The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [41]
* * *
7. ADAMS
* * *
BRAUNSTONE PARK, NEAR LEICESTER, ENGLAND
APRIL 11, 1944
He stared at the rain, thick and gray, shrouding the C-47s in a ghostly haze. The gloom was complete, another frustrating day, little to do but drill the men once more on their preparations, packing their chutes, stuffing backpacks and belts and pants pockets with their equipment. It had been this way for a week now, either rain or a misty fog so heavy that every training jump had to be canceled. Outside, long rows of C-47s sat empty, silent, mostly under camouflage netting, someone’s attempt to disguise them from German fighters and recon planes.
Adams glanced up. Who in hell do they think is flying in this stuff? he thought. I haven’t seen a German fighter since I’ve been here. How hard would it be to figure out this is an airfield, anyway? If I saw a clump of bushes anywhere near a runway, I’d bomb hell out of it.
His boredom was blossoming into raw frustration. Adams had never been good at clamping his feelings down. During the months as Gavin’s aide, it had been Gavin himself who had intimidated Adams into silence. The message from Gavin had been clear and brutal: I have to put up with this, so you have to put up with this. Adams had no trouble obeying Gavin. He had an instinctive feeling that he never wanted to be on the receiving end of the man’s temper. Gavin felt the same way about Ridgway; everyone in headquarters knew the commanding general’s fury was a spectacle to behold, as long as it was directed elsewhere. Adams had begun to suspect that, above them all, Eisenhower probably commanded the same kind of fear, maybe more so. Maybe Ridgway is as scared of Ike as I am of Gavin. And I’m supposed to make these logheads scared of me. Hell of a way to run an army. He backed away from the wide opening of the hangar and turned toward the rows of long tables: several hundred men, dutifully packing their chutes. He focused on his own squad, his corporal moving among them, coaching, cursing, but, most important, allowing each man to complete the job on his own. It had been the most basic of lessons, begun at jump school at Fort Benning: Each man packs his own parachute. It was the one part of the classroom experience you could count on to get the full attention of the men. No one shirked, no one fell asleep. Every man understood that packing your chute incorrectly would most likely kill you.
Adams tried to ignore the dull throb in his temples, the wet chill that soaked his bones. He walked toward the men, the corporal eyeing him. Adams didn’t particularly like the man, a skinny runt named Nusbaum from somewhere in northern California. Nusbaum had only been there a few weeks, but runt or no he had earned his second stripe by good work at Benning, something Adams had to accept. The man had an annoying whine to his voice, an attitude that spoke of privilege. There was nothing specific to Adams’s dislike of the man, nothing Nusbaum had said or done. And Adams knew very well that any man who emerged from training at Benning had already proven himself as much as anyone could without actual combat. If you survived the training there, you had to have that peculiar brand of courage that allows a man to jump from an airplane, as well as physical stamina and enough brains to learn the basic techniques of the jump and, more important, the landing. Nusbaum had accomplished his training with that something extra that had caught the eye of the captain, so Nusbaum was now Adams’s corporal, his second voice. But Adams still didn’t like him.
The lieutenant was a different story. His name was Pullman, and Adams guessed him to be the youngest officer in the entire division. Pullman commanded the platoon, sixty men, of which Adams commanded one of the four squads. Gavin’s order had given Adams seniority over every other sergeant in the 505th, but Adams knew it was a symbolic gesture. He would rarely have any contact with the other squad leaders. If the issue