Beyond Band of Brothers

by Major Dick Winters

  Now that the prisoners and displaced persons had been cleared from the area, it seemed to me that I had relaxed a bit during the past week. Keeping the troops occupied now became my biggest challenge, so I let the men concentrate chiefly on resting. In fact, I took a few afternoons off myself for mountain climbing and sunning. How lovely it was just to look at those snow-capped peaks, and watch a cloud or two bump into an Alp. I had nothing more than my own men to worry about. They were such nice, quiet lads that they were really no trouble at all.

  As troop duty changed from combat to occupation, we reorganized from our former way of life as frontline soldiers and returned to a garrison style of life and training. We could not ignore training, however, particularly since replacements now comprised the vast majority of 2d Battalion. Since rumors abounded that the 101st might deploy to the Pacific, I constructed rifle ranges to sharpen the men’s marksmanship. Close order drills and troop reviews once again appeared on the weekly training schedule. The largest review occurred on July 4, complete with a parade and the release of hundreds of pigeons.

  The next thing we organized was a highly competitive organized athletic and calisthenics program. During the ballgames when the men were stripped to their waists, or wearing only shorts, the sight of all those battle scars made me conscious of the fact that other than a handful of men in the battalion who had survived all four campaigns, only a few were lucky enough to be without at least one scar. Some men had two, three, even four scars on their chests, backs, arms, or legs. Keep in mind that at Kaprun, I was looking only at the men who were not seriously wounded. This type of atmosphere created an unspoken bond of mutual respect between the men and a fierce pride in their unit.

  The story of Private First Class Joe Hogan spoke for all of us on the subject of pride in Company E. During an argument with a soldier from another company about whose company was better, Hogan proclaimed, “My Company E will lick your company in fifteen minutes, and if you wait until the guys who are AWOL come back, we’ll do it in five minutes.”

  My staff and I devised other means to occupy the troops as they awaited their discharges or next assignment. High in the Alps behind Kaprun was a beautiful ski lodge that overlooked the valley. The lift to the lodge was not in working order, but it could be reached by climbing the mountain trail. I established a program where we rotated one platoon every seventy-two hours to the ski lodge to learn how to ski and to hunt. These men were on their own—no officers, nobody but a cook, a few servants, and two instructors. They could really relax since they were so far away, nobody would think of bothering them. This alpine retreat allowed the men to escape the monotony of a daily military routine. Snow was present the year round so the men could ski, hunt mountain goats, or if they were so inclined, they could climb the adjacent mountains in search of edelweiss. To carry edelweiss in your cap was the mark of a true alpine climber. As with most of the troops, I climbed high in the mountains and found my edelweiss. I treasure that alpine flower to this day. After four campaigns and the loss of so many comrades, it reminded me that beauty and peace could once again settle over a troubled land.

  The enemy had surrendered, but our men were still dying. A ticket to the States required eighty-five points. Soldiers accumulated points based on length of service, the number of campaigns in which they had fought, medals earned, wounds incurred, and whether or not a trooper was married. Those with eighty-five points were eligible for immediate transfer home and discharge. Most of the men had not accrued that total. What they did have was too much booze and too much time on their hands. Soldiers not involved in strenuous activity inevitably get into trouble. In a letter to Sergeant Forrest Guth, who was in England recuperating from a wound, Captain Speirs summarized the misfortunes that befell Easy Company in the first month of occupational duty. George Luz had fallen off a motorcycle and injured his arm. Sergeant Jim Alley was busted because of repeated drunkenness. Sergeant Darrell “Shifty” Powers was en route home to the States when the truck in which he was riding overturned. Powers, who had won a lottery ticket home, was hospitalized for the next year. Sergeant “Chuck” Grant caught a bullet in the head from a drunken American soldier and would have died had he not received immediate medical attention from an Austrian surgeon. To replace Grant as platoon sergeant, Speirs assigned Staff Sergeant Floyd Talbert, who had asked to be relieved from his duties as 1st Sergeant due to a personality conflict with Speirs. Staff Sergeant John C. Lynch from 2d Platoon replaced Talbert as company first sergeant.

  Despite the amenities of occupational duty, there were two things that 2d Battalion didn’t have: the first was enough food. The 506th PIR was at the far end of the pipeline in terms of distribution. Everybody from the ports of Cherbourg and Antwerp right on down the pipeline had a crack at the food for themselves, their civilian girlfriends, and the black market before we were taken care of. The battalion particularly suffered during the first three weeks following the German capitulation. It did no good to complain to regimental headquarters. Dried potatoes and dried tomatoes simply did not maintain body mass for young men, so we all lost a considerable amount of weight. To compensate for our lack of rations, we shot a few cattle and once in a while, a mountain elk, but this hardly provided sufficient meat to feed all the troops.

  I decided to do my part, so one day I went to the ski lodge and talked a local Austrian guide into taking me up the mountain to hunt mountain goat. We climbed high above the clouds, above the tree line, above the grass line. We finally discovered a family of four goats resting on a ledge below us to our right, just out of range of my 1903 Springfield rifle. We stalked the goats, getting closer, but just about the time that I was within range, I slipped in the snow and tumbled over a ledge. I slid farther down the mountain and tumbled over a second ledge. I thought I was a goner, but after the second tumble, I was on my back and able to stop my slide by jamming my rifle butt into the snow and ice. After surviving so many battles, I couldn’t help but think that this would have been a hell of a way to die.

  I turned around, looked back up the mountain, and there was that mountain goat that had been below me before I fell. Now, he was looking down at me. I opened the bolt of the rifle, blew the snow from the rifle barrel, closed the bolt, and shot the goat. The goat tumbled down the mountain, stopping about 100 yards past me in another snowbank. I sat down, my knees shaking. I was weak from shock. When I had fallen over that first ledge, my field glasses had bounced up, hit me in the mouth, and broken my front tooth at the gum line, leaving the nerve of the tooth hanging free. My guide came down to check me out. I told him, “I’m okay. If you want that goat, you can have him. All I want are the horns.” He was delighted with the deal. Very carefully, I climbed back up the mountain and made my way back to the ski lodge. On the way I promised God and myself that never, ever, was I going to go mountain climbing again. And I still have the horns of that mountain goat.

  The hunting incident brought to my immediate attention the second major thing we were lacking—a good dentist. I was in desperate need of one, and I sure as hell was not going to see “Shifty” Feiler again. We had troops quartered in the home of a civilian dentist, so I went to see him with my problem. He, too, had a problem—American soldiers living in his nice home. We soon arranged a deal. He would take care of my front tooth and my cavities if I would find another home for the troops. This would take care of my problem, but what about the men? We were all in need of dental care and attention. We soon agreed that each day he would take care of twelve men. From that day forward, he had a steady stream of customers, including Colonel Robert Strayer from regimental headquarters.

  In mid-June, Sergeant Al Krochka, the photographer from division headquarters, visited me at Kaprun. Al had a very sad story. He claimed that he had never been in a position where he could obtain a good German Luger pistol. Could I help him out? If I did, he would provide me a series of photographs that he had taken from Normandy to Berchtesgaden, many of them taken while he visited the 2d Battalion
along the way. Having never owned a camera, I had never taken a single picture, and I sure wanted a set of those photographs to take home. We made a trade—Al got his Luger and I received the photographs. Later, I discovered the truth behind his “sad” story. Al had made quite a few sets of photographs and he was negotiating for pistols to sell in Paris to finance a good furlough.

  Aside from the natural beauty of Kaprun and its surroundings, perhaps the most rewarding activity was taking the opportunity for personal reflection after eleven months of sustained combat. My initial thoughts encompassed the pride I felt in being a paratrooper and being associated with so many fine young soldiers. The significance of the role paratroopers played in the war can never be fully explained. They had proven beyond all doubt to be practicable. Even the ever-present threat of our employment was of major importance in the general picture. And when we dropped, it was proven that the enemy often just took off, plain scared. That was not the case in Normandy, of course, because we encountered German paratroopers in our approach to Carentan. You could always determine the discipline of your enemy by how ferociously and tenaciously they fought. German paratroopers had always proved our most dangerous adversaries.

  Occupation duty was about as exciting as my first months on battalion staff. After commanding Easy Company in Normandy and Holland, sedentary duty on the battalion staff had been a huge letdown. The same was true now that the actual fighting was over. A typical day followed a schedule something like this: Up around 0700, breakfast, paperwork, inspect guards, quarters, and kitchens the remainder of the morning. After a little lunch, fool around for a while, and then take a sunbath for a few hours while I read or just lay and think. That’s what I really enjoyed, just drifting around and thinking of nothing in particular. In the evenings we played volleyball, after which I took a run, did some exercises, and then a group of us would shoot the bull, maybe try and write a letter or read, but it was really just a lot of foolish talk. Life wasn’t really that bad.

  Late evenings usually consisted of sitting around the table and shooting the bull with Lewis Nixon and Harry Welsh. The conversation usually centered on old battles, transferring to another outfit in the South Pacific, talking about snafu (a military acronym depicting complete chaos) officers we knew and had known. It’s a funny thing: The first thing soldiers talk about is old battle experiences. It doesn’t matter what topics you plan to discuss, it isn’t long until the conversation turns to combat. You would think the conversations would become boring, but not to us. We talked about the same battles over and over, about how we destroyed the battery at Brecourt and how we survived the cold at Bastogne.

  Next, we talked about putting on some flashy review for the top brass, with pigeons being released as the colors passed the reviewing stand, and buglers blasting from the top of the Alps and letting the music reverberate around the valleys. Of course, we laughed about the loot that we had confiscated at Berchtesgaden and about lesser, more mundane matters. I recalled how one officer had discovered a large supply of silver coins, which he duly reported to me. I took the matter directly to Colonel Sink, who contacted a silversmith in neighboring Innsbruck. The silversmith melted the coins and then made individual silver cups for each officer in the 506th. Across the base of the cup was inscribed the name of the four campaigns in which Sink’s commissioned officers had participated as officers. Most bull sessions ended with Nixon and me saying to hell with going home, we were volunteering for the China-Burma-India (C.B.I.) Theater. We tried to convince Harry Welsh into going along, but he had an Irish lass named Kitty Grogan back home who was waiting for him.

  In mid-May SHAEF lifted its restrictions and its censorship of military mail. Most of us took the opportunity to write home in a futile attempt to put into words what we had gone through since D-Day. Writing to DeEtta Almon, I summarized the war from my personal perspective, but I found it impossible to convey my innermost thoughts to someone who had not experienced combat. I had grown frigid mentally and couldn’t think of anything to write. Instead I outlined my plan to volunteer for combat duty against the Japanese. Now that the war in Europe was over, I had been wondering what was the use of sitting around here for six months or so of occupational duty when I could utilize my talents in the Pacific Theater. Call it professional pride or simply a desire for additional action, but I decided to volunteer for duty with some parachute unit or infantry unit in the C.B.I. Theater. My desire for additional combat had nothing to do with earning medals. I had never cared about public recognition—my reward had always been the look of respect in the eyes of my men. After eleven months of war, I understood fire and maneuver, planning, and leading soldiers in combat. In garrison, I enjoyed the soldiering part, but as far as social activities were concerned, I was a class-A flop. Volunteering for Japan would relieve me of the monotony of occupation. I reckoned that I had to die sometime, so what was the use of sitting in Kaprun? I discussed my options with Colonel Sink, who asked me point-blank, “Why are you leaving me?” He reluctantly agreed to arrange an interview with Major General Elbridge G. “Gerry” Chapman, commanding general of the 13th Airborne Division. Selected for the invasion of Japan, the 13th Airborne Division was scheduled to sail from France on August 15 to participate in the assault on Kyushu scheduled for November.

  I reported to General Chapman on May 26 and informed him of my desire to transfer to his outfit. I figured that since the 13th Airborne Division had been alerted for duty in the South Pacific, combat duty beat the heck out of occupational duty. I repeated much of the rationale that I had expressed to my mother when she first heard that I intended to transfer to fight in the Pacific. I felt that God had been good enough to let me live through the European war. As a result, I was combat-wise and in a position to do some good to help a lot of men. I knew that I could do the job, better than, or as well as, any of the rest. How could I sit back and see others take men out and get them killed because they didn’t understand? These new officers just didn’t have “it.” Maybe I would get hurt or killed for my trouble, but so what, if it meant I could make it possible for many others to go home. Their mothers wanted them alive, too, the same as me. So what else could I do and still hold my own self-respect as an officer and as a man?

  General Chapman listened graciously and told me that he would welcome me to his outfit, but—just as my mother had expressed—that I had done enough. Let the other fellows have a chance. Well, I had given it the old college try. I thanked him for his time, saluted, and departed. On returning to my headquarters, I couldn’t help but think that Colonel Sink had greased the skids for my interview, but he had also asked General Chapman to disapprove my request. The 13th Airborne Division had its own officers and they didn’t need me.

  So, I was staying put, but apparently not for long. In mid-June General Maxwell Taylor announced that the 101st Airborne Division was earmarked to go to the Pacific at some unspecified time and that the Screaming Eagles should plan and train accordingly. The announcement did not sit well with the troops, particularly the remaining Toccoa men. My best estimate was that I would remain awhile in Europe and would see the States in January. Following a month’s leave, I expected to be training around Fort Bragg or Mackall until we deployed overseas. After such a long rest, going into combat again would be tough. I found myself changing as the weeks went by. As the frustration of occupation duty increased, I was really bitter and put out with everybody and everything. Becoming more or less resigned to the fact of returning to combat with inexperienced troops, I yearned to return home. I figured I had been lucky, mighty lucky, from the very first day, but I’d seen so many get it and go out feetfirst. I just knew if I stuck around long enough, I’d have my turn sometime because I had taken too many chances. I had to lead from the front, with my position, prestige, and job on the line. Consequently I was no longer too keen on going to the Pacific after being rejected by General Chapman, but orders were orders.

  On June 28, all “eighty-five-point” men departed Kaprun. To m
y great satisfaction, most of the Toccoa men stopped by to say goodbye before returning home. As I told my Stateside friend DeEtta Almon, “It was a good thing you weren’t around to see that one. You’d think we were a bunch of schoolgirls. If you’d heard some of the things they had to tell me, you’d understand why I want to stick around and see the end of this war out on the front line. They sure appreciate . . . everything.”

  I had accrued 100 points as of May 12 and should have been en route to the United States under ordinary conditions, but my services were “needed” in Austria by Colonel Sink. Regrettably many of our men remained longer in Europe than they should have because General Taylor had been notoriously stingy in awarding combat medals to the frontline soldiers. Over the course of the war, only two troopers from the 101st Airborne Division received the Medal of Honor. One was Lieutenant Colonel Robert G. Cole, a battalion commander, who was killed on September 18, 1944, by a sniper at Best, Holland, near the bridges over the Wilhelmina Canal as we were attacking Eindhoven. Just a few days earlier, Cole had been notified that he would receive the Medal of Honor for leading a bayonet charge in Normandy. The second recipient was Private First Class Joe E. Mann, who hurled himself on a grenade to save the lives of his squad near the Wilhelmina Canal outside Eindhoven on September 19, 1944. Officers from West Point received an unusually high number of awards, including General Taylor, who received the Distinguished Service Cross in Normandy, but for those at the grunt level, higher headquarters downgraded far too many recommendations.