Anzio, by Lloyd Clark

Of any of the books I’ve read about World War II, Lloyd Clark’s “Anzio” has succeeded the most in driving home the point that the average soldier did not see the war in campaigns, in maps, in rolling columns of vehicles achieving objective after objective, but rather as an intimate, nasty little thing that tried to kill you as you were already very likely cold, wet, miserable, homesick, scared to death, smelly, hungry, and entirely unsure you’d survive to see the next lull.

And maybe that’s just the proximity of reading “Anzio” talking.

But there are moments.

I kept wanting to see the bigger picture. But Clark writes the book in a claustrophobic fashion, offering only the smattering of a bigger picture with the maps that end each section. I kept bookmarking the maps, referring back to them often, and often feeling frustrated that my knowledge of Italian geography was limited enough I didn’t really know what was beyond the map edges.
Thus it must be like to be a soldier.

Clark quotes Private Paul van der Linden, in such a claustrophobic moment, both literally and figuratively:

It was a curious experience. There I was lying on a hard cold floor quite safe really, whilst outside it was hell . . . my arm and chest were painful. The doctor had taken some of the shell splinters out, but other were too deep. I floated in and out of consciousness. I preferred it when I was out, because then the pain went away and I couldn’t hear what was going on  . . . The sounds were confusing. I’d hear a yell, then a rat-a-tat-a-tat followed by the boom of a grenade. It was a real scrap . . . Sometimes I woke up to find out own guns targeting the Caves trying to keep the Germans at bay. A massive explosion would rock the floor and suck the air out of the place. The noise was so great that you’d be deaf for minutes or hours afterwards. And so on it went.

So too does Ted Jones recall in Clark’s book:

But for Ted [the names of the places he fought] only provoke memories of sights, smells and sounds. Momentarily lost in the past, the distinguished-looking old man stares at the carpet. Then, with no prompting, he recalls the moment when a vicious German artillery bombardment shattered his company’s position during an enemy counter-attack hear the Via Anziante. From the perspective of his narrow slit trench he remembers the whine of approaching shells, the convulsive heave of explosions, the chest-pounding concussion. The smell of wet earth mixed with cordite. He remembers the buzz of a passing bullet and the staccato reply of the Bren guns. He remembers the screams of the wounded and the terrifying yells of the advancing German infantry. Ted Jones recalls his friend dying beside him with absolute clarity. “He made a gurgling sound and was gone.”

Thus it must be like to be a soldier.

Jones survived to tell his story to Clark as an old man. But it’s clear Anzio never really left, or he never left Anzio.

And thus it is today, with parts of the world plunged into what feels like perpetual “we have always been at war with East Asia” war. Only one thing can be said: Poo-tee weet?