CRACK!
The German sniper falls forward. His rifle slides from his hands, skates across the tiles and tumbles from the roof to the ground.
* * *
The lieutenant looks really annoyed when I introduce him to Teresa. He doesn’t want to hear about the hostages.
“There’s nothing I can do if I’m nowhere near the square,” he says.
“La posso portare io l portare io lì,” says Teresa. I can take you there.
“What do you mean?” says the lieutenant when I translate.
She goes to a window — we’re in the house that Turnbull’s section seized from the Germans. She points across the street to the house occupied by the Gaffer’s crew.
“Da dove sono …” she says. I translate her words for the lieutenant: “From where they are, you can go most of the distance to Piazza San Francesco. You can make your holes in the walls …”
Now I know what she means: mouse holes. She can show us where to make mouse holes. Along Via Cavour and Marconi, where they meet at the corner of the square.
Lieutenant Gold is quietly furious with me. I can tell by the way he glances at me and then looks away. He has no time to deal with privates who wander off in the night and then return with civilians. It doesn’t help that he thinks all Italians are traitors. Or if not traitors, then unreliable. Maybe he thinks that about me too. But still, he mulls over Teresa’s offer, drums his fingers on the windowsill and finally says, “Okay.”
With smoke and some fireworks to cover our movements, we cross Cavour and join the Gaffer’s crew. The Gaffer glares at me, no happier with me than the lieutenant, but he says nothing. Some of the others cast admiring glances at Teresa. Later, I have a few words with Doug. He tells me the German sniper got one of Turnbull’s men before I got the sniper.
“How’s he doing?” I ask.
“Banged up, but he’ll live. He was struck in the shoulder.”
“And Loon?”
“See for yourself. He thinks he’s invincible.”
Loon is leaning back on a wooden chair, his feet resting on a table. He has a big grin on his face.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Gold and the Gaffer put their heads together. The lieutenant looks at me and I look at Teresa.
“Di qua,” she says. This way.
* * *
With Teresa to show us the way, our two sections start blasting an inside path to Piazza San Francesco. I lose count of the number of explosions and firefights, and the number of grenades that are thrown. There are times when the Germans seem to know we’re coming. At no point are they taken entirely by surprise. We have the sense that they’re trying to come up with tactics to counter our hole-through-the-wall attacks. More than once we’re met with a quick assault after our first grenades are tossed through the hole. But only we know when we’re going to make a move. Only we know what floor we’re going to strike on. Sometimes we start on the top floor and work our way down. Other times, if we know they’re concentrated on the ground floor, we go in that way and then work our way up. We have them at a disadvantage. And we’re moving fast.
There are a few opportunities to gossip. We crack bad jokes when we’re crouching on staircases, waiting for the sappers to set a charge.
“Where there’s a wall, there’s a way.”
“This business is changing Turnbull. Just look at his beady eyes, twitching nose and whiskers.”
“Especially the whiskers.”
“When this is over, I’m coming back to Ortona as a plasterer.”
“So basically we’re making business for you.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sometime around mid-morning, the lieutenant, satisfied that we’re making progress, leaves us to get on with it. Soon after that, Teresa speaks to me.
“Devo lasciare,” she says. I have to leave.
We’re close to the corner now. We no longer need her guidance. Her hand touches mine as she departs and it’s like a spark passes between us.
We suffer no serious casualties. As far as we can tell, the enemy isn’t hurt badly either. In any event, they leave no bodies behind. But they are giving up territory, bit by bit. At around 1100 hours we cross Marconi. A half hour later we take over the last building before the square. In the house across the street, on the southwest corner, there’s movement behind the windows. The Gaffer takes a look.
“They’re ours,” he says. “It’s Boss Chudleigh’s section. The lieutenant’s with them.” Then he adds, “He’s coming over.”
We make the usual preparations, provide what cover we can. We get a surprise when an enemy machine gun opens up. They have a post at the far end of the alley across from us. Lieutenant Gold throws himself through the open door, lands in a heap on the floor and scrambles to his feet before anyone can help him. His expression is rueful.
“Not the way Monty would have done it,” he says.
The map comes out and we gather round.
“When you look north out the window,” he says, “you can see partway up an alley leading to this intersection, here.” He stabs the map with his finger. “The enemy has a heavy machine gun at the end of the alley. I personally saw evidence that it’s there when I crossed the street.
“On the other side of the alley from where we are now, there’s the back side of a school. The front of the school overlooks Piazza San Francesco. We know there’s German troops in there. Across from the school is the church. They have a machine gun in the tower. Beside the church there’s a hospital. We’re told there are civilians inside. To take control of the square, we have to neutralize the German position in the church tower. To do that, we first have to seize the school. So that’s what we’re going to do now.”
“More smoke, shoot and frag?” says Loon. This, after all, is the way we’ve been fighting for what seems like days.
“B and D companies have consolidated around the main square, Piazza Municipale,” says the lieutenant. “We have the beginnings of a firm base in the centre of the town. Now we can take the fight to the enemy properly.”
“Tanks,” says the Gaffer. He’s smiling.
The lieutenant smiles too. “Damn right, there’ll be tanks,” he says. We think the enemy is defending the front of the school where it looks out over the square. That’s where the main door is and where his guns are pointing. There is no door in the end of the school, the end nearest us. There’s just a wall.
“We’re bringing up a troop of tanks. Their first assignment is to blast through that wall. There isn’t a door there now, but there will be when they’re finished. You, gentlemen, will enter the school by way of the new door. Understood?”
* * *
“Just look at that gorgeous hunk of metal!” says Loon as the first Sherman rumbles up Via Cavour. “I could run out and kiss its filthy flanks.”
“Nothing’s stopping you,” I say. Loon jumps up as if he means to do it and Strong John reaches out as if he means to stop him. There’s no denying that we’re thrilled. The Lee-Enfield .303 is a useful weapon and the Sten sub-machine gun is the last word in hand-held mayhem, but there’s something about a 75-mm cannon mounted on an armoured chassis with built-in machine guns and the capacity to roll unstoppably at 25 or 30 miles per hour that fills a rifleman with joy. We peer from the windows as the tanks move into position. The lead machine stops in front of us on Via Cavour. The other two hang back half a block behind it. We watch as the leader’s turret turns towards the school. The cannon’s elevation drops a few degrees. There’s a pause. I imagine the tank commander peering through his periscope, checking in with the gunner and then giving the order to fire.
BOOM!
A piece of the wall comes down in a flurry of dust.
BOOM!
The hole gets bigger. The cannon’s angle is lifted a titch.
BOOM!
With each shot, the cloud of dust expands and the pile of masonry gets bigger.
BOOM!
The tank is t
aking fire from across the square. Enemy machine-gunners in the church tower have it in their sights. The tank’s own machine guns are giving back as good as they get, or better. The Sherman’s armour is tough enough to take the hate that’s being hurled at it. And more of the school crumbles under the cannon’s battering assault.
BOOM!
“When do we move in, Sergeant?” asks Loon.
The Gaffer says, “Wait.”
The lead tank’s turret turns again so the cannon points towards the square. Somewhere inside the Sherman’s interior the driver shifts into gear. It lurches forward, rumbles past the corner of the school and then stops. The other two tanks grind forward too, one taking up a position beside the lead tank and the other settling down at the intersection with the alley. Again there’s a pause while the tank crews size up their targets.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The three Shermans open fire all at once. The two in front work over the church, the third takes aim at the machine-gun nest that almost did in Lieutenant Gold
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Stones are flying in all directions as bits of buildings came apart. The dust rises up like marsh mist, so that the outlines of structures are obscured.
The Gaffer raises his hand. “Get ready!” he says.
We form up, our weapons at the ready.
“Go!”
We file out one after the other, first Derrick and then Strong John and Loon with the Bren gun, then Doug and I and Specs and the Gaffer bringing up the rear.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The tanks keep on shooting. Amid the noise and confusion it’s impossible to tell apart the sound of enemy and friendly guns. Is the enemy even shooting back? We jog across the rubble-covered street. The ground shakes beneath us in time with the guns. With the noise, the vibrations and the swirling dirt that makes it hard to see, my head is spinning. But then the grey mass of the school appears in front of me. I see Strong John and Loon leap onto the pile of wrecked wood and masonry. They scramble through the opening. I leap, lose my footing and then recover. I’m in.
We’re at the end of a long corridor. Derrick, in front, pulls the pin from a 36, kicks down the first door he comes to and tosses the grenade inside. He leans back until it explodes and then plunges into the cloud he has stirred up. Strong John and Loon take up a position to cover the corridor while Doug and I glance into Derrick’s room to make sure it’s free of enemy soldiers. Then we move on. One room, two rooms, three rooms are clear. I run for the next one with Doug on my heels.
“Look out!”
The second Loon calls out his warning, we come under fire. Three Germans are shooting wildly in our direction. In an instant Strong John is prone, the Bren on its tripod, spewing murder. The rest of us take shelter in doorways. Doug leans out and fires a burst from the Sten gun. He steps back and I take his place, but I’m way off-target. It’s impossible to take aim without drawing fire. But Strong John is vulnerable. I have to do something.
I reach into my webbing for a hand grenade, pull the pin and, grasping the door frame with my free hand, use it as a pivot to swing into the hall. The grenade caroms off the floor and the walls like a pinball. The Germans yell and take cover. The grenade explodes and the noise shakes the school.
“I’m moving!” Doug yells the warning to keep the rest of us from shooting. He springs from the doorway where he’s been sheltering, fires once at the enemy and then runs for the next room on the other side. At that moment, something solid slides rapidly towards us. A potato masher. Doug sees it coming, grabs and hurls it back to where it came from and tumbles into another room. The German bomb blows up before it reaches them. Loon pops out from his doorway and rolls another grenade at the Germans. I follow with yet another one. We’re in a bowling alley with bombs instead of balls.
Two Germans are down. The third has disappeared.
“Moving!”
Loon moves up and then I do the same. Into every room we reach, we throw a hand grenade. After every blast, we run in shooting. Room after room is empty. Ahead of us there’s an open space, which has to be the foyer and, around the corner, the front door.
“Running low on 36s,” says Loon suddenly. I am too.
The Gaffer slides an ammunition pouch forward. Taking turns, we replenish our supply.
“Moving!”
It’s Doug’s turn. He dekes around the body of one of the two Germans, ducks into another classroom and repeats the frag-and-shoot routine. We’re getting close to the front entrance. This is where the machine gun is positioned, pointing at the square. Doug re-emerges from the classroom, points to the corner and glances my way. I hold up a 36. He nods his head in agreement. I dash to the corner and then slide past the foyer, letting go of the grenade as I whizz by. It tumbles and rolls towards the wall on the other side of the opening. Loon comes up behind me and sends another one in the same direction. They explode, one after the other. I pick myself up, turn and dash back again, hurling myself across the floor as if it’s the World Series and I’m headed for home plate. As I come to a stop, I fire another two rounds from my rifle at the doors. Glass shatters. Wood splinters. I pause to assess what I’ve achieved. Most of the damage was done before I got there. The doors are gone and so is much of the outside wall. Rubble ramparts protected the German gun, which has been abandoned. There’s no sign of the gun’s crew. I draw a deep breath.
The Gaffer saunters up behind me.
“Nice slide, Paul,” he says. “I didn’t know you played baseball.”
I’m still on the floor. The Gaffer is standing over me. He’s soon joined by Strong John, Loon and the others. They stand around me for a minute, looking amused and superior. I haul myself up and brush the dust off my pants.
“Fine,” I say. “I took this one. The next machine-gun nest is yours.”
* * *
It looks like the Germans have high-tailed it, but we take the time to make sure. We work our way to the end of the building, opening doors, turning over furniture, poking in cupboards. Not an enemy soldier is found.
We look in the basement too. What we discover there is a great big pile of ammunition — all kinds — artillery shells, mortar bombs, the works.
“Looks like they meant to stay for a while,” says Doug.
Sure now that the school is clear, we gather around what’s left of the German machine gun and gaze out at the square. The tanks have moved closer to the church with Chudleigh’s section advancing behind them. There’s sporadic fire coming from a low building across the way.
“We should be turning the tanks on that,” says Loon.
“Can’t,” says the Gaffer.
“It’s the hospital,” I say. “There’s civilians in there.”
“You mean they’re hiding behind civilians?” says Loon.
As we stand there watching, I notice something moving in the northwest corner of the square. A dun-coloured horse emerges from a side street. It’s moving at a trot, sometimes breaking into a canter. It’s obviously agitated, uncertain which way to turn. It makes its way, stopping and starting, to the centre of the piazza, and stands there for a moment, shaking its head and flicking its tail. A man appears from the same street, a little man wearing a narrow-brimmed hat and a dark brown jacket. He’s waving his arms. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but it’s obvious he’s calling to the horse. The horse doesn’t hear him or, if it does, it’s too rattled to pay attention. It tosses its head as if coming to a decision, turns south and then breaks into a gallop.
“Go, horse, go!” says Loon quietly beside me.
I can’t tell for sure where the shots come from, but I suspect it’s from our guys, now in the church. The horse goes down. Its legs churn the air briefly. It lifts its head up once, twice, and then lies still.
“Aw, hell,” says Loon.
* * *
The taking of Dead Horse Square — what everyone calls it now — feels like some kind of turning point. For days, we’ve been fighting in small units, feeling
our way forward as if stuck in a fog. Often, there really is a fog — an early morning mist or evening veil of rain. Or the fog we make ourselves, made up of dust, smoke and the stuff thrown up by high explosives. And then there’s the fog that fills our heads, the fog of not knowing where our buddies are or what the enemy is doing.
The weather hasn’t exactly made it easier to see what’s ahead. The cloud cover has been constant, sometimes heavier and blacker, sometimes lighter, but not once this week have we seen the sun. Our planes have been grounded because of it. All the advantages have been with the enemy. He chose where to make a stand. He prepared his defences, set up fields of fire and planted booby traps. He pulled back when it suited him. He held all the best cards.
The lieutenant says you need three attacking soldiers for every defender to overcome the advantage enjoyed by men fighting from a fixed position. I’m pretty sure the Germans outnumber us. At best we’re about even. And they’re good soldiers, the Germans. They’re Hitler’s true believers.
Nothing prepared us for this. We’ve had to figure out how to survive and win one house at a time. For the most part, we’ve done it without tanks, field guns or mortars. And when tanks were involved, they’ve mostly followed the infantry instead fighting beside us. Our 6-pounders have been used against buildings more often than against tanks. We’ve usually been too close to the enemy to bring in mortars. The battle has been fought by the foot-sloggers. That’s us. We’ve done it with our rifles and sub-machine guns. We’ve done it with hand grenades. We’ve done it with our hands.
This evening — it’s Christmas Eve! — we’ve taken over another part of town, to the east of Dead Horse Square. D Company has occupied the main square. They’re in position to push the Germans out of the winding streets and narrow alleys of the old town below the cathedral and, beyond it, the castle. And it’s different now. The Three Rivers Tanks are in position to lead the way around the esplanade that overlooks the port. Our artillery has found where the enemy is concentrated and is banging away at it. The enemy is getting no more rest than we are. We’re in a position to link up with other units and move in together to finish them off. We can finally, as the Gaffer puts it, start acting like an army again.
I Am Canada: Sniper Fire Page 11