Jeff Shaara: Three Novels of World War II: The Rising Tide, the Steel Wave, No Less Than Victory by Jeff Shaara

Author:Jeff Shaara [Shaara, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780345534859
Google: Yi1DA39G0kAC
Amazon: B005U3ZT80
Barnesnoble: B005U3ZT80
Goodreads: 13152206
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2011-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

After forty minutes it stopped.

Silence hung over them in the thick dusty air. Reimer felt it first in his chest, the hard quaking inside him suddenly quiet. His hands were still against his head but he opened his eyes, saw whiteness, the breeze pushing through slits in the concrete, daylight and dust, the air slowly clearing. Men were moving, crawling, some with hands still locked over their ears. Reimer saw faces, wide-eyed shock, eyes fighting to see, and he pulled his own hands away, hesitant, expecting more of the shocking blows, but there was silence, no sound at all. The lieutenant was there, close to him, a hand on his shoulder, and Reimer nodded, couldn’t hear the man at all, struggled to his knees, then up to his feet. He saw Schmidt, on his feet as well, adjusting his helmet, blood on the man’s face, a cut on his nose. Schmidt looked at him, gray dirt accenting the whites of his eyes, the sounds starting to come back, soft murmurs, and said, “You all right?”

The words were hollow and soft against the numbness in his ears, and Reimer nodded. He looked past Schmidt, saw the machine gun lying on its side, the tripod pointing in the air, and moved quickly, instinctively, righting the gun. Schmidt was there as well, and then a hard hand on his back and the voice of the lieutenant.

“Man the guns! All of you! Loaders, up and ready!”

The men responded, the machine guns put back in place, boxes of ammunition opened, belts coming out. Reimer looked toward the water again, could see the ships more clearly now, the sea alive with motion. My God, he thought. They’re coming in. The lieutenant was moving among them, quick and efficient.

“Everyone ready!” He shouted, “No firing! If they put men on the beach, wait for that! Wait for the order!” There was panic in his voice.

Reimer glanced down at the gun. Schmidt was holding the belt of shells, looking at him, waiting. Reimer reached down, pulled hard on the bolt, clamped the first shell in place. He looked out again, saw a narrow crack in the concrete, but the thick walls were still in place, solid, the strength that had saved them from the shelling. The ships were everywhere, larger ones on the horizon, smaller ones, much smaller, moving toward the shore. He felt his stomach turning, rubber in his legs, sat down behind the gun, stared down the barrel, swung the gun from side to side, sweeping motion, wide field of fire. Alongside him, the others did the same, no one speaking, no words, every man focused on the job, the training. Most had done this before, but training was not like this, memories of target practice were swept away by what they faced now. He focused on one boat, strange, flat-faced, pushing awkwardly through the water, and aimed the gun, his hand gripping the mechanism. Around him, the men waited, no sound at all, no planes, no artillery fire.

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