The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [44]
Adams hesitated, then shook his head, wiped a hand through wet hair. “They’re fit, sir, but they’re not combat ready. The last group of replacements, those fellows that came in a week or so ago: plenty of hotshots, big-mouths. It’s a mystery to me where the hell we’re getting these guys. But if we don’t get some jumps in soon—”
“We will. Starting today. I’m a little concerned about the big-mouths too. One in particular.”
Adams understood. Scofield had heard too much of his idiotic attack on Private Marley.
“Sorry, sir. Just trying to put some steel in the new ones.”
“That’s crap, Jesse. Those men aren’t raw recruits, they’re fully trained. You know what it takes to get through jump school, and every man in this outfit is here because he earned it. Steel? They’ve got plenty. What they need is experience. You’re just pissed off, and you’re taking it out on the men. Save some of that for the enemy.”
Adams looked down. “I haven’t made a jump in six months, sir. I feel like a damned rubber tire, all gut.”
“None of us have jumped, Sergeant. But you and me—the veterans—we have to lead the way. We know what the enemy looks like, and what it feels like when our buddies die. That’s the one thing missing from these new men.”
“I can’t teach them that, sir.”
Scofield put his hands on his hips and stared up at the clouds. Adams could feel the mist growing lighter, saw a sliver of blue in the distance.
“The weather boys might be right,” Scofield said. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough. Get your men ready to load up.”
Adams saw a jeep in the distance, three officers, moving out through the formations of parked planes.
“The get-rich-quick boys,” Scofield said. “Major Turner, Captain Fish-man. Don’t know the other one. They’re trying to get their five jumps in so they can be ready for the mission. Scares hell out of me, Sergeant. We’ve got officers in this division who’ve never seen combat at all. General Ridgway can’t be happy about that, but we’ve got no choice. I’d trade a dozen of those guys for one Jim Gavin.” He looked at Adams. “Get those boys ready. You want to beat hell out of some smart-mouth private, I’ll look the other way, and Lieutenant Pullman will do the same, as long as you don’t make a habit of it. But you don’t have to show them how tough you are. Hell, they’re already afraid of you. I can see it in their faces. I need you to show them why they should follow you.”
“I understand, sir.”
Far across the field, lines of men began to emerge from the rows of hangars, filing toward the waiting planes. In the distance, C-47s began to wake up, clouds of black smoke rising, the cough and sputter of engines.
“That’s the Five-oh-eight. They’re first to get moving. We’ll follow the Five-oh-seven. Double time, Sergeant. Time to knock off the rust.”
There was no hint of blue sky. Adams was jumpmaster, sat farthest from the cockpit, kept his eyes on the eighteen men, two rows, facing each other. The plane bounced once, a sharp drop, the familiar groan from those with the weaker stomachs. He knew some of them were struggling, no one wanting to be the first to show the sickness, to be responsible for stinking up the plane. As Adams had promised, Private Marley was closest to him. The man was silent, subdued, obviously surprised that Adams had been serious. Adams ignored him, knew that by now, Marley had developed a perfect fear of his sergeant. At Benning, silencing the big-mouths had been fun, and later, when the men had been in combat, the mouthing off had mostly stopped. These replacements had brought a new wave of talk, all that cheerleading about what they were going to do to the enemy. The veterans mostly ignored it. Adams looked across at Unger, small and skinny, relaxed, no sign of nervousness. Yeah, Unger, you’re Marley’s friend, aren’t you? Probably told him not to screw with the sergeant. Good advice.
Wallace Unger had been with the