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0c9c331e519c05baba4682f84d3cd405 | https://www.historynet.com/churchill-imagines-how-the-south-won-the-civil-war.htm | How the South Won the Civil War | How the South Won the Civil War
The Confederates capture Washington? That's just one of the clever bits of fiction that Churchill conjured up in his 1931 essay (Photo Illustration by Vertis Communications; White House: Library of Congress; Confederate Flag: Thinkstock).
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Many who have read and relied on Winston Churchill’s magnificent historical works may be surprised to learn that he once devised an elaborate explanation of how Jeb Stuart prevented World War I. This seemingly far-fetched analysis was the great man’s contribution to If, or History Rewritten, a 1931 collection of essays by historians of the day. Each explored a world where events had unfolded contrary to recorded history, with titles such as “If Napoleon Had Escaped to America” and “If the Moors in Spain Had Won.” Churchill penned his contribution during his wilderness years, when he was out of office and working the lecture circuit across America. The essay is a playful study of a Civil War counterfactual: what might have happened had Robert E. Lee, with help from Stuart, won at Gettysburg and carried the South to victory in the war. It offers a look at Churchill’s lively imagination at work, as well as a few glimpses of his views on race, war, and international politics as the storm clouds of World War II began to gather.
In Winston Churchill’s fanciful alternative history, Lee wins at Gettysburg, and Jeb Stuart prevents World War I
The seeds of Churchill’s excursion into alternative history were planted during his trip to North America in 1929. He and his entourage—including his son, Randolph, an undergraduate at Oxford, and his brother, Jack—arrived by boat in Quebec, then took a train across Canada to the Rockies. Entering the United States, he was indignant when customs officers searched his party’s bags, which held Prohibition-defying flasks of whiskey and brandy, plus reserves secreted in medicine bottles.
Churchill, who was in his mid-50s, was endlessly interested in America, the land of his mother’s birth. In California he admired the redwoods, visited William Randolph Hearst at the newspaper magnate’s seafront castle, and toured MGM’s studios. In Chicago, he inspected the meatpacking plants that Upton Sinclair had condemned in The Jungle, which Churchill had favorably reviewed on its publication in 1906.
From New York, Churchill headed south and spent 10 days as a guest of Virginia governor Harry F. Byrd at the governor’s mansion on Richmond’s Capitol Square. On Churchill’s arrival, according to his granddaughter Celia Sandys, he mistook 14-year-old Harry Byrd Jr. for a servant, sent him out for a newspaper, and tipped him a quarter. When Mrs. Byrd served Virginia ham, he complained that there was no mustard. With his casual, cigar-waving air of entitlement, Churchill seemed unaware that he had offended his hosts. Young Harry, later his father’s successor in the U.S. Senate, recalled that when Churchill left, Mrs. Byrd ordered her husband never to invite that man to her house again.
On most days during Churchill’s stay with the Byrds, Douglas Southall Freeman, editor of the Richmond News Leader, whisked him away for tours of battlefields of the Civil War, which had fascinated the British leader even as a schoolboy. Freeman at the time was working on his Pulitzer Prize–winning biography of Robert E. Lee. The son of a Confederate soldier, he was famously said to have saluted the statue of Lee on the city’s Monument Avenue each morning on his way to work.
Churchill’s service as a young cavalry officer in India, Sudan, and South Africa as well as his brief duty as a World War I battalion commander had taught him that military history couldn’t be learned in the abstract. “No one can understand what happened merely through reading books and studying maps,” he wrote. “You must see the ground, you must cover the distances in person, you must measure the rivers, and see what the swamps were really like.”
Freeman and Churchill tramped among the ghosts of the Seven Days’ Battles and other famous Virginia showdowns. The British leader also toured Gettysburg, which he considered the decisive conflict of the Civil War. Years later he would analyze its events in his legendary A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, and his critique agrees comfortably with Freeman’s. Although Freeman admired Lee as the beau ideal of Virginia chivalry, he did not insist that he was perfection personified. He criticized Lee for mistakes in the field, as did Churchill. Both men wrote that Lee at Gettysburg had too much confidence in his army, based on its performance against a two-to-one superior force in the Chancellorsville campaign two months earlier. While most accounts of Chancellorsville feature Lee’s bold generalship and Stonewall Jackson’s daring flank march, Lee remembered what his outnumbered troops had done after Jackson was mortally wounded—how they drove Major General “Fighting Joe” Hooker’s powerful army back across the Rappahannock River in brutal, slugging combat.
“Lee believed his own army was invincible,” Churchill wrote, “and after Chancellorsville he had begun to regard the Army of the Potomac almost with contempt. He failed to distinguish between bad troops and good troops badly led. Ultimately it was not the army but its commander that had been beaten on the Rappahannock.” In Pennsylvania, however, it was the glum, courageous Major General George G. Meade who commanded the Union army. “It may well be that had Hooker been allowed to retain his command, Lee might have defeated him a second time,” Churchill speculated.
Both Freeman and Churchill thought that Jackson, had he lived, would have changed the outcome at Gettysburg. “I have but to show him my design, and I know that if it can be done it will be done,” Lee had said of Jackson. “Straight as the needle to the pole he advances to the execution of my purpose.”
Lieutenant General James Longstreet, who would play a critical role at Gettysburg, was a proven fighter, but he was not Stonewall Jackson. He had suggested that instead of attacking Meade’s lines on Cemetery Ridge head-on, Lee should swing south to get around the Federal left, placing the Confederates between Meade and Washington and thus forcing Meade to attack. When Lee rejected the idea, Longstreet sulked for the rest of the campaign.
Churchill sided with Lee: “It is not easy to see how Lee could have provisioned his army in such a position,” he asserted. He was appropriately hard on Longstreet, who balked at Lee’s attack orders on the second and third days of the battle: “Longstreet’s recalcitrance had ruined all chance of success at Gettysburg.”
Ultimately, however, Churchill’s analysis of the battle came back to the actions of Jeb Stuart. The flamboyant cavalry officer and his troops left Lee’s forces before the main fighting to pursue what became an ill-advised and ineffectual raid on the rear of the Union army. “Fortune, which had befriended [Lee] at Chancellorsville, now turned against him,” Churchill wrote. “Stuart’s long absence left him blind as to the enemy’s movements at the most critical stage of the campaign….Lee’s military genius did not shine. He was disconcerted by Stuart’s silence, was ‘off his balance.’”
Given Churchill’s dissection of Gettysburg’s actual events, it’s no surprise that he made Stuart a crucial figure in his imaginary account for If. Returning to England after his jaunt through America, he began to work out in his mind just how Lee lost at Gettysburg—and how he might have won. “It always amuses historians and philosophers to pick out the tiny things, the sharp agate points, on which the ponderous balance of destiny turns,” he writes in the essay.
Churchill goes on to attribute the Rebel victory to many small factors that aligned in their favor. “Anything…might have prevented Lee’s magnificent combination from synchronizing,” he writes. Like most historians, he points to the Confederate July 2 assault on Little Round Top as a pivotal moment; in his fictionalized version of events, the Rebels took the hill, depriving Meade of the high ground for his guns.
But ultimately, Churchill concludes that Stuart was the key. His narrative has the cavalry arrive at the Union rear precisely as Major General George Pickett led his infantry charge on Meade’s position on Cemetery Ridge. This helped produce a panic that swept through the whole left of Meade’s army. There could be “no conceivable doubt,” he writes, “that Pickett’s charge would have been defeated if Stuart with his encircling cavalry had not arrived in the rear of the Union position at the supreme moment.”
Perhaps Churchill’s adventurous service as a cavalryman inspired him to assign the decisive role to the dashing Stuart and his horsemen. For him, the battle was tipped not by the collision of masses of infantry, but by the hard-riding cavalry that moved on the fringes of the central ground.
Students of Churchill’s strategic leadership on a much bigger stage have seen that he often proposed roundabout approaches rather than direct confrontation. He did so in 1915, when as First Lord of the Admiralty he urged the disastrous Gallipoli landing in Turkey. Not long after, he must have been moved by the waste of lives he witnessed in his three months of service in France, where he became commander of the 6th Battalion, Royal Scots Fusiliers.
But Churchill doesn’t credit Stuart simply with saving the battle for Lee; he claims the cavalryman’s raid was exactly one of those “sharp agate points” that changes destiny. In his alternative history, Lee and his Army of Northern Virginia took Washington within three days of Gettysburg. Lee then declared the end of slavery in the South—a “master stroke,” Churchill wrote, that swung British opinion behind an alliance with the Confederacy. Faced with such a formidable combination, and with the moral issue of slavery removed, President Abraham Lincoln agreed to peace that September in the Treaty of Harpers Ferry, which gave all slaves their freedom and established the South as an independent nation.
Churchill’s imagination didn’t stop there. When tensions arose between the North and the South, he wrote, Lee created a diversion by sending the Confederate army to conquer Mexico in three years of bloody guerrilla war. At the turn of the 20th century, affairs beyond the oceans began to present graver threats. In his fable, Churchill explains how Prime Minister Arthur Balfour and President Theodore Roosevelt met to discuss a moral and psychological union. Once President Woodrow Wilson of the Confederacy joined the effort, “this august triumvirate” agreed to the Covenant of the English-Speaking Association on Christmas Day 1905.
The association adopted peace and international disarmament as its cause. But its voice was unheeded as the European powers began to mobilize for war in 1914. Calling for peace, it urged all nations to halt their armies at least 10 miles from their borders. If they did not, the association would consider itself “ipso facto at war with any power…whose troops invaded the territory of its neighbor.”
The combined influence of Britain and America brought breathing space to Europe. The armies backed away. Thus World War I—which “might well have led to the loss of many millions of lives, and to the destruction of capital that twenty years of toil, thrift and privation could not have replaced”—never came to pass.
And that, in Winston Churchill’s whimsical fantasy, is how Jeb Stuart prevented World War I. Amusing as it is, Churchill’s fictional account also suggests that, although he was out of Parliament, his mind was still busy with the political issues of the day, particularly race. Since he and Freeman were used to publishing their opinions on tender subjects, they may have discussed racial matters as they drove to and from the battlefields.
Freeman was moderate by the standards of the time, less of a hardliner than Governor Byrd, for example, who decades later as a U.S. Senator led Virginia’s campaign of “massive resistance” to school desegregation.
But moderation was not in Churchill’s makeup. In his If essay, he wrote derisively about what might have followed a Union victory in the war: “Let us only think what would have happened supposing the liberation of slaves had been followed by some idiotic assertion of racial equality, and even by attempts to graft white democratic institutions upon the simple, docile, gifted African race belonging to a much earlier chapter in human history.”
Churchill was not simply critiquing what happened in the postwar South. He was also underscoring his strong objection to what was happening in England’s colonial holdings. Mahatma Gandhi was crusading for the independence of India, and Churchill vehemently opposed the liberation movement throughout his career, correctly anticipating that it would lead to the breakup of Britain’s far-flung, mostly dark-skinned empire. He was a champion of liberty, but not too much of it, not for everyone.
Reading between the lines of Churchill’s alternative history, we also find signs of what Churchill valued in war. As military historian Max Hastings and others have noted, the British in World War II liked minor operations, while the Americans did not. “The mushroom growth of British special forces,” Hastings writes in Winston’s War, “reflected the prime minister’s conviction that war should, as far as possible, entertain its participants and showcase feats of daring to entertain the populace.” Hastings was speaking of Churchill’s enthusiasm for commando raids like those at Saint-Nazaire and Dieppe in 1942, and later for thrusting into the soft underbelly of Nazi-held Europe by attacking Crete and giving priority to the Italian campaign—campaigns with strong echoes of those of the gallant Stuart and his cavalrymen
Given that Churchill’s public life was so long and full, it’s hard to say how his study of the Civil War influenced his thinking in World War II. But it is obvious that to the end of his days, he was fascinated by this chapter of American history. He returned often to Gettysburg. He was there again in 1943 as the guest of Franklin Roosevelt during a wartime visit to the president’s Catoctin Mountain retreat of Shangri-la (later Camp David), a few miles south of the battlefield. (He is said to have corrected Roosevelt when the president mistakenly said that the battle had been fought in 1864.) And in 1959, when he was 84 years old, he took a presidential helicopter tour of the battlefield with Dwight Eisenhower, whose farm was nearby.
Since Churchill’s time, the alternative-history genre has thrived, with many books about the Civil War and at least one about Gettysburg. There is also a computer game, taking off from the moment in 1931 when Churchill looked the wrong way in New York and stepped off the curb into the path of an oncoming automobile. The game deals with what would have happened to the world if that accident had proved fatal. Some ifs are terrible to contemplate.
This article originally appeared in the Summer 2011 issue (Vol. 24, No. 1) of MHQ—The Quarterly Journal of Military History with the headline: How the South Won the War
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df30a5aee291fbce2ccf8a0b3e0badeb | https://www.historynet.com/cias-costly-mistake.htm | The CIA’s Costly Mistake | The CIA’s Costly Mistake
In November 1967, Joe Hovey tried to warn the Johnson administration about the Tet Offensive—but his CIA superiors said he was crying wolf.
Unlike great statesmen, military leaders, diplomats or openly declared swashbuckling intelligence operatives, reallife intelligence analysts work quietly in back rooms and receive scant public recognition for their efforts. They could best be described as the nerds or geeks of the world of foreign affairs. Like anyone else, they produce work of both good and bad quality, but in general their good work is acknowledged only when it is consistent with current policy. Any analysis that challenges accepted beliefs often earns little or no praise for the analyst and can even be an obstacle to career advancement.
Such was the case of Joe Hovey, a Central Intelligence Agency analyst stationed in Saigon who correctly predicted the Tet Offensive. In November 1967, in response to a direct request to the Saigon CIA station from Walt Rostow, President Lyndon B. Johnson’s national security adviser, Hovey prepared—with the input of his colleagues in the CIA Collation Branch at the U.S. Embassy—a precise analysis predicting an imminent all-out, countrywide Communist offensive. The report reached Johnson’s desk six weeks before the actual event. Hovey’s warnings were ignored by the president and his advisers, because senior CIA analysts in Washington concluded differently and told the White House that the Saigon CIA Collation Branch was alarmist and crying wolf.
I knew Joe Hovey during the period when I served as a U.S Army civilian attached to the U.S. Embassy in Saigon. Hovey was a regular visitor at my apartment in the center of Saigon. Because of the apartment’s location and view, it was a favorite meeting place for a wide range of people. And, of course, the war was one of the major subjects of conversation.
Sometime in the fall of 1967, based on his analysis of captured enemy documents and prisoner interrogations, Hovey first began to talk to me about impending Viet Cong plans for massive countrywide attacks on U.S. and South Vietnamese civilian and military installations in Saigon and other urban areas. The idea seemed completely preposterous, since it was at variance with everything we were hearing from open and classified sources. This was a period when everyone was euphoric about the war and the progress being made. U.S. military and civilian leaders, both in Saigon and in Washington, were making frequent use of such phrases as “We can now see the light at the end of the tunnel” and “We have now turned the corner.” Among my colleagues, friends and sources of information, no one but Hovey was saying anything to contradict the prevailing mood of optimism.
As 1967 ended, Hovey said to me more than once, “Jack, they are coming into the cities.” Since I was not receiving confirmation of this from other sources, I dismissed Hovey’s assertions as deluded. Yes, there was the ongoing siege at Khe Sanh, which was growing in intensity at that time, but that was far away. Surely the VC were not coming into Saigon.
In the early morning hours of January 31, 1968, amid the celebratory din of Tet fireworks, the Communists struck into the heart of Saigon with unparalleled ferocity and devastation. For a day and a half following the onset of the offensive, Hovey did not appear at his office. At the request of his supervisor, two of his colleagues and I went to Hovey’s apartment, where we found him in a depressed state. After reassurances, we persuaded him that all was secure between his apartment and the nearby embassy, and we agreed to accompany him to his office. Hovey’s appraisal of what had taken place had shaken him to the core. This was very understandable. He had foreseen too clearly what others had refused to acknowledge.
How did Hovey accurately predict what proved to be the turning point of the Vietnam War, and why was his analysis rejected? The following is based on a recent meeting with Hovey, phone conversations and written material he prepared.
Joe Hovey arrived in Vietnam in February 1965. After extensive analysis of captured documents and interrogation reports, he concluded that the key element in determining the enemy’s future intentions was the People’s Revolutionary Party (PRP)—the southern branch of the Communist Party of Vietnam, which was headquartered in Hanoi. This was also the prevailing view of other CIA analysts at the time. All activities, including civilian, military and National Liberation Front, came under the authority of the PRP. Hovey believed that only by understanding that organization, and how persons within it thought, could one make reasoned predictions regarding the enemy’s plans.
Hovey found very useful the lengthy interrogation reports prepared by the RAND Corporation from debriefings of Viet Cong prisoners and defectors who had already been processed by the military and police. These reports went into a great deal of detail as to what it was like to be a member of the VC. Although mostly from low-level civilian and military cadres, the reports provided an invaluable insight into the mind-set of the enemy. The interrogation reports were delivered to Hovey’s office in large stacks, and he would spend hours reading them after everyone else had gone home.
Hovey did not believe this meant that everything the PRP said could be taken as the gospel truth. During 1966 and 1967, as a result of large-scale U.S. military sweeps in III Corps Tactical Zone and in the Central Highlands, large batches of captured enemy documents prepared by the PRP began showing up at Hovey’s office. What struck Hovey in reports sent by the PRP cadres back to the leadership in Hanoi were the wildly exaggerated claims of damage inflicted on U.S. and South Vietnamese forces. There was even talk about “popular uprisings and demonstrations” against the South Vietnamese government and the U.S. when no such events had occurred.
Hovey received his first premonition that something big was in the works sometime in late July or early August 1967 (as best as he can remember), when enemy documents started using for the first time the terms “general offensive” and “general uprising.” Hovey was struck by this terminology. It had not been used since 1945-46, when the Communists were rallying their forces to take over Vietnam after the defeat of Japan and before the return of the French colonial forces. These terms signified the triumphal, Armageddon-style culmination of the Vietnamese Communist revolution and final defeat of the bourgeois enemy. Considering that all indicators were pointing in the direction of victory for the United States and South Vietnam, how was it possible, Hovey reflected, that the Communists would be planning a general offensive? To Hovey and his colleagues in the Collation Branch, this made—at least initially—no sense.
The exhortations for a general uprising of the population in support of the Communist offensive made even less sense, since the United States had conducted extensive polling among the Vietnamese urban population and had discerned no indication that they would welcome a Communist takeover in their areas. After careful consideration, Hovey concluded that the Communist leaders in Hanoi assumed a general uprising would happen during the offensive based on the exaggerated reporting about popular uprisings and demonstrations that they had received from local cadres. This was a very costly false assumption that contributed to the huge losses suffered by the Communists and the eventual decisive military defeat of the offensive.
In Hovey’s view, the fact that a general uprising was a fantasy based on fabricated reporting from the field did not deter the Communists from believing it would take place. Hovey learned from his extensive and laborious study of captured documents and interrogation reports that the Communist higher echelon, when communicating with its cadres in the South, believed and meant what it said.
Even though the idea of a popular uprising was delusional on the part of the Communists, this did not mean that they were unprepared to carry out their plans for nationwide massive attacks in all the urban centers of South Vietnam. Other analysts at Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MACV), the Pentagon and CIA headquarters in Washington considered the enemy’s words to be propaganda and hyperbole, because there was no good, hard statistical evidence that a general uprising was likely. From this they jumped incorrectly to the conclusion that the idea of a general offensive had no basis in fact either.
Hovey concluded otherwise. He knew the enemy was capable of making false assumptions, but he also knew from extensive research of enemy documents that when the Communist leaders communicated their intentions to cadres at all levels, they did, or tried to do, precisely what they said they were going to do. This was a matter of serious concern to Hovey and his colleagues in the Collation Branch.
The statements made in captured enemy documents clearly described plans for a nationwide 1968 winter-spring offensive striking directly at urban military and governmental installations. These statements were being communicated countrywide on a repeated basis to all command levels and were contained in Hovey’s analysis, which was read by President Johnson. Hovey and his colleagues argued unsuccessfully that these statements of intent should be taken seriously.
Hovey’s confidence in his predictions was reinforced by Communist statements that they intended to attack allied forces in remote, underpopulated areas. This is precisely what happened in Loc Ninh in October and Dak To in November 1967. Those attacks took place during the period leading up to the siege of Khe Sanh. Enemy documents stated that the purpose of this strategy was to divert the attention of U.S. forces away from the urban areas, the real targets of the Tet Offensive. This, along with Hovey’s extensive experience analyzing earlier Communist assertions, convinced him that they could be depended upon to follow through on their statements of intent.
The Communists announced to their cadres in late 1967 that they planned to establish new political fronts in South Vietnam prior to the big offensive. Sure enough, new political entities calling for negotiations to end the war started appearing in urban areas, particularly in I Corps Tactical Zone. These groups did not amount to much, but they showed that the Communists carried through on their stated intentions.
Finally, Hovey noted that while the VC defector rate had been very high in early 1967, by the end of the year it had fallen to almost zero. Hovey concluded that as the enemy was telling its troops and cadres they were about to win the war, potential defectors were deciding to await the results of the upcoming offensive before taking such a risky move. Who would want to defect to the side that— they were told—was going to be driven into the sea?
Based on all of these indicators, and on extensive give-and-take discussion with his colleagues at the Collation Branch and with a couple of MACV intelligence officers, Hovey wrote his analysis confident that what he predicted would happen.
Another person who correctly predicted a big offensive, based on locally obtained tactical intelligence, was General Frederick Weyand, U.S. II Field Forces commander.
Weyand observed in his area of operations what Hovey saw nationwide. Thanks to his insight regarding enemy intentions in his area, he was able to convince General William Westmoreland a couple of weeks before the attack to move 15 U.S. maneuver battalions to positions near Saigon. Had this not been done, the Communists probably would have been able to seize and hold for a period of time large portions of Saigon, instead of just peripheral areas of the city. This very well could have included key command-and-control centers. One can only speculate as to what effect this would have had on further pursuit of the war.
Unlike their colleagues at CIA headquarters in Langley, Va., the Collation Branch in Saigon relied solely on human intelligence in the form of captured documents, agent reports and interrogation reports as a basis for its analytical work. According to Hovey, Langley placed primary emphasis on technically obtained intelligence such as communications intercepts, spy satellites and reporting from diplomatic sources. All other sources were looked upon with less confidence. Any uncertainty that Hovey and his colleagues had about the enemy’s intentions was overcome by the horde of documents received that clearly indicated what the enemy intended to do. Hovey stated: “We finally had to take the enemy at his word. He was going to try this.”
Hovey did not believe the people at Langley were any less intelligent, hardworking or committed than the analysts in Saigon’s Collation Branch. His branch simply had the advantage of being closer to the scene of action, where its personnel were able to study and absorb the mental processes of the local people and determine what was important to them and what was not.
Hovey concluded in his recent written comments to me: “One of the unstated objectives of an intelligence analyst is to try to get inside the mind of the enemy, i.e., to view the world through his eyes. What makes this process difficult is that the enemy, more often than not, views the world differently than we do. Differences in language, culture, religion, and history make the enemy’s thought process opaque and confusing to us. It is so much easier to view the enemy as carbon copies of ourselves and the way we do things. This is a serious mistake and can lead to a misreading of the enemy’s intentions as well as his strengths and weaknesses. Admittedly, the North Vietnamese plan for the Tet Offensive was irrational and a misinterpretation of the true situation in South Vietnam—but they did not see it that way. The failure of American intelligence to take the North Vietnamese plan seriously demonstrates a stubborn refusal on our part to view the world through the eyes of others. The consequences of this failure have been very costly for our nation.”
Thirty-nine years after the event, it is interesting to speculate what would have happened if Hovey’s analysis had been taken seriously by senior political, military and intelligence leaders in Washington and Saigon. We know the Tet Offensive was a colossal military debacle for the Communists. The VC infrastructure in South Vietnam was effectively destroyed. With the exception of General Weyand’s redeployment of 15 battalions to the Saigon area and a few minor redeployments in other areas, little or nothing was done in anticipation of this huge nationwide assault on urban centers. In fact, two days before the offensive, the ARVN’s effective strength was reduced 50 percent for Tet holiday leave.
Had U.S. military and civilian leadership acted on the Saigon Collation Branch’s hard documentary intelligence and insightful analysis, and mobilized all available resources for the impending attack, would the Communists have been crazy enough to go ahead with their plans? That is a hypothetical question that is very difficult to answer.
It is clear, however, that if the element of surprise had been removed and the enemy had gone ahead with his plans, the U.S. military and ARVN would have suffered far fewer casualties, and Communist losses would have been even more devastating. If the public had been alerted to the possibility of a major attack, American public opinion might not have turned against the war the way it did. And finally, the Communist leadership—rather than President Johnson—would have been humiliated, and Johnson would undoubtedly have decided to run for reelection. Under such circumstances the eventual denouement of the war could have been very different and more favorable to American objectives in Vietnam than what actually transpired. We can only wish that that had been the case.
Hovey returned to Langley in mid-1968. He was given no recognition for the work he and his colleagues had done. His presence was, in fact, embarrassing to those who had earlier questioned the accuracy of what he predicted. He worked on matters relating to Vietnam and was astonished to discover that nobody paid much attention to captured enemy documents. After correctly predicting various moves by the Communists based on captured documents and still finding that no one wanted to take him seriously, Hovey became discouraged and quit the CIA in late 1969.
Pearl Harbor, the Battle of the Bulge, the Tet Offensive and 9/11 are only some of the more spectacular intelligence failures of recent history. Their cost in American lives and treasure has been horrendous. These failures highlight the critical need for a cadre of career intelligence analysts who are encouraged to follow their intuitions and speak out about impending threats. People doing such work should spend part of their careers overseas in order to get the necessary experience to analyze correctly their areas of specialization. Maybe it is asking too much, but policymakers should, in their own best interest, be prepared to listen and give due consideration to views that contradict current policies.
One way to encourage analysts currently serving at the CIA and the Pentagon and to persuade young people to go into the profession—and stay there—would be to properly reward analysts who have gotten it right in the past. Joe Hovey and the Saigon Collation Branch’s spectacularly accurate Tet Offensive prediction is clearly deserving of high-level, belated recognition by the intelligence community. Such action would serve as an example and incentive to current and future members of the intelligence analyst profession. This would send a clear message as to the high caliber of intelligence that the U.S. government should expect from its operatives worldwide.
Jacques Prindiville served as a civilian with the U.S. Army in Vietnam, where he knew Joe Hovey. More recently, he interviewed Hovey by phone for this article. For additional reading, see: The Tet Offensive: Intelligence Failure in War, by James J. Wirtz; and War of Numbers, by Sam Adams.
Originally published in the February 2007 issue of Vietnam Magazine. To subscribe, click here.
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b503e9559a53fcbad60583c7fc837777 | https://www.historynet.com/civil-war-circuses.htm | Civil War Circuses Beloved by Blue and Gray Audiences | Civil War Circuses Beloved by Blue and Gray Audiences
Soldiers and civilians flocked to see the freakish and fantastic
On the eve of the Civil War, the circus—or “menagerie,” as some shows featuring human oddities were called—was an immensely popular cultural phenomenon across the United States. The 19th-century equivalent of Hollywood and Broadway combined, the burgeoning circus business had taken the antebellum nation by storm. Competing companies would arrive in large cities or even smaller towns, set up their tents, and provide entertainment ranging from exotic animal performances to collections of human curiosities.
Equestian performer John Bill Ricketts introduced the circus to America in 1793 in Philadelphia. (Historical Society of Pennsylvania)
In a time of relatively rigid social rules—where drinking alcohol, playing cards, gambling, and even subtle lewdness were all frowned upon in polite company—the circus was considered a mainstream entertainment that allowed audiences to experience the freakish and the fantastic in mostly acceptable ways, and soldiers on both sides enjoyed them before and during the war.
Some fundamentalist critics saw moral danger in the circus, even as they acknowledged the sensational popularity among the public at large. Milo Grow of the Miller Guards, a Confederate unit from Georgia, categorized the place of the circus retrospectively: “St. Johnsbury was one of the more strict villages in the mid-1800s. The straight-laced were objecting to the loosening of morals. They did not object to baseball, roller skating, magicians, circus or exhibitions of war panoramas, but they did object to raffles, lotteries or females reading sketches or declaiming in public.” A citizen of Augusta County, Va., confirmed the wide popularity of the circus even in rural areas: “A circus arrived in town this morning, which brought together a considerable crowd from the country.” The circus also crossed generational lines. “The young folks, and many of the old ones, will enjoy lots of fun at the Circus,” the Delaware County Republican reported.
Gilbert Stuart painted John Bill Ricketts circa 1795. (National Gallery of Art)
The American circus traced its roots back to ancient times, the term circus coming from a Latin word meaning circle, and which was first reportedly used in written English by Geoffrey Chaucer in 1380. An earlier form of the circus had been popular in Europe for many years before coming to the New World, and in particular, had been a long-standing social event in England. Some of the best-known acts (dancing horses, acrobatic stunts, even jousting, etc.) could be traced directly to medieval carnival traditions. The menagerie, or display of human oddities, was also popular and traced its roots mainly to 17th-century France, although it, too, dated back to ancient times and the Roman Emperor Elagabalus (reigned 218-222 CE) who had a famous collection of human oddities from around the Mediterranean world.
The first known circus in the independent United States occurred in in Philadelphia in 1793 when equestrian John Bill Ricketts set up wooden bleachers around a circular space and dazzled the audience, including President George Washington, with feats of horsemanship. Slowly at first, and then with an ever-quickening pace, the circus and menagerie grew in popularity and was a booming business by the outbreak of the Civil War. This coincided with the rapid expansion of transportation networks, including canals, railroads, coach lines, and macadamized roads. Circus companies were able to travel more quickly and inexpensively, thus allowing them to reach more isolated venues that had hitherto been unable to host performances by large troupes. Many of the companies originated in the Northern states, and as tensions mounted between Northern and Southern factions in the federal government and war became a real possibility, many of these troupes found themselves with difficult decisions about how to handle the Southern stops on their scheduled tours. Many decided to cut tours short; others continued Southern stops, sometimes with unfortunate outcomes. Famous showman Fayette Ludovic “Yankee” Robinson, for example, found his stop in Charleston, South Carolina, suddenly interrupted by John Brown’s raid in 1859. Knowing that his nickname, which stemmed from his upstate New York accent, would make him anathema in the South, he decided to leave abruptly without his tent and gear.
An ad for “Yankee” Robinson’s circus appeared on August 19, 1858 in the Portage Sentinel of Ravenna, Ohio.
Soldiers on both sides of the war were familiar with the basic nature of the circus and many had attended at least once. Newspaper advertisements in 1860 for the circus “coming to town” are plentiful in both Northern and Southern newspapers. Modern historians have cataloged the myriad circus enterprises of the time—a fairly comprehensive cataloging of Civil War era circuses can be found in William L. Slout’s 2009 Clowns and Cannons—but the performers and managers ranged from local unknowns to international acts, and the list of all of the hundreds (or thousands) of individuals is not likely ever to be completely exhaustive.
Circus troupes continued performing after the war broke out, and even President Lincoln was known to attend. Particularly in the North, large crowds in major cities continued to throng to the “big tent” in spite of other national distractions, like battle reports, or the draft. During the holiday season of 1863, for example, the New York Herald reported, “The Broadway ampitheatre [sic], the Bowery circus and the Menagerie were thronged during the day and evening with children, both of a smaller and a larger growth.” In Washington, D.C., performances occurred regularly to houses packed with soldiers. A Southern gentleman visiting the city by special permit during the war reported that the city was “given over to actors, strong minded women, and quacks who treat special diseases,” and he included among these the “Great American Circus.”
On February 13, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln watched a performance by 2 foot, 11 inch Charles Sherwood Stratton, known by his stage name, Tom Thumb. Lincoln was also well-acquainted with one of America’s most famous clowns, “Yankee Dan Rice,” later the President’s unofficial court jester, who was born in New York City in 1823 and is considered the founding father of American clowndom. Rice’s career before, during, and immediately after the Civil War brought him lasting fame. He also served as the model for the image that would become the iconic Uncle Sam.
An undated ad for Dan Rice’s circus.
Rice was a talented humorist, composer, and all-around entertainer, uniquely popular in both the North and South. In fact, he was not only close friends with Lincoln, but also with Confederate President Jefferson Davis and General Robert E. Lee, and other prominent Southerners. Rice was so popular and in demand in both North and South that at one point during the war he was making a thousand dollars a week—more than Lincoln, and roughly the equivalent of one and a half million present-day dollars per year.
Rice’s performances in Union and Confederate states during the war were sometimes occasions for ill-feeling as his loyalties were suspect on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. But Rice was indomitable and continued to perform in spite of glares or murmurs. He was well aware of what was going on, however, and he later contributed the funds to erect the first monument to soldiers killed in the war. His popularity provided him with a margin for political error that lesser performers sometimes didn’t enjoy.
Wary Union officers saw the circus as a business where spies and Rebel sympathizers could hide in order to potentially gather useful information or sabotage the Union war effort. Particularly in the Border States, circus performers were often suspected or arrested for sedition or resistance. A Union officer in Cincinnati, a key border city, complained: “I attended the famous circus of Robinson & —— today. In the most exciting portion of the equestrian performance, Mr. Robinson was thrown from his horse. Said the clown (a red, white, and red man): ‘Why is Mr. Robinson like General McClellan? Because, although he has lost his position he has not lost his reputation.’ The ‘butternuts’ clapped their hands, and the pavilion resounded from the hearty applause of hundreds. They were on hand in much force. The ladies here consume themselves in rebel colors.”
“Yankee” Dan Rice is considered the father of American clowndom. He is also likely the model for Uncle Sam. (Harvard Theatre Collection)
In the South, some soldiers were fortunate enough to attend performances even after hostilities broke out; some Northern-based troupes remained at first, and some organic Southern businesses continued. There were also noteworthy regional differences between circus performances—chief amongst them that the audiences were formally segregated by race in the South, seated on separate sides of the arena. The circus acts themselves were similar, although performers and managers literally changed the theme music and the punch lines to jokes depending on which region in which they were performing.
Evidence of circus performances continuing in the Confederacy also comes from the Confederate Congress, which in 1864 updated the code for taxation of performances: “[The] circus shall pay one hundred dollars, and a tax of ten dollars for each exhibition; which tax shall be paid by the manager thereof. Every building, tent, or space, or area, where feats of horsemanship or acrobatic sports are exhibited, shall be regarded as a circus under this act. Every person who performs by sleight of hand shall be regarded as a juggler under this act…” Nevertheless, some Southern states, such as Georgia, saw the circus business practically disappear during the war.
The outbreak of military hostilities created an immediate crisis for traveling troupes in the South that had originated mostly from Northern states. According to historian and circus critic Earl Chapin May, a number of troupes were suddenly “marooned in a hostile Southern land.” Even those troupes fortunate enough to be on the right side of the lines found that business had changed, since anyone who had traveled extensively recently in one region was prone to immediately be a suspect in the other, and sometimes in both.
One of the most notable troupes stranded in the South was the Spaulding and Rogers circus with its Floating Palace and accompanying fleet of smaller ships. Dr. Gilbert R. Spaulding, a former pharmacist from Albany, N.Y., and Charles J. Rogers had pioneered the entrepreneurial notion of a circus on water as early as 1852, the entire act being literally self-contained and complete within a sizable amphitheater on board a ship. They also were early pioneers of the rail circus, having completed a rail tour in 1857, which then transferred onto the boats to continue further. While other shows traveled by river and water, wagon, or rail, and performed on land, theirs was perhaps the first major circus to actually travel and perform on the water. The setup on board included facilities for caring for the animals, quarters for staff, and administrative areas, and had the additional benefit of allowing management to never worry about blow downs (the bane of every tent user from any era). The ship reportedly cost $42,000 (roughly $1.4 million today).
While undoubtedly a brilliant business idea, the Spaulding and Rogers floating circus became a victim of the proverbial curse of “wrong place, wrong time.” While in New Orleans after a chain of performances in 1861, the circus’s primary vessel, Floating Palace, was seized by Confederate authorities for use as a hospital ship. To make matters worse, the circus troupe was ordered to leave the Confederacy. There was a decidedly suspicious and sometimes hostile attitude toward most of the Northern circus troupes that were inadvertently caught below the Mason-Dixon Line. Would it not be an ideal place to burrow a spy, who could with legitimate reason travel widely to observe and report back?
Spaulding and Rogers, however, were truly innovative entrepreneurs, and refused to give in to despair. They managed to hire out a smaller steamboat, changed their name to the more judicious title “Dan Castello’s Great Show” (named after a clown with overt Southern connections), and literally “flew the Palmetto flag” while the circus band played “Dixie.”
The Spaulding and Rogers troupe worked its way up the Mississippi, stopping at towns to earn what they needed, making certain that they were, “heartily for Jeff Davis and the Confederacy.” They eventually worked past the Cumberland and Tennessee rivers, where Union Maj. Gen. Ulysses S. Grant was fighting his army closer and closer to the key Mississippi town of Vicksburg. At this time, the troupe literally played for both sides, hoisting the appropriate flag based on which side nominally controlled the area. On one side, they would play Yankee Doodle; on the other, Dixie. When they were safely on the other side literally of the Mason-Dixon line, management conspicuously decided to move the troupe to South America for the next season to escape the foibles of war in America completely.
The remarkable Civil War “escape” of the Spaulding and Rogers Circus was only a sidelight, however, in a long and remarkable business partnership history that dated back to 1848. Among other accomplishments that are often attributed to the team are: first to use quarter-poles in tents, introducing the pipe organ to circuses, inventing knock-down seats, pioneering Drummond lights (also known as “Limelight”) for night performances, using multiple performing teams simultaneously in different locales, and moving an entire circus by rail for the first time. Their acts were gaudy, exaggerated, and fascinating, typified by a carriage holding 50 musicians pulled by 40 horses.
Performer “Tom Thumb” with impresario P.T. Barnum. (National Portrait Gallery)
Americans, North and South, fell in love with the circus in no small part due to Spaulding and Rogers; circus terminology and humor also entered the common lexicon in part due to their efforts. In 1863, Harper’s Weekly carried the following joke: “Why do young ladies in love like the circus?” The answer: “Because they have an itching for the ring.” The circus had by this time entered into common parlance. Even the New York Herald could not resist the imagery when questioning the “rage of the radicals” in an 1865 article: “They are, therefore, only watching for developments, in hope of obtaining something that will justify them in arraigning Mr. [William H.] Seward [Lincoln’s Secretary of State] before Congress, and have one of their regular rear and tear scenes, to the amusement of those who like to visit such national circus shows.”
In 1865, the death of a well-known circus elephant even made headlines:
Death Notice: The Manmoth [sic] Elephant “Hannibal,” attached to Thayer and Noyes Circus, which exhibited here in this city last summer, died at Centreville, Pa., on Sunday morning a week aged, it is supposed, about 66 years. He was buried on the spot where he died. He was the largest elephant ever brought to this country. His owners held an insurance upon him for $10,000.
The war, for reasons that aren’t perfectly clear, was also particularly hard on the business of menageries. The Van Amburgh Menagerie, which had traveled the country for 40 years, was the only major operation that continued throughout the war, according to one source. After the Civil War, famous acts like the Ringling Bros. Circus (later to merge into the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus) frequently merged their shows with menageries, monster shows, museums, and other attractions in order to generate ticket sales. James A. Bailey, just a youth when the Bailey Circus plied its trade in the 1860s, is often called the Father of the American Circus, as his post-Civil War partnership with P.T. Barnum spawned the “most famous show on earth,” which included almost all of these elements under one tent.
American’s love affair with the circus continued unabated after the war. A Union officer in Virginia assisting the Freedman’s Bureau complained that newly freed African Americans were wasting their money on “bar rooms and two circus exhibitions.” He also complained about the abuse of alcohol “during one of the circus exhibitions.” But the circus was by this time firmly planted in American society, thanks in no small part to the role it played during the war. Troupes quickly returned to the South in larger numbers, as well. Circuses still tour, though many have decreased the use of animals and focused instead on human performances.
This story from America’s Civil War was posted on Historynet.com on May 12, 2020.
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39abbd776414d9c0f7a1001e0290bf99 | https://www.historynet.com/civil-war-firepower-denied.htm | Civil War Firepower Denied! | Civil War Firepower Denied!
The Union Army’s chief of ordnance sabotaged the introduction of repeating weapons.
The Civil War has been called the first “modern war” and is credited with the introduction of revolutionary military technologies to include repeating weapons and proto-machine guns such as the Gatling gun. In reality, although these weapons did appear on the battlefield, it was in relatively small numbers and never enough to decisively affect the outcome of the war. This was largely due to determined opposition and obstructionism by the Union Army’s chief of the Ordnance Bureau,Brigadier General James Wolfe Ripley.
Ripley was born December 10, 1794, in Windham County, Connecticut, and he graduated as an artillery lieutenant from West Point in 1814. He served under Andrew Jackson in 1817-18 in the Seminole War as an ordnance officer. In this capacity, he once refused to fill a requisition because it did not go through the proper channels.Jackson promptly informed Ripley that if he did not comply, he would be arrested, brought to headquarters and hanged from the nearest tree. Ripley immediately filled the requisition.
Later, Ripley commanded several U.S. arsenals, including Springfield Arsenal in Massachusetts. There, in 1854, he graciously hosted a British delegation desperate to learn from America’s mass production and interchangeable parts systems how to rebuild Britain’s Royal Small Arms Factory to meet the demands of the Crimean War for the new Pattern 1853 Enfield rifle-musket. Ironically, the subsequently improved British production capacity enabled Britain to supply Confederate armies with 400,000 Enfields to use against Union forces during the Civil War. (See Forgotten History, May 2012 ACG.)
At the war’s outbreak in 1861,Ripley was promoted to brigadier general and appointed chief of the Ordnance Bureau, a position of critical importance in arming the new mass Union armies being raised.However, he initially opposed expanding new production of rifled weapons in favor of converting the large on-hand stocks of obsolete smoothbore muskets to rifles. Since adding rifling to the out-of-date smoothbores produced weapons that were clearly inferior to the newly manufactured rifles, his erroneous position unnecessarily delayed the production of desperately needed weapons of the latest design.
But once Ripley finally conceded the necessity of producing new rifled weapons, he expended every effort to ensure acquisition of the Model 1861 Springfield rifle-musket, a state-of-the-art weapon developed while he was superintendent of Springfield Arsenal. Ripley was an honest public servant who always negotiated the best possible prices for government contracts and never exhibited a hint of corruption in the midst of massive thievery in war orders in other departments.
Unfortunately, however, Ripley seemed terrified of new technologies, which he labeled “new-fangled gimcracks” (showy, but useless). He firmly believed the emerging technology of repeating, rapid-fire small arms would produce weapons that would not work properly and would only interfere with the production of standard rifle-muskets. He further insisted that repeating weapons would destroy troops’ fire discipline by causing such a rapid expenditure of ammunition that adequate resupply would be impossible. He so obstinately clutched at such excuses that he never considered how quickly an enemy would melt away when faced with a 7-to-1 or more firepower disadvantage. Ripley’s response to every technological innovation was that the present systems were “good enough.”
In the mid-19th century, American industry was the world leader in developing the technology of repeating weapons. In 1851,Samuel Colt’s six-shot revolver had amazed crowds at London’s Crystal Palace Exposition.A decade later, the advent of the Civil War prompted a proliferation of new designs and sparked competition among firearms inventors to create repeating weapons. President Abraham Lincoln, in particular, appreciated the new technologies and took a personal interest in them. On his own authority, he ordered the government to buy the first machine gun, the Union Repeating Gun, nicknamed the “Coffee Mill Gun” for its top-mounted hopper-feed system.
The hidebound Ripley was bound to clash with the forward-looking president. Indeed,Lincoln had to go to Ripley’s office and give his ordnance chief direct orders to buy the new weapons. Although Ripley grudgingly complied, he then did his best to sabotage the purchase contracts by inserting an egregious “fine print” clause that would cancel any order that was even one day late in delivery.This proved to be especially effective obstructionism considering the inevitable delays the new companies experienced as they wrestled with unfamiliar technologies. Ripley’s correspondence reveals his continual effort to cancel all orders for repeating weapons by unfairly exaggerating a few delivery failures or development problems. Yet field commanders were so desperate for the new rapid-fire weapons that some of them armed their units with repeaters personally purchased by their troops or officers.
In one notorious incident, Ripley provoked a near mutiny by the famed Berdan’s Sharpshooter Regiment (2d U.S. Sharpshooters) in early 1862 by refusing to fulfill the government’s promise to arm the regiment with the rapid-firing Sharps rifle. (Although the Sharps was not a “repeater” per se, its innovative rapid reloading mechanism enabled significantly increased firepower.) Only the direct intervention of Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton ensured the sharpshooters were properly armed as promised with the excellent Sharps rifle.
Ripley also sabotaged Lincoln’s “coffee mill” machine guns by ordering them returned to the Washington Arsenal, where they sat out the rest of the war. Major General John C. Fremont, commanding in the West, wrote to Ripley and stated that he wanted the weapons, yet Ripley replied with a deliberate falsehood, claiming that he had never heard of them. Similarly, in 1863, Ripley successfully blocked any consideration of Richard Gatling’s revolutionary new rapid-fire machine gun.
As early as January 1862, Lincoln and Stanton had been ready to replace Ripley, but his job was saved by the fact that no one else among the small stable of U.S. Army ordnance officers possessed the experience to manage the vital bureau. Yet even that shield splintered under growing complaints from field commanders and arms makers that Ripley was denying the army what it clearly wanted. Finally, in mid-September 1863, Lincoln and Stanton forced Ripley to retire. By then, however, it was too late to begin mass producing repeating weapons and re-equipping Union armies with them.
Ripley ended his days in an essentially honorary position as inspector of coastal artillery in New England, and he died in 1870. In his defense, it was largely due to his efforts that the over 2 million Union soldiers who served during the war were consistently well armed with standard muzzle-loading rifle-muskets and supplied with plenty of ammunition. Yet Ripley’s failure to ride the wave of new technology meant that the war dragged on longer than it should have, thereby producing a higher cost in lives and treasure.
Peter Tsouras is the author of 26 books on military history. He served in the Army and Army Reserve and worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency until retiring in 2010 to devote himself to writing, his roses and his grandchildren.
Originally published in the May 2015 issue of Armchair General.
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cf82312d0220b2b18e5f10118cb4e16b | https://www.historynet.com/civil-war-memory.htm | Civil War Memory | Civil War Memory
When will all of us finally admit what caused the war? In the absence of national leadership, myths and untruths run rampant
Reunion of G.A.R. and U.C.V. at Gettysburg in 1913. Library of Congress.Whose war is it anyway? If you go by the title of this magazine, the Civil War belongs to all Americans. To North and South, black and white, are apportioned shares of its heartache, consequences and glory, not to mention the responsibility to truthfully appraise the men and issues that divided and nearly destroyed this country.
Approaching the Civil War sesquicentennial, it is easy to believe that some Americans have concluded otherwise. Congress has either refused or neglected to form a national sesquicentennial commission to organize and fund this once-in-a-generation anniversary opportunity. Whatever their flaws, such groups are capable of galvanizing nationally palatable and historically accurate commemorations. At their best, they marshal attention to usefully probe the past to illuminate the future.
What they don’t require is cookie-cutter consensus or ahistorical political consensus. Their role is to stimulate debate, encourage creativity and, most of all, involve people of every background and heritage who were either affected by our history or can learn from it. The U.S. Lincoln Bicentennial Commission inspired not only exhibitions, symposia and curriculum development, but also town halls that encouraged open discussion of what Lincoln called the nation’s “unfinished work”: the promise, consecrated in blood not once but twice, that we provide equal opportunity for all Americans.
In the void of a national focus, localities are taking the lead, with surreal results. Texas recently attempted to relegate Thomas Jefferson to the dustbin of history because of his irritating affection for the separation of church and state. And a few years ago, “educators” in Georgia tampered with reproductions of the painting Washington Crossing the Delaware because they feared students would confuse the general’s dangling watch fob with his genitals!
More recent examples of revisionism come from Virginia and Mississippi, two Southern states where commemorations suggest “state independence” succeeded, or should have, and that slavery had little or nothing to do with secession or rebellion.
Only a few years ago, Virginia Governor George Allen offered the unreconstructed idea that the Civil War was but a “struggle for independence, sovereign rights and local government control.” Slavery never entered the discussion. Virginia voters later rejected Allen’s bid to be re-elected to the U.S. Senate.
The state’s current chief executive, Bob McDonnell, declared April Confederate History Month in Virginia, emphasizing “the sacrifices of Confederate leaders, soldiers and citizens” and arguing that the South failed in its quest for independence only because it was “overwhelmed by the insurmountable numbers and resources of the Union army.” Nowhere mentioned, much less regretted, was the enslavement of 490,000 Virginia blacks.
After a national uproar, McDonnell issued a statement admitting that his original proclamation “contained a major omission,” and acknowledged that slavery was “an evil, vicious, and inhumane practice.” Then he came up with a strange rationalization by reminding people that Virginia had been the first Southern state to elect an African-American governor, L. Douglas Wilder.
I shared a platform with Governor Wilder a few years ago, when the city of Richmond unveiled a statue of Abraham Lincoln and his son Tad to commemorate their April 1865 visit to that city. From the yells, taunts and angry signs that greeted us, one would have thought the war had ended several days earlier, not a century before. What is it about the Civil War that ignites such emotions?
Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour leapt to the defense of McDonnell by accusing critics of “trying to make a big deal of something [that] doesn’t amount to diddly.” Barbour is a longtime and emphatic supporter of Confederate His-tory Month. Mississippi, the state with the nation’s largest percentage of African-American residents, still marks Confed-erate Memorial Day as an official holiday (though Martin Luther King Jr. gets a holiday, too—albeit in tandem with the birthday of Robert E. Lee).
It is not too late to replace snake oil with honesty—to replace state hubris with a national overview by creating a commission to lead us. According to the historian James Robertson—who was there—President Kennedy gave a re-energized Civil War centennial commission only a few months to organize the unforgettable commemorations of the war’s 100th anniversary in the 1960s. Does someone in Washington have the will to phone Robertson and ask how to do it again? Here is one Virginian (no doubt of many) with plenty of ideas and experience to share.
If this rare opportunity comes and goes without clearer national direction, then the responsibility to separate myth from truth will ultimately fall to us—readers as well as writers—and the publications that inspire both.
Supposedly we’ve come a long way since Jefferson Davis aroused dormant sectional pride by insisting: “Is it a Lost Cause now? Never!” Never is a time that has come.
Ulysses S. Grant was no abolitionist when the Civil War began, but by the time it ended he remembered Lincoln’s warning that a house divided could not exist half slave and half free, and observed, “I have come to the conclusion that the saying is quite true.” The war’s most successful general said: “The cause of the great War of the Rebellion against the United States will have to be attributed to slavery.”
Yet how many still have not learned? Surely we can celebrate military genius, bravery under fire and awe-inspiring sacrifice without obscuring the real cause that brought about the war; or the heroes, black as well as white, North as well as South, who fought, bled and died to make us one nation, indivisible.
Award-winning author Harold Holzer served as co-chairman of the U.S. Lincoln Bicentennial Commission.
Article originally published in the September 2010 issue of America’s Civil War
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5a3c7e609be8a85e93b73f70f718eaef | https://www.historynet.com/civil-war-the-untold-story-interview-with-filmmaker-chris-wheeler.htm | ‘Civil War: The Untold Story’ – Interview with filmmaker Chris Wheeler | ‘Civil War: The Untold Story’ – Interview with filmmaker Chris Wheeler
'Civil War: The Untold Story' examines the war in the Western Theater. Photo by Justin Koehler
Civil War: The Untold Story is a five-hour documentary from Great Divide Pictures, which has produced award-winning historical documentaries such as How the West Was Lost and visitor center films for several Civil War National Parks. Currently scheduled to air in the first quarter of 2014, Civil War: The Untold Story is produced and directed by Chris Wheeler. HistoryNet talked with him recently about the project.
HistoryNet: Your documentary is titled Civil War: The Untold Story. With all that has been written about the war, and all the documentaries that have been done, what is your “Untold Story”?
Chris Wheeler: It’s really on multiple levels. Instead of focusing on the Virginia-Maryland-Pennsylvania campaign, we’re telling the story of the Civil War through the lens of the Western Theater, the area between the Appalachians and the Mississippi River: Fort Donelson, Shiloh, Vicksburg, Chickamauga, Chattanooga, and the Atlanta Campaign. While it is not entirely an untold story, the story of that part of the war is not told very often. Many historians believe the Western Campaign is where the war was won and lost. We’re not going to ignore the East; we’ll briefly mention events there and put them in perspective within what’s happening in the West.
HN: There is a widespread belief that the seat of war was in the Virginia-Maryland-Pennsylvania region, and that everything that happened in the Western Theater was simply a sideshow. Why do you think it is that the Western Theater gets less respect?
Chris Wheeler during filiming. Photo by Justin KoehlerCW: I think there’s no denying the Eastern Theater was very important—the catastrophic loss of life makes it tragic, and that alone brings attention to the East, and deservedly so. It would be wrong for us to ignore the Eastern Theater, but we are focusing on the West. The war in the East was fought in a highly populated area around the capitals of Washington and Richmond. The media—newspapers and magazines—had very easy access to the Eastern Theater, and so logically it was covered more extensively at the time.
The lands between the Appalachians and Mississippi River were not the frontier by that time, but it was rougher country. Journalists had to cover hundreds of miles, from Fort Donelson to Shiloh to Vicksburg, eastward to Tennessee and onward to Atlanta. So the Western Campaign didn’t get nearly the media coverage at the time the war was happening. I think that is part of the reason the West has gotten short shrift when it comes to interpreting the Civil War.
HN: Most of the photographers’ studios were in the East as well. It’s not as easy to find photos taken in the Western Theater.
Fighting in the Peach Orchard at Shiloh. Photo by Justin KoehlerCW: The reality is that there are very few photographs that cover the West. We use battle recreations in the documentary to tell the story. If we had to depend on period photos we wouldn’t have much to tell. I believe Ken Burns has been criticized for not doing more to cover the Western Theater in his series on the Civil War, but I think such criticism is unfair. You have to have images to make compelling television.
HN: We’ve seen a media release about your documentary series that says, “It’s not just about who we were then. It’s about who we are now.” Would you like to expand on that thought?
CW: This film is not just a historical retelling of arguably the most important event in our country’s history. Hopefully our series will resonate with viewers and help Americans realize that many of the issues we fought over in the Civil War are still being discussed today: states rights versus a strong centralized government; civil rights; the Constitution; issues of race. A lot of these things still remain unresolved. Hopefully, after watching, viewers will have a better understanding of these issues and understand how the history of the Civil War remains relevant to all Americans today.
HN: The series will be narrated by someone very familiar to viewers of the PBS series Downton Abbey— actress Elizabeth McGovern. What led you to approach her about being the narrator?
Elizabeth McGovernCW: I’ve worked with Peter Coyote in the past; his agent also represents Elizabeth McGovern. I heard a demo of her doing some voice work, and I thought Elizabeth struck the perfect tone for what we’re trying to get across. She has a strong delivery but also a natural empathy. Elizabeth brings a sense of calm to this story while taking viewers through the horror, the carnage of the Civil War. One hundred fifty years later, it’s still hard to get your head around how truly horrible this war was. Elizabeth is a calming presence who in essence, takes viewers on a journey through hell.
Our series includes female historians who are very good on camera, but most of the voices in our documentary, whether historians or the voices from diaries and letters of the time, are male. A female narrator such as Elizabeth McGovern, brings much needed balance to the narrative.
Civil War: The Untold Story is being distributed to public television stations by American Public Television, but stations are not required to air the series. So from a distribution perspective, having Elizabeth involved in the show will hopefully encourage PBS stations to broadcast it.
HN: Tell us a bit about your own background if you will.
CW: I started off in the television business in 1981 as a news photographer. I loved history but wasn’t sure I wanted to be a teacher. My first big project came when I was given the opportunity to create How the West Was Lost for the Discovery Channel. Since then I’ve produced films on the Korean War (Our Time in Hell: the Korean War) and a documentary narrated by Walter Cronkite on John Glenn (Godspeed, John Glenn). I’ve continued to produce documentaries on Native Americans. In recent years we’ve had the opportunity to produce visitor center films for National Park Civil War battlefields, and that has given me the chance to tell some of these stories that are so dramatic and so important to America today.
To return to your question about “What is the untold story?” we also want to bring a strong presence to the African American story in the Western Theater. At Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park in Georgia, for example, I asked staff members if they receive a lot of African American visitors, since the park is just outside Atlanta. They replied “No. Unfortunately, African Americans do not feel like they are part of the story of the Civil War.” To me, that is tragedy. And it has been a motivating factor for us to tell a produce a series that conveys to modern day African Americans that their ancestors were an important and inspirational part of the Civil War story.
HN: It is often claimed that Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation didn’t free a single slave, but in fact it freed Army officers from having to return runaway slaves to their owners as the armies penetrated deeper into the South, and allowed many, many thousands of slaves to find freedom by getting behind Union lines—”contrabands,” they were called. That was particularly true with the Western armies, which conquered the largest portion of Dixie.
Contrabands. Library of CongressCW: I really liked the story of the contrabands, which we go into in our second episode. Early in the war, slaves began escaping to Union lines. Thousands of them! No one in the North had anticipated escaping slaves seeking refuge in these kinds of numbers. It led to a Constitutional question central to the war: Lincoln never recognized the Confederacy, so Federal law still applied to rebelling states. The Fugitive Slave Act was still the law of the land, so by law, runaway slaves had to be returned to their owners. But as a Union army officer, do you want to return the escaping slaves back over to the very people with whom you are engaged with in battle?
Lincoln is credited as the Great Emancipator, and certainly he was, but the slaves themselves put Lincoln in the position where he had to do something, and that was the Emancipation Proclamation. Most people don’t realize the Emancipation Proclamation also gave African Americans the right to join the army and fight for the Union and defend their new-found freedom.
In our series, we also want to tell little-known stories about Lincoln himself. He was a man of the West, so he had a pretty good understanding of why the Western Campaign was so important—perhaps more so than most others in Washington did. Steven Spielberg’s movie Lincoln begins in January 1865; our documentary ends about where Spielberg’s movie begins, so The Untold Story could be considered a prequel to Spielberg’s film, showing Lincoln’s ups and downs—secession, the military campaigns, the Emancipation Proclamation, and the crucial 1864 presidential campaign.
I don’t think Americans today realize how close Lincoln came to not being reelected. His opponent was George McClellan, the popular former commander of the Army of the Potomac. McClellan represented a Democratic party that wanted to end the war, to let the Southern states keep their slaves and come back into the Union. By 1864, Northerners were tired of the war that had no end in sight, tired of seeing their sons die. One of the biggest events that turned things around was in September 1864, when Union General William T. Sherman captured Atlanta, which was the next-best thing to capturing Richmond. For the first time, people in the North now had hope this war could be won. The Battle of Atlanta plays very much into the political campaign story we tell in “Civil War: the Untold Story.” Lincoln wins in a landslide. Just a few weeks earlier he had told his cabinet, “We must prepare for McClellan to be president.”
HN: How will civilians’ stories figure into the documentary?
From a scene in the caves at Vicksburg. Photo by Justin KoehlerCW: The story of Southern civilians is a big part of the “untold story”. I don’t think a lot of people in our nation today realize that the war was fought almost entirely in the South. Civilians in places like Vicksburg, Chattanooga, and Atlanta found themselves in the path of the war. Vicksburg is perhaps the most dramatic example, with the civilian population trapped there for six weeks under bombardment during the siege in 1863 by Ulysses S. Grant’s army. The experience for Southern civilians was very different than for Northern civilians. Northern civilians could read about what was happening in the war, but it was fought on Southern doorsteps, and it devastated the South for years afterward.
So in Civil War: The Untold Story, you’ll see the military story, the social story of the civilians and African Americans, and the political story of Abraham Lincoln.
HN: Is there anything you’d like to add in closing?
CW: I hope this series brings our country’s people together at a time when we are arguably as divided as we were in 1860. I hope it will bring a better understanding of the Civil War and help people to see what happens when we disagree, when we stop trying to solve our problems together. I think it is time for Americans to hear this story again, not just because it is the 150th anniversary of the war, but because of the state of our nation today. Ken Burns did a fantastic job of telling the story of the war in 1990, but it has been a generation since our nation heard the story of the Civil War. I sincerely hope a sense of healing and unity can come out of viewing this. Over 600,00 young men died from North and South. It is an American tragedy, one Americans should never forget.
Click here to watch a trailer of Civil War: The Untold Story.
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a2b7d656c1582bc16e12801b4a769a68 | https://www.historynet.com/civil-war-times-reviews-lincolns-antagonists.htm | Civil War Times Reviews: Lincoln’s Antagonists | Civil War Times Reviews: Lincoln’s Antagonists
The premise of Fergus Bordewich’s engrossing new book is apparent from his subtitle—How Republican Reformers Fought the Civil War, Defied Lincoln, Ended Slavery, and Remade America. The author sets out to counter the popular supposition that “Abraham Lincoln alone led the Union war effort and freed the slaves.” He builds his case by focusing on the exertions of four members of the 37th and 38th Congresses.
Two—Representative Thaddeus Stevens of Pennsylvania and Senator Benjamin Wade of Ohio—were unapologetic Radicals committed to freeing the enslaved and punishing the rebellious South. “I am a Radical,” wrote Wade, “and I glory in it.” William Pitt Fessenden was of a more conservative bent, but the Maine senator increasingly sided with his Radical colleagues before replacing Salmon Chase as Treasury secretary in 1864. And Clement Vallandigham, a Democratic representative from Ohio and a fervent Southern sympathizer, would be convicted of giving aid and comfort to the enemy in 1863 and banished to the Confederacy.
This strong-willed quartet shared a disdain for Abraham Lincoln, and the creation of the Joint Committee on the Conduct of the War in the fall of 1861 provided a platform from which they could goad the Lincoln administration to adopt a more aggressive military posture. Wade and fellow committee members visited battlefields to question Union officers and held a series of high-profile hearings to investigate the Federal armies’ frequent and alarming early war failures to suppress the rebellion.
Bordewich skillfully exploits primary sources to render the distinctive personalities of his four protagonists and many of their contemporaries. Fessenden emerges as especially nuanced, a reluctant Radical who often bridled at Wade’s belligerence. Lincoln is notably absent from much of the book. Bordewich argues for the pivotal role of Congress and the Radicals in emancipation and Union victory. And there is no doubt that Stevens, Wade, and their cronies were central players in this national drama. But the extent to which they “defied” Abraham Lincoln is arguable.
With the exception of a December 1862 Cabinet crisis, engineered by Salmon Chase, congressional critics never seriously threatened Lincoln’s prerogatives as chief executive. He responded to their pressure from time to time, but his deliberative approach to leadership allowed him to proceed as he thought best.
“The country has little to hope [for], I fear, from either Mr. Lincoln or his advisers,” wrote William Fessenden after the 1862 midterm elections. He could not have been less prescient.—Rick Beard
A Life at Breakneck Speed
The 2017 publication of Ron Chernow’s prize-winning tome Grant, helped to revive interest in Ulysses S. Grant, arguably the Union’s most important general and this country’s 18th president, whose character had long been marred by innuendo.
The History Channel’s three-part miniseries of the same name, produced by Leonardo DiCaprio and based on Chernow’s book, seeks to do the same.
If you can appreciate it for that intent, you will indeed appreciate it. If you are seeking meticulous historical accuracy and Academy Award-worthy battle scenes, you will be disappointed. And, frankly, that would be a shame. Because it seems clear from the beginning and the breakneck speed at which the series summarizes Grant’s pre-Civil War life, that there will be no deep dive here into the more complicated aspects of Grant’s character.
But, instead, a general overview of his steadfast nature and dogged determination in most matters that carry him from a simple and unsuccessful life of obscurity, to heading the entire Union Army, orchestrating its final success in the Civil War, and lastly to the presidency of the United States.
At this, the series succeeds, and those of us already immersed in the study of the Civil War can hope that its success will translate into a new, wider interest in learning about Grant and, of course, the conflict itself.
The series makes no apologies for calling out the Lost Cause narrative that has forced the dialogue into discussions about whether the war was fought over slavery or states’ rights, and by so doing, muting the conversations about not just the massive military efforts put out by both sides seeking to win the war, but also the immense social disorder brought about by the Union’s victory. Much of that upheaval was defaulted to Grant to manage after the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and during Grant’s later terms as president.
Six hours is hardly enough time to scratch the surface on many of these topics, and for much of the series, it’s impossible to ignore the rushed treatment that Grant’s family life and close relationships are given, despite the fact that many of those portrayals are highlights in Chernow’s book. Likewise, Grant’s shortcomings, most notably his naivete in business matters and, of course, his alcoholism, are expertly explored in the book but given the time constraints receive just a little more than a nod here.
The series does take time to focus attention on some of the larger themes, though, including military strategy, particularly Grant’s Vicksburg Campaign and his efforts in Petersburg to bring the war to a close. Likewise, Grant’s efforts both during and after the war to win fair treatment for the formerly enslaved population is highlighted here, including Grant’s success in abolishing the KKK during his tenure as president—an achievement that has deserved more recognition than formerly afforded it.
Justin Salinger does a fine job of portraying Grant in the series’ dramatized scenes, but the reenactments, tarnished by inaccurate materiel culture and made-for-TV dialogue, are not where Grant’s story is told. Instead, an impressive and diverse lineup of Grant and Civil War experts, many who are contributors to our magazines, readily guide the viewer through his life and the war, with careful analysis and emphasis on aspects of the conflict and Grant’s character that summarize both eloquently and with such passion for the subject that, again, one can hope their enthusiasm will inspire a new public interest in the study of the war and its ultimate victor, Ulysses S. Grant. –Melissa A. Winn
Texas Brigadier to the Fall of Atlanta: John Bell HoodBy Stephen DavisMercer University Press, 2019, $35
During the first year of the war in Virginia, John Bell Hood turned in performances at the head of the Texas Brigade that led to a promotion to division command. He further cemented his reputation as a first-rate combat commander at Second Manassas and in the Maryland Campaign before falling wounded at Gettysburg on July 2, 1863. A few months later, Hood was wounded again at Chickamauga. Had wounds cost Hood his life, instead of just a leg, it is almost certain he would be universally acclaimed as one of the Civil War’s great soldiers.
Unfortunately for Hood’s reputation in history, he survived Chickamauga, ascended to corps command in that army under Joseph E. Johnston, and did not prevent the Yankees from reaching the gates of Atlanta in 1864. He then took Johnston’s place in one of the most controversial command changes of the war. Hood’s performance in army command, highlighted by his failure to hold on to Atlanta and a disastrous campaign in Tennessee, have cast an unhappy shadow over his reputation. Historians Herman Hattaway and Keith Bohannon, for instance, concluded the contrast between Hood’s performances before and after Chickamauga made the general an example of the “Peter Principle”—a man promoted above his level of competence.
The last decade, however, has seen a number of works that offer new looks at Hood. Stephen Davis’ massive tome, Texas Brigadier to the Fall of Atlanta, the first in a projected two-volume study, is the latest. Davis is well-known for his decades of significant contributions to scholarship on the Atlanta Campaign, though he also provides a solid account here of Hood’s life and career prior to 1864. Still, it is Hood’s efforts as a corps and army commander in May–September 1864 that consume by far the bulk of the book. In the course of crafting his study, Davis extensively engages with both the primary source material and what previous scholars have had to say about various aspects of Hood’s life and career. If at times he devotes more space to the latter than is really necessary, this is more than offset by the book’s many positive qualities. Not least of these is Davis’ writing, which not only makes this an informative account of Hood’s life to September 1864 and major contribution to scholarship, but a really good read as well.—Ethan S. Refuse
What Are You Reading?
Jennifer Murray, assistant professor of history, Oklahoma State University
I am reading Frank O’Reilly’s The Fredericksburg Campaign: Winter War on the Rappahannock, a volume that offers the perfect balance of strategy, operations, logistics, tactics, leadership, and the soldier experience. I am writing a biography on George Meade, and O’Reilly’s work has shaped my understanding of the assault at Prospect Hill. O’Reilly’s nuanced interpretation of the Union high command moves beyond Burnside’s failures and questions the leadership of William Franklin and John Reynolds. This is the definitive volume on the campaign, and masterfully written. O’Reilly’s expert knowledge reminds us that magisterial Civil War monographs are not always penned by academics.
The Lincoln Conspiracy:
The Secret Plot to Kill America’s 16th President—and Why It FailedBy Brad Meltzer and Josh Mensch Flatiron Books, 2020, $29.99
February 1861. President-elect Abraham Lincoln leaves Illinois, bound for his inauguration in Washington. But during his journey he encounters a big problem; private detective Allan Pinkerton and his associates have uncovered credible evidence concerning a plot to kill the “Railsplitter” in Baltimore. In The Lincoln Conspiracy, Brad Meltzer and Josh Mensch re-create what many history buffs aren’t aware of: How this story unfolds.
It was no coincidence that Southern sympathizers hatched their plan in Baltimore. Virulently pro-Confederate, the city was home to brawlers, cutthroats, powerful and corrupt politicians, and throughout the war, a den of spies and blockade runners. Although Lincoln won his bid for president, he didn’t come close to winning in Mobtown or Maryland. A so-called “black Republican” candidate, he received a paltry two percent of the state’s popular vote and none of its electoral—a surprise to no one, including Lincoln.
On his long train ride, Lincoln had to pass through a number of cities, including Baltimore. But hired by the president of the Philadelphia, Wilmington & Baltimore Railroad, Pinkerton was on the lookout for trouble. Through a network of covert operatives, he uncovered a plot to kill Lincoln as he switched trains in Mobtown. How could he get the president-elect to Washington alive?
This is the tale that Meltzer and Mensch tell in impressive detail. As a novelist, Meltzer is no stranger to suspense and realism. As such, the book takes us back to 1861, putting the reader in the exciting moments throughout Lincoln’s inaugural trip. Indeed, the writing style is a perfect fit for the story; a cinematic narrative filled with cliff-hangers and action.
Mensch’s research skills are also impressive. The Lincoln Conspiracy will appeal to a broad audience, including Civil War enthusiasts and those simply looking for a good read. There is something for everyone to learn. Using an array of source material—newspapers, letters, and official government documents—Meltzer and Mensch bring this little-known story to life; an episode on which the nation’s future hinged.—Michael G. Williams
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“Hardly a man has yet died from it,” wrote Colonel Theodore Roosevelt in his now infamous 1898 Round-Robin Letter. “But the whole command is so weakened and shattered as to be ripe for dying like rotten sheep, when a real yellow-fever epidemic instead of a fake epidemic, like the present one, strikes us, as it is bound to do if we stay here at the height of the sickness season, August and the beginning of September.”
During the 1898 Spanish-American War one of the greatest threats to U.S. soldiers was not the enemy, but malaria and yellow fever—so much so that more men perished from yellow fever in Cuba than were killed by the Spaniards.
Doctors raced to uncover the source of the illness as the disease laid waste to American soldiers. Members of the U.S. Army Yellow Fever Commission Walter Reed, Henry Rose Carter, and Jesse Lazear, alongside Cuban epidemiologist Carlos Finlay began testing their theory of mosquito transmission, specifically the Aedes aegypti variety.
Lazear, famously among the first test subjects, contracted yellow fever and died in September 1900 at the age of 34. Yet the death of another test subject, Clara Maass, has gone largely unrecognized and may have been lost to history without the efforts of Leopoldine Guinther, the superintendent of Newark Memorial (formerly German) Hospital, where Maass had once worked as a nurse.
Born on June 28, 1876 in East Orange, New Jersey, Maass was the oldest of 10 children. Growing up in abject poverty, Maass became one of the first to graduate from the Christina Trefz Training School for Nurses at Newark German Hospital in order to generate any sort of income for her family.
Maass, serving as a contract nurse for the U.S. Army during the Spanish-American War and again during the Philippine-American War, contracted dengue fever and was sent home after seven months in the Philippines.
However, after receiving a telegram from Major General William Gorgas, Chief Sanitary Officer in Havana, Cuba, who sought out volunteer nurses, Maass once again answered her nation’s call and returned to Cuba.
By the time Maass arrived in 1901, the transmission of yellow fever via mosquitoes was almost certain within the medical field. However, “under the direction of Dr. John Guiteras,” according to the Clara Maass Medical Center, in the hopes that “a controlled infection by the bite of an infected mosquito would produce a controllable case of yellow fever, followed by immunity,” 19 participants were selected to participate in the latest medical trial.
Maass, the only woman as well as the only American, volunteered to be purposefully infected with yellow fever and was bitten seven times during the months of March, May, June, and August of 1901. In June the nurse had contracted a mild form of the illness, so mild in fact that physicians did not believe her to be immunized from the bite.
She was bitten for the last time on August 14 and fell ill four days later. Maass eventually died on August 24, 1901, at the age of 25.
After the death of Maass doctors deemed that “the bit[e] of infected mosquitoes could not be used as a safe way to provide immunity,” writes the Clara Maass Medical Center. No further experiments were conducted.
Buried in Havana, Maass was disinterred and returned to the United States a year later. Largely through the efforts of Guinther, Maass’ memory and her sacrifice was kept alive.
In 1952, the Newark German Hospital (renamed Newark Memorial Hospital in 1918), where Maas once worked as a teen, changed its name to Clara Maass Memorial Hospital in her honor. Today, it is known as Clara Maas Medical Center.
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b6d63ab1b356353af0d3cb01f6366435 | https://www.historynet.com/classic-dispatches-highway-hell.htm | Classic Dispatches | Highway to Hell | Classic Dispatches | Highway to Hell
Michael Kelly went to war, as a journalist, on his own terms. In 1990, following stints as a reporter for the Cincinnati Post and the Baltimore Sun, he decided to do an end run around the Pentagon’s tight restrictions on the news media for Operation Desert Storm and cover the conflict as a freelancer. “I wanted to go to Baghdad and see the beginning of the war and write something about it,” he later told an interviewer. “I had no larger thought in mind.”
Kelly ended up staying for the duration of the Gulf War, and his dispatches from the front, like the one reprinted here, brought him a boatload of accolades, including a National Magazine Award and an Overseas Press Award. They also formed the basis of a book, Martyrs’ Day: Chronicles of a Small War (Random House, 1993), which won the PEN/Martha Albrand Award for First Nonfiction in 1994. David Remnick, the editor of The New Yorker, once said that Kelly’s account of the Gulf War stood alongside George Orwell’s Homage to Catalonia, about the Spanish Civil War, and Ernie Pyle’s reporting during World War II. Kelly went on to join the staff of the New Yorker and to become the editor, successively, of the New Republic, National Journal, and the Atlantic Monthly.
Then came the second Gulf War. Kelly decided to drop the project he was working on (a book about the steel industry) and head back to Iraq, this
time as an embedded correspondent with the 3rd Infantry Division. “He wanted to see the second act,” a colleague later recalled. “He needed to be a witness.” On April 4, 2003, as one of the division’s forward units was bearing down on Baghdad, the Humvee in which Kelly was riding with Staff Sergeant Wilbert Davis, a 15-year U.S. Army veteran, ran off a road near Saddam International Airport and into a canal, killing both men. Kelly, at age 46, was the first American reporter to die in the war.
Journalist Michael Kelly. (Madelyn Kelly)
Hendrik Hertzberg, who was Kelly’s editor at the New Republic during the first Gulf War, once recalled that nothing could have prepared him for the vivid dispatches that Kelly sent him, including the grisly depiction of post-battle carnage that follows. “He was just incandescent,” Hertzberg told Slate magazine on the day Kelly died. “War was the perfect subject for him. He was so full of emotion and yes, anger, too. And war was the subject that gave that its fullest scope.”
Along the Kuwait-Iraq border Captain Douglas Morrison, 31, of Westmoreland, New York, headquarters troop commander of 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry, 1st Division, is the ideal face of the new American Army. He is handsome, tall and fit, and trim of line from his Kevlar helmet to his LPCs (leather personnel carriers, or combat boots). He is the voice of the new American Army too, a crisp, assured mix of casual toughness, techno-idolatrous jargon, and nonsensical euphemisms—the voice of delivery systems and collateral damage and kicking ass. It is Tom Clancy’s voice, and the voice of the military briefers in Riyadh and Washington. Because the Pentagon has been very, very good in controlling the flow of information disseminated in Operation Desert Shield/Storm, it is also the dominant voice of a war that will serve, in the military equivalent of stare decisis, as the precedent for the next war.
In the 100-hour rout, Captain Morrison’s advance reconnaissance squadron of troops, tanks, and armored personnel carriers destroyed 70 Iraqi tanks and more than a hundred armored vehicles. His soldiers killed many Iraqi soldiers and took many more prisoner. In its last combat action, the company joined three other American and British units to cut in four places the road from Kuwait City to the Iraqi border town of Safwan. This action, following heavy bombing by U.S. warplanes on the road, finished the job of trapping thousands of Saddam Hussein’s retreating troops, along with large quantities of tanks, trucks, howitzers, and armored personnel carriers. Standing in the mud next to his Humvee, Morrison talked about the battle.
“Our initial mission was to conduct a flank screen,” he said, as he pointed to his company’s February 26 position on a map overlaid with a plastic sheet marked with the felt-tip patterns of moving forces. “We moved with two ground troops [companies] in front, with tanks and Bradleys. We also had two air troops, with six OH-58 scouts and four Cobra attack helicopters. It is the air troops’ mission to pick up and ID enemy locations, and target handoff to the ground troops, who then try to gain and maintain contact with the enemy and develop a situation.”
The situation that developed was notably one-sided. “We moved into the cut at 1630 hours on Wednesday [February 27, the day before the cease-fire],” Morrison said. “From 1630 to 0630, we took prisoners….They didn’t expect to see us. They didn’t have much chance to react. There was some return fire, not much….We destroyed at least ten T-55s and T-62s….On our side, we took zero casualties.”
There hadn’t been much serious ground fighting on the two roads to Iraq because, as Morrison put it, “the Air Force had previously attrited the enemy and softened target area resistance considerably,” or, as he also put it, “the Air Force just blew the shit out of both roads.” In particular, the coastal road, running north from the Kuwaiti city of Jahra to the Iraqi border city of Umm Quasr, was “nothing but shit strewn everywhere, five to seven miles of just solid bombed-out vehicles.” The U.S. Air Force, he said, “had been given the word to work over that entire area, to find anything that was moving and take it out.”
The next day I drove up the road that Morrison had described. It was just as he had said it would be, but also different: the language of war made concrete. In a desperate retreat that amounted to armed flight, most of the Iraqi troops took the main four-lane highway to Basra, and were stopped and destroyed. Most were done in on the approach to Al-Mutlaa ridge, a road that crosses the highway twenty miles or so northwest of Kuwait City. There, Marines of the Second Armored Division, Tiger Brigade, attacked from the high ground and cut to shreds vehicles and soldiers trapped in a two-mile nightmare traffic jam. That scene of horror was cleaned up a bit in the first week after the war, most of the thousands of bombed and burned vehicles pushed to one side, all of the corpses buried. But this skinny two-lane blacktop, which runs through desert sand and scrub from one secondary city to another, was somehow forgotten.
Ten days after what George Bush termed a cessation of hostilities, this road presented a perfectly clear picture of the nature of those hostilities. It was untouched except by scavengers. Bedouins had siphoned the gas tanks, and American soldiers were still touring through the carnage in search of souvenirs. A pack of lean and sharp-fanged wild dogs, white and yellow curs, swarmed and snarled around the corpse of one soldier. They had eaten most of his flesh. The ribs gleamed bare and white. Because, I suppose, the skin had gotten so tough and leathery from ten days in the sun, the dogs had eaten the legs from the inside out, and the epidermis lay in collapsed and hairy folds, like leg-shaped blankets, with feet attached. The beasts skirted the stomach, which lay to one side of the ribs, a black and yellow balloon. A few miles up the road, a small flock of great raptors wheeled over another body. The dogs had been there first, and little remained except the head. The birds were working on the more vulnerable parts of that. The dead man’s face was darkly yellow-green, except where his eyeballs had been; there, the sockets glistened red and wet.
For a fifty- or sixty-mile stretch from just north of Jahra to the Iraqi border, the road was littered with exploded and roasted vehicles, charred and blown-up bodies. It is important to say that the thirty-seven dead men I saw were all soldiers and that they had been trying to make their escape heavily laden with weapons and ammunition. The road was thick with the wreckage of tanks, armored personnel carriers, 155-mm howitzers, and supply trucks filled with shells, missiles, rocket-propelled grenades, and machine-gun rounds in crates and belts. I saw no bodies that had not belonged to men in uniform. It was not always easy to ascertain this because the force of the explosions and the heat of the fires had blown most of the clothing off the soldiers, and often too had cooked their remains into wizened, mummified charcoal-men. But even in the worst cases, there was enough evidence—a scrap of green uniform on a leg here, an intact combat boot on a remaining foot there, an AK-47 propped next to a black claw over yonder—to see that this had been indeed what Captain Morrison might call a legitimate target of opportunity.
U.S. soldiers use a bulldozer to bury the bodies of dead Iraqi soldiers. (Peter Turnley (Getty Images))
The American warplanes had come in low, fast, and hard on the night of February 26 and the morning of the 27th, in the last hours before the cease-fire, and had surprised the Iraqis. They had saturated the road with cluster bombs, big white pods that open in the air and spray those below with hundreds of bomblets that spew at great velocity thousands of razor-edged little fragments of metal. The explosions had torn tanks and trucks apart—the jagged and already rusting pieces of one self-propelled howitzer were scattered over a fifty-yard area—and ripped up the men inside into pieces as well.
The heat of the blasts had inspired secondary explosions in the ammunition. The fires had been fierce enough in some cases to melt windshield glass into globs of silicone that dripped and hardened on the black metal skeletons of the dashboards. What the bomb bursts and the fires had started, machine-gun fire finished. The planes had strafed with skill. One truck had just two neat holes in its front windshield, right in front of the driver.
Most of the destruction had been visited on clusters of ten to fifteen vehicles. But those who had driven alone, or even off the road and into the desert, had been hunted down too. Of the several hundred wrecks I saw, not one had crashed in panic; all bore the marks of having been bombed or shot. The bodies bore the marks too.
Even in a mass attack, there is individuality. Quite a few of the dead had never made it out of their machines. Those were the worst, because they were both exploded and incinerated. One man had tried to escape to Iraq in a Kawasaki front-end loader. His remaining half-body lay hanging upside down and out of his exposed seat, the left side and bottom blown away to tatters, with the charred leg fully fifteen feet away. Nine men in a slat-sided supply truck were killed and flash-burned so swiftly that they remained, naked, skinned, and black wrecks, in the vulnerable positions of the moment of first impact. One body lay face down with his rear high in the air, as if he had been trying to burrow through the truckbed. His legs ended in fluttery charcoaled remnants at mid-thigh. He had a young, pretty face, slightly cherubic, with a pointed little chin; you could still see that even though it was mummified. Another man had been butterflied by the bomb; the cavity of his body was cut wide open and his intestines and such were still coiled in their proper places, but cooked to ebony.
As I stood looking at him, a couple of U.S. Army intelligence specialists came up beside me. It was their duty to pick and wade through the awfulness in search of documents of value. Major Bob Nugent and Chief Warrant Officer Jim Smith were trying to approach the job with dispassionate professionalism. “Say, this is interesting right here,” said one. “Look how this guy ended up against the cab.” Sure enough, a soldier had been flung by the explosion into the foot-wide crevice between the back of the truck and the driver’s compartment. He wasn’t very big. The heat had shrunk all the bodies into twisted, skin-stretched things. It was pretty clear some of the bodies hadn’t been very big in life either. “Some of these guys weren’t but 13, 14 years old,” said Smith, in a voice fittingly small.
We walked around to look in the shattered cab. There were two carbonized husks of men in there. The one in the passenger seat had had the bottom of his face ripped off, which gave him the effect of grinning with only his upper teeth. We walked back to look at the scene on the truckbed. The more you looked at it, the more you could imagine you were seeing the soldiers at the moment they were fire-frozen in their twisted shapes, mangled and shapeless. Smith pulled out a pocket camera and got ready to take a picture. He looked through the viewfinder. “Oh, I’m not gonna do this,” he said, and put the camera away.
Small mementos of life were all around, part of the garbage stew of the road. Among the ammunition, grenades, ripped metal, and unexploded cluster bomblets lay the paltry possessions of the departed, at least some of which were stolen: a Donald Duck doll, a case of White Flake laundry soap, a can of Soft and Gentle hair spray, squashed tubes of toothpaste, dozens of well-used shaving brushes, a Russian-made slide rule to calculate artillery-fire distances, crayons, a tricycle, two crates of pecans, a souvenir calendar from London, with the House of Lords on one side and the Tower on the other; the dog tags of Abas Mshal Dman, a non-commissioned officer, who was Islamic and who had, in the days when he had blood, type O positive.
Some of the American and British soldiers wandering the graveyard joked a bit. “Crispy critters,” said one, looking at a group of the incinerated. “Just wasn’t them boys’ day, was it?” said another. But for the most part, the scene commanded among the visitors a certain sobriety. I walked along for a while with Nugent, who is 43 and a major in the Army’s special operations branch, and who served in Vietnam and has seen more of this sort of thing than he cares for. I liked him instantly, in part because he was searching hard to find an acceptance of what he was seeing. He said he felt very sad for the horrors around him, and had to remind himself that they were once men who had done terrible things. Perhaps, he said, considering the great casualties on the Iraqi side and the extremely few allied deaths, divine intervention had been at work—“some sort of good against evil thing.” He pointed out that there had not been much alternative; given the allied forces’ ability to strike in safety from the air, no commander could have risked the lives of his own men by pitching a more even-sided battle on the ground. In the end, I liked him best because he settled on not a rationalization or a defense, but on the awful heart of the thing, which is that this is just the way it is. “No one ever said war was pretty,” he said. “Chivalry died a long time ago.”
From The New Republic, April 1, 1991 © 1991 New Republic. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the copyright laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of this content without express written permission is prohibited.
This article appears in the Spring 2019 issue (Vol. 31, No. 3) of MHQ—The Quarterly Journal of Military History with the headline: Highway to Hell
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ef8ed4223f3b4cccab596869cc3ff4cc | https://www.historynet.com/cloaked-vengeance-george-pickett-and-the-hanging-of-union-prisoners.htm | Cloaked Vengeance: George Pickett and the Hanging of Union Prisoners | Cloaked Vengeance: George Pickett and the Hanging of Union Prisoners
What was a bitter George Pickett thinking when he ordered the hanging of Union prisoners at Kinston, N.C., in 1864?
On a raw mid-February day in 1864, two brigades of Confederate soldiers stood at attention around a makeshift gallows. They had been formed up to witness the deaths of 13 Union prisoners. Following the reading of the execution order, a signal was given and the platform upon which the bound and hooded Yankees stood dropped away. The deed sent shockwaves across the North and sections of the South, as well as calls for a reckoning against the hangings’ perpetrator that outlasted the war itself. This, however, was not the first execution of Union prisoners to be ordered that month by Confederate Maj. Gen. George E. Pickett. Nor would it be the last.
Throughout the war, the charming, foppishly vain Virginia aristocrat, who had famously finished last among an elite class of 59 cadets at the U.S. Military Academy in 1846, had been neither the brightest nor the most inspired of the South’s generals. Typically, Pickett’s inflated self-opinion had far outstripped reality; however, since the doomed July 3, 1863, charge at Gettysburg for which he is best remembered——the Confederates’ bloody frontal assault on Cemetery Ridge known as Pickett’s Charge—the general was clearly a changed man.
The order for that decisive Gettysburg assault had come not from Pickett but from the storied commander of the Army of Northern Virginia, General Robert E. Lee. Nevertheless, Pickett watched in helpless frustration, tears coursing down his cheeks, as nearly 9,000 troops from his own and two other Confederate divisions fell before the Yankee guns or were rounded up as POWs, marking the bitter conclusion to Lee’s second Northern invasion and presaging the South’s eventual defeat in 1865. It was a disconsolate, vengeful Pickett who retired from the field that day, replying with acrimony to Lee’s post-charge order to “rally” his division in case of a Union counterattack: “General, I have no division!”
Levi Stubbs Jr. was one of countless North Carolinians to fight for both sides during the war—much like some of those Pickett hanged. Stubbs joined the 1st North Carolina (U.S.) a few weeks after deserting from Confederate service. (Courtesy of Tryon Palace, New Bern, NC)
After Gettysburg, Pickett was given command of the Department of North Carolina. It proved an impossible assignment. North Carolina had been a problem state for the Confederacy from the opening of hostilities. Unlike its sister state to the immediate south, which was the first to sever ties with the Union, North Carolina was the second to last to secede. From the beginning, its citizens had manifested mixed loyalties, and it remained so throughout the war. While some were staunch supporters of the Confederacy, others remained true to the Union. And many eschewed either cause, simply wishing to be left alone to tend to their hardscrabble farms. As historian Gerard A. Patterson wrote in Justice or Atrocity? General George E. Pickett and the Kinston, N.C. Hangings, “Whatever sectional discord existed between Northern and Southern states could in no discernible way relate to their own base and secluded existence. If they recognized any responsibility, it was to use whatever common sense they possessed to find ways to avoid being taken away from their bare board, ramshackle homes and near-worthless acres….”
Desertion in the ranks was a problem that bedeviled the Confederacy throughout the war. It only grew worse as the years of conflict passed, and various chroniclers have stated that the men of North Carolina headed the list. Soldiers “took leg bail” for a variety of reasons. Some had, in fact, long been loyal Southern soldiers. According to Michael Thomas Smith’s 2006 study, “Civil War Desertion”:“More than half the state’s deserters had served in the army for more than 18 months and almost 70 percent for more than a year. These men apparently felt a greater loyalty to their families, who desperately needed their assistance, or perhaps they recognized the futility of the Confederate cause, particularly in the last, hopeless days of the war.”
As the war progressed, Patterson wrote, some North Carolina soldiers “were deserting by squads and companies.” Some had been conscripted into the army against their will, either from their farms or out of local home guards and felt no particular drive to fight for the Confederacy. And when the chief justice of the North Carolina Supreme Court ruled that conscription was illegal, many draftees felt justified in quitting the ranks.
North Carolina was bleeding from other wounds besides desertion. A number of its coastal towns, vulnerable to Union naval power, had come under Federal occupation, and marauding Yankees—as well as organized bands of Rebel deserters—burned and pillaged at will.
Meanwhile, George Pickett was comfortably ensconced in his Petersburg, Va., headquarters with his new, young bride. (LaSalle Corbell Pickett, or “Sallie,” was 20 in 1863 when she married the 38-year-old George Pickett.) Given his limited resources—he frequently complained to Confederate officials in Richmond that he lacked sufficient forces to control so large and unquiet a region—Pickett was facing a challenge that would have daunted even the best of the Confederacy’s general staff, and his tenure in North Carolina was predictably ineffectual.
In January 1864, Robert E. Lee placed Pickett in charge of a major campaign. The coastal North Carolina town of New Bern had been under Union control since early 1862, with the Yankees well secured behind forts, blockhouses, and earthworks. Desperately in need of supplies, Lee determined that he could provision his army with the plentiful stores stockpiled in the town. George Pickett was given command of the combined land-and-sea expedition to recapture New Bern.
Using the town of Kinston as a staging area, Pickett led some 13,000 men—the largest force he personally had ever commanded—southeast toward New Bern. Eventually, nearly every aspect of the complicated plan went horribly awry, and the attack proved to be disastrous. Pickett’s attempt at redemption had resulted in yet another humiliating defeat, and although he tried desperately to shift responsibility onto his subordinates, this time the blame sat squarely on his own shoulders.
Over the next weeks, as word of the New Bern debacle spread, both Northern and Southern newspapers pilloried the hapless general. Worse yet, President Jefferson Davis himself was painfully aware of Pickett’s failure, writing in frustration to Lee, “General Pickett has returned from his expedition unsuccessful in the main object.”
In a drenching rain, an angry, despondent Pickett led his army the 35 muddy miles back to Kinston. The only positive result of the entire endeavor had been the capture of nearly 500 Yankee officers and men. As it turned out, most of the soldiers were native sons, a large number of them currently serving in the Union’s 2nd North Carolina. Several men had served in a home guard that had been forcibly absorbed into the Confederate Army. Its members had been given the choice of enlisting in the regular Confederate Army or being conscripted and, feeling no allegiance to the Confederacy, a number of them had simply “gone over” to the Union forces at the first opportunity.
Some of their own comrades, in an effort to cadge leniency from Confederate commanders, identified these men by name, pointing them out to their captors. One of Pickett’s lieutenants recognized two of the prisoners—Joe Haskett and David Jones—as soldiers who had formerly served under him in the 10th North Carolina.
Seething from his most recent disaster, and shamed by yet another blow to his reputation, Pickett detested deserters and refused to make distinctions. As Patterson pointed out, “Though his own dedication to duty frequently lapsed, he became a man virtually obsessed with the punishment of desertion regardless of motivation.”
Private William Jenkins, 1st New York Cavalry, lies beside his coffin after being executed in December 1861—the first Army of the Potomac soldier so punished for desertion. (Library of Congress) Uncivilized Warfare During the Civil War, as in most conflicts, it was accepted by both sides that desertion was punishable by death. Combatants captured in uniform, however, were generally accorded treatment commensurate with the rules of war. In the case of the Kinston prisoners, these disparate circumstances seemed to collide, leaving the men’s fate open to interpretation by their captors. George E. Pickett, and the anonymous officers of what was in effect a kangaroo court, labeled the captives as traitors. This in itself is ironic, considering that Pickett—indeed, most of the general officers in the Confederate forces—had originally sworn an oath of loyalty to the very country against which they were now in rebellion. Some historians have, in fact, maintained that the very foundation of the Confederacy was laid on a single, massive act of treason, and that those responsible for perpetuating it could very well have shared the fate of the unfortunate Yankees at Kinston. Perhaps the greatest irony as it pertains to the Kinston affair is that Pickett personally owed his military career to the commander-in-chief of the enemy forces. As a young man, Pickett sought acceptance as a cadet at West Point, only to discover that his state’s admissions quota had already been filled. He appealed to his uncle—an Illinois attorney—for help, whereupon the uncle’s associate, a young lawyer named Abraham Lincoln, persuaded a congressional representative to bend the rules and admit young George Pickett. A further disgrace with Pickett’s execution of his prisoners was the manner in which he did so. Sarcastically thanking General John Peck for inadvertently providing him a convenient death list ran counter to all tenets of accepted military behavior, especially among officers. The total denial of counsel for the prisoners, the rough treatment accorded them both before and during their executions, and the callous way in which their bodies were disposed of, bespeaks a man who had gone beyond the limits of custom and courtesy, and who had given unbridled license to his thirst for vengeance. In the end, the scented hair, the frilly shirts, lace-trimmed uniforms, and high-born Virginia manners—what one soldier scornfully described as his “efforts at aristocratic airs”—proved little more than shallow affectations, masking Pickett’s own inadequacy as both an officer and a man of character. Observed one expert: “In North Carolina, he lost all sense of restraint and exhibited the very behavior he thought only the enemy capable of practicing: uncivilized warfare.” –R.S.
In his fury, Pickett viewed all North Carolinians in blue uniforms as traitors; but he reserved his greatest contempt for those he believed had traded the gray for the blue. After his rain- and mud-soaked troops camped for the night on their retreat from New Bern, Pickett vented his spleen on the two soldiers his lieutenant had pointed out. “Goddamn you,” he thundered, “I’ll have you shot, and all other damned rascals who desert!”
Turning to two of his generals, he stated, “We’ll have to have a court martial on these fellows pretty soon, and after some are shot the rest will stop deserting.”
Dozens of the prisoners were crammed into Kinston’s cold, dungeon-like jail, where they were given a single hardtack cracker a day and denied bedding. The more fortunate had friends and relatives close enough to supplement their meager diets and provide them with blankets.
Pickett wasted little time on formal hearings. Immediately upon arriving back in Kinston, he convened a court-martial for Haskett and Jones. It was a mere formality, the verdicts and sentences a forgone conclusion. Even before the court’s findings were announced, a crew of soldiers was hard at work hammering together a gallows behind the jail, while an officer scoured the town for sufficient lengths of rope.
The court swiftly finished its business, and without preamble, the two men were led from the jail, placed in a wagon, and conveyed to the roughhewn structure. All the soldiers in the vicinity—two entire brigades—had been turned out to witness the executions. A young lieutenant read the charges—“desertion and taking up arms for the enemy”—and the fatal verdict of the court. Among the observers were several officers “who had received their training at the U.S. Military Academy. They had themselves once sworn a solemn oath of allegiance to the same flag these men had ultimately embraced.”
The hangman in the initial smaller procedures was a private of the 10th North Carolina who had been randomly ordered to perform the task, and who had been friends with the condemned. Since the customary black hoods could not be found, the doomed men’s heads were covered with rough corn sacks.
Meanwhile, Maj. Gen. John J. Peck, Pickett’s Union counterpart, began an exchange of letters with Pickett that would later come back to haunt the Confederate general. Having read a newspaper account of the earlier hanging of a black Union soldier at Pickett’s order, Peck wrote Pickett, reminding him of the rules of war and stating that he would execute a Rebel prisoner for every man in blue Pickett hanged. Pickett defiantly responded that he had “in my hands…some 450 officers and men of the U.S. Army, and for every man you hang I will hang ten….”
An alarmed Peck, realizing that Pickett was holding the men of the 2nd North Carolina, sent another missive, pleading for their lives. Unfortunately, he did a foolish thing, one that he would regret for the rest of his life. In his letter, he listed, by name, 53 of the former Confederate soldiers in the Union 2nd North Carolina who had switched sides, asking that Pickett accord them the same courtesy as he would all other prisoners of war. Shortly thereafter, he read of the executions of Haskett and Jones and wrote yet again, redoubling his request that his men be properly treated.
Correspondence between combatants in the field was understandably slow, and by the time Peck’s letter reached Pickett, it was too late. Nor would it have mattered.
Pickett’s response to Peck’s most recent letter is a study in sarcasm and malevolence, and refers to the “list…which you have so kindly furnished me, and which will enable me to bring to justice many who have up to this time escaped their just deserts [sic]. I herewith return you the names of those who have been tried and convicted by court-martial for desertion from the Confederate service.…They have been duly executed according to law and the custom of war.”
Pickett ended with, “Extending to you my thanks for your opportune list, I remain, very respectfully, your obedient servant.” Soon thereafter, Pickett reiterated his threat to hang 10 Yankees for every Rebel the North executed—and few now doubted his brutal sincerity.
Peck’s rage over both the executions and Pickett’s threat to hang more prisoners is evident in every line of his subsequent reply. Pickett’s “announcement,” he writes in part, “evinces a most extraordinary thirst for life and blood.…Such violent and revengeful acts, resorted to as a show of strength, are the best evidences of the weak and crumbling condition of the Confederacy….”
Pickett had acted swiftly, consulting neither Robert E. Lee nor his corps commander, Lt. Gen. James Longstreet. Within two weeks of his return to Kinston, his seven-man military court, which acted anonymously, kept no trial transcripts and allowed no defense counsel for the accused, had condemned 22 men in three separate sessions. With the exception of Haskett and Jones, they had all been members of the local home guard that had been conscripted into the Confederate Army. At least one of these was little more than a child. The March 11 issue of the Philadelphia Inquirer stated, “Ira Neal, a drummer boy, fifteen years old, who had never been in the Rebel service, was among the number hung at Kinston….” One man was so physically deformed that he had to “drag himself along behind the others to the gallows.”
The largest of the three doomed groups consisted of 13 men, and the means of their demise required special modifications, the original two-man gallows having been determined to be inadequate. Therefore, a massive scaffold was built, capable of dispensing all 13 at once. This time, the hangman was a local civilian, who had sought the position in exchange for a fee and the dead men’s clothes, proclaiming that he would “do anything for money.”
The night before their execution was heart-wrenching. The chaplain assigned to comfort the men in their dungeon, the Rev. John Paris of the 54th North Carolina, wrote, “The scene beggars all description….Here was a wife to say farewell to a husband forever. Here a mother to take the last look at her ruined son; and then a sister who had come to embrace, for the last time, the brother who had brought disgrace upon the very name she bore by his treason to his country.”
After each round of hangings, the bodies were stripped and left to lie naked at the foot of the gallows. Many were local men whose families claimed their bodies. Those who went unclaimed were unceremoniously buried in a mass grave in the sand near the looming instrument of their deaths.
One of the stated objectives of the New Bern Campaign had been the capture of deserters; in this alone, Pickett was successful. Ironically, what he could not foresee was the fact that his ignominious defeat at New Bern and subsequent treatment of his prisoners, far from discouraging further desertions, would impel increasing numbers of disheartened soldiers to escape from the Rebel army, and into the Union ranks. As a newspaper correspondent observed, “[T]he cruel massacre…is causing desertions from the Confederate service by the wholesale, and creating an indignation which, it is feared, will be uncontrollable.” Wrote Patterson, “[T]he cost of his excessive punishment was to disgust his own men and horrify the civilian population.”
Ironically, as the war was nearing its end, one of the worst records for desertion was held by Pickett’s own division. His men generally disliked him, considering him an arrogant, vainglorious martinet, and discipline within the division was poor. In a 10-day period alone, 512 of his men quit the ranks, as compared with single- and double-digit desertions in the other divisions.
Pickett’s last major command was at the April 1, 1865, Battle of Five Forks, Va. It proved as decisive a disaster as had the ill-fated charge at Gettysburg and his New Bern debacle. Five Forks was a crossroads that lay only a few miles from the Southside Railroad, the Confederacy’s last working supply line, and Lt. Gen. Ulysses S. Grant had sent Maj. Gen. Phil Sheridan to cut it. Ostensibly, this would end the nine-and-a-half-month siege of Petersburg, force the evacuation of Richmond, and potentially bring the war to a rapid conclusion.
The railroad was vital to the Confederacy’s survival, and Lee ordered Pickett to “hold Five Forks at all hazards.” Lee’s urgency apparently failed to register with his subordinate. At the moment Sheridan’s forces attacked, Pickett was nowhere to be seen. He was, in fact, two miles to the rear, attending an impromptu shad bake with some of his fellow generals who failed to hear any sounds of the ongoing battle. As Pickett biographer Lesley J. Gordon states, “Completely losing all sense of the importance of his responsibilities, Pickett left the field….While he ate fish and perhaps drank whiskey, Pickett ignored repeated reports of the enemy advance. Several officers did not even know that Pickett had left the front, nor his location.”
By the time he returned, the battle was all but lost. The fallout was stunning. The Confederates lost nearly four times the number of casualties as the Yankees, with a large number of the Rebels taken prisoner. The Siege of Petersburg was indeed lifted, and the next day Lee informed President Davis that both Petersburg and Richmond had to be evacuated. On April 9, Robert E. Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox Court House. In those final days, Lee spotted Pickett, who had been removed from command after the Five Forks debacle. According to Colonel John Singleton Mosby, quoting Lee’s aide-de-camp Charles S. Venable, Lee asked with disgust, “Is that man still with this army?”
Shortly after Lee’s surrender, Pickett discovered that his actions at Kinston had not been forgotten when two old friends in the Union Army alerted him that he was being sought by federal authorities to face war crime charges. In the words of Pickett’s wife, they advised him to “absent himself for a while until calm reflection should take the place of wild impulse.”
It was sound advice; a court of inquiry was convened in October 1865, to investigate the “murder of Union soldiers.” The tribunal called several witnesses, including widows of the executed soldiers, who testified that their husbands had been coerced into the Confederate service under threat of arms. They further stated that while their husbands were incarcerated, Rebel patrols visited their homes and systematically stripped them of their goods, livestock, and winter provisions.
The tribunal found that the victims had been forcibly conscripted from their local home guard, an action that the state’s highest court had declared to be illegal, and technically they “had never been Confederate soldiers.…Therefore, a Confederate state court martial had no jurisdiction over them.” They recommended that Pickett be brought before a military commission for trial, under Brig. Gen. Joseph Holt, the Union Army judge advocate.
In his deliberations, Holt, as director of the Bureau of Military Justice, supported the board of inquiry’s opinion that the Kinston victims had never voluntarily served the Rebellion. “Submission to that service,” he wrote, “was, in itself, a crime from which it was their bounden duty, as men and as patriots, to flee at the first opportunity.”
When Holt read the letters between Pickett and Peck, he was livid, writing Secretary of War Edwin Stanton that Pickett’s “imperious and vaunting temper” showed “his readiness to commit this or any kindred atrocity.” Holt further determined that “the rebel Major General G.E. Pickett…was the guilty party…by whose order these sufferers were arrested and prosecuted, and by whose order executed.”
The board agreed: “While other prominent rebels seem to have been concerned in these shameful transactions as accessories, the evidence clearly shows that General Pickett was the prominent authority under whose direction…the murder of our soldiers took place.” On December 30, 1865, he ordered Pickett’s immediate arrest.
The order proved impossible to carry out. By now, a terrified Pickett had gathered his wife and newborn son and escaped to Montreal, where he was living under an assumed name, surviving on borrowed money and his wife’s salary as a Latin teacher. To further mask his identity, he cut his trademark perfumed locks, so long a source of pride.
Pickett’s Star-Crossed Counterpart John Peck (seated, center) and officers, early in the war. In 1862-63, Peck had a key role in the Peninsula Campaign and the defense of Suffolk, Va., but was soon shelved by poor health leading the District of North Carolina. (Library of Congress)
Efforts by well-connected friends—many of whom were fellow West Point graduates and old U.S. Army buddies, and who were willing to overlook the Kinston affair as a mere lapse in judgment—failed to move President Andrew Johnson to overlook Pickett’s alleged offenses. Ultimately, however, Ulysses S. Grant, an old comrade of Pickett’s from their Mexican War days, interceded with Johnson on the fugitive’s behalf. Pickett returned to Virginia, and in June 1866 took the oath of allegiance to the Union.
Life was not kind to the repatriated Pickett. His health, which had suffered badly late in the war, had worsened significantly in exile. Prior to Lee’s surrender, Union troops under Maj. Gen. Benjamin Butler had burned down Pickett’s ancestral Virginia home, possibly in retaliation for Kinston. Now, Pickett and his family were forced to live in a nearby cottage. He made a half-hearted attempt at farming, but proved “singularly inept,” as Patterson writes. Finally, he became a salesman for the Virginia branch of New York’s Washington Life Insurance, a job that bored him, and at which he enjoyed only middling success.
George Pickett had always been a heavy drinker, which well might be the reason, in August 1875, his liver failed him. He died a bitter, broken man at age 50, leaving his 32-year old widow to defend—and in many instances, invent—his wartime experiences.
Ron Soodalter, who writes from Cold Spring, N.Y., is the author of Hanging Captain Gordon: The Life and Trial of an American Slave Trader.
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1394c044be8bdcb5455e7105e2446a44 | https://www.historynet.com/close-call-chosin.htm | Close Call at Chosin | Close Call at Chosin
How the foresight and tactical brilliance of Marine Maj. Gen. O.P. Smith saved his division from annihilation in North Korea.
One of the little-known aspects of the Chosin Reservoir campaign was that Maj. Gen. Oliver P. Smith, the commander of the Marines there, was far more of a “George Marshall man” than were the Army generals to whom he reported. Lt. Gen. Edward M. “Ned” Almond, the Army general over Smith, “was a [Douglas] MacArthur man, and anything MacArthur said, nothing could change it,” recalled Smith. “MacArthur was God.”
Smith, rail-thin and white-haired, seemed to have been cut from the Marshall cloth. When he was 7 years old his widowed mother took him to California and raised him in penury. Smith arrived at the University of California, Berkeley, with just $5 in his pocket and worked his way through school, often as a gardener. He joined the Marines at the outset of World War I but spent the war in Guam, a setback to his career that would help keep him at the rank of captain for almost two decades during the interwar period.
In the early 1930s Smith attended the Army Infantry School at Fort Benning, Ga., then run by Lt. Col. George Marshall. There he and his classmates Walter Bedell Smith and Terry Allen were instructed in the use of machine guns by Major Omar Bradley and in tactics by Major Joseph Stilwell. “Colonel Marshall was pretty definite in his ideas,” Smith remembered admiringly. “He was a pretty tough hombre.”
As a general the quiet, pipe-smoking Smith hardly fit the gungho image of a Marine, which may be one reason his name is hardly known today. On the eve of landing for the Battle of Peleliu in World War II, for example, he passed the time by reading, among other things, a biography of Oliver Wendell Holmes. Peleliu proved to be a bloodbath for the American landing force, which according to Admiral Chester Nimitz suffered the highest casualty rate—nearly 40 percent—of any amphibious assault ever by American forces. This experience surely helped steel Smith for the carnage he would see during the hardest days of the Chosin fight.
It is said that the essence of generalship is what one does before the outbreak of fighting. That is certainly the case with Smith at Chosin. The three most important decisions of the campaign may be those he made before it even began.
First, he insisted on consolidating his regiments so they could support one another. This meant bringing in the 5th Marines from the east side of the reservoir and turning over that area to the Army.
Second, Smith made it a top priority to have his engineers scrape out two airstrips in the frozen ground, enabling the Marines in the following days to fly in supplies and reinforcements and move out their wounded, unburdening their units and enabling them to move faster through the frozen roads and mountains. A total of 4,312 wounded or frostbitten Marine and Army personnel were flown out in the mere five days that the northernmost airstrip, at Hagaru-ri, was operational, from the afternoon of December 1 to the evening of Dec. 6, 1950, when the retreating Marines abandoned that base.
Third, Smith put himself at what he believed would be the key point of the battle. The American forces around Chosin Reservoir were essentially in a giant formation resembling the letter Y, with the Marines on the left arm, to the west of the reservoir, and the Army on the right, to the east. Smith understood that if the Marines held their position west of the reservoir but lost the outpost to the south of it, where the forks met, they would be doomed. So on the morning of November 28 he left his headquarters and flew to that junction, where the two branches came together and the single road out of the mountains, south to the sea, began. This spot, he had determined, would be the decisive point, geographically, in the coming battle. “Hagaru-ri had to be held at all costs,” he later explained. “Here was the transport plane airstrip.…Here was accumulated the wherewithal to support the subsequent breakout from Hagaru-ri. Here was a defended perimeter where the 5th and 7th Marines [who were isolated to the northwest] could reorganize, resupply, re-equip and evacuate their casualties preparatory to the breakout therefrom.”
In the American system every general has a boss. A seldom-discussed aspect of generalship is understanding the person to whom one reports, whether that is a president, a prime minister or another general. What are that superior’s concerns, his skills, his shortcomings? A significant aspect of the Chosin campaign was that Smith soberly assessed the combat skills and judgment of Almond.
It was said of Almond that “when it pays to be aggressive, Ned’s aggressive, and when it pays to be cautious, Ned’s aggressive.” Chosin Reservoir was developing as one of the latter cases. When Almond visited Smith’s headquarters, he told the general and his Marine division staff, “We’ve got to go barreling up that road.” Smith bit his tongue until Almond left and then said to his staff, “We’re not going anywhere until I get this division together and the airfield built.” Before the battle Smith also wrote a personal letter to the commandant of the Marine Corps, putting his unease on the record. “Our left flank is wide open,” he noted. “I have little confidence in the tactical judgment of X Corps or in the realism of their planning.” At one point in mid-November 1950 Almond had spread his five divisions (three American and two South Korean) across a 500-mile front. Smith’s Marine division had a gap of 80 miles on its left and 120 miles on its right.
Smith so distrusted Almond’s judgment that, expecting that his forces eventually would be compelled to retreat, he established along the road back to the sea three fortified base camps, about one day’s march apart, loaded with supplies and well protected by infantry units. The tactical layout of the strongpoints and other outposts was distinctive, reflecting Smith’s calculations about the fight he was facing. As long as his perimeters held, he could keep his artillery and mortars in operation, which meant the Marines could keep fighting even while heavily outnumbered. This led to the conclusion that it was preferable to have guaranteed close-in kills than just good chances far out. He wanted to prevent as much as possible having handfuls of Chinese soldiers slip inside his lines to suicidally attack machine gunners and artillery and mortar crews. So Smith drew his units together, sacrificing some tactically significant positions atop hills in order to establish extremely tight perimeters.
As for Almond, his account of what happened at Chosin frequently rings false. The evidence indicates that Almond lied in his official oral history and elsewhere, repeatedly claiming that he had all but forced Smith to build the landing strips that would prove so vital. But Almond’s assertions run contrary to both logic and the documentary record. He was urging the Marines to charge 100 miles northward, so why would he want them to pause to establish an airfield just a short way from the sea? As it happens, Smith, in a letter to his wife weeks earlier, had mentioned that among his concerns he considered building airstrips absolutely necessary for supporting any combat operations around the Chosin area. Also, when Smith asked for the help of Army engineers to build the airstrips, X Corps staff refused his request. As Smith put it in an interview decades later: “The [X] corps at the time [early November] wasn’t interested in any field up there. I told Almond that we ought to have a field that would take transport planes to bring in supplies and take out casualties. He said, ‘What casualties?’ That’s the kind of thing you were up against. He wouldn’t admit there ever would be any casualties. We took 4,500 casualties out of that field.”
Even as Almond urged him to charge north to the Yalu, Smith and his Marines began to notice ominous signs around them. Korean children, normally eager to beg for candy, were nowhere to be seen. Deer were moving down from the ridges, as though displaced by something. When Smith learned that the Chinese had left a bridge intact over a chasm, he was alarmed, believing that it was part of an enemy plan to lure the Marines northward. History has revealed that Smith’s suspicions were correct: Peng Dehuai, the top Chinese commander in the war, had told his subordinates at a campaign planning meeting on November 13, “We will employ a strategy of luring the enemy forces into our internal line and wiping them out one by one.” The Chinese gambit of entrapment was exactly the right move to make against Almond, who was being overaggressive while underestimating his enemy.
Chinese commanders in North Korea had explicitly been given the mission to “encircle and exterminate the U.S. Marines around the Changjin [Chosin] Reservoir.” Sensing this, Smith’s plan “was to slow down the advance and stall until I could pull up the 1st Marines behind us and get our outfit together. I was unable to complete that until the 27th of November.”
That Marine consolidation came just in time. The same night, November 27–28, the two Marine regiments isolated at the northwestern end of the Marine line were attacked by two Chinese divisions. A third division swept in behind them to try to cut off their line of retreat to the southern end of the reservoir.
The confidence of the Marines’ response to these relentless attacks was striking—and infectious. They knew they had lavish and accurate close air support available. At night, when those planes could not operate, the Marines had artillery batteries standing by, ready to fire at prearranged coordinates in the draws and gullies in which Chinese attackers were most likely to creep toward American lines. When Smith asked Colonel Lewis B. “Chesty” Puller how he was doing, Puller responded, with no irony, “Fine! We have enemy contact on all sides.”
The two Marine regiments fighting on the western shore and the third regiment, trying to hold open the road to the south, were led by commanders who knew how to use communications, logistics, maneuver and fire support. Because of that, they would bring out all their wounded and most of their vehicles and artillery pieces, as well as many of the wandering Army soldiers they encountered. When their infantry attacked, it generally could count on swift and effective support from mortars, artillery and aircraft. Both enlisted men and officers had stored up hundreds of small combat ruses and ploys in World War II: When the enemy makes a noisy probing attack, he probably is trying to locate your machine guns, so respond only with grenades and rifle fire if possible. When withdrawing, buy a few precious moments by building a fire and throwing in some bullets as you depart, which as they cook off could make the enemy believe the abandoned position is still being contested.
There was a hardness in the Marines. The 7th Marines’ Fox Company had been left atop a hill in a key pass to try to keep the road back to the southern end of the reservoir open. Resupplied by air, Fox Company fought for five days, finally operating from behind improvised barricades that included stacks of frozen Chinese corpses.
The key to getting the two Marine regiments from their outposts on the west side of the reservoir down to the junction at Hagaru-ri, where Smith and supplies were waiting, was to break through the Chinese roadblocks and get the road open. Two attempts were made to clear the road directly; both failed. The regimental commanders, Lt. Col. Raymond Murray of the 5th Marines and Colonel Homer Litzenberg of the 7th Marines, recognized that a radically different approach was needed.
In what might have been the crucial tactical moment of the entire campaign, Murray and Litzenberg sent Lt. Col. Ray Davis to lead his 1st Battalion, 7th Marines, overland through enemy-held territory. The temperature was 24 degrees below zero. Few movements are as physically draining as going up and down hills covered with snow, but Davis’ battalion marched eight miles through waist-high drifts and over three frozen ridges. At times the Marines were so near Chinese troops that “we could smell the garlic and hear them talking,” recalled Sergeant Charles McKellar.
The weather was a physical threat but also a tactical ally. The snapping wind covered the sounds of hundreds of heavily laden men moving and climbing in the snow, and encouraged enemy soldiers to keep their ears well covered. It was too cold, and the men were too fatigued, to allow any stops, so the column moved almost continuously for 24 hours, then collided with the rear of the enemy along the road, ambushing the would-be Chinese ambushers and relieving the beleaguered Fox Company. When Lt. Col. Davis’ battalion arrived, it saw some 450 Chinese corpses splayed out around the company’s perimeter. Over the course of six days, Fox had suffered 26 killed, 89 wounded and 3 missing, out of about 220 Marines in the reinforced company. Davis and Fox’s commander, Captain William Barber, would both receive the Medal of Honor. (A total of 14 Marines in the Chosin campaign would receive that highest of American military honors.) Davis’ battalion then moved down and held open the pass until the Marine column could move southward through it.
Over four days and three nights this epic march and attack enabled the 5th and 7th Marines to push the 14 miles back down the left arm of the Y to Hagaru-ri, fighting Chinese attackers most of the time and the cold always. There were seven Chinese roadblocks along the way that needed to be attacked and cleared. Moving slowly and carefully, the two regiments brought with them all 1,500 of their wounded— 600 of them stretcher cases—as well as their dead. Patrick Roe, an intelligence officer for the rearguard battalion, wrote later, “No one ever doubted the troops from Yudam-ni would make it, but there was always a question of how many would.”
Smith and his chief of operations, Colonel Alpha Bowser, were in a tent at Hagaru-ri one night, working on the issue of how to replace a blown bridge on their line of retreat, when they heard an unfamiliar noise, one of human voices gradually growing louder. The voices were those of the lead element of the two regiments coming into camp, singing the Marine Corps Hymn and other familiar tunes. Bowser looked at Smith and said: “Our troubles are over. We’ve got it made.”
Hagaru-ri itself was under assault by yet another Chinese division. Smith took two days to allow the two arriving regiments to recuperate and refit, and also to fly out all the wounded and some of the dead. With the additional infantrymen, plus ammunition brought in by air, Smith calculated he had sufficient combat power to hold Hagaru-ri indefinitely, despite being greatly outnumbered by Chinese attackers.
Elements of six Chinese divisions stood along the sole road leading from the junction of the Y south to the sea. On December 6 Smith began the march of his 10,000 Marines to the coast. It was planned even more carefully than an attack, with Marines moving along the flanking ridgelines to protect the column. There were 1,000 trucks, tanks and other vehicles in the column, but by Smith’s order only drivers, radiomen, medics and the wounded were allowed to ride. Everyone else would walk, the better to stay warm and to ward off enemy attacks. It took 39 hours and cost 600 more casualties to fight southward 11 miles through nine more roadblocks to the next of Smith’s prepared strongpoints, at Koto-ri. Almond flew over the convoy and was outraged to see it stopped at points, so he had his aircraft land at Koto-ri, where he lectured Smith on the need to move rapidly.
The final obstacle, where the road ran along the top of a 1,500-foot cliff face, was a deep notch in the cliff whose bridge had been almost completely destroyed by the Chinese. Without it, troops could walk out, but Smith’s 1,400 vehicles (he had picked up 400 more at Koto-ri) were stuck—and on them lay the truck-bound wounded. “To leave them was unthinkable,” said Lieutenant William Davis of the 7th Marines. The division engineer, Lt. Col. John Partridge, came up with a novel way to address the problem: Drop bridge sections by air.
Smith was skeptical of the unprecedented plan for the bridge and questioned Partridge closely about it. “He was kind of a grouchy guy,” Smith recalled of his engineer. “He admitted that the Air Force had never dropped Treadway bridge sections.” Smith pressed him, asking how he knew it would work, whether test drops had been conducted, what would happen if some sections were damaged while being parachuted in, and whether there was a backup plan. Finally Partridge tired of the questions and exclaimed: “I got you across the Han River! I got you the airfield! And I’ll get you a bridge!” Smith laughed and told him to proceed. The bridge project worked, and the Marines were able to move out of the mountains.
Smith, vastly outnumbered, had mauled the Chinese divisions— at least nine of them, and perhaps even 12—arrayed against his one division. Afterward, he wrote to the commandant of the Marine Corps that his men “came down off the mountain bearded, footsore and physically exhausted, but their spirits were high. They were still a fighting division.”
Smith’s pride was justified. According to Russell Spurr’s groundbreaking history of Chinese involvement in the war, Enter the Dragon, after the Chosin battles the Chinese commander in Korea, Dehuai, flew to Beijing. There he confronted Chairman Mao Zedong, telling him bluntly that the forces given him were unequipped, untrained and undersupplied. As a result, he said, the attack on the Marines had been a disaster. The Chinese divisions that attacked the Marines at Chosin suffered 25,000 dead, 12,000 more wounded and tens of thousands of frostbite cases. These divisions were withdrawn from fighting until March of the following year.
Nonetheless, the campaign was a strategic victory for the Chinese. They had taken on the Americans, the world’s leading military power, and, fielding an illiterate, unmechanized peasant army, had pushed them out of northern Korea. And they had done it against one of America’s most prominent generals, Douglas MacArthur, the conqueror of Japan. “Communist China—until then considered to be a rogue regime of doubtful legitimacy—become a power with which to be reckoned,” concluded Roe. Lt. Gen. Matthew Ridgway admired Smith’s performance at Chosin: “If it wasn’t for his tremendous leadership, we would have lost the bulk of that division up north. His leadership was the principal reason it came out the way it did. He was a great division commander.”
When Smith retired, S.L.A. Marshall, the Army historian, went even further, calling his Chosin performance “perhaps the most brilliant divisional feat of arms in the national history.” It is difficult to overstate what Smith achieved. Had he simply followed orders and charged toward the Yalu, he might well have lost more than 10,000 Marines, which would have been perhaps the greatest military disaster in the nation’s history. If the 1st Marine Division had been wiped out, it would have been a triumph for communism, with consequences for the Korean War and the larger Cold War that are incalculable. The United States might have withdrawn from the peninsula and into isolationism, or it might have escalated and used nuclear weapons in Korea. Neither prospect is appealing.
Surprisingly, Smith is not much remembered or honored in today’s Corps. Ask a Marine who commanded at Chosin, and he is likely to say Chesty Puller or perhaps, even more mistakenly, General H.M. “Howlin’ Mad” Smith of World War II fame. A major reason for the relative obscurity of O.P. Smith likely is the friction between him and General Lemuel C. Shepherd, his immediate superior in the Marine Corps during the Chosin campaign, which probably is why he was never invited to the Marine base at Quantico, Va., to teach fellow officers about the campaign. “Regimental commanders spoke, company commanders spoke—everyone spoke but O.P. Smith,” wrote his granddaughter, with evident bitterness.
This neglect continues even now. The exhibit on the Chosin campaign at the National Museum of the Marine Corps near the Quantico base is magnificent. Especially chilling is the room-sized re-creation of Fox Company’s hilltop stand, with its depiction of tracer fire arcing across the night as mortarmen run low on shells and the dead are covered by snow. CHOSIN REMAINS A TOUCHSTONE OF MARINE CORPS HISTORY, a nearby sign states. Yet the exhibit treats O.P. Smith as an afterthought, sharing a small display case in a corner with Chesty Puller. The only Marine general from the Korean War honored with a prominent yellow-on-red biographical plaque, oddly enough, is Gerald Thomas, who succeeded O.P. Smith as commander of the 1st Marine Division.
Thomas E. Ricks is a fellow at the Center for a New American Security and a contributing editor of Foreign Policy, for which he writes the blog The Best Defense [ricks.foreignpolicy.com].
Originally published in the May 2013 issue of Military History. To subscribe, click here.
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e8410eb92b63c5b3bf2ef5c67e91d575 | https://www.historynet.com/close-call-crooked-billet.htm | Close Call at Crooked Billet | Close Call at Crooked Billet
Ordered to cut off supplies to British troops occupying Philadelphia, a young Patriot officer played a deadly game of cat and mouse.
Just before midnight on April 30, 1778, Brig. Gen. John Lacey Jr. walked the perimeter of his unit’s encampment north of the crossroads village of Crooked Billet, 17 miles north of British occupied Philadelphia. For the past three months the Pennsylvania militia officer and the troops under his command had patrolled the area between the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers, under orders from General George Washington to prevent local Loyalists from providing food and other supplies to the Crown forces holding the colony’s capital.
At 23 years old Lacey was one of the youngest senior officers in the Continental Army. Commissioned in 1776 as a company captain in the 4th Pennsylvania Regiment, he had served under Colonel Anthony Wayne during the latter part of the ill-fated 1775–76 Canadian campaign, then at Fort Ticonderoga through late 1776. Chafing under Wayne’s uncompromising command, Lacey had resigned his Continental commission, but in May 1777 he had accepted an appointment as a lieutenant colonel in the Bucks County militia, first leading men into combat that November at White Marsh. Politically astute and well connected, by January 1778 he had ascended to flag rank.
As the Continental Army had struggled through the previous winter, commander-in-chief Washington had become convinced that aid provided to British forces by Loyalists was helping to sustain the enemy at a critical time in the fight for American independence. Assigned to halt the flow of supplies into Philadelphia was Brig. Gen. James Potter, a veteran who had fought under Washington from Trenton to Germantown. When the Irish-born officer secured a leave of absence to care for his ailing wife, however, the assignment fell to the well-regarded and newly promoted Lacey. Initially flattered, the young Pennsylvania militia general would soon come to regret having accepted the assignment.
Having failed in his efforts to drive the British from Philadelphia, Washington withdrew his forces to Valley Forge. Though the conditions were harsh, the location offered tactical advantages. (Nationalserviceact.org)
For British forces seeking to quash American independence, 1777 had been a mixed year. On October 17 Lt. Gen. John Burgoyne had been compelled to surrender his entire command after the Battle of Saratoga. However, less than a month earlier Britain’s commander in chief in North America, General Sir William Howe, had defeated Washington in several engagements and captured Philadelphia in an almost textbook military campaign.
The most populous city in North America, with some 25,000 residents, and headquarters of the Second Continental Congress, Philadelphia would have seemed a war-winning objective for any 18th-century general. However, the British never quite fully comprehended the administrative flexibility of the nascent republic, which was loosely governed under the Articles of Confederation. Indeed, when Philadelphia fell, the rebel legislators simply packed up and moved to Baltimore. While Washington and his forces went into winter camp some 25 miles upriver along the Schuylkill at Valley Forge—which, though less than ideal, was easily defensible and relatively close to Philadelphia should an opportunity arise to attack the city—the British settled in for a relatively comfortable occupation.
That occupation was not without its logistical challenges, however. Although the British remained secure and uncontested behind a series of fortifications, the garrison’s size—some 16,000 men—required a steady stream of supplies to feed both the troops and the civilian population. The Patriot-held Delaware River forts of Mifflin and Mercer blocked initial attempts to resupply the city by water, and even after Howe’s troops drove the Americans from both forts, harsh winter weather made shipborne resupply problematic. Out of necessity the British turned to the surrounding countryside for food and other supplies.
Fortunately for the Crown forces, many residents of Philadelphia and the surrounding area remained loyal to King George III and were glad to be rid of the Continental Congress. The outbreak of war had crippled the city’s lucrative trade with Britain and stemmed the flow of British currency. To compensate, Congress and individual states had issued vast amounts of paper money. But it depreciated rapidly, and as the occupation drifted into 1778, Loyalist farmers brought a steady stream of food and other supplies to the British garrison in return for the king’s coins. It was this logistical flow into the capital Lacey was to halt.
Washington kept in regular contact with the young general, issuing specific instructions. “Protecting the inhabitants is one of the ends designed,” the commander in chief wrote Lacey on January 23, “and preventing supplies and intercourse with the enemy the other. This, perhaps, with the utmost vigilance cannot be totally affected. But I must entreat you to take every step that may render it possible.” As the winter dragged on, Lacey’s responsibilities increased. But despite being promised a minimum of 1,000 troops, the young brigadier rarely had more than a few hundred ragged men at his disposal—a number insufficient to defend his own headquarters let alone complete his overall mission.
Lacey did manage to become a thorn in Howe’s side, as farmers caught trying to smuggle provisions to the British garrison were seized and flogged, their supplies and horses confiscated. But his ill-equipped and outnumbered force remained little more than a nuisance. On February 2 Lacey informed President Thomas Wharton Jr. of Pennsylvania’s Executive Council of his predicament. “My strength is reduced so low,” he wrote, “that I am under the necessity of collecting the small remains into one body, as it is impossible to do any service in the weak and scattered condition in which I had them posted.” On February 15 he had more bad news for Wharton: “My force is at last reduced to almost a cipher. Only 60 remain fit for duty in camp. With this number you must of course suppose we are in no wise capable of guarding so extensive a country as this, nor even safe in our camp.”
Harrying Lacey and his men were patrols of British dragoons and Loyalists troops. In February the renowned Queen’s Rangers, under Major John Graves Simcoe, along with a group of locally recruited Loyalists, swept the countryside, capturing prisoners and supplies en route to Washington at Valley Forge. Among the booty were desperately needed bolts of cloth and a herd of 130 cattle, which Loyalists promptly herded into Philadelphia.
(Howard Pyle)
Washington berated Lacey for not having better protected the cattle. “I am sorry to say,” the commander in chief wrote, “that the loss is imputed to your having refused to let the drovers have a guard when they applied for one. I shall be glad to know whether it is so…[and] what could be your reason for refusing.” Lacey admitted the lapse, but blamed it on his lack of adequate troops. At the time he had scarcely 400 inexperienced, ill-equipped and poorly armed men. Had he provided an escort, he insisted, it would have left his encampment open to attack.
It was a prescient statement.
Despite being poorly armed and outnumbered by the British, Lacey and his Pennsylvania militiamen continued to patrol Bucks and Montgomery counties through the early spring of 1778, making examples of anyone caught with supplies intended for the enemy.
In April a frustrated Howe, who had submitted his resignation the preceding fall, was preparing to return to Britain. Before leaving, however, he wanted to sew up any unfinished business—including the elimination of Lacey and his nettlesome command. Toward that end, Simcoe of the Queen’s Rangers, who had gotten wind of Lacey’s location from a Loyalist spy, obtained permission to launch an attack. Lt. Col. Nisbet Balfour, Howe’s intelligence aide, gathered a group of officers to hatch a plan.
Weeks earlier the militia commander had set up headquarters north of the namesake tavern at Crooked Billet (present-day Hatboro), sending patrols from there to scour the countryside between the Delaware and Schuylkill. From his various raids and scouting parties Simcoe was very familiar with the area and prepared a detailed plan of attack. In overall command of the operation was French and Indian War veteran Lt. Col. Robert Abercromby, who ranked among Britain’s most adept field commanders, with a reputation for incorruptibility.
In addition to the 430 men of the Queen’s Rangers, Abercromby had 14 companies of light and heavy infantry from his own 37th Regiment of Foot, and two troops of 17th Dragoons under Major Richard Crewe. Two local Loyalist units—a troop of Philadelphia Light Dragoons, under Captain James Kerr, and Chester County Dragoons, under Captain Jacob James—would also take part in the action. All told the British force comprised some 850 men. Having learned from the fiascos at Lexington and Concord that large, slow-moving incursions into the countryside were vulnerable to attack from smaller, more mobile Patriot units, the British planned a quick and decisive strike against Lacey. Abercromby even brought along additional horses should it prove necessary to mount the infantrymen.
Simcoe’s plan—which called for the British column to reach Crooked Billet undetected at first light—hinged on a classic “pincer” double envelopment. The Queen’s Rangers would approach Lacey’s left flank and rear, thus forestalling a retreat east to the safety of nearby hills, while infantrymen lying in ambush along the road west toward the Horsham Meetinghouse would cut off any possible retreat to the main army at Valley Forge. As the Queen’s Rangers launched their assault, a third body of British troops would march up the York Road through Crooked Billet to attack Lacey’s front. Trapping the Patriots between them, the British would destroy Lacey’s command once and for all—in theory, anyway.
The British set the attack for the morning of May 1, Abercromby’s troops departing their Philadelphia barracks the previous afternoon. Guided by Loyalist scouts familiar with the country, the column advanced some 4 miles to the tavern crossroads of Rising Sun. There it split into the planned assault groups—Simcoe leading approximately 325 men, Abercromby with the main force of about 525.
Despite Simcoe’s meticulous preparations, his plan soon began to unravel. During the night march his column came on a Loyalist patrol under Captain William Thomas. Simcoe’s foreknowledge of the partisans’ presence prevented a “friendly fire” incident, but the encounter slowed his advance. Abercromby, too, was delayed, and both were still on the march when dawn broke. A few miles from Crooked Billet an early rising turkey hunter spotted Abercromby’s column, which soon fell afoul of one of Lacey’s patrols. Fearing capture, however, the Patriot scouts failed to fire their muskets in warning as prearranged. Their officer sent a runner back to camp. Abercromby, not knowing the disposition of Simcoe’s column and concerned his infantrymen would not reach the point of ambush in time to surprise the Patriots, sent Crewe, his dragoons and a detachment of light infantrymen ahead to make preparations. After reaching the ambush site undiscovered, however, Crewe decided on his own initiative to scout ahead. He was approaching the York Road intersection on Pennypack Creek, a quarter-mile from town, when fired on by a sentry on the bridge. Having lost the element of surprise, Crewe led his riders on a gallop into Crooked Billet. The light infantrymen dismounted and took cover, while the dragoons continued to their assigned station just shy of the Patriot camp.
Lacey had gone into camp at Crooked Billet because his 53 troops were too few to man the various forward outposts or maintain regular patrols. However, by the morning of May 1 the belated arrival of reinforcements had swelled his command to 300 able-bodied men, although owing to chronic shortages of muskets and ammunition many of the troops were unarmed. Lacey had ordered a patrol to set out by 3 a.m. on May 1 to watch the road to Philadelphia, but the scouts didn’t actually leave until nearly daylight. Their delay proved fortuitous for the British, who were able to make up much of the time they’d lost on the approach march.
Simcoe was closing on the Patriot left, about 2 miles east of Crooked Billet, when he heard musket fire from the Pennypack Creek crossing. He sent Kerr and his Loyalist dragoons across country to seize Lacey’s headquarters while urging his tired Rangers into position for the assault.
Despite their dallying and missteps, the British had achieved near total surprise, the defenders largely unaware of their predicament until Crewe’s men were almost on top of them. Lacey hurriedly dressed and rode into camp. By then his men were in near panic. The runner had arrived with word of Abercromby’s approach, and sentries reported the presence of enemy soldiers on three sides. The British trap was not completely closed, however, as Simcoe’s Rangers were still on the march, and an escape route north to Bucks County remained open.
Lacey decided to make a run for it. He ordered his men to assemble on the camp’s parade ground, had the horses hitched to the baggage wagons and set out for the cover of a dense thicket about a mile north. Before his column could cross the open ground in between, however, the Patriot rearguard came under attack by Kerr’s dragoons to the east and Abercromby’s infantry from the west and south. The attacking British also cut off the baggage train, few of its guards escaping death or capture.
As the main Patriot column approached the thickets, Simcoe attempted a tried-and-true ruse de guerre. Riding out well ahead of his rangers, he boldly demanded the Patriots surrender. When that failed, he hollered out firing commands, “Make ready!…Present!” hoping to cow them into giving up. The retreating militiamen ducked at the word, “Fire!” but Lacey wasn’t fooled. He closed his ranks, broke through Crewe’s flanking dragoons and led his men to relative safety in thick woods about a mile and a half away in Bucks County.
Lacey and his force may have escaped annihilation, but Crooked Billet had been a costly affair. The Patriots had lost 92 men—nearly one-third of Lacey’s command—with 26 killed, eight wounded and 58 missing. The British claimed only seven men wounded—a remarkably low casualty rate considering the number of troops engaged and their previous record when fighting in the American countryside.
In the wake of their victory the British killed the Patriot wounded, cutting many to ribbons with cutlasses and bayonets. Some were burned alive on buckwheat straw with the bodies of dead comrades. (Infographic: Brian Walker; Jay Brooks)
Though it went down as a British victory, Crooked Billet was a close-run thing. Simcoe’s plan had fallen short in several respects. For one, it failed to take into account that the attacking troops would be exhausted after an all-night march and unable to vigorously pursue the enemy should he take to flight. Of course, Crewe made several serious errors. He had rushed in after discovery by Patriot sentinels, throwing off the timing of Simcoe’s assault, then inexplicably reverted to the original plan when logic should have told him to hit Lacey’s camp with as much force as possible. Moreover, the British had failed to consider that Lacey was a native of the area and knew every possible escape route.
The British tarnished their victory with what would now be classified a war crime, as recounted by Lacey in a post-action report to the commander of the Pennsylvania militia:
Many of the unfortunate who fell into the merciless hands of the British were more cruelly and inhumanely butchered. Some were set on fire with buckwheat straw, and others had their clothes burnt on their backs. Some of the surviving sufferers say the enemy set fire to the wounded while yet alive, who struggled to put it out but were too weak and expired under this torture.
Lacey wasted little time in assigning blame for the defeat at Crooked Billet. As soon as he had established a new encampment, he ordered a general court-martial of the two officers he had ordered out on patrol the morning of the attack, accusing them of disobeying his orders and neglecting their duty. One was acquitted and returned to his regiment for duty, while the other was found guilty and cashiered.
Lacey, on the other hand, suffered no consequences for his decisions at Crooked Billet. Although Washington bluntly wrote the young commander that the rout he’d suffered at the hands of the British “will ever be the consequence of permitting yourself to be surprised,” Pennsylvania Executive Council Secretary Timothy Matlack praised Lacey, calling his conduct “highly approved.” Within months of the debacle Lacey was again commanding Pennsylvania troops, in the Susquehanna Valley. That November he won election to the Pennsylvania General Assembly, and the following year he joined the Executive Council.
While a relatively minor event in the history of the American Revolutionary War, the Battle of Crooked Billet served as an object lesson for both sides of that struggle: First, the fight demonstrated the inability of poorly equipped Patriot militias to resist large-scale British raids. Second, it showed that local tactical victories accomplished little toward Britain’s overall efforts to quash the revolution. Indeed, little more than six weeks after crushing the Patriots at Crooked Billet, the British evacuated Philadelphia, never to return.
Andrew Zellers-Frederick is a Revolutionary War historian and executive director of the Northampton County Historical & Genealogical Society [sigalmuseum.org] in Easton, Pa. For further reading he recommends With the British Army in Philadelphia, 1777–1778, by John W. Jackson, and Simcoe’s Military Journal: A History of the Operations of a Partisan Corps Called the Queen’s Rangers, by John Graves Simcoe.
First published in Military History Magazine’s May 2017 issue.
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1e0a2ccc9ccd167bee1cc96f481ab011 | https://www.historynet.com/coffee-kings-old-west-folger-first-arbuckle.htm | Coffee Kings of the Old West: Folger Was First, Then Arbuckle | Coffee Kings of the Old West: Folger Was First, Then Arbuckle
Emigrants wanted ‘grounds’ on their new grounds.
In the mid-1800s, as westbound emigrants left behind the Eastern cities where they could buy pre-ground coffee, they brought coffee beans with them, despite the added weight to their wagons. But those green beans weren’t ready to use until roasted in a frying pan, on a stove or over an open fire and then run through a handheld coffee grinder. The next step for drinkable coffee was to toss a handful of grounds into a pot of water and bring the whole thing to a boil. As the water cooled, the grounds sank to the bottom. Not all the grounds sank, though, so people often drank by the “saucer and blow” method, pouring coffee into a saucer, blowing to cool it and then slurping to avoid any remaining grounds.
This time-consuming, unrewarding task of preparing brew presented a business opportunity for James Folger in California in the early 1850s and John Arbuckle in Texas in the 1860s.
Folgers Coffee
James Athearn Folger was just 14 years old when he and brothers Henry, 16, and Edward, 20, left their home in Nantucket, Mass., to make the long boat trip to Gold Rush California. The Folger boys departed in the fall of 1849, rafted and hiked across the Panama isthmus and arrived in San Francisco on May 5, 1850.
By the time they reached the West Coast, they were nearly broke. James agreed to earn money in the city while his older brothers traveled north to pan for gold. James had worked as a carpenter since he was 11, so it was a natural move for him to take a job with William H. Bovee, a 27- year-old transplanted New Yorker who wanted to create a spice and coffee mill. They decided to build it in the heart of San Francisco, just six blocks from the waterfront. James constructed the first wind-powered mill using sails from whaling ships abandoned in the harbor by sailors eager to get to the goldfields. Bovee’s company became the Pioneer Steam Coffee and Spice Mills.
Bovee had run a coffee-roasting business in New York; even there, pre-roasted coffee had been a luxury. Since the mining country offered a huge potential market for men desperate to get easy-to-fix coffee, he figured he and young James were the men to supply it. James traveled to the goldfields in 1851, carrying samples of Pioneer Coffee, sealed in tins. He managed to make one major strike, which provided him with enough capital to set up a country store at a camp called Yankee Jim’s.
Four years later, 18-year-old James sold the store for a profit, returned to San Francisco and resumed his role as a partner in Pioneer Mills. In 1859 Bovee sold his interest in the coffee company to James, who bought out the other partners and renamed the firm the James A. Folger Company.
The young businessman married when he was 24 and built a home in Oakland. Folger prospered but wasn’t destined for a long life. At 54, James died of a heart attack, leaving his oldest son, James A. Folger II, in charge. (Grandson James III would later become company president.) The company founder is buried at Oakland’s Mountain View Cemetery.
When James II took over, he dramatically expanded the company. He might have been a better visionary than his father, or perhaps the times were right. Regardless, in the 1890s, he began distributing bulk-roasted coffee beans to grocery stores in sacks and drums, from which customers could scoop what they needed. Folgers & Co. also sold ground coffee under various labels, depending on the grade. It called its most expensive blend Folgers Golden Gate, labeling cans with the image of a ship in San Francisco Bay.
By the turn of the 20th century, Folgers & Co. was experiencing remarkable growth. One of its salesmen, Frank P. Atha, further expanded the company’s reach, establishing a plant in Texas in 1901, followed in 1908 by a new roasting facility in Kansas City, which remains in operation.
Procter & Gamble acquired Folgers in 1963, retaining the name, and sales quickly doubled. When the company started using mountain-grown beans, that tasty information became part of its advertising campaign. “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup” remains one of the catchiest slogans of the television age. Few viewers then or now realize that more than a century ago, San Franciscans were already sipping Folgers from their tin cups.
The five-story brick Folger Building remains at 101 Howard Street in San Francisco. Now listed on the National Register of Historic Places, it bears a corner placard that reads THE FOLGERS COFFEE COMPANY.
Arbuckles’ Coffee
What Folger did for California goldfield miners, John Arbuckle Jr. did for cowboys in Texas and the Southwest—but he added his own patented innovation in 1868. When he roasted the raw beans, Arbuckle made them tastier by coating them with his own mixture of sugar, eggs and Irish moss, which sealed in the flavor. He then distributed the beans in paper sacks. His customers still had to grind the beans themselves before boiling the brew, so Arbuckle later distributed ground coffee.
John Arbuckle had been in college in 1860 when he decided to join brother Charles and other relatives in the wholesale grocery business in Pittsburgh, Pa. He had a real knack for business (opening an Arbuckles’ Brothers factory in New York City in 1871) and was a whiz at marketing. In addition to coming up with commercial coffee (Arbuckles’ Ariosa), he began adding extras to his coffee packages, such as coupons redeemable for razors, scissors and, if someone were desperate, a wedding ring. Each package also contained a stick of peppermint candy to appeal to a younger audience. Arbuckles’ packages were a big hit among chuck wagon cooks on northbound cattle drives out of Texas. These cooks would call out, “Who wants the candy?” to get a young hand to turn the coffee grinder in exchange for the peppermint.
But the highlight was the coffee itself. A cowboy who got a paper bag of grounds was more delighted than if he’d managed to acquire toilet paper, which was not normally carried on roundups and trail drives. Cooks tried to keep plenty of hot coffee on hand for cowboys on break.
Of course when the cooks made coffee on the range, its taste varied. If the water was extremely hard, they might add a dash of salt. If the water was heavy with gypsum, they might break an egg in the pot to eliminate the acidic bite. When these old-range cooks (often referred to as “cookies”) made several pots of coffee in succession without emptying the grounds, the coffee tasted scorched.
Arbuckles’ Coffee was so prevalent that most cowboys didn’t realize there was any other brand made. “Arbuckles” became a generic name for coffee, like Stetson for hat or Levi’s for jeans. To keep it that way, the company packaged trading cards with the coffee and coupons. The cards educated coffee drinkers about the West, covering such topics as cooking, geography, sports, U.S. history, birds and other zoological studies. So-called “satire” cards even poked fun at various ethnicities and professions. The cards either accompanied the bagged coffee or were sold over the counter. Collectors continue to snap up these cards today.
By the early 1890s, John Arbuckle was a multimillionaire and had branched into the sugar business. Following his death on March 27, 1912, at age 74, Arbuckles’ Coffee seemingly faded into history. But today, Arbuckle Coffee Roasters of Tucson, Ariz., produces the eponymous coffee and tea. If you want it, you have to order it through the mail. Meanwhile, Folgers remains “the best part of waking up.”
Originally published in the December 2008 issue of Wild West. To subscribe, click here.
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d6caf780b97fb4698f25ad7d606f2b23 | https://www.historynet.com/cold-blue-brings-death-defying-world-of-a-world-war-ii-b-17-bomber-crew-to-life.htm | ‘Cold Blue’ brings death-defying world of a World War II B-17 bomber crew to life | ‘Cold Blue’ brings death-defying world of a World War II B-17 bomber crew to life
Cinematic masterpieces “The Best Years of Our Lives” (1946), “Roman Holiday” (1953) and “Ben-Hur” (1959) may have cemented William Wyler’s legacy as one of Hollywood’s most celebrated filmmakers, but it was a filming experience during 1943 that left the most lasting impression on the Oscar-winning director.
That summer, Wyler and a film crew embedded with the U.S. Eighth Air Force to film air combat missions aboard Boeing B-17s, footage that would become the 1944 World War II documentary “The Memphis Belle: A story of a Flying Fortress.”
Three years (1942-1945) of daylight bombing runs by the Eighth’s Flying Fortresses over Nazi Germany unleashed 697,000 tons of bombs.
But the effort to pry the claws of the Third Reich from Europe was met with deadly resistance, prompting torturous contemplations of one’s own mortality while being confronted with casualty totals that, by war’s end, would exceed 115,000 personnel from the U.S. Army Air Force.
Of that total, over 47,000 of were from the Eighth.
Despite these devastating odds, the men from the “Mighty Eighth” again and again climbed into cockpits and bombardier enclosures and took to the sky.
B-17 bombers from the Eighth Air Force take to the sky. ("The Cold Blue")
And Wyler’s camera crew kept rolling, even when one of its own, Harold Tannenbaum, was killed filming one such bombing mission.
It wouldn’t take long, however, for “The Memphis Belle” to be overshadowed by Wyler’s future masterpieces, and with that, the rolls of film compiled by his crew stashed away in the National Archives like a history buff’s buried treasure.
There the film sat, collecting dust, until director Erik Nelson resurrected the footage for his new documentary, “The Cold Blue,” a film dedicated to the heroic actions of the men of the “Mighty Eighth” who faced almost certain death on a daily basis.
Nelson (“A Gray State,” “Grizzly Man”), who received backing from the late Paul Allen’s Vulcan Productions, discussed the significance of the film restoration project with Military Times and HistoryNet.
“The Cold Blue” will premiere in theaters via Fathom Events for one day only — Thursday, May 23 at 7:30 p.m., before debuting June 6, the 75th anniversary of D-Day, on HBO. Tickets can be purchased through Fathom.
Walk us through the film restoration process — was it at all similar to Peter Jackson’s restoration of World War I footage for “They Shall Not Grow Old”?
No, it could not have been more different. The World War I project was in essence an animated film over distinct footage. The color was put in, extra frames were added, so in some ways it was almost rotoscoping, using the film but then recreating it as full-color animation. It was a staggeringly ambitious and well-executed project.
In “The Cold Blue,” what you see on the screen is what you got on the film. The color was already there, the film was already there. We didn’t have to extrapolate what the colors were because they were there. But we did have to repair the film.
The interesting story is that Wyler and his guys risked — and in one case, lost — their lives gathering this footage before it was shipped back to the United States. In 1943, Wyler was screening it in London and inflicted scratches on the raw master footage. If you look at the “Memphis Belle,” you’ll see what we call “the blue lines of death.” There are two scratches in the original negative that have accompanied this footage for 75 years. The one thing we did as far as a restorer was to remove those blue scratches frame by frame digitally, so we’ve rectified a mistake that I’m sure drove William Wyler out of his mind for all of this time.
What was it that drew you to the story of the 8th Air Force?
I am something of an autodidact historian on World War II and always have been, so the story of the Memphis Belle was not unknown to me. But the actual film “The Memphis Belle” is in horrible shape. If you go to YouTube and go to the best available National Archives film, or you watch “Five Came Back,” where they talked about the Memphis Belle on Netflix, you’ll see the blue scratches, you’ll see the washed-out muddy color — it all looks orange.
It was a tragedy to me that it had faded so badly, so when we discovered all the raw footage that went into it, and we embarked on “The Cold Blue” project, in the back of mind was, well, maybe we could restore the “Memphis Belle,” too — and we did.
Erik Nelson filming inside a B-17. (Vulcan Productions)
That kind of bonded us with the Wyler family, because that was their issue — and we got both projects out the door in time for the actual Memphis Belle that was unveiled at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base last May.
We had to rush to get “The Cold Blue” out because we wanted the [veterans] who were in the movie to see the film while they were around to see it. I’m happy to say that every one of the nine gentlemen we interviewed, the nine heroes, every single one of them is still with us today.
You mentioned bonding with the Wyler family. What did it mean to have William Wyler’s daughter, Katherine, noting how delighted her dad would be with the project? Wyler is obviously a demigod of film … what did it mean to get that approval and input?
It’s immensely gratifying that they’ve endorsed the vision and endorsed the film. I would often discuss with Katherine, “What would your father have thought?” And she would say, and has said, that he would have been thrilled.
I do think the idea that the footage that Wyler risked his life to make would be resurrected 75 years later, restored, put into wide-screen, and the sound effects designer who did the blockbuster “Black Panther” would supply the audio in surround-sound … I like to think that would utterly have thrilled William Wyler.
That’s one of the reasons why we also restored the “Memphis Belle” — we wanted to create a level playing field. It wouldn’t have been fair for me to put “The Cold Blue” out with this diminished, crappy copy of “The Memphis Belle” in existence. Now people can enjoy “The Cold Blue,” as we hope they do on May 23rd, and “The Memphis Belle” is out there, too, if someone wants to see the original. That remains in three-by-four. And we did just create a 5.1 soundtrack for it, using the original soundtrack but just making it sound way better.
Those are giant shoes to try to fill. So that was in the back of my mind, you know, whether this film will live up to it.
On the note of sentimentality, Paul Allen’s Vulcan Productions had a significant role in this. Can you discuss what role his company played?
Paul Allen was a World War II nut, another armchair, autodidact historian. Except his resources were somewhat better than mine. (Laughs)
Vulcan basically funded the original research, and then when I stumbled on the Memphis Belle material, I came back to them and said, “I want to make a full film.” “The Cold Blue” concept crystallized fairly quickly.
Then, they co-funded the project with me, so we were funding partners with the project. Paul fortunately got to see the film before he passed away.
Historians have argued that late-war carpet bombing runs were an attempt by the U.S. Army Air Force to prove its effectiveness to justify being a separate military branch. In the documentary you mention that 28,000 lives were lost in this process. Do you think that the ends justified the means?
Well, we won, didn’t we? I would say that when you’ve assembled a force like that, you’re going to use it, and yes, by February or March, around the time of Dresden, we were pretty much just making a rubble bounce. But once the dogs of war are unleashed, it’s tough to get them back in the kennel. I’m sure there were a lot of agendas at the time, and one can’t isolate any single one of them.
Why was it important for you to tell this story?
These are the last of the best. In some ways I made it for them. We screened the film to the 8th Air Force reunion in Dayton last year, and I wanted them to see that their story is still being told, and I want to tell the story in a way that this really would impact young 20-year-olds today.
These guys were 19, 20, and 21, and they’re flying B-17s on these ridiculously complicated, hazardous missions. The idea that they’d be in these planes for 10 hours, round-trip, in temperatures equaling Mount Everest, with this sort of crude technology to drop bombs, and they’d head back and wake up and do it all over again … people just can’t imagine now. War has become much more sanitized.
"The Cold Blue" hits theaters May 23. ("The Cold Blue")
I’ve never seen anything on the 8th Air Force or on the strategic bombing exercises quite like “The Cold Blue,” because it’s less about “On this date they did this, and then they did this, and then they came back did this.” It’s much more about what it was like. What did it feel like? I was very clear when I was interviewing the guys not to talk about the details of their missions in mission terms, but the experience. I knew what I wanted out of them, and I knew what footage I had to illustrate what they were saying.
They hadn’t really been asked questions like that before. Nobody would say, “How cold was it? Tell me stories about how cold,” or, “What did flak sound like? Tell me what it sounded like in the plane.” Those aren’t the kind of questions they were used to being asked.
We were really trying to resurrect not only the footage but resurrect their stories as a legacy for future generations. And the fact that the guys are still with us to see their movie hit 750 American screens on the 75th anniversary of D-Day is a tribute to them. And they deserve it. They deserve the attention now and they deserve to be celebrated in a film that I hope endures for the next 75 years.
That was one of the things was most appreciated about “Dunkirk,” that it felt like more of an experience than an actual plot. In terms of bring their experience to life, was there anything you were unable to include in the film that you were hoping to get in there to enhance that?
It’s very gratifying that this film made you think of “Dunkirk,” because “Dunkirk “was a big inspiration. My argument at the time was, “This is better than ‘Dunkirk’ because this is real.” But the care and precision of sound design was absolutely influenced by “Dunkirk.” We’re happy that Fathom is putting it in theaters because you need to see it in the dark with the sound up.
As far as things that I wished I could have put in; ironically, the only thing I wished I could have put in was more kickass B-17s being shot down footage. But Wyler didn’t get it. He got two death spirals and some fighters. But in the course of doing the Fathom film, we stumbled on Nazi newsreels, which show what it looked like from the other side — in some ways even better than “The Cold Blue” does.
We’re now exploring other things. My next film is going to be based in the Bundesarchiv. We’re going to basically do a film that tells the entire story of World War II from the German perspective — only using their newsreels and their narration. It’s called “Their Struggle.”
When you say, “What the hell were the Germans thinking they were doing?” OK. Here it is. This is what they were thinking.
What impact do you hope “The Cold Blue” has on movie-goers?
We were pretty careful to get it right, and the best way to get it right is to show the imagery and have the guys who were there takes us through it.
There’s no editorializing or lead you by the nose story. Hopefully, laymen will watch the movie and say, “Oh my God, I never knew. I should read more. I need to find out more about this.”
If that’s where we lead an audience, I feel we’ve done our job.
Thank you, Erik Nelson, for taking the time to chat.
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f6b5dfc13660b778b50b33dc0421aa7a | https://www.historynet.com/collegiate-conundrum.htm | Collegiate Conundrum | Collegiate Conundrum
For its faults, the Electoral College has endured because it has fulfilled its main purpose—preventing stolen elections
2020 is the 59th American presidential election year. Since the first, in 1789, every candidate has undertaken to win a majority in the Electoral College. This small body—membership is now 535 persons—materializes briefly every four years and, despite never actually meeting as a whole, almost always decides who becomes the most powerful person on the planet. Despite many a glitch, this odd institution marches on, because the Electoral College arguably fulfills the main purpose that the Framers had in mind when they created it: warding off stolen elections.
The brigands seen as most threatening at the Constitutional Convention were foreigners, and the most recent example of such thievery had involved Poland. Early modern Poland, a vast domain, stretched from Lithuania to Ukraine. This mega-state’s monarch was chosen by Poland’s nobility, assembled in the sejm or diet. When the throne became vacant in 1763, the leading candidate was the noble Stanislaw August Poniatowski. Handsome and fluent in half a dozen languages, Poniatowski, 32, would have made, according to one diplomat, an excellent master of ceremonies, though “moral courage he altogether lacks.” His main qualification was that in their twenties he and Catherine the Great, empress of Russia, had been lovers. Russia had long cultivated allies in Poland’s diet, and Catherine now used them to boost Poniatowski, calculating that he would be a compliant placeholder until she and Poland’s other neighbors—Prussia and Austria—could agree on divvying Poland up. Her ex became Stanislaw II Augustus in 1764. Catherine and fellow predators took their first helpings of his country in 1772.
Fifteen years later the Framers’ first stab at a constitution, the Virginia Plan, envisioned a chief executive chosen by the national legislature. On second thought, however, the Framers realized a president picked by Congress would be no less vulnerable to foreign influence than a Poniatowski picked by the Polish sejm.
“The great rival powers of Europe who have American possessions,” said James Madison, will want to see “at the head of our government a man attached to their respective politics and interests.” This was no idle worry.
The mahogany boxes containing the Electoral College votes are shown being carried to the House Chamber on Jan. 6, 1961, by Capitol Pages Don Wilson and Tom Chapman. Following are Joseph Dukes, Senate Sergeant at Arms. (Getty Images)
Great imperial powers surrounded America. Former masters the Brits owned Canada; Spain controlled the Mississippi River and the Gulf coast. And who could say when France, still ensconced in the Caribbean, might chance a return to the North American mainland?
“The election of a President of America,” Thomas Jefferson warned Madison in a kibitzing communique he posted from Paris, “will be much more interesting to certain nations of Europe than ever the election of a king of Poland was.”
The solution, not settled until the Constitutional Convention’s final weeks, was to have each state’s voters choose electors. Those electors—the phrase “electoral college” came into vogue in the 19th century—would pick the president and vice president. This scheme’s main virtue, Alexander Hamilton explained in the Federalist Papers, was that the electors would be a serial pop-up group. “The appointment of the President” does not “depend on any preexisting bodies of men, who might be tampered with beforehand to prostitute their votes,” Hamilton wrote, but on persons picked “for the temporary and sole purpose of making the appointment.” As an extra safeguard, senators, representatives, and other federal officeholders could not be electors, lest they support an incumbent pursuing re-election. Since each state’s electors would meet in that state’s capital—initially 13 locations, more as the country grew—foreign influencers would be hard pressed to lobby electors even at the last minute.
The arrangement evolved by evolution and amendment. At first some states chose electors by popular vote, others via their legislatures. In time, a popular vote with the statewide winner taking all became the norm; Maine and Nebraska choose some electors in separate electoral districts.
In the first four presidential elections, each elector voted for two men, the one who got the most votes becoming president, the runner-up becoming veep. The 12th Amendment, ratified early in 1804, required electors to declare their first choices, institutionalizing not only the presidential ticket, with a POTUS candidate and a running mate, but the system of political parties that picked those tickets.
Although Hamilton’s comments in the Federalist Papers suggested otherwise, electors were always expected to vote as the states that chose them directed, though in recent years the elector who goes his own way has become more common. In 2016 five of Hillary Clinton’s electors and two of Donald Trump’s went rogue. Thirty-three states and the District of Columbia have laws against bolting.
The Electoral College has delivered its share of crack-ups. In 1800 and 1824, the House of Representatives decided the election, because no candidate won a majority of electoral votes. In 1876 three states each sent two conflicting slates of returns, while a fourth state’s tally was challenged because one elector was a federally employed postmaster. An Electoral Commission of senators, representatives, and justices of the Supreme Court sorted out the mess. The biggest problem, which grows bigger as America thinks of itself as more democratic, has been disparity between the Electoral College count and the votes that John Q. Citizen actually casts. Several presidents who racked up big Electoral College margins won only pluralities of the popular vote—Abraham Lincoln in 1860, Woodrow Wilson in 1912, and Bill Clinton in 1992 and 1996—thanks to third-party candidates’ vote-draining effect. And in 1888, 2000, and 2016 Electoral College winners Benjamin Harrison, George W. Bush, and Donald Trump trailed rivals Grover Cleveland, Al Gore, and Hillary Clinton in the popular tally.
Is the Electoral College still a shield against fraud? Foreign countries have been trying to influence American elections as far back as 1796, when France was threatening grave consequences unless a Francophile candidate, meaning Jefferson, won, and as recently as 2016, when Russia reached out to the Trump campaign with multiple tentacles. But foreigners could not tamper with the vote.
One unintended consequence of the Electoral College may be the blunting of homegrown vote-stealing in presidential contests. Every political machine tries to thumb the scale, but perhaps only in 1844 did that tip an election. Historian Daniel Walker Howe argues that Henry Clay lost New York’s electoral votes, and thus the race, not only because the abolitionist Liberty Party diverted anti-slavery Whigs from Clay—the view taught in textbooks—but also through Tammany Hall skullduggery on behalf of victor James Polk. Richard Nixon’s 1960 campaign, believing vote stealing had thrown that contest to JFK, demanded recounts in several states. When Illinois, one of the largest, examined its returns, officials found fraud, but not enough to have changed the result. A recount in Hawaii actually moved that state from Nixon’s to Kennedy’s column.
Targeting decisive races in a continent-sized republic is difficult enough for the purposes of ordinary campaigning. For vote stealing it is a more difficult undertaking yet.
In a tight race decided by a national popular vote, however, any vote stolen anywhere would be worthwhile. The temptation to run up one’s candidate’s tally would be almost irresistible—and none would resist. National recounts would inevitably follow, like nightmares after a bad dinner. Such a system could work only with a national voter ID card.
So we bumble along with a college whose members never meet en masse, and electors who should, but sometimes don’t, do what the voters who picked them want.
This Déjà Vu column appeared in the December 2020 issue of American History.
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6066b82e295e1a14b7129b126d45fc55 | https://www.historynet.com/colorados-fort-garland-museum-recalls-kit-carson-legends.htm | Colorado’s Fort Garland Museum Recalls Kit Carson and Other Legends | Colorado’s Fort Garland Museum Recalls Kit Carson and Other Legends
The adobe post protected settlers and had a role in the Civil War.
The Fort Garland Museum centers on the lively frontier history of the surrounding San Luis Valley in southern Colorado. Young mountain man Christopher “Kit” Carson became acquainted with the valley while fur trapping in the Rockies in the 1830s. In the early 1840s Carson successfully guided the first three of John C. Frémont’s Western expeditions. But when Frémont crossed the valley to ascend the San Juan Mountains in the harsh winter of 1848 on his fourth expedition, Carson wasn’t with him, and the “Pathfinder” found disaster—losing first his sense of direction, and then 10 men and all his equipment. Ten years after Frémont’s fiasco the U.S. Army established Fort Garland to protect the early settlers in the valley, and in 1866 Carson was back, too, as commander of that post.
At 7,500 feet, the San Luis Valley is an enormous intermountain basin (about 75 miles east to west and 120 miles north to south) that extends into New Mexico. The San Juan Mountains are to the west, Blanca Peak (14,345 feet) to the east and the Sangre de Cristo range to the northeast. Spain still controlled the valley after the 1803 Louisiana Purchase, and four years later Spanish authorities arrested U.S. Army Captain Zebulon Pike’s military expedition near the future site of Fort Garland. Nevertheless, Pike’s reports helped popularize the valley, and it drew more trappers and then settlers.
On June 22, 1852, in the wake of the Mexican War, U.S. authorities established Fort Massachusetts in the San Luis Valley to protect settlers and travelers from Indian attack. Because of the swampy location, the Army authorized construction of a new adobe post some six miles to the south. Frontiersman Charles Autobee launched the project but was wounded in a stabbing. His stepbrother, famed scout Tom Tobin, saw the job to completion in 1858. Named for Brevet Brig. Gen. John Garland, commander of the Military District of New Mexico, Fort Garland housed some 100 men in adobe buildings with 3-foot-thick walls. When the Civil War broke out, Fort Garland served as an enlistment site, and in early 1862 volunteers under Major John Chivington marched into New Mexico Territory and thwarted the Texan Confederate advance toward Colorado Territory at Glorieta Pass. Lieutenant Colonel Samuel F. Tappan, who served with Chivington, became commander of Fort Garland in July 1863. That summer Tappan’s soldiers shot it out with outlaws Felipe and José Espinosa. The brothers got away, but Tobin later tracked and killed them, returning to the fort with the Espinosas’ heads in a burlap bag.
Following the war, Ute raids intensified in the San Luis Valley. “I need not say that Carson is the best man in the country to control these Indians,” wrote Maj. Gen. John Pope to superiors in early 1866. In May, Carson became commander of Fort Garland. That September he convinced Chief Ouray to bring his Ute band to the fort to negotiate a peace. Kit, wife Josefa and their seven children lived in the commandant’s quarters until November 22, 1867, when an ailing Carson was mustered out of service. While stationed at Fort Garland from 1876 to 1879, 9th Cavalry buffalo soldiers were instrumental in mediating disputes between Utes and settlers. In November 1883, with the Utes on reservations, the Army closed Fort Garland.
The Colorado Historical Society bought the property in 1945 and, after extensive restoration, opened it to the public as a museum in 1950. Today five of the original 22 buildings house the museum. Visitors can tour buildings and walk the parade ground, which includes the original 1858 flagpole.
Among the artifacts on display are military wagons, including an early Army ambulance, and an 1873 Barlow & Sanderson passenger stagecoach. The commandant’s quarters holds several period items, including an 1847 rifle that be longed to Carson, while the enlisted men’s barracks showcase soldiers’ personal items. Rounding out the highlights are dioramas (including one on the Battle of Glorieta Pass), an exhibit devoted to the buffalo soldiers and items unearthed by archaeological surveys. For more information visit www.historycolorado.org or call 719-379-3512.
Originally published in the August 2012 issue of Wild West. To subscribe, click here.
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8a948c8c14380b8b018e067b3d5dc613 | https://www.historynet.com/combat-veteran-buff-restoring-a-vietnam-war-bomber.htm | Combat Veteran BUFF: Restoring a Vietnam War Bomber | Combat Veteran BUFF: Restoring a Vietnam War Bomber
Some of the volunteers working to restore a historic B-52D Stratofortress at the Yankee Air Museum serviced the very same aircraft during the Vietnam War.
Among the first things visitors to the Yankee Air Museum in Belleville, Mich., notice is a Boeing B-52D Stratofortress, parked in a fenced-off area adjacent to Willow Run Airport. It’s hard to miss, with its 185-foot wingspan and 40-foot-tall tail. Scaffolding is in place, the bomb bay doors might be open and volunteers may be working on it. The location is not an obvious B-52 work site as these aircraft were never based at Willow Run, though a nearby plant built thousands of Consolidated B-24 Liberators during World War II. As it turns out, this particular Stratofortress served with distinction in the Vietnam War, and some of those involved with the bomber’s extensive restoration actually worked on it during the war.
B-52D serial no. 55-0677 was manufactured by Boeing in Wichita, Kan., and delivered to the U.S. Air Force in August 1957. It flew more than 600 combat missions during the Vietnam War from Guam, Okinawa and U-Tapao Royal Thai Navy Airfield in Thailand. Number 677 participated in the December 1972 Operation Linebacker II bombing campaign against North Vietnam, which helped facilitate the signing of the Paris Peace Accords in January 1973. After combat operations ceased in Vietnam, bombing in Laos continued into February and 677 is believed to have been the last B-52 to bomb that country.
The veteran BUFF (big ugly fat f—er), as B-52s were known to their aircrews, returned to the United States and was ultimately flown from Carswell Air Force Base in Texas to Willow Run in 1983. The bomber is on loan to the Yankee Air Museum from the National Museum of the U.S. Air Force. It hasn’t been moved since it was parked, as relocating a 175,000-pound aircraft is a formidable task. On Memorial Day 1984, 677 was dedicated as a permanent memorial to all aircrew members who lost their lives in Southeast Asia.
The BUFF’s cockpit instrument panel remains largely intact. (Susan Torrible)
While there are no known records indicating the bomber suffered battle damage, nature has not been so kind. As it sat outdoors over the years, the fuselage corroded and began to deteriorate. By 2014 the deterioration reached a point where scrapping 677 was seriously considered. Ralph Koehler, the museum’s restoration manager, called Joe Provost, who had served as a B-52 crew chief at U-Tapao and worked on 677, to determine if it was salvageable.
Provost contacted fellow veterans and museum members Bob Bailey and Nick Consiglio, who helped evaluate the airframe. The determination was made that 677 could indeed be restored and the venerable bomber saved for posterity.
Work began in 2015. Provost, Bailey and Consiglio, along with Air Force veterans Luke Noble and Dave Barnhart, coordinate ongoing restoration efforts throughout the year. They schedule work to be completed, assess equipment requirements and determine if any special materials or tooling are required.
In addition to museum volunteers, two other teams are actively involved in the restoration effort. One team consists of students from the nearby MIAT College of Technology, in Canton, Mich. While working on the project these students are earning college credit and receiving expert aircraft restoration training. The young men and women learn real-life job skills and get firsthand exposure to an important part of U.S. history.
Two volunteers sand paint from 677’s fuselage. Plans call for the bomber to be repainted in its original Southeast Asia scheme. (Courtesy of Yankee Air Museum B-52 Preservation Team)
The second team is composed of U-Tapao alumni, personnel from any service branch who were permanently stationed or on temporary duty at the airfield during the war. Provost, Bailey and Consiglio are all U-Tapao alumni, which led to their organizing an annual one-day work party for these veterans, the first of which was held in 2016. Attendees come from many different states to help restore this piece of Vietnam War history for future generations. Added benefits include enjoying camaraderie with fellow veterans while sharing a few war stories.
The teams have made considerable progress over the last few years. Restoration work has included reskinning both wing roots and all 16 engine cowlings, repairing the right wing leading edge and various cracks/corrosion in the fuselage, restoring four engine nacelles and most of the bomb bay doors plus fixing mechanical parts, draining fluids and similar maintenance. Future plans include restoring the left wing leading edge, reskinning the majority of the left wing underside, ongoing corrosion repair, general maintenance and installing the restored engine nacelles. One of the many goals for 677 is to restore the original Southeast Asia black and camouflage paint scheme.
Work party participants cite many reasons why they spend their time, money and effort on the project. Brad Beall was a tail gunner on 677, based in both Guam and U-Tapao. He traveled to Willow Run from his home in Illinois to work on the bomber during a 2017 work party. “It’s just so cool to be able to work on the same aircraft I flew on during the war,” Beall said.
“We have U-Tapao veterans and their families from all over the nation, at their expense, come to Willow Run to partake in her restoration,” Consiglio noted. “Many of these vets never touched an airplane when they served but are happy to work their hearts out.” Consiglio, who also serviced 677 during the war, uses the same tool bag now as in his U-Tapao days.
Restoration work will continue over the next few years. Long term, the Yankee Air Museum is constructing a new Aeronautic Center a few blocks from the museum to house its flyable aircraft collection. The B-52 will be moved to a location adjacent to the new center, and visitors will be able to see this aviation legend close up as they arrive at the museum.
“We need to preserve what we can of aviation history and the memory of all the men and woman who came before us,” commented Bailey. For more information, see yankeeairmuseum.org.
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529344956b9aebc6a69d135cdabac266 | https://www.historynet.com/command-confederate-guerrilla-attack-1863.htm | You Command: Confederate Guerrilla Attack, 1863 | You Command: Confederate Guerrilla Attack, 1863
As commander of a force of irregular cavalrymen, YOU lead your men against Union troops at Fort Blair.
In October 1863, the American Civil War continued to rage fiercely on bloody battlefields across the country, from the Atlantic coast to far beyond the Mississippi River. Although stunning Union victories at Gettysburg (July 1-3) and Vicksburg (Confederates surrendered July 4) dealt heavy blows to the South’s chances of winning its independence outright on the battlefield, the Confederacy showed little sign of giving up. Union and Confederate forces remained locked in deadly struggles ranging from fullscale battles pitting tens of thousands of Soldiers against one another to sharp engagements involving only a handful of troops on each side.
In addition to the battles fought by the conventional armies, the fighting increasingly was waged by Confederate guerrillas – irregular cavalrymen whose defining tactics were hit-and-run raids on Union outposts, supply bases and towns supporting Northern forces. In the war’s Trans-Mississippi Theater, guerrilla warfare predominated, particularly in Missouri and along the Kansas-Missouri state line. This troubled border region had been the scene of bloody clashes between pro-Northern and pro-Southern forces since 1854, fomenting hatred that only intensified once the Civil War broke out.
Beginning in mid-1861, U.S. President Abraham Lincoln’s extraordinary – and extralegal – political and military efforts to keep the key border state of Missouri in the Union by force created conditions that led to a bitter, ongoing guerrilla war. After Union troops pushed all conventional Confederate forces out of Missouri in early 1862, the war devolved into a protracted conflict characterized by Confederate guerrilla raids followed by brutally ruthless Union reprisals against guerrillas and civilians suspected of aiding them. In the vernacular of the day, it was “War to the knife, and the knife to the hilt!” – a no-quarter, life-or-death struggle between implacable enemies.
Armchair General® takes you back to October 6, 1863, to the Kansas-Missouri border region, where you will play the role of Confederate Colonel William C. Quantrill, commander of a 400-man guerrilla cavalry force. As you are leading your guerrillas through eastern Kansas on a southward journey of more than 200 miles toward safe winter quarters in Texas, you discover a small Union garrison occupying recently constructed Fort Blair. You decide to attack the fort – but then your scouts report the approach of another Union force. You face a critical decision: What action should you take to deal with these two enemy forces?
“NO QUARTER!” WAR
Guerrilla warfare is nothing new to the American military experience. Irregular forces and unconventional tactics characterized the struggle with Native American tribes since the first European settlers came to the continent, and U.S. forces faced Loyalist partisans during the 1775-83 American Revolution and then Mexican irregulars during the 1846-48 War with Mexico. Now, in the American Civil War, Confederate guerrilla bands oppose occupying Union forces in the hotly contested border states of Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee and northwestern Virginia, whose civilian population is bitterly divided between pro-Union and pro-Confederate factions. Typically, it is a “neighbor against neighbor” struggle with little mercy shown by either side.
Union counterguerrilla strategy is uncompromisingly brutal and reflects U.S. forces’ previous experiences fighting Indians, Loyalist partisans and Mexicans – kill guerrillas where they are found and harshly repress civilians who support them. Guerrillas are seldom taken prisoner and are quickly executed even when they are, and civilians suspected of aiding them are shot on the spot or imprisoned without trial. Lincoln has even suspended the writ of habeas corpus for the war’s duration and ignores the Supreme Court’s ruling that his action is unconstitutional.
The most egregious act of brutal Union repression of Missouri civilians suspected of aiding Confederate guerrillas is Order No. 11, an edict that was issued August 25, 1863, by Brigadier General Thomas Ewing, commander of the Union District of the Border (Kansas and western Missouri). Ewing’s order directed the forcible removal of all civilians from five Missouri counties bordering Kanas, except for those few who could prove their Union loyalty. Worse, the order was enforced by“Jayhawkers,” ill-disciplined Kansas militiamen who consider all Missourians “rebels” to be killed or severely chastised. After Jayhawkers finished their devastating forced evacuation, the entire area has aptly been called the “Burnt District.”
In Missouri and along the Kansas-Missouri border, the fighting drags on as a “no quarter!” war of hit-and-run guerrilla raids and ruthless Union reprisals.
UNDER THE BLACK FLAG
You were born in Ohio in 1837 and moved to eastern Kansas near the Missouri border at age 19. Heavily influenced by the pro-Southern friends you made – and incensed at the murderous violence perpetrated against proSouthern Kansas settlers during plunder raids into Missouri by abolitionist fanatic John Brown and Jayhawker James H. Lane – you decided to support the Confederacy when the war broke out. You joined General Sterling Price’s Missouri State Guard and fought against Union forces at the 1861 battles of Wilson’s Creek (August 10) and Lexington (September 13-20). However, by December, you chose to fight a different kind of war. When conventional Confederate forces were driven out of Missouri, you remained behind in the Kansas-Missouri border region as a guerrilla leader. Like most guerrilla leaders, you held a commission in the Confederate Army.
Your initial attempts to fight guerrilla actions while observing the generally accepted “laws of warfare” were callously rebuffed by Union commanders. From the outset, they have treated your men as outlaw bandits, refused to exchange prisoners and summarily executed captured guerrillas. You have retaliated by raising the“Black Flag,”signifying that no quarter would be given or expected.
Although Confederate guerrilla bands typically operate in highly mobile units of only 10 to 20 cavalrymen, on August 21, 1863, you organized and executed one of the largest and most stunning raids of the war when you led 400 guerrillas in a surprise attack on Lawrence, Kan. (See Kansas-Missouri Border map, p. 57.) Situated 40 miles west of Kansas City, Mo., Lawrence is a notorious Union and Jayhawker stronghold whose citizens owe much of their prosperity to the goods, horses and valuables looted from Missourians in early war plunder raids conducted by Kansas militiamen harbored in the town. Your attack caught residents and the Union troop garrison in Lawrence by complete surprise. Once your guerrillas quickly rode down the Union Soldiers, the town was at your mercy. The raid was a brilliant tactical success – but then it turned murderous.
When you arrived in Lawrence, you carried a “death list” with the names of the town’s worst Jayhawker leaders who you had marked for elimination (James Lane’s name was at the top). However, some of your revenge-minded guerrillas had no intention of limiting their killing to only those whose names were on the list. Your fiercest lieutenant, William T. “Bloody Bill” Anderson – in a homicidal rage after learning that one of his sisters was killed and another crippled for life on August 13 while in illegal Union custody – led 40 followers, including Archie Clement and Frank James, on a four-hour killing spree that accounted for many of the 180-200 men and boys murdered during the Lawrence raid. Anderson personally killed 14 of the males.
Many of the “civilians” Anderson and his men shot down were actually members of the town militia responsible for defending Lawrence, but your surprise attack caught them unarmed and virtually defenseless in the face of the enraged guerrillas. When your men left Lawrence, it was looted, burning and littered with bodies.
Despite the fact that Lawrence had been the sanctuary from which numerous deadly Union and Jayhawker raids had been launched into Missouri, Northern newspapers immediately featured headlines screaming“Massacre!” The indiscriminate killing of Lawrence civilians and the destruction of the town evoked widespread public outrage throughout the North, prompting Union commanders to intensify their counterguerrilla efforts in the region. By early October, the area had become “too hot” for effective guerrilla operations. Moreover, you realized that the approaching cold weather would soon denude the brush and trees that concealed your guerrillas’ preferred hiding places, leaving your men dangerously exposed and vulnerable to discovery by Union patrols. You therefore made the decision to lead your force over 200 miles south to Texas.
ON THE ROAD TO BAXTER SPRINGS
Your 400 guerrillas comprise a highly effective irregular cavalry force and are proven masters of hit-and-run raid tactics. They are all superb horsemen and are well armed for the close-quarters combat typical of raids. Each man carries as his primary weapons several six-shot revolvers (some carry as many as six pistols) that allow him to produce a blizzard of fire to quickly overwhelm opposing Union Soldiers principally armed with singleshot, muzzle-loading rifle muskets and carbines. Your light cavalry force has no artillery or long-range weapons and therefore must rely on mobility, surprise, shock action and closein pistol firepower for success in an engagement. Although your guerrillas are brilliantly effective at conducting lightning fast raids against unfortified enemy positions, they are neither organized nor armed for assaults against fixed fortifications.
On October 6, as you near Fort Blair, in Baxter Springs, Kan., your scouts bring in two captured Union wagon teamsters. The prisoners report that the fort consists of a blockhouse and several small cabins surrounded by a log and earth rampart about 4 feet high and 100 feet long on each side. To the west of the fort is the garrison’s tent encampment, and to the south is the cooking area. The teamsters divulge that the fort’s 155-man Union garrison is commanded by Lieutenant James B. Pond. Seventy of the men are African-American infantrymen of Company I, 2d Kansas U.S. Colored Troops, and the rest are part of C and D companies, 3d Wisconsin Cavalry. The infantrymen are armed with single-shot, muzzle-loading rifle muskets, while the cavalrymen carry breechloading carbines. Most troubling is the knowledge that the fort contains a 12-pounder howitzer.
Despite the presence of the rampart and howitzer, you decide to attack the fort. Suddenly, however, your other scouts gallop in and report a second Union force approaching from the north on the military road from Fort Scott to Fort Blair. The scouts had sneaked close enough to determine that the enemy force is made up of 100 troopers of Company I, 3d Wisconsin Cavalry, and Company A, 14th Kansas Cavalry, escorting Union Major General James G. Blunt from Fort Scott to Fort Smith, Ark. Like Fort Blair’s cavalrymen, Blunt’s troopers are armed with breech-loading carbines, but they have no artillery or long-range weapons.
As you process this information, you gather your principal lieutenants to hear three courses of action you are considering.
Course of Action One: TWO ATTACK FORCES
“Boys,” you begin, “the Yanks are in for it now! We’ve not only caught the blue backs at Fort Blair napping, we’ve also got others coming down the road from Fort Scott with no idea they’re about to ride into a hornet’s nest. I propose that we split our men into two forces and simultaneously attack Fort Blair and ambush Blunt’s escort. I’ll lead 200 men and overrun the fort, and Anderson will ambush Blunt’s force with our remaining 200 men. The Yanks won’t know what hit ’em!”
Bill Anderson likes the idea. “That suits me,”he says.“And I want Blunt for myself. He’s been killin’ our folks since he joined up with John Brown and Lane in ’56. I’ll shoot him down like the dog that he is – and kill every last Yank that’s riding with him.”
George Todd, who has been with you since early 1862, is skeptical. “I don’t like splitting us up,” he says. “Why let either of the Yank forces fight only half our men? This just seems too risky to me. We’d better keep our boys all together.”
Course of Action Two: ONE ATTACK FORCE
“George,” you reply, “that’s exactly what my second course of action entails. Since Blunt has no idea we’re here, we can attack the fort first with all our men and then ride north and ambush Blunt’s column.”
“That’s more like it,” says Todd. “Keeping us together gives us the best chance of overrunning the fort and defeating Blunt and his escort. In fact, we may need all of us to surround his force and make damn sure none of them gets away.”
Dave Poole, another trusted lieutenant, is less enthusiastic. “Unless we can overrun Fort Blair before the Yanks get their howitzer in action,” he says,“Blunt is certain to hear the cannon booming away at us. And when he does, he and his men will skedaddle as fast as they can. This plan puts us at risk of losing the element of surprise before attacking Blunt.”
Anderson, with a darkly contemplative look on his face, says to no one in particular,“I just want Blunt. Whichever plan makes sure I get him is fine with me.”
Course of Action Three: DELAYED ASSAULT
“Well, Bill,”you say,“my final option might be the best one to make damn sure we do get Blunt. With this plan, we’ll all lay low until he and his escort reach Fort Blair. Then, once all the Yanks are in one place, we’ll assault and overrun the fort with our entire force.”
Poole, however, doesn’t like this plan either. “If we let all the Yanks congregate in one place,” he says,“and especially if most of them can get behind the fort’s rampart, we may be in big trouble trying to overrun them. Our boys don’t much like to attack fortifications, particularly when the Yanks have a damn howitzer backing ’em up! This plan lets them put up the strongest defense possible and it gives away our boys’ advantages in numbers, speed and possibly even surprise. I say let’s not wait until the Yanks are all together. Let’s hit the enemy forces individually.”
Todd, on the other hand, supports this plan. “Dave,” he says, “you always see the dark side of every situation. This option seems like the one sure way of making certain we get all the Yanks and not just some of ’em. What do you think, Bill?”
Anderson shoots Todd a menacing look and replies,“The only thing that interests me is killin’ Yanks. Just pick a plan and turn me and my boys loose on ’em.”
Whichever course of action you choose must be implemented quickly, as each passing minute brings Blunt and his escort closer to Fort Blair. “All right, boys,” you announce to your subordinates, “you’ve each had your say. Now, here’s what we’re going to do.”
What is your decision, Colonel Quantrill?
Jerry D. Morelock, PhD, “Armchair General” Editor in Chief. “ACG” thanks Missouri “border war” expert Donald L. Gilmore for his help with this article. Gilmore’s must-read book “Civil War on the Kansas-Missouri Border” (Pelican Publishing, 2005) is the best work yet written on the subject.
Originally published in the January 2013 issue of Armchair General.
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33304549969942c8458aee213b194e14 | https://www.historynet.com/condoms-as-a-weapon-and-other-wild-devices-of-the-oss.htm | Condoms as a Weapon and Other Wild Devices of the OSS | Condoms as a Weapon and Other Wild Devices of the OSS
The Office of Strategic Services, forerunner of the CIA, certainly put its American ingenuity to good use…
—The “Caccolube” was a simple, yet effective method that OSS agents employed to disable enemy vehicles. Filling a condom (multi-use, who knew?) with an “abrasive compound,” agents would quickly drop it into an engine crankcase before making their hasty escape. “After the engine heats up,” the OSS manual explains, “the hot oil will deteriorate the rubber sac and free the compound into the lubricating system.” The Caccolube took effect some 30 to 50 miles into a drive, with the reaction working so thoroughly that “the vehicle [was] not only thrown out of service but the engine [was] destroyed repair.
—While Quentin Tarantino’s 2009 film Inglourious Basterds is not entirely historically accurate—okay, okay, not historically accurate at all—the film does correctly feature what the National World War II Museum describes as the “obscure but very real” Sedgley OSS .38 glove pistol. Designed by the Office of Naval Intelligence and manufactured by the Sedgley Company of Philadelphia, the weapon, as demonstrated by Sergeant Donowitz and Private Omar in the film, was activated by making a fist and punching the enemy at point-blank range. Nothing like pistol punching a Nazi, eh?
—The OSS went a little medieval on the Axis powers with its invention of the “Little Joe” Crossbow. Used primarily for eliminating sentries or guard dogs, the little crossbow was, as military historian Chris McNab describes, “essentially a hand-held, vertical-profile pistol crossbow.” The Little Joe saw some action, but ultimately U.S. special forces preferred its weapons to be from the 20th century, opting for suppressed pistols to do the job.
—What tastes like pancakes but has the ability to kill? “Aunt Jemima’s” explosive powder. Invented by soldier-turned-chemist George Kistiakowsky, the powder had the consistency of flour and could be mixed with water, baked, and even eaten without harm. It was only when ignited with a fuse that Aunt Jemima would detonate. Disguised in flour bags, the powder was smuggled to Chinese soldiers and resistance fighters throughout the war in the Pacific.
—While not technically a weapon, the “Who, Me?” bomb, created by chemist and inventor Stanley Lovell, certainly packed a punch to the nostrils. According to writer Sam Kean, author of The Bastard Brigade: The True Story of the Renegade Scientists and Spies who Sabotaged the Nazi Atomic Bomb, the substance Lovell invented was essentially synthesized diarrhea, which according to Lovell “duplicated the revolting odor of a very loose bowel movement.” OSS agents hired Chinese children to dart out and “accidentally” spray the eau de diarrhea on Japanese officers. Whoever smelt it dealt it?
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66a61a485049459c3fb3a48eee6e8d11 | https://www.historynet.com/confederate-ordnance-chief-did-a-bang-up-job-supplying-the-south.htm | Confederate Ordnance Chief Did a Bang-Up Job Supplying the South | Confederate Ordnance Chief Did a Bang-Up Job Supplying the South
Late in the war, General Josiah Gorgas advocated arming slaves to fight
Confederate armies never lost a battle because they lacked sufficient arms or ammunition. This achievement came despite formidable challenges and depended, to a significant extent, on the vision and efforts of Josiah Gorgas (1818-83). “In no branch of our service,” affirmed Jefferson Davis, “were our needs so great and our means to meet them relatively so small as in the matter of ordnance and ordnance stores.” The chief executive looked to Gorgas, “a man remarkable for his scientific attainment, for the highest administrative capacity and…zeal and fidelity to his trust,” to produce results “greatly disproportioned to the means at his command.”
The Pennsylvania-born Gorgas graduated sixth in the Class of 1841 at West Point, served as an ordnance officer during the war with Mexico, and married the daughter of a former governor of Alabama in 1853. He stayed in the U.S. Army until the secession crisis, then resigned his commission and took charge of the Confederate Ordnance Department, at the rank of major, on April 8, 1861. He headed the department throughout the conflict and ended his service as a brigadier general. Among the Confederacy’s logistical high command, Gorgas earned a reputation strikingly at odds with that of Lucius B. Northrop, the widely loathed commissary general, and to a lesser degree that of Quartermaster General Abraham Myers, whose place the able Alexander R. Lawton took in the fall of 1863.
Gorgas kept a journal for more than 30 years, the Civil War portion of which Frank E. Vandiver edited for publication in 1947. The Civil War Diary of General Josiah Gorgas contains insights into the development of Confederate ordnance as well as a wealth of commentary about events and leaders. Three years into the war, Gorgas recorded a useful summary of his work in the Ordnance Department. “I have succeeded beyond my utmost expectations,” he wrote on April 8, 1864: “From being the worst supplied of the Bureaus of the War Department it is now the best.” He mentioned large arsenals in Richmond, Charleston, Selma, and elsewhere, a “superb powder mill…at Augusta [Ga.], the credit of which is due to Col. G.W. Rains,” as well as smelting works, cannon foundries, armories, leather works, laboratories, and other installations. “Where three years ago we were not making a gun, a pistol nor a sabre, no shot nor shell (except at the Tredegar Works)—a pound of powder—we now make all these in quantities to meet the demands of our large armies.” His tireless labors, concluded Gorgas with understatement, “have not been passed in vain.” General Joseph E. Johnston would have agreed with this sentiment. In the spring of 1864, he gushed that “the efficient head of the Ordnance Department has never permitted us to want any thing that could reasonably be expected from him.”
The Augusta, Ga., Powder Works made gunpowder, a critical commodity for the Confederate army. (Courtesy of the University of Alabama Special Collections)
Interacting regularly with the top Rebel leaders, Gorgas frequently commented about them. His diary charts the growing importance of Lee and his army as national rallying points across the Confederacy. By the last winter of the conflict, even members of Congress seemed willing to convey great power to Lee. “There is deep feeling in Congress at the conduct of our military affairs,” Gorgas wrote with William T. Sherman’s capture of Savannah, Ga., and John Bell Hood’s fiasco in Tennessee fresh in mind: “They demand that Gen. Lee shall be made Generalissimo to command all our armies—not constructively and ‘under the President’—but shall have full control of all military operations and be held responsible for them.” Gorgas thought Hood’s campaign “completely upset the little confidence left in the President’s ability to conduct campaigns—a criticism I fear I have made long ago.”
Gorgas retained expectations of possible victory until the final stage of the conflict. Although Lincoln’s re-election “by overwhelming majorities” in November 1864 proved the folly “of disguising the fact that our subjugation is popular at the North,” Gorgas envisioned continued resistance. The Confederacy should apply military pressure until hope for victory among the northern populace “is crushed out and replaced by desire for peace at any cost.” In late January 1865, he confessed having fallen into a “momentary depression.” But his attitude changed “when I think of the brave army in front of us, sixty thousand strong. As long as Lee’s army remains intact there is no cause for despondency….We must sustain and strengthen this army, that is the business before us.”
The possible effects of emancipation drew Gorgas’ attention in 1862 and 1864. News of Lincoln’s preliminary proclamation in the aftermath of Antietam elicited three brief sentences. “Lincoln has issued his proclamation liberating the slaves in all rebellious states after the 1st of January next,” noted Gorgas matter-of-factly: “It is a document only to be noticed as showing the drift of opinion in the northern Government. It is opposed by many there.” Two years later, with large numbers of black men enrolled in U.S.Colored Troops units, Confederates discussed the possibility of freeing and arming some slaves. The absence of sufficient white manpower, insisted Gorgas, demanded enrollment of African Americans in the Confederate Army. It came down to a question of priorities—protecting slavery as it existed or accepting change in pursuit of Confederate nationhood. “The time is coming now,” he averred on September 25, 1864, “when it will be necessary to put our Slaves into the field and let them fight for their freedom, in other words give up a part of the institution to save the country, or the whole if necessary to win independence.”
Gorgas moved southward with Jefferson Davis’ party after the fall of Richmond, learning of Johnston’s surrender to Sherman at Durham Station. On May 4, he unburdened himself: “The calamity which has fallen upon us in the total destruction of our government is of a character so overwhelming that I am as yet unable to comprehend it. I am as one walking in a dream, and expecting to awake.” Eight days later, in Washington, Ga., Gorgas’ war closed. “We got paroles for ourselves…” began the last sentence of his diary.
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14c86f26bdf625343789c77e8a274d91 | https://www.historynet.com/confederate-priest-refused-to-get-on-his-knees-to-sheridan.htm | Confederate Priest Refused to Get on His Knees to Sheridan | Confederate Priest Refused to Get on His Knees to Sheridan
A feisty Southern chaplain takes on ‘Little Phil, a fellow Catholic, to escape Yankee captivity
As the Union siege of Petersburg, Va., dragged on through the summer and fall of 1864, Confederate Lt. Gen. Jubal A. Early led his Army of the Valley on a daring raid from the Shenandoah Valley that reached the gates of Washington, D.C., July 11-12. Turned back finally at Fort Stevens, Early retraced his route back through the Valley, pursued by Maj. Gen. Philip Sheridan’s powerful Army of the Shenandoah. On September 19, Sheridan caught and routed Early at Winchester, Va., his 40,000-man force dwarfing Early’s Confederates by a 4-to-1 margin. The Third—and final—Battle of Winchester left the bloody battlefield strewn with more than 5,000 Union casualties and more than 3,600 Confederate dead and wounded. The dead, of course, were beyond succor; but the wounded of both sides desperately needed physical and spiritual help.
“The Civil War Diary of Rev. James Sheeran, C.Ss.R, Chaplain, Confederate, Redemptorist,” edited by Patrick J. Hayes (Catholic University of America Press, 2016, $29.95).
The Rev. James Sheeran, a Catholic priest serving as a Confederate Army chaplain, learned that many of the wounded left behind were from his unit—Brig. Gen. Zebulon York’s Louisiana Brigade in Maj. Gen. John B. Gordon’s Division of Maj. Gen. John Breckinridge’s Corps. Aware that no priests were present in Winchester at the time, Sheeran determined to journey through enemy lines to care for the injured and administer the sacraments to the dying. Sheeran secured a safe conduct pass from Union 6th Corps commander Maj. Gen. Horatio G. Wright. On the way to Winchester, the priest encountered Sheridan and his staff; in his diary, he writes that Sheridan’s adjutant affirmed his pass as legitimate.
Upon arriving in Winchester on September 26, Sheeran encountered a fellow Catholic priest, the Rev. James Bixio of Staunton, Va., whom he had met that summer. The clandestinely pro-Confederate Bixio had recently finagled an appointment from Sheridan as a Union Army chaplain. That appointment had given Bixio an opportunity to expand his smuggling activities supporting the Confederacy, and he asked Sheeran not to reveal his secret. Unfortunately for Sheeran, when Sheridan later became aware of Bixio’s nefarious endeavors, the general concluded that the Confederate chaplain, like Bixio, was also involved in anti-Union activities.
Sheeran faithfully kept a diary of his Confederate Army service, now published in its entirety by the Catholic University of America and edited by Patrick J. Hayes. The following entries, beginning with Sheeran’s thoughts on a late-October visit to Winchester by Sheridan, are from that diary.
Saturday, October 29
Gen. Sheridan is in town and visits all the hospitals. As most of our [Confederate] men were now sent off and few…needed my services, I resolved to see Gen. Sheridan, in order to know by what route he wished me to return home. I called at the Hdqrs. of Brig. Gen. Oliver Edwards, where the Gen. was staying, and knocking on the door, an officer whom I afterwards recognized to be [Edwards] himself asked me what I wanted….I told him my name and expressed a wish to see [Sheridan]. He answered me very roughly; told me to see his Adj., at the same time closing the door in my face. Anticipating some rough treatment, I thought it best to defer my visit to Monday and then bring a witness with me, so I took my departure.
Monday, October 31
This morning at 9½, accompanied by Capt. Fitzgerald, I repaired to the Hdqrs. of Gen. Sheridan. The Capt. introduced me to the Adj. Gen. of the Post….I then asked him if I could see Gen. Sheridan. He told me to take a seat and he would see. Capt. Fitz and I both took a seat and conversed…for some ten minutes, when the Adj. returned with an armed guard and told him to “take that man,” pointing to me, “to the Provost Marshal’s.” This I thought a singular proceeding, but, as I knew not what disposition they intended making of me, I was anxious to have Capt. Fitz accompany me, but this the Adj. would not permit and ordered the Capt. not to go with me for I was a d—-d old Catholic Priest.
I now found myself for the first time under a Yankee guard…[and in] the [Union] prison system.
Tuesday, November 1
Fearing lest he might possibly be ignorant of my arrest, I this day wrote to Gen. Sheridan a letter which I will hereafter insert and sent it by a Catholic officer who assured me that Gen. Sheridan received it…
Sketch from Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper of General Phil Sheridan with Crook’s 8th Corps at the Third Battle of Winchester, September 19, 1865. (Photo by Buyenlarge/Getty Images)
Sheeran was among a group of prisoners who left Winchester on November 4. Six days later, he was incarcerated in a stable adjacent to Fort McHenry in Baltimore. On November 12, he wrote James McMaster, editor of the New York Freeman’s Journal and Catholic Register. McMaster published Sheeran’s November 1 letter to Sheridan and a previously received letter from Sheeran, along with his scathing comments, under the provocative headline: “A Great and Cruel Wrong: Arrest and Imprisonment of a Confederate Catholic Chaplain.”
Outraged, Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton squashed efforts to have Sheeran released. Sheeran, whose health was deteriorating, believed he’d die in prison unless he “dishonored” himself by pledging the required oath of allegiance to the United States. On December 4, Sheeran learned Sheridan had ordered him released if he signed a formal parole, which Sheeran did and then departed for Winchester. On December 30-31, Sheridan summoned the priest to his headquarters for an interview. Sheeran wrote about his confrontations with the general in his diary.
Friday, December 30
This forenoon Gen. Sheridan sends for me…. I now endeavored to brace up my nerves, for I was about to “beard the lion in his den.” In fact, I expected trouble with him, although I had a copy of his order for my release.
After some formalities I was introduced to a man, about five feet, six inches high [Sheridan was actually 5-5], with short legs and long arms, a low broad forehead and narrow face from about the nose down. His expression in my presence was that of a “hang man,” or perhaps a thief dog would better represent his looks, as I entered his room. In a dry and rather dogged manner, he invited me to sit down and then took a seat himself nearby….
Gen. Sheridan: “I understand you want a pass through my lines.” Yes, Gen., I wish to return home. “Well, you can’t pass through my lines.” Why so, Gen.? You ordered my release with permission to go home on condition I would give my parole to communicate no military information to the enemy. Now, Gen., I have given that parole and I demand that you comply with your part of the contract, for I consider it a contract which you, in honor and justice, are bound to fulfill. “I never intended that you should pass through my lines,” replied the Gen.
Well, Gen., I would like to know what you did mean….[Y]our words, although not very dignified, are very expressive and cannot be mistaken[:] “Release this man and let him go home, if he will give his parole.” Now, I would like to know how I am to go home, if I cannot pass your lines? Gen.: “I don’t want to argue the point, you will not go South.” There is no point to argue, Gen….If you meant what you said, you meant I should go home! But if you did not…the fault is not mine. I, however, shall hold you to the meaning of your words and shall go home.
“I never meant you should go home,” he again replied. I care not, Gen., for what you meant, you have made use of plain language and I will hold you responsible for what you have said. Now, Gen., I am determined to go home, cost what trouble it may….
The Gen., now beginning to droop his head and raise his temper, said in a flat, vulgar tone: “You shan’t go, now.” Well, Gen., I tell you candidly, if you give me any more trouble, I shall publish you again. “I don’t care if you do,” replied my friend in uniform. Then, sir, if you don’t care, I am sure I need not. I shall do it….
Union Maj. Gen. Philip Sheridan jailed Father James Sheeran on suspicion that he was in cahoots with another Confederate priest, the Rev. James Bixio, who had obtained fraudulent credentials as a Union chaplain and was smuggling goods to Southern troops in Jubal Early’s army. (Library of Congress)
Sheeran asked Sheridan to explain “what criminal or ungentlemanly act I have…committed since I came into your lines.”
He replied, “I don’t like the way you came into my lines.” That I cannot help, Gen., I came in, in an open, honorable manner and with a pass from Gen. Wright, which was verbally approved by your own Adjutant. “I asked my Adj.,” says Sheridan, “and he says he knew nothing about it.” Well, Gen., if he forgets it, I cannot help it. But I give you the word of a gentleman and a Catholic Priest that he did approve it….I told him very bluntly that as a gentleman I consider my word as good as his or his Adj., but in addition to this, I gave him the word of a Catholic Priest of good standing in the church and I thought he had no right to question it….[S]ir, why do you insinuate that I came into your lines in a dishonorable manner? Gen. Wright…treated me very kindly and gave me a pass. And now, Gen., in violation of this very pass, you have, without any charge or alleged crime, treated me in a manner unworthy of your profession as a Christian and a soldier…
[N]ow looking confused and angry, [Sheridan] says, “Father Bixio has acted in a manner unworthy of a Catholic Priest. He has deceived me and acted meanly.” I tell you, I am responsible for my own act[s], but not for those of any other man. Here he lets off another tirade against Father Bixio….I now, in a tone of indignation, remarked that I had long been in the Confederate army and had associated with its most distinguished Generals, but never was obliged to use any formality with them. Nor do I now feel obliged to use any with you; hence I tell you candidly, Sir, that it is neither just nor generous on your part to hold me responsible for the conduct of a man of whom I know nothing….He then somewhat coolly replied, “I know you are not responsible for his acts.” Well then, Gen., my question again recurs: What have I done to deserve the treatment I have received at your hands? He gives no answer.
Sheeran then inquired, “[W]ill you be kind enough to let me know what course I am to pursue?” Sheridan answered that Sheeran could remain in Winchester or even return to Baltimore. “No, Gen.,” Sheeran countered, “that is not my home, I belong to the South and there I am bound to go.”
I always thought there was honor among the officers of your regular army. Now I ask you how would it look, in the eyes of all honorable men, were I to desert my command, as you suggest, by remaining within your lines? Such a dishonorable act, Gen., shall never stain my character. I prefer death even….
Here the magnanimous Sheridan holds his head a little lower, reflects for a few moments and replies: “I will think about it.” But, Gen., I would like you to decide upon it. It surely has been long enough under consideration. My means and health will not permit me to remain long here….My case requires medical treatment and I wish to repair to the Infirmary at Richmond for that purpose.
The fellow, now modifying his tone, said: “Why did you not make yourself known to me, when I came to Winchester?” I did, Gen. “Yes,” said he, “when you were in prison and could do no better.” I now, in some measure forgetting myself, or perhaps letting my temper get the upper hand, indignantly replied, Gen., you assert what is not true. I sought an interview with you twice before my imprisonment; and it was on the occasion of my second visit to your quarters that I was arrested….The so called brave but now cowardly Sheridan pulled in his horns and mildly said, “Well, I will give you a definite answer tomorrow.” So ended our first interview.
Saturday, December 31
[Sheridan] received me with a more agreeable tone of voice, but without daring to look at me in the face. Having invited me into his private room, we both took seats. After a moment’s pause and with his dogged and vulgar looking countenance cast toward the ground, he said, “I have a few questions to ask you….Do you know Father Bixio?” I know him, Gen., but have no particular acquaintance with him. “Does he stop at your house in Harrisonburg?” No, Gen., he does not; and that too, for one very good reason; I have no house there or any other place. “Did he not stop at your house, when our army was up there?” I have answered the question, Gen. I told you I have no house. “Did you see him in Harrisonburg before you came down to Winchester?” No, Gen., I have told you…that I met you and your army this side of Harrisonburg and Father Bixio, I understand, was in the rear of your army….”
“Well,” said he, “Father Bixio had treated me very badly. He engaged as a Chaplain in my army, obtained transportation, drew rations as such, he even obtained of my sutler in Harrisonburg a requisition for rations for the sick and wounded, alleging that he could distribute them to better advantage than the hospital nurses. Since then I have seen nothing of him, but have reason to believe he is corresponding with the enemy. Indeed I can look upon him in no other light than a deserter from my army.” He then gave a detailed history of Father Bixio’s “military career” up the Valley and in conclusion, appealed to me thus, “Now, Father, do you approve of his conduct?” No, Gen., I do assure you, I heartily condemn it. But, Gen., why do you implicate me in his actions? Had you taken the trouble to make yourself acquainted with my character, you would find that, if I have any particular fault, it is that I am too open and candid in my dealing with my fellow men. And I think, Gen., in our limited acquaintance, you must perceive that there is no double dealing about me. I may be sometimes imprudent; but I am honest and fearless, always doing what I conceive to be my duty, without respect to persons….As a Priest, I have never been under censure. As a Chaplain, I have always been at my post, discharging my duties fearlessly, and although not bound in justice, I have administered the sacraments to thousands of Federal soldiers on the bloody fields of Virginia, Md., and Pennsylvania and even at your hospitals. So I protest against being in any way identified with Father Bixio’s acts.
An 1861 engraving of Fort McHenry in Baltimore, Md., where Father Sheeran was imprisoned on Sheridan’s orders. (Library of Congress)
Conceding he had been mistaken, Sheridan said Sheeran was free to go home as he pleased.
I was about to leave when the fellow, now rushing to be all kindness, told me not to be in a hurry….He then told me that he was a Catholic himself; that he was sorry to have any difficulty with a Catholic Priest, but that no person could blame him for taking care of his own affairs.
I would not blame you, Gen., said I, to use reasonable means of taking care of your own affairs. But you, or any other man, are not justified in condemning a person without a trial. Had you taken the trouble to investigate my case, you would have saved me a great deal of pain and yourself a great deal of censure.
This, then, was all the satisfaction the ignorant and evidently ill-bred creature made for the injury done me. Evidently the fellow was afraid of another tongue thrashing in the public papers; and hence his excuse in supposing me to be identified with Father Bixio was a fabrication made up since yesterday….
In parting with him I had to dirty my hand by shaking his, sustained as it is with blood, rapine and every species of injustice. The news soon spread…that Sheridan had to back down and let me go home, notwithstanding his strong declarations to the contrary…
On January 3, 1865, with Sheridan’s pass in his pocket, Sheeran mounted his horse and headed for Richmond, arriving on the 10th. He checked into the infirmary the following day, where he remained until the city fell in April. Sheeran resumed his Redemptorist duties in Louisiana. After a few years, inexplicably, he requested to be released from his vows as a Redemptorist. It was granted, and he moved to Yankeedom, becoming pastor of the Church of the Assumption, Morristown, N.J., in October 1871. There he labored to heal the sectional wounds by espousing nationalism until his death April 3, 1881.
Adapted with permission of the Catholic University of America Press, publisher from The Civil War Diary of Rev. James Sheeran, C.Ss.R: Confederate Chaplain and Redemptorist, edited by Patrick J. Hayes.
_____
An Outrage on Religion
Extracts from James McMaster’s “A Great and Cruel Wrong: Arrest and Imprisonment of a Confederate Catholic Chaplain,” from the New York Freeman’s Journal and Catholic Register (November 19, 1864, pages 4-5).
The Rev. James Sheeran, of the Congregation of the Redemptorists, formerly a priest of St. Alphonsus Church in New Orleans, but since 1861 a Chaplain in the Confederate army, is now a prisoner in Fort McHenry….We have known Father Sheeran for many years. We knew him while he was a layman in Monroe, Michigan.
He is not only a devoted and excellent man, but one in the correctness of whose statements of fact, the utmost reliance can be placed….[W]e have been shocked and grieved at learning that Father Sheeran, notwithstanding his having a ‘pass’ from Gen. Wright, has been arrested, treated with gross indignity, thrown into a filthy guard room among Federal soldiers who were confined there for bad conduct and drunkenness; in this filthy prison, he was kept five days, obliged to listen to all the obscenity and blasphemy of the abandoned characters around him.
Nor has that been all….[H]e was thrust into a “Slave Pen” and kept there two days and nights, among the most degraded of soldiers there imprisoned for various crimes…
Now, till otherwise convinced, we must believe that there has…been a conspiracy against Father Sheeran; and that Gen. Sheridan is not acquainted with the facts. Gen.Sheridan has the reputation of an able and gallant soldier. He has, in some points, been paraded in a vulgar list of Federal Generals, discriminated very unwisely and improperly, “Catholic Generals.” Gen. Sheridan’s name and his native Perry County, Ohio, point him as a Catholic in religion and, almost certainly, as a student under the good Dominican Fathers. If he be an instructed Catholic, he knows well enough that no priest can absolve him till he makes reparation for the outrage he has committed on Father Sheeran. The devil would clap his hands and rejoice at any absolution given him without his entertaining the firm purpose of such reparation, to the best of his power.
For, even if, as we charitably suppose, Gen. Sheridan has been beguiled by some slippery member of his staff, now, so soon as he hears what has been done, he is bound to displace and to court-martial the aide that has deceived him.
The imprisonment of Father Sheeran is an outrage on the laws of war, for, as a noncombatant, as a minister of mercy, to all, he held Gen. Wright’s pass, which Gen. Sheridan’s chief of staff pronounced, “sufficient.” It was an outrage on religion….
The remnants of the [Union] Irish Brigade have reason to remember the little Irish Confederate priest, who lavished on them his spiritual and also his temporal aid, after Hooker’s battle of Chancellorsville. Father Sheeran, it was, that gave the last sacraments to the gallant Col. Mulligan. If Gen. Sheridan hopes, as no doubt he does, to die as chivalrously as Mulligan did, and as peacefully; let him hasten to make reparation to God and man for the outrage we have given thus publicity to, in order that it may be remedied.
This story appeared in the July 2020 issue of America’s Civil War.
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5121b8df895697cfaac0384e625c1b15 | https://www.historynet.com/conscription-age-northern-italy.htm | What was the Conscription Age for Northern Italy? | What was the Conscription Age for Northern Italy?
Hello,
I am writing a book about my mother’s life during WWII in northern Italy. I read that in 1941, Italy was on the brink of military disaster and Mussolini needed more able-bodied men to equip his army. I read he changed the conscription age up to 51-year-old men. I have also read 45 years. It seems every country is different. Can you clarify specifically for Northern Italy?
Thank you!
Linda
???
Dear Linda,
According to the most recent book on the subject, Italian Soldier in North Africa 1941-43 by Piero Crociani and Pier Paolo Battistelli, the first mobilization of 1939-40 focused on men aged 21 to 30, “with a small intake aged 31 to 45.” The subsequent debacles in Greece and North Africa made it necessary to mobilize reinforcements, but the main focus was still on men aged 20 to 25. There is no mention of conscripting 51-year-old geezers in 1941.
Sincerely,
Jon Guttman
Research Director
World History
www.historynet.com
More Questions at Ask Mr. History
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ba736562520736dbf796d8e118e32ead | https://www.historynet.com/controversial-abraham-lincoln-statue-removed-in-boston.htm | Controversial Abraham Lincoln Statue Removed in Boston | Controversial Abraham Lincoln Statue Removed in Boston
As 2020 winds down in its final week, this past Tuesday the controversial statue of President Abraham Lincoln standing over a kneeling Black man was removed in Park Square in Boston, Massachusetts 141 years after it was erected.
The statue depicts a fully clothed and upright Lincoln— one hand on a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation and one hand hovering over a shirtless and crouching Black man— modeled after Archer Alexander, the last man captured under the Fugitive Slave Act.
Initiated by the Emancipation Group shortly after Lincoln’s assassination, the project was financed entirely by Black Americans, many of whom were formerly enslaved. The group had no say in the design, however. That distinction, notes the Washington Post, went to an all-white committee and the sculptor, Thomas Ball, who was also white.
The controversial Emancipation Group statue in Boston has been taken down. In June, an online petition called for the statue's removal and in July, the Boston Art Commission voted unanimously to take it down. | Read the full story –> https://t.co/CboKT9WdzN pic.twitter.com/8W6yn2Uh4f — Boston 25 News (@boston25) December 29, 2020
The Boston statue, which is a replica of the one still standing in the nation’s capital, came under increased scrutiny this past summer in light of nationwide demonstrations protesting police brutality and the killing of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor.
Tory Bullock, a Boston area actor and activist, started the petition for removal in June writing, “I’ve been watching this man on his knees since I was a kid. It’s supposed to represent freedom but instead represents us still beneath someone else. I would always ask myself ‘If he’s free why is he still on his knees?’”
Both the Boston and D.C. statues have long been marked for censure.
Famed abolitionist Frederick Douglass, the keynote speaker at the 1876 unveiling of the D.C. statue, spoke in polite platitudes in regards to Ball’s work, but by all accounts, Douglass was insulted by the seemingly supplicating Black figure.
In a recently rediscovered letter written to the editor of the National Republican newspaper just days after the unveiling, Douglass wrote, “The negro here, though rising, is still on his knees and nude. What I want to see before I die is a monument representing the negro, not couchant on his knees like a four-footed animal, but erect on his feet like a man.”
Another critique of the statue published in the Harvard Library concurred with Douglass, reading, “One can view the freedman, with his nudity and kneeling position, as bereft of his dignity and agency, and, contrastingly, the fully clothed Lincoln, with his hand extending over him, as a demonstration of white mastery and supremacy.”
The Boston statue, according to a spokesperson for Boston Mayor Marty Walsh, will not be destroyed, rather relocated where “its history and context can be better explained.”
As to where the final resting place of the statue should be, members of the public can submit their suggestions here.
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0a58e45cde55fab24f24057f5a185d58 | https://www.historynet.com/controversial-china.htm?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+Historynet+%28HistoryNet+%7C+From+the+World%27s+Largest+History+Magazine+Publisher%29 | A Controversial Question: Were Fears of China Justified? | A Controversial Question: Were Fears of China Justified?
A series examining contentious issues of the Vietnam War
After an international agreement in 1954 split Vietnam in two, communist China became an important source of military aid for Ho Chi Minh’s communist government in North Vietnam as a counterweight to the Western democracies supporting South Vietnam. China’s leader, Mao Zedong, wanted the Chinese Communist Party to expand its influence in Asia by supporting wars of national liberation. In the early 1950s, when communist North Korea invaded South Korea, the United Nations under U.S. leadership struck back and marched into North Korea, bringing China into the war.
Similarly, China promised to support Ho Chi Minh’s government as Hanoi expanded its war in the South and pledged to come to North Vietnam’s aid if the United States attacked. Between 1955 and 1963, China provided 240,000 infantry weapons, 2,730 artillery pieces, 15 aircraft, 28 naval vessels and plenty of ammunition and spare parts.
When the U.S. bombing of North Vietnam began in spring 1965, China increased its military aid. It also sent support personnel but insisted that none of them operate near the Demilitarized Zone, where they might come into direct contact with American troops. Conversely, U.S. policymakers, remembering Korea, feared that an aggressive drive into North Vietnam for an all-out victory would again bring in Chinese troops.
The Chinese position was nuanced. If the United States invaded the lower part of North Vietnam but didn’t move beyond there, China would boost its military aid as much as Hanoi needed to repel the invasion with its own troops, according to research first published by Chinese scholars in the mid-1990s.
However, if the United States invaded North Vietnam’s upper regions or began bombing targets in southern China, Mao was prepared to send combat units into North Vietnam. The fears of American policymakers were not irrational. If U.S. ground forces approached Hanoi, Chinese intervention was likely.
From early August 1965 to March 1969, 16 Chinese anti-aircraft artillery divisions with a total of 150,000 personnel served in North Vietnam. During that period, Chinese engineer units with a combined strength of 170,000 personnel repaired roads, bridges and airfields damaged by the American bombing. More than 1,100 Chinese died and 4,300 were wounded in U.S. airstrikes. When the bombing campaign ended in November 1968, China withdrew its support troops.
Despite anecdotal stories of “Chinese advisers” being spotted on South Vietnam’s battlefields, there is no evidence from Vietnamese or Chinese sources that any Chinese troops served in the lower part of North Vietnam—much less Laos, Cambodia or South Vietnam. Indeed, China wanted to avoid a confrontation with the United States, and North Vietnam wanted to keep the Chinese Communist Party out of Southeast Asia.
The sightings can be explained in other ways that are consistent with the historical evidence. Some North Vietnamese Army soldiers were recruited from tribal peoples who inhabited the northern and eastern mountains adjacent to China and Laos. Those tribes, ethnically distinct from the Vietnamese, trace their lineage to groups originating from southern China or other parts of Asia. V
Dr. Erik Villard is a Vietnam War specialist at the U.S. Army Center of Military History at Fort McNair in Washington D.C.
This article appeared in the December 2020 issue of Vietnam magazine. For more stories from Vietnam magazine, subscribe here and visit us on Facebook:
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52f4c0ca6855c842dafd7c18ee86a9bd | https://www.historynet.com/conversation-former-secretary-army-clifford-l-alexander-jr.htm | Conversation with former Secretary of the Army: Clifford L. Alexander Jr. | Conversation with former Secretary of the Army: Clifford L. Alexander Jr.
A graduate of Harvard University and Yale Law School, Clifford Alexander Jr. enlisted in the New York National Guard in 1958. Moving to Washington, D.C., in 1963, he served as an adviser to President Lyndon B. Johnson and as chairman of the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. Appointed by President Jimmy Carter in 1977, Alexander was the first black secretary of the Army. During his four-year tenure he addressed such issues as the treatment of minorities and women in uniform and the transition to an all-volunteer force. Since 1981 his consulting firm, Alexander & Associates, has focused on corporate workforce inclusiveness, and he has continued to speak out on rights issues.
Why did it take so long to desegregate the U.S. military?
It did not just happen when President Harry Truman issued Executive Order 9981 in July 1948. That was, obviously, an extraordinarily important point in history. But the timing of desegregation of the different services varied a great deal. There wasn’t a straight line for when the Navy was fully integrated, or when the Army or Air Force gave full opportunity. There were political pressures due to the inane feeling of superiority by some people because of the color of their skin. That made politicians and the people who they designated to run the military feel that there should not be full inclusion of all people in the military. The reason for the slow pace of integration is the same reason that black people couldn’t get jobs and work in a whole host of other parts of our society.
Black troops have historically proven themselves in the military. Why did the respective services have to repeatedly relearn that lesson?
If you start with the proper assumption that all people born in this world start off even, no matter what their color, there shouldn’t be a requirement for whites or blacks to prove themselves. Political realities, unfortunately, go with your question: There were times—there still are times—when minorities have to prove themselves, more, perhaps, than the majorities do.
Why is it important for America to open all branches and levels of the military to everyone?
That question is very important now, when the military—properly—is highly regarded in our society. If the military is seen as a place where men and women are judged on their skills, accomplishments and bravery, that is a statement to the whole social fabric that we should judge individuals according to merit and not color. It is very important that the military do that because the military emphasizes that it is a meritocracy. In the military, we want to know how quickly you can get from A to B, how well you can fire your weapon or repair your truck or whatever your military specialty requires.
Economics is another factor. Unfortunately, prejudice in employment still exists. If you have people of similar educational backgrounds who are black, who don’t have the same opportunities in the private sector as those who are white, they can go into the military if they pass the mental and physical tests. That doesn’t have to do with their performance once in, but they can get through the door. In that sense, the military is a place of greater opportunity.
Did the uneven progress of desegregation in the armed services surprise you?
In my own four-year experience [as secretary of the Army], by placing an emphasis on giving fair treatment, we ended up with approximately 30 black generals in the Army (out of about 430 generals at the time). That was a reflection of the idea that people be moved ahead without regard to their race or color. Not that there should be anything deferential toward black men and women, or Hispanic men and women, or any ethnic category. But they should receive fair attention, and we should really examine ratings where there may have been some prejudice. And we did. At that same time there was only one black general in the Marine Corps. That same emphasis was not true in the Marines, and that’s why there was only one black general there. That was also true in the Navy, but not in the Air Force, which put greater emphasis on fair opportunity.
Some opposition to desegregating the military was based on the belief that the military should not lead on this issue but follow and reflect the attitudes of the larger society. Some prominent World War II–era generals took that stance. Is that a meaningful argument?
It’s an argument used by civilian political leaders to make their point. They would sit with the service commanders and say, “This is the way we want it to come out, and this is the way we feel.” The generals would stand up and say, “Yes, sir!” to an outrageous policy. If you are a general, when you hear that kind of thing from the person who is going to vote on whether you get promoted—is going to help set your policy, is going to conduct hearings on your budget—you pay attention. I don’t think that attitude started with the generals or admirals; it started in a general sense with the bigotry of the society. You need look no further than the Senator Bilbos or Byrds, or whatever generation you go back to, to see what they said that underscored for them the inferiority of people of color.
Has there ever been a compelling argument for having a segregated military anywhere in the world?
The answer is no.
In World War II many blacks served in the U.S. military but comparatively few in combat. What was the effect of that?
In World War II there were a lot of black people in the Quartermaster Corps or support services, but they rarely served in combat. I think you have to give people the same opportunities to be heroes. Black people wanted the same thing. When one asks the question, “In this society why, since they segregate you, should you fight for it?” Well, you fight for it because that is a badge of courage. Because you do have respect for the country, you do want to be highly regarded as someone who is heroic. So many black people were hoping to become members of combat units during World War II. It is a good thing that that kind of feeling exists about the country among people who have lesser opportunities. On trains back home German POWs were allowed to sit with white soldiers, while blacks were segregated to other parts of the same train. That stuff took place. But there was also a hopefulness then that we were going to get better. And we have gotten better.
You were secretary of the Army in a crucial transition period (1977–81) from the draft Army to the all-volunteer Army. What was the status of race relations in the military at that time?
I think that the status of race relations improved, because advancement opportunities and assignments improved for both enlisted men and officers. I do not think the volunteer aspect of the service changed any of that. I think the whole discussion of the volunteer force has things in it that need to be understood more thoroughly before we reach some conclusion about how the draft might keep us out of the Iraqs of the world. First of all, the Navy and the Air Force weren’t draft entities; they were volunteer forces at that time. People often think that the draft was ending, so everything was all-volunteer. But a significant portion of the people in the military were already volunteers.
In your service in the Army did you personally experience racial bias?
I was a lowly private in the six-month program, and I don’t remember that. I do remember, at Fort Dix, there was talk about fairness by some of the enlisted leaders, and in my own unit, the 369th, a predominantly black unit with some whites in it. It’s a renowned unit from Harlem.
Did you encounter resistance and bias as secretary of the Army?
Yes, I’m sure I did. I remember what I considered a racist cartoon in Army Times. I think there were some who resisted me because I was the black secretary of the Army. And on some occasions in front of Congress I thought that the questions were aimed more at me because of my color than according to my skill set. But that was a fact of the day, and I did my best to do my job—and just say, “The hell with you!” if it was based on something else.
Originally published in the January 2012 issue of Military History. To subscribe, click here.
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0bd75131f5256eb6fb968c2e62850bca | https://www.historynet.com/conversation-piece-meade-tower.htm | Conversation Piece: Faulty Tower | Conversation Piece: Faulty Tower
(Melissa A. Winn)
In one of those ironic twists of history, a monument erected to honor Confederate troops who fought at the December 1862 Battle of Fredericksburg somehow now bears the name of a Union general—the victor of the pivotal Battle of Gettysburg, no less! Known today as “Meade’s Pyramid,” the 23-foot-tall structure—built of 17 tons of stacked granite—was erected in 1897 by the Confederate Memorial Literary Society to mark where Stonewall Jackson’s troops foiled Maj. Gen. George Meade’s breakthrough on the Confederate right on December 13. As the 20th century approached, the society had asked Virginia railroad executives to erect “signs” at historic locations across the state. The president of the Richmond, Fredericksburg & Potomac Railroad decided instead to erect a smaller version of the 90-foot-tall stone pyramid honoring Confederate dead placed in Richmond’s Hollywood Cemetery in 1869. One plus: Since it’s come to be known as Meade’s Pyramid, it’s unlikely this “Confederate” monument will be slated for removal anytime soon.
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97b94f713059b6f8719a90ec384663cb | https://www.historynet.com/cornfield-maelstrom.htm | Antietam’s Cornfield Maelstrom | Antietam’s Cornfield Maelstrom
September 1, 1862, dawned bright and clear on David and Margaret Miller’s farm north of quiet Sharpsburg, Md. Stepping from their two-story whitewashed home, David—known as D.R.—could see his barn and haystacks west across the Hagerstown Pike, running north from town and bisecting his property, while just east was the family’s garden and orchard. Bounded by three woodlots—known now as the North, East, and West Woods—Miller’s three well-tended fields east of the road reflected the farm’s prosperity. The northernmost, abutting the North Woods, had been recently plowed while another field to the south contained fallow grass. Farther south stood a 24-acre field awaiting harvest, thick with ripe corn. Miller had no way of knowing that within two weeks, his cornfield would become one of the most dangerous places on earth.
Of the many actions aligning to make that so was the decision by Confederate General Robert E. Lee to move his Army of Northern Virginia into Maryland after his late-August victory at the Second Battle of Manassas. Lee sold his move north to President Jefferson Davis as a way to enable Maryland to join the Confederacy. Also, winning a battle on Northern soil might persuade Britain and France to openly support Southern independence, break the Union naval blockade, and perhaps more. Lee’s men began crossing the Potomac River on September 4 and reached Frederick the following day. The general quickly scattered his forces across western Maryland preparing his next move.
Union Maj. Gen. George McClellan, meanwhile, reorganized his army to better chase Lee, creating three “wing commands” and unifying his cavalry into a single division while also streamlining army logistics from top to bottom. The unexpected acquisition of Lee’s campaign plan—the famous “Lost Orders”—handed McClellan another critical advantage.
David R. Miller’s handsome home, seen in this wartime image, stood north of his cornfield. After the battle, Miller submitted a damage claim to the federal government for ,237, and was awarded 5 in 1872. His brother, Daniel, died of disease contracted from exposure to sick soldiers. (Library of Congress)
His campaign compromised, Lee moved west from Frederick to buy time and gain maneuvering room. Fighting at South Mountain on September 14 failed to stop McClellan’s relentless advance, and Lee concluded that returning to Virginia was his only option and ordered his army to gather at Sharpsburg. Word that Maj. Gen. Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson had secured the vital communication line at Harpers Ferry breathed fresh life into Lee’s campaign, however, and he gambled all on fighting at Sharpsburg.
Lee deployed his army along Sharpsburg’s north-south ridge, nearly astride the town, facing east toward Antietam Creek. The Confederates wanted to use long fields of fire to oppose McClellan, and then attack after he was winnowed by casualties.
September 16 found both armies only a mile apart, held in check by thick fog.
McClellan used the day to plan his attack for September 17, an assault built around Antietam Creek’s three crossings, the Upper, Middle, and Lower bridges and nearby fords. McClellan’s opening strike would use the Upper Bridge to hit the Confederate left, followed by a carefully coordinated assault on Lee’s right flank from the Lower Bridge, sometimes called the Rohrbach Bridge for a local family and soon to be forever known as Burnside Bridge. Blunting simultaneous flank attacks would thin Confederate forces in the center, where Union attackers crossing the Middle Bridge would strike the final blow. With the flank attacks cutting two of Lee’s escape routes—leaving only west to Shepherdstown open—he would be trapped, facing surrender or destruction.
McClellan ordered Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker’s 1st Corps, which would lead the opening attack, to get underway by late afternoon. Shortly after 7 p.m., Maj. Gen. Joseph King Feno Mansfield’s 12th Corps moved to reinforce Hooker.
Hooker’s crossing was detected almost immediately. Confederate cavalry noticed the advance and quickly warned Lee, who had Maj. Gen. James Longstreet send Brig. Gen. John Bell Hood’s Division—the only Southern infantry nearby—in response. Facing north along the Hagerstown Pike, Hood’s presence bought time for Jackson’s entire command to deploy on Hood’s left.
At dusk, Hooker’s advance troops—Brig. Gen. Truman Seymour’s brigade of Pennsylvanians—encountered Confederate cavalry and infantry skirmishers from Colonel Alfred H. Colquitt’s Brigade defending the East Woods. Seymour pushed Colquitt back, revealing Hood’s infantry and artillery in Miller’s corn and grass fields. Thus ended September 16th’s brief fighting.
As his troops slumbered, Hooker surveyed the ground of the impending attack. Though it was dark and drizzly, the small white Dunker Church stood out above Miller’s rolling ground, framed by the three woodlots. Beyond that the enemy controlled the West Woods, but Hooker knew little more of their location. His plan called for Brig. Gens. Abner Doubleday and James Ricketts’ divisions to drive over the open ground toward the church, supported by Brig. Gen. George Meade’s Pennsylvania Reserves. The ultimate objective, however, remained reaching the ridge to break Lee’s left flank. Like many of his men, Hooker’s plan would not survive long after dawn.
Lieutenant Lewis Parmelee (left), 2nd U.S. Sharpshooters, shot five times, killed. At right, 2nd Lt. John Whitman, 2nd U.S. Sharpshooters, killed. (Courtesy of Brian White)
The rain ended at first light September 17, but a deadlier storm was brewing. Hooker’s plan took its first hit when both Doubleday and Ricketts sent forward individual 400- to 900-man brigades rather than their entire 3,000-man divisions. Doubleday ordered Brig. Gen. John Gibbon’s “Iron Brigade” south along the Hagerstown Pike, with Colonel Walter E. Phelps’ and Brig. Gen. Marsena Patrick’s brigades in support. Ricketts meanwhile directed both Brig. Gens. George L. Hartsuff’s and Abram Duryée’s brigades south through Miller’s fields toward the church. Ricketts’ reserve, Colonel William Christian’s brigade, was unexpectedly sent skirting the East Woods to flank an unexpected Confederate threat revealed by the growing daylight.
That new threat was 1,935 men of two brigades in Brig. Gen. Alexander Lawton’s Division, deployed perpendicularly to Jackson’s main line facing north, roughly 200 yards south of Miller’s cornfield. Georgia Colonel Marcellus Douglass was in command of Lawton’s men, and Colonel James Walker, leading Isaac Trimble’s Brigade, was posted in the same location by Jackson the previous night to resist exactly the advance Hooker intended. Brigadier General Harry Hays’ Brigade of Louisianans soon arrived as reinforcements for Lee’s left.
The Iron Brigade pushed south through Miller’s farmyard until reaching the still-standing corn. There, unseen Rebel fire from the corn ahead and the West Woods on the right halted the leading 6th Wisconsin, soon joined by the “Ragged Ass” 2nd Wisconsin—so-called for the sad condition of their trousers. Recalled Major Rufus Dawes of the 6th Wisconsin, “The bullets began to clip through the corn and spin through the soft furrows—thick, almost, as hail.” Confederate shellfire from Nicodemus Heights to their right rear began to “burst around us, the fragments tearing up the ground, and canister whistled through the corn above us.” The vicious gunfire stalled Doubleday’s half of Hooker’s attack.
Ricketts’ assault 300 yards to the east fared even worse. General Hartsuff, Ricketts’ best commander, was wounded while reconnoitering the field prior to the attack. The command vacuum left his brigade confused and immobile. Duryée’s brigade, meanwhile, marched determinedly south into battle by itself.
Duryée’s New Yorkers and Pennsylvanians endured terrific artillery fire from Nicodemus Heights and Colonel Stephen D. Lee’s cannons posted near the Dunker Church. Reaching the northern end of Miller’s cornfield, Duryée shifted to a battle front before ordering all 1,100 men to lie down. After Captains James Thompson’s and Ezra Matthew’s Pennsylvania batteries lobbed rounds into the cornfield to clear Rebel skirmishers, the men rose and picked a lane between corn rows and started forward again. The concealing corn briefly spared them from the shellfire, and on they pressed to the southern end of the field where the enemy waited.
The men of Lawton’s and Trimble’s brigades anxiously watched for signs of the Yankees they knew were somewhere among the corn. As the 31st Georgia’s skirmishers fled Union shells, Lawton’s men cried, “What’s the matter? What are you running for?” “You’ll soon see!” the scrambling Georgians replied. Colonel Douglass, pacing in the rear, directed Lawton’s men to pick a row and fire low, which would make every shot count when the enemy appeared. Nearer and nearer they came, until suddenly…
Nearing the fence bordering the southern edge of the Cornfield, Confederate rifle fire tore into Duryée’s line, blasting the Union regiments as they emerged from the corn to align with Seymour’s Pennsylvania Reserves, still in the East Woods from the previous night. Before the Federal lines met, however, Colonel Walker pushed three of Trimble’s Georgia and North Carolina regiments forward to a low rock ledge, placing them squarely on Duryée’s exposed left flank.
Lt. Col. Emory Best (left), 23rd Georgia, wounded and captured. At right, Private Jobe Gilley, 27th Indiana, wounded in the chest. (Courtesy of Richard Thompson)
Duryée was losing men fast. Recalled Lieutenant Rush Cady of the 97th New York, “[Private] Sherman was squatting down in the act of priming, when hit by a solid shot, which nearly severed both legs at the knees, & took [off] his right hand at the wrist, the same shot killing Dick Handley instantly, going completely through his body. Sherman’s blood, flesh & pieces of bones flew all over & in the faces of the boys who were next to him. He asked for a drink of water, & then begged Alek to cut his throat, he was in such agony.” After 20 minutes of such gore, Duryée ordered a retreat.
As Yankee troops yielded, Lawton’s and Hays’ brigades pursued them into the Cornfield. But just beyond the Cornfield’s center, they were halted by threats to their flanks. Lawton’s left stalled on Gibbon’s 2nd and 6th Wisconsin, while Hays’ men drove right at Hartsuff’s brigade.
Hartsuff had finally moved once Colonel Richard Coulter of the 11th Pennsylvania assumed command. While too late to save Duryée’s men, its advance nonetheless stopped the latest Confederate drive. Barely 300 yards apart, both Hays’ and Hartsuff’s brigades were being torn apart by musketry, and Coulter’s men suffered additional slaughter as targets of S.D. Lee’s artillery adjacent to the Dunker Church. Coulter needed reinforcements, fast. A fresh Federal brigade suddenly appeared in the East Woods, and Coulter raced there to plead for its help. He had no idea what this simple act would cause.
Coulter was racing toward Colonel William Christian’s Brigade, which had been sent to support Duryée and Hartsuff by striking the Confederate flank. Christian was a Mexican War veteran, but this was his first brigade command under direct fire, and his approach to the battlefield was erratic to say the least. He ordered his brigade through a series of direction-changing maneuvers and periodically halted to have them drill in the manual of arms. When Coulter approached and asked for assistance, Christian snapped and rode away muttering that “he’d always had a great fear of shelling.” By abandoning his brigade, Christian left Coulter’s command stuck in its lonely, costly fight.
Colonel Peter Lyle, commanding the 90th Pennsylvania of Christian’s brigade, heard Coulter’s plea, however. Determined to act, with or without orders, Lyle marched his regiment into the northern end of the Cornfield, allowing Christian’s spent command to retreat toward the North Woods. Although the 90th Pennsylvania was only 264 strong, its fire began tearing apart what remained of Hays’ Brigade.
On the Cornfield’s western end, Lawton’s Brigade battled with Gibbon’s men. Gibbon had daringly split his brigade. He held the 2nd and 6th Wisconsin regiments in the corn while sending the 19th Indiana and 7th Wisconsin west across the pike to clear threats within the West Woods. Into the center of his position, Gibbon sent Lieutenant James Stewart’s two-gun section of the 4th U.S. Artillery, Battery B, which raced south to deploy on the pike’s western edge. As support, Hooker ordered Phelps’ brigade forward behind Gibbon in the corn while Doubleday sent Patrick’s brigade to aid Gibbon’s two regiments in the woods. If this pincers movement worked, Gibbon’s brigade would soon reunite and resume driving to the Dunker Church.
Seeing Lawton’s Georgians struggling in the Cornfield, Brig. Gen. William E. Starke—commanding Jackson’s Division—decided to act, advancing both the Stonewall and Taliaferro’s brigades out of the West Woods toward the pike. They arrived just as Jones’ and Grigsby’s brigades were retreating and the effort proved to be for naught. Starke, in fact, was mortally wounded as Gibbon’s two regiments emerged from the West Woods, pouring flanking fire into their left. Meanwhile, Gibbon’s two Wisconsin regiments and Phelps’ brigade sprang at them from the Cornfield’s southern end.
“We jumped over the fence, and pushed on, loading, firing, and shouting….There was, on the part of the men, great hysterical excitement, eagerness to go forward, and a reckless disregard of life, of everything but victory,” recalled Major Dawes. Pivoting on Phelps’ 2nd U.S. Sharpshooters, Gibbon’s regiments hit Starke’s two brigades in front and flank at nearly the same moment Lawton’s and Hays’ brigades—short on ammunition, thinned by casualties, and seeing reinforcements moving behind them—yielded ground.
The Cornfield had changed hands four times in barely an hour, and it seemed Hooker might have won the fight. He was, however, about to be brought back to earth by John Bell Hood’s men. Hood’s infantry column, sent to aid Lawton, quickly deployed across the Cornfield’s south edge until reaching the East Woods. The men had marched into battle eating their half-cooked breakfast, johnnycakes or pork, from their bayonets. With Colonel William T. Wofford’s “Texas Brigade” on the left and Colonel Evander M. Law’s Brigade of Alabamians, Mississippians, and North Carolinians on the right, Hood’s Division swept north into the Cornfield.
Corp. John Morton Booker (left), 23rd Virginia, killed. Lt. Col. Thomas Allen, 2nd Wisconsin, wounded in the right arm. (The Marc and Beth Storch Collection)
“A long and steady line of rebel grey, unbroken by the fugitives who fly before us, comes sweeping down through the woods and around the church,” recalled Dawes. “They raise the yell and fire. It is like a scythe running through our line.” Wofford’s Texans swept away Gibbon’s short-lived victory, while across the Cornfield, Law’s Brigade drove away the stout 90th Pennsylvania. In mere minutes, Hood had regained control of the Cornfield and all looked promising for the Rebels. Until suddenly it wasn’t.
The two guns in Stewart’s 4th U.S. Artillery blasted Wofford’s left flank, stalling Wade Hampton’s Legion and the 18th Georgia, while across the Cornfield, Evander Law’s right was stalled by Christian’s Brigade, restored to order and firing from cover in the southern end of the East Woods. In response, Law divided his brigade. Half his men pushed north through the open corn and the remainder drove eastward, clearing Christian’s men from the East Woods. Wofford also shifted regiments and faced his entire brigade west along the Hagerstown Pike, reinforcing each flank by posting the 4th Texas on the left and moving the 1st Texas toward the right. But, as General Hood later observed, the 1st Texas had “slipped the bridle and got away from the command.” The Lone Star boys were driving the Yankees back as they moved north, but they were alone. Their uncoordinated advance also exposed Wofford’s unprotected right flank.
Patrick’s brigade and Gibbon’s 19th Indiana and 7th Wisconsin advanced from the West Woods to threaten Wofford’s open right, while a single volley from George Meade’s 3,131-man division—the last of Hooker’s fresh 1st Corps troops to arrive on the field—nearly swept away the 1st Texas. Hood ordered his men to retreat, and the Cornfield exchanged hands for a sixth time.
Even so, hope was already marching northward from Samuel Mumma’s fields. About 7 a.m., Maj. Gen. D.H. Hill advanced Ripley’s Brigade to Jackson’s aid. Once deployed across the Cornfield’s width, Ripley’s Georgians and North Carolinians swept northward.
Meade’s force advanced swiftly, too. Gibbon pushed forward his left-most regiment, the 9th Pennsylvania Reserves, to support Patrick’s brigade. At the Cornfield’s southern fence, however, they found Patrick’s men gone and their brigade’s other two regiments stalled in the center of the Cornfield by enemy fire from the East Woods. Alone and exposed, short on ammunition and with mounting casualties, the 9th Pennsylvania Reserves retreated, yielding the Cornfield once more.
Ripley’s Brigade, with Colonel George Doles of the 4th Georgia commanding, controlled the position by fire, rather than presence, remaining south of the Cornfield to align with Law’s 4th Alabama, 21st Georgia, and 5th Texas holding the southern East Woods. Left behind by miscommunication, they halted Meade’s advance and now anchored Confederate hopes to retain control of the Cornfield.
Hooker’s next deadly countermove was already in play, as Mansfield’s 7,500-man 12th Corps—a mix of mostly untested and a few veteran regiments—arrived between the North and East Woods. Unlike as he had done with his 1st Corps, Hooker would utilize the full mass of Mansfield’s corps, maneuvering two 2,500-man divisions rather than individual brigades. The division of Brig. Gen. Alpheus Williams drove directly south toward the Cornfield as Brig. Gen. George S. Greene’s division swung on Williams’ left through the East Woods. The two divisions were to seize McClellan’s objective—the Dunker Church ridge.
Hooker knew that for his grand advance to succeed, Law’s Rebels, who had stopped Meade’s advance, had to be dispatched. Hooker also knew that assigning Mansfield to lead the task was a risk. Mansfield had assumed command of the corps only five days earlier, had not led troops in battle since 1847 during the Mexican War, and lacked confidence in his new command. Diverting Brig. Gen. Samuel Crawford’s brigade—three veteran regiments and the massive but green 124th, 125th, and 128th Pennsylvania—to this task, Mansfield personally led regiments into position astride the East Woods’ northern end. Exposed to the nearby maelstrom of battle by this role, Mansfield fell mortally wounded. The first Union, and third overall, general officer to fall before 9 a.m.
Williams quickly stepped into the command void, however, completing Mansfield’s task by sending the 128th Pennsylvania south into the woods. The inexperienced Keystoners struck Ripley’s right flank and Law’s 4th Alabama and retired, but the attack persuaded Doles that Ripley’s Brigade couldn’t withstand another fight. As if on cue, D.H. Hills’ next brigade, Colonel Alfred Colquitt’s, appeared, crossing Ripley’s front like a human curtain to enable Doles’ retreat. Colquitt’s timing was impeccable, but it was the last bit of luck the South enjoyed in the Cornfield.
At nearly the same moment, the 12th Corps attack wound into high gear. Crawford’s brigade, holding the northern East Woods, served as an anchor in the center; on their right, Gordon’s brigade moved directly south toward the Cornfield as Greene’s leading brigade on the left, Lt. Col. Hector Tyndale’s 1st Brigade—Pennsylvania and Ohio boys—pivoted southwestward into the East Woods, driving the Rebels before them.
Captain John Hanna (left), 6th Georgia, killed. Sergeant Charles Johnson (center), 12th Massachusetts, killed. Private Benjamin Sharpless (right), 6th Pennsylvania Reserves, wounded. (Courtesy of Neal Thompson; Courtesy of Ross Kelbaugh; HNA Archives)
The Confederacy’s final hope for holding this position, Garland’s Brigade of D.H. Hill’s Division, soon proved not up to the task. It had lost 359 casualties only four days before during the South Mountain fighting, including General Garland, leaving its five North Carolina regiments under Colonel Duncan McRae unnerved by prospects for another fight. Once into the chaotic East Woods, the 5th North Carolina’s commander recalled, “Captain T.P. Thompson…came up to me in a very excited manner and tone cried, ‘They are flanking us! See, yonder’s a whole brigade!’ [W]hen this act of indiscretion occurred, they began to break and run.”
McRae’s reinforcements fled just as Tyndale’s brigade appeared. Emerging largely unopposed into the Cornfield, Tyndale hit Colquitt’s thinned brigade while Greene’s second brigade, Colonel Henry Stainrook’s, arrived on their left. Swinging like a barn door, Greene’s united division swept away the East Woods’ remaining defenders, Law’s three regiments.
Brigadier General George Gordon’s brigade advanced, too. Recalled Robert Gould Shaw, a captain in the 2nd Massachusetts who would go on to fame with the 54th Massachusetts the following July, “[T]he Brigade advanced through the cornfield in front, which…was full of their dead and wounded….Beyond the cornfield was a large open field, and such a mass of dead and wounded men, mostly Rebels, as were lying there, I never saw before; it was a terrible sight….”
Greene’s division pressed inexorably westward across the Cornfield, sweeping remaining Confederate resistance before it. Benjamin Witcher of the 6th Georgia proposed to make a stand with some prone comrades, until his friend shook several, proving they were dead. When the 12th Corps reached the Hagerstown Pike, it signaled the 10th time that the Cornfield had changed hands in barely two hours.
The Cornfield was securely in Union hands, but it remained to be seen if Maj. Gen. Edwin V. Sumner, who replaced the wounded Hooker in command, could meet McClellan’s first objective. Stonewall Jackson also faced a daunting task, sustaining the Confederate left. Resolving such issues would require many hours of fighting.
The fight for the Cornfield had consumed all of Hooker’s forces on the Federal right, the 1st and 12th Corps, while two-thirds of Jackson’s available force—Lawton’s, Jackson’s, and Hood’s divisions—and three of the five brigades in D.H. Hill’s Division were similarly spent.
The Cornfield’s human cost stunned witnesses. One Confederate wrote, “Around me are dead and wounded in horrid crowds,” while another recalled, “frequently places where for 50 or 60 yards you could step from one dead Yank to another & walk all over the ground without touching it with your foot.” A New Yorker observed, “We saw some without any head. Some without any arms. Some without any legs. Some shot through their guts…It took hard to see them lay there bleeding to death.” Wofford’s 1st Texas lost 45 killed and 141 wounded of the 226 Texans who entered the Cornfield, an 82.3 percent casualty rate—the greatest single regimental loss in any battle for either side of the entire war. Hartsuff’s 12th Massachusetts lost 49 killed and 165 wounded of the 334 men who advanced into the Cornfield, generating a 64 percent casualty rate.
Nightfall on September 17 brought an end to Antietam’s fighting and marked many historic transformations on the fields surrounding Sharpsburg. America’s bloodiest single day forever applied a capital letter to Farmer Miller’s Cornfield, and made it a national symbol of death and sacrifice.
Colonel WilliamChristian had a track record of incompetence. (USAHEC) Born in 1825 in Utica, N.Y., William Henry Christian served with the 1st New York Volunteers throughout the Mexican War, though he saw no combat. He then served as his local militia’s drillmaster. With such military credentials, he was able to form and lead the 26th New York Infantry when the Civil War began. Colonel Christian’s first battle experience on October 21, 1861, proved a complete disaster, however. He led a 350-man force to capture Confederate cavalry operating near Pohick Church, Va., but the Rebel troopers slipped away. During the return march, Christian lost control of his force and his men looted local homes, with one soldier killed in the process. Christian and his regiment faced their next test at the Second Battle of Bull Run, when he was ordered to hold a position along Chinn Ridge on the Union left flank. But while his New Yorkers faced the unexpected attack by Lt. Gen. James Longstreet’s Right Wing, Christian was well behind the lines, lying under a tree, wrapped in a blanket, and being attended to by a surgeon. He had left his command, Christian later explained, because he suffered from both heat stroke and a severe case of poison ivy on his hands. Once Chinn Ridge’s intense fighting ended that day, Christian experienced a miraculous recovery when he assumed brigade command in place of the wounded Brig. Gen. Zealous Tower. That evening, as the brigade fell back toward safety, the newly minted brigade commander rode among his ranks, waving the brigade flag and encouraging “his men.” Understandably suspicious, the 26th New York’s officers gathered in secret to consider alerting division commander Brig. Gen. James Ricketts of Christian’s actions. Probably considering the implications if they were mistaken, the group decided against raising their concern. As it would turn out, this was the wrong decision, one that would have grave implications two weeks later at Antietam. –D.A.W.
David A. Welker is a professional historian and a military analyst for the federal government who writes from Centreville, Va. He has also published Tempest at Ox Hill, and this article is adapted from his 2020 release, The Cornfield: Antietam’s Bloody Turning Point, published by Casemate Press.
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2e87eefb18bded169e7466cc3a17009b | https://www.historynet.com/cornwallis-yorktown-india-redemption.htm | Cornwallis: From Yorktown to India — and Redemption | Cornwallis: From Yorktown to India — and Redemption
In America, General Cornwallis lost the Yorktown battle. In India, he won acclaim as a military and political leader.
IN JANUARY 1782, General Charles, 2nd Earl Cornwallis returned to England as a prisoner of war on parole. George Washington and his French allies had trapped him in the Virginia tobacco port of Yorktown forcing him to surrender his 7,700-man field army after a brief siege. The earl was relieved to discover that no one seemed to blame him for the disaster that led to the loss of Britain’s 13 rebellious American colonies. After landing in England, Cornwallis was treated like a conquering hero on his way to London. People cheered and waved, and in one town—Exeter—he was carried on eager shoulders. Everyone, including King George III and his ministers, blamed the lost war on the British commander in chief in America, the pudgy, indecisive General Sir Henry Clinton. The earl’s reception reflected his reputation as a fighting general. With his aggressive tactics he had won several earlier victories and near victories in America. At 43, His Lordship was in his physical and military prime. With his erect bearing, fine fierce nose, imperious lips, and bold, almost arrogant eyes, he typified the British noble warrior. Cornwallises had been sitting in the House of Lords for centuries. Moralistic King George admired him for his spotless private life. The earl’s devotion to his fragile wife was legendary: He had risked crossing the wintry North Atlantic to return home from America to see her before she died in 1779.
Cornwallis was soon hobnobbing with the king and top politicians including William Petty, 2nd Earl of Shelburne, author of the forthcoming generous peace treaty with America. Inevitably, there was talk of a new assignment for Cornwallis. The logical choice was India, where the British East India Company had acquired scattered possessions that were badly in need of strong leadership.
But Cornwallis declined to take command of the company’s army unless he was also made governor-general of the colony. He had learned a hard lesson in the American war, with the political leadership in London doing little but confusing and intimidating the soldiers in the field. It took some time to convince Prime Minister William Pitt (the Younger) to give him the combination of political and military power that he saw as essential. Not until May 1786 did Cornwallis sail for the exotic world where the future of the British Empire now lay.
THE BRITISH HAD BEEN in India for more than a century when Cornwallis arrived. The East India Company had begun by setting up trading posts called “factories”—clusters of warehouses at various points along the coasts. Through these posts flowed a hugely profitable trade in spices, sugar, raw silk, and indigo. To protect these products while they awaited export, an army was a necessity, and the company soon developed a good one, staffed at the top by British officers and in the ranks by native troops called sepoys.
The trading posts soon expanded into the surrounding countryside and became colonies that effectively ruled thousands of Indians. Britain’s arrival had coincided with the breakup of the Mughal Empire, led by the descendants of that mighty Muslim conqueror, Tamerlane. As they lost power, India became a crazy quilt of territories ruled by rajahs, nizams, and sultans, many of them little more than warlords who extorted money from the hapless peasantry with brute force. The East India Company’s army accelerated the Mughals’ decline, defeating their poorly led battalions in several battles in the 1750s and becoming rulers of Bengal’s 25 million people.
Officials of the company accumulated huge personal fortunes. Back in England they became nabobs, who built magnificent mansions and bought seats in Parliament. Unfortunately, the nabobs paid only passing attention to their employer’s profits, and the East India Company gradually became dependent on financial support from Parliament. One government attempt to balance the company’s books by effectively giving it a monopoly on selling tea to the American colonies had not a little to do with igniting the war for independence.
The Tea Act was symptomatic of Parliament’s haphazard dealings with the East India Company. Aristocratic stockholders of the company were so influential that it was virtually impossible for the government to discipline them. Accordingly, Cornwallis sailed with orders from Prime Minister Pitt to do everything in his power to bring at least a semblance of order out of the chaotic way the company was doing business.
Accompanied by Lieutenant Colonel Alexander Ross, his one-time aide in America, Cornwallis sailed to Calcutta, the principal city of Bengal. From the start he made it clear that he expected better behavior from the company’s officials—who passed their days exploiting the natives and their nights feasting in mansions staffed by dozens of servants, including dancing girls by whom they fathered numerous children. The earl’s strong personal morals and his insistence on proper behavior had a surprising impact. As governor-general, he deplored the folly of dispatching officials to India without giving them a decent salary, and the stockholders eventually yielded to his insistence on a policy of larger salaries and an end to money making on the side. Even more important, Cornwallis worked out a “permanent settlement” that set fair tax rates throughout British India.
The earl was convinced that the benefits would extend both to the company and its peasant farmers. It was a chance to “confer happiness upon millions.”
These vital reforms did not by any means end the challenges confronting the governor-general. One of the most menacing had a name: Tipu Sultan, the ruler of Mysore, a state in southwestern India. It was one of three large Indian powers that were potentially capable of challenging Britain in India. The other two were Maratha, which occupied a huge central chunk of the subcontinent, and Hyderabad, between Maratha and Mysore. Hyderabad was not then a real worry, since its ruler, Nizam Ali, was addicted to “intrigue and dissipation, principally the latter,” one British diplomat said in 1787. Maratha contained so many semi-independent warlords within its borders that its rulers were reluctant to send an army anywhere.
Tipu Sultan, on the other hand, was considered a “permanent” foe. His father, Hyder Ali, was a Muslim adventurer with considerable military talent who had stormed Mysore’s capital, Seringapatam, and made himself ruler of the mostly Hindu natives. He hated the English and had fought two wars against them. In 1780 Hyder and Tipu had annihilated an East India Company field army of 700 Europeans and 3,521 sepoys. Only Hyder’s death in 1782 had stopped them from capturing Madras and wiping out British influence in southern India.
Unlike his father, Tipu was a devout Muslim who added to his antipathy toward the British a readiness to hate them as infidels. In his palace he had an outsize mechanical toy—an authentic-looking tiger springing on a prone British officer, who emitted screams of pain.
Almost from the day Cornwallis landed in India, he began preparing for war with Tipu. The earl deployed native intelligence agents throughout Mysore, hoping to anticipate the sultan’s next move. Cornwallis made it clear that if war began, he was going to invade Mysore with every soldier he could muster. He had tried this aggressive strategy as a commander in the American South in 1780 but had lacked the troops to sustain it. In India, his troop numbers would be more than equal to the task: He had 50,000 soldiers in Bengal, slightly fewer than 50,000 in Madras, and another 15,000 in Bombay.
War broke out over Tipu’s attempt to seize Travancore, a state southwest of Mysore at the tip of the Indian subcontinent and headquarters of the profitable pepper trade. Governor-General Cornwallis came to the eastern coastal city of Madras and moved west to invade Mysore, marching straight for Seringapatam, Tipu’s walled capital. Anticipating a siege, he brought with him all the heavy artillery he could find. To transport his massive amount of gear, Cornwallis procured elephants from Bengal and other parts of India.
As the army slogged through mountain passes from Madras to Mysore’s tableland, it presented an awesome sight: In the lead were six red-coated regiments of British regulars and one of cavalry. Behind them marched many regiments of sepoys from Bengal and Madras, as well as native cavalry and battalions of artillery, plus a battering ram—a total of 15,000 fighting men. And no fewer than 60,000 camp followers. A field officer had 40 servants, a captain had 20, and subalterns had 10. Every cavalryman had two servants. Thousands more were needed to care for the 27,000 cattle in the line of march, along with tens of thousands of camels. Sepoys frequently brought their entire families. A separate cadre of servants transported the sick in palanquins or doolies. Then there were the swarms of thieves that such a procession attracted, as well as merchants eager to sell liquor and other wares. Rare was the day when this gigantic caravansary advanced more than 12 miles.
Once in Mysore, Cornwallis had to contend with hill forts and walled cities along the route to Seringapatam, as well as Tipu Sultan’s cavalry, a unit that far surpassed the British in numbers. The earl took two weeks to reduce the city of Bangalore. Resuming his march, Cornwallis found himself confronting a new enemy: monsoon rains. Arriving unexpectedly early in the year, the ferocious downpours tore clothing and tents to shreds. Officers were soon forced to abandon their servants and equipment and consume the same rations as the enlisted men.
Finally, the column reached an anticipated obstacle: the Cauvery River, which barred access to Tipu’s island capital. The rains had made it impassable. A scouting search turned up a ford about 10 miles downstream near a village named Arrakerry. Tipu’s scouts had been watching the British, and the sultan decided this crossing was the place to challenge the governor-general to all-out battle.
Anchoring his right flank on the river and his left on a looming mountain, Tipu deployed his army. His regular infantry wore turbans, cummerbunds, white jackets, and breeches. They were far outnumbered by thousands of irregulars, wearing every imaginable outfit. One cadre of horsemen wore nothing but loincloths and turbans. Tipu’s troops outnumbered Cornwallis’s army perhaps 2-to-1, but Tipu’s officer corps was weak and heavily dependent on French volunteers in the regimental commands.
At first both generals maneuvered to outflank each other, but Tipu finally concentrated most of his army on the mountain. Cornwallis accepted this challenge and attacked. The lowered bayonets of the howling regulars and sepoys soon produced panic in Tipu’s ranks. He ordered a retreat, which soon became a rout.
The way was open to Seringapatam, but Cornwallis found that he could not follow up his initial victory, since his army was on the brink of starvation. Reduced to half rations, the almost-but-not-quite conquering British host reeled back to Bangalore. In England an irreverent cartoonist portrayed a gleeful Tipu on the walls of Seringapatam, urinating a monsoon-like stream on a dismayed Cornwallis.
The governor-general, though, remained determined to defeat his adversary. Cornwallis spent the next months organizing a better supply system based on binjarries—Indians who were willing to carry loads of rice to the advancing army in an unending caravan. He added some 50,000 of these human beasts of burden to his army.
His supply problems solved, Cornwallis returned to the Cauvery River without serious opposition from Tipu. The sultan offered battle on the north side of the river where he had constructed strong redoubts. Cornwallis ordered a night attack, which he intended to lead in person. A full moon illuminated the troops as they moved into position. The army attacked in three columns, with Cornwallis leading the center.
Tipu’s troops responded with blasts of rockets and musketry. But the Earl’s infantry pressed home its favorite tactic, a bayonet assault. After about an hour of seesaw fighting, Tipu’s men broke, abandoned the redoubts, and fled across the river to Seringapatam’s main defense, an immense fort that Tipu had built in the center of the island.
SEEMINGLY TRAPPED, Tipu was still dangerous. He struck hard at Cornwallis’s flanks as he crossed the river to begin a siege. At one point the Mysore ruler cut off a British detachment in a redoubt and flung wave after wave of infantry at them. The dogged redcoats held out until Cornwallis counterattacked and rescued them. In that melee, bullets flew all around the governor-general, one nicking him in the hand. He dismissed it as a scratch and stayed in the fight.
When Cornwallis’s entire army got across the river, the men positioned the heavy artillery to begin the siege. Now it was only a question of time. Many of Tipu’s French officers began deserting to the British. Each day, ignoring enemy bullets, Cornwallis went forward to inspect the progress of his spade-wielding soldiers as their trenches zigzagged closer and closer to Tipu’s walls. The moment arrived when the battering ram would breach the wall and enable the infantry to swarm into the fort. The earl apparently enjoyed the role of besieger, perhaps hoping it would soften the memory of those days in Yorktown when he was on the wrong side of a siege.
Then, instead of fighting to the finish, Tipu settled for terms of surrender. Cornwallis was willing to negotiate, but his conditions were harsh: Tipu would have to cede half of Mysore to British control. He would also have to pay the East India Company an indemnity of £3 million, the equivalent of $200 million in today’s money. To guarantee his good behavior, he also had to surrender to the governor-general’s custody two of his young sons. The earl’s fatherly reception of the boys was celebrated in a famous painting, which was widely used to symbolize Britain’s supposedly benevolent imperialism.
The news of Cornwallis’s victory sparked celebrations throughout British India. There was talk in Calcutta of presenting him with a gigantic star-shaped diamond, but he quickly put a stop to the extravagance; he did not want to undermine the lessons of moderation and frugality that he had tried to impose in his five years as governor-general. Back in London, the East India Company awarded him a bonus of £10,000 plus a pension of £5,000 a year for the next two decades. The earl accepted this largesse because it was largely invisible to the public.
Historians of India credit Cornwallis with creating the foundations of a rule of moderation and order, backed by implicit force, that enabled London to govern the subcontinent for another century and a half. This achievement was not the last of his contributions to Britain’s empire: In 1798, the government made him Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, where he smashed a popular revolt backed by a French expeditionary force. He then devoted more than two years to persuading the corrupt Protestant clique that dominated the Irish Parliament to accept an Act of Union abolishing their rule and uniting Ireland with Britain. Unfortunately, Cornwallis was unable to persuade George III and others in England to give Catholics the right to vote and hold office. When the king spoke out against Catholic emancipation, the earl resigned. But His Majesty continued to dote on him, and the government selected him to negotiate a peace with Napoleon’s France. It proved a more exhausting and frustrating chore than pacifying Ireland. But the makeshift treaty, which would endure little more than a year, gave England some badly needed breathing space.
Now 63, Cornwallis tried retirement for a while, enjoying his grandchildren and visits from old friends, but found it boring. So when the government decided he was the man they needed in India once again, he responded eagerly. The soldier-rulers who succeeded him had defeated and killed Tipu Sultan and were preparing to launch an even more expensive war against the Marathas. Cornwallis sailed with orders to rein them in and again get the East India Company’s budget under control.
Alas, it soon became evident that Cornwallis was no longer the vigorous man who had arrived in 1786, able to bring order and decency to Britain’s colonial policy and win a crucial war. India’s debilitating heat prostrated him from the moment he debarked from his long voyage. He became less and less active and was soon an invalid. A little more than two months after he arrived, Cornwallis sank into a near coma and died on October 5, 1805.
Parliament voted to erect a statue to him in St. Paul’s Cathedral, and the East India Company built a magnificent mausoleum over his grave in India—all in all, remarkable tributes to a soldier whose early military career included a calamitous, historic defeat.
Historian and novelist Thomas Fleming has written many books about the American Revolution and other wars, including most recently A Disease in the Public Mind: A New Understanding of Why We Fought the Civil War (2013).
Originally published in the April 2014 issue of Military History Quarterly. To subscribe, click here.
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0cbed37c6c00b553fc7030175a54259d | https://www.historynet.com/corregidor-the-last-battle-in-the-fall-of-the-philippines.htm | Corregidor: The last battle in the fall of the Philippines | Corregidor: The last battle in the fall of the Philippines
Author Bill Sloan’s article for World War II magazine was adapted from his book Undefeated: America’s Heroic Fight for Bataan and Corregidor, which received the Army Historical Foundation’s Distinguished Writing Award.
Beginning on the morning of April 10, 1942, the tadpole-shaped fortress island of Corregidor—known as the Rock to every American soldier, sailor, and Marine who served there—stood alone against the Japanese juggernaut that had just consumed the Bataan Peninsula two miles away. Japanese troops were busily moving 75 of the same powerful artillery pieces that had smashed the American-Filipino lines on the peninsula a few days earlier, positioning them to bear on Corregidor from what amounted to point-blank range.
For many of the estimated 2,000 men who had escaped Bataan, Corregidor had long been a symbol of security and relative surcease from the rigors of the front line. Almost to a man, they believed that reaching the island gave them a ticket to a more comfortable, less hazardous existence than the one they had known for months. The Rock’s Malinta Tunnel complex—the army’s underground hospital, barracks, command, and storage facility, dug into Malinta Hill in the 1920s—remained basically unscathed despite daily air raids and intermittent artillery fire since mid-December 1941. Its garrison still received two reasonable meals per day instead of the wormy rice—or nothing—that had been standard on Bataan. Corregidor’s troops had access to clean water, laundry facilities, and showers. They didn’t have to worry about mosquitoes, or being bayoneted in their sleep.
Former B-17 crewman Ed Whitcomb’s reaction to Malinta Tunnel, after reaching Corregidor just moments ahead of a flight of enemy bombers, was typical. “Inside the tunnel, we greeted friends we hadn’t seen for a long time,” Whitcomb recalled. “We also found many officers and enlisted men in freshly washed and starched uniforms, living as comfortably as if the war had never caused them the slightest inconvenience…. We congratulated ourselves on successfully reaching this haven.”
But as Whitcomb and the others quickly learned, such assumptions were tragically premature. Corregidor’s tunnels were already overcrowded with troops and Filipino civilians, and most newcomers were assigned to beach defense. By dusk that first evening, Whitcomb found himself in charge of a Filipino crew and an antique wooden-wheeled 75mm gun, situated on a desolate corner of the island’s south coast called Monkey Point. “I slept on the ground beside my gun position that night,” he recalled, “but I felt more as if I were sleeping on a powder keg that was about to blow up.”
Whitcomb’s feelings were prophetic. Within a few days, Corregidor would become the most hellish five square miles on the face of the earth—a place that would make Whitcomb’s experiences on Bataan “seem like a Sunday School picnic.”
Karl King, a Marine toughened by weeks of front-line combat, failed to share Whitcomb’s rosy projections. He was immediately sent to the rocky beach near Battery Point on the island’s north coast to set up and man a .50-caliber machine gun position facing Bataan. “That afternoon, we found a navy supply dump that had an air-cooled .50, salvaged from a disabled PBY flying boat,” King recalled. “A two-wheel cart hauled the gun back to the company area, along with several boxes of ammo and the metal links for belting the ammunition. Looking for a place to set up our gun pit, we spotted a small earthen formation about 60 feet up the side of a cliff, [and] we dug in.”
The approximately 1,500 soldiers, sailors, and Marines whose job was defending Corregidor’s north beach did a commendable job preparing for the inevitable Japanese amphibious landings. But they were thinly spread over 3.5 miles of rock and sand, and most of their hastily constructed gun pits offered only minimal protection against attacks. “Enemy artillery spotters in observation balloons on Bataan had a clear view of the defensive positions,” King said. “Japanese 240mm howitzers, firing from Cavite and Bataan with high-angle trajectories, could drop rounds into every deep ravine and concrete gun emplacement.”
On the night of April 14, a 36-inch searchlight was set up near King, and lit to test its effectiveness in spotting Japanese invasion barges. None were in view, but the light drew instant attention from Japanese batteries on the peninsula. “Jap gunners must have had their hands on the firing lanyards waiting for the searchlight to come on,” King said. “It was on for all of 30 seconds before an artillery barrage…swept our position, snuffing out the light with a direct hit.”
Dodging shell bursts, King had made two trips to carry wounded to the protection of the ammo tunnel when a navy corpsman grabbed him by the arm. “Is that your blood on your pants leg, or is it from one of the wounded?” the corpsman asked. King felt a sharp pain and saw a piece of shrapnel lodged in his right leg. The corpsman removed the fragment and treated the wound, and King returned to his gun. (He was promoted to corporal the next day and awarded a Purple Heart, but the records would be lost in the mayhem that followed and neither would become official until six years later.)
The shelling that night was but a small taste of what was to come. Over the next three weeks, King recalled, “life on Corregidor could be compared to sitting in the middle of a bull’s-eye during rapid-fire target practice.” The attacks steadily increased in intensity until April 29, when the Japanese celebrated Emperor Hirohito’s birthday by launching the most awesome display of firepower yet seen in the Philippines. It would continue day and night for six days.
As fate would have it, one of the final chances to evacuate some of the nurses, female civilians, older officers, and key military personnel occurred on that same day. Two 25-seat U.S. Navy PBY seaplanes were scheduled to land at about 11 p.m. on the 29th, in a sheltered area near the wreckage of Corregidor’s south docks. Twenty seats went to senior officers unlikely to survive as POWs, to a few civilian women, and to officers hand-picked by General Douglas MacArthur, who had left the Philippines seven weeks earlier to command the U.S. Army Forces in the Far East from Australia. The remaining 30 seats were filled from the 150-member nursing corps.
“We stood there and watched the seaplanes roar and take off and prayed they wouldn’t be hit,” recalled General Jonathan Wainwright, commander of all American and Filipino forces in the Philippines. “They sailed right off the water beautifully, pulled out over the side of Cavite beyond the range of the antiaircraft guns, and were enveloped in the night.” But only one of the planes would make it safely to Australia. The other was irreparably damaged as it landed for fuel on Mindanao; all its passengers would become POWs.
The last opportunity to escape Corregidor came on the night of May 3, when the submarine USS Spearfish slipped through the Japanese blockade to pick up critical military records and evacuate 25 passengers on its way to Australia. A handful of staff officers were sent aboard, some for health reasons, others to carry out specific assignments. The last 13 spaces went to women. The hospital’s chief nurse, Captain Gladys Mealor, was high on Wainwright’s evacuation list but refused to go. “I couldn’t see how anybody could walk off and leave all those wounded people,” she said. “I had enough faith in that old tunnel that I could make it if the Japs came in.” Wainwright was deeply touched. He would later say, “I considered—and still consider—this a truly great act of patriotism. She knew as well as I that she was signing her captivity warrant.” (Mealor was indeed captured, and held as a POW with the rest of the Corregidor garrison until the end of the war.)
When the conning tower of the Spearfish slipped beneath the surface of the bay, Corregidor’s last physical link with the outside world was broken.
Life deteriorated into sheer bedlam for the 12,000 military personnel on Corregidor as the enemy’s ceaseless bombardment ate away at the infrastructure that had previously kept life bearable in Malinta Tunnel. The bone-rattling enemy attacks frequently plunged them into total darkness, and corpsmen were routinely called upon to hold flashlights when the hospital operating room lost power during surgery. Drinking water was in short supply, and headquarters was steadily losing communication with every outpost beyond the tunnels. The situation worsened as thousands of Filipino civilians, forced from their homes on the island, sought refuge below ground. “They relieved themselves where they stood,” wrote Colonel John R. Vance, one of Wainwright’s staff. “For food, they were issued canned goods, and the empty and dirty containers were added to the human filth on the pavement.”
In a physical sense, much of the shelling was overkill, since there was little left to destroy on the island’s surface. But casualties increased among the beach defenders, and the incessant pounding took a heavy toll on morale—including inside the physical safety of the tunnels. “Almost everyone was overwhelmed by the psychosis of doom,” Colonel Vance wrote. Scattered incidents of self-inflicted gunshot wounds and suicides were reported.
No final tally exists of the number of bombs and artillery rounds that struck the Rock, but during this time it was the target of more than 300 full-scale Japanese air raids and hundreds of thousands of heavy artillery rounds—up to 16,000 on a single day. Early on the morning of May 2, at the start of a typical combined enemy air-artillery bombardment, two of Wainwright’s staff officers began counting the number of explosions. They determined that on average, at least a dozen bombs and shells hit the island every minute for five straight hours—a total of 3,600 rounds armed with an estimated 1.8 million pounds of explosives. After that, they stopped counting. Fourth Marines Private Roy Hays, and every other defender of Corregidor’s eastern beaches, knew that time was running out. Tantalizing rumors of reinforcements had been pounded to dust by the Japanese. But nothing drove home the truth with greater finality than the sight before Hays’s eyes late on the night of May 5. Out of the darkness, Japanese landing barges were at last approaching the beach at North Point.
“God, how many of ’em you reckon there are?” whispered Hays’s buddy Tommy, who was manning the machine gun next to him. “A lot more than there are of us,” Hays replied. Five dozen American and Filipino defenders were spread out around Hays’s position. Hays and Tommy had the only two machine guns—water-cooled .30-caliber World War I relics—but several men had Browning automatic rifles (BARs). Others had regular rifles, mainly bolt-action 1903-model Springfields or old British Enfields. Others had only pistols. Hays kept listening for his order to fire, until he saw the closest barges bump against the beach. “Christ, if we don’t hit ’em now, they’ll be right on top of us,” he told his ammo handler. Then he turned and yelled “Fire! Open fire!” down the line.
“I truly believe we killed every Jap on the beach,” Hays would say some 68 years later. “I don’t think any of them got ashore alive. At first light, we saw eight landing barges bobbing in the surf, and there was no sign of life on any of them.” According to best estimates, all but 800 of the first wave of 2,000 Japanese invaders died before they reached dry land. It was among the Fourth Marines’ finest hours, but it wasn’t enough to halt the invasion.
On May 6, Wainwright received a stirring message from President Franklin D. Roosevelt himself: “During recent weeks, we have been following with growing admiration the day-by-day accounts of your heroic stand…. In spite of all the handicaps of complete isolation, lack of food and ammunition, you have given the world a shining example of patriotic fortitude and self-sacrifice.” Wainwright deeply appreciated the president’s sentiments, but the tone made clear that Corregidor was on its own.
Corregidor’s eastern tail, where Private Hays and his comrades had repelled one of the Japanese landings the night before, had vanished behind a thick veil of smoke and dust. All but one or two of Corregidor’s 23 coastal artillery batteries had been silenced, eliminating the garrison’s ability to strike back against the enemy’s big guns on Bataan. Along the length of shore facing Bataan, only a handful of machine gun emplacements still survived. Everything else had been obliterated.
Most of the Americans who had met the Japanese in hand-to-hand fighting along the north beaches were now dead or wounded. There were no more troops left to send. Bodies were piling up in Malinta Tunnel outside the hospital section, awaiting burial until the bombardment slackened—if it ever did. Countless casualties littered the beaches and ravines along the north side of the island.
And now, as if to confirm the finality of the situation, came the news that three Japanese tanks were grinding their way toward the main entrance to Malinta Tunnel. With nothing more powerful than rifles, a few light machine guns, and moldy 1918-vintage hand grenades, the defenders had not a single weapon capable of slowing down—much less stopping—a tank. Wainwright could envision the resulting bloodbath should the tanks fire their cannons down the main tunnel, where scores of nurses were treating more than 1,000 sick and wounded men amidst vast stores of munitions and gasoline.
At 10 a.m., word reached Wainwright that the Japanese were steadily driving more tanks against dogged but failing resistance toward Malinta Tunnel. He summoned General Lewis Beebe, his chief of staff, and General George Moore, commander of the Manila Bay harbor defenses. “Maybe we could last through this day, but the end must certainly come tonight,” Wainwright told them. “It would be better to clear up the situation now, in daylight. What do you think?”
“I think we should send a flag of truce through the lines right now,” Beebe said. “There should be no delay,” Moore added. Wainwright sighed. “Tell the Nips we’ll cease firing at noon,” he said. After Beebe and Moore left to broadcast the surrender message, Wainwright scribbled a final note to President Roosevelt. “It is with broken heart and head bowed in sadness, but not in shame, that I report to Your Excellency that I must go today to arrange terms for the surrender of the fortified islands of Manila Bay…. There is a limit of human endurance, and that limit has long since been passed…. Goodbye, Mr. President.”
Army radio operator Irving Strobing was the last to tap out a message from Corregidor, aimed at anyone listening. “Tell [my brother] Joe, wherever he is, to give ’em hell for us. My love to you all. God bless you and keep you. Sign my name, and tell mother how you heard from me. Stand by.” After that, there was only silence from the Rock.
Marine Private Ernest J. Bales learned of the surrender when a runner managed to reach his position in James Ravine, where he was assigned to one of four .30-caliber machine guns. At that moment, Bales was huddled with six other Marines and soldiers in a trench only a few dozen yards from the water’s edge. All of them were waiting for something—but not surrender. “We’re throwing in the towel,” the runner said, gasping for breath. “You’re supposed to destroy all weapons.” For a long moment, Bales could only stare at the runner in stunned silence. “It was really hard to take,” he recalled. “Was this what we’d spent all these damned days and nights dodging bombs for? I couldn’t believe it.”
“Who the hell says so?” demanded one of the other men in the trench, pointing his pistol at the soldier who had delivered the message. “It’s straight from Wainwright,” the runner said. “It’s on the level.” Bales would recall many years later, “I honestly think this guy might’ve shot the runner if some of the others hadn’t grabbed his arm and wrestled the gun away.”
Private Ben Lohman of the Second Battalion, Fourth Marines did as he was told and destroyed his BAR. But he soon regretted it, because the Japanese gave no indication of honoring the so-called cease-fire. “We had plenty of ammo for the BARs,” he recalled. “I could see the Jap barges coming in, and I’d had a chance to fire on some of them with the BAR. Once I’d wrecked it, though, it was useless.” Lohman and his mates huddled low in their hand-dug gun pits while enemy artillery rounds poured in with no discernible letup. “We didn’t know what the hell was going on,” he said. “If the fighting was over, the Japs didn’t seem to have gotten the word. I’d say they had us by the ass, and they knew it and didn’t care.”
The persisting hostilities stemmed from two causes. One was Japanese determination to use the Corregidor surrender to take full possession of the Philippines. The other was a last-gasp attempt by General Wainwright to avoid exactly that.
Nearly two hours passed before the Americans detected a noticeable decline in the shelling outside. Wainwright recruited a young Marine, Captain Golland L. Clark, to go in search of a senior Japanese officer to relay the surrender message in writing. Another hour went by before Captain Clark returned with discouraging news. “He won’t come to see you, General,” Clark said. “He insists that you go and meet him.” When Wainwright and his party ventured forth under a flag of truce, they were stopped by a wiry young lieutenant “reeking with arrogance,” as Wainwright later put it. “He identified himself as Lieutenant Uramura,” the general recalled, “and before I had a chance to speak, he barked in English, ‘We will not accept your surrender unless it includes all American and Filipino troops in the whole archipelago!’” This marked the beginning of a long, frustrating day for Wainwright and his staff.
Wainwright barked back at Uramura that he had no intention of negotiating with a lieutenant, and in due time Colonel Motto Nakayama—the non-English-speaking officer who had accepted the surrender of Bataan—arrived on the scene. With Uramura serving as interpreter, Wainwright said he could surrender only the four islands—not the Mindanao-Visayan Islands far to the south, where some 25,000 American and Filipino troops could keep up the fight after Corregidor’s surrender.
This sent Nakayama into a rage, and he repeated that no surrender would be accepted if it didn’t include all U.S. forces in the Philippines. Wainwright reacted with his own flash of anger, and declared he would only negotiate with General Masaharu Homma, commander of the Philippines Invasion Force. After a brief interval of hostile silence, Nakayama agreed to take Wainwright to Homma’s headquarters on Bataan.
Accompanied by his staff officers, Wainwright arrived on the peninsula at 4 p.m., but Homma made a point of keeping them waiting for two hours before summoning them to his headquarters. Meanwhile, Japanese forces amplified the demand for total American capitulation in the Philippines by sending waves of bombers across the length of Corregidor. Flying from east to west, they blanketed the tortured island with scores of new explosions while the American surrender party looked on. They were spared the sight at Malinta Tunnel, where Japanese tanks smashed the last defenses and lined across the east entrance. Soldiers armed with flamethrowers also deployed across the entrance. The message was crystal clear: if the surrender wasn’t consummated to the Imperial Japanese Army’s satisfaction, wholesale slaughter would quickly ensue.
At about 6 p.m.—seven hours after the surrender message was first broadcast—Wainwright’s party was driven to Japanese headquarters on Bataan for another hour-long wait before Homma arrived in a shiny Cadillac. When the interpreter finished reading Wainwright’s signed surrender document, Homma spoke sharply to the interpreter. “General Homma replies that no surrender will be considered unless it includes all United States and Philippine troops in the Philippine Islands.” Wainwright and Homma argued back and forth for several minutes, until Homma terminated the argument with this threat: “Hostilities against the fortified islands will be continued unless the Japanese surrender terms are accepted!”
“I was desperately cornered,” Wainwright recalled in his memoirs. “My troops on Corregidor were almost completely disarmed, as well as wholly isolated from the outside world.” The blood of over 10,000 men and women would be on his hands unless he yielded to the demands. “That was it,” he wrote years later. “The last hope vanished from my mind.”
Wainwright returned to Corregidor, where he typed up and signed a new surrender document. It was after midnight when, as Wainwright put it, “the terrible deed was done” and he was taken under guard to the west entrance of the tunnel, past hundreds of his troops. Many of them waved or reached out for Wainwright’s hand. Others patted him on the shoulder, repeating the same reassurance. “It’s all right, General,” they said. “You did your best.” Private Edward D. Reamer was standing near the tunnel entrance, within 40 feet of Wainwright as he passed. “I could see tears on Wainwright’s cheeks,” Reamer recalled. “You couldn’t look in any direction outside the tunnel without seeing a dead body. One guy was holding a Tommy gun with half his head blown off. Those guys fought right up to the tunnel, right up to the headquarters.”
Tears were still streaming down Wainwright’s face when he reached General Moore, who tried to assure him that he’d taken the only conceivable course. “But I feel I’ve taken a dreadful step,” Wainwright said brokenly.
On hearing the news of the surrender, MacArthur issued a brief statement. “Corregidor needs no comment from me. It has sounded its own story at the mouth of its guns. It has scrolled its own epitaph on enemy tablets, but through the bloody haze of its last reverberating shots, I shall always seem to see the vision of its grim, gaunt, and ghostly men.”
On May 7, 1942, almost five months to the day since the first Japanese attacks, all organized American resistance in the Philippines officially ended. For the 11,000 men and women who survived the battle for the Rock, a longer, deadlier, and still more horrific struggle for survival loomed ahead.
Bill Sloan has written and reported on many of the major news events of the past half-century, and was nominated for a Pulitzer during his 10 years at the Dallas Times Herald. Sloan is the author of 15 books, including 6 military histories focusing on World War II and Korean War action in Asia and the Pacific. The latest of these is Undefeated: America’s Heroic Fight for Bataan and Corregidor, released this spring by Simon & Schuster. Hell in the Pacific, a memoir by former Marine sergeant Jim McEnery with Sloan as co-author, will be published this August to coincide with the 70th anniversary of the Battle of Guadalcanal.
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b4805a51c6864081c5570d4af23f97c4 | https://www.historynet.com/crockett-and-the-creek-war-we-now-shot-them-like-dogs.htm | Crockett and the Creek War: ‘We Now Shot Them Like Dogs’ | Crockett and the Creek War: ‘We Now Shot Them Like Dogs’
On Aug. 30, 1813, Red Eagle’s Red Stick Creeks successfully stormed the Fort Mims militia post, but then tortured and killed soldiers and civilians alike. (Sarin Images/Granger)
All through the sweltering night of Aug. 30, 1813, beneath a dim crescent moon, Red Eagle had quietly mobilized upward of 700 warriors in the tall grass around “Fort” Mims—certainly an exaggerated designation for the flimsy stockade surrounding the blockhouse, cabins and barns of wealthy planter Samuel Mims. In Creek country some 40 miles northeast of Mobile, Mississippi Territory—in what would soon become Alabama Territory—Mims’ stronghold had become the only place of refuge for American settlers, their slaves and their mixed-blood Creek friends after war had erupted in the summer of 1813 between the Upper Creeks and the United States. On being defeated by the Creeks farther east at Burnt Corn Creek that July 27, territorial militiamen had retreated in disarray, leaving the Alabama frontier defenseless.
Major Daniel Beasley had but 140 militiamen under his command to protect the nearly 300 refugees crammed into the 1-acre stockade. The major was remarkably casual concerning the peril they faced. When warned by a slave on August 29 about an approaching Creek war party, he dismissed the report and had the poor man tied to a post in the middle of the stockade and flogged. The next day when Red Eagle sent his warriors storming forward at noon—surprising the defenders during their midday meal—Beasley was among the first to fall as he moved to close the gate he had so carelessly allowed to be left open. The settlers retreated into the larger cabins and set up a stiff defense, but Red Eagle had his warriors unleash a torrent of flaming arrows on them. Those who fled outside were quickly clubbed to death, while the rest were burned alive. Red Eagle reportedly tried to halt the slaughter, but he found it difficult to restrain his warriors. He managed to protect only a few dozen slaves and a handful of women and children, while the Creeks razed the fort and tortured captured soldiers to death. It was all over by late afternoon.
That day of horror marked the most decisive victory by the Creeks in their war with the Americans. It also made their mixed-blood leader, Red Eagle—or Lamochattee in Creek, also known by his English name, William Weatherford—among the most infamous of all Indian chiefs. Red Eagle’s father was Scot fur trader Charles Weatherford, his mother Sehoy, Creek half-sister of mixed-blood soldier-statesman Alexander McGillivray, former principal chief of the Upper Creeks. Sehoy’s status in the prominent Wind Clan placed her son, born circa 1780, into a natural leadership position in the Creek’s matrilineal society.
William McIntosh, mixed-blood leader of the allied Lower Creeks, was later assassinated for his fealty to the Americans. (The McKenny & Hall Portraits of Charles Bird King)
The Creeks, whose villages spanned the region comprising present-day Alabama and southwest Georgia, had fought alongside the British in the American Revolution and remained allied with them as trading partners after the war. Both the British and Spanish in Florida supplied the Upper Creeks—whose villages lay to the northwest along the Alabama, Coosa and Tallapoosa rivers and their tributaries—with trade goods and eventually arms with which to resist the American advance into their region. Concerns about these foreign intrigues with the Creeks led U.S. troops under General James Wilkinson to formally claim Spanish territory in Florida west of the Perdido River in December 1813. Most Lower Creeks—who lived farther east and south along the Chattahoochee, Ocmulgee and Flint rivers—under their mixed-blood leader William McIntosh (Red Eagle’s cousin), allied with the Americans. Thus when war broke out with the Americans in the summer of 1813, it spawned a civil war among the Creeks. McIntosh, who would fight alongside General Andrew Jackson at Horseshoe Bend, was later assassinated for his fealty to the Americans.
Red Eagle had fallen under the spell of Shawnee Chief Tecumseh’s call for pan-Indian resistance to the American advance. Although only one-quarter Indian, Red Eagle had risen to prominence as a leader of the Upper Creek Red Stick faction—named for their war clubs with red-painted handles—after Tecumseh’s 1811 recruiting tour to the Choctaws, Cherokees and Creeks. The great Shawnee won over many Creeks to his visionary cause. American agents had long pressured the Creeks to abandon their ancestral habits and adopt agriculture as a new way of life. Such a shift would free up their hunting lands for the government to sell to new settlers (land sales were critical to the funding of the nascent republic). A new federal road linking Washington and New Orleans soon pushed through the heart of Creek country, and thousands of settlers followed it southwestward. That further increased tensions between the Upper and Lower Creeks, in turn attracting impulsive young warriors to Tecumseh’s bold plan for an Indian confederacy. In May 1812 a party of Red Sticks under Little Warrior murdered settlers on Tennessee’s Duck River, and in February 1813 Little Warrior again led Red Sticks on a murder raid, slaughtering settlers along the Ohio River. To appease the Americans, the Creek National Council had McIntosh track down and execute Little Warrior and several of his men. When the Upper Creeks retaliated by killing some of McIntosh’s men, the die was cast. The Red Sticks then began a calculated campaign of assassination against chiefs allied with the Americans. Thus began the Creek War.
‘The truth is, my dander was up,’ Crockett later reflected, ‘and nothing but war would bring it right again’
Tennessee militia Maj. Gen. Andrew Jackson, particularly outraged by the May 1812 Duck River killings, immediately wrote Tennessee Governor Willie Blount, insisting the Creeks “must be punished, and our frontier protected, and I have no doubt but they are urged on by British agents and tools, the sooner they can be attacked, the less will be their resistance.” He requested 2,500 volunteers and permission to advance “and lay their towns in ashes.” Blount initially refused Jackson. But when the United States declared war on Great Britain the following month, the governor relented. Militia Maj. Gen. Jackson became U.S. Volunteers Maj. Gen. Jackson and began to recruit his army. The grim news from Fort Mims proved a great boost to recruitment.
When news of the Upper Creek massacre at the fort reached the Tennessee settlements, young Davy Crockett was among the first men on the recruiting lines. Crockett enlisted at Winchester on Sept. 24, 1813, as a 90-day volunteer in Captain Francis Jones’ company of Tennessee Volunteer Mounted Riflemen. He left wife Polly and their young children at his small farm 10 miles south of Winchester. She begged him not to go, but he was determined. “My countrymen had been murdered, and I knew that the next thing would be, that the Indians would be scalping the women and children all about there, if we didn’t put a stop to it,” he recalled in his memoir. “The truth is, my dander was up, and nothing but war would bring it right again.”
Jones’ company marched to a rendezvous point just south of newly settled Huntsville, where they joined with other mounted militia companies as part of Colonel John Coffee’s cavalry division, more than 1,000 strong. General Jackson was not yet with them, for he had been terribly wounded in a September 4 Nashville brawl with brothers Jesse and Tom Benton, in which Coffee had come to his defense. Jackson lay near death for several days, his left arm rendered useless by Jesse Benton’s pistol shot (he would carry the ball in his shoulder for 20 years before finally having it removed by surgeons in Washington when he was president), and he remained bedridden for weeks. Not until month’s end would he head south to join Coffee’s advance guard.
While waiting, Coffee decided to send a scouting party under Major John Gibson across the Tennessee River, and the colonel asked Captain Jones for the best woodsman in his company. Jones selected Crockett. Crockett brought young George Russell with him, and the party soon set off for Upper Creek country. The major split the group, sending Crockett and five others scouting south to the Coosa, where they discovered large numbers of Red Sticks moving north. Crockett and his men rode all night to inform Coffee. To the frontiersman’s chagrin his report made little impact on the colonel.
“When I made my report, it wasn’t believed, because I was no officer; I was no great man, but just a poor soldier,” he recalled. “But when the same thing was reported by Major Gibson! Why, then, it was all as true as preaching, and the colonel believed it every word.…It convinced me, clearly, of one of the hateful ways of the world.”
Coffee sent a message by express rider to Jackson at Fayetteville, Tenn., to hurry south with his infantry, and the general reached Coffee on October 24 at Camp Deposit on the Tennessee River. Jackson soon learned of an Upper Creek force at nearby Tallushatchee and promptly ordered out Coffee with 900 men to attack them. Before dawn on November 3 Coffee’s men surrounded the Creek village. A number of women and children came forward to surrender, but as they were being helped to the rear by soldiers, several warriors suddenly opened fire. The volunteers returned a devastating fire on the Indians. “We now shot them like dogs,” recalled Crockett with dismay of a battle that soon devolved into a massacre.
After nearly 50 warriors took shelter in a wooden house, the volunteers—no doubt with Fort Mims in mind—set it ablaze and burned the Creeks alive. The next day, as soldiers sifted through the ashes in that same charred house, they discovered a potato cellar. Crockett and the other famished men soon crawled down into it. “We found a fine chance of potatoes in it, and hunger compelled us to eat them, though I had a little rather not,” Crockett wrote, “for the oil of the Indians we had burned up on the day before had run down on them, and they looked like they had been stewed with fat meat.”
The carnage Crockett saw and inflicted as a Tennessee Volunteer Mounted Rifleman prompted him to leave the service, though he rejoined after Andrew Jackson’s victory at Horseshoe Bend. (Library of Congress)
The grim moment, related in searing detail in Crockett’s 1834 autobiography, left him feeling, in both a real and metaphorical sense, that the pioneers were drawing sustenance from the Indian dead—cannibalizing them to build a new nation. (In May 1830 Congressman Crockett would rise on the floor of the U.S. House on Representatives to denounce President Andrew Jackson’s notorious Indian Removal Bill, a position that helped doom Crockett’s political career.)
Within days word reached Jackson that Red Stick warriors were besieging the Lower Creeks at Talladega, and Crockett soon rode south with Coffee’s command to rescue their Indian allies. At least 1,000 Red Sticks encircled the Talladega stockade. They were in turn surrounded by Jackson’s 1,200 infantry and 800 mounted riflemen. In the bloody battle that followed on November 9 the soldiers killed more than 300 Red Sticks before the rest managed to break through the militia lines and flee. Jackson, with but 15 dead, might have pursued and crushed the Upper Creeks had he not run out of supplies. With his troops facing starvation and talk of mutiny spreading among both the militia and volunteers, Jackson had no choice but to retrace his steps to Camp Deposit. He ordered Coffee’s mounted volunteers back to Tennessee to refit and get fresh horses, while he remained to face down his increasingly insubordinate militiamen. Crockett happily returned to Polly and his children and, along with all the other volunteers, refused to return when recalled by Coffee, as they had less than two weeks left to serve. Paid $65.59, he was discharged on Christmas Eve.
Jackson lived up to his hard-nosed nickname “Old Hickory” in those trying days of December 1813 and January 1814 as he dealt with a total breakdown of logistical support, mutinous troops and the absence of promised reinforcements from Blount. He overcame every obstacle through dogged determination and was finally rewarded on January 14 when 850 recruits reached him at Fort Strother. Without hesitation the flinty general immediately marched the green soldiers into Creek country, where he seasoned his troops and bled the enemy in two indecisive battles, at Emuckfau and Enotachopco creeks. The Americans, with nearly 100 casualties (including Coffee seriously wounded and Jackson’s nephew Alexander Donelson killed), retreated back to Fort Strother. At that dark moment in Jackson’s fortunes came a sudden turnaround. On February 6 the 39th U.S. Infantry under Colonel John Williams reached the fort. Among the ranks of that regiment of Regulars was young Ensign Sam Houston—future founding president of the Republic of Texas. Soon joining the growing force were more Tennessee volunteers sent south by Governor Blount, as well as 500 Cherokees under Chief Major Ridge and 100 Creeks under McIntosh. With his ranks swelled to more than 5,000 men, Jackson felt confident enough to advance against the main Red Stick village at Tohopeka, on the Horseshoe Bend of the Tallapoosa River.
Commanding the Upper Creeks at Tohopeka was Menawa (Great Warrior), supported by Red Eagle and several other chiefs and prophets (spiritual leaders). More than 300 of their cabins dotted the peninsula enclosed by the bend in the river. A nearly 400-yard-long dirt and log barricade spanned the gap on the land side of the village, while the river protected its flanks. Here the Creeks had gathered more than 1,000 warriors and some 400 women and children. They felt confident their breastworks and the river would protect them from their enemy.
The decisive March 27, 1814, Battle of Horseshoe Bend ended the Creek war. (Border Fights and Fighters, 1913, by Cyrus Townsend Brady/University of California Libraries)
Jackson approached Horseshoe Bend on the morning of March 27 and promptly opened fire on the stout log barricade with his artillery battery (a 6-pounder and a 3-pounder), but the small cannons had little impact. Meanwhile, he sent Coffee and his 700 horsemen, along with the 600 allied Indians, to cross the Tallapoosa below the bend and surround the peninsula to prevent any escape. On hearing the opening artillery barrage, several of the allied Indians swam across the river on their own initiative to seize the Red Sticks’ canoes. After paddling back to the far bank, they began to ferry men across to attack the village from the rear while Coffee’s men provided covering fire. Within minutes 300 Indians had crossed and were engaged in sharp fighting with the defenders. They set the Creek cabins on fire, and under this smokescreen more of Coffee’s men crossed to join the fray.
Jackson, hearing the gunfire and seeing the plumes of smoke, ordered the long roll sounded and sent his 2,000 infantrymen forward at 12:30 p.m. The Regulars took the lead, supported by the militia. They were met by a brisk fire from the barricade. Major Lemuel Montgomery of the 39th was the first to mount the barricade, only to be shot dead. He was followed by Ensign Sam Houston, who, despite taking a barbed arrow to his thigh, dropped into the fort and cut down several Creeks with his saber. As other soldiers poured over the barricade, the young ensign reluctantly retired to seek a surgeon. Jackson rode up as Houston was being treated. Inquiring into the ensign’s condition, Jackson ordered Houston not to return to the fray. The exchange marked the beginning of a warm friendship that would forever alter the destiny of the American West.
The Red Sticks, though outnumbered and outgunned, disdained surrender and fought tenaciously. Twice Jackson offered quarter, only to be met by musket fire. Limping back into battle, Houston led a charge on a Creek redoubt and was wounded twice more. “Not a warrior,” he recalled, “offered to surrender, even while the sword was at his breast.” A severely wounded Menawa hid beneath a pile of dead warriors until he could slip into the river and escape. He was among the few to survive, for the soldiers and their Indian allies slew upward of 800 Creek warriors at Tohopeka before darkness stopped the killing. Most all of the Indian families were taken captive, Jackson deeply regretting the deaths of a handful of women and children. Of the 350 captives, however, only three were warriors. Jackson’s losses totaled 26 killed and 107 wounded among his Regulars and militia, 18 killed and 36 wounded among Ridge’s Cherokees, and five killed and 11 wounded among McIntosh’s Creeks.
‘He possessed in a most preeminent degree,’ Jackson later wrote of Red Eagle, ‘the elements of true greatness and for reckless personal courage was the Marshal Ney of the Southern Indians’
The decisive victory at Horseshoe Bend had ended the Creek War, at the same time denying the British the Indian allies they needed to assist in a planned invasion. But Jackson was not satisfied. He wanted Red Eagle, and after the battle his scouts combed the forest for the Red Stick leader. Captured Upper Creeks were offered bounties to betray their leader to the Americans, and Jackson made it clear there could be no peace until Red Eagle was killed or captured. What Jackson didn’t know is that two days before the battle his prey had left Tohopeka for Hoithlewalee to gather more warriors.
On December 18 a solitary Indian rode into the American camp near the confluence of the Coosa and Tallapoosa. He was not molested as he guided his gray stallion toward Jackson’s tent, for despite his Creek garb he had long red hair and sunburned skin and was thought to be a scout. As Red Eagle reined in his horse before Jackson’s large tent, Creeks allied with the Americans finally did recognize him. When Jackson emerged from his tent, Red Eagle gave an eloquent speech, offering up his life if only Jackson would spare the starving Red Stick families. Moved, Jackson shouted down the mob that had gathered to lynch the prisoner. “Any man who would kill as brave a man as this would rob the dead!” the general declared.
When Red Eagle, aka William Weatherford, surrendered to Andrew Jackson, the general recognized a kindred spirit and sheltered him. (Sarin Images/Granger)
Recognizing a kindred spirit, Jackson invited the captive warrior into his tent. “He possessed,” the general later wrote “in a most preeminent degree the elements of true greatness and for reckless personal courage was the Marshal Ney of the Southern Indians.” Thomas Woodward, who witnessed the surrender, later wrote, “General Jackson, as if by intuition, seemed to know that Weatherford was no savage and much more than an ordinary man by nature and treated him very kindly indeed.” Red Eagle agreed to bring in as many of his warriors and their families as possible, as well as to secure the release of white and black American captives. When Jackson returned to his Tennessee estate, he brought along Red Eagle, to protect the Red Stick leader from retribution.
The return of the heroes from Horseshoe Bend encouraged Crockett to rejoin the volunteers. With the Creeks defeated, word was the Tennesseans would travel to the Gulf Coast to take on the British. “I wanted a small taste of British fighting,” Crockett recalled. On September 28 he enlisted in Major William Russell’s Tennessee Mounted Gunmen and was promptly promoted to sergeant. Russell’s command of 130 men hurried south from Fayetteville to join General Jackson’s force, then advancing on Pensacola. Jackson, who’d been rewarded with a commission as a major general in the Regular Army and placed in command of the 7th Military District, was charged with halting any British attack on the Gulf Coast. By the time Russell’s men arrived on November 8, Jackson had taken Pensacola, and Crockett and the newly arrived troops had only the solace of witnessing the departure of British ships from the harbor. Crockett’s company was then sent into the Florida swamps in search of recalcitrant Red Sticks and their Seminole allies. Though they saw some fighting, their greater adversaries were swamp fever and meager rations. Crockett’s hunting skills were certainly much in demand. He returned home to Polly and his children in February, hiring a young friend to serve out the remaining month of his enlistment. “This closed my career as a warrior,” he later wrote, “and I am glad of it, for I like life now a heap better than I did then.”
When the War of 1812 ended in a blaze of glory with Jackson’s stunning victory at New Orleans on Jan. 8, 1815, Red Eagle returned to Alabama to rebuild his fortunes. As William Weatherford, he became a prosperous American planter, with hundreds of acres under cultivation by some 200 slaves. His children married into some of the best Alabama families. Weatherford died in 1824, just as his friend Jackson launched his presidential campaign, and was buried to the west of Little River under a stone marker erected by admiring Anglo neighbors. By then Crockett was in the Tennessee General Assembly. In 1827 he won election to the U.S. House of Representatives as a Jackson supporter, though during his three terms in Congress he came to oppose the president on several issues, the most contentious being the question of Indian removal. His experiences in the Creek War haunted him, prompting his strong objection to the Indian Removal Bill. That in turn led to his 1835 electoral defeat, his departure for Texas, the Alamo and immortality. MH
Paul Andrew Hutton is a distinguished professor of history at the University of New Mexico. His most recent book is The Apache Wars (2016), and he is writing The Undiscovered Country, a history of westward expansion featuring Davy Crockett and Red Eagle, among others. For further reading Hutton recommends A Paradise of Blood: The Creek War of 1813–14, by Howard T. Weir III, and Battle for the Southern Frontier: The Creek War and the War of 1812, by Mike Bunn and Clay Williams.
This story was published in the October 2016 issue of Wild West. For more stories, subscribe here.
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ccf4696b8d8f1ea6e025aa4d674e09fd | https://www.historynet.com/crossroads-no-remorse.htm | From the Crossroads: No Remorse | From the Crossroads: No Remorse
An ‘earnest’ rebel from Alabama helped save Antietam and Gettysburg for future generations
The soldiers of Maj. Gen. John B. Hood’s Division waited in the West Woods on September 17, 1862. Union shrapnel, shell, and solid shot rained down upon the woods, at times sending tree limbs crashing down upon the soldiers below. Captain William McKendree Robbins, acting major of the 4th Alabama, was standing beside a friend talking when a shell or shell fragment struck the young man—the “noble and handsome” Lieutenant David B. King—in the head, spattering Robbins with blood and brains and hurling a piece of King’s skull into the ranks of the 11th Mississippi. No human can witness such an event and not be traumatized, yet Robbins had no time to dwell on the horror. Minutes later, a “to arms” order was sounded and Hood’s Division poured out of the woods to launch a devastating counterattack.
The 4th proceeded double-quick up the Smoketown Road in column as the rest of the division deployed in the fields to their left. “The bullets began to zip about us, very lively,” recalled Robbins, who was disturbed that Captain Lawrence H. Scruggs, the acting lieutenant colonel and regimental commander, had not deployed the 4th Alabama. The problem soon resolved itself when a bullet struck Scruggs in the foot and command fell to Robbins. He deployed the regiment at once. As it advanced toward the East Woods, elements of the 21st Georgia of Colonel James A. Walker’s Brigade joined on its right.
Under the pressure of Hood’s counterattack, the Federal troops firing on Robbins and his regiment fell back and the Alabamians and Georgians pushed up into the East Woods. Robbins halted his advance about midway in the woods and had his men take advantage of the abundant cover. They were soon joined by the 5th Texas, which moved to the right of the line. All told, about 500 Confederates now occupied the woods.
Hood’s counterattack roared up to the northern edge of the Miller cornfield, where Union resistance inflicted devastating casualties and drove it back. But Robbins and his small force held on, repulsing all efforts to dislodge them. Because of their cover, Robbins’ losses were not heavy, but one of his casualties was personally devastating. His younger brother, Madison, serving as an enlisted man, was shot through the throat and killed.
Needing men and ammunition, Robbins sent back repeatedly for both. Colonel Evander M. Law, Robbins’ brigade commander, encouraged the captain to “hold your position, Hill is moving to your support,” meaning troops of Maj. Gen. D.H. Hill’s Division. As for ammunition, Robbins remembered, “somehow we in the wood were overlooked & no supply came,” so his men scrounged from the dead and wounded. Garland’s Brigade, of Hill’s Division, commanded by Colonel Duncan K. McRae, soon entered the woods behind Robbins. About this time, a new Union advance approached the woods from the north. After a brief resistance, McRae’s Brigade fled to the rear. Without ammunition, his numbers dwindling, and the enemy threatening to envelop his right flank, Robbins had no choice but to retreat.
Basking Robbins: In 1891, Robbins struck up a friendship with former East Woods foe John Gould of the 10th Maine. (Alabama Department of Archives)
It was a perilous withdrawal. The enemy fire was so heavy that Robbins concluded he could not survive. Determined not to be shot in the back, he kept his face toward the Federals while his men were “dropping all about me.” When he arrived at the edge of the woods unscathed, he recalled, “Thinks I to myself I believe I shall escape after all,” and he made “a little better time” to the West Woods. His small mixed command had held the East Woods for more than 90 minutes, yet no ranking officer on the Confederate side seemed to understand what he had done. He received no acknowledgment in either Law’s or Hood’s after-action reports. Robbins was sick after the battle—a common occurrence for those exposed to severe trauma and great stress—and did not write a report, which may account for his lack of recognition.
Robbins served through the rest of the war, fighting at Little Round Top at Gettysburg and suffering a severe wound in the Wilderness in May 1864. But he returned to duty and surrendered with his regiment at Appomattox. Although he served in an Alabama regiment, Robbins was a North Carolinian. He had moved to Alabama with his wife in 1855 to open a female college, but soon made a career change from education to the law. His wife died three years later, leaving Robbins a widower with two young children. He left his Selma law practice, volunteering immediately when war came.
After the war, he returned to North Carolina. He had married his wife’s sister during the conflict and they settled in Salisbury, where Robbins resumed a legal career. In 1868 and 1870, he was elected to North Carolina’s Senate, then served 1872-1876 as a Democrat in the U.S. House of Representatives. Robbins was a staunch conservative who opposed Reconstruction, including African-American suffrage, and supported prohibition. While he took great pride in his service as a soldier, he did not cling to the cause of the Confederacy or lament its defeat. “There was not a more sincere or thoroughly earnest ‘rebel,’ I suppose, in the Southern armies,” he wrote in 1891, “but it’s all over and nobody is sorry for that.” He now embraced our “great common country which will soon be the center and acknowledged greatest of the powers of the world.”
In 1891, 10th Maine Infantry veteran John Gould, who was attempting to track down what regiment he had fought in the East Woods and which Rebel unit mortally wounded Maj. Gen. Joseph Mansfield, contacted Robbins. Gould’s inquiry opened memories Robbins had locked away for years. They flowed out in an 18-page letter to the New Englander. He teasingly admonished Gould “for having tempted me to ‘fight’ my battle again which I have never done before.” Through their correspondence, it became clear to Robbins that Gould’s regiment might have been the one responsible for killing his brother. Yet instead of being angry, Robbins warmly embraced Gould as a friend, signing his many letters, “With best wishes, Your friend.”
Four years later, in 1895, President Grover Cleveland selected Robbins to serve on the park commission for the newly created Gettysburg National Military Park. Thirty-two years after trying to fight his way up Little Round Top, Robbins would return to Gettysburg, this time to help develop a park for all Americans. In our next Crossroads we will take up what he did there in the final years of his life.
Scott Hartwig writes from the crossroads of Gettysburg.
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4a208ef85877fff1ea2ac197830fc858 | https://www.historynet.com/crossroads-white-lies.htm | From the Crossroads: White Lies | From the Crossroads: White Lies
Already a Confederate hero, John B. Gordon still couldn’t resist tweaking the record a little
“My rifles flamed and roared in the Federals’ faces like a blinding blaze of lightning accompanied by the quick and deadly thunderbolt. The effect was appalling. The entire front line, with few exceptions, went down in the consuming blast. The gallant commander and his horse fell in a heap near where I stood—the horse dead, the rider unhurt. Before his rear lines could recover from the…shock, my exultant men were on their feet, devouring them with successive volleys. Even then these stubborn blue lines retreated in fairly good order. My front had been cleared; Lee’s centre had been saved; and yet not a drop of blood had been lost by my men.”
That’s how John Brown Gordon, colonel of the 6th Alabama Infantry, described in his widely read Reminiscences of the Civil War the initial Union advance against the Sunken Road (a.k.a. “Bloody Lane”) at Antietam. The account by Gordon, who was wounded five times in the Sunken Road, is wonderfully descriptive and quotable, and has largely been accepted without pause as an accurate description of the dreadful fighting that day. A modern reviewer of Gordon’s book effused that his “first hand description of the battle…causes the reader to hear the cannons and smell the smoke.” No one can question Gordon’s skill with a pen or his courage and ability to manage troops in battle.
Considerable attention has been paid to Gordon’s description of his interaction with wounded Union Brig. Gen. Francis C. Barlow at Gettysburg on July 1, 1863, and how he shaped the story to make himself the central figure and claim credit for things others had done. The Gordon–Barlow incident is part-truth and part-myth. Gordon’s “Sunken Road” account has eluded the same level of scrutiny. How does it stand up to the evidence of the battle now available?
On page 84 of Reminiscences, he describes the initial approach of the Union attackers:
The men in blue filed down the opposite slope, crossed the little stream [Antietam], and formed in my front, an assaulting column four lines deep. The front line came to a “charge bayonets,” the other lines to a “right shoulder shift.” The brave Union commander, superbly mounted, placed himself in front, while his band in rear cheered them with martial music. It was a thrilling spectacle.
The Natural: Gordon had no prewar combat experience but rose in the ranks quickly, named a general in November 1862. (Library of Congress)
It is possible today to stand about the exact spot where Gordon awaited the Union attack. Several things are evident immediately. There is no way he could have seen the Federal soldiers, of William French’s 3rd Division, 2nd Corps, filing down the east bank and crossing Antietam Creek. To read they “formed in my front,” one imagines they were close and in full view of Gordon’s position. But French’s men formed for their advance in the East Woods, more than a mile north of this position, and unless Gordon climbed up the hill in the right front of his regiment, he couldn’t have seen them. At that distance he also could not have observed the front rank come to “charge bayonets.” For one, no soldier in French’s leading brigade mentions coming to “charge bayonets.” No band was playing, and it could not have been heard anyway over the roar of artillery fire. There also were numerous mounted Union officers, not just one. Finally, we need to ask how it was possible for Gordon to know at over a mile the enemy were new recruits or “fresh troops from Washington.” It is likely he learned these acts after the war.
Those unfamiliar with the battle’s details might imagine the only thing standing between the utter defeat of Lee’s army and its survival was Gordon and his regiment. “Every act and movement of the Union commander in my front clearly indicated his purpose to discard bullets and depend upon bayonets,” he wrote; “…It was my business to prevent this; and how to do it with my single line was the tremendous problem which had to be solved and solved quickly; for the column was coming.” Neither Robert Rodes, Gordon’s brigade commander, nor any other unit are ever mentioned. It was Rodes’ business, not Gordon’s, to assure the Federals did not break through his line. The only way we know any other Confederates were involved in the defense is when Gordon mentions talking to “the chivalric Colonel Tew, of North Carolina” as Tew is shot in the brain by the first Union volley. This was Charles C. Tew, colonel of the 2nd North Carolina, of Brig. Gen. George B. Anderson’s Brigade, which fought beside Rodes’ men in the Sunken Road.
Tew, however, was mortally wounded well into the combat, after being notified he was now in command of the brigade, with Anderson wounded. When asked to acknowledge receipt of the message, Tew bowed and tipped his hat, but was struck in the head as he did.
Even Gordon’s own description of his fifth wound omits a key detail. He writes that a bullet struck him squarely in the face, knocking him unconscious, and that he fell forward, face in his cap, and would have been “smothered by the blood running into my cap” had not a bullet hole in it allowed the blood to drain. A litter team bore him to the rear and he did not awake until later that night. A contemporary account by a 6th Alabama soldier revealed, however, that after his fifth wound Gordon “found…the strength to crawl 100 yards to the rear,” where he was discovered covered with blood, and then assisted from the field.
It seems unlikely Gordon simply forgot all this. More likely is that a tale of him falling among his men would seem more heroic than the truth. Whenever Gordon chose to exaggerate, bend, ignore, or invent incidents, he almost always did so deliberately either to advance his political agenda—he was a post–Civil War U.S. senator (1873-80) and later governor of Georgia (1886-90)—or to elevate himself to a central role in the drama. There is value in his Antietam account, but it should always be used with care and caution.
Scott Hartwig writes from the crossroads of Gettysburg.
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1be14970a7e5f887f46d4eddc3ed5ea3 | https://www.historynet.com/crushed-horns-hattin.htm | Crushed on the Horns of Hattin | Crushed on the Horns of Hattin
In 1187 Saladin’s Muslim armies drove the Latin Crusaders from the Middle East.
On July 4, 1187, the Crusader army in the Latin East, led by Guy of Lusignan, king of Jerusalem, ceased to exist. Saladin’s Muslim armies slaughtered them in the brutal Battle of Hattin, fought near the present-day city of Tiberias, Israel. The bloody collapse of the Second Crusade, with the failure to take Damascus, had already forecast that the Crusaders would not expand their holdings in the Middle East. Their crushing defeat at Hattin ensured they would not even hold on to what they’d won in the First Crusade. Within months of the battle, the Muslims, under their brilliant leader, Saladin, had retaken almost every Crusader city and stronghold, including Jerusalem.
The strategic position of the Crusader states, including Edessa, Tripoli and Jerusalem, had always been precarious. Continually involved in expensive wars, they never became self-sustaining, depending instead on a constant flow of funds from Byzantium and the West. By 1187 this flow had slowed to a trickle, as European kings increasingly centralized their power and retained their revenues for domestic use. Byzantine support, which waxed and waned according to political circumstances, had also reached a low point.
Lacking sufficient cash, Crusader leaders were unable to hire enough mercenaries to follow up on battlefield victories for strategic effect. Furthermore, despite periodic spasms of crusading zeal, barely enough fighting men were arriving from the West to make up for Crusader losses. By the middle of the 12th century many knights found it easier to join the Reconquista in Spain or slaughter Slavs in the Teutonic Drang nach Osten than to make the long, perilous journey to the Latin East.
By the time Saladin invaded the Kingdom of Jerusalem in 1187, this manpower deficit presented Crusader leaders with a stark choice: They could either place an army in the field or man their strongholds, but they could not do both. If the knights remained behind their walls until the Muslim army faded away at the end of the campaign season, they would likely see their fields wrecked, further reducing their resources for the following year. However, if the leaders fielded a large army and lost, their weakened strongholds would surely fall in rapid succession. They could lose everything. Typically, the Crusaders kept a minimal number of men in their strongholds and shadowed the larger Muslim armies, avoiding the kind of major battle that could lead to annihilation. When circumstances compelled them to fight, their ferocity often brought the Crusaders victory—but not always. Heavy losses since the end of the Second Crusade in 1149 had greatly reduced their options.
These strategic challenges were magnified by other setbacks in the 20 years leading up to the Battle of Hattin. First, the great Saracen leader Nur ad-Din had stripped away the County of Edessa from the Crusaders and then taken Damascus, which had often supported the Crusader cause against its fellow Muslims. Moreover, Nur ad-Din had continually mauled the Army of Antioch, which had never fully recovered from the annihilation of the kingdom’s northern forces on the Field of Blood in 1119. A final major blow came when Amalric, soon after his 1162 coronation in Jerusalem, reversed two generations of Crusader strategic policy, which had called for the army of Jerusalem to march north whenever Antioch was threatened. Instead, he turned his attention to the south and led three invasions of Egypt.
Recent historians have argued that given the situation and resources available, Amalric made an appropriate decision. Conquering Egypt would secure his southern flank and put almost unlimited financial resources at his disposal. As the ruling Fatimid Caliphate was weak and fractured at the time, Egypt must have seemed like easy pickings. However, Amalric’s invasion to the south allowed Nur ad-Din to secure his position in Syria and gave him an excuse to send his own forces into Egypt, first under his Kurdish general Shirkuh and later under Shirkuh’s nephew, Saladin.
Despite initial payments of tribute by the Fatimid caliph, Amalric never realized his anticipated financial windfall. Instead, his three invasions bankrupted the Kingdom of Jerusalem and cost it dearly in irreplaceable knights. Even worse was the damage done to the Crusaders’ overall strategic position: After Nur ad-Din’s death in 1174, Saladin declared himself sultan of Egypt and marched on Damascus. Although it took him more than a decade to secure all of Nur ad-Din’s holdings, Saladin was able to unify a massive area with substantial war resources and completely encircle the Crusader states.
The Kingdom of Jerusalem was thrown into political turmoil following the death of King Amalric in 1174. The throne passed first to his teenage son, Baldwin IV, a leper, and then to Baldwin’s 7-year-old nephew, Baldwin V. Baldwin IV’s infirmity and the youth of both kings led to more than a dozen years of political strife, as various factions contended for the position of regent. When Baldwin V died in 1186 at age 8, these factions coalesced around two main rivals for the throne: Guy of Lusignan, who was married to Sibylla (sister of Baldwin IV and mother of Baldwin V), and Raymond III of Tripoli, Amalric’s first cousin.
Sibylla had the support of both Knights Templar Grand Master Gerard of Ridefort, who hated Raymond because of an earlier perceived slight to his honor, and Raynald of Châtillon, one of Jerusalem’s most powerful nobles. Raynald saw Guy as weak, vain and indecisive and thus much easier to manipulate than Raymond. However, most of the nobles would support Sibylla only if she put aside her marriage to Guy. They despised him because several years before, as regent under Baldwin IV, Guy had refused battle with Saladin in almost the same location and circumstances he would later face at Hattin. Although Saladin’s army had subsequently broken up without consequences for the Crusaders, Guy’s contemporaries considered him a coward and were wary of his deficiencies as a military leader.
After consenting to divorce Guy on the condition she could choose her new husband, Sibylla double-crossed the stunned nobles at her coronation, calling Guy forward to rule the Kingdom of Jerusalem. An enraged Raymond then attempted a coup. When it failed, he returned to his own dominion in Tripoli and made a separate peace with Saladin—a move that would have repercussions for the kingdom.
Earlier, while serving as regent, Raymond had negotiated a truce between the Crusaders and the Muslims (one of many such truces during the Crusades), which unintentionally gave Saladin time to consolidate his control of Syria— and unfortunately lulled the Crusaders into feeling so secure that they devoted their time to internal squabbles. With that truce due to end in April 1187, Guy sent two of his most trusted advisers, Templar Grand Master Gerard and Hospitaller Grand Master Roger des Moulins, to Tripoli to try to bring Raymond back into the Christian fold. But in a demonstration of just how wide the rift had grown between the Crusader factions, Raymond—perhaps hoping to enlist Saladin’s help in overthrowing Guy— allowed al-Afdal, Saladin’s eldest son, to lead a 7,000-man Muslim army intent on pillaging Guy’s lands through his territory in Galilee. It was an act of outright treachery. When Gerard learned of the presence of al-Afdal’s army, he assembled some 150 knights and rashly attacked the Muslims at the Springs of Cresson, near Nazareth. The knights charged to their doom against al-Afdal’s considerably larger force. Only three knights, including a wounded Gerard, survived. The heads of most other knights ended up atop the Muslims’ spears. As with most medieval battles, it can be assumed the Crusader force also lost a few hundred infantrymen, who were not socially important enough to merit mention in the chronicles. More significant, the kingdom had lost some 10 percent of its knights in a minor engagement. They would be sorely missed at Hattin.
After the slaughter at Cresson, even Raymond’s strongest supporters denounced his traitorous actions and forced him to seek peace with the king. Guy, knowing that Saladin’s army was already forming for a renewed assault on the kingdom, could not afford to let this internecine quarrel continue and welcomed Raymond with open arms. Their political truce would enable the Crusaders to present a united front against the coming Muslim invasion, but it was an uneasy peace.
While the Crusaders worked out their differences, Saladin assembled an army of at least 30,000 men for an assault on the Latin states. He used Raynald’s 1186 attack on a caravan traveling between Damascus and Cairo as a pretext for not renewing the truce with the Crusaders. Although others, such as Nur ad-Din, had tried to raise Muhammad’s idea of jihad (Arabic for “struggle”), the notion of a holy war against the Crusaders had never taken root in the greater Muslim world. Saladin’s army was the first that considered its cause a holy war, and the Crusaders themselves—Raynald in particular—were responsible for provoking this new mindset. During an earlier round of hostilities in 1182, Raynald had led an expedition down the Red Sea coast with the announced objective of sacking Medina and Mecca. Although Muslim forces thwarted this assault, Raynald’s actions enraged the Muslim world and rallied them to raise the banner of jihad. Saladin was so angered by the threat to the holy cities that he vowed to kill Raynald with his own hands.
Guy realized the upcoming battle with Saladin would decide the fate of the Latin states, so he mustered the full strength of the kingdom. Castles and cities were stripped of all but skeleton troops as the army assembled at Sephoria. By the end of June, Guy had amassed approximately 1,200 knights and 18,000 to 20,000 other troops of widely varying quality. Moreover, he had ordered the True Cross—reportedly fashioned from remnants of the cross on which Jesus was crucified—be brought along to inspire the Crusaders.
Toward the end of June, Saladin tried to lure the Crusaders away from their water supply at Sephoria, southeast of Acre, and into an open battle with his superior forces. Failing to do this, he launched an assault on the city of Tiberias, where Raymond’s wife, Eschiva, and sons had taken shelter. Unsure how to proceed, Guy called for a meeting with his leading nobles on July 2. Despite his family’s plight, Raymond strongly advocated that Tiberias be abandoned and that Guy simply bide his time until the Muslim army of irregulars dispersed at the onset of the dry season. Guy agreed, although his use of the same tactic at the same location four years earlier had resulted in his being branded a coward by the other knights and hounded from the regency.
Later that night, however, Raynald and Gerard reminded Guy of Raymond’s recent treachery and pointed out that aggressive action had served the Crusaders well in the past. During their conversation a message arrived from Raymond’s wife, urgently requesting rescue. Although Raymond still advocated leaving Tiberias to its fate, the rest of the knights took up a call to go forth and “save the Lady of Tiberias.” That apparently strengthened Guy’s resolve, and he immediately issued marching orders.
Guy organized his column into three groups: The king himself would command the center, with Raymond in the van and Balian of Ibelin and the Templars in the rear. On July 3, the Crusaders set out from Sephoria toward a small spring at Turan, about a third of the distance to Tiberias. Saladin immediately broke off the siege and led his forces to confront the advancing Crusaders. Inexplicably, the Crusader host marched past Turan without stopping to water either horses or men, although there was no other water source on their direct route across the treeless hills and plains to Tiberias, on the shore of Lake Tiberias (now known as the Sea of Galilee). In a letter written after the battle, Saladin dispassionately described this oversight as “contrary to their best interest.” From the moment of that decision, the Crusader army was doomed.
Scorched by the brutal sun, the armored Crusaders inched toward Tiberias. Saladin’s skirmishers massed in front of and on the flanks of Guy’s army, and Crusader casualties began to mount. The Muslim horse archers kept up a continual harassing fire while looking for any weaknesses that would allow their heavy cavalry to split the Crusader column. In keeping with tactical tradition, Saladin directed his main force against the Crusaders’ rear. He also sent the wings of his army around the Crusader column to occupy Turan and set themselves astride the Crusaders’ escape route. By 9 a.m., with the temperature rising, the Crusaders were surrounded and effectively cut off from any water.
For long hours, Guy pushed his compact formations up toward Maskana, on the hills overlooking Lake Tiberias, but incessant Muslim attacks began to string out the column. In the early afternoon, messengers from Balian and the Templars told the king the rear guard was in danger of being overwhelmed. Again uncertain of what to do, Guy sent a message forward to Raymond, seeking advice. Back came counsel that he should halt the column and pitch tents in order to mass his forces for a big push toward Tiberias in the morning. After ignoring Raymond’s earlier sensible advice to stay at Sephoria and await Muslim developments, Guy then accepted Raymond’s spectacularly bad advice to halt and make camp on the waterless plain near the village of Maskana.
On the western end of a plateau overlooking Tiberias and the freshwater lake, the exhausted and thirsty Crusaders drew together and made camp for the night. Morale was low, and many of the infantry had already deserted or ceased fighting, while all around them swarmed exultant Muslims. Under cover of darkness, Saladin had his camel caravans bring up plentiful water and tens of thousands of arrows for the next morning’s battle. He also had his men stack brush upwind of the Crusader camp. In the morning they lit this great mass of tinder, enshrouding the demoralized Crusaders in choking clouds of smoke.
At dawn, from behind the blinding haze, the Muslims closed in on the Crusaders, firing arrows by the thousands as they advanced. According to a Muslim chronicler:
The Muslim archers sent up clouds of arrows like thick swarms of locusts, killing many of the Frankish horses. The Franks, surrounding themselves with their infantry, tried to fight their way to Tiberias in the hope of reaching water, but Saladin realized their objective and forestalled them by planting himself and his army in the way.
Once more at a loss, Guy sought advice from Raynald and Gerard, who both advocated a breakout attempt by the mounted knights—apparently intending to leave the surviving infantry to its fate. Guy ordered his brother, Aimery, constable of the kingdom, to assemble enough knights for a concerted charge, to be led by Raymond.
As the Muslims pressed forward, Guy ordered the charge. Over the preceding century, the furor of a Frankish charge had turned the tide of many a desperate battle. However, this time Saladin was prepared, his men well drilled to cope with such an attack. As Raymond’s mailed fist of armored knights thundered forward, the Muslim line opened and let it pass straight through. What happened after that is clouded by many conflicting accounts: The force was either swarmed upon as it paused to regroup or Raymond, seeing that all was lost, simply led them away to safety. Regardless, Raymond and his sons escaped the Muslim encirclement, and for many this was proof of his treachery. The fact that he died within months of the battle was seen as evidence of God’s justice.
Guy’s position was now even more desperate. Under a storm of arrows and incessant attacks his army managed to inch its way toward the ragged rim of an extinct volcano known as the Horns of Hattin. There the knights sheltered amid Iron Age walled ruins, erected the royal red tent and, presumably, placed the True Cross within it. But they remained surrounded, without food or water, and were apparently too exhausted to break through Saladin’s army. As a Muslim chronicler relates:
No matter how hard they fought, they were repulsed; no matter how often they rallied, each time they were encircled. Not even an ant crawled out from among them, nor could they defend themselves against the onslaught. They retreated to Mount Hattin to escape the storm of destruction; but on Hattin itself they found themselves encompassed by fatal thunderbolts. Arrowheads transfixed them; the peaks laid them low; bows pinned them down; fate tore at them; calamity chewed them up; and disaster tainted them.
Balian managed to lead one desperate charge clear of the encirclement. But the rest of the army was trapped.
Despite their dismal predicament, the Crusaders maintained discipline and continued fighting. At some point Guy spotted Saladin on the battlefield and gathered a force of mounted knights to assault his position and try to turn the Crusaders’ fortunes by killing the Muslim leader. Twice they charged. Both attacks failed, although for the Muslims they came perilously close to success. Muslim chronicler Ibn al-Athir recorded an eyewitness account from Saladin’s son, al-Afdal:
The Frankish king had retreated to the hill with his band, and from there he led a furious charge against the Muslims facing him, forcing them back upon my father. I saw that he was alarmed and distraught, and that he tugged at his beard as he went forward crying, “Away with the devils!” The Muslims turned to counterattack and drove the Franks back up the hill.… But they returned to the charge with undiminished ardor and again drove the Muslims back upon my father. His response was the same as before, and the Muslims again counterattacked.… I cried, “We have beaten them!” My father turned to me and said: “Be quiet. We will not have beaten them until that tent falls.”
No sooner had these words escaped Saladin’s lips then the Muslims swept over the hill, collapsed the tent, captured the True Cross and began rounding up prisoners, most of whom lay about on the ground, too exhausted to resist further.
Immediately after the battle, Saladin had Guy and Raynald brought to him. He offered Guy some water, which the beaten king drank greedily. When Guy offered the cup to Raynald, the latter refused. Saladin angrily exclaimed, “Drink, for you will never drink again.” Raynald calmly answered that if it pleased God, he would never drink anything offered by Saladin. He then told Saladin that if the battle had gone the other way, he would have beheaded the sultan. Enraged, Saladin called Raynald a pig, ran him through with a sword and had him beheaded. The head was later sent to Damascus and dragged through the streets.
Saladin also had the captured Templar and Hospitaller knights beheaded after they refused to convert to Islam. Thousands of others were sold into slavery, aside from those nobles worth ransoming. Guy was held prisoner in Damascus. Saladin released him the following year, and in 1189 Guy laid siege to Acre, sparking the Third Crusade.
After the battle, Saladin wasted no time in exploiting his victory. Within two weeks he had captured nearly all of the Crusader ports. Only Tyre resisted, due to the timely arrival of Conrad of Montferrat. Most of the castles and cities in the interior also fell, with the exception of the great fortresses at Kerak, Belvior, Sphet and Belfort. In September, Saladin encircled and laid siege to Jerusalem. The city, commanded by Balian of Ibelin since his successful breakout from Hattin, surrendered on October 2.
The Kingdom of Jerusalem had largely ceased to exist, and tales of the defeat struck the Western world like a thunderbolt, galvanizing it for yet another great crusade. In 1189 Richard the Lionheart, Philip Augustus and Frederick Barbarossa began moving toward the East, vowing to recapture Jerusalem.
For further reading, James Lacey recommends: God’s War: A New History of the Crusades, by Christopher Tyerman, and Arab Historians of the Crusades, by Francesco Gabrieli.
Originally published in the April 2008 issue of Military History. To subscribe, click here.
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565301fe86d3c26ef7e98e9217c1435d | https://www.historynet.com/curtin-called-the-elite-forces-of-the-pennsylvania-reserves.htm | Curtin Called: The Elite Forces of the Pennsylvania Reserves | Curtin Called: The Elite Forces of the Pennsylvania Reserves
During four years of carnage on hundreds of Civil War battlefields, a handful of units earned reputations as elite, battle-hardened forces. Soldiers in these units prided themselves on their regiment, brigade, or division’s reputation and laurels, often earned at considerable sacrifice. The Iron Brigade, the Stonewall Brigade, and Cleburne’s Division, for instance, garnered respect during the war and continue to retain popular appeal and reverence. Yet few units stand as distinguished as the Pennsylvania Reserves in the Army of the Potomac.
Above, the soldier’s cap bears numerals and letters that indicate he was in Company G of the 1st Pennsylvania Reserves. (HNA)
Through grinding campaigns, high casualty rates, and army reorganizations, the Pennsylvania Reserves served and fought as a division consisting exclusively of Pennsylvania regiments. Far from a reserve or militia unit, as commonly misperceived, the Pennsylvania Reserves saw combat in nearly every significant campaign in the war’s Eastern Theater between December 1861 and May 1864.
In the wake of Fort Sumter, tens of thousands of men throughout the North enthusiastically responded to Abraham Lincoln’s call for volunteers, and Pennsylvania offered the War Department 25 regiments of approximately 25,000 volunteers. Meanwhile, concerned with the state’s vulnerability to a possible Confederate invasion, Governor Andrew Curtin, a Republican governor elected in 1860, called the state legislature into special session. On May 15, 1861, the legislature authorized the creation of the Reserve Volunteer Corps of the Commonwealth. Funded by state money, the Pennsylvania Reserves would be used in “suppressing insurrections, or to repel invasions” and could be mustered into federal service, “if necessary.”
Curtin first offered the command of the Pennsylvania Reserves to George McClellan. Although McClellan, a Philadelphian, had expressed interest in the command, he had just accepted command of the Ohio militia. Curtin then turned to 59-year-old George McCall. A Philadelphian, West Point graduate, and Mexican War veteran, McCall accepted Curtin’s offer at the rank of major general. In early June, volunteers began organizing at four camps throughout the commonwealth and, as new regiments, converged upon Tennallytown, in northwestern Washington, D.C.
Organized into one division of three brigades, the Pennsylvania Reserves consisted of 13 infantry regiments, one artillery regiment, and one cavalry regiment. Brigadier General John Reynolds commanded the 1st Brigade, Brig. Gen. George Meade arrived at Camp Tennally in mid-September to take command of the 2nd brigade, and two months later Brig. Gen. Edward O.C. Ord arrived to assume command of the 3rd brigade.
Although initially refusing Pennsylvania’s additional regiments, in large part due to a personal disdain for Governor Curtin, Secretary of War Simon Cameron authorized the inclusion of the Reserves into the Army of the Potomac on September 16, 1861. Thus, two months after taking their loyalty oath to the commonwealth, the Reserves were mustered into Federal service for three years. In 1864, this conflicting muster-in date proved contentious for the men of the Pennsylvania Reserves as the expiration of their three-year terms neared.
All of these officers led the Pennsylvania Reserves Division at some point, and some served multiple terms at the helm of the hard-fighting regiments.
At Camp Tennally, the new recruits endeavored to transition from citizen to soldier. Military reviews offered a welcome break from relentless military drill and gave the rank and file opportunities to catch glimpses of their commanding generals. McClellan garnered enthusiastic cheers, leading one volunteer to declare, “I think we have the right man in the right place.” Other Pennsylvanians shared this optimism. Writing home to his mother, and articulating a naïve expression only possessed by new volunteers, Thomas Dick, a private in the 12th Pennsylvania predicted, “The opinion appears to be here that the war will be ended in the course of six months and then if spared I will return to my quiet home once more.”
For the Pennsylvania Reserves, the pinnacle of their first year came on December 20, 1861, at the Battle of Dranesville. A small village crossroads where the Georgetown Pike and Leesburg Pike converged, Dranesville figured prominently in the operations of both Union and Confederate forces in the war’s early months. Encountering approximately 1,800 Confederates commanded by Brig. Gen. J.E.B. Stuart, Ord’s 3rd Brigade, in its baptism of fire, routed the enemy. Not only had the Pennsylvania Reserves recorded their first battlefield victory, but they had also claimed the Army of the Potomac’s initial triumph. “This is the first victory of any account in this part of Virginia,” boasted Adam Bright of the 9th Pennsylvania in a letter to his uncle, “and it was won by the Pennsylvania boys.”
In the spring of 1862, McClellan’s Peninsula Campaign galvanized the nation as the Army of the Potomac moved “on to Richmond” seeking to capture the Confederate capital. After being relegated to the defenses of Washington, in mid-June McCall’s division joined the army’s 5th corps, commanded by Maj. Gen. Fitz John Porter. Between June 25 and July 1, McCall’s division endured relentless fighting east of Richmond in the Seven Days Battles. Much of the heaviest fighting during that week fell to Porter’s corps and the Pennsylvania Reserves found themselves on the front lines at Mechanicsville, Gaines’ Mill, Glendale, and Malvern Hill. McCall’s division arrived on the Peninsula with approximately 9,500 soldiers and sustained 3,067 casualties, a devastating 32 percent.
Staff officers who served under Brig. Gen. Samuel W. Crawford during his command of the Reserves. (Library of Congress)
In addition to the losses in the rank and file, the fight along the Peninsula decimated the division’s officer cadre. At Gaines’ Mill, Reynolds inadvertently found himself isolated from his brigade, and the following morning was captured by a Confederate patrol. Reynolds remained a prisoner until mid-August 1862 when he was exchanged for Lloyd Tilghman, the Confederate general who surrendered Fort Henry. At Glendale, the division’s third battle in five days, while rallying his infantry, Meade suffered two wounds and spent the remainder of the campaign recovering at his home in Philadelphia. The division’s commander, McCall, was captured in the fight and imprisoned at Libby Prison in Richmond until he was exchanged in August 1862 for Simon Buckner, the Confederate general who surrendered Fort Donelson. McCall returned home to recover, and citing failing health, resigned his commission.
With no time to reorganize, the Pennsylvania Reserves prepared for the 1862 fall campaigns. The Reserves, now commanded by John Reynolds, joined Maj. Gen. John Pope’s Army of Virginia, then positioned at Warrenton, Va., on August 23. Reynolds’ division suffered over 600 casualties in the fight at Second Manassas. Pope praised the Reserves for their conduct during the campaign, noting that Reynolds deserved the “highest commendation” and Truman Seymour and Meade, brigade commanders, “performed their duties with ability and gallantry.”
Following his success at Second Manassas, General Robert E. Lee maneuvered the Army of Northern Virginia into Maryland and, by September 7, had concentrated near Frederick. Meanwhile, elements of Pope’s army were folded into McClellan’s Army of the Potomac, then concentrated near Washington. Now part of General Joseph Hooker’s 1st Corps, the Pennsylvania Reserves departed Washington on September 7 and began marching toward Maryland. Worried that the Confederate push into Maryland threatened his state’s security, Governor Curtin recalled Reynolds to command the state’s militia. Meade assumed command of the division.
A color bearer of the 8th Reserves holds the tattered national flag of his regiment. (National Archives)
As McClellan’s forces maneuvered toward Frederick, on September 14 the Pennsylvania Reserves reached Turner’s Gap, one of the three passes in the South Mountain range. Here, Meade directed an offensive against Maj. Gen. D.H. Hill’s Confederates, over unforgivingly steep, jagged terrain, facing “severe fire across rocks, stonewalls.” Meade later described this as the “most rugged country I almost ever saw.” Still, the Pennsylvanians secured Turner’s Gap, losing 399 men.
On the morning of September 16, Meade’s division approached the small town of Sharpsburg, near Antietam Creek, with, according to the general, no more than 3,000 effectives. Their arrival into the East Woods precipitated a sharp firefight with Confederate skirmishers. At dawn the following morning, with the bulk of their force repositioned in the North Woods, Hooker’s men opened the Battle of Antietam by assailing the Confederate left flank. The fight in the Miller Cornfield quickly evolved into a vortex of death with the Reserves, once again, in the thick of a desperate struggle. When Hooker fell wounded in the fray, Meade assumed command of the corps, and with its units shattered and disorganized, ordered a withdraw. Bloodshed and carnage on the fields at Antietam was unparalleled. Casualties for the Pennsylvania Reserves totaled 573, or 20 percent.
The Pennsylvania Reserves had started the war with a full complement of 15 regiments, or approximately 15,000 men. By the end of the Maryland Campaign, their ranks amounted to little over 2,000. Writing home to his uncle in western Pennsylvania, Adam Bright of the 9th Pennsylvania lamented, “We have lost a good many of our men since I last wrote you.” On September 30, Curtin appealed to Lincoln, requesting that regiments in the Reserves be allowed to return to Pennsylvania, recruit, and then return to the field at full strength. The request was denied; all units were needed on the field. Accordingly, the Reserves experienced another reorganization. With the threat to Pennsylvania eliminated, Reynolds returned to the army, assuming command of the 1st Corps, and Meade again leading the division.
During the Battle of Fredericksburg, December 11-15, 1862, the assault of the Pennsylvania Reserves proved the single bright spot in the otherwise dismal Union outcome. On the morning of December 13, Meade’s division, with now approximately 4,500 infantry, assaulted the Confederate line at Prospect Hill, a position held by Lt. Gen. Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. Crossing over boggy terrain, Meade’s men directed their assault toward a gap in Jackson’s line. Although the Reserves broke the enemy line, without reinforcements the initially promising assault sputtered as Jackson restored his position. Meade’s men withdrew back over the ground they had just crossed. Furious with a lack of support for his assault, Meade grumbled to Reynolds, “My God, did they think my division could whip Lee’s whole army?”
First Lieutenant Andrew Eagleson was leading his men at Antietam when a bullet tore through his forage cap. Eagleson kept the artifact of his brush with death, marking the bullet’s path with a stick. (Ken Turner Collection)
Once again, the Pennsylvania Reserves had proven themselves as a veteran combat unit. But battlefield heroism invariably came at considerable human cost. Their losses in the fight at Fredericksburg totaled 1,853, roughly 41 percent of their strength. Some within the ranks of the Pennsylvania Reserves interpreted their fight along Prospect Hill at Fredericksburg as frustrating, if not futile. One soldier lamented the lack of reinforcements allocated to Meade’s division, declaring, “Had we been supported we could have taken the heights but our division is too small now to fight the whole rebel army.”
Two years of combat had visibly taken its toll on the Reserves. “You can see that the Pennsylvania Reserves best days are over,” one soldier surmised. Following the Battle of Fredericksburg, Meade received command of the army’s 5th Corps and issued his farewell order to the Reserves promising, “the commanding general will never cease to remember that he belonged to the Reserve Corps.”
Before leaving for his new corps command, Meade advocated that the Reserves return to Pennsylvania for recruitment. He recorded their strength at 195 officers and 4,249 enlisted, but noted that “a very large proportion” of the enlisted strength were wounded and unlikely to return to active duty. In any case, owing to the volume of similar requests from numerous units throughout the army, the War Department again denied the request to return the division to Pennsylvania.
Relief from the front lines ultimately came in February 1863 when the Pennsylvania Reserves were ordered to Washington, D.C. Men greeted the order with much enthusiasm. For the next four months, soldiers maintained the defenses around the capital. By some accounts, however, duty around Washington proved more exacting and tiring than expected. “We have been shamefully treated,” opined one soldier. Despite the harsh winter weather that year, soldiers eagerly took leaves of absences to return home and morale within the ranks slowly improved.
While the Army of the Potomac battled Lee’s forces at Chancellorsville in early May 1863, the Pennsylvanians remained assigned to the defenses of Washington. As Lee extracted his army from Fredericksburg and began moving north, on June 3 the Reserves received a new commander, Maj. Gen. Samuel Crawford. With the 2nd brigade remaining near Washington, the 1st and 3rd brigades joined Meade’s 5th Corps on June 28, the same day that Meade received command of the Army of the Potomac.
At Gettysburg, and fighting now on their native soil, the Pennsylvania Reserves earned further distinction through their deeds on the afternoon of July 2. Texans and Alabamians from Lt. Gen. James Longstreet’s First Corps assailed the Federal left flank and a desperate fight for control of Little Round Top ensued. As soldiers from the 5th Corps rushed to secure the army’s left flank, and with bullets whizzing overhead, Crawford led the headlong charge of Colonel William McCandless’ brigade down the northern slope of Little Round Top, scattering the advancing Georgians and South Carolinians under William Wofford’s and Joseph Kershaw’s command. Amid loud cheers, the Pennsylvanians “charged at a run down the slope driving the enemy back.”
Crawford’s countercharge swept the enemy from their front, through the marshy Plum Run, and back into the Wheatfield. That evening, McCandless’ regiments held their position along a stone wall at the eastern border of the Wheatfield. The following day, after the Union repulse of Pickett’s Charge, the Pennsylvania Reserves advanced across the Wheatfield, assailing the 15th Georgia, and cleared the enemy from Rose Woods. Totaling no more than 3,000 effectives, Crawford’s two brigades counted 210 casualties during the Gettysburg Campaign. Once again, in two days of action at Gettysburg, the Pennsylvania Reserves had proven steadfast.
After the Gettysburg Campaign came to a close, Meade’s army maneuvered against Lee’s forces in Virginia into the fall of 1863. That winter, as the expiration of their initial three year terms of service loomed, the War Department incentivized reenlistment for an additional three years, or the duration of the war. Of the approximately 4,300 soldiers now in the ranks of the Pennsylvania Reserves, roughly 1,700 men reenlisted.
Peter Rothermel’s 19th-century painting shows the Reserves charging down the face of Little Round Top at Gettysburg. A 2nd Corps soldier described the attack: “Our regiment continued to fall back...when all at once it was brought to a stand still by a yell so fierce and terrible that the very blood seemed to curdle in our veins, while a sound as if a hurricane was swept toward us. It was the crushing of leaves and twigs made by the Pennsylvania Reserves coming up in mass....” (Courtesy of the State Museum of Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania Historical and Museum Commission)
As the spring campaign season neared, the men from the Pennsylvania Reserves eagerly anticipated their return home, believing that their three-year term of service would be fulfilled in May. The 9th Pennsylvania’s term of service expired on May 4; the regiment reached Pittsburgh and mustered out of service on May 13. For the soldiers in the remaining infantry regiments, now organized into two brigades, the war continued.
Back in Pennsylvania, Governor Curtin had appealed to the War Department to uphold the May termination date, but the administration denied the request. Invariably, unrest mounted among the rank and file. “The impression is now,” one soldier griped, “that we will not be discharged before the middle of July.” The division’s muster-out date loomed and in their final month of service to the Union cause the reserves would witness some of the most desperate fighting they had yet to see. As the Overland Campaign began in early May, the Pennsylvania Reserves saw combat during the fight in the Wilderness. On the morning of May 12, at Spotsylvania, they made a futile charge against the Confederate earthworks at Laurel Hill, “driven back each time with heavy loss.” As the Army of the Potomac continued to grind against Lee’s forces, so too did the Pennsylvania Reserves, fighting at Guinea’s Station, North Anna River, and Bethesda Church.
Finally, on May 31, 1864, Maj. Gen. Gouvernor K. Warren issued orders for the Pennsylvania Reserves to return home. Their service to the Union was complete. In his farewell order, Warren acknowledged the valor of the division, declaring, “great satisfaction at their heroic conduct in this arduous campaign.” In expressing gratitude at their three years of distinguished service, Crawford extolled, “Take back your soiled and war-torn banners, your thinned and shattered ranks, and let them tell how you performed your trust.”
Soldiers of the “thinned and shattered ranks” wearily boarded transports at White House Landing, and began arriving in Harrisburg on June 6. Josiah Sypher, writing the history of the Pennsylvania Reserves, reported that approximately 1,200 officers and men returned to the Commonwealth and were mustered out of federal service. Regiments that had marched off to war in the summer of 1861 with robust ranks returned home as shadows of their former selves, with men indelibly transformed by the carnage of war. The 11th Pennsylvania, for instance, mustered out a mere 211 men. Yet the war did not come to an end for all soldiers in the Pennsylvania Reserves. Indeed, the soldiers who reenlisted in December 1863 were reorganized into the 190th and 191st Pennsylvania and participated in the war’s final campaigns.
Over four grueling years, the Pennsylvania Reserves played a prominent role in the campaigns of the Army of the Potomac. Soldiers of the Pennsylvania Reserves recorded one of the most distinguished combat records of any division in the Civil War’s armies. This division produced some of the finest generals in the Union Army, John F. Reynolds, Edward O.C. Ord, and George G. Meade. From Dranesville through the Overland Campaign, these men were often in the thickest of the fight, suffering consistently high casualty rates in their service to the Union. “The memory of the dead will be more sacred, and the names of the living more honorable,” extolled the division’s historian, “because they are enrolled as Pennsylvania Reserves.” Indeed, the Pennsylvania Reserves deserve a prominent place on the mantel of legendary Civil War units.
Jennifer M. Murray is a military historian at Oklahoma State University. Murray’s most recent publication is On A Great Battlefield: The Making, Management, and Memory of Gettysburg National Military Park, 1933-2013, published by the University of Tennessee Press in 2014. She is currently working on a full-length biography of George Gordon Meade, tentatively titled Meade at War.
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550383001721ea3193615fa031770c12 | https://www.historynet.com/curtiss-p-40-warhawk-one-of-ww-iis-most-famous-fighters.htm | Curtiss P-40 Warhawk: One of WW II’s Most Famous Fighters | Curtiss P-40 Warhawk: One of WW II’s Most Famous Fighters
If the Curtiss P-40 Warhawk was not the best fighter in the arsenal of the U.S. Army Air Corps (USAAC) when the United States entered the conflict, it was the most numerous type available. The Lockheed P-38 Lightning could outperform the P-40, especially at high altitude, but the P-40 was less expensive, easier to build and maintain, and — most important — it was in large-scale production at a critical period in the nation’s history when fighter planes were needed in large numbers.
A total of 11,998 P-40s were built before production was finally terminated in 1944. Warhawks constituted the principal armament of the U.S. Army Air Forces (USAAF) fighter squadrons throughout 1942 and 1943. Even after the appearance of newer types of fighter aircraft in the USAAF rendered the P-40 obsolete, it continued to contribute to victory in a variety of Allied air forces.
The P-40 was the product of a long development process that began when the USAAC invited various aircraft companies to submit designs for its 1935 fighter competition. Curtiss and Boeing had dominated the U.S. Army and Navy fighter plane business since the end of World War I. In 1933, however, Boeing had beaten Curtiss in competition for a lucrative Army fighter contract with its innovative P-26 Peashooter. The P-26 was a monoplane of all-aluminum, stressed skin construction. Ralph Damon, the head of Curtiss, was determined that his company’s next fighter should have the benefits of the latest design and construction technology. In 1934, he hired Donovan R. Berlin as Curtiss’ new chief engineer. Berlin had previously worked at Douglas and Northrop, two firms that had been at the cutting edge of aircraft design.
The four rival designs for the 1935 fighter competition, from Curtiss-Wright, Seversky, Vought and Consolidated, were the first really modern fighters to be evaluated by the Army. All four were low-wing monoplanes of all-metal, stressed-skin construction with retractable landing gear and enclosed cockpits.
Curtiss designated its entry the Model 75. Since all Curtiss fighter aircraft had been called ‘Hawks’ since the mid-1920s, the new fighter became known as the ‘Hawk 75.’ Powered by a 900-hp Wright air-cooled radial engine, the Hawk 75 was first flown in May 1935 and demonstrated good maneuverability and flying characteristics. Initially, however, the USAAC rejected the Hawk 75 in favor of the Seversky P-35. It subsequently reversed that decision, however, and in 1937 it ordered 210 of the Curtiss fighters — the Air Corps’ largest order of a single type of fighter aircraft since the end of World War I. Fitted with a more powerful Pratt and Whitney R-1830 Twin-Wasp radial engine, the new fighter was designated the P-36A.
The French air force purchased more than 700 Curtiss Hawk 75 fighters prior to the start of the war in Europe. (National Archives)
Significant as the USAAC order was, it was small compared to the total number of Hawk 75s sold overseas. Curtiss had been selling large numbers of Hawk biplane fighters to various nations in Europe, Asia and Latin America since the 1920s. With war clouds gathering throughout the world in the late 1930s, Curtiss had little difficulty finding foreign buyers for its new monoplane.
By far the largest customer for the Curtiss fighters was France. At the time of the 1938 Munich crisis, the French aircraft industry was having difficulty meeting its air force’s demands for modern fighters. The French government decided that the most expedient solution to the problem was to order 730 Hawk 75s from Curtiss, in the neutral United States. H-75As, as the French called them, were the most numerous fighters in the Armée de l’Air’s inventory when WWII began, and they shot down more German planes than any other French fighter aircraft. The Hawk 75s that had not yet been delivered to France before the country surrendered to Germany in June 1940 were transferred to Britain’s Royal Air Force (RAF), which called them Mohawks.
Some of the French H-75As were seized by the Germans after France’s collapse and sold to the Finns for use against the Soviet Union. Others, still in French hands, were transferred to North Africa, where they continued to operate under the control of the Vichy French government. On at least one occasion, during the Allied landings in Morocco in November 1942, Vichy French H-75As tangled unsuccessfully with U.S. Navy Grumman F4F Wildcats.
Since the end of World War I, domination of the world’s aviation engines had been alternating between liquid-cooled in-line engines and air-cooled radial engines. The liquid-cooled engines were generally more powerful, but they were also heavier, more complex and vulnerable to damage if the coolant leaked out. The radial engines were lighter and more compact, but their larger frontal area created aerodynamic drag. As it happened, the Hawk 75 was developed at a time when the liquid-cooled V-12 engine was just beginning to come back into vogue, both in Europe and the United States. The principal reason was the introduction of high-temperature cooling utilizing Glycol rather than water, a development that made it possible to reduce weight and drag by decreasing the size of the cooling radiator by as much as 75 percent.
In February 1937, while the USAAC was still evaluating the P-36 for production, it contracted with Curtiss to re-engineer the fighter to test the potential of a highly promising new liquid-cooled V-12 engine, the turbosupercharged General Motors Allison V-1710. To save money, the factory rebuilt the original Hawk 75 prototype to create the new prototype. First flown in 1937, the XP-37, as the new fighter was called, was not an unqualified success. Although its 1,150-hp Allison engine and aerodynamic lines gave it far better performance than the P-36, it had a number of serious drawbacks as a combat plane. The General Electric turbosupercharger boosted the engine’s critical operating altitude — i.e., the altitude at which the supercharger would operate at peak efficiency — to 20,000 feet, but it proved unreliable and likely to catch fire. In addition, the cockpit had to be moved aft to balance the heavy engine and its bulky turbosupercharger, which reduced pilot visibility.
Despite the promising performance of the turbosupercharged Allison engine, the problems encountered with the XP-37 were rapidly reducing the likelihood that the airplane ever would be placed in production. Therefore, Don Berlin decided to take a different approach to a P-36 derivative equipped with an Allison engine. On March 3, 1938, Curtiss submitted a proposal to the Air Corps to modify a P-36 airframe to accept an Allison engine fitted with a mechanically driven supercharger. The modifications to the airframe were less extreme than those required for the XP-37, as they did not require moving the cockpit aft. The engine also proved to be more reliable than the turbosupercharged Allison used in the XP-37, although its critical operating altitude was reduced to 10,000 feet, with performance falling off at higher altitudes up to its service ceiling of 32,750 feet. At Curtiss the new fighter design was known as the Model 81, but the Air Corps called it the XP-40.
The prototype XP-40 flew for the first time on October. 14, 1938. (National Archives)
The prototype XP-40 was first flown on October 14, 1938, only two weeks after the settlement of the Munich crisis bought the world a one-year reprieve from war. It was modified from the 10th production P-36A airframe. The XP-40’s sharply pointed nose was longer than that of the P-36, though not so long as that of the XP-37. Since the cockpit was not displaced aft, the pilot’s view was better than in the XP-37. The radiator, which had been buried in the fuselage between the engine and cockpit of the XP-37, was now installed under the fuselage, aft of the wings.
Although Curtiss had guaranteed that the XP-40 would achieve 360 mph, the prototype was not immediately able to do so. After a series of modifications that took several more months, however, the fighter demonstrated a top speed of 366 mph at 15,000 feet. The most conspicuous change was the relocation of the radiator to a new position under the nose, giving the P-40 its most characteristic feature.
The XP-40 won the Army’s 1939 fighter competition against the Lockheed XP-38 Lightning, Bell XP-39 Airacobra, Republic AP-4, and Curtiss’ own XP-37 and Hawk 75R, the latter a turbosupercharged version of the radial-engine P-36. The XP-38 outperformed the XP-40, especially at high altitudes, and was more heavily armed, but the XP-40 had the advantage of being based on an existing fighter design that was already on the production line. That meant that Curtiss could put the P-40 into production with a minimum of delay, and at the highly competitive price of $24,566.60 apiece. On April 26, 1939, Curtiss was awarded a contract for 524 P-40s — once again, the largest order for fighter planes placed by the Army since 1918.
The P-40 prototype was armed with one .50- and one .30-caliber machine gun — the standard USAAC fighter armament during the 1930s — but the production model was armed with two .50-caliber machine guns. In keeping with President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s policy of making the latest American military hardware available to the Allies, 140 of the original batch of P-40s were diverted to France. They were armed with one .50-caliber machine gun in the fuselage and four 7.5mm guns in the wings. None of those P-40s were delivered by the time France capitulated, however. Instead, the export P-40s were delivered to the RAF and became known as Tomahawk Mk.Is.
The British were grateful for all the combat aircraft they could get in 1940, but they did not regard the Tomahawk Mk.I as suitable for combat. Many of the Tomahawk Mk.Is still had metric instruments and other French equipment that were not compatible with RAF service, and their French throttle control levers worked in reverse of the way British or American ones did. More important, they lacked self-sealing fuel tanks and had neither armor nor bulletproof windscreens to protect their pilots. Consequently, the Tomahawk Mk.Is were relegated to tactical reconnaissance duties.
As a result of European combat experience, Curtiss installed armor in the P-40 and increased its armament, adding a .30-caliber machine gun in each wing. The improved fighters were called P-40Bs by the Americans and Tomahawk Mk.IIs by the British. The next model, known as the P-40C, also had self-sealing fuel tanks and yet another .30-caliber machine gun in each wing. The USAAC ordered a total of 324 P-40Bs and P-40Cs during 1941. At the same time, the British ordered 930 P-40Cs. Those with British radio equipment were called Tomahawk Mk.IIas, while the ones delivered to the RAF with American radios were designated Tomahawk Mk.IIbs.
First flown in April 1941, the P-40C was considered the first truly combat-ready version of the P-40 line. A price had been paid for the necessary improvements, however. The aircraft’s gross weight had increased from 7,215 to 8,058 pounds, an increase of 843 pounds or approximately 11 percent, with no increase in engine power. The P-40C’s rate of climb suffered, it was less maneuverable, and its maximum speed fell to 340 mph. By comparison, the Messerschmitt Me-109E used by the Luftwaffe in 1941 weighed only 6,100 pounds and had a top speed of 360 mph. Air Chief Marshal Sir Kenneth Cross, who served in the RAF’s Desert Air Force, recalled that ‘the Tomahawk was beautifully built, but…short on performance compared to the (Messerschmitt) 109F and G.’
By the end of 1941 the USAAC had deployed P-40s overseas. Thirty were flown to Iceland from the aircraft carrier Wasp, and 99 of them were stationed in Hawaii. In addition, four squadrons of P-40s were deployed in the Philippines. It was with the British that the Tomahawk Mk.IIs first saw action, however, flying reconnaissance sorties and fighter sweeps across the English Channel with the RAF and Royal Canadian Air Force (RCAF) in 1941. By May 1941 Tomahawks were also operating in the Middle East, eventually serving in that theater with Australian and South African fighter squadrons as well as the RAF. In addition, the British sent 195 Tomahawks to the Soviet Union after the Germans invaded that country on June 22, 1941.
The Soviets welcomed the heavily armed P-40. Senior Lieutenant N.F. Kuznetsov is congratulated after his 27th victory, his "Lend-Lease" P-40K in the background. (National Archives)
The first serious use of the P-40 as a fighter occurred when Iraqi forces led by Rashid Ali El-Ghailani rose against the British in Iraq on May 2, 1941. When the Germans and Italians sent aircraft to assist the revolt, staging from Vichy French bases in Lebanon and Syria, the British sent three Bristol Blenheims to bomb the air base at Palmyra on May 14, escorted by two Tomahawks of No. 250 Squadron, RAF, flown by Flying Officers G.A. Wolsey and F.J.S. Aldridge. The Iraqi revolt was crushed by May 30, but the British decided that Vichy France’s violation of neutrality justified the invasion and occupation of Lebanon and Syria. Tomahawks of No. 3 Squadron, Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF), took part in the first attack on June 8, helping to destroy a Dewoitine D.520 fighter and damage three others at Rayak airfield. Elsewhere on that same day, two of No. 250 Squadron’s Tomahawks drew first blood for the P-40 in the air when they shot down an Italian Cant Z.1007bis reconnaissance plane five miles northwest of Alexandria, Egypt. The Vichy French put up a spirited fight before finally signing an armistice on July 14, but the Tomahawks of No. 3 Squadron RAAF also acquitted themselves well, holding their own against France’s top-of-the-line D.520s and shooting down two out of eight German Junkers Ju-88As of II Gruppe, Lehrgeschwader 1, operating from Crete, that tried to interfere with British landings on the Levantine coast on June 12.
During the summer of 1941, No. 112 Squadron RAF, which had lost all its Gloster Gladiators in Greece the previous spring, was re-equipped with Tomahawks. Its pilots took one look at their sleek new mounts and decided that the P-40’s cowling would make an ideal place to paint the squadron badge, a black cat. The results, however, looked more fishlike than feline, and soon a variety of shark mouths were being applied to the Tomahawks and, later, to the deeper-jowled Kittyhawks. For some reason, British authorities did not discourage No. 112 Squadron’s flamboyant liveries. The P-40 shark mouth would soon be adopted in other units and other air forces.
David B. Brown, who flew Kittyhawks in No. 112 in 1942 and later Supermarine Spitfires, recalled: ‘The Kittyhawk, while offering a more roomy and comfortable cockpit than the Spitfire, with a bonus of improved visibility, was more sluggish on controls and inferior in performance when compared with the Spitfire V. Furthermore, even though we could cope with moderate aerobatics and mock dogfights, there was still a feeling of ‘touchiness’ about the P-40 so that you wanted plenty of altitude before you could relax….’
Me-109F aces such as Hans-Joachim Marseille took a grisly toll of P-40s, but some of the more talented Commonwealth pilots rang up their own fair tallies of Axis planes while flying the Curtiss fighters. Australian ace of aces Clive R. Caldwell, flying Tomahawks in No. 250 Squadron and later Kittyhawks as commander of No. 112 Squadron, was credited with 18 German and Italian aircraft, plus two to four shared, six probables and 15 damaged over the Western Desert, later adding seven Japanese planes to his score while flying Spitfires over the South Pacific.
American P-40s first saw action at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. Of the 99 P-40Bs stationed in Hawaii that day, only seven managed to get airborne during the attack. They shot down five Japanese planes, including four — two Nakajima B5N2 torpedo bombers, a Mitsubishi A6M2 Zero fighter and an Aichi D3A1 dive bomber — by 2nd Lt. George S. Welch of the 47th Squadron, 15th Pursuit Group. By the end of the day, however, only 25 P-40s remained operational. Three had been shot down, and the rest were destroyed on the ground.
In the Philippines, as in Hawaii, attrition was high — 26 P-40s were destroyed on December 8, 1941, mostly because they were caught on the ground. Although initially shocked by the startling performance of the Zero fighters that faced them, the four squadrons of P-40s put up a gallant struggle against the Japanese invaders.
The first USAAC ace of World War II was 1st Lt. Boyd D. Wagner, a P-40E pilot of the 17th Squadron, 24th Pursuit Group, in the Philippines. During a surprise attack on the Japanese army’s 50th Sentai, newly arrived at Aparri airfield on December 12, Wagner was attacked by four Nakajima Ki.27 fighters. He evaded two, then suddenly cut his throttle to make the other two overshoot him and shot down both. After strafing five to seven Japanese planes on the ground, Wagner was attacked by three more Ki.27s but managed to shoot down two of them and then escaped. He was subsequently awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, as was 1st Lt. Russell M. Church, Jr., who was shot down in flames and killed by anti-aircraft fire in the course of the raid. Wagner repeated his performance at Vigan field on December 16, hitting eight enemy planes on the ground and shooting down a Ki.27 that managed to take off, for his fifth victory in as many days. By then, however, there were too few of the Curtiss fighters available to do more than delay the inevitable. Lacking spare parts and replacement aircraft, the Americans were overwhelmed by May 1942.
Thomas L. Hayes, who flew P-40Es with the 35th Pursuit Group, was originally supposed to go to Mindanao, but when his squadron was unable to reach the Philippines it was diverted to Java in mid-January 1942. ‘The water-cooled Allison…moved the center of gravity forward,’ Hayes recalled. ‘The P-40 was much heavier than the P-36, and visibility was somewhat restricted with that extended nose. The P-40 also had more difficult landing characteristics than the P-36 — its greater weight, combined with the narrow landing gear and long nose, gave it a greater tendency to ground loop.’
This P-40E is ready for takeoff from Dobodura, New Guinea, in May 1943. "Poopy II" was flown by five-victory ace 1st Lt. A.T. House, Jr. from the 49th Fighter Group. (National Archives)
‘The most serious deficiency in my training was gunnery,’ he added. ‘The only time I had squeezed the trigger was strafing an oil slick dropped in the Pacific. Tactics were a close second. We were indebted to our veterans, who told us, ‘You’re not going to turn and fight with a Zero — you won’t live to tell about it.’ Tactics were hit and run — if one had the altitude on a Zero, one could dive and get him. But engagements usually began with the Japanese above the P-40s — they threw the first punch.’
Hayes was shot down and wounded by a Zero on February 20, 1942, crash-landing his P-40E in a rubber plantation. After escaping from the Dutch East Indies, he went on to fly P-39s over New Guinea, and North American P-51s over Europe with the 357th Fighter Group, Eighth Air Force, finishing the war with credit for destroying 8 1/2 German aircraft.
By far the most renowned of all Curtiss fighters were the 100 dispatched to China for use by the American Volunteer Group (AVG), or ‘Flying Tigers.’ Usually referred to as P-40s, they were technically Tomahawk Mk.IIbs that had originally been built for the British. The Flying Tigers got the idea for their famous shark mouth marking from magazine photographs of No. 112 Squadron’s colorful Tomahawks. The AVG’s exploits made the shark mouth so famous, however, that P-40 units all over the world began copying it from them.
The AVG never had more than three squadrons of 18 P-40s at any time. Flying their first combat mission on December 20, 1941, the Flying Tigers operated under extremely difficult conditions at the end of the world’s longest supply line — and with the war’s lowest supply priority. Nevertheless, by the time the group disbanded six months later, its pilots had shot down 286 Japanese aircraft. During a period in the war when everybody else in the Far East was being soundly defeated by the Japanese, their achievements were truly phenomenal.
The AVG owed its success to the tactical doctrines developed by its leader, Colonel Claire Lee Chennault. A former USAAC fighter pilot who had carefully observed Japanese aircraft over China, Chennault understood the strengths and weaknesses of both the Japanese and American fighters. Using that knowledge, he established an advance warning system, which involved Chinese observers relaying information to AVG air bases, giving his pilots prior intelligence on what Japanese forces were coming and when they would arrive. He also drilled three fundamental rules into his pilots. First, never ever try to turn with a Japanese fighter in a dogfight, since it could maneuver its way onto a P-40’s tail within two turns; instead, use the P-40’s superior diving speed to escape, then climb and re-engage. Second, Chennault advocated head-on passes, because the Curtiss, with its two .50- and four .30-caliber machine guns, could outgun its Japanese army counterparts, which were still armed with only two 7.7mm weapons. The third rule was to harass the Japanese planes after they retired — since they lacked self-sealing fuel tanks, a few holes in their tanks would probably cause them to run out of fuel before they reached their home bases. These rules were the secrets of the Flying Tigers’ success.
Technically, the AVG personnel were U.S. civilians employed by the Nationalist Chinese government. Because of that, their P-40s were painted with Chinese insignia. Their success, highly publicized in the United States, was actually something of an embarrassment to the USAAC and its successor, the USAAF. The AVG was disbanded when an agreement was reached with the Chinese government to induct the Flying Tigers and their P-40s into the USAAF on July 4, 1942.
Curtiss-Wright was well aware of the P-40C’s shortcomings. In 1940 it developed a replacement fighter, mounting 10 machine guns and powered by an improved version of the Allison engine. Known as the XP-46, the new fighter did not enter production because Maj. Gen. H.H. Arnold, the Army Air Corps chief of staff, insisted that P-40 production should not be interrupted. Instead, Curtiss-Wright developed a new version of the P-40 incorporating the same 1,150-hp Allison V-1710-39 engine intended for the XP-46. The new P-40’s nose was considerably altered because the new engine was shorter and had a higher thrust line, and the radiator air intake was enlarged. The armament was changed to four .50-caliber guns in the wings. First flown in May 1941, the improved fighter was called the P-40D Warhawk by the USAAC and Kittyhawk Mk.I by the British. In April 1941, Curtiss built the first of 2,320 P-40Es, or Kittyhawk Mk.Ias, armed with six .50-caliber wing guns.
In an attempt to improve the P-40’s performance above 15,000 feet, Curtiss installed a Rolls-Royce Merlin engine in a P-40D to produce the XP-40F. The British were concerned that Rolls-Royce might not be able to supply enough Merlin engines for their own and the Americans’ needs, and at the same time, General Arnold was concerned that Allison could not supply sufficient liquid-cooled engines to fulfill the Army Air Corps’ requirements. As a result, on September 13, 1940, the British contracted Packard to build 6,000 Merlins for the RAF and 3,000 for the USAAC. The production P-40F Warhawk, or Kittyhawk Mk.II, became the first American fighter to use the 1,300-hp Packard Merlin and first flew in October 1941. With a top speed of 364 mph, the P-40F was 10 mph faster than the P-40E. The only external difference between the P-40E and F was the absence of the air scoop on top of the P-40F’s cowling, due to the Merlin’s updraft carburetor. A total of 1,311 P-40Fs were built, as well as 700 similar but lighter-weight P-40Ls. When the supply of P-40F and L airframes outstripped the supply of Packard Merlins early in 1943, 600 of them were completed with Allison engines and designated P-40Rs.
Between 1942 and 1943 the P-40Es were superseded by 1,300 improved aircraft with 1,325-hp Allison V-1710-73 engines, called P-40Ks. The P-40M was a similar, but lighter version of the P-40K with a carburetor air bypass grille on the cowling just forward of the exhausts. The aircraft’s tail was also slightly lengthened to improve directional stability. Both models were designated Kittyhawk M.IIIs by the RAF.
In order to further improve the P-40’s performance, Curtiss introduced additional weight-saving measures, including reducing the amount of fuel and eliminating two of the wing-mounted .50-caliber guns. At the same time, the designers improved rear visibility by increasing the glazing behind the cockpit. Called the Kittyhawk Mk.IV by the British, the lightweight P-40N Warhawk was the most-produced P-40 variant. With a top speed of 378 mph, the P-40N also had the best performance of the production-model P-40s. The 5,219th and last P-40N was completed on November 30, 1944. In addition to the USAAF, P-40Ns were used by the Dutch, Australians and New Zealanders in Europe and the South Pacific, and many were supplied to the Soviet Union.
In 1944, Curtiss-Wright made a final attempt to improve the P-40 by installing an enhanced 1,425-hp Allison V-1710-121 engine equipped with a two-stage supercharger in a P-40K. A new-style radiator was also built into the wing center section. The XP-40K was rebuilt three times. In its final form, with a shallow chin air scoop, clipped wings and a bubble canopy, the Curtiss fighter’s appearance was somewhat reminiscent of a P-51D Mustang. The XP-40Q, as the new version was redesignated, was the fastest of the Warhawks, with a top speed of 422 mph at 20,000 feet. Unfortunately, by the time the XP-40Q was built, the more capable P-51D was already available in large numbers. Only three were built, and only one was evaluated — and rejected — by the USAAF.
XP-40Q-2A ready for the 1947 Thompson Trophy Race. With little more than weapons and national insignia removed, the Curtiss seemed a contender. The last of the line, this P-40 would never make it past lap 13. (HistoryNet Archives)
One XP-40Q turned up in Cleveland, Ohio, for the Thompson Trophy Race on September 1, 1947. Flown by Joe Ziegler, the Warhawk was excluded from the race because it qualified 13th, and only 12 planes were supposed to be allowed to compete. Ziegler started the race anyway, but on the 13th lap the XP-40Q’s engine stopped. Ziegler was forced to bail out, breaking one of his legs, and a woman spectator was injured by the jettisoned canopy. Thus ended the career of the ultimate P-40.
The P-40’s performance was always regarded as inferior to its German contemporaries, the Me-109 and Focke Wulf Fw-190, especially at altitudes above 15,000 feet. It could also be outmaneuvered and outclimbed by the Japanese Mitsubishi Zero. The availability of better fighters, such as the P-38 Lightning, P-47 Thunderbolt and P-51 Mustang, rendered the Warhawk obsolete by 1944. Nevertheless, many continued to be used in the South Pacific and China-Burma-India theaters right up until the end of World War II. Some P-40Ns were retained after the war by the Dutch East Indies Air Force and the Nationalist Chinese Air Force. The last known instance of P-40Ns’ being used in action was by the Dutch against Indonesian insurgents in 1948.
The P-40N was not only the last production model of the Warhawk family but also the last production fighter from Curtiss-Wright. Curtiss produced several fighter prototypes in an effort to supersede the P-40, but none were accepted for production due to the availability of more suitable existing models, such as the North American P-51. The last Curtiss fighter was the XP-87 Blackhawk, a postwar four-engine jet night fighter that was rejected by the U.S. Air Force in favor of Northrop’s F-89 Scorpion. The company still had several important military aircraft in production after the P-40 program was terminated, including the C-46 Commando transport, the SB2C Helldiver dive bomber and the SC-1 Navy scout seaplane. However, Curtiss-Wright’s dominance of the American fighter business, which had lasted since the early 1920s, ended with the P-40.
Although the P-40 was not the best fighter plane of its era, it was among the most ubiquitous. Few aircraft have seen combat in as many theaters, under as wide a variety of climactic conditions, or with as many different air arms as the Warhawk. P-40s were in action from the Arctic to the tropics, from the desert to the jungle, and from sea level to the Himalayas. In addition to the U.S. Army Air Forces, Warhawks were used by British, Australian, New Zealand, South African, Canadian, Dutch, Free French, Soviet, Chinese, Egyptian and Turkish fighter units. Whether it was known as the P-40, the Tomahawk, the Kittyhawk or the Warhawk, Curtiss-Wright’s fighter was one of the truly classic combat aircraft of World War II.
This article was written by Robert Guttman and originally published in the November 2000 issue of Aviation History Magazine. For more great articles subscribe to Aviation History Magazine today!
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c5c57ee60eae24cf6bc188bb6b682ce3 | https://www.historynet.com/cwt-book-review-abolitionist-imagination.htm | CWT Book Review: The Abolitionist Imagination | CWT Book Review: The Abolitionist Imagination
The Abolitionist Imagination
Albert Delbanco; Harvard University Press
Abolitionism has been a hot- button issue since the word first entered our cultural lexicon in relation to ending slavery in 19th-century America. Albert Delbanco proposes to interpret the concept in a broad cultural context, as a recurrent American phenomenon where a motivated minority sets out to eradicate a perceived social evil, using any means necessary—even in the face of determined opposition by the majority of the population.
Delbanco defines abolitionism “not only as a historically specific movement but as an ahistorical category of human will and sentiment.” Four scholarly commentaries follow, opposing or supporting all or parts of Delbanco’s concept. John Stauffer eloquently argues that the early abolitionists “sought gradual abolition through peaceful and legal means.” Manisha Sinha criticizes Delbanco for identifying abolitionism “as an extremist trend in American history.” Darryl Pinckney connects his early recognition of black abolitionists to the emerging civil rights’ movement of the 1960s, while Wilfred McClay admires Delbanco’s method of taking abolition and elevating it “to symbolic status, using it as a vehicle for reflecting upon certain enduring characterological features of American political and moral life.”
Delbanco ends his exploration of abolition’s place in America’s past and current views with a question. Does abolitionism “continue to connect past with present and provide inspiration for building a more just future?” It’s an inquiry well worth another volume of learned essays.
Originally published in the October 2012 issue of Civil War Times. To subscribe, click here.
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0dc0f8ab00248b8e055a76e44072fbc7 | https://www.historynet.com/cwt-book-review-emancipating-lincoln.htm | CWT Book Review: Emancipating Lincoln | CWT Book Review: Emancipating Lincoln
Emancipating Lincoln: The Proclamation in Text, Context, and Memory
Harold Holzer; Harvard University Press
There is probably no important document in our nation’s history more little known—even to Civil War students—than the Emancipation Proclamation. Yet much of the proclamation’s importance, it turns out, lies in its back story. Abraham Lincoln, once convinced of both the economic and moral validity of freeing the slaves, agonized over the process, rewriting the proclamation three times.
Many Unionists were rightly concerned that any proclamation which curtailed slavery would, as Postmaster General Montgomery Blair of Maryland warned, “cost the administration the [1862] fall elections.” (Blair was correct.) There was worry, too, about how the border states would react. In Lincoln’s words, “We hope to have God on our side, but we must have Kentucky.” Even when it became obvious that some kind of emancipation was both necessary and likely, Lincoln asked rhetorically, “Would my word free the slaves when I cannot even enforce the Constitution in the rebel states?” There was perhaps no greater irony of Lincoln’s administration than that the impetus for issuing the proclamation was provided by an army commanded by George McClellan, “that old anti-emancipationist,” at Antietam.
Given the proclamation’s significance, it is remarkable that no artist or photographer was on hand to commemorate the event. And considering Lincoln’s gifts as a writer, the language was uninspiring. Yet the proclamation was long on impact, “regarded in its own time with so much trepidation and outright fear that it provoked Wall Street panic, Union troop desertion, bellicose foreign condemnation, vast racial unease, and severe political rebuke from voters at the polls.”
Holzer argues that the lack of fire in Lincoln’s prose was deliberate, as the president did not wish to enflame moderates and that whatever it did not accomplish at the moment was largely irrelevant; once the proclamation was made, slavery was doomed. Perhaps Massachusetts Governor John A. Andrew summed it up best: “a poor document, but a mighty act.”
Originally published in the October 2012 issue of Civil War Times. To subscribe, click here.
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7176852c43a8c2b5b8a77c1ebc531bdd | https://www.historynet.com/cwt-review-bad-blood.htm | CWT Review: Bad Blood | CWT Review: Bad Blood
Bad Blood: The Border War That Triggered the Civil War
a co-production of Wide Awake Films and KCPT Kansas City Public Television, 2007, 90 minutes, $19.95.
Much like Ken Burns’ land- mark PBS documentary The Civil War, Bad Blood uses wonderful music, loads of archival photographs and prints, historical reenactments and professional actors who give voice to people on both sides. Bad Blood is an absorbing film that clearly describes the origins and bloody course of the border war that rocked Kansas, Missouri and the entire nation between 1854 and 1861.
Illinois Senator Stephen Douglas, with ambitions to become president, set off a whirlwind with his 1854 Kansas-Nebraska Act, which voided the 1820 Missouri Compromise and substituted a hazy concept of “popular sovereignty” instead. In other words, the Kansas Territory could become a slave state if its residents voted to make it a slave state, but that also meant the voters could make it a free state.
Douglas’ vision of popular sovereignty was an unmitigated disaster from the beginning, just as his Illinois opponent Abraham Lincoln had predicted. The Kansas-Nebraska Act effectively turned Kansas into a bloody battleground between proslavery and Free-Soil forces.
Once the 1854 legislation passed, thousands of abolitionists and FreeSoilers emigrated into Kansas from New England and proslavery men from Missouri began crossing into Kansas.
The film shows how election fraud was blatant and widespread. For instance, in the 1854 Congressional election, which proslavery advocates won overwhelmingly, one precinct of 20 residents reported 604 votes. At an 1855 election for the state legislature, proslavery gunmen intimidated FreeSoilers. Once again, the proslavery forces won.
The Free-Soilers, in turn, established a separate free-state government. The film shows antislavery men such as Charles Robinson organizing and denouncing “the bogus legislature.” Soon tit-for-tat violence prevailed. In 1856 violence heated up when the proslavery state militia, led by Sheriff Sam Jones, attempted to arrest Robinson and the free-state leadership. Jones was shot. In retaliation, the free-state stronghold of Lawrence was burned to the ground.
Into this landscape of violence came abolitionist John Brown. Viewers know instantly how the filmmakers feel about the controversial Brown because the narrator calls him a “snake.” During the reenactment of the horrific massacre Brown orchestrated at Pottawatomie Creek, where five unarmed proslavery men were executed, the narrator describes it as “an act of terrorism.” That is an accurate description—and Brown intended it as such—but why the terrorism label is pinned only upon Brown, and not the countless others who engaged in killing to intimidate their opponents, is difficult to understand.
The film also reenacts attempts by proslavery militia to capture Brown. At the 1856 Battle of Black Jack, Brown’s militia won a decisive victory, and he eventually escaped from Kansas to plan his famous raid in Harpers Ferry, Va. But oddly, while Brown is a crucial character, he is barely allowed to speak in this film. He is depicted as crazy, which seems oversimplistic. He may have been motivated by a sense of Old Testament vengeance, but how does that make him different from thousands of others on both sides?
The film concludes with the ongoing guerrilla war and the legislative battles (in Kansas and Congress) between those supporting the proslavery Lecompton Constitution and those opposing it. The bloodshed in Kansas heated things up on the national level. When Abraham Lincoln was elected president, the film’s narrator says “the fate of the South was sealed.” Again, I’m not so sure. Compromise remained a possibility right up to and even after the firing on Fort Sumter. In early 1861, Kansas was admitted to the Union as a free state, and neighboring Missouri soon became a crucial battleground during the war.
Bad Blood is an outstanding documentary in the tradition of Ken Burns, and the reenactors do an especially fine job bringing the passion and violence of Bloody Kansas to three-dimensional life. Despite a few historical oversimplifications, perhaps inevitable in any film purporting to cover seven complicated years, Bad Blood is highly recommended for those seeking to understand this violent prelude to the Civil War.
Originally published in the December 2007 issue of Civil War Times. To subscribe, click here.
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760c973dc169abd2290d8853c0a28317 | https://www.historynet.com/d-day-in-16-objects.htm | D-Day in 16 Objects | D-Day in 16 Objects
On the 75th anniversary of Operation Neptune, a portfolio of selected armaments and artifacts.
At 06:30 hours on June 6, 1944—D-Day—Allied infantry and armored divisions began landing in monumental numbers along a 50-mile stretch of the Normandy coast. Their mission: to liberate German-occupied France (and, in time, the rest of Europe) from Nazi control and to pave the way for an Allied victory on the Western Front in World War II. Nearly 160,000 men crossed the English Channel that day, and by the end of August more than two million Allied troops would be in France. Eight months later, as the Battle of Berlin raged above his führerbunker, Adolf Hitler committed suicide, and within a week the German Armed Forces High Command had unconditionally surrendered to the Allies.
On D-Day, British prime minister Winston Churchill went before the House of Commons to report that everything was going as planned (though in fact it wasn’t). “This vast operation,” he said, “is undoubtedly the most complicated and difficult that has ever taken place.” On this page we present some memorable objects from that operation, beginning with the message to troops issued by General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the supreme commander of the Allied forces in Western Europe, and the M1 Garand semiautomatic rifle, which General George S. Patton famously branded “the greatest battle implement ever devised.”
Previous Next Dead Man's Corner Museum, Normandy Marine Corps Museum This portfolio shows the amazing level of planning—more than 1,000 pages of text, tables, charts, and even foldout maps—that went into the largest seaborne invasion in history. (Heritage Auctions) D-Day planners knew that many men would get seasick and throw up as they crossed the choppy waters of the English Channel. (Imperial War Museums) Members of the 101st Airborne Division used brass “crickets” like this one in the early hours of the invasion to identify themselves to their fellow paratroops without alerting enemy forces. (International Museum of World War II) For the D-Day landings, many Allied troops were issued belts like this one, with two carbon-dioxide canisters designed to be inflated manually, but many men drowned nonetheless. (Imperial War Museums) The MG-42 machine gun was so fearsome that GIs quickly gave the weapon its ominous nickname. The Germans fielded large numbers of MG-42s on D-Day—including this captured specimen, which could spit out more than 1,500 rounds of ammunition a minutePhoto Courtesy Morphy Auctions, www.morphyauctions.com) Ropes on grappling hooks like this one, fired from Allied landing craft on D-Day to the summit of the steep bluffs in front of the German artillery fortress at Pointe du Hoc, enabled U.S. Army Rangers to rapidly scale the cliffsides and take on the enemy. (International Museum of World War II) This tin, which could be opened with a coin, contained beef extract and other products to be consumed “only when no other rations of any kind are procurable.” (Imperial War Musuems) This baseball-size hand grenade, developed by the Office of Strategic Services and manufactured by Eastman Kodak, was issued in limited numbers for use on D-Day. (International Military Antique) To mislead the Germans in the early hours of D-Day, the British dropped hundreds of “Ruperts”—dummy parachutists filled with straw and sand—far from the real Allied drop zones. (Heritage Auctions) The Germans developed this plate-shaped antitank mine (teller is the German word for plate) in the 1930s and made millions of them—with handles attached to their steel cases—during World War II. Allied troops landing on the French coastline in 1944 found them nearly everywhere. (International World War II Museum) Brown paper packets like this one, which the Upjohn Company manufactured for the U.S. military, contained an eight-tablet dose of sulfadiazine, an antibiotic used to prevent infections from wounds (except, as the warning indicates, those in the abdomen). (Philippe Caron, Getty Images) The crew of LCT 157, a Royal Navy landing craft tank, adopted the three words as their motto and flew this homemade cotton-twill flag for good luck during the Normandy invasion. (Imperial War Museums) The British Army developed this weapon (the acronym is for Portable, Infantry, Anti Tank) in 1942 and put it into service the following year. A later analysis of the initial stage of the Normandy campaign found that PIAT-launched projectiles knocked out 7 percent of all German tanks destroyed by British forces—more, even, than rockets fired from aircraft. (International World War II Museum)
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3353693d45c1a29b45a064b8ed962235 | https://www.historynet.com/d-day-interview-with-two-us-2nd-ranger-battalion-members-who-describe-the-attack-at-pointe-du-hoc.htm | D-Day: Interview with Two U.S. 2nd Ranger Battalion Members Who Describe the Attack at Pointe-du-Hoc | D-Day: Interview with Two U.S. 2nd Ranger Battalion Members Who Describe the Attack at Pointe-du-Hoc
History is rife with misconceptions, and World War II is no exception. As a result of an error in Cornelius Ryan’s book The Longest Day, more than 76 years after its famous attack up a sheer 100-foot cliff, the heroic 2nd Ranger Battalion is still fighting–this time to get the truth out about what took place at Pointe-du-Hoc in Normandy.
Ryan implied that the Ranger mission to destroy the German gun battery at Pointe-du-Hoc was a wasted effort. In fact, 1st Sgt. Leonard Lomell of Toms River, N.J., and Staff Sgt. Jack Kuhn of Altoona, Pa., personally saw to it that the Ranger mission was accomplished early on the morning of June 6, 1944. Supported by their comrades in D, E and F companies of the 2nd Ranger Battalion, Lomell and Kuhn, who were members of the 2nd Platoon, Company D, pushed ahead of the roadblock they had established and completed what then Lt. Gen. Omar N. Bradley later described as the most difficult mission he had ever given any soldier in his command.
The objective of every one of the 225 Rangers who assaulted Pointe-du-Hoc during the early morning hours of D-Day was to eliminate a battery of six 155mm guns of the 726th Infantry Regiment. The German artillery, which had a 10-mile range, had the potential to wreak havoc on two of the Allied invasion beaches, Utah and Omaha, by plastering the landing areas with high explosives and shrapnel. Using incredible stealth, Lomell and Kuhn located the battery, unguarded but ready for use, in the heavy foliage of a swale between two hedgerows on an old Norman farm track. They destroyed the guns, accomplishing the Rangers’ mission.
Despite the fact that Kuhn and Lomell survived to tell their story, the notion that the Pointe-du-Hoc assault was a failure has persisted. After an examination of what took place during the early morning hours of D-Day, the only logical conclusion is that the Rangers did not fight and die in vain. Kuhn and Lomell told their story in an interview for World War II Magazine.
World War II: Gentlemen, let’s begin from the moment you disembarked from the troop ship Amsterdam.
Kuhn: We disembarked about 4 o’clock in the morning from Amsterdam. It was about a 10-mile trip in to the beach.
Lomell: Amsterdam was a Channel steamer, a regular steamer. We had private rooms. The flotilla of about 5,000 ships was 11 or 12 miles off the beach. We went to sleep and, God, before we knew it, we had to be up and on deck at 4 o’clock. The weather was bad. We were on an English ship and got into LCAs [landing craft, assault] manned by Royal Navy men. To go 12 miles in those heavy seas and stormy weather took quite a while. Just about an hour before H-hour they ceased bombing with aircraft. That’s when [the battleship] USS Texas hit the Pointe with her shelling. Mind you, we all believed that there were guns on the cliff top as we had been taught. We had studied the Pointe and saw the positions from aerial photographs, but later found that they were telephone poles and not gun barrels.
We were watching the assault like a bunch of country boys at a fair or something. It was exciting, believe me. Waves were breaking over our LCA, and the guys had to take their helmets and bail because the pumps on the boat couldn’t take the water out of it. Jack and I were up in the bow of our boat, number 668. We saw that we were heading for something that looked strange to us. We suddenly became aware that we weren’t heading for Pointe-du-Hoc. It must have been Pointe-de-la-Percée. I didn’t know where the hell it was, but it sure didn’t look like Pointe-du-Hoc. Lieutenant Colonel James Rudder [the commanding officer of the 2nd Ranger Battalion] saw it at the same time and brought about a correction with the coxswains. We took an abrupt right and proceeded about three miles along the coast, about 300 yards offshore, parallel to the cliffs of Pointe-de-la-Percée, where C Company of the 2nd Battalion was landing. As we made our way the Germans were popping up along the top of the cliffs shooting at us with anything they could–machine guns, rifles and mortars, et cetera.
It suddenly occurred to all of us, particularly D Company: ‘Hey, we’re not going to be able to do what we were trained to do. D Company was assigned the mission of going around the Pointe and landing on the west side of it. Our assignment was to take out three gun positions–4, 5 and 6. Because of the mistake in navigation by the British coxswains, we had lost about a half hour. We were coming from the east to the west, where E and F companies were supposed to land, and we said: God, we don’t have time. We’re running late already. To hell with this, we’ll jam right in between them. We only had two boats left [the boat containing Company D commander Captain Harold Duke Slater had been swamped and sunk], so we jammed in there and landed in tight, between E and F companies, to make our assault up the ropes.
My whole psyche that day was like I was in a football game. I remembered my instructions, and we charged hard and low and fast. That was our secret, and we stayed together. The 2nd Platoon stayed together as a team on D-Day. We got in, and our ramp went down and all hell broke loose. The boat leader goes off the front straightaway. I stepped off the ramp, and I was the first one shot. The bullet went through what little fat I had on my right side. It didn’t hit any organs, but it spun me around and burned like the dickens. There was a shell crater there underwater. I went down in water over my head with the spare rope, the hand launcher and my submachine gun. Keeping in mind that the idea was to get to the top as fast as we could, I got myself together and went up the cliff.
Foremost in our minds was the challenge of getting up that cliff, which was wet from rain and clay and very slippery. The Germans were shooting down. They were cutting ropes. They were trying to kill us. I’d already been shot. Were we going to make it to the top? Were we going to get shot? These are the things we were thinking about. I think we were too cocky to be too fearful or frightened. I never thought I was going to get killed. These guys were positive thinkers. I don’t think they thought much about getting killed. They thought if they got an even chance in a fight they would win as they always had.
Concentrating on what I had to do and climbing the slippery, muddy rope was exhausting. Next to me was Sergeant Robert Fruhling, our radio man, struggling with his 500 radio set with a big antenna on it. We were approaching the top, and I was running out of strength. Bob yelled, Len, help me. Help me! I’m losing my strength. I said, Hold on! I can’t help you. I’ve got all I can do to get myself up. Then I saw Sergeant Leonard Rubin. He was all muscle, a born athlete, a very powerful man. I said, Len, help Bob! Help Bob! I don’t think he’s going to be able to make it. He just reached over, grabbed Bob by the back of the neck and swung him over. Bob went tumbling, and the antenna was whipping around, and I was worried that it was going to draw fire. That’s all I was thinking about. I was also worried about falling off the cliff with him. I yelled, Get down! You’re gonna draw fire on us! You know, you get excited.
When I went over the top, I tumbled into a shell crater. There was Captain Gilbert Baugh. He was E Company’s commander. He had a .45 in his hand, and a bullet had gone through the back of his hand into the magazine in the grip of the .45. He was in shock and bleeding badly, and there was nothing we could do other than to give him some morphine and say, Listen. We gotta move it. We’re on our way, Captain. We’ll send back a medic. You just stay here. You’re gonna be all right. It was then that we left the crater where we had gathered together as we came over the cliff. We jumped into a bigger crater, and it held maybe a dozen of our guys. We couldn’t get all 22 together in one crater for the move toward 4, 5 and 6 gun emplacements. We hadn’t counted on craters being a protection to us. We would have lost more men, but the craters protected us.
Lomell: We made a move to jump to the next crater. Sergeant Morris Webb was behind me, and Corporal Robert Carty was in back of Webb with a fixed bayonet. The Germans opened fire on us as we started out, and we jumped back to avoid the fire. Well, Webb jumped onto Carty’s bayonet. Carty didn’t mean to do it. He was just down behind, ready to come up. I saw the bayonet sticking through Webb’s thigh. When I ran by him, I got my morphine and socked him in the thigh. I yelled, I can’t stay here, Webb, I gotta keep moving! We’ll send a medic to you! At that time somebody else came and took over as we made our way over to the west side of the Pointe to gun positions 4, 5 and 6. There were no guns there, and we thought, What the hell? What’s happened here? There never were any guns here! There was no evidence that there were ever any guns there.
WWII: How many men had you lost at that point?
Lomell: I know that by the time we got to the coastal road we only had 12 or 13 men left, so in getting to the road 10 men had become casualties. They were killed, wounded or injured. The Germans would fire on us, and then we’d go for them, but we knew we couldn’t take the time to get into sustained firefights. Our orders were to get the guns as quickly as possible. Our [secondary] orders were to establish a roadblock on the coastal highway to prevent German troops from going east to Omaha Beach to help out there. Once we got to the intersection, Jack and I got across into the ditch. Private Jack Conovoy was our scout. For some reason he was third going across the intersection, and they shot him right in the behind and he went down flat. Their riflemen and snipers were aiming at intersections. He went down and yelled, I’m hit! We shouted, Well, come over here! He crawled over and dropped his pants and, sure enough, it had gone through one cheek and then the other and the bullet was sticking out. He wanted it for a souvenir. He was yelling, Save the bullet! Save the bullet! I saved the bullet, and we stuffed sulfur into the bullet holes. We pulled his drawers back up and went down the road. We turned right, which would be westward, to go toward Grandcamp, where we could have good observation along the road to see the Germans as far away as possible. If they were to attempt an advance eastward up the coastal road, we were to stop them, and that’s where our D Company roadblock was established.
WWII: Your job was to stop anything coming down the road heading for Omaha?
Lomell: That was the order. All 225 of us had the same orders. Every company had those orders. It just so happened that D Company ended up on the extreme west flank, thank God.
Kuhn: They told us to cut the coastal highway. We went over and set up the perimeters at that spot. At that moment, Len and I, standing in the road, were the farthest Rangers into enemy territory.
WWII: This was about 8 o’clock in the morning?
Lomell: Yes. Within an hour we were out at the coastal highway. I want to point out that this was not inherent heroism. This was just plain common sense and good rangering. As we left the group at the Pointe, the Germans opened up with 88mm guns, laying in crawling fire. What they were trying to do was start at the edge of the cliffs, knowing that we were trying to get inland. Of course, that makes you move faster, because it’s crawling up your back. That’s why we were able to get out to the coastal road within an hour. We were moving fast, and we had lost about a half hour’s time. When we had running room, we ran straight at them, running hard and low and hitting hard and low, like my football coach always told me. It didn’t occur to me until years after the war why they [the Germans] lifted that fire. They lifted it because of their gun positions just south of the coastal road. The section sergeants took charge of the roadblock, and Jack and I decided to take a look at the sunken secondary road. So we just took the road inland. We thought there might be evidence of tracking and vehicle use. The guns had to have been taken off the Pointe. We were looking for any kind of evidence we could find and it looked like there were some markings on the secondary road where it joined the main road. We decided to leapfrog. Jack covered me, and I went forward. When I got a few feet forward, I covered him. It was a sunken road with very high hedgerows with trees and bushes and stuff like that. It was wide enough to put a column of tanks in, and they would be well hidden. We didn’t see anybody, so we just took a chance, running as fast as we could, looking over the hedgerow. At least we had the protection of the high hedgerows. When it became my turn to look over, I said, God, here they are! They were in an orchard, camouflaged in among the trees.
Now, when you camouflage five big howitzers, 5-inch guns, these are not ordinary, run-of-the-mill artillery that you cart around behind jeeps. These had stabilizers and everything on them. The wheels went up over our heads. Their muzzles went way the hell into the air, above our reach. People say we took them out with fragmentation grenades. That’s not so. We couldn’t even reach the muzzles. Where they protruded out of the orchard they had netting over them. That’s why the aerial photographs never indicated that they were there. They were about a mile inland from the Pointe and the cliffs’ edge.
When we got to the gun position and looked over, I saw some Germans being talked to. They were gathering there, putting on their jackets. It was 8 o’clock in the morning or thereabouts. I guess they were organizing themselves. Their positions were textbook ready. There was nothing to indicate that the guns had been fired. There were no ejected shells. If you know what an artillery position looks like, they’re never that perfect after they’re fired. The entire battery, five big coastal guns, were there at the ready. All the shells were stacked, and there was no debris–no empty shells or powder bags. If you’ve ever been in an artillery outfit after it’s been engaged, it’s a mess cleaning up after it. This position was in perfect order. I believe the reason they couldn’t fire was because E Company had taken out their observation post at the Pointe first thing. That was where their concrete observation bunker was. They had no directions to fire with, no firing orders. Their lines of communication had been cut off. I don’t think those Germans knew there were any Rangers or American soldiers within a mile of them. They were so nonchalant about walking around, acting as if there was no enemy about because we were so quiet. They weren’t in a hurry to do anything. Some have said: We don’t believe it. No good artillery man ever left his position unguarded. Well, all I know is, that morning there weren’t any guards in their gun position. We didn’t draw any fire at any time while near their guns. Maybe they were waiting for a roving OP [observation post] to set up, or maybe they thought there would be incoming shelling from Texas after the 88s stopped their crawling fire.
Kuhn: They didn’t expect us.
Lomell: They never appeared to me to be worried about the cliffs. That was their rear. They wanted to protect everything in their new rear area [the landward side]. Now, people say to me, But they must have heard the grenades. No, they didn’t. Thermite grenades are silent, but I didn’t know if I was going to meet some guard who was sound asleep at his position or what.
WWII: How did you actually destroy the guns?
Lomell: Jack covered me, and I went to the guns with two thermite grenades, Jack’s and mine. The heavily foliaged dip in the swale was deep enough to keep me out of the Germans’ line of sight. I put one thermite grenade in each of the first two guns’ visible moveable gears. Then I took my Tommy gun, wrapped it in my field jacket and smashed the sights on all five guns [for unknown reasons the sixth gun was missing]. I didn’t know if I was going to get back in there. I wanted to do as much damage as I could. After I did the job, I went back to Jack and said, We gotta get some more grenades! We immediately ran back to the guys at the roadblock, where they gave us all their grenades. As fast as we could, we ran back up the road. We wanted to see if the Germans had heard anything. They hadn’t. They still didn’t appear to have their lines of communication open. Their observation post had been knocked out. Jack watched them to see that they didn’t kill me.
Kuhn: When we came back with all of the grenades I placed some on the No. 1 gun. Len had already put one on it. I would say, offhand, that’s the only one I put anything on.
Lomell: I depended on Jack to give me cover to protect me. While I was in there I couldn’t see the Germans. By use of the thermite grenades I tried to weld moving parts, gears, cranks, hinges, breech blocks, anywhere I could find to place a couple of thermite grenades. Through their intense heat, they would weld moving parts together and render the guns inoperable. That moving, flowing molten metal, wherever it eventually got to, must have done the trick. I don’t think I spent 10 minutes, all told, destroying those guns. I was satisfied that I had done what I was trained to do. We never looked back. We didn’t waste a second.
WWII: Jack, what were you thinking while Len was damaging the guns?
Kuhn: It was a beautiful sight. I got to the point where I was starting to enjoy it in this respect: Hey, I’m watching these guys. They don’t know it. I was getting almost cocky, but I was afraid of being detected and hoping that nobody would look up. They wouldn’t have seen me, and I had this feeling that I had power over them. It was like, Hey, I got these guys where I want them. Then I realized: Wait a minute. If Len goes up there and these guys come toward us, I’ve got about three clips of ammo.
Lomell: We were nervous and fast. I was making my way back, and Jack said: Hurry up! Hurry up! Let’s get the hell out of here! I was doing the best I could, and going as fast as I could and I crawled up the embankment of that swale and an explosion went off that threw the both of us through the air into the sunken road. We couldn’t hear each other because of the ringing in our ears. All we knew was that we were running as fast as we could down that sunken road back to our Rangers’ roadblock. I felt so secure in the arms of those 10 guys. But what good were 10 guys against at least 150 Germans we had seen in the last half hour?
WWII: When the Rangers saw you running back, what was their reaction?
Kuhn: First of all, they didn’t know what we had done. They heard this explosion and…I remember Private Larry Johnson, I could have hugged him. He was all by himself there at the road intersection. He said, What the hell was that? I said, We don’t know but, Larry, the guns are inoperative. Unfortunately, Larry was killed on another day. I can’t understand why a German patrol wasn’t dispatched after that to see what the heck the explosion was and what was up there at the intersection.
WWII: Did you ever get to see the guns after you were relieved on D-plus-2?
Kuhn: I had every intention of getting back to see the guns. But I no sooner got back to the company than we moved out toward Isigny. I remember marching past the road and realizing that if I went down there a couple hundred yards and came back the Rangers would have been a mile down the road. I didn’t risk it.
While the D-Day mission had been accomplished, by Lomell and Kuhn and the other brave men of the 2nd Ranger Battalion, the battles and the war were far from over. Brest, Hill 400 and dozens of other nameless Ranger battles remained to be fought.
The Rangers weren’t relieved at Pointe-du-Hoc until June 8, after 2 1/2 days of mounting a continual defense against fierce counterattacks by elements of the German 914th Infantry Regiment. On the evening of June 6, 25 Rangers from the 5th Ranger Battalion joined the men at the Pointe after fighting their way overland from Omaha Beach.
After two days, only 90 of the original 225 Rangers who had led the assault on Pointe-du-Hoc were still able to man their positions when troops of the 116th Regiment, 29th Infantry Division, finally broke through from the west to relieve them. The Rangers had accomplished one of the first and most critical missions of D-Day, but at a terrible cost.
Len Lomell received the Distinguished Service Cross and Jack Kuhn the Silver Star for their actions. Before the war ended Lomell was wounded three times and received a battlefield commission. He returned home to complete law school and later established a successful practice in New Jersey.
Jack Kuhn made it to V-E Day without a scratch and ended the war as a 1st sergeant. After a stint in the Marine Corps during the Korean War, he joined the Altoona Police Department, working his way up through the ranks to retire as chief of police.
The 2nd Ranger Battalion received the Presidential Unit Citation for its valiant efforts during the Normandy assault. The hundreds of Rangers who were wounded later received Purple Hearts. The historical record should reflect that the Rangers’ sacrifice was not in vain.
Michael H. Frederick and Joseph F. Masci, who interviewed Lomell and Kuhn, are members of the World War II Combat Research Group. Further reading: The Longest Day, by Cornelius Ryan; Six Armies in Normandy, by John Keegan, and D-Day, by Stephen Ambrose.
This article originally appeared in the July 2001 issue of World War II. For more great articles be sure to pick up your copy of World War II.
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4c672fa6f969df5b1aec3cce680642ab | https://www.historynet.com/dark-days-in-paris-the-city-of-light.htm | Dark Days in Paris, the City of Light | Dark Days in Paris, the City of Light
Notre Dame Cathedral
Adolf Hitler visited Paris only once. He landed at 5:30 a.m. on June 23, 1940. By 9 a.m. he had quick-marched his party by the Champs- Élysées, Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Les Invalides, and the Panthéon. The Catacombs, snaking for nearly 190 miles beneath his feet, went unseen. Three months later, early partisan groups were morphing this ossuary maze into courier routes, caches, and hideouts.
In 2009, I was back in Paris for maybe the 10th time, and the Catacombs were high on my list to revisit. In 1785, these Roman quarries and beer cellars were converted into mass graves because the overcrowded medieval cemetery in the city’s heart at Les Halles was leaching toxins into Paris’s well water. So night after night for three years, some six million bodies were wheeled in huge carts to new underground homes. No one’s parts remained together—not Rabelais, Danton, Robespierre, or Molière. Sorted into femurs, skulls, and so on, bones were artfully heaped into macabre décor—including one heart-shaped arrangement—that still lines the narrow, winding tunnels, punctuated with tombstones and signage. Parisians, including the future Charles X and court ladies, immediately flocked to see them. In 1860, Napoleon III toured them. Otto von Bismarck came in 1867. Three years later, these two ignited the Franco-Prussian War. Paris was besieged and shelled, its population reduced to eating rats, its final vain defense from this very labyrinth. The victorious Prussians consolidated the Second Reich, Hitler’s precursor. For me, ironies like these are part of what make Paris Paris.
Like all great international cities, this glittering capital of the arts, education, and cuisine is a study in change and paradox: dire poverty and sleek wealth, savoir-faire and angst, absolute monarchs and rebellious peasants, l’amour toujours and the cynical Gallic shrug. Paris regularly explodes into political and cultural turmoil because its multiple personalities manage to coexist until, for reasons that can be sublime or ridiculous, they don’t.
On Mardi Gras 1229, a student brawl about a bar bill escalated until the University of Paris shut down for two years. That initiated the Left Bank tradition of popular protest. In 1968, student riots there swelled, abetted by unions, Socialists, and Communists, and led to President Charles De Gaulle’s resignation.
A generation before, these same groups powered the Parisian Resistance. De Gaulle, in exile in London and struggling to cement his leadership of Free France, pressed to marginalize or control any factions at ideological odds with him. Churchill used FDR’s distrust of these factions to persuade the president to grudgingly endorse De Gaulle and agree that the Free French should spearhead Paris’s liberation.
Most Parisians see the anti-Nazi Resistance as part of the glorious tradition that includes storming the Bastille in 1789, and sending the restored Bourbon monarchy packing in 1830. Yet it is also partly myth—created by De Gaulle, among others, to heal France’s bitter prewar and wartime divisions. The ongoing arguments over the movement’s size, goals, efficacy, and behavior underscore occupied Paris’s tangled history.
When the Wehrmacht rolled in on June 14, 1940, more than half of Paris’s five million people had fled. By 1942, every German intelligence and police agency had headquarters there, with unlimited power and thousands of informers. But Paris was also a Nazi safety valve. Military personnel on leave or occupation duty, industrialists and diplomats on “official” business, and party paladins could relish decadent pleasures the Reich condemned.
Sacrè Coeur, the last stop on Hitler's tour of Paris.Deputy führer Hermann Göring dined at Maxim’s, stayed at the Ritz’s Imperial Suite, and confiscated French art to ship home. His hotel windows faced Place Vendôme and the monumental column Napoleon erected there to honor his 1805 victory at Austerlitz.
When Hitler toured Paris he had lingered at Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides. “It was the dream of my life,” he told Albert Speer, who had joined him, “to be permitted to see Paris.” He added, “I often considered whether we would not have to destroy it.” He would again, I thought one afternoon as I crossed the Île de la Cité past Notre Dame Cathedral and ducked into the Préfecture de Police courtyard. Is Paris Burning?, a history of 1944 Paris, came to mind because a plaque there commemorates a key event in the book: the police mutiny on August 19.
Until then the cops generally did the Nazis’ bidding, often with relish. On July 16, 1942, they rounded up 12,884 Jews and brutally separated families. Destination: Auschwitz. The naked cruelty and collaboration shocked and angered many Parisians. Most were just trying to get along, like most Europeans under the Nazi yoke. But this stoked the Resistance. Growing hunger, oppression, desperation, disgust, and hope fanned it. By 1944, Paris had some 20,000 partisans, many working with Churchill’s Special Operations Executive (SOE) to sabotage the Germans, provide intelligence, and aid downed Allied pilots.
I hit the Left Bank, and climbed Rue St. Jacques through the Latin Quarter. When I reached the 13th-century Collège de France and 16th-century Sorbonne, the Île-de-France, the Seine, and the Right Bank rose into stunning view as the slope dropped behind me. I felt grateful that the Nazi governor of Paris, General Dietrich von Choltitz, evaded Hitler’s 1944 orders to leave the city “a field of ruins,” and that Paris had no strategic targets the Allies deemed worth bombing.
Then I was at the Panthéon, perched atop Montagne Sainte-Geneviève. Only those whom parliament designates National Heroes are buried here—Voltaire, Rousseau, Victor Hugo, the Curies, Louis Braille among them.
Here, too, lies Resistance hero Jean Moulin. In 1940, he was tortured for refusing to cooperate with les boches. A year later he traveled to London with fake papers and met with De Gaulle. The tall, imperious exile, trying to extend his authority over anti-Nazi activities, wanted Moulin to unify them. Moulin parachuted into France and set to work. On May 27, 1943, the Conseil National de la Résistance—eight major partisan factions—met for the first time, in Paris, under Moulin’s chairmanship. But his triumph was short lived. Less than a month later, he was arrested, tortured by Klaus Barbie, and died.
One brisk morning, I strolled across the Tuileries Gardens, where German infantry drilled, toward Jeu de Paume, where I used to gawk at Impressionist masterpieces. (These are now at Musée d’Orsay.) Here the Germans gathered French art they plundered—tens of thousands of pieces—before shipment to Deutschland. Rose Valland, the museum overseer and a Resistance member, ran risks daily to keep meticulous records of what was sent where. That eventually helped agencies like the U.S. Army’s “Monuments Men” repatriate nearly all of it.
Nearby Place de la Concorde has wall plaques commemorating Resistance and Free French army members who died liberating Paris. That tale, like so many here, has almost as many spins as tellers.
Eisenhower, reneging on the earlier Allied agreements about taking Paris, decided to avoid it. It presented a logistical nightmare. Keeping Allied troops supplied without a port was taxing enough. Paris would mean millions of mouths to feed.
With the Allies near, railroad workers shut Paris down on August 18, 1944. Then the police and partisans took over some key buildings. Armed with motley light weapons and using cobblestones to create barricades, they were no match for German tanks and artillery—and they knew it. Thanks to the mediation of a Swedish diplomat, and to General Choltitz’s forbearance, a fragile truce saved Paris from a massacre as well as burning. Meanwhile, a stream of Resis-tance messages to the Allies insisted Paris was theirs for the taking.
The uprising’s leader was Henri Rol-Tanguy, a Communist. From his lair in the Catacombs, he had dueled with De Gaulle for nearly two years over control of the Resistance. De Gaulle knew well the age-old adage, “He who controls Paris controls France.” But he couldn’t budge Ike when he met with him on August 21. So De Gaulle sent a note threatening to order Free French General Philippe Leclerc de Hauteclocque’s 2nd French Armored Division to Paris anyway. The Combined Chiefs of Staff told Ike they didn’t object; the Allies would recognize De Gaulle’s provisional government as France’s. Restoring France’s self-respect and keeping it out of Stalin’s bloc were vital.
The day after Liberation, De Gaulle led a million jubilant Parisians down the Champs-Élysées to sporadic German sniper fire. Reprisals against collaborators, from shaving women’s heads to summary executions, began. Innocents suffered with the guilty. The war in Paris was never clear cut.
In 1940, Hitler’s final stop in Paris had been Sacré Coeur, the basilica atop the highest hill in Montmartre, the populist quarter the Impressionists loved. After-ward, Hitler turned to Speer: “Wasn’t Paris beautiful? But Berlin must be made far more beautiful. When we are finished, Paris will be but a shadow. Why should we destroy it?” Yet in 1944, faced with its loss, he screamed for its destruction. Sixty-five years later, I stood on the cathedral’s plaza and gazed across the City of Light, remembering Casablanca: “We’ll always have Paris.” And I laughed.
Gene Santoro is the reviews editor for World War II and American History magazines, and covers pop culture for the New York Daily News. His latest books are Highway 61 Revisited and Myself When I Am Real: The Life and Music of Charles Mingus. His current project deals with U.S. State Department cultural tours. He began to appreciate the ironies of Parisian history and culture in 1978, when he spent a month living on the Left Bank.
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ab2ed739b4fdd1e580d7c8d2d348762e | https://www.historynet.com/death-by-marshmallows-for-one-raf-crew-this-sugary-snack-almost-proved-lethal.htm | Death by Marshmallows? For One RAF Crew This Sugary Snack Almost Proved Lethal | Death by Marshmallows? For One RAF Crew This Sugary Snack Almost Proved Lethal
Marshmallow. For most Americans the word conjures up the image of childhoods spent on the beach or around a campfire. Nestled between graham crackers and a slab of Hershey’s chocolate, the greatest danger a marshmallow ever really posed was burning the roof of one’s mouth or causing a slight expansion to the waistline.
For these Royal Air Force pilots, however, the ‘mallow almost proved deadly. Kind of.
During the 1950s, RAF crews sought to beat the malaise of long-haul flights with the sugary confection, asking for chocolate-covered marshmallow teacakes to be added to their in-flight ration boxes, Atlas Obscura writes.
“There were a number of sorties where the high-level portion of the flight, up to four hours, was flown with the cabin altitude at 25,000 feet,” recalled Retired Squadron Leader Tony Cunnane to the Daily Record. “It was uncomfortable, cold, and unpopular.”
During that time, bored crews started noticing that depending on the altitude their marshmallow teacakes shrunk or expanded. Made up of mostly air and sugar, the pressure changes to a marshmallow could make the formerly one-bite snack seemingly into a Tootsie Pop ad––how many licks, or bites, to get to the center of an aerated teacake one must wonder?
“Word quickly spread, and this discovery kept different crews fascinated for several days,” said Cunnane. “Notes were kept to show which brand was the most resistant to reducing air pressure.”
The taste, he noted, remained unchanged.
The fun came to an abrupt end after a sugary explosion occurred aboard a V-class bomber during the summer of 1965.
On a training mission from RAF Gaydon, a captain and student pilot simply forgot that they had unwrapped their two teacakes above their instrument panels prior to takeoff. After the captain pulled an emergency depressurizing switch, he got more than he bargained for.
The expected loud bang and icy cold air filled the cabin, but so did the sweet treats.
Exploding chocolate and marshmallow shrapnel struck the windshield, flight controls, and the uniforms of the pilots.
“This rather distracted the pilots from the immediate emergency actions they were supposed to take for aircraft and aircrew safety,” Cunnane stated. “Thereafter, marshmallows were banned.”
After that incident the RAF command placed marshmallows on the No-Fly List.
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ad3a19e470eca0eb97d081da1d1f0871 | https://www.historynet.com/death-of-the-wehrmacht.htm | Death of the Wehrmacht | Death of the Wehrmacht
In 1942, the German Army, turning one last time to its traditional Prussian tactics of maneuver, met its end.
That 1942 was the turning point of World War II is one of those “facts” that everyone knows. Like much of the received wisdom on the war, however, the concept of its “turning point” requires a certain amount of nuance. This conflict, more than any other before it, was a vast and sprawling set of interlocking campaigns on land, sea, and air. It involved hundreds of millions of human beings, from the freezing cold of the Arctic to the sweltering heat of the Burmese jungle, and the notion that there was a single discrete moment that “turned” it is problematic, to say the least.
Still, it is clear that something important happened in 1942. It was, after all, the year of El Alamein in the African theater, and of Midway and Guadalcanal in the Pacific. To paraphrase Winston Churchill, before 1942 the Allies never won a victory, and after 1942 they never suffered a defeat. But for that year to live up to its billing as the “hinge of fate,” in Churchill’s memorable phrase, a fatal blow had to be dealt to the German armed forces, the Wehrmacht. Could the Allies, even with their sheer superiority in materiel and men, pull it off?
The Reich had been locked in a conflict with Great Britain since September 1939, one that it tried half-heartedly to end in the summer and fall of 1940. Since mid-1941, it had done nothing but add enemies. On June 22, with Britain still unconquered, the German führer, Adolf Hitler, had launched an invasion of the Soviet Union, Operation Barbarossa. In its early weeks, the Wehrmacht had smashed one Soviet army after another: at Bialystok, at Minsk, at Smolensk, and especially at Kiev. As summer turned to fall, Barbarossa evolved into Operation Typhoon, a drive on Moscow. The Germans were within sight of the Soviet capital by December 6, when the Red Army launched a great counteroffensive that drove them back in confusion, inflicting punishing losses on an army that had been largely untouched by the first two years of the war. The very next day, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and five days later Hitler declared war on the United States.
Earlier in the year, Germany had been at war with Britain alone. Six short months later, it was at war with an immense and wealthy enemy coalition, which Churchill, with a nod to his great ancestor the Duke of Marlborough, dubbed the “Grand Alliance.” The alliance controlled the vast majority of the world’s resources. It included the preeminent naval and colonial power (Britain), the largest land power (the Soviet Union), and the globe’s financial and industrial giant (the United States): more than enough potential power to smash Germany. But Germany’s situation, being ringed and vastly outnumbered by an alliance of powerful enemies, was nothing particularly new in Prusso-German military history.
In fact, the Reich’s next, and what was to be its last, major campaign—drives to capture Stalingrad and the oil fields of the Caucasus—seemed to offer another textbook opportunity for the Germans to demonstrate that sound maneuver tactics and strategy grounded in more than a century of experience—and including the modern mechanized variant, blitzkrieg—could best even the massive forces arrayed against them.
Until the war’s end, on the eastern front and elsewhere, Germany sought to land a resounding blow against one of its enemies, one hard enough to shatter the enemy coalition, or at least to demonstrate the high price that the Allies would have to pay for victory. The strategy certainly did its share of damage in those last four years, and the Allies and most historians play down how frighteningly close it came to succeeding.
While the German strategy for winning the war failed—and did so spectacularly in 1942—no one at the time or since has been able to come up with a better solution to Germany’s strategic conundrum. Was it a war-winning gambit? Not in this case, obviously. Was it the best strategy under the circumstances? Perhaps, perhaps not. Was it an operational posture in complete continuity with German military history and tradition as it had unfolded over the centuries? Absolutely.
In 1942 the Wehrmacht provided a characteristic answer to the question, “What do you do when the Blitzkrieg fails?” It launched another— indeed, a whole series of them. The centerpiece of 1942 would be another grand offensive in the east. Operation Blue (Unternehmen Blau) objectives would include a lunge over the mighty Don River to the Volga, the seizure of the great industrial city of Stalingrad, and, finally, a wheel south into the Soviet Caucasus, home to some of the world’s richest oil fields. With the final Operation Blue objectives more than a thousand miles from the start line, no one can accuse Hitler and the high command of thinking small.
Yet what might have seemed a reach for another country’s army appeared achievable by the Wehrmacht, steeped as it was in a winner-takes-all tradition. Since the earliest days of the German state, a unique military culture had evolved, one that we can call a “Ger man way of war.” Its birthplace was the kingdom of Prussia. Starting in the 17th century with Friedrich Wilhelm, the Great Elector, Prussia’s rulers recognized that their small, impoverished state on the European periphery had to fight wars that were kurz und vives (short and lively). Crammed into a tight spot in the middle of Europe, surrounded by states that vastly outweighed it in both manpower and resources, Prussia could not win long, drawn-out wars of attrition. Instead, it had to fight short, sharp wars that ended in rapid, decisive battlefield victories. Its conflicts had to be front-loaded, unleashing a storm against the enemy, pounding him fast and hard, and making him see reason as soon as possible.
This solution to Prussia’s strategic problem was something the Germans called Bewegungskrieg— the war of movement. It was a way of war that stressed maneuver on the operational level. It was not simply tactical maneuverability or a faster march rate but the rapid movement of large units—divisions, corps, and armies. Prussian commanders sought to maneuver their formations in such a way that they could strike the mass of the enemy army a sharp, even annihilating, blow as rapidly as possible. It might involve a surprise assault against an unprotected flank, or against both flanks. On several notable occasions, as in the Great Elector’s winter campaign against the Swedes in 1678–79 and Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltke’s signal triumph over the French at Sedan in 1870, it even resulted in entire Prussian or German armies getting into their enemy’s rear, the dream scenario of any general.
The desired end was something called the Kesselschlacht: literally, a “cauldron battle,” but more specifically a battle of encirclement, one that hemmed in the enemy on all sides before destroying him through a series of “concentric operations.” This vibrant operational posture imposed certain requirements on German armies: an extremely high level of battlefield aggression and an officer corps that tended to launch attacks no matter what the odds, to give just two examples.
The Germans also found over the years that conducting an operational-level war of movement required a flexible system of command, one that left a great deal of initiative in the hands of lower-ranking commanders. It is customary today to refer to this command system as Auftragstaktik (mission tactics): the higher commander devised a general mission (Auftrag) and then left the means of achieving it to the officer on the spot. It is more accurate, however, to speak, as the Germans themselves did, of the “independence of the lower commander” (Selbständigkeit der Unterführer). A commander’s ability to size up a situation and act on his own was an equalizer for a numerically weaker army, allowing it to grasp opportunities that might be lost if it had to wait for reports and orders to climb up and down the chain of command.
While this way of war had served Germany well up to 1941, it had clearly come up short during Operation Barbarossa, and it would be easy to view Operation Blue as doomed from the start. The near-collapse of the previous winter had left scars that had not yet healed, and there is for the connoisseur a smorgasbord of unhappy statistics from which to choose.
For some, it might be the 1,073,066 casualties that the Wehrmacht suffered in its first nine months in the Soviet Union. For others, it might be the General Staff’s estimated replacement deficit of 280,000 men by October 1942, a minimum figure that was valid only if things went well and operations succeeded with relatively light casualties. The one hundred seventy-nine thousand horses lost in the Soviet Union in the first year were not going to be replaced anytime soon, and the loss figures for motor transport were equally dismal. An Oberkommando des Heeres (OKH) report in May found the figure at only 85 percent of the trucks required for the army’s mobile divisions of the spearhead. A report from the Army Organization Section warned that it was closer to 80 percent and those at the sharp end thought the situation was a great deal worse.
Gen. Walter Warlimont, deputy chief of operations for the high command (Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, or OKW), warned that the army’s mobility was going to be “considerably affected,” adding that “a measure of demotorization” was inevitable—dire words indeed for an army that lived and died by operational-level maneuver. Although historians often speak of the Germans scraping the bottom of the manpower barrel in 1944–45, they had already started that process in 1942. The class of 1923 had already been drafted in April 1941, eighteen months ahead of time, and raw 18- and 19-year-old recruits would play a key role in filling out the rosters of the new divisions being formed for Blue.
Perhaps the best indicator of Germany’s new military economy of scarcity is this: of the forty-one new divisions slated for Case Blue, fully twenty-one of them would be non-German: ten Hungarian, six Italian, and five Romanian. It was a sure sign that the Germans were having difficulty with the enormity of the front, which by now stretched some seventeen hundred miles from Murmansk in the north to Taganrog in the south.
There were other problems. The German emphasis on maneuver usually meant they devoted less time and effort to vital areas like logistics and intelligence. Like so many great German military operations, this one would be based on an abysmally inaccurate portrait of enemy strength. The Germans estimated available Soviet aircraft at 6,600 planes; the reality was 21,681; they estimated they were facing 6,000 tanks; the actual number was 24,446; the German estimate of Soviet artillery (7,800 guns) was also off by a factor of four (the actual number was 33,111). All in all, the intelligence failure of 1942 was one of the worst in German history, rivaled only by the failure of these same agencies during the run-up to Operation Barbarossa.
Yet this campaign did not appear to be at all hopeless to Hitler, to Josef Stalin, or to their respective staffs. Indeed, the preliminaries to Blue showed that the Wehrmacht still brought to the table some formidable operational skills: May 1942 saw Field Marshal Erich von Manstein’s decisive victory at Kerch in the Crimea, an equally impressive win at Kharkov in the Ukraine, and finally Gen. Erwin Rommel’s decisive victory over the British at Gazala in the Western Desert. Kerch, Kharkov, and Gazala were all classic examples of the “war of movement,” operational-level battles of annihilation marked by high mobility, a freewheeling and aggressive officer corps, and successful attempts to surround and destroy the enemy.
Rommel would punctuate his victory by storming Tobruk in June, invading Egypt, and driving for Suez; that same month, Manstein placed an exclamation point on his Crimean campaign by taking the great fortress of Sevastopol. In the course of these five big wins, the Wehrmacht smashed every enemy army it met and took six hundred thousand prisoners; its own losses were almost nonexistent aside from Sevastopol, which had been a bloody affair. For all its manpower and equipment shortages, it is hard to disagree with historian Alan Clark when he described 1942 as “the Wehrmacht at high tide.”
Nor did the opening of Operation Blue disappoint. The Red Army had also been seriously blooded in the past year’s fighting, and its initial response to Blue was nothing less than a full speed, helter-skelter retreat. It seems to have been ordered by Stalin and Gen. Georgi K. Zhukov as a classic maneuver to trade space for time, traditional in Russian wars. On the lower levels, however, it was carried out ineptly, with huge stretches of territory abandoned without a fight, a great deal of equipment lost, and a conspicuous absence of command and control.
For the last time in this war, it was full steam ahead for the Wehrmacht. The Germans and their Hungarian allies rapidly closed up to the Don River, with Fourth Panzer Army (Colonel General Hermann Hoth) seizing the great city of Voronezh in the north on day ten of the offensive, and then wheeling south toward the Don bend, skirting the river on its left. To Hoth’s right, Sixth Army (Field Marshal Friedrich Paulus) crossed the starting line against sporadic Soviet opposition, lunged fifty miles ahead within the first forty-eight hours, and linked up with Fourth Panzer at Stary Oskol. No wonder Hitler actually looked at his situation map at the time and exulted that “the Russian is finished.”
Even as Hitler was speaking these happy words, however, the operational wheels were falling off of Blue. The initial operational plan (Directive 41) had called for a very complex set of maneuvers designed to produce small but airtight encirclements quite close to the start line. Such clearly defined plans were necessary, Hitler felt, in order to give the young soldiers in his army an early taste of victory. He and his chief of the general staff, Colonel General Franz Halder, were also anxious to avoid the kind of operational chaos that had manifested itself during the drive on Moscow in 1941, when it seemed as if every German commander was fighting his own private war. Modern historians have a love affair with Auftragstaktik, but clearly it has its dangers, and both Hitler and Halder were determined to run a tighter ship this time.
Unfortunately for them, the Soviet retreat, chaos and all, had knocked the air out of this idea from the start. The outcome of one army tethered to the tight plans of its high command and the other fleeing from the scene was a pair of what the Germans called Luftstossen—blows into the air—great German pincer movements that closed on nothing much in particular. It happened at Millerovo on July 15, and then again at Rostov on July 23. The amount of ground covered had been impressive; Hoth’s Fourth Panzer Army, in particular, had driven from Voronezh all the way down to Rostov in a single month. In the end, however, the Wehrmacht had achieved little beyond eating through its already limited pile of supplies.
Hitler’s response turned this puzzling misfire into an absolute catastrophe. “Directive 45” was a fundamental reworking of Operation Blue. The original timetable had called for smashing all the Soviet armies in the Don bend, taking Stalingrad as a northern flank guard for the army’s drive into the Caucasus, and only then launching the drive into the oil fields. Now, less than a month into the operation, Hitler ordered the Wehrmacht to secure Stalingrad and the Caucasus at the same time. Historians usually identify this decision to launch a “dual offensive” as the great blunder of the campaign, with an army already running low on manpower and equipment trying to do everything at once, and it is hard to argue with the common wisdom.
The problems were evident early. The German drive into the Caucasus (Operation Edelweiss) received priority in terms of supply and transport, and was thus able to explode out of the box, lunging forward hundreds of miles and seizing one of the USSR’s three great oil cities, Maikop; but the drive on Stalingrad (Operation Fischreiher, or “Heron”) was a tough grind from the start. This imbalance led, within a week, to another reversal of priorities. Stalingrad was now the primary target. Edelweiss lost supply, air cover, and an entire panzer army, with Hoth motoring north to join Paulus. The entire Caucasus campaign was left in the hands of just two Ger – man armies, First Panzer on the left and Seventeenth on the right, with the Romanian Third Army holding the extreme right wing.
This was the moment that both halves of the dual campaign— the drive east to Stalingrad and the drive south to the Caucasus— came to a screeching halt. In German parlance, the freewheeling war of movement (Bewegungskrieg) suddenly turned into the static war of position (Stellungskrieg), just the sort of grinding attritional struggle that the Wehrmacht knew it could not win.
In the south, the Germans got stuck on the approaches to the high mountains, their two armies facing a solid wall of eight Soviet armies comprising the Transcaucasus Front (further divided into a “Black Sea Group” and a “North Group” of four armies apiece). In the north, Sixth Army reached Stalingrad at the end of September, its arrival punctuated by a Luftwaffe raid on the city that reduced much of it to rubble; Fourth Panzer Army joined it on September 2, and the Luftwaffe announced the coming of Hoth by smashing the city a second time, churning up a great deal of rubble, killing thousands more civilians, and nearly bagging the Soviet commander in Stalingrad, General Vasili I. Chuikov of the Sixty-second Army.
The two German armies had met and reestablished a continuous front directly in front of Stalingrad. Now was a time for decisions. In front of the Germans lay a great city, with a population of some six hundred thousand and a large heavy-industry base. Just a few months earlier, the Wehrmacht had suffered some seventy-five thousand casualties reducing the much smaller city of Sevastopol, the bloodiest encounter of the spring by a considerable margin. Stalingrad, moreover, presented an unusual set of geographical problems. Rather than a collection of neighborhoods radiating out of some central point, the city was one long urbanized area stretching along the right bank of the Volga for nearly thirty miles, as straight as a railroad tie.
In operational terms, therefore, it was not so much a city as a long, fortified bridgehead on the western bank of the river. The Germans could never put it under siege. Behind it flowed a great river, behind the river a huge mass of artillery that could intervene in the battle at will, and behind the artillery a vast, secure, and rapidly industrializing Soviet hinterland.
Not for the first time in this war, the Wehrmacht had conquered its way into an impasse. It could not go forward without sinking into a morass of urban fighting. Every German officer knew what a city fight would mean. The preferred way of war, Bewegungskrieg, would inevitably degenerate into Stellungskrieg. Indeed, Hitler and the General Staff had designed the entire convoluted operational sequence in 1942 for the very purpose of avoiding this prospect. At the same time, however, it could not simply go around Stalingrad, and there was no possibility of staying put, not with Paulus and Hoth both sitting out on the end of a very long and vulnerable limb.
Given a choice of three unpalatable alternatives, the Ger man army made the only decision consonant with its history and traditions, dating back to Frederick the Great, Field Marshal Gebhard Leberecht von Blücher, and Moltke. On September 5, the big guns roared, the panzers stormed forward, and the Stukas screamed overhead. The assault on Stalingrad had begun.
Every student of the war knows what happened next—how the fighting broke down into battles for the crumbling buildings and rubble-strewn streets of the dying city. Both sides incurred huge losses. The Germans, as usual, kept attacking, driving ever closer to the Volga riverbank that was their operational objective. Their last shot (Operation Hubertus, in November) would take them just a few hundred yards away from it. The Soviets were managing to hold on, just barely, to an ever-narrowing strip along the river.
In operational terms, the “dual offensive” was now firmly stuck in neutral, and this at a moment when Rommel, too, had come to a dead stop in the desert. His own last shot—the offensive at Alam Halfa, August 30 to September 7—had also broken down against a revived British Eighth Army. The Wehrmacht was in deep trouble, shorn of its own ability to maneuver and seemingly helpless against enemy strength that was waxing on all fronts.
And yet, modern war—and the peculiar Ger- man variant of it, Bewegungskrieg, remained unpredictable. Even in extremis, with a balance of forces that had gone bad and a logistical situation that edged ever closer to disaster, the Wehrmacht could still show occasional flashes of the old fire. Take the Caucasus. As the summer turned into fall, with the Black Sea front frozen in place, the focus of the campaign shifted to the east, along the Terek. The last of the major rivers in the region, it was deep and swiftly flowing, with steep, rocky banks that sheltered a number of key targets: the cities of Grozny and Ordzhoni kidze (modern Vladi kavkaz), as well as the Ossetian and Georgian military roads. These roads were the only two routes through the mountains capable of bearing motor traffic, and taking them would give the Wehrmacht effective control of the Caucasus. The Georgian Road was the key. Running from Ordzhoni kidze down to Tbilisi, it would give the Germans the potential for a high-speed drive through the mountains to the Caspian Sea and the rich oil fields around Baku, the greatest potential prize of the entire campaign.
By October, First Panzer Army had concentrated what was left of its fighting strength along the Terek. Col. Gen. Eberhard von Mackensen’s III Panzer Corps was on the right, LII Corps in the center, and XXXX Panzer Corps on the left, at Mozdok. On October 25, Mackensen’s corps staged the last great set-piece assault of the Caucasus campaign, aiming for an envelopment of the Soviet Thirty-seventh Army near Nalchik. Mackensen had the Romanian 2nd Mountain Division on his right, and much of his corps’ muscle (13th and 23rd Panzer Divisions) on his left. The Romanians would lead off and punch a hole in the Soviet defenses, fixing the Thirty-seventh Army’s attention to its front. The next day, two panzer divisions would blast into the Soviet right, encircling the defenders and ripping open a hole in the front. Once that was done, the entire corps would wheel to the left (east), heading toward Ordzhonikidze.
It went off like clockwork. The Romanians opened the attack on October 25th, along with a German battalion (the 1st of the 99th Alpenjäger Regiment). Together they smashed into Soviet forces along the Baksan River and penetrated the front of the Thirty-seventh Army, driving toward Nalchik across three swiftly flowing rivers, the Baksan, Chegem, and Urvan.
Ju 87 Stukas supported the attack, achieving one of the war’s great victories by destroying the Thirty-seventh Army’s headquarters near Nalchik, a blow that left the Soviet army leaderless in the first few crucial hours of the attack.
The next evening, the two panzer divisions attacked by moonlight, crossing the Terek and achieving complete surprise. Soon they had blocked the roads out of Nalchik, and the Wehrmacht had achieved one of its few Kesselschlachts in the entire Caucasus campaign. Some survivors of the Thirty-seventh Army limped back toward Ordzhonikidze; others apparently threw off discipline and fled to the mountains directly to the south.
Now the Panzer divisions wheeled left, heading due east, with the mountains forming a wall directly on their right. With 23rd Panzer on the right and 13th on the left, it was an operational spearhead reminiscent of the glory days of 1941. On October 27 and 28, the panzers crossed one river after the other, the Lesken, the Urukh, the Chikola, with the Soviets either unwilling or unable to form a cohesive defense in front of them. By October 29, they had reached the Ardon River, at the head of the Ossetian Military Road; on November 1, the 23rd Panzer Division took Alagir, closing the Ossetian road and offering the Wehrmacht the possibility of access to the southwestern Caucasus through Kutais to Batum. At the same time, the 13th Panzer Division was driving toward the corps’ main objectives: Ordzhonikidze and the Georgian Military Road.
Kleist now ordered the division to take the city on the run. That evening, 13th Panzer’s advance guard was less than ten miles from Ordzhonikidze. It had been through some tough fighting, and just the day before, its commander (Lt. Gen. Traugott Herr) had suffered a severe head wound. Under a new commander, Lt. Gen. Helmut von der Chevallerie, it ground forward over the next week against increasingly stiff Soviet opposition; indeed, so heavy was Soviet fire that the new general had to use a tank to reach his new command post.
On November 2, 13th Panzer took Gizel, just five miles away from Ordzhonikidze. The defenders, elements of the Thirty-seventh Army, heavily reinforced with a Guards rifle corps, two tank brigades, and five antitank regiments, knew what was at stake here and were stalwart in the defense. Mackensen rode his panzer divisions like a jockey, first deploying the 23rd Panzer Division on the right of the 13th, then shifting it to the left, constantly looking for an opening. Closer and closer to Ordzhonikidze they came. There was severe resistance every step of the way, with the 13th Panzer Division’s supply roads under direct fire from Soviet artillery positions in the mountains, heavy losses in the rear as well as the front.
The image of two punch-drunk fighters is one of the oldest clichés in military history, but perfectly de- scribes what was happening. It was a question of re- serves, physical and mental: Who would better stand the strain in one of the century’s great mano a mano engagements? It had it all: bitter cold, swirling snowstorms, and a majestic wall of mountains and glaciers standing watch in the background. The road network failed both sides, so columns had to crowd onto branch roads where they were easy prey for enemy fighter-bombers. Rarely have Stukas and Sturmoviks had a more productive set of targets, and the losses on both sides were terrible.
By November 3, the 13th Panzer Division had fought its way over the highlands and was a mere two kilometers from Ordzhonikidze. By now, a handful of battalions was carrying the fight to the enemy, bearing the entire weight of the German campaign in the Caucasus. For the record, they were the 2nd of the 66th Regiment (II/66th) on the left, II/93rd on the right, with I/66th echeloned to the left rear. Deployed behind the assault elements were the I/99th Alpenjäger, the 203rd Assault Gun Battalion, and the 627th Engineer Battalion. The engineers’ mission was crucial: to rush forward and open the Georgian Military Road the moment Ordzhonikidze fell.
Over the next few days, German gains were measured in hundreds of meters: six hundred on November 4, a few hundred more on November 5. By now, it had become a battle of bunker-busting, with the German assault formations having to chew their way through dense lines of fortifications, bunkers, and pillboxes. Progress was slow, excruciatingly so, but then again the attackers didn’t have all that far to go. Overhead the Luftwaffe thundered, waves of aircraft wreaking havoc on the Soviet front line and rear, and pounding the city itself. Mackensen’s reserves were spent, used up a week earlier, in fact. It must have been inconceivable to him that the Soviets were not suffering as badly or worse.
But Mackensen was wrong. On November 6, the Soviets launched a counterattack, their first real concentrated blow of the entire Terek campaign, against the 13th Panzer’s overextended spearhead. Mixed groups of infantry and T-34 tanks easily smashed through the paper-thin German flank guards and began to close in behind the mass of the division itself, in the process scattering much of its transport and cutting off its combat elements from their supply lines. Supporting attacks against the German left tied up the 23rd Panzer Division and the Romanian 2nd Mountain Division just long enough to keep them from coming to 13th Panzer’s assistance. There were no German reserves, and for the next three days, heavy snowstorms kept the Luftwaffe on the ground. Indeed, the 13th Panzer only had the strength for one last blow—to the west, as it turned out—to break out of the threatened encirclement. After some shifting of units, including the deployment of the 5th SS-Panzer Division Wiking in support, the order went out on November 9. The first convoy out of the pocket used tanks to punch a hole, followed by a convoy of trucks filled with the wounded. Within two days, a badly mauled 13th Panzer was back on the German side of the lines. The drive on Ordzhonikidze had failed, as had the drive on the oil fields of Grozny, and, indeed, the Caucasus campaign itself.
But how close it had been! Consider the numbers. Take a German army group of five armies and reduce it to three, and then to two. Give it an absurd assignment, say a 700-mile drive at the end of a 1,200-mile supply chain, against a force of eight enemy armies, in the worst terrain in the world. Wear down its divisions to less than 50 percent of their strength, both in men and tanks. Then make it 33 percent. Feed them a hot meal perhaps once a week. Remove them from the control of their professional officer corps and put them into the hands of a lone amateur strategist. Throw them into sub-zero temperatures and two feet of snow.
Add it all up, and what do you get? Not, surprisingly, an inevitable defeat, but a hard-driving panzer corps, stopped but still churning its legs, less than two kilometers from its strategic objective. Karl von Clausewitz was right about one thing: war is, indeed, “the realm of uncertainty.”
Dramatically, in May 1942 the Wehrmacht began the campaigning season with some of the greatest operational victories in the entire history of German arms: Kerch, Kharkov, and Gazala. All of them took place within weeks of one another. Then, in the summer, the Wehrmacht brought down the curtain on this very successful season with the reduction of Tobruk and Sevastopol. After providing all the participants with enough terrifying moments to last several lifetimes, the year’s fighting ended improbably but with equal drama just six months later, with the Germans suffering two of the most decisive reversals of all time: El Alamein and Stalingrad.
Again, these two signal events took place within weeks of one another. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel’s Panzerarmee Afrika was still streaming across North Africa in some disarray—ignoring Hitler’s last-second order to stand fast—at the very moment that the Soviets were launching Operation Uranus, which encircled the German Sixth Army in Stalingrad.
In those brief six months, an entire way of war that dated back centuries had come to an end. The German tradition of maneuver-based Bewegungskrieg, the notion that “war is an art, a free and creative activity,” the belief in the independence of the subordinate commander: each of these bedrock beliefs had taken a pounding in the past six months, and in fact had revealed themselves as no longer valid. The war of movement as practiced by the German army had failed in the wide-open spaces of the Soviet Union; the southern front especially presented challenges that it was not designed to handle.
The notion of war as an art was difficult to maintain in the face of what had happened in North Africa and on the Volga. Here, enemy armies looked on calmly as the Wehrmacht went through its ornate repertoire of maneuver, then smashed it with overwhelming materiel superiority: hordes of tanks, skies filled with aircraft, seventy artillery gun tubes per kilometer. German defeat in both theaters looked far less like an art than an exercise in a butcher’s shop: helpless raw materials being torn to shreds in a meat grinder.
The German pattern of making war, grounded in handiwork and tradition and old-world craftsmanship, had met a new pattern, one that had emerged from a matrix of industrial mass production and boundless confidence in technology. At El Alamein and Stalingrad, the German way of war found itself trapped in the grip of the machine.
Another aspect of Bewegungskrieg, independent command, also died in 1942. The new communications technology, an essential ingredient in the Wehrmacht’s earlier victories, now showed its dark side. Radio gave the high command a precise, real-time picture of even the most rapid and far-flung operations. It also allowed staff and political leaders alike to intervene in the most detailed and, from the perspective of field commanders, the most obnoxious way possible. The new face of German command, 1942-style, was evident in the absurd Haltbefehl to Rommel in the desert and the incessant debates between Hitler and Field Marshal Wilhelm List about how to seize the relatively minor Black Sea port of Tuapse.
At the height of the battle of Zorndorf in 1758, Frederick the Great ordered his cavalry commander, Friedrich Wilhelm von Seydlitz, to launch an immediate counterstroke on the left of the hard-pressed Prussian infantry. When it seemed late in coming, the king sent a messenger to Seydlitz with orders to march immediately, and with threats if he did not do so.
Seydlitz, however, was a commander who only moved when he judged the moment ripe. His response was part of the mental lexicon of every Ger man commander in the field in 1942: “Tell the king that after the battle my head is at his disposal,” he told the king’s messenger, “but meantime, I hope he will permit me to exercise it in his service.”
Those days were evidently long gone by 1942. Hitler symbolically took a number of heads in this campaign while the fight was still raging: Bock, List, Halder, and many others were retired. The new dispensation was most evident in the attenuated struggle within the Stalingrad Kessel. Paulus may have been cut off from supply, but he certainly wasn’t cut off from communication. From Hitler’s first intervention (his orders of November 22 that “Sixth Army will hedgehog itself and await further orders”) to the last (the January 24 refusal of permission to surrender), the Führer had been the de facto commander of the Stalingrad pocket.
This is not to exculpate Paulus’s pedestrian leadership before the disaster and his curious mixture of fatalism and submission to the Führer once he had been encircled. Indeed, Paulus may have welcomed Hitler’s interventions as a way of evading his own responsibility for the disaster. But Hitler did not kill the concept of flexible command. Radio did.
Like any deep-rooted historical phenomenon, Bewegungskrieg died hard. It resisted both the foibles of Hitler’s personality and the more complex systemic factors working against it. Those haunting arrows on the situation maps will remain fixed permanently to our historical consciousness as a reminder of what a near-run thing it was: the 13th Panzer Division, operating under a brand new commander, just a mile outside Ordzhonikidze and still driving forward; German pioneers in Operation Hubertus, bristling with flamethrowers and satchel charges, blasting one Soviet defensive position after another and driving grimly for the Volga riverbank just a few hundred yards away; Rommel’s right wing at Alam Halfa, a mere half-hour’s ride by armored car from Alexandria. Rarely have the advance guards of a subsequently defeated army ever come so tantalizingly close to their strategic objectives.
In the end, the most shocking aspect of 1942 is how absurdly close the Wehrmacht came to taking not one but all of its objectives for 1942: splitting the British Empire in two at Suez and paving the way for a drive into the Middle East, while seizing the Soviet Union’s principal oil fields, its most productive farmland, and a major share of its industries.
Originally published in the Autumn 2008 issue of Military History Quarterly. To subscribe, click here.
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0e6d823235daa94fcb16c95ed92cfeb8 | https://www.historynet.com/death-stalks-the-capital.htm | Death Stalks the Capital | Death Stalks the Capital
Gripped by the fear of an insidious plague stalking its streets, no one, rich or poor, was safe in the nation’s capital and largest city in the summer of 1793. Forty percent of its residents, among them President George Washington and many of the young republic’s founders, would flee the gruesome killer that would end the lives of 10 percent of the city’s population in just four months. Fueling the pervasive dread that shrouded Philadelphia’s 50,000 residents was the mysterious manner in which the disease known as yellow fever was transmitted.
An unusually wet spring followed by a hot summer fostered the proliferation of millions of mosquitoes that carried the devastating virus in the nation’s premier port city. Yellow fever’s grim and relentless march was in full force by early August. Only the cool weather of November would finally bring the epidemic to a halt.
In addition to Washington and his wife, Martha, Vice President John Adams, Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson, Treasury Secretary Alexander Hamilton and Representative James Madison’s future wife, Dolley Payne Todd, all lived in Philadelphia when the epidemic broke out, and it had a profound impact on each of their lives. Their experiences provide us with a window into 18th-century American medicine and disease, and the complex ways in which illness affected everyone from the poor to the elite. Despite the founders’ privileged status, which allowed them access to the best medical knowledge and trained physicians, those advantages did not necessarily provide protection from serious sickness.
Yellow fever is a fearsome disease, characterized in severe cases by high fever, chills, purplish bruises, jaundice and vomiting of black, blood-filled bile lasting a week to 10 days. Then, as now, there was no cure, but those who possessed a “strong constitution” and received good supportive care often recovered by letting nature take its course. Despite the disease’s horrific symptoms, modern data suggest that fatality rates varied greatly, ranging from 10 to 60 percent. People with compromised immune systems or underlying illness and those who lived in crowded conditions with poor sanitation and inadequate diets were most vulnerable. The virus arrived with an initial pool of infected humans, likely travelers on incoming ships from tropical foreign ports, but it was carried and spread through the sting of infected female Aedes aegypti mosquitoes, a fact that no one at the time understood. The insects bred in freshwater containers, including cisterns and puddles of rainwater in crowded urban centers, particularly in warm regions.
One of the Philadelphia epidemic’s earliest victims appears to have been Mary (Polly) Lear, the wife of President Washington’s personal secretary, Tobias Lear. Mrs. Lear, who was only in her mid 20s, lived with her husband in the president’s mansion on High Street. Martha Washington looked upon Polly as a surrogate daughter, since by 1793 all four of her children from her first marriage were dead. (Two had died in childhood, one as a teenager and one as a young adult.) Martha wrote to her niece of Polly’s demise: “We have had a melloncholy time for about a fortnight past Mrs. Lear was taken with a fever—a doctor was called in but to no purpose [and] her illness increased till the eighth day she was taken from us. . . . She is generally lamented by all that knew her…and always [previously] in good health.” Because of his close relationship with the Lears, Washington made an exception to his policy of not attending local funerals.
The wife and child of Thomas Jefferson’s coachman, Thomas Lapseley, whom Jefferson considered part of his extended “family,” also succumbed to the disease. Lapseley served as Jefferson’s driver from May to September 1793. John Adams, who had a tendency to hypochondria, fled Philadelphia early in the course of the epidemic to join his wife, Abigail, in Quincy, Mass., but they both experienced great anxiety about the fate of their son Thomas, a law student in Philadelphia. Washington, Jefferson and Adams had probably developed immunity to the disease through previous exposure to it. Not everyone was so fortunate.
Dolley Payne Todd was the wife of rising young lawyer John Todd Jr. The Todds lived in a comfortable three-story red brick home at Walnut and Fourth streets, with John’s law office on the first floor. When the epidemic spread, John sent Dolley, their 2-year-old son, John Payne Todd, and newborn, William Temple Todd, to a farm at Gray’s Ferry, an area in the countryside considered safer than the city. But John remained in town to care for his parents, who had contracted the disease, and conduct his law practice. He visited his wife and children when he could, but his parents were slipping away. Dolley poured out her anguish in a letter to her brother-in-law in nearby Darby: “A reveared Father in the Jaws of Death, & a Love’d Husband in perpetual danger. . . . I am almost destracted with distress & apprihension—is it two late for their removal? . . . I wish much to see you, but my Child is sick & I have no way of getting to you.”
By this time, John Todd was also sick, but after burying his parents, he rode out to see his wife and sons. He died that same day along with baby William, leaving 26-year-old Dolley and toddler John Payne alone to cope with their own bouts of the disease. They survived, and as John Harvey Powell noted in his classic study of the outbreak Bring Out Your Dead, Dolley’s “role in history began in the yellow fever [epidemic] of 1793.” An attractive widow, Dolley would marry future president James Madison less than a year after Todd’s death, but understandably her tragic experience left her always anxious about the health of family members.
Those who had the means to flee Philadelphia did so in the summer and fall of 1793, leaving the poor and infirm behind with the limited assistance of a core group of selfless city officials, physicians and private citizens. Mayor Matthew Clarkson faithfully went to his office daily, and he and his largely volunteer committee organized Philadelphia’s response to the epidemic. They supervised the temporary hospital at Bush Hill (once the vice presidential residence, which had been vacated by Adams in 1792), visited the sick and provided them with food, and made arrangements to transport fever victims to the hospital and those who died to Potter’s Field for burial. The compassionate devotion of Dr. Benjamin Rush, a signer of the Declaration of Independence, to his yellow fever patients, even after he himself became ill, was exemplary, but his adherence to the “heroic” medical practices of radical purging and excessive bloodletting undoubtedly hastened many of his patients to their deaths.
Social, economic and political life in Philadelphia ground to a standstill. President Washington encouraged government workers to leave the city for Germantown, about six miles away, which was not affected by the fever. Albeit reluctantly, Washington and the first lady also escaped at the height of the epidemic. Washington customarily left Philadelphia for Mount Vernon in the fall, but this time he seemed conflicted, informing Tobias Lear, “It was my wish to have continued there longer, but as Mrs. Washington was unwilling to leave me surrounded by the malignant fever wch. prevailed, I could not think of hazarding her and the Children [Martha’s grandchildren] any longer by my continuance in the City the house in which we lived being, in a manner, blockaded by the disorder…becoming every day more and more fatal.”
Thomas Jefferson’s government duties kept him in Philadelphia through early fall, but the secretary of state, whose passion was science, particularly the study of health, disease and medicine, carefully documented the details of the epidemic as it unfolded. He accurately described the symptoms of yellow fever as beginning “with a pain in the head, sickness in the stomach, with a slight rigor, fever, black vomiting and feces, and death from the 2nd to the 8th day.” During the crisis he corresponded with several political colleagues, including his close friend Virginia congressman James Madison, whom he kept updated on the numbers of people afflicted with the disease and those fleeing the city in the hope of outrunning the plague.
In early September 1793 Jefferson reported, “A malignant fever has been generated in the filth of Water street which gives great alarm. About 70 people had died of it two days ago, and as many more were ill of it. It has now got in to most parts of the city and is considered infectious. . . . Every body, who can, is flying from the city, and the panic of the country people is likely to add famine to the disease.” A week later he observed, “The yellow fever increases…and it is the opinion of the physicians there is no way of stopping it…no two agree in any one part of their process of cure.”
Jefferson’s pithy summing up of the situation reveals the helplessness of contemporary medicine to deal with the outbreak as well as Jefferson’s frequently displayed skepticism about the skills of doctors. His words also reflect the debate regarding the cause of the epidemic, which was attributed variously to the arrival of French immigrants from Haiti, vague “malignant” miasmas emanating from the ground and even exhalations from spoiled coffee grounds on the wharves of the city’s waterfront district. Philadelphia’s bustling port was crucial to the city’s economic success, and vessels filled with goods and passengers arrived and departed daily. The yellow fever debate was often aligned along political factions, with opinion sharply divided by Federalist and Republican affiliation. Led by Hamilton, most Federalists insisted that the yellow fever was “imported” and had arrived in Philadelphia from the West Indies through French citizens fleeing the French Revolution via Haiti (then Saint-Domingue). Jeffersonian Democratic-Republicans pointed to local domestic conditions as its cause.
In September many offices and most banks shut down, and Jefferson was left with only one clerk, which impeded his ability to carry on business. “An infection and mortal fever is broke out in this place,” Jefferson reported. “The deaths under it, the week before last, were about forty; the last week fifty. This week they will probably be about two hundred, and it is increasing. Every one is getting out of the city who can. The President…set out for Mount Vernon. . . . I shall go in a few days to Virginia. When we shall reassemble again may, perhaps, depend on the course of this malady.” The situation deteriorated rapidly, for the next day Jefferson wrote Madison, “The fever spreads faster. . . . It is in every square of the city. All flying who can.” Jefferson, accompanied by his younger daughter, Maria, finally left in mid-September for Monticello.
Meanwhile, Alexander Hamilton, Washington’s right-hand man, informed the president that he feared he was “in the first stages of the prevailing fever.” Washington expressed his concern but believed the “malignancy of the disorder is so much abated, as with proper & timely applications not much is to be dreaded.” He sent Hamilton and his wife, Elizabeth, a gift of six bottles of fine wine, and Martha cautioned Elizabeth in a letter to “take care of yourself as you know it is necessary for your family,” then added, “The President joins me in devoutly wishing Colo[.] Hamilton’s recovery.”
Jefferson’s reaction to Hamilton’s illness was not as generous. The two were bitter political enemies, and Jefferson, leader of the Republican faction, used the situation to attack Federalist Hamilton as a coward for exaggerating the degree of his illness, which Jefferson at first believed to be only a typical “autumnal fever.” However, Jefferson later admitted to Madison, “H. had truly the fever, is on the recovery, and pronounced out of danger.”
Hamilton received many letters from friends who wished “to join with All ranks in the general Joy diffused upon hearing of your safe recovery from the present Malignant complaint which prevails in Philadelphia and hath proved fatal to so many of its inhabitants.” Hamilton attributed his return to health primarily to the services of Dr. Edward Stevens, a rival of the Republican Dr. Rush. He publicly praised Stevens’ “natural treatments,” which emphasized cold-water baths and dosing with bark (quinine) and wine. More likely, the Hamiltons recovered because they had only mild cases of the disease and were otherwise in good health. Hamilton’s assertion that Stevens’ “mode of treating the disorder varies essentially from that which has been generally practiced” was a pointedly negative reference to Rush’s aggressive treatment of yellow fever.
Washington’s strong sense of political responsibility compelled him to return to the Philadelphia area before the epidemic had run its course. He left Mount Vernon at the end of October, met up with Jefferson in Baltimore and the two settled in Germantown to await the end of the epidemic and the subsequent return of Congress. In early November, Washington ignored the threat of contagion and left for Philadelphia. His public inspection of the streets on horseback helped restore the city’s confidence. Deciding the health crisis was resolving, Washington continued with plans for December congressional meetings. Members gradually returned over the next few weeks, although fear of yellow fever still hovered over Philadelphia’s inhabitants.
After a hard frost and the arrival of cold weather in November, Jefferson was able to report to his older daughter, Martha Randolph, that “the fever in Philadelphia has almost entirely disappeared.” Jefferson also informed Madison, “The Physicians say they have no new subjects since the rains. Some old ones are still to recover or die, and it is presumed that will close the tragedy. The inhabitants, refugees, are now flocking back generally.” No one seems to have made the connection between the end of mosquito season and the cessation of the epidemic.
That same month, Thomas Adams, who had fled Philadelphia for Woodbury, N.J., during the worst of the epidemic, assured his parents that he had heard “from the Best authority” that if proper precautions were taken by airing out homes and whitewashing walls (lime was regarded as a disinfectant), it would be safe to return to Philadelphia. He arrived there on November 19 and wrote his mother, “The idea of danger is dissipated in a moment when we perceive thousands walking in perfect security about their customary business, & no ill consequences ensuing from it.” He noted, however, “Many of the inhabitants are in mourning, which still reminds us of the occasion, but a short time will render it familiar.”
John Adams returned to the devastated city on November 30 and wrote Abigail that “Finding by all Accounts that the Pestilence was no more to be heard of…The principal Families have returned, the President is here, Several Members of Congress are arrived and Business is going on with some Spirit.” A few days later Adams observed with relief, “The Night before last We had a deep Snow, which will probably extinguish all remaining Apprehensions of Infection. We hear of no Sickness and all Seem at their Ease and without fear.” But Martha Washington, in a January 1794 letter to a niece, poignantly described the toll the disease took on Philadelphia’s citizens: “They have suffered so much that it can not be got over soon by those that was in the city—almost every family has lost some of their friends—and black seems to be general dress in the city.”
Epidemics provided the impetus for several early American healthcare initiatives. As early as 1777, during the Revolutionary War, Adams noted with satisfaction that the Continental Congress had passed legislation that expanded the army’s Hospital Department. He wrote approvingly to Abigail, “The expense will be great, but humanity overcame avarice.” Following another serious yellow fever outbreak during his presidency, Adams signed the Seaman’s Act of 1798, creating the Marine Hospital Service “to provide for the relief and maintenance of disabled seamen,” who were often exposed to contagious fevers and other public health threats in the course of their duties. The magnitude of the 1793 death toll in Philadelphia left a deep impression on Jefferson, and it probably influenced his 1801 decision to use his presidential power to fight another major disease, smallpox, through the support and dissemination of a safer, more effective vaccine developed by Edward Jenner. As he wrote to a physician in 1802, “I think it important…to bring the practice of the [smallpox] inoculation to the level of common capacities; for to give to this discovery the whole of value, we should enable the great mass of the people to practice it on their own families & without an expense, which they cannot meet.” In 1813 President Madison went one step further when he signed into law a statute to encourage wider smallpox vaccination, one of the nation’s earliest public health bills. The legislation was aimed at regulating the Jenner vaccine to protect Americans from unscrupulous purveyors who offered adulterated versions. The Vaccine Act of 1813 was the first federal law to oversee drug purity with an eye toward consumer protection.
The founders’ personal experiences led them to realize early on that government had compelling reasons to shoulder some new responsibilities with respect to the health and well-being of its citizenry. They saw first-hand that epidemics not only brought personal devastation, they also played havoc with commerce and political life. Washington, Jefferson, Adams and Madison clearly recognized that the social, economic and political health of the nation was inextricably tied up with the physical health of its people.
Jeanne Abrams is a professor at the University Libraries and the Center for Judaic Studies at the University of Denver. Her book, Revolutionary Medicine: The Founding Fathers and Mothers in Sickness and in Health (NYU Press), was named one of 2013’s “Top Books for Docs” by Medscape, part of the WebMD Health Professional Network.
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1e40627f73575b4a305d06875e51b0b4 | https://www.historynet.com/december-2020-readers-letters.htm | December 2020 Readers’ Letters | December 2020 Readers’ Letters
Wicked Towns Great article [“Dead Men for Breakfast,” by Ron Soodalter, August 2020] on wicked Wild West towns. One town that should be on any such list is Caldwell, Kan. In the five years of Caldwell’s cow town era (1879–84) 14 different men wore the town marshal badge. Before the end of that time half of these men would be dead. On Dec. 17, 1881, the Wichita Daily Times stated, “As we go to press, Hell is in session at Caldwell.” That pretty much sums it up.
Dennis Garstang Kansas City, Mo.
I’m a native Kansan and lived for years in Chapman, where our major rival in high school was Abilene, 12 miles west. I’m taking up your offer to “pick my poison,” and the town I was a little surprised to find left out was Caldwell. Its reputation for wickedness is fairly well documented. It was the first town in which to get a drink after going through Indian Territory and the last place to get a drink before going through Indian Territory. Midnight and Noonday, by former lawman G.D. Freeman, tells about the wild days there and gives a good picture of how hard a job it was to be a lawman in those days.
Back to Abilene. Here is some trivia I picked up in the audio commentary for Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in the West: The plans for the town being built when Claudia Cardinale gets off the train are a copy of the plans for the commercial district of Abilene. In seeing the skeletons of buildings, I recognized Abilene. It does not have one Main Street; the district is made of blocks.
Johnny Moore Sarasota, Fla.
Look at Junction, Texas. It was so bad/corrupt that the visiting judge would not ride into town without law enforcement support. The Kendall County Historical Commission had an event in Center Point, and one speaker was a retired Texas Ranger. He confirmed Texas had a few towns run by corrupt law enforcement, and Junction was way up on that list. Our event was on the Texas Rangers, and Center Point has the honor of having the most Rangers buried in its cemetery.
Graham Littrell Boerne, Texas
On Review Jon Guttman makes two errors in his review of the book Arizona’s Deadliest Gunfight, by Heidi J. Osselaer, in the August 2019 issue . He states that Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon was never filmed as an American Western. That is not true. In 1964 Martin Ritt directed The Outrage, starring Paul Newman, Claire Bloom, Laurence Harvey, Edward G. Robinson and a pre-–Star Trek William Shatner. Guttman also states the gunfight took place on the eve of America’s entry into World War I. The gunfight in question took place on Feb. 10, 1918. We declared war on April 6, 1917, and were deeply involved in combat by the time of the gunfight in Arizona.
Phillipp Phelan Muth Dogtown, Pa.
Fred Dodge Trying to find info on Fred J. Dodge, author of Under Cover for Wells Fargo. Great book, but we, the Kendall County Historical Commission, cannot document enough to get a historical marker for Dodge and his story. He retired to Boerne, Texas, and had a ranch in Kendall County. He is buried in the Boerne Cemetery, but we need more verified history. He is mentioned in J.R. Sanders’ “Train Robbery at Mound Valley,” in the April 2020 Wild West.
Graham Littrell Boerne, Texas
Historian Casey Tefertiller responds: Fred Dodge is one of the most debated people of the Old West. When did he become a Wells Fargo agent? I have debated this at length with my friend John Boessenecker, who believes Dodge greatly inflated his memoirs. I tend to think Dodge was more accurate, within the range of normal memory inflation and loss. The big question is whether Dodge was affiliated with Wells Fargo during his time in Tombstone. He was, of course, hired as a WF investigator shortly after. To me it seems he would not have gotten the WF job if he had not been affiliated with WF in Tombstone. In addition, he wrote letters to Wyatt Earp and John Clum, telling them he had been undercover for WF in Tombstone. It would be one thing to enhance a memoir and another to lie to your old friends—who seemed to already know of his role. There are no known real records to confirm Dodge’s role for WF. They could well have been lost in the 1906 fire in San Francisco. However, there are a couple of brief newspaper mentions tying Dodge to WF. Dodge later swore on a statement he had been affiliated with WF for years, dating back to Tombstone.
Bat’s Salary In Michael F. Blake’s “Roosevelt’s Posse” article, in the October 2019 issue, he states Bat Masterson was appointed deputy U.S. marshal for the Southern District of New York with a salary “not to exceed $2,000 per annum.” A couple of paragraphs below it states, “Regarding his duties as a deputy marshal, it seems all Masterson did was show up and collect his $2,000 monthly paycheck.” Can you clarify what Masterson’s annual salary was?
David Paul Pineville, La.
Editor responds: Good catch—our oversight. His annual (not monthly) salary was $2,000.
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eef380c755a29ba91c591b1dc4f254b1 | https://www.historynet.com/deputy-u-s-marshal-true-grit-novel-two-films-real-life.htm | The Deputy U.S. Marshal Had True Grit In the Novel, Two Films and Real Life | The Deputy U.S. Marshal Had True Grit In the Novel, Two Films and Real Life
Indian Territory marshals had their work cut out for them.
John Wayne, as Deputy U.S. Marshal Reuben J. “Rooster” Cogburn, thunders across the screen, wearing a patch over his left eye, holding a six-gun in his left hand, a Winchester in his right and his horse’s rein between his teeth. No one who has seen the 1969 movie True Grit can forget that image. In the 2010 remake of True Grit Jeff Bridges, as Cogburn, wears a patch over his right eye and seems more self-destructive than the Wayne portrayal, though just as proud and ruthless toward outlaws.
Together the films, based on the 1968 novel by Arkansan Charles Portis, have presented moviegoers with the respective filmmakers’ vision of life as a deputy U.S. marshal in the Western District of Arkansas (which included Indian Territory, present-day Oklahoma) in about 1878. How true to the realities of that time and place are the two movies? Well, they do give audiences a touch of authenticity, but they are, after all, both Hollywood productions, and anyone who has ever watched a Western knows to expect a few anachronisms (such as Wayne’s Cogburn carrying a Model 1892 Winchester carbine). Author Portis, exercising his right as a novelist, furnished a few of his own fictional flourishes.
Portis’ novel centers on teenager Mattie Ross (who narrates the tale from her later years) and her quest to avenge her father’s death by “hiring” hard-drinking Rooster Cogburn to find the murderer, Tom Chaney. Soon joining Mattie and Rooster is a Texas Ranger named LaBoeuf (pronounced “LaBeef”), and the trio forges into Indian Territory to hunt its quarry. Adventure, injury and death mark the journey. In due time they bring Chaney to justice (by way of a gun) and treat his evil cohorts to the same medicine one way or another. Both films follow that basic story line. Western film veteran Wayne brought his own familiar flourishes to the screen in 1969, making the movie a hit and earning him his only Best Actor Oscar. Bridges, who did not try to step into Wayne’s boots when portraying the gruff and gritty Cogburn more than 40 years later, garnered a Best Actor Oscar nomination.
Although I was unable to get mediashy Portis, 77, to discuss his novel, he was almost certainly influenced by S.W. Harman’s Hell on the Border, a 728-page reference book published by Phoenix Publishing Co. out of Fort Smith, Ark., in 1898. The first printing found few buyers due to its length and $2 price tag. However, Harman’s tome proved a lasting tribute and composite history of the federal court in the Western District of Arkansas under U.S. District Judge Isaac Charles Parker—known to history as “Hanging Judge Parker.” Harman was a defense attorney in his court.
Ohio-born Parker presided from May 1875 until his death in November 1896. His courthouse was at Fort Smith, but his vast jurisdiction covered all of Indian Territory and a sliver of present-day Kansas. He did not seek to be liked, but people largely respected his decisions. His predecessor’s bad relations with the tribal nations meant Parker had to act more diplomatically than most in his profession. Three years before Parker took the bench, U.S. Commissioner James O. Churchill had committed the heavy-handed act of sending armed deputies into the Cherokee Nation in a heated dispute over jurisdiction. The resulting conflict remains the bloodiest day in the history of the U.S. Marshals Service. Eight deputy or special deputy U.S. marshals were killed in what became known as the Going Snake Massacre (after a district in the nation). Because of the size and unruly nature of his jurisdiction, the sheer number of tribal nations and the attractiveness of the land to outlaws, Judge Parker knew he had to take a disciplinarian stance yet remain somewhat flexible. With his imposing looks and searing gaze, he was the perfect jurist for his time.
In his novel Portis presents Parker as a stern judge. But he was actually more merciful than not. He tried some 14,000 cases, 344 of which were capital crimes, and sentenced 160 people to the gallows, later pardoning almost half of the condemned. The fictional Mattie Ross comments that the judge watched every hanging from an upper window in the courthouse. But that, too, was a fiction. Parker was in court during a number of the hangings, and Fort Smith historian Jerry Akins notes there wasn’t even a window through which the judge might observe the gallows.
Mattie Ross comments that Fort Smith authorities later walled off the gallows and distributed tickets to hangings to curtail the public spectacle. This was true, as the U.S. marshals sought better crowd control. Mattie also mentions “a thin bearded man named George Maledon,” the special deputy U.S. marshal known as “the Prince of Hangmen.” Her description of him is correct, though he was not the only special deputy to perform hangman duties during the days of the Parker court. German-born Maledon’s skills in carpentry and engineering, which he mastered in the Army, translated well to his hangman duties from 1873 until 1891, but he also had other duties. He escorted prisoners out of state at least once—a trip to Detroit undertaken by the U.S. marshal in Portis’ novel. The author probably learned of that incident from an article in the Fort Smith Elevator, while most other segments involving Parker and Maledon appear in Hell on the Border.
Portis adequately explains the wide jurisdiction of the U.S. marshal. In the novel Rooster Cogburn answers for his arrests in court and, in a roundabout way, answers the question, Why couldn’t the sheriff do this? In a territory the U.S. marshals maintained federal jurisdiction. The book also alludes to the fact that Texas Ranger LaBoeuf, limited to that state’s jurisdiction, could not simply ride from there and directly take jurisdiction but that he could be deputized as a posse member. In Texas the U.S. Marshals Service and the Rangers worked together on many cases, including the 1878 pursuit of outlaw Sam Bass.
During Parker’s tenure the U.S. marshals at Fort Smith employed more than 100 deputies. When Mattie seeks out the best deputy U.S. marshal for her purposes in the novel and films, the Sebastian County sheriff rattles off the names of William Waters, a half-Comanche tracker; L.T. Quinn, who usually brings in his quarry alive; and Rooster Cogburn, described as “pitiless” and “double-tough.” Mattie instantly takes to Rooster, perhaps because, in the sheriff’s words, “fear don’t enter into his thinking.”
Was there really a Rooster Cogburn in the Old West? Not exactly. Cogburn is reportedly a composite of several reallife lawmen. Parker-era Deputy Calvin Whitson did lose an eye, though he probably didn’t wear an eye patch. (As a matter of fact, the fictional Cogburn of Portis’ novel had only one eye but did not wear an eye patch; Wayne’s big-screen Rooster introduced that accessory.)Whitson’s son was in the business first and served as a posse member in June 1888 when Deputy U.S. Marshal John Phillips went to arrest two outlaw brothers near Eufaula, Indian Territory. The fugitives shot down both lawmen, and in 1889 the devastated Cal, then in his mid-40s, joined the U.S. Marshals Service. Just as the fictional Cogburn had suffered an eye injury during the Civil War, Whitson had suffered his while serving in the Union cavalry in 1864. It calcified, growing worse until a Fort Smith physician removed the eye in 1890. Whitson, one-eyed like Cogburn and grieving like Mattie, served at Fort Smith no more than five years.
Cogburn’s reckless but fearless nature calls to mind real-life lawman Deputy U.S. Marshal Henry “Heck” Thomas. Serving from 1893 to 1902 in Indian and Oklahoma territories (they were separate jurisdictions for a time), Thomas tracked down outlaws Bill Doolin and Al Jennings and became one of the famed “Three Guardsmen” of Oklahoma (along with Chris Madsen and Bill Tilghman). Thomas, like many of his contemporaries, was a field (not administrative) deputy, earning fees in lieu of a regular salary. Yet by 1901 he was pulling down more than any other field deputy in Oklahoma Territory—even approaching the $2,000 salary made by Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal William D. Fossett.
A possible model for the 2010 film portrayal of Cogburn was Deputy U.S. Marshal Bass Reeves, an ex-slave who worked as a federal peace officer in Indian Territory for 32 years. Reeves was a crack shot known to wear disguises and collaborate with the tribal nations, especially the Creek. He pursued outlaws relentlessly and was considered one of the bravest marshals. Had he been a character in Portis’ novel, perhaps Mattie would have chosen Bass over Rooster. Though Portis made no direct reference to Reeves when penning the novel during the 1960s, recent years have seen a surge of interest in the fearless black deputy U.S. marshal.
Indian Territory, as the book and films made clear, was a place for wanted men to hide out. The Dalton, Younger and James brothers frequented the “Outlaw Trail” that ran through the southeastern section of the territory and likely spent time at “Robbers Cave” in the Creek Nation. Train robber Bill Doolin, the man Heck Thomas tracked down, was an Arkansan with a notable hooked nose and drooping moustache and was a perpetual drifter like Tom Chaney.
Indian Territory itself does take on a new, more picturesque look in the two films. Director Henry Hathaway shot the 1969 version mostly in southwestern Colorado and in the Sierra Nevadas near Bishop, Calif. (thus the decidedly non-Eastern snow-covered rocky peaks, which had also co-starred in the 1960 Wayne movie North to Alaska), while directors Joel and Ethan Coen shot the 2010 film in New Mexico and Texas. The Coens chose Granger, Texas, to stand in for old Fort Smith, Ark. While Granger had perhaps too many later brick buildings, it also had empty lots on which set hands could construct wood buildings. Watch the hanging scene in the 2010 True Grit, and you’ll spot a two-story brick wall of 20th-century design behind the gallows. No matter. The engaging plot and gritty portrayal of a deputy U.S. marshal made that movie a delight—as was the case with the earlier movie and the novel that inspired them both.
Originally published in the February 2012 issue of Wild West. To subscribe, click here.
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4d9b0a16b154e0dda2031d476ddb02a2 | https://www.historynet.com/desert-one-documentary-chronicles-challenges-lessons-of-operation-eagle-claw.htm | ‘Desert One’ Documentary Chronicles Challenges, Lessons of Operation Eagle Claw | ‘Desert One’ Documentary Chronicles Challenges, Lessons of Operation Eagle Claw
Nineteen-year-old Sgt. Kevin Hermening had never heard of Iran when he learned he was headed to the U.S. Embassy in Tehran as a Marine Security Guard in 1979.
Originally anticipating an assignment to the U.S. Embassy in Germany, Hermening visited the library to learn more about his new destination.
“I thought a little bit to myself, ‘Wow, I’m going into a dangerous place but I’ve been trained, I’m a Marine, I’m a young guy,’” Hermening told Military Times. “You don’t get trained to four months later get captured and held for 444 days.”
On Nov. 4, 1979, Hermening was at the U.S. Embassy in Tehran when Iranian protesters stormed the building and seized him and nearly 100 others in what is known as the Iranian hostage crisis.
In an attempt to rescue 52 American hostages, then-President Jimmy Carter approved a covert mission involving elements from the Navy, Army, Air Force and Marines.
But the operation — dubbed Operation Eagle Claw — was unsuccessful and aborted.
Now, an upcoming documentary directed by Oscar-winning filmmaker Barbara Kopple is examining each step of the mission with commentary from Hermening and other hostages, Iranian hostage-takers, service members who participated in Operation Eagle Claw, Carter and other administration officials.
“Desert One” also includes satellite phone recordings of Carter speaking with military leaders during the mission that have never been released until now.
“It finally tells the story from a lot of aspects,” retired Air Force Chief Master Sgt. Richard “Taco” Sanchez told Military Times. “I think people can look at it and go, ‘Now I better understand.’ Because there was many years afterwards that we couldn’t say nothing.”
“There’s things that we who flew the operation didn’t know until I saw the movie, of what Carter was doing and such,” said Sanchez, who was then a staff sergeant assigned to the 8th Special Operations Squadron.
The mission required a minimum of six operational helicopters. But to be safe, two more were added. A total of eight Navy RH-53D helicopters would launch from the aircraft carrier Nimitz, which was positioned in the Arabian Sea.
The helicopters would then rendezvous with six C-130 aircraft from Oman at a salt flat called Desert One approximately 200 miles from Tehran.
From there, rescue teams would board the helicopters and travel to a mountain location just outside of Tehran before quietly driving to the Embassy in trucks, retired Army Lt. Gen. William “Jerry” Boykin — then a major and Delta Force member ― recounted in the film.
The objective, Boykin said, was to locate the hostages and take them to a nearby soccer field, where they would connect with the helicopters and evacuate.
“The helicopters would land in the soccer stadium next door,” Boykin said. “We’d blow a hole in the wall of the Embassy, get those hostages. Go into the soccer stadium, load them up, and we would all take off.”
“So that was the plan,” he said.
Although those selected to train for the mission suspected there was some correlation to the hostage crisis, it wasn’t until April 23, 1980, that then-Maj. Gen. James Vaught confirmed the goal was to bring the American hostages back to the U.S.
“When Vaught said that ― you talk about American pride, it was off the chain,” Sanchez said. “Everybody knew we had one mission and we were going to make it happen.”
On April 24, they were given the green light.
“President Carter came over the satellite radio and said, ‘It’s a go. Godspeed and bring the hostages home.’ That was your last and final pep talk before we took off,” Sanchez said.
The film then details how the mission went awry, using animation to illustrate various mishaps at Desert One. First, mechanical problems plagued one of the helicopters, and then another encountered a dust storm, preventing them both from arriving at Desert One.
That meant the mission was down to six helicopters ― a number still considered adequate for operational success.
But when another helo suffered a hydraulic problem the mission was aborted, and plans to attempt it once more the following day were penciled in.
As one of the helicopters repositioned itself for refueling, however, a “brown out” from swirling sand caused the helicopter to veer off course and crash into a C-130 aircraft.
A total of eight U.S. service members died.
“It wasn’t until all the airplanes got on the ground in Oman that we actually knew which crew was lost, and who in the crew,” Sanchez said. “We had to do a headcount, which is the toughest headcount you’ll ever do in your life.
“You sit down and then it hits you: we failed. We left 52 American hostages in Iran, and eight of our brothers.”
Three Marines were lost during the mission: Sgt. John D. Harvey, Cpl. George N. Holmes, Jr., and Staff Sgt. Dewey L. Johnson. So were five airmen: Capt. Richard L. Bakke, Capt. Harold L. Lewis, Tech. Sgt. Joel C. Mayo, Capt. Lynn D. McIntosh, and Capt. Charles T. McMillan II.
One of the film’s most gruesome aspects includes the imagery of charred bodies at the scene of the accident.
“I didn’t like the bodies,” Sanchez said. “That’s a tough piece for me because I know each one of them.”
Although Kopple acknowledged the unsettling nature of the scene, she stands by her decision to include it in the film.
“If you don’t see it, you don’t feel it, you let it go,” Kopple told Military Times. “We can’t sanitize what’s happened. People have to know the harsh, raw truth in order to understand how important it is for the people who were willing to sacrifice their lives for what they believed in.”
Despite the tragedy, Operation Eagle Claw was the impetus for several critical changes across special operations, including paving the way for the creation of U.S. Special Operations Command in 1987.
“Out of the ashes came the phoenix,” Sanchez said. “I could tell you unequivocally, there’s no doubt in anybody’s mind that was on that mission ― had we succeeded, there would be no special operations … nothing that we see today.”
Additionally, the survivors of the mission vowed to support the 17 children who lost their fathers during Eagle Claw, an initiative that led to the birth of the Special Operations Warrior Foundation, which has since funded the education of nearly 900 American children who have lost parents assigned to SOCOM.
The operation also served as measure of hope for the hostages, who learned about the attempted mission two months after the fact, Hermening said, when a sports newspaper given to the captives included a letter-to-the-editor referencing those who died in the rescue attempt.
“There was more than just a little bit of an element of success in the area of this rescue mission,” Hermening said. “And that was the fact that when we learned that they had tried despite the tragedy in the desert…that gave us the hope, allowed us to withstand another eight months.”
Despite the more than 50,000 “Welcome Home” letters Hermening received labeling the hostages “heroes,” he still doesn’t view it that way.
“We weren’t heroes, we were just victims of circumstances,” Hermening said.
“We were there doing our job, and we got caught up in a bad situation. … There were heroes in the hostage crisis, and they were the eight men whose bodies were left behind.”
“Desert One” is scheduled for an Aug. 21 release in more than 100 theaters across the U.S. An on-demand digital release is also slated for Sept. 4 on various platforms, including Apple TV+, Amazon, Google Play, YouTube and more.
Check the schedule to see if the film is playing in a theater near you.
Article first published on Military Times, our sister publication.
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3bd08be2a1e542a86717aac2171e3cad | https://www.historynet.com/desperate-stand-brickyard-fight-gettysburg.htm | Desperate Stand: What The Brickyard Fight Meant At Gettysburg | Desperate Stand: What The Brickyard Fight Meant At Gettysburg
For more than a century, the fighting that occurred in and around John Kuhn’s brickyard was most often a mere footnote in the history of the July 1863 Battle of Gettysburg. Two highly regarded 20th-century histories offer telling examples. General Edward J. Stackpole made no mention of the so-called Brickyard Fight in his popular 1956 book They Met at Gettysburg, and Edwin B. Coddington devoted only two sentences to it in his classic 1968 account, The Gettysburg Campaign: A Study in Command. And so it went, year after year, in book after book about the most chronicled battle in American history.
Why exactly has the Brickyard Fight—which resulted in more than 770 Union and Confederate casualties—been neglected for so long in histories of the battle? The answer is twofold.
First, the action took place on the afternoon of July 1. Historians and popular memory have traditionally devoted more attention to the battle’s second and third days at the expense of the first. The July 1 battle has frequently been depicted as a prelude to more important events, an engagement that involved only portions of the Army of the Potomac and the Army of Northern Virginia, whereas both armies were present in full on the next two days. The first day was also a clear Confederate victory, which contrasted with the Union successes on the second and third days. In addition, the July 1 fighting occurred on grounds remote from the rest of the battlefield, with landmarks that received less attention than the famous sites of the second and third days. Likewise, the most memorable images captured by the photographers who visited Gettysburg in the aftermath of the battle—most notably depictions of the dead—were taken on the southern portion of the battlefield.
Everlasting Tribute: The Brickyard Fight, from an expert’s heart to our eyes
As the first day was seen as subordinate to the other two days, so too was the fighting in Kuhn’s brickyard considered by many an inconsequential rearguard action at the end of a long day of more significant combat. It involved only a single Union brigade and two Confederate brigades, unlike the many brigades and divisions of several corps that fought elsewhere on July 1. And perhaps most significant, no after-action reports by the Union brigade and regimental commanders were included in the massive Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, leaving their story untold and denying historians significant resources needed to tell it.
A key debate surrounds the engagement, however: Could the Confederates, after driving the Union troops from the brickyard and elsewhere through the town of Gettysburg to Cemetery Hill, have pressed their advantage and taken the hill the evening of July 1, thereby depriving the Union army of the high ground it successfully defended the next two days? No doubt, by slowing the attack of two of the last fresh Confederate brigades in the Brickyard Fight, a single Union brigade bought time for other Federal units to make good their escape to the shelter of Cemetery Hill, consequently making a late-afternoon Confederate assault on the hill more unlikely.
(Library of Congress) When the 154th N.Y.’s Amos Humiston’s body was found after the battle near the brickyard, the lone clue to his identity was the ambrotype of three children he held. His name was finally learned after a vast publicity drive. (Courtesy Mark Dunkelman) Sergeant Amos Humiston (Courtesy Mark Dunkelman) The True Price of War A particular Brickyard Fight combatant would become not only one of the battle’s most recognized casualties but also of the entire Civil War. After the respective armies left Gettysburg, the corpse of a Union soldier was found on Judge Samuel R. Russell’s property, not far from the brickyard. There was nothing on the dead man’s body to identify him, but clutched in his hand was an ambrotype of three children. John Francis Bourns, a Philadelphia physician in Gettysburg to help tend the wounded, realized the photograph was a single sad clue to the identity of the devoted father and his family. Back in Philadelphia, Bourns used the ambrotype to initiate a publicity campaign to discover just who the unknown soldier was. A month after the story first appeared in a newspaper, the corpse was identified as Sergeant Amos Humiston of the 154th New York, whose wife, Philinda, and three children—Frank, Alice, and Fred—lived in Portville, N.Y. The touching incident soon inspired a flood of prose, poetry, and song commemorating Sergeant Humiston and his “Children of the Battle Field.” After the war ended, Bourns led a drive to establish a soldiers’ orphans’ home in Gettysburg, which was opened on Cemetery Hill in 1866 with Humiston’s widow and orphans among the first residents. –M.H.D.
The Brickyard Fight is also worth remembering for the human cost. It was not a peripheral skirmish with few casualties on the fringe of the battle, but a hard-fought action that cost the Union troops dearly in soldiers killed, wounded, and captured—with one regiment, the 154th New York, suffering one of the highest casualty rates (77 percent) endured during the war. And a particular casualty of the fighting there, Sergeant Amos Humiston of the 154th New York (see sidebar, below) became the subject of one of the most unforgettable human-interest stories to emerge from the battle and the Civil War as a whole. John Kuhn’s brickyard was situated on North Stratton Street in the northeastern outskirts of Gettysburg. Kuhn’s two-story brick house (today 221 North Stratton Street) faced the street. Beside it was a carriage gateway that provided access to a five-acre pentagonal lot, which was enclosed by sturdy rail fences. Small portions of the yard near the house were fenced off for livestock and a garden. Behind stood the brickworks—a wooden barn, dome-shaped brick kilns, and a pug mill. A small stream, Stevens Run, traversed the southeastern portion of the yard, providing a plentiful and convenient source of water.
Kuhn, his wife, five children, and two teenaged boys—perhaps apprentice brick makers—occupied the house, built in the spring of 1860. The neighborhood continued to expand that year, spurred at least in part by the availability of Kuhn’s bricks, but the cluster of houses still occupied a largely rural landscape apart from the main town. On the slope to the north of the brickyard, and in the flats to the east and south, wheat fields ripened in the summer heat.
Could the Confederates have pressed their advantage and taken Cemetery Hill on July 1, thereby depriving the Union Army of the high ground?
It was upon this bucolic and peaceful tapestry that the sun rose on July 1, 1863. By nightfall, the neighborhood had been transformed by the ravages of war. The soldiers of Union Colonel Charles R. Coster’s 1st Brigade awoke early that morning at their camps near the old convent at Emmitsburg, Md., about 11 miles south of Gettysburg. For the previous three weeks, since leaving their camps in Stafford County, Va., the men had alternated grueling, hot, dusty marches with welcome periods of rest. On entering Maryland, they were delighted to receive a warm welcome from Union sympathizers along their path, who plied them with food. When they arrived at the Emmitsburg convent—which had been founded decades before by Elizabeth Ann Seton, now a Roman Catholic saint—the nuns served them soft bread and sweet milk.
Coster’s brigade belonged to Brig. Gen. Adolph von Steinwehr’s 2nd Division in Maj. Gen. O.O. Howard’s 11th Corps. The unit consisted of four volunteer infantry regiments: The 27th Pennsylvania, composed almost exclusively of Germans from Philadelphia and commanded by Lt. Col. Lorenz Cantador; the 73rd Pennsylvania, another largely German outfit from Philadelphia, commanded by Captain Daniel F. Kelly; the 134th New York, raised mainly in Schoharie and Schenectady counties and commanded by Lt. Col. Allan H. Jackson; and the 154th New York, recruited in Cattaraugus and Chautauqua counties and commanded by Lt. Col. Daniel B. Allen.
From Cemetery Hill they could see billowing clouds of gun smoke to the north. a battle was raging, and they were soon to be thrust into it.
The 23-year-old Coster had joined the brigade less than two months before, in mid-May, when his regiment, the 134th New York, was transferred from the 2nd Brigade to the 1st. He assumed command of the brigade by seniority on June 1 when its long-time commander, Colonel Adolphus Buschbeck, departed on a leave of absence. A native of New York City, Coster had served briefly as a private in the 7th New York State Militia before becoming a first lieutenant in the 12th U.S. Infantry. He was wounded at the Battle of Gaines Mill during the Peninsula Campaign, after which he was commended for bravery and promoted to captain. When he was commissioned colonel of the 134th New York in October 1862, the regiment’s rank and file initially dismissed him as a “Fifth Avenue big bug,” but he soon earned their admiration and respect. As a brigade commander, however, Coster was not well known to his three other regiments—and he was untried.
Morale and esprit de corps were weak in the 1st Brigade. Under Buschbeck, it had made a gallant but brief and futile stand in opposing Confederate Maj. Gen. Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson’s epic flank attack at Chancellorsville back in May. The resulting high casualty count and Union defeat in that battle had depressed spirits among the men. The rest of the army and the Northern public at large had heaped derision and calumny on the 11th Corps for the rout at Jackson’s hands. Ethnic animosity worsened the situation. The large numbers of German-Americans in the corps were the targets of prejudice from within the army and without, and ethnic tensions simmered between the 1st Brigade’s largely native-born American New York regiments and the “damned Dutchmen” from Pennsylvania.
On the morning of July 1, Coster’s brigade was weakened when 50 men from each of the four regiments were ordered to make a reconnaissance to Sabillasville, Md., about six miles west of Emmitsburg. Under the command of Major Lewis D. Warner of the 154th New York, the 200 men left at 5 a.m., unaware of their fortune in drawing the assignment. Coster now had 1,259 men at his disposal.
The 1st Brigade left Emmitsburg about 8 a.m. under scattered showers that gradually gave way on a gentle southerly breeze to a humid, sunlit day. Leaving their knapsacks and baggage behind but retaining their haversacks, the men marched north on the Emmitsburg Road, crossed into Pennsylvania, and eventually followed the Taneytown Road north to Gettysburg. The infantry kept to the fields to allow the artillery and ammunition trains to hurry forward on the muddy and stony roads.
When the brigade crossed Marsh Creek about five miles south of Gettysburg, it came within earshot of the rattle and roar of musketry and cannon fire. When orders came to hurry the 11th Corps to Gettysburg, the men rushed forward on the double-quick. The 1st Brigade arrived about 3 p.m. Coster placed his two New York regiments along the Baltimore Pike on the northeast end of Cemetery Hill, in and around Evergreen Cemetery, in support of Captain Michael Wiedrich’s Battery I, 1st New York Light Artillery. The 73rd Pennsylvania was deployed as skirmishers at the base of the hill, while the 27th Pennsylvania was pushed farther into the town to occupy buildings along High Street.
(Courtesy Ron Coddington) “The Disability is Permanent” Despite receiving seven wounds in a matter of minutes during the brickyard fighting, including getting struck by an 18-inch piece of railroad iron fired from a Confederate cannon, Private James Brownlee of the 134th New York survived the Civil War and lived another 41 years. Serious wounds, however, to his bladder, sternum, and right lung incapacitated him for life. He spent extended recovery periods at Gettysburg’s Camp Letterman and then hospitals in New York City and Albany. In 1867, one of his doctors reported: “The right lung is almost totally useless. I can detect no respiratory murmur, and he has a cough and feeble pulse. In my opinion, the disability is permanent.” Brownlee was 62 when he died from a stroke in 1904.
From Cemetery Hill they could see billowing clouds of gun smoke to the north, beyond the town’s spires and rooftops, marking the lines of contending troops. A battle was raging, and they were soon to be thrust into it. Their opponents would be part of Maj. Gen. Jubal Early’s Division of Lt. Gen. Richard S. Ewell’s Second Corps, which had marched 12 miles south that day from Heidlersburg to reach the battlefield about 3 p.m.
Early’s Division consisted of a brigade of three Virginia regiments commanded by Brig. Gen. William Smith; a brigade of six Georgia regiments commanded by Brig. Gen. John B. Gordon; and the two brigades that would engage in the Brickyard Fight: the Louisiana Tigers of Brig. Gen. Harry Thompson Hays and Brig. Gen. Robert F. Hoke’s North Carolina Brigade, under the command of Colonel Isaac Erwin Avery while Hoke recovered from wounds suffered at Chancellorsville. Confident, cocky, battle-hardened veterans filled both Hays’ and Avery’s brigades.
The previous month, Early’s Division had left its camps near Fredericksburg, Va., and proceeded via Culpeper, Winchester, and Martinsburg to Shepherdstown. After crossing the Potomac River and traversing Maryland to the west of South Mountain, the Confederate contingent entered Pennsylvania, headed for York, whose mayor surrendered the city on June 28. Early was preparing for a strike on Harrisburg, but on June 29 he received an order from Ewell to reverse course. During a midday lull in the fighting July 1, the Union 11th Corps reached Gettysburg, and Howard took command by seniority of the combined Union forces on the field. Major General Carl Schurz in turn assumed control of the corps and moved its 1st and 3rd Divisions through the town to the plains to its north, where they formed to the right of the 1st Corps. The 2nd Division, consisting of Coster’s 1st Brigade and Colonel Orland Smith’s 2nd Brigade, was held in reserve on Cemetery Hill.
The thin line of the 11th Corps stretched all the way from the vicinity of the Mummasburg Road northwest of Gettysburg, where it failed to connect securely to the 1st Corps’ line and veered from it at a right angle, across the Carlisle Road to Blocher’s Knoll and the Harrisburg Road—its right flank exposed and unprotected. In the coming fight, the two 11th Corps divisions would be roughly equal in numbers with their Confederate foes, but they were hampered by two distinct disadvantages. First, they were poorly positioned on generally flat terrain that offered no defensive protection. Second, the elevation of Generals Howard and Schurz had caused a ripple effect among underlings, giving new assignments to officers as a grave crisis loomed. As historian Harry Pfanz noted in analyzing the situation the 11th Corps faced that day: “In retrospect, the result seems preordained.”
Wounded Union soldiers lined the sidewalks, some crawling on their hands and knees, others seeking shelter between buildings and in alleys
Ewell’s Corps had two brigades of Georgians: Gordon’s of Early’s Division and Brig. Gen. George Doles’ Brigade of Maj. Gen. Robert E. Rodes’ Division. Doles’ Brigade struck the 11th Corps line in the vicinity of the Carlisle Road and sent two brigades of Yankees reeling in retreat toward the town. Meanwhile, Gordon’s Brigade rushed to attack the exposed Union right flank on Blocher’s Knoll and after some bitter fighting drove the other two 11th Corps brigades toward Gettysburg as well. At about the same time, Hill’s forces were driving the 1st Corps from its positions west of Gettysburg back into the town.
When Schurz deployed the 11th Corps, he asked Howard for reinforcements to bolster his lines. Howard refused, until given no choice but to relent when Gordon’s Georgians threatened the corps’ right flank at Blocher’s Knoll. Coster’s brigade was now being sent to Schurz’s aid.
Coster’s men headed down Baltimore Street into Gettysburg at a quickstep, with the 134th New York in the lead, followed by the 154th New York. They were soon joined by the two Pennsylvania regiments. It certainly didn’t help that the sidewalks were lined with wounded Union soldiers, some crawling on their hands and knees, others seeking shelter between buildings and in alleys, others carried by comrades to the rear. Cavalrymen clung to wounded horses.
At some point during the march, however, a decision was made to place the 73rd Pennsylvania in reserve near the town’s railroad station, leaving Coster with about 977 men. His three remaining regiments crossed the railroad tracks and then Stevens Run on a stone bridge to reach the brickyard. As they arrived, a cannonball struck the corner of Kuhn’s house and sent a shower of bricks flying, striking a member of the 154th. The 134th formed the brigade’s right flank, and the 154th the center, aligned along the fence marking the brickyard’s northern boundary, in front of the brick kilns. Coster was with the 27th Pennsylvania, which formed on the left, where he could look down the slope and see his two New York regiments. Noticing a gap between the 134th and 154th, Lt. Col. Cantador ordered a battalion of the 27th to plug it, but in the noise and chaos, only 50 men under 1st Lt. Adolphus D. Vogelbach complied.
The brigade’s position was perilously poor. Both flanks were unsupported and in danger of envelopment. The terrain was disadvantageous. To the north of the brickyard the ground rose abruptly, which hindered sight in the direction from which the enemy would be coming. It didn’t help that the hillock was covered in wheat ready for harvesting. By the time they were seen by the 154th, the Rebels were only 220 yards away.
Vindication of a Valiant Struggle In 1864 the Gettysburg Battlefield Memorial Association was formed. It would be responsible for the postwar purchase and preservation of battlefield acreage, a network of roads linking various sites, and placement of markers specifying the positions of the troops. Among the sites purchased was one less than three-quarters of an acre running from North Stratton Street along the northern edge of Kuhn’s Brickyard, following the lines of the 27th Pennsylvania and 154th New York. It was named Coster Avenue. Meanwhile, state commissions funded monuments to the various regiments that fought at Gettysburg. After New York State erected the 21-foot-tall monument to the 154th New York on Coster Avenue, a party of regimental veterans and their families and friends dedicated it on July 1, 1890—the Brickyard Fight’s 27th anniversary. For years thereafter, veterans of the regiment made pilgrimages to the monument. Because Coster Avenue did not include all the ground held by Colonel Charles R. Coster’s brigade during the battle, New York State erected a monument to the 134th on East Cemetery Hill (dedicated in 1888), while a bronze marker at Coster Avenue describes the regiment’s position during the Brickyard Fight. Another bronze marker at Coster Avenue describes the brigade’s action as a whole. In 1884, 27th Pennsylvania veterans erected a small white marble monument on East Cemetery Hill, and when the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania placed a larger memorial there in 1889, the marble monument was moved to Coster Avenue. Since 1895, Gettysburg National Military Park has maintained Coster Avenue. The former brickyard and adjoining fields soon gave way to the streets, homes, and businesses that surround the site today. By the centennial, residents tended to ignore the markers and monuments and used it as a playground, football field, and dog park. In June 1963, just before the Brickyard Fight’s 100th anniversary, NBC TV’s “David Brinkley’s Journal” used imagery of Coster Avenue to illustrate the encroachment of private structures on the battlefield. Isolated from major portions of the battlefield, tucked away in town off a side street, Coster Avenue was well off the beaten track for most of the hundreds of thousands of annual visitors to Gettysburg. Fortunately, that isn’t true today. –M.H.D.
In the wake of Confederate successes on Blocher’s Knoll, Early had ordered Hays’ and Avery’s brigades forward between about 3:45 and 4 p.m. Wild with excitement, they drove off a few companies of isolated Union skirmishers, crossed a series of fences, and splashed across Rock Creek, coming within sight of Coster’s position in the brickyard. Positioned near the Carlisle Road, to Coster’s left, were the four Napoleons of Captain Lewis Heckman’s Battery K, 1st Ohio Light Artillery. The Yankee gunners began firing at the advancing Confederates, who soon broke into the double-quick.
Their battle flags bobbing, the North Carolinians and Louisianans—about 3,000 total—advanced in splendid style until a volley from the brickyard stopped them. They immediately returned the fire and the battle became general. The Federals were kneeling or lying behind the thin shelter of the rail fence, built on a low embankment, and immediately began to suffer casualties.
Under the circumstances, Coster’s stand in the brickyard was inevitably brief. Members of the 154th had time to fire only six to nine shots apiece. Avery’s men swung around the right flank of the 134th and unleashed a murderous enfilading fire. With his regiment badly shot up and in danger of being surrounded, Lt. Col. Jackson ordered the 134th to retreat. Many of the men were struck down as they left the cover of Kuhn’s fence. They fled the brickyard and darted through fields and lots toward the railroad and the town and Cemetery Hill beyond. On the Union left, the Tigers sent the 27th Pennsylvania and Coster reeling in retreat, pouring into the large gap between the 27th and Heckman’s battery. Heckman’s gunners would fire 113 rounds (an average of 28 per gun), mostly canister, over a period of about a half-hour before the battery was overrun. Two guns were captured.
Their battle flags bobbing, the North Carolinians and Louisianans—about 3,000 total—advanced in splendid style
At first only the 27th Pennsylvania heard Coster’s order to retreat, but when Lt. Col. Allen of the 154th saw the 134th driven from the brickyard, he ordered a retreat to the left, toward the carriage gateway and North Stratton Street, accompanied by Vogelbach’s squad. The lots and fields beyond were swarming with Hays’ exultant Confederates, however, and Avery’s men quickly clambered over the fence into the brickyard, forcing a mass surrender.
Ravaged: The 154th New York was given this ceremonial flag, its various battles painted on the obverse, after the war. It was vandalized while on display in Albany, N.Y., in the 1960s. The remnant shown here is now housed at a state military museum in Saratoga. (Courtesy New York State Military Museum)
In attempting to evade capture, some of Coster’s men hid in area houses. Some crowded into the cellar of John Kuhn’s home, where they were easily captured. (Kuhn’s house became a temporary hospital, although the night of July 2, the wounded Confederates were moved elsewhere, leaving only the Union wounded there.) A woman hid a sergeant of the 134th New York and three of his comrades in her home in town. Lieutenant Colonel Allan Jackson of the 134th and a private of his regiment hid in a loft above the kitchen in the home of Mrs. Henry Meals on York Street. Two days later, the two men set out in disguise and made it through the Confederate lines to rejoin their regiment on Cemetery Hill. After driving Coster’s men from the brickyard, Hays’ Brigade continued the pursuit into the town, shooting and capturing more Yankees. Avery’s Brigade, which had suffered more casualties and become disorganized by the melee, halted to regroup and watch over the hundreds of prisoners. When the 134th New York reassembled on Cemetery Hill that afternoon, it numbered only five officers and 27 enlisted men. For the 154th New York, only three officers and 15 enlisted men remained. That evening and through the night a number of stragglers found their way to their regiments. The exhausted men slept among the headstones in Evergreen Cemetery.
The next morning, Major Lewis Warner and his detachment reached Cemetery Hill, raising the 154th’s total to about 75 men. The regiment was temporarily consolidated with the 134th under the command of Lt. Col. Allen and then Lt. Col. Jackson, following his daring run through Gettysburg while in disguise. About a quarter of Coster’s brigade was killed or wounded in the Brickyard Fight, with the 134th New York incurring 252 total casualties and the 154th 207. As mentioned earlier, the 154th’s 77 percent casualty rate was one of the highest regimental loss ratios in the battle and indeed the war.
Confederate losses stood at 208 total. The 6th North Carolina suffered the highest toll for Avery, with 84 killed or wounded. In Hays’ Brigade, 22 of 63 total casualties were in the 8th Louisiana. Ironically, Hays had 15 men captured.
Coster’s diminished command met Hays’ and Avery’s forces a second time, during the July 2 night attack on East Cemetery Hill. The Confederates broke the Union line at the foot of the hill and were fighting for the guns of Wiedrich’s battery at its crest when Coster’s men were rushed to the scene. The 73rd Pennsylvania, held in reserve the previous day, led the brigade, and with the 27th Pennsylvania helped to drive the Confederates from the embattled artillerymen and down the hill. The results were the opposite of the prior day’s Brickyard Fight. Coster had the support of other units and his men gained some revenge with a successful charge that cost them only 30 casualties.
About a quarter of Coster’s brigade was killed or wounded in the Brickyard Fight, with the 154th new york incurring a 77 percent casualty rate—one of the highest regimental loss ratios in the war
The Confederates suffered much greater losses and reeled in a chaotic retreat, leaving a number of prisoners of war. Hays lost 250 men and Avery was mortally wounded, one of 200 losses in his brigade. Colonel Archibald Godwin of the 57th North Carolina succeeded Avery as brigade commander.
On July 3, Hays’ and Godwin’s weary and battered men had a badly needed rest in the streets of Gettysburg. On Cemetery Hill, Coster’s brigade, in line along the Taneytown Road, endured fire from Confederate batteries and sharpshooters with little harm and witnessed the Confederates’ doomed Pickett’s Charge against the center of the Union line. The Army of Northern Virginia evacuated Gettysburg that night.
On July 4, Coster’s brigade marched into town. His men were posted throughout the borough to help in barricading the streets. They also returned to the brickyard neighborhood to gather and bury their dead comrades. They identified those they could, although as Major Warner noted, many were “so swollen and disfigured that recognition was impossible.” During the stay in town, several men who had been missing and in hiding since July 1 rejoined the brigade.
On July 5, with the Army of Northern Virginia retreating back to Virginia, Coster’s brigade left Cemetery Hill in pursuit.
Adapted with permission from Gettysburg’s Coster Avenue: The Brickyard Fight and the Mural, by Mark H. Dunkelman (Gettysburg Publishing, 2018).
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c96cfd1e7b10c85a95960afdfde8340d | https://www.historynet.com/diana-kouris-she-knows-browns-park.htm | Diana Kouris: She Knows Brown’s Park | Diana Kouris: She Knows Brown’s Park
An old adage counsels, “Write what you know.” Well, Diana Kouris certainly knows the history of Brown’s Park, Colorado, and she relates an intimate story of the valley in Nighthawk Rising: A Biography of Accused Cattle Rustler Queen Ann Bassett of Brown’s Park. Bassett and Kouris’ grandmother were friends, and Kouris grew up on a ranch adjoining the Bassett ranch. She rode the same trails Ann had decades earlier, and she listened to the stories passed down by Brown’s Park families. Moving beyond the legend, Kouris painstakingly dug into the archives, gleaned details long buried within existing documents and unearthed new sources. Nighthawk Rising reads like a novel, but every story in it is verifiable history. Western Writers of America honored Kouris with its 2020 Spur Award for best biography. The High Plains Book Awards and Colorado Book Awards have also recognized the book. Kouris also wrote The Romantic and Notorious History of Brown’s Park and Riding the Edge of an Era: Growing Up Cowboy on the Outlaw Trail.
What inspired you to write about Bassett? I knew that so much written about Bassett was not based in fact and didn’t resemble the “Queen Ann” who became my grandmother’s friend when both women were in their 20s. The decades of parodies of Ann did not mesh with the complex and gracious cattlewoman my elderly uncle said he loved and admired from the time he first saw her when he was 5 years old. I stood in front of my writing desk one morning, looking at historical photos of Brown’s Park, when from another place and time Bassett’s whispers compelled me to write her story. I deeply recognized the moment had come for me to devote all I could muster into seeking her truth and writing it as a work of merit.
‘I had a unique perspective while writing this book, not only because of a family connection with Bassett but also because I grew up absorbing the enchantment of her valley’
How did you sift through the fiction of her storied life? I have always found it an awesome responsibility to write about the lives of those who came before. Throughout the process of researching and writing Nighthawk Rising I felt an obsessive determination to write Ann’s biography with depth and truth. My research was exhaustive, and my documentation meticulous. I in a sense time-traveled into the era of range war and outlaws, where I joined Bassett and the other history-makers who embroidered the fabric of Ann’s life. I came to know them well, as I ignored old interpretations and relied on research gleaned from a mountain of firsthand accounts and trustworthy documents.
What were some of your primary sources? Firsthand accounts came from a multitude of sources. A sampling of those: Sam Bassett’s letter to J.M. Blansit about the murder of Mat Rash; Joe Davenport’s moving and detailed depiction of Isam Dart as he knew hi; Jesse “Jess” Taylor’s interview that explains his relationship with and insight into the Bassett family and the nightmare that haunted Ann’s brother, Eb; Minnie Crouse Rasmussen’s interview account of the events surrounding the suspicious death of Ann’s sister Josie’s fourth husband; Norma Gardner Snow tells her memories of the aging Queen Ann and Ann’s nearly instantaneous transformation from an older lady of refinement to a cowgirl on horseback expertly roping and handling a wild cow; a collection of Ann Bassett’s personal letters; and unpublished writings that convey Ann’s character and provide significant particulars, including evidence of the validity and author of “Confidentially Told.”
Among the documents I used were “The State of Colorado, Plaintiff v. Anna Bernard and Thomas Yarberry,” which provides information surrounding Ann’s arrest and trials for cattle rustling; “H.H. Bernard, Plaintiff v. Anna Bernard, Defendant,” which concerns Ann’s divorce and gives revealing details about the couple; “Affidavit of Charged Offense Filed by Thomas Horn Against Isam Dart,” which places Tom Horn at the center of the killings of Isam Dart and Mat Rash; “Estate of Isham Dart Affidavit,” which lists the modest possessions of a supposed prolific rustler; “Inquest Hearing of Elbert Bassett,” which paints a chilling and detailed picture of suicide; “Testimony in Relation to the Ute Indian Outbreak, House of Representatives, 46th Congress, 2nd Session, No. 38, May 1, 1880”; and “Copy of Evidence Taken Before White River Ute Commission, House of Representatives, 46th Congress, 2nd Session, No. 83, May 14, 1880,” which enabled me to write the events of the Meeker Massacre with gripping realism.
What makes your book unique? I believe there is a factual history to be uncovered and told as well as an emotional history to be brought forward. I had a unique perspective while writing this book, not only because of a family connection with Bassett but also because I grew up absorbing the enchantment of her valley, Brown’s Park. I was from birth enfolded in the valley’s history as it encircled me and my cattle ranching family. I therefore wrote many details from personal knowledge. This book is filled with rare photographs and a trove of new material and unique details, such as how she came to be called “Queen Ann.” It lays out the truth of the men Isam Dart and Mat Rash, long maligned and written about as common cattle rustlers. Another unique element is the revelation of Bassett’s never before published handwritten menu and full description of the 1893 “Wild Bunch Dinner” (aka “Outlaw Thanksgiving”). I also discovered new findings to clear up and thoroughly explain events surrounding some of the incidents found in Ann’s published memoir, including the killing of Jack Rollas and the Ute skirmish that caused Ann and her best friend to make a frightful ride for home in the dark.
What other stories do you tell of the region? Nighthawk Rising enters the throes of the Meeker Massacre to tell the harrowing accounts of three white women taken captive by the Utes. I researched hundreds of pages of interviews and of their direct testimony in government hearing documents to unveil for the first time vivid and profound details of the ordeal through their eyes and precise words. The book also gives a powerful voice to the Ute people, bringing to light the direct testimony of some of those involved in the complicated and drawn-out event. I uncovered the fascinating backstory of Chief Ouray’s sister, Susan (Shawsheen), who valiantly intervened on behalf of the captives.
How is she tied to the Wild Bunch? A few of the young men destined be part of the gang that came to be known as the Wild Bunch were well known to Ann and the Brown’s Park community. When they were teenagers and before they were wanted by the law, the young men worked in Brown’s Park as ranch hands. Elzy Lay was hired on by Ann’s parents and lived at the Bassett Ranch for about a year. Butch Cassidy worked for the Brown’s Park Livestock Ranch (the ranch where I grew up). The young men were included in social events, and all the young people became friends. According to Ann, the Sundance Kid was present along with Cassidy and Lay during the Thanksgiving celebration she called the “Wild Bunch Dinner.”
As time passed, both Cassidy and his partner and close friend Lay occasionally stopped by the Bassett Ranch to sit with the family for a meal and have a brief visit. Although their friendship with Ann remained, neither Ann nor her older sister, Josie, were ever romantically involved with them and played no part in Butch and Elzy’s infamous activities and life of crime.
‘Although our ages were seven decades apart, we rode the same trails, admired the stately mountains surrounding us as we formed a selfish love for our valley home’
Her connections to Dart, Rash and Tom Horn? Throughout Ann’s journey to adulthood her valley became a magnet to men of all sorts. Most held a gut desire to make a living out of cowboying and ranching. Foremost in that group was Rash, with whom Ann fell in love, and also Dart, a tall and talented top hand cowboy. Both men were ever loyal to the Bassett family and were highly regarded in Brown’s Park. However, they rode in a tumultuous time when complex truths and falsehoods blended to form a toxic brew on the rangeland and in the courts, pitting cattle barons against small ranchers. By 1900 Rash was Bassett’s fiancé, president of the Brown’s Park Cattle Association and the most prominent rancher in the valley. Nonetheless, both he and Dart were riding along the edge of their lives. The insidious tendrils of a range war had delivered into their midst the outlaw hunter, stock detective and hired assassin Tom Horn. Horn infiltrated Bassett’s world, killed Mat and Isam, and shattered the young cowgirl’s life.
In what ways was Mat Rash’s death a major turning point in Ann’s life? The death of Mat Rash severely and irrevocably changed the course of Ann’s life. The tragedy not only sparked the beginning of her vendetta against cattle baron Ora Haley, who had hired Horn, but also set the course for her journey into legend.
How did Ann’s family influence her? Ann’s mother, Mary Eliza “Elizabeth” Bassett, rode sidesaddle beautifully, was the center of the Bassett family, exuded strength of character and independence, and was the undisputed commander of the Bassett Ranch. Elizabeth was the most powerful force in Ann’s young life.
Deeply religious, scholarly and tenderhearted Amos Herbert “Herb” Bassett, Ann’s father, was a musician and developed musical talents in all his children. Herb’s inclination to rule by love alone was no match for Ann’s rebellious nature.
Ann’s older brother, Sam, an earnest young cowhand, witnessed his little sister’s desire and potential to be a top hand. He espoused a philosophy that came to form the bedrock of Ann Bassett: “If you are going to be a full-fledged cowpuncher you must play the game square, take it on the button, and never shy at rope burn or pistol smoke.”
What of Ann’s sister, Josie? Josie, Ann’s older sister, lived an interesting life, but it was very different from Ann’s. While Ann and her sister loved each other without question, they often found it difficult to be in close proximity. Because Josie was the oldest child in the family, she took the lead with household chores and child care. Ann, five years younger, never did. Instead, her privileged spirit ran free when she was turned loose on the ranch. Although both girls had independent personalities, Josie, heavily freckled with light copper hair, was more serious; Ann, who was lightly freckled and had darker hair, was tenacious and at times dreamily poetic. The sisters often clashed.
Josie married young and repeatedly. Supposedly the steady and serious-minded one of the Bassett girls, Josie was multifaceted in her personality and had obvious complications and struggles left unhealed. She was whispered to be a murderess and a thief when she married her fifth husband shortly after the death of her fourth.
How difficult was the book to research? This book required a tremendous amount of research and an exhaustive effort to gather, sort, organize, absorb, write and document. The sheer volume of research was beyond daunting, as was the challenge to transform it into a manuscript worthy of becoming a book of historical significance.
Anything too elusive to track down? I longed to find photos of Ann’s mother, Elizabeth, and brother, Sam, but to no avail.
In what ways does your own background compare/contrast with Ann’s? Bassett and I both received the providence of being the daughters of Brown’s Park cattle ranchers. My family’s ranch house sat just across the Green River from the meadow on Willow Creek where Ann was born. Although our ages were seven decades apart, we rode the same trails, admired the stately mountains surrounding us as we formed a selfish love for our valley home, and we breathed the same ancient fragrances when we worked cattle on the range. At dusk, after long days in the saddle, we were both escorted home by the grace of nighthawks flying overhead as they fed upon the insects stirred into the twilight by the rhythmic beat of horse hooves.
What is your next project? I’m still exploring. WW
Candy Moulton is the author of 15 books including Roadside History of Colorado and The Mormon Handcart Migration: “Tounge Nor Pen Can Never Tell the Sorrow.” She lives in Encampment, Wyo.
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d1f6e0bc4a75216ef6d2af9bc20f2bf1 | https://www.historynet.com/diary-morgan-raider.htm | Diary of a Morgan Raider | Diary of a Morgan Raider
Sometimes a war story can be reduced to one seemingly endless fight.
Probably no aspect of Confederate cavalry raider John Hunt Morgan’s operations are more obscure than those from early 1863. Without a doubt, those operations represent some of Morgan’s most notable military achievements. John M. Porter remembered them, although they appear in his memoirs as one continuous fight.
When Confederate General Braxton Bragg withdrew the Army of Tennessee to the Highland Rim after the Battle of Murfreesboro in January 1863, Morgan’s division was given the task of screening the right flank of the army. Major General William Rosecrans’ Federal Army of the Cumberland occupied Nashville and Murfreesboro. Selecting a sector that included Liberty and Woodbury, Tenn., both on direct routes to Murfreesboro, Morgan kept his command in the foothills and brought elements forward to attack outlying Federal positions in the darkness. Between January 22 and the end of April, Morgan frequently seized Federal wagon trains—and lots of officers and soldiers—and killed, wounded and captured hundreds of others.
Each time Morgan struck a Federal position, Rosecrans ordered a retaliatory strike. Porter recounts the savagery of the fighting in January and March 1863 along the Murfreesboro Pike from Milton to Auburn to Prosperity, and along the Lebanon Pike to Liberty and Snow Hill.
Vividly I do call to mind the country in which we spent the Winter and Spring of 1863 in the most exciting and arduous duties. Every day was one of excitement and more or less danger. To write all that we did or all we saw of army life during this time would be merely a repetition of many things already written. It is enough to say that it was hard service, and I will only give the main items of interest, including an account of the most severe fights with the enemy.
When we first came to Liberty, Tennessee, it was to drive from the vicinity a body of Federal cavalry, which we did after a skirmish. Liberty is situated about half a mile from the intersection of the turnpike from Murfreesboro and the turnpike from Lebanon. We moved out of Liberty to meet the enemy and had a brisk fight. The object of the enemy was to gain our rear. When we withdrew to Liberty, we took up positions just beyond the town, across the creek. Here, they again advanced upon us and we had a severe battle in which we were forced to fall still farther back in the direction of Snow Hill.
During the retreat, for half a mile, we were terribly shelled by the artillery of the enemy. They poured a raking fire at us. We formed a line at the base of Snow Hill and again waited their approach. Our company was dismounted and sent to the left of the road from Liberty to Snow Hill. From our position we had a fine fire at the enemy as they advanced up the valley, and we held our position, driving them from our immediate front till finally it became evident that they could not advance and drive us from our position.
They made preparations to send a large force around us, one or two miles, and obtain possession of the road in our rear, and thus force us out in the hill country towards Carthage. To avoid this, we withdrew to the summit of Snow Hill just in time to engage the enemy and drive them from the road in great confusion. This repulse caused them to waver along their entire line, and soon they were in full retreat towards Murfreesboro. By this time, darkness came on and we camped on the field. Our loss was considerable in wounded and killed. The enemy lost, but how heavily, we could not learn.
This single narrative of an action at Snow Hill will serve for a dozen similar ones at the same place during the Winter and Spring of 1863. Every inch of the ground was fought over. Some times they came in the darkness, some times during the day time. They never found us unprepared. It may be well supposed that our duty was onerous in the extreme, as well as dangerous.
While here we drew from the quartermasters’ stores new uniforms, which were needed and gladly received by the men, our men were paid a paltry sum in money for their services. Of course, it was gladly received. Those who think the Southern soldier fought for pay does not know of what he speaks. The pay was the least motive; indeed, it was no motive at all. That was generally true of all branches of the service.
The arm to which we belonged, the cavalry, perhaps paid less attention to pay, and cared less for pay, than any other branch of the army. A good horse was the only thing desired, and a good horse was generally possessed by each one. He had no need of money, like a poor infantry soldier who was confined to his camp and obliged to eat what was in hand. He could use money in buying things from sutlers and others. A horseman could gallop around till he found a place where he could get a “square meal” as we called it. There were many advantages which the cavalry had over the infantry arm of the service, not the least of which was that, while the infantry for weeks and months were often confined to camp—by reason of which diseases were contracted—the cavalry were almost continually on the wing, so to speak, and, owing to their activity and exercise, they were generally more healthy, even if their service was harder.
The hardest and most severe fight we had with the enemy during the time we were at Liberty occurred at a little village called Milton on the Murfreesboro Road, some ten miles or more from our encampment, about last of March or first of April 1863. The enemy advanced from Murfreesboro in a large force of infantry, cavalry and artillery, and an engagement took place in and about Liberty. The fight began in earnest. The enemy was somewhat worsted, and at nightfall began their retreat back towards Murfreesboro.
During the night the remainder of our full division came up. General Morgan, in person, ordered an advance for the purpose of overtaking the enemy and making battle. The pursuit was vigorous and spirited, and early in the forenoon we came up with the rear of the enemy and at once the fight began. The enemy formed its line on the crest of a gentle hill, thickly studded with cedar and made rugged by projecting limestone rock which rose in crags all over the ground. A battery of artillery was planted immediately on the left side of the pike in a position to rake our line as it advanced.
The Tenth Kentucky Cavalry and the Ninth Tennessee Cavalry were ordered to charge on horseback and capture the artillery if possible, while, at the same time, the Ninth Kentucky Cavalry, our regiment, was ordered to dismount and advance on foot on the right of the road through the open fields, and drive the enemy from their position on the crest of the hill in the cedars. This was a difficult and serious undertaking, for the enemy had great protection, while we were exposed to their destructive fire.
During the day, Captain [Thomas] Hines was in command of the regiment, which left the command of the company to me. The regiment, as ordered, charged across the open space and entered the cedar woods only to find the enemy concealed thick as autumn leaves in the brake. We were met with a terrible fire, and a short, hotly-waged contest for half-an-hour took place, during which time our line steadily advanced, driving the enemy before us and capturing those who could not get away.
During this time the action was warm all along our lines and resulted in the enemy being driven from their positions. Just when victory was in our grasp, large enemy reinforcements came up, the retreating Federals were rallied and we in turn were driven slowly back. Our ammunition at this time failing, we were withdrawn, and the enemy also at the same time withdrew and retired to Murfreesboro. After gathering up the dead and wounded, we went back to Liberty.
This was a hard-fought field, and I dare say every man of Morgan’s command who took part in that battle at Milton will remember it as long as he lives. Our loss as well as that of the enemy was severe. Several valuable officers were killed. Captain R.T. Riggen of our regiment was killed as we entered the cedar brake, and several others here fell to rise no more. It is astonishing that more were not killed when I consider the disadvantages under which we labored.
Just as our company was ordered into line preparatory to dismounting, a cannon shot from the enemy’s line whizzed through the line, but fortunately did no harm. I distinctly saw it as it was coming, strange as it may seem, and, before I had time to speak, it struck a stump at my horse’s neck and shivered it into a thousand pieces. It could not have missed my horse more than a foot. This was a narrow escape from a devastating injury.
Many incidents connected with this battle will have to remain untold in these pages. The men fought gallantly and received praise from our general, who was everywhere on the field. This day’s doings taught the enemy that they could not venture out from Murfreesboro without having to encounter Morgan. After this, they always came in large bodies and cautiously felt their way. Indeed, after a time, they became afraid to venture far from the main body of their army. This one single account will suffice, for all our operations were of a similar nature to the foregoing, and it is of no use to relate them all.
Many scouting parties, of from fifteen to a hundred men, were sent out into the enemy’s lines, and they were always successful. One of these parties, numbering some fifty men or more, advanced to the turnpike leading from Nashville to Murfreesboro, inside the enemy’s line, and, securing a position in close proximity to the road, remained for several hours and succeeded in capturing a considerable number of the enemy who were traveling along the pike. As they were captured, they would be sent off to the spot where the horses and guards were, and there they were kept till the party was ready to move away.
Among the number thus made a prisoner was Vincent S. Hay, Esq., whom I knew well before the war and in whose office I had read law. He had espoused the side of the Union, as it was called, and was at the time of his capture acting as division quartermaster for some division of Rosecrans’s army. Being placed in my care, I treated him with all the kindness I could and loaned him some two or three hundred dollars, Confederate money, which, at that time, was worth about eighty cents, perhaps, to the dollar. He was sent on to Chattanooga and finally to Atlanta, where he took sick and died, I have no doubt, from exposure. He was a good man, but, in my opinion, controlled and guided too much by other persons. I pay this tribute to him; he was sincere in his convictions and a man of the very highest honesty and integrity, and although he was sternly and unalterably for the Union, I give him credit for his pure motives and aims. In this connection I will add that his administrator paid the amount due me for money loaned him. He was born and raised in Butler County, only two or three miles from where my father lived, and I had known him from my infancy. He was about fifty years old, I presume, at his death. After the war, his remains were removed to Butler County and re-interred in his family burying ground on the old Hay place, now known as the Bumpas farm, which belonged to my father at his day of death.
Upon another occasion Colonel [William Prescott] Breckinridge selected about one hundred men from his brigade for the purpose of penetrating the lines of the enemy and capturing some couriers from Nashville to Murfreesboro with important dispatches. Most were chosen from our regiment, and some ten or more from our company, Captain Hines and myself and Lieutenant Edward L. Hines also being in the party.
We proceeded by way of Lebanon and on in the direction of Laverne. In order to reach the pike leading from Nashville to Murfreesboro, at the point which we wished to strike, it was necessary to cross Stone’s River, which was much swollen, owing to late rains, and was still rising. After nightfall, we crossed and were then in the enemy’s lines. I was put at the head of the advance guard, a very dangerous and responsible position on such an occasion. I was furnished with a guide who was familiar with the country, and, after moving cautiously for some two or three hours with frequent halts and reconnaissances, we came to the pike on which the enemy was almost continually passing.
The night was dark and the roads muddy. There was a house about four hundred yards up the pike which was used as a picket stand and as a relay place for couriers. Other stands were scattered at intervals of a mile in both directions.
I was ordered to make a rapid circuit with the advance guard and take a position three hundred or four hundred yards south of the house, so as to intercept the Yankees if they should attempt to escape by flight. I had scarcely reached my position and formed in line before our men on the other side of the house began the attack. As was expected, one or two enemy troopers mounted their horses and attempted to escape, but ran into our arms before they knew what had been done. After a brisk skirmish we captured the entire party, and, as a matter of course, had to move rapidly to avoid being captured ourselves.
The firing alarmed a regiment or two of cavalry in close proximity, and they were soon in close pursuit. I was not in the rear with my men, and I found it anything but pleasant under the circumstances. The night was dark, a turgid and angry river must be crossed, and the enemy was close on us. Our march was very rapid, and fortunately we succeeded in crossing the river safely and reached the other side as the enemy came to the river bank. By this time it was near daylight, and we traveled an hour or so and camped for the purpose of getting something to eat. The enemy did not pursue us further. I do not think there had ever been any published account of this scout, but it was nevertheless one of those most daring and successful ones of the war.
Porter was captured by Federal troops while on a scouting mission in Kentucky in the summer of 1863, and spent 19 months imprisoned at Johnson’s Island in Sandusky Bay, Ohio. After the war, he returned to Kentucky and practiced law.
Adapted from One of Morgan’s Men: Memoirs of Lieutenant John M. Porter of the Ninth Kentucky Cavalry edited by Kent Masterson Brown (University Press of Kentucky, 2011)
Originally published in the May 2011 issue of America’s Civil War. To subscribe, click here.
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a13b1665dbafcc1886fb54c714eaf0cc | https://www.historynet.com/did-muslims-explore-america-was-there-a-swedish-colony.htm | Did Muslims explore America? Was there a Swedish colony? | Did Muslims explore America? Was there a Swedish colony?
I’ve heard that shortly after America was discovered by Columbus followers of Islam did try to send their own explorers over to the new lands of America. What happened to them?
One more question: did Sweden have its own colonies in America where Northern Jersey is now?
—Gregory Morrow
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Dear Mr. Morrow,
First, there may be evidence that Islamic explorers reached America before Columbus, starting in 1178 with the Chinese Sung Document’s mention of Muslims exploring a place called Mu-lan-pi, identified as the New World.
In 1310, an expedition from the West African kingdom of Mali allegedly reached the Americas, followed in 1312 by Mandingas (also West African Muslims) to the Gulf of Mexico.
In 1513 Ottoman cartographer Piri Reis completed a world map that included reasonable (for the time) representations of the Americas.
In 1539 Esevanico of Azamor, a Moroccan, explored the continent, particularly what is now Arizona and New Mexico.
As for the Swedes, on March 29, 1638, the ships Fogel Grip and Kalmar Nyckel landed in Delaware Bay to establish a colony to export tobacco and furs for the New Sweden Company, and to built fort Christina in what is now Wilmington. It was commanded by Admiral Clas Fleming, but the first governor was a Dutchman with previous experience in his own country’s service: Pieter Minuit. Settled by Swedes, Dutch and a plurality of forest Finns, New Sweden encompassed parts of Delaware, New Jersey and Pennsylvania until 1655, when Dutch governor Pieter Stuyvesant forcibly occupied the area with his Dutch army. He did allow a certain amount of autonomy to the region, but that ended after the English took over in 1664 and began redividing it up among its own colonists. Among the legacies of New Sweden is the log cabin. The oldest in North America still standing, the C.A. Nothnable Log House, is kept up in Gibbstown, N.J.
Sincerely,
Jon Guttman Research Director World History Group More Questions at Ask Mr. History
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12bfcf097cd8367e23698993f91162fe | https://www.historynet.com/dinosaur-wars-in-the-american-west.htm | Dinosaur Wars in the American West | Dinosaur Wars in the American West
Two men's rivalry in the 1800s expanded scientific knowledge about prehistoric life. Courtesy American Museum of Natural History.
The venerable, award–winning series American Experience has often featured engaging stories about the American West. Several of the episodes of the Native American series We Shall Remain and the insightful biography Wyatt Earp stand as recent examples. The series has at times dealt with “Old West” stories that involved range wars or conflicting claims to the discovery and ownership of natural resources. On Monday, January 17, 9:00 pm ET on PBS, American Experience will premiere another of these adventure-filled discovery sagas. But rather than a battle over gold or silver or water rights, this program tells the little-known story of a battle over … bones.
Really, really old bones.
Specifically, American Experience: Dinosaur Wars tells of a battle that ranged over many thousand square miles and lasted for decades over the bones of prehistoric animals and dinosaurs that once thrived in what is now the western United States. The combatants in this fight for fossils were just two men: pioneering paleontologists Othniel Charles Marsh and Edward Drinker Cope.
“It really is an American Western story,” notes the program’s writer-producer-director Mark Davis. “And in some ways, even though they didn’t shoot at each other, they behaved as though they were in a range war.”
This range war started because the scientific world was beginning to embrace the theory of evolution that resulted from the publication of British scientist Charles Darwin’s landmark work on his study of the natural world.
“The timing was really remarkable,” says Davis. “Darwin published (On the) Origin of Species in 1859. The one thing he lacked to back up his theory was fossil evidence of animal species in transition from one form to another. Less than 10 years later, the transcontinental railroad opened the west to scientists for the first time, and the fossils were there for the taking. Just at the moment when science was asking the question ‘How did life evolve, what are the details of the story?’ bones became available, and Cope and Marsh were really the first two American scientists to go west and exploit it.”
To say the two men’s backgrounds and personalities were diverse would be understatement. Marsh, a conniver and a loner, often treated the teams who worked with him contemptuously, and he didn’t want to share credit. Cope was loved by his friends and co-workers, and he gave credit to others’ contributions—but he also could be quite defensive about his work, a quality Marsh would later exploit. Cope had a family of his own while Marsh never married or had a romantic relationship.
Both men had money behind them for their work. Cope came from a wealthy Quaker family in Philadelphia. Marsh was raised on a struggling farm in upstate New York, but he was bankrolled by his uncle, philanthropist George Peabody, who plucked him off the farm, educated him and installed him into a Yale professorship. Both paleontologists were also keenly ambitious and truly interested in making scientific firsts as their careers got started in the late 1860s. They actually became fast friends for a time while studying in Berlin early in their careers.
Cope worked, studied and produced a great number of scientific papers at Philadelphia’s Academy of Natural Sciences, of which he was a member. The Philadelphia Academy was the oldest of America’s scientific enclaves, where the leisurely exchange of information was the realm of American science at the time. It also had the world’s first displayed dinosaur fossil, called Hadrosaurus, a skeletal set of bones discovered in a Haddonfield, New Jersey, quarry. The trouble between Cope and Marsh began over the source of the Academy’s prehistoric vertebrate.
“Before the Civil War, American science was a gentleman’s pastime, done by amateurs,” Davis explains. “That’s the world Cope came from, a kind of heir to the tradition of Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson. Marsh was something new in the world of American science—a professional from a humble background. He operated aggressively, like a businessman. He didn’t follow the rules of the older gentleman’s world.”
Edward Drinker Cope. Courtesy American Museum of Natural History.After Cope introduced his friend to the Haddonfield find, Marsh infuriated him by making a secret deal with the quarry’s owner to get all future fossils from the pit, effectively poaching on what Cope considered his primary source. Making use of his opportunistic character, along with the money and prestige that came from his position as a Yale scientific scholar, Marsh became the type of enterprising scientist that had been leading Europeans to make the world’s scientific advances.
Unlike the Europeans, he had the advantage of living in the United States where the topography was more conducive to fieldwork than were the large forests and damp conditions of Europe. America’s westward-expanding railroads opened the areas where vast dinosaur fossil deposits lay awaiting discovery.
After returning from Europe, Cope traveled west and south from Philadelphia in his natural studies, but Marsh was the first to see the potential for large fossil finds in the geological formations of the American West when in 1868 he first went on a sightseeing rail tour of the frontier.
Othniel Charles Marsh. Courtesy American Museum of Natural History.Marsh returned with his eyes opened to the West’s possibilities, and he went straight to work assembling the necessary men and equipment for a return trip. Eventually, his search for bones would lead him to the upper prairies of Kansas, Colorado, Wyoming and Montana.
Cope followed, organizing his own expeditions, which became more frequent once he received a large inheritance. Marsh operated in a clandestine manner, even employing spies to watch Cope, trying to shut him out from new finds. But Cope continued to explore, even entering the badlands of southeastern Montana alone—and, being a Quaker, unarmed—just weeks after George Custer’s defeat at Little Big Horn. All the while the two continued a war of words in scientific journals, each attempting to discredit the other. Rather than blazing six-guns, the weapons of their “range war” included forged documents, spies, and battles over who could mine which fields of bones.
“Cope was trying to keep up,” says Davis. “He really didn’t have the resources or the institution behind him that Marsh had, but he had just relentless energy. Cope was a brilliant, prolific scientist who worked all over the ‘tree of life,’ rambled all over the West, and could see the broad sweep of evolution. But he was terrible at politics. Marsh was well connected, a great politician, a well-financed institution builder. But compared to Cope, he was a plodder intellectually. Each had something that the other lacked and badly wanted and I think it (the competition) was driven a lot by jealousy.”
Both men made significant contributions to the field. Marsh presented bones to trace the evolution of the horse and received praise from Darwin himself. Cope was, at the time, the most prolific author of scientific papers in American history. Together they advanced America’s stature in the global scientific community and introduced the world to evidence of the largest creatures on earth—the skeletal remains of the late Jurassic dinosaurs found at Como Bluff, Wyoming.
Panoramic scenes add beauty to Dinosaur Wars. Echo Park, Dinosaur National Monument. National Park Service.Mark Davis brings a lot of experience to the program. He started making films about dinosaurs and evolution for NOVA in the 1980s. The on-camera experts, paleontologists and historians, bring some plain-talking insight into an arena that could quickly turn into a yawn-fest of scientific names and theories. And Robert Bakker, who is a noted dinosaur paleontologist, has the look of a prospector who just came in from a long day toiling on his claim. In this case, that claim would be the wonderful world of dinosaur bone sites originally mined by Cope and Marsh. Several of these places are shown in beautiful panoramic vistas in the program, and some are now preserved in public parks such as Dinosaur National Monument in Utah and Colorado.
The bulk of the visual material in the program consists of still images and photographs, but many are unusual and an almost-constantly moving camera keeps them interesting. There are also dinosaur bones as now assembled in museums around the country—the fruit of the labors of Cope and Marsh, who died relatively young without seeing what their “dinosaur war” would lead to. Other than discussing the role played by the United States Geological Survey (USGS) as the federal government entered the paleontologists’ war in the last decade of the 19th century, the program does not expand on how the American public reacted to all this. According to Davis, the ideological differences over what these discoveries meant to the story of creation would not surface until this science began to be taught in schools in the 1920s. That aside, Dinosaur Wars makes a very effective presentation of what would be one of the last, and most unusual, struggles in American Western lore.
(Editor’s note: As stated, the ideological battle over evolution began in earnest in the 1920s. However, in 1797, Vice-President Thomas Jefferson was ridiculed and accused of atheism for a paper he wrote and presented to the Philosophical Society in Philadelphia about fossil bones sent to him from what is now southeastern West Virginia. See “Thomas Jefferson and American Vertebrate Paleontology.”)
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7d0a1612c48f2837f09d94d3759ceb9e | https://www.historynet.com/divers-find-rare-nazi-enigma-machine-in-the-baltic-sea.htm | Divers Find Rare Nazi Enigma Machine in the Baltic Sea | Divers Find Rare Nazi Enigma Machine in the Baltic Sea
A group of divers from the World Wildlife Fund found more than they bargained for last month during a routine removal of abandoned fishing nets near Denmark’s Gelting Bay.
After believing they had found an old typewriter, the group soon realized that they had, in fact, stumbled upon a rare Nazi encryption device used during the Second World War—an Enigma machine.
“I’ve made many exciting and strange discoveries in the past 20 years. But I never dreamt that we would one day find one of the legendary Enigma machines,” underwater archaeologist Florian Huber told Reuters.
During World War II, “the Germans placed their faith in Enigma, a machine capable of generating a code so complex that they considered it unbreakable,” writes historian Mark Grimsley. “Yet the British did manage to break it.
By April 1940 the Allies were beginning to crack some of the German codes, thanks in large part to the Polish secret service, which, during the interwar period, managed to create a copy of the basic German enciphering machine before smuggling it across the border to France and eventually to Britain.
In April 1940, a team of British team codebreakers at Bletchley Park, led by Alan Turing, managed to decipher portions of code used by the Wehrmacht. Still, the Kriegsmarine was tougher to crack. By February 1942, the Germans had “shifted to Triton, a more complex Enigma variant the British couldn’t read,” writes Grimsley.
It wasn’t until October of that year—when the Royal Navy captured the German sub U-559—that the Allies caught a break. On board the sub were—by chance—the exact documents the British needed to crack the Triton code.
The work done by Turing and other codebreakers is credited with shortening the war by several years and saving hundreds of thousands—if not millions—of lives.
With the impending defeat of the Axis powers, German crews were ordered to scuttle their U-boats and destroy all other intelligence and encryption devices on board. Of the more than 200 destroyed in the North and Baltic Seas by war’s end, nearly 50 submarines were scuttled in Gelting Bay.
“We suspect our Enigma went overboard in the course of this event,” Huber told Reuters.
Although thousands of these encryption devices were made over the course of the war, very few exist today.
On Friday the Enigma machine found by the WWF was given to an archaeology museum in Schleswig where Ulf Ickerodt, the head of the state archaeological office in Germany’s Schleswig-Holstein region, told AFP the museum hopes to restore the rusted machine after seven decades on the sea floor.
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d97ef64a629fa2c07a840a00274ba53b | https://www.historynet.com/dod-draws-distinction-between-neo-nazi-membership-and-active-participation.htm | DoD Draws Distinction Between Neo-Nazi Membership and ‘Active Participation’ | DoD Draws Distinction Between Neo-Nazi Membership and ‘Active Participation’
On the eve of the 75th anniversary of V-E Day, this past Tuesday defense officials told a House subcommittee that belonging to a white supremacist or neo-Nazi group would not automatically get a service member kicked out of the U.S. military.
Representatives of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service and the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division “appeared to make a distinction between membership in an extremist organization and ‘active participation’ in deciding on recruitment and retention,” Military.com reports.
This “distinction” left several members of the subcommittee aghast. “I am flummoxed by what I’ve heard today,” Rep. Jackie Speier, D-California, chair of the subcommittee, said in a statement to Military.com.
Robert Grabosky, deputy director of Law Enforcement at the Air Force Office of Special Investigations, told the subcommittee that it “is not prohibited” for service members to belong to a white nationalist group so long as there is no “active participation” within the organization.
It is unclear how the military would categorize “active participation” as, across all branches of the military, there is a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to actively participating in hate groups.
Military recruiters are “armed with few tools from records checks to interviews to keep supremacists out of the ranks” making it a difficult task to weed out those with ties to hate groups, the Marine Corps Times writes.
The problem has plagued the military in recent years.
In 2008, the FBI sounded the alarm for this frightening rise, noting with high confidence that “Military experience is found throughout the white supremacist extremist movement as the result of recruitment campaigns by extremist groups and self-recruitment by veterans sympathetic to white supremacist causes. Extremist leaders seek to recruit members with military experience in order to exploit their discipline, knowledge of firearms, explosives, and tactical skills and access to weapons and intelligence.”
Further FBI warnings singled out the strong potential for white supremacist recruitment of military personnel–“the military training veterans bring to the movement and their potential to pass this training on to others can increase the ability of lone offenders to carry out violence from the movement’s fringes.”
The Marine Corps alone has seen a spike in incidences involving white supremacist groups.
One Marine, Lance Cpl. Vasillios G. Pistolis, was kicked out of the Corps after a 2018 ProPublica investigation linked him to the Atomwaffen Division, a neo-Nazi group that some deem a terror organization.
Coast Guard Lt. Christopher Hasson, a former Marine and outspoken white nationalist, was arrested on February 15, 2019 for drug and firearm charges, but investigators had feared he was planning an attack on several political and media targets, the Marine Corps Times reports.
While Rep. Trent Kelly, R-Mississippi, ranking member of the subcommittee, cautions that “we don’t have a lot of reliable data” on extremist ideology that is permeating the military, membership to white supremacist and neo-Nazi organizations across the civilian population continue to rise. Within the last four years, the number of U.S. hate groups have risen by 30%, the Southern Poverty Law Center, a civil rights organization that tracks hate groups, reports.
As social media becomes awash with anti-Semitic rhetoric and Nazi propaganda, the question for the military becomes, according to Kelly, “what can we do better to keep ’em out and what can we do to get ’em out?”
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01113c6646ccccc11a60a94b4807a6ec | https://www.historynet.com/dooley.htm | Famed doctor Tom Dooley secretly helped CIA | Famed doctor Tom Dooley secretly helped CIA
Throughout the mid-to-late 1950s, Dr. Thomas Anthony Dooley III was widely celebrated as embodying the great and unselfish good of American aid. His humanitarian medical assistance in rural areas of Laos and Vietnam during the early U.S. involvement in Southeast Asia was widely praised. President John F. Kennedy awarded Dooley, who died in 1961, a posthumous Congressional Gold Medal. There was a movement to have Dooley, a Roman Catholic, canonized as a saint.
Yet there was a hidden side to Dooley, U.S. government records revealed later. After World War II, when U.S. foreign policy focused on containing communism, Dooley was the consummate “cold warrior.” He assisted the CIA by gathering intelligence on North Vietnamese operations in Laos and South Vietnam, while creating and promoting U.S. “disinformation” as a CIA propaganda weapon in the struggle for Vietnamese “hearts and minds.”
Today all thought of sainthood has vanished, leaving in its place a legacy of contradictions and controversy.
Dooley at Muong Sing hospital / AP photo
Dooley was born in St. Louis on Jan. 17, 1927. His parents were strict Roman Catholics, and after high school he studied at one of American’s most famous Catholic universities, Notre Dame in South Bend, Indiana, but dropped out after five semesters. In 1944 as World War II raged, Dooley joined the Navy. He became a Navy corpsman and was stationed at a naval hospital in New York City. After the war, Dooley left the Navy and returned to Notre Dame in 1946, but dropped out again. Dooley never revealed why he entered and left twice, except to say he was “restless.”
Afterward Dooley entered St. Louis University School of Medicine to become a doctor. The university today states that it graduates doctors who “appreciate humanistic medicine, concern themselves with the sanctity of human life and commit to dignity and respect for all patients.” The humanitarian reputation that Dooley acquired seemed to indicate he abided by those principles.
Dooley graduated from medical school in 1953 and again joined the Navy. He completed his residency at Camp Pendleton, California, and Yokosuka, Japan. He then became a Navy doctor on USS Montague, an attack cargo ship, which sailed for Vietnam in 1954.
Following the May 1954 defeat of French forces by Ho Chi Minh’s Viet Minh independence movement, the Geneva Accords later that year formalized France’s exit from its former colony and provided for the temporary division of Vietnam at the 17th Parallel. That line divided Ho’s communist regime in North Vietnam from the noncommunist South Vietnam under Emperor Bao Dai, who was replaced by President Ngo Dinh Diem in October 1955.
The Geneva agreement mandated a nationwide election to unify the country by 1956. The election never took place, largely because the U.S. government feared that Ho’s communists would win and extend their rule throughout Vietnam.
Under the agreement, Vietnamese who were residing in the north but didn’t want to live under a communist regime could move to South Vietnam. Critics claimed many of the evacuees were lured south by petty promises of “food, land and cash.” The U.S. Navy participated in the migration through Operation Passage to Freedom, an August 1954-May 1955 evacuation of an estimated 600,000-800,000 Vietnamese civilians and former French soldiers and their families. Dooley’s USS Montague was one of the evacuation ships.
Early in the operation, the young doctor was recognized as an excellent speaker and a persuasive writer. The Navy effectively made him a liaison to various government departments involved in the evacuation and, more importantly, to the media covering it. Dooley was featured in newspapers, magazines, movie newsreels and, notably, TV broadcasts, which were becoming an increasingly important news source for Americans. By the mid-1950s, a majority of American homes had a television.
In many ways, Dooley became the public face of the entire humanitarian operation to “rescue” Vietnamese from communism. Powerful Catholic publications, in particular, became a main avenue for his reporting and writing. These weekly and monthly publications reached millions of Catholics. Many of Dooley’s compelling articles, in abridged version, appeared in the Sunday Catholic Bulletin in churches nationwide. Dooley suddenly had a massive Catholic audience.
Thomas Dooley, a U.S. Navy doctor, provides instruction on water tanks at a camp in Haiphong, North Vietnam. / US Navy
Dooley’s letters home to his mother, Agnes, were passed on to various newspapers. Many were printed in his hometown paper, the St. Louis Globe Democrat. He also made contacts with Reader’s Digest magazine and New York publishers.
In the late 1950s, Dooley revealingly stated that humanitarians in the modern world had to run their organizations like a business with “Madison Avenue, press relations, TV, radio.” Dooley added, “Of course you get condemned for being a publicity seeker.”
Dooley turned his experiences and views into a book, Deliver Us From Evil, published in January 1956. He was assisted by William Lederer, who with Eugene Burdick would become co-author of the best-selling 1958 novel The Ugly American. More significantly, Lederer served on the staff of the commander in chief of the Pacific Fleet 1951-57. He met Dooley during Operation Passage to Freedom, was impressed with the doctor and his anti-communist views and encouraged him to write the book. The Navy gave Dooley a leave of absence to work on it.
Deliver Us From Evil focused on Operation Passage to Freedom and Dooley’s central role in establishing hospitals and clinics. It also contained a dramatic catalogue of Viet Minh horrors that Dooley claimed to have witnessed or heard of. These graphic stories included one about a Catholic priest who had allegedly been hung up by his legs and another who supposedly had nails driven into his head in a Viet Minh version of the “Crown of Thorns.” Other passages claim that communist Vietnamese—Dooley called them “puppets” of Moscow—had disemboweled more than a thousand native women and pierced the ears of children with chopsticks to prevent them from hearing the word of Jesus.
Dooley’s book, which also included human-interest stories, glorified the author’s achievements. Fortunately for the Vietnamese, “our love and help were available,” Dooley wrote. He said the most important center in the refugee camp was its church, where the refugees thanked God “for having given them their freedom.”
Later, a multitude of witnesses debunked Dooley’s stories, asserting they had never seen any of the events he described. At least six U.S. Information Agency officials who had been in Vietnam at the same time as Dooley, as well as a Navy corpsman who worked with him, stated that his claims were false. In a 1991 interview with Los Angeles Times journalist Diana Shaw, Lederer stated:
“Those things [that Dooley reported] never happened. …I traveled all over the country and never saw anything like them.” Lederer also told Shaw he had not seen Dooley’s descriptions of the atrocities prior to the book’s publication.
Recent research indicates some original passages were actually toned down or cut. One of Dooley’s drafts referencing the horrific acts that allegedly occurred against Catholics included an assertion that “there can be no concessions, no compromise” in the fight against communism, which isn’t in the book. On June 1, 1956, in a speech to the American Friends of Vietnam, an organization promoting U.S. aid to South Vietnam, Dooley described communism as “an evil, driving, malicious ogre.”
Dooley and Kirk Douglas in 1956. / Getty Images
An abbreviated 27-page version of Dooley’s book appeared in Reader’s Digest, the largest-circulation American magazine of that time with 20 million readers. Deliver Us From Evil shot up on the best-selling list. The doctor became a global celebrity.
Dooley resigned from the Navy in March 1956. His official explanation was that he could be of more service as a civilian than he could be as a Navy doctor. Yet that was not the real reason.
An internal investigation by the Navy into Dooley’s private life had discovered homosexual activities, which were grounds for dishonorable discharge from all military services during that time. As Dooley’s fame grew, his sexuality became harder to conceal.
Dooley wrote two more widely read books, The Edge of Tomorrow, published in 1958, and The Night They Burned the Mountain in 1960. In each one, Dooley is shown with an Asian child on the front and back covers. All three of his books were printed in paperback editions to make them affordable to the widest possible audience of readers.
Americans eagerly embraced this man and his inspiring stories about confronting communism in Asia. He embodied the way Americans saw themselves during the Cold War, presented to them as an existential struggle of Communism vs. Freedom. The publicity campaign for Dooley’s book was designed not just to make the doctor a celebrity, but also to shape public opinion’s about Indochina and its position in the political battle against communism.
A strong influence in Dooley’s anti-communist proselytizing was the Roman Catholic Church, especially New York City’s Cardinal Francis Spellman. The cardinal was one of the most powerful Catholic leaders in the world, perhaps second only to Pope Pius XII. Spellman had met South Vietnam’s Diem, a devout Catholic, in 1950 and pushed for him to lead the South. With its heritage as a colony of Catholic-dominated France, Vietnam had an extremely large Catholic population, second only to Buddhism in the country.
Words from Dooley’s Deliver Us From Evil were incorporated into Sunday sermons at the Children’s Mass in Catholic churches. The book was required reading at some Catholic schools. Copies were sold after Mass. At times special collections were marked for Dooley’s Medical International Cooperation Organization, or MEDICO, founded to build and staff hospitals in Laos.
According to a 1959 Gallup poll, Dooley was the seventh “most admired person in the world.” Images of the doctor and his moving stories of Southeast Asia’s struggles against communism appeared in Life, Look and Time magazines. There was even a 10-page spread in Canada’s Maclean’s weekly magazine. When Americans turned on their televisions in 1959, Dooley seemed to be everywhere.
Dooley is handed a check for his MEDICO nonprofit in November 1959. / Getty Images
On Nov. 18, 1959, while in Los Angeles, Dooley was a guest on This Is Your Life, hosted by Ralph Edwards. Edwards would surprise celebrities who were in town and take them into his studio, where they would hear offstage voices from their past. After a reaction from the guest, the people offstage would come out front—in Dooley’s appearance, this included people from his time in Vietnam and Laos.
The What’s My Line show of Nov. 22, 1959, hosted by John Daly, featured the regular panel of Dorothy Kilgallen, Arlene Francis and Bennett Cerf, joined for this episode by acclaimed author James A. Michener. With the panel securely blindfolded to prevent visual recognition, Dooley silently “signed in” on a chalkboard to loud audience applause. Each panel member was allowed to ask questions to elicit “yes” or “no” answers from the guest, who often responded with a disguised voice to prevent recognition. Francis eventually guessed correctly, and the other panel members, removing their masks, were excited. Daly called Dooley’s work in Laos and Vietnam “a story the American people have come progressively to know more about” and made a reference to Viet Minh aggression. He then presented Dooley with a $5,000 check from the Damon Runyon cancer fund to support MEDICO.
Dooley continued to flood the airwaves. He appeared on Today with Dave Garroway and received a check for $10,000 to assist his organization. He was also Jack Parr’s guest on The Tonight Show. Arthur Godfrey featured Dooley on his popular TV and radio shows.
Dooley raised funds in Hollywood and attended numerous banquets across the country, several with Spellman. There was talk of a movie about him starring Kirk Douglas. Dooley had his own weekly radio show and wrote weekly newspaper columns. During the few years before his death, Dooley traveled more than 400,000 miles.
The doctor was such a well-known celebrity that he agreed to televise his own surgery for melanoma cancer for a CBS documentary, “Biography of a Cancer,” broadcast on April 21, 1960. The program included a long interview conducted by journalist Howard K. Smith. Dooley died from the cancer at Sloan Kettering Hospital in New York on Jan. 18, 1961—one day after his 34th birthday.
Tributes poured in from outgoing President Dwight D. Eisenhower and even the pope. Thousands turned out for Dooley’s funeral in St. Louis. In a White House ceremony on June 7, 1962, Kennedy presented Agnes Dooley with her son’s Gold Medal authorized by Congress. A year after Dooley’s death, a documentary was made with footage of the doctor’s work and his clinics. That film, The Other War in Southeast Asia, narrated by actor Gene Kelly, was shown at fundraisers such as church functions and civic events.
Over time, Dooley’s carefully crafted image began to fall apart. In 1975, the Rev. Maynard Kegler, one of Dooley’s religious contacts in the 1958-61 period, began doing research to promote the doctor’s canonization to sainthood. Kegler came across 500 pages of unclassified documents in CIA files indicating that Dooley had helped the agency.
For example, Dooley provided the CIA with information about enemy troop movements and local attitudes toward both the communists and the Americans. Kegler defended Dooley’s ties to CIA officials, nonetheless.Dooley’s mother receives a posthumous medal for her son from President John F. Kennedy on June 7, 1962. / AP photo
“He gave them information out of patriotism, love of country and all that the United States stood for in 1958,” Kegler said in a 1979 interview with People magazine.
Some evidence indicates that Dooley allowed U.S. troops out of uniform in Laos to stay at his clinics disguised as medical staff.
An investigative piece on Dooley by Shaw of the Los Angeles Times appeared Dec.15, 1991, with this long headline: “The Temptation of Tom Dooley: He was the heroic jungle doctor of Indochina in the 1950s. But he had a secret, and to protect it, he helped launch the first disinformation campaign of the Vietnam War.”
Shaw noted that 50 civil servants sent a letter to the publisher of Deliver Us From Evil to protest Dooley’s account of his work in Southeast Asia.
The letter, according to Shaw’s article, stated that Dooley “exaggerated his role in the refugee camps at the expense of the people who were working with him, many of whom did just as much, if not more, than he did.” Shaw wrote that the editor of Dooley’s book “had an idea that the book wasn’t, strictly speaking, true.” But the editor, in his defense, told her that “it had the essence of truth,” and during the Cold War “that was just as good.”
Dooley undisputedly had a flowery way with words that made his writing persuasive, as Shaw illustrates with this anecdote from the doctor’s Navy days: “While the ‘situation reports’ commonly filed by medical commanders were blunt and straightforward accounts of the day’s work, Dooley’s were eloquent. The brass recognized that his chronicles, enlivening the dry details with dramatic descriptions and impassioned patriotic commentary, could boost morale. They sent them throughout the fleet so that everyone, from corpsmen to vice admirals, could read them.”
The movement to make Dooley a Catholic saint has evaporated. The reason may have had more to do with the Catholic Church’s position on homosexuality than with Dooley’s CIA ties.
Following his cancer diagnosis, Dooley lamented in a conversation with Dr. Vincent J. Fontana, director of the New York Foundling Hospital, that “nobody loves me,” according to Shaw’s article.
Fontana pointed out to Dooley that the doctor received letters from across the globe, showing that many people loved him. But Dooley replied to Fontana, as Shaw relays the conversation, that “if they knew him, they would find him loathsome.” Fontana told Shaw that Dooley “gave in to the stigma” surrounding his homosexuality.
In Dr. America: The Lives of Thomas A. Dooley, published in 1997, author James T. Fisher explored the complex and seemingly contradictory characteristics of Dooley’s life.
Reviewing the book for The Washington Post, psychiatrist Robert Coles summed up Fisher’s take on Dooley this way: “a vain, arrogant, self-promoting, ambitious, manipulative storyteller who knew how to exaggerate, tell small fibs and big lies; but also a sensitive, generous, idealistic and compassionate doctor who put himself on the line, under difficult circumstances for the most needy of people.” V
Jim Trautman, a former Marine, wrote The Pan American Clippers—The Golden Age of Flying Boats, a book first published in 2007 and updated in 2019. He lives in Kitchener, Ontario.
This article appeared in the October 2020 issue of Vietnam magazine. For more stories from Vietnam magazine, subscribe here and visit us on Facebook:
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b137a6614f46e592ae5851918aef8712 | https://www.historynet.com/double-killing-fort-worth.htm | Double Killing in Fort Worth | Double Killing in Fort Worth
A sheriff and a lawyer had a brief run-in during a town picnic in July 1861, but a month later they ran into each other again—with deadly results.
In 1861 Sheriff John B. York and Archibald Y. Fowler, a lawyer as adept with a bowie knife as he was with an argument, resided in Fort Worth, a humble village on the north Texas frontier 35 miles from “civilization,” as defined by Dallasites. Fort Worth was part of Tarrant County, organized a decade earlier yet still mostly empty. Bad blood surfaced between the two on July 20 during a public barbecue at the Cold Spring, just over a mile northeast of the public square. Eight local militia companies were putting on a full-dress review before marching off to join Confederate service, and most residents were on hand.
It was an especially hot, dry summer. Liquor flowed freely that day, and thirsty folks also formed a long line to drink from the spring. A livestock fence around the spring controlled access. York was keeping an eye on things when Fowler grew tired of waiting and jumped the fence. The sheriff ordered him to the back of the line. The feisty lawyer took exception, whereupon York picked him up and deposited him in a mudhole. Fowler scrambled out, madder than a hornet, and others intervened to keep the men from coming to blows. Fowler’s friends persuaded him to leave, but he would brood over the incident in the weeks ahead. The insult grew all out of proportion in his head, and that meant bigger trouble when Fowler encountered York in the public square that August —trouble so big it cost the sheriff his life.
The killing of Tarrant County Sheriff John York was no honorable affair. It might properly be termed “A Tale of Two Cities.” But it was equally a tale of two families: the York-Gilmores of Fort Worth and the Peak-Fowlers of Dallas. No, it was not Archibald Fowler who shot the sheriff, although he did come at York repeatedly with his bowie knife that day. York was able to get off one well-aimed shot during the bloody confrontation, and Fowler, like his adversary, did not live to tell the tale.
Like many early Texans, John York came from Tennessee; he was born there in 1827. His parents had followed the westward star, moving the family to Missouri, where John grew to manhood and married Julia Ann Gilmore. She gave birth to a son in late 1847. Six months later, the York and Gilmore families settled in north Texas on land belonging to the Peters Colony, out of which Tarrant County would soon be carved. John built a snug cabin on his 640- acre headright adjoining the property of his in-laws. In 1848 the Yorks’ son died in infancy and was buried in a plot that would become Fort Worth’s first cemetery. In July 1849, following the birth of a second son, the Yorks, the Gilmores and other homesteaders welcomed the arrival of Major Ripley A. Arnold and a 2nd Dragoon company. Fort Worth represented the edge of settlement in north Texas for the next few years.
In 1850 John York won election as Tarrant County’s first constable. The state constitution described the position as “the conservator of peace throughout the county,” but a constable was actually more of a process server than a lawman. However, it did serve as a springboard to higher office, and in 1852 York became sheriff, the county’s second. Being the son-in-law of Seabourne Gilmore, the county’s first judge, didn’t hurt. The position was part-time, as there was no red-light district to police or bank to protect, Indians thereabouts were peaceful enough, and the Army (Fort Worth was literally a fort until September 1853) handled most of the peacekeeping. But that was fine with John, who was civicminded and a leader but not particularly passionate about law enforcement. Big and solidly built, York could intimidate smaller men and keep his old Colt revolver holstered. He was no gunfighter. York remained a full-time farmer while serving as sheriff. In the 1850s, he and Julia had four more children, and she was expecting again in the summer of 1861.
York’s first two-year term as sheriff passed quickly, and he was reelected in 1854. William Bonaparte Tucker, scion of another First Family of Fort Worth, won the 1856 election, but “Bony” moved on to bigger things, and John reclaimed the badge in 1858. York oversaw the construction of the first county jail (a one-room log cabin used for 20 years) and helped raise a $10,000 bond toward construction of a county courthouse. The biggest trouble during his tenure was a bitter fight between Fort Worth and Birdville over which one should be designated the county seat. Forth Worth, thanks to bogus votes and plenty of election-day liquor, won the 1856 election, but it took a second election in 1860 to settle the matter for keeps, and not before two men were killed.
In 1860 Tarrant County voters elected William O. Yantes sheriff, but when he joined the Confederacy the following spring, York served out the term. Everything went smoothly as York carried out his everyday duties in the rough-and-tumble town. Even the physical confrontation with Archibald Fowler at the July barbecue didn’t amount to much. At least the sheriff didn’t think so. Little did he know how much brooding the 36-year-old lawyer was doing.
Archibald Young Fowler, born in South Carolina in 1825, came to Texas after his father died and first hung out his law shingle in Austin. Passing the bar was not a requirement in early Texas; just calling oneself a lawyer made it so. A few years later, Fowler was practicing law in Dallas as “A.Y. Fowler, Esq.” and was a member of Mason Lodge No. 148. In 1859 he married 19-year-old Juliette Peak, daughter of one of Dallas’ most prominent families. (Among her brothers were Carroll Peak, Fort Worth’s first civilian physician, and Junius Peak, future Dallas lawman and legendary Texas Ranger.) The newlyweds moved that year the 30 miles to Fort Worth, which was on the frontier’s edge and was regularly visited by buffalo hunters. “Men,” said one resident, “went about wearing pistols and bowie knives openly, and it was a common thing to hear of a man being shot without any notice being taken of it by the authorities.” One such authority in 1859 was Sheriff York.
How much crime actually beset Fort Worth is debatable, but the town certainly held boundless opportunity for Fowler, who opened a law office off the public square. He soon launched a second career as a general land agent, and he and his brother-in-law became local agents for the Dallas Herald. Archibald bought Juliette a nice house in town, and she gave birth to their first child in February 1860. The girl died of unknown causes nine months later, but Juliette was pregnant again by the summer of 1861.
Fort Worth was Fowler’s kind of town. He ingratiated himself with the town fathers and mentored future mayor and beloved civic figure John Peter Smith. Although not a slave owner, Fowler lined up with Southern “fire-eaters” who defended the institution and despised abolitionists. In July 1860, he was among the regulators who strung up William H. Crawford, a recent Missouri transplant accused of being “an agent of the underground railroad.” Fowler then sat on the coroner’s jury that called it an unsolved crime committed by persons unknown. York was sheriff at the time, but it is not known how he felt about the lynching in his jurisdiction. That fall Fowler was on a committee that drew up a petition supporting secession, though when other secessionists marched off to fight after Fort Sumter, Fowler stayed behind.
Not that Fowler was one to avoid a fight. He could not forget being manhandled by York at the July 1861 barbecue, and he did not try to sidestep a further confrontation. In any case, in a small town like Fort Worth, with one main street, avoiding anyone was a challenge. On August 24, on the public square at the north end of town, Fowler and York had what seems to have been a chance encounter. Fowler was with his teenage nephew Willie at the time. There is no record of words being exchanged, but at one point, according to some accounts, the lawyer sprang on York and began stabbing the sheriff with his bowie knife. The badly wounded York managed to pull his revolver and shoot his assailant, killing him on the spot. Nephew Willie then produced a gun and shot the sheriff, who would cling to life another hour and a half before succumbing to his wounds. By that time, Willie was with his uncle, Dr. Carroll Peak, laying low until it was safe to slip out of town. As Fort Worth’s resident physician, Peak would have tended to both victims even as he involved himself as an accomplice to murder after the fact. But then, not everyone agreed who was the actual murderer that day.
Willie eventually fled to Missouri, where he joined the Confederate Army. He died during the war. John York was buried in the same family plot as his infant son, and Juliette Fowler took her husband’s body back to Dallas, where Archibald received a proper burial in the old Masonic Cemetery (today’s Pioneer Memorial Park). Fort Worth did not hold a memorial service for its departed lawyer. No court or jury ever considered the case. The two principals were dead, and Willie had fled. Newspapers apparently overlooked the double killing. Fort Worth’s only newspaper had suspended publication at the outbreak of the war. The tale lived on in local lore and family history. One good man had been killed, but exactly who was the good man and who was the murderer depended on which side of the Trinity River you hailed from and which family account you favored, the York-Gilmores’ or the Peak-Fowlers’.
The double killing might have touched off one of those Texas blood feuds. Julia York’s father, Judge Seabourne Gilmore, was known as a man of courage handy with a rifle, while Juliette Fowler’s brother Junius Peak was a good gun hand who made a career as a lawman. Fortunately, both sides confined their feuding to the historical record. Not counting a long oral tradition on either side of the Trinity, four first-person versions of the shooting survive from the Fort Worth side, two from the Dallas side, although not one comes from an actual eyewitness (see sidebar, P. 53).
The two pregnant women who became widows on August 24, 1861, faced a difficult road ahead. A few months after burying her husband, Julia York gave birth to their seventh child, Mary. Julia never remarried, so the six York children who reached adulthood grew up without a father. Judge Gilmore took in his daughter and her children, and they continued to live in Tarrant County. Julia eventually moved in with her married oldest son, William, who for some inexplicable reason named his own first son William Archibald York.
Juliette Fowler could not get back to Dallas fast enough after her husband’s death. Relatives took her in, and that December she gave birth to Archibald Young Fowler Jr., but he died before reaching his first birthday. Juliette, too, never remarried, but she did adopt a child. Her health was always fragile, and she died at age 52 while visiting New York City in 1889. Her body was returned to Dallas and buried beside her husband and two children in the Masonic Cemetery. In her will, Juliette left 15 acres and a “munificent bequest” to establish a home for Dallas widows and orphans. To later generations, memories of Archibald Fowler have benefited from his having been married to Juliette.
Of the dozen Tarrant County sheriffs between 1850 and 1876 (when legendary “Longhair Jim” Courtright took over), only John B. York left a mark on history. All the others were Reconstruction-era appointees or nonentities, forgotten as soon as they left office. For that matter, John York is only remembered because he died in a sensational double killing. He is the only sheriff to die in office in more than 150 years of Tarrant County history—though whether he died “in the line of duty” remains a question of family loyalties.
Texas author Richard F. Selcer’s 2009 book Fort Worth Characters (reviewed in this issue) is recommended for further reading, as are his two earlier books about Fort Worth.
Originally published in the June 2010 issue of Wild West. To subscribe, click here.
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35bdce082018ed486d69dda2e658b896 | https://www.historynet.com/douglas-a-4-skyhawks-provided-support-for-vietnam-war.htm | Douglas A-4 Skyhawks: Provided Support For Vietnam War | Douglas A-4 Skyhawks: Provided Support For Vietnam War
Marine pilots in their diminutive Douglas A-4 Skyhawks provided vital close air support for ground forces in Vietnam.
When infantrymen of the 1st Marine Division waded ashore at Da Nang in March 1965, the conflict in Southeast Asia might have seemed quite a low-key affair, as banners and pretty girls wearing flower garlands welcomed America’s crack troops. But when he deployed the Marines, President Lyndon B. Johnson significantly escalated the war. They were sent to Vietnam to protect airfields from Viet Cong guerrilla attack, but the Marines were soon in the midst of heavy action and were requesting their own air support.
The Corps’ air inventory in 1965 included the diminutive Douglas A-4 Skyhawk. Designed as a Navy shipboard attack airplane, the A-4 had the smallest possible airframe to assist stowage aboard carriers. By 1965, as the A-4E, the Skyhawk had become a highly capable warplane. The A-4 had been flown by the Corps since 1957, but it had waited eight years to make its combat debut in the hands of Marine pilots.
The A-4E was armed with two internal 20mm cannons and could carry additional guns in external pods. With three stores stations available in the A-4C and five in the A-4E ‘Echo, Marine pilots could deliver approximately 8,500 pounds of ordnance–iron bombs weighing up to 1,000 pounds, napalm, Zuni semi-guided rockets, cluster bombs, and unguided rockets. The A-4 was fast, maneuverable and rugged, well able to survive combat in Vietnam, where anti-aircraft artillery and small arms were the enemy’s principal weapons.
The Marine landings coincided with a need for a new air base on the coast in order to reduce flight time to targets in Quang Tin province and adjacent districts. Da Nang was the first Marine air base in South Vietnam. A second airfield was sorely needed, and Chu Lai, located about 50 miles south, was chosen.
Marine Aircraft Group 12 (MAG-12) would direct most operations assigned to the A-4 force in South Vietnam, plus bring in new squadrons as required. MAG-12 was commanded by Colonel Dean Macho, an energetic and resourceful officer who usually led from the front. Macho would fly numerous A-4 strike missions.
Navy Seabees sweated in 100-degree-plus temperatures to prepare the Chu Lai site for an AM-2 aluminum plank runway, dubbed the tinfoil airstrip. Designated SATS, for short airfield for tactical support, the facility had been designed for areas where no airfield existed. The one at Chu Lai initially had a 4,000-foot runway, taxiways, a parking ramp and, later, a catapult and arrester gear. As one individual put it, Chu Lai eventually had everything a Navy carrier had except the water.
A Marine A-4E of VMA-225 gets a kick from jet-assisted takeoff (JATO) bottles to hasten ascent from the runway at Chu Lai. Externally mounted on the rear fuselage, the JATO bottles reduced the takeoff distance by half. (U.S. Marine Corps)
A launching catapult was not immediately available, but Chu Lai had ample supplies of JATO (jet-assisted takeoff) bottles for an extra push on takeoff. These dry-fuel rockets were attached to the rear fuselage of each A-4 to give a five-second burn that generated 3,500 pounds of thrust. Using them cut the A-4’s takeoff distance in half.
On June 1, 1965, Colonel John D. Noble, commanding MAG-12, flew into Chu Lai in a Skyhawk, leading three other A-4s belonging to Lt. Col. Robert W. Baker’s squadron, VMA-225, into the new air base. Those Skyhawks were followed later the same day by four A-4s of the VMA-311 Tomcats, commanded by Lt. Col. Bernard J. Stender.
The urgent need for Marine fixed-wing air support was demonstrated by the fact that on the same afternoon he arrived, Baker was briefed to fly Chu Lai’s first airstrike. His aircraft duly hit targets identified by Vietnamese army troops who were in contact with the enemy six miles north of the base. The close proximity of the enemy to South Vietnamese air bases was a fact that the Marines learned to accept.
Combat flying for the VMA-311 Tomcats began on June 2; the first of two four-plane sections flown that day was launched in the morning. Noble led, followed by Stender, who ran his engine up to 85 percent power for the standard fuel state check prior to calling the tower for takeoff clearance. The ground people answered, and Stender moved to acknowledge the message, but instead of keying the microphone button he hit the JATO firing button. The A-4 leaped forward. There was little to be done, for Stender was on his way, blowing sand for a mile, as one eyewitness described it. Fortunately, the A-4 responded to the controls, and Stender’s four aircraft went on to bomb and strafe Viet Cong forces in Quang Ngai, about 20 miles south of their base.
All 20 of VMA-311’s aircraft had arrived at Chu Lai by June 16 to begin an intensive period of operations. On June 23, Stender was gratified to receive a message from the U.S. Air Force 2nd Air Division, which directed the majority of fixed-wing airstrikes throughout the country. It cited VMA-311 for the finest close air support we have ever seen.
Any achievement by the Marine fliers was often in spite of the facilities at Chu Lai. The runway demanded constant repair and shoring up to prevent the aluminum planking from sinking into the sandy subsoil. While the tactical airport concept worked well enough, the sheer pace of Southeast Asian air operations kept the maintenance teams very busy.
Vietnam’s inclement weather necessitated the use of electronic systems designed to outsmart this natural enemy. Among those used by the A-4 was the General Electric AN/TPQ-10 precision radar, which facilitated night and bad-weather ordnance delivery. Directed by a ground controller, the pilot made his target run-in, set the bomb sequencing switch and put the aircraft into altitude hold mode on autopilot. No visual reference point was required on his part, and the computerized system was able to initiate directional changes automatically. It released the ordnance at the correct altitude and time via radio signals received by the A-4’s onboard computer.
With the A-4Cs of VMA-225 and the A-4Es of VMA-311 in place at Chu Lai, MAG-12 added a third Skyhawk combat unit, VMA-214 Black Sheep, before the end of June 1965. Such was the rapid buildup of American forces in South Vietnam. Also flying the A-4C, VMA-214 had a front-line establishment of 20 aircraft, as did the other squadrons.
As the Vietnam ground war increased in intensity, the Marine A-4 squadrons began piling up a high number of mission credits. The targets were only a few minutes’ flying time away from their base, hence pilots could fly multiple sorties in a single day. It became routine to reckon sortie totals by the thousands. The continual proximity of enemy troops to U.S. air bases occasionally resulted in A-4s dropping their ordnance almost before the pilots had retracted their wheels.
North Vietnamese forces made numerous attempts to destroy or damage U.S. aircraft at their bases. Chu Lai was attacked on several occasions. During Operation Starlite in August 1965, the Skyhawks successfully flew to protect both their own ground troops and their base.
MAG-12 increased its total A-4 assets to about 80 aircraft by the fall of 1965 with the arrival in mid-October of VMA-211, the famed Wake Island Avengers. That name recalled the squadron’s Pacific combat record during WWII. As not to stretch Chu Lai’s facilities too far, A-4 squadrons were regularly rotated back to Japan as others came in to fly combat tours. VMA-224 Bengals had arrived in October, to be followed by VMA-223 Bulldogs in December. Pilots were immediately thrown in to support Operation Harvest Moon, a joint AmericanSouth Vietnamese sweep between Da Nang and Chu Lai. Completed on December 20, the operation required extensive air cover, and at the end of it, VMA-223 considered itself duly bloodied.
On December 29, 1965, VMA-211 lost 1st Lt. Thomas F. Eldridge, whose A-4E was hit by .50-caliber fire as he rolled in on enemy positions during a helicopter escort. Despite a leg wound, Eldridge was able to drop his load of napalm and turn for base. Unfortunately, he was killed when his crippled craft crashed 13 miles from Chu Lai.
January’s rains undermined Chu Lai’s runway, but air operations continued with the aid of JATO and the arrested-landing system that had since been installed. An adaptation of the carrier arrester-wire system, the arrested-landing system could stop a landing Skyhawk in 600 feet. It quickly proved its usefulness, as did other naval aircraft arrester systems used for land bases. All Marine A-4s retained their tail hooks so they could use this landing system. Numerous pilots were saved when they returned home with bullet-riddled A-4s that possibly had damaged hydraulics and were consequently at risk of a belly landing or a runway overrun.
VMA-223’s arrival in December had brought the total number of Marine A-4 squadrons that had seen action to date to six. Since other aircraft were now using Chu Lai, the maximum number of A-4 squadrons allowed at the base at any one time was set at four–a rule enforced until 1970.
A series of bloody firefights in the A Shau Valley area in March 1966 claimed the first VMA-311 pilot to be lost in action. First Lieutenant Augusto Gus M. Xavier, who was attacking targets in mountainous terrain in the predawn darkness of March 19, failed to pull out of a strafing run. Xavier’s aircraft was one of two Skyhawks lost during an intensive operation to rescue American and South Vietnamese garrison troops cut off by superior enemy forces. A Shau remained North Vietnamese territory and was a hot combat zone very familiar to the Marine A-4 pilots.
Skyhawks were hit by enemy fire on numerous occasions, and many managed to return to base–testimony to both the pilots’ skill and the strength of the A-4’s airframe. Accidents, an occupational hazard of operational flying, were kept well within reasonable limits. All the Chu Lai A-4 squadrons accumulated impressive records for flight safety. Chu Lai’s catapult system became operational on May 14, 1966. Powered by two General Electric J79 jet engines, the base catapult was able to launch Skyhawks on either north or south runway headings. Everyone who had operated out of Chu Lai had remarked on the base’s similarity to a carrier deck–and now the catapult and the arresting gear reinforced that perception.
Operation Hastings in July 1966 represented the largest Marine Corps operation to date, with the Tomcats providing support for actions against the 324th North Vietnamese Infantry Division. By August, the squadrons had chalked up 7,000 combat sorties, with the average pilot logging between 600 and 700 combat flying hours a month.
One VMA-311 pilot, 1st Lt. Thomas H. Hawking, was killed during a rescue attempt on September 6. Having ejected from his A-4 after hitting trees during a bombing run, Hawking grabbed a line trailed by a UH-1, but as the Huey climbed, the pilot fell to his death.
On September 21, the enemy carried out a mortar attack on Chu Lai, wounding some of VMA-223’s personnel. But despite the attentions of the enemy, the base had become invaluable to the Marines, and its facilities were continually improved.
A 10,000-foot concrete runway (which became known as Chu Lai West), plus aircraft hardstands and taxiways, were completed by October 1966. That December, the VMA-121 Green Knights became the seventh and last Marine A-4 unit to fly Vietnam combat missions. This squadron had been the first to deploy Marine Skyhawks over Southeast Asia when it operated briefly from Ubon, Thailand, in 1962 to help thwart a possible anti-government coup. No threat had materialized, and VMA-121 had returned home without firing a shot.
On February 3, 1967, the Bulldogs set a one-day, 59-sortie record for the Skyhawk, during which the squadron continued to fly a mix of A-4Cs and A-4Es. Along with the other A-4 squadrons, VMA-223 also flew close air support sorties during Operation Double Eagle in February and Operation Utah in March. The Bulldog pilots were rapidly becoming veterans, and their commanding officer, Lt. Col. Robert B. Sinclair, was congratulated for flying the squadron’s 10,000th accident-free hour.
In addition to having considerable success with radar bombing, Marine A-4 pilots worked with Air Force forward air controllers and used their own tactical air coordinator aircraft, which as of 1967 were two-seat TA-4Fs. Retaining the two-cannon armament and similar stores delivery capability of the single seaters, the TA-4F dual-control trainer also generally duplicated the combat models’ avionics fit, making for ease of maintenance. The TA-4F was flown by Headquarters & Maintenance Squadrons (H&MS) 12 and 13 at Chu Lai, and H&MS-11 at Da Nang.
Tactical air control increasingly passed to jet aircraft during the war. However, the Cessna O-1E Bird Dog is probably most popularly associated with that role in Vietnam. It took a lot to impress the lightplane pilots, who risked their necks for nothing if the targets they marked were not hit hard.
On the afternoon of April 19, 1967, two A-4Es from VMA-121 showed how well it could be done. Flown by Captain Robert C. Blackington (flight lead) and his wingman, 1st Lt. Samuel B. Vaughan, the Skyhawks had twice struck targets adjacent to rice paddies about 21 miles south of Chu Lai. Then the forward air controller called them in again. After our spotter told us of the Viet Cong activity, Blackington recalled, I immediately made a run, dropping two 250-pound bombs. Vaughan followed about a mile behind me, dropping identical ordnance. Vaughan was of the opinion that the fires the Skyhawks had started indicated a hidden ammunition dump, but the forward air controller remained skeptical that the target had been totally destroyed.
On his target assessment overflight, the Air Force pilot noted more enemy troops and called for another pass from both A-4s. More bombs were dropped, and on his final run Blackington fired 200 rounds of 20mm ammunition. Once more the O-1E flew over the target. This time the Bird Dog pilot was satisfied and commented, You guys do excellent work.
Marine pilots flying the small, maneuverable Skyhawk were indeed popular candidates for close air support because they rarely lost any time in arriving over the target. The A-4 squadrons had initiated hot pad alerts at Chu Lai, during which a section of armed aircraft awaited the scramble call with pilots in their cockpits and engines turning over.
There were enough hazards to be faced by Marine airmen south of the Demilitarized Zone without undue attention from the enemy’s defense trump card, the SA-2 Guideline surface-to-air (SAM) missile. It was used mainly in the North, but two Marine Skyhawks were to fall victim to SAMs during the war, one of them flown by Major Ralph E. Brubaker of the Tomcats. On July 6, having ejected after his A-4 became uncontrollable when the missile detonated, Brubaker suffered a dislocated knee. Safely on the ground, he was rescued by helicopter.
By the end of 1967, little progress had been made toward a successful end to the war. The North Vietnamese planned a nationwide coup to unite the country under Communist rule that was timed to start during the 1968 Tet, or lunar new year, celebrations. When the Tet Offensive began in January 1968, a focal point of the North Vietnamese attacks was the U.S. outpost at Khe Sanh. Having been isolated by the loss of the A Shau Valley area in 1966, the garrison expected an attack, and the 26th Marines stationed there were hardly taken by surprise when the offensive began.
The core of the enemy offensive was concurrent attacks on towns and U.S. installations throughout South Vietnam. Among the targets was Chu Lai, where, on January 31, rockets injured two men from VMA-311, damaged four of that squadron’s A-4s and destroyed part of the bomb dump. In retaliation, the Bulldogs destroyed an enemy rocket dump south of their base on February 25.
The battle to prevent the capture of Khe Sanh became one of the epic ground-air actions of the war. It included a huge logistics airlift to bring the Marine defenders food, medical supplies and ammunition. To help this effort, the Corps devised the Super Gaggle formation, which centered on a Lockheed Hercules C-130 cargo plane, flying with helicopter and fixed-wing aircraft escort.
Twelve A-4s flew the first Super Gaggle on February 24, 1968, joining 20 CH-46 and UH-1E helicopters on a mission coordinated by a TA-4F. The role of the Skyhawks was to sanitize the en route and landing areas by working them over with bombs, napalm and 20mm cannon fire. Operation Niagara, the huge, coordinated air plan to hold Khe Sanh helped break the Tet Offensive; yet the break was not exploited, and the United States ultimately began withdrawing combat units. A number of bases lost their front-line status, among them Chu Lai. It was handed over to the Army on September 3, 1970; the last Marine sorties were flown from there on September 11.
In 1971 A-4E Skyhawks from VMA-311, take on fuel at DaNang, South Vietnam. The distinctive “hump” housed new electronic equipment. (U.S. Marine Corps)
MAG-12 had meanwhile departed Vietnam in February 1970 and relocated in Japan; VMA-211 accompanied it, while VMA-223 returned home. The Marine combat units that remained in Vietnam moved to Da Nang, among them VMA-311, which then came under the operational control of MAG-11 and continued to support the ongoing war in Laos and Cambodia. One of the earliest arrivals in the war zone, VMA-311 had by May 7, 1971, flown 47,663 sorties. That looked like the end of the war for VMA-311, but on March 30, 1972, the North Vietnamese invaded the South, and the squadron flew into Bien Hoa, near Saigon. On May 1, VMA-311 began flying combat missions again. Many sorties were flown into Cambodian border regions, and on August 29, 1st Lt. Charles G. Reed flew VMA-311’s 50,000th sortie. The squadron went on to raise its sortie total to 54,625 before the war’s end.
Even after the successful containment of the April 1972 invasion of South Vietnam–the Eastertide Offensive–operations in Laos and Cambodia continued to attract American air support. But it was clear that after the January 1973 cease-fire, the United States was, militarily speaking, out of Vietnam for good. VMA-311 was to be the last air combat unit of all the U.S. services to leave that war-ravaged country, but it took some weeks for the cease-fire to take complete effect. Not until January 28 did VMA-311 ground personnel refuel the last A-4s, hang the last bombs–painted red, white and blue for the occasion and daubed with slogans–on the airplanes and strap in the last duty pilots.
Fittingly, Dean Macho, commander of MAG-12, led the mission, a strike into the Mekong Delta region. Asked if their target lay east, west, north or south of a marked point, the Vietnamese forward air controller simply replied, Roger. The comment was indicative of the hold the enemy had on the country. Da Nang’s ground troops waited anxiously for the Skyhawks to return. They all did, 1st Lt. Thomas Boykin’s aircraft being the last to land. He reported that, true to form, the enemy had hit his aircraft over the Mekong Delta area, but the minor damage had not given him any problems. Boykin said, I dropped the last bomb….I’m glad it’s over.
Lieutenant David Mowrey told a reporter that his war had been a hell of an education. He added something that could be echoed by almost every combat flier, The common denominator of the guys here is that we love to fly, but the sad thing is that in terms of quality and quantity, the best flying comes when you’re in a war.
This article was originally published in the May 1996 issue of Aviation History. For more great articles subscribe to Aviation History today!
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ef18a4c7cf24d1cf184cc3929988feee | https://www.historynet.com/douglas-pike-tragedy-times.htm | Douglas Pike On the Tragedy of Our Times | Douglas Pike On the Tragedy of Our Times
Tough questions remained even for the man who arguably knew the intricacies of Vietnam better than anyone else.
INTRODUCTION
Douglas Pike arrived in Saigon in 1960 as an employee of the U.S. Agency for International Development. He spent much of the next 15 years in country, interrogating defectors and prisoners of war and intensely studying the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese. Through his work on the ground he became one of the leading authorities on the Communist armed forces in Vietnam, writing eight books and scores of articles.
We met for the first time in 1985 at the University of California at Berkeley, where he was director of the Indochina Archive, a singular treasure trove of documents, books, monographs and slides related to the Vietnam War. I often conferred with Doug about my research and writing, taking advantage of his sage advice. He was extremely generous with his time and straightforward and concise in his criticisms, cautions and suggestions. So much of what I learned about the American effort in Vietnam came as a result of Doug’s help. Many of the people I’d interviewed around the world agreed to speak with me based on his recommendation. I spoke with him perhaps a dozen times in the next nine years, sometimes at length in tape-recorded sessions and sometimes merely on the telephone or informally over coffee.
I intended to incorporate our talks into my book Tears Before the Rain: An Oral History of the Fall of South Vietnam (1991)—but I ran into problems of space with the manuscript. When I told Doug about the problem, he recommended I use my interviews with him only as background for my introduction. There were, he assured me, many people far more important than he who must be included in the shortened narrative. So I put aside the transcripts of our talks. The last time I spoke with him was in April 1994 when we were participants in a session of the Shorenstein Symposia and Seminars held on the UC Berkeley campus.
Douglas Pike died in May 2002 at age 77. Those illuminating conversations I’d had with him remained in the back of my mind, along with the intention to publish their transcripts someday. What follows are some key perceptions of a man who said in 1969 that “Vietnam has become the great intellectual tragedy of our times.” Although perhaps as knowledgeable as any other individual on the subject, Doug insisted the Vietnam War was so complex that final judgments were necessarily elusive.
THE KEY TO VICTORY: ORGANIZATION…
After the death of President Ngo Dinh Diem in November 1963, I had the feeling that the situation in Vietnam was like a stock market. It was not all a downhill skid. It was up and down and up and down. We were close to victory a couple of times and right at the gates of defeat twice. The war was just about lost in early 1965. We were within weeks of losing and everybody on both sides knew it. I still don’t know how we pulled things out that year. I don’t know if anybody really does. We were just hanging on. But the course of the war went up and down again, and there were times when you thought things were going well and other times when you thought they were going to hell. I argued at the time that victory in Vietnam would go to the side that got the best organized, stayed the best organized and most successfully disorganized the other side. After Diem, it became much, much worse in the South in terms of the government organization. We seemed to be forever going through another coup. A government would come in and replace all the province chiefs. Another would come in and replace all the province chiefs again, and this happened over and over.
I remember I had an appointment with the Tay Ninh province chief and it was set up for two weeks in the future. When I finally went there, he had been replaced and a new province chief had been appointed just that morning. I arrived about the same time the new province chief did. We went inside his office, and he turned to me and said, “Do you know where the men’s room is here?” And I said, “Yes, down the hall to the left.” And I went in and sat down and thought, “Here’s a province chief who doesn’t even know where the men’s room in his own office is.” And he was out of there in a month. You can’t run a government like that.
IF THEY DON’T LOSE, THEY WIN…
In studying the unfolding of the war, I learned not to look at battles lost and won. There is an irony involved in this. If you lose the battle you will lose the war, but if you win the battle you do not win the war. You merely set the stage for organization, mobilization, solving social problems and so on. So there is an irony—or law—in most guerrilla wars that if they don’t lose, they win. In opposing them you have to neutralize them or hold them off. Victory in the final analysis, however, will come only in dealing with their organizational efforts among the people, their efforts to destabilize the government as well as their waging of low-intensity conflict. And it is questionable to me if outsiders can deal with this completely. It has to be done essentially by the indigenous population, by the people. There is a serious limitation to what foreigners in a xenophobic society like Vietnam can do.
GREAT FIGHTERS, LOUSY COMMUNISTS…
From the time I arrived in Vietnam in 1960, I wanted to learn what made the Communists tick. I concluded that there was no one answer as to what motivated them. The Northerners officially proclaimed that they fought in the name of “unification.” But when I interviewed them I had trouble. I’d ask them what they were doing down in the South, and they would say, “We’ve come to liberate and unify the holy fatherland.” And I’d say, “You don’t really care about that do you? It’s an abstraction.” And they’d say, “Well, why I really came here is because my friends are here, I was sent here, my family expects me to come here too.” In other words, I found that enemy soldiers were motivated primarily by social pressure. It was the same reason many Americans were there. It’s the whole system that sent them there. It doesn’t mean they didn’t believe in it. But it was the organization of the system and the ambience of the system that put people there.
When Diem was overthrown, that was the revolution for a lot of Viet Cong. That was why they fought. They’d won. We got numerous defections from the Southern Viet Cong right after that. They thought that everything they fought for had been accomplished. And we also got numerous defections from high-level party cadres. Some of the most impressive Vietnamese I have ever talked to defected. And I’d ask them why they fought, and the answer was that they didn’t understand my question. Some, however, said something like: “This was my outfit, this is what we did. We were professionals.” “What about democracy?” I’d ask. And they said, “Oh, yes, I’m for that,” and so on. But the official Communist Party line was that they were fighting for land reform and so on. Yet for these wizened 60-year-old men who had been fighting their whole lives, that just didn’t wash. I found that they were mostly apolitical; they had no interest in or little knowledge of communism.
I had assumed that these guys were Marxists to various degrees. That was probably because they said they were and Hanoi said they were. But then I realized that this was just sand in my fingers. There was nothing to hold this together. You’d say to a guy, “You’re a member of the party?” And he would say, “Yes, I actually have a card.” And I’d ask him, “Do you believe that the history of all former societies is the history of class conflict?” And he’d say, “I don’t know what that means.” And I’d say, “How about dialectical materialism, historical determinism, religion as the opiate of the people?” And he’d say, “Yes, no, maybe.” And I’d say: “You’re really a lousy Communist. How did you get into the party? You really don’t know a thing about communism.” And he’d say, “Well the party cadre who examined me told me what the questions would be and what the answers should be.” And I said, “You don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?” And he’d say, “No, you don’t have to know anything about communism to be a good Communist.”
I don’t know how many times I heard that. That’s quite different from communism in the West. In theory, if you master Marxism-Leninism, you are infallible. You can interpret history and all historical phenomena. You are Olympian. But communism on its way from Moscow to Hanoi underwent a sea change. Here was a guy who was willing to go out and fight and die for this, and yet in my mind he was not a Communist at all. Communism was like some icon on the wall. It was semi-religion for him, it was taken on faith alone. Ho Chi Minh had identified with Marxism and communism. And Ho was the spirit of Vietnam to them. And so they said they were Marxists and Communists, too. Just like Ho.
MANY MOTIVES, MANY REVOLUTIONS…
The North Vietnamese prisoners of war I interviewed in the mid- 1960s would always say they were fighting for unification. And the South Vietnamese VC prisoners would always say they were fighting for justice and democracy. There were dramatic and very sharp differences between the North and the South. The Communist Party cadres, of course, would smooth this over.
The Communists had at first defined revolution not as socio – political change, but as getting rid of Diem. And when Diem was gone, the Revolution was over. The Southerners who believed this were bourgeois revolutionists as far as the North was concerned. The North was always afraid of a sellout. So they began sending troops down south early to have them on the spot when the end came. As the war spread and the American presence increased, the relations between North and South got out of whack. The Communists needed more men and they couldn’t get them in the South, and so they sent them down from the North. In 1965 the VC fought maybe 90 percent of the day-to-day battles. By 1972 about 90 percent was the North, the NVA. So the war shifted in terms of personnel; the Northern presence became greater and the number of VC got proportionately smaller. It became a Northern war, moving from a guerrilla war activity to a regular force war, a limited small-scale war.
The fundamental motivating spirit of the Vietnamese is nationalism. The basic thinking of a Vietnamese is that originally there were these 100 tribes of south China. The Han came and assimilated all of these except the Nam Viets, who moved out of south China into the Red River Valley. The Chinese came after them, and for 1,000 years the Nam Viets resisted this assimilation. That explains their relation with the Chinese today. The fact is that they stole their whole civilization from the Chinese—architecture, language and literature. They will tell you, though, that the cultures grew up simultaneously, and they didn’t. There is a great racial pride in this, a Vietnamese identity. They see themselves as distinct and unique.
And in addition to this they are very martial. They are the Prussians of Asia. They see their martial spirit, and they know this has cultivated a Praetorian attitude among them. Both North and South Vietnamese are really hard-as-nails semi-fanatics. But, they see this spirit as essentially defensive. They see themselves as not aggressive and thus unlike the Prussians. Everything they have ever done they see as resistance to something.
Man for man, I don’t think you can make a judgment that will hold up under scrutiny about soldiers in the North and the South. You have this regionalism in Vietnam, North, Central and South. It is like caste in India. You cannot understand Vietnamese politics without considering this geographic regionalism. Usually, in other countries it is North and South. But in Vietnam it is three regions. Northerners see themselves as modern, rational and progressive. Central Vietnamese see themselves as cultural, and the only ones who understand Vietnamese literature. In the South they see themselves as pacifistic and more in touch with nature. The Southerners see the Northerners as money-hungry and sharper in business. Both Northerners and Southerners see the Central Vietnamese as vague-speaking, overly intellectual. And the Northern and Central Vietnamese see the Southerners as lazy and dirty and antimechanical.
My language teachers in Vietnam, and most of my friends, actually had come from the North. They kept up this steady patter trying to convince me of their evaluation of Southerners. I was in a gas station with a Northern friend, and this guy was trying to put air in the tire and he did it wrong and all the air came out, and my friend turned to me and said, “You are looking at a typical Southerner.”
I came into the office one morning with another Northerner, and I said good morning to my secretary and asked, “What did you do on the weekend?” She said, “I went out on a hill and thought about nature.” We went into my office, and my friend turned to me, and said: “Isn’t that typical of a Southerner? Thinking about nature?”
I knew a Southerner in the prime minister’s office, and he told me: “All the trouble here is the hot-headed Northerners. If they only had patience like the Southerners, the French would have left here like the British left India and we would have had none of these wars.”
I would never write this, but it does seem to me that there is a greater martial quality in Northerners and they are more disciplined, and this goes way, way back. After all, in every country you are going to get some differences. We have some of these differences here in the United States: the New Englanders, the Virginia planters, the pioneers in Minnesota. It is a slippery thing to deal with, and it is awfully hard to come to solid judgments. But there is something to this notion that the Northerners were simply better soldiers for various reasons, cultural and otherwise.
AN ENDEMIC PSYCHIC SENSE OF DEPENDENCY…
And then there is a darker character in the Vietnamese psyche. Nobody has ever done much on this. The Vietnamese culture has been skewed through clandestinism in politics and the syndrome of betrayal, which is endemic in the society. Over the centuries, there has developed a sense of dependency toward the outside world, and this has manifested itself in political terms. You see this in the fact that every major political movement in Vietnam in the 20th century has had a direct connection, a kind of umbilical cord, to an outside source of sustenance and support. The Nationalists with Kuomintang in China, the Dai Viets with Japan, the Buddhists with the Ceylonese, the Marxists and Stalinists with Moscow and Beijing, the South Vietnamese with the United States— every organization in Vietnam has had this umbilical cord.
And it is unlike other countries. In India the leaders had connections with the left in London. But the idea was that they were going to make or break on what they did in India themselves. The Vietnamese, on the other hand, have always had the idea that somebody else is going to deliver what they want to them. Ho Chi Minh was out of his country for 40 years trying to get somebody to deliver his country to him—Sun Yat Sen, the French left, the Americans in World War II, the Chinese, the Russians and so on. This is a psychic dependency, and it exists irrespective of material objectives, military balance of forces, or whatever. It means that you do not think you can sustain yourself without this outside support.
I wrote about this in Washington, D.C., about five years after the Vietnam War: I had been out in an alley in Cleveland Park teaching my son to ride a bicycle. I would run beside him on the bike and hang onto the seat. And he asked, “Are you hanging on?” And I wasn’t and he kept going. Again he shouted, “Are you hanging on?” And he turned and saw that I wasn’t, and he fell off. The thing is, he could ride that bike without me hanging on, but he didn’t think he could.
This paralleled the South Vietnamese psychic dependence on American support. I had the sense of this because of what the Vietnamese told me and what they told themselves: “We can do this without the Americans. We need to do this and we can do it,” they said. But every mother jack of them didn’t believe it. And so when the very first real military test came in Ban Me Thuot in the spring of 1975, they just crumbled.
And it was a total surprise to us. It seemed to make no sense. It is difficult to explain why the South Vietnamese stood and fought in 1968 and 1972. You had three major offenses in 1972 in the north, center and south, and there was not one single incident of a unit deserting, or a unit cutting and running. At An Loc they stood and fought under incredible circumstances. In big and little battles and village defense, forces stood and fought, and the general record is of this tenacious behavior. Yet in the last offensive of the war there was no standing and fighting at all.
What really cultivates this theory of dependence in my thinking is General Vo Nguyen Giap’s reaction to the collapse of the Army of South Vietnam in the Central Highlands around Ban Me Thuot. We were getting high-level intercepts from Hanoi to the field, the substance of which was, “You people are advancing too fast, you’re being sucked in, we want you to slow down, it’s a trap, slow down, consolidate your advance.” And commanders in the field were saying, “No, really, it’s all crumbling.” And the command center responded, “No, no it’s a trap.”
I can understand Hanoi’s thinking on this. The performance of ARVN was way out of sync with anything they had known in the past. I do not believe they crumbled just because the North had tanks. It was because of the psychology of the commanders and the rank and file alike. The feeling that, “We are alone. We have been abandoned by the Americans. We are really alone.” And like my boy on his bicycle, they found when they were alone that they didn’t really believe in themselves.
AND THE ANSWER IS…?
The argument that they ran out of supplies is not true. They did not run out of guns or bullets or anything else. They still had $5 million worth of war material when the war was over. I thank God that it didn’t go because they ran out of supplies. They would eventually have run out at their rate of expenditure. They knew that, and that is a factor, I think. But I think if you have a lot of material and the enemy is coming, the tendency is to use it up.
I went into this “we ran out of ammunition” explanation a month after the war ended. I was invited to the Army War College to give a speech on why we lost the war. The fact is, I didn’t have the slightest idea why we lost the war. I went through all the literature I could find, mostly newspaper columnists, and I extracted 23 reasons— all separate explanations—for why we lost the war, all of which had some validity but none of which would stand by itself. I took the list to work and I went through it. And then I was hoping against hope that when I gave the lecture nobody would say, “Well what is the right answer?” And the first thing you know, somebody says, “Oh, it’s 14 and 2, that’s it.” And somebody else said, “No it’s 12 and 5.” And the whole rest of this thing is a bull session in which they argued about those 23 reasons. But I came to believe that all of these really in part explain, but none alone explains it.
There is nobody who can give you a single reason as to why it all happened this way. History doesn’t happen like that. There are always multiple causes and multiple results. The notion that there is a single reason is just wrong. You know, there are many popular one-cause theories: Congress cut off funds for the war. That’s why the whole war was lost, some said. They point to Congress, especially the right wing. And then there was the corruption in South Vietnam. And then the press was responsible. All of these are right—and all are wrong. The devil is not only in the details but also somewhere in those countless reasons why.
Larry Engelmann is the author of six books and is a professor of history at San Jose State University. He has been a visiting scholar at California’s Hoover Institution and at Hong Kong University.
Originally published in the October 2008 issue of Vietnam Magazine. To subscribe, click here.
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634223c50635f9c0bdaa11eae9d986fb | https://www.historynet.com/dr-lawrence-h-climo-recalls-his-vietnam-war-service.htm | Dr. Lawrence H. Climo Recalls His Vietnam War Service | Dr. Lawrence H. Climo Recalls His Vietnam War Service
In the spring of 1965 I was 27 years old, single and on the last leg of my internship. I was also emotionally drained. Six uninterrupted years on a treadmill of demanding medical studies had left me desperate to slow down. When my induction notice arrived, I initially felt only reflex embarrassment. Couldn’t I have avoided the draft? Shouldn’t I have? But then I felt relief.
Why am I running? Because the Vietnamese youngster in my arms still breathes? Because I can’t abide his dying in his father’s arms waiting his turn to see me at the outpatient clinic at the benh-vien (hospital)? Later I will hear of the murmurs. Who had ever seen a doctor running? Who had even heard of a doctor carrying his patient to the in-patient ward, let alone as the entire hospital was shutting down for the noon siesta? Nobody really expected the boy to live anyway. He had rabies. By midafternoon the boy is dead, the clinic up and operating again, and I am feeling disoriented.
In August 1965 I was at the Medical Field Service School at Fort Sam Houston, Texas, training in the basics of military medicine. It was there that I learned of an extraordinary program, sponsored by the State Department, by which selected doctors–volunteers–would be placed on loan to the Vietnamese Public Health Service. Called the Military Provincial Hospital Augmentation Program (MILPHAP), it would entail small medical teams, from all three branches of the armed forces, sent to beef up civilian facilities. Although it was to be classified as ‘counterinsurgency, I immediately related to it in personal terms. As a preschooler, I had accompanied my father on his house calls in rural Connecticut. Standing solemnly by the bedside as dressings were changed and words exchanged, then sharing refreshments in the kitchen, whenever I had imagined myself as a doctor, it was always as a doctor like my father, on the road, seeing people where they lived, a doctor sitting down to eat with his patients. I volunteered.
The Vietnamese boy stands motionless, unresponsive, his gaze vacant. His arm remains extended just as I’d left it. Catatonic stupor. The family who’d brought him in describes its onset, which followed a bombardment of their village. Post-traumatic catatonic stupor, then. He’s admitted. Blood tests show falciparum malaria, and he is given chloroquine. He recovers fully. It was cerebral malaria the whole time.
On June 20, 1966, after a 26-hour flight crammed alongside other physicians on rows of canvas jump seats in a two-window C-141, I arrived in Saigon and then received an eight-day briefing in Cholon. Among the handouts was a copy of Standing Orders, Rogers Rangers, 1759. Order Number 1: Don’t forget nothing. Number 15: Don’t sleep beyond dawn. Dawn’s when the French and Indians attack.
My medical school alumni association and friends send supplies, such as griseofulvin to cure the disfiguring ringworm that is rendering local girls unmarriageable.
Two other physicians and I, along with two sergeants and six medical technicians, made up our team, and with our administrative officer, Lieutenant Henry Brown, who coordinated everything, we officially became the 734th Medical Detachment. Our assignment was Public Health Region II, in the region where South Vietnam bends left like a comma–the Central Highlands province of Darlac, peopled by the Nguoi Thuong, or People of the Plateau, called Montagnards by the French.
I can’t seem to reassure the distraught father that his son, sick with pneumonia, will recover. He is simply inconsolable. Only later do I find out that an army truck struck and killed his other son on their way to the hospital.
We landed in Ban Me Thuot, a sprawling city of 50,000, home to the Rhade tribe and, since sometime after 1954, to the many North Vietnamese refugees who had fled communism and were resettled here. These two racially and ethnically distinct peoples now lived side by side in uneasy accommodation. A recent Montagnard rebellion, aiming to drive out all outsiders, had begun here in Ban Me Thuot in 1964, and the leaders, under the banner of FULRO (a French acronym for United Front for Liberation of Oppressed Races), still armed, were close by in Cambodia. Like our Vietnamese colleagues and patients, we too were a racially mixed bunch. Our radio call name was Sport Grant.
How long does the spirit of the deceased haunt the hospital before it becomes safe for others to go there? What are the natural medicines used? What are the values and attitudes on pain, age, infirmity and death? Why does the Montagnard vocabulary seem so sparse in terms denoting subjective symptoms? I discuss these questions with Y Tang Rulick, director of the Lac Thien District Dispensary, who is seeking to record this sort of information and publish it. In my October report to the public health director, I recommend that funds be provided for his efforts.
We were welcomed by Bac Si (Doctor) Ton That Niem, who was public health director of II Corps and acting head of Public Health Services of Darlac province as well as medical director of the civilian hospital in Ban Me Thuot; the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) representative; and a sister from the Benedictine convent. We would be directly responsible to Dr. Niem. We rode the 15 kilometers from the airfield in Land Rovers. It was monsoon season, but the sun was out. I was rested, confident and eager to begin.
I disqualify myself. The authorities simply have to find someone else to determine whether or not their prisoner is malingering. A VC suspect, he apparently had a seizure during an interrogation. They need to know, because if he’s not malingering they probably won’t execute him.
We were nominally advisers (all of us wore the MACV patch), so our room and board were courtesy of the MACV Advisory Team 33 headquarters, placing us just walking distance from the civilian hospital. Four bilingual youths–Zwi, Chin and the Nguyen brothers Hoan and Din–were our interpreters, courtesy of USAID.
The desperate mother continues trying to force her infant to swallow the adult-size pills. She is using a spoon and water. But the child is already dead, drowned from the water forced down its lungs.
The sprawling provincial hospital, made up of single-story structures and interconnecting pavilions in the French colonial tradition, included a pay ward, charity wards, surgical suite and ward, midwife/obstetrical unit, outpatient clinic with injection room, laboratory (urinalyses, blood chemistry, hematology, bacteriology, parasitology, X-ray services), pharmacy and offices. The hospital was chronically short of medicines and other supplies. No medications were dispensed on weekends. During times of severe shortage, patients picked up and went home. One civilian doctor and a visiting military surgeon were the only physicians overseeing all clinical care. Dr. Wheeler of MACV Team 33 and Dr. Paulk of the 155th Aviation Company had been volunteering their time at the Montagnard charity ward. Dr. Stanley Banach and Sergeant Strickland were assigned to the pay ward, along with Pfcs Aragon and Rodriguez. They would be working with a Vietnamese nurse and H’Nhe, the Rhade nurse.
I drive my jeep to the airstrip on the outskirts of town. There, in the hangar, are the Montagnard tribesman and his sick daughter, just as the pilot had said. I confirm she is the patient who’d been discharged four days ago from the hospital Montagnard charity ward due to continued lack of medicines (and they had no money to buy the medicine in town themselves as directed). The child’s condition, deteriorating from lack of adequate food and water, is now certain to deteriorate further because, unknown to her father, planes from the 155th simply don’t go to Quang Duc, from whence they’d come several weeks earlier. I drive the girl and her father back to the hospital and place her in the pay ward this time, as some GIs have offered to pay for her care. The medicines she needs are available at the pay ward and in stock in the hospital pharmacy.
Dr. William Baxley and Pfc Davis were assigned surgical responsibilities, in support of the part-time Vietnamese military surgeon, Captain Lam. Privates Guingrich and Melberg were assigned to the laboratory. My assignment, along with Sergeant Sanders and Pfc Harris, was the outpatient clinic of the benh-vien.
The young man lies unconscious, a reported overdose. When I find that no matter how I raise his flaccid arm and drop it, it never hits his nose, I seek more information. This apparent collapse followed an angry confrontation with his uncle (who is now standing in the gathered crowd). I gravely examine the patient’s deep tendon reflexes with my little doctor’s hammer and then solemnly announce (Hoan interpreting) that he would wake up in 20 minutes. We all step back. Don’t you think he took the phenobarbital? Hoan whispers. We’ll see in 20 minutes, I reply. Five minutes later the lad sits up, acts groggy and leaves in the care of his now attentive and apologetic uncle.
With Sergeant Sanders and Pfc Harris, I took up my position in the clinic, joining Dr. Lang, her technician Ba Lung and Co Nam, who gave the injections. We discreetly stood by, observed them and waited. It seemed days before I was invited to speak or contribute. Eventually, I was asked my opinion about a difficult case. Afterward I asked if they’d like us to move the never-used examining table closer to the window for better light. They nodded. Then I asked if we might put up a second examining table with a screen, then additional tables. Finally, we just went ahead and scrubbed down the entire examining room, eliminating all the small flies and worms from behind the long-stationary furniture. In the waiting area, we set up educational posters that explained fundamentals of hygiene and sanitation. Thus we made a workstation for ourselves.
Hoan helps us with the cleaning. You don’t have to do this, I tell him. You are the interpreter. And you are a doctor, he points out. We next convert a small, adjoining room with running water into an outpatient laboratory. There, we are also able to wash and apply ointment to diseased skin, sponge patients burning with fever, give enemas for constipation and set up intravenous fluids. We give ear irrigations, foot soaks and tapeworm purges. We apply skin creams.
Work with your counterparts, we were told. Do not attempt to take charge or to make changes. Avoid giving the impression that you know better. The ultimate goal of the MILPHAP mission was clear. We were there to win the hearts and minds of the people to their government, not to ours.
Captain Lam, the South Vietnamese army doctor and surgeon, has personally come to the outpatient clinic from the adjacent military hospital in response to my hurried note requesting a consultation (a woman with advanced cancer; can you operate?). After shaking hands with me and greeting me in French, he turns to my interpreter and commences a stunning, two-minute verbal outburst. I stand, in shock. I understand nothing he says, but his rage is unmistakable. In the startled waiting area, all stare in embarrassed silence. Abruptly Doctor Lam finishes, turns and marches out before any translation is rendered. Hoan sits. Ong noi gi? (What did he say?), I whisper, preferring to use the few Vietnamese phrases I am picking up. A trembling Hoan explains. Doctor Lam, it seems, read my note as simply a slur about his medical qualifications. Now my mouth drops open like everyone else’s.
The usual military activities were the occasional mortaring around the outskirts of Ban Me Thuot or attempts to ambush convoys that left for Qui Nhon and Pleiku. I went about in civilian clothes when the clinic was closed, to emphasize the noncombatant nature of my presence and intentions.
I think Co Nam likes me because I shoo away the crazy Chinese opium smoker who brings along his collection of obscene pictures and looks at them and displays an erection when it comes his turn for his injection.
It quickly became obvious that the most ubiquitous medical problem on the wards was malaria-related. It was also clear that patients came only when the illness was far advanced, and commonly discontinued treatment at the early signs of improvement. Despite being the minority group, the Vietnamese made up a sizable portion of the patients who appeared for treatment and often displaced Montagnard patients to get a hospital bed. We sent for medical texts to educate us.
The boys take some mops and pails and wash down the small two-bed room adjacent to the pay ward. When they leave, the patients on the ward ask that the equipment be left behind. Next morning the pay ward is spanking clean.
Eventually, all of us doctors made excursions to places such as the Chieu Hoi, or Open Arms, refugee center (for VC defectors), district dispensaries and village and hamlet aid stations (e.g., with mobile immunization teams). It helped when we used loudspeakers and played Rhade music to encourage reluctant or distrusting villagers to come forward.
Meanwhile, we also found time to provide medical services for the workers and for the hundreds being cared for at the nearby leper colony. We provided house calls on an as-needed basis to the province chief, USAID staff, General Minh of the ARVN 23rd Division and missionaries whose own medical doctor had been kidnapped by the VC several years earlier.
The rhythmic beating of the gongs from across the long house is hypnotic, and the effect of the obligatory cup of nampay (rice wine), sipped moments earlier from one of the large communal jars, is starting to take over. I know I promised the Special Forces captain I’d be alert and sober when I returned to camp after dark. But gradually another feeling dominates: This is OK. This is what I came out here to do. I let myself forget the sick people waiting, the sick child waiting. I pass out.
MILPHAP also ran medical civilian aid patrols (MEDCAPs) and staffed the bungalow dispensary for the 250 American advisers of MACV Team 33 in Dr. Wheeler’s absence.
I note the customary practice of stimulant injections. Usually it is young men complaining of nocturnal emissions and asking for intra-muscular camphor, as if an out-of-balance life force must be chemically restored. I’m troubled, however, by the practice of injections of nikethamide, a powerful cerebral stimulant, as the sole treatment for typhoid fever, for high fever in a newborn or for suspected cholera. After observing more than a few deaths, I include these observations in my first monthly report to Doctor Niem, along with my assessment that this is inappropriate. An emergency senior staff meeting is quickly called. Doctor Lam, who is visiting, begins. It is wrong to criticize one’s medical colleagues, he announces. The rest of the Vietnamese staff concur, explaining that this can hurt feelings. Doctor Stan Banach, our MILPHAP Team CO, speaks bluntly: If a doctor can’t criticize another doctor, then who can? In the end, both Doctor Niem and his administrative officer, Ong Cho, are sorry they called the meeting. Doctor Lang still doesn’t greet me, and Ba Lung still sends patients directly to the inpatient ward to be admitted without a diagnosis or doctor’s input. Only now they move into another room altogether to work. Patients arriving at the outpatient reception now ask for the bac si my–the American doctor.
Unlike my abrupt exposure to the complexity of ethnic Vietnamese identity, my introduction to the complexity of hospital (and other) politics was slow. Even slower was my introduction to the complexity of the local approaches to illness. Practiced side by side with Western medicine were a variety of other approaches. There was the Sino-Vietnamese practice, the Chinese medicine (whereby, for example, a Western-educated professional would seek hot suction cups along with antibiotic treatment). There were the Vietnamese sorcerers who knew how to make the amulets and intone the formulas against evil spirits. Finally, there was the Montagnard way, centering on animal sacrifice with ritual prayers (e.g., a Rhade would sacrifice an animal and chant prayers while accepting aspirin to bring down a fever). The important point was that all of the other methods were pretty nontoxic, except some of the so-called Chinese medicines prepared in pharmacies in Cholon, Saigon and Tan An.
I am sitting in the mess hall of the Special Forces Camp with the Green Berets. There are many loaded shotguns. Outside, two fully armed companies of strikers wait, like us, for the outcome of the negotiations. The Vietnamese officers have been tied up in another location. I conceal a knife in my boot. It is the knife my father brought back from the Pacific years before. I think the mutiny is over food.
The missionaries from the Christian Alliance Mission educated me about the particularly toxic aphrodisiacs that young Rhade men preferred when looking to seduce Christian Rhade girls. A brand sold locally was called Japanese chewing gum. The unsuspecting girl, after a young man slipped her the drug, could end up quite delirious and crazed.
They take me to the stream where the Montagnard man lies among the reeds, partly submerged. I learn he is 23 years old, already a distinguished veteran soldier in the special forces, a company commander. His father is French. He gets to his feet. He has a knife. Downstream the women and girls doing laundry pause and watch, apprehensive. Now he is singing a Rhade lament, praying, then boxing an unseen foe. When he finally quiets, he lets others take away his weapon. In custody, he will be taken to Saigon and given psychiatric care.
Most of the medications available through the Ministry of Health channels were of Asian manufacture and in short supply. MILPHAP, of course, was enjoined from going outside these channels for supplies, as that would undermine the political objective of the mission.
We pick up needles, gauze and Zephranin from the 155th Aviation Company and buy Dial soap at the MACV PX. We then pass them on to Doctor Lang and Ba Lung.
Most intestinal parasites (hookworm, ascariasis, pinworm) were curable, as was scabies. Tuberculosis (nearly everyone over 15 tested positive) and leprosy (estimated at 5,000 cases) were not.
I ask relatives of a patient to buy a liter of dextrose and water in town for an intravenous. They pay twice the rate, get half a liter and add two vials of medicine a friend once used for another illness. They have injected two vials before I discover this. It is sodothiol and isn’t in any of our books.
There were no latrines for the families living with the patients. They defecated outside the windows. Behind the surgery ward was a black, foul-smelling, fly-infested streamlet with pooled feces, urine and infected waste.
Lieutenant Colonel Monroe of the advisory team, our counterpart to General Humphries, assures us that things have improved significantly since our arrival. By October 1966 MILPHAP is running three of the four hospital wards and is responsible for all minor surgery. In an average month there might be 130 inpatients, 275 outpatient visits, 10 emergency surgeries and 375 elective surgeries.
Malaria, skin diseases, anemia and diarrhea were treatable.
I save food from the officers’ mess (hot dogs, vegetables, etc.) and bring it to a hospitalized Montagnard with nutritional deficiencies and to a young girl low on any red blood cells. The hungry family, visitors and other patients gather about me.
Typhoid fever was treatable if caught early, at least before intestinal perforation.
Doctor Lam asks Bill Baxley to assist in an operation. Bill scrubs in on the removal of a bladder stone from a Montagnard girl. The girl’s father visits her in recovery. Bill shows him the large stone and the man begins crying.
An unprecedented epidemic of violent illness and death appeared unstoppable. Lac Thien was hit first, with 26 deaths among the Montagnards. No one knew the cause.
The MILPHAP officers are at the town hall with 60 dignitaries to attend a party the province chief is holding for Lt. Col. Ireland, deputy adviser to the ARVN 23rd Division, headquartered nearby. All the RVN province administrators are there, plus the senior advisory staff of the MACV 33rd Advisory Team, plus USAID representatives. Montagnard and Vietnamese boys and girls provide the entertainment, singing folk songs. I sit with Doctor Niem. He asks how I spend my leisure time, and I reply, Reading and writing. That probably won’t be enough, he reflects. I know the people are slow to action and temporize, I reply. The evening ends early when a messenger announces that an outpost by a refugee camp 20 kilometers away is under mortar attack.
Cholera and plague were curable if treated early. Advanced goiter and cleft palate were correctable with surgery.
We are now informed the hospital is again out of penicillin, chloramphenicol, erythromycin, tetracycline and intravenous solutions. I see them stocked on the shelves of the hospital pharmacy.
People died of diphtheria and tetanus because of delayed treatment. Abscesses and burns were treatable. I treated 50 patients one busy day.
Major Hereford of G-4 speaks up at a sector meeting to denounce MILPHAP. He declares we’d better start doing some work or he’ll see us out of Ban Me Thuot.
Epilepsy, eczema, asthma and congestive heart failure were treatable when we received supplies mailed us from sympathetic friends in the United States.
My interpreter signals that my patient is VC, having noticed something about the sandals he is wearing. Like the other VC he has pointed out, this one is undernourished, tired and worried sick about his children.
If the pharmacy didn’t have a specific medicine, the technician selected another they did have and dispensed it in the dose indicated for the original.
The crazy Chinese opium smoker is no longer allowed in the clinic. Now he is standing outside my window and tossing in fruit, corn and cinnamon apples. Like other lecherous men he is called ba muoui lam, which means 35. It seems there is a Chinese game with 40 pieces, each representing an animal. Piece number 35, ba muoui lam, is old goat.
Nutritional edema, nephrosis and meningitis could be treatable. Advanced trachoma and glaucoma were not, nor was blackwater fever, a complication of malaria.
Cases of vivax malaria begin appearing. Not uncommonly this follows heavy fighting in the Mekong Delta 200 miles to the southwest. Sector is interested. Malaria in the Central Highlands is always the falciparum type.
Cases of malaria refractory to chloroquine might be treatable with the new anti-malarial drug recently investigated at the 3rd Field Hospital.
Hoan, 21 years old and a former law student, is doodling. He draws a cross section of the spinal cord and correctly labels the neuron tracts. I am speechless. What else can you do? I ask. He gets a guitar and sings Streets of Laredo. We sing Red River Valley together.
Available statistics estimated that 50 percent of the children born didn’t live to age 5.
I am awakened in my bunk by the duty sergeant, who is pale and shaking and wants to talk. He tells me that earlier that night an intoxicated trooper had entered MACV detachment HQ and lined up the men on duty against the wall at gunpoint, saying, I could kill you all. When he backed out the door, the men on duty immediately locked the door, turned out the lights and took cover behind their desks with their weapons. When the trooper returned, forcing the door and breaking the lock, the sergeant raised his rifle and fired at him point blank. It misfired. The trooper, hearing the click, fled. MPs later found him and took him into custody.
Average life expectancy was less than 40.
I am advised that people have been wondering why I wear socks with my sandals in the manner of the lepers.
USAID provided powdered milk, wheat and protein supplements for exclusive use on the Montagnard charity ward.
A visiting World Health Organization representative, a French doctor who has lived in Vietnam most of his life, explains that Chinese medicine makes extensive use of arsenic, lead and mercury.
The 33rd Advisory Team sponsored renovation projects such as shelters for families, shelters for cookouts, and sanitary facilities. MILPHAP built examining tables, cabinets and screens and gave them to the hospital.
The books arrive. The text on oral surgery is especially welcome to Doctor Baxley. There are no books on parasitology. There are texts on administration and group psychiatry.
On election day, September 11, 1966, the MILPHAP team was confined to the MACV compound. Many candidates were Rhade. FULRO was on the ballot. The VC blasted three bridges along the major highways leading from town, felled large trees across the roads and ambushed an engineer group sent to clear the way.
One of the interpreters, Zwi, brings his sister the Nivoquine tablets she requests and then, later, she commits suicide with them. He is devastated. He blames himself. Another interpreter passes him in the market and asks what he is doing there. Zwi, covered with dirt and mud, replies, I’m looking for my sister, but I can’t find her.
We were warned by State Department notice to stop soliciting and using supplies from outside channels.
The Vietnamese public health minister and Mrs. Keyes from the State Department (USAID) tour the hospital. When he sees all the vials of camphor on the pharmacy shelves, he takes them down and smashes them on the floor.
The mystery of the epidemic of violent illness and deaths among the Montagnards was traced to methyl alcohol poisoning from stills in Ban Me Thuot. Because of ongoing use of the alcohol in ceremonies that were being performed with sacrifices over their sick and dying, the number of people who became ill kept rising.
The night technician does not want us to use the small room adjacent to our clinic workstation anymore. He had been accustomed to using the room as a dormitory and prefers it to the hospital dormitory. He asks that we move out.
By July 1967, my part in the MILPHAP mission was over and my former life was back on track. I was again in New Haven, out of the Army, newly married and back in medical training, now specializing in psychiatry. A bout with dysentery in Vietnam just prior to taking my R&R in Hong Kong turned out to be the reason why all the handsome and stylish hand-tailored suits and shirts I had purchased there didn’t fit me at all in New Haven. I wasn’t aware that I’d lost so much weight. I didn’t think one could change that much in so short a time.
The article was written by Dr. Lawrence Climo and originally published in the April 2003 issue of Vietnam Magazine. Dr. Lawrence Climo practices psychiatry in Andover, Mass. He wrote this account of his wartime experiences at the urging of his daughters.
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03620518066ee2631d93eb14cce41011 | https://www.historynet.com/dr-shadids-maverick-medicine.htm | Dr. Shadid’s Maverick Medicine | Dr. Shadid’s Maverick Medicine
Dr. Shadid dared to imagine that affordable quality health care should—and could—be accessible to all.
For 20 years, Michael Shadid lived the life of an Oklahoma country doctor. It was a vocation that required a young man’s endurance. Shadid trekked through dust storms and blizzards, often arriving at a dilapidated shack to perform surgery by candlelight. By his own estimation, Shadid delivered some 3,000 babies in their homes, long before hospital births became the norm. In 1928, however, well past 40 years of age, Shadid was ready for a less arduous position. He moved with his wife and six children to Elk City, a town of 6,000 people on the edge of the Dust Bowl where he enjoyed a thriving practice as a general surgeon with a small, eight-bed hospital of his own.
Medical science had advanced rapidly during those years: The doctor’s basic tools, once the stethoscope and the thermometer, now included an arsenal of expensive apparatus. It pained Shadid to watch the gap widen between those who could afford decent medical care and those who could not. Few were as vulnerable as the Oklahoma farmer, who could lose his land over the cost of an operation. It was in this milieu more than 75 years ago that the foreign-born doctor dared to imagine that affordable quality health care should—and could—be accessible to all.
Shadid intimately understood the connection between poverty and poor health care. Of the 12 children born to his family in Judedeit-Merj-ayoun, a mountain village in Lebanon (then a district of the Turkish-held province of Syria), only Michael and two siblings survived their infancy. He never knew his actual birthday, as there was “as little regard for vital statistics as for sanitation in Judedeit.” Occasionally Dr. George Post from the Syrian Protestant College of Beirut visited the area to treat the poor, and his work inspired Shadid to study medicine. In 1898, around the age of 16, Shadid immigrated to New York. He worked his way west as a peddler, selling trinkets door-to-door and saving money to pursue his dream of becoming a doctor. Upon completing medical school at Washington Uni-versity in St. Louis and serving two years as a physician’s assistant in Missouri, Shadid settled in Oklahoma in 1908.
“There must exist some unknown germ, some filterable virus unknown to man, that bites certain persons in this world and turns them into reformers,” Shadid once wrote. “I’m willing to admit that I must have been bitten early and hard.” Oklahoma in the early 20th century seemed like a good place for a reform-minded physician to be. Shadid had been active in Socialist politics, and the Socialist Party in Oklahoma was one of the strongest in the country. However, Shadid’s idea for a progressive approach to health care stemmed more from the state’s tradition of farm cooperatives than party ideology.
Several agrarian interest groups coalesced in 1906 as the Oklahoma Farmers’ Union, which gained financial equity for farmers through cooperative, group-owned entities such as cotton gins or wheat elevators. After Shadid moved to Elk City in 1928, he envisioned a cooperative hospital—what would become the first medical co-op in the United States—where members could receive comprehensive care, including check-ups and other preventive measures usually denied the poor. By charging each member an annual fee, doctors could receive regular salaries. A salaried practitioner, he reasoned, was not financially dependent on a diagnosis or a procedure. While he was a physician’s assistant, Shadid had watched an incompetent but greedy practitioner butcher an old man’s extended bladder, improvise stomach surgery on a patient suffering from an ulcer and bungle a hysterectomy—all in one night. All three patients died, and the grisly night would haunt Shadid for the rest of his life.
At the outset, Shadid hoped to include other local doctors in his cooperative, as well as the town’s two main hospitals, as such an alliance would bring in a larger membership. But the doctors wanted no part of the venture. Shadid fared better with the state Farmers’ Union, which encouraged farmers to invest in memberships at $50 per share. (At the time, a farmer typically paid $100 to enter a cotton gin cooperative. Shadid figured they would be willing to make a similar outlay for affordable health care.) The sale of 1,000 shares, Shadid calculated, would raise enough capital to build a hospital.
Although the goal was to provide comprehensive care, initially membership entitled patients to discounted medical services, including 50 percent off doctor bills, which would certainly save them more money than the $50 membership cost. To help particularly cash-strapped farmers, membership was made available at $10, with the $40 balance due in 12 months. During the summer of 1930, with 700 shares sold, construction began on the hospital.
Now that Shadid’s vision was becoming a reality, other local doctors felt compelled to take action against this potential threat to their livelihoods. In the pages of the Elk City Press, they publicly disassociated themselves from Shadid and the hospital. Privately they alleged that Shadid was a fraud intent on bilking the farmers. Such propaganda severely inhibited membership sales. By the end of December, construction had come to a halt.
In 1931 the Beckham County Medical Society met in secret to discuss expelling Shadid, a 20-year member, from the group. The society also considered bringing him before the state Board of Medical Examiners on charges of steerage—the unethical solicitation of patients—because he had commissioned agents to sell the $50 hospital memberships. A hearing could have cost Shadid his license to practice. “You and I know that people want something for nothing,” said one doctor who reported charging $50 for a tonsillectomy and $150 for an appendectomy. “And it seems to me that these dues as he calls them are but a little more than nothing.” “I am not going to tolerate foreigners coming over here and telling us how to practice medicine,” said another, ignoring Shadid’s three decades in America. One elderly physician dismissed the Community Hospital as “impractical,” predicting that it would fold in two years or less.
Impractical, perhaps, but Shadid was determined. Through a $15,000 loan secured by a term life insurance policy, along with an additional $10,000 advance of his own, Shadid resolved the financial shortfall incurred by unsold memberships. And, despite the best efforts of the Beckham County medical elite, the Community Hospital was finally ready for patients by August 1931. Three thousand Oklahomans arrived on opening day, crowding the grounds around the two-story brick building, feasting on barbecued beef served to celebrate the occasion.
Governor “Alfalfa” Bill Murray was a friend of the Farmers’ Union, which meant that he was a friend to the Community Hospital. Murray asserted in the Blue Valley Farmer that any member of a professional “inner circle” who threatened to revoke the license of a Community Hospital doctor would be prosecuted for conspiracy. Thus the rumblings within the medical society about Shadid were effectively quashed.
Still, a doctor who was ostracized by his local or state medical society faced serious consequences. He could be denied malpractice insurance, or at least charged exorbitant premiums. Other area hospitals could refuse to admit his patients. Shadid’s most immediate obstacle was staffing the hospital. Not one doctor in Oklahoma dared to rankle the medical establishment by practicing at Community Hospital. Out-of-state doctors who expressed an interest in the hospital routinely failed the licensing exam administered by the Board of Medical Examiners, which was made up of members of local medical societies.
Doctors who, on the other hand, withheld their intentions to move to Elk City stood a fair chance of passing the exam. Unfortunately, those doctors who chose to run the “medical blockade,” as Shadid called it, were as likely driven by desperation as by bravery. One doctor with excellent recommendations turned out to be a morphine addict. He managed a few days of conscientious service, only to fall into a dope-deprived panic, whereupon he swallowed poison, collapsed on the hospital floor and died soon afterwards.
In January 1932, Shadid learned that the Great American Insurance Company, which had agreed to a $15,000 loan, was sending out a representative to inspect the hospital. Since only one bed was occupied, Shadid feared that the lenders would think the hospital was financially unsound, so he enlisted his children and their friends as “patients.” The ruse worked, and the loan was secured. “It is true that I resorted to deception,” Shadid wrote later. “But I did it only because I was convinced that the hospital would ultimately succeed.”
During the early years of the Depression, Oklahoma seemed especially cursed, as nature itself menaced a land already reeling from economic disasters. Crops withered; cattle choked to death in blinding dust storms. Even with Community Hospital’s low rates, many patients couldn’t pay their bills and the hospital was operating at a loss. Shadid realized that a new payment system was needed. In 1932 he managed to convince those who were still scraping together a living that prepayment, rather than discounted service, was necessary. The hospital charged annual dues of $12 for an individual and $25 for a family of four. Hospitalization cost $1 a day; an additional $20 would be charged for a major operation. Despite the hard times, Shadid enrolled hundreds in the new plan and, over the next few years, even managed to expand the hospital to meet the growing demand for affordable care.
Still, the Oklahoma medical establishment continued to fight Shadid. They sponsored a bill to ban cooperatives in the 1936 legislative session, but it was never introduced. Then B.F. Oliver, a hospital janitor from nearby Sayre, signed a complaint charging Shadid with steerage, unprofessional conduct and fleecing the public. Shadid and his lawyer, Gomer Smith, suspected the county medical society had put Oliver up to making the complaint. If the charges proved false and Shadid decided to sue, he’d win little compensation from the janitor. The Beckham County doctors, however, had much more to lose.
Farmers rallied to support Shadid. “We think more of the few dollars invested in the Community Hospital than any investment we have ever made,” said one farmer. “I think this bunch fighting [Shadid] should be sat down so hard it would jar their ancestors for four generations.” R.M. McClintock, a political columnist for the Daily Oklahoman, shared the sentiment. “The Elk City doctor…is no quack. For years he was an honored and successful practitioner in Elk City….The fact that the hospital has had to be enlarged three times would seem to indicate that, on the whole, it is filling a real need.”
The issue finally came to trial on February 10, 1940. “In house frocks, overalls and Sunday clothes, a cross-section of Western Oklahoma took the day off to attend the most significant hearing the Beckham County district courtroom has entertained in years,” reported the Daily Oklahoman. A crowd of 500 squeezed into the courtroom, which had been built to accommodate 200. Another 1,500 of Shadid’s supporters assembled outside the building. “Of all these two thousand heads of families, these doctors could have found someone to say they’d been fleeced, besides one of their own janitors,” Gomer Smith told a reporter. The judge found the charges to be unsubstantiated, and Shadid’s license was never threatened again.
Community Hospital was the first medical co-op in the country, but it was not the only organization that proposed affordable health care through a prepaid plan. In 1929 the Ross-Loos Clinic in Los Angeles worked out a $2-a-month benefit plan for the employees of the city’s Department of Water and Power. Trinity Hospital in Little Rock, Ark., also offered care for $2 per month. Justin Ford Kimball, an administrator at Baylor University in Dallas, devised a prepaid hospitalization plan for the city’s teachers. The benefit was later extended to local newspaper and bank employees, and today it is recognized as the prototype of Blue Cross.
The organizations were responding to a problem identified by the Committee on the Cost of Medical Care (CCMC): Working and middle class consumers could not afford modern medicine. The CCMC, a privately funded group of 50 doctors, economists, scholars and other professionals, investigated the health care system nationwide between 1927 and 1932. The study found that commercial insurers typically avoided “sickness insurance,” fearing that it would only attract the ill. Anything resembling health insurance was mostly restricted to mill or mine workers who were treated by company-employed doctors.
But any attempt to manage medical services through group plans met opposition from the American Medical Association (AMA). Although 35 CCMC members endorsed a report recommending group plans, nine dissenters—eight of them doctors—issued a separate minority opinion: “Wherever [group plans] are established there is solicitation of patients, destructive competition among professional groups, inferior medical service, loss of personal relationship of patient and physician, and demoralization of the professions. It is clear that all such schemes are contrary to sound public policy.” The Journal of the American Medical Association even invoked the specters of communism and socialized medicine, calling doctors who supported group plans “Medical Soviets.”
The AMA’s attempts to undermine cooperative medicine came under government scrutiny in 1938 when a federal grand jury indicted the organization on charges of “conspiracy in restraint of trade.” Shadid was among those who testified. The AMA was convicted of violating the Sherman Anti-Trust Act for allying Washington, D.C., medical institutions against the Group Health Association (GHA), a cooperative that served low-income government employees. The move effectively prevented GHA doctors from hospitalizing their patients in the city. The AMA appealed all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, which upheld the conviction in 1943.
In the end, World War II, not government censure, finally induced the AMA’s tolerance toward group practice and managed care. Price and wage controls, enacted to contain inflation, impelled employers to offer health benefits to attract workers during a period of extremely low unemployment. According to Paul Starr, author of The Social Transformation of American Medicine, the number of people covered by hospital plans between 1942 and 1945 grew from less than 7 million to 26 million, with Blue Cross dominating the market.
A clarion call for greater access to health care for all Americans was heard in President Harry S. Truman’s address to Congress on November 19, 1945. Truman quoted Selective Service data stating that nearly 5 million male draft registrants between the ages of 18 and 37—some 30 percent of all those called up—had been classified as unfit for duty because of “physical and mental incapacity.” It was a sobering assessment of the nation’s health.
Truman pushed for a five-point plan that included building hospitals in underserved areas; expanded public health, prenatal and child care programs; medical education and research; prepayment of health care costs; and protection against lost income because of illness or injury. The president was quick to assure the American people that he wasn’t advocating socialized medicine. Doctors would not become government employees, Truman said, and patients would still be free to choose their doctors and services. The only difference would be that getting care “would not depend on how much [patients] can afford to pay.”
Truman won allies among legislators, unions and religious and civic organizations. But his initiative made little headway after Democrats lost control of Congress in the 1946 midterm elections. Still, it had substantial public support. When the National Health Assembly met in Washington in May 1948, some 850 representatives from organized medicine, public health, labor and other interests outlined a 10-year plan to improve health care. Surprisingly, the AMA formally acknowledged the benefits of cooperatives and other prepayment plans during this progressive assembly, although it held fast against compulsory national health coverage.
When Truman won the presidential election six months later, the AMA promptly launched a full-scale public relations campaign to win the hearts and minds of all those Americans who stood with the president and his vision of health care. In pamphlets, radio spots, print ads and other media, the AMA hammered home its message: “In America, We Don’t Like Compulsion!” “When You’re Sick, Do You Want Doctors—Or Clerks?” “Political Medicine Is Bad Medicine.”
The AMA endorsed inexpensive, voluntary plans such as Blue Cross and its younger cousin, Blue Shield, which offered limited coverage for doctor bills as an alternative to government-administered compulsory insurance. The most destructive salvo was the AMA’s allegation that Truman’s plan was indeed “socialized” medicine, and therefore a portal for communism to infect the government. The news was rife with stories about Reds infiltrating society; the smear fit with the tenor of the times. While Truman’s proposals languished in Congress, unions were winning comprehensive health care for thousands of workers through collective bargaining, thus weakening labor’s stake in—and support for—national insurance.
Despite the AMA’s grudging acceptance of cooperatives, back in Elk City the Beckham County Medical Society continued to resist Community Hospital. By 1950 the hospital served 2,400 families, but it re-mained difficult to attract qualified professionals to an institution held in disrepute by the medical establishment. In August, the hospital filed suit against the county society, citing “conspiracy in restraint of trade,” the same charge that the Justice De-partment had used to indict the AMA in Washington 12 years earlier. An out-of-court settlement in 1952 finally permitted Community Hospital doctors to join the society, entitled to all the privileges attending their hard-won respectability.
Shadid retired from Community Hospital in 1946 and remained an advocate for cooperative medicine, writing, lecturing and serving as the first president of the Cooperative Health Federation of America. But his progressive ideas did not resonate during the prosperous 1950s as they had during the Depression. Community Hospital ceased operating as a cooperative in 1955, a year when 70 percent of Americans held health coverage. Today it is the Great Plains Regional Medical Center.
It was a conceit of those optimistic years that corporate medicine and commercial insurers would fill the need once met by maverick physicians. Today, the AMA estimates that one American in seven does not have health insurance, and the vast majority of the uninsured come from working families. Affordable quality health care will again be an issue in the 2008 presidential campaign as doctors, insurers, politicians and the public seek relief from skyrocketing costs and limited access.
Dr. Shadid would find the scenario all too familiar. Recalling a family that he had treated for typhoid at reduced rates, Shadid was deeply touched by their gratitude. “But they should never, in my opinion, have been put in the position of having to feel grateful for something they should receive as a right,” he said. “It is our Christian and patriotic duty to give every American the best medical care his country has to offer.”
Steve Boisson has written for Writer’s Digest and the Boston Globe. This story appeared in the April 2008 issue of American History.
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579acd757c99a397395d164a11364c67 | https://www.historynet.com/dragonlady.htm | The U-2C “Dragon Lady” Spy Plane | The U-2C “Dragon Lady” Spy Plane
Beginning Aug. 4, 1959, the CIA conducted a series of U-2 missions over North Vietnam that provided the first confirmed evidence of the communist country’s airfield construction and other military activities. In the era preceding satellite imagery, the U-2, nicknamed the “Dragon Lady,†was America’s only reliable way to produce concrete views of developments in nonaccessible regions. The Air Force rejected Lockheed Corp.’s initial design, the CL-282, in 1953, but President Dwight D. Eisenhower decided to purchase the plane for the CIA to collect photographic evidence of Soviet nuclear weapons and bomber production. Lockheed’s pioneering engineer Clarence E. Johnson led the design team, designating the plane a utility aircraft (general-purpose transport plane) to maintain secrecy. The prototype first flew on Aug. 1, 1955. Everything but the engine was unique. The plane had a specially designed radar altimeter and used fuel with a low-freeze and high flash point. Its “bicycle†landing gear placed the forward wheels just aft of the cockpit’s position and the rear wheels forward of the engine exhaust. Auxiliary wheels called “pogos†descended below the wings while on the ground. Early models had a three-camera system with a 24-inch focal length. Resolution was 24 inches from 60,000 feet. Essentially a powered glider, the U-2 proved difficult to fly at mission altitudes (above 65,000 feet). Pilots flew their entire mission just 8 knots (9 mph) above stall speed until more powerful J-75 engines were introduced in 1959. To prevent decompression sickness, pilots ate a special pre- and post-mission diet, wore specially tailored pressure suits and breathed 100 percent pure oxygen during missions. Although no U-2s flew over North Vietnam after 1966, their superior imagery resolution provided critical intelligence and mapping support. Many variants have been built over the years, including two models for aircraft carriers. Originally designed for aerial photography missions, the aircraft, in its latest iteration, the U-2R, can carry a variety of electronic equipment, infrared sensors, side-looking radar and electro-optical sensors, ensuring the Dragon Lady’s continued service into the 2030s. V This article appeared in the October 2020 issue of Vietnam magazine. For more stories from Vietnam magazine, subscribe here:
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a3e822cd7b1d8aad79fcd07af2d2f36d | https://www.historynet.com/drones-hollywood-connection.htm | Hollywood and Drones: The Forgotten Connection | Hollywood and Drones: The Forgotten Connection
Actor Reginald Denny was instrumental in launching the target drone, and his factory launched a new star.
Unmanned aircraft systems (UAS), better known as drones, have generated plenty of controversy in recent years. In addition to questions surrounding their employment in military strikes, the explosive growth of drones in hobbyist circles has forced the FAA to formulate rules governing their private use. Few are aware, however, that the first remotely piloted scaled aircraft date back to 1930s flying model hobbyists. And one of the most surprising and little-known aspects of the first military drones is their connection to Hollywood.
That Tinseltown connection was embodied by Reginald Denny, a well-known stage and screen actor who appeared in nearly 200 films in the course of a career spanning more than half a century. Born in Britain, he was the son of a stock company actor who performed in Gilbert and Sullivan’s operettas. Denny began acting professionally at age 6, and appeared in his first motion picture in 1912. He also became a British amateur boxing champion. Denny interrupted his career to join the Royal Flying Corps during World War I, serving as an observer/air gunner in Bristol F.2B Fighters with a home defense night fighter squadron. He was wounded, apparently by friendly anti-aircraft fire, during a nighttime interception training mission. He recovered sufficiently to complete his pilot training, but not in time to see any aerial combat before the war ended.
Denny resumed his acting career after WWI and starred in numerous Hollywood silent films, both dramas and comedies. Once the “talkies” arrived, however, his English accent and advancing age meant that he was more in demand for character parts, and he became a familiar face in a wide variety of supporting roles, usually as an impeccable English gentleman or military officer. Denny also continued to fly, joining an elite group of Hollywood stunt pilots known as the “Thirteen Black Cats.” That group included Art Goebel, winner of the tragic 1927 Dole Air Race from California to Hawaii, during which six of the eight airplanes that participated crashed, with the loss of 10 lives.
Paul Whittier (left) and the actor ready their RP-1 for a flight in 1935. (Righter family archives)
Denny’s interest in remote-control flying began one day in the early 1930s when he offered to assist a neighbor’s son who was trying to fly a model airplane. The plane crashed, and a contrite Denny insisted upon building a new one for the boy. That experience got the actor hooked on model airplane building to such an extent that in 1934 he opened a hobby shop, selling models of his own design. It quickly expanded into a business, Reginald Denny Industries, through which he marketed his line of Denny Plane flying models.
Denny also sold miniature gasoline engines for model planes. Designed and built by 1928 California Institute of Technology graduate Walter Righter, his Dennymite was the first truly reliable model airplane engine on the market. Denny selected the design after Righter demonstrated its reliability by constructing 10 prototypes and running them all flat-out for 50 hours. That demonstration marked the beginning of a fruitful association between the two men that would continue for many years.
During that period Denny also became acquainted with the work of fellow model airplane and radio enthusiast Kenneth Case, who had developed an efficient miniature radio-control system. Denny had the vision to realize the military potential of employing remotely controlled model airplanes as aerial targets. At a meeting on the subject that he arranged with Lt. Col. W.S. Thiel of the Coast Artillery, Denny learned it cost the U.S. Army $300 to tow an aerial target behind an airplane. Such targets were regarded as less than ideal for training because they had to be towed in a straight line, they didn’t resemble real airplanes and gunners often couldn’t tell if they had hit the target. Moreover, the towing aircraft and their crews could be struck by gunfire. Denny proposed that a remote-controlled model airplane would serve the purpose far more effectively, and he persuaded the Army to allow him to proceed with its development. In 1936 Denny and financier Paul Whittier established the Radioplane Company, with the goal of developing radio-controlled airplanes for use by the military as aerial targets.
Denny Industries’ first remote-controlled aerial target was the RP-1 (Radio Plane 1), a 42-pound high-wing monoplane with a 12-foot wingspan. It was powered by a 3-hp, 2-stroke, 2-cylinder engine built by Walter Righter. After Denny and Righter demonstrated the RP-1 to the Army in February 1938, the officials were sufficiently impressed with its potential to invite Denny to continue development. Radioplane built and demonstrated several more improved prototypes before the Army accepted the RP-4, 53 of which were ordered in May 1939 under the Army designation OQ-1 (reflecting its classification as a “subscale target”). The OQ-1 order represented the first of a total of 14,891 target drones of all types that Radioplane would produce during World War II.
In 1941 Radioplane’s RP-5 design, designated OQ-2 by the Army, succeeded the OQ-1 on the production line. It featured a number of improvements, including a new 2-cylinder horizontally opposed engine driving contrarotating propellers. The U.S. Navy also used it under the designation TDD-1 (for Target Drone, Denny).
Featuring steel-tube construction, the OQ-2 was 8 feet 8 inches long, had a wingspan of 12 feet 3 inches and weighed 104 pounds. Powered by a 7-hp Righter engine, it had a top speed of 85 mph and could remain airborne for an hour. The drone was launched from a catapult and, although equipped with a wheeled landing gear, was typically recovered by a parachute stowed inside the fuselage. While not as fast as a full-sized airplane, the diminutive drone seemed to be moving faster than it actually was, making it a difficult target to hit.
An RP-4 is prepared for a test launch in 1939. The model would be adopted under the military designation OQ-1. (National Archives)
In 1943 the OQ-2 was superseded by the improved OQ-3, the most-produced variant, with 9,403 examples built. The OQ-3 was sturdier than the OQ-2 and had a more powerful 8-hp engine that increased its maximum speed to 102 mph. It was also simpler, dispensing with the contrarotating propellers and wheeled landing gear, and relying solely on the parachute for recovery.
Although Radioplane’s activities and products were considered highly classified, on one occasion in June 1945 an Army public relations photographer with the 1st Motion Picture Unit, Sergeant David Conover, visited the factory in Van Nuys, Calif., to document its operations. Conover was evidently less interested in what was being built in the plant than he was in a particularly attractive female worker there, Norma Jeane Dougherty. It may have been the first time Dougherty was noticed, but it would not be the last. Conover arranged a modeling audition for her that eventually led to a contract with the Blue Book Model Agency. She subsequently changed her hair color and name, entering the postwar film industry as Marilyn Monroe.
After WWII, Radioplane was involved in modifying four Grumman F6F Hellcat fighters as radio-controlled drones to fly reconnaissance missions through the nuclear blast zone at Bikini Atoll during Operation Crossroads in 1946. The four Hellcats were flown from USS Shangri-La, and Denny was on board the aircraft carrier at Bikini to assist in setting up the drones and ensuring they worked correctly.
Denny sold his interest in Radioplane in 1948, after postwar demand for radio-controlled targets began to diminish. He continued to play character roles on the large and small screen. His last film was the Frank Sinatra crime caper Assault on a Queen in 1966, and his last television appearances were in the campy Batman series that same year. He died of a stroke while visiting his native England, but he was buried near his adopted home, at Forest Lawn–Los Angeles Hills Cemetery.
The company Reginald Denny had founded continued to produce improved versions of its target drones, the most successful of which was the MQM-36 Shelduck, with 60,000 built during a decades-long production run. When Northrop bought the company in 1952, it became the Radioplane Division. Later the name was changed to the Ventura Division, Northrop Corporation.
Robert Guttman writes frequently for Aviation History Magazine from Tappan, N.Y. For more on Reginald Denny and Radioplane, see ctie.monash.edu.au/hargrave/denny.html.
Drones: The Hollywood Connection appeared in the November 2016 issue of Aviation History Magazine. Subscribe today!
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8ef39a7508e69346a31a1c6ade4f36b0 | https://www.historynet.com/dunkirk-fionn.htm | FILM RECON Interview: Fionn Whitehead on “Dunkirk” | FILM RECON Interview: Fionn Whitehead on “Dunkirk”
Fionn Whitehead, 19, acted on stage and in a miniseries before Christopher Nolan selected him for the lead role in Dunkirk. He spoke to Senior Editor Paraag Shukla of World War II magazine about the film, which opens in theaters on July 21, 2017.
How did you first become involved with this project?
My agent got me an audition. They had an extensive process, and I was luckily enough to make it. They were casting far and wide in the UK, because it is integrally a “very British” story, and they wanted to do it justice by getting British and Irish actors.
Christopher Nolan actually told me that very thing—the studio did not try and force him to cast Americans.
[Laughs] I really do feel ridiculously fortunate, to be honest! I really landed on my feet with this one. For the audition process, we went in blind—we didn’t know about the script or the people involved. We just heard that Christopher Nolan was doing a film about Dunkirk—what a match made in heaven that is—and everyone jumped in.
Chris Nolan told me that for British people, the story of Dunkirk is a massive part of the culture. How familiar were you with this particular story prior to coming aboard?
It’s impossible not to be familiar with it when you grow up in Britain or Ireland. It’s part of our culture, our history, and it’s such an incredible story. There is a lot of interest about the time and the topic.
What kind of research did you do for your character and the story?
We did a lot of research about people from the time. So, we read history by Joshua Levine—firsthand accounts from soldiers to get the ground perspective of how it was to be at Dunkirk. A lot of the characterization of it is based in human nature, because it is about humans reacting to a time of crisis.
When you look at the screenplay, which is only 76 pages, there’s not much dialogue. How detailed were the action descriptions? Or did you primarily rely on Chris’ directions?
Chris had a lot of control over the entire project. He really did create these worlds around us, and it was our job as actors to react. As simple as that sounds, there wasn’t a whole lot of imagination needed to act in this film. Chris is also a really respectful guy. Everyone on the cast and crew is there because they want to be there; they respect him. We could all be at ease with each other.
And to speak of the opposite of being at ease, what was it like to film with Chris’ preferences for practical effects over CGI?
It was completely insane! The pure scale of his sets is amazing, even to just look at. There were 1,300 extras on the beach, Spitfires flying overhead, warships at sea—they even rebuilt the mole right out into the ocean. It was such an incredible, strange experience for me. Chris really wanted to do the story justice, and he really did that.
Details do matter, and even though your character is fictional, he represents the thousands of young soldiers on that beach. Did you do military and weapons training?
Yeah! I did two weeks of training in Dunkirk. I did a lot of physical training to get in shape to withstand the role. I think they recognized I was very scrawny. I trained a lot with the stunt team, and a lot of them were military or ex-military—they really put me through my paces. It was a really interesting thing to do, because you’re surrounded by people telling you to swim or run, so there’s no reason not to get in shape, which I really needed…and actually enjoyed! Harry Styles and Aneurin Barnard jumped on board the second week, as they were busy beforehand.
On the subject of details, Chris Nolan really got to know everything he could about this topic.
Oh, Chris is a stickler for detail. It’s one of the things I respect most about him. In the film, we’re wearing military boots, and they had been laced the wrong way, in a way that wasn’t how the British would’ve laced them at the time. And Chris noticed it! I have no idea how he spotted it, but he did! And they re-laced them all. He is incredibly detailed in his approach. The film is completely his vision, and he really wants to do it justice. I can totally understand and respect that.
What surprised you the most about the history and the experience of making this film?
The way humans are so resourceful when we need to be. The human urge to survive can be such a strong thing, which is evident when you read accounts from Dunkirk. People did all kinds of crazy things to stay alive. It really is an incredible story.
What do you hope audiences take away from the film?
First and foremost, this film is a hell of an experience. It’s not something you can take very lightly when you’re watching it. I really hope people will enjoy it.
We often talk about heavy subject matter, so we’d like to end on a lighter note with a creative question. If it was 1940 and you had to join a military branch, which would you choose?
I have a feeling the choice would’ve been taken out of my hands. It’s a thankless task. If I had to choose, I’d probably end up being one of the ground boys, like my character. It’s a tough question to answer! ✯
Film Recon is a web series by Paraag Shukla, Senior Editor of World War II and Aviation History magazines at HistoryNet.
Dunkirk opens in theaters on July 21, 2017.
Check out our other Film Recon interviews for Dunkirk:
Christopher Nolan — Director, Writer
Mark Rylance — “Mr. Dawson”
Jack Lowden — “Collins”
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34325b1f0b3fb15aba5d8d8632b460a9 | https://www.historynet.com/dvd-review-sweetwater-by-kickstart-productions-and-arc-entertainment.htm | DVD Review: Sweetwater, by Kickstart Productions and Arc Entertainment | DVD Review: Sweetwater, by Kickstart Productions and Arc Entertainment
Sweetwater, 95 minutes, Kickstart Productions, Arc Entertainment, 2013, $20.99
Directed by Logan Miller and written by Logan and brother Noah, Sweetwater is a B-Western that trots over familiar territory—revenge. Actually “trots over” might come across a little strong when referring to a movie that doesn’t have anything at all interesting to say about the concept of revenge. It is safer to say that as Sarah (January Jones) seeks to avenge her husband’s death, the movie tiptoes in the neighborhood of this theme. In Sweetwater revenge is less a means to generate drama and conflict than it is a convenience for the filmmakers to justify having their protagonist spend the third act riding around shooting people.
What is unique about this film is the prospect of a female lead, but the part is written with such blandness, and played that way by Jones, that she often gets buried beneath side players Jason Isaacs and Ed Harris. Isaacs plays Prophet Josiah, a powerful religious zealot, and he takes a one-note bad-guy role and amps up the lunatic to 11. Isaac’s all-out nutcase would have been enjoyable in a smaller sample size, but the prominence of the role makes his act wear on the viewer over time. The true standout of the movie is Harris, who plays a rogue sheriff investigating a double murder that leads him to Josiah’s ranch. Harris, who also starred in the Miller brothers’ first movie, Touching Home, seems to be having a lot of fun in a comic-heavy role and gives us some great moments—when he scratches up Josiah’s mahogany table at a dinner party or, later, when he casually removes a bullet from a dead man’s gluteus maximus in front of a crowd. These are memorable scenes in an otherwise forgettable movie.
Despite Harris’ efforts, the Miller brothers season a too-familiar story with about as much zest as a dab of mayonnaise. Even a scene in which a nude Jones, bathing in a river, surprises and guns down her would-be assassins is unable to inject enough shock, wonder, genuine excitement—anything—into her story to make it worth it. Admittedly, Sweetwater isn’t altogether briny. The New Mexico frontier looks great, a solid production design makes it “feel” like the West (something not many B-Westerns can claim), and its script has its fair share of clever moments and zingers. But it is sure to leave even the most diehard Western fans—those who long await each scattered new release—without their thirst quenched.
Louis Lalire
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023d257cb789188ef8970a000e6b7fa2 | https://www.historynet.com/e-flight-crews-flew-sanitized-c-130-ghost-planes.htm | E Flight crews flew sanitized C-130 ‘ghost planes’ | E Flight crews flew sanitized C-130 ‘ghost planes’
During the summer of 1970, I was assigned to the U.S. Air Force 374th Tactical Airlift Wing (374th TAW) at Ching Chuan Kang Air Base (CCK), Taiwan, as a C-130 master crew chief. It was designated as an “unaccompanied assignment,” which meant family members were not authorized to accompany the airmen stationed there.
I had been in the unit only a short while when my prior security clearance and duty in Vietnam with another C-130 outfit came to the attention of the leadership. I was taken aside and asked to become a member in a newly arriving squadron, coming from Naha Air Base, Okinawa. This particular squadron was designated E Flight.
The 374th TAW flew supplies into and around Southeast Asia. Our aircraft normally moved supplies and equipment from Taiwan to Tan San Nhut Air Base, Vietnam, and from there we flew to various other bases in the theater, transporting materiel and troops. Whenever we ran short of flight time before our next scheduled phase maintenance, we flew to Clark Air Base, the Philippines, where Filipino civilian dock crews did the required work.
During our usual three-day stays in the Philippines, the flight crew typically was put up in an off-base hotel in nearby Angeles City. Once the plane was readied for flying, the crew returned to CCK, where the crew chief was allowed two days to prepare for the next rotation back to Vietnam.
As we came in for landing after my third such trip, I spotted a dazzlingly silver C-130E sitting on the CCK tarmac. Curiously, there were no insignia or aircraft numbers on the plane.
It was during the post-mission debriefing session at CCK that I learned I was being reassigned to E Flight, and that I would be the crew chief of this mysterious aircraft. Following two days of near round-the-clock maintenance, the plane was ready to fly, and the six-man flight crew prepared to deploy to Vietnam. At the time, the E Flight squadron at CCK was so new that it would be more than a month before the first commander of E Flight’s Detachment No. 1 would arrive on base. The commander’s late reporting date was a function of the series of briefings he had to receive in Washington on our Southeast Asia mission.
On our first E Flight mission, we flew supplies to Tan San Nhut, and then on to Takli, Thailand, where we were met on the ground by a C-130A flight crew that had come in from Naha. Before our landing, the base control tower ordered us to report to a briefing as soon as we disembarked. When we arrived at the base headquarters, we found it was a CIA administrative center. Following our briefing, the C-130A’s on-board aircraft equipment was transferred to our C-130E. That equipment included skate-wheel rollers—sometimes called beer rollers—installed on the cargo compartment floor over which wood pallets could be rolled at remote locations without forklifts.
From Takli we flew to Udorn, Thailand, and began running missions out of what was referred to by the CIA as the “Pepper Grinder.” E Flight aircraft were sanitized by removing metal plates with tail numbers and any U.S. insignia. The tail number was modified from 40515 to 405, which had belonged to a C-130E that had crashed sometime before while flying out of Langley Air Force Base in Virginia. In essence, 405 was a ghost plane.
As part of the sanitizing process, our crew changed into civilian clothing once we departed CCK, and wore it throughout the mission until preparing for landing on return to CCK. We also were encouraged to wear sideburns, popular with civilians during the 1970s, and to keep our hair a bit longer than the standard military style.
On the occasions when E Flight planes were turned over temporarily to CIA crews, every such mission was flown by a contracted pilot. Each contract was assigned a different mission number. So if he flew nine missions on any given day, the pilot carrying out those missions had signed nine separate contracts. Since most of the locations we flew into were less than an hour’s flight time from Udorn, we could make as many as 15 trips a day with two aircraft, keeping the CIA’s client forces supplied with daily provisions, ammunition, weapons and other essential operating supplies.
“Forbidden territory” missions in Southeast Asia were allowed no more than 15 minutes’ ground turnaround time. The airplanes parked leaving one engine running. To speed up the process, the aircraft was fueled and loaded with ammunition at the same time. E Flight aircraft were equipped based on the demands of each mission, and we developed our own operating procedures to avoid “friendly-fire” incidents.
Frequently E Flight aircraft had to use remote tropical rain forest roads for landing strips. Bulldozers already on the ground were used to widen and smooth these narrow rutted roads before the plane touched down to drop off its classified cargo. During one such mission, the CIA pilot turned the aircraft too wide as he taxied for takeoff after dropping the load. The plane’s left landing gear sank down, causing the No. 4 propeller to strike the ground. The propeller broke away, destroying the No. 4 engine.
The crew had no more than four hours to get the aircraft out. If the plane was still on the ground when darkness fell, it would be easy prey for the enemy. While the crew of the stricken C-130 waited for the parts and maintenance support to arrive, Special Forces units operating in the area broke down and started to distribute the load that had just been delivered. A CIA-operated C-123, meanwhile, brought in a new engine and propeller, and an Air Force maintenance crew quickly installed them. After attaching a tow cable to the C-130’s landing gear, the crew used a bulldozer to pull the plane out of the ground. As soon as the new engine and propeller were installed, the plane started up on the pilot’s first try. He quickly flew out in the gathering darkness, testing and calibrating the engine during takeoff.
E Flight aircraft served as troop carriers for Lao, Hmong and Thai troops, crisscrossing the theater between their training camps. Whenever guerrilla troops from Takli were on board our aircraft, their identities were concealed beneath ski masks and all-black uniforms. Whenever they captured North Vietnamese or Soviet equipment, we extracted it for technical evaluation in the United States.
As the crew chief, I oversaw the aircraft’s weekly phase maintenance. E Flight had forward-positioned teams of engine, sheet metal, radar and radio specialists, so the plane never had to go back to the Philippines for maintenance. All members of the forward maintenance teams were crosstrained in various other functional areas to prevent any potential delays in the required services.
When major repairs were required, a maintenance crew from Lockheed flew in from the United States and performed the work wherever we might be at the time. E Flight aircraft had a repair part priority equal to that of the top government executive airplanes. If repair parts were required that were not immediately on hand, the maintenance crews were authorized to cannibalize any other C-130E for them.
When we returned to CCK after a mission, E Flight travel vouchers revealed little of where we actually had been. The finance clerks at CCK knew how much travel pay was due to us only by the site number we recorded on our vouchers. While on a mission we paid for our own food and lodging and were reimbursed accordingly.
The quarantined CIA crews lived in Vientiane, Laos, and flew into Udorn daily with instructions for that day’s mission. Most of the military personnel stationed at Udorn never really knew whether we were civilians, Air Force or Army.
As the mission continued to grow, the command decided it was necessary to extend the unit’s married men beyond their initial 15-month orders at CCK. In compensation, the command also decided in 1972 to permit E Flight families to come to Taiwan on accompanied orders. The tuition costs for school-age children at the Morrison Academy, a Baptist missionary school in Taichung, Taiwan, were covered by the Air Force, and on-base commissary and exchange privileges and medical coverage were extended to the families.
When the war in Vietnam began winding down in late 1973, E Flight pulled out of CCK and moved to Clark Air Base, where it was absorbed into another squadron. To keep the move as quiet as possible, the family members and their household goods were flown aboard an E Flight C-130 directly from CCK into Clark. The experience was quite a thrill for many of the children, who were permitted to move about the plane once airborne. Some of the older boys enjoyed the privilege of riding part of the way on the flight deck. The chief drawback on the first dependent flights is that we had no restroom facilities set up on the aircraft.
During its existence, E Flight provided airlift and supported the CIA’s commercial airline, Air America. While I was with the unit, we (both military and civilians) covertly airlifted supplies to friendly forces in Laos, Cambodia, Thailand and Vietnam. After E Flight was disbanded, its aircraft were retired to Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, Arizona. Some were later sold to foreign countries. The C-130As were transferred to the South Vietnamese air force before the American pullout in 1975.
Originally published in the June 2007 issue of Vietnam Magazine. To subscribe, click here.
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cc74cdc20686c38be874a51245c1ba79 | https://www.historynet.com/easy-living-in-a-hard-war-behind-the-lines-in-vietnam.htm?fbclid=IwAR3gEUe8ZhyI-GX08N6rwNFcaGKfoaOmBzlHr_kRk-r52c97gCi2D2UFCKg | Easy Living in a Hard War: Behind the Lines in Vietnam | Easy Living in a Hard War: Behind the Lines in Vietnam
A Marine private tries out a skateboard sent from home. Soldiers behind the lines often had lots of downtime. (Sgt. Licciardi/U.S. Marine Corps/National Archives)
IN AUGUST 1970, the Army Reporter newspaper profiled some fun-loving clerks of the 25th Infantry Division in Vietnam. Working far from the fighting, these men would never earn a medal for valor, so they created their own: the Silver Paper Clip. In a ceremony brimming with irony, they bestowed the honor on one of their brethren, along with this citation:
Specialist Howard distinguished himself with conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life when he single-handedly answered over 200 telephone calls and processed in fifteen new men, exposing himself to a hail of questions. He moved from the relative safety of his desk to the P.X. where he repeatedly bought cases of soda. He organized and led his section as they swept out their hootch. Ignoring the personnel NCO, he cleaned his typewriter, picked up the mail, petted four dogs, ran off three stencils and took his malaria pill.
THANKS TO MOVIES like Platoon, Americans today think of the typical U.S. soldier in Vietnam as an infantryman on jungle patrol facing death and terror daily. But the reality is that most troops were more like Specialist Howard than Oliver Stone’s Chris Taylor. The high-tech nature of America’s war in Southeast Asia and its sophisticated logistics effort meant that some 75 percent of the 2.5 million soldiers who served there worked in supporting roles, out of danger and in relative comfort.
‘Basically there are two different wars here in Vietnam. While we are out in the field living like animals, the guy in the rear’s biggest problem is that he can receive only one television station’
Modern armies have always required mammoth support operations. But Vietnam was different. For the first time, the U.S. military turned its rearward bases into replicas of home, with many of the luxuries and consumer goods that post–World War II prosperity had lavished on America. The abundance had an unintended side effect: The uneven distribution of discomfort and danger stoked combat soldiers’ resentment of support troops, who were derided as “rear echelon motherfuckers.” REMFs and grunts may have served on the same side, but they did not serve in the same war.
AS FIGHTING in Vietnam intensified in the mid-1960s, the American war machine required enormous resources not only to subdue the enemy but also to sustain its fighting men. A legion of butchers, bakers, and ice cream makers fed the troops. Librarians shelved books in base libraries, entertainment specialists planned morale-boosting field trips and talent shows, craft-shop attendants minded the kilns and darkrooms, and lifeguards kept watch at the pools. Military-run retail outlets and bars employed even more personnel to stock the shelves, pour the drinks, book the bands, and count the slugs in the slot machines. On rear bases, an army of plumbers, electricians, and refrigerator repairmen kept the water running, the lights on, and the drinks ice cold.
Identifying REMFs on base was easy. Infantrymen returning from the field were lean and grizzled, their uniforms and boots bleached white from scuffs and sun. REMFs, meanwhile, wore fatigues that were often green and crisp with boots that retained a shine. Rich mess-hall fare and sedentary duty meant that more than a few uniforms stretched tight over paunches. Some newly arrived soldiers felt so self-conscious that they tried to distress their uniforms, especially the boots.
Most support troops worked on rear bases, many of which resembled big American cities. The largest was Long Binh Post, about 20 miles north of Saigon. Built over time for more than $130 million, Long Binh eventually had 3,500 buildings and 180 miles of road covering an area bigger than Cleveland. One colonel joked, “If we ever really got attacked, the V.C. would have to use the scheduled bus service to get around the base.”
Home to the army’s Vietnam headquarters, Long Binh was, in the words of one resident soldier, “a virtual REMF citadel.” The shooting war was far away, and soldiers stationed at the post had plenty of time on their hands. To keep them busy, military authorities provided a full slate of recreational opportunities. As of July 1971, the post boasted 81 basketball courts, 64 volleyball courts, 12 swimming pools, 8 multipurpose courts, 8 softball fields, 6 tennis courts, 5 craft shops, 3 football fields, 3 weight rooms, 3 libraries, 3 service clubs, 2 miniature golf courses, 2 handball-court complexes, a running track, an archery range, a golf driving range, a skeet range, a party area, and an amphitheater for movies and live shows.
By 1972, Long Binh Post even had a go-cart track, complete with a starting stand, a public-address system, and a pit for on-the-spot repairs.
Open mess clubs, which served food and alcohol and often featured live entertainment, abounded throughout South Vietnam. At its peak in 1969, Long Binh’s club system had 40 bars with a net worth of $1.2 million, including $270,000 in cash on hand. If soldiers didn’t like club life, Long Binh’s retail stores stocked food and alcohol to host private parties at the pools, barracks, or barbecue pits. An unofficial brothel, a “male beauty bar” with salon services, and outdoor movies rounded out Long Binh’s offerings.
Construction of new recreational facilities on Long Binh Post continued until the end of the war. As late as 1970, more than a year into troop withdrawals from Vietnam, the U.S. Army was still planning to build two 474-seat movie theaters, additional handball courts, two in-ground swimming pools with bathhouses, and a recreational lake. The military scrapped the more expensive construction projects in response to public outrage, but the post’s amenities were still expanding right through the summer of 1971.
Long Binh and other posts had retail stores that would have rivaled today’s big box outlets for their selection, if not their size. Just one of Long Binh’s P.X.s was ringing up more than $800,000 in monthly sales in late 1971, and it was not even the largest in Vietnam. These stores offered a selection of products that, in pre-Walmart days, was unlike anything most Americans had ever seen. As a reporter for a division newspaper raved about the P.X. at Camp Radcliff in the Central Highlands of Vietnam: “There are a lot of shopping centers—in fact, whole towns—back in the world where you couldn’t find snuff, anchovies, baby oil, dice, flash bulbs, radios, and steak sauce in the same store, or even in the same general area. But at Camp Radcliff you can buy almost anything you want.”
SUCH ABUNDANCE combined with the relative safety of duty in the rear to make the war itself seem like a distant concern. Writing about Da Nang Air Base in his memoir, Vietnam: The Other War, military policeman Charles Anderson reflects on this sense of isolation: “All of these comforts and services made the world of the rear a warm, insulated, womb-capsule into which the sweaty, grimy, screaming, bleeding, writhing-in-the-hot-dust thing that was the war rarely intruded.” William Upton, who served near the R&R center at Vung Tàu, told his mother upon returning home, “Most of the time you didn’t know you were in a war.”
Combat troops frequently passed through rear bases on their way to and from the States, R&R, or the hospital. These encounters left them bewildered by commanders who gave the most to those who risked the least, and resentful of noncombat troops who enjoyed relative comfort and safety.
Though U.S. Army officials denied friction between combat and support troops, front-line soldiers bristled at how their peers lived. In his memoir Nam Sense: Surviving Vietnam with the 101st Airborne, Arthur Wiknik Jr.—an infantry squad leader and veteran of the bloody assault on Hamburger Hill—seethes: “As near as I could tell, the only danger a REMF faced was from catching gonorrhea or being run down by a drunken truck driver. And the biggest hardship a REMF contended with was when a generator broke down and [his] beer got warm or there was no movie that night.”
In April 1969, 30 members of a combat infantry unit aired their grievances publicly. Writing to President Richard M. Nixon, they argued that “basically there are two different wars here in Vietnam. While we are out in the field living like animals, putting our lives on the line twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, the guy in the rear’s biggest problem is that he can receive only one television station. There is no comparison between the two….The man in the rear doesn’t know what it is like to burn a leech off his body with a cigarette; to go unbathed for months at a time…or to wake up to the sound of incoming mortar rounds and the cry of your buddy screaming, ‘Medic!’”
A year later, retired officer John H. Funston wrote to the New York Times arguing that the army should reward riflemen with extra pay for the hazards they face in the field. The idea of combat pay, he argued, had been trivialized because every soldier received it, “regardless of his rank or whether he is a rifleman being shot at or a lifeguard at a rest area swimming pool.”
SOLDIERS IN THE REAR, meanwhile, regarded combat troops with deep admiration. On his way to an overseas R&R, clerk-typist Dean Muehlberg encountered a company of infantrymen on stand-down at the out-processing center at Da Nang. “We were in awe of the Marines,” he gushed. “We didn’t speak to them or get in their way. We didn’t know their language. You sensed that after the constant threat of death, of terrible harm, nothing else scared them.”
Muehlberg wrote a memoir, REMF “War Stories,” in which he pokes fun at himself, the boring work, and the very idea that he was fighting a war. The quotation marks in the title are deliberate; his 1969 tour was so far removed from combat that his rifle actually grew mold while it sat in its rack.
Muehlberg worked in the Awards and Decorations section, where he processed recommendations for medals and decided what commendation was appropriate. “For the first month it seemed a dirty job,” he writes. “I did not feel worthy! I was sitting in relative security reading grisly, awe-inspiring accounts of the courage of my not so fortunate brothers who were out in the thick of it. And then sitting in judgment on the ‘degree’ of their courage, their deed.”
After the war, enmity between grunts and REMFs persisted in personal memoirs and, later, websites. But in some cases, grunts’ bitterness lost its edge as veterans closed ranks to face a common enemy upon returning home: public and government indifference. Those who joined protests as part of the G.I. movement to end the war and claim federal veterans benefits buried their bad feelings in order to increase their numbers and present a unified front. Thousands of REMFs marched alongside combat veterans. Antiwar veteran groups scarcely acknowledged that the divisions ever existed. To the public, all the returning soldiers were simply “Vietnam veterans.” Only the vets knew that they had served on the same side in different wars.
Adapted from Armed With Abundance: Consumerism and Soldiering in the Vietnam War, by Meredith H. Lair, assistant professor of history at George Mason University in Virginia. © 2011 by The University of North Carolina Press. Click For More From MHQ!
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cd9793cda530aa54f1f8d0602cac11aa | https://www.historynet.com/effect-1833-force-act-civil-war.htm | What Effect did the 1833 Force Act have on the Civil War? | What Effect did the 1833 Force Act have on the Civil War?
The 1833 Force Bill would have given President Jackson an “authority (?)” to use force against the State of South Carolina, then threatening to secede if the 1828 tariff was not annulled by Congress. All of the states voluntarily ratified the Constitution in 1789. All of the states were sovereign by themselves by treaty with England.
Virginia, New York, and Rhode Island specifically stated in their ratification paper that they would join the United States with the reservation that they could withdraw at any time of their own choosing.
The Articles of Confederation, Article 13, said that once you are in you cannot get out. To exclude a similar amendment in the “new” Constitution was not an oversight on the part of the framers.
Did the 1833 Force Act remove the option of voluntary withdrawal? Did Lincoln ever refer to this act as legal justification to ask the state militias for 75,000 soldiers?
Thank you,
Arthur Germaine
???
Dear Mr. Germaine,
For all the controversy that transpired before, the 1833 Force Bill was President Andrew Jackson’s flat rejection of the Senator John C. Calhoun-sponsored Ordinance of Nullification regarding the enforcement of the tariffs of 1828 and 1832 within South Carolina’s borders, along with the option to secede from the Union. The bottom line is that it would authorize the use of military force, if necessary, against any state that resisted the protective tariff laws. On the same day the Force Bill was enacted on March 2, however, Congress also ratified the Compromise Tariff of 1833, proposed by Senators Calhoun and Henry Clay, which gradually reduced the tariff and, by so doing, defused the situation…for the time being.
Although the principals involved in the Force Bill were undoubtedly known to him, President Abraham Lincoln made no specific reference to it in his call for 75,000 volunteers to suppress the secessionist states on April 15, 1861 (see below for a detailed parsing of his appeal).
https://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/04/14/lincoln-declares-war/
Sincerely,
Jon Guttman
Research Director
World History
www.historynet.com
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7943a148d051cd33980232132a8b8cc2 | https://www.historynet.com/elaine-horwitch-the-mother-of-southwest-pop.htm | Elaine Horwitch: The Mother of Southwest Pop | Elaine Horwitch: The Mother of Southwest Pop
Elaine Horwitch was just 58 when she died in 1991.
Artist Billy Schenck remembers getting the phone call on Sept. 21, 1991, and being told that gallery owner Elaine Sweet Horwitch had died of a heart attack at age 58. “The first words out of my mouth were, ‘Wow, that is the end of an era’—and it really was,” says Schenck, who was one of the leading painters on the contemporary Western art scene that exploded in the 1970s.
With galleries in Scottsdale and Sedona, Ariz.; Santa Fe, N.M.; and Palm Springs, Calif., Horwitch played a key role in bringing the Southwest pop movement to the American consciousness. “She was easily the most significant dealer that ever lived outside of New York or L.A.,” Schenck says. It’s no wonder, then, that the artists she represented feature large in “Southwest Rising: Contemporary Art and the Legacy of Elaine Horwitch,” a tribute running through June 21 at the Tucson Museum of Art.
Billy Schenk’s 1973 oil-on-canvas “Wyoming #44” renders a scene from the film “Once Upon a Time in the West,” starring Charles Bronson and Henry Fonda. (Tucson Museum of Art, Gift of Ivan and Marilynn Karp)
“Some of the art we’re showing is rather tame,” chief curator Julie Sasse admits, “but at the time it was radical, it was different, and art collectors were rejecting it as way too out there—and some still do.” It would be hard to find someone better suited to curate the show, as Sasse worked for Horwitch for more than a decade, ultimately becoming the gallery owner’s managing director. “Because I stayed in the business and stayed in touch with many of these artists, I kind of knew where everybody was, and everybody kept in touch with me.”
The project started out as a book, Sasse explains, after artists prompted her to relate the story of Horwitch and that dynamic art movement. “It was such a good story,” the curator says. “It was sort of like Paris in the ’20s in Santa Fe, a little renaissance happening in New Mexico and even in Scottsdale.” The companion book shares the same title as the exhibit and was co-published by Cattle Track Arts & Preservation and the Tucson Museum of Art. “Well, I thought it was going to be maybe a 250-page book and it ended up being 550,” Sasse says with a laugh. “I thought I could bang it out in a summer, and it took four and a half years and two residencies.”
As a gallery owner, Sasse says, Horwitch “liked irreverence. She presented art on her own terms, and she didn’t follow anyone’s strong terms of what should be shown alongside each other. Not all the artists liked that. They didn’t want their art shown alongside a howling coyote, but she was like, ‘Nope we’re going to show all of this.’” For “Southwest Rising” Sasse tried to include as much as she could. “You don’t have to follow stereotypes. You can see the desert or the Southwest or the mountains or cowboy art or anything through a new perspective and still retain some of the essence that makes the region worthy of focus.”
Arizonan Howard Post rendered the oil-on-canvas “The Bull Pen” in 1978. (Tucson Museum of Art, Gift of Lynn Taber)
The exhibit features more than 100 artists, including Schenck and other standouts from Southwest pop’s 1970s heyday through the early 1990s, including Anne Coe, John Fincher, James Havard, Louise Nevelson, Tom Palmore, Robert Rauschenberg, Larry Rivers, Fritz Scholder, Lynn Taber and Bob Wade. Even the legendary Georgia O’Keeffe was part of the movement. Auxiliary galleries present the works of regional artists known for their contemporary Southwestern art, including Philip C. Curtis, Harmony Hammond, Richard Hogan, Paul Pletka, Jaune Quick-to-See Smith and Emmi Whitehorse.
The Booth Museum in Cartersville, Ga.; the New Mexico Museum of Art in Santa Fe; and the James Museum in St. Petersburg, Florida, also plan to pay tribute to Horwitch, showing works from their own collections and borrowing from other sources. Tucson has the honor of taking the lead.
“They all have some of the same artists in this exhibition,” Sasse says. “In a way it’s gotten longer legs, because instead of seeing the exact same pieces, people are getting to mine from their collections.”
“I just don’t want these people to be forgotten,” Sasse says. WW
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93f522a32bf3590d85e9ac087f21f308 | https://www.historynet.com/embattled-banner-the-true-history-of-the-confederate-flag.htm | Embattled Banner: The True History of the Confederate Flag | Embattled Banner: The True History of the Confederate Flag
If you are a regular reader of Civil War Times, the Confederate battle flag is a familiar part of your world. The symbolism of the flag is simple and straightforward: It represents the Confederate side in the war that you enjoy studying. More than likely, your knowledge of the flag has expanded and become more sophisticated over the years. At some point, you learned that the Confederate battle flag was not, in fact, “the Confederate flag” and was not known as the “Stars and Bars.” That name properly belongs to the first national flag of the Confederacy. If you studied the war in the Western and Trans-Mississippi theaters, you learned that “Confederate battle flag” is a misnomer. Many Confederate units served under battle flags that looked nothing like the red flag with the star-studded blue cross. You may have grown up with more than just an idle knowledge of the flag’s association with the Confederacy and its armies, but also with a reverence for the flag because of its association with Confederate ancestors. If you didn’t, your interest in the war likely brought you into contact with people who have a strong emotional connection with the flag. And, at some point in your life, you became aware that not everyone shared your perception of the Confederate flag. If you weren’t aware of this before, the unprecedented flurry of events and of public reaction to them that occurred in June 2015 have raised obvious questions that all students of Civil War history must confront: Why do people have such different and often conflicting perceptions of what the Confederate flag means, and how did those different meanings evolve?
(Larry Sherer/High Impact Photography)
The flag as we know it was born not as a symbol, but as a very practical banner. The commanders of the Confederate army in Virginia (then known at the Army of the Potomac) sought a distinctive emblem as an alternative to the Confederacy’s first national flag—the Stars and Bars—to serve as a battle flag. The Stars and Bars, which the Confederate Congress had adopted in March 1861 because it resembled the once-beloved Stars and Stripes, proved impractical and even dangerous on the battlefield because of that resemblance. (That problem was what compelled Confederate commanders to design and employ the vast array of other battle flags used among Confederate forces throughout the war.)Battle flags become totems for the men who serve under them, for their esprit de corps, for their sacrifices. They assume emotional significance for soldiers’ families and their descendants. Anyone today hoping to understand why so many Americans consider the flag an object of veneration must understand its status as a memorial to the Confederate soldier.
It is, however, impossible to carve out a kind of symbolic safe zone for the Confederate battle flag as the flag of the soldier because it did not remain exclusively the flag of the soldier. By the act of the Confederate government, the battle flag’s meaning is inextricably intertwined with the Confederacy itself and, thus, with the issues of slavery and states’ rights—over which readers of Civil War Times and the American public as a whole engage in spirited and endless debate. By 1862, many Southern leaders scorned the Stars and Bars for the same reason that had prompted the flag’s adoption the year before: it too closely resembled the Stars and Stripes. As the war intensified and Southerners became Confederates, they weaned themselves from symbols of the old Union and sought a new symbol that spoke to the Confederacy’s “confirmed independence.” That symbol was the Confederate battle flag. Historian Gary Gallagher has written persuasively that it was Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, not the Confederate government, that best embodied Confederate nationalism. Lee’s stunning victories in 1862–63 made his army’s battle flag the popular choice as the new national flag. On May 1, 1863, the Confederacy adopted a flag—known colloquially as the Stainless Banner—featuring the ANV battle flag emblazoned on a white field. For the remainder of the Confederacy’s life, the soldiers’ flag was also, in effect, the national flag.
If all Confederate flags had been furled once and for all in 1865, they would still be contentious symbols as long as people still argue about the Civil War, its causes and its conduct. But the Confederate flag did not pass once and for all into the realm of history in 1865. And for that reason, we must examine how it has been used and perceived since then if we wish to understand the reactions that it evokes today. The flag never ceased being the flag of the Confederate soldier and still today commands wide respect as a memorial to the Confederate soldier. The history of the flag since 1865 is marked by the accumulation of additional meanings based on additional uses. Within a decade of the end of the war (even before the end of Reconstruction in 1877), white Southerners began using the Confederate flag as a memorial symbol for fallen heroes. By the turn of the 20th century, during the so-called “Lost Cause” movement in which white Southerners formed organizations, erected and dedicated monuments, and propagated a Confederate history of the “War Between the States,” Confederate flags proliferated in the South’s public life.
(Heritage Auction, Dallas, TX)
Far from being suppressed, the Confederate version of history and Confederate symbols became mainstream in the postwar South. The Confederate national flags were part of that mainstream, but the battle flag was clearly preeminent. The United Confederate Veterans (UCV) issued a report in 1904 defining the square ANV pattern flag as the Confederate battle flag, effectively writing out of the historical record the wide variety of battle flags under which Confederate soldiers had served. The efforts of the UCV and the United Daughters of the Confederacy (UDC) to promote that “correct” battle flag pattern over the “incorrect” rectangular pattern (the Army of Tennessee’s or the naval jack) were frustrated by the public’s demand for rectangular versions that could serve as the Confederate equivalent of the Stars and Stripes. What is remarkable looking back from the 21st century is that, from the 1870s and into the 1940s, Confederate heritage organizations used the flag widely in their rituals memorializing and celebrating the Confederacy and its heroes, yet managed to maintain effective ownership of the flag and its meaning. The flag was a familiar part of the South’s symbolic landscape, but how and where it was used was controlled. Hints of change were evident by the early 20th century. The battle flag had emerged not only as the most popular symbol of the Confederacy, but also of the South more generally. By the 1940s, as Southern men mingled more frequently with non-Southerners in the U.S. Armed Forces and met them on the gridiron, they expressed their identity as Southerners with Confederate battle flags.
The flag’s appearance in conjunction with Southern collegiate football was auspicious. College campuses are often incubators of cultural change, and they apparently were for the battle flag. This probably is owed to the Kappa Alpha Order, a Southern fraternity founded at Washington College (now Washington and Lee University) in 1865, when R.E. Lee was its president. A Confederate memorial organization in its own right, Kappa Alpha was also a fraternity and introduced Confederate symbols into collegiate life. It was in the hands of students that the flag burst onto the political scene in 1948. Student delegates from Southern colleges and universities waved battle flags on the floor of the Southern States Rights Party convention in July 1948.
The so-called “Dixiecrat” Party formed in protest to the Democratic Party convention’s adoption of a civil rights plank. The Confederate flag became a symbol of protest against civil rights and in support of Jim Crow
(Heritage Auction, Dallas, TX)
segregation. It also became the object of a high-profile, youth-driven nationwide phenomenon that the media dubbed the “flag fad.” Many pundits suspected that underlying the fad was a lingering “Dixiecrat” sentiment. African-American news-papers decried the flag’s unprecedented popularity within the Armed Forces as a source of dangerous division at a time when America needed to be united against Communism. But most observers concluded that the flag fad was another manifestation of youth-driven material culture. Confederate heritage organizations correctly perceived the Dixiecrat movement and the flag fad as a profound threat to their ownership of the Confederate flag. The UDC in November 1948 condemned use of the flag “in certain demonstrations of college groups and some political groups” and launched a formal effort to protect the flag from “misuse.” Several Southern states subsequently passed laws to punish “desecration” of the Confederate flag. All those efforts proved futile. In the decades after the flag fad, the Confederate flag became, as one Southern editor wrote, “confetti in careless hands.” Instead of being used almost exclusively for memorializing the Confederacy and its soldiers, the flag became fodder for beach towels, t-shirts, bikinis, diapers and baubles of every description. While the UDC continued to condemn the proliferation of such kitsch, it became so commonplace that, over time, others subtly changed their definition of “protecting” the flag to defending the right to wear and display the very items that they once defined as desecration. As the dam burst on Confederate flag material culture and heritage groups lost control of the flag, it acquired a new identity as a symbol of “rebellion” divorced from the historical context of the Confederacy. Truckers, motorcycle riders and “good ol’ boys” (most famously depicted in the popular television show The Dukes of Hazzard) gave the flag a new meaning that transcends the South and even the United States.
Meanwhile, as the civil rights movement gathered force, especially in the wake of the U.S. Supreme Court’s 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision, defenders of segregation increasingly employed the use of the battle flag as a symbol of their cause. Most damaging to the flag’s reputation was its use in the hands of the Ku Klux Klan. Although founded by Confederate veterans almost immediately after the Civil War, the KKK did not use the Confederate flag widely or at all in its ritual in the 1860s and 1870s or during its rebirth and nationwide popularity from 1915 to the late 1920s. Only with a second rebirth in the late 1930s and 1940s did the battle flag take hold in the Klan.
Anyone today hoping to understand why so many African Americans and others perceive the Confederate flag as a symbol of hate must recognize the impact of the flag’s historical use by white supremacists. The Civil
(Heritage Auction, Dallas, TX)
Rights Era has profoundly affected the history of the Confederate flag in several ways. The flag’s use as a symbol of white supremacy has framed the debate over the flag ever since. Just as important, the triumph of civil rights restored African Americans to full citizenship and restored their role in the ongoing process of deciding what does and does not belong on America’s public symbolic landscape. Americans 50 or older came of age when a symbolic landscape dotted with Confederate flags, monuments and street names was the status quo. That status quo was of course the result of a prolonged period in which African Americans were effectively excluded from the process of shaping the symbolic landscape. As African Americans gained political power, they challenged—and disrupted— that status quo. The history of the flag over the last half-century has involved a seemingly endless series of controversies at the local, state and national levels. Over time, the trend has been to reduce the flag’s profile on the symbolic landscape, especially on anyplace that could be construed as public property. As students of history, we tend to think of it as something that happens in the past and forget that history is happening now and that we are actors on the historical stage. Because the Confederate battle flag did not fade into history in 1865, it was kept alive to take on new uses and new meanings and to continue to be part of an ever-changing history. As much as students of Civil War history may wish that we could freeze the battle flag in its Civil War context, we know that we must study the flag’s entire history if we wish to understand the history that is happening around us today. Studying the flag’s full history also allows us to engage in a more constructive dialogue about its proper place in the present and in the future.
Contextual Perspectives John Coski recently said during a presentation about the Confederate battle flag, “this symbol has an accretion of meanings across time and across different people.”
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baa1aa58b8f3cc9554abd4d5d40a4d41 | https://www.historynet.com/emmy-award-winning-director-cary-joji-fukunaga-to-helm-wwii-miniseries-masters-of-the-air.htm | Upcoming WWII Series from Steven Spielberg & Tom Hanks Inks Star Director | Upcoming WWII Series from Steven Spielberg & Tom Hanks Inks Star Director
Cary Joji Fukunaga, the Emmy award-winning director behind the masterful first season of HBO’s “True Detective,” has signed on to direct the first three episodes of the 10-part series. Fukunaga is also at the helm of the upcoming James Bond Film, “No Time to Die,” which recently confirmed a release delay until April 2021 due to COVID-19.
Based on Donald L. Miller’s book of the same name, “Masters of the Air” is expected to follow American bomber pilots of the U.S. Eighth Air Force, who, on a daily basis, risked flying at 25,000 feet in frigid temperatures—in broad daylight—to bring the fight to Hitler’s doorstep.
Three years (1942-1945) of death-defying bombing runs by the Eighth’s Flying Fortresses over cities like Berlin, Dresden and Hanover were, for much of the war, the only battles Allied forces waged inside the territorial borders of Nazi Germany.
Cary Joji Fukunaga (Michael Tran/FilmMagic/Getty Images)
The Eighth’s effort to pry Europe from the claws of the Third Reich — one that included unleashing 697,000 tons of bombs — proved to be overwhelmingly costly. By war’s end, over 47,000 of the 115,000 U.S. Army Air Force casualties were from the Eighth.
“The Eighth Air Force was one of the great fighting forces in the history of warfare,” famed war correspondent Andy Rooney once wrote.
“It had the best equipment and the best men, all but a handful of whom were civilian Americans, educated and willing to fight for their country and a cause they understood was in danger—freedom. It’s what made World War II special.”
In the summer of 1943, Oscar-winning director William Wyler (“Ben-Hur”) and a film crew embedded with men from the Eighth to film air combat missions aboard Boeing B-17s. The footage Wyler’s group captured would eventually become the 1944 World War II documentary, “The Memphis Belle: A story of a Flying Fortress.”
One of Wyler’s own camera crew, Harold Tannenbaum, was killed during the filming process.
More recently, director Erik Nelson resurrected Wyler’s footage for the documentary “The Cold Blue,” a film dedicated to the heroic actions of the men of the “Mighty Eighth,” who stared down death each time they climbed into their cockpits and bombardier enclosures and took to the sky.
The Eighth Air Force’s 100th Bomb Group, or the “Bloody 100th,” are likely to be the miniseries’ featured bomber group, according to Footsteps Research .
The men of the Bloody 100th earned their moniker the hard way. Flak-filled skies over Germany were so deadly that the odds of surviving the 25 missions required to complete a full tour were only one in four.
One former pilot of a 100th Bomb Group Flying Fortress went so far as to compare the ever-present threat of flak to Russian roulette.
“You were going to be hit by it,” John “Lucky” Luckadoo, now 98, told Military Times. “It was just a matter of where it would hit you and when.”
Reuniting with Spielberg and Hanks on the aviation-centered series is “Band of Brothers” writer John Orloff, who also served as a consultant on “The Pacific.” The series is slated to run as an in-house, Apple-exclusive on the tech behemoth’s streaming service, Apple TV+.
The development of the miniseries, which includes production costs that could exceed $200 million, was originally confirmed by HBO in January 2013, but delays and budget considerations led to the project being dropped, according to a statement from the network.
The trilogy’s first two installments, “Band of Brothers” and “The Pacific,” earned over 40 Emmy nominations and took 14 awards home.
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d75ec8c1cc44fae1f6899e7c97178e31 | https://www.historynet.com/emory-upton-and-the-shaping-of-the-u-s-army.htm | Emory Upton and the Shaping of the U.S. Army | Emory Upton and the Shaping of the U.S. Army
Emory Upton first put his new tactics to the test at the May 1864 Battle of Spotsylvania Court House, where his men drove Confederate defenders from their positions. (Kurz & Allison/Library of Congress)
‘It was a shift in tactics that seemed tailor-made for a free people, and it would lay the foundation for the modern American soldier, able to adjust and fight effectively on any terrain in the world’
Americans have always been suspicious of big government, particularly the federal government. Right up until World War II they also remained suspicious that a large, permanent and professional military might serve primarily as the enforcing arm of such a government. But as America grew, so did its interactions with the rest of the world. A United States that spanned a continent and boasted the world’s largest economy by the 1880s could no longer live in splendid isolation. It could no longer depend upon its usual brilliant amateurism in all matters military, nor could it rely upon the kindness of strangers to protect American commerce and interests around the world.
Much of the debate over just how the United States would take its proper place in the greater world revolved around a pair of extraordinary thinkers—one from the Navy and one from the Army—whose proposals would influence American strategy and tactics for decades to follow. We recently examined how Rear Admiral Alfred Thayer Mahan’s theories helped lead to the creation of—and the justification for the use of—“big gun” navies as tools of both nationalism and imperialism at the turn of the 20th century. We now turn to a man who arguably had an even greater influence on arms and tactics both in the United States and abroad—Colonel Emory Upton.
Born in upstate New York in 1839, the tenth child in a family of Methodist reformers, Upton decided he would be a soldier after reading a life of Napoléon Bonaparte when he was 14. Like Mahan, though, he did not start in the military, leaving the family farm at 15 for Ohio’s Oberlin College, one of the nation’s few racially integrated colleges at the time. At 16 he passed the entrance exams for the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, N.Y., a place he embraced for its structure, discipline and intellectual challenge. Deeply religious, Upton considered slavery an abomination and fought a sword duel with a Southern classmate—Wade Hampton Gibbes, later to become a Confederate artillery officer—over offensive remarks about Upton’s supposed relationships with black female classmates at Oberlin. Those of his fellow cadets who went to fight for the South he openly considered “traitors.”
Graduating eighth in his class of 45 cadets, he was commissioned a lieutenant of artillery and in 1861 aimed the first gun at the First Battle of Bull Run. In the engagement that followed, he was wounded in the left arm and side and had a horse shot from under him but refused to leave the field. He went on to distinguish himself, commanding a battery in the Peninsula Campaign, then an artillery brigade at Antietam. Finding the fuses of his large shells faulty in both instances, Upton substituted solid shot on the fly, and his superiors lauded his guns for their lethal efficiency. It was the beginning of a pattern; no officer was better at going to war with the army he had.
Upton didn’t drink, smoke or curse and rarely laughed or smiled. He prayed fervently and spoke and read of almost nothing but military tactics. A brevet major general by age 25, Upton was “the epitome of a professional soldier,” as Stephen Ambrose later wrote, and was as at home in the field as Mahan was lost afloat. Everywhere he went, Upton displayed immense courage and devised startling new tactics, sometimes on the battlefield itself.
Learning he was to be transferred back to West Point as an instructor, Upton instead secured an appointment as colonel of the 121st New York Volunteer Infantry, soon to be known as “Upton’s regulars.” Rebel defenders chopped his regiment to pieces in one of the futile Union assaults at Fredericksburg in 1862, but Upton was soon leading a brigade. Realizing that advances in musketry had made obsolete the centuries-old infantry tactic of having troops attack in a long line, firing—and being slaughtered—as they went, he chose a different approach. In the Overland Campaign of 1864 Upton decreed his brigade would rush the enemy fortifications in columns, without slowing to stop and fire. The idea was to reach the enemy as quickly as possible, then overwhelm him with bayonet and rifle butt before he could get off many volleys.
Upton put his new tactic to the test at Spotsylvania Court House in May 1864. Charging out of the Wilderness and across 200 yards of open ground, he led his men into the teeth of the best entrenched, most fiercely defended segment of the Confederate line. His tactic worked. Upton’s men pierced the Confederate position at its heart, driving the Rebels from their fortifications and two rows of trenches. It was a breakthrough that might have defeated Lee’s army and all but ended the war then and there. But as so often happened with the Army of the Potomac, planned support units inexplicably failed to show up. Upton’s men fell back at a terrible cost.
After leading his troops through more days of carnage at Spotsylvania and Cold Harbor, Upton was reassigned to Maj. Gen. Philip Sheridan’s command, then seeking to drive Lt. Gen. Jubal A. Early out of the Shenandoah Valley. Upton succeeded to division commander when his superior officer was killed at the September 1864 Battle of the Opequon, in the Shenandoah Valley, but just a few hours later Upton himself was knocked from his horse by a shell fragment that tore open his thigh muscle and femoral artery. Despite being ordered to the rear by Sheridan, he had himself carried about the field on a stretcher, directing his men until darkness brought an end to the fighting.
Upton’s actions earned him his stars as a brevet major general of volunteers but lost him his division when forced home to recuperate. Four months later, still limping, he was back, making his way to Nashville, where Maj. Gen. James H. Wilson was putting together a revolutionary new strike force: some 12,000 Union cavalrymen armed with the new Spencer breech-loading carbines. This was the first, primordial stirring of what would one day evolve into mobile infantry. As Ambrose relates, Upton and Wilson were putting into action Maj. Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman’s belief that cavalry was best employed across the vast American landscape by riding to a battle, then fighting as infantry—something their carbines made possible for the first time.
Armed with their new weapons and tactics, Upton and Wilson ran amok through the Confederate heartland, adding their own innovations on the fly. Everywhere they went, they burned or expropriated the Confederacy’s dwindling stores and munitions, its foundries, arsenals, workshops, railroads and ironclads. Along the way they dealt the outnumbered Lt. Gen. Nathan Bedford Forrest a rare defeat and finished with a flourish: Wilson’s cavalry capturing the fleeing Confederate president, Jefferson Davis, while Upton’s men seized the fleeing vice president, Alexander Stephens.
The ride of their Cavalry Corps left Upton in a state of almost religious transcendence. He later confided he “would like to commute the rest of [my] life for six months of just such military service.” Upton once again had from experience found a way around the hopeless full frontal assaults of the Civil War, gleaning insights into the nature of modern warfare others would not grasp even in the midst of a Somme or a Verdun.
Upton would never again get the chance to put his revelations into action. By the fall of 1865 he was in the mining boomtown of Denver, tasked with cutting expenditures and reducing the Army he loved back to its miniscule prewar size. The prospect of another 30 years of frontier duty, touring one desolate Western outpost after another to protect miners and settlers, loomed before him with about as much appeal as the sea held for Alfred Mahan. And just as Mahan managed to find a way back to shore duty, Upton was able to secure a transfer back to West Point by force of ideas—his ticket back was a revolution in infantry tactics, one that drew heavily on his experiences in the Civil War and which he would confirm in drill back at the Point.
With the old linear plan of attack now discredited, Upton argued in his 1867 manual, Infantry Tactics, for a new method that relied upon heavy skirmishers, who would advance on the enemy lines in steadily greater numbers, clearing the way for a final charge by companies of reserves. Instead of the old system of mass volleys under the tight control of commanding officers, Upton’s Army would rely heavily on individual responsibility, aimed marksmanship and unit morale. The American infantryman would be able to improvise and use to his advantage the sort of heavily wooded, irregular landscape that had prevailed in Upton’s Southern campaign.
It was a shift in tactics that seemed tailor-made for a free people, and it would lay the foundation for the modern American soldier, able to adjust and fight effectively on any terrain in the world. Predictably, Upton’s tactics faced ridicule and resistance from any number of his hidebound fellow officers.
Fortunately, their superiors felt differently. In recommending Upton’s new system to Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, General of the Army Ulysses S. Grant reported he was “fully satisfied of its superior merits and adaptability to our service; besides, it is no translation, but a purely American work.” Sherman defended Upton staunchly against all critics and against those who felt some of their own ideas had been incorporated into the manual. Sherman insisted it was Upton who “had combined all the advantages” of such ideas and “must be remunerated.” This was no small thing. Infantry Tactics, as the official manual of not just the regular Army but all U.S. militia units, netted its author more than $1,000 a year in royalties. It enabled Upton to do something very un-Upton: get married.
The serious-minded Army officer had found a perfect match in Emily Martin, a kind, gentle and highly religious young woman. They married in 1868 and set out on a blissful honeymoon to France and Italy. There she contracted some sort of lung infection, and while their marriage remained a happy one, she steadily declined, dying in March 1870, not yet 25 years of age and leaving no children.
Upton flung himself into his work more intensely than ever. By year’s end Sherman had appointed the 30-year-old widower West Point’s commandant of cadets. Assiduously supervising discipline and administration at the academy, Upton also worked as many as nine hours a day expanding his infantry tactics to accommodate artillery and cavalry—of which, of course, he also had firsthand knowledge.
He wanted more. The peacetime Army was smaller than ever and seemed likely to become as moribund an institution as Mahan’s Navy. Still looking for something to match his talents and boundless energy, Upton prevailed upon a supportive Sherman to send him on a research tour of the world’s armies. He set off from San Francisco in 1875.
This was no junket; by the time he returned to the United States in the fall of 1876, Upton had closely observed the militaries of China, Japan, India, Persia, Italy, France, Britain, Russia, Germany and Austria-Hungary. His study included detailed reports on the number and distributions of each army, the military schools and training of their officers, their tactics, administration, recruitment practices, munitions, equipment, hospitals, camps, barracks, pay and morale—along with any other general observations he felt worthy of mention.
In just over a year he submitted to the adjutant-general a 370-page book on his findings, The Armies of Europe & Asia, including 54 pages of specific recommendations for reorganizing the U.S. Army, based on what he had read and observed abroad. What Upton sought was nothing less than a revolutionary transformation of how America regarded and maintained its Army, beginning with the very first of his own 24 “general principles”:
To enable a nation to put forth, in the hour of danger, its greatest military strength, every citizen, in consideration of the protection extended to his life and property, is held to owe military service to his government.
The overarching cause Upton championed in his general principles was the creation of a large, standing professional Army for the first time in U.S. history, and it was a cause he aggressively supported for the remainder of his life.
If Mahan’s ideal fleet was based on England’s Royal Navy, Upton’s perfect Army mirrored Germany’s. In consolidating its empire, Germany had transformed its disorganized, fractious, often rebellious militias—the Landwehr—into something more along the lines of America’s modern Army Reserve. The government drafted or recruited soldiers for three- to five-year periods, after which they would spend four years in the active reserve and another five in the Landwehr, called up every six months for weeks of training and maneuvers.
In times of war the government could quickly mobilize an effective, coordinated fighting force. In times of peace the standing professional army, headed by a general staff, ran advanced war colleges, plotted strategy, reviewed tactics, and evaluated officers and men. In the 1870s this system had enabled Prussia and its German allies to rout every European force sent against them, and in Upton’s time all the major continental powers were rapidly emulating this system, steadily expanding the size of their armies and soon to institute universal conscription.
By then superintendent of the Artillery School of Practice at Fortress Monroe, Va., the nation’s only military postgraduate institution, Upton embarked on an all-out effort to win the reforms he wanted. He set to work on a study of all of America’s wars from the Revolution forward. His intention was “to show the enormous and unnecessary sacrifice of life and treasure which has attended all our armed struggles.” Because the United States had been unprepared for every war it had ever fought, Upton believed, it had ended up paying vastly more in lives and treasure than it might have otherwise.
The Military Policy of the United States often makes Upton seem a master stylist in its copious use of statistics and citations. In his reformer’s zeal he also tended to push his historical arguments to the breaking point—the U.S. could hardly have “prepared” a national military force for the Revolution, for example, when it was not yet a nation. And when it came to the Civil War, Upton vented his spleen on all the policies that had bedeviled the Union cause: political generals; civilian interference in promotions and battlefield strategy; militias with variable terms of enlistment that might decamp for home on the eve of important battles. The federal government, he wrote, was trying to “save the Union by fighting as a Confederacy, [while] the Confederates sought to destroy it by fighting as a nation,” abandoning states’ rights, adopting a draft early in the conflict, and overriding the prerogatives of state governors in appointing militia officers. Yet this was an almost risible caricature of Confederate war policy, as the rebellion’s central government struggled constantly—and often in vain—to force local areas to comply with the draft, and governors to send their militia regiments out of state.
Such arguments exposed just how cloistered Upton had become in the Army, how cut off he was from his nation’s traditions and beliefs. He was attuned enough to the popular mood to restrain himself from calling for a “big Army” on anything like a European scale. What Upton ultimately proposed was a regular Army of 25,000 men, with a trained reserve of 140,000 national volunteers. All of this might be brought about, he estimated, for an additional expenditure of only $15 million.
It was a proposal modest enough to win the support of both Upton’s military superiors and many of the politicians he considered blind to the national interest. But again Upton’s deaf ear led him to a gaffe. Searching for some reason why the United States, settled behind the world’s greatest oceans with no imminent foreign or domestic enemies, should require even this force, he pointed to the nationwide series of labor disturbances as a possible task for such an Army to undertake.
The strikes, by workers laboring under horrific conditions and often for wages that left their families destitute, had faced brutal suppression by the usual mob of deputy sheriffs, company goons and state militias. But, Upton argued, on the next-to-last page of The Armies of Europe & Asia, “During the late riots, had there been available from 25 to 50 battalions of national volunteers, commanded by regular officers, it is possible, and probable, that much of the bloodshed and loss of property might have been avoided.”
At last, a role for the modern Army: Shooting American workers in the streets with maximum efficiency, or perhaps intimidating them out of exercising their rights in the first place.
Despite his vigorous advocacy, Upton’s military reform proposals stalled in Congress. One of their chief advocates, James A. Garfield, was elected president in 1880, which may have restored the theorist’s hopes. But by then the great human dynamo that was Emory Upton had begun mysteriously to wind down. His social circle had shrunk to a sister and a couple of close friends; he took delight mostly in entertaining a young nephew. Despairing—as usual—of regaining his old Civil War rank of major general in the peacetime Army, Upton seemed unable to finish his nearly complete Military Policy of the United States or to lobby Garfield.
The cause of his listlessness was likely physical. He began to suffer violent headaches and consulted a Philadelphia specialist for what was diagnosed as a sinus condition. The doctor treated Upton by placing a coiled electrical wire against the mucous membrane of his nasal passages and sending a spark through it. The doctor later speculated Upton might have been suffering from a tumor in his face or brain, but whether a tumor or the pain of his “treatment” was to blame, the headaches did not abate.
Transferred to the Presidio of San Francisco by early 1881, Upton enjoyed the sound of the Pacific surf at night and looked forward to resuming his work. But the headaches worsened, and his actions and words became increasingly erratic. He began to forget things, on one occasion telling a dinner companion that his new infantry tactics were so perfect they would end war, but then deciding they were a dangerous failure.
On March 14, 1881, Upton wrote his sister of his hope that God would “lead me to sacrifice myself, rather than to perpetuate a method which might in the future cost a single man his life.” He then wrote out a single line resigning his commission, picked up his Colt .45 pistol from his desk and shot himself in the head. He was just 41 years old.
Upton’s final manuscript was unedited and unpublished at the time of his suicide, and it would remain so until resurfacing in 1904, thanks largely to the efforts of Elihu Root, President Theodore Roosevelt’s secretary of war. While the Navy had performed splendidly in the 1898 Spanish-American War—at least against a hopelessly moribund, second-rate power like Spain—the Army had once again proved a spirited but amateur gabble of poorly led, poorly equipped and poorly supplied militias and volunteers.
With a few careful excisions, particularly with regard to the role of civilian leadership, the posthumous publication of Upton’s Military Policy of the United States would spark a revolution in the reform and professionalization of the U.S. Army. His ideas of a mobile, adaptable force, comprised of highly effective and self-reliant units at all levels, would inform the spirit of the American soldier.
Considering the central role the Army was to play in the world after his death, Upton might be said to have finally achieved the mark on history he had strived to leave. It could be said he was the prophet, if not father, of the American national Army—that is, an Army that possesses a permanent professionalized officer corps, a permanent strategic planning brain and well-established, reliable support systems and logistics.
Its citizen-soldiers would no longer coalesce on a haphazard, regional basis. Instead, they would be integrated into a true national Army—usually consisting of volunteers but able to realize rapid, exponential growth in times of emergency through universal conscription, as it did during World War II and the Cold War. Its troops would embody the general doctrines of the Army, able to function superbly as individuals and small units, as well as in massed divisions.
Upton’s Army was one that also studied and reacted to the world around it, in the best American traditions. The noble ideal of American exceptionalism had been stretched as far as it could in winning the nation’s continental wars. To meet the real challenges of an encroaching world, the country’s military—like its industries, its political and cultural institutions, and so much else—would have to learn from that world and learn to improve upon it. Emory Upton, in his furious journey around the globe, was the first American to embark seriously upon that quest, and he would set in motion a century of U.S. military innovation that has endured to this day.
For further reading Kevin Baker recommends Upton’s books, as well as Upton and the Army, by Stephen E. Ambrose.
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a92563d75c00e9d44ba88f022233675c | https://www.historynet.com/empire-vs-tribe-the-roman-empire-and-the-celts.htm | Empire Vs. Tribe: The Roman Empire and the Celts | Empire Vs. Tribe: The Roman Empire and the Celts
For five centuries the Roman and Celtic armies and cultures clashed, pitting the most highly organized state of the ancient world against fierce individualists.
War horns brayed eerily, swords thudded against shields with a dull menace, and a jeering, terrifying howl went up from the roughly 12,000 Celtic warriors arrayed along the Allia River less than a dozen miles north of Rome. Their oblong shields were painted in reds, greens and other bright colors and decorated with boars, dragons and various designs. Facing them were approximately 24,000 Roman troops, the sun glinting off their bronze helmets and spear tips as they locked shields and braced for an attack. A lone Celt stepped from the line, sword held high. He yelled for a Roman champion to duel with him and sneered when none accepted. He then let out a piercing war cry, and the Celts surged forward, hurling their javelins before crashing into the Roman line. It was July 18, 390 BC, and the Celts and Romans were rushing headlong into a confrontation that would span several centuries.
The seasoned Roman army, most likely in a tightly packed phalanx formation, was unprepared for the might and fury of the Celtic charge. Physically bigger than the Romans, the Celts wielded long double-edged iron swords for slashing and sheltered behind body-length shields fitted with pointed metal bosses, which they punched into the enemy. Many wore chain mail. Led by the warrior chieftain Brennus, the Celts hacked through their opponents, driving them toward the river, decimating the Roman center and sending the survivors fleeing for Rome. Within days the victorious Celts entered, burned and pillaged the capital. The Celtic army occupied Rome for seven months until paid 1,000 pounds in gold to leave. According to legend, when a Roman tribune complained that the Celts’ scales were rigged, Brennus threw his sword and belt atop the counterweights, thus increasing the Roman ransom, and thundered, “Vae victis!” (“Woe to the vanquished!”). Brennus’ taunt, wrote the classical historian Livy, was “intolerable to Roman ears,” and thereafter the Romans harbored a bitter hatred of the Celts, whom they called Gauls. The Romans ultimately enclosed their capital within a massive wall to protect it from future “barbarian” raids.
The dramatic encounter along the Allia was among the first between two great European peoples who over the next five centuries or so would clash and interact in a complex intercultural weave of warfare, alliances and trade. Their interaction marked a collision of differing political systems—that of free-ranging tribes versus a highly regimented state bent on territorial and economic aggrandizement—and proved a mighty contest between the Celtic and Mediterranean ways of life. Ultimately, both civilizations would contribute significantly to the formation of the modern European identity.
The Celtic people comprised hundreds of tribes, some as small as 20,000 members and others boasting more than a quarter-million men, women and children. There wasn’t a uniform Celtic nation or state; what linked them was their Indo-European language, ethnicity and certain shared cultural characteristics and artistic styles. The Greeks called these diverse people the Keltoi, which is perhaps how the Celts referred to themselves. Probably due to population pressures and a desire for independence, the Celts were great migrators; the areas they inhabited stretched from Ireland and Scotland into Spain and France and farther east into parts of Germany, northern Italy, Greece, Eastern Europe and Turkey.
Celtic social structure radiated outward from the family to the extended family, clan, tribe and tribal alliances. “In Gaul,” Julius Caesar wrote in his Commentaries on the Gallic War, “there are factions, not only in every state and every village and district but practically in each individual household as well.” The Celts were talented farmers, skilled craftsmen and superb artisans, especially in metalwork and gold. Although Roman chroniclers often characterized them as brutish and primitive, the Celts constructed towns, roads and powerful hill forts. They mined salt and controlled the lucrative trade that resulted. They were masters at ironwork when the Romans were still using bronze. Celtic women enjoyed broad rights and status, some becoming military commanders, others queens. The Celts did not own slaves in any great numbers but readily sold captured enemies to the slaveholding Romans.
The Celts’ greatest shortcoming was that they left virtually no written records. Thus we are forced to rely on accounts from such Roman writers as Strabo, Caesar, Polybius and others who were predictably biased and oftentimes misinterpreted Celtic ways. Thanks to these Roman chroniclers, though, we have a somewhat accurate contemporary picture of the Celts.
Caesar, who fought the Celts for eight years in Gaul, noted there were “two types of men of distinction…the first is made up of the druids, and the other of the knights.” The druids were the intellectual and spiritual elite of Celtic society and served an apprenticeship of up to 20 years, becoming experts in philosophy and history and passing down knowledge and wisdom through oral traditions. Intimately in tune with the rhythms of nature, the druids held their ceremonies in oak groves. “Young men flock to them in large numbers to gain instruction,” Caesar wrote, “and they hold the druids in great esteem. For they decide almost all disputes, both public and private.” The druids also presided over animal and human sacrifices.
By “knights” Caesar was referring to the fighting class in what was an honor-based warrior society. “The whole race,” Strabo noted, “is madly fond of war, high-spirited and quick to battle but otherwise straightforward and not of evil character.” They excelled in raiding other tribes for revenge and rustling horses and cattle. Warfare was low intensity and conducted more for ritualized displays of individual prowess, skill and courage than to destroy or subjugate an enemy. Indeed, a specialized warrior society, the Gaesatae, fought naked except for arms and a shield. These elite troops had, Polybius wrote, “proud confidence in themselves” and seemingly fought in a state of divine power and purity. Sometimes warring tribes would square off only for the contest to be decided by two opposing champions who fought to the death, with the losing side retreating from the field. Celts were fond of boasting about their deeds and, according to Strabo, had a “love of decoration. They wear ornaments of gold, torques on their necks and bracelets on their arms and wrists, while people of high rank wear dyed garments besprinkled with gold.” After battle they held a grand feast of roasted boar with much drinking of beer and wine while highly respected bards sang of heroic deeds.
The Celtic warrior was armed with a long, straight sword, a large shield, two spears— one for thrusting, one for throwing—and a dagger. Some used slings, clubs and bows. The wealthy rode on horseback and cloaked themselves in chain mail of their own invention. In Britain they fought from two-horse chariots. They wore well-crafted and practical bronze or iron helmets, often fitted with a neck guard, and they usually dressed in colorful clothing fastened by intricate brooches of gold or silver. In Britain they painted their bodies with woad, a flowering plant that yields a dark blue dye.
The Celts were fierce, clever and brave in combat. During the 225 BC Battle of Telamon, Polybius’ history records, the Gaesatae occupied the leading rank, while other Celts formed according to family, tribe and clan. “[The Romans] were terrified by the fine order of the Celtic host and the dreadful din, for there were numerous trumpeters and horn blowers, and the whole army was shouting its war cries at the same time.…No less terrifying were the appearance and gestures of the naked warriors in front, all of whom were finely built men in the prime of life, and all in the leading companies richly adorned with gold torques and armlets.” The Celts placed chariots and war wagons on the flanks, while infantrymen gathered around their standards of sacred animals and deities.
Drawn up in a colorful line, the Celts would noisily approach the enemy, convinced of their superiority, bolstered by belief in an afterlife, eager to display their courage, and pleased to be fighting alongside family members and clansmen. Greek historian Diodorus Siculus recorded that often a lone warrior would “advance before the battle line to challenge the bravest of their opponents to single combat.”After this opening bout the Celts closed on their foe, throwing javelins and other missiles while parrying those hurled at them with their shields and swords. Finally, they rushed the enemy, using swords to shear faces and limbs, spears to thrust and shields to repulse opponents. This first fierce onslaught was intended to break a foe’s line and instill panic in his ranks.
In the wake of battle the Celts often beheaded enemy corpses and displayed their grisly trophies, for they believed the captured soul resided in the head. After looting the enemy dead, collecting their own wounded and burying their fallen, the Celts would throw their feast of roasted meat, wine and beer and boast of their martial prowess. The warriors would then return home or perhaps sack the enemy’s town. There was little thought of occupying land or establishing formal borders.
Conversely, city building was something at which the Romans excelled. By the time of the Battle of the Allia, Rome had grown from an insignificant village on the Tiber River into a regional power, its citizens having defeating the Etruscans and other Latin peoples in a long series of wars. In stark contrast to Celtic hill forts and villages, Rome was a magnificent metropolis of marble temples, paved avenues and arcaded marketplaces. An elected senate and two councils ruled, and it had a vigorous entrepreneurial class and a high standard of living. Thousands of slaves served Roman needs; yet Roman women lived more housebound and constricted lives than their Celtic counterparts. The Romans were proud of their achievements and gazed outward, seeking riches and glory beyond their borders. Thus the Celtic sack of Rome deeply shocked the young republic, leaving a lasting scar on the national psyche. Forever after July 18 was a day of ill omen.
The Romans had a professional army, manned by citizens who served up to 16 years and were rewarded with land and honors upon retirement. It was highly structured, with an officer corps, engineers, medics, auxiliaries, artillery and other specialized troops. The army’s basic unit was the legion, which in the early republic comprised some 3,000 men, increasing to about 4,200 in the imperial era. During the reign of Emperor Augustus (27 BC–AD 14) the army boasted 30 legions and roughly 165,000 men. Additionally, the Romans had an estimated pool of 6 to 7 million men from which to fill their ranks.
The army was among the most powerful and influential sectors of the Roman state. Ambitious men seeking political office and wealth were eager to serve in order to conquer foreign lands and capture booty—which they shared among their men to ensure loyalty—and to amass their own fortunes and prestige. But while generals held tactical command, the politicians in the capital kept them in check.
The Roman army was well trained and in a constant state of reform. After their humiliating encounter with Brennus, the Romans adopted Celtic chain mail, fashioned body-length rectangular shields, modeled their helmets after Celtic designs and, researchers have argued, abandoned the rigid phalanx in favor of the more flexible manipular legion, in which troops subdivided into blocks, or “centuries,” of men arrayed in a widely spaced checkerboard pattern. This provided the units both protection and greater freedom of movement.
The Romans marched into battle in disciplined ranks and files. Backing and flanking the centuries were archers and artillery, while slingers and skirmishers sallied forward to harass the enemy. Cavalry was employed to strike at a foe’s flanks and rear, while other troops were held in reserve. A commander could observe and control troop movements from behind the lines, dispatching orders to his officers. This was not an army of individual heroes hungry for glory but one of cohesion, precision and massive striking power. It was an offensive army taught to fight with great brutality, to destroy enemy forces and remove them as a threat, and to subjugate and ultimately assimilate their foes to expand the frontiers of Rome. It was the motive force behind the establishment of colonies from Britain to North Africa to Turkey.
Over time a legionary’s gear evolved from pre-hoplite to hoplite to manipular. Shield and helmet shape varied, as did body armor, but the two key weapons remained essentially the same. The primary weapon was the gladius, a short, heavy double-edged stabbing sword—“a descendant of the weapon of the Spanish Celts,” according to one weapons expert. The other was the pilum, a javelin with a needle-sharp point and thin iron shaft for maximum penetration. On his back the legionary carried a rucksack full of provisions, personal items and entrenching tools. The legions embarked on long campaigns of conquest not just raids for honor and vengeance.
When confronting the Celts, the Roman army approached in three ranks. Archers and artillery, slingers and skirmishers would strike the foe with a variety of projectiles, then the first ranks would throw their pila, aiming to kill, or at least to impale Celtic shields, making them unwieldy. With their swords drawn and shields locked in a solid wall, the Romans advanced or met the Celtic charge. While the Celts raised their long swords to strike downward, the Roman soldiers ducked behind their shields and stabbed at the enemy’s exposed abdomen, groin or legs. If a Celt went down, the Romans ruthlessly and quickly dispatched him. Meanwhile, the Roman cavalry attacked the enemy’s vulnerable flanks and slaughtered those attempting to flee.
Because of the freewheeling Celtic tendency to migrate to new lands, and the relentless surge of Roman expansion beyond the Italian peninsula, driven by economic and political factors, the civilizations’ were fated to encounter each other repeatedly—both on the battlefield and in the marketplace. Roman and Celtic businessmen engaged in a lively exchange of goods that included wine, tin, lead, silver, gold, salt and fine Mediterranean pottery. “All Gaul,” Roman philosopher and politician Cicero observed, “is filled with traders—is full of Roman citizens.” Some Celtic tribes formed alliances with Rome and fought in her armies; still others joined forces with Rome’s enemies. Other tribes became enamored of the Roman way of life—the prosperous cities and farms, the well-developed infrastructure and stable government—and became Romanized. Roman writers and artists idealized the Celts as “noble savages,” while many of the Celtic elite adopted the manners and style of the Roman aristocracy. Both cultures worshiped a pantheon of essentially similar gods, although Romans abhorred the Celtic practice of human sacrifice.
For ambitious Romans the prospect of the Celts’ fertile lands and rich gold and salt mines proved irresistible. They manipulated public dread of the “Gallic terror” to gain victories and territory for Rome while furthering their own careers. And thus the wars continued, especially those conceived by Caesar.
By the time of the great general’s decade-long conquest of Gaul (present-day France), culminating in the 52 BC Battle of Alesia, the Celts faced pressure from two other expansionist powers—the Germanic tribes to the north and Dacians to the east. As the Celtic tribes contracted westward, Caesar seized the opportunity to enhance his prestige and fortify his power base in Rome, while protecting and extending Roman economic interests in Gaul and allaying deep-seated Roman fears of “primitive” Celts bent upon destroying their civilization.
Caesar opened his conquest with an attack on the dominant Helvetii tribal confederation. In a series of brilliant campaigns he soon subdued the Gallic Celts and even briefly invaded Britain in 55 and 54 BC. Caesar came away boasting spectacular military successes to the people of Rome and portraying himself as their protector, even as most Celts simply wanted to be left alone, likely fearing the Germans more than the Romans.
But the fiery Celts complicated Caesar’s ambitious plans by continually revolting against Roman rule. Ultimately, a charismatic Celtic warlord named Vercingetorix, of the Arverni, united the Gallic tribes in resistance to the Romans. After a series of marches and engagements against Caesar, Vercingetorix’s forces retreated to a hill camp at Alesia (present-day central France), where they awaited the arrival of 8,000 cavalry and 240,000 infantry from allied tribes. Caesar’s forces comprised some 60,000 troops.
Undaunted, Caesar constructed two fortified walls— an inner one encircling Alesia, and an outer wall protecting his army from the Celtic relief force. This circumvallation enabled Caesar to seal off the hill camp and subdue the arriving Celts in detail. Witnessing the defeat of his relief force, Vercingetorix surrendered his forces to Caesar and was carted off to Rome for later ritual execution.
Caesar had won his war, but at a terrible price. “Of an estimated population of 6 to 7 million,” Celtic scholar Barry Cunliffe calculates, “about 1 million had been killed and another million sold into slavery. Among the remainder hardly a family would have been left unscarred. The resentment must have been deep and bitter.”
“What the [Romans] call ‘empire,’” contemporary Celtic chieftain Calgacus observed, “is theft and butchery; and what they call ‘peace’ is the silence of death.”
The last Celtic stronghold lay in the British Isles. The Celts there had been on good terms with the Romans since Caesar’s invasion, importing wine and exporting corn, hides and slaves to Rome. But in AD 43 Emperor Claudius, for a variety of economic, political and self-aggrandizing reasons, invaded Britain. He faced bitter resistance from the Celtic tribes. In 60 Celtic Queen Boudicca, of the Iceni, led a revolt against Roman rule, in part spurred by a Roman attack on an important Druid sanctuary on Anglesey. Boudicca’s forces wiped out several Roman settlements and troops before being crushed, with an estimated 80,000 killed. Imperial Roman power now extended to the Scottish border, where the 73-mile-long Hadrian’s Wall, begun in 122, partitioned the Roman and Celtic worlds, ending centuries of cross-cultural conflict.
Fierce and proud warriors, the Celts gradually succumbed to the Romans’ superior organizational skills and single-minded will to expand their empire. Ultimately, however, it was the Germanic tribes and a mystery religion from the east —Christianity—that transformed the Roman and Celtic ways forever. The Celts had made valuable contributions to Roman culture in warfare, technology and language, while the Romans had shared their material gifts, operational talents and political-urban lifestyle with the Celts. Both civilizations form the core of modern Europe. Yet the grandeur that was Rome survives only in crumbling marble ruins and a few magnificent texts. The Celtic way, however, thrives in the strongholds of Brittany, Galicia, Scotland, Cornwall, Wales and Ireland, as well as in a vigorous Celtic revival throughout Europe and North America. In the end it seems tribe has triumphed over empire.
O’Brien Browne is a contributing editor of Military History Quarterly. For further reading he suggests The Ancient Celts, by Barry Cunliffe; Roman Warfare, by Adrian Goldsworthy; and Romans and Barbarians, by Derek Williams.
Originally published in the January 2015 issue of Military History. To subscribe, click here.
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311a2851d995bdb42020aa859fe75631 | https://www.historynet.com/encounter-kit-carson-meets-president-james-k-polk.htm | Encounter: Kit Carson Meets President James K. Polk | Encounter: Kit Carson Meets President James K. Polk
When the frontiersman Kit Carson arrived in Washington, D.C., in the spring of 1847, he was already a legend and folk hero. Born in a log cabin in Kentucky on Christmas Eve 1809, he had spent his life trapping beaver in the Rockies, hunting buffalo on the Great Plains and fighting Indians in the Pacific Northwest.
In the early 1840s, Carson served as guide for John C. Frémont’s three federal expeditions to explore and map the American West. In 1846, during the Mexican War, he served with Frémont in California, then guided General Stephen Kearny’s troops through the desert from New Mexico to California. When the Americans captured Los Angeles, Frémont dispatched Carson to Washington carrying messages for the War Department and President James K. Polk.
Traveling by horseback, steamboat and railroad, Carson crossed the continent in about two months, and stepped off a train in Washington late one night in May 1847. Frémont’s wife, Jessie Benton Frémont, the daughter of powerful Missouri senator Thomas Hart Benton, was waiting for him. She’d never met Carson but she immediately recognized him from her husband’s description. He was short, about 5 feet 4 inches, and bowlegged from decades in the saddle. His bright eyes were blue and his left ear was scarred from a bullet that nearly killed him.
Jessie Frémont escorted Carson to her home on C Street. The next day, he delivered his dispatches to the War Department and created quite a commotion, with curious clerks lining the corridors to catch a glimpse of the famous mountain man as he walked past, wearing faded buckskins and moccasins and carrying a long rifle.
“Mr. Carson was embarrassed by the attention drawn to him, so great was his modesty,” Jessie wrote in a letter to her husband. “I ventured to suggest to him that he might appear less conspicuous if he wore the more conventional attire favored by others, but he was reluctant to change his manner of dress.”
In Washington, Carson was a celebrity. Strangers shook his hand. Children followed him down the street. Congressmen and foreign ambassadors begged to meet him and prominent hostesses invited him to formal dinners. A shy man, Carson told Jessie that he didn’t want to attend dinner parties, but he didn’t tell her why: He was afraid that the wives of Washington might learn about Singing Grass, his beloved but now deceased Arapaho wife, and cast aspersions on him for marrying an Indian.
Somehow, Jessie convinced Carson to accept an invitation to dinner at the home of William Marcy, the secretary of war. He arrived at Marcy’s house to find that the other guests included two generals and their wives. The formal dinner featured fancy continental cuisine, including fowl and fish dishes drenched in rich sauces, and served with fine French wines. Carson ignored the wine and barely touched the cuisine, although he did eat his vegetables and seemed to enjoy the dessert of ice cream and cake. During dinner he said almost nothing, but after the ladies were escorted from the room and the men ignited cigars, he loosened up and told stories about his adventures in battle in California.
He didn’t enjoy the evening and was unimpressed by the grandees of Washington. “They are princes here in their big houses,” he told Jessie, “but on the plains, we are the princes. What would their lives be without us there?”
He was eager to leave Washington but before he could escape, he received an offer he couldn’t refuse—an invitation to meet President Polk at the White House. Unfortunately, Polk was too busy to see Carson until June 14, which meant that the mountain man would have to hang around the swampy city for another week.
Jessie Frémont tried to make that week as pleasant as possible. She’d become fond of Carson, praising his “merry heart” and describing him as “a perfect Saxon, clear and fair.” She discovered that Carson, who was illiterate, enjoyed being read to, and she entertained him with dramatic recitations. He particularly enjoyed the rolling cadences and rollicking adventure of Byron’s poem “Mazeppa’s Ride,” the tale of a Polish nobleman punished by being strapped naked to a horse that gallops across the steppes. Carson said it reminded him of the Blackfoot Indians.
On June 14, she escorted him to the White House. He looked uncomfortable in his new suit and white shirt. President Polk looked uncomfortable, too, but that was not unusual. Polk was a dour, sour, misanthropic workaholic who suffered from what he called “derangement of the bowels.”
Carson handed the president a letter from John Frémont. Polk, ever the dutiful bureaucrat, stamped it and wrote “Received from Mr. Christopher Carson.” The letter detailed Frémont’s views on his dispute with Kearny over which of them ought to rule California now that it had been conquered. As Carson listened, Jessie Frémont lobbied the president on her husband’s behalf. Polk declined to reveal his views on the Frémont-Kearny squabble. “Frémont was greatly in the wrong,” he wrote in his diary. “It was unnecessary, however, that I should say so to Col. Frémont’s wife.”
Polk announced that he was commissioning Carson as a lieutenant in the Regiment of Mounted Rifleman, and then the president invited him to dine at the White House that night. Carson accepted, no doubt with trepidation.
First lady Sarah Polk had heard about the awkwardness at Marcy’s elegant dinner for Carson, so she decided to keep her dinner informal. She grew up in Tennessee and knew something about the culinary preferences of frontiersmen. Instead of French cuisine, she served a rare roast beef, which the president carved himself. Instead of French wines, she served whiskey and water, which Carson eagerly accepted.
After that, the first lady sat back and studied her famous guest. “He is courteous to a fault, slow-spoken, and with becoming modesty turns aside suggestions that his deeds have been more valiant than those of lesser men,” she wrote the next day in a letter to her mother.
Carson seemed at ease when talking to the men at the table, who included Marcy, Sen. Benton, Secretary of State James Buchanan and, of course, the president. But when women asked him a question, he became tongue-tied and uncomfortable.
“His manner at table I found to be faultless,” the first lady informed her mother. “I must confess I watched him to see how he handled his fork, which he used with dexterity. That he thinks highly of Major Frémont was made known to all of us, much to the satisfaction of Mrs. Frémont and Senator Benton, but when J. asked him to describe for our edification how he eluded the Mexicans when carrying dispatches to San Diego, he grew red in the face and would not speak.”
After an awkward evening at the White House, Carson fled Washington, wearing his new lieutenant’s uniform, carrying letters from the president to Kearny, and no doubt relieved to be heading west.
Originally published in the February 2012 issue of American History. To subscribe, click here.
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d5729bf9e1a11cdb1f1ca1a1660f0566 | https://www.historynet.com/enduring-lessons-from-miracle-at-st-anna.htm | Enduring Lessons from ‘Miracle at St. Anna’ | Enduring Lessons from ‘Miracle at St. Anna’
Seventy-five years after World War II’s end, the “Double-V Campaign” still falls short of being fulfilled.
Midway through director Spike Lee’s Miracle at St. Anna, his 2008 film about a squad in the “Buffalo Soldiers,” the all-Black 92nd Infantry Division fighting in Italy in 1944, an African American sergeant, Aubrey Stamps (played by Derek Luke), explains to his peers what he is fighting for: his home country. “We helped build it from the ground up,” Stamps says. “I’m here for my children and future grandchildren. This is about progress.”
Another sergeant, Bishop Cummings (Michael Ealy), will have none of it, reminding Stamps of an incident stateside in which a restaurant refused service to the squad as German prisoners of war contentedly dined inside. Incidents like this actually happened: Time magazine reported in July 1944 that Black troops passing through El Paso, Texas, were barred from entering a local restaurant where they could clearly see the POWs seated at tables and served hot food. The American troops received cold handouts.
In addition to capturing the rampant racism that African Americans were facing on the home front, Miracle at St. Anna correctly portrays the resistance and skepticism toward utilizing Black combat soldiers during World War II. In 1942, the U.S. War Department surveyed White enlisted men and discovered, unsurprisingly, “a strong prejudice against sharing recreation, theater, or post exchange facilities with Negroes.” Confronted with this news, Army Chief of Staff General George C. Marshall simply threw up his hands. “Experiments within the Army in the solution of social problems are fraught with danger to efficiency, discipline, and morale,” he warned. (The postwar desegregation of the armed forces, of course, showed that these problems could be overcome.)
Although activated in October 1942, the 92nd Infantry Division did not see combat for nearly two years until advance units disembarked at Naples in August 1944. The action in Miracle at St. Anna occurs several months later, when the 92nd attempts to cross the Serchio River in Tuscany as a prelude to attacking the Gothic Line, the German defensive line established across Italy just north of Florence. As the Americans approach the river, a German truck with loudspeakers blares a recording of “Axis Sally,” the American-born propaganda broadcaster, who appeals to the Buffalo Soldiers to give up their fight, noting that back home they are second-class citizens. Why die in a White man’s war?
When, in the ensuing assault, one infantry company makes it across the river, its White captain—far to the rear—flatly disbelieves that Black troops could have covered such a great distance against withering German fire. Instead of firing artillery at the position that Stamps identifies as the location of the German defenders, the captain calls down fire upon the company’s own position. Forced to re-cross the Serchio under heavy German machine gun fire and now facing artillery shells from both sides, most of the company is wiped out. Stamps and three other soldiers crawl farther onto the German side instead, setting in motion the film’s main plot as it follows them through a series of harrowing, ultimately tragic adventures.
Miracle at St. Anna, too, accurately characterizes real-life 92nd Division commander Major General Edward M. “Ned” Almond’s distaste for his underlings. Historically, he declared, “The white man…is willing to die for patriotic reasons. The Negro is not. No white man wants to be accused of leaving the battle line. The Negro doesn’t care.” In the film, learning that the four soldiers are on the German side of the Serchio, the Almond character gives orders that the squad capture a German soldier who can be interrogated to confirm reports that German forces are massing for a counterattack. He is unconcerned that to do so the soldiers must leave the tenuous refuge they have found in a small Italian village and face almost-certain death when they encounter any of the German units that surround them. Three of the four squad members, including Stamps, perish in the following scenes.
After all of these injustices, one might wonder what Stamps’s ghost would make of the conditions under which his descendants exist today. During World War II, African Americans championed a “Double-V Campaign”: victory over the Axis abroad, victory over racism at home. Yet even 75 years after the war’s end, the campaign’s second goal still falls short of being fulfilled. Faced with this disheartening reality more than seven decades after his death, could Stamps believe otherwise than that America had broken faith with the ultimate sacrifice he had laid upon the altar of his country? ✯
This article was published in the October 2020 issue of World War II.
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5573d321cde9e6171f88cc3d714ec15f | https://www.historynet.com/erich-ludendorff-tactical-genius-strategic-fool.htm | Erich Ludendorff: Tactical Genius, Strategic Fool | Erich Ludendorff: Tactical Genius, Strategic Fool
German Chief of Staff Erich Ludendorff prolonged World War I with his revolutionary tactics—but to what end?
On a list of historical figures who have left disaster in their wake, few can top Erich Ludendorff. And yet, he was not an incompetent man. On the contrary, he was one of World War I’s most able generals, among the few who recognized that Western Front battlefield tactics would require a fundamental rethinking, especially with regard to combat leadership.
Unfortunately, even here his contribution proved disastrous, as his tactical revolution enabled Germany to hold out far longer than it might have, thereby exacerbating the November 1918 collapse. In the realms of operations, strategy and politics, Ludendorff’s baleful influence wreaked havoc on Germany over the course of the war, while the seeds he planted would eventually support the rise of Adolf Hitler and an even more disastrous German defeat.
Ludendorff was born on April 9, 1865, in the town of Kruszewnia, near Posen, Prussia. Like most of the border towns split between Polish and German ethnicity, Kruszewnia was a hotbed of Prusso-German nationalism. His parents were middle-class but strongly nationalist. And as young Erich gobbled up military histories filled with romantic legends and nationalist nonsense about Prussia’s struggles against Napoléon or its heroic defeat of the “evil French” in the Franco-Prussian War, his nationalistic fervor soon eclipsed that of his parents. As a teen, Ludendorff made the obvious career choice of the German army. He excelled at cadet school and after graduation entered the army as an infantry officer.
At the time, the nobility dominated the army’s officer corps. While there was certainly no room for Jews or members of the lower class, there were considerable opportunities for young, ambitious sons of the middle class, especially if they were bright and diligent and possessed the presence and poise required of a good officer. Ludendorff had all of these qualities and was quickly nominated by his superiors for the Kriegsakademie, the elite Prussian military academy from which the Great General Staff was handpicked.
The Kriegsakademie was so rigorous that most cadets washed out of the first and second-year courses. By now the culture of both the Kriegsakademie and the General Staff had shifted from the deep strategic analysis that marked the writings of Prussian generals Gerhard von Scharnhorst, August von Gneisenau, and Carl von Clausewitz to an emphasis on such technical aspects as planning, tactics and mobilization. Future Lt. Gen. Leo Geyr von Schweppenburg, who attended the Kriegsakademie immediately before World War I, said as much in a letter to military historian Basil Liddell Hart after World War II:
You will be horrified to hear that I have never read Clausewitz or [Hans] Delbrück or [Karl] Haushofer. The opinion on Clausewitz in our General Staff was that of a theoretician to be read by professors.
But Ludendorff excelled precisely in those tactical and technical areas, and he soon became a junior member of the Great General Staff, as well as one of Alfred Graf von Schlieffen’s most trusted staff officers. His career progressed steadily until 1912, on the eve of World War I, when a major budgetary fight broke out among the General Staff, the Imperial Navy and the Prussian War Ministry.
For more than a decade, the Prussian government had funded a massive buildup of the Imperial Navy to counter the British Royal Navy. The General Staff now sought greater support for the army and its planning obligations, particularly with regard to the Schlieffen Plan (the invasion of France). In the end, the War Ministry sided with the navy, resisting any large-scale enlargement of the army, perhaps out of concern that a strong officer corps might challenge the nobility’s control. Ludendorff led the charge for the General Staff, in the process angering many higher-ups. And when the dust settled in 1913, the General Staff shipped off Colonel Ludendorff to command an infantry regiment in the west.
In late July 1914, the simmering European crisis over the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne of Austria-Hungary, exploded into war. The Germans immediately invaded France, Belgium and Luxembourg. Ludendorff was assigned as deputy chief of staff to the Second Army under General Karl von Bülow and charged with seizing Liège’s key fortresses, a move that would enable the German right to strike deep into Belgium, then sweep south to encircle the French army.
As Ludendorff rolled forward through complex firefights, he was probably also involved in a number of atrocities, in which German troops shot Belgian civilians (upward of 6,000 by the end of September) in retaliation for the supposed activities of guerrilla fighters known as Franc-tireurs. In the midst of the heavy fighting, Ludendorff led a small group of Germans to the citadel at the heart of Liège, literally knocked on the front door and demanded the surrender of its garrison. One has to wonder how history might have turned if one of the Belgians had done his job and summarily shot Ludendorff for his temerity. Instead, the Belgians surrendered, and he received the coveted Pour le Mérite medal for his actions.
While the Schlieffen Plan unfolded in the West, the operational situation in East Prussia was going to hell in a handbasket, as the Russian army had moved earlier than expected. To make matters worse, General Maximilian “the Fat Soldier” von Prittwitz had panicked and recommended that his Eighth Army abandon East Prussia and retire to Pomerania. Chief of the General Staff Helmuth von Moltke promptly fired Prittwitz, replacing him with retired General Paul von Hindenburg. But while Hindenburg was certainly dependable and unflappable, he wasn’t considered especially bright. So Moltke brought in Ludendorff, brilliant and already a war hero, to be Hindenburg’s chief of staff.
The two hurried east to assume command of the Eighth Army, which the Russians had already badly mauled in a skirmish at Gumbinnen. On arrival, they confronted two invading armies:
General Pavel Rennenkampf’s First Army from the east and General Aleksandr Samsonov’s Second Army from the south. As Prittwitz retired into obscurity, Eighth Army Deputy Chief of Staff Max Hoffmann briefed his new bosses on a plan he had already set in motion.
The Russian First Army had stopped at Gumbinnen, while the Second Army rapidly advanced north. Since the Russians were communicating via uncoded radio transmissions, the Germans had a clear fix on their enemy’s positions. What they didn’t know was that Rennenkampf and Samsonov had been bitter enemies since the 1904–05 Russo-Japanese War and would not be overly inclined to help each other.
Hoffmann recognized that if the German Eighth Army concentrated its strength against one of the opposing forces and screened the other, it could defeat the Russians in detail. Samsonov’s advance obviously made his army the most vulnerable. Hindenburg and Ludendorff saw the advantage and signed off on Hoffmann’s plans. Cavalry units screened Rennenkampf’s First Army, which remained stationary despite having an open road to Königsberg. Meanwhile, the Eighth Army used the rail system to rapidly redeploy south and west. It broke the flank corps of Samsonov’s Second Army, then enveloped and destroyed the entire Russian force.
The deputy had done the work, but Hindenburg and Ludendorff took credit for the Battle of Tannenberg, Germany’s first major victory of the war.
Yet even as the situation stabilized in East Prussia, matters worsened elsewhere in the East. A series of major defeats threatened to knock Germany’s main ally, Austria-Hungary, out of the conflict. To restore the situation in Galicia, Hindenburg, Ludendorff and Hoffmann took command of the Ninth Army, which had been scratched together from Western Front corps and much of the Eighth Army. During heavy fighting, in which the Russians managed to surround three German divisions only to let them slip away again, the bitter foes fought to a standstill. Nevertheless, the confrontation proved one of Ludendorff’s finest hours, as the Ninth Army bought the Austrians enough time to recover and patch together a front.
Hindenburg and Ludendorff insisted Germany should act decisively to drive Russia out of the war. But by then, General Erich von Falkenhayn had succeeded Moltke as chief of the General Staff. Falkenhayn, with a broader strategic vision and perhaps a deeper appreciation of what a push into Russia would entail, demurred. So, while subsequent German offensives inflicted devastating losses on the tsarist enemy, they failed to achieve overall victory.
As to who was correct, no one can say, though it’s worth noting that no invasion from the West deep into the Russian heartland has ever succeeded. By confining the fighting to the borderlands, where the Russians faced serious logistical difficulties, Falkenhayn may well have set the stage for the eventual political collapse and defeat of tsarist Russia in 1917.
As the war stretched into 1916, Falkenhayn and the Hindenburg-Ludendorff duo continued to bicker over German strategy. Ludendorff was not above disloyalty to his superior and tried to sway the imperial regime in favor of an Eastern offensive. But Kaiser Wilhelm II remained loyal to his chief of staff. Then Falkenhayn, who had recognized back in 1914 that Germany could not defeat the forces arrayed against it, made a series of operational blunders.
First, having argued that Germany was engaged in a battle of attrition against Britain, he launched a great offensive against the French at Verdun. That battle bled the French white, but it also exhausted the Germans. As the fighting reached its climax in early June, Russia launched a major offensive against Austria, which promptly collapsed. Falkenhayn had to shut down Verdun and rush reinforcements east to shore up the Austrians.
Adding to his woes, in mid-June the British began preparatory bombardments on the Somme. Two weeks later their troops went over the top. On July 1, the first day of battle, they took a disastrous 60,000 casualties. But thereafter the weight of British artillery coupled with unimaginative German tactics, which demanded that soldiers hold every foot of ground, led to equally heavy casualties among the Germans—losses they could ill afford. Romania’s declaration of war in August further compounded the Central Powers’ strategic difficulties.
With the Reich in desperate straits, Kaiser Wilhelm finally yielded to political pressure and replaced Falkenhayn with Hindenburg and Ludendorff. From that point on, Ludendorff became the true driving force behind the German war effort, as Hindenburg deferred to him on virtually every decision.
The Germans faced a desperate situation in the West. “The battle of materiel,” as Ludendorff termed it, was even more serious. On the Somme, British attacks were imposing huge losses on the German army. Also that fall, the French launched a sharp offensive that would regain much of the ground they had lost at Verdun. One of Ludendorff’s first actions was to visit the Western Front to see for himself what was happening. He sought input from both senior officers and frontline commanders. “I attached the greatest importance to verbal discussion and gathering direct impression on the spot,” he later noted in his memoirs.
The loss of ground up to date appeared to me of little importance in itself. We could stand that, but the question how this, and the progressive falling off of our fighting power of which it was symptomatic, was to be prevented was of immense importance…. On the Somme, the enemy’s powerful artillery, assisted by excellent aeroplane observation and fed with enormous supplies of ammunition, had kept down our own fire and destroyed our artillery. The defense of our infantry had become so flabby that the massed attacks of the enemy always succeeded. Not only did our morale suffer, but in addition to fearful wastage in killed and wounded, we lost a large number of prisoners and much materiel….I attached great importance to what I learned about our infantry…about its tactics and preparation. Without doubt it fought too doggedly, clinging too resolutely to the mere holding of ground, with the result that the losses were heavy. The deep dugouts and cellars often became fatal mantraps. The use of the rifle was being forgotten, hand grenades had become the chief weapons, and the equipment of the infantry with machine guns and similar weapons had fallen far behind that of the enemy.
From the chiefs of staff he visited, Ludendorff demanded complete and accurate briefings rather than “favorable report[s] made to order.” Based on a thorough lessons-learned analysis, he then fundamentally recast the German army’s defensive philosophy. By late 1916 his staff and field officers had developed the first modern defensive warfare doctrine for the era of machine guns and artillery. This new doctrine rested on the concept of holding frontline positions lightly with machine gunners, with successively stronger defensive positions echeloned in depth. By now artillery was the great killer on the Western Front, so Ludendorff concentrated German reserves and defensive positions in rear areas, out of range of all but the heaviest Allied guns.
The emphasis shifted from the trench lines to well-camouflaged strong points that would shield the defenders from observation and bombardment. The deeper the enemy worked his way into these defenses, the more resistance he would encounter and the farther he would stray from his own artillery support. The new doctrine also demanded that battalion commanders and their subordinates, down to junior officers and NCOs, exercise initiative on the battlefield and not wait for directions from above.
What is particularly impressive about these changes is that they were put into practice within two months of their inception. On December 1, the German army published The Principles of Command in the Defensive Battle in Position Warfare. Ludendorff and the General Staff further ensured the new doctrine was inculcated at all leadership levels, requiring even senior commanders and staff officers to attend courses introducing the methods. These tactical reforms represented the building blocks of modern war. And they were to play a major role in German defensive successes on the Western Front in 1917: first, in defeating the Nivelle Offensive in April, nearly breaking the French army in the process; and second, in thwarting Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig’s heavy-handed offensive at Passchendaele, Belgium, in late summer and fall.
To further reduce the strain on the army, Ludendorff ordered a major withdrawal to curtail the line the army had to defend on the Western Front. During Operation Alberich, named for the vicious dwarf of the Nibelungen saga, the withdrawing Germans completely destroyed more than 1,000 square miles of French territory. Astonishingly, they filmed their performance. As General Karl von Einem, commander of the Third Army, described the footage: “We saw factories fly into the air, rows of houses fall over, bridges break in two—it was awful, an orgy of dynamite. That this is all militarily justified is unquestionable. But putting this on film—incomprehensible.” The Allies would not forget at Versailles. Nevertheless, the operation did free up 10 German divisions.
At the time Ludendorff was implementing his extraordinary improvements to the army’s tactical abilities and short-term strength—and thus, Germany’s ability to prolong the war—he was also pushing for a series of strategic and political decisions that would ultimately seal Germany’s fate.
Strategically, Ludendorff supported the Imperial Navy’s efforts to resume unrestricted submarine warfare, whatever its impact on the United States. The Germans had launched their first unrestricted U-boat campaign in 1915. The result, particularly the sinking of RMS Lusitania on May 7, had pushed America to the brink of war. Only the desperate intervention of Chancellor Theobald von Bethmann Hollweg persuaded Kaiser Wilhelm to halt the campaign. The navy forced the issue again in the fall of 1916, however, presenting figures that suggested unrestricted submarine warfare would bring Britain, the engine of the Allied cause, to its knees. But the navy’s research was bogus—a case of figures lie and liars figure.
The truth was that unrestricted submarine warfare would almost immediately bring the United States into the war. Here again, Ludendorff threw his weight behind the navy’s arguments by insisting the United States was incapable of fielding an effective army, much less deploying it to Europe to fight on the Western Front. His comment to a senior industrialist in September 1916 sums up his understanding of strategy: “The United States does not bother me…in the least; I look upon a declaration of war by the United States with indifference.” Even more astonishing is that in the fall of 1916 Ludendorff was seriously worried that Holland or Denmark might enter the war on the Allied side.
On Feb. 1, 1917, the Germans unleashed their U-boats, and in April the United States declared war. By July 1918, the Americans had four divisions (the equivalent of eight European divisions) in the field, and 250,000 doughboys were arriving in France every month. German submarines had not sunk a single American troop transport. The U-boat offensive had failed. It remains one of the more disastrous strategic decisions in human history.
Politically, Ludendorff continued to meddle in the Reich’s internal affairs. In July 1917 he forced out Bethmann Hollweg and persuaded Kaiser Wilhelm to replace the chancellor with a cipher, Georg Michaelis. The army soon found itself battling strikes, fomented by the military spending demands Ludendorff was putting on the economy, and food riots, exacerbated by the government’s flawed agricultural policies. To end the strikes, the army drafted obstreperous munitions workers, which only served to further lower morale among the troops.
Russia’s collapse in the wake of the Bolshevik revolution, coupled with victory over the Italians at Caporetto in October, afforded the Germans a window of opportunity. In the fall of 1917, the General Staff, under Ludendorff’s guidance, applied aspects of the defensive doctrine to offensive operations. By the early winter of 1918, they had invented modern decentralized combined-arms warfare and trained substantial units in the new tactics. Gambling that this development would secure German victory before the gathering might of the United States could shift the momentum in the Allies’ favor, Ludendorff readied his armies for a series of spring offensives. Interestingly, he drew few units from the now quiescent Eastern Front. Ludendorff left the Eastern army in place for two reasons: first, because troops were deserting in large numbers as they moved from east to west, and second, because throughout the spring and summer of 1918 Ludendorff continued to pursue megalomaniacal goals in the East that rivaled Hitler’s ambitions two decades later.
Although Ludendorff managed to build an extraordinary, albeit fragile, force for his coming offensive, he did not have the slightest idea what its operational goals should be. When asked as much by Crown Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria, group commander of the northern forces along the Western Front, Ludendorff testily replied: “I object to the word ‘operations.’ We will punch a hole into [their line]. For the rest we shall see. We also did it this way in Russia.” And that is precisely what the Germans, under Ludendorff’s direction, did. Their impressive battlefield gains were completely devoid of strategic and operational benchmarks, and they constructed no defenses to maintain the greatly expanded front.
Moreover, to make these gains, the Germans took nearly a million casualties—far heavier offensive losses than those suffered by the Allies earlier in the war. By the summer of 1918, the German army could no longer defend itself on the Western Front. On July 15, Ludendorff launched a major offensive, code-named Peace Storm, against Reims. His troops encountered well-prepared French lines deployed in defense-in-depth echelons. The offensive failed.
By now the balance was shifting drastically against the Germans. The first Allied blow came on July 18, when a combined Franco-American offensive hit ill-prepared German defenses along the Marne salient. The resulting loss of ground that the Germans had taken at the end of May was the first sign of disasters to come. Three weeks later, the British, led by Canadian and Australian corps, struck German defensive positions outside Amiens, forcing them into retreat by midmorning. Fleeing soldiers tried to discourage reinforcements from restoring the situation. Ludendorff was later to describe August 8 as the “black day” of the German army.
Worse followed. The British army mounted the bulk of late summer and early fall Allied offensives, while the American army increasingly made its presence known. A round of major pushes by the British, Canadians and Australians drove back the German army deep into Belgium. The continuous heavy fighting was exhausting Ludendorff’s men: Companies were down to less than 30 men, regiments to barely 100. Half a million troops ultimately deserted, and the rear area gave out. By October, Germany’s allies were collapsing one after another.
Once again, Ludendorff displayed neither leadership nor strategic sense. In September he began casting about for someone to blame for the looming German defeat. His initial target was his staff. By early October, he had shifted the blame to the liberals and socialists. As the German political, strategic and operational situation spiraled out of control, Ludendorff himself approached a complete breakdown. On October 26, the Kaiser dismissed him. Disguising himself in a false beard, Ludendorff fled to Sweden to write his extraordinarily dishonest memoirs.
Ludendorff’s postwar career was no more propitious for German history. He was an early and enthusiastic proponent of Dolchstoss, the infamous social legend that Communists and Jews had somehow managed to stab an unbeaten German army in the back and cause the Reich’s downfall. Thus, to a large extent, Germany’s military leadership escaped responsibility for the catastrophic defeat of the German army on the Western Front. Not surprisingly, in the postwar period Ludendorff became an ardent supporter of radical nationalist parties, lending his name to the Nazis and confronting the police lines with Hitler during the infamous Beer Hall Putsch of November 1923. Although he later broke with the Nazis, the damage had already been done: Ludendorff had provided an unknown street agitator with considerable political legitimacy.
As a commander, Ludendorff represented the strengths and weaknesses of the German army. “In my final analysis on Ludendorff,” notes David Zabecki, the foremost historian of Germany’s 1918 offensives, “I have to conclude that in many ways he was a reflection of the German army as a whole in the first half of the 20th century: tactically gifted, operationally flawed and strategically bankrupt.”
For further reading, Williamson Murray recommends: Ludendorff’s Own Story, August 1914–November 1918, by Erich von Ludendorff; The First World War: Germany and Austria-Hungary, 1914–1918, by Holger Herwig; and The German 1918 Offensives, by David T. Zabecki.
Originally published in the October 2008 issue of Military History. To subscribe, click here.
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9071a325d1b7ae6d1bbe554763058842 | https://www.historynet.com/ernst-udet-the-rise-and-fall-of-a-german-world-war-i-ace.htm | Ernst Udet: The Rise and Fall of a German World War I Ace | Ernst Udet: The Rise and Fall of a German World War I Ace
Germany’s second-highest-scoring ace of World War I, the colorful and boisterous Ernst Udet, had one of the most remarkable flying careers of the first half of the 20th century.
On a pale December morning in 1915 a lone Fokker Eindecker monoplane sailed high above the clouds, hunting for prey over the Vosges sector of the Western Front. Its young, inexperienced German pilot, his face greased for protection from the cold, felt snug in his thick flight suit and sheepskin-lined boots. Eyes alert, he carefully scanned the vast expanse of seemingly empty blue sky. Suddenly, a glint of silver caught the pilot’s eye, moving toward him from the west. It was the enemy.
Instead of maneuvering above and behind his opponent, the novice pilot forgot all his combat training and simply flew head-on at the oncoming aircraft. As the enemy neared, the German recognized it as a French Caudron G.IV, a queer-looking machine with a twin-boom lattice tail section and a truncated tub between the plane’s two engines carrying the pilot and observer.
As the German pilot reached for the firing button on the joystick, his mouth became dry at the prospect of his first aerial battle. The Frenchmen flew directly at him, looming so close that the observer’s head was clearly visible. The German pilot poised his thumb over the firing button, muscles tense. The moment of truth: kill or be killed.
In December 1915, a young Udet experienced his first one-on-one combat while flying this Fokker Eindecker E.I monoplane—the results of which were humiliating. (O’Brien Browne)
But as the two planes came within point-blank range of each other, paralyzing fear gripped the young German and he froze. He stared at his opponent, helpless. A second later, he heard popping noises and felt his Fokker shudder. Something slapped hard against his cheek and his goggles flew off. His face was sprayed with broken glass, and blood trickled down his cheek. With the French observer still firing, the German dived into a nearby cloud and limped back to his airfield. Once his wounds had been dressed, he secluded himself in his room and spent a sleepless night berating himself for cowardice and stupidity.
Such was the inauspicious beginning of one of the most remarkable flying careers of the first half of the 20th century. The young pilot’s name was Ernst Udet, and he would later become Germany’s second-highest-scoring ace of World War I, a gifted and celebrated stunt flier between the wars and a general in Adolf Hitler’s Luftwaffe. His was a boisterous and colorful life, an adventurous span of decades that would ultimately end in tragedy.
On an April Sunday in 1896, Paula Udet gave birth to a son, Ernst. He was what the Germans call a Sonntagskind (‘Sunday’s Child’)–lucky, happy and carefree. When Udet was still a baby, his family moved to the Bavarian city of Munich, where the inhabitants loved to eat, swill mugs of beer, sing and dance–a perfect place for a Sonntagskind to grow up.
In school, Udet displayed a quick, agile mind. But his eyes glazed over when he was confronted with detail and routine. He loved to talk and got along with everyone despite a dislike of authority.
From early on Udet was fascinated with flying machines. With his school friends, he built and flew model airplanes and helped to found the Munich Aero-Club in 1909. The boys sometimes gathered around the nearby Otto Flying Machine Works to watch airplanes being built and tested, and visited an army balloon unit to gawk at training flights. Finally, Udet’s burning desire to fly drove him to construct a full-size glider with a friend. It was an ungainly contraption of bamboo and canvas, and when Udet attempted to fly it off a hilltop, he merely succeeded in smashing it to pieces. He finally got into the sky in 1913 when a test pilot working for the Otto Works took him up in a Taube monoplane. Udet was ecstatic.
By 1909 a fascination with flight led a 13 year old Udet to experiment with his own home-made glider, the results were less than stellar. (Ullstein Bild via Getty Images)
But any dreams Udet may have entertained about a flying career were all but swept away by a rush of events. In July 1914, Gavrilo Princip, a Serbian nationalist, shot and killed Austria’s Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife in Sarajevo, resulting in Austria’s invasion of Serbia, which triggered World War I. On August 2, 1914, Udet tried to enlist in the army, but he was turned away because, at just over 5 feet tall, he was too short.
Undaunted, Udet decided to join the 26th Württenberg Reserve Regiment as a dispatch rider. The regiment let him in because he could furnish his own motorcycle. During his runs, Udet often rubbed elbows with pilots, which helped to respark his interest in flying. When the army ended its volunteer motorcyclist program, Udet decided to try to make it as a pilot. He paid 2,000 marks for flying lessons at the Otto Works and received his license in April 1915.
Udet was posted to Flieger Abteilung (A) 206, a two-seater artillery observation unit, where his aggressive style and eagerness for battle resulted in his quickly being promoted to Unteroffizier (staff sergeant) and transferred to Flieger Abteilung 68 (Fl. Abt. 68), flying the new Fokker E.III Eindecker fighter. Although deployed in small numbers, the E.III was at that time the deadliest airplane in the skies. It was slow and not particularly nimble, but it had one vital feature that Allied planes lacked–a machine gun synchronized to fire through the propeller. The E.III produced terror among Allied pilots out of all proportion to its capabilities, creating what was known as the ‘Fokker Scourge,’ until more advanced Allied fighters, such as the agile French Nieuport 11 and Britain’s Airco DH.2, tipped the scales in the Allies’ favor.
It was with Fl. Abt. 68 that Udet experienced his first humiliating one-on-one combat with the French Caudron. But after a period of intense soul-searching, Udet determined that he would succeed as a fighter pilot. He had his squadron’s mechanics construct a model of a French plane against which Udet could fly practice attacks, honing both his shooting and combat flying skills. The additional training soon paid off.
On March 18, 1916, Udet received a report of two French airplanes flying near Mülhausen. He climbed into the cockpit of Fokker’s latest fighter–the D.III, a biplane–and began searching for the enemy. He soon found them–not just two as reported, but 22 machines of various makes.
This time Udet kept his head, positioned himself above and behind his targets and carefully selected a victim. Then he dived to the attack, the wind humming through the bracing wires as he gave the engine full throttle. His target, a Farman F.40 bomber, grew large in his gunsight, but Udet held his fire. When he was only a few meters away, he pumped a short burst into the French plane, which began to spit fire. As he climbed, Udet watched the Farman falling, a ball of flame and smoke. To his horror, the observer tumbled out, a tiny black object hurtling earthward.
Newly promoted Leutnant der Reserve Udet waits for his mechanics to pour boiling water into the radiator of his Albatros D.III, 1941/16, before taking off from Jasta 15’s airfield at Habsheim in January 1917. After landing the radiator was drained to keep it from freezing in the radiator. (Roger Viollet via Getty Images)
That March 18 confrontation was Udet’s first confirmed victory, sweetened by the award of the Iron Cross, First Class. The fighter flight of Fl. Abt. 68 was redesignated Kampf Einsitzer Kommando Habsheim, and on September 28 it was reorganized as Jagdstaffel 15.
Udet’s second victory was a Bréguet-Michelin bomber, brought down during a massive bombing raid on Oberndorf by French and British units, escorted by four Nieuports of the American volunteer Escadrille N.124, on October 12. He finished his score for 1916 with a Caudron G.IV on December 24.
In January 1917, Udet was promoted to Leutnant der Reserve. Then he and his squadron received the latest fighter hot off the production lines, the Albatros D.III. With its sleek and sturdy plywood fuselage, powerful 160-hp Mercedes engine and twin Spandau machine guns firing through the propeller arc, the D.III was the ultimate fighter at this stage of the war. Along with this new fighter came orders for a new home for Jasta 15 in a more active sector of the front, in the Champagne. Stationed across the lines opposite Udet’s squadron was one of the most famous French fighter squadrons of the entire war, Escadrille N.3, Les Cicognes (‘Storks’), which boasted France’s leading ace, Georges Guynemer.
The combination of a new fighter and a new posting to a part of the line offering more targets resulted in Udet’s steadily increasing his score. On February 20, he forced down a Nieuport 17 into the French lines. Its pilot, Sergeant Pierre Cazenove de Pradines of N.81, survived to eventually become a seven-victory ace. On April 24, Udet shot down a Nieuport fighter, which burst into flames after a short dogfight, and he destroyed one of the new Spad VII fighters on May 5.
Personal gain, however, came at personal loss. Six of the original pilots who had been there at the formation of Jasta 15–Udet’s closest comrades, plus the commanding officer Oberleutnant (1st Lt.) Max Reinhold–were killed either in combat or in crashes. Udet often had the sad task of sending letters of condolence to the family members. ‘I’m the last of Jagdstaffel 15,’ Udet wrote to Oberleutnant Kurt Grasshoff, a friend who was commanding officer of Jagdstaffel 37, ‘the last of those who used to be together at Habsheim. I should like to move to another front, to come to you.’ Clearly, for the 21-year-old ace, the war was becoming a grim affair.
Shortly after writing that, Udet was involved in one of the most famous air duels of World War I. While balloon hunting on a solo patrol, he watched as a small, rapidly moving dot approached him. Seconds later Udet recognized the stub nose of a Spad VII and hunched down in his seat, readying himself for a fight. The two enemy pilots dashed head-on at each other, then banked, each trying to get onto his opponent’s tail. The planes twisted and turned, neither pilot at first able to get off a good burst. Soon Udet realized that this Frenchman was no novice but a skilled pilot, for with every trick Udet tried–half loops, slip-sideslips, sharp banks–the surprising Spad stuck determinedly to him, getting off short, well-aimed bursts in the process.
During one pass, Udet glanced at his enemy and saw a pale, drawn face and the word Vieux written in black on the fuselage. Udet’s heart rose into his throat. Vieux Charles was the name given to all of Georges Guynemer’s aircraft–Udet was seemingly locked in a duel-to-the-death with the famed French pilot. Suddenly, a stream of bullets ripped into Udet’s top wing, but he cut away and after a few more turns had the French ace in his sights. Udet squeezed the firing button, but his guns remained silent. They were jammed. Frantically, he pounded them with his fist just as Guynemer flew by overhead. Guynemer came on again, almost upside down now, but instead of sending a blast of lead into his helpless opponent, he stuck out a gloved hand, waved and then disappeared to the west. To the end of his life, Udet never forgot that act of chivalry.
At the beginning of summer 1917, Udet was scoreless so far for that year, despite flying almost daily patrols. But on June 19 his long-awaited transfer came, removing him from the unit in which he had lost so many friends and moving him to Jasta 37, several miles behind the lines. This fresh location did him good, and he brought his score up to nine by the end of August. In November, more honors came to him: On the 7th, he was made commander of Jasta 37 when Grasshoff was transferred to command Jasta 38 in Macedonia, and Udet received the coveted Knight’s Cross of the Order of Hohenzollern.
Udet proved to be a good leader. He spent long hours training novice pilots in the art of air fighting and, like many successful aces, emphasized good marksmanship over flashy stunt flying. He was easygoing, boisterous and loved drinking until late at night and chasing women. He enjoyed the star status that came with being a pilot and often dressed in a dapper style, a cigarette usually poised carefully in one hand. He still displayed the disdain for authority and routine that had characterized him as a child. And he enjoyed being curt and cheeky to pompous officers, his ranking position and success as a fighter pilot usually saving him from reprimand. By year’s end, he was a 16-victory ace and a highly decorated pilot.
In early 1918, Udet was visited by a small, slim man with a delicate face and soft voice, Manfred Freiherr von Richthofen, Germany’s ace of aces–known to later generations as the ‘Red Baron.’ Richthofen, always on the lookout for bright and aggressive pilots, asked Udet if he would like to join his Jagdgeschwader I (JG.I). Without a moment’s thought Udet said, ‘Ja, Herr Rittmeister.’ The great ace shook his hand and left. In a later meeting with Richthofen, Udet learned that he was to take command of Jasta 11–Richthofen’s old command. Flabbergasted, Udet again accepted.
As Udet settled into his new post, the air service was gearing up for the German army’s last great offensive of the war. Code-named ‘Operation Michael,’ it was a desperate attempt to defeat Britain and France before the arrival en masse of the Americans, who had declared war on Germany in April 1917. Jasta 11 was equipped with the latest from the Fokker factories, the highly maneuverable, rapid-climbing triplane. Udet immediately liked this fighter, sensing that its lightning-quick turns would be indispensable in a tight dogfight.
After joining Jasta 11, Udet began flying multiple patrols daily, although he was increasingly troubled by an intense pain in his ears. Nevertheless, he pushed his victory score up to 23 before the pain became so intolerable that Richthofen ordered him to take sick leave. This time off was vital for Udet’s war-shattered nerves. Despite a doctor’s warning that he would never fly again, Udet’s ears began to improve. In addition, he received news that he had been awarded one of Germany’s highest military awards, the Ordre Pour le Mérite, generally referred to by its nickname, the ‘Blue Max.’ That honor was marred, though, by word that Richthofen had been lost in combat on April 21. Shaken by the death of the man whom he later described as ‘the greatest of soldiers’–a man many had believed was indestructible–Udet returned to the front on May 20, taking command of Jasta 4 of JG.I.
Despite the remarkable early successes of Operation Michael, which had seen German storm troopers advance up to 40 miles against the British and French, the war was still far from won. When Udet returned to his unit, the conflict was entering its last, dreadful months, which would see some of the most intense fighting of the entire war. His unit was now equipped with the formidable Fokker D.VII, the plane generally considered the finest fighter of WWI.
During the spring and early summer, Udet’s score rose to 35. The charmed life of this Sunday’s Child was again apparent when he took off on the morning of June 29 to intercept a French Bréguet two-seater, which was directing artillery fire over the lines. A few days before, in a fit of arrogance and impertinence, Udet had had his Fokker painted with a candy-striped upper wing and a red fuselage with ‘Lo’–the nickname of his girlfriend Lola Zink–written on it in big white letters. On the tail was the phrase, ‘Du doch nicht!‘ (‘Certainly not you!’), a taunt and challenge to Allied pilots.
Udet approached the Bréguet with great skill and precision. He fired at the observer, who sank into his cockpit. Now Udet casually swung around for a side shot at the helpless Bréguet, targeting the engine and pilot. Suddenly the observer sprang up and manned his machine gun, sending a blistering spray of bullets into Udet’s Fokker, slugs slamming into his machine gun and gas tank and shredding the controls. Udet reared away but soon found that his plane was crippled–it would only fly in circles. By accelerating whenever he pointed eastward, Udet slowly began working his way back to the German lines.
Suddenly the Fokker nosed down into a spin from which Udet could not pull out. He was wearing one of the new Heinecke parachutes that German pilots were just being equipped with, and he stood up in the cockpit to jump. As he did so, a rush of wind knocked him backward. But instead of tumbling into the wide-open sky, Udet to his horror realized that his parachute harness was caught on the rudder. Frantically, he struggled with the harness as the earth spun closer. With a final superhuman effort he yanked himself free and floated down into no man’s land. He quickly scrambled back to the German lines and, taking his harrowing experience in stride, was flying again that same afternoon. The next day he shot down a Spad fighter for his 36th victory.
On July 2, JG.I had its first encounter with the U.S. Army Air Service and shot down two Nieuport 28s of the 27th Aero Squadron. One of the pilots, 2nd Lt. Walter B. Wanamaker, was brought down injured by Udet, who gave him a cigarette and chatted with him until the medics arrived. On a whim, Udet cut the serial number, N6347, from the rudder of Wanamaker’s plane. When the two met again at the Cleveland Air Races on September 6, 1931, Udet returned the trophy to his former opponent. It can still be seen at the U.S. Air Force Museum in Dayton, Ohio.
On July 2, 1917 Udet brought down a Nieuport 28 flown by 2nd Lt. Walter B. Wanamaker. Fourteen years later at the 1931 Cleveland Air Races they met again, Udet returning the fabric trophy he had taken from Wanamaker’s fighter. (National Museum of the U.S. Air Force)
Udet was one of the lucky ones. Hauptmann (Captain) Wilhelm Reinhard, commander of JG.I after Richthofen’s death, was killed on July 3 when the wing of a Dornier D.I parasol monoplane he was test-flying collapsed. Udet’s new commander was the 21-victory ace and Ordre Pour le Mérite recipient Oberleutnant Hermann Göring.
By this time the war was going badly for the Germans. Due to the British naval blockade, Germany was suffering from food and raw material shortages. The German air force was hampered by a lack of fuel, equipment and new recruits. The Allies, on the other hand, bolstered by Britain’s wealthy colonies and America’s industrial might, were sending ever greater numbers of airplanes into the skies. ‘The war gets tougher by the day,’ Udet wrote. ‘When one of our aircraft rises, five go up on the other side.’ If an Allied plane fell behind the German lines, it was immediately pounced upon by mechanics who would strip away its shiny brass and steel instruments.
These difficulties seemed to spur Udet on to new heights of achievement. Between July 1 and September 26, he downed 26 Allied aircraft, bringing his total to 62. During his last air battle, in which he brought down two Airco DH.9 bombers, he was hit in the thigh. He was still recovering from that wound when the war came to an end on November 11, 1918.
The pace of Udet’s life did not let up with the war’s end. He married his girlfriend Lola Zink in 1920 and continued to fly as often as he could, usually as a barnstormer and stunt flier. Eager to make money and never at a loss for new ideas, he founded the Udet-Flugzeugbau in 1922, a company that produced streamlined racers and stunt aircraft.
During the ’20s Udet flew in airshows and races, performing throughout Latin America and Europe. Given its founder’s flying skills and flair for publicity, Udet-Flugzeugbau experienced modest growth–but during that same period Udet’s flamboyant lifestyle flourished. He became a well-known womanizer and a hard drinker, a party boy who loved to dine and share a laugh with an international group of friends. He spent money as quickly as it came in. He enjoyed the company of movie stars, film producers and other public figures. Flying always remained his greatest passion, but his independent nature and disdain for routine led to the breakup of his marriage in 1923 and his leaving the company to become a professional stunt flier.
In a Germany wracked by depression and the ignominy of defeat, torn between Communists and the rising Nazi party, Udet was a bright star and a war hero. He was also an extraordinarily gifted pilot, possessing a marvelous sense of touch. One of his favorite crowd-pleasing stunts was to fly very close to the ground, dipping one wing low and snatching a handkerchief from the ground with his wingtip. He also excelled at corkscrew spins, breakneck dives and flying under bridges.
In the ’30s he made a host of flying films, low on plot but featuring thrilling footage showcasing his flying abilities. Udet filmed and flew in Africa and Greenland. In 1931 he thrilled crowds at the Cleveland National Air Races, where he met–and shared a shot of illegal booze with–America’s number one ace, Captain Eddie Rickenbacker. Udet’s U-12 Flamingo, a wood-body, slow-moving biplane, was no match for the sleek metal craft of his competitors, but the German pilot’s impressive flying skills stole the show.
This was probably the happiest time of Udet’s life. He was reeling in money. His autobiography, Mein Fliegerleben (English title: Ace of the Iron Cross), was a hit, selling more than 600,000 copies by the end of 1935. He was arguably the most famous stunt pilot of his day.
His own situation, however, contrasted sharply with the turn of events inside Germany. In 1933 Hitler had assumed dictatorial powers and ruthlessly began reorganizing the nation according to his National Socialist doctrines. Udet ignored politics and despised the Nazi party’s brutality, intolerance and authoritarianism, but he was proud to be a German and was proud of his war service. He listened with interest when Hermann Göring spoke to him of plans to rebuild Germany’s air force–which had been banned after World War I by the Versailles Treaty. In 1934, Udet taught Aviation Minister Erhard Milch to fly. And as the top pilot in the country, Udet’s opinion was considered quite significant when matters of aviation policy were discussed. It was flattering to be listened to by those in positions of authority.
In 1934 Udet made the difficult decision to join the new Luftwaffe. Whatever his misgivings about the Nazis, he realized that they had an iron grip on power in his country. Patriotism, the challenge of rebuilding the air force he had so loved, plus a sense of stability and security offered by the prospect of a normal job, all played a part in helping him make up his mind.
Reichsmarschall Herman Göring (left) and Udet, head of the technical office of the air ministry, observe aerial maneuvers by the new Luftwaffe on June 16, 1938. (Ullstein Bild via Getty Images)
He was promoted rapidly from Oberstleutnant (lieutenant colonel) to Oberst (colonel) and then inspector of fighter and dive-bomber pilots. In the summer of 1936 Udet was pressured by Göring into becoming the head of the technical office of the Reich’s air ministry, a position of weighty organizational responsibilities. Despite his new duties, Udet, who had always shunned paper pushing, seemed able to find the time to test-fly the industry’s newest designs, such as the Messerschmit Bf-109, as well as the latest from Focke Wulf and Heinkel.
On the eve of World War II, Udet was again promoted, this time to Generalluftzeugmeister, or chief of armaments procurement. Now he was in control of more than 4,000 personnel and had to make a host of daily decisions regarding research and development, supply, financial matters, production of equipment and many other things–on the whole, a job for which he was temperamentally unsuited. When the war started, the strain of his office weighed heavily upon him.
Just before the German invasion of France, American reporter William Shirer interviewed Udet, finding him a likable fellow who ‘has proved a genius at his job.’ But Shirer was amazed that a party boy such as Udet had risen so high in the Luftwaffe hierarchy. The reporter astutely speculated that if American businessmen knew of Udet’s somewhat Bohemian life-style, ‘they would hesitate to trust him with responsibility.’
Udet was not adept at the political intrigue that characterizes all bureaucracies. Increasingly, he was outmaneuvered by his onetime friend Erhard Milch. Ambitious and scheming, Milch resented Udet’s special relationship with Göring and craved the power and prestige attendant on Udet’s job.
Nevertheless, Udet continued to reap honors from Hitler, who was most likely unaware of the interdepartmental in-fighting. On June 21, 1940, Udet was one of the few people who witnessed the French surrender to the Germans. A month later, he was awarded the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross and promoted to Generaloberst (colonel general).
But Udet apparently found little enjoyment in his new position. Friends noticed that the once jovial playboy had grown serious and thoughtful as his responsibilities increased. More and more Udet complained of sleeplessness and depression. He was also overweight, and his smoking, drinking and eating were out of control.
Following Udet’s suicide on November 17, 1941, A Luftwaffe honor guard—including ace Major Adolf Galland at left—escorted his remains to their final resting place. (Ullstein Bild via Getty Images)
Milch continued to work behind Udet’s back, seeking to discredit him in Göring’s eyes. When the Luftwaffe failed to overwhelm the Royal Air Force during the Battle of Britain, Udet’s office was blamed. The invasion of Russia in June 1941 only added to the pressure on him, and he felt increasingly trapped in his job. At the end of August, Udet had a long, private talk with Göring in which he tried to resign. Göring refused, knowing that such a resignation from a top Luftwaffe official would create bad publicity.
Finally, on November 17, 1941, Ernst Udet put a pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. According to Nazi propagandists, the pilot had died heroically while testing a new aircraft. But in reality, life had simply lost all of its fun, adventure and charm for this Sunday’s Child.
This feature was originally published in the November 1999 issue of Aviation History. For more great stories subscribe to Aviation History magazine today!
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3d7afe87a79f4fe2b49a2d42dd840317 | https://www.historynet.com/eureka-displays-academy-natural-sciences.htm | Eureka! Displays at the Academy of Natural Sciences | Eureka! Displays at the Academy of Natural Sciences
The Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia uncorked a sometimes maddeningly democratic process of discovery in the young republic.
In November 1868, without fanfare or even much thought to how the public might respond, the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia opened its doors on one of the most sensational museum displays ever. It was the world’s first nearly complete and realistically displayed dinosaur skeleton, discovered 10 years earlier in Haddonfield, N.J. Hadrosaurus foulkii stood on its hind legs and was more than two stories high. So many visitors showed up to gape at this astonishing monster Academy scientists complained about “the excessive clouds of dust produced by the moving crowds,” not to mention broken glass and battered woodwork. The exhibit marked the beginning of dinosaur-mania in North America, and it changed the way museums everywhere would re-create the lost world of extinct species.
The Academy might have preferred to go about its work more quietly. But it had grown accustomed to playing an important part in the history of the nation, and of science. Philadelphia considered itself “the Athens of America” in 1812, when a small band of naturalists met at the home of a local apothecary to found the Academy. That the founding occurred during the War of 1812 “was no coincidence,” says Robert Peck, a curator at the Academy. “The United States was declaring our independence politically and economically again, and we were declaring our intellectual independence for the first time.” Founding the Academy meant founding a democratic American science, the equal of its Old World counterparts but without the elitist trappings. The Academy would also have its own journal, so American scientists “would not have to run to Europe to have their discoveries vetted.” The periodical would be intellectually rigorous, but also inexpensively printed, so working people like the founders themselves could afford to read it.
The Academy, which marks its 200th anniversary this year (see “Bicentennial Celebration,” p. 49), is the oldest natural history institution in the New World. Some of the Academy’s counterparts, including its main early rival, the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., are bigger and more renowned. But for better—and sometimes for worse—no other scientific institution had a more seminal impact on the evolution of the young republic’s character.
Academy scientists helped plan and carry out the early exploration of the American West, established the science of ornithology in America and endorsed scientific racism in the decades leading up to the Civil War. The Academy counted Thomas Jefferson and Charles Darwin as corresponding members, was frequented by Edgar Allan Poe and, in the 20th century, gave the world that dashing British spy James Bond—or at least his namesake. (Novelist Ian Fleming, a weekend birder in Jamaica, thought the name of the author of the field guide Birds of the West Indies sounded suitably Anglo-Saxon. He later gave a copy of one of his books to the ornithologist, a member of the Academy, signed, “To the real James Bond, from the thief of his identity.”)
In 1812, Philadelphia was already home to the American Philosophical Society, dedicated by Benjamin Franklin to all studies “that let Light into the Nature of Things, tend to increase the Power of Man over Matter, and multiply the Conveniencies or Pleasures of Life.” The Philadelphia Museum was also thriving, with the artist Charles Willson Peale displaying portraits of great American patriots and specimens of great American wildlife side by side.
The founders of the Academy meant to set their enterprise apart by focusing exclusively on the natural world, not culture or the arts. And they wanted to do scholarly work, avoiding the kind of hoopla Peale sometimes indulged in to attract customers. The Academy was also determined to be democratic. Whereas the Philosophical Society drew its members from the elite (including 15 of the 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence), the Academy’s founders were local businessmen and immigrants drawn together by a single idea: “We are lovers of science.” They resolved that their organization would be “perpetually exclusive of political, religious and national partialities, antipathies, preventions and prejudices.” This was no doubt wishful thinking. As at most such institutions then, the Academy’s membership was entirely white and male, until the widow of a founder was admitted in 1841. Even brotherhood would prove elusive. (One founder was soon describing another as a “hot headed eccentric Irishman” and “some what crack brained.”)
But the founders were sincere in wanting to develop a proper American science for understanding and describing the riches of the still largely unexplored continent. “The time will arrive,” wrote Thomas Say, the intellectual force behind the Academy in its early years, “when we shall no longer be indebted to the men of foreign countries, for a knowledge of any of the products of our own soil, or for our opinions in science.” Say himself would become the father of American entomology, in his lifetime describing roughly 1,400 insects, including pests and pollinators of critical economic importance in agriculture.
Say would also become the first trained naturalist to visit the American West. As chief scientist on the Long Expedition of 1819-20 (see “What Is Out There?” American History, October 2010), he provided the first descriptions of many now beloved species, from the swift fox to the Lazuli bunting to a host of insects. At one point during the expedition, Say was seated with a Kansa chieftain, “in the presence of several hundred of his people assembled to view the arms, equipment, and appearance of the party,” when a darkling beetle scurried out from among onlookers’ feet. Diplomatic dignity wrestled momentarily with scientific passion. Then Say plunged after the beetle and impaled it on a pin, for which the astonished Kansa admiringly dubbed him a medicine man. Another of his discoveries, the mosquito species Anopheles quadrimaculatus, actually led to a major medical advance. Long after Say’s death, scientists identified A.quadrimaculatus as the chief carrier of “ague,” or malaria, a scourge that until then routinely killed Americans along the Gulf Coast and as far north as Boston and the Great Lakes.
Another early member of the Academy, Scottish immigrant Alexander Wilson, launched the scientific study of birds in America with his nine-volume American Ornithology, which was completed in 1814, a year after his death. Ironically, that connection with Wilson also caused the Academy to reject John James Audubon when he showed up 10 years later seeking support for what would become the most celebrated work of American natural history ever published.
Audubon was a colorful frontier character and no diplomat. At a meeting with George Ord, the quarrelsome, condescending president of the Academy, he promoted his own work by clumsily disparaging Wilson’s. Audubon didn’t realize that Ord had been Wilson’s closest friend and was his literary executor. “Incensed by the newcomer’s brash and tactless remarks, Ord rose to Wilson’s defense, challenging Audubon’s scientific credentials and integrity,” Robert Peck and Patricia Stroud write in A Glorious Enterprise, their definitive history of the Academy. “By the end of the meeting, it was clear that any possibility of the Academy supporting Audubon’s project had vanished.” Audubon had to turn to Europe to get Birds of America published.
A few years later, in 1838, the Academy was aboard when the U.S. Exploring Expedition, the nation’s first effort at global science, set sail. The four-year circumnavigation of the globe had strong backing from Secretary of War Joel Poinsett, an Academy member and plant collector who had brought his namesake, the poinsettia, from Mexico to the United States. The complement of nine “scientific gentlemen” on the U.S. Ex Ex (as it became known) included two Academy scientists and two corresponding members. The expedition mapped vast areas of the Pacific and discovered the frozen continent of Antarctica. The scientists also collected more than 60,000 plant and animal specimens.
This collection became the basis of a proposed new national museum endowed, as George Ord complained bitterly, by some “English fool, named Smithson.” Ord was enraged that the Smithson-backed group had “laid its grasping paws upon the precious collections” of the U.S. Ex Ex. In an 1842 letter, he predicted that his rivals’ plans for establishing a natural history museum in the nation’s capital would entail “an immense stir; a grand speechifycation, characterized by rant, fustian and nonsense; the baboons of literature and science will play their pranks for the amusement of the mob, and then the farce will end.” He was of course mistaken. The two institutions would often collaborate in the decades that followed. But ultimately the Smithsonian Institution would displace the Academy as the main home for the nation’s accumulating treasures.
The Academy’s most disturbing influence on American life came when a prominent member, Samuel G. Morton, claimed in the 1840s that blacks and whites originated as separate species and that this could be proven by measuring skull capacity. Morton, a Philadelphia Quaker and physician, was convinced that bigger skulls housed bigger brains with greater intellectual capacity and that the biggest brains naturally belonged to white people.
Morton eventually accumulated 1,000 human skulls from around the world, a collection his friends described as “the American Golgotha.” (The name of the hill on which Christ was crucified meant literally “place of the skull.”) He measured brain capacity by filling the inverted skulls with granules, a methodology considered remarkably objective and scientific for its time. He used white mustard seed at first, and to improve accuracy later switched to No. 8 shot.
By offering a “scientific basis” for prejudice, Morton handed ammunition to bigots amid the vicious racial politics preceding the Civil War. One Morton disciple, Josiah Clark Nott, an Alabama physician and slaveowner, distilled Morton’s research into lectures on what he called “niggerology.” Nott piously declared that he loathed slavery in the abstract. But, he argued, as a practical reality it was a public service, enabling members of a subhuman species to attain “their highest civilization.” He added, “the Negroes of the South are now…the most contented population of the earth.” Rather than distance himself from such twisted reasoning, Morton wrote of his “great pleasure and instruction” at the uses to which Nott put his findings.
When Morton died in 1851, a New York newspaper remarked that “probably no scientific man in America enjoyed a higher reputation among scholars throughout the world.” A century and a half later, the conclusions Morton drew from his skulls have been universally discredited. His most vociferous modern critic, the late paleontologist Stephen Jay Gould, denounced Morton as the father of scientific racism, driven by the urge to put “his folks on top, slaves on the bottom.” But other scientists still regard Morton as the founder of physical anthropology, the science of measuring variances among human groups.
The mid-19th century was the last time a naturalist’s scholarship could span the entire world. Not only were explorers from the Academy and other institutions going to new places and making great discoveries, but in those days the average educated layperson could understand what their work was all about. Professionalization would soon set in, confining scientists to ever more narrow specialties, often comprehensible only to a handful of like-minded experts.
Joseph Leidy, who arrived at the Academy in 1842, bridged both worlds. He was of the new breed, a professional scientist, but still managed to work on everything from parasites to dinosaurs. Leidy was the first to demonstrate that the parasitic disease trichinosis came from undercooking meat contaminated with roundworm larvae—and thus gets credit or blame for a century or so of overdone pork chops. He is also said to have been the first scientist to use a microscope to solve a murder, foreshadowing countless police procedurals and CSI episodes. The suspect in that case said that the blood on his shirt came from a chicken. He confessed after Leidy demonstrated that the red cells could not have come from a bird and were probably human.
Fossils are what really made Leidy famous. As collectors in the American West began sending him paleontological specimens, Leidy described a saber-toothed cat and a rhinoceros that had once roamed the Great Plains. His description in the 1850s of an ancient American camel helped encourage the War Department to create a U.S. Camel Corps, with animals imported from North Africa to transport equipment in the Southwest.
Leidy also demonstrated that horses had lived in America long before Spanish colonizers re-introduced them. (They disappeared the first time, he thought, because of climate change.) He “was discovering an entirely new world in the virgin fields of the American West,” write Peck and Stroud. “It was not possible to base his studies on those of European paleontologists because, according to the eminent scientist Henry Fairfield Osborn, ‘every specimen represented a new species or a new genus of a new family, and in some cases a new order.’”
Leidy and the Academy were the best available source of paleontological thinking when British sculptor Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins arrived in the United States in 1868. Hawkins had previously made concrete models of dinosaurs for London’s Crystal Palace. He liked to imagine what he called “the revivifying of the ancient world,” and at a party held inside the mold for one of his models, the guests sang, “The Jolly Old Beast / is not deceased / There’s life in him again.”
But in truth, Hawkins’ low, plodding model dinosaurs were about as likely to induce wonder as the average lizard. (You can still see them on display at a park in London’s Sydenham Hill neighborhood.) With Hadrosaurus foulkii, Hawkins had the opportunity to do it right. The scientific know-how came from Leidy. (He was assisted by Edward Drinker Cope, a young paleontologist who would later compete fiercely with Yale rival O.C. Marsh in the so-called bone wars to unearth the best Western dinosaur specimens.)
Hawkins mounted plaster casts of the Hadrosaurus bones, and where needed plaster reconstructions, on an iron armature. Because the fossil was missing its skull, the team modeled a replacement on the modern iguana, and painted it green. The finished skeleton, reassembled in two months of feverish work, reared overhead as if there were truly “life in him again” after 65 million years. Much of Hawkins’ working model is now lost, but its innovative approach to fossil specimens continues to influence the way museums around the world display dinosaurs.
Academy scientists conduct research today everywhere from Venezuela’s Orinoco Delta to Lake Hovsgol in northern Mongolia. These specialized studies rarely attract public attention. They are also badly funded: In 2006, on the brink of financial collapse, the Academy caused a flurry of protest when it sold off more than 18,000 mineral specimens to keep itself alive. But we ignore the need for ongoing research at our considerable peril. Two centuries ago, Academy naturalists helped shape the American republic and its ideas about its past. Their counterparts today have the power to shape our future.
Richard Conniff is a National Magazine Award winner for feature writing. His latest book is The Species Seekers: Heroes, Fools and the Mad Pursuit of Life on Earth.
Originally published in the August 2012 issue of American History. To subscribe, click here.
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21af34810b0e72abbcf4a0ad90000f9f | https://www.historynet.com/evolution-mountain-man-ceran-st-vrain.htm | Evolution of a Mountain Man: Ceran St. Vrain | Evolution of a Mountain Man: Ceran St. Vrain
When escalating Civil War tensions reached Taos, New Mexico Territory, Confederate sympathizers tore down the Stars and Stripes from its staff on the town plaza and resisted all attempts to restore it. So Union supporters reportedly nailed the flag to a makeshift pole hewn from a young cottonwood tree, raised it over the plaza and guarded it round the clock. Among the zealous members of the color guard were renowned mountain man and scout Kit Carson and prominent fur trapper and Taos merchant Ceran St. Vrain. Such a purely symbolic act of no particular military significance marked something of a climax in the developing loyalties of Ceran St. Vrain, as he responded to the rapidly changing political landscape of the early 19th century and evolved from French expatriate to Mexican citizen to American patriot.
In 1824 young trapper Ceran St. Vrain joined a fur trading caravan down the Santa Fe Trail to Taos, sparking his lifelong sojourn as a prominent New Mexico merchant. (Missouri Historical Society)
Ceran de Hault de Lassus de St. Vrain was born on May 5, 1802, in Spanish Lake, St. Louis County, in then French-controlled Louisiana Territory. He was descended from a family of French Flemish nobles who in the aftermath of the French Revolution found a more congenial environment in the New World. His father, former French naval officer Jacques Marcellin Ceran de Hault de Lassus de St. Vrain, immigrated to Louisiana in 1794 and soon moved north to St. Louis. In 1796 he married Marie Felicite Chauvet Dubreuil. Ceran, the fourth of their 10 children, grew up speaking primarily French. While the formal conclusion of the Louisiana Purchase in 1804 technically made the toddler Ceran and his siblings American citizens, given the influence of the surrounding community they likely grew up thinking of themselves as French.
After the family brewery burned down in 1813 and their 48-year-old father died insolvent five years later, the family fell on hard times, and Ceran went to live in the household of family friend and benefactor General Bernard Pratte, merchant, fur trader and War of 1812 veteran. Working as a clerk in Pratte’s St. Louis store, the teenager learned the fur trading business.
At the forefront of the North American fur trade of the early 19th century were such future legends as John Colter, Jedediah Smith, Jim Bridger and Kit Carson. Among the first Europeans to penetrate the American West, the mountain men were a tough and violent breed, better suited to a hard life on the untamed frontier than the comforts of civilized society. They made their living trapping fur-bearing animals, mostly beaver, and trading with frontier tribes, often taking Indian wives. Brought into trading centers like Santa Fe, the furs commanded high prices back East and in Europe.
Sited at the junction of the mighty Missouri and Mississippi, St. Louis was a natural hub for the Western fur trade, and its possibilities were not lost on the French community that grew up in the wake of the 17th-century explorations of Jacques Marquette, Louis Jolliet and Robert de La Salle. Merchants such as half-brothers Jean-Pierre and Auguste Chouteau, Jean-Pierre Cabanné, the Robidoux brothers and General Pratte were quick to see its advantages and developed thriving businesses. In the 1820s they turned their gaze southwest to the unexploited opportunities in New Mexico, newly liberated from Spanish rule in 1821.
In 1824, in partnership with Bernard Pratte and Co. and trader François Guérin, St. Vrain joined a caravan down the Santa Fe Trail to the Mexican-administered territory of New Mexico, stopping in the settlement of Taos near the namesake ancient tribal pueblo. For Ceran this initial trip to Taos was the beginning of a lifelong sojourn as a New Mexico merchant, as he pursued trapping and trading opportunities in the southern Rocky Mountains.
Legendary mountain man and scout Kit Carson remembered his friend St. Vrain as “a gentleman in the true sense of the word.” (The American News Company/Library of Congress)
While still a young man St. Vrain earned his spurs as a mountain man in several trapping expeditions. In 1827 his mettle was sorely tested after joining a party of 36 trappers headed by General Pratte’s son Sylvestre, a close friend. When Sylvestre fell ill and died at the headwaters of the North Platte (present-day North Park in central Colorado), 25-year-old Ceran took the helm of the expedition, reportedly at the request of the party’s veteran trappers. On his watch an Indian shot trapper Tom Smith from ambush, striking him just below the knee. Smith’s lower leg required amputation, much of which the trapper himself performed with a butcher knife—till passing out from the pain. Defying the odds, he survived, thereafter calling himself “Peg-leg” Smith. After further hardships, Ceran successfully led the party back to Taos in May 1828.
St. Vrain was a stout and powerfully built man with a round face, wide nose and dark bushy beard. The Indians called him “Black Beard.” He developed into a capable and successful trapper and merchant, branching out in a variety of allied enterprises, including supplies, land speculation and, later, flour mills and sawmills, liquor distillation, even newspaper publishing. He became active in civic affairs and was respected and well liked. In the ghostwritten words of longtime friend Kit Carson: “All the mountaineers considered him their best friend and treated him with the greatest respect. He now lives in New Mexico and commands the respect of all, American and Mexican alike.”
Lewis Garrard, young adventurer, traveling companion and sometime guest of St. Vrain had this to say about his host: “Mr. St. Vrain was a gentleman in the true sense of the term, his French descent imparting an exquisite, indefinable degree of politeness and, combined with the frankness of an ingenuous mountain man, made him an amiable fellow traveler. His kindness and respect toward me I shall always gratefully remember.”
St. Vrain may have been settling down in Taos, but he was nonetheless a prominent member of a foreign community viewed with increasing suspicion by Mexican authorities, native New Mexicans and Pueblo Indians
St. Vrain became a naturalized Mexican citizen on Feb. 15, 1831. It was in part a calculated decision, as citizenship made it easier to obtain a trapping license and facilitated such government largess as extensive land grants. By then he had put down roots in the Taos community, learning Spanish, adopting the Hispanicized name of Seràn Sambrano and taking a Mexican national as a wife. Over his lifetime St. Vrain had three wives—all local women—by whom he had a number of children. Admittedly, some or all of these unions may have been without the blessing of church or state, and their tenures may even have overlapped.
By early 1831 St. Vrain had partnered with friend and veteran fur trader Charles Bent to form Bent, St. Vrain and Co., which grew into a vast Southwestern trading empire with stores in Taos and Santa Fe. Family members, notably younger brothers William Bent and Marcellin St. Vrain, were also involved in the enterprise. Within a few years they built an adobe structure on the Arkansas River known as Bent’s Fort. Serving multiple functions—fort, trading post, residence, way station, supply depot and neutral site for negotiations with local Indian tribes—Bent’s Fort became a Santa Fe Trail landmark and cornerstone of the fur trade.
St. Vrain may have been settling down in Taos, but he was nonetheless a prominent member of a foreign community viewed with increasing suspicion by Mexican authorities, native New Mexicans and Pueblo Indians. Taos had become a center for mostly American expatriates, boasting a larger foreign population than even Santa Fe, and authorities suspected the Yanquis of harboring traitorous sympathies both during the Texas Revolution and amid rising tensions along the international border.
Indeed, when the United States declared war on Mexico in 1846, St. Vrain, like many fellow expatriates, came down on the side of the Americans. He and partner Charles Bent threw open the resources of Bent’s Fort to Brig. Gen. Stephen Watts Kearny and his 1,700 green troops, who took Santa Fe on August 15 without firing a shot. Three days later Kearny declared himself military governor of New Mexico and promptly appointed Bent its civilian governor.
St. Vrain’s partner Charles Bent came to a violent end during the 1847 Taos Pueblo Revolt. (University of New Mexico Center for Southwest Research)
Believing all was well in the territory, Kearny marched on to California, leaving a small force in Santa Fe under Colonel Sterling Price. But a rebellion was already brewing. Amid reports of discontent and resistance in Taos, Governor Bent returned home in January 1847 to soothe tensions and protect his family. Confident he would be well received, Bent refused a military escort. It was a fatal miscalculation. On January 19 discontented Mexican partisans, with help from Taos Pueblo Indians, launched an armed revolt, specifically targeting U.S. authorities. The Indians broke into Bent’s home, scalped the governor alive, murdered him and further mutilated his body, though his family was allowed to flee. The next day the rebels attacked a mill at nearby Arroyo Hondo and killed more Anglos, including several mountain men.
When news of the revolt reached Santa Fe, St. Vrain, at Colonel Price’s request, organized a volunteer company of 65 irregulars, many understandably vengeful mountain men among them. Despite the fur trader’s lack of military experience, Price then put him in charge of the company, with a field commission of captain. Numbering 353 men in all, the combined force of Price’s regulars and St. Vrain’s volunteers left for Taos on January 23, along the way defeating some 1,500 insurgents at La Cañada (Santa Cruz) and again at El Embudo (Velarde). While the rebels boasted a much larger force, they were poorly organized and lacked artillery. Price entered Taos unopposed on February 3.
The panicked rebels had taken refuge in Taos Pueblo, a solid wood and adobe stockade with a mission church to one corner. After an hours-long artillery bombardment, Price’s forces stormed the church, hacking at its walls with axes and setting fire to its roof before engaging in hand-to-hand combat with fleeing rebels. St. Vrain played a key role in the melee, by one account shooting and killing ringleader Pablo Chávez, by another narrowly averting impalement on a steel-pointed arrow in the hand of an Indian adversary. Casualties were extremely high among the defenders, who sued for peace the following day.
Military authorities imprisoned rebel leaders Tomás Romero and Pablo Montoya. Convicted of treason by a drumhead court-martial, Montoya was hanged on February 7. A disaffected soldier shot and killed Romero before he could be brought to trial. Fourteen other rebels faced charges of murder and treason before hastily organized civilian courts whose judges and juries were drawn largely from American sympathizers with tenuous claims to impartiality. St. Vrain served as interpreter. Unsurprisingly, all the accused were condemned to death and publicly hanged.
St. Vrain’s motives in rushing to the aid of the nascent U.S. government of New Mexico were likely twofold. Mountain man and trapper “Uncle Dick” Wootton, who helped put down the Taos Revolt, noted the primary reason:
The friendships of the mountain men were warm friendships. We had never seen the time when we were not ready to attempt the rescue of a friend whose life was in danger, and it was seldom indeed that the killing or wounding of one of our number had gone unavenged.
Among those who had been so brutally murdered at Taos and Arroyo Hondo were men who had been my warmest and best friends ever since I came to the country, and I felt that I should, if possible, do something toward securing punishment of their murderers and protecting the property which they had left for use of those who were entitled to it.
St. Vrain, who had led trapping expeditions and was an erstwhile mountain man himself, was almost certainly motivated by a similar fierce concern for family, friends and property, not to mention horror at the excesses of the insurrection. But there was probably a pragmatic reason as well. The Mexican government had been chronically unstable, largely ineffective in protecting and governing its northern territories, and stifling with regard to economic activity. American sovereignty promised better protection from hostile Indian tribes, a stronger political and legal structure, and far greater economic freedom. Such considerations were likely not lost on a shrewd and far-sighted entrepreneur. He went all in with the Americans.
St. Vrain’s military service did not end with the Mexican War. In 1855 he again assumed command of a volunteer company in cooperation with regular troops and Indian scouts—no longer enemies—from Taos Pueblo in a largely successful punitive operation against raiding Jicarilla Apaches and Muache Utes. He served as lieutenant colonel under Colonel Thomas Fauntleroy, with Kit Carson as chief of scouts.
During the Civil War years St. Vrain remained a staunch Unionist. At the outbreak of the war Colonel Edward R.S. Canby, newly appointed commander of the military Department of New Mexico, placed him at the head of the 1st New Mexico Volunteer Infantry, with Carson as his lieutenant colonel. Citing declining health, however, St. Vrain soon surrendered his command and focused instead on supplying the Union Army. With Carson at the fore, the 1st New Mexico Volunteers saw action at the Battle of Valverde in February 1862.
St. Vrain’s support for the war effort is not surprising. With exceptions, New Mexicans tended to favor the Union
St. Vrain’s support for the war effort is not surprising. With exceptions, New Mexicans tended to favor the Union. Northern residents had especially strong ties via trade with Missouri. They were accustomed to exchanging Yankee dollars in commercial transactions and distrusted the newly minted Confederate currency. Texas bore blame for some of the ill will farther south. During its years as an independent republic, it had laid claim to New Mexican territory, which it sought to annex with ill-fated military expeditions. Residual resentment over those incursions extended to the Confederacy, of which Texas was a part. Having lived in New Mexico for nearly four decades, St. Vrain likely shared such sentiments. Moreover the savvy businessman probably anticipated lucrative Civil War contracts from the well-equipped Union Army.
But as the Taos Plaza flag incident attests, more than self-interest motivated St. Vrain. The United States was in the throes of a major revolution in outlook that paralleled the turmoil on the Civil War battlefields. From a federation of quarreling states, it was becoming a nation in thought and deed as well as name. It would be strange indeed if a man with the soul and vision of St. Vrain were unaffected by this transformation. He lived long enough to witness its rebirth.
Ceran St. Vrain died at age 68 on Oct. 28, 1870, and was buried in a small family cemetery near his home in Mora, New Mexico Territory. Some 2,000 mourners attended his funeral. Even today the Stars and Strips flies round the clock in Taos Plaza in commemoration of the flag-raising at the outbreak of the Civil War.
The economic, political and military upheavals in North America in the first half of the 19th century imposed complex and often contradictory pressure to personal notions of country, citizenship and loyalty. In the life of Ceran St. Vrain we see how a capable and respected individual navigated these waters from expatriate Frenchman and de facto American through Mexican citizen, American sympathizer and, finally, Union partisan and American patriot. WW
Daniel R. Seligman, who writes from Needham, Mass. is a retired engineer with a lifelong interest in the American West. Recommended for further reading: Bent’s Fort, by David Lavender; The Taos Trappers: The Fur Trade in the Far Southwest, 1540–1846, by David J. Weber; Ceran St. Vrain: American Frontier Entrepreneur, by Ronald K. Wetherington; and Blood and Thunder: An Epic of the American West, by Hampton Sides.
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9d08a0ddd741ef4940b3047c90aa12e5 | https://www.historynet.com/exercise-tiger-more-deadly-than-utah-beach.htm | Exercise Tiger, More Deadly than Utah Beach? | Exercise Tiger, More Deadly than Utah Beach?
Little more than five weeks before the Allied invasion of Normandy—the largest amphibious assault the world has ever seen—a training exercise gone awry resulted in appalling carnage. Yet the April 27–28, 1944, fiasco at Slapton Sands, England, which claimed the lives of more than 1,000 men, may have assured the success of D-Day.
Code-named Exercise Tiger, it was to be a dress rehearsal for Operation Overlord, and that stretch of the Devon coast proved ideal training ground for forces tasked with landing on Utah Beach. Its coarse gravel, shallow lagoon and seaside bluffs closely resembled the terrain Allied soldiers would soon traverse in France. Supreme Allied Commander General Dwight D. Eisenhower ordered planners to make the exercise as realistic as possible, down to the use of live gunfire from naval vessels and shore-based artillery.
In advance of the initial practice landing at 7:30 on the morning of the 27th the British heavy cruiser HMS Hawkins was to shell the beachhead, stopping just before the troops reached shore. As some of the landing ships were running late, U.S. Rear Adm. Don P. Moon, the officer in command of the exercise, pushed H-hour back to 8:30 a.m. Unfortunately, several landing craft already en route never received word of the change, and when the soldiers aboard clambered ashore, they came under devastating friendly fire. Some 300 men were killed in the accident.
Early the next morning eight LSTs (tank landing ships)packed with U.S. troops and equipment formed up in Lyme Bay. From there the ships would head toward Slapton Sands. As the boats converged, however, a patrol of nine fast and well-armed German E-boats picked up the heavy radio traffic near Lyme Bay and zeroed in on the transports. The fully loaded LSTs (nicknamed “large slow targets” by the troops) made easy pickings. Making matters worse, the convoy had no destroyer escort, as the one assigned to the exercise had collided with an LST and diverted to Plymouth for repairs. The flotilla’s only escort, the Royal Navy corvette Azalea, spotted the E-boats but was unable to warn the convoy, as the American vessels were using a different radio frequency.
The Germans struck with abandon, their torpedoes hitting three LSTs, sinking two and severely damaging the third. Of the hundreds of soldiers and sailors aboard, 749 were either killed outright or drowned in the icy channel water, pushing the death toll for the exercise over 1,000. In one of war’s tragic ironies, many men had improperly donned their life jackets and then drowned when the weight of their backpacks forced them facedown underwater.
Allied commanders ordered a news blackout as search teams quickly and quietly recovered the bodies. Of immediate concern was the fate of 10 officers participating in the exercise who had top-level clearance and knowledge of the D-Day invasion plans. Fortunately, all 10 were accounted for, and Operation Overlord was given the green light.
Though Exercise Tiger resulted in the worst loss of life for American troops since the Dec. 7, 1941, Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, and despite the fact five times more men died at Slapton Sands than were killed storming Utah Beach on D-Day, the Allies learned valuable if grim lessons essential to the success of the invasion. Foremost among the positive changes, the Allies standardized radio frequencies, trained troops how to properly don life jackets and established more effective procedures for retrieving men from the water. As abhorrent as the losses were, the takeaways from the rehearsal paved the way toward the Allied foothold in France and the eventual liberation of Western Europe.
Today an amphibious M4 tank, recovered from the sea in 1984, overlooks Slapton Sands. Recognized by Congress as the Sherman Tank Memorial Site [exercisetigermemorial.co.uk], it stands as a somber tribute to the men who died and to a truth so long buried.
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0ffaa9b99d490421abb3971cc95b0f4c | https://www.historynet.com/experience-marine-guadalcanal.htm | A Marine at Guadalcanal | A Marine at Guadalcanal
As they moved through the jungle, Roy H. Elrod and his men experienced some of World War II’s most savage combat conditions.
Roy H. Elrod was born in 1919 and grew up on a farm near Muleshoe, Texas, that his widowed mother operated. He managed to save enough money, even during the Great Depression, to attend Texas A&M, but in 1940 he dropped out of college to enlist in the Marine Corps, where he rose through the ranks rapidly. By the time his 8th Marine Regiment was sent to Guadalcanal in November 1942 he was commanding a platoon of 37mm antitank gunners.
As he and his fellow marines moved through the jungles of Guadalcanal on January 15, 1943, Elrod engaged a particularly deadly Japanese machine gun emplacement and disabled it by crawling to the front of the nest and jerking the red-hot barrel out of the enemy’s hands. He then killed both gunners. For his combat leadership, he received a Silver Star and a battlefield promotion to lieutenant colonel.
Elrod’s last and final combat was at Saipan, where he was severely wounded by Japanese artillery fire. He was awarded the Purple Heart for his action there.
Elrod died in 2016 at age 97. The narrative that follows is adapted from Elrod’s posthumously published memoir, We Were Going to Win, or Die There—With the Marines at Guadalcanal, Tarawa, and Saipan (University of North Texas Press, 2017), which was edited by Fred H. Allison, a retired Marine Corps officer who since 2000 has been the Marine Corps’ oral historian.
Nighttime was a spooky time along the perimeter. It could be the blackest black, and the jungle made strange noises with the numerous critters that populated it—big spiders, crabs, and whatnot. There was always in the back of our minds the knowledge that the Japanese liked nothing better than to sneak into a foxhole and cut a marine’s throat. There would be shouting back and forth, mutual insults passed with the Japanese. Of course, their English was very poor. Some might have spoken good English, but all of them had problems with Ls and Rs. For passwords we would try to get a word that had letters that would be difficult for them to repeat. We always had a password and a countersign. I told my men not to fire unless they were certain it was a real threat. To do so gave away our position, and it caused the other marines to awaken and go on alert, thus depriving them of sleep.
I soon discovered that worse than the Japanese were the living conditions on Guadalcanal. We were really living like animals. If it rained, we got wet. If the sun came out, we got dry. If you were close to a river and you could keep from being exposed to sniper fire, we would take a bath in the river. Of course, we watched for alligators and crocodiles. If there was no river, we didn’t bathe. We would be desperate to be clean, though, so if it started raining, and we were clear of snipers, we’d strip, and soap up. If it stopped raining before you got rinsed off, then you just had a layer of soap on you until the next time it rained.
Living on the front line, we had no tents. There was nothing in front of us but the Japanese. We lived in holes, but we dug our holes so when it rained, the water would run to one side. We could [then use] our helmets [to] bail the water out. That kept us from having to actually sleep in the water. That didn’t keep the rain from falling on you. Sometimes we tried to rig a shelter half over the hole but there was no real way to stay dry.
Occasionally, when we would have one of the fold-up stretchers around, I would open one up and sleep on it, and this would keep my body an inch or so above the ground. We all wanted to have as light a load as possible, and so I had a half-blanket. I slept on that and we would usually cover ourselves with a poncho or something to ward off as much rain as possible. We quit trying to stay dry. If you had something that you wanted to keep dry, you’d keep it under your helmet on top of your head. Marines put letters or pictures, or the people who smoked would put their cigarettes there. I never smoked.
It didn’t take long for my marines to get sick. I developed a case of malaria after only about a week…along with dysentery and diarrhea. I remember one night I sat on this box over a slit trench streaming with diarrhea, shaking with malaria, and throwing up. At the same time, Japanese mortar rounds were landing behind me, and as I sat there in the pouring rain and with mosquitoes biting me, I said to myself, “I wonder why they can’t get one of those rounds in here where it will do some good?” That was the low point.
But everyone was sick, everybody had malaria, and diarrhea was very common. It just amazed me, though, the endurance that the marines showed. As time went by, and as marines were evacuated because of disease or combat wounds, the word went out that unless you had a fever over 104, you weren’t allowed to go to sick bay. The corpsman would have to do what he could to medicate you, but you were not leaving.
So the longer we stayed, the more the men suffered. It wasn’t just sickness. We were ridden with jungle rot and skin infections. We had to be very careful with any kind of skin abrasion or cut because with the sweat and body oils, the mud and the dirt, and the dripping humidity, you had an excellent chance of getting an infection. I got fungus in my ears. I found that 100 percent pure alcohol would reduce the fungus, so one of the old chief pharmacist’s mates gave me a little bottle that would fit right in one of the ammo pouches on my belt.
We received a new drug called atabrine, and it was supposed to help prevent malaria. It had a strange side reaction, though. It turned the skin yellow, and the whites of the eyes would turn canary yellow. The scuttlebutt began that this was going to destroy male virility. I told my marines, “Look, there isn’t a woman within 2,000 miles of here….Take the damned pill!”
I had the section sergeants, the corpsman, platoon sergeant—and I did it myself—follow along to make sure each man took his atabrine. I am not sure how well it worked. Even though we had lots of losses to malaria, it probably would have been much worse without the atabrine. All I can say is at least enough of us survived to finish the campaign.
Foot problems were rampant. With the leather field shoes we had and the amount of humidity and mud and rain, our feet were rarely dry. I had my men take their shoes off and massage their feet, turn their socks wrong side out and put them on the other foot.
Food was always in short supply. We were truly on starvation rations. Everyone was losing weight. I dropped down to about 165 pounds from over 190. Many times we had nothing but a little captured Japanese rice, but it kept us alive. We had plenty of ammunition, though. We never lacked for 37mm rounds. Although it seemed we were always short of hand grenades. We had to conserve them. Also mortar ammunition was in short supply.
I saw it as one of my main jobs as a lieutenant to know my marines. One of them, I noticed, never shaved. He did not need to; he had no beard. This raised my suspicion. One day I asked him, “How old are you?”
“Oh, I’m 17, lieutenant.”
I said, “Dammit, I’m not going to do anything to you. Tell me the truth—how old are you?”
“I will be 15 my next birthday.”
I did not bother him about it. He was probably the best Browning automatic rifleman that I ever saw. He could play a tune with it. I said, “How did you get into the Marine Corps?”
He said, “I stole my brother’s birth certificate.”
So here he was, a 15-year-old boy, but really a good marine. He was not the only one—there were numerous underage marines—and I often wondered if those who came in under false names ever got their records straight.
While the sickness took many marines, we also had many killed and wounded. I didn’t think any of my marines ever suffered casualties from the Japanese naval shelling or their air attacks. Most of our casualties were from Japanese mortar rounds or rifle bullets—mostly rifle bullets, because I think they were having supply problems probably even worse than ours. One of my marines got hit by a sniper round; it hit right near the crotch, in his groin. The round had ripped a gaping hole in him. The flesh was torn back and bubbly yellow fat was evident. A main artery was severed, and every time his heart beat, blood spurted three or four feet in the air. He was mostly worried about his “plumbing” though. I told him, “It’s in good condition. You’ve just got a hell of a hole in your thigh.” I had the corpsman ride back with him to the aid station for fear that the tourniquet would slip off. We were using a rubber tube tourniquet, and when it got blood soaked it would slip. After that, I acquired a strap bandage tourniquet and carried that in my belt for the rest of the war.
Along the perimeter we maintained an aggressive defense, and that meant lots of patrolling. We would try to find out where the Japanese might be massing for another attack. They used the trails in the interior of the island to move from one area to the next. By checking these trails we could see signs of Japanese troop movement; there would be tracks or abandoned gear and equipment. These indicated troop movement and direction.
Although we were a 37mm gun crew, we were regarded as infantry, and we went on patrols. Of course, we left our 37mms in their positions and carried infantry weapons on these patrols. As a lieutenant I was expected to lead patrols.
Our patrols were various types, and you had an assigned mission for each patrol. I was never sent out to engage the enemy. You were sent out either to look at a specific area or to find a particular thing. Sometimes we would go out for just a few hours, other times longer.
The technique we used when we were going out was to find a spot where the Japanese had little, if anyone, present. We [would sneak] out in that area and go deep enough behind them to be able to move inland behind their lines. We never came back in through the route that we went out. I always made sure to get in touch with the commander of the unit where I would be reentering the lines. I didn’t want my patrol to get shot up by our own marines.
If we were going to be out overnight, we would pick a good defensive position and dig in, and as soon as it was real dark, we would move to our real position and set up there. I never spent the night at the place we were when the sun went down.
You had to be very quiet—no talking, no noise—and move very stealthily. On several patrols I actually saw Japanese. Sometimes we heard them, and sometimes we smelled them, or [both]. I was expected to observe the enemy but not be seen. There were occasions where patrols were ambushed. That never happened to me. I think maybe that was luck. Who knows?
It was just a matter of continual movement, continual hunger. People were ragged. I don’t think there was ever a time when the marines on Guadalcanal were adequately supplied. When the First Division landed, the navy pulled out with a lot of the supplies. It never got any better. [But] morale was pretty good. Oh, people bitched about food. When you became really hungry, food became ever-present in your mind. This was one of the few times when you would hear marines talking about food rather than women.
We had an attitude about the Japanese that began when we were briefed by the First Marine Division liaison officer, who had visited when we were on Samoa. We became convinced that the Japanese were a merciless foe, and we went there with the idea of killing them all. We maintained that attitude for the entire war. MHQ
This article appears in the Winter 2019 issue (Vol. 31, No. 2) of MHQ—The Quarterly Journal of Military History with the headline: A Marine at Guadalcanal
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a75581b204a7530a801f53faab2db3c1 | https://www.historynet.com/explore-antietam-a-bucolic-setting-for-a-bloody-day.htm | Explore Antietam: A Bucolic Setting for a Bloody Day | Explore Antietam: A Bucolic Setting for a Bloody Day
A few of our favorite locations on the war’s most gory single-day battlefield
Rolling hills and farmsteads and its bucolic namesake creek are a welcome natural and pastoral relief from the Washington, D.C., sprawl that keeps slowly spreading out from the Potomac River basin. It was anything but enchanting, however, to the Union and Confederate soldiers who fought there on September 17, 1862. “The whole landscape for an instant turned slightly red,” remembered Private David Thompson, 9th New York. The story is well-known to most. Major General George B. McClellan’s Army of the Potomac tracked down General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, operating north of the Potomac River for the first time, just outside Sharpsburg, Md. Though both armies were worn down from a long season of fighting, they threw themselves into a daylong bloodbath that left 23,000 casualties—at least—in its wake. When it was over, Lee retreated back into Virginia; the United States capital was safe; Abraham Lincoln felt confident enough to change the war’s direction and begin addressing the issue of slavery with the Emancipation Proclamation; and the United States had recorded for history its bloodiest day. The fight was one of the war’s turning points, increasingly viewed as the true Confederate high tide. The following article does not attempt to tell the story of the battle nor to highlight every interesting location. That would be impossible, as Antietam merits multiple visits to absorb its historic atmosphere. Instead, here are a few of our favorite sites with interesting stories. At some point we will be back to explore more battlefield locations. As I said, Antietam is enchanting. –D.B.S.
Not Burnside’s
Upper Bridge (Photos by Melissa A. Winn)
The Upper Bridge carries Keedysville Road across Antietam Creek to the northeast of the main battlefield. Resembling the more popular Burnside Bridge, it is also a graceful triple-arch stone span. It was built in 1829, and portions of the Army of the Potomac’s 1st Corps and 12th Corps crossed the bridge on September 16. The vicinity is rich in history. To the east are two 1862 hospital sites, and in 1755 British General Edward Braddock and part of his force crossed the creek here during the campaign that ended in “Braddock’s Defeat.”
Last Battle
If you bear left after you cross the Upper Bridge heading west, you travel past some beautiful farms as you near the battlefield and come directly to the East Woods and Mansfield Monument, erected in 1900. The regally named Maj. Gen. Joseph King Fenno Mansfield commanded the Union 12th Corps. He had just taken that command on September 15, and two days later he was mortally wounded when he mistook Confederate troops for Union soldiers.
Cost of Command
Steve A. Hawks, stonesentinals.com
Turn right at the Mansfield Monument, and then left onto Mansfield Avenue. When you see the 12th Pennsylvania Cavalry monument, you are on Croasdale’s Knoll, named for 25-year-old Colonel Samuel Croasdale, commander of the green 128th Pennsylvania. As his 12th Corps regiment moved to the attack over this knoll, Croasdale, mounted on a horse, was shot in the head and killed instantly. The ghastly site unnerved his rookie troops.
A Park for Reflection
The handsome granite obelisk just west of the old Hagerstown Pike honors the Philadelphia Brigade, which consisted of 69th, 71st, 72nd, and 106th Pennsylvania Infantry. It is the tallest monument on the battlefield, standing 73 feet high. The 11-acre park was owned initially by the Philadelphia Brigade Association, but it was sold to the National Park Service in 1940.
To Pray
(Library of Congress)
Samuel Mumma and his wife Elizabeth donated a small plot of land in February 1851 to the German Baptist Brethren, or Dunkers, to build a church, and the small chapel that became a battlefield icon was built in a notch carved out of the West Woods. The Dunker Church survived shot and shell, but collapsed during a 1921 storm. The current structure is a reconstruction, built in 1962 with as many original materials as possible.
To Remember
The Mumma graveyard dates to the 18th century. The Mummas permitted other families to be interred there, and you’ll see stones with familiar battlefield names such as Sherrick and Roulette, among others. Soldiers were buried here after the battle, but later moved to the Antietam National Cemetery.
Piper Orchard
When you visit the Sunken Road area of the battlefield, take the time to visit the large Piper apple orchard. Confederate artillery was posted here, and later Confederate infantry occupied the exposed position while trying to hold the line after the Sunken Road fell. Private W.B. Judkins of the 22nd Georgia remembered, “the company was in the thick of the fight there in the apple orchard and cornfield. The ground was covered with apples where we fought, shot off the trees.”
The Last Waltz Meager parking hampers access to the obelisk off Harpers Ferry Road that honors the 9th New York’s assault that nearly reached Lee’s rear. There is a lot to see down that path: The position of a South Carolina battery, a Connecticut monument, a mortuary cannon to Union Brig. Gen. Isaac Rodman, the 9th’s obelisk, and a sweeping view. Tweet Yourself Courtesy of the Red Byrd Four miles northeast of Sharpsburg along Route 34 you’ll find the no-frills Red Byrd restaurant. Mix with the locals as you enjoy a hearty breakfast before your battlefield tramp. And you might want to return for menu items like the Keedysville Burger and fried catfish. Save room to choose from a carousel full of homemade pies and cakes.
This Explore column appeared in the June 2020 issue of Civil War Times.
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f7eb4c72d870509dce5b40791ee885d9 | https://www.historynet.com/explore-the-haunting-remains-of-civil-war-prisons.htm/fort-mchenry-in-baltimore-maryland-is-a-historical-american-coastal-star-shaped-fort-best-known-for-its-role-in-the-war-of-1812-when-it-successful | Fort McHenry, in Baltimore, Maryland, is a historical American coastal star-shaped fort best known for its role in the War of 1812, when it successful | Fort McHenry, in Baltimore, Maryland, is a historical American coastal star-shaped fort best known for its role in the War of 1812, when it successful
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a9a8a7b97dac8382d26b7baa73ceef23 | https://www.historynet.com/exploring-gettysburg-through-the-eyes-of-its-black-citizens.htm | Exploring Gettysburg Through the Eyes of its Black Citizens | Exploring Gettysburg Through the Eyes of its Black Citizens
Basil Biggs, James Warfield, and Abraham Brian (also spelled Bryan and Brien) were farmers on what would become the Gettysburg battlefield. Warfield also ran a highly regarded blacksmith shop, and Biggs was well known for his veterinary skills. What set them apart from neighbors such as Joseph Sherfy and William Bliss was that they were Black. It is notable that 5.1 percent of the residents of Cumberland Township, in which these three families lived, were African American. Their stories provide some understanding of the unique experience of Gettysburg’s Black residents and the Gettysburg Campaign that uprooted their lives.
The color of their skin made all the difference. There were worries that Biggs and the others dealt with daily that Joseph Sherfy did not have to consider. They were free, but the border with Maryland, a slave state, was only about five miles from Gettysburg. Biggs had moved his family from Maryland specifically because it was illegal for his children to receive an education in that state. Pathways of the Underground Railroad ran through Gettysburg, and Biggs worked as an agent helping escaped slaves pass through. To do so, he was taking a great risk because of the Fugitive Slave Act, passed in 1850, which required that all escaped slaves be returned to their masters and made it mandatory for officials and citizens of free states to assist in their capture.
Federally authorized slave-catching patrols were not uncommon around Gettysburg before the war. The legislation also gave cover to an illegal business that predated the 1850 act: the kidnapping of African Americans and stealing them away to the Deep South to be sold into slavery, a story highlighted in the 2013 Oscar-winning film Twelve Years a Slave. As Richard Bell points out in his book Stolen, children were often targets of these individuals because they had many working years before them. Biggs, Warfield, and Brian all had children. Their concern was underscored by the experience of Mag Palm, who rented a tenant house from Brian. She was nearly a victim of one of these raids in 1857, but managed to fight off her kidnappers.
Basil Biggs and his wife, pictured on the farm he purchased using the money he earned burying Union soldiers killed during the battle. (NPS)
In the 1857 Dred Scott case, the Supreme Court declared in a 7-2 decision that African Americans were not, and could not be, citizens of the United States. In his majority opinion, Chief Justice Roger B. Taney declared that Blacks were “so far inferior, that they had no rights which the white man was bound to respect; and that the negro might justly and lawfully be reduced to slavery for his benefit.” By Taney’s opinion, Biggs, Warfield, and Brian had no protection under the law because of their skin color. But they could own property in Pennsylvania, and Brian and Warfield both owned their small farms. Biggs was a tenant farmer, as were many of the other Black and White farmers in the area.
When the Army of Northern Virginia entered Pennsylvania in June 1863, White farmers generally took their families and their horses to safety to avoid the danger of possible fighting. But occasionally the men departed with the horses and left the women of the household behind because it was less likely soldiers would enter a residence if it were occupied. This was the case on the Emmanuel Harmon farm on the July 1 battlefield, where the tenant, David Finnefrock, left his wife and her niece at the farm. He did not fear that they might be harmed or seized by the Confederates. The Black residents could take no such chance, for their very freedom was at stake. They had certainly heard that Confederate units were actively rounding up African Americans in adjacent Franklin County on the premise they were escaped slaves and taking them south. So they gathered their families and generally headed east to get out of the Confederates’ path.
The Battle of Gettysburg took a toll on each of these individuals’ lives. The farm Biggs rented was used as a field hospital for Confederate Maj. Gen. Lafayette McLaws’ Division. The dining room of the house became an amputation room. All his corn, oats, wheat, and fencing were destroyed. Warfield was ruined. His farm was on the front line and the site of heavy fighting. All his blacksmithing tools were taken, his crops and fencing wrecked, and he found 14 Confederates buried in his garden. Brian, whose farm was on the front line of Union Brig. Gen. Alexander Hays’ 2nd Corps division, lost nearly everything but his house and barn, which were riddled with bullets and shell fragments. Since most of the damage each of these families sustained was caused by an act of war, there was little relief for them from the federal or state government.
Warfield did not recover. He put his farm up for sale in 1864 but failed to sell it and was forced to remain there until 1871, when he moved to nearby Cashtown. Brian was able to repair his property and farmed it until 1869, when at age 62 he found less physically demanding work in Gettysburg. Biggs not only recovered, he prospered. In the fall, he found work as a subcontractor for Samuel Weaver, the superintendent in charge of efforts to exhume the bodies of Union soldiers and rebury them in the newly created Soldiers National Cemetery. Biggs hired a crew of 8–10 other African American men and did the hard, physical work of removing the dead from their battlefield graves.
No work associated with the battle was more solemn…or more nauseating. Weaver examined each body to ensure that it was a Union soldier, then Biggs and his crew reinterred the body in the cemetery. Biggs received $1.25 for each body and used the money he earned to purchase the Peter Fry Farm on the Taneytown Road. The property included the Copse of Trees, where Pickett’s Charge reached its terrible climax on July 3. One day in 1869, historian John Bachelder came upon Biggs cutting trees down, no doubt for some practical need. Bachelder appealed to Biggs to stop, arguing that the trees had historical value, but this failed to stir the pragmatic farmer. So Bachelder suggested that Biggs might earn more in the future by preserving the trees than he could by cutting them down. In the hard, practical world in which Basil Biggs lived, there was logic in Bachelder’s suggestion and he saved the trees and later sold the property that included them to Gettysburg Battlefield Memorial Association.
Biggs, Warfield, Brian, and their families and those of other African Americans who lived in and around Gettysburg, inhabited a world where their country stacked the deck against them because of their skin color. For them the Gettysburg Campaign, and the war, was about more than a threat to their homes and property. Everything was at stake in the outcome, including their right to be citizens.
Scott Hartwig writes from the crossroads of Gettysburg.
National Park Service preservationists are restoring the Warfield farmhouse, built in the mid-1850s, to its 1863 appearance. Additions and modifications to the stone house were made at the turn of the century and in the 1950s and ’60s. The NPS has removed the non-historic part of the home and restored the original roofline and roof height; stabilized and reconstructed masonry walls; and are restoring original doors and windows. More details about the project can be found at https://www.nps.gov/gett/learn/historyculture/warfield-house.htm.
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05d46c66ffb840c87cbe4bb4c816c600 | https://www.historynet.com/explosion-of-the-monster-torpedo.htm | Explosion of the Monster Torpedo | Explosion of the Monster Torpedo
Thomas Morris Chester was born in 1834 in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where his parents operated a restaurant that became known as a gathering place for abolitionists. (His mother was born into slavery but had escaped at age 19.) They were successful enough that they could enroll Chester, at age 16, in the Allegheny Institute, a new school near Pittsburgh “for the education of colored Americans in the various branches of Science, Literature, and Ancient and Modern Languages.”
The enactment of the Fugitive Slave Act in 1850 terrified Chester, who feared that his mother could be kidnapped and hauled back to the South. He felt certain the United States would never allow Blacks—who still did not even have the right to vote in Pennsylvania—to live as equals among Whites. Refusing to submit to such “insolent indignities,” at age 19 he sailed to Liberia, the West African republic founded in the early 1820s to “repatriate” freed enslaved people, with the hope of finishing high school there. But he was so disappointed in the quality of education in Liberia that, after a year or so, he returned to the United States and earned his high school diploma at an academy in Vermont.
Chester made several return trips to Liberia—on one of them he established a newspaper in Monrovia, the capital. But the outbreak of the Civil War in the United States changed everything for him. Although Chester regularly took to the podium to exhort African Americans to emigrate to Liberia, his audiences remained cool to the idea, and public support for the colonization movement waned after President Abraham Lincoln made his Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863. Weeks later, in an impassioned speech to a capacity audience at Cooper Union in New York City, Chester proclaimed an end to “the dark days of the republic,” saying that it was a time for “rejoicing and exultation,” and concluded by praising “the wise and just administration of Father Abraham.”
In August 1864 the Philadelphia Press hired Chester to report on the Union’s campaign against the Confederate capital of Richmond, making him the first African American to serve as a war correspondent for a major daily newspaper. The same month, using the nom de plume “Rollin,” he filed his first bylined story, “Affairs Among the Colored Troops,” as the Union army camped outside Petersburg, Virginia. He went on to file numerous other dispatches, including one in which he related how the Confederates executed wounded and surrendering black soldiers, and on April 3, 1865, he accompanied the triumphant Union army into Richmond, where he wrote perhaps his most famous story from the speaker’s desk in the Virginia State House.
After the war Chester went to England, where he earned a law degree and went on to serve for two years as Liberia’s diplomatic representative in Europe. Back in the United States, he became the first African American to practice law in Louisiana and later briefly held two minor federal positions before ending his career at the helm of a railroad construction company. He died in 1892 at age 58.
The dispatch that follows—Chester’s account of the Union’s bombardment and amphibious attack on Fort Fisher, in North Carolina, which protected the Confederacy’s last open seaport on the Atlantic Coast—appeared on the front page of the Philadelphia Press on December 30, 1864.
On the evening of the 7th, the 1st Division of the 25th Corps (colored), under Brigadier General [Charles Jackson] Payne, and a division of the 24th Corps, commanded by General [Adelbert] Ames, Major General [Godfrey] Weitzel commanding the whole, broke camp in front of Richmond, and after considerable marching, camped for the night in the vicinity of Point of Rocks. On the following day they all embarked at Bermuda Hundred, and on the succeeding day the transports, about fifty in number, rendezvoused at Fortress Monroe, where they remained until Tuesday morning, the 13th.
Nothing could have exceeded our surprise when we found ourselves going up the Chesapeake Bay, whither the transports were ordered. On our arrival off Matthias’ Point the sealed instructions were to be opened. I was on board the fast steamship Montauk, which was among the first to arrive at the point designated, when we learned that we must put about, and proceed to Cape Henry. No one could see the exact force of this marching up the hill and then down again, but upon the intimation that it might be strategy, all seemed to be satisfied. The fleet was about sixty miles from Washington when we put about to return, passing Fortress Monroe in the night, and anchoring to the westward off Cape Charles. Here we remained until the evening of the 14th, when the steamship Ben Deford, bearing the department flag of General [Benjamin] Butler, and having on board, besides that distinguished officer and staff, General Weitzel and his aides, came down the bay and stood out to sea. The transports followed, and as they passed Cape Henry the sealed orders which were to be read at that point were opened, which indicated that Wilmington was our destination.
On the evening of the 15th the transports arrived off Masonborough Inlet, far out at sea, where we remained, enduring a demoralizing monotony with commendable impatience, until the morning of the 19th, when the Montauk steamed away to Morehead City, N.C., for coal. Excepting the important fact that more cotton is raised now around this place and the neighboring town of Beaufort than previous to the rebellion, no item of interest could be obtained.
The Union launched a second—and successful assault on Fort Fisher in January 1865. (Randall Library, University of North Carolina Wilmington)
On the morning of the 20th we came out from the harbor and sailed for the rendezvous of the fleet. A stiff breeze from the north sprang up, and increased in fury until a young gale was howling over the ocean, continuing through the nights of the 21st and 22d. The usual indications of sea-sickness were manifested by most of those onboard the transport, and the 4th Regiment Colored Troops, which has earned a high reputation for discipline and courage, has never wavered from fear before the fiercest batteries of the enemy, trembled with natural terror during the last and most violent night of the storm, when the winds and waves buffeted our ship about as if it were an egg-shell. The sea was in a perfect tumult of foam and high-reaching billows. The transports and war vessels around us danced from crest to crest, now nestling away down in the foam depths, now tossed high up to descend again with lightning velocity into the valleys that lay between the great ever-shifting water mountains. Of course the fleet became separated, driven hither and thither, till one was lost to the sight of the other—disappearing in the carnival of seething, dashing spray. But in the midst of this elemental discord and before the violence of the tempest had scattered the fleet, it was a pleasing sight to see how bravely the little monitors behaved. Let it be a noteworthy fact that, if the monitors have failed on some occasions to weather a severe gale, they did not on this occasion. They rode over the waves with a seeming consciousness of their power and endurance against the assaults both of man’s ingenuity and the force of the elements. Their sea-going staunchness excited general admiration. Sometimes they would seem to be hurled beneath the water, but they would soon again rise to the surface and shake off the foam like a sturdy Newfoundland coming up from his dive. I think that hereafter there will be more confidence placed to them, not only as efficient war vessels, but also as safe and staunch sailers.
The storm did not, of course, pass us by without inflicting some damage. One of the horses tied on the deck of the Baltic was thrown overboard by the violent rolling and pitching of the vessel, and about thirty-six others, most of which were on the steamer Salvo, were by the same means badly injured. At each lurch they were knocked about till the stalls in which they were placed were broken down. They were then dashed from one side of the ship to the other, until some of them were killed outright and others had their legs broken. The sufferers were in pity thrown overboard.
On the morning of the 23rd our ship’s provisions were at an end, but having a line quartermaster on board, in the person of A. P. Barnes, we were all supplied with Government rations, which consisted of coffee, bacon, and hardtack three times a day, slightly diversified.
About four o’clock on the morning of the 24th we were somewhat startled by an explosion, which shook the very vessel under us. It took place about ten miles distant, in front of Federal Point. I have since learned that the explosion was heard even as far as Newbern, where the people had been expecting this crash. They had been informed by talkative persons connected with the fleet that a great boat was to be blown up to shake down the rebel fortifications, and they must have been waiting for it day and night. This vessel was an iron propeller of about 260 tons, built at Wilmington, and originally owned by a firm (S. & J. T. Flanagan) of [Philadelphia], and was for some time engaged in the Southern coasting trade from New Orleans to Fort Lavacca, Texas. At the outbreak of the war she was taken from her peaceful avocations, and made a gunboat to patrol the Chesapeake and the mouth of the James. She was with Burnside in his attack on the Roanoke Island works, and was somewhat injured in these fights. She went afterwards into the Neuse, and aided Gen. [John G.] Foster considerably when he was cooped up in Washington, N.C. She remained in those waters until the Ordnance Department selected and manipulated her into a monster torpedo.
Thomas Morris Chester was the first African American war correspondent for a major daily newspaper. (New York Public Library)
The explosions of the last decade at Rouen, the effect of the great explosion in England, a short time ago, and even the comparatively small explosions in Connecticut, and at Dupont’s, in Delaware, were carefully considered, and their effects marked. It was concluded that if houses could be shaken down by pigmy gunpowder explosions, solid masonry could be toppled over by the concussion of a thunder rivalling Jove’s. This vessel was therefore taken to Norfolk, and fitted up to receive an immense charge of gunpowder. Her masts were unshipped, her whole hull hollowed out, so to speak, by the removal of all partitions, etc., and made impervious to water. Two funnels were placed in her, and other alterations made so that she would have the precise appearance of a blockade runner. This was done so that when the attack on the rebel forts was about beginning she could rush in as if attempting to escape us, our vessels were to make believe to pursue, and she was to beach immediately under the guns of Fort Fisher. Powder was placed in a bulkhead occupying all the berth-deck, except that near the boilers, a little further forward, and nearer the boilers, a section of the deck and part of the hold were filled. The rest of the hold remained empty, to prevent the force of the explosion from going downward instead of upward and sideways. A house on the spar-deck was covered over closely with tarpaulin, extending to the bow from the boilers, and piled up. The powder was laid in tiers—the first in barrels with the heads taken out, and the rest in bags. The arrangements for firing this tremendous charge were very complete. There was a fuse in each gangway, and one forward near the boilers, and from these a Gomez fuse extended all around the vessel, and terminated at one end in the berth-deck and at the other in the hold. The fuses were those known to military men as “three-clock” fuses. There were also fuses that led from each of the clocks to the points of ending of the other fuses. Each stretch of fuses intersected one another at different points, and were platted together at the intersection.
When the expedition left Fortress Monroe hence, this powder-ship was towed all the way to Beaufort by the Sassacus. On her arrival here she was put under steam and run ashore. Two hundred and fifty tons of powder were aboard her, and, as I have told you, we were suddenly startled by the terrific thunder of her explosion. Little boats could be seen approaching us, and about half way from the ship—five miles—rowing as if for life. They contained the commander of the magazine, Captain [Alexander] Rhind, of the steamer Agawam, Lieut. [Samuel W.] Preston, Engineer [A. T.] Mullen, and Ensign [Douglas] Cassell—devoted men, who had risked their lives to give this novel engine of warfare its proper success.
The explosion was awfully grand to those who were not stunned with surprise at the reverberating roar. Sheets of fire, like the projecting leaves from a pine-apple (pardon the homely simile) shot up like winged flames, bearing in dark, tangled chaos black smoke and debris of the vessel. The concussion seemed to come over the water like a hurricane. The sea broke into great majestic swells, heavy even at our distance, considering that they were the outer circles rolling out from a centre ten miles away. The vessel was a great shell. Her iron hull was disrupted as if it was made of tissue paper, and the broken fragments, small almost to diminutiveness, went whistling through the air with the speed of the lightning, and a million of tapering columns shot up from the water far and wide, falling back gently and in graceful curves when the power that reared them into sight had ceased to exist. Up went the black column, like a great magic funnel, widening as it rose, until it covered the whole sky, and was carried away and dissipated on the air currents that wafted it towards Wilmington. It was to that city the baptism of sulphur fumes that heralds what will come sooner or later—the baptism of fire. Although the vessel was close—not more than two hundred and fifty yards away—it is to be questioned whether, after all, the explosion had the effect that was expected. The fort, by subsequent developments, seems to have been but little injured. The intention was, however, to load the vessel with five hundred tons of powder, but as she would hold but two hundred and fifty, that quantity was, of course, all that was used.
About eight o’clock it was evident that active measures would soon begin. I looked hurriedly around for the transports, freighted with Union defenders, but only three were present—the Baltic, the Montauk, and the Victor—the last one having no troops on board. There were fifty-eight vessels of-war and six iron-clads in the grand fleet of Admiral [David Dixon] Porter, and some twenty-one transports—the largest naval force ever concentrated against any point upon the continent. The vessels-of-war got under way about 8 A.M., and stood in for Federal Point, on the right bank of Cape Fear river. It is hardly possible to conceive of a much grander sight than the advance of this fleet in the three lines of battle which you have no doubt already described, as the description was forwarded. The stars and stripes waved proudly from each peak, as each ship gradually neared the land. When a short distance from Federal Point the ironsides and monitors steamed ahead, and bore down upon the enemy, while the wooden vessels followed close after without having taken the precaution of sending down their spars, customary before going into action.
About one o’clock, a shot from one of our ironclads at Fort Fisher is the signal for the beginning of the action, and at intervals, which under the circumstances seem protracted, another and another follows—each succeeding its predecessor in more rapid succession—until one of the grandest naval conflicts of American history is opened. About half of the fleet was soon engaged, and the terrible roar of artillery seemed to be beyond endurance; but when they all participated, the thundering from the fleet intermingled with that from the heavy guns of the enemy, immense columns of white smoke brooded over the water, fringed and colored with bright yellow flame. Now and then the flame seemed to come forth in bright sheets, and cover the water as if with a fiery pall. Reader, imagine all this, so grand, so confusing, so blinding to the eye, presented to you at the same time that the ear was tingled and tortured, not exactly with that thunder which “leaped from peak to peak, the rattling crags among,” [quoting Lord Byron] but that which came out sharp and terrible from the yawning throats of a thousand of those terrible engines of modern war. Then, amid all this splendid panorama of death and this crashing thunder, could be heard the screaming of the great shells as they leaped through the air back and forward from fort to ships and ships to fort. The rebel fire was one of much precision, and some of their immense shells exploded over our vessels with great accuracy. The united concert of belching artillery seemed almost unbroken for hours. The fleet continued to pour into the forts, Fisher and Caswell, showers of shot and shell, until it seemed that they would be buried beneath the fragments of these missiles.
About half-past two o’clock the Montauk stood in close enough to afford a distinct view of the rebel colors, amid the clouds of almost unbroken smoke, upon Fisher, which is nearly as strong as Fortress Monroe. The soldiers pointed them out to me enthusiastically, with a wish that they might soon be sent to lower them. At a quarter of four o’clock a dark smoke arose from the enemy’s works. Fifteen minutes later an immense conflagration was distinctly seen, which indicated that the barracks in Fort Fisher were on fire.
At this sight it was difficult to restrain the enthusiasm of the troops onboard, and prevent them from lustily cheering. If they had, our transport would probably have drawn the fire of the enemy. Such expressions as “get out, Johnny,” “isn’t it too hot for you,” and others of similar import were freely indulged in. No words could adequately express the terrible bombardment at this juncture, or give an impression commensurate with the scene. As night lowered, rendering more distinct the meteoric flash of flying shells, the cannonading gradually ceased, until every gun was quiet.
About a half an hour before the action ended, there was but one of the gunboats that hauled off, or gave evidence of being injured. It had bursted one of its guns, killing and wounding several of the crew. Shortly after, another was towed away, but not until after the engagement was over. Thus ended the first assault on Wilmington.
Neither Generals Butler nor Weitzel were present during the action, but were detained in the harbor of Beaufort, with the rest of the transports, by the severe storm, excepting those that had put to sea for safety. Late in the afternoon, General Butler’s boat hove in sight, and in the course of the night all the fleet withdrew about ten miles to the sea.
Such was our Christmas Eve. We retired to rest thinking of the probable injuries sustained by the fleet, and the condition of the forts. We thought, too, of the loved ones at home, wondering whether their Christmas would be as happy as ours promised to be glorious. MHQ
This article appears in the Autumn 2020 issue (Vol. 33, No. 1) of MHQ—The Quarterly Journal of Military History with the headline: Classic Dispatches | Explosion of the Monster Torpedo
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5608ff10559b04555eb625ab38f87308 | https://www.historynet.com/extraordinary-career-of-raf-ace-robert-stanford-tuck-january-98-aviation-history-feature.htm | Extraordinary Career of RAF Ace Robert Stanford Tuck | Extraordinary Career of RAF Ace Robert Stanford Tuck
Tuck’s hard-won flying skill and a remarkable run of good fortune contributed to victory in the Battle of Britain.
October 24, 1935, No. 3 Flying School, Royal Air Force Station, Grantham, England. An Avro Tutor biplane trainer sits on the end of the grass runway. In the front cockpit is a student pilot officer with 13 hours of dual instruction behind him–obviously a slow learner. If he doesn’t do well on this flight, he will be sent home. His name is Robert Tuck.
Roland Robert Stanford Tuck was born on July 1, 1916, at Catford, London, the second son of Stanley Lewis and Ethel Clara Tuck. Tuck received a formal education at St. Dunstan’s Preparatory School and at St. Dunstan’s College. He left school in 1932 to became a cadet in the British Merchant Marine. During his two years aboard the Lamport and Holt Line’s refrigerator ship Marconi, Tuck liked to shoot sharks swimming near the ship with an old Lee-Enfield .303-caliber rifle, often killing them with a single bullet.
A newspaper ad caught Tuck’s attention in September 1935, while he was on leave at his father’s home in Catford. He decided to heed its call: “Fly with the RAF.”
The Royal Air Force was a small organization in 1935. Many applicants for flight training were interviewed, but only a few were accepted. Tuck took written and medical examinations and was interviewed by a selection board of five RAF officers. Two weeks later, he received a letter from the Air Ministry informing him that he was accepted for flight training with the temporary rank of pilot officer.
Tuck, along with 33 other young men, reported to the RAF station in Uxbridge, England, on September 16, 1935, for two weeks of drills, lectures and aptitude tests. He then was transferred to No. 3 Flying Training School at Grantham and got his first close-up look at an airplane–the Avro Tutor twin-seat biplane trainer.
On October 24, Tuck flew so well for 15 minutes that, after a smooth landing, he was sent up again…alone. He soloed successfully, and his rocky start at flight training was behind him at last. By August 1936, he had earned his pilot wings and was posted to No. 65 Squadron at Hornchurch, flying Gloster Gladiator I biplane fighters. During his two years with 65 Squadron, Tuck led the squadron in aerobatics, radio navigation, formation flying, interception and ground attack. He took little interest in the outside world. “All of his extraordinary energy,” wrote his biographer Larry Forrester, “his spirit of adventure and his masculine pride were directed to a single end–to keeping his place as the squadron’s best pilot.”
Tuck and two other 65 Squadron pilots were practicing formation flying 3,000 feet over Sussex on January 18, 1938, when tragedy struck. Flying Officer Adrian Hope-Boyd was leading, Flight Sgt. Geoffrey Gaskell was second and Tuck was last, flying slightly higher and to the right of Gaskell’s plane to stay out of his slipstream, when suddenly the Gladiators hit turbulence.
Gaskell’s Gladiator bucked, veered left, was caught by Hope-Boyd’s slipstream and was thrown into a steep right bank. Tuck saw Gaskell’s plane rear up in front of him, and he slammed his stick forward to avoid a collision. But his Gladiator struck Gaskell’s, his propeller slicing into the other biplane’s cockpit, killing Gaskell. Tuck’s wings crumpled, and his Gladiator plunged toward the ground.
Tuck unstrapped himself and tried to slide the Gladiator’s cockpit canopy open, but it wouldn’t budge. Then the crushed wings that had hindered his escape broke loose, taking the canopy with them. Tuck struggled from the cockpit, pulled the ripcord on his parachute and floated down. Only then did he notice that his right cheek had been slashed by a razor-sharp piece of wire strutting. He lost much blood from the wound and twisted his ankle on landing.
The young airman was in the hospital for six days and was left with a permanent scar on his face. A court of inquiry absolved him of blame for the accident, and he was flying again nine days later. The incident changed Tuck’s flying style, however. His nerve remained steady, his judgment good and his enthusiasm high–but he no longer took needless risks in flying. “He knew that only luck–not skill, not daring–had saved him,” Forrester wrote, “and he had learned that in military flying there were unpredictable factors that killed the best and the worst pilots with terrible impartiality.”
Eleven months later, in December 1938, Tuck was chosen from 65 Squadron to be trained in the new Supermarine Spitfire Mark I monoplane fighter. He reported to Duxford RAF Station, where he was checked out in the new fighter by Supermarine’s chief test pilot, Jeffery Quill. Soon, Tuck became a Spitfire enthusiast. He remained at Duxford for a week, then returned to 65 Squadron at Hornchurch on January 9, 1939, as one of the RAF’s first qualified Spitfire pilots.
Tuck remained with 65 Squadron during the first months of World War II. On May 1, 1940, he was transferred to 92 Squadron, based at Croyden and commanded by Squadron Leader Roger Bushell. The new Spitfire convert saw no action until May 23, when 92 Squadron joined three other Spitfire squadrons at Hornchurch–Nos. 54, 65 and 74–to fly patrols over Dunkirk in northern France, where Allied troops were being evacuated. Tuck’s squadron took off at 10:30 that morning and began patrolling off Dunkirk, flying in a tight V-on-V formation, which Tuck didn’t like. The formation was so tight that Tuck could see the pilots in two Spitfires flying near him giving a V-for-Victory salute.
Seconds later, 92 Squadron was attacked from above and behind by Messerschmitt Me-109E fighters. The squadron broke formation, and Tuck latched on to a lone Me-109. He opened fire at 500 yards with his eight .303-caliber Browning machine guns, striking the enemy airplane’s right wing. The German fighter stalled, rolled to its left and spiraled down. Tuck followed it down through the clouds and watched it slam into a field near St. Omer, France. Feeling “quietly satisfied” with his first kill, Tuck climbed back into the clouds and returned to Hornchurch.
The Squadron took off again that afternoon for another patrol near Dunkirk, where the British fighters attacked 30 twin-engine Messerschmitt Me-110C fighters. Tuck shot down one of them and then went after a second that had nearly collided with him. A chase ensued at low altitude for several minutes, pursuer and pursued skimming over roofs and treetops. At one point, Tuck chased the Me-110 beneath some electrical wires. He pulled up to avoid the wires, exposing his Spitfire’s belly to the 110’s tail gunner, who fired a few rounds from his machine gun into the Spitfire. Tuck dropped his nose, caught up with the Me-110 and riddled its gunner. The Me-110 pilot crash-landed in an empty field before Tuck could fire again.
Tuck circled the wrecked Me-110 as the German pilot climbed out of the cockpit. The British pilot slid open his canopy and waved at the downed flier. The German fired a pistol at Tuck, narrowly missing his head. Angered, Tuck swung his Spitfire around and killed the German pilot with a last burst from his eight Brownings, then headed for home.
It was a victorious first day of combat–Robert Tuck had shot down three enemy fighters. His squadron claimed 20 German aircraft shot down, with the loss of five pilots, including Squadron Leader Bushell. Tuck, as the next senior officer, was given temporary command of 92 Squadron.
The next day, Tuck led 92 Squadron on patrol near Dunkirk. Instead of bunching his Spitfires in tight formation, he opened up the formation until the planes were 200 feet apart. “I decided…that our rigid flying tactics with formations and that sort of thing were almost useless in mixed combat with the more experienced Messerschmitt 109 pilots,” Tuck later recalled. When 92 Squadron reached Dunkirk, Tuck spotted 20 Dornier Do-17 bombers, escorted by Me-110 fighters. A Hurricane squadron took on the 110s, and Tuck’s squadron attacked the bombers. Tuck opened fire on one Dornier at a range of 400 yards, striking its port wing and fuselage. The Dornier dropped out of formation and Tuck went after it, but he was hit in the right thigh before he could fire. Ignoring his wound, Tuck closed on the stricken bomber and set it on fire with another burst from his .303s. He watched two of the Dornier’s four-man crew bail out, then rejoined 92 Squadron’s attack on the remaining bombers. He downed a second Dornier over the beach, bringing his score to five in less than 24 hours.
By then Tuck was low on fuel and ammunition, so he headed back to Hornchurch. After he landed, his wound was treated by the medical officer, who removed a small duralumin nut that had been knocked off his Spitfire by a German machine-gun bullet. Tuck kept the nut, along with a bent penny, for good luck.
May 25 found 92 Squadron, again led by Tuck, over Dunkirk. He shared a half credit for a Dornier Do-17 with his flight commander, Brian Kingcome. The squadron returned to Duxford that night for rest and maintenance, ending its part in the Battle of Dunkirk. On June 2, however, Tuck led his squadron against eight Heinkel He-111s, downing one of them as well as one of their Me-109 escorts.
Tuck was sent to Farnborough in southcentral England in June 1940, along with Wing Commander George Stainforth, to take part in comparative trials of a captured Me-109E and a Spitfire Mark II. The tests began with Stainforth flying the Me-109 and Tuck flying the Spitfire in level flight, dives and turns, and at various speeds at different altitudes.
Halfway through the trials the pilots switched planes. Tuck reported that the Me-109 was “without a doubt a most delightful little airplane–not as maneuverable as the Spit…but certainly it was slightly faster, and altogether it had a wonderful performance.” The one thing Tuck got out of the Farnborough trials was the ability to put himself inside the enemy’s cockpit. By learning how his opponents’ hands were working on the controls, he knew how to beat the Messerschmitt.
At a ceremony at Hornchurch on June 28, 1940, Tuck was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) by King George VI for his “initiative” and “personal example” over Dunkirk.
The newly minted ace flew patrols from Pembrey in South Wales over the Bristol Channel looking for German bombers through July and into August. His squadron was then ordered to join Fighter Command’s 11th Group in southeast England. Tuck soon was caught in the middle of the Battle of Britain, shooting down a Junkers Ju-88A bomber on August 13 and two more on August 14.
Tuck was visiting friends at Northolt airfield northeast of London on August 18 when the Luftwaffe launched a major attack on RAF airfields in southeastern England. Refusing to take shelter, Tuck took off and soon encountered two Ju-88s heading back to France at sea level. He chased them out to sea before shooting one down. He then attacked the second bomber head-on. Tuck narrowly avoided a collision, but his Spitfire was hit in the oil and glycol coolant tanks, and half its propeller was shot away.
He managed to nurse his ailing Spitfire back over the coast before its damaged Merlin engine seized up and caught fire, forcing him to bail out. “I just grabbed one side with both hands,” Tuck recalled, “hauled myself up and over, and pitched out, head first….As soon as I knew my feet were clear I pulled the ripcord….It seemed to open almost immediately.” He was barely 500 feet above the ground when he bailed out, and his parachute had just opened when he landed, wrenching his leg. It turned out he had landed on the estate of Lord Cornwallis at Hornsmonden, Kent. His lordship invited Tuck to have tea with his family before he returned to his squadron.
On August 25, Tuck was on patrol with two other pilots when ground control alerted them about a ship under attack in the Bristol Channel. When Tuck and his wingmen approached the area, Tuck spotted a Do-215 bomber and attacked, but before he could fire, the Dornier’s rear gunner raked his Spitfire. Tuck broke off his attack and headed for shore with his Merlin engine shut down. He glided 15 miles before crash landing and ending up against a stone wall.
That was Tuck’s last mission with 92 Squadron. On September 11, he was given command of No. 257 Squadron, stationed at Martlesham, flying Hawker Mark I Hurricane fighters. When Tuck arrived at his new command, he found 257 Squadron’s personnel demoralized, having suffered heavy casualties in July and August 1940 with few air victories to compensate for its losses.
Tuck, who had flown more than 1,000 hours in Spitfires, took his first flight in a Hurricane early the next morning. “My first impression wasn’t very good,” he recalled. “After the Spit, it [the Hurricane] was like a flying brick–a great, lumbering farmyard stallion compared with a dainty and gentle thoroughbred….It nearly broke my heart, because things seemed tough enough without having to take on 109s in a heavy great kite like this.”
The new squadron commander soon realized, however, that the Hurricane had its virtues: “It was a remarkably good gun platform; very steady when you opened fire….It was very easy to fly; had no vices, and would take a great deal of punishment and bring you back home…. So it was a very fine aircraft for fighter vs. bomber work.”
Tuck intensively drilled 257 Squadron’s pilots for three days, from September 12 to 14, trying to bring the squadron to battle readiness. He first taught them to fly in loose pairs. Then he sent up pairs of Hurricanes on mock patrols, diving on them from out of the sun. He had the squadron engage in mock dogfights. In the evenings, using German aircraft models, Tuck lectured his pilots about the blind spots on German planes and demonstrated attacks.
Tuck thought that it would take him a week to 10 days to get 257 Squadron ready for combat. By the second day, though, due to his leadership, he found the pilots “clicking into position quickly, keeping better lookout and–best of all–generally displaying a bit of dash and initiative in the mock dogfights.” By September 14, Tuck could inform 11th Group headquarters that 257 would be ready for action in three or four more days.
But the Battle of Britain was reaching its climax, and Fighter Command needed every squadron it had–without delay. The early dawn of September 15, 1940, found Tuck leading 257 Squadron from Martlesham to the RAF station at Debden, north of London. There they joined two other Hurricane squadrons, Nos. 17 and 73, in a wing under Tuck’s command.
The wing flew three patrols that morning without sighting a single German plane. Then, early in the afternoon, 257, 17 and 73 squadrons were scrambled from Debden to intercept bombers approaching London. Tuck soon sighted the raiding force above–50 Heinkel He-111 and Ju-88 bombers plus two squadrons of Me-109 and Me-110 fighters. With no time to gain altitude or to get the sun behind them, Tuck’s fighters had no choice but to attack the huge formation from below, even though they were vulnerable to attack from above by the escorting Messerschmitts.
Tuck did not hesitate. He led 257 Squadron in a climb toward the bombers, followed by 17 and 73 squadron’s Hurricanes. Tuck and seven other Hurricanes pulled away from the others, not waiting for the stragglers. Escorting Me-109s dived through the close-packed bomber formation and went after the Hurricanes, firing away. Tuck’s flight ignored the attacking Me-109s, however, not even firing back at them as they flashed by. They were saving their ammunition for the bombers. Tuck lined up a Ju-88 in his sights, but had to break off as an Me-109 fired at him. Evading the fighter, he then saw a pack of Me-110 fighters turning on the rest of his wing, which was closing on the bombers. Tuck picked out one Me-110 and shot it down, forcing the rest to break formation.
Tuck swung back toward the bombers and attacked an He-111 that had broken away from the other bombers. Before he could fire, an Me-109 dived on him. Tuck sent his wingman after the 109 and attacked another that followed the first, damaging it with a burst from his machine guns.
A bar was added to Tuck’s DFC on October 25, 1940, which gave him the equivalent of a second DFC. He was surprised by the honor, saying, “I’ve just been bloody lucky, that’s all.”
Tuck’s daring, luck and willingness to fight the Germans at any odds made him famous in the RAF. “In the face of constant death,” the London Times wrote, “he preserved a lightness of heart which was not simply bravura, but was allied to precise and ruthlessly applied technical skill.”
Tuck downed a Dornier Do-17P reconnaissance bomber off Great Yarmouth, in southern England, on December 29. On January 28, 1941, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Order (DSO), a decoration second only to the Victoria Cross. The award was for leading 257 Squadron with “great success….His outstanding leadership, courage and skill have been reflected in its high morale and efficiency.”
Shortly afterward, 257 Squadron converted from the Hurricane Mark I, armed with eight .303-caliber Browning machine guns, to the Hurricane Mark IIC, armed with four 20mm Hispano-Suiza cannons. Tuck had carried out trials in a Hurricane armed with the four cannons in 1940, and he said that he “immediately realized the hard-hitting power its cannon had in comparison with the .303s.”
German fighters such as the Me-109 were fitted with 20mm cannons from the start of the war. A few cannon-armed Spitfires and Hurricanes had flown in the Battle of Britain, with mixed results. The RAF’s reluctance to fit its fighters with cannons was partially because of faulty mountings of the early 20mms, but also because of opposition to cannons by a few ranking officers who believed the RAF should stick with the .303-caliber machine guns.
Tuck believed that 20mm cannons would enable RAF fighter pilots to knock down more enemy planes and attack German ground targets with greater effect. “There was quite a lot of argument before we got the OK to fit them as a matter of routine,” Tuck recalled. “But, once decided, then it was forced ahead as quickly as the 20mm cannons could be turned out and fitted.” Tuck’s squadron was among the first to be re-equipped with the new cannon-armed Hurricanes.
In mid-March 1941, 257 Squadron began patrolling day and night to protect RAF training fields in Lincolnshire from German night bomber attacks. Tuck and his pilots operated alone, guided by radar, searching for German intruders until 2 or 3 a.m., in addition to the normal day’s operations.
A second bar was added to Tuck’s DFC on March 30, 1941, for his “conspicuous gallantry and initiative in searching for and attacking enemy raiders, often in adverse weather conditions.” He was the second RAF pilot to earn such an honor.
Tuck worked and flew with 257 Squadron without letup. On April 9, 1941, he added to his score by shooting down a night intruder Ju-88 in East Anglia. He downed another Ju-88 a month later, on the night of May 11.
His squadron joined in offensive sweeps over northern France, Belgium and Holland starting in June. Tuck relaxed radio discipline during those attacks, according to Forrester, “because he knew that by shouting they egged each other on and created a wonderful spirit of gay, reckless devilment–which was exactly what the job needed.” Risk was ever present. Tuck was flying alone on patrol off England’s east coast on June 21, 1941, when he was jumped by three yellow-nosed Me-109s. One shot up the Hurricane on the first pass, ending up in front of him. Tuck shoved the stick forward, put his gunsight on the Me-109’s canopy and opened fire. The Messerschmitt fell into the sea.
Tuck banked sharply and sighted another Me-109. He let it pass beneath him, slammed the stick over and went after it, twisting and turning down to 60 feet above the water. He caught up with the 109 and fired a quick burst from his 20mm cannons. The 109 crashed, sending up a plume of spray through which Tuck flew.
As Tuck pulled up, he was hit from the left by the third Me-109. His throttle was shot out of his hand, along with the Hurricane’s gunsight and canopy. His engine was also damaged. Tuck saw the Messerschmitt swing around in a wide circle and come at him, cannon and machine guns blazing, and he fired back, damaging the German’s engine. The Me-109 scurried away. Tuck nursed his damaged Hurricane to within sight of England’s southeastern coast before it caught fire.
Tuck quickly undid his safety harness, dipped his left wing and dropped sideways out of the cockpit. He landed safely in the water and drifted for two hours in his life raft until he was picked up by an old coal barge out of Gravesend. Tuck was treated for minor wounds to his left arm, plus rope burns he had suffered while bailing out. While his wounds healed, Tuck was transferred to the Merchant Marine for a brief tour as liaison officer before returning to 257 Squadron.
It was mid-July 1941 when Tuck, now a wing commander, was relieved of command of 257 Squadron, which he had led for 10 months. Tuck had earned the respect of not only the pilots but also of the squadron’s ground crews. “Tuck always took a real interest in his ground crews and never had that ‘toffee nose’ attitude that some pilots displayed towards us,” Leading Aircraftsman John Ryder, a member of Tuck’s ground crew, recalled. “He gave us all consideration and confidence.”
Tuck took command of the Duxford Wing and found himself leading three fighter squadrons–601 Squadron, flying Bell P-39 Airacobras; 56 Squadron, with Hawker Mark IA Typhoon fighter-bombers; and 12 Squadron, flying Spitfire Mark Vs. Starting in July, Tuck led the Duxford Wing in fighter sweeps, or “Balbos” (so called after the famous Italian aviator Italo Balbo), into France against the Luftwaffe.
The aircraft diversity proved troublesome because of the planes’ different speeds, rates of climb and other characteristics. Tuck flew a few hours in both the Typhoon and Airacobra. He especially liked the Typhoon, but flew the new Spitfire Mk.V, with its improved Rolls Royce Merlin 45 engine, two 20mm cannons and four .303-caliber machine guns, when the wing operated over German-held territory. “The Spitfire was faster, would fly higher, and was very responsive to the controls, and was a slightly higher performance airplane,” Tuck said.
The Duxford Wing was led by Tuck over France until October 1941, when he was taken off operations. Along with fellow ace Adolf “Sailor” Malan, Group Capt. Harry Broadhurst, leader of the Hornchurch Wing, and three highly decorated Bomber Command pilots, Tuck was sent to the United States to share his expertise with Britain’s allies.
Tuck returned to England in December 1941 and took command of the Biggin Hill Wing. It consisted of RAF fighter squadrons Nos. 72, 91, 124, and No. 401 Royal Canadian Air Force–which all flew Spitfires–and 264 Squadron, a Boulton Paul Defiant Mk.II-equipped night-fighter unit.
Biggin Hill was shrouded with mist and drizzle when Tuck and Canadian Flying Officer Bob Harley took off on a mission on January 28, 1942. After crossing the English Channel at low altitude to avoid radar detection, they reached the French coast near Le Tourquet. They continued 21 miles inland to their target, an alcohol distillery at Hesdin.
They set the distillery’s four alcohol vats on fire, then followed a road farther inland. The pair strafed a German truck and shot at high-tension electrical wires. Then Tuck saw they had entered a wide valley crammed with railroad tracks; ahead was the town of Boulogne, with its heavy anti-aircraft defenses.
The British planes turned. Tuck did not want to run a gantlet of heavy flak, and he intended to find his way back to base over a quieter section of the coast. Then he saw a train engine stationary on the tracks. He couldn’t resist the temptation. “I thought ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,'” Tuck recalled. He and Harley attacked the train engine. “We dived on that engine together….I think we both scored hits, and the whole issue disappeared in a tremendous cloud of steam.”
Tuck lost sight of Harley and banked to avoid a collision. When he came out of the steam cloud he was hit by German 20mm and 37mm flak. “I think everything in the Boulogne area opened up on me,” Tuck said. “I was caught in their cross-fire, and at this low altitude with a forty-five degree bank on, they just couldn’t miss.”
Tuck’s Spitfire was hit in the engine. It belched black smoke, covering his windscreen with oil. Too low to bail out, he shoved his canopy back and began looking for a field in which to crash-land. Peering through the smoke, Tuck sighted an open field, banked his Spitfire around and began gliding in. Suddenly, he saw tracers flash over his head. He saw a truck-mounted, multiple-barreled 20mm flak gun firing at him.
Angered, Tuck shoved the stick forward and fired a single burst at the 20mm before hitting the field a few yards beyond. At first, he expected to be lynched for shooting up the flak gun. Instead, to his surprise, the Germans complimented Tuck for his marksmanship–one of his 20mm shells had gone up the flak gun’s barrel, splitting it open like a banana.
Tuck was soon invited by Oberst (Colonel) Adolf Galland, former commander of Jagdgeschwader (fighter wing) 26 until his promotion on December 5 to General der Jagdflieger, to have dinner with him and his pilots at St. Omer. Tuck had encountered Galland during a Duxford Wing fighter sweep in 1941, when two Me-109s bounced the wing from above. Tuck’s wingman was shot down; then Tuck had downed Galland’s wingman.
“So that was you?” Tuck said. “I got your number two as he passed in front.”
“And I got yours,” Galland replied, “which makes us–how do you say it–even stevens?”
During dinner, Tuck talked with Galland and his pilots about drinking, the weather and British aces like Sailor Malan and Brendan “Paddy” Finucane as if “they were old chums temporarily absent.”
“I am very glad that you are not badly hurt,” Galland said to Tuck at the end of the evening, “and that you will not have to risk your life anymore.”
The next day, January 29, 1942, Tuck was transferred under guard to the Dulag Luft transit camp near Leipzig, Germany. Shortly afterward, he was sent to Stalag Luft III prison camp at Sagan, south of Berlin. There he met his old squadron leader Roger Bushell and other fliers who had been captured.
Tuck was not a very cooperative prisoner. He made numerous escape attempts, once trying to sneak out of the camp inside a garbage wagon. In late 1943, Tuck was slated to be one of 200 RAF prisoners of war who would try to escape through a 400-foot-long tunnel, called “Harry.” Then one morning during roll call, Tuck and 18 other prisoners were suddenly transferred to a camp called Belaria, six miles from Sagan.
Not long after Tuck and the others were moved, 76 POWs escaped through Harry on March 24, 1944. All but three of the escapees were recaptured. Fifty, including Roger Bushell, were murdered by the Gestapo. By missing what came to be called the “Great Escape,” Tuck had surely escaped death once again.
Tuck remained at Belaria until January 1945, when he and the other prisoners were herded west by the Germans to keep them away from the advancing Russians. When they reached the village of Bransdorf in Upper Silesia, they were locked inside several barns by their captors. Tuck, along with a Polish RAF pilot named Zbishek Kustrzynski, buried himself under a pile of straw, and the two remained there while the other POWs moved on. Then they left the barn and headed east.
The escapees finally made contact with the Russians on February 22, 1945. They eventually were sent to Odessa, on the Black Sea, where they boarded the liner Dutchess of Richmond on March 26, 1945. The war ended soon thereafter.
Tuck remained in the RAF, serving in posts in England and overseas until he retired on May 13, 1949. He became a mushroom farmer in Kent, married and had two sons. He died on May 5, 1987, at age 70.
Tuck was recognized by his fellow RAF pilots–and former foes like Galland–as one of the great fighter pilots of WWII. His final tally was 29 victories and eight probables, making him the eighth-ranked RAF ace. The young man who had almost failed at flight school had certainly learned his craft well and, with a little luck, had lived to tell about it.
Tuck’s Luck
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ecb61991705b82ee80b848a3f5b520b4 | https://www.historynet.com/eyewitness-to-american-civil-war-iron-brigade-soldiers-wartime-letters.htm | Eyewitness to American Civil War: Iron Brigade Soldier’s Wartime Letters | Eyewitness to American Civil War: Iron Brigade Soldier’s Wartime Letters
Thirty-one-year-old Timothy O. Webster, overseer at the Detroit House of Correction, enlisted in the Union Army in July 1862. Private Webster was assigned to Company F of the 24th Michigan Infantry, which was dispatched from Detroit to Washington, D.C., in August. His regiment was later assigned to the famed Iron Brigade. Webster’s letters to his family and friends, housed in Navarro College’s Pearce Civil War Collection, vary in tone from bitter criticism of Federal officers’ behavior to cautious optimism for the Union war effort.
In December 1862, Webster wrote his wife Harriet (‘Hattie’) about the buildup of Union and Confederate troops near Fredericksburg, Va.: ‘We are about 15 miles from where a great battle is expected to come off soon. It is at Fredericksburg. There are mountains on each side of the creek and there are cannon of all size and it seems that they are without number on both sides. They are planted on these mountains base to base. It is plain to see each ones movements with the artillery. We have got 5 pontoon bridges swung across the stream. Our army is to cross under all their fire.’ Union engineers began laying pontoon bridges across the Rappahannock on December 11. The next day, wave after wave of Union troops crossed the river and moved against entrenched Confederate positions in and around Fredericksburg. On December 16, Webster described to Hattie the Battle of Fredericksburg, his green regiment’s baptism of fire: ‘I’ll take this present opportunity to write a few lines to you to let you know that I am yet to be numbered among the living. Last Friday we crossed the Rappahannock into the field of battle and I tell you it has been a field of battle with great slaughter. There have been 7 killed out of our regiment and quite a number wounded.
It was primarily cannonading and it is said to be the heaviest ever known and it lasted until last night when we fell back across the river. The rebs are strong and saucy. We laid out in the drenching rain last night and this morning we marched back 3 miles…[and] are to be ready to march at a moments notice….When I commenced this I expected I could finish it and send it right off but we were ordered right off on picket duty and we have just got relieved, and now we have got orders to march from here in the morning but I can’t tell where we are a going but it is supposed we are going to put up for the winter. We have faced the enemy and with their position they are too much for us. They can kill our men as fast as they have a mind to march up to them. From the way we made the attack on them, if we had not slid out in the night they would have completely annihilated our army before we could have gotten across the river. It is now the 19th. This war is the greatest curse that ever existed in the world. It seems that it will never be settled until the Almighty crushes it by sinking it in to the bowels of the earth or by some other wise plan of bringing it to a close.’
Overwhelmed by the sights and sounds of the battle, Webster described the action in another letter to Hattie on December 21: ‘…I cannot forget the terrifying scenes and the horrible sounds of the battle field I must tell you a little more of it. The morning of the 11 we were about 4 miles off when the cannonading commenced. That day we marched to the brink of the river but had to fall back 2 miles where we stayed that night. The firing kept up all day. The next morning we started double quick time to cross the river but when we got there I suppose there were over one hundred thousand people to cross the pontoons before we could get a chance. There were 2 bridges placed side by side. There was a solid column a crossing all day. This is only the left of the army that crossed here. They were a great deal stronger in the center and on the right. Each of these divisions had their own bridges. The whole was a crossing at the same time. Well after we crossed the rebs began to introduce themselves to us in a manner that I was not much accustomed to. The first near call to us was a large cannon-ball struck right about the center of our regiment when we were all a laying down to rest but it did no harm, only tore up a big hole in the ground. After this the shells commenced bursting over our heads. Our Colonel [Henry A. Morrow] said it would do them good to stand the storm for a while. It didn’t matter if a few did get killed but the general [possibly brigade commander Brig. Gen. Solomon Meredith] ordered him to march his men out of the enemy’s range so were led on more to the left and there we stayed that night. The next morning the fire of the enemy commenced right sharp all along the lines of the left and we were led right in front of all only the skirmishers. I will not try to tell you the horrible scenes that I experienced but I tell you the different kind of balls and shells that were flying around us made noises that could never be imagined by those that were never placed in their midst. Well we were kept in front till the arrangement was to retreat. It was done in the night. It was the night of the 15. I see the papers call this a grand reconnaissance in this advance across the river. It is just such things that are sinking our country so fast it will want twice as many men in the spring as we have got now. If this war is to be settled by fighting, then they must pass a law to not pay officers more than a private and let them go and fight for to gain honor and save their country and not all for money and party. If this is not adopted this war will last till our country is bankrupt.’ Casualties at Fredericksburg were severe; Union forces lost 12,000 men. It was an utter disaster for the Union cause.
On December 28, Webster continued his diatribe against officers: ‘This war will never [be] settled by fighting for the reason that our officers will not work together. They want it to last for the sake of big pay. If we had one million of active soldiers in the field we would not whip the south for the reason that the officers would not have a will to bring it to a close. If this was not so, the south would have been whipped a long time ago and time and time again so we might have whipped every reb in the south with our army that we had as we advanced this last time but were defeated on account of the officers not all working together.’
In late January 1863, Maj. Gen. Ambrose E. Burnside, commander of the Army of the Potomac, moved his forces up the Rappahannock hoping to cross the river again and take General Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia by surprise. Disagreements with his subordinates, demoralized troops and severe weather doomed Burnside’s plan, which was quickly dubbed the ‘Mud March.’ On January 27, Webster wrote Hattie: ‘Since I wrote you the last letter we have had quite a story here in the army. When we marched was a week ago to day. We had orders to make another attack on the rebs. The roads was tolerable good in the morning when we started but it commenced to rain and it kept up, and the army kept marching until we got to the place where they were to cross the river. One side is held by us and the other side is held by the rebs….I will mention a little of this march….we had orders to strike tents Tuesday last. It was a fine morning and the soldiers of the Potomac were to abandon their huts that they had built for their comforts and they, feeling rather demoralized, commenced to pack their things, and many of them destroyed their huts after taking great pains to build them. We were soon drawn up in a line of march and the army once more expecting to front the enemy, but the rain came on in on the first days march and the whole thing proved a total failure but they kept us going on till everything was in great danger of getting stuck so fast in the mud that it would have to stay till spring. They used 20 horses to one wagon to get them over the worst roads. Well they got us all along on the banks of the Rappahannock where they intended to cross. The rain kept up and we got orders to return to our old quarters. We were all very willing to do that, for fighting is a playing out very fast with the Potomac army, [and the army] is becoming very demoralized and there are many desertions. There has got to be a change soon in the affairs in general.’ Lincoln had removed the luckless Burnside from command of the Army of the Potomac on January 26, replacing him with Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker.
In April, Webster’s regiment participated in the Chancellorsville campaign. On May 9, Webster wrote a friend: ‘I improve the present opportunity to write a few lines to you to let you know that I have gone through some of the hardest battles that have been fought since the war and still live…I was one of those that first crossed the [Rappahannock] River in the boats at the extreme left. We crossed under a very heavy fire but we came at them like so many wild men. They were scared and left their holes in a hurry as soon as we struck the shore. We all rallied after the rebs without waiting for commands. We did well. We captured about two hundred…Rebs. I hollered to one and told him to halt, and I suppose he thought I could not catch him and he continued to run so I sent a miney ball through his head in a hurry. He never knew what hurt him. I saw him fill a soldier’s grave.’ The Union losses at Chancellorsville were higher than at Fredericksburg, and morale in the Army of the Potomac dropped even lower.
On July 1, the 24th Michigan marched into Gettysburg and was among the first regiments engaged in the battle there. Webster wrote Hattie on July 17: ‘The two armies came in contact with each other and there was 4 days fight. At the first they drove our forces back through the city. Our losses were very heavy the first day, but theirs was much greater before they got through. We turned their whole force on their backward track and followed them back to Williamsport where they crossed the Potomac….I will not mention any horrors of this fight. It could not interest you. I wish it could all be blotted out of my mind what I witnessed.’ Despite his regiment’s 80 percent casualty rate at Gettysburg (the highest of any unit in the battle), Webster’s subsequent letters reveal renewed hope for the Union cause.
In September Webster wrote a discouraged Hattie: ‘You know it is darkest just before day. But for myself I have never felt better since I have been out here…We have gained victory after victory. We have gained all points and the rebels have lost until the soldiers in their ranks have become disheartened and don’t expect victories. I have talked with many of them and they say that is a general feeling among them. I can see a great change in things this summer. All things are working….if Uncle Abe can’t settle this little difficulty that man is not made yet that can….You may think it is a small thing, and the whole thing be settled without subduing the rebels. That cannot be done. They must be worn out and demoralized in their whole armies and all we want is to have a sufficient army to keep them in check and time will do more than constant fighting. If Abe called out every man that is in the north this war might last just as long as it will….You must be content a little longer and believe me you will be a thousand times glad. I have much to feel thankful for. I have been in many places of great danger and endured many hardships and it seems that God has been with me and protected me in danger and brought me through all my troubles in perfect safety. I wish I was there to talk to you about this war. I could show you that the general thing is working well. We must not think we are getting punished. Oh how we suffer, but in a just and holy cause. I am not discouraged in it. Right, will, must, and shall prevail in our land.’
On May 1, 1864, Webster penned: ‘There have been many changes here…since [Lt. Gen. Ulysses S.] Grant commenced to reorganize the army….You may be assured that there will be some big fighting here in this state very soon, and it will be the means of turning the heaviest tide of any campaign during this war. I now think it will crush the rebellion if we are victorious, and if we get whipped our government will be lost. Well my dear ones I think if I ever see one of you again I shall think I am wonderfully blessed. It will all be through the goodness of God for the exposures of death will be numerous this summer. Oh remember if I am not permitted to ever meet you again it shall be my last prayer in your behalf may god bless you for ever.’ The 24th Michigan fought at the Wilderness, then marched to Spotsylvania and finally on to Cold Harbor before participating in the siege of Petersburg. On May 31, Webster wrote a short letter home: ‘I am still alive but dreadfully fatigued. The battles are still a raging.’ Private Timothy O. Webster died in battle near Petersburg on June 18, 1864.
This article was written by Julie Holcomb and originally appeared in the January 2004 issue of America’s Civil War. For more great articles be sure to pick up your copy of America’s Civil War.
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dcf7bd4bbba492113e1955e503df99f6 | https://www.historynet.com/failed-peace-treaty-versailles-1919.htm | Failed Peace: The Treaty of Versailles, 1919 | Failed Peace: The Treaty of Versailles, 1919
What “everyone knows” about the infamous treaty ending World War I is wrong!
Although we typically think of November 11, 1918, as the end date of World War I, that day only marked the start of an armistice ending the actual fighting, not the official termination of the war. To bring about a formal conclusion to the Great War, the victorious Allied Powers (led by Britain, France, the United States and Italy) had to complete peace treaties with each of their opponents in the Central Powers (Germany, Austria, Hungary, Bulgaria and the Ottoman Empire).
The most important of these treaties was the Treaty of Versailles ending the war with Germany that was produced by the Paris Peace Conference and signed June 28, 1919. Yet even before the treaty was signed, it sparked criticism and controversy. And when World War II erupted 20 years later, the treaty was maligned and blamed for causing the political, economic and military conditions that led to the 1939-45 global conflict.
In the decades since, generations of historians have written countless books and other works creating what “everyone knows” about the 1919 Treaty of Versailles: The overly punitive treaty, imposed as “victors’ justice” on helpless Germany by the triumphant Allies, was chiefly responsible for making World War II inevitable. Its “war guilt” article humiliated Germany by forcing it to accept all blame for the war, and it imposed disastrously costly war reparations that destroyed both the post-World War I German economy and the democratic Weimar Republic. The treaty, therefore, ensured the rise of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party. Moreover, the U.S. Senate’s refusal to ratify the treaty caused the collective security organization, the League of Nations, to fail because the United States was not a member. Furthermore, no less an authority than French Marshal Ferdinand Foch, the World War I supreme Allied commander, apparently agreed with this assessment, famously complaining in 1919, “This is not peace. It is an armistice for 20 years!”
Yet while the Treaty of Versailles did result in a failed peace and another world war only two decades later, its real failures are not what we have been led to believe for over 90 years. When we examine the facts, it becomes clear that what “everyone knows” about the infamous treaty is simply wrong.
1919 PARIS PEACE CONFERENCE
From January 18 to June 28, 1919, 32 delegations representing 27 countries met in Paris to produce the Versailles Treaty officially ending the Allies’ war with Germany. Despite the large number of countries involved, the conference was dominated by the “Big Four” major Allied Powers: the United States, Great Britain, France and Italy. Anyone remotely familiar with the history of international diplomacy would not be shocked to learn that during the conference each of the Big Four representatives pursued his own agenda, which included goals that frequently conflicted with those of his counterparts.
President Woodrow Wilson decided to personally represent the United States at the conference, yet it is hard to imagine anyone more naively idealistic about the true nature of international relations. (See Special Feature, “War and Diplomacy,” July 2010 ACG.) Wilson was a bona fide intellectual and social “progressive,” but he often seemed insufferably self-righteous and his view of how nations conducted international relations was, at best, a triumph of hope over experience – he was convinced that “good will” among world leaders would overcome supposedly petty national interests and cynical balance of power politics. Wilson’s idealistic worldview is best captured in his “14 Points” statement, announced in January 1918, calling for free trade, freedom of the seas, open agreements between nations, the promotion of democracy and self-determination among peoples worldwide, and the establishment of the League of Nations to ensure territorial integrity and to maintain world peace.
Although the Big Four European members used Wilson’s 14 Points as enticing propaganda to help convince Germany to surrender in 1918, they represented colonial powers that hardly considered global “democracy and self-determination” in their national interests. Self-determination was applied in the Versailles Treaty when it suited the European members’ interests, but was ignored when it did not. Wilson found that to persuade his more pragmatic European allies to agree to his cherished League of Nations, he had to compromise on most of his other points.
France was represented by its “Tiger,” Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau. Since Germany had invaded France twice in the previous four decades in wars fought on French soil (in 1870 and 1914), Clemenceau’s principal goals were ensuring his country’s security against future German aggression, to include permanent demilitarization of the Rhineland (Germany west of the Rhine River) and restrictions on German military forces, and requiring Germany to pay reparations for the civilian damages wrought by its brutal, exploitative, four-year occupation of northern France and Belgium. During the occupation of northern France – an area containing nearly 60 percent of the country’s steel manufacture and 40 percent of its coal production – the Germans had confiscated and shipped back home what they wanted, and when they evacuated the region near the end of the war, they sabotaged much of what they had left behind. Clemenceau’s insistence that the German invaders be required to pay for the civilian damages they had caused in France and Belgium became the principal justification for the Versailles treaty’s war reparations articles.
Prime Minister David Lloyd George, who had held the post since 1916, represented Great Britain. Although he was considered the epitome of 20th-century liberalism and a social reformer, he proved ruthless enough to maintain Britain’s naval blockade that strangled Germany of vital food supplies for eight months after the November 1918 armistice. Tens of thousands of German civilians died of starvation or malnutrition-related illnesses before Britain finally lifted the blockade once Germany signed the Versailles treaty. Lloyd George largely accomplished his main goals, which were eliminating Germany’s High Seas Fleet as a threat to the Royal Navy and maintaining the British Empire. He even added to Britain’s colonial empire when it (along with France, Belgium and Japan) assumed “mandates” (colonies in all but name) over colonies the treaty stripped from Germany and the Ottoman Empire. Britain acquired Iraq, Palestine and Jordan in the Middle East and four former German colonies in Africa.
The major goal of Italy’s representative, Prime Minister Vittorio Orlando, was “loot” in the form of increased territory for his country. Bribed by the Allies with promises of territorial gains, Italy entered the war in 1915 against Austria-Hungary and in 1916 against Germany. Thus Orlando was in Paris to collect, but Italy’s dismal battlefield record had hardly put him in a position to make demands. Orlando stormed out of the conference in April when it became clear that Italy would not receive all the territory it wanted.
The treaty signed June 28, 1919, in Versailles’ Hall of Mirrors comprised 440 articles in 426 pages (English text and French text on facing pages), plus annexes and maps. Its several parts notably included part I establishing the League of Nations; part II creating Germany’s postwar boundaries (Germany lost 13 percent of its territory and all of its colonies); part V imposing military restrictions on Germany’s armed forces; and part VIII specifying war reparations to be paid principally to France, Belgium, Britain and Italy for civilian damages caused by the German invasion and occupation.
After decades of propaganda and mythmaking, however, it is time to set the record straight by revealing what the Treaty of Versailles did not do.
WAR REPARATIONS
First and foremost, a stake should be driven once and for all through the heart of the most egregiously false claim about the Treaty of Versailles – that Germany was unfairly saddled with heavily punitive, disastrously costly war reparations that destroyed its postwar economy, caused crippling hyperinflation and doomed the democratic Weimar Republic. In fact, requiring defeated nations to pay reparations to the victors was a long-standing feature of treaties ending European wars. This penalty was not suddenly invented at the 1919 Paris Peace Conference to punish Germany; rather, it was simply “business as usual.” Germany had typically imposed similar penalties on countries it had defeated, including demanding billions of marks from Russia in the heavily punitive March 1918 Treaty of Brest-Litovsk. (See “Treaty of Brest-Litovsk,” p. 45.) Significantly, Germany had forced France to pay billions in “indemnities” after its victory in the 1870-71 Franco-Prussian War – and German forces continued occupying part of France until payment was made. The French promptly paid in full, even though the cost was equal to 25 percent of their national income.
The next important point is two-fold: First, the reparations Germany was required to pay were for civilian damages caused by its invasion and occupation of Belgium and northern France. Second, the Allies calculated the amount based on Germany’s ability to pay, not on the actual cost of repairing those damages – which was much greater. The claim that the Versailles treaty required Germany to pay “the entire cost of the war” is completely false, as verified in Article 232, which stated that Germany was to pay “compensation for all damage done to the civilian population of the Allied and Associated Powers and to their property during the period of belligerency.”
Another revealing fact is that the figure Germany supposedly was required to pay for reparations – a hefty 132 billion marks – was intentionally misleading. The Allies never intended Germany to pay such a huge sum. It was only included in the treaty as “spin” – an effort to fool the (principally French) general public into thinking that Germany was going to be severely punished economically for its war depredations. As historian and economist Sally Marks, among others, has pointed out, the actual figure the Allies intended Germany to pay, and which they had calculated Germany could pay, was a more modest 50 billion marks. In fact, during treaty negotiations, the Germans had offered to pay 51 billion!
Yet Germany never paid even that much lower figure. Between 1920 and 1931 (when Germany suspended reparations payments indefinitely) it paid only 20 billion. But even this figure is misleading, since only 12.5 billion of it was paid in cash. The remainder was paid “in kind” through deliveries of coal, chemicals, lumber and railway assets. Moreover, the 12.5 billion in cash was from money Germany acquired through loans from bankers in New York. Germany not only received far more money in U.S. loans (27 billion) than it paid out in cash for reparations, in 1932 it also defaulted on these loans after paying back only a small percentage.
In effect, except for a few billion “in kind” payments, Germany paid no war reparations out of its own pocket. What “everyone knows” about Germany being crippled by war reparations therefore is a myth. French economist Etienne Mantoux surely was right when he wrote, “Germany was not unable to pay reparations, it was unwilling to pay them.”
HYPERINFLATION
Closely related to the “crippling and punitive” war reparations myth is the claim that the reparations were the cause of the disastrous hyperinflation that ruined Germany’s economy between 1921 and 1924. Yet as noted, from 1920 to 1931, Germany, with the help of U.S. loans, paid only a small fraction of the reparations it was supposed to pay – hardly enough to ruin its economy.
The roots of Germany’s post-World War I disastrous hyperinflation stem from the beginning of the war when the Kaiser and his ministers decided how they would finance the costly conflict. Instead of imposing taxes to pay for the war, they decided to fund it by borrowing. The effect of this decision was to begin a steady devaluation of the German mark against foreign currencies. Germany’s solution to the problem – unwisely continued by the postwar Weimar government to solve its own economic woes – was to print more money. Predictably, this caused inflation, and as more money entered circulation, inflation rates increased.
The trigger that moved postwar Germany’s increasing inflation rates to the level of disastrous “hyperinflation” was the way the Weimar government chose to respond to the 1923 French occupation of Germany’s Ruhr industrial region after Germany continually defaulted on its reparations payments. The Weimar government encouraged and abetted “passive resistance” – such as work stoppages and strikes – to the French occupation and paid German workers for their cooperation by printing vast amounts of money. The result of this deliberate policy decision by Weimar politicians was to send inflation rates skyrocketing into “hyperdrive.” By November 1923, a loaf of bread cost Germans 3 billion marks, a pound of meat cost 36 billion, and a glass of beer was 4 billion.
Although the Weimar government conveniently blamed “war reparations” for causing the hyperinflation crisis, Germany was in fact paying no reparations at the time. Germany’s hyperinflation and economic catastrophe during the Weimar Republic years was due to its politically motivated economic policies, not “crippling” reparations payments to the Allies.
Moreover, the claim that hyperinflation led directly to the rise of Adolf Hitler and the Nazis flies in the face of reality. Revaluation of the German mark in 1924 stabilized the German economy, and by 1927 – years before Hitler’s rise to power – it was one of the world’s strongest (although Germany did later suffer economically in the global Great Depression, which between 1930 and 1933 created conditions Hitler exploited).
“WAR GUILT” ARTICLE
Perhaps the most contentious part of the Treaty of Versailles is Article 231, the so-called “war guilt” clause that has been egregiously mis-nicknamed and habitually misrepresented. Neither “guilt” nor “war guilt” is mentioned in the article, yet German politicians – first those in the Weimar Republic and later Hitler and the Nazis – used these terms to demonize the treaty in their efforts to sidestep Germany’s obligations. Although German propagandists in the 1920s and 1930s created the story that the treaty forced Germany to accept the humiliating “war guilt” clause assigning it blame for the entire war, historians have continued to echo this propaganda ever since. In fact, the German “war guilt” propaganda was so effective that during the 1920s many in the populations of Allied countries – particularly Britain – began accepting the idea, which helped sap the Allies’ will to rigorously enforce the treaty’s provisions.
When read by itself, Article 231 does appear to make the Germans’ “war guilt” claim seem plausible: “The Allied and Associated Governments affirm and Germany accepts the responsibility of Germany and her allies for causing all the loss and damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected as a consequence of the war imposed upon them by the aggression of Germany and her allies.” However, it is vitally important to place the article within the proper context of the treaty. It is the preamble to part VIII, regarding reparations, and not a “standalone” section solely intended to blame Germany for the war – which, if that had been the Allies’ intention, surely would have merited its own section. Clearly, the authors of the article, American diplomats Norman Davis and John Foster Dulles, merely intended it to establish Germany’s acceptance of its responsibility to pay the reparations for the civilian damages its military had wrought, as laid out in the subsequent articles (232-247) of part VIII.
Both Davis and Dulles were shocked when German politicians chose to interpret Article 231 as Germany taking full blame for World War I. Indeed, the exact same text was used in the Allied treaties with both Austria and Hungary, and neither of those nations ever considered that the language implied any “war guilt” on their part. Only German politicians – both for their own domestic political reasons and as a means to gain international sympathy – chose to interpret Article 231 as unfairly placing blame for the entire war on Germany.
Article 231, when correctly read in conjunction with Article 232 immediately following it, actually limits Germany’s responsibility for the war by requiring Germany to pay only for civilian damages caused by its invasion and occupation of Belgium and northern France. And, as noted, even that was further limited to what the Allies calculated Germany could pay.
Yet German propagandists in the Weimar and Nazi eras eagerly promoted what they termed the “war guilt lie” – which right-wing politicians often linked with the equally false claim that “the German army was stabbed in the back” – to gain domestic and international support for their efforts to avoid compliance with the Versailles treaty provisions. But the term “war guilt lie” more accurately should be applied to what the propagandists succeeded in making us believe all these years – the myth that the Treaty of Versailles unnecessarily humiliated Germany by forcing it to accept total blame for World War I.
LEAGUE OF NATIONS
The last enduring myth regarding what “everyone knows” about the Treaty of Versailles is that the U.S. Senate’s failure to ratify the treaty doomed the League of Nations to failure since the United States was not a member of the global security organization. Yet that claim assumes that the league would have been successful at preventing another world war if the United States had been a member. In fact, due to serious flaws in its concept, organization and procedure for settling international disputes or stopping aggression, the League of Nations could hardly have prevented predatory nations from doing whatever they wanted, whether or not the United States was a part of it.
Wilson’s vision for the League of Nations, as set out in the last of his 14 Points and codified as part I of the Versailles Treaty, was a “general association of nations established to afford mutual guarantees of political independence and territorial integrity of all nations great and small.” The pillars of the league were collective security, disarmament and settlement of international disputes through arbitration. Yet this was based on voluntary participation by league members – essentially relying on “good will.” The League of Nations had no standing military force to back up any decision it made, and if a nation disagreed with the league’s decision, it could simply “opt out” – as Nazi Germany (1933), Imperial Japan (1933) and Fascist Italy (1937) eventually did when they withdrew from the league after it tried to oppose their aggression.
The league’s only recourse was to try to impose international sanctions on an offending nation. But since these could be economically detrimental to the nations imposing them, this procedure ran counter to the national interests of many league members, whose response was typically to ignore the sanctions. Most often, league members preferred to deal individually with other nations, essentially reverting to traditional “balance of power” bilateral international relations. Increasingly, as the 1930s wore on the league became irrelevant in international affairs. Those who embrace the long-standing myth that the United States doomed the league to failure never seem to explain how U.S. membership in the league could have overcome the inherent fatal flaws in its organization and procedure.
Moreover, as Henry Kissinger noted, the general mood in the United States in the 1920s and 1930s (non-entanglement in European affairs), the abysmal shape of America’s military forces from 1919 until after 1939, and the inability of any American representative to the league to commit the United States to action without prior legislative approval would “not have made a significant difference” to what actually transpired.
Finally, one need only point out that the League of Nations’ successor organization, the United Nations – of which the United States is a founding member – has not been particularly successful at preventing wars and global conflict over the course of its existence.
After exposing the egregious but long-standing myths about the Treaty of Versailles, it is important to examine the real failures of the much-maligned treaty.
THE REAL FAILURES OF THE TREATY
First, the Treaty of Versailles was not tough enough on Germany. In fact, as historian Correlli Barnett claimed, the treaty was “extremely lenient in comparison with the peace terms that Germany … had in mind to impose on the Allies” had Germany won the war. Barnett characterizes the Versailles treaty as “hardly a slap on the wrist” compared to the harsh Treaty of Brest-Litovsk that Germany imposed on defeated Russia. Germany’s claim, which countless historians have parroted, that the Versailles treaty was overly harsh and too punitive against Germany is, as Kissinger noted, “self-pitying nonsense.”
Even Marshal Foch’s oft-cited quote about the treaty being only “a 20 year armistice” is flagrantly misleading when presented out of context, as it often is. Foch was not criticizing the treaty as being too hard on Germany but was actually making the opposite point – that it was not punitive enough. He was lamenting that the treaty did not ensure that Germany’s armed forces and strategic position were permanently weakened, principally through perpetual French occupation of the Rhineland.
Second, despite the fact that Germany lost 13 percent of its territory and all of its colonies, it actually emerged from World War I in an overall more favorable strategic position than when it started the war. Germany’s colonies, essentially “prestige possessions” to bolster Kaiser Wilhelm’s ego, were an unnecessary drain on its economy. The Allies did Germany a favor by taking them away. The European territory Germany lost – principally a slice in the east to help form independent Poland, and Alsace and Lorraine in the west, which Germany had taken from France in 1871 – was not vital to German industry, which, unlike the industry in northern France and Belgium, had avoided wartime destruction. The eastern territory that was lost helped establish a buffer zone between Germany and the rising power in the East, the Soviet Union, while Germany’s other borders, save that with France, abutted a collection of weak new nations replacing the stronger ones that had bordered prewar Germany. Given Germany’s larger population and, after 1927, more robust economy than its European rivals, within a decade after World War I ended, Germany’s strategic position was greatly enhanced over what existed in 1914.
Perhaps the Allies’ gravest failure in the Versailles treaty was allowing Germany to voluntarily comply with the provisions, since Germany had no incentive to fulfill the obligations to which it had agreed. A closely related failure is that of Allied will to enforce the treaty. With isolationist America essentially “opting out” of the task, and the demoralized, increasingly pacifist British population suddenly getting a collective guilty conscience when it fell for German propaganda, it was left to France to try to enforce the treaty. Except for some half-hearted attempts – notably the 1923 occupation of the Ruhr industrial region in a vain attempt to get Germany to stop defaulting on reparations – France proved incapable of going it alone. In Germany’s clash of wills with its former World War I opponents, Germany won.
In effect, Germany simply ignored its obligations under the Treaty of Versailles. Although much has been made by historians about the military restrictions imposed on Germany – the dissolution of the German General Staff, limiting the size of the German army to only 100,000 men, armaments prohibitions, etc. – none of these restrictions were ever rigorously enforced, and Germany began violating them immediately. It was the democratic Weimar Republic in the early 1920s, not Hitler in the mid-1930s, that hid the treaty-banned German General Staff behind the façade of the innocuous-sounding “Truppenamt” (Troop Office) bureaucracy; Weimar politicians and military leaders who negotiated in the 1920s secret training facilities in Russia where German tank tactics and equipment, later to become “blitzkrieg,” were developed; Weimar officials who colluded with German military leaders to avoid the Versailles treaty restrictions, clandestinely training combat pilots; and the Weimar government that in 1932, a year before Hitler took power as chancellor, announced that Germany would no longer abide by the military restrictions imposed by the Versailles treaty.
Finally, and most tragically, one thing the Treaty of Versailles did not fail to do was to give German politicians – from Weimar democrats to Hitler’s Nazi thugs – a useful propaganda tool when they twisted the facts and lied about what was actually in the treaty to support their political agendas. Unfortunately, those lies and myths have become what “everyone knows” about the Treaty of Versailles.
Jerry D. Morelock, PhD, “Armchair General” Editor in Chief Originally published in the November 2013 issue of Armchair General.
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2abfbab38ce26a140d353e6f0cd53e32 | https://www.historynet.com/father-emergency-medicine.htm | Father of Emergency Medicine | Father of Emergency Medicine
Jonathan Letterman’s Civil War innovations revolutionized military and civilian trauma care.
In July 1861, after the First Battle of Bull Run, with about 5,000 soldiers dead or wounded, it took almost a week to remove Union and Confederate casualties from the field. In July 1863, after Gettysburg, virtually all of the 14,000 wounded Union soldiers were off the bloody grounds by July 4, the morning after the fighting had stopped.
How did this astonishing advancement take place? In late 1862, within four months of becoming the medical director of the Army of the Potomac, Major Jonathan Letterman revolutionized the care of battlefield wounded—including many breakthroughs that are still standard practices in military and emergency medical care—and it had virtually nothing to do with the ways specific doctors treated specific patients.
“The great innovation of medical care for soldiers during the Civil War was not a pill or a machine,” says George Wunderlich, executive director of the National Museum of Civil War Medicine in Frederick, Md. “It was a change in the structure of medical care.” Letterman created a kind of flow chart—simple and flexible— for treating soldiers that replaced a rigid organization along regimental lines that was overwhelmed by the massive casualties of the Civil War. The plan started with dressers along the battlefield—the predecessor to today’s medic—who treated minor wounds and injuries with what was the first systematic use of first aid. Those with more serious problems would be transported by ambulance or by members of the newly created system of stretcher bearers to a field hospital—akin to the modern emergency room—where the best-qualified surgeons would care for those in critical need— much like today’s hospital trauma teams. He also put into place systems for preventive medicine—two soldiers died of disease for every one who died in battle—and for making sure battlefield doctors had a consistent, reliable source of medical supplies.
The astonishing relevance of Letterman’s breakthrough to modern emergency medicine was made clear to Wunderlich in 1998 when he worked as a volunteer ambulance driver in Maryland. “There was this horrific accident—eight or nine cars and a minivan full of people,” Wunderlich remembers. “There were four or five different ambulances, and I watched the fire chief organize everybody: Take this ambulance with this person, take this ambulance with that person. On my way back, I passed a building that was a signal station during Antietam. And I thought, Everything we did tonight, Letterman wrote out on this battlefield 140 years ago.”
Originally published in the February 2009 issue of American History. To subscribe, click here.
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63f388020a2440e1f656dd039b40e336 | https://www.historynet.com/fdr-polio.htm | Smiling Through a Personal Apocalypse | Smiling Through a Personal Apocalypse
FDR got polio, but polio didn’t get him
AS THE 20th CENTURY dawned, American summers stopped being times of fireflies, baseball, and beaches to become seasons of terror. Each year with warm weather came some new proscription for parents: Keep children away from crowds, ice cream parlors, public swimming places. Do not send kids to the movies or let them overexert, or get too hot, or too cold. Keep little ones away from dusty streets, swat their fingers away from their noses. Let no fly remain alive inside any house. Keep windows closed. No one could follow all those rules, but parents had no other way to try to safeguard children from the scourge of poliomyelitis, a viral disease then called infantile paralysis, and now known as polio.
Polio dates to prehistory, but not until 1894 did the disease break out on a large scale in the United States. That summer’s epidemic, in northern New England, sickened 123 children. Outbreaks multiplied and intensified as the three strains—one mild and flu-like, another
An Iron Lung, 1938. The first and best known mechanical respirator ‘ (Photograph by Harold Tomlin, a staff photographer on the ‘Daily Herald’ newspaper.)
characterized by paralysis, and the most acute, bulbar polio, sometimes causing death—mutated. In summer 1916, all three strains converged in New York City, striking 8,900 people and killing 2,400 children, 80 percent age 4 or younger. Panicked city officials barred children from subways and trains, closed summer camps, and mandated screening of doors and windows in residences. Trying to contain the urban outbreak, health inspectors searched the suburbs for fleeing city children, placing polio refugees under house arrest. The virus spread to 26 other states, causing another 27,000 cases and 6,000 more deaths.
Polio hit quickly—youngsters at play one afternoon found themselves the next morning in ambulances. Polio ward staffs isolated suspected carriers from their families, stripped away and incinerated clothes and belongings assumed to be infected, and put terrified youngsters through excruciating spinal taps. Patients with confirmed diagnoses donned hospital-issue pajamas; a large red dot on the back advertised infectious status. In confinement, patients passed through a week or more of high fever, difficulty breathing, nausea, and muscle spasms. Some came away paralyzed. Paralysis could affect the limbs, but also the abdominal muscles, causing them to tighten so much some patients bent permanently at the waist, perhaps forced to walk on hands and knees. Cases could involve two years of rehabilitation—if a “crippled polio,” as patients were called, was lucky.
Bulbar polio struck the muscles employed to swallow and to breathe, killing by respiratory failure. A bout often began with severe headache, sweating, and vomiting. Soon the patient, unable to cough or to swallow, was gasping and turning blue from lack of oxygen. In an infant, the danger sign came when a baby suddenly stopped crying; doctors would rush to intubate the child, an emergency procedure often undertaken too late.
Adulthood conferred no immunity. As early as 1921, medical authorities were downplaying use of the adjective “infantile” because the disease overtook older children and even young adults, though only a few people in their thirties. But more virulent viral mutations broadened the age range. In 1916, 80 percent of New York City polio patients were 4 or younger, but by 1955, 25 percent would be 20 or older.
Adult onset polio was quite rare when, on August 10, 1921, Franklin Delano Roosevelt fell ill. The gregarious, cheerful politician was vacationing with wife Eleanor and their five children on Campobello Island in New Brunswick, Canada, when he experienced chills, a fever, and loss of feeling in his limbs.
At 39, Roosevelt stood just over six feet tall. A vigorous, athletic fellow in the prime of his life, he golfed, played tennis and field hockey, and ran cross-country. He chopped trees, sailed iceboats, and sledded with his young children. A scion of a wealthy old Hudson Valley family, Roosevelt had a law degree but, under the influence of energetic presidential cousin Theodore, he had gravitated to public service. In 1910, the younger man won election to the New York State Senate. During the world war, he served as assistant secretary of the Navy, and in 1920 had been the Democratic candidate for the vice presidency. He was looking forward to a bright future.
However, within 24 hours of taking to his bed at Campobello, Franklin Roosevelt could not even stand. Local doctors attended him. Nine days later, his paralysis had spread. He could feel nothing from the neck down.
On August 25, a physician summoned from Boston diagnosed polio. In time Roosevelt’s arms worked again, but not his legs. Even so, through sheer will he resumed his political career to extraordinary result. Never denying that he had polio—and never identifying as its victim—Roosevelt held himself up as having defeated the disease and its paralysis, and, with the same vigor, worked to help his country defeat polio as well. In the words of biographer Roger Daniels, the story of FDR and infantile paralysis is “not what polio did to Roosevelt, but what Roosevelt did for polio.”
A vacationing Franklin Roosevelt was celebrity enough that bad news involving him intrigued the press. Interest built among local reporters when Roosevelt delayed his departure from Campobello until after Labor Day, ostensibly to avoid traveling in hot weather. Political manager Louis Howe announced that FDR would be leaving his family home by boat and landing on the docks at Eastport, Maine. While newshounds milled around the wrong end of town, Howe was having the stretcher-bound Roosevelt transported by launch to a different dock and delivered to the railway depot, where handlers loaded him onto a baggage cart and trundled him into his private car. By the time reporters found the correct platform and rail car, the object of their attention was seated happily at an open window, smiling and joking. Roosevelt, his doctors, and his family rolled back to Manhattan. Only then did the world learn he had polio.
If his mother had had her way, Roosevelt would have retreated to the family estate at Hyde Park, New York, and lived as an invalid, but FDR responded to his condition with resilience and determination. He needed round-the-clock help—someone to carry him up and down stairs, maneuver him into and out of bed, wash him, help him empty his bowels, lift him into and out of chairs and vehicles. Yet Roosevelt managed his life so successfully that his “disability was of little interest to the voters,” wrote historian David Oshinsky.
“The doctors are most encouraging,” Roosevelt claimed in September 1921, declaring he had “been given every reason to expect” that he would overcome paralysis. In addition to his family’s status and considerable fortune, he had the support of George Draper, his personal physician and a childhood friend.
Draper, who harbored grave doubts about whether his pal would walk again, kept quiet about how he was “much concerned at the very slow recovery” FDR was making. Draper wrote later that he hesitated to quash his friend’s hope of reversing paralysis through hard work “because the psychological factor in his management is paramount.”
Roosevelt’s optimism extended to his political career, which for now had to defer to his recovery. Even so, almost from the moment his employer fell ill, Howe was mounting a cheerfully optimistic—or willfully deceptive—line of reasoning in the press. A day after physicians at Presbyterian Hospital confirmed the polio diagnosis, The New York Times was reporting that Roosevelt was “seriously ill” but “improving.” The article did not mention polio.
“His physician is confident of his ultimate recovery,” the New York World wrote.
Roosevelt “will not be crippled,” Draper had told the Times. “No one need have any fear of permanent injury from this attack.” Newspapers across the United States reproduced the statement. The Washington Post reported the increasingly famous patient to be “nearing recovery.”
Six weeks into his stay at Presbyterian, Roosevelt still could not stand. But the fact that he could wrestle himself into a wheelchair persuaded doctors to discharge him. He returned to his East 65th Street townhouse, three blocks from Central Park. He and his medical staff developed an exercise regime meant to restore the use of his legs and help him cope. Hoisting himself on straps dangling above his bed, he did sets of pull-ups. To keep his abdominal muscles from shortening and distorting his posture, doctors encased him for weeks in a full body cast—a circumstance Eleanor Roosevelt described as “torture” that her husband bore “without the slightest complaint, just as he bore his illness from the very beginning.” Stamina revived, Roosevelt donned leg braces. These contraptions let him practice standing on his own—until he fell. Someone would pick him up, and he would fall again. He imitated the act of walking by gripping parallel bars and using his increasing upper body strength to drag his inert lower frame forward. He rehearsed rescuing himself in a fire by throwing himself from bed or chair to the floor and with hands and elbows dragging himself to an exit. Seeing her husband demonstrate this hard-learned technique, Eleanor ran from the room crying.
By May 1922, Roosevelt’s condition had improved enough to permit him to travel to Boston. At Massachusetts General Hospital, technicians fitted him with new braces and taught him a new exercise and movement regime. He began using crutches, which sufficed until October. One day that month, as he was traversing a Manhattan building lobby with a chauffeur’s aid, the crutch tips slipped. Roosevelt came to spectacular grief, tumbling to the polished floor—in front of a crowd.
Realizing scenes like that would doom him politically no less than the sight of him in a wheelchair, Roosevelt determined to walk—or at least appear to. Standing arm in arm with someone large and strong enough to ballast him—often adolescent son James—he rehearsed holding a cane and executing a shoulder-powered shuffle that shifted his weight from side to side, moving his useless, braced legs. The process was arduous and Roosevelt struggled to maintain an even emotional keel.
The real test came in June 1924—less than three years after he was stricken—when Roosevelt’s party invited him to address its quadrennial national convention in Manhattan. On the appointed afternoon, the man of the hour summoned his resources and labored to the podium at Madison Square Garden. Beaming at the cheering horde with a wide smile, Roosevelt entered New York Governor Al Smith’s name into contention for the Democratic presidential nod.
For the next three years, however, Roosevelt retreated from public life. In October 1924, he first visited Warm Springs, Georgia, a resort town south of Atlanta. Word was that upon exercising in the 88o mineral-rich pools there, several crippled polios had found they could walk. Immersed, Roosevelt found he could stand upright unassisted, move his legs, even walk and swim. He happily relayed to Eleanor that “the walking and general exercising in the water is fine and I have worked out some special exercises.” The Atlanta Journal reported on the benefits Roosevelt experienced in the waters at Warm Springs, adding that he planned to build a cottage of his own and “spend a portion of each year there until he is completely cured.” By 1926, Roosevelt so believed in Warm Springs that he stretched his strained personal finances to buy the property. In 1927 he established the Georgia Warm Springs Foundation, a non-profit that could receive tax-free gifts and grants that would allow the facility to help others in his situation.
Accustomed to seeing Roosevelt use only two canes, ambulating with his tortured shuffle, advisors and pundits began to tout him as the Democrats’ man for the presidency in 1928.
Impossible, Roosevelt said; he barely was able to walk with with the assistance of braces, crutches, and canes, and often had to be carried. He continued his rehabilitation—and the publicity campaign positing his inevitable recovery.
To maintain his upper body, Roosevelt doggedly worked out, sometimes spending three hours a day on the parallel bars. By September 1928, in the privacy of his Warm Springs cottage, he had managed several steps without cane or crutch. That autumn, he sought and won New York’s governorship.
“I just figured it was now or never,” he told one of his sons.
Throughout the gubernatorial campaign and Roosevelt’s tenure as governor, Louis Howe continued to ballyhoo his boss’s physical fitness, taking care to douse rumors that Roosevelt’s health problems came from untreated syphilis and that physical disability had sapped his mind.
The highlight of the effort to sell FDR’s strength and vigor was a grandiose declaration that “every rumor of Franklin Roosevelt’s physical incapacity can be unqualifiedly defined as false.” This assertion appeared in the July 25, 1931, edition of Liberty magazine. The popular weekly’s article began with journalist Earle Looker challenging Roosevelt to prove his health and suitability for the nation’s highest office.
The theoretical candidate responded head on, submitting to a thorough examination. Three medical specialists unequivocally declared him “physically fit,” with healthy organs, an aligned spine, and no known disease. Liberty left out the detail that Looker, a Roosevelt family acquaintance, had confected the whole thing. In 1932, Looker published a biography, This Man Roosevelt, a fluffier version of the article.
Better conditioned, more seasoned in his adaptive strategies, and blessed with an opponent, Herbert Hoover, who had the Depression draped across his shoulders, Roosevelt easily won the 1932 election. In his March 4, 1933, inaugural address he reassured a fretful nation that “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Less well known is his next sentence, in which he defined fear as “nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.” That double entendre invited listeners to take heart from FDR’s determination to apply the rigor he had shown in overcoming paralysis and taking the White House to the task of restarting a ravaged economy and uplifting a demoralized populace.
Organizing what disability advocate Hugh Gallagher called a “splendid deception,” FDR mobilized all available resources to maintain the optimism-cum-pretense that had carried him to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW. He ordered leg braces in an unobtrusive black finish. He had his touring car fitted with a bar he could grip while standing to address crowds. He expanded the Secret Service’s role; besides keeping the chief executive safe, agents searched for alternate entrances so the president could get into buildings away from the public eye. Roosevelt’s guardians installed ramps, made bathrooms accessible, and bolted down podiums. When FDR moved on foot in public, he did so at the center of a knot of Secret Service men, some of the men supporting him by the elbows.
The press helped maintain appearances, adhering to FDR’s wish that he not be photographed or filmed in awkward or vulnerable positions, such as exiting a vehicle or struggling from chair to chair. When Roosevelt did submit to photo sessions, he stage-managed them, as often as possible in the form of press conferences he conducted in the Oval Office. Seated at his cluttered desk with an air of informal industry, he—and his interlocutors—all could overlook his paralysis.
Polio remains incurable, but in 1930, Philip Drinker and Louis Agassiz Shaw of Harvard University invented the iron lung. These ponderous metal cylinders, big enough to hold a person, forced air in and out of the lungs of patients lying within, keeping some alive—but also immobilizing them, separating them from human touch, and reducing their field of vision to what they were able to see reflected in a mirror.
And those were the fortunate few. In 1939, a year of hospitalization for polio cost around $900, a tad more than the average American’s annual income. No federal agency funded treatment or rehabilitation, and less than 10 percent of American families had health insurance.
Against the backdrop of polio’s seasonal terror and the specter of lives spent in iron lungs, President Roosevelt threw his clout into fundraising and research. In 1934, he hosted a “Birthday Ball” to benefit the Warm Springs Foundation. That first January 29, more than 6,000 parties took place nationwide, with the premier event, at New York’s Waldorf Astoria Hotel, featuring a 28-foot-wide cake that fed 5,000 guests. That year’s balls raised more than $1 million, and became an institution. In 1938, Roosevelt founded the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis, focused on finding a cure for polio and assisting patients. The foundation’s efforts kicked off with the March of Dimes—entertainer Eddie Cantor’s pun on the popular “March of Time” newsreels—as mothers went house to house around the country asking neighbors to contribute ten cents to help advance polio research. That first campaign raised $2,680,000.
Reelected three times, beloved by millions—and pilloried by other millions—overseer of the economy’s recovery, pillar of the war against the Axis, Franklin Roosevelt in the execution of his duties as wartime commander-in-chief was “a marvel,” Winston Churchill commented. Even Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin was observed to respond to FDR’s fortitude, affectionately patting his ally’s shoulder during meetings. Gas mask draped on his wheelchair, Roosevelt in wartime left Washington more than he ever had. On some visits with wounded troops, he allowed GIs to see him in his wheelchair. However, his schedule forced him to give up his exercise routine, and in early 1944 his health entered into rapid decline.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt died in his cottage at Warm Springs on April 12, 1945, probably of a cerebral hemorrhage. The following year, the U.S. Treasury Department fittingly memorialized his support for polio research by putting his face on the ten-cent piece.
By the 1950s, thanks to the March of Dimes, the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis, and heightened public support, more than 80 percent of American polio patients were receiving significant financial and medical aid.
Donations to these entities helped fund Dr. Jonas Salk’s research into the vaccine named for him. First made available in 1955, the Salk vaccine was outstandingly effective: in the early 1950s, the U.S. averaged over 45,000 polio cases per year. By 1962, fewer than 1,000 cases were presenting annually.
As generations unfamiliar with polio or President Roosevelt have come of age, an impression has arisen that FDR was “hiding” what polio had done to his body. This is not true. Americans may not have always recognized or remembered that their president was a paraplegic, but Roosevelt’s limitations were popular knowledge, as was his dedication to polio research and treatment. FDR’s legacy is not that he conned fellow Americans, but that he overcame polio’s limitations to become one of the greatest advocates on behalf of fellow patients. In her autobiography, Eleanor Roosevelt wrote that for her husband polio was “a blessing in disguise, for it gave him strength and courage he had not had before. He had to think out the fundamentals of living and learn the greatest of all lessons—infinite patience and never-ending persistence.”
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809a04f40582ad28cd23893143295b54 | https://www.historynet.com/female-wwii-pilot.htm | World War II female Spitfire pilot dies at 103 | World War II female Spitfire pilot dies at 103
Eleanor Wadsworth, one of the last surviving female pilots of World War II, died in December following an illness, the BBC reported.
Wadsworth was born in Nottingham and joined the Air Transport Auxiliary (ATA) in 1943 at age 25 as a response to an advertisement for female pilots.
She was one of six women accepted despite lack of previous flying experience. During her duties, Wadsworth transported aircraft to the front line, flying Spitfires 132 times. She was reportedly one of 165 women who flew without radios or instrument flying instructions, according to the BBC.
Eleanor enjoyed flying Spitfires the most. “It was a beautiful aircraft, great to handle,” she said in a 2020 interview. She recalled that she and other female ATA aviators received equal pay and were well-respected by male colleagues. She piloted a plane for the last time in 1945.
Read the full BBC tribute here.
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ae0513f06ba6b1adc74c8e47020798c2 | https://www.historynet.com/fighter-pilot-hermann-goring.htm | Fighter Pilot: Hermann Göring | Fighter Pilot: Hermann Göring
Monday evenings in late 1922, the Cafe Neumayr in Munich played host to a collection of unsavory, lower-middle-class war veterans, rabble-rousers, malcontents and would-be revolutionaries, grumbling over Germany’s anarchic postwar politics. Their radical ambitions would likely have come to nothing if not for a visit that November by a true war hero: Hermann Göring, last commander of “Red Baron” Manfred von Richthofen’s “Flying Circus.” He had come to meet the leader of these National Socialists. “I just sat unobtrusively in the background,” he remembered, as Adolf Hitler expounded on the Nazi route to power. “You’ve got to have bayonets to back up your threats. Well, that was what I wanted to hear. He wanted to build up a party that would make Germany strong and smash the Treaty of Versailles. ‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘that’s the party for me!’”
For his part Hitler, who had risen no further than lance corporal in the army, needed a big name to set his movement apart from the dozens of political parties rending Germany. “Splendid,” he told supporters when Göring signed up, “a war ace with the Pour le Mérite—imagine it! Excellent propaganda!”
After almost a century there’s so much propaganda about Nazi Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring that it’s hard to sift out the truth. His anti-Semitism and weakness for authority figures might well be traced to early childhood. Göring’s elderly father was a German diplomat posted abroad, and Hermann was raised to age three by family friends in Germany. It’s said that on his mother’s return, he slapped her. But thanks to her romantic relationship with their wealthy half-Jewish landlord, Göring’s namesake Dr. Hermann Ritter von Epenstein, Göring enjoyed an aristocratic upbringing in several Bavarian castles. He was teased by schoolmates for his “Jewish father,” whose title (“knight”), like his castles, was purchased rather than inherited. But even when Epenstein took a new mistress and evicted the family, Göring held him in high regard, a sort of life-lesson in Nietzschean will to power.
Prussian military education forged Göring into a promising young infantry officer. In the first days of World War I he led a daring cavalry-style raid via bicycle across the French lines, but in the trenches soon fell ill with rheumatic fever. While he recuperated, friend and fellow lieutenant Bruno Loerzer, training as a pilot in the new German air service, convinced him to become an observer. The story goes that Göring forged transfer papers, in effect deserting his regiment, yet through Epenstein’s intervention was not only spared court-martial but ordered into the air service by Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm. Göring found this new kind of war suited his temperament and ambition. “I seem to come alive when I am up in the air and looking down at the earth,” he wrote. “I feel like a little god.”
In a two-seat Aviatik B.II over Verdun, France, Göring and Loerzer quickly gained renown as the go-to reconnaissance team, Loerzer banking low over the target while Göring leaned overboard with a heavy camera. Prince Wilhelm took a personal interest in the two young aviators and awarded both the Iron Cross, First Class, earning them resentment from some of their squadron mates. That didn’t bother Göring, who wrote, “I do not want to be an ordinary person….I want to tower over the human herd, not that I will follow them; rather, that everyone will follow me.” Not satisfied with taking photographs, he used a radio telegraph to direct artillery fire onto French positions, dropped bombs over the side of his airplane and fitted a machine gun to the rear cockpit to spray enemy trenches.
By mid-1915, both sides were fixing forward-firing machine guns to single-seat aircraft, and Göring, who had learned to fly, sought to switch to fighters. There weren’t enough of the new Fokker Eindecker monoplanes to go around, however, so he piloted an Albatros C.I two-seater with a synchronized forward-firing machine gun, and on November 16 he and his observer shot down a French Maurice Farman MF.7.
Finally, on September 28, 1916, Göring was assigned to Jagdstaffel (fighter squadron) 7, or Jasta 7, and then reassigned to Jasta 5 in October. His zealous quest for glory achieved frustratingly little until November 2 when, in a dogfight that would enter Nazi mythology, Göring claimed to have single-handedly attacked a giant Handley Page O/100 bomber and set it aflame before some 20 enemy fighters dived from above. Supposedly out of ammo, shot up and grievously wounded, he barely made it back over the lines to crash-land his Halberstadt D.II beside a field hospital. According to that day’s actual field report, however, he likely attacked a Royal Aircraft Factory B.E.2d two-seater and wasn’t even credited with the kill. Six Nieuports chased him off with a severe hip wound, to crash on his own field, out of action for six weeks. If Göring had never become a Nazi, likely no more would ever have been heard of it.
In March 1917 Göring transferred to Jasta 26 at Habsheim, which was commanded by his old friend Loerzer, and by May 10 he had raised his score to seven. Now an ace, in mid-May he was assigned his first command, Jasta 27, near Lille, France. It was no easy assignment. “Our fighter aeroplanes were mostly technically inferior to those of the enemy,” remembered one squadron pilot. “…We had only three combat-ready aeroplanes there, instead of the eighteen planned. Thus…the Staffel had no aerial victories at all. When we got Leutnant Göring as Staffelführer, it became better, for not only did he already have seven confirmed aerial victories, but also pleaded our case very energetically to the higher-ups.”
If Göring’s aristocratic upbringing afforded him the favor of nobles in the high command, it also tainted his attitude toward underlings. Fellow fighter pilot Rudolf Nebel remembered that Göring “was very standoffish toward his comrades. He was a good pilot, but disliked by his men due to his high-handed manner.”
“I gathered my officers and pilots about me and impressed on them all of the regulations about flying and fighting as a formation,” Göring remembered. “Then I assigned each one his place in the formation….Now everyone had to show what he could do and what he was good for….This is how I wished to put the Staffel to the test.”
Oberleutnant Bruno Loerzer, commander of Jagdgeschwader III, and his friend and Jasta 27 leader, Göring, flank Anthony Fokker, the Dutch airplane manufacturer whose reputation was largely made by German aces like them. (Aviation History Collection/Alamy)
On June 8, flying an Albatros D.III with a black fuselage and white nose and tail, Göring led 10 aircraft up over Lille. At 13,000 feet over the Lys River, they were attacked by a dozen Nieuport 23 fighters of No. 1 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps. “My formation split up too early,” Göring later recalled, “and could no longer fight in a unified way.” One of the Nieuports dived on Göring’s tail. Australian 2nd Lt. Frank D. Slee, on his first mission, later wrote, “I will swear I hit his [Göring’s] machine. I could see my tracer bullets,” but he could not outfly him. Shot down, the Aussie crash-landed behind German lines and was taken prisoner, Göring’s eighth victory.
Switching to a new Albatros D.V biplane, Göring soon doubled that score in Belgium during the Battle of Passchendaele in the fall of 1917. His name was put forward for the Orden Pour le Mérite—the Blue Max—but by that time 20 victories were required and he was denied the honor. “I have been flying at the frontlines for three years without having had a compassionate or homeland command [leave],” he wrote despondently. “Now, I feel a certain exhaustion, especially after the heavy fighting in Flanders.”
The pressure and disappointment may have gotten to him. His frequent wingman, Jewish Lieutenant Willi Rosenstein, recalled, “I had a personal quarrel with Göring, caused by an anti-Semitic remark in front of all comrades in the officer’s Mess at Iseghem, Flanders. I had been compelled to demand its revocation. These circumstances caused me to apply for my transfer to a home defense unit, which was granted after a short time.” Göring brushed off the incident as evidence of Rosenstein’s nervous exhaustion. It was his squadron’s loss: Rosenstein would go on to score nine victories, mostly with Jasta 40c.
Jasta 27 was soon folded into one of the new Richthofen-style fighter wings, Jagdgeschwader III (JG.III), under command of Loerzer, now a 20-victory ace with the Blue Max. Göring, in a new Fokker Dr.I triplane, green with white nose and tail, downed a Royal Aircraft Factory R.E.8 of No. 42 Squadron of Britain’s newly formed Royal Air Force on April 7, 1918, for his 18th victory. No less than the commanding general of the German air service, Ernst von Hoeppner, now recommended him for the Pour le Mérite. Despite still being short of the requisite victories, Göring soon lived up to the award, using a pair of new Fokker D.VIIs to claim a French Dorand AR.1 (more likely a Breguet 14) on June 3, a Spad VII on the 9th and a Spad XIII on the 17th.
Göring, with Manfred von Richthofen’s walking stick, commanded the “Flying Circus”—the late Red Baron’s Jagdgeschwader I. (Library of Congress)
With 21 victories to his credit, Göring was invited to Berlin in July to attend tests of new aircraft prototypes. Among those present was Richthofen’s successor as JG.I commander, Captain Wilhelm Reinhard, whose death in a flying accident at the event shocked everyone (see sidebar, below). Who would assume Germany’s most prestigious fighter command? JG.I consisted of Richthofen’s handpicked top guns, many with more victories than Göring: Erich Löwenhardt (with 35), Ernst Udet (40) and even the Red Baron’s younger brother Lothar (29). All three had served as squadron leaders, all three wore the Pour le Mérite, all three might have expected to take over JG.I. Though Lothar was out of action, wounded, Udet and Löwenhardt were already vying for the top slot when word came that it had gone to Göring. Udet supposedly remarked, “My God, they have chosen an outsider.”
To command did not require a high score; Reinhard only had 12 victories when the Red Baron personally chose him as successor, and 20 at the time of his death. Still, on July 14 Göring took up his new command with a note of proper humility, telling the assembled aces, “…there are no better fliers in all the world than those I see before me now. I hope I shall be worthy of your confidence and your trust.” JG.I adjutant Karl Bodenschatz wrote in his diary, “The new commander has got off to a good start.”
All that changed on July 18, however, when Göring took off with the Flying Circus. Reinhard had been in the habit of leading only on the ground, in the air handing off to one or another of the top aces and letting formation tactics unravel to a “free hunt,” with every man for himself. The aces set about racking up their own scores, leaving lesser pilots to fend for themselves—the kind of dogfight that had seen the Red Baron himself killed. No longer. Göring told Bodenschatz, “The peacocks need to be plucked before they fall over their own feathers.” Assembling the top guns, he decreed that their seconds-in-command would lead the squadrons, while they flew as Göring’s wingmen.
On that day, the Allies, having held off the last German offensive along the Marne River, launched their counteroffensive. In his D.VII 324/18, yellow with a red nose, Göring led JG.I to intercept Allied bombers over Neuilly, but held his squadron leaders back while their men attacked, only then turning loose the big guns. Losing just two of their own, JG.I scored 13 kills, including two by Löwenhardt and one by Göring, his 22nd victory. “I attacked some Spads,” he recalled. “I pressed one downward and, in a turning battle, shot it down.”
On the ground the Germans began a retreat that would continue to the end of the war, but in the air JG.I enjoyed a new era of success. Having scored its 500th kill shortly after Göring’s arrival, in the four months of his command the fighter wing added 144 more, despite the loss of Löwenhardt (killed, with 54 victories) and Lothar von Richthofen (wounded again, with 40). Udet, becoming Göring’s friend, raised his tally to 62 and would be the highest-scoring surviving German ace. Göring, famously flying an all-white D.VII, finished the war with an official score of 22, of which at least 18 can be confirmed from Allied losses.
For Germans troops at the front, the war’s end was shockingly abrupt, marked by mutiny, rebellion and revolution. General Erich Ludendorff, chief of staff, would blame final defeat on the German army being “stabbed in the back” by unpatriotic civilians, socialists, Bolsheviks, Republicans and Jews, which explained everything to right-wing, militaristic Germans like Göring. The fighter wing commander refused to surrender JG.I’s aircraft either to the enemy or mutinous German troops; his men deliberately crashed them and sabotaged their guns. The night JG.I was disbanded, Göring raised a glass to his surviving pilots. “The forces of freedom and right and morality will win through in the end,” he told them. “We will fight against these forces which are seeking to enslave us, and we will win through. Those same qualities which made the Richthofen Squadron great will prevail in peacetime as well as in war. Our time will come again.”
On December 18, 1918, Göring attended a meeting at the Berlin Philharmonic, where officers invited to support the revolutionary government were told to leave their insignia and decorations at home. Göring arrived in full regalia, including his Pour le Mérite, and told the crowd: “The ones who are to blame are the ones that stirred up the people, who stabbed our glorious army in the back. I ask everyone here tonight to cherish a hatred, a deep and abiding hatred for these swine who have outraged the German people and their traditions. The day will come when we will drive them from our Germany.”
As his Germany sank into chaos, Göring moved to Denmark and Sweden, where he met his future wife, the Baroness Carin von Kantzow. Yet he felt himself drawn homeward to “wipe out the disgrace of Versailles—the shame of defeat, the [Danzig] corridor right through the heart of Prussia.” Of the hodgepodge of German political parties squabbling for power, Nazism reeled him in. “I joined the Party because it was revolutionary, not because of the ideological stuff,” Göring later explained. “…The thing that attracted me to the Nazi Party was that it was the only one that had the guts to say ‘to hell with Versailles,’ while the others were smiling and appeasing. That’s what got me.”
What got him, and what he made of it, are two different things. The war hero Göring became head of the Nazi stormtroopers, founded the infamous Gestapo secret police and authorized the “Final Solution,” which slaughtered six million Jews—a fat, pompous morphine addict who drove Udet to suicide and bungled the air war over Europe until his top pilots rebelled, Hitler repudiated him and Göring finally faced justice as a war criminal. Yet to the end he defied the prosecutors, interrogators and psychiatrists trying to understand him.
“All nonsense,” he told them at Nuremberg of his many biographies, shortly before he took cyanide and cheated the hangman. “Nobody knows the real Göring.”
Fate Picks Göring The pace of World War I air warfare required constant innovation, so in mid-1918 the German air service staged a competition at Adlershof in suburban Berlin to evaluate new fighters to succeed the Fokker D.VII. Germany’s best aircraft factories submitted prototypes, including the Pfalz D.XII, Fokker E.V, Junkers D.I and Siemens-Schuckert D.IV. One of the most advanced designs came from the Zeppelin company’s Claude Dornier. His Zeppelin-Lindau D.I was in many ways ahead of its time: an all-metal monocoque (stress-bearing skin) fuselage, cantilever torsion-box wings and even a jettisonable external fuel tank. Its upper wing was attached to the fuselage by just four cabane struts, with neither support wires nor interplane struts. Rushed through design and construction to meet the competition deadline, a prototype was sent by train to Adlershof. The frontline fighter pilots in attendance are said to have looked with distrust on that upper wing design, and their misgivings were not misplaced; reportedly a Zeppelin factory hand had discovered its attachment points were weak, but his warning was either never received or ignored. The Zeppelin-Lindau D.I's upper wing was attached to the fuselage with just four cabane struts. (National Air and Space Museum) When other pilots hesitated to fly the D.I, Hermann Göring, commanding officer of Jasta 27, volunteered. By all accounts he wrung it out right over the heads of the assembled high command. According to biographer Leonard Mosley, who knew Göring personally, “To use an old fighter pilot’s term, he ‘beat up’ the airfield at practically nought feet, both right side up and upside down. He looped and spinned and yawed, and, finally after a particularly awe-inspiring flight down the airfield on canted wings, he brought it to a landing and leaped out, laughing with delight at the expressions on the faces of the spectators.” Accusations that Göring somehow tampered with the aircraft are unfounded. Both Leutnant Kurt Schwarzenberger, chief test pilot for the experimental fighter division, and Leutnant Constantin Krefft, technical officer of Jasta 11 and Jagdgeschwader I, demonstrated the D.I after Göring without mishap. All agreed that with its 160-hp Mercedes D.III engine, the D.I was a superior design. Then Manfred von Richthofen’s successor, JG.I commander Wilhelm Reinhard, took over. He immediately climbed to over 3,000 feet, but the previous workouts must have overstressed those cabane struts. As he came back down, observers were horrified to hear a crack and see the airplane’s top wing rip off. With no parachute, Reinhard rode the D.I down and was killed on impact. A replacement D.I, with strengthened struts and 185-hp BMW engine, participated in the third fighter competition just before war’s end, but its top speed of 124 mph was by then judged too slow. In 1921 the U.S. Army and Navy bought two for evaluation. America’s Curtiss P-1 Hawk and Boeing Model 15 fighters would owe more to the older Fokker D.VII, however, and the D.I’s primary role in aviation history was as Göring’s ride to destiny.
For additional reading, frequent contributor Don Hollway suggests: Hermann Göring: Fighter Ace, by Peter Kilduff; and Hermann Goering in the First World War, by Blaine Taylor.
This feature originally appeared in the January 2019 issue of Aviation History. Subscribe today!
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7f98b796c936ebc1116e8c9db6981226 | https://www.historynet.com/fighting-multiple-fronts.htm | Fighting on Multiple Fronts | Fighting on Multiple Fronts
Should campaigns against Native Americans and Confederates be viewed as one war or two?
During the last weeks of August 1862, Dakota Sioux warriors cut a violent swath through much of Minnesota. Far to the southeast, Union forces battled Confederates in the campaign that led to the Second Battle of Bull Run. “We are in the midst of a most terrible and exciting Indian war,” read a telegram to Abraham Lincoln from St. Paul on August 27. “A wild panic prevails in nearly one-half of the State. All are rushing to the frontier to defend the settlers.”
A week later, following defeat at Bull Run, Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles recorded in his diary, “Our great army comes retreating to the banks of the Potomac, driven back to the entrenchments by rebels.” An executive order from Lincoln the previous day had directed government clerks and employees to be “armed and supplied with ammunition, for the defense of the capital.”
Should these events in Minnesota and northern Virginia both be considered part of the Civil War? More broadly, should confrontations between U.S. forces and Native Americans between 1861 and 1865 be treated as elements of a single military conflict that also witnessed conventional operations between Union and Confederate armies?
A New Enemy: Warriors fire at the gun crews of two U.S. Army mountain howitzers at the July 15-16, 1862, Battle of Apache Pass in Arizona, one of the few times artillery was deployed against natives. The firepower forced the Indians to withdraw. (“Battle of Apache Pass” Image used by Permission of the Joe Beeler Family)
A growing body of scholarship interprets the Civil War and military actions against Native Americans in the West as parts of one historical process. This trend exemplifies how historians, with their advantage of hindsight and access to all kinds of sources, often identify patterns by exploring seemingly disparate factors. In 2003, the distinguished Western scholar Elliott West assessed martial action against the Confederacy and against Native Americans as prongs of a single U.S. state-building effort in the 19th century. By concentrating on the war between the United States and the Confederacy, West argued, Civil War scholars had ignored a more “powerful drive toward national consolidation…the integration of a divided America into a whole.”
Other historians have seconded this viewpoint. For example, Megan Kate Nelson, writing about Apache Pass, Ariz., posited “a Civil War that was fought over African American emancipation in the East, and American Indian subjugation in the West.” Durwood Ball, an authority on the prewar army in the West, similarly stated: “By mid-1863, the Union war had become an epic struggle to terminate the shameful social injustice of Southern slavery; that same war, when waged in the West, advanced the national program to subjugate, reduce, and concentrate those Native Americans still living freely.”
It is always worth asking whether new interpretive frameworks would make sense to the historical actors who lived through an era. In this case, most people in the United States almost certainly would have found it puzzling to label military operations against Confederates and those against Indians between 1861 and 1865 as the “same war.” From their perspective, the war against the Confederacy involved the highest stakes—saving the republic, salvaging the promise of democracy in the western world, and guarding the legacy of the founding generation. That war dealt with a unique and existential menace and commanded nearly universal attention throughout the nation. Conflicts against Indians posed no mortal threat to the republic. Concerned with expanding and developing the nation’s continental empire and protecting white settlers, they continued longstanding policies and actions and largely affected only those individuals directly involved.
Political leaders, soldiers, and the press habitually treated the two arenas of warfare as distinct.
Beyond this profound disparity in degree of threat to the nation, numbers and motivation for service help explain why the loyal population separated the two spheres of military action. The war to save the Union placed more than 2.2 million citizen-soldiers into uniform, the majority of them true volunteers, and cost billions of dollars. “What saved the Union,” noted Ulysses S. Grant admiringly in the 1870s, “was the coming forward of the young men of the nation…as they did in the time of the Revolution, giving everything to the country.” The Indian wars always had been, and going forward past Appomattox would remain, primarily the bailiwick of the tiny Regular Army. Its ranks contained men who took up arms as a profession, with no specific crisis to meet.
The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly: Brig. Gen. James H. Carleton forcibly resettled Navajos. (Library of Congress)
William Tecumseh Sherman, as general in chief of the U.S. Army after the war, got at the matter of scale when he wrote of infantry units deployed in Western posts: “To call the garrisons an Army is simply a misnomer. They are little squads of men strung along a frontier of fifteen hundred or sixteen hundred miles.” Such soldiers and their mission would never be equated, by the Civil War generation, with the Armies of the Potomac, the Tennessee, or the Cumberland.
It is most fruitful to interpret wartime struggles that pitted Indians against the U.S. Army and territorial military units as part of a much longer chronological trajectory. Three of the most written-about episodes involved the uprising and relocation of the Dakota Sioux from Minnesota in 1862-63, the forced resettlement of Navajos by U.S. forces under Brig. Gen. James Henry Carleton in 1863-64, and the slaughter of approximately 150 Cheyenne and Arapaho people, including many women and children, at Sand Creek, Colorado Territory, in 1864. These kinds of incidents would have occurred, at some place and in some fashion, in the absence of the four-year slaughter triggered by sectional wrangling and waged by large national armies. They fit within a framework that connects innumerable episodes from the Tidewater and Pequot wars of the 17th century to the conflicts between Native Americans and the U.S. Army during the post-Civil War decades.
Frontiersman Kit Carson looks almost polished when posing in his city duds. (Library of Congress)
Continuities across time abound. During the summer of 1863 in Cañon de Chelly, Colonel Christopher “Kit” Carson’s command destroyed crops on which Navajos “were depending entirely for subsistence” during the ensuing winter. Carson’s actions recalled attempts to deny Indians sustenance and shelter that went back to “feed fights” of the colonial era or, nearer the Civil War, to Colonel William J. Worth’s actions during the Second Seminole War in 1841-42. The relocation of the Dakota Sioux in Minnesota and, more famously, “The Long Walk” of 8,000-9,000 Navajos from modern-day Arizona to the Bosque Redondo near Fort Sumner, New Mexico Territory, recalled the “removal” of the “Five Civilized Tribes,” so called in the 19th century, from the Old Southwest to what is now Oklahoma.
Wartime friction with Indians also inspired debates about methods that had arisen in earlier eras. One side, usually dominated by white voices from frontier areas, called for unrestrained war against Indians. For example, Colonel John M. Chivington, who led the Colorado and New Mexico units at Sand Creek, claimed “that to kill them is the only way we will ever have peace and quiet in Colorado.”
Others decried such brutal methods, as when Congressman Thaddeus Stevens of Pennsylvania remarked in May 1864 “that, in nine cases out of ten, Indian wars have been produced by the provocations of the whites.” Going back to the late 18th century, insisted Stevens, overwhelmingly “the breach of faith has come from the white man….”
Presidential secretary John Nicolay reported back to Washington on Minnesota’s 1862 Sioux uprising. (Private Collection/Peter Newark American Pictures/Bridgeman Images)
Political leaders, soldiers, and the press habitually treated the two arenas of warfare as distinct. Reactions to the violence in Minnesota illustrate this point. Inside Lincoln’s Cabinet, the Second Battle of Bull Run and Antietam prompted numerous discussions. But the fighting in Minnesota in August and September, which resulted in more than 500 dead white civilians and the mass hanging of 38 Indian men at Mankato later that year, received scarcely any mention. Indeed, the best-known aspect of the Minnesota drama related to Lincoln’s commuting death sentences of more than 250 Indians. Secretary of the Navy Welles devoted portions of just two entries in his voluminous diary to the Sioux uprising, both of which commented about executions.
Presidential secretary John G. Nicolay, sent by Lincoln to Minnesota, separated events there from the war against the Confederacy. In messages to Lincoln and Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton on August 26 and 27, he referred to the bloodshed as an “Indian war” that had wreaked havoc among settlers. “Compared with the great storm of rebellion which has darkened and overspread our whole national sky,” wrote Nicolay a few months later, “the Indian war on our northwestern frontier has been a little cloud ‘no bigger than a man’s hand.’” He went on to sketch a long historical arc unconnected to efforts to suppress the rebellion. Linking the violence in Minnesota to “similar events in our history,” Nicolay suggested that from “the days of King Philip to the time of Black Hawk, there has hardly been an outbreak so treacherous, so sudden, so bitter, and so bloody….”
Colonel John Chivington led the troops who killed perhaps 150 Indians at the November 29, 1864, Sand Creek Massacre in Colorado Territory. (From the Collection of the Indiana State Museum and Historic Sites)
Lincoln’s annual message to Congress in December 1862 aligned with Nicolay’s observations. Early in the message, he alluded to the “civil war, which has so radically changed for the moment, the occupation and habits of the American people….” Later in the text, he informed Congress that the “Territories of the United States, with unimportant exceptions, have remained undisturbed by the civil war” and also mentioned “Indian tribes upon our frontiers…[who] have engaged in open hostilities against the white settlements in their vicinity.” Lincoln referred to the fighting in Minnesota as “this Indian war,” during which “not less than eight hundred persons were killed by the Indians and a large amount of property destroyed.”
The Lincoln administration briefly considered sending paroled Union soldiers to augment local forces in Minnesota—a sure sign of separating military action against the Confederates from that against Indians. Under a cartel between the United States and the Confederacy that governed prisoners of war, paroled men could not return to service until they had been exchanged for soldiers captured by the other side. Yet Secretary Stanton, in response to a plea from Minnesota’s governor, embraced the idea of “the paroled soldiers being sent to the Indian borders” as an excellent one that “will be immediately acted upon.” Lincoln backed Stanton on September 20, urging that paroled soldiers be moved “to the seat of the Indian difficulties…with all possible dispatch.”
The Lincoln administration briefly considered sending paroled union soldiers to augment local forces in Minnesota.
Discussion of the issue continued for a month. General in Chief Henry W. Halleck sent three communications to the president on October 3-4, the last of which advised: “After full consultation with the Secretary of War and Colonel [Joseph] Holt it is concluded that the parole under the cartel does not prohibit doing service against the Indians.” The cartel, Halleck had stated in his initial reply, stipulated only that parolees not “bear arms against the Confederate States during the war or until exchanged.” Attorney General Edward Bates weighed in on October 18 with a contrary opinion: “It is the plainly declared purpose of the Cartel to prevent the use of prisoners paroled…in the discharge of any of the duties of a soldier….” Thus did four top officials, all lawyers who never would have used non-exchanged parolees to fight Confederates, seriously discuss utilizing such men in what they deemed an Indian war.
Lonely Duty: Fort Garland in Colorado Territory was one of several remote army outposts in the Far West. It existed from 1858 to 1883. In this image, soldiers loiter about the adobe post’s sally port, or main entrance. (Timothy H. O’Sullivan/National Archives)
Editorial choices in Harper’s Weekly manifested a sharp distinction between the Indian war in Minnesota and operations against the Confederacy. During September, the newspaper contained multiple stories and illustrations concerning Second Bull Run and Confederate invasions of Kentucky and Maryland. Two passages totaling 15 lines covered Minnesota—one of which underscores attitudes about the relative importance of the Indian and Confederate wars. Because of escalating chaos, Governor Alexander Ramsey requested an extension to meet the state’s quota for troops in August. Harper’s Weekly printed the president’s perfunctory response: “Attend to the Indians. If the draft can not proceed, of course it will not proceed. Necessity knows no law. The Government cannot extend the time.” Lincoln’s reply signaled that the nation needed men to fight Rebels, and Ramsey could deal with Indians on his own.
Many soldiers serving in remote Western areas nourished disappointment at being so far from what they considered the real war. Early in 1862, an Iowan affirmed that deployment in Dakota Territory “is not the height of our ambition. We are anxious to take an active part in this struggle for national existence, and distinguish ourselves…in maintaining our country’s rights and restoring peace and harmony to its now torn and distracted States.” Similarly, a member of the 4th Minnesota Infantry, a unit initially assigned to garrisons on the frontier, recalled how men in the regiment considered duty against Indians far less important than crushing the Confederacy and held out hope for a chance to help save the nation. “Our men believed that the war would be a long one,” he observed in designating the effort to defeat the Confederacy the principal conflict, “and that they would have the opportunity to see all the fighting that they would desire.”
Veterans: George W. Baird, former colonel of the 32nd USCT, made a clear distinction between Indian fighters and those who battled the Confederacy in a postwar speech. (C.M. Bell/Library of Congress)
It is difficult to imagine duty more removed from the seat of decisive military events than at many posts along the Western frontier. Typical was Fort Garland, which stood in the shadow of 14,351-foot Blanca Peak in the Sangre de Cristo range and guarded the eastern entrance to Colorado’s remote San Luis Valley. In October 1862, an inspector sent north from Santa Fe reported that 209 officers and men of the 1st New Mexico and 2nd Colorado Volunteers occupied the fort. The inspecting officer pronounced the New Mexicans “very deficient” in skirmish drills and “sadly deficient” in target practice. Officers “appeared sober but wanting in energy & industry,” and the 1st Colorado suffered from “laxity of discipline.” Moreover, the inspector found the guard duty “very negligently attended to” and the fort’s layout “scarcely defensible.” In sum, the garrison at Fort Garland, lackadaisical and without pressing business, seemingly marked time in an isolated world of its own.
Witnesses whose service spanned the Civil War and postwar years reveal how soldiers explained the transition from a war to save the Union to a war against Indians. George A. Forsyth, a volunteer who fought throughout the Civil War and held a commission in the postwar U.S. Army, addressed how quickly the change took place. “Scarcely had the echoes of the guns at Appomattox Courthouse died away,” he wrote, “when the demands of the West for protection from the warlike Indians on the great plains forced themselves upon the attention of Congress….” Only with Confederate surrender could “the urgent needs of the Western frontier, which had necessarily been neglected during the civil war, became once again one of the absorbing questions of the hour.”
Officer Algernon Badger, in an 1874 engraving, believed fighting Indians would be “boys play” compared to taking on Rebel soldiers. (Harper’s Weekly, Saturday October 10, 1874)
Like Forsyth, George W. Baird juxtaposed the wars against Rebels and Indians. Colonel of the 32nd USCT during the Civil War and later an officer in the Regular Army, Baird spoke in 1906 before members of the Military Order of the Loyal Legion of the United States. He tied the postwar Regular Army’s efforts against Indians to the professional soldiers of Arthur St. Clair and “Mad Anthony” Wayne who fought the battles of the Wabash and Fallen Timbers in the early days of the republic. Aware that MOLLUS meetings focused on the Civil War, Baird remarked that he would talk about “a war not less perilous, calling for rather more than less of heroism, than the war of the rebellion.” Giving full credit to both the “heroic little army of the frontier” and “the great national force of the period this order commemorates,” Baird lamented that the former “had no Homer to celebrate them in immortal verse.”
Congressional handling of veterans’ benefits showcased how Indian wars stood apart from the nation’s four-year effort to defeat the Rebels. Citizen-soldiers who saved the Union received far better treatment than their counterparts who labored in frontier garrisons and mounted operations against Native Americans. As late as the 1920s and 1930s, the latter sought equal treatment. In 1927, a report in the House of Representatives recommended raising the upper limit of pensions for Indian war veterans from $20 to $50 per month—and covered anyone “who served 30 days or more in any military organization” from January 1859 through December 1898 “under the authority, or by the approval of the United States or any State or Territory, in any Indian war or campaign.”
Citizen-soldiers received far better treatment than their counterparts who labored in frontier garrisons.
A hearing in January 1936 revealed that inequities lingered. Congressman John W. McCormack of Massachusetts, who served in World War I and later became speaker of the House of Representatives, complained that Civil War veterans could receive $100 per month while Indian war veterans were limited to half that sum, despite service “rendered in opening up the great frontier.” Another member of Congress remarked that Indian war veterans occupied “a class by themselves in the history of our country” and deserved to be treated better. The cost of fairness would not have been great. At their peak in 1896, Indian war veterans and their widows on the pension rolls numbered 6,955—compared to almost a million Civil War pensioners. By January 1936, just 3,661 men, with an average age of 74, remained on the rolls.
Anyone seeking to characterize the relationship between the Confederate and Indian wars of 1861-65 should take seriously participants’ testimony. Algernon S. Badger will contribute a final word about 19th-century attitudes. A native of Massachusetts who finished the Civil War as lieutenant colonel of the 1st Louisiana Cavalry (Union), Badger speculated in the summer of 1865 that some “cavalry will undoubtedly be sent up on the Indian frontier as the Indians are committing numerous depredations.” Badger had no desire “to chase Indians,” he told his father: “After the work of the past four and half years, it would seem boys play.”
Gary W. Gallagher taught for 30 years at Penn State University and the University of Virginia. The author or editor of more than 40 books, he also has played an active role in battlefield preservation. He is writing a book about how Americans, both in academia and in popular culture, understand the Civil War.
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b83dc115a9a9832f233a1b99f91f906f | https://www.historynet.com/fighting-words-from-the-world-wars-to-korea.htm | Fighting Words: From the World Wars to Korea | Fighting Words: From the World Wars to Korea
U.S. infantrymen in Korea take cover in a tunnel while they wait for orders and “sweat it out”—one of many phrases used commonly in the Korean War but born of an earlier era. (U.S. Army/National Archives)
THE SLANG OF “THE FORGOTTEN WAR” as the Korean conflict from 1950 to 1953 is often called, has not been forgotten. Much of it originated in World War II, because many of the American troops in Korea were World War II veterans.
One such term was to bug out, or simply to bug, meaning to run away and hence play the coward. Its origin is unknown, but it may have come from the sense of being obsessed or desperate. The term was first employed during World War II, but it did not gain wide usage until the Korean War.
It had multiple but related meanings. In noun form, often hyphenated (bug-out), it denoted a hasty retreat, an escape route, and the person beating such a retreat. A 1951 New York Herald Tribune article had: “Men talked of ‘bug-out gas’ and ‘bug-out jeeps’ and ‘bug-out routes’.” The military film D.I. (1957) used it denoting a person: “We’ve got a bug-out, Owen.”
The term gained further currency with “I’m Movin’ On,” a popular song of 1950 by Hank Snow that aired on the Armed Services Radio Network. Some soldier—it is not remembered who—changed the words to commemorate a major U.S. retreat.
It was supposedly first sung by black soldiers of the 24th Infantry Regiment, and one line went, “When them Chinese mortars begin to thud, the old Deuce-Four begin to bug.” There were numerous other versions of the song, but many had the refrain, “We’re buggin’ out, We’re movin’ on.” It was renamed “Bugout Boogie” and officially forbidden but nevertheless became the unofficial anthem of the Korean conflict. From it also came the expression to pull a Hank Snow, meaning to bug out. In time, bug out entered the civilian vocabulary with the similar meaning of quitting or abandoning some enterprise.
The term sweat it out apparently originated as long ago as 1865 but rarely appeared in print until World War II. It meant to wait anxiously, as in sweating out the delay in getting expected orders. It was used in the Korean War in several forms, including no sweat, meaning something easy, no trouble at all. According to one authority, Korean women would say, “No sweat, GI. MPs no come,” to let a soldier know it would be safe for him to dally with her. The negative form particularly entered civilian vernacular, as in “I’ll get it done in time—no sweat.”
Two terms describing reactions to Korea’s combat were to go mental and to be shook. Denoting nerve crises, they largely replaced shell shock of World War I and combat fatigue of World War II.
After Pearl Harbor, Pacific Fleet commander Admiral Chester Nimitz noted the importance of logistics and supplies in World War II: “Winning the war is a matter of beans, bullets, and oil.” By the Korean War, bullets and beans was used to describe all military materiel, including weapons, munitions, equipment, and supplies. It appeared on November 19, 1950, in a Washington Post article about the Korea airlift: “The commander said the airlift carried more than 63,000 tons of bullets and beans and 100,000 passengers.” It was later varied: bombs, bullets, and beans; bullets, beans, and black oil; and so on.
The term spider hole began life in World War II, resurfaced in Korea, and gained currency in Vietnam. Alluding to the camouflaged hole constructed by the trapdoor spider, it denoted a shoulder-deep protective hole with a covering and used both for ambush by a sniper and as a protected hiding place. According to one infantry commander in the Battle of Leyte, “Some spider holes contained primitive land minds [sic] that the Japanese apparently were supposed to detonate if a tank or other vehicle rolled over them. This was a suicide mission for the soldiers in the spider holes.” In About Face: The Odyssey of an American Warrior, David H. Hackworth described the use of coordinated spider holes in Korea: “The Chinese had dug a virtual siege line only a couple of hundred yards from K Company. Their manned spider holes made it impossible for anyone to stick his head up during the day without drawing a sniper shot.”
The Korean War was the first in which manned jet fighters engaged one another. After World War II, the Soviet Union provided a number of its warplanes, most prominently the Yakovlev Yak-9 fighter, to satellite states and North Korea. The Yak and another Soviet-made plane, the MiG-15 jet fighter, became the principal air targets for NATO troops. The Americans claim to have shot down 11 MiGs for every one of their F-86 Sabre jets lost, thanks to effective radar and superior flying skills. Consequently the war came up with the term triple jet ace, for a jet fighter pilot who shot down 15 or more aircraft in one day. Among the American pilots in Korea, James Jabara achieved that number, followed by Manuel Fernandez with 15 ½. On May 18, 1953, his last day of combat flying, Captain Joseph McConnell shot down three MiGs in two separate missions, making him the American ace of aces over Korea, with a total of 16.
Christine Ammer has written dozens of wordbooks, including Facts on File Dictionary of Clichés, 3rd edition.
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bb1b00b36a4db1f2793bb2e421a777b4 | https://www.historynet.com/fighting-words-military-terms-that-apply-to-sports.htm | Fighting Words: Military Terms That Apply to Sports | Fighting Words: Military Terms That Apply to Sports
On January 5th, 1945 a Japanese kamikaze made a suicide attack on the USS Natoma Bay (CVE-62). (National Archives)MHQ Home Page
Frank Gifford, a Hall of Fame halfback turned broadcaster, once said, “Pro football is like nuclear warfare. There are no winners, only survivors.” That is a somewhat extreme view, but there is no doubt that a football game, like a battle, involves fierce competition. Indeed, some coaches say, “We are going to war.” The analogy is borne out by the adoption of numerous military terms to football and other sports.
In football, a blitz, like the German blitzkrieg (lightning war), is a concentration of force at high speed to break the opposition’s line. More specifically, it is a defensive strategy. During a play one or more linebackers or defensive backs are sent across the line of scrimmage to tackle the opposing team’s quarterback or disrupt his pass. The military term dates from World War II; in football it came into use in the early 1960s.
The noun bomb in football signifies a long passing play, when the passer throws the ball to the receiver deep in the field. This usage dates from about 1939. The analogy is not clear but presumably refers to bombs dropped from aircraft, which fall a considerable distance. In contrast to the arcing bomb, a bullet is a fast, straight pass.
To blow away, meaning to shoot dead or kill by gunfire, originated in Southern dialect and became common military slang during the Vietnam War. It was soon transferred to football and other sports to signify a thorough defeat. A 1988 sports headline had it as a double entendre: Miami Hurricanes Blow Away Michigan at Finish.
The noun formation has long been used in the military for how troops are lined up to face the enemy. In football it signifies the predetermined alignment of players on the defense or offense at the beginning of each play.
The area immediately around the line of scrimmage where the offensive and defensive linemen do battle is known as the trenches. An imaginary narrow band that extends across the field parallel to the goal lines is called the neutral zone. When the ball is in position to be put in play at the beginning of a down, no player except the center may penetrate the neutral zone. Both expressions clearly allude to portions of battlefields, and the latter also appears in ice hockey. A military term used in tennis is no man’s land, a midcourt area between the base line and the service line from which it is hard to make a good return. It is too far from the net for an effective volley and too far from the base line for an effective ground stroke.
During the recent Iraqi conflict, Red Zone referred to parts of Baghdad outside the perimeter of the Green Zone, the heavily guarded area in central Baghdad where U.S., coalition, and Iraqi authorities live and work. Later, Red Zone came to be used loosely for unsecured areas outside the official military posts, or indeed, any part of Iraq not in the Green Zone. In football the expression red zone is applied to the last 20 yards before the end zone, a similarly dangerous area.
In military usage the term suicide is applied to any exceptionally hazardous position or mission. During World War II the suicide squad consisted of machine gunners under heavy fire. In football the term came to be used for a group of players who run down the field during kicks and punts to break through the wedge set up by the opposing team. As in the military, they are exceptionally prone to injury. This group is also called a bomb squad or a kamikaze squad.
During World War II a submarine tactic to obtain a better attacking position was called an end around. The sub estimated the path and speed of its target and then submerged until the target was out of visual range. It would then surface and speed to a point in front of the target, submerge again, and wait till the target approached before attacking. In football an end around is a reverse in which a wide receiver or tight end turns back through the offensive backfield for a handoff from the quarterback. He then continues running around the opposite side of the line, surprising the defense, which normally expects a downfield pass.
Christine Ammer has written several dozen wordbooks. The newest is Facts on File Dictionary of Clichés, 3rd ed. (October 2011).
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61d693947f8b10a2d5d67ba2960f335b | https://www.historynet.com/fighting-words-sherman-hood.htm | Fighting Words Between Sherman and Hood | Fighting Words Between Sherman and Hood
With Atlanta at stake, William Tecumseh Sherman and John Bell Hood test whether the pen is mightier than the sword.
Through the long summer of 1864, General William Tecumseh Sherman kept his sights set on one of the remaining jewels in the Confederate crown: Atlanta. The rail hub fed supplies and reinforcements to the Southern armies, and Sherman resolved to sever that lifeline once and for all. Union artillery rained shells on the city as frightened civilians huddled in their “bombproof” shelters and prayed for General John Bell Hood to repel the invaders. It wasn’t to be. Hood was forced to give up Atlanta on September 1, and Sherman ordered the city’s remaining residents to evacuate. What followed was a combative exchange of letters between two warriors (later published in the Official Records of the War of the Rebellion) debating not only the rules of engagement, but the very reasons for the war itself.
Maj. Gen. W.T. Sherman to General J.B. Hood
September 7, 1864
General: I have deemed it to the interest of the United States that the citizens now residing in Atlanta should remove, those who prefer it to go south and the rest north. For the latter I can provide food and transportation to points of their election in Tennessee, Kentucky, or farther north. For the former I can provide transportation by cars as far as Rough and Ready, and also wagons; but that their removal may be made with as little discomfort as possible it will be necessary for you to help the families from Rough and Ready to the cars at Lovejoy’s. If you consent I will undertake to remove all families in Atlanta who prefer to go South to Rough and Ready, with all their movable effects, viz, clothing, trunks, reasonable furniture, bedding, &c., with their servants, white and black, with the proviso that no force shall be used toward the blacks one way or the other. If they want to go with their masters or mistresses they may do so, otherwise they will be sent away, unless they be men, when they may be employed by our quartermaster. Atlanta is no place for families or non-combatants, and I have no desire to send them North if you will assist in conveying them South. If this proposition meets your views I will consent to a truce in the neighborhood of Rough and Ready, stipulating that any wagons, horses, or animals, or persons sent there for the purposes herein stated shall in no manner be harmed or molested, you in your turn agreeing that any cars, wagons, carriages, persons, or animals sent to the same point shall not be interfered with….
I have the honor to be, your obedient servant,
W.T. Sherman
Major-General, Commanding
General J.B. Hood to Maj. Gen. W.T. Sherman
September 9, 1864
General…I do not consider that I have any alternative in this matter. I therefore accept your proposition to declare a truce…and shall render all assistance in my power to expedite the transportation of citizens in this direction….And now, sir, permit me to say that the unprecedented measure you propose transcends, in studied and ingenious cruelty, all acts ever before brought to my attention in the dark history of war. In the name of God and humanity I protest, believing that you will find that you are expelling from their homes and firesides the wives and children of a brave people.
I am, general, very respectfully, your obedient servant,
J.B. Hood
General
Maj. Gen. W.T. Sherman to General J.B. Hood
September 10, 1864
General…You style the measure proposed “unprecedented,” and appeal to the dark history of war for a parallel as an act of “studied and ingenious cruelty.” It is not unprecedented… [n]or is it necessary to appeal to…history….You, yourself, burned dwelling-houses along your parapet, and I have seen to-day fifty houses that you have rendered uninhabitable because they stood in the way of your forts and men. You defended Atlanta on a line so close to town that every cannon shot and many musket shots from our line of investment that overshot their mark went into the habitations of women and children….[I] challenge any fair man to judge which of us has the heart of pity for the families of a “brave people.” I say that it is kindness to these families of Atlanta to remove them now at once from scenes that women and children should not be exposed to, and the “brave people” should scorn to commit their wives and children to the rude barbarians who thus, as you say, violate the laws of war….In the name of common sense I ask you not to appeal to a just God in such a sacrilegious manner; you who, in the midst of peace and prosperity, have plunged a nation into war, dark and cruel war; who dared and badgered us to battle, insulted our flag, seized our arsenals and forts that were left in the honorable custody of peaceful ordnance sergeants; seized and made “prisoners of war” the very garrisons sent to protect your people against negroes and Indians long before any overt act was committed by the, to you, hated Lincoln Government….[You] turned loose your privateers to plunder unarmed ships; expelled Union families by the thousands; burned their houses and declared by an act of your Congress the confiscation of all debts due Northern men for goods had and received. Talk thus to the marines, but not to me, who have seen these things, and who will this day make as much sacrifice for the peace and honor of the South as the best born Southerner among you. If we must be enemies, let us be men and fight it out, as we propose to do, and not deal in such hypocritical appeals to God and humanity.
God will judge us in due time….
W.T. Sherman
Major-General, Commanding
General J.B. Hood to Maj. Gen. W.T. Sherman
September 12, 1864
General…I see nothing in your communication which induces me to modify the language of condemnation with which I characterized your order….[Y]ou announced the edict for the sole reason that it was “to the interest of the United States.” This alone you offered to us and the civilized world as an all-sufficient reason for disregarding the laws of God and man….If there was any fault…it was your own, in not giving notice…of your purpose to shell the town, which is usual in war among civilized nations….I feel no other emotion than pain in reading that portion of your letter which attempts to justify your shelling Atlanta without notice….I made no complaint of your firing into Atlanta in any way you thought proper. I make none now, but there are a hundred thousand witnesses that you fired into the habitations of women and children for weeks, firing far above and miles beyond my line of defense. I have too good an opinion, founded both upon observation and experience, of the skill of your artillerists to credit the insinuation that they for several weeks unintentionally fired too high for my modest fieldworks, and slaughtered women and children by accident and want of skill….
I am only a general of one of the armies of the Confederate States, charged with military operations in the field, under the direction of my superior officers, and I am not called upon to discuss with you the causes of the present war, or the political questions which led to or resulted from it. These grave and important questions have been committed to far abler hands than mine, and I shall only refer to them so far as to repel any unjust conclusion which might be drawn from my silence. You charge my country with “daring and badgering you to battle.” The truth is, we sent commissioners to you respectfully offering a peaceful separation before the first gun was fired on either side. You say we insulted your flag. The truth is we fired upon it and those who fought under it when you came to our doors upon the mission of subjugation. You say we seized upon your forts and arsenals and made prisoners of the garrisons sent to protect us against negroes and Indians. The truth is, we, by force of arms, drove out insolent intruders, and took possession of our own forts and arsenals to resist your claims to dominion over masters, slaves, and Indians, all of whom are to this day, with a unanimity unexampled in the history of the world, warring against your attempts to become their masters….You say that we turned loose pirates to plunder your unarmed ships. The truth is, when you robbed us of our part of the navy, we built and bought a few vessels, hoisted the flag of our country, and swept the seas, in defiance of your navy, around the whole circumference of the globe. You say we have expelled Union families by thousands. The truth is not a single family has been expelled from the Confederate States, that I am aware of, but, on the contrary, the moderation of our Government toward traitors has been a fruitful theme of denunciation by its enemies and many well-meaning friends of our cause. You say my Government, by acts of Congress, has “confiscated all debts due Northern men for goods sold and delivered.” The truth is our Congress gave due and ample time to your merchants and traders to depart from our shores with their ships, goods, and effects, and only sequestrated the property of our enemies in retaliation for their acts, declaring us traitors and confiscating our property wherever their power extended, either in their country or our own. Such are your accusations, and such are the facts known of all men to be true.
You order into exile the whole population of a city, drive men, women, and children from their homes at the point of the bayonet, under the plea that it is to the interest of your Government, and on the claim that it is an act of “kindness….” This you follow by the assertion that you will “make as much sacrifice for the peace and honor of the South as the best born Southerner.” And because I characterized what you call a kindness as being real cruelty you presume to sit in judgment between me and my God and you decide that my earnest prayer to the Almighty Father to save our women and children from what you call kindness is a “sacrilegious, hypocritical appeal.” You came into our country with your army avowedly for the purpose of subjugating free white men, women, and children, and not only intend to rule over them, but you make negroes your allies and desire to place over us an inferior race, which we have raised from barbarism to its present position….You say, “let us fight it out like men.” To this my reply is, for myself, and, I believe, for all the true men, aye, and women and children, in my country, we will fight you to the death. Better die a thousand deaths than submit to live under you or your Government and your negro allies….
Respectfully, your obedient servant,
J.B. Hood
General
Maj. Gen. W.T. Sherman to General J.B. Hood
September 14, 1864
General…I agree with you that this discussion by two soldiers is out of place and profitless, but you must admit that you began the controversy by characterizing an official act of mine in unfair and improper terms. I reiterate my former answer, and to the only new matter contained in your rejoinder I add, we have no “negro allies” in this army; not a single negro soldier left Chattanooga with this army or is with it now….I was not bound by the laws of war to give notice of the shelling of Atlanta, a “fortified town” with magazines, arsenals, foundries, and public stores. You were bound to take notice. See the books. This is the conclusion of our correspondence, which I did not begin, and terminate with satisfaction.
I am, with respect, your obedient servant,
W.T. Sherman
Major-General, Commanding
With Atlanta now safely in hand and Hood’s army forced into the Georgia countryside, Sherman forwarded his recent correspondence to Maj. Gen. Henry W. Halleck, chief of staff of the Union Army.
Maj. Gen. W.T. Sherman to Maj. Gen. H.W. Halleck
September 20, 1864 General: I have the honor herewith to submit copies of a correspondence between General Hood, of the Confederate army…and myself touching the removal of the inhabitants of Atlanta. In explanation of the tone which marks some of these letters I will only call your attention to the fact that after I had announced my determination General Hood took upon himself to question my motive. I could not tamely submit to such impertinence, and I have seen that in violation of all official usage he has published in the Macon newspapers such parts of the correspondence as suited his purpose. This could have had no other object than to create a feeling on the part of the people, but if he expects to resort to such artifices I think I can meet him there too. It is sufficient for my Government to know that the removal of the inhabitants has been made with liberality and fairness; that it has been attended by no force, and that no women or children have suffered, unless for want of provisions by their natural protectors and friends. My real reasons for this step were, we want all the houses of Atlanta for military storage and occupation. We want to contract the lines of defenses so as to diminish the garrison to the limit necessary to defend its narrow and vital parts instead of embracing, as the lines now do, the vast suburbs. This contraction of the lines, with the necessary citadels and redoubts, will make it necessary to destroy the very houses used by families as residences. Atlanta is a fortified town, was stubbornly defended and fairly captured. As captors we have a right to it. The residence here of a poor population would compel us sooner or later to feed them or see them starve under our eyes. The residence here of the families of our enemies would be a temptation and a means to keep up a correspondence dangerous and hurtful to our cause, and a civil population calls for provost guards, and absorbs the attention of officers in listening to everlasting complaints and special grievances that are not military. These are my reasons, and if satisfactory to the Government of the United States it makes no difference whether it pleases General Hood and his people or not.
I am, with respect, your obedient servant,
W.T. Sherman
Major-General, Commanding
Halleck’s response, on September 28, assured Sherman that the evacuation order was “fully approved by the War Department” and “justified by the laws and usages of war.” Atlanta had been a bustling city of 22,000 before the fateful summer of 1864. By September only about 3,000 residents remained, and just over half complied with the order: 705 adults, 860 children and 79 black servants. “No force was used,” said Colonel Willard Warner, the officer who oversaw the evacuation, “to compel obedience.”
Originally published in the September 2010 issue of America’s Civil War. To subscribe, click here.
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a5cb4e889503dffd0b051a849bbef5b7 | https://www.historynet.com/film-recon-interview-anthony-maras-hotel-mumbai.htm | FILM RECON Interview: Anthony Maras on “Hotel Mumbai” | FILM RECON Interview: Anthony Maras on “Hotel Mumbai”
Anthony Maras is an Australian film director, writer and producer who has made several acclaimed and award-winning short films, including The Palace, a 2011 thriller about the 1974 invasion of Cyprus. After extensively researching the 2008 Mumbai attacks, he co-wrote and directed Hotel Mumbai, which is his first feature film.
The film does a great job in balancing the technical/historical details with the emotions of the event. Tell me about the research that [co-writer] John Collee and you did in developing this film.
Our guiding light was always to do justice to the stories as we had heard and analyzed them. We had the benefit of beginning with Surviving Mumbai, an Emmy-nominated documentary about the 2008 attacks. The makers of that were among the first on the ground after the attacks happened, so they were able to speak with many survivors, including both staff and guests of the Taj Hotel. The documentary is great, but for me it was the unedited footage of the interviews that really got its hooks in me. That was my starting point.
One of our co-producers is Brian Hayes who was born in India, educated in London, and now works as a lawyer in Australia. He runs trade missions between Australia and India and various cultural programs. He is also the patron of the Colaba fishing village, where the gunmen first arrived. I had gone to him early on and asked to get the transcripts of the trial of Ajmal Kasab, the sole surviving gunman. Brian knew the prosecutor, the defense counsel, and the judge of that case. Through him, we got thousands of pages of court case transcripts, which included the Indian security service intercepts of communications between the gunmen and their handlers. I have a law degree and I think that equipped me to read through and digest large amounts of material from the case. So that was the starting point.
I wanted to be well-versed in what had happened during the attacks before I spoke to anyone—to not make a fool of myself but also out of respect to the interviewees and not to waste their time. We were very up-to-speed with what happened, but you only really get a sense of the matters of the heart when you speak to people.
This whole process took about a year, and many of those months were spent interviewing people. We burnt a lot of shoe leather in Australia, America, and ultimately in India. There we went to the Taj Hotel and stayed for a month as we interviewed many guests and survivors, as well as police officers who had entered the building during the attack.
Movies are, first and foremost, entertainment. But audiences often learn more about history from a feature film than from a book. How did you strike a balance between historical accuracy and engaging your audience?
Yes, exactly. A film is not a historical document and is not the best venue for the documentary record of events. The intention was always an emotional one—how would it feel if I were placed in the middle of these attacks? To try and get people to walk in others’ shoes, to go beyond what was in the news media, where it’s often headlines and statistics. We wanted to get into how it would feel from the perspectives of the victims as well as, to a certain extent, the gunmen as well. That was always the intention. So we very fastidiously matched that, as best we could, with the documentary record of what happened. So the characters are amalgams of the real people—except Chef Hemant Oberoi and the Indian cops, whose stories were well-known.
The film is full of stark contrasts—ear-splitting violence and silence, horror and humor—and how a split-second can make the difference between life and death. Thankfully there is no typical “Hollywood heroism” in this film, which is clearly illustrated in the scene in which a big, strong character decides to take on the terrorists—and it doesn’t end up like audiences expect.
True, that would’ve been the exact film we didn’t want to make. We found that true heroism often comes from people who never threw a punch or never fired a shot. For example, staff members at the Taj had an opportunity to leave, and many didn’t. Some who left actually came back to help. They were stuffing baking trays and pots and pans down their shirts to try and protect themselves from bullets. Some acted as human shields or decoys while the guests were escaping. That is heroism.
This film offers a realistic and almost intimate depiction of the terrorists. We see their commitment to carrying out such horrible violence, but also their self-doubt and fear. And then you have these very human moments of humor and amazement. We see these rural Pakistani young men, who have gone through a lot of training and brainwashing, and they are stunned at seemingly-everyday things, like modern toilets.
Yeah, I’m very glad you picked that up. We have had some criticism from certain people—who seem to have no idea about what it is like to operate under pressure—and they think we put in those jokes or lighter moments simply for laughs or for comic levity. You sit across the table from people who have lived through this experience and they will tell you that one of the ways they got through that horrific situation was through humor. That’s on the part of the guests. On the side of the gunmen, it was a little different. They had gone through such brainwashing—their handlers had put them through such rigorous training and shown them all sorts of videoclips of Muslims being killed—that they dehumanized others to such an extent that they could make jokes, because it was like they weren’t killing humans. It has everything to do with extremism.
India and Pakistan are still caught in a cycle of violence, most recently with the tensions and hostilities following the February 2019 Pulwana attack. What do you hope audiences will take away from the film?
More than anything, one thing—look at what happened in the Taj Hotel. You saw an example of people from across the spectrum of race, religion, ethnicity, and socio-economic background come together and stand for a common humanity to get through dark times. It doesn’t matter what is attacking you; it is that ability for human beings, despite their differences, to stick together in the face of adversity. That is something we should all strive for, and that, in a nutshell, is what the film is all about. ✯
Film Recon is a web series by Paraag Shukla, Senior Editor of Military History magazine at HistoryNet.
Hotel Mumbai will open in select theaters on March 22, 2019, and nationwide on March 29, 2019.
Check out our other Film Recon interview for Hotel Mumbai:
Anupam Kher — Actor
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ed9675ad2bd239a1dfc3218ed56552e3 | https://www.historynet.com/film-recon-interview-anupam-kher-hotel-mumbai.htm | FILM RECON Interview: Anupam Kher on “Hotel Mumbai” | FILM RECON Interview: Anupam Kher on “Hotel Mumbai”
Anupam Kher is one of India’s most successful and prolific actors. Since 1982, he has appeared in more than 500 films. Best known to Western audiences for his roles in films like Bend it Like Beckham, Silver Linings Playbook, and The Big Sick, he next appears in Hotel Mumbai.
Indians have a unique experience and cultural memory of the Mumbai attacks. How do you remember the events of those three days?
When any such act does not occur immediately around you, it feels like “news.” Of course, one still feels the emotional impact, but there is a natural separation. When the attacks happened, I was in Mumbai filming. When the terrorists began attacking the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus and the Leopold Café, most people thought the violence was gang-related. Then a friend called me and told me that the Oberoi Trident had been attacked, and when the Taj Hotel was captured the reality hit everyone.
I had a friend from Delhi who was at the Taj, and I was friends with the General Manager of the hotel. It was hard to believe that all of that was actually happening. Then the television news coverage began, and it felt like there was a hushed silence over the 12-14 million people in the city of Mumbai.
How did you become involved with this project?
When [director and co-writer] Anthony Maras approached me with the script, I had to think hard about it. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to relive the events of those days. But Anthony’s passion for the project, his intentions for the story, and his compassion came through, and that was so important for a film like this. And then I saw The Palace, Anthony’s 2011 short film [about the 1974 invasion of Cyprus]. That convinced me that he really knew what he wanted to do with this story.
The principal cast all met in Adelaide, Australia, when we started filming for the interiors of the Taj. We arrived as actors from different continents to make a movie, but when we did the script reading and started rehearsing, everybody started bonding not only as professional actors but as human beings.
The film is full of stark contrasts—ear-splitting violence and silence, horror and humor—as well as the heroism of everyday people.
Yes, that is the soul of the film, the heroism of common people. My grandfather used to say that there is a hero inside everybody, and that some people get an opportunity to show that hero and some people don’t. Chef Hemant Oberoi, who I play in the film, certainly didn’t think of himself as a hero, but when the attack occurred, he took command of the situation.
My dear friend, Karambir Kang, was the General Manager of the Taj at the time. He lost his wife and two young children in the attack; his sons were 8 and 9 years old. Now, he works as the General Manager of the Taj in New York.
I have great respect for the way people are able to live their lives after this kind of tragedy. Sometimes we don’t talk about loss, but catharsis is important. That scar does not go away, and yet people carry on. It’s really extraordinary.
There must be a special responsibility when playing a real person. Did you meet Chef Hemant Oberoi prior to filming?
I had been to his restaurant, Wasabi, and knew of his reputation as one of the best chefs. We had met there very briefly.
I don’t always like to meet beforehand the people I’m portraying. It can sometimes be a trap, as it’s easy to get overly focused on how someone stands or moves his hands. I feel that if I can capture the essence of the person and their personality, then the physicality will come across. What was important to me was to bring out how he must have felt at the time.
I was moved by Chef Oberoi’s reaction when he saw the film at the Toronto International Film Festival. He said, “Only you could’ve played this role.”
This film offers a realistic and almost intimate depiction of the terrorists. We see their commitment to carrying out such horrible violence, but also their self-doubt, fear, and humor.
Yes, the gunmen were indoctrinated and ordered to carry out the attack, and the film reminds us that they were human beings. To me, the most cowardly thing someone can do is kill innocent people.
India and Pakistan are still caught in a cycle of violence—most recently with the tensions and hostilities following the February 2019 Pulwana attack—and this film remains relevant.
Yes, the film’s relevance isn’t limited to the events of 2008, as that sort of violence still continues today. The only answer to such acts is not to bow down, but to keep living one’s life. To me, Hotel Mumbai is one of the films of our times.
What do you hope people will take away from the film?
A sense of togetherness, courage, and compassion. And to remember the victims and those who showed courage under such circumstances.
Of course, the film offers the documentation of an important event, but also the fact that humanity comes together in such moments. One of the great things about Mumbai’s residents is their ability to get back on their feet and resume their normal lives, and that resilience is, unfortunately, demonstrated through tragic circumstances like this.
I’m an eternal optimist, so I see hope in that. ✯
Film Recon is a web series by Paraag Shukla, Senior Editor of Military History magazine at HistoryNet.
Hotel Mumbai will open in select theaters on March 22, 2019, and nationwide on March 29, 2019.
Check out our other Film Recon interview for Hotel Mumbai:
Anthony Maras — Director, Co-writer
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080664634c036be8ef118604ae48dd17 | https://www.historynet.com/film-recon-interview-beau-willimon-mqos.htm | FILM RECON Interview: Beau Willimon on “Mary Queen of Scots” | FILM RECON Interview: Beau Willimon on “Mary Queen of Scots”
Beau Willimon, 41, is a successful screenwriter and playwright. Prior to writing Mary Queen of Scots, Willimon developed the American adaptation of House of Cards for Netflix. He spoke to Senior Editor Paraag Shukla about the film, which opens in theaters on December 7, 2018.
How familiar were you with this particular story prior to coming aboard?
My mom is actually a huge Elizabethan history fan. When I was growing up, she had every book you can imagine, whether it was about Henry VIII and his wives to Mary and Elizabeth and beyond. She was constantly reading about that era and talking to me about it. As I became involved in the theater early in my career, you start with the greatest of all the greats: Shakespeare. When you’re navigating all of his wonderful plays, you’re going to absorb a certain amount of history—to varying degrees of accuracy.
How did you first become involved with this project?
The film’s director, Josie Rourke, is the artistic director of the Donmar Warehouse. I had met her when she was running the Bush Theater in London, and we got along right away. We promised that we’d work together one day, and we always imagined that would be on the stage. Years passed, and one day I got a call from asking if I’d be interested in writing Mary Queen of Scots, and that Saoirse Ronan was attached to play Mary. I gave her an enthusiastic “yes” right away! I was flattered to be asked. And we got to work!
Movies are, first and foremost, entertainment. But audiences often learn more about history from a feature film than from a book. How did you strike a balance between historical accuracy and entertainment?
You are absolutely right. Often you can absorb history more from a film or play or historical fiction because you’re feeling history. It allows you to slip into the characters’ shoes and see them as human. The best historical fiction, no matter when it’s set, feels like it’s happening in the present tense.
For this project, I already knew more than the average person about the story. But I was far from being an expert. So I was quite lucky that we were able to option John Guy’s wonderful book, My Heart is My Own. It was very important to Josie and me to offer something fresh. A lot of people assume that “history is history,” but of course there can be wildly different interpretations of historical events.
Mary and Elizabeth are figures made larger than life by the passage of time. But in the film, we see a realistic, intimate depiction—their strength, but also vulnerability, flaws, self-doubt. How did you cut through the cultural myths to humanize them?
Mary has often been portrayed as being reckless, naïve, impulsive, and overly-emotional. Elizabeth has also been portrayed as being cold, calculating, and heartless. And through John Guy’s book, we found both of those stereotypes to be false.
Mary was quite politically shrewd, and lot of her decisions were astute and deliberate. In many ways she was a more capable leader at the time than Elizabeth was. Elizabeth could be quite insecure and indecisive and was still grappling with how to manage her tenuously-held throne. And she was quite vulnerable and frail at times.
So we wanted to explore the dynamic between the two women who in many ways had been maligned by history and portrayals of them that did not accurately reflect who they were at the time. John Guy’s book was a great launching point for that and really gave us some great insight. And he made himself readily available throughout the writing process.
We started with a thesis: whatever you thought of these two women, we want you to reconsider—and also reconsider the dynamic between them. That has often been portrayed a sort of regal “catfight,” but in fact their instincts were, more than not, to find way to coexist peacefully. It was the political tectonic forces of the time that tragically forced them to be antagonists. But that’s not what they wanted to be.
History is always a way to reflect on the here and now. There’s so much about Mary’s story that has a ton to say about power and what it means for women to be in power. Unfortunately, we still see many of the obstacles and challenges that Mary and Elizabeth had faced.
Given today’s political and cultural climate, this film is incredibly relevant. What do you hope audiences will take away from it?
First and foremost, I’d like them to take away the emotional journey of these two women and how extraordinary they were in navigating these incredibly complex times. And that this story endures because it continues to have so much to say about who we are now. Some of the parallels are poignant.
One example is the divisiveness between Protestants and Catholics at the time. It was not too different from the divisiveness between liberals and conservatives now. Red and blue. We see, not only in America but across the world, sort of fracturing along tribal lines of opposing ideologies. And that’s dangerous and volatile. And that is certainly what Mary and Elizabeth were facing in their own day.
In terms of being women in power, the double-standard and scrutiny placed on them is still prevalent today. We continue to see very different tracks between men in power and women in power, and that was amplified between these two women.
The final act has an engaging climax in a face-to-face conversation between Mary and Elizabeth—it’s like a dance. And wisely, you wrote a line in which Elizabeth says that any mention of their meeting will be met with denials.
Of course, that meeting didn’t happen in real life, and we used that line to cover ourselves a little bit. We knew we were fudging the historical record a little bit. We talked to John Guy quite a bit about it, because we weren’t doing it out of ignorance but rather in a deliberate way. Sometimes it’s more effective to dramatize the emotional trajectory of characters with a scene that is anachronistic than to stick purely to the historical record. If we limited ourselves to only letters and emissaries, we wouldn’t have that narrative expectation for the audience that these women need to come face-to-face. So through that scene you’re able to access an emotional truth that you wouldn’t through letters.
We talked about it and tried to imagine that if they had met, how would it have been purged from the historical record and never seen the light of day? It is in a remote secret setting, and the rules are established from the get-go that this must never be spoken of. As far as we know they never met, but if they did, there wouldn’t be any record of it. When you’re going to break the rules a little bit, you need to make sure you do it in a responsible and believable way.
Also, from a purely cinematic and storytelling point of view, it would be a real shame if you have these two extraordinary actresses in the same film and they never share the screen once. That’s where the audience’s expectation and the demands of the story give you permission to envision these things. But that’s the one place that we veered a little bit from the historical record. Everything was thoroughly researched, and we stuck to the way things actually happened.
Of course, there are some scenes that are purely speculative. We cannot know what was spoken in bed between Mary and Lord Darnley! So that’s where you bring creative forces into the mix and imagine.
As with every project, there is a film that is written and a film that is made. Tell me about Saoirse, Margot Robbie, the excellent cast, and how they brought your words to life.
My first draft was 180 pages long! I told Josie that I put in there everything I wanted to see on screen, and of course we’d pare it down. She and I worked on quite a few drafts and worked out exactly what we wanted to do. Then she got to work on preproduction and filming. I was busy working on other stuff so I wasn’t on set a lot. But I knew it was in her capable hands and the hands of our two capable stars.
After filming had wrapped, I had that wonderful experience of seeing a rough cut. What was extraordinary was that everything we had discussed she had achieved. And not only achieved, but also added layers to it that made it even better than I could have imagined. And that’s one of my favorite things about working in theater, film, and TV—it’s a collaborative process and a lot of people’s voices and visions come into the mix. With actors like Saoirse and Margot, it’s often what they find between the lines, or in scenes with little or no dialogue, that really makes it sing. They bring an emotional complexity—what you see in their eyes, their presence, that one could not possibly write or describe. And that’s magic. I was thrilled and proud of what they achieved. ✯
Film Recon is a web series by Paraag Shukla, Senior Editor of Military History magazine at HistoryNet.
Mary Queen of Scots opens in theaters on December 7, 2018.
Check out our other Film Recon interviews for Mary Queen of Scots:
Josie Rourke — Director
Jack Lowden — “Lord Darnley”
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07ccae96f9ac0399527dfeea70f4ff29 | https://www.historynet.com/film-recon-interview-jack-lowden-mqos.htm | FILM RECON Interview: Jack Lowden on “Mary Queen of Scots” | FILM RECON Interview: Jack Lowden on “Mary Queen of Scots”
Jack Lowden, 28, is a successful and award-winning actor. Prior to being cast as Lord Darnley in Josie Rourke’s Mary Queen of Scots, Lowden performed on stage as well as in television and film projects. He spoke to Senior Editor Paraag Shukla about the film, which opens in theaters on December 7, 2018.
How familiar were you with this particular story prior to coming aboard?
Mary is such an incredible figure in our country’s history. I was familiar with her relationship with Elizabeth, and that she was imprisoned for about 18 years before her execution. I wasn’t at all familiar with Lord Darnley, who I played in the film, and the men that were in her life. Elizabeth I is considered England’s greatest monarch, and Mary was thought of as tragic.
This film does a fantastic job at portraying characters who are strong, ambitious, flawed, and vulnerable. That’s certainly true of Darnley. What kind of research did you do for your role?
I was very lucky and was given a hell of a lot of help in the way he interacts with the other characters. The script gave me several brilliant moments to play him not as a cocksure, arrogant young man of the court, but as an incredibly insecure and henpecked husband, as you said.
He was a Catholic by birth and was practicing, but he was incredibly fluid with that, too. He would bend it to whoever was in the room. When he wasn’t made king, I think he even went to Rome to petition, but then he’d also sit and watch John Knox’s Protestant preaching. A modern way of saying it would be that he was two-faced…or maybe he was a brilliant diplomat!
I didn’t have to do too much research because it was all there on the page, but as someone obsessed with history, I used it as an excuse to read tons of books!
Do you find it more or less challenging in portraying a real-life character?
I find it less challenging, maybe because there is a sort of blueprint already there for you. These characters are well documented, including other people’s opinions of them, so you have a lot to draw on. I’m most interested in how other people viewed my character.
How much leeway did Josie Rourke give you to explore Darnley and his behavior?
Josie gave me license to push as much as I could and see what I could get away with. Darnley really was renowned for being an idiot—unbelievably arrogant, insecure, violent, and a huge drinker. His sexuality was fluid and that obviously became a problem when he was married to Mary and his sole purpose was to produce an heir. There was so much for me to play with, and that’s a great problem to have!
There is a draw to him, to try and understand why he is the way he is, and to dig into his past and his family, which we do get a sense of in the film.
Yeah, it’s great, and it’s one of the more central themes in the film: expectation. Especially for Elizabeth and Mary, the expectation of being a woman as a monarch. And for someone as promising as Lord Darnley. He was well connected, something like third in line for the throne. That weight of expectation is a lot to be on anybody’s shoulders, as a young man or woman.
What did you find most challenging in the whole project?
I read a book by Robert Sellers called The Hellraisers, about Richard Burton, Richard Harris, Peter O’Toole, and Oliver Reed. I watched a lot of Peter O’Toole films, and what I found hard was all the things I wanted to do and try, I had to make them fit within the 1500s. The way I moved and talked, it had to still be in keeping with the time. Again, I had to see what I could get away with. That was the most challenging but also the most fun.
What was your favorite scene to shoot?
It was when Darnley comes to see Mary. She needs an heir, and having found out that he sleeps with men, she forces him to do it. I liked that scene because you don’t often get to see a woman character do that. I like that Darnley is completely vulnerable in that moment.
Tell me about Saoirse and her work on this film. She gives a truly strong performance.
Yeah, if anyone could handle this role, it’s Saoirse Ronan. She is utterly formidable, on and off screen, and is completely fearless—for being only 22 years old! She was a perfect fit, because Mary came to Scotland to regain her crown when she was 18. So it was only fitting that such an incredible young actress take her on. We were constantly blown away and she was a remarkable leader on set.
Given today’s political and cultural climate, this film is incredibly relevant. What do you hope audiences will take away from it?
There is the huge relevance to the “Me Too” movement and women in power—all of which needs to be talked about a hell of a lot more. There is all of that in the film, and that is one of its more central messages.
Personally, as a Scotsman I also want people to know more about Scotland and its remarkable and unique history. Scotland severely punched above its weight, and even more so back then. It was a time when England, France, and Spain were vying to be superpowers and Scotland always managed to squeeze itself into the most important rooms. What a remarkable little country Scotland was and is—the “biggest wee country in the world,” as we call it!
If you could ask Darnley one question, what would it be?
Who killed him? I’d love to know that. He probably knew, he probably saw them. It’s one of the great mysteries. His place was blown up and he was found stripped completely naked in a walled garden, strangled. If only you could have a modern-day detective turn up at that scene! ✯
Film Recon is a web series by Paraag Shukla, Senior Editor of Military History magazine at HistoryNet.
Mary Queen of Scots opens in theaters on December 7, 2018.
Check out our other Film Recon interviews for Mary Queen of Scots:
Josie Rourke — Director
Beau Willimon — Screenwriter
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3b1c2aa4c624ba3ab816a4999e624579 | https://www.historynet.com/film-recon-interview-josie-rourke-mqos.htm | FILM RECON Interview: Josie Rourke on “Mary Queen of Scots” | FILM RECON Interview: Josie Rourke on “Mary Queen of Scots”
Josie Rourke, 42, is an award-winning theater and film director. She has worked in theater since 1998 and, in 2011, became the first woman named Artistic Director of the Donmar Warehouse in London. Rourke spoke to Senior Editor Paraag Shukla about Mary Queen of Scots, her first film, which opens in theaters on December 7, 2018.
How familiar were you with this particular story prior to coming aboard?
Well, this is my first movie. I’m a stage director by trade and through that work I’m quite familiar with that period of history. I’ve always loved reading about it.
Movies are, first and foremost, entertainment. But audiences often learn more about history from a feature film than from a book. How did you strike a balance between historical accuracy and entertainment?
I don’t always see those things necessarily in opposition. In the film there’s a scene of the killing of David Rizzio. The fantastic book on which the movie is based, My Heart is My Own by Dr. John Guy, tells very vividly the account of that Julius Caesar-style assassination; how many men burst into Mary’s chambers, how it was dragged out. There’s even a thrilling and terrifying moment in which Mary spoke about feeling the point of a dagger in the small of her back as it first went through Rizzio when she was protecting him with her body. Such incredible detail like that can give you fantastic drama and amazing stuff to build on.
In terms of creating stories that are entertaining, there’s nothing quite as vivid as the life of Mary Queen of Scots. What one tries to do is try and cherry-pick the really great detailed events and try to shake that into a story that can take the shape of a movie. So we’ve focused on about seven years of her life, from her arrival in Scotland after the death of her first husband, the French king, through to her flight into England. That gave us a great window in which to focus our attention.
In the film, we see a realistic, intimate depiction of Mary and Elizabeth—their strength, but also vulnerability, flaws, self-doubt. How did you cut through the many cultural myths to humanize them?
There have been a lot of period dramas about this Tudor and Stuart part of history, but not a lot of those films have been directed by women. Almost all have been told by male directors. When I think about what it is to be those women, living through those moments, I think about my own body and experience and questions that instinctively and naturally arise as a woman and as a woman filmmaker.
We had a fantastic screenwriter, Beau Willimon. Although he is known for his tense, political drama, he always begins with character. He and I sat down with Saoirse Ronan and got to know her and understand who she is as a young woman, and then thought about creating this version of Mary for her to play. The whole thing is infused with a screenwriter who is focused on character, a woman filmmaker who is coming at it from her perspective and gender, and two extraordinary young women who were both at the peak of their power.
The final act has an engaging climax in the conversation between Mary and Elizabeth—it’s like a dance, with slowly unveiling themselves and their aspirations. One can’t help but think that a male director would’ve likely preferred to make the climax a battle scene of some sort.
Yeah! Fortunately, both Working Title Films and Focus Features were excited to get a fresh perspective and were tremendously encouraging of me following my instincts about the best way to tell the story. One of the key things about that scene is trust, especially my trust as a director in those two actresses to carry an eight-minute dialogue scene. That’s a long time to be with to characters as they talk. It’s a scene defined by extreme need on both sides. Mary really needs Elizabeth’s help, and Elizabeth really needs to be able to look her cousin in the eye. And you’re right, it places a great deal on the actress’ skill and power as performers, but they utterly deliver.
Tell me about Saoirse and Margot Robbie and their work on this film. So much weighs on their shoulders and they have given truly strong performances.
Yes, both of them. There have been so many celebrated portrayals of Elizabeth, and Cate Blanchette is one of Margot’s heroes. At first, she didn’t want to take on the role, because she felt there was so much status and history to it. So early on it was my work to find ways to give Margot confidence and access to discovering who this woman was and her interpretation. You are absolutely right—what defines both those women as actors is that they are capable of extreme acts of courage, and to take on these iconic roles and humanize them. It took detailed preparation and understanding the history and working with our choreographer to work out how their bodies would be in their clothes. What underpins all that is an iron will to make this work.
What was your favorite scene to shoot?
It was that scene you mentioned, when the two queens meet. I’ve never had a day like that in a rehearsal room or in a theater. It was completely extraordinary, the work they did on that day. It was a revelation, and most of us were in tears by the end of it.
And as someone who has worked in darkened auditoriums her whole life, shooting in the Scottish Highlands with 300 soldiers was pretty cool!
What did you find most challenging?
Altering my intellectual and physical rhythm. Theater is, to a degree, about endurance. For someone who hadn’t worked outdoors, I had to work out when I needed to sprint and when I needed to walk. We were in some challenging physical environments; sometimes we were shooting when it was raining sideways into my ear. But that’s the nature of the weather in Scotland!
What surprised you the most about the subject matter?
I had an instinct that Mary had been maligned by history, but it wasn’t until I read John’s book that I realized how much. William Cecil, played by Guy Pearce in the film, really rolled up his sleeves and started ripping letters out of the archive, writing over documents, publishing fake news. It painted Mary as an emotionally driven and politically hopeless femme fatale, and that is so utterly untrue. And that revelation gave me a mission to tell this story.
Given today’s political and cultural climate, this film is incredibly relevant. What do you hope audiences will take away from it?
If the film is underpinned by anything, it is the cost of power. And it asks us to look really hard at how challenging it is for women to lead and what demands—sometimes unreasonable—are put upon them when they try and do that. I hope there is a quiet but persistent argument for change, compassion, and humanity in leadership—and for understanding that we need to create better context in which women can succeed and thrive as leaders. ✯
Film Recon is a web series by Paraag Shukla, Senior Editor of Military History magazine at HistoryNet.
Mary Queen of Scots opens in theaters on December 7, 2018.
Check out our other Film Recon interviews for Mary Queen of Scots:
Beau Willimon — Screenwriter
Jack Lowden — “Lord Darnley”
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