escarpment. Rapidly swelling to balls of fire they speeded up mysteriously as they grew larger, then they flashed overhead to burst like a string of giant firecrackers on the back wall of our hollow.
For a moment I was puzzled, then I had it!
Four-barrelled Flakvierling light anti-aircraft mount, de-pressed for ground action...
“Mother of God, what’s that!” Doc yelled as an ear-splitting whiplash of sound ended in a savage crunch that showered us with grit and gravel.
I had already heard this one, for it had been the nemesis of our carriers. It was the infamous “Eighty-eight”—the high-velocity cannon which served the Germans in a multiple role as anti-tank, anti-aircraft or anti-personnel artillery. In days to come its very name would become freighted with acute apprehension, but on that bright morning as we lay before the citadel of Grammichele I was naively admiring of its spectacular performance. Not so Doc.
“Fuck this racket,” he muttered with conviction. “They going to throw that kind of stuff around, I’m going to dig myself a hole!”
This was a sound idea and we were all soon scrabbling at the hard ground with our entrenching tools, our efforts given greater impetus by a battery of 105-mm gun-howitzers which opened fire from behind the Grammichele ridge. The heavy shells fell in salvos of three or four, shaking the ground with a horrendous CRUMP ... CRUMP ... CRUMP !
By now our column had recovered somewhat from the first shock of ambush and was beginning to fight back. The British Priests deployed and soon the throaty roar of their 25-pounders firing over open sights was followed by a familiar snarl as their shells tunnelled over us to erupt in bursts of flame along the face of the escarpment. The reserve squadron of Shermans rattled forward, went into hull-down positions behind some little knolls, and the wicked bark of their 75s joined the swelling din. Even we of the infantry, now scattered in little groups all over the flat plain, began to reply with rifle and Bren fire aimed in the general direction of the unseen enemy.
Although it was a spirited reaction, it would hardly have saved the column from decimation if the enemy had only been able to keep us at arm’s length. But in his desire to lure as many as possible of the leading tanks right onto the muzzles of his hidden guns, he had waited too long before opening fire. Two tanks were knocked out immediately; but the rest, finding themselves in a trap from which there was no retreat, charged straight ahead with such impetuosity that they overran the German guns before the gunners could reload, then rumbled on unhindered to the shelter of a row of houses. Once there the Baker Company platoons leapt off and, covered by fire from the tanks, scuttled forward into the centre of the town where, by their mere presence, they threatened the enemy’s sole avenue of retreat down a switchback road running to the north. Finding themselves in danger of being trapped in their turn, the Germans began to abandon their positions.
“When the first Sherman bought it,” one of Baker’s platoon commanders told me later, “I figured we were all gone geese! We cleared off from the tanks like fleas leaving a drowning dog and lit out for the nearest shelter, which happened to be the town. My God, those stone houses sure looked good! There wasn’t any orders given. We just went charging into the place hell-a-whooping and I never even noticed if there was any Jerries trying to stop us. Next thing I knew we were holed up in a big casa overlooking a crossroads where the whole son-of-a-bitching German army seemed to be on the move—tanks, armoured cars, motorcycles, trucks—the works! Did we shoot at them? Not bloody likely! We were so goddamn glad to see them go we’d probably have cheered them on if we hadn’t been scared they’d clobber us!”
When, a little less than an hour after the first shot had been fired, the enemy fire began to wither and
For a moment I was puzzled, then I had it!
Four-barrelled Flakvierling light anti-aircraft mount, de-pressed for ground action...
“Mother of God, what’s that!” Doc yelled as an ear-splitting whiplash of sound ended in a savage crunch that showered us with grit and gravel.
I had already heard this one, for it had been the nemesis of our carriers. It was the infamous “Eighty-eight”—the high-velocity cannon which served the Germans in a multiple role as anti-tank, anti-aircraft or anti-personnel artillery. In days to come its very name would become freighted with acute apprehension, but on that bright morning as we lay before the citadel of Grammichele I was naively admiring of its spectacular performance. Not so Doc.
“Fuck this racket,” he muttered with conviction. “They going to throw that kind of stuff around, I’m going to dig myself a hole!”
This was a sound idea and we were all soon scrabbling at the hard ground with our entrenching tools, our efforts given greater impetus by a battery of 105-mm gun-howitzers which opened fire from behind the Grammichele ridge. The heavy shells fell in salvos of three or four, shaking the ground with a horrendous CRUMP ... CRUMP ... CRUMP !
By now our column had recovered somewhat from the first shock of ambush and was beginning to fight back. The British Priests deployed and soon the throaty roar of their 25-pounders firing over open sights was followed by a familiar snarl as their shells tunnelled over us to erupt in bursts of flame along the face of the escarpment. The reserve squadron of Shermans rattled forward, went into hull-down positions behind some little knolls, and the wicked bark of their 75s joined the swelling din. Even we of the infantry, now scattered in little groups all over the flat plain, began to reply with rifle and Bren fire aimed in the general direction of the unseen enemy.
Although it was a spirited reaction, it would hardly have saved the column from decimation if the enemy had only been able to keep us at arm’s length. But in his desire to lure as many as possible of the leading tanks right onto the muzzles of his hidden guns, he had waited too long before opening fire. Two tanks were knocked out immediately; but the rest, finding themselves in a trap from which there was no retreat, charged straight ahead with such impetuosity that they overran the German guns before the gunners could reload, then rumbled on unhindered to the shelter of a row of houses. Once there the Baker Company platoons leapt off and, covered by fire from the tanks, scuttled forward into the centre of the town where, by their mere presence, they threatened the enemy’s sole avenue of retreat down a switchback road running to the north. Finding themselves in danger of being trapped in their turn, the Germans began to abandon their positions.
“When the first Sherman bought it,” one of Baker’s platoon commanders told me later, “I figured we were all gone geese! We cleared off from the tanks like fleas leaving a drowning dog and lit out for the nearest shelter, which happened to be the town. My God, those stone houses sure looked good! There wasn’t any orders given. We just went charging into the place hell-a-whooping and I never even noticed if there was any Jerries trying to stop us. Next thing I knew we were holed up in a big casa overlooking a crossroads where the whole son-of-a-bitching German army seemed to be on the move—tanks, armoured cars, motorcycles, trucks—the works! Did we shoot at them? Not bloody likely! We were so goddamn glad to see them go we’d probably have cheered them on if we hadn’t been scared they’d clobber us!”
When, a little less than an hour after the first shot had been fired, the enemy fire began to wither and
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