The Rising Tide

by Jeff Shaara

  Adams counted his grenades again, glanced up at the others, saw each man following his example. His platoon had only a few new faces, none of them yet showing him the telltale signs of becoming a weak link. They had responded well to the training, had made two night jumps around Kairouan, with no disasters. Now, they sat close to the rows of planes, trying to keep out of the way of the maintenance crews, while they waited for the officers to give them the order.

  Scofield had been gone for some time, long meetings with the other officers, Adams glancing up every few seconds toward the low block building at the far end of the tarmac. He saw the captain now, others, pouring out of the building in a rush, moving quickly.

  Adams’s heart jumped, and he called out, “Here we go! Ready packs. Prepare to board up!”

  Scofield was jogging toward them, waved his hands in the air, shouted, “Stand down! The mission’s been scrapped!”

  Scofield motioned to the men to gather, was clearly angry. The entire company moved close, and Scofield paced in small, quick steps, a tight circle, his arms waving like the wings of a deranged bird.

  “Dammit! Second time in a week! Brass can’t make up its mind what the hell to do with us! We’re not going anywhere today! Giant Two has now been scratched. Just like Giant One. They make a plan, get us all fired up to go, and then some general chickens out!”

  “Why, Captain?”

  The voice came from behind Adams, one of the new men, Unger, the high-pitched voice of a child. Scofield looked at the young man, seemed to calm, gather himself. Adams could see that Scofield was scolding himself, thought, easy, Captain. Officers aren’t supposed to gripe about generals, especially not to pimple-faced enlisted men.

  “Never mind. All you need to know is we’ve been ordered to stand down. Colonel Gavin got the word from General Ridgway. Those orders came from higher up. The colonel didn’t tell me any more than I’m going to tell you, so no questions. It’s no secret anymore, so I can tell you that Giant Two was a drop on the airfields around Rome. We were supposed to land right on the fields, and the Eyeties were going to be there to help us. They had agreed to supply everything we would need to capture the landing strips and secure them against any German units in the area. They were supposed to help us out by blowing up bridges, taking out German antiaircraft batteries, and once we hit the ground, they would furnish us with a considerable amount of supplies. Apparently, General Ridgway had some concerns about this and questioned whether or not the Italians could actually deliver what they promised. It seems someone above him shared those concerns. Count your stars, gentlemen. We might have jumped right into a massacre.”

  Adams had crawled out from under the wing, stood, said, “So, what now, sir?”

  Scofield put his hands on his hips, shook his head. “We remain on high alert. The Five-oh-five isn’t the first team on this one anyway. The 504th and the 509th will take the point on any new orders. We did our part in Sicily, and so, they’re figuring we can hang back as the reserve. But don’t any of you think we’re on vacation. They might call for us at any time. Seems like this operation is already fumtu. As much confusion as there’s been already…” Scofield stopped. “Check that. Just keep yourself ready to go. Get some sleep. Eat something. We get a call from General Ridgway, we might need to be up at it pretty quickly.”

  Scofield moved away, and Adams slid back under the wing, gathered his gear. The others were talking, low grumbles, mostly the new men, and he ignored them, thought, don’t be in such a damned hurry to get your ass shot off.

  “Sarge?”

  The voice was unmistakable, and he turned. “What is it, Unger?”

  “The captain said this operation is fumtu. What the heck does that mean?”

  Adams laughed. “You should already know, Private, that in this army, there’s snafu and there’s fumtu.”

  Unger stared at him, empty expression.

  “You a churchman, right, Unger?”

  “Yes, sir. Every Sunday.”

  “All right, I’ll give you the clean translation. Situation Normal All Fouled Up. But what the captain was telling you is, this operation is Fouled Up More Than Usual.”

  T he Fifth Army’s landings at Salerno began at 3:30 a.m., September 9, four divisions, two American and two British, supplemented by American rangers and commandos. To the north, the town of Salerno fell easily into American hands, but in the center, the British forces confronted heavy resistance from German defenders in the heights above the beaches. After a long day of difficult fighting, the British finally secured their beachhead, aided considerably by firepower from the naval artillery offshore. On the right flank of the landings, the American Sixth Corps, under Ernest Dawley, pushed only into light resistance and had, by nightfall on September 9, accomplished most of its objectives. With the landings complete, General Clark had every reason to believe that Avalanche was off and running.

  Kesselring’s reinforcements were quickly summoned, and within hours of the landings, German panzer units were surging toward Clark’s beachheads. In the center of the beachhead, the Sele River flowed into the Gulf of Salerno, and along the mouth of the river, sandbars had formed, preventing the landing craft from putting troops near the river itself. The result was a gap, several miles wide, between the British troops in the center and Dawley’s corps on the right. On September 10, Dawley still believed he had the upper hand in his sector, and he chose the Thirty-sixth Division to make the hardest push inland, seeking to capture roads, hilltops, and key intersections. The Thirty-sixth had yet to be tested in battle, but with little opposition, they had made good progress and accomplished most of Dawley’s objectives, extending the beachhead far inland. What Dawley did not realize was that to his left, Kesselring’s panzers were driving toward the beach and were already beginning to fill the gap. When the Germans launched their counterattacks, Dawley’s men found themselves dangerously flanked and were soon virtually cut off. Along both sides of the gap, the Allied positions were now engulfed by German armor, and on the right, the green soldiers of the Thirty-sixth began to crack. Over the next three days, Clark’s initial successes were erased by the German assaults, and the Allied beachheads began to crumble, panicked troops falling back toward the beaches, protected only by the umbrella of fire from the naval artillery.

  On September 13, Clark sent Matthew Ridgway a desperate plea for assistance, and Ridgway responded immediately. That night, Colonel Reuben Tucker’s 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment made the Eighty-second Airborne’s first drop into Italy, a desperate attempt to fill the wide gap in the Allied lines and bolster the battered Thirty-sixth Division. The following day, the 509th, under Colonel Edson Raff received orders to jump as well. The 509th had been the first wave of Operation Torch, had begun the Allied invasion of North Africa by being dropped haphazardly across two hundred miles of desert. Throughout the Sicilian campaign, the men of the 509th had impatiently stewed in North Africa, while the 504th and 505th did the work. Now, Clark ordered the 509th to make the Airborne’s most dangerous jump. They would attempt to secure a critical crossroads near the village of Avellino, far inland, and far into enemy territory, to prevent any more German reinforcements from reaching the already reeling Allied troops. If the 509th was to survive at all, they would have to hold on until someone from Clark’s Fifth Army reached their position. If the Germans succeeded in driving Clark’s forces back into the sea, the 509th would simply be swallowed up.

  On September 14, the men of Jim Gavin’s 505th stayed close to the planes, wondering if they would be used at all. By midafternoon the questions were answered. Gavin learned they were not to be held back as reserves after all.

  LICATA AIRFIELD—SEPTEMBER 14, 1943

  They had camped among the olive groves, broad fields of ancient trees. Except for the wings of the C-47s, the olive trees were the only shade within reach, the only place a man could rest without baking in the sun.

  Adams had slept, lying on his back, his helmet on his face, sweat soaking
his clothes, a soft breeze cooling him. He was awake now, stretched his legs, raised the helmet slightly, glanced at his watch. Three o’clock, he thought. If something’s gonna happen, it better happen quick. He heard voices, the sound of a man choking. There was laughter, and Adams knew the routine, pulled the helmet away, blinked through the sunlight. He saw Unger, the young man on his knees, red-faced, spitting furiously, scratching at his belt, trying to grab his canteen. Adams slammed the helmet on his head, rolled to one side, pushed himself to his feet. He was already angry, slapped at the dirt on his pant legs, had gone through this routine too many times.

  “Which one of you jackasses told him to eat the olives?” The men close to him were veterans, every one trying his best to hold back the smile. “None of you willing to admit it? Fine, tell you what. Since this is your idea of fun, why don’t we all eat one? Millions of the damned things, just reach up and grab one! Come on! We deserve a treat!”

  They were watching him now, and he had no patience, knew they were wondering if he was serious. He plucked an olive from a branch above him, hard and black, held it up.

  “They sell these things, you know. Ship ’em all over the damned world. Your mamas probably used them to cook with, right? Well, chow down, boys! No reason to let the new men get all the fun!”

  He saw one man step forward, head down. It was Newley, the loudmouth from Chicago. “It was me, Sarge. Nobody else.”

  Adams wasn’t surprised, had seen Newley victimize more than one recruit. “You hungry, Newley? Have an olive. Grab a handful.”

  “I didn’t mean nothing, Sarge. Just playing.”

  Adams felt the heat now, sunshine ripping through the branches of the old trees. “This is the Airborne, Private. You stopped playing when you stepped through the gates at Fort Benning. You notice how many of those C-47s took off last night?”

  He saw nods from the men around him, and Newley said, “Yeah, Sarge.”

  “That was the Five-oh-four. You think those boys are playing today? Tell you what, Newley. Next time we climb in a C-47, Unger’s sitting right next to you. I want you jumping right in front of him. You know why? Because I want you to think about what Unger had to accomplish to be here. I want you to think about what Airborne means, what you mean to each other out there in the dark. You come down in a briar patch or break your damned leg in a ditch, Unger might be the man who saves your ass. Or, he might not. He might not hear you call out. He might think about what a bastard you are and go the other way. Would you want him to do that, Private Newley?”

  “No, Sarge.”

  “Then give Unger your canteen. Help him get that crap out of his mouth. And, Unger!”

  Unger was still spitting, his face twisted, the words coming out in a croak. “Yes, Sarge?”

  “Next time somebody tells you to eat something…make sure he eats it first! You were briefed about this in North Africa: olives have to be cured before they’re edible. Pay attention next time. I have no room in this squad for a dumb son of a bitch.”

  “Yes, Sarge.”

  Newley was beside Unger now, others as well, the joke over. There had always been the jokesters, the tricks played on the recruits. It was good sport at Fort Benning, rituals that every unit had gone through. But Adams had no spirit for it now, no energy for anyone’s idiotic meanness. He moved out of the olive grove, stared across to the airfield, thought, save all that, boys. Especially the new ones. They haven’t seen it yet, haven’t watched a man come apart in a burst of fire, haven’t scraped a dead man’s blood from their fingernails. I know why the veterans do this stuff. They need something to laugh at, and there’s nothing funny out here. There’s nothing funny about what happened to McBride and Fulton. And Colonel Gorham. He looked back, the men going about their routine now, some lying flat, helmets covering faces. He couldn’t stay angry with any of them, not even the ones he just didn’t like. We’re one unit, one damned dangerous weapon, and we’re better at this than anyone else in the world. You want to be a bastard, be a bastard to the enemy.

  There had been little sleep the night before, the veterans kept awake by the drone of the C-47s, four dozen planes, stuffed with the men of the 504th. There was a strange emptiness to that, watching another regiment lift away, while you lay comfortable on your blanket. They probably felt the same way about us, he thought, watching us take off at Kairouan. None of them had had any idea what the hell we were gonna do on Sicily, how many of us wouldn’t come back. And then they flew into hell on earth, shot to pieces by our own guys. Rabid stupidity. Hell of a way to die. That wouldn’t sit well with Mama.

  He heard a vehicle, stepped out away from the grove, saw the dust cloud following the jeep. It rolled closer, stopped, and he saw Scofield, was surprised to see Colonel Gavin. Adams straightened, reflex, saluted, the officers moving toward him.

  Scofield said, “Sergeant Adams, see to your platoon. We’ve gotten our orders. We jump tonight.”

  Gavin walked past him, moved into the trees, the men responding, short, clipped greetings.

  “Sir!”

  “Colonel!”

  Adams watched Gavin move through the men, the colonel seeming to inspect them, grading them.

  After a moment, Gavin said, “How many of you jumped here in July?”

  Adams held up his hand, saw the others, more than forty out of the fifty men in the platoon.

  “Good. Damned good. General Clark’s boys are in a hell of a pickle over on that beach. They’re counting on us to hold the line against the enemy. The Five-oh-four’s had a rough go of it today, but we’ll be dropping right beside them. By tomorrow morning, the Krauts are in for a surprise.”

  He turned toward the jeep, stopped. “You boys have cause to use the bazookas last time out?”

  Adams said, “Yes, sir. Some of us were at Piano Lupo, sir.”

  Gavin looked at him. “I know where you were, Sergeant. You fire a bazooka yourself?”

  “No, sir. But the captain and I were with a couple antitank crews. They took out a pair of panzers before…they got hit.”

  Gavin seemed to recognize him, studied him for a moment. “You were with Colonel Gorham.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gavin turned toward the others. “Hell of a thing. We could use a lot more men like Art Gorham.” Gavin motioned toward Scofield now. “Captain, read the men that bulletin we just got.”

  “Yes, sir. Right here. ‘From War Department G-2. Intelligence has gathered information indicating that the bazooka now in use by our troops is inadequate to penetrate the frontal armor of the German Tiger tank.’”

  Gavin looked at Adams. “Quite a revelation, eh, Sergeant? Army Intelligence has speculated that if you want to destroy the enemy armor, you shouldn’t do it from in front.”

  “Yes, sir. I was informed of that, sir.”

  “When?”

  “At Piano Lupo, sir. Two months ago. The antitank crews knew to hit them from the flank.”

  Gavin looked at him, hard eyes, seemed to measure him. Adams straightened, thought, all right, shut up. He doesn’t need to hear what a smart mouth you have.

  Gavin held the stare for a long moment, then turned away, said, “Next, they’ll be telling us that they think C-47s might be too slow to avoid antiaircraft fire. Whole offices full of these geniuses who actually think they’re soldiers. All right, get ready to roll, gentlemen. We have a job to do. Captain, let’s get moving.”

  Gavin and Scofield climbed into the jeep, moved away quickly, more jeeps appearing, officers moving out among their troops. Adams bent low, gathered his knapsack, knelt down, tightened the laces on his boots. He tapped the empty pockets on his baggy pants, knew that the ammo and grenades were already being spread out near the planes. He glanced at Unger, thought, he can’t be eighteen. Sixteen, if that. Forged his papers, sure as hell. He doesn’t even shave yet.

  “Unger!”

  “Yeah, Sarge?”

  “You know what a Kraut is?”

  “Yeah, Sarge.” />
  “What are you going to do when you see one?”

  “I’m gonna blow him to heck, Sarge.”

  Adams glanced at the others, saw the smiles. Yep. War is heck.

  T he flight was smooth, none of the gut-twisting turbulence of their first flight to Sicily. Adams could see the beach, hints of white caught by the moonlight, a wide spit of land, what the maps showed to be a long peninsula. The drop zone was just beyond, the officers assuring the men that the pathfinders would be there first, lighting the way with a fiery signal, a T that would easily be visible to any pilot in the area. Adams leaned back against his parachute, thought, if I was a Kraut artilleryman and I saw a damned fire lit with enemy planes overhead, I’m guessing that fire would make a pretty easy target. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? He looked down the row across from him, saw Gavin, couldn’t see his eyes, wondered if he was sleeping. He hadn’t expected to be in Gavin’s stick, had boarded the plane expecting to see Scofield, the usual routine. But Scofield was behind them, the next plane in the formation, and Adams was curious about that, wondered if it was simply luck, or if there was some reason why Gavin had boarded his plane.

  He had begun to feel more than simple respect for Gavin, more than the sergeant’s allegiance to a commanding officer. The senior brass always had some sort of strange aura, much of it manufactured by the officers themselves, the men who portrayed themselves as something larger-than-life. The soldiers had little use for that, learned quickly to measure a man by what he could do under fire, not how good he looked on the parade ground. Adams had sensed none of that with Colonel Gorham, certainly, the man’s death seeming to affect everyone, including Gavin. Adams wished he had known Gorham more than a couple of days, had to wonder about any man who would give his own life trying to duel with a tank. Adams sensed the same about Gavin, the aura of a different kind, authority and respect inspired by a man who seemed to know what it was to stare at the point of a bayonet. Gavin was far too young to have fought in the first war, had none of that vacant stare that Adams had seen in the old veterans. There had always been officers who tried to act like the soldiers they commanded, a counterfeit act to show that they were a buddy. That rarely worked, most of the soldiers not interested in being pals with any officer. No matter how much the men griped about officers, when the fight started, every soldier wanted a man in charge, a loud voice to cut through the deadly confusion. The noise from the loudmouths, the men like Private Newley, couldn’t cover up every man’s silent fear. It wasn’t just the enemy, the bullets. Every man carried that sliver of doubt, wondered if he had the guts, if he might run, if he would get his own men killed because he fell apart. That was the officer’s job, to rip that doubt away, to pull the men away from their own thoughts and send them forward as a single weapon, a perfect fist. Not every lieutenant could be an inspiration. But Adams felt that strange ingredient in Gavin, as he had for Scofield. It was instinctive, perfect confidence that if they jumped into a bloody awful mess, Gavin was the man you wanted giving the orders, the man who could keep you alive.