Beckoning War Read online

  “Yes, sir.” Therrien pensively studies the map.

  “Olczyk, you are moving to the south side. Again, the houses there are apparently utterly wrecked. So you’ll want to dig in if the Sydneys haven’t. We may be moving tomorrow, we may stay a couple days. I don’t know. So you’ll want adequate cover. Both of you,” Jim continues, looking them both in their careful, studying eyes, “make sure your machine guns facing centre interlock. Set up a good enfilade. Also, watch your flanks with your outward-facing machine guns. I don’t want any patrols sneaking in. Doyle, you have the centre. Again, dig in.”

  “Yes, sir.” All three look at Jim, waiting for further cues. For a moment, Jim draws a blank. He stands outside of the moment, viewing himself from outside himself, his thoughts fogged in fatigue and shaken in a tremor of nerves. Get it together. This is not the time. He focuses on the map and centres himself, draws himself back into the requirements of the moment. Responsibility looks him in the face through three pairs of expectant and perceptive eyes. Therrien blinks.

  “As well,” continues Jim, “at some point in the night, we’re getting three 6-pounders from the AT platoon. They’ll set up in case of German armour. Keep your PIATS at the ready for tanks, too. Staff Sergeant Nichols is seeing to it we have plenty of ammo. Also, a battery of 25-pounders is deploying to support any possible advance we may be ordered to make, between you, Olczyk, and ‘B’ Company, just behind. We’re going to have noisy neighbours. Tanks from the Hussars will be moving into hidden jump-off positions as well, just behind us, to support the brigade should we get any orders to move out and cross the Marano. They will also be giving us fire support while we wait. The colonel will set up Tactical HQ just north of us on a promontory where he will face the river and determine when we advance. The other companies will move into the line beside us when he arrives. Any questions so far?” He surveys his lieutenants. There are no questions.

  “There is more. At about 2400 I want you, Olczyk, to lead a contact patrol to their lines in the valley to test the flank.” Olczyk winces.

  “Yes, sir,” he says, unhappy with this task.

  “I know that’s a joyless task, but Colonel Hobson wants patrols, and it falls on us and ‘B’ Company. He wants to know exactly who we’re up against. I’ll leave it up to you to select a party. No more than five. If it makes you feel any better, HQ and Charlie are sending out their own patrols to test the approach to the river.”

  Addressing the group as a whole again, Jim advises them, “Study this map for a minute and familiarize yourselves with it. When we’re ready, I’m going to dispatch the company.” The lieutenants pore over the map.

  “One other thing; for your pickets and sentries, tonight’s call sign is ‘Il Duce’, and the countersign is ‘Dupe.’ Got it?” They answer with nods. “Next ‘O’ Group assembly is after supper once we’re settled. Meet me in my HQ for supper, and I’ll brief you of any developments. I’ll let you know where exactly my HQ is before that, of course. Probably the church in the centre of town. It has a good vantage point. We move at 2100 hours.” He observes them a moment as they examine their maps. He adds, “I know five hours behind the line wasn’t much of a rest, but here we are again. Sorry.”

  Doyle looks up at him and winks. “No problem sir. No rest for the wicked, eh?” He returns to his map reading.

  “No, no rest. It looks like we’ll be on the line longer than anticipated. C’est la vie, such is our lot.” After a minute,

  Jim dismisses them. Jim trails off into lazy thoughts again for a brief time. Waiting, waiting. Wading in and out of consciousness.

  From behind there is an explosion as though someone threw a keg of gunpowder on a fire. Jim is startled into hugging the dirt.

  “What the Christ?” he yells, looking backward. A flame shaped like an arrowhead shoots skyward like that from a lighter, followed by another, similar concussion. Now that it is darkening, the crews of the battery they passed are opening fire, sending their shells into the German positions. “You’d think they could warn us or something!” He looks above and sees shells sparkling overhead between the netting of branches and leaves like manmade meteorites, trailing their whistles and screams, divorcing themselves from sound and leaving it shrieking in their wake. A minute later there is an explosion nearby, about two hundred yards distant, as the Germans return fire. There is another, a clutch of artillery shells landing in rapid succession in a wave of overlapping blasts. Jim yells out to his resting company: “Able Company, dig in deeper!” The men hack into the earth with their spades in tactile response to his order, shovelling as the sky explodes above them, and Jim leads by example, heaving out great clots of earth from the haphazard hole which he dug for himself earlier. After a time waiting out the bombardment, the shelling abates enough for them to move. He yells to his men over the sporadic crash of nearby artillery, his words ringing out between blasts: “Attention! Form into your sections! We are moving into the town!”

  Able Company assembles into squads, abandoning card games and small talk. Jim moves to near the front of the line as the company forms up and marches single file down the dirt-track road, cloaked in the protective layer of the night, a silent march, the soft crunch of boots in the dust. They snake their way toward the village, spaced out in the darkness to limit possible casualties, the desultory flash and flicker of the guns and the sporadic return fire of the Germans throwing into moments of reddened relief the skeletal trunks and branches of trees, the silhouettes of farmhouses and barns, and the backs and helmets or balaclavas of men laden with packs, spades clanking against their other supplies, rifles slung over shoulders, and in the case of a few, bulkier machine guns. For well over a mile they march, sullen and silent, tramp, tramp, tramp, crunch, crunch, crunch, squelch, squelch, squelch, through puddles left behind from rain earlier that day, their boots against stones eroding only a cosmic fraction of the forces of wind and water, the patient arsenal of time.

  As they march up toward the slope of a ridge, the men of Jim’s company file section by section into the ruins. The town, Jim can see from where he stands, consists mainly of a few dirt lanes, and a handful of stone houses and a church. Much of it is damaged or destroyed. Outlined against the night, the jagged ruins of the town fang the horizon of the front line. Here, in the village, the homey smells of olive oil, of garlic, of fish, and of wine are apparent, duelling for supremacy with the rank stench of war. Jim strolls up to a tired officer of the Sydneys’ pioneer platoon, who is resting with one of his corporals at the entrance to the hamlet. Jim perks up and asks, “Is it clear?”

  “As clear as we can make it,” responds the engineer in a slight Cape Breton brogue. “But keep an eye out—be really careful. Y’know how they mine just about anything. There’s bound to be a few of those schu mines lurking about. There’s a lotta rubble to hide boobytraps in this village, so watch out. We nailed them hard on the way in, so I’m sure they left some calling cards. I’m leaving a couple sappers with you guys, so you’re in good hands.”

  “Thank you. Could you tell me where the CO here is right now? We’re relieving the garrison.”

  “Yes, sir. In the general store in the piazza, just down the street. Ask for Major Rankin.”

  “Thought so. Just making sure. Thanks and good luck, Lieutenant.”

  “And to you.” With that, Jim’s entourage enter the village proper. Jim yells, “This is it! We’re here! Go to your assigned destinations and dig in for the night!” ‘Here’ is roughly a thousand yards from the first known German positions of the newly reconfigured lines. Troops of Able Company quickly begin making the village theirs as the holding platoon from the Sydney Highlanders files out, relieved in more ways than one. He finds the commanding officer, a Major Rankin, headquartered in the ruins of the general store. The floor is jumbled in household goods and broken shelves, and other remnants of civility. Rankin is squat, strongly built, red-haired and unshaven, every bit th
e burly Highland Scot. His company radio set pops and hisses and screeches from the headphones, and a young signalman is bent over it in concentration.

  “I’m Captain McFarlane, ‘A’ 1st Company, Irish, and I’m here to relieve you, sir,” Jim says upon a mutual exchange of salutes.

  “Major Tom Rankin, ‘D’ Company, 1st Sydneys,” replies Rankin, who has returned to gathering up his things. “Pleased to meet you. She’s all yours, what’s left of ‘er. I’m not sure how our ordnance fares on German targets, but it’s all too effective on Italian scenery, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’ve been shelling the crap out of us on and off all day since we took the place. Had to fend off two counterattacks. You’ll notice the wrecked Panzer IV just outside the town. Taken out by one of our own earlier. I had sixteen casualties just taking this shithole, and another twelve holding out. You may want to take that church from the priest there. It’s obvious, but it’s strong. I never took it out of the kindness of my heart to the priest there, but you’ll want something resembling a bunker here, and that’s the closest you’ll get. You’ll want to dig into the leeward slopes mostly during the day—they’ll shell the shit out of you. We’re taking a shitload of fire from the next ridge—looks like the British attack there failed. Well, let’s take our leave of one another before they find out two officers are chatting here and level the goddamn building. Good luck, Captain,” he says on the way out.

  “Good luck to you, too, Major.”

  The passing troops exchange glances that both size up their regimental rivals and acknowledge their mutual prowess. Jim surveys the town surrounding him. The northernmost reaches of the village are a jagged topography of rubble, a mountain chain arisen from the seismic forces of modern combat, obliterated, Jim was told before moving in to occupy the village, by RAF fighter-bombers that had dropped their bombs just short of approaching German reinforcements while confused in a morning fog. Jim looks about and eyes the small Romanesque stone church, with its arches and its steeple pointed hopefully to heaven, though smashed by shellfire in the damnation of war. There are several large holes in the roof and in the walls, but on the whole it is standing, and Jim immediately decides it is a good place to make his company headquarters at the moment. The priest, an old man with wild white hair, emerges from the church to greet the troops at the front door. He exudes exuberance to the liberators and shouts happily at them in Italian. He runs up to Jim and shakes his hand.

  “Benvenuti a San Matteo, Capitano,” he says, noting Jim’s captain’s stars as he squints in the darkness. Jim smiles and says, “Buona sera, Padre. Parla inglese?”

  The priest shakes his head, and says in a thick accent, “Non inglese, non inglese.” He eyes the soldiers somewhat suspiciously, likely knowing that he is going to lose something by their being there.

  “I doubt he’s going to like this,” Jim predicts. He turns to Witchewski. “Can you get a translator? My tourist Italian isn’t good enough for this. We need to make this prettier.”

  “Sure. Fratini can do it.” Fratini is an Italian soldier posted to the battalion as a guide and translator. Witchewski summons a runner, Private Lafontaine, to get him. “I doubt he’ll surrender this church to be a barracks,” says Witchewski of the priest, arms folded. “If the last guys in here didn’t take it, obviously he doesn’t want us to take it.”

  “We’ll tell him we’re the Forces of Goodness here to combat the Nazi Devil. Angels in khaki. Heh, heh.” After a couple minutes, Lafontaine returns with Fratini. Fratini is tall, dark, chiselled, and wearing a beret. He and Jim salute each other and Jim tells him, “Tell him we have to take over his church.”

  Fratini smiles a wide Italian smile and says, “I’ll try,” in a somewhat muted accent. He talks to the priest in Italian, gesturing to the troops and to the church.

  The priest shakes his head. “No no no!” He shouts animatedly. “Niente soldati nella mia chiesa!” He looks toward Jim and Witchewski and yells at them, “Andate via!” Fratini continues bargaining and cajoling with him. Finally he caves in with an angry and mournful “Non nella mia chiesa!” He saunters off, muttering, “I Canadesi, i canadesi,” in a tone salted with disgust. Heading out of town the way Able Company arrived, he is likely to go and complain to deaf ears at Brigade Headquarters.

  “Grazie, Fratini,” says Jim, and he tips his helmet to him in gratitude.

  “Prego, Capitano. It was my pleasure.”

  “What did you tell him, anyway?”

  “I tella him his church has been bombed anyway, what difference is it to have Allied soldiers in it? He says it was the Allies who-a-blasted his church. And then I tell him if Allied soldiers a-move into your church, the Allies won’t bomb it anymore. Ha!” Jim and Witchewski laugh. Fratini goes his own way, heading toward Battalion Headquarters. Witchewski turns to Jim and says, “Let’s just hope Father Macaroni there isn’t some Fascist informer. This far north—you gotta watch ‘em.”

  Pointing to the church, Jim shouts in the style of the moment, “Avanti miei compagni!” and the men move in with aplomb.

  3

  Night-cloaked, the men begin to make themselves at home, billeting themselves in and fortifying houses for the night in this small village, under the supervision of their sergeants and corporals. Some dig slit trenches between houses, others occupy and improve upon those abandoned by the Sydneys. Defensive positions are set up and manned in the dark, and machine guns and mortars are put at the ready at various points. A map is spread out on the altar in the broken interior of the church, where a crucifix of Christ stares down in fixed agony on the officers and men of Jim’s headquarters, one stone arm sheared off from an explosion. Several of the soldiers raid the wine cellars of the houses they have occupied, making the most of their spartan quarters and miserable conditions.

  “Tell the men not to get too pissed tonight,” says Jim, absently looking at a map spread on the altar of the church. “We’re too close to Jerry for comfort.”

  “That’s easier said than done,” Witchewski answers.

  “Although, let them have a few, it’s been a rough show. Ration whatever they find. I don’t want them firing in the wrong direction.” As he finishes his sentence, he produces a metal flask from his webgear, unscrews the lid and takes a sharp, numbing swig of rye whiskey. He offers some to Witchewski. “Have some.”

  “Aye aye, Captain. Orders is orders.” He, too, takes a large, pungent, comforting slug of booze.

  “Is the company kitchen behind up and running?” Jim inquires.

  “Well, if it’s up, it’s running behind,” quips Witchewski.

  “To hell with that overdue ‘victory’ gruel.” He makes a Churchillian victory ‘V’ with his hand. “‘V’ for vile. Cooley!”

  “Yessir!” Cooley snaps to attention.

  “Cut the parade drill crap. You have an important mission, code-named Dinner. Take Briggs and Lafontaine with you.”

  “Yessir.” He salutes knowingly and with a slight grin. “We’ll scrounge up a banquet.” He rounds up the two soldiers detailed as company runners, Briggs abandoning the short range No. 38 radio set he has just been testing, and the three move out into the night to scrounge up food.

  “There’s not much for me to do now,” Jim says to Witchewski. “Go oversee the fortification. I’ll be off in a corner on my own for a bit if I’m needed.”

  “Sure, sir.” Witchewski looks at him and notes in his expression Jim’s dogfaced weariness. The captain, the emblem of the company, is also the emblem of their fatigue and their torment.

  “Tell me when the chow’s ready,” he says to no one in particular as he goes to the back of the broken church, dusts chips of fallen masonry and plaster off a pew, and sits. He lights a couple candles stuck in old bottles of Italian wine the men have brought in from the village as makeshift candleholders. Under the candlelight he sits and reflects
. From his pocket he produces a sheet of YMCA-issued notepaper and a pen. Time to squeeze out a couple letters home. Yesterday it was his father. Tonight it will be his mother and Marianne.

  He twirls the pen in the air pensively as he gazes at the blank sheet of paper resting on a clipboard on his lap. What to write? he thinks. What this time? Jesus Christ, after the last few weeks, what do I write? Death. Stormed a pillbox yesterday Mom, killed a few German boys with a grenade. Whew! You should have seen the mess! I watched a guy turn into a geyser of blood the other day when he tripped a mine! He was seventeen! He was under my command! And to top it off, I’m going deaf! I smoke too much and get the shakes! Such sardonic thoughts crowd his mind. He closes his eyes, inhales slowly and deeply and then exhales, and thinks, peace. Peace, that’s right, peace, home, peace. He puts his pen to paper. He starts with a scribbled letterhead:

  —Somewhere in Italy—

  Dear Mother,

  I miss you too. I got your last letter when you told me about your trip to Muskoka. It sounded fun. I miss simple pleasures like that. I especially miss the lakes in Canada. What these Europeans call lakes are more like puddles. A trip anywhere not here sounds pleasant. When we’re told we’re going on a trip somewhere we get nervous and load our weapons. Still, there is always leave, and we have had some great times in Naples and Jesi. Rome is a bit harder to get to; you have to curry favours to get there. Usually a bottle of booze can buy you a ride from thirsty Americans. We’ll see if the censors let that bit through! All in all, this really is a beautiful country in the summertime, the cypress trees in full splendour, the mountains, the orchards, and especially the art and the architecture. At least the architecture that hasn’t been destroyed. The black and white postcards I’ve sent you of Naples and Jesi don’t really do this place justice, though the ones I sent you of England last year are spot-on, at least for the winter months. The sense of history is palpable, too, everywhere you look or step. Pompeii really rammed that home. A perfectly preserved day in the life of the Roman Empire. There was even preserved graffiti from the time! A meal set out, reduced to stone. I wonder if the marks we’re making here will be the subject of a guided tour two thousand years from now. I do get the feeling that I am a part of history, if only an infinitesimally small part of it being carried along in the tide.