I don’t remember taking the first bridge. It may be that we crossed it without opposition, never realizing it was one of our objectives. History records that we took it by 9:00 P.M. on October 4. The fog of war is always much thicker for infantry combat soldiers than for any other branch of the Army, and my own experience on the way to Arnone certainly attests to this truth.
I vividly remember the battle for one of the other four bridges, however; it was here that I came under machine gun fire in combat for the first time. As Company F approached the bridge towards midnight, the point discovered it was already partially destroyed. Suddenly, two, or maybe three, German machine guns took us under fire from across the canal. It wasn’t a split second before we were all in the ditch with tracers whizzing two or three feet over us. Fortunately for us, they were shooting high. Their guns were close, positioned forward, from twenty-five to fifty yards off to the left and right of the road, and they really poured it onto us.
Training, adrenalin, and fear kicked in, snapping my mind and body to attention. We didn’t return much fire. Our SOP said we were to await orders. So there we lay in the ditch, getting shot at. Talk about frustration! Finally, the MGs stopped.
The 2d Platoon, on point, dug in on the south side of the bridge. The 1st and 3d Platoons went into all-around circular positions and dug in, the 1st Platoon moving off to the left of the road and the 3d Platoon, which was mine, moving to the right a couple hundred yards. Sergeant Gore ordered us to string out and dig individual foxholes. I was critical of this because I thought we should pair off. Soldiers perform much better when they have someone with them, and in two-man fighting positions, we could also take turns sleeping. But that night, no one got any sleep; we all remained on 100 percent alert, waiting to attack at first light.
At the break of dawn on October 5, a tremendous fire fight broke out in the 2d Platoon’s area, close to the road by the bridge. The canal was about twenty feet across, and the Germans were still in position on the other side, or had moved back in undetected through the night. Our platoon was close enough to hear the fight, but not close enough to see or participate in it. The 2d Platoon lost a number of men, and so did the Germans, who didn’t hold us up long. Evidently, these enemy troops were conducting a delaying action. By the afternoon, the 2d Battalion had advanced far enough to take all five bridges that made up our original objective.
When we continued forward, Company F was no longer the advance guard. It was like all combat situations—stop and go, hurry up and wait—as we moved toward Arnone. A quarter-ton jeep sped up the road towards the head of the column with the battalion communications officer, 2dLt Richard Janney, and his driver, Cpl Francis August. The jeep hit a land mine, and was blown to pieces before my eyes, resulting in the deaths of both men. It was tragedies like this that made us battle-wise. We later placed as many sand bags as we could collect on the floors of front-line vehicles, to take up some of the shock if they hit a mine.
We went into another hasty defense position within a mile or a mile and a half of Arnone, and held up for the night again. During the day we’d been subjected to intermittent artillery fire, which told us the Germans knew we were approaching. We no sooner got situated than we received orders to go out on another night combat patrol. My platoon had been on the go now for three or four days and most nights.
We left on patrol shortly after dark, moving out in combat-patrol formation. We were to move forward to the bank of the Volturno River, and set up an ambush or take action to capture prisoners. When we got to the riverbank, our platoon leader decided to lay an ambush rather than move up and down the bank and draw fire or attempt to capture prisoners. Let’s just say he was no more aggressive than when he had decided to lay over in the villa after that late spaghetti dinner.
Our lieutenant did make one heroic proposition that night that is legend in 505 lore. Our patrol included members from other platoons, and Richard Tedeschi was one of them. Because Teddy both spoke and looked like a native Italian, the lieutenant got the bright idea of sending him into Arnone. He told Teddy to find some civilian clothes, swim across the river, and check out the Germans. “Lieutenant,” Teddy answered, “I’ll go across if you come with me.”
All of us spent the better part of the night on the riverbank in ambush position, including Teddy. We were on 100 percent alert. I was exhausted and shaking with cold, and I’m sure my comrades were in the same condition. When we did not get a prisoner by three or four in the morning, the lieutenant decided to return to our company defensive position.
We had gone out on patrol so soon after our arrival that we hadn’t had time to dig our individual slit trenches. In my exhausted state, I had to argue myself into digging my trench. I finally dug a very shallow hole. I got below the surface of the ground, but that’s about it. It was an extremely quiet night. I could hear the German artillery fire on the north bank of the Volturno River, and then hear the shells coming in. I had just settled down in my trench to catch some sleep, when I heard a shell coming my way. It was going to land very, very near.
That shell hit so close that the crater almost connected with my slit trench. The concussion from the explosion actually lifted the lower part of my body up out of the trench. I had never experienced anything like it; one moment I was in my trench, and the next thing I knew, I was halfway out of it. I heard yells and sounds of confusion, and people came running over. They wiped the dirt off of me, and discovered I wasn’t injured, only badly shaken. Evidently, the shrapnel had already preceded the shock force. And so I survived my first close encounter with artillery fire, thanks to a little luck and the argument I’d had with myself to dig that slit trench, no matter how shallow.
According to the regimental history, all companies in the 2d Battalion sent out patrols on the night of October 5, but discovered very little sign of the Germans. The next morning, around 9:00 A.M., one of the other Company F platoons moved into Arnone and discovered the Germans had abandoned it. The rest of us then advanced, deployed in combat formation. The closer we got to town, the more resistance we encountered, not so much in small arms but in artillery fire from across the river. As our 1st and 2d Platoons entered the town, they did receive small arms fire, and a fire fight developed.
The 3d Platoon was to the rear of the 1st and 2d Platoons, on the outskirts of the town, about two hundred yards from where the fighting began. We were in support of the company, and sat out a lot of the battle. This was in accordance with tactics at the time, which taught that a commander should keep at least one-third of his force in reserve or support. At our level, we had no idea of the tactics employed; we simply wondered why we weren’t in the fight.
We were lucky to be close to a well-traveled road with a lot of ditches, German-dug foxholes, and a short stretch of trench just off the berms. One end of the trench was covered with boards for about eighteen feet, similar to a dugout. The Germans stepped up the artillery, and shells burst all around us. A round hit close, and the whole squad piled into the trench. It was one mad scramble to get under the boards, with Jones, Blankenship, and Smith in the lead. Arms were flailing and legs were kicking; we did everything but pull each other out by the seat of the pants. It was nothing but one big logjam.
There was just no way we all were going to fit. We were scared as hell, but it turned into a joke. Laughingly, Jones proposed a deal. “Those of us here will get in the dugout, and you-all stay outside,” he said. “And then, after a while, we’ll switch off.” This roused up a vocal protest. We all saw the point, but how did we know when to take turns? Did we use a unit of time, and switch every five minutes? Or did we count artillery rounds? If we did count rounds, how close did they have to hit? A hundred yards? Two hundred? In the end, we voted to change at timed intervals. We were real democratic, including our sergeant, who was trying to squeeze under the boards with the rest of us.
As we amused ourselves with these great questions, we could tell by the amount of incoming artillery and small arms fire tha
t the 1st and 2d Platoons were having a hard time of it. We expected to get orders at any minute, but instead, we just sat in that nice, deep trench the Germans had left us and listened to the other two platoons having quite a fight. This went on so long that I wondered if our company commander had forgotten us.
Sometime after 3:00 P.M., we received orders to move forward. Our platoon leader gave Sergeant Gore a general location to the left of the company position. We were told very little except that we were being counterattacked from across the river. It seemed that the 3d Platoon of Company F was going to be the company’s left flank.
We dashed from one covered position to the next until we got into town. Arnone was a poor, typical southern Italian village, consisting of one- and two-story buildings, with dwellings attached to barns and animal pens even in the middle of town. We passed through our company CP, a partially open, shed-like building that served as a collection point for the wounded and the dead. We saw their bloodied bodies lying in the wide dirt courtyard as we passed.
We deployed to the left of the company position, where it was reported that the Germans were attempting to counterattack. To do this, the enemy had to recross the Volturno River, and Company F’s left flank was exposed.
Sergeant Gore broke down our location into individual areas. We were about to get some on-the-job training in how to fight in a built-up area. None of us, including our sergeant, had any training or practice at this; at most, I’d watched a training film on it. Even when a unit is committed as a full fighting force at the same time—and we had been committed piecemeal—fighting becomes insulated in a town.
I took up a fighting position on the far left flank, on the south slope of the roof of a one-story house. It was made of coarse material, something like straw or thatch, and the ridge ran parallel to the river. This was fast-flowing, but relatively narrow, about fifty to seventy-five yards wide. I couldn’t see anyone else from the squad, but I knew there were one or two men to a house, forming an outline of our position.
I had good observation to the far bank. The roof ridge provided a solid rest for my rifle. My position gave me some cover and concealment, but I was still partially silhouetted from across the river. I remember thinking, “I’ve carried a damn rifle for two and a half years with no real opportunity to use it, and I sure as hell am going to use it now.” And use it I did; it was hard to get a good target, but I did a hell of a lot of shooting at suspected positions.
German bullets cracked all around me, showering the house and the roof. My head and shoulders stuck up across the ridge; I kept moving my position left and right, so as not to present a stationary target. I also was afraid my smoke would give me away; our rifle and small-arms munitions were supposed to be smokeless, but compared to the superior German munitions, ours were almost as bad as the old black powder from the Civil War. It was impossible for me to determine the Germans’ positions by observing smoke from their small arms. Mine, however, hung over me, like a sign saying, “Here I am.”
I had a very difficult time keeping my eye on what was going on in our squad area, let alone on what was happening in the center and right flank of Company F, in the 1st and 2d Platoons. The buildings obstructed our vision and made us physically segregated. You never like to break a unit down to more than half a squad, but we were completely fragmented.
I kept on firing for a good while, shooting where I thought the Germans would be if they were in position to give covering fire for the assault on the 1st and 2d Platoons. I do not know how long this went on; it could have been about an hour. I had to watch myself so I did not run out of ammunition. I knew we would not be resupplied.
Eventually, I noticed that the fire to our right, in what seemed to be the 2d Platoon’s position, was dying down. Orders were still not being passed down. Again, I thought our commander had forgotten us. Finally, we got orders to withdraw, and take roughly the same route back. There was still some daylight as we started moving to the rear.
When we came back through the positions of the other platoons and the CP, the 1st and 2d platoons had already pulled back, leaving two or three people to cover their withdrawal. There were still some dead and wounded to be removed. It took several trips to get them all. I helped several others carry the body of one of our troopers out. We had two to four people carrying that improvised stretcher, and it was still very heavy. I had heard the term “dead weight” before, but that was the day I understood the meaning.
I was greatly relieved to get into our new defense line. This position was strung out along the road that ran parallel to the river, no more than two hundred or three hundred yards south of Arnone. We formed our main line of resistance on the south shoulder of this road. The 3d Platoon was on the left of the company position, with my squad, the 1st, on the left of the platoon.
As the left flank man in the 3d Platoon, I was the farthest out on the left. We were deployed in one-man fighting positions, and because of the distance we had to cover, I was out of contact with everyone else. After a long, hard week—my first week in serious combat—I was a long way out from the nearest man, wondering if anyone except the enemy was on my flank to the left.
It was very dark that night. The road we were along was high-banked, elevated about five or six feet from the terrain to our rear, and thus it provided cover and concealment to the front. I was in a nice, deep, German-dug foxhole.
I don’t know how long I’d been in position when I heard movement behind the road and to my left. I waited and got ready. Next I heard very distinct voices moving towards me. It sounded like a number of men were heading my way. I listened with all my might to distinguish words from what seemed to be excited babbling. The voices I heard all were speaking German.
I was more than puzzled—I was almost petrified. I was out there to provide security; if I could not stop the danger, it was my duty to shoot to warn the company. I had my rifle ready to start shooting when the thought went through my mind that there were probably too many of them for me to get at one time. I grabbed a fragmentation grenade and had the pin half pulled when something made me wait.
The sign that night was “Carolina,” and the countersign was “tobacco.” I challenged and went into a crouch in my hole. The reply “Tobacco” came over loud and clear, quickly followed by the statement that it was Company E coming in on Company F’s position. I was very pissed off, and also greatly relieved.
One of the Company E officers advanced to my foxhole, and I proceeded to chew his ass out regardless of the difference in rank. The officer let me go on a few moments, then stopped me to explain. Company E had captured some prisoners, who were being interrogated at the time they approached Company F’s position. They had actually been moving into a forward combat position, speaking German, with no point, no scouts, and no security at all out in front of them. The officer agreed it was one of the stupidest things he had ever done in his life. I assured him it came close to being the last.
What happened that night proves my point that Arnone served us as a training ground. That officer must have been very green. Luckily for him, so was the lowly private he encountered. What do you do when some joker comes in on your flank speaking German? Because I was newly committed, I went by the book: “Don’t shoot until after you’ve challenged.” They really drilled it into us. Later in the war—in Normandy, for example—I would have opened fire without hesitation.
I didn’t get any rest that night outside of Arnone. I spent it in my foxhole, quaking from cold and fever. By daylight I was exhausted, freezing, and almost starving. By then, I had been subsisting on hard biscuits and hot chocolate for more than a week.
Daylight was very welcome. Word came down that another unit was going to relieve us. We had now been on the go for a week or ten days. Things were quiet enough for us to take turns getting out of our holes to go down on the safe side of the road. We could move around, maybe brew some coffee or cocoa, and discuss the previous day’s action.
Company F had had a bitte
r battle, but we had managed to stop the Germans from crossing the river. Some of the shooting we heard was an attack by Company E, led by Lt Col Mark Alexander, launched to clear Company F’s left flank. They had lost a platoon leader, 1st Lt David Packard. I later found out there were sixty or so casualties in the 1st and 2d Battalions combined, and the heaviest death rate that the 505 had so far experienced.
While we were moving around early in the morning on October 7, we made contact with the British Army in the form of an officer who was the artillery forward observer for their 46th Division, the unit that was coming to relieve us. The British FO came up to me and we started talking. After a while he said, “You know, soldier, you don’t look very well. Your eyes are yellow, and there’s a very yellow cast to your skin.” He thought I had what he called “yellow jaundice,” and he recommended that I see the medics.
When I found our medic, he took my temperature, looked me over, and told our platoon leader he thought I should be evacuated. I managed to get back to the battalion aid station to see Dr. Stein. He and his ambulance driver had miraculously escaped death just a few days previously when a Teller mine had blown up their ambulance on a road outside of Naples. The ambulance itself had been totaled.
Dr. Stein examined me and immediately marked me as a litter case. And so my active combat experience in Italy came to an end with me on a litter awaiting evacuation early on the morning of October 7, the day the 505 was relieved from front-line duty. Later that day, I was moved back to the hospital in Naples. The rest of the regiment arrived the following day with the mission to police the city.
Chapter 12
A City Torn by War: Duty and Bombings in Naples
I was admitted as a patient to the 95th Evacuation Hospital, suffering from malaria and what was then called yellow jaundice, or hepatitis today. It was difficult to get supplies into the port, and the hospital had nothing to eat but the equivalent of C rations. These came in huge cans for mass feeding, but at least they could be heated up, which got rid of the thick layer of grease. Nevertheless, all I could ingest was hot chocolate. The warmth and sweetness continued to be a comfort to me.
Descending from the Clouds Page 10