by Jeff Shaara
Unger, busying himself with a strap on his chest, looked at Adams and smiled, toothy and infectious. Adams looked away. Damn you! You’re just too nice.
Adams hadn’t seen Scofield at all today, nothing unusual. It would take at least ten C-47s to haul just this one company. I’ll find him, he thought, somewhere. I think Pullman will do okay, but when we hit the ground, it’ll be nice to know there’s at least one man who has done this before.
It was dark now, the distant rows of planes invisible. Close by, the low hum of voices was beginning to intensify, the brutal tension spreading through them all.
“Listen up!”
Adams turned. Pullman was climbing up on a thick bundle nearby. The lieutenant seemed nervous, still sweating in the hard chill, the man’s face a soft glowing sheen.
“The crews are coming through with the face paint. Use enough to cover your skin, but save some for the next man. It’s the same stuff as last night, greasepaint and burnt cork. It stunk like hell then, so I’m sure tonight it’ll be even riper.”
Adams saw a paint can appear, moving through the men, each man’s fingers spreading the goop on his face. Pullman waited for a moment.
“All right, you remember what we said last night about the call signs? You had damned well better remember. First man says Flash, you respond Thunder. You got that? Flash and Thunder. I know some of you have heard about the metal crickets. The One-oh-one has been issued these little toys that click. That’s fine for them, but General Ridgway has given orders that we make use of the call sign. All it takes is one dumb bastard to lose his cricket in the bushes, and instead of clicking the damned thing, he hollers out and draws fire from every Kraut around. I don’t know how you got ’em, but I’ve heard a few of those clicks around here. Fine, I’m not going to search you. You want to carry a damned toy, you go ahead. But if you’re near me and you don’t use that call sign, I’ll shoot you.”
Adams scanned the faces, most of them darkened now, and saw one man, large, a beaming smile, holding up his hand, making a small click click sound. Of course, if one jackass among us found a way to get one of those toys, it would be Marley.
The paint can had reached Adams, and he dipped two fingers in and smeared the greasepaint on his face, his nose filling with the smell of the burnt cork. Pullman was not yet through talking, and Adams looked back toward him, as the lieutenant went on.
“I’ve been ordered to make sure your canteens are filled with water, not beer or booze. Every one of you, open your canteen and let the man next to you have a smell. I’m going to trust you on this one, boys. But if you’re stupid enough to carry alcohol instead of water, I don’t want you in my platoon. If any of you let your buddy get away with that, just remember, he might be the one watching your back. One more thing. I’ve been hearing from some of the other officers, a few of them making a big show of telling their men that any one of you who doesn’t jump tonight is subject to being shot. This platoon will fill three of these birds, and no one is coming back to England on any of those. General Ridgway might think threatening you is a good thing to do, but I won’t have to. Because you’re all going to jump.”
There was a siren, far in the distance, and Adams knew the sound, felt it dig deep in his gut. Pullman eased himself down to the ground and stumbled under the weight of his equipment, two men steadying him. The others fell into line, silent, Adams letting them move past him, bringing up the rear. All across the field, the men were moving out in line, the lieutenants leading them to their planes. He tested himself for the idiotic song, but it had faded away, no sound in his head except the steady tramp of the boots.
They reached their plane, pilots already on board; Adams stepped out of line, moved to the front, and stood beside the door as one of the ground crew folded out a small ladder. The man backed away and Adams watched as the twenty-man stick stepped forward, Pullman in the lead, already at the ladder. The lieutenant reached out, tapped Adams on the arm, no words, and leaned over, put his hands on the deck of the plane, the weight of the gear dragging him down, and with one grunt propelled himself up into the cavernous hole. The others came forward, Adams helping those who needed it, boosting them up under their arms.
Inside the plane, the men were crawling forward, the only way they could move, rolling around into hard seats, pressed tightly together, each one making room for the man beside him. No one spoke, no laughter, no boasting, and Adams looked at each man as he passed, tried to catch the man’s eyes, measure him. He saw the corporal, Nusbaum; the new men, Buford and Hovey; and some of the veterans, the small wiry frame of Unger nearly swallowed up by his gear. As Unger climbed into the plane, he said something to Adams, the words lost in the roar of tension in Adams’s brain, and he couldn’t respond, pushed Unger, a hard boost to help him climb the last step.
There were only a few now, and Adams saw the big man, Marley, leaning low, tugging at his equipment, head down. Adams heard a soft sound and realized Marley was crying. He wouldn’t look—the crack in the armor—but cursed to himself: Damn you, there’s no time for that! He wanted to shout at the man, but Marley was up and into the plane, the next man past as well, the last one, and now it was only Adams. He took a long breath, felt quivering in his hands, stared up into the plane, dark noises, equipment rustling and knocking, men breathing. He glanced back, across the open ground, silent ground crews attaching the last bundles under the wings. He clenched his hands, tried to stop the shaking, was breathing heavily.
Across the field, the engines began to fire, a growing roar, and he put a hand out against the cold metal of the plane, and put his foot on the bottom step of the ladder. The engines had filled every space in his brain, no room for voices, for music or fears. He looked up, high overhead, and realized the sky had filled with stars. He stared for a brief moment—cold perfection, vast emptiness—then took another breath, touched the Thompson again, pressed one hand against the reserve chute on his chest, and climbed up into the plane.
* * *
17. ADAMS
* * *
JUNE 6, 1944, 1 A.M.
The pathfinders had gone before them, paratroopers armed with beacon lights and Eureka sets, designed to transmit a homing signal for the pilots, and Adams could only hope that those men were better trained and better equipped than they had been in Italy. Then, the technology was brand-new, untested, but it was a vast improvement over what had led the 505th the first time. In Sicily, the C-47s had been guided only by the ability of the flight crews to follow their instructions, searching a stormy darkness for landmarks that might or might not be there at all. Now the electronics would lead the way, but Adams knew that much would still depend on the skill of those pilots to put the pathfinders onto their drop zones with at least some accuracy. Otherwise, the pathfinders themselves would be lost, which would benefit no one at all.
With the pathfinders long on their way, the final order came from SHAEF for the airborne operation to begin. From nine British airfields, more than one thousand C-47s would climb into the sky, filled first with paratroopers, to be followed by hundreds more towing the gliders. When the order came, the first squadrons had gone aloft in slow arching circles, allowing more of their number to join them, gradually coming together into well-rehearsed V formations, three planes each. Each of those then formed larger Vs, and then, larger formations still. Once assembled in the air over southern England, the planes were directed southward, to a rendezvous point over Portland. From there, they would move over open water. As the enormous fleet of aircraft drew near to the island of Guernsey, they would receive a signal, transmitted by a British submarine, which would turn them eastward, on their direct course toward the coastline of the Cotentin Peninsula. Over the water, the planes would maintain an altitude of five hundred feet, but as they neared the coast, they would climb to fifteen hundred, better to avoid whatever antiaircraft batteries would respond to the unending roar of so many engines. Even in the darkness, the sheer number of planes would offer targets for gu
nners firing blind.
Once they reached the coastline, the planes would rely on the precise timetables the pilots had received, carefully plotted minutes of flying time over the invisible landscape below them. As they drew nearer their drop zones, the planes would descend again, down to five hundred feet, and slow their airspeed by a third, down close to one hundred knots. The slow speed made them exceptionally vulnerable to antiaircraft fire, but it was the only safe way for the paratroopers to make their jumps. Any faster, and the men could be severely injured by the brutal impact of the prop wash as they left the planes. If the pathfinders had been successful, the drop zones themselves would become visible, both electronically and to the eye, strings of blue lights arranged in a T shape.
The pilots would have one last duty to the troops they carried: flash the signal lights on a small electrical panel near the open door at the rear of the plane. The red light came first, alerting them that the jump was imminent. When the pilots were confident they had reached the actual drop zone, they would switch the signal to green. In less than a minute, the planes would empty, and the pilots would continue their course, out over the coastline and back to England. It was a plan that had been drawn up with precision and rehearsed many times over the British countryside. It gave Adams no comfort at all that a few of the rehearsals had actually worked.
For the 82nd Airborne, there would be another challenge that the planners could predict with grim certainty. The transports of the 101st Airborne would lead the way, so when those hundreds of C-47s reached the French coast, they would be a surprise to the enemy below. The men of the 101st would have a few precious seconds to move past the heaviest coastal batteries, before the German gunners could find the range. The planes carrying the 82nd would follow, passing over gunners who were by now fully alerted to the armada of slow lumbering aircraft.
JUNE 6, 1944, 2 A.M.
Adams sat huddled against the rear bulkhead, could not avoid the annoying quiver, the cold seeping into his boots, the numbness in his hands. He stared forward toward the rows of men facing each other in the tight space, knees in as tight as their equipment would allow, no tangling of feet. Far forward, he could see a glimpse of moonlight through the cockpit windshield and nothing else. The instrument panels were lit only by faint specks of red, one more precaution to keep any glimpse of light from escaping the plane.
There were low voices, nervous chatter, but none of the raucous blathering from the training runs. Adams knew that each man, every one of them, was deep into some private place, confronting his own emotions, even the veterans, struggling hard with the unanswerable questions: What would they see, what would the enemy do, and what kind of soldiers would they be? And the question that Adams had asked himself before, the question that drove anxious fear into the new men: When they found the enemy, what then?
The drone of the plane was soothing but no one was asleep. The churning in Adams’s stomach was relentless. He tried not to think of the food, that strange unidentifiable stew. Would it matter anyway? You could have had caviar and steak and your gut would still be ripped to pieces. He had never been sick in a plane, but he knew that was no great accomplishment. No one got a medal for having a strong stomach. He had seen it too many times, some of the officers and even the toughest enlisted men losing that battle. Within minutes after they had moved over the water, the plane began to reek of the sour smell, unavoidable, inevitable, and no matter their disgust, no one complained. Every man knew that in the next minute it might be him.
The doorway at the rear of the plane had been closed on takeoff, which contributed mightily to the smells that engulfed them now. Adams had heard it from the pilot, instructions passed down from regimental. The C-47s were more than fully loaded and needed all the aerodynamic help they could get. The bundles under the wings were not only heavy, they provided drag. Adams knew his plane had taken an unusually long time to leave the runway. He didn’t object to the door being closed, especially since he was the closest man, and tonight it was too cold for sightseeing.
The plane lurched upward suddenly, climbing, too sharply, the nose falling, then rising again, the tail bucking. Adams felt himself rise up, weightless for a brief second; then he dropped down hard. He cursed out loud, thought of the pilots. Only one of them was familiar, Murdock, a big-talking Texan, who had it fixed in his mind that being a pilot gave him some kind of elite distinction, even among paratroopers, something Murdock made sure no one forgot. Adams adjusted the straps that were crushing his groin, could feel the plane ascending again, at a more reasonable angle, and knew it meant they were approaching the coast. Good. Take it easy, Cowboy. I know you’re as scared as the rest of us, but you’re not on a damned horse. One of these days, we need to strap a parachute to you and show you what fun is.
He straightened his helmet, adjusted the chin strap, touched the greasepaint on his face, and rubbed it between his fingers: nervous motion. He glanced down, ran his hands over the pockets on his pants legs, stuffed full, and, touching the reserve chute, thought of Unger. You’re right, kid, reserve chutes are good. All it takes is one time. The plane leveled out, the ride smoothing, and he felt his nervousness growing. We’ll be over the coast pretty soon. He looked toward the others, small movements in the darkness, the glow of moonlight through the windows, thought, Enough of this. I need to see.
He slid closer to the door, gripped the handle, and eased it open a narrow crack, a blast of cold air watering his eyes. The sky was still clear and starry, out to the side he could see the plane closest to his own, one part of their small V. No more than fifty yards separated the wingtips. He strained to see more, pulled the door open farther, and realized the sky around him was a blanket of dull silhouettes, hundreds of C-47s, shadows in the moonlight. My God, he thought, here we are. All of us. He was truly excited now, foolish and childlike. Of course we’re all together; it’s too soon for us to be lost. His eyes squinted, and he scanned the immense fleet of planes, searching for any details, caught a hint of the black-and-white stripes on the closest ones. There was a flash now, toward the front, and he leaned out slightly, fought to see: streaks of light, bursts of fire. He leaned back from instinct and thought, Yep, that’s the coast. The boys in front are attracting some attention. It won’t take long, and that’ll be us. Close the door, jackass.
He pulled the door almost closed, left a crack, a couple inches of precious fresh air and just a glimpse of the extraordinary sights. The bucking movement of the plane pushed him back into his seat again, and he felt his heart racing, the streaks of light closer, bright bursts, many more, the sounds reaching him, low rumbles. He leaned closer to the door, the blackness erupting into bright light, long snakes of red fire coming skyward, streaking far higher than the plane. He saw the first hint of land, a dull swatch of darkness at the edge of reflected moonlight. The antiaircraft fire was closer now, thunder, another flash, a hard pop in his ears. The plane rolled hard to one side, men falling forward to tumble into the men across from them, shouts and curses. Adams pulled himself up straight, shouted, “Hang on! Sit back!”
But the plane rolled again, and now he saw more flashes, heard an explosion much closer, a shattering rattle against the plane. The men were calling out, terror in some, others trying to calm them. Adams put his hands down beside him, bracing himself, prepared for the next jolt, heard the lieutenant, up front, close to the cockpit.
“At ease! It’s flack, antiaircraft fire! Nothing out of the ordinary! Stay calm! We’ll be over the zone pretty quick!”
Adams felt a strange sense of confidence from Pullman’s words, kept the thought away that this was Pullman’s first combat jump. The plane dipped again, and Adams saw the flashes through the crack in the door and cursed himself now. What the hell were you thinking? Close the damned—
The plane rolled over hard again, tossing him to one side, his gear punching him in the side, awakening the sore ribs. The plane straightened again, rolling him back into his seat, and he reacted to the brief cal
m, reached for the door, gripped the edge to steady himself. The plane was a chorus of sounds, cursing, raw fear, and Adams knew there was nothing he could say to shut them up. There was more of the chattering of shrapnel against the plane, a blast on the far side, and he thought, At least close the damned door! Through the sliver of light, he saw a bright flash, different, gold fire, and heard the hard shock of thunder, the plane shuddering from the blast so close by. He stared, saw the fireball falling away, and knew now: A plane…one of us. He was pulled backward, the pilot banking hard again, and Adams held tightly to the door, steadied himself, and heard Pullman, shouting above the chorus of sound,
“Sergeant, open the door!”
Adams held his grip on the edge of the door and absorbed the words. Well, yeah, of course. If we’re hit, if we go down, it’s the only way out. He pulled it to one side, held himself steady, the gaping doorway now blasting him with cold air. Around him, the other planes were scattering, no order, diving and rolling, some climbing higher, pilots desperate to avoid the clouds of flack, some panicking as badly as the men they carried. Streaks of antiaircraft fire ripped through them, another flash close by; a chattering of metal bits sprayed up from below, rattling the floor beneath his feet, a hard shattering of glass.
A man screamed, and Adams saw him fall forward, holding his face, others pressing closer, helping hands. The man was still screaming, a high-pitched horror, and Pullman was up close, kneeling. Adams started to move forward—who is it?—but held himself back. Stay put. It’s almost time. Nothing you can do. He wanted to shout at Pullman, Get up front! Do your job! Pullman was ripping open a med kit, bandages flying apart, the lieutenant now focused, careful. Adams could see his hands, the syrette, thought, Morphine, good. He turned away, wouldn’t watch, thought, No time for this, for treating wounded. We have to get out of here. The plane bucked again. The man’s screaming had stopped. There were more rattles against the plane, a sharp crack of broken metal, and Adams eased closer to the opening, thought, There’s no protection. We need to get the hell out of here. He looked toward Pullman again, saw the man standing, holding himself upright with his hands against the roof of the plane, backing toward the cockpit.