A Carbolic Voice
I WAS never wholly certain at any point what my godfather really thought about Winston Churchill, even if Churchill seemed to have a high opinion of him. ‘My American eagle’ the Prime Minister even called him in a letter my godfather showed me. But then I’m sure prime ministers are as adept as anyone in making people believe they liked them, when that best served their interests. Isn’t that how they get themselves elected in the first place? But whatever my godfather’s view of him really was, and I couldn’t think of any Brit he completely cared for, so it was difficult to believe he didn’t harbor some animosity towards him too, he knew that he and the British P.M. were now in partnership together. For sure they each may not have had quite the same reason for being in that partnership, but as someone said, politics makes for strange bedfellows. Churchill was in it because he was going out on such a limb with Roosevelt over keeping enough men and equipment to finish the job in Italy, that for the sake of his own prestige he couldn’t see it fail. My godfather was in it because for Fifth Army’s sake if nothing else he couldn’t bear to see the whole campaign fall apart and its reputation ruined. That’s what he said anyway, because he let me read it in one of his diary entries. Diary entries that I have to say could be rather imprudently blunt at times, on all sorts of subjects.
But whether either of them liked it or not, they both understood that the American preoccupation with ‘the Big One’ meant that 1944 would still be about that and that alone, and any other adventures, Italy included, would have to play second fiddle. And that was something that each of them was just going to have to learn to make the best of. And that didn’t mean it played second fiddle only with regard to American troops either, because as my godfather also told me, the initial invasion of Northern France would involve as many British ones as American. Of course according to him, and he wrote this in his diary too, and rather unguardedly as well I thought, that was because the Brits intended to be seen getting to Berlin every bit as quickly as the Americans. So every British regiment in Italy was potentially transferable back too, including the ones under Fifth Army Command. And as there was also going to be a diversionary Allied invasion of Southern France involving a large French component, Juin’s troops could find themselves being shipped over there as well. When he told me that, I remember asking him again if he’d heard anything more about taking charge of the ground forces there, but all he said was, “Italy’s far too important for me to give that any thought right now.” And I could tell from the distracted manner in which he answered that was all I was going to get from him on that subject. Strange though, I remember thinking, that something that had been so very important to both he and Landers, was now never even mentioned.
So bottom line both Churchill and my godfather badly needed something to break the Italian stalemate and restore it to a greater significance than just its increasingly dreadful casualty count. And the only something with any chance of happening before more Allied troops were pulled out of there was destroying the German Army in Italy and freeing the Eternal City from occupation. Or as Churchill himself aptly put it in another letter my godfather showed me, ‘no way in hell are we going to sacrifice Rome for the damn Riviera.’
And the secret to liberating Rome was of course ducks, that thing Marie and I landed at Salerno in. And it also meant a lot of the larger LST’s too. That stood for ‘landing ship tanks’ I was advised, though Freddie said at times it could also mean ‘large stationary target.’ So Churchill being Churchill, and as he said in the same letter ‘it appears the whole destiny of the British Empire is now tied up in something called LST’s,’ the great man had set himself to discovering what exactly LST’s and ducks were and where and how to find some. And somehow or other, he did both.
Meanwhile back at Bomb Cottage we all did our best for Karl and day by day he got a little better. I don’t think UPI ever knew what had happened to him, as Freddie wrote his copy and signed it with Karl’s by-line and Marie and I handled supplying any photographs that his stories needed. And it was while we were doing it that I first discovered how much easier it was for me to move around the Allied sector in civilian clothes, as no-one of our Army seemed to care what the Italians did while the war was going on all about them. They did however care about what U.S. Army Lieutenants were doing, especially those who didn’t ever seem to know what the password was. The trick I discovered was to stay out of Naples where there seemed to be M.P’s on every corner, and taking great joy so it seemed in hassling any members of the infantry who came down on leave. Most clubs, bars, theaters and whorehouses were off limits to all but the military government and PBS officers, and soldiers from the front were instead put up in ‘rest centers’ that had neither alcohol nor female company. That is always supposing the poor infantryman or combat engineer ever got to a rest centre, as he was often arrested before he had completed the trip for not being shaven, or for having dirty shoes, or hair not cut to the required length, or uniforms that weren’t properly pressed, or even buttons missing. I was beginning to feel very sorry for Willie and Joe, and to understand better what Mauldin was trying to say in his cartoons, without of course ever explicitly saying it. He told me that one of the American generals he knew better than the others, his name was Truscott, was even considering sending his troops down into Naples expressly for the purpose of teaching the PBS a lesson about what they really owed to the fighting infantrymen. And after what I’d seen I knew what side we’d all take.
Outside of Naples though, you could pretty much come and go as you pleased, as long as you looked Italian, which Marie and I did, dressed Italian, which courtesy of the Forcella Market wasn’t too difficult either, and you didn’t of course get too close to the enemy lines, as that as they say was verboten. And even when we were in civilian clothes any soldiers we ran into, and a lot of them were engineers trying to fix all the damage we and the Germans had left, didn’t even stop to wonder why I was driving an American Army jeep. But then there were thousands of those jeeps around, and a lot of the Press Corps had access to them, especially the female ones with good ‘connections.’ Needless to say of course it was not my practice to take Sapsovitch on such excursions.
A week or so after New Year I was called to meet with Landers at Caserta in one of his Public Relations Department’s many conference rooms there. “We have good news,” he said, “Very good news, indeed. Churchill has prevailed upon Roosevelt to let us keep the landing craft designated for the invasion of Southern France for a few weeks more. That will permit us to initiate the amphibious landing we need somewhere up the coast behind the German lines.”
“We’re talking about Shingle?” I said, not stopping to think he might have preferred to tell me that was its name himself.
“I believe that’s what it’s being called, yes.”
“Any idea where that might be?”
“That at least is still need to know,” he responded sonorously. Of course whether that meant Landers himself knew where it was going to be but wasn’t going to tell me by way of retaliation, or whether he hadn’t been told either but didn’t want to admit it, I couldn’t quite work out right then. But if forced to bet I’d have laid short odds on the second. Still, better as they say to let sleeping dogs lie, so I responded like the good little team player I was trying harder to appear as, to him anyway, “So what do you want me to do?”
“We’re going to have a press conference and brief all the correspondents. I want you to work the crowd, talk up the operation, make sure everyone understands how innovative it is, and how it will permit us to get to Rome faster, and get us some positive ink, the more the better.”
“And why is it important they even know about the operation?”
“It’s not just men and material we risk losing to France, it’s press coverage as well. A lot of the damn correspondents are already thinking of jumping ship, and have applied to leave Italy and be re-accredited to cover it instead.”
“What difference does that make? If we’re successful we’re successful regardless of whether they’re there to see it.”
“You really are very naive aren’t you?”
Okay, better to maybe leave that remark unresponded to as well, so I continued far more diplomatically with, “So when is this operation likely to go ahead.”
“That too is classif-.”
“Within the next two weeks,” my godfather interrupted as he walked in the room.
I braced up respectfully but didn’t salute as no-one had a hat on, and after a while everyone tended to get sick of saluting the same people so often in the same day. “How difficult will it be?”
“Personally I’d prefer we landed three divisions instead of just two. But we must be prepared to accept any risk as the prize is worth it.”
“The prize?” I asked.
“Rome of course,” Landers responded as if it was the stupidest question he’d ever heard.
“I just read somewhere that destroying the enemy army was the most important objective any military commander should have.”
“And where did you read that?”
“Actually it was Clausewitz.”
“Who’s he?” Landers asked.
“Of course it’s destruction of the enemy army we’re after,” my godfather interrupted. “But wouldn’t it be nice if we could entertain Churchill in Rome before it’s all over too?”
“And General Alexander still wants the landing force to be part British?”
“The man’s an utter feather duster,” my godfather said. “And he also wants to shift the New Zealand Brigade over to help us go up the Liri Valley when we break through down here.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“He just wants to improve the chances of something British-looking being the first to enter Rome from that route too. Same as Churchill does.”
“But what’s British about a New Zealand Brigade?”
“It’s part of their antiquated empire, isn’t it?” interrupted Landers, whose objective in life appeared to be predicting what my godfather was going to say next in any situation, then say it first.
“I think they call it the Commonwealth now.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I’m sure if the colonel cared to spend an evening in their officers’ mess, the New Zealander Brigade would be happy to explain it to him.”
***
The following day every correspondent in the west of Italy was invited to the Press conference. Marie, Karl and Freddie were there, and just about everyone else including Whicker, Ernie Pyle, Bob Capa, Margaret, everyone. I was scurrying about on the right hand side of the room waiting for the action to start, when I heard Freddie whisper in my direction. “A buck says they do it again.”
“Do what again?” I asked.
“Landers will come in first and say ‘attenshut’ or some such nonsense like that, we’ll grudgingly come to our feet just in time for your General to appear down the middle, march to the dais, turn round, cut his hand through the air for this unintended idiocy to end and that we should sit down, and proceedings will duly commence.”
“Five bucks says he doesn’t.”
“As you wish madam, as you wish.” And Freddie produced five bucks too and covered the bet.
Sure enough a few minutes later Landers came in the back of the room as his nattily dressed goons spaced themselves out at the sides. And then what did he go and do? Sure enough he said ‘attenshut’ and the military types including myself braced up, the correspondents grudgingly got to their feet, and my godfather marched down the centre and up to the raised platform, followed by three other American generals, then Fifth Army’s British Corps commander McCreery, and the ever smiling Juin bringing up the rear. I even got a grin from him on his way by. Then what did my godfather go and do? He duly cut his hand through the air for us to sit and said, “Thank you for the courtesy but it isn’t really necessary.”
As he sat down Freddie’s open paw appeared in front of me, “It’s almost like the pair of them rehearse it beforehand,” he laughed as I crossed that paw with the ten bucks.
“Allow me to present General Lucas and his senior division commander General Lucian Truscott, who will command the operation I am about to describe. General Keyes who commands the troops at the mouth of the Liri Valley, General McCreery who commands the sector to his left, and General Juin, whom I believe you already know.”
I stood off to the side, with the ever vigilant Landers now scurrying around making sure I took all the right photos and none of the bad ones, as my godfather explained the operation without ever saying exactly where it would happen. He told us that it would be preceded by a British thrust over the Garigliano, followed by various other incursions designed to put simultaneous pressure on all parts of the Winter Line. With most of the German effort diverted to repelling our landing, wherever that took place, the outcome, he said, would be a breakthrough up the Liri Valley, a linking up with Lucas’s division who would have forced their way out their beach-head, and we would be spending Valentine’s Day in the Eternal City. Okay Valentine’s wasn’t Christmas but it wasn’t Labor Day either. That was the theory anyway.
“What about the weather?” Karl asked. “You’ll need air superiority to break through the south end of the Liri Valley.”
“Our forecast says it will be clear.”
“And on the off chance our troops don’t break out the beach-head quite as promptly as you assume? What about re-supply?” Marie followed up.
“What about it?”
“What if the powers that be run off with your ducks right after you’ve debarked the troops? What will you do then?”
“They’re not going to disappear off with them if that means two divisions are going to run out of ammunition and get slaughtered,” said my godfather.
“You wouldn’t be playing chicken with Allied Headquarters in London over that, would you? You know, daring it take them away if you get into the same trouble you did at Salerno?”
“We have a guaranteed window of use of all amphibious craft,” my godfather said.
“And for the record we were never in trouble at Salerno.” added Landers.
“How do you know?” asked Karl. “You didn’t arrive till after it was over.”
“And you insist on not telling us where exactly this landing is going to occur?” Freddie enquired.
“You can be assured that wherever it is it will permit my Fifth Army to be the first since the Roman general Bellisarius to conquer Italy from the south,” said my godfather.
“Bellisarius indeed,” muttered Freddie doubtfully.
“And that was over fifteen hundred years ago,” added Landers.
“Doesn’t this all smack of a little impatience?” asked Freddie.
“Meaning what?” said my godfather.
“Meaning wouldn’t it perhaps be better to delay any landing, wherever it might be, till spring when the ground is more firm, the sea less choppy and your air support is able to fly more sorties?”
“We can’t wait that long.”
“Because you’re about to lose all your landing craft to the Big One?”
“Italy is the Big One. There’s none bigger than it,” said Landers.
“So you keep on telling us all of a sudden.”
“You have a relevant point to make Mr. Anstruther-Darlington?” asked Landers rather venomously.
“Indeed I have, and it is this. If you are so insistent on this mad ploy, perhaps you’d care to be made aware that Bellisarius wasn’t the only general who tried taking Italy from this direction. There was another one you know.”
“Name of who?” asked Landers.
“Pyrrhus. Ring a bell does it?
“Should it?”
“And he certainly had the right breeding for the job, being as he was a descendant of Olympias, mother to Alexander the Great himself. And he invaded Italy from the south too, in 280 B.C. if I remember correctly
“Tell me you weren’t there as well, Freddie?” I whispered to him with a smile.
“Trés drôle comme toujours, madamoiselle,” he whispered back, as he grinned like a tiger circling his kill. “Fought a number of winning battles against the Romans this Pyrrhus did, except they were all increasingly bloody ones, just like ours seem to be getting.”
“So?” Landers asked.
“So in one of the last of them, at Asculum not far from here indeed, his losses were so great he summarized the battle with the immortal line - ‘One more victory like this and we are beaten.’ And thus was the concept of a Pyrrhic victory, a triumph utterly unworthy of its cost, ensconced forever in the western military lexicon. Most western people’s lexicon that is, but apparently not the colonel’s.”
“We have no intention of engaging in anything Pyhrric round here,” my godfather said. “Remember what Sun Tzu said. That a wise attack is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim.”
“Will there be any other questions?” Landers asked. “No?” he said before anyone could answer. “Then before you all go we have written a new Fifth Army fight song, which we would like you all to join in on, to send our brave soldiers off in this great endeavor in the correct spirit.”
“What’s he talking about now?” Marie whispered and Karl and Freddie could only shrug as Landers’ goons handed out mimeographed copies of something. I took one and scanned it. It began with the lines ‘Stand up, stand up for General Clark.’ Meanwhile another goon manned a piano and as Truscott cringed, my godfather stood rigidly to attention, the Press Corps mostly giggled, and I remembered Landers taking those notes in Naples Cathedral and only now realizing why, we all sang the newly minted Fifth Army Fight song to the tune of, yes you’ve got it, ‘Stand up, stand up for Jesus, ye soldiers of the cross.’ I think even Constantine himself would have up-chucked. I know I almost did.
***
Back outside Karl asked Freddie, “So where do you think they are landing?”
“It can’t be north of Rome at Civitavecchia or even Ladispoli. That’s out of range of fighter support, and any troops coming up the Liri Valley would take far too long to reach them.”
“So it must be south of Rome then?”
“Gaeta and Terracinna on the other hand are too near here, and hardly worth the trouble.”
“So?”
“So it’s Anzio. Book it.”
As Lucas and Truscott walked out Freddie asked him what he thought of being put in command of such a prestigious and critical operation. “As proud as a lamb being led to the slaughter,” Lucas said as he lit up his corn cob pipe. I tried to take a picture of him and Truscott, but Truscott just shook his head and muttered something in a gravelly voice about the idiocy of singing songs at a time like this.
”Why are you so negatively pre-disposed to it?” Freddie asked General Lucas.
“Because we’ll be facing the best troops the Germans have, and Keyes hasn’t broken through at the Liri Valley any of the other times he’s tried. So why should he now.”
“You really think the whole idea’s that bad?”
“Frankly it has a strong stink of Gallipoli about it. But then orders are orders.” and he ambled off.
“Gallipoli?” I asked.
“Same idea as this except it was in the First World War,” General Truscott answered in a very raspy tone.
“And it was a disaster?”
“And thought up by the same Winston Churchill as rammed Shingle through too,” whereupon he strode off as well.
“General Truscott has an awfully odd voice hasn’t he,” I asked Marie.
“Half the correspondents believe he accidentally consumed some carbolic acid as a child.”
“And the other half?
“They say it’s far more in character that he consumed it intentionally.”
***
A few days later they had a rehearsal for Operation Shingle off Salerno. The British landed first and without being exactly what you’d call a stellar success their part went off reasonably well. But then came the Americans’ turn. Okay the weather had gotten far windier by then, and everything seemed to be happening in a dreadful rush as evening was fast approaching, but even I could see things did not go well. And if I failed to, General Truscott kept up a running commentary by my side to make sure I did. In fact sometimes I got the impression he was trying to hint that I reported his opinion directly back to General Clark. Phrases such as ‘unmitigated-disaster’, ‘God-forsaken mess’, and ‘we need another rehearsal or we’re dead meat’ figured prominently in his summary. And even a neophyte in the subtleties of amphibious operations could hardly but agree with him. The landing transports had clearly been let off way too far from the shore, and the high seas washed many of them out long before they ever reached it. Much of their artillery then got dropped into the water at depths that proved slightly too much for their water-proofing. So by dawn of the following morning, by my count at least, not one single American gun or tank had gotten on shore. And if ducks were truly the most important component of Operation Shingle, Fifth Army had now forty less of them to play with than they’d had the night before. And any attempt at secrecy had apparently gone up in smoke too, as the few troops that did reach the beach were met by Italian kids wanting to sell them postcards of Anzio. “A fiasco, an utter fiasco,” Truscott grunted and went off. Well that’s not quite what he said, but the things he did say I’m not sure I should admit to even being able to spell.
It didn’t take Landers long to appear after Truscott left. He was scared stiff of him to tell you the truth, but buttonholed me the moment the coast was clear. “No need for the Press to know anything about this, okay?”
“Wouldn’t think of telling them,” I responded.
“This arrived for you by the way.” He gave me an envelope. “By diplomatic pouch no less, from the Judge Advocate General’s office in London.
“My sister Margaret no doubt.”
I opened the letter and read it. In it Margaret said how worried she was about Mary, that the pregnancy was turning out to be a very difficult one, and I should find any way I could to check Jack was alright, so Margaret could reassure her. She even called me ‘Trixie’ in it, which meant do what I ask now, please. “My brother in law’s been posted here to Fifth Army,” I said to Landers, “Any chance you can tell me where he’s billeted?”
“Infantry aren’t billeted. They bivouac.”
“Where he’s bivouacked then?”
“What outfit’s he in?”
I checked the letter, “The Thirty-Sixth Texans.”
“He is?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry. That information’s classified.”
“Even from his own sister?
“Be careful, lieutenant. Not everyone was a keen as the general about bringing you out here in the first place.”
“What’s that meant to mean?”
“That those who weren’t may still manage to find a way to have you transferred back.”
“Over my dead body.”
“I’m sure none of us will have any problem honoring that precondition.”
“May I have your permission to go?”
“And it might be better if you confine yourself to your billet for the next seventy two hours.”
“Why?”
“That’s classified as well.”
God, I was learning to hate this man, I really was. But I kept my mouth shut, not an easy thing for me at the best of times, saluted and left.