WARD COLWELL WAS Kansas City bureau manager for the United Press in the 1930s. “Working the nightside,” i.e., the night shift, was Cronkite’s favorite expression for a reporting job from hell.
Belgium was in a state of acute political crisis in November 1944, as the conservative politicians associated with the government-in-exile vied for power against members of the Belgian resistance, many of them Communists and Socialists. Cronkite felt that the Associated Press was doing a far better job than the United Press in reporting the story.
Hubert Pierlot was the leader of the Belgium government-in-exile during World War II.
November 28, 1944
My darlingest wife:
This is being written under conditions almost as uncomfortable as a fox hole, but I’m determined to get at least a note off to you today. Right now I’m sitting in the cold, ground-floor press room of the Army public relations division with my fingers so cold they hurt when I hit the keys. I’m sitting here as a dripping failure. As you undoubtedly know, we had violence Saturday afternoon at our regular week-end Communist-Resistance-Socialist demonstration and since then the government has been tottering again. The story is now about seventy-two hours old, and so far UP has done nothing but trail badly with hopelessly inadequate coverage. I could almost have put that line in quotes and cited the messages from New York and London. Some small element may have been played by bad breaks but mostly it was lack of organization on my part and I’m pretty downhearted about it all. I’m absolutely overwhelmed with work—trying to hire a staff, trying to rent an office, trying to get a car, trying to get communication facilities, trying to get contracts with a dozen publishers, trying to cover the government, trying to keep under control the two primadonnas who BUP has working on this front, trying to keep from getting thrown out of here because I’m still playing one set of army credentials against another set of civilian credentials in order to stay. All this with no transportation at all, virtually no telephone because I can’t handle the language.
But I shouldn’t be relaying all my problems to you. By the time we are together again they will all be ironed out and I’ll be running a couple of well-established bureaus or working the nightside in Kansas City under Ward Colwell. Ah, well.
I’m sorry I haven’t been able to keep my promise of a daily note, or at least semi-daily note. I think it has now been about four or five days since my last V-mailer, but, honey, there really just isn’t the time for five minutes in front of the typewriter. Right now I’m waiting for a piece of copy to be censored and taking this moment to be with you. Jim McGlincy came up from Paris Saturday to see his Irish girl, who now is in these parts as a voluntary field worker for the Catholic Women’s League. (Loud, cynical laughter.) But I have hardly had a chance to see him or talk to him except for a couple of drinks. He is going back today and I had planned to meet him at the Canterbury Hotel for lunch but, as usual, I have been tied up again and suppose I have by now missed him. It is now 1:30 and I don’t know when I’ll get away from this horrible place. Then at three [Belgian prime minister Hubert] Pierlot speaks to the Chamber. Which, reminds me, that is what I want to do—speak to the Chamber. The urinal here, incidentally, is named “Adamant.” I’m thinking of collecting urinal names but I can’t figure out what sort of book to get to keep them in.
I got a letter from Molo yesterday with a picture of you, Betty and Molo and some clippings. Tell her how very much I appreciate it, and that I will send along a Maple Leaf right away. I liked the picture. You all look healthy enough, even with the legs removed.
I must go now, darling. I’ll write more later. I love you, you know. Forever, Walter
AT THE END of November 1944, little fighting was taking place on the Belgian front, and Cronkite was preoccupied with the problems of getting his United Press bureau up and running. At least he had turkey and cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving dinner.
Sir Hughe Montgomery Knatchbull-Hugessen was a veteran British diplomat (he had been part of the British delegation at the Versailles peace negotiations in 1919). In 1937, as British ambassador to China, his car had been machine-gunned by a Japanese plane, leaving him severely wounded. In 1944 he was appointed ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary to Belgium.
Friday, Dec. 1. 1944
My darlingest:
It has been a heluva week and it isn’t over yet but most of the shouting has died down now and we at least are maintaining a semblance of keeping the old UP head out of water. I’ve suffered considerable damage to prestige and reputation during these recent days when it seemed everything was going wrong but I suppose it isn’t too late to recover and, as Heinie Hoch used to say in his New Year’s Day sermon, “We must look forward not backward.” I got one message from Buenos Aires saying we were “superior” on the Belgian crisis, which, of course, shocked everyone in London and New York, to say nothing of Brussels where we all knew we had taken the beating of our lives. All we could figure here was that both Reuters and AP must have just forgotten to file the Belgian story that night. And a routine log which [Harrison] Salisbury (who now is foreign editor, by the way) sends every day to all foreign bureaus, said yesterday that we broke even on the crisis that day and among our play was a front-pager in the Kansas City Star. Good old Hess! I imagine he knew that I felt pretty bad about the thing and thought it would cheer me up to let me know that the old hometown sheet used UP on Belgium anyway.
I have had to cancel most of the business-social engagements on the calendar this week, and haven’t had a chance even to write you a long enough letter to tell you of the interesting events of last week. The only thing I managed this week was to keep a cocktail date at the very snooty, strictly stag Automobile Club where I secured an officer’s membership. It is the place to take cabinet ministers, industrialists, etcetera. Last week the social events really got rolling Wednesday afternoon when I had teas with Count Barbason of Luxembourg who wants me to stay in one of his chateaus when I get to his country. Thursday night the American embassy had a little dinner for the dozen or so high American officers here and a few newsmen as a thanksgiving feast and we had real turkey and cranberry sauce and little imitation pumpkin pies. I got all tangled up with dinner in a long discussion with Sir [Hughe Montgomery] Knatchbull-Hugessen, the British ambassador, about middle and Far-Eastern problems about which, of course, I know nothing and he, having served as ambassador in Ankara and Something-or-other in Chungking, knew all about. Friday night I had dinner at Baron Marengees washed-out mansion. Another guest was a distinguished-looking gent who knew he had met me somewhere previously just as I was certain that I had met him. It was an impressive discussion while he suggested “Shepherd’s, Cairo,” and I said I’d never been there but I’d been in West Africa. He suggested Rio and I said I’d never been there, but what about London or Paris. It was amazing until we decided it was outside a Brussels building when I was looking for a flat. I love you, Walter
THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY of Pearl Harbor passed unmentioned in Cronkite’s December 7, 1944, letter. Instead, he was preoccupied with postwar dreams.
Thursday morning, December 7, 1944
My darlingest wife:
I’m afraid this is just going to be a note. It is now 11:20 a.m. and I must shave and get to a meeting with Foreign Minister [Paul-Henri] Spaak at twelve o’clock. Thank goodness, however, my flat is only ten minutes from the foreign office.
I haven’t been able to write since late last week when [Virgil] Pinkley suddenly came swooping down on me. We had four really busy but wonderful days. It was a constant round of conferences with publishers, communication experts, government officials, luncheons and dinners. Or else it was weighty conferences just between the two of us with much letter writing and calculating. Well, the result is that Pinkley seems to feel I am doing all right. He plans to announce next Monday or a few days after my appointment as manager for Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg. (My cards here will read “Director for etc.”—impressive, eh?) And, best of all, jus
t out of the blue he says he is telling New York to raise the old salary another ten bucks a week effective the first of the year! So, honey, we have cracked the three-figure mark per week which really isn’t too bad, I guess. And, in addition, I’ll get a commission on all business in my three countries.
I don’t think Pinkley figures on keeping us here too long after the war. That is, I think he has other, even bigger things in mind for me if I deliver on this one, and that means that after a year or two in these parts we might be shifting toward the Balkans or, perhaps, even elsewhere in Europe. Anyway, the expense account is practically unlimited (within a few obvious bounds, that is) and the living is gracious, and it is expected that to live in the manner to which a United Press manager should be accustomed abroad with the entertaining of cabinet ministers, ambassadors and the like, you should have a couple of servants. The job is a terrible worry, a heluva lot of work, but it is beginning to look like the game is worth the candle.
Darling, I’m not too sure whether it has really happened or not, but Virgil says he has written Earl Johnson (Vice-president and general news manager) in New York to get in touch with you about possibly coming over for the UP. For goodness sakes, if he does write, don’t be timid … I adore you, Walter
IN HIS LETTER of December 10, 1944, Cronkite reminded Betsy that in two days it would be December 12, the anniversary of the last time they had seen each other.
Larry LeSueur was one of the original “Murrow Boys,” joining CBS Radio in 1939, covering the London Blitz, and landing with the invasion forces on Utah Beach on D-Day.
The Barthe-Delvilles and the Metzes were wealthy Brussels families.
A drastic coal shortage left many Europeans (and Americans in Europe) shivering during the bitterly cold winter of 1944–45.
Sunday, Dec. 10, 1944
My darlingest wife:
It is ten o’clock of a miserable night. The wind is ripping the rain into little drops the size of pinheads but with the sting of the other end of the pin. Last trams run here now at ten o’ clock to conserve electricity and I left the British Officers’ Club just in time to catch the final edition. I had dinner and a couple of drinks there with Larry LeSueur, the CBS joe with whom we had dinner that night at Al (Fireside) Schnet’s. He has just come up to this sector to replace Bill Downs who is resting or having trouble with the boss, or something that requires his presence in London. I’ve had a pretty busy day, even for a Sunday. I was up at eight and out by nine chasing down a couple of stories on a meeting here of Allied medical officers, but never got either story. At one I had lunch at the Press hotel, at two-thirty I was picking up my mail at the British army press headquarters, including a letter from you sent regular mail to the London office October 27, at three I was back at home tidying up, at four I was at the Barthe-Delville’s for tea, at five-thirty I was the Metz’ for tea, and at seven-thirty I met Larry at the club …
The officers’ club here isn’t bad—if you like khaki and the English. I don’t like khaki, and I’ll tell you the rest when I see you. The British traditionally kick their service people around and rarely furnish them decent living, eating or recreating facilities. But this spot is really okay. It formerly was the building reserved only for State cocktail parties, dances and similar receptions … Lot of tear-drop chandeliers, elevated picture-frame sort of orchestra platform, large horseshoe bar, and all the other stuff it takes. The only thing it lacks to make it like other continental casinos is the woman attendant in the men’s room. Honestly! Every bar, every night club has one. Usually she is an old grey-haired doll, but occasionally they pop up with something around a fellow’s own age and then it is just a little embarrassing. She trots around and sweeps the old cigarette butts into the dustpan, right out from under your feet with complete unconcern. I figure that is worth a tip. Frequently the gents and ladies are side-by-side and you wait for some gal to powder her nose before you can wash your hands and adjust your tie. Strange business.
Things have gone to hell here at the flat. Our ration, which we get from the Army, has been cut; we aren’t getting any more coal, and the lamp on the desk has gone blooey. Of all these the coal is the most serious problem. Did I ever tell you how we got our coal? Well, Paula, our maid, lives in our back bed room and also in sin. In the latter case, the affaire d’amour is a gent who works for the Post Office. He takes the usual satchel to work every morning as if he had along his work clothes. But his satchel is empty. During the day he pinches coal, piece by piece, until at the end of the day the satchel is full. So we have been having a nightly fire in our stove in the living room and living with some degree of comfort. Either he has lost his job or Paula has lost her love. At any rate, there hasn’t been any coal for the last four days and I have been living in my fur-lined flying clothes and still freezing to death. Tomorrow [Dave] Anderson and I are going to have to do a little dealing in the black market where we, if we are lucky, should be able to get a ton for about $150. The food situation is not serious and even with half-rations we will have plenty for ourselves but not enough to entertain. That would be all right too if I had had a little advance notice. But I have invited Morris Swanoepoel of the national radio station for Wednesday and John Harrison of the Embassy for Thursday. If I take them to a black market restaurant—the only kind open—it means $30 or $40 a throw. But that is something for the UP to worry about.
Well, darling, Tuesday is the second anniversary of Black Saturday. I should never forgive myself if I hadn’t had these two years’ experience but they have been lonely. The hope now is, of course, that we will be together again soon. Then we’ll start doing a heap of living to makeup lost time. We at least have a well-to-do, comfortable existence ahead. And I love you. Forever and ever, Walter
WHILE CRONKITE WAS preparing to drive from Brussels to Antwerp on December 15, 1944, a quarter of a million German troops were moving into position to launch the offensive the following day that became known as the Battle of the Bulge. The Germans hoped to capture Antwerp, dividing the Allied forces in western Europe and forcing the Americans and British to sue for peace. The attack came as a complete surprise to the soldiers posted along a thin defensive line in the Ardennes Forest in Belgium, and panic spread among the outnumbered Americans. But the stubborn resistance of some U.S. forces, most famously the 101st Airborne soldiers sent to the key crossroads town of Bastogne, slowed the attackers. Gen. George S. Patton’s Third Army drove relentlessly northward from France to come to the relief of Bastogne’s defenders and other beleaguered Americans in Belgium. In addition, when the weather cleared after Christmas, Allied airpower decimated the German forces. Hitler’s last desperate gamble to stave off defeat proved to be a costly failure.
Friday, Dec. 15, 1944
My darlingest:
Just another quickie. It is 12:15 and I have a few minutes before running to lunch. I’m beset with difficulties these days and my wonder is growing greater that this should be called a satisfactory way of making a living. Maybe I’m not cut out for executive responsibilities but the headaches attached to this job seem sometimes to be simply overwhelming. They have now shipped Henry Tosti Russell from London to help me for a few weeks. Tosti is the fiftyish son of the one-time manager of the Boston Opera House. He remembers Caruso dawdling him on his knee. Tosti is a prima donna of the first order although he could be of great help with his linguistic ability. But, no! Tosti hit town yesterday morning and immediately launched into a long harangue about working conditions, how they did not suit him at all, and etcetera. Now I have to try to pacify him as well as get my own work done. Oh, hell. This afternoon I’m going up to Antwerp on a little combination news and business trip. Dave Anderson, this New York Times character with whom I live, has wangled for himself, and for my occasional use, a car so we are going up in that. It is only a forty-five minute drive or so, and I haven’t been yet. Besides it is a very nice day for a change. At least it is at the moment—by the time I’ve finished this letter it probably will be rain
ing the usual cats and dogs. Speaking of dogs, you know they really do harness dogs under small dairy carts and other such contrivances around here. When you get down to the logic of it, there certainly is no reason why a dog shouldn’t work for its living as well as we do, but nevertheless it somehow seems a little cruel to see those pups panting their lungs out under a heavy cart. (For goodness sakes, don’t repeat that part about “logic” to that cocktail lounge lizard of ours. I’d never hear the end of it.)
I had to leave this letter to make that run up to Antwerp. Dave was ready sooner than I thought. But we didn’t quite get there. Indeed, we barely got out of town on the three-lane highway. Some American OWI [Office of War Information] guy who was sitting in the backseat with the chauffeur (Dave wanted to drive) had just said that you wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance of missing one of the trees that lines the road in case of a blowout. Then there it is in front of us. A Belgian driver weaving all over the damned road because he had gotten into a slightly tight squeeze with a jeep. Dave then got slightly rattled and simply piled us into one of the trees. It really wasn’t bad except that with my hard head I managed to do what Libby-Owens-Ford claims to have been unable to do with elephant rifles at twenty paces, baseballs from the bat of Babe Ruth at ten paces, and Third avenue subway workers with sledgehammers at one pace. I shattered a shatterproof windshield. But no harm done. I love you, honey.
CRONKITE LEARNED OF the German attack on the night of December 16, when he was awakened by a phone call from the UP office in Paris asking if he had heard news of fighting in Belgium and suggesting he check the story with General Montgomery’s headquarters. Shortly afterward, United Press correspondent John Frankish showed up at his apartment. Frankish, who had been covering the U.S. First Army, which took the brunt of the initial German attack, “was dirty, unshaven, obviously tired and considerably shaken,” Cronkite recalled in his memoir. “He had reached Brussels after being caught in a maelstrom of American men and vehicles fleeing the front in a disorganized retreat.” Frankish wrote a dispatch about his experience that Cronkite tried, unsuccessfully, to get through military censors, and then headed back to the front. He was killed six days later by a German bomb.
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