Under the cover of smoke and confusion, a bazooka team sprinted to the center of the action and fired a rocket at the main entrance of thick double wooden doors. The rocket exploded with a tremendous blast sending shrapnel and wooden splinters in all directions. The bazooka team reloaded and sent the next rocket through the open doorway to explode deep in the interior of the building. Fire, smoke and debris could be seen blowing out of the open first floor windows. Huge wooden casks inside were riddled with holes. Wine and blood flowed freely on the floor. Suddenly, a white flag was seen waving from a third story window.
“Cease fire, Cease fire!” someone yelled and as quickly as it began, it was over. The paratroopers came out from cover and gathered near the front door as enemy soldiers streamed out in a single file, hands over heads, some wiping eyes with elbows, others coughing, still others bleeding. The troopers guided them to the rear, continually motioning them to keep their hands in the air. A few Italian-American paratroopers barked orders in the native language. There were close to forty enemy soldiers in this parade of the vanquished. When the line stopped, some troopers entered the winery. They found six dead Italian soldiers and a dozen heavy machine guns with close to a million rounds of ammunition in the basement. Again the paratroopers suffered no fatalities. Some began to believe they were truly invincible.
“Bruce,” yelled Klee as he raced over from the command post. “Take charge of these prisoners.” Copping nodded.
The other paratroopers funneled the line of prisoners back to where 1st Squad had assembled. Copping lined them up and the men began searching them for concealed weapons, maps or orders. What they were really looking for was souvenirs.
Johnny noticed something strange about the last prisoner in line. His uniform was different. Although all of them were caked in white dust and debris, the cut of this uniform was unique. Danny was searching him, his netted helmet at a jaunty angle dangling his special chinstrap. He was smugly chewing a fresh piece of gum as he emptied the pockets of his captive. Boothe and Angelo held their rifles on the line of prisoners.
“Lookee here,” Danny announced. He was holding a wallet and fingering some personal pictures of the prisoner’s family. “What else do we have?” He removed a large watch and slid a ring from the prisoner’s finger. The prisoner was tall with blond hair and blue eyes. He had an ugly scar on the right side of his face, which glared angrily at Danny as he went through the pockets of his tunic.
Johnny walked over and stared hard at the prisoner and his uniform. “Wait a second, Danny Boy.” Then he asked the prisoner in Italian if he was Italian or German.
“Fallschrimjaeger… Fallschrimjaeger,” the prisoner answered motioning to himself with the thumbs of his raised hands. Then he pointed to Danny and Johnny. “Fallschrimjaeger!”
“Chrissake, he’s a Kraut. There’s not supposed to be any Krauts on the island.” Johnny brushed some dust from the prisoner’s sleeve. “And a noncom.” He turned to Danny. “And a paratrooper. We need to get this guy to Captain Wolff.” Johnny looked at the booty in Danny’s hands. “You gotta give him back his stuff.”
Danny stiffened. “No dice, Yank, this is mine. I liberated it. Fortunes of war. I ain’t giving shit back!”
Johnny wasn’t looking for a confrontation with Danny, especially in front of the rest of the guys who had stopped searching prisoners to stare at them. He tried a diplomatic approach.
“You’re right Danny Boy, its a soldier’s privilege to liberate souvenirs. Something to show our grandkids some day.” He pointed to the watch and ring in Danny’s hand. “But this is personal stuff. It has nothing to do with the War. It’s personal. And it’s not something you want to be caught with if you’re captured.”
Danny was listening but wasn’t convinced. Jake stepped over to Danny. “Hear him out.”
“If you want a real souvenir, take this.” Johnny reached for the prisoner’s collar and unlatched the pin behind a small metallic badge affixed to the upright collar. It was an oval shaped laurel wreath. The bird, a hawk or an eagle, was diving down from the upper right to the lower left, superimposed over the wreath. The wings were sharply swept back defining a bird of prey on the attack. In the claws was a swastika. On the reverse side was the manufacturer’s stamp, G.H Osang-Dresden. “This is the German Luftwaffe paratrooper badge. Now, this is a war souvenir. You won’t find many of these lying around.” He handed the badge to Danny whose eyes went wide with delight.
“Now that’s a real find,” Jake added. “Almost as good as a Luger,” Jake offered, referring to the German pistol that was the Holy Grail of war souvenirs for all GIs. “Give him back his personal stuff Danny Boy, please.”
Danny looked at the badge in his hand, seemed to study it. He was pleased with this rare find and handed the wallet, photos, watch and ring back to the prisoner.
“What outfit are you with?” Johnny asked. The prisoner stared blankly at him while he put his family photos in his wallet and stuffed his watch and ring into his pocket.
“No English, huh?” Johnny asked the same question in Italian. No response. He tried again in German with the same few words taught to all paratroopers. Still, the same blank stare.
Copping walked over. “Yank, Jake, take this guy to the CP and turn him over. Find out where the lieutenant wants us and hurry back.” He turned to his squad and pointed to the prisoners. “Give ‘em a white flag and point them south.”
Tedesco translated the orders to the gathered prisoners and sent them on their way. They were grateful to be alive and marched willingly down the road toward the sea.
Johnny and Jake escorted the German prisoner toward the CP.
Jake looked at Johnny. “There’s not supposed to be any German combat troops on this island. What the hell is this guy doing here?”
“I wonder what outfit he’s with. And a paratrooper too,” Johnny replied.
“The brass is going to shit when they find out we’re up against German paratroopers.” Jake looked at the prisoner. “I wonder if this joker actually made any combat jumps or if he is just some rear-echelon pussy who stole that badge from a real fighter.”
The prisoner’s jaw tightened imperceptibly but he said nothing.
“This guy is probably a cook or something,” Jake continued his insults. “He doesn’t look tough enough to even be leg infantry. Forget about being a real paratrooper.”
Both Jake and Johnny were startled when the prisoner answered in perfect English. “I have survived two combat jumps. One in Belgium and the other on Crete.” He looked directly at Jake. “I am a paratrooper. A real fighter! I am not a cook and I am not a pussy cat.”
“Son of a bitch,” Johnny laughed as they walked toward the command post. “I guess you can’t insult any paratrooper, no matter whose side he’s on.”
“And I would have made many more combat jumps if Der Fuhrer had not forbid it,” the prisoner continued. He stared into the inquisitive eyes of both American paratroopers. “Our casualties were too great.” He paused. “Something you will soon learn about.”
“Your English is very good,” remarked Johnny.
“I attended university in America,” the prisoner explained. “And since I am prisoner, perhaps I shall be returning to America soon.”
“That makes us even, bud. We’re headed for Germany,” Jake chuckled.
“So, what outfit are you with?” Johnny decided to try one more time.
The prisoner considered the question for a moment. “Oh well, you will find out anyway very soon. I am with the Hermann Goering Fallschirm Division. We are converting into a Panzer Division. You will soon be introduced to our newest Mark Six Tiger heavy tank and soon learn why paratroopers take so many casualties.”
Johnny was stunned by the revelation. There were not supposed to be German combat units on Sicily and certainly not German tanks. He hid his surprise by tapping his airborne shoulder patch. “Eighty-second Airborne, Mac. Your people will soon learn why American paratroopers give so ma
ny casualties.”
They continued walking toward the company CP in silence. When they arrived, Wolff was resting on a large, flat rock outside his captured bunker. He was dispatching runners and issuing orders for the defense of the road junction.
During the hike back to the command post the prisoner had at times been smug and argumentative. Now, at the last moment, he let down his hard façade and softened. He turned to Johnny and said, “Thank you for letting me keep these,” he pointed to his watch and ring. “They are family heirlooms and cannot be replaced.” He reached into his boot and pulled out an SS dagger and then unfastened his belt buckle. He handed both to Johnny. “Souvenirs.” He then stiffened to attention. “I am fortunate to be captured by men like me. Men of honor.” The prisoner snapped a salute, a small tear forming in the corner of his eye.
The two paratroopers answered with casual sloppy salutes as the prisoner was taken away. Johnny turned to Wolff. “He speaks damn good English as you can see Captain and get this…he’s with the Hermann Goering Panzer Division, Tiger tanks and all.”
Wolff’s jaw dropped. He had seen a captured German Mark VI Tiger tank in North Africa and it was virtually unstoppable. Heavy German armor meant the American paratroopers would be woefully outgunned.
Wolff looked north up the road and imagined a brace of fifty-six ton Mark VI Tiger tanks rounding the bend in the road and pounding the winery into rubble with their dreaded 88-millimeter high velocity guns. He immediately issued new orders to deploy his soldiers behind the ridges, hills and ravines that surrounded the road junction. He didn’t want to be caught in a static defensive position. Wolff spread his men out with orders to dig in but be ready to move on command. The small undersized airborne company had orders to hold, regardless of what the enemy sent against them. With the captured firepower and ammunition, they would be in a better position to do just that if they could use their superior mobility and not get caught in the bunkers.
There was a commotion down the road behind him and Wolff turned around to see. He could not believe what he saw and had to do a double take. Coming up the road from the beach, as if taking a Sunday stroll was General Matthew B. Ridgway, CO of the 82nd Airborne Division. His personal aide-de-camp, Captain Don Faith and two bodyguards from the 1st Infantry Division accompanied him. Ridgway walked right up to Wolff who was still sitting on a large rock. With Ridgway wearing his two-star helmet, Wolff didn’t feel like he was giving anything away when he hopped off the wall on one foot and snapped a smart salute.
Ridgway spoke first. “Good morning, Captain. What unit is this?”
“Item Company, Third Battalion and a handful of strays, sir.”
“What’s your situation, Captain?” Ridgway asked.
“Well, sir, we have control of this strongpoint. We’re spread out and dug in facing north. Anything coming down that road has to pass through us.”
Ridgway nodded. “Very good, Captain. Have you been in contact with any other units?”
“No sir.” Wolff looked up at the hills from the east to the west. “For all I know General, we’re the only airborne troops on the island.” Wolff was dog-tired and surprised himself by being somewhat cavalier with his commanding general.
Ridgway leaned in close to Wolff so only he could hear him. “For all I know Captain, you may be right.” He had a concerned look on his face. “We came ashore this morning and General Allen had not yet made contact with any of my paratroopers,” Ridgway said referring to the CO of the 1st Infantry Division, Brigadier General Terry Allen. “We’ve been walking for a few miles. Yours is the first unit I’ve been able to find besides a few stragglers that I sent back to our lines. And of course we passed by those prisoners you must have been sending down the road.”
“Begging the General’s pardon, sir, but I made a bad joke. The Eighty-second is on the island, in force. The other units may not be in the exact right place and they may not have reported in yet but we’ve been hearing gunfire and firefights all night. Our guys are raising hell.”
“I get your meaning, son,” sighed Ridgway. “But until I find Colonel Gavin and his battalion commanders we can’t organize or concentrate our forces where we need to.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ridgway pointed up the road to the north. “What’s out that way?”
“Objective Y, General. The major road junction leading to the beach from Niscemi and west to Vittoria.” Captain Faith pulled out an unmarked map and pointed out the road junction to the general. Ridgway knew blocking this road network leading toward the sea was the primary mission for his paratroopers. Looking around he realized only one small company, with a seriously wounded company commander, seemed to have found their objective. One company out of four battalions! He feared that the rest of his force may have been captured or wiped out. If that were the case then the entire American beachhead was in danger of being surrounded and pushed back into the sea.
Wolff continued. “I have scouts out and an observation post up that way but so far no contact with the enemy coming down the road.”
“That won’t last long,” Ridgway concluded. “The Italians have to move their forces south and contest the beachhead.”
“Which reminds me, sir.” Wolff remembered. “We have a German prisoner who says he’s from the Hermann Goering Panzer Division. The Germans are here and they have Tigers.”
Ridgway’s expression turned to stone. He was stunned and looked at his aide who seemed equally surprised. It was evident Ridgway was unaware of the presence of German armor.
Ridgway tried to mask his surprise. He turned to his aide. “How could we not know that?” He calmed himself and looked at Wolff. “We’ll send you up some artillery spotters, Captain, either from the navy or from the First Division. If those tanks do show up we’ll have a surprise for them.” He nodded at his aide who wrote something in a small notebook. “Meanwhile, you take care of that leg. I’m going to take a little walk up this road.”
“Sir,” Wolff protested. “We don’t know what’s up that way. It’s not safe.”
Ridgway ignored the plea and began walking with his small entourage. He looked back over his shoulder. “Sorry Captain, but I have to find the rest of my boys.”
Chapter Thirty-One
L’Enfant Plaza Hotel – January 13, 1997
“The God of War hates those who hesitate.”
Euripides (480 BC - 406 BC)
The waitress circled the table and began collecting empty plates. She was assisted by two busboys who quickly replaced silverware, refilled water glasses and scraped the crumbs from the white linen tablecloth with hollow pencil-like devices. They moved efficiently and when they were done, the waitress placed dessert menus in front of everyone.
As each one decided, the waitress took the order. Frank was last and after he ordered he asked the waitress, “Can you make up a custom drink if I give you the ingredients?”
“I’m sure the bartender can,” she replied. Everyone at the table became curious as Frank rattled off the ingredients.
“Two parts vodka and one part champagne and…”
“You’re kidding,” Sky interrupted with a wide grin on his face.
“Not at all,” Frank continued. “And a touch of lemon juice and a little sugar.”
“Of course,” the waitress was writing the formula down as Frank explained.
“What is that?” Cynthia asked.
Sky answered before Frank could. “That’s called a Prop Blast. The official favorite drink of all paratroopers.”
“Actually, it was the favored drink of officers, but I’m sure the enlisted men joined in the tradition whenever they could.”
“Agreed,” Sky said and looked at the waitress. “Make that two.”
“Why stop there?” Harley interjected. “I’ll have one too.”
J.P. looked at the waitress. “What the hell, we’ll all have one. I’d like to find out what it tastes like.”
“Right after dessert,” Frank requested. T
he waitress nodded and took the order to the bar.
“So, Sicily was your baptism of fire,” J.P. tried to jump-start the conversation again.
Sky answered. “That’s right. It’s funny I can still remember some of those details. I particularly remember how proud our squad was having come through that first action. No one froze up. We got through our first combat in good shape. It was a great feeling.”
“What happened after General Ridgway passed through your lines?” Cynthia asked. J.P. believed she was trying to help him get more information about his father before the dinner ended.
Sky thought for a moment. “Ridgway came back pretty quick. It was mid morning and there was a big firefight at the Y Objective. So he went back to his headquarters near Gela.”
Sky cleared the remaining objects off of the table. “Here, let me explain.” He carved a crease in the white tablecloth with his finger and sprinkled some pepper along the mark that represented the coastline. It was a fairly straight line in front of J.P. “This is the south coast of Sicily.” He placed a saltshaker on the line of pepper to the left of J.P. “Here is Gela on the coast. You’re looking north. I’m doing this upside down, so bear with me.”
J.P. touched the saltshaker with his left hand. “Gela. Got it.”
“First Division landed here.” He threw a pink sugar packet in front of the saltshaker. Sky then placed another saltshaker to the right of J.P. some distance from the first but inland from the coastline. “This is Vittoria, ten miles inland. I’m drawing a right triangle facing you, and this is the base.” He traced a line in the air from Gela to Vittoria.
J.P. reached with his right hand and touched the second landmark. “Vittoria.”
Sky dropped another sugar packet near the coastline trace. “Forty-fifth Division landed here.” He then took a peppershaker and placed it above Gela, nearer to himself representing a town well inland. “This is Niscemi at the top of the leg. A little more than ten miles.” He traced an imaginary line in the air from Niscemi to Vittoria. “I forget what this side of the right triangle is called.”
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 26