The Battle of Anzio by T.R. Fehrenbach

Author:T.R. Fehrenbach
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ereads.com
Published: 2001-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

While the British were dying before Campoleone Station, and the 1st Armored Division was floundering in the mud along the Albano road, 3rd Division had been pressing toward Cisterna, the most important hub of the southern part of the beachhead. Two days after the attack jumped off, January 30, it was still trying to take Cisterna.

In the CP of the 3rd at Conca, Major General Lucian K. Truscott limped about on his bad leg. He was a striking figure in his russet leather jacket, shiny helmet and cavalry boots. The dogfaces knew him each time he went up to the front: that was one reason for the spectacular garb. He had discovered another good reason to wear cavalry boots. But for the high, tough leather encasing his leg, the bomb fragment which had struck him down on the twenty-fourth would have seriously injured him.

Now, still croaking hoarsely from the sore throat he had developed in this wet weather, he talked with the corps commander, General Lucas. General Johnny Lucas was not happy.

The American offensive had gotten off to a bad start everywhere, but especially with the loss of the Rangers. Mark Clark had hit the ceiling over that news! Clark was worried over the bad publicity from the Rapido fiasco, and the Ranger loss, unavoidable as it had been, was one more shock for the home front. Truscott was thinking, that was one trouble with Mark Clark. He was a good administrator, no doubt of that, and he went to bat for his subordinates every time—but he could not keep from worrying about bad publicity.

Too, Clark didn't seem able to keep his fingers on the pulse of battle. It was a sort of sixth sense, this ability; some generals had it, some did not. Truscott himself had it. General Harmon, of the 1st Armored, had it, too, as did Iron Mike O'Daniels, Truscott's Deputy Division Commander.

Johnny Lucas, too, had had it once. Now, Truscott thought, Lucas looked tired, and sick.

He asked Lucas what General Alexander had to say about the situation on his last visit to the beachhead.

"Alexander? Oh, he was kind enough," Lucas muttered, taking off his steel-framed GI glasses. "But I'm afraid he is not pleased. My head will probably fall in the basket—but I've done my best. There were just too many Germans here for me to lick." He sighed. "I told Clark yesterday I was sent on a desperate mission, one with the odds greatly against success. Actually, we're better off now than we had any right to expect."

Truscott looked at the operations map of the 3rd Division front, frowning. The map didn't give much encouragement. He knew now he was facing two full divisions instead of the battered Hermann Göring. He turned back to Lucas, his square chin stubborn, his gray hair shining handsomely in the lamplight. Well, he was giving it all he could.

Lucas seemed wrapped in his own thoughts. Poor Johnny! Clark was up to the beachhead day after day, establishing an advance Fifth Army CP, moping around, making Lucas miserable by looking over his shoulder.

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