The Steel Wave (27 page)

He grabbed more of the magazines, stuffed a baggy pants pocket, moved along the rows of equipment, a routine he had repeated often. He wore the standard jumpsuit, heavy and stiff, the cloth impregnated with some kind of odd stinking chemical. It was said to prevent gas poisoning, though no one seemed to know how their jumpsuit would keep gas from finding its way inside. A gas mask was more comforting protection, and he hooked one to the pistol belt at his waist. The belt was a strap of thick canvas with eyelets that served as a tool belt for much of his equipment. The belt already held a .45-caliber pistol, and Adams had held on to his beloved Thompson submachine gun, even though most of the men now carried the M-1 Garand rifle. The M-1 could be broken down into pieces for the jump, the pieces held together in a tight cloth sack. That was one part of the training drilled into the men with as much precision as the jump itself: The M-1 could be assembled by every one of them in blind darkness.

Adams picked up a small hinged shovel and a canteen, already full of water, and hooked them to his belt alongside a small med kit. One of the crewmen handed him a soft cloth bag, issued one per man, packed with clean socks, a compass, rations, toothbrush, a small bar of soap, a safety razor. The bag also contained cigarettes, a thin billfold with some unknown amount of French currency, and water purification tablets. Adams chose a knife from several in a heavy wood box. He weighed one in his hand, felt the thick canvas scabbard, knew they were all the same, that no matter how sharp it might be, he would sharpen it anyway. He strapped that to a pants leg; easier access, should he need to cut his straps. That was every man’s nightmare, his chute hanging him on some obstruction, a tree perhaps, high off the ground. Adams straightened his back, adjusting himself to the weight of the gear. Now it was time for the parachute, and he saw the shrinking pile of dark green bundles, the name tags, spotted the one marked with his particular drawing, black chevrons, his rank, easy to spot. He slid the chute up on his back, tightened the belly strap, reached for the straps under his crotch. Someone was helping him from behind now, the usual routine, and he said, “Thanks.”

The man moved past him, toward the pile of reserve chutes, and Adams saw it was Unger. “Here you go, Sarge. Any particular one you want?”

The reserve chutes were more anonymous. Adams pointed. “Pick one that will open. Shouldn’t need the damned thing anyway.”

“I’m happy to have mine, Sarge. You never know. You gonna carry a Mae West?”

“We all carry a Mae West. You heard the orders. We’re flying over water.”

“Yeah, I know. Awful heavy, though.”

Adams hooked the reserve chute at his chest and attached it to D rings from the main parachute pack. Unger was holding two Mae Wests, inflatable life vests, and Adams could see that Unger was fully loaded, was struggling to stay upright.

“How much longer we have to wait, Sarge?”

Adams took one of the life vests and clamped it under his arm. “No idea. They tell us to board up, then we’ll know.”

“You scared, Sarge?”

“Damned right. You know better than to ask that.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Unger leaned closer to Adams, discreet. “Some of these boys, they talk a good game. Not so sure I believe all that rah-rah stuff. I heard Marley say he can’t wait to get his hands on some French girl. Says they do things…well,
things.
”

Adams saw Marley to one side, still talking to the lieutenant. “You remember all the things those Sicilian girls did to you?”

Unger seemed mystified. “Uh, no, Sarge. Mostly they just waved as we went by.”

“Right. I’m guessing the French girls are about as mysterious as that.”

Unger laughed, surprising him. “That’s a relief, Sarge. I wasn’t sure how I’d…do that.”

Adams shifted the weight of the pack, felt the gear dragging him down, an ache in his legs. Unger was still struggling to stand. Damn you, Adams thought, you ought to be dressing up to go to a prom.

“Let’s move over there, take a load off. I need to sharpen this knife.”

Unger followed him to a thick bundle. Adams knew they wouldn’t sit for long, the ground crew would soon attach their seat to the underside of a wing. The bundles were like fat green sausages, holding more gear—bazookas, radios, or heavy machine guns. He sat, Unger beside him, both men staring out through the dimming light. Adams pulled the knife from its scabbard and slid the blade along a sharpening stone, something he always carried in a pants pocket. Around him, many of the men were doing as he did, some cleaning their already cleaned rifles, some examining the clips for their M-1s.

“You glad you signed up, Sarge? Would you do it again?”

Adams didn’t want this conversation, but he couldn’t avoid an affection for Unger, wide-eyed innocence, boyish stupidity.

“What do you think?”

“I figured you’d always be in charge here. I hated it when you got called away by General Gavin. Some of the guys said you’d never come back, that they’d make you an officer and you’d end up getting fat behind a desk. I told ’em you’d be back. I kinda expected you to be a lieutenant though.”

“I like the stripes. If I was an officer, I couldn’t bust you in the chops when you got out of line.” He felt stupid making that kind of threat to Unger. The kid had never been a problem at all. He slid the knife blade along the stone, slow, even strokes. He glanced at the young man’s smooth skin, almost no sign of a beard. He was curious now. “What about you? What made you want to jump out of a plane?”

“I didn’t, Sarge. I’d never even seen a plane, except in Des Moines, at a big carnival. Everybody was all excited, said Amelia Earhart was coming. I saw the airplane, but that’s about it. Didn’t find out until later who she was.” He paused. “I was drafted into the Fourth Division, those guys that are supposed to land on Utah Beach. We didn’t know anything about that, not back then. One day a captain comes into the company mess, and I hear him say something about volunteering to become a
pair of troops.
A lot of the guys were cussing about that, and I thought that was pretty unsociable. Made me ashamed that my company was being rude to some captain we didn’t even know. So I raised my hand, and the captain came toward me, patted me on the back, told the rest of the guys I was a good example. I thought that was all right, being a good example. Before that, nobody ever noticed me.”

Adams lowered the knife—couldn’t help a laugh—looked at Unger, and said, “A
pair of troops
?”

“Uh, well, yeah. I thought that’s what he said. Sounded good to me, that I’d be teamed up with a buddy, might learn to be a better soldier by being in pairs. So, next thing I know I’m at Fort Benning, and the first couple days I keep asking who I’m being paired up with. Guess that was pretty stupid, huh?”

Adams saw the bright-eyed energy in the boy’s face. “Yeah, kid, that was pretty stupid. You
are
a kid too, aren’t you? I know it.”

He tested the edge of the knife blade with his finger, felt satisfied, slid the knife into the scabbard again. His stomach was rumbling again; he didn’t want to talk to Unger now—or to anyone. He stared out across the vast airfield. He had almost never seen so many C-47s in one place, not since before Sicily. He made a rough count: more than a hundred, huddled in neat rows. The body of each plane had been painted with alternating stripes, three white split by two black, to make sure every plane had the same identifying marks. It was someone’s solution to the friendly-fire disaster in Sicily, to let the antiaircraft boys know that every Allied plane, whether transport or combat, would carry the same distinct markings. The stripes had been applied only a couple of days before. Adams had watched the crews working with their paintbrushes, had even volunteered his men to help, but there didn’t seem to be enough brushes for everyone. It had raised only one question in his mind: Where did they find all that paint?

Adams was jolted by the sounds of jeeps, moving out past the hangars, and felt his heart jump. It was officers, the higher brass, coming to load up with gear of their own. Every one of the commanders would accompany their men, and that applied all the way to the top. In the Eighty-second Airborne, that meant Gavin and Ridgway as well. Adams had heard that Gavin was flying with the 508th, and understood why: Gavin’s worry about untested regiments would keep the general close to them. No matter how cocky they might be, having Gavin close by would make them better soldiers. The 505th would be accompanied by its own senior officers, Colonel Ekman of course and the battalion commanders, Kellam, Vandervoort, and Krause. Adams had rarely spoken to any of them, had no reason to go any higher than Captain Scofield, who commanded the company. Most of the other sergeants reported only to their lieutenants, and Adams had no problem dealing with Pullman.

“Hey, Sarge, you heard anything about your brother?”

The question surprised him. “Not lately. Why the hell do you care?”

Unger shrugged. “Just wanted to know. Gotta be tough for your mom, having two sons in the war, scattered all over the earth like this.”

“Don’t worry about my mom.”

Unger focused again on his equipment, and Adams thought of her last few letters, brief, pleasant, to the point. It’s just her way, he thought. She writes me like I’m on a camping trip ten miles away. Probably writes the same stuff to Clay. Wonder what he’s doing? He’s gotta be okay. If something happened to him, the army would tell me that, for sure. Probably knee-deep in some swamp on some island in the middle of the Pacific. Why in hell would you join the Marines? He laughed quietly. Hey, you coulda jumped out of airplanes. Loads more fun.

“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Unger said. “I heard that whoever kicks butt first, we’ll all join up and finish the job.”

“What?”

“Saw it in
Stars and Stripes.
We whip the Japs, those boys will come over here and help us. We get Hitler, we’ll go over there and help them. You might see your brother yet, might even fight right beside him.”

“You’re as stupid as a bag of rocks. My brother’s a Marine. Besides, I don’t need him anywhere near where I’m fighting. Ever.”

“Why? I think it’d be great to fight side by side with your brother. I like having friends in this unit, Sarge. Best friends I’ve ever had. Even…you.”

“
Two
bags of rocks. I’m not your friend, Private. I’d expect that from these other idiots, but you’re a veteran. You should know better. Don’t make friends.”

“If you say so, Sarge. But I thought you and Captain Scofield were good buddies. Always seemed that way.”

“Check your damned equipment.” Adams was annoyed with Unger because he was right. Adams had jumped with Scofield in Sicily and held on to the hope that it would happen again. Ed Scofield was far more than a capable company commander. He was an exceptional soldier, with perfect instincts on the battlefield, and the two men had survived the bloodiest days in Sicily by relying on each other to do the job. It was a dangerous exception to Adams’s rule about friendships. Most of the men ignored the wisdom of that rule. There was a natural camaraderie among men who respected one another, a pride in knowing they shared the airborne’s unique identity. Adams glanced at Unger. He should know better, but still he follows me around like a puppy. If we get into some rough stuff, every one of these morons will find out that having your best friend beside you when you’re under fire can be a costly mistake.

Unger, busying himself with a strap on his chest, looked at Adams and smiled, toothy and infectious. Adams looked away. Damn you! You’re just too nice.

Adams hadn’t seen Scofield at all today, nothing unusual. It would take at least ten C-47s to haul just this one company. I’ll find him, he thought, somewhere. I think Pullman will do okay, but when we hit the ground, it’ll be nice to know there’s at least one man who has done this before.

It was dark now, the distant rows of planes invisible. Close by, the low hum of voices was beginning to intensify, the brutal tension spreading through them all.

“Listen up!”

Adams turned. Pullman was climbing up on a thick bundle nearby. The lieutenant seemed nervous, still sweating in the hard chill, the man’s face a soft glowing sheen.

“The crews are coming through with the face paint. Use enough to cover your skin, but save some for the next man. It’s the same stuff as last night, greasepaint and burnt cork. It stunk like hell then, so I’m sure tonight it’ll be even riper.”

Adams saw a paint can appear, moving through the men, each man’s fingers spreading the goop on his face. Pullman waited for a moment.

“All right, you remember what we said last night about the call signs? You had damned well better remember. First man says
Flash,
you respond
Thunder.
You got that? Flash and Thunder. I know some of you have heard about the metal crickets. The One-oh-one has been issued these little toys that click. That’s fine for them, but General Ridgway has given orders that
we
make use of the call sign. All it takes is one dumb bastard to lose his cricket in the bushes, and instead of clicking the damned thing, he hollers out and draws fire from every Kraut around. I don’t know how you got ’em, but I’ve heard a few of those clicks around here. Fine, I’m not going to search you. You want to carry a damned toy, you go ahead. But if you’re near me and you don’t use that call sign, I’ll shoot you.”

Adams scanned the faces, most of them darkened now, and saw one man, large, a beaming smile, holding up his hand, making a small
click click
sound. Of course, if one jackass among us found a way to get one of those toys, it would be Marley.

The paint can had reached Adams, and he dipped two fingers in and smeared the greasepaint on his face, his nose filling with the smell of the burnt cork. Pullman was not yet through talking, and Adams looked back toward him, as the lieutenant went on.

“I’ve been ordered to make sure your canteens are filled with water, not beer or booze. Every one of you, open your canteen and let the man next to you have a smell. I’m going to trust you on this one, boys. But if you’re stupid enough to carry alcohol instead of water, I don’t want you in my platoon. If any of you let your buddy get away with that, just remember, he might be the one watching your back. One more thing. I’ve been hearing from some of the other officers, a few of them making a big show of telling their men that any one of you who doesn’t jump tonight is subject to being shot. This platoon will fill three of these birds, and no one is coming back to England on any of
those.
General Ridgway might think threatening you is a good thing to do, but I won’t have to. Because you’re all going to jump.”