A Death in San Pietro

by Tim Brady

  Captain Huston and company heard of these difficulties from the Signal Corps crew that had been assigned to them, but Huston, who had filmed in precarious circumstances before on the Aleutian Islands, was not the sort of man who took it-can’t-be-done for an answer. He kept his own counsel about his intentions, but fully intended to get the sort of footage that the War Department wanted.

  16

  Eve of Battle

  ON DECEMBER 2, Walker met with Clark, Keyes, and all the ranking officers of his own 36th Division, to finalize plans for an assault against the mass of hills guarding the Liri Valley. Set to begin the very next day, the code name for the attack had an ironic ring to it. They called it, “Operation Raincoat.”

  This was the assault that was supposed to bring momentum back to the Allied cause and get them jumpstarted on a more effective path to Rome. Everyone recognized that the Germans held the high ground, but nothing seemed insurmountable that night. There were mountains, but they could be taken. There was a well-defended village and a string of solid defenses in the valley, but they could be destroyed. The rain remained relentless, but it fell on the Germans as well as the Allies.

  The First Special Services Force, the combined American and Canadian woodsmen trained in the Rocky Mountains for just this type of warfare, was to start off the operation on the far left flank at Mt. La Difensa. Their assault was to be immediately followed by the 142nd against Mt. Maggiore to the right of La Difensa.

  Both attacks were to be preceded by a massive artillery barrage that would rain shells from 900 guns down upon German positions on the mountaintops. The blasting, accompanied by bombing runs from the Army air force, would begin that night and continue for days, expending so much explosive fury on the hills to the south of San Pietro that Mt. Maggiore was soon dubbed “The Million Dollar Mountain” for the costs involved in its pulverizing.1 Once the bombing began, the din echoing in the valleys was nonstop and so deafening that the commander of one German army corps said later that he had not witnessed a similar display of awesome firepower since the big battles of World War I.2

  Attacking in the dark of the early morning on December 3, the First Special Services Force took La Difensa before dawn with relative speed. They watched, on the plateau down below, as the 142nd moved toward the slopes of Mt. Maggiore and a couple of smaller ridges that comprised the hill mass across the Liri Valley from San Pietro. The 142nd faced some vicious artillery fire from the Germans, but moved with alacrity over the plateau and into the hills. By evening of December 3, they held the ground just short of Maggiore, and by nightfall on the fourth, they’d taken the Million Dollar Mountain as well.

  But it was the counterattacks against both the 142nd and the First Special Services Force where the bloodletting was wholesale. The top of La Difensa was a saucer-shaped rocky field rimmed by the men of the Special Services, but facing nasty mortar and machine-gun fire, as well as the ever-present rain. There were no available units to relieve the Special Services—every part of the 36th was dedicated to other areas along the front—which left Colonel Robert Frederick alone to deal with the brutal assaults against his command. There was nothing to do but stand and fight. Frederick grew so busy dealing with German counter assaults that he wrote in a dispatch that “[he had] stopped burying the dead.” In all, his unit would sustain 511 casualties—a third of his force—including 73 killed.3 But by the evening the Germans crept away from the area and the hill mass that ran from La Difensa to Maggiore was securely in Allied hands. The first hole was punched in the Winter Line.

  The Germans were hardly going away, however. They still held the northern most peak of Mt. Lungo, which was actually a set of ridges that stretched northward from Mignano. The Germans still held the mile-wide Liri Valley, as well. Here defenses, anchored by a line of formidable pillboxes and interconnecting trenches, were arrayed from the terraced orchards that fronted San Pietro, west to the slopes of Lungo. Defensive posts were also arranged around the village and banked into the slopes of Mt. Sammucro itself. Near constant pounding by artillery and air support of the German bunkers and pillboxes had unfortunately done little damage.

  Sammucro was the linchpin of the Bernhardt Line. It rose abruptly from the Liri Valley floor to several high, daunting peaks, but then stretched east in a lengthy series of ridges that swept toward the Italian interior as far as the eye could see. The bulk of the mountain loomed bare and rugged above the valley, with no vegetation above a tree line that extended just a third of the way up the mountain; it was all hard rock and jagged angles up to a height that seemed stratospheric from the floor of the Liri.

  This was to be the next obstacle for Walker and the 36th, and simultaneous to its assault would be an attack on Mt. Lungo, undertaken by a portion of the Italian army in its first combat on behalf of the Allied cause. Keyes had notified Walker that he wanted Italian troops utilized in the battle, and suggested a target that was under-defended, which Lungo appeared to be. Though Walker was less than impressed with the Italian commander, he accepted the help and on December 7, the Italians moved into position for the attack.4

  Meanwhile, the 143rd, situated at Mt. Cannavinelle on the right flank of the 36th Division position across the valley from Sammucro, was preparing to assault German positions on the higher mountain. Its mission had already been assigned and battalions were moving into place, even as the Italians edged toward Lungo.

  The evening of December 6, Colonel William Martin gathered all the officers of the 143rd to brief them on the upcoming operations.

  The 1st Battalion would move under cover of darkness across the valley and up the spine of Mt. Sammucro on the right flank. It was to move west up the mountain and assault and conquer its peak, which overlooked the valley, San Pietro, and San Vittore to the north.

  The 2nd Battalion would target San Pietro itself, on the left flank of the 143rd. One company was to secure the village by occupying the high ground to its northeast; the remainder would, as directed by 143rd Colonel William Martin, “quickly mop up the town and establish all-around security to the southwest and to the east.”5

  Trailing the 2nd Battalion at a distance of 700 yards would be the 3rd Battalion, whose assignment was to reinforce the 2nd on both flanks and to deal with “hostile elements on the south slopes” of the mountain. After the principal objectives were taken—the mountaintop in the case of the 1st, San Pietro and the mountainside above the village in the case of the 2nd and 3rd—the 1st was to reach down the mountain, the 2nd, and 3rd to reach up, and together they would gather themselves in preparation for moving on toward Vittore, the next rock in the German defensive wall.

  In support of these attacks, were mortar and antitank units positioned southwest of Mt. Rotondo, and also further to the west, on the road between Venafro and San Pietro. Two battalions of artillery, the 131st and 133rd, were in place to deliver supporting fire as directed by battalion commanders. Signal communications, including flares, were arranged between the artillery units and the infantry battalion commanders for those critical moments when concentration of fire was needed, or needed to be suspended.

  In addition, the 3rd Ranger Battalion would be assaulting Hill 950, which was northeast of Sammucro and supplied flanking cover for German troops on Sammucro’s summit.

  D-Day was December 7; H-hour for the 1st Battalion, which would be leading off the assault up that long spiny ridge to the summit of Sammucro, was set for just after sunset. The next morning, the 2nd Battalion, followed by the 3rd, would head off toward San Pietro.

  HENRY WASKOW’S thoughts after that meeting were both practical and spiritual. He needed to inform his men what was expected of them and to make sure they understood their assignments. There were close to 200 men under his direct command, and once they were on the mountain, it would be impossible to communicate with them on an individual or even a platoon basis at all times. Once the climb began, they would be spread out over the sides of Sammucro, and no matter how agile his runner, Riley Tidwell, might be
, there would be gaps in communication. The best defense in combat was preparation, knowing what sort of chaos might be expected before it rained down.

  Waskow felt prepared, but knew it was all well and good for a soldier to feel ready for combat, to know that he had experienced it already as Waskow had on the Sorrento Peninsula. It was another thing to see Mt. Sammucro looming out of the night sky across the valley and know that the same soldier was about to climb its heights and face German fire at the top. Calling it Hill 1205, labeling it 4000 feet high, was inadequate to describe how large it loomed. From anyplace down below, it was a giant mountain, as impressive to an infantryman like Waskow as Everest was to Mallory. It dominated San Pietro and the Liri Valley; it dominated the thoughts of the men who were about to climb it.

  Which is probably one of the reasons Waskow had decided, in the last few days, to write a letter to his family that gave a sense of what he was thinking at this moment. He wanted to express all that he felt on the verge of this battle, wanted to make sure he got the language just right—nothing overly sentimental; nothing that would be anything but reassuring to his mother and family back home, but something that related the importance of what he was doing. He was an earnest and serious man, always had been, and now he was in the midst of the most serious business any man could imagine.

  Waskow wanted his family to understand this and to know that for all his love for them back home, he was right where he was supposed to be. He wanted to reassure them of his sense of duty to his country, to let them see first and foremost that he understood precisely what George Marshall would have wanted him to know about his mission and the mission of his command here in Italy. He was deeply proud to serve his country and deeply proud of the fact that he had been placed in a position of command. He loved his men and hoped that they loved and respected him.

  Waskow was a young man writing with emotion and sentiment, but he remained utterly sincere in his beliefs.

  “Greetings,” he wrote:

  If you get to read this, I will have died in defense of my country and all that it stands for—the most honorable and distinguished death a man can die. It was not because I was willing to die for my country, however—I wanted to live for it—just as any other person wants to do. It is foolish and foolhardy to want to die for one’s country, but to live for it is something else.

  To live for one’s country is, to my mind, to live a life of service; to—in a small way—help a fellow man occasionally along the way, and generally to be useful and to serve. It also means to me to rise up in all our wrath and with overwhelming power to crush any oppressor of human rights.

  That is our job—all of us—as I write this, and I pray God we are wholly successful.

  Yes, I would have liked to have lived—to live and share the many blessings and good fortunes that my grandparents bestowed upon me—a fellow never had a better family than mine; but since God has willed otherwise, do not grieve too much dear ones, for life in the other world must be beautiful, and I have lived a life with that in mind all along. I was not afraid to die; you can be assured of that. All along, I prayed that I and others could do our share to keep you safe until we returned. I pray again that you are safe, even though some of us do not return.

  I made my choice, dear ones. I volunteered in the Armed Forces because I thought that I might be able to help this great country of ours in it’s hours of darkness and need—the country that means more to me than life itself—if I have done that, then I can rest in peace, for I will have done my share to make the world a better place in which to live. Maybe when the lights go on again all over the world, free people can be happy and gay again.

  Through good fortune and the grace of God, I was chosen a leader—an honor that meant more to me than any of you will ever know. If I failed as a leader, and I pray to God I didn’t, it was not because I did not try. God alone knows how I worked and slaved to make myself a worthy leader of these magnificent men, and I feel assured that my work has paid dividends—in personal satisfaction, if nothing else.

  As I said a couple of times in my letters home “when you remember me in your prayers, remember to pray that I be given strength, character and courage to lead these magnificent Americans.” I said that in all sincerity and I hope I have proved worthy of their faith, trust and confidence.

  I guess I have always appeared as pretty much of a queer cuss to all of you. If I seemed strange at times, it was because I had weighty responsibilities that preyed on my mind and wouldn’t let me slack up to be human—like I so wanted to be. I felt so unworthy, at times, of the great trust my country had put in me, that I simply had to keep plugging to satisfy my own self that I was worthy of that trust. I have not, at the time of writing this, done that, and I suppose I never will.

  I do not try to set myself on a pedestal as a martyr. Every Joe Doe who shouldered a rifle made a similar sacrifice—but I do want to point out that the uppermost thought in my mind all along was service to the cause, and I hope you all felt the same way about it.

  When you remember me, remember me as a fond admirer of all of you, for I thought so much of you and loved you with all my heart. My wish for all of you is that you get along well together and prosper—not in money— but in happiness, for happiness is something that all the money in the world can’t buy.

  Try to live a life of service—to help someone where you are or whatever you may be--take it from me; you can get happiness out of that, more than anything in life.

  —Henry T. Waskow6

  Waskow carefully folded his letter and tucked it away in his kit. Chances were as good as not, that his family would never have to read this, that he’d come down from the mountain, and maybe forget that he’d ever had such sentiments. That would be a good thing. Even if all he wrote was true.

  17

  Sammucro

  JUST AFTER FIVE O’CLOCK on the afternoon of December 7, 1st Battalion under the command of Lieutenant Colonel William Burgess began the long climb up the eastern slope of Mt. Sammucro.

  Breaking off and heading to the right of the 1st was the 3rd Ranger Battalion, whose assignment was to take Hill 960, slightly to the north of Sammucro, toward San Vittore, which would be the next village to take on the road to Rome. All good-byes and good lucks were muted as the intensity of the operation mounted.

  It was no easy task ascending the mountain in the dark. In the best of circumstances—daylight, dry, sunny weather—it was a three-or four-hour climb. This night in darkness and fog, it would take several hours more.

  In the lead for Company A was commanding officer, Lt. Rufus Cleghorn of Waco, Texas and the Baylor University football team. He had been given the nickname “Rufus the Loudmouth” by members of his company, on account of his overly commanding voice.1 Companies C and D were right behind, with Waskow’s Company B bringing up the rear and providing supply-transport assistance.

  The order given to Cleghorn by battalion commander Martin was a no-ifs-ands-or-buts: “Young man,” he was told, “I want combat troops on that mountain by 8 o’clock in the morning.”2 So Cleghorn led with a determined pace. The mule trails on the slopes disappeared along with the scruffy pines at the tree line, leaving the men of Company A and the units following to continue by any means necessary, which at times meant on their hands and knees. There were moments, as well, when the climb grew so steep that the infantry was forced to chin themselves over sharp rocks; at other times, ropes were necessary to haul themselves upward. Company B was tasked with bringing supplies upward from where the mules left off at the tree line, which meant they were carrying ammo over these same rocks and ridges. The gentle hills of central Texas proved uneffective practice ground for this type of warfare, but the men of the 143rd soldiered on.

  The fact that they were approaching the summit from the far right flank encouraged colonels Martin and Burgess to believe that the 1st Battalion would be striking with an element of a surprise against the Germans, whose focus was known to be toward San Pietro and t
he valley floor to the west of the peak. There was even some hope that the summit might be lightly, or not at all, occupied by the Germans.

  That hope was quickly dashed. The mountain peak was indeed manned by Panzer units, but the good news was that they were, in fact, surprised to see American troops coming at them from the east. The 1st Battalion swarmed over the crest of the mountain, heaving grenades at pockets of Germans as they climbed. A fierce firefight followed the enemy’s realization that they were being attacked. The battle quickly grew so intimate, that the Germans used loose boulders as weapons, trying to sweep 1st battalion troops off the mountainsides by knocking them over with rolling rocks. Cleghorn’s stout voice helped guide his men toward the top, and like the Germans, he, too, began hurling rocks at the defenders—along with hand grenades and epithets.

  The measure of surprise had its effect. The Americans made steady progress, and at six a.m., members of Company A, led by Cleghorn, reached the top of Sammucro, just as Colonel Martin had ordered and hoped. A little after nine, platoons from Companies C and D joined Cleghorn and Company A in the lead and poured more fire on the Panzer forces at the summit, but a scribbled message to command said that “Ownership of Objective G [the summit] was still in question.”