The Devil's Pact (2013)

by James Holland

  Still the Italians came forward. Wiseman watched the mortar shells explode, saw men flung into the air and falling to the ground, the line disappearing behind clouds of smoke and grit, then emerging again. He was conscious that the heavy naval bombardment had stopped and now Patton growled, ‘Where the hell is the naval forward observation officer?’

  The Navy FOO was, apparently, watching from a building a little way behind them.

  ‘I want his ass down here now,’ said Patton.

  Five minutes later, the FOO appeared, saluting sharply.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’

  ‘Lieutenant Cramer, sir.’

  ‘Then tell me, Cramer, why the hell have your guns stopped?’ Patton demanded.

  ‘They’re worried they’re going to hit our own men, sir,’ said the officer.

  ‘Horseshit,’ said Patton. ‘Those Eyeties are still a good thousand yards ahead of us. Get on to Hewitt and tell him I want fire poured down on them. And jump to it.’

  ‘Sir!’ replied the FOO, who immediately called up on his radio set.

  A few minutes later, shells were screaming overhead once more, so that naval and mortar shells were now bursting along the advance of the Italians. Wiseman watched what appeared to be a ripple of explosions, a line of rolling, erupting smoke and dust. He could not help feeling impressed. Italian artillery was firing in return, but the shells were intermittent, infrequent and inaccurate.

  Machine-guns were chattering and rattling between the din of the guns, but Wiseman was conscious of an intense sound of battle now further to the east. Tank rounds punctured the racket, booming above the mortars and small arms and occasional blast of an American antitank gun.

  ‘What’s going on over to the east?’ Patton asked Darby, who was talking on a field telephone.

  ‘Kraut tanks and infantry, sir. They’re getting close. I’ve got Captain Lyle holding the road with A and B Companies.’

  ‘Let’s go there,’ he said and, to Cramer, ‘You too.’ They got back into their vehicles and drove off. They found Lyle easily enough, at a CP in a building on the very edge of the town. Mortar crews were firing, but so too were two 37mm anti-tank guns that had been set up either side of the main road that led from Gela to the airfield.

  ‘Captain, your chinstrap is unbuckled,’ said Patton, as Lyle saluted.

  Wiseman smiled to himself. Jeez. The general was such a stickler. Who gave a damn about chinstraps in the middle of a battle? Well, obviously Patton did.

  ‘What’s the situation here?’ Patton now asked, binoculars once more to his eyes.

  ‘We’ve got a mixture of Eyetalians, sir, and Kraut armour. One tank broke through, but it withdrew again.’

  Patton rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Let’s get some naval help over here, too, then get ready for a counterattack.’ He turned to Cramer. ‘Lieutenant, I want five hundred six-inch rounds on this axis too. Kill every one of the Goddamn bastards.’

  Soon after, shells were hurtling over, screaming through the air. Wiseman had watched the enemy only around nine hundred yards away. He spotted several tanks – Panzer IVs by the look of them – moving into positions of cover. A tank shell whumped into a building behind them, but while others ducked at the impact, he noticed Patton did not flinch. There appeared to be some kind of shallow ravine in which the enemy troops were trying to shelter. Fools, thought Wiseman. Mortar shells soon found their range, the phosphorous exploding with a bright white flash. Moments later, they heard the screams and now a number of Italian troops were running out of the ravine, their hands on their heads, others staggering around in shock. A machine-gun opened fire and Wiseman watched a number topple over.

  ‘They’re surrendering,’ he said.

  ‘Now’s the time to go and get the bastards,’ Patton told Lyle. ‘Beat this rabble back and we can concentrate on the assault in the Twenty-sixth Infantry’s sector. I want this gap closed up, Goddamn it.’ He glanced at his watch, then turned to his radio man in the Jeep. ‘What news of Truscott at Licata?’

  ‘Situation stable, sir. Bridgehead secured, and no major counterattack.’

  ‘Good,’ said Patton, then turned to Colonel Darby. ‘And the situation is now under control here, Colonel.’

  ‘The enemy advance appears to be stalling, sir, I agree.’

  ‘How many men do you have here, Captain?’ he asked Lyle.

  ‘Around one-twenty, sir,’ Lyle replied.

  ‘It’s good to know that a few over a hundred stout and resolute American soldiers can halt a major counterattack by an Italian division. Now, take your men, Lyle, and complete the rout.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘I’m going to find Allen. I want this enemy counterattack beaten off and the bridgehead secured.’

  Into the vehicles again, back through the ghost-town of Gela. Enemy aircraft overhead, and anti-aircraft guns pumping shells into the sky. Wiseman watched black puffs exploding, peppering the azure blue. Shells screamed over from the ships out at sea. Noise, noise, noise. The stench of bodies rotting in the heat. Some dogs feeding on one, tugging at a limp leg. Jesus. Out onto the coast road. LCTs lying offshore, the beaches busy with activity. More sounds of battle to the north and further east, where they were headed.

  They were now alone, two vehicles beetling along the rough road. If the enemy suddenly burst through here … But nothing, and six miles down the coast they finally reached 1st Division Headquarters, an ad hoc scattering of vehicles, camouflage nets and foxholes. A limp flag, a green shield with a single red ‘1’ emblazoned upon it, had been erected. Roosevelt, the divisional executive officer, was there, but not Terry Allen, the divisional commander, who was conferring with 2nd Armored Division a little further along.

  Roosevelt gave the party a brief assessment of the situation. The German HG Division appeared to be carrying out the main thrust against them. German artillery was shelling their positions, and both tanks and infantry had made several attacks, but so far had been beaten back. American anti-tank guns and artillery were now dug in, while naval shelling continued.

  ‘We’re standing firm, sir,’ said Roosevelt.

  ‘I want you to do more than that, Teddy,’ said Patton. ‘I want the enemy killed and I want the gap between here and Gela closed. What the hell stopped you doing that last night?’

  ‘We didn’t have enough of our artillery and anti-tank guns ashore.’

  ‘You should have seen to it that they were given priority.’

  ‘They were, sir, but there was confusion on the beaches. Delays. The enemy counterattacked stronger than we expected.’

  ‘All right,’ said Patton, ‘but keep them firing at those bastards now.’

  A brief pause for some lunch from the stash of 1st Division rations already ashore, and then they were off once more, driving further along to 2nd Armored’s Headquarters. Wiseman was impressed by the number of Shermans, tank destroyers and half-tracks already ashore. More LCTs lay ramp-down on the beach, with piles of rations, ammunition and other supplies stacked up ready to be moved off. A German gun began desultory shelling of the position, but it was wildly inaccurate, most falling into the dunes between the American positions and the beach. General Allen was not there but they eventually met him soon after and had a roadside conference. Allen had sent anti-tank guns, tanks and infantry forward to meet the latest counterattack; a number of enemy tanks had been turned back. Earlier, he told Patton, he had been concerned, but now the situation was stabilizing once more.

  ‘Get that Goddamn gap closed, Terry,’ Patton told him.

  They were still conferring, maps spread out on the front of the Dodge, when a formation of bombers came over. Wiseman counted fourteen. Anti-aircraft gunners opened up, bombs fell on the beach, and Wiseman felt sand and grit patter on his helmet. Neither Patton nor Allen looked up. A moment later, the bombers were climbing and droning on, out of the fray.

  They headed back to Gela, pulled onto the beach and waited for a boat to collect them and take t
hem back to Monrovia. They arrived, drenched from sea spray, at around seven o’clock, and went immediately to the wardroom, which had been set up at Patton’s CP. The latest sitrep was delivered and read out. Gela had held, and the gap between the town and most of the 1st Division was finally closed. More than two thousand prisoners had been captured. Truscott’s bridgehead was not only secure but expanding. Further east, General Middleton’s 45th Division had taken the all-important Comiso airfield and already Allied aircraft were landing there and harrying the enemy.

  ‘I am well satisfied with command today, gentlemen,’ Patton announced to his staff.

  ‘I’m certain your presence had much to do with restoring the situation, General,’ said Gay.

  Patton nodded in acknowledgement. Wiseman felt sure Gay was right. Patton was a curious man in many ways, but his leadership had been exemplary that day.

  Patton now leaned forward on the map table. ‘So now we start advancing.’ He put a finger on the road that led north. ‘Here’s our axis of advance. The Brits can take Catania and we push north to the west of Etna, cutting off any enemy retreat through Messina.’ Now he turned to Wiseman. ‘And this is where your feller comes in, Colonel.’

  ‘He’s ready and waiting, sir.’

  ‘Good, because we need to get our asses up to Messina just as soon as we can before Adolf starts sending reinforcements across the Strait. Sooner we’re there, sooner we have this campaign sewn up.’ He looked at the map again. ‘General?’ he said, turning to Gay. ‘What’s the latest intel on Eyetie forces in the west of the island?’

  ‘The four coastal divisions are still there, General, the 207th, 202nd, 208th and 136th. So too are the Assietta and Aosta, although there are signs that the German Fifteenth Panzer Grenadier Division is on the move.’

  ‘Let those Krauts come,’ said Patton. ‘The more Germans we kill here the less we have to worry about later, but we expect the Italians to melt away, isn’t that right, Wiseman?’

  Wiseman cleared his throat. ‘General, Don Calogero Vizzini has told us he has the power to ensure this happens.’

  ‘Well, if he can, he’ll have done the cause of freedom a great service.’

  ‘It’s something of a gamble, sir, as was explained during the briefing we gave on our return from Sicily just over a month ago. To many he is the unofficial head man here on Sicily.’

  ‘I think we should be wary of depending too heavily on Vizzini,’ said Gay. ‘The Fascists have stamped down hard on the Mafia.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, sir,’ said Wiseman, ‘the Honourable Society is still very much a part of life on Sicily. Fascism may have made it more, er, discreet, but it has done nothing to eradicate it. Vizzini is head of an organization that reaches into every corner of Sicilian life.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Gay.

  ‘I saw it with my own eyes, sir. I’ll admit I can’t speak for the coastal regions, but in the central interior through which we travelled, Vizzini reigns supreme. He assured us Palermo would come over to us, too, once he gave the signal.’

  Patton nodded. ‘We’ll take Vizzini at his word. If his promises turn out to be hollow, we’ll just have to kill a whole load more Italians and that’ll mean diverting men and resources. But getting the Mafia on our side will make our job easier, and it’s a gamble we should take.’

  ‘Vizzini is waiting for our signal, sir.’

  ‘And what is the signal, Colonel?’ asked Admiral Hewitt.

  ‘We’re to fly over Villalba and drop a yellow flag with an L stitched onto it.’ He smiled. ‘Somewhat theatrical, I know, but it was Don Calogero’s suggestion. It’s something we knew we could deliver, so we felt obliged to agree to the request.’

  Admiral Hewitt chuckled. ‘And why L?’

  ‘L for libertà, sir.’

  ‘Freedom.’ Hewitt smiled. ‘Very good, Wiseman.’

  ‘Freedom from the Fascist yoke,’ said Patton. ‘Amen to that. Good. As soon as we have our bridgehead firmly secured, you get onto it, Wiseman.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Wiseman. An alliance with the Honourable Society. He wondered which was better for Sicily: Fascism or the return to power of the Mafia. He knew Patton liked to view the war as a moral crusade in which the Allies had God on their side, but he wondered about that. Still, it wasn’t his job to concern himself with such matters. His job was to help make sure the Allies won. Whether God was with them or not.

  12

  Around 8.30 p.m. Tanner crouched low beside some jutting rocks and peered through his binoculars. He was overlooking a narrow valley, maybe some two hundred yards wide, he guessed, and perhaps seventy-five deep. The road snaked down, ran along the valley floor, over a stone bridge, and then up the other side, dog-legging once before climbing on up the far slope and disappearing over the ridge. A mile or so beyond that was Sortino, but barring the way, as he could clearly see, was a row of defences. He could see at least six pillboxes, one tucked into the rocks on the dog-leg at the far side, one more on the road directly above, and four below the crest.

  Beside him, Sykes and Peploe peered through their own field glasses.

  ‘Mortar pits, MGs, wire,’ said Sykes. ‘Probably mines too. D’you think we might have a fight on our hands here?’

  ‘God knows,’ muttered Tanner. ‘They look prepared for a scrap, though.’

  ‘How wide do you think this position is?’ said Peploe. Tanner followed his gaze up the rising ground to the west. Above them ran a high, mountainous ridge. ‘How far is that? A mile or two?’

  Tanner looked east. They could no longer see the sea, which was now some six miles or more to their right. Between their current position and the coast, another road headed north, a route taken by 17th Brigade. ‘My guess is that this line is being held pretty consistently from the coast to that mountain ridge,’ he said. ‘Outflanking’s not going to be an option here.’

  ‘Night patrols to make sure?’ suggested Peploe.

  ‘Maybe, although they’ll know we’re here then. You get useful intelligence but someone always gives the game away. Personally, I’d go for surprise.’

  ‘Dawn attack, then,’ said Peploe.

  ‘I suggest we go in just as first light is creeping over and hammer them,’ said Tanner. He had taken out his map and was busily marking up the defences with a pencil.

  ‘And no barrage,’ said Peploe.

  ‘No,’ agreed Tanner.

  ‘What about enemy recce planes?’ said Sykes. ‘There’ve been a few over this afternoon.’

  ‘But they were flying pretty high,’ said Peploe. ‘There’s been nothing low over us and it’s getting dark now.’

  ‘All right,’ said Sykes. ‘Just thought I’d mention it.’

  ‘I think the major’s right, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘If we strike at dawn I reckon we’ll have a good chance of catching them on the hop. Even if they know we’re here, they won’t know when we’re going to strike. You know what it’s like that time of day – horrible to be fighting, with your eyes struggling to adjust. In any case, if we go in with a barrage, we’ll have to wait for the artillery.’

  ‘All right,’ said Peploe. ‘Are we agreed, then? Stan, you’re happy?’

  ‘Happy, sir?’ grinned Sykes. ‘I wouldn’t say that, but I agree with the plan.’

  ‘Good man,’ said Peploe. ‘Better report back to Creer, then.’

  The vanguard of the battalion was a mile back from the ridge of the valley, well clear of the view of the Italian positions. All along the sides of the road, the men were sitting or crouched, some brewing tea, but otherwise eating dry rations only, for fear that the smell of cooking would waft towards the Italians. They looked tired and hot and most were covered with dust, having marched all the way from the landing beaches the day before. None had much enjoyed the march, especially in the heat, loaded with packs, haversacks and webbing. Flies had been a constant pest, attracted to the sweat, and most had spent the day with dark damp patches on their shirts. The dust
kicked up by their boots had got everywhere – up noses, into eyes and hair. Tanner’s throat had been as dry as sand. The battalion had taken badly the withdrawal of their vehicles, and the men were still grumbling about it. Tanner was on their side: he’d enjoyed having the fifteen-hundredweights.

  They found Creer a few hundred yards back, at the side of the road, Battalion HQ vehicles parked up beneath the shade of the tree. And that was another thing that annoyed Tanner: Creer and Battalion HQ had vehicles when the rest of the battalion did not. It was as though Creer was rubbing their noses in it.

  ‘Well?’ said Creer, when he saw them.

  ‘The enemy seem fairly well dug in on the far side of the valley up ahead, sir,’ said Peploe, as Tanner hung back. Cicadas and crickets were chirruping loudly in the rapidly fading light. ‘Pillboxes, wire, possibly mines.’

  ‘Strength?’

  ‘Probably battalion, although I’d say only a company watching the road. We believe an infiltration assault at first light is probably the best option.’

  ‘What about artillery?’ asked Creer.

  ‘We thought without a barrage, sir.’

  Creer stroked his chin. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I’d feel happier having artillery.’

  ‘It takes away any surprise, though, sir.’

  Creer nodded thoughtfully, then spread out his map. ‘Why don’t we go in at first light as you suggest,’ he said, ‘but have the artillery supporting us in case we should need them?’

  ‘But do we have any artillery, sir?’ asked Tanner.

  ‘They’ll be here, Tanner,’ said Creer. ‘We’re temporarily attached to Sixty-ninth Brigade and they’re sending us two batteries of twenty-five-pounders. And we have our own mortars, of course.’

  ‘And they’ll be here by first light?’

  ‘Yes, Tanner,’ snapped Creer, impatience entering his voice.

  ‘What size attack, sir?’ asked Peploe.

  ‘Company. No time for broad-front attacks. Our objective is Sortino. The road is what we need to clear, so a frontal attack in that sector. A Company to lead.’