The Steel Wave (55 page)

Scofield pointed to Coleman’s back and the corporal rolled over, handing him the radio. Scofield turned a knob and spoke into the receiver.

“Scofield to Harris. You there?”

Adams heard the crackled response, too loud, and Scofield cursed and turned a knob.

“We’re moving forward. Watch those trees on the right.”

“Grrrffffts.”

The captain held the receiver away from his face and stared at it. “Piece of crap. The Krauts probably gave us these things as Christmas presents.”

He handed the receiver back to the corporal.

“Looks like there’s some brush along the edge of the drop-off. We need to get through that quickly, then push hard to get up the far side. No sign yet of Krauts on that next ridge, but they could be smarter than we are. I don’t want to send us into an ambush. You ready to run?”

Adams said, “Ready.”

The others responded as well, and Scofield nodded, pulled himself up to his feet, waved his arm. “Let’s go!”

The men rose up from the grass, their own lieutenants driving them forward. Far to the left, more of the 505th was in motion, pops of scattered firing through thickets of trees. Adams looked back, checked his own men, saw Marley lagging behind, and slowed, waving them past.

“Damn you, Private! Let’s move!” he said in a low voice.

Marley seemed to struggle on the uneven ground; he was past Adams now and said nothing, just small grunts as he ran. Adams fell in behind him, saw the limp, and thought, Yep, he’s turned his damned ankle. Or got a rock in his boot. Adams slowed his pace, keeping Marley in front of him. They reached the falloff now; there was scattered brush below them, too thin for enemy cover. Adams scanned the hillside as the entire company poured down. The draw was steep and narrow, only a hundred yards across from crest to crest, the dip only thirty yards deep. Scofield, already in the thicker grass at the bottom, was climbing out, up the other side. The far face of the hill was mostly open, one cluster of trees to the right drawing Adams’s eye. Other men were moving that way, pulled by a lieutenant. Adams kept Marley in front of him, heard the grunting as the big man stumbled down into the draw. Adams moved close behind him, kept his gaze to the right, watched the lieutenant, the trees, thought, Careful, there could be somebody in there. Marley reached the bottom of the draw and began moving up the other side. Adams lagged back, watching the lieutenant’s squad moving into the trees: no other sounds, no hidden machine guns. Thank God.

Adams pushed through the bottom of the draw and climbed up on smoother ground, most of the men already hunkered down along the top of the ridge, keeping back from the crest. Scofield was there, watching him, watching the others. Adams saw movement from the cluster of trees, the lieutenant signaling, okay, nobody—and the trees erupted, a flash of fire, thick smoke, and the lieutenant was gone. More explosions came now, a steady rhythm across the face of the hill, some shells coming down behind them, in the bottom of the draw. Adams lay flat, the ground jumping beneath him, cries from men to one side, his own brain screaming the word:
Mortars!
Dammit!

Shouts came: Scofield, men along the ridgeline firing their rifles, the thumping rattle of a BAR, Scofield shouting again. The mortar blasts slowed, the rhythm broken, and Adams tried to count in his mind: a half dozen of them, maybe more. Find them!

He crawled up the hill—ripped earth in front of him, the stink of explosives, smoking metal—and pushed quickly past, the ridgeline only a few yards above him. Scofield was still there, pointing, giving orders, the men responding with their rifles. Adams pushed himself hard, heard more screams, close, ignored them, and drove himself up toward the captain, machine-gun fire in the distance, a distinct sound, streaking overhead. There were new sounds now, the drone of a small engine. He rolled over and saw the glimmer, a Piper Cub, darting low, moving out past the ridge, banking hard, now another one, far to the left. The machine gun was still firing. Adams rolled over, staying face down in the grass, angry, hot, sweating, and gripped the Thompson, aching for a target. He could still hear the planes, the sound fading, more machine-gun fire, then a chorus of soft thumps.

“Incoming mortars! Keep low!” Scofield shouted.

The blasts peppered the hillside, one on the ridgeline close above Adams, jarring him, the whistle of steel splinters past his head, dirt falling on his back. He waited for the lull, the mortar shells punching down behind him, then quiet. He raised up: smoke and dust, Scofield, waving.

“Let’s go! Hit those bastards!”

The men began to rise, Adams moving with them, saw wounded, one man crawling, dragging a shattered leg, a medic moving close to him, now another, scrambling low. Adams pushed to the top of the ridge, saw trees beyond, a hill, brush, specks of light, the sound of the machine gun. The air was streaked with fire, one man screaming in raw fear, the others pushing forward, silent rifles, closing the gap, men dropping, short cover in the brush. Adams ran hard, bent low, saw one small clump of brush, a smoking crater, threw himself down. The machine gun was close and he rolled over quickly, snatched a grenade from his shirt, and measured the range by the sound: thirty yards, less, more. Hell! He tried to see, the streaks of fire just over his head, one punch in the ground beside him, and searched, frantic, another punch in the dirt, coming from one side, fire from two directions. Men were shouting. He saw a flash of motion, heard a man running forward, one of
his
men, pushed the Thompson out, sprayed the brush in front: covering fire. The man was close to the machine gun, dropped to his knees, slinging one arm, tossing the grenade, then falling flat in the grass. Adams ducked, waited, the blast coming now, the machine gun silent, cries from the brush. There was rifle fire on both sides of him—targets, finally—the men around him responding. The BAR began again, ripping the brush to one side, the M-1s peppering the enemy. Adams pushed himself up, saw the man at the brush moving in, firing the rifle, empty clip, the man still jerking the trigger, silent, and Adams was there now, beside him, the ground littered with pieces of the machine gun, the bodies of its crew. Adams grabbed the man, pulled him low, stayed low himself. His own men were flowing through the brush, the BAR pumping fire into a thin line of trees in front of them. He saw the enemy now, dark uniforms, running away, and he planted the Thompson on his shoulder and fired, others alongside him firing as well. The enemy disappeared behind the trees, still running, some falling, shot down, no fight left, pulling away. Adams emptied the magazine, slammed in another, swept the ground close around him with the barrel of the Thompson, saw only dead men, and, beside him, Unger, the man who had thrown the grenade.

“Got ’em, Sarge! I got ’em! I got ’em!”

Adams grabbed Unger’s arm, the man shaking, eyes wild, frantic, searching, and shouted into his face, “Private! Reload your weapon!”

The words seemed to reach the boy, and he looked at Adams, comprehending, then looked to his rifle, the barrel still smoking. He moved automatically now, the clip going in, the quick yank on the small bolt. Adams moved past him, close to the dead Germans, a crew of three, their machine gun in pieces, tripod broken, the work of Unger’s grenade. Men were shouting, Scofield responding, and Adams looked that way, saw a German mortar, unmanned, and another, dug into a shallow pit. The paratroopers were swarming around their prizes, their lieutenants and sergeants pulling them back into line, Scofield moving among them. Adams looked behind him and saw Corporal Nusbaum, others from his own platoon, searching through the low brush.

“Sarge, we took some casualties,” Nusbaum said. “Mortar round. Medics are working on it.”

“How many?”

“Three, I think. Edwards is the worst. Shrapnel in the chest, but he’s being tended to. I passed two more, bloody noses. You want me to stay with them?”

“No. We need to keep moving.”

He looked for Scofield again, saw the antenna of a radio, the captain on one knee, speaking to someone.

“Dammit, let’s do something,” Adams said. “We’re wide open here.”

Scofield lowered the radio and scanned the field, his two lieutenants, the platoon commanders, moving close, Adams responding, doing the same. The captain waited for them, pointed to the right, back behind them, spoke in a low voice.

“Infantry’s out that way, some of ’em having a rough time. Pinned down by mortars. I can’t hear it from here, must be the hills. Some green regiment of the Ninth, stuck in their own tracks. Nothing we can do but push forward. But nobody’s on our right flank. You got that? Keep an eye out. Those Krauts gave up pretty easy, so they’re either pulling back to hit us again or they’ve skedaddled out of here.”

Adams heard the sound, a rush of air, the ground erupting at the tree line. Now another, and all around them the men dropped down. Adams flattened on the ground, more shells rolling overhead. All through the brush the shells impacted, the ground ripped and tossed high, smoke and dirt choking him. He heard Scofield: “Radio!”

The shelling began to slow, one impacting in the distance, beyond the trees, and then silence, hard ringing in Adams’s ears. The smoke was drifting slowly, a sulfur stink, and Adams blew dirt from his nose, rose up, and saw Scofield, the radioman beside him, shouting, “Stop! Tell the artillery to stop! You hear me? Cease fire!”

Adams realized the direction now; those shells had come from the rear. He felt a wave of cold, thought of the Piper Cubs. Scofield was yelling again, but the firing had stopped, and Adams looked out across the brush, the smoke drifting away, men pulling themselves up, calling out, the single word, “Medic!”

Adams moved that way, saw the craters, shattered brush, one shell impacting the German machine-gun nest, obliterating men who were already dead. More men were moving around the wounded, and Adams stared back, toward the draw they had crossed, beyond, where the artillerymen had relied on the instructions from the observers in the Piper Cubs who had brought the fire right onto their own men.

He moved quickly, saw the medic and his medical bag, the man rising up, leaving one man and running to another. Adams reached the first man and saw a huge gaping hole in the man’s side, black blood and guts, the face pale white, the man already dead. Adams knew the name, one of Tobin’s, pushed it away, and followed the medic again, saw him kneeling, the bag ripping open, white bandage unfurled. Adams heard the voice, had heard it too many times, but not like this. It was Marley.

One leg was completely gone at the knee, shreds of black cloth across his groin. The medic was wrapping the stump where the leg had been. Adams got down close, shouted into the medic’s face.

“What can I do?”

“Morphine!”

Adams slapped his waist where his medical kit should be: nothing, swept away long ago by so much crawling. He searched Marley’s clothing, the belt broken, canteen cracked, bloody water on the ground, but the medical kit was there. Adams fumbled frantically, found the syrette.

“Into his leg!” the medic said.

Adams was unsure, didn’t know what to do.

“Forget his arm!” the medic said. “Into his leg!”

Adams obeyed, jerked at Marley’s ripped pants, blood in his hand, the leg exposed, stabbed the needle. Marley was making low sounds, moans with each breath, the medic still working on the awful wound. Adams felt sickening helplessness.

“What else? What else can I do?”

“Nothing! Hold his hand! Hell, I don’t know!”

Adams couldn’t avoid Marley’s face; the man was staring at him, blinking, more low sounds, and Adams pulled Marley’s helmet off, saw frightened eyes, the mouth open, words—no, just sounds—choking terror. Adams felt his sickness coming, fought it, thought, Talk to him. His name.

“You’ll be okay, Dex. We’ll get you out of here.”

Adams felt it coming, overwhelming, and spun away quickly, vomiting into the ripped earth. Dammit! He fought it but it came again, a hard twisting spasm, and he waited, the spasm passing, and swept his hand over the dirt, covering up.

“It’s okay, Sarge. Nothing we can do for him now.” Adams felt the hand on his back, turned, and saw Unger. “Come on. The captain’s looking for you. He’s mad as a hornet. Says our own boys did this. He called it friendly fire.”

Adams nodded, spit, tried to clear his mouth. “Yeah, I know. Those damned spotter planes.”

Unger knelt now, put a hand on Marley’s forehead. “Hey, Dex. Like the sarge says, you’ll be okay. They’ll get you in an ambulance pretty quick, right?”

The question was for the medic, who had finished the bandaging, and the medic looked at Unger, tired eyes, shrugged. “Yeah, right, he’ll be fine. We’ll get him out of here as quick as we can.”

The medic was up now, moving to the next man, and Adams watched him, saw one more wounded man, sitting up, no helmet, blood in his hair. But the man was talking, a cigarette in his mouth, the medic wiping the wound, nothing that seemed serious. Adams stood, Unger beside him.

Marley made a coughing sound. “Sarge! I can’t be wounded! It’s worse…I can’t go home in pieces!” Adams forced himself to look at the man’s face, the panic. “It hurts! What do I do? I’m hurting, Sarge!”

The medic was back now. “There’s stretcher bearers coming up behind us. We’ll be moving him to the aid station.”

Adams said, “Give him some more morphine, dammit! Knock him out!”

The medic moved away, motioning for Adams to follow, Unger right with him.

“Look, Sergeant, we can only do so much. His leg’s gone. I wrapped him up, but I think he lost too much blood. He won’t survive the aid station.”

“What the hell do you know? Give him some more morphine! He’s a big guy. He needs more!”

Behind them, Marley was talking again, crying, garbled words. “Sarge…I can’t go home like this…please. I’m not gonna make it. Please.”

Adams said, “We’ll get you some morphine! It’ll feel better!”

The medic cursed, dropped down, jabbed another morphine syrette into Marley’s leg, said something Adams couldn’t hear, and moved away. Marley seemed to calm down, but the words still came.