Italy 1943-45

On the second or the third day of the invasion of Italy in 1943, we “invaded” (as it were) a town called Torre Annunziata, south of Naples.

As previously stated, I was as a battalion surgeon attached to a separate anti-aircraft battalion. This unit had 90mm guns and searchlights for high-flying Luftwaffe and rapid firing 40mm guns for dive-bombers and low flying enemy aircraft. We were usually deployed defensively around a seaport, a beachhead, or an airfield. The battalion consisted of 500 men divided into four companies.

My task was to set up a first aid station, which would be equidistant and accessible to all the gun sites. Usually that meant being attached to Headquarters Company, which was great for us because we were close to the mess hall and the quartermaster.

The wounded would be brought in by one of my medics attached to that gun site using a company Jeep or any other available transportation. I would perform miracles of surgery (in later years more aptly described as “minor surgery”), or after administering first-aid would send the more seriously wounded to the nearest tent hospital by one of my ambulances. Here at the tent hospital “Real Doctors” would perform the definitive major surgical procedures.

Let me enlarge on that point.

Guys like me were put out in the field because we had just graduated from medical school, just finished one year of general internship and were quite young. The Real Doctors were older men who had been in practice for some time before the war and had some special training.

They were also “lucky bastards” because they never got killed, and they didn't have Sergeant Pezzula to deal with. Not to mention that they were surrounded by lots of “Real Female” nurses.

When Pezzula and I would go to these tent hospitals to visit our wounded, we wore helmets, rolled-up sleeves, open shirts and combat boots (which were caked with mud - Pezzula's touch). We were “something.” These gals would respect the real “Fighting GI Docs,” not the old crocks with stethoscopes hanging from their necks.

This entire medical field system, just described, was changed in the subsequent Korean Conflict due to the innovation of the helicopter. It would pick up the wounded from the medics on the field and bring them directly to a MASH Unit (Alan-Alda style).

Getting back to the R.R. tracks... Apparently, Torre Annunziata was a big R.R. switching station, with tracks that were located not too far from the beachhead. As we came off the beaches with my small American (Italian-speaking) medical detachment, we were enjoying the pretty “tourism” view of Italy. All of a sudden, small-arms fire opened up and bullets were whizzing in the air all around us like a hoard of bees. I dove down between the tracks and tried to recall the prayers that I learned in Hebrew school. Just a few feet below me landed our brand new padre who was recently sent to us from the replacement depot. He was hugging the inside of the tracks and was praying very loudly. But, I mean very loud and in Latin.

God surely must have heard him (everybody else did) because the firing soon quieted down. However, he did not get up. Initially, we thought he was wounded but the loud praying continued until I touched him on the back to assure him that all was well. It was his first exposure to this sort of thing and it was very frightening.

There is a terrible intense, paralyzing fear that goes with one's first exposure to open fire. I do recall someone - it could have been a sailor that came off the beach with us - making the comment, “Did you see how fast the firing stopped? I gotta learn Latin!”

We had been previously baptized in Africa, but that did not diminish the fear.
Fortunately, there were no serious wounded; just a lot of cuts and scratches from “hitting the dirt.” I heard later that our men thought the fire came from some concealed Italian soldiers (who, although they hated Mussolini) realized that we were the enemy, and that they were expected to start shooting.

After it quieted down, I walked along the tracks to one of our gun sites that were being set up nearby when I noticed that chunks of rails had been “bitten” off every hundred yards or so. This was obviously done by the retreating Germans to prevent us from using the rails. Replacing these iron tracks was almost impossible because the factories that manufactured them had been bombed to dust by American and British bombers. I came back the next day to take a photograph

The newly assigned padre stayed close to me because he thought that his services might be needed for a severely wounded soldier. When a newly assigned officer who had singular duties, like a padre or special radar technician was attached to our battalion, the colonel would say, “Put him up with Doc Sanders, he could use the company”! (I'm sure he really meant “and, hopefully make a soldier out of him.”)

The padre was up in years and really should have been assigned to a tent hospital, with the old crock doctors wearing stethoscopes around their necks.