I Am Canada: Sniper Fire

by Jonathan Webb

  “That was something,” says Loon.

  Strong John makes a move to disarm the Germans.

  Derrick glances around, suddenly alarmed. “Where’s Paddy?” he says.

  “What?”

  “Where’s my brother?”

  He turns and bounds back up the stairs. I follow close behind him. The pounding of our boots echoes off the walls. Derrick throws himself through the tunnel that now connects the two houses. “Paddy! I’m coming!”

  “Watch it, Derrick!” I shout. The Gaffer is behind me. He’s yelling too. “Heads up, Derrick! You don’t know …”

  But Derrick does know. They’re brothers, after all. Derrick sees it all in his head before we get to the bottom of the stairs.

  Paddy is still alive. His head is jammed between the bottom step and the wall. He’s grimacing in pain. His teeth shine in the gloom and his eyes are squeezed shut. He has one hand pressed tightly against his chest. With the other he pounds on the floor. A glistening pool, black in the darkened hallway, seeps from his side across the floor.

  “Medic!” Derrick screams the word.

  “We need a runner,” says the Gaffer. “Doug!”

  Derrick is kneeling beside his brother, cradling Paddy’s head in his hands. “Paddy, what happened?”

  I glance through the open door into the street. There’s another body crumpled on the cobblestones. Another German. They must have launched an attack behind us. The German and Paddy must have confronted each other as we were scrambling up the stairs.

  Doug stops for a second to examine the body in the street. Then he runs to get help.

  Derrick stays with the stretcher bearers when they take Paddy back to the aid post. The Gaffer’s reluctant to see him go. We’re badly under strength already. We can hardly afford the loss of another man, but he couldn’t in all conscience order Derrick to stay. Derrick would have disobeyed the order anyway.

  We mouse-hole our way into the next building. The Germans are better prepared for us this time — they pull out fast after the explosion. Surprisingly, they clear out of the house across the street too. By evening we’re in sole possession of Via Cespa. From an upstairs window in the last house, we have a view over the cross street, Via Cavour. We would celebrate our victory if it weren’t for what we’ve lost.

  * * *

  A decent dinner, thanks to the quartermaster’s crew, now that the street is safe. We heat up stew that actually looks like something I might have eaten at home. Half the unit eats and naps while the other half watches the intersection from different vantage points. There is occasional excitement. At least one enemy sniper is at work in the neighbourhood and there are signs of movement. We hear the roar of engines, and shouted orders, as well as the usual crackle and rumble of battle. Some comes from our side, some from the other. It’s hard to tell.

  While we’re taking turns to rest, Lieutenant Gold and the Gaffer put their heads together again. I listen in as they talk things over. The losses we’ve taken worry them. Our section is down to six men — counting Derrick, who’s still with his brother. Turnbull’s section is down to six too. If we put the two together, we have only one full-strength section. Boss Chudleigh’s section, operating on the next street, isn’t much better off. But then, the whole battalion is operating at half-strength or less.

  “Funny thing is,” says the lieutenant. “For this type of fighting, small groups may be better than big ones.”

  The Gaffer nods his head. “Faster and more flexible. We’ve done okay in the house-to-house battles.”

  “But overall, our progress is slow. The Jerries have more firepower.”

  “When do you reckon we can call up the tanks?”

  “Maybe sooner rather than later,” says the lieutenant. “D Company is working now with a troop of Three Rivers Tanks to secure Piazza Municipale.”

  “Major Stone and the tank corps have come to an understanding then?” says the Gaffer.

  “Stone’s a determined man.”

  “And the Corso is clear?”

  The lieutenant nods.

  “I wouldn’t want to have been that tank chap,” says the Gaffer.

  The lieutenant smiles. “He’s very sorry, I’m sure.”

  Captain Trehan turns up after we’ve eaten. He has an intelligence officer from the Three Rivers Regiment with him. The lieutenant and the Gaffer order the rest of us out of the kitchen — and away from the warm stove — so the officers can use the table.

  Later, after the captain and the intelligence officer leave, we find out from the lieutenant what the visit means.

  “We’re here on Via Cavour,” he says, stabbing the middle of the map. Piazza Municipale, the biggest of the town squares, is to the east of us. B and D companies are in the process of securing it and are moving past it, along the esplanade, which overlooks the port, to the castle. There’s another, smaller square to the west of us, Piazza San Francesco, where there’s another church and a school. The Germans have established machine-gun positions in the church tower and around the square. Our job is to eliminate them.”

  “Where are the Seaforths?” I ask. From what Freddy Whitelaw told me, I thought the Highlanders had taken over the west side.

  “They’re on the other side of the church square,” says the lieutenant. “The enemy has a firm base in a cemetery in the northwest corner of town —”

  “That will be handy when the time comes,” says Loon.

  “… and in the castle on the northeast corner. They’re getting supplies from the north, using the gully on that side and the railway tunnel as cover. The Seaforths are driving through the west side of the old town towards the cemetery, with the intention, ultimately, of cutting off the German supply line to the north.”

  “So, our orders …” says the Gaffer.

  “Our orders are to proceed along Via Cavour towards Piazza San Francesco. We can expect to meet resistance. Once we get there, we’ll do whatever is necessary to neutralize the enemy machine guns and consolidate the square. Now, is everything clear?”

  The men mostly grunt in reply.

  “We’ll stay put this evening,” says the lieutenant, “and move in the morning. Get some rest while you can.”

  * * *

  Derrick’s back. I’m keeping watch from the front room when he wanders past the window. He doesn’t respond when I challenge him. I might have shot him, but I can make out his shape and the way he walks and, anyway, I’m half-expecting him.

  “Hell, Derrick,” I say when I open the door. “You’ve got to answer when you’re asked for the password.”

  “What’s the password?” he says. “I forget.”

  His chunky face is tight and drawn. He looks worn out.

  “How’s Paddy?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Not good.”

  The Gaffer joins us. He puts a hand on Derrick’s shoulder. “They’ve taken him to San Vito Chietino?” he asks. There’s a field hospital there.

  “Yes,” says Derrick.

  “So his condition is stable?”

  “He’s barely conscious,” says Derrick. “He’d open his eyes and try to say something. He knew I was there …”

  “Well, that’s something.”

  “He said to tell Ma and Pa he loves them. And his girl.”

  “That’s good …”

  “It’s what men say when they’re dying.”

  “It’s what they say when they’re hurt,” I say. “It doesn’t mean he’s dying.”

  “I can’t imagine him gone,” says Derrick. “He’s always been there. We looked out for one another.”

  “He’ll be back,” I say.

  Derrick shakes his head and says, “I don’t think so.”

  “Derrick …” says the Gaffer, but Derrick isn’t paying attention. He looks at us with a baffled expression.

  “I was so sure it was going to be me.”

  Chapter 9

  Dead Horse Square

  Friday, December 24

  I
t’s cold and dark when Doug nudges me with his boot. “We have a visitor,” he says. He gestures towards the door.

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I haul myself to my feet, rub my hands together for warmth and flex my toes. I make my way past the other guys spread out around the room. Some are snoring, others are restless, their faces lined and their eyes ringed with dark shadows. At first I see only Specs in the hallway. He’s sitting on the stairs, his rifle resting on his knees. Following his glance, I see her. Teresa, with her jet black hair and oval face, is standing just inside the door.

  She doesn’t say hello or explain how she found me or how she got here. She says simply, “Por favore, venga con me.” Please come with me.

  “Where to?”

  “Just come.”

  It isn’t so much her voice that catches my attention, though there is urgency in her tone. It’s her eyes that convince me. I go back to the living room to gather up my rifle and backpack. I step carefully around the other men and their belongings, making as little noise as I can. The Gaffer, stretched out in a corner, never stirs.

  Doug is by the door, watching me. “You’re going with her?” he says.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  He blinks and says, “You’re nuts.” I guess he’s right. If I’m not back before they miss me, I could be charged for leaving my unit. But we’re so short of men now, and the situation is so tense, I don’t think the Gaffer will do anything but bawl me out. He needs us here.

  No lights shine from the windows on Via Cavour. The low clouds reflect the flash of artillery in the east. The dull irregular glow casts sudden shadows along the fronts of houses. These are more uneven than the ones on Via Cespa, making more shadows for us — and the Jerries — to hide in. Teresa tugs at my sleeve and, hugging the nearside wall, leads me west towards what the lieutenant said was another square. One occupied by the Germans.

  But then we turn north, up an alley. Teresa stops in a doorway and points at a building up the way.

  “Tedeschi,” she says. Germans.

  She pushes open a door and leads me inside a building so dark that I might as well be blind. With her hand on my sleeve, she takes me downstairs and then up again into a tiny courtyard and another building. By now I’ve lost all sense of where we are or where we’re headed.

  We dash across another alley. We creep past houses that are occupied, where we hear low voices, and we stop to peer from windows as enemy soldiers trudge by. We meet a man in a basement who nods at me as he whispers in Teresa’s ear.

  “Stanno muovendosi,” she says. They are moving. The Germans, they are bringing in more men.

  I ask her where. She says, the cemetery. So the Germans are planning a counterattack. This is not surprising. It would be surprising if they weren’t.

  And then she leads me once more into alleys, gardens and houses, some untouched and others wrecked, until finally we come to a stop. “Aspettiamo qui,” she says. We’ll wait here.

  We’re in a house that the Germans have partly demolished. The front wall has been reduced to rubble. The stones and timber have been pushed into the street. But an inner wall is still standing and the room behind it is untouched. There’s a table and chairs, and cupboards above and below the counter. There’s a pitcher full of water, and a cup.

  We wait in the strange wreck of a house. There are walls around us, but no ceiling, just stars. I ask after Claudia and her little boy.

  “Non lo so,” she says. I don’t know. She shrugs and says she’ll find out more tonight.

  She’s quiet for a moment. Then she asks me where I’m from. I start to explain that I’m from western Canada, from Alberta, but she looks at me without understanding. What part of Italy is what she wants to know. “I miei genitori vengono dal sud,” I say finally. My parents are from the south. “And you?”

  “Io sono di qui.” I’m from here, from Ortona. My family has lived here, or in the country around here forever. From the beginning.

  I ask her what her family does.

  “My father and uncle own land. Some they farm. Some they rent to others.”

  We’re sitting close to one another. I can feel the warmth of her skin. I put my arm around her shoulders.

  A shape appears without warning at the door. Teresa stands up quickly as a woman dressed in black — a nun — sweeps into the room. She and Teresa hold each others’ hands for a moment and then Teresa introduces me.

  “Sorella Domenica, vorrei farle conoscere Paolo, un soldato canadese.”

  I give Sister Domenica my chair. Teresa tells me she has just come from the hospital.

  The sister speaks fast, even more quickly than Teresa, and I have trouble understanding her. Teresa has to help me, and soon she simply repeats more slowly — still in Italian — what the nun has to say: There are more than one hundred people in the hospital. Many are from the town and have taken refuge there. Not just sick people, but also people who have lost their homes. They have nowhere to go.

  I nod that I understand. She goes on. The hospital is next to the church on the square, Piazza San Francesco. The Germans are in the church and school as well as the hospital.

  “Is there a machine gun there?” I ask.

  “She says yes, in the church tower, but not in the hospital. Just soldiers are in the hospital,” Teresa tells me. “But conditions are very bad. They have no food, no medicine. The bathrooms are not clean. There are too many people.”

  “The Germans aren’t helping?”

  “The Germans have given them nothing.”

  “They have to get out of there,” I say.

  Teresa and the sister talk some more, then Teresa tells me that the nuns intend to lead the people in the hospital to safety. She wants to take them to us, to the Canadians.

  “You say there are more than one hundred?”

  She explains that there are eight Germans in the hospital. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but they don’t all agree. Some want to let our people go. Others are against it. They think it’s a trick, that the Canadians will use the people as a shield to cover an attack.

  “But the Germans are using the people as a shield,” I say. “Holding them hostage?”

  “Si,” says Teresa, they are hostages. Neither she nor the sister speaks for a moment. Then Sister Domenica says the people can’t stay in the hospital. They will die. She intends to lead them out tomorrow no matter what the Germans say. And then Teresa adds, “Claudia’s in the hospital. She is weak. Her son is in there too.”

  * * *

  Dawn is happening somewhere on the far side of the clouds when we start back. Teresa takes me by a different route from the one we followed before. She wants me to see the square where the hospital is. So she leads me to a block of buildings on the eastern side of the piazza. Then, instead of threading our way through basements and courtyards, she takes me up two flights of stairs and up a rickety ladder to an attic, and from there, through a window and onto the roof.

  We scramble to the peak and suddenly I glimpse what the snipers get to see — the town is at my feet. Light from the cloud-filtered sun casts a dull glow over the buildings. To the north, on a height of land, there’s the splintered tower of Cathedrale San Tommaso. Sloping below it is a tangle of alleys that lead to the main square. The town hall, the most massive building on the square, looks south to where we’ve come from. To our west, just a block away, there’s another tower. Teresa, seeing where I’m looking, gestures towards it.

  “Chiesa di San Francesco,” she says. The church of Saint Francis.

  “And the hospital?”

  She points past it. I take it that the hospital is beside it, over there.

  With morning comes noise. Engines are started, orders are shouted, riflemen take potshots at targets we can’t see. The roof slopes gently to the gutter, but it’s slippery with dew. I flip over onto my back and dig into my pockets. Teresa bites into the chocolate I give her as if it were something new, something she’s neve
r tried.

  “From Canada?” she asks.

  “It comes from England,” I tell her. “Eighth Army issue. It’s made from mud, bugs and the blood of ferrets.”

  “Cosa intendi?” What?

  “A joke.”

  She nods and then says, “Via Cavour is that way. Where your friends are.”

  “We should go.”

  We stay on the rooftops, scrambling carefully from one to another, stopping from time to time to look around. We come to a point where we have to climb down again, to cross an alley, but she leads me into another building with stairs, a window and a roof.

  “E l’alba,” she says. Now it’s light. “Up here we can see the enemy before he sees us.”

  Slowly, by crossing one roof after another, we move closer to the corner of Cespa and Cavour. Together we peer over the peak at the houses on the other side. We’re too high up and the angle is too steep for us to see more than a narrow strip of the street. A soldier leans out of a second-floor window. The red patch on his shoulder marks him as Canadian. I open my mouth, meaning to identify myself.

  A shot rings out. A soldier — a Canadian by the sound of it — lets out a yell. One of our guys has been hit. Suddenly the air is full of the noise of rifle and machine-gun fire. Teresa clutches my arm. I reach for my weapon. She asks what I’m doing. I don’t answer. I start wriggling across the tile roof so I can see more of what’s happening down below. A hand grenade explodes inside a building, and then another. More small-arms fire and then … silence.

  I make it as far as the gutter, in time to see one of our men roll a smoke canister onto the pavement. I glimpse the crown of a Canadian helmet. And then the familiar, awkward shape of Loon emerges from the haze. It would be Loon! He’s shinnying up another drainpipe, reaching for the balcony. Below him there’s another soldier — Specs! Loon reaches for the balcony railing. A glass-paned door opens from the house onto the balcony. Something moves behind it. I pull the butt of the rifle against my shoulder, aim and squeeze the trigger …

  CRACK!

  “Fai attenzione!” It’s Teresa.

  A black-clad figure shoots from the roof across the street. A clay tile explodes not 6 inches from my hip. I aim again and fire.