Jack Clover
Hq. Co., 2nd Bn.,
143rd Infantry

We were the 36th Infantry Division—the 36th "Texas" Infantry Division, born of the fire and brimstone from the Alamo and all points south pertaining to tough American history.

The men of Texas, for the most part, were tall, dark and leathery with a drawl and determination you would expect from the National Guard "T-Patch" Division of this great state.

We landed at Salerno, Italy, Sept 9, 1943 destined to be the first American troops on European soil. As history recorded, the 36th Division met rather difficult opposition from the Germans and suffered tremendous casualties in the ensuing battles at Paestum, Hill 424 and Altavilla. This action required major replacements and retraining so now the division was sprinkled with men from many states in the Union.

It is December, 1943 and we are perched atop Mt. Cannavinelle in the Mignano Gap overlooking the Liri Valley. "Purple Heart Valley", as it was known, was the key to Cassino, Anzio and Rome, our next objectives. To our left was oval shaped Mt. Rotondo, the Camino-Maggiore hill mass and brush-covered Mt. Lungo. From this point, it was a mile across the Liri Valley northeast to Hill 1205 and the town of San Pietro directly across from us. To our right oblique and right flank was Mt. Como and the hills shielding the town of Venafro.

Mt. Cannavinelle had been taken earlier by the U.S. 3rd Ranger Battalion, lifeless bodies of Rangers and Germans still littered the battlefield. Some of the jerries were garrotted about the neck with piano wire (a sure sign of Rangers).

An attack on San Pietro was imminent. Our supply buildup, artillery fire and patrol activity were geared solely in this direction. Mt Lungo, Hill 1205 and San Pietro at its base must be taken to gain access to Highway 6 and Cassino.

San Pietro was the usual Italian Village of closely packed stone and mortar houses jutting from a Mountainside. In typical Italian fashion, each one usually had a large wicker encased wine cask in the Cellar, black bread, goat’s milk, cheese and plenty of dirty bambinos shouting "Caramelli".

On Dec. 7, when the anticipation was at its height, we were called to a briefing near a craggy knoll on the summit of Mt. Cannavinelle. Italy’s perpetual rainy skies had turned the whole area into a quagmire. But this was it. We felt the spark in the chilly air, we knew the buildup was bursting at the seams. It was time to take on jerry’s best, time for the dogface to earn his keep.

A major from regiment was speaking softly. "Men, tomorrow morning at 0630 the 2nd and 3rd Battalions of the 143rd Regiment will attack San Pietro. We will move out at midnight; make a wide right flanking movement down Mt. Cannavinelle and move through the Valley to San Pietro, from right to left. As you know, due to the tremendous artillery fire and dive bombing, we don’t expect any major problems. Maybe a few pillboxes, 88’s, MG 42 machine-guns but nothing we can’t handle in a couple of days. We will cut off the winding, mountainous Venafro-San Pietro road close-in to ensure supply and evacuation facilities for the wounded. Coinciding with our attack, the 1st Battalion will circle behind Hill 1205 and proceed to the top to form a pincer movement and outflank the krauts. Each man will destroy all personal letters, including the lovey ones in the helmet liner, and shave. We want to look like fresh troops. I know you will all give it your best. Take plenty of grenades, hand and rifle. Your company commanders will fill you in from here. Good Luck!"

Being the Pioneer platoon of the 2nd Battalion whose purpose was to protect Battalion Headquarters, supply ammo and fill in the gaps, our assignment was different. We would move out at late evening fully loaded with ammo down the face of Mt. Cannavinelle across the valley to the Venafro-San Petro road and set up a forward ammunition dump near the line of departure. We would be on our own. Extreme quiet and stealthiness were required to sneak in under jerry’s nose and forearm our advancing troops.

Could we do it?

At dusk we began loading ourselves with all the ammo we could carry down a muddy, rocky tree-covered mountain three thousand feet high. In my case, I carried my trusty Garrand M1 rifle, full cartridge belt, two bandoliers of rifle clips as starters. Then I loaded a bazooka and several pouches of bazooka shells. The other guys were lugging their weapons plus boxes of grenades, 30 caliber machine-gun belts, mortar shells, Bangalor torpedos and all the accoutrements required to win an infantry battle on a rain soaked Mountainside dotted with olive trees.

In Italy, "The soft underbelly of Europe", the ever challenging mountains weighed heavily against our advance. Not only were the peaks and ridges high and cold, they afforded the enemy excellent observation. Pillboxes too were almost always blasted out of the rocky ledges by the Germans giving great cover and protection from the ice and snow. Trench foot, frost bite and malaria abounded as silent, insidious predators of our infantry troops causing almost as many casualties as the krauts.

Movement down Mt Cannavinelle during a drizzly, pitch-black night tried the soul. Loaded as we were the muddy soil and sharp rocks, that could wear a pair of combat boots in a week, took their toll. We slipped and slid grasping at tree trunks and branches for support as we traversed the virtually impregnable landscape. Cursing and oath-like promises filled the air as our platoon gradually mastered the ungainly slope. A bloody cheek or torn knuckle was not uncommon.

After the maddening descent and a few boxes of ammo lighter, we reached the valley floor below and followed a path leading to the Venafro-San Pietro road. At this point, it seemed impossible that we had slipped and slid down all that mountain with nary a stir from jerry. Tension mounted. At any moment, we expected to be challenged by a flare, jerry patrol or sentry. Finally we reached the road and unloaded our precious cargo. At times I swore I saw shadowy figures in the background looking over a ledge above our hastily assembled supply dump. Was this my imagination or could we be walking into a trap?

Word came down the line that we were to head west about six hundred yards toward San Pietro and take cover in a dry stream bed to await the attack led by E and F companies.

The frosty December air stung my ears. My fingers ached. A field jacket was simply not enough body cover. Word had it one of our large supply ships had been sunk near Naples delaying the winter combat suits.

The Pioneer platoon was now dispersed over one hundred yards of stream bed prepared to back up the battalion with our M1’s and carbines at the point of attack. The stage was set.

Suddenly our artillery began booming from the rear. The 105’s, 155 "Long Toms" and 240 MM howitzers signaled the assault was on! Shells began whispering through the misty air above us, their deadly promise encased in a disarming symphony of sound. Outgoing mail as this was known made infantrymen feel not so alone. We knew the devastation artillery fire could wreak. It felt good!

But as expected, jerry was not to be outdone. As dawn broke, he hastened to the task and began a tremendous counter barrage. The huge Liri Valley and surrounding mountains shook under the heavy concentration of artillery and mortar fire. The reverberation set up a crescendo of sound forming a gigantic echo chamber of death.

Shells were dropping every where in the morning light. Every square yard of earth seemed covered by an orange burst of flame. Sizzling shrapnel cut the air. German small arms sang over our heads. Fingers of kraut 20 MM cannon popped along the ground through our positions like strings of giant firecrackers. The terrain was peppered by the "clump" of mortars, tracers tore at the olive trees, danced menacingly among the rock-walled terraces.

Our infantry attack arrived at day break as scheduled. There through the ghostly morning haze came E and F companies from our right trailed by G and H company. They crossed the shallow stream bed in magnificent skirmish lines just like the training manual ordered.

Immediately the tracer-laced fire fight began taking its toll of both sides. The jerries rushed from their hillside stone and log pillboxes and charged our people head-on about two hundred yards from the stream bed. Men began dropping, G.I. helmets "thunked" on the rocky ground. The skirmish lines sagged. Now we must go to our "bump and run" tactics charging from tree to tree, fire; hit the ground, up over the wall; hit the ground, fire! The British Battle Drill lives!

Machine gunners rushed forward some shouting, "Ammo, damn it, we need ammo. "Texas cowhand and rebel yells pierced the air above the din. A German colonel leading his men was cut to pieces by a BAR. Other jerries plopped down in a heap behind. The "Spang-Spang" of the trusty M1’s and rattle of our 30 caliber machine guns and BARS became more intense. Brave men were dying.

Things were not going well enough. We had run into the Gustav Line, jerry’s major line of defense before Cassino. We had kicked a beehive!

The order came down the line to dig in. We had gotten no further than four hundred yards beyond the line of departure. We now had to hold the terrain we had taken. We had hoped for and expected better.

Pvt. Jabe Curry from Alabama and I were "digging in" buddies at this time. Jabe and I had been through several skirmishes together and had even survived a pass to Naples. Jabe was one of the bravest men I have ever met.

We selected a site on the forward edge of the gully and began putting our entrenching tools to work digging a foxhole. We took turns firing our rifles as the elusive targets appeared. We had gotten down about waist deep when it happened.

From out of nowhere came a terrific roar of an incoming shell. This one stood out over the screech of the deadly 88 and 170 MM fire we were experiencing all morning. This one was really different! Nothing could describe its depth and hideous overture of sound. A runaway freight train was my final thought as we burrowed to the bottom of the hole and the huge shell landed.

From this point on, I remember only a tremendous explosion like I had never heard before. A giant baseball bat seemed to rake me across my left side. Flashes of light and spangles numbed my senses.

In just a few seconds, I realized the force of the shell had completely buried us. As I gained my thoughts and direction, I automatically raised up clawing the smothering earth away. I quickly found my GI helmet was missing. Hot, smoking shrapnel was everywhere. The acrid odor of gun powder was nauseating.

Curry was nowhere in sight, or was he? I started yelling, "Medic" "Medic", "Help us", "Medic" as I knew one of us had to be seriously hurt. But, Curry was there after all. Suddenly a mole-like helmetless head popped out of the smoldering soil in front of me. His wide-eyed expression mirrored my thoughts exactly: "What the hell was that?" Beyond a trickle of blood from his nose Curry was shaken but not seriously hurt. My back was bruised, my ears rang, I was nauseated but otherwise basically unhurt too. Our packs and rifles were blown several feet away as were our helmets. A large tree about 2 feet in diameter was shattered and fell almost on our position. This had to be a shell of immense proportions, a 240 MM perhaps or maybe the then unheard of "Anzio Annie".

Dec. 8, 1943 was a day in this insanity of war to be remembered. We had survived, in the testimony of the other men, an apparent direct hit from an enormous shell. Incredibly the half foxhole evidently saved us although it was an experience you wouldn’t want to repeat to verify.

In ten days the village of San Pietro was ours but only after the bitterest of fighting and extreme casualties. Next came the Rapido River, Cassino, Anzio, Rome, Piombino, Southern France, Germany, and Austria. Pvt Jabe Curry became a buck sergeant and finished the war without a scratch. I was wounded at a roadblock near the Moselle River in France and reclassified.

Though much of the following action was intense, nothing in the war remains as vivid as that morning at San Pietro when the world came tumbling down and we survived its grotesque finality, or did we?

"In Italy, Far away The prettiest babies play and frolic around with musical sound throughout the live-long day." SAN PIETRO: DO YOU READ ME?