Pikermi Greece, July 22, 1943
A machine gun started to fire into the smoke. Mortars spat out high explosive shells on a small patch of ground on the elbow of a ledge overlooking the road between Athens and the beach where the 1st Greek Division had started to land an hour ago. Seven miles off shore, French light cruiser Gloire shifted her guns ever so slightly before shells arced skyward. A minute later, the Greek speaking Foreign Legionnaire called in a correction. The paratroopers waited, holding their rifles in their hand as the cacophony of the battle became ever louder. Two minutes later, the cruiser was on target. She began to fire for effect, twenty seven shells a minute on a stretch of land larger than most multi-field football complexes but smaller than the polo grounds. As the shells burst into the maelstrom of smoke, steel and stones richocheting into bunkers, sand bags and bodies, the wounded and dying began to cry out in Italian. The defenders had forced back a hasty attack by two disjointed companies of paratroopers before dawn. Now an almost complete battalion along with odds and sods of the other three battalions that had landed in the area around the town overnight was preparing for a deliberate attack. Once this hill could be taken, or at least the Italians pushed over the crest and out of sight of the road, the infantry divisions now landing four miles away could get out of the bottleneck that the jagged crags of Attica created.
Even as the French shells were ripping apart their native land, the Greek paratroopers started to scramble forward. A few Italian machine guns fired into the smoke at the spectral shapes some thought they saw or the bowel curling warcries that others heard. No Italian artillery was falling on the paratroopers, the wires had been cut an hour ago and the few forward observation posts had been taken by storm by little groups of paratroopers throughout the night. Any batteries firing on the hill would be firing blind and danger close. The paratroopers advanced, some dying back on the land that they had been driven from three years ago. But most fired a few shots, sprinted two dozen yards, finding cover, and then firing a few more shots as their compatriots advanced. An attacking platoon was destroyed in seconds as the X turret from Gloire fired long on her last salvo. Three six inch shells detonated in a tight cluster fifteen yards in front of the exposed men. It did not matter. As soon as the last shells landed, the entire battalion attacked in company wedges. The Italian defenders could see the human wave pick up speed only one hundred yards down the hill. They did not have enough time, their mine fields were not thick enough to winnow the rush, their wire had been smashed by the preliminary and supporting naval bombardment.
Forty minutes later, the hill was secured. The road to Athens was being wedged open.
A machine gun started to fire into the smoke. Mortars spat out high explosive shells on a small patch of ground on the elbow of a ledge overlooking the road between Athens and the beach where the 1st Greek Division had started to land an hour ago. Seven miles off shore, French light cruiser Gloire shifted her guns ever so slightly before shells arced skyward. A minute later, the Greek speaking Foreign Legionnaire called in a correction. The paratroopers waited, holding their rifles in their hand as the cacophony of the battle became ever louder. Two minutes later, the cruiser was on target. She began to fire for effect, twenty seven shells a minute on a stretch of land larger than most multi-field football complexes but smaller than the polo grounds. As the shells burst into the maelstrom of smoke, steel and stones richocheting into bunkers, sand bags and bodies, the wounded and dying began to cry out in Italian. The defenders had forced back a hasty attack by two disjointed companies of paratroopers before dawn. Now an almost complete battalion along with odds and sods of the other three battalions that had landed in the area around the town overnight was preparing for a deliberate attack. Once this hill could be taken, or at least the Italians pushed over the crest and out of sight of the road, the infantry divisions now landing four miles away could get out of the bottleneck that the jagged crags of Attica created.
Even as the French shells were ripping apart their native land, the Greek paratroopers started to scramble forward. A few Italian machine guns fired into the smoke at the spectral shapes some thought they saw or the bowel curling warcries that others heard. No Italian artillery was falling on the paratroopers, the wires had been cut an hour ago and the few forward observation posts had been taken by storm by little groups of paratroopers throughout the night. Any batteries firing on the hill would be firing blind and danger close. The paratroopers advanced, some dying back on the land that they had been driven from three years ago. But most fired a few shots, sprinted two dozen yards, finding cover, and then firing a few more shots as their compatriots advanced. An attacking platoon was destroyed in seconds as the X turret from Gloire fired long on her last salvo. Three six inch shells detonated in a tight cluster fifteen yards in front of the exposed men. It did not matter. As soon as the last shells landed, the entire battalion attacked in company wedges. The Italian defenders could see the human wave pick up speed only one hundred yards down the hill. They did not have enough time, their mine fields were not thick enough to winnow the rush, their wire had been smashed by the preliminary and supporting naval bombardment.
Forty minutes later, the hill was secured. The road to Athens was being wedged open.