Gela, Sicily 0400 May 13, 1943
William gripped his rifle. The amphibious landing craft bucked up and down in the waves. The guns of the fleet were silent, as the hope was that the assault wave would catch the defenders by surprise. He swallowed down another bolus of vomit and shook his head. Another minute to the beach, and surprise was not being achieved.
Italian artillery was shelling the landing craft that were a few hundred yards behind Hotel company. Two of the barges were already breaking. A few men were in the water and trying to swim to shore after they had ditched their gear. More were waiting for rescue or death. Machine gunners were locked in a battle. Italian defenders were sending short bursts towards the front ramps of the landing craft, while Navy and Coastguards men were firing their heavy fifties right back at anything that looked like a defensive position.
He loosened the grip on his rifle. He would be the third or fourth rank of men out of the boat as soon as the ramp went down. Heavy lead slugs were flying overhead and then mortars started to land just upwind of the boat. Shrapnel pinged off the wooden hull and he could only hope for luck.
The ramp descended and even before it hit the ground, men started to run out. At least on shore, the infantrymen had a chance to trust their own skill instead of the laws of luck that were tilted against them. The first step was into eighteen inches of water, and the men clumped up briefly until the crush from the back moved the front forward and out. Two men were down before they reached the ground. A machine gun burst caught them and began to turn the white surf pink. Will had to ignore the cries of his friends. Forward was safety. Forward was hope.
He fired, and then fired again and again. Another clip went into the rifle and a moment later, more of his squad leapfrogged past him as everyone was trying to scramble up the beach. A mine exploded a few dozen yards to his right. A man’s legs became red mist. Shock silenced his screams. Soon the seven still functioning men of his squad were huddled behind a small fold between the land and the beach. The BAR man started to lay down fire against a machine gun nest and then the rifle grenades were being launched at the hard point.
Will checked the grenades on his belt. A moment later, he rose. Four other men were with him. He screamed as he sprinted as if he was taking the pigskin on a toss sweep with a pulling guard in front of him. His bayonet was high in the air until he was only twenty yards from the machine gun nest. One grenade, and then another were in the air before he started to move again. Three men were still moving with him as the crumpled explosions went off. Most were harmless, landing past the sandbags or placed in the grenade sump, but one killed two of the four defenders. The other two were stunned. It was only a moment, but the four American infantrymen seized the moment and clubbed, stabbed and shot the machine gunners before they could respond.
Up and down the beach, little pockets were being carved in the Italian defenses. Even as Will collected his breath and bandaged up a shrapnel scrape on his left arm, naval artillery started to arrive. USS Savannah and a pair of destroyers were flinging heavy shells that would make an Army corps artillery commander jealous for their weight and rapidity overhead against a strong point a quarter mile further inland. Two sips of water from his canteen and the squad started to advance as part of an impromptu platoon of other fragments that were becoming coherent in the chaos.