The Devil's Pact (2013)

by James Holland

  As he came ashore, Wiseman marvelled at the din. Guns boomed, shells exploded, trucks and tanks rolled onto the beach, small arms rang out and, above it all, men were yelling orders that few had much chance of hearing. ‘Get your ass to Gela, Wiseman,’ Patton had told him, ‘and then report back to me exactly what the hell is going on.’ Complete chaos is what’s going on, thought Wiseman, as the DUKW drove, with a grinding of gears and a belch of thick smoke, out of the water and onto the sand.

  He had never seen anything like it. Enemy mines had closed Yellow and Green Beaches directly in front of the town, so that at Red Two, where he had come ashore, there was appalling congestion. The sea was thick with LSTs milling about, unable to get close enough to the shore, and overturned landing craft floating or jutting out of the shallow surf. Debris floated on the surface: boxes, packs, dead Americans. On the beach itself, troops hung about in the dunes, unsure what to do. As Wiseman jumped onto the sand, an explosion erupted not fifty yards away on the beach. He ducked instinctively, saw a rolling ball of flame and bits of dark metal being hurled into the sky – another DUKW being blown to pieces on an anti-tank mine. Further along, a large part of the town’s pier had been destroyed, while a number of the houses that lined the seafront had been reduced to rubble. Out at sea, ships were still bombarding the coast, the shells screaming overhead and landing with shattering explosions.

  An LST was now grounded and lowering its ramp. Wiseman watched as Sherman tanks rumbled forward. Elsewhere a number of rubber dinghies were ferrying troops from a grounded assault craft. Desultory small-arms fire rang out, mostly from GIs in the dunes taking pot-shots at imaginary and real Italians. He saw a dead GI on the sand, the man’s guts spread out underneath him, then spotted a group of medics tending several men.

  He walked on, up into the dunes, where he found a number of troops from the 16th Infantry looking anxiously towards the town and occasionally taking shots.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said, standing there, above them.

  ‘Eyetie snipers, sir,’ said one of the men, a young lieutenant. ‘We’re pinned down.’

  Wiseman could see plenty of houses, many now destroyed or damaged but no sign of any Italian troops. ‘Don’t you think you ought to lead your men forward, Lieutenant?’ he asked. ‘Get them off the beaches and take the town.’

  At that very moment, Wiseman felt something strike his helmet and the next thing he knew he was on the ground, lying on his back, staring at the sky and conscious of something thick and wet running down the side of his face.

  ‘My God, sir!’ shouted the lieutenant. ‘Medic!’ he yelled. Several pairs of eyes were now staring down at Wiseman. Someone was fumbling at the strap of his helmet, then pulling it clear. A field dressing was ripped open and placed against his head.

  I’ve been shot in the head, Wiseman thought, but he could still see, could still hear. Or was he dead already? Was this what it was like when you died? With his right hand he pinched his leg, felt it clearly, and realized he was not dead. But how could that be? He started to push himself up.

  ‘Steady, sir,’ said someone. ‘Take it easy.’ A hand was still pressing a bandage to his head.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Wiseman. ‘I’m OK. Someone tie this bandage around my head, then let me get up.’ He sat up, conscious of a medic hurriedly wrapping the bandage around him, then picked up his helmet. Sure enough, there was a hole, just to the side, and as he turned it over, something fell out, something small and dark. Dropping the helmet, he picked up the small object. It was the remains of a bullet. Now he looked at the inside of his helmet and took out the liner. A line had been scored all around it, like the thread of a screw.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said, and began to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny, sir?’ asked the lieutenant.

  ‘A minute ago, son, I thought I was dead. But it seems I’ve been shot in the head and lived to tell the tale. That bullet hit my helmet, went round and round between the steel and the liner, then ran out of steam. Cut me bad, but I can live with that.’

  The lieutenant whistled. ‘You’ve the luck of the devil, sir.’

  The medic shook his head in wonder. ‘God was smiling on you, sir. He saved you for something, all right.’

  I wonder. Maybe He did. He wiped his bloodied brow with the sleeve of his jacket, then glanced at his watch. It was 5.25 a.m.

  Tanner led his assault group of some two dozen men back along the river, then crouching, hurried along the far side of the wall. The guns were still booming at intervals. The dense orange grove in front of the battery had given way to patchy olives and gum trees, which extended beyond the field where the 102s were dug in, offering further cover.

  Pausing, Tanner glanced at his watch again – just three minutes until Shopland’s men opened fire. Then he turned to McAllister. ‘Take one of the Brens and head on until you’re level with the second gun. The other we’ll set up here.’ He looked at the rest of the men, squatting around him. ‘When the others on the far side open up, give them several long bursts. I’ll try to take out the officers. Then, using the trees as cover, we’ll charge them. All right?’ Nods from the men. ‘Good,’ said Tanner. ‘Now go.’

  He watched McAllister’s men scurry off as he gripped his rifle, and then looked around for a good spot from which to see the enemy. His Aldis scope was still attached to his rifle but, with the sun still low in the sky and shining directly at them, he had to make sure that the lens did not glint and give them away.

  Moving a few yards along, he stopped by a thicket of broom bushes, which he hoped would offer some cover. The nearest gun was about seventy-five yards away. His rifle at his shoulder, he scanned for any obvious officers or NCOs. It was hard to tell, thanks to the cover of the netting and the trees, but he could see one man standing to the right of the gun, wearing knee-length leather boots and what looked like a smarter uniform than the others.

  Got to be an officer. He lined up the shot. The man stood stock-still. Two loaders were putting a shell into the breech of what Tanner guessed was a 102mm anti-aircraft and coastal-defence gun. The officer raised his hand, then brought it down. As the gun fired, Tanner squeezed the trigger, felt the kick of the butt into his shoulder and watched the man drop to the ground. For a moment, none of the gunners noticed, the sound of the rifle shot blotted out by the blast of the big gun, but then they spotted him lying there. Tanner watched them hurry over, looking around frantically – as Bren and rifle fire opened up from the far side of the field. Several men fell. He heard the reply from the Italian machine-gunners and then, close by, bursts of more Bren. Tanner found another target, squeezed, saw the man twist and drop, then fired again, this time missing. Another long burst of the Bren, and now Tanner swung his rifle across his shoulder, grabbed his Beretta, brought a spare magazine from his pouch and leaped over the wall, glancing either side of him briefly to see the others were following.

  A bullet fizzed nearby, but he kept sprinting towards the gun. Several men already lay sprawled beside it, but as he neared them he opened fire with a second’s burst. He was conscious of an ammunition pit, of upturned wooden boxes. Netting spread between the trees, the morning sunlight pouring through it; bullets spat, twigs and branches snapping. A figure appeared. Tanner opened fire, feeling the Beretta judder. Pulling a grenade from his haversack, he ran to the front of the gun, pulled the pin, dropped it down the barrel and ran clear. A moment later, a dull crack, smoke poured from the end of the barrel, and suddenly he was conscious of men either side of him, Sykes with his Thompson, and Brown, his rifle raised to his shoulder.

  Tanner ran on, changing his magazine as he did so. Suddenly he was into the clear, out of the trees, the light bright. Figures running, but then cut down by fire from the almond grove. He saw an Italian bring a Beretta to his hip, but Sykes got him with a burst from the Thompson. A volley of machine-gun fire zipped by, too high, but Tanner still ducked and ran on, and then they were at the second gun. One dead –
no, two. The rest had fled.

  Tanner paused, crouched by the wheels of the gun, gasping. The firing had suddenly lessened and then he heard voices shouting, ‘Ci arrendiamo! Ci arrendiamo!’

  ‘I think they’re throwing in the towel, boss,’ said Sykes, peering around the edge of the gun. Tanner got back to his feet and, with his Beretta drawn into his shoulder, carefully moved around the gun. Ahead, in the slit trenches screening the guns, men were standing with their hands in the air. Shopland and the others were emerging from the grove, while McAllister and several other Rangers hurriedly approached the third 102mm. Several Italian gunners emerged into the clear, hands on their heads.

  Tanner slung his Beretta onto his shoulder, pushed his helmet back and wiped his brow, then took his water bottle and drank.

  ‘Job well done.’ Sykes grinned.

  ‘Any casualties on our side?’ Tanner asked.

  ‘Didn’t see any, although it would be a miracle if not. A fair amount of lead flying around.’

  Tanner took out a bar of chocolate and snapped off a chunk, then walked towards the third gun. ‘I put a grenade down the first,’ he said to Sykes, ‘but we’ll leave the other two. They might come in useful.’

  He walked into the open, bathed in warm sunlight, took out a cigarette and lit it. It occurred to him he should report in so he beckoned Phyllis over. ‘Can you give me a sitrep, Siff?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Phyllis. He was carrying the No. 46 set strapped to his back. He bent down, eased it off his shoulders and onto the ground. With the headset on, he called up the battalion.

  ‘Hello, Buster, this is Charlie,’ he said. A pause, then his face brightened. ‘Roger,’ he said. ‘All three enemy guns captured, repeat, all three guns captured.’ Another pause. ‘Roger, understood. Roger. Over and out.’

  ‘Well?’ said Tanner.

  ‘A, B and C Companies all safely ashore, sir. D Company landing shortly.’

  ‘What about Battalion Headquarters?’

  ‘Not sure, sir. We’re to advance on Cassibile.’

  Tanner nodded. Cassibile. One of the day’s objectives – a small town a couple of miles north of How Green where they had landed. He glanced at his watch and saw it wasn’t even six o’clock. It felt like it had been a long day already. They had landed, overrun enemy resistance, captured at least a hundred prisoners and taken out three 102mm coastal guns.

  And now they had to capture Cassibile.

  9

  Saturday, 10 July, around six a.m. Captain Niccolò Togliatti took the cup of coffee Aldino offered him and gazed out at the tranquil sea. It seemed scarcely possible after the high winds of the previous day. Dust had whipped into their eyes, several tents had been blown away, and branches had split from the trees, yet now the sky was clear, the sea as smooth as glass, the air dry and still. Surely, he had thought last night, the invasion alert would prove yet another false alarm, but there, out to sea, clearly visible though his binoculars, was a monstrous Allied fleet.

  The sight confirmed his worst fears. How many ships were out there? Hundreds, if not thousands. He wondered what General Guzzoni and those running Italy’s war really believed. Could they honestly think it possible to throw the Allies back into the sea? There were some quarter of a million in the Italian Sixth Army, but while that was no small number, a large proportion were either too young or too old to be front-line soldiers. Many men in his own 2nd Company were twitchy. Twitchy and under-equipped. There were only nine Bren light machine-guns across the three platoons, not the twelve they were supposed to have. The Support Company was, on paper, supposed to have eighteen 45mm mortars, but there were only twelve. The rifles issued to the men were mixed: some were 7.35mm calibre, others were 6.5mm, underpowered. There were not enough of either, so three men in each platoon had been given 6.5mm carbines, which were even less effective than the longer-barrelled rifles. Two sizes of ammunition caused problems, and were easy to mix up, but Colonel Rizzini, the battalion commander, had insisted that both calibres be spread across each section and platoon rather than allocating one platoon the 7.35 and another the 6.5. ‘It is not fair to leave any one platoon underarmed,’ he had said. ‘It would be bad for morale.’

  Togliatti reckoned the colonel had a point, but on the other hand, accidents involving the wrong ammunition – as had happened, fatally, a week earlier – did little to improve morale. It did not help that most of his men were reluctant soldiers with no combat experience – the majority of those who had fought in North Africa had been forced to surrender and were now languishing in Allied prisoner-of-war camps. Most of those in Russia had been killed or captured. Only a lucky few, like himself and Riccio, had been wounded and evacuated home. Spared to fight another day.

  The position they had taken up in the night was, however, a good one. Straddling the winding road that led north, towards Catania, they were perched on a low ridge that overlooked the coast, a few kilometres to their left. A number of concrete bunkers and blockhouses had been built on either side of the road and above, as the ground rose to a high and imposing rocky ridge. These were connected by zigzagging trenches. There were machine-gun nests and mortar pits, while in front were coils of wire and even a few anti-tank and anti-personnel mines.

  Togliatti stood beside one of the blockhouses and glanced to the sea, then back down the road, to the south. The line of fire was clear, while the blockhouse tucked in behind a small jutting promontory a little way above had even clearer views of the advancing enemy. All in all, he reckoned, this was a good defensive position. But so what? What could they do? Hold off the enemy’s advance forces. And then what? The enemy would bring in reinforcements, call in the guns and their overwhelming air power, which Riccio had told him about and which Togliatti had seen this past week. Something was still smoking near Catania, a vivid reminder that Allied bombers had pounded the city yet again. He could naval guns booming in the distance and aircraft engines from somewhere to the south.

  So they would fight, for an hour, a day, maybe even two, holding off the Allied advance, only to retreat, or even surrender, the dead and wounded lying all around. Togliatti rubbed his eyes. What was the point? Wouldn’t it be better to hoist the white flag as soon as the first Allied troops arrived? Yes, of course it would. And yet he knew he would not. Honour would not allow it.

  6.20 a.m. A Company of the 2nd Battalion, Yorks Rangers, was now approaching the small town of Cassibile. Captain Fauvel, with 2 and 3 Platoons, had joined them at the enemy gun site and they had cut across a series of large, dense orange groves to join the road clearly marked on their maps that led from How Green beach directly to the town.

  Tanner had expected to find a column of Rangers already marching down the road, but it was empty; from the direction of the beaches, distant shell and small-arms fire could be heard, but it seemed unlikely that the Rangers were still caught up in the fighting.

  ‘Where the bloody hell is the rest of the battalion?’ he said to Fauvel and Sykes, as they reached the dusty road that led to Cassibile.

  ‘Maybe they’re already there,’ said Fauvel.

  ‘No,’ said Tanner. ‘Look at the road. You’d see a mass of boot prints if they were.’

  ‘Fair point.’ Fauvel looked back down the track as the platoons emerged onto the edge of the road.

  Tanner was gazing towards Cassibile. Citrus groves lined either side of the road, which ran dead straight for about two hundred yards and then veered sharply to the right, heading directly into the town. He signalled to the men to continue and they marched on. All seemed quiet, apart from occasional birdsong, the air still between the dense groves. Not a soul could be seen. Tanner gripped his Beretta.

  Suddenly an Italian fighter plane swooped over them from the north, low, and opened fire, machine-gun bullets peppering the ground in two lines. Tanner dived into the trees, then, as it passed, hurried back out again and saw it climbing and banking towards the ridge away to the west.

  ‘Bastard!’ he muttered, then ran
down the road. ‘Anyone hit?’ he called. ‘Anyone hurt?’

  A number had been struck by stone splinters, but only two had been hit by the Macchi’s bullets. One, a private in 3 Platoon, was already dead, while the other lay bleeding by the side of the road, his mates desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood from his stomach.

  It was Corporal Baxter, one of Lieutenant Harker’s section commanders. Blood was trickling from his mouth and his hands were red where he had clutched his wound. His eyes were wild, his lips trembling.

  ‘All right, Bill,’ said Tanner. ‘Steady there. We’ll have you sorted in no time.’

  Sergeant Hepworth squatted beside him, ripping open another field dressing.

  ‘Mother,’ called Baxter. He suddenly gripped Hepworth’s arm. ‘I don’t want to die, Hep. Not here. Don’t let me die.’

  ‘Course I won’t, Bill,’ said Hepworth.

  Tanner heard the sound of an aero engine and then the Macchi was over them again, but this time heading out to sea. They all ducked, but the Italian fighter was swiftly followed by two Spitfires, blazing machine-gun and cannon fire. A loud crack, then an explosion. The men cheered.

  ‘He’s gone into the sea, sir,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Serves him bloody well right,’ muttered Tanner, then looked down at Baxter. The colour had drained from his face, replaced by a waxy white that Tanner knew only too well. Baxter began to spasm.

  ‘All right, Bill, all right, lad,’ said Hepworth. Baxter’s hand released its grip, his arm dropping to his side, then he gurgled, let out one last gasp and died.

  ‘Damn it all!’ Hepworth cursed. ‘He was a bloody good man, was Bill.’