen up. You insert the sharp tip of the syrette directly into a prominent vein.” He looked down at his patient, held up one of the skinny arms. “You ready, Private Unger?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Roll up your sleeve. This won’t hurt.”

Unger obeyed. Quickly, the doctor jabbed the syrette into the crease of Unger’s elbow and continued his lecture.

“Like that. The morphine should be effective immediately. Even if you cannot readily dress the man’s wounds, this should keep him calm and free of pain. For the most part.”

Adams watched the others, no one laughing now. The doctor stood, holding the syrette in front of him.

“Use it all, every bit. Nothing wasted. It’ll do a man far more good in his veins than on the ground. Any questions? Good. Now, on to the last matter. The division is issuing every one of you a prophylactic. At least one, though I’d like to see you each carry a dozen. We’ve been dealing with enough cases of venereal disease that you’d think someone upstairs would appreciate the need for the damned things. They will be included with your other equipment.”

“Hey, Doc, we won’t be needing those things anymore. They locked the gates, and all the Red Cross girls went home. There’s not a gal anywhere around here. You know when they’re coming back?”

Adams looked toward the voice; Marley, a broad smile on the big man’s face. Beside him, another man spoke.

“You chased them all away, Dex. They get one look at the size of those boots and run like hell.”

Adams was in no mood for this kind of fun. “All right, shut the hell up. Doc’s got a lot to do. He can’t waste his time listening to you morons.”

“Actually, Sergeant, your man asks a good question. The Red Cross has withdrawn their personnel from this base and, as I understand it, other bases as well. The ladies did brighten the place up. I doubt they’ll return before—um—before we receive our assignment.”

There was no response.

“You get that?” Adams said. “The girls are gone. You should be paying attention to that. Same reason no one’s going to town anymore. You idiots think this is a game? Put your mind on one thing and one thing only. We’re getting orders soon, and when those orders come you’ll find out what all this training has been for.”

“Hey, Sarge, is that why they’re feeding us better?”

Adams looked at Marley and thought about the food. I’ll be damned. He’s right.

“Could be. I figure the officers were getting pretty sick of cabbage and brussels sprouts. But maybe they think we need fattening up.”

There were more laughs, and another man spoke: Buford, one of the newer replacements.

“Sounds like they’re treating us like hogs going to slaughter, Sarge.”

“All right, shut up. Let the doc finish.”

The doctor was leaning low, close to Unger. “Oh, dear me. Private, are you conscious?”

Adams moved closer, saw Unger’s mouth open, heard slow breathing, the hint of a snore. The doctor looked up at him.

“This happens every now and then. The morphine affects some people more severely than others. It appears Private Unger will be sleeping for a while.” He stood up, stretched his back, rubbed a hand through the short gray beard. “I didn’t realize he was so thin. My mistake. Very sorry.”

Adams saw Unger’s eyes twitch, heard a low grunt. He looked at his watch. “All right, it’s close to chow time. Hit your quarters for ten minutes. I’ll take care of this idiot.”

The men were up and running, the usual routine, a double-timed jog everywhere they went. Adams bent low. With the doctor helping from the other side, Unger was hoisted up and over Adams’s shoulder. He began to move away, Unger’s head flopping against his back, the words of the doctor behind him.

“Truly sorry. Actually, he looks a bit young.”

T
hey stood in the usual chow line, a crackling chatter of music from a radio, some bouncy tune Adams didn’t know. He didn’t pay much attention to the popular songs, heard the names tossed around, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, the men speaking lustfully about the girl singers. Their posters draped the walls of the mess hall, movie stars as well: the leggy Betty Grable, a sultry stare from Rita Hayworth. Adams ignored most of that, didn’t attend the occasional films, tried not to pay attention to the noisy speculation that Bob Hope would come. No one is coming now, he thought. The gates are locked. No time for dance parties.

The kitchen staff was lined up behind large steel bins, spooning out what seemed to be some sort of green vegetable, beside a large bucket of what Adams guessed to be creamed corn. But every man had picked up the new smell and stood in reverent silence, watching the last server digging a long fork into a huge pile of thick steaming meat. Each man in turn had a piece dropped onto his plate, each one then hurrying toward a place to sit, the silence replaced by joyous sounds of men eating beef. Adams brought up the rear of the line, had deposited Unger on the floor, propped up against the wall in a corner of the mess hall. He picked up two trays, then glanced back at the sleeping man. Yeah, fine, he thought. I’ll get you some chow, stick one of those steaks under your nose. That ought to wake you up sooner or later.

Adams watched as the pile of meat grew smaller, a fork hoisting up the dark slabs, wet thuds on the trays. He couldn’t help staring at the steaks, the smells filling him with memories. How long has it been, anyway? More than a year, I guess. Some cookout back home, somebody’s father drinking too much beer. What the hell did we do to deserve steak? The question hung in his brain. In front of him, the new man, Buford, moved away with a full plate. Adams stared at his back, Buford’s words punching clear and cold in his mind. Hogs to the slaughter.