‘Morning, sir,’ said Peploe, with a cheery smile. ‘A beautiful day.’
‘Morning,’ replied Creer.
‘Best part of the day if you ask me,’ said Masters.
‘It’s going to be hot, for sure,’ agreed Peploe.
‘Sleep all right?’ asked Creer.
‘Got bitten alive,’ said Masters. ‘Bastards buzzing about my ear all night. I’ll be happy when our kit catches up and I can retrieve my net.’
‘You obviously haven’t been drinking enough gin and tonic, Jerry,’ said Creer. ‘Quinine, that’s the key. I’m immune to them now.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Anyway, what’s the news? Have we got the latest sitrep?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Warbrook, clutching a thin piece of paper. ‘This is from Division at oh five forty-five. Syracuse taken, but we knew that, and also Ponte Grande. However, the good news is that the Italians were in such a hurry to flee Syracuse, they failed to blow any of the harbour installations first. So it’s intact.’
‘Yes, that’s bloody good news,’ said Peploe. ‘It’ll really help with the unloading process.’
‘Er, first German opposition has been encountered,’ continued Warbrook, ‘and Thirteenth Brigade have now taken Floridia and are advancing on Solarino.’ He scanned the sheet of paper once more. ‘Unloading continuing well. At Gela, the Americans have established a bridgehead but opposition has been stiffer than in Eighth Army’s area. The German Hermann Göring Division counterattacked heavily yesterday but were beaten back. The Americans are expecting further heavy counterattacks today. Bridgehead holding, though. The airborne drop has not been a success – the high winds caused huge problems, as one can well imagine. Gela airfield taken, and probably Comiso this morning. Air forces struck Catania and Gerbini airfields again last night.’ Peploe looked up. ‘So, all in all, situation encouraging. I’ve also been up to see the men, who seem in buoyant spirits after yesterday’s successes. I think they’re happier now that they’re here and off the ship.’
‘Good,’ said Creer. ‘I’ll head up in the Jeep shortly. And what about today’s plans? Where are Brigade?’
‘Brigade at Avola but moving up to Syracuse. Seventeenth Brigade advancing on Augusta, Thirteenth on Solarino.’
‘And what are our orders?’
‘Await supplies for the time being,’ said Peploe, ‘and be ready to move up through Thirteenth Brigade.’ He grinned, and said, ‘Apparently, a German anti-aircraft unit pushed north out of Syracuse yesterday afternoon and prompted panic among the Italians there. Hundreds deserted, guns were put out of action, and Syracuse more or less abandoned. A bit of fighting to the north of the town, but that was more or less it. Incredible, isn’t it?’
‘How the devil d’you know all this, Peploe?’ asked Creer.
‘I went down there about an hour ago, sir. Took one of the Jeeps and spoke to an officer in the Seaforth Highlanders. I told him we’d heard the battle going on last night and he said it had been the easiest fight he’d ever been in. It’s a beautiful town. A bit bombed, but not too badly.’
‘Must have a look,’ muttered Creer. He disliked Peploe almost as much as Tanner. Always smiling, always cheery, and incredibly efficient with it. Peploe was one of those types who would never have worn a uniform had it not been for the war, but whose obvious intelligence, charm and manifest good sense made him an excellent officer. Creer was well aware that, while the men admired Tanner, there was great affection for Peploe; most, he knew, would have far preferred Peploe to remain OC of the battalion. And he was so damn keen. Getting up at the crack of dawn and heading into Syracuse! For God’s sake. It was as though Peploe was deliberately trying to show him up.
‘Anything else to report, Warbrook?’ Creer asked.
‘Not at the moment, sir.’
‘Good. I’ll take the Jeep and go up and see the men.’
He had just pushed back his chair and was lighting a pipe when a motorcycle turned into the drive and headed towards them.
‘A DR for us by the look of things,’ said Peploe.
The despatch rider stopped and Creer stepped forward, took the note and read it alone.
‘Anything important?’ asked Peploe, as the motorcycle roared off again.
‘We’re being temporarily attached to Fifty Div and to Sixty-ninth Brigade,’ he said. ‘We’re to pass through Thirteenth Brigade at Solarino and advance on Sortino.’
Peploe took out his map. ‘Sortino,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve got a number of pillboxes marked up to the south of there. We might have a fight on our hands at last. When do we leave?’
‘Immediately,’ replied Creer.
‘In that case, I’ll follow you up to see the men, sir.’
‘See to the clearing up of this place first, will you, Peploe?’
Peploe smiled affably. ‘Of course, sir. Right away, sir.’ He stood up, saluted theatrically and hurried into the house, calling to the men.
And that was another thing that irked, Creer thought – the way no slight, no put-down, ever seemed to ruffle Peploe. As he got to his feet, Stainforth clambered down from the office.
‘Where to, sir?’
‘Where d’you bloody think?’ he snapped. ‘To see the men.’
‘Very good, sir.’
They drove off in silence, a cloud of dust following in their wake. It was only five hundred yards up the track to the battalion’s main positions, and as they climbed the slight rise, Creer saw Tanner standing at the tail-gate of a fifteen-hundredweight truck that had been driven off the side of the road and parked under a tree. He seemed to be examining something with CSM Sykes and another of the men. Creer was still trying to see what it was, when suddenly he heard the roar of an aero engine and looked up to see a fighter plane hurtling low towards them.
‘Christ’s sake!’ he yelled, as Stainforth yanked the steering-wheel sharply and veered as the enemy aircraft opened fire, spurts of bullets bursting along the road. A moment later, both men had leaped from the Jeep, but as Creer dived onto the ground, he was conscious that a figure up ahead stepped onto the side of the road and opened fire with a Bren gun.
In a trice, the plane was over them, so low Creer could see the black crosses on the underside of the wings, and the oil streaks across its pale belly. It sped on past but then the engine seemed to catch and falter. An audible crack, and black smoke belched from the nose. Cheers from the men, and the Messerschmitt climbed and banked over the high ground to the west, a trail of smoke following behind.
A shadow fell across Creer and he looked up to see Tanner standing over him, Bren slung across his shoulder. ‘Not hit, are you, sir?’ he said.
‘No, no, I’m fine,’ muttered Creer, hastily getting to his feet.
‘And you, Stainforth?’ asked Tanner.
‘No, sir.’
Tanner looked at the Jeep, then at the road. Creer saw that the line of bullets pockmarking the surface veered to the right fifteen yards before the Jeep. For a moment the three stood there in silence, watching the Messerschmitt, which had swooped, engine spluttering, low in the sky before disappearing from view.
‘Good shooting, sir,’ said Stainforth.
‘Always worth a pop when they’re that low,’ said Tanner. ‘As much as anything, it puts them off their aim.’ He winked at Creer, then saluted lazily and ambled back towards his men.
‘A moment, Tanner,’ Creer called.
Tanner stopped and turned. Yes?
‘We’re moving out. We’re to pass through Thirteenth Brigade and take Sortino.’
Tanner nodded. ‘Transport?’
‘Only with supplies. We’re to advance on foot. Get your company ready.’
Tanner saluted again and continued walking.
Curse you, thought Creer.
Behind him, Stainforth was getting back into the Jeep. ‘Blimey, that was a close one, sir!’ he said. ‘Did you see the line of bullets? They were heading straight for us.’
‘They were heading for the Jeep, St
ainforth, not us. Don’t get carried away. Now drive on. We need to get the battalion moving.’
As they drove on, Stainforth said, ‘You have to admit, that was very impressive shooting, sir.’
‘Hmm, perhaps, but it’s a pity there’s such a dark stain hanging over him.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you this, Stainforth,’ said Creer, ‘but there’s fairly strong evidence that Tanner murdered a man a few years ago. Killed him, fled, and joined the Army.’
‘You’re joking, sir? Really?’ said Stainforth, as they drove on towards B Company’s positions.
‘I’m afraid so. To be honest, he was always a little tricky out in India. Rather sly. Good at manipulating people. One of those types.’
‘Well, I hardly know him, sir. Major Peploe thinks the world of him, though.’
‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him, Stainforth. Between you and me, I’ve been having to keep a pretty tight watch on him since I took over. I often wonder if that’s why they brought me in over Peploe.’
Stainforth whistled. ‘Blow me, sir, I had no idea.’
‘And yesterday a man from the Wiltshire Regiment somehow ended up landing alongside A Company. He recognized Tanner from back home, and later that morning, he was shot. All rather convenient for our Captain Tanner, wouldn’t you say?’
Stainforth shook his head. ‘Incredible, sir. So what will you do about it, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘It’s a tricky one. It’s all circumstantial, but having a possible murderer among our number, and a company commander at that, Stainforth, is clearly not acceptable.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I’m going to have to do something about it, but as to what, I’m not quite certain yet.’
Stainforth glanced at his OC. ‘You never know, sir, the war may take care of it for you. It’s a dangerous business, after all.’
Creer did not answer, but his mind was whirring. An idea had entered his head. An idea that might not only solve the problem of Tanner but that of Peploe too.
11
Sunday, 11 July, around 9.25 a.m. The admiral’s barge landed on the 1st Division’s beaches to the east of Gela, grinding gently as it came to a halt on the sand. The ramp was lowered and the general’s Dodge command reconnaissance car and one Jeep rumbled off, Patton sitting up front beside Major Alex Stiller, his aide, who was driving. In the back sat Major General Hobart ‘Hap’ Gay, Patton’s chief-of-staff, and Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Wiseman. Behind them, in the Jeep, four soldiers were acting as bodyguards to the US Seventh Army commander.
Wiseman was glad of the chance to get back on land, although he had been reading the sitreps coming in with mounting concern. He wondered whether Patton should be risking coming ashore so early. Although German and Italian counterattacks had been beaten back on D-Day, there were already signs that there would be heavy fighting this second day too. Reports had come in of enemy troops massing to the north of Gela; the naval guns had been booming since dawn, and even now, as they drove onto the beach, Wiseman could hear the crackle of small arms and shelling from a short way inland. He had not voiced his concerns – General Gay had done that, but Patton had swept them aside.
‘That’s precisely why I’m going ashore,’ he had responded. ‘A commander needs to command. Can’t do that sitting on your arse six miles offshore.’
Before they could go anywhere, the Dodge and the Jeep had to be de-waterproofed, so Patton stepped down, face set, helmet low over his narrow eyes, boots shining and a pearl-handled revolver on each hip. The scene was one of chaos and the aftermath of carnage. The build-up of supplies was impressive, with more tanks, vehicles and crates of ammunition rolling off the LCTs as they waited. Those killed the day before had been taken away, but there were helmets in the sand, upturned boxes and a number of wrecked vehicles. Wiseman followed Patton as he looked at two DUKWs that had been destroyed by mines, then a Higgins boat with a huge hole torn through its side.
‘An eighty-eight,’ he said, ‘or a one-oh-five. Pity the poor sons-of-bitches in that one.’
Shells continued to whistle overhead. Wiseman looked up and even saw the dark shape of one hurtle by, sucking the air from its path with a deafening whine. Moments later he felt a tremor as it landed, then heard the explosion. Thank God for the Navy guns. He wondered how they might have fared without them. Not too well, he guessed.
They were soon called back to their vehicles. Patton had originally wanted to see Terry Allen, the 1st Division commander, whose headquarters were now a few miles further south-east along the beach, but having heard the sound of intensifying small-arms and mortars from north of Gela, he ordered Stiller to head towards the town instead.
‘We’ll go and see how Colonel Darby’s Rangers are getting on,’ Patton told them. ‘I want the gap between the Rangers and First Division closed up right away, but until we see the situation for ourselves, we won’t know what forces we need to allocate to achieve it.’ Wiseman had to concede the general had a point. A path off the beach had been bulldozed, so they drove up the sand and onto the rough coast road, then headed west.
A group of Rangers met them at the edge of the town, hastily saluted, then, two clinging to the side of the Dodge, led them to Colonel Darby’s CP, through streets in which battle debris was all too evident. A number of buildings had been hit, the rubble tumbling down into the road. Telegraph wires lay strewn across another, blocking their path. Wiseman spotted a number of dead Italians, and a few nervous faces watching from the windows; the civilians were keeping low indoors. Poor bastards. The stench of death and smoke was heavy on the air.
They were led to a restaurant at the base of an apartment building near the northern edge of town. A Rangers captain saluted smartly as they drew up and Patton stepped down.
‘At ease, Captain,’ Patton said. ‘Where’s the colonel?’
‘At the top, sir,’ the captain replied. ‘It’s our OP.’
They followed him up the stairs to the top floor. The doors were open and inside they found Colonel Darby and a handful of other men, including a radio operator.
‘General Patton, sir,’ said Darby, saluting with snappiness. He wore his helmet at an angle, his Thompson slung across his back. Binoculars hung around his neck.
Wiseman followed them out onto the balcony. Ahead he could see open countryside, and a wide, gently rising plain of dense fields. The main arteries, the three roads leading towards the town, were clearly visible, while away to the right, running towards the sea, was the river Gela that gave the town its name. Beyond, maybe ten miles away, mountains rose, grey and dusty in the morning sunlight.
‘Show me the enemy counterattack, Colonel,’ Patton said, bringing his own binoculars to his eyes.
‘Which one, sir?’ Darby replied.
Patton lowered his binoculars. ‘So it’s like that, is it? I think you ought to put me in the picture, Colonel, and double quick.’
Wiseman listened as Darby explained that they had held the town the previous evening even though enemy tanks had reached the main square. There had, he told the general, been a number of Italian troops, but they had all been killed, captured or driven out. They were doing their best to withstand what they expected to be another heavy counterattack. He pointed out the enemy columns approaching. Now that Wiseman looked carefully, he saw clouds of dust along the track that approached the town from the north and another from the north-east.
‘Those are Italians, sir,’ said Darby, pointing north, ‘and those are Krauts approaching from the direction of Ponte Olivo airfield. The Hermann Göring Division.’
Wiseman scanned with his binoculars. He could see Italian troops crossing open fields a couple of miles away and, further to the east, what appeared to be German tanks. He swallowed hard. Guns still boomed offshore, shells exploding inland, clouds of smoke mushrooming into the sky.
‘I’ve got a perimeter of 4.2 mortars, sir,’ added Darby, ‘which
I’ll have open fire any moment at two thousand yards from the enemy. And I know every last man will keep firing until we’ve chased those sons-of-bitches out of here.’
Patton allowed himself a faint smile. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Take me down there, will you?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Darby, but at that moment a pair of German bombers appeared, swooping in at just a few hundred feet. A second later, they heard the whistle of falling bombs, a deafening crash, and suddenly the street outside was enveloped in smoke and dust. Masonry was crumbling and crashing down on itself. Everyone had ducked, but while their own building was unscathed, the small one across the street had been hit and now a woman was screaming.
Patton coughed, straightened his belt and tie, then said, ‘Let’s go.’
The woman was still screaming as they got down to the street and into their vehicles. Choking dust and smoke filled the air, but soon they were through it and speeding towards a Rangers mortar position facing the Italian thrust from the north. There were four 4.2-inch mortars spread out in good positions behind stone walls at the edge of the town. Stacks of boxes of mortar shells stood around each. The men looked hot, sweat darkening their backs and running down their faces. Mortar rounds were bursting from the tubes in quick succession.
As the general and his coterie once again got out of their vehicles, they brought binoculars to their eyes. Wiseman watched the battle unfolding. He could see the enemy clearly, Italian infantry spread out across the fields, hurrying forward, scaling the walls that barred their way. How far were they now? About twelve hundred yards, Wiseman guessed. He glanced towards one of the mortars to see Patton himself placing a shell down the tube.
‘What the hell kind of mortar shells are we using here, Sergeant?’ he asked a Ranger.
‘Phosphorous, sir,’ came the reply.
Patton grinned. ‘Mighty effective.’
He loves this, thought Wiseman. He had never met anyone who so obviously enjoyed the adrenalin rush of combat as Patton; that energy, the glint in his eye, at the smell of cordite and the sound of artillery, was extraordinary. He relished it. That was the word. Patton relished battle.
The Devil's Pact (2013) Page 15
