Italy’s Sorrow: A Year of War 1944–45. James Holland

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      * * *

      At least by now the senior German commanders were back at the front. Generaloberst von Vietinghoff had returned to take command of AOK 10 once more, while so too had General Frido von Senger, who had finally resumed command of 14th Panzer Corps on 17 May. He had been shocked by what he had found. AOK 10 was still sharing his HQ at Castel Massimo near Frosinone, so after getting himself up to speed with the situation he had hurried down to the southernmost part of the line to see for himself the parlous state of his Corps.

      The Americans had reached Formia, while further inland, the French were now overlooking a critical German line of communication, namely the road that ran south from the Via Casilina at Ceprano to the coast. In his absence and with his deputy, General Hartmann, failing to show proper ‘grip’, Kesselring had fed penny packets into gaps in the front between the two retreating German divisions. With bullets pinging around him, von Senger discovered a detachment of the 44th Infantry Division (to which Georg Zellner, still in the mountains north of Cassino with his battalion, belonged), already being forced back. As he was all too aware, these replacement units were far too small to be able to make much difference; he simply couldn’t understand how this had been allowed to happen. It had been almost a week since the start of the offensive – ample time in which to send a reserve division in its entirety to plug the gap between the 71st and 94th Divisions. It was incomprehensible folly, especially as, when he had left Italy, 15th Panzer Grenadier Division had been positioned perfectly as a reserve behind the right wing of the corps. Now he had returned to discover the division had been committed by battalions across the front. ‘This,’ noted von Senger, ‘is a classic example of the way conduct of operations degenerated under Hitler’s influence.’62

      Meanwhile, up on Monte Cassino, the Poles had launched their second attack, and this time there was no German changeover taking place. Moreover, they had not attacked blind as before. Wladek Rubnikowicz and the 12th Polish Lancers had remained dug in along the meadow below Snake’s Head Ridge between the two attacks, but although they had been unable to move by day, they had patrolled aggressively by night, as had the rest of the Polish troops on Monte Cassino. What had made their life marginally easier had been the amount of mines around the monastery that had been detonated by Polish shell and mortar fire. Shells and mortars rained over the narrow battlefield day and night. On one occasion, Wladek had been standing behind three men. ‘A shell came over and exploded right on top of them,’ he recalls. ‘Two of the men disappeared into thin air. There was nothing left. But on a bush nearby I saw the ammunition belt and the stomach of the third. That was all that was left.’ Soon after Wladek saw a soldier sitting down nearby, simply staring into space. The man was covered in dust and had a glazed expression on his face. Wladek bent over and touched his back and saw that it was covered in blood. The man, he realised, was dead.

      Although the Fallschirmjäger defending the monastery and mountain had been further depleted in number during the intervening days, they continued to hold out with almost messianic determination. The fighting was brutal. ‘It was often a case of kill or be killed,’ says Wladek. ‘Bullets were flying everywhere. One simply had to pray the angels made those bullets go around you.’ Despite this, however, the Poles were not going to be denied a second time. A key position had been captured during a preliminary assault on the night of the 16th/17th, and by dusk the following evening, Point 593, a pinnacle overlooking the monastery that had seen so much bloodshed, was finally in Polish hands.

      In the Liri Valley, meanwhile, the British and Canadians had been making steady progress too. On the same day, realising the Gustav Line could no longer be held, von Vietinghoff finally gave the order for AOK 10 to fall back to the next line of defence, namely the Senger Line, or the Hitler Line as the Allies named it. The withdrawal was to take place that night under the cover of darkness.

      At their small farmhouse redoubt, Leutnant Jupp Klein and his small band of men had been up before dawn that day. Having made some coffee they then chewed what they believed must surely be the last meal of the condemned. Jupp was worried about the NCO in charge of the bazookas. He had looked nervous on his arrival the previous evening, but now appeared even more terrified. ‘My corporals and I,’ noted Jupp, ‘felt forebodings of the worst kind.’

      The son of a coal mine manager from the Saar region of west Germany, Jupp had left school and become an apprentice carpenter. During his time with the Hitler Youth, however, he had trained as a pilot and had even got his licence. Aged eighteen when war broke out, he immediately tried to become a paratrooper with the Fallschirmjäger, but because of his flying experience, he was sent off to become a pilot instead. Had he been made a fighter pilot, he might well have remained one, but much to his annoyance, on finishing his training, he was sent to the Channel coast as an air-sea rescue pilot. Once again, he applied to join the Fallschirmjäger, and this time, to his relief, he was accepted.

      With his carpentry skills, he was placed with the Pioneers and having completed his training, joined the 1st Division. After proving himself repeatedly in Russia, Sicily and southern Italy, he was made a Fahnenjunker and then later promoted to lieutenant and given a company of his own. Both he and his men were by this time highly experienced soldiers, who had all had their fair share of close calls. Even so, this current situation seemed particularly perilous. Jupp could not see how they could possibly avoid annihilation, or, at the very least, capture.

      But the morning passed quietly, his men keeping under cover while the inexperienced reinforcements that had arrived the night before busied themselves in front of and around the farmhouse. Jupp could hear the sounds of fighting around them but directly opposite he watched shirtless British tank men sunning themselves on top of their machines. It frustrated him, watching them. His sharpshooters itched to use their long-range telescopic-sighted Mauser rifles.

      Midday came and went, then the afternoon. Not until around seven in the evening did the whistle and explosion of British artillery start to fall around them, followed soon after by the tell-tale grinding and creaking of approaching tanks. Suddenly they emerged, around twenty-five Shermans cresting a slight ridge in front of them. Behind were considerable numbers of infantry. Immediately the heavy machine gun in the shed in front of the farmhouse opened fire. With horrible inevitability, moments later the inexperienced machine gunners were hit by enemy tank fire.

      Jupp looked around for the bazooka men, but could no longer see them. By now the forward tanks were rolling right next to their farmhouse. A shot rang out, followed swiftly by one more – two of the Shermans had been hit; Jupp need never have doubted the bazooka team. At the same time, the Pioneers opened fire with their own machine guns. The bazooka men continued to fire – and with good accuracy. So long as the bazooka – or Ofenrohre – was used at short ranges, it could be a deadly weapon, and so it was proving now. More tanks had been knocked out while the remainder began hastily retreating. Jupp watched as the crews of the burning tanks piled out of the wrecks, running wildly, a number of them ablaze. And as the tanks departed so, too, did the British infantry, who disappeared back behind the ridge ahead.

      Once again, a tiny force of carefully concealed men had beaten off a concerted Allied assault by men from 78th Division’s 38th Infantry Brigade. Meanwhile, Jupp and his men ran from their positions and gratefully flung their arms around the bazooka men. ‘At this point it struck me,’ noted Jupp, ‘that the commando leader, the senior NCO, at the present moment was the picture of tranquillity itself.’ The fear in his eyes of the previous evening had gone. As they counted the burning Shermans, they realised they had knocked out no less than thirteen, more than half the force. Then they saw the mangled remains of the machine-gun crew. ‘A senseless death,’ wrote Jupp, ‘for these young soldiers.’

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