THE VICTORS.

Stephen E. Ambrose.

Introduction.

MY EXPERIENCES with the military have been as an observer. The only time I wore a uniform was in naval ROTC as a freshman at theUniversity ofWisconsin , and in army ROTC as a soph.o.m.ore. I was in second grade when theUnited States entered World War II, in sixth grade when the war ended. When I graduated from high school in 1953, I expected to go into the army, but within a month the Korean War ended and I went to college instead. Upon graduation in 1957, I went straight to graduate school. By the timeAmerica was again at war, in 1964, I was twenty-eight years old and the father of five children. So I never served. But I have admired and respected the men who did fight since my childhood. When I was in grade school World War II dominated my life. My father was a navy doctor in the Pacific. My mother worked in a pea cannery beside German POWs (Afrika Korps troops captured in Tunisia in May 1943).

Along with my brothers-Harry, two years older, and Bill, two years younger-I went to the movies three times a week (ten cents six nights a week, twenty-five cents on Sat.u.r.day night), not to see the films, which were generally real clinkers, but to see the newsreels, which were almost exclusively about the fighting in North Africa, Europe, and the Pacific. We played at war constantly: "j.a.ps" vs. marines, GIs vs. "Krauts."

In high school I got hooked on Napoleon. I read various biographies and studied his campaigns. As a seventeen-year-old freshman in naval ROTC, I took a course on naval history, starting with the Greeks and ending with World War II (in one semester!). My instructor had been a submarine skipper in the Pacific and we all worshiped him. More important, he was a gifted teacher who loved the navy and history. Although I was a premed student with plans to take up my father's practice inWhitewater ,Wisconsin , I found the history course to be far more interesting than chemistry or physics. But in the second semester of naval ROTC, the required course was gunnery. Although I was an avid hunter and thoroughly familiar with shotguns and rifles, the workings of the five-inch cannon baffled me, so in my soph.o.m.ore year I switched to army ROTC. Also that year, I took a course ent.i.tled "Representative Americans" taught by Professor William B. Hesseltine. In his first lecture he announced that in this course we would not be writing term papers that summarized the conclusions of three or four books; instead, we would be doing original research on nineteenth-century Wisconsin politicians, professional and business leaders, for the purpose of putting together a dictionary of Wisconsin biography that would be deposited in the state historical society. We would, Hesseltine told us, be contributing to the world's knowledge.

The words caught me up. I had never imagined I could do such a thing as contribute to the world's knowledge. Forty-five years later, the phrase continues to resonate with me. It changed my life. At the conclusion of the lecture-on General Washington-I went up to him and asked how I could do what he 3 did for a living. He laughed and said to stick around, he would show me. I went straight to the registrar's office and changed my major from premed to history. I have been at it ever since.

As for this book, Alice Mayhew made me do it. Two years ago I sent in to her the ma.n.u.script of a book she eventually t.i.tledCitizen Soldiers (she picks all my t.i.tles, including the one for this book). That was the eleventh ma.n.u.script I had sent her-three volumes on Eisenhower, three volumes on Nixon, one on a British airborne company in World War II, one on an American airborne company in that war, one on D-Day, and one on Meriwether Lewis. All but the Nixon volumes and the Lewis book were on war, and there was plenty of war in the second and third Nixon volumes-and Lewis led a military expedition. So when I put the ma.n.u.script of what becameCitizen Soldiers in the mail, I promised my wife, Moira, "I ain't going to study war no more." I had seen enough destruction, enough blood, enough high explosives. To remove temptation, I gave my library of World War II books to the Eisenhower Center at the University of New Orleans. Like the Civil War veterans after Appomattox, like the GIs after the German and j.a.panese surrenders, I wanted to build. Alice accepted my decision and told me to write a book on the building of the first transcontinental railroad. I loved the idea and put in a year of research. Then Alice called and said I should do a book on Ike and the GIs, drawing on my previous writings to put together a coherent narrative. She said it would be the easiest book I'd ever write. That didn't turn out to be so, as there was lots of hard work involved. But it has been the most fun. The challenge of writing a history of the Supreme Commander and the junior officers, NCOs, and enlisted men carrying out his orders-generally ignoring the ranks in between-has given me a new appreciation of both.

The older I get, the more of his successors as generals and presidents I see, the more I appreciate General and President Eisenhower's leadership. And the more I realize that the key to his success as a leader of men was his insistence on teamwork and his devotion to democracy.

General Eisenhower liked to speak of the fury of an aroused democracy. It was in Normandy on June 6, 1944, and in the campaign that followed, that the Western democracies made their fury manifest. The success of this great and n.o.ble undertaking was a triumph of democracy over totalitarianism. President Eisenhower said he wanted democracy to survive for all ages to come. So do I. It is my fondest hope that this book, which in its essence is a love song to democracy, will make a small contribution to that great goal.

1 - Preparation

AT THE BEGINNING of World War II, in September 1939, the Western democracies were woefully unprepared for the challenge the totalitarians hurled at them. The British army was small and sad, the French army was large but inefficient and demoralized from top to bottom, while the American army numbered only 160,000 officers and men, which meant it ranked sixteenth in the world, right behind Romania. The totalitarian armies of Imperial j.a.pan, the Soviet Union, and n.a.z.i Germany, meanwhile, were larger and better prepared than their foes. As a consequence, between the early fall of 1939 and the late fall of 1941, the j.a.panese in China, Indochina, at Pearl Harbor, and in the Philippines and Malaya; the Red Army in Poland and the Baltic countries; the Germans in Poland, Norway, Belgium, Holland, and France, won great victories. The only bright spots for the democracies were the British victory in the Battle of Britain in the summer and fall of 1940 (but that was a defensive victory only) and Adolf Hitler's decision to attack his ally Joseph Stalin in the spring of 1941. Because of the last two events, the apparently certain totalitarian victory of May 1940 was now in question. Perhaps the democracies would survive, perhaps even prevail and emerge as the victors. That depended on many things, but most of all on the abilities of the British and Americans to put together armies that could challenge the j.a.panese and German armies in open combat. That required producing leaders and men.

How that was done is the central theme of this book. We begin with Dwight David Eisenhower, the man who became the Supreme Commander of the British and American armies that formed the Allied Expeditionary Force. His personality dominated the AEF. He was the man who made the critical decisions. In the vast bureaucracy that came to characterize the high command of the AEF, he was the single person who could make judgments and issue orders. He had many high-powered subordinates, most famously Gen. Bernard Law Montgomery and Gen. George S. Patton, but from the time of his appointment as Supreme Commander to the end of the war, he was the one who ran the show. For that reason, he gets top billing here.

Eisenhower was a West Point graduate (1915) and professional soldier. When the war broke out, he was a lieutenant colonel serving on the staff of Gen. Douglas MacArthur in the Philippines. By mid-1941 he had become a brigadier general and chief of staff at the Third Army, stationed at Fort Sam Houston, Texas. He was there that December 7; on December 12 he got a call from the War Department ordering him to proceed immediately to Washington for a new a.s.signment. What he did over the next few weeks, and what happened to him, ill.u.s.trate how ill-prepared the American army was for war, and how fortunate it was to have Eisenhower in its ranks.

On Sunday morning, December 14, Eisenhower arrived at Union Station in Washington. He went immediately to the War Department offices in the Munitions Building on Const.i.tution Avenue (the Pentagon was then under construction) for his initial conference with the Chief of Staff, Gen. George C.

Marshall. After a brief, formal greeting Marshall quickly outlined the situation in the Pacific-the ships lost at Pearl Harbor, the planes lost at Clark Field outside Manila, the size and strength of j.a.panese attacks elsewhere, troop strength in the Philippines, reinforcement possibilities, intelligence estimates, the capabilities of America's Dutch and British allies in Asia, and other details. Then Marshall leaned forward across his desk, fixed his eyes on Eisenhower's, and demanded, "What should be our general line of action?" Eisenhower was startled. He had just arrived, knew little more than what he had read in the newspapers and what Marshall had just told him, was not up to date on the war plans for the Pacific, and had no staff to help him prepare an answer. After a second or two of hesitation Eisenhower requested, "Give me a few hours."

"All right," Marshall replied. He had dozens of problems to deal with that afternoon, hundreds in the days to follow. He needed help and he needed to know immediately which of his officers could give it to him. He had heard great things about Eisenhower from men whose judgment he trusted, but he needed to see for himself how Eisenhower operated under the pressures of war. His question was the first test.

Eisenhower went to a desk that had been a.s.signed to him in the War Plans Division (WPD) of the General Staff. Sticking a sheet of yellow tissue paper into his typewriter, he tapped out with one finger, 5 "Steps to Be Taken," then sat back and started thinking. He knew that the Philippines could not be saved, that the better part of military wisdom would be to retreat to Australia, there to build a base for the counteroffensive. But the honor of the army was at stake, and the prestige of the United States in the Far East, and these political factors outweighed the purely military considerations. An effort had to be made. Eisenhower's first recommendation was to build a base in Australia from which attempts could be made to reinforce the Philippines. "Speed is essential," he noted. He urged that shipment of planes, pilots, ammunition, and other equipment be started from the West Coast and Hawaii to Australia immediately.

It was already dusk when Eisenhower returned to Marshall's office. As he handed over his written recommendation, he said he realized that it would be impossible to get reinforcements to the Philippines in time to save the islands from the j.a.panese. Still, he added, the United States had to do everything it could to bolster MacArthur's forces because "the people of China, of the Philippines, of the Dutch East Indies will be watching us. They may excuse failure but they will not excuse abandonment." He urged the advantages of Australia as a base of operations-English-speaking, a strong ally, modern port facilities, beyond the range of the j.a.panese offensive-and advised Marshall to begin a program of expanding the facilities there and to secure the line of communications from the West Coast to Hawaii and then on to New Zealand and Australia. "In this," Eisenhower said, ". . . we dare not fail. We must take great risks and spend any amount of money required."

Marshall studied Eisenhower for a minute, then said softly, "I agree with you. Do your best to save them." He thereupon placed Eisenhower in charge of the Philippines and Far Eastern Section of the War Plans Division. Then Marshall leaned forward-Eisenhower recalled years later that he had "an eye that seemed to me awfully cold"-and declared, "Eisenhower, the Department is filled with able men who a.n.a.lyze their problems well but feel compelled always to bring them to me for final solution. I must have a.s.sistants who will solve their own problems and tell me later what they have done." Over the next two months Eisenhower labored to save the Philippines. His efforts were worse than fruitless, as MacArthur came to lump Eisenhower together with Marshall and President Franklin D. Roosevelt as the men responsible for the debacle on the islands. But throughout the period, and in the months that followed, Eisenhower impressed Marshall deeply, so deeply that Marshall came to agree with MacArthur's earlier judgment that Eisenhower was the best officer in the army.

Marshall was not an easy man to impress. He was a cold, aloof person-"remote and austere,"

Eisenhower called him-a man who forced everyone to keep his distance. President Roosevelt had tried at their first meeting to slap him on the back and call him George, but Marshall drew back and let the President know that the name was General Marshall, and General Marshall it remained. He had few intimate friends. When he relaxed he did it alone, watching movies or puttering in his garden. He kept a tight grip on his emotions and seldom displayed any sign of a sense of humor. His sense of duty was highly developed. He made small allowance for failings in others, but to those who could do the work, Marshall was intensely loyal. He also felt deep affection toward them, though he seldom showed it.

Hardly anyone, for example, could resist Eisenhower's infectious grin, and he was known throughout the army by his catchy nickname, but Marshall did resist. In all their years together, Marshall almost always called him Eisenhower (except after November 4, 1952, when he called him Mr. President). Marshall slipped only once, at the victory parade in New York City in 1945, and called him Ike. "To make up for it," Eisenhower recalled with a smile, "he used the word 'Eisenhower' five times in the next sentence."

For his part, Eisenhower always called Marshall "General." After ten years with MacArthur, he found Marshall to be the ideal boss, both as a man to work for and as a teacher. In October 1942 he told an a.s.sistant, "I wouldn't trade one Marshall for fifty MacArthurs." He thought a second, then blurted out, "My G.o.d! That would be a lousy deal. What would I do with fifty MacArthurs?" As he later wrote more formally, Eisenhower conceived "unlimited admiration and respect" for Marshall, and came to have feelings of "affection" for him. Marshall came to have the dominant role not only in Eisenhower's career, 6 but also in his thinking and in his leadership techniques. He was the model that Eisenhower tried to emulate; he set the standards Eisenhower tried to meet. The two men, although ten years apart in age, had much in common. Marshall had the build and grace of an athlete, was about Eisenhower's height (six feet), and was equally well proportioned. He had been a football player in college. Like Eisenhower, he loved exploring the Civil War battlefields and habitually ill.u.s.trated his points or strengthened his arguments by drawing on examples from past battles and campaigns. The way he exercised leadership coincided nicely with Eisenhower's temperament. He never yelled or shouted, almost never lost his temper. He built an atmosphere of friendly cooperation and teamwork around him, without losing the distinction between the commander and his staff-there was never any doubt as to who was the boss.

Marshall headed a stupendous organization. To do so effectively he needed a.s.sistants he could trust. In picking them, he took professional competence for granted and concentrated on personality traits.

Certain types were, in his view, unsuited for high command. Foremost among these were those who were self-seeking in the matter of promotion. Next came those who always tried to "pa.s.s the buck."

Officers who tried to do everything themselves and consequently got bogged down in detail were equally unsatisfactory. Men who shouted or pounded on the desk were as unacceptable to Marshall as men who had too great a love of the limelight. Nor could he abide the pessimist. He surrounded himself with men who were offensive-minded and who concentrated on the possibilities rather than the difficulties.

In every respect, Eisenhower was exactly the sort of officer Marshall was looking for.

Worn-out, angry at his country for not having prepared for the war, angry at MacArthur and the navy for the way they were fighting it, angry at being stuck in Washington, one day Eisenhower almost lost his temper completely with Marshall. It happened on March 20 in Marshall's office. Marshall and Eisenhower had settled a detail about an officer's promotion. Marshall then leaned forward to say that in the last war staff officers had gotten the promotions, not the field officers who did the fighting, and that he intended to reverse the process in this war. "Take your case," he added. "I know that you were recommended by one general for division command and by another for corps command. That's all very well. I'm glad that they have that opinion of you, but you are going to stay right here and fill your position, and that's that!" Preparing to turn to other business, Marshall muttered, "While this may seem a sacrifice to you, that's the way it must be."

Eisenhower, red-faced and resentful, shot back, "General, I'm interested in what you say, but I want you to know that I don't give a d.a.m.n about your promotion plans as far as I'm concerned. I came into this office from the field and I am trying to do my duty. I expect to do so as long as you want me here. If that locks me to a desk for the rest of the war, so be it!" He pushed back his chair and strode toward the door, nearly ten paces away. By the time he got there he decided to take the edge off the outburst, turned, and grinned. He thought he could see a tiny smile at the corners of Marshall's mouth.

Whether Marshall smiled or not, Eisenhower's anger returned full force after he left the office. He went to his desk and filled his diary with his feelings. The thought of spending the war in Washington, missing combat again, was maddening. It seemed so unfair. Marshall's cold, impersonal att.i.tude just added to the anger. He cursed Marshall for toying with him; he cursed the war and his own bad luck.

The next morning Eisenhower read what he had written, shook his head, and tore the page out of his diary, destroying it. Then he wrote a new entry. "Anger cannot win, it cannot even think clearly. In this respect," he continued, "Marshall puzzles me a bit." Marshall got angrier at stupidity than anyone Eisenhower had ever seen, "yet the outburst is so fleeting, he returns so quickly to complete 'normalcy,'

that I'm certain he does it for effect." Eisenhower envied Marshall that trait and confessed, "I blaze for an hour! So, for many years I've made it a religion never to indulge myself, but yesterday I failed."

7 A week later Marshall recommended Eisenhower for promotion to major general (temporary). In his recommendation to the President, Marshall explained that Eisenhower was not really a staff officer but was his operations officer, a sort of subordinate commander. Surprised and delighted, Eisenhower first reacted, "This should a.s.sure that when I finally get back to the troops, I'll get a division." Decades later, in his memoirs, he wrote that he "often wondered" if his outburst and the way in which he had been able to control his emotions and end the session with one of his big lopsided grins had led Marshall to take a greater interest in him.

Perhaps, but unlikely. Marshall had already been pushing Eisenhower ahead, increasing his responsibilities at a rapid pace. In January he had taken Eisenhower along as his chief a.s.sistant to the first wartime conference with the British, and had given Eisenhower the task of preparing the basic American position on organization and strategy for global war. In mid-February he made Eisenhower his princ.i.p.al plans and operations officer. This steady progress surely indicated that Marshall, with or without the display of what MacArthur called "Ike's d.a.m.n Dutch temper," thought Eisenhower's potential unlimited.

By the beginning of April, Eisenhower had 107 officers working directly under him. As his responsibilities included both plans and operations, he was concerned with all army activities around the world, which gave Eisenhower a breadth of vision he could not have obtained in any other post. Working in daily contact with the units in the field, as well as preparing plans on grand strategy, gave Eisenhower a realistic sense of the scope of modern war. In late February he had been complaining in his diary about both MacArthur and Adm. Ernest J. King, Chief of Naval Operations. He called King "an arbitrary, stubborn type, with not too much brains and a tendency toward bullying his juniors." The outburst led him to write a sentence that described the essence of Eisenhower's leadership style, both as a general and as president. "In a war such as this, when high command invariably involves a president, a prime minister, six chiefs of staff, and a horde of lesser 'planners,' there has got to be a lot of patience-no one person can be a Napoleon or Caesar." Of all the generals, Eisenhower himself came closest to a Napoleonic role, but he would never make such a comparison. Having been a staff officer for so long himself, he was acutely aware of the importance of his staff to him; he was just as acutely aware of the indispensability of the subordinates in the field commands who carried out his orders. He had no false modesty, was conscious of the crucial nature of the role he played, but he never thought of himself as a Napoleon.

Always, his emphasis was on the team. He was not self-effacing but realistic, aware that there were definite limits on his powers, and keeping his self-image in perspective.

While the Americans badly needed Marshall, Eisenhower, and other generals to ram their feet into the stirrups and take command, they needed even more desperately to build and equip an army. This was done through conscription and the tremendous output of American industry, which had been flat on its back in 1939 but was by the beginning of 1942 turning out the tools and weapons of war in an ever-increasing, record-setting pace. But weapons without soldiers are useless. The creation of the U.S.

Army in 1942-43 was one of the great achievements of the American Republic in the twentieth century.

How it was accomplished is a long story, one part of which is told in this account of the beginnings of a company of elite volunteers who were part of the 101st Airborne Division. The men of Easy Company, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division, U.S. Army, came from different backgrounds, different parts of the country. They were farmers and coal miners, mountain men and sons of the Deep South. Some were desperately poor, others from the middle cla.s.s. One came from Harvard, one from Yale, a couple from UCLA. Only one was from the Old Army, only a few came from the National Guard or reserves. They were citizen soldiers. Each of the 140 men and seven officers who formed the original company followed a different route to its birthplace, Camp Toccoa, Georgia, but they had some things in common. They were young, born since the Great War. They were white because the U.S. Army in World War II was segregated. With three exceptions they were unmarried. Most had been hunters and athletes in high school. They were special in their values. They put a premium on physical well-being, hierarchical authority, and being part of an elite unit. They were idealists, eager to merge themselves into a group fighting for a cause, actively seeking an outfit with which they could identify, join, 8 be a part of, relate to as a family.

They volunteered for the paratroopers, they said, for the thrill, the honor, and the $50 (for enlisted men) or $100 (for officers) monthly bonus paratroopers received. But they really volunteered to jump out of airplanes for two profound, personal reasons. First, in Pvt. Robert Rader's words, "The desire to be better than the other guy took hold." Each man in his own way had gone through what Lt. Richard Winters experienced: a realization that doing his best was a better way of getting through the army than hanging around with the sad excuses for soldiers they met in the recruiting depots or basic training. They wanted to make their army time positive, a learning and maturing and challenging experience.

Second, they knew they were going into combat, and they did not want to go in with poorly trained, poorly conditioned, poorly motivated draftees on either side of them. As to choosing between being a paratrooper spearheading the offensive and an ordinary infantryman who could not trust the guy next to him, they decided the greater risk was with the infantry. When the shooting started they wanted to look up to the guy beside them, not down. They had been kicked around by the Depression and had the scars to show for it. They had grown up, many of them, without enough to eat, with holes in the soles of their shoes, with ragged sweaters and no car and often not a radio. Their educations had been cut short, either by the Depression or by the war. "Yet, with this background, I had and still have a great love for my country," Lt. Harry Welsh declared forty-eight years later. Whatever their legitimate complaints about how life had treated them, they had not soured on it or on their country.

They came out of the Depression with many other positive features. They were self-reliant, accustomed to hard work and to taking orders. Through sports or hunting or both, they had gained a sense of self-worth and self-confidence. They knew they were going into great danger. They knew they would be doing more than their part. They resented having to sacrifice years of their youth to a war they never made. They wanted to throw baseb.a.l.l.s, not grenades, shoot a .22 rifle, not an M-1. But having been caught up in the war, they decided to be as positive as possible in their army careers.

Not that they knew much about airborne, except that it was new and all-volunteer. They had been told that the physical training was tougher than anything they had ever seen, or that any other unit in the army would undergo, but these young lions were eager for that. They expected that when they were finished with their training, they would be bigger, stronger, tougher than when they started, and they would have gone through the training with the guys who would be fighting beside them.

"The Depression was over," Pvt. Carwood Lipton recalled of that summer of 1942, "and I was beginning a new life that would change me profoundly." It would all of them.

First Lt. Herbert Sobel of Chicago was the initial member of E Company, and its commanding officer.

His executive officer (XO) was 2nd Lt. Clarence Hester from northern California. Sobel was Jewish, urban, with a commission from the National Guard. Hester had started as a private, then earned his commission from officer candidate school (OCS). Most of the platoon and a.s.sistant platoon leaders were newly commissioned graduates of OCS, including 2nd Lts. d.i.c.k Winters from Pennsylvania, Walter Moore from California's racetracks, and Louis Nixon from New York City and Yale. S. L.

Matheson was an ROTC graduate from UCLA. At twenty-eight years of age Sobel was the old man in the group; the others were twenty-four or younger.

The company, along with Dog, Fox, and Battalion HQ Companies, made up the 2nd Battalion of the 506th PIR. The battalion commander was Maj. Robert Strayer, a thirty-year-old reserve officer. The regimental commander was Col. Robert Sink, a 1927 West Point graduate. The 506th was an experimental outfit, the first parachute infantry regiment in which the men would take their basic training and their jump training together as a unit. It would be a year before it was attached to the 101st Airborne 9 Division, the Screaming Eagles. The officers were as new to this paratrooping business as the men; they were teachers who sometimes were not much more than one day ahead of the cla.s.s. The original NCOs were Old Army. "We looked up to them," Pvt. Walter Gordon of Mississippi remembered, "as almost like G.o.ds because they had their wings, they were qualified jumpers. But, h.e.l.l, if they knew how to do an about-face, they were ahead of us, we were raw recruits. Later, looking back, we regarded them with scorn. They couldn't measure up to our own people who moved up to corporals and sergeants."

The first privates in Easy were Frank Perconte, Herman Hansen, Wayne Sisk, and Carwood Lipton.

Within a few days of its formation, Easy had a full complement of 132 men and eight officers. It was divided into three platoons and a headquarters section. There were three twelve-man rifle squads plus a six-man mortar team squad to a platoon. A light infantry outfit, Easy had one machine gun to each of the rifle squads, and a 60mm mortar in each mortar team. Few of the original members of Easy made it through Toccoa. "Officers would come and go," Winters remarked. "You would take one look at them and know they wouldn't make it. Some of those guys were just a bowl of b.u.t.ter. They were so awkward they didn't know how to fall." This was typical of the men trying for the 506th PIR; it took 500 officer volunteers to produce the 148 who made it through Toccoa, and 5,300 enlisted volunteers to get 1,800 graduates. As the statistics show, Toccoa was a challenge. Colonel Sink's task was to put the men through basic training, harden them, teach them the rudiments of infantry tactics, prepare them for jump school, and build a regiment that he would lead into combat. "We were sorting men," Lieutenant Hester recalled, "sorting the fat to the thin and sorting out the no guts." The only rest came when they got lectures on weapons, map and compa.s.s reading, infantry tactics, codes, signaling, field telephones, radio equipment, switchboard and wire stringing, and demolitions. For unarmed combat and bayonet drills, it was back to using those trembling muscles. When they were issued their rifles, they were told to treat the weapon as they would treat a wife, gently. It was theirs to have and to hold, to sleep with in the field, to know intimately. They got to where they could take it apart and put it back together blindfolded.

To prepare the men for jump school, Toccoa had a mock-up tower some thirty-five feet high. A man was strapped into a parachute harness that was connected to fifteen-foot risers, which in turn were attached to a pulley that rode a cable. Jumping from the tower in the harness, sliding down the cable to the landing, gave the feeling of a real parachute jump and landing. All these activities were accompanied by shouting in unison, chanting, singing together, or b.i.t.c.hing. The language was foul. These nineteen- and twenty-year-old enlisted men, free from the restraints of home and culture, thrown together into an all-male society, coming from all over America, used words as one form of bonding. The one most commonly used, by far, was thef -word. It subst.i.tuted for adjectives, nouns, and verbs. It was used, for example, to describe the cooks: "those f-ers," or "f-ing cooks"; what they did: "f-ed it up again"; and what they produced. Pvt. David Kenyon Webster, a Harvard English major, confessed that he found it difficult to adjust to the "vile, monotonous, and unimaginative language." The language made these boys turning into men feel tough and, more important, insiders, members of a group. Even Webster got used to it, although never to like it. The men were learning to do more than swear, more than how to fire a rifle, more than that the limits of their physical endurance were much greater than they had ever imagined. They were learning instant, unquestioning obedience. Although the British army had been in somewhat better shape than the American army in 1939, and although by the time Easy Company began to take shape Britain had been at war for two and a half years, it was not much better off. The Royal Navy and the Royal Air Force (RAF) had been engaged in an all-out struggle, but except for Eighth Army in the North African desert and some engagements in Greece and Crete, the British army had seen no action against the German army. Even in North Africa, the struggle had not yet taken on the all-out ferocity it would later a.s.sume, as Col. Hans von Luck of the German army was discovering. Luck had been in the van in the drive to the Channel coast in May 1940, and again in the invasion of the Soviet Union in June 1941.

In the fall of 1941 he had led his reconnaissance unit across the Leningrad-Moscow ca.n.a.l, and thus become the only German officer to get east of Moscow. But he had been compelled to withdraw, and then was called to North Africa by his old mentor, Gen. Erwin Rommel of Afrika Korps. He found that 10 the fighting there against the British was very much different from what he had experienced fighting the Red Army in Russia.

In North Africa, Colonel Luck was fighting in the only war he ever enjoyed. He commanded the armed reconnaissance battalion on Rommel's extreme right (southern) flank. He thus enjoyed a certain independence, as did his British opposite number. The two commanding officers agreed to fight a civilized war. Every day at 5P.M. the war shut down, the British to brew up their tea, the Germans their coffee. At about quarter past five, Luck learned that the British commander would communicate over the radio. "Well," Luck might say, "we captured so-and-so today, and he's fine, and he sends his love to his mother, tell her not to worry." Once Luck learned that the British had received a month's supply of cigarettes. He offered to trade a captured officer-who happened to be the heir to the Players cigarette fortune-for one million cigarettes. The British countered with an offer of 600,000. Done, said Luck. But the Players heir was outraged. He said the ransom was insufficient. He insisted he was worth the million and refused to be exchanged.

One evening an excited corporal reported that he had just stolen a British truck jammed with tinned meat and other delicacies. Luck looked at his watch-it was past 6P.M. -and told the corporal he would have to take it back, as he had captured it after 5P.M. The corporal protested that this was war, and anyway, the troops were already gathering in the goods from the truck. Luck called Rommel, his mentor in the military academy. He said he was suspicious of British moves farther south and thought he ought to go out on a two-day reconnaissance. Could another battalion take his place for that time? Rommel agreed.

The new battalion arrived in the morning. That night, at 5:30P.M. , just as Luck had antic.i.p.ated, the British stoletwo supply trucks. Back in England, among the elite units, there were no high jinks, but the essential problem of too many drills, too many parades, and no action remained. Throughout its ranks the British army still suffered from the humiliation of Dunkirk in May 1940. In no way was it ready for the challenge of going back to France. But it contained leaders who were determined to get it ready.

Throughout the British army at home, boredom reigned. The so-called phony war was from September 1939 to May 1940, but for thousands of young men who had enlisted during that period, the time from spring 1941 to the beginning of 1944 was almost as bad. There was no threat of invasion. The only British army doing any fighting at all was in the Mediterranean; almost everywhere else duties and training were routine-and routinely dull. Discipline had fallen off, in part because of the boredom, in part because the War Office had concluded that martinet discipline in a democracy was inappropriate, and because it was thought it dampened the fighting spirit of the men in the ranks. Many soldiers, obviously, rather enjoyed this situation and would have been more than content to stick out the war lounging around the barracks, doing the odd parade or field march, otherwise finding ways of making it look as if they were busy. But there were thousands who were not content, young men who had joined up because they really did want to be soldiers, really did want to fight for King and Country, really did seek some action and excitement. In the spring of 1942 their opportunity came when a call went out for volunteers for the airborne forces.

Britain had made a decision to create an airborne army. The 1st Airborne Division was being formed up.

Maj. Gen. F.A.M. "Boy" Browning would command it. Already a legendary figure in the army, noted especially for his tough discipline, Browning looked like a movie star and dressed with flair. In 1932 he had married the novelist Daphne du Maurier, who in 1942 suggested a red beret for airborne troops, with Bellerophon astride winged Pegasus as the airborne shoulder patch and symbol.

Pvt. Wally Parr was one of the thousands who responded to the call to wear the red beret. He had joined the army in February 1939, at the age of sixteen (he was one of more than a dozen in D Company, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry-Ox and Bucks-who lied about their age to enlist). He had been posted to an infantry regiment and had spent three years "never doing a d.a.m.n thing that really mattered. Putting up barbed wire, taking it down the next day, moving it. . . . Never fired a 11 rifle, never did a thing." So he volunteered for airborne, pa.s.sed the physical, and was accepted into the Ox and Bucks, just then forming up as an air landing unit, and was a.s.signed to D Company. After three days in his new outfit he asked for an interview with the commander, Maj. John Howard. "Ah, yes, Parr," Howard said as Parr walked into his office. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to get out," Parr stated.

Howard stared at him. "But you just got in."

"Yeah, I know," Parr responded, "and I spent the last three days weeding around the barracks block.

That's not what I came for. I want to transfer from here to the paras [paratroopers]. I want the real thing, what I volunteered for, not these stupid gliders, of which we don't have any anyway." "You take it easy,"

Howard replied. "Wait." And he dismissed Parr without another word.

Leaving the office, Parr thought, I'd better be careful with this fellow.

In truth, Parr as yet had no idea just how tough his new company commander was. Howard had come out of a background that was as working cla.s.s as any of the c.o.c.kneys in his company. He started as an enlisted man, earned a commission, and by 1941 was a captain with his own company, which he trained for the next year. At the beginning of 1942 he learned that a decision had been taken to go airborne with the Ox and Bucks, and that his battalion would be gliderborne troops. No one was forced to go airborne; every officer and trooper was given a choice. About 40 percent declined the opportunity to wear the red beret. Another 10 percent were weeded out in the physical exam. It was meant to be an elite regiment.

The sergeant major came to the Ox and Bucks specially posted from the outside.

Wally Parr made the man's overpowering personality vivid in a short anecdote. "That first day," said Parr, "he called the whole bleeding regiment together on parade. And he looked at us, and we looked at him, and we both knew who was boss."

Howard himself had to give up his company and his captaincy to go airborne, but he did not hesitate. He reverted to lieutenant and platoon leader in order to become an airborne officer. In three weeks his colonel promoted him and gave him command of D Company. Shortly after that, in May 1942, he was promoted to major. By July, Howard was pretty much on his own, allowed by his colonel to set his own training pace and schedule. Initially, he put the emphasis on teaching the men the skills of the light infantryman. He taught them to be marksmen with their rifles, with the light machine gun, with the carbine and the pistol, with the Piat (projector infantry ant.i.tank) and other ant.i.tank weapons. He instructed them in the many types of grenades, their characteristics and special uses. Most of all, Howard put the emphasis on learning to think quickly. They were elite, he told the men; they were gliderborne troops, and wherever and whenever it was they attacked the enemy, they could be sure the premium would be on quick thinking and quick response.

Howard's emphasis on technical training went a bit beyond what the other company commanders were doing, but only just a bit. All of Howard's a.s.sociates were commanding top-quality volunteers, and were volunteers themselves, outstanding officers. What was different about D Company was its commander's mania for physical fitness. It went beyond anything anyone in the British army had ever seen before. The regiment prided itself on being fit (one officer from B Company described himself as a physical-fitness fanatic), but all were amazed by, and a bit critical of, the way Howard pushed his fitness program. D Company's day began with a five-mile cross-country run, done at a seven- or eight-minute-to-the-mile pace. After that the men dressed, policed the area, ate breakfast, and then spent the day on training 12 exercises, usually strenuous. In the late afternoon Howard insisted that everyone engage in some sport or another. His own favorites were the individual endeavors, cross-country running, swimming, and boxing, but he encouraged soccer, rugby, and any sport that would keep his lads active until bedtime.

Those were regular days. Twice a month Howard would take the whole company out for two or three days, doing field exercises, sleeping rough. He put them through grueling marches, until they became an outstanding marching unit. Wally Parr swore-and a number of his comrades backed him up-that they could do twenty-two miles, in full pack, including the Brens (light machine guns) and the mortars, in five and one-half hours. When they got back from such a march, Parr related, "you would have a foot inspection, get a bite to eat, and then in the afternoon face a choice: either play soccer or go for a cross-country run." All the officers, including Howard, did everything the men did. All of them had been athletes themselves, and loved sports and compet.i.tion. The sports and the mutually endured misery on the forced marches were bringing officers and men closer together. Lt. David Wood was exceedingly popular with his platoon, as was Lt. H. J. "Tod" Sweeney, in his own quiet way, with his. But Lt. Den Brotheridge stood out. He played the men's game, soccer, and as a former corporal himself he had no sense of being ill at ease among the men. He would go into their barracks at night, sit on the bed of his batman (aide), Cpl. Billy Gray, and talk soccer with the lads. He got to bringing his boots along and shining them as he talked. Wally Parr never got over the sight of a British lieutenant polishing his boots himself while his batman lay back on his bed, ga.s.sing on about Manchester United and West Ham and other soccer teams.

Howard's biggest problem was boredom. He racked his brains to find different ways of doing the same things, to put some spontaneity into the training. His young heroes had many virtues, but patience was not one of them. The resulting morale problem extended far beyond D Company, obviously, and in late summer 1942, General Browning sent the whole regiment to Devonshire for two months of cliff climbing.

He then decided to march the regiment back to Bulford, some 130 miles. Naturally, it would be a compet.i.tion between the companies. The first two days were the hottest of the summer, and the men were marching in serge, wringing wet. After the second day they pleaded for permission to change to lighter gear. It was granted, and over the next two days a cold, hard rain beat down on their inadequately covered bodies. Howard marched up and down the column, urging his men on. He had a walking stick, an old army one with an inch of bra.s.s on the bottom. His company clerk and wireless operator, Cpl.

Edward Tappenden, offered the major the use of his bike. "Not likely," Howard growled. "I'm leading my company." His hands grew more blisters than Tappenden's feet, from his grip on the stick, and he wore away all the bra.s.s on the end of it. But he kept marching. On the morning of the fourth day, when Howard roused the men and ordered them to fall in, Wally Parr and his friend Pvt. Jack Bailey waddled out on their knees. When Howard asked them what they thought they were doing Wally replied that he and Jack had worn away the bottom half of their legs. But they got up and marched. "Mad b.a.s.t.a.r.d," the men whispered among themselves after Howard had moved off. "Mad, ambitious b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He'll get us all killed." But they marched. They got back to base on the evening of the fifth day. They marched in at 140 steps to the minute, singing loudly, "Onward, Christian Soldiers." They came in first in the regiment, by half a day. Only two of Howard's men out of 120 had dropped out of the march. (His stick, however, was so worn he had to throw it away.) Howard had radioed ahead, and had hot showers and meals waiting for the men. As the officers began to undress for their showers, Howard told them to b.u.t.ton up. They had to go do a foot inspection of the men, then watch to make sure they all showered properly, check on the quality and quant.i.ty of their food, and inspect the barracks to see that the beds were ready. By the time the officers got to shower, the hot water was gone; by the time they got to eat, only cold leftovers remained. But not one of them had let Howard down. "From then on," Howard recalled, "we didn't follow the normal pattern of training." His colonel gave him even more flexibility, and the transport to make it meaningful. Howard started taking his company to Southampton, or London, or Portsmouth, to conduct street-fighting exercises in the 13 bombed-out areas. There were plenty to choose from, and it did not matter how much damage D Company did, so all the exercises were with live ammunition. Howard was putting together an outstanding light-infantry company. Howard also set out, on his own, to make D Company into a first-cla.s.s night-fighting unit. It was not that he had any inkling that he might be landing at night, but rather he reckoned that once in combat, his troops would be spending a good deal of their time fighting at night.

He was also thinking of a favorite expression in the German army that he had heard: "The night is the friend of no man." In the British army the saying was that "the German does not like to fight at night."

The trouble was, neither did the British. Howard decided to deal with the problem of fighting in unaccustomed darkness by turning night into day. He would rouse the company at 2000 hours, take the men for their run, get them fed, and then begin twelve hours of field exercises, drill, the regular paperwork-everything that a company in training does in the course of a day. After a meal at 1000 hours, he would get them going on the athletic fields. At 1300 hours he sent them to the barracks to sleep. At 2000 hours they were up again, running. This would go on for a week at a time at first; by early 1944, as Parr recalled, "We went several weeks, continuous weeks of night into day and every now and then he would have a change-around week." And Parr described the payoff: "Oh, we were used to it, we got quite used to operating in nighttime, doing everything in the dark."

D Company was developing a feeling of independence and separateness. All the sports fanaticism had produced, as Howard had hoped it would, an extreme compet.i.tiveness. The men wanted D Company to be first in everything, and they had indeed won the regimental prizes in boxing, swimming, cross-country, soccer, and other sports. When Brig. James Kindersley asked to observe a race among the best runners in the brigade, D Company had entered twenty runners, and took fifteen of the first twenty places.

According to Howard, Kindersley "was just c.o.c.k-a-hoop about it."

That was exactly the response Howard and his company had been working so hard for so long to get.

The ultimate compet.i.tiveness would come against the Germans, of course, but next best was competing against the other companies. D Company wanted to be first among all the gliderborne companies, not just for the thrill of victory, but because victory in this contest meant a unique opportunity to be a part of history. No one could guess what it might be, but even the lowest private could figure out that the War Office was not going to spend all that money building an elite force and then not use it in the invasion of France-whenever that came. It was equally obvious that airborne troops would be at the van, almost certainly behind enemy lines-this a heroic adventure of unimaginable dimensions. And, finally, it was obvious that the best company would have the leading role at the van. That was the thought that sustained Howard and his company through the long dreary months, now stretching into two years, of training.

That thought sustained them because, whether consciously or subconsciously, to a man they were aware that D-Day would be the greatest day of their lives. Nothing that had happened before could possibly compare to, while nothing that happened afterward could possibly match, D-Day. D Company continued to work at a pace that bordered on fanaticism in order to earn the right to be the first to go.

2 - Getting Started

THE AMERICANS were eager to get going on defeating the Germans. Eisenhower's first task as Marshall's princ.i.p.al advisor had been to save the Philippines, which by January 1942 was already obviously impossible. Meanwhile, Eisenhower was beginning to think on a worldwide scale. On January 22 he scribbled in his diary, "We've got to go to Europe and fight, and we've got to quit wasting resources all over the world, and still worse, wasting time." He had concluded that the correct strategy was "Germany first," on the grounds that the Germans were the main threat, that it was imperative to help keep the Red Army in the war by putting pressure on Germany from the west, and that once Germany was defeated the Americans could go over to the offensive against the j.a.panese. He recommended to Marshall a program: spend 1942 and the first months of 1943 building an American force in Britain, then invading France. Marshall agreed and told Eisenhower to prepare a draft directive for the American commander in Britain.

Eisenhower came up with a name-the European Theater of Operations (ETO)-and produced the draft.

He urged "that absolute unity of command should be exercised by the Theater Commander," who should organize, train, and command the American ground, naval, and air forces a.s.signed to the theater. As he handed the draft to Marshall, he asked the Chief of Staff to study it carefully because it could be an important doc.u.ment in the further waging of the war. Marshall replied, "I certainly do want to read it.

You may be the man who executes it. If that's the case, when can you leave?" Three days later Marshall appointed Eisenhower to the command of ETO.

That June 24, Eisenhower arrived in England. There were no bands to greet him, no speeches at the airport, no ceremonies. It was almost the last time in his life he would have such a quiet arrival anywhere.

That day he was still unknown to the general public, in America as well as in Britain. But the day following his arrival in London he held a press conference. An announcement was pa.s.sed out identifying him as the commander of the American forces in Britain. From that moment forth his life was dramatically and unalterably changed. He suddenly became a world figure-in the jargon of World War II, a Very Important Person, or VIP. It hardly mattered that his role was more that of an administrator than a commander, or that the number of men under him was relatively small (55,390 officers and men).

Precisely because there were so few American forces in Britain, in fact, and because they were not involved in combat, Eisenhower received more coverage. His appointment was a front-page story. Every reporter in London, whether British or American, who could do so attended Eisenhower's first-ever press conference. Eisenhower proved to be outstanding at public relations. There was, first and foremost, the man himself. Helooked like a soldier. He stood erect, with his square, broad shoulders held back, his head high. His face and hands were always active, his face reddening with anger when he spoke of the n.a.z.is, lighting up as he spoke of the immense forces gathering around the world to crush them. To cameramen, he was pure gold-for them a good photo of Eisenhower, whether tight-lipped or grim or laughing heartily, was usually worth at least two columns on the front page. His relaxed, casual manner was appealing, as was the nickname "Ike," which seemed to fit so perfectly. His good humor and good looks attracted people. Most reporters found it impossible to be in Eisenhower's presence and not like him.

His mannerisms complemented his good looks. Recording before a newsreel camera for the movie-theater audience back in the States, he spoke with great earnestness directly into the camera, his eyes riveted on the invisible audience. It was a perfect expression of a devotion to duty that he felt deeply, and it electrified viewers. So too did his manner of speaking bluntly about the difficulties ahead, the problems that had to be met and overcome, all followed by that big grin and a verbal expression of Eisenhower's bouncy enthusiasm. He habitually used expressions that immediately identified him as just plain folks. He would speak of someone who "knows the score," someone else as a "big operator," or he would say, "I told him to go peddle his papers somewhere else." He called his superiors the "Big Shots." He made innumerable references to "my old hometown, Abilene," and described himself as a "simple country boy," sighing and responding sadly to a question, "That's just too complicated for a 15 dumb bunny like me."

Eisenhower, in short, was an extremely likable person who came to the public's attention at exactly the right moment in the war. Nothing was happening in the European Theater to write about, but London was overrun with reporters looking for copy.