Albert DeFazio somewhere in Italy, circa 1944-45. (Albert DeFazio)
By Albert DeFazio
World War II veteran Albert DeFazio, a Bronze Star and Purple Heart recipient, attended our storytelling programs faithfully up to his death in 2021 at age 95. Before Al passed, his daughter, Valerie DeFazio Vacula, published his memories in an excellent account, The Italian Campaign: One Soldier’s Story of a Forgotten War.
Al was born near Pittsburgh to Italian immigrant parents and grew up speaking their language. Drafted at eighteen, he served with Company A, 143rd Infantry Regiment, 36th Infantry Division. He landed in Naples, Italy, near his parents’ hometown.
Not long after Al arrived, the 36th Infantry Division was ordered to cross the Rapido River (Gari or Liri River by Italians) to break the German Gustav Line guarding the approach to Rome. Poor planning, flooded terrain, and intense enemy fire turned the assault into a disaster. The division made two attempts and was forced back both times. Of the 6,000 soldiers involved, more than 2,000 were killed or wounded in what remains one of the deadliest actions in the division’s history.
It was January 14, 1944, and it snowed about four inches that night. It was one of the worst winters Italy had seen in a long time. I was turning nineteen. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want them throwing me a party—as if they could have, anyway.
We were on watches: four hours on, four hours off. We were in a wooded area, with a plateau to our right, scattered with big rocks. As you looked out, you could see the Rapido River leading across to Monte Cassino, where there was an ancient abbey.
Now and then the Germans would lob a shell near us. One scored a direct hit on a guy in our foxhole. He was only twenty or twenty-five feet from me. It got him right in the heart. He looked up at us and said, “Please, can you help me?”—and died right there. That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about that kid.
Our commanding officer was a redhead. We called him Lt. Spike—his real name was Lt. Francis Gorman, though we didn’t know that then. He called us together and said, “I’m your new company commander. Most of you guys will be killed before I even learn your names.” That didn’t go over well with the guys. I don’t think he should have said it—but he was right.
Lt. Spike made his rounds to get acquainted with everybody. He came up to me and my buddy, who I had gone through basic training with. “You two guys look so much alike I can’t tell you apart—almost twins,” he said, then walked away.
We loaded into rubber rafts and crossed the Rapido. I started forward with my twin about five feet to my left and a couple of feet behind me. I didn’t see anybody else. Everyone was still back at the river, crossing. So far, there were no shots from the Germans. They must have taken off, I thought.
Then a shell exploded behind me. The force blew me about two feet into a drainage ditch full of water. I was stunned, and for a minute I didn’t know where I was. Then I felt pain behind me. I reached back and felt a hole. Blood. My backpack was shattered, my shirt torn up. I reached back again—another hole, more blood.
I looked over at my double. His whole back was shot out. He must have taken the brunt of it, saving me. I knew he was gone. For the life of me, I just can’t remember his name.
It’s been over seventy years, and for all that time I’ve tried to remember it. I think because of what I saw—and because he became my best buddy—I just blocked it from my mind. For that reason, I can’t remember his name.
The lieutenant hollered over to me. “Are you guys all right?”
“No, Lieutenant,” I answered. “I’m hit in two places, and my buddy—I think he’s gone.”
“Get back to the river and get some help,” he ordered.
I was so far away from everyone. How in the world was I going to make it back? Small-arms fire, machine guns—everything was coming in heavy. All I could think of was my mother. How would she handle the news of my being wounded…or worse?
I had to make a decision. Either I exposed myself to fire and tried to get help, or I stayed in the ditch and maybe bled to death. If I was alive in the morning, I figured the Germans would capture me. So I took a chance and started back.
Gunfire whizzed past me.. How I didn’t get hit, I’ll never know. The good Lord was with me, I guess. I had almost reached the river when a shell hit to my left. A GI bounced about a foot off the ground. I detoured toward him. It was Lt. Spike, shot up pretty bad and moaning. He’d taken a direct hit, but he wasn’t dead.
I called to another soldier, and we loaded Lt. Spike into a raft and shimmied across the cold, high water. A field hospital was miles downriver, away from the front lines. We trudged along the riverbank, dragging his raft in the shallow water. I was hurting, but when you’re scared, you can do anything. At the hospital, guys were lying all over the place, packed inside and out. I grabbed an orderly walking by.
“We’ll take him,” the orderly said, glancing at Lt. Spike. “How about you?”
“I’m hit in two places,” I told him.
“Will you be all right for a few minutes?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
It wasn’t long before the orderly came back and put me on a stretcher. The doctors and nurses were fantastic. The nurses talked to us and tried to keep us calm. I’ll never forget what they did for me. They took me to the operating table, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in a hospital in Naples.
The 36th Division failed to cross the Rapido River. I got patched up and rejoined at Anzio, where I was wounded again, this time for good. After the war, it took me years before I could sleep through the night. The nightmares were awful. It took sixty years before I found out I had something called Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I have no regrets. I served my country, and it owes me nothing. I just feel sorry for the ones who never made it back.
