In the first five days of invasion, the U.S. Seventh Army seized and widened its bridgeheads in southwestern Sicily (TIME, July 26). On the night of July 15-16, the Seventh Army then began the northward push which culminated last week in the occupation of central and western Sicily (see p. 33).
First important step in this drive was the capture of Barrafranca, a town of stone houses at the end of a narrow valley, guarded on either side by three rugged hills and many smaller ones. The veteran 1st Division's 26th Infantry Regiment was assigned to take these hills, thus opening the way into the town. With the regiment's 2nd Battalion, one of three in the action, was TIME Correspondent Jack Belden. His report, which arrived last week, is of a battle as it looks to the soldier in battle, with all its desperation, irrelevance and confusion.
"Move out! Move out!" Like an alarm, that midnight voice cut through our sleep. The walkie-talkies spoke: "Move out! Move out!" A soldier said: "I'm all set to go. I got new bandages on my feet." Suddenly we were on the path, moving in single file—no vehicles, no tanks, just a bunch of foot soldiers.
The sound of machine guns was like an urgent tapping at a door. "Those ain't ours," said a soldier. "Sounds like Hermans," said another voice, referring to the fast-firing guns of the Hermann Göring Division. Vaguely alarmed, we crested the slope and looked out into a narrow alley of plain, hugged by hills—high ones to the left, low gentle slopes to the right. Dead ahead another hill blocked the end of the valley.
The yellow balls of German tracers dropped in from three sides. The red balls of oar machine guns grew less & less, seemingly overwhelmed. We marched on, knowing that we had not surprised the enemy. We would have to fight for the hills in daylight.
The Rockets. With quiet, efficient cruelty, the day dawned.
What to do? Where to go? We had planned to seize the hills in the darkness and then move up the valley to the town. Now it was impossible to proceed with our plan. The lieutenant colonel in command of the 2nd Battalion made a quick decision. He ordered his soldiers to get on and behind a slight ridge of ground to the left of our road.
"Pick 'em up and lay 'em down," bellowed the Colonel. "They're looking right at you!"
The Colonel, his short legs pumping up & down with extraordinary speed, churned straight up the slope toward the firing. A queer glimmer of a smile played around his lips. Three riflemen, an officer called Jack, two soldiers with walkie-talkies and I scrambled after him, while the rest of the battalion flew across the lower slopes.
An early morning haze was lifting from the hills. In the valley below us, smoke was flowering from small buds into huge white blossoms. German heavy guns had opened up.
The Colonel, with his mobile command post, worked quickly along the top of the ridge away from the road. Forward of him the battle raged. Back of him his own soldiers swarmed, as yet with no destination. Here was excitement, uncertainty, no use for last night's plans, no time to ask for instructions. The battalion commander was on his own.