The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  The plane dipped, tilting to one side, the pilot pulling it straight again, groans from the men. They were used to bounces and air pockets, but this was different, a violence in the sky around them that grabbed the plane like a child’s toy, tossing it from side to side. Adams had tried to sleep, strong advice passed along from Gavin. Captain Scofield had reminded them that once they were on the ground, no one was likely to do anything but move and fight. With daylight coming five or six hours after they landed, it was going to be a long day.

  Adams leaned back, his head held upright by the chute. There was no sleep, his mind working furiously, watching the others, keeping an eye on the men who might weaken, who might require some extra jolt from their sergeant. He didn’t want to believe that anyone would fall apart now. These men had been through too much, and even the weakest link in this one chain was strong enough to finish the job they were supposed to do. He ran the names through his mind, tried to predict. McBride, O’Brien? They’ve been pretty good lately. Hell, I was bitching about the desert as much as they were, and I grew up in this kind of crap. Fulton? No, he’s all right. A weak gut doesn’t mean he isn’t a good soldier. Adams sat back again, took a deep breath, felt the calmness of the cool air. It was the one blessing, a hard chill, the jolting turmoil of the flight eased by the coolness around them. There was no worse combination for airsickness than rough air and heat, and they had suffered through plenty of both over Fort Benning. But now, even in the chill, Adams had watched his men carefully, looked for the telltale signs, hands covering mouths, men suddenly lurching over, sickening smells that would infect the rest of them. There had been a few, but only a few, early, some men succumbing within the first hour of flight. But that was sickness of a different kind, the gut-churning fear, the first time any of these men would actually face the enemy. Adams knew that each man held to his own thoughts, some praying, others reciting the letters they had left behind, I might not return…, others simply staring into their fear, doing all they could to hold away the terrifying fantasies of what was waiting for them on the ground. When the smells of sickness had drifted through the plane, they all knew that some were better at it than others.

  He had left his own letters, one for his mother of course. That one was easy, full of sentiment and soft confidence, all the things she would expect to read, that any mother would want to read. But then he had written to his brother, surprising himself, the words flowing out in a rapid stream, things he would never say to anyone else, things he knew the censors might have some problem with. He didn’t yet know what kind of experiences his brother had seen, what it was really like for a Marine in the Pacific, whether Clayton had actually faced the Japanese, whether he had been wounded, whether he was even alive. No, Adams thought, the army would tell me that. They’re supposed to anyway. But, who the hell knows what those jungles are like, islands in the middle of nowhere. Clayton may never get the damned letter. But, I had to write it. Had to tell someone. I’ll bet he’d do the same. Maybe already has. He thought of Gavin, the assembly one morning, months ago now. Any man tells you he’s not afraid going into combat, the first thing you do is shake his hand. Then, you call him a liar. There had been protest after that, the mouthy boys making their speeches about all the things they’d do to the Nazis. But Adams knew in some instinctive place that Gavin was right, that when the time came, when the jumps would land them right into an enemy’s camp, or right beside a ten-gun pillbox, well, damned right I’ll be afraid. And that’s…right now.

  He leaned forward, saw Scofield at the rear of the plane, staring down through the jump door. There had been a wager, some of the men wondering what the captain would do when he jumped. It had become customary now that as every man jumped, he yelled out “Geronimo.” The custom was cloudy in origin, some claiming to have started the ritual themselves. Adams was convinced that it had started with a movie the men had watched at Fort Benning. It was a forgettable story, some typical Hollywood version of cowboys and Indians, except for one climactic moment, when the famed Indian chief called out his own name as he purposely rode to his death over a cliff. Only the most gullible believed that the real Geronimo had done such a thing, but the men had decided it made for a dramatic way to depart a plane. The officers mostly ignored the ritual, but Captain Scofield was closer to his men than some of the others, had commented that he might just take up that call himself. Adams had his doubts. It was one thing to emulate some famous Indian when your supposed death leap was over a jump zone in Georgia. It was quite another for an officer to imitate a lusty embrace of certain death when the jump might be exactly that.

  He tried to see his watch, too dark, knew they had been aloft now for hours. George Marshall. He shook his head. George Marshall. Someone’s idea of a joke, maybe. But we’ll remember it. Damned well better.

  It was the call sign; once they were on the ground in the dark, no one could know if the first man he contacted was friend or enemy. The entire jump team had been given the code words, the one-word greeting: George; and the response: Marshall. They could have come up with something better, he thought. How about Rita Hayworth? Well, maybe not. Even the Krauts might answer to that one. He scanned the men closest to him, leaned forward again, looked down the rows of men facing each other, no one moving. At the rear of the plane Scofield suddenly rose to his feet, surprising him, the captain moving forward, the men pulling in feet and legs, making way. Adams felt a jolt of concern, waited for Scofield to move close, said, “What’s up, Captain?”

  Scofield ignored him, moved into the cockpit, his voice just reaching Adams over the drone of the motors.

  “You want to tell me where the hell we are?”

  Adams felt a stab of cold curiosity, leaned forward, stared out the small window across from him. There was nothing to see, moonlight reflecting on black water sliding by only a few hundred feet below them. He twisted around, looked behind him, the window close by his own head, saw a speck of light, low on the horizon. And now, a streak of white lights, rising up, and another, his brain kicking into gear. Antiaircraft fire.

  Scofield was still in the cockpit, passing words back and forth with the pilots, and Adams stared at the lines of tracer bullets, more of them, closer now. The plane rocked suddenly, a white flash in his eyes, loud curses beside him, the men coming to life.

  “What the hell?”

  “We hit?”

  “What is it, Sarge? What’s going on?”

  Adams called out, “Shut the hell up! It’s ground fire. We’re getting close. Keep calm. Nothing we can do about it.”

  He stared out the small window again, heard Scofield, a hard shout: “Turn this son of a bitch around!”

  The plane dipped to one side, a hard banking turn, more streaks of white light, a heavy rumble, the plane bouncing, another bright flash. Scofield stayed in the cockpit, and Adams felt himself rising up, straining under the weight of his gear, but he could not just sit. He eased up behind Scofield, said, “What’s going on, sir? We okay?”

  Scofield turned to him now, looked past him, eyed the men. “All right, there’s no secrets now. You men need to know that our pilots are not sure where the hell we are. You see those tracers? That ground fire?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s supposed to be on the right side! The coastline is supposed to be that way…north of us. But that fire is on the left! The jackasses flying this plane can’t find their asses with broomsticks! Sit down, Sergeant! We’ll sort this out if I have to toss these idiots into the ocean and fly this thing myself!”

  Adams obeyed, felt a new kind of fear, realized Scofield was as angry as Adams had ever seen him. He looked again through the window behind him, the coastline gone now, the plane still rocking from the gusting wind, another hard bounce. He heard Scofield again.

  “There! Follow that beach! You see those ships out there? Those are ours! Stay the hell away from them. There’s ack-ack up ahead, aim for it. That has to be the enemy. If they’re shooting, it means our pl
anes are passing through there. Keep your heading west!”

  Adams watched the men, saw faces all looking forward, tense, silent men, the only voice the captain’s. There were more flashes now, to the right side, and suddenly there was a chattering sound, like the rattle of so many pellets against the aluminum skin of the plane. The men were moving about now, twisting toward the windows behind them, useless with so much encumbrance.

  Adams said, “Sit still! That’s only shrapnel, spent ack-ack. If we get hit by something heavy, we won’t have time to worry about it. Every one of you, grab hold of your straps, keep your arms in tight! We gotta be getting close.”

  Scofield was still talking to the pilots, said, “There! A lake! It’s on the maps. Turn north.”

  The captain backed away from the cockpit, looked down at Adams. “I think we’re okay. Landing zone coming up.” Scofield began to move back through the plane, made his way slowly past the men. “Hang on, boys. There’s a few planes still out there with us, and we’re about to move over land. There’s bound to be a reception for us.”

  The plane bounced hard again, the wings rolling to one side. Adams sat back, knew there was nothing to see now, no reason to do anything but sit and wait. The plane began to climb, gaining altitude, hard rocking of the wings. The plane jumped again, another flash of light, men reacting, the reflex, sharp cries. There was a new sound, another rattle, different, like a spray of small rocks. Shrapnel again, he thought. We’re flying right through the stuff. He looked toward the cockpit, the pilots focused forward, holding the plane as steady as possible, still climbing, long streams of white tracers rising up in front of them. The plane dipped again, a hard turn to the right, Adams’s stomach trying to catch up, more bumps, the plane leveling out again.

  The red light suddenly blinked on, startling him, the others reacting with a mixture of shouts and grunts.

  Scofield stood, called out, “Hook up! Check equipment!”

  The men rose, struggling under the weight of their gear, moved into line, each one hooking his static line to the overhead cable. Adams did the same, couldn’t see the doorway now, ran his hands over his belts and pockets, did the same for the man in front of him. He heard a voice, low, could barely hear the words. It was Scofield again.

  “God bless you boys.”

  Adams leaned to the side, could see Scofield at the door, staring out, waiting. No one spoke now, no sound but the dull roar of the plane motors, the rush of wind, flickers and flashes of light in all directions, streams of machine-gun fire like small fountains on all sides of them. He felt his heart racing, cold in his fingers, stared past the man in front of him, every man frozen, all eyes on the red light. His legs quivered, and he closed his eyes, tried to fill the black, empty space, some image, some memory, his brother. But there was nothing there, nothing in his mind but the red light, and he opened his eyes, stared at the light, angry at the light, holding them there, keeping them in this deadly box, this tin coffin. Damn you!

  And then, it was green.

  The word burst out from the rear of the plane, rolling forward, cutting through them, pulling them toward the door, the final cry from Scofield:

  “Geronimo!”

  A dams lay still, his heart pounding hard, sorted through the pains, held tightly to the straps, pulled the parachute toward him, flattening it, slow, steady rhythm. He stayed on his back, could see streaks of white fire, the rattle of machine guns, no direction, no aim. They were everywhere. The parachute was flat now, and he slipped out of the harness, rolled away, pulled the Thompson from the straps behind his back, felt the pockets, the heavy bulges, ammo clips, grenades, everything still where it was supposed to be. He rolled over to one side, eased a clip into the machine gun, slowly, pushing, the click making him flinch. He pulled the bolt back, held it, let it slide forward slowly, chambering a round, the gun loaded, ready, the power of that rolling through him. Thank God. At least I can fight somebody.

  He rolled over to his back again, stared up, stars, the moon low on the horizon, sinking, the white streaks fewer now. He saw tree limbs, silhouetted to one side of him, thought, woods. All right, that’s a good place to be. He rolled over to his knees, raised himself up, tried to see anything, kept himself motionless, an animal, listening for prey, for any movement, the only sound the quick, hard thumps in his ears, his own heart. The machine guns rattled on, but farther away now, much farther, no danger, and he looked toward the black woods, gripped the Thompson in his hand, touched the cloth bag of grenades again, began to move.

  The ground was grassy, and he was moving downhill, slow and steady, soft steps, eyes sharp, nothing to see, black trees, brush, and now, a low wall. He stopped, squatted, peeked up over the wall, good cover, good place to sit. He listened again, no sounds, felt a sudden burst of fear, anger at himself, where the hell is everybody? He wanted to call out, what? Something…hell, the call sign. George. No, not yet. Krauts could be anywhere. Machine guns.

  He looked up, searched the sky, saw the Big Dipper, the edge of the “cup” pointing to the North Star. It was procedure that once they were on the ground, the last man in the stick would move in the same direction the plane had flown, the best way to find the others. And when we jumped, he thought, we were flying north. He leaned against the wall, tried to calm himself, slow his breathing. Good wall. Thick rock. Dammit, can’t stay here. Scofield, where the hell is Scofield? North of here, for sure. We couldn’t be that far apart. Where the hell is everybody else? There were too many planes, have to be guys all over the damned place. Somebody’s gotta be hurt, there’s always somebody hurt. But, keep quiet, no screaming, not now, not here.

  He heard sounds now, a motor, stared toward the noise, saw a glimpse of motion, reflection, a truck. The truck moved slowly past, no more than fifty yards away, no lights, low voices. He gripped the Thompson, froze, perfect stillness, good cover against the rock. Don’t go shooting at anything. There could be a hundred more. They’re just looking around. They know we’re out here. No searchlight, thank God. They think we don’t hear them? He was breathing heavily still, closed his eyes, clamped his arms close in tight, slow, easy. Just…find somebody.

  The truck was gone now, silence, more gunfire, far in the distance, voices, behind him, beyond the wall. He froze again, the voices silent, now one man, foreign, meaningless words, soft-spoken, a whisper. Adams felt ice in his gut, sweating hands holding the Thompson, the grenades beneath him, unreachable. Damn! There were footsteps, close behind the wall, one man laughing, low, soft, another voice, angry, silencing the man. Adams stared at his own legs, realized one was extended, the wall barely three feet high, his boot reflecting moonlight, like some bright, glistening light on the dark ground. Dammit! Dammit! The footsteps still moved, past him now, moving away, and now another voice, beyond the wall, from the trees.

  “George!”

  The men at the wall stopped, silence, and Adams tried to see them in his mind, staring at the strange sound, pointing, silent commands. Adams was pulsing with anger, thought, no you jackass. You stupid…who the hell…what the hell is the matter with you? Don’t just call out! The footsteps moved away quickly, the rustle of grass, the men away from the wall, and Adams pulled his leg in close, one long, slow breath, pulled himself to his knees, raised up, peered over the wall. There was nothing, black woods, moonlight on gnarled trees. He could see the path now, where the men had been, a wide track on the far side of the wall, a cart path. He waited, listened, nothing, pulled himself up, stepped high, swung his legs over the wall, on the other side now. He dropped down again, strained to hear, the voice again.

  “George!”

  He felt his insides turning over, no, no, damn you, and now another cry, the same voice.

  “Hey!”

  And then the short, high scream.

  He stared at the sounds, the voices coming again, calling out, foreign words, shadows emerging, four men, coming onto the cart path, moonlight on rifles, helmets, the men a few yards away, moving off. He
pointed the Thompson, thought, a quick burst, take them all. But there was another truck now, on the road beyond the wall, coming fast, and he pulled the machine gun back close to his chest. No, don’t be stupid. You’d have a hundred of these bastards on you in no time.

  He stayed low, moved away from the wall, slipped into the tall grass, then past, the ground hard and flat. The trees were around him, a low limb punching his helmet. Damn! He ducked, dropped to one knee, moonlight broken by the thick clusters of branches, realized, an orchard, rows of trees. He moved farther in, to where the sounds had been, soft steps, the Thompson pointed forward, saw a bright mass, moonlight on a parachute, the chute draped across the top of a tangled tree. He moved closer, could see the dark mass beneath it, the man hanging a few feet above the ground, silent, still, and Adams was there, put a hand on the man’s boots, felt cold wetness, the hard smell of blood and urine, the smell of death.

  He backed away, turned toward the road. I can find them, the bastards. The sons of bitches! He was helpless!

  “George!”

  It was a hard whisper, behind him, and Adams froze, stood silently, his mind wrapping around the sound, the meaning. He felt a rush of energy, tried to speak, dry crust in his throat, the word coming out in a hoarse croak.

  “Marshall!”

  The man came toward him, another, and Adams felt his breathing again, cold turns in his stomach. Thank God!

  “Private Fulton…Company A.”

  “O’Brien—”

  “It’s Adams. Shut up, you jackasses.”

  “Sarge! Oh, hell, Sarge!”

  The whispers were growing louder, and Adams pulled Fulton by the shirt, a low, urgent growl:

  “Shut up! Enemy all over the place!”