CHAPTER ONE
IN THE SUMMER OF 1943 U-BOATS TOOK A HEAVY TOLL OF ALLIED shipping, so the 101st Airborne Division would be in peril and out of their element while crossing the Atlantic, but at least the enlisted men now knew their destination: northern Europe, to open a second front against Nazi Germany. That basic mission had been concealed till they reached Camp Shanks, thirty miles upriver from New York City, the division's staging area for embarkation. They'd had to remove the Screaming Eagle shoulder patch and wear regular GI shoes instead of the distinctive paratrooper jump boots, their pride and talisman. An officer tried to explain the reason: “The Axis has to be kept guessing.”
German spies were thought to have infested New York City, and it was a strategic secret that the 101st would be committed against Hitler rather than Hirohito. Initial betting had been otherwise. It had been the Japanese who attacked Pearl Harbor; Germany declared war on the United States four days later, the only time in World War II they bothered with such a formality.
The stay at Camp Shanks was only long enough for inoculations and inspections before it was time to go, time for “the arsenal of democracy,” as Churchill called America, to push another seven thousand soldiers across the sea to join the Allied counteroffensive that had already reconquered North Africa and knocked Mussolini's Italy out of the war. Feeling like lemmings, Screaming Eagles jammed onto Hudson River ferries, which converged on a pair of troopships at Manhattan's piers. At one was the great French liner the Normandie, gutted and blackened by fire. The name meant nothing to most paratroopers, for they'd yet to learn where Normandy was.
Awaiting Joe Beyrle was the HMS Samaria, decrepit and sooty, hardly resembling the cruise ship she had been for the Cunard line. His squad, within an endless walking serpentine, shouldered ponderous duffel bags as they staggered up the gangplank, then descended to search for space below the waterline. They would sleep there in eight-hour, “hot hammock” shifts, as the number of soldiers embarking was more than twice the capacity of the ship. They were accustomed to the tubular constriction of an airplane, but the Samaria's massive gray perpendiculars were alien and intimidating. Soon they returned to deck, uncharacteristically subdued some mumbling about the previous night's send-off by New York girls when they had been allowed a last pass to the city, but for most it was time to just lean on the rail, look down on dockside, take it all in, and think.
Joe thought mostly about the last year, how he had come so far from Muskegon, the pleasant town of his childhood on the east shore of Lake Michigan. From Kalamazoo's induction center the army had swept Joe away to Georgia, eventually to march him across the state like one of General Sherman's infantrymen. He was an infantryman, a bullet launcher, but also trained as a radio operator with a subspecialty in demolitions. He spent a few weeks in Panama, then moved on to North Carolina, Tennessee, and Kentucky for large-scale maneuvers, then back to North Carolina again and finally to bleak Camp Shanks. There had been so much travel and training, so much of the school of the soldier, that homesickness had become a memory like an adolescent disease.
With straining hawsers, a cluster of small tugs gathered around the Samaria to tow her from the pier. On the waterfront men in suits stopped to watch a ritual that over the previous year had been so often repeated but was never routine, that of soldiers crammed afloat setting off to war, an army going to sea. Some civilians waved slowly with their hats, igniting a response on board. Under steam, the Samaria made way by the Statue of Liberty, passing a ferry whose deck began to undulate with waving passengers, a further sign that the USA was behind them in support, as it soon would be in distance.
With Sandy Hook still abeam, the troopers were issued life vests to be worn at all times except in hammocks. It was also time to go below; no cigarettes were allowed on deck as a total blackout went into effect while the ship's engines slowly thumped en route to join a convoy forming off Long Island. Dusk settled into a darkly rising mist as if America were receding into the past.
The past was the civilian world, what it had been for soldiers who were wrested from it, what it had made of them. In June 1942 Joe graduated from Saint Joseph High School with twelve other seniors, who voted him Best Informed, Most Obvious Temper, Class Shark, and Best Dressed. That last title may have been awarded by sarcasm because he owned but one threadbare suit and was color-blind, likely to wear mismatched socks unless his mother noticed. Fortunately she did before the graduation prom held at the Muskegon Women's Club, chaperoned by nuns. Music was on records, nothing but waltzes and two-steps—jitterbugging was considered too controversial for a Catholic-school dance.
A shark meant an opportunist, and Joe was that. In the Depression, opportunity for him included sweeping out a barbershop for pocket change or fighting for choice discards from a grocery store. Such rummaging became his talent after “standing in line with my brothers, for nine family members, waiting to receive surplus government handouts. At the age of twelve that hit me like a blacksmith's hammer.”
From then on opportunity meant an escape from ignominy. That's what the army provided him more than anything else.
As smokers left the Samaria's decks there was enough room for Joe and his two best buddies, Jack Bray and Orv Vanderpool, to wedge together on the rail, their life vests pressing one another like adjoining cocoons. No doubt there was something Sergeant Duber wanted them to do, but he would have to find them in the darkness among unidentifiable pods of whispering troopers. Vanderpool, a laconic Californian, kept glancing over his shoulder, while Bray had to be muted lest Duber detect his Cajun accent. He was nostalgic, most immediately for last night in New York, secondly for his hometown of New Orleans. It seemed probable now that the 101st would be visiting France, where Bray looked forward to using his French connection.
Soon troopers from the “first seating”—a euphemism from the Samaria's cruise-ship history—surged on deck grumbling and still hungry after their first meal offish that tasted like it had been pickled during World War I. What went with the fish smelled worse; the oily stench so pervaded the ship's interior that the first seating brought their blankets on deck. Advice for the second seating was break out your K rations, as those tasteless bricks would be the best food for the next couple of weeks.
The first week at sea was one of sullen nervousness, with officers seething against the inability to exercise, except for calisthenics, and train, except for target practice at crates thrown overboard. They saw their men as Olympic athletes at the peak of fitness, losing their edge during the listless transit to venue. Preparation for combat had emphasized how scattered they would be after their parachutes drifted apart; now the troopers were suffocatingly crammed together. There had been a cadence chant when they'd run in formation back at Fort Bragg: “GI beans and GI gravy. Gee, I wish I'd joined the navy.” No such envy anymore.
Nevertheless, the 101st was in the war now while not yet into it. U-boat alerts put the convoy into zigzagging maneuvers. Day and night, like overworked sheepdogs, destroyers wove between the lumbering transports. One of them developed engine trouble and turned back for Newfoundland with a regiment of paratroopers aboard. Watching ships change position was one of the few things for men to do, but the main relief from idleness was interminable gambling as the weather cooled over iron-gray seas that rocked so slightly that dice rolled true when bouncing off bulkheads. As constant as the thumping of the ship's engines was the clickety-clack of crap-shooters wherever three or more could huddle.
They themselves were chips in the greatest gamble taken by the U.S. Army to date, that of creating airborne forces made up of paratroopers and glider riders. In 1940 General George C. Marshall had been stunned by the success of German paratroopers in capturing the island of Crete from a larger force of first-rate Commonwealth troops. German losses were so high that Hitler, hardly the type to count his dead never again attempted a large-scale airborne operation. Nor did Stalin, for whom loss of life meant even less, though he produced more such units.
While the dictators saw only prospects of airborne disasters, Marshall would not let fear distract him from high hopes. During construction of the Pentagon he sent his planning staff a quote from prescient Benjamin Franklin: “Where is the prince who could so afford to cover his country with troops for its defense as that 10,000 men descending from the clouds might not in many places do an infinite deal of mischief?”
Marshall was a man of great humanity—author of the postwar plan that saved Western Europe—and the army's all-time greatest chief of staff. He was also godfather of the American Airborne, convinced like Franklin that “vertical invasion,” as the press would call it, offered too much potential to be rejected because of anticipated casualties. Marshall set the minds of two of his best and brightest generals, Omar Bradley and Matthew Ridgway, to the task of creating a satisfactory trade-off between losing soldiers and taking the enemy's from the rear.
The result was that in 1942 the 82nd (“All-American”) Infantry Division, with battle streamers from World War I, was split in half to form two small airborne divisions, the 82nd and the 101st (“the Screaming Eagles”). To bring the 101st up to strength, a glider regiment was attached, along with what was to be Joe's parachute regiment, the 506th, whose cadre gathered at Toccoa, a remote National Guard camp in the mountains of northeast Georgia.
When told he would be sent to Toccoa, Joe had asked, “To what?” It is a Cherokee word, as is Currahee, name of the mountain overlooking Toccoa. Currahee means “stand alone.” Till it was attached to the 101st, the 506th would indeed stand alone, so “Currahee” became their motto, shouted when they jumped from airplanes. The second parachute regiment to form at Toccoa, the 501st, coined the famous jump cry “Geronimo.”
At Camp Custer, Michigan, with twelve other recruits ordered to report to the 506th, Joe was the alphabetically ranking man and so was given a big official envelope addressed to the regimental commander, Colonel Robert F. Sink, their first and only wartime commander. He had a tabula rasa to create his outfit, to test organization and practices with minimal oversight, to help write the U.S. Airborne manual as he went along. Sink had plenty of officers to help. An initial expectation was that Airborne fatalities would be so high that each platoon was assigned two lieutenants, not just one as in the rest of the army.
Facing the draft that swept up every teenager in Muskegon, Joe volunteered for the Airborne, inspired by its recruiting poster of a tommy-gunner dangling from a parachute over the slogan JUMP INTO THE FIGHT! But he had to tell the recruiter of his disqualifying color blindness. The sergeant nodded, affirming that troopers jump when a light in the fuselage flashed from red to green. Had Joe ever gotten a traffic ticket for running a light? No? “Then don't worry, Beyrle,” he said stamping “Approved” on Joe's application. “A dozen guys will push you out when the light changes.”
Joe and his cohort from Camp Custer were the last passengers at the last stop of a mile-long steam train, earlier full of GIs bound for other destinations, arriving at the Toccoa rail spur after three days of stops and switches. They were met by a sergeant from the 506th, who took Joe's envelope, then trucked the Currahee candidates up Georgia Highway 13.
He was unexpectedly friendly, pointing out a casket factory off the road and noting that the 506th's camp had originally been named for a Confederate general, Augustus Toombs. Caskets and a name homonymous with tombs were not good morale builders, so Sink had revived the name Toccoa. Besides, the sergeant said, Toombs had been just a so-so general and Sink didn't want anyone's name connected with the camp unless he was a great soldier. Whatever the symbolism of its name, Toccoa was in the hills of nowhere. There Joe was housed in tar-paper barracks that had been hastily constructed by the Civilian Conservation Corps.
The CCC had been one of President Franklin Roosevelt's anti-Depressants. Joe's older brothers, Bill and John, had gone off to Michigan's Upper Peninsula to plant and cut trees for the CCC. Meals and bunks were free, so the boys were able to send home half their meager pay. That hadn't been enough to prevent foreclosure on the Beyrles' house. The family was evicted, their mortgage money lost. If it hadn't been for Granma Smith, they would have gone on the dole. Her side of the family had been Schmidts, changed to Smith when they emigrated in the early nineteenth century to escape Germany's wars. By way of Canada, the paternal side had come from Bavaria—Bayern in German—deriving into Beyrle.
Joe was the middle of William and Elizabeth Beyrle's many children, all of whom attended public school through second grade, then went on to Saint Joseph's. Joe was held back his first year because of language confusion from hearing and learning as much German as English at home. Home was next door to Granma Smith. Most family time was there, as she, a widow, had four bedrooms while the Beyrles shared three among nine members. Mrs. Smith was considered well-to-do for another reason: she drove a 1926 Oldsmobile. Selling it helped her ride out the Depression.
Joe's parents had no such asset in reserve. His older siblings dropped out of school into menial jobs necessary to keep the family together. Joe, in the seventh grade, barely made the cut, and only because his dad would not give up the grail-like goal of having one of his children graduate from high school. One daughter had died in quarantine from scarlet fever. It was for Joe to take up a humble mantle.
It did not fit well. He was a multisport star, a big frog in a small pond. Ignoring academics, he reveled in athletics. He could run a mile in under five minutes, an accomplishment noticeable enough to the University of Notre Dame that they offered him a scholarship to enroll in September 1942. It was probably a hedge: Notre Dame knew that its wartime classes would be culled by the draft.
Athleticism was also Joe's entree into the esprit of the 506th. More than any war up to that time, World War II required physical, that is, aerobic training. Though a heavy smoker and drinker himself, Sink was one of the first regimental commanders to appreciate this requirement, as well as the fact that close-order drill and rifle-range marksmanship— not that the Currahees didn't do plenty of both—were largely relics of the First World War.
With very few vehicles, and those subject to loss because they were landed in gliders, his men would have to backpack all their wherewithal into battle. Hence endurance marches under crushing loads were the hallmark of Toccoa training. Paradoxically, paratroopers were designed to be shock troops striking the enemy rear, the military equivalent of sprinters in contrast to distance runners. Therefore speed and bursts of violence were what Sink sought in tactical exercises.
Additionally, the unexpected had to be exploited by instantaneous initiative. Unlike the 1st Infantry Division (now veterans of North Africa), Currahees would not be attacking from friendly lines against well-located enemy positions. Instead the paratroopers were to land on the enemy's heads and make sudden chaos their ally. This situation was the most difficult to simulate in training. Sink's attempts produced the cruelest memories from Toccoa.
Joe's included an unusually arduous day when the training cadre came around all smiles to announce that dinner would be spaghetti, meatballs, and Parmesan. This was a feast for these teenagers of the Depression, who cheered before chowing down, feeling good about themselves, encouraged by a cadre strolling around delivering pats on the back for exceptional performances that day. Then the executive officer appeared, smiling as he rarely did. That, Joe learned, was a tip-off. The XO instructed the cooks to bring on strawberry shortcake, a favorite dessert. It was nearly devoured when the CO banged open the mess-hall door. “Hit it!” he yelled. “Fall out on the double, company formation. Last ones to the top pull KP.”
It was another run up thousand-foot Currahee Mountain, three miles on a winding trail, a routine ascent for them but not with a full stomach and as a complete surprise. Troopers staggered, farted, puked, and swore in anger at the malicious timing of the run. They did everything but quit because buddies grabbed them and kept them going, mostly by curses and kicks. These unannounced fire drills were hated and dreaded like nothing else. Sink's lesson was to always be ready for anything, even when relaxed. Sudden combat could come at any time, when least expected.
Such initiations arc-welded camaraderie. Like Euripidean characters, each young man had at least one strength and one weakness to emerge situationally. Joe, strong from the best and most plentiful food in his life, was one who could support the stumblers up Currahee Mountain. And he had a strong stomach. His uncle had been a butcher, so crawling through pig entrails strewn under barbed wire—another Sink training innovation—bothered him little. But at gambling (with its GI gold medal for craps) Joe's luck was less than average. Compensating for that deficiency there was Shorty, son of a Chicago gambler-mobster and next-door neighbor of Al Capone, whom Joe met when detailed to pick him up from jail.
Shorty owed Joe for not handcuffing him as required, so on the train back to Fort Bragg he demonstrated how to roll dice: lightly on three fingertips and the thumb of the nondominant hand, limp-wristed with double sixes up. This worked best in GI games where the dice didn't bounce off anything except a blanket.
“Don't shoot dice, Joe—you don't want to kill 'em. Imagine them bouncing like bingo balls, with your number coming up. And only bet when the shooter is coming out. Those are your best odds in a casino or anywhere else. Watch the shooters. Follow your instinct, and don't be impressed by the ones always yelling ‘seven-eleven’ or ‘eighter from Decatur,’ stuff like that. I don't yell numbers, I think them.”
Shorty's fate had raised more than average interest in I Company. He had gone AWOL shortly before embarkation. His punishment was expected to begin by being drummed out of the Currahees, his jump wings and shoulder patch torn off, his paratrooper boots removed forever. This was the fate of those who were late returning from their first furlough, the humiliation inflicted in regimental formation reminiscent of the Civil War, complete with muffled drums as the disgraced were marched out as if for execution. That was the way Sink made his point that no one could be late in combat.
But Shorty had not been drummed out, only consigned to the Samaria's brig. Barren Duber, I Company's communications sergeant, speculated that it was Shorty's Mafia connections that saved him. Others felt, more logically, that paratroopers were now so valuable that none could be spared even for deserved punishment. Few would dispute that they were Eisenhower's elite, Hitler's dread, far above “straight-leg” GIs in the rest of the army. Paratroopers kept their knees bent to absorb the shock of a parachute landing, approximately the same impact as dropping off the tailgate of a truck going fifteen miles per hour. “Legs” was their derisive term for everyone else in the world. A favorite paratrooper chant on training runs was “There're just two things that we can't stand—a bowlegged woman and a straight-leg man!”
Such pride and prejudice had been thoroughly inculcated by the time the Currahees put to sea, but they deteriorated from pilferage on the Samaria. Troopers would give one another their lives but also take from one another, as if nothing was individual, so anything left unsecured was communal and its “requisition” tolerable. The most frequently requisitioned item was the aluminum mess kit, prized for resisting the corrosiveness of seawater, which was all there was to clean anything or anyone. Fresh water was available only for drinking and only fifteen minutes per man per day. Seawater soap produced slime rather than lather, so Currahee offi-cers looked at the sea as beards grew during the passage to England.
It wasn't a difficult passage by Atlantic standards. Though there was little seasickness, appetites even as robust as Joe's weakened to the point of voluntary fasting. All K rations had been consumed till they became gambling chips, and it took a stronger stomach than Joe's to think of food while swishing his mess kit in a wash pail teeming with flotsam of bread crusts, fish heads, and cornflakes.
Time on deck to see the sea was rationed like fresh water and hammocks. Sometimes the convoy closed up so tightly that troopers on one ship could yell to those on another. Once the Samaria was nearly rammed. More frequently the convoy spread out almost to the horizon. All the while the Atlantic continued an undisturbed tempo. It was for those who traversed it, unconsciously influenced by it, to adjust. Most did so by projecting rather than reflecting. For none of them was the past as significant as the future. Unless they did then-job—unless that job was doable as General Marshall had gambled—home, in the medium future, would be ruled by monsters who did not speak English. In mid-1943 it was that simple, that evident, that true.
True because European civilization had submerged like Atlantis into the darkest depths and clutch of fascism or communism. Their exemplars, Hitler and Stalin, were now tearing at each other like tyrannosaurs. It was a time for democracy to make a statement, albeit compromising as Churchill had, that he would find cause with the devil to send Hitler to hell. That holy endeavor produced America's most inspired and titanic mission of the twentieth century. Colonel Sink rarely addressed his regiment as a whole, so Joe remembered a sentence: “The U.S. spells us” Sink had shouted at the formation where the AWOLs were drummed out.
During his own furlough Joe confirmed what Sink had averred. In Muskegon Dad had plunged into seventy-hour workweeks at Continental Motors, turning out aircraft and jeep engines. His personal and the national depression were over. The war effort was unified, universal.
For Joe that furlough was like a return from space or some exotic expedition. Everyone wanted to know what jumping was like, what else he had been doing, but their unasked question was how he'd changed. His folks met him at the bus station, and Mom cried a little, saying that he looked different in a way she didn't expect and couldn't explain. Dad said that was good—Joe was just growing up fast—no need to talk about it. Off they went to the 539 Grill, passing a popular poster:
USE IT UP,
WEAR IT OUT,
MAKE IT DO,
OR DO WITHOUT.
That would not apply to Joe as he sat down to a meal of prewar viands: veal Parmesan, buttered noodles, and asparagus, topped off by Black Forest cake made with a pound of rationed sugar. The owner of the grill announced that the feast was on her, and that Joe should come back anytime. He, a private in the army, was a privileged celebrity in a way he'd never imagined.
That was confirmed when Sister Angelique, Saint Joseph's principal, summoned him—her authority over Joe, an alumnus, never questioned—to address the student body and guests. The school was too small to hold everyone, so he would speak next door in the church. His mother mildly protested that she'd heard only religious teachings at church. True, Sister Angelique agreed, but in wartime everything can change—as just about everything already had.
Joe remembers his speech as corny by current standards, but at the time everyone took it very kindly. Outside the church he was obliged to sign autographs like some big-league ballplayer. This embarrassed him because he'd done nothing in the war yet; but then came a public relations task he enjoyed—a visit to Continental Motors, where he had worked before induction and where his father was now a supervisor. The vice president of Continental had met Joe and escorted him down the assembly line of a plant roaring as never before, working around the clock, running off military engines by the thousands. With mutual pleasure Joe shook hands with a hundred workers.
Those days at home sped by in a dazzle. Joe had resolved to treat the furlough as just a break, a break so short it would not leave him longing for civilian comforts. Only sheets were such a smooth luxury that Joe would miss them. Currahee training had shown him a second self, that of a soldier related to his civilian persona but qualitatively different. He felt there would be another similarity, though with much more overlap, when he jumped into battle. He looked forward to the progression. He had, by this point, denned himself as a soldier, with a soldier's standards of success or failure. The feast at the 539 Grill, the speech at Saint Joseph's, the handshakes on Continental's assembly line—he could not fail those who so esteemed him.
Preparing to resume his second identity, Joe packed up in his bedroom. Like typical parents, Mom and Dad had left the room just the way it was when he'd gone off to Camp Custer—the high school pennant, souvenirs from places he'd visited, the Chicago Cubs banner, a picture of Notre Dame's golden dome. Joe wrote something on a scratch pad as he left the room, his shoulder bent by an army duffel bag, something left undisturbed till he returned:
Will I ever go to N.D? How long will the war last? This room will look different when I see it again … different like a fairyland.
Even with Bray and Vanderpool such ruminations were not much discussed on the rail of the Samaria. Recalling their initiation as parachutists was more topical for soldiers steeling themselves to jump on the side of good in its stark fight against evil. Their big day, remembered more vividly than first sex, was their “cherry” jump.
Wearing football helmets with numbers chalked on them, the fledgling parachutists had marched out onto the Fort Ben-ning airfield to be briefed on wind conditions and where to assemble after the drop. This was their reminder to consider a jump, even the first, as no more than the means of delivery from here to there—quite like the train to Toccoa. Don't do anything significantly wrong, and you'll arrive at the designated destination.
With that attitude the prejump briefing included nothing about parachute malfunctions. If one did occur, there would be no one to blame except the rookie himself, for he had packed his own chute, the ultimate designation of personal responsibility for a teenager to contemplate as he accelerated toward the ground.
Twenty-four cherry jumpers loaded into each C-47, the transport later said (with the jeep) to have won the war, moving men and materiel over the oceans and the Himalayas. The weather was cold in December 1942, but the rookies were sweating. A “stick” is the basic jumping unit, six to sixteen paratroopers, their leader jumping first. Joe was second. While the C-47 climbed slowly to fifteen hundred feet, Joe peeked outside. This was discouraged; they'd been told not to look down, to keep their eyes on the horizon, but he watched Georgia and Alabama spread out below. The control tower had loomed tall while they were on the ground but now became smaller and smaller.
“Stand up! Hookup!” shouted the jumpmaster.
All Joe remembers was shoving up tight to the big parachute pack of the stick leader, who disappeared like a leaf in a gale. Joe took a step to follow, was sucked out into the engines' roar and the wind blast, then felt a blow to the chest before realizing he was hanging in space. He'd jumped! It was an act of faith and a result of training that defied every natural instinct. What must be done could be done and would be done. That became a premise of the Airborne. It was said in a speech on its fiftieth anniversary: “We took our name from the air but gained our fame on the ground.” Nonetheless, hurling oneself into the air had a lot to do with what one did on the ground.
That evening Joe's stick celebrated their cherry jump with beer. The army had delivered on its implied promise throughout parachute training: “Do what you're told, as you've been trained, and you'll get to the ground in one piece.” That pledge had been fulfilled, and Joe's faith was reinforced immeasurably.
For officers there was a ceremony called a prop blast, where each cherry downed an eye-watering potion from the hub of a C-47 propeller. The celebrant was to gulp fully while his fellows counted to four, the tensest interval before the chute opened with what was called “opening shock.” If, after four seconds, those watching felt he was insufficiently blasted he had to “pull the rip cord” of his imaginary reserve parachute and drink all the way to the floor (about a minute).
An elderly lady in Muskegon who saw Joe during furlough noticed his gleaming jump wings and thought he was in the air corps. “How many flights have you made?” she asked. “Eleven takeoffs, ma'am, but no landings,” was his answer. That cherry jump was Joe's first ride in an airplane. There were thirty-five more before he landed in one.
THE SECOND WEEK AT sea was trying and wearying enough to nearly dissolve the Airborne spirit. Scabies broke out, cultivated in fatigue uniforms that could only be washed with sea-water, which left a starchy irritant causing crotch rot. For this the medics had only gentian violet, which became compulsory whether infection was evident or not. Applied to body parts, gentian violet fluorescently stained underwear, olive-drab shorts, and T-shirts, which were as scarce as aluminum mess kits. Joe, Jack, and Orv began to ask one another if their battalion commander had anything to restore morale for crusaders who were feeling like convicts.
Colonel Sink had labeled the battalions of his regiment Red, White, and Blue. Commanding the Blues of Third Battalion was Lieutenant Colonel Robert Wolverton, a West Pointer from West Virginia, hardly in the mold of Sink (that mold was broken after the original). Sink was to say that Wolverton helped develop “a spirit unsurpassed among fighting men, not one of stupid following but rather of initiative and bold aggressiveness.” That was Sink's recollection of how Wolverton trained the Blues. To Joe he was a demigod in a hierarchy beginning with Captain Shettle, his company commander. Their inspiration faded like old letters from home while the Currahees were stifled and impotent at sea.
So no less exhilarating than a prop blast was the cry “Land ho!” from Samaria's bullhorn. Paratroopers rushed starboard nearly tilting the ship. The land, the island, was Ireland, but it didn't look emerald, not even green. Nevertheless the loud talk on deck was about Irish origins; it seemed some Currahees could trace their ancestors by apocrypha and what they remembered from grandparents.
Landfall marked the end of sleeping in passageways, the ship resembling a Bowery flophouse and almost as lawless. At the sight of Ireland the chain of command sprang into life. “Reread your Guide to England,” officers ordered. “Hand-press your fatigues. Fall out on deck for calisthenics. You troopers are in worse shape than a regiment of WACs.” Blues believed in their officers but not everything they said. Just get us off this tub, Joe and his cohort grumbled; we'll show you what kind of shape we're in.
More than the New Yorkers who had seen them off, the Liverpudlians who received them looked wan and worn by the impositions of war. The Salvation Army was at dockside with tea, biscuits, and a few faint horns, which expressed an attitude less stimulating than sympathetic. Longshoremen tending the Samaria were listless relics from World War I. Lieutenant Colonel Wolverton saw how this initial impression of the ETO bemused his Blues. Before they debarked he counseled that the British had been holding off the Nazis for four years. “We're their reinforcements, the force to drive a stake in the heart of Hitler's Reich. What we have in common is a language and V for Victory.”
That was signaled by upraised fingers, the symbol on every wartime matchbook. As the Blues rode their train to Hunger-ford, natives flashed a V the way they used to tip their hats.
Grateful to march once more, to have escaped the Samaria's rancid bowels, Blues lugged weapons and duffel bags from Hungerford station five miles to the village of Rams-bury, population 350. Third Battalion numbered a hundred more than that and dispersed like some oversized tourist group that couldn't be put up in a single hotel. Part of I Company went into a livery stable, a sister company went behind an inn, another ended up out on a farm two miles from town. Joe was billeted by a manor house.
Home for the next nine months would be this residence in Wiltshire County where water was drawn from a well, where there was a once-a-week shower at a drayman's garage if the Blues were not out on a maneuver when their allotted day came up. If so, shower day was postponed till next week. At least this preserved soap, a commodity rationed like cigarettes and sugar.
Wiltshiremen were as hospitable as if they had every amenity to share, though they had hardly any at all. Grubby from extended training, Joe's squad would amble into a favorite pub, down pints with World War I veterans, and frequently be invited to their homes. Colonel Sink's policy, however, was that all such invitations were to be gratefully but politely refused. He did not want young Americans drawing on their allies' scant resources and telling them how much better things were back home.
Midwesterners like Joe, accustomed to the extravagant spaces of rural America, blinked at the compact quaintness of English farmsteads and the reticulation of the landscape by mile after mile of neat stone walls. Everything, even the trees and streams, seemed older, more in order. Everything, including rabbits and deer, belonged to someone here; there were no vast tracts of federal land like Toccoa and Fort Ben-ning. Bemused, the troopers debated whether it was preferable to have their parachutes dragged by wind into a high wooden fence back home or a low stone wall in the Midlands.
“Hey, Joe,” Orv once asked, looking up from a letter he was writing, “is Wiltshire a county or a state?”
“It's called a county, but it's like a state back in the States.”
“Oh.”