Part II
***
Moro River War
Cemetery
July 2013
Barb your niece is the
next to come.
Kneel before your
cross.
Slip her hands inside
this comforting earth.
She covers the
offering brought
from your younger brother Simeon.
He was 13 that foggy
morning
you shipped out on the
Bergensfjord.
Almost 15 when word
came.
He remembers.
Sent a cowbell
forged in the fire
by your blacksmith
grandfather’s hand.
His name was Joseph
too.
Quietly she places it
now.
You have 23 other
nieces.
26 nephews.
Over 70 grandnephews
and nieces. 50 more in
the next generation.
Barb is the one who
comes
but they all know your
name.
She has been a healer. Now an artist.
Paints beauty. Lilacs. Mountains.
Pleasant River’s autumn leaves.
(You would remember
those.)
Her sister paints the
stark reality of war.
An aunt, with deft
fingers, weaves
a fresh green wreath
each November.
Poppies blood red.
Most men only die once.
***
1943
July
Sicily
The 10th
Operation Husky.
Narrow dirt trails.
Steep volcanic mountains.
Malaria. Exhaustion. Malnutrition.
Just six cups of water.
Burning sun by day. Sudden chill.
Mosquito swarms by night.
Not what we expected
when they gave tropical kit.
Thought it was a ruse
to fool the Krauts.
Glode from Lunenburg
is the first to die.
Just 29. But older
than most.
Two days later it’s Parrsboro’s turn.
Cut down holding high ground
near Monte Della Forma.
Blazing hot sun. Little water.
17 days of bitter fighting lie ahead.
***
Libertinia
The 23rd
As we near enemy shellfire ceases.
We apply mosquito cream.
Two Goering corporals white flag
encourage us to surrender
or face full fury of the Iron Cross.
Furious Higgins tells them where to go.
Sicily guts 33 of our boys.
Mailman from North Brookfield.
Eugene and Myrtle's son.
Just 22.
Wonder who is left after
a sweating day hot haying.
Sit on the steps.
Share a pop
at Roscoe s store.
***
August
Whistling Hill
The 2nd
The bloodiest day. 19 killed.
At sundown under machine gun
protection we retrieve our wounded.
Blood caked on hands and face.
The first real test.
Passed with highest honours.
***
September
Crossing The Messina
The 3rd
Old Greeks believe sea monsters
inhabit these roiling waters.
Reggio, Italy
5 a.m.
Landed. Nova Scotia has the first
boots on the ground.
8:30 a.m.
Both forts now in our hands.
A solitary enemy gun barks.
64 of our guns let loose
on the ill-advised offender.
Silence.
Near Gamberia
The 6th
Heavy rain. Rum takes the chill
from our bones. We hunker down
in spruce forest by dusk.
Lots of spruce in Lunenburg County.
These mountains make ours
look like anthills.
Cold. Drenched.
The 7th
8:30 a.m.
Rum ration issued.
Locri. Four days to Catanzaro.
Then on to Francavila.
San Arcangelo. Laurenzana.
On our way to Potenza.
A five-hour drive. Or a six-day march
up the toe of Italy’s boot. The retreating
Krauts leave blown bridges, mine-studded
and cratered roads.
Potenza
The 28th
A week’s halt. We wait for supplies.
Tonight. A furious thunderstorm.
High winds. Torrential rain.
Autumn grips with biting nails.
The coldest place in Italy. But
Potenza’s heart is warm.
Its wine is good.
Deserted Hitler wants the Italians
to bleed and burn.
Fight Gott dammit,
he tells Kesselring, for every possible inch.
A long and bloody struggle lies ahead.
The 30th
On the road to Campobasso.
Shiver in thin khaki. Pup tents
little protection. Eternal thunder
competes with never-ending gunfire.
***
October
The 7th
3 a.m.
We enter the battle.
7:30 a.m.
The Fortore River. A perfect
‘killing ground’. Spray of German
machinegun bullets, water and gravel.
Putnam’s deep voice booms:
‘Come on you birds. It’s only ankle deep.’
Steps in. Vanishes. Helmet and all.
Once over, we attack the steep climb.
Brown mud porridge. Bits of straw.
Cling to our boots like farmyard muck.
Years later, this will be remembered
as the Battle of Snowshoe Hill.
Cross 100 yards of open river bed
under heavy enemy machinegun fire.
Our backs are covered by
welcome chatter from
the Saskatoon boys.
Mud makes progress difficult.
On the road to Gambatesa
Putnam answers the ringing
of a German phone.
“The English are here. Ha Ha.”
Replaces the receiver amid
a burst of guttural oaths.
Ahead a strong enemy position
tops the hill. Our
company
gains it by last light.
Practically without food for two days.
We raid a farmhouse. Bake the chickens
Indian-style in clay.
AMGOT[i] does not
understand hunger.
We’ve lost Hatt from Milton
and a handful of others.
He was just 23. Left
a war bride
Peggy in Devon, England.
We pass a peaceful night.
***
“Your enemy is always
in front of you
You see him coming
You see death coming
Either his death or
yours
It’s not a surprise”
-
Sniper
Fire, Jonathon Web
***
October
Rumors are thick. We are going
back to England.
The 8th
It’s early afternoon when Capt. Whynacht
(good Lunenburg County name) arrives
with rations. Came through enemy shellfire
over roads not yet swept for mines.
We evacuate 19 wounded.
A quiet night.
***
The 10th-11th
Heading toward Riccia.
Terrain too rough for marching.
The Brits’ 1st Airborne arrive
to back us in the coming attack.
Approach enemy stronghold
around midnight.
6:30 am
The colonel orders advance.
Company C comes under heavy shelling
by the river bed. We are more
fortunate. Cross the
river and
push on to high ground.
Near the heights of Mont Gildone
heavy mist settles in. With lack of
vision, thick darkness, we dig in.
A wretched night in the open.
Exhausted. Wet. Comfortless.
Occasional burst of machinegun fire.
***
The 12th
Morale comes up
with the sun. At
afternoon’s end
Higgins and Putnam both badly wounded
near the river bed burying six of
our dead from the previous day.
Goodchild. Kilcup. MacKenzie.
McCulloch. Taylor and Williams.
The Valley gave us her best.
Putnam dies.
In all, 17 killed, 52 wounded.
***
“We were very young.
We thought we were
immortal.”
-
Pte. John
Field
***
November
The 1st
November in Campobasso. Middle of
the mountains. Peaks already white with snow.
Bitter rain. Acres of mud. We move slowly.
Eyes firmly fixed on the Holy City.
The 7th
Always bloody raining. Malaria has been
replaced by jaundice.
Our skin takes on
a golden glow.
The 12th
Icy winds. Torrential rains. Improvised shelters.
Eating cold rations. We hear that one of our boys
MIA in Sicily has turned up in the Vaterland.
Bullet or POW. Hard choice.
God bless you, Amirault.
The 15th
Moving out towards Carovilli, we pass through
scorched villages. Roads little more than mule
tracks. Krauts are leaving nothing behind.
The 16th
Pouring rain. Rivers swelling. We begin
a deadly game of hide and seek.
The 17th
This afternoon Romkey’s patrol surprises
and kills four Germans. Now we know.
We face the Green Devils.
Fallschirmjäger – parachute hunters.
German warrior incarnate
also known as Hitler’s War Machine.
Waiting for us in the woods.
The 18th
At last. A brilliant sunny day. Shortly
before noon, Lt. Blackie Blanchard
leads our B company patrol scouting
toward San Pietro. We meet the devil.
***
“I think I had taken
three steps when
the first one hit me.
You say a bullet or
piece of shrapnel hits
you. But the word
isn’t right. They slam you the way
a sledgehammer slams
you.
There’s no sharp pain
at first.”
-
Lt. Col. Jean-Pierre Menard
Fusiliers
Mont-Royal
***
The fight was fierce but brief. Outnumbered.
Mortally wounded. My mates bury me at roadside.
Little do we know in four days most of them
will join me into the pitch drenched night
on top of Castel di Sangro. Mortally wounded
himself, Blackie will order his men to leave
his body in German hands. Brave lad, just 22,
Fresh from PEI’s red mud. He did us proud.
***
“West Novas finest
chapters were written in
blood and sweat. The
men who wore the sunrise
badge through Sicily,
Italy and Holland lived
up to its motto
firmly. .. 352 were faithful
unto death.”
-
Thomas
Raddall
Author and historian
[i] Allied Military Government of Occupied Territories
