He ran forward himself, conscious of the river to his right that he’d seen on his map, and of the cleft in the ridge several miles up ahead. Good. We’re in the right place. Somewhere to his right, guns were booming. Where are they? To his left, someone cried out and fell. Who was it? Donaghue. Not dead, but there was firing from up ahead – a farmhouse, he saw, through the trees, as Phyllis, with the radio, and Sykes scrambled down beside him, followed by two more, unfamiliar, figures.
‘Who the hell are you?’ said Sykes to the two men, as Tanner felt inside his haversack for his Aldis scope.
‘Gulliver and Loader, sir,’ said the first. ‘We’re from the Wiltshires.’
Tanner froze. He had known families of those names back home. Bollocks. Not now. Quickly, he fastened the scope. It was zeroed at four hundred yards, but no matter: at this range it would do what was required. A bullet whined overhead. Then he saw a faint orange spurt as an enemy machine-gun opened fire from a first-floor window. He glanced around: most of the men had stopped, taking cover behind the trees and shrubs. Away to their right, guns were firing again. Where the bloody hell were they?
‘See him?’ asked Sykes.
‘Yes,’ said Tanner. He lay down, and inched forward, pulling his rifle into his shoulder. Another burst of machine-gun fire, bullets spraying in a wide arc, but too high: twigs and foliage snapped as they zapped above them. Tanner peered through the scope. He could see two men beside the machine-gun, heads just showing above the windowsill. Another spurt of orange and the head juddering as the gunner fired a three-second burst. Tanner lined up his shot, cross-lines on the Italian’s helmet. A small intake of breath. Steady. Finger around the trigger. Squeeze. The rifle cracked, Tanner felt the bolt jerk into his shoulder and saw the gunner collapse. The other man ducked as Tanner drew back the bolt, and lined up a second shot. Show yourself. Sure enough, a moment later, the top of the Italian’s helmet reappeared. Another short intake of breath, then Tanner pressed the trigger a second time, saw blood spray into the air, then was on his feet and urging his men forward, running, then sprinting towards the house. He fired a burst from his Beretta – thank God, it still works – then, as he neared the house, pulled a grenade from his haversack, ran to the wall, crouched beneath a window, pulled the pin, waited two seconds and threw it in. An explosion, a cry from within, and Tanner was up, kicking open the door and spraying the room with a burst of his Beretta.
Silence. Then groaning. One Italian was crying out.
Tanner was conscious of someone beside him and half turned to see Sykes. He stepped forward, saw an Italian, coughing and spluttering but with his hands on his head. Tanner grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed past him, then walked on through into another room. Chairs and boxes lay upturned. He took the stone stairs and climbed up to the first floor.
‘Anyone here?’ he called. Silence. ‘Stan, send a couple of lads up.’
Cautiously Tanner walked onto a landing, then into the room where the machine-gunners had been. Two men lay dead, large pools of dark blood flecked with dust spreading around their heads. A third man crouched in the corner, hands around his head. To the north, the guns were firing again. Tanner glanced out of the window. Beyond the house there was a grove of trees, then the river, but he could not see any enemy artillery. He could only hear it. He glanced down at the soldier.
‘All right, son,’ said Tanner, lowering his Beretta and offering a hand. The soldier looked up. A boy, thought Tanner. Christ. He offered his hand again. Startled, the young man got to his feet.
‘It’s all right,’ said Tanner.
Brown now stood in the doorway. ‘Jesus, sir, you nailed them all right.’
‘Browner, get this lad out of here, will you?’ He looked at the boy and saw the damp stain at his crotch, then went over to the two dead men, rifled through the jacket of the first, and in the breast pocket found his record book. 122nd Reggimento Costiero. 1 Compagnia. Carbone, Luigi Augusto. Tanner looked down. Dead eyes stared up at him, so he crouched, lowered the lids, then walked out and headed back down the stairs.
The shooting had stopped and a number of his men now stood around the house. A group of Italians was outside, hands on their heads, watched by Griffiths with a Sten gun pointed at them. As Tanner stepped out of the house, he saw Lieutenant Shopland and the rest of 1 Platoon approaching from the shore.
‘We heard the shooting,’ said Shopland. Sergeant McAllister was with him.
‘Seems you’ve got it in hand, though, sir.’
‘Where are the others?’ Tanner asked.
‘Three Platoon have landed, but I haven’t seen Two Platoon yet.’
Tanner nodded, then noticed a dozen Wiltshiremen standing around too. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ he asked.
‘The coxswain on our LCA said his compass was broke. We circled the ship, but it was dark and he lost track of the others. We ended up landing next to you,’ said the man who had called himself Gulliver. Tanner saw the sergeant’s stripes stitched to his shirtsleeves.
‘And your platoon commander?’
‘’E got hit. He’s being looked after down by the beach.’
Tanner grunted. ‘All right. You’d better stay with us for the moment. We can get you back to the rest of your battalion later.’ He looked at Gulliver. ‘Where are you from, Sergeant?’
‘Salisbury way, sir.’
‘Yes, but where exactly?’
‘Village called Alvesdon.’
Tanner pushed his helmet back and rubbed his brow. Alvesdon. Of all places.
‘Do you know it, sir?’ said Gulliver. ‘Your accent, sir, doesn’t sound very northern, if you don’t mind my saying. You’re not from round there, are you?’
Tanner scowled at him. ‘Never you mind.’ He turned, looking for Phyllis, then spotted him squatting by a tree, wearing a headset, the radio before him. Sykes stood over him. Nearby, a short distance to the north, a volley of artillery boomed. The ground pulsed. Small arms could be heard to the south.
‘Where the bloody hell are those guns firing from?’ he said. ‘We need to get them, Stan.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sykes, rolling a cigarette.
Tanner crouched beside Phyllis. ‘What’s going on, Siff?’
‘B and C Companies are ashore, sir,’ he said.
‘Ask them about those guns. Suggest we take them out before pushing north towards Cassibile.’
Phyllis spoke into the radio, listened, nodded, then turned back to Tanner. ‘Brigade want us to destroy the gun position, sir. Three or four one-oh-twos. Attack to go in at oh five thirty.’
Tanner looked at his watch. It was five to five and now light, the sun just appearing on the horizon out to sea. The stench of smoke and cordite still hung heavy on the air, but it felt cool and crisp. ‘Have you co-ordinates?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. 700124.’
Tanner took out his map and marked the spot with a pencil, then called Shopland, McAllister and Fauvel to join him. ‘We’re going to take out those guns,’ he told them. ‘One Platoon can have this particular honour.’ He looked at McAllister and Shopland. ‘But Sykes here and I will be coming with you.’ He turned to Fauvel. ‘Gav, I want you to stay here. Get these Eyetie prisoners sorted out, and try to find out where Two and Three Platoons are. When you’ve gathered them together, come and find us.’
‘All right,’ said Fauvel.
Tanner now showed them the map. There was a curving railway line a couple of hundred yards ahead and a wide river valley to their right, then a series of groves and fields. The guns were, it seemed, dug in there. ‘First we’ve got to get past the railway. There’s a bridge, but I think we should approach by heading down the river valley. We’ll work out a plan of attack when we get there and see where the guns are. All right?’
‘What about those Wiltshire boys?’ asked Sykes.
‘We’ll take them,’ said Tanner. ‘That gives us the best part of fifty men. Should be plenty.’
They set off, spread out
wide from the edge of the river valley with the groves as cover. As they neared the railway embankment, machine-gun and rifle fire sputtered, forcing the Rangers to drop down. They responded with the Bren, so Tanner, with Sykes beside him, was able to creep forward to within thirty yards of the embankment. The Bren fire seemed to have pinned the defenders down, but then a head and a barrel appeared and the enemy machine-gun opened up once more. Tanner could hear them talking, the voices rapid and urgent.
‘They’re panicked,’ he whispered to Sykes. He glanced around. Trahair and Griffiths were on his right, while further to their left were McAllister and a section from 1 Platoon.
‘Grenades?’ Sykes grinned.
‘I reckon,’ said Tanner. He felt in his haversack and pulled one out, then held it aloft for the others to see. McAllister nodded. Bren fire chattered once more. Tanner held up his right hand. Three, two, one. Pull the pin, pause, then throw. Half a dozen Mills bombs flew through the air, dropped behind the embankment and then, a moment later, exploded. Already, Tanner was on his feet, charging the embankment, his Beretta at his hip. Clambering to the top, he fired a short burst, then scrambled down the other side.
Several Italians lay dead, one with a severed leg, which lay some yards away; more were wounded. One pointed his rifle at Tanner but, seeing his comrades raising their hands, lowered it hastily. Others were running, disappearing into the groves. Most, however, stood there with hands raised. More Rangers arrived, cresting the railway embankment. Ammunition boxes and weapons lay on the ground; an abandoned mortar stood a little further on. The position, Tanner reckoned, had been held in company strength at least – some hundred and more men – but they had shown little stomach for a fight. It was hardly surprising, he thought, to look at them: shabby uniforms, most either middle-aged or young boys, and clearly poorly trained – their shooting had been high, there had been little sign of any fire support, and the panicked chatter had suggested a lack of clear thinking. He wondered what was going on to the south, and further along the railway embankment, where small-arms fire could still be heard. Well, he thought, that wasn’t his concern just now; his priority was those guns, which were still firing. And it was now after five.
‘Jesus, will you look at this lot!’ Sykes whistled.
‘Come on, Stan,’ said Tanner. ‘We need to get a shift on. Iggery, eh?’ He strode along the top of the embankment. ‘Jesus,’ he said, looking at all the prisoners. ‘Just what we bloody well need.’ Then he saw more Rangers emerging into the clearing before the embankment. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘They can deal with this lot. Now let’s go. Jaldi.’
Sykes put his fingers into his mouth and blew a short, sharp whistle, then signalled with his arm, urging the men towards them. Tanner had already set off, running at a jog towards the river. Pausing briefly at the bank of the shallow valley, he looked around, heard the guns firing again in turn, and this time saw smoke and dust rising from beyond a dense citrus grove that stood on the far side. How far? Four hundred yards? Five? No further, at any rate.
The valley was no more than fifty yards wide, and he scrambled down to the water’s edge. The river gurgled over a rocky bed, easily fordable. Having waved to his men to follow, Tanner waded across, then ran along the far bank. After a couple of hundred yards, he clambered up it and saw he had reached the edge of the citrus grove. The guns fired again, the din much closer now so that he could smell the whiff of cordite on the air. Half crouching, half running, he moved from orange tree to orange tree until he could see the guns clearly. They were dug in across a grass field that was interspersed with patchy groups of almond trees. They had been sited well, Tanner had to admit, with netting around them and making good use of the trees. No doubt they were well hidden from the air. With his field glasses, he examined the site carefully. There were three of them, about fifty yards apart, pointing south-east, back towards the invasion beaches, rather than out to sea. Gun crews stood around each, and although there were no obvious communication trenches connecting them, there was a forward screen of slit-trenches manned by infantry. He also counted four machine-guns. The field, however, was lined by a dry-stone wall; the newly risen sun was gleaming off the limestone. Tanner smiled to himself. Good.
Sykes was now beside him. Tanner signalled to the others to push back, well out of sight. Then, beckoning to Sykes, he moved back to the edge of the river valley, well out of view of the guns. The men were all there, clutching their weapons, their uniforms already beginning to dry.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘It’s getting lighter by the minute and that sun is now shining directly in those Eyetie gunners’ eyes. We’re going to split. Lieutenant Shopland, I want you with One Section, and the Wiltshires, to spread along the front edge of the grove here and fire at forty-five degrees across the front of the site. There are at least four Eyetie MGs screening forward, but if the others we’ve seen are anything to go by, they tend to fire high. So you keep low, all right? Your job is to draw the fire. The rest of us will skirt back along the river. Then, using the wall behind the guns, we’ll take them out in turn.’
He glanced at his watch. It was twenty past five. ‘Questions?’ he said.
‘When should we start firing?’ Shopland asked.
‘At oh five thirty,’ said Tanner. ‘In ten minutes. Now let’s go. Iggery.’
8
Fifty miles away, as the crow flew, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Wiseman was coming ashore in a DUKW amphibious vehicle, conscious that the last time he had been on Sicilian soil he’d left the north coast in virtual silence in the early hours of the morning, slipping away in a canvas canoe to a waiting British submarine. Now it was D-Day, on the south coast, and he was part of the largest seaborne invasion the world had ever known. And he was landing in anything but silence as shells hurtled over and exploded, engines roared, and small-arms fire chattered.
That he was there at all seemed like something of a miracle after the previous day’s storm. Wiseman had been on USS Monrovia, Admiral Hewitt’s flagship for the Western Task Force, but even that vessel, a large, solidly constructed attack-transport ship, had rolled and pitched in the storm. Wiseman had watched from the bridge, the normally still and tranquil blue of the Mediterranean transformed into dancing white tops. The flat-bottomed LCTs, the larger landing craft carrying the invasion force’s tanks and motor transport, had bounced on the bucking waves like corks. They had been nicknamed ‘sea-going bed pans’, which had seemed a neat joke, but on that crossing of the Mediterranean, Wiseman had wondered whether ‘barely sea-going coffins’ might have been a better description.
The mood on board Monrovia had grown increasingly tense as the afternoon had worn on. General Patton had repeatedly grilled Lieutenant Commander Steere, his meteorologist, for updates. ‘Still convinced this storm’s going to blow through, Steere?’ he had growled, at around five in the afternoon, as Steere had once again laid out his weather charts.
‘It will calm down, sir,’ Steere had said.
‘It’d better,’ Patton had replied.
And so it had, but not before the airborne troops had been flown over. Wiseman had watched them, alongside Patton, Admiral Hewitt and General Lucas, a vast stream of Dakotas and gliders, dark against the moonlit sky. Wiseman had wondered how successful the drop would be. He remembered parachuting into Villalba from one lone aircraft on a clear and windless night. But what effect would this wind have? Steere had recorded gusts of up to thirty-seven knots, and while it had died down a little by the time the airborne troops went over, it was still plenty strong enough to scatter those paratroop divisions – one American and one British – to the four winds. Those boys had a key role: to secure vital road junctions to the north of Gela in an effort to block any Axis counterattacks, and to capture two key bridges along the east coast on the British invasion front to the south of Catania and Syracuse. Whether they would or not, only time would tell, but Wiseman’s earlier confidence had been dashed somewhat. He knew he could rely on Don Calogero Vizzini to ensure S
icilian resistance was limited, but he could not control the first forty-eight hours of the invasion – and that was the critical part. So long as both British and American forces were able to establish firm bridgeheads, the Axis would never hold the island. Fate, however, had dealt them a cruel hand: who would have thought there could be such a wind in the middle of summer?
At least Patton had remained resolute, just as he always did. The general had given a rousing speech a minute after midnight, when, in Monrovia’s stateroom and before his entire staff, the First Armoured Corps flag had been lowered and replaced by the new Seventh Army standard.
‘Gentlemen,’ Patton had said, ‘I have the honour to activate the Seventh United States Army. This is the first army in history to be activated after midnight and baptized in blood before daylight.’
Wiseman had always reckoned he wasn’t easily moved, but at that moment he’d felt pretty damn proud. A freshly promoted lieutenant colonel, he was a key member of the new Seventh Army’s G2 Intelligence team with a vital role to play as Allied forces landed in Hitler’s Fortress Europe. It was an historic moment and he was at the very heart of the invasion, a witness to great events.
Patton had insisted on radio silence. He had wanted surprise. Admiral Hewitt, on the other hand, had argued for a heavy naval bombardment first, pointing out that not even the dopiest Italian could fail to suspect an Allied invasion after the aerial battering they had received the previous week.
‘Horseshit,’ Patton had replied. ‘The enemy can’t keep alert all the time. We’re going to land and all of a sudden we’ll be at their necks.’
Patton had got his way, but radio silence had meant that as dawn had begun to break it had been hard to know what was happening. Patton had no idea how the airborne troops had fared, or whether the 1st Division were securing a toehold on the beaches. Earlier, they had watched fields of ripening corn burn, the flames visible from Monrovia six miles out at sea. But now that day was dawning, they could not see what was happening on the beaches. Patton had sent Wiseman, one of his senior intelligence officers, to find out.
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