In late May, the front-line men realize that a vast operation is beginning. Night after night practically every cannon on the beachhead blasts the enemy positions. The Germans, at first, answer with furious barrages. But that is according to plan. The krauts are being tricked into expending their precious ammunition while we are still under cover.[1]

During the terrible months immediately preceding, our command has studied every detail of the terrain over which we must pass. The enemy strongpoints are know; the mine fields, mapped; the gun position, plotted.

But time has also favored the Germans. It has enabled them to bring in reinforcements and to strengthen their defenses immeasurably. Obvious facts inform them that the assault is impending.

Now with the tbales turned and their backs to the wall, they are prepared to fight like insane men. They must.

If we shatter their lines and merge with the main body of our army pushing up from the south, Rome is doomed and their men in the area face annihilation.

Our final artillery barrage is so intense that it seems nothing could be left of the German lines.

The grinning soldiers, listening to the thundering explosions, say, “Hitler, count you children!”

Under the spinning shells we turn from the holes in which we have cowered for nearly four months and march toward the enemy.

Directly overhead our 50-caliber machine guns lay a cover of bullets that crack in their passing like millions of bullwhips.

The Germans stagger; but fanatical and desperate, they recover. From the ruins of buildings, from field and forest, their deadly guns stutter.[1]

[1] Murphy. To Hell and Back. 150.

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