201: A Soft Underbelly: The Allied Invasion of Sicily & the Fall of Il Duce

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And VistaPrint's design tools and human support help you bring those ideas to life no matter your experience or your budget. There's a reason over a million people trust VistaPrint for their small business print needs. VistaPrint, print your possible. Right now new customers get 20% off with code NEW20. New to zero at VistaPrint.com. It's about 9 in the morning on an unspecified day, late April 1942. We're in Midtown Manhattan, just south of Central Park, on West 58th Street, at a popular, upscale New York City chain called Long Champs, where two gentlemen are just walking in and making their way past countless tables and booths ready to get some breakfast. They're an odd pair, and no, I'm not referring to the way 46-year-old Moses Polikov towers over his younger, shorter, heavier set and thicker-haired colleague Murray Gurfine. I'm referring to the fact that Moses represents some of the most notorious names in organized crime, while Murray is New York County's assistant district attorney and oversees the Rackets Bureau. Yeah, these two are usually locking legal horns and not going out to share a meal. But the contrast between them reaches new heights as they sit at their booth, which is already occupied by their breakfast meeting's third participant. Seated and sipping his coffee is the short, life, smartly dressed and infamous gangster, Meyer Lansky. Tell you what, let me fill you in on the situation while this assistant DA, lawyer, and gangster decide how to order their eggs. Here's the deal. Two months ago, in February 1942, a French ocean liner getting outfitted for naval service, Normandy, went up in flames in New York Harbor. The fear is that this was sabotage, whether it was or wasn't. And it wasn't. This instant got the Office of Naval Intelligence, aka the O&I, thinking about the need for better control of New York's docks. And who controls those docks? Yeah, not the government, but New York's crime bosses, including a figure we met back in episode 159, Charlie Lucky Luciano. And come to think of it, if the Allies end up taking the fight to the Mediterranean, to Sicily, this native-born Sicilian could prove useful far beyond New York's waterfront. Huh. Sounds like Charlie might do a lot of good for Uncle Sam. Or at least O&I Commander Charles Haffend and hope so. There's just one small complication. Charlie is currently doing time for basically running all prostitution in New York City. It's going to take a lot to approach him, let alone convince the jailbird to lend his influence to the cause. Nonetheless, the O&I thinks this long shot is worth it. And it's to this end that Assistant DA Murray Gurfein is having breakfast with Charlie's lawyer and the gangsters likewise law-breaking best friend. And with that, I think breakfast is being served. Let's see how the conversation is going. As the men eat and talk, Murray is pleased to find both of his breakfast companions are on board. Moses Polakoff might represent some of the worst criminals in the nation, but he also served in the Navy during World War I. He's a patriot. Just one who thinks everyone deserves good counsel. Meyer Lansky is also in. Perhaps even more so. He might be one of the greatest criminal minds of his generation, but he's actually quite a patriot. He loves America, and as a Jewish man, he loads Adolf Hitler and Nazism. He's all for doing his part to bring down the axis. Yes, Meyer is willing to talk to Charlie. It's now a few weeks later, Friday morning, May 15, 1942, and two guards at Upstate New York's Great Meadow Correctional Facility are unlocking the door to Charlie Lucky Luciano cell because he has visitors. Wait, what? Visitors? Stepping out and walking down the hall, Charlie is thrilled. But what gives? After years of languishing in the austere Clinton Correctional Facility near the Canadian border, he suddenly got transferred only days ago to Great Meadow, the so-called country club of New York prisons. And now he has visitors during non-visiting hours? Hmm. Something isn't right. Charlie is ushered into a room next to the warden's office, and as he enters, he can hardly believe his eyes. There stands Meyer Lansky and Moses Polikoff. Unable to contain his excitement, Charlie exclaims, What the hell are you guys doing here? And of course, they then tell him. They explain that Uncle Sam needs his help with the Docs in New York. Perhaps they mention future intel possibilities about the island of Sicily. Charlie listens carefully, then answers quite clearly. No. At least, not unless it's completely off the books. The mafioso explains, Look, I'm going to be deported. When I get out, nobody knows how this war will turn out. Whatever I do, I want to kept quiet, private, so that when I get back to Italy, I'm not a marked man. Meyer and Moses reassure him. Everything will be entirely secret. While there is no deal to be made, per se, they explain that he will enjoy frequent, confidential visits with his men, since he'll need to talk to them to assist. Uh-huh. I'll come to think of it. That would make running his criminal empire a little easier. Charlie's tomb starts to change. By the time his visitors suggest a visit from Joe Soxlanza, he answers, All right. Fine. Yes, the incarcerated mafia boss is in, and when Meyer and Moses next visit Charlie in his new, swink, country club prison, they will indeed bring socks with them. Thus begins what will come to be known as Operation Underworld. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. It's true. In a years-long partnership codenamed Operation Underworld, the U.S. government worked with some of the nation's most notorious mobsters. But just how useful is Charlie Lucky Luciano? Office of Naval Intelligence Commander Charles Hafedin will downplay the mafiosas' contributions, and yet in 1946, this blast from the HTDS playlist past does get released from prison with the one-way ticket to his native Italy. So did he provide significant protection for New York's ports? Did his mafiosos talk to Sicily's mafiosos? All Italians who deeply hated Benito Mussolini, and thereby provide the allies with intel on the island before its invasion? We may never know for sure, but it's certainly a fascinating component of the war to keep in mind for today's story, the 1943 Allied Invasion of Sicily, codenamed Operation Husky. We'll begin with some background. Building on our last episode's coverage of North Africa and the Casablanca Conference, we turn to another tale of wartime deception preparatory to the invasion of Sicily carried out by British intelligence called Operation Mincemeat. It's basically a James Bond moment in the midst of World War II, but no spoilers. I'll leave it there for now. We'll then head to Washington, D.C. for the Trident Conference, where Franklin Roosevelt and Winston Churchill have a tense moment of disagreement on where their combined efforts should go after Sicily. Will they move against mainland Italy, as Winston wants? Or, to channel my inner George C. Marshall, will it finally be time to take the fight to France? And once we finish this friendly tussle, it's go time. We're parachuting on to Sicily in the dark of night with the 505th of the 82nd Airborne, after which we'll encounter hard fighting. And bare witness is George Patton, lets his open palm drag him into a scandal that's on par with the likes of the modern-day actor Will Smith. But ultimately, will this Allied Invasion of Sicily succeed? Will it destabilize Benito Mussolini's reign? How will it impact fascist Italy? We'll find all these answers and more, and we start by shipping out to the Mediterranean. All ashore that's going ashore, all on board! Roughly the size of Vermont, the hill-covered, triangular-shaped island of Sicily, and its towering 10,000 foot above sea level volcano, Mount Etna, officially enters into Allied conversations at the Casablanca Conference of January 1943. I trust you recall this conference and the complicated colonial lay of the North African land from the last episode, but to jog our memories, this conference in Casablanca, Morocco, that is the French protectorate of Morocco, which is now Allied-friendly thanks to last year's Darlan deal, is a gathering of Allied minds that includes both President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and British Prime Minister Winston Churchill. And here they decide that, once the forces under Supreme Allied Commander in the Mediterranean, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and British General Bernard Montemont-Gummery close their pincer movement in the French protectorate of Tunisia, thereby forcing the Axis out of North Africa, I can the boys should take the Italian island of Sicily. It makes sense. Sicily lies smack dab in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. It's almost a literal puddle jump from Tunisia to Sicily, which is only 100 miles or so to the northeast, and once taken, would put the Allies about 2-3 miles from the toe of mainland Italy at the Strait of Messina. Talk about a sweet setup for taking the fight into the territory of the OG of fascism, and of course by OG I mean the original Goose Depper. Now there is some concern that the plan is simply too obvious. Germany, which unlike Italy, can actually put up a fight, is bound to see this coming. Some at the Casablanca Conference wonder, should they carry out an operation in Greece, or perhaps the Mediterranean island of Sardinia instead? Ah, no. They need to take Sicily, or the island of the sun, as it's also known. For all the same geographical reasons we just identified that will likely make the move so obvious to the Axis. But the question remains, might they throw the Axis powers off the scent of this Allied invasion? Well, some body might have an answer. It's just after 4am on a moonless, windy Friday, April 30th, 1943. The British submarine HMS Serif is surfacing about a mile off Vuelva, Spain. Its commander, British Lieutenant Norman Bill Jewel, is tense. Along with two officers and three crewmen, he's maneuvering a large metal tube up top. Exiting the submarine's hull through a topside hatch, they and their bulky cargo are soon on the casing, that is, the narrow exposed deck running along the subspying. Meanwhile, the crew below scan the dark ocean and shoreline for anyone who might spot them and thereby upend their secret mission. Once the three crewmen set the tube down, they're dismissed to go back below. They do so, believing that they carried up secret meteorological equipment. But that's not the case at all. Bill and his fellow lieutenants now unscrew the steel canisters bolts, revealing its true contents, a petrified corpse, and an officer's uniform. Okay, time out. Let's get some background. This top secret mission, Operation Mincemeat, comes out of the British Naval Intelligence Department, or NID. Back in 1939, a young agent named Ian Fleming provided a list of ideas for counterintelligence missions. Yes, that Ian Fleming, the same agent who later garnered literary fame for his future spy novels about Agent 007, or rather, Bond. James Bond. But back to the real operation. Ian's idea to feed the Axis false information through a corpse was picked up by two men. Another spy novelist, the mustachioed Charles Chomley, and an aristocratic lawyer, the barely lived Ewan Montague, who think this cardaverous ruse could trick the Germans into thinking the next Allied attack will actually consist of two operations. An American attack on Sicily's western neighbor, the island of Sardinia, and a British attack in the eastern Mediterranean against Greece. If Berlin takes the bait, Sicily, the real target, will seem like a diversion. The plan's brilliant, if it works, of course. As for the corpse, he's a recently deceased homeless Welshman, Glendur Michael, who died after accidentally eating bread that was set out for pest control and filled with rat poison. Refrigerated and prepped, Glendur is transformed into Major William Martin, dressed in a full officer's uniform, carrying ID, letters, a photo of a girlfriend who's actually an MI5 agent, and a briefcase with fake secret orders. And now, he's ready to wash up on Spain's coast, looking like the victim of a plane crash with hopes that Francisco Franco's neutral but fascist Spanish government will pass his false intel onto the Nazis. And with that, let's return to the serif, shall we? It's now nearly 4.30 in the morning. Light is starting to appear over the horizon, as the three officers fully open the tube-like coffin. The smell of the tanned, decayed body is too much for all but bill. As the son of a doctor, this officer knows the stench of death well. He pays his respects to the posthumously recruited agent, reciting, as he later described, what I could remember of the funeral service. Then, respectfully, he places Glenn's body in the water. The officers scrambled below, and the sub dives, pushing the undercover corpse, Major William Martin, toward the shore with its weight. With his course now set for Britain's nearby Mediterranean enclave of Gibraltar, Bill sends a message to London. Mintsmeet completed. Truly a crazy plan. Will it work? Shockingly, it does. Local Spanish fishermen tow the fake downed Allied body in, then alert local authorities. Glenn, turned William, gets a funeral, and when his briefcase is returned to the British weeks later, it's clear that all the documents have been read. More than that, Adolf Hitler proceeds to smugly reinforce all the wrong places. But this is hardly the time for a victory lap. Even without greater reinforcements, taking the island of the sun will pose its challenges, and British senior military minds are hard at it, planning the amphibious invasion of Sicily, or Operation Husky. On May 11, 1943, as British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and his military chiefs of staff arrive in Washington, D.C. for the Trident Conference, the British bulldog is very ready to push forward with this already planned operation, and to look to the future. But there is some consternation among President Franklin Roosevelt's chiefs of staff. See, ever since the Morocco Conference, which is when this invasion was planned, they've worried that the bespectacled, cigarette-holder-loving president is a little too taken by his, might we say, Husky ally. Secretary of War Henry Stimson even writes in his diary that, I fear it will be the same story over again. The man from London will arrive, and will have his way with our chief, and the careful and deliberate plans of our staff will be overridden. Those deliberate plans include U.S. Army Chief of Staff General George C. Marshall's long-time focus on a cross-channel landing on the northern shores of France. George warns Franklin that, if Sicily leads to an invasion of mainland Italy, they'll be short on men and resources for France, something he believes could make Italy, quote, more of a liability than an asset, close quote, potentially pushing a cross-channel landing to 1945, or even 46. Oh, and the Commander-in-Chief of the Navy, or Kometch, Ernest King, is constantly asking for more help in the Pacific Theater. And let's not forget, many Americans view this war as primarily against the Japanese, the ones who struck at Pearl Harbor, with Germany and Italy being secondary. Some in Congress are even mumbling that Franklin only does Winston's bidding. Oof, with all this going on, it's probably for the best that Comrade Joseph Stalin won't be attending what we can sense will be a tense meeting. With the war effort, pride, and lives on the line, let's join this trident conference and see who blinks first. It's 2.30 in the afternoon, May 12, 1943. We're on the second floor of the White House, in the world map covered oval study, where President Franklin D. Roosevelt often likes to work on his stamp collection. But today isn't a day for stamp enthusiasts. No, today, FDR and his buddy, Prime Minister Winston Churchill, have an important meeting on the books. Franklin kicks things off by reminding the Brits that it's been a year since they first planned Operation Torch, that is, the amphibious landing in French North Africa. Six months ago, the invasion of Sicily, Operation Husky, was planned. Now, it's time to consider the next move. Winston agrees. As he puts it, All right, the opening moves have been played. The pawns are in an attacking position, if you will. But now, to continue the chessboard analogy, Franklin's chiefs of staff are all wondering, will the president play aggressively, or will he be wooed into tipping his king, conceding to his buddy, Winston? Thinking the portly PM for being frank on his objectives, Franklin responds, starting with the same question Winston rhetorically posed. Where do we go from Husky? I have always shrunk from the thought of putting large armies in Italy. This might play into Germany's hand. There is not much time in 1943, because planning future operations is a lengthy procedure. The question to be decided quickly is how to use the Mediterranean troops this year. Conditions in Italy are known to be precarious. Italy might drop into the lap of the United Nations, who will then have the responsibility of supplying the Italian people. Some goes on to suggest that perhaps taking Cicely, or even just the heel and toe of Italy, may be enough to check Benito Mussolini's regime. While everyone agrees that it's not possible for an invasion of France in 1943, Franklin says that if it's going to happen in 1944, planning needs to start now. Hmm, so, night to D2 it seems. The president's men silently feel a sense of relief. I can only assume the British bulldog is conflicted here. While he's long hated Benito Mussolini, Colleen Il Duce, a Whipped Jackall of Hitler, he does see that strategy is more important than grievances. Coming around to agree with Franklin, Winston says, I do not feel that an occupation of Italy is necessary. And with that, the big two call it a day. Colleen and Winston head to FDR's Allegheny retreat, Schengler Law. While the British and US chiefs of staff hammer out the details of what Winston calls mere questions of emphasis and priority. As they do, George Marshall ends up in a shouting match with British officer Alan Brooke, who says a French invasion won't happen for another two years. With a pause to visit Colonial Williamsburg in Virginia, a visit that, alas, did not include taking stockade photos as far as we know. The chiefs of staff try to answer Winston's questions of emphasis and priority over the coming week. By May 25, 1943, they have their answer. The British promise to aim for a landing in northern France by spring of next year, 1944. Right now, however, the priority will be to move from Sicily to the toe of Italy's boot. But let's not allow the leaders to count their chickens before they're hatched. The invasion of Sicily is still yet to happen. So what is the plan for Operation Husky? Our dear friend, Supreme Commander Dwight Eisenhower will oversee it. On the ground, British General Harold Alexander, or Alex, as his friends call him, will command the 15th Army Group, which includes British General Sir Bernard Montgomery's 8th Army, landing on the southwest coast, and US Lieutenant General George Patton's 7th Army, striking the center and southeast, as well as paratroopers dropping behind the Axis lines. Altogether, this force comes to roughly 150,000 or more ground troops, 3,000 ships and 4,000 aircraft. And so, with the surrender of Axis forces in Tunisia early that May, and Adolf fooled by Operation Mintsmeet into reinforcing the incorrect locations, prospects are strong for Operation Husky. Things only look better still in June, as Nazi intelligence continue to believe that Greece and Sardinia are the real targets, even after the Allies capture the minuscule Italian island of Pantelleria, just to the southwest of Sicily. Nonetheless, Sicily is held by perhaps 300,000 Axis troops, mostly Italian and poorly supplied, but still twice that of the Allies' ground forces. And of course, that's to say nothing of yet another player in this and every war, a precarious participant that is so very influential in amphibious operations and can be an ally or an enemy. The Weather. History That Doesn't Suck is sponsored by Squarespace. Squarespace is the all-in-one website platform designed to help you stand out and succeed online. Whether you're just starting out or scaling your business, Squarespace gives you everything you need to showcase what you do, grow your brand and get paid. It's all in one place. HTDS.com is hosted on Squarespace and you can see how great it looks. What I really appreciate is how easy it is to update as we offer more content beyond the podcast and serve as a destination where people who are passionate about history can learn more. And the Squarespace design tools make a huge difference. 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Go to quints.com slash HTDS for free shipping and 365 day returns. Quints.com slash HTDS. It's late at night, July 9, 1943. Flying out of Tunisia in V formations, 227 Douglas C-47s cut through the dark skies over the Mediterranean at a low 500 foot altitude to avoid radar. From the dim cargo hold of one plane carrying 16 soldiers sits the commander of the 82nd Airborne Division's 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, Colonel James M. Gavin. Rest in full combat gear, James or jump and gym as the men prefer to call their 36 year old Brooklyn born and Pennsylvania Coal Fields raised leader described as having quote unquote magnetism for attractive women sits under the holds faint light. His face is covered in a camouflage of burnt coal, just like his men all waiting to jump when the plane reaches their designated drop zone or DZ over the city of Jella on the southern shore system. They are then to secure crossroads against Axis counterattacks thereby opening the way for General George Patton's 7th Army landing on the beaches. The orders are plenty dangerous yet at this precise moment it isn't German and Italian bullets that have Jim worried as he stares at the red light. It's the weather. He knows the whipping 35 mile per hour winds must have pushed the planes off course not to mention the danger for his well trained but green parachutes. But Jim does his best to put all this out of his mind. His worries are of no help. As he later recall there was nothing I could do about it. We couldn't change plans now. Reaching the DZ Jim stands and shouts out stand up and hook up. Covered in guns, grenades, knives, water and heavy parachutes the men hook their static lines to the anchor cable. A bell rings the light turns green and the doors yanked open. A flood of wind rushes into the cargo hold. Each man jumps in quick succession. His chute automatically deploy as his static line hooked to the anchor cable gives way and at least some yelling the World War II parachutes war cry. Geronimo! The plane soon disappears into the black. Axis bullets whizz by as jumping Jim and his men descend utterly subject to the whims and mercy of their chutes and the harsh winds. The night's sliver of a moon only faintly lights the train below. But soon Jim can see that his worst fears are realized. They're way off course. He recognizes nothing below. Is this even Sicily? Whatever it is, it's coming at him fast. Jim hits the ground and rolls like a pro. He's fine but this isn't the landing they expected. Men drop on rocks, trees, even buildings. On the ground Jim peers into the darkness searching for his regiment. He and a small group call out the password. George, expecting to hear, Marshall! It works for some but others scattered into the British sector face friendly fire. A painful lesson on sharing passwords. One the paratroopers pay for as they regroup to secure roads and trails. Despite the mayhem, the invasion miraculously comes together. By the morning of July 10th, Jump and Jim and his paratroopers have cut access communications and captured concrete bunkers called pill boxes that would have otherwise threatened George Patton's 7th Army. Employing an oft used military term, snafu, which means systems normal, all, let's say, fouled up. It will, in time, become unattributable conventional wisdom that the first action of Operation Husky was, and I quote, the best executed snafu in the history of military operations. A very fair take. Yet the commander of the 82nd Airborne, General Matthew Ridgway, will note that he prefers Colonel Jim Gavin's description better. To quote Jump and Jim of the 505th, this was a safu, a self adjusting foul up. The day ends with some serious combat in the American center lines, but the primary enemy isn't the axis. Just getting all the men and equipment onto the island makes day one feel like a victory. That said, the fighting heats up the next day, July 11th, when the Germans push on the American center line at Gela Beach. Yes, right where Jump and Jim and the 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment was supposed to land. He and his formerly lost boys joined troops from the 45th Division and managed to repel a German attack of 700 infantry and a company of Tiger tanks. Both fighting here and across the island takes its toll. The Allies suffered 2,300 casualties by the day's end. Trying to replenish forces, General George Patton calls for 2,000 more paratroopers to drop in from the 504th Regiment. But after a full day of strafing fire from the German Luftwaffe, the incoming Allied transport aircraft are mistaken for a German air raid. Firing anti-aircraft into the dark night sky, Allied friendly fire takes down 23 of their own planes and damages 37, leaving 88 dead, 162 wounded, and 69 missing in action. Even as the situation improves on the American front, the British Eighth Army gets bogged down on the southeast coast. One of the corners of the triangle that is Sicily, if you will. General Bernard Montgomery, or Monty as we know this discerning Brit with a well-trimmed mustache and aquiline nose, requests a shift in his boundaries to allow him to move up through central Sicily. British General Harold Alexander, or again, just Alex, is cool with it. But you know who isn't? Good guess if you said General George Patton. In George's mind, this is relegating American forces to mere backup, guarding the British Eighth Army's flank. To be fair, he's right. And it's no secret that the British haven't forgotten the mess at Tunisia's Casserine Pass back in February, a snafu we covered in the last episode, as I'm sure you recall. And the truth is that Alex, who I'll remind you, is calling the shots on the ground, trusts the still better seasoned British Eighth Army far more than the Americans. But you know George. Old blood and guts. This man of temper and action, unwilling to let this assumption-made plan take him out of the action, he persuades Alex to let him do some reconnaissance toward the city of Agri Gento. That done, old blood and guts then takes things one step further. He captures Agri Gento on July 15, 1943. From there, he argues to Alex that he should drive to the northwestern coast of Sicily, while Monti and the Eighth Army work at getting to the essential port of Messina over at the tip of the island's northeastern coast and all but touching the toe of Italy's boot. In short, George wants to split and do his own thing. Alex initially agrees, but after reflection, he reverses the go ahead. Well, George just ignores the revocation, saying that the message was quote unquote garbled when transmitted. The US Seventh Army sweeps northwest from the center of Sicily, covering over 100 miles in three days to take some 53,000 Italian troops captive and to capture the island's capital of Palermo. As George and his army roll in on July 22, the city's many non-fans of Benito Mussolini welcomed the Americans with a spontaneous outpour of cheers and flowers. Nor are the people of Palermo the only Italians fed up with the Lduce, while he won adoration building an empire and seeming to outwit and outplay the League of Nations and heavyweight nations like Britain in the 1930s, all of which we saw while meeting the Lduce back in Episode 183. World War II's losses of Ethiopia, more recently Libya, and now perhaps Sicily, which could open the way to an invasion of mainland Italy, are costing the fascist dictator his popularity. In the succinct words of his biographer, Jasper Ridley, quote, Mussolini had committed the one unpardonable crime of the dictator. He was losing a war, close quote. And so, only days after George Patton takes Palermo, in a meeting that drags from the evening of Saturday, July 24 into the early hours of the 25th, the Grand Council of Fascism votes 19-7 to urge King Victor Emmanuel III to take command of both the military and the government, effectively to remove Benito from his position as Prime Minister. But Benito is sure this vote will do nothing. I mean, the Grand Council is a faux parliament of his own making, after all. He leaves confident that he can put this annoyance behind him quickly and wakes the next morning just as certain that he can set things right in his next meeting with the king. And wouldn't you know, his majesty would like to see Il Duce today. It's about five o'clock in the afternoon, Sunday, July 25, 1943. A sleek Lancia assura, or perhaps an alpha Romeo, is just pulling off the Via Salaria and onto the stunning grounds of the Italian royal estate in northeastern Rome, known as Via Savoia. The vehicle continues along the gravel, passing the ancient pines and home oaks, the breathtaking gardens and finally coming to a stop at the royal residence, the yellow-hued Palazzina Reale. Smartly dressed in a dark blue suit and brown fedora, Il Duce steps out of the car with his leather briefcase in hand. Telling his bodyguards to stay put, he walks on alone, taking little note of the extra-armed guards, or carabinieri, behind the hedges. Reaching the door, Veneto is greeted by an immaculately mustachioed man dressed in a marshal of Italy uniform. That's right, it's the king of Italy himself, Victor Emanuel III. The two men head into a small drying room, and even after twenty years at the head of Italy's government, what an odd sight they make. Standing at 5'7 on a good day, 61-year-old stocky, barrel-chested Veneto towers over 73-year-old Victor's barely 5' and lithe frame. Centuries of royal inbreeding have left this proud relic with misshapen legs. Anyhow, once situated, Veneto begins, as he always does in their meetings, with an update on the military and domestic situation. But Victor breaks from the usual procedure by cutting him off. My dear Duce, it's no longer any good. Italy has gone to bits. Army morale is at rock bottom. The soldiers don't want to fight anymore. The Alpine regiments are singing a song which says they don't want to make war on Mussolini's account any longer. You can certainly be under no illusion as to Italy's feelings with regard to yourself. At this moment, you are the most hated man in Italy. You have one friend left, and I am he. That is why I tell you that you need have no fears for your personal safety, for which I will ensure protection. Veneto is completely caught off guard. Victor will later say the conversation strikes Il Duce like the shell from a 305 howitzer. The king repeats over and over. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Until finally, the dictator is able to respond. You are making an extremely grave decision. A crisis at the moment would mean making the people think that peace is in sight. I realized the people's hatred. I had no difficulty in recognizing it last night in the midst of the Grand Council. One cannot govern for such a long time and impose so many sacrifices without provoking resentments. In any case, I wish good luck to the man who takes the situation in hand. As always, Veneto towers over Victor. But according to the now-deposed Duce's later recollections of this moment, the king looks smaller than ever, almost dwarfish. All the same, the two men shake hands, ending the meeting. Back outside the yellow-hued palace, Veneto is nearly to his bodyguards chauffeur and car when the captain of the Carabinieri approaches. He calls to Veneto, Duce, I have been ordered by the king to protect your person. An officer grabs the longtime dictator by the arm and tells him, you must get into this. Veneto isn't fully grasping reality yet, but he's just been arrested. His 21-year dictatorship is over. That very night, July 25, 1943, speakers shout the news in the Rome's famous thoroughfare. Via del Trittone, citizens, wake up, Mussolini is finished! The cobblestone piazza fills with dancing, laughter and tears, and even bonfires, burning furniture from the fascist party headquarters. And all night long, the city rings with shouts of Viva l'Italia! A year from today, what would your dream private practice look like? Would you spend less time chasing claims or only working with clients who value your skill set? 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Really. Or I can pick it up at the dealership. One sack, sweetie! Mommy's buying a car. Mommy, look! I think your kid is walking up the slide. Kyle, again? Really? AutoTrader. Buy your car online. Really. One iced coffee? 99 cents, please. For real? No way. One iced coffee? 99 cents, please. For real? No way. What a deal! Your new morning groove. Ice coffee from McDonald's any size for just 99 cents till 11am. Price and participation may vary. Cannot be combined with any other offer. It's true. Benito Mussolini is out of power and a prisoner, though the narrative is protective custody. And it seems the Italian people largely love it. But just because Iduce is out, doesn't mean that Italy is out of the war. The Pact of Steel signed by Germany and Italy in 1939 remains very much in place, which is why Benito's successor as Prime Minister, Marshal Pietro Badoglio, announces that the war will continue. This is the Italian government's official position, and the keyword there is official. At the very same time, the Italian government is quietly opening peace talks with the Allies far away from German years in neutral Portugal. And so, even as news of Iduce's downfall rocks the world and puts Italy on a discrete path towards an armistice, the fight for Sicily must continue. General George Patton of the US 7th Army gets new orders to turn from his northwestern position in Palermo and drive on to the same place that General Bernard Montgomery's British 8th Army is headed, Eastern Sicily's coastal city of Messina. That's right. It's a race. As George puts it, this is a horse race in which the prestige of the US army is at stake. But this time, George won't cover 100 miles in three days. Unlike that swift movement over poorly protected and gentler terrain, this time old blood and guts in his yanks are facing the same obstacles as Monti and his Brits, the jagged, rough ground that forms the base of Mount Etna, and fierce German fortifications. In other words, both racing armies are equally stalled. But little do George or Monti know that the German forces here are not aiming to hold out as we saw the Americans do in the Philippines in Episode 197. No, this is more of a less intense, reverse Dunkirk action in which the Germans are still fighting while secretly evacuating men from Sicily to the Italian boot. This serves a dual purpose. It ensures these German soldiers survive to fight another day and positions them to hold Italy if, as Adolf Hitler now suspects, his Axis ally, Italy, wavers on its dedication to the Pact of Steel. With the high ground in their favor, the Germans defend the four roads to Messina as the summer heat and malaria sap thousands of allied soldiers before they even reach the fight. Meanwhile, starting on July 31st, 1943, the famous First Division that we heard so much about in our First World War episodes, yes, the Big Red One, faces hard fighting, trying to take Troina and central Sicily. The hilltops and rocky crags provide excellent cover for the Axis forces. As for the Yanks, their path up the expansive and open, undulating hills below make them easy targets. Mid the fighting, Private James William Bill Reese's mortar squad pummels advancing Germans. When the squad gets down to its last three shells, Bill, as the Private's friends call him, orders them and back. But he doesn't join them. Instead, advancing alone to single-handedly use these last projectiles to take out a German machine gun nest. He then continues to fight with his rifle. But alas, this is real life, not a movie. The Germans riddle the brave Pennsylvania with bullets. Postumously, Bill will be honored for his excellence in bravery with the Medal of Honor. After a week of fighting, the Americans have victory. Troina is theirs. But all the death and destruction that comes with driving out the retreating Axis forces is enough to drive anyone to anger, tears, and worse, even a commanding officer. It's about 1.30 in the afternoon, August 10, 1943. General George Patton is inside the 93 evacuation hospital, stationed near Santo Stefano on Sicily's northern coast. He's here to visit his injured soldiers. Seeing their general means a lot to these men, and his words of encouragement respect me even more. As he walks through the receiving tent, George comes across Private Paul G. Bennett, the 21-year-old South Carolinian gunner in the 17th Field artillery, is sitting up on his bed, shivering, still wearing his uniform and helmet. George approaches the young man, so deeply shocked after witnessing a friend's severe wounding. Though he begged not to be removed from his unit, it's clear that Paul can't return to the front without care. George focuses on the listless artilleryman and asks what his trouble is. Looking up at the hard face but concerned to general, Paul responds, It's my nerves. And with that, Paul breaks down sobbing. Sturdling, George answers the sobbing soldier. What did you say? Paul manages another sputtered response. It's my nerves. I can't stand the shelling anymore. A switch flips in the general. He shouts, Your nerves! Hell, you just a goddamn coward, you yellow son of a bitch! With that, George slaps Paul across the face, then shouts, Shut up that goddamn crying. I won't have these brave men here who have been shot at seeing a yellow bastard sitting here crying. The general strikes the young soldier again, this time so hard that Paul's helmet flies off, landing outside of the tent. Doctors and nurses alike can't believe what they're seeing. George turns to an astonished medical officer and shouts, Don't admit this yellow bastard. There's nothing to matter with him. I don't have the hospitals cluttered up with these sons of bitches who now got the guts to fight. Paul tries to stop the tears and pulls himself up, standing at attention, even if Quakey. George charges at Paul, raging at him. You're going back to the front lines, and you may get shot and killed, but you're going to fight. If you don't, I'll stand you up against a wall and have a firing squad kill you on purpose. And with that, the furious general pulls his revolver out of its holster and thrusts it into Paul's face while telling the shaking soldier through gritted teeth, In fact, I ought to shoot you myself, you goddamned, whimpering coward. A nurse lunges at the general, but is held back by the doctor. George then slaps Paul one last time before storming out of the tent. Minutes later, in another ward, the general breaks down as he looks at him suffering from physical injuries. Speaking to his own violence, but a moment ago, George addresses these wounded warriors through sobs. I can't help it. It breaks me down to see you brave boys. George pauses for a moment. He then continues in a mix of anger and tears. It makes my blood boil to think a yellow bastard being a baby. This slapping incident is George's second within a week's time. On the earlier occasion, the enraged Eighth Army commander slapped a soldier diagnosed with what the hospital called a, quote, psychoneurosis anxiety state, close quote. Only with the help of friends did the soldier escape more wrath. What on earth? What fuels George Patton's awful, inexcusable cruelty to these men, clearly suffering from PTSD or shell shock to use the air as term? The answer, perhaps, can be found in George's explanation of his horrific behavior to Supreme Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower. He writes to Ike that during the First World War, a close friend of his suffered from shell shock. That friend continued to suffer for years until he committed suicide. But before that tragic moment, George explains that, quote, both my friend and the medical men with whom I discussed his case assured me that had he been roundly checked at the time of his first misbehavior, he would have been restored to an normal state, close quote. Yes, the cruel violence is best explained as a result of George Patton's gross misunderstanding of shell shock created by incorrect medical opinions, mixing with his own trauma of losing a dear friend to it in the last war. No wonder then that after smacking around poor Paul Bennett, George writes in his journal, I may have saved his soul if he had one. Worried about the war first and foremost, reporters let these incidents lie low for the moment. But they will make the news later and cause quite a stir. As for Ike, he's deeply bothered, but sees George's contrition and chooses not to relieve him of command. That said, Ike also knows that he'll never elevate old blood and guts to a higher level. Continuing into the messier aspects of George Patton's command on Sicily, we also have to ask, does he bear responsibility for illegal executions? While American GIs largely conduct themselves well and lawfully on the island, it appears that American forces killed 75 POWs at Biscari Airfield. Colonel George Martin, chaplain of the 45th Division, later describes coming across, quote, three mounds of bodies stacked like a cordwood. There was no doubt in my mind, but that they had been prisoners of war slaughtered while being moved to the rear, close quote. The next best documented massacre happens in the city of Canicati, where Lieutenant Colonel George Herbert McCaffrey responds to military police refusing to shoot looters by pulling his pistol and blasting eight civilians dead on the spot. Several men tried for war crimes on Sicily will later attest that George Patton had given speeches about taking no prisoners. That more POWs meant drained resources. To quote Captain Howard Crye of the 180th combat team, he said to kill and continue to kill, and that the more we killed, then the less we'd have to kill later. Some men are acquitted, others not, while the Canicati massacre has kept quiet for a full 60 years. These incidents are all black marks on George's career, even if they don't end it. But we'll leave George's legacy there for now. His story's end is one for another day. By August 11, 1943, the German commander on Sicily, Hans Huber, is in full-scale evacuation mode. Allied Army engineers work swiftly to clear minefields and repair bridges in hopes of catching him. But when American infantry from the 7th Regiment enter Messina on August 17, they miss the axis by mere hours. George Patton arrives to accept the surrender of the city. Shortly thereafter, a line of British cars pull up. Yeah, the Yanks won, and the Brits know it, and are good sports about it. The senior British commander on the scene approaches George and shakes his hand, saying, It was a jolly good race. I congratulate you. It's taken just over a month, and cost the Allies about 25,000 casualties, including roughly 5,000 dead. But Operation Husky is officially a success. Sicily is in Allied hands. But Italy as a whole is in limbo. Benito Mussolini is gone, and the new Italian Prime Minister, Pietro Badoglio, seeks an armistice. Yet, the Pact of Steel binds his nation to Germany. At the same time, the Allies' planned landing on the toe of Italy, Operation Avalanche, will proceed more smoothly without Italian resistance, which is more likely with lenient terms. Yet, Dwight Eisenhower faces pressure for unconditional surrender from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. And it's amid all these factors that August 1943 becomes, in British diplomat Harold McMillan's words, plots, counterplots, and cross-plots. But eventually, someone must yield. It's a little after nine on a hot summer's morning, August 31, 1943. We're at the Allied Force headquarters near Cassibile, Sicily, where high-ranking American and Italian officers are gathering in a canvas tent among olive trees. Two men of note dominate the discussion. Ike's 47-year-old Clef-Cind Chief of Staff, Journal Walter Baddell-Smith, aka Biddle, and a 49-year-old Italian general with black receding hair as slick as his political maneuvering. Giuseppe Castellano. Having communicated in secret with Giuseppe in recent weeks, Biddle gets right to the point, asking if the Italian general, dressed in a double-breasted suit, has the power to sign this armistice, which demands Italy's surrender, its quote-unquote best endeavors against the Germans and other aspects of aid to the Allies, like the use of airfields and naval ports. Giuseppe responds that he doesn't. He then reads a memorandum from his superiors to the Americans. If the Italian government were free, it would accept and announce the armistice, as demanded by the Allies, because it is not free, but under German control, Italy cannot accept. Going on to explain that the Italian army isn't equipped to beat the extensive German forces then in Italy, Giuseppe demands guarantees that the Allies will land in northern Italy with sufficient strength to protect the king and government in Rome before Germany can seize the city. Biddle refuses to bend. The terms are as generous as Supreme Commander Dwight Eisenhower will allow. He answers, The Italian government has two alternatives. It can accept the conditions or refuse the armistice. The Allies intend to invade the Italian peninsula with or without Italian aid, and the Italians themselves will have to decide whether the struggle will be long and devastating or relatively brief. Flustered, the well-dressed Italian general changes tactics. He threatens that the Italian fleet will attack Allied convoys before the official armistice is declared. But Biddle makes it clear that he's not afraid to play chicken. He replies sternly, Nothing can prevent Italy from becoming a battlefield, but the Italian government might shorten the duration of the battle by accepting completely the Allied conditions. Nothing is signed on August 31st, not because Italians want to fight the Allies, but because they're terrified of the Germans. Yet, despite those fears, Rome caves in the days following. On September 3rd, 1943, as British and Canadian troops cross from Sicily to the toe of the Italian boot, General Giuseppe Costellano returns to the Allied force headquarters in this canvas tent in a Sicilian olive grove and signs the armistice. He, Biddle, and the rest of the team then celebrate with shots of whiskey. But only days later, on the eve of the armistice's planned announcement of September 8th, a new wave of fear of German reprisals hits the Italian government. Prime Minister Pietro Badoglio sends the Allies a message rescinding his agreement. Dwight Eisenhower is livid. Face flushed, he snaps pencil after pencil as he curses the Italian Prime Minister, or as a British officer in the room later puts it, he expressed himself with great violence. The furious Allied Supreme Commander in the Mediterranean dictates a forceful response. If you or any part of your armed forces fail to cooperate as previously agreed, I will publish to the world a full record of this affair. Failure now on your part to carry out the full obligations of the signed agreement will have the most serious consequences for your country. At 6.30 the following night, September 8th, Ike takes to radio Algiers as formally agreed upon and announces the armistice. He states, The Italian government has surrendered its armed forces unconditionally. As Allied Commander-in-Chief, I have granted a military armistice. All Italians, who now act to help eject the German aggressor from Italian soil, will have the assistance and support of the United Nations. Only 15 minutes later, Reuters coverage of Ike's announcement reaches the Italian government. Its leaders are terrified. Sick to their stomachs, what can they do? Finally, King Victor Emmanuel laments that Italy cannot change sides for a third time. Pietro broadcasts Italy's acceptance of the armistice. Hearing this, German General Erwin Rommel writes to his wife, Italy's tracere is official. And so Italy is defeated, yet nonetheless poised to become a battleground between the Nazis and the Allies. But with more than a year and a half of fighting ahead, the Italian campaign is a story for a much later day. There's still so much to cover about these early months of the European theater, including the Nazis' ongoing mass killings, particularly their drive to systematically murder millions of European Jews. Yes, it's time to return to that bleak aspect of this, the most devastating war in human history that we first broached in episode 185. Next time, we return to the Holocaust. History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by me, Greg Jackson. Episode Research and written by Greg Jackson and Will King. Production by Airship. Audio editing by Mohamed Shazade. Sound design by Mali Bach. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted and writing this episode, visit HTDSPodcast.com. HTDS is supported by fans at HTDSPodcast.com slash membership. My gratitude to kind souls providing funding to help us keep going. Thank you. 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