by Gail Mencini
Tom collapsed to the ground.
The bullet aimed at Will had hit Tom high on his body.
Will crawled to him. Blood spurted out of Tom’s neck.
Tears burned Will’s eyes. He abandoned his friend and forced himself to crawl quickly to the cover at the stand of brush ahead.
Your buddy may fall, but don’t stop to help him. ... Take more ground. ... Always keep fighting. The general’s command played in Will’s head.
“Will ... Help me ...” Tom’s feeble voice affected Will like he had shouted through a bullhorn. Tom wouldn’t last long.
Will gritted his teeth and yanked out two grenades.
He pulled the pin on the first one. Cocked his arm and heaved it into the patch of brush behind the tent, where the sniper who nailed Tom hid.
Will pulled the second pin and heaved that device toward the front of the tent.
Both blasts hit their marks.
Will put a clip in his Garand M1 rifle.
Tom wasn’t crying out for help now. Was it too late?
Will poked the barrel of his gun out of the bushes. He fired at the hidden sniper.
Submachine gun bullets whizzed through the hardy bushes that hid Will. The missiles snapped branches off, and ruffled his jacket sleeve.
The gunner’s aim was off, and his stream of bullets pinpointed for Will the enemy’s location.
Will shot at the foxhole. He ducked down and pulled out another grenade. Will pulled the pin and threw it toward the hidden gunner.
The bomb burst.
Silence.
Will again fired at the foxhole. He shot at the spot where the tent had stood before a grenade hit it. He directed bullets at the bushes that flanked the tent and followed with fire into the growth hiding the sniper.
Silence.
Will crawled on his belly back to Tom. Blood soaked Tom’s jacket. His friend’s mouth gaped open, looking like he had tried to utter one more cry for help. Cries for help that Will ignored.
Will shook as he choked back the sob inside him.
Someone called out their code word. Will replied as instructed.
Sam, Charlie, and Ed, men from his platoon, headed toward him, arms at ready, and covered the area that hid the Germans.
Sam and Charlie crept toward the bushes flanking the tent. Ed crouched next to Will with his gun at ready and spoke with only a quick glance at Tom. “Wounded or dead?”
Will’s fingers pressed Tom’s wrist. Tom’s neck was a pulpy mass of blood and tissue. “Dead.”
Ed rested one hand on Will’s shoulder.
“They’re all dead.” Sam’s voice got louder the closer he walked toward Will. “Two of them in the brush behind the tent. Grenade got ‘em. Plus one sniper dead in the shrubs.”
Charlie inspected the foxhole. “Two more dead in here.”
Ed squeezed Will’s shoulder. “One against five. Easy pickings, right? You did it, Will.”
Will looked at the ravaged body of Tom Hermann. “We did it. Tom and me.”
Ed grabbed Will’s left arm. “You’ve been hit.”
6
One of the sniper bullets had nicked Will’s left bicep.
“Not much more than a scrape,” Will said. “Let’s move on.”
Will ripped off a piece of his shirt. Ed wrapped the cloth around Will’s arm, but Will refused to let anyone waste their precious water to wash his wound.
The platoon cleared their fortified positions on Pizzo di Campiano of Germans, then hunkered into the foxholes.
Combat medics set up shop in a stone building that Loose had spotted on the climb up. Will refused to go see them. No one left the front and went down to the stone building unless their wounds were severe.
Shortly after 15:00, sniper bullets peppered the ground short of the men’s positions.
The bursts came at uneven intervals, spray after sporadic spray of bullets. Each time, the bullets hit closer to where Loose’s troops hid.
Will’s anxiety and fear ratcheted up with each attack.
Darkness fell on the men who twenty-four hours earlier had scaled the ridge. No one had slept since the night before their climb.
The platoon had run out of grenades and their ammo was nearly gone.
Will ate the last bit of his food. The last drops from his canteen hit his tongue five hours before. Will, as others had earlier in the day, now melted snow for water.
Morale sank up and down the line. No ammo. Almost no food. No water. And no sleep for closing in on 48 hours.
Loose, once the wire company found them, called for men from B Company, who’d taken Mount Cappel Buso, to relieve his all but unarmed platoon.
Will’s eyes burned from the dry, cold air and lack of sleep.
Sniper fire continued to land closer and closer to where Will crouched. The snipers advanced toward them. Soon they would hit their mark.
Loose went one step further to push back the enemy. He demanded that the artillery gunners bring their fire in closer to their own bunkers. Closer to his men.
The gunners at first refused. They wouldn’t be responsible for the “friendly fire” death of some of their own. No, the gunners vowed to keep their rounds far off from A Company.
Loose demanded again that they bring the fire in closer. “The snipers are going to creep in and keep firing until we’re all dead if you don’t take them out.”
A German grenade exploded in the foxhole next to Will’s. Will jumped with the explosion.
Closer now, the Germans flung grenades at them. It wouldn’t be long until one hit the spot where Will clutched his knife, the only useful weapon in his possession.
Loose yelled into the radio once more for artillery support.
Soon shells rained between the Germans and the foxholes where Will and the others hid.
Their cover artillery fell closer and closer in a tight circle around their position.
Will’s guts wrenched with each grenade explosion. His body jerked back as the artillery rounds peppered the ground nearer and nearer to where he crouched in the foxhole. One came within five yards of Will.
Loose screamed into the radio that the last round was close enough.
“Damn near gave me a haircut,” one of the men beside Will said.
The barrage of grenades fell silent. The artillery finally succeeded in backing off the Germans.
After two endless days and nights of fighting, a bleary-eyed Will realized Riva Ridge was secure.
“You,” Loose pointed at Will, “get to the medic. Your arm’s a bloody mess.”
7
Will headed back to the ridge to rejoin his platoon after getting bandaged up at the medic shelter.
Lieutenant Loose sent Will off again, this time to escort a German officer down to where other German POWs were held.
Will hated to leave the troops. Being with the guys he’d trained with at Camp Hale gave him more comfort than being restocked with ammo and having a full canteen.
The assault on Mount Belvedere was set for tonight. Will needed to hustle to deliver the prisoner and get back before dark. He wanted a front-row seat to witness the firepower.
Underbrush snaked across the trail Will followed on Mount Serrasiccia. The path dipped below tree line and crossed through a stand of chestnut and oak trees.
Every creak of boughs weighed down by snow and ice, or shudder of snow falling from its perch, made Will jump.
The German, a good ten years older than Will, walked ahead of him. The man didn’t act startled at the sounds, which made Will all the more nervous.
Fog settled in over the mountains again. Cold and damp. The mist hid everything more than a few paces beyond the German.
The Nazi officer stopped walking. One of his boots had gotten tangled in the twisting vines. He twisted and tugged his leg to dislodge it.
Cursing in German, the man bent to use his hands to free his foot.
Will stood still, his gun trained on the prisoner crouched ahead.
“Ah,” the Germa
n said with satisfaction in his voice. He spun upward, flung a knife at Will, and rolled off to the side.
Will fired his rifle.
The bullet hit the German’s midsection.
The knife pierced Will’s right arm.
The blade jutted out from Will’s bicep. Blood appeared around the wound and stained his jacket. The only good thing was that the blood seeped, not spurted.
Will trained his gun on the injured German and walked closer until the nose of his rifle stopped one foot from his enemy’s head.
“You don’t want to do that,” said a man’s voice to his right, from somewhere in the trees. He spoke with accented English. German? Italian?
Will pointed his gun in the direction of the voice. Only shadowy trees loomed in front of him, and beyond that, the fog obscured everything.
“Come out where I can see you.” Will’s eyes darted around. He focused on the sounds. The German’s labored inhalations. His own quick, shallow breaths. “Come out, I said.”
“Don’t shoot me.”
“Well, don’t shoot me either,” Will said.
The man in the woods laughed. “If that is what I wished, you would now be dead.”
“I won’t shoot.” Will aimed his gun in the direction of the man’s voice. “Come out.”
The crunch of boots moved through the bramble and snow. Will held his breath.
A man with a slight build appeared from the trees. He wore a black stocking hat, a patched brown jacket, and U.S. issue army pants. His face was ruddy, not fair like the German who lay wounded at Will’s feet.
The stranger held his rifle in ready position, pointed toward Will’s chest.
“Who do you fight for?” Will said. His right leg trembled.
“Italy,” the man said. “I am a partisan who fights for the freedom of Italy.”
“We’re on the same side. Let’s both lower our guns.” Will stared at the Italian’s gun while he inched the barrel of his rifle down.
The Italian edged closer and nodded at Will after both of their guns pointed at the earth.
The partisan pulled out a Beretta pistol and shot the German in the face.
Will jerked away from the noise of the blast. The grenades that burst around him the night before on the ridge still reverberated inside his head like a church bell.
Will gaped at the bloody mess, once a face. True, he wanted to kill the man who had attacked him, but not like that.
Will glared at the Italian. “Why did you do that? You told me not to shoot him.”
The Italian grinned. “Because I wanted to kill him myself. Germans don’t take Italian prisoners. If they do, it is only to use them in their labor camps.”
The Italian pointed at the knife that stuck out of Will’s arm. “This is not good.”
A wave of nausea passed over Will. His face flushed with heat. He must control the bleeding fast, he realized, or he’d pass out.
The Italian pointed to his hiding spot in the trees. “We can help you. Supplies.”
The Italian held out his hand, palm up, and gestured to Will’s gun.
Will was too light-headed and weak to dispute handing over his weapon.
The Italian slung Will’s rifle over his shoulder. He moved to Will’s left side—the one only nicked by a bullet—and wrapped one arm around Will’s waist to help him walk.
The fog and trees provided cover for another three partisans. Their supplies were limited but included a flask of a bitter, strong drink they called “grappa.”
One of the men removed his jacket and shirt and tore the latter into strips to bind Will’s wound. The man who killed Will’s prisoner jerked the knife out of Will’s arm with one swift movement. Another man held pressure against the wound, and they bound his arm with the strips of cloth.
A few swigs of grappa backed down Will’s nausea.
The crack of a bullet ripped through the air. The projectile whirred by and hit a tree. A volley of shots in rapid succession from deep in the woods sent them all to the ground.
The first partisan looked at Will and mouthed one word.
“Germans.”
8
Three volleys of return fire stopped the Germans’ attack.
Will and the partisans didn’t talk or move for ten minutes. One of the Italians crept toward where the Germans took cover.
The man who had found Will knelt beside him with his hand extended. “I am Anthony.”
Will shook the man’s hand. “Will.”
A bird call rang out. The Italians all looked in the direction of the sound.
“Our sign. The Germans left.”
The partisans stood and readied themselves to leave. Anthony explained that he and his friends had a truck hidden nearby. They would take Will to Lucca where Will could reunite with the U.S. soldiers.
A group of American soldiers were camped in Lucca, but Will’s platoon was on the mountain. He needed to be with them, and Will tried to explain this to Anthony.
“You do not have the strength to hike up there,” Anthony said.
Anthony helped Will to his feet. He looped his arm around Will’s middle to take the American’s weight against himself.
The man who had left to scout the Germans rejoined them, and they moved downhill without speaking.
The lead man stopped and held up one hand. He pointed to the closest trees with abrupt movements.
Anthony pulled Will sideways and deposited him behind an oak tree.
Machine gun fire reverberated around them. Bullets slammed into the trees and brush.
The partisans returned fire, using trees as cover. Anthony pushed Will’s gun into his hands.
Will lay prone on the snow-covered ground, his rifle ready to shoot. He couldn’t see the enemy. Will propped himself up on his elbows.
His right arm seared with pain like someone stuck it with a blazing poker. He tried to steady himself in spite of his uneven breaths. He squinted over the gun’s sight, looking for movement or a flash from a gun.
The telltale flash sparked. Will squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice.
The German responded with answering shots.
A bullet gashed Will’s left leg. He gritted his teeth. The pain and loss of blood would soon take him out of the fight.
He slowly inhaled and exhaled one deep breath to steady himself. Tiny adjustment right. Fire. Small adjustment left. Fire.
Silence.
Will heard the pop of a gun. He felt the force of the bullet slam into his left leg, high on the thigh.
His cheek slammed against the cold, frozen snow.
9
Will’s eyes fluttered open. The compact shape of conical trees rose above him, backlit by the moon.
His nostrils flared with a scent that reminded him of the pines, spruces, and fir trees that grew all over the Rockies. Here, a different but pleasant fragrance lingered. Cedar?
Will’s mind flashed to lying on the snow behind an oak tree. He remembered the sensation of moving and a hard surface under his back. The sound of an engine. The cold night air.
Where was he now? His hand touched cool dirt beneath him.
He tried to cough but moaned with the pain. Will moved his fingers, toes, arms, and then legs. He sucked in his breath when pain shot through one leg. He reached down with his hand, hoping to find his limb.
A splint covered his leg. Gunfire must have hit his limb.
He thanked God that everything seemed to work. Some parts hurt more than others, but he could tolerate pain if all the pieces were still attached and working.
He explored his wounds with his hands. Both arms had been wounded, one worse than the other. Will remembered the bullet and the knife that hit his arms.
A bandage on one cheek. Bandages and a splint on his whole left leg. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what happened. It came back to him in little pieces, like when he fed his dog one tiny treat at a time.
Anthony and the partisans. Attacked by Germans in the woods among ches
tnut and oak trees. Had he taken out the machine gunner?
Will’s eyes canvassed his surroundings.
“You are awake.” A woman’s soft voice uttered the words.
Will wet his parched lips with his tongue. “Please. Water.”
A girl about his age with fine-boned features knelt over him. She wore a black stocking hat that hid her hair, with eyes as dark as night.
Will figured her for an Italian, given how her skin looked tanned in winter.
The girl put her hand on the back of his neck. She tilted his head forward and brought a metal cup to his lips.
She was the prettiest sight he’d ever seen.
10
An unexpected wet kiss in the morning can signal a sexy start to the day.
Or the sign of a dreaded duty.
In this case, the warm breath and rough tongue that flicked up and down thirty-two-year-old Sophie Sparke’s cheek was the latter.
Ugh. Bangor’s breath was foul. It must be from the leftover bratwurst he ate before bed.
More insistent now, his tongue lapped her cheek, and he whined.
“OK, OK, I’m getting up.” Sophie, five feet six inches tall with spunky brown eyes, rolled out of her side of the double bed.
She swept up her curly, long black hair into a ponytail. She plucked a sweatshirt off the floor and tugged it on over the yoga pants and T-shirt she wore to bed. Denver’s nighttime temperatures, even in August, could be chilly.
Bangor’s whining elevated in pitch.
No. Don’t bark.
She bent over the bed and swooped Bangor, her seven-year-old, fifty-five-pound English bulldog, into her arms.
He rubbed his head against her chest and the ever-present drool smeared across her sweatshirt. Sophie slid her feet into slippers, grabbed her key ring, and headed for the door.
In the hallway, Bangor fidgeted in her arms. His wiggling required both arms to hold him. She couldn’t latch the door.
“Easy, fella,” she said, and gently set him down next to her. She turned to fasten the lock and Bangor, hearing a noise in her neighbor’s apartment, let his vocal cords loose.
Bangor stood up. He faced the offending door and barked.