The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  The plane banked, and Adams looked out through the wide opening beside him, still nothing but gray. He could feel the plane descending, saw motion along the rows of men, the plane dropping to the jump altitude. Adams tried to turn in his seat, to see farther out the wide jump door, but there was too much gear, every man carrying exactly what he would if this were the real thing. Dammit! How the hell are we supposed to jump if we can’t see what’s below us?

  The plane continued to descend, and suddenly the red signal light came on. Adams stood quickly. “Stand up! Hook up!”

  The men obeyed, automatic, each man hooking the static lines from his chute to the cable above their heads.

  “Check equipment!”

  It was the routine order, each man checking the gear on the man in front of him, no dangling straps or buckles that had come loose. Adams watched carefully, then turned and looked out the doorway; solid gray, wet mist soaking the inside of the plane. What the hell is going on? The weather isn’t better, it’s worse, and if I can’t see the ground, neither can the damned pilots. Dammit! He focused on the men again, the red light still glaring above him.

  “Count off!”

  Marley, close in front of him, staring past him, shouted, “Eighteen! Okay!”

  Behind him, each man followed suit, counting down, until the last man closest to the cockpit shouted, “One! Okay!”

  Adams looked at the signal light, still red, and glanced outside again, a low curse growling through his brain. Wonderful. Just wonderful. He tried to see past the row of men to the cockpit. What the hell are you jackasses thinking? Now the light turned green, the answer to his question, and there was no thought, just the training. Marley moved to the doorway, quickly out and gone, the next man a second behind him. They moved past him quickly, no one slowing, no hesitation. Adams waited for the last man and followed him out into the gray mist.

  The ground came up quickly, a house, fence lines, and he jerked the riser, tried to spin to one side, saw a small rooftop, a low stone wall, round, a well. He dropped close beside the roof, hit the ground hard, crumpled sideways, awkward, tried to roll to ease the shock, but his back slapped into the stone, stopping him cold, his helmet popping off his head. The chute came down around him, no wind, thank God, no jerking him across the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his side and lay still for a few seconds, his own routine, testing, checking each bone. There were pains all along his legs, but the worst jolt came from his ribs. He kept the pain inside, no sound—the training—and thought, What the hell did you do? His legs were moving now, and he tried to push forward, away from the stone, his face rolling into muddy water, a puddle, dammit! The chute was on top of him, draping the well itself, a soft white tent, and now he heard voices.

  “I say! What have we here? Oh, my God! Henry!”

  There were more sounds now, a woman shouting, footsteps on the muddy ground. He tried to stand, grabbed at the chute, to pull it away, to see, but there was something in his back now, pushing him down into the mud.

  “Bloody Nazi bastard!”

  Adams spit water from his mouth, couldn’t see, put his hands down, the pressure in his back stabbing him. He thought of the well, the house: These were farmers, the sharp point was…a pitchfork?

  “Hey! American! I’m American!”

  The chute was pulled away, and he saw legs, moving closer, one man still pushing him into the mud.

  “Oy, Nigel, he’s not a Nazi. Look here. Helmet’s all wrong.”

  “You sure? Been expectin’ this. Bloody sneak attack!”

  “I’m an American, dammit!” The pressure in his back grew lighter and Adams took a breath, spit more mud from his mouth, pushed himself over onto his back. “I’m an American! Damn you!”

  “Curses like one. Ugly bloke too. Look at all the thingies. Grenades and whatnot.”

  Hands were on him now, and Adams felt resigned, let them pull him upright. He sat, the pain in his side curling him, and pushed the hands away. “Give me a second. I hit pretty hard, might have busted some ribs.”

  He looked at them now, four men, two women standing behind them. His eye caught the point of the pitchfork.

  “You could have killed me.”

  “Tried to, at that. Been lookin’ for Nazi buggers to come droppin’ in ’ere. Robert’s got a shotgun, but he’s off in the town. Good thing for you, eh?”

  The man laughed, and Adams saw brown teeth, thick dark skin, realized they were all older, sixties, more.

  “Excuse me, but can you tell me…did you see any more parachutes?”

  “Sarge!”

  The farmers close above him backed away, and Adams saw two men coming quickly, Unger and another familiar face, Conley, more behind them. Oh, thank God!

  Behind him, a woman said, “Henry, there’s a bloomin’ wad of them. Why in blazes are the Americans invadin’ us?”

  Adams pulled himself to his feet, Unger’s hands under his arms. “I’m okay. I hit this damned well. Everybody else all right?”

  “Think so, Sarge. Most of us came down in a field, out past those trees.”

  Adams looked at the man with the pitchfork again. “Look, I’m sorry we surprised you. We’re on a training jump. It seems we were dropped a little off course.”

  The farmers gathered closer again, curious eyes examining the gear, the dirty uniforms, one man reaching out with a careful finger to touch the Thompson strapped to Adams’s hip. The man laughed.

  “I know that one. You’re lost. I spent two weeks in the mud in Ypres, back in the last war. Hadn’t a glint where in blazes I was. The generals didn’t know either.” The man rubbed a round belly. “Training, eh? You know General Patton, then? He’s been through here, a while back. All glory and commotion, sirens and lights. Bugger woke up the damned cows and scared Eloise.”

  A woman spoke now, confirming the old man’s story. “Scared me half to death, that he did. Handsome bloke, though. All fancy with his silver helmet. He was lost too. Wouldn’t admit it. Had his driver ask us where the road to Hargrove was. Poor young man was scared witless. Your General Patton lit him up with some mighty colorful language. Made me blush.”

  “Nothing can make you blush, woman,” the farmer said. “But General Patton, he’s not as friendly as you chaps, I give you that. You hurt, then?”

  Adams tried to ignore the pain in his side. “I’m all right. So, we’re near Hargrove? Are you sure?”

  He knew it was a stupid question, and the man laughed. “You’ve no bloody idea where you’re at, have you? They can’t even put you chaps in the right piece of countryside, and you’re still in merry old England. Doesn’t bode well, does it?”

  Adams saw more of his men coming past the house, looked up, the sky a solid gray, and said a low curse to every weatherman in the army. The farmer was more serious now, and Adams saw the look, the eyes of a veteran, a man who knows what a screwup is and what it can cost an army.

  “No, sir. It doesn’t bode well at all.”

  * * *

  8. ROMMEL

  * * *

  CHTEAU LA ROCHE-GUYON, BONNIÈRES-SUR-SEINE

  APRIL 20, 1944

  He had relocated in early March to a new headquarters that seemed more of a medieval fortress than a modern facility for a German army commander. The castle was perched against a rocky hillside, with a sweeping view of the river, a natural barrier to any invader who happened to come by land. But these days the greatest threat was from the air, so the castle had been ringed by a tight cordon of antiaircraft batteries, along with a company of highly trained troops whose sole priority was to protect Field Marshal Rommel.

  The tall windows of his office opened onto a magnificent rose garden, and he watched the French groundskeepers working diligently, as though nothing had changed, no disruption to their routine, tireless efforts to carve a small swath of beauty from the rocky soil. Above him, in the high floors of the castle, the occupants remained, French aristocrats, the duc de La Rochefoucauld, a man whose lineage could be
traced back through centuries of French history. The duke accepted his new tenant without any vigorous protest, the man’s family keeping mostly out of sight, resigned, as best as Rommel could tell, to the inevitabilities of war. Even the desk Rommel had commandeered had a history. It was massively heavy and ornate, centuries old, and Rommel, hesitant to tamper with this gracious display of French pride, would not clutter the walls and shelves with his own history—no photographs, no official memorabilia. It was a temporary home at best, and no matter how much of himself he devoted to the job at hand, Rommel knew that one day, the duke would return to his rightful place at the head of his own table. Rommel had no illusions that any part of the occupation of France was permanent.

  Effective April 15, his chief of staff, General Alfred Gause, was replaced by General Hans Speidel. Gause had been Rommel’s dutiful staff officer from the days in North Africa, but Rommel had grown tired of the man’s surliness. Speidel’s availability had made the decision to remove Gause that much simpler. Speidel shared considerable history with Rommel, having served alongside him in the First Great War. The man brought another comfort Rommel appreciated: He was Swabian, his family from the hill country of Württemberg, so he shared Rommel’s own distinctive accent, which marked them both as southern Germans, so different from the Prussians to the north. That distinction had far more meaning to the Prussians, who considered themselves Germany’s elite. The Prussians brought a snobbishness to the officer corps that had always dug at Rommel, and their disparaging remarks about the peasants of Württemberg had followed him from his first days in the army. Rommel had never measured his respect for anyone based on what part of Germany they were from.

  Speidel had been a welcome choice for Rommel, his request passing through the hands of Hitler’s chief of staff, Alfred Jodl. Speidel had been one of the few bright spots for the German High Command during the Russian campaigns, having served several primary commanders in the field exceptionally well. Beyond his qualifications, Rommel appreciated Speidel’s civilian education, the man having long ago earned a PhD in history. Though Berlin rarely paid much attention to intellectual accomplishments, Rommel was the son of a teacher, and Speidel’s rank in the army had much less meaning for Rommel than did the title of Doctor.

  Speidel sat across the desk from him, sifting through papers, and Rommel, watching him, suddenly smiled. “You truly look like a professor, you know. Have you never thought about a more flattering pair of eyeglasses?”

  Speidel seemed surprised and put a hand to his face. “What’s wrong with my glasses? They allow me to see. I never paid much attention to…fashion.”

  “Nonsense.”

  Rommel stood now, walked toward the window, felt the thick lushness of the Persian rug beneath his feet. The entire castle was ripe with this sort of luxury, tapestries on the wall, great colorful portraits of the duke and his ancestors. It was an odd setting for Rommel, softness beneath his boots. There was a heavy mist outdoors, the tall glass panes glistening, the view of the Seine distorted. He was suddenly in no mood to work but felt a strange detachment as he watched the boats and barges on the river, sliding past, hauling all manner of goods, most of it destined for his army.

  “Is something bothering you, sir?”

  Rommel brought himself back into the office and tried to clear his mind, his eyes still fixed on the watery windowpane. “We have a remarkable sense of fashion in this army, Hans. Every uniform on every officer: perfect fit, the medals arranged just so, the polish on the boots. It has always been that way, I suppose, something about being—well, German. Don’t you agree?”

  Speidel hesitated. “I had never really thought about it. I joined the army, and they gave me a uniform. It fit.”

  “In Berlin or Berchtesgaden, all those gray birds that flutter around Hitler…you know very well that before they ever dare to preen and pose for the Führer, they check themselves very carefully in the mirror.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Rommel put his hands on his hips, focused on the rose garden below the window where a one-armed man knelt, pulling a small strand of muddy weeds.

  “I have in the past. Too many photographers following me around. I would send them away, and they would scatter like pigeons, only to light around me minutes later. That damned Berndt.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Who?”

  “Captain Alfred Berndt, a Gestapo officer assigned to me in Libya. He was supposed to be in charge of the publicity that surrounded my camp.” He shook his head. “It was all propaganda, of course. He would send a steady stream of photographs and news releases home to Goebbels, all for public consumption. All the while, I wasn’t supposed to notice that Berndt wore a Gestapo uniform. It was Berlin’s clumsy way of keeping an eye on me.” He paused, looked at Speidel. “You are aware that there is no Berndt pecking his way around here? I wouldn’t allow it. Berlin was very…gracious about it, actually. I suppose, with von Rundstedt watching over me, I am not as likely to disturb their version of events. It isn’t necessary to observe my every indiscretion. Or did they tell you otherwise?”

  “To be honest, sir, General Jodl told me that you are often capable of a defeatist attitude. I have seen nothing of the sort.”

  Rommel studied Speidel, the small hawkish face, the face of a professor.

  “I am a defeatist in Berlin because I see this war for what it has become.” He stopped but saw no change in Speidel’s expression. He expected a protest from Speidel, was surprised the man did not object to his indiscreet comment.

  Speidel pretended to busy himself with some bit of paperwork, nervous now, and did not look at him, but said, “There are many who agree with your sentiments, sir. Many of…us. I am greatly disturbed by events as they are now.”

  Rommel was surprised, felt an odd tug inside of him, that same caution he had felt with Dr. Strölin. Speidel looked at him.

  “I believe you are acquainted with Dr. Karl Strölin?” Speidel said.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “He is a good friend. To all of us. Especially to Germany. He is a man with an optimistic view of the future.”

  Rommel hesitated, the familiar caution spreading through him. He stepped slowly to the chair, sat, and began drumming his fingers on the desk, tension rising up inside of him, his heart beginning to pound.

  “Tell me, Hans, are you as optimistic as Dr. Strölin?”

  The hint of a smile appeared on Speidel’s face. “We are all fighting for what is best for our country, sir. I prefer to believe that Germany has a prosperous future. No matter the outcome of this war, the German people must not suffer as they did after the last one. The German people have enemies within our borders who must be removed. To put it bluntly, this war has made Germany an enemy to the civilized world. We are hated, in fact. No decent German should be willing to accept that. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

  Rommel understood now, with perfect clarity. His chief of staff was not only acquainted with Dr. Strölin, he was part of the movement to remove the Führer from power.

  “I do not wish to continue this conversation, Hans.”

  “My apologies, sir. I would never attempt to involve you in matters that are objectionable to you.”

  “I didn’t say it was objectionable.” He didn’t know what else to say, no clever euphemisms came to mind; he was not as talented as Speidel at disguising his words. They sat quietly for a moment, Speidel busying himself with the papers again. Rommel still tapped his fingers on the desk, saw Speidel glancing at the sound, at Rommel’s hands. It had been a long time since Rommel felt intimidated by anyone, certainly anyone he outranked. But he was intimidated now. The questions rose in his mind: What do you know, Hans? How deep is this conspiracy? Is there a conspiracy at all, or just a group of malcontented friends whose conversations could get them arrested? No, don’t be naïve. It is more than simple conversation. These are educated men, men who understand politics, men who…yes, men who love their country. He moved in his chair, feeling strangely
uncomfortable. I chose you to be my chief of staff, he thought. It was my decision to bring you here. Now I wonder, is that truly how it happened? Or did you choose me?

  He sat back in the chair, his eyes closed for a moment. Dammit, I am only a soldier. He blinked hard, looked again at Speidel, the man seeming to avoid his gaze, the shuffle of paper continuing. Rommel could not stop the questions in his mind. How many are you? Who shares these conversations? How many are generals? He thought of von Rundstedt and his ever-ready insult, the little corporal. Is he a part of this? He was growing angry at himself now. Enough of this. He wanted so much to know more but could not ask, pushed hard against the questions, fought for words, something to ease his own tension. He could not avoid a feeling of affection for Speidel; he was more comfortable with him than he had ever been with any subordinate before.

  His fingers stopped their nervous dance, and after a long moment he said, “Tell me, Hans, what will you do? When all this is over.”

  Speidel tilted his head to one side, eyeing Rommel. “I would like to teach, I suppose. I love history, you know that, sir.”

  “Yes, of course. You would be good at it. I hope you have the opportunity.”

  “If I may ask, sir…what about you? This war will end, and perhaps there will be the opportunity for you to do many things for Germany in the peacetime.”

  Rommel rubbed the dull pain in his side, forgotten for a moment but always there. He pondered Speidel’s word, peacetime. It seemed odd, foreign. Was there ever peace? Well, of course, for twenty years. Rommel stared down, searching his mind for flickers of memories. It is so hard to recall anything from those days, he thought. Two entire decades when there was no war. Everything is now. He stared toward the window, saw nothing beyond the glass, his mind beginning to flood with thoughts of Lucie, his son, their home, the hills, hard winters and snow, and then spring and flowers. He was suddenly homesick, a throbbing ache in his brain. God, how I miss it all, he thought, holding her, walking in the gardens….