by Mark Zuehlke
When Corbould left for the eastern bank of the river, Mahony began feeling the effects of the day. He was exhausted, but too keyed up to rest. The major was also cold. During the day, the temperature had hovered in the high eighties, so he had not noticed that his uniform was still soaking wet from his headfirst plunge into the Melfa. Now, the cool night air seeped into him. He started to dig a slit trench to warm up, but was soon prowling the lines instead. Mahony passed on the good news of the impending morning relief. The morale of the Westminsters and the small reconnaissance troop of Strathconas inspired him. After a day of nearly continual close-quarters fighting, “they were still joking and laughing about some of the humorous and exciting incidents of the day. When a Canadian infantryman can’t crack a joke,” he decided, “then things are pretty bad.”33
22
BE VERY, VERY CAREFUL
At first light on May 25, the Irish Regiment of Canada failed to relieve the embattled Westminsters on the Melfa River’s western bank. Westminster commander Lieutenant Colonel Gordon Corbould informed Major John Mahony that the Irish attack would be delayed an hour to 0630. The weary defenders hung on, thankful that the Germans seemed equally worn out by the previous day’s fighting.
At about 0600 hours, however, Mahony was alerted to a threat of German infantry closing on the perimeter. He arrived at the position in time to see fifteen Germans rise out of the tall grass 400 yards off and then run diagonally across the Canadian front line. Mahony shouted, “Fire!” The Germans went to ground under an immediate hail of rifle and Bren gun fire. Several rounds from a 2-inch mortar and a PIAT also hit the spot where the infantrymen had disappeared into the grain. This appeared to convince them to keep a healthy distance from the Canadians.
Offering no explanation, Corbould reported there would be another hour-long delay. Across the river, the Irish could be heard noisily forming up. Shouted orders and a great deal of crashing about in the woods betrayed the fact they were massing for an attack. Apparently the Germans heard the racket, too, for artillery and mortar fire blasted the woods and a heavy machine gun in a building near the Westminsters ripped the tree line with long bursts.
Mahony decided to tackle the machine gun. He gathered up a small section of men, including Sergeant Ron Hurley, from Lieutenant Art Miller’s ‘C’ Company platoon. In addition to rifles, the party carried three Brens and a PIAT. Scout platoon commander Lieutenant Bill Delaney came along for the ride.1 Hurley’s section included a private named Lou Schachter from Winnipeg, one of those sad-sack soldiers seemingly incapable of staying clean and cursed with a cadaver’s pallor. Shaken by the previous fighting, Schachter said to Hurley, “What am I going to do? What happens if I get scared?”
“Schachter, don’t worry,” Hurley replied. “You’ll be fine.”2
Mahony’s assault party worked through brush along the riverbank to close on the half-destroyed farmhouse. Artillery fire had smashed a gaping hole in one wall. Mahony planned to fire PIAT rounds through the hole to smoke out the German machine-gunner.3
The German machine gun was still hammering away with long, steady bursts. Seeing an overturned ox cart on the farmyard’s edge, Hurley decided to put a Bren gunner under it to cover their left flank. That seemed good duty for the frightened Schachter. “Gotta be careful,” he said to the private. “Anything comes up there, fire at it, because it won’t be us.”4
Once everyone was in position, the PIAT man popped two bombs through the hole. Out tumbled two Germans, one carrying the machine gun, the other with the gun’s tripod strapped to his back. A volley of fire dropped the tripod man, but the other ducked around the corner. Mahony thought the German had made a clean escape until he heard one sharp rifle crack and someone shout, “I got the bastard.” Mahony recognized Lieutenant Bill Delaney’s voice and knew the German was a goner. “For some reason,” Mahony later said, “Bill was one of those unusual soldiers who really hated the Germans. Bill was a ruthless fighter, but a swell fellow and a first class soldier.”5
With the machine gun disposed of, the party started returning to the Westminsters’ perimeter. They were almost home when Lieutenant Miller asked Hurley, “Where’s Schachter?”
“Jesus Christ, I left him.” The sergeant ran back to the farm wagon and found Schachter lying there, anxiously staring off to the left as directed. “Where have you been?” he sobbed.
“Sorry we’re late,” Hurley replied. With Schachter in tow, he scampered back to the perimeter.6
The Irish Regiment of Canada was still delayed. In their forming-up area, things were chaotic. The companies were drawing heavy enemy fire, particularly from multi-barrelled Nebelwerfers. Men were being wounded and killed for no good reason, because the regiment was ready to go. Instead, the commander, Lieutenant Colonel Bobby Clark, repeatedly told his company officers to hold their positions. They waited for supporting tanks — tanks from a regiment that, as yet, had no idea it was to fight that day.
Above 5th Canadian Armoured Division’s regimental level, confusion in command reigned during the early hours of May 25. According to plan, 11th Canadian Infantry Brigade was to cross into the bridgehead won by Griffin Force and push on to Ceprano. No change in that order had been issued during the evening of May 24. Brigadier Eric Snow accordingly moved the Perth Regiment of Canada and the Cape Breton Highlanders behind the Irish Regiment that night. The divisional commander, Major General Bert Hoffmeister, told Snow the 8th New Brunswick Hussars armoured regiment would support his attack. Snow’s first objective was a low ridge paralleling a road running from the Liri River north to Highway 6. The road stood about a thousand yards west of the Melfa River. The brigade’s leading companies would pause there, Hoffmeister said, until everything behind them was “completely firmed and tidy.”
Because of the limited number of crossings, Snow planned to force the river with one regiment — the Cape Breton Highlanders, supported by a squadron of Hussars. Once the Highlanders were across, the Perths would follow and the Irish move up in reserve so that a two-regiment-wide front was established on the objective. Snow, a seasoned Permanent Force veteran, visited Clark’s headquarters to discuss the Irish role in the action. Clark advised him that Hoffmeister had “issued orders for the Irish to attack across the Melfa with the Westminster Regiment on the right and supported by a squadron of B.C. Dragoons.” Snow realized his operational plan was significantly compromised by this unexpected development. He now had to swing the Highlanders and Perths 1,000 yards south and carry out a two-battalion attack without a reserve regiment. Existing artillery support plans must be scrapped and reissued. All this meant delays. Snow knew it would be a mad scramble to get the attack off on schedule at 1200 hours.7
Hoffmeister was exercising divisional control from a highly mobile tactical headquarters that consisted of his tank and a large armoured command vehicle. He felt that his orders were being precisely issued and delivered through a line of communications routed to his divisional headquarters in the rear and then down the brigade and regimental links. The system allowed him to rove the battle front and gather a personal appreciation of developments while maintaining communications with divisional staff and brigade and regimental commanders. “Organization, delegation, and communication” were Hoffmeister’s three watchwords.8
The system of communication, however, functioned poorly at best. Snow only learned of the revised plan from Clark. Nor did the orders to the B.C. Dragoons to detach a tank squadron to support the Irish attack get transmitted during the night. It was only at about 1000 hours that Lieutenant Colonel Fred Vokes received orders from 5th Canadian Armoured Brigade’s Brigadier Desmond Smith to detach a squadron with the urgent mission of supporting the Westminster Regiment. Vokes understood that the Lord Strathcona’s Horse had suffered too many casualties to back up the Westminsters. No mention of the Irish Regiment was made.9
Vokes gave the job to Major Jack Turnley’s ‘C’ Squadron. Like Vokes, Turnley was a Permanent Force Lord Strathcona’s Horse veteran.
Although he had only joined the Dragoons a few weeks earlier, he had earned six months’ combat experience while posted to the British 5th Lancers armoured regiment during the North African campaign. Vokes urged Turnley to make haste.10
Turnley came running into the squadron section as Sergeant H.A. (Butch) Smitheram and his men were brewing some tea. “I want an O Group as fast as you can get to my tank,” he shouted excitedly to the troop commanders. Five minutes later, Lieutenant Jock MacKinnon, commander of Smitheram’s No. 3 Troop, strode back with word that the troop had five minutes to move out. MacKinnon took two of the five minutes to give a cursory briefing. The Westminsters, he said, were going to be counterattacked at any moment by massed infantry and Tiger tanks. The Dragoons must crash through to the bridgehead and break up the massing German armour. There was no information on enemy positions, suspected gun emplacements, or strength.11
While the tankers scrambled to their Shermans, Turnley raced ahead in his headquarters tank and conducted a hasty reconnaissance of the river with the Strathcona’s commander, Lieutenant Colonel Phillip Griffin. During the night, an engineering team had graded a rough ramp on either side of the river that looked passable to tanks. Beyond the river, however, the ground levelled out into an open grain field. With no idea where the Germans had antitank weapons or tanks positioned, the Dragoons would be charging into a highly dangerous situation. Normally, such an attack would be preceded by reconnaissance to determine enemy positions. Then, artillery or air bombardment would suppress these positions while the tanks closed to engage the Germans. There was no time for such niceties. The Westminsters might be overwhelmed while all the preparatory work was under way.
Turnley advised the approaching troop commanders that, because of the confused situation, they were not to push more than 1,000 yards beyond the Melfa. Their marking point for the outward boundary was to be wherever they came into contact with railroad tracks that angled across the valley from the southwest to connect with the Rome-Naples mainline, just before it crossed the Melfa and entered Roccasecca Station.12
None of the Westminsters in the bridgehead had any idea that their position was in such peril. Nor had they called for tank support, believing it was already arranged. Certainly Mahony, who commanded the bridgehead, no longer feared an overwhelming counterattack. Indeed, the regiment was preparing to shift to the offensive, with ‘C’ Company driving out from the bridgehead in concert with the Irish, whenever the latter deigned to cross the river. ‘B’ Company would then cross the river immediately and come up on ‘C’ Company’s right flank. The Westminsters within the bridgehead were in bad shape, but they were confident of expanding their hold on the Melfa’s western shore. Their biggest problem was German artillery that had their position tightly registered.13 One particularly heavy midmorning concentration wounded lieutenants Bill Delaney and Ross Douglas, along with several other ranks. Sergeant “Pop” Becker and one man from ‘C’ Company’s mortar section were killed. Sergeant Angus Kreiger lost his right hand. Mahony caught two pieces of shrapnel in a leg. He soldiered on despite the wounds.14
As the Dragoons approached the Melfa, Turnley ordered them into a line for the crossing. No. 4 Troop led, under twenty-four-year-old Lieutenant Stephen Coppinger. Lieutenant Neil Hockin’s No. 2 Troop followed. The other two troops and the two-tank-strong regimental headquarters section would make a display along the river’s edge to draw fire away from the crossing tanks. Once the first two troops were out of the riverbed, the rest of the squadron would cross.15 Hockin was rolling into battle with a new troop. Both Sergeant Edmund Singbeil and Corporal Larsen had arrived with their tank crews only that morning from the reinforcement depot. Other than his own crew, Hockin didn’t know any of the men. They had to net their radios into his during the run toward the river.16
Because of the hasty departure, some co-drivers were outside their tanks, clinging to the hulls, frantically tugging the muzzle covers off the main .75-millimetre guns even as the Shermans approached the river.17 Coppinger had only recently taken command of Troop No. 4, making him a bit of an unknown entity to his men. He led, with Sergeant R.A.C. Davis immediately behind, and Corporal Patterson bringing up the rear. No. 4 Troop rolled past some wrecked, still smouldering Strathcona tanks on the river’s edge. Davis was nervous. Like all of the 5th Canadian Armoured Brigade tanks, his brimmed with extra ammunition whose presence scared the crew. The loader had been muttering that if the tank got hit he was probably going to be trapped because of the extra shells. Coppinger was unable to put the troop into the picture about what they were doing. There were no maps, no clear objective, and no tactical plan except a vague order to find and repel German armour. It was a crazy way to fight.
Coppinger’s tanks skidded down the rough ramp cut by the bulldozer and struck the water with a mighty splash. After churning across the sand and gravel bed, the tanks paused at the base of the ramp leading up the opposite bank.18 It was coming up to noon. The three tanks were met by Mahony, who explained that just beyond the bank was an open field with dense woods on the opposite side and on the flanks. He told the tankers to wait until the Westminsters got organized and then the two forces could advance together. As Coppinger was talking on his radio to Turnley, Mahony grabbed the phone attached to the rear of Davis’s tank and reiterated his instructions. “Sergeant,” he said, “the troop should remain here until we can regroup and carry on our part of the attack.”
Through his earphones, Davis heard Coppinger describing to Turnley the lay of the land as reported by Mahony. Turnley, who had a speech impediment that tended to make him sound somewhat like Elmer Fudd, said, “Push on, boy. But be very, very careful.”19 Turnley added that Coppinger was to secure the woods on the other side of the field. This plan “didn’t seem like a good idea,” to the lieutenant, but he “was too young to even dream of questioning an order.”20 Waving his arm dramatically, like a cavalry officer signalling a charge, Coppinger led his troop up onto the plain. His tank was in the centre and slightly ahead of the others, so that the three tanks assumed the conventional arrowhead formation. No. 2 Troop formed on their right, with Hockin on the arrowhead’s tip. Before them lay 1,000 yards of wide open ground that was as flat as a billiard table and utterly devoid of hollows or other positions that could form hull-down shelters. Everything was surprisingly quiet; only a few German shells were exploding here and there near the riverbank. In the distance, Hockin saw the railroad line. He didn’t like the tactical situation or the topography, but thought there was nothing that could be done about things.21 He described the ground to Turnley, but the order to advance held.22 “We came to fight a war,” Hockin later wrote, “and now the chips were down and it was either go or accept the consequences.”
Coppinger dutifully led his troop forward. Hockin held back slightly inside a thin screen of trees bordering the river in order to provide covering fire. A hundred yards out from the woods, Davis looked across to Corporal Patterson’s tank and saw it was burning in the aftermath of a direct armour-piercing shell hit. Davis’s tank was hit a moment later and the driver reported that the engine was dead. Davis ordered the crew to abandon it. They scrambled out and hid in a nearby ditch. The Germans were now firing at the tanks with mortars and artillery. When his tank failed to burn, Davis ran for it. Just as he got there, another armour-piercing round slammed into its hull. The concussion blew him off his feet and shell fragments peppered his hand and arm.23
ΔThe many German guns dug into the Hitler Line enjoyed excellent fields of fire, as was the case for this one knocked out during the May 23 fighting.
— ALEXANDER MACKENZIE STIRTON, NAC, PA-189925
Famous for his consistently grim demeanour, Lieutenant General Tommy Burns failed to win the confidence of his divisional commanders, his corps staff, or Eighth Army general staff and its commander General Sir Oliver Leese during his handling of the Liri Valley offensive. — C.E. NYE, NAC, PA 134181
∇ One of the Panzerturms that devastated the supporting B
ritish tank regiments during the main assault on the Hitler Line. This one was dug into the rubble of a building, rendering all but its heavily armoured turret impervious to Allied fire.
— C.E. NYE, NAC, PA-130200
Canadian artillery pounds the Liri River area near Pontecorvo.
— W.H. AGNEW, NAC, PA-115146
Lance bombardiers D. Sacobie and W. Harvey of the Canadian Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment examine a disabled German self-propelled gun on the Hitler Line.
— W.H. AGNEW, NAC, PA-130346
A direct hit from a British Churchill tank tore the 88-millimetre gun (foreground) right out of this German Mark IV tank during the fighting in front of Pontecorvo.
— C.E. NYE, NAC, PA-130340
Both sides paid a grim price in the failed attack by 2nd Canadian Infantry Brigade against the Hitler Line on May 23. Here, a dugout overrun by the Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry is crowded with German dead.
— W.H. AGNEW, NAC, PA-163658
A Canadian soldier blinded in the fighting is guided back to the Casualty Clearing Section.