Sicily invasion diary

[DREDIOCK]

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This story originally appeared in Stars and Stripes on July 17, 1943.
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Sicily invasion diary

Axis planes, armor give Yanks very warm welcome

By James A. Burchard, Stars and Stripes

The diary on this page, written by James A. Burchard, arrived yesterday morning by plane from Sicily in the form of 16 closely typewritten pages. Because of space limitations it had to be pared down considerably.

MONDAY, JULY 5

This is my birthday, and I commemorate it by boarding the good ship, 69, known as "Lizzie" to its crew. I don't know where I'm going, or when, but I do know why. It's the invasion — the opening of the second front.

There are more than 1000 soldiers aboard our ship alone, infantry, chemical warfare, engineer, medical and field artillery units. All wear battle dress of olive drab, and all are plenty hot and sticky. They look over the ship, admiring the 20 and 40 mm. and three-inch guns. Spirit is high. Card games spring into life. One group gathers about a hillbilly who is extracting lively jigs from a violin. Some 60 percent of these men are veterans of the Tunisian campaign.

No pets may be brought aboard according to orders. But a couple of small dogs are hustled into the hold, not to reappear until the ship is underway. I stow my gear in the cabin of Commander Wilbur Wiedman, of Summit, N. J., who obligingly offers to share his quarters and his writing desk. Real ham for dinner. Life belts are issued, and there is an alert at 2240. But no enemy planes appear.

TUESDAY, JULY 6

Shortly after 1000 o'clock we leave our berth and are towed by tug to the far end of the harbor. ''I hope this ain't a dry run," mumbles a corporal. It evidently isn't, because we hoist anchor late in the afternoon. Once in the open sea we turn eastward — a dozen troop transports and an escorting pack of destroyers. Debarkation drills are held after chow. Everybody has his gas mask just in case Hitler goes to desperate extremes — and life belts must be worn at all times. Well, I always wanted to take a Mediterranean cruise, but little did I think it would include these trimmings.

Chow is quite a problem, but a field kitchen of sorts is set up below decks and regulation chow lines are formed. They stretch all the way down the main deck and disappear into a hatch. But nobody complains about the long wait.

So we're going to Sicily! They tell us now that we're underway, and little booklets on the topography, history and importance of the Mediterranean's largest island are distributed. They also tell us a strong British force will strike from the southeast as we make a dead-of-night landing from the west. Our particular assignrnent, is aimed at Gela. There is a great scramble to locate this little town on the map.

WEDNESDAY, JULY 7

Many more ships join our convoy today. They stretch from horizon to horizon, with war vessels on the flanks. At one time I count 63. But they're only a drop in the nautical bucket, Colonel T. informs me. All told 2500 craft will take part in this invasion — the greatest armada ever assembled. Even the landings in North Africa looks small by comparison. And the 2500 includes nothing smaller than the LCI. If you take in the smaller boats, said the colonel, the number would run well up to 3,000. Shades of Columbus!

A calm, placid sea, but hot. It's drill, drill, drill for the soldiers as the convoy zig-zags in perfect formation. The boys have got to get into those landing barges in pitch darkness, so nothing is left to chance.

FRIDAY, JULY 9

Early this morning the convoy pivots and swings northward. Now we really are on the hunt — setting a course that leads directly to combat. All hands to battle stations at 0500.

Choppy white-capped sea, and a high wind. Hour by hour the fleet grows in size. We now have an American cruiser 200 yards away and more destroyers. Five miles astern another huge convoy has appeared. Landing barges are loaded with all types of equipment from machine guns to hand grenades. Protestant services are held.

We tie white strips of gauze bandage about our arms. These will serve as identifying marks during the blackness of the initial attack. Close to midnight. Calmer water was reported inshore. The boys gather in the wardroom for a final meal — sandwiches and coffee. Some sleep bent over tables. A radio blares "The Army Made a Man Out of Me." Overhead is the drone of planes, and we know the paratroopers soon will drop on Sicily by scores. We are almost arrived at the rendezvous, ourselves. It won't be long now.

SATURDAY, JULY 10

It is now 1400. Veni, vidi, vici — at least, we have conquered a small portion of Sicily. At the moment I am sitting in one of a series of small Sicilian caves one mile away and overlooking the Mediterranean. They serve as temporary regimental headquarters.

On the right, a hundred yards, beloved 105's are blasting away. On away, a battery of Lt. Col. Gibbs' the sand dunes a column of Italian prisoners plods toward the boats and incarceration. Thus far the opening of the second front has been an unqualified success. We have just learned that Gela, a town of 40,000, has fallen except for sporadic fighting. The Rangers handled that job. A colonel seems well pleased, although he does not know too much concerning the progress of divisions on our left and right. But all indications are good.

As I write a battalion files past in open battle order. It is going to reinforce the front line, about five miles ahead. The boys are held up by tanks, light French-made jobs. A few of our own tanks already have been landed, but they seem to be lost, strayed or stolen.

But let's turn back the clock to late Friday night and take this invasion in order.

We had no difficulty locating Gela. The bombers saw to that earlier in the day. When we sailed up the coast Gela appeared as a flaming, red beacon. Fires still burned, and a more perfect landmark could not be desired. The town still was tossing up plenty of ack-ack. With good reason, too. Overhead our paratroopers were coming in wave by wave. All over the landscape guns protested our arrival. But the paratroopers couldn't be stopped, as was demonstrated when their pre-arranged signal fires and red-green lights flashed our positions to our landing barges. Also highly encouraging was the Mediterranean, itself. It had calmed down, and the barges had little difficulty in navigating.

At 0100 comes the order: "First wave in your boats." They're swung over the side and chug away in the darkness to mark time. The hour of attack is 0245. Soon the second wave is over and gone. Searchlights spring to life along the shore, but we are standing off a bit too far to be discovered. Surprisingly, a lighthouse on a point to our stern remains sublimely alight.

"Now I believe in the colossal blunders of war," remarked a young captain. "It was the same way at Dieppe."

The searchlights probe diligently. Finally a warship lobs a shell at the most persistent beam, and it disappears immediately. Then it is 0245 and all hell cuts loose. Tracers, flares and heavy stuff light up the landscape. The rattle of machine guns echoes across the water. There is an explosion and great burst of flame in Gela proper. Warships pound the hills. This goes on and on.

Just after daybreak I climb down the landing net to a barge. All around us naval guns are hanging away at overhead aircraft. We leave the good ship Lizzie and head down the coast past Gela. In an hour we drive on the beach; the front of the barge goes down and out we jump waist deep in water. There is a lively scramble to get across the strip of open beach to the dunes. I dig a foxhole with my helmet as the earth actually quivers from cannon reverberations.

MONDAY, JULY 12

At 6130 the rattle of machine guns awakes us gain. Americans are attacking in the dark with fixed bayonets. The Germans — even the Hermann Goering specials — don't like that for nothing. The boys advance to positions they were forced to relinquish yesterday. At dawn our artillery turns on the heat, slackening the terrific tempo of their fire only when Jerry planes are overhead.

T-Sgt. Nels T. Sandin, of Binghamton, N. Y., and Pvt. Tom Edwards, of Evansville, lnd., are repairing wires. They find themselves in the middle of a tank battle, so they hide under a bridge. They see the Mark VI's flattened, but don't see the crews jump out. Hearing the tramp of feet on the bridge, they think American soldiers are crossing. So they jump out — face to face with the German tank crews.

"They were more surprised than us," says Sandin. "We both had rifles, and they put up their hands. Some more Germans, coming around the bend to the bridge, saw their pals with their hands up, so they hoisted 'em, too. That way we got 22 prisoners. All of them were armed with pistols and knives, but they didn't take much urging to drop everything. We marched them back 200 yards and turned them over to a tank officer."

[DREDIOCK]

Nobody wastes a second. A caterpillar busily packs down a track through the sand for mobile stuff coming off the LST's. Amphibians crawl over it toward the front lines. There is a hurry call for field artillery, so Lt. Col. Gibbs hotfoots it over the dunes followed by guns and ammunition which arrived by ducks — the first ducks to be used in this war. Sheer manpower moves much equipment. with soldiers manning ropes. It's tough sledding over soft sand.

Prisoners sit on the beach. They are all Italian, and they seem well pleased at being captured. Nearby is a temporary Red Cross station. Three wounded Americans are being treated. I talk to Pvt. Joe Shaddock, infantryman from Winegar, Wisc.

"We landed smack in front of a pill box in a sand dune," says Joe. "Two or three of us were killed. I got a bullet through my left hand, so I went under water for a spell. But hand grenades fixed the pill box. The Italians who weren't dead surrendered. We didn't have any time to waste."

Pasquale Lettiere, a private, is having his shoulder treated. He speaks ltalian well. "These Wops tell me our arrival was no secret, he says. "In fact, they expected us two days ago."

Pfc. Arthur Anderson, of Praise, Ky., has a bloody bandage about has right knee. In the first wave, he fell down on the barge runway. But casualties are surprisingly small in this regiment considering the scope of action. Three dead in the first attack, and a few wounded.

I walk over the dunes to an Italian house where there are more prisoners and a scared family. The mother holds a terrified child. They give me a Sicilian watermelon. German 88's are landing close and in profusion, so I dig into my fox hole. Their target is a pair of LST's, unloading supplies on the beach. They straddle the boats, but don't hit them. One shell lands no more than five feet away in the water. Work continues at an accelerated pace.

We soon move the CF forward, a mile behind our front line, in an olive grove. Quick foxholes are dug in hard earth. I borrow a German two-piece field shovel, a neat contraption. We get a warm welcome. An Axis mortar lands 100 yards away. Then we're straddled by shells. I land in a foxhole with a two-star general. There is no rank when shells are splattering the vicinity!

We're hardly on deck ten minutes when a jeep drives up with paratroopers aboard. They're dirty and absolutely pooped. They're also plenty peeved, as they were dropped all over the landscape and never could get organized. Quite a few were dropped, and so far only a handful have made their way to the American lines. They had no opportunity to capture a strong point as intended and put up a stiff battle behind the German lines with mortars and machine guns. Most of them had to fight for their Bugs in small packs, while 88's chased them dizzy.

Typical is the story told by 1st Lt. Tony Pappas, of Chicago, and Capt. Gordon Johnson, of Ft. Worth, Texas, and attached to parachute units. They were making their first combat jump with their objective a strong point at a road juncture. As Capt. Johnston tells it:

"We landed 1500 yards from the desired spot, with only 40 men out of a 100 who jumped. We were in a tough spot, so we moved into an orchard near a house. All around us guns opened up, so we charged the house with grenades. We killed or captured everybody in it — about 35 — and settled down for a siege.

"But they brought up a battery of 88's. We lost several men — one decapitated by a shell — which forced us to retreat through the rear of the house with 88's giving us hell at the same time. Just when it seemed we were cooked, some heavy stuff from a U.S. cruiser came over and discouraged the 88's. It was a gift from the gods.

"We finally got back with seven dead and just about everybody wounded. But you should have seen Capt Sayre, a Breckenridge, Texas boy, when we charged that house. He had a .45 in each hand and really used them. It looked like a wild-west thriller."

Lt. Pappas was knocked cold on the landing, as he hit rump first. He crawled on his hands and knees two hours before contacting Capt. Johnston and the Fighting Forty. Then a blast of enemy fire nearly removed his left eye, but he escaped without serious damage. Pappas dives into a fox hole as the Jerry planes come over and doesn't get up. We figure he's hit and rush over. But he's just asleep — completely exhausted.

Stukas and strafers concentrate on the beach. Up front things are not exactly rosy. But an Italian prisoner happens to have a pillbox plan in his possession. It details the position and strength of each box in the vicinity. His elated captors immediately go to work and wipe out the pill boxes one by one.

Conversation between CP officers and battalion commanders is constant and sparkling. Rumors fly like hail. And even a tough situation such as this is not without a touch of humor.

"The artillery reports that two tanks in your sector are in flame," telephoned one CP officer to a front-line commander.

"I don't give a damn what the artillery reports." came the reply. "This is the infantry. Just walk up here and look over my shoulder. You'll see those tanks, and if they are on fire we're all burning up."

SUNDAY, JULY 11

The fireworks start at dawn with artillery engagements and raid after raid by planes. They drop heavy stuff that fairly lifts a guy out of his fox hole. Our 155's cut loose, and bedlam reigns hour after hour. The regimental staff is worried, however. The Jerries have tanks, and we don't. Yesterday a few tanks would have raised hell and cut the German line. Now it's too late. We'll have to do it the hard way, and the job falls upon infantry and field artillery. And we might mention a few Lightnings that swooped around the general landscape looking for tanks.

At 1030 our case seems desperate. We're being surrounded by tanks. The Mark IV's are trying to cut through to the beach, splitting the American forces and getting in position to blast supply lines. There is a grim telephone message relayed by Col. T. He demands all anti-tank weapons available — and fast. While he talks from regimental CP, machine guns open on us from two nearby hills. We hit the dirt. The colonel T calmly finishes his call before looking for his fox hole.

Luckily for us — and damned unlucky for the German tanks — our cannon company was on the way from the beach heading for the front. And 105's were rolled into positions overlooking the road. Down rolled the tanks, and into action went do-or-die American soldiers who had been commanded to stop the tanks at all costs.

Stop them they did! Four tanks went up in flames in practically nothing flat as fields all around were seared black by concentrated fire. Before the tanks sled the scene, 11 of them gave up the ghost. Back went the survivors into the comparative safety of the German lines — the Hermann Goering divisions which were steadily being reinforced. As usual, this unit catches the brunt of the scrap. The others, we hear, gained their objectives fairly easily. But not us. We get Germans, tanks, dive bombers, strafers, mortars and all kinds of artillery,

Atop the hill Johnson found Lt. Col. Charles Denholm looking over a 57 A-T gun. The crew had taken off to save its collective hide. Johnson and the colonel didn't know how to work the gun, but they monkeyed around a few minutes and got it spitting. Then they knocked off a German tank, and chased some others back. The German artillery really went to work for vengeance. When the stuff started to his right 20 yards away, Johnson and the colonel took it on the lam in a jeep. They picked up a captain and a lieutenant on the way.

Just topping the hill a shell landed right beside the jeep. The captain was killed, his body riddled by steel, and the colonel got it in the left shoulder. The lieutenant had one go through his lungs. They stopped in a gully finally, and only got that far because Johnson reached over to steer and manipulate the gearshift while the colonel worked the pedals. Except for his legs, the colonel wasn't moving very much.

They had to leave the captain's body behind, but there was a chance of saving the lieutenant. So Johnson recruited a corporal. They found bamboo canes supporting grape vines in a nearby vineyard, and used their shirts to improvise a stretcher. Sticking the poles through their shirtsleeves, they carried the lieutenant to a first-aid tent. Johnson thus was left without a shirt — but he's been recommended for a DSC.

We try to sleep, but no use. The Jerries really turn on a mammoth air attack that lasts better than an hour. They hit at everything, from the boats to suspicioned artillery positions. Some come uncomfortably close. Capt. Murphy says: "What the hell, if you do get killed it won't be so much bother if you're asleep." A cool bird, he's soon snoring.

[slimm50]

Dred, great read. Thanks for posting.

[Cooley]

Very good read, ty

[DREDIOCK]

Welcome. glad someone found it worth reading.
I always enjoy reading the first hand accounts as well as the grand strategy aspect of things.

With first hand accounts you get a bit more flavor then you do out of history books