Hello Dear Readers!
Reports of the demise of this story continue to be incorrect; the writing team is gradually chipping away towards the finish.
This was brilliantly written entirely by the talented as a cross-over bridging the post WW2 world of Operation Eclipse with Pearl's story. If you want to read more of Colonel Harry Bedford's adventures written with the same level of talent and quality, then go give Operation Eclipse a read. Operation Eclipse has been a joy to read and an inspiration for Pearl in WW2.
(Chapter posted April 24, 2022)
"You want to attack a whole Kraut battalion, Captain?"
Caltanissetta, Sicily – July 12th, 1943
There was not much to see out in the countryside, not after staring at it for hours upon end. Cast in the dull gray tinge of the sun filtering through the thick overcast, the endless shrubland and rolling hills had soon grown tiring to the eye. The earth shifted underfoot uncomfortably, saturated from the summer squall which had blown in over the island yesterday. The only thing which stopped them from sinking to their ankles in the mud was the shallow dusting of jagged rocks across the top, which sent dull waves of pain up their legs with every step.
"What a bloody fookin' mess," groused Sergeant Morgan in his low Welsh lilt, for what seemed like the hundredth time in the past two days. His right arm came out, hand extended upwards in the signal to halt.
They had stopped in a shallow fold between two steep hills, right above the rim of a deep valley which stretched down to the southeast. At the bottom was a cluster of houses built from sun-bleached limestone, scattered haphazardly across the valley floor. A crude four-foot-high wooden fence ran around the perimeter of the settlement, and a rough circle of bare ground extended past it, where the grass and rocks had been cleared away to create a small island in the sea of rough heather. Visible just beyond the line of buildings was a two-lane road of rough concrete, the closest thing to a highway in these parts.
Pearl and James came forward to join Morgan, leaving Frank to watch the rear. As they walked up, the team leader was holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes.
"Add some sheep," remarked James, "and it's home sweet home for you, Sergeant."
Morgan ignored him, sweeping the valley for threats. He scowled, consulting a small compass in his palm before turning his attention back to the binoculars.
Reece Morgan was the textbook image of a non-commissioned officer, bull-necked and bald, with muscles seemingly hewn from stone. He had been in the Army for years before the war had broken out. A proud son of County Dyfed, he had done his share of the long-range raids in North Africa, but only here did he look comfortable, in the mud, damp, and cold.
Dropping to one knee, Pearl raised the Lee-Enfield up to her shoulder, not to fire a shot but to peer at the little village through its magnified scope. She frowned. James' comment had struck her. There was something clearly wrong with the picture.
"Anything the matter, love?" whispered James, out of Morgan's earshot. Without his own pair of binoculars, he resorted to shading his eyes with the palm of his hand and squinting down into the village.
"There aren't any sheep around."
"I was taking the piss out of Morgan," he murmured. "You know, Wales, sheep, mountains?"
Two more things confirmed her suspicions. First were the bare laundry lines, stretched across thin metal stakes hammered into the ground. Despite today being the first time without rain for days, there wasn't a single piece of hanging clothing in sight. What really sealed the deal, though, was a single door at the southern end of the settlement, invisible at this distance to anything but her sharp eyes. It had been left ajar, swinging forlornly in the light breeze. Somebody had left in a hurry.
"The place is abandoned," she said. "They can't have been gone for long."
"Why? No need to pack up and go. Fritz is ten miles up the road. As long as they let the Americans through without any trouble, they should be fine."
Pearl opened her mouth to respond, but the question didn't need her answer. A low rumble met their ears, growing louder with every second. Truck motors.
They were German, no doubt about it, every one painted with the black cross set on the white outline. More and more of them were lurching towards the village, belching thick diesel smoke as they churned deep tracks into the mud.
Pearl's count came to thirty-two. There was a whole enemy battalion down there.
~{0}~
Captain Harry Bedford would have been fine with the weather, had it not come with so many complications. In fact, the bitter wind and driving rain had nearly been a comforting reminder of home, a respite from the past few months he had spent preparing for this operation in the blistering Tunisian heat.
But the storm had scattered the division all across the island, rendering a focused push to their objectives impossible until the isolated groups could regroup and concentrate their force. Following the stark chaos of the jump, that could yet take several days. For now, his company was on its own.
If he couldn't press the enemy directly, Bedford was determined to at least carry out his secondary mission. Six miles to the southeast, the 1st Infantry Division had made a seaborne landing at Gela. Upon achieving their breakout, they were planning on a rapid drive inland. The road system was their only hope of achieving any kind of speedy advance through the rough terrain, and the paratroopers had been handed the task of keeping the routes open until the main force could pass through.
Around Bedford were gathered five men, four lieutenants and a sergeant drawn up in a semicircle on the prickly Sicilian heath. Together, they comprised the senior leadership of Fox Company. As he opened his map, they all leaned in closer to observe.
"Here's the situation, gentlemen. We're about ten klicks from Gela as the crow flies. Route 83 is about two klicks to our east, just past those hills over there." Bedford looked to the man on his left. Standing there was a lean young lieutenant with a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a thumb hooked in the sling of his submachine gun.
"Ryan, lead off with First Platoon. Second and Third will be to your left and right. Head bearing zero-nine-five and take us through that pass. Sergeant Fulton, make sure we have eyes on the high points at all times. There'll be a small village called Zubia Nuova to the front, down below in the valley. Route 83 is just beyond it. I'm betting on an enemy outpost in town. It's a good defensive position on the road. Once we get to the top, hold your platoons in position. I want a patrol sent out to scout ahead. Who'll do it?"
Lieutenant Paulsen raised his hand. "I can handle it, Cap."
"Have them report directly to me once they're back. The rest of you, get your men ready for an assault. We're going to take that village and secure it until the invasion force arrives. Questions?"
"None, sir," replied Lieutenant Ryan. The other four also shook their heads.
"Good." Bedford shut his map case with a snap. "Move out."
~{0}~
Sliding from the passenger seat of the Opel truck, Major Kleinfeld winced as he stretched his neck to work out a kink. The journey south had been a bumpy one, though the poor roads contributed only a fraction to his foul mood.
Kleinfeld was firmly convinced that the Italians couldn't tie their bootlaces without the help of the Wehrmacht. Unable to prevent the Americans from landing and establishing a beachhead, one of their esteemed generals had left the 208th Coastal Division, a reserve unit made up of old men armed with decrepit weapons, right in the path of the enemy advance.
Knowing they would be crushed by the tide of steel and firepower rushing north from the coast, the 208th's commander had appealed to Kleinfeld's regiment to send a delaying force, to buy him just enough time to pull his men into some semblance of a defensive position.
Four hours, he'd said. The battalion needed to stop the enemy for four hours after first contact, and that would be enough. Kleinfeld had no faith in the Italian general's ability even with the additional time, but the orders from Oberstleutnant Frömm were clear.
After consulting the maps and taking the advice of those who knew the lay of the land better, Kleinfeld had settled on the little village of Zubia Nuova as the place where he would hold the Americans off. A dispatch rider had been sent to the little Italian outpost already onsite, bringing orders to evacuate the locals, livestock and all. When the lead was flying, there was no use having them in the way.
At the closest point of approach, only a hundred or so meters separated the village from the two-lane highway to its front, providing cover for the battalion as they fired on anything moving up the road. Due to the rugged terrain all around, it would be difficult and time-consuming to either flank the position or bypass the valley altogether with any significant force. If the enemy wanted to exploit their inevitable breakthrough at Gela quickly, they'd have to pass straight through him.
Of course, Kleinfeld's position was far from impregnable. Once the enemy were able to bring their field guns into range, the battalion would be fish in a barrel for their artillery, and the Americans had an unfortunate habit of using it in liberal amounts. But he never intended to be in Zubia Nuova by then. They were just there to tie the advance down, inflict heavy casualties, and pull out as fast as possible once the minimum amount of time had elapsed.
All of his soldiers had now disembarked from the trucks, dragging their equipment along with them. The sergeants were doing a good job of getting them organized, and Kleinfeld felt no need to call out orders. He had thoroughly briefed the relevant people beforehand. Instead of lingering around the edge of the settlement to watch them prepare, he followed two of his staff officers towards the buildings. They were as good a place as any to establish his new command post.
~{0}~
"Look!" James hissed. His hand came down hard on Pearl's shoulder, and she hurriedly tore her eyes away from the scope. There was urgency in his voice, and that meant danger.
"What is it?"
From his station downhill, Frank waved frantically for attention. Once the others' gaze was upon him, he began hastily signaling with his hands. Contact to the rear. He held out a clenched fist, raising fingers one by one until he had put up three. Three hundred meters, closing fast.
Morgan beckoned for him to come over, and Frank scrambled up the slope. Together, the four of them dropped to their bellies and pushed themselves as low to the ground as possible, hoping fervently that the waist-high grass would break up their outlines well enough to avoid detection.
Whoever was coming up through the pass was covering the distance at a brisk pace. Less than two minutes after they had ducked into concealment, Pearl could make out the unmistakable crunch of dozens of boots pounding against the mud.
"How many?" Morgan muttered to Frank.
"I only caught a brief glimpse, Sergeant," he whispered back. "A platoon, maybe. Could be more, but I didn't see the rest of them."
The group of soldiers were now almost on top of them. Though the thick vegetation left her blind, Pearl could hear the rattle of loose gear jangling together, the metallic clinks of ammunition bouncing around loosely in boxes and magazines, the heavy breathing of men winded from their exertions.
"All right, First Platoon!" someone announced, directly over Pearl's head. "We'll be holding in position here for a bit. Stay low. Don't give the Krauts a silhouette to shoot at."
She had been expecting the guttural, invective-filled snarl of a German noncom, or even the broad tones of another Englishman. Instead, she was confronted by a voice from so close to home. The sharp Baltimore drawl was a shock to her ears, more from sheer familiarity than anything else. Flocks of people from Maryland made the short journey east to Beach City every summer, and their odd accent was well known to her. Instantly, she was back in Deedee's shop during those long, blazingly hot months, recounting her adventures to a fascinated audience.
The voice was coming even closer now, still addressing some unseen subordinate. On her elbows and knees, Pearl began to crawl away, but the going was slow. She slid furtively through the grass, more like a snail than a snake, trying not to make too much noise or visibly disturb the tangled scrub. But her attempts were futile. Walking upright, the man was moving too fast towards the lip of the valley to be avoided.
"...more of them than we expected, Sarge. The CO just told Paulsen to scratch his patrol. We're going to have to blow the assault off. I'm heading back to—Jesus!"
The man's foot snagged on Pearl's left leg, and he went tumbling off into the scrub brush with a painful thump. He reacted instinctively, hitting the ground in a practiced roll and coming up on one knee. He had a submachine gun shouldered, the muzzle aimed right at Pearl's forehead. The only thing that stood between a bullet and her gemstone was the bush hat jammed down tightly over her brow.
"Who the hell are you?" demanded the American, sharply jerking his weapon upwards as a gesture for her to stand. His young face was wide-eyed from surprise, but Pearl noticed that he'd removed his finger from the trigger. At least he wasn't jumpy enough to start spraying everything that moved.
"You okay up there, Lieutenant?" another voice asked, as more soldiers came into view. At least a dozen rifles were leveled in their direction as the men fanned out, searching for the disturbance. It was Pearl's first glimpse of American troops since the Army recruiting office in Empire City, an eternity in the past. The US Army had been in North Africa since the previous November, but her squad had been pulled off the line without meeting them. The SAS garrison at Sidi Barrani, where they had spent the past two months, was far away from where the other Allied troops had been based.
Pearl bent slowly, gently placing her own rifle down on the ground, then held out her hands to show that they were empty. "Special Air Service! Hold your fire!"
"Limeys? What the hell are you doing here?"
The young lieutenant's face twisted in confusion, and he reluctantly lowered his weapon. He fished into his breast pocket, pulling out a silvery lighter. He flicked it to life, touching the flame to the tip of the unlit cigarette in his mouth. Blowing out a meditative puff of smoke, he regarded Pearl suspiciously, then directed the same gaze to the other three members of her team as they came out of the grass.
He had clearly been in the field for a couple of days. His olive jump jacket was caked in mud, and his arms, exposed by the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, were similarly speckled in grime. The red unit patch on his left shoulder bore two stylized white "A''s within a blue circle. Above was a small banner with the word Airborne etched into it. A fellow paratrooper, which explained why he was as far from Allied lines as Pearl's squad were.
"Sergeant Morgan, 2nd SAS." the Welshman said grudgingly, brushing a few clods of dirt from the lap of his uniform. "I'm the leader of this team."
"Lieutenant Ryan. You're looking at Fox Company of the 505th, 82nd Airborne. At least, most of it." He shrugged. "I think you should be talking to the CO, really. He's right this way."
~{0}~
The way back down the hillside was lined with paratroopers, dozens of men in baggy airborne uniforms standing uneasily on both sides of the fold, which now served as a makeshift footpath. The Americans' muttered conversations rose in intensity as the squad filed past. Pearl knew that every eye was firmly set on her. They had probably never seen a woman since they'd left stateside, much less a uniformed one in a combat zone.
"Come on, make a hole. I don't have all fuckin' day." Lieutenant Ryan gestured impatiently at a gaggle of paratroopers, who had stopped in the middle of the path to gawk. They hurried to move aside, revealing two men a short distance further down the hill. Both appeared to be in deep discussion, with their backs to the arriving squad.
"...understrength Kraut battalion digging in down there, Cap. One reinforced company in the village itself. MGs covering the rear, right about here." One of the men, with a sergeant's stripes on his sleeve, tapped the map in the other's hands with a grimy fingernail. "There's one company south of the village, digging in along the road. The other's northeast of the village, up the road a ways."
"Strange decision to deploy them there," remarked the other thoughtfully. "They don't even have that wide a field of fire, or else they'd risk hitting their friends south of the village. He could've used the manpower to extend the line south, protect his flank. Unless..."
"...unless Jerry's only fighting a delaying action," Pearl finished. "He's slightly weakening his defense of the road in exchange for the assurance that his escape route stays open. If the company south gets flanked, they can always fall back to Zubia, with the other two companies covering their withdrawal. They have a bit of space to trade for time."
The two men stopped their perusal of the map and turned to stare. "Who the hell are you?" snapped the American sergeant.
"Captain, look what the cat dragged in." Lieutenant Ryan jabbed his thumb towards Pearl's bedraggled squad. "Pack of Limeys, sir. Say they're from the 2nd SAS."
Captain Bedford was older than Pearl had anticipated. He was a short and wiry man, clean-shaven while most of his subordinates sported two or three days' worth of stubble. Though not quite the roughened, craggy campaigner that Morgan or Mad Jack Churchill were, he was clearly in his early thirties, around a decade older than the callow boys under his command.
"That will be all, Sergeant Henson," he said to the man next to him. "On your way back, find Sergeant Fulton and Lieutenant Paulsen and have them report to me."
Once the sergeant had gone, Bedford stood there in silence for a moment. His dark eyes shifted from Morgan to James and Frank, before settling briefly on Pearl. His eyebrows went up, but he gave no further sign of surprise.
"You're a long way from Syracuse, Sergeant," he finally said to Morgan.
"We weren't bound there, Captain. We were going north to drop behind enemy lines. Command wanted us to stir up some trouble in their rear areas."
Unwilling to explain any further, Morgan prodded Pearl forward to continue on in his stead.
"Corporal Pearl, sir. The storm caught us pretty badly. Our aircraft went well off course, and we landed so far away from our objectives that we ended up in the Seventh Army's zone instead of our own. We lost all of our radios and most of our munitions and food in the drop, and our maps only covered General Montgomery's sector. Sergeant Morgan made the decision to abort our mission and head southwest to the coast."
"Special Air Service, you say?" Bedford mused.
"That would be correct, Captain."
Bedford raised his wrist to consult his watch, then met Pearl's eyes again. "Spearheads of the 1st Infantry will be moving up that road in a few hours. If the Germans are given the chance to dig in, a lot of men are going to die. We have to catch them right now, while they're still vulnerable. That village is the key. They've anchored their defense on it. We take it, we can fire up and down their line and force them to abandon the road."
"You want to attack a whole Kraut battalion, Captain?" sputtered Ryan.
"I want to attack a Kraut company, Lieutenant. One that isn't expecting us and is facing the wrong way. If we move fast enough, we can take them out before they even know what hit them. But we need surprise. The problem is, the Germans probably have an OP up there somewhere." Bedford's pointing hand swept the line of hills on the opposite side of the valley. "A few men dug in with binocs and a radio, with a line to their HQ and their fire support. If they spot us, they can bring the whole weight of the battalion down on us."
Pearl and James exchanged a glance. It was clear what Bedford was getting at, but they had little choice in the matter. They could sneak away again, as they had done so many times in the past two days, slip around the valley and disappear into the hills to continue their plodding journey southwest. But they had done their share of running away. It was time to fight.
"Gentlemen, I'm press-ganging you," said Bedford, with only a hint of irony. "Find that OP and eliminate it before they can get the word out. I know the reputation that you SAS boys have. If anyone can do it, you can."
Sergeant Morgan gave nothing more than a taciturn nod. For all his sourness, his pride wouldn't allow him to slink off to the coast with his tail between his legs, having achieved nothing of note.
Frank shrugged. "If we're going to throw ourselves on the Yanks' charity at Gela, might as well help earn our keep."
~{0}~
The trucks which had brought Kleinfeld and his battalion to this quaint little village had long gone, rumbling off back inland as soon as the supplies had been unloaded. Trucks were a precious commodity these days, too valuable to be risked in combat. So many had already been lost in those final, miserable months in Africa.
Kleinfeld scowled. Vehicles were hardly the most precious thing which had been abandoned in that Saharan dust. His unit had fought nearly to the end in Tunisia, evacuating in March from the port of Gabes as the British and American pincers closed in from the north and south. He had left nearly a third of his men, dead, wounded, and captured. Sicily was supposed to have been a place for recuperation and refit, but in the four months since he'd arrived, his losses had yet to be replenished.
So he'd make do with what he had. Three infantry companies instead of four. Boots instead of half-tracks to take them from the battlefield. Wine bottles filled with gasoline instead of anti-tank guns.
"Any report from the observers?" Kleinfeld asked the radio operator. The young man's face scrunched up in concentration as he fiddled with the antenna of his apparatus, which sat on the sill of the second-floor window.
"They have fully dug in now, Herr Major. No enemy activity spotted. The highway is clear so far."
"Tell them I want full concentration, all three hundred sixty degrees. Not just eyes on the highway."
"You worry about the fallschirmjäger?" guessed Zwayer, the battalion executive officer, from behind the cloud of his cigarette smoke. He sat on the stripped mattress of the farmer who had abandoned the house. "Are they not all on the opposite side of Gela?"
"With that damned storm, they could have landed anywhere. I don't want stragglers stumbling across us and giving our position away."
"I can have a patrol made up." Zwayer leaned forward, glad to have come up with an idea to distract himself from the waiting game. "Have them sweep north. Maybe they can catch anyone who's slipped under the beobachtungsposten's nose."
"Round up who you can spare from the command section. Kunze should be free to lead it, I think. Have them moving in fifteen minutes."
~{0}~
Bedford had never seen so many men in one place be so quiet. As soon as word had filtered down of that probable German observation post, the few muttered conversations had died down into a cold silence—hardly necessary; if the enemy were in earshot, the company would've been discovered already. Bar the sentries posted to the company's rear and flanks, few even dared standing straight for fear of giving away their positions to the enemy observers. Most crouched close to the dirt, white-knuckled hands clutching their weapons close.
Fox Company's leadership had reconvened on the path. The same four young men were huddled around Bedford, awaiting orders as they had done before. But the mood had shifted. Earlier, the wariness had been rehearsed, almost routine after two nights and days behind enemy lines. Now, it had given way to pale-faced, tight-lipped fear.
"We're assaulting the village," said Bedford, in as neutral a tone as he could muster. "Three columns. Ryan, take First Platoon down the far right. Paulsen, you go left. Third Platoon goes with me down the middle. Speed is everything here. The Germans to our north will have us in enfilade the entire way down to the village. We don't have the time or the firepower to try bounding across the open. Get in close before they can bring up more machine guns and zero us with their mortars."
"How about me, sir?" ventured Lieutenant Dorsey. Bedford had just commandeered his platoon without a second thought.
"You're staying here."
"Sir?" The platoon leader was startled.
"I'm leaving our MGs and mortars to you. Place the MGs between our columns and lay down a base of fire. Once you see us reach the village, send them up, but stay behind with the mortars. I want you to hammer those Germans to the north. The Brits will be in contact, so listen to their corrections. Once you're bracketed in, have those tubes firing as fast as possible. Pour your canteens on them, piss on them, whatever it takes, but keep those rounds coming."
Bedford turned back to the other two lieutenants. "Have your men fix bayonets, and keep grenades in easy reach. We're going house to house. I want at least two grenades in through the windows before they kick the door in. We clear the village and establish a defensive perimeter. We lay fire along their line, push them out of the valley, and keep the road open."
The orders were received soberly. Without another word, the three lieutenants broke from the huddle to give their own commands to their men. Even the normal jaunt in Ryan's step was gone as he slowly treaded over to where his platoon awaited him.
It was all down to those British troopers now, somewhere in that valley. They were the difference between a fighting chance and certain failure.
~{0}~
If the Americans thought that they had deserted, Pearl wouldn't have faulted them. The squad had descended the hillside from their meeting point with Bedford, embarking on a circuitous route north along the fringe of the valley. It had placed them well under the field of view of any enemy eyes, but meant that the Americans had lost visual contact with them some while ago.
The northward march was simple enough. Even with the necessary precautions, scanning every slope and crest for any unexpected signs of the enemy, they were able to make good time. For over a kilometer they advanced parallel to Highway 83, hidden behind the high ground along their right. Then Morgan called for another halt, beckoning Pearl over. Frank and James stayed behind, taking up watch positions. They had arrived at the base of a low hillock, which roughly marked the northern extent of the valley.
As Pearl came up, Morgan was unfolding the map of the valley, one of the things which the Americans had furnished them with. They had also been handed a spare radio, a small platoon-level set which could be carried in one hand. While crude and relatively short-ranged, it was far less of a burden than the bulky backpack device they'd lost during the jump. Bedford had even provided them with two grenades and a half-pound block of TNT each, though Pearl deeply hoped that they wouldn't need them.
"Where d'you reckon?" Morgan rasped, studying the map.
"Here, Sergeant." Pearl's finger came down on a hill on the opposite side of the valley, about a kilometer and a half from where they stood as the crow flew. "It's the tallest one in the area. If the map is accurate, it should give them an excellent view in all directions, especially down the highway. That's a five- or six-kilometer sightline to the south."
"Plenty of warning for when the Yanks arrive from Gela." Morgan nodded in understanding. It made tactical sense. "Anyway, if their OP's not there, it's as good a vantage point as any to try and get a visual on it."
Morgan traced a rudimentary course. From here, they would head east, up the slope and back down into the valley. From there, they would need to cross the highway before they could even get the base of the hill which was their target. It would be a complicated approach. They had to stick closely to the thicker vegetation of the valley for concealment, meaning that the road crossing would need to be made uncomfortably close to the German company holding their battalion's rear.
"Let's move." Morgan tucked away the map, knotted up a stray lace, and resumed the march. Pearl waited for him to reach the appropriate distance at the front of the little squad before setting off after him. Seeing that the little break was over, James and Frank fell into line behind them.
The crest of the hillock marked the end of the easy part. Morgan lowered himself into a crouch, knees bent and shoulders hunched forward to keep his head bowed under the level of the grasstop, arms and elbows tucked in to minimize his outline. Pearl mimicked his stance, glancing back to make sure James and Frank had followed suit.
They pushed through the tall grass with slow, deliberate strides. Even over long distances, the human eye was adept at catching abrupt movements. Pearl focused her attention on the ground beneath her feet, searching for a secure spot to plant her boots. A slip on the wet dirt could prove fatal.
On the tenth step, they stopped completely, watching for any indication that they had been spotted. Seeing none, they plodded on, still keeping to the uncomfortable position. It was awkward even for her to hold, and must have been agony on the knees and calves of the three men struggling to maintain it while moving downhill. Behind her, Frank muttered a pained oath as his soles dug into the loose earth.
It took them a full ten minutes to work their way back down into the valley and over to the shoulder of the road. Morgan crooked his finger to Pearl, motioning for her to take point. She advanced past him, kneeling at the very border between the grass and the cleared concrete of the road. James and Frank split up and pushed up ahead of Morgan, so that they were slightly behind and to either side of her.
Pearl looked up and down the road. Her hand instinctively went to the stock of the rifle, still slung by her side. There they were, two hundred meters to the south. Men in green-gray uniforms, excavating foxholes and other fighting positions along the valley floor. About thirty of them stood in view all told, from what seemed to be the tail-end platoon of their company.
They were preoccupied with the task of digging in. The flying clumps of soil told her of hurried shovelwork, while the rest of the platoon scurried about the worksite lugging weapons, ammunition, and other equipment. If there was ever a time to cross, it was now.
She retreated a step from the roadside. Morgan stepped towards her, closing to just within hearing range.
"Well?" the sergeant asked.
"Fritz," whispered Pearl. "Platoon strength, two hundred meters south. They're not looking our way."
"You'd better be right." Catching James and Frank's attention, Morgan pointed to a spot on the opposite side of the road for them to advance towards.
Pearl heard the grass rustle as the two straightened up. Then they emerged onto the road, taking long, purposeful strides across the pavement. For one agonizing moment, they stood in full view to everyone in the valley. If someone from that enemy platoon decided to look north with any particular scrutiny, if one man up at that outpost so much as casually glanced in the direction of the road, they were in trouble.
Frank and James ducked into the foliage on the other side. A quick wave told Pearl and Morgan that the opposite shoulder of the road was clear. Their turn to cross.
Her first step out of cover felt horribly exposed, as if the whole world were watching her. Was this how humans felt when they were naked? Her footsteps on the concrete were much too loud, much too slow. She fought against the temptation to tap into her gem. This was the one time where a quick burst of speed wouldn't help her.
Pearl dropped down into the dirt. The heavier crunch of Morgan landing softly on the ground to her left told her that the squad leader was across as well. She lay there, feeling the moisture creep into the front of her uniform jacket as she strained to listen for danger. If someone had seen them, the squad would be about to welcome a whole lot of unwanted attention.
But there were no shouts of alarm. No machine guns opened up, no mortar shells shrieked in from the sky. She heard only for the scrape of spades against the rough ground, and the low rumble of officers and NCOs hustling along their men's preparations. They were in the clear. For now.
~{0}~
The attack began to take shape. The company's platoons separated into three assault groups, lining up along the slope of the hill spaced about two hundred meters apart. The ones taking the left and right flanks each had about thirty men. The column in the middle had exactly forty-four, mainly from Third Platoon, but reinforced by the members of Fox's headquarters section.
To the left and right of this line, and in the spaces between the groups, were four MG teams. Three men each, armed with a thirty-caliber medium machine gun. On the go signal, they would drag their weapons up the slope to the crest of the hill and begin firing down on the village to cover the rest of the company's advance. Bedford had placed two more such teams on the company's north flank, with orders to shoot not at the village, but up the road at the enemy unit holding their battalion's escape route. While he didn't expect two MGs to silence a whole company, every German they could force to take cover was one fewer person who could fire upon the vulnerable assault group as they crossed open ground.
To help the machine guns pin down the enemy to the north was Fox's mortar section, situated at the very rear of the company. Bedford's sole fire support consisted of three sixty-millimeter tubes, with a veritable pile of shells heaped in easy reach for the crewmen. Unlike the rest of the company, they would not move from that spot, relying on Lieutenant Dorsey to relay the aim corrections sent by the SAS team.
The men in the assault groups began shedding equipment. Ammunition belts and mortar rounds, evenly parceled out across the company for more efficient transport, were now deposited with the MG and mortar crews. Anything else that wasn't of immediate use was dropped. Entrenching tools, flashlights, spare ration tins, and gas masks all littered the dirt. If they succeeded, they could always come back for their gear. If they failed, they wouldn't need it anymore. For now, every extra pound would only slow them down, and even a second's hesitation could spell the difference between life and death.
Bedford unbuckled the canvas bag holding his own gas mask, letting it fall to the ground. Other than that, he didn't have much else to drop. The last of his ration cans were gone, emptied for breakfast and tossed in a pasture ten miles back. He couldn't risk parting with his map case and binoculars. The same went for the half-filled canteen belted to his hip. If they were going to be in combat for any longer than an hour, water could be nearly as vital as ammunition.
That still left him with nearly forty pounds of gear. His automatic rifle, a pig of a weapon four feet long, took up half the weight. The nine magazines he carried for it accounted for fifteen more pounds, with the rest made up by his sidearm and the two grenades strapped to his combat webbing. With all the added weight, he would be slow out there. His life depended as much on the ability of the company's machine guns and mortars to stifle the enemy return fire as it did his own two legs.
Over by the head of his column, Lieutenant Ryan gave Bedford a small nod. First Platoon was set, which meant that the whole company was ready to go. All that was left was for him to give the order.
The radioman by Bedford's side lifted the handset to his ear. A moment later, he shook his head. "Sir, I've got nothing from the British yet. Should I try and raise them?"
"No. Maintain radio silence." Transmitting now would only run the risk of alerting the Germans, which could endanger the SAS men as much as his own. The only option was to wait for the team to confirm the success of the mission themselves, and that meant holding up the attack until the British got in contact.
"How long do you want to give 'em, Captain?" Sergeant Fulton asked. Frowning, he threw the sling of his rifle over his shoulder with an agitated swing of his arm. With his free hand, he pointed in the direction of the valley. "I don't think we can wait forever, sir. The way I see it, the longer we sit around, the more likely the Krauts figure out we're here."
Bedford glanced at his watch. 11:36. The British commando team had been gone for over an hour. "I don't want to put a time limit on them, First Sergeant. They'll have to find that OP first before they can take it out."
"And if the Krauts find us before then, sir?"
"All their firepower is directed towards that road. It'll take them time to shift it our way. In the meanwhile, we cut loose with everything we have, hit their line with mortars and MGs. Then when Dorsey exhausts his mortar rounds, we bound southward, get over that hill, and break contact. We can be gone before they know what hit them." With an hour's rest on their legs and much of their combat load expended, Bedford knew that his paratroopers would be able to withdraw faster than the Germans could hope to give chase. "They can't pursue us far, or else they'll risk leaving behind the road they're supposed to guard. We head south until we find friendlies, and we warn them about what we found here."
The implication remained unspoken. Bloodied or not, the Germans would still hold the valley. By the time reinforcements got here, they would be up against a fully alerted enemy who was properly dug in. Forcing a breakthrough would take casualties, dozens at best. More realistically, hundreds.
"Then they'd better not—" began Fulton, but he cut himself off. He had seen something behind Bedford.
Bedford followed his eyes. There was a lone figure making a beeline towards them, a young private awkwardly clasping the stock of his rifle in his hands as he jogged in their direction. His helmet was askew, unbuckled chin straps swaying in the breeze. One of the company's sentries, by the looks of it. He had come from the south, where he had been posted on the company's right flank.
The sentry skidded to a halt in front of them, breathing heavily. "Activity in the village, sir," he gasped. "I saw fifteen, twenty of them Krauts moving out."
"What direction, Maddox?" Bedford pressed. "Are they headed for us?"
"Not straight for us, no, sir. They're moving about south of west." The sentry pointed back in the direction from which he came, indicating the high ground along the rim of the valley, to the right of the company's position. "Looks like they're making for those hills there, sir."
Bedford's first thought was of discovery, but he quickly banished it. Too few of them. If the Germans knew where they were, they would have sent at least a company, and their mortars would be pounding his position as they spoke. No, it had to be a patrol. The Germans were bound to probe their perimeter at some point.
"Does it look like an alarm was sent out, Private?" he pressed, just to make sure. "Are they alert? Searching for us?"
Maddox's forehead wrinkled in concentration as he strained to glean something from the few glimpses he had caught. "I don't think so, sir. None of them looked keen about moving out. Heads down, packs weighing heavy on their shoulders. Way I figure, looks like their CO sent them for another jerkoff march in the hills."
Fulton raised an eyebrow at Maddox, glancing from him to Bedford and back. Remembering who he was speaking to, the private grimaced. "Beg pardon, sir."
"What do they have for weapons?" Bedford pressed.
"A couple submachine guns, sir. The rest of them have rifles."
"That's all we need to hear. You're dismissed, Private."
"Get back over there, kid," ordered Fulton. "Keep your eyes on them, but make sure they don't catch sight of you. We'll be there shortly."
Soon Maddox was a distant silhouette, retreating back south. Fulton watched him go, shaking his head.
"A goddamn patrol on our flank," he growled. "If we stay, they find us. If we leave, they're standing on our evasion route. Either way, we have to get rid of them. What do you want to do, Captain?"
"Gather up the troopers from HQ." Bedford pointed over to the central assault column waiting on the slope, where the members of Fox Company's headquarters section had mingled with those of Third Platoon. "That gives you fourteen men. Head over to the south side and set up an ambush. When that patrol comes up our right flank, I want you to take them out."
"The element of surprise goes the moment we fire our first shot, sir. Does this mean we're pulling out?"
With every passing moment, the chance to catch the Germans cold was trickling away. But it was not fully gone. As long as the possibility still existed, Bedford knew he couldn't give it up.
"If I don't receive word that the German OP's down by the time we open fire on that patrol," he decided, "then we execute our withdrawal plan and be gone from this place. But if those SAS boys come through, we better make it count."
~{0}~
The last hundred meters of the squad's approach came in a low, energy-sapping crawl, clawing upslope on their elbows and knees, bellies down flat against the ground. The mud was everywhere now, clogged in their eyes and mouths, clotted in their hair, hardening slowly between their knuckles and under their fingernails. The only part of them free from the grime were their rifles, safely cradled against their upper arms to keep them clean and ready to fire.
The crest of the hill was scarcely an arm's length away when Pearl heard the murmur of speech ahead. A German voice, low and businesslike. She stiffened, fully lowering herself to the dirt. To her left, Morgan froze. He'd heard it too.
The voice spoke too fast for her limited German to understand, but the tone was hushed, without urgency or agitation. Not the sort of sound a man would make if he had known there were enemy troops almost literally within spitting distance. It sounded more like a casual remark...or a routine report.
Carefully, Pearl eased her head just above the grass. The first thing she saw, standing at the top of the hill, was a tent, a ramshackle lean-to built from a bundle of camouflage netting thrown over a few stakes hammered into the ground. The open side of the shelter was facing her, allowing her to see what lay inside: A radio set and a map case, stacked on top of a wooden ammunition box serving temporarily as a plinth. Leaning against this crude arrangement were two rifles, a canteen, and an open drawstring bag of ration cans.
The radio wire was stretched out, coiling around the corner of the tent. Above and behind the structure, Pearl could see the bowed head of a man, leaning over to speak into the handset. He was the source of the words she'd overheard. The squad had found the observation post.
She inched forward, gingerly brushing aside the blades of grass for a better view. Besides the man on the radio, she could see three more observers spread out across the hilltop. One of them stood on the west side of the position, stationed just where the slope flattened out and met level ground. As Pearl watched on, the observer winced, idly massaging his aching neck with one hand.
His ignorance was nearly amusing. There he waited, shuffling from foot to foot as he tried to concentrate on his duty, oblivious to the fact that there were over a hundred paratroopers right under his nose and a team of SAS raiders lurking in the grass not fifty feet away.
The other three were positioned further away from the squad, one on the east fringe of the post, and the last two on the far side of the hilltop. They were watching the southern approach, where the American advance was expected to come. Even from where she was, Pearl could see a long way down the narrow, winding highway. With two pairs of eyes trained in that direction, the Germans in the valley below would have ample warning.
Morgan delivered his orders in a few quick hand signals. He and Frank would circle left to eliminate the one by the tent and the one to the east. James would move right to take out the one watching the west, leaving the two across the way as Pearl's marks.
She stuck close to James. His target was the closest, and needed to be eliminated first before the others could make their move. They dragged themselves arm over arm in the mud, inching ever closer. Fifteen feet...ten...nine...eight.
The observer had finished working at the ache in his neck. Sourly muttering a curse, he let his arms fall to his sides, looking about as content as anyone stuck on extended guard duty with a bonus of added eyestrain would be.
Pearl could feel James tense up. He let out a deep breath, barely audible over the scratch of his fighting knife being loosed from its scabbard. Frank and Morgan had to be in position now, waiting for them to make their move.
James sprang, swallowing up the distance in one bound. The observer caught the flash of movement and stumbled backwards, instinctively recoiling from his assailant. He fumbled for his weapon, but James was too quick for him, swinging the razor-sharp blade around in one vicious thrust which caught the German through the side of the neck.
Pearl glanced to her left. The single figure silhouetted against the landscape had disappeared. The swaying grass where his feet had been was the only trace of his existence. Her eyes locked onto the two observers standing on the far side, still unaware that they were under attack. She tapped into her Gem, feeling renewed energy course through her weary system.
The man on the radio dropped the handset as Pearl dashed past his tent, a brown-uniformed blur accelerating across the hilltop. He stooped to grab the rifle leaning against the plinth, but his hand never got there. A brawny forearm wrapped around his throat from behind, choking out the rising yell as Morgan pounded the blade through his chest, once, twice, thrice.
Pearl's first target didn't know what hit him. He barely had enough time to turn halfway towards her when the knife went in just under the skirt of his steel helmet. She felt his neck bones crack and buckle as she drove further through the brain stem, pushing down to the hilt. The German went limp, dead before he could register the pain.
She withdrew the knife, letting the man slide to the ground. The other observer was still bringing his rifle up when she stepped inside the arc of the swinging barrel and buried the blade between his ribs.
Her other hand closed over his mouth, muffling the roar of pain. Blood gushed from the wound, threatening to loosen her grip, but she closed her fingers tight on the handle and twisted. Jolts shot up her arm as she grated bone. The man's heart strained to beat, ripping itself apart against the honed edge.
The first attempt to retrieve the knife failed. Pearl had pushed it in too deep, and her grip failed on the slippery handle. Straining, she heard the snap of a damaged rib giving way as the weapon finally began to slide free. She might as well not have bothered. The alloyed steel was bent double, the point curled towards the flat of the blade. One of the edges had spread out, completely blunted. Broken, useless.
"That's all of them?" Morgan's voice. They were the first words any of them had spoken aloud in half an hour. "Wilson, signal the Yanks."
"Yeah, Sergeant." Frank extended the antenna of the set. "Fox Six, Fox Six, Brimstone. Do you read?"
"We read you, over," crackled the reply.
"The OP is down. Say again, the OP is—oh, shit!"
Fifty feet to Pearl's left, a lone German soldier strolled over the crest of the hill, whistling a cheery tune. He hitched his trousers up to his hips and buckled his belt. On his face was the coarse satisfaction of a man who had just relieved himself. He had been down the opposite slope when the squad had arrived; they'd missed him completely.
The sixth observer froze, taking in the scene. His squadmates splayed on the grass, hacked and slashed to death. Four hunched and frenzied shapes in British uniforms, coated in dirt and spatters of blood. He unslung his rifle, working the bolt.
"Halt! Halt!" he cried. Sweat had beaded on his forehead, and his tired face had immediately gone taut. "Nicht bewegen! Hande hoch!"
Pearl threw down the broken knife and charged, bursting forward as yet more energy surged through her limbs. Morgan grabbed Frank, dragging him to the ground to present a smaller target. The radio slipped from his hands, sliding just out of reach.
James dove for his own rifle, but Pearl knew he was too late. He had only brought it halfway up when the German shouldered his weapon. Seeing James as the immediate threat, the German lined up his sights, and his finger settled on the trigger.
Pearl's fist crashed into the base of the observer's throat. His head jerked forward from the fierce blow. The shot cracked harmlessly into the sky, reverberating out across the valley. He staggered back, trying to maintain his footing, but toppled over and landed on his back in the grass.
Twisting, the observer bounded towards his fallen weapon, but pulled up short. His hands went to his throat, clawing at the purplish bruise forming above his sternum. He went down again in a heap, fingers still tearing at the skin.
"What's he doing?" James jumped to his feet, advancing carefully with his rifle still leveled. "What the hell's wrong with him?"
Pearl overtook him, jogging towards the observer. With every second, she felt the energy bleeding off, replaced by the old aches creeping in. By the time she got to the man's side, her feet felt as if they were made of stone.
The German had drawn his knees up to his chest, curling up into fetal position. His nails had scratched red welts into the area around the bruise, breaking skin. His cheeks were beginning to turn blue, and bloody froth bubbled at his lips. A convulsion shook his body, forcing more red-tinged spittle from his mouth.
The dark bruise, still festering; the head, jutting out at a strange angle. The slow, excruciating asphyxiation. It could only mean one thing: she had tapped too deeply into her powers, condemning the man to an agonizing death. "I…I think I broke his trachea."
"Christ," gasped James. "Nobody deserves to die like that. We've got to finish him off. It's the only thing to do."
Pearl gripped her rifle. She had inflicted the pain. It was her responsibility to give the man relief. "I'll do it."
"Be quick about it." Morgan drew his knife across the uniform of the dead man beside him, returning it to his scabbard. "We can't stay here. The Jerries must've heard the shot. They've got to come up and check. Bedford can wait, we need to find another hideout. Appleby, rig that radio with TNT and fuze it for ten."
"On it, Sergeant." Grateful for the chance to look away from the writhing man, James held out his palm, collecting Frank and Morgan's TNT sticks. As he hurried off towards the tent, Morgan yanked the pin from a grenade. Rolling over the limp corpse beside him, the squad leader kicked a small hole into the dirt with his boot and placed the grenade in the cavity sideways. He dragged the body back across, letting it rest on the safety handle. When the Germans came up here, they would be in for more than one nasty surprise.
A shot echoed from across the valley, followed by three more. Then the opposite hillside erupted in a volley of gunfire, rapid rifle shots mixing with the sustained rattle of the paratroopers' Brownings. An unmistakable roar rose to greet them, a German machine gun nest spraying yellow tracers uphill. The battle had begun.
"Did not copy last, Brimstone," squawked the American set. The voice was nearly yelling now, straining to be heard over the fire. "Did you say that the OP is down?"
"It's gone, Fox Six." Our position is compromised. We're displacing to find a better lookout position. We'll be back on the line presently. Brimstone out."
Only one thing left to do. Pearl flipped off the safety catch of her Lee-Enfield, gently pressing the muzzle to the dying man's forehead. The bulging eyes met hers, wide and panicked. With trembling fingers, he reached out inch by inch until they met the wooden stock. He was trying to push the barrel away.
Another choking noise burst from the man's throat. His blued lips were moving, straining to form words. They could have been a cry for help, a plea for mercy, a curse, but without air, they would never leave his mouth.
Pearl brushed aside the man's weak grasp on her rifle and squeezed the trigger. The man's head sagged to the ground, and the outstretched arm went limp.
With one last glance at the dead observer, she slung her rifle and took off after the other three, retreating back off the hilltop. Behind her, the roar of the battle was building to a crescendo.
Rodsantos put together a fantastic map of the battlefield that can be viewed at : imgur dot com / a / KsXS0FM (the Archive of Our Own (Ao3) site has a working link.
History Notes
Operation Husky: Allied invasion of Sicily: July 9th to 13 August 1943
The allied invasion of Sicily with the goal of knocking Italy out of the war and as part of the preparations for the invasion of Southern France. The scale of the invasion was massive with the Allied powers bringing overwhelming personnel, tanks, guns, aircraft and bombardment ships. Sicily was a hard fought battle but wasn't decisive in that the Germans powers were able to withdraw the majority of their troops and equipment to fight another day.
S.A.S Operation Chestnut 12 July 1943
SAS operatives parachuted into northern Sicily with the goal of disrupting communications, transport routes, and enemy operations. During the drop the radios were damaged and much of the supplies were lost before the mission could even begin. With the mission compromised due to the loss of equipment, the S.A.S teams did their best to disrupt the enemy while making their way back to friendly lines. In this chapter, one of those actions was to assist Bedford.
Zubia Nuova
A small village near the Southern end of the island of Sicily. Its located about half way between the landing areas of Patton's was landing with the American 7th Army and about 30 miles West of where Montgomery was landing. The terrain is made up of farm land, fields, low hills with one of the major land routes cutting through its center making it a prime choke point.