Global Conflict

by Tom Zola

  "Allora sto tranquillo!" he shouted to the men over there. Suddenly the machine gun started to fire again. Tonti stumbled, overturned, and slipped back to the bottom of the ditch. The Germans stared in shock at the gaping bullet wounds that colored the light blue suit of the Primo Capitano dark red. No pulse could be felt – Tonti was dead. On the other side of the street, a roar of laughter started.

  "Fuckin' moron!" one who must have had tears in his eyes from laughing yelled.

  The Germans looked at each other with ice-cold faces and eyes filled with hatred. Sieglinde's features had frozen to stone, her eyes shimmering. She couldn't take her eyes off the dead man. Berning grabbed her hand and nodded to her. "We'll be okay," he had wanted to say, but he wasn't so sure about that. Apparently, however, the wordless gesture was enough, because Sieglinde relaxed noticeably. She tried to smile at Berning, as if to say, "Yeah, we'll be fine."

  But Berning's heart was beating and beating, even threatening to spin over. He didn't want to die in the pampas of Sicily!

  Like the situation couldn't have gotten any worse... suddenly it got worse. Over on the other side, an engine started. Clattering crawler tracks were set in motion. The whole street and ditch vibrated as a steel monster rolled out of its position.

  Donner lay flat on the ground and gently crouched up the ditch wall. When he reached the edge, he took a look. He immediately retracted and glided back down to the others.

  "Two Shermans over by the trees," he said in a quiet way. "Plus a machine gun nest plus about twenty men." Donner looked at his fighting companions for a moment, then breathed out resignedly and lowered his gaze. It worked for the lieutenant. An anxious twitch scurried across his lips.

  "Men," he whispered. "I think that's it. We'll never get out of here. Put down your weapons and get out of the ditch!"

  The Flak man and the other soldier nodded diligently and dumped their weapons as ordered. But Berning just stared at the lieutenant.

  What? was the only question that dominated his mind at that very moment. You stunner! What about "fighting till the end," Herr Leutnant? We never give up? We'll kill them all! With knives and fists! And who surrenders gets shot? Ha!

  So that's what it's supposed to be? Great heroic speech given, then marched for an hour, then the end? You ridiculous Piefke!

  Of course he was happy about Donner's decision – it was at least better than battling tanks with knives and fists. But at that moment he simply could not get over how clearly the lieutenant violated his own principles, defended with fiery speeches. But Donner meant business. The lieutenant laid down his weapon in the grass too, then he rose with a look like a dog who had done something wrong. With his head bowed, he marched up the ditch and threw his hands into the air. Sieglinde's look for help found Berning, but he smiled appeasingly and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  "It'll be all right," he whispered. "We can't do anything more anyway."

  Donner reached the top of the ditch and stepped onto the road. There he stood still with his hands high up.

  "So, these greaseballs give up?" an English voice cawed.

  "Man, fuck it," another, indifferent voice pushed its way into the background noise. The machine gun went off again.

  Berning could only just see Donner's head out of the ditch, which at that moment burst apart like a watermelon. The soldier behind him also collapsed immediately.

  The Flak man poured back into the ditch. A bullet bore into his left forearm, then he slipped and bent his foot. A terrible whip sounded as his Achilles tendon ruptured. In pain, the man cried out. He bent like an infant in the womb.

  Berning was paralyzed with fear. Sweat flowed down his body in streams, gathering under the bandages that were already itching and chafing. Sieglinde froze too.

  Once again the Americans laughed loudly. "Three wasted, two to go!" yelled one.

  Sieglinde threw herself at Berning. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Berning, however, sat in the grass as if petrified, unable to stir a fiber of his body, unable to grasp a clear thought. He had not yet comprehended the full extent of their dangerous situation. The Flak man moaned quietly and contorted his face into a mask of cruel pain.

  Seconds passed without the enemy making any more noises. Berning slowly released himself from Sieglinde's grip and pushed her aside. He embraced his weapon while not losing sight of the top of the ditch slope.

  What are those bastards doing now? His mind was racing after a thousand of thoughts. Did they approach the trench? Or would they just wait and see? Berning, Sieglinde, and the wounded Flak soldier had become playthings of the Americans, nothing more. Their life depended on the mood and the good will of some cocky GIs. It would be easy for the Americans to simply fill the trench with grenades, but apparently they wanted to play with their victims. The Germans had become experimental rats in a cage, powerless at their own fate – at the mercy of complete strangers.

  "Hey, dickhead!" an almost youthful voice shouted in English from over there. "We just want your girl! Wanna make bum-bum! Okay?” Apparently they had recognized the German uniform, because the Americans no longer spoke Italian.

  Sieglinde, who probably understood a bit of English – or at least correctly interpreted the lurid grunt that had accompanied the youthful voice, was startled. Then she buried her face in her hands. She cried bitterly. Meanwhile, the Flak man fished for a submachine gun and a magazine, stuffed it into the gun, and loaded it. With his lips pressed together, he looked up at the slope of the trench. Slowly, the first sunbeams blinked over it.

  Berning's thoughts chased each other, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't think of a way out. They were trapped.

  Damnit! Any normal Yank would just take me prisoner, but I have to get to the one frigging butcher-mason-murderer-company of the US Army, he scolded internally. But the gallows humor pushed his fear away only for milliseconds.

  "Just give up!" the youthful voice resounded in English. "We won't shoot! Promise! We just want your girl!"

  Laughter accompanied the shout, but Berning did not understand English and therefore did not know what they were demanding. Instead, he feverishly sought a way out. To his right, the ditch ended after twenty meters, to his left it ran a good eighty meters beside the road, before it came out there as well. There was no getting away from here!

  "We'll get you!" another Yank yelled exuberantly. He could hear the rattling of guns and equipment. With a bitter voice, the Flak man said that the Americans would now come for them. Berning pulled up his rifle and aimed for the edge of the trench. Only five rounds, plus repeating after each shot! What could he possibly do with it? Every GI had at least one semi-automatic weapon in his hand. And the fight that was about to begin would take place at a distance of twenty meters. The Germans didn't stand a chance. Berning briefly peered over to Donner's submachine gun, which lay a few meters beside him in the grass. But he didn't dare put his rifle away. So he was staring at the edge of the ditch slope. Something cracked at the top. Nothing was visible. Suddenly movement occurred next to him. Sieglinde had jumped up and leaped for Donner's submachine gun. She checked the weapon and magazine with great accuracy. With her eyes bloodshot, she came to the ready. Three weapons were now pointed at the edge of the ditch. The muzzles trembled. The wounded Flak man groaned faintly. There was movement up there, very clearly audible. It cracked. It rustled. But nothing was to be seen!

  Berning blinked. His eyes itched. And hurt. He kept his eyelids open as long as he could. With burning eyes, he stared at the top of the ditch. Somebody whispered upstairs. Then the rattling of guns again. They were very close, but still nothing was to be seen!

  Suddenly an American steel helmet looked over the edge of the trench. The Flak man, Sieglinde, and Berning fired immediately. The helmet disappeared behind the edge again. Small earth fountains tore humus and grass out of the ground at the top edge of the ditch. Berning repeated his rifle. The procedure just took a second. Too long! He pulled up his weapon again and blindly shot
into the whirl of dust and earth, where the American helmet had just been visible. Sieglinde shot away the entire magazine of her gun.

  In the middle of the German fire, another American with a submachine gun jumped forward, roared, and gave off a long burst of fire into the ditch before disappearing from Berning’s field of vision again. The Flak man screamed. Thumb-sized red holes covered his legs. A blink of an eye later, a hand grenade flew through the air in a high arc. It landed on the belly of the Flak soldier, who strained to lift his bright red head and desperately stared like a wildebeest in the face of the lion at that explosive device resting on his body. Berning threw himself to the right, and Sieglinde did the same. The Flak man turned himself, burying the grenade under his body. The explosion tore him into bloody pieces.

  Further detonations sounded.

  That's it! That's it! They must have thrown more grenades in the ditch! Berning pressed both hands against his head and waited for the end.

  Long moments crossed the land. Hectic shouts filled the air. Among all the detonations mingled the distant banging of cannons.

  Berning raised his head. There were not hand grenades! This thought came to his mind at the moment when one Sherman morphed into a big ball of flames on the street.

  A battle broke out, but apart from the fighting noise, it passed Berning by. He pressed his face into the pricking grass and was incapable of anything. He just let things happen around him. His hand searched and found Sieglinde's. She squeezed his. She trembled all over her body, but she calmed down noticeably when Berning wrapped an arm around her. Sieglinde snuggled up to him like a cat.

  The second Sherman blew up with a loud roar. The Americans retreated. Under MG fire, they set off in a southwesterly direction. But it wasn't just here on the road that the battle raged. The whole plain, littered with dry scrubs, witnessed a tank battle at that very moment. Soon US Sherman tanks were on the run, while countless of their brothers remained burning in the sun of Sicily. From northeast, beige-painted Tiger tanks appeared on the mountain ranges.

  Half an hour passed in which Sieglinde and Berning lay there and waited for things to happen. She clung to him with all her might, and the physical contact was also a blessing for Berning. Subtle red specks covered Sieglinde’s nurse clothing.

  More time passed by before finally a tank roared thunderously up the road, stopping at the level of the two Germans. Italian voices sounded as men audibly got out of the combat vehicle to investigate the former position of the Americans.

  Berning slowly rose. Sieglinde looked at him pleadingly. He grabbed the back of her head, gently stroked her hair, and kissed her on the forehead.

  "Everything's gonna be okay now," he said under his breath. "It's over." She nodded apathetically.

  Berning took Sieglinde by the hand and climbed out of the ditch with her, leaving behind the ripped corpses of Donner and the others. On the road there was a Tiger tank without a Balkenkreuz on it – this tank was under Italian command. Berning had already heard that the Italians were now producing German weapons under license, but he hadn't seen anything of it so far.

  The tank commander, a beardless man with black hair, looked out of his turret hatch. When he saw the sergeant and the nurse, he was frightened at first, but then he slumped down calmly. It must have taken him a moment to recognize the German uniform.

  "Ciao Germans!" the man shouted in bad German, beaming with joy. "Yo, Tigre's a good Carro Armato! But engines bad! How are you?"

  Berning shrugged his shoulders, and only then did he realize the strong, dull pain that was emanating from his injured shoulder. He unbuttoned his field blouse and shirt and uncovered the bandage. It was soaked in fresh blood.

  "See, see," commented the Italian. With his hand, he formed a telephone receiver, then he disappeared into the turret of his tank. Berning used the moment to let his gaze wander across the plain, while Sieglinde still held his hand tightly.

  Italian tanks were now driving everywhere. Berning counted four Tigers and four Panzer IVs. The rest was of Italian origin.

  Sure, Berning said to himself, counting the months back to Hitler's death. It all doesn't happen that fast.

  Suddenly the Tiger commander stretched himself out of his hatch again. In the background, two Italian soldiers searched the corpses of killed Americans.

  "Wait here. Germans are coming for you."

  *

  One hour later, Berning was lying on a bed in a Wehrmacht ambulance. Sieglinde sat next to him and held his hand. While the truck rumbled along a winding road and moved away from the front line that split Sicily in two halves with every second, she looked him in the face with her water-blue eyes. She smiled gently and wiped a strand off Berning's face. He exhaled loudly in a mixture of relief and exhaustion. For him, the war was interrupted for another time. The wound on his shoulder was wide open again. It needed urgent treatment. The ambulance was ordered to bring Berning directly to Messina, from where all the wounded were shipped to the Italian mainland, while hourly freighters with fresh troops reached the port in the North of Sicily. Field Marshal Kesselring and Chancellor von Witzleben wanted to hold Sicily at all costs, not to mention the Duce Mussolini. Nevertheless, the Adolf Hitler Sanatorium was closed for the time being, and Sieglinde also had to see where she was headed now. The sergeant of the Medical Service, who was sitting in the driver's cabin, had promised to ask her about the whereabouts of the Spa Battalion 1 once they reached Messina. So that's where she and Berning would part company.

  Sieglinde looked Berning in the eye. He looked back and smiled gently. His injuries burned like hell, but right now it was fine.

  Sieglinde slowly leaned towards him. He lost himself in her eyes, which seemed as deep as infinity. Her delicate fingers felt pleasantly warm in his hands. She kept leaning forward. Her breasts, which loomed under her nursing dress, touched Berning's body. They were soft as a pillow. Sieglinde bent over even further. Their faces were only a few inches apart. She closed her eyes, puckered her lips, and let them rest on his.

  In a wild rapture, Berning shot up and pushed Sieglinde away so that she almost fell from her seat.

  "How dare you?" he yelled. "I got a girl at home!"

  She stared at him in amazement. Her eyes became glassy. A world collapsed for her.

  "I ... I ..." she stammered in a fragile voice.

  "I think you're crazy," Berning hissed and wiped his mouth.

  "But... I thought you liked me."

  "No! How did you come up with something like that?"

  A broken look struck an angry one. Berning shook his head vehemently, then turned his back on her.

  "I don't believe this! Godforsaken dame!" he grumbled and closed his eyes.

  Segi Point, Solomon Islands (GB), July 7th, 1943

  The Japanese, who fought in such an unusual way at Segi Point, had endured up to July 5th against always newly-landing forces of the US Navy as well as the US Army. Even concentrated air raids could not break the enemy resistance. Only the high losses caused by the continuous fighting on the ground as well as the apparently desolate supply situation of the Japanese with medicines, food, and ammunition forced the enemy to give way and leave Segi Point to the Americans.

  So finally the pioneers could go to work and build the airfield which was so important for all further operations in the area. Nevertheless, the Japanese had already caused a delay in American plans – and New Georgia was still partly in enemy hands. Any day that the Japanese could stay there longer would further delay the isolation of the important Rabaul Fortress and keep the Japanese in the game longer.

  While the pioneers were working on the large open space with all kinds of construction machines, and the sounds of metal hitting each other echoed over the plain, Roebuck and Pizza had sought shelter in the shade of a palm tree on the adjacent edge of the forest.

  Although that palm tree stretched its huge fan leaves like an umbrella around the two Marine Raiders, they sweated all over their bodies. The unbridled h
eat made their skin shine in the light. They had unbuttoned their field blouses; Pizza had also cut off the sleeves. But even if they would completely have exposed themselves, it would still have been too hot on their bare skin.

  Both silently followed their own thoughts. Roebuck decided to write a letter to his wife in the course of the week. Her picture jumped into life in front of his mind's eye. Marie was beautiful, curvaceous, with a firm bosom. The images she sent him over and over again delighted and tormented him at the same time. How he'd love to be home with her now! How he'd love to make love to her! Or just be with her; that would be enough for him right now.

  Batman finally came running with a photo in his hand. He panted.

  "What's up, Batman?" Roebuck asked impassive.

  "I asked around a bit about the photo," he proclaimed.

  "What photo?"

  "The picture with the Krauts on it."

  Pizza and Roebuck looked up. Juergens enjoyed for a moment the undivided attention he now had, then he explained. "The Captain of 3rd Platoon is as well-read as a fucking teacher. I showed him the picture. He says the guy on the left is a general of the Germans. Nehring is his name."

  "And who is that?"

  Juergens looked at his fellow Marine Raiders. After a few seconds, he shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know."

  "Great news, Batman. Really, great news." Pizza's sarcasm was swelling out of every syllable.

  North of Polistena, Italy, July 26th, 1943

  The Axis powers gathered all the wounded of the Battle of Sicily initially in gigantic military hospital cities which, like tumors, had wrapped themselves around Polistena. This army of military hospitals sucked the town at the foot of the Sila mountains dry like a vampire a body full of blood.

  The battle for the island had already caused 26,000 wounded, and the majority of them were temporarily kept in Polistena before being transported to military hospitals spread all over Italy.