The Steel Wave - Jeff Shaara [72]
Adams was uncomfortable now; it was not like Gavin to complain about anything. He waited through more silence. Why is he telling me this?
Gavin looked at the coffee in his cup, set it to one side. “Keep this stuff away from the gasoline tanks.” He stood, moved to the one small window, stared out. “You know damned well not to repeat this, right?”
“Of course, sir.”
“We had a hell of a fight at HQ a while back. You missed a good one. Word came from Washington that General Marshall wanted us to jump close to Paris, that we ought to raise hell with German installations, bridges, all of that. A hundred miles behind the lines. Apparently, General Marshall forgot that the Germans have tanks, and that a flock of paratroopers don’t fare too well against armored vehicles. Thank God someone talked him out of it, Ike probably. I’ve got a lot of respect for General Marshall, but sometimes, these damned armchair types—”
Gavin turned around.
“This make you nervous, Sergeant?”
“No, sir.”
“It ought to. It’d be awfully good for someone in your position to believe that those folks up the ladder know what the hell they’re doing. I know what the hell I’m doing, and Ridgway knows what the hell he’s doing. I suppose Ike does too. But some of those others fellows—I just found out they changed the mission on us. New jump zones. You know the mission?”
“No, sir.”
“Hell, no, of course you don’t. That’ll come later. You’ll be briefed when SHAEF says it’s time. But it’s gonna be hot. That’s Rommel over there, and you can bet he’s waiting for us. You still remember how to use that Thompson?”
“Definitely, sir.”
Gavin nodded, still no smile. Adams could feel the weight in the room, the smell of dust and burnt coffee.
“This is important, Sergeant. Most important damned thing we’ve ever done. You understand that?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so, sir.”
Gavin seemed mystified now, looked at Adams with a tilt of his head. “You recall why I wanted to see you?”
“No, sir. I assumed…maybe you wanted to talk to me about my work, something I screwed up.”
Gavin smiled. “Nope. As much as I miss you on my staff, I’m not about to yank you out of here again. These boys would miss you a hell of a lot more than those paper pushers at St. Paul’s.” He paused, looked down, put a hand on the papers. “Damn. My brain’s mush, Sergeant. I need this war to end so I can get a real night’s sleep. I’ve told Ekman the Five-oh-five has some good people to carry the load. He knows that, of course, and it probably pisses him off when I tell him his business. No commander listens to advice from his predecessor. Even if he should.” Gavin looked at his watch, shook his head. “Have to meet with Ridgway in an hour.”
He looked at Adams now, moved around the desk, close to him, suddenly held out a hand. Adams took it, his own hand engulfed by the hard thin fingers.
“Once this thing starts,” Gavin said, “I expect you to kill some Germans. Not sure where I’ll be when D-Day comes, but you can damn well bet I’ll be jumping somewhere close by. Try to find me if you can. I want a good point man in front of me. If I don’t see you again—well, I expect—I expect both of us to get home in one piece.”
BRAUNSTONE PARK, NEAR LEICESTER
MAY 30, 1944
They sat in a semicircle, braced against the hard chill, the wind whipping across the open ground. In the center, the doctor dropped to one knee, held up one arm of the man lying flat beside him on a wool blanket.
“Now, listen up. You insert the sharp tip of the syrette directly into a prominent vein.” He looked down at his patient, held up one of the skinny arms. “You ready, Private Unger?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Roll up your sleeve. This won’t hurt.”
Unger obeyed. Quickly, the doctor jabbed the syrette into the crease of Unger’s elbow and continued his lecture.
“Like that. The morphine should be effective immediately. Even if you cannot readily dress the man’s wounds, this should keep him calm and free of pain. For the most part.”
Adams watched the others, no one laughing now. The doctor stood, holding