The Steel Wave (34 page)

“My God. My God!”

Reimer turned. One of the others was staring out, his face pressed close to an opening in the concrete. He moved that way, saw the gray softness of daylight spreading out over the beach to the open water. For two weeks he had watched the horizon, the first glimpse of dawn revealing the water, either smooth and glassy or broken by waves and whitecaps. But now there was something else. The lieutenant was close beside him.

“Those are ships,” he said in a low voice. “It’s a whole fleet.”

Reimer felt a jolt of ice in his legs. His eyes fixed on the sight: dark shadows, small ships and large. No words, no talk from anyone. His mind was racing: questions, a rising surge of fear.

Schmidt, close to him, said, “They’re ours, right? That’s the German navy. Somebody’s going to catch some hell today.”

“I don’t know,” the lieutenant said. “I need to get to the radio, see what’s happening. Stay alert here!”

Reimer kept his eyes on the ships, the farthest ones, enormous, larger than any he had ever seen. He heard the low hum again, but faint, a single plane, rattles of gunfire, farther down the beach. There was a shout, somewhere outside, more machine-gun fire, the sound of the plane’s engine drifting away. He kept his eyes on the ships, his mind swirling with questions, one man in the bunker said, “Spotter plane. I bet that was a spotter plane.”

“Spotting what?”

There were flashes now, flickers and specks of light all across the horizon, and Reimer pulled back from the concrete.
Those aren’t our ships at all.

He glanced to the side, the lieutenant still there, frozen, staring out, and the lieutenant said, “Spotting
us.
”

The awful noises returned: screaming wails, the air above them ripped and shattered. The shells began to thunder above them, jolting him, the men tumbling again, more dust, the concrete shaking, deafening blasts. He lay flat, held his helmet to his head, curled his legs in tight, felt himself bouncing on the concrete, his hands hard on his ears, his brain screaming into the roar of fire, the terror grabbing him, pulling him into a complete and perfect hell.

A
fter forty minutes it stopped.

Silence hung over them in the thick dusty air. Reimer felt it first in his chest, the hard quaking inside him suddenly quiet. His hands were still against his head but he opened his eyes, saw whiteness, the breeze pushing through slits in the concrete, daylight and dust, the air slowly clearing. Men were moving, crawling, some with hands still locked over their ears. Reimer saw faces, wide-eyed shock, eyes fighting to see, and he pulled his own hands away, hesitant, expecting more of the shocking blows, but there was silence, no sound at all. The lieutenant was there, close to him, a hand on his shoulder, and Reimer nodded, couldn’t hear the man at all, struggled to his knees, then up to his feet. He saw Schmidt, on his feet as well, adjusting his helmet, blood on the man’s face, a cut on his nose. Schmidt looked at him, gray dirt accenting the whites of his eyes, the sounds starting to come back, soft murmurs, and said, “You all right?”

The words were hollow and soft against the numbness in his ears, and Reimer nodded. He looked past Schmidt, saw the machine gun lying on its side, the tripod pointing in the air, and moved quickly, instinctively, righting the gun. Schmidt was there as well, and then a hard hand on his back and the voice of the lieutenant.

“Man the guns! All of you! Loaders, up and ready!”

The men responded, the machine guns put back in place, boxes of ammunition opened, belts coming out. Reimer looked toward the water again, could see the ships more clearly now, the sea alive with motion. My God, he thought. They’re coming in. The lieutenant was moving among them, quick and efficient.

“Everyone ready!” He shouted, “No firing! If they put men on the beach, wait for that! Wait for the order!” There was panic in his voice.

Reimer glanced down at the gun. Schmidt was holding the belt of shells, looking at him, waiting. Reimer reached down, pulled hard on the bolt, clamped the first shell in place. He looked out again, saw a narrow crack in the concrete, but the thick walls were still in place, solid, the strength that had saved them from the shelling. The ships were everywhere, larger ones on the horizon, smaller ones, much smaller, moving toward the shore. He felt his stomach turning, rubber in his legs, sat down behind the gun, stared down the barrel, swung the gun from side to side, sweeping motion, wide field of fire. Alongside him, the others did the same, no one speaking, no words, every man focused on the job, the training. Most had done this before, but training was not like this, memories of target practice were swept away by what they faced now. He focused on one boat, strange, flat-faced, pushing awkwardly through the water, and aimed the gun, his hand gripping the mechanism. Around him, the men waited, no sound at all, no planes, no artillery fire.

“They’re coming in right under our guns,” the lieutenant said. “At low tide. This is too easy.”

20. THORNE

OFFSHORE NEAR VIERVILLE-SUR-MER (OMAHA BEACH) JUNE 6, 1944, 5 A.M.

T
hey had rolled and tossed for nearly two hours, the men who were able staying on their feet, a pool of salt water and vomit washing around their boots. Despite the seasickness pills, nearly every man had succumbed, and adding to their misery, every man was soaked with the salt spray and the stink of the gas-fighting chemical in their clothing. Thorne had suffered as badly as any around him, but the lieutenant had screamed himself hoarse over a new problem, the rising level of water in the bottom of the boat. The men who could muster the energy began to bail with their helmets, tossing the stinking brew up and over the sides, much of it caught by the stiff breeze and blown back in. Thorne wanted to help, but the aching sickness kept his hands frozen at his chest, one crossed over to grip the rifle, the other hard on the cramp in his stomach. His backpack was pressed against a man behind him, who held them both up by leaning against the side of the boat.

They rolled forward toward the shore beneath a shroud of heavy clouds, faint daylight most of them had not yet noticed. Around him, men were talking, some of them loosening their hold on their fears, trying to fight off the misery by focusing more on what they were about to do. He felt a hand on his shoulder, one of the men standing high above him, and Thorne looked up, saw the man staring out over the side of the boat, a loud shout.

“Wowee! Look at that! It’s a battleship. The
Texas,
I bet!”

The man was answered by a thunderous roar, the small boat quivering from the shock. The man fell backward, came down hard. Thorne was knocked back, men falling like dominoes, splashes in the boat. The thunder grew, the big guns on the warships opening up in a chorus of hard thumps and roars, and Thorne felt it in his ears and gut. The barrage of fire brought more men out of their sickness, more of them rising up to see, and there were shouts, cheers.

One of the sailors called out, a warning. “Hold on! Brace yourselves!”

A single wave came now, different, a wide swell that rolled the boat sideways, men tumbling back, falling, sloppy splashes. Almost immediately, Thorne felt the boat rolling again, back the other way, and tried to balance himself, move with it, his outstretched hands slamming hard against the bulkhead, men falling against his back, pushing his face into the steel. But the roaring thunder continued, and he fought against the sickness, struggled to see, pulled himself up, looked out, spray in his face again. He could see the battleships, long streaks of fire from the massive guns, more ships firing in the distance, on all sides, another battleship behind them. The lieutenant was close beside him, one fist in the air.

“Yes! Kill the bastards! Blow them to hell!”

Thorne held tightly to the top of the bulkhead and steadied himself, the pressure from behind lightening, the men finding their balance. The sailor called out again. “Brace yourselves! Another wake from the battleship! Hold on!”

With every salvo from their fourteen-inch guns, the great ships recoiled, and the wake they created spread through the tiny landing craft, adding to the roughness of the surf. But the men knew what to expect now, and when the boat rolled to the side again, they were ready, most huddling low, no one falling. Thorne stayed up, holding tight to the top of the steel bulkhead, straining to see, streaks of fire from every warship, the arc of the massive shells pointing the way, smoky blasts along the shoreline. The other landing craft were close, their own fleet of six boats, packed with helmets, men peering up as he was. To one side were the larger craft, the LSTs, which carried tanks and artillery, and far in the distance, many more, large and small, every one pounding its way forward through the rolling swells.

The shock waves continued to roll the deep water beneath them, and Thorne looked ahead, the shoreline buried under smoke and fire, the sight energizing him, energizing all of them. But then the fire began to slow, the big ships growing silent, others, in the distance, quieting as well. And then, it stopped. The men were still straining to see, the crowded boat still plunging forward, rolling and pitching, some men still bailing water. Thorne stared forward, saw low clouds of smoke, the last remains of the naval bombardment. But it was clearing now, and he could see the shoreline, a chalky wall, cut by a deep
V
, hints of houses and buildings. The only sound was the smoky churning of the boat’s engine. He scanned the horizon out to both sides of the boat and could still see the battleships and other warships, silent sentinels.

The lieutenant spoke beside him. “That’s it. We’re too close in. They can’t shoot over us. Whatever is left out there…is ours.”

Suddenly there were new sounds, high shrieking wails, the men flinching, heads turning toward the closest landing ships, sheets of flame pouring toward the shore. Thorne felt his heart leap in his chest.

“Rockets!” the lieutenant said. “Give ’em hell!”

Thorne had seen this before in the rehearsals at Slapton Sands, but only from a great distance. He had never heard the frightening screams before, the ships that carried the rocket launchers very close to them. Some were behind them, the rockets streaking right over their heads, every man flinching, holding their helmets, some kneeling down. Thorne wanted to see, fought the fear, the lieutenant again, “Damn! They’re too close! Keep your heads down!”

Thorne obeyed, leaned his helmet against the moving bulkhead, the piercing screams whining in his ears. And just that quickly, it was over. Men responded as he did, standing tall again, staring forward, more smoke on the shoreline.

“That’s our cover!” the lieutenant shouted. “Doesn’t matter if they hit anything. Sure as hell they put holes on the beach!”

Cover.
Thorne hadn’t thought of that; there was nothing in the drills about making cover. Do we need it? Who could survive all that shelling? There’s nobody left out there. He focused on that; surely, surely no one’s left alive. Or they ran away. He was breathing hard, could see a wide flat stretch of sand; his heart thundered in his chest.

The men were talking again, a clatter of voices rising, all of them standing up now, and the sailor shouted, “Get ready!”

The words sliced through him, an icy bayonet.
Ready.
Get ready. I’m ready. He thought of the battle cry, all that pride drilled into them.
Twenty-nine…let’s go!
All right, then, let’s go. Let’s go get our bronze stars. He thought of the man who had said that; maybe he was right. Bronze star. Words rolled through his brain. The colonel’s last briefing: Get off the beach…get your ass off the beach…too many men coming in behind you…clear the way. That’s the job, he thought. Clear the way. Blow the wire, find the draws, look for the church steeple. The church steeple. He stared out toward the
V
-shaped dip in the cliff, just like the drawings, and beyond, through the drifting smoke, a steeple.

The sight punched him, and he shouted, “There it is! The church!”

It was the first thing he had said since he boarded the small craft, but other men were calling out as well, and Thorne saw a sign, posted beside the ramp at the front of the boat, had not noticed it before: NO SMOKING.

His eyes froze on the sign, and for one moment his brain grabbed on to its pure nonsense. What the hell difference would it make anyway? He looked at the others, most of them staring to the front, smoother water, and his eyes caught motion, low along the beach, the sounds reaching him now, fighter planes, screaming past.

At the rear of the boat, the sailor called out again. “Another minute!”

The men were silent now, all eyes to the front, wispy smoke on the beach, small fires, the larger LCTs moving in closer;
the tanks will go in first.
Thorne was shivering again, tight pain in his stomach, the sailor’s words:
another minute.
His eyes stayed fixed on the beach: no movement, nothing alive, no one there. There was silence from the men around him, and now a whistle, coming toward them, a soft punch in the water, a plume suddenly rising high. He looked that way, saw another rising farther out, close to another boat. Now the whistles rolled overhead, the air split by the sounds. The lieutenant shouted, “Artillery! Keep your head down!”

Thorne ducked, his helmet pressed against the bulkhead, one hand against the steel.
Steel.
Good. We’re okay in here. He felt a hard jerk, the boat lurching to a stop, suddenly pulling backward, the engine reversing, and the sailor called out, “This is it! As far as I go! Lower the ramp!”

Beside Thorne, the lieutenant yelled out, “Not yet! Get closer!”

“No! This is it! We’ve got to do it now!”

“You son of a bitch! Get us closer!”

“I said, lower the ramp!
Now!
”

The sailor’s crewmen obeyed, the ramp yawning outward, falling downward to the surface of the water. The lieutenant was still shouting and Thorne saw his face, raw fury. But the boat had stopped, and the training was in all of them. The lieutenant turned, moved toward the opening, yelled out one more time. “We might have to swim. Inflate your belts!”