The Gothic Line

by Mark Zuehlke

  ON THE RIGHT FLANK of the Seaforths, the regiments of 1 CIB had fared no better. The 48th Highlanders had jumped off with Captain George Beal in command of ‘A’ Company on the left and ‘C’ Company under Captain Pat Bates on the right. ‘C’ Company was heading for a junction of narrow tracks that stood immediately below San Martino Ridge, while ‘A’ Company’s objective was a ridge three hundred yards northeast of the road junction. The nine hundred yards of intervening ground both companies must traverse were flat, open, and sparsely vegetated. Despite the artillery concentrations, the two companies no sooner crossed the start line than they came under virtually continuous volleys of machine-gun fire from more positions than they could count. ‘C’ Company was immediately pinned down. Bates radioed back that the fire from San Martino that had murdered them the previous day was doing so again.

  Sergeant Joe Gauthier, whose No. 13 Platoon was leading the company, stood up and led his men in a wild dash across the open ground to a covered position just three hundred yards from the objective. Bates meanwhile had been caught in the open by a burst of fire and was lying helplessly wounded. The rest of the company had failed to follow Gauthier’s platoon and so it was now far out on its own in no man’s land. Lieutenant Fred Williams took over the company and started working forward with the other two platoons, trying to reach Gauthier.

  The sergeant decided that things were too much in the balance to wait for the rest of the company. He led his single platoon in another charge against the German positions dug in at the crossroads and was soon among them. Gauthier killed one of the paratroopers and possibly wounded or killed five more during the short firefight that followed as No. 13 Platoon cleared the positions. The sergeant was awarded the Military Medal.

  Williams arrived with the other two platoons and radioed back to Lieutenant Colonel Don Mackenzie that ‘C’ Company was on the objective. But he also reported that there were Germans moving to his rear and that he was surrounded.

  On the left, ‘A’ Company’s Sergeant Stuart Montgomery managed to get the leading No. 8 Platoon to within thirty yards of the objective before raking machine-gun fire across the front of his leading sections drove everyone to ground. Paratroopers in slit trenches started popping up to throw grenades and fire Faustpatrones at Montgomery’s men. The Highlanders replied with grenades of their own. Standing in the open, Montgomery chucked thirteen grenades into the German trenches as quickly as a corporal could hand them up to him. Then the platoon charged and overran the Germans who had survived the bloody exchange of explosives. The other platoons arrived moments later.

  Although they had won their objective, Captain Beal realized that a farmhouse about fifty yards to their front dominated the position. He told Montgomery to take a section and secure it. The sergeant led another mad charge and captured the building after a sharp fight with some paratroopers. Looking back over the ground just covered, Montgomery saw that Private John Andrew was lying in the open after taking two bullets through his legs. He ran over, lifted the man in his arms, and carried him to the house. For all of his bravery, Montgomery was awarded the Military Medal.

  As Montgomery brought Andrew inside, the Germans counterattacked through the farm’s courtyard. Sergeant Don Caswell, seeing that Montgomery’s hold on the farmhouse was threatened, led a section over to reinforce him. Caswell burst into the courtyard, saw Germans occupying a stone stable, and charged it. One of the Germans spun and fired a Faustpatrone at close range that tore the sergeant apart.

  When the paratroopers tried to rush the farmhouse from the stable, Montgomery’s Bren gunner cut six of them down with a sustained burst. By now, the corpses of more than thirty Germans lay scattered across ‘A’ Company’s objective and around the farmhouse.

  Beal realized that without tank support ‘A’ Company could not hope to hold its ground much longer. Every tank that tried to reach them was knocked out one after the other by 88-millimetre guns firing from San Martino. There was no choice but to go back. But the ground over which they must withdraw was exposed to the German fire and the men’s pace would be slowed by the need to carry out the wounded.

  Company Sergeant Major Vic Jackson proposed a solution. He would stay behind with the two-inch mortar and all its rounds. As the others went out, he would lay down a screen of smoke bombs to cover them. There was no other viable option. Beal led the men out while the sergeant banged out a furious rate of fire with the tiny mortar. His fire drew the attention of machine guns on San Martino and then direct fire from an 88-millimetre on the ridge. He carried on firing smoke regardless until the last bomb was expended, then scooped up the mortar and made a run for it. The sergeant arrived back in the new company position unscathed and won a Military Medal for his valour.

  Unfortunately, the new position was hardly safe. Minutes after the company formed there, it came under fire from behind. German paratroopers had infiltrated in between them and the original start line for the attack. Beal reported his predicament to Lieutenant Colonel Mackenzie, who said he was calling down an artillery smoke screen and that the moment it started ‘A’ Company should beat a retreat to the rest of the regiment. Mackenzie gave the same order to ‘C’ Company. When the smoke rounds started falling at 1520 hours, the two companies came back, fighting their way through several hastily thrown-up German blocking positions.

  ‘C’ Company’s wounded commander, Captain Bates, was still out in the open. There was no way stretcher-bearers could reach him on foot and survive. Major Bill Joss, commander of the squadron of 48th Royal Tank Regiment that had been supporting the Highlanders, offered to send the lightly armoured scout car that the tankers used for an ambulance. One of ‘C’ Company’s stretcher-bearers, Private James Gillard, volunteered to accompany the British scout car driver, who had also volunteered for the task. As the Red Cross–marked vehicle neared where Bates lay, some heavily armed paratroopers waved them down. The two men had no option but to stop. One of the Germans quickly searched the vehicle and men for weapons. Finding none, he signalled that they could continue on their errand of mercy. Bates was recovered and returned without interference from the Germans.

  The butcher’s bill for the Highlanders that day was less than that suffered on September 16. Surprisingly, only five men were dead, but twenty-seven were wounded. This brought the two-day tally to eighty-five casualties. And the regiment had gained no ground for the blood spilled.36 Morale was at an all-time low. Everyone expected the next day would just bring a renewed attempt with the same futile tactics.

  Nothing the Royal Canadian Regiment had tried yielded any significant gains either. Major Strome Galloway confided to his diary that it was “a day spent inching forward. It is very sticky going and our companies and the enemy are no more than 100 to 125 yards apart. The flat ground makes an ‘up and at ’em assault’ suicidal, so it is a firefight with small arms and artillery support. Neither will dislodge the enemy.”37

  Late in the afternoon, ‘B’ Company’s Major Sandy Mitchell encountered scout platoon commander Lieutenant Jimmy Quayle outside the regimental tactical headquarters. “The bodies of three of your scouts are lying in a ditch beside us,” he told Quayle. “They were hit by machine-gun fire earlier. The gun is still sweeping the area.”38 For a platoon that seldom numbered more than fifteen men, this was a terrible casualty toll.

  Quayle went to the scene and a surviving scout told him what had happened. The first man had been crossing the road when an MG42 shot him. The second man in line ran to help his fallen mate and was killed trying to drag the injured soldier to safety. Then the third man had dropped all his webbing, ammunition, and weapons to show clearly that he was unarmed. With arms held away from his body, he had walked out on the road, expecting the German gunner to allow him to retrieve his fallen comrades. A burst of fire cut him down. After dark, Quayle led a party of scouts to reclaim their dead. As Quayle gently turned the body of the lead scout, he was startled by a soft voice. “I really messed up, Sir,” the wounded man said. The s
couts rushed him to the Regimental Aid Post but he soon died of his wounds.39

  After two days of battle, the RCR had suffered seventy-four casualties. Brigadier Calder told Lieutenant Colonel Ritchie to prepare to launch an attack to capture Casa Rodella, a building standing alongside the little ditch of the same name that was situated on the extreme northwest corner of the Rimini airfield. The attack was to go in at 0230 hours. He restricted the Highlanders’ operations for the night to patrolling and probing of the objectives that had failed to fall during the day.

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL Syd Thomson was also receiving a new set of orders for yet another attack. Brigadier Graeme Gibson told him that the Seaforths should take San Martino by night assault. He made it clear that Thomson was failing to push the regiment as hard as the brigadier wanted. Neither officer was making any effort now to conceal his dislike for the other. Thomson thought Gibson—who would seldom come up to the sharp end—was once again refusing to accept that his regimental commanders were capable of appreciating a tactical situation and making sound recommendations that would not be apparent to regimental or divisional staff from their rearward positions. Because of this, there had been no tanks this afternoon and now just two companies of unsupported infantry would attack at night.40

  Dissatisfaction with the performance of superiors and subordinates was not limited to Thomson and Gibson. All three of 1st Canadian Infantry Division’s brigades were subject to escalating levels of friction between officers. Throughout the day, 48th Highlanders’ Battle Adjutant Major Jim Counsell had endured constant calls from Brigadier Calder demanding to know if the attacking companies had secured their objectives. When Counsell passed these information demands down to the officers trying to get their companies forward in the face of mounting casualties, they would snap back: “Why don’t the staffs of Brigade or Division, or both, get off their fat backsides and come up here and look at this country?” Thinking the same thing, Counsell offered no reply.41

  September 17 ended with one regimental commander’s replacement. Throughout the Gothic Line Battle, Lieutenant Colonel Ron Waterman’s handling of the West Nova Scotia Regiment had ill pleased Brigadier Paul Bernatchez. After stepping in following Bernatchez’s plane crash injury, Lieutenant Colonel Pat Bogert had been equally dismayed to see the West Novas he had once commanded repeatedly mauled while being ineffectually led. With every urging to move faster and more aggressively, Waterman seemed to become only more plodding, more cautious. Finally at 0920 hours on the 17th, Waterman had been called back to brigade headquarters. Then at 1100 hours, Major F.E. Hiltz, the West Novas’ second-in-command took the regiment over.42

  Waterman, by this time, was at divisional headquarters. Vokes had been concerned about him for some time, mainly because of his rumoured affair with an Italian contessa, possible heavy drinking, and his having taken to living in a caravan of the style used by divisional and corps commanders. When word of the problems with the regiment surfaced into open criticism from 3 CIB staff, including the brigadiers, Vokes had taken a closer look at the matter. He found that Waterman was running the regiment mostly from a headquarters two miles to the rear. Previously, Waterman had been noted for his courage, particularly at Ortona and the Hitler Line. In both cases, he had been right up on the front lines with his leading companies, roaming the battlefield in a jeep reinforced with a sandbag floor as protection against exploding mines. Vokes respected Waterman. But now he had the unpleasant duty of firing him.

  For such a gruff, tough-acting commander, Vokes found the task surprisingly difficult. Without announcing his intention, he invited Waterman to join him for dinner. Before the meal, Vokes broke out a whiskey bottle. The two officers made a good dint in the liquor and then enjoyed a sumptuous roast goose. Finally, they adjourned from the dinner for a few more drinks in the comfort of Vokes’s caravan. When both were comfortably settled with glass in hand, Vokes said: “Ronnie.” The seriousness of his tone caused Waterman to sit a little straighter. “Ronnie,” Vokes repeated, “I think you are getting tired.”

  Waterman shifted uneasily, but said nothing. “And so I think you should go, someone else assume the mantle of battalion commander. I hesitate saying this and doing this to you. You have been a first-class battalion commander. But now you seem to have gone to pieces.” Vokes waited for Waterman’s reaction.

  The man sat taller yet. “Oh, that’s all right, general,” he said quietly. “That’s fine. I started this war as a lance corporal in the Patricia’s. As you know. I was commissioned. I’ve commanded a battalion in action. I’ve won the Distinguished Service Order. I’m quite happy to go.”

  Waterman left as soon as was politely possible. After he departed, Vokes reflected that the average time that most regimental commanders in the Eighth Army lasted was just three months. Waterman had served continuously since taking over the regiment in the midst of the Ortona battle on December 12, 1943. The pressure of the job had finally exhausted him and left him broken—“used up,” in Vokes’s words.

  Returned to England, Waterman suffered the fate of many a replaced battalion commander. He got command of a training unit.43

  Firing Waterman was not the only tough decision Vokes had to make on September 17. Earlier, I Canadian Corps commander Lieutenant General Tommy Burns had frankly asked him whether he “had doubts about the continued offensive power of his battalions.”44 If he did, Burns was willing to have the 2nd New Zealand Division—so strong in tank formations that it was really an armoured division without the official designation—pass through on September 18 and take over the corps’s advance on the right flank of the 4th British Infantry Division. Vokes assured Burns “that his men were still able to carry out the tasks assigned to them.”45

  Accordingly, Burns issued instructions for a renewed effort. Regardless of the situation on San Martino, Burns expected 1 CID to attack San Fortunato Ridge early the next day with 4th British Infantry Division forming up alongside it to the left. On September 19, these two divisions must advance to a road that ran west out of Rimini and overlooked the Marecchia River. That night, they would both establish bridgeheads across the river and on the morning of September 20, the 2nd New Zealand Division and 5th Canadian Armoured Division would pass through and drive into the Po Valley.

  Vokes laid out a new plan that night. On the right flank, 1 CIB, less the Hastings and Prince Edward Regiment, would continue pushing towards Rimini “to give the enemy the impression that the main attack” was coming in that brigade’s sector. Both the RCR and 48th Highlanders were to advance beyond the airfield early on September 18. Meanwhile, the other two brigades would put in the true assault with 2 CIB on the right and 3 CIB the left. In 2 CIB’s sector, the Loyal Edmonton Regiment would replace the Seaforths on the right and advance together with the PPCLI, which would be on the left. The Carleton and York Regiment was to initially lead the 3 CIB advance with both the West Novas and the Van Doos passing through at the Ausa River to make the actual assault on San Fortunato. Vokes told his brigadiers that before this attack went in the Seaforths “were to make an effort to clear San Martino, but if this were not successful, [the] Loyal Edmonton Regiment would have to fight for their start line.” For San Martino was the line from which their attack towards the Ausa River must begin.46

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  Going To Bleed You

  SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT on September 17, the Seaforth Highlanders of Canada’s ‘B’ and ‘D’ companies, heavily equipped with PIATs with which to take on the tanks deployed in San Martino, attacked with neither artillery nor armoured support.1 The moment the troops crossed the start line, all radio communication with them ceased. They simply disappeared into a landscape palely lit by the false moonlight created by a series of searchlights far off on the left flank. A new tactic, unleashed for the first time by Eighth Army, anti-aircraft searchlights positioned on nearby hills bathed the area of attack in a harsh white light to illuminate the ground and simultaneously blind the German defenders. Some of the beams we
re directed against hill features so they reflected back on the ground below, while others blazed directly onto the area designated for illumination.

  The searchlights immediately hampered German movement. Within hours of their first use, the 29th Panzer Grenadier Division reported that having its front lit up by searchlights made “it most difficult to carry out moves.”2 Tenth Army’s Generaloberst Heinrich von Vietinghoff told Commander-in-Chief Southwest Generalfeldmarschall Albert Kesselring: “Last night [the enemy] did the weirdest thing I ever saw. He lit up the battlefield with searchlights.” Then he complained that there was no way to knock the lights out. “It’s a great worry to the boys to be lighted up and blinded and not be able to do anything about it,” von Vietinghoff concluded.

  While the searchlights were intended to support 4th British Infantry Division’s night attack, the intense light washed over into 1st Canadian Infantry Division’s sector like light cast by a rising moon. But the intervening hills between the actual light positions and the advancing Seaforths cloaked the immediate ground around them in deep shadows.3

  The Seaforths had hoped for surprise, but the paratroopers saw them coming up the slope and hit the leading platoons with long bursts of MG42 fire. Then, quickly withdrawing into deep bunkers dug under the buildings, they called artillery and mortar fire virtually on top of their own position. For four hours, the Seaforths unsuccessfully tried to get platoons around one flank or the other of San Martino, while the company commanders struggled to regain radio contact with headquarters in order to report and receive further instructions. Finally, at 0430 hours, contact was made and Lieutenant Colonel Syd Thomson told them to come home.