The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (57 page)

“Which one of you jackasses told him to eat the olives?” The men close to him were veterans, every one trying his best to hold back the smile. “None of you willing to admit it? Fine, tell you what. Since this is your idea of fun, why don’t we all eat one? Millions of the damned things, just reach up and grab one! Come on! We deserve a treat!”

They were watching him now, and he had no patience, knew they were wondering if he was serious. He plucked an olive from a branch above him, hard and black, held it up.

“They sell these things, you know. Ship ’em all over the damned world. Your mamas probably used them to cook with, right? Well, chow down, boys! No reason to let the new men get all the fun!”

He saw one man step forward, head down. It was Newley, the loudmouth from Chicago. “It was me, Sarge. Nobody else.”

Adams wasn’t surprised, had seen Newley victimize more than one recruit. “You hungry, Newley? Have an olive. Grab a handful.”

“I didn’t mean nothing, Sarge. Just playing.”

Adams felt the heat now, sunshine ripping through the branches of the old trees. “This is the Airborne, Private. You stopped
playing
when you stepped through the gates at Fort Benning. You notice how many of those C-47s took off last night?”

He saw nods from the men around him, and Newley said, “Yeah, Sarge.”

“That was the Five-oh-four. You think those boys are
playing
today? Tell you what, Newley. Next time we climb in a C-47, Unger’s sitting right next to you. I want you jumping right in front of him. You know why? Because I want you to think about what Unger had to accomplish to be here. I want you to think about what
Airborne
means, what you mean to each other out there in the dark. You come down in a briar patch or break your damned leg in a ditch, Unger might be the man who saves your ass. Or, he might not. He might not hear you call out. He might think about what a bastard you are and go the other way. Would you want him to do that, Private Newley?”

“No, Sarge.”

“Then give Unger your canteen. Help him get that crap out of his mouth. And, Unger!”

Unger was still spitting, his face twisted, the words coming out in a croak. “Yes, Sarge?”

“Next time somebody tells you to eat something…make sure
he
eats it first! You were briefed about this in North Africa: olives have to be cured before they’re edible. Pay attention next time. I have no room in this squad for a dumb son of a bitch.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Newley was beside Unger now, others as well, the joke over. There had always been the jokesters, the tricks played on the recruits. It was good sport at Fort Benning, rituals that every unit had gone through. But Adams had no spirit for it now, no energy for anyone’s idiotic meanness. He moved out of the olive grove, stared across to the airfield, thought, save all that, boys. Especially the new ones. They haven’t seen it yet, haven’t watched a man come apart in a burst of fire, haven’t scraped a dead man’s blood from their fingernails. I know why the veterans do this stuff. They need something to laugh at, and there’s nothing funny out here. There’s nothing funny about what happened to McBride and Fulton. And Colonel Gorham. He looked back, the men going about their routine now, some lying flat, helmets covering faces. He couldn’t stay angry with any of them, not even the ones he just didn’t like. We’re one unit, one damned dangerous weapon, and we’re better at this than anyone else in the world. You want to be a bastard, be a bastard to the enemy.

There had been little sleep the night before, the veterans kept awake by the drone of the C-47s, four dozen planes, stuffed with the men of the 504th. There was a strange emptiness to that, watching another regiment lift away, while you lay comfortable on your blanket. They probably felt the same way about us, he thought, watching us take off at Kairouan. None of them had had any idea what the hell we were gonna do on Sicily, how many of us wouldn’t come back. And then they flew into hell on earth, shot to pieces by our own guys. Rabid stupidity. Hell of a way to die. That wouldn’t sit well with Mama.

He heard a vehicle, stepped out away from the grove, saw the dust cloud following the jeep. It rolled closer, stopped, and he saw Scofield, was surprised to see Colonel Gavin. Adams straightened, reflex, saluted, the officers moving toward him.

Scofield said, “Sergeant Adams, see to your platoon. We’ve gotten our orders. We jump tonight.”

Gavin walked past him, moved into the trees, the men responding, short, clipped greetings.

“Sir!”

“Colonel!”

Adams watched Gavin move through the men, the colonel seeming to inspect them, grading them.

After a moment, Gavin said, “How many of you jumped here in July?”

Adams held up his hand, saw the others, more than forty out of the fifty men in the platoon.

“Good. Damned good. General Clark’s boys are in a hell of a pickle over on that beach. They’re counting on us to hold the line against the enemy. The Five-oh-four’s had a rough go of it today, but we’ll be dropping right beside them. By tomorrow morning, the Krauts are in for a surprise.”

He turned toward the jeep, stopped. “You boys have cause to use the bazookas last time out?”

Adams said, “Yes, sir. Some of us were at Piano Lupo, sir.”

Gavin looked at him. “I know where you were, Sergeant. You fire a bazooka yourself?”

“No, sir. But the captain and I were with a couple antitank crews. They took out a pair of panzers before…they got hit.”

Gavin seemed to recognize him, studied him for a moment. “You were with Colonel Gorham.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gavin turned toward the others. “Hell of a thing. We could use a lot more men like Art Gorham.” Gavin motioned toward Scofield now. “Captain, read the men that bulletin we just got.”

“Yes, sir. Right here. ‘From War Department G-2. Intelligence has gathered information indicating that the bazooka now in use by our troops is inadequate to penetrate the frontal armor of the German Tiger tank.’”

Gavin looked at Adams. “Quite a revelation, eh, Sergeant? Army Intelligence has speculated that if you want to destroy the enemy armor, you shouldn’t do it from in front.”

“Yes, sir. I was informed of that, sir.”

“When?”

“At Piano Lupo, sir. Two months ago. The antitank crews knew to hit them from the flank.”

Gavin looked at him, hard eyes, seemed to measure him. Adams straightened, thought, all right, shut up. He doesn’t need to hear what a smart mouth you have.

Gavin held the stare for a long moment, then turned away, said, “Next, they’ll be telling us that they think C-47s might be too slow to avoid antiaircraft fire. Whole offices full of these geniuses who actually think they’re soldiers. All right, get ready to roll, gentlemen. We have a job to do. Captain, let’s get moving.”

Gavin and Scofield climbed into the jeep, moved away quickly, more jeeps appearing, officers moving out among their troops. Adams bent low, gathered his knapsack, knelt down, tightened the laces on his boots. He tapped the empty pockets on his baggy pants, knew that the ammo and grenades were already being spread out near the planes. He glanced at Unger, thought, he can’t be eighteen. Sixteen, if that. Forged his papers, sure as hell. He doesn’t even shave yet.

“Unger!”

“Yeah, Sarge?”

“You know what a Kraut is?”

“Yeah, Sarge.”

“What are you going to do when you see one?”

“I’m gonna blow him to heck, Sarge.”

Adams glanced at the others, saw the smiles. Yep. War is heck.

T
he flight was smooth, none of the gut-twisting turbulence of their first flight to Sicily. Adams could see the beach, hints of white caught by the moonlight, a wide spit of land, what the maps showed to be a long peninsula. The drop zone was just beyond, the officers assuring the men that the pathfinders would be there first, lighting the way with a fiery signal, a
T
that would easily be visible to any pilot in the area. Adams leaned back against his parachute, thought, if I was a Kraut artilleryman and I saw a damned fire lit with enemy planes overhead, I’m guessing that fire would make a pretty easy target. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? He looked down the row across from him, saw Gavin, couldn’t see his eyes, wondered if he was sleeping. He hadn’t expected to be in Gavin’s stick, had boarded the plane expecting to see Scofield, the usual routine. But Scofield was behind them, the next plane in the formation, and Adams was curious about that, wondered if it was simply luck, or if there was some reason why Gavin had boarded his plane.

He had begun to feel more than simple respect for Gavin, more than the sergeant’s allegiance to a commanding officer. The senior brass always had some sort of strange aura, much of it manufactured by the officers themselves, the men who portrayed themselves as something larger-than-life. The soldiers had little use for that, learned quickly to measure a man by what he could do under fire, not how good he looked on the parade ground. Adams had sensed none of that with Colonel Gorham, certainly, the man’s death seeming to affect everyone, including Gavin. Adams wished he had known Gorham more than a couple of days, had to wonder about any man who would give his own life trying to duel with a tank. Adams sensed the same about Gavin, the aura of a different kind, authority and respect inspired by a man who seemed to know what it was to stare at the point of a bayonet. Gavin was far too young to have fought in the first war, had none of that vacant stare that Adams had seen in the old veterans. There had always been officers who tried to act like the soldiers they commanded, a counterfeit act to show that they were a buddy. That rarely worked, most of the soldiers not interested in being
pals
with any officer. No matter how much the men griped about officers, when the fight started, every soldier wanted a man
in charge,
a loud voice to cut through the deadly confusion. The noise from the loudmouths, the men like Private Newley, couldn’t cover up every man’s silent fear. It wasn’t just the enemy, the bullets. Every man carried that sliver of doubt, wondered if he had the guts, if he might run, if he would get his own men killed because he fell apart. That was the officer’s job, to rip that doubt away, to pull the men away from their own thoughts and send them forward as a single weapon, a perfect fist. Not every lieutenant could be an inspiration. But Adams felt that strange ingredient in Gavin, as he had for Scofield. It was instinctive, perfect confidence that if they jumped into a bloody awful mess, Gavin was the man you wanted giving the orders, the man who could keep you alive.

The plane began to lose altitude, and he snapped awake, stared at the dark place near the open doorway. After a long moment, the red light erupted, the men reacting with a sharp motion, low grunts. The flight had been shorter than most expected, nothing like the tortuous route they had taken to Sicily. They stood immediately, and Adams hooked his chute to the wire overhead, went through the routine once more. Gavin was at the door, would be the first man out, and Adams stood three men away from him, saw the colonel staring out, heard a loud curse.

“Nothing! Damn them!”

Gavin glanced toward the front of the plane, toward the pilots, and Adams watched him, the man’s face bathed in red light, hard fury, Gavin’s hand slapping the edge of the doorway. Adams felt a chill, thought, something’s wrong. Are we lost? Not again! Can’t anybody get this right? What the hell we supposed to do…

The light turned green.

Gavin was quickly gone, the men following close behind. Adams did not hesitate, put his hands outside on the plane’s skin, tucked his chin tight, faced forward, was out, falling, wind pulling him. He braced himself, the chute pulled open, the straps now jerking him from below. He could see the first chutes below him, drifting slowly, and he stared at the ground, tried to see shapes, saw nothing, black emptiness. He searched frantically, any sign of what they were jumping toward, brush or trees, deadly obstacles. Gavin’s curse was still in his mind, a flicker of fear, and suddenly a bright light was beneath him, a strange orange light, the shape of a
T. Fire
. He blinked away the light, was blinded now, braced himself again, knew it was close, the last seconds, tightened his knees together, his toes down, thought of the pathfinders below, lighting the fire, idiots, too late to do them any good, the pilots finding the zone anyway. Damn. Good job.

B
y morning, Gavin’s twenty-one hundred men had formed a line alongside the men of the 504th, adding considerable strength to the American position, and sealing a major portion of the gap that threatened the entire front. Though the Germans pushed forward once more, their commanders realized that their greatest opportunity had passed, that the Americans would not simply be driven into the sea. Rather than continue a costly assault, the Germans began to pull away, strengthening their positions to the north and east.

In the south, Montgomery’s troops had advanced up the “toe” of Italy with virtually no opposition, and British forces had landed at the “arch” and “heel” of the boot as well. The Germans responded as expected, Kesselring showing that he did not want a broad confrontation with the Eighth Army. Instead, the Germans gathered their strength, spreading troops across the Italian peninsula along natural defensive terrain, making good use of the rivers and mountain ranges. Though Clark’s Operation Avalanche had finally succeeded, the risk had been extraordinary, the contest far too close for Eisenhower to accept. Blame immediately fell on Ernest Dawley, who had relied too heavily on his untested troops. Dawley’s misfortune was that he shared the same enthusiastic confidence of many American commanders. To Eisenhower’s dismay, Dawley’s assumption that his troops could sweep aside anything they encountered had nearly resulted in an Allied catastrophe. Within days after the victory at Salerno, Ernest Dawley was relieved of his command.

As the Allies expanded their strongholds along the coast, the 505th was shifted toward the Italian town of Amalfi, marched out to the high ground that overlooked the Sorrento Peninsula, which gave the paratroopers an astounding panoramic view of the city of Naples. For two weeks, the Allied troops had numerous firefights, each side testing the other’s strength, but the Germans continued to pull away just enough to avoid a full-scale confrontation. As Gavin’s men pressed forward, they were attached to a British mechanized unit, allowing them greater mobility as they shifted positions to meet the enemy’s movements. With Naples as the ultimate goal, Gavin had finally been ordered to move his men off the heights, the paratroopers expecting to battle their way into the city. On the morning of October 1, after a brief stand, German resistance simply melted away. Jim Gavin and the men of the 505th marched into Naples virtually without a fight.