The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [71]
“Sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pullman seemed to linger, and Gavin said, “If you don’t mind, Lieutenant, I’d like a word with your sergeant.”
“Of course, sir. Sergeant, I’ll speak to you later.”
Adams threw the salute toward Pullman, said, “Yes, sir.”
He looked at Gavin, none of the warmth, Gavin pointing toward the offices at the far end of the hangar.
“The Five-oh-five still make the worst coffee in England?”
“I believe so, General.”
“Good. I could use some. Follow me.”
They moved to a metal door. Adams saw two men emerging, lieutenants who seemed surprised to see Gavin. They passed with quick salutes and sharp glances at Adams. Wonderful, he thought. They either think I’m teacher’s pet or I’m about to be court-martialed. He could smell the coffee, a small hot plate in one corner, saw a staff sergeant sitting at a desk, writing on a pile of papers, seemingly oblivious to the sudden appearance of a one-star general.
Gavin moved toward the coffeepot. “Take a break, Sergeant. You know how to stand up?”
The man rose with a clatter of his chair. “Certainly, sir. The coffee’s fresh, just made it a couple hours ago, sir.”
The man hurried out. The office now empty, Gavin handed Adams a cup.
“I wouldn’t drink this stuff alone. Chances are one of us could end up poisoned. We’ll need a witness.”
He moved to the lone chair, sat, scanned the papers on the desk, pushed them to one side: no expression. Adams filled his cup halfway, stopped pouring. Fresh…two hours ago? he thought. It’s paint thinner by now.
“I’m guessing the boys will be pretty pissed off about the order to close the base,” Gavin said. “Those pubs in town are already dead empty. Probably break the hearts of half the damned women in England. Hard to believe how well these boys have done with the fairer sex. I expect the British have every reason to bitch about us. I’ve heard too damned much of that; we’re overpaid, oversexed, and over here. Not sure what we’ve got that their men are lacking. Don’t want to know, now that I think about it.”
Adams knew not to speak. He had heard these monologues from Gavin before.
There was silence for a long moment, and then Gavin said, “You heard that the Five-oh-four finally got here, right?”
“I’ve heard rumors, yes, sir.”
“You know that Ridgway and I had been begging General Clark to turn them loose, get them the hell out of Italy. But Clark wouldn’t do it, said he needed them at Anzio, so they got chewed all to hell. I had hoped they’d be ready for this mission, but Ridgway says they’re too shot up. He’s grounded them. You know what that means?”
Adams knew the answer already, the one word in his mind: veterans. How much more do those boys need to go through? He knew, as they all did, that the 504th had been the victims of the horrific friendly fire incident off the Sicilian coast, nervous naval gunners ignoring their orders not to fire on the slow-moving transports that flew over them in the darkness. It had been a disaster for everyone involved, the 504th suffering more than two hundred casualties. Despite serious misgivings about the effectiveness of airborne drops, the 504th had been called on again, a crucial drop into Italy, which Adams and the 505th had followed. Then the 505th had been ordered to England, but the 504th stayed put and for several miserable months had been bogged down at Anzio.
Gavin didn’t wait for him to speak. “It means, Sergeant, that we’re going into France with one hand behind our backs. It means that right now, the Eighty-second will count, as its parachute regiments, the Five-oh-five, plus the Five-oh-seven and Five-oh-eight. So two-thirds of us are green, not a lick of combat experience. I bitched like hell to Ridgway—well, as much as anyone can bitch to Ridgway—but he wouldn’t budge. Colonel Tucker’s screaming like hell, and I bet every man in that outfit is pretty upset, but, hopefully, they’ll get into this thing before it’s over. Meanwhile, the Eighty-second is going to jump into the enemy