For God and Country. Mark Bowlin

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      Major Spaulding decided to use the staff ride for the Nisei officers as a training opportunity for all his new replacement officers in the battalion, so he pulled a heavy truck from the motor pool and loaded up a collection of second and first lieutenants. Perkin and Spaulding sat in the back of the truck with the other officers, and they headed south from San Pietro onto Victory Road. As they drove, Spaulding took a precarious stand on the bed of the truck and pointed out the salient features of the battle:

      “To our immediate right is Monte Lungo. Our battalion engaged the 29th Panzer Grenadiers there on the first of December. We split our battalion between Lungo and this little spur coming off this here hill—driver, stay on the road, goddamn it! Not all these minefields have been cleared.”

      The drive to the southern end of the Mignano Gap and back took several hours and the discussion was technical and animated, with Spaulding doing most of the narration. Perkin was impressed with some of the new officers who asked pertinent questions and quickly seemed to grasp the difficulties of mountain fighting and the operational stresses of fighting in such a confining battlefield.

      The two Nisei officers shared their insights in mountain fighting from their experience with the 34th Division—fellow guardsmen from the Dakotas, Nebraska, Iowa, and Minnesota. Particularly chilling was Lieutenant Ozaki’s description of a bayonet battle on the mountaintops where he explained how they had held against counterattack after counterattack.

      His account of their battle and Perkin’s description of the taking of the westernmost mountaintops by the 1st Special Service Force and the 142nd Infantry Regiment left some of the other officers looking nervous and confused—they sat wide-eyed in the back of the truck saying nothing, or when asked questions by Spaulding didn’t seem to understand his questions. Perkin felt a lot of sympathy for these young men, who in some cases had been in replacement camps in Africa or Sicily less than two weeks before. The casualties of the Italian campaign were higher than expected, and many of the officers simply hadn’t had the opportunity to get their bearings in this strange land before being thrust into leadership responsibilities. Welcome to the army, boys, Perkin had thought.

      This dichotomy was on Major Spaulding’s mind when the truck brought them back to San Pietro. As they disembarked from the truck, Spaulding said to Perkin, “I’m glad that we’re comin’ off the line for a while. Some of these boys are ready to go, but most of ’em ain’t. We’ll have to capitalize on whatever downtime we get to train these fellas up.”

      “Yep. I was thinkin’ it’d be helpful to know whether we’re going straight up this valley or gonna be back in the mountains. Any idea when we’ll find out?”

      “Nope. The optimist in me thinks the army will give us a couple months or so to get sorted out again, but the pessimist in me says we won’t get more than a few weeks. And you know, since I’ve been in the army, that optimist ain’t been right once. Having said that, I don’t want you and Sam to rush back on our account. Take a week. Send word if you want more time. We’ve got you covered here at battalion, and I want to see if Ebbins can organize his movement off the line and execute a training plan without Sam there to do it for him. As far as I can see, Sam is the company commander in all but name. The good news is that Ebbins relies on him for everything. Of course, the bad news is that Ebbins relies on him for everything. The worst news is that every time Ebbins overrides Sam, Ronald’s wrong.” As if to accentuate his point, Spaulding spit a long stream of tobacco juice onto one of the few remaining bushes in the valley, then looked up at the lonely bell tower of San Pietro’s destroyed church. “Just like these youngsters here, I need to get him standin’ on his own two feet.”

      Perkin nodded and contemplated sharing Sam’s conversation about Ebbins being gun-shy, but said nothing. They were beginning to rejoin the group of officers when a very angry Private Kulis came running up to Perkin.

      “Sir, may I talk to you for a moment?”

      Perkin nodded, and broke off from Major Spaulding. “What’s up?”

      “Sir, I was watchin’ the Jap officers’ jeep like you told me, and a couple of the new guys in Able Company told me that you were lookin’ for me here in the town. But when I got up here, y’all weren’t done with your staff ride yet, so I went back down and them sons-a-bitches had let the air outta two of the Japs’ tires. I’m awful sorry. And sir, I shouldn’t say nothin’ but . . .”

      “Go on.” Perkin was looking at the private with interest. In several engagements where he had personally witnessed Kulis under fire, the soldier had never even broken a sweat. He was the coolest killer he had ever met, but the diminutive rifleman’s face was almost black with anger.

      “I saw Cap’n Ebbins lookin’ that jeep over just fifteen minutes before them jokers showed up. I reckon he put the idea in their heads.”

      “Oh. Well. You let me deal with that. Did they cut the tires, or just let the air out?”

      “They let the air out,” Kulis fumed.

      “OK. Here’s what ya do: get down to the battalion motor pool and see Sergeant Ochoa—you know, the Ochoa from Gregory, not the one from Falfurrias. Tell him to get a compressor over there on the double and get those tires pumped up. Tell him this is a favor for me and there’s a pack of smokes in it for him if he gets it done in less than twenty-five minutes—we’ve got another half hour here.”

      When Perkin rejoined the group a minute later, his battalion commander looked at him curiously and asked, “What’s goin’ on?”

      “Oh, nothing to worry about.” Turning and addressing the group, Perkin said, “Over here, the Germans had 40mm anti-air artillery that they also used against advancing ground forces. You can see how well they sight down the valley toward Mignano. Now, if you look at the nearby craters and the wreckage of their triple-A pieces, you get a sense of our own accuracy with artillery and the effectiveness of our munitions . . .”

      Chapter Four

      December 28, 1943

      1100 Hours

      Highway 6, North of Caserta, Italy

      The Italian countryside bore the evidence of fighting, although the respective armies had passed by nearly two months before. Little stone farmhouses and villages were destroyed from the intense combat as the Fifth Army pushed the Germans to the winter line, and stone walls that had marked smallholdings and town boundaries since the day of the Roman Empire had been crushed by the tracks of armored vehicles. Cemeteries marked the tragedy with newly dug graves.

      While the British liaison officer, Captain Waller Finley-Jones, slept uncomfortably in the back of the jeep, Sam took it all in with deep sorrow. He had no particular love for the Italian people, but most of his exposure to the nation came with his few interactions with the Neapolitans—and Naples was in a very rough state these days. If he had been given the choice of staying with the platoon and working, or going to Naples on R&R, he likely would have chosen the work.

      Although he didn’t know the country Italians, the rancher in him shared in their loss. Little farms of water buffalo, cattle, and swine had been stripped of their livestock, barns had been shelled, and the orchards, olive groves, and vineyards had been scarred by the passing of the warriors. Mile after mile of burned-out buildings, destroyed tanks, and dismantled trucks marked their passage, and Sam felt himself wishing he’d stayed with the company.

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