With Every Letter (33 page)

Ponte Olivo, Sicily
July 12, 1943

Tom huddled in a rocky ravine on the hill slope with Sesame. Artillery shells whistled above, and explosions thundered in the early morning light.

Today they had a fight.

On D-Day, they’d taken the landing field at Gela-Farello without a shot. The next day, the Germans counterattacked. Naval bombardment and American stubbornness prevailed, but blackened carcasses of panzers rendered the airstrip unusable.

Today’s objective was the Ponte Olivo Airfield, a major base a few miles north of Gela. After the infantry cleared the field, the 908th would fix it up.

If they ever got there.

A shell burst about a hundred feet up the slope of the hill. Tom shielded Sesame with his body, and dirt rained on his back.

His platoon hid in a ditch just west of Highway 117 on the southern slope of Il Castelluccio, named for the square Norman tower at its peak.

Larry Fong dropped into the ditch. “Take cover. They’re calling in fire from the USS
Boise
.” Larry didn’t meet Tom’s eye but made his way down the trench, repeating the warning. Fine way for Reed to use his sergeant—as a messenger and running target.

When Larry left the ditch and scrambled for the next trench, Tom signaled his platoon to fire. “Cover him!”

The men obeyed and sent a barrage of bullets up the slope.

Larry leaped into the next ditch.

“Good job, boys. Now, dig yourselves deeper.” Tom pulled out his entrenching tool. Soon the sound of metal scraping dirt filled the ravine. One thing they’d learned in North Africa was how to dig and fast.

Sesame joined in, and Tom smiled. “Good boy. Good digger.”

Streaks of light whizzed above, and the ground shook. Tom pressed against the dirt wall and covered his ears. Sesame worked his head between Tom’s side and the wall.

He tried to count the naval shells but lost track after a hundred. The
Boise
did her job.

When the naval guns fell silent, so did the Italian artillery.

A great shout rose to Tom’s left, and the 2nd Battalion of the 26th RCT charged up Il Castelluccio, rifles firing. On the far left flank, out of Tom’s vision, the 1st Battalion was supposed to head up Monte della Guardia overlooking the airfield.

Once the two mounts were secure, the 908th would follow the 2nd Battalion of the 18th RCT to Ponte Olivo.

Rifle shots zinged on the hill above Tom, voices shouted in English and Italian, and before long, GIs marched a column of Italian soldiers out of the castle and down the hill.

Tom unfolded his cramped limbs, climbed out of the ravine, and gathered his platoon into marching order.

Newman came over. “Your boys ready?”

“Absolutely,” Tom said. “Did we get our equipment?”

Newman grumbled. “Lost the grader in the surf. The heavy equipment’s still down at the beach. Got a DUKW with mine detectors and hand tools.”

“Okay.” Tom looked behind him to the strange amphibious vehicle that made its first appearance with the Husky landings.

Corporal Reilly jogged up and saluted Newman. “Got word from infantry. Field’s clear.”

“Great.” Newman lifted his hand high. “Field’s clear, boys. Let’s move in.”

Tom hooked Sesame’s leash to his belt, signaled to his platoon, and they marched up Highway 117 onto a flat treeless plain.

“Should have known,” Moskovitz said to Tom. “The Eye-Ties have no fight in ’em.”

Tom didn’t like the derogatory word, but confusion be
tween the words
Italian
and
battalion
had led to disastrous incidents of fratricide in North Africa, so the nicknames were mandated. “Don’t count them out. They put up a fight on that hill.”

“Sure did.” Sergeant Giannini, who had taken over Moskovitz’s squad, hooked his thumb under his rifle strap. “But they want out of this war. They hate Mussolini more than we do.”

Sergeant Ferris snorted. “Patriotic for the motherland?”

Giannini’s face darkened. His jaw jutted out. “I was born in the Bronx.”

“Yeah,” Ferris said. “Eating garlic and speaking that Wop language.”

Giannini sprang at Ferris, fists flailing.

“Stop it! Break it up!” Tom thrust himself between the men, absorbed a couple of punches in his ribs, and pushed the men apart.

Moskovitz grabbed Ferris’s arms from behind. Sesame barked, curses stained the air, and the platoon circled.

“Enough!” Tom shouted. “You’re fighting the wrong people. The enemy’s that way.”

“Says who?” Ferris strained against Moskovitz’s grip, his narrow face red. “Got the enemy right in our midst. Japs and Wops and Krauts.”

“That’s enough.” Tom got right in Ferris’s face. “They’re Americans, you fool. Have you forgotten what makes America strong? It’s people from every country and culture. You want a nation where everyone looks alike and sounds alike?”

“Sure do.” Ferris spat onto the ground.

“Swell. Hitler started one. You can go there.”

Ferris jerked back, his dark eyes large.

“Yeah, Ferris,” someone called out. “That’s what you want? I’ll get you a ticket.”

“All right, enough.” Tom raised his hands. “We’re all on the same side. I won’t put up with any baloney. We’ve got a job to do. Let’s do it.”

“You tell ’em, Lieutenant.”

Tom stared down Ferris and Giannini. “Shake hands. Now. We’ll talk later.”

The men’s handshake looked more like an arm-wrestling match.

“Come on, boys. Move on out.” Tom threw an imaginary fastball toward Ponte Olivo, and the platoon marched forward.

Tom’s heart beat too fast and his arms quivered. But his heart slowed to a stop when Captain Newman approached from the front of the column.

Newman pulled Tom to the side of the road and eyed his platoon. “Quincy reported a fight back here.”

“Yes, sir.” Tom’s shoulders sagged, but he squared them. “Ferris called Giannini a Wop. Giannini threw punches. I broke it up.”

“He did, sir,” Moskovitz said. “He sure told ’em.”

Newman turned a scrutinizing gaze to Tom. “You did?”

“Yes, sir. They’ll dig some extra ditches tonight.”

“Good. Keep it up.” The captain clapped Tom on the back and returned to his position.

Tom’s shoulders relaxed. He’d done it. He’d shown leadership, the strong kind.

Sesame gave him a wide doggy smile.

“Good job.” Moskovitz’s black eyes sparkled. “Gill.”

A smile twitched up. Maybe he’d finally earned respect. “Thanks for helping, Mossy.”

Moskovitz scrunched up his face. “Don’t call me that. I hate it.”

“I know.” He grinned and jogged toward the head of the platoon.

“You said no name calling.”

“I also said call me Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Tom jogged with a light step. He put down a fight. Moskovitz liked him again. Newman might let him stay. Tonight’s letter to Annie would be full of good news, the kind of news that might convince her to meet him.

The airfield lay on a plain ringed by low hills covered with golden grasses and green scrub. A short stone wall ran around the perimeter.

“Take cover!” The shout rippled down the column.

Tom led his men to a ditch beside the highway. Men clambered down. Gear clanked.

“They said it was clear,” Moskovitz said.

“Yeah.” Tom peered over the edge.

An Italian soldier walked through the main gate and waved a white flag. Dozens of men followed, all waving something white and grinning.
“Viva Americani! Viva Americani!”

“Well, I’ll be.” Tom wiped sweat from his upper lip. “Guess the field’s clear after all.”

A small detachment herded the jubilant prisoners toward the rear, and the rest of the men prepared to work.

Newman divided the airfield into sectors, with Tom’s platoon in the northern sector. Tom assigned Ferris to the west, Giannini to the east, and Kovatch separating them in the center.

They didn’t need mine detectors. The Germans had strewn five-hundred-pound demolition bombs all over the field, interconnected with a maze of detonation cord. The mine detector teams inched forward and cut the det cord.

Right outside the perimeter wall, Tom sank a tent stake into the ground and tied up Sesame in the shade. “I’ll get you when the field’s clear, boy.” He filled his mess kit cup with water from his canteen and went back to work.

Within half an hour, narrow paths edged by white tape crossed the field. But they still needed to remove the booster charges and haul away the bombs. They’d have to stay up all night. The airstrip needed to open the next day.

Tom followed the path to check on progress and finished with Giannini’s squad.

Giannini tipped back his helmet and wiped sweat from his brow. “What a mess.”

“Yep.” Tom surveyed the field. Could they have left snipers?

Quincy’s squad had checked the buildings, but Tom frowned at the northern edge of the field. The stone wall butted up against an earthen embankment, and a slit ran the length of it. A bunker, partially collapsed by bomb damage.

Tom turned around. Quincy talked to one of his squads not far away. “Hey, Quincy! Did you guys check out that bunker?”

Quincy waved him off. “Don’t be a granny. It’s bombed out. And didn’t you see how they pranced out to surrender like pansy girls?”

“So you didn’t check the bunker.”

“What? You think they’re taking a siesta in there? They’d have opened fire by now. Think, Gill. Think.”

Tom’s jaw set hard. He was thinking. Thinking maybe the Italians had learned lessons from the Germans about lying low and waiting for a moment like now, when dozens of men filled the field, guard down.

He squinted at the dark slit in the bunker. Was it his imagination, or did he see movement?

“Giannini, let’s make sure the bunker’s clear. Rossi, Lopez, bring a satchel charge in case we have to blow the door. Lucas, Simon, Ambrose, you’re with me.” Tom led the men toward a bombed-out section of the eastern wall about a hundred feet away. He watched the bunker.

Was that movement? A thin shadow formed below the slit.

The shadow of the barrel of a machine gun.

“Get down!” Tom shouted. “Everyone down!”

A flash of light. The gun pock-pock-pocked. Bullets skittered over the asphalt, and men leaped into bomb craters.

“Go! Run! Now!” Tom motioned his team past him to the break in the wall.

Crouched over, he bolted for the break. In front of him, bullets zinged past the men’s feet. Giannini, Rossi, and Lopez made it through the break.

Lucas screamed, arched his back, and went down.

“Lucas!” Ambrose dropped to his knees beside his friend. “No!”

“Get up, Ambrose. Keep going.” Tom ran hard. Not only was it dangerous to stay in the open, but they had to clear the bunker before others were hit.

Ambrose stumbled to his feet and ran through the break, followed by Simon.

Bullets whined closer and closer. Tom leaped over the rubble in the break.

Something slugged him in the shoulder, spun him midair.

He flopped to the ground outside the wall.

Tom grabbed his left shoulder. Warm and wet. He groaned.

“Lieutenant! You’re hit.”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. But he wiped his hand and pushed himself up to sitting. He refused to send his men into danger while he sat in safety. He tossed his carbine aside and drew his pistol, which he could use with one hand. “Just my shoulder.”

Giannini fumbled with his first aid packet. “Let’s get a bandage—”

“Later.” Tom managed a smile. “Apparently that bunker isn’t clear.”

A few nervous laughs.

“We can’t get close enough to toss in a grenade from the front. We might have to blow open a door.”

“I’ll toss in the grenade.” Ambrose scowled. “If they killed Lucas, those—”

“No grenade,” Tom said. “Let’s see if they’ll surrender. Giannini, you speak Italian?”

“No.” His face darkened again.

“I do,” Rossi said. “And I ain’t ashamed of it.”

“Great. How do you say, ‘Hands up. Surrender’?”

“Mani in alto. Arrendetevi.”

“Everyone say it.” Tom stood, careful to keep his head below the wall.
“Mani in alto . . .”

“Arrendetevi,”
Rossi said.

“Arrendetevi.”

“You gotta roll your
r
’s.”

“I’m not rolling my
r
’s.” A dagger of pain jabbed into his arm. He winced but kept going.

Tom paused at the corner, then darted out, pistol drawn.

No one there. A metal door cut into the slope of the embankment. Machine gun fire swept the field, answered by rifle shots from the Americans.

Tom motioned the demolitions men forward. Rossi hung a satchel charge from the door handle, while Lopez spooled out detonation cord. They retreated behind the corner and lit the det cord.

Tom studied the five faces before him, smeared with dirt and fear and determination. “Soon as it blows, we go in. Follow me.”

“Mani in alto,”
the men mumbled.
“Arrendetevi.”

Tom squeezed his eyes shut.
Lord, give me strength. But please don’t let me kill anyone
.

An explosion whomped through the air.

“Follow me!” Tom charged forward, pistol ready.
“Mani in alto! Arrendetevi!”

The door lay twisted in the entrance, surrounded by chunks of dirt and concrete.

Tom climbed through and picked his way down a concrete tunnel, his heartbeat so loud it had to announce his presence.

A man sprang into the tunnel.

“Mani in alto!”
Tom cried.

The man leveled a rifle at him.

“No!
Arren—mani in alto
!”

“No!” The Italian’s finger cocked around the trigger.

Tom fired first.

The man reeled back, thumped to the ground. Eyes glazed.

Tom gasped. What had he done?

Shouts in Italian, footsteps pounded.

“Arren
. . .”
Why couldn’t he remember the word?

“Arrendetevi!”
Rossi cried.
“Arrendetevi!”