Perkin answered, “Well, we have to breach the Gustav Line. So there’s only one way to go and that’s north.”
“I know. I’ve looked at the charts, uh, maps. I guess I mean, any idea what role you’ll have? How it’ll be done?”
“I don’t know, Jimmy.” Perkin spoke softly, seriously. “There’s a couple different ways to crack this problem, I suppose. Preferably, we’ll get up in the mountains like we were in San Pietro and keep pushing, pushing, until we work around them. Once we roll up their flanks in the mountains above the abbey at Cassino, their position on the line in the valley will be untenable. The second option is a full-scale push across the Rapido River: most of the Fifth Army in assault from the Tyrrhenian Sea to the Abruzzi, with the armored divisions in reserve and ready to exploit whatever gap the infantry divisions make. That would be costly, but probably quicker. Once we breach the Gustav Line, it’s just a matter of days or weeks until we get to Rome.”
“So it has to be the whole army, not just a division?”
Perkin shivered. “A single division? No. It’d be slaughtered. There’s a German corps in prepared defense on the Gustav Line in the Liri Valley alone. You’d be sending two regiments, with the third in reserve, against . . . I don’t know . . . two or three veteran German divisions. And they’d have to effect a river crossing in order to do it. It would be like one of those forlorn hopes of ancient warfare.”
“What’s that?”
Finley-Jones answered, “Well, it’s not really ancient—except to an American. A forlorn hope is an assault force sent in against overwhelming odds to breach a defense. Rather like the storm troopers of the day. The assault force has traditionally been volunteers with the promise of promotion or advancement as the reward for successfully surviving. During the Peninsular War, Wellington used one at the Battle of Badajoz in 1812 in order to the end the siege there. Most of the forlorn hope was killed, along with another four thousand or more troops. It was a terrible affair.”
Perkin spoke again, “It’s the river crossing that has me worried. My daddy was killed at our victory on the Marne in ’18. His division, the 3rd, was in defense, and the Germans kept sending wave after wave of assault troops to force a crossing of the river. They were slaughtered by our own General Walker, no less—just like any single division trying to cross the Rapido will be. That’s why it’s imperative to have either a patient campaign up in the mountains or an assault across a broad front. Make the defenders spread their forces out, or it’ll be a repeat of the Marne. But this time, it’ll be us sucking hind tit.”
Chapter Five
December 29, 1943
0945 Hours
Campobasso, Italy
It had taken the group longer to get on the road than they had desired. The two younger soldiers had to be pulled from their beds by Sam and Perkin, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of the restaurateur’s daughters. Kulis, in particular, remained in such bad shape from the previous night’s debauchery that Perkin had decided it would be a safer course of action to drive himself.
While Sam and Perkin saw to the red-eyed and hungover privates, Finley-Jones and Cardosi saw to breakfast. A small café sold them a dozen cornetti—Italian croissants stuffed with butter and jam—and filled all the canteens with an indescribably black, viscous coffee.
Perkin would have liked to have spent a little more time in the picturesque village, but it was beginning to snow, and in any case, he didn’t want to deal with an angry father on behalf of his troops. Consequently, the officers unceremoniously dumped the privates into the backs of the jeeps, and the party made a hasty departure from Santa Croce del Sannio.
The going was slow because of the accumulating snow and the winding roads through the Abruzzi foothills, but it wasn’t long before they began to see indications of recent combat. Coming around one bend, the party was surprised when the landscape changed dramatically. Gone were the trees and brush, replaced by a burned and scarred hillside. Tree stumps indicated heavy artillery shelling, and two burned-out German halftracks had already begun to rust in a roadside ditch.
It was an unnerving transition, Perkin thought. One side of a hill was an idyllic winter scene. Around the bend was death and destruction. Except for the sleeping privates, the soldiers all instinctively checked their weapons, and Sam sat his Garand across his lap. Even more eerie was the absence of animals—no birds, or deer, or even rabbits. It was if the passing combat had taken all life on the hill for eternity. The remainder of the drive to the next town of any size, Campobasso, was a repetition of the same phenomena. The little highway wove through pristine mountain forest, followed by the devastation of war.
Perkin was almost relieved when Campobasso came into view. It was considerably larger than Santa Croce, but as they approached the town, it was apparent that the war had not passed Campobasso. Reminiscent of San Pietro, shattered and collapsed buildings could be seen from a distance.
A large Canadian Red Ensign and a manned roadblock greeted them as they rolled up to the town. Two soldiers in British-looking uniforms approached Perkin and Sam’s jeep, which was in the lead. The soldiers at the checkpoint offered a British salute upon recognizing officers in the jeep, but when they asked for orders, the accents were clearly North American.
“Where are you headed, sir?” a lance corporal asked of Perkin.
“We’re on our way to Eighth Army headquarters.” Perkin replied.
“Who’s that?” the lance corporal asked, indicating the sleeping Private Kulis.
“Our driver.”
The soldier laughed. “Excellent. Been on a bit of a bender? He smells like he’s had a few for the king.”
Perkin nodded, “He had some for the king, some for Roosevelt, and a few for Uncle Joe just to make sure he drank to all our allies.”
The Canadian soldier laughed again. “God bless him. A word of advice, sir. Get him tidied up or the English MPs in the rear will write him up; they never pass up the chance to chivvy the Yanks. Don’t try and cut the corner to Vasto—most of the bridges remain out, and there’s a Kiwi roadblock to the north that you should avoid. They’re searching traffic looking for contraband booze, which they’re not authorized to do because it’s not contraband, but they do it anyway.” His face darkened—he obviously had strong feelings on the issue. “It just goes straight into their own goddamned mess. Stay on this road until you get to the coast, sir, and expect a slowdown at Termoli, and then just follow the signs from there.”
Perkin thanked the soldiers and returned their salute as the jeeps passed through the roadblock, and then took in the horrors of Campobasso. A much larger town than San Pietro, it had suffered somewhat less than total destruction, but the damage and loss of homes and businesses still shocked the soldiers who had yet to harden to the worst of the vicissitudes of war.
1115 Hours
Vasto, Italy
The little procession had cleared numerous checkpoints, and they were without question in Eighth Army territory. The vehicles that they passed were a mix of Imperial equipment and American Lend-Lease, many carrying the scars of recent combat. The soldiers reflected an army as multinational as their own Fifth Army. Canadian, Indian, New Zealander, and British divisions comprised the heart of the Eighth Army, but other nationalities were also represented. Finley-Jones pointed out several small Asian soldiers that he called Gurkhas—“Splendid fellows,” he said. “Absolute brutes in battle.”
The Canadian soldier was correct: there had been little traffic on the road to the coast, but it picked up dramatically as supplies raced to the front from whatever Italian ports on the Adriatic remained functional. All along the coastal road, Perkin and Sam saw the signs of recent combat, and Sam remarked to his cousin that he imagined it was what Georgia looked like after Sherman’s army swept