by Jeff Shaara
“The Merderet is now spread out all over hell. Rommel opened the dikes, or the dam, or whatever the hell else he could do. I know those maps, Sergeant. Got one right here in my pocket. At La Fière Bridge, the river is supposed to be ten yards across. When we hit them this morning, we found out it was five hundred yards to the other side. The Krauts, or somebody, built a causeway on the far side of the bridge, to keep the road above water. The only thing I can figure is those idiots in the observation planes didn’t notice. They probably saw all that grassy swamp and assumed it was dry ground. They expected to see a narrow river, so that’s what they saw.” He looked at Adams with the hard stare Adams had seen before. “You lose some people?”
“Yes, sir. I tried like hell to figure a way to get to them. Where I came down, it was over my head. Lucky to have made it. Some weren’t. I think a few just…disappeared.”
Gavin looked down between his feet. “Sicily all over again, Sergeant. The pathfinders helped some, but you know how that goes. Some of them jumped into God-knows-where. At least, this time, there’s enough of us in one place. I’ve heard from other commands, officers gathering up scattered bunches, some organization here and there. There’s been a hell of fight around Sainte-Mère-Église, and that’s been going pretty well. Krause got himself wounded, and I think Vandervoort broke his leg on the jump, but General Ridgway’s close by, and I think he can handle things there for now. Our job right here is to take those two bridges and occupy the villages beyond. We’ve got half a day of daylight in front of us, and we’re going to do the best we can. There’s a pot load of glider troops coming in at dusk, which should help us out in a big way. They’ll be bringing in some artillery, for sure, jeeps, supplies, and ammo. Somebody sure as hell better have a radio.”
NEAR CHEF-DU-PONT BRIDGE
JUNE 6, 1944, 11 A.M.
Gavin led two hundred men toward the objective, and along the way they found others, more senior officers, battalion and company commanders, engineers, and bazooka carriers. They advanced in two columns, parallel to the river, the checkerboard of the hedgerow country providing protection from any distant observers. Adams stayed close to Scofield and was trailed closely by the men of his squad, those few familiar faces. It was the same throughout the advance, sergeants and field officers assembling their own men whenever possible, adding in those men who had been separated by the chaotic jump. Up front, Adams’s column was led by Lieutenant Colonel Edwin Ostberg, First Battalion commander of the 507th, another addition to Gavin’s growing army. Adams didn’t know Ostberg at all, but he had the same look as Gavin: no frills, no puffery, what every soldier needed a senior officer to be.
There had been shots from the direction of the other column, the sounds dispersed and muddled by the hedgerows, but it was all the reminder Adams needed that, in this blind maze, the enemy could be anywhere at all. He moved heavily, automatic steps, glancing continually into the hedgerow beside him. It was an uncomfortable habit, the thick brush too close, the fields beyond too obscured.
The men were moving off the roads, directed by Gavin toward a single railroad track, but the land around them had not changed; hedgerows still flanked the track. Adams glanced behind him, the men staying close, eyes nervous, silent, wary, everyone holding on to something inside, his own caution, fear, uneasiness. Adams looked to the front again, thought, At least we can’t get lost. Sure as hell, this track will lead to a town. Or a bridge. I guess the officers have that one figured out.
Adams saw Ostberg raise his arm, the order to halt. There were men emerging from the brush, coming out onto the track, one man cradling a BAR on his shoulder, another man with a sergeant’s stripes. Adams saw machine guns, more troopers dug in close to a thick row of brush, a long narrow trench.
Beside him, Scofield said, “I better see what’s up. We must be close.”
The captain moved up, joining the conversation, low voices Adams couldn’t hear. But the talk was brief, arms pointed forward, and Ostberg looked back toward the column, a quiet stare, seeming to measure the men behind him. Adams heard quick footsteps, boots on gravel, Gavin jogging past him, moving to the front, more talk, and then Scofield came back toward him, his face red, alive.
“The village is up ahead, a half mile. The Krauts are there for sure, machine-gun nests at least. There are a few houses, so snipers could be anywhere. We’re going to spread out, push in, and blast the bastards.” Scofield was breathing heavily, put a hand on Adams’s arm.
“You ready to go to work?”
Adams felt a strange quiver in his legs, ignored it, focused on the icy burn in his stomach. “Sure.”
There was nothing else to say, numb acceptance. He looked behind him, saw Marley, a helmet now, someone else’s M-1 held tightly across his chest. Marley made a sharp nod toward him, wide-eyed, anxious. Beside him was Unger, a dirty-faced boy, and Adams stared past, wouldn’t see the boy’s eyes, didn’t want to know if Unger was scared. Of course he’s scared. We’re all scared. Even…me. Dammit, knock that off.
The others were spread out all around the track, officers moving quietly through them, passing the word, and Adams tried to feel the excitement, fought the strange numbness in his brain, the quiver still there. He looked at the Thompson, the short barrel a dull sheen of oil and dirt, his hands dirtier still. The large pocket on his pants leg was still heavy, four magazines for the submachine gun, four grenades still clipped to his jacket. He pushed at the gloom in his head, angry now. Dammit, you’ve got a job to do! He tried to pull energy—confidence—from the faces of the others, even from men who had never done this before. But there was just as much fear there, men pulling their rifles close, silent, some staring out past him, toward Ostberg and beyond, trying to see what was not yet there: the enemy, waiting.
Adams hoisted the Thompson in close, tucked the butt under one arm, and turned to Scofield again, the captain still looking at him, and Scofield said, “Let’s get those sons of bitches.”
They crept low, using the brush for cover, but the trees ended, the ditches alongside the railroad tracks more shallow. Down the road, Adams saw the first house, small and fat, one window. Across the road, the men had more cover, and he glanced that way, saw Scofield, Unger, another twenty men in line, all crawling, silent, the slow stalk of a dangerous beast. Adams stayed close beside the mound of the railroad track, the ribbon of steel just enough to shield his helmet. He stopped, lying flat now, nursed the pains in his knees, raised his head slightly, and stared at the single window, a small black square, searching for any movement. The house was more than two hundred yards away, but the troopers were mostly in the open, in plain view of any machine gunner who might be inside. Adams heard puffs of breathing behind him, from others spread along the track, and thought, We’re sitting ducks. But nobody’s shooting at us. Where the hell are they? We need to get up and move, or…what? Artillery? Yeah, that would be nice. Blow that house to hell.
The noise was sudden, a hard blowing cough, and Adams dropped his head, his face in the rocks of the track bed. But the sound grew, more quick coughs. He looked ahead to a column of black smoke rising from the village, heard the roar of an engine. He felt the vibration in the rocks beneath him, and saw the train now, coming out from the village, the engine moving slowly. He felt himself pulling backward, oh, hell, and behind him, men were spreading out away from the tracks, the train coming toward them. He glanced that way, but his legs wouldn’t move, the low rumble in the ground holding him. The rifle fire came now, shouts on the far side of the track, a burst from a Thompson. Adams slid his submachine gun forward, aimed, nothing but the green steel of the train engine, heard new sounds, shots from the train, splatters on the rocks, the pops of rifles. He held his fire, nothing to shoot, but the men around him had spread out, some flat in short grass, firing, the train a hundred yards away, still moving slowly toward them, and now, with a great groan of squealing brakes, it stopped. The firing continued, and Adams saw German uniforms, a flood of men leaping from the tr
ain, one man falling, the others running. He pulled the Thompson against his shoulder, but the uniforms were out of sight, his brain yelling, Don’t waste ammo! From both sides of the tracks, the firing continued, by men who could see past the train, who had targets.
Adams felt the fury and frustration, nothing to shoot at. Men were up and moving, one voice, Gavin: “They’re retreating! Get to the train!”
The train belched a great plume of smoke and, with a high groan of steel on steel, began to move backward, its own lumbering retreat. Adams pulled himself up, was running with the others, more Germans leaping down from the train, frantic, scampering away, some shot down, pops of fire out to one side. The Americans were at the train now, some climbing up, sprays of fire, the train stopping again. Adams was beside the engine, the Thompson pointed forward, still no targets, just flickers of gray, the Germans pulling back farther, disappearing deep into the village. The shooting stopped. Adams heard a cheer, loud curses, and kept his stare on the village, the small windows, his hands shaking, the tracks now swarming with Americans. And close beside him, the voice of Gavin.
“I’ll be damned. We captured a train. Never thought they’d give it up without a fight. A half dozen cars. Let’s see what they were hauling.”
Gavin climbed up into the engine. Adams saw men moving between the cars, some climbing up on top, men gathering around one open car, antiaircraft guns, the train’s protection.
“Hey, General! There’s nothing but empty bottles!”
Adams looked toward the voice, the man tossing a glass bottle out onto the tracks, shattering it. Adams flinched at the sound, felt his legs weakening again, ignored the cheers. He moved to the steps at one end of a railcar and sat, looked at his shaking hands, his chest heavy, cold, his anger rising. He leaned out, looked into the village, no movement, saw two German bodies, gray uniforms, thought, Your unlucky day. Maybe you should have learned to run faster. He stared at them. Maybe you’re faking it, he thought. Playing dead. Why don’t one of you move…just a little? Then he saw the blood, a dark stain on a bed of small rocks. No, you’re not going anywhere.
He slapped one hand against the breech of the Thompson, slapped again, pulsing frustration, and said aloud, “Dammit!”
“What? What is it?” He was surprised to see Scofield, smiling, the smile slowly disappearing. “You okay, Sergeant?”
“Yeah, Captain, I’m fine. I guess they got away. Pisses me off.”
“They didn’t all get away, and the rest of ’em might not go too far. The bridge is up ahead, down a hill to the right. There’s nothing on the train to get excited about, one car full of some kind of ass-stink cheese. Not sure where the Krauts were going with that. A bunch of empty glass bottles too. General Gavin thinks maybe they were just hitching a ride, a couple platoons going to hit us at La Fière. We’ve got to keep moving forward. Let’s fall in.”
Scofield moved away, and the orders came now, the men lining up on either side of the train. Adams moved to the end of the row of cars, the tail of the train, saw Gavin and Ostberg, both men pointing toward the village, the men moving out quickly, staying low, close to the fat stone buildings. Adams kept his stare on the first building, but there was silence, the windows just windows, and Adams stepped into line, moved past the bodies of the Germans, hesitated, forced his finger off the trigger of the submachine gun, and thought of the train, the desperate scramble of the Germans. No targets. I didn’t get my chance. Scofield was beside him now, and Adams kept moving, stared at his boots, then up at the scattered houses, the still silent windows.
He could feel Scofield’s eyes on him, heard the captain’s words. “I missed my chance back there. Never got off a good shot. You?”
Adams shook his head. “Nope.”
“Pissed off about it, right?”
“Yep.”
“Thank God. I thought it was just me. An officer’s supposed to show some decorum, not lead the way by blasting everything in sight. But that’s sure what I wanted to do. Kill everything that moved.”
The words were strange, nothing like Scofield had ever said before, and Adams looked at him. “I think you’re full of crap, sir.”
“You’re right. Maybe it was you who wants to kill everything in sight. Take it easy, Sergeant. I hate the enemy just as much as you do. We’ll get our chance.”
Adams chewed on the words. “First time I’ve thought of it that way. Never felt like I hated the Krauts. It was about survival. I knew damn well that if I didn’t shoot him first, he’d shoot me. I’ve heard all that garbage about, Oh yeah, he’s just like me, or Maybe he’s got a wife and kids, all of that. You start thinking like that, you’ll hesitate, and then you’ll end up getting your own people killed.”
“You never had that problem.”
“No, sir. But it’s different here. I don’t know why. I didn’t feel this way in Sicily. I don’t like the shaking in my gut. I don’t like worrying about that damned kid back there. I’m sick of crawling on my belly and I’m sick of watching my guys get picked off. I’m tired and I’m pissed off. It doesn’t matter now if those Krauts are shooting at me or taking a crap in the bushes. Those bastards started this, and if it’ll get this over with quicker, I’ll kill every damned one of them.”
* * *
23. ROMMEL
* * *
LA ROCHE-GUYON
JUNE 6, 1944, 9:30 P.M.
The trip back to France from Württenburg had been miserable, made worse by his infuriating ignorance of what was actually happening along the coast. The first call had come to his home at six that morning: Speidel, his chief of staff, more agitated than urgent. Speidel relayed the reports that had begun just after midnight, enemy paratroopers suddenly appearing in scattered sectors behind the Normandy beaches. Speidel was dismissive. Most of the German commanders had seen this kind of activity before, airdrops aimed at linkups with the French underground, spies coming and going, annoying pinpricks around the edges of German control. But Speidel had heard too many reports by dawn and there had been too much furious shouting by German field commanders. Orders from von Rundstedt had finally begun to flow outward: the panzer units placed on highest alert, the infantry mobilized for a move to the threatened sectors. And then the reports began to come in from the beaches. Despite his skepticism that the commanders were overreacting, and despite the insistence from von Rundstedt himself that the need for concern was greatly overblown, Speidel realized it was time to phone Rommel.
Rommel had not begun the drive back to his headquarters until after ten in the morning, had spent precious hours gathering as much information as he could. The journey from his home to his headquarters took Rommel eleven hours to complete, and along the way he continued his efforts to find out exactly what was happening, seeking answers no one seemed able to provide. There was rampant skepticism, so many of the senior commanders holding tight to the theory that this so-called invasion was in fact a ruse, that the Allies were staging a powerful demonstration designed to draw German attention toward Normandy. In Germany, the High Command remained entrenched in their belief that the full-scale assault was still to come at Calais. But throughout the morning, the seas off Calais remained empty, and despite increasing speculation that the genuine thrust had not yet begun, the observers along that coastline had said nothing about enemy activity.
“Where is the navy?”
Speidel shook his head, and Rommel turned toward Admiral Ruge. “Do you know? Do we even have a navy these days? A thousand ships land on our doorstep and no one knows they are coming. Is no one patrolling the tiny ocean that sits between us and the enemy?”
Ruge leaned forward in the chair, his hands folded under his chin. “All I have heard is that the weather kept our normal patrols in port. Conditions at sea have been treacherous, at least as far as the meteorologists could tell. Most of our weather observation posts have been bombed in recent days, so we have had something of a gap in our forecasts.”
“The enemy bombed weather stations
. Why would they waste their resources on such mundane targets? Is it possible they did not wish us to know what the weather was likely to be? Is it possible they wished to keep us in the dark about conditions at sea?”
Ruge stroked his chin. “I had not thought of that. Someone should have seen the significance of those bombings, yes.”
Rommel paced, dug his boots into the soft rug, spun around, crossed the room in long hard strides. “Someone. Paratroopers landed hours before dawn, and someone decided it was not necessary to mobilize the armor.”
Speidel said, “That is not quite correct, sir. The Twenty-first Panzer was put on alert, and orders were issued for them to prepare to advance to the affected area near Caen.”
“They prepared to advance? Did they actually advance?”
“Um…no, sir. General Feuchtinger could not be located for some time. His chief of staff told me what we already knew, that the general occasionally seeks…warmer company. No one at his headquarters would issue any commands to the armored units until he was found. And as you know, sir, General Dollmann was on his way to war games at Rennes when word came. It took several hours for his staff to return to Seventh Army headquarters.”
“War games.” Rommel stopped pacing and looked up at the high ceiling, intense pain now throbbing through his skull. “We were playing war games.”
“Yes, sir, the maneuvers had been scheduled for some time. There were expectations that the enemy would remain idle while the weather was so uncertain. You must recall that, sir.”
Rommel closed his eyes, put a hand on the back of his neck, rubbed hard at the twisting tightness in his neck. “Do not tell me what I should recall. I also recall our weather experts telling us there could be no attack. I also recall how so many agreed with me about the impossibility of the enemy coming ashore at low tide. I also recall my own flagrant stupidity at believing those beach obstacles would hold the enemy offshore, that our magnificent artillery would pulverize their ships, that our fine fighting forces would annihilate them from behind the perfect strength of our concrete wall!” He spun toward Speidel, pointing a shaking finger toward the man’s widening eyes. “And when the reports arrived here, when the enemy made his landings, you did nothing! Did you require extra sleep? A little too much wine last evening?” Speidel stiffened, and Rommel was surprised to see defiance. “You have something to say, General. Have I slighted you? Insulted your integrity?”