Chapter 7

The Fulfilled And The Denied

Blanche

The old trees' branches are bare and reach up towards threatening December skies. A cold wind stirs along the sidewalk that is covered with the dry, fallen leaves making a discordant, rasping sound as they are tossed about. Arnold Gray is moving his clothes into the second story room, and there is a chill in the house from his opening and closing the front door. The high ceilings and rambling rooms sometimes can't contend with the elements, even with the new heating system that was installed a few years ago.

Harold Akers is seated on the parlor sofa, and his eyes are alert and happy as he waits for his son to pick him up. Cindy Jenkins and Margaret Taylor offer quite a different impression as they both thumb through the Sunday paper, because they have nothing else to do. 

When his son's car stops in front of the house, Harold's head sharply snaps up and a smile comes over his face, as he picks up his overnight bag and briskly walks to the front porch. When his two grandchildren see him, they cry out "Papa, Papa!" and start running towards him with their arms extended. He bends down and hugs them just as his son and his wife wave to him from their car.

His son is much like him and has an average sort of job as a painter. His wife is plain and not exactly pretty by any stretch of the imagination, but they seem happy and perfectly suited for one another.

Cindy stands up and walks to the window. She pushes the curtains back and watches them until their car disappears down Euclid Avenue. The smile gradually leaves her face, as she walks back down the hallway towards her room. Her loneliness is so obvious, especially when see she sees things she wants so much for herself but knows she cannot have.

It has been some three or four weeks since Margaret's son has visited her. She sits in the old high-back chair, and her finger follows the printed columns of the newspaper as her eyes move slowly from side to side of the page. In a moment, she lays the paper down and, looking at Blanche, says, "Seeing them always reminds me of when I was with my husband."

Blanche is cautious as to how she responds, because she has seen such memories induce several types of moody reactions from Margaret, but with ample deliberation, she says, "You're fortunate to have such pleasant memories. Seeing them always makes me realize there's been a void in my life that can never be filled." Immediately, she wishes she had chosen slightly different words.

Margaret sits perfectly still for a moment before uttering, "I don't know about that." She slowly stands and walks towards her room without saying another word. There is a slight limp in her step, and her stockings are loose at the ankles. Her gray hair is neatly combed back along the sides of her head and conceals the silver wire loops in her glasses. Her dark brown dress is wrinkled, does not have its belt, and her sweater is buttoned unevenly across the front of her body. Even though she has said nothing, it is painfully distinct she wants so much for her family to visit her. She isn't exactly envious of Harold, but seeing him with his family has made her feel even more alone – so much so her thoughts reach far, far back into the past to recall a time when she too had the happiness she has just seen.

Blanche watches her walk down the hallway and asks herself all those same questions she has so many times before. Is it better to never have been happy or to have happiness for a time and then lose it? As she thinks of her own life and how much she had wanted to have a husband and children, the room seems so conspicuously empty. Her eyes search about the house and stare out the dining room window at the old Manning house, which can be clearly seen through the bare trees. The ground is covered with fallen leaves. The black wrought iron fence is rusted, and the gate is half-open. All the second story windows are bare except two that have stained window shades.

When Loren was a child, she can recall seeing him and Carl Manning playing beside the gateway where her eyes are now bound. The neighborhood had been so different. Then, most of the families she can remember from her own childhood were still living on Euclid Avenue.

Her memories slip back to those years after the First War. At the conference in the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles, President Woodrow Wilson had wanted justice, but the other parties had seemed to want revenge against Germany. Wilson had proposed a League of Nations under US leadership without congressional approval, but the idea was rejected on the Senate floor in the fall of 1919. The 1920s saw all sorts of social revolutions and a rising dominance of the American economy. Eight of ten cars made in the world were made in the United States.

England had lost 80,000 in WWI, and as Germany absorbed the sole responsibility for the war, all of her savings were lost, and thus an ideal atmosphere was created for the spread of fascism against both democracy and Bolshevism. Adolph Hitler was Nazi Party member number seven and immediately began to show his uncommon ability as an orator. As he put it, "To be a leader is to move crowds." Seemingly, timely observations such as, "Terror will always be successful unless opposed by equal or greater terror," allowed him to take advantage of the hate in the hearts of the German people that resulted from the harsh conditions of the Treaty of Versailles and to hypnotize the masses into believing his revolutionary ideas were Germany's only hope. The revolt he led against the government in 1923 failed, but he spent only six months in prison. In 1927, the Nazi Party had 700,000 members. By 1929, the membership was 1,700,000.

In 1929, the American stock market fell, the Depression began and the far away existence of Nazism seemed so unthreatening. With 1,200,000 in the US out of work, the American spirit and all else seemed all but lost. When Japan, after walking out of the League of Nations, invaded Manchuria in 1931, it all seemed so far away.

In England and France, the 1930s were a time of pacifism. World conditions were quite the subject of discussion among the students of that day who could not bring themselves to accept the possibility anything like The Great War cold ever happen again. Despite Franklin Roosevelt's assurances such as "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself," the United States had become an isolationist nation and seemed unwilling to accept its position as a world leader, which had resulted from the first war. France had the largest army in Europe, but the Maginot Line on which she so heavily relied was a relic of the past and was to be of no benefit against the "lightening attack" concept of warfare being formed by the German military.

During the Spanish Civil War, Hitler had sent 10,000 troops to join the 40,000 sent by Mussolini to support Franco and thus began the dress rehearsal for World War II. By 1939, Japan had moved through China, and shortly thereafter, Germany moved into Austria without firing a shot and was well received by the Austrian people.

Blanche remembers the pictures of England's Prime Minister Chamberlain in 1938 as he held up a piece of paper bearing the signature of Adolph Hitler, which he must have earnestly believed would save the world from war. All he had done, however, was to deliver a portion of Czechoslovakia to Hitler – again without firing a shot. The first bombs fell on Poland in 1939, only a few days after Germany and Russia had entered into their non-aggression pact.

The First War would only be viewed as an explanation of the Second War and in fact, the cause of it. Fate had tragically placed a handful of men in Germany in the right places at precisely the right times to shape the German sentiment into an effort to recover her position in the world  she had lost as a result of the First War but even more tragically, it expanded far beyond that.

A melancholy smile comes to Blanche's face as she remembers how precious Loren and Carl had been, playing with their little toy cars around that old, rusted gate, but those days are a lifetime away from today's world. As Loren and Carl began to mature, they went their separate ways. Loren had been so in love with flying, and Blanche was never sure what happened to Carl. As a young man, he was nothing like the gentle, little boy she can now recall, as though it were yesterday, playing with Loren and running up and down Euclid Avenue.

Carl

The fleet of two task forces had only put out to sea the day before. At midnight on 22 January 1944, the assault vessels dropped anchors into the cold waters just off Anzio, and the landing crafts slipped into the dark ocean.

Carl Manning was sick – not due to the short time at sea but because he was so afraid and resentful he was there at all. Everything he had done since his graduation from high school had bloomed into a satisfying success. He was determined to succeed and viewed the war as an inconvenience – a wearisome but hazardous delay in the course he had set out for his life.

As the men crouched close to one another in the landing craft as it tossed from side to side in the rough sea, the man next to Carl asked, "What are you thinking about?'

"I'm trying to add up all the women I fucked the last year before I got into this chicken-shit outfit," Carl snapped.

"Do you really think this is a chicken-shit outfit?" the man asked in something of a surprised tone.

"Hell yes it's chicken shit. Didn't you hear the roosters crowing before we got off the boat?"

The other man stopped the conversation as quickly as it had begun.

Carl really wasn't thinking about women, but his brief outpouring of disapproval had momentarily turned his thoughts away from Operation Shingle, and he began to see images of Sandra Flemming. The images of her while undressed were strikingly more pleasant than those surrounding him at the moment. From the first time he saw her, he had been obsessed with the idea of getting in her pants. The undertaking had gone rather well – just like all the others. Initially, his advances had been met with strong objection, but that became progressively less assertive and was followed by a period of building submissiveness during which she must have thought she was doing the only thing she could to hold his interest. Just like all the others, she had moved into what Carl had called a "sexual awakening" and in a very predictable manner, began to participate more and more in the path he felt quite confident would lead to him to her bed. He remembers when she first began to move her hands over his body and how her breathing would become heavy as she whispered all sorts of things in his ear about " being in love and what you do to me."

During the training, the instructors had mentioned when someone is away from home for the first time, a degree of false emotion was natural, but now he missed her so much, he could not fathom why he stopped calling her or why he had even been annoyed when she began calling him and babbling on about being "in love." The novelty of screwing her had simply worn off, and he was ready to move on to something else such as the clerk with the gorgeous ass up there at the ten-cent store. Her manner wasn't as refined as Sandra's, and he could almost feel her hands clutching his back and those beautiful legs wrapped around him when he would thrust his over-sized organ deep into her body. 

But he was thinking of Sandra now and never thought he would miss her so much. He remembered the smooth texture of her skin and the soft, warm feeling of her thighs, as he would remove her hose and undergarments. A triumphant smile came to his face as he recalled the early objections and steadfast avowals that "I'm not that kind of girl." What a change she had undergone in such a short time. Soon, the same advances she had at first found so vile were exhorting responses far beyond what he imagined scoring with her would bring. During their last few dates, her sexual maturity was complete – so much so she would be ready for his embrace only after a brief but skillful period of foreplay. She would pant and respond to every move he made, as she lay with her legs seductively spread and moved her body in perfect rhythm with his. It had only taken a few full length strokes to bring her near her climax, and Carl could very dexterously keep her there until he chose to have her reach her organism, gasping aloud and pressing her cheeks against his neck while her arms pulled his chest firmly against her breasts.

His thoughts turned to that pleading look on her face and the tears that streamed down her face that night he told her he "didn't want to get serious," an exit line he had used so many times before, and walked away without thinking how heartbroken he had left her. Just then, his reminiscences were broken by a sudden whooshing sound as a rocket barrage from the destroyers began just as the landing crafts neared the Anzio beach. He murmured, "Damn it, its about time they put down some supporting fire."

The platoon sergeant turned around and glowered, "Shut your fucking mouth, Manning. This operation's supposed to be a surprise."

Carl had a resolute distaste for Sergeant Stanley Ashe. He was a career soldier, a rather small man with a ruddy complexion, sandy hair and cold blue eyes. He seemed somewhat illiterate and gave the constant impression there were only about ten words in his vocabulary that were not profanity. As course as his nature was, he had what Carl thought was a childlike dedication to the damn Army, and it was hard for him to accept that anyone's whose mind had progressed beyond the elementary grades could "take this shit so seriously" as he would put it in his constant commentary on the absurdity of military life and people like Stanley Ashe.

The landing crafts seemed as though they were standing still as they bobbed in the water. The men with their full combat loads brushed against each other, and Carl began to tremble, as he expected fire to erupt from the shoreline at any moment. But when the assault force reached the long, flat beach, there was nothing but silence, save for the deceivingly peaceful waves gently brushing against the sand.

The Third Division had landed four miles east of Anzio in an inexplicably adventurous maneuver with three regiments landing abreast. The fact a large floating task force had been left behind the attack vessels almost suggested the planners had expected the initial landing to fail, but as the platoon cautiously waded ashore, there was no fire – not even a hint the Germans were anywhere within miles. The whole company was placed in column formation and slowly began to run towards a steep bank, some three hundred yards behind the beach. Carl's breathing became labored, even though his training had worked him into good physical condition. He'd always tried to keep himself in good physical condition anyway, after he learned the effect a firm body had on some women. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his twenty-six year life, as the whole company stumbled around in the darkness, not really sure where it was going or what it would do when, or if, it got there. All Carl knew was that the division's orders were to "seize and secure a beachhead in the vicinity of Anzio and advance on the Colli Laziali." He wondered if the typically short-sightedness of military planning had stopped there and if anyone safely behind the line had the remotest idea of what the next step in the plan should be.

At last, the company reached the bank, and everyone dropped to the ground with no prompting from anyone. Carl felt an instantaneous sense of security, and gradually his body desisted from its trembling. In a few minutes, Sergeant Ashe moved through the squads whispering, "Go to sleep, pig-fuckers. We're going to stay here until morning."

Carl never understood why Ashe referred to everyone as "pig-fuckers" but really didn't understand anything else about Stanley Ashe and preferred not to be bothered with trying to determine why a man would chose to waste his life in the cussed Army. He couldn't imagine a more pointless existence than clowning around all the time in an assortment of boyish games with a group of men most of whom could care less about anything except how they could most effectively avoid the next work detail.

The men of C Company began to remove their field packs. Some had been selected for forward outposts and reluctantly moved out about 100 yards forward. Carl whispered under his breath, "I'm glad I didn't get sucked into that," and then looked back across the cold ocean and wondered how in the hell he had managed to get himself into such a mess. His thoughts reached back before the war, when he was working at the car dealership. He had learned very quickly how much a person wanted something governed the several effective sales techniques he had developed. Those who were getting their first car and really wanted it were suckers that would believe nearly everything he would tell them. Every vehicle would have a minimum amount for which it could be sold, and he could always make the sale far above that. He had liked the challenge of manipulating people's feelings – both in his work and toying around with the emotions of women like Sandra Flemming.

He looked along the line of men huddled behind the bank. All of them seemed just as afraid as he – all except Stanley Ashe, who the men in the platoon had come to say "eats this shit up – gobble, gobble, gobble."   

There was the platoon leader, Lieutenant Morgan Hollister, a ninety-day wonder due to his high price education and such a do-gooder it seemed he belonged in a fairy tale rather than about to get his ass shot off in a place even he had probably never heard of a very short while before. Even his name propounded someone who was tedious and stuffy. Someone with his education should have been adept enough to figure out some way to avoid the war rather than volunteering for the infantry as he had done. He was quite a handsome young man, always with neatly combed hair and that damn stupid smile, projecting a pretense of concern for everyone that was too storybook exemplary to be sincere. Before the war, he had enjoyed about everything a man could want – wealthy parents, a good education, a good job and a strikingly beautiful girlfriend who probably had never been tapped. Before Sandra Flemming started dating him, she had never been tapped but Carl soon saw to that rather effectively.

Carl laughed under his breath, as he thought of Sandra's evolution from a virgin to someone who had really been tapped, quite obviously found that she liked it and had come back, hankering for more, over and over again. The relationship had been near perfect, until she started insisting on "love and understanding" or some such prattle.

Luther Snipes was searching about his area, as though he had lost something. He never seemed capable of adjusting to hardly anything without a week or two of practice, no matter what the circumstances. His skin was dark and oily, and his curly, black hair, which was combed straight back, came far down on his forehead. His nose was large and flat and with his heavy eyebrows and large mouth, enhanced the immediate impression of the utter stupidity that radiated from him, as if from a beacon on a dark night. The Army seemed a perfect place for a wretch such as him. He was so stupid, he couldn't hold a job. What else could such a man do rather than place his life in cold storage in some place like the Army? The fact he was only a PFC after four years didn't seem to faze him at all. He was so incredibly ugly no woman with eyes could possibly want him to get within ten feet of her; and unless his organ was more than ten feet long, he had probably never screwed anyone.

Matthew Crowe was thumbing through his Bible, even though it was pitch black, and he couldn't read a word of it. Back home, he had been a member of one of those "holy-roller" type churches that spent all its time telling everyone how sinful they were but never seemed to get around to doing anything good itself. He was a tall, thin man with a long, sharp nose, a very small chin and was very much a scholar of the Bible. He was constantly quoting the Bible and reciting to everyone why they didn't measure up to the scripture and how they were condemned to eternal damnation, if they didn't repent and change their way.

Carl had made something of a game of relating to him his exploits with various women. Matthew always seemed horrified at what he would tell him – possibly because Carl was a "lost sinner" as he would constantly put it, or possibly because Matthew wanted to do the same things but was to self-righteous to admit it, even to himself.

After he laid there for a while, the slight perspiration under his layered clothing began to chill him. He suddenly realized how cold he was, and he began to shake in the brisk night air. He put his head on his field pack, crossed his arms in front of his body and pressed himself against the side of the bank to avoid the chilling wind rolling off the ocean. He stared across the beach and thought of all the events in the Italian campaign until that wretched night when he was so far away from "the things that really mattered and living life to the fullest." When he learned he would most likely find himself in Italy, he had developed an acute interest and had followed the campaign in the newspapers. His interest had been largely one of self-preservation and not at all one ignited by anything resembling the need or intent for patriotic participation.

____________________

Something like 600,000 Italians had lost their lives for the Allied cause in World War I, but Britain and France had seemed to disallow Italy the spoils it felt it had won. Thus, the lack of Italy's post-war inheritance had given Mussolini the perfect avenue to power in 1922. He had promised to honor ex-servicemen, and it had been emotion and hate that participated Italy's intervention in the Spanish Civil War under Mussolini's assurance to the Italians that their country would again come onto the world stage in a position of leadership. On that basis, Italy had undergone quite a change in constancy and had entered World War II in 1940 on the German side.

From the start, Italy's alliance with Germany had been an unnatural one. Italy had a poor economy and outdated equipment that was a full generation behind the British equivalents. When the industrial might of the United States began to pour modern equipment into British hands in 1942, the series of Italy's defeats had become more pronounced – notably the lost Africa campaigns.

The situation had become impossible with America's entrance into the war. So many Italians had immigrated to America, and there had been a strong sentiment for Italy to change sides in the war. The military had started to plot Mussolini's removal, and the decision had been sealed with the Allied landing on the southern coast of Sicily on the 9th and 10th of July 1943.

Initially, the Allies could not agree on the tactics of the Italian campaign. It meant delaying the second front everyone agreed would be needed to end the war, but at the Trident Conference in Washington in May of 1943, the campaign had finally been agreed upon. 

Operation Husky, the landing in Sicily, had not gone well at the outset. Inexperience pilots had dropped the airborne troops into the sea, nervous gunners had shot down their own airplanes, but some of the Italian defenders had actually assisted the Allies in unloading their landing crafts. Patton and Montgomery had rapidly advanced across Sicily and by 17 August, had reached Messina. After that, the thought of the change in Italy's alliance was in the air – especially after the Grand Council's request for Mussolini's resignation on 25 July. Surprisingly, he obeyed, was arrested and imprisoned. The new government had publicly announced it would remain in the war on the Axis side but had immediately entered into secret negotiations with the Allies. It wasn't especially astounding when Italy signed the armistice on 3 September. German occupation of the peninsula had been a foregone conclusion, and in five days later, the first American soldiers began to arrive at Salerno.

The lack of American men and material had required a landing far to the south, thus giving the German 10th Army under Field Marshal Kesselring time to organize the containment of the Salerno landing.

The Italian terrain had been in favor of the defenders. Salerno was surrounded by high ground, and the peninsula offered a series of defensible lines at close intervals formed by rugged mountains and rivers. The superior Allied air power had proven the deciding factor, however, and on 1 October, the Allies had pushed into Naples.

Field Marshal Kesselring's winter position had been to place the defenders behind the steep, rocky hillsides, thus the Germans had no need to maneuver and established the Gustav Line just below Cassino, which covered the full width of the peninsula. The Allied attempts to take the Liri Valley had been costly. All the approaches were dominated by the peaks of Monte Camino, Rotondo and Sammucro. In addition, the winter snow storms had made offensive action near impossible between 21 December 1943 and 5 January 1944 when the American and French divisions had again attacked in yet another attempt to reach the Rapido River. The Germans, however, had laid mines all along the approaches. After three days of failed attempts to cross the river, 1,000 of the 6,000 soldiers lay dead on the battlefield.

The need for a strike behind the Gustav Line had been critically proven, and Anzio was selected.

____________________

The whole incredible story weighed on Carl's unwilling mind as he huddled closer to the bank and whispered disavowing obscenity that reaffirmed his committal to contribute as little as possible to the predicament he had done nothing to create. It all seemed such a mammoth mistake on a scale so large it defied belief or understanding and certainly no manner of committal from him.

The next morning, the 15th Regiment marched in close column through the small village of Nettuno. There was the constant humming of the bombers and fighters overhead in route to their targets in their mission of close support after the landing. Carl thought of Loren Wilson and wondered where he was on that day. Wherever he was, he was certain Loren's situation was much better than his own. He thought he might even be in one of the B-17s overhead that had taken off from Foggia Airfield that morning. Those lucky bastards would complete their milk runs and be back in their warm beds that night, while all the damn dog-faces were freezing their asses off who knew how close to the krauts, who no doubt were just before throwing everything they could summon against the landing behind the Gustav Line. The regiment's objective was to capture the road centers at Cisterna and the village itself as a point from which to launch new attacks.

Nothing happened the whole day of 24 January. The regiment only continued its slow march up the dusty road that had loose, rolling ground on either side for miles and miles. In a way, Carl was glad to be moving, even if it was in the apparent direction of the enemy. It was easier to keep warm, and there was fewer occasions for his imagination to fears to take him over. 

Sometime just before sunset, several of the forward scouts came running down the road with their faces as white as ghosts. They ran straight to the officer at the head of the column and began what was quite obviously a distressed report about something they had seen somewhere up the road. They waived their arms and constantly pointed in the direction of Isola Bella, which was a small village some three miles before the objective of Cisterna. Presently, the regiment was ordered off the road into an old railway bed. This was to be the overnight bivouac area. Word quickly circulated through the companies that the Germans had moved into Isola Bella, but what no one realized was Field Marshal Kesselring had implemented Case Richard, which was his plan for meeting an emergency in Italy.

If the American V I Corps were to reach Valmontone and the German 10th Army's lines of communication, he would have to order a withdrawal from the Gustav Line. Within eleven hours of the Anzio invasion, parts of eleven different divisions had converged on the Anzio sector with firm orders to block all roads from Anzio to the Colli Laziali. The luxury of the "unopposed landing" was soon to vanish and be replaced by something so gruesome, it was beyond the imagination of any of the soldiers who spent yet another sleepless night in that old railroad bed, knowing their days in this world may be such a precious few.

As for Carl, he realized that living the type of life he had chosen and had been fortunate enough to have was prominently secondary to staying alive and being permitted to live any type life at all. Throughout the night, the first suggestions of regret slowly began to find their way into his cognizance. He immediately dismissed them as something in the same category as the false emotion mentioned in training.

The morning of the 25th was clear and still. Two battalions of the 15th Regiment crossed the line of departure at 0730, just as Matthew looked straight into Carl's eyes and solemnly asked, "Are you ready to meet God?"

Carl snapped, "Don't start that shit now, Matthew," as he immediately turned his head away from him, gazed across the flat ground leading to Isola Bella and tried to sort out all the things that had happened that morning. Sergeant Ashe had taken his usual challenging posture when the platoon was trying to swallow breakfast. The look on his face had been determined and his eyes were squinted and piercing, as he had said in that coarse and vile but totally authoritative voice, "God dammit, when the krauts start shooting at you pig-fuckers, you'd better be more afraid of me than them, because if any one of you turns and runs, I'll shoot your damn ass off myself."

Matthew had drawn his Bible close to his heart and uttered, "God forgive him," while Luther had just sat there, his powdered eggs dripping from his mouth and with that ever-present ignorant look on his face. 

Shortly after that, Lieutenant Hollister had circulated among the platoon and shook everyone's hand. He kept saying, "Good luck. Remember your training. If we come under fire, don't panic." His uniform had been amazingly fresh, and his hair was perfectly combed with the distinct scent of Lucky Tiger hair tonic. Carl had thought he looked more as though he were preparing for some board meeting rather than a frontal assault.

He and Sergeant Ashe had stepped away to one side for a moment, and Hollister appeared to be trying to admonish Ashe for his aggressive threats to the platoon, but the meeting had not lasted long and left the lingering impression neither of them had prevailed on the other that his method was preferred for preparing the platoon for action.

All that had been revealed in the briefing was that, for the moment, the division would attempt to bypass Isola Bella and march overland some two miles towards the objective of Cisterna. The initial probe of Cisterna consisted on only two battalions. The ground approaching the village was flat and certain to be covered by interlocking automatic weapons sectors of fire. The village had been in sight almost since the morning advance began, and when the platoon was signaled into the skirmish formation, Carl's eyes strained to see what defenses the Germans had improvised, just as sporadic automatic weapons fire broke out somewhere to the right and seemed to be coming from positions immediately outside the village.

Carl looked at Matthew, who was just to his left, and complained, "Why in the hell aren't we attacking in force? There's not enough of us to take that damn town."

Matthew seemed as afraid as Carl, but uttered, "Have faith."

"Have faith hell," Carl snarled. He found himself somewhat surprised to be laughing a Matthew's uncomprehending persistence that somehow, God had taken sides in the conflict and was watching over the operation like some sports official.

There was a hissing sound overhead, and mortar rounds began to explode some 50 yards behind the advancing line, which extended 300 yards across the terrain approaching the village. Lieutenant Hollister raised his hand and signaled the platoon to stop and kneel down. Impulsively, Carl searched for Sergeant Ashe, who immediately ran to Hollister's side. The two of them talked for a minute, just before Hollister began to talk to someone on his walkie-talkie.

Carl looked at the other men in the squad and blated, "Damn, that's brilliant. We're going to just sit here until they start dropping those mortar rounds right on top of us. I knew that frigging school boy wouldn't know what to do."

Just as the grim prediction left his taught mouth, the German mortar men adjusted their weapons and several rounds fell squarely in the center of the platoon to the left of the line of advance. Several screams of pain rang out, and the whole platoon stood up and began to run to the rear. Some men were wounded and didn't even know it until they began to run and fell to the ground after only a few steps.

Instant anger momentarily replaced Carl's fear as his head snapped in the direction of Hollister and Ashe. Both of them were running diagonally across the front of the platoon shouting, "Follow me!"

The rest of the platoon didn't require additional prompting and unceremoniously followed the two men with no perception of where they were going or what they were supposed to do when they got there.

Carl was running between Luther and Matthew and in a ridiculing voice, said, "We'll at least we're going in the right direction."

All along what only a few moments before had been a pretentiously orderly line of advance, groups of men were bolting for the nearest cover. As the platoon flopped down behind a slight depression in the ground, machine gun fire erupted from the German defense perimeter, and groups of men, still caught running across the flat ground, fell in perfect unison with the gunfire, as if under the baton of an orchestra leader. Some lay perfectly still, while others grasped various parts of their bodies. Some were screaming and others were quiet, but they were all looking back in the direction of the battalion, which had dispersed in many directions.

Carl, Luther and Matthew huddled close together behind the embankment. Matthew cried out, "We're pinned down!" as they all glared at Lieutenant Hollister, who was obviously disoriented.

Ashe was at his side and shouted out at the top of his voice in an amplitude that somehow carried over the sound of automatic weapons fire ringing out from the German positions, "Keep down! Keep down! Don't panic! This is a good place!"

"Good place, hell!" Carl immediately spit out in a tone he was sure would not find it's way to Ashe's ears. "We walked right into it." What the fuck are they teaching those ninety-day wonders?"

Luther reached out and grasped Carl's arm with a firm grip and began to shake his head as he held his finger to his lips and whispered, "It's not his fault."

Carl slumped back against the bank, allowed his body to relax and looked out across the field behind them where several men were lying with various parts of their bodies missing. Thankfully, they all seemed to be dead. The mortar fire stopped, the machine gun fire gradually ceased, until finally, there was a complete quiet, save the forced breathing of the men in the platoon. Everyone's eyes were fixed on Lieutenant Hollister, who appeared to have regained a degree of self-possession, as he lay flat on the ground and studied the German positions. He slowly rolled over on his back and looked to the rear for a few moments before crawling to Ashe's side and pointing straight to where the platoon was concealed behind the bank.

"Oh shit," Carl protested. "I think glamour boy just got an idea that's going to involve us."

Ashe began to crawl in the direction of the platoon, while Hollister stood up and, crouching close to the ground, began to scurry back in the direction where he had been looking moments earlier.

Ashe crawled up behind the platoon and said, "All you pig-fuckers get up on your knees and lay out your ammunition on the ground."

Many of the men in the platoon seemed to fear Ashe more than the enemy and immediately began to fumble through their ammunition pouches until they were all poised behind the bank with their M-1s in hand and ammunition clips scattered all over the ground.

Matthew looked at Ashe and sheepishly inquired, "What are we going to do?"

Ashe seemed annoyed and barked, "It ain't surrender."

Carl exhaled with a disgusted expression. The whole battalion had walked straight into what seemed an impassable field of fire. There was no armor, and the artillery was probably still sitting on some ship somewhere out in the ocean. It seemed the advance on Cisterna had been a maneuver simply intended to see what would happen. To make matters worse, there seemed nothing in the supposed scheme of maneuver to deal with a fiasco of the sort that had inflicted itself on the battalion. 

In a few minutes, Lieutenant Hollister and a number of men from the weapons platoon came running up behind the bank. There were four machine gun crews and several ammunition bearers, all breathing very heavily and with very startled expressions on their faces. The hastily arranged aggregation moved down the line formed by the riflemen and were positioned by Hollister at intervals about 20 yards apart.

Hollister and Ashe huddled together for a few moments and then set out in different directions. Ashe crawled on his knees and elbows until he was in the center of the platoon. He stopped and said, "Listen up, and you'd better get this right the first time. When the lieutenant gives the order, start pulling your damn triggers as fast as you can and don't stop until I tell you. Lay down as much fire as you can on their positions."

Someone said, "What positions? We don't know where they are."

Various expressions of disapproval began to build just before Ashe raised his voice and blated, "God dammit. I didn't ask for a vote. Fire about 250 yards ahead between the farmhouse on the right and the road intersection on the left." He turned around, looked in the direction of Hollister and then roared, "Now!"

They all inched up a few feet until their heads were barely peering over the top of the bank. The M-1s, Browning Automatic Rifles and heavy machine guns made a deafening noise that caused an eerie ringing in everyone's ears, which was much the same as the ringing of the empty M-1 clips as they were ejected from the rifles, and the men felt about the ground for another eight rounds.

Carl was pulling his trigger with no faculty for where his rounds were falling when he noticed both battalions all along the right and left stood up and began to run wildly in the direction of the small clump of trees on the opposite side of the Cisterna-Anzio Road. Abruptly, the platoon's good fortune in being so close to the cover of the bank when the Germans had opened fire placed it in the best position to provide covering fire for the withdrawal of the remainder of the assault force. To their dismay, it seemed no thought had been given to what those offering the redeeming covering fire were supposed to do when the retreating battalions were out of effective range of the German weapons.

The impromptu scheme seemed fairly effective, as the enemy fire became sporadic, and only a few of the retreating soldiers fell before reaching the cover of the trees or were out of range. All the time, Ashe was shouting, "Keep firing! Keep firing!"

After a short period, the men who were left behind began to run out of ammunition. When only one BAR was firing, Hollister directed with a surprisingly calm inflection to his voice, "Cease firing!" He reached for his walkie-talkie and placidly began to transmit, "EZ5, this is EZ6. I suggest you move away from your present position and back along the other side of the road. Enemy artillery is probably registered on all the prominent terrain features in this sector."

Carl looked at Luther and Matthew and confided, "Cease fire, hell! We don't have anything left to fire. Now, what in the hell are we supposed to do?"

Matthew quickly said, "The Lord will protect us," and the vacantly unenlightened expression on Luther's face specified he was as far away from having a compensating idea as a person could possibly be.

Carl continued to stare at both of them for a moment and then at Hollister before beginning to shake his head and sighing, "Damn."

At that instant, 88 millimeter artillery rounds began falling directly where the remnants of the two battalions had been only a few minutes earlier. Luther pointed to the depleted force, then hurrying safely across the Cisterna-Anzio Road and said, "Hollister sure knew what he was talking about."

Sergeant Ashe crept behind the group of men who were had just compassed the gravity of their perilous status and ordered in his usual demanding tone, "Remain perfectly still. Don't say a word."

For quite a long time, the day remained quiet. Towards late afternoon, a cold wind picked up and the sky became overcast. Carl's stomach began to gnaw, because he had been too afraid to eat breakfast that morning. His thoughts turned to the old lunchroom at the corner of Whitehall and Mitchell Streets down the block for the car lot, and he could almost smell the aroma of the greasy food being scorched on the grill. He lay on his side and started at his empty M-1 and at the spent ammunition clips scattered all over the ground. Many visions and images poured through his troubled mind. He thought of the appealing outline of Sandra Flemming's body lying beside him in her darkened bedroom, clothed only in a white slip with a tantalizing lace just above her knees. He recalled how vividly her face had conveyed her feelings of hurt the times he had laughed when she had told him how much she loved him.

He remembered the expressions of hurt on his mother's face the time he had been expelled from school for cheating and those times he had told her, "I wish you wouldn't constantly compare me to daddy. I'm have my own life to lead, and I'm going to live it as I see fit," or something like that. She had been in tears the day his draft notice came. His slamming it down on the living room table and breaking her favorite lamp had only made her cry harder. As he had stood in the middle of the dining room, cursing under his breath, she had just turned around without saying a word, slowly walked to her bedroom and closed the door. He had heard her quietly sobbing for quite a few minutes after that but at that moment, how she felt or how worried she was about him was the most remote thing in his mind. He thought of the day he had left for basic training, and his mother was standing there in the foyer with tears running down her face. The last thing she had said to him was, "I love you."

The light of day slowly faded away, and the coming nightfall brought a renewed uncertainty and fear – especially when German voices could be heard to the right of the hidden riflemen. There was a small recess in the ground just to the side of where Carl was lying, and in the waning daylight, he could see the Germans searching through the bodies of the soldiers who had been killed earlier in the day. He knew they were looking for maps, overlays or anything that would tell them something of the tactics and positions of the American forces. They were surprisingly attendant to the wounded. Apparently, there was an esteeming bond between soldiers, even though they wore different uniforms. Their medical teams bandaged their wounds, removed their ammunition belts and confiscated their weapons before carrying them away on stretchers. In an indirect rationality, Carl almost coveted the fact they were out of the war.

As darkness fell, the sight of the carnage mercifully was hidden and with that came a degree of calm that restored a measure of awareness to the exhausted men. Cognizance was really little improvement from the sickening sight of lifeless bodies strewn over the earth. It only reminded one it might well be his own body that would soon cause others to turn their heads to avoid the constant reminder that death could reach out and claim them in the most cruel and violent way at any moment. 

Carl kept waiting for the order to move back towards friendly lines, but it never came.

As soon as the German voices disappeared, Hollister gathered the men around him and quietly said, "We've been ordered to remain here overnight as an outpost to monitor the German movements. Division is afraid of a counterattack. I know we have very little ammunition left, but we can expect relief in the morning."

Diverse degrees of disbelief claimed the perceptions of the men as they crawled back to their positions. Even the constantly blank expression on Luther's face was replaced by obvious fear. Matthew didn't utter a word about the Lord, sin or the damnation of anything or anyone.

The night was cold and long, denying sleep and rendering the contradicting longing it would end but at the same time, the fear of facing another day. Lieutenant Hollister didn't have to remind anyone not to speak. They all knew they were very close to the German positions and who knew how many patrols were between the helpless platoon and Cisterna? They only lay their listening to the sounds of the night and hoping not to be discovered by the enemy. Carl tried to think of other things, of other times when he was enjoying a rather carefree life and everything seemed to be going as he felt it should, at least as far as he was concerned, but nothing could remove his thoughts from the peril of the moment. The night seemed forever.

Just before dawn, the clanking of armor was heard towards the friendly lines. The men sat up and peered across the mist-covered ground but could see nothing but the bodies of the men who had fallen the day before. Certainly, the prospect of armor support was a gratifying revelation, but the sight of motionless corpses did little to prepare the platoon for the coming day.

Then, there was the sound of thundering artillery a few moments before an overhead whooshing sound preceded explosion patterns all along the terrain in front of the platoon's position. The men glanced at one another and nodded approval. They propped up on their knees to better savor the breathtaking panorama.

Luther tugged at Carl's arm and pointed to the rear where the silhouette of a large number of tanks could be seen, followed by what appeared several infantry battalions. The German positions remained silent, and as the beleaguered platoon alternated its stares between the enemy and the attackers as they move closer to the objective. About the time the formation came abreast of where the platoon was huddled, the supporting artillery fire was lifted and near simultaneously, German mortar rounds began to fall directly on the line of tanks. The Germans had simply waited until the advancing tanks had reached the points along the terrain where they had preplanned their firing patterns. Immediately, several tanks suffered direct hits and began to burn, emitting large columns of black smoke. In the ensuing confusion and understandable loss of persuasion to the goal of the mission, the foot soldiers stopped dead in their tracks. The company commanders hesitated before waving their hands forward and ordering the advance to continue. The movement continued for only a short while before the defending machine gun emplacements began to break up the advancing formations with deadly firing patterns, bringing down whole squads in only seconds. The attack quickly lost any semblance of purpose and organization. All movement forward stopped. The tanks began to turn, and as the mortar rounds continued to fall, the platoon formations turned and began to pelt to the rear.

Lieutenant Hollister stood up and cried out, "Move back!"

Without further inducement, everyone stood up and ran as fast as they could. All that could be heard was the sound of the mortar explosions, the men gasping for breath and Sergeant Ashe's denunciations of, "Those son of a bitches!"

Everyone tried to run faster and faster until suddenly, the enemy fire stopped as abruptly as it had begun. The men in the platoon stopped and looked from one side of the Cisterna-Anzio Road and then behind them. The fear on their faces was gradually replaced with relief upon realizing they had survived the first encounter with the enemy.

Carl glanced up and down the road and quickly noticed that some of the men in the 2nd Squad were not there. He looked back across the ground over which the platoon had just run and was at first surprised at the distance that had been covered in an amazingly short period of time before seeing quite a number of bodies laying face-down on the ground. Several men were leaning over and coughing with saliva flowing from their mouths. Some of their faces were red and others were ghost-white. It wasn't obvious if they were wounded or had just collapsed due to exhaustion. Only then did Carl notice how rapidly his heart was beating and his arms were so tired he could not hold his M-1 above his belt.

When the retreat was out of range of the German weapons, the units gradually began to reassemble all along the road. Everywhere, men could be seen despairingly looking from side to side for those who had fallen or they might have simply been trying to locate their units. The platoon gathered around Lieutenant Hollister. Two were missing but no one knew if they were dead, wounded or wondering around somewhere on that road with all the others. 

The whole battalion just sat there on the side of the road for what seemed hours, again experiencing the nagging intuition no one was certain what to do next until finally, an officers conference was called somewhere towards the end of the line of dazed infantrymen. Presently, the tanks rolled by stirring up swirling dust and slowly making their way towards the rear. All up and down the road, men huddled in small groups, coughing the dust from their throats. Only fragments of the conversations could be heard above the clamor of the withdrawing armor, but the expressions on their faces vividly spoke of the shock at what had happened during the past two days. No amount of training could have prepared anyone for cries of misery as men lay on the ground with their arms outstretched and whole parts of their anatomy severed from them. Seeing them lying there had been unpleasant enough, but even more frightening to each man was the grim prospect that in the next battle, it might well be him lying there in agony and knowing the objective of the mission was far more important than if he lived or died.

When Lieutenant Hollister returned from the conference, he motioned to the platoon. The men eagerly ran to his side and seemed reassured at his newfound calmness. He looked very confident and unrattled when he said, "By now, you probably all know both battalions are isolated between Cisterna and Isola Bella. We've been ordered to return overland to roughly the same position from which we launched the attack. That's all I know. I wish I could tell you more." He glanced at Sergeant Ashe and continued, "Sergeant Ashe has something to tell you." He seemed somewhat amused, as he waited for Ashe to speak.

Ashe stared at him a moment and for the first time in recent memory, seemed lost for sufficient profanity to express himself. His eyes fell to the ground for a moment before he slowly raised his head and began to speak in a manner that did little to manifest total conviction. "I want to commend everyone for the way you acted out there. Our situation could have been a lot worse, if we had broken and lost our discipline the way some of the other units did. Even though we didn't succeed, you all did a good job."

The men walked back to their squad positions and began to assemble their gear. They all seemed astonished in having heard Ashe say quite a few words without one single one of them being profanity. Carl was with Luther and Matthew and said, "I'm glad that shave-tail finally found an effective way to down-dress that bastard. Saying something good about someone is so distasteful to him, he'll probably do anything to keep from having to do it again."

Matthew stood completely erect, raised his right hand and pronounced, "Just not, lest you be judged!"

Carl snickered and sang out in a ridiculing voice, "Hickory, dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock."

The depleted battalions waited for nightfall before marching back overland to the village of Conca, which was some two miles south of Isola Bella. During the next two days, the men cleaned their equipment and considered all sorts of rumors that began to circulate. The most reasonable assessment of the many stories and the one most likely to be correct was that General Lucas, the VI Corps commander, did not feel  Cisterna could be taken and would wait for parts of the 1st Armored Division to arrive before resuming the attack. It was a welcome time of rest, and the entire battalion oiled, cleaned and fretted over its equipment with an expanded sense or urgency.

No one, dogface or commander, knew exactly what the Germans would do to repel the landing. It was just as well, for little could have been done had it been known the enemy was organizing emergency units and preparing for a massive counterattack code named "Fischgnag." No one expected such a sizable reaction was possible, for all during the next two days following the failed attack, the skies were alive with Allied aircraft flying to the north to attack the German supply lines.

Carl sat propped up against one of the stucco buildings and savored the period away from the front. Thoughts and memories surged through his mind, as he began to recall over and over again the disappointed looks on the faces of all those who had loved him at various stages of his life. More vivid than any was the yearning look Sandra Flemming had shown those times she had insisted she loved him. He had never stopped to think how hurt she must have been when he would tell her such things as, "Don't be so serious. Let's just enjoy the moment, for tomorrow we may die," always followed by a laugh that did nothing to consider her feelings. He had almost expected her to apologize for loving him. The reappearing images of his mother began to play in his mind. He kept seeing her all those times he had found some new way to dishearten her – not by design, but the pain he had caused her was all the same. When such a self-evaluation process begins, the senses will resist it but after some while, the conscience will usually prevail. What then follows can be a number of things – shame, guilt, a persuasion to blame someone else, or perhaps a resolve to try to lead a more caring life.

He paid little attention to the humming noise he heard overhead, except for a feeling of encouragement the air raids were continuing but all at once, he realized something was not right. The noise was not exactly the same. The planes were flying from the north at lower altitudes than the bombers and seemed to be flying directly for the beachhead at Anzio. He slowly stood up and gaped at the sky before gasping, "What in the hell?" He saw German Crosses and Swastikas on the airplanes just as he heard the roar of artillery coming from the direction of Cisterna.

As the planes thundered overhead, he ran for cover behind the building but abruptly stopped when he saw the planes were not going to attack their positions and no artillery rounds were falling on the village.

As the threatening sound of the planes disappeared, a chorus of explosions could be heard from the beach area. They lasted some 30 minutes. Yet another misfortune of the Allied position had become graphically distinct. The German air bases were near the battle area, thus requiring a shorter flight time to their targets and allowing inadequate time for detection. With lesser consumption of fuel in route to the targets, they had the luxury of remaining over them longer and inflicting more damage. One by one, such details the foot soldier had not envisioned were becoming painfully evident.

For the next few days, the battalion remained in and around Conca. Word began to circulate that the Allied air base at Nettuno had been abandoned because enemy artillery was beginning to destroy planes as they sat on the ground, and finally came the announcement everyone feared the most – there would be another attempt to take Cisterna. The plan was for the British to launch a coordinated attack some 10 miles to the east and push towards Campoleone, while the American 3rd Division and a new ranger battalion named Darby's Rangers were to again attempt to capture Cisterna, cut Highway 7 on the far side and continue the advance towards Velletri.

One day before the attack was to begin, the K-Rations were surprisingly palatable. Carl was amused as he looked at Matthew and Luther sitting a few feet away. Their mouths were so full, their faces looked like balloons. It was inconceivable but Luther looked even more illiterate than usual.

Carl began to deride Matthew, and in sort of a singing voice asked, "Matthew....Matthew, got any pussy lately?"

Matthew ignored him at first but finally threw his ration container down and protested, "How can you make a joke of immorality!?"

"Aw come on, goody-goody, don't tell me this supposed faith of yours denies you live a little ass every once in a while."

Matthew picked up his Bible and began to waive it at Carl, saying, "I've always been true to my faith and have not sinned against the Father!"

"But what good have you done?" Carl blurted as he turned his eyes towards Luther and said, "What about you – got anything lately?"

Luther just sat there for a few moments before beginning to snicker behind an expression declaring such stupidity, Carl wasn't certain if he was embarrassed or didn't even know what he was talking about. Finally, Carl decided he was embarrassed and Luther couldn't organize his thoughts sufficiently to conceal it in having to acknowledge he'd never scored with a woman and from all ostensible appearances, probably never would.

Carl ceased his taunting but continued to look at both of them with a deriding smirk on his face. What did such people do with themselves? The world was obviously passing them by, and neither of them seemed to be doing anything to stop the degrading process. Matthew denounced most everything as worldly and sinful, while Luther had such a lack of self-confidence, he was hesitant to reach out for anything beyond arm's length. He began to shake his head and said to himself, "They're never going to amount to anything."

The streets of Conca were narrow with small puddles of water on either side. Most of the narrow windows of the two-story structures had dark green shutters, and some hang precariously from only one hinge. Very few of the townspeople remained, and a few hungry dogs prowled about the streets searching through the empty ration containers that were scattered everywhere.  The Army had suddenly lost its ceaseless obsession to pick up everything. Their bodies were gaunt, their coats were filled with dust from the gray stucco buildings, and they wrenched in fear at the slightest sound – no doubt the result of the bombardment of the village a few days before.

Just after the company commander and platoon leaders returned from yet another officers' conference, Lieutenant Hollister called the platoon together in one of the buildings. It had only three rooms, and the roof was completely gone. A small amount of furniture was scattered about, and the closet doors were open, revealing the abandoned clothing of the former occupants. Who knew what had become of them

Again, Hollister looked inexplicably neat as he began to unroll several maps on what once must have been a dining room table. Before he could begin to speak, Sergeant Ashe spoke up and said, "Everyone should know the lieutenant has been recommended for the Bronze Star for the way he got us out of the fix we were in the other day and had enough sense to know those stupid bastards on the road were sitting right in the pattern of pre-planned artillery. I hope you know if he hadn't took charge as he did, we all would be lying out there rotting now."

All in the platoon began to clap except for Carl. Ashe's announcement, although severely lacking in eloquence, was probably accurate but Carl couldn't find it within himself to change his opinion of the "ninety day wonder" he disliked so much.

Hollister seemed somewhat abashed, not exactly boyish, but almost artificial. Carl resented him and felt in quite impossible anyone could be the conscientious soldier as his actions implied. A tingling sensation covered his body as the acridity built within him. Hollister's hair was again neatly combed, and there was that perpetual grandeuring smile as he said, "I don't need to tell you our attacks in the past few days had no relationship to success. We have just learned of a change in strategy that will involve a welcomed change from the bold, daylight frontal assaults with battalion-size units. Tonight, at 0130 hours, a battalion of rangers will depart our lines and attempt to infiltrate the German positions and capture and secure the ground outside Cisterna." He paused a moment. The silly smile left his face before he continued, "The division will follow in mass one hour later. When you leave here, get your equipment together and be ready to move at 2400 hours.

The platoon quietly filed out of the building and about halfway back to the comparatively luxurious billet of the last few nights, Carl looked at Luther and Matthew and protested. "That gripes my ass. One minute he says there's not going to be any more frontal assaults, and the next he says the battalion will attack in mass. What in the hell is that if it ain't a frontal assault?"

Luther seemed surprised and with a degree of humor asked, "You really didn't think we were going to stay here for the rest of the war, did you?"

"Hell no, Luther. That's not what I meant. It pisses me off to see that little prick get that damn decoration. I guess they think they've got to create so kind of fucking hero to detract from the mess we're in."

Sergeant Ashe appeared from nowhere, grabbed Carl by the back of his shirt and reeled him around to where he was looking straight into his eyes. "You thankless little bastard!" he said as his eyes squinted and blood rushed into his face, making it a glowing red. "You don't have the sense to know how lucky we were out there the other day to have that little prick leading us. If it hadn't been for him, your sorry ass might not be standing here right now. Don't ever let me hear you say anything like that again. You'd better hope the lieutenant stays alive to keep thinking for you, because you're not half the soldier it's going to take to get through this." He shoved Carl to one side and walked away.

No one said anything until the three men reached the billet area. They began to assemble their gear, and Matthew finally said in a disapproving voice, "That surprised me. Hollister and Ashe are so different. I thought Ashe would have belittled his medal."

Luther spoke up, "Maybe it's because he's a good soldier and has accepted Hollister as the leader."

Both Carl and Matthew completely stopped what they were doing and stared at Luther. It was the first time either of them had heard him utter anything that remotely resembled any degree of insight or philosophy. 

"You really don't think Ashe is a good soldier?" Matthew objected. "That certainly wouldn't justify the despicable and sinful person he is. His soul is lost."

Luther continued to fill his field pack and never looked up. "I'm not talking about his soul. Ask yourself has he made you a better soldier."

Matthew seemed beset that anyone, especially Luther, would question his fixation with the need everyone be totally spiritual and isolate himself from anything sinful which, in his narrow outlook, was near everything.  Finally he muttered, "A man's soul is more important in the sight of God than the type soldier he is."

Luther stopped, threw his field pack over his shoulder, looked straight at them both and said, "See if you feel the same way tomorrow when people start shooting at you."

Astonished, both Carl and Matthew gazed at him as he walked out of the building and started down the narrow street that separated the small dwellings, none of which had any window glass remaining and no longer suggested that once each had been the center of someone's life.

Matthew turned back to his equipment and said, "I was wrong about him. I thought he was innocent enough to be pure, but he's no better than the rest of them."

Carl started to say something but was still experiencing the humbling outcome of Ashe's admonishment. He knew Matthew no doubt intended to include him in saying "them," but he didn't feel inclined to challenge him. Instead, he began to think of the frightful events of the past few days and Luther's expression "when people start shooting at you tomorrow" began to play in his mind. His thoughts again found their way to Sandra Flemming. Slowly, tears began to press their way through the corners of his eyes. He became confused by his own feelings; because he had known fear long enough to identify it, but what he felt was not fear. It was a strange and demeaning feeling he could not recall ever having experienced until that precise moment.

The night was cold and there was no moon. There was a consuming quiet among the soldiers as they moved into the assembly area – no doubt because each man was trying to sort out his own thoughts that might well have been so similar to Carl's. The armor gathered in front of the assembly area, and Carl looked at the expressionless faces of the men in his platoon. They stared at the ground, intermittently from right to left and then in the direction of the enemy. He wondered what thoughts were in their minds and if they were transposing into the same regret he was beginning to feel.

Lieutenant Hollister moved towards the front of the platoon, calmly looked at Sergeant Ashe and said, "Tell them to get as much rest as possible. I'm not sure when we'll be moving to the initial point." It seemed strange the young lieutenant with so little military experience possessed such mind over matter, and what seemed even stranger was that someone like Stanley Ashe had accepted his leadership without the slightest hesitation.

 Even so, Hollister's mild-manner idea of command had produced an observable influence on Ashe. He made his way through the darkness instructing, "All you pig-fuckers get off your feet, but don't move out of the column formation. Some of you have enough trouble staying where you're supposed to be in the daylight, but if you wander away now, you'll get lost as Hogan's Goat."

"Hogan's Goat" was an expression Ashe frequently used, but no one ever knew who Hogan was or what in the hell his goat had to do with any of this. 

The sound of men dropping their equipment filled the air, and Carl stared out across what would be the line of advance but he could see or hear nothing. The stillness made the moment all the more formidable. Soon, his mind was filled with the sounds of the previous advance on Cisterna. There was the clattering of the machine guns, the percussion of the mortar rounds and the sounds of men crying out in pain, but most of all, he remembered that terrible feeling of expecting something to tear through his body at any moment while the sounds of war and death besieged him. These thoughts made the night pass all the more slowly. It seemed incredible so many men were in the assembly area, yet it remained so mysteriously quiet. 

Carl flinched when he heard the sound of movement behind the platoon, and he instinctively reached out for his weapon. His eyes eagerly searched in the direction of the sound, which was that of a large number of men probing through the darkness. Then, somewhere to the right, there was Ashe's unmistakable voice, "God dammit, stay where you are. Don't you clowns know which direction the enemy is in."

The commotion subsided, but everyone continued to gaze towards the noise. Finally, two columns of men were seen as they hurried through the assembly area and out into the night towards Cisterna. It was the ranger battalion that had been mentioned in the briefing. The rangers were trim and carried a full combat load of field packs, ponchos, gas masks and extra ammunition pouches. The small American flag on their left sleeves seemed to glow in the night, and their blackened faces could not conceal their determination. All eyes were on them until they vanished into the darkness, and again there was that damnable stillness that fomented the imagination and harvested a chilling fear in everyone's body.

Carl could feel his heart beating in his throbbing fingertips. Again, that same tingling came into his throat, and his legs became numb. He and everyone in the platoon propped up on their knees. Their eyes remained set on the point at which the last ranger had faded from sight until someone uttered, "Damn."

The waiting dragged on until suddenly, there was a single M-1 shot. Instinctively, the whole platoon stood up, and almost immediately, there was the faint sound of exploding hand grenades that produced ghostly flashes on the dark horizon. Then, there was the sound of a large number of machine guns firing short and rhythmic bursts. Carl's hands began to tremble. Men gaped at one another but said nothing.

Soon, the motors of the tanks began to rumble and the voice of Lieutenant Hollister said, "On your feet." Slowly, everyone slipped on their field packs and stood motionless, waiting for the order to move forward. Then, came the dreaded words that could barely be heard over the clamor of the tanks, "Move out!" The tanks slowly rolled into the darkness, and the infantrymen timidly moved in behind them as if to try to hide from the enemy.

The sound and sight of the armor collecting in a line across the advancing formation was reassuring. At first, there was only the rolling noise, but soon, the foot soldiers began to inhale their dust, just as the sounds of outgoing artillery fire were heard overhead. Bright red explosions began to burst quite a distance in front of the line of advance about the time the attack formation crossed the initial point.

As the cautious movement pressed closer and closer to the final coordinating line, the point where supporting artillery would be lifted, the advance was suddenly halted. Hollister signaled for the platoon to crouch down, which was quite alarming, because such a gesture suggested the advance was then in range of the German defense perimeter. After about 30 minutes of waiting, a few tank companies began to roll forward while another ranger battalion filtered through the remaining armor, assumed the skirmish formation and fell in behind the advancing tanks. It appeared the attack was being launched in echelons to explore the strength of the enemy defenses.

Another period of waiting followed, but just as the sun began to rise, revealing a dense fog close to the ground, the whole battalion was positioned behind a line of several tank companies. The inevitable could no longer be avoided. The terrain was rolling, and in the scant light of early morning, it was difficult to see very far in front of the armor that was conveniently masked by the fog. Suddenly, the armor halted at the crest of a small hill. What Carl saw across the rolling farmland brought a nauseating stab into his stomach. The fog was beginning to lift, and the bodies of many rangers littered the ground on both sides of the Anzio-Cisterna Road. The division was already several hours into the attack, and the planned flanking maneuver had taken too long to develop, giving the enemy time to reinforce the defenses. The advance was still far short of the objective of Cisterna.

When the next echelon prepared to move into the battle area, there was again the sound of distant armor. Men began wildly pointing to the east, just as scores of German tanks appeared to the left of Highway 27. They began to pick up speed, and their machine guns blazed withering fire as they raced towards the ranger positions. The rangers had few anti-tank weapons – only hand grenades and bazookas. They were helpless. Some of them attempted to sight what few bazookas they had on the advancing tanks but were cut down by their machine gun fire the moment they raised their weapons. Others were stupefied and afraid to move and were crushed when the tanks overran their positions.

As planned, under the cover of darkness, the rangers had probed the defense perimeter. The Germans had apparently not realized a major attack was about to be launched until dawn when the rangers had been spotted only 800 yards from Cisterna. The defenders had opened fire on them with every imaginable weapon – weapons that, according to intelligence sources, were not even supposed to be within scores of miles. Unknown to G2, the Germans had moved a whole additional division into the sector. When the rangers fell back, they had come under fire of the forward defense positions they had bypassed in the darkness.

All across the ranks of infantrymen massed behind the tanks, company commanders pressed their walkie-talkies to their ears. Soon, several of the tank companies began turning and started edging to the left of the Anzio-Cisterna Road. Lieutenant Hollister and the other platoon leaders were gathered around the company commander, who threw his walkie-talkie to the ground and made several agitated gestures to the platoon leaders, just before they ran back to their platoons.

Hollister ran across the back of the pivoting armor, holding his helmet with one hand and his carbine with the other. He looked like a frightened child running in from a thunderstorm. He was breathing heavily and his face was pale when he kneeled down in the center of the platoon and said, "There's been a change in plan. The 3rd Battalion was suppose to have followed the route of the rangers, but the last message received was that the rangers have surrendered." The distressed men looked at one another as he regained his breath and continued, "The 3rd Battalion has now been ordered to attack Isola Bella from the rear. We'll join the 2nd Battalion and continue the advance along the left side of the Anzio-Cisterna Road where the resistance seems lighter."

The platoon waited for the order to move across the road and heard several exhausted voices faintly blending in with the disarray that seemed to foretell another disaster. "Don't shoot....don't shoot!" they pleaded in the tone of a child who had fallen at play. It was six weary rangers stumbling through the tank formations. None of them had his weapon or any part of his combat load, and their uniforms were caked with mud. One seemed to be wounded, as his right arm hung limply at his side, and there were bloodstains on his field jacket. Their pathetic appearance were a tragic mockery of the proud and confident soldiers that had departed friendly lines only a few hours earlier. One of them pointed at Lieutenant Hollister, looked back at the others and shouted, "Over there!"

They were too tired to run and pitifully staggered up to Hollister where they collapsed at his feet. They lay there gasping for breath. He wounded man rolled over on his back and began to moan. His face was pale and had a hollow look about it. His hands began to feel across the front of his blood-soaked fatigue jacket. He raised one of his hands in front of his face, saw his own blood smeared across it and began to shout, "I'm hurt....I'm hurt!"

Several medics that were trailing the tank units ran to his side and began to attend him. He began to babble, "Where's Sergeant Burns!? Tanks! Tanks! Look out for those tanks!"

Lieutenant Hollister leaned down beside one of the other rangers, removed the man's helmet and gently laid his head on the ground. "Where's the rest of your unit?" he asked.

The man lay on the ground for a moment and said nothing. His face was black with dirt, and the buttons were torn from his field jacket, which loosely hung open across his body. One ammunition belt dangled loose around his waist. All the pouches were empty. His voice could barely be heard over the hysterical screams of his companion as he responded, "We're all that's left." He stared at the other men and then slowly turned his eyes back towards Hollister. Sobs began to roll from his throat, and he covered his eyes with both hands, saying, "We never had a chance."

Luther reached out, touched Hollister's arm and pointed to the company commander who was motioning the company to follow a group of tanks just crossing the Anzio-Cisterna Road.

A gentle smile came to Hollister's face as he placed his hand on one side of the man's face and whispered, "You'll be all right now."

The man looked up at him as tears began to roll down his face. His voice was weak and uncertain as he said, "We tried. God knows we did the best we could."

The tanks spread out on a line some 500 yards across the terrain before stopping to face the open farmland in front of them. The platoon had run the full distance and was at the far left of the attack formation. Carl mumbled, "What about the end of bold frontal assaults?"

The tanks started forward, and groups of soldiers hurried to keep up with them. The attack pressed forward for some few minutes before machine gun fire was heard in the distance, just before the rounds began to strike the armor and make blunt, ringing sounds. The tanks began to return fire, seemingly with no hope of appreciable accuracy.

As the advance came within small arms range, the enemy fire seemed more intense towards the center of the advancing line where men began to fall in large numbers. The 300 yard section in the middle of the line came to a complete stop, but both sides of the attack formation continued their advance.

Light enemy fire continued on the far left side where the advance was going well until Ashe, pointing in front of the tanks, began shouting, "Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"

Just ahead was a series of twenty-foot wide ditches, and the unseeing lead tanks rolled directly into them. They could move no further. Their gun barrels were lodged in the ground, and they lay helplessly at forty-fire degree angles in the ditches with their tracks spinning large breaches in the loose ground. Then, an intense barrage of mortar and machine gun fire began. Several of the tanks immediately suffered direct hits and rolled over on their sides. The percussion from the preplanned incoming fire lifted some men completely off the ground, while others were trapped under the disabled tanks, which only a few moments before had been their shield from ineffectual enemy fire.

Hollister turned to the platoon and shouted, "This way!" as he began running to the far left of the tanks and down into one of the ditches. Fortunately, he had been alert and acted before the enemy defenders cold adjust their firing patterns. As the platoon dropped down into the ditch and began to hug the ground, a cautious sort of smile came over Hollister's face. He seemed gratified no one had been hit. All eyes were on him when he said, "You men stay down! Sergeant Ashe, on me!"

The two of them inched towards the top of the ditch, and Hollister began pointing across the terrain. Ashe intently listened and nodded as he glared in the direction Hollister was pointing. 

Ashe ran back through the ditch and without stopping glowered, "Second and 3rd Squads, on me, now!"

The squads fell in behind him and had no concept of where they were going. All eyes were stationary on the profane career soldier – so much so they began to stumble over the bodies of the dead American soldiers lying between the smoldering tanks. After the hastily contrived delegation had run about 100 hundred yards to the left, Ashe held up one hand and everyone dropped to one knee beside him. His small, blue eyes were intent and vicious as he asserted in a resolute voice, "Here's what we're gonna do. Advance on the machine gun emplacements by fire and maneuver. There's five of them between here and Lieutenant Hollister. He's taken two of the other squads to the right and kept the remaining one where we were to draw fire. We'll advance on either side and try to breach the perimeter."

As he spoke, Carl's eyes wandered across the terrain towards the middle of the advancing line of American infantry, then to the left of their position. The tanks there had also fallen victim to the ditches, the same as the others. The foot soldiers were running through the helpless tanks and up a gentle incline towards Cisterna. Abruptly, the sound of a large number of machine guns erupted from the higher ground, catching the attackers in the open. The American were confused and disoriented, and the defensive fire took an immediate heavy toll. The men ran in every direction for cover. What leaders that were still alive labored to regain control of the advance with only limited success. Another failure seemed imminent. The men of the 2nd and 3rd Squads gaped at the slaughter. Even Ashe seemed shaken. The all to familiar sick feeling returned to Carl's stomach as he watched the medics struggle to get to the wounded, lying on the ground writhing in pain. 

Ashe reached out and grabbed two of the men by the sleeve, and with somewhat of a less than resolute voice said, "Our job's over here." He positioned the 3rd Squad on a line along the top of one of the ditches and directed, "Lay down intermittent fire along a one 100 yard front. Conserve ammunition. Fire in short bursts. Wait until we stop and begin firing from that gully to the right before you advance to that group of rocks 25 yards ahead of the gully."

By then, it was clear the 2nd Squad was the unfortunate one and would press the fire and maneuver first. Ashe tightened his helmet, looked at the squad and said, "Remember, don't run in straight lines. You can change direction faster than they can change their firing patterns. As soon as we get within range, we'll use hand grenades."

Ashe was the first one out of the ditch, and the 2nd Squad hurried behind him, all running zig-zag patterns as he had reminded them. The defenders must have been watching the larger action to the right, because there was a short delay before they began firing at them in short bursts. The 3rd Squad had a clear field of fire from the ditch and could easily see the machine gun emplacements. They began to fire, and there was an immediate abatement in the enemy fire. Ashe signaled the 2nd Squad to continue running forward but just then, two men were cut down.  He immediately signaled the others to drop to the ground, but they were well short of their immediate objective of the gully. It was cruelly obvious that Ashe had been waiting for the first casualties to tell him the squad had advanced as far as it could. He gestured for the entrapped squad to lay down fire on the enemy gunners and waved his arm for the 3rd Squad to begin its advance.

 Momentarily, the Germans seemed confused and did know on which group to fire. Ashe immediately seized the advantage and ordered his squad on their feet again, and both maneuver groups were suddenly sprinting towards the enemy at the same time, which wasn't in the hastily conceived plan but was precisely the correct tactic under the circumstances.

Someone to the left cried out and fell. The squad leader shouted, "Keep moving!" and they continued their irregular running patterns but became scattered too widely. The squad leader saw he had lost control and shouted, "Stop!" that was a confusing contradiction to his previous command only a few moments earlier. They all ardently responded to the second command and dropped flat to the ground. The man who had been hit was still alive and for the first time, it occurred to everyone there were no medics. He lay there alone, fumbling with his first aid packet.

Ashe looked back at the 3rd Squad with an obvious expression of disgust and then at the positioning of the 2nd Squad, which was some 75 yards from the enemy positions. He took off his field jacket, reached inside to remove something before signaling the supporting fire from the two squads that then lay in disarray all across a large space in front of the Germans. When the fire support began, he started to crawl quite rapidly over the ground towards one of the emplacements. When he had covered about 25 yards, he stopped, rose up on his knees and threw something diagonally across the front of the enemy positions. In a few moments, a white phosphorus grenade exploded and slowly its shielding smoke traced across the ground. Without any prompting, everyone ran forward as fast as they could before the smoke could dissipate.

Carl lost track of everyone in the smoke, dropped to the ground in fear and began to grope about to try to see where he was. In the haze ahead, he saw one of the gun positions only 25 yards away. Just as the Germans spotted him, he saw the outline of Ashe behind them. Ashe shouted, "You cock-suckers!" as he emptied the magazine of his Thompson submachine gun and brought them all to the ground. He calmly walked into the bunker, swiveled one of the machine guns towards the other emplacements and began to deliver rapid traversing fire. Several of the enemy soldiers were immediately hit and the others quickly ducked down behind the sandbags, not know from where the fire was coming. They quickly began to receive fire from the two squads scattered across the terrain in front of them as well as the other squad that had remained in the ditch from which the advance had started. Momentarily, the Germans seemed to forget about the squad led by Lieutenant Hollister, which had maneuvered close enough to begin dropping hand grenades squarely into the bunkers. All were dead in only moments.

Hollister assembled the platoon. An eerie stillness set in over the afternoon. The smell of gunpowder was still in the air as the platoon reluctantly glimpsed down at the bodies of the dead Germans. Some of their eyes were still open, and blood was oozing from the multiple wounds in their bodies. 

Matthew glared at Ashe and mumbled to Carl, "He's a cold-blooded killer."

Carl's heart was still pounding in his throat, but he managed to respond, "What the fuck should we do? Wait for the bastards to kill us?"  

Hollister, with the strangest smile on his face, walked up to Ashe and looking his straight in the eyes, shook his hand. He said something to him that no one else could hear before looking over to the platoon and saying, "We lost six."

Carl faced Matthew and with some degree of alarm, asked, "Where's Luther!?"

The whole platoon looked out and saw him huddled over the wounded man, bandaging his injury. In a moment Luther, with a triumphant look on his face, helped him to his feet and brought him to the platoon. He announced, "It's only a small flesh wound. He'll be okay. We got the bleeding stopped."

"You men get your breath for a minute," Hollister said as dropped to one knee and intently looked towards the center of the sector. For quite a few moments, he studied the terrain on all sides of the platoon. There was only sporadic fire towards the center of the line of advance, where the major part of the action had been, and there was nothing directly in front of the platoon. Presently, Hollister faced them and said, "We're cut off. Get in the bunkers and stay out of sight."

As the men moved to hide themselves behind the sandbags that only a few moments earlier had been the enemy's sanctuary, Carl heart once again was pounding so hard he could feel it in his finger tips. He lay there quivering and peering through the breaks in the sandbags. The platoon was a good 300 yards ahead of and several hundred yards to the left of the main body of the attack, which had been stopped under the heavy enemy mortar and automatic weapons fire. Casualties lay everywhere, but what was left of the units began to reorganize within the next few hours. Every so slowly, they began to press forward until finally, what appeared a depleted rifle company infiltrated to the higher knoll and cleared it of the machine gunners who had been firing straight into the advance for a matter of hours and probably had run out of ammunition.

With that, several tank formations rolled forward to support the other units as they made their way to the top of the hill where they were immediately assigned defensive positions and fields of fire. Some four or five hundred yards of uncertain terrain lay between the closest friendly position and the isolated platoon.

Carl whispered to Luther and Matthew, "Now what in the hell are we going to do? We can't go out over that open ground."

Curiously, Hollister was not looking into the sector where the action was. He was staring down a slight decline in the terrain in the direction of Cisterna. He looked up and down several dirt roads leading towards the town, and his eyes then remained fixed on a number of small clumps of trees along the way.

Towards nightfall, Hollister called the platoon together. In a very deliberate tone that implied some degree of confidence, he said, "We're cut off, and I would hesitate to attempt to make it across the open ground between here and our lines. The enemy is sure to have patrols out tonight. The ground is flat, and there's no way to conceal a platoon-size unit in this moonlight." He paused for a moment and seemed to grasp for words before saying, "After dark, we can move down that bank and through the ravines closer to Cisterna and gather some intelligence on the location and strength of the enemy units. We'll then have to make it back to our lines as best we can. If we're going to have to cross that open ground, it might as well be for some sensible reason."

A restless murmur stirred through the platoon. Ashe's mouth drew tight and his eyes glowered with a piercing vehemence as he hissed in a spiteful voice, "Shut your fucking mouths!"

Ashe and Hollister glance at one another. Neither said a word but at that precise moment, there seemed the most curious sensation they both respected and appreciated one another, even though their respective temperaments and everything else about them placed them worlds apart.

In a peculiar way, the waiting was almost as bad as when the platoon had been under fire. Regardless, Carl was not at all ready to move out into the damp darkness when Hollister gave the order. The platoon moved in close file formation down the incline, being careful not to silhouette itself against the moonlit sky. The ground was soft, and there was almost no sound except everyone's tense breathing. Every few minutes, Hollister would stop, look and listen before motioning the platoon to continue to who knew where.

Just as they approached the bottom of the depression, there was the sound of German voices somewhere up the small road in the direction of the front.

Hollister whispered, "Move into the gully on this side of the road."

They all hurried towards the slight depression, flopped down and remained perfectly still as the voices grew closer and closer. In a few minutes, it was clear a very large number of men were moving down the road directly above them. It was a well-disciplined march at a quite rapid pace. None of them said a word. The platoon was so close to the enemy that some of the pebbles from the side of the road began to roll down into the gully, striking someone's helmet and emitting a distinct clanking sound that must have been heard in the German ranks that had no idea they were literally stepping over their adversaries.

It seemed forever the procession passed through the night, and it wasn't until the sound of the marching men had nearly faded away somewhere down the road towards Cisterna that Carl realized the enemy seemed to be withdrawing from the front – a strange development indeed, since the American attack had been anything but a striking success.

When there were no sounds, the platoon cautiously moved under the cover of the gully in the direction of Cisterna, until Hollister suddenly stopped and waved for the platoon to again hug the side of the gully. Then, they all heard it. In the distance, there was the sound of armor. The grinding noise of the tracks and the creaking sound of the machinery were unmistakable. It was on the road above them and obviously moving in the direction of the platoon.

Hollister whispered, "Everyone remain still." and signaled Ashe to follow him. They both hurried forward until they disappeared into the night. All the while, the armor was drawing closer.

 The men lay silently in the gully, listening to the drudging sound of the armor and wondering where Hollister and Ashe had gone. What were they doing out there in the dark all alone among enemy infantry and armor? When would they come back?

Gradually, the sound of the armor stopped and again, there was complete stillness.

After about an hour of waiting, a strange feeling found its way into Carl's mind. He had always regarded Morgan Hollister as a stuffed shirt whose obvious preferred way of life as a civilian in the upper crust had concealed him from the ordinary man. Carl had resented his overly sincere personality as a pretense and clearly a front designed to sell himself and certainly not an attribute produced by an authentic concern for anyone. Stanley Ashe was a vile and wretched form of life who just as clearly conveyed no real concern or sentiment for anyone. Everything about him was thoroughly abrasive and contentious. He had no compensating refinements and was a man almost impossible to like. Now, Carl's most arresting fear was neither of them would come back from wherever they had decided to go. What would the platoon do without them? Only then did he finally realize no one in the gully was anything like the leaders that Ashe and Hollister were.

Another hour passed. The men were becoming observably restless until at last, they were relieved to see Hollister and Ashe crouched low to the ground in the ditch and creeping back towards them. The platoon quickly gathered and intently gaped at the two men- not only because they were worried about how they were going to get back to friendly lines but also because within the past few days, like Carl, they had found a new, although completely different, respect for each of them. On the practical side, perhaps respect wasn't the real issue, and the sheer reality was everyone knew how much they needed them.

They were both out of breath and, notwithstanding the cold night, perspiration caused their faces to shimmer in the moonlight. As Hollister began to catch his breath, he braced himself on his carbine and said, "The enemy is moving quite a lot of armor, 88s and 105s and what might well be division-size units into the covering trees all along the roads to Cisterna. I can't tell you how imperative it is that we get back to our lines with this information. We followed the unit that passed us earlier tonight for about a mile. Just before they moved into the trees, they placed several squads on security points about 300 yards ahead of where they left the road. Sergeant Ashe and I agree this probably means all the enemy in this isolated sector has been withdrawn, so what we're going to do is get up on that road and get back to our lines as quickly as we can."

Before anyone could gather his thoughts and consider the merit of their supposition, the platoon was up on the road, and Sergeant Ashe was walking up and down instructing everyone, "Stay close enough to see each other. Don't say a damn word."

The platoon walked through the chilling darkness and was reasonably certain the enemy was to their right, but as Hollister had said, there was sure to be enemy patrols to their left where most of the action had been during the day.

Suddenly, the file stopped. Ashe walked down the road, and with a degree of urgency in his whispering voice, said, "Everyone from Manning back, down in the gully. The rest of you, follow me."

The 1st Squad was swallowed up by the night and again, there was frightful stillness. What had happened? Where had they gone? Carl's heart began to throb in his throat. They all peered resolutely down the winding road. Abruptly, rifle fire broke out, and bright flashes could be seen from the rapidly firing weapons a short distance from them. Carl recognized the distinct sound of Ashe's Thompson. The fire ceased as precipitously as it had begun, and the platoon remained huddled in the ditch, not knowing what to do.

Luther reached out and grabbed Carl's arm as he said, "Listen."

There was the sound of what seemed two men running straight towards them. Carl's mind went blank until, surprisingly, he found himself standing at Luther's side in the center of the road. In a moment, they made out the images of two German soldiers feverishly sprinting towards them. When they saw Carl and Luther, they were stunned for a moment before desperately raising their weapons just as Carl and Luther emptied their rifles into them. The rounds made a splatting sort of sound and their impact caused the soldiers to fall straight backwards so abruptly that they hurled their weapons a good 10 yards behind them.

Carl and Luther slowly walked towards the men they had just killed, stopped and looked down at them. They both were lying there with their arms spread as though they were about to embrace someone. One was very young. The  other's face was caved in by several M-1 rounds, and his features were only a blur weeping down from his helmet, which had rolled off his head and began to rock from side to side, making a slight vibrating sound for a moment.

About then, Sergeant Ashe came leisurely walking back down the road with the stock of his Thompson resting just above his ammunition belt. He came straight up to Carl, looking him directly in the face. He glanced down at the Germans, who by then were covered in their own blood, and glanced back at Carl before walking away without uttering a single word.

Lieutenant Hollister was just behind him and ordered everyone to drop to one knee. They all waited silently for about 10 minutes, fully expecting some sort of fire to start raining down on them from the sector to the left, but there was no sound, no movement – nothing. Hollister heedfully observed the terrain on both sides of the road as they quietly talked among themselves. Just then, Carl noticed that his pants were wet, and indeed warm urine was trickling down the side of his leg. Until then, he had thought the expression "scare the piss out of you" was just that – simply an expounding expression and not one declaring something that actually happened.

There was still and hush, so placid and conveying an artificial mood that did nothing to recount the violent death of the two Germans and who knew how many corpses from both sides that lay over hundreds of yards of terrain.

Then, the platoon was back on its feet, again moving ever so cautiously down the road. Soon they passed the remainder of the German patrol that Hollister and Ashe had encountered. Six more dead men lay in the middle of the road.

Lieutenant Hollister stopped the march, moved down the file and looked at Carl, Luther and Matthew, saying, "You men get those bodies out of sight. Put them in that gully over there."

Carl reached down, grasped one of the dead men under his arms and began to drag his body across the ground. Suddenly, he felt something wet in his hand, dropped the soldier and held up his hands in front of his face. Blood was trickling down his hands and began to drop down onto the road. He looked down and could clearly see the soldier's face in the moonlight. His eyes were open and seemed to be looking straight at him. Carl stared at him for a moment before wiping his hands on the dead man's uniform and rolling him down into the gully. Just a short while ago, that same gully had saved the platoon from a fate such as the dead man that continued to stare at him and now it had become his crudely unceremonious grave.

When the platoon was once again walking back to what everyone hoped was friendly lines, every shadow, every snap of a twig under someone's foot brought a knife-like chill through Carl's body. His thoughts turned to Hollister. He was about the same age as Carl and better educated but by then, Carl knew someone's education could by no means prepare them for what the platoon had faced since it came to the front. His opinion about Morgan Hollister was changing. The same could be said of his opinion of Stanley Ashe.

Luther had probably stepped out in front of those fleeing Germans because he was too stupid to know any better. Carl wasn't sure what had prompted him to remain at Luther's side when he moved out into the road. Matthew never chose to apply his dominating faith in any manner other than informing everyone at regular and predictable intervals how sinful they were and how the world was foreordained to Hell, because man had come to worship material things and not God. The events of recent days had given anyone truly interested in his fellow man a chance to prove it, but Matthew had been conspicuously unavailable. To Carl's surprise, the two men he had detested the most were probably responsible for the fact he was still alive – Morgan Hollister, the little prick who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and Stanley Ashe, a man who seemed as though he could fit literally nowhere else in the world except the damn Army. Maybe being a career soldier was a waste of someone's life, but how could anyone objectively evaluate a man who in the process of wasting his life had become very effective in his profession – so much so that most of the men who were sneaking down that road probably owed their lives to him.

Clouds began to move into the sky, and a brisk wind whistled along the ground, stirring up dust that veiled the front of the file. The moon disappeared, and it became increasingly more difficult to see ahead. Suddenly, German voices were heard somewhere to the left. Carl, Luther and Matthew froze and were dumbfounded when they heard the voice of Lieutenant Hollister speaking German and seemingly caring on a conversation with the other voices. They couldn't see the rest of the platoon and didn't know what to do which was just as well, since they were too afraid to act on any idea that might have come into their minds. After another few moments, there was a short burst of gunfire. Then, all was quiet until Ashe came running up the road whispering, "Keep moving, keep moving." 

The three of them kept moving and assumed everyone ahead and behind was doing the same thing. As the platoon continued to drudge towards friendly lines, it was something of a fairy tale when they learned Lieutenant Hollister, speaking German, had induced the enemy soldiers into believing the platoon was a German patrol – perhaps even the same one that lay dead back up the road. Before the Germans became party to the dupe, they had been cut down with their rifles still at sling arms over their shoulders. Carl then began to consider the contingency there was a benefit to Hollister's high-price education. What would have happened to them, if he had not been bilingual?

Carl's watch showed 0500 hours and soon, the platoon would no longer have the benefit of darkness. This was an especially worrisome detail, because it still wasn't clear where they were in relation to friendly lines – or the enemy for that matter.

The sun revealed a dense fog but the wind had subsided, and the damp atmosphere clung close to the ground. Carl tried to remember the last time he had slept and became increasing aware of the aching fatigue over his entire body. Suddenly, there were voices towards the front of the file. Carl, Luther and Matthew all looked at one another but were soon relieved whey they heard Hollister was speaking English. Ashe came running down the foggy road and with his customary lack of elegance, directed, "All you pig-fuckers get forward- right now!"

It was an American patrol, and Hollister was talking to another very young lieutenant who seemed quite dismayed to learn that a platoon had been wandering around behind enemy lines for some 18 hours and was now rendering some wild story about the strength of the enemy that military intelligence had not developed.

Hollister kept saying, "I've got to get to G2! I've got to get to G2."

The patrol led the weary platoon into the village of Isola Bella, which was about halfway between Conca and Cisterna. It had been taken by a group of rangers the previous day when it had become apparent the assault on Cisterna would fail. Ironically, the rangers had bypassed the village and ended up attacking it from the rear.

As the fog began to lift, the platoon slowly walked down the narrow streets of the village. Everywhere there were medical personnel struggling with stretchers and loading wounded onto 2 ½ ton trucks for evacuation. There was frantic activity in a few buildings where field surgeons hovered over the critically wounded and appeared to be performing some sort of improvised surgery under the most primitive conditions.

The other lieutenant led the patrol back to his company area, and as Hollister reported to his company commander, he was agitated and impatient, making gestures with his arms and pointing back towards Cisterna. In a few moments, Hollister and the captain were in a jeep and speeding down the Cisterna-Anzio Road.

Sergeant Ashe led the platoon into a small, bombed-out building and with his normal vindictive disposition, undiminished by recent events, instructed, "You men get off your feet and start cleaning those weapons."

The men dropped to their knees and remained without motion for a few moments before beginning to sort out what ammunition they had left. They all nervously glanced around to see where Ashe had gone. Carl, Matthew and Luther broke down their M-1s into the 3 basic groups and began to curiously stare across the narrow street. They noticed a group of buildings containing quite a number of stretchers but saw no frenzied activity, so very much in evidence everywhere else within sight.

In a moment, Matthew asked, "What about them over there?"

Without looking up from his weapon, Luther responded, "They're all dead."

Carl and Matthew glared through the window, which was partially covered with what once must have been a sheer curtain and saw rows and rows of bodies. Some were covered with olive drab blankets, some were in canvas bags and some were just lying in the center of the building and not covered by anything. Even from that distance, they could see blood covered much of their uniforms and some were missing arms and legs. In a strange sort of way, they looked so peaceful, lying there in morbid serenity while the sights and sounds of men preparing for war prevailed as far as one could see.

The near unbelievable events of the past few days rushed through Carl's mind, and he began to think of some of the things he had said about Hollister and Ashe. He had never felt quite as he did at that precise instant, and it gradually began to occur to him what was happening. It was as through some baffling enigma had finally revealed itself, except the disclosure brought no thrill, no joy in finally comprehending something previously unknown. He was discordantly confronted with the cold reality that what he had felt was not only fear, it was not abhorrence of the brutality of war – it had been regret and stunning disappointment in seeing himself as he truly was.

After the weapons were cleaned, everyone in the platoon fell into a sound sleep until early in the afternoon when they were all awakened by a commotion outside the building. A thrashed ranger battalion had made its way from the east into the village, and it wasn't at all reassuring to learn the enemy was then on three sides of it.

The rangers barely had time to rearm before they were told to join a fresh infantry regiment and press forward in the continuing attack on Cisterna. The information the rangers had about the positions of the enemy was too valuable to permit them the rest they needed.

The units were forming just outside the village when there was the roar of airplanes overhead. The day was clear with only a few white, scattered clouds and several squadrons of B-26 Liberators could clearly be seen flying at low altitudes. They began to drop bombs that must have been intended to support of some other advancing unit. The units just outside the village began their advance in column formation just as artillery fire was massed on their objective.

The platoon sat up from their makeshift beds, made from packs and field jackets, and listened to the rumbling sound of destruction for about 30 minutes. Then, the artillery stopped and Sergeant Ashe said, "They must be at the final coordinating line," as he walked outside the building and