by David Mack
“We’ll meet again,” Cade said. “After the war.”
“You know how to find me, mate.”
Sergeant Dale’s shout split the morning air: “Dog Company! First Platoon! Move out!”
The ranks ahead of Cade started to march. He turned a mischievous look at Miles. “Hey! You got that ten pounds you owe me?”
An ivory grin. “Sorry, mate. We’re not flush like you Yanks. Settle up next time?”
Following his section on the march out of Achnacarry, Cade answered Miles over his shoulder: “Count on it.”
48
MAY
“Lad, we’re running out of time. Come have another go.” Adair lagged behind Cade, who walked faster now than he ever had before. Striking a plaintive note, Adair added, “One more go-round, then we’ll call it a night.”
“I’ve had enough.” Cade quickened his pace. The barracks he shared with his Ranger cohort on the outskirts of Dorchester—their latest staging point, following whirlwind rounds of training in Braunton and Swanage—lay just a short ways up the dark road. As with most other military sites in the south of England, there were no lights on in the wee hours, a precaution against Luftwaffe bombing sorties. Cade, like most other Allied soldiers training for the European campaign, had learned to navigate by compass and starlight.
Adair did his best to keep up with Cade, but after nearly six months in the Rangers’ care the youth was a changed man. Matching his pace left Adair winded. “Cade, please. Convincing the army to move the practice bunker from Leominster wasn’t easy. They won’t move it again. We need to use it while we can.”
“And we will. Tomorrow, when I’m better rested.”
Why is it so hard to talk sense to him? “You think you’ll be well-rested for the real thing? You’ll spend a night crossing the Channel; then you’ll have to storm a beach, scale a cliff, and attack a bunker—all under fire. Even if you reach the seal intact, you think you’ll be daisy-fresh? You’ll be lucky to catch your breath and not heave your guts out.”
Cade stopped and confronted his master. “Get off my back. I’ve spent months studying that thing. I know every goddamn mark on it.”
“Not from what I saw tonight.”
A sharp intake of breath telegraphed Cade’s mounting frustration. “I transposed two out of a thousand glyphs, and missed a dot on one. I’ll remember next time.”
“You’d better. Botch even one on the real thing and those demons fly free. You get sloppy, the rest of us see Hell on earth.”
“The rest of us?”
“Aye. You’ll be dead the moment you bollix it up. It’s the other two billion sods on this planet that’ll have to suffer.”
Those numbers sobered Cade in an instant. He let go of his defiance, nodded, then met Adair’s searching look with humility. “I’ll go over the glyphs again in the morning.”
“Why not now?”
Cade checked his watch, then jogged toward his section’s barracks. “Sarge wants me back by midnight, didn’t say why.” Adair trotted a few paces behind as Cade added, “I hope it’s not another screening of Girl Crazy. I like Judy Garland, but if I have to watch that flick one more time, I’ll blow my brains out.”
Under his breath, Adair cursed the passion and energy of youth, then rebuked himself for his envy. The world is new to him. Let him savor it.
He followed Cade down narrow lanes steeped in darkness until they approached his barracks. An armed sentry, more a voice in the dark than a person, blocked their path.
“Halt! Identify yourself.”
“Martin, Private Cade. Fifth Rangers, Dog Company, First Platoon.”
“And who’s that behind you?”
Cade answered, “That’s Adair Macrae, British SOE. He’s with me.”
The sentry snapped on a flashlight, aimed it into their faces for a few seconds, then turned it off. “All right, get inside. Sarge is waitin’ for you.”
“Thanks.” Cade and Adair climbed the steps to the barracks door. At the top, Cade knocked twice, then waited for a single knock in response—a signal that the lights inside were out, for safety—before opening the door and leading Adair inside. As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, the lights snapped on, and the duo found themselves facing the entire First Platoon of Dog Company, who had gathered for Sergeant Dale’s announcement.
Dale nodded at Adair. They had met a few times before, to speak briefly about Cade’s need for separate, specialized training after lights-out. Unlike the enlisted men in Cade’s unit, the NCOs and officers all had been briefed regarding Cade’s singular mission in the upcoming attack. So far as Adair could tell, none of them had let anything slip to the rank and file.
The sergeant stepped forward to meet Cade. “Son,” he said in his Texas drawl, “I’ve got a confession to make. When the army dumped you in my lap five months ago, I didn’t think you were gonna make it. You didn’t know shit about soldierin’, and you could barely find your ass with both hands, never mind field-strip your M1. So when the army said I had to get your sorry ass up to speed and make you ready to hit the beach, I was not what you would call optimistic.”
Dale looked around at the other members of Dog Company, many of whom were struggling and failing to suppress knowing smiles. “But I’ll be goddamned, son. You proved me wrong. You learned faster than anybody I’ve ever seen. And last week, in Braunton and Swanage … well, shit. You showed real grit, boy. Ain’t a man in this company who’d think twice about goin’ into battle with you. Myself included.” He looked over his shoulder as someone else stepped forward. “So we all chipped in and got you a little somethin’. Hope it fits.”
Out of the ranks stepped the burly platoon sergeant, Staff Sergeant Gordon Speath, and the platoon’s commanding officer, First Lieutenant Francis Dawson, whom Adair had glimpsed only once before, in passing. He noted that Cade looked upon the man with genuine awe and respect.
Dawson held out his open hand to Cade. In it was a diamond-shaped shoulder patch: a navy-blue field with a gold border and gold type that read, in capital letters, RANGERS.
“Take it, son,” the lieutenant said. “You’ve earned it. You’re one of us now.”
Cade stared in shock, then accepted the patch. “Thank you, sir.”
Private Pinchefsky gave Cade a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Fast learner, huh? Guess we can’t call you ‘Dunce Cap’ no more.” He smirked at Dale. “What’s his new nick, Sarge?”
“Well, everybody loves an underdog, right?”
The cluster of soldiers broke up and flowed past Cade like a river breaking around a stone, all of them patting his back or his shoulders as they passed: “Way to go, Underdog.” “Good job, Underdog.” “Kickin’ ass and takin’ names, Underdog!” “Way to do it, Underdog.”
Dawson raised his voice. “Now the bad news.” He handed Cade a folded paper. As Cade opened it, Dawson said, “You’ve been transferred. Second Rangers, Easy Company.” A disappointed frown. “Sorry, son, the order came from Eisenhower himself. There’s a jeep waiting to take you to Braunton. Report to First Sergeant Lang, he’ll get you sorted out.”
A pall fell over the platoon. It was clear from the stunned look on Cade’s face that he didn’t know how to process the news. He folded the paper, nodded once. “Understood, sir.”
The other men gathered around to shake Cade’s hand, bid him farewell, wish him luck, and encourage him to keep his feet dry, his head down, and his ass attached. The last man to face him was Pinchefsky. “Take care of yourself, Underdog.”
“Same to you, Pinch.”
“And if any of those Second Ranger pricks gives you shit—”
“I’ll send ’em right to you.”
“Fuck, no,” Pinchefsky said. “They’re nuts. I was gonna say smile and keep walkin’.”
The men of First Platoon went on lobbing jokes and good-natured barbs at Cade while he packed his duffel for the midnight trip to the Second Ranger Battalion.
Watching from a respect
ful distance, Adair felt a swell of reflected pride in Cade’s achievement, and at the bonds the young man had so quickly forged. Adair had feared his push to see the lad integrated into the army’s ranks might fail or backfire. Instead, Cade had succeeded beyond all of Adair’s expectations. It was a hopeful sign. If the other Rangers believed in him, perhaps Cade might be ready to face the horrors of war.
But seeing his apprentice bask in the praise of his brothers-in-arms, Adair couldn’t deny his own mounting fears—because humanity’s survival hinged upon Cade enduring what Adair knew would be nothing less than a one-way ticket into the maw of Hell.
49
JUNE
The HMS Amsterdam, a Channel steamer converted into an infantry transport for the Royal Navy, was a cramped can of a ship, stripped of comforts and reduced to bare necessities. Suspended over its sides from hydraulic hoists, level with the main deck, were a dozen LCAs, flat-bottomed amphibious landing craft. Not long after the Second Rangers had arrived in Weymouth on June 1, they were transferred across the harbor on barges to the Amsterdam, into which they had been jammed like rounds into a rifle’s magazine.
Hidden away in the bowels of the ship, the Rangers had been berthed by platoons and sections, told to stow their gear anywhere they could find space, and to make themselves comfortable. That instruction had struck Cade as a sick joke. There was more than enough room for the men. Finding space for all their gear, on the other hand, had made for tight quarters.
There were few portholes below A Deck, and the only source of light in his platoon’s compartment was a bare bulb that dangled from a frayed cord in a haze of cigarette smoke. Huddled under it, Cade and a few of his new buddies from Easy Company’s Second Platoon sat in a loose huddle around a creased deck of cards and wrinkled wads of cash.
Dutch flicked the corner of one his cards. “Bet’s to you, Martin.”
“Really? And I thought you were all staring at me ’cause I’m so damn handsome.” Cade pondered his hand: two pair, queens and threes. It wasn’t a bad hand for five-card draw poker, but the way Dutch and Paddy had been betting, he was sure at least one of them had three of a kind. And Rooster never started the betting, but he had called even after two raises, which left Cade suspecting the barracks lawyer of setting a trap for the rest of them. Folding was probably the smartest call. Problem was, they were threatening to change Cade’s nickname to “Yeller” because of how often he folded before the showdown. Pride was a bad reason to call a bet, but Cade had nothing else to spend his money on, so why not?
First Lieutenant Leagans pushed open the compartment’s door and leaned in just far enough to fill the space with his voice: “Martin! Front and center!”
Relieved to have an excuse to bow out, Cade feigned disappointment. “Shit, just my luck.” He mucked his cards, stood, and brushed off his pants. “Look sharp, Dutch.” Hooked a thumb at Rooster: “Keep this one honest.”
The game continued without him as he walked past fellow Rangers and sidestepped out the door, which could be opened only halfway because of the human cargo blocking its inward swing. In the corridor, he snapped to attention in front of Leagans. “Sir.”
“At ease, Private. Follow me.” The lieutenant offered no explanation, and Cade knew not to ask. An officer had given him an order; that was all he needed to know.
They climbed a ladderway to the main deck, then walked aft on the port side to a hatch that led to a transverse through the ship’s superstructure. Inside, a door on the forward bulkhead was ajar. Leagans pushed it open and walked inside. Cade followed him, noting a placard beside the door designating this as the ship’s wardroom.
Unlike the accommodations belowdecks, the wardroom was spacious and lit with warm light. Gathered at the conference table were the senior NCOs of Easy Company, Second Platoon: Technical Sergeant Elliot Mann, platoon sergeant; the assault section leaders, Staff Sergeants Jerry Sykes and Sam Kelly; and Sergeant Michael DeStefano, head of the mortar section.
Leagans pointed Cade toward the open chair next to Mann. “Take a seat, Private.” The platoon leader sat opposite Cade, next to Sykes. Then everyone waited. A clock on the bulkhead crept with maddening sloth toward the top of the hour. Cade wondered, as the hour hand snapped into place, whether that would herald some dramatic—
The door was thrown open as if by a storm, and a tall, thin four-star general entered the room and strode to the head of the table, his braided hat tucked under his arm, a young female army officer trailing him toting a briefcase. Leagans and the NCOs sprang to their feet, so Cade did the same, a fraction of a second behind them. No one saluted, since neither the general nor his aide were wearing their covers. Easy’s commander, Captain Richard Merrill, and its top kick, First Sergeant Bob Lang, followed the general inside and flanked him.
The general smiled. “At ease, gentlemen. Be seated.”
As soon as the general spoke, Cade recognized him from their brief meeting on Gibraltar years earlier: He was Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Allied Commander Europe.
The Rangers dropped into their chairs and did a fair approximation of sitting at attention. Eisenhower set his hat on the table and remained standing, while his adjutant opened her briefcase and handed manila folders to the men around the table. As soon as she had finished, she left the wardroom and closed the door behind her.
“Gentlemen,” the general said, “our invasion of France is imminent. Twelve days ago, you were told Pointe du Hoc is your target. Now it’s time you knew the rest of your mission. If you’ll open the folders you’ve been given and look at the first page—” He waited while the Rangers complied. “You’ll see that credible intelligence from the French Resistance suggests the Germans have moved the six artillery pieces inland. You are not to share that information with your men. The observation bunker atop Pointe du Hoc is your chief objective. On page two—”
Papers rustled as Cade and his fellow Rangers turned pages.
Eisenhower resumed, “—you’ll find aerial and ground recon photos to help you identify the most direct approach to the bunker. It is imperative you eliminate all enemy forces defending this facility, without damaging its map room.” A genial half smile tugged at the general’s mouth. “Now, to answer the question that I know is on all your minds: Why did I ask a private to attend this meeting?” He fixed Cade with a look that seemed equal parts admiration and pity. “For the same reason I transferred him to your unit: he’s the key to your entire mission.”
That declaration raised the sergeants’ eyebrows and triggered surprised looks that lasted until Eisenhower continued. “I’ve briefed your battalion command, as well as Captain Merrill, First Sergeant Lang, and Lieutenant Lapres of First Platoon. What you men need to know is this: In the observation bunker’s map room is a unique type of bomb, one that requires a rare and special expertise to defuse. And our only man qualified to do it is Private Cade Martin.”
Sykes leaned forward. “Pardon me, General. What kind of bomb is it, exactly?”
“That’s classified, Sergeant.”
Kelly was the next to give in to curiosity. “And what qualifies Martin to defuse it?”
“Specialized training he received prior to joining the army.”
“What kind of training?” asked DeStefano. “Received where?”
Cade wondered how much the general intended to tell the Rangers about the Midnight Front and Adair, and of what they were really up against. Eisenhower looked again at Cade, then said with a perfect poker face, “Those details are top-secret. All you men need to know is that Private Martin was educated at Oxford, and for the last few years he’s been serving behind the lines with British SOE. He has the full confidence of our British allies, and mine as well.” He planted his knuckles on the table. “I’m putting his life in your hands. Make clear to all the men under your command that getting Private Martin into that bunker, alive and preferably in one piece, is your only imperative after you hit the beach. You are to consider any previous orders you have in hand,
and any contradictory directives you might receive in the future, null and void, on my personal authority. When it comes to getting Martin into that bunker, all of you, and every man in your unit, should be considered expendable. Do I make myself clear?”
Merrill nodded and spoke for the group. “Perfectly, sir.”
“Good. One last thing. Your mission is classified top-secret. Do not discuss it with anyone outside your unit, ever. Even after this war is over, as far as all of you are concerned, this meeting never happened, I was never here, and you’ve never heard of this operation. Clear?” Silent nods of affirmation drew a satisfied smile on the general’s lean face. “Good.” He picked up his hat and tucked it under his arm. “Ready to hit the beach?”
“Do or die, General,” Leagans said. “Just give the word.”
“Gentlemen … the word is given. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to Southwick House before anyone notices I’m missing.”
Eisenhower pivoted toward the door. On cue, Leagans and the NCOs bolted to their feet, with Cade emulating them a split second behind. They watched at attention while Eisenhower made his exit. As soon as the door clicked shut, their collective bated breath escaped in a great gasp. DeStefano glowered at Cade. “Goddamn, Private. What the fuck did you get us into?”
“It wasn’t me.” Cade shrugged, palms up, signaling surrender. “If I could’ve gone in alone, I would’ve. But the army had other plans.”
“It usually does,” grumbled Sergeant Mann, whose deep-set eyes gave him the affect of a cadaver. “Most of which involve us going home in boxes.”
* * *
There had been no chance for Adair to say good-bye. Not that he had been of a mind to say much to his last apprentice beyond “good luck” before chiding him not to transpose tau and rho when he altered the glyphs inside the bunker, but it would have been good to see the lad’s face once more. Just in case it proved to be for the last time.
Can’t think that way. Chin up. He’ll do you proud.