40. ADAMS

T hey had been pulled out of Sicily on August 20, the entire Eighty-second Airborne Division reestablished around the airfields at Kairouan, Tunisia. Almost immediately, the recruits had come, the new men to fill the depleted ranks. With the new men came new training, and the jumps continued. As they had done so many times before, Adams and the other jumpmasters manned the doorways of the C-47s, coaching and prodding the unfamiliar faces, insuring that when they jumped into a combat zone, they would know that the bone-jarring landings would be no different from what they had practiced so often at Fort Benning. Of course, no amount of additional training could predict how a man might actually respond when he jumped into the middle of an enemy machine-gun nest.

Unlike their first encampment in North Africa, this time the misery and boredom did not continue for more than a few days. By early September, they were sent back to Sicily, the airbase at Licata, on the southern coast, and the men in charge began ironing out the problems that had plagued the 505th’s first jump. Homing beacons and portable radio sets were old technology, but no one in the Airborne command had seemed to consider that this sort of communications was an absolute necessity in the field. After Sicily, they changed their minds, energized by the pilots, who pushed their officers to find better ways to guide them to their drop zones. The Airborne’s drop into Sicily had been extraordinarily valuable, blocking the German advance, which might have saved the entire operation. But most of the Allied commanders, including Eisenhower, considered that to be a fortunate accident. No matter how effective the men of the Eighty-second had been in Sicily, their jump had been a chaotic mess. Criticism of the paratroopers had come from all directions, rumors filtering down that the Eighty-second might be disbanded, or redesignated as infantry. Like most such rumors, Adams knew that such a radical change was unlikely to happen, but with Eisenhower himself voicing serious doubts about the effectiveness of the paratroop force, the officers were taking the rumors seriously. General Ridgway responded vigorously to Eisenhower’s criticisms and had ordered that steps be taken to insure that future jump missions be equipped with the tools necessary so that regiments actually landed on their designated drop zones.

At Licata, some of the men had been organized into smaller units, trained for a specific job. They were called pathfinders, paratroopers whose job would be to land twenty to thirty minutes before the main body, to set up small radio transmitters that would guide the pilots to the proper jump zones. Besides the radios, some of the pathfinders would carry a krypton light, a small beacon that emitted a single blinding flash of light visible miles away. If all that failed, the pathfinders were taught that once they heard the C-47s, they could simply light a fire in the shape of a T, which would clearly designate the landing zone. How exactly the pathfinders would find the correct zones themselves was not revealed to men like Adams. His faith in the pathfinders was as limited as his faith that some officer would come up with any gimmick designed to make a soldier’s life simpler. His men agreed, most of them convinced that it was still up to the pilots. If the men in the cockpit got lost, there wasn’t much anyone on the ground could do about it.

LICATA FIELD, SICILY—SEPTEMBER 8, 1943

He sat beneath the wing of a C-47, double-checking his pack, killing time, the men around him waiting as he was, nothing else to do until the orders came to board the planes. There was little talking, even the new men subdued, their nervous chatter held down, each man locked into his own thoughts.

He counted his ration tins, far fewer than he had carried on Sicily. Their personal gear had been pared down, blankets, toilet articles, and extra clothing reduced to a minimum, or eliminated altogether. It was one valuable lesson from the jumps in Sicily: armament had far more value in the field than personal convenience. The Sicilian countryside had offered them all the comforts a man required to survive. What they could not replace were the weapons, the grenades and explosives, parts for the heavy machine guns. At Fort Benning, the men had practiced by dropping their heavy equipment separately, in bundles attached beneath the wings of the C-47s. But Sicily was not Fort Benning, and the men had learned that stumbling around in the dark searching for lost bundles was a surefire way to attract the enemy’s attention. More often the bundles were simply lost, many of them still scattered in the rough hills and thickets that spread across southern Sicily. If the men wanted use of a heavy machine gun or a bazooka, they would find a way to carry one with them.

Adams counted his grenades again, glanced up at the others, saw each man following his example. His platoon had only a few new faces, none of them yet showing him the telltale signs of becoming a weak link. They had responded well to the training, had made two night jumps around Kairouan, with no disasters. Now, they sat close to the rows of planes, trying to keep out of the way of the maintenance crews, while they waited for the officers to give them the order.

Scofield had been gone for some time, long meetings with the other officers, Adams glancing up every few seconds toward the low block building at the far end of the tarmac. He saw the captain now, others, pouring out of the building in a rush, moving quickly.

Adams’s heart jumped, and he called out, “Here we go! Ready packs. Prepare to board up!”

Scofield was jogging toward them, waved his hands in the air, shouted, “Stand down! The mission’s been scrapped!”

Scofield motioned to the men to gather, was clearly angry. The entire company moved close, and Scofield paced in small, quick steps, a tight circle, his arms waving like the wings of a deranged bird.

“Dammit! Second time in a week! Brass can’t make up its mind what the hell to do with us! We’re not going anywhere today! Giant Two has now been scratched. Just like Giant One. They make a plan, get us all fired up to go, and then some general chickens out!”

“Why, Captain?”

The voice came from behind Adams, one of the new men, Unger, the high-pitched voice of a child. Scofield looked at the young man, seemed to calm, gather himself. Adams could see that Scofield was scolding himself, thought, easy, Captain. Officers aren’t supposed to gripe about generals, especially not to pimple-faced enlisted men.

“Never mind. All you need to know is we’ve been ordered to stand down. Colonel Gavin got the word from General Ridgway. Those orders came from higher up. The colonel didn’t tell me any more than I’m going to tell you, so no questions. It’s no secret anymore, so I can tell you that Giant Two was a drop on the airfields around Rome. We were supposed to land right on the fields, and the Eyeties were going to be there to help us. They had agreed to supply everything we would need to capture the landing strips and secure them against any German units in the area. They were supposed to help us out by blowing up bridges, taking out German antiaircraft batteries, and once we hit the ground, they would furnish us with a considerable amount of supplies. Apparently, General Ridgway had some concerns about this and questioned whether or not the Italians could actually deliver what they promised. It seems someone above him shared those concerns. Count your stars, gentlemen. We might have jumped right into a massacre.”

Adams had crawled out from under the wing, stood, said, “So, what now, sir?”

Scofield put his hands on his hips, shook his head. “We remain on high alert. The Five-oh-five isn’t the first team on this one anyway. The 504th and the 509th will take the point on any new orders. We did our part in Sicily, and so, they’re figuring we can hang back as the reserve. But don’t any of you think we’re on vacation. They might call for us at any time. Seems like this operation is already fumtu. As much confusion as there’s been already…” Scofield stopped. “Check that. Just keep yourself ready to go. Get some sleep. Eat something. We get a call from General Ridgway, we might need to be up at it pretty quickly.”

Scofield moved away, and Adams slid back under the wing, gathered his gear. The others were talking, low grumbles, mostly the new men, and he ignored them, thought, don’t be in such a damned hurry to get your ass shot off.

“Sarge?”

The voice was unmistakable, and he turned. “What is it, Unger?”

“The captain said this operation is fumtu. What the heck does that mean?”

Adams laughed. “You should already know, Private, that in this army, there’s snafu and there’s fumtu.”

Unger stared at him, empty expression.

“You a churchman, right, Unger?”

“Yes, sir. Every Sunday.”

“All right, I’ll give you the clean translation. Situation Normal All Fouled Up. But what the captain was telling you is, this operation is Fouled Up More Than Usual.”

T he Fifth Army’s landings at Salerno began at 3:30 a.m., September 9, four divisions, two American and two British, supplemented by American rangers and commandos. To the north, the town of Salerno fell easily into American hands, but in the center, the British forces confronted heavy resistance from German defenders in the heights above the beaches. After a long day of difficult fighting, the British finally secured their beachhead, aided considerably by firepower from the naval artillery offshore. On the right flank of the landings, the American Sixth Corps, under Ernest Dawley, pushed only into light resistance and had, by nightfall on September 9, accomplished most of its objectives. With the landings complete, General Clark had every reason to believe that Avalanche was off and running.

Kesselring’s reinforcements were quickly summoned, and within hours of the landings, German panzer units were surging toward Clark’s beachheads. In the center of the beachhead, the Sele River flowed into the Gulf of Salerno, and along the mouth of the river, sandbars had formed, preventing the landing craft from putting troops near the river itself. The result was a gap, several miles wide, between the British troops in the center and Dawley’s corps on the right. On September 10, Dawley still believed he had the upper hand in his sector, and he chose the Thirty-sixth Division to make the hardest push inland, seeking to capture roads, hilltops, and key intersections. The Thirty-sixth had yet to be tested in battle, but with little opposition, they had made good progress and accomplished most of Dawley’s objectives, extending the beachhead far inland. What Dawley did not realize was that to his left, Kesselring’s panzers were driving toward the beach and were already beginning to fill the gap. When the Germans launched their counterattacks, Dawley’s men found themselves dangerously flanked and were soon virtually cut off. Along both sides of the gap, the Allied positions were now engulfed by German armor, and on the right, the green soldiers of the Thirty-sixth began to crack. Over the next three days, Clark’s initial successes were erased by the German assaults, and the Allied beachheads began to crumble, panicked troops falling back toward the beaches, protected only by the umbrella of fire from the naval artillery.

On September 13, Clark sent Matthew Ridgway a desperate plea for assistance, and Ridgway responded immediately. That night, Colonel Reuben Tucker’s 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment made the Eighty-second Airborne’s first drop into Italy, a desperate attempt to fill the wide gap in the Allied lines and bolster the battered Thirty-sixth Division. The following day, the 509th, under Colonel Edson Raff received orders to jump as well. The 509th had been the first wave of Operation Torch, had begun the Allied invasion of North Africa by being dropped haphazardly across two hundred miles of desert. Throughout the Sicilian campaign, the men of the 509th had impatiently stewed in North Africa, while the 504th and 505th did the work. Now, Clark ordered the 509th to make the Airborne’s most dangerous jump. They would attempt to secure a critical crossroads near the village of Avellino, far inland, and far into enemy territory, to prevent any more German reinforcements from reaching the already reeling Allied troops. If the 509th was to survive at all, they would have to hold on until someone from Clark’s Fifth Army reached their position. If the Germans succeeded in driving Clark’s forces back into the sea, the 509th would simply be swallowed up.

On September 14, the men of Jim Gavin’s 505th stayed close to the planes, wondering if they would be used at all. By midafternoon the questions were answered. Gavin learned they were not to be held back as reserves after all.

LICATA AIRFIELD—SEPTEMBER 14, 1943

They had camped among the olive groves, broad fields of ancient trees. Except for the wings of the C-47s, the olive trees were the only shade within reach, the only place a man could rest without baking in the sun.

Adams had slept, lying on his back, his helmet on his face, sweat soaking his clothes, a soft breeze cooling him. He was awake now, stretched his legs, raised the helmet slightly, glanced at his watch. Three o’clock, he thought. If something’s gonna happen, it better happen quick. He heard voices, the sound of a man choking. There was laughter, and Adams knew the routine, pulled the helmet away, blinked through the sunlight. He saw Unger, the young man on his knees, red-faced, spitting furiously, scratching at his belt, trying to grab his canteen. Adams slammed the helmet on his head, rolled to one side, pushed himself to his feet. He was already angry, slapped at the dirt on his pant legs, had gone through this routine too many times.

“Which one of you jackasses told him to eat the olives?” The men close to him were veterans, every one trying his best to hold back the smile. “None of you willing to admit it? Fine, tell you what. Since this is your idea of fun, why don’t we all eat one? Millions of the damned things, just reach up and grab one! Come on! We deserve a treat!”

They were watching him now, and he had no patience, knew they were wondering if he was serious. He plucked an olive from a branch above him, hard and black, held it up.

“They sell these things, you know. Ship ’em all over the damned world. Your mamas probably used them to cook with, right? Well, chow down, boys! No reason to let the new men get all the fun!”

He saw one man step forward, head down. It was Newley, the loudmouth from Chicago. “It was me, Sarge. Nobody else.”

Adams wasn’t surprised, had seen Newley victimize more than one recruit. “You hungry, Newley? Have an olive. Grab a handful.”

“I didn’t mean nothing, Sarge. Just playing.”

Adams felt the heat now, sunshine ripping through the branches of the old trees. “This is the Airborne, Private. You stopped playing when you stepped through the gates at Fort Benning. You notice how many of those C-47s took off last night?”

He saw nods from the men around him, and Newley said, “Yeah, Sarge.”

“That was the Five-oh-four. You think those boys are playing today? Tell you what, Newley. Next time we climb in a C-47, Unger’s sitting right next to you. I want you jumping right in front of him. You know why? Because I want you to think about what Unger had to accomplish to be here. I want you to think about what Airborne means, what you mean to each other out there in the dark. You come down in a briar patch or break your damned leg in a ditch, Unger might be the man who saves your ass. Or, he might not. He might not hear you call out. He might think about what a bastard you are and go the other way. Would you want him to do that, Private Newley?”

“No, Sarge.”

“Then give Unger your canteen. Help him get that crap out of his mouth. And, Unger!”

Unger was still spitting, his face twisted, the words coming out in a croak. “Yes, Sarge?”

“Next time somebody tells you to eat something…make sure he eats it first! You were briefed about this in North Africa: olives have to be cured before they’re edible. Pay attention next time. I have no room in this squad for a dumb son of a bitch.”

“Yes, Sarge.”

Newley was beside Unger now, others as well, the joke over. There had always been the jokesters, the tricks played on the recruits. It was good sport at Fort Benning, rituals that every unit had gone through. But Adams had no spirit for it now, no energy for anyone’s idiotic meanness. He moved out of the olive grove, stared across to the airfield, thought, save all that, boys. Especially the new ones. They haven’t seen it yet, haven’t watched a man come apart in a burst of fire, haven’t scraped a dead man’s blood from their fingernails. I know why the veterans do this stuff. They need something to laugh at, and there’s nothing funny out here. There’s nothing funny about what happened to McBride and Fulton. And Colonel Gorham. He looked back, the men going about their routine now, some lying flat, helmets covering faces. He couldn’t stay angry with any of them, not even the ones he just didn’t like. We’re one unit, one damned dangerous weapon, and we’re better at this than anyone else in the world. You want to be a bastard, be a bastard to the enemy.

There had been little sleep the night before, the veterans kept awake by the drone of the C-47s, four dozen planes, stuffed with the men of the 504th. There was a strange emptiness to that, watching another regiment lift away, while you lay comfortable on your blanket. They probably felt the same way about us, he thought, watching us take off at Kairouan. None of them had had any idea what the hell we were gonna do on Sicily, how many of us wouldn’t come back. And then they flew into hell on earth, shot to pieces by our own guys. Rabid stupidity. Hell of a way to die. That wouldn’t sit well with Mama.

He heard a vehicle, stepped out away from the grove, saw the dust cloud following the jeep. It rolled closer, stopped, and he saw Scofield, was surprised to see Colonel Gavin. Adams straightened, reflex, saluted, the officers moving toward him.

Scofield said, “Sergeant Adams, see to your platoon. We’ve gotten our orders. We jump tonight.”

Gavin walked past him, moved into the trees, the men responding, short, clipped greetings.

“Sir!”

“Colonel!”

Adams watched Gavin move through the men, the colonel seeming to inspect them, grading them.

After a moment, Gavin said, “How many of you jumped here in July?”

Adams held up his hand, saw the others, more than forty out of the fifty men in the platoon.

“Good. Damned good. General Clark’s boys are in a hell of a pickle over on that beach. They’re counting on us to hold the line against the enemy. The Five-oh-four’s had a rough go of it today, but we’ll be dropping right beside them. By tomorrow morning, the Krauts are in for a surprise.”

He turned toward the jeep, stopped. “You boys have cause to use the bazookas last time out?”

Adams said, “Yes, sir. Some of us were at Piano Lupo, sir.”

Gavin looked at him. “I know where you were, Sergeant. You fire a bazooka yourself?”

“No, sir. But the captain and I were with a couple antitank crews. They took out a pair of panzers before…they got hit.”

Gavin seemed to recognize him, studied him for a moment. “You were with Colonel Gorham.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gavin turned toward the others. “Hell of a thing. We could use a lot more men like Art Gorham.” Gavin motioned toward Scofield now. “Captain, read the men that bulletin we just got.”

“Yes, sir. Right here. ‘From War Department G-2. Intelligence has gathered information indicating that the bazooka now in use by our troops is inadequate to penetrate the frontal armor of the German Tiger tank.’”

Gavin looked at Adams. “Quite a revelation, eh, Sergeant? Army Intelligence has speculated that if you want to destroy the enemy armor, you shouldn’t do it from in front.”

“Yes, sir. I was informed of that, sir.”

“When?”

“At Piano Lupo, sir. Two months ago. The antitank crews knew to hit them from the flank.”

Gavin looked at him, hard eyes, seemed to measure him. Adams straightened, thought, all right, shut up. He doesn’t need to hear what a smart mouth you have.

Gavin held the stare for a long moment, then turned away, said, “Next, they’ll be telling us that they think C-47s might be too slow to avoid antiaircraft fire. Whole offices full of these geniuses who actually think they’re soldiers. All right, get ready to roll, gentlemen. We have a job to do. Captain, let’s get moving.”

Gavin and Scofield climbed into the jeep, moved away quickly, more jeeps appearing, officers moving out among their troops. Adams bent low, gathered his knapsack, knelt down, tightened the laces on his boots. He tapped the empty pockets on his baggy pants, knew that the ammo and grenades were already being spread out near the planes. He glanced at Unger, thought, he can’t be eighteen. Sixteen, if that. Forged his papers, sure as hell. He doesn’t even shave yet.

“Unger!”

“Yeah, Sarge?”

“You know what a Kraut is?”

“Yeah, Sarge.”

“What are you going to do when you see one?”

“I’m gonna blow him to heck, Sarge.”

Adams glanced at the others, saw the smiles. Yep. War is heck.

T he flight was smooth, none of the gut-twisting turbulence of their first flight to Sicily. Adams could see the beach, hints of white caught by the moonlight, a wide spit of land, what the maps showed to be a long peninsula. The drop zone was just beyond, the officers assuring the men that the pathfinders would be there first, lighting the way with a fiery signal, a T that would easily be visible to any pilot in the area. Adams leaned back against his parachute, thought, if I was a Kraut artilleryman and I saw a damned fire lit with enemy planes overhead, I’m guessing that fire would make a pretty easy target. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? He looked down the row across from him, saw Gavin, couldn’t see his eyes, wondered if he was sleeping. He hadn’t expected to be in Gavin’s stick, had boarded the plane expecting to see Scofield, the usual routine. But Scofield was behind them, the next plane in the formation, and Adams was curious about that, wondered if it was simply luck, or if there was some reason why Gavin had boarded his plane.

He had begun to feel more than simple respect for Gavin, more than the sergeant’s allegiance to a commanding officer. The senior brass always had some sort of strange aura, much of it manufactured by the officers themselves, the men who portrayed themselves as something larger-than-life. The soldiers had little use for that, learned quickly to measure a man by what he could do under fire, not how good he looked on the parade ground. Adams had sensed none of that with Colonel Gorham, certainly, the man’s death seeming to affect everyone, including Gavin. Adams wished he had known Gorham more than a couple of days, had to wonder about any man who would give his own life trying to duel with a tank. Adams sensed the same about Gavin, the aura of a different kind, authority and respect inspired by a man who seemed to know what it was to stare at the point of a bayonet. Gavin was far too young to have fought in the first war, had none of that vacant stare that Adams had seen in the old veterans. There had always been officers who tried to act like the soldiers they commanded, a counterfeit act to show that they were a buddy. That rarely worked, most of the soldiers not interested in being pals with any officer. No matter how much the men griped about officers, when the fight started, every soldier wanted a man in charge, a loud voice to cut through the deadly confusion. The noise from the loudmouths, the men like Private Newley, couldn’t cover up every man’s silent fear. It wasn’t just the enemy, the bullets. Every man carried that sliver of doubt, wondered if he had the guts, if he might run, if he would get his own men killed because he fell apart. That was the officer’s job, to rip that doubt away, to pull the men away from their own thoughts and send them forward as a single weapon, a perfect fist. Not every lieutenant could be an inspiration. But Adams felt that strange ingredient in Gavin, as he had for Scofield. It was instinctive, perfect confidence that if they jumped into a bloody awful mess, Gavin was the man you wanted giving the orders, the man who could keep you alive.

The plane began to lose altitude, and he snapped awake, stared at the dark place near the open doorway. After a long moment, the red light erupted, the men reacting with a sharp motion, low grunts. The flight had been shorter than most expected, nothing like the tortuous route they had taken to Sicily. They stood immediately, and Adams hooked his chute to the wire overhead, went through the routine once more. Gavin was at the door, would be the first man out, and Adams stood three men away from him, saw the colonel staring out, heard a loud curse.

“Nothing! Damn them!”

Gavin glanced toward the front of the plane, toward the pilots, and Adams watched him, the man’s face bathed in red light, hard fury, Gavin’s hand slapping the edge of the doorway. Adams felt a chill, thought, something’s wrong. Are we lost? Not again! Can’t anybody get this right? What the hell we supposed to do…

The light turned green.

Gavin was quickly gone, the men following close behind. Adams did not hesitate, put his hands outside on the plane’s skin, tucked his chin tight, faced forward, was out, falling, wind pulling him. He braced himself, the chute pulled open, the straps now jerking him from below. He could see the first chutes below him, drifting slowly, and he stared at the ground, tried to see shapes, saw nothing, black emptiness. He searched frantically, any sign of what they were jumping toward, brush or trees, deadly obstacles. Gavin’s curse was still in his mind, a flicker of fear, and suddenly a bright light was beneath him, a strange orange light, the shape of a T. Fire. He blinked away the light, was blinded now, braced himself again, knew it was close, the last seconds, tightened his knees together, his toes down, thought of the pathfinders below, lighting the fire, idiots, too late to do them any good, the pilots finding the zone anyway. Damn. Good job.

B y morning, Gavin’s twenty-one hundred men had formed a line alongside the men of the 504th, adding considerable strength to the American position, and sealing a major portion of the gap that threatened the entire front. Though the Germans pushed forward once more, their commanders realized that their greatest opportunity had passed, that the Americans would not simply be driven into the sea. Rather than continue a costly assault, the Germans began to pull away, strengthening their positions to the north and east.

In the south, Montgomery’s troops had advanced up the “toe” of Italy with virtually no opposition, and British forces had landed at the “arch” and “heel” of the boot as well. The Germans responded as expected, Kesselring showing that he did not want a broad confrontation with the Eighth Army. Instead, the Germans gathered their strength, spreading troops across the Italian peninsula along natural defensive terrain, making good use of the rivers and mountain ranges. Though Clark’s Operation Avalanche had finally succeeded, the risk had been extraordinary, the contest far too close for Eisenhower to accept. Blame immediately fell on Ernest Dawley, who had relied too heavily on his untested troops. Dawley’s misfortune was that he shared the same enthusiastic confidence of many American commanders. To Eisenhower’s dismay, Dawley’s assumption that his troops could sweep aside anything they encountered had nearly resulted in an Allied catastrophe. Within days after the victory at Salerno, Ernest Dawley was relieved of his command.

As the Allies expanded their strongholds along the coast, the 505th was shifted toward the Italian town of Amalfi, marched out to the high ground that overlooked the Sorrento Peninsula, which gave the paratroopers an astounding panoramic view of the city of Naples. For two weeks, the Allied troops had numerous firefights, each side testing the other’s strength, but the Germans continued to pull away just enough to avoid a full-scale confrontation. As Gavin’s men pressed forward, they were attached to a British mechanized unit, allowing them greater mobility as they shifted positions to meet the enemy’s movements. With Naples as the ultimate goal, Gavin had finally been ordered to move his men off the heights, the paratroopers expecting to battle their way into the city. On the morning of October 1, after a brief stand, German resistance simply melted away. Jim Gavin and the men of the 505th marched into Naples virtually without a fight.

The Allied forces continued their pressure against the Germans, and the 505th advanced out to the east of the city, support for British and American infantry units who continued to seek some way to outmaneuver the German defenses. But Kesselring’s withdrawal had been carefully organized, the Germans giving ground reluctantly, allowing them time to fortify a strong defensive position in their rear. Clark’s forces continued their slow progress along the coast, and Montgomery’s troops were surging northward in the center and along the east coast of the Italian boot. But Kesselring’s plan had now become apparent. The Germans had anchored themselves in the rugged terrain along the Volturno River, and farther east, German infantry and panzer units had made effective use of the gift the rugged Apennine Mountains provided them. Any major confrontation now would come at a place of Kesselring’s choosing.

NAPLES—OCTOBER 5, 1943

The order had come from Captain Scofield, the men sent off the road to rest in a grove of lemon trees. Adams was surrounded by them now, twisted, gnarled branches, protected by enormous thorns. They were similar to the olive trees, ancient and twisted, but the fruit was strange, enormous globes of yellow fruit that looked more like melons. He had already suffered through the stupidity of the experiments, so many of the men obsessed with tasting this absurdly freakish fruit, no resemblance to anyone’s idea of what a normal lemon should look like. As Adams expected, the lemons were bitter and stunningly sour, the men quickly convinced that no Italian could possibly know what good lemonade was supposed to taste like.

He looked for a place to rest his back, avoided the thorns beside him, laid the Thompson across his legs. He saw Scofield up on the road, the captain spotting him, turning toward him. Scofield sat, pulled out a tin of crackers, held it out toward Adams.

“No, thank you, sir. I had a tin of stew.”

“Better than these, that’s for certain.”

Scofield drank from his canteen, and Adams waited, sensed there was something more to the captain’s choice of where to sit.

“We have new orders, sir?”

Scofield lowered the canteen, looked at him, then away, pointed to the white road. “Romans built these roads, you know. Probably cultivated lemons in this same field. Lot of history in this place. Every time we blow some building to hell, I wonder how long it had been there. Same way on Sicily. The Romans built these roads to move their troops, keep control of their empire. We’re marching in their footsteps, Sergeant. Somehow I think they’d appreciate that.”

“Yes, sir. I suppose they would.”

“Even the tanks don’t tear them up. Some of our road builders back home could take some lessons.”

“Yes, sir.”

Scofield poked at the crackers. “I’m going to hate to lose you, Sergeant. Nobody gets these boys into shape like you do.”

Adams sat up straight. “Lose me where?”

Scofield ate another cracker, and Adams saw a brief smile.

“What’s going on, sir?”

Scofield tossed the empty tin aside, unscrewed the top from his canteen. He took another drink, replaced the lid, and Adams could see he was enjoying himself.

“Sir…”

“Sergeant Adams, Colonel Gavin has been relieved of duty with the Five-oh-five.”

“What?”

“Relax, Sergeant. General Ridgway has recommended him for promotion to brigadier general. He’s to become Ridgway’s second-in-command of the entire division.”

“Damn! We’re losing the colonel?” Adams was suddenly angry, held his words, saw the slight smile on Scofield’s face. “I don’t get it, sir. This is terrible news. I mean, it’s good for the colonel, but nobody is going to be happy about this.”

The jeep came past now, slid to a halt, and Adams saw the driver searching the faces.

Scofield stood, waved. “Here!”

The driver climbed out, moved into the grove. “Captain, I’m looking for—”

“Yes, I know, Corporal. This is Sergeant Adams.”

The corporal was older, surprisingly, the face of a veteran. He scanned Adams, appraising, a slight frown. “Sergeant, I’ve been ordered to fetch you, bring you to Colonel Gavin’s command post.” He stood back, held out a hand. “After you, Sergeant.”

Adams was baffled, looked at Scofield, at the faces of the men gathering, as curious as he was. Adams was growing nervous now. “What’s going on, Captain?”

“Orders, Sergeant. Go with the corporal.”

Adams stood, hoisted the Thompson onto his shoulder. He looked toward the men, no smiles, one low voice.

“The sarge in trouble? What’s he done?”

Scofield held out a hand, and Adams hesitated, realized what the captain was doing. He took the man’s hand, felt a hard grip, a firm handshake, and Scofield said, “You take care of yourself, Sergeant.”

Adams felt a wave of cold spreading through him, his mind forming a protest, no, I’m not going anywhere.

“You sending me home, sir? Why?”

“Home? Hell no, Sergeant. You’ve still got some work to do.”

505TH PARACHUTE INFANTRY REGIMENT, MOBILE COMMAND POST—OCTOBER 5, 1943

“Sit down, Sergeant.”

Adams obeyed, the chill still rolling through him, his hands shaking. He said nothing, watched as Gavin spoke to an aide, the man disappearing out the door. Gavin turned toward him now, and Adams was squirming, felt uncomfortable, thought, you should be standing up. Nobody sits in front of a damned general.

Gavin pointed to him. “Cigarette?”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

“You’re from the Southwest, right?”

“New Mexico, sir.”

“Beautiful country. Wide-open spaces. Good place to grow up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What you aiming to do when you get back home? You ranch? Farm?”

“It’s mining country, sir. I may not go back, exactly.”

“Mining? Can’t blame you. I grew up in Pennsylvania, coal country. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Looks like I found my spot. Expect I’ll be in the army the rest of my life. You consider that?”

“No, sir. I should, I guess, sir. Not sure what I want to do.”

Adams was swimming in questions, thought, what does he care? What the hell have I done? Gavin moved to a small table, and Adams looked around now, realized there were curtains on the windows, someone’s home. Of course, you idiot. They wouldn’t just build a house for us to use. Some Italian probably bitching like hell.

He focused again. “Sir? Begging your pardon, but I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

“You need to know that, Sergeant? You need all the answers?”

He realized now, there was meaning to the question. “No, sir. Absolutely not, sir.”

“Good. Because you’re not getting the answers just yet. You’re here because I sent for you. I’m being pulled out of here. You hear about that?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Scofield said you were being promoted. Congratulations, sir.”

“Stuff that crap. I screamed like hell when General Ridgway told me that. No, that’s not quite right. You don’t scream anything to Ridgway. But…turns out this promotion’s not such a bad thing. There’s more to it than just a rank. I’m pulling out of Italy. I can’t talk about it in detail, but I’ve been given a new assignment, to be part of the planning for a new operation. And I’m taking you with me.”

“Me? Excuse me, sir—”

“It’s not open to discussion, Sergeant. I know all about you. I know how you handle the men, how you handle yourself under pressure. I told Ridgway that I thought it was wrong to take good combat soldiers out of combat, that we should be using men like you—and me—where we do the most good. That kind of argument doesn’t wash in the army. As I said, this is all about the planning of a new operation. I need the best men with me, and you’re one of them.”

“Thank you, sir. I still don’t get it. What kind of operation? Where are we going?”

“I told you, no questions. You got your gear?”

“Yes, sir. Right outside.”

“You can leave your Thompson, your grenades. They’ll find a good home. You won’t be needing any of that for a while.”

NOVEMBER 18, 1943

His uniform was clean, his hair cut, and he still wasn’t sure if this were some sort of bizarre nightmare. He missed the Five-oh-five, Scofield, Unger, the rest of them, but there was no time for bellyaching. Gavin seemed to understand, and in between the long hours of work, Gavin had spoken to him of the missions and the memories. Adams had come to understand that Gavin had every intention of jumping out of airplanes again, that no matter this new duty, the new responsibility, all the administrative work, Gavin was no different from him. There was one difference, of course. Gavin was a brigadier general, and Adams had been impressed to learn that the promotion had made Jim Gavin the youngest general in the American army.

Within a few weeks, the secrets began to be revealed, Gavin passing along the first details of what Adams and Gavin’s other staffers were about to begin. There were no dates, no specifics as to troop movements, targets, who or where the enemy might be. But every day the urgency seemed to grow, unmistakable preparations for Gavin to finally embark to the new headquarters of this new assignment.

With only days to go, Adams finally received word. He was going to England.

T he flight had been agonizingly long, stops in Algiers and Marrakech. On the last leg, they had flown all night, the men stretched out on the floor of the heavy transport plane, seeking whatever sleep the frigid air would allow.

Adams had been awake for several hours now, far too nervous to sleep, sat on a bundle of mail, stared out the window of the crowded transport, had watched the sun rising over a far-distant coastline. He glanced at his watch, nearly noon. Well, maybe not here. Eleven, maybe. God knows. I should pay more attention to maps.

He looked down, the wing just in front of him, two of the plane’s four big engines easing off slightly, the plane beginning to drop. A solid layer of clouds was below, the plane settling into the foggy whiteness, nothing to see. He stared downward, waited, thought, how bad can the weather be? Bad I guess. Always heard that, rains all the time.

The clouds were suddenly gone, the plane emerging beneath the soft gray layer. Land was beneath them, thick carpets of green, dotted by small towns. He pressed his face close to the frigid glass, studied the countryside, so different from the bleak landscapes of North Africa and Sicily. The plane continued to drop, and he felt his stomach tighten, the air in the plane still sharp and cold, not as cold as the ice in his chest. He was more nervous now than he had ever been on the C-47s, and even after weeks in Gavin’s office, he still had the nagging fear, the uncertainty about what he was expected to do. It was still too strange, too different, the men around him too calm, and he thought, I’m not like them. What the hell am I doing here? I’m just a sergeant. I yell at idiot recruits and I jump out of airplanes. He thought of Gavin, several rows in front of him, thought, why do they need someone like you? Are we some important part of this new operation? Well, yeah, dammit, or we wouldn’t be here. I have to write Mama. Nope, not yet. Can’t tell her a damned thing. She wouldn’t get it anyway. How the hell am I supposed to be a hero in England?

He looked out toward the green again, saw the airfield, knew it was Prestwick, Scotland. He looked toward Gavin again, thought, you promised me we’d jump again. If you’re gonna take me away from my platoon, if I have to be on your staff for a while, all right. But when this Overlord happens, you better damned well send me out there toting a parachute.