The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [39]
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.