The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  Most of the men had obeyed, and Thorne had stuffed himself, a few extra doughnuts for good measure. Now, as the ship tossed and rolled through the windy darkness, he tried not to feel the uneasiness under his belt and what a full stomach might suddenly mean.

  He was still in his corner, the poker players silent now, the game dissolving. He scanned the room: steel bulkheads, a network of iron pipes overhead, the smell of oil and cigarettes, some of the men still fumbling with bits of paper, an effort at one last letter. They were mostly quiet, sitting on the hard deck, leaning against their overstuffed packs, rifles upright beside them. Occasionally Thorne saw a smile, one man slapping a friend on the back.

  “You know that every damned one of us is going to get a bronze star. All we gotta do is hike over that beach and get our picture taken. I hear the colonel’s got his own flag, and his staff is having a race to see who sticks it in the ground first. Ernie Pyle’s here too, on one of these tugs somewhere. I wanna meet him, get my picture taken. I hear he puts your name in the paper if he talks to you.”

  The man seemed to run out of energy. Thorne looked at the others, Sergeant Woodruff leaning back, his helmet pulled low, more men from his squad sitting together, one man rubbing his M-1 with an oily cloth. The lieutenant appeared at the door, his bass voice booming.

  “Listen up. Make sure you’ve got your gear, your own gear. No screwups. We’re close to it, boys. When the order comes to go topside, fall in and keep it orderly. Nobody gets points for being the first in line. You’ve done this before, so do it right. This tub’s hauling thirty of those damned landing craft, and there’s room for everybody. Any questions?”

  “The tanks really gonna beat us in, sir?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told. There’s supposed to be a couple dozen tanks in our sector, and if everything goes right, you’ll be landing right behind them. I saw one of those amphibious ducks. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. The tanks are wrapped in a canvas balloon, like some big-assed Christmas present, and they actually float. Some kind of outboard motor shoves them through the water.”

  Thorne tried to imagine a floating tank. To one side of him a man spoke.

  “Just so long as their damned cannons work.”

  The lieutenant adjusted his belt. “The tank boys will do their job. You’ve got enough to think about.” He paused. “One more thing. Those of you who bothered to listen to the speech from that major…what’s his name, the division staff officer. I’ve been hearing those rules since I got my commission, and by damn you’re going to listen to them too. One in particular: Shoot only at known targets. I don’t want any of my people picked off by friendly fire. Shooting like hell at a concrete wall is more likely to kill you than hurt anybody on the other side. Pick your targets. You got that?” He seemed satisfied by the lack of response and adjusted his backpack, looked at his wristwatch. “Check your rifle. Then check it again. It can’t be long now. I’m going to talk to Captain Bridger, see if he’s heard anything. Meanwhile, check those M-1s.”

  There was authority in the man’s rough voice, and as he moved out of the room the men obeyed, with a rustle of plastic sheathing, the waterproofing material that they had already used to wrap their rifles. It was the only protection the weapons would have against sand and salt water. Thorne felt the oily film on the steel barrel and pulled back the small bolt. Others were doing the same; there was a chorus of clicks. As he rolled the plastic back around the length of the gun again, he saw one man removing his watch and stuffing it carefully into a condom. Thorne laughed. “What the hell is that?”

  The man looked at him without smiling. “Waterproofing my watch. My wallet too. Works really well.”

  “But…that’s a rubber.”

  “It’s not just a rubber, it is rubber. That’s what counts. Tried to fit one over my boots, but it wouldn’t stretch that far.” The man held the watch toward him, said, “See? Works like a charm. My grandpa gave me this, and I don’t want it screwed up.”

  Close in front of him, Sergeant Woodruff peered out from beneath his helmet. “The only thing screwed up is you. You meet some mademoiselle, you’ll wish you had that damned thing in your wallet and not around it. Anybody in this outfit catches the clap, I’ll kick his ass.”

  Thorne thought of the lone condom, had been embarrassed to take it, had thought of handing it off to the man who stood in line behind him. He had never succumbed to the temptations of the English girls and had taken a fair amount of ribbing. Don’t need it, he thought. What would I tell my wife if I got the clap? Well, I wouldn’t tell her, I guess. Better yet, don’t catch it in the first place. He slipped the strap from under his chin, pulled the helmet off, and looked into the liner at the photo.

  Beside him, the BAR man, Rollings, said, “Hey, Tommy, you forget what your wife looks like?”

  “You’re too young to have a wife. Stupid as hell.”

  The words came from Woodruff. The sergeant was as old as the lieutenant, Thorne guessing thirty, a stubble of beard on his creased face. Thorne had heard this before, ignored the comments. He glanced at the photo again, beautiful Ann, a smiling dark-haired woman, holding the baby in her arms. He left it untouched, knew the words she had written on the back: ELLA SAYS, COME HOME SOON!

  Yep.

  The lieutenant was there again, red-faced, breathing heavily.

  “Up and at ’em, boys. It’ll come over the loudspeaker in a minute or so. You know what I want now. Let me hear it.”

  The men knew the drill, the cheer that identified the entire division, the motto that had become their particular battle cry.

  “Twenty-nine…let’s go!”

  Thorne said the words, but the enthusiasm wasn’t in any of the men, the cheerleading suddenly empty, unimportant.

  The lieutenant seemed resigned. “I’d hate like hell for the general to hear that sorry-assed yell. All right, check your gear! Right now!”

  Thorne used his rifle as a crutch, was up on his feet, pulled to one side by the weight of his pack. The others were up as well, groans and grunts, the dull clanks of canteens. Thorne steadied himself and leaned forward to offset the awkwardness of the backpack. They were used to the normal infantryman’s gear: the M-1, at least sixty rounds of ammunition, bayonet, grenades, and canteen. But word had come down from high above that on this operation they would haul nearly sixty pounds more than the usual load the infantryman carried. It was one of those so-called good ideas, passed down from generals who would not have to cross a beach under fire. Despite urgent complaints from the lieutenants, protests that a man did not require so much stuff, most of the men were issued a back-straining variety of equipment. Besides the normal supply of ammunition, each man was to carry bandoliers as well, three heavy belts of cartridges they would hang across their chests. Along with the bayonet and fragmentation grenades, they would receive phosphorus and smoke grenades as well. Their uniforms reeked of some stinking chemical, said to protect a man from poison gas, which made the uniform stiff and uncomfortable. They were issued gas masks and first-aid kits, three meals of K rations, and a handful of chocolate bars, known as D rations. Many of the men carried bricks of high explosive and satchel charges, what some officers said were to be used as an aid to digging foxholes, a level of instructional stupidity that no one believed. Some also carried bundles of pipelike tubing, which could be fastened end to end, what were called Bangalore torpedoes, designed to slide an explosive charge beneath barbed wire. Thorne had wondered if the command was congratulating themselves on what someone must have thought was a marvelous idea, that every man would be his own engineer, each one capable of blowing a hole through the enemy’s fortifications. The questions had filtered back up the chain of command: If every man is supposed to be a demolition expert, why do we need engineers? And if we have engineers, why are we weighed down with so much explosive?

  To accommodate the extra gear, the men had been issued an additional piece of clothing, a jacket with spacious pockets, since what they wer
e carrying far exceeded what anyone could stuff into his backpack. And, since it was anticipated that some would have to deal with a watery landing, each man received a life preserver, a beltlike band wrapped high around the chest, which could be inflated by compressed air cartridges. More than one man had already discovered during the water drills that if the belt was too low, closer to a man’s waist, the center of gravity would flip him upside down. Even men who were capable swimmers took little comfort in that. In deeper water, unless a man could shed most of the ninety pounds of equipment he carried, no one believed the inflatable vest would keep anyone afloat for long.

  ELEVEN MILES OFF OMAHA BEACH

  JUNE 6, 1944, 4 A.M.

  Thorne’s face was wet, salty spray from the wind, and he blinked through it, fighting to see anything at all. Before the sun had set the night before, he had ached for binoculars, hoping for some glimpse of the enormous warships, the amazing guns. There were so many of the transports too, so much activity. He had wondered what generals might be staring back at him. It was more than curiosity, more like pride, the same pride that had affected the others, encouraged by the sight of so much power, the sheer enormity of the invasion force. The briefings they had received had been surprisingly specific, much more information than an infantryman would normally hear. But once they had boarded the ships, there was no danger of loose lips, and the officers had seemed almost relieved to tell their men what was expected of them. It had inspired them all, knowing that in the darkness around them, the Twenty-ninth Division was only one small part of the whole, and Thorne knew that right out there was the First Infantry Division, the Big Red One, veterans of North Africa, who would land on Omaha Beach alongside the Twenty-ninth. Somewhere to the west was the American Fourth Division, headed to what the maps called Utah Beach.

  He felt the line of men moving and moved with it, more salt spray, chilling, chattering conversations he tried to ignore, the fear rising inside him, inside all of them. He looked into the darkness, the deck sheathed in double layers of blackout cloth, hiding any hint of light. He wanted desperately to see, wished now he had gone up on deck earlier. They’re all out there, he thought, the whole damned army. I hope they are. He tried to picture the British and Canadians, more transports hauling troops he had never seen, led by men who had faced the Germans before, veterans, heroes. Are we as good as that? What are they doing right now? This, I guess. Same damned thing we’re doing. Are they scared?

  He tried to push the thoughts away, moved forward again, heard shouting from officers, voices scattered in the sharp breeze. He glanced down at his boots on the wet deck, the ship rocking gently, side to side, uneasiness in his stomach. What happens now? What time is it? Are the boats ready? His hands were shaking and he pulled his arms in tight, crossed them against the life belt, realized it was sagging below his ribs. No, dammit! He had a moment of panic, pulled at the belt, slid it higher, tucked it under his arms. Remember that! But the lieutenant said we wouldn’t need it. He told us…he couldn’t remember what the lieutenant had said, thought of the plastic wrapping around his rifle. Will it work? No, you can’t worry about that. They’ve been training us for too long for us to worry whether or not we’re ready. He put a hand on his watch, useless to see it, knew it had to be close to four. The ship rocked again, the men tilting to the side, one man falling, helped to his feet by others. Thorne thought of the steel beneath him; he had always marveled at that. Floating steel. Like the tanks. It was something he had never grasped, how so many tons of steel could bob safely on top of the water. His brain was wandering aimlessly, and his hands were shivering. What keeps us from sinking right to the bottom? How deep is it anyway? How the hell do airplanes stay in the air? Amazing. Somebody figured out it would work. The Wright brothers, I guess.

  The line moved again, and he heard the groan of metal, cables and cranes, saw something moving above his head. He stared up into thick blackness, heard more sounds: machinery, electric motors. His mind cleared, the terrified chatter quieting, men in front of him moving forward again, and he was at the blackout cloth now, a gap, the man in front of him, Woodruff, holding it open. Thorne stepped through, a hard blast of wind, the smell of the spray, his face wet again, sweat and salt water. He knew what the motors meant, the davits, hoisting the smaller landing craft, swinging them out away from the ship. They would be lowered to the level of the deck the men were on, the routine for loading. The troops had practiced this many times at Slapton Sands: thirty-two men in each boat, with a crew of three perched in back. The boat was called an LCVP, Landing Craft, Vehicle and Personnel. Thorne had always wondered about the vehicle part, the same question rising inside of him now. What the hell could they fit into the damned thing? A jeep, I suppose. Stupid damned way to haul one lousy jeep. It’s a big steel bathtub. It floats, though. Steel. What happens if it fills up with water?

  “Load up!”

  He flinched at the loudspeaker, realized the man was right in front of him. There were officers now, identified only by their words, faces invisible in the salty darkness, voices crisp and nervous.

  “Get moving! Let’s go!”

  He knew that one, his own lieutenant, gravel in his throat, older, a man Thorne wanted to believe had done this before. But the Twenty-ninth had never done anything like this before, and despite the long months of training, he wondered about the fear, did not expect this, the unstoppable shaking, no loud arrogance, none of the cockiness. He could see the closest LCVP, rocking precariously, bouncing slightly against the rails of the ship, sailors working ropes, holding it in place. The small craft were lined up all along the side of the ship, soldiers gathered at each one. There was another gust of wind, sailors still working, the boat secure, men in front of him climbing aboard, the lieutenant again.

  “In you go! Let’s move!”

  Thorne grabbed the wet railing and tried to swing a leg up, the weight of his gear pulling him backward. He felt a hand under his arm, steady, wanted to thank the man, but he was pushed forward, up and over, more hands on his chest, tight grip on his arm. His feet were on hard steel again, the small craft rocking slightly, men cursing, another hand, pushing him from behind, the voice of the lieutenant.

  “Step aside! Move to the front! Pack in tight!”

  He tried to obey, felt for the butt of the M-1, the strap still on his shoulder, the crinkle of plastic, but there was no balance, and he fell forward, into the back of another man, the landing craft rolling side to side, more men coming in behind him. He had done this before and pressed forward, the number in his head, thirty-two, knew the riflemen would be up front and, with them, those men in each squad who carried a precious BAR. The bazooka carriers and flamethrower crews would settle in toward the rear, close to the boat crew. He pressed forward, pushed again from behind, no more spaces now, men huddled low, escaping the wind. He still wanted to see, tried to look upward, but there were no lights, just the ship, a massive shadow in the darkness, and around him the sounds of the waves and the wind, the men and their equipment, and the urgent shouts from the officers.

  “Sit down!”

  He put one hand down to soften the fall, but nothing was soft, the backpack jolting him from behind, wet steel, pain in his wrist. More men came in close to him, pressing against him, a hard slap on his back, the man slapping the others, shouting into his face, the lieutenant.

  “Let’s do this! Twenty-nine…let’s go!”

  The cables began to groan, and Thorne felt his stomach come up, the LCVP dropping unevenly, straightening, uneven again, rocking slowly in the wind. There was silence from the men, every man gripping something inside, waiting for the impact on the water. It came now, one hard roll to the side, shouts, raw fear exploding in the darkness. Thorne strained his eyes, saw only the shadows of the men around him. He heard a groan, a loud cough, the smell of putrid smoke: the engine of the small craft coming to life. They rocked again, men crushing into him, one man stepping above him, a sailor, cables unhooked, more shouts, and the boat
surged forward. He held himself straight, tried to anticipate the movement of the boat, the waves rising up, then falling away, the engine coughing again, more smoke, the boat seeming to circle, turning in a tight arc, and he remembered the briefing now: The boats would wait and gather, all of us moving together. The boat continued to turn, leaning with the wind, rising up again, and Thorne couldn’t avoid it now, all those doughnuts and baked beans. He tried to stand, impossible, felt the panic, the awful cold twist in his throat. He leaned down, curled his face over his boots, and threw up.

  * * *

  19. THE GRENADIER

  * * *

  VIERVILLE-SUR-MER (OMAHA BEACH)

  JUNE 6, 1944, 4:30 A.M.

  The colonel had breath like sour cabbage, his face inches away, and Reimer could only endure it.

  “Is your weapon clean, Corporal?”

  “Yes, Colonel!”

  “Hmm. I wonder. Have you become so soft you have forgotten how to shoot the enemy?”

  “No, sir! Absolutely not, sir!”

  The colonel stepped back and looked at the next man, standing stiffly beside Reimer and bracing himself for the same questions. But the colonel seemed to lose fire for the inspection; he turned and looked toward the lieutenant, standing to one side.

  “Your men are a disgrace to the Reich. I have been placed in command of a hopeless band of misfits. This regiment has a heroic past, has performed on the field of battle, has demonstrated to the enemy that Germany’s soldiers are to be feared. Now you will inspire laughter. Worse, the enemy will ignore you and pass right through your lines without knowing you are there. How dare you call yourselves grenadiers!”

  The colonel spun around and marched toward his car, the driver waiting stiffly. Reimer kept his head straight, his eyes watching the man. He had been through this many times before; Thank God he is leaving, he thought. The colonel was inside the car now, two staff officers waiting dutifully, then sliding into the car as well, a precision they had perfected. The car fired up, rolled away, was quickly gone, the night quiet again.