Miracle at St. Anna (Movie Tie-in) by James McBride

of which he still doubted. Still, the whole business bothered him. It had to be checked out right away, even though nothing could be done about it. The colored division was spread too thin as it was, fifteen thousand men over a thirty-mile front five miles wide, with the Germans fighting from concrete bunkers that were impervious to small-arms fire, and a huge railroad gun in La Spezia that was kicking the shit out of them. The Germans, ingenious fighters that they were, had placed a ship’s 406-millimeter cannon on a flatbed car, secured it, and wheeled it into a railroad tunnel. Anytime they wanted to, they rolled the cannon out, fired it, then wheeled it back in. The giant beast wreaked havoc, hurling shells weighing 560 pounds for thirty-eight miles. American bombers could not reach it. They needed a ship to float into the harbor and knock that goddamn thing out. But naval support cost money. Money meant politics. And politics, for a colored division? In Italy, which was poor and not strategically important? With the Negro press kicking their ass about the segregated Army’s treatment of coloreds, and good white boys dying in Normandy under Patton and Marshall? With General Allman, who had the guts to tell his superiors what he really thought, who was about as politically correct as General MacArthur? Forget it. The gun stayed, and it kicked the shit out of them. One single goddamn gun, he thought bitterly.
    Driscoll sat up and told his orderly to summon Captain Rudden. Rudden was from Maine. He was one of the few captains in the division whom Driscoll trusted.
    Rangy and tall, with a slow, careful manner and dark eyes that sucked in everything around him like bilge pumps, Rudden entered, followed by his first lieutenant, a man named Wells, a stocky colored man with a huge head and bug eyes that stared blankly. Several white captains had tried to make Rudden get rid of Wells—they were scared of him—but Rudden refused. “He’s the best first lieutenant in the division,” he boasted, which is why Driscoll liked Rudden. Rudden knew a good soldier when he saw one.
    â€œSir?”
    â€œI got a report that Germans are planning a push down the Serchio Valley, through Lama di Sotto ridge. Two or three regiments.”
    Rudden’s eyes widened. “Regiments?”
    â€œYou been running patrols back and forth over there. You hear anything about that?”
    â€œNo, sir. But G Company has a squad that’s probably sitting right on that area, sir.”
    â€œWhat’s the state of G Company?”
    â€œShot to hell, sir. Twenty-four dead, forty-three wounded, plus they have a squad missing up in the Serchio Valley.”
    â€œHow many in it?”
    â€œThey went out as twelve, crossed the Cinquale Canal, and two came back, two wounded, four dead, and four missing, still on the other side of the canal. One of ’em’s a lieutenant.”
    â€œWho’s the lieutenant?”
    â€œStamps is his name.”
    Driscoll knew him. A good soldier. Cool and smart. Stamps had come out of the Army’s Advanced Special Training Program, which sent the smartest coloreds to Howard University for special training. It was a program the Army had started to raise the intelligence tests of the division, which were low, since only 40 percent of the colored draftees were literate. Driscoll had seen Stamps back at training camp in Arizona. The kid knew his business.
    â€œRadio contact?”
    â€œYeah. Captain Nokes got them on the SCI-536 when we pushed across the Cinquale. They were on the other side and got just beyond Hill Maine near Strettoia, at the enemy weak point. They called for artillery fire, which might’ve pushed the Krauts back and collapsed their hold on the canal, but Nokes didn’t fire. Instead, he called them back.”
    â€œWhy the hell did he do that?”
    â€œHe couldn’t see them and didn’t believe they’d crossed, so they got hung