“Hey, Chris,” he called out, “let’s get some of that meat in the field!” Christenson did not want to leave his foxhole, but Bill Howell joined Robbins as he crawled up to a cow and shot her. They butchered the animal, then returned with a hind quarter. Robbins cut up steaks for the whole squad. They fried the meat over open fires in their foxholes. That night, Robbins and Howell tied the remainder of the carcass to a tree to the rear.
They covered it with a poncho; the squad figured to be eating beef rather than K rations for a few days. What they had not figured on was all the shrapnel flying around from the incessant artillery barrages. It perforated the meat. At the next feast, the men of the squad were continually cutting their gums on shrapnel.
• • •
June 23. A sniper fired at Christenson, from 600 meters. Chris ducked behind a hedgerow and shouted to Robbins to spray the area from which the bullet came. Robbins fired fifty rounds at the distant trees. “I could hear a nervous grumbling from the men down the line,” Christenson remembered. “Tension always grew when out of complete silence a machine-gun fires that many rounds.” In the far distance, the sound of mortars belched, waump, waump, waump, waump. “This nerve-racking sound confirmed that four mortar bombs were heading in our direction. The suspense of waiting is eerie. Indescribable. Miserable. Then ‘Boom,’ the first one exploded not more than 7 feet in front of Robbins’s and Howell’s gun.”
Howell jumped out of his position and ran to Christenson’s foxhole, as the second mortar round exploded almost on top of the first, “so close that you could taste the pungent gunpowder.” Howell leaped into Christenson’s foxhole. “I was all bent over and unable to move,” Chris said, “because of my doubled up, cramped position. It was difficult to breathe, yet I was laughing hysterically for Howell’s eyes were as big as tea cups. He was muttering things like, ‘Christ-sake, oh my God,’ at each shell burst. The pressure this big man was putting on me suddenly threw me into a state of panic, for I was suffocating.” Fortunately the shelling stopped.
• • •
After two weeks on the main line of resistance (MLR), the men of Easy stank. They had not had a bath or shower or an opportunity to shave. Many had dysentery; all were continually drenched with sweat. Their hair was matted from dirt and dust made worse by the profuse sweating caused by wearing their helmets constantly, and by the impregnated clothes they had been wearing since June 6. They looked like Bill Mauldin’s Willy and Joe characters.
On June 29, the 83d Infantry Division came up to relieve the 101st. “They were so clean looking,” Christenson remembered, “with a full complement of men in each unit. Even the paint on their helmets looked as if they had just been unpacked. The impact of seeing such a disheveled motley group as we were was a shock to them.”
For Easy, to get off the front line, even if it was only for a few days, was a deliverance. The thought of an uninterrupted full night’s sleep, not being harassed by gunfire or being sent out on patrol, to get something hot to eat, to sleep dry, and most of all to get a shower, was good beyond description.
• • •
Easy had jumped into Normandy on June 6 with 139 officers and men. Easy was pulled out of the line on June 29 with 74 officers and men present for duty. (The 506th had taken the heaviest casualties of any regiment in the campaign, a total of 983, or about 50 percent.) The Easy men killed in action were Lts. Thomas Meehan and Robert Mathews, Sgts. William Evans, Elmer Murray, Murray Robert, Richard Owen, and Carl Riggs, Cpls. Jerry Wentzel, Ralph Wimer, and Hermin Collins, Pvts. Sergio Moya, John Miller, Gerald Snider, William McGonigal, Ernest Oats, Elmer Telstad, George Elliott, and Thomas Warren.
• • •
For the 101st, Carentan was the last action of the Normandy campaign. The division was gradually pulled back to a field camp north of Utah Beach, complete with radio, telephone, bulletin board, policing the area, keeping weapons clean, parade ground formations, and a training schedule. To compensate, there were hot showers and nearly unlimited opportunities for scrounging.
Pvt. Alton More was the master scrounger in Easy Company. He found a way to get into the main supply depot near Utah. On his first foray, he returned carrying two cardboard boxes, one of fruit cocktail and the other of pineapple. “It tasted like the best thing you ever ate in your life,” Harry Welsh remembered, “and I was never so sick in my life. We weren’t used to that food.” Thereafter, More brought in a more varied diet from his daily expeditions.
General Taylor stopped by, to congratulate the company on its lonely stand on the far right flank at Carentan. The men wanted to know what about his “give me three days and nights of hard fighting and I’ll have you out of here” pre-D-Day promise.
Gen. Omar Bradley appeared for an awards ceremony. Standing on a little platform in the field, he read out the citations for the Distinguished Service Cross for eleven men, including General Taylor, Chaplain Maloney, and Lieutenant Winters. “That was a proud moment,” Winters said. He recalled that after the ceremony, Bradley had the troops break formation and gather round him. “Are there any reporters here, any correspondents?” he asked. “If there are, I don’t want this recorded.
“What I want to say,” he went on, “is that things are going very well, and there is a possibility at this point, as I see it, that we could be in Berlin by Christmas.”
Winters thought to himself, God, I can make it till Christmas. Just let me go home for Christmas.
On July 1, Winters received news of his promotion to captain. On July 10, the company moved down to Utah Beach, to prepare to embark for England. “Seeing the beach for the first time,” Winters recalled, “with that armada of ships as far as the eye could see in every direction, and seeing the American flag on the beach, left me feeling weak in the knees for a few moments and brought tears to my eyes.”
Private More pulled one last raid on that vast supply dump. He broke into the main motor pool and stole a motorcycle, complete with sidecar. He hid it behind a sand dune, then asked Captain Winters if he could put it on the LST and take it back to England. “Up to you,” Winters replied.
The next day, as the company marched up the ramp of the gigantic LST, More moved the motorcycle up the inland side of the forward dune. He had arranged with Malarkey for a hand signal when everyone was aboard and it was time to go. Malarkey tipped off the Navy personnel. At the proper moment, standing on the ramp, Malarkey gave the signal and More came roaring over the dune and up the ramp.
On the LST, the skipper said to Welsh, “Lieutenant, what would your men like to have: chicken or steak? ice cream? eggs?”
Sailing in convoy, the LST got back to Southampton the night of July 12. The next morning, a train took the men (except More and Malarkey, who rode their motorcycle) to Aldbourne. “It was wonderful to be back,” Winters remembered. “Everybody was glad to see us. It was just like home.”
* * *
1. Rapport and Northwood, Rendezvous with Destiny, 166.
2. Winters wrote in 1990: “Later in the war, in recalling this action with Major Hester, he made a comment that has always left me feeling proud of Company E’s action that day. As S-3, Hester had been in a position to see another company in a similar position caught in M.G. fire. It froze and then got severely cut up. E Company, on the other hand, had moved out, got the job done, and had not been cut up by that M.G.”
3. Washington Star, June 25, 1944.
7
Healing Wounds and Scrubbed Missions
ALDBOURNE
July 13–September 16, 1944
“IT’S THE ONLY TIME I ever saw the Army do anything right,” Gordon Carson said. “They put us on those LSTs, brought us into Southampton, took us back to Aldbourne, gave us two sets of complete, all-new uniforms, all our back pay, $150 or more, and a seven-day pass, and by seven, eight in the morning we’re on our way to London.”
The men of Easy have little memory of that week in London. The American paratroopers were the first soldiers to return to Engl
and from Normandy; the papers had been full of their exploits; everyone in town wanted to buy them a meal or a beer—for the first day or so. But the young heroes overdid it. They drank too much, they broke too many windows and chairs, they got into too many fights with nonparatroopers. It was one of the wildest weeks in London’s history. One newspaper compared the damage done to the Blitz. A joke went around: the M.P.s in London were going to receive a presidential citation for duty above and beyond during the week the 101st was in town.
Not everyone went to London. Harry Welsh traveled to Ireland, to see relatives. Winters stayed in Aldbourne to rest, reflect, and write letters to the parents of men killed or wounded. Gordon and Lipton, after recovery from their wounds, went to Scotland to see the sights.
• • •
In the hospital after his evacuation from Normandy, Gordon had been given skin grafts, then had his leg enclosed in a cast that ran from hip to toe. He was the only combat wounded man in his ward; the others were ill or had been hurt in accidents in England. He was therefore “an object of great respect. They were in awe of me.” Three times officers came in to pin a Purple Heart on his pillow. “I would lower my eyes modestly and murmur thanks to the small group who had gathered to see the hero.” Then he would hide the medal and wait for the next one.
After eight weeks in the hospital, he returned to E Company. (It was Airborne policy to return recovered men to their original company; in the infantry, when wounded became fit for duty, they went wherever they were needed. The former was, in the opinion of every paratrooper, one of the wisest things the Airborne did; the latter policy was, in every-one’s opinion, one of the dumbest things the Army did.)
Sergeant Talbert got back to Easy at the same time Gordon did. As his wound had been inflicted by Private Smith’s bayonet, rather than by a German, he was disqualified from receiving the Purple Heart. Gordon told him not to worry, he could fix him up with one of his extra ribbons. The 3d platoon got together and conducted an appropriate ceremony for Talbert. Gordon and Rogers had written a poem to immortalize Talbert, Smith, “and the bayonet that came between them.” The title was “The Night of the Bayonet”; fortunately for posterity, the poem has not survived (or at least the authors refused to give it to me for this book). The indignant Talbert declared, “I could have shot the little bastard six times as he lunged toward me, but I didn’t think we could spare a man at the time.”
Some of the wounded were worried about permanent disability. Malarkey found this out when he and Don Moone were sitting in the mess hall as Lipton passed by. “Hi, crip,” Malarkey called out. Lipton turned and grabbed the two men by their throats, lifted them from their chairs, and declared that he would take them on one at a time or together. They went pale and said they didn’t mean anything by the crack. Later Lipton returned, red faced, and said he was sorry to lose his temper, but he feared that the wound to his hand had inflicted permanent damage that would prevent him from playing college football.
• • •
Underlying the release of tension in London, or Gordon’s feeble attempts at some humor, was the reality these men had faced and their apprehension about what they would be facing.
Sergeant Martin looked around the 1st platoon barracks the first night back from Normandy, and half the men who had been there from September 1943 to May 1944 were gone. He said to Guarnere, “Jesus, Bill, here we’ve got a half a hut full of guys, and we aren’t even started in the war yet. We don’t have a Chinaman’s chance of ever getting out of this thing.”
“If we lost half the barracks in one goddamn little maneuver in Normandy,” Guarnere replied, “forget it, we’ll never get home.”
They took their leave in Scotland, where they got tattoos, figuring what the hell, “losing that many men in one deal like that and the whole war ahead of us, why not?”
Pvt. David Kenyon Webster had jumped with 2d Battalion’s HQ Company on D-Day, been wounded a few days later, evacuated to England, and returned to Aldbourne before the battalion returned. He hid in the shadows of the Red Cross hut as “the thin, tired column of survivors marched into the area,” hoping that no one would look him in the face and ask, “Where the hell were you, Webster, when the Krauts made the big counterattack the other side of Carentan and F Company gave ground and E Company’s flank was exposed?”
His embarrassment aside, Webster was overjoyed to see his friends return. “You know everybody in the Battalion by sight,” he wrote, “if not by name, and you feel like part of a big family. You are closer to these men than you will ever be to any civilians.”
He applied for a transfer back to E Company, because with HQ Company he had been an ammunition carrier most of the time, had fired his machine-gun only once in Normandy, and “I craved action. I wanted to get the war over with; I wanted to fight as a rifleman in a line company.” He became a member of 1st platoon.
Webster’s attitude was, as he wrote his parents, “I am living on borrowed time. I do not think I shall live through the next jump. If I don’t come back, try not to take it too hard. I wish I could persuade you to regard death as casually as we do over here. In the heat of battle you expect casualties, you expect somebody to be killed and you are not surprised when a friend is machine-gunned in the face. You have to keep going. It’s not like civilian life, where sudden death is so unexpected.”
When his mother wrote to express her considerable alarm at this attitude (and her worries about his younger brother, who had just joined the paratroopers), Webster was blunt in his reply: “Would you prefer for somebody else’s son to die in the mud? You want us to win the war, but you apparently don’t want to have your sons involved in the actual bloodshed. That’s a strangely contradictory attitude.
“Somebody has to get in and kill the enemy. Somebody has to be in the infantry and the paratroops. If the country all had your attitude, nobody would fight, everybody would be in the Quartermaster. And what kind of a country would that be?”
Lipton felt that “when men are in combat, the inevitability of it takes over. They are there, there is nothing they can do to change that, so they accept it. They immediately become callused to the smell of death, the bodies, the destruction, the killing, the danger. Enemy bodies and wounded don’t affect them. Their own wounded and the bodies of their dead friends make only a brief impression, and in that impression is a fleeting feeling of triumph or accomplishment that it was not them. [Thank God it was him and not me is a feeling common to many combat soldiers when their comrades fall; later it can produce guilt feelings.] There is still work to be done, a war to be won, and they think about that.”
Once out of the line, back in a rest camp, Lipton goes on, “they begin to think. They remember how their friends were wounded or killed. They remember times when they were inches or seconds from their own death. Far from combat, death and destruction are no longer inevitable—the war might end, the missions might be cancelled. With these thoughts men become nervous about going back in. As soon as they are back in, however, those doubts and that nervousness are gone. The callousness, the cold-bloodedness, the calmness return. Once more there’s a job to be done, the old confidence comes back, the thrill of combat returns, and the drive to excel and win takes over again.”
If that sounds idealized, it can’t be helped; that is the way Lipton and many others in Easy, and many others in the Airborne and throughout the American Army—and come to that, in the German and Red Armies too—fought the war. But by no means does Lipton’s analysis apply to all soldiers. Millions of men fought in World War II. No one man can speak for all of them. Still, Lipton’s insights into the emotional state of the combat soldier provide guidance into attempting to understand how men put up with combat.
• • •
Coming out of Normandy, many of the men of Easy were fighting mad at the Germans and absolutely convinced the Allies would win the war. “I hope to go back soon,” Webster told his parents, “for I owe the Germans several bullets and as many hand grenades as
I can throw.” The Germans had cut the throats of paratroops caught in their harnesses, bayoneted them, stripped them, shot them, wiped out an aid station. Because of these atrocities, “we do not intend to show them mercy.” As to the outcome, “after seeing that beachhead, a breathtaking panorama of military might, I know we cannot lose. As for the paratroopers, they are out for blood. I hope to be back in on the kill.”
• • •
Promotions were made. Welsh and Compton moved up from 2d to 1st lieutenant. Regiment needed new junior officers, to replace casualties; Winters recommended Sgt. James Diel, who had acted as company 1st sergeant in Normandy, for a battlefield commission. Colonel Sink approved, so Diel became a 2d lieutenant and was assigned to another company in the 506th. Winters moved Lipton up to replace him as company 1st sergeant. Leo Boyle became staff sergeant at Company HQ. Bill Guarnere became a staff sergeant. Don Malarkey, Warren Muck, Paul Rogers, and Mike Ranney jumped from private to sergeant (Ranney had been a sergeant but was busted to PFC during the Sobel mutiny). Pat Christenson, Walter Gordon, John Plesa, and Lavon Reese were promoted from private to corporal.
• • •
Webster was an aspiring novelist, an avid reader of the best in English literature, a Harvard man, a combat veteran who praised and damned the Army on the basis of personal observation and keen insight. His long letters home provide snapshots of some of the men of Easy Company, following its first combat experience.
Pvt. Roy Cobb, who had been hit on Harry Welsh’s plane over Normandy and thus did not make the jump, “was an old soldier with some nine years to his credit. He managed to keep one long, easy jump ahead of the Army. His varied and colorful wartime career had thus far included: 1. An assault landing in Africa with the 1st Armored Division; 2. A siege of yellow jaundice and an evacuation to America on a destroyer after his troopship had been torpedoed; 3. Several months’ training at the Parachute School; 4. A timely leg wound from flak over Normandy. Tall, lean, thirsty, and invariably good-natured.”
The Men of World War II Page 12