by Tom Zola
Paratroopers! Berning was paralyzed for the moment. Without a doubt, the enemy wanted to capture General Hube.
Berning hobbled to the locker, tore open the door leaf, and rummaged through a mountain of clothes that the obese sergeant had stuffed into it yesterday. He finally found something to wear – his field grey uniform – and put on his blouse and pants.
Slowly his roommate got up, too. He spat contemptuously. His arms and face were cut by glass fragments.
"We're under attack!" Berning yelled.
"Shit," the fat one coughed.
But Berning didn't hear him anymore. While a violent stimulus of pain that felt like being stabbed flashed in his injured shoulder, he suppressed an outcry and limped out into the hallway, where now everywhere doors were ripped open and bewildered-looking people showed themselves.
"We're under attack!" Berning yelled again. "Paratroopers!" At that moment, he wondered if it had been clever to put on his uniform instead of his spa clothes.
Wild screaming broke loose. People panicked, sprinting down the aisle and running each other over. Berning made his way through the crowd.
He had only one goal: Get out of the block, into the olive grove, and then keep a low profile. Tomorrow morning, he'd see where he was. But he did not want to run into the arms of an American commando unit in total darkness, which would certainly not be here to take prisoners. Tomorrow morning, if the situation required it, he could still surrender to a regular enemy unit. Or let the Germans collect him – depending on who won.
When Berning stormed down the stairwell, he was not unaware that the bombing of the sanatorium had stopped. Instead, handgun clamor flared up outside. The firing of rifles and submachine guns resounded through the corridors of the block. Italian and German shouts mixed to a hectic confusion. Even the AA-guns were still barking.
Berning stumbled out of the main entrance and ran towards the bombed-out sports field amidst a cluster of people. Muzzle flashes gleamed at the excavation site. Bright flashes of light danced around the grey shades of the walls lurking in darkness. One patient was pierced by a projectile and went to the ground howling. The rest pushed themselves apart and ran screaming in all directions.
Someone grazed Berning's shoulder. A violent pain whipped through his arm and made him yell. Then the slowly-healing penetrating gunshot wound in his thigh became noticeable and paralyzed him for the blink of a second. Berning grabbed the injured leg and gritted his teeth so hard that he began to feel a pain there as well. With a powerless moan, he stretched his head upwards and looked around. Fleeing wounded and nurses became shadows in the darkness. Somewhere, a woman screamed. Now the background noise was reigned by the shootout taking place all over the site. In the north and in the south, carbines fired. Suddenly a machine gun started buzzing. Berning couldn't identify the sound, but it surely wasn't a German weapon. With constant rattling, the MG sent its bullets over the sanatorium grounds.
Berning looked behind him over to the blocks. In the flickering flashlights of the bellowing AA-guns, which still weaved long filaments into the sky, as well as in the light of the lamps still burning in the rooms inside the blocks, Berning received a visual idea of what was going on. German soldiers, partly only half-dressed, stormed outside through the entrance door of the one block General Hube had seized for his staff with machine guns in their fists. Most of them immediately collapsed in a hail of bullets. A few, however, jumped into cover behind an Einheits-PKW car and returned fire.
At this very moment, the anti-aircraft gun next to the block abruptly went silent. The gunner held his chest, then tilted sideways from his seat. His comrades noticed the debacle and dragged the man over to the wall of the building, where they bent over him worriedly. Berning understood that enemy commandos who came right out of the olive grove were about to overrun every German and Italian resistance. He pulled himself together and turned to the east, where no fighting noise could be heard or muzzle flashes could be seen. One German anti-aircraft gun was still firing, it was positioned somewhat away from the buildings, but the sounds had changed. Instead of a dull, flowing staccato, the racket it made while shooting now was much higher. The clanking and clattering of impacting projectiles followed on its heels. The anti-aircraft gun had joined ground combat. But now engines were humming in the distance. Vehicles were approaching at great speed. More guns were buzzing. Small fireballs danced over the outer wall of Hube's block. Inside, the lights were wavering.
Without wondering how the Anglo-Americans deployed vehicles twenty kilometers behind the front line, Berning bit his lower lip and hurried off as fast as his maltreated body would allow. He limped eastwards, quickly vanishing into darkness. While screams still reverberated through the night and the firefight in his back slowly subsided, he reached hilly terrain with thorny scrubs.
He kept limping, groping with his hands in front of his body so as not to run into any obstacles. He gasped and grunted because of the vast exertion the brief sprint meant for him. His breathing was fast, and his pulse was pounding like a sewing machine in his throat. His skull was heating. Berning finally slowed down, had to slow down. His shoulder was burning; if he was unlucky, the wound had opened again under the strain. His thigh had turned into a radiator: as hard as stone and as hot as a blast furnace. Finally the leg locked itself against any further movement. Thus Berning had to stop. Only now did he really feel how much the short hurry had consumed him. His pharynx was burning, and his mucous membranes were swollen. He felt like he had a jellyfish in his mouth. His wounds were pounding. A strong stitch on the side began, as if someone had rammed a shiv between his ribs. Slowly, very slowly, his breathing and pulse calmed down. Berning panted more quietly now.
Without a warning, something cracked right in front of him. Before Berning could have reacted, a dark figure emerged from the gloom and pressed the muzzle of a submachine gun against Berning's chest. The sergeant let out a brief scream and threw his hands in the air. His feet – he only wore wool socks – got entangled, then he stumbled and landed on his bottom. But the gun didn't let go of him. The stranger gently pressed the gun's muzzle against Berning's thorax, thus pushing Berning against the ground. He groaned in pain and begged for his life: "No, no, please, no!" He almost sobbed. Fear of death seized him, killing the last remains of his courage, made him wait petrified whether the stranger would kill him or let him live. Suddenly the pressure the cold muzzle exerted on his body eased, then the supposed assailant took the weapon back.
"Name? Rank?" a harsh voice demanded that clearly was of Holstein origin.
"B...B...Berning. Unteroffizier Berning."
"All right. I'm Lieutenant Donner. On your feet, Unteroffizier. From now on, you are under my command! We still have a bone to pick with the Americans, and I need every man for that. Follow me!"
Berning stared at his opposite in disbelief, but that Donner guy turned away and headed east. Berning hesitated, then rose and trotted after him.
*
Lieutenant Donner, who wore the blue clothes of the sanatorium and was armed with a MP40, marched straight through a field of razor-sharp, withered bushes that had thrown their dying branches like nets to all sides. They pricked Berning, scratching him bloody. Limping and mutely cursing, he kept pace.
This Donner guy, who he had gotten to know so far exclusively by his voice, seemed to be nobody to tangle with. Over the years, Berning had developed a nose in the military for identifying such people. Such pappendorfish slave-drivers and wannabe heroes.
He reluctantly let the lieutenant lead him behind a hill into a hollow. There sat three other figures, one of them all dressed in white, so that she herself shimmered in the dark.
"I found one more," Lieutenant Donner announced. "But I'm afraid the so-called Allies are now swarming all over the site, so we'll move as soon as Tonti gets back."
The figures nodded eagerly.
"Sieglinde, would you please be so kind as to surrender your weapon to the sergeant here?" Donner p
ointed to Berning, who only now realized who the person in white was.
"Sieglinde?" he asked into the darkness.
She seemed to recognize his voice immediately. "Herr Unteroffizier Berning?"
"Yes! It's Franz!"
"Oh, this is a joyful surprise."
She threw herself at Berning so fast that he didn't know what happened to him. He first raised his hands as if he would surrender; but then, when he realized that she was clinging more and more tightly to him, pressing her head against his chest and crying softly, he laid one hand on her back.
Uncertain of what to do, he patted her until Sieglinde slowly let go of him. She finally put the warm wood of a K98k carbine into Berning's hands.
"I only have the five bullets in my rifle," she sighed in a trembling voice.
Berning nodded.
"Listen!" Donner drew attention to himself. "The enemy has launched a comprehensive offensive in the night and has finally broken out of his beach heads at Gela and Licata. Armored units are already advancing on Piazza Armerina and are probably already passing us, as far as the information from our friend from the Flak goes."
A guy wearing a complete uniform of the Wehrmacht next to Sieglinde tapped the metal of his submachine gun with his fingers while he nodded.
"From the looks of it, they've picked up Hube's command post. But let's wait and see what Tonti has to say."
"Shouldn’t he be back already?" asked the Flak soldier.
Donner checked his wristwatch, then he replied: "We wait another 15 minutes, then we march off."
"I don't trust the Avantis," one of the others whispered.
"Neither do I." Donner grinned. "But as my old Scharführer always said, I would even defend my homeland with sticks and stones if there were nothing else. Now it's about their homeland – and they won't give it up as easily as they did with Africa."
Berning immediately felt the admiring glances that Donner's revelation had triggered in the two comrades. The Flak soldier put his thoughts into words: "You were in the Waffen SS?"
"Correct. I'm a Untersturmführer – at least I was one up to von Witzleben's General Decree that forced a lieutenant rank on me. But don't worry, I haven't forgotten where I come from!"
Donner showed his teeth shining in the darkness. Then he continued with the issuing of orders. "On the situation: I assume that the enemy has already sealed the deal and that we are therefore in the mousetrap. But I am sure Kesselring will answer the enemy advance at dawn with a massive counterattack that will throw the Allies back to the beaches. We got 42 Tiger panzers on the island, and as many other tanks. So we are just fine."
Berning wondered how much was really fine – and for whom. His wounds also became more and more unpleasant again.
Probably some stitches were ripped open by the events of the night, but he did not dare to reach under his bandage and try to feel if there was blood. Instead, he listened to Donner's explanations with a queasy feeling. I wish he'd just stayed in bed!
"Our task must therefore be to mar the enemy wherever possible in order to contribute to the overall success of our troops here in Sicily. First, we march a wide circle around the site and pick up everyone who has escaped the enemy. We need every man; we also need weapons, ammunition, food. If, contrary to expectations, Kesselring's offensive should be delayed or get stuck somewhere, we must expect to be able to endure several days or weeks on our own.
As long as we stay behind enemy lines, we contribute to the final victory where we can. The nature and strength of the enemy must be clarified. Are we dealing with Britons? Or with Yanks? Heavy weapons? Tanks? Clarify all this whenever possible.
Otherwise we concentrate on guerilla attacks against their supply lines or scattered units. As soon as we meet our own regular troops, we get ourselves attached and help to throw the enemy off the island for good.
“So be prepared to be on your feet a lot in the near future. Holiday season is over."
"Herr Leutnant?" Berning breathed barely audibly.
"Yes?"
Berning hemmed and hawed, barely daring to speak. He had to struggle with every word: "I am badly wounded ... I can hardly move ..."
Despite the gloom, the sergeant realized that Donner didn't like this statement at all. He replied, "I have a collapsed lung. Now what?"
Both stared at each other. Berning didn't know what to say.
"Listen to me, Herr Unteroffizier!" Donner raised his voice and lived up to its name, which literally translated to thunder. "We're not in some fucking Russian dump here. This is Europe! Our home! If the enemy gets to establish himself here, we'll be in a lot of trouble. Now it's time to grit our teeth and act. The Reich expects the utmost from every single German man to decide this battle in our favor. So swallow the tears and pull yourself together! It's fighting or death! With a rifle butt, a dagger, or pure fists, if necessary. From now on, we will defend every meter of ground! We won't retreat until the last man standing! Do you understand me?"
Berning owed the lieutenant an answer. Looking for help, his gaze got stuck on Sieglinde, who just sat there and stayed quiet. Finally he begged, "I just thought..." He was aggressively interrupted by Donner. "Leave the thinking to the horses, they have a bigger head. Now let's do this, men!"
"... Yes..." Berning returned meekly.
"Well then." Donner snorted contemptuously. "Also, keep your eyes open for any civilians. We have to make sure we put the nurse somewhere."
Outraged, Sieglinde stood up.
"Well, listen! I can also fight for the Reich," she demanded, but Donner beckoned.
"Your fighting spirit is in all its glory, Fräulein, but war is not for girls. We better make sure you make it to the rear echelon. Your nursing skills soon will be needed there."
Sieglinde seemed to want to rebel further, but remained silent in the end.
Minutes went by. Suddenly a figure jumped over the crest, doing long leaps. The men in the hollow communicated wordlessly coming to the ready. But then the Flak man lowered his MP. Instead, he claimed, "That's Tonti! I can tell the Itakas from afar by their lousy way of walking."
The Germans suppressed a laugh. Like a snake, the Italian Primo Capitano slid down the slope into the hollow. He just had a pistol with him and was otherwise wrapped in sleeping clothes. Panting, he reached Donner and immediately explained the situation to him in German, revealing a strong accent: "All Americans up there. All fights over. No sign of the general. All the Germans surrendered."
"Pah!" Donner spat out disdainfully. "Fucking cowards!"
The Flak man signaled consent.
"They should all be shot!" An incredible hatred foamed out of Donner that truly frightened Berning.
Oh no, he begged inside.
Donner continued with brutish loathing pouring out of him like sweat: "Anyone who dares to surrender or run away should be shot! Shoot them all! Surrender is cowardice before the enemy and betrayal of the Reich, nothing else! Damn dogs!" He spewed his words full of abhorrence and anger. Berning heard the officer grinding his teeth after he had finished his hateful tirade – and for a moment, he was overcome by the fear that Donner was thinking about assaulting the Americans just to execute the prisoners – the cowards. But the lieutenant looked up. "Primo Capitano, I cannot give you any orders, but I would be delighted if you'd accompany us. We're going to make sure we outwit the American fools."
Tonti agreed.
"Well, then! Follow me!" Donner left the hollow to the northeast. The rest rose and followed him without exchanging a single word.
Oh no, Berning sighed again, and then he started moving too.
*
They had been on the road for about an hour, without happening across the enemy, without meeting any friendlies, without encountering anything at all.
Slowly the night cleared up. The first glimmer of light of the day already rose above the horizon and bathed the landscape of Sicily in whitish splendor. Bone-dry dust lay in the air and scratched Berning's lungs a
s he limped and tried to keep up – but his leg hurt more and more. It would fail sooner or later.
Slowly it dawned on Berning that they were entrapped. In all four directions, guns thundered as the battle for the island raged. Artificial lightning flashed across the grey sky, and fires shone blood-red in the distance. The Americans must have pushed halfway across the island in a maniacal advance, simultaneously attacking Hube's command post to chop off the head of the German troops, and now trying to hold the land they had gained.
Ducked, the colorful group approached a dusty road that roughly led from south to north in the light of dusk. It meandered in both directions across the hilly terrain like a string. Dry scrubs and dry grass dominated the landscape alongside the road.
The many plants with their light green, almost white leaves gave the island at the tip of the Italian boot its typical Mediterranean occurrence, as did the single standing cork oaks, whose meagre leaf canopies reminded one of deer antlers.
Suddenly a machine gun rattled across the street. The muzzle flash twinkled in a small grove of cork oaks. The Germans and the Italian immediately jumped into the ditch beside the road.
Berning pulled Sieglinde with him and gently pressed her into the dry grass so that nothing would happen to her. Whirring bullets chased over the heads of the small group, then the fire ebbed as fast as it had come.
Silence. Seconds passed.
Tense, the men looked at each other in the ditch. They put their fingers over the triggers of their guns. As Donner seemed to evaluate their options, Berning started to be afraid of the lieutenant coming up with some sort of suicide mission.
Suddenly Donner grinned, apparently satisfied with the results of his thoughts, before he pointed to Berning and ordered: "You..." He didn't get any further, because from across the street, voices suddenly came over to them: "Ciao, siamo italiani!" That was Italian, not English.
As if by magic, the tension was taken away from the mixed fighting community. Tonti breathed out, then he smiled broadly and climbed up the ditch.