by Leo Kessler
`If you ask me, this is a certain one-way ticket to the little fat-arsed boys with the wings on - a real old Ascension Day commando. SS Man Schulze to Major von Dodenburg.
Twelve
Walker's Texans started crossing the Rapido, ten miles east of Peak 555, in the foggy dawn darkness of January loth, 1944- During the dry season the river was a mere trickle. But after three months of winter rain and snow the Rapido was a torrent, nine feet deep in some places.
Now the big, confident Texans, laden down with rations, ammunition and weapons, began pushing their clumsy assault boats between the dirty white marker tapes into the water. Still everything was ominously silent.
`Looks okay, Captain, don't it?' Walker said dryly to Captain Pearson, who had been sent down to the river by Clarke to keep the big 5th Army Commander informed of what was going on.
`Looks like it, sir,' he answered, his eyes peering through the haze anxiously.
Once the 36th had managed to get across the river, he knew, they faced four hundred yards of minefields and barbed wire entanglements before they reached the first Kraut positions on the heights beyond. It was not going to be as easy as the Texans thought. The first metal assault boat nosed its way cautiously into the water. Soon the fast-running dark waters of the Italian river were full of them. Here and there the GIs were having trouble trying to keep on course. But most of them were doing well, paddling crazily against the current. Still all was silent on the far bank.
Walker coughed and Pearson started nervously.
`Sorry,' the General apologized, but he didn't take his eyes off the river.
The Texans were almost there now. The observers, grouped round the General, could see the men in the leading boats already putting down their paddles and grabbing their rifles. The first boat hit the mud of the far bank. The Texans were out, splashing through the shallow water. Still nothing happened. Ten yards - five yards and they would be in the minefields. Pearson held his breath. They were going to make the crossing without opposition after all.
Suddenly there was an obscene belch. It was followed by a stomach-churning howl. One - two - three - four - five - six. The first mortar bombs howled through the dirty sky, an angry red.
`Christ on a crutch', a staff officer next to Pearson cursed, `the screaming meemies!'
As the first shells of the multiple mortar dropped in the water sending up huge, frightening fountains of water, machine-guns opened up everywhere, in response to its signal. Their bullets laced into the first wave of Texans. Bodies piled up on the mudbank. Wounded staggered forward and collapsed in the minefield. Within seconds the whole bank was lined with dead and dying men. They had been cut down before they had been able to fire a single shot.
`My God,' Pearson groaned to himself. The crossing was going to be sheer slaughter.
Walker swung round at his staff.
`Okay, don't stand there like a bunch of goddam dummies,' he snarled, 'get me some artillery support, willya!' The staff officers recovered from their initial shock. The walky-talkies began to crackle.
On the opposite shore the massacre continued. As the shells whizzed dramatically over their heads and smashed into the well dug in Germans on the heights, the latter increased their deadly fire. Red and white tracer swept the whole length of the river. Pearson saw about a dozen Texans running frantically along the mud bank. They still carried their weapons and were firing as they ran to find the cover that wasn't there. One by one they were cut down by the cruel fire and rolled dead to the edge of the water. They were the last of the first wave.
Now the boats filled with dead and dying came drifting back. A skinny private, his eyes wide with shock, his hand clasped to a gaping wound in his shoulder, cried:
`I don't know how it happened!' and staggered by the staff group.
A lieutenant staggered up to Walker his helmet gone, blood pouring down his face, his combat suit grey with mud. Surprisingly enough, he saluted.
`Beg to report, sir, C Company wiped out!' Then his knees gave way and before anyone of the staff officers could catch him, he had dropped next to the boy who had died trying to crawl after him, his right foot clinging to his leg by a shred of skin.
Aghast, Pearson turned to a white-faced Walker and blurted out:
`What are we going to do, sir?'
Walker swung on him angrily: 'What the Sam Hill do you think I'm gonna do, Captain? Your boss asked me to cross the Rapido - and I'm going to do just that.' He turned to one of his majors, whose hands holding the walky-talky were trembling uncontrollably. 'Okay, Holmes, get me the 143rd Infantry.'
A few moments later the second infantry regiment of the 36th Division had been raised and Walker grabbed the instrument from the Major's trembling hands. Ignoring radio procedure, he snapped:
`All right, Colonel, bring up your boys now - the party's in full swing and we need more guests. Over!’
The massacre continued. The Texans finally crossed the river, walking across a carpet of their own dead on the far bank. Under the cover of the tremendous Corps artillery bombardment, they battled their way through the minefield and rushed the German positions. Shouting and screaming, they stormed forward.
A machine-gun barked. Its bark became a thin hysterical hiss. Tracer slammed into their massed ranks as the enemy came up out of their deep, cunningly dug holes. Great gaps appeared in the Texans' rank. Here and there, men threw their weapons away and raised their hands in surrender. But death was greedy; it harvested them all the same.
Then it was the Germans' turn. They came out of their holes, as if glad to be released from the tension of crouching and waiting. Armed with bayonets and entrenching tools they went for the survivors, bogged down in the wire and mud. They hacked and kicked. Gouged and throttled with bare hands. When they were finished and had staggered back to their holes, chests heaving, faces pale and sickened, all energy drained out of them, the flattened landscape was olive-drab with the bodies of the boys from Texas.
For a while the battlefield was left to the dead. They lay everywhere in the churned mud: some whole; others spread out among the litter of boots, weapons, field dressings, paper, letters, as if some crazy surgeon had gone to work with explosives instead of a scalpel. Crouched in the mud of the enemy side, waiting for Walker to make up his mind what to do next, Pearson spotted something shining in the mud a few feet away. Almost without thinking, he picked it up. For a moment he thought it was some piece of cheap imitation ivory jewellery that one of the Texans had bought from a Neapolitan backstreet trader. Then he recognized it for what it was: a crescent of human teeth set in a shattered section of human jawbone. As he dropped it with a gasp of horror, Walker spoke wearily into the walky-talky:
`All right, Charley, I guess you'd better bring up your 142nd Infantry now ... we're in real trouble.'
General Walker was right. By the end of that first day the 26th Infantry Division had taken nearly fifteen hundred casualties. By the end of the second, with the Texans already calling the Rapido 'blood river', the 36th had fought to a standstill and the Division was a shattered wreck.
The Rapido Crossing had been a total disaster. Now it was the turn of the men dug in on top of Peak 555.
Well, gentlemen,' the Vulture rasped, 'it looks as if the stubble-hoppers really gave the Amis a nasty kick in the nuts down there, doesn't it?'
He pointed his riding crop to the thick pall of smoke hanging over the Rapido. Von Dodenburg studiously avoided his look, as he had been avoiding the Vulture ever since he had returned from Berlin, knowing that he would not be able to hold back his burning rage if Geier were to ask him about Schellenberg and the plan. Glumly he looked down the valley through his binoculars, trying in vain to penetrate the smoke.
Otherwise visibility was good and the valley was spread out in front of the watching Wotan officers like a map, each road and track easily identifiable, stretching out like tapes, with roofless farmhouses dotted among the artillery-shattered trees in chessboard fashion. He could see
the dark hurrying outlines of Ami trucks bringing up fresh cannon-fodder to thrust into the maw of the hungry beast-of-war waiting on the Rapido. The Amis were obviously getting desperate as the field-greys down below on the river stopped them dead, as though they were pumping in everything they had.
The Vulture must have read his thoughts, for he broke the heavy silence, with:
`As you can see then, the Amis are throwing away their men with the same prodigality as the Ivans did last year when we were at Kursk. (1) But,' he shrugged slightly, 'they have the men and material. We don't, eh!'
`Yes, sir,' Schwartz said enthusiastically, rising to the bait `But one German is worth ten of those Ami gangsters down there. So far their victories have been against inferior people, those yellow-bellied spaghetti-eaters, for instance.' His lips curled in a sneer. 'Now they are fighting Germans.'
`I believe I read somewhere that one in every eight Americans is of German descent, Captain Schwarz,' the Vulture commented mildly.
Out of the corner of his eye, von Dodenburg glimpsed the Creeper reaching for his notebook. The Vulture also spotted the movement:
`Please do not waste any more time writing it down, my dear young Lieutenant,' he said softly. 'If you wish to have - how shall we put it? - written evidence - I will gladly give you my statement in writing later.’
`Now I would like you to listen carefully to what I have to say. This morning I was honoured by a direct communication from no less a person than Smiling Albert himself. The Commander-in-Chief stated that he was afraid the Amis would now draw in their heads and lick their wounds after the bloody nose they've been getting down there for the last forty-eight hours.'
`Afraid?' von Dodenburg could not contain his surprise.
`Ah, von Dodenburg, you are with us?' the Vulture looked at him searchingly, pleased that he had drawn a reaction out of the Major at last. 'Yes, afraid was the word - afraid because if they do that, the Führer's great plan might not be realized. And we all know that the great captain of all times does not like his military intentions frustrated.'
`And the plan, sir?' von Dodenburg cut in.
`Ah, yes the great plan. Well, our dear Leader feels that if we cannot achieve a military victory here in Italy, we should at least gain a political and - using the word loosely, very loosely - a moral one.'
As the assembled officers stared at him puzzled, the Vulture swung round and pointed to the grey stone bulk of the Monte Cassino Monastery, set against the tremendous backdrop of the Monte Cairo, soaring two thousand metres into the sky, its rocky gullies streaked with the snow that ran down from its white-capped top.
`It is the Führer's wish that that pile of historical junk should be turned into a ruin. Our pagan forefathers did the job once before a thousand years or more ago, and gained the hatred of the so-called civilized world. Now the Führer wants to ensure that the same business is carried out again - not, however, by the dreadful Germans this time, but by those bearers of liberty and democracy from over the water – the Amis.'
He saw their bewildered looks and smiled thinly.
`Oh, it is very simple, gentlemen. We must provoke the Amis into such a rage that they will destroy the Monastery because they know that it dominates the Liri Valley and is the observation post from which all operations against their lines are directed.'
`But why sacrifice such an ideal observation post, sir,' Schwarz asked.
The Vulture smiled maliciously.
`I think you gentlemen are getting a little soft in the upper storey here on Peak 555. Perhaps it is the mountain air and not enough exercise, eh? Can't you see? If the Amis destroy the "seminal force of Christian civilization in Central Italy", as I believed Baedeker calls the dump - '
`They will be branded as cultural barbarians,' von Dodenburg cut in.
`Yes, von Dodenburg. The destruction of the Cassino Monastery will indicate that the Amis have little regard for our European treasures. The neutral press will have a field day - not to mention our own dear little cripple.'
Even the malicious reference to Dr Josef Goebbels, head of the Reich's Propaganda Ministry, did not spoil their spontaneous enthusiasm as they realized the full subtlety of the Führer's plan.
`Holy straw sack, sir,' young blond-headed Bauer, a new officer in von Dodenburg's battalion, cried. 'How devilishly smart! Only our Führer could think up something like that!'
`Yes, only our Führer,' the Vulture agreed.
But in their eagerness to know more, the young officers of the Wotan did not notice his cynicism.
`But how are we going to do it, sir?' someone asked.
`Smiling Albert has given me full instructions,' the Vulture replied. 'He anticipates an Ami withdrawal across the Rapido this evening. The local commander does not believe they will be able to hold out on this bank much longer. As a result, we feel what will happen this evening will provide an excellent cover for the action which the C-in-C thinks will provoke the Amis into an instant reaction - hopefully the destruction of the Monastery.'
`And the action, sir?' von Dodenburg asked.
`A raid in force behind the Ami lines, one which will make them howl with rage, which will demand a reaction from them on account of its sheer effrontery. Smiling Albert wants us to get the Amis by the tail and twist it until their eyes begin to pop. I don't know exactly how. It would depend upon the man on the spot. All I can say is that the C-in-C wants us to hit the enemy hard and hit him where it hurts the most - beneath the belt.' He looked at them challengingly. 'Gentlemen, I think I need to say no more. It is obvious why we have been honoured with the job, isn't it? Because the Regular Army regards Wotan as the only unit on this front capable of dirty work of that nature.' He smiled thinly. 'After all, we do have a certain reputation. Now may I ask for volunteers?'
Before Schwarz had clicked his heels together and stepped forward, von Dodenburg had raised his finger.
`I, Colonel,' he said coldly.
`Does that gesture mean you want to take a leak, von Dodenburg?' the Vulture sneered.
The CO of the Wotan's Panzer Grenadiers ignored the insult.
`I shall take a half company,' he announced, as if the matter were already decided. 'Volunteers naturally.'
`What about me, Kuno?' Schwarz asked plaintively, his voice heavy with disappointment.
`No not you,' von Dodenburg said determinedly. He pointed a finger at the Creeper. 'I want him.'
`What me?' the Creeper quavered, his eyes full of sudden fear. ‘But I'm only an observer here with Wotan.'
Von Dodenburg laughed humourlessly.
`Perhaps I need an observer, Lieutenant,' he said. 'You'll come along. I want to find out what you're made of.'
Thirteen
`Schulze – now,' von Dodenburg hissed urgently.
Schulze doubled forward, crouched low. The GI sentry never knew what hit him. Schulze reached up and pulled hard. The sentry's helmet slid backwards. With a deep grunt, Schulze grabbed the helmet thrusting his knee into the small of the Ami's back. Then he pulled with all his strength. Writhing desperately, his frantic fingers fighting to relieve the awful pressure, the young American was garrotted to death, as his chin strap bit deeper and deeper into his neck. Schulze lowered him gently.
`All clear,' he gasped and let the limp body slide down into the thick mud of the river bank. 'Come on.'
The volunteers slipped out of the bushes in which they had hidden themselves. Automatically, they began to strip. Now all was silent again save for the steady rumble of the heavies in the background and the urgent sound of their own breathing.
`Follow me,' snapped von Dodenburg, clad only in his underpants now. 'You, Kriecher, keep close to me.'
‘But I've never done a river crossing at night before, Major,' the Creeper quavered, his body a fat amorphous blob in the faint pink glow of the Italian hamlet still burning to the Ami rear.
`Well, this is as good a time as any to learn,' replied von Dodenburg unsympathetically, slipping into the icy water,
his gear wrapped in a groundsheet pushed in front of him.
`Come on. Heaven, arse and twine, man - the water won't bite you!'
Grumbling loudly, the Lieutenant hesitated until Schulze pretended to stumble against him. He fell with a startled yell full-length into the water. Despite himself he began to strike out for the opposite bank. The crossing of the Rapido after the retreating Amis was underway.
Just as the first wave of Wotan men reached the opposite side, a flare shot into the air. For what seemed an age, it hung there bathing their naked bodies in its unreal, icy light. Then it sank to the ground with a soft hiss.
`Phew,' Schulze sighed with relief, 'I thought they had us there by the pisser!'
Von Dodenburg hid his own relief.
`You must be getting soft, Schulze. When Colonel Geier plans an operation, nothing like that can happen. He doesn't slip up. Perhaps it's that Ami holiday when they shoot off fireworks or something,' he added, slipping quickly into his wet clothes.
`Sure,' Schulze said sourly, following his example. 'Colonel Geier and his operations! If you ask me, this is a certain one-way ticket to the little fat-arsed boys with the wings on. A real old Ascension Day commando.' (1)
`Knock it off, Schulze,' snapped von Dodenburg, unslinging his Schmeisser and cocking it hastily. 'Let's move out.'
Yet, as his fifty-man patrol began to move cautiously towards the burning village a couple of kilometres away, he realized suddenly that by volunteering to lead the raid he had put himself exactly where the Vulture - if the latter knew by now his reaction to Schellenberg's offer - would want him to be: deep in the thickest shit. Hurriedly he dismissed the disquieting thought, and concentrated on moving in on the Italian village.
It was clear that the Amis were moving back in disorder. As they came into the village they could see the American tank destroyer abandoned in the middle of the road, one track stretched out behind it like a snapped limb. Beyond it was an abandoned truck, its windshield smashed into a glass spider's web. In their haste the Amis had even left the vehicle's engine running. Now the motor throbbed on uselessly, while the dead driver slumped over the wheel. Gently von Dodenburg pushed him to one side and turned off the engine.
