The Steel Wave: A Novel of World War II by Shaara Jeff

Author:Shaara, Jeff [Shaara, Jeff]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2008-05-12T16:00:00+00:00

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22. ADAMS

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NEAR LA FIÈRE BRIDGE, WEST OF SAINTE-MÈRE-ÉGLISE

JUNE 6, 1944, 9 A.M.

They marched alongside the narrow road, hemmed in by the endless confinement of the hedgerows. But now there were men in foxholes, Americans, spread out through every glimpse of open space, some along the ditches that bordered the road.

Gavin’s staff officer had assured Scofield that there was no danger. In his energetic efforts to gather up more troops, he had seen no sign of German patrols and nothing to prevent Scofield’s men from reaching Gavin’s position. But Adams understood Scofield’s caution. In this strange hedgerow country, every field was a hiding place, every intersection a perfect place for an ambush. Scofield kept the men ready, two columns walking close beside the shallow ditches on either side of the road. Adams led one column again, avoiding the wide potholes in the road, blasted dirt and brush, the remnants of an artillery barrage. In the open fields, he could see men still digging, either narrow trenches or their own foxholes. Around them, the ground was ripped and smoking still; he caught the hard smell of explosives and saw equipment turned into rubble. Across the road, Scofield walked with the major, no conversation between them. Gavin’s staff officer was clearly nervous, flinching at the sound of clanking metal, taking quick steps and pulling ahead of the column, eager to return to some kind of sanctuary. As they moved into the open ground, Adams could see more men, clusters of foxholes, gear and guns, a bazooka crew assembling to check a box of their rockets, the only antitank weapon these men could carry on their backs. Despite the numbers, Adams kept a wary eye on the distant hedgerows. The edges of each field had the same kinds of boundaries, thick rows of brush, tangles of vines and low bushes, rows of taller trees. But now there were rows of men, some up, lining the embankments, machine guns pointed out, well protected by the cover. There were more bazookas, and Adams saw more boxes of the small rockets beside each man. He had vivid memories of the clumsy weapon, Sicily, one lucky shot into a German tank by a man who did not live to brag about it. But the worst memory was of a duel, one man against a German Tiger tank, Lieutenant Colonel Art Gorham, responding to the chaotic nightmare of a fight by standing his ground against the massive machine. Gorham lost the fight, but Adams still kept the image in his mind, one man’s extraordinary courage. It was the bravest act Adams had ever seen.

The exhaustion was still inside him, slow ponderous steps, wetness in his boots—mostly sweat this time—his uniform stiff and stinking. Adams had given up cursing the supply officers or engineers or whoever had come up with the idea that these jumpsuits could become shields against poison gas if they were soaked in some kind of chemical. Adams had heard no reports of gas from anyone.

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