by John Harris
While he waited for the order to move off, he was called to the telephone. It was Tallemach. ‘I understand the Yellowjackets are ready,’ he said. ‘Are you?’
‘As far as bad weather and bad luck have let us be, sir. We can go.’
‘Good. I’ll be in touch with you all the time. I only phoned to give you my best wishes.’ Yuell was about to put the phone down when Tallemach spoke again. ‘I have to confess I’m a bit worried,’ he said. ‘I’ve learned that they got a second mule string going with what’s left of the grenades and mortar bombs but some idiot sent it down the wrong road. I’ll do my best, though, Edward, I promise you. I know you need them and I’ll get them to you so that the follow-up wave can take them across.’
His words didn’t encourage Yuell. He was already affected by the tenseness and uneasiness of his men. How the Yellowjackets were faring he didn’t know, but he could only assume that their problems had been much the same as his own. They would soon find out when they linked up on the other side of the river.
He glanced at his watch. It was time to go. He hoped that by this time Warley’s company were approaching their position and were not too exhausted.
‘All right,’ he said to Peddy. ‘We’d better be off.’
It was a quiet way of starting but it was typical of Yuell not to make a fuss. He suspected his men preferred it that way. They didn’t like dramatic leaders given to vivid gestures, any more than they liked signs of uncertainty. The British soldier was different from any other soldier in the world. American officers liked to put on a show of toughness and the French a spirited performance of elan, dash, panache, whatever you chose to call it. Most of the Germans he’d seen tried to appear efficient and ruthless, while the Poles believed in tempestuousness, as though, defeated in their own land, they had to prove they’d not lost their honour. The Italians were merely apologetic and lacking in backbone. The sort of officer the British soldier liked best was quiet, unassuming, able occasionally to address his men by their first names without losing their respect. They tended to puzzle the officers of other armies because, all too often, those who were most professional chose to appear thoroughly lacking in know-how.
The tanks were edging forward now, ready to take up their positions on the strips of wire matting which had been laid in loops like railway sidings in the fields that the Engineers had cleared of mines, so they could run on at one end and off again at the other as soon as the Sappers had completed their Class 40 Bailey bridge. They had still not emerged from the trees behind San Bartolomeo, waiting for the men who were to lead them to the matting with shaded lamps. As soon as the infantry were across, it was expected they would be able to support the artillery with their guns until the time came to move.
Behind the tanks, the artillery waited. It was their job to drop shells on the known German positions overlooking what would be the bridgehead and to ring the area with a curtain of high explosive to prevent counter-attacks. A Very light from the opposite side would be the signal for them to lift their fire to the German positions higher up the slopes.
From his observation post, Brigadier Tallemach was staring across the river. Directly opposite the end of the San Bartolomeo road, beyond the railway line and the road to Rome, flat ground ran inland to an escarpment which would provide some protection. Beyond this was a winding road, already torn by artillery fire. Above it, a further half-mile back, stood San Eusebio with its heavily scarred church tower. The church itself was a wreck, a mere skeleton in which Mass was now said beneath the open sky. They’d had to shell it because they suspected the Germans were using it as an artillery observation post. Even now they couldn’t be quite sure that the Germans weren’t still using what little was left of it; especially the tower which tottered precariously but had so far defied all their efforts to bring it down.
‘Somebody,’ Tallemach muttered to himself, ‘has worked out a shocker for us.’
He didn’t even like the width of the river. The first German positions, low down on the slopes, were not much higher than the bank and, as the gunners had suggested, it was going to be hellishly difficult with the low trajectory for the artillery to hit them without knocking out their own infantry.
Yuell’s men were picking up the boats now and setting off down the dirt road to the site of the old ferry, which the constant rain had reduced to a morass of glutinous grey mud. In the growing dusk a cold and heavy mist rising from the Liri cast a silver-grey veil over everything with visibility near to zero. Not being able to see what was happening ahead hindered their progress, but at the same time gave them the advantage of being invisible to the Germans sitting up above them on the far side of the river.
For the first two or three hundred yards they moved in a silence broken only by the muttered grumbling of men finding the boats surprisingly awkward to carry; especially when loaded down with equipment, weapons and ammunition, which continually slipped from position and trapped fingers that were already numb with cold.
‘I bet the bastards can see us,’ someone said hoarsely.
‘They can probably also ’ear you,’ a sergeant rapped back. ‘The way you rattle on.’
Complete darkness seemed to come suddenly. They thanked God for it because now the Germans couldn’t pinpoint them even if the mist lifted. But they all knew that earlier on they must have been observed forming up in and around San Bartolomeo, Capodozzi and Foiano, and they waited tensely for the first horrific stonk from the German guns; at the same time deeply conscious of the unseen presence up ahead of Monte Cassino rearing up into the night, dark and ominous.
Standing among the trees just outside San Bartolomeo, Brigadier Tallemach had watched them go. Behind him, the little town was a turmoil of snorting vehicles that choked the narrow streets. He was unhappy at the way things were working out. The plan had been altered so often to suit the changing circumstances, he knew only at second-hand what Rankin’s 9th Indian Brigade was intending to do. It was always a help to understand what the commander of the flanking or supporting formation was up to and why. It was also elementary that such details as boundaries, lateral communication, artillery support, and siting of headquarters should be co-ordinated, but he seemed to be remarkably ill-informed on all these matters. Rankin was always inclined to rush things, and his brigade was still on the reverse side of the mountains, because there was no room in the villages on this side and any attempt to move them up would have left them in full view of the Germans.
There was little he could do now but wait. He wished he could simply go to sleep or have a drink or something. He’d heard that Monty slept like a baby the night before an attack, confident that all that had to be done had been done and there was nothing else to worry about.
When he reached his headquarters, the canvas on the tents was sagging under the weight of their own dampness. The air seemed heavy and suffocating with moisture. To his surprise, Brigadier Rankin was waiting for him, a burly, crimson-cheeked man with a habit of stooping slightly so that he seemed permanently about to rush head-down at something. He was a Yorkshireman, proud of a northern forthrightness which Tallemach preferred to call plain rudeness.
‘I’ve just learned that we’re going to lose half our artillery just when the bloody battle’s beginning to be interesting,’ Rankin said.
‘So have I,’ Tallemach acknowledged. ‘They want it for the crossing further downstream.’
‘For God’s sake, we can’t hold ground across the river without full artillery backing!’
‘I objected.’
‘And–?’
‘They said that if I wouldn’t do it, they’d find someone who would – meaning you, I suppose.’
‘Surely you objected strongly?’
‘You’re very welcome to try again,’ Tallemach said sharply. ‘After all, you’re to pass through us, so you’ll need them as much as we do; and you can be much ruder than I can.’
Rankin gave him a sour look and reached for the telephone. He appeared to be gettin
g short shrift, so Tallemach left him to it and went out into the rain to see how things were going. The darkness was still full of the sound of engines, and now the Engineers were moving forward. Behind them the tanks lurched nearer and he saw the vast bulk of a Churchill sidling forward between the ruined houses, the snout of its gun probing ahead like the antenna of some great insect. There appeared to be no hold-up and Tallemach went back to his headquarters. Rankin was staring at the telephone like a bewildered bull that had just butted its head against an immovable object.
‘The bastards aren’t playing,’ he said.
‘They didn’t with me either,’ Tallemach pointed out dryly.
Rankin scowled. ‘We’re just buggering about like a lot of dogs round a lamp post,’ he complained. ‘Waiting to see who’ll be the first to lift his leg. It’s nothing but a game of military suck-it-and-see.’
He was still resentful as they pored over the map, exchanging views while Tallemach pointed out the positions they hoped to hold. Rankin seemed subdued, which made Tallemach suspect he’d been given a flea in his ear and told to get on with it without arguing, and they managed to sort things out without rancour.
When Rankin had gone, Tallemach lit a cigarette and, staring at the map, drew a notebook towards him. It seemed a good idea to think a little ahead, something he’d always been good at. This attack he’d been thrust into had been set up too quickly and it made sense to provide for things going wrong.
He pulled up a chair and sat down. It was going to be damn difficult without air force support, but they’d done things before without the RAF and he supposed they’d have to do it again this time. He was thinking that they’d been badly let down when his brigade major appeared alongside him with a signal.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘Very sorry.’
Tallemach looked up. ‘Sorry? What for?’
The brigade major said nothing but his eyes went to the signal. Tallemach stared at him for a second. Then his eyes dropped to the flimsy, wondering what it was. It was addressed to him and it had been routed through Division and had come originally from the RAF.
‘Regret to inform you that your son, Flight-Lieutenant R. M. A. Tallemach, DFC, has been reported missing, believed killed, from operations over the Ruhr.’
For a long time, Tallemach stared at it, disbelieving. Then gradually it sank in. He looked again at the date of the operation. It was three weeks ago, so there could be little doubt. If his son had survived, by this time the International Red Cross would surely have discovered it.
The brigade major quietly withdrew while Tallemach still sat staring at the signal, trying not to believe it, forcing himself not to believe it. It wasn’t possible! It couldn’t have happened! Not both his sons within three months of each other!
He gave a tremendous sigh and pushed the signal to one side. He had a job to do. The war was still going on and he was responsible for the lives of a lot of men. Indulging his personal grief was not part of the job of commanding.
He looked at the map again and reached for his pencil. But the map suddenly made no sense and he couldn’t make his mind work.
On the slopes behind San Bartolomeo, 19th Division Artillery had at last got into position, and the adjutant of the 215th Field Artillery, which was to start the barrage, sat in his command post vehicle surrounded by maps and the apparatus of calculation and power, watching the fingers of his watch.
He had twenty-four 25-pounder guns under his control and every weapon in the two divisions was to take its lead from him in a vast weight of destruction and terror. His network of radio and telephonic communications covered the whole front, backwards to the senior artillery officer at divisional headquarters and sideways to the other artillery regiments.
Watching the front covered by the North Yorkshires, his forward observation officer was reporting targets he’d already pinpointed. There weren’t as many as he would have wished because the Germans had gone to enormous trouble to conceal their strongpoints, but for the moment his chief concern was the eight guns of C Battery which, in direct support of the Yorkshires, lay concealed beneath nets in an irregular line on the forward slopes of the hills, the great weapons twenty-five yards apart, their cartridges and shells stacked within reach. Nearby, lorries and limbers stood ready to dash forward and hook up the guns as soon as their task was finished the next evening.
The hands of the adjutant’s watch moved closer to zero hour.
‘Stand by,’ he said quietly.
‘Take post!’
The gun crews jumped into position, one man in the layer’s seat, the ammunition numbers behind the breech, another man holding a handspike for traversing, his free hand in the air to notify the troop officer he was ready.
‘Battery target, stonk,’ the troop commander said. HE 177. Charge 3. Angle of sight, 15 minutes. Elevation, zero 17 degrees, 20 minutes. Stand by to fire…’
As the guns announced their readiness, the minutes dragged slowly by.
In the cellar of the house on the outskirts of San Eusebio, Captain Reis glanced at his map and wondered what was coming. Something certainly was. On the Russian front he’d learned a great deal about defensive fighting, the one thing these days that occupied the German army above all else. Transport was at a premium and the possibility of any help from the Luftwaffe had long since been written off.
His orders had contained a trenchant note of warning. ‘A special degree of alertness is ordered. The enemy is expected to attack the San Eusebio position within forty-eight hours and no one should allow himself to relax.’
He seemed to have been living in the cellar for days, eating the sausage and black bread and drinking the ersatz coffee which made up his meals. He was aware of a suffocating feeling of helplessness and was even anxious to escape. But he knew he couldn’t. His orders were as unequivocal as Yuell’s. ‘You will hold San Eusebio.’ They were as simple as that and allowed no variations.
The telephone buzzed and he lifted the receiver to hear Lieutenant Thiergartner on the other end.
‘Further to my earlier report of 1600 hours, another group of tanks observed at the end of the San Bartolomeo road. Also gathering of heavy vehicles, which could be carrying bridging material.’
‘That’s the second lot we’ve seen,’ Reis said. ‘There’s obviously something coming.’
He considered for a moment. There were sufficient weapons and ammunition for immediate needs stored by the weapon pits and he could call on armour if need be. Though it was within reach, however, it could hardly manoeuvre in numbers on the steep slopes and rocky valleys round San Eusebio.
He was tied to a static defence and he was relying largely on mines, machine-guns, two anti-tank guns, two self-propelled guns which he’d hidden in a valley behind the village, and one or two old tanks he’d been given which had been sunk in the cellars of houses with only their guns protruding.
‘Think they’re aiming at any particular spot, Thiergartner?’ he asked.
‘There appear to be three approach routes, Herr Hauptmann,’ Thiergartner replied. ‘One from Foiano to Castelgrande, one from Capodozzi to the old ferry and one from San Bartolomeo to the bridge.’
‘How about you? Are you all right?’
‘But, of course, Herr Hauptmann.’
Thiergartner sounded too damned cheerful to be true, Reis decided.
He grunted and replaced the receiver. As he did so, 215th Field Artillery’s first shell arrived. It removed the roof of the house above him, knocked down the chimney stack and, shaking the cellar to its foundations, filled the place with black soot and grey plaster.
Reis scrambled free, spitting out dust. He was lucky. The exits might be blocked, but he was still alive, and he jumped to the telephone again and called Thiergartner.
‘Here we go, Thiergartner!’ he said.
‘We’re ready, Herr Hauptmann.’
‘By God,’ Reis shouted above the growing din. ‘I hope you are!’
Part Three
‘The front line is a very small club.’
Lt Gen Sir Brian Horrocks
One
The crash in the darkness, the scream and then the sudden silence, was shattering in the shock it delivered.
Warley’s company were approaching the river, still struggling under the weight of the Engineers’ timbers and Bailey panels, when they heard the mine explode.
Because of the need for the bridging material and the dwindling time at their disposal, Warley had long since decided, as Yuell had anticipated, to press beyond the three-hundred-yard start line the artillery’s worn guns had necessitated, considering it wiser to risk an odd ‘short’ to make sure they were in position at the right moment. Jago’s men, working along the bank with their boats, were taking a chance and Warley had felt that he must too. But down here, near the river, the white tapes that had been laid to show where mines had been cleared seemed to have been removed and the thought that was in Warley’s mind was that this could well have been done by a German patrol the night before.
There was a cry of ‘Stretcher bearers!’ behind them, and all movement down the long straight road stopped dead until everyone knew exactly where it was safe to go. Then the word came down to them as they huddled, heads bent against the rain.
‘Lorry. Tried to pull off the road because of a jam. It got bogged down on the verge and when the driver got out to see what could be done, he trod on a mine.’
They all drew breath again, lifting their heads, spitting away the rain that gathered on their lips. As if to indicate how futile their battle was compared with the vastness of nature, it had started to come down in torrents, dripping off the ends of their gas capes, their eyebrows and chins; off the weapons and equipment they carried, and the planking and Bailey panels they struggled with. Occasionally, when a shaded light appeared in someone’s hands, it picked out the wavering lines of water and made the drops running down the timbers and girders sparkle as they moved. Heavy feet splashed and shuffled through the puddles.
