by Jeff Shaara
“You might not thank me when this is over. This isn’t Sicily we’re going after. But dammit, we need the best people out there, people who know what the enemy looks like. I’ll be out there too, eventually. I feel like I’m turning into corn mush in this office, my belly’s as soft as Jell-O. So there’s no way in hell you’re going into France without me. Ridgway will be there too, count on that. When I get back out there, when I can finally get my ass into a C-47, I want to see you at the end of the line, and I want every damned one of those troopers to be more afraid of you than they are of the Krauts. Now get the hell out of here.”
Gavin had stopped smiling. Adams, still hesitant, stood slowly, stiff and straight, and stared at the wall over Gavin’s head.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be waiting for you.”
He turned, felt like running out of the office but held tightly to his composure, moved out through the door, and passed slowly through the outer office, the staff at work, low hum of voices, men watching him, curious, someone calling his name. He moved out into the chill, glanced up at gray skies, heard the soft drizzle of rain, and stopped on a narrow porch, steps in front of him, soft green grass between many, many buildings. He tried to hear Gavin’s words again, the compliments, the duty in front of him, felt the old burn returning, a smoldering fire, wanted to run, to feel the churning in his legs, the hard breaths. He had no idea where he would go, just out, away from the dead air and stifling work. He realized he had the pen and notepad still in his hand, the fixtures attached to him for so many months. He moved to one side toward a fat green garbage can, tossed the pad in, gripped the pen and threw it across the open grass like a small spear, held the energy inside, and walked out into the perfect rain.
* * *
7. ADAMS
* * *
BRAUNSTONE PARK, NEAR LEICESTER, ENGLAND
APRIL 11, 1944
He stared at the rain, thick and gray, shrouding the C-47s in a ghostly haze. The gloom was complete, another frustrating day, little to do but drill the men once more on their preparations, packing their chutes, stuffing backpacks and belts and pants pockets with their equipment. It had been this way for a week now, either rain or a misty fog so heavy that every training jump had to be canceled. Outside, long rows of C-47s sat empty, silent, mostly under camouflage netting, someone’s attempt to disguise them from German fighters and recon planes.
Adams glanced up. Who in hell do they think is flying in this stuff? he thought. I haven’t seen a German fighter since I’ve been here. How hard would it be to figure out this is an airfield, anyway? If I saw a clump of bushes anywhere near a runway, I’d bomb hell out of it.
His boredom was blossoming into raw frustration. Adams had never been good at clamping his feelings down. During the months as Gavin’s aide, it had been Gavin himself who had intimidated Adams into silence. The message from Gavin had been clear and brutal: I have to put up with this, so you have to put up with this. Adams had no trouble obeying Gavin. He had an instinctive feeling that he never wanted to be on the receiving end of the man’s temper. Gavin felt the same way about Ridgway; everyone in headquarters knew the commanding general’s fury was a spectacle to behold, as long as it was directed elsewhere. Adams had begun to suspect that, above them all, Eisenhower probably commanded the same kind of fear, maybe more so. Maybe Ridgway is as scared of Ike as I am of Gavin. And I’m supposed to make these logheads scared of me. Hell of a way to run an army. He backed away from the wide opening of the hangar and turned toward the rows of long tables: several hundred men, dutifully packing their chutes. He focused on his own squad, his corporal moving among them, coaching, cursing, but, most important, allowing each man to complete the job on his own. It had been the most basic of lessons, begun at jump school at Fort Benning: Each man packs his own parachute. It was the one part of the classroom experience you could count on to get the full attention of the men. No one shirked, no one fell asleep. Every man understood that packing your chute incorrectly would most likely kill you.
Adams tried to ignore the dull throb in his temples, the wet chill that soaked his bones. He walked toward the men, the corporal eyeing him. Adams didn’t particularly like the man, a skinny runt named Nusbaum from somewhere in northern California. Nusbaum had only been there a few weeks, but runt or no he had earned his second stripe by good work at Benning, something Adams had to accept. The man had an annoying whine to his voice, an attitude that spoke of privilege. There was nothing specific to Adams’s dislike of the man, nothing Nusbaum had said or done. And Adams knew very well that any man who emerged from training at Benning had already proven himself as much as anyone could without actual combat. If you survived the training there, you had to have that peculiar brand of courage that allows a man to jump from an airplane, as well as physical stamina and enough brains to learn the basic techniques of the jump and, more important, the landing. Nusbaum had accomplished his training with that something extra that had caught the eye of the captain, so Nusbaum was now Adams’s corporal, his second voice. But Adams still didn’t like him.
The lieutenant was a different story. His name was Pullman, and Adams guessed him to be the youngest officer in the entire division. Pullman commanded the platoon, sixty men, of which Adams commanded one of the four squads. Gavin’s order had given Adams seniority over every other sergeant in the 505th, but Adams knew it was a symbolic gesture. He would rarely have any contact with the other squad leaders. If the issue ever arose at all, it would probably be in some crisis situation, the worst kind of chaos on the battlefield, the possibility of two sergeants suddenly butting heads over the next move they should make. Adams couldn’t think about that; there was no kind of planning or drill that would prepare a man to face such a ridiculous scenario. You don’t shove your orders into the face of another soldier when the machine guns are firing. You make a decision, you hope it’s the right one, and if the men respect you they accept your control. But you damn well better be right. I wonder if Lieutenant Pullman knows that?
Monroe Pullman had come to Benning from the Virginia Military Institute and never hesitated to mention that General George Marshall had passed through the same historic hallways. The men in the platoon weren’t nearly as impressed by that as Pullman himself. Adams knew that Pullman was barely his own age, twenty-two, and the fact that he had made lieutenant was an eyebrow-raising surprise. The lieutenants were the most unpredictable group in the army, some earning the label ninety-day wonders and never rising past it. Adams scanned the hangar, searched for Pullman, didn’t see him. Probably getting coffee. Man drinks more damned coffee than anyone I’ve ever seen. Not sure what that means about his leadership, but if he does that in combat, at least he’ll be awake.
He moved close to one of the long tables, scanning the rows of packs, the chutes mostly secured, a few of the men still struggling with the folds. He had no patience for the slow ones. How many times had they done this? And they still can’t do it right?
“Speed it up! It’s almost time for chow, and no one in this squad goes to the mess until every chute passes inspection!”
One man spoke, unfamiliar, from the far end of the table.
“Hey, Sarge, I didn’t come all the way over here just to stand in the rain. Does it ever stop? I heard them planes out there are just fakes. I coulda stayed home if all we was gonna do was go swimming.”
Adams stepped that way. One of the new men, Dexter something. He saw the man’s chute still on the table, saw the smart-assed smile as the man turned away from him. Adams felt the anger rising. I have no patience for this, he thought. No patience for anyone’s bitching, no patience for anything at all.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Private Dexter Marley, Sarge.”
“Marley. You’re new.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
“Look at me, girlie.”
The man turned toward him. Adams ignored the others, knew they were all watching.
“Name’s Marley, Sarge.”
Adams saw the man inflate, preparing for an argument, the man’s pride taking over. Beside him, a hand gripped Marley’s arm.
“He’s OK, Sarge. Dex doesn’t know the drill yet.”
Adams knew the voice: Unger, the kid, pimples and all.
“Shut up, Unger.”
Marley was looking at him now, and Adams saw the glint of defiance, a big man who believed he could stand up to his short stocky sergeant. It was another spurt of fuel on Adams’s fire.
“So, girlie, you’ve made some friends here. Well, right now you don’t have any friends. I think you’re a screwup, and in this company, we handle screwups one way.” He was pulsing mad, saw a hint of fear on Marley’s face, more fuel. “You listen to me, Private. The next time we jump, you’ll be right next to me, I’ll be the one checking your gear. I’ll be the one who shoves you out the door of that damned plane, and I’ll be the one who might accidentally unhook your line.”
He stopped, hollow silence in the massive hangar, felt himself sweating, knew he was being abominably stupid. Marley’s defiance was gone, replaced by blinking fear, and Adams held his stare, the man several inches taller, broad-chested, thick arms. Adams felt the fight coming, felt his hands balling up, focused on the man’s chin, the target.
“Morning, Sergeant. Everything all right here?”
The voice punched him from behind, firm and unpleasant. He let out a breath, unclenched his fists, turned, and saw two men, Lieutenant Pullman and a face he had not seen since he had been back with the division, the familiar face of Ed Scofield.
“Captain…sir.”
Adams threw up the salute, could see Scofield’s hard stare, softening now.
“We have a problem here, Sergeant?” Pullman said.
“No, sir. Just trying to get the men to pack their chutes with a little more…efficiency.”
He knew Pullman wouldn’t buy it, but the lieutenant eased past him, close to Marley.
“Private, you having trouble remembering how to pack your chute?”
“No, sir.”
“Then pack the damned chute!”
“Yes, sir.”
Marley began to work on the fabric, the folds. Men were murmuring now, the ones who were farther away going back to their business. Pullman always seemed to be careful around Adams, had never chewed him out for anything, and Adams knew he wouldn’t do it now. He noticed the man’s coffee cup. Of course.
“Sergeant,” Pullman said, “Captain Scofield tells me you have some history together.”
Adams saw a smile on Scofield’s face. “Yes, sir. That we do.”
Scofield said, “Lieutenant, do you mind if Sergeant Adams walks with me a bit? Things seem to be under control here.”
“He’s all yours, sir.”
Scofield looked past Adams, scanning the tables, the rows of men. “You men had better listen to Sergeant Adams, every damned word. You want to survive this war, he’s the man who will keep your butts in one piece. You hear me?”
There was a sharp chorus. “Yes, sir!”
Scofield continued to examine the men and their equipment, then looked at Adams again. “Let’s go, Sergeant.”
Scofield walked away and Adams followed, moving toward the wide opening of the hangar. He felt a strange energy. He had not seen Scofield since Italy, since the day General Gavin had chosen Adams to go to England. Scofield was the company commander, and Adams had served with him throughout the fights in Sicily and after. There was no uncertainty about Scofield, no need for guessing whether or not the man was a leader. In Sicily, Scofield had been everything a soldier needed to see, and Adams had learned to trust him with a loyalty many veterans knew was rare.
The captain led him out into the rain, lighter now, more of a thick mist. As Adams followed, Scofield moved close to one of the C-47s, its camouflage netting pulled away. Adams saw the cockpit: Two pilots were in place, unexpected. Scofield turned to him.
“We’re going up. The entire damned division. General Ridgway is sick of sitting on his ass, so the word came down a half hour ago. The weather is better, supposed to clear up a good bit more, give us some chances at a jump or two. Have your men recheck their chutes, load up their packs. I don’t trust weathermen, and I’m not sure why General Ridgway feels any different, but orders are orders.”
Scofield was looking at him, and Adams saw a smile.
“It’s good to see you too, sir.”
Scofield put a hand on his shoulder, a hard grip. “This is eating you alive, isn’t it, Sergeant?”
“Not sure what you mean, sir.”
Scofield looked up, squinted through the wetness on his face. “I feel it too. Every veteran I’ve spoken to is chewing nails to get on with it. Most of us thought we were done after Italy. Figured someone else would pick up the slack. But, hell, I knew better than that. We’re the best this army’s got. And from what I hear, that’s what we’re going to need.” He paused, removing the hand from Adams’s shoulder. “I had a feeling you’d go crazy as a staff sergeant. Gavin never changed your designation, you know. Did that on purpose, left it so you could come back to the company. I suspect you know more about our mission than I do, and that’s fine with me. I’ll learn what we’re supposed to do when Colonel Ekman decides to tells me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Scofield looked at him, hard in the eyes.
“Good. Keep your damned mouth shut. I was hoping you wouldn’t spill your guts. Hell, I knew you wouldn’t. You’ve been drinking tea with British generals, and we’ve been out here fielding rumors. Lots of rumors. All bull. Well, hell, you know that. But those replacements, they’ll listen to anything.” He paused. “Now that you’re back, you see what we’ve got here. We’re not ready, are we?”
Adams hesitated, then shook his head, wiped a hand through wet hair. “They’re fit, sir, but they’re not combat ready. The last group of replacements, those fellows that came in a week or so ago: plenty of hotshots, big-mouths. It’s a mystery to me where the hell we’re getting these guys. But if we don’t get some jumps in soon—”
“We will. Starting today. I’m a little concerned about the big-mouths too. One in particular.”
Adams understood. Scofield had heard too much of his idiotic attack on Private Marley.
“Sorry, sir. Just trying to put some steel in the new ones.”
“That’s crap, Jesse. Those men aren’t raw recruits, they’re fully trained. You know what it takes to get through jump school, and every man in this outfit is here because he earned it. Steel? They’ve got plenty. What they need is experience. You’re just pissed off, and you’re taking it out on the men. Save some of that for the enemy.”
Adams looked down. “I haven’t made a jump in six months, sir. I feel like a damned rubber tire, all gut.”
“None of us have jumped, Sergeant. But you and me—the veterans—we have to lead the way. We know what the enemy looks like, and what it feels like when our buddies die. That’s the one thing missing from these new men.”
“I can’t teach them that, sir.”
Scofield put his hands on his hips and stared up at the clouds. Adams could feel the mist growing lighter, saw a sliver of blue in the distance.
“The weather boys might be right,” Scofield said. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough. Get your men ready to load up.”
Adams saw a jeep in the distance, three officers, moving out through the formations of parked planes.
“The get-rich-quick boys,” Scofield said. “Major Turner, Captain Fish-man. Don’t know the other one. They’re trying to get their five jumps in so they can be ready for the mission. Scares hell out of me, Sergeant. We’ve got officers in this division who’ve never seen combat at all. General Ridgway can’t be happy about that, but we’ve got no
choice. I’d trade a dozen of those guys for one Jim Gavin.” He looked at Adams. “Get those boys ready. You want to beat hell out of some smart-mouth private, I’ll look the other way, and Lieutenant Pullman will do the same, as long as you don’t make a habit of it. But you don’t have to show them how tough you are. Hell, they’re already afraid of you. I can see it in their faces. I need you to show them why they should follow you.”
“I understand, sir.”
Far across the field, lines of men began to emerge from the rows of hangars, filing toward the waiting planes. In the distance, C-47s began to wake up, clouds of black smoke rising, the cough and sputter of engines.
“That’s the Five-oh-eight. They’re first to get moving. We’ll follow the Five-oh-seven. Double time, Sergeant. Time to knock off the rust.”
There was no hint of blue sky. Adams was jumpmaster, sat farthest from the cockpit, kept his eyes on the eighteen men, two rows, facing each other. The plane bounced once, a sharp drop, the familiar groan from those with the weaker stomachs. He knew some of them were struggling, no one wanting to be the first to show the sickness, to be responsible for stinking up the plane. As Adams had promised, Private Marley was closest to him. The man was silent, subdued, obviously surprised that Adams had been serious. Adams ignored him, knew that by now, Marley had developed a perfect fear of his sergeant. At Benning, silencing the big-mouths had been fun, and later, when the men had been in combat, the mouthing off had mostly stopped. These replacements had brought a new wave of talk, all that cheerleading about what they were going to do to the enemy. The veterans mostly ignored it. Adams looked across at Unger, small and skinny, relaxed, no sign of nervousness. Yeah, Unger, you’re Marley’s friend, aren’t you? Probably told him not to screw with the sergeant. Good advice.
Wallace Unger had been with the squad since Sicily. Adams was certain he was well underage, must have lied to sign up. But the files showed Unger to be eighteen, and whether or not Adams believed it, Unger had endured every challenge and faced the enemy as well as Adams himself. More, Unger had shown himself to be a natural marksman. With the M-1 or even the Thompson, Unger could shoot as well as any man in the squad. Adams stared and caught a look from Unger: sharp bright eyes, a quick smile. Damn you, you’re sixteen. I know it.