Night Patrol in Italy

Italian Apennines
February 1945

The patrol began in a nondescript equipment room in a cold stone cottage perched high in the Italian mountains. In the middle of the room, a poorly-rendered sketch of the target area lay on a broad table, surrounded by stone-faced soldiers of the U.S. 91st Infantry Division. Some studied the map; others cleaned their weapons, tested and retesting equipment, and checked for loose clothing. In the corner of the room, an American war correspondent watched and waited, scribbling the occasional observation into a small notebook.

The patrol leader, twenty-seven-year-old Lieutenant Russell McKelvey from Houston, Texas, described the assignment. Citing recent intelligence estimates, he told his squad (to no one’s surprise) that their mission involved an assault on a fortified emplacement six hundred yards behind enemy lines. To get there, they’d have to traverse an icy river and navigate precipitous trails draped in fourteen-inches of fresh powder. Just another ordinary winter’s night in wartime Italy.

There were three checkpoints along the way. At each one, the lead scouts would check their bearings, assess the situation, and proceed to the next. McKelvey reiterated the plan once his squad cleared the final checkpoint: “When you get there you’re gonna go in shooting like hell,” he told them, “and you’re getting out fast.” If all goes accordingly, he says, they will have a German prisoner in tow.

Discussion over, the patrol had a final opportunity to take communion, remove their identification, and gather their equipment. They donned white parkas, pulled crampons over water-resistant shoepacs, and, shortly before 9 p.m., departed into the night.

Thick fog blended with low-hanging clouds. The nighttime air felt “so solid there [was] no horizon,” providing the patrol with “a feeling of deceptive security.” Effective navigation, however, became imperative.

The wireman in the rear unspooled his reel of telephone wire as the single-file patrol advanced through the snow, an emergency tether to home base. The group approached the shallow river. One man lost his balance, tripped, and fumbled his heavy Browning Automatic Rifle. It discharged as it hit the ground, emitting a crack that brought every man to a stop as it echoed through the quiet night.

They craned their necks and listened. Nothing. The Germans did not seem to care.

Another soldier lost his balance, cursing himself as he toppled over into the ice-cold water. Combat patrols were no cake walk; the two incidents hinted at the sapping physicality of the task.

Across the river and into enemy territory, it took twenty minutes to cover the one-hundred yards to the first checkpoint. McKelvey reported the group’s progress to his battalion commanding officer, watching and waiting from a hidden hilltop observation post in the rear. Vigilant artillery batteries and mortar crews stood ready to provide emergency fire support.

The nine-minute reprieve at checkpoint one enabled the men to catch their breath. Here the short trek claimed its first victim: One soldier too exhausted to continue would remain behind with two others as security. The rest pressed on.

Checkpoint two lay a mere 150 yards away—a veritable marathon as McKelvey’s cohort realize the path will take them through an empty, exposed field.

Setting off one by one, moments of acute fear punctuate long bouts of silence: A rogue shell careens into a nearby house; a flare drifts listlessly across the night sky; another shell lands only twenty-five yards away. The soldiers drop onto their bellies deep into the snow.

Twenty-eight minutes after departing checkpoint one, the patrol reaches checkpoint two. The group caught its breath, assessed the situation, checked-in with battalion, left two more men behind as security, and set off once more.

McKelvey’s patrol rinsed and repeated at checkpoint three. Only this time, they broke into two assault groups for the big show.

Spaced twenty yards apart, each group moved forward under the watchful eye of the other. Crack. The sound of an enemy sniper shooting in the distance heightened the adrenaline coursing through the patrol.

Before long, the patrol was stopped by an unexpected set of German voices coming from a nearby ridge. “That’s an enemy machine gun nest,” McKelvey said. No mention of it in the intel briefing, he thought.

He looked around. The men were exhausted. Several struggled to veil fitful coughs, “sticking their heads turtle like into their hoods to muffle the noise.”

McKelvey called in twelve mortar rounds on the machine-gun nest to screen their advance. While the rounds fell, the patrol skirted around the menacing position in a wide arc.

Midnight drew near. Three hours had elapsed. The party spent another hour climbing to the objective at the top of a sloped draw. Clambering through the snow, the group reached the top, weapons drawn, ready to descend on the groggy cohort of unsuspecting Germans they were told would be there.

Instead, they found nothing. The Germans? Gone. The discovery sapped the patrol’s morale.

McKelvey did not want to return empty-handed. Neither did his men. They decided to keep up the search for potential prisoners. Further they ventured into enemy-held territory until faint voices from across a gully brought the patrol to a halt.

McKelvey contemplated a head-on assault; the route, however, was too steep and treacherous. This time, they would return empty-handed.

The patrol doubled back, cutting sections of telephone wire as they went. The whole ordeal, start to finish, lasted six hours.

In many ways, the patrol typified the tactical reality of frontline life during winter in the Italian campaign—a reality laced with the sort of friction that complicated otherwise straightforward physical and mental activities. McKelvey’s patrol failed to achieve its primary objective—another captured prisoner for Allied interrogators. Yet it fulfilled its broader mandate. As George Barrett, the correspondent who accompanied McKelvey’s group, later noted, “Although they haven’t captured their Kraut, the men have harassed the sector, and the Jerries will be trigger-happy for a few days. The six-hour thrust into their lines will force them to set up new machine-gun positions and send out ambush patrols during the next four or five nights.”

Unfortunately, such endeavors never failed to keep those performing them on edge, either. “It was just another quiet night,” Barrett concluded, “with small patrol action on the Italian front.”

Source: George Barrett, “Night Patrol in Italy,” Yank: The Army Weekly 3, no. 39 (March 16, 1945): 17.