THE HILLS OF NICOSIA

Nicosia and Agira were two towns in central Sicily that the Allies had to take on their march toward the Germans' last line around Mt. Etna. Canadians, between the British at Catania and Americans on the left, took Agira. U.S. troops, apparently Major General Terry de la Mesa Allen's 1st Infantry Division (see col. 3), took Nicosia. The only road to that town lay through a deep mountain trough, fortified by the Germans, and past German-held hills. With Captain Edward Wozenski and his company, when they took one of these hills, was TIME Correspondent John Hersey. He cabled:

A shell hit Wozenski's hill. It was a big shell, and it put all the men down in their holes. Gradually heads began popping up. Captain Wozenski, who had not taken cover, said sadly: "This hill's a little too crowded for my liking."

A telephone bell rang. It was such an absurd sound out there some men jumped. An enlisted man answered: "Hello . . . wait a minute," and he shouted: "Hey, where's that wireman, anyone seen that wireman?"

Wozenski said: "Every time a shell lands on this hill, everybody calls up from the other hills to see if their buddies are okay."

A shell hit the top of the hill. A dark lump flew up with the smoke and blasted dust and went higher and fell in a gentle arc. A man screamed: "Help! help! help! help!"

Wozenski said: "Damn," and walked wearily up the hill.

A mumbled message was passed down the hill: "Send up some litter bearers . . . they say they need some litter bearers. . . ."

Captain Wozenski came down the slope. Here & there the men gathered to talk over who had been killed and who had been wounded up there. Captain Wozenski shouted in a clear, deep voice: "All right. Let's not have these great goddam gatherings. Spread out."

The Lame & the Blind. The wounded men and their helpers began trickling down from the crest. A man with most of his shoulder shot away was guiding a blinded man. One limped along. The litter team carried a sergeant whose leg was bad and whose face was cut. Captain Wozenski had to detail some whole men to help. I took the arm of the blinded man.

The man with the shot-out shoulder said: "Let's go back there and get those bastards." The blind man was apologetic. He hoped he was causing me no trouble. He was sorry to have to be guided when he could walk and all.

The litter bearers stopped to rest. When they put the sergeant down he said: "Say, Doc, would you mind straightening my leg out?" What was left of his leg could be no straighter, for it was splinted between two rifles.

The going was very rough. The blind man lifted his feet high and put them down wherever they fell. He had none of the cautious grace of men long blind, but struck out with his legs as if angry at the path. A mule skinner came up the path riding a mule and singing a song about Georgia. One of the litter bearers said: "Here you, what you doing on that mule? Get off and let one of these fellows ride who need it." So the skinner got off and we lifted the blind soldier on to the mule's bare back. After that my job was to balance the blind man up there.

As we started down Wozenski's hill, our artillery had gone to work on the German hills. Shelling these hills was like shaking lice out of old clothes. Each pounding seemed to bring one or two Germans out to surrender. Now another prisoner walked across the lines. One of our men spoke to the prisoner in German and the prisoner answered. He said he had been two days without food or water.

The blind man said: "Is that a kraut? The next German I see walking, by God, he won't be walking any more after that." It was not then certain that he would ever see a German walking, or any man.

The wounded sergeant said to the man who could speak German: "Say, will you ask the German for a souvenir? Tell him I promised an old lady." The German did not understand, but finally he gave the sergeant a five-mark piece.

The climb grew very steep and we were all quiet. Wounds began to hurt and shock began to set in seriously. The sergeant moaned: "Doc, can't you keep my leg straight?"

No one had spoken for a long time when the blinded soldier said to me, very softly: "Eyes are very delicate things."

We turned the wounded men over to a doctor, and I rejoined the battalion commander, Lieut. Colonel John H. Mathews. He said he was going to Wozenski's hill to launch an attack.

The Punch. The attack on all the hills went well. The enemy was human. On the second evening, just before dark, our men launched the final attack. All units moved--even the tanks, which punched along the road in the face of well-placed anti-tank guns. The attacks by the tanks and by three infantry combat teams were beautifully timed. The enemy was bewildered, shattered by deadly accurate artillery and demoralized by dwindling supplies, which our air attacks far behind his lines had diminished. The enemy pulled out, and our men walked into Nicosia.

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