LITMIR.BIZ

      December 29, 1943

      0945 Hours

      Campobasso, Italy

      It had taken the group longer to get on the road than they had desired. The two younger soldiers had to be pulled from their beds by Sam and Perkin, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of the restaurateur’s daughters. Kulis, in particular, remained in such bad shape from the previous night’s debauchery that Perkin had decided it would be a safer course of action to drive himself.

      While Sam and Perkin saw to the red-eyed and hungover privates, Finley-Jones and Cardosi saw to breakfast. A small café sold them a dozen cornetti—Italian croissants stuffed with butter and jam—and filled all the canteens with an indescribably black, viscous coffee.

      Perkin would have liked to have spent a little more time in the picturesque village, but it was beginning to snow, and in any case, he didn’t want to deal with an angry father on behalf of his troops. Consequently, the officers unceremoniously dumped the privates into the backs of the jeeps, and the party made a hasty departure from Santa Croce del Sannio.

      The going was slow because of the accumulating snow and the winding roads through the Abruzzi foothills, but it wasn’t long before they began to see indications of recent combat. Coming around one bend, the party was surprised when the landscape changed dramatically. Gone were the trees and brush, replaced by a burned and scarred hillside. Tree stumps indicated heavy artillery shelling, and two burned-out German halftracks had already begun to rust in a roadside ditch.

      It was an unnerving transition, Perkin thought. One side of a hill was an idyllic winter scene. Around the bend was death and destruction. Except for the sleeping privates, the soldiers all instinctively checked their weapons, and Sam sat his Garand across his lap. Even more eerie was the absence of animals—no birds, or deer, or even rabbits. It was if the passing combat had taken all life on the hill for eternity. The remainder of the drive to the next town of any size, Campobasso, was a repetition of the same phenomena. The little highway wove through pristine mountain forest, followed by the devastation of war.

      Perkin was almost relieved when Campobasso came into view. It was considerably larger than Santa Croce, but as they approached the town, it was apparent that the war had not passed Campobasso. Reminiscent of San Pietro, shattered and collapsed buildings could be seen from a distance.

      A large Canadian Red Ensign and a manned roadblock greeted them as they rolled up to the town. Two soldiers in British-looking uniforms approached Perkin and Sam’s jeep, which was in the lead. The soldiers at the checkpoint offered a British salute upon recognizing officers in the jeep, but when they asked for orders, the accents were clearly North American.

      “Where are you headed, sir?” a lance corporal asked of Perkin.

      “We’re on our way to Eighth Army headquarters.” Perkin replied.

      “Who’s that?” the lance corporal asked, indicating the sleeping Private Kulis.

      “Our driver.”

      The soldier laughed. “Excellent. Been on a bit of a bender? He smells like he’s had a few for the king.”

      Perkin nodded, “He had some for the king, some for Roosevelt, and a few for Uncle Joe just to make sure he drank to all our allies.”

      The Canadian soldier laughed again. “God bless him. A word of advice, sir. Get him tidied up or the English MPs in the rear will write him up; they never pass up the chance to chivvy the Yanks. Don’t try and cut the corner to Vasto—most of the bridges remain out, and there’s a Kiwi roadblock to the north that you should avoid. They’re searching traffic looking for contraband booze, which they’re not authorized to do because it’s not contraband, but they do it anyway.” His face darkened—he obviously had strong feelings on the issue. “It just goes straight into their own goddamned mess. Stay on this road until you get to the coast, sir, and expect a slowdown at Termoli, and then just follow the signs from there.”

      Perkin thanked the soldiers and returned their salute as the jeeps passed through the roadblock, and then took in the horrors of Campobasso. A much larger town than San Pietro, it had suffered somewhat less than total destruction, but the damage and loss of homes and businesses still shocked the soldiers who had yet to harden to the worst of the vicissitudes of war.

      1115 Hours

      Vasto, Italy

      The little procession had cleared numerous checkpoints, and they were without question in Eighth Army territory. The vehicles that they passed were a mix of Imperial equipment and American Lend-Lease, many carrying the scars of recent combat. The soldiers reflected an army as multinational as their own Fifth Army. Canadian, Indian, New Zealander, and British divisions comprised the heart of the Eighth Army, but other nationalities were also represented. Finley-Jones pointed out several small Asian soldiers that he called Gurkhas—“Splendid fellows,” he said. “Absolute brutes in battle.”

      The Canadian soldier was correct: there had been little traffic on the road to the coast, but it picked up dramatically as supplies raced to the front from whatever Italian ports on the Adriatic remained functional. All along the coastal road, Perkin and Sam saw the signs of recent combat, and Sam remarked to his cousin that he imagined it was what Georgia looked like after Sherman’s army swept

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