Eisenhower was already seriously concerned about being able to field an adequate force for the final push into Germany when the Germans surprised the Allies with an offensive through the Ardennes in Belgium just before Christmas of 1944. The Battle of the Bulge yielded another 80,000 casualties. Eisenhower was now absolutely desperate for any solution to the chronic shortage of trained riflemen.
Lieutenant General John Lee was the commander of the Service of Supply troops in the ETO. He saw the hundreds of thousands of black troops under his command as a solution to the infantry shortage. He suggested some be trained as replacement riflemen. The American high command rejected his suggestion. They were not yet ready or willing to integrate the army at the individual unit level. They would, however, accept segregated platoons to augment their battle- depleted companies and regiments.
Thus the concept of the 5th Platoon was born. Under-strength combat infantry companies would receive an extra platoon of black infantrymen, led by white officers, to function as a separate unit under the company commander. Despite having to give up their stripes for this combat duty, there were over 2,200 volunteers, enough to train fifty-three rifle platoons. By March of 1945, most of them were assigned to one of eight infantry and two armored divisions.
In spite of the apprehensions of the high command, these units were readily accepted on the front lines. Most white soldiers reduced the assignment of Negro troops as reinforcements to the simple math of the battlefield; just another target for the Germans to shoot at, other than themselves.
Insofar as performance, Clayton also knew the battlefield execution of these units was essentially the same as with all-white units. Some units performed better than others. Some were better trained and better led. They spanned the performance spectrum from excellent to adequate; exactly the same as their white brothers-in-arms. There was nothing in their racial make-up or culture that made them any better or worse at bleeding or at making the enemy bleed. While the 5th Platoons represented only a fraction of the nearly one million men of color who served as drivers, stevedores and other non-combat roles, these volunteers served under fire with distinction. They did the dirty, personal job of killing the enemy. For a few months, near the end of the War in Europe, they were American combat soldiers and would forever wear the coveted Combat Infantryman’s Badge (CIB).
General Clayton held this ignominious chapter in the history of the United States Army in great disdain. But not because the troops were prevented from being assigned as individual replacements; not since the Revolutionary War were black soldiers incorporated into white units. What disturbed Clayton most occurred after the fighting stopped. The 5th Platoon units were ordered disbanded. To many, this was the ultimate indignity. Even though each one had earned his CIB, they were separated from the units they fought with and returned to their prior non-combatant service units. They would not be allowed to take their earned and rightful place alongside their white brothers-in-arms and they would be denied the public recognition they earned. There were virtually no records kept of their performance. As a result, the deeds of these brave men and their heroic sacrifices were largely forgotten to history.
This little known chapter in the annals of the United States Army in World War II appalled the sensibilities of General Clayton. The inaccurate and often-exaggerated claims of some contemporary black spokesmen on behalf of previously overlooked exploits of black military men bothered him as much.
As if revising history and embellishing the record somehow compensated for deserved recognition never received. Two wrongs never made a right in Clayton’s mind and he held those who ignored great achievements and those who purposefully overstated them with equal contempt. He could not afford to have any exaggerations in determining the worthiness of black men to receive the Medal of Honor.
What he currently sought was a fair shake for these African-American warriors. It was the same thing every American soldier who went into harm’s way expected; trustworthy leadership, fairness, and the opportunity to be judged solely by his actions under fire.
Radcliffe didn’t get off his cell phone until they were both well inside the Pentagon and heading toward their respective offices. It was clear General Clayton had the ball on this project. Balancing the objective fairness of any action with the public relations benefit was paramount. Honoring the duty and sacrifice of some, without disrespecting or diminishing the sacrifice of others would be the challenge. He would have the unique opportunity to correct past injustices. For the sake of everything he believed in he had to get this right.
Clayton was also acutely aware of other similar injustices. He was especially sensitive to the Japanese-Americans who served with distinction in World War II and the tragedy of Master Sergeant Llewellyn M. Chilson, the greatest American combat soldier who never won the Medal of Honor. He both wondered and worried if he would someday be able to correct all of these omissions but decided to deal with that later. Right now, he was faced with a particularly treacherous political high-wire act and all the pressure was squarely on him.
Especially since he himself was African-American.
“Give me the bad news first, Colonel.”
Chapter Four
New York City – March 31, 1942
“When we assumed the soldier, we did not lay aside the citizen.”
George Washington (1732 - 1799)
John Patrick Kilroy bounded up the steps of the Whitehall Street-Broadway subway station in New York City into a damp and dank March day. Ever since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor an overwhelming sense of despair had gripped the country. The War news from far-flung battlefronts was often late, heavily censored yet always bad. Americans eagerly consumed the daily newspapers and gleaned the weekly Movietone Newsreels in the theatres for the slightest tidbits of information. The steady stream of dreadful news continued through the hard, cold winter months and depressed the morale of the entire population.
Before the nation could digest the significance of the defeat at Pearl Harbor, Germany declared war on the United States. Then, after weeks of hope against all hope, the American outpost on Wake Island fell to the Japanese on Christmas Eve.
America’s Allies were not faring much better. On Christmas Day, the British surrendered Hong Kong to the Japanese, followed in February by the surrender of over 100,000 British soldiers in Singapore. The civilians of Darwin, Australia were subjected to numerous air raids in February and March from Japanese carrier based bombers. The Battle of the Java Sea on 27 February was another serious defeat for the Allies as they lost ten ships including the United States heavy cruiser USS Houston.
On 19 February, in response to the pervasive fear and paranoia, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. The order gave the United States military the authority to define certain areas of America as “exclusionary zones”. The army was granted the power to relocate German and Italian-Americans from the East Coast and Japanese-American civilians from the West Coast. American soldiers began immediately relocating Japanese-Americans, most of whom were citizens, to camps as far away as Texas and Arkansas. Their numbers would eventually swell to over 120,000 detainees. In addition, 11,000 German-Americans and 3,000 Italian-Americans were incarcerated under this order. Irrational fear gripped the country.
By early March, the Dutch East Indies also surrendered to the Japanese and the American and Filipino forces in the Philippines were trapped on the Bataan Peninsula. With a severely depleted Pacific fleet there would be no effort to reinforce or resupply the Philippines. The ragtag army of Filipinos and Americans were expendable and had no hope of relief or reinforcement. Annihilation or surrender was imminent. Their commander, General Douglas MacArthur, was evacuated to Australia in early March by order of the President. His widely published promise of “I Shall Return” seemed both boastful and hollow.
John Patrick Kilroy remained well informed on world events. As each bastion fell, most Americans would run to their maps to find out where these pl
aces were and how close they were to the United States. They were far away places, to be sure, but creeping ever closer and closer. John already knew where most of them were.
The early months of America’s entry into the global conflict were both depressing and frightful. These were the black and gray days of the War, typified by this gloomy, chilling Tuesday in lower Manhattan.
John was a handsome young man with brown hair and dark brown eyes. He was called Johnny at the City College of New York (CCNY) where he was a student. When the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, he was twenty years old and in the middle of his third year of college. Immediately after the attack, the Burke-Wadsworth Selective Service Act, the first peacetime draft in American history, was amended by Congress to make all men twenty through thirty-seven eligible for the draft. Johnny registered and passed his physical. At six-foot tall, 175 pounds, he was in better-than-average physical condition. He was a brilliant student and followed world affairs closely but was conflicted about joining the service because he was married. However, the stigma of not serving, of being considered a draft-dodger, was more humiliating than most young men could endure.
While he discussed his options with his wife, Rose, he received his draft notice in the mail. Being a street-wise New York City kid, he considered enlisting to assure his pick for branch of service. His college education may even qualify him for some military specialties. In any event, he was told by friends and relatives alike to avoid the infantry. That was the plan.
The Induction Center at 39 Whitehall Street was a fortress-like stone building on the corner of Broadway and Whitehall near the southern tip of Manhattan. With his brown envelope containing his induction orders in hand, he joined a stream of other young men as they entered the building. The main staircase was wide and ascended through the center of the structure. Officers and enlisted men in uniform from every branch of the service were hurrying busily about. Military posters adorned some of the walls. One poster in particular grabbed his attention and he stopped on a landing to observe it more closely. At the top center of the poster was a rendition of Columbia, a beautiful young woman wearing white silk garb enshrouded by an American flag. She held her hands out above seven soldiers at attention. There was a laurel wreath in one of her hands. The seven soldiers in echelon were all bearing rifles. They stood shoulder to shoulder, each one representing a generation to have fought a war in defense of America. At the far end was a Revolutionary War soldier, followed by one from the War of 1812, The Mexican-American War, The Civil War, The Spanish-American War, World War I and finally World War II. Beneath the soldiers was a banner that read:
THE UNITED STATES ARMY
THEN - NOW - FOREVER
He contemplated the sign. We certainly have been in a lot of wars in our history. Why don’t they just leave us alone?
When he reached the fourth floor he queued up in line behind the main information desk. The army clerk behind the desk, a corporal, was directing each man to a different floor or room based on the information in his folder. The line moved quickly and as he approached the desk he stepped out of line, walked over to a water fountain and bent to take a drink.
“Back in line!” The voice startled him. He felt a twinge in his stomach, stood up and turned to see a Marine gunnery sergeant towering over him.
“Hey, I’m not in the service yet so I don’t have to take orders from you,” Johnny replied and instantly realized by the look on the Marine’s face he said the wrong thing.
“Oh, a wise-ass? We’ll see, you little piss-ant son of a bitch.” The sergeant turned and walked to the information desk. He leaned over to the clerk, whispered something in his ear while pointing to Johnny. The clerk looked up, nodded and wrote something down.
The sergeant walked back to Johnny. “You’ll be a puke boot by noon, wise-ass.” The voice was low but strained. His eyes were bulging and the veins were popping in his neck. “And you can travel to Parris Island on the same train with me ‘cause I just happen to be leaving for there later today. Your sorry ass is all mine!”
Johnny tried to keep a straight face but felt his knees buckle just slightly. He didn’t reply.
“Welcome to the Marines. And don’t try to join the navy today, cupcake. I’ll make sure they don’t take you.” The sergeant had his hands on his hips and moved to within inches of Johnny’s face. “You can get back in line at your convenience, sweetheart. I got all day. Semper Fi.” The gunnery sergeant turned and walked away.
Johnny took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. So much for staying out of the infantry!
Chapter Five
Georgetown – August 10, 1996
“Footfalls echo in the memory,
down the passage which we did not take,
towards the door we never opened.”
T.S. Eliot (1888 - 1965)
Enter mother’s maiden name.
He had never thought so often about his mother until he started establishing accounts on the Internet. It seemed like each time he filled out an application online, he was asked for this information as a security question. John Patrick Kilroy Jr. had established a small number of accounts using this new technology and had even purchased a few items last Christmas. The more he used it, the more he liked it and the more websites he signed up for.
From the comfort of his Georgetown condominium, he typed in S-C-A-L-I-S-E.
Kilroy already felt guilty enough for not visiting his mother’s grave as often as he should. He knew he should take some time off from his job as a reporter for the Washington Times and make the trip to Mount Olivet Cemetery in Queens. If he didn’t do it nobody else would. He was an only child. His mother had no siblings. His father abandoned them years before and they had no contact since.
He finished establishing an account on a new website called eBay, signed off his PC and leaned back in his chair. Staring at the ceiling he swiveled around and looked again at the cardboard box he had carefully placed on the top shelf of his floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It was hard to believe his mother was actually gone for an entire year. When he first received this package from her a week before she passed away, he immediately opened the letter attached to it. As soon as he finished reading it he dialed her number.
“Hi Mom, it’s me.”
“Hello J.P. How’s my darling boy?” He picked up the nickname early in life. It made it easier to distinguish between the two ‘Johns’ in the Kilroy household.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been up to see you, Mom.” He was more than just sorry. He had only been up to see her once since she was diagnosed. Between his job and his own personal problems, he just couldn’t get away. At least that is what he told himself. “But…”
“It’s all right son,” she interrupted before he could make his excuses. “They’re very attentive here at the facility and I’m comfortable. No worries.” She was smiling through the pain. He could hear it in her voice.
“That’s good, Mom. Look, I got your package and I read the letter and I just wanted to say…”
She didn’t let him finish. “Did you call your father?”
“No Mom, I just got the package today. I read the letter but I didn’t open the box yet.”
“J.P., listen to me.” He sensed the urgency in her voice. “You need to promise me after you open the box you’ll go to your father and get this family business out in the open.”
“Ma!” J.P. complained. “He left us thirty years ago. I have no use for him. For the life of me I don’t understand why you don’t hate him as much as I do.” J.P. knew why. His mother was a saint and she was all about love and forgiveness, even to the man who abandoned them so abruptly so long ago.
“Son, listen to me,” she replied. “First of all, I don’t have room in my heart for hate, especially now.” She was referring to her terminal cancer. “But more importantly, there cannot be family secrets which span generations. Some things should not remain unknown or misunderstood for so long. You must speak to your father. Promise me.”
John sighed. “Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Perhaps I should. But you really need to talk to your dad.”
“All right, Mom. I’ll find out where he is and I’ll contact him.”
“He’s in Bedford, Virginia. Promise?”
“Yes, of course. I promise.”
“Very good. One more thing. Can you get up to see me? Soon? We’ll talk. Maybe I can share some things with you. Make it easier when you talk to your father.”
“Sure Mom, I’ll be up this weekend.”
J.P. didn’t visit his mother that weekend and he never spoke to her again. She died the following week. He was beset with a fair amount of guilt, but his own worries and challenges eventually reclaimed his attention and his life returned to a semblance of normalcy. This Internet thing and the often requested mother’s maiden name immediately brought him back to those precious last few days. He couldn’t help but recall his guilt at not seeing her before she died and at not visiting her grave often enough. It was also a merciless reminder to him that he never even tried to contact his father.
J.P. reached to the top shelf and slid the box off into his hands. The envelope was attached under the strings that tied the box closed. Inside the envelope were two photographs and a letter. Both photos were black and white, dog-eared and faded. One was of two American soldiers. Both were smiling broadly, one wore a helmet at a jaunty angle with the signature paratrooper chinstrap dangling loosely. The other was holding his helmet under his arm. Each had a hand on the other’s shoulder. They were standing in front of a tent in a desert. The helmeted soldier on the left appeared slightly taller. He was holding an M-1 Garand rifle. The other trooper had a Browning Automatic Rifle, also known as a B-A-R, slung over his shoulder.
The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II Page 3