The Steel Wave (43 page)

A
dams had slept for most of an hour, awakened more by the rumbling in his stomach than anything happening across the causeway. It had not been long after midnight when the artillery began again, most of it closer to Sainte-Mère-Église, a struggle for the essential crossroads, for the defensive value of the town itself, the houses and block buildings offering both sides cover for machine guns and heavier weapons. At La Fière, there had been sporadic firing, mostly snipers and sharpshooters, seeking targets in the dark. Adams had stayed low in his foxhole, grateful there had been no glider crash close by, nothing to draw his men up from their safe havens. But the supplies had come forward, Adams gratefully stuffing his pockets with magazines for the Thompson, all the while watching the movement of the new men and their magnificent weapon, an antitank gun positioned behind a fat mound of dirt a few yards away. With the addition of the glider troops he had expected orders, some kind of word from Scofield, another shift in the line, something officers seemed to enjoy. But Scofield wasn’t like so many of the parade-ground officers, and the men near Adams had stayed in place. Adams knew only that the captain was close by, in a foxhole of his own, probably doing what Adams was doing now: eating his rations.

The fruit was sweet and syrupy, and he finished the small can with one gulp. He probed the rest, some kind of crackers, a packet of dried coffee. Forget that, he thought. They need to put more stew in these kits instead of junk that makes you thirsty. He took a quick drink from his new canteen, the water tasting like dirt. The canteen had belonged to another trooper, the only identifiable piece of equipment remaining beside the man’s blasted remains. Adams had tried to ignore that, forced it away now. It’s like Marley’s M-1, he thought. Lose one, pick up another. You make do. Rifles and canteens are just like soldiers. One replaces another.

With the added rations had come a marvelous surprise, far more meaningful to the men than Gavin’s jeep. As the men from the gliders made their way into the field, word had been passed—and Adams heard it directly from his captain—that the gliders had brought more than just troops and equipment. Throughout the day on June 6, the rumors of some awful disaster at Utah Beach had permeated the men in the field, angry officers doing what they could to silence the talk that the paratroopers were completely alone. Until the gliders had come in, not even Gavin or Ridgway had known if the rumors were true or if the landings had actually been made. It was the officers who came in on the gliders who brought Gavin the first word that, in fact, Utah had been a rousing success. Even in the darkness, American infantry was pushing inland. Adams welcomed the news as heartily as the men around him, but darkness had snuffed out the optimism. No one had actually seen any infantry yet, and to the east there was the ongoing fight around Sainte-Mère-Église, a major roadblock between Utah Beach and the paratroopers hunkered down along the Merderet River.

Adams looked up, a glimpse of stars in the clouds, and thought of asking somebody the time. No, he thought, keep your mouth shut. Doesn’t much matter what the hell time it is. It’ll be daylight pretty soon, and the only time that matters is when it’s time to shoot at somebody. There were low voices around him, those men who had dug larger holes, accommodating several men. Not my guys, he thought. That’s just dumb as hell. One lucky shell takes out half a squad. Why do some of these guys need a buddy next to them, somebody to chat with? I’d rather have dirt around me than somebody’s guts.

The sharp whistle came now, and he saw the flash, the shell coming down behind him. He stuffed the last of the rations in his pocket, rolled over to his knees, stayed low, waited for more. It came now, whistles and shrieks, a hard
crack,
men calling out, the
pop
of rifles, and a voice close by: Scofield.

“Man your guns! They’re coming out! Wait for something to shoot at!”

Adams straightened, his helmet easing up just above the dirt mound in front of his hole. The causeway was barely visible, lit by streaks of fire, muzzle blasts from the men farthest out, men who could see what was in front of them. The sounds were scattered—some men firing at nothing—and Adams looked to the side: more mounds of dirt, rifles resting on top, a glimpse of helmets.

“No shooting until you see the bastards! You hear me?”

“Yeah, Sarge.”

It was Unger. Yep, he knows, Adams thought. Not as stupid as he looks. He knew Marley was there as well, and Nusbaum, and others in a line along the brush. No one spoke. Adams focused on the causeway again, heard a new sound, the dull rumble of engines, the creaking of steel. Tanks.

He strained to see, the darkness fading, the marsh around the causeway covered in a low blanket of fog. But the sounds were growing louder, at least three tanks, more, coming out of the thickets across the way. He heard Scofield now.

“Hold your fire! Let them get clear!”

Adams glanced at the Thompson, thought, Clear of what? He’s not talking to me. Then he realized: the antitank gun! Yes! Hell of a lot better than a stinking bazooka. He thought of the gun crew, the men who survived their glider, who had crashed successfully. Guts. Luck too. He knew the knock against some of the glider troops, that the units were green, untested by combat. But good God, he thought, they rode those damned coffins to get here, and sure as hell they don’t need to prove anything else to me. I just hope they can shoot straight.

Men were firing close by, rifles mostly, and Scofield was shouting again. “Cease fire! Let them get closer!”

But the firing continued, all along the edge of the causeway, more officers trying to control their men, the shouts useless. Adams had seen it before, men getting their first look at the enemy, and emptying their clips into the air, nervous hands squeezing the triggers in pure reflex, firing empty guns—an infuriating loss of control. He felt helpless. He could only command a small piece of the fight, but shouted out, “You hear me?”

“Yeah, Sarge.”

“Yeah!”

“You see infantry around those tanks, take ’em out. You don’t, sit tight. Let the big guns do the job! You hear me?”

“Yeah, Sarge!”

He knew the high pitch in Unger’s voice, shared the boy’s excitement. The rumble of the tanks was growing louder, and Adams leaned his helmet against the dirt wall in front of him, felt the ground rise beneath him, a shell landing close, ripples of machine-gun fire arcing overhead. His heart raced, sweat dampened his filthy clothes, voices blended in with the impact of the shells,
thumps
and
pop
s again. And now, a loud
thump,
deafening, curling him up tight, the dirt crumbling around him with the shock. He shook his head, thought of putting his hands on his ears, but then it came again. And then there were cheers.

He forced himself to look up, his eyes just above the mound of dirt, and saw fire on the causeway, splashes in the marsh. The air was alive with streaks of fire, but his eyes stayed glued to the one spot, dead center on the wide-open stretch of raised ground. It was a tank, and it was on fire.

The men at the big gun continued their work, but Adams stayed up, stared hard at the foggy marsh, saw flickers of movement. All across the near side of the causeway, the Americans were firing, the German infantry tumbling down, another bright flash, and a second tank was engulfed in fire. But the Germans were swarming across the narrow stretch of dry ground, some wading in the taller grass, spreading out in the shallow water, returning fire. They were past their own tanks now, still coming, a steady wave. Adams leaned down and stared through the sight of the Thompson. Too far! Dammit, I need a rifle! But his own men were answering, the M-1s close beside him opening up.

“I got one! I got one!” Marley’s voice.

“Shut the hell up! Keep shooting!” The second voice was Unger’s.

The Germans were still coming, a dark stain spreading out on the causeway, fallen men, some crawling, many more still advancing through their own dead. They reached the first foxholes, fire on both sides, and Adams saw terror in faces and eyes, and he aimed again and pulled the trigger. The Thompson jumped in his hands to no effect, the Germans still flowing toward him, five more, ten behind them. Adams felt his own panic now, thought, Too many of them! He raised his head, ignored the gun sight, held his finger on the trigger, and sprayed the open ground in front of him, until the submachine gun emptied. He ducked down, snatched a magazine from his pants leg, stuffed it hard into the gun, jerked the bolt, raised up, saw boots, a rifle, the man stumbling, falling to one side. There was another man, a bayonet, and Adams fired again, the man’s chest coming apart, helmet coming off, bullets thumping the ground beside him. He held the trigger until the gun emptied and slumped down again, two magazines in his hand, one in the gun. A man jumped over him, and Adams fired up, ripped the man’s back, a shout rising up inside him. He sprayed the submachine gun blindly, saw the ground around him now, a carpet of fallen men.

The Thompson was empty again, and he rammed in the fresh magazine, but the targets were distant, running. The causeway was a surge of motion, most of it the other way, the Germans who had survived the assault pulling back. Behind them, the tanks still burned. He saw now that the wreckage had blocked the roadway, the rest of the German armor unable to move past. Those tanks were backing away as well, the antitank guns still firing, more fire from rifles close by. Men were screaming around him, wounded Germans mostly, and Adams felt his breathing, cold pain in his chest, his hands wrapped in a hard grip on the Thompson, and his eyes searched the fallen, weapons, hands, grenades. There was still firing, his ears ringing, the antitank gun again, and he looked that way, saw only the barrel, red hot, smoking, more smoke from the muzzles of the rifles. There was a silhouette beside him, a rifle whipping around, the muzzle past Adams’s face, and he jerked the Thompson that way, but the rifle was one of his. There was a flash of fire, the sharp punch of the M-1, and Adams was frozen, the rifle aimed just past his face. The man yelled now, manic, screaming insanity, and Adams saw the eyes: Unger, the kid, red-faced, aiming the M-1 again, another flash of fire. Unger lowered the rifle and stared past Adams. Marley was up beside him, shouting. “You got him! Sarge, he got him!”

Adams followed Unger’s stare, turned, and saw the German a few feet away, a pool of blood on the man’s chest, bubbles and foam, and in his hand a grenade. Adams felt a hard quiver in his legs, leaned against the dirt, and looked at Unger again, still wild-eyed, furious.

“It’s okay, kid! You got him!”

Unger lowered the rifle, seemed to get control, and looked out toward the causeway, Adams doing the same.

“He was crawling up behind you, Sarge,” Unger said.

“I know, kid. You got him. Thanks.”

Unger nodded slowly.

Marley said, “I got a bunch of ’em, Sarge! That was nuts! They just kept coming!”

Adams looked again at the dead German. The grenade, he thought. Better get rid of that damned thing. He pulled himself out of the foxhole, rolled across the ground—could smell the man now, sickening, blood and stink—and slid close to the man’s arm, black dirty fingers wrapped around the grenade. Adams grabbed the hand, the grip loosening. He pried the grenade away, kept it tight in his own hand.

Scofield was there now, on his knees, said, “What the hell you going to do with that?”

Adams stared at the grenade, his fingers tight around it, and held it out. “Souvenir?”

“Funny man. Get rid of that damned thing!” Scofield began to move away, pointed. “There’s an empty foxhole. Drop it here!” He called out, “Heads up! Fire in the hole!”

Adams crawled that way, Scofield flattening out, and Adams dropped the grenade into the hole, rolled away quickly. It’s probably not armed, he thought, the words jarred away by the blast, the ground punching him, a spray of dirt billowing up, falling around him, on him, dirt in his ears, nose. He coughed.

“You satisfied now, Sergeant?” Scofield said. “Get your stupid ass back in your foxhole.”

You too, he thought. He crawled quickly, felt the shivering again, slid back down into his hole. He looked up at Unger. The boy was still staring at him, strange, eerie, hollow-eyed, and Marley was talking again, meaningless jabber. Adams ignored him, keeping his eyes on Unger; he’d never seen the look, the pure frozen stare.

“Thanks, kid. Looks like you saved my ass.”

Unger didn’t respond. Adams heard more of the sounds now, soft cries, one moaning scream, medics scampering past, medical bags. Then he heard a new sound, soft and low, looked at Unger again and saw his face cradled in one dirty hand. The boy was sobbing.

T
he Germans continued to shell the American paratroopers at La Fière, but they would not repeat their costly mistake. There would be no more frontal assaults across the wide-open ground of the causeway. By late afternoon on June 7, the fight had settled into a lull, and the Germans offered a hearty surprise. They brought out a red cross, asking the Americans for a brief truce, to allow the Germans to collect their dead and wounded.

For one brief moment, the war seemed to pause, while men on both sides tended to those who did not escape the slaughter, the Germans hauling away nearly two hundred of their fallen. With the gruesome mission complete, the Germans again began their artillery and mortar assault. Adams could only stay low in his foxhole. All along the Merderet River, Gavin’s men endured the barrage until nightfall, when, again, their commanders would plan their next move. But this time, there was added strength. At Sainte-Mère-Église, General Ridgway finally met the first infantry officers of the American Fourth Division. The bridgehead at Utah Beach had been secured.

27. EISENHOWER

B
y midmorning on June 7, Montgomery’s British and Canadian forces, under Lieutenant General Miles Dempsey, had established strong footholds on all three of the easternmost beaches. Throughout the day on June 6, those troops had encountered considerable opposition, though not the stinging disaster that had met the Americans at Omaha Beach. But with so much confusion in their hierarchy, the Germans could not mount any coordinated effort to strike back when the Allies were most vulnerable.