The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [40]
“Knock it off, Sergeant. Every man in the Five-oh-five knew who you were. There’s probably a silver star somewhere with your name on it.”
Adams let the words flow past him. What the hell is going on here?
“I doubt that, sir. Begging your pardon.”
“Answer my damned question, Sergeant. You hate this place?”
Adams stiffened, had a sudden flash of memory: a week ago, some British general ordering him to get coffee, Gavin standing up for him, no, he’s not a mess orderly. Adams was grateful for the chance Gavin had given him, an honor indeed, even if the job was more clerical than anything he ever expected. He took a breath.
“Sir, I feel like I’m suffocating here.”
“So do I, Sergeant, so do I. Problem is, I still have work to do here. You’ve been an enormous help. Good work, fine work. But we’ve got replacements coming into the Eighty-second who don’t know a damned thing about the enemy, who are going to be a part of this operation when the only jumps they’ve made are at Benning or Bragg. We’re going to get our asses shot off if we’re not ready, and right now we’re a long way from ready.” Gavin reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a single sheet of paper. “Had this here for a couple days. Debated like hell telling you.”
“Sir?”
“Read it.”
Adams took the paper, saw the insignia of the Eighty-second Airborne, General Ridgway’s official letterhead.
Sergeant Jesse Adams is hereby ordered to report to Colonel William Ekman, Commanding Officer, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, where Sergeant Adams will resume his post as jump instructor, with full seniority over the regiment’s other noncommissioned instructors.
“I wanted to make you a first sergeant, but that will have to wait. Ekman suggested we give you a commission, make you a damned lieutenant. He thought it might be a good bribe to get you out of this place and back into jump boots. Told him you wouldn’t need that. The last thing I want anyone to say about you is that you’re a ninety-day wonder. And I don’t really think you’re officer material, Sergeant. That’s not an insult, I promise you. Just look around this place.”
Adams felt his brain swimming. “No, sir. I understand, sir.” He read the orders again, could not hold the smile, and looked up at Gavin, who smiled as well. “Thank you, sir.”
“You might not thank me when this is over. This isn’t Sicily we’re going after. But dammit, we need the best people out there, people who know what the enemy looks like. I’ll be out there too, eventually. I feel like I’m turning into corn mush in this office, my belly’s as soft as Jell-O. So there’s no way in hell you’re going into France without me. Ridgway will be there too, count on that. When I get back out there, when I can finally get my ass into a C-47, I want to see you at the end of the line, and I want every damned one of those troopers to be more afraid of you than they are of the Krauts. Now get the hell out of here.”
Gavin had stopped smiling. Adams, still hesitant, stood slowly, stiff and straight, and stared at the wall over Gavin’s head.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be waiting for you.”
He turned, felt like running out of the office but held tightly to his composure, moved out through the door, and passed slowly through the outer office, the staff at work, low hum of voices, men watching him, curious, someone calling his name. He moved out into the chill, glanced up at gray skies, heard the soft drizzle of rain, and stopped on a narrow porch, steps in front of him, soft green grass between many, many buildings. He tried to hear Gavin’s words again, the compliments, the duty in front of him, felt the old burn returning, a smoldering fire, wanted to run, to feel the churning in his legs, the hard breaths. He had no idea where he would go, just out, away from the dead air and stifling work. He realized he had the pen and notepad still in his hand, the fixtures attached to him for so many months. He moved to one side toward a fat green garbage can, tossed the pad in, gripped the pen and threw it across the open