33. ADAMS
NORTHEAST OF GELA, SICILY,
OBJECTIVE Y
JULY 10, 1943
“R ange?”
Scofield knelt on the crest of the ridge, stared hard through the binoculars. “Four thousand yards. Plenty of dust. Could be armor. Has to be.”
Gorham rubbed a hand on his face, looked at Adams. “Spread ’em out on both sides of the road, low cover. Put the heavy machine guns on the flank. Everybody stays down. Until we know what’s coming, how much strength, we don’t want to tip our hand.”
Scofield motioned with his arm. “Colonel, vehicles coming. One small truck, two motorcycles. They’re out in front, leading the way.”
Gorham crawled up beside Scofield, stared through his own binoculars. “Coming pretty quick.” Gorham turned toward Adams. “Get moving, Sergeant. Flank the road, keep everybody quiet. We should eliminate that advance party, but not until they’re right on us. I’ll stay right here, good vantage point. Nobody shoots until I signal. You’ll hear me shout.”
“Yes, sir.”
Adams moved away, crossed the road quickly. The men were spread out along the near side of a ridge, protected by low, thick brush. He moved up the rise toward them, faces all watching him, and he stopped, dropped to his knees, held the Thompson sideways, motioned downward, stay low. He crawled up to the nearest man, saw it was Ashcroft, the small, thin man lying in a shallow foxhole, fresh dirt, kicked out by the man’s boots. Good, do what you can to make some cover. He looked toward the others, silent stares, called out, a harsh whisper:
“Pass it on! Nobody shoots until you hear the command, or until you hear me shoot! You got that? Show me a yes!”
The closest men waved to him, a thumbs-up, the word spreading along the ridge, more waves, and Adams watched them all, dirty faces, carbines and submachine guns pointed forward. Behind him, six men came up, carrying three of the heavy Italian machine guns, and Adams waved them out to the side, watched as they hauled the guns up the hill. Four more men came now, two more of the captured guns, the men sweating under the load of the heavy steel ammo boxes. Adams waved them to the side as well, a harsh whisper, “That way! Spread out on the flank!”
He stayed on his knees, moved up the ridge, pushed past a thick bush, long thorns, a small snake darting away. The sweat was in his eyes now, the heat rising up from the hard ground beneath him, the grit finding its way into his boots, inside his shirt. Damn, what kind of place is this? I thought it would be good to get out of New Mexico. Hell, I brought it with me.
He eased up to the crest, could see the road to his left, only fifty yards away, white and chalky, the dust cloud on the horizon closer, drifting off to the east. There was sound now, engines, and he froze, stared out to the low ridge in front of him, the road leading up and over the crest. The sounds were distinct, the rough growl of the motorcycles, and he settled low, peered through the thickets of brush, slid the Thompson up beside him, pressed the butt of the stock into his shoulder. They appeared now, the motorcycles rolling up over the rise, a quarter mile, the truck close behind, four men. His heart was racing, and he blinked through the sweat, eyed the iron sights on the Thompson, aimed at the man on the second motorcycle, more of the training. Plenty of men would be aiming at the first man.
They rolled closer, oblivious, and he saw the truck clearly, the black cross, the distinctive helmets. Germans. His hands tightened on the machine gun, his finger dancing just off the trigger, his eyes on the targets, long, slow breaths. He fought through the pounding in his ears, watched them come closer, a hundred yards, closer still, his mind listening for the word, the single short command.
“Fire!”
Adams squeezed the trigger, a burst of fire from the Thompson, the man on the motorcycle collapsing, a heap of wreckage. The ridge erupted around him, sharp bursts, pops, and the truck swerved to the side, stopped, two men spilling out, crumpled, the others pushing hands in the air, cries.
“Kamerad!”
He saw Scofield in the road, the captain running quickly toward the Germans, two more prisoners, Scofield pulling them quickly back behind the ridge. The dust cloud was boiling up over the wide hills in front of him, a mile, maybe less, and he heard Gorham, close behind him, surprising him.
“Good shooting, men! Get ready! We’re not done yet!”
Gorham slid up beside him, had the binoculars, stood above the brush, stared out.
“Trucks, and a few tanks. Some Kraut officer glassing me, staring back at me. Maybe I should wave.”
Adams pushed himself up to his knees, close beside Gorham, who said, “They’ve stopped. They’re trying to figure out what to do. They have no idea what they’ve run into.”
Adams blew dirt off the bolt of the Thompson, looked along the ridge, the men still huddled low, waiting. “That’s gonna change pretty quick, sir.”
Gorham moved quickly back down the hill, called out, “Captain! Bring the bazooka team up here!”
Adams watched them come, four men, hauling two of the strange metal tubes, a box of rocketlike shells. He had never fired a bazooka, wasn’t sure just what you were supposed to do with it.
Gorham motioned to the ridgeline. “Find a good spot out there, to the flank. Might be the best chance we have. Don’t bother to shoot at any tank that’s pointing at you, won’t do a bit of good. You got that?”
The men seemed to understand, and Adams looked back at Gorham, thought, don’t shoot at a tank who’s about to blow you to hell? Sounds to me like bad advice. But he’s the officer. Gorham was up beside him again, stood out in the open, glassing toward the Germans.
“They’re still not moving. Somebody over there smells a trap. Wait…oh, hell.” He backed down the hill again. “Same orders! No one fires until I give the command! Stay low!”
Adams stared out, thought, what the hell is he talking about? He straightened up slowly, his line of sight rising, the dust cloud gone. They were no more than a half mile away, the road lined with black machines, heavy trucks, tanks with long-barreled cannon, behind, trucks hauling artillery pieces. The column stretched back around far curves in the road, more tanks, good God. The whole damned German army. Now he saw the movement, spreading out along both sides of the road, men, on foot, thick lines dispersing, a slow-spreading stain. The cold came again, and he dropped back down, looked for Gorham, the colonel on the far side of the road, moving among the men on the far flank, giving them the same instructions. He looked down his own ridgeline, saw the men staring at him, curious, some of them peering up over the brush.
“We’re gonna do it one more time! Pass the word! No one shoots until I do! We got infantry coming at us! Pass the word!”
The routine repeated, the men acknowledging, and he rose up slowly again, glanced toward his flank, the heavy machine guns well hidden. There was movement on the low ridge to the front, the wave of men coming forward, black figures, still too far away. He settled down into the brush again, thought, all right, stay low. They still don’t know where we are. What we are. His mind wrapped around the coldness in his chest, a question in his mind. They have no idea what’s up here, so they send their foot soldiers to find out? A half dozen tanks could wipe us out in ten minutes, and they send…men. He peered carefully through the brush, could see the line of soldiers clearly, still advancing, guns held low, pointing forward. They closed the gap quickly, stepped through the brush, and he scanned the line, faceless, gray uniforms, thought, two hundred of them, no, closer to three. A full company. They’re just…coming. What the hell is the matter with these people?
There was a sound along the ridge, nervous chatter, low voices, and he glared to the side, made a hard hissing sound, punched the air beside him with a fist, the word spreading quickly, the men quieting. He peered out through the brush again, saw faces, two hundred yards, the Germans still walking forward, spread out on both sides of the road. They came at a steady pace, began moving up the low ridge, still kicking through the stiff brush, one hundred yards, faces staring blankly. He saw eyes now, raw fear, terror on frozen faces, silent death, long seconds, the word coming from behind him, punching his brain.
“Fire!”
He squeezed the trigger of the Thompson, sprayed the line of men, his men on the ridge pouring out fire again. The line of Germans seemed to collapse, men tumbling forward, some spinning to the side, sharp cries, screams, some dropping down, shooting back. Farther out on the ridge, the heavy machine guns punched the air, sheets of fire, streaks of white light ripping into the Germans, shredding the brush, chopping the ground. He saw men raising their arms, trying to surrender, but the fire was too hot, hard fingers gripping heavy triggers, and in a short minute the German soldiers were simply gone.
The voices came now, movement in the low brush, men crawling away, shouts from their sergeants. Adams felt his hands shaking, stared at the twisted forms of men, some rising up, trying to run away, pops of rifle fire, and he heard the order now, Gorham.
“Cease fire! Hold your position!”
Adams rose to his knees, saw German soldiers in full flight, the survivors, terrified men, disappearing over the far ridge. The ground close to the ridgeline was speckled with dead and wounded men, movement, desperate cries. Gorham was beside him again, Scofield as well, the others on the ridge rising up, looking out as he was.
“We got a man hit, sir!”
Gorham responded, something about a medical bag, and Adams ignored him, ignored the men around him, stared at the bodies, then beyond, past the far ridge, the road, the German tanks, an officer, somewhere, one man’s decision to hold back the tanks, to send his men to spring this bloody trap. He thought of Gorham’s words, the propaganda, American savages. The anger boiled inside him, the Thompson gripped hard in his hands, the hot steel close to his chest, smoke still curling out of the barrel. I will find that German officer. I will show him what a savage can do.
T he prisoners were becoming too many to handle, and the wounded paratroopers couldn’t be adequately cared for, the wounded Germans not at all. Of the ninety men now under Colonel Gorham, by a miserable twist of chance there was only one medic. Each paratrooper had his own emergency medical kit, a bandage, some sulfa, one small syringe of morphine. The training had taught them how to apply it to a wounded comrade, and most of the men accepted that readily, none wanting to believe he might have to administer any of it to himself.
Gorham had no choice but to lighten the load, march the prisoners to the south, toward the landing zones, guarded by the least number of men the job would require. There seemed to be little chance that the Italians in particular would attempt to escape. As their numbers grew, the reality of their situation seemed to settle over them, and many were smiling and talkative, jovial men who seemed entirely pleased to be out of the war and under the care of the Americans. But moving so many prisoners across wide-open ground was a dangerous job, since anyone observing a column of enemy soldiers might decide to drop artillery fire on them. The navy had already demonstrated an uncanny ability to put heavy shellfire precisely where it would do the best work.
G orham kept them spread out on either side of the road, the column of German armor still silent, Gorham and Scofield both staring through field glasses, Adams close by, waiting for orders. He kept his eyes on the wounded German soldiers, men who still had rifles, some men trying to crawl, other just calling out, soft cries, piercing wails.
Along the ridge, the Americans were responding, one man calling out, “Sir! Can’t we do something?”
Gorham lowered the glasses. “No, soldier. We don’t have the medical supplies, and we can’t show ourselves. We’re well in range of those Kraut guns, and we don’t need any casualties of our own. Just hold your position.”
Scofield still held his binoculars. “What are they going to do? They have to know we don’t have any artillery.”
Gorham shook his head. “Like hell. Some German colonel over there smells a rat, thinks we’re laying an ambush. Probably figures we’re not tipping our hand, and he’s not about to make a mistake. If I was in his shoes, I’d send those tanks out on our flanks, sweep around, test for heavy guns. Sure as hell, he’s thinking about it.”
The ground in front of the ridge suddenly burst into fire, rocks and dirt blowing over them, both officers tumbling back, Adams’s face sprayed full of dirt. He rolled backward, down the ridge, heard men shouting, held his helmet tight on his head, tried to see. Gorham and Scofield were dragging themselves down the hill, Scofield moving closer to Adams, a hard hand gripping Adams’s shirt, pulling him downhill.
“You okay?”
Adams blew dirt from his mouth, blinked through the sand in his eyes. “What the hell? What happened?”
The blast came again, farther down the ridgeline, and Gorham began to shout now, “Stay low! Behind the ridge!”
There was another sharp blast, across the road, the hillside tossed up in a cloud of brush and debris, and Scofield said, “Artillery!”
Adams wiped his eyes, his ears ringing, and he saw men scrambling back down the ridge, behind the crest, better protection. There was another burst, back behind them, the shell overshooting them. Adams felt Scofield pulling him, the two men now at the base of the ridge, Scofield jerking him hard to the ground.
“Dammit, Captain, I’m okay!”
“Shut up! Stay low!”
The dust was thick around them, a hot breeze, and Gorham was up, moving away, shouting to the men, pulling them all back from the ridge.
“Eighty-eights! Have to be! You don’t hear ’em coming. Just the damned impact. No arc, just a flat line of fire. We should be okay behind the hill.”
Adams was confused, thought, flat line? Never heard an artillery shell that didn’t make a sound in the air first, let you know it was coming.
There was another blast, more dirt raining down on them, the men lying flat, and Gorham was back, said to Scofield, “We have to pull back! They keep us pinned down, they can send more infantry up here, and we won’t know it until they’re right in front of us. This ridge is no place to hole up from those eighty-eights. I’ll go to the left flank, pull those men back. Captain, do the same here. Pull back to that high ground on the right, looks like a half mile or so.”
Scofield was up quickly, said to Adams, “Go to the flank, get the machine-gun and bazooka crews out first! Don’t screw around! The Krauts could roll those tanks right over this hill in about five minutes’ time!”
Adams was up now, moving quickly, ignored the men, the questions. He moved toward the far end of the ridge, saw the bazooka crews in motion already, the machine gunners watching him from their positions along the ridge.
“Let’s go! Pull out!”
The machine gunners dragged their guns back, the men hoisting them up on shoulders, two men per gun, making their way down through the brush. He saw the last gun, the two men struggling, and he cursed, pushed up the hill, said, “Move it! What the hell’s the problem?”
The men had the gun now, and he saw that one of them was Fulton, the thin, wiry man, the gun barrel on his shoulder now.
“Good! Get going! That high ground…there!”
The blast came again, the shell punching through the crest of the hill above him. The force knocked him flat, his chest empty of air, gasping, choking through the dirt. He rolled downhill, tried to stand, saw the machine gun, broken, twisted metal, a man’s boot, a piece of a shovel. His mind pulled him away, no, nothing you can do, and he looked for the second man, saw him now, his body spread out in the brush, Fulton, the face upturned, the helmet gone. Adams felt his knees shake, couldn’t escape it, dropped down, oh Jesus, oh bloody Jesus. He saw men running, moving back, away from the artillery fire, the orders in his head, Scofield’s command, no screwing around. He fought for his breaths, still felt the hard blow in his chest, checked the Thompson, jerked the bolt, a fresh cartridge, the gun ready again. There was another blast, back toward the road, where he had been before, and he ignored it, moved away with his men.
T he sound of the tanks was clear and distinct, and Adams could feel the rumble of steel deep in his gut. The men huddled low again, another ridgeline, not much higher than the last, fewer of them now, wounded men dragged back into a low area, a deep cut in the hillside, blessed shade.
There was no shelling now, the Germans in motion, their officer finally making a decision, the column of armor pushing forward. Adams listened to the sounds, heard what they all heard, the tread of the tanks rolling on the hard-packed road, hidden only by the dust clouds and the lay of the land. He had not seen Gorham in a while, assumed him to be down on the flank, some preparation to defend the line from that direction. Adams lowered his head, touched the rim of his helmet on the Thompson. Hell of a mess, Jesse. I always thought it was the Marines who had it tough. How the hell we going to get out of this? Where the hell is everybody else? “Hell.” He repeated the word out loud. Pretty well describes this. Not for Fulton though. Damn! He tried not to see the man’s face, Donnie Fulton, the man with the weak stomach. That shell. It must have come straight through the ground, clipped right into those guys. The other guy…who the hell was it? Won’t know until this is over, who’s missing. Pieces scattered all over Sicily.
Scofield was behind him, said, “Listen up! There’s tanks heading out on our left flank. I’m taking three bazooka crews out that way, see if we can do some good. Sergeant, you come with me. The rest of you stay tucked in here. Pull out only when ordered. You got that? We still have a job to do, and right now, it’s slowing the enemy down. You remember what the colonel said. We’re a roadblock. So, block the damned road. We don’t know what’s happening at the beaches, but we have to give the infantry every minute we can. Any man leaves this spot, I’ll shoot him myself. Let’s go, Sergeant.”
Adams followed him, saw the bazooka carriers now, six men, one for each tube, one for each box of shells. They moved in silence, Scofield leading the way, Adams bringing up the rear. The dirt was softer here, and Adams heard the thick brush cracking under his boots. The heat was draining him, sweat in his eyes again, and he wiped his face on his shirt, rough grit on his skin. They dropped into a gully, dry white sand, softer still, the men struggling with the heavy boxes. Scofield pushed on, the gully narrowing, thick brush at the end, tall bushes. He stopped, held up his hand, and Adams heard the tanks, farther out, Scofield pushing up into the brush, staring out.
“Four hundred yards. They’re spread out, heading to our left. They’re trying to get behind our position.” He turned. “You boys done this before?”
Most of them shook their heads. One man holding a bazooka said, “Only in training, sir. I was pretty good at busting up the old pickup trucks.”
“Shooters, what’s your names?”
“Gilhooly, sir.”
“Darwin, sir.”
“Feeney, sir.”
Scofield looked at Adams. “Well, we’re going to make veterans here, Sergeant. Can’t say I know a damned thing about a bazooka, but this looks like a good spot for an ambush. Spread out, find a good place to shoot. Get comfortable. Sergeant, you move out on the left flank. I’m betting these boys can knock out one of those tanks on the first shot, and you and I might get a tank crew to shoot at.”
Adams looked at the six faces, all young, scared men. The sounds of the tanks were closer now, and Scofield said, “Get in position. Pick a target, aim low on the turret. Hell they taught you that much, didn’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
Adams flattened out against the side of the gully, dug his boots into the soft sand, pushed himself up, was surprised to see a tank rolling close, a hundred yards, black belching smoke, black cross on the turret. There was another behind it, four more to one side. He stared, felt the rumble of the tank engines all through him, the ground shaking as they rolled closer to the gully. His mind froze, his eyes staring at the long gun, short stumps of machine guns pointing out in every direction. He focused on the closest tank, eighty yards, closer, slowing, turning to avoid the gully. His hand gripped the Thompson, his mind screaming at him, useless damned weapon. The tank was within fifty yards now, Scofield’s voice again, hard urgency.
“Anytime now. Anytime now.”
The bazooka closest to Adams fired, startling him, the shell erupting at the base of the tank’s turret, smoke and fire. The other two fired now, a direct hit on the second tank, more fire, thick smoke drifting over both machines. Adams stared, amazed, my God, it worked. The tanks were motionless, coils of smoke erupting from the hatches, men screaming, smoke drifting across the open ground, hiding the other tanks. Adams pointed the Thompson, searched for targets, nothing, no movement, the sounds again, the other tanks still coming. There was machine-gun fire now, the air ripped above him, the men ducking down, tank engines in a loud roar, closer, moving around the gully.
Scofield shouted, “Pull back! Stay in the gully, stay low!”
The men moved in one motion, Adams in the lead, and he looked back, saw the young men moving quickly, driven by the pure terror, the enormous machines rolling alongside the gully, past them, in front of them now. Adams stopped, saw the closest tank, the turret swinging around, a voice behind him.
“Get down!”
He was pushed from behind, his face in the soft sand, a loud explosion above him, a bazooka firing, Scofield pulling him up.
“Let’s go! Keep moving!”
Adams ignored the sand in his eyes, ran, stayed in the low, soft ground, the sounds of men behind him, tank engines, machine-gun fire. The gully flattened out, and he stopped, searched frantically for cover, some low place, the ridgelines familiar, gentle slopes.
Scofield was past him now. “This way! Get over that hill!”
There was a thunderous blast, the ground rising under Adams’s feet, tossing him up, rolling him. He tried to see, motion, a man running, another, and he followed, staggered, pain in his leg, his side, stumbled up the hill, machine-gun fire chopping the ground behind him. He was over the crest now, saw Scofield, another man, sliding down. Adams looked back, one man running hard, machine-gun fire, the man collapsing, the bazooka still in his hand, bouncing on the ground. Adams fired the Thompson, useless rage, the tank turning toward him. He dropped down the hill, protection, Scofield calling to him, “Move! Let’s go!”
His legs were rubber, his heart ripping his chest, Scofield in front of him, pointing.
“There!”
Adams followed, the two men dropping into a cut in the hillside, the third man there quickly. Adams looked at the man, one of the ammo carriers, no ammo, no bazooka, Scofield shouting into his face, “What happened to the others? Did you see them hit?”
The man was frozen, stared at Scofield with wild animal eyes, and Adams said, “I saw one man go down, Darwin I think. Didn’t see the others. We can’t stay here, sir.”
“The hell we can’t. Those tanks aren’t going to waste fuel chasing us all damned day. They’re behind our flank, and there’s not a whole hell of a lot we can do about it without a weapon. We have to find a way back to the colonel, get everybody pulled back toward the beach. I know what he said, but we can’t hold the tanks back. We’ve done the best we could. Unless we get the hell out of here, we’re just going to end up as prisoners. You ready to be captured?”
“Not today, sir.”
“Where are the tanks? Let’s see what direction—”
There was a high ripping sound, louder, the roar of a freight train, and now the impact came, the ground shuddering beneath them. Adams ducked low, and Scofield said, “What the hell?”
It came again, another thunderous blast, out beyond the ridge, the three men shrouded in dust, the stink of explosives. Adams held himself tight against the ground, waited, another shell, the same impact, the ground shaking him. Scofield crawled up beside him, peered out, then dropped quickly down, covering his head.
“Artillery fire! Big stuff!”
Adams tried to hear the tanks, to hear anything else, his ears a fog of deafness, another shell impacting, farther away, two more, Scofield suddenly slapping him.
“Coming from the south! The navy! It’s naval fire!”
The third man was down below them, grabbed Adams’s boot, pointed out behind them, beyond the ridge.
“Sir! Infantry!”
Adams turned, the Thompson coming up, saw a dozen men, crawling forward, one man with a radio, the wire whip in the air above him.
Scofield said in a low voice, “Easy, boys. Those look like the good guys.”
Adams slid down, followed Scofield out of the crevice, saw Scofield raise his arms, thought, yep, damned good idea. He held the Thompson up high, waited for the young private, followed the man into the open. The shelling had stopped, the air thick with the smells, gunpowder and gasoline, black smoke rising up from beyond the ridge. Scofield kept his own Thompson in the air, and the soldiers began to rise, calling out, the ringing deafness in Adams’s ears clearing just enough, voices reaching him, the man with the radio, another beside him, an officer.
“Awfully close. Sorry. Couldn’t be helped. Those panzers were about to cause your people some serious trouble. Looks like we chased them away for now.”
Adams lowered his gun, blinked through the crust and filth in his eyes, saw smiling faces, another man calling out, “Hey Lieutenant, they don’t seem glad to see us.”
The officer saluted Scofield. “Frank Griffin, sir. Sixteenth Infantry Regiment. Colonel Crawford’s boys.”
Scofield returned the salute, and Adams saw now, the shoulder patch, every man. The young private had been right. They were infantry. It was the Big Red One.