The Steel Wave (30 page)

Adams knew that high squeak. It was Unger. “Take it easy, kid. We’ll find you one.”

Another man said, “I lost mine too. What are we gonna do?” There was too much volume to the panic in the voice—Hovey.

Adams moved close, gripped his arm. “Shut up! We’ll find weapons. Stay close together.”

Pullman moved into the center of the group and dropped to one knee, the others all down as well. “I think there’s a road, just past those trees. I thought I saw a truck when I came down.” He reached into his pocket, and Adams knew what was coming, the sharp click of a lighter. Of course, an officer would have a damned Zippo. The light flickered briefly, then another jarringly loud click, the flame extinguished. Adams had caught a glimpse of the compass.

“North is that way,” Pullman said. “That’s where we’re headed. Unless we were dropped in some cockeyed place, the town should be that way.”

There was a sudden rising chorus of gunfire, chattering bursts, the sounds expanding all around them. Streaks of tracer fire erupted from the trees, and the men all dropped flat. Adams slid on his belly, pulled himself farther into the brush, thought of Pullman’s words. Some cockeyed place. Yep, this would qualify.

They stayed flat for long seconds, the fire increasing but farther away, no one aiming at them. They don’t know where we are, he thought. Not yet. We should stay here long enough to gather up whoever made it, whoever got out of that damned water. But once it’s light enough to see something, we need to go to work. He raised his head, eased himself through the grass, tapped Pullman on the leg.

“We should spread out here, form a perimeter, watch our flanks. Looks like this brush runs in a straight line. Good cover. I lost my shovel, but we can use what we’ve got to dig in. You said there was a road.”

A burst of fire rolled over them, a machine gunner spraying wildly, and Pullman turned his head toward him, reached down, grabbed Adams’s hand.

“We…have to go! You lead the way!”

“Easy, Lieutenant. We need to find more of our guys. They gotta be all over the place out here. We move now, we’re stumbling blind. Best we dig some holes right here, close to this brush.”

“Okay. Okay. North is that way. How long should we wait?”

Adams didn’t like the question. Dammit, what a time for the looey to fall apart. The firing was increasing again, most of it in the distance, flashes beyond the trees, and Adams dropped low again, leaned closer to Pullman’s ear.

“Sir, we need more rifles, and we need to find someone in command, someone with a radio, someone who knows what’s going on.”

There was a sharp
click,
farther down the brush line, then another. The men listened in silence, and Adams realized what it was: a toy cricket. He glanced at Marley, the man lying flat, No, it’s not you. Pullman said in a faint whisper, “Thunder!”

“He’s too far away, sir. I’ll go get him. If he doesn’t shoot me.”

The cricket sounded again, sharp double
clicks,
and Adams pulled himself around in the grass, eased that way, crawled past Unger, another man. He stayed on his knees, moved close to a twisted tree, the brush covering a mound of dirt, rising up in a steep embankment, tangled with tree limbs. He pulled himself along, tested the ground with his knees, avoided the tangles of sticks and roots. He fought the chill in his clothes and thought of the missing knife, the pistol gone as well. This idiot better be one of us. His knee punched a rock, and he grunted, clenching his jaw. Dammit! He looked behind him, no landmarks, black shadows, the brush extending back in a straight line. He crawled again, ignoring the throb in his knee, long seconds, chattering machine guns far across the field, the distant blast of a grenade. He stopped and looked that way, thought, That was one of ours…maybe. Hope to God it was. He glanced back again, tried to guess the distance he had come: a hundred yards, maybe. Pay attention to that. Sound carries in the dark.

Click-crick.

The cricket was close, just on the other side of the brush line, and Adams ducked low, said in a sharp whisper, “American, you jackass. Stop playing with that damned toy.”

There was a rustle in the brush, and he heard the man crawling, a whisper. “My rifle’s aimed at your head. If you’re a Kraut—”

“If I’m a Kraut, you’re already dead.”

“Where’s your damned cricket?”

“Orders, you moron. Only the One-oh-one carries crickets.”

“I
am
One-oh-one. Who are you?”

Adams understood now, felt a strange relief, realized he was breathing heavily. “I’m Eighty-second. The Five-oh-five.”

There was silence for a brief moment, and the man began to move, punching through the tangle, and Adams waited, the man easing quietly up the far side of the embankment. He emerged through the brush, grunted, rolled over, tumbled down next to Adams.

“What the hell is the Five-oh-five doing here? I’m with Five-oh-one, Corporal Burkett. Captain Hadley’s radioman. Lost my radio, though.”

The man’s speech had too much volume, stabbed the silence.

Adams grabbed his shoulder. “Shut up,” he whispered. “Krauts everywhere! You hear those machine guns? Come on. There’s a bunch of us over this way, a hundred yards or so. I’m Sergeant Adams. My lieutenant is in command there. More or less.”

“You lost?”

“We’re all lost. Any of your buddies around here?”

“Don’t know. Nobody answered my cricket.”

Adams didn’t respond, thought of Gavin. Yeah, I’m sure you loved this cricket idea.

“Let’s go. Until you find your captain, you’re with us.”

He began to move, crawling back toward the others, realized this part of the embankment was nearly the height of a man. To one side the field was open and flat, the embankment a stout wall of cover. He stood, kept himself low, and continued to move, Burkett silent behind him. Good. At least the One-oh-one teaches you how to be quiet. Adams stepped slowly, the ground soft, thick grass, and Burkett suddenly grabbed his arm. Adams froze, the man’s fingers digging into him, a soft whisper, close to his ear.

“There! In the field!”

Adams turned slowly, Burkett crouching behind him, and lowered himself as well, the Thompson coming up. He saw movement, blind shadows, sounds of footsteps in the grass.

Burkett said in his ear, “Should I use the cricket?”

Adams put a hand on the man’s chest, a silent
no,
stared at the dark motion, the shapes coming closer, no more than thirty yards away. He wrapped his fingers around the trigger of the Thompson, the shapes still moving, silent, more soft steps, closer still. Burkett raised his rifle, and Adams yelled in his brain, No, not yet! He wanted to grab Burkett’s arm, but he kept his grip on the Thompson, pointed it at the closest shadow, easing it up to his shoulder, aiming. The shapes began to take form now, closing the space between them, the shadows larger, heavy steps, ten yards, closer, and now a single loud echoing sound, shattering the dark.

“Moooooooo!”

Adams jumped, fought the need to laugh, the other shapes now clear in the darkness, gathering closer, a small herd. He felt his hands shaking. Burkett was down now, sitting, breathing hard.

“I almost peed myself,” Burkett said.

Adams grabbed the man’s shoulder, fought to keep the whisper, ignored the man’s embarrassment, said, “Let’s go.”

They were up and moving again, the embankment dropping away into the thick brush, the direction Adams had come. He slowed, listened, Burkett mimicking his movements, and the word drifted toward them in a whisper.

“Flash.”

Adams didn’t hesitate. “Thunder.”

He saw them now, in a low line, more than he expected. One man crawled toward him, Pullman, and Adams said, “He’s from the One-oh-one. Only one I found.”

“A few others from the One-oh-one are here. Came in from that way. Looks like we’re scattered all to hell.” Pullman put a hand on his shoulder, leaned close. “You were right about staying put, Sergeant. As soon as it’s light enough to see, we might have enough people do something. Sergeant Davies is over there, a few of his platoon. He thinks there’s a bunch more of us past that far tree line. Krauts too.”

Adams knew Davies well, another veteran of Sicily. Good.

Behind him, a low whisper. “Hey, Sarge, you capture us some steak?”

Adams was in no mood for Marley, ignored him, could see that Pullman was shivering, and Adams felt it himself. Have to take off these boots, he thought. He looked toward the men closest to him.

“I need a pair of socks. You spare any?”

One man rolled forward, silent, working the small cloth bag, held out a dark hand. Adams couldn’t see the man’s face, no sounds.

“Thanks.”

He sat, untied the wet boots, heard a low voice at the far end of the line.

“Flash!”

“Thunder.”

Three more men emerged from the brush, low whispers, chattering excitement. Thank God. More of us. Pullman’s right. By dawn, we can get something done. Be damned nice if we could find someone with a BAR, or a heavy machine gun. Or a radio.

He stripped away the waterlogged socks, hooked them on his belt, slid the dry socks onto his grateful feet. The boots were miserably wet; nothing he could do about that. He pulled hard on the soaked leather, the boots sliding on reluctantly, and laced them up quickly. Around him, the men were spreading out, digging in, more strength, shielded by the brush to one side, an open field of fire in front of them. Adams thought of the water, someone’s amazingly stupid mistake. Don’t we have observers? They take pictures, for God’s sake. How many did we lose? No, can’t think about that. There’s a flock of us all over these damned fields, and with a little daylight we can raise some hell. He stared out into darkness: nothing to see, the sounds of a truck in the distance, the rumble of artillery. Now the rumbles grew louder, low steady punches, and he stared that way, searching for flashes of light, but saw nothing; too far away. The sounds continued to grow, like a distant storm.

Pullman moved close to him, pointed. “Northeast. You think…you think it might be—”

Adams already knew. He had heard this before, on Sicily, incoming fire from guns far larger than anything the army took to the field. The heaviest shells came from the big ships, the massive naval artillery that would batter the enemy positions along the beaches. He glanced skyward, could see more of the thick gray above him, the first hint of precious daylight. My God, he thought. That’s coming from the beach. That’s how it happens. The bombers start it, and then the battleships, and when it’s light enough to see the men will follow.

He stared out toward the open ground, toward hidden tree lines, where the clusters of German machine guns were rolling into place, men who had been scrambled out of their outposts to meet this assault from the paratroopers, an assault that had not yet truly begun. He felt nervous, anxious, his hands holding tightly to the Thompson. Come on, dammit. Just a little more daylight. We need to find more of us, somebody in charge. He moved up to one knee, glanced at the men along the hedgerow, his own men, his lieutenant, the others, movement in the darkness, the soft work of the shovels. Some were stopping now, staring out as he was, the distant sound growing louder still, the rumble rolling all through him, low punches in his gut.

I wish I could see that, he thought, see it up close, right there, on the sand. Who’s going to stand up to that? Come on, boys. Come
on,
boys! He raised the Thompson slowly and held it high over his head, one man’s silent salute to so many others, those men who still had to cross the beach.

PART THREE

The spirits have been poured. It’s time to take a drink.

WINSTON CHURCHILL

18. THORNE

B
y June 1944, the Twenty-ninth Infantry Division had been in southwestern England for more than eighteen months, longer than any other combat division in the American army. Their training had been both brutal and fun, depending of course on the weather and what they were ordered to do. Through the rugged countryside, they had practiced every kind of infantry operation: storming rocky beaches, launching full-scale assaults on unsuspecting farms, surprising farmers who stayed at their plows, cheering the troops as they flowed past. More than once, the troops had slipped quietly through gullies and streambeds, surprising hikers or young lovers who had thought the isolated countryside would offer a bit of privacy. For most of their training, they had no idea what they were being called upon to do; not even the officers were completely aware until a few days before the operation would begin. But long before that, they had won a hard-fought victory of another kind, capturing the affections of a large percentage of the English civilians. Beyond the rugged beaches and mock battlefields, many of the young soldiers embarked on a different sort of operation. It took place in the dance halls and pubs of so many villages and towns, where the girls looked with smiling eagerness toward these Americans. The soldiers learned quickly that the enemy here was formidable and often as threatening as the Germans: the mothers who stood guard over the virtue of their daughters, vigilance that was often hopeless. Frequently, seduced by the uninhibited charms and deep pockets of the brash GIs, many of the mothers succumbed as well. But no matter their relentless assaults on the virtue of the Englishwomen, the soldiers had found a graciousness in the hospitality of most civilians, who seemed to recognize that these Americans brought something desperately necessary to this fight, that the loud voices and rude, boisterous habits of the GIs did not diminish the urgency of the job they had to do, a job the British could not accomplish by themselves.

Throughout the infantry’s training, the high brass had come to the fields, Montgomery and Bradley and Eisenhower, with speeches and pep talks. The men were always grateful for the attention, if not for the speeches themselves. No matter what kind of encouragement the generals brought, it was a sign to the GIs that they were not forgotten, that the months of training had some meaning, that eventually they would be called upon to do something
big.