The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (48 page)

There was another blast, more dirt raining down on them, the men lying flat, and Gorham was back, said to Scofield, “We have to pull back! They keep us pinned down, they can send more infantry up here, and we won’t know it until they’re right in front of us. This ridge is no place to hole up from those eighty-eights. I’ll go to the left flank, pull those men back. Captain, do the same here. Pull back to that high ground on the right, looks like a half mile or so.”

Scofield was up quickly, said to Adams, “Go to the flank, get the machine-gun and bazooka crews out first! Don’t screw around! The Krauts could roll those tanks right over this hill in about five minutes’ time!”

Adams was up now, moving quickly, ignored the men, the questions. He moved toward the far end of the ridge, saw the bazooka crews in motion already, the machine gunners watching him from their positions along the ridge.

“Let’s go! Pull out!”

The machine gunners dragged their guns back, the men hoisting them up on shoulders, two men per gun, making their way down through the brush. He saw the last gun, the two men struggling, and he cursed, pushed up the hill, said, “Move it! What the hell’s the problem?”

The men had the gun now, and he saw that one of them was Fulton, the thin, wiry man, the gun barrel on his shoulder now.

“Good! Get going! That high ground…there!”

The blast came again, the shell punching through the crest of the hill above him. The force knocked him flat, his chest empty of air, gasping, choking through the dirt. He rolled downhill, tried to stand, saw the machine gun, broken, twisted metal, a man’s boot, a piece of a shovel. His mind pulled him away, no, nothing you can do, and he looked for the second man, saw him now, his body spread out in the brush, Fulton, the face upturned, the helmet gone. Adams felt his knees shake, couldn’t escape it, dropped down, oh Jesus, oh bloody Jesus. He saw men running, moving back, away from the artillery fire, the orders in his head, Scofield’s command,
no screwing around
. He fought for his breaths, still felt the hard blow in his chest, checked the Thompson, jerked the bolt, a fresh cartridge, the gun ready again. There was another blast, back toward the road, where he had been before, and he ignored it, moved away with his men.

T
he sound of the tanks was clear and distinct, and Adams could feel the rumble of steel deep in his gut. The men huddled low again, another ridgeline, not much higher than the last, fewer of them now, wounded men dragged back into a low area, a deep cut in the hillside, blessed shade.

There was no shelling now, the Germans in motion, their officer finally making a decision, the column of armor pushing forward. Adams listened to the sounds, heard what they all heard, the tread of the tanks rolling on the hard-packed road, hidden only by the dust clouds and the lay of the land. He had not seen Gorham in a while, assumed him to be down on the flank, some preparation to defend the line from that direction. Adams lowered his head, touched the rim of his helmet on the Thompson. Hell of a mess, Jesse. I always thought it was the Marines who had it tough. How the hell we going to get out of this? Where the hell is everybody else?
“Hell.”
He repeated the word out loud. Pretty well describes this. Not for Fulton though. Damn! He tried not to see the man’s face, Donnie Fulton, the man with the weak stomach. That shell. It must have come straight through the ground, clipped right into those guys. The other guy…who the hell was it? Won’t know until this is over, who’s missing. Pieces scattered all over Sicily.

Scofield was behind him, said, “Listen up! There’s tanks heading out on our left flank. I’m taking three bazooka crews out that way, see if we can do some good. Sergeant, you come with me. The rest of you stay tucked in here. Pull out only when ordered. You got that? We still have a job to do, and right now, it’s slowing the enemy down. You remember what the colonel said. We’re a roadblock. So, block the damned road. We don’t know what’s happening at the beaches, but we have to give the infantry every minute we can. Any man leaves this spot, I’ll shoot him myself. Let’s go, Sergeant.”

Adams followed him, saw the bazooka carriers now, six men, one for each tube, one for each box of shells. They moved in silence, Scofield leading the way, Adams bringing up the rear. The dirt was softer here, and Adams heard the thick brush cracking under his boots. The heat was draining him, sweat in his eyes again, and he wiped his face on his shirt, rough grit on his skin. They dropped into a gully, dry white sand, softer still, the men struggling with the heavy boxes. Scofield pushed on, the gully narrowing, thick brush at the end, tall bushes. He stopped, held up his hand, and Adams heard the tanks, farther out, Scofield pushing up into the brush, staring out.

“Four hundred yards. They’re spread out, heading to our left. They’re trying to get behind our position.” He turned. “You boys done this before?”

Most of them shook their heads. One man holding a bazooka said, “Only in training, sir. I was pretty good at busting up the old pickup trucks.”

“Shooters, what’s your names?”

“Gilhooly, sir.”

“Darwin, sir.”

“Feeney, sir.”

Scofield looked at Adams. “Well, we’re going to make veterans here, Sergeant. Can’t say I know a damned thing about a bazooka, but this looks like a good spot for an ambush. Spread out, find a good place to shoot. Get comfortable. Sergeant, you move out on the left flank. I’m betting these boys can knock out one of those tanks on the first shot, and you and I might get a tank crew to shoot at.”

Adams looked at the six faces, all young, scared men. The sounds of the tanks were closer now, and Scofield said, “Get in position. Pick a target, aim low on the turret. Hell they taught you that much, didn’t they?”

“Yes, sir.”

Adams flattened out against the side of the gully, dug his boots into the soft sand, pushed himself up, was surprised to see a tank rolling close, a hundred yards, black belching smoke, black cross on the turret. There was another behind it, four more to one side. He stared, felt the rumble of the tank engines all through him, the ground shaking as they rolled closer to the gully. His mind froze, his eyes staring at the long gun, short stumps of machine guns pointing out in every direction. He focused on the closest tank, eighty yards, closer, slowing, turning to avoid the gully. His hand gripped the Thompson, his mind screaming at him, useless damned weapon. The tank was within fifty yards now, Scofield’s voice again, hard urgency.

“Anytime now. Anytime
now
.”

The bazooka closest to Adams fired, startling him, the shell erupting at the base of the tank’s turret, smoke and fire. The other two fired now, a direct hit on the second tank, more fire, thick smoke drifting over both machines. Adams stared, amazed, my God, it worked. The tanks were motionless, coils of smoke erupting from the hatches, men screaming, smoke drifting across the open ground, hiding the other tanks. Adams pointed the Thompson, searched for targets, nothing, no movement, the sounds again, the other tanks still coming. There was machine-gun fire now, the air ripped above him, the men ducking down, tank engines in a loud roar, closer, moving around the gully.

Scofield shouted, “Pull back! Stay in the gully, stay low!”

The men moved in one motion, Adams in the lead, and he looked back, saw the young men moving quickly, driven by the pure terror, the enormous machines rolling alongside the gully, past them, in front of them now. Adams stopped, saw the closest tank, the turret swinging around, a voice behind him.

“Get down!”

He was pushed from behind, his face in the soft sand, a loud explosion above him, a bazooka firing, Scofield pulling him up.

“Let’s go! Keep moving!”

Adams ignored the sand in his eyes, ran, stayed in the low, soft ground, the sounds of men behind him, tank engines, machine-gun fire. The gully flattened out, and he stopped, searched frantically for cover, some low place, the ridgelines familiar, gentle slopes.

Scofield was past him now. “This way! Get over that hill!”

There was a thunderous blast, the ground rising under Adams’s feet, tossing him up, rolling him. He tried to see, motion, a man running, another, and he followed, staggered, pain in his leg, his side, stumbled up the hill, machine-gun fire chopping the ground behind him. He was over the crest now, saw Scofield, another man, sliding down. Adams looked back, one man running hard, machine-gun fire, the man collapsing, the bazooka still in his hand, bouncing on the ground. Adams fired the Thompson, useless rage, the tank turning toward him. He dropped down the hill, protection, Scofield calling to him, “Move! Let’s go!”

His legs were rubber, his heart ripping his chest, Scofield in front of him, pointing.

“There!”

Adams followed, the two men dropping into a cut in the hillside, the third man there quickly. Adams looked at the man, one of the ammo carriers, no ammo, no bazooka, Scofield shouting into his face, “What happened to the others? Did you see them hit?”

The man was frozen, stared at Scofield with wild animal eyes, and Adams said, “I saw one man go down, Darwin I think. Didn’t see the others. We can’t stay here, sir.”

“The hell we can’t. Those tanks aren’t going to waste fuel chasing us all damned day. They’re behind our flank, and there’s not a whole hell of a lot we can do about it without a weapon. We have to find a way back to the colonel, get everybody pulled back toward the beach. I know what he said, but we can’t hold the tanks back. We’ve done the best we could. Unless we get the hell out of here, we’re just going to end up as prisoners. You ready to be captured?”

“Not today, sir.”

“Where are the tanks? Let’s see what direction—”

There was a high ripping sound, louder, the roar of a freight train, and now the impact came, the ground shuddering beneath them. Adams ducked low, and Scofield said, “What the hell?”

It came again, another thunderous blast, out beyond the ridge, the three men shrouded in dust, the stink of explosives. Adams held himself tight against the ground, waited, another shell, the same impact, the ground shaking him. Scofield crawled up beside him, peered out, then dropped quickly down, covering his head.

“Artillery fire! Big stuff!”

Adams tried to hear the tanks, to hear anything else, his ears a fog of deafness, another shell impacting, farther away, two more, Scofield suddenly slapping him.

“Coming from the south! The navy! It’s naval fire!”

The third man was down below them, grabbed Adams’s boot, pointed out behind them, beyond the ridge.

“Sir! Infantry!”

Adams turned, the Thompson coming up, saw a dozen men, crawling forward, one man with a radio, the wire whip in the air above him.

Scofield said in a low voice, “Easy, boys. Those look like the good guys.”

Adams slid down, followed Scofield out of the crevice, saw Scofield raise his arms, thought, yep, damned good idea. He held the Thompson up high, waited for the young private, followed the man into the open. The shelling had stopped, the air thick with the smells, gunpowder and gasoline, black smoke rising up from beyond the ridge. Scofield kept his own Thompson in the air, and the soldiers began to rise, calling out, the ringing deafness in Adams’s ears clearing just enough, voices reaching him, the man with the radio, another beside him, an officer.

“Awfully close. Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. Those panzers were about to cause your people some serious trouble. Looks like we chased them away for now.”

Adams lowered his gun, blinked through the crust and filth in his eyes, saw smiling faces, another man calling out, “Hey Lieutenant, they don’t seem glad to see us.”

The officer saluted Scofield. “Frank Griffin, sir. Sixteenth Infantry Regiment. Colonel Crawford’s boys.”

Scofield returned the salute, and Adams saw now, the shoulder patch, every man. The young private had been right. They were infantry. It was the Big Red One.

34. ADAMS

HILL 41, NORTH OF PIANO LUPO MOUNTAIN, SICILY
JULY 10, 1943

A
s the fighting quieted with the end of the daylight, Gorham’s paratroopers were attached to the Sixteenth Infantry, men who filled the hillsides around them, holding the ground just north of Piano Lupo, what they knew now as Hill 41, waiting, as the paratroopers waited, to see if the German armor would come yet again. With nightfall, the confusion on both sides had been complete and stifling. Gorham’s men could still not locate any more of the 505th, had no way of knowing that when the jumps had been made, the C-47s had been scattered by the gale across a front sixty miles wide, some coming down as far away as the British zones to the east. But there had been benefit to the chaos, and though few of the paratroopers had found more than a few of their own, the small squads of men had vigorously attacked whatever enemy positions they could find. Telegraph poles and phone lines had been cut, rear-echelon outposts assaulted, German and Italian troops encamped miles from the front lines suddenly set upon by what the enemy supposed were tribes of war-painted maniacs. With so much scattered confusion, the interruptions in the communications between front line and rear headquarters posts gave rise to fantastic rumors. Eventually, word filtered back to the highest levels of the Italian command, estimates that more than a hundred thousand Americans had come out of the sky.

For Gorham’s paratroopers, the day ended very near where it had begun, the men still holding to the ground that protected the beachheads, where American infantry, artillery, and armor continued to come ashore, strengthening and securing what was still a vulnerable position.

A
dams drank the last gulp from his tin cup, cold, bitter coffee, twisting his tongue. In the darkness around him, men worked, digging in, some taking time to eat or just lie flat and sleep. Colonel Gorham had kept Adams close by, using him as a liaison to the infantry that added to their strength. Throughout the early evening, Adams’s job had been to help move the infantry into position, working alongside young, untested lieutenants, men who regarded the paratroopers as grizzled veterans, the men who had faced the enemy and survived. No matter that the experience that so inspired the admiration of the slick-faced infantry officers had come in only one full day of combat.

Adams didn’t know where Scofield had gone, but there was work to be done all along the perimeter, men energized by the sounds coming across the rolling hills around them, German armor gathering, waiting, as they waited, for the first hint of daylight. For now, Adams’s work was done, and he had returned to Gorham, had time to tend to his own foxhole, his own meal, to prepare himself once more for the enemy, which even now was using the cover of darkness to edge closer to the American position.

“What’s your name, Sergeant?”

“Adams, sir.”

“I know. Your first name.”

“Jesse, sir.”

“Good work today, Jesse. Damned fine work. Some of these your men?”

“Yes, sir. Several. I found most of our stick. We jumped with Captain Scofield.”

Gorham put a piece of dry bread in his mouth, and Adams searched his pockets for another piece of his dinner, found a tin of the instant coffee, poured it into his cup, black glue now in the bottom of his cup. He felt for his canteen, nearly empty again, had done what many of the men had done, filling it from a small stream at the base of the hill. He poured the water into the cup, swirled it with a dirty finger, poured it down his throat, his throat clenching tight, a struggle to keep it down.

Gorham seemed to hear his grunt. “Vile stuff. Nasty. I’d settle for a glass of Italian wine about now. I’m sure the Krauts have their share.”

“Yes, sir. We’ll find some.”

Adams looked out over the hillside, nothing to see, darkness hiding the men. There could be no fires, nothing to draw enemy observers, the men huddling low in makeshift foxholes. He pulled his jacket tighter, had not expected the harsh chill, the darkness bringing a blanket of cold across the open scrub.

Gorham made a crunching sound with his teeth. “Damn. This stuff must be left over from San Juan Hill. Remind me, Sergeant, we get back to where somebody important might be, put in a requisition for some decent rations.”

“Yes, sir.”

Adams saw Gorham looking at him, couldn’t see the man’s expression.

“Don’t talk much, do you, Sergeant?”

Adams chose his words carefully. “I haven’t spent a lot of time talking to senior officers, sir. But when I did, I always thought it best to do more listening.”

“Me too. You ever been in a powwow with a half dozen generals? Well, no, probably not. It’s a little like that coffee you just drank. Hard to swallow.”

Adams was surprised by Gorham’s openness, had heard much of the man’s nickname, Hard Nose. Gorham had a reputation for gruff discipline, little tolerance for anyone who simply didn’t measure up. It wasn’t supposed to be that way, not from a senior officer anyway. The army had seemed to insist that anyone who couldn’t endure paratroop training not be ridiculed for it. There were plenty of good soldiers outside the paratroop regiments, including men that Adams knew were on the hillside around them now, men of the Big Red One who could handle themselves against the enemy as well as anyone. But Gorham was said to have no hesitation to break a man with words, if that man was not making the grade. Adams had no problem with that, thought that the army should be training the paratroopers to be something special, an elite force, what most of them accepted as their role anyway. From their uniforms, boots, insignia, they were different from the infantry, and every man in the Eighty-second Airborne considered himself a superior soldier. Whether or not the army wanted them to brag about it, Adams didn’t really care. Apparently, neither did Gorham.

Adams felt the weariness crawling over him, searched the ground, soft dirt, good place for a shallow dug-out bed. He rolled his pack over, pulled the shovel out.

Gorham said, “You mind if I use that when you’re done? Mine seems to have disappeared.”

“I’ll dig a hole for you, sir. Where would you like it?”

Gorham laughed. “So, you don’t think lieutenant colonels should work for themselves? Or maybe you think I forgot how to dig a hole in the ground? You get done there, give me the damned shovel.”

Adams held it out. “You first, sir.”

Gorham laughed again. “Dig your own, Sergeant. I can wait.”

In the darkness there seemed to be something in Gorham’s voice, something Adams hadn’t noticed before. Youth.

“Excuse me, sir. You a West Pointer?”

“Yep. Class of 1938.”

“You get a late start, sir?”

“Is that your way of asking me how old I am, Sergeant? I’m twenty-eight. Same as Captain Scofield, I think. You?”

“Twenty-one, sir. Didn’t mean to be personal.”

“Stuff that. Any man who gives you orders that might get you killed, you have a right to know who the hell he is. I’m from Brooklyn, New York, originally. Grew up in Ohio. My wife is at Bragg right now. I have a son, six months old. Might get to see him again before he goes to college. You married?”

Adams choked on the question. “Good God, no, sir. I mean…sorry, sir, never had the opportunity. Not too many available girls where I come from. They either marry right out of high school, or, the smart ones, they just leave. Men too. Copper country, New Mexico. Not a place likely to attract anyone looking for West Pointers.”

“Why you decide to jump out of airplanes?”

“I like it, sir. Pay’s good. They made me a sergeant pretty quick, said there’d be more to do than yell at grunts on latrine duty.” He paused. “They were right.”

“You know much about the history of the paratroopers? Interesting stuff. Think about it, Sergeant. Imagine the first fellow that said, gee, today I’m going way the hell up in a hot-air balloon and then jump out. Maybe I won’t die.”

Adams worked the shovel, the foxhole deepening, tried to form the image. “Pretty impressive. Took some guts. How’d he even know what a parachute would do, if it would work at all?”

“He tested it. Frenchman named Blanchard, back in 1785. Being the good Frenchman, though, he didn’t do the test on himself. Decided to try it first with a dog. He actually tossed the poor little bastard out of a hot-air balloon. It worked too. The dog hit the ground and apparently made it okay. Then he took off running and nobody ever saw him again. Can’t say I blame him.”

Adams stopped digging, looked at Gorham, tried to see the man’s face, thought, is he full of crap or just a good storyteller?

“Excuse me, sir, but how did the French fellow know how to build a parachute? Just guess at the design?”

“You’re a skeptic, Sergeant. But it’s all true. The design came from Leonardo da Vinci, and somewhere, those drawings can still be seen. He sketched a triangular-shaped cone, wrote all about how it would actually work, given his careful calculations. Of course, da Vinci could claim anything he wanted. He didn’t have a hot-air balloon or anything else to make a real test. If somebody had showed up with an airplane, da Vinci might have decided to recheck his numbers.”

“If he was so damned smart, he would have come up with the dog idea. Could have tossed it right off a church steeple.”

“You’re right. Good idea. Guess that’s why you made a sergeant.”

Adams dug again, Gorham eating something from his ration tins, and Adams stopped, stepped one foot down in the hole, measured the depth to a second hole beside it.

“There you go, sir.”

“What do you mean? You dug a hole for me?”

“You were eating, and I had the shovel in my hands. Was no trouble at all, sir. I figured you’d probably expect an enlisted man to do it anyway.”

Gorham laughed again. “That’s why they made me a lieutenant colonel.”

HILL 41—JULY 11, 1943

The armor rolled toward them at first light, heavy steel on rough roads, spreading out in open country, tank commanders seeking their own avenues into the vulnerability of the American positions. The infantry had done as the paratroopers beside them, dug in to shallow protection, but the German tanks had continued to use the darkness to spread out in wide formations, ready to drive hard into and around the flanks of the Americans, with little the men in their cover could do to stop them.

Adams heard the first blast, hard thunder on the hill behind him, a direct hit on a narrow trench. The cries came quickly, wounded men, and then, new sounds, rolling over them, artillery, the shells cutting the air from behind, from the south, his mind wrapping around the thought,
friendly fire
.

The shelling grew louder, dropping close to the men, and Adams hugged the ground beneath him, hands gripping dirt, the impacts bouncing him. Men were calling out all around him, their voices extinguished by the roar of shellfire. His brain screamed at him, curses at men far behind him, what the hell are you doing? You’re hitting your own people! He knew there were radiomen with the infantry, thought, damn them! Someone call back there, surely some idiot observer can see where the shells are falling! All they’re shooting at is tanks, and we’re right in the middle of them!

The artillery fire began to move away, blanketing the ground to one side, gunners seeking targets from the formations of moving tanks. He let out a breath, the artillery fire slowing, yes, some officer just reamed out a spotter. I find you, I’ll thank you. The sounds of tanks were all around him now, punches of fire down the hill in front of him, the roar from heavy engines, clanking steel growing louder. He rose up, a quick look, saw the tanks moving in all directions, no formations at all, single machines, turrets spinning, guns firing, targets close, point-blank impact. Their machine guns were firing as well, each tank an arsenal of its own, men in the trenches helpless, the artillery still bouncing dirt and rock close to the tanks, but not close enough. Gorham peered up beside him now, shouted something, and Adams saw a man scrambling low, rolling toward them, a captain, young, too young. The man said something to Gorham, and Adams saw the shoulder patch, infantry, the man pointing back along the ridge.

Gorham nodded, waved the man away, shouted to Adams, “Gather up anyone you can! Head to the highest ground, or any good cover! The tanks are moving around behind us! We’re about to be surrounded!”

Gorham was up and gone now, and Adams crawled from his cover, a quick glance at the Thompson, dirt in the magazine, a sharp breath, jerked the bolt, clearing a fresh shell. He scanned the shallow foxholes, a pattern of pockmarks in the low brush, saw men firing weapons, useless exercise, one man heaving a grenade, more futility, the impact only adding to the smoke. He kept low, ran down the ridge, shouted, anyone, men looking at him, some understanding, pulling out, moving away quickly. Men were emerging from the cover in small waves now, no orders, just leaving, the infantry, green men, too much fire, too close to an enemy none of them had faced before. He dropped into a foxhole, shouted to anyone who might be close by, “Pull out! Retreat to the hilltop!”