The Steel Wave

by Jeff Shaara

  “Out past the plane. He tried to cross the burned grass and went down hard, not moving. I don’t think he made it, sir.”

  “I’ll decide that. First I’ve got to get to him.”

  “We’ll give you covering fire. Wait.”

  “No. Won’t need it. That’s why they put this big damned cross on the bag. They won’t shoot at me.”

  The man began to crawl forward, the bag held high above him, and Adams said, “No! Don’t be stupid!”

  But the doctor was still moving away. He stood upright now, held the bag high, moved out into the short stubble. Adams cursed to himself, rose to his knees, aimed the Thompson, nothing to see, just trees, saw the lieutenant’s body, motionless, the man’s neck twisted, a pool of blood. The doctor was there quickly, kneeling, and the thump came, the pop, and the doctor fell back with a grunt. He was sitting upright, and his legs began to twist, quivering, his arms reaching for the medical bag; and now the second shot came, the helmet popping off, the man spinning around, eyes staring, mouth open, blood and surprise and death. Adams fired the submachine gun at the trees, more firing from the others, loud curses, stunned shock. He emptied the magazine, dropped down again, the BAR now filling the air above him. He stared down, blinded by fury; he was a doctor, you goddamned savage! Then he raised his head.

  “Hold your fire! Cease fire! Anybody see the shot? Any smoke?”

  No one responded. Adams jammed a magazine into the Thompson. “Stay in the tall grass, go around this damned plane! As long as the grass is deep, we can cross this field! Unger!”

  “Yeah, Sarge!”

  “Stay back here, keep behind the plane, use it for cover. Watch that far tree line. That bastard’s still there, and I want you to watch for any flash or smoke! You see him, you kill him. You got that?”

  “Yeah, Sarge!”

  “Who’s on the BAR?”

  The voice came behind him, back in the hedge. “McGee, sir! Tobin’s squad.”

  “Tell Tobin to move around to the right of us, stay behind that hedge on the right. There’s gotta be more of these bastards out there! Keep an eye on us. We get close to those far trees, you push up quick past our flank, try to get behind that hedgerow in front of us and cut them off!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Adams faced forward again, thought, Sir. I’m not an officer, you lame-brain. The only officers in this field are dead. Time to do something about that.

  “Let’s go!”

  He slid to the right, crawled on his belly, kept the tall grass in front of him, heard the whistle of the bullet, the sniper trying again. But the men stayed low. He thought of Unger. The kid’s got a good eye. Let’s find him a target.

  Adams pushed forward in a jerking rhythm, the Thompson cradled across his arms, pain in his knees and shoulders. The shots continued, but the cover was too good, and Adams looked up, a quick glimpse of the trees, thick and dark, thought of Unger again. Shoot something, damn you! His mind rolled over, something Gavin had said, at the causeway, and realized suddenly that there would be no smoke, the lesson they had only now learned in the field. The Germans used smokeless powder. He fought the image, his own submachine gun, spewing out smoke with every round. Finest weapons in the world. Good old U.S.A. That’s what they tried to tell us. No army ever had better stuff. But it’s German machine guns that shoot so damned fast—what, a million rounds a minute? Ours sound like sewing machines, shooting in slow motion.

  He pushed forward again, the ground dropping, a low dip, a cluster of short bushes on the far side. He pulled his knees up, searing stiffness, wiped off the barrel of the Thompson, checked the muzzle, no dirt, took a breath, and thought, I’m gonna get that son of a bitch. He raised up again, a quick glance, the trees no more than fifty yards away. It was another hedgerow, fat and tall, too dense to see anything beyond. He dropped down, moved a few feet to one side, still in the depression, raised up again. Not giving you any chance to get your aim, you Kraut bastard. He glanced to the right, the hedge on that side of the field, and thought of Tobin: good man, tough as nails. Lousy jumpmaster, but he’ll get his BAR up there quick if he doesn’t want me kicking his ass. Yeah, that’s what we need. Two idiot sergeants slugging it out. Even the snipers would laugh at that one. He could hear the men in the grass around him, no one talking, and now, a single voice, from the trees.

  “Kamerad! No shoot! Kamerad!”

  “Sarge!”

  “Shut up!”

  Adams raised up again, saw the German now, heavy camouflage, leafy branches in his helmet, his hands in the air, stepping down from the hedgerow.

  “Kamerad! No shoot!”

  Adams raised the Thompson, looked past the man, searched for any movement behind him, shouted, “Halt!”

  The German obeyed, his hands still high, waving now, a voice behind Adams, Nusbaum.

  “He’s giving up, Sarge! He killed the looey and the doc, and now he’s just…giving up!”

  Adams stared at the German, felt the hatred, unquenchable, his hands holding tight to the Thompson, his brain screaming the words, just give me a reason, anything, run…anything! The German was smiling now, waving his arms in a wide arc.

  “He’s happy!” Nusbaum again. “He wants to be a damned POW. We should kill him, Sarge! He’s probably out of ammo, so he gives up!”

  Adams fought the pulsing urge to pull the trigger, heard more voices. “Kill him, Sarge!”

  The man was still smiling, palms out wide, no weapon, and Adams curled his finger around the trigger, his hand shaking again.

  The German was staring at him, said again, “Kamerad! Friend! America!”

  Adams couldn’t stop the quivering in his hand. He straightened his finger away from the trigger, thinking, It’s the only English he knows. He thought of Scofield, Gavin, so many lessons, so much training. God help me. I have to do this. I have to kill this bastard. Stop smiling, you son of a bitch.

  And now the crack came from behind him, the German staggering back, the smile still there, frozen, the man tumbling backward. Adams stared, the man twisting to one side, then nothing, red on the man’s chest. Adams looked back toward the wreckage of the plane, saw the glimpse of a helmet, the barrel of an M-1, a faint gray wisp of smoke. Unger.

  They continued to push forward throughout the day, small firefights far in front of them, but the worst had been absorbed by the 507th, most of the fields now peppered with dead and wounded, medics and stretcher bearers doing their work. As daylight faded, the order came from behind: Find cover, use the hedgerows as protection from enemy patrols, prepare to move again in the morning.

  EAST OF SAINT-SAUVEUR-LE-VICOMTE

  JUNE 14, 1944, 8 P.M.

  He could see Unger in the darkness, the boy sitting on a fallen tree drinking coffee from a tin cup. Unger was silent, seemed unaffected by killing the sniper. Around him, the others were fishing through their K rations, faint reflections off tin plates, low talk, the glow of cigarettes. The coffeepot had been passed around, a happy benefit of the mess truck’s having pulled up close by, covered now by a web of camouflage.

  Adams knew Scofield was waiting for him at the command post set up just back of the nearest hedgerow, but he had no energy for new orders, no energy at all, ignored his own rations, his near-empty canteen. He kept his stare on Unger, thought of the German at the causeway, the man with the grenade, the first man Unger had shot at point-blank range. He saved my life. A fluke. Instinct. Good training. Kill or be killed. He reacted faster than the Kraut. And then bawled like a baby. He’s a kid, for God’s sake. That’s what a kid is supposed to do. But now…he’s not a kid anymore. He made a decision, the wrong decision. I hate those Kraut bastards, but I couldn’t just kill a man who was giving himself up.

  He wanted to ask Unger the question, but it wouldn’t come, something holding Adams back, keeping him in his grassy seat, his back against a thin tree on the edge of the hedge. He watched the boy finish the coffee, wipe out his mess kit, and assemble it again, sliding it bac
k now into the pouch in his backpack. Unger stood, stretched, rubbed his stomach, and Adams could see how thin he was. They had all lost weight, but Unger had little to spare, and the boy seemed to search for something, scanning the darkness.

  Nearby, Marley said, “Hey, Wally. Latrine’s over that way.”

  “No, thanks. Maybe later.”

  Unger searched again, then spotted Adams and moved toward him. “Hey, Sarge.”

  Adams watched him come closer, didn’t respond.

  “Sarge, can I talk to you?”

  Adams pointed to the ground, an open spot in the hedge close by.

  Unger moved that way, pulled his rifle off his shoulder, sat heavily. He reached in his pocket, pulled out something dark, said, “D ration? Got a couple extra from the mess.”

  Adams held out a hand and took the chocolate bar, a luxury he hadn’t had in several days. “Thanks. What do you want? Make it quick, the captain wants to talk to me.”

  “Pretty awful today, huh? Killing the doc like that. And the lieutenant. I always liked him.”

  “So you made up for it?”

  Unger didn’t hesitate. “Guess I did. I guess that’s how it works.”

  Adams felt a gnawing curiosity. He expected emotion, the same kind of sadness the boy had shown at the causeway. But Unger seemed at ease, calm.

  Adams bit off a piece of the chocolate bar and sat back against the brush. “What the hell do you want, Private? You want me to tell you what a good job you did today? You looking for a medal?”

  Unger tossed the candy wrapper out in front of him, pushed it with his boot. “You gonna report me to the captain?”

  Adams was surprised. “Report you for killing a prisoner? What do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Sarge. I kept looking at the lieutenant, the doc, right there close to me. I kept thinking they would get up, move on back out of the way, that they were just hurt. Then I saw the German, and you, and I didn’t know what to do. You told me to kill him.”

  “I told you to kill the sniper. Not the prisoner.”

  “That’s bull, Sarge. The guys are saying he gave up when he ran out of ammo. You know this stuff. The Krauts will kill you as long as they can; then, when they’re beat, they walk over and want to shake your hand like it’s a baseball game.” Unger paused. “Why didn’t you shoot him, Sarge? I kept waiting for you to do it.”

  Adams felt a jolt, remembered the finger on the trigger, the shake in his hands. “You little son of a bitch. Don’t you ever ask me a question like that. I’ve killed men in every fight we’ve had.”

  Unger seemed to recoil, held up a hand. “Sorry, Sarge. Didn’t mean anything. I’m sorry.”

  “Shut up. Get away from me. I’m not going to report you to anybody. Not yet. But you better watch your ass. I know you’re underage. You get in my way, I’ll have you back in Iowa in a flash.”

  Unger stood, backed away, said in a low voice, “I’m eighteen, Sarge.”

  “You said you were eighteen a year ago. Get the hell away from me.”

  Unger was gone now, back toward the others, low voices, curious questions. Adams ignored them, stood, thought of the captain, the orders waiting for him. Damn that kid, he thought. Questioning my nerve…my guts?

  He pulled the Thompson tight against his side, moved along the hedgerow, passed other men in small groups, some digging foxholes, idle talk, more rations and mess kits. He stared ahead into darkness, felt the weight of the magazines against his leg, the light thump of grenades against his chest. He was growing angrier, walked with hard precise steps, digging the heels of his boots into the soft ground. He saw the sniper now, the image unshakable, the Thompson pointed at the man’s chest, the infuriating smile, the talk—friend—the surprise on the man’s face as he died from Unger’s perfect shot. His hand gripped the strap of the Thompson, and he saw Unger in his mind, stupidly childlike.

  Damn him. I should have killed that Kraut son of a bitch and not even thought about it. And I didn’t. I couldn’t pull the trigger. God help me. Don’t let that happen again.

  “We found their bodies. The wreckage of the plane was an easy landmark. Pretty surprised we didn’t run into anyone else, weren’t you?”

  Adams tried to keep himself at attention, had no energy for it. Scofield waited patiently for the answer, seemed to read Adams clearly.

  “Yes, sir. We only found the one sniper.”

  “You were lucky. A half mile north, there were Krauts in every tree. Burdett ran into a storm there, pushed his men right through a minefield to get past it. Hell of a mess.”

  Adams had heard the commotion from that direction. “Yes, sir. I guess we were lucky.”

  “General Gavin says we’ll get you a new lieutenant as quickly as we can. No time right now, and nobody available. You’ll take command of the platoon for now. Pass the word to the other noncoms. Gavin…well, hell, you know what he said. He’d give you my job if he could get it past Ridgway. He thinks you’ll command a corps one day.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Coffee? The mess wagon sent a pot over here. Cold, but it’ll do. Beats hell out of that powdered stuff.”

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  Scofield poured coffee into his canteen, sniffed it, made a slight frown. “Be ready to move at oh-five-hundred. We’re pushing hard toward the coast. Gavin says Bradley’s raising hell about how long this operation is taking. General Ridgway insists we’re the men to get it done, so here we are. We clear the roads and get to those port towns, then the infantry can drive up here in their trucks and claim the bacon. Damned glad I don’t have to deal with all that brass. Well, you know what that’s like. But it’s our own fault. We keep spouting this On-Time-on-Target business, and Bradley takes us at our word. Every damned division in this army has some kind of idiot motto. Those boys behind us? I think theirs is You Do the Dirty Work and We’ll Show Up Later in Our Swim Trunks.

  Adams tried to laugh, but his eyes were losing focus, his legs softening. He snapped himself upright.

  “Dammit, Sergeant, get back to your men and order somebody to stand guard while you take a nap.”

  “I’m okay, sir.”

  “Like hell. I’m as pissed as you are about Major Brubaker. That was pretty damned stupid of him. But hell, surgeons aren’t supposed to go wandering off into the field when we’re supposed to have medics doing the job. I guess he didn’t know that the Gentlemen’s Code of War went out with Napoleon. Or maybe Robert E. Lee. I’ve heard of Krauts gunning down whole aid parties, stretcher bearers and their wounded. They hold up white flags, and when we ease up they hit us with machine guns. Our problem is we play by the damned rules. Those Krauts…” He stopped, drank from the canteen, spit to one side. “I’m tired of bitching. Get out of here. Get some sleep.”

  “Yes, sir.” Adams started to move, stopped. “Sir, if you know where they took the lieutenant…he was carrying a letter from his wife. Pretty bad stuff. That ought not get out. It was in his pocket.”

  “I’ll take care of it. What should I do with the letter? You think his wife might want it back?”

  Adams shrugged. “Whatever you think, sir. Just wouldn’t want some loose-lipped jackass spreading anything about him. Bad enough that he didn’t make it.”

  “Sorry, Jesse. I guess you were pretty close to him.”

  Adams thought a moment, shook his head. “No, sir. Not really. It’s just the decent thing to do.”

  “Whatever you say. Now, get some sleep.”

  Adams moved away, heard Scofield’s words, pretty close to him, and thought of Pullman, tried to see the man, focused on that, and felt a strange anger, the same frustration he’d always had with Pullman’s inexperience. So he wanders out into wide-open ground and figures it’s fine that we just follow him. Dumb bastard.

  Adams moved past men in foxholes—more sounds of shovels and mess kits—stepped past the end of a hedgerow, and saw movement around a heavy machine gun, the crew dug in, eating their supper. He sa
w his own squad now, moved that way, and thought again of the lieutenant. He had forgotten what the man looked like.

  * * *

  31. EISENHOWER

  * * *

  JUNE 14, 1944

  The first jet-propelled bomb had gone over the night before, coming down in a flash of high explosives that only warned the victims with a ragged sputter of the engine, an engine that would suddenly fall silent as its fuel ran out. Powerless, the bomb simply fell to earth, on whatever target happened to be beneath it, homes and shops of people who had seen too much of bombs. The self-propelled weapons had been launched from the Belgian coast, some possibly elsewhere, and if there was any aim toward any target at all, it seemed to be London and the chance destruction once again of England’s civilian population.

  It was a tactic Hitler had used before, in 1940, with the Luftwaffe’s massive bombing campaign against British cities. It was called the Battle of Britain, and it was the extraordinary gallantry and skill of the Royal Air Force that had knocked the Luftwaffe from the skies and brought the horrific air assaults to an end. But now, German technology had changed, the bombs flying without pilots, no flying skill, no tactics at all except the random destruction of whatever unfortunate soul happened to be where the bomb fell. Ultra intelligence intercepts had given the Allies enough information to know that some new weapon was coming, but there had been no word of when or what exactly it might be. Ultra gave them Hitler’s name for the jet-propelled bomb. It was the V-1, V for Vergeltungswaffe: vengeance weapon.

  SHAEF FORWARD COMMAND POST, PORTSMOUTH

  JUNE 14, 1944

  “Sir, the RAF has reported that they believe they can successfully engage the buzz bombs, if not by ground fire then by aerial attack. The estimate is that the things fly at about four hundred knots, and if more show up, the Spitfire pilots are confident they can shoot the damned things down. Rather impressive, I’d say.”