The Steel Wave (35 page)

Thorne saw the edge of the ramp dipping below the water in front of them, the wide expanse of beach still a hundred yards away, and the lieutenant stepped out onto the ramp, one glance back.

“Life belts! Let’s go!”

And now there were new sounds, sharp cracks and pings, lead on steel, and Thorne saw the lieutenant’s face, sudden shock in his eyes, the man dropping to his knees, falling to one side, tumbling off the ramp into the water.

Behind Thorne, the sailor shouted, “Go! Go!”

The men seemed frozen, most staring at the place where the lieutenant had been, but his body was gone completely. The bullets were coming into the boat now, another man falling forward, a hard grunt. Some of the men began pulling back, trying to escape from the inescapable, but one man moved out onto the ramp, jumped quickly into the water, and Thorne saw him standing upright, the water waist-deep, the man waving his arm.

“Let’s go!”

Thorne slid the rifle off his shoulder, pressed forward, and waited while the men in front of him filed out. He was there now, the sloping ramp under his feet, chattering rips in the air, a hard crack, the man falling away, then another beside Thorne dropping to his knees, falling facedown on the ramp. A bullet smacked into the steel beside him, a whistle of artillery, a tall plume punched up to one side. Men were pushing at him from behind, hard cursing shouts, and Thorne jumped down, water in his face, his boots hitting bottom, heard a man crying out behind him, more splashes. He pushed hard through the water, ducking low, down to his shoulders, held his rifle in front of his face. Men were moving beside him now, as he was, pushing forward. There were more spits in the water around him, zips above his head, a sharp crack rattling past his helmet, a hard watery blast to one side, but he did not stop; he pushed forward, furious at the water that grabbed him, slowed him. The artillery shells ripped overhead, and he was swarmed by the hard stink of smoke, saw a thick black swirl, fire, wreckage in the shallow water. His legs kept moving ahead, water and smoke in his face and now a hard blast, a ball of fire, more black smoke. He looked that way, saw another boat, direct hit, men on fire, bodies in the water. He wanted to stop, thought of helping, but it was too far, the bullets were still cutting the water around him, and his legs did not stop but pushed him forward, his brain screaming,
Keep going!
It was easier now, shallow water, then he was out, hard sand, black steel in the sand, crosses and poles in front of him, men moving past, his lungs burning, his legs heavy, the weight on his back dragging him down. He fought that, looked straight ahead, smoke rolling past, screaming men, more blasts, more fighter planes overhead, wide flat sand, the cliffs so far away. He lowered his head again, heard another sharp cry, more thunder, a burst of sand beside him, whistling steel. There was no thought, just the motion of his legs, driven by the training and the terror. He could hear the steady rattle and rip of machine guns far out in front of him, thumping bursts of mortar fire in the wet sand. He was gasping, his legs cold lead, and he moved to one of the steel crosses, his hand out, holding himself, his knees giving way, his chest heaving. Men were around him, no words, desperate and exhausted, stopping, as he was, finding cover behind the steel, more men tumbling into the sand.

“Help! Medic! Oh, God!”

Thorne searched for the man but there were too many, stumbling and falling, helmets off, backpacks scattered, another blast, a chorus of
pings
on the hard steel beam above his head. He knelt low, kept his face down, both knees in the wet sand, another man down beside him, seeking cover, a hand grabbing his shoulder, panic in the man’s voice.

“We can’t do this! We have to go back!”

More men were down behind him, one man crying, uncontrollable wailing, but most of them were silent, heads down, some of them flattening out behind the protection of the steel, the shower of machine-gun fire relentless. Thorne heard more of the thumps, grunts and cries, sparks in front of him, bullets striking the steel. He tried to roll himself up tight, a smaller target, but a hand was grabbing his collar, a deafening voice in his ear.

“Let’s go! Get to the beach!”

The man moved out in front of him, beyond the protection of the steel, and Thorne saw more men doing the same, running across the flat sands, some tumbling forward, one man tossed to the side, broken by a mortar blast. Pieces.

Behind him another man came forward, screamed, “Go! We gotta go!”

Thorne knew the voice, the old sergeant; Woodruff went past him, running low, holding his M-1. Thorne saw the plastic wrapping, thought of his own, the rifle clamped in his hands, his brain yelling instructions, Load it! Shoot back! He glanced up toward the beach again, nothing to see, in his head the idiotic instructions:
Know your targets.
He saw Woodruff, still moving, going up a rise, a low wall of rocks, Woodruff down now, waving his arm, calling them forward; more men moving up to him, more cover.

Thorne tried to move his legs, cramped, paralyzed, another hard blast, black smoke rolling over him, machine-gun fire striking the steel in front of him. He felt himself shaking, wanted to cry, terror holding him, but another wave of men was moving past him, some of them stopping close to him, behind the obstacles, seeking cover, but the mortar fire was finding them too. The thumping explosions came in a steady rhythm around them, throwing sand in the air, a direct hit on one of the steel obstacles a few yards away. He stared that way: pieces of men, an arm hanging on a steel beam, rocking slowly, fingers curling up.

You can’t stay here!
He realized now, there was water beneath him, a shallow wave coming slowly from behind. The briefing came back, one fact no one had paid attention to, something about the tide coming in, faster than anything they had seen. A helmet rolled past him now, carried by the flow, more clothing, and men were splashing past him, panicked cries, wounded men calling out.
You can’t stay here!
He looked for Woodruff and saw dark shapes, men huddled low behind a rocky wall.
Cover.
Go!

He pulled himself up, fought through the stiffness in his legs, the burning weakness in his lungs. He held the rifle close in front of him and tried to run, slow plodding steps, splashing water. The machine-gun fire was steady, cutting the air over and around him, hard splashes, more heavy blasts behind him, a sharp explosion, more smoke. He focused on the wall, now closer—no more water, no more obstacles, just soft sand, the beach rising up—hard pain in his legs, fire in his chest. He was close to the wall, saw it wasn’t a wall at all, just a mound of small rocks, spread out all along the beach, but it was all the cover they had. He dropped to his knees, crawled forward, moved through a cluster of men, lifeless, dark stains in the sand, a broken rifle, shredded backpack. He pushed past, saw faces watching him, one face, Woodruff, the sergeant staring back at him with black eyes, dull shock.

Thorne crawled up beside him, collapsed, gasping, spitting through the sand in his mouth. No one was talking, machine-gun fire chattering across the rocks above him. More men were coming up the sloping sand, dropping down along the rocks, soft cries; one man, blood on his face, helmet gone, running; men shouting at him,
Get down;
and Thorne saw the impact punching the man’s chest, the man curling up, rolling forward. The cries rose across the beach in a horrible chorus, wounded men calling for stretchers, some still out on the open beach. Thorne looked back and saw a hand in the air, the man screaming, meaningless noises, one man running low, moving toward him, a dull red cross on the man’s helmet. But the storm of fire blew over them and the medic collapsed, falling onto the man he was trying to help.

Thorne felt himself shaking, sick, the rifle still in his hands, still wrapped in plastic, watched as more of the men splashed through the shallow water, so many of the landing crafts in the distance. Some of the boats were close, had come in with the tide, pieces, broken and battered, no one at the controls, black smoke. He looked along the rocky embankment, out past the gathering men, and saw a tank on fire, still in the water; another, sideways, farther out in the surf. The larger landing craft were still coming in, spread out all across the rising water. His eyes fixed on one of the larger ones, close; he saw the big ramp come down and heard Woodruff’s angry outburst.

“Tanks! They’re coming in behind us!
Behind us!
They’re supposed to be here first! This isn’t going to work!”

Thorne didn’t respond, his brain arguing, They did come in first! They just didn’t make it! There weren’t enough of them! He kept his stare on the wrecked tanks, those few that had led the assault, but they were gone, useless, no sign of their crews. More men were coming in through the surf, gathering in a cluster, kneeling behind a burning tank, using the wreckage for cover. But there was no cover; just machine-gun fire sweeping them from too many directions, the men suddenly collapsing into the surf. Farther out, more artillery fire erupted near an LST, the wide maw of its ramp hidden by smoke and tall plumes of water.

Now a tank rolled out onto the ramp, its gun firing with a hard thump, the tank spilling forward into the water, then upright, pushing toward shore, the gun firing again. Another tank emerged onto the ramp, more firing from both tanks, the second tank close behind the first, rolling through the shallow surf. Woodruff was still cursing, but Thorne ignored him, thought, Thank God. Thank God. They’ll save us. He stared at the open bow of the ship, another tank appearing, magnificent power, another one emerging from behind. Yes! Keep coming! The first two reached the flat open sand, turrets in motion, guns firing upward toward the cliffs, and the sand in front of the first tank erupted, the artillery shell just short. The tank kept moving forward, up the incline of the soft beach, and now Thorne heard the sounds, shell after shell in the air close overhead. The sand erupted again, the first tank impacted by the blast, more sand and smoke, the second tank moving past the wreckage, another blast, direct hit, more shells falling farther out, on the landing craft itself. The surviving tanks continued to fire, but the enemy had the range now, and the water around the tanks flew into a fiery spray, more direct hits, an open hatch, men suddenly appearing, scrambling out of the burning wreck, tumbling away, sprayed by machine-gun fire.

Thorne felt sick again, heard low groans around him, and Woodruff, high panic in the man’s voice. “This isn’t working! It isn’t working!”

The machine guns continued to fire, seeking targets, splintering the rocks over his head. Thorne looked to the side, saw a dozen men, most curled up tightly, one man frantically scooping the sand with his hands, others now copying him. Thorne looked at Woodruff, saw none of the older man’s steel but only panic in his eyes.

“Sarge! What do we do? We’re supposed to be going through the draw…toward the church.”

“I’m not going anywhere. The lieutenant is dead. Hell, as far as I know, every lieutenant is dead. We have to get out of here…back to the boats!”

Beside the sergeant, a man began to dig frantically. “They’re all dead! Captain Fellers is dead! I saw him!”

Thorne absorbed that: Fellers, the company’s commanding officer.

“There are no boats!” Thorne shouted. “We can’t stay here! We have to keep going!”

Woodruff said nothing, just rolled to one side, digging his own foxhole, frantic hands working the sand.

Thorne was furious now, grabbed Woodruff by the shoulder and shouted, “Dammit, we can’t stay here!”

Woodruff took his arm, hard grip, terrified anger in the man’s eyes.

“Let go of me. You want to keep going, go ahead. Maybe we’ll catch up to you.”

Thorne was shaking again, realized the M-1 was still in plastic. He unwrapped it, saw wet sand in the breech, blew on it, then again, jerked the small bolt, the rifle loaded. He was panting heavily. Other men watching him with wild-eyed fear, some settling into shallow foxholes, tossing sand out in small scoops. Thorne felt helpless, weak. He glanced up at the rocks cresting a foot above his head. He looked back out toward the water, the vast fleet in the distance, useless now, more of the larger landing craft pushing in under their barrage balloons. Smaller craft came in as well, the next wave, some moving close to the steel obstacles, another explosion, the craft tossed backward, rolling over, men falling away, survivors jumping into the rising tide. Thorne watched the men pushing through the water, some stopping, dropping in shallow water, flattening out, seeking shelter from wreckage and pieces of debris.

All along the edge of the water, the tide had brought in a mass of horror, the slow ebb and flow of shattered men and equipment. But the machine guns did not stop, and the wreckage at the water’s edge was no cover at all. On the beach itself, bodies were scattered in chaotic heaps, rifles and helmets, much of the gear they carried blasted into rubble. Thorne could see now that the sand was nearly smooth, no holes, none of the cover from the navy’s shelling. He tried to shake the thoughts from his head, the lieutenant, the rockets. What happened? Did they miss…everything?

The fighter planes came over them again, one man shouting, “Krauts!”

But Thorne could see the distinct shapes of the P-38s. “No! They’re ours!”

The planes began to circle, rips of fire into targets on the cliffs, the planes rolling over, moving away. But still the machine guns sprayed out all across the beach, unstoppable.

The flow of men continued, men fighting their way past the carnage in the surf, and Thorne could only watch them, coming up out of the water, running to reach the rocks.

“Get up!” one man shouted at the huddled men. “Get the hell off this beach! Get to the cliffs! Move it!”

Thorne knew that sound, the authority of an officer, saw captain’s bars on the man’s helmet and felt breathless relief—someone in command—but saw that the captain’s arm was hanging loose, a flow of blood; the man fell to his knees and forward onto the sand. More men came up, a medic, not stopping, all of them seeking the cover of the rocks, but there was no space now, men pushing up hard against the others or scrambling to dig holes. There was a thumping explosion—no warning, a mortar shell—and sand sprayed over Thorne, screams, bodies tossed aside.