Paul H. Duffey
Company C
141st Regiment

Velletri — Late May, 1944

When I left the hospital, I rejoined the company in the Maddaloni area. We took a break from training and cleaning our equipment to parade for the ceremony for medals including, “Commando Kelly — the 1st C.M.H. in Europe.”

We trucked to Naples, loaded onto LST-LCI’s (Landing Ship Tanks — Landing Craft Infantry) and took a short trip to Anzio. We landed on the beach, moved inland and up to high ground, and, you guessed it, “dug in.” Roy and I scratched a small spot in the stones and “sacked out” for the night, or so it seemed. About 1:00 a.m. a freight train came flying overhead. There was an explosion, and it continued on it’s lethal path to the beach, where it exploded once again, only more so. We had been greeted by none other than “Anzio Annie.” (Anzio Annie was a German railroad piece [gun]). Everybody was awake and digging. I said to Roy, “lf that thing is that big, we couldn’t dig a hole deep enough to save our skins!” He agreed, so we lay down and went to sleep to the sound of picks and shovels clicking on the stones as the others dug in deeper. I was told later the explosion overhead was a booster to throw the shell farther????

The next morning we “saddled-up” and moved “cross country” (not by road). During this move, there was little contact with the enemy. One night Roy and I were on outpost when a German plane flew over, dropped some flares to our left about 800 yards. It left and a Stukka came, and with the scream that they are known for, dove and bombed a small power plant. In the morning we were on the move again. I was handed a Stars & Stripes and on the front page was a picture of a Sergeant sitting against a tree with a dead Kraut at his feet. It stated he had just killed the German, and while he had the time and he was hungry, he would eat a K-ration. It went on to say he had a “cast iron stomach.”

We had been moving in a column, and knowing we were nearing the enemy, we changed to a skirmish line. Sure enough, we didn’t go far until we met small arms fire. We met that head on, but when we heard tanks rumbling on the road, now that makes you sweat. In very little time, a jeep arrived with a half dozen anti-tank mines which were placed on the road. With a few riflemen covering them, the tanks held up. Then, the mortars started coming in. One man was hit across the road. When his buddy tried to carry him clear, he was hit, too. Then Lt. Gold was chopped up pretty badly by a mortar shell. We held and the Krauts backed off.

We moved forward again. There was word spread around that some of us walked through a small mine field. That was the correct time to tell us — after we were out of it. We came to a cart path that crossed our front in late afternoon. The cart path was about even with the field to our front, and the farther you went to the left, the deeper it got until it was about seven feet deep. We stopped and were told to dig in. I had a fighting hole pretty well on the way, when my Sgt. came looking for me. He paired me with Francis Davis from Florida to cover our right flank forward. We just lay flat on the cart path with a small mound of dirt to our front. We took turns rising up on our elbows to look out over the field. It was nearly dark and I was “up” last. Davis said to me, “It’s getting too damn hot around here for me.” There wasn’t much small arms fire, so I was a bit puzzled at the statement. He raised up to look and I heard a thud and he dropped down, dead. The bullet caught him in the chest just below the throat. He couldn’t have been seen from more than ten feet which meant it was a chance shot. ( I heard no rifle report). If you don’t see a target, shoot where one might be — Basic Training. The Lt. came by less than 15 seconds after it happened to check on the situation, and I told him what happened. The Lt. was walking around upright, we were prone, it just was a chance shot, but Davis was still dead.

My Sgt. moved me four times that night, and the last was the one I cared for the least, M.G. guard. The M.G. was to the rear of the cart path and was on higher ground. Most of the night our gun and a German M.G. had a running dual. I dug in and stayed in the hole. I dug most all of the hole in the prone position. I was up before daylight, as was the rest of the company. We assembled, if you want to call it that, in the deeper part of the cart path. At the predetermined time, the officers were yelling, “Up and Over!” After several minutes of this, and nobody moving, I said loud enough for two Lts. to hear, “If the officers would lead us instead of driving us like cattle, maybe this show would get started.” The one Lt. turned to me and said, “If I go over, will you follow‘?” I said, “Yes, Sir!” He went over the top, and I had to be the third man behind him. They were ready, but they wanted a leader. The show was on! We moved forward fast staying low as it was “hot and heavy.” They were using every piece of small arms they had: M.G., rat pistols, rifles, everything, and it was furious. Someone passed the word to shift to the left and contact “A” Co. Roy and I were on the left, so when we came to a cart path, we started to our left on the near side of the road still running and staying low. A M.G. (enemy) opened up behind us, and as I went down, I looked back to see the slugs hitting the road behind two of our men on the far side of the road. As the gun rose, the slugs hit nearer, and finally I saw the second (trailing) man’s shirt “pop,” and he went down fast — dead. The lead man was hit in the back of the head, and as he fell to his knees, he put his hand to his forehead, yelled, “Medic,” and fell flat, dead. I knew him, we joined the company together. Roy and I were up and running, but we got off the cart path fast. We moved forward and the enemy backed off. We secured the area and rejoined our platoon and had a chance to look around. That Machine Gunner had done a lot of damage. He killed 1st Sgt. Henley and about five other men beside the ones that I saw get it. Sgt. Henley was a “top rate” man, and I knew no one that disliked him.

We started to move again, but this time on hard road. Our tanks were with us now, and as we passed a few houses, we knew this was Velletri. This was what we were fighting for. I was following Roy on a dirt path on the right side of the road. I was hungry, so 1 was munching on a “dog biscuit” and a piece of K-ration cheese. There was a dead German laying up ahead with his legs on the path and his upper body in what you might call the gutter. A tank was coming from behind me, and as I stepped over the Kraut’s legs, he ran over his head with the tank tread. I don’t know if he was angry or if he was trying to upset me, but whatever it was, it didn’t bother me. I thought back to the article in the “Stars and Stripes.”

We cleared Velletri and moved to higher ground. We were strafed by a few planes and took a few casualties, then took a short break to rest and eat. We were on our way to Rome. We had them running and intended to keep it that way.

ORBITELLA, ITALY
June, 1944

Many of the fire fights, artillery barrages and other incidents were not in a town or village, but near one or on a road or in a field.

Being in the Infantry had its good points — if you stayed alive, you might do something to “win” a medal — you got to see the cities, towns or villages and some of the countryside before its complete destruction. It’s only half done by us. The bad points kind of outnumber the good points. Like, everybody wants a part of you. Mines, small arms, airplanes, tanks, mortars, and artillery. This story is about only one of these — artillery.

I don’t really recall the weather on this particular day, so it must have been warm and sunny, because if it was rainy, it would have been a little bit more miserable. I say that because going back into the line was never one of my favorite pastimes. The more often you go into the line, the chances of coming back get less and less. (So they say.)

The truck ride up to the front was on hard road until we neared our detrucking area. The trucks slowed down then turned left onto a dirt road, kicking up enough dust that it could be seen for miles. In summer, Italy is a dust bowl; in winter, the dust turns to twice the amount but it is a gumbo mud made by the rainfall that comes. The trucks lurched to a stop, and while the dust was settling, one round of ‘88’ fell in the field to our front about 200 yards short of us — the German equivalent of “Welcome to the line!” The drivers were rear echelon quartermaster (way back). Their eyes got big and they’re yelling, “Git off mah trucks!” Some of there grabbed their carbines from the scabbards and acted like they were ready to fight. First off, I don’t really believe any of the weapons would have fired, because they were choked with months of dust, and even if any would operate, what would they shoot at? The enemy was a couple of miles away. These drivers were not our Division “Nighthawks.” We stood around laughing as the trucks disappeared in a great cloud of dust.

While we were preparing to move out, we watched a crossroad about a half mile away getting air burst after air burst over it. That’s where we were heading — that’s where the war was. We moved across fields to a point beyond the crossroads and on the far, or right side of the road, and dug in. Our Company C.P. was in a 2 or 3 story building on the left side of the road. Roy and I were dug in, in our own separate holes directly across the road from the C.P. and about 10 yards apart. There were trees here and there along the road and one of our men had dug his hole under one. This was a bad thing to do, and it cost him his life. If a shell hits the tree above you, it sprays shrapnel all around, including down into the hole.

Soon after we were dug in, the shelling started, and it was very accurate. They hammered us relentlessly throughout the afternoon. I tried crawling up into my helmet, but my head was in the way. The shells kept coming. I’d lay on my back, then on my belly, then one side, then the other, waiting for the big one — mine. While laying on my back, I could see the C.P. getting hit. That is, the building the C.P. was in. The shells hit one side and the C.P. was on the far side. As I watched, I could “pick up” the shells coming in that would hit the building. They looked like a hornet — just a black dot and then, WHAM! They’d hit the building.

There were a few donkeys grazing near my hole. I thought to myself, “You’ve lived this long, but you’d better move to a new area or you’ll be dead in the a.m..”

The shelling continued. I don’t know whether we were waiting for them to run out of ammo or what, but we stayed there all night. During the evening, the man that dug in under the tree was killed, and I don’t know how many wounded we had to this point, but they were moved to a point near the C.P.

In the a.m., all of the donkeys were dead.

One shell hit nearby, as did many, but this one had a very large piece of shrapnel. It sounded like a propeller coming down. It must have taken 10 seconds to come down. I tried again to crawl under my helmet, but to no avail. That piece landed next to my hole. It was still hot and if it had hit me, I probably would have gone to the hospital. It was maybe 6 inches across and very ragged.

The order carne to move hack about 300 yards and dig in. I called to Roy and said we had better wait until the crowd thinned out. They were supposed to move back in groups of 2 or 3, but were in bunches of 4 or 5 or more. I guess they had enough of the shelling, and were in a hurry to get out from under it. We waited. Finally, there was nobody in our area, so I yelled, “Let’s go.” We were up and running full tilt at the same time. We didn’t run more than 30 yards when we were surrounded by 5 or 6 that I hadn’t seen coming from the far side of the road — I woke up about 25 yards from where I had been when the lights went out. My upper body and head was in somebody’s fighting hole. I crawled out as the last of the dust was settling. My helmet was another 30 yards away. We never used the chin strap on the helmet. If I had used it, I would have had a broken neck or no head at all. I called to Roy a couple of times. He moaned, then woke up. I asked if he was hit and he answered “No.” He asked me the same question and got the same answer. We looked the situation over and saw help coming for the others so we left. I think a few of them were dead and the others “chewed up” a bit.

As we started toward the rear again, I grabbed my helmet on the run. We arrived in the Co. area and found a big hole already dug, so the two of us jumped in and, as usual, Roy was laughing about the whole incident, while I was thanking the “Man Upstairs.”

I think the shell was so close to me that I was thrown by the concussion and Roy had been to my left front with a man between him and the shell. I believe we all could have fit into a 10 yard circle. Roy and I were about 8 yards apart at the time.

The next day, I was sent on outpost duty for 3 or 4 days as an artillery observation unit. There were four of us, and I was in charge. The only thing that happened while there was 14 white Russians turned themselves into us. When we left the outpost (by Jeep) all you could see was a mass of humans moving slowly down the hill. You could not see anything but the wheels of the Jeep. There were 4 of us and the driver and 14 of them. All in one Jeep.

We fought our way farther north the next two weeks and then took up a defensive position on a hillside near a river.

While we held this defensive position, there was only one incident that happened that I recall. I was sitting out of my foxhole leaning against a tree writing a letter to home. I saw a tank pull off the road about 200 yards to my left front and thought nothing of it. A few minutes later, a Jeep with one man in it, a Captain (I believe) pulled along side of the tank and stopped. The tank was on the berm of the road and the Jeep on the road proper. The Captain climbed from his Jeep onto the tank. After talking with the tank men, he jumped down from the tank onto the berm of the road to the rear of the tank. The explosion sent my pen in a straight line to the top of the paper I was writing on. I looked up to see a cloud of dust and pieces flying through the air. He had jumped onto an anti-tank mine which the tank must have straddled when it pulled off the road. His weight and the pressure set it off when he landed on it.

I explained in my letter what caused the pen to go to the top of the paper, but the censor cut it out. All of our mail was censored by our officers.

Everyone that was over there knows this, but I wrote these stories for people that ordinarily wouldn’t know.

Several days later, we were relieved by another unit. We moved south to Rome for a few days and then down to Salerno for amphibious training for the invasion of Southern France.