Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  Once the day’s game began, Army jumped out to a 3-0 lead. The bottom of the sixth inning was underway when a low rumbling thunder to the southeast, first heard during the early minutes of the third inning, intensified. By the time the inning finished the din had moved closer—or at least that was how it sounded to the players. The end of the eighth inning brought an entirely new sound to the ballplayers’ ears. Between the muffled rolling distant kettle drums was a smattering of higher pitched popping and snapping: small arms fire. Behind the diamond was a series of rising sand dunes and ravines clawing up to higher, more rugged terrain a few hundred yards distant.

  Gene stood and shot a glance at Ron in the outfield, lifted his mask, and looked over to find Buck. At that moment a jeep braked to a cloudy stop and an officer jumped out. The coach trotted over to meet him. The Sesser native tilted his head slightly and listened to the popping sounds, which reminded him of the Fourth of July firecrackers he and his friends enjoyed setting off. Within thirty seconds the snapping and popping petered away into a fitful silence—except for the rumbling artillery fire, which continued unabated.

  “Time out!” yelled Buck as he trotted onto the field. The plate umpire waved his arms and the coaches from both teams gathered to discuss the situation well away from the players.

  “Buck, we better call this one now,” urged the umpire.

  “I don’t know, we’re behind.” Buck smiled. “The lieutenant just told me someone else radioed in that there is heavy shelling—as if we don’t know that—and that a small Kraut patrol has slipped through the front on a reconnaissance, and that accounted for the small arms fire we heard for a while. Our boys have trapped the patrol and are mopping up now.”

  Buck glanced back at the plate, where Gene was now standing with his mask up on his head. Every player on the field had turned to gaze into the distance from which the rolling artillery fire emanated. Everyone—even Ron, who was jawing in the outfield with another player—seemed remarkably calm. The fifty or so wounded men watching the game seemed utterly unfazed by the commotion.

  Buck turned back to the opposing coach and umpire. “The lieutenant said he would immediately let us know if we were in any danger, but he doubts we are. We’re nearly finished with the game, Darren, and the rifle fire has ended. Let’s play out the last inning.”

  Darren looked unconvinced until the shouts of the wounded army guys lining the sidelines prompted his agreement. “Let’s get this one wrapped up.”

  “Fine,” confirmed the umpire, who lifted his head and faced the players. “Let’s play ball!”

  Neither coach had yet reached their respective bench when a faint thumping sound, followed by a whistle, was heard. None of the ballplayers had a clue what it was, but the wounded on the sidelines knew immediately. “Incoming!” screamed one of the soldiers standing along first base line on a pair of crutches. “Drop to the ground!” he shouted, before doing exactly that himself.

  Those army veterans able to comply were already hugging the sand, but the ball players froze in place, as if unsure what to do or how to do it.

  Halfway between second base and the makeshift outfield wall the entire world went dark. The blast knocked Gene and many others to the ground, which shook beneath them as if Goliath had returned to stomp the earth. Gene pulled his knees up and hugged them, unable to do anything but listen and feel as the air exploded and the ground shook from multiple explosions, one every few seconds. And then it was all over.

  Gene opened his eyes and sat up as bits of sand and grit rained down on his head. He could hear shouts, cries, curses, though from whom and from where, he was unsure. A cloud of dust hung in the air in the outfield, the heavier sand particles falling back to the ground. A tightness gripped his gut as the realization of what had just occurred struck him. The catcher picked himself up, threw the mask from his head, and started walking, slowly at first, toward centerfield. Before he reached the pitcher’s mound he was running for all he was worth.

  “Ron!” Gene yelled. “Ron … where are you? Are you okay?” Beyond second base the dust was choking and thick. Gene yanked his jersey from his pants and covered his nose to filter out the fine grit. The blood pounded in his ears like a drum. He was aware that other players were running behind and alongside him in his quest to find the Louisiana teenager, but he didn’t turn his head to try and figure out who was following him. “Ron!” There was no answer.

  They found the teenager lying on his stomach about ten yards from the edge of a shallow smoking crater. The round had landed in the middle of centerfield. Another had hit twenty yards beyond, while a third struck the makeshift home run wall. Gene knelt next to Ron and softly spoke his name.

  “Here’s his glove,” Ray said quietly as he reached down to pick it up off the sand. “I don’t believe this is happening. Is he okay? Can he hear us?” The pitcher was about to tuck the glove under his arm and kneel next to Gene when Tim Milner, who had been standing beside him, began to scream. He motioned wildly toward the glove with one hand while the other caught the vomit gushing from his mouth.

  Ron’s hand and wrist were still inside.

  “Oh my God!” Ray screamed, dropping the glove onto the sand. “Oh my God!”

  Gene gently turned Ron onto his side before reeling back in disgust. He, too, turned and began retching into the hot African sand. Blood was running from Ron’s ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, and his chest was a mass of unrecognizable gore. His left arm was entirely gone, severed at the shoulder. Where the rest was, was anyone’s guess.

  Someone was screaming for a medic. Buck knelt beside Gene and gripped his shoulder to support him. Within a few seconds nearly every player from both teams arrived. Few were thinking clearly. Some were obviously in shock.

  “Medic!” someone screamed again.

  “He doesn’t need a medic!” yelled out Darren, the coach for the Army team.

  Buck stood and looked around. “Is anyone else hurt?” he asked in as loud a voice as he could muster. The players began looking at their own arms and legs and eyeing the men standing next to them. Everyone was shaking their head, stunned that Ron had been killed.

  “We gotta help him,” stammered Ray, who began crying.

  “He’s gone, Ray,” said Gene, who had finished throwing up and was now standing next to Ray.

  “Gone where, Gene? His glove is here!” He pointed to the glove near his feet.

  Buck tried to embrace and console Ray, but the pitcher struggled loose. “What in the hell is wrong with all of you?” he screamed. “We have to help …” Ray stopped in mid-sentence, looked again at the glove with Ron’s hand still inside, and closed his eyes tightly. When he spoke again his voice was softer, steadier. “We told him he would be safe. I told him he would be safe.”

  Buck suddenly realized the teams were still vulnerable. He turned to Darren and suggested, “We need to get our men into the ditches.” Darren nodded and yelled out for everyone to follow him.

  A soldier no one had seen before suddenly appeared at Buck’s side. “What the hell happened?” Buck demanded. “A lieutenant told me not five minutes ago my team was safe out here!”

  The soldier spotted Ron’s corpse and winced at the sight. “I’m sorry, sir. A Nazi mortar team snuck in through one of the draws and opened up. We got em quick, though.”

  “Not quick enough!” spat Tim, glaring over his shoulder at the soldier as he trotted with the rest of his teammates off the field.

  The soldier could only nod in agreement. “Anyone else hurt, sir?”

  Buck just shook his head. Gene was still standing above Ron’s body. “Moore, get moving with the rest of the team. Get off this field now. That’s an order.” Gene complied, trotting off after the rest of his comrades.

  Once that terrible day ended and the next began, the players never spoke of Ron’s horrific death again. They spoke of the player, of his smile, shyness, and innocence, and even his fear, but never about the specifics of his passing. That day changed the
m all. There was never any question raised again about safety. They were in a war zone, and death arrived in a wide variety of packages from unexpected quarters.

  They never forgot Ron Callais. Someone cleaned up his baseball glove, and it went with the team everywhere they played.

  Chapter 12

  Rumors

  After weeks of bloody fighting, British and American forces broke the Mareth Line on March 20, 1943. The Allies joined forces on April 8, sealing the doom of Erwin Rommel’s dying Afrika Korps.

  Rommel was no longer in North Africa. Hitler had ordered he be flown out. The months of hard fighting under extreme conditions had exhausted the field marshal to the edge of a breakdown. In addition to being very ill, however, the last thing Hitler wanted was one of his most prominent field commanders captured by the Allies. Africa was lost, but Rommel could be saved. He had other parts to play in the world drama playing out across the globe.

  Winston Churchill, the prime minister of England and one of Hitler’s most dogged opponents, had uttered one of his most famous observations when news of the American invasion of North Africa had reached him the previous November. The invasion, explained Churchill on the tenth of that month, “is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”

  The prime minister was correct. The fighting ended in Africa on May 13, when 250, 000 German and Italian soldiers surrendered. Although a few were predicting the quick fall of Hitler’s Third Reich, nearly three years of the war’s most difficult fighting was still ahead of the Allies and the Axis soldiers. America’s contribution to the victory had been critical, and the proving ground that was North Africa forged an army of veterans prepared for the next stage of their journey, wherever destiny carried them.

  There were always rumors in the military. Some were true, some were not. Often, however, the scuttlebutt that reached the men in the ranks turned out to have at least some basis in fact. The team had been hearing through the grapevine that the war was about to move into Europe. If it did, went the rumor, there would be no room for baseball and they would be sent home. Could the rumor be true? No one knew for sure, but the scuttlebutt was never far from everyone’s lips.

  Gene and Ray were hearing the buzz all over, so they decided to ask Buck if he knew anything about it. It was cooler that night than usual, and things around the base were quiet.

  “Buck? Can we come in?” Gene asked as they approached his tent. Buck was sitting on his cot reading a letter.

  “Sure. Come on in,” he said, setting the letter down and standing up. “Love to offer you a seat,” he laughed, “but I don’t have one.” Buck looked first at Gene, then Ray, then back at Gene. “What’s on your mind, guys?”

  “We’ve been talking to Lieutenant Haigh, the supply officer over at the quartermaster’s tent,” began Ray. “I need a new pair of cleats,” he explained.

  “And?” Buck asked with his eyebrows arched high.

  “Well,” Gene continued, “The quartermaster told Ray there wouldn’t be any new equipment for the team.”

  “Yes, I know,” Buck answered casually.

  Now Gene raised his own eyebrows as if to ask a question. When Buck remained silent he decided to take a gamble and press ahead. “Buck, the word is they’re sending us home. Can you confirm or deny that for us?”

  The coach shook his head. “I don’t know a thing about it, Gene. They haven’t told me any more than you already know. I do know we are not moving any farther forward, the enemy has surrendered, and we are here to play baseball. The lieutenant is right about the equipment. Nothing else is heading our way.”

  “So we could be going home?” asked Ray expectantly.

  Gene Moore (standing, third from right) visiting a friend in a military hospital in North Africa.

  “I suppose so,” Buck slowly answered. “It could mean that. Or, it could mean our equipment is just not on anyone’s priority list. Now that wouldn’t surprise anyone, would it?”

  “Nothing surprises me any more,” replied Gene.

  “But if you knew what was gonna happen, Buck … you wouldn’t keep it from us, would you?” Ray inquired.

  “Well, if you ask it that way, Ray, yes,” Buck responded honestly. “If I was ordered not to say anything, then you guys would be the last to know. Don’t forget, they expect me to act like an officer now and then. I am a higher pay grade.” All three men laughed at Buck’s joke.

  “Okay, you’ve acted like an officer,” Gene chuckled. “So, are we going home or not?”

  Buck tilted his head toward the flap. “Ray, pull the flap down on the tent door.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!” Ray laughed as he reached back and pulled the olive drab canvas down.

  Buck cleared his throat and then began speaking. “I really don’t know much more than you, but the quartermaster is not ordering and will not be getting any more equipment. I heard a week ago they may be sending us to the Pacific Theater, but I’ve since heard they are not. Honestly, guys, I just don’t know what is going on, but I think we will find out in days or maybe a few weeks, and not months.”

  “If they send us home, will we be discharged?” Ray asked hopefully.

  “I doubt it, Ray. In order to play on this team, you signed up for the duration of the war. I’m not sure what they’ll do with us, but I am certain they aren’t going to discharge us. And I don’t think this war is even close to being over.”

  “They wouldn’t break us up, would they Buck?” Gene asked, having considered for the first time that the team could be splintered and its members deployed as common sailors.

  Buck turned his hands palm up as he pulled his elbows back to his sides. “I truly have no idea. If they need you on a ship, I’m sure they will not hesitate taking you, me, Ray, or anyone. I’m not too worried about that, frankly. Now, Darren and his guys are very worried. I suspect if the United States needs bodies to carry weapons, they’ll go before we do.”

  Gene sighed. “If they need me somewhere else, I’ll go. The more we all dig in to get this thing over with, the better off we’ll all be. But I would sure hate to see this team broken up. If they want us to fight, they should let us fight together.” Ray nodded in agreement.

  “I know, Gene,” replied Buck. “We’ll just have to wait and see. I don’t make those decisions and they don’t consult me.”

  The men exchanged some small talk and called it a night. They were scheduled to play a late morning game the following day in front of some men from an armored division. None of them knew the Americans were about to be called up with their Sherman tanks to confront the larger and more deadly Nazi Tiger tanks in a bloody campaign in Italy that would open on the island of Sicily.

  Chapter 13

  Reunion

  The Allied victory in North Africa left the American Seventh Army and the British Eighth Army unemployed. The issue facing the high command was what to do with those resources. Some, like Winston Churchill, were in favor of an invasion of France before the end of 1943. Russian dictator Josef Stalin was crying loud and hard for a second front anywhere to relieve the pressure that was threatening to crack open the Russian Front. General Dwight D. Eisenhower knew that a large-scale invasion of France would require a significant amount of time and massive preparation. The next Allied step was anything but clear in the spring of 1943.

  It was Churchill who broke the logjam when he argued for an invasion of what he described as “the soft underbelly of Europe,” which included Italy, Greece, and the Balkans. The description was anything but accurate, for there was no “soft” spot anywhere in the German lines. An invasion, regardless of where it was launched, would be a long and bloody slog to an unknown end.

  At a conference in Washington in May of 1943, President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill agreed to coordinate their efforts and invade Italy. Both men believed the move would knock that country out of the war, elevate Allied morale, and threaten Germany with an invasion into the heart of Eur
ope. Almost certainly Hitler would be forced to send reinforcements from the Russian Front. Control of the Italian peninsula would also solidify Allied domination of the Mediterranean Sea and provide airfields for strikes deep into the Balkans and other parts of Europe, Germany included.

  The first objective was to capture the largest island in the Mediterranean basin: Sicily. Eisenhower was once again tapped to serve as the supreme commander of the operation. Lieutenant General George S. Patton would lead the American Seventh Army, while General Bernard L. Montgomery would lead the British Eighth Army. The enemy numbered more than 400,000 men, and included some of the Axis’ best generals, easily defensive terrain, and outstanding new Tiger tanks.

  The Sicily Campaign began on July 10, when Allied paratroopers—including the newly-formed American 82nd Airborne Division—jumped onto the island. The paratroopers were highly trained fighters, but most did not yet have combat experience. Their job was to cover the landings, which they did well.

  It took nearly forty days to secure the large island. General George Patton solidified the sterling reputation he had earned in North Africa, while General Montgomery tended to confirm some of the suspicions about him that he was too deliberate and slow in his movements. Through a combination of hard fighting, difficult terrain, and Allied mistakes, the Axis forces managed to evacuate 41,000 men, 10,000 vehicles, dozens of heavy tanks, and thousands of tons of precious ammunition and supplies they would need to stop the Allied advance up the Italian peninsula everyone knew was coming.

  The capture of Sicily toppled the fascist Mussolini regime in Italy, and the new government immediately opened negotiations with the Allies to withdraw from the war. The fighting in Italy, however, was a terrible mile-by-mile grind against some of the best German field commanders. The narrow front, coupled with the mountainous terrain, chewed up units and killed and wounded tens of thousands of men.