The Steel Wave (49 page)

“What do we do now, sir?”

Rommel sat back, rubbed the rough beard on his chin. “If you want to kill a snake, you first cut off its head. By this
success,
the enemy has caused us to delay any advance. There can be no coordination among the panzers now. I will meet with von Rundstedt at the earliest moment. Perhaps he can be persuaded to see this fight for what it is becoming.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Do what you can to find out the condition of General Geyr. I must speak to General Witt. The Twelfth SS Panzer should be engaging the enemy west of Caen. General Witt must be told what has happened, so he can remain in communication with me and not Geyr.”

“Yes, sir.”

Speidel hurried away, the door closing again, and Rommel stood and stepped to the window, darkness rolling over the river, hiding the gardens. Thirty minutes, he thought. Was it betrayal, some French farmer working for their underground? Or exceptional work by the enemy’s observers. Excellent way to die, I suppose. You would hear the whistle, perhaps a second or two, and then…nothing. It ends. I always thought a tank would be best, engaging the enemy, a duel, the better man making the good shot. If you lost, the tank was your tomb. If you prevailed, you would climb out, walk over, and admire what you had done, the good kill. There was plenty of that in Africa. Well, no, not really. There were very few duels. There was confusion and chaos and smoke and fire. And the better man didn’t always win.

Rommel looked up into the darkness, thought, It could happen here, just like that. One of those B-17s, making it through the flak in one piece, one pilot’s lucky day. Yes. An excellent way to die.

30. ADAMS

JUNE 14, 1944

A
s more force poured across the causeways that bridged the flooded Merderet River, the Germans who had fought so tenaciously began to pull away. Worn out and underequipped, the scattered regiments of the Eighty-second Airborne were withdrawn and organized once more. But there was no luxury to be found, little time to rest and refit. Within a few short days, the need for experience on the front lines became painfully apparent.

As part of the original plan, the Ninetieth Infantry Division had moved forward from their landing zone at Utah Beach and pushed right through the paratroopers’ positions along the river. Adams and his weary squad had been pulled back to Sainte-Mère-Église, to watch with rising enthusiasm as the men of the Ninetieth, so many fresh legs and clean rifles, took their place. The Ninetieth would continue the push westward, Bradley’s hard slice across the Cotentin Peninsula, isolating whatever enemy units remained north of that advance, the last resistance the Americans would face before they began their assault northward on the city of Cherbourg.

But almost immediately, the Ninetieth Division had problems. The fresh legs quickly bogged down, and when faced with their first test, their first confrontation with the German strongholds in the bocage country, the infantry seemed to succumb to paralysis. The corps commander, Joe Collins, began to understand what others across the Atlantic had once feared, that the Ninetieth had been woefully undertrained. Bradley realized that, for reasons no one at SHAEF could adequately explain, the leadership was lackluster at best. Almost immediately, Bradley ordered Collins to act, and Collins removed the division head, Major General Jay MacKelvie, as well as the regimental commanders most responsible for the lack of fire in their men. In their place, Collins inserted officers who had shown some combat initiative. But the error had been made, and what should have been a hard strike across the Cotentin had become instead a mish-mash of insignificant battles against an enemy who had been given time to regroup. Not willing to wait for the Ninetieth to find its spirit, Bradley reacted to the unexpected stalemate by authorizing Collins to call upon the most reliable and experienced troops he had in that part of the American sector: the paratroopers of the Eighty-second Airborne. Though many of the exhausted battalion and regimental commanders protested, Matthew Ridgway accepted the need for his paratroopers to return once more to the front. While the 507th and 508th would engage farther to the south, the men of the 505th would try to accomplish the job the Ninetieth Division could not complete: capturing the French town of Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, the next major intersection on the roads that led to the far western coast of the peninsula.

SAINTE-MÈRE-ÉGLISE
JUNE 14, 1944

Adams hated Sainte-Mère-Église. Though the bodies had been mostly removed, the signs of the struggle were everywhere: blasted ruins of homes and shops, shredded parachutes splayed out over rooftops or rolled into filthy bundles in every corner. The workers of the Graves Commission had been efficient with the bodies of the Americans, but the enemy’s dead were still scattered about, German corpses lodged in attics or on rooftops, snipers who were only found when their bodies began to decay. The men who did the awful work were mostly Negroes, assigned to the gruesome task of identifying and arranging the bodies for transport back to the coast or burying them in makeshift cemeteries around the town itself.

Adams had never served with a black soldier but watched them with curiosity, as he had as a boy in the dusty streets of Silver City. Negroes were rare in New Mexico, but they came for the work, the copper mines always looking for men to fill the gaps in their ranks, the backbreaking work that wasted the bodies of men like Jesse’s father. Adams was twelve when he saw a black man for the first time, a hulking mountain of a man toting a fat suitcase, walking along the street with his small round wife. The white men of the town seemed to recoil at the sight, urgent whispers that the boy could not understand, low talk in the café that black men would bring a scourge no one seemed able to explain. But the Depression and the Dust Bowl brought more men from the north and east, black and white, desperate to earn a wage, seeking whatever opportunity would feed their families. The mine was prosperous, a rarity, and as the different races and cultures blended, most of the laborers discovered a halting respect for the men who worked beside them, their mutual survival more important than the color of any man’s skin.

In basic training, the soldiers had been only white, and talk of Negro regiments and Negro divisions inspired rude insults and obscenities Adams couldn’t understand. Anyone who knew something of history knew that there had been black troops in the First World War who had proven themselves beyond anyone’s doubts, the Buffalo Soldiers of the 92nd Division and their counterparts in the 93rd. Talk had drifted through the camps that the Buffalo Soldiers were coming again, newly formed, would probably join the fight in Italy. Many of the paratroopers dismissed Negro soldiers with the matter-of-fact assumption that a black man would never have the courage to jump out of an airplane. It was a question that Adams had asked himself, and there was no answer. As far as Adams knew, none of the Negro enlistees had been given the chance. Now, in the blasted streets of the ruined town, the Negroes worked on the one job someone had deemed them suitable for: handling the dead. Adams studied them in spite of himself, had spoken to several and been surprised by the quiet dignity and confidence of men whose hands and uniforms were covered in death. If the black men despised their work or despised the officers who had put them there, Adams saw little of that. Instead, there was respect in both directions, the soldiers pointing out the 82nd’s
AA
insignia on Adams’s shoulder, sharing that same respect with the rest of the infantry who passed through the town. To the infantry, the men of the 82nd and the 101st divisions had opened the door. Every man in the Graves Commission knew that if the corpses were American, they were paratroopers.

“
H
ey, Sarge, there’s mail back there, in the square!”

Adams looked up from his mess kit, struggling with a hard knot of gristle. “Mail? Way the hell out here?”

Unger held out a small blue square of paper. “Yep! Got a letter from my mama. I don’t believe it!”

Adams spit out the offending lump of meat. “I don’t believe it either.”

“Lookee right here, Sarge! See? It’s dated last month, so she doesn’t know a thing about what we’re doing. All kinds of stuff about Sally Lewis—that’s a girl I was kinda hoping…uh…” Unger stopped, seemed to think better of divulging any more details. “Anyway, there’s a whole truckload of mailbags. Somebody said they came through Utah Beach. You oughta go check. Maybe there’s something for you!”

Adams looked toward the large open square and could see soldiers gathering, one loud whoop, more men emerging from alleyways, the word spreading. He scooped out the last gooey lump from the small can of stew, swallowed it whole, and pieced the mess kit back together.

“You want me to clean that up for you, Sarge? You’re not allowed to leave it dirty.”

“I know the order. Fine. Here, clean the damned thing. Make it all shiny. I guess I’ll go see what’s going on. Maybe there’s some mail for some of the other guys.” The name punched him: Buford. No, please God. No family. Not now.

He pushed himself up to his feet, handed Unger the mess kit, and moved past a pile of twisted steel, the remains of a stone wall and a German eighty-eight, the barrel ripped apart. From the open square, men were coming past him, joyous surprise, anticipation, men with paper in their hands, one man crying. He saw the truck, officers holding the troopers back, keeping order, mailbags passing along a row of men, clerks and sergeants from each company, names calling out, eager hands. I’ll be damned, he thought. The kid’s right. They got us mail.

He saw Scofield, the captain with a wide smile, standing behind the mail handlers. Adams moved forward, more men flowing back past him, shouts and laughter, more tears, and Scofield saw him, waved him forward.

“Here, Sergeant! We’ve got some mail for the boys!”

Anything for me? The words stuck in Adams’s throat, and he pushed his way through the throng, suddenly annoyed by the enthusiasm around him, even Scofield’s smile digging into him. One man bumped him from the side, oblivious, his face buried in sheaves of paper, and Adams wanted to push back, forced himself to let it go, saw Scofield’s aide, a corporal, fishing through one canvas bag, emptying it quickly, the names flowing out, one name now startling him.

“Lieutenant Pullman!”

“Here!”

Adams saw him now, the small thin man slipping forward, his hand out, taking the letter. Adams wanted to call out, felt a strange breathless relief. He pushed toward him. Pullman was reading the letter, somber, his face clouded.

“Lieutenant!”

Pullman looked up. Adams was surprised to see raw anger and then surprise on Pullman’s face.

“Sergeant! You’re alive! Thank God.”

“Hell, yes, I’m alive. I’ve been within a grenade throw of General Gavin for a week. Where the hell have you been?”

“Right here, actually. I got hooked up with some of the boys from C Company, and General Ridgway had us working on snipers on the north side of town. I heard about the fighting at the river. Messy stuff. Glad to see you’re all right.”

Adams looked at the letter in Pullman’s hands. “Everything okay, sir?”

Pullman folded the letter carefully, slipped into a pocket. “Not really. Don’t worry about it. I’m damned glad to see you. I’ve caught up with a few of your squad. Had a little problem with Private Marley. A few of the boys found some Calvados or hard cider or something. Had to stick them all in a makeshift stockade. He’ll be out by now. Probably have his tail between his legs and one hell of a headache.”

“I wondered where he was. Don’t worry, sir, I’ll handle him. Stupid bastard.”

“Easy, Sergeant. We need every man. Orders came this morning.”

Scofield was there now. “That’s all the mail for today. Sorry, Sergeant, looks like there wasn’t anything here.”

Adams turned, felt the urge to salute, old habit, held it down. The word had been made clear by Gavin himself: no saluting anyone this close to the enemy. An officer would be a perfect target for any sniper. Scofield was sliding his own letters into a pocket.

“It’s okay, sir,” Adams said. “Didn’t expect anything. My mom’s not much of a writer.”

Scofield seemed to measure the statement, a silent moment; then he looked at Pullman. “Gather up your platoon, Lieutenant. What’s your latest head count?”

“About thirty, best as I can tell. Sergeant Adams would make thirty-one.”

“Not too bad, considering. Let’s assemble in the street beyond that church. We’re moving out at eleven hundred. The Five-oh-seven is already on the march, and we’re protecting their tail. The enemy is all over the damned place, pockets of holdouts hunkered down in some pretty tight places. This hedgerow stuff is a damn nightmare, and the sooner we push out past it the better. Warn your men about snipers. Every man pays attention to the trees.” He looked at Adams. “Well, hell, you know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scofield backed away. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Need to check some details with Colonel Ekman.”

Pullman saluted. Adams saw a quick frown on Scofield’s face, wanted to grab the lieutenant’s arm. Pullman was oblivious. “We’ll be ready, sir. Let’s go, Sergeant.”

Scofield moved away quickly, and Adams knew why. He’s cursing under his breath, he thought. No snipers today, though. Not here anyway. God help this idiot lieutenant. Ridgway sent him on sniper patrol and he didn’t learn a damned thing.

Pullman began to move, and Adams followed close beside him, the square thinning out, men returning to their commands. There was laughter in every corner, men displaying their letters, loud talk, more of the whoops. Adams felt himself bristling, the sounds sharp and annoying.

“Sorry you didn’t get any mail,” Pullman said.

“Forget about it, sir. Not important.”

“Well, that’s your business. It could be worse. You could get a letter from your wife, telling you she’s going to have a baby.”

“Congratulations—”

Adams held the rest, and Pullman said, “Yeah, sure. I’ve been away for just a tad more than the required nine months. She’s trying to convince me it’s okay, that I’m still the father in
her
mind. I am, after all, the
husband.
”