Brothers in Battle, Best of Friends

by William Guarnere

  Bill and I just sat there in silence, watching people go in and out.

  He said, “You know, Babe, I can’t help wonder if Henry’s death in Italy, and the kids we got to know and love who didn’t come back—I wonder if their sacrifice was worth it.”

  Bill never gets introspective. Only when he misses Henry. Not a day has gone by in sixty-three years that he hasn’t thought about him. He won’t tell you, but he gets tears in his eyes when he thinks about him. He wants to go to Italy and see the grave, and we haven’t made it over, but he thinks of Henry in any cemetery we go to. Sometimes he’s okay and sometimes he breaks down, and I walk over to him and put my arm around him, and say, “Everything’s fine, come on.” And he says, “I’m okay.”

  Believe me, I know the sacrifices made by those who fought and lived, and the complete sacrifice made by the kids who never came home. But I saw the faces of the people we set free from their occupiers—from France to Holland to Belgium, and I saw the people in the concentration camp—and I saw the life, and even joy, return to people who’d been starved and beaten close to death, who’d seen their family members die horrible deaths. Even they could find joy again once they were free. At least they had the choice.

  Even if the people visiting the Liberty Bell don’t understand what it symbolizes, it doesn’t change what we accomplished. I put my hand on Bill’s shoulder and told him, yeah, the sacrifice was worth it. He said, “Yeah, I think so, too.”

  EPILOGUE

  BY BAND OF BROTHERS ACTORS FRANK JOHN HUGHES AND ROBIN LAING

  BABE (ROBIN LAING)

  I first heard the name Heffron when I was asked to read for the part during the casting of Band of Brothers. It seemed like a pretty good part and I was very excited even to be considered for such a project. When I arrived, I distinctly remember the casting director, Meg Liberman, talking about Babe—how fantastic a guy he was, how everybody loved him because he was so nice and funny, how inseparable he and Bill were. This was the first inkling I had of the regard in which he was held. The same thing happened when I was recalled to read for Tom Hanks. He must be some guy, I thought. Little did I know.

  It was when I met voice coach Jessica Drake that I was to see and hear Babe for the first time. On video he was absolutely captivating. He brought home the random cruelty of war, recounting the simplicity of Jim Campbell telling him, “You stay with your gun Babe, I’ll go on up,” before the unimaginable happened. He sang songs—“little lambs eat ivy” always has me in stitches! He told lighter stories, too, like the time Al Vittore was asleep next to him in their foxhole. Seemingly Al was dreaming of his wife and slung his leg over Babe, only to be rebuffed with a dig in the ribs and the news, “Hey! I can’t help ya!” I was fascinated. I took the audiocassette away with me and listened to it again and again.

  It was on this day that I first met Frank ( John Hughes). Filming had started and I went for a costume fitting. Joe Hobbs showed me into the changing tent where everyone was watching Saving Private Ryan (and getting very excited whenever anyone with the Screaming Eagle patch appeared!). He introduced me and went off to get something. Everyone’s interest was piqued by my arrival and I remember hearing, “Babe’s here! Get Bill!” being bandied about—fame by association. Frank appeared and we sat and chatted briefly about these two men we were representing. I remember he seemed keen to reassure me that I would have a good time on the project. When I returned to film I realised this was because of the bonds between the “boot camp” guys—the cast who had been together from day one, filmed the scenes of Toccoa, and were actually put through boot camp—and the distance they initially maintained between themselves and the replacements, the new recruits like me who arrived later. This behaviour stemmed from what had really happened during the war and the actors were keen to faithfully mirror it. I learned later from the veterans that this was partly because every new guy reminded them of someone who wasn’t around anymore. However, the fact that I was Babe lessened it for me. I felt as if Frank was keeping an eye out for me even when we weren’t working together directly, a lot like Bill making sure Babe was in Joe Toye’s squad so that he knew he’d be okay.

  I was able to get in touch with Bill before I got to talk to Babe, and found it was just as useful as speaking to Babe, as he was much more honest than Babe could be about himself. He told me if I wanted to talk to Babe I’d have to be up early or stay up late because he was never in, he enjoyed life too much. Up at seven in the morning and out until bedtime. As Babe used to say, “You ain’t gonna find me dead in bed.” I did get him eventually and what a blether (Scottish chat) we had. I didn’t get off the phone until well after one in the morning! We talked about many things. General war-talk—what it was like to be involved in such a mammoth war—as well as more specific, personal things. He was amazingly frank and forthcoming about almost everything I asked of him and could recall events with a brilliant clarity. I enjoyed a story about him bumping into a guy who grew up one street over who he’d gone to elementary school with, who had also ended up in the 506th. They were just about to head for Bastogne and he hears a guy shout, “Turn around, touch the ground, eat rabbit shit, and howl at the moon if you’re from South Philly!”

  I also discovered that while at war Babe carried nothing with him whatsoever, barring his dog tags, rosary, and scapula. I wore all three throughout the entire filming. The daily ritual of putting them on instilled in me the importance of what I was doing. It wasn’t just a case of me as an actor looking good; I was playing a living person, something I’d never done before. Once I had the seal of approval from Babe I was able to relax into the responsibility of realising this period of his life. I began to really think about how Babe would react to a situation or whether I thought a scripted line could credibly have come from his mouth. That filled me with an overwhelming sense of pride and satisfaction. I suppose I was lucky that we are quite similar people in our outlook on life. We like to laugh, keep things light, help lift other people when they’re a bit down. This was important during filming, not only during the occasional moments of boredom but also when things became tough emotionally. One episode, for example, followed Easy Company as they liberated a concentration camp. The isolation of the set, coupled with the supporting cast of emaciated detainees, made these days very challenging. I made a conscious effort to stay upbeat, not to get too introspective. What it must have been like for the veterans is unimaginable. It was hard enough seeing the re-creation.

  Bill and Babe came to visit while we were filming, and the excitement on set that day was palpable—Babe and Bill were coming! By the time I arrived there was a huge semicircle of people listening to them chat with Tom Hanks. I introduced myself to Babe and he did likewise before looking me up and down. Then he asked how I was getting on with the accent. “Fine,” I replied. “Let me hear it,” he said, and so I took a deep breath and did my best Philly accent. “No, your Philly accent,” Babe said. He must have seen the disappointment on my face because he didn’t let it hang in the air too long before breaking into a laugh and giving me a slap on the back. “I’m only messing witcha, you did fine.” That moment has to rank among the proudest in my life.

  Babe gave me his scapula—the one given to him by his mother before he left America, the one he kept through the entire war. He casually passed it on to me one day saying, “You’re gonna need it now, kid, you’re the one at war!” I still treasure it. That is probably the best illustration I can ever give of Babe’s generosity and humility, coupled with his sense of humour.

  That first night, we all went to the hotel where he and Bill were staying and talked, laughed, and drank until a ridiculous hour. Bill and Babe stopped taking meds they were on just so that they could drink. That’s dedication for you. By the end of the night Babe was sitting in his vest having given his shirt and T-shirt away to guys who had offhandedly admired them. Everyone who came that night was made to feel special, another of the unique things about those men.

  We kept in touc
h throughout filming but I didn’t get to see Babe again until 2001 when I was invited by HBO, with my partner Pauline, to go to Philadelphia for the premiere of Band of Brothers. Babe was in the hospital at the time, and I went to visit him. It was such a shame that he couldn’t be at the premiere to be recognised by the city and the country. I know he already has been in many ways but there was something specific about that night, whether it was the presentations by [then Pennsylvania Governor] Tom Ridge, the reception, or just the chance to see himself on the big screen. We did our best to represent him in the only way he’d want us to, by enjoying the evening and having fun.

  The rest of our time spent in Philly was indicative of the esteem in which Babe is held. Everywhere we went, whether it was the Irish Pub—Babe sent us to see Jimmy and eat cheesesteaks—or at Cousins for breakfast, everyone knew who he was, and in his absence I got his respect. I must say Bill was fantastic that week, driving us all over Philadelphia to see where he and Babe had grown up. Telling us about what they had done to survive the Depression. Taking us to Popi’s to experience broccoli rabe for the first time. The welcome we got by Bill’s and Babe’s families is something we’ll never forget.

  Just the fact that a laddie from Arbroath, Scotland, could end up playing this most Philadelphian of men is an indication of how incredible my relationship with him has been (although in truth the places aren’t that different; the Declaration of Arbroath, pronouncing Scotland’s independence from England, is said to be the template for the American one, which was, of course, signed in Philadelphia).

  My wife and I often brag of the huge, extended family we’ve got in Philly. I’d bet that we see each other just as much as any family who lives continents apart—not as much as we’d like, but savoring it when we do.

  Robin Laing

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  February 2007

  BILL (FRANK JOHN HUGHES)

  June 2000, London, England. It is unusually warm outside the Heathrow International terminal. I’m perspiring in my Army dress greens. They are standard 1944 issue, olive drab wool and they itch like a suit of poison ivy.

  I have been wearing the uniform for almost three months now during the production of Band of Brothers—and everything about these clothes reflects the hard-earned pride and unshakable confidence of the American paratrooper. From the cocky angle of my “overseas cap” to the bloused trouser tucked inside my Corcoran jump boots and the Screaming Eagle patch on my left shoulder—everything emotes poise and swagger and I’m doing my best to look the part.

  Up until this point I have never worn my dress greens in public and the experience is fascinating. To the average Brit who is not an expert in World War II uniforms, I am a modern-day American soldier—and heads are turning. It seems the women have become flirtatious, the men have become defensive, and the children are in awe.

  I am intensely aware that it is not me, an actor full of untested courage due to my peacetime life, that generates this respect and curiosity. It is the 101st Airborne uniform that is doing all the work and many a good men have given their lives to infuse it with those qualities.

  And it is two of these men that I have come to meet—Babe Heffron and his best friend—the man I am portraying in Band of Brothers—“Wild Bill” Guarnere, the Silver Star–winning legend of Easy Company. Although we have never met in person, we have been talking for a few hours every day for about six months and I’m eager to shake his hand and buy him a drink.

  I first made contact with Bill on November 18, 1999—the night before my fourth and final audition for the miniseries. It was a gig I wanted more than anything in my life and I was hoping that a last-minute call would give me some kind of good luck—some edge that would make the difference.

  I had read the book a few months before our first chat and had spent every waking moment since becoming an expert on all things Easy Company and all things Guarnere. The more I learned about him the more superhuman he became to me. From his rough-and-tumble childhood on the streets of Depression-era South Philly to his losing a leg in Bastogne to save the life of his friend—it all added up to a man unlike any other I had ever known. A hero. A legend, and I needed to hear his voice to make him “real” to me.

  I dialed and hoped there was something he could say or share with me, some intimate inside knowledge of who he was, that I could use to set me apart from the other actors auditioning the next day. At the end of the first ring he picked up and shouted, “Yowza!” in a raspy voice still full of Dead End Kid.

  “Mr. Guarnere…it’s a real honor to talk with you, sir. My name is Frank John Hughes and I am one of the actors who will be auditioning tomorrow to play you in Band of Brothers.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’ll get it. An actor came by my house last night and he seemed real right for it. But good luck with it.”

  I was taken aback. Other actors had been to his house!? So much for my “edge.” “Where ya from, kiddo?”

  “The South Bronx, but I live in Los Angeles now.”

  “What can I do for ya?”

  “Any words of advice?”

  “Yeah. Just be the devil. Cause I was a devil over there. A paid killer. Got it?”

  They were chilling words.

  “Anything else I can help you wit’?”

  “No, sir, that’s all.”

  I dug down and found some paratrooper swagger and added, “I’ll call you when I get the job. I’ll have a lot of questions for you then.” Bill liked that and gave a hearty “sure ya will” laugh.

  “Okay, kid, we’ll see.”

  Well, I did get the job and I did call him. From that moment on Bill did what he and most of the men that served in WWII hated doing most—he talked about his war experiences. To do so was always akin to committing an act of blasphemy. To talk about what you did was perceived as bragging—a high crime to these noble, humble men. To his credit Bill intrinsically knew that in many ways his legacy—and more important the legacy of Easy Company—depended on the men’s recollections to fill out Ambrose’s wonderful book. So Bill did what he always did—he took the courageous route and emptied everything he had to give. His memory was impeccable and searing in its brutal honesty, failing only when it came to describing his own acts of heroism—which I found was the same for every Easy man.

  It was through Bill’s mouth, in vivid detail, that I came to know the leadership of Winters, the healing hands of Roe, and the wisdom of Lipton. From him I came to know intimately the courage and toughness of Heffron, Martin, Randleman, Compton, Malarkey, and Toye. All of these conversations ran through my mind as I waited for him and Babe to land on that June day.

  Finally they emerged. Babe, strong as an ox, shuffling toward me as he carried and pushed both men’s luggage. He gave me a wink and a smile as I walked up to them only to have Bill blow past on his crutches at a speed faster than any man on two legs could move. A blur of blue shirt, hat, and bolo tie. “Hiya, kid!” he said as he shot past me and was gone.

  Babe shook his head and looked at me with his seen-it-all eyes. “That’s Wild Bill, Frank. Needs to have a cigarette and flirt with the girls!”

  When we did catch up to him we found Bill propped against the wall, hat on a jaunty angle, an unfiltered Pall Mall on his lips, winking at the passing ladies—throwing out “Hiya, ssshhweetheart!” in a voice like Bogart’s. I took a moment to admire the men—full of energy and fire this late in a life that would have crushed most men. Still he oozed paratrooper guts and swagger. My God, what he must have been like at eighteen!

  Since then I have had the honor of traveling the world with these two amazing men. Across the globe they have drank men fifty years younger than them under the table and stayed up later than everyone else. They remain unbreakable. Forged with materials men of my generation will never have or even know. Their unshakable commitment to each other through times of bliss and horror has taught me so much about friendship—a term they do not use lightly. Over the years Bill has taught me so much
about being a better father, husband, citizen, and man. He has become like a grandfather to me and my wife and a great-grandfather to my son who has been fortunate enough to learn his history from the mouths of the men who made it. Bill is fond of the phrase, “A man is never bigger than when he bends to help a child.” He lives that quote. Not only with my son but with the thousands of school-age children he and Babe visit around the world. I am honored to call him and Babe my friends.

  With boundless love and respect I cheer “Currahee!” to both of them.

  Your grateful friend,

  Frank John Hughes

  New York City, 2007

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to our agent, Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group and to Natalee Rosenstein, our editor at the Berkley Publishing Group. Special thanks to Tom Hanks, Frank John Hughes, and Robin Laing. We’d also like to thank Michelle Vega at Berkley, Emma Stockton, Sooki Raphael, Trisha Heffron Zavrel, Arlene Guarnere, Fred Post, Michael Boone, Sara Shay, William F. Keller, Lorraine Dispalgo, Rod Bain, Don Malarkey, Ralph Spina, Susan Smith Finn, Lana Luz Miller, Pete Toye, Eileen O’Hara, Rudolph Tatay, Tracy Compton, Peter van de Wal, Tracy Rhodes, and last but not least, our families.

  INDEX

  Abrams, Creighton (General)

  Adams, Georgie

  Aldbourne, England

  See also Guarnere, Bill “Wild Bill” (Aldbourne, England); Heffron, Edward “Babe” (Aldbourne, England)

  Ambrose, Stephen

  Andrews Sisters

  Antwerp, importance of

  Arnhem, Holland

  artillery bombardment, hell of

  Austrians

  autobahn

  Babe Heffron (jumping horse in Ireland)