The Steel Wave

  Following orders, Sergeant Adams had stayed close to Gavin throughout the endless days of meetings and conferences, map studies and engineering lectures, all those ingredients that now comprised Operation Overlord. Hundreds of officers and specialists were still contributing, defining what it was that Eisenhower would actually command, what would actually occur sometime around the end of May. Adams had witnessed Gavin’s remarkable endurance in arguments, hot disputes with all levels of strategists and tacticians, especially those who had no concept of fighting any war that did not involve enormous numbers of troops marching forward in massed attacks. But it was the air commanders who most infuriated the young sergeant, as they had infuriated General Gavin. Gavin could speak out, but Adams was just one more anonymous aide, silent in front of these colonels and generals spouting their tactics.

  Despite the clean uniforms, good food, and close quarters with the high brass, Adams had been frustrated by much of his job. In Sicily and Italy, Adams had toted a Thompson submachine gun. Now his weapon was the pen, his duties involving taking notes and recording appointments, all those jobs that would normally be done by some nameless secretary. But Gavin had made it clear that Sergeant Adams was involved and would accompany him as a silent aide—or silent witness. For reasons Adams still did not completely understand, Gavin trusted him, respected him, and even, on occasion, used him as a sounding board. It was the greatest compliment of Adams’s life.

  The men on the viewing platform all stared toward the far horizon, toward the growing hum, the planes hidden by a gray pregnant sky that hovered close overhead. Adams scanned the crowd, more interested in the ranks around him than in the drone of four dozen C-47s. Close in front of Gavin was the Eighty-second Airborne’s commander, Matthew Ridgway, chewing the ever-present cigar, his face a permanent scowl. Ridgway was in his late forties, but his relative youthfulness among the division commanders didn’t prevent every man in his command from referring to him as the old man, though no one would dare let Ridgway hear it. Down that same row was Maxwell Taylor, new in command of the 101st Airborne, the man whose appointment had surprised everyone, especially the officers of the 101st. The 101st had been commanded by Bill Lee, who had been the energetic force behind the creation of America’s first airborne units and Jim Gavin’s first airborne commander. But after a massive heart attack in early February, Lee had been sent home.

  Lee’s sudden collapse had devastated the morale of the 101st, and those men had every reason to expect one of their own would rise to fill Lee’s shoes. Taylor had been the Eight-second Airborne’s chief of artillery, but in Washington, his name outshined many of the candidates from the 101st, mainly because Taylor had considerably more experience in combat zones than anyone else on the list of prospective commanders in the division. Adams knew enough of loyalty among the enlisted men to wonder if Taylor would ever be accepted by his new command.

  Down the row in front of Ridgway were the British, and Adams focused on the blue coat of Trafford Leigh-Mallory, the dapper square-jawed commander of the Allied tactical air forces. Adams knew Leigh-Mallory was Gavin’s nemesis; he had made it clear that he considered paratroop and glider operations to be far too costly and a gigantic waste of time. Now, with the drone of the C-47s growing louder, Leigh-Mallory stood in the thickening chill, staring up toward the sound, and Adams could only believe that as the squadrons of transport planes drew closer, Leigh-Mallory was expecting some kind of debacle.

  Down below a shout rose up, hands pointing. Looking that way, Adams caught the first glimpse of the formations, the C-47s barely visible in the low-slung clouds. Behind each plane were two gliders, attached by invisible tow lines. Adams watched intently. Gavin had said that this exhibition had one useless purpose: to convince everyone what the Americans already believed. If the gliders landed successfully, the proponents of the airborne operation, men like Taylor and Ridgway, would confirm what they already knew, that gliders were an asset and would be an essential part of the landing operation. If there were problems, it would only give ammunition to those who were still fighting to keep the airborne out of the Overlord plan altogether.

  As the planes roared overhead, Adams measured the altitude in his head: five hundred feet, too low probably. But those damned clouds. The glider pilots had to be able to see the field. He was surprised to feel a hard pounding in his chest, the excitement spreading through all of them, the twin engines on each plane drowning out anyone’s comments. What the hell are you so nervous about? You’ve bailed out of those damned planes a hundred times. But still he focused, stared at the lead squadron, waited for the telltale sign. It came now, the two gliders suddenly veering away, the towlines released from the C-47 that pulled them along. The others began doing the same. Adams didn’t count them; he knew there were forty-eight.

  The small American Waco CG-4A was the glider that would primarily carry the infantry or a single artillery piece. Behind would come the larger, heavier British Horsas, capable of hauling both men and a great deal more equipment, including a pair of cannon or jeeps. As each glider was released from its tow, it began to circle, the pilots focusing on the wide airfield, just another drill they had practiced dozens of times before. Adams shivered and shook his head, unable to avoid a strange fear. No damned way they’re getting me in one of those gliders, he thought, no matter how well they’re supposed to fly. Give me a chute and a plane I can leave behind. I’d a whole lot rather be a one-man target than stuck inside some big floating box.

  He heard a cracking sound, an audible gasp from the men around him, looked out to one side, and saw two gliders locked in a shattering embrace. They had crashed together and tumbled downward, a sickening sound of cracking timbers, crushed metal—and men. What the hell happened? Adams stared at the heap of wreckage, bits of metal and wood still drifting to the ground and heard Gavin in front of him:

  “Dammit! Dammit to hell!”

  Men were shouting, one jeep moving quickly, men running, and now there were new sounds, a rumble of wheels on the smooth grass, gliders landing all across the open ground. Adams heard another crash, saw one glider standing on its nose, the tail straight in the air, the fuselage cracking, the tail section collapsing, men tumbling out onto the ground. Another came in low in front of the reviewing stand, one wing dipping, the tip catching the ground, the glider in a half cartwheel. In front of him, officers began moving away, more jeeps coming out from behind the platform, medics, shouting men. Adams waited for Gavin to move too, so he could follow his commander, but Gavin waited, seeming to absorb the scene: more gliders coming in, many more landing without any problems at all. All across the field, the attention was on the wreckage, some men pulling themselves out from the carcasses of their gliders, some retrieving the injured, medics scrambling into the chaos, officers close behind them. Adams wanted to say something to Gavin, thought, We have to help, but Gavin lowered his head, removed his hat, slapped it hard against his leg. Adams looked below, at another man not moving at all, the blue uniform of Trafford Leigh-Mallory. The British air marshal looked back toward Gavin with a grim stare.

  “I would anticipate fifty percent casualties, and that is optimistic. No commander I know would subject his men to such a certain calamity. I truly do not believe this sort of operation is possible.”

  Adams, sitting close behind Gavin, knew what was coming.

  “We just did precisely this kind of operation in Sicily!” Gavin said. “With considerable success! There is nothing impossible about it! Dangerous? I have no doubt there are dangers, there are dangers to the infantry who are going to cross those beaches, dangers to the navy men driving the landing craft, danger to every man engaged in this operation.”

  Gavin took a breath. Adams watched Leigh-Mallory and saw no change of expression. To one side, a new voice joined the argument. It was Bradley.

  “Gentlemen, I agree that this operation carries risk, but the greatest risk is to the enemy. We must not forget that the purpose of the airborne operation is t
o disrupt and destroy the enemy behind his beachfront fortifications. Once our paratroopers and glider troops are on the ground, their orders are quite specific; they will patrol aggressively. General Gavin is quite correct. Our success in Sicily owed a great deal to the paratroop drops, most specifically in the American sector. Our experience there and at Salerno demonstrated that a nighttime drop will cause complete havoc in the enemy’s position, his communication, and his ability to mobilize an organized front. General Eisenhower has granted his full approval of the airborne assault. I do not see what can be gained by further pessimism.”

  Leigh-Mallory seemed unaffected by Bradley’s encouragement. “I cannot in good conscience support this part of the Overlord plan. The disaster during the glider demonstration only strengthens my resolve.”

  Bradley stood. “Marshal Leigh-Mallory, you may certainly exercise whatever resolve you feel is necessary, but my orders are to include two American airborne divisions in my planning, and Monty has included the British Sixth Airborne in his. We are depending on your tactical air support, and I know of no reason why that should not be forthcoming.”

  Leigh-Mallory stood, slipped his hat beneath his arm. “Gentlemen, I must return to my headquarters. I would only ask that you consider that there are other historical lessons besides the campaign in Sicily. Recall if you will the enemy’s disaster in Crete. Our boys there destroyed most of Hitler’s paratroop forces, and only by a series of unfortunate command decisions was the enemy allowed to drive us away. Only the Nazis would consider their excessive losses in that campaign a worthwhile price to pay for such a victory. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Leigh-Mallory moved out the door, his aide following. Adams felt an almost overwhelming need to follow him and plant a fist into the man’s smug face. There was a momentary hush in the room.

  “He has a rather loose grip on history,” Bradley said. “The German paratroop drop in Crete was launched directly into the teeth of the British defensive position. I intend that you gentlemen drop your people behind the lines, not into them. Or is that too much common sense?”

  HQ, EIGHTY-SECOND AIRBORNE DIVISION, BRAUNSTONE PARK, LEICESTER

  MARCH 24, 1944

  “When was your last jump, Sergeant?”

  Adams hated to answer, hesitated. Gavin nodded.

  “Yeah, I know. Last year sometime. Me too. Ridiculous. Never expected I’d be away from the airfields as much as this. Even if we had the time to join the men in their training jumps, the weather here is so bad we can’t put anybody into a regular schedule. Never saw so much damned rain.”

  “I’d be happy to jump in the rain, sir.”

  Gavin laughed, sat back in his chair, pointed across the office. “Maybe. Until you jumped blind into some Brit’s barn. Grab that chair. Sit down.”

  Adams obeyed, his pen in one hand and pad of paper in the other, ready to write, the routine every morning. He gripped the pen and waited.

  “Hate this place, don’t you?” Gavin said.

  Adams hesitated again. “Not always, sir. It has been an education.”

  “An education in what, how much bull there is in every HQ? How many morons are running this show?”

  Adams didn’t respond. He had seen Gavin in this kind of foul mood before and knew when to shut up. Gavin pushed a folder toward him.

  “Here, look at this. Latest recon photo of the drop zones behind Utah Beach. Our drop zones.”

  Adams slid the photo from the folder. Short dark lines were scattered in blocks of gray fields. Gavin continued.

  “The air recon people wait until late in the day to let the sun create shadows, so we can see what the enemy is doing. We couldn’t figure out what those were until they started to grow in number. Those little specks are shadows cast by some kind of posts or poles, which the intelligence people believe are designed to disrupt our airborne landings. Could play hell with the gliders. One more can of gasoline for Leigh-Mallory’s fire. Damn that pessimistic son of a bitch.” Gavin stopped and looked at Adams, a sharp glare. “You didn’t hear that. Ike is pretty touchy on anyone bitching about the Brits. We have a good plan, Sergeant, a damned good plan.”

  Adams studied the photograph. Pretty damned smart of the recon people to wait for the shadows to come. I guess that’s why I’m in this office, and not out taking pictures. Gavin continued.

  “Bradley impresses hell out of me, and General Ridgway—well, he’s the best man to run this division. They should have given tactical air command to someone who knows what’s really happening on the ground. Ridgway would have been perfect. Too many high-ranking Brits ahead of him, though.”

  Adams looked up. “Yes, sir. I agree, sir.”

  Gavin smiled. “I see you’ve been properly indoctrinated. I’ve had my share of arguments with General Ridgway, which is pretty rare in this outfit. It’s best to keep your conversations with the general short. You disagree with him, tell him why as carefully as you can, then shut the hell up while he tells you why you’re wrong. He doesn’t tolerate much discussion about anything. Tough bird. Difficult. Believes he knows what’s best, and most of the time it’s hard to disagree. In this outfit there’s the right way, the wrong way, and the Ridgway.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve heard that often, sir.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Sergeant. You hate this place, right? It’s all right, I do too. That photo, pretty interesting stuff. But all it shows me is where I want to be. I miss those damned C-47s; I miss strapping on a chute. Nothing I can do about that, not yet anyway. Pretty proud of this job, Sergeant. Never thought a kid like me would get to shout at generals to their faces. Learned that from Ridgway. He’s good at it too. But, dammit, I need to see a chute over my head, jerk some risers, feel the grease of a carbine. I see those damned green jump lights in my sleep.”

  Adams couldn’t help a laugh, stifled it.

  “What?”

  “Me too, sir. Can’t stop thinking about Sicily, the dark, trying like hell to find someone who didn’t want to kill me.”

  Gavin stared at him for a long moment, said nothing. Adams waited for orders, straightened the pad of paper, the pen ready. There was little chatting with Gavin.

  “I’ve been giving this some thought, Sergeant. Damned selfish of me, pulling you off the line.”

  “Oh, no, sir. I was honored. Surprised you even knew who I was.”

  “Knock it off, Sergeant. Every man in the Five-oh-five knew who you were. There’s probably a silver star somewhere with your name on it.”

  Adams let the words flow past him. What the hell is going on here?

  “I doubt that, sir. Begging your pardon.”

  “Answer my damned question, Sergeant. You hate this place?”

  Adams stiffened, had a sudden flash of memory: a week ago, some British general ordering him to get coffee, Gavin standing up for him, no, he’s not a mess orderly. Adams was grateful for the chance Gavin had given him, an honor indeed, even if the job was more clerical than anything he ever expected. He took a breath.

  “Sir, I feel like I’m suffocating here.”

  “So do I, Sergeant, so do I. Problem is, I still have work to do here. You’ve been an enormous help. Good work, fine work. But we’ve got replacements coming into the Eighty-second who don’t know a damned thing about the enemy, who are going to be a part of this operation when the only jumps they’ve made are at Benning or Bragg. We’re going to get our asses shot off if we’re not ready, and right now we’re a long way from ready.” Gavin reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Had this here for a couple days. Debated like hell telling you.”

  “Sir?”

  “Read it.”

  Adams took the paper, saw the insignia of the Eighty-second Airborne, General Ridgway’s official letterhead.

  Sergeant Jesse Adams is hereby ordered to report to Colonel William Ekman, Commanding Officer, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, where Sergeant Adams will resume his post as jump instructor, with full seniority
over the regiment’s other noncommissioned instructors.

  “I wanted to make you a first sergeant, but that will have to wait. Ekman suggested we give you a commission, make you a damned lieutenant. He thought it might be a good bribe to get you out of this place and back into jump boots. Told him you wouldn’t need that. The last thing I want anyone to say about you is that you’re a ninety-day wonder. And I don’t really think you’re officer material, Sergeant. That’s not an insult, I promise you. Just look around this place.”

  Adams felt his brain swimming. “No, sir. I understand, sir.” He read the orders again, could not hold the smile, and looked up at Gavin, who smiled as well. “Thank you, sir.”