by Mark Zuehlke
4
THE SHARP END
THE fear was in them all. Only a fool claimed otherwise and such a man would be considered a potential hazard by the others. Since July 10, 1st Canadian Infantry Division and 1st Canadian Armoured Brigade had been on campaign. Five months of fighting and marching. Moments of terror and horror interspersed with extended periods of boredom and the drudgery of the advance across Sicily and up Italy’s boot. Now the battalions were strung out in a long line facing the Moro River and every man in the line companies knew that soon — in a few hours, or a day, or two, or three at the most depending on his brigade and battalion — he would again face directly the fire of German machine guns and rifles. In the slit trenches, waiting for the attack to commence, there was time to think — time for the fear to grow in his belly.
For most the fear was not crippling, but it gnawed the gut and rendered the rations tasteless or unappetizing. Hastings and Prince Edward Regiment Lieutenant Farley Mowat imagined it as a worm. Looking out over the Moro River, he felt the worm in his gut grow, enlarge, become harder to thrust away and ignore.1
Some found it no longer possible to quell the fear. Instead they collapsed under it. The day prior to the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry’s move from San Vito Chietino to the battalion’s Moro River position, Lieutenant Jerry Richards discovered one of his men cowering in a slit trench, gibbering, refusing to fall in. Richards was momentarily baffled. In his short tenure as a platoon commander he had not faced this situation. He thought of ordering the man at gun-point to rise and join the ranks. Then the inanity of such an action struck him. Richards ordered two of his other soldiers to drag the man out of the hole. They grabbed the shaking soldier by the arms and yanked him to his feet, but he continued weeping and babbling. Richards ordered the soldier taken to the field dressing station for the medical officer to sort out. The man disappeared into the divisional medical system, never to be seen again. Perhaps he was evacuated, as was occasionally the fate of the worst battle-exhaustion cases. More likely he was reassigned to less hazardous rear-area duty, where the fear of dying at any moment was lessened.
It was military medical policy that first priority should be given to treating a battle-exhaustion case quickly so that the man could be returned to his unit. However, as the Italian campaign progressed, ever fewer soldiers so affected were returned to the front-line platoons. A major reason for this was that neither the officers nor the soldiers involved in the up-front fighting wanted these men at their side. Dr. Arthur Manning Doyle, divisional psychiatrist, found that infantry commanders sought to quickly get rid of any soldiers they deemed unstable or jittery in action. Such men were believed to pose a danger to themselves and a threat to their comrades. Doyle wrote of the normal attitude of the officers: “Though they frequently use such uncomplimentary terms as yellow they usually recognize that the soldier with an anxiety neurosis just can’t help it. . . . The worst possible situation in the line is a body of troops led by a neurotic officer. Troops that have fought well under another break and run when under an officer they know to be himself abnormally nervous and vacillating.”2
Saskatoon Light Infantry Major Thomas de Faye had faced such a situation in Sicily. During a routine check of his battalion positions, de Faye discovered that one heavy-machine-gun platoon commander had ordered his men to set up their Vickers guns in positions on a forward slope. This was a very dangerous position for the guns, and the men all seemed justifiably anxious. When he asked where the commander was, they shrugged their shoulders and said they had no idea. Searching about, de Faye discovered the officer huddled in a cave well behind the gun positions. “I can see so well from up here, sir,” the man blathered. “I can maintain better control over the situation here.” Whether simple cowardice or battle exhaustion, de Faye knew not; but he ran the officer back to the divisional commander with the message that he didn’t want the man in his unit, that he presented a hazard to his men. The officer was shipped out of the division in twenty-four hours. The major later heard he was returned to Canada where, rumour had it, he was promoted and assigned to training duties.3
Cowardice. Courage. Two poles on a spectrum of behaviour. By December 1943, the soldiers in Italy knew that most of them were capable of either extreme. The hero today might break down completely the day following and the supposed coward might suddenly display a selfless disregard for his own safety. It all depended on circumstance and a man’s physical and mental condition. Bravery was a consumable commodity, like water in a bottle. Eventually, if drawn upon too often without an opportunity for the bottle to be refilled, the last reserves of courage must inevitably be drained. For this reason, most of the troops and officers felt only pity and sympathy for the men who fell victim to battle exhaustion. It could happen to anyone. It could happen to them. It was a form of illness, not much different than the dysentery, the jaundice, and the malaria that had afflicted the division since it hit the beach in Sicily.
Every army on campaign has been faced with dysentery, caused by the miserable hygienic conditions inherent in an environment where men cannot bathe regularly, where eating utensils are usually filthy, where sources of water are often polluted, and where the feces and urine of those already afflicted with dysentery remain unburied. Intensely painful and bloody diarrhea is the most noticeable symptom, accompanied by dehydration and exhaustion. As the malady progresses, victims become weak and usually lose their appetite. Most soldiers suffering dysentery were expected to tough it out, for the illness would usually clear up over time. Severe cases were generally treated with the drug sulphaguanidine. Rarely were dysentery cases taken into hospital. Of course, the presence in all the battalions of men experiencing dysentery contributed to its spread. But there was little alternative — the illness was too endemic to all the units for every sick soldier to be sent for hospital treatment.4
Another illness that persisted during the summer and fall months of 1943 was jaundice. More properly known as infectious hepatitis or hepatitis A, the disease reached near epidemic levels within the Canadian units in early September 1943. Doctors later determined that the troops were most likely infected almost immediately upon landing in Sicily, as the disease has a four- to six-week incubation period. During the first two to seven days of the infection’s cycle, soldiers experienced “malaise, fatigue, lassitude, and loss of appetite, sometimes accompanied by nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea.”5 The loss of appetite was a particularly difficult aspect of the disease because it greatly weakened infected soldiers.
Loyal Edmonton Regiment Lieutenant Alon Johnson contracted jaundice shortly before the Canadians reached Campobasso. His skin turned a definite yellow and he was tormented by peculiar cravings for specific foods. “Boy,” he’d say to himself, “if I could just have some chicken that’d taste so damned good.” Presented with a platter of chicken, however, he would feel nauseated just looking at it.6 Fatty foods were particularly intolerable because jaundice usually causes an inflammation of the liver and in some instances of the spleen, making fat difficult to digest. Fever was usually also present for at least a few days. Because of the severity of symptoms associated with jaundice, many infected soldiers were evacuated to hospitals well to the rear, even to Africa or Great Britain. In 97.5 percent of cases, it took fifty days from the onset of symptoms until a soldier was generally thought fit to return to full combat duty.7 In Johnson’s case he was never sent to the rear but remained at battalion headquarters.
Present throughout the summer of campaigning in Sicily and then in the lower parts of Italy were mosquitoes — a good many of which carried malaria. Allied high command had known this would be the case and initiated a plan to combat the disease. Quinine, a natural alkaloid extracted from the bark of the cinchona tree in Java, effectively masked the effects of malaria, while not curing it. But there was precious little quinine to be had by the Allies because Java had been captured in January 1942 by Imperial Japan. Fortunately, however, there were chemical substit
utes for quinine that achieved the same effect.8 While the Americans relied on a drug called atabrine, the British and Canadian divisions in Sicily took nepadrine.
Twenty-one-year-old Lance Corporal Jack Haley, a radio signaller with the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry, dutifully took his nepadrine each day and never suffered from malaria. As he marched across Sicily, Haley was always amused by the small billboards the medical units erected here and there which read: “If you pee a golden stream it means you’ve taken your nepadrine.” Despite the propaganda campaign, many soldiers refused to take the drug because it was rumoured that the pills would render them permanently impotent or sterile. The rumour reached such a point that officers had to line their troops up and personally ensure that each man swallowed his daily pill.9 Despite these precautions, malaria was common throughout the ranks and many soldiers were hospitalized when their symptoms became too severe. Although new cases of malaria ceased once the Canadians had advanced far enough up the Italian boot, the disease typically recurs several times over a period that can run for several months or even years. The after-effects of passing through a malarial region continued to be felt for many months, and were still a problem when the battalions deployed before the Moro River.
While illnesses wore men down and resulted in 1st Canadian Infantry Division and 1st Canadian Armoured Brigade always being well below strength, the short firefights and battles that typified operations prior to the Moro River further decreased the troops as men were wounded or killed. “When you’re killed in battle it doesn’t really matter to you that the battle was a little one or not,” Johnson would say.10 Johnson had come to the division as a replacement, taking over the scout platoon after its officer had been shot dead by a German sniper when his jeep rounded a corner in the road. The jeep still had a bullet hole through its body near the passenger seat, serving as a reminder to Johnson of how easily death could come for you in this strange business of war. So far he had been lucky, but such was not the case for all the men who had accompanied him into active military service.
Johnson had reported to the enlistment office of the Loyal Edmonton Regiment in Edmonton on March 25, 1942, along with his friend and fellow University of Alberta Canadian Officers Training Corps cadet John Alpine Dougan. The recruiter recognized Dougan’s last name and asked whether he might be the son of World War I cavalry veteran Jack Dougan. John said he was and added that his father now lived in Lethbridge. That was the extent of their pre-enlistment interview. They were offered positions in the regiment if they agreed to enlist as privates, rather than seeking a commission on the basis of their COTC training. Both agreed immediately. Over the next few days, three of their fellow COTC cadets — Keith McGregor, Jimmy Woods, and Earl Christie — also enlisted under the same terms.
The decision to enlist was easier for some than for others. Dougan suffered considerable anxiety over the possibility that enlisting might completely derail his dream of becoming a historian. It was just two weeks before the third-year exams of his honours history baccalaureate program. Would he lose the year? And when the war was over, would he have the opportunity to return to university? Dougan could only afford post-secondary studies because he had received a scholarship from the Imperial Order Daughters of the Empire. With these concerns in mind, he sought out the dean of the Arts and Science faculty to see what future might await him after the war if he were to interrupt his studies.
A veteran of the Great War, the dean assured the twenty-year-old Dougan that if he felt the need to enlist immediately rather than wait until completion of his schooling, the university would support his decision. Relieved, Dougan left the dean’s office and headed off to war without further hesitation. He, like his friends, desperately wanted to get into it and do his duty. Later, Dougan received word from the university that he would be granted his degree in absentia due to having volunteered for military service.
The five cadets quickly revealed during training at the Edmonton barracks that they all had potential as leaders. Soon they were sent to Non-Commissioned Officer school at Currie Barracks in Calgary. All but Woods completed the course successfully. The four graduates were then shipped to Gordon Head Military Camp near Victoria as officer cadets. By June they had their second pips as lieutenants on their shoulders, Dougan had fallen in love with Victoria and hoped to retire there, and they were back in Calgary completing the last stages of officer training. Johnson graduated second in the class, Dougan third. Then the four headed for Britain as replacement officers, slated to assume command positions in the Edmonton regiment as they became available.
No slot presented itself for any of them until after the invasion of Sicily, when the Eddies suffered heavy casualties in a vicious tangled battle in the streets of the small village of Leonforte. With several platoon commanders killed or wounded, Dougan and Christie were called out of the replacement depot and assigned to two platoons in ‘D’ Company. Christie took No. 17 Platoon and Dougan No. 16. A fifth-year medical student with a quick, inquisitive intelligence, Christie was older than Dougan. In Dougan’s opinion, his friend was undoubtedly destined for an outstanding career in medicine.
Two weeks later, the Eddies went into an attack against a hill northeast of Regalbuto, designated Hill 736. To strengthen the lead force, Christie’s and Dougan’s platoons were attached temporarily to ‘B’ Company, commanded by Major Archie Donald. The entire lead element was nearing the crest of the hill when it came under intense German machine-gun fire. Dougan saw some of the enemy soldiers crouched behind one of the guns and then he felt as if a club cracked his skull. One bullet had hit him square in the centre of his helmet, another had struck his left forearm, and splinters from another had pierced his right forearm. He lay on the ground, knocked senseless for a few moments, then scrabbled to his feet. Unable to find his rifle, bleeding from both arms and a cut on his scalp, Dougan painfully dragged his service revolver out of its hiding spot inside his shirt, gripped it in both hands, and led the remnants of his platoon across 300 more yards of open ground in a wild charge to clear the summit.
In the aftermath, Dougan learned that Christie lay dead back on the slope. Dougan knew it was pure luck that he had not met the same fate. Canadian helmets were made of fairly thin steel and were not normally capable of repelling the strike of a machine-gun bullet. If the angle of the bullet had been slightly different, it would have pierced the steel and entered his brain instead of coursing a grooved circle around the outer edge and ricocheting away. Surviving was enough of a blessing, but he also had another reason for relief. One of his buddies had salvaged the helmet immediately after the hill was cleared, intending to mail it as a souvenir to Dougan’s mother, but had lost it during a long march. Dougan did not like to think of the shock his mother would have experienced if she had unexpectedly received the macabre souvenir. As for Dougan, his wounds took several months to heal, and he did not rejoin the Edmonton regiment until it was resting in Campobasso in November.11
Random chance often dictated who lived, who died. Since the invasion of Sicily, the three Turnbull brothers — Joe, Gord, and Bill — had seen enough buddies killed and maimed to feel nothing but amazement that they all still lived. The three were members of the 12th Canadian Armoured Regiment, known as the Three Rivers Tanks, all men on the sharp end who served in ‘A’ squadron. Joe and Gord were Sherman M-4 medium tank commanders, Bill a crewman in another Sherman.
Bill, the youngest, had been first to enlist. Barely eighteen years old, he enlisted in early October 1940. Gord followed him into service a couple of weeks later and Joe enlisted on October 23. The oldest at twenty-five, Joe had served for three years in the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion during the Spanish Civil War, a fact he had not shared with the recruitment officer at Camp Borden, Ontario. A few weeks earlier, unemployed, discouraged by the way the world was going, and still full of hatred for Fascism, Joe had attempted to enlist in the Royal Canadian Air Force. When he mentioned that he had fought for the Spanish Republi
c and had only returned to Canada in 1939, the recruiters had conducted a furtive huddle. After a few minutes they returned and sternly rejected his enlistment application. Joe knew the cause. He had heard that other veterans of the 1,600-strong, all-volunteer Canadian force that had gone illegally from Canada to fight in Spain were being refused entry into the armed forces, because they were believed by the top brass to be Communists bent on fomenting revolution in the ranks. So at Camp Borden Joe conveniently forgot to mention his Spanish Civil War past and was welcomed into the regiment.12
The brothers had managed to stick together ever since and, through a combination of luck and determined effort, were assigned to the same squadron. They were close-knit, devoted to each other. Joe particularly felt a great responsibility to ensure that his two younger brothers got through this war safely. In Britain, the Three Rivers, like all the Canadian armoured regiments, had endured the long bleak years of seemingly endless reorganizations and re-equipping with one type of tank after another. Then came the Sicily invasion. In August 1943, eighty-four men in the regiment were killed or wounded. In one battle alone, ten of the thirty tanks of ‘A’ squadron were knocked out of action by enemy fire.13
Throughout the months of his early service in Sicily and Italy, Joe tried with little success to write regularly to Peg, his new wife in Edinburgh. He had met Peg in the autumn of 1941 when the three brothers had gone up to Edinburgh from their base on the Salisbury Plain to visit the “land of our ancestors,” as Joe explained it to her. Peg was a friend of some of his Turnbull relatives in Scotland. She had been happy to help show the three men around the old city during their brief stay. Shortly after the brothers returned to duty Peg had received a letter. Joe wrote that she was going to come back to Canada with him when the war was over. They were married on November 29, 1942.