The main gun of another Tiger appeared above the crest, moving slowly into view. The artillerymen repeated the dance with their artillery piece and took aim at the new threat. The tank stopped, refusing to expose its underbelly, its weaponry pointing uselessly to the sky.
Gavin sensed this was the moment. “Let’s go,” he yelled and the thin line surged forward as one organism up and over the crest of Biazza Ridge.
The German infantry advancing up the western slope were caught off guard, shocked at the sight of the charging paratroopers with flashing bayonets coming fast down the slope directly at them. The machine gunners were caught with their MG-42s on their shoulders as they hauled them up the slope to set up atop the ridge. The German rifleman were barely able to get off one or two shots with their bolt-action Mauser Gewher 1898 rifles before the storming paratroopers were in their midst. The few tanks that remained functional on the western slope could not bring fire on the Americans intermixed with their own infantry and were forced to withdraw. Gavin had timed the charge perfectly.
The surge of the paratroopers carried into and through the surprised German infantry formations. The sight of the screaming horde with bayonet-tipped rifles panicked many Germans to flight. They retreated through the scattered smoking hulks of tanks and trucks knocked out by the artillery barrage. They ran headlong through the orchards and vineyards in fear-driven terror. The paratroopers surged forward into the olive groves pushing the retreating enemy before them. Some turned and fought. A flashing bayonet or a burst of rifle fire quickly cut them down. After a few moments the entire German force was in headlong retreat with the keyed up paratroopers in hot pursuit.
The scene on the western slope was ghastly. The carnage wrought by the artillery was devastating. Bodies were broken and strewn about the ground amid burnt and smoking human and mechanical wreckage. The stench was ungodly. Groans and screams of wounded and dying men were everywhere.
Jake and Johnny managed to stay side-by-side during the charge down the hill. Jake fired his B-A-R in short bursts and focused on avoiding spraying rounds into American paratroopers who had gotten ahead of him. That effort became difficult as soldiers of both sides swirled together in the wild melee.
Johnny avoided using his bayonet. The idea of sticking the ten-inch blade into someone repulsed him. He preferred shooting his M-1. The bayonet would be his last resort.
The flight of the enemy and the downward slope of the western side of the ridge gave the Americans great momentum. The rout was total and complete but the Americans were scattered all over the battlefield having chased their prey beyond visual sight. If it were a cavalry charge, the bugler would have blown recall on the trumpet.
Jake and Johnny, breathing heavily and separated from the group, pulled up by a low rock wall near a small stream that ran alongside a wide track to a vineyard. They stood hands-on-knees trying to catch their breath when Jake heard something between the sounds of their deep breaths. He peered around the wall. In a bend in the track stood a German Mark VI Tiger tank parked less than fifty yards away. Four crewmen, obviously unaware the battle had reached them, were standing casually outside their tank. Two of them were looking at a map while the other two were examining one of the bogey wheels on the tank tread. The tank’s engine was idling. There were no German infantry in sight.
Jake nodded and raised his B-A-R. Johnny gently lowered the barrel with his free hand. “They’re not armed. Let’s take them prisoner.”
Jake looked at Johnny intently. He said nothing but his eyes asked why take chances?
“They may have some intelligence,” Johnny answered the unasked question. They were getting to know each other well enough to read the other’s thoughts.
“All right, cover me,” Jake said reluctantly as he replaced his twenty round box magazine having lost count of the rounds he expended. Johnny worked the bolt on his M-1 manually and ejected two live cartridges before the clip came flying out to land quietly in the long brown grass. He jammed in a fresh clip of eight, racked the bolt to chamber a round and nodded to Jake.
“I got this. It’s my idea, it’s on me,” Johnny said as he brushed by Jake and stepped out into the open. He moved quickly toward the four Germans huddled around their tank. He raised his M-1 to his shoulder as he swiftly closed the open ground between them. “Hande luften,” he yelled in stilted German. “Kommen sie hier, schnell!”
The four tank crewmen were shocked to be caught outside their vehicle by an American infantryman and quickly raised their hands. One of them began yelling, “Kamerad, Kamerad.”
“Kommen sie hier, schnell!” Johnny repeated as he lowered his rifle. The German tankers started walking toward him. He motioned to them by pointing his rifle barrel up at their heads repeatedly. Then he tapped his free hand on his helmet. They quickly put their hands on their heads. One of them was wearing a sidearm in a shoulder holster so Johnny kept his M-1 pointing directly at him as they closed the distance to about ten yards.
Suddenly the turret of the tank started to turn the main gun toward the Americans. Johnny raised the M-1 to his shoulder and took aim at the armed prisoner. He would die first.
“Nicht sheissen, nicht sheissen!” yelled one of the prisoners as he waved his hands frantically at Johnny. The others were wide-eyed and pleading. They all dropped to their knees. One of them turned and began screaming orders in German toward the tank. The turret still turned slowly toward the paratroopers.
Jake jumped out from behind cover. “Yank, the hatch,” he screamed. “I got these guys.” Jake was running forward with his B-A-R at his shoulder.
Johnny saw the hatch in the commander’s cupola was open. He dropped his M-1 and raced by the prisoners toward the tank. One of the prisoners was still screaming orders toward the tank but the gun continued to turn. The prisoners knew if their crewmate fired the gun, the Americans would kill them all. The turret continued to move gradually as the lone remaining crewman manually cranked it around.
Johnny pulled a grenade from his web belt. In one motion he slipped his razor-sharp Schrade-Walden switchblade knife from his shoulder scabbard and slit the electrical tape holding the spoon tight to the grenade. He hopped up on the tank chassis, pulled the safety pin and dropped the grenade into the open hatch as he jumped off the other side.
The turret was now pointing directly over the heads of the prisoners and the 88-millimeter main gun fired and split the air with a deafening supersonic roar. The shot was high and smashed into a twisted olive tree a few hundred yards behind Jake, turning it instantly into splinters. The shock wave knocked Jake to the ground. The crewman in the tank did not have time to depress the muzzle of the gun before the grenade went off. Bloody debris erupted from the open hatch.
Jake angrily retrieved his helmet and motioned to the prisoners to place hands on heads and begin walking. Johnny came around the tank, black smoke now curling from the hatch, and picked up his M-1. He joined Jake as they walked their shaken prisoners back toward their lines. They walked in silence for a few moments, decompressing from the frantic action.
Johnny took a deep breath. “Good thinking, Jake. Another few seconds and we’d have been dog shit.”
Jake nodded. He was struggling to regain his hearing. “Hey, I didn’t know you spoke German that well.”
“I know six words, “Johnny lied. “And I used all of them.” He was smiling the smile of a relieved survivor after a close call. “But you learn something every day.”
“Really? Like what?” Jake asked.
“Like, a Tiger tank has five crewmen, not four.”
The two men marched their prisoners back up the ridge. The counterattack had been a complete success. The Germans were weakened first by artillery and then routed by the paratrooper-led infantry. They would later ask if the Americans at Biazza Ridge had fought the Japanese in the Pacific because they fought so well.
The word came down that Colonel Gavin ordered all units to consolidate on the ridge for the night. The two paratro
opers and their prisoners worked their way back up the slope. The hill was strewn with carnage. They saw dead and wounded men, material and body parts and smelled cordite mixed with the ubiquitous smell of burnt flesh. Army medics treated wounded soldiers of both sides all over the battlefield. Other troopers were helping injured buddies back over the ridge. The dead were left where they lay for the time being. Only their dog tags were collected. An upright rifle stuck by its bayonet into the rocky ground, some with a helmet on the butt stock, marked where they fell.
The two paratroopers came upon Major Hagan, 3rd Battalion XO, lying on a stretcher and conferring with Lieutenant Klee. Klee saw his two men first.
“Jake, Johnny, over here,” Klee beckoned.
The two men herded their prisoners toward the officers. Johnny spoke first. “Tiger tank crew…minus one. The tank is in a clearing around that bend past the vineyard.”
“You captured a Mark Six?” Major Hagan’s thigh was wrapped with a thick bandage, which was bleeding through. Despite the pain he was ecstatic.
“Yes, sir, Major,” Jake replied. “But it might not be functional. Yank here had to drop a frag grenade into it. I’m sure there are pieces of Kraut all over the inside.”
“Excellent work, men,” Major Hagan complimented. He motioned to a nearby staff officer. “Take these prisoners to the command post at the gatehouse.” Just before two brawny soldiers lifted his stretcher to cart him away, the major turned back to Jake and Johnny. “Well done, men.”
The two paratroopers nodded, embarrassed by the attention. Johnny turned to Lieutenant Klee. “What about our other guys, sir?”
Klee shook his head and looked toward the ground. “Danny Boy was wounded bad. He’s back at the aid station. Boots and Dom didn’t make it.”
Jake and Johnny were shocked. Soldiers were dying all around them and they accepted that outcome as the cold calculus of war. They certainly felt bad for all the fallen but losing a close friend was different. Just an hour ago they were laughing and joking with one another and now their friends were gone. It was a realization impossible to accept. It hit them both hard.
“What about Sky?” asked Johnny.
Klee pointed to a spot on the ridge near a small outcropping of rock. “He’s fine. He’s up there with Sergeant Copping. You guys need to join up with them. We’re digging in for the night. The colonel expects the Krauts to make one more try at the ridge.”
The two men nodded and made their way to the top of the ridge. Johnny stopped only to pick up bandoliers of .30-caliber ammo from some of the bodies they passed. The stony ground crunched under their feet as they navigated up the slope. Sky saw them coming and rushed down to meet them. They roughly hugged each other with great elation. Only the memory of their fallen buddies dampened their exhilaration.
“Glad to see you guys,” Copping slapped both of them on the back. “We thought you were gone for sure.” He walked them to the crest and pointed to a partially excavated foxhole. “Finish digging and you’ll have a safe place to sleep.”
Jake and Johnny set to work scraping out the hard shale and packed earth while Sky and Copping continued work on their holes. All up and down the line the men were digging furiously. Only the continuous sound of metal shovels striking earth broke the silence.
Some ammunition carriers from the 45th Infantry Division pulled up about fifty yards behind them. Soldiers from the trucks began distributing ammo and K-rations. Accompanying the ammo carriers was an M16 Gun Motor Carriage, called a halftrack. It had four M2 HB .50-caliber anti-aircraft machine guns in a synchronized gun mount on an electrically powered turret. The belt ammunition was fed from four attached canister drums. Another .50-caliber machine gun mounted behind the driver provided additional secondary protection. The quad-fifty mount was pointed skywards.
After an hour or so the holes were deep enough. The sun began to set and a cool breeze came up off the sea. Johnny settled down in his fighting hole while Jake leaned back and pulled a small Bible from his pocket and began reading in the fading light.
There was a slight commotion behind them and Johnny turned to see what it was. He was flabbergasted to see Colonel Gavin kneeling alongside their hole. He was carrying an M-1.
“So,” Gavin said, “you’re the men who captured that Tiger tank! Outstanding!” He looked at Johnny. “What’s your name, son? Where you from?”
“Private John Kilroy, sir. New York.”
“I’m Brooklyn born,” Gavin smiled. He turned to Jake. “And you, son?”
“Private Jake Kilroy.”
“Oh…brothers?”
“No, Colonel, we’re not related,” Johnny answered.
“Hmm…” Gavin mused. “That’s not so unusual in this regiment. There’s a Sergeant Gavin in Second Battalion. I never met him personally. We’re not related either but by now he’s probably convinced everyone we are.” Gavin chuckled. “Well, I just wanted to say thanks and see how you men were doing. Good work today!”
“Thank you, sir,” said both in unison.
Gavin held Jake’s shoulder as he stood up. “Something to tell the folks about back home.”
“No folks to tell, sir. I’m an orphan,” Jake answered.
Gavin knelt back down and looked at Jake. “Me too, son. So maybe someday we can tell our grandchildren what we did here today. It’s a story worth telling.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay alert, men. I think the Krauts will attack again tonight. I know I would. And Colonel Tucker’s regiment is dropping onto Farello Airfield tonight about ten miles west of here. Pass the word.”
Gavin moved to the next foxhole. He said a few words of encouragement and moved down the line, no doubt advising the men reinforcements would be arriving by air. In fact, orders had gone out to the fleet and all ground units that paratrooper reinforcements were flying in.
Darkness fell and still no counterattack came. Unable to punch through Biazza Ridge with their armored spearhead, the Germans concluded the Americans were heavily armed and dug in strong defensive positions in great numbers. They decided to withdraw both Kampfgruppe during the night. The landings would no longer be contested. The Axis forces on Sicily would now be fighting to stave off annihilation.
Jake had dropped off into a semi-sleep while Johnny stood watch at the front of their hole. He was awakened by the familiar drone of the C-47 Pratt and Whitney engines as the V-formation of planes passed directly over their position heading for Farello Airfield. Serial after serial passed over at 700 feet in perfect formation. It was a spectacular nocturnal aerial ballet. Tucker was bringing his remaining two infantry battalions, an artillery battalion and a company of engineers. About 2,300 men were planning to make nothing more than a routine training drop on conspicuously illuminated, soft, flat ground inside American lines. The weather was perfect, the visibility excellent and the winds were calm. The conditions were textbook. All of the men along the line were staring at the endless stream of C-47s ferrying in their brothers.
Suddenly, out on the water, an anti-aircraft gun from one of the ships opened fire. Soon another, then another opened fire. The firing quickly spread like a virus. The multicolored tracers reached up into the sky at the transports. The slow, low flying planes were easy targets and many were hit immediately. Land-based anti-aircraft batteries joined the slaughter and soon most of the ships at anchor had guns blazing at the formation of friendly planes.
Jake snapped awake. “What the fuck! No, you assholes!” The other paratroopers along the line were also yelling but their pleas were drowned out by the cacophony of noise made by the anti-aircraft artillery. The men along the ridgeline were helpless as they watched the low and slow flying planes being repeatedly hit. It was mass murder. In desperation, the planes turned on their lights to indicate they were friendly. That made them easier targets. Some of the planes, damaged and smoking, pushed through to drop their paratroopers on the airfield. Others aborted the mission and turned back out to sea. Still others jettisoned t
heir paratroopers immediately after being hit but before they crashed.
Paratroopers standing hooked up and ready to jump were shredded as bullets tore through the thin-skinned fuselage of their plane. Some scrambled out only to come down too fast under torn chutes. Others were ripped apart by gunfire as they drifted down and dangled helplessly. Before the formation of 144 planes scattered out of danger, sixty of the aircraft would be hit.
Jake and Johnny stood by powerlessly. They were screaming to stop firing. It was butchery beyond comprehension and their fellow Americans were perpetrating it. Jake was screaming so loud and hard tears began streaming down his face. The sight of burning parachutes, ignited by anti aircraft tracers, with helpless men dangling beneath them was too much to bear.
All of a sudden the Quad-50 on the halftrack behind them opened up with a deafening roar. The crew was firing deadly armor-piercing rounds at the transports. Jake jumped up and ran to the vehicle yelling all the way. “They’re ours! They’re ours!” Johnny followed him.
A young-looking lieutenant was standing near the halftrack. He appeared to be in charge. Jake came up on him quickly and startled him. “Cease fire, sir. Those are our planes!”
The officer didn’t hear due to the earsplitting noise of the guns. The Quad-50 kept pouring rounds into the over flying aircraft with devastating effect. Jake tried to climb onto the halftrack as he yelled but the officer, not understanding his intentions, pulled him down. Jake lost it. He shoved the officer to the ground and hopped up into the tracks and over the side into the rear of the M3 Halftrack. He pulled the gunner’s hands off the triggers. “Stop firing, those are our planes!” He was still screaming.
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 28