Chapter 5
Operation Snowcap began inauspiciously, with a flight over the gnawing jaws of the Iberian Peninsula to join a supply convoy sailing from Oran.
Jim stood next to Barnes on the deck and said, “I’ll have dipped my toes in three different oceans, before this is done.”
Barnes said, “I thought the Mediterranean was a sea.”
Monty said, “Look at you, a regular scholar. Let’s see, Barnes, where is the Mediterranean again?”
“Near Jersey, I think,” Gabe piped up, smiling sideways at Barnes.
“Shaddup,” Barnes said, laughing into the wind so it came out a hollow taut chuckle, like the snap of a sail. No sails around, though; the boat they were on didn’t have any, was almost so big you couldn’t feel the rock of the waves against the hull. The sound they heard instead was the buzz of their escort planes overhead, the drone of the ships all around them.
It was too windy a day to light a cigarette on deck. Jim’s fingers twitched around his pocket anyway, because usually this was when he’d offer one around to break the tension.
They were landing tomorrow.
Jim, Monty, and Barnes had all been a part of beach landings before, all at Salerno. The others asked questions. “Listen, it isn’t all bad,” Monty said. “Last time I landed, the main issue was dressing for the occasion.”
“Huh?” Jim said, recalling how waterlogged the 100th had gotten at Salerno. One of his buddies had lost a boot in the ocean, which had been funny until it wasn’t.
“I took off my trousers, like,” Monty said, “and put on a pair of swimming trunks I had with me, and put my shirt around my head to keep out the glare. Like a Bedouin.”
“Helmet?” Gabe said. “Or are you dumb as Dugan?”
Monty shrugged, squinting towards the horizon. “I lost it in the surf.”
“It’s a lot colder now,” Barnes noted. They’d seen ice caps passing by under them as they flew over the Atlantic. Jim had never even seen snow before he’d enlisted. Coldest it ever got in Fresno was frost on the fields that’d be gone by morning.
“Swimming trunks may not cut it this time, it’s true,” Monty said.
“You shouldda said,” Barnes said, “won’t float this time, or something like that.”
“Ha,” Gabe said.
Dernier asked a question about underwater mines, which everyone understood by now because ‘mine’ in French sounded like ‘mean,’ and ‘water’ like ‘low.’ Low and mean, that was what they were all right. Jim winced, remembering the depth-charge sound.
“It’s the ones they fling from the beachhead that do the real harm,” Monty pointed out. “Or the air. The damn Stukas, shoddy though they are.” It was true, the Stuka was no miracle of engineering - and still the sound was enough to shake up a whole platoon. Jim figured that was what they were doing themselves, making a big noise like an animal puffing itself up so as not to be eaten.
“The Germans don’t have the air in Italy,” Rogers said, coming up behind them. He had the same wheeze in his throat he did on land, only now it was mixed with the distinct croak of seasickness. He looked even more gaunt and twitchy here against the flat plane of sky, lit by high unforgiving sunlight, than he did against the dreary drip of England. He took those seasickness pills, the ones that make everyone sleepy, and on top of them took the pills for alertness, so probably it evened out. But either way it left him with his cheeks hollow and no appetite - despite the food onboard the ship being some of the better Army food they’d eaten.
Dugan had still been asleep, leveraging the soporific effect of the pills for all it was worth: he claimed he wanted the trip to pass like a dream.
The Germans didn’t have the air but they did have some of the Atlantic Ocean. Radar picked up two submarines four klicks out a couple days ago, which that night hit and sunk the ship ahead of them in line. The joke of the thing was that the explosions hadn’t bothered Dugan at all. He came out of the episode with nothing more than a rumpled mustache, and ‘what’d I miss?’ had become the joking way all of them asked what was going on when they felt a little worried.
The truth was: they all were.
-
The landing went fine, near the old site their side had established before, this time stripped of all German detritus. The main issue they ran into was some Allied bombers flying zealously overhead. If Jim hadn’t furiously radioed that they were friendlies when they heard the drone, they might have been in trouble. As it was, when they got the rubber rafts to shore and headed back out, they got to watch the contrails of RAF bombers. Monty almost fell out of his raft standing to salute the planes.
-
They all got a little wet and cold, and Rogers coughed some, which they were used to by now. Jim sent off an all’s-well Morse message to Carter, encoded in the brand-new cipher written on scraps of silk inside his jacket. He made sure to end the message with the dummy characters GFB. Go For Broke, an ode to his old company. A sign that he was who he said he was. The truth was, the 442nd was back in Italy too - it was just that they weren’t the same guys he’d trained with. Rotated out. Gone home, gone broke, bought the farm.
They trekked inland with all their dummy props in a convoy, packed underneath with explosives to blow them all sky-high, if they fell into the wrong hands. The road toward San Onofrio was a hilly and miserable slog that took most of two days. When they stopped for the night Rogers kept them busy painting scraps of fabric, any minor repair to the dummies. As they were laying the dummies flat on the ground, Dugan said with authority, “They’re fine,” and retired to the campfire to knit a pair of socks. But he only added an inch before Barnes told him to get off his ass and patrol.
Jim took the last watch before dawn, and watched the mountains turn blue in the chill air. From far off he watched a farmer begin his day, down in the valley: the lone candle being lit, the stumbling footsteps across his yard towards the animal coops. Every once in awhile Jim put a toe into the ashes of the fire and stirred them enough to keep warm.
Just before dawn Rogers roused himself and came to sit with Jim. They’d kept their word, him and Carter - for once Jim knew as much about the mission as they did, which was to say not much. Rogers seemed about as itchy for orders as the rest of them.
-
Their mission was a simple one, according to Rogers. While Jim and the others had been locked in cages in Austria, the Allies had split forces - the Brits moving up from the east along the Adriatic Coast, and the Americans slogging their way north from Naples. The Germans had used the end of 1943 to fortify their defensive positions, and the advance of the U.S. Fifth Army had been halted almost completely by the watchful eye of God - or rather, by the monastery crowning the southern edge of the Liri Valley, which was giving the Germans a beautiful advantage in slaughtering any and all approaching forces.
So that was a problem. The second problem - one that Jim understood immediately, after Volturno - were the rivers, which were swollen from the winter rains, or flooded outright across the valley. The ground was too muddy on their side, meaning no tanks, meaning the regiments that had made it across the Gari River had been cut down by Panzers.
But that wouldn’t be a problem for rubber tanks, Rogers had explained, sounding gleeful. Put them on a sturdy enough looking barge, rubber tanks could go anywhere.
Their task would be to take a battalion of soldiers across the Liri River, a few miles north of where the 90th Panzer Grenadier Division was encamped. When the Panzers reached the Liri, all they’d find were ghosts, and one hell of an ambush: while the spotters would be watching tanks and barges amass on the shore, the 34th would go south along the mountain ridge toward the monastery, break through behind the German line and take the high ground.
But by the time they reach San Onofrio, on February 8th, the plan has changed.
“It looks like Hydra managed to get their tentacles in here as well,” Peggy tells them, after she and Rogers have met with command. “The German shellings are - too accurate to proceed, and a consensus is developing that the Germans have taken the monastery.”
Rogers and Gabe look poleaxed at each other for a second. Maybe they’re both thinking as artists. Jim’s thinking as a soldier: the 34th had lost 2,200 men in three days. He’d had a better chance in the 100th.
“They said they wouldn’t,” Barnes says, looking at Rogers like he wants to reassure him. Rogers gives a look back that seems all Adam’s apple, this being how he expresses skepticism: a large bob of the throat.
“‘Cause Krauts are famous for always doing what they say,” Dugan says.
“And deception never won any battles,” Monty adds, even drier.
“So we wait," Rogers says.
“Not much point in sending Captain America out just to get him strafed flat,” Barnes says, already comfortable referring to himself in the third person. If it is him, anyhow.
“That’s about the size of it,” Peggy says, rueful and less polished in her speech than she is when giving her usual reports. Or maybe Rogers has rubbed off on her. She straightens and shakes her head; not a curl goes out of place. Jim thinks of the ballyhoo that surrounded his cousin Chiyo’s first set of hair curlers back home and wonders how she manages on the front. “This means only a delay,” she says firmly, and Rogers’s shoulders slump as if he’s on the opposite end of a seesaw with her, but he nods too. “We should be able to move out in three days, once the bombing’s done with.”
“Bombing,” Gabe says, sounding sickened. “They’re going to bomb the monastery? It was built in the 11th century.”
“It’s a key stronghold,” Carter says, pained. “Anywhere else we’ve tried to breach the Gustav line has ended in utter disaster.”
Jim’s been listening to the radio traffic from the Germans. He swallows and says, “Pardon me, Agent, but…”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think there’s Nazis in that monastery.”
Carter’s expression is unreadable. “Is that in your report?”
“It’s going in today’s. I heard traffic that’s them talking about not using it on account of the artistic value and on account of some Italians in there.”
“The first part we know. Are you sure about the second? Soldiers or civilians?”
He shakes his head. “Wasn’t clear. And like Monty says, not even clear if it’s the truth.”
Barnes is looking sideways away from Rogers. Rogers shakes his head, his mouth twisted. “It’s not really new information,” he says.
“So we wait,” Barnes says. Jim digs a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers them around.
-
This war is made up of many decisions like this: many voices, all of whom have different stakes in the outcome, weighing one life against another. Of course the Germans’ are weighted less than any of the Allies’, but even that calculus isn’t exact, because if it comes to it, most of them aren’t worth killing either. And then there’s a breakdown of the rest of them, which no one likes to talk about.
The bombing of the monastery happens the next morning, about a mile and a half off from where their group are stationed. They spend it standing sentry on the trucks full of equipment, because even around a friendly camp, it’s top secret stuff in there. Jim and Monty are out listening to German radio traffic at 0800 when the bombs come down. Monty doesn’t salute this time, but tips his head back and brings up his binoculars to watch the slow crumbling of the buildings, as the bombers make a lumbering turn to give it another pass. The sight is spectacular. Thousands of pounds of explosives resound against the thick monastery walls. Artillery batters the whole of the mountain the abbey stands on.
But the promised followup infantry attack doesn’t materialize.
The next day Jim, Rogers, and Peggy take a half-track out to see what’s going on. They get over a rocky hill that’s pitted by explosions and then a soldier waves them off.
“Can’t go this way,” the lieutenant says when Peggy demands to know why the road’s blocked. “They’ll have shells down on you in a minute and a half, if you do.”
Rogers crosses his arms and tilts his head up at the Lt. “I thought we got them.”
The Lt. shakes his head, looking scornful at the implications behind the ‘we.’ Then he shrugs, seeing the Captain’s insignia on Roger’s sleeve, and gestures him ahead. “Fine, then, tell you what: go a hundred yards down that road and then reverse as fast as you can. You’ll see; they’ll put a load down just where you were headed.”
“I think I will,” Rogers says coolly, and swings back up on the truck. He’d be impressive, if he didn’t have to sit so far forward to reach the gas pedal. He couldn’t even drive before joining up. Now he guns the engine and they roar off in a spatter of mud, which makes the Lt. jump back. Peggy gives him a sideways look, and Rogers sets his jaw.
They make it a hundred yards down the road and Rogers cuts the engine, then cranes his neck back and reverses the half-track.
And then, sure enough, about sixty yards ahead, close enough that they get mud and shards of frost thrown at them: the shell comes down. Then another.
“Fuck,” says Rogers, under his breath. He sounds like Barnes.
They trundle their way back past the Lt., who gives them a jerky nod with his eyebrows up and hand folded behind his back.
“Cheeky,” Peggy murmurs when they pass, because of the way he made a mockery of standing at parade rest, like it’s a pose he’s put on for the three of them.
A couple days later, Jim takes down radio communication from a RAF group that’s done aerial reconnaissance over the bombed-out monastery. Turns out the Germans have been able to set up their emplacements even better in the ruins, scrambling in to do it right after the bombs dropped. If they did kill some, it wasn’t enough.
There had been civilians in there, about two hundred Italians taking refuge. And it was for nothing, because the Germans still hold the ground, and now they’ve fortified the mountain even better than they had before. They’re stuck with the 34th and stewing about it - waiting for decisions to be handed down from on high about where to go next. Gabe and Peggy disappear for a little while and her lipstick is suspiciously perfect afterwards. This, Jim feels very uneasy about. Not as a personal thing. But because he’s seen what the Army does when they catch the Negro soldiers even looking at a white woman. He doesn’t say anything, though. He’s always noticed more than most people anyway.
And that’s how it goes, until it doesn’t. It’s three days after St. Valentine’s Day, which is a cruel kind of joke. They’re eating breakfast in their little encampment, which includes real potatoes cooked in the coals of their fire until they’re black on the outside. There’s a mess hall, but back with the Americans it’s all segregated; Jim and Gabe aren’t allowed to eat there, or at least not at the same time as everyone else. Barnes juggles a hot potato and throws it at Rogers, who catches it two-handed and says, “Strike.”
“I’m writing a letter to my wife,” Monty proclaims. “It will be all beautiful lies. Tell me your most dashing story of bravery, o Captain America.” He says it like the ‘o’ has no ‘h’ on it. Fancy.
“Well,” Barnes says, sprawling backwards against a log they’ve drawn up to the fire. He settles in next to Rogers, close, as they do sometimes, when no one but themselves are around. Rogers relaxes a little into Barnes’ body. Jim looks away, down at the page in front of him, which is blank but for its salutation. He’s got a flower he’s pressed into shape on it, a poppy he’s kept with him for a long time. It’s faded red, like a sparrow’s breast.
“Just yesterday,” Barnes says, “I caught a shell full-on, just grabbed it before it could go off and threw it back at the Germans. And then of course my sidekick Limey the Terrible - ”
“Pardon me, I thought we were going with the Union Jack.”
“Oh yeah,” Gabe says, looking up briefly. “Those comics. As long as they don’t call me the Blackjack something-or-other, I guess it’s all right. Are we all Jacks?”
“We’re all Jims.”
“Limey, ce n’est pas gentil,” Dernier says, chuckling and shaking his head. Ce n’est pas gentil, that’s an understatement he makes a lot. The Germans bombed the road: that’s not nice. He goes on, winking at Monty, “Comme les ‘rosbifs.’” A slur on Brits.
“Roast beef indeed. All too rare, these days,” Monty says.
“Well done,” comments Barnes, and Jim groans long and loud.
Barnes cranes his head, looking for Rogers’ reaction to his joke, but Rogers isn’t looking at him. Instead, he’s sitting up, stock still, and blinking into the flames like he’s seen the future there.
“What if,” he says slowly, “Captain America did catch a few shells? And threw them back....”
There’s a silence. Flame crackles. Paper crackles under Jim’s fingers as he idly folds his letter, not sure he’s liking where this is going.
“What do you mean?” Barnes and Gabe say at the same time, like they’re used to this. Jim glances up at the sky, as if for deliverance. Dernier looks eager, twirling one side of his mustache. He likes talk of shells. Lately he’s been telling all of them, in French-smattered English, about his plans for tree-mounted bombs that can spray shrapnel in a radius even if soldiers hit the deck. Jim feels a little ill about that, remembering his infantry days.
“Nothing,” Rogers says, after a silence. He shakes his head. “It’s just - ”
Next to Jim, the radio crackles, and he holds up a hand for silence. After a moment, he gropes for his cipher book, and Gabe for his own, throwing aside the scraps of paper onto which he has been writing his own letter - goodness knows to whom.
“News?” Rogers says.
Jim and Gabe exchange a long look. “General Clark moved out with his men against orders. They plan to march on Rome.”
“But - ” Rogers drags a hand over his hair; it stands up like cotton fluff and then settles back down. “But that’s giving up our position here. That’s letting the Germans have Monte Cassino.”
“You’re not one to talk about disobeying orders,” Barnes murmurs.
“That’s not the - ”
“Same?”
“Our position wasn’t at stake. The Germans will just use the opportunity to shore up the Gustav line, and we’ll never break through.” Now Rogers is sitting forward, mouth set, hand clasped so the knuckles show red and chapped. He draws the eye, Rogers, even though he’s small. Jim stares at him, trying to figure out what he’s thinking.
“Captain America against the whole German Tenth?” Dugan says, snorting.
“Captain America,” Dernier says thoughtfully. “Et les Jacques….”
“Not you too,” Barnes says, rolling his eyes heavenward.
“We were going to start out down the highway, make it look like we were advancing faster than we are,” Rogers says. They all nod; that was the new plan, since they’d assumed that the bombing would let the Allies break through the German defenses. “But now Clark really has done that… He’s called our bluff for us. So what if we don’t fake that. What if we circle around behind the Germans and draw them away from the road?”
“And what’s the point of that?”
“They’re trying to get Clark back. They just said it, on the radio,” Gabe says, slow, and Rogers nods.
“We could make that happen.”
“You think he’d come back for Captain America, when he wouldn’t come back for Winston goddamn Churchill?”
“Winston Churchill,” Dugan says with broad delight, “Is a Limey.”
They radio to Peggy, who relays a message to Phillips. Steve goes to talk to General Tuker, who’s higher-up than Clark - Clark’s a three-star general, one they say is prone to getting spooked, maybe too cautious. The thing is, Jim can’t entirely blame him for steering his soldiers out of harm’s way to try for Rome. But Rogers is right, too.
When Rogers comes back he’s smiling, and Jim’s guts clench up even before Rogers says, “It’s vital we capture Monte Cassino. It’ll give us the whole of the Liri Valley and make it impossible for the Germans to hold the line. It’ll take some maneuvering on our part to circle around the back and the terrain’s against the real army. But we let ‘em know Captain America has his ways of getting a bunch of soldiers to places in a stealthy sort of way.”
“They’ve been bombing everything,” Jim protests. “They seem to know where we are…”
“They don’t have any technology we don’t,” Rogers says firmly.
“Right,” Dernier says. He says, “We could always make the terrain less hop - hospitable, non?” He rubs his hands together, already planning. Meanwhile, Dugan squints at the horizon, palms up, thinking how he might set up tanks.
The fundamental craziness of the plan remains.
Barnes and Rogers hole up in their tent for a while and there are muffled sounds of argument from inside. Barnes stomps out only mostly in uniform, pulling on the Captain America cowl he seems to wear sometimes to cover up his expressions when he’s feeling sour. He huffs up next to Jim and stands in a city-boy slump, hand groping for pockets he hasn’t got: the suit zips up tight, though it has pockets lower down on the thigh in hidden panels.
Jim offers him a cigarette and Barnes about sucks the cherry of it down his throat, then coughs and waves off smoke.
“Catching shells,” Barnes says. “We’re really doing it.”
Jim tips him an ironical salute. “Captain.”
“Don’t look at me, you’ve got the hard part.” It’s true: Jim has to stay attentive to the German radio signals as they direct artillery, since they have to keep just a jump ahead of where the shells will fall. Then it’s on Dernier to plant mines where the Germans think they’ve destroyed the American tanks. When they come through with an infantry sweep after shelling, they’ll be blown sky-high.