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Four Weeks Earlier

December 25, 1943

1300 Hours

Mount Sammucro, Italy

The battlefield was quiet for the first time in nearly six weeks, when the first of the Allied offensives had begun against the series of German winter lines. It wasn’t entirely quiet—distant artillery boomed out from time to time, and an occasional rifle shot could be heard, as could the sounds of hundreds of thousands of men in the mountains and valleys of central Italy—but as battlefields went, it was deadly silent.

A cold wind from the northwest kept everyone’s head down and three officers huddled in the lee of a collection of rocks—the location of fierce fighting only that morning.

First Lieutenant Sam Taft had a broad smile on his face as he handed a flask of T. W. Samuel’s bourbon to his cousin, Captain Perkin Berger.

“You’re sure?” Sam asked.

“I am,” Perkin replied with a smile in return.

“So it’s over?”

“Yep. It’s over. The great battle of San Pietro, which no one will ever hear about again, is over. Finished. Fertig. Finito.” Perkin took a long pull on the flask and handed it to his battalion commander, Major Bill Spaulding.

Spaulding also took a long pull on the flask, then handed it back to Sam nearly half-empty. Following the shot of bourbon with a wad of tobacco into his cheek, Spaulding said, “The scouts are reporting the Kraut positions on this pile of rocks have been abandoned. Completely abandoned: weapons, equipment, wounded. Everything. Looks like they’ve finally withdrawn to the Gustav Line, and our work here is about wrapped up. I’m thinkin’ no more counterattacks . . . So I reckon we’re in defense while the army figures out the next step. Maybe we go into reserve for a while.”

“Thank God!” Sam said, and he smiled again as everyone nodded in agreement.

As the other two officers remained reclined against mountain rocks, Sam was inspired to stand up, and in a deep, carrying voice, he began to sing:

God rest ye merry, gentlemen,

Let nothing you dismay,

For Jesus Christ our Savior

Was born on Christmas Day,

To save us all from Satan’s power

When we were gone astray.

O tidings of comfort and joy,

Comfort and joy,

O tidings of comfort and joy.

Several nearby soldiers grinned when Sam started the second verse, then forgot the words and began to hum. Coming to his rescue, Major Spaulding stood up, grasped Sam’s shoulder, and enthusiastically finished the song by himself in his raspy smoker’s voice. Perkin didn’t sing, but instead directed the impromptu concert from his seat on the ground with a vaguely incoherent wave of his hands and a contented smile on his face. It was Christmas Day, after all, and the bourbon was beginning to have an effect, but the holiday spirit was less influential than the realization that a battle had been won—a terrible, nearly Pyrrhic victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Sam and Bill sat down again, and Sam surveyed his small group with deep affection. It was one of the few occasions that Sam enjoyed being a soldier, and it was due entirely to the company he was keeping at that moment in time.

Bill Spaulding had been his friend and comrade for over three years; there was no soldier whose judgment he trusted more. The vision before Sam wasn’t that of a recruiting-poster soldier, though. Spaulding’s uniform was filthy. One leg of his trousers was torn at the thigh, showing a dingy nonregulation union suit, and Spaulding’s leggings were covered in mud, as was his pitifully inadequate jacket. A dented helmet covered an unshaved face, which bore the still-raw scars of a terrible artillery wound from only months before. That he looked as good as he did was a testament to the skills of the two medics who had feverishly sewn his face together again in the midst of the ferocious barrage. To Sam, the major was a soldier’s soldier and the iconic picture of a combat veteran.

Sam’s cousin, Perkin, looked little better than Major Spaulding. Perkin was closer to Sam than anyone but Sam’s wife, Margaret. They had been raised almost as brothers along the Gulf Coast of South Texas, and they still regarded each other as such years later and far away on the distant shores of Italy. Despite his relaxed smile, Perkin looked desperately tired to Sam, but then so did everyone else.

Sam studied his cousin for a moment. His uniform was slightly cleaner than either Sam’s or Spaulding, but not by much. His three-quarter shoes and leggings had been recently replaced by a pair of highly coveted jump boots—the original owner had been killed at Salerno and the boots had been used as trading currency until they found their way to Perkin, who had paid a premium price in cash and cigarettes. As Sam looked at his cousin’s normally handsome face on this Christmas Day, he saw it was smudged with dirt and bore fading yellow and blue bruises that were accentuated by deep circles under his eyes. He also bore scars on his face—less extensive than Spaulding’s but more recent.

Without saying so, Sam reflected that he had seen hobos during the Depression who looked in better shape than his cousin. Seeing something unexpected, Sam leaned forward and with his fingertips pushed Perkin’s helmet back slightly on his cousin’s head. To his cousin’s annoyance, Sam exclaimed gleefully, “Gray hair! Bill, look at this! He’s got gray hair!”

The major leaned forward as well and studiously examined his friend’s hair. He nodded with an amused grin, “I’ll be goddamned, Perk! You got a dozen or so of ’em and you ain’t even thirty yet.”

Perkin removed his helmet and ran his hands through his hair. As he looked at his hands to see if any of the gray had rubbed off, he said, “It’s a sign I’m overworked. You ought to give me some time off. But look close—if they’re movin’ some, maybe they ain’t gray hairs. I think I got cooties. I’ve been scratchin’ up a storm.” He grinned as the other two officers wiped their hands subconsciously on their coat fronts.

Spaulding snorted slightly and said, “Your personal hygiene’s the least of my worries. Half the battalion’s lousy and the other half’s got trench foot. And using Aggie math, the third half’s got the clap. Had the clap—but I suppose we’ll have to deal with it again after we get some R&R.”

“Any idea when that might be?” Sam asked.

“Nope. May be awhile. I was hopin’ that we’ll get the chance to come off the line for a spell but I don’t know who relieves us. We’re in sore need of replacements and they’ll need to be trained before we move forward again. I gotta think that someone else gets the point this time, but I don’t know who,” Spaulding repeated.

The three officers nodded. They were all of the same mind: it was someone else’s turn.

2100 Hours

1st Battalion Headquarters, NW of San Pietro, Italy

As soon as the determination was made that the Germans had completely withdrawn to the Gustav Line, truckloads of food were brought forward to the provisional battalion headquarters. From there, a small mule train carried tin buckets of once-hot turkey and mashed potatoes to the troops still on Mount Sammucro. In contravention of orders, pockets of soldiers tentatively started small fires in the lee of boulders. When the Germans didn’t respond with artillery fire, but with campfires of their own, the Texans enjoyed their Christmas dinners with light and warmth. Presents were exchanged between buddies, dry socks and cigarette lighters being the most frequently shared gifts.

Chaplains held Christmas services where they could. Most of the division had been inactive that morning—only the 1st Battalion of the 141st Infantry Regiment had been in combat^*—and many of the chaplains had held services for their units in the morning and then moved up the trails to tend to those pickets still on the mountain. Hymns could be heard through the darkness, and a mix of celebratory red and green flares in the distance reinforced that the German Army was taking the night off as well.

Perkin and Major Spaulding had spent the remainder of their afternoon working off the nearly imperceptible effects of Sam’s bourbon by walking from outpost to outpost on the mountainside before beginning a perilous descent of Mount Sammucro in the twilight. The two officers had done it many times before in the preceding week, but it was still a challenge to manage the sharp rocks and mountain scree in the dim light. Between the exercise and the cold damp mountain air, by the time Perkin and Spaulding arrived at the headquarters, they were both absolutely famished and ready for a small Christmas celebration.

It was a hurried affair, as there had only been time to set up a mess tent with folding tables and chairs in the shadow of the mountain. Kerosene lanterns gave the tent light and an artificial sense of warmth. A pine sapling had been cut by Spaulding’s soldiers and decorated with tinfoil strips. It was placed ceremoniously on the head table with its base wrapped in camouflage netting. No presents graced the tiny tree, but on that night it seemed that no other trappings of civilization were needed.

In addition to the battalion staff, Major Spaulding had invited his four company commanders, one platoon leader, a noncommissioned officer, and a junior enlisted soldier from each company to share his Christmas dinner. Most of the invited officers had already eaten with their own troops before making their way to the battalion HQ, but as hunger had been ever-present over the past month, they were confident of making it through a second dinner with their commanding officer without much distress.

The Able Company commander, Captain Ronald Ebbins, and First Lieutenant Sam Taft were the last of the company grade officers to arrive. Ebbins looked furtively around, as if he felt uncomfortable in the presence of soldiers. He nodded briefly to Major Spaulding, who was engaged in a tactical discussion with a buck sergeant from B Company, and found a seat with the commander of C Company—a roundheaded, quiet officer named Wilson.

Sam was carrying his gas mask bag, which Perkin suspected held one or more bottles of bourbon but no gas mask. Perkin watched as Sam moved through his friends wishing them a merry Christmas and then headed off to find the senior NCO among the cooks. Perkin grinned to himself, as he knew what was on Sam’s mind.

Five minutes later, Sam rejoined the dinner guests. Perkin watched as Sam’s eyes sought out Ebbins and then Perkin. Sam moved along the edge of the tent, avoiding interaction with his company commander, until he reached Perkin.

“Hey, Bear!”

“Hey, yourself. When’s chow? I’m starving.” Sam eased himself into a seat across the table from his cousin. “Damn, my legs are sore. How was your stroll across the mountain this afternoon with Bill?”

“Not bad. I think the companies are all set and we can defend Mount Sammy if we have to, but I don’t think we will.”

“Good.”

Sam seemed unsettled to his cousin, and his eyes drifted toward Ebbins, who had now joined several officers by a makeshift bar. Perkin nodded toward them. “You wanna join ’em?”

“Given my druthers, no. Let’s just have a drink here.” Sam motioned to an orphaned Italian boy from San Pietro—a newly hired, unofficial employee of Uncle Sam—and the boy brought over a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“Having problems with Captain Courageous?”

Sam stared at his cousin for a moment, and then laughed. “I swear. You can read me like a book. You know, it’s funny you should say that.” He shook his head, and said in a low voice, “Don’t repeat this . . . I ain’t sure but I’m afraid he’s a little gun-shy. You know . . . on the line.” Sam had lowered his voice. He despised gossip and didn’t want to spread rumors of cowardice, but talking to Perkin was different.

“What happened?”

“Well, about 0830 we were cleaning up the last of the grenadiers—the wounded ones who were covering the German withdrawal. My platoon was on the northwest slope, and Beams’s platoon was on my right. Frank McCarter in reserve. At first, we were moving slowly ’cause we were drawin’ some rifle fire and some artillery, so we moved up close to their fellas and they quit the heavy stuff. We took out an MG-42 nest that was mostly just makin’ noise, because the gunner had bandages over his eye and couldn’t see too well and his loader was in worse shape. We start chuckin’ grenades at ’em and they surrendered faster than a Frenchman in springtime. So we punch through ’em, and then about a hundred yards up, we see a squad hop up and start running down the trails. Kenton and his boys set off after ’em and we find ourselves almost running down the mountain in pursuit of them and some others who were decamping. They weren’t shootin’ anymore. Just runnin.’ There’s some mortar rounds comin’ down near us, but it’s just smoke to cover the withdrawal. Anyways, Ebbins gets on the radio and screams at me to stop and return to his position.”

“Really? Why?”

“I gather he thought the Krauts were gonna counterattack again to cover their withdrawal. He was about seven hundred yards behind us at this point, so I figured he couldn’t see what was goin’ on. I told him that we had ’em on the run and to let me finish ’em up, but he insisted.”

Perkin looked puzzled. “Let me get this straight. He thought they were going to counterattack up the mountain to cover their withdrawal from the mountain? That don’t make much sense.”

“No, it don’t. I tried to explain that to him when we got back but he wasn’t thinkin’ real clear. He said I exceeded my orders, so I explained that our orders were to clear the last of the German defenders off Mount Sammy, which is what we did. When I said that, he told me I was insubordinate.”

“What?”

“Yeah. So I told him to write me up if he really felt that way, and he began to backtrack some. I don’t reckon anything will come outta that, but Jesus, Perk, he was all white and shakin’ and I don’t think it was anger at me for doin’ my job.”

Sam had a troubled look on his face that Perkin seldom saw. He knew that given Sam’s history with Ebbins, he wouldn’t say anything up the chain of command, lest he be accused of pursuing a personal agenda. Perkin had no such qualms.

“You should have said something to Bill earlier. Let me talk to him; maybe he can calm Ebbins down some.”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

“The battalion commander needs to know that one of his company commanders isn’t up to the job, don’t you think?”

Sam shook his head, “If it gets to that point, I’ll say something myself. But let’s not forget this is his first time in real action. It takes some gettin’ used to.” He shook his head again. “I’d rather help Ebbins work through this myself.”

Perkin was about to protest again when they were interrupted by the mess sergeant who leaned over Sam’s shoulder and said in an East Texas accent, “We got two dozen eggs, four cups of sugar, and a gallon of cream.” The sergeant handed a scrap of paper to Sam. “But I cain’t read your instructions. What’s next, sir?”

Sam spoke in low tones so that only the sergeant and Perkin could hear. “Ya gotta separate the eggs. In the yolks, whip in about two-thirds of the sugar. Then add the two quarts of bourbon, slowly working it in. Then, in another bowl, whip the whites and the remaining sugar together just like for a meringue. Then combine the two bowls, and then fold, fold mind you, the cream into the eggs. It’s the best damn nog you’ll ever have. Promise. Now hurry along so it’s done by the end of dinner.”

The wine turned out to be a decent Sangiovese, and the cousins toasted one another and their friends and family back home. They were joined at their little table by a platoon leader from Dog Company who was in an exceptionally jovial mood after having lived through his first battle and, being a former teetotaler, having drunk his first three glasses of wine.

The battalion cooks had done them proud. Even with the battlefield conditions, the occasional freezing rain, and the short notice, they served roasted turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, fresh rolls, stewed cauliflower, and buttermilk pie. It was certainly the best meal that either Sam or Perkin had eaten for weeks, and in the nature of hungry men, the assembled soldiers all swore that it was best food they had ever eaten.

Toward the end of the dinner, as Sam was finishing his third piece of pie, two battalion cooks carefully carried in a huge glass punch bowl filled with Sam’s eggnog. The bowl had been liberated from a destroyed home in San Pietro, and the red faces and wide smiles of the cooks suggested that they had liberated some of Sam’s bourbon as well.

They carried it up to the front table where Spaulding and the company commanders sat on one side of a long table facing the remaining guests. The mess sergeant leaned over and whispered to Major Spaulding while his men filled paper coffee cups with the eggnog and passed them out to the assembled soldiers.

Major Spaulding accepted a cup of the eggnog, tentatively sniffed at the beverage, and then turned the cup upside down. The eggnog didn’t move. Seemingly coming to a decision, the battalion commander stood up, and in the gradually ensuing silence, he indicated that his guests were to keep their seats.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention please? I’d like to thank y’all for comin’ here tonight. I know that everyone is tired and looking forward to gettin’ back to your companies and havin’ a quiet night’s sleep, so I won’t keep y’all here long. Please charge your glasses with the remainder of the wine, before we advance to our next objective . . . this . . . uh . . . curious eggnog, which smells promising even if it melted my nose hairs.”

Spaulding watched as the men filled their cups—a mixture of wine glasses and canteen cups—and then said as he stubbed out a cigarette in his plate, “Please stand. I’m gonna teach you an old Able Company tradition: the Texas Roister. As in war, do as I say, when I say it, and y’all may live through the experience.” When the soldiers were all standing with full cups, he continued, “The Texas Roister is a time-honored tradition which our historian, Captain Professor Berger, assures me was the last act of the defenders at the Alamo.”

Perkin looked at Sam and grinned. He had made that up two years before while drunk at an Able Company party at Camp Bowie.

“And as we are the 1st Battalion of the famous Alamo Regiment, it’s only fittin’ that we should carry on the tradition.”

Sam rolled his eyes back at Perkin and whispered across the table, “I think the fumes from the eggnog got to him. Bill ain’t normally this long-winded.”

“We’re gonna do four toasts, but we only drink at the end. And it all goes down. OK, gents, hold your cups out like this.” Spaulding demonstrated by holding his cup out with his wrist bent outward at a right angle. When everyone complied, he said in a firm voice, “To God!”

Led by Perkin and Sam, the soldiers seconded the toast, “To God!”

They watched as Spaulding then did a curious thing: instead of taking a drink, he brought the glass of wine up to his ear, held it there for a moment as if he were listening to the wine’s stories, and then he brought the glass back down in front of him still held at the awkward angle. Following Sam and Perkin’s lead, the others did likewise.

“To Country!”

“To Country!” This time the deep voices toasted in unison, and the movement of the glasses to ear and back was much more fluid.

“To Texas!”

“To Texas!” Enthusiasm was in their voices, and grins of anticipation were now seen throughout the audience.

“Gentlemen, our next stop is Rome. It’s a damn hard road gettin’ there, but, ‘On to Rome!’”

“On to Rome!”

“Now, boys, do what I do!” With a loud rolling “Roiiiiiisssssster!” Spaulding downed his drink in a single swallow and slammed his empty glass on the table. With evident satisfaction, Spaulding watched as the soldiers followed his lead with a stretched-out “roister” of their own.

Applause, laughter, and cheers followed; the soldiers who hadn’t had much cause lately for applause, laughs, or cheers quickly moved their attention to uncovering the mysteries of Sam’s eggnog, and amid a boisterous dissonance of carols and roister-practicing, the Christmas celebration resumed anew.

^* The 36th Division, like most US infantry divisions in WWII, had approximately 15,000 soldiers of whom about a third were infantrymen. The 36th had three regimental combat teams (141st, 142nd, 143rd) formed around three rifle battalions (plus numerous other units), which in turn were comprised of three rifle companies and a heavy weapons company. Each company had three rifle platoons and a weapons platoon. On paper, a full-strength company was 187 soldiers.