by Ray Lambert
Since the German vehicles could not stop to properly mop up our infantry, men were able to take cover until they passed; even though outgunned, they were still in place—and alive.
Even so, the fighting was desperate. I couldn’t keep up with the number of injuries and had to send back to the beachhead to ask for another doctor. We shifted position to get closer to one of the endangered companies and just kept working, funneling the men back to the regimental aid station as best we could.
Just as it looked as if things would go from desperate to catastrophic, a cannon company and their 105-millimeter howitzers appeared. The big guns fired point blank at the Jerries. Fifteen M4 tanks came up and joined the battle. The Boise turned her guns in our direction.
Within minutes—minutes that seemed like days—the battle turned. The Germans began to roll back around 0200.
It was too soon to declare victory. Even as the Germans retreated, dive bombers appeared to blunt our attack. My stretcher bearers worked past their limits, dragging the wounded back to safety. All the world around us seemed to be on fire; what wasn’t burning, smoked. A thick fog of burnt carbon and wheat hung over the fields.
The Germans gave up the attack that evening. It was hours before we managed to catch up with the wounded.
* * *
Earlier, Patton had decided to reinforce our front by bringing in more paratroopers and dropping them into the area. Unfortunately, that led to a horrific friendly fire incident. Apparently the word that they were coming did not reach everyone; thinking the planes overhead were German—there were still plenty around—antiaircraft guns took aim. Twenty-three transport planes were shot down; another thirty-seven were damaged. We lost about 10 percent of the force in one of the most horrific accidents of the war, certainly on Sicily.
* * *
The 1st Division wasn’t superhuman; we could be routed, bested, certainly wounded. We did, however, persist and persevere.
One important note: the 2nd Battalion medics never retreated; we just found a better location.
Joking aside, I don’t remember us actually moving backward during that engagement, as hectic and desperate as it became.
Going into battle, you know someone is going to die. But you always feel it is going to be someone else.
I dreaded sending the new guys out before they’d had time to get used to battle, and before I had a chance to judge what they could do and how much they could handle. It might take only a few hours to figure that out in battle, but I still felt protective. When you’re responsible for men and they get wounded, it can’t help but bother you.
I’m the guy who sent him out on that job.
After you’ve done that a few times, you dread the thought of getting a replacement and sending him out until you get to know him better. You’re just more protective of the new guys.
And the old. You have to fight your qualms and your conscience to do your job.
* * *
Though battered, the Germans did what they could to slow us down. They blew up the bridges. They posted snipers in the fields, and were very clever about how they laid out and buried their mines. The guys said that iron ore in the island soil made it hard for the mine detectors to work right.
The smoke from the wildfires choked and burned at your throat and eyes. Guys wrapped whatever they could around their faces as masks to filter it.
The Germans abandoned Niscemi and we entered on July 13. The airfield at Biscari was secured the next day after tanks were used to eliminate the last of the snipers.
The proud Panzer division had been defeated, with a number of its soldiers running back in panic at points during the battle. But this victory had come at a terrible cost. I’d lost one of my medics, Angelo Lambiasi. Three others were severely wounded. The battalion itself had 56 dead, 133 wounded, and 57 missing on just July 11 and 12 alone; most of the missing would turn up dead.
We kept going.
* * *
The British forces had faced less resistance when they first landed, but things quickly changed. As the German defenses stiffened, Montgomery and his boss General Alexander altered their plans, rearranging the advance and holding our divisions in place on their flank.
The change was frustrating, and it soon led Patton to propose his own alteration, dividing his force in half. While II Corps, which we were part of, would remain on the British wing, he would take the rest on a sweep to the west, circling around the weakly defended island toward Palermo, Sicily’s capital.
Alexander okayed the idea—possibly after Patton had already put it in motion. Of course, we had no idea what was going on at that level, and certainly no one came to ask our opinion. All we knew was that we had a hell of a fight ahead of us.
Mules in the Mountains
July 15 found us about fifteen miles north of Niscemi. Looking north, we saw rolling high ground, hills jutting between deep valleys on the mountains. Defenders could use the terrain like a wall, with the extra advantage of seeing an enemy approach long before he was seen.
We caught a bit of rest that day and the next, before preparing to take a key hill a few miles ahead. The plan called for II Corps to fight its way to Troina, an Axis stronghold in the north, above us. By holding it, we would threaten the German army facing Montgomery with encirclement. We’d also protect the British army’s flank, with our forces roughly paralleling Montgomery’s advance. The British were to move from Augusta to Catania and eventually Messina, a good distance to our right, but they would be vulnerable if the Germans managed to come down through these hills to make their attack.
The plan must have looked good on paper. In the field, the hills and small towns formed so many potential defensive points that it seemed like it had a potential for a very slow and painful slog.
My battalion moved out at 2200 the night of July 22. My aid station was about a half mile from the line, waiting to move up as soon as the enemy retreated.
That didn’t happen, not then. The regiment pushed the Germans across a river but then was hit by a heavy counterattack. The units that had crossed the water had to retreat, taking many casualties along the way. Cluster bombs dropped from German attack planes wounded a number of our guys. Others were killed by mines and what turned out to be bombs with delayed-action fuses. These would fall to the ground, often at night, sit there for a few hours, then explode, often while we were passing through the area.
Once more we had a multitude of casualties. We’d restocked our supplies, but it was hard keeping up. Plasma was in short supply. I later estimated my team treated no less than 125 soldiers in a day’s time.
The blood we were spilling wasn’t in vain. So many Italians were surrendering that our forces had trouble handling them all. But it seemed like every inch of the island had to be fought over several times before we could push on. And it was always uphill.
The roads through the mountains were so poor that there was no way to get trucks up to us as we inched forward. Even getting ammo to the front line became difficult the farther we went. Finally, our regimental commander, George Taylor, hit on the solution—where trucks couldn’t go, mules might.
The way I heard the story, he found a local farmer who had a hundred mules. The farmer was willing to sell the mules to him, as long as he got paid in cash.
No money, no mules. And certainly no IOUs.
Taylor, of course, didn’t have enough pocket change to cover the cost. He sent back to division headquarters, and they gave him the money.
Probably after a bit of head scratching when he told them what it was for.
The animals clambered over the rocky paths, living up to their reputation for stubbornness, but they did ease our supply problems somewhat.
They also gave at least one of our city-slicker GIs a good toss after he tried to play cowboy and ride one. That ended his cowboy days, I suspect.
At least that’s the way I heard it. The story of his ill-fated rodeo shot through the ranks like a hurricane whipping over a ba
rrier island. Good stories and wild rumors always do. I’m sure by the time we left Sicily, the tale had him being thrown all the way to Mount Etna.
There’s probably more truth to the stories about the mules only understanding Italian, which meant locals had to be enlisted to help drive them. Then again, mules are stubborn in any language. There was only one mule-related injury that I can personally vouch for—one day a guy came in with a broken foot. A mule had stepped on it.
I’d guess that soldier wasn’t a farm boy, either.
* * *
As the companies climbed through the mountainsides, we would move up behind them, generally sticking close to the roads running through the valleys. It was easier to bring a wounded man down by stretcher and evacuate him from there if necessary than to locate up on the hillside. As always, we tried to locate the aid station in a place out of direct fire. The German air force was more powerful here, and besides their artillery and mortars, we were vulnerable to bombings and strafing attacks. But mortars remained the most dangerous weapons. Since they were highly mobile, not only was it difficult to take out the mortarmen, but an attack might come at any time.
On July 24, mortar rounds hit the station where I was working just outside a small village in the area south of Troina. I caught some fragments in my back. It hurt, but it wasn’t bad enough to go back to the hospital. One of the doctors picked out shards with tweezers; one was fairly long.
“Sergeant,” said the doc, “now we’ll give you a day off.”
“Thanks.” I laughed. “And where will I take it?”
Sulfa, a bandage—then I went right back to work. I guess the army still owes me that day.
* * *
Around the time that mortar shell tattooed my back, one of my medics came back from his company with a stomach flu. I had him rest at the station and decided I’d fill in for him the rest of the day.
I went up and saw the company commander.
“Sergeant, what are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m taking the place of my guy.”
“Great. Stick close to me.”
“Are you trying to get me shot?” I answered.
I meant it as a joke, naturally, but within no time at all things suddenly got hot. If I’d had any doubts about how tough a job the company aid men had, they vanished with the first gunshots. It was a struggle to stay visible as the firefight continued. I hid behind a rock when the bullets got to be too much and found little bits of shelter as I jogged around the positions, but mostly I was out in the open.
The fighting was heavy. Things got so bad at one point that the commander told his men to get their bayonets ready. The Germans were so close he feared they would rush us.
“Fix bayonets!”
I didn’t like the idea of that at all, and not just because knife wounds can go very deep and cause a lot of bleeding.
Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. The Germans finally decided they’d had enough and slipped back. The shooting died down, and by nightfall it was quiet again.
Amazingly, only one GI was hurt the whole six or so hours I was there. It wasn’t even a bullet wound: his helmet strap had somehow managed to wear into his skin and cut it badly enough to bleed.
He was the only guy I ever got to treat as a company man.
Into a Burning Caldron
We were moving on the west side of Mount Etna a few days later when Dr. Morchan and I took a Jeep out to check on our company men and find a fresh spot for the aid station. The battalion was spread out in the hills, and we found ourselves riding down a narrow road behind a pair of American M3 tanks. They were not going very fast; we were so close to the second tank that I could feel the heat of the exhaust in my face as we came up the road. If it had been winter, that would have been welcome, but by now it was fairly warm, and the dust and noxious fumes were annoying.
I dropped back a bit, slowing down and trying to decide whether and where I might be able to pass. Then I noticed flashes and explosions ahead. It was hard to tell from the road, but my guess was that an American position was being shelled from across the valley we were in. The tanks must have been going to reinforce whoever was being attacked.
Before the doctor or I could say anything, something hit the tank.
“Don’t!” yelled Dr. Morchan as I hit the brakes. “Don’t!”
I leapt out from behind the wheel and began racing for the tank. Two of the four men crewing it managed to get out, stumbling away from the smoke and small flames inside.
“Lambert, this is a direct order! Do not go into that tank!”
I don’t know if those are the actual words he said, but Captain Morchan gave me a direct order not to go into the tank, which was smoldering. He might just as well have told me to stop breathing.
I ran past the two tankers who’d gotten out and grabbed one of the handholds to pull myself up. Atop the tank, I reached into the open hatch on top of the turret and crawled inside.
“Lambert! No! Ray! I’m ordering you back! The tank is going to explode!”
I managed to get enough of a hold on one of the guys to pull him through the turret. I helped him to the ground, then leapt back onto the body of the tank, crawling inside to get the last man.
Somewhere along the way, my hands started burning. The sensation was distant, far enough away that all I felt was the weight of the crewman as I prodded and pushed him upward into the hatchway, then through and out. After we stumbled to the ground, I started dragging him away.
My field jacket had caught fire while I was inside the vehicle. I patted it out, then moved everyone back about forty yards as the flames shot out of the turret and the ammunition started to cook off, exploding with the heat.
Dr. Morchan was beyond angry with me, threatening a court-martial. The two tankers I pulled out lived, as did the others; maybe that was why he didn’t go through with it.
Was it a brave thing or a stupid thing to do?
Both, I guess.
Troina
The tanks had been heading toward Troina, our next objective. The Sicilian city sits on a hill of rock, surrounded by boulders, perched in the mountains. It’s the highest large settlement on the island, which was one of the things that would make it so hard to take.
Patton had seized a virtually undefended Palermo and was now moving eastward along the top of the island. The British were making progress on the east coast of the island—slow progress, but they were moving up. Troina was a key city between the two forces. It was at the head of a valley that ran along the northern side of Etna, giving it access to both the north and east.
General Bradley, the II Corps commander, moved our division and the 45th into position to take the city. Thinking the city was not well defended, General Allen originally had the 39th Infantry Regiment from the 45th Division attack August 1. They were thrown back, and it became obvious that there were a lot more Germans in and around the town than we’d thought.
The 16th Infantry began its attack on August 3. We met heavy resistance right away.
The Germans took full advantage of each nook and cranny on the paths into the city. They had machine guns set up behind just about every big boulder possible.
The terrain made it hard for us to get the aid station close to the front line. The hills made for irregular battle lines, which left us vulnerable to attacks from three if not four sides, rather than the usual one. I set up originally between a quarter and a half mile from the companies near the road below most of the fighting. Our guys were fighting on terrain practically 90 degrees straight up a short distance away. You could hear the gunfire and weird echoes of the explosions. We had a constant flow of men in and out of the station.
When the troops finally started to see some progress, I decided that I wanted to move the aid station up. I felt we needed to lessen the time it took to get the men in, not only so they could be treated more quickly, but so they wouldn’t be exposed for so long a time on the way to the station. The wear on my stretcher
bearers would be less as well.
I took the Jeep and a driver up the road—if you want to call it that—to see where we might set up. As we turned around a corner and headed down into a narrow valley, I saw a soldier lying on the ground who’d been hit by a mine.
I hopped out to get him, despite my driver’s complaint that he would do it.
“I got him!” I yelled.
It was just like back in Africa. Déjà vu all over again.
At least I hoped so.
Fortunately, this soldier was very close to the road, because there wasn’t much of a track to follow. I figured the most likely path, got to him, pulled him up, and carried him back to the Jeep.
There were probably more mines along the road; I was just lucky. The Germans wanted us to bleed for every inch.
And we did.
The aid station stayed where it was. Early in the afternoon, the second battalion commander reported that E Company had lost contact with two of its platoons. F Company had been so devastated by the attack that only one of its platoons was still at fighting strength.
Some of those missing soldiers were at our aid station, getting patched up. The rest were dead, lying where they’d fallen, stranded by German gunfire and counterattacks.
We were overwhelmed, barely able to see the wounded before sending them down the road to safety. Once more we were running short of supplies—it seemed to be a constant theme in Sicily.
Both sides poured artillery back and forth for hours. Our planes bombed the city. In some places our companies were fighting almost hand to hand.
The constant flow of casualties continued. Big shrapnel wounds that earlier in Africa might have seemed serious were now routine. Chest-sucking wounds that threatened to drown a man in his own blood, gut wounds that exposed the stomach and colon and everything else—those were the evil ones. The doctors worked furiously, mechanically, continually.
