Soldiers in the Sun: Sgt. Smith in the Campaign for Sicily

By Michael Winston

In this second volume of the Sgt. Smith World War II trilogy, we find First Squad on the hot and rocky island of Sicily as the Allies plan to take and hold the island in order to better control shipping in the Mediterranean and as a jumping off point for the invasion of Italy.
The First Infantry Division, having been bloodied in the fierce fighting in the hills and desert country of Tunisia, has learned a few hard lessons. After receiving some devastating setbacks in the Kasserine Pass from Rommel’s Africa Corps, the First Division stood their ground at El Guettar and came back to beat the best the Germans could throw at them. Not only did they fight and win against the famous German 10th and 21st Panzer Divisions, the elite Hermann Goering Division, and Rommel’s Africa Corps, but they then played a central role in evicting the Nazis from North Africa. Not only has the First Division earned the respect of their German opponents, but the soldiers have slowly learned to hate their enemy, who has taught them that war is a serious business, a business of killing, and they are beginning to take pride in their craft.
Based upon stories my father told me, as well as documented history, we now rejoin First Squad as they invade the Land of the Cyclops, from the landing beaches at Gela to the climactic battle for Troina.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Winston
• Release date: Apr 20, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310607059

Michael Winston

Army brat. Served in US Navy as Radarman aboard U.S.S. Cromwell (DE-1014) from 1967-71. BA in Anthropology from Ithaca College; MSW from Syracuse University. Worked in VA clinic and then in U.S. Army psychiatric clinic in Germany for Dept. of Defense. Sailed boats in Caribbean and Mediterranean.Historical fiction novels include the Jonathan Kinkaid nautical fiction series that follows an American naval officer during the Revolutionary War; the epic adventure "Sunset of the Iroquois," about Washington's invasion of the Indian lands of New York State in 1779; and the Sgt. Smith World War II trilogy that follows a squad of 1st Infantry Division soldiers to North Africa, Sicily, and then Europe, based on documented history as well as stories my father told me.Also an artist; paintings and cover art can be seen at www.michaelwinston.org

Book preview

Soldiers in the Sun

The Campaign for Sicily

Volume Two of the Sgt. Smith World War II Trilogy

By Michael Winston

Copyright 2012

Smashwords Edition

Author’s Note

In this second volume of the Sgt. Smith World War II trilogy, we find First Squad on the hot and rocky island of Sicily as the Allies plan to take and hold the island in order to better control shipping in the Mediterranean and as a jumping off point for the invasion of Italy.

The First Infantry Division, having been bloodied in the fierce fighting in the hills and desert country of Tunisia, has learned a few hard lessons. After receiving some devastating setbacks in the Kasserine Pass from Rommel’s Africa Corps, the First Division stood their ground at El Guettar and came back to beat the best the Germans could throw at them. Not only did they fight and win against the famous German 10th and 21st Panzer Divisions, the elite Hermann Goering Division, and Rommel’s Africa Corps, but they then played a central role in evicting the Nazis from North Africa. Not only has the First Division earned the respect of their German opponents, but the soldiers have slowly learned to hate their enemy, who has taught them that war is a serious business, a business of killing, and they are beginning to take pride in their craft.

Based upon stories my father told me, as well as documented history, we now rejoin First Squad as they invade the Land of the Cyclops, from the landing beaches at Gela to the climactic battle for Troina.

Dirty Gertie from Bizerte,

Hid a mousetrap ‘neath her skirtie,

Strapped it to her kneecap purty,

Baited it with Fleur de Flirte,

Made her boyfriend’s fingers hurty,

Made her boyfriend’s most alerte!

She was voted in Bizerte,

Miss Latrine for 1930.

Dirty Gertie from Bizerte,

Saw the Captain, made ze flirty,

Captain zink she very purty,

Lose his watch and lose his shirty,

Call ze general alerte,

The gendarmes look for Dirty Gertie,

From Casablanc’ to Gulf of Sirte,

Has anyone seen Dirty Gertie?

Dirty Gertie from Bizerte,

Roll ze eyes and make ze flirty,

Wears no chemise and wears no skirty,

Wears one veil and one night-shirty,

All ze soldats in Bizerte,

Vant to meet wiz zis here Gertie,

Drink ze toast to Dirty Gertie,

Vas one cute keed when she’s zirty.

A popular ditty sung by American soldiers in North Africa and Sicily. Original version attributed to Private William L. Russell at Camp Lee, Virginia, but which grew to hundreds of indecent verses.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Afterward

Other books by Michael Winston

Chapter 1

Aboard the transport Barnett, in the Mediterranean Sea

1837 Hours, 9 July, 1943

After living like animals in foxholes for six months, life aboard ship came as somewhat of a shock to Smith and the soldiers of First Squad, albeit a pleasant shock. For the life of a combat infantryman did not make for a normal existence, and had left them all feeling like homeless mutts, bereft of all that made for a civilized human being. After being in a different place every day, shipboard life was almost like living at home.

After being constantly dirty and unshaven for weeks at a time, they now had daily showers and even faucets that spewed hot water for shaving. After drinking dirty water that gave them the shits, they now drank clean water that even had ice in it; after rarely having a floor to sleep on or a roof over their heads, they now slept on cots with real mattresses and pillows. Not only that, but they now had chairs to sit on and tables to put their food on. They even ate with real silverware, had hot meals three times a day, and even enjoyed luxuries like ice cream and sipped on Coca-Cola while they read the latest magazines.

And because the sailors didn’t cuss all the time, the soldiers even found themselves swearing less. Of course the sailors swore, but not anything like your average dogface who couldn’t say three words without throwing in a harsh dose of profanity. And the sailors didn’t look hard and dangerous like the infantrymen they were carrying. Not that the sailors were soft, but they were, well, civilized. They were courteous, too, and a lot of them went out of their way to do all they could to make the soldiers feel comfortable and relaxed, knowing they would soon be hitting a hostile shore and that some of them would not be coming back. Realizing this made the soldiers grateful for the extra attention, not that it made them feel like heroes, for they’d seen too much of what real combat was like to buy into any of that malarkey. At this point they just wanted to survive, and if they were fighting for anybody it was for each other, and perhaps even for their Commander, Major General Terry de la Mesa Allen.

Allen had expected much from the men of the Big Red One, training them hard, and instituting some innovative tactics that favored night operations. He hated to lose men in combat, and he took care of them in the field. When they got themselves in trouble on pass, he even went out and bailed them out of jail in person.

Allen believed he commanded the best damned division in the United States Army, and he instilled that belief in his men. More than this, he loved and respected the common soldiers, and they returned that love and respect. He shared their miseries, even sleeping on the hard ground with them. In fact, he never slept on a cot, and forbade any of his staff to sleep on cots. And he was never aloof, but was frequently seen talking to his men, listening to their complaints and doing everything he could to alleviate their hardships.

Therefore, it grated on his men that others were accusing Allen of being too lax with discipline. The truth was that Allen valued loyalty above all else, knowing it contributed more to morale than any other factor. To instill this loyalty he went out of his way to find solutions to problems that avoided courts-martial. Asked how many men from the First Division were in the stockade, he replied, None; that’s what First Sergeants are for.

Those men of the Fighting First might not be able to define the reasons for the war, but every one of them felt a loyalty to their commander and their fellow soldiers that was reason enough to fight for.

Oh, there was a moment when the soldiers might have felt something like patriotism. Like when the ship was leaving the harbor and people were waving from the shore. It made them feel kind of special, like they were the ones going off on a great adventure to save the world for those that stayed behind. And as they passed the breakwater and made for the open sea, there was that thrilling moment when over the ship’s loudspeaker came the words, Port side, attention! and they all looked toward shore and watched the roof of the custom’s house as the American and British flags were raised in salute and everybody on the ship returned the salute until the sound of the bugle faded away.

Now, after a couple of days at sea, the bunk bay grew stifling hot and stuffy, and the bulkheads seemed to press in on them, shutting out the light of day and keeping out the fresh ocean breeze, and even all the luxuries of the ship didn’t seem to mean that much anymore. It didn’t help when Smith and First Squad learned that they would not be returning home any time in the near future after kicking the Krauts out of Tunisia. Instead they heard that the 1st Division had been especially requested by Patton to spearhead the invasion of Sicily.

After all the combat they’d seen, they felt they had earned a much-deserved break from the action, and some in First Squad had become downright belligerent, even after the wog wine wore off. These veterans weren’t wide-eyed and eager kids any more; they had a hard-bitten look to them.

In fact, when Sergeant Smith had looked at himself in a mirror after the battles in Tunisia, he scarcely recognized himself. Even after taking a shower and shaving and putting on a new pair of fatigues, he looked older, and worn down. Before they had landed in Oran he’d still had some baby fat on his face; now all that baby fat was gone, replaced with hard, sun-dried features. He was also getting prematurely bald, and he wondered if it was due to the stress of combat. He was lighter now, too, but hard as a rock all over. Before, his eyes had been bright and cheery. Now they looked hard too, and tired, and kind of sad.

All the men of First Squad had gone through the same transformation. They weren’t naïve and eager kids any more. They had found there was little glory in war; had lost men to death and destruction; had seen too much blood and suffering. They were physically and morally tired, and there were quite a few incidents where soldiers had shot or intentionally maimed themselves back at Lake Bizerte to keep out of the coming battle.

So in some ways it was almost a relief to be back on duty after the crazy shenanigans of their off duty hours back in Algiers. Sergeant Smith had been responsible for any behavior problems, and to say that the soldiers of First Squad and the First Division were undisciplined after getting shot at, wounded and some even killed in Tunisia, was an understatement, especially after going into Algiers for a few beers and seeing the rear echelon SOBs wearing combat badges and medals they hadn’t earned, so it was no surprise when some First Division soldiers started tearing those medals off their chests and causing trouble.

Algiers had been one call from the MPs after another. And then there was that terrific brawl at the New Yorker Bar that had developed into a major melee and then a full blown riot, started by Big Sam Novak, from Muskogee, Oklahoma.

Seems some flyer mouthed off about the U. S. Army Air Corps winning the war singlehandedly and went so far as to suggest that the infantry might as well go home. Novak and First Squad had been strafed more than once by their own flyboys and rightly took offense at the comment, and that’s when fists and then beer and wine bottles started to fly, and it took a lot of persuading by Colonel Bowen to keep them all out of the stockade for the duration.

The flyer, it turned out, had more than a big mouth; he’d also been his unit’s boxing champion. He was big all over and had given Novak a hard time. Even so, Novak gave as good as he got and now proudly sported a black eye and a busted lip to prove it, telling the others as they left the city jail, You should see the other guy.

I think it improves on your looks, teased Private Charlie McCain, a thin chain smoker from Jacksonville, Florida.

One of the sailors had stolen a huge can of pineapple from the galley for First Squad and they were all sitting around the opened can, pulling rings of pineapple out with their fingers and enjoying the sweet treat.

Yeah, and where were you when the fisticuffs started? asked Novak, his mouth full of pineapple. But it was his fat lip that slurred his words.

Hey, I don’t mind fists, but when the beer bottles start to fly, I’m gettin’ under a table, admitted McCain, licking his fingers.

The three new kids, Patrick O’Malley, Nick Parelli, and Dan Burlingame, had sensibly done what McCain had done, hit the floor and crawled out of the bar right behind McCain, but nobody would blame them.

That’s what Harry shoulda done, observed Mario Scarletti, from Brooklyn, who had emerged with half a dozen gashes on his face when he got pinned under a pile of brawlers against some broken glass on the floor, two even requiring stitches.

Harold Harry Holmes, no Rhodes Scholar and slow on the uptake, just rolled his eyes in his big head in disgust. He had tried to back Novak up when the flyer’s buddy jumped in, but he was badly outclassed and had paid the price, his back so severely wrenched after being tossed over the bar that he groaned every time he got out of his bunk and still walked with a stoop.

At least Harry was man enough to stand beside me, growled Novak.

I’ll have you know I worked twenty years to grow these pearly whites, said McCain in defense, and Mom would be awful upset if I lost any.

Go ahead, hide under your mother’s skirts, said Novak.

One of the new men, Private Nick Parelli, from Plattsburgh, New York, uncomfortable with the bickering, asked, Hey, who won the essay contest?

Smith gave Parelli a wink, to show he appreciated the deft change of subject.

You mean the ‘Why I’m Fighting’ contest? asked McCain.

Yeah.

Some sergeant in B Company, offered the Bostonian, Corporal Aedan Hanson, First Squad’s voracious reader; a copy of War and Peace lying on his chest.

I wonder what he said?

I heard it was just four words long, said McCain.

Hanson laughed and said, Yeah, all he wrote was ‘Because I was drafted.’

That drew a few chuckles. Then Holmes asked, Why the hell are we fighting, anyway?

So somebody can sell Coca-Cola to the Arabs, answered the cynical Novak.

Is it just me or is this ship rocking more than usual? asked McCain.

It’s just you, said Terrance Sharky Fischer, a real conniver and once shoe salesman from White Plains, New York.

Yeah, you’re off your rocker, said Scarletti.

Lieutenant Connelly stepped through the door of the bunk bay and said, Listen up. We’re expecting some nasty weather and the Colonel wants everybody up on deck to help secure gear and cargo.

Nobody jumped right up and so Connolly had to say, C’mon, let’s hop to it.

Oh God, groaned Holmes as he rose from his bunk and tried to straighten his back.

As their new Lieutenant, Christopher Connolly was largely an unknown quantity, although he’d displayed an admirable competence during their training exercises along the beaches of Tunisia in preparation for their next invasion. But even more to Sgt. Smith’s liking, the young officer from Green Bay, Wisconsin was always open to listening to senior non-coms, hoping thereby to fill in what Princeton ROTC and his skimpy officer’s training course had failed to mention about the realities of combat, unlike their last lieutenant, Jack Joaquin, whose pride kept him from learning the most basic tenants of survival, to his doom. Smith would always judge new officers beside the best he’d seen so far, Lieutenant Driscoll, who had been captured and taken away by the Germans in the Kasserine Pass.

They all went trundling up onto the crowded deck as the waves began to gather into steep-sloped hills, to help the sailors tie down anything and everything; to keep jeeps and howitzers from rolling about and crushing soldiers or smashing through bulkheads. As they did so, Smith noticed that at least three or four of the barrage balloons that had been attached to the sterns of some of the ships, meant to hinder air attacks, had snapped their cables and were drifting off to leeward.

He also noticed that they were in the middle of the convoy of over 3000 ships and it was an awesome sight, with ships of all types scattered in every direction for as far as the eye could see. Some of them were the new flat-bottomed LSTs and LCTs, large and ponderous landing ships that could unload tanks and trucks right onto a beach. But at the moment they were wallowing about like corks in a washing machine as the waves grew higher and the wind started to howl, and Smith felt thankful that he wasn’t aboard one of them. Yesterday the sea had been still as a pond, with nary a ripple on the surface and no wind to speak of, causing it to be hot and stifling belowdecks. How quickly things could change. He heard one of the sailors mention that the fleet had just passed Malta.

No sooner had they finished their task on the heaving deck when the typhoon hit, driving everyone back belowdecks, to the stink and moist heat of the bunk bay, which soon became intolerable due to the stench of the evening repast being thrown up all over the decks and bunks.

Oh God, moaned Holmes as he lay back on his damp bunk, I wish I hadn’t ate those greasy chops.

Private Fischer was the only one of them that seemed impervious to seasickness, and as if gloating in the fact, mentioned, I hear they’re unfreezing some more of those British sausages for our breakfast tomorrow.

Oh God, moaned Holmes again.

Enduring seasickness was much like having to endure an artillery barrage, in that one can’t get away from the source of the malady. As for Smith, he found that he always endured it better if he was up on deck, breathing the fresh air and keeping his eyes on the far horizon, the only place that remained stable. But so bad had the seas become that the troops were forbidden to go out on deck, the officers fearful that some of them would fall or be swept overboard, and if that happened they wouldn’t be able to go back and fish them out since they were on a tight timetable, so the confines of the bunk bay would have to be endured.

I’d rather be shot at by Kraut tanks and screaming meemies than be seasick, moaned Private Whip Lash, the hero sniper of the 26th Regiment, assigned as a squad scout with Private Zak Porter, the Iroquois from Syracuse, New York.

Hell, I’d rather be dead, moaned Corporal Hanson.

That’s one way to get out of this fuckin’ army, said Scarletti.

Hey, the only way you’re gonna get out of this fuckin’ army is to win the fuckin’ war first, said McCain.

I don’t know why they don’t just send us straight to Berlin so I could shoot that son-of-a-bitch Hitler, said Hanson.

Yeah, why all this pussyfooting around in Africa and Sicily? asked Holmes.

Well, if we ever get to Italy, I’m gonna go gunnin’ for that bastard Mussolini, bragged Scarletti.

Would somebody please shoot all four of these son-of-a-bitches so I can take a nap? said Novak, his black eye contrasting strangely with the green tint of his face.

I’d shoot them all if I had the strength, mumbled Lefkowitz, their medic. Then I’d shoot myself.

Zak Porter, ever silent, even joined in with, Thanks for the five easy scalps.

Hey Zak, I heard the 45th Division was coming with us, mentioned Lefkowitz. The 45th was called the Thunderbird Division. It came from out west and had over 2000 Native Americans in it from fifty different tribes.

I heard that too, said Zak. I got two cousins in the 45th. I’ll bet they’re having war dances on their transports.

Then why don’t you swim over and join your fuckin’ redskin buddies, growled Novak, his anger apparent. Will you guys shut the fuck up so’s I can take a nap?

The bunk bay grew relatively quiet after that. Many managed to write a last letter home to a sweetheart or a loved one before the invasion, planned for the morrow. Smith noticed that all three of the new guys were doing just that. They tended to stick together and what one did the others would usually copy.

Say Sarge, can I tell my mom that I’m going to Sicily? asked Dan Burlingame, a meek and mild kid from Brunswick, Maine. He’d never seen a kid so eager to please.

I don’t think so, said Smith. The army is sensitive about stuff like that.

They’d only been told two days ago where they were heading and Burlingame’s letter was not likely to get to its destination before they landed in Sicily, but all the same, there were strict rules about what a soldier could write about in a letter and giving their whereabouts was right at the top of the list.

Jeez, I can’t think of nothing to say, said Burlingame, sticking his pencil in his mouth.

Well, tell your folks that you’re doing fine; that you’re eating good, and sleeping good, and that you’re part of a good team of soldiers, advised Smith, knowing that easing worry was something every parent welcomed.

Yeah, and tell them you’re gonna be ok, too, no matter where you go, because you got a good sergeant that’s gonna be lookin’ out for you, said Scarletti, giving Smith a wink.

Hey, that’s good, said Burlingame. There’s a whole letter right there.

Smith couldn’t help but think, as Burlingame scribbled on the letter form, how right Scarletti was. He would be looking out for the new guys especially, because he knew how fragile a greenhorn’s existence could be. He had high hopes for all three, however, because they’d listened and followed his instructions to the letter every time so far, in that last week of combat as they entered Bizerte and then during their amphibious training exercises on the Tunisian coast just last week. Even so, he knew he could never keep them from harm if the fates were against them.

Smith tried rereading The Soldier’s Guide to Sicily, for the umpteenth time, just to try and take his mind off his queasy stomach as he lay back and clung with aching arms and legs to his tossing bunk, but when he came to the passages describing how the Sicilians lived in stink and squalor he had to toss the thin book aside. After all, they seemed little better off, living in the hellhole of a transport bunk bay, crammed with hundreds of stinking men, with scant provisions for showers and with all their clothing already dirty.

Smith had resorted to washing his socks and underwear in the filthy head late at night when it wasn’t so crowded. With poor ventilation and a lack of fans to blow the stench around, it would have been nice to at least have a porthole. As it was there was little to do but try and get some rest as they listened to the constant vibration of the ship’s engines as it carried them inexorably toward their rendezvous with danger.

The storm lashed at the convoy all that evening and into the night, with forty-knot winds and twelve-foot seas. When the vomit bags were used up the higher-ups condescended to allow groups of soldiers out on deck so they could heave their guts over the side. Some never returned below, but hid in the small landing craft or in lifeboats, just to be out in the fresh air, even though it was wet and chilled them to the bone. From being afraid that they would have to assault a well-defended shore, thoughts turned to being afraid that the invasion might be postponed and they would have to endure another day or two aboard a tossing ship.

But the wind and the waves mitigated somewhat as the ships came