When Kesselring finally reached his headquarters based at Monte Sorrate, a mountain north of the capital, he was quickly informed of the news and then spoke with SS Obersturmbannführer Herbert Kappler, the head of the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) – the SS intelligence service – in Rome, and asked him whether he had enough people awaiting execution to fill the ten to one criterion. Both Kesselring and Beerlitz, who was listening in, heard Kappler say that yes, he did have enough prisoners already condemned to death. The Field Marshal then received a call from the High Command in Berlin stating that Hitler definitely wanted ten Italians shot for every German killed that afternoon in Rome, and that that was a direct order. Later, some time between ten and eleven o’clock that night, Westphal spoke with General Jodl, Hitler’s Chief of Operations, in Berlin. Jodl repeated Hitler’s order, and stressed that the executions were to be carried out by the SD under Kappler’s supervision. ‘The Führer wishes that thorough action should be taken this time,’ Jodl told Westphal. ‘Tell that to your Feldmarschall.’1 The implication was clear: Kesselring’s Wehrmacht officers could not be trusted to carry out such a brutal reprisal. Soon after this conversation, Kesselring confirmed the order: ten Italians would be killed for every German soldier killed in the Via Rasella, and the executions were to be implemented immediately, within twenty-four hours.
The die had been cast.
The problem for Kappler was that despite his claim to the contrary, he did not have anything like 280 prisoners already awaiting execution and certainly not the 330 that were needed by the following afternoon. In fact, there were only three prisoners in the whole of Rome already sentenced to death. A looser classification was then hastily adopted: candidates would be drawn from those ‘worthy of death’, but this still only produced sixty-five Jews and a handful of known Communists. Other criminals were rounded up, as were men from the Italian armed forces who had been detained after the German occupation of Rome the previous September. During the day more were frantically added to the list, including a priest and a number of people detained by Neo-Fascist authorities on largely spurious charges.
The dazed and disorientated prisoners were taken in butchers’ lorries to the Ardeatine Caves, just south of the city near the ancient catacombs on the Appian Way. The first arrived shortly before 3.30 on the afternoon of Friday, 24 March. The men, in groups of five, were then taken deep into the dark caves, told to kneel and turn their heads to one side. They were then shot.
To begin with, the executions were carried out with some semblance of order, but as the bodies began to mount and the caves began to fill with corpses, discipline, made worse by the amount of drink the executioners had taken to help steel themselves for the task, began to waver. The firing grew wild; moreover most of the executioners were clerks rather than soldiers, and members of the SS and SD, who, like Kappler, had only limited military training. Nearly forty of those killed were completely decapitated by the wayward firing. Others were beaten to death. More still were not killed instantly and were left to die through suffocation and loss of blood. Somehow, an extra five men had been rounded up earlier that day. As witnesses to the executions they could not be spared, and so they too were shot, making the final tally of those slain that afternoon 335.
The massacre at the Ardeatine Caves was the first reprisal carried out by the Germans against the Italian people. It would not be their last; rather, it signalled the start of a policy to counteract partisan activity that was to cast a terrible shadow over Italy and which would fan the flames of a bloodbath that would last beyond the end of the war.
There were many nationalities and differing races in the two Allied armies waiting to go into battle. The British and Americans formed the largest contingents, but there were also French, Moroccans, Algerians, Canadians, New Zealanders (whites and Maori), Poles, Nepalese, Indians (all faiths), South Africans (white, Asian, black, Zulus), and in the air forces, Australians, Rhodesians and others beside. Whatever their differing creeds and wide-ranging backgrounds, they all were relieved to see that on this day, the eve of battle, the weather was being kind. Thursday, 11 May 1944, was a glorious day: warm, with blue skies, and, by the afternoon, not a rain cloud in sight, just as it had been for most of the month. By evening, the temperature had dropped somewhat, but it was still warm, with just the faintest trace of a breeze – even near the summit of Monte Cassino, some 1,700 feet above the valley below. In their foxholes, the men of the 45,600-strong II Polish Corps waited, repeatedly checking their weapons; eating a final meal; exchanging anxious glances. The minutes ticked by inexorably slowly. It was quiet up there, too; quieter than it had been for many days. Not a single gun fired. The mountain, it seemed, had been stilled.
It was now three weeks since the Poles had taken over the Monte Cassino sector and since then, almost every minute, both day and night, had been spent preparing for and thinking about the battle ahead. By day, the men had trained; they had held exercises in attacking strongly fortified positions, practising rock climbing and assaulting concrete bunkers. New flamethrowers were also introduced, while each squadron and platoon* was given clear and detailed instructions as to what they were supposed to do when the battle began.
By night, the Poles had been even busier. Vast amounts of ammunition and supplies had to be taken up the mountainside, a task that was impossible during daylight when the enemy would easily be able to spot them – secrecy was paramount; so, too, was saving lives for the battle ahead. It was also a task that could only be achieved by the use of pack mules and by the fortitude of the men, for there were just two paths open to them – both old mountain tracks, which for more than six miles could be watched by the enemy. A carefully adhered-to system had been quickly established. Supplies were brought from the rear areas by truck. Under carefully laid smoke screens, they were loaded onto smaller, lighter vehicles, then, as the mountain began to rise, they were transferred onto mules and finally carried by hand and on backs by the men themselves, slogging their way up the two mountain tracks that led to the forward positions. All this was done in the dark, without any lights, and as quietly as possible. Even so, the men were often fired upon. The German gunners around Monte Cassino would lay periodic barrages along various stretches of these mountain paths and despite their best efforts, casualties mounted – casualties II Polish Corps could ill-afford.
Now the waiting was almost over, and as the sun slipped behind the mountains on the far side of the Liri Valley, and darkness descended, the Poles knew that at long last the moment for which they had endured so much in the past four-and-a-half years was almost upon them.
In what had once been a lovely mountain meadow, the men of the 2nd Squadron, 12th Lancers, were now dug in. Part of the Polish Corps’ 3rd Carpathian Division, they were some 600 yards