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First Kill

A soldier's reaction after their first kill in war can range from an entire spectrum of emotion. The soldier could feel: satisfaction, sadness, anger, regret, indifference, nauseous, justified, loneliness, or callousness. For 21 year-old paratrooper Private First Class Boyd Oliver Travers, his reaction was pure confusion.

He was lying on his back on a dirt road in pitch black darkness of the midnight hour, shaking violently and panting wildly as he held his M1 Garand from the hip, the steel barrel still smoking from the fateful shot. The burning smell of cordite lingered in the air and the nighttime humidity wafted the odor into a distasteful stench. Yet Travers was oblivious to the smell. His chestnut eyes were adjusting to the dark, and were fixated in what was in front of him. Lying a few yards away from Travers, was the dead body of an Italian Blackshirt—with Travers' bullet in his skull.

Everything happened so fast that Travers thought it was a dream at first. But whenever he closed his eyes and opened them, he was still in the same spot holding the smoking rifle. This was no dream. He closed his eyes once again and tried to remember all that had happened.

This was the Invasion of Sicily also known as Operation Husky, the 10th of July 1943. Travers' Airborne Division—the 82nd Airborne—were flying into the dead of night to jump into Nazi held Sicily to fight off the Germans and Italians. But before they could fly above the island, the U.S. Navy below mistook the American C-47s for German planes, and opened fire on them. From his turbulent seat on the C-47, Travers could see plane after plane being shot from underneath, being engulfed in tremendous balls of fire before plummeting to the earth or the sea.

Soon after, his own plane was hit by the ships below and the left engine caught on fire. Everything became a blur to Travers. Men were screaming to get off, some men were lying dead from the flak piercing the hull of the plane, and the plane kept shaking and throwing the men from side to side. As the men rushed out of the plane once the green light lit up, Travers followed close behind to get out of the failing plane. Once he made it to the door, the constant and rigorous paratrooper training took over, and Travers jumped out of the plane without hesitation, without even thinking. But as Travers lied on the dirt road, through the constant excitement, he didn't even remember jumping out at all. The one thing he did remember was the sight of a seeing a C-47 with its right engine completely on fire plunging to the ground.

As Travers descended from the chaotic sky of flashing flak fire and burning planes, he gracefully landed in the middle of a large dirt road surrounded by shades of blackness that enveloped every ounce of light from the half-moon in the sky. But unbeknownst to Travers was that an Italian Blackshirt, who was strolling along a dirt road alone finishing his third bottle of wine, was no more than ten feet away from Travers when he dropped.

"Tu chi sei?!" The drunk Italian slurred in shock when he heard Travers drop right beside him.

Travers shuddered at the sudden phrase that came from behind him.

"Tu chi sei, dissi?" the Italian spoke louder, leaning his face in closer to distinguish what was in front of him.

Travers quickly spun around, realizing with sudden shock that the man behind him was speaking Italian. When he saw the man, the Blackshirt's dark olive grey uniform and cap blended in perfectly with the darkness, only leaving the Italian's pale white face visible. Just seeing the man's drooping face resembled that of a deceased spirit rising from the grave. Travers' jaw dropped and he let out a sudden shout of fear as he backed away from the supposed "phantom".

"Tu chi sei? Che cosa siete?!" the Blackshirt screamed, startled by the American's sudden shout.

The Italian unslung his Mauser rifle and fired it at the hip. If the man was sober, Private Travers would be no more. The sudden bright flash of light that erupted from the rifle barrel nearly blinded Travers who was adjusting to the dark. The sudden booming crack of the rifle from a few feet away nearly deafened Travers. But it was the Italian bullet, the bullet that missed Travers by inches that got Travers to think for his safety. And it was constantly drilled into every rifleman in the American Army—your rifle equals your safety.

Travers fell to his knees and began frantically patting the obscure ground to see where he had dropped his rifle. When he was on the plane, he had the rifle tightly slung over his shoulder. But after going through such crazed and turbulent events in the past five minutes, that rifle of his could have been at Hitler's personal estate for all Travers knew. He scrambled in the dirt to find that rifle. The Italian began to slowly and drunkenly chambered another round. Once Travers heard that bolt being pulled back, he searched his area a hell of a lot quicker.

Once his hand touched the wooden stock, Travers seized his rifle and flipped on his back and aimed it at the pale, swaying, lethargic face and pulled the trigger back in fear.

Nothing happened.

Travers panicked and repeatedly jerked the trigger back. Yet nothing happened.

Goddamn it! Why is it not firing?! Travers thought.

"Tu chi sei?!" The Italian finally chambered his round.

At that moment, Travers suddenly remembered that the safety lock to his M1 was still on. Travers quickly pushed it off with an indrawn hiss of breath and with the rifle at his hip and with him lying on his back; Travers let out a panicked noise and pulled back the trigger. The jolt of the rifle and the sudden flash of the muzzle were barely noticeable to the frightened American private, for his eyes were focused on the pale face that stood in front of him. The face suddenly snapped back with tiny hints of pink mist arising from the face as the bullet sailed through the drunken man's skull. The Italian fell back like a fallen tree and landed on his back with a thud. He was dead before he hit the ground.

After finally gathering his thoughts on what had transpired, the shaken Travers slowly stood to his feet and walked over to the corpse. It was too dark to see where exactly he shot him, all he knew was that he shot him somewhere in the face. But he quickly remembered what a World War One veteran told him about the rare cases of men being shot in the face and head and still surviving from such fatal wounds.

The wary Travers, with his rifle pointed at the body, extended his foot out and softly kicked the stiff body in its ribcage to see if he was still alive. The body did not move. Travers kicked a little harder. The body did not move. Not even a grunt or noise in pain. It was silent and still. This was definitely not a rare case.

He did it. Travers had finally killed a Fascist just like he told his friends he would once they got into combat. That word reverberated in his mind. "Friends."

Travers looked around the area, hoping to see a tan parachute lying around, wishing to hear signs of American forces converging on the rifle shot, begging to see his friends or anyone else from his stick. But he saw no one. He only saw the never-ending darkness that covered this island. He heard nothing except for the ominous repeated chirping of Sicilian crickets within the grass. Travers bit down on his bottom lip. This was not supposed to go as plan. If planned, everyone should have been with a 100 yards of each other. But this was clearly not the case.

Where was Reese? Travers thought to himself, He was right behind me…Where was Sergeant Dane? Where was Howe? Where was Little? Luckett got hit in the plane, so he shouldn't be here. But where was Captain King? He was leading the company and was on my plane. Hell, he was the jump master. I could have sworn the Lieutenant said he got hit, or did he? I don't know! Oh God…where is Lieutenant Carlton? Where was Toomes? Where were Wirth, Hawkins, McClain and Chenkov? Shit…I would settle with Sergeant Setzer if had too? Where are they?!

Travers grunted in frustration. "Where the hell is everybody?" he said to himself.

Travers spun around in circles trying to see through the darkness, trying to find any American near him. He tried to see anything that could give him the tiniest hope, but yet there was no one around him, no one except for the faceless Italian corpse beside him. Travers began to feel a rise of nausea in his stomach. He started gagging and cried out tiny little sobs. He planted the cold steel butt of his rifle to the dirt and took a knee, and began sobbing without tears. He finally came to the realization that him and every other paratrooper most likely misdropped and scattered all across the island. The nearest American could probably be miles away while the nearest Italian or German could be right behind him. It was his first time in war and he was behind enemy lines. And he was alone.