Eventually, when his magazine is empty and he’s slumping a little, he throws down his weapon. One of Turnbull’s boys, Cadman, gets up, meaning to go in for the kill. The German just smiles. Cadman sees the smile, I guess, and takes it as a warning, because he stops in his tracks. The German rears back and throws a grenade at him. Cadman scuttles for cover and the duel goes on, the German tossing grenades one after another and somehow keeping from getting killed. He’s struck by another bullet. We can see him recoil from the shock of the hit. His grin becomes a grimace. His face is a bloody mess. Somehow he arms and tosses another grenade in our direction. It must be his last. Cadman gets up again and the German, incredibly, reaches down and grabs a rock. Cadman has to duck as it flies past his head. The German goes down, finally, scrabbling blindly for something else to throw. Cadman stands over him, his weapon at the ready, but frozen, amazed by the German’s insane determination.
“Surrender, you crazy fool,” I hear him say.
The German looks up. Under the steel helmet, his face is streaked with blood, the skin beneath it drained of colour. He tries to speak but the sound he makes is a strangled moan. His eyes are filled with hate. There’s no other way to describe them. And then the light behind them dims.
Cadman lowers his rifle. The German falls sideways and is still.
* * *
No matter how much explosive we use, Billy’s backpack never gets lighter. Steve keeps sending him back to top up the supply.
“Can’t be too careful,” he says. “I don’t want to be caught short.”
I don’t know what’s going on between those two. Maybe they don’t like each other. Or maybe Steve’s a bully. You see that sometimes. The result is obvious: Billy, a little guy, finds it harder and harder to carry the load. The strain makes him slow.
He’s slow to cross the street just short of the little square the lieutenant described to us, the one where several streets meet. A stream of machine-gun bullets chases and catches up with him as he scurries for cover. One hits his calf and his leg buckles under him. Another hits his lower back and he folds. A third hits his pack.
KABOOM!
There’s a thunderous, fiery explosion and Billy is gone in cloud of light and smoke.
* * *
By the time we reach that little square, Piazza Plebiscito, the municipal square is securely in Edmonton hands. B Company is moving up the esplanade. Our company now holds the neighbourhood west of the Corso and, with the Seaforths on our left flank, we’ve penetrated parts of the old town. We are in contact with our comrades on every side and all elements are fully engaged. Our big guns are pounding the castle and its surroundings. We can call on tanks, 6-pounders and mortar crews when we need them.
The Germans aren’t quitting. The harder we push, the harder they push back. Still, we’re forcing them to give ground. We aren’t at the end, but maybe the end is near.
We’re holed up in a row of shops at the base of a hill. The remains of the cathedral loom above us. The Seaforths are around the corner. Rumour has it that the Germans have turned a flame-thrower against them. In any case, they’re hunkered down beside us for a while. Now there’s a duel going on between the enemy mortars and ours. Bombs are raining down on the street in waves. One of those waves brings Freddy Whitelaw and a handful of his Seaforths into our shop. They seem weirdly happy.
“Freddy, what’s up?”
He grins and says, “Merry Christmas!”
There’s no mistaking the change in him. There’s a light in his eye and colour in his cheeks beneath the layer of dust and grime.
“You look like you mean it,” I tell him.
“We’ve just come back from the church on the edge of town, San Costantinopoli. Or what’s left of it.”
“So now you’re a churchgoer?”
“That’s what the padre said. He said, ‘Finally I’ve got you into church.’ But we weren’t there for the sermon.”
“What then?”
“Christmas dinner.”
“You’re not serious!” It’s 1700 hours and I haven’t eaten since morning.
“Roast pork, Paul, hot from the oven, with crackling, gravy and apple sauce.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Vegetables and stuffing,” he says. “A bottle of beer for everyone.”
“The beer that Monty promised us? It turned up at last?”
“Christmas pudding, Paul. Real Christmas pudding. There was fruit in it.”
I groan.
“Lieutenant Gildersleeve played the organ and some of the men made up a choir. They sang carols.”
“Christmas cake,” I repeat.
Freddy looks at me pityingly. He reaches into his pocket. “I was saving this,” he says. “But you can have it.”
He hands me a tiny package wrapped in paper. I feel like a fool, but the sweet morsel inside the paper is more than I can resist. I take it, hesitate briefly, and tuck it inside my breast pocket.
“Thanks, Freddy,” I say.
“See you around,” he says.
“See you around.”
* * *
“Dinner’s on its way,” says the Gaffer.
News of the Seaforths’ feast has spread through the ranks. A few soldiers say that a dinner like that in the middle of battle is a mistake. It’s sure to make men careless.
“Those guys all full of beer and good cheer,” says Turnbull, “they’re going to get killed.”
The Gaffer nods his head in silent agreement, but he must know not everyone shares this view.
“I’d take the risk,” says Loon.
Which is what I think too.
It’s getting dark. The mortars have been quiet for a while. We’ve been told to expect some kind of night sortie by the Germans. The lieutenant has a plan to turn back any assault with a counterattack of our own. The Saskatoon Light Infantry has set up machine guns to support us. Artillery will throw up illumination. It’s hard to know what’s squeezing our bellies — hunger or anticipation of a fight.
I’d hate to die now, when we’ve just about taken the town.
Another wave of mortar shells explodes in the square. The Germans are walking it from their end of town towards Via Cavour. Our side opens up and the square becomes a mass of noise, smoke and confusion.
“They’re coming,” says the Gaffer. “Wait for it.”
Our section has been joined with Turnbull’s. We gather at the door.
We hear the Germans before we see them. First come the grenades and then the spatter of automatic rifle fire. Then we hear shouts and footsteps.
“Wait!” says the Gaffer.
Glass shatters in the building next to us.
I hear Cadman suck in his breath. I tighten the grip on my rifle.
And then our heavy machine guns open up. The effect is instantaneous. The Germans halt. The machine guns rattle on for a long moment as the Germans turn around. Then the guns cease too.
“Go!” shouts the Gaffer.
We pile out into the street. Verey lights explode in the sky above us. There are bodies on the ground and figures retreating towards the castle. We chase them in a ragged, open line, shooting erratically but exuberantly. The Gaffer sets the pace on the inside sidewalk nearest our row of shop fronts. We slow down as we reach the end of the square. The Gaffer has his arm up, signalling us to stop.
The surviving attackers have disappeared into the alleys that lead up to the cathedral and past it to the castle. In a moment we can expect their mortars to open up again.
“Far enough,” says the Gaffer. He has a wounded German by the scruff of the neck and is dragging him back towards our shop beneath the hill. One of Turnbull’s men is prodding another German before him. And then the barrage returns.
* * *
We get cold pork chops and cold fruit pudding. To be fair, the quartermaster’s men took a risk in bringing it to us. We eat at our posts with our rifles in our laps. Later, I see a girl, she can’t be more than nine, sitting in a
doorway. She looks cold.
“Buon Natale,” she says. Merry Christmas.
I keep walking. Suddenly I remember Freddy’s gift, pause, turn and reach into my pocket for the quarter portion of paper-wrapped cake. She accepts it hesitantly.
“Buon Natale,” I say. Merry Christmas.
Chapter 11
The Hostages
Sunday December 26, 1943
In the morning we move again.
“One more push,” says the lieutenant. “The Jerries are still hanging onto the area around the cathedral. See these streets?” He points to his map and indicates the tangled passages between Piazza Municipale and Cathedrale San Tommaso. “Once we’ve driven them out, their only refuge is the castle.”
The fighting is now in the north of the town. We — the Eddies — are getting close to the castle on one side, while the Seaforths are pressing the Germans on the other, western, side. In the streets and alleys in between, around and north of the cathedral, the Germans are still waging a determined, if hopeless battle. The Corso is ours and has been for a couple of days. Now that I can look down it from Piazza Municipale without having to duck and take cover, it’s obvious that it’s the town’s main drag. It’s where the best shops and main businesses are. Or were. We’re standing around, waiting for orders, when Loon points at a wooden sign with a clock painted on it. It’s hanging from a metal post above the burnt-out remains of a shop. Where once there were display cases, a counter, a work space, now there’s only fire-blackened wreckage.
“Time’s up,” he says.
“That’s sick,” I say.
Strong John says, “Tell him to watch it.”
“Okay,” says Loon. “I get it.”
Everywhere we look, there’s rubble. At the far end of the Corso, a bulldozer is clearing a path so wheeled vehicles can get through. There are bodies too, not just of Germans, but also civilians. There’s resistance still in the back streets. D Company has been mopping up, picking off snipers. Our sappers are blowing up mines. We seized and are holding the centre of town, but no one is relaxing yet. An enemy bullet can strike a man down at any time.
This is especially true on the northeast corner of Piazza Municipale. It’s there, in the ground floor of an office building, that the lieutenant makes his command post.
“We’re two sections now,” he says. “The Gaffer will lead what remains of his own section plus Turnbull’s. Chudleigh still leads the other one. We’re working up these two blocks.”
He’s no longer pointing to the map. Instead, he gestures out the window.
“The little plaza up there is called Piazza Risorgimento. Our job is to clear out the two blocks below it. We’ll be coordinating our movements with 8 Platoon, who are working the next street over, Via Matteotti. Between us, we’re aiming to liberate the square in front of the cathedral. It’s the last big square.
“Keep your heads up. These buildings are lousy with Jerries,” he says and adds, “We can be pretty sure they’re expecting us.”
No doubt Lieutenant Gold is right and the enemy has his eye on us. But the grey stones and blank windows along the alley we’re assigned to show no sign of life when Turnbull, hugging one wall, creeps slowly forward. Chudleigh’s men, on the other side, put a Bren in place to cover him. A block away, the rest of the company is in some sort of firefight too.
We’re crouched together on the corner, watching Turnbull’s progress. When he’s 10 or 12 feet up the street, Loon follows him, sticking to the same wall but keeping his distance. Turnbull stops in the shelter of a doorway. Loon stops too.
Turnbull glances back at the Gaffer, who nods, urging him on.
Turnbull reaches for the handle. I jog up behind Loon. The door opens, Turnbull steps back and a machine gun opens up.
BRRRCK! BRRRCK!
Turnbull is hit. His Sten gun strikes the street with a clatter. He’s down, his right arm bleeding and broken.
Chudleigh’s Bren blasts the windows beside and above the doorway. Loon and I scramble ahead, Loon with a 36 in his hand, armed and at the ready. He tosses the grenade through the open doorway. As soon as it explodes, I move up and fire two rounds into the interior.
There’s no answering fire. When I peer inside, there’s no enemy in sight. No dead Para, just a damaged reception area in a small office.
Loon and a couple of others are in the street helping Turnbull. He’s on his feet, leaning on them heavily. I step inside the building. It might have been a lawyer’s office. There’s a couple of desks, a typewriter, a wooden filing cabinet. There’s a vase on the counter containing dried flowers. Somehow, the blast of the grenade left it untouched.
The Gaffer appears beside me and begins his methodical search for booby traps. I stay close behind him, expecting the German to reappear.
It doesn’t happen. We search the house — it isn’t booby-trapped. At the back we find an open door and a tiny courtyard. The German who had been there, waiting for us, must have climbed the wall to another courtyard.
The Gaffer calls me back. “You can bet he has that wall covered,” he says.
I pull out a hand grenade. I look at him with a question in my eyes.
“Be my guest,” he says.
I toss it; it explodes. Windows break, glass hits the ground, but no one screams. The enemy has moved on.
* * *
We take our time. The lieutenant plots each step. When we’ve secured the end of the alley, he calls up a Three Rivers Sherman to blast the front of a suspected German strongpoint. The tank is pulled back when the Germans answer with a shower of mortar shells. Then Chudleigh’s section swings into action, taking another building, another casualty and a German prisoner.
The lieutenant knows how nearly worn out we are. He has the section leaders rotate men back between actions. The rear echelon has set up in Piazza Risorgimento, the little square between Municipale and the Esplanade, with tea and biscuits. An aid post has been established, not just for the wounded but also for men who have seen too much. One man, sitting alone, is weeping. I recognize another and call him by name.
“Shaun! It’s me, Paul.”
He stares straight ahead.
“Shaun?”
A medic, watching me, pipes up. “Forget it. He won’t answer.”
We’re losing as many men to battle exhaustion as to the enemy. I wonder why I haven’t been affected. What makes some men break?
I’m still in the square when the trucks arrive, half a dozen of them. There are ambulances too. The lieutenant sees them, sees me and motions me over.
He says, “It’s for the people in the hospital.”
“It’s happening?”
He nods.
“I’m going,” I say. He doesn’t try to stop me. The lieutenant is tired too.
Doug sees me. He says, “What’s up?”
“They’re liberating the hostages.”
I’m already running. He falls in behind me.
When you run through the streets, when you pay no attention to the tanks and the men with rifles in their hands, when you forgot about the enemy and the danger of snipers on rooftops, when you just run, knowing where you’re going, not caring how heavy your pack is … you suddenly discover how small the town is. It’s tiny. It’s insignificant. And yet for this we and the Germans have been killing and maiming one another for a week! I run across the municipal square and down Via Cavour, past buildings that are half-destroyed, buildings we fought and killed for. Buildings that some of us died in. I run past officers who have questions in their eyes, who try half-heartedly to stop me. I’m not even sure what it is that’s making me run. I only know I have to get to Dead Horse Square.
I slow to a walk when I get to the school. I round the corner, breathing heavily. A company of the Seaforth Highlanders has moved in. They have the hospital surrounded and are watching it warily.
“What’s happening?” I ask the sergeant.
He gives me a look that says “Who the heck are you?” It’s
a look that sergeants learn in sergeant school. But then he shrugs and says, “They’re coming out — the nuns, the patients, the people in the hospital. We’ve been told to hold our fire.”
“Are the Jerries still in there?”
“They were sniping at us earlier. They’ve been quiet for a while.”
“Have you seen a girl …?”
I don’t finish the sentence.
The hospital door swings open and two nuns appear, one after the other. The Seaforths grasp their weapons tighter and wait.
I look around the square, at the half-ruined church on the corner and the blasted school, at the wreckage between them and the bloated body of the horse. And then I see her, her shoulder-length black hair, her grey dress rippling in the breeze. She’s approaching from the buildings on the far side of the square. I start walking towards her, then jogging. Doug is at my side.
The hostages emerge from the hospital singly and in pairs. Some are fully dressed. Others are wrapped in blankets and sheets. They’re all thin. The strongest among them carry the weakest on stretchers. Those who are weak but can walk lean on canes or their friends. There are children too, clinging to their parents, or to the nursing sisters who bring up the rear.
We come together, Doug, Teresa and I, at the head of the wretched file. Sister Domenica sees me; her eyes flicker in recognition and she keeps on walking. Teresa nods too, but she has something else on her mind. She’s moving against the flow of the patients.
Her sister!
Some of the Seaforths have closed in with us. They take over the handles of stretchers from some of the patients. They pick up stray children. The square is supernaturally quiet. Children cry. Mothers soothe them. The muffled sound of shoes on the pavement and the clack of crutches is all that can be heard in the cold air.
Four more figures emerge from the hospital. Four Paras step out, their coats open and their hands high above their heads. They walk down the steps behind the civilians. They take a few more strides and then stop. Some Seaforths start towards them when the near-silence is broken.
I Am Canada: Sniper Fire Page 13
