The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [46]
“I’m an American, dammit!” The pressure in his back grew lighter and Adams took a breath, spit more mud from his mouth, pushed himself over onto his back. “I’m an American! Damn you!”
“Curses like one. Ugly bloke too. Look at all the thingies. Grenades and whatnot.”
Hands were on him now, and Adams felt resigned, let them pull him upright. He sat, the pain in his side curling him, and pushed the hands away. “Give me a second. I hit pretty hard, might have busted some ribs.”
He looked at them now, four men, two women standing behind them. His eye caught the point of the pitchfork.
“You could have killed me.”
“Tried to, at that. Been lookin’ for Nazi buggers to come droppin’ in ’ere. Robert’s got a shotgun, but he’s off in the town. Good thing for you, eh?”
The man laughed, and Adams saw brown teeth, thick dark skin, realized they were all older, sixties, more.
“Excuse me, but can you tell me…did you see any more parachutes?”
“Sarge!”
The farmers close above him backed away, and Adams saw two men coming quickly, Unger and another familiar face, Conley, more behind them. Oh, thank God!
Behind him, a woman said, “Henry, there’s a bloomin’ wad of them. Why in blazes are the Americans invadin’ us?”
Adams pulled himself to his feet, Unger’s hands under his arms. “I’m okay. I hit this damned well. Everybody else all right?”
“Think so, Sarge. Most of us came down in a field, out past those trees.”
Adams looked at the man with the pitchfork again. “Look, I’m sorry we surprised you. We’re on a training jump. It seems we were dropped a little off course.”
The farmers gathered closer again, curious eyes examining the gear, the dirty uniforms, one man reaching out with a careful finger to touch the Thompson strapped to Adams’s hip. The man laughed.
“I know that one. You’re lost. I spent two weeks in the mud in Ypres, back in the last war. Hadn’t a glint where in blazes I was. The generals didn’t know either.” The man rubbed a round belly. “Training, eh? You know General Patton, then? He’s been through here, a while back. All glory and commotion, sirens and lights. Bugger woke up the damned cows and scared Eloise.”
A woman spoke now, confirming the old man’s story. “Scared me half to death, that he did. Handsome bloke, though. All fancy with his silver helmet. He was lost too. Wouldn’t admit it. Had his driver ask us where the road to Hargrove was. Poor young man was scared witless. Your General Patton lit him up with some mighty colorful language. Made me blush.”
“Nothing can make you blush, woman,” the farmer said. “But General Patton, he’s not as friendly as you chaps, I give you that. You hurt, then?”
Adams tried to ignore the pain in his side. “I’m all right. So, we’re near Hargrove? Are you sure?”
He knew it was a stupid question, and the man laughed. “You’ve no bloody idea where you’re at, have you? They can’t even put you chaps in the right piece of countryside, and you’re still in merry old England. Doesn’t bode well, does it?”
Adams saw more of his men coming past the house, looked up, the sky a solid gray, and said a low curse to every weatherman in the army. The farmer was more serious now, and Adams saw the look, the eyes of a veteran, a man who knows what a screwup is and what it can cost an army.
“No, sir. It doesn’t bode well at all.”
* * *
8. ROMMEL
* * *
CHÂTEAU LA ROCHE-GUYON, BONNIÈRES-SUR-SEINE
APRIL 20, 1944
He had relocated in early March to a new headquarters that seemed more of a medieval fortress than a modern facility for a German army commander. The castle was perched against a rocky hillside, with a sweeping view of the river, a natural barrier to any invader who happened to come by land. But these days the greatest threat was from the air, so the castle had been ringed by a tight cordon of antiaircraft batteries, along with a company of highly trained troops whose sole priority was to protect Field Marshal Rommel.
The tall windows of his office opened onto a magnificent rose garden, and he watched the French groundskeepers working diligently, as though