I Am Canada: Sniper Fire Page 3

  “You’re a natural,” he says. “It’s a waste of bullets, you practising. See what you can do with the youngster.” Funny: He’s not much younger than me.

  All the lectures, exercises and practices have a purpose. The 2nd Canadian Brigade is going back to war. And, judging by what we’re hearing, with the British 78th making slow progress against the enemy, we’ll have our work cut out for us. The Germans are making a stand.

  A couple of days later, Doug asks me, “What would you have done if the Italians had kept fighting beside the Jerries?”

  “I would have fought them,” I say.

  Doug has a habit of blinking when he’s thinking. It’s like something he does to get his brain ticking over.

  “I knew when I signed up that Italy was on Germany’s side and that both were our enemies,” I told him, “but I didn’t think much about it. I guess I didn’t think about them as people, you know? I didn’t think of them as people my parents might know.”

  “Is that likely?” he asks. “That your parents know people who’re fighting with the Fascists?”

  “I dunno,” I say. “My dad left Italy long before the Fascists came to power.”

  “Would it make a difference if you knew someone? Someone on the other side?”

  “Why would it? They’re the enemy.”

  “But they’re people too.”

  “They’re all people,” I say. “Under the uniform, they’re all people, just like us. Doesn’t really matter if we know them, does it?”

  Doug blinked some more. Then he said, “It’s better just to think of them as the enemy.”

  * * *

  “Is it a donkey or a mule?”

  Sometimes you ask a question thinking you’re the only one who doesn’t know the answer. Then you find out no one knows.

  The brigade decided that instead of a regular sports day before we go back into action, we’re going to have donkey races. The O’Connor brothers have been put in charge of finding our donkey and Strong John has been chosen as our jockey. If the donkey won’t move fast enough, says Paddy, then Strong John can carry it instead.

  But no one knows the answer to my question. This doesn’t stop them from pretending they know.

  “A donkey is an officer, of course. All officers are donkeys. Everyone knows that.”

  “They’re both failed attempts at a horse.”

  “A mule is an enchanted donkey. Kiss it on the lips and you’ll see.”

  “Will it turn into a donkey?”

  “No, a princess. All you have to do is kiss it.”

  It’s the lieutenant who finally comes up with an answer.

  “A donkey is a species of African horse,” he says. “A mule is a cross between a horse and a donkey.”

  I’m not sure that this is true, but it doesn’t matter. Donkey or mule, it can still be entered in the derby.

  Later, Gino and I go off to see Benedetto. Benedetto is proud of his donkeys. Or mules.

  * * *

  According to Freddy, the British 78th are making a push to the next river, the Sangro, where the Germans will make another stand. The 78th are supported by divisions from India and New Zealand. They’re taking a lot of wounded and a lot of dead.

  In other news, it turns out the brass hats are coming to see us. Not just Vokes and Hoffy, but also the Corps commander, General Crerar, and Ralston, the minister of national defence.

  “You have to figure they’re getting ready to kiss your you-know-what goodbye when they organize a parade to see you off,” says Derrick.

  The padre wants us to have questions ready for Ralston. He says Ralston wants to chat with us informally. You know what everyone asks first? “When do we go home?”

  The padre just says, “Come on now, boys. Get serious.”

  When the day arrives, the minister, James Ralston, and General Vokes review us together, Hoffy and Jefferson trailing behind them. Vokes is strutting and full of himself. Ralston is impressive. He turns out to be a short, stout man. He was an officer in the last war and he knows how to handle himself on a parade ground. He looks us all square in the eye, taking his time, sometimes asking a question. And afterwards, he has us stand easy around him.

  It seems like he really wants to know what we hope will happen after the war. Some of the guys give thoughtful answers. We all know what it was like before the war, when jobs were hard to come by and the prairies turned to dust. And now the fighting. I guess it’s important to think about what comes next.

  * * *

  On the morning of the Donkey Derby I set off to see Benedetto. He looks worried. He’s afraid that once the army gets its hands on his mule, he’ll never get it back. I have to promise I’ll make up for it if anything happens.

  It’s a crazy scene at the sports field. Everyone knows the holiday is just about over, that we’re going back to war real soon. There’s a lot of yelling and laughter as each company gathers round its mule before the races.

  I try to enter Gino on Benedetto’s beast. If he wins, then the prize money goes to Gino’s family, so they can build a new barn. The race marshal won’t let me. Another regular army jerk. He does let me take up a collection, though, and Gino is happy with that. Our entry, Becky, doesn’t win. Strong John can’t understand it: he was sure he and the mule had an understanding.

  Turns out the Gaffer bet against him.

  “What the heck, Sergeant? How could you bet against Strong John?”

  “Well, lads,” he says. “It’s all about making smart choices.” And he walks off chuckling, like he’s pleased with himself.

  * * *

  The padre has the biggest-ever turnout for a church parade. It’s a cold, wet day. All through the service, the men shift their weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep warm. Everyone joins in the hymn-singing, our voices strong, if off key: “Oh, God! Our help in ages past / Our hope for years to come …”

  That afternoon, the Gaffer gets us together in a corner of the men’s club in Baranello. Rain splashes against the windows, but there’s a fire in the fireplace and the chairs are comfortable. He somehow got his hands on two cases of beer, which he leaves open on the floor. Suddenly I remember Monty’s speech to the brigade back in August. “Do you have enough beer?” he asked us. The men roared out the answer: “No!” Funny thing is, he promised us more, but we never got it. It went to the Seaforths instead. That was the rumour anyway. Those guys get supplies no other unit gets.

  “Drink up,” says the Gaffer.

  Jimmy finishes one bottle and reaches for another.

  “If there’s anyone who loves you lot,” the Gaffer says, “you should write to them today.”

  “Who’re you going to write to, Loon?” asks Jimmy. He makes it sound as if no one could love the kid, like it’s a joke.

  Loon answers quietly. “My ma,” he says.

  “What about you, Jimmy? Who’s waiting for you to come home?”

  “No one,” says Jimmy flatly. “I got no ties. No worries. I’m a free man.”

  No one has to ask the red-headed O’Connor boys who they write to. We’ve all seen pictures of their family.

  “What about you, Doug?” I ask.

  “I’ll write to my dad,” he says and blinks. “My mom died last year. Now my dad is on his own. And you?”

  “Ma and Pa get anxious if they don’t hear from me,” I tell him.

  I also write a letter to Strong John’s parents. He tells me what to put down. It’s not that he can’t write it himself, but he says his handwriting is bad. He says he hates to send home letters that look like they’re written by a child.

  I don’t know why he asks me to do this, but I don’t mind. It’s not too much to ask.

  * * *

  Gino is waiting for me on our last day in Baranello. I haven’t told him we’re going, but the kid seems to know our plans. Good thing he isn’t working for the Germans. The two of us walk together to the mess tent and the kid sits down with us. He doesn’t cry or anything. I make
sure he has a plateful of bangers and eggs. Doug tells him cheerfully that the eggs are made from powder and the sausages filled with sawdust, but the kid goes away with a full stomach, at least.

  Lieutenant Colonel Jefferson was summoned to a Brigade Operations Group yesterday. Battalion O Group was held this morning. We’re getting our marching orders. It won’t be long now.

  Chapter 4

  From the Moro to the Gully

  December 1943

  The holiday’s over.

  The sky is black and the rain is coming down in sheets when we leave Baranello.

  We scramble on board what the army call Transport Carrying Vehicles — TCVs — which means they can be anything from a donkey cart to a flat-bed truck, and in this case turn out to be ordinary canvas-covered two-and-a-half ton trucks. We pass through Campobasso and half a dozen other towns and villages, all the while getting bounced like popcorn in a can.

  Twice we stop and scatter when Stukas, their guns blazing, swoop low over the road. The staging area is an open field. Bed is where we make it.

  “Sleep tight,” says Jimmy. He’s new to this. Maybe the dive-bomb attack is the first time he’s been shot at. He looks shaken.

  The war is getting closer. We can hear and sometimes see it: a flash on the horizon, a dull rumble in the distance.

  The next day we board the trucks again. There are more enemy aircraft overhead: twice we stop and scramble for cover. We pass another eight butt-aching hours on the road. The noise of war is still ahead of us.

  * * *

  It’s December 2 and conditions are miserable. We cross the Sangro River in near-total darkness between 0100 or 0200 hours, tramping over a Bailey bridge that’s been thrown together by the engineers. There’s the sound of rushing water beneath our feet, a cold black sky above us. Cold rain dripping from our faces. We walk in single file, the lieutenant leading the way, followed by Doug, the O’Connors, Strong John, then Loon, Specs and Jimmy. The Gaffer brings up the rear.

  We pass the wreckage of battle as we move forward, the massive shadows of banged-up tanks and trucks; bundles that might be bodies or abandoned backpacks.

  “Stay on the marked path!” the Gaffer calls out. The sloped and muddy fields on either side of us have not yet been cleared of mines.

  Another staging area, another hot meal under canvas. It’s quieter now. The war noise is receding as we advance. New rumours find us at every stop. Jimmy collects them as if they’re clues to buried treasure. As if knowing where we’re going determines what happens next.

  “There’s another river ahead of us,” he says.

  Other voices chime in. “More than one. The River Moro and then the Arielli.”

  “Nothing but rivers.”

  “It’s the east–west road that matters. The road to Rome.”

  “The Brits are pulling out tomorrow,” says Jimmy. “I got it on good authority.”

  “The 8th Indian Division is on our flank,” says someone else.

  “The Brits are going to Rome?”

  “Not the 78th. They’ve had it.”

  Doug, who has been silent, sits down beside me.

  “What do you reckon is happening?” he asks.

  “Nobody knows nothin’,” I say.

  * * *

  The next day we shift camp a few hundred feet for no obvious reason. Maybe it’s just to keep us warm. The 2nd Infantry Brigade is gathered around us, the Seaforths on one side and the Princess Pats on the other. The 78th Division is just ahead. The colonel summoned his second-in-command to a nearby town, San Vito Chietino, for a meeting in the morning. They come back looking important. They know something and we don’t.

  Jimmy’s chatter continues without letup. “Gaffer says to keep my rifle clean. It’s clean. When is it ever not clean?”

  “You’ll be glad when the time comes.”

  “Did you see the Gurkhas? The knives they carry are wicked.”

  “They’re fierce, those guys.”

  “Hey, Loon. Have you heard from your girl?”

  “They’re building a supply dump at San Vito.”

  “Oh, I forgot. You don’t have one.”

  “Shut it, Jimmy.”

  Another day, another move. We cross yet another river, this one called the Feltrino. Then we stop on a bit of level ground. There are olive groves and patches of forest all around us. The trees give us cover from enemy aircraft. They also give us some shelter from the weather. Seems like there are troops everywhere. Most of them are ours, but the lieutenant says the Germans are around here too. He said they’re making a stand along the Moro River. That’s about half a mile from where we’re camped.

  Later in the morning, as if to prove that the lieutenant knows what he’s talking about, small-arms fire erupts from someplace to the west of us. And then the rattle of machine guns. The Gaffer doesn’t have to order us to scratch out a slit trench in the stony ground. No one gets much sleep. The captain has the company secure the perimeter. The Princess Pats are on our left flank and beyond them, the 1st Brigade is settling in. The Seaforths are on our right, and the 3rd Brigade is between them and the sea. Everything is in place for us to move up later to take over from the last remaining units of the British 78th.

  There are quiet spells in the night when I nod off, and then, just as my chin settles onto my chest, I’m startled awake by a burst of machine-gun and mortar fire, whistles and shouts. At one point a flare goes up and I see Doug in the trench next to mine.

  He mutters something I can’t quite hear, then clears his throat and tries again. “Is this what you expected when you signed up?’

  “I thought it would be warmer.”

  “It may get hot in other ways.”

  This is a dumb thing to say, but we are all getting kind of nervous.

  Later in the night, Vokes sends patrols over the river. Units from the Seaforths and Princess Pats poke about on the other side. The Hasty P’s send a party over too. Their sector covers a road that skirts the coast. The lieutenant says there’s a plan.

  There’s always a plan. What happens is something different.

  * * *

  Another day in limbo. The Seaforths are slated to attack the middle of the front, towards a village, San Leonardo, while the Princess Pats strike on the left or western side towards another, smaller village, La Torre. When these objectives are taken — in a few hours if all goes well — it’ll be our turn to move through the Pats’ position towards a crossroads, which has been given the name “Cider.” From there we’re to swing to the east and take Ortona, a port on the coast.

  Nothing to it.

  Later in the evening, elements from the 1st Infantry Brigade move in behind us, ready to take our place when we advance.

  * * *

  Monday night is not the kind of night you would normally choose for fireworks. It’s raining heavily. Everything is wet. We make our way into an abandoned barn and, in spite of the rain, there are fireworks.

  Both the lieutenant and the Gaffer take the time to check weapons, packs and ammunition. Jimmy, all bundled up in his groundsheet and looking pale, takes apart his rifle and cleans it without being told. And then he does it again. Strong John is very still, the way he gets before going into action.

  “Are you praying?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head, no.

  “Then what?”

  “I was thinking about home.”

  It’s almost time. There are tanks grinding their way into position behind us. Men, mules, mortar and machine-gun companies are being organized. Runners trudge through the darkness. And then it’s quiet again as midnight approaches.

  It stays quiet for some time.

  And then the fireworks start.

  A dozen machine guns open up on the other side of the river. Mortars bang away. The noise gets louder and more intense, and then it stops suddenly. There’s a pause, another rattle of machine-gun fire and it all starts up again. It goes on all night. We hear a scream at one point and men shoutin
g. And then the noise dies down again.

  In the morning, the supply company brings us rumours with breakfast. There are a dozen wounded at the regimental aid post. The Seaforths have taken prisoners. We hear different numbers. Tanks were unable to cross the river; it was too muddy and soft. The battle is going well. It’s going badly. We will be moving soon. We’ll be holding our position.

  We don’t move. Not in the morning. Not in the afternoon. We wait in the rain and listen to the noise of battle. Eventually, in spite of the uproar, some of us fall asleep wrapped up in our groundsheets. And then finally, in the evening, we get the call.

  “Come on, you slugs! Rouse yourselves!”

  “Shake a leg!”

  Jimmy has disappeared. Strong John finds him slumped behind a wall. Strong John reaches down and lifts him up with one giant hand. Jimmy looks dazed.

  “I was sleeping,” he says.

  We join the rest of the company and wait in the shadows of an olive grove until a guide finds us. Orders are passed along the line and we start making our way towards the front. The ground falls away beneath our feet. The going gets slippery. There are frequent flashes in the sky that look like lightning, but that’s not what they are. The crashes aren’t thunder either. They’re artillery. We cross the river. Any part of us that isn’t already wet is soaked by the time we get to the other side. We scramble up the steep embankment and form up again in a shivering line.

  And then we’re told to go back.

  Our job was to follow up on the progress made by the Princess Pats, to push on through the objective after they had taken it. But their objective, La Torre, is still being contested. Without progress, there’s nothing to follow up. We turn around and splash across the cold black river.

  Nothing goes according to plan.

  * * *

  It’s Wednesday — more than a week since we left Campobasso — and no one knows what’s happening. No one, that is, who shares the information with us. Rumour has it that the tanks were unable to cross the river because the engineers were unable to build a bridge across it. It was impossible, they said, because the banks were too steep. Without tank support, the attackers were unable to hold their position on the other side. The Princess Pats have been pulled back; the Seaforths too.