I Am Canada: Sniper Fire

by Jonathan Webb

  Under the captain’s direction, we join with Tank Docherty and Boss Chudleigh’s sections to launch a coordinated attack on the gun at the foot of the street. We use everything we’ve got, which doesn’t seem like much when we put it together. The street’s too narrow and we’re too close to the enemy to bring in tanks or even mortars. The captain takes his time to place the Bren gunners in houses across from one another. They’re well situated to suppress enemy fire. We lay down smoke and then charge in with hand grenades. The rain makes the smoke less effective than it should be and, for sure, the enemy knows we’re coming. All the same, we run into less opposition than we expect. Most of it is rifle fire. The enemy gun itself, half hidden behind rubble, is silent.

  Docherty, leading the way from the left, is the first to realize that the gun has been abandoned. He lets out a whoop that echoes off the houses.

  “The bastards are gone!” he yells and he runs ahead of the rest of us. I can hear the elation in his voice. After everything we have been through in this town — the death, the destruction, the ever-present threat — it’s amazing to know that the battle for Via Cespa is almost over. Within seconds, we’re all screaming triumphantly.

  “We’ve got them on the run!”

  “Bloody Jerries!”

  “It’s over!”

  It’s the Gaffer who spots the trap.

  “Halt!” he shouts. “Stop now!”

  The captain and Lieutenant Gold hear him and take up the cry. “Don’t jump! Don’t go there!”

  But Tank Docherty is too far ahead of us and too carried away to pay attention. He leaps onto the rubble pile and leaps again to get over it. He’s a big guy. His helmet appears too small for his square head and the way he wears it, tipped back, makes his head appear even bigger. He practically wraps himself in webbing. He carries more hand grenades, ammo and supplies than anyone else does. More than anyone else can.

  “Like Mussolini’s medals,” as Derrick once said.

  I have a picture in my mind of Tank Docherty jumping over the rubble pile. He has a Sten gun in his right hand. His arms are raised high, as if he’s about to take flight. There’s a kind of discordant music that goes with the picture, a chorus of shouts. Some are happy, some alarmed. Not everyone hears or understands the Gaffer’s urgent order.

  “Don’t jump!”

  “Get back!”

  Too late.

  The entire emplacement explodes when he lands. There is no way of knowing whether the charge is triggered by a pressure plate he lands on, or detonated by a Para watching from a darkened window. Whatever sets it off, the explosion is huge. It’s meant not only to kill its attackers, but also to destroy the gun completely, so there is no chance that the German weapon will be turned against them. And no chance that Docherty can survive.

  We’re stunned into silence. The blast burns a hole in the rain and fills the air with its hot waste. Bits of metal, stone and sand combine with dust, smoke and vapour to make a cloud that sweeps over us, and then the rain returns, and the silence ends.

  “Damn it!”

  “Blasted Jerries!”

  We swear and scream and rage against the enemy. All at once we’re shooting at everything. I see Doug rake the roofs of the surrounding buildings with his Sten gun. Others break down doors and throw grenades through windows. Magazines are emptied, the supply of grenades is exhausted. Voices grow hoarse from screaming. The platoon is out of control.

  But not for long. The frenzy lasts a few minutes. Lieutenant Gold and the Gaffer round us up with a nudge and a push while the captain watches over us. He looks thoughtful and tired.

  “Get over here,” says the Gaffer. “Take cover, save your ammo. And for God’s sake, get a grip.”

  We find two more Germans in the houses behind the demolished gun, one dead and one wounded. The wounded one smirks at us when Loon marches him from the house. Strong John steps in front of him and knocks him down with a punch to the head. The lieutenant steps up and grabs Strong John’s shoulder.

  “Enough,” he says. “We’ll get our chance.”

  * * *

  Captain Trehan sends word from the battalion command post in Piazza della Vittoria that he wants to see the lieutenant. The Gaffer orders me to go back with him.

  “The Jerries are still sneaking snipers in behind us,” he says. “We’ve been taking more casualties.”

  “I understand,” I say.

  “Go with the lieutenant,” says the Gaffer. “I want you both back.”

  Lieutenant Gold and I move cautiously back up Via Cespa. We take the time to peer into every house and behind every pile of rubble we pass. We pause to scan rooftops and upstairs windows. The rain beats down on our helmets and soaks our tunics. The cobblestones are slippery under our feet. At one point I’m sure I see movement behind a chimney.

  I raise my hand. “Hold it, Lieutenant.”

  “Where?” he asks.

  I point. He looks over my shoulder. “I’m not seeing anything.”

  I insist that he take cover and we both lean up against the side of a house. I am so sure there’s a sniper lying in wait for us. After about two minutes, however, Lieutenant Gold straightens up, steps into the street and stands like a statue, as if offering himself as a target. I hold my breath. Nothing happens. The lieutenant takes another step and then, with more confidence, jogs ahead. Whatever I saw, it isn’t shooting at us.

  “Nerves getting the better of you?” he asks.

  “I guess I’m tired, sir,” I say.

  We pass the remains of the first big barricade, the Flowerpot House and the spot where Jimmy died. It comes as a surprise to see how short the street is. In minutes we’re back at the corner of Via Rapino. In a few minutes more we’re at the square. And suddenly it’s okay to stand up straight and stroll around. Piazza della Vittoria is securely in Canadian hands.

  There’s a troop of tanks lined up on one corner, 6-pounders on another. There are transport vehicles and Bren carriers and a regimental aid post under canvas near the little church where Loon threw the grenade that snuffed out the machine gun. For the first time in what seems a long time, I draw breath and exhale freely.

  “Feels good to be out of it, doesn’t it?” the lieutenant asks. I nod. “Make the most of it,” he says. “It won’t be for long.”

  I make my way to the mess tent and cadge a hard-boiled egg, fresh bread and a mug of tea. It’s nothing much but it tastes wonderful.

  I’m settling down to eat when I catch sight of Freddy Whitelaw. He waves, gets tea and then joins me. “You just had to drag us into this brawl, didn’t you?” he says.

  “Go on. You know you were getting bored. We did you a favour.”

  “Hear that?” he asks, waving a hand towards the east.

  The guns we heard earlier, the 17-pounders, are still banging away from the edge of town.

  “They’ve set them up on a headland and pointed them at the old town,” he says. “They’re blasting the buildings all along the edge of the esplanade and the railway yard below it. There’s a tunnel down there that we think the Jerries have been using to move in supplies and reinforcements.”

  “So that’s how they’re getting fresh troops,” I say. “Yesterday I saw a German up close. He was as fresh as a daisy.”

  “They don’t have our supply-line problems,” says Freddy. “We’re still trucking munitions up from Foggia.”

  “How’s D Company making out?” I gesture towards the Corso Vittorio Emanuele.

  “They’ve made about as much progress as you have. They’re at the foot of the Corso and are fighting to consolidate the square. It’s been brutal.”

  “The fight for the square …”

  “It’s a killing ground. Machine guns, mortars, 88s. That’s what I heard. The Jerries knocked the clock face out of the town hall to give them a machine-gun post.”

  “You’ve taken casualties?” I ask.

  “We all have.”

  “You heard about Docherty?” He nods
. “And the new man, Philpott?”

  “Yeah. Other units have been hit just as hard,” he says. “Or worse.”

  “And what about the Seaforths?”

  “We’re moving up your left flank,” he says. “You’ll see. We’ll be at the castle before you.”

  “So it’s a race?”

  “To the death.”

  “You’re funny,” I say.

  * * *

  The lieutenant has company when he finds me again — a pair of sappers. Steve is a veteran with broad shoulders and big hands. Billy’s scrawny. He has a habit of peering up at you from half-closed eyes. Steve, carrying standard-issue gear and not much else, bounces energetically on the balls of his feet. Billy’s bent beneath a heavy backpack.

  “You don’t want to light a match near Billy,” says Steve. “Or there’ll be nothing left of you but smoke.” Billy shifts his shoulder straps and winks.

  “Got everything?” asks the lieutenant.

  “Yessir,” says Steve.

  The rain has stopped but the sky is still the same colour as the cobblestones. We’re careful again in making our way down Via Cespa. We hug the walls of houses and watch the windows and roofs. We hear the rattle and crack of small-arms fire and the rumble of artillery ahead of us and on either side, but nothing comes close. The Gaffer’s watching for us through the open door of the last house, before the remains of the rubble barrier where Docherty died. He waves us in.

  Paddy is keeping watch from the front room. The rest of the men — and Docherty’s section too — are crammed into the kitchen, huddled around the stove. Lieutenant Gold takes the Gaffer into a corner of the kitchen. I catch fragments of their conversation.

  “We need to make faster progress …” says the Gaffer.

  “Vokes is pressuring Hoffy.” This is the lieutenant talking. “The higher ups are putting pressure on Vokes.”

  The lieutenant again: “Any movement in the streets around here?”

  The Gaffer says, “The men are holding up well …”

  Finally, the lieutenant turns and addresses the rest of us. “Look here,” he says. He pulls a map from a pocket inside his jacket and spreads it out on the kitchen table. We gather round as best we can.

  “We’re on this street,” he says. “The Jerries blocked it off to hide their gun, but we’re not at the end, not quite. We’re at this cross street, Via Marconi. Cespa goes for another block and then ends at this larger street, Via Cavour.”

  “The Jerries have pulled back behind Marconi,” says the Gaffer.

  “There will be more traps,” says the lieutenant. “Count on it.”

  The Gaffer nods. “More brawling.”

  “More street fighting,” says Lieutenant Gold, “but with a difference. You’ll see.”

  He grins and the rest of us looked mystified. The Gaffer frowns. I guess he isn’t in on the secret.

  “We’ll cross Marconi now,” says the lieutenant. “We’ll take one more house on each side of Cespa. And then you’ll see what we have in store.”

  Lieutenant Gold takes charge of Docherty’s section, Lance Corporal Graham Turnbull taking Docherty’s place. I know Turnbull as a quiet soldier with a pale push-broom moustache that he trims obsessively. Derrick calls him “the Walrus.” He’s a good guy, but needs to lose the moustache. You look at him and it’s hard not to laugh.

  “We’ll go in without smoke,” says the lieutenant. “The street is quiet and the light’s fading. If we’re quick and stay in the shadows, we’ll take them by surprise.”

  “You think the Jerries have pulled back, sir?”

  “They’re regrouping for sure,” says the lieutenant. “Smoke would just tell them we’re coming.”

  “It’s a bit chancy …” says the Gaffer.

  “It’s worth the risk,” says Gold.

  “Move quietly out there, you lot,” says the Gaffer. “And mind your step. I’ll shoot the first man who trips and makes a racket.”

  And so we set out, one section on each side of Via Cespa, each with its own objective. We leave behind the two sappers, with Specs to keep them company. They’ll follow when the next house is secure.

  The rain has stopped but the streets are wet. The stone surface shines dully under the grey evening sky. We’re shadowy figures as we pick our way cautiously across the remains of the stone ramparts that were built around the now-shattered German gun. Nothing moves in the street ahead of us. No light shines from any window. The dark roofs blend into the clouds.

  The tactic works. We’re inside the next house in almost no time and Turnbull’s unit gets the same result on the other side of the street. On our side, the Gaffer scours the premises while the rest of us wait in the corridor. He takes his time, letting his eyes become adjusted to the gloom. We know there’s a trap somewhere. We’re becoming accustomed to the Paras’ ways. Still, I figure no one but the Gaffer would have found this device. It’s in the front room, set to go off when someone sits on an upholstered chair.

  “How the heck did you see that?” Doug asks him.

  “Didn’t look right,” he answers. “The seat was high.”

  The Germans had placed a Teller mine under the cushion. Nothing could be simpler or more deadly. There would have been nothing left of anyone who sat on that chair. Nothing but blood and dust.

  Paddy and Derrick have been checking out the upstairs rooms. They come bustling down just as Specs and the two sappers trot in, having been given the all-clear signal.

  “There’s Jerries next door,” Derrick hisses. “We heard them through the wall.”

  “Jeez,” says Loon. “If we can hear them …”

  “Keep your voices down!”

  The Gaffer gestures for me to follow him as he makes his way to the front door. “Be ready,” he says.

  I take up a position that gives me a broad view of the street. The Gaffer waves his hand and I see movement in the house opposite. And then, wasting no time, the lieutenant emerges from the doorway opposite and runs, crouching, towards us. He just makes it.

  The enemy wakes up. His bullets tear holes in the door frame. I roll over and back without shooting. I move back along the corridor to where the others are clustered.

  “They’ve got us where they want us now, haven’t they?” says Doug softly.

  The lieutenant says, “We’ll see about that.”

  But it’s obvious we’re in a jam. The Germans know these streets and buildings. They occupied this house just hours before us. At any moment they could charge down the street and toss in a potato masher or mount a more organized attack. And yet, because their machine guns and rifles are already lined up and in position, we hardly dare to poke a nose out the door.

  Derrick is wearing a hunted look. Paddy claps a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing to worry about,” he says.

  “Where are the sappers?” asks the lieutenant.

  The grizzled one, Steve, bounces forward. “Here, Lieutenant.” Billy slopes up behind him. I’m beginning to think his habit of winking is a nervous tic.

  “The sappers call it mouse-holing,” says the lieutenant. “Tell them about it, Corporal.”

  Steve steps up. “It’s simple, Lieutenant. We blow a hole in the wall between the houses. You know, the shared wall. Then we get out of the way and you go through, shooting.”

  The Gaffer’s looking at the pair intently. “Through the wall,” he says.

  “Yessir,” says Steve.

  “B Company’s been doing it,” says the lieutenant. “You see the advantage …”

  “Yessir, I believe I do.”

  “You don’t have to show yourself in the street,” says the lieutenant. “And the element of surprise …”

  “Suddenly the wall explodes …” says the Gaffer, a smile forming on his lips.

  “Hard for the Jerries to prepare for an attack like that,” mutters Paddy.

  “Jeez,” says Loon. “Why didn’t we think of it sooner?”

  “Shut it, Private Crawford,” says the l
ieutenant, surprising us by using Loon’s last name. “Be glad we thought of it at all.”

  * * *

  It’s almost as easy as Steve had said it would be. We wait either on or at the foot of the staircase while the two sappers set a charge against the common wall in an upstairs room. They lean a chair against the explosive to hold it in place. Then they unspool the fuse and back up to the stairs. Those of us near the top cover our ears with our hands. Those at the bottom keep an eye on the door. Paddy’s last in line. He’s standing as if on sentry duty, which in a way he is.

  KABOOM!

  Even with my ears covered, the noise of the explosion inside that enclosed space is terrific. It shakes the walls and the woodwork. It shakes my bones and my guts. A cloud of dust sweeps over us. We leap up, Loon first with a hand grenade, and then Doug with the Sten gun, and then the rest of us. We dash forward, ready for action as the dirty mist settles around our feet … and then we stop.

  There’s a hole, all right. It’s just big enough for a man to crawl through. But it’s a hole in one wall only — and there are two. A double wall! The sappers, sensing something is wrong, step up behind us. One glance tells them what has to be done.

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” says Steve. “We’ll soon have that fixed.” And they repeat the performance. They have to do it without the chair, which now is in splinters. They find and use a small table instead. We take our places.

  KABOOM!

  It’s as loud as before. It sends the same shock wave over and through us. Loon takes the lead. Doug is close behind him. Loon tosses a grenade through the hole. When it explodes, Doug dives through the hole, with me right behind him. I stumble and almost fall, then find my feet again. Doug sprays the room with bullets. I see one, two … three crumpled figures on the floor. I hear moaning and crying. Loon, at the head of the stairs, tosses another grenade. I hear it bounce on the wooden steps. Another explosion. We scramble down to the ground floor and find one motionless body and two wounded Germans who offer no resistance. One, his face bloodied and his tunic torn, squirms like a fish on the hook. The other lifts shaking hands in the air.

  We stop at the foot of the stairs and look at one another. The whole operation has taken about ninety seconds.