The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  “General Geyr, what we accomplish is not our concern. I learned long ago that the High Command is concerned with methods and planning and lines on maps. Our orders have been made clear to me. We are directed to meet the enemy’s thrusts where and when he makes them. We are to advance the panzer divisions where the enemy is pressing forward, to blunt his advances. Thus far, the enemy is making needle pricks of his own, probing, testing, trying to find our weak points. He is having just as much difficulty in the bocage country as we are, but since that is where he is, that is where we are ordered to strike him. Disagree with me all you wish, General, but had Hitler approved my tactics six months ago, the enemy would not be in this country at all. He would be fishing his corpses out of the sea.”

  “Sir, how else can I explain this? If not to you, to the High Command! We must have room for the tanks to maneuver! There is ample open ground to the south and east! Do they not understand?”

  “What the High Command understands is that we are to obey the instructions they give us. I know something of armor tactics, General. I know what kind of ground is best.” Rommel stopped, stared blankly at the map. He thought of North Africa, the maps so much simpler. Open and flat, no obstructions, speed and power and mobility. Paradise for the armor. And now, we run and hide behind rows of bushes.

  Geyr was angry now, red-faced, pacing. “I cannot make my argument with the High Command, but I must protest once again to you! You hold on to this idea that the enemy could have been destroyed on the beaches! Even if the panzers had been positioned perfectly, if I had sent in my tanks directly to the beaches, the naval artillery would have crushed us. But none of that matters now! We must convince von Rundstedt, or even the Führer, that the most effective way to defeat the enemy is to pull back into open country where we can meet him on our terms.”

  “When?”

  Geyr seemed surprised by the question. “When the enemy, um…”

  “No, General, the time has passed. We have allowed the enemy to land his army, and now he is fortifying it. No matter what kind of fight we make, nothing will be on our terms. He will come only when he is ready to come. That is Montgomery over there! He will only move when he is comfortable, when he can stroll placidly through the lines with his cup of tea and feel no threat from us. Every day that passes he is stronger, one step closer to striking us in a way to which we cannot respond. Our only hope is to strike him right now, all across the front, to shock him and send his troops back in confusion.”

  Geyr shook his head. “I fear, sir, you are still fighting the African war.”

  Rommel saw nervousness on Geyr’s face, a line crossed. But the energy for the argument was draining away, and Rommel stepped slowly to the map. “You mean, General, the war we should have won.”

  “I meant no insult.”

  “Insult me all you wish. I am accustomed to it.” Rommel studied the map. “The enemy has linked his beachheads. It is obvious to me that Montgomery’s intentions are to capture Caen and then drive us away from the favorable ground you so cherish so he might use it himself, to stage his grand assault toward Paris. The Americans will most certainly drive northward to capture Cherbourg. The enemy possesses complete air superiority over this front, and thus he can resupply himself at will, while we must struggle to shift our tactical positions in difficult ground at night. I would much prefer that we withdraw the armor to more suitable ground, where we can form up a massive strike. Those forward positions can be manned by infantry, but the infantry is slow to arrive because, like your tanks, they can move only at night. And because we cannot get sufficient gasoline and vehicles, and because the railroads are virtually worthless, we must advance our troops on foot. All the while, the enemy is expending lavish amounts of ammunition from infinite sources, and we must ration ours. Despite what von Rundstedt believes, none of our divisions are at full fighting strength, while the Americans are crossing the ocean in great waves of steel that we cannot hold back. We have lost the U-boat war and the battleship war; despite Göring’s ridiculous boasts, we have lost the air war. The infantry and your tanks are still capable of delivering an effective blow, but every day those forces grow weaker.” He turned, saw no expression on Geyr’s face. “Is that too much defeatism for you, General? Should we all remain optimistic and content ourselves with gardening, like that foolish old man in Paris? Or should we all do what Reichsmarschall Göring does? When things become difficult, let us consume a draft of morphine, and all our ills will become perfectly pleasant.”

  Geyr glanced at his aides, who seemed to flinch. “Sir! I will not permit such disrespect.”

  “Be silent, General. I am not concerned what others think of me. I do not fear the Gestapo. I am too far removed—erased—from any kind of future, no matter how this war ends. Might we still prevail? I have heard the same talk you have, all that blather about our new secret weapons. The High Command whispers of great secrets: We will soon have doomsday machines, great powerful weapons no one has yet seen. Is that fiction as well? I don’t know. Do you? Does von Rundstedt? But what do I care about that? If we have such weapons, and we turn the tide of this war—or even prevail—I will be tossed out the window by the sycophantic monkeys that surround Hitler. If the enemy defeats us, I will be held as a war criminal. I am a soldier first, General, and my duty is to attack the enemy. But I will say what I think. You may disagree with me, but you will not silence me with your outrage. You should be far more outraged by what is happening to your tanks.”

  The car drove rapidly, the armored truck in front, and Rommel studied the map, ignoring the bouncing of the rough road.

  “Sir, we should seek shelter until nightfall.”

  Rommel did not look up. “Yes, Captain, I know. But there is much to do, and La Roche Guyon will give us shelter enough. For reasons I do not understand, the enemy respects our antiaircraft batteries there. We must be grateful for small favors. I am quite certain the enemy spotter planes are searching for more meaningful targets than this one car and that single truck.”

  He set the map aside as the car moved up a rise and down again: rolling country, free of the annoying confinement of the hedgerows, the bocage. Geyr is right of course. In those conditions, one man with an antitank weapon can block a road by himself, hold up an entire battalion of armor. Why did the enemy choose to invade this place? The key to an invasion is to move rapidly, establish your strong base, yet they chose beaches that would lead them into that infernal bocage. I would not have done so. And because it is not what I would have done, I was surprised. We were all surprised. If the enemy comes at Calais, another invasion, then I shall be surprised again.

  The car climbed familiar ground, green fields and tall trees, the stark beauty of the castle that was his headquarters. The road ran along the river, and he looked up at the pockets of antiaircraft guns, the batteries of machine guns and eighty-eights that kept him safe. The car rolled to a stop, the guards coming to attention, one man pulling open the door. Rommel stepped out into the usual respectful silence, but there was commotion at the grand entranceway, and he saw Speidel, more aides behind him, all coming forward.

  “Sir! We have just received this! I have not yet confirmed its authenticity, but it appears genuine!”

  Rommel felt the usual dread. What has happened now? “What is it, General?”

  “We should go inside, sir.”

  “It’s a little late for discretion, Hans. You have just alerted the entire compound.”

  Speidel leaned close, held a paper in his hand. “Sir, this came from Captain Merling, an observation outpost near Le Caine. The enemy has struck with their bombers. It is most tragic, sir.”

  Le Caine, Rommel thought. Geyr’s headquarters. “Silence. Let us go inside.”

  They moved quickly with heavy steps, and Rommel felt the familiar cold in his gut, walked into his office, Speidel shouting orders to the staff: no disturbance. Speidel closed the door behind them.

  “What has happened to General Geyr?”


  “Apparently he is only injured, sir. But the enemy struck his headquarters with an air attack that seemed directed to the place. They must have discovered—”

  “What is the tragedy?”

  Speidel stopped and handed Rommel the paper. “From first reports, sir, it seems that the enemy has destroyed the entire headquarters of Panzer Group West. Most all of General Geyr’s staff was likely killed. I have not yet spoken to General Geyr, and I do not know his whereabouts. But the observation post did say he had been seen by doctors and was probably not seriously hurt.”

  Rommel moved to the chair, sat, faced the tall window. “When did this happen?”

  “The observer said they saw your car pass by…about thirty minutes before the raid.”

  “Thirty minutes. Well, Hans, those are the fortunes of war. I could have remained there arguing with him until—well, it is unlikely they were targeting me. But you’re right. They somehow learned of the position of his headquarters. His entire staff?”

  “Most everyone. There is no specific confirmation. Apparently everything was destroyed.”

  Rommel tried to see the faces. Geyr had good officers in his command, some of them tank commanders who had served with Rommel in North Africa. And somehow Geyr escaped. The fortunate placement of his latrine, perhaps. He turned in the chair, saw Speidel looking down.

  “What do we do now, sir?”

  Rommel sat back, rubbed the rough beard on his chin. “If you want to kill a snake, you first cut off its head. By this success, the enemy has caused us to delay any advance. There can be no coordination among the panzers now. I will meet with von Rundstedt at the earliest moment. Perhaps he can be persuaded to see this fight for what it is becoming.”

  “Sir?”

  “Never mind. Do what you can to find out the condition of General Geyr. I must speak to General Witt. The Twelfth SS Panzer should be engaging the enemy west of Caen. General Witt must be told what has happened, so he can remain in communication with me and not Geyr.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Speidel hurried away, the door closing again, and Rommel stood and stepped to the window, darkness rolling over the river, hiding the gardens. Thirty minutes, he thought. Was it betrayal, some French farmer working for their underground? Or exceptional work by the enemy’s observers. Excellent way to die, I suppose. You would hear the whistle, perhaps a second or two, and then…nothing. It ends. I always thought a tank would be best, engaging the enemy, a duel, the better man making the good shot. If you lost, the tank was your tomb. If you prevailed, you would climb out, walk over, and admire what you had done, the good kill. There was plenty of that in Africa. Well, no, not really. There were very few duels. There was confusion and chaos and smoke and fire. And the better man didn’t always win.

  Rommel looked up into the darkness, thought, It could happen here, just like that. One of those B-17s, making it through the flak in one piece, one pilot’s lucky day. Yes. An excellent way to die.

  * * *

  30. ADAMS

  * * *

  JUNE 14, 1944

  As more force poured across the causeways that bridged the flooded Merderet River, the Germans who had fought so tenaciously began to pull away. Worn out and underequipped, the scattered regiments of the Eighty-second Airborne were withdrawn and organized once more. But there was no luxury to be found, little time to rest and refit. Within a few short days, the need for experience on the front lines became painfully apparent.

  As part of the original plan, the Ninetieth Infantry Division had moved forward from their landing zone at Utah Beach and pushed right through the paratroopers’ positions along the river. Adams and his weary squad had been pulled back to Sainte-Mère-Église, to watch with rising enthusiasm as the men of the Ninetieth, so many fresh legs and clean rifles, took their place. The Ninetieth would continue the push westward, Bradley’s hard slice across the Cotentin Peninsula, isolating whatever enemy units remained north of that advance, the last resistance the Americans would face before they began their assault northward on the city of Cherbourg.

  But almost immediately, the Ninetieth Division had problems. The fresh legs quickly bogged down, and when faced with their first test, their first confrontation with the German strongholds in the bocage country, the infantry seemed to succumb to paralysis. The corps commander, Joe Collins, began to understand what others across the Atlantic had once feared, that the Ninetieth had been woefully undertrained. Bradley realized that, for reasons no one at SHAEF could adequately explain, the leadership was lackluster at best. Almost immediately, Bradley ordered Collins to act, and Collins removed the division head, Major General Jay MacKelvie, as well as the regimental commanders most responsible for the lack of fire in their men. In their place, Collins inserted officers who had shown some combat initiative. But the error had been made, and what should have been a hard strike across the Cotentin had become instead a mish-mash of insignificant battles against an enemy who had been given time to regroup. Not willing to wait for the Ninetieth to find its spirit, Bradley reacted to the unexpected stalemate by authorizing Collins to call upon the most reliable and experienced troops he had in that part of the American sector: the paratroopers of the Eighty-second Airborne. Though many of the exhausted battalion and regimental commanders protested, Matthew Ridgway accepted the need for his paratroopers to return once more to the front. While the 507th and 508th would engage farther to the south, the men of the 505th would try to accomplish the job the Ninetieth Division could not complete: capturing the French town of Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, the next major intersection on the roads that led to the far western coast of the peninsula.

  SAINTE-MÈRE-ÉGLISE

  JUNE 14, 1944

  Adams hated Sainte-Mère-Église. Though the bodies had been mostly removed, the signs of the struggle were everywhere: blasted ruins of homes and shops, shredded parachutes splayed out over rooftops or rolled into filthy bundles in every corner. The workers of the Graves Commission had been efficient with the bodies of the Americans, but the enemy’s dead were still scattered about, German corpses lodged in attics or on rooftops, snipers who were only found when their bodies began to decay. The men who did the awful work were mostly Negroes, assigned to the gruesome task of identifying and arranging the bodies for transport back to the coast or burying them in makeshift cemeteries around the town itself.

  Adams had never served with a black soldier but watched them with curiosity, as he had as a boy in the dusty streets of Silver City. Negroes were rare in New Mexico, but they came for the work, the copper mines always looking for men to fill the gaps in their ranks, the backbreaking work that wasted the bodies of men like Jesse’s father. Adams was twelve when he saw a black man for the first time, a hulking mountain of a man toting a fat suitcase, walking along the street with his small round wife. The white men of the town seemed to recoil at the sight, urgent whispers that the boy could not understand, low talk in the café that black men would bring a scourge no one seemed able to explain. But the Depression and the Dust Bowl brought more men from the north and east, black and white, desperate to earn a wage, seeking whatever opportunity would feed their families. The mine was prosperous, a rarity, and as the different races and cultures blended, most of the laborers discovered a halting respect for the men who worked beside them, their mutual survival more important than the color of any man’s skin.

  In basic training, the soldiers had been only white, and talk of Negro regiments and Negro divisions inspired rude insults and obscenities Adams couldn’t understand. Anyone who knew something of history knew that there had been black troops in the First World War who had proven themselves beyond anyone’s doubts, the Buffalo Soldiers of the 92nd Division and their counterparts in the 93rd. Talk had drifted through the camps that the Buffalo Soldiers were coming again, newly formed, would probably join the fight in Italy. Many of the paratroopers dismissed Negro soldiers with the matter-of-fact assumption that a black man would never have the courage to jump out of an
airplane. It was a question that Adams had asked himself, and there was no answer. As far as Adams knew, none of the Negro enlistees had been given the chance. Now, in the blasted streets of the ruined town, the Negroes worked on the one job someone had deemed them suitable for: handling the dead. Adams studied them in spite of himself, had spoken to several and been surprised by the quiet dignity and confidence of men whose hands and uniforms were covered in death. If the black men despised their work or despised the officers who had put them there, Adams saw little of that. Instead, there was respect in both directions, the soldiers pointing out the 82nd’s AA insignia on Adams’s shoulder, sharing that same respect with the rest of the infantry who passed through the town. To the infantry, the men of the 82nd and the 101st divisions had opened the door. Every man in the Graves Commission knew that if the corpses were American, they were paratroopers.

  “Hey, Sarge, there’s mail back there, in the square!”

  Adams looked up from his mess kit, struggling with a hard knot of gristle. “Mail? Way the hell out here?”

  Unger held out a small blue square of paper. “Yep! Got a letter from my mama. I don’t believe it!”

  Adams spit out the offending lump of meat. “I don’t believe it either.”

  “Lookee right here, Sarge! See? It’s dated last month, so she doesn’t know a thing about what we’re doing. All kinds of stuff about Sally Lewis—that’s a girl I was kinda hoping…uh…” Unger stopped, seemed to think better of divulging any more details. “Anyway, there’s a whole truckload of mailbags. Somebody said they came through Utah Beach. You oughta go check. Maybe there’s something for you!”