The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  Adams looked up, a glimpse of stars in the clouds, and thought of asking somebody the time. No, he thought, keep your mouth shut. Doesn’t much matter what the hell time it is. It’ll be daylight pretty soon, and the only time that matters is when it’s time to shoot at somebody. There were low voices around him, those men who had dug larger holes, accommodating several men. Not my guys, he thought. That’s just dumb as hell. One lucky shell takes out half a squad. Why do some of these guys need a buddy next to them, somebody to chat with? I’d rather have dirt around me than somebody’s guts.

  The sharp whistle came now, and he saw the flash, the shell coming down behind him. He stuffed the last of the rations in his pocket, rolled over to his knees, stayed low, waited for more. It came now, whistles and shrieks, a hard crack, men calling out, the pop of rifles, and a voice close by: Scofield.

  “Man your guns! They’re coming out! Wait for something to shoot at!”

  Adams straightened, his helmet easing up just above the dirt mound in front of his hole. The causeway was barely visible, lit by streaks of fire, muzzle blasts from the men farthest out, men who could see what was in front of them. The sounds were scattered—some men firing at nothing—and Adams looked to the side: more mounds of dirt, rifles resting on top, a glimpse of helmets.

  “No shooting until you see the bastards! You hear me?”

  “Yeah, Sarge.”

  It was Unger. Yep, he knows, Adams thought. Not as stupid as he looks. He knew Marley was there as well, and Nusbaum, and others in a line along the brush. No one spoke. Adams focused on the causeway again, heard a new sound, the dull rumble of engines, the creaking of steel. Tanks.

  He strained to see, the darkness fading, the marsh around the causeway covered in a low blanket of fog. But the sounds were growing louder, at least three tanks, more, coming out of the thickets across the way. He heard Scofield now.

  “Hold your fire! Let them get clear!”

  Adams glanced at the Thompson, thought, Clear of what? He’s not talking to me. Then he realized: the antitank gun! Yes! Hell of a lot better than a stinking bazooka. He thought of the gun crew, the men who survived their glider, who had crashed successfully. Guts. Luck too. He knew the knock against some of the glider troops, that the units were green, untested by combat. But good God, he thought, they rode those damned coffins to get here, and sure as hell they don’t need to prove anything else to me. I just hope they can shoot straight.

  Men were firing close by, rifles mostly, and Scofield was shouting again. “Cease fire! Let them get closer!”

  But the firing continued, all along the edge of the causeway, more officers trying to control their men, the shouts useless. Adams had seen it before, men getting their first look at the enemy, and emptying their clips into the air, nervous hands squeezing the triggers in pure reflex, firing empty guns—an infuriating loss of control. He felt helpless. He could only command a small piece of the fight, but shouted out, “You hear me?”

  “Yeah, Sarge.”

  “Yeah!”

  “You see infantry around those tanks, take ’em out. You don’t, sit tight. Let the big guns do the job! You hear me?”

  “Yeah, Sarge!”

  He knew the high pitch in Unger’s voice, shared the boy’s excitement. The rumble of the tanks was growing louder, and Adams leaned his helmet against the dirt wall in front of him, felt the ground rise beneath him, a shell landing close, ripples of machine-gun fire arcing overhead. His heart raced, sweat dampened his filthy clothes, voices blended in with the impact of the shells, thumps and pops again. And now, a loud thump, deafening, curling him up tight, the dirt crumbling around him with the shock. He shook his head, thought of putting his hands on his ears, but then it came again. And then there were cheers.

  He forced himself to look up, his eyes just above the mound of dirt, and saw fire on the causeway, splashes in the marsh. The air was alive with streaks of fire, but his eyes stayed glued to the one spot, dead center on the wide-open stretch of raised ground. It was a tank, and it was on fire.

  The men at the big gun continued their work, but Adams stayed up, stared hard at the foggy marsh, saw flickers of movement. All across the near side of the causeway, the Americans were firing, the German infantry tumbling down, another bright flash, and a second tank was engulfed in fire. But the Germans were swarming across the narrow stretch of dry ground, some wading in the taller grass, spreading out in the shallow water, returning fire. They were past their own tanks now, still coming, a steady wave. Adams leaned down and stared through the sight of the Thompson. Too far! Dammit, I need a rifle! But his own men were answering, the M-1s close beside him opening up.

  “I got one! I got one!” Marley’s voice.

  “Shut the hell up! Keep shooting!” The second voice was Unger’s.

  The Germans were still coming, a dark stain spreading out on the causeway, fallen men, some crawling, many more still advancing through their own dead. They reached the first foxholes, fire on both sides, and Adams saw terror in faces and eyes, and he aimed again and pulled the trigger. The Thompson jumped in his hands to no effect, the Germans still flowing toward him, five more, ten behind them. Adams felt his own panic now, thought, Too many of them! He raised his head, ignored the gun sight, held his finger on the trigger, and sprayed the open ground in front of him, until the submachine gun emptied. He ducked down, snatched a magazine from his pants leg, stuffed it hard into the gun, jerked the bolt, raised up, saw boots, a rifle, the man stumbling, falling to one side. There was another man, a bayonet, and Adams fired again, the man’s chest coming apart, helmet coming off, bullets thumping the ground beside him. He held the trigger until the gun emptied and slumped down again, two magazines in his hand, one in the gun. A man jumped over him, and Adams fired up, ripped the man’s back, a shout rising up inside him. He sprayed the submachine gun blindly, saw the ground around him now, a carpet of fallen men.

  The Thompson was empty again, and he rammed in the fresh magazine, but the targets were distant, running. The causeway was a surge of motion, most of it the other way, the Germans who had survived the assault pulling back. Behind them, the tanks still burned. He saw now that the wreckage had blocked the roadway, the rest of the German armor unable to move past. Those tanks were backing away as well, the antitank guns still firing, more fire from rifles close by. Men were screaming around him, wounded Germans mostly, and Adams felt his breathing, cold pain in his chest, his hands wrapped in a hard grip on the Thompson, and his eyes searched the fallen, weapons, hands, grenades. There was still firing, his ears ringing, the antitank gun again, and he looked that way, saw only the barrel, red hot, smoking, more smoke from the muzzles of the rifles. There was a silhouette beside him, a rifle whipping around, the muzzle past Adams’s face, and he jerked the Thompson that way, but the rifle was one of his. There was a flash of fire, the sharp punch of the M-1, and Adams was frozen, the rifle aimed just past his face. The man yelled now, manic, screaming insanity, and Adams saw the eyes: Unger, the kid, red-faced, aiming the M-1 again, another flash of fire. Unger lowered the rifle and stared past Adams. Marley was up beside him, shouting. “You got him! Sarge, he got him!”

  Adams followed Unger’s stare, turned, and saw the German a few feet away, a pool of blood on the man’s chest, bubbles and foam, and in his hand a grenade. Adams felt a hard quiver in his legs, leaned against the dirt, and looked at Unger again, still wild-eyed, furious.

  “It’s okay, kid! You got him!”

  Unger lowered the rifle, seemed to get control, and looked out toward the causeway, Adams doing the same.

  “He was crawling up behind you, Sarge,” Unger said.

  “I know, kid. You got him. Thanks.”

  Unger nodded slowly.

  Marley said, “I got a bunch of ’em, Sarge! That was nuts! They just kept coming!”

  Adams looked again at the dead German. The grenade, he thought. Better get rid of that damned thing. He pulled himself out of the foxhole, rolled across
the ground—could smell the man now, sickening, blood and stink—and slid close to the man’s arm, black dirty fingers wrapped around the grenade. Adams grabbed the hand, the grip loosening. He pried the grenade away, kept it tight in his own hand.

  Scofield was there now, on his knees, said, “What the hell you going to do with that?”

  Adams stared at the grenade, his fingers tight around it, and held it out. “Souvenir?”

  “Funny man. Get rid of that damned thing!” Scofield began to move away, pointed. “There’s an empty foxhole. Drop it here!” He called out, “Heads up! Fire in the hole!”

  Adams crawled that way, Scofield flattening out, and Adams dropped the grenade into the hole, rolled away quickly. It’s probably not armed, he thought, the words jarred away by the blast, the ground punching him, a spray of dirt billowing up, falling around him, on him, dirt in his ears, nose. He coughed.

  “You satisfied now, Sergeant?” Scofield said. “Get your stupid ass back in your foxhole.”

  You too, he thought. He crawled quickly, felt the shivering again, slid back down into his hole. He looked up at Unger. The boy was still staring at him, strange, eerie, hollow-eyed, and Marley was talking again, meaningless jabber. Adams ignored him, keeping his eyes on Unger; he’d never seen the look, the pure frozen stare.

  “Thanks, kid. Looks like you saved my ass.”

  Unger didn’t respond. Adams heard more of the sounds now, soft cries, one moaning scream, medics scampering past, medical bags. Then he heard a new sound, soft and low, looked at Unger again and saw his face cradled in one dirty hand. The boy was sobbing.

  The Germans continued to shell the American paratroopers at La Fière, but they would not repeat their costly mistake. There would be no more frontal assaults across the wide-open ground of the causeway. By late afternoon on June 7, the fight had settled into a lull, and the Germans offered a hearty surprise. They brought out a red cross, asking the Americans for a brief truce, to allow the Germans to collect their dead and wounded.

  For one brief moment, the war seemed to pause, while men on both sides tended to those who did not escape the slaughter, the Germans hauling away nearly two hundred of their fallen. With the gruesome mission complete, the Germans again began their artillery and mortar assault. Adams could only stay low in his foxhole. All along the Merderet River, Gavin’s men endured the barrage until nightfall, when, again, their commanders would plan their next move. But this time, there was added strength. At Sainte-Mère-Église, General Ridgway finally met the first infantry officers of the American Fourth Division. The bridgehead at Utah Beach had been secured.

  * * *

  27. EISENHOWER

  * * *

  By midmorning on June 7, Montgomery’s British and Canadian forces, under Lieutenant General Miles Dempsey, had established strong footholds on all three of the easternmost beaches. Throughout the day on June 6, those troops had encountered considerable opposition, though not the stinging disaster that had met the Americans at Omaha Beach. But with so much confusion in their hierarchy, the Germans could not mount any coordinated effort to strike back when the Allies were most vulnerable.

  At Juno Beach, the Canadians under Major General Rod Keller made their landings hemmed in by formations of rocks, which forced them to drive forward in wedges that were more narrow than the planners had anticipated. The result was two separate assaults onshore, which bypassed a German stronghold between them, the town of Courseulles-sur-Mer. But the Germans who held their ground were soon cut off, and by nightfall the tenacity of the Canadians had overcome the resistance they faced on Juno Beach. With much of the opposition eliminated, the Canadians had been able to drive inland nearly five miles.

  On either flank of the Canadian landings, the British landings at Gold and Sword saw equal success. As at Juno, the British troops pushing ashore at Gold found a large escarpment of rocks, which limited their landing to a narrower slice of beach. Here, the British, under the overall command of Lieutenant General Neil Ritchie, drove inland across a more narrow front than expected, which gave the British the same advantage as the Canadians, allowing them to punch a hole through the German resistance. Though the Germans maintained several strongpoints, the British, like the Canadians, were several miles inland by dark. Farthest to the east, Sword Beach straddled the mouth of the Orne River, the vital waterway that led straight into the city of Caen.

  Inland, the British Sixth Airborne had made their jump on the far eastern flank of the entire operation. At the very least, the British paratroopers would serve as a first wall of protection on that flank, should the Germans launch a counterattack from the direction of Calais. Unlike the Americans, a large percentage of the British troopers came down relatively close to their designated drop zones east of the Orne, and had fought effectively to capture vital bridges that crossed the river. At the key river crossings, British paratroopers and especially glider troops accomplished most of their missions with stunning success, and Montgomery’s plan to capture the city of Caen on D-Day seemed within his grasp. Though the British on Sword Beach struggled with stout German strongholds, they too were able to drive a spear several miles in from the beach, pushing southward along the river with expectations that Montgomery’s boast of grabbing Caen was about to come to pass. But British expectations met reality. The Twenty-first Panzer Division was the only serious armored force that Rommel’s command had at their immediate disposal, and despite so much confusion and doubt among German generals, the Twenty-first was moved into position exactly where it needed to be to keep the British out of Caen. Late in the day on June 6, the panzers managed a counterattack of sorts, resulting in one column of German tanks actually reaching the western fringes of Sword Beach. But the attack lost steam, the panzers still reeling from confused orders and the dispersal of so much of their armor in small-scale battles scattered across the countryside. The panzer division had suffered from the unexpected dilemma of dealing not only with British infantry at the beaches but with the paratroopers engaging so many vital strategic targets along the river. By dark, the panzers had withdrawn to a formidable defensive position closer to Caen, and both sides understood that any significant contact would wait for morning. Though Eisenhower had heard Montgomery’s grand pronouncements that Caen would be in the bag by dark, that boast was just one part of the vast paper plan that had been tossed away by the stark reality of the assault. Operation Overlord had succeeded in landing 150,000 Allied troops on French soil. Their first priority was to drive the enemy away from the beaches and then keep him away. Once the beachheads were secured, an enormous number of troops were poised to flow in behind them, along with mountains of supplies and matériel. Despite the horror the Americans had confronted on Omaha Beach, Eisenhower knew D-Day had opened the door that might finally drive Hitler out of France and possibly end the war. The question now was, What were the Germans going to do about it?

  OFF OMAHA BEACH

  JUNE 7, 1944

  They started early in the morning, transported on the minelayer Apollo, Eisenhower’s temporary headquarters at sea. At Eisenhower’s instructions, the small ship first cruised the waters past Utah Beach, which had become a virtual city of activity, large landing craft clustered in what seemed to be an enormous traffic jam, each ship waiting in turn to disgorge more men and equipment, supporting and adding more troop strength that would follow the American Fourth Division inland. But Eisenhower was far more anxious to see Omaha, knowing that, off that beach, Omar Bradley waited aboard his own command ship, the cruiser U.S.S. Augusta. The Augusta had supported the landings at Omaha Beach, its eight-inch guns contributing to the naval bombardment thought to have neutralized German opposition, a grotesque miscalculation.

  As the Apollo maneuvered close to the Augusta, Bradley had already received word that Eisenhower was coming, and with a neatly executed transfer, Bradley moved from his own ship to the much smaller Apollo by crane, aboard a thirty-man landing craft, an LCVP, that never actually touched the wate
r.

  “Monty was here this morning, full of piss and vinegar,” Bradley said. “Happy vinegar, I guess. Well, hell, Ike, you know Monty.”

  Eisenhower had not taken his eyes off the beach. “Yep, I’m sure of that. I talked to him earlier, and I should see him in about an hour. They had something of a rough go, particularly at Sword. The enemy was pretty heavily fortified, and it took the Canadians a little longer than they expected to get off the beach. But they’re on the move now. Damned fine work, I hear. Monty says he has them in gear this morning, to keep up the push.”

  “He pushed me pretty hard to get the beachheads connected. His usual speech about speed and boldness. He thinks we have the initiative and must take advantage of it.”

  Eisenhower looked at him. “You disagree with that?”

  “The plan called for us to drive south and cut off the peninsula. Now, he wants me to spread out the beachheads, so we link hands first. It’s going to cost us time, Ike. All his chatter about phase lines just went out the window.”

  “Drop it, Brad. Not the time. Monty’s right. We had better take every advantage we have, but we’re too vulnerable right here. Until Omaha is in stronger hands, your part of this operation can wait. You can damn well bet that Rommel is over there making some plan to bust us in the chops. I’m surprised as hell it hasn’t happened yet. I half expected to hear of a full-out counterattack hitting us across the whole landing zone, but there’s almost no incoming fire at all around Utah. It’s a big damned parking lot, which scares me a little.

  “No matter what Monty says, I can’t accept that Rommel is just going to let us waltz in without one hell of a fight. It’s like waiting for the second shoe to drop. We had every reason to believe that all five beaches were going to be hot as Omaha. I was more afraid of that than anything, that we were going to catch holy hell every step of the way. It’s almost like they sat back and let us land, and the only thing I can figure is that Rommel’s about to give us one hell of a counterpunch.”