by Jeff Shaara
One man crawled up out of his protection, a whisper. “Let’s go!”
Adams responded quickly, was up out of the foxhole, the grass wet and cold, the men emerging from their shallow hiding places. He could see faces now, most still blackened.
Another whisper: Pullman. “This way!”
The men followed. Adams made a quick count: twenty-five, at least. He stepped into the brush, men behind him, thinking, It’s a start. He thought of Scofield. We need to find him or someone else up the ladder. Sure wish we had someone in charge who’s done this before.
They emerged out of the brush line to a flat hard road, a shallow ditch on both sides. Adams moved up close to Pullman, saw another man coming close, familiar, Sergeant Davies.
“We should split up, stay in the ditches, single file,” Pullman said. There was a burst of fire in the distance, familiar thumps, and Pullman said, “We should keep moving in that direction.”
Davies moved away, and Adams thought, Could, should. Dammit! Just give the order! Pullman was looking at him now, seemed to expect something.
“Anybody have a BAR?” Adams said.
Pullman looked around at the men. “I don’t know.”
Adams moved quickly, bent low, focused on each man, saw Unger, the high voice again. “I don’t have a rifle!”
“Shut up! We’ll find one! You’ve got your forty-five, right? Use that.” He passed through the rest of them, saying, “BAR?”
No one responded. Adams reached the end of the line, looked back toward Pullman, and shook his head. Just dandy, he thought. Riflemen and a handful of Thompsons. Hope like hell we don’t run into a tank.
Pullman moved up close to him. “You want to take the point here? I’ll go across the road and take Davies with me.”
Adams nodded, moved away. Just tell me to take the point, he thought. He kept low in the ditch, watched Pullman cross the road in a quick scamper, a dozen men following him, Davies bringing up the rear. Good. Davies knows what he’s doing. He’ll cover the lieutenant’s ass. He looked at the men still with him, saw Corporal Nusbaum, and motioned him over. Nusbaum was there quickly.
“Bring up the rear on this side of the road,” Adams said. “Keep them in the ditch. I don’t like being in this road. Watch our backs.”
“No problem, Sarge.”
Nusbaum slipped past the others, whispered instructions, and Adams looked across the road. Pullman seemed to be waiting for him. Adams pointed, thinking, That’s the way you want to go, isn’t it? Pullman began to move, Adams as well, the men following. They crossed another road, a narrow farm lane, more of the hedgerows close on both sides. Hell of a place to wander through, he thought. Krauts could be anywhere. He glanced behind him, the men moving slowly, deliberate silence. Good.
They pushed straight ahead, another intersection in the distance, but the brush along both sides was tall and thick, small trees and tangles of limbs. He tried to see through to the other side, but the thickets were dense, impenetrable. He listened to his boots in the soft muck, the footsteps of the men behind him. Keep it quiet. If there’s somebody on the other side of this mess, we need to find them before they find us.
It was close to full daylight, the sky still heavy and gray, thick mud in the ditch. Behind him, a man stumbled, a soft splash, and Adams looked back, furious at the sound, the man up again, Marley, a thumbs-up, nodding, and Adams turned to the front again, glanced to the right, across the road, Pullman watching him. Adams looked again to the front, the hedgerows tall on both sides of them.
The road ahead made a sweeping curve to the right, and Adams heard new sounds, the rhythm of boots, a man laughing. He froze, saw movement beyond the curve, dropped to one knee, men behind him doing the same. The sounds were closer, and he saw them now, a column of troops, two abreast, dark uniforms, helmets. He eased his eyes to the side, saw Pullman, frozen as well, watching him, aware. Good. Adams made no movement, no sign, thought, A hundred yards and closing. Just be still. Don’t do anything, not yet. Let them get closer. How many? The men at the front of the column were marching toward him in a casual stride, oblivious, low chatter, the steady tramp of boots. His heart was racing, his breathing came in bursts, the Germans, still unaware, closer, fifty yards. He heard breathing behind him, the sound punching his brain, but it was time, the Germans too close. He glanced at Pullman, saw the man staring forward, motionless, so Adams fell forward and dropped flat, the muzzle of the Thompson level with the road, wouldn’t wait for Pullman’s order.
“Fire!”
The roadway erupted in pops of rifle fire, smoke and flashes, the Germans tumbling forward, men scattering into the ditches. Adams stayed low, the Thompson at his shoulder, short bursts, one man coming toward him in the ditch, facing him, wide-eyed and frantic, holding a machine pistol, the rrrrip of the gun wild, no aim. Adams squeezed the trigger, the man falling backward, another man behind him, down as well.
The Germans were returning fire now, the roadway too narrow, men on both sides trying to push into the hedges, the cover too dense, scattered fire finding them. Some were still in the road, lying flat, using the fallen for cover, taking aim now, cracks in the air above his head. He heard a hard grunt behind him—wouldn’t look, not now, no time—he rolled to one side in the mud and grass and slid behind a small tree, but not far enough, his right side exposed. The Thompson was empty, and he curled tightly behind his narrow cover, ripped at the pocket on his leg, grabbed another magazine, slammed it into the gun, and jerked the bolt, ready again. The men behind him were still firing, and he stayed low, looked back, the muzzle of an M-1 above his face, deafening, smoky blasts. There was shouting all across the road, and Adams fired the Thompson over his shoulder, blind, sprayed the ditch, the road. Above him, bullets shattered the small tree, more of the rrrrip from the German guns.
He saw his men pushing into the hedge, a gap, escaping, frantic calls, “Go! This way!”
He watched the man above him back away, firing the rifle, empty now, the man fumbling for another clip, a crack of bone, the man tumbling backward, twisting, blood flowing on his blackened face, silent, motionless. Adams stared for a long second, didn’t know the man, saw the others, jumping up, one at a time, pushing into the opening in the brush. Others were firing, muzzles pointed past him; he ignored the fallen man and yelled out, “Go! Through the gap! Pull back!”
The closest man was up and through the gap now, and Adams saw more men down, one man rolling over in the ditch, soft cries, blood. Dammit! Dammit! Adams rolled out from behind the tree, fired the Thompson, saw German helmets low in the ditch in front of him. But the firing had slowed, the Germans backing away, seeking their own cover, beyond the curve in the road. He reached down, grabbed the fallen man’s jacket, saw the hole in the man’s forehead, wouldn’t see it, released him, looked to the next man, movement, the man only wounded. It was Buford, calling out, blood on his arm, and Adams grabbed his shirt, looked into the gap, and started up the embankment, dragging Buford behind him. There was another rrrrip from down the road, the mud splattering, a hard grunt from Buford, thumps in his chest, and the man fell out of Adams’s grip. Adams turned, saw the German crouched low in the ditch, saw his face and his machine pistol, the man reloading, and fired the Thompson again, wild, missed, the German turning, running, more men behind him, some still firing. Adams launched himself up through the gap, the brush shattering, splinters in his face, and pushed hard through the tangle, the hedge falling away, open on the other side. He slid down, put another magazine in the Thompson, and aimed it at the gap, his hands shaking. Come on! Try it! But the fire had slowed, a single pop and then nothing, voices in the distance.
He looked along the embankment—six men—and fought his breathing, looked at the faces, wild, terrified, one man without a helmet: Marley, no rifle, panic in his eyes. Unger was there as well—thank God—the young man flat against the dirt, his eyes closed, soft words. Hell of a time to pray, kid. Coulda used it ten minutes ago.
Adams l
ooked up into the gap again, no movement, thought, They’re pulling back. But there’s not enough of us, and they know it. They’ll be back, or they’ll move around us. He thought of Pullman, the other ditch. He eased up slowly, the Thompson pointing the way, peered into the gap, could see across the road, no sign of anyone else. But the cries were there, hard sharp sounds, wounded men on both sides. Adams looked back at the six men along the embankment and said in a low voice, “Anybody hit?”
The men glanced at one another, heads shaking. Unger stared intently across the open field, Adams following his lead, stared out as well. The field was at least two hundred yards across, easy rifle range, another thick hedgerow on the far side.
“Krauts could be right over there,” Adams said. “We have to get the hell out of here.”
“What about the others?”
The words came from the last man, a corporal’s stripes, Nusbaum.
“You wanna run back out there and see what they’re doing?”
“We can’t just pull back, Sarge. Guys got hit. We have to get the wounded.”
Adams looked up into the gap, the awful cries, lowered his head. Dammit! There was a new sound now, the dull roar of an engine, shouts in German. Adams moved into the gap, pushed at the small limbs with the submachine gun, stared across toward the far ditch: no movement, one man lying flat in the road, the eagle on his shoulder, the man from the 101st. Adams pushed himself on his elbows, heard another truck, the squeal of brakes, and slid forward, his head turned sideways, peered out past the edge of the brush, saw them at the far end of the curve in the road. There were two fat trucks, twin machine guns mounted on top. German troops were gathering behind, officers spitting out orders, one man in the truck staring at…him. The brush above his head flew into pieces, and Adams shoved backward and slid down the embankment, the others flat against the dirt, eyes watching him.
“Two armored trucks,” Adams said. “Looks like mounted fifties. A whole company of Krauts.”
“Sarge!”
Unger was pointing, straight down the hedgerow, men emerging, spreading out into the field, the machine pistols erupting again, the pop of rifles.
Adams fired the Thompson, a wild spray, the Germans too far away, lying low. They returned fire, and Adams lay flat, heard the trucks moving in the road, closer, heavy-machine-gun fire splattering the brush in the hedgerow.
“Go! Back that way! Save your ammo! Just go! Head for that brush!”
He crawled backward, still firing the Thompson, but the Germans were too far away, one man standing, defiant. Adams cursed to himself, thought, If only I had an M-1, you bastard!
The Germans began to push forward, crawling, helmets bobbing in the grass, and Adams thought of the magazines in his pant legs. What, five more? It’s time to go. His own men were far behind him now, and Adams turned and ran, a frantic sprint, following the others. The field ended at another hedgerow, right angles to the one beside them, and Nusbaum led the way, another narrow gap, the men plunging into the tangle, cracks and hums in the air. Adams stopped, waited for the last man to slide through, and fired the Thompson again. The roar of engines came from beyond the hedgerow beside him, the trucks closer still. As he stared into the blind thicket, he heard Unger.
“Sarge! Come on!”
Unger aimed a rifle, fired above Adams’s head.
“Now, Sarge!”
Unger backed away, and Adams leaped into the gap, pushing Unger with him. They tumbled into another open field. The trucks were still there, moving past them, invisible, the thick hedge along the road hiding them. Adams worked his way back up to the narrow split in the brush, saw the Germans in the field moving back into the hedgerow, back toward the road. He was breathing heavily, his words in a grunt.
“They’re not following us. Smart. We need to keep going. Too damned many of them. We can’t fight that armor.” He looked at Unger, saw the M-1, and said, “I thought you lost your rifle.”
Unger motioned toward Marley. “It’s his. He dropped it in the ditch. I borrowed it.”
Marley was flat on the ground, his hands on his face, soft sobs, and Adams felt the rage, one more screwup.
“Leave him be, Sarge,” Unger said. “He’ll be all right.”
Adams scanned the others, Nusbaum staring down, flexing his fingers around his M-1, the other three looking at Adams, unfamiliar faces. Unger said, “I said I got him, Sarge.”
“Fine. He’s yours.” He stared out along the hedgerow, away from the road. “Let’s go this way. We can’t use that road at all. The lieutenant’s probably doing the same thing, out the other way. Stay close to the brush. Corporal, bring up the rear. You see anybody chasing us, raise hell.”
Nusbaum seemed to come awake, nodded. “What about the wounded, Sarge?”
Adams felt a fresh burst of fury, his words erupting in a soft hiss. “What the hell are we supposed to do? If they’re alive, the Krauts have them. There’s seven of us, Corporal, maybe a hundred of them. Now let’s head out this way, follow this hedge. You got that?”
“Sure thing, Sarge.”
Adams felt a burst of guilt, thought of Buford. I got him killed. Should have just left him. No, dammit. Don’t do this. Nothing else we can do, not now. He saw Unger down beside Marley, grabbing his shoulder. The big man looked at him with red empty eyes.
“Let’s go, Dex,” Unger said. “We need to find you a couple rifles. I’ll use one of them to give you some backbone.”
They had walked through two more of the boxed-in fields, and each one could be its own battlefield, sealed from the outside by the thick hedgerows, most surrounded by narrow farm lanes. Adams had a routine now. As they reached the end of the row of brush, one man would slip through to the side, just a glance at the field beside them, searching for any sign of an ambush. In front of them, it would be Adams, crawling low, threading his way into the hedge, probing silently, as quiet as the brush would allow. They wouldn’t stay in the lanes, the space too tight, so he would lead them up and over the next row into the new field. Then, they would move close to the hedge to one side and do it again.
They reached the end of another field. Adams glanced back, pointed, and Nusbaum slipped out on his knees through the hedge beside them. Adams waited, sat low with the others, and Nusbaum was back in only a few seconds, a thumbs-up sign, moved close to Adams, a soft whisper:
“No problem that way, Sarge. There are signs all across the field: ACHTUNG MINEN. I think that means—”
“Yeah. It means we’re not going in that direction.” He motioned to the others: Stay low, wait. The hedge was thicker than most, taller trees, a higher ridge of dirt, and Adams crawled up, felt the pain in his knees, the exhaustion. He stopped near the top, knew the men were watching him, winced at the pain in his knee, thought, Keep going, tough guy. He began to move forward, the Thompson in front, froze, a voice, just beyond the brush. He flattened out, heard it again, but different, hard whispers. His heart was racing again, and he glanced at the Thompson. Half a magazine, maybe. Reload before you do this, you jackass. He waited, silence now, and then pushed forward, thick leaves in front of him, vines, felt a sharp jab in his shoulder. The pain was searing, surprising, and he slipped his hand that way, felt the long thorn stabbing him, broke it with a small snap. There were more of the whispers and then silence again. He could see the hedgerow opening up in front of him, the ground falling away. What the hell do I do now, crawl down right into them? He listened for a long silent moment, thought of backing away, but the thorns had him again, stabbing his hip, and he twisted one leg slowly, trying to escape the agony.
“You give us a call sign or we’re gonna feed you a grenade.”
The word flooded his brain. “Flash!”
“Thunder, you lucky son of a bitch.”
Adams still couldn’t see past the brush. “There’s a half dozen of us. We’re coming out.”
He didn’t have to look behind him. His men were responding to the talk, already climbing up the embankment.
Adams fought against the vines now, pushed through, the field in front of him open, as they had all been, hedgerows beyond, another perfect rectangle. In the grass, he saw them, helmets, rifle muzzles, the distinctive barrel of a magnificent BAR. And, rising up from a foxhole, Ed Scofield.
“You forget the damned call sign, Sergeant?” There was no humor in the captain’s question.
“No, sir. Sorry. We’ve been used to keeping mum.”
“You’re smarter than that, Jesse. But never mind. Krauts are all over the place. We fought our way into this field, and they seem to have let us have it, at least for now. We surprised them pretty bad: some field headquarters, eating their breakfast.”
The others crawled down from the hedgerow. Scofield watched them.
“Five-oh-fivers. Good. There’s about fifty of us here. I’ve got people on the perimeter, watching all four corners of this field. We saw you coming when you crossed the lane out there. First thing I wanted to know is if you had a radio. Apparently not. None here either. Most of the damned things dropped into the water or got busted all to hell. But we’ve got five BARs, a handful of medics, and one bazooka. A dozen of us are from the One-oh-one, including two lieutenants. I’m ranking officer.”
Adams saw men peering up, curious, exhausted, blackened faces, some dropping back into their holes. There was a thunder of artillery in the distance.
Glancing that way, Scofield said, “Hell of a fight going on over that way. Probably the town. I was just getting ready to push out of here. I had the men dig foxholes in case we had to haul it back here again. You fit to travel?”
Adams looked toward the one bare head, Marley. “We need a weapon for this man.”
Scofield pulled a rifle off his shoulder. “Here. Take this one. Lost my carbine in the jump, picked this one up from…well, it won’t be missed. Hell of a mess this morning. Men in the water, men in trees. Krauts had target practice, picking us off—” He stopped, and Adams saw the familiar grim stare. Scofield handed the rifle to Marley, who nodded weakly. “Thank you, sir.”