by Jeff Shaara
He fought it, the same anger that came to him at night, breaking his sleep. With the exhaustion of so many days in combat, his brain had no power to resist, so the sleep was never complete and never enough. I need to write her, he thought. I need to know if Clay’s all right, what the hell he’s doing in the Pacific. He won’t tell her of course, even if he could. Hope like hell he’s alive. That’s the main thing. Probably ought to tell her I’m alive too.
He stepped in a hole, jarred, mud up to his knee, sharp pain in his ankle. “Dammit!”
In front of him, faces turned back, and one man was up beside him quickly, a hand under his arm: Unger.
“You okay, Sarge? Gotta watch those holes. You’ll bust an ankle.”
“Get your ass back in line, Private. I need a medic, I’ll holler for one.”
Unger said nothing, just backed away, and Adams felt a strange sensation: guilt. He wanted to say something, an apology, but he stared ahead, glanced into the trees, thought, You’re getting too damned soft. Don’t do that. We’re not a damned social club. That idiot Marley did something to you. You better damn well forget about him. Buford too. Hell, I don’t even remember what they looked like.
But one part of his brain opened up, exposing the lie, and he saw Marley now, the horrible image of the missing leg, the man’s awful words: Shoot me. No! You son of a bitch. You had no right to say that to me. Show some guts! He stared down at his feet, slow footsteps in the mud, the pain in his ankle not as bad. I can’t keep thinking about this stuff. This job oughta get easier: every day, every damned fight, every time I fire this damned submachine gun. I’ve never lost my nerve, never thought what it’d be like to get hammered, cut up by shrapnel. You dwell on that stuff, you’ll end up hiding under a rock. Maybe I just need a few weeks’ rest. Some of these morons talk about how they’d love a nice little wound, like that’s all they’d need to get them home. Ask Marley about that.
He forced himself to watch the trees, pulled the Thompson off his shoulder, held it in his hands, flexed his back. He heard the rustles and clicks behind him, others doing the same, men who had learned to follow his lead. I guess if I did a bunny hop, they’d do that too. That’s what happens when they get tired of hearing you cuss them out. They start paying attention.
There were sounds in front of him, the chatter of a machine gun, men moving into the woods on either side of the road. Adams was alert again, energized, motioned to his men, called out, “Cover!”
He stumbled into the brush, his foot stabbing a hole, cold water over his boots. He pushed farther into the cover, knelt, listened over the sound of the men behind him, the firing scattered, nothing in the air above their heads. There were voices on the road now: Scofield.
Adams looked at the dirty faces watching him and said, “Stay put. Let me see what the hell’s going on.”
He realized he had been the first one in his platoon to hit the cover of the woods and was annoyed with himself. Dammit, you command these guys. You shouldn’t be the first one to take cover. Grab hold of it, Sergeant. He saw Scofield, talking into a radio, saw one of the lieutenants moving up the road quickly, a hand clamped down on his helmet.
Scofield waited for them both to move close, then said in a low voice, “We ran into an outpost of some kind. They didn’t put up much of a fight. We grabbed a few prisoners. Colonel Ekman says, No slowing down. Drive hard, straight ahead. They don’t seem to know we’re coming. Hill 131 is right there.”
Adams saw now: steeper ground to one side of the road. He looked at the lieutenant, who stared at the incline.
“I guess we climb,” Adams said.
“Right now, Sergeant.”
Adams moved to the edge of the woods, waved his men out, waited for them to gather. Unger moved up close.
“Where they at, Sarge?”
“Shut up. You see that hill? They’re waiting for us on top. They’re not coming down here, so we have to go up and get ’em.” He looked around, saw Scofield on the radio again. The captain caught the look, nodded, pointed toward the woods across the road. It was time to climb.
They moved quickly, the fire from the German machine guns mostly ineffective, much of it passing over their heads. The rain had begun again, softening the sounds, and Adams led his men up through grass and rocks, natural cover, stopped behind a flat rock, his head down, raised up quickly, then down again. There was no response from above, no firing, and he thought, I’m not giving you a damned target, you Kraut sons of bitches. There was low brush scattered across the hill above him, dips and valleys, hiding places, and he heard voices, German, yards above him: urgent orders. The flat rock was a foot above his helmet, and he used the cover, looked back behind him, saw Unger behind another rock, watching him, the M-1 cradled close to Unger’s chest. All along the hillside, his men seemed glued in place, motionless, some behind fallen trees, some in the rocks, no sounds above the hiss of the rain. Higher up the hill, the voices came again. Adams wanted to peer up, but the men were moving down the hill, closer, and he froze. The first voice was an officer, certainly. Okay, so the Kraut told his men to move down to a better position. Mistake, pal.
Adams could hear footsteps coming closer, dislodged rocks, the clack of metal, and he clenched his jaw, stared at the wetness on the Thompson. A small rock rolled past him, tumbling over his boots, and he heard a voice right above him, the man standing on his flat rock. Adams felt the burst in his brain. Close enough.
He pushed himself up with one hand, the Thompson in the other, already firing, the German was knocked backward, falling off the rock. Behind the man were four more, carrying a heavy machine gun, some hauling boxes of ammunition, all of them staring down the hill in stunned shock. Adams’s men began to fire, the gun’s crew was swept down, and above them more Germans were caught in the open, another gun crew, some returning fire, some of them ducking low, others running back up the hill. But the surprise was complete. Adams sprayed the hillside above him, saw the last man falling, more men wounded, crawling in the rocks, pops of fire from behind him, Unger, aiming at the wounded German. Adams jerked another magazine from his pants leg, reloaded on his knees, the big rock still his cover, and scanned the hillside with the barrel of the Thompson, felt himself gasping for breath. There was scattered firing to one side, more of the 505th moving up the hill, some higher up, faster progress, and Adams wanted to move. We need to keep going, he thought. He looked at the boots of the man he had shot, the man lying on his back, just off the edge of the rock, his feet up in the air. Adams couldn’t see the face. He leaned forward across the rock and pushed with the barrel of the Thompson, the man’s legs falling to one side. Adams ducked low again, looked to his men, still in good cover, and listened through the hiss of the rain, more firing, both sides, muffled sounds. Then he stared up the hill, past the bodies of the enemy, and made a wave with his arm. Let’s go!
They captured the hill before noon and pushed past, swarming up and over La Poterie Ridge. Throughout the day, German resistance had become fierce and far more effective, but the drive of the paratroopers overwhelmed their enemy’s defenses. By dark on that first day, the 505th was perched high up on the ridge, facing Hill 95, the last obstacle before they reached the village itself. The following morning, they moved out early and, alongside several squads from the 508th, the 505th pushed up Hill 95, sweeping away the last resistance of an enemy who was unwilling to die for a hill they could not expect to hold.
HILL 95, NORTH OF LA HAYE-DU-PUITS
JULY 4, 1944, EARLY MORNING
“We pull back.”
The others reacted, one lieutenant open-mouthed, slapping the top of his helmet with a dirty hand.
“What? Colonel, what the hell are you talking about?”
Ekman ignored the man’s fury. “I’m as mad as a hornet about this,” he said to Scofield, “but it’s the order we’ve been given. The infantry on our flanks hasn’t done the job. We’re out here in a salient. If we continue to move forward and occupy the village, we
’ll be all alone, an easy target for a German counterattack.”
Scofield pointed. “Sir, the village is right in front of us. We’ve observed the enemy retreating, dragging every gun he can carry. There might not even be any machine guns there. It’s ours for the taking. The men have earned this, sir.”
Adams could see the anger in Ekman’s face, directed now at Scofield. “Dammit, Captain, don’t you dare tell me what these men have earned! This comes directly from Corps HQ, and they didn’t tell me to use my discretion. We’re out here by ourselves, and we have been ordered to pull back and link up with the infantry on our flanks. You think I’m happy about that? We kicked the enemy in the ass and have nothing to show for it except casualties. You want to bitch some more? Save it for Ridgway. But I can tell you right now I’m not going anywhere near Division HQ until I have to. Ridgway’s puking fire, and I’ve had to listen to enough of that already. Now, Captain, put some men out as a rear guard and withdraw back up those roads we used to get here!”
Ekman turned away and went quickly down into the trees. For a long moment, no one spoke. Adams pulled the Thompson tight against his side, the strap digging into a sore groove on his shoulder. He was too tired to feel anger, only the numbing fog coming back into his brain. Scofield took off his helmet and wiped a hand across his face.
“I’m going to make damned sure everyone hears about this. We were given a job to do, and we did it, and they pulled the rug out.” He paused. “All right, assemble your men. Make sure they have something to eat, and then get them ready. Fifteen minutes. I’ll give the order to move out.”
The others moved away. Adams had no strength in his legs and blinked hard, trying to clear the fog. Scofield put his helmet back on.
“Retreat. I hate that word. Hate it more than—well, hell, maybe more than surrender. You surrender, it’s because you’re whipped, no choice except maybe to die. But retreat. That just means you screwed up, or some idiot in command did something stupid and put your ass in a sling.”
Adams shrugged. “Sounds to me like we’re pulling back because we did too good a job.”
Scofield looked at him, said nothing. Adams felt a growling hunger, thought of the K rations, felt for the weight in his backpack. The radioman had stayed back from the gathering of officers and was moving up the hill now, a young corporal named Griffin, a fixture close to Scofield’s side. Adams looked out across the side of the hill and saw a cluster of his own men, most lying in the rocks and grass, some eating from tin cans. He turned to Scofield again.
“Think I’ll have some breakfast, Captain. Got an extra can of something here, Spam maybe, if you need anything.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got my own. I could use some coffee, even if it’s the powdered stuff.”
“You’re a brave man, sir. I’ll have the platoon ready to move in ten minutes.”
He had the urge to salute Scofield but fought it, thinking, There could always be snipers, even up here. We get through this, there’ll be time for salutes later. Maybe a hell of a lot of salutes. Put us in a parade ground somewhere, snapping salutes all day, make up for lost time.
Adams walked along the side of the hill. He could see the village below, silent, no movement. He was among his own men now, familiar faces, saw Corporal Nusbaum toss a small can toward a bush, benign target practice. Nusbaum looked up at him.
“How long before we move out, time enough to make a hole in the ground? Haven’t seen any sign of a full-blown latrine around here.”
“A small hole. We pull out in ten minutes. You eat?”
“Yeah. Everybody has. I was really looking forward to that village down there. Figured we could find something better than this stuff. Maybe some good stinky cheese or more of that damned Calvados.”
Adams thought of Marley, the drunken spree in Sainte-Mère-Église. “Time for that later. One thing this country’s not short of is cheese and alcohol. I’d settle for a peanut butter sandwich.”
Nusbaum laughed. Adams saw Unger, another toss of an empty ration can. Unger stood, blew into the breech of his M-1, and hoisted it on his shoulder.
“Hey, Sarge. You know what day this is?”
“Your mama’s birthday? What the hell difference does it make?”
“It’s the Fourth of July, Sarge. We oughta celebrate.”
“Not in the mood. Maybe somebody’ll shoot a rocket or two in camp tonight.” He felt the hunger again, a rumble in his gut, reached for the backpack, pulled out a can of Spam, and rolled it over in his hand, a gesture of resignation. “I bet George Washington never had to eat this stuff.”
On July 2, the Allied command recognized a milestone that might have been the only part of the entire operation that had fallen close to its timetable. The one millionth soldier crossed the beaches into Normandy. That singular success provided a glimpse of inspiration to the commanders in the American sector, but there was another gesture that carried weight all through the ranks. The order for a July Fourth celebration came directly from Omar Bradley, what he knew to be a tradition for artillery units since the Civil War. The custom called for the firing of forty-eight artillery pieces, a salute by the army signifying every state in the union. But Bradley had a better idea, born of his frustration with the plodding progress of this fight. At precisely noon, every artillery piece in the sector, eleven hundred guns, each launched a single shell into the closest German position to their front, the largest salute of its kind since the tradition began.
As the men of the Eighty-second Airborne marched northward in their muddy withdrawal, the thunder of the guns was met with a weary mix of pride and apathy. Adams led his men back through their own footprints, and the sudden clap of distant thunder was no distraction at all. He moved again in a slow rhythm, the Thompson on his shoulder, his mind holding fast to his memories, so many of them bad. There were no thoughts of the next mission, or the next campaign, no concern for captains and colonels and generals. He tried to think of home, of the letter he should write, or his brother, somewhere in some hellhole in the Pacific. But his mind brought him back to the march, one foot in front of the other, rocks in the soft mud, the soft echo of footsteps of so many who were no longer there.
For another week, the paratroopers stayed in their camps, while the infantry massed and organized along the front lines, waiting for the orders that would send them forward once again. But on July 11, the men of the 82nd Airborne received an order of their own. Three days later, on July 14, they boarded transport trucks, a long snaking convoy that carried them through the awful bocage country, the country they had given so much to capture. The trucks moved north, toward Utah Beach, the 82nd sharing the same embarkation point as the 101st. Both airborne divisions were ordered aboard transport ships that would carry them back to England.
Whether he would ever see the enemy again was not a question Adams could yet ask himself, or anyone above him. His men had endured thirty-three continuous days of combat, and for now the questions were more about what they would find in England, whether they would enjoy the luxury of cots and roofs over their heads, hot food and quiet nights, and a dawn with breakfast instead of a bloody attack into enemy guns. Rumors began to fly, many of the men believing they were going home. But Adams had heard none of that from the officers. They were, after all, some of the most highly trained men in the army, with a specialized talent that might still be required. They were paratroopers. And the war was not yet over.
* * *
36. ROMMEL
* * *
There had been another meeting with Hitler on June 28, at Rommel’s urgent request, but this time the Führer did not travel. The meeting was at Berchtesgaden, Hitler’s fortified Eagle’s Nest in southern Bavaria. Once again von Rundstedt accompanied Rommel, and once again, Rommel made a plea to Hitler, more details of losses and supply shortages, the position and strength of the enemy, estimates of just how long German lines could hold. But Hitler would hear none of it. He had every question answered in his own mind, and as a
lways he furiously denounced Rommel’s pessimism.
By now, Rommel had come to expect this reaction from Hitler, but there had been surprises at this meeting, an audience he did expect to have. This meeting was to be something of a show, as though scripted by the propaganda ministry, contradicting the gloom of both Rommel and von Rundstedt. It was more for the presenters themselves: Hitler’s own staff, an audience trained not to question. Hermann Göring was there, the Luftwaffe chief, strutting as he always strutted, insisting that Germany’s production of aircraft was at long last accelerating, that a thousand new planes were coming on line in a matter of days. Admiral Dönitz was there as well, the Kriegsmarine’s senior commander, who did nothing to dispute Hitler’s insistence that the vast waterways off the coast of France were soon to be made impenetrable by newly laid mines and patrolled by legions of newly minted submarines and gunships. There was boisterous talk of new secret weapons, the V-1 already wreaking havoc on British civilians, and another weapon, far more fierce, the V-2, soon to fill the skies over England, igniting its cities into flaming terror. The V-2 was a rocket, far larger than the V-1, which would fly with a high arching trajectory, coming down with none of the V-1’s telltale noisemaking. Throughout the show, all the glorious optimism that was laid out before them, Hitler lectured both of his ground commanders on their defeatist attitudes, insisting with perfect certainty that the most effective strategy still was to drive the invaders back into the sea.