Ortona

by Mark Zuehlke

  The position the Highlanders occupied on the summit of a low ridge overlooking the hamlets of San Tomasso and San Nicola was a mile inside the German lines. Throughout December 24, the battalion’s presence had gone mostly ignored by the paratroopers. But, as of first light on Christmas Day, the Highlanders became the target of increasing enemy attention. By midafternoon, Lieutenant Colonel Ian Johnston feared that the paratroopers were massing in front of ‘A’ Company’s positions for a major attack on the beleaguered battalion. The sniper and machine-gun fire was now supplemented by increasingly heavy mortar and artillery bombardment. Some self-propelled guns, mounted with 88-millimetre cannon, lurked near the Canadian perimeter, smashing it with shell after shell.

  If the Germans struck the Highlanders with a concerted counterattack and managed to penetrate the outer defences, it was entirely possible the battalion might be overrun and wiped out. All the Highlanders had were their light weapons and a very limited supply of ammunition. Attempts to bring supporting arms into the Highlander position during the night had been unsuccessful. The squadron of Ontario Tanks was still more than a mile away and hopelessly mired in mud. Although the weather was starting to cooperate by bringing colder temperatures and no rain, it would be at least another day before the ground firmed up sufficiently to support the weight of the tanks.

  There is an old military precept that the best defence is a good offence. Johnston thought it time to implement this tactic. If ‘A’ Company forayed into the German forming-up positions it might disrupt the paratroopers’ plan to stage an attack. About 300 yards from the Highlander front stood two fortified houses, jointly code-named The Rock. The largest of these houses was thought to be a German headquarters. It became the attack’s objective.

  Responsibility for carrying out the attack fell to Major John Clarke’s ‘A’ Company. The officer who had led the Highlanders single file through the dark night of December 23 to their current position knew his men faced a tough challenge. He also agreed with Johnston that it had to be done. Clarke gave the task to Lieutenant Jack Pickering’s No. 9 Platoon, saying, “Put the fear of God and the 48th Highlanders into them.”2

  As Pickering set about readying his understrength platoon, he was approached by Lieutenant Ian MacDonald, commander of No. 8 Platoon. “Look here, Jack,” MacDonald said, “both platoons should go. One can’t do it alone. Go ask John.” Pickering did and Clarke immediately agreed to the two platoons attacking as one. He warned both officers to be cautious, not risking heavy casualties unless there would be obvious gains realized. They were to withdraw if German resistance proved too stiff.3

  To soften the way for the attack, a heavy bombardment from the supporting artillery regiments was called in by the forward observation officer, Major Hawker. The two platoons then moved forward, supported by several Bren gunners providing covering fire. Initially, the two platoons made good progress, sweeping German snipers and light machine-gunners out of slit trenches set up practically on the edge of the Canadian lines.

  The Highlanders got within 200 yards of the target house and paused in a small gully to organize a rush on the objective from two directions. Pickering was about to give the order to advance when two heavy machine guns opened up from the right flank. The ground between the gully and the house was level, providing no viable cover. Had the platoons already moved forward, they would have been decimated by the German guns. Pickering and MacDonald realized they could not reach the objective without suffering heavy casualties. All they could hope was that their limited attack would dissuade the Germans from risking an all-out offensive against the Highlanders. The two platoons withdrew to the Canadian lines.4

  To maintain the pressure on the Germans, FOO Major Hawker directed artillery throughout the day against targets identified by Highlander patrols. Luring the German gunners into betraying their presence was a dangerous task. Private Gerard Michaud, who because of casualties among non-commissioned officers found himself commanding a small section, discovered the simplest way to expose German machine-gun positions was to draw their fire by moving out into the open where the gunners could see him. Several machine guns were discovered this way and destroyed by Canadian artillery. Inevitably, perhaps, Michaud’s luck finally ran out. He was hit by a burst of MG42 fire and died instantly.5

  The artillerymen back at 226th Battery, which supplied most of the support, radioed back several times to verify Hawker’s map references. The salvoes were forming a perfect circle around a very small position and the danger of shells landing within that circle was high. The gunners were not to worry, Hawker said. “Just keep shooting. Just imagine we’re an island.”6

  The analogy was apt. By December 25, it was apparent that the 48th Highlanders were seriously isolated. Acting Brigadier Dan Spry, commander of 1st Canadian Infantry Brigade, could see no way either to reinforce the lost battalion or to facilitate a withdrawal from its tenuous position. The brigade’s other two battalions — the Royal Canadian Regiment and the Hastings and Prince Edward Regiment — were too depleted by casualties to break through the German defences standing between their positions and the Highlanders.

  An attempt at first light by the RCR to push through had stalled mere minutes after it began. ‘A’ Company, which led the attack, had advanced only a short distance before coming under devastating artillery, mortar, and machine-gun fire. Almost twenty men in a company numbering barely fifty were killed or wounded.

  Lieutenant Jimmy Quayle, commanding No. 8 Platoon of ‘A’ Company, could scarcely believe the orders he had been given prior to the attack. Two hours before dawn, RCR commander Major Strome Galloway told the men at the Orders Group to go up the track to a cluster of buildings close to the Highlanders’ lines, and dig in. Quayle wondered aloud if artillery or tanks would be in support. He was told airily that neither was necessary, since patrols had found no presence of German units in the area. A disgruntled and skeptical Quayle returned to his unit in time to welcome four new replacements. The only thing he noted about the men, whose faces were obscured by darkness, was that their last names all started with B.

  Quayle prowled the lines of his platoon. During these wanderings, he later wrote, he saw that “two white objects protruded from the ground like strange fungi. I had passed them a dozen times. As light improved the strange blooms became hands with gray sleeves attached. One of our tanks had run right up the centre of the German’s body and pushed him back down flush with the mud. All that showed were two pale hands projecting in a supplicating gesture. The face and greatcoat were level with the soil and hard to distinguish.”7

  No. 8 Platoon led the assault as ordered, with No. 7 Platoon immediately behind, and proceeded up the track without any artillery or tank support. Quayle, suspecting that the reports upon which the attack was based were bogus, sent two scouts ahead of the column and ordered his men to advance up a ditch bordering the track rather than on the track itself. They had gone only a short distance when the two scouts came running back full tilt, narrowly escaping a barrage of stick grenades and submachine-gun fire. Quayle, ordering his men to ground, wondered if the earlier patrol had dodged danger by going into the field and just hunkering down at the first sign of shelter. It was not uncommon for reconnaissance patrols to shirk their assignment, then file a false report.

  Mortars started quartering the platoon’s position with deadly accuracy. One of the new “B” men took some shrapnel that passed right through his chest. A veteran private named McDonald said quietly to the man, “You can quit moaning now, I’ve been hit too.” Blood ran down McDonald’s face from a scalp wound. The platoon started returning fire with their small arms and achieved a spectacular result. In front of them, a German half-track vehicle loaded with ammunition and hidden in a haystack exploded in a massive blast.

  Quayle saw Corporal Davino, a fearless veteran — “blood and saliva dribbling from his mouth, his face a bloated pumpkin” — being led past by a stretcher-bearer. Then came another veteran, Max Engleberg, with a
right arm rendered useless by a wound. One of the ‘B’ men lay off to Quayle’s left, crying softly. Quayle asked what was wrong. The man whimpered that his legs were gone. Quayle said he would carry the man back. “Sir, we’ll both be killed,” the new reinforcement said. The two men argued while bullets and shells whined overhead. Then Quayle hefted the man onto his back and carried him to safety. Twenty-three men from No. 8 Platoon had gone into the attack. An hour later, only Quayle and three other men remained unwounded. No. 7 Platoon had been similarly hard hit. Its lieutenant, Jim Joice, had been severely wounded; only eight men were unhurt. Together the two platoons mustered eleven men.8 Despite its losses, ‘A’ Company went to ground and held its position rather than withdrawing.9

  Major Strome Galloway pushed ‘B’ Company up on ‘A’ Company’s left with instructions to outflank the machine guns holding up ‘A’ Company. That attempt failed, but Galloway persisted in pressing the attack. By midafternoon, he had established the regiment several hundred yards forward of the Hastings and Prince Edward positions.10 But he was still more than a thousand yards short of the Highlander lines. The RCR, which had been seriously understrength on the morning of December 24, had lost more than fifty men in two days of fighting. The battalion’s rifle companies mustered between them only about 150 men as dusk fell on Christmas Day.

  Galloway established his headquarters in a small house inside the RCR perimeter. The largest room was overflowing with Italian civilians. German machine-gun positions in two houses no more than 250 yards from the building hammered the walls with occasional bursts of gunfire.

  A little festive spirit was needed, Galloway decided. Captain Sandy Mitchell had earlier found an old mandolin in the house. So Galloway and Mitchell proceeded to entertain the troops. Galloway would establish radio contact with one of his company commanders dug in on the front line. Then, while the commander held the mike close to the mandolin, Mitchell strummed a few bars of “Silent Nigh” or another Christmas carol. The two men worked their way through all the companies this way. One of the officers in the HQ had bartered some wine and bread from the Italians, to which the artillery forward observation officer contributed a batch of bully beef. Feeling blessed to have even this meagre ration, the men settled down to Christmas dinner.11

  At Santa Maria di Costantinopoli, the Seaforth Highlanders of Canada battalion headquarters staff were ready at 0900 hours to start rotating the forward rifle companies through for their Christmas dinner. The war diarist wrote: “The setting for the dinner was complete, long rows of tables with white table cloths, and a bottle of beer per man, candies, cigarettes, nuts, oranges and apples and chocolate bars providing the extras. The C.O. Lt.-Col. S.W. Thomson, laid on that the Companies would eat in relays in the order of C-A-B-D, as each company finished their dinner, they would then go forward and relieve the next company. The first company was to be in at 1100 hrs, 2 hours was to be allowed for each company for dinner. The menu for the dinner being: Soup, Pork with apple sauce, cauliflower mixed vegetables, mashed potatoes, gravy. Christmas pudding and minced pie.”12

  Promptly at 1100, the men of ‘C’ Company came into the church. The war diarist continued: “From 1100 hrs to 1900 hrs, when the last man of the Battalion reluctantly left the table to return to the grim realities of the day, there was an atmosphere of cheer and good fellowship in the church. A true Christmas spirit. The impossible had happened. No one had looked for a celebration this day, December 25th was to be another day of hardship, discomfort, fear and danger, another day of war. The expression on the faces of the dirty bearded men as they entered the building was a reward that those responsible are never likely to forget.

  “When C Company had finished their dinner, they relieved A Company so that they might come back the 300 or 400 yards for the same, and so A Coy relieved B Coy and B, D Coy.

  “The latter were to become reserve Company, but the situation had grown tense with C Company on the left flank.

  “Capt. [Jack] McLean took his [D] Company back into the fight. Christmas day was no less quiet than the preceding ones, but it is one that this Regiment will never forget. Pipe Major Edmond Esson played his Pipes several times throughout the meals. During the dinner, the Signal officer, Lieut. [Wilf] Gildersleeve played the church organ, and, with the aid of an improvised choir, organized by the Padre, Carols rang throughout the church.”13

  As the dinner progressed, Padre Major Roy Durnford recorded in his diary that outside the church there was the “deathly chatter of machine guns. Rumbling of buildings falling, roar of guns. . . . Shells whine and explode.” When ‘A’ Company came in for dinner, he noted that Captain June Thomas looked “weary, strained, dirty.”14

  The field kitchen was set up behind the altar. Soon dirty plates were piled across the altar, rattling noisily whenever German shells fell close by. Durnford noted on the faces of the men new to warfare a “reluctance, the far away look, the nervous strain, the slight inebriation in a few cases.”15 While each man only received one beer, wine circulated freely and some of the soldiers took greater liberty with it than others.

  Throughout the course of the day, Gildersleeve played the organ. It was pump-operated, located in a loft overlooking the altar. Various officers and men took turns operating the pump to keep the music flowing. As was customary for regimental dinners, the enlisted men were served by officers. None of the men in the line rifle companies had to lift a finger. Many chose to join Durnford in the chapel for prayers.

  A few men, boisterous from the beer and wine, called out for soldier songs. Gildersleeve cringed each time, silently thinking, “Shut up, will you. Carols are the things to sing at Christmas time.” He wanted none of the crude songs favoured by soldiers on a march. Gildersleeve was poignantly aware that for many of the men gathering at this table the meal and this Christmas would be their last. He played for hours, even after his fingers started aching. Gildersleeve had been the organist in a small church in North Vancouver. For some reason he could not explain, he had carried to war a single music hymn book that contained all the popular carols.16

  As dusk closed in, candles were lit. ‘D’ Company arrived for the last sitting. Padre Durnford stood next to the organ in the loft and sang several Christmas songs solo. Then in the “flickering and shadows” he strolled among the men, taking time to speak with all and to ask how they were feeling.17

  Earlier in the day, one junior officer had received tragic news. His wife, a young war bride in England, had committed suicide. Lieutenant Colonel Syd Thomson and Durnford had broken the news to him together and then taken him aside to a private corner where they offered what little consolation they could.18

  For some of the men attending the dinner, the scene seemed utterly surreal. Lieutenant Dave Fairweather had only rejoined the battalion on December 20. Having been attending various officers training courses, he had missed all the previous fighting from Sicily to Ortona. His baptism of fire was Ortona, a hellish introduction to war. On Christmas Day, he assumed command of ‘D’ Company’s No. 18 Platoon. When he arrived at the church, Fairweather learned he was getting six reinforcements. That was good news, for earlier in the day he had lost five men. With the reinforcements, his platoon strength would be bolstered to nineteen, still far short of the normal complement of thirty-five.

  In the midst of the Ortona slaughterhouse, Fairweather later wrote, he “found it very unrealistic to sit down to [Christmas dinner] and then leave the table to go back into the battle, about twenty blocks away. It was a very subdued affair, and, I would say, that most of the men found it hard to take in, and it would be difficult to say whether they appreciated it at the time. My only criticism was that there was too much beer and liquor available. The vast majority did not take more than one bottle of beer, however, inevitably there was the exception and this ended in disaster.”19 More than one slightly drunken Seaforth, Fairweather thought, died in the hours immediately after the Christmas dinner because of a foolish error the soldier would never have made
sober.

  Dinner over, Fairweather led his platoon back to the fighting lines. On the way, a German shell screamed down. In the aftermath of the explosion, Fairweather saw that three of his reinforcements were casualties. One was dead, the other two wounded. His platoon was down to sixteen men.

  Not all the Seaforths attended Christmas dinner at Santa Maria di Costantinopoli. At least one section leader refused to let his men go. Twenty-nine-year-old Private Ernest Smith commanded a six-man section. When the time came for his company to rotate back to the church, Smith told his men he was not going. More to the point, he said, they were also going to stay right where they were. Nicknamed “Smoky,” Smith was a rough-and-tough former construction worker. He had enlisted in 1940 with the idea that going to war would be one way to see Europe and maybe other parts of the world. “I don’t know what goes through the minds of those people who are in charge of this,” he said, “but people are going to get killed going to that dinner and others are going to die coming back from it. So you’re all staying right here.”20

  The men were angry and disappointed, but nobody dared argue the order. Most of the men were new reinforcements and Smith was their lifeline. He was teaching them the craft of soldiering right in a battleground. Earlier they had come into the building and one of the men had seen a much-prized German knife sticking out of a jar full of loose grains of wheat. The jar was on a windowsill, in plain view. When the soldier started to reach out to pluck the souvenir knife from the jar, Smith snapped, “Don’t touch it.” Perhaps thinking Smith wanted the souvenir himself, the man scowled. “Why?”

  “I’ll show you,” Smith replied. With his rifle butt, he shoved the jar holding the knife out the window. Before it hit the street, the jar exploded. A grenade had been hidden inside the wheat grains. “There you are,” Smith said. Anything that looked like a good souvenir, he cautioned the men, was going to be booby-trapped. Smith’s section respected the man’s soldiering skill and judgement. So, angry they might have been to miss the Christmas dinner, but they stayed in their position. As far as Smith was concerned, his decision kept at least one of them from dying that Christmas Day.21