Anzio Beachhead
I fondled my new '03-A1 and hoped I would never
have to use it. The weapon is obsolete but I liked the bolt action.
I was a hunter at home and old '03 weapons from WW1 were 'sporterized' and
prized for hunting deer. My hunting was at home was different, in
comparison to where I was at this time.
I'll bet if I shot high into the air inland
the bullet would land behind the German lines. They were doing that to us.
There was sporadic fire from their 20 mm rifles. And of course the German 88 and
anything they had was firing at will. Now and then the German artillery got
lucky and hit an ammo dump which would burn as the shells in the ammo pile
would explode shooting wildly into the sky in all directions in a Fourth
of July display for hours into the night. I'll bet the German artillery observer
was doing hand springs! Our artillery returned fire round for round. Our
Howitzers were dug in every where you turned your gaze it seemed. Long
Toms blasted at targets suggested by the forward observers on line. Our
artillery had small Cub airplane spotter craft radioing target positions. I
wondered how they could expose themselves to the enemy.
I wasn't familiar with the precautions necessary when under
the plain sight of observers from the
other side. I needed to 'relieve myself' and walked out of sight of the
other soldiers. I heard a snap or two. I remembered how
bullets snap as they pass close by. I learned this in the target pits at Camp
Roberts. Bullets go through the sound barrier and snap like a thunder clap. I
still wonder how the bullet could come from that distance. I took
cover in haste. No use taking chances in wonderment.
Some time during the first night I was taken to my A&P platoon
position on line. All that is dim to me at this time since nothing
ceremoniously happened and there were no land marks to remember because it
was dark as the ace of spades.
No time was wasted for any ceremony. The
platoon leader gets your name and you are on duty. The first night was
going out with booby traps and mines to lay in no man's land. No man's land !! I
couldn't believe that I was only a few hundred feet away from German
Machine guns. Now and then the Germans would fire flares which hung for
what seemed like hours floating down on a small parachute. The
magnesium burning lighting up a large area. If we heard pop of the flare being
shot up by the Jerries we would drop to the ground and try to maintain a
low profile. Some times the Jerries would open up with their machine
guns at the same time of the launching of the flares. The Jerry machine gun
tracers were only a few feet above the ground. In between each tracer is about
five other slugs. You can easily figure how close you were to the Jerry
gun barrels by the trajectory of the tracer. If it is traveling on a
flat trajectory you know danged well you are in within a few hundred feet of the
machine gun position. It wasn't wise to answer their fire to give
away our position. We were there to lay mines and our own trip flares.
We were armed only with our rifles or carbines. One other deadly booby trap was
the "BOUNCING BETTY" which looked like a small hydraulic jack. When
the enemy stumbled over the wire the booby trap would rise about shoulder high
and explode. It was very lethal and deadly. On one night when we were
laying mines, one of our GIs was arming the mines. This required pulling of the
safety pins on each mine or booby trap which allowed the cap to be triggered and
the mine to do its dirty work.
Pvt. Winfield A. Doner, bent over a mine and pulled the pins.
The detonator was either faulty or Doner was careless in the excitement of
the night. The mine exploded and killed him. He is buried on Anzio.
Our buddy P.I. (Paul) Thome has visited the grave on several occasions.
DEAR JOHN
I wasn't acquainted with many of the A&P
members. I slept alone in a cold foxhole with just one blanket. I was very
miserable in many ways. There was never any mail for me from home and I awaited
the most important letter-- from the girl I left behind. That day finally came.
The orderly hollered MOHAR and I was stunned when he gave me
a barracks back with the bottom part filled with letters! OH BOY OH BOY! Now I
can be replenished by reading some mushy stuff in a letter from you guess who.
I separated the letters according to postmarks and decided to
read the last one first. Here it was! A dear John I could have died on
the spot. Such a feeling of hopelessness over came me. But I sure didn't bawl. I
had a reverse reaction. I was mad! To think that I was at this distance with the
mail and communication at less than a snails pace. What the heck could I do now.
I decided to reconstruct the case as I read the oldest post marked letter. It
finally came out. The 'old lonesome bit' and it's been a 'long time' crap. Plus
later there was an Air Force guy with a cute cap, that snowed her. By golly I
hope he got her! I just read the letters and tossed them into a little fire we
had. At that time if a shell would have come in and got me I wouldn't much have
cared--naw --that's not true. I just kept on feeding the fire and the flame went
out. Is there a song in this somewhere? Later I wrote her a scathing letter
which she said 'made her cry'. In some of the words I used, I said, "oh
well, I couldn't have trusted you when the Iceman came anyway".
I got acquainted with a guy named Tanner.
I think his first name was Clair. I understood he was from Kansas,
a farm boy who had everything in his bag. We nicknamed him "barracks bag
Tanner". He had an extra blanket and a shelter half. We dug my
hole out a bit wider and stretched the shelter half over the top. We
covered the edges with dirt and left one opening to crawl into at whenever we
were told it was 'bed time'. We found some straw and spread it on the
floor. The hole was only about a foot and a half deep. The shelter half
was only inches above our noses. Old Tanner was like a furnace that night.
I slept like a log that night for the first time. In the morning the top of the
shelter half was white with frost.
As I said, I wasn't well known and vice versa.
Each night we had to go out to finish the job or start a new one. You
followed the soldier in front of you bearing your load in your own grief and
sorrow and loneliness. On one night it was raining (as usual) we went
through several scares with the flares while on the mine laying mission in
between the lines. There was a little lull. I was feeling goofy and
I went up to PI THOME and with my nose almost on his lapel, I asked in a
whisper, "Is that you"? and he answered, "Yah,
that's me". I said "Oh". From then on that's
how we'd greet each other. P I (Paul) Thome and I were good buddies after that
dumb exchange while in between the lines.
Italian mud is slicker than any other mud in the world! We were dug
in by an old farm house. There was a small stack of hay and a chicken
house. We chose to dig in beside a creek bed which afforded the best
protection against shell fire and the sight of the enemy. I went up to the
house to ask someone if I had any mail--in the day light but the day was
obscured by heavy rainfall. One GI named John Surriano another
named McLean went along. There was no mail so we began to return to
our foxholes. A shell came in and we started running. I was
following McLean. He ran around the hay stack and a shell round hit
right on his tracks. It is said that a shell wont land in the same spot twice.
Ha! Surriano behind me yelled, "NO NO NO!" and I
responded by skidding on my ass in the mud. My M1 barrel digging into the
mud. I was spinning my feet like Warner Brothers' (Disney maybe) road
runner in reverse, I got up just as another shell landed in the same shell
hole where I would have been at that time! I owed Surriano my life!
He couldn't have known but his instincts saved me! Surriano was almost 38
years old and had a large family at home. Several of Our
Platoon were married and had families at home.
At this location, there was a 109 Messerschmidt in the field where
sheep were grazing. I dared one day to sneak out to the plane. I chiseled
off several nomenclature plates for souvenirs. I scribbled notes in the aluminum
and sent them to the girl I left behind. Much to my sorrows now. They were
really valuable mementos to me.
It wasn't long when a hungry GI decided that one of the
grazing lambs would make a good meal. So he went out and shot one. He dragged it
to our foxholes and skinned it out with the help of Tanner who had all the
necessities in his bag. I found a bent up copper kettle in a junk pile. With my
trusty hatchet I banged it back into useable shape. We sure should have checked
it out better than we did. We boiled some of the meat in the pot to make a
possibly edible stew using a canned C ration for flavors. When it was done we
sampled the stew. It had a strangely incorrect taste and odor. The pot I found
was an old 'thunder mug'. You can imagine our dismay.
This story could go on endlessly
telling of nights such as I just wrote about. The drudgery
continued for weeks and weeks, carrying barbed wire, laying it and building a
defense line. Please note that the German army was at near full strength
and their defenses were growing more and more menacing. They were
building up to toss us back into the sea like at Dunkirk. Our defense was built
up by GIs like our Platoon. Night after night trudging over the open
fields with tracer bullets sweeping the fields as we trudged along loaded
down with every thing from machine gun ammo to great big heavy boards for
building a command post or a special bunker. When we'd unload our
loads we'd bring back the dead GIs on stretchers carrying them with loving care.
Wondering whose mother's son were we carrying. When will we be
carried and will the stretcher bearers have our concern and care.
The GIs we felt most concern for were those in
the front line fox holes and the machine gunner doing constant dueling
with the Jerry gunners. The worst of it all is when the Officers ask a
sergeant to form a patrol to test the German defenses. The patrol goes out
through the mine field and engages the other side for a brief fire fight
which erupts into a battle usually. Those GIs can't have lived through
many patrols. When a 'fire fight' occurred our platoon picked up the
bodies of the German dead and carried them back to a central point where
the GRO (Grave registration Officers) made records of them. We handled
their dead with a great degree of respect.
The German army launched a counter attack to shove us off the
beach. We withstood it somehow. I can't write down the accurate
dates and times. It was noisy and frightful. When there was a lull,
we went out into battlefield to retrieve some GIs to help the Medics.
On one such night we were told there
was a GI with every bone in his body broken. The mystery of how our
squad leader found the wounded GI, I'll be danged if I know. I just have
to say Sergeants are heroes. A German tank was firing its 88 over
our head all the time we were edging up towards the GI. When we got
there the GI was making weird sounds and yelling, "I cant see, I cant
see". we didn't need the announcement that we were under the Jerries'
noses. Some how we got him out of there under the constant firing of
the 88. The shell would go over our heads a few feet with a sucking sound and
crash into trees or what ever. Our jeep was parked in that area, but
didn't get hit. There was also a German soldier equally badly wounded. His
screaming seemed to be begging us not to kill him. He was lucky to have
the same priority as the nearly dead GI. On every move of his body the Jerry
yelled. I suppose that the medic hadn't given him the usual dose of
Morphine. So went the nightly events of the A&P platoon on
Anzio. More of it happened as the weeks grew into months of the stalemate.
As we were loading the stretchers on the jeep, we heard hob nailed steps
behind us. Out of the darkness came one lone German soldier. He had a
blanket and a loaf of bread in his folded arms. As he came up he was
saying in German over and over again, "Kreig fertish! Krieg
fertish". "The war's over the war's over". One of
our platoon named Palermo grabbed him by the shoulders and twisted him in
reverse direction and actually booted him in the ass, and said ,"get the
hell back-we ain't got room". But somehow we did bring him in. I
wonder who got the loaf of bread.
The time was about February, 1944. In
one of our central areas there was a walled-in small city or farming
complex with all necessary equipment to withstand and sustain a siege. It
was called "CAMPO MORTO". In Italian it means
"camp of death'. There were underground tunnels and a central well
which provided protection and essential water for a long time siege in medieval
days for preservation against raiders. I don't think this complex was a
Mussolini project. Our outfit was pulled back to stay at Campo Morto
at times for reasons unknown to me. It was a target for the German
artillery. They hit it constantly. I have to tell you this. All
civilians who wanted to evacuate could leave but there was one stubborn
family who chose to stay. We were in part of the complex which was some
sort of a mill. There were paper sacks of lime or cement which I
used to form a fox hole of my own for added protection. Near where I made
this foxhole was a small window. The civilian family sat around a
smoldering fire keeping warm and over which they cooked. The smoke tried to find
it's way out the window which became a target!
The family had a baby which was constantly
crying. I just knew it had Malaria. It bawled and
bawled. We didn't bitch but we offered what ever we could to
comfort the old man at the fire and the wife and others. We used the fire
too to warm a ration or the water for a cup of coffee. We made the
coffee from our instant coffee in the army rations.
I can recall the wife and grandmother, sitting on
a chair cutting up a loaf of rye bread into a pot. She would make a bread soup
to stretch the bread to its limits. At times we gave them some of our rations.
They were stubborn and would not leave the Anzio beach head. Our ships would
have hauled them away somewhere.
The cooks bought a cow for the meat. We actually had a
veterinarian who checked out the edibility--for TB and other diseases. It was
not edible he declared--. Somehow I had to help dig the hole to bury it. A big
cow and a big hole.
Also one other memorable thing is that some of the engineers
had a mascot--a big goose which quacked away. It was very friendly and not
afraid of humans. Some of the guys even brought a monkey from some place and
kept it with them in the rear echelons. I wonder what happened to the goose. It
was almost human so I believe they would not have cooked that goose.
I saw these animals when I was being instructed by the
engineers in some of the demolitions. Also I was shown how they made napalm.
They could jelly gasoline for the use in a flame thrower which we were being
taught how to use when we approached the German positions on the day we would
break out. I was amazed at the function of a flame thrower. I was hoping I
would never be chosen to use one of them. Fate led me away from that danger
somehow. The flame thrower was heavy enough just to pack on your back, let alone
having to use it.
Dangerous details were given us when we were 'at rest' in the
pines. We roamed the beaches and picked up dud shells. We piled them and then
detonated them. Once on another detail, We heard an ANZIO ANNIE SHELL
tumbling in the sky toward us. It sounded as if a jeep was being tossed at us.
Then yet another. It landed on the other side of a sand dune in the midst of
other GIs sweeping mines. I headed for the nearest foxhole for cover and I
jumped the last few feet. I landed on top of a Lieutenant! I apologized,"
sorry about that"- but he knew why I jumped in. I saw a dud which the
engineers defused. It was as tall as a man and about as big. They stood the
shell up so all could see.
Once a squadron of British spitfires came over head
returning to base from a raid. One was trailing smoke. The pilot bailed out when
he reached friendly territory. He landed in our company area. His plane buried
it self not far away. I went to take a look.
I could fill pages with events such as these. There's a story
between every line.
STALEMATE
In early March of 1944, the battles to shove us
off the Anzio beachhead seemed to have eased off a bit into a
stalemate--some stalemate, I'd say. The artillery dueled constantly and our
defenses seemed to be holding us in a fixed pattern. The movement
from sector to sector seemed to allow us to settle into a nightly tiresome
routine of carrying supplies and laying barbed wire and mines and of
course carrying the dead from between the lines after a "fire
fight". Sometimes the GIs in the fox holes on the first line of
defense would drag the bodies out for a closer pickup. We really
thanked them for that. Most often the GIs, who were squatted in
their front line fox holes, would tell us thanks for bringing the
cans of water and ammo to them. They actually felt sorry for us standing
there in the night obscured only by the darkness. Now and then a sporadic
Jerry machine gun would open fire and when the tracers would come nearer
and nearer we'd have to crowd into their holes till the Jerry on that
other side would satisfy himself.
Maybe what triggered the Jerry Machine gun to
firing was a noise out in No man's land which might have been one of our
patrols "scouting' the German defenses. Our machine gunners would retaliate
just to show them our ability to counter them. It was a stalemate in that
sense. The same fox hole and a place to go for a crap. Think of it!
There were times the helmet had to be a "thunder mug". It also
served as a wash basin. It was a very private piece of equipment. It was a brain
bucket too.
No day time relief at all! I can remember the weight of the
ammo on my neck. Sometimes we'd load up a stretcher and carry the load
that way. The handles of a stretcher can cut into the shoulders with
fierce intensity after a couple hundred yards. It was necessary to have
good team work to keep the load balanced. As for me, however I would opt
to carry my load like a jack ass. I would use a tent rope and make a sling
to carry several canisters of machine gun ammo over my neck and shoulders.
The rope was a problem but I could survive that pain. I'd drape bandoleers
of M1 ammo over my neck and shoulder draping it under my arms. I
could then carry some thing else in my free hands. When Machine gun
tracers would come near, I could fall down under the fire in a clatter and heap
but then I could more easily get up to run a bit further before the
tracers would retrace the open terrain. Often times a GI rifleman
would share a candy bar with us, they were the real brunt o the war.
We couldn't out of conscience accept a candy bar from them. But--at that time we
were most exposed. We knew that when it came time to go on a patrol, they were
the ones who we'd likely carry back to the Grave Registration point after
the next skirmish.
On one such routine night, we retired at about
3 in the morning to our barn which we occupied. The barn was a
typical farm barn attached to a farm house which had two stories. The barn
smell was tolerated by the farm family in the house of the Italian farmer.
It was a necessity of farm life on one of Mussolini's land recovery
programs which was the entire Anzio area, complete with drainage ditches and
other canals--which came handy for us most of the time. In the "EL" of
the barn and house was a Half track parked. It had a large antenna and a
radio system to serve the artillery observers who occupied the upper
story. They were spotting targets and using the radio back to the
artillery positions. This wasn't a good arrangement for us but we didn't
consider it. After a little snooze in our blankets on the cow barn floor,
we'd awaken one by one. The smell of body odors and the emanating gas was
a fact of life, something to laugh about and object to in a friendly way.
Next to me on my left was a GI named Italiano. He showed me a Beretta pistol he
was carrying in a clumsy shoulder holster. On the right was Paul I
Thome originally from Washington State. He was a very studious
person having had some college in The University of Idaho. He kept a
diary. He wrote letters constantly as did I. Next to P.I. Thome was
Edward Sudell from Greenwich Connecticut. I knew just a few more of
the men. Palermo, Tillie, Harrower, Cpl. Gleue (Kansas), Carpenter.
After writing letters, I had to leave the building for the usual call of nature
compelled by the dysentery. I just got plain "Good and Mad " at my situation
and I just had to take action in my own behalf. So I decided to make
a 'sick call'.
The Medics were situated in another farm house a
hundred yards down the road. I dashed out of the barn and went through a
hole in a rock wall. I crossed a narrow black top road and jumped into a
drain ditch which was about ten feet deep. Drain water flowed in a steady
stream. I followed down the drain and I saw several dead German soldiers.
I was curious and sought souvenirs. On one of the Jerry's was a small
holster for a pistol. The pistol was gone. I followed on further to cross back
over the narrow road and into the Medics station. There I was treated for
my problem of dysentery. The medication was a shot glass of a drug called PAREGORIC".
They said, "down the hatch" and in one gulp cowboy fashion, I
swallowed it. Then I was given huge sulfa tablets and urged to drink lots
of water. Ah!! maybe soon I'd be able to crap a hard turd. I'd be
more in control. The medic said, "come back at about 4PM and
I'll give you another dose of Paregoric--meanwhile take these sulfa pills (as
big as small cookies) and drink lots of water.
I went back up the drain ditch to the barn. I noticed that
the Lieutenant was in a personal dug out on the banks of the drain ditch.
The barn was across the road and could be seen from his dug out. Up to
that point I had never seen the Lieutenant to his face. His orders were
delivered to our non-coms by Sergeant Leonard, a career soldier,--he had
all the stripes a sergeant could wear. He could be named SGT.GRUFF.
Most all the A&P GI's were awake and after they ate a can of rations and
whatever other food--not much more than "C" rations--they mostly
got out their writing kits and wrote a letter home.
No one would hardly dare to step outside except in the emergency call of
nature. We had a slit trench behind a stack of hay. If you ran
to the trench in the right direction you would not be detected by the
German spotter. The house and barn obscured their line of sight.
At about 4 PM Corporal Gleue from Kansas
said, "Mohar, come with me to the CP to deliver this mail to the mail
orderly". It was quite a bundle. I don't refuse orders
and I said, "that's fine It'll coincide with my appointment with the
medics". I remembered Italiano's desire for a small holster and
I told him I'd bring the one I saw on the dead German. Italiano was
thankful.
Cpl. Fred Gleue and I stepped out of the barn. A shell zipped in!
It went over! Another shell came in short of the barn! Then just as we
were to cross the road through the hole in the rock wall, a shell hit the
black top!! Right in front of us!! We dashed through the wall and across
the road and into the safety of the drain ditch. Ah Ha! they were
zeroing in! 3 rounds usually does it! The German army ain't dumb! What brought
on the tank fire was the antenna on the half track. The Jerries can
detect a radio signal and with the signal directions from another point
they can find the point of transmission by crossing a couple of lines on the
map. Where the two lines cross, that's the target! That's the
half track which was parked on the side away from the German observers.
The firing stopped after three rounds.
I had gotten my Paregoric and was at the
Company headquarters dug out when the tank opened up for effect. I
stood there watching! I heard the ambulance siren wail and it begin backing out
of it's dug in position. Then I saw a puff of colored dust rise from
the barn and another. Lord almighty! A direct hit! How about my buddies I
thought? They were nearly eliminated! The first shells missed the
barn. Several ran out. Carpenter or Chapman ran out and got a large leg
wound. He ran back in the barn as the shell hit the house and was killed.
We lost 8 dead and 11 wounded. A wipeout of my platoon.
I went over to the medics to see just who were wounded. One
of them was Paul I. Thome. He asked if I could run to the house and
get his musette bag which contained his personal possessions- and mostly the
diary and writing kit. I ran back to the barn and found the kit and before
he could leave for the hospital, I gave it to him. Then I heard
other stories about their miraculous escape. Both Sudell and Thome were close to
one small window which led to the Ell where the half-track was parked.
I don't know which one went out the window first but Sudell and
Thome escaped most of the shrapnel from the shell which hit in the opposite
corner making a complete shambles of the place. Cpl. Harrower was
using the phone to the medics when Carpenter or Chapman ran in with his leg
wound. He was wrapped up in telephone cord when I saw him dead there.
Others were strewn about in what had to be a frantic moment. One GI
was missing. His name was TILLIE. I don't know where he was from.
He had curly black hair and was wearing a GI colored sweater his wife had
knitted for him for a Christmas present. I thought he was acting strange
at times. He enjoyed ripping open old pistols and kinda laughing at his
own ineptitude in replacing all the parts. Old "Barracks Bag
Tanner" did the same thing. When I was searching for Thome's musette
bag I noticed pistols strewn here and there. I wanted a .45 for my own
use. My MO however forbade the carrying of one, but who's gonna ask me
that stupid question, "Does your MO require a side arm?"
The next morning I dared to go into the barn to find a .45. I
picked up several. You couldn't believe the damage that artillery shell
did! I tried several Pistols and they were absolutely so mangled that the clip
wouldn't eject nor would the slide work because the shrapnel beat them as if
they were ran over by a freight train! Ah ha! I spotted a webbed pistol
belt in the rubble under neath where the shell hit with most force. I yanked on
the pistol belt. It was on Tillie's body! I left the scene and went
to the Lieutenants dug out and said, "Lieutenant, I think I found Tillie's
body in the rubble". Tillie was listed as missing in action up to that
point. The Lieutenant sorta gruffly said, "Then get a stretcher
and take those cooks and bring him out". "Hell That ain't my
job!", I muttered to myself. It was the job of the GRO( Grave
registration Officer). I was then introduced to Luther McLean and two cooks. I
think this was when I first met McLean. He gave me the nick name of BING. I was
always singing the songs of a forlorn lost love.
We took the stretcher and dashed across the road
into the barn. We placed the stretcher near the rubble under which Tillie
was buried. I scraped away some of the debris, I found the sweater
material and grabbed a handful and gave a hefty heave to lift the body out
of the rubble. Out he came but--ugh! he was soooo mangled that his
face fell off and a sickening stench arose. Yikes! McLean and the
cooks all left the scene gagging and actually urping outside. I had a
stronger gut for that scene I guess , but I couldn't stand the stench
either. I left the stretcher there and went out for fresh air. The
cooks and Mclean refused to do more of the loading. They used the "f' word
in very great emphasis. Mclean was a Cpl.--I was a buck ass private--so I
just took deep breaths as if diving for pearls, I reentered the barn and
gave another yank and another breath and another yank to get the body
closer to the stretcher. Finally I was able to load the body on and
somehow we either got used to the odor or the odor subsided enough to be
tolerated, I am telling you that none of the Mink shit I ever handled on
the mink farm came even close to being as horrible as the stench from a human
body!
Tillie was just about a day old
under the rubble. We left the body on the stretcher to be picked up
by the GRO as soon as they could. That day was March 8th of 1944. It was
spring time and the weather was getting warmer by the day. Not good
for dead bodies. I have always wanted to find the family of Tillie
to tell them I was the last guy to see his body and that I tried to be as
reverent as I could under the circumstances in handling a fellow platoon
member. I hardly knew him but I understood that he had a family of about
four children at home. If I could find that family, I'd like to tell them before
I am unable to tell them.
So as bad as dysentery was for me, it finally
SAVED MY LIFE or from being maimed. I would have been in that barn.
Where else? I might have been the Tillie I mentioned, or Italiano or Harrower
and one of the other 8 who were killed. The devastation from that shell
was horrific! We were sent cooks and drivers from the rear echelon
to bring up our strength temporarily They hated that!. I think this
is the time we got a lot of new replacements. I seem to remember
George Horton, James Anderson, Archbold, Brese. CPL. Mclean became my
squad leader.
It was a very dumb thing to do to seek the shelter of a barn and
especially a barn behind which was parked a half-track with a radio
antenna maybe glistening in the sun!
We all were then ordered to dig individual dug outs in the
bank of the drain ditch. Mac (McLean) and I dug ours together. I
remembered how my Dad made a cellar for keeping the potatoes and canned
fruit from freezing back home on the farm. I insisted on having the opening made
on an angle so that a shell would hit us in the legs if it was a close
round. We made a top out of whatever was handy. We laid a shelter half
over it and then heaped all the dirt on it the roof could hold. Mclean was
part devil! When the Jerries tried to annihilate us with a barrage
of mortars or artillery shells, we'd dash for the opening to our dug out.
Some of the rounds missed our dug out by as little as ten feet!
Mac would deliberately get into the opening and stay there till my face was on
his ass pressing and shoving and then some how he'd muster up a fart right
in my face! Then he'd let me in and sit in the corner of the dug out with
his knees up under his chin and laugh and laugh. I'd call him a dirty son of a
bitch and I wanted to punch his grinning face lots of times--there's no humor
like sick humor. Mac had buck teeth and they'd shine like a rabbits
teeth.
"Moon" (John) Mullins nick named him
"Little Beaver" but it didn't stick for long--It made Mac too
danged mad and he was awful hot headed for his size! "Mooney"
was too small to keep it up! Mooney was from the New York
area--with a Brooklyn accent. He was the virgin of the bunch. He was the
first in the platoon to be awarded the Bronze star. That bugger
went out over the open field to deliver a message to a line company when
the phone lines went out in broad day light! The whole time he was under the
scrutiny of a sniper!
Water was running out of the banks of the
ditch. Once I saw Barrack bag Tanner scoop
up some water from the drain to add to his ration of dried cereal. That
stuff comes in a Ten in One ration with sort of a powdered milk on the
flakes. Tanner didn't get the shits from that water but he should have.
You'll read why.
Mac and I on a nice clear day in March decide we'd like
to explore the drain ditch up to the Line companies not far from us, I
took my .45 just to test fire it. I shot up the creek to see if the pistol was
in operating condition. I could almost see the bullet fly out of the
barrel. It has a very slow muzzle velocity and the bullet had very little
range up the creek. We found a submerged 60 mm mortar that was abandoned
probably by the rangers. Then a bit further was the bridge where we always
crossed in the night time. A view of it in the day time helped me to
keep my bearings. A bit up from the bridge was the reason I thought Tanner
might get the GI shits!! Four dead Jerries partly in and out of the water!
Mac said," Now DON'T tell the Lieutenant or he'll make you pick them
up". I looked in the pockets of the Jerries and I took a few badges
and a belt buckle and some pictures and post cards. We moseyed up
the drain and found a jeep over the bank. The battery was gone and the head
lamps. That's what Mac wanted maybe to have light in our dug out.
Actually we were hoping to find a stray Luger. We came back to our
dug out. I wrote notes on the backs of the postcards and the Lieutenant saw my
LOOT. He asked where I got these post cards and pictures and I told him a white
lie.
Next day, The Lieutenant came to my dug out and said,
"come with me up the creek." He had a "DOG ROBBER"
by the name of BECKER. I had to go kinda like 'riding shot gun'.
Now he'd see the dead Germans in the creek! When we got near the bridge
the Lieutenant stopped short as he spotted the dead Jerries. In a half
whisper, he said, "Look Dead Jerries!"! He tossed a glance at me.
"You knew this yesterday when I asked didn't you?" I didn't deny
it. Then he said, "you get those cooks and a stretcher and pick 'em
up!"--just as Mac said, I'd have to do if he found the dead bodies.
When I came back to my dug out, I found some pieces of wood and I dug a
hole in the bank I made a square wooden tube and stuck it in the bank to collect
water to trickle so we could be assured of having fresher water right out of the
dirt. I figured it shouldn't be contaminated. Except not far from the
bank was a downed German bomber.
Speaking of bombers. A German Messerchmidt
was hit on a raid over the harbor. It came down with engines
screaming revving up as it dove to earth. The pilot did not eject.
About a couple hundred feet form our dug out it hit the marshy land
plunging deep into the marsh--pilot and all. The only thing left on top
was the wing tips and the tail. The fuselage entirely was buried.
Swallowed. The loose marshy soil closed in on it. Most likely
it is still in the earth. I'd like to go see what the Italian farmer of today
did in that area.
I had to pick up those dead bodies which were now
in the blue bellied stage. The buttons were ripping from the pressures of
the gas in side. I rolled one body out of his position partly submerged in
sand. His hand had been in the sand for whatever length of time he lay there.
When I pulled on his arm to free it, the flesh fell off the bones of his
hand. I surely didn't --bet on it! I surely didn't pick that flesh
up! That's why I made the fresh water supply--and I wondered how come Barrack
bag Tanner didn't come down with the GIs. That water was a loaded
with germs.
This will end the saga of the dysentery because the paregoric treatment
worked and I was saved to finally experience what a hard turd defecation felt
like! Ahhhh! how such small pleasures would be better than cookies from
home.
We left the CAMPO MORTO to go back up front into our
same foxholes we left a few days earlier. After a stay on the lines we
were brought back, Things changed for the family. The baby died and the
old man was killed as he sat by the fire. A shell finally hit the window
out of which smoke emanated. I sat on his rock many time before on the
other trips.
Mc Lean and I were sent out to a bridge not
far from Campo Morto to guard and to blow up if the word came down. The
engineers had explosives placed ready to blow the bridge if the German army
decided to counter attack and make a successful penetration up to that point.
Mac and I stayed in a covered fox hole with the plunger to detonate the
TNT. We were ordered to blow the bridge after our last tank retreated.
The big German push was anticipated. Out in the fields were large long
horned white cows (animals like Texas steers). Some were maimed
terribly with legs dangling. We decided it would be a humane act if
we would put those with dangling legs out of their misery by shooting them.
We left the fox hole momentarily to do the job. We exposed ourselves. Our
humane act while we were walking to get close enough for a deadly shot to
the head, almost was a tragedy for us when a sniper's bullets came zinging
by. We retreated to the fox hole.
I wanted to scout around the bridge to check out the position of the
explosives. I saw them attached to the bridge main support. I crossed the water
staying as much as possible out of sight. On the other side of the bridge in a
fox hole I saw a dead GI. In the stories previously written I am out of
chronological order. I wrote about all the dead we had handled etc., but this
scene was about the time the German army was deciding to make an all out effort
to shove us off the beach head.
The dead GI was on guard on the other side of the bridge .A
patrol must have ventured that far behind our lines and left him there dead. He
was laying on his rifle. The muzzle close to his face which now was very ashen.
The GRO might have missed him somehow.
I was suddenly in full realization that I was in the fray for real
and that I must prepare my soul for whatever hereafter there was offered. Seeing
this dead GI was the deciding factor. So at the first opportunity I visited our
Chaplain Father Hanely .I asked him a lot of questions. I knew I had been
baptized in the Catholic faith and I did in fact consider myself a Catholic.
However now I was quite stained and I new I had to be clean to achieve
everlasting life. It was the only thing left to cling to here on this beachhead.
Father Hanley gave me some prayer books and a small
missalette to understand better the Mass. He gave several basic prayers for me
to learn by rote, I say them even today. I visited Father Hanley regularly after
that. He asked if I could produce baptismal documents and I wrote home for them.
When he saw the document that I actually was a Catholic, he gave back the
document which I treasured so highly I couldn't take the chance of keeping it
with me, so I sent it back to my family. Father Hanley sort of took me under his
care. After the war he took all his catechists to be confirmed by the Archbishop
of Salzburg. He had a truck load.
The next day or so at the bridge was another
friendly fire incident. One lone P40 or some such airplane,
probably too, a P39, came up the road from the Jerry side and let his 20
mm cannon pop off rounds, bouncing them off the road only a few feet from our
covered fox hole. We were dug in at the very edge of the road. He
fired his other weapons and scooted on. Why the heck he did that I
don't know unless it was an American plane piloted by a German. Not
likely, but possible. I know it was a 20mm cannon round that was hitting the
road ,but I am unable to really confirm that the fighter was American except it
did have American markings.
Rations were brought to us. Some goof ball back in the rear echelon sent us a can of water in which there had been gasoline. Not the best cocktail you ever drank! Mac and I had the time to get acquainted. We unloaded our woes on each other. I learned that Mac was a 'regular army' enlistee. He had enlisted voluntarily in the early 30's prior to Pearl Harbor. He was a spunky red headed soldier with as much battle experience as any 3rd member could have had up to that point. He made the original landings in Africa, Sicily and saw bitter combat crossing the Volturno. Mac was one of only two of our Platoon who didn't get a purple heart. He was very wary of danger and acted quickly for life preservation .A good man to watch, I thought- and I did.
That bridge duty was followed by or preceded the big
push the Germans launched. I was placed further up the road with a young
man from Virginia named James T Anderson. We nicknamed him "Agreeable
Andy" because you could never get an argument out of him. He'd
concur rather than waste dialogue on a worthless subjects which we tossed
at each other as we became better acquainted. Andy remembers when we cried
together as we watched the war going on around us. We were dug in along
side a road in a rear guard type position. I had the usual miserable GI shits
which required frequent 'dumps' right out in the open in front of God and
everyone and the possible sight of the German snipers.
"Andy" came to the beach head 2/2/44. His first
recollections of me is when we were assigned a detail to sand bag a culvert for
a forward Command post for the officers. I can't recall that particular
detail--there were so many similar nights and details.
Andy smoked heavily, I thought, and I can still see his
quivering hands holding a butt. He was one of the outstandingly loyal to duty
GIs in our platoon. Of course I can say that about anyone of our platoon
members. Some came and went so quickly there was no chance to get better
acquainted.
When days were spring like and beautiful, the
open skies brought the Air Force out in full strength. Bomber after
Bomber squadrons came from lower Italy over us and unloaded their bombs on the
German position. Ack ack from their side was effective in many cases.
As a Plane was shot down we'd shout as if they could hear us to "JUMP
JUMP". Then we'd count the number of parachutists which ejected
from the burning Bomber. We learned that the B17 had about as many as the B24
Liberator. The B26's had fewer men and B25s had about a half a crew. Those
parachutists landed in enemy territory and the war was ended for them
except now they had to with stand all our artillery till they were
taken to a prison camp in the rear to face a starvation in a stalag somewhere.
I recall seeing one lone Liberator Bomber which lagged
behind a squadron. It entered a white cloud alone and in the only
cloud. I watched for it to come out of the other side. Instead it fell from
the bottom of the cloud coming down like a maple leaf on its
belly swirling in a circle as it fell. Not one of the crew jumped out! Not one!
I imagined that the "g forces" of the spinning plane kept them
pinned against the fuselage or in their seat belts and or the doors
couldn't open because of the "g forces". The B 24 Liberator is
identifiable because it has a twin tail and rudders. It smashed down on its
belly and exploded into smithereens. The crew must have been
scattered in pieces and join those GIs in the tomb of the unknown.
On that same day or the next, our Air Force sent
more bombers over. You could easily see the muzzle blasts of the
German Ack Ack guns and I wondered why our guns weren't trained on those blasts
to knock 'em out. Ha! Easier said than done. The sky was blotched with
puffs of exploding rounds. For the number of rounds shot, though,
you'd think the Germans would hit our bombers more often. Those they
did hit were enough for us to lose. One squadron of B17s flew over the target in
front of us and dropped their loads of Bombs. One lone B17 in the same
formation went over and circled back with the squadron and OVER US dropped
it's load into a clump of trees where we had stashed ammo. Several Tanks
were in the woods hiding.
The bombs hit the dump and some of the tanks! Why? There were all kinds
of colors rising from the woods as different ammo exploded. Again,
"Why?" I can only think of one thing--the bomb bay's
controls malfunctioned and delayed a drop. Another "friendly
fire" incident.
Those days and nights were when the German army was trying to shove us off the beach head. There was intense exchange of all sorts of firepower. The 88's fired at targets behind us. They were eerie to say the least to hear the round zing over head. The 88 really was a large rifle. It could fire a round into your hip pocket at a distance of several miles if it was aimed directly. The trajectory was flat as an rifle bullet. The muzzle velocity was most likely above an M1 rifle. Time after time it was necessary to brave the rounds to take care of nature's calls due to dysentery--the worst gosh danged thing that could happen to a GI except a wound.
We slept huddled in our hole, one guy on guard
and one guy resting. We had only our over coats for outside wear.
Long johns and ODs and wet boots. A string of prisoners was herded by. I
spotted one German soldier who had a blanket. I got out of my hole and
ripped it off his arm! I still have that life saving blanket! It had a
three corner tear which I repaired with my GI sewing kit. Their issue blankets
are made out of Mohair or some other than wool. We were warmer that
night. On occasions like this I would rip off the insignias from a
prisoner for a souvenir. I lost all those on the way to Rome. I
comforted myself with the knowledge that there will be more souvenirs later. And
there certainly were more opportunities.
The big German push was held back in this sector. The orders
came to move somewhere else to another threatened sector. We marched all night
on empty stomachs. I had to fall out of line time after time because of you know
what. Somewhere near our new sector we saw a 6x6 loaded with ammo get a direct
hit. It went up in smithereens. The driver couldn't have possibly made it out of
that blast.