Cronkite's War

by Walter Cronkite, IV

  Veterans of the strategic bombing campaign often commented on the odd juxtapositions in their day-to-day routine: terror and bloodshed in the early morning hours when they flew their missions, followed by the comfort and relaxation afforded them once they returned home safe to their air bases. Cronkite’s March 8 letter similarly veers from an account of combat to recounting a meal he subsequently shared in London with Harrison Salisbury, Bill Dickinson, and Dickinson’s girlfriend, London Daily Mirror reporter Hilde Marchant, at Jack’s Club, a journalists’ hangout. Salisbury, in his own memoir of wartime London, also recalled fondly an evening he spent there drinking with Cronkite. His tale is interesting for what it reveals about Cronkite’s taste for pranks as well as his professional ambition:

  Why it was called Jack’s no one knew … War transformed it into an inner sanctum of the American press corps … Sandy was the proprietor of the establishment … No one knew how [he] managed it, but Sandy had access to sides of beef, racks of lamb and, although he didn’t like to mention it, excellent horse-meat steaks. You didn’t order at Jack’s club, you ate what Sandy cooked …

  Every news desk in London had Sandy’s telephone number. If you were at Sandy’s, there wasn’t much chance you would be scooped. Your competitors were there too. One night a call came in for an INS man who wasn’t there. Cronkite took the call and on a whim said: “He’s not here. I think he’s gone out to the airport to meet General Marshall [U.S. Army Chief of Staff George C. Marshall, based in Washington, D.C.].” We all laughed. “That’ll give them some bad moments,” Walter said. Twenty minutes later the telephone rang for another absent newsman. In ten minutes there was another call. Then a call to one of our number. His desk had heard that General Marshall was arriving. We had a big laugh. But then the telephone rang yet again. Walter said, “You know, this isn’t so funny. Maybe Marshall is coming to town.” And he dutifully got on the telephone to check the false rumor he had himself started.

  The March 8 date of the following letter, as with the previous one, probably refers to the day when Cronkite finally mailed it. In addition, this letter seems to have been written in stages over a period of several days, possibly beginning the day after the Wilhelmshaven raid. The Henry McLemore mentioned in the letter was a syndicated columnist for the Hearst newspaper chain. Earl J. Johnson was the United Press New York bureau manager, and Hugh Baillie was president of United Press.

  March 8, 1943

  By now, of course, you know about the flight over Wilhelmshaven. That came this morning after my last letter was written to you. Since then I really have been jumping. We returned from the flight about three-thirty that afternoon. Harrison Salisbury was at the airdrome to meet me, we rushed off in a car toward London and then things really began spinning. I sat down at a typewriter about 11:30 that night and began writing my story. I finished it at 1:30 in the morning while John Daly was breathing down my neck and shouting that we had to get to work soon on the radio script and Salisbury was shouting at Daly that we had to get the UP story out first, and meanwhile I was trying to work with some impetus I’ll admit from Salisbury who kept saying: “That’s right down the old groove, Cronkite—now you’re cooking.”

  Out from the office Daly and I finally rushed over to BBC where CBS maintains their office and studio. We ground out a script and rushed it over to censorship with only about forty-five minutes to go before broadcast time statesward which was 3:45 A.M. here. The cab driver taking the copy to the Ministry of Information for censoring stopped to get coffee along the way, and when he did arrive the British censor couldn’t find the American army censor to check the copy, and by that time only ten minutes remained until broadcast time. One minute before broadcast time—even as Daly was setting up the circuit to NY and they were doing the hold “Hello, New York, Hello, New York. London calling, New York, London calling …” censorship called and said the script was okay. Then, as you probably know, we were on for about 3 minutes and the circuit got so bad that they were forced to cut us off. A half hour later NBC got through with an absolutely clear circuit—just to show how those things go …

  … I was horribly tired last night. We had been routed out at [censored], for our briefing and spot of breakfast before taking off for Germany, and then [censored] hours in a bomber at high altitude, living on pure oxygen, standing up most of the time with 60 lbs. of heavy fur flying equipment and parachute on your back, and the general exertion of shooting guns and moving about keeping out of other people’s way, is very tiring.

  So I fell into bed at 5:30 Saturday morning. At 10 I was routed out again by the office. They said that the Army had agreed to release the story of Bob Post being lost on the flight, and would I hurry down to the office and do a piece on him. Which I did. It was 1:30 in the afternoon when I finished that and Salisbury said he wanted to take me to lunch at the Savoy. Bill Dickinson of the desk and his fiancée, Hilde Marchant of the Daily Mirror, joined us and we had a wonderful lunch on the Savoy (glassed-in) Terrace overlooking Waterloo Bridge and the Thames with the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben not so far away. But I was still so very tired that right after lunch I went back to the hotel and re-collapsed. I was awakened at 6:30 by Salisbury calling. He and Dickinson and Hilde were still together, now at Jack’s Club, a newspaper hangout where the food is good (at least better than elsewhere) and people play gin-rummy after dinner and sit around a roaring fire. They wanted me to join them for dinner. (Now, you see, I had again become one of those momentary heroes of the United Press. It was just like returning from one of the fleet assignments, you know, except that it wasn’t delicious like before because you weren’t there.)

  I joined them and after dinner they insisted that we go to Covent Garden and watch the boys and girls of the armed services jitterbug. Covent Garden used to be the opera house of Royalty. The Duke of Bedford’s box is still maintained, locked and intact, for his use supposedly after the war. And so is the royal box. But presently this elaborate place with great chandeliers and tier after tier of seats is a dance hall. The floor has been built over the pit and it accommodates hundreds upon hundreds of ATS and WAAFS and WRENS and Land Girls and soldiers and sailors and marines. And, boy, has jitterbugging hit this land! Wow! Hilde has done several stories on the place so the management greets her with open arms and ushered us to a box where we could see all. I really began feeling old when I realized that at last I had come to a place to WATCH people dance.

  Bill was beginning to feel a little organized at that point so we ended up at the Cocoanut Grove, a night club. Salisbury, Marchant, Dickinson and Cronkite celebrated Cronkite’s safe return, and, as usual, everybody got drunk but Cronkite.

  Again Sunday I was jerked out of bed early by the office with another cable from NY containing a story idea. I had to go down and do that business which took too many hours. I finally got through in time to edge into the officers’ club just under the deadline for lunch. Who should I meet there but John Fahey, a lieutenant off the Arkansas. For a moment I was overjoyed with the idea that the Arky was somewhere in these waters, but it turned out he had been detached from her and was attending some sort of school over here. So we had lunch and an afternoon round of drinks, together.

  By that time, however, I was famous. No kidding. Every Sunday newspaper in London, and there must be a dozen of them including the famed Times, front-paged under great glaring headlines my story of the Wilhelmshaven raid. And, strangely enough, everybody from bootblack up in the British Isles reads not only their favorite newspaper from front to back but pays particular close attention to by-lines. So at the hotel snooty elevator boys who hadn’t bothered saying hello before began ingratiating manners, the teller at the bank where I cash my check bowed and scraped, the telephone at the hotel rang all day with congratulations some from persons I knew and more often not. Ben Lyons called and Jock Whitney and Mr. Gooch of the Snow Hill police station who looked for my wallet and never found it. Honestly, it was the damndest performance I’ve ever undergone.
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  But best of all, my darling, better than anything and a greater thrill than the ride itself was the following cable from Earl Johnson: “Cronkite WARMEST CONGRATULATIONS SAFE RETURN STOP YOUR STORY VASTLY SUPERIOR OTHERS STOP YOU HAVE GIVEN AMERICAN PUBLIC FIRST BEST UNVARNISHED ACCOUNT WHAT ITS LIKE STOP FINE STIMULANT COUNTRYWIDE STOP ALL HERE JOIN ME IN ADMIRATION YOUR UNDERTAKING YOUR WORKMANSHIP.” [Hugh] Baillie, too sent a message. “Congratulations, your story best of all,” it said, simply but nicely.

  I also got a nice cable from Mother, which I wish you would call and thank her for. I’ll write her this week, I’m sure. The whole episode, of course, had the typical Cronkitiana touch, however, thanks to my wonder wife. This stack of cables was awaiting me Sunday when I got to the office. I started through them, getting mother’s first, then Baillie’s, then Johnson’s, then to the last one, which I figured must be from you. I was right. It said: “V-mail impossible without APO number. Love. Betsy.” …

  Well, to explain my delinquency in writing, the office has now decided that I’m an expert on affairs aeronautic. So Monday I got bounced out of bed at 8:30 and pushed onto a train to return to “my” airfield (the “my” touch is strictly Margaret and Betsy) to do a follow-up story. Henry McLemore was on the train. We’d met previously but since then we’ve become chummy as hell, sharing meals and, because of his proclivity along that line, too damned many drinks … Tuesday morning I’m routed out at 7:30 by the army. “A good idea to get back to your station,” they say mysteriously. So I go through that horrible train ride again, only to reach the field and find that there isn’t any story after all. Back to town that night, miserable and unhappy. Wednesday I’m allowed to sleep almost until noon when I have to go to the American Correspondent Association luncheon at the Savoy. That afternoon I rush to army headquarters for a meeting on whether or not the Air Corps correspondents are going to get to live in London or will have to move outside of town with a headquarters company …

  In the midst of all that hectic activity last week, I moved. I moved from the Park Lane next door to the Atheneum Court, a much more modern building and considering that I’m sharing a tiny room with Tom Wolf of NEA, a little cheaper than the Park Lane … The only advantage is that if I am out of town most of the time on the air assignment, he will collect from me for room rent only a nominal holding fee rather than the full share. Incidentally, for this room we each pay $18.00 a week—and that is not exorbitant considering other rents in this war town. Can you imagine that?…

  More right away … Walter

  IN HIS LETTER of March 14, 1943, Cronkite recounted the tale of his dinner with Gen. Ira C. Eaker, a key figure in the emerging U.S. air war in Europe. General Eaker headed the Eighth Bomber Command from the spring of 1942 until December of that year, when he was briefly transferred to the North African campaign. In February 1943 he returned to Britain to command the U.S. Eighth Air Force. General Eaker personally led the first U.S. bomber attack on August 17, 1942, a successful raid on the rail junction at Rouen, from which all of his planes returned to base unscathed. Both the American and British air forces subscribed to the doctrine of strategic bombing, the belief that air power could play a decisive role in winning wars by attacking the enemy behind the front lines of battle, destroying factories, railroads, shipyards, and other installations necessary to waging modern war, and in doing so both deny the enemy military vital materiel resources and undermine the morale of the enemy civilian populations.

  The Royal Air Force had been conducting night raids against such targets in Germany since 1940. Night bombing cut down on “precision”—instead of aiming their bombs at a single target, the British would blanket an entire area. But the American air force commanders, including General Eaker, thought that a wasteful approach, and ordered American bombers to carry out their raids during the daytime. Carefully placed bombs, so their thinking went, would knock out key enemy resources while minimizing collateral civilian casualties. When President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill met in Casablanca in January 1943, they decided to support General Eaker’s plan for round-the-clock bombing of Germany in a “Combined Bombing Offensive,” with the Americans attacking by day and the British by night.

  Cronkite’s recitation of the treats he acquired on a trip to the American military PX, including “1 big tootsie roll, 1 box of candied jellies, 2 (British) chocolate bars, 2 pkg gum,” etc. may sound a little obsessive, but since 1942 British subjects had been rationed to eight ounces of sweets or chocolates every month—which amounted to a little over a single standard-size chocolate bar a week. By virtue of being an American with post exchange privileges, Cronkite was in a far better position—not to mention that Betsy was sending him packages with off-ration treats. Not surprisingly, British schoolchildren got into the habit of cadging surplus American sweets with greetings like “Any gum, chum?”

  March 14, 1943

  … This air force assignment turns out to be one of the most vicious things I’ve ever done from the standpoint of complete envelopment of time. But let me outline briefly the week’s activities, which, come to think of it, I’m afraid are going to greatly resemble those set forth in last week’s letter.

  Sunday night, as I think I mentioned, I had a date to have dinner with General Eaker, the Eighth Air Force commander. After posting your letter downstairs and carefully polishing my buttons and shining my shoes and pinning on my green brassard with the big white “C,” I hopped a cab over to Lt. Col. Jock Whitney’s flat on Grosvenor Square about 6 blocks from here. (He’s Public Relations Officer of the 8th Air Force now and a swell guy. Fairly young and not ostentatious and we “Walt” and “Jock” each other all over the place.) Jock’s sharing a flat with Tommy Hitchcock, the famous polo player, but Tommy wasn’t in Sunday so Jock and I dashed down a cocktail in this swank apartment whose walls are of some beautiful light wood in natural finish. Then into Eaker’s private car (Army drab with corporal chauffeur, of course) which was awaiting us and whisked out to the Eaker billet which is outside of town.

  It turned out that this interview which I had requested had turned into a dinner party, wasn’t going to be anything private. Beside Whitney, Cronkite, and Eaker, there was Jimmy Parton, the general’s aide who used to be a big-shot on Time Magazine and a Colonel Ordway of the General’s staff, a couple of other colonels who in my usual fashion I have forgotten, and an RAF air commodore—rank equal to that of brigadier-general. We mixed our own bourbon at the general’s bar and smoked the general’s cigars and had a whale of a swell chat before dinner in front of a great fireplace roaring not with wood but with coal which is used in most fireplaces over here because the purpose is not beauty but utility. Incidentally, that bourbon was gorgeous tasting stuff. Bourbon is even more scarce than eggs over here, and of course the shortage is felt much more deeply by good bourbon drinkers. And the scotch here is not of the quality we are used to at home. It is of a quality definitely inferior and horribly tiresome. We had a typical Sunday night dinner with cold cuts but with hot bread—corn bread, believe it or not. Naturally, though the corn bread was a disappointment, and only served to make me horribly homesick for Betsy and Judy and good food …

  Eaker filled me in with all the inside information on the air force—much of which I couldn’t repeat here and the rest of which you have either read in the papers or would not be interested in in any event. He made it horribly difficult for me by saying “You know what is confidential and what isn’t and I’m telling you the whole story here just for background and for your own information.” So I had a whale of a story in my lap and no way of knowing what I could do with it. That led to complications, complications that still haven’t been ironed out. The next morning I started the whole story, intending to take it to Jock and let him refer it to the general to cut out the parts which were secret and confidential. But that is getting ahead of my chronology.

  We left the general’s about 10:30 and the car dropped me here at the Atheneum Court. I went next door to
the Park Lane Hotel, though, and filled Salisbury in on the whole conversation—an accepted procedure, the reason why bureau managers over here know so much. It was one o’clock by the time we finished chatting and I came back home and tumbled into the hay.

  Monday: I upped early and officewarded. I was just finishing the Eaker interview piece when the phone rang. It was 11:30 then and the 8th Air Force spokesman gave me the code suggesting that it would be a good idea if I caught the noon train from St. Pancras station for Blank, the depot nearest my airdrome. So I was off. The Force that day went to Rennes and Rouen and I had a pretty fair story. I got back to London in time to write my story just in time for release with the communiqué …

  Tuesday: I slept until about 9:30 trying to recoup a little strength. Then I dashed into the office and put the finishing touches on the Eaker piece and rushed out to the army office to confer with Jock on it. We conferred and conferred and conferred and conferred. We had lunch and resumed conferring. Jock didn’t like the piece a damned bit and didn’t think the general would … Then went back into the office and conferred with Salisbury and together we reworked the piece (Salisbury having liked the original version, thank goodness), and I dashed back out to the army office. But Jock was gone. So I conferred with a couple other guys and by then it was 7 o’clock. One of them, Capt. Hal Leyshon who used to be a NY newspaperman and more recently a Miami publicity man, finally gave up the ghost and said I better put it up to Whitney again the next day which I knew I was going to have to do anyway. Meanwhile, however, Frederick Kuh of the Chicago Sun had come out with an exclusive Eaker’s interview, putting all the more pressure on me, to get mine out with the “true” story of the 8th Air Force’s battle for daylight bombing. As prearranged I met Salisbury at Sandy’s for dinner and we debated the thing some more there. At this point I was certain that the story wasn’t worth the effort. We left Sandy’s about eleven, and … of course, couldn’t get a cab and walked home again. Again I collapsed.