Devil in the Details

Phillip Clancy was tired. He had not slept two hours at a stretch for more than a month. It was all an evil German plot. Seriously. Phillip was a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne division, presently trapped in the hellish cauldron of the Anzio beachhead. The idea of landing at Anzio had been to get the Germans to retreat north of Rome. Unfortunately no one had told the Germans.

The actual result was that the Allies were stuck in the coastal lowlands with enemies ensconced on the surrounding hills. Their artillery spotters cxould sit back with a stein of beer and a pair of Zeiss binoculars and call down fire on anything that moved. The only good news was that the Germans did not have an unlimited supply of ammunition.

If the situations were to be reversed the Americans would have been calling down fire on stray dogs. The Germans knew how to make the most of what they had, though. besides comcentrated barrages on any worthwhile targets at least one round of harassing fire fell somewhere in the beachhead each minute. No matter how tired you were at least one shell per hour fell close enough to wake you up.

Now it was a cold, misty spring morning and Phillip was on his way to a forward observation post. His eyes burned, his muscles ached, and his brain felt like it was filled with oatmeal. He felt like he was living underwater. His buddy had stopped at the battalion aid station to get a wounded arm rebandaged, so he was walking alone.

The two men would spend the next several hours watching for activity by the Germans entrenched opposite them. The Germans knew exactly where the OP was located so they would have to be alert for an artillery strike. They also had to watch for raids or even a full scale attack by the enemy. All in all it was unlikely thay would have a quiet morning.

Moving forward, half asleep, Phillip saw another Para coming toward him. Technically the guy should not have left the OP until relieved. To do so left the post undermanned and increased the risk that the Germans could mount an attack without the Americans recieving adequate warning. As he drew closer Phillip tried to think of a suitably scathing remark to make as they passed each other.

It was ironic that the troops they faced were also Paras. It was also ironic that none of them had arrived by parachute. The Germans had arrived by truck while the Americans rode in on landing craft. They even looked alike. Both wore nearly idemtical jumpsuits and the German Fallschirmjaeger did not wear the flared Stahlhelm that their infantry did. Such a helmet could get caught in an airplane's slipstream and rip a jumper's head off or break his neck.

The Germans called the American Paras the Devils in Baggy Pants. The British Paras were known as the Red Devils for their jaunty maroon berets. As for the Fallschirmjaeger, the Americans just wanted to blow them back to Hell; or as they said in Anzio, back out of Hell.

Phillip glanced up and saw that the other Para had stopped and was staring at him. Staring back, he realized the guy was staring at his gun. He carried an M3 submarine gun. It was popularly known as the Grease Gun because of its uncanny resemblance to the automotive tool. It also resembled the German Schmeisser SMG.

Phillip's eyes grew wide as the other Para shifted his gun and he recognized the differences between the two. He began to fumble with his own weapon, clawing at the charging handle. His stomach clenched as he realized his opponent had a head start on him. He was going to die. As he watched the German chambered a round, pointed his gun, and pulled the trigger. He heard a despairing yell and realized it came from his own mouth.

To his surprise, instead of fire belching from the muzzle the magazine slipped out and fell to the ground. The two Paras stared down at the dropped clip, then almost in unison they looked up at each other. Time seemed to stop as they stared into each other's eyes.

Phillip had time to realize that his blonde haired blue eyed enemy looked more like an angel than a devil. In fact he looked a little like the fourteen year old altar boy from Saint Rose's back home. Without conscious thought on his part his finger twitched on the trigger. His gun fired a three round burst and the young German flew backward as if jerked by a wire.

The surreal isolation was broken by shouts and gunfire. Phillip dove behind a pile of rubble as tracers buzzed over his head. He lay for a moment taking in great gulps of air and trying to refocus his thoughts. When the firing died down for a moment he leapt up and fled around a corner into an alley. He crouched down and clutched his helmet as half a dozen artillery shells dropped around him.

He rose and worked his way toward the other end of the alley, picking his way through piles of debris. When he was nearly there his buddy dove in from the street in front of him. When he got up the new white bandage on his arm alreasdy showed a smudge of dirt.

"What happened?" he yelled.

Phillip's reply dripped with self scorn. "I took the wrong damn street!"