Brothers in Battle, Best of Friends

by William Guarnere

  Smitty wrote a letter to Dick Winters in 1979 and paid a nice compliment to me and Winters. Smitty was in the Army until 1980. He commanded a Special Forces reserve unit, assigned to the Delta Force. He told Winters, “I’ve been a soldier most of my adult life. In that time I’ve met only a handful of great soldiers, and of that handful, only half or less come from my WWII experience, and two of them came from ol’ Easy—you and Bill Guarnere.” Smitty was a good guy. We got along real well.

  We never knew when D-day was coming, so we were always on edge. Training got more and more combat-oriented. Everything we did, we discussed what happened, how we reacted, what to do better. We kept making it better, getting into a rhythm with each other. The only problem was Sobel. As good a company as we were, as in tune to each other as we were, the minute we would get on the battlefield, we’d all be dead.

  In December, the sergeants decided no way were we going into combat with Sobel. We didn’t even have to think about it. We made the decision quick, fast, done. No one hesitated. We went right to Sobel and turned in our stripes. You can’t run a company without sergeants. Had it been some of us, but not all, you got trouble. We stuck together. The news got to Strayer and regimental headquarters quickly. Here, Sink’s got a company in his regiment that’s disorganized. Sobel couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t do anything. He ranted and raved and screamed and hollered. But he couldn’t do anything.

  We knew all Sink could do was give us hell. He couldn’t get rid of all the sergeants. The only way out was to get rid of Sobel. He put Sobel in training at Chilton Foliat. Training was what he was best at. They read us the riot act, but that was all they could do. We were all responsible, but there had to be a couple scapegoats. So they picked two—Mike Ranney and Terrence Harris. They couldn’t get rid of all the noncoms; we were going right into combat. Harris got transferred, and ended up getting killed June 8 in Normandy. He was in 3rd Platoon, nice kid. Ranney stayed in 1st Platoon, but was demoted to private.

  Lt. Thomas Meehan from B Company took over the company. Lt. Patrick Sweeney from A Company was our new executive officer. Winters took over 1st Platoon. Winters and Sobel had a falling out a few days or a week before, and Sink was transferring Winters out. But when Sobel got transferred, Sink brought Winters back. The mutiny turned out to be the best thing we could’ve done for Easy Company.

  Right after that, Eisenhower and Churchill came to do inspections. Unbeknownst to us, Ike’s team didn’t want the Airborne drop to go forward; they thought we were all going to get killed. They figured on losing 70 percent. He came to see us off, and he felt bad, he figured most of us weren’t going to make it.

  They had all kinds of exercises for the brass; everybody was showing off. I had my mortar squad—the best mortar squad in the company, probably in the Army—fire at a couple targets, but they missed! We never missed. Thank Christ nobody was watching. Taylor came around, and the boys fired again—Malarkey and Muck hit all the targets. I told Taylor, “My boys never miss!” We still laugh about that.

  We left Aldbourne for a few days to go to Slapton Sands, to do practice exercises as an entire division on the coast. Exercise Tiger, it was on my birthday, April 28th, how could I forget? They wanted to practice moving troops around at midnight on a beach similar to Utah, to prepare us for D-day. There were lots of simulations going on for all the Allied divisions. We heard shelling in the distance that sounded real. And it was real, we found out later. They covered it up until after the war. About nine hundred men from the 4th Infantry Division were killed; the Germans sank two of their assault ships. They got us out of there and back to Aldbourne, and I kept singing “Happy Birthday” to myself and trying to get the guys calmed down. Everyone was hyped up. You knew something was coming.

  We continued going out on problems, doing night problems, going out for three, four days, attacking roads and causeways, trying to survive outside, like we would do in combat. The kids took turns being an officer or a sergeant out in the field—they tried to prepare everyone to take over if you had to. I felt like I could take over the company if I had to.

  They got the entire 101st together for a rehearsal for D-day, called Operation Eagle. They tried to get as close to the real thing as they could. We left from the same airfield, flew two and a half hours, jumped at midnight, did everything the same. There were lots of accidents, lots of men got hurt.

  The end of May, we headed to the marshaling area at Upottery Field, where we’d be taking off. We knew it was time to go. There was a lot of military traffic in town, all of it moving south. The people of Aldbourne knew, too. As we left on trucks, the people all came out to say good-bye. There were tears in their eyes; they were sad to see us go. They got close to us. Nice people. We’d been there for almost nine months, in the middle of this village, so in a sense it was like our family.

  Once we got inside the marshaling area, they sealed you from the outside world. You couldn’t get in or out. That’s when you knew the mission was set in stone and it was going to happen. We were set up in tents on the airfield, and they had GIs dressed in German uniforms walking all around to familiarize us with their uniforms, helmets, and guns. They were there all day and every night, and we wanted to kill them. We wanted to get started! Some people were sewing extra pockets on their uniforms to hide food and junk in, on their shoulders on the sides, front and back. I didn’t do it. Guth and Liebgott were giving haircuts for cash. But I didn’t have any money and there were no free haircuts. A lot of them shaved their heads, gave themselves Mohawks, and looked like Indians. I was a good-looking guy. I wasn’t doing a Mohawk!

  When we settled in, the officers were being briefed on the mission so they could brief us. Most of the men were cleaning their weapons and equipment. We took apart our guns, put them back together, cleaned them. We did it over and over again. The rifles were shining. We knew it was serious. At that point, we were ready. If you weren’t ready, if you didn’t want to jump into combat, you didn’t want to be a paratrooper, and you should go join the supply house.

  Nixon and Hester took all the sergeants into a tent; they had sand tables, ten to twenty feet long and wide. They built up the entire geography of Normandy with sand. A perfect miniature copy, it looked like a toy. It had the drop zones, the beach, the towns, the roads, the German artillery positions, their foxholes, hedgerows, everything. They showed us where we were landing, where our objectives were, where everyone else’s objectives were. They had photographs, maps, diagrams. They went through the mission with us over and over. There were four causeways that ran up from the beaches, and the 101st needed to secure them so the seaborne troops could get supplies, equipment, artillery, tanks, and Jeeps up Utah Beach, and move inland. Everything was coming in by boat. When the troops got to shore, they had to take the causeway in—it was one way in, one way out, because the Germans were smart, they flooded the beach. We had to secure those roads, destroy German artillery positions trained on the beach, and keep the Germans from stopping those troops. If we failed, they’d be in trouble, and we’d be in trouble.

  Second Platoon was dropping outside Ste. Marie-du-Mont, and securing the causeway that ran from the beach through the town of Pouppeville. Our orders were to kill any Germans we encountered and take no prisoners. They thought it was going to be quick and easy, they’d get us in and out, bing-bang-boom. I didn’t think it was going to be that easy.

  I spent most of the time at the marshaling area going over the mission with the other sergeants. We went over it forward and backward. We kept going over our platoon’s mission, the other platoons’ missions, the battalion and regimental missions.

  Every day that passed, I couldn’t wait to get the hell on the plane and jump already. You’re there, you know it’s gonna happen, but you don’t know when the hell it’s coming. The waiting part is hell. Most of us wanted to just get it over with. We figured we were going to knock the Germans off and come home anyway.

  June 3, I was resting in the barracks, and Johnn
y’s bunk was above mine, and I had to go to the latrine. I grabbed a jump jacket, thinking it was mine, but I picked up Johnny’s by mistake. I sat down and while I’m there, I’m going through my pockets, and I felt a letter. It was from Johnny’s wife, Pat. It said, “Don’t tell Bill Guarnere, but his brother Henry was killed in Cassino.”

  It felt like the floor fell out from under me. I almost fainted. I read it again. I couldn’t believe it. No one told me Henry was dead. I’d written him several times, but it took time for the letters to go back and forth. I didn’t receive anything from him in months. Here, Frannie wrote to Pat, and Pat wrote to Johnny. Henry had been killed January 6, 1944, five months before, and nobody told me, that’s why I hadn’t heard from him. I sat there enraged, crying. I started thinking about my other brother Earnest, who was in the Navy, and Mom, and Pop—how did they take it? My entire life with Henry went through my mind. I didn’t have a chance to see him, say good-bye. A lot of brothers met up overseas, but I didn’t have that opportunity. If I had been near Italy, and it was maybe forty miles away, I would have asked to get a truck to go see him, and they would have let me. The Army was lenient that way; they knew you were responsible.

  I left that bathroom enraged, but I went out of there like a man. I never said a word to nobody. When I got back to the barracks and saw Johnny, I told him I read it, and he was sad, too, and felt bad that I read it. What a hell of a way to find out. I was mad because nobody informed me. I told Johnny they turned a killer loose. I was going to kill every goddamn German I came across. Just give me a gun and let me loose. Johnny may have told the rest of the guys what happened, because nobody came near me. D-day was coming, and as bad as I felt, I knew I had men to protect, knew what I had to do. But I felt like if anybody got in my way, they were dead. You didn’t want to be a goddamn German when you met me.

  The next night, June 4th, was D-day. We were all ready to go and they called off the jump because of bad weather. It was rainy and windy. We dropped our gear right by the plane, got off the runway, and went inside and had a beer and saw a movie. Guess what the name of the movie was? Mr. Lucky, with Cary Grant. I’ll never forget it because I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I wanted to get on the damn plane, get over there, and get it over with. Everyone was a nervous wreck. When they cancelled the jump, I realized the magnitude of what was going on, that we were just a tiny part of something huge.

  No one slept that night, and the next day, the weather cleared, and we got ready to go. Everyone’s faces shined like the moon at night, so we blackened our faces, and waited on the runway for the planes to be ready. Everybody had lots of nervous energy, the boys were wild as can be. We were exhausted, too, from all the tension and not sleeping. I was fuming thinking about Henry. We waited eight to ten hours for the planes, and the longer we waited, the madder I got.

  When it was time to board the planes, that’s when everyone got real serious. Everyone got quiet. We were packed up like elephants. Our uniforms were gas impregnated, and they were stiff as a board. Very uncomfortable. Then we had all our gear on top of that. It took three men to pick you up and put you on the damn plane. We had eighteen men to a stick, and two pilots. My mortar squad, and Joe Toye’s rifle squad, was in my stick. At the last minute, they gave the first three men in the stick leg bags. The limeys came up with that idea, and we didn’t know what to expect jumping with a leg bag. The thing weighed a hundred-fifty pounds by itself. It had everything but the kitchen sink in it, mortar shells, grenades, ammo, radio, machine-gun tripods, all kinds of supplies. Compton was first in the stick, he was jumpmaster, I was second, and Toye was third. Compton passed around airsickness pills. I have no idea why they gave us airsickness pills, but most of the men took them. I threw mine the hell away.

  BABE

  August 1942 to June 1944

  Basic training at Fort Eustis, Virginia, prepared you for how to survive, how to kill. It was a lot to take in as a teenager. It was rough-and-tumble, the same as growing up on the streets. But it never affected me. You absorbed what they taught, and you got stronger and more prepared for what was to come, mentally and physically. Physically, I was already in very good shape from playing a lot of football at home. I always played sports.

  Eustis had an obstacle course that was rigorous. You were timed, and you had to make the course in that time. We did calisthenics, learned soldiering, combat basics, how to use all kinds of weapons. The commanding officers were all stern, but nothing like Captain Sobel. You just had to do whatever you were told or you’d get kicked out. It was simple. If you did what you were told, you were okay. If you loused up, you lost your weekend pass and had to clean the barracks, latrine, or officers quarters. Whenever anyone got that duty, it made me think back to Sacred Heart school, and how the nuns used to find us on the street and make us come back and clean the convent. You’d be out playing on a nice spring day, when all of a sudden you heard, “Edward! John! William! I have something for you boys to do!” We knew our fun was over.

  I was assigned to B Battery, 446, an antiaircraft unit, and I was on gun crew. I became a tech corporal, training officers-to-be for the officer candidate school. We trained them on the Bofors 40mm, a Swedish gun, and took them out on problems, taught them how to set up the guns. A funny story: One of the guys I was training was about twenty-five or so, a young colored fella, who lived near a reservation in Arizona. We were in a truck going out on a problem. He said, “I hope you give me good grades,” and we got to talking about home. He said, “This may sound odd, but are you Catholic?” I told him I was. He said, “I was going to become a priest and try to teach the Indians in Arizona after I took my vows, but I went home one weekend and my sister had a girlfriend over and she talked me into going on a double date. Reluctantly I went, and that’s why I’m not a priest today.” I still think of that and laugh.

  Every day at Eustis, my thoughts were on getting to the Airborne. I had put my papers in as soon as I got there, and they told me I had to finish basic first. I was just doing my time, and about six or seven months later, they put my papers through. It seemed like I waited forever. My commanding officer tried to talk me out of it. They were happy with my work in the battery, and they promised me everything, including promotions, to stay in the artillery. But I wanted to be a paratrooper. My buddies from South Philly were in the Airborne and I thought maybe I’d get in the same regiment. Just before my truck ride to Fort Benning, my commanding officer said again, “Heffron, anything I can do to change your mind?” I’d gotten really close to the guys and didn’t want to leave them, but my only goal was to get to the Airborne.

  It was February 1944 when I finally got to jump school at Fort Benning, Georgia. There were kids from all over the country, and everyone had their basic training in different places. When they got enough of us together they formed a company. They assigned me to the 1st Parachute Infantry Regiment, K Company. The jump training was three to four weeks and consisted of A, B, C, and D stages. The first two weeks was all physical training and learning to fold and pack parachutes, and then came the jump training.

  The place was immaculate. It had the usual wooden barracks, but they were well manicured and very clean. They ran a very tight ship in the parachute infantry. The barracks were two floors, maybe twenty kids to a floor, with ten single beds on each side of the wall.

  The first day I was so happy to meet a guy from my neighborhood. He was in the chow line. He saw me walking down the perimeter and he yelled, “Yo, Babe.” A guy named Johnny Dougherty. We played football on the same team at home. He didn’t end up qualifying for his wings, but I was grateful that he got me something to eat that first day, because I didn’t know which end was up. The next day he came around and we took a walk through the woods. He told me to watch myself because there were dangerous snakes all over the woods between Fort Benning and Alabama, around the Chattahoochee River. I think he was trying to scare another city kid.

  At night we read or talked ab
out home. Someone had a radio at the end of the hall, and we listened to the big bands. Lights went out at ten p.m. and we had to be up at five. We didn’t have much nightlife, and we looked forward to sleeping after long days of training.

  Sometimes we went out in town to a little town nightclub called the Bama Club. It was just over a little footbridge from where we were. They had a band and the girls sang. One weekend I was there and a girl that was married to one of the officers got up to do a number. She said, “Any of you fellas want to get up and jitterbug with me? The winner gets a bottle of champagne.” I was there with three other guys, one’s name was Murray, he later got hurt on a night jump, and he said, “Come on Heffron, get up there and dance, you’re always talking about jitterbugging in South Philly.” Out of six or seven guys, I ended up winning the contest and the bottle of champagne. The girl was pretty good, too. She could dance.

  A guy named Johnny Julian became my best buddy. You just looked at a guy and you liked him. John looked at me and thought I talked funny. I thought he talked funny. He was from Syspy, Alabama, and he had a strong Southern drawl. We got along great. He was just a nice kid. He was from a small town in the South, and I kidded him and said, “I’m from the South.” He said, “You’re from the South?” I said, “Yeah, South Philly!” He was clean-cut, believed in God, believed in everything I believed in, believed he was coming home. We could talk to one another really easily.

  I also got close with J. D. Henderson, a really laid-back kid, a farmer from Oklahoma, and the three of us stuck together like glue all through jump school. We made a pact that if one of us bought the farm—if we got killed in combat—whoever was left would go to the parents.

  After physical training and packing parachutes, we finally got to the jump training. The first stage was jumping out of towers. I hadn’t done any practice jumping in basic, since I was training in the artillery. First you jumped from a thirty-two-foot tower with harnesses attached. Then you free-jumped with a parachute on—they pull you up two-hundred-fifty feet, and you jumped, and they told you what to do on your way down, how to maneuver your parachute. They told you left tumble, right tumble, and so on. Then D stage is five jumps from a C-47. The last one, your qualifying jump, was at night.