The platoon squatted around Kim, who had converted his helmet into a coffee pot. In a low voice causing the men to lean in, Kim delivered his version of the Knute Rockne pep talk. “Today is the day. Our orders— throw Jerry off the ridge west of Montemiletto.” Kim pointed to the northwest mountains. “All your demands to let you fight, all the training, all the yammering, all the fear-masking braggadocio are behind you. Behind us.” Kim thumped his chest, punctuating the word “us.” “Now the reality of this first battle test: How well will we fight? Will the Germans know they are facing greenies and overwhelm us?”
“We’re ready,” said Takata in his soft, steel-laden voice.
The growl of a jeep interrupted the fist-pumping reaction to Takata’s declaration. Eyes widened. Turner roared up to the men. As soon as the jeep stopped, Turner stood up in the back, uniform limp from rain. A scrap of bloodied toilet paper stuck to his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, but his voice firm. “Our job over the next few months is climbing hills and taking out well-protected German positions at the top of those hills.” Turner coughed. Cleared his throat. “The Allies have been pushing Germans back one hill at a time for six weeks. A hard-won ninety miles of blood, mud and stone. The Krauts don’t retreat easy, but they retreat. Our turn to take a hill.”
A chorus of “yes, sirs” resounded. Turner saluted and sat down. Immediately, his driver ground into first gear and the jeep bounced slowly over the rough terrain due west where Company C waited for the order to attack.
The platoon rushed to the field kitchen chow line. Men wolfed down the unexpected hot meal and were told again, “This is your last hot meal for a while.” Slurried eggs, syrup-laden pancakes and greasy donuts washed down with rich Moroccan coffee never tasted so good. Tommy told Kim, “I need to take another dump.” Tommy ran into the bushes and upchucked his breakfast. Does this foretell that I’ll run when bullets start flying?
Into the misty gloom of pre-dawn, the men formed into a single line and marched smartly through Montemarano. A ghost town. The rain had washed away the stink of death. A single candle glimmered through a boarded, first-floor window in a house whose second floor lay collapsed.
Tommy was not aware of his knuckles going white from squeezing the stock of his rifle. Fear pumped a steady stream of adrenalin heightening alertness. I won’t run when fired on. But do I really know? Until I march into people shooting at me, I won’t know.
The platoon slogged through the mud along the twisting roads, passing farmhouses without a hint of human habitation. All uphill. Tommy’s legs were seasoned, but he was breathing a little heavy by the time the platoon was ordered to stop in Chiusano. The rumble of German artillery in the direction of Montemiletto silenced the banter.
Chiusano was not abandoned. People emerged into the roadside mist like Frankenstein ghouls. No men. Old women and kids stared dull-eyed. Shell-shocked? Starving? Numbed for sure. The soldiers didn’t offer food. By orders and by common sense. Who knew when rations would be resupplied? One gray-haired lady’s leathery face nodded at the men, made eye contact with each as if praying the Americans would make the Germans pay for taking their men.
A gray dawn oozed over the mountains. A crack of lightning flashed a fleeting northeast view of Montefalcione, the German-held redoubt on the road to Montemiletto. Kim led his men off the road into an olive orchard to avoid detection.
A sunrise without the sun. Light rain danced on the mud. Eight sloshy miles left to march up the Avellino Road through the now quiet village of Castelvetere. A road is a road, by any other name it is a road. No! Not so in Italy’s mountain villages. Deep ruts, muddy and slick. “Donkey season,” according to the paisanos, what the men called the locals. Even in the dry season, a truck would be challenged by the skinny roads built in medieval times that barely allow two carts to pass.
Ahead, the nearby hills of Chiusano and the further dull outline of Montefalcione. A couple miles more north, Montemiletto. The objective.
Mud marching equaled soaked boots. Seemed important until the men heard the thunder of fresh artillery firing. A different sound than the division’s 105s.
“Jerry letting us know they know we’re coming,” said Tommy.
“Yeah,” replied Takata. “But their random shelling broadcasts, ‘We don’t know your exact location.’”
Yet, added Tommy … but only to himself.
Amid the rubble and destroyed dreams of the sorry villagers, Tommy noticed patches of picturesque vineyards, unblemished postcard-worthy stone homes on cobblestone roads. Will they last the day? Will I last the day?
At 10:00 a.m., incoming mortar fire from the Chiusano hills welcomed the men to the front lines. Two shells exploded to Tommy’s right. He hit the ground. Dust and pebbles rained down. Luck counts. Not a nick. Tommy’s worried eyes glanced at Kim.
Kim raised his hand, turned and pointed. “Halt! Don’t bunch up. Krauts on that ridge.” Tommy looked far up the hill as if he were going to see a German tour guide wave a swastika. Almost virgin hill. Trees still standing. Fuzzy scrub huddled around granite outcrops.
Despite Kim’s photographic memory, he still checked the map. Punched it with his finger. “Everyone, dress up!” Tommy stuck bush branches behind the back of his collar, down the insides of his trousers. He rubbed fresh mud on his exposed skin. This is the moment we all feared, anticipated, demanded, hungered for. The moment where death is certain for someone, but hopefully the bullet or grenade fragment doesn’t have your name on it.
Kim looked to his right. “Takata!” Joe turned to Kim. “You wanted the lead. Take your squad to the far left and advance slowly, about twenty yards. Don’t shoot unless I give the order, or someone shoots at you.”
“Yes, sir!” Tommy saw the anticipation in Joe’s eyes. Daring the pitcher to throw one anywhere near his head.
Kim, his radioman and Tommy hunched down behind a scrubby stone wall long in need of repair. “OK, Tommy, pay attention.” Kim’s voice sounded no different than if he had asked Tommy to grab a couple hot dogs at a ballgame. While Tommy’s eyes focused on the map, Kim said, “We’re here. Start crawling up and drift left. Signal when you spot a German.”
“Yes, sir.” No “if,” only “when.” Jerry’s gotta be looking for someone crawling around.
Tommy angled his right hand in his jacket pouch for his field binoculars. Took them out. Scanned in a slow, 270-degree arc. Nothing. He stuffed the field glasses back in his jacket pocket. No hanging around the neck like in the movies. Sunlight reflection gave you away. He checked his M1. Again.
Time to go.
Tommy squeezed through a breach in the stone fence. Duck-walked up the hill. Who sees who first? His fist tightened around the barrel of his M1. If I have to use it before Kim orders an attack, I’ve failed. It means they saw me first. Their recon spotter won! Tommy bent into an elbow and knee crawl.
Somewhere ahead, Germans lay in wait. But where? So many hills, gullies, farms, orchards and roads for Krauts to watch and protect. Lots of angles on every hill for them to hide. But that same topographic confusion along with drizzle and sun-hiding clouds offered stealth protection to the platoon edging up the hill. Until it doesn’t, Tommy thought.
Tommy’s eyes searched for bushes, earthen outcrops, stone walls, anything that concealed. Then his testicles bunched up. A German! A quarter of the way up. Mean-looking fucker behind a rocky outcrop mid-hill. Holding the stock of his machine gun. Tommy flattened down slowly. The German didn’t move. He hasn’t seen me. At least I don’t think he has.
Tommy slow-twisted his neck to eyeball Kim. Muddy hand ready to give the signal. Halfway through his neck twist, it wasn’t Kim whom Tommy saw, but Takata. He was acting as his own spotter. ahead of me. Why?! Takata’s squad crawled behind him.
Takata’s roving eyes picked Tommy up. Tommy pointed to the German. Takata followed Tommy’s line of sight. Tommy aimed his rifle at the German, his finger light on the trigger. The German dipped into his nest nonchalantly. Tommy let out a deep breath.
Takata moved further right. He and Tommy slithered, snake-like, undetected. Takata crawled toward a depression, not quite a gully. The plan was to maneuver around the hill and surprise. Just like playing capture the flag. Each team hides the flag. The first team who finds the flag wins. Same here, but instead of flags, it was soldiers. The first team that found people shot them.
Takata’s knees and elbows were churning fast. Kim frantically hand-gestured him to slow down. Takata did. Barely. Aggressive on the bases, aggressive on the attack.
A sudden crescendo of machine gun fire opened on the right. Joe’s squad spotted. Mortar shells slammed into his position. Heads in dirt. The thump and terror of artillery shells shook the earth.
Tommy poked his head up inches, peeked. No direct hits on Joe’s men. But with that much fire power, only a matter of time. A Jerry machine gun fired from another angle. ! Have I been spotted? Turtle-necked, Tommy scanned the hill. Rotated his eyes thirty degrees. Nothing. Granite outcrops surrounded by foliage. So much cover. The Jerry emplacements, how far up?
Takata’s squad fired scattered volleys. Tommy looked over the short distance. Heard Joe’s voice command, “Stop firing. We can’t shoot what we don’t see. Need to draw fire. I’m going up. Keep your eyes open! Don’t fire until you have a target!”
Joe didn’t wait for the “yes, sirs.” He popped up like one of those spring-loaded toys. Standing, he saw a machine gun poking out of sandbags. Joe blasted away. His Thompson was on auto in a tight, three-second arc. While Joe ripped out the empty cartridge and jammed in a replacement taken off his belt, Kraut machine guns burst.
Tommy barely made out sandbags covered in foliage. No mistaking the blink of machine guns. He opened fire to draw fire.
Mortar fire. Exploding earth. Shrapnel spinning.
A brief lull and then words rang out that Tommy never would forget. “They got Joe!”
Tommy spotted Takata, his head dripping blood. A steel fragment stuck out of his skull. Tommy pulled his M1 trigger eight times, as fast as his finger could move, to cover Joe. The empty cartridge clip automatically popped out. Tommy jammed in a fresh clip. Fired. Joe kept crawling forward. Tommy screamed, “Medic!” Joe’s corporal crawled up to him.
Tommy jammed in a third cartridge. Firing in slow cadence, he crawled toward Takata. Joe jerked his hand in a forward command gesture, all the time yelling “Carry on! Carry on! Carry on!”
Takata’s head thumped on the ground.
Joe’s squad rushed the German nest. Krauts fled.
Tommy ran hunched over to Joe. Dropped to his knees.
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