In all the campaigns, and particularly in western Europe, our guiding principle was to avoid at any cost the freezing of battle lines that might bog down our troops in a pattern similar to the trench warfare of World War I. At times in the conduct of any continental campaign there develops a strain upon supply lines that largely prohibits the continuance of heavy, decisive attacks; during such periods a certain degree of stabilization is unavoidable. But the Allied forces did not permit these periods of stabilization to develop into the long, dreary, and wasteful battles that bled Europe white in World War I. The combination of fire power, mobility, and air power that we used to accomplish our purpose had to be scrutinized so that the principles underlying its effective use might be incorporated into our military doctrine.
In addition to amphibious assault on an unprecedented scale, our forces had surmounted natural and fortified barriers that were believed invulnerable. In Africa, Sicily, and Italy the terrain we encountered was fitted by nature for defensive operations. In the Tunisian hills, on the shoulder of Mount Etna, and in the Apennines there were scores of vital points where a battalion could stop an army’s advance. In western Europe the Rhine throughout its length, reinforced on the north by the easily inundated Netherlands, had been for twenty centuries the most formidable barrier to military operations against the German lands. All those natural obstacles were overcome.
Beyond that in western Europe the Allied armies twice battered their way through fortifications that had been designed with the greatest tactical and engineering skill. To break through either the Westwall or the Siegfried Line was outstanding in military annals; to smash them both in the space of ten months was a matchless achievement for the participating troops.
It is easy to deprecate the value of fixed defenses and fortifications. The Chinese Wall, the Roman Wall, and the Maginot Line all failed, eventually, in their defensive purposes. However, on any given section of front, any unit that is on the defensive and has the advantage of carefully prepared defenses enjoys a tremendous superiority over its exposed opponents.
Against the Westwall we used surprise in our choice of the landing area and a tremendous concentration of power on a narrow front to achieve the initial penetration. The defensive fortifications lacked depth. Once they were broken in the lodgment area, our air and sea power assured us use of the beaches for build-up. The German, moreover, was largely isolated by destruction of his communications lines and bridges across the Seine and Loire; our reinforcements poured in while his numbers were with difficulty maintained.
The Siegfried Line was more formidable. Its defenses included great mine fields, intricate networks of obstacles, tank ditches, concealed concrete blockhouses, and heavily fortified machine-gun nests, supported by artillery and auxiliary weapons, connected by a superlative communications system, backed up by a dependable line of supply over which could be moved rapidly reinforcements and munitions. In certain areas the defensive fortifications were several miles in depth. At others, river obstacles were utilized.
The task of penetrating and breaking through such fortifications presented the most serious, almost terrifying, problems to the attacking troops. Nothing is easy in war. Mistakes are always paid for in casualties and troops are quick to sense any blunder made by their commanders. Even though in the winter of 1945 some stretches of the Siegfried were held by hastily formed and inadequately trained defensive troops, its penetration on a large scale and the practical obliteration of the defending forces was a tribute not only to the extraordinary fighting qualities of the Allied soldiers and units, but to the determination and professional skill of their divisional, corps, army, and army group commanders.
The Allied Force that stood on the Elbe on May 8, 1945, was the most powerful military machine ever assembled. Its left flank rested on the Baltic Sea and its right in the Alps. Behind it were armadas of planes whose numbers were greater than all the air forces of the world a few years before. Its line of supply and communications was a vast network that covered France and the United Kingdom and extended into every community of the homelands. Its strength was supported by still another victorious host. To the south, pouring through the Alpine passes that had been the traditional avenues of classic warfare, were the million veterans of the Italian campaign under Alexander, backed also by immense air power and sea power and transoceanic supply lines. When these two forces came to a halt with the German surrender, their combined might was overwhelming evidence of democracy’s might—a visible lesson of war.
Victory in the Mediterranean and European campaigns gave the lie to all who preached, or in our time shall preach, that the democracies are decadent, afraid to fight, unable to match the productivity of regimented economies, unwilling to sacrifice in a common cause.
The first and most enduring lesson of the Mediterranean and European campaigns was the proof that war can be waged effectively by a coalition of nations. Historic difficulties had been overcome and the grave doubts that had existed on this point even as late as the fall of 1942 had been completely dispelled. Governments and their subsidiary economic, political, and military organizations had combined into one great effort in which no major difficulty could be traced to diverging national interest.
Allied effectiveness in World War II established for all time the feasibility of developing and employing joint control machinery that can meet the sternest tests of war. The key to the matter is a readiness, on highest levels, to adjust all nationalistic differences that affect the strategic employment of combined resources, and, in the war theater, to designate a single commander who is supported to the limit. With these two things done, success rests in the vision, the leadership, the skill, and the judgment of the professionals making up command and staff groups; if these two things are not done, only failure can result.
In World War II, America and Great Britain, whose forces fought side by side in so many battles of the ground, sea, and air, understood and applied these truths. In the later stages of the war French forces likewise participated in this joint effort, as did detachments of numerous countries whose homelands had been previously overrun by the enemy.
Co-operation with the Soviet forces was, unhappily, not so close. But her forces were widely separated, geographically, from those of the Western Allies, and the flaw in over-all teamwork did not impair the march to victory. Even so, if that country could have been as closely knit into the team as were the others, victory would probably have been achieved earlier and the peace would have rested on a more secure foundation.
Although Allied unity, and the ways and means of attaining it, constituted the principal war lesson, we within the Army were primarily concerned with the lessons that affected purely military concepts and principles. If every engagement could be studied, while the memory of it was still fresh in the minds of those who fought it, and both its tactical achievements and errors were subject to direct scrutiny, we could add an immense store of factual knowledge to the science of warfare—the speedy attainment of military victory at minimum expense in lives.
For this purpose we organized immediately after the cessation of hostilities a large board of the most experienced and at the same time most progressive officers we could find. The board was originally headed by General Gerow, who was later replaced by General Patton.1
In order that the War Department might have permanently available all the facts, so far as we could unearth them, and the opinions of the men most experienced in the actual business of fighting and of battlefield maintenance and administration, the board was provided with every possible facility and was given all the time it desired for the completion of its task.
Foremost among the military lessons was the extraordinary and growing influence of the airplane in the waging of war. The European campaign almost daily developed new and valuable uses for air power. Its effect in the weakening of German capacity was decisively felt on both fronts, the Allied and the Russian. Beyond this, the airplane was a valuable logistics agent, particula
rly during our speedy dashes across France in the fall of 1944 and across Germany in the spring of 1945; without it those pursuits could never have proceeded with such speed nor could they have accomplished such remarkable results.
The important road center of Bastogne could not have been held by the 101st Division during the German counteroffensive in December 1944 except for the airplanes that delivered 800,000 pounds of supplies to the division during the critical days between the twenty-third and twenty-seventh of December.2 During our largest airborne operation, known as Varsity, in support of Montgomery’s crossing of the Rhine River on March 24, 1945, 1625 airplane and 1348 glider sorties carried into battle more than 22,000 troops and almost 5,000,000 pounds of equipment.3 The airplane became also a most valuable means of obtaining information of the enemy, not only at his major bases but along the actual battle front. Airplane photography searched out even minute details of defensive and offensive organization and our techniques were developed to the point that information so derived was available to our troops within a matter of hours.
The combination of an overwhelming air force and the great mobility provided by the vehicular equipment of the Army enabled us to strike at any chosen point along a front of hundreds of miles.4 Our flexibility was nowhere better illustrated than during the German counteroffensive in the Ardennes when Patton’s army ceased its preparations for an eastward attack, changed front, and undertook a movement extending over sixty to seventy miles at right angles to its former direction of advance. In less than seventy-two hours from the time Patton’s staff had its orders an entire corps of his army had initiated a new attack.5
In dozens of ways scientists and inventors transformed the face of war. In landing on beaches we had the great advantage of new types of naval equipment and even tanks that could swim ashore after being launched into the water many hundreds of yards from the beach. Before the end of the war we were employing in great numbers recoilless weapons of very light weight that delivered projectiles of tremendous force.6
While we studied the effect on the conduct of war of new vehicles, new weapons, new systems of transport and communications, at the same time we re-examined the role of the fundamental agent in military success—the individual soldier.
The trained American possesses qualities that are almost unique. Because of his initiative and resourcefulness, his adaptability to change and his readiness to resort to expedient, he becomes, when he has attained a proficiency in all the normal techniques of battle, a most formidable soldier. Yet even he has his limits; the preservation of his individual and collective strength is one of the greatest responsibilities of leadership.
Veteran organizations are normally more capable than those entering battle for the first time. However, experience in fighting does not engender any love of the battlefield; veterans have no greater desire to enter the bullet-swept areas than have green troops. They do become more skillful in the utilization of every advantage offered by fire power, maneuver, and terrain. They acquire a steadiness that is not shaken by the confusion and destruction of battle. But when kept too long in the fight they not only become subject to physical and mental weariness; the most venturesome and aggressive among them—the natural leaders—begin to suffer an abnormally high percentage of losses. Consequently the periodical relief of units from the front lines is mandatory to the preservation of efficiency.
In Italy and in northwest Europe we were frequently unable to do this and sometimes regiments and battalions had to remain in line for excessive periods. Some divisions bore far more than their share of combat; the 34th, 45th, 3d, and 1st Divisions led in the number of days in battle, with total days in combat between 438 and more than 500; they also suffered relatively high casualties.7
The effect of prolonged combat is always bad. If a unit is brought out of line before the processes of physical and mental fatigue have gone too far and before its losses have become excessive it can, with the assimilation of new recruits, be ready for re-entry into battle far sooner than one that has been kept in line too long. Moreover, the periodic rests for the front-line soldier have a splendid effect upon morale—and in any kind of warfare troop morale is always a decisive factor.
Early in the North African campaign it became evident that the emotional stamina and spiritual strength of the individual soldier were as important in battle success as his weapons and training. Combat neuroses among the troops developed on an alarming scale as the intensity of our offensives increased.
At the war’s beginning the average Army officer, both regular and civilian, placed too much faith in a surface discipline based solely upon perfection in the mechanics of training. Commanders are habitually diffident where they are called upon to deal with subjects that touch the human soul—aspirations, ideals, inner beliefs, affection, hatreds. No matter how earnestly commanders may attempt to influence a soldier’s habits, his training, his conduct, or extoll the virtues of gallantry and fortitude, they shyly stop short of going into matters which they fear may be interpreted as “preaching.”
A profound understanding of philosophy is not necessarily a part of the equipment of a successful military leader. Yet as certainly as a national army neglects the need for a simple, commonly held understanding of the nation’s welfare and the individual’s relationship to the whole, so certainly will victory be attained only at added cost and by so much will victory itself be jeopardized.
No proof of the subject’s importance is needed by those who visited both the hospitals and reclassification centers in the rear of an army and the combat lines at the front. In the combat regions a visitor was invariably inspired by the capacity of the Allied soldier to perform his duty quietly and efficiently, enduring hardship and privation, and hourly facing danger with a determination and confidence, often even a cockiness, that seemed never to desert him. Whether he was American, British, Canadian, French, or Pole in his national allegiance, he inspired all who knew him.
In the rear, hospital and camp facilities were necessarily set aside for those suffering from self-inflicted wounds, from hysteria and psychoneuroses and from venereal disease, sometimes, according to the doctors, deliberately contracted. Their number, percentagewise, was small, but in the aggregate, large. It is profitable for a commander to visit these places, to talk with individuals, to understand something of the bewilderment, the fear, the defeatism that afflict men who are essentially afraid of life, though believing they are afraid of death. An astonishing number of these individuals react instantly and favorably to a single word of encouragement. More than one has said to me, immediately upon discovering another’s interest in him, “General, get me out of here; I want to go back to my outfit.” Harshness normally intensifies the disease, but understanding can do much to cure it and in my opinion, if applied in time, can largely prevent it.
In war, time is vital. There is much to be done. Visible evidences of efficiency, noted in perfection of techniques and deportment, are so easy to observe that officers of all grades cannot or do not give sufficient attention to the individual. Yet attention to the individual is the key to success, particularly because American manpower is not only our most precious commodity—it will, in any global war, always be in short supply.
Our service schools have a definite duty to instruct officers in this field. Regardless of any progress made in the country’s educational institutions, the Army’s business is success in war—and the Army cannot safely neglect any subject that experience has shown to be important to that success.
All the developments in method, equipment, and destructive power that we were studying seemed minor innovations compared to the revolutionary impact of the atom bomb. None was used in the European theater and none was ever planned for use there. However, even without the actual experience of its employment, the reports that reached us after the first one was used at Hiroshima on August 6 left no doubt in our minds that a new era of warfare had begun.
In an instant many of the old concepts of war wer
e swept away. Henceforth, it would seem, the purpose of an aggressor nation would be to stock atom bombs in quantity and to employ them by surprise against the industrial fabric and population centers of its intended victim. Offensive methods would largely concern themselves with the certainty, the volume, and the accuracy of delivery, while the defense would strive to prevent such delivery and in turn launch its store of atom bombs against the attacker’s homeland. Even the bombed ruins of Germany suddenly seemed to provide but faint warning of what future war could mean to the people of the earth.
I felt and hoped that this latest lesson, added to all the others that six years of unremitting war had brought to the world, would convince everyone everywhere that the employment of force in the international field should of necessity be abjured. With the evidence of the most destructive war yet waged by the people of the earth about me, I gained increased hope that this development of what appeared to be the ultimate in destruction would drive men, in self-preservation, to find a way of eliminating war. Maybe it was only wishful thinking to believe that fear, universal fear, might possibly succeed where statesmanship and religion had not yet won success.
SURVIVING BOMBS AND HITLER
But no edifice, however sacred, will survive atomic war. “Even the bombed ruins of Germany … provide but faint warning of what future war could mean to the people of the earth.” This page
The Cathedral Stands Amid Cologne’s Rubble (illustration credit 23.1)
PARTNERS IN VICTORY
“The Russians are generous. They like to give presents and parties … the ordinary Russian seems to me to bear a marked similarity to what we call an ‘average American.’ ” This page
East and West Celebrate at Torgau (illustration credit 23.2)
Chapter 24
RUSSIA
THE UNITED STATES AND RUSSIA EMERGED FROM the war the two most powerful nations of the globe. This fact affected every detail of American official routine in conquered Germany, for any prolonged struggle between the two powers would hopelessly complicate our local problems and might even nullify our costly victory. But there was involved far more than efficiency in German administration or political control.
Crusade in Europe Page 56