32. ADAMS

OVER THE MEDITERRANEAN
JULY 9, 1943, MIDNIGHT

T hirty-five miles per hour.

Adams had been close to the cluster of officers, heard the grim reports, Gavin’s simple response: “What the hell do you expect me to do about it now?”

As they gathered at the planes, the men had been fully loaded, pockets and pouches bulging and heavy. More equipment was hanging from the C-47s themselves, mortars and heavy machine guns wrapped in canvas bundles, hooked beneath the wings. Adams had struggled to keep the dust out of his eyes, trying not to think what the strong winds could mean to the paratroopers. After checking his own equipment, he had moved to each man in the stick, silent coaching, every man stuffed and wrapped with every conceivable tool and weapon he had been trained to carry. A few men had tried to talk, spending their nervousness in chatter, mostly to themselves. But there had been none of the joking, the teases, no one had been playful. For so many months they had tormented their bodies and tested their courage, and Adams felt the strength of that, knew they all felt it, that there was a kind of power in them that made them better soldiers than anyone they would face, maybe anyone else in the world. As the time grew closer, the sounds had been few, the men around him buckling up and cinching the straps, hoisting the chutes onto their backs, counting their grenades and their ammunition clips, checking every piece of gear in every pocket, and then, checking it again.

They had climbed aboard the C-47 after dark, close to eight thirty, the briefings from the officers locked in their minds. It was a three-and-a-half-hour flight, nearly all of it over water, and so each man had his Mae West strapped on as well, one more encumbrance. No one had complained.

The C-47 would carry a stick of eighteen paratroopers plus the two pilots up front, whose job it was to negotiate the route laid out on the maps. They would fly at a low altitude, keeping close to the water until they reached the coastline. The C-47s were to follow a circuitous route around the massive invasion fleet, avoiding friendly fire from overanxious antiaircraft gunners on the Allied ships. But the briefings had dealt more with the paratroopers themselves, the location of the drop zones, what they would find there, and what they were supposed to do about it. The drop zones were several miles inland, east and north of the coastal town of Gela, directly north of the Acate River. There were specific targets, one crucial intersection of roads that led away from the coast, designated Objective Y, which was guarded by a heavy concentration of pillboxes and gun emplacements. To the northwest of the drop zones was a hill named Piano Lupo, which commanded a view of the Gela airfield. If all went according to plan, the vital routes the enemy could use to confront the amphibious landings would be closed off, and once captured, the Gela airfield could be used immediately to ferry in supplies and reinforcements. Once the Y was cleared, the routes inland would be open for the two infantry divisions, the First and the Forty-fifth, the men who would make their landings on the beaches closest to the 505th’s drop zones. The first part of the mission might be the most difficult, finding the drop zones in moonlight, in the teeth of what continued to be gale-force winds.

Adams didn’t know how many planes had taken off from the various fields around Kairouan, but he knew the men, knew that thirty-four hundred paratroopers had gone aloft in the skies around him, every one with the same job, the same information, and every one carried the same piece of paper, the final message passed out to them from Colonel Gavin.

Soldiers of the 505th Combat Team

Tonight you embark upon a combat mission for which our people and the free people of the world have been waiting for two years.

You will spearhead the landing of an American force upon the island of Sicily. Every preparation has been made to eliminate the element of chance. You have been given the means to do the job and you are backed by the largest assemblage of air power in the world’s history.

The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of every American go with you….

A dams sat up front, closest to the pilots, would be the last man out of the plane. At the rear sat Ed Scofield, the captain wrapped and buried under his own bundle of equipment and tools, squeezed into place against the man beside him. Scofield sat closest to the open jump door and, when the time came, when the green light flashed, would be the first man to jump.

The plane dipped, tilting to one side, the pilot pulling it straight again, groans from the men. They were used to bounces and air pockets, but this was different, a violence in the sky around them that grabbed the plane like a child’s toy, tossing it from side to side. Adams had tried to sleep, strong advice passed along from Gavin. Captain Scofield had reminded them that once they were on the ground, no one was likely to do anything but move and fight. With daylight coming five or six hours after they landed, it was going to be a long day.

Adams leaned back, his head held upright by the chute. There was no sleep, his mind working furiously, watching the others, keeping an eye on the men who might weaken, who might require some extra jolt from their sergeant. He didn’t want to believe that anyone would fall apart now. These men had been through too much, and even the weakest link in this one chain was strong enough to finish the job they were supposed to do. He ran the names through his mind, tried to predict. McBride, O’Brien? They’ve been pretty good lately. Hell, I was bitching about the desert as much as they were, and I grew up in this kind of crap. Fulton? No, he’s all right. A weak gut doesn’t mean he isn’t a good soldier. Adams sat back again, took a deep breath, felt the calmness of the cool air. It was the one blessing, a hard chill, the jolting turmoil of the flight eased by the coolness around them. There was no worse combination for airsickness than rough air and heat, and they had suffered through plenty of both over Fort Benning. But now, even in the chill, Adams had watched his men carefully, looked for the telltale signs, hands covering mouths, men suddenly lurching over, sickening smells that would infect the rest of them. There had been a few, but only a few, early, some men succumbing within the first hour of flight. But that was sickness of a different kind, the gut-churning fear, the first time any of these men would actually face the enemy. Adams knew that each man held to his own thoughts, some praying, others reciting the letters they had left behind, I might not return…, others simply staring into their fear, doing all they could to hold away the terrifying fantasies of what was waiting for them on the ground. When the smells of sickness had drifted through the plane, they all knew that some were better at it than others.

He had left his own letters, one for his mother of course. That one was easy, full of sentiment and soft confidence, all the things she would expect to read, that any mother would want to read. But then he had written to his brother, surprising himself, the words flowing out in a rapid stream, things he would never say to anyone else, things he knew the censors might have some problem with. He didn’t yet know what kind of experiences his brother had seen, what it was really like for a Marine in the Pacific, whether Clayton had actually faced the Japanese, whether he had been wounded, whether he was even alive. No, Adams thought, the army would tell me that. They’re supposed to anyway. But, who the hell knows what those jungles are like, islands in the middle of nowhere. Clayton may never get the damned letter. But, I had to write it. Had to tell someone. I’ll bet he’d do the same. Maybe already has. He thought of Gavin, the assembly one morning, months ago now. Any man tells you he’s not afraid going into combat, the first thing you do is shake his hand. Then, you call him a liar. There had been protest after that, the mouthy boys making their speeches about all the things they’d do to the Nazis. But Adams knew in some instinctive place that Gavin was right, that when the time came, when the jumps would land them right into an enemy’s camp, or right beside a ten-gun pillbox, well, damned right I’ll be afraid. And that’s…right now.

He leaned forward, saw Scofield at the rear of the plane, staring down through the jump door. There had been a wager, some of the men wondering what the captain would do when he jumped. It had become customary now that as every man jumped, he yelled out “Geronimo.” The custom was cloudy in origin, some claiming to have started the ritual themselves. Adams was convinced that it had started with a movie the men had watched at Fort Benning. It was a forgettable story, some typical Hollywood version of cowboys and Indians, except for one climactic moment, when the famed Indian chief called out his own name as he purposely rode to his death over a cliff. Only the most gullible believed that the real Geronimo had done such a thing, but the men had decided it made for a dramatic way to depart a plane. The officers mostly ignored the ritual, but Captain Scofield was closer to his men than some of the others, had commented that he might just take up that call himself. Adams had his doubts. It was one thing to emulate some famous Indian when your supposed death leap was over a jump zone in Georgia. It was quite another for an officer to imitate a lusty embrace of certain death when the jump might be exactly that.

He tried to see his watch, too dark, knew they had been aloft now for hours. George Marshall. He shook his head. George Marshall. Someone’s idea of a joke, maybe. But we’ll remember it. Damned well better.

It was the call sign; once they were on the ground in the dark, no one could know if the first man he contacted was friend or enemy. The entire jump team had been given the code words, the one-word greeting: George; and the response: Marshall. They could have come up with something better, he thought. How about Rita Hayworth? Well, maybe not. Even the Krauts might answer to that one. He scanned the men closest to him, leaned forward again, looked down the rows of men facing each other, no one moving. At the rear of the plane Scofield suddenly rose to his feet, surprising him, the captain moving forward, the men pulling in feet and legs, making way. Adams felt a jolt of concern, waited for Scofield to move close, said, “What’s up, Captain?”

Scofield ignored him, moved into the cockpit, his voice just reaching Adams over the drone of the motors.

“You want to tell me where the hell we are?”

Adams felt a stab of cold curiosity, leaned forward, stared out the small window across from him. There was nothing to see, moonlight reflecting on black water sliding by only a few hundred feet below them. He twisted around, looked behind him, the window close by his own head, saw a speck of light, low on the horizon. And now, a streak of white lights, rising up, and another, his brain kicking into gear. Antiaircraft fire.

Scofield was still in the cockpit, passing words back and forth with the pilots, and Adams stared at the lines of tracer bullets, more of them, closer now. The plane rocked suddenly, a white flash in his eyes, loud curses beside him, the men coming to life.

“What the hell?”

“We hit?”

“What is it, Sarge? What’s going on?”

Adams called out, “Shut the hell up! It’s ground fire. We’re getting close. Keep calm. Nothing we can do about it.”

He stared out the small window again, heard Scofield, a hard shout: “Turn this son of a bitch around!”

The plane dipped to one side, a hard banking turn, more streaks of white light, a heavy rumble, the plane bouncing, another bright flash. Scofield stayed in the cockpit, and Adams felt himself rising up, straining under the weight of his gear, but he could not just sit. He eased up behind Scofield, said, “What’s going on, sir? We okay?”

Scofield turned to him now, looked past him, eyed the men. “All right, there’s no secrets now. You men need to know that our pilots are not sure where the hell we are. You see those tracers? That ground fire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s supposed to be on the right side! The coastline is supposed to be that way…north of us. But that fire is on the left! The jackasses flying this plane can’t find their asses with broomsticks! Sit down, Sergeant! We’ll sort this out if I have to toss these idiots into the ocean and fly this thing myself!”

Adams obeyed, felt a new kind of fear, realized Scofield was as angry as Adams had ever seen him. He looked again through the window behind him, the coastline gone now, the plane still rocking from the gusting wind, another hard bounce. He heard Scofield again.

“There! Follow that beach! You see those ships out there? Those are ours! Stay the hell away from them. There’s ack-ack up ahead, aim for it. That has to be the enemy. If they’re shooting, it means our planes are passing through there. Keep your heading west!”

Adams watched the men, saw faces all looking forward, tense, silent men, the only voice the captain’s. There were more flashes now, to the right side, and suddenly there was a chattering sound, like the rattle of so many pellets against the aluminum skin of the plane. The men were moving about now, twisting toward the windows behind them, useless with so much encumbrance.

Adams said, “Sit still! That’s only shrapnel, spent ack-ack. If we get hit by something heavy, we won’t have time to worry about it. Every one of you, grab hold of your straps, keep your arms in tight! We gotta be getting close.”

Scofield was still talking to the pilots, said, “There! A lake! It’s on the maps. Turn north.”

The captain backed away from the cockpit, looked down at Adams. “I think we’re okay. Landing zone coming up.” Scofield began to move back through the plane, made his way slowly past the men. “Hang on, boys. There’s a few planes still out there with us, and we’re about to move over land. There’s bound to be a reception for us.”

The plane bounced hard again, the wings rolling to one side. Adams sat back, knew there was nothing to see now, no reason to do anything but sit and wait. The plane began to climb, gaining altitude, hard rocking of the wings. The plane jumped again, another flash of light, men reacting, the reflex, sharp cries. There was a new sound, another rattle, different, like a spray of small rocks. Shrapnel again, he thought. We’re flying right through the stuff. He looked toward the cockpit, the pilots focused forward, holding the plane as steady as possible, still climbing, long streams of white tracers rising up in front of them. The plane dipped again, a hard turn to the right, Adams’s stomach trying to catch up, more bumps, the plane leveling out again.

The red light suddenly blinked on, startling him, the others reacting with a mixture of shouts and grunts.

Scofield stood, called out, “Hook up! Check equipment!”

The men rose, struggling under the weight of their gear, moved into line, each one hooking his static line to the overhead cable. Adams did the same, couldn’t see the doorway now, ran his hands over his belts and pockets, did the same for the man in front of him. He heard a voice, low, could barely hear the words. It was Scofield again.

“God bless you boys.”

Adams leaned to the side, could see Scofield at the door, staring out, waiting. No one spoke now, no sound but the dull roar of the plane motors, the rush of wind, flickers and flashes of light in all directions, streams of machine-gun fire like small fountains on all sides of them. He felt his heart racing, cold in his fingers, stared past the man in front of him, every man frozen, all eyes on the red light. His legs quivered, and he closed his eyes, tried to fill the black, empty space, some image, some memory, his brother. But there was nothing there, nothing in his mind but the red light, and he opened his eyes, stared at the light, angry at the light, holding them there, keeping them in this deadly box, this tin coffin. Damn you!

And then, it was green.

The word burst out from the rear of the plane, rolling forward, cutting through them, pulling them toward the door, the final cry from Scofield:

“Geronimo!”

A dams lay still, his heart pounding hard, sorted through the pains, held tightly to the straps, pulled the parachute toward him, flattening it, slow, steady rhythm. He stayed on his back, could see streaks of white fire, the rattle of machine guns, no direction, no aim. They were everywhere. The parachute was flat now, and he slipped out of the harness, rolled away, pulled the Thompson from the straps behind his back, felt the pockets, the heavy bulges, ammo clips, grenades, everything still where it was supposed to be. He rolled over to one side, eased a clip into the machine gun, slowly, pushing, the click making him flinch. He pulled the bolt back, held it, let it slide forward slowly, chambering a round, the gun loaded, ready, the power of that rolling through him. Thank God. At least I can fight somebody.

He rolled over to his back again, stared up, stars, the moon low on the horizon, sinking, the white streaks fewer now. He saw tree limbs, silhouetted to one side of him, thought, woods. All right, that’s a good place to be. He rolled over to his knees, raised himself up, tried to see anything, kept himself motionless, an animal, listening for prey, for any movement, the only sound the quick, hard thumps in his ears, his own heart. The machine guns rattled on, but farther away now, much farther, no danger, and he looked toward the black woods, gripped the Thompson in his hand, touched the cloth bag of grenades again, began to move.

The ground was grassy, and he was moving downhill, slow and steady, soft steps, eyes sharp, nothing to see, black trees, brush, and now, a low wall. He stopped, squatted, peeked up over the wall, good cover, good place to sit. He listened again, no sounds, felt a sudden burst of fear, anger at himself, where the hell is everybody? He wanted to call out, what? Something…hell, the call sign. George. No, not yet. Krauts could be anywhere. Machine guns.

He looked up, searched the sky, saw the Big Dipper, the edge of the “cup” pointing to the North Star. It was procedure that once they were on the ground, the last man in the stick would move in the same direction the plane had flown, the best way to find the others. And when we jumped, he thought, we were flying north. He leaned against the wall, tried to calm himself, slow his breathing. Good wall. Thick rock. Dammit, can’t stay here. Scofield, where the hell is Scofield? North of here, for sure. We couldn’t be that far apart. Where the hell is everybody else? There were too many planes, have to be guys all over the damned place. Somebody’s gotta be hurt, there’s always somebody hurt. But, keep quiet, no screaming, not now, not here.

He heard sounds now, a motor, stared toward the noise, saw a glimpse of motion, reflection, a truck. The truck moved slowly past, no more than fifty yards away, no lights, low voices. He gripped the Thompson, froze, perfect stillness, good cover against the rock. Don’t go shooting at anything. There could be a hundred more. They’re just looking around. They know we’re out here. No searchlight, thank God. They think we don’t hear them? He was breathing heavily still, closed his eyes, clamped his arms close in tight, slow, easy. Just…find somebody.

The truck was gone now, silence, more gunfire, far in the distance, voices, behind him, beyond the wall. He froze again, the voices silent, now one man, foreign, meaningless words, soft-spoken, a whisper. Adams felt ice in his gut, sweating hands holding the Thompson, the grenades beneath him, unreachable. Damn! There were footsteps, close behind the wall, one man laughing, low, soft, another voice, angry, silencing the man. Adams stared at his own legs, realized one was extended, the wall barely three feet high, his boot reflecting moonlight, like some bright, glistening light on the dark ground. Dammit! Dammit! The footsteps still moved, past him now, moving away, and now another voice, beyond the wall, from the trees.

“George!”

The men at the wall stopped, silence, and Adams tried to see them in his mind, staring at the strange sound, pointing, silent commands. Adams was pulsing with anger, thought, no you jackass. You stupid…who the hell…what the hell is the matter with you? Don’t just call out! The footsteps moved away quickly, the rustle of grass, the men away from the wall, and Adams pulled his leg in close, one long, slow breath, pulled himself to his knees, raised up, peered over the wall. There was nothing, black woods, moonlight on gnarled trees. He could see the path now, where the men had been, a wide track on the far side of the wall, a cart path. He waited, listened, nothing, pulled himself up, stepped high, swung his legs over the wall, on the other side now. He dropped down again, strained to hear, the voice again.

“George!”

He felt his insides turning over, no, no, damn you, and now another cry, the same voice.

“Hey!”

And then the short, high scream.

He stared at the sounds, the voices coming again, calling out, foreign words, shadows emerging, four men, coming onto the cart path, moonlight on rifles, helmets, the men a few yards away, moving off. He pointed the Thompson, thought, a quick burst, take them all. But there was another truck now, on the road beyond the wall, coming fast, and he pulled the machine gun back close to his chest. No, don’t be stupid. You’d have a hundred of these bastards on you in no time.

He stayed low, moved away from the wall, slipped into the tall grass, then past, the ground hard and flat. The trees were around him, a low limb punching his helmet. Damn! He ducked, dropped to one knee, moonlight broken by the thick clusters of branches, realized, an orchard, rows of trees. He moved farther in, to where the sounds had been, soft steps, the Thompson pointed forward, saw a bright mass, moonlight on a parachute, the chute draped across the top of a tangled tree. He moved closer, could see the dark mass beneath it, the man hanging a few feet above the ground, silent, still, and Adams was there, put a hand on the man’s boots, felt cold wetness, the hard smell of blood and urine, the smell of death.

He backed away, turned toward the road. I can find them, the bastards. The sons of bitches! He was helpless!

“George!”

It was a hard whisper, behind him, and Adams froze, stood silently, his mind wrapping around the sound, the meaning. He felt a rush of energy, tried to speak, dry crust in his throat, the word coming out in a hoarse croak.

“Marshall!”

The man came toward him, another, and Adams felt his breathing again, cold turns in his stomach. Thank God!

“Private Fulton…Company A.”

“O’Brien—”

“It’s Adams. Shut up, you jackasses.”

“Sarge! Oh, hell, Sarge!”

The whispers were growing louder, and Adams pulled Fulton by the shirt, a low, urgent growl:

“Shut up! Enemy all over the place!”

O’Brien moved to the dead man. “We heard him, Sarge. We got here too late to help him. Kraut bastards.”

Adams pulled them both to the ground, whispered, “Guineas, probably. Shouldn’t be many Krauts here. Let’s cut him down, then move north. We should find some more guys. We gotta find the captain.”

Adams reached into a pants pocket, pulled out his small switchblade, the same knife they all carried, for the single purpose of cutting the straps in case you found yourself hung up in a tree. It was one more piece of the training, but Adams knew it was false comfort, since if you came down in a tree, you might be too torn up to do much of anything about it. The straps were cut, the man lowered, and Adams leaned low, pulled the man’s helmet away.

“Oh, Christ. It’s McBride.”

The others were low beside Adams, and Fulton said, “We gotta bury him.”

“Not now we don’t. We know where he’s at. We’ll come back for him. We have to move north, and right now!”

He couldn’t let them hesitate, no emotion, not now, not with so much still to be done. They were three men out of three thousand, and they were lost in the enemy’s backyard. Adams moved away, the others close behind him, made his way ducking low through the trees, keeping close to the edge of the orchard. He looked to the sky again, the North Star. In the stark clarity of the New Mexico skies, he had spents night learning the stars, scanning for meteors, naming the constellations. Now, they were his guide, and for now it was the only guide they would need.

H e had five men behind him, the squad fanning out slightly, easing through patches of thick brush, more walls, low boundaries that seemed to divide open grassy fields and orchards. The moon was gone, the last orange glow below the horizon, but his eyes had grown sharp, absorbing the features of the ground, landmarks sticking in his brain, shadows that had meaning.

The machine-gun fire had come again, mostly distant, several directions, no way to tell if anyone was actually in an organized fight. As they moved northward, the orchards had ended, and he kept the men close beside a wide drainage ditch, one man dropping down low, testing, confirming the depth, a soft bottom of mud and water. On the near side of the ditch, the ground rose up, a wide hillside flecked with dark patches. Adams gathered the men in close, whispered through heavy breaths.

“Let’s head up to the higher ground. Maybe we can see a village, some kind of reference point. Keep low. Don’t make a silhouette!”

They fanned out again, and he heard one man grunt, stumbling, the ground rocky and hard. He cursed to himself, but there was nothing to say, no one needing a reminder that the enemy could be anywhere around them. He focused on one large cluster of bushes, led them that way, thought, cover at least, maybe there’ll be something to see. It would be nice to know where the hell everybody is.

He was breathing heavily, reached the brush, a thick mass of thorny bushes, the men pulling up close to him. He jerked at his canteen, shook it, still nearly full, took a short drink.

“What now, Sarge?”

“Let’s keep moving. We’re not doing a damned bit of good here. Go toward the crest, but stop just short. Let’s take a look around.”

“George!”

They froze, heads darting around, each man trying to locate the voice.

“George, you morons.”

Adams smiled, breathless relief, knew the voice. “Marshall, sir.”

It was Captain Scofield.

The brush in front of them was alive with movement now, and Adams saw Scofield slipping toward him, others emerging from the brush. He realized close to a dozen men were on the hillside, the brush offering them perfect cover. They said nothing, small grunts, Scofield moving close, and he put a hand on Adams’s shoulder, a low whisper.

“Six of you? That’s it?”

“All we’ve seen, sir. They killed McBride.”

“They killed several, Sergeant, and we’ve got several more badly busted up. We made an aid station back in a drainage ditch, base of this hill.”

“We saw the ditch, sir.”

“If you’d have kept going, you’d have walked right into them. We saw you coming up the hill, let you get close enough so we could tell who the hell you were. I heard you talking. Eyeties don’t speak English.” Scofield stopped, looked back toward the crest of the hill. “Enemy machine guns are anchored along the next ridge, four or five hundred yards north. Several pillboxes, looks like. Maybe a house too. Trucks coming and going. They were shooting at shadows for a while, but somebody in charge probably shut ’em up. Eyeties, most likely. Krauts would have come out here looking for us. Eyeties would rather stay put. We got fifteen men now. Two mortar carriers, one bazooka. That’s enough to get something done. I’m not going to just sit here and wait for daylight. We’re supposed to engage the enemy, and he’s right out there. I’d rather do it in the dark.”

Scofield dropped low, flicked a match, a brief flash of light, covered by his hand.

“Three a.m. You take the right point, I’ll take the left.”

Scofield moved away, Adams absorbing the orders, so matter-of-fact. He stood upright, felt the quiver in his legs, scanned the hillside. To one side, Scofield was gathering the men, more low whispers. Adams felt a strange calm, could feel that Scofield was in complete control, the simple mission, get something done. Well, hell, what else we doing out here? He stood still for a long moment, stared up at the crest of the hill, and his brain began to work now, the questions, how many men are out there, how many machine guns? Guess it doesn’t matter. No way to find out until we give them something to shoot at. Fifteen men. He looked down at the Thompson, touched the bolt, the gun still ready, unfired, no targets yet. He was impatient now, moved out to the right, still below the crest, watched Scofield, the man giving him a quick wave, pointing out to the left. Adams waited for the men to fall into position, and he felt suddenly ridiculous, childlike, fifteen men, an army, like so many kids in a backyard playing war. The chill was all through him now, and there was no laughter, the absurd image washed away by the fear, a flash of pure terror in his brain, spreading out through him, the annoying quiver in his legs again. He gripped the Thompson hard in his hands, fought it, the terrified voice in his brain, the urge to do anything but advance on a cluster of machine guns. There was another voice, the hard steel, months of training, cursing him, shaming him. Grab hold of it, mister! Follow the man in charge.

The men began to creep forward, Scofield leading them up and then out to the left, around the crest, keeping them low. Adams knew his role, waited for the last man to fall into line. He was doing what he had done in the desert, what he had done in the planes, keeping the men together, bringing up the rear, no stragglers, no one hanging back. The voices were quiet now. There was nowhere else to go but forward.

T he fight erupted right in front of him, enemy lookouts picking up movement and sounds in the darkness. Scofield was still on the left, the men lying flat in clusters of low brush. The ground fell away behind them, narrow cuts in the rocky hillside, a gentle slope that led straight up to the pillboxes. Adams slid upward into a shallow gap, tried to raise the Thompson, the rocks too tight around him, his mind working, damn, nothing to shoot at anyway. I can crawl farther up.

Behind him he heard a hollow punch, the sound of a mortar, and he flattened out, knew to wait, the shell arcing overhead. It came down now, a sharp blast, and he raised his head, tried to see, what? Fire? Nothing else, just darkness, the enemy machine guns spraying the rocks again. The punch came again, the wait, the new blast, and Scofield was calling out, pushing the mortar crews to continue their fire.

Along the rocks beside him, men were creeping forward, pops and flashes of rifle fire, and Adams shouted out, “Cease fire! No targets! Save your ammo!” He heard motion in the rocks below him, realized he could actually see, faint light, shapes, thought, dawn. He saw a man slipping along, searching, looking up at him, Scofield.

The captain crawled up the hillside, was close now, said, “I’m going forward, taking one man for cover. We can’t just sit here, and they’re too strong for us to have a damned shoot-out. There will sure as hell be reinforcements coming up. Everybody in this country has heard this fight. We can’t wait! Give me two minutes to get into position, then throw out some covering fire. Try not to shoot my ass!”

Adams said nothing, watched as Scofield slid back down the hill, crouching through the low brush. He looked to the side, faces watching him, said in a low voice, “On my command, shoot like hell. Then lay low. They’ll answer.”

He tried to see Scofield, the man hidden by the scrub, felt his own impatience, the Thompson itching his hands. The daylight was increasing, and he could see his hands, black with dirt, realized now, dried blood, McBride’s blood. Enough of this. We can’t accomplish a damned thing pinned down here. Two minutes. Hell, I lost my damned watch.

“Give it to ’em! Now!”

The men rose up, carbines and submachine guns ripping fire toward the enemy strongholds. The response came now, and Adams slumped down in his cover, the air and the rocks above him shattered by machine-gun fire, dirt and debris spraying him. He waited for a pause in the fire, rose up again, saw the shape of the closest pillbox, aimed, emptied the clip of the Thompson, the men following his lead. He dropped low again, waited, the machine guns splitting the air above him, another spray of rocks and dirt. He curled his fingers around the machine gun, saw smoke from the barrel, felt the heat of the steel. The clip, he thought. He reached down, felt his pocket, pulled out another, stabbed it into the gun, jerked the bolt. The fire had stopped again, men searching for targets in the low light, and he eased himself slowly up, could see it all, up beyond the hill, a row of pillboxes, like fat concrete haystacks, gathered around a house. There was a burst of fire, rocks splattering against his helmet, and he slumped low again, damn! Stupid! Stay down! He saw others watching him now, men all along the hillside, familiar faces, Fulton, yes, this time I’m the moron, not you. We’ll laugh about that later. The firing from the pillboxes had stopped again, and he thought of Scofield. Well, where the hell are you? Adams was sweating, furious, the Thompson pulled tight against his chest, the barrel against his cheek. Dammit! Where the hell did he go? He get himself killed?

There was a quiet pause, voices in the pillboxes, his face close to the ground, dirt and small rocks, can’t stay here in daylight, this brush isn’t much cover. He looked out to the right, knew he was the end of the line, but there was no cover out that way, the sloping ground bare, small dots of brush. They can’t surround us that way. Unless they send a pile of men out there. He thought of Scofield’s word, reinforcements. Yep. There could be. Here I am, Mr. One-Man Flank. Dammit, Captain, what are we supposed to do now?

There was a sharp blast, shouts from the pillboxes, short pops of rifle fire. The enemy machine gun began again, ripping the air above him, and Adams heard another sharp punching blast, the gun silent. He raised himself out of the cut in the ground, knew the sound, said aloud, “Grenades!”

There was another blast, another grenade, a flash of light at the house, smoke pouring from windows, more pops of rifle fire. There was shouting now, English, Scofield, and Adams responded, crawled up out of his cover, saw smoke pouring from the slits in one pillbox, felt a burst inside him, yelled out, “Let’s go! Advance!”

He scrambled up the soft dirt, the men coming up behind him, a brief burst of machine-gun fire, then silence, more smoke, men screaming, loud cries, a surge of motion from the house. Adams dropped to one knee, the Thompson pointed forward, men drawing up beside him, spreading to the side, some up to the house itself, low against the flat stone. Scofield was there, close by the house, shouting at them, waving.

“Go! Inside! Prisoners!”

Adams ran forward, was at the house, smoke still pouring from a window, men calling out, foreign words, no firing now. He eased along the wall, more of his men gathering, soldiers emerging from the pillboxes, strange uniforms, hands and handkerchiefs in the air. It was over.

T hey had captured fifty prisoners, with more than a dozen heavy machine guns and an extraordinary supply of ammunition. Adams had to believe that Scofield was right about enemy reinforcements, that the small squad of paratroopers could not simply sit tight and wait for the enemy to pour fire on them. The prisoners were an inconvenience, certainly, but they would come along, could serve one useful purpose: haul their own machine guns, the heavy ammo boxes. They could be guarded by a few of the Thompsons, men who would bring up the rear, keeping the prisoners together, move them along, all of them pressing toward the ultimate goal, the place on the crumpled map in Scofield’s jacket: Objective Y. The incredible haul of heavy machine guns was only one surprise. The second came from the prisoners themselves. They were not all Italians. Among the men were a dozen Germans, men who gave their unit as the Hermann Göring Panzer Division. They were front-line observers, the forwardmost eyes of an enemy that no one expected to see. Adams had heard the briefings, that they might find some German engineers or technicians, advisers to the Italian commands. But their prisoners told a different story. The enemy would certainly be reinforced, and when those reinforcements came forward, they might be driving tanks.

T hey had ninety men now, had found a cluster of headquarters personnel and scattered paratroopers, a squad of antitank fighters, bazooka carriers, all of them completely separated from their own commands. They had also found Lieutenant Colonel Art Gorham, the battalion commander, the man known throughout the Eighty-second Airborne as Hard Nose. With the daylight came a clear view of the lay of the land, and the satisfying conclusion that Adams and Scofield had indeed landed close to their drop zone. Their blind advance had taken them directly across the wide, hilly prominence of Piano Lupo, exactly where they were supposed to be. With Gorham now in command, the paratroopers spread out across the dismal open scrub, climbing still, assuming that once they reached the vantage point where Objective Y could be observed, they would find the rest of the 505th, or at least enough men that the assault on the enemy stronghold could be done with the power necessary to accomplish the mission.

“N o one. Not a damned soul. Three thousand men couldn’t just disappear.” Scofield lowered the binoculars, handed them to Adams. “Here. Look for yourself. Unless I’m blind, there’s not a man to be seen. You’d figure we could see somebody lying low, small groups maybe. There’s shooting to the east, but way the hell off. That could be some of our guys.”

Adams raised the binoculars, scanned the brush, rolling, uneven ground, nearly treeless. He saw the road, a white, dusty ribbon, an intersection, and along one side a row of low, fat concrete mushrooms.

“Pillboxes. Out there, in those hills above the road. More than a dozen of ’em.”

“Sixteen. The colonel says this is it. Objective Y. The maps describe it pretty well. This is what we’re supposed to hit.”

Adams lowered the glasses. “With what?”

Scofield rolled over onto his back, slid down the hill, Adams following, heard no response to his question. Colonel Gorham was waiting for them, said, “Pretty clear what we have to do. We can set up the mortars in that low ground to the left, some deeper hills there. The rest of us can spread out along whatever cover we can find. We have to use the land, get as close as we can, let the mortars bust ’em up a bit. We make enough noise, it might draw some of our own men out of hiding, let them find us.”

Adams looked down the wide hillside, saw the prisoners guarded by a dozen paratroopers. The Italians had seemed almost eager to surrender, officers as well as their men, the few Germans more sullen. But there was no defiance even from them, no anger, all of them seeming to be exhausted by the war, accepting captivity with quiet stoicism. He watched them for a moment, the questions rising inside him. How many battles? Where? Africa? Russia? Or maybe they’ve been here the whole time. But it’s been a while. None of them look like recruits. It would be nice to get rid of them, not lose those men to guard duty. We need all the Thompsons we can get.

He looked toward the paratroopers now, the men lying flat, some helmets covering faces, others with canteens and ration tins, the first chance any of them had had to eat. Most of them still showed traces of the face-black, the foul-smelling ash that Gavin had ordered them to use for camouflage. It was thought best to cover their white faces in the moonlight, but now, in full daylight, the men simply looked filthy. Gorham and Scofield continued their discussion, and Adams felt his own hunger, pulled a tin of crackers from his pocket, said in a low voice, “We look like a bunch of damned savages.”

Gorham stopped talking, looked at him, pointed a finger into Adams’s face. “Damned right, Sergeant. That’s an asset. General Ridgway said that the Eyeties have been told we’re nothing but escaped convicts and Indian scalp hunters. We might as well look the part. Could scare them enough to just give up this fight. Propaganda works both ways.”

“Yes, sir.”

Adams crushed the dry crackers in his mouth, thought, yeah, and it could also convince them to fight like hell to keep us from capturing them. He washed the dry mush down his throat with the last swig from his canteen.

Gorham moved down the hill toward the men, and Scofield followed, motioned to Adams to follow. The men began to gather, responding to the colonel, and Gorham waited for them to close in, said in a low voice:

“It’s time to go. Our objective is beyond these hills here, two thousand yards or so. We have no way of knowing what’s waiting for us, so just shoot hell out of anybody who doesn’t look like us, and don’t stop moving forward. There’s a good spot for the mortars about halfway there, and we can make it pretty hot for whoever’s in those bunkers.” He paused. “We could wait a while longer, try to gather up some more men. But I don’t know any more than you do, and all I know is a whole bunch of paratroopers landed God-knows-where, and they’re not where we expected them to be. But we’re here, the enemy’s over there, and we still have our objective.” He pointed south. “The beaches are that way, and we’ve got a hell of a lot of infantry coming ashore. This intersection in front of us joins two roads that feed out of two key towns north of here, where the enemy is supposed to be waiting in force. Once they know where our landing zones are, they’ll be hauling everything they’ve got this way. We have to take this intersection, and then, hold on to it. We throw up a roadblock, we can slow the enemy enough to give the infantry time to establish and fortify their footholds. If we give way, if the enemy shoves past us, those boys on the beach could be in a world of trouble. That’s why we can’t just sit and wait and try to find more of our people. We have to make a go with what we have. And you’re it.”

Adams scanned the faces, saw men looking at each other, their own silent head count. Yep. Ninety men. Geronimo.

T he mortars began to drop their shells, finding the range, bursts of white smoke billowing up and around the concrete pillboxes. The men pressed forward, some of them hauling the captured machine guns, metal cartridge boxes, larger than anything the paratroopers carried themselves. With all the firepower the small force could muster, Gorham’s men pushed toward the intersection, pressing through low gullies and dips in the sloping hillsides. As the men drew closer, they were surprised by an enormous explosion, the air above them ripped wide by a heavy artillery shell. It was long-range fire from at least one naval ship, and whether the navy had any idea if their shelling was effective, to the ninety paratroopers who expected to storm the pillboxes, it produced an astonishing result. Gorham reacted quickly, relying on the enemy inside the pillboxes to be as surprised by the naval artillery as he was. The plan was risky, Captain Scofield coaching one German prisoner who spoke English, giving the man an ultimatum to carry into the concrete strongholds. Scofield’s ultimatum promised that unless the Italians surrendered, he would direct the naval gunfire to destroy every pillbox and kill every man who held his ground. Whether or not the German noticed that Scofield had no radio at all, he did as he was told. The ultimatum worked. In only minutes, the Italians poured from the bunkers, hands raised. Objective Y, the important intersection guarded by a network of heavily fortified and heavily armed defenses, surrendered completely before any of their officers discovered just how few men confronted them, and how powerless the Americans were to call in any kind of fire from the navy.