If a man hasn't discovered something that he would die for, he isn't fit to live. - Martin Luther King Jr.
1 December 2000
To the reader:
During my eighteen months as commander of HHC, 1-68 AR, I had the good fortune to
serve with some of the finest lieutenants I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. From time to
time, when things were a little slow or we were together off duty, we would talk about the Army.
What it meant to us, why we had joined, and why we stayed. These discussions helped remind
us what service to our country meant, and they were one of the great pleasures of my command.
Earlier in my service my own company commander had given me a copy of this work
when he changed command, as we had often discussed similar matters in his company. Within
are a number of quotes, book excerpts and notes regarding military service. Some are
inspirational, others merely interesting, but they all share one common theme: they attempt to
answer the question why—why do some men choose to serve their country despite the myriad
challenges they face?
From time to time, when I am having a tough time or I simply need a little boost of
inspiration, I have turned to this work for that lift. I hope that you will enjoy it as well, and pass
it on to others in your travels.
To my Lieutenants, I will leave you with this. The greatest honor I ever had was serving
with you. Your dedication to duty was always an inspiration to me, and your friendship is a
reward greater than anything I could have expected when I took command of HHC. Thank you
all, for everything.
Andrew Olmsted
27th Infantry Division
Office of the Commanding General
Fort Ord, California
27 February 1942
The Honorable Clinton P. Anderson, M.C.
House of Representatives
Dear Mr. Anderson:
Your letter of February 17, to the Adjutant General, concerning Private Robert H. Lister,
Company A, 165th Infantry, has been sent to me.
You state:
"I am wondering if there has been some mistake in his assignment to Fort Ord.
"Robert Lister has had a fine education, has a Masters Degree, is about ready for a
Doctor's Degree, is an expert Spanish student, a skilled archeologist, and has been an instructor
at the University of New Mexico."
In this division of 22,000 men, I receive many letters similar to yours from parents,
relatives, friends and sweethearts. They do not understand why the man who had a good law
practice at home cannot be in the Judge Advocate General's Department, why the drug store
manager cannot work in the post hospital, why the school teacher cannot be used in educational
work. They are willing for someone else to do the hard, dirty work of the fighting man so long
as the one they are interested in can be spared that duty.
If doctors in the future are to have the privilege of practicing their profession, if
archeologists are to investigate antiquity, if students are to have the privilege of taking degrees,
and professors the privilege of teaching in their own way, somebody must march and fight and
bleed and die and I know no reason why students, doctors, professors, and archeologists
shouldn't do their share of it.
You say, "It strikes me as too bad to take that type of education and bury it in a rifle
squad," as though there were something low or mean or servile being a member of a rifle squad
and only morons and ditch diggers should be given such duty. I know of no place red blooded
men of intelligence and initiative are more needed than in the rifle or weapons squad.
In this capacity, full recognition is given to the placing of men so that they may do the
work most beneficial to the unit of which they are a part. Whenever men are needed for a
particular duty, the record of all men having the required skills and qualifications are considered.
I have examined the records of Private Lister and it is fairly complete. I know he holds the 100-
yard dash and broad jump records in the Border Conference; that he was president of his
fraternity; that his mother was born in Alabama and his father in Michigan; that his father lives at
the Burlington Hotel in Washington and I suspect asked you to do what you could to get his son
on other duty.
It is desirable that all men, regardless of their specialty, shall learn by doing; how hard it
is to march with a pack for 20 miles; how to hold their own in bayonet combat; and how to
respect the man who really takes it, namely the private in the rifle squad.
If Private Lister has special qualification for intelligence duty, he will be considered
when a vacancy occurs in a regimental, brigade, or division intelligence section. You can't keep
a good man down in the Army for long. Every commander is anxious to get hold of men with
imagination, intelligence, initiative, and drive.
Because you may think I'm a pretty good distance from a rifle squad, I should like to tell
you I have a son on Bataan Peninsula. All I know of him is that he was wounded on January 19.
I hope he is back by now where the rifle squads are taking it, and I wish I were beside him there.
I have written you this long letter because in your high position you exercise a large
influence on what people think and the way they regard the Army. It is necessary for them to
understand men must do that which best helps to win the war and often that is not the same as
what they do best.
Sincerely yours,
RALPH T. McPERNELL
Brig Gen, USA
Commanding
"I will not disgrace the soldier's arms, nor abandon the comrade who stands at my side;
but whether alone or with many, I will fight to defend things sacred and profane. I will hand
down my country not lessened, but larger and better than I have received it."
Ancient Athenian Oath
"There are only two Powers in the world…The sword and the spirit. In the long run, the
sword is always defeated by the spirit."
Napoleon
"That's the whole challenge of life—to act with honor and hope and generosity, no
matter what you've drawn. You can't help when or what you were born, you may not be able to
help how you die; but you can – and you should – try to pass the days between as a good man."
Sam Damon
Anton Myrer's Once an Eagle
"So in the Libyan fable it is told that once an eagle, stricken with a dart said, when he
saw the fashion of the shaft, 'With our own feathers, not by others' hands, are we now smitten.'"
Aeschylus
"…He wiped his eyes with his hand, picked up the pencil and clipboard and folded back
to a fresh sheet of paper and wrote:
Dear Mrs. Phelps:
You have, I know, already had word from your son's battalion commander, Lt. Col. Hoyt. I
know, too, how pitifully inadequate any words are at a time of such immeasurable loss as you
must feel; but I feel impelled to write a few lines in any event.
Your son was a most courageous soldier, and his actions at Tobaloor Village were in the
finest tradition of the United States Army. I have recommended him for the highest honor our
country can bestow; and I am proud to have known him. We shall all be the poorer for his loss.
When this vast and most cruel of wars is over and we have established a more generous than this,
perhaps we can all of us take some comfort in the thought that he is one of the men who made
that world possible.
Sincerely,
Samuel A. Damon, Maj. Gen., USA"
Anton Myrer's Once an Eagle
"Finally, be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so
that you can take your stand against the Devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh
and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world
and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of
God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you
have done everything, to stand. Stand firm with the belt of truth buckled around your waist, with
the breastplate of righteousness in place, and with your feet fitted with the readiness that comes
from the gospel of peace. In addition to all this, take up the shied of faith, with which you can
extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. Take the helmet of salvation and the sword of
the spirit, which is the word of God.
Ephesians 6:10
"Yet there was a change, and before long the men felt it. There was a perceptible
tightening up, as if someone who meant business had his hands on the reins now…orders went
forth to corps and division commanders to make a radical cut in the number of men who were
borne on the returns as 'on special duty.' Where equipment had been lacking it suddenly
materialized. Men found that they were working harder now than in the past. Subtly, but
unmistakably, an air of competence and preparation were manifest…all in all, it was as a New
England soldier wrote; 'We all felt at last that the boss had arrived.'"
A Stillness at Appomattox
Bruce Catton
"There are plenty of small-minded men who, in time of peace, excel in detail, are
inexorable in matters of equipment and drill, and perpetually interfere with the work of their
subordinates…They thus acquire an unmerited reputation and render their service a burden, but
they, above all, do mischief in preventing development of individuality and in retarding the
advancement of independent and capable spirits. When war arises, the small minds, worn out by
attention to trifles, are incapable of effort, and fail miserably. So goes the world."
Archduke Albert
"Duty be ours, consequences by God's."
"Stonewall" Jackson
"Often in long periods of peace, mechanical thinking triumphs over the qualities of the
heart and soul."
Scharnhorst
"It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings...and she ain't even on the peninsula."
2ID General talking to 2ID soldiers on the
Imjin
A week before the battle of Bull Run, Sullivan Ballou, a Major in the Second Rhode Island
volunteers wrote home to his wife in Smithfield…
July 14 1861
Washington D.C.
Dear Sarah,
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days, perhaps tomorrow.
Unlest I shall not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall
under your eye when I'm no more. I have no misgivings about or lack of confidence in the cause
in which I am engaged and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how American
Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the government and how great a debt we owe to
those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the revolution. And I am willing,
perfectly willing, to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this government and to pay
that debt.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing
but omnipotence can break. And yet, my love of country comes over me like a strong wind and
bares me irresistibly with all those chains to the battle field. The memory of all the blissful
moments I've enjoyed with you come crowding over me and I feel most deeply grateful to God
and You that I've enjoyed them for so long. And how hard it is for me to give them up and burn
to ashes the hopes of future years, when God willing we might still have lived and loved together
and see or boys grown up to honorable manhood around us.
If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you nor that when my
last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and
the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have sometimes been. But
oh Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall
always be with you in brightest day and the darkest night—always, always. And when the soft
breeze fans you cheek, it shall be my breath or the cool air on your throbbing temple, it shall be
my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not moan me dead, think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall
meet again.
Sullivan Ballou
Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the battle of Bull Run.
Battle Hymn of the Republic
1. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of terrible swift sword—
His truth is marching on.
2. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps,
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps—
His day is marching on.
3. He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never sound retreat,
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat;
O be swift, my soul, to answer him! Be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
4. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me;
As he died to make men holy, let us live to make men free—
While God is marching on.
Chorus
Glory! Glory, Hallelujah! Glory! Glory, Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory, Hallelujah! His truth is marching on!
"My sword I give to him that shall succeed me in my pilgrimage, and my courage and
skill to him that can get it. My works and scars I carry with me, to be a witness for me that I
have fought his battles who now will be my rewarder." So he passed over and all the trumpets
sounded for him on the other side.
Bunyon
"I am the resurrection and the life: he who believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live,
and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die."
John 11:25-26
"And when you draw near to the battle, the priest shall come forward and speak to the
people, and shall say to them, 'Hear, O Israel, you draw near this day to battle against your
enemies; let not your heart faint; do not fear, or tremble, or be in dread of them; for the Lord
your God is he that goes with you, to fight for you against your enemies, to give you the
victory."
Deuteronomy 20:2-4
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of
righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou anointest my
head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of
my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever."
The Shepherd's Psalm
"Have eaten your bread and salt,
I have drunk your water and wine,
The deaths ye died I have watched beside,
And the lives that ye led were mine.
Was there aught that I did not share
In vigil or toil or ease, ---
One joy or woe that I did not know,
Dear hearts across the seas?
I have written the tale of our life
For a sheltered people's mirth,
In jesting guise—but ye are wise,
And ye know what the jest is worth."
Come and fight by my side
Words of Henry the Fifth, King of England, before the battle of Agincourt
The French outnumbered the English six to one.
French losses: 5,000 killed, 1,000 captured
English losses: 113 killed.
Westmoreland:
Oh, that we now had here but one ten thousand
Of those men in England that do no work today!
Henry V:
What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland?
No, fair cousin.
If we are marked to die, we are enow to do our country loss,
And if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will! I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost.
It yearns me not if men my garments wear,
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honor,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lost so great an honor
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. Oh, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart.
His passport shall be made and crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day and comes safe home will stand a-tiptoe
When this day is named and rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day and see old age will yearly
On the vigil, feast his neighbors and say, 'Tomorrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispin's Day.'
Old men forget, yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages what feats he did that day,
Then shall our names, familiar in his mouth as household words,
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot,
Salisbury and Gloucester, be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son,
And Crispin, Crispian shall ne'er go by, from this day
To the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered—
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers
For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.
And gentlemen in England now abed
Be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition.
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us on Saint Crispin's Day.
"We love this country…warts and all. We love what it has been…what it is now…and
even more…we love what America can be. We're lucky God chose us to spend our lives
here…In return for that, we should pay our dues…Let's plan our lives in such a way that
America will not forget what we chipped in along our ways."
John Wayne
I am an American
I own you no apologies nor will I accept
Those apologies made for me by others.
If you dislike me—you dislike me not for
What I am but for what you are not.
By my own sweat, I have created a lifestyle
Which I desire for all men.
To the world I have shared my wealth and
Given my blood, not because of obligation—
But by my free will. I have fed the
Hungry of the world. Many bit my hand;
I used the other hand.
I defeated my enemies in battle, then
Pulled them up from the ashes of defeat.
Once strong, they again attacked; I turned
The other cheek. Though I am strong, I
Have never used my strength to rule others.
But do not misjudge me, I will not allow the
Fear of my own strength to become my
Weakness.
If you wish to rise, I will give you a helping
Hand. But by the grace of God, and I'll
First be damned, if I'll let you drag me
Down so that we may equal.
D. Ault
Freedom Isn't Free
by
Rev. Russell J. Clearman, Pastor
Gaines Street Baptist Church
Little Rock, Arkansas
Freedom is a priceless possession.
You can trace the painful price from Bunker Hill and Concord to Valley Forge.
The founding fathers made the down payments there
And brave men have continued to pay with their lives
At the Argonne and in Flanders Field;
At Dunkirk, Iwo Jima, the Anzio Beachhead;
In Korea; and today in war-torn Vietnam.
Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty. Remember that!
Freedom is a strange and evasive, yet rewarding, entity.
Freedom is like health: to love it is to appreciate it.
Freedom is indivisible, but we lose it by degrees.
Freedom is an end product. It is not the cause. It is the effect.
It is not static! It does not dwell in isolated splendor atop a wind-caressed mountain retreat,
Nor does it take residence within the ivy towers of historic reminiscences.
Freedom rides with the commuter on his way to work.
It strides with the farmer on his way to the field,
Where the soil of earth is furrowed in joy
And the winds sing the songs of wide ranges and blissful days.
It marches in cadence with those men and women who do the work of the world in dangerous
places…
Whose boots show the stain of bitter waters
And whose clothes are muddied by foreign soils.
Men and women in uniform…the defenders of freedom!
For freedom is doing…it is action…it is concern…it is involvement…it is investment…it is
prayer…it is faith…it is dedication…it is all of life reaching upward and outward and onward.
All I Really Need to Know
I Learned in Kindergarten
Most of what I really need to know about how to live and what to do and how to be I learned in
kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate-school mountain, but there in the sand
pile at Sunday School.
These are the things I learned:
Share everything.
Play fair.
Don't hit people.
Put things back where you found them.
Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours.
Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody.
Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush.
Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you.
Live a balanced life—learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and
play and work every day some.
Take a nap every afternoon.
When you go out into the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands, and stick together.
Be aware of wonder.
"The Flag"
Here's to the red of it
There's not a thread of it,
No, nor a shred of it
In all the spread of it
From foot to head,
But heroes bled for it,
Faced steel and lead for it,
Precious blood shed for it,
Bathing in red!
Here's to the white of it
Thrilled by the sight of it,
Who knows to right of it
But feels the might of it
Through day and night?
Womanhood's care for it
Keeps it so white!
Here's to the blue of it
Beauteous view of it,
Heavenly hue of it,
Star-spangled dew of it
Constant and true;
Diadems gleam for it,
States stand supreme for it,
Liberty's beam for it
Brightens the blue!
Here's to the whole of it
Stars, stripes and pole of it,
Body and soul of it,
O, and the roll of it,
Sun shining through;
Hearts in accord for it,
Swear by the sword for it,
Thanking the lord for it,
Red, white and blue!
Leadership
The art of leadership, the art of command, whether the forces be large or small, is the art
of dealing with humanity. Only the officer who dedicates his thought and energy to his men can
convert into coherent military force their desire to be of service to the country. Such were the
fundamental values that Napoleon had in mind when he said that those who would learn the art
of war should study the great captains. He was not speaking of tactics and strategy. He was
pointing to the success of Alexander, Caesar and Hannibal in moulding raw human nature, and to
their grasp of the thinking of their men and of how to direct it toward military advantage. These
are the grand objects.
There are other motor forces and mechanisms, most of which come under the heading of
management principles, and are therefore discussed in other portions of this volume. The
exception is the greatest force of all—patriotism. It may be deemed beyond argument that belief
in the social order and political doctrine of their country is the foundation of a loyal, willing
spirit in military forces. Yet this alone cannot assure efficiency in training or a battle élan that
results from proper training methods. There is nothing more soulless than a religion without
good works unless it be a patriotism that does not concern itself with the welfare and dignity of
the individual. This is a simple idea, though wise men in all ages have recognized it as one of
the more profound truths. From Aristotle on down, the philosophers have said that the main
force in shaping the characters of people is not teaching and preaching, though these, too, are
important, but the social climate in which they live. In an age when there is widespread
presumption that practical problems can be solved by phrases, the military body needs more than
ever to hold steadfastly to first principles. It does no good for an officer to talk patriotism to his
people unless he stands four-square with them, and they see in him a symbol of what is right—
the best thing for them, as for the nation. Under those circumstances, he can always talk to them
about the cause, and what he says will help morale.
In the Normandy invasion, a young commander of paratroopers, Lieutenant Colonel
Edward S. Krause, was given the task of capturing a main enemy communications center. Three
hours before the take-off he assembled his battalion, held a small American flag in front of them,
and said, "This was the first flag raised over the city of Naples. You put it there. I want it to be the first flag raised over a liberated town
in France. The mission is that we will put it up in Ste. Mere-Eglise before dawn. You have only
one order—to come and fight with me wherever you land. When you get to Ste. Mere-Eglise, I
will be there."
The assignment was kept. Next morning, Krause and his men raised the flag together,
even before they had completed capture of the town. As Americans go, they were extremely
rugged individualists, but they were proud of every line in that story.
Rommel
The Rommel Papers, p. 201
"It is my experience that bold decisions give the best promise of success. A bold
operation is one in which success is not a certainty but which in case of failure, leaves one with
sufficient forces in hand to cope with whatever situation may arise. A gamble, on the other hand,
is an operation which can lead to either victory or to complete destruction of one's force."
"Never take counsel of your fears."
George S. Patton
A Tribute to Submariners
"I have often looked for an opportunity of paying tribute to our Submariners.
"There is no branch of His Majesty's force which in this war has suffered the same
proportion of total loss as our Submarine Service.
"It is the most dangerous of all services. That is perhaps the reason why the First Sea
Lord tells me that the entry into it is keenly sought by Officers and Men.
"I feel sure the house would wish to testify its gratitude and admiration to our
Submariners for their Skill, Courage and Devotion which has proved of inestimable value to the
sustenance of Our Country."
Winston Churchill
To the House of Commons
I have entitled the article below 'The Dark Side of Command.' It relates the awesome
responsibility of combat commanders. In this case the British commander made the awful
choice rather than have his wounded soldiers fall into the hands of the Japanese and risk torture,
he made the decision to have his own soldiers shot.
The Road Past Mandalay
by John Masters
pp. 277-8
The stretchers lay in the path itself, and in each stretcher lay a soldier of 111 brigade.
The first man was quite naked and a shell had removed the entire contents of his stomach.
Between his chest and pelvis there was a bloody hollow, behind it his spine. Another had no legs
and no hips, his trunk ending just below the waist. A third had no left arm, shoulder, or breast,
all torn away in one piece. A fourth had no face and whitish liquid was trickling out of his head
into the mud. A fifth seemed to have been torn in pieces by a mad giant, and his lips bubbled
gently.
Nineteen men lay there. A few conscious. At least, their eyes moved, but without light
in them.
The doctor said, "I've got another thirty on ahead, who can be saved, if we can carry
them." The rain clattered so loud on the bamboo that I could hardly hear what he said. "These
men have no chance. They're full of morphia. Most of them have bullet and splinter wounds
beside what you can see. Not one chance at all, sir, I give you my word of honour. Look, this
man's died already, and that one. None can last another two hours, at the outside."
Very well. I have two thousand lives in my hand, besides these. One small mistake, one
little moment of hesitation and I will kill five times these nineteen.
I said aloud, "Very well. I don't want them to see any Japanese." I was trying to smile
down into the flat white face below me, that had no belly, but there was no sign of recognition,
or hearing, or feeling. Shells and bombs burst on the slope above and bullets clattered and
whined overhead.
"Do you think I want to do it?" The doctor cried in helpless anger. "We've been fighting
to save that man for twenty-four hours and then just now, in the M.D.S., he was hit in the same
place." His voice changed. "We can't spare any more morphia."
"Give it to those whose eyes are open," I said. "Get the stretcher bearers on it at once.
Five minutes."
He nodded and I went back up to the ridge for the last time. One by one, carbine shots
exploded curtly behind me. I put my hands to my ears but nothing could shut out the sound.
I found Titch Hurst of the Cameronians on the ridge, and Douglas Larpent, the latter
commanding the rear party. I said, "Retire in five minutes. I shall be with the first layback at the
water point."
We looked across the shallow valley where the forward sections were engaging the
Japanese with a sharp fire. The fire strengthened, under Douglas' orders. I walked down the
path, looking, but the bodies had been well hidden in the bamboo and the path was quite empty.
I muttered, "I'm sorry," and "Forgive me," and hurried on.
Fiddlers' Green
Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green,
Are the souls of all dead troopers camped
Near a good old-time canteen,
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.
Marching past, straight through to hell,
The infantry are seen,
Accompanied by the engineers,
Artillery and marine,
For none but the shades of cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene,
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen,
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.
Gunga Din
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! Slippy hiterao!
Water, get it! Panee lao!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!"
The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a twisty piece o' rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eye brows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could 'ear the front-files shout:
"Hi! Ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"
I sha'nt forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' 'e plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green:
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to pore damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din!
Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
"The commander finds himself in a constant whirlpool of false and true information, of
mistakes committed through fear, through negligence, through haste; of disregard of his
authority, either from mistaken or correct motives, of accidents, which no mortal could have
foreseen. In short, he is the victim of a hundred thousand impressions, most of which are
intimidating, few of which are encouraging. By long experience of war, one acquires the
sensitive perception (necessary) for quickly determining the (true) value of these incidents; high
courage and stability of character stand proof against them. Only an immense force of will can
conduct us to our goal."
Clausewitz
"The soldier's heart, the soldier's spirit, the soldier's soul, are everything. Unless the
soldier's soul sustains him, he cannot be relied on and will fail himself and his command and his
country in the end.
"It is not enough to fight. It is the spirit which we bring to the fight that decides the issue.
It is morale that wins the victory.
"Morale is a state of mind. It is steadfastness, and courage, and hope. It is confidence
and zeal and loyalty. It is élan, esprit de corps, determination.
"It is staying power, the spirit which endures in the end…the will to win.
"With it all things are possible; without it everything else, planning, preparation, and
production, count for naught."
General George C. Marshall
"Character is the direct result of mental attitude. I believe that character is higher than the
intellect. I believe that leadership is in sacrifice, in self-denial, in humility and in the perfectly
disciplined will. This is the distinction between great and little men."
Vince Lombardi
Thucydides
History of the Peloponnesian War
Translated by Benjamin Jowett
[This is an extract from a speech made by the representatives of Corinth, a city bitterly hostile to
Athens, at a congress of Spartan allies meeting at Sparta in 432 B.C. to discuss the question of
peace or war with Athens. The Spartans were hesitant, and in this speech the Corinthian
ambassadors urge them to take a firm stand.]
You have never considered what manner of men are these Athenians with whom you will
have to fight, and how utterly unlike yourselves. They are revolutionary, equally quick in the
conception and in the execution of every new plan; while you are conservative—careful only to
keep what you have, originating nothing, and not acting even when action is most necessary.
They are bold beyond their strength; they run risks which prudence would condemn; and in the
midst of misfortune they are full of hope. Whereas it is your nature though strong, to act feebly;
when your plans are most prudent, to distrust them; and when calamities come upon you, to think
that you will never be delivered from them. They are impetuous, and you are dilatory; they are
always abroad, and you are always at home. For they hope to gain something by leaving their
homes; but you are afraid that any new enterprise may imperil what you have already. When
conquerous, they pursue their victory to the utmost; when defeated, they fall back the least.
Their bodies they devote to their country as though they belonged to other men; their true self is
their mind, which is most truly their own when employed in her service. When they do not carry
out an intention which they have formed, they seem to have sustained a personal bereavement;
when an enterprise succeeds, they have gained a mere installment of what is to come; but if they
fail, they at once conceive new hopes and so fill up the void. With them alone to hope is to have,
for they lose not a moment in the execution of an idea. This is the life-long task, full of danger
and toil, which they are always imposing upon themselves. None enjoy their good things less,
because they are always seeking for more. To do their duty is their only holiday, and they deem
the quiet of inaction to be as disagreeable as the most tiresome business. If a man should say to
them, in a word, that they were born neither to have peace themselves nor to allow peace to other
men, he would simply speak the truth.
Excerpts from Once an Eagle, by Anton Myrer
"…he's going to go a long, long way," she declared, pointing her finger. "Massengale.
You wait and see."
He studied her evenly. "You're absolutely right. He will."
"He's got all the qualities needed."
"All but one." Sam tapped his heart with two fingers. "He doesn't care enough. About
people. There's something lacking there, some funny little—lack."
"…He doesn't think people are important. Not desperately important, I mean. More
important than thrones and symphonies and triumphal arches."
"My God, Sam. You just said you only met him once before this…"
"That's all a man needs, most of the time."
And out there, a few hundred yards away, they were fighting: staring at the fitful dark,
crouching hip-deep in water, shoulders hunched under their helmets, checking by feel for
grenades, flare cartridges, alarm cords, power phones, struggling to hear sounds of human
movement against the lashing fury of the rain. The focal point of what Washington was pleased
to call The War Effort. The private in his concealed outpost, soaked to the very marrow of his
bones, hungry, shaking with malaria, a jungle ulcer suppurating on his neck, his guts griping and
burning with dysentery spasms, straining to hear, alone with his fear of the shadow darker-than-
darker, the near flurry of movement, the knife, the cataclysmic flash of the grenade: held together
by loyalty to his squad mates, pride in his company, grinding hatred of the enemy who had killed
and mangled the bodies of his friends, fugitive dreams of that hometown whose inhabitants now
worried about B-cards and points for roast beef and shoes and liquor, who cursed the ration
boards and cheered and clapped at the newsreels between the feature films…There, in that
outpost, on that three-square-feet of ground, was where the real war was being fought, no matter
who denied it; and how that private did tonight—whether he had the hardihood and the craft to
resist exhaustion and debility and slumber and kill the weary, sick, resourceful enemy who
sought his life—would decide who would win this war, and nothing else.
"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled
or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually
in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs
and comes short again and again…who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and
spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the least knows in the end the triumph of high
achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while doing greatly, so that his place
shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."
Theodore Roosevelt
"The soldier is a man; he expects to be treated as an adult, not a schoolboy. He has right;
they must be made known to him and thereafter respected. He has ambition; it must be stirred.
He has a belief in fair play; it must be honored. He has a need of comradeship; it must be
supplied. He has imagination; it must be stimulated. He has a sense of personal dignity; it must
be sustained. He has pride; it can be satisfied and made the bedrock of character once he has
been assured that he is playing a useful and respected role. To give a man this is the acme of
inspired leadership. He has become loyal because loyalty has been given to him."
General George C. Marshall
"The badge of rank (leaders wear)…is a symbol of servitude—servitude to (soldiers)."
General Maxwell Taylor
"Wars may be fought by weapons, but they are won by men."
General George S. Patton
"Leadership in a democratic army means firmness, not harshness; understanding, not
weakness; justice, not license; humaneness, not intolerance; generosity, not selfishness; pride,
not egotism."
General Omar N. Bradley
"You have to lead men in war by bringing them along to endure and display qualities of
fortitude that are beyond the average man's thought of what he should be expected to do. You
have to inspire them when they are hungry and exhausted and desperately uncomfortable and in
great danger. Only a man of positive characteristic of leadership with the physical stamina that
goes with it can function under those conditions."
General George C. Marshall
"To win, we must have leaders and commanders with fire in their belly."
General William E. DePuy
Special Orders to No. 1 Section 13/3/18
1. This position will be held, and the section will remain there until relieved.
2. The enemy cannot be allowed to interfere with this programme.
3. If this section cannot remain here alive, it will remain here dead, but in any case it will remain
here.
4. Should any man, through shell shock or other cause, attempt to surrender, he will remain here
dead.
5. Should all guns be blown out, the section will use Mills grenades and other novelties.
6. Finally, the position, as stated, will be held.
F.P. Bethune, Lr.
O/C No. 1 Section
Orders from an Australian Lieutenant in World War I, serving in France.
The position held.
"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things; the decayed and degraded state of
moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. A man who
has nothing for which he is willing to fight; nothing he cares about more than his own personal
safety; is a miserable creature who has no chance of being free, unless made and kept so by the
exertions of better men than himself."
John Stewart Mill
Press On
"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more
common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a
proverb. Education will not; the world is full of education derelicts. Persistence and
determination alone are omnipotent."
Calvin Coolidge
"There is a destiny that makes us brothers
None goes his way alone
All that we give to the lives of others
Comes back into our very own"
Emerson
"Nations have passed away and left no traces, and history gives the naked cause to it – one
single, simple reason in all cases; they fell because their people were not fit."
Rudyard Kipling
CIB
The Man with the Rifle
Men may argue forever on what wins wars,
And welter in cons and pros,
And seek for their answer at history's doors,
But the man with the rifle knows.
He must stand on the ground on his own two feet,
And he's never in doubt when it's won.
If it's won he's there; if he's not, it's defeat.
That's his test, when the fighting is done.
When he carries the fight, it's not with a roar,
Of armored wings spitting death.
It's creep and crawl on the earthen floor,
Butt down and holding his breath.
Saving his strength for the last low rush,
Grenade throw and bayonet thrust;
And the whispered prayer, before he goes in,
Of a man who does what he must.
And when he's attacked, he can't zoom away,
When the shells fill the world with their sound,
He stays where he is, loosens his spade,
And digs his defense in the ground.
That ground isn't ours till he's there in the flesh,
Not a gadget or a bomb but a man.
He's the answer to theories, which start in afresh,
With each peace ever since war began.
So let the wild circle of arguments rage
On what wins, as war comes and goes,
Many new theories may hold the stage
But the man with the rifle knows.
Het
Fini
Commander's Prayer
Well, it's been a long time since we talked, Lord.
'Guess you'd just about given up on me.
I think it was at Go Dau Ha, wasn't it?
I sure prayed a lot that day…
He was so young.
I was young too, I guess.
Now I wouldn't blame you
If you don't want to hear me out.
But I want you to know
I'm not asking anything for myself.
I'll play my hand the way it's dealt.
It's the soldiers, Lord.
I need your help taking care of them.
I find I can't handle this one by myself.
Just look at 'em—young and earnest.
They work hard and do anything I ask.
And our business is so dangerous.
If we fight on my watch,
It's gonna be hard and fast
As I can make it go.
I pray our cause be just.
We must train to be ready now.
They'll be safer that way.
They need to be hard and fast in peacetime too.
But I worry for them so,
And can't bear to see them hurt.
Help me see and check and teach
The things that might go wrong.
I need your help tonight
As we prepare to roll.
Please keep these men safe.
A Certain Aura
I love to see him walk. He never saunters,
For there is always purpose in his stride,
A buoyant job in living there—a firmness,
A faith in life that gives him strength and pride.
He wears a cloak of confidence about him
As dashing as a cape on a knight of old,
And yet his gentle smile belies his vigor—
It is his faith alone that makes him bold.
I love to watch him walk, for there is something
About his stride—his smile—his gentle nod
That lends a certain aura to his passing—
You know you've seen a man who walks with God.
Two Commanders
Two kinds of commanders, my company needs,
One for the words, the other for deeds.
One to parade us with guidons held high,
The other to lead us when steel starts to fly.
One who will push us to get ourselves squared,
Another to pull us when we get damned scared.
One to inspect us to make us stay clean,
Another to train us and make us "real mean."
A captain who always is starched, pressed and strike,
A captain whose boots may show wear from our hike,
A leader with ribbons displayed on his shirt,
A leader whose face with sweat streaks in the dirt.
We need a commander whose accounts are just right.
We need an old man who can teach us to fight.
Would it not fit a magnificent plan
If both our commanders could be the same man?
PFC David A. Farley
Co A, 1st Bn, 30th Inf
U.S. ARMY
MILITARY HISTORY INSTITUTE
February 27, 1984
No. 248
VIGNETTES OF MILITARY HISTORY
Contributed by Colonel Donald P. Shaw, U.S. Army Military History Institute
THE EDUCATION OF A GENERAL
Few generals have had the impact on the Army that General William E. DePuy had—and continues to
have. Few also have been so forthright about how their ideas of leadership, of employing combat forces, were
shaped. Here are some topics from General DePuy's fine interviews for the 1979 Army War College-Military
History Institute Oral History Program:
LEADERSHIP: Nobody in preparing for World War II combat ever got fired for anything…There was no
tough thinning out of the guys that should have been eliminated before they got a lot of people killed. One of the
battalion commanders in his regiment, the 357th Infantry, just didn't seem to have strength of character, and he just
folded up. Another battalion commander was just a small time punk from Chicago…he ran away ten minutes after
the first battle started—declared himself blind, turned himself in to the aid station and was evacuated to the beach.
The third battalion commander had a drinking problem and had to be relieved because of that. You cannot fight
infantry battalions with bad battalion commanders. It's absolutely impossible…I guess that was my strongest
emotional reaction to the war. I just saw too many people killed by too many incompetent leaders whose
incompetence was obvious long before it happened. They shouldn't have been permitted to stay.
LEARNING FROM THE ENEMY: I was impressed with the positions that the German infantry soldiers
constructed. They took skill and care in finding a position which had cover and natural concealment and was almost
impossible to see, and yet afforded a field of fire exactly where they needed it to stop us…their field craft was super.
The second thing that I got was the depth in their positions. We had just one line. The Germans had a little zone
defense…so that they had elasticity and resilience. They didn't do things in a linear way—they knit terrain together
into a position and they fired in all sorts of directions. I guess I was impressed with their use of just one, two or
three mechanized vehicles like assault guns or tanks. Most of the time, when you ran into German positions, you
would run into a mixture of infantry and some kind of tracked fighting vehicles. They integrated that and they
moved it around a lot; they wouldn't just sit in one place. The third thing I was absolutely convinced of was
suppression with organic infantry weapons, particularly the machine pistol. They'd spray your front; they'd drive
your soldiers to the ground, and then they'd come in on you.
WHO FIGHTS: Some 10% of the soldiers were the ones who actually took the initiative, moved, fired their
rifles, threw hand grenades…the rest of them contributed to casualties. I came away absolutely convinced that 9 out
of 10 or 8 out of 10 do not have an instinct for the battlefield and will not act independently except under direct
orders. If an officer orders them to do something, eyeball to eyeball, most men, even ones who don't want to do it
and who have no initiative and are scared to death, will normally do exactly what you tell them to do. This means
that effectiveness varies directly with leadership actively applied…I still feel the Army needs a lot more leaders in
proportion to followers, particularly not that war is more dangerous and equipment is more complex. I'd like to
have…smaller battalions. That's simply to increase the ratio of leaders to followers…
Leslie D. Weatherhead
On Comradeship
When a soldier was injured and could not get back to safety, his buddy went out to get
him, against his officer's orders. He returned mortally wounded and his friend, whom he had
carried back, was dead.
The officer was angry. "I told you not to go," he said. "Now I've lost both of you. It
was not worth it."
The dying man replied, "But it was, sir, because when I got to him he said, 'Jim, I knew
you'd come.'"
ALAMO
24 February 1836
To the people of Texas and all Americans in the world. Fellow citizens and compatriots:
I am besieged by a thousand or more of the Mexicans under Santa Anna. I have sustained
a continued bombardment for twenty-four hours and have not lost a man. The enemy have
demanded a surrender at discretion; otherwise the garrison is to be put to the sword if the place is
taken. I have answered the summons with a cannon shot and our flag waves proudly from the
walls.
I shall never surrender or retreat.
Then I call on you in the name of liberty, of patriotism, and everything dear to the
American character to come to our aid with all dispatch. The enemy are receiving reinforcements
daily and will no doubt increase to three or four thousand in four or five days. Though this call
may be neglected, I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible and die like a soldier
who never forgets what is due his own honor and that of his country. Victory or Death!
W. BARRET TRAVIS
Lieutenant Colonel
Commanding
P.S. The Lord is on our side. When the enemy
appeared in sight, we had not three bushels of
corn. We have since found in deserted houses,
80 or 90 bushels and get into the walls 20 or 30
head of beeves.
What Really Counts—Men who will Fight
General MacArthur's order to General Eichelberger
"Bob," said MacArthur in a grim voice, "I'm putting you in command at Buna. Relieve
Harding. I am sending you in, Bob, and I want you to remove all officers who won't fight.
Relieve regimental and battalion commanders; if necessary, put sergeants in charge of battalions
and corporals in charge of companies—anyone who will fight. Time is of the essence. The
Japanese may land regiments any night."
General MacArthur strode down the breezy veranda again. He said he had reports that
American soldiers were throwing away their weapons and running from the enemy. Then he
stopped short and spoke with emphasis. He wanted no misunderstandings about my assignment.
"Bob," he said, "I want you to take Buna, or not come back alive." He paused a moment,
and then, without looking at Byers, pointed a finger. "And that goes for your chief of staff, too.
Do you understand?"
"Yes sir," I said.
TO MRS. LYDIA BIXBY
Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864
Dear Madam, - I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the
Adjutant General of Massachusetts, that you are the mother of five sons who have died
gloriously on the field of battle.
I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile
you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the
consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.
I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave
you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours, to
have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of Freedom.
Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,
Abraham Lincoln
"We have been told, on leaving our native soil, that we were going to defend the sacred rights
conferred on us by so many of our citizens settled overseas, so many years of our presence, so
many benefits brought by us to populations in need of our assistance and our civilization.
We were able to verify that all this was true, and, because it was true, we did not hesitate to shed
our quota of blood, to sacrifice our youth and our hopes. We regretted nothing, but whereas we
over here are inspired by this frame of mind, I am told that in Rome, factions and conspiracies
are rife, that treachery flourishes, and that many people in their uncertainty and confusion lend a
ready ear to the dire temptations of relinquishment and vilify our action.
I cannot believe that all this is true and yet recent wars have shown how pernicious such a state
of mind could be and to where it could lead.
Make haste to reassure me, I beg you, and tell me that our fellow citizens understand us, support
us and protect us as we ourselves are protecting the glory of the Empire.
If it should be otherwise, if we should have to leave our bleached bones on these desert sands in
vain, then beware of the anger of the legions!
Marcus Flavinius,
Centurion in the 2nd
Cohort of the Augusta
Legion, to his cousin
Tertulus in Rome
(about 20 B.C.)
SCHOFIELD'S DEFINITION OF DISCIPLINE
The discipline which makes the solders of a free country reliable in battle is not to be
gained by harsh or tyrannical treatment. On the contrary, such treatment is far more likely to
destroy than to make an army. It is possible to impart instruction and to give commands in such
a manner and such a tone of voice to inspire in the soldier no feeling but an intense desire to
obey, while the opposite manner and tone of voice cannot fail to excite strong resentment and a
desire to disobey. The one mode or the other dealing with subordinates springs from the
corresponding spirit in the breast of the commander. He who feels and hence manifests
disrespect toward others, especially his inferiors, cannot fail to inspire hatred against himself.
THE HABIT OF WINNING
Winning is not a sometime thing. You don't win once in a while. You don't do things
right once in a while. You do them right all the time.
Winning is a habit. Unfortunately, so is losing. There is no room for second place. I
have finished second twice in my time at Green Bay and I don't ever want to finish second again.
There is a second place bowl game—but it is a game to losers played by losers. It is and always
has been American zeal to be first in anything we do, and to win.
Every time a football player goes out to play, he's got to play from the ground up. From
the soles of his feet right up to his head. Every inch of him has to play. Some guys play with
their heads, that's okay—you've got to to be number one in any business, but more important,
you've got to play with your heart. With every fiber of your body. If you are lucky enough to
find a guy with a lot of head and a lot of heart, he's never going to come off the field second.
Running a football team is no different from running any other kind of organization; an
army, a political party, a business. The problems are the same. The objective is to win, to beat
the other guy. Maybe that sounds hard or cruel. I don't think it is.
It is a reality of life that men are competitive and the most competitive games draw the
most competitive men. That's why they're there—to compete. They know the rules and
objectives when they get in the game. The objective is to win—fairly, decently, by the rules—
but to win. And in truth, I have never known a man worth his salt who, in the long run, deep
down in his heart, did not appreciate the grind—the discipline. There is something in good men
that yearns for—needs—discipline and the harsh reality of head-to-head combat.
I don't say these things because I believe in the "brute" nature of man, or that men must
be brutalized to be combative. I believe in God and I believe in human decency. But I firmly
believe that any man's finest hour, his greatest fulfillment to all he holds dear, is the moment
when he has worked his heart out in a good cause and lies exhausted on the field of
battle….victorious.
Vince Lombardi
THE CHOICE
Have you noticed that in military history no regular army has ever been able to deal with
the properly organized guerrilla force? If we use the regular army in Algeria, it can only end in
failure. I'd like France to have two armies: one for display with lovely guns, tanks, little
soldiers, fanfare, staffs, distinguished and doddering Generals, and dear little regimental officers
who would be deeply concerned over their General's bowel movements or the Colonel's piles;
an army that would be shown for a modest fee on every fairground in the country.
The other would be the real one, composed entirely of young enthusiasts in camouflage
battledress, who would not be put on display but from whom impossible efforts would be
demanded and to who all sorts of tricks would be taught. That's the army in which I should like
to fight.
Lieutenant Colonel Pierre Raspeguy
Prior to assuming command of the
10th Parachute Regiment, Camp des Pins Algeria
"Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilization. Upon it depends our own British
life and the long continuity of our institutions and our Empire. The whole fury and might of the
enemy must very soon be turned on us. Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island
or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free, and the life of the world may
move forward into broad, sunlit uplands; but if we fail, then the whole world, including the
United States, and all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new dark
age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted by the lights of a perverted science. Let us
therefore brace ourselves to our duty and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its
Commonwealth lasts for a thousand years men will still say, 'This was their finest hour.'"
Winston Churchill
18 June 1940
In this war I have known a lot of officers who were loved and respected by the soldiers under them. But
never have I crossed the trail of any man as beloved as Captain Henry T. Waskow, of Belton, Texas.
Captain Waskow was a company commander in the Thirty-sixth Division. He had led his company since
long before it left the States. He was very young, only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and
gentleness that made people want to be guided by him.
"After my father, he came next," a sergeant told me.
"He always looked after us," a soldier said. "He'd go to bat for us every time."
"I've never known him to do anything unfair," another said.
I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Captain Waskow down. The moon was nearly full,
and you could see far up the trail…dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed onto the backs
of mules. They came lying belly-down across the wooden packsaddles, their heads hanging down on one side, their
stiffened legs sticking out awkwardly from the other, bobbing up and down as the mules walked….
I don't know who the first one was. You feel small in the presence of dead men, and you don't ask silly
questions.
They slid him down from the mule, and stood him on his feet for a moment. In the half-light he might have
been merely a sick man standing there leaning on the others. Then they laid him on the ground in the shadow of the
stone wall along side the road. We left him there beside the road, the first one, and we all went back into the
cowshed and sat on water cans or lay on the straw, waiting for the next batch of mules.
Somebody said the dead soldier has been dead for four days, and then nobody said anything more about it.
We talked soldier talk for an hour or more; the dead men lay all alone, outside in the shadow of the wall.
Then a soldier came into the cowshed and said there were more bodies outside. We went out into the road.
Four mules stood there in the moonlight, in the road where the trail came down off the mountain. The soldiers who
led them stood there waiting.
"This one is Captain Waskow," one of them said quietly.
Two men unlashed his body from the mule and lifted it off and laid it in the shadow beside the stone wall.
Other men took the other bodies off. Finally, there were five lying end to end in a long row. You don't cover up
dead men in the combat zones. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody comes after them.
The unburdened mules moved off to their olive grove. The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave.
They stood around, and gradually I could sense them moving, one by one, close to Captain Waskow's body. Not so
much to look, I think, as to say something in finality to him and to themselves. I stood close by and I could hear.
One soldier came and looked down, he said out loud, "God damn it!"
That's all he said, and then he walked away.
Another one came, and he said, "God damn it to hell anyway!" He looked down for a few moments and
then turned and left.
Another man came, I think he was an officer. It was hard to tell officers from men in the dim light, for
everybody was bearded and grimy. The man looked down into the dead captain's face and then spoke directly to
him, as though he were alive, "I'm sorry, old man."
Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer and bent over, and he too spoke to his dead captain, not in
a whisper but awfully tenderly, and he said, "I sure am sorry, sir."
Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the captain's hand, and he sat there for a
full five minutes holding the dead hand in his own and looking intently into the dead face. And he never uttered a
sound al the time he sat there.
Finally, he put the hand down. He reached over and gently straightened the points of the captain's shirt
collar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of the uniform around the wound, and then he got up and
walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone.
Ernie Pyle
Brave Men
On 7 July 1970, Captain John Alexander Hottell was strapped in a helicopter that was caught up
in a tropical storm and slammed into a hillside in a remote mountain area of Vietnam. Shortly
before, while commanding a company of the 1st Cavalry Division, he had written a sealed letter
to his wife, Linda, which began:
I am writing my own obituary…(because) I am quite simply the last authority on my own death.
I loved the Army: it reared me, it nurtured me, and it gave me the most satisfying years of my
life. Thanks to it I have lived an entire lifetime in 26 years. It is only fitting that I should die in
its service. We all have but one death to spend, and insofar as it can have any meaning it finds it
in the service of comrades in arms.
And yet, I deny that I died FOR anything—not my Country, not my Army, not my fellow man,
none of these things. I LIVED for these things, and the manner in which I chose to do it
involved the very real chance that I would die in the execution of my duties. I knew this and
accepted it, but my love for West Point and the Army was great enough—and the promise that I
would someday be able to serve all the ideals that meant anything to me though it was great
enough—for me to accept this possibility as part of the price which must be paid for all things of
great value. If there is nothing worth dying for—in this sense—there is nothing worth living for.
The Army let me live in Japan, Germany, and England, with experiences in all of these places
that others only dream about…I have climbed Mount Fuji, visited the ruins of Athens, Ephesus,
and Rome…and earned a master's degree in a foreign university. I have known what it is like to
be married to a fine and wonderful woman and to love her beyond bearing with the sure
knowledge that she loves me; I have commanded a company and been a father, priest, income-
tax advisor, confessor, and judge to 200 men at a time; I have played college football and rugby,
won the British National Diving Championship two years in a row, boxed for Oxford against
Cambridge only to be knocked out in the first round…I have been an exchange student at the
German Military Academy, and gone to the German Jumpmaster School. I have made thirty
parachute jumps from everything from a balloon in England to a jet at Fort Bragg. I have written
an article for Army magazine, and I have studied philosophy.
I have experienced all these things because I was in the Army and because I was an Army brat.
The Army is my life, it is such a part of what I was that what happened is the logical outcome of
the life I have lived. I never knew what it was to fail, I never knew what it is to be too old or too
tired to do anything. I lived a full life in the Army, and it has exacted the price. It is only just.
Bear:
The problem with being too busy to read is that you
learn by experience (or by your men's
experience), i.e. the hard way. By reading, you learn through
others' experiences, generally a better way to do
business, especially in our line of work
where the consequences of incompetence are so final for young men.
Thanks to my reading, I have never been caught
flat-footed by any situation, never at a loss
for how any problem has been addressed (successfully or
unsuccessfully) before. It doesn't give me all the
answers, but it lights what is often a dark
path ahead.
With TF 58, I had w/ me Slim's book, books about
the Russian and British experiences in AFG,
and a couple others.
Going into Iraq, "The Siege" (about the Brits'
defeat at Al Kut in WW I) was req'd reading
for field grade officers. I also had Slim's book; reviewed T.E.
Lawrence's "Seven Pillars of Wisdom"; a good book
about the life of Gertrude Bell (the Brit
archaelogist who virtually founded the modern Iraq state in the
aftermath of WW I and the fall of the Ottoman
empire); and "From Beirut to Jerusalem". I
also went deeply into Liddel Hart's book on Sherman, and Fuller's
book on Alexander the Great got a lot of my
attention.
Ultimately, a real understanding of history means
that we face NOTHING new under the sun. For
all the "4th Generation of War" intellectuals running
around today saying that the nature of war has
fundamentally changed, the tactics are wholly
new, etc, I must respectfully say... "Not really."
Alex the Great would not be in the least bit
perplexed by the enemy that we face right now
in Iraq, and our leaders going into this fight do their troops a
disservice by not studying (studying, vice just
reading) the men who have gone before us.
We have been fighting on this planet for 5000 years
and we should take advantage of their
experience. "Winging it" and filling body bags as we sort out
what works reminds us of the moral dictates and the
cost of incompetence in our profession. As
commanders and staff officers, we are coaches and sentries for our
units: how can we coach anything if we don't know a
hell of a lot more than just the TTPs?
What happens when you're on a dynamic battlefield
and things are changing faster than higher HQ
can stay abreast?
Do you not adapt because you cannot conceptualize
faster than the enemy's adaptation? (Darwin
has a pretty good theory about the outcome for
those who cannot adapt to changing circumstance --
in the information age, things can change
rather abruptly and at warp speed, especially the moral high ground
which our regimented thinkers cede far too quickly
in our recent fights.) And how can you be a
sentinel and not have your unit caught flat-footed if
you don't know what the warning signs are -- that
your unit's preps are not sufficient for the
specifics of a tasking that you have not anticipated?
Perhaps if you are in support functions waiting on
the warfighters to spell out the specifics of
what you are to do, you can avoid the consequences of not
reading. Those who must adapt to overcoming an
independent enemy's will are not allowed that
luxury.
This is not new to the USMC approach to warfighting
-- Going into Kuwait 12 years ago, I read
(and reread) Rommel's Papers (remember "Kampstaffel"?),
Montgomery's book ("Eyes Officers"...), "Grant Takes
Command" (need for commanders to get along,
"commanders' relationships" being more
important than "command relationships"), and some others.
As a result, the enemy has paid when I had the
opportunity to go against them, and I believe
that many of my young guys lived because I didn't waste their
lives because I didn't have the vision in my mind of
how to destroy the enemy at least cost to our
guys and to the innocents on the battlefields.
Semper Fi,
From The Street Without Joy
Bernard Fall
Sometimes, there occurs an almost irrelevant incident which, in the light of later
developments, seems to have been a sign of the gods, a dreamlike warning which, if heeded,
could have changed fate—or so it seems.
One such incident occurred to me in October 1953 in Cambodia, at Siem-Reap, nor far
away from the fabulous temples of Angkor-Wat. I had been in the field with the 4th Cambodian
Autonomous Infantry Company and was now in need of transportation back to Phnom-Penh, the
capital of Cambodia. Siem-Reap, a quiet and pleasant little place with two hotels catering to the
tourist trade and a few French archeologists working around the ruins of Angkor, might as well
have been a small garrison town in southern France, such as Avignon or Nimes.
A few French officers were still around, mainly as advisors to the newly-independent
Cambodian Army. Their chores were light: there were no communists in the area and the
handful of obsolescent "Renault" trucks and World War II-type weapons needed a minimum of
maintenance and care. An assignment to Siem-Reap was as good a sinecure as could be found in
Indochina in October 1953 and the officers made the most of it.
When I went to the transportation officer that afternoon at 1530, the Cambodian orderly
told me apologetically that "Le Lieutenant est alle au mess jouer au tennis avec le Capitaine,"
and that they might well stay there for the rest of the afternoon. Since a convoy which I expected
to catch was supposed to leave at dawn, I decided to stroll over to the mess in order to get my
travel documents signed there.
The Siem-Reap Officers' Mess was a pleasant and well-kept place; with its wide
Cambodian-type verandas, its parasol-shaded tables and the well-manicured lawns and
beautifully red-sanded tennis court, it was an exact replica of all the other colonial officers'
messes from Port Said to Singapore, Saigon or even Manila, wherever the white man had set foot
in the course of building his ephemeral empires.
I found the officers at the tennis court, in gleaming white French square-bottomed shorts
(no one in Europe would be caught dead in the ungainly Bermuda pants called 'shorts' in the
United States), matching Lacoste tennis shorts and knee-long socks. Their skins had lost the
unhealthy pallor of the jungle and taken on the handsome bronze of the vacationer engaging in
outdoor sports; their wives, seated at a neighboring table, were beautifully groomed and wore
deceptively simple (but, oh so expensive!) cotton summer dresses clearly showing the hand of a
Paris designer. Both officers player in the easy style of men who knew each other's game and
were bent less on winning than on getting the fun and exercise of it. Three Cambodian servants,
clad in impeccable white slacks and shirts, stood respectfully in the shadow of the veranda,
awaiting the call of one of the officers or women for a new cool drink.
Since the men were in the midst of a set and I had little else to do, I sat down at a
neighboring table after a courteous bow to the ladies and watched the game, gladly enjoying the
atmosphere of genteel civility and forgetting for a moment the war. At the next table, the two
women kept up the rapid-fire chatter which French women are prone to use when men are
present. The two men also kept up a conversation of sorts, interrupted regularly by the "plop-
plop" of the tennis ball.
Then emerged from the veranda a soldier in French uniform. His small stature, brown
skin and western-type features showed him to be a Cambodian. He wore the blue field cap with
the golden anchor of the Troupes Coloniales—the French 'marines,' and the three golden
chevrons of a master sergeant. On his chest above the left breast pocket of his suntan regulation
shirt were three rows of multi-colored ribbons: Croix de Guerre with four citations, Campaign
ribbons with the clasps of France's every colonial campaign since the Moroccan Pacification of
1926; the Italian Campaign of 1943 and the Drive to the Rhine of 1945. In his left hand, he
carried several papers crossed diagonally with a tri-colored ribbon; travel orders, like mine,
which also as awaited the signature of one of the officers.
He remained in the shadow of the veranda's awnings until the officers had interrupted
their game and had joined the two women with their drinks, then strode over in a measured
military step, came stiffly to attention in a military salute, and handed the orders for himself and
his squad to the captain. The captain looked up in surprise, still with a half-smile on his face
from the remark he had made previously. His eyes narrowed suddenly as he understood that he
was being interrupted. Obviously, he was annoyed but not really furious.
"Sergeant, you can see that I'm busy. Please wait until I have time to deal with your
travel orders. Don't worry. You will have them in time for the convoy."
The sergeant stood stiffly at attention, some of his almost white hair glistening in the sun
where it peeked from under the cap, his wizened face betraying no emotion whatsoever.
"A vos orders, mon capitaine." A sharp salute, a snappy about face. The incident was
closed, the officers had had their drink and now resumed their game.
The sergeant resumed his watch near where the Cambodian messboys were following the
game, but this time he had squatted down on his haunches, a favorite Cambodian position of
repose which would leave most Europeans with partial paralysis for several hours afterwards.
Almost without moving his head, he attentively followed the tennis game, his travel orders still
tightly clutched in his left hand.
The sun began to settle behind the trees of the garden and a slight cooling breeze rose
from the nearby Lake Tonle-Sap, Cambodian's inland sea. It was 1700.
All of a sudden, there rose behind the trees, from the nearby French camp, the beautiful
bell-clear sounds of a bugle playing 'Lower the Flag'—the signal which, in the French Army,
marks the end of the working day as the colors are struck.
Nothing changed at the tennis court; the two officers continued to play their set, the
women continued their chatter, and the messboys their silent vigil.
Only the old sergeant had moved. He was now standing stiffly at attention, his right hand
raised to the cap in the flat-palmed salute of the French Army, facing in the direction from which
the bugle tones came; saluting, as pre regulations, France's tricolor hidden behind the trees. The
rays of ht setting sun shone upon the immobile brown figure, catching the gold o the anchor and
of the chevrons and of one of the tiny metal stars of his ribbons.
Something very warm welled up in me. I felt like running over to the little Cambodian
who had fought all his life for my country, and apologizing to him for my countrymen here who
didn't care about him, and for my countrymen in France who didn't even care about their
countrymen fighting in Indochina…
And in one single blinding flash, I knew that we were going to lose the war.
Success in War
By Major (now Lieutenant General)
George S. Patton, Jr.
(1931)
War is an art and as such is not susceptible of explanation by fixed formula. Yet from the
earliest time there has been an unending effort to subject its complex and emotional structure to
dissection, to enunciate rules for its waging, to make tangible its intangibility. As well strive to
isolate the soul by the dissection of the cadaver as to seek the essence of war by the analysis of
its records. Yet despite the impossibility of physically detecting the soul, its existence is proven
by its tangible reflection in acts and thoughts.
Above armed hosts there hovers an impalpable something which on occasion so
dominates the material as to induce victory under circumstances quite inexplicably. To
understand this something we should seek it in a manner analogous to our search for the soul;
and, so seeking, we shall perchance find it in the reflexes produced by the acts of the Great
Captains.
But whither shall we turn for knowledge of their very selves? Not in the musty tomes of
voluminous reports or censored recollections wherein they strove to immortalize their
achievements. Nor yet in the countless histories where lesser warmish men have sought to snare
their parted ghosts.
The great warriors were too busy and often too inapt to write contemporaneously of their
exploits. What they later put on paper was colored by strivings for enhanced fame or by political
conditions then confronting them. War was an ebullition of their perished past. The violent
simplicity in execution which procured them success and enthralled them looked pale and
uninspired on paper, so they seasoned it.
The race yearns to adore. Can it adore the simple or venerate the obvious? All
mythology and folklore rise in indignant protest at the thought. The sun gave light; therefore, he
was not hot gas or a flame, but a god or a chariot. The ignis fatuus deluded men of nights. It
was a spirit; nothing so simple as decomposition could serve the need.
So with the soldier, to pander to self-love and racial urge he attributes to his acts
profound thoughts which never existed. The white-hot energy of youth which saw in obstacles
but inspirations and in the enemy but the gage to battle becomes to complacent and retrospective
age the result of mathematical calculation and metaphysical erudition, of knowledge he never
had and plans he never made.
With the efforts of the historians the case is even worse. Those who write at the time are
guilty of partisanship and hero worship. While those who write later are forced to accept
contemporaneous myths and to view their subject through the roseate light which distance, be it
that of time or space, sheds ever to deprive us of harsh truth. In peace the scholar flourishes; in
the war the soldier dies; so it come about that we view our soldiers through the eyes of scholars
and attribute to them scholarly virtues.
Seeking obvious reasons for the obscure, we analyze their conduct as told by historians
and assign as reasons for their success apparent, trivial things. Disregarding wholly the
personality of Frederick, we attribute his victories to a tactical expedient, the oblique order of
battle. Impotent to comprehend the character of Rome's generals, a great historian coins the
striking phrase: "At this time the Roman legionary shortened his sword and gained an empire."
Our research is further muddled by the fabled heroism of all former fighters. Like wine,
accounts of valor mellow with age, until Achilles, dead three thousand years, stands peerless.
Yet through the murk of fact and fable rises to our view this truth. The history of war is
the history of warriors; few in number, mighty in influence. Alexander, not Macedonia,
conquered the world. Scipio, not Rome, destroyed Carthage. Marlborough, not the Allies,
defeated France. Cromwell, not the Roundheads, dethroned Charles.
Were this true only of warriors we might well exclaim: "Behold the work of the
historian!" But it is equally the case in every phase of human endeavor. Music has its myriad of
musicians but only its dozen masters. So with painting, sculpture, literature, medicine, or trade.
"Many are called, but few are chosen."
Nor can we concur wholly with the alluring stories in the advertising sections of our
magazines which point the golden path of success to all and sundry who will follow some
particular phase of a home education they happen to advocate. "Knowledge is power," but to a
degree only. Its possession per se will raise a man to mediocrity but not to distinction. In our
opinion, indeed, the instruction obtained from such courses is of less moment to future success
than is the ambition which prompted the study.
In considering these matters we should remember that while there is much similarity
there is also vast difference between the successful soldier and the successful man in other
professions. Success due to knowledge and personality is the measure of ability in each case, but
to all save the solider it has vital significance only to the individual and to a limited number of
his associates. With the soldier success or failure means infinitely more, as it must of necessity
be measured not in terms of personal honor or affluence but in the life, happiness, and honor of
his men—his country. Hence the search for that elusive secret of military success, soul, genius,
personality—call it what you will—is of vital interest to us all.
* * *
In our efforts to provide for the avoidance, in future, of the mistakes which we personally
have encountered, and to ensure to ourselves or to our successors the same mathematical ease of
operation of which we have read, we proceed to enunciate rules. In order to enunciate anything
we must have a premise. The most obvious is the last war. Further, the impressions we gained
there were the most vivid we have ever experienced; burned on the tablets of our memories by
the blistering flash of exploding shell, etched on our souls by the incisive patter of machinegun
bullets, our own experiences become the foundation of our thoughts and, all unconscious of
personal bias, we base our conceptions of the future on our experience of the past.
Beyond question, personal knowledge is a fine thing, but unfortunately it is too intimate.
When, for example, we recall a railroad accident the picture that most vividly presents itself to us
is the severed blue-gray hand of some child victim, not the misread signals which precipitated
the tragedy. So with war experiences, the choking gas that strangled us sticks in our memory to
the more or less complete exclusion of the important fact that it was the roads and consequent
abundant mechanical transportation peculiar to western Europe which permitted the
accumulation of enough gas shells to do the strangling.
Even when no personal experience exists we are bound to be influenced by the most
recent experience of others. Because in the Boer War the bayonet found no employment, we all
but abandoned it, only to seize it again when the Russo-Japanese conflict redemonstrated its
value. Going back farther, we might point to countless other instances of similar nature, as
witness the recurrent use and disuse of infantry and cavalry as the dominant arms according to
the most recent "lesson" derived from the last war, based invariably on special conditions, in no
way bound to recur, yet always presumed as immutable.
So much for the conservatives; now for the optimists—the "nothing-old" gentry. These
are of several species, but first in order of importance come the specialists.
Due either to superabundant egotism and uncontrolled enthusiasm, or else to limited
powers of observation of the activities of other arms, these people advocate in the most fluent
and uncompromising manner the vast future potentialities of their own special weapons. In the
next war, so they say, all the enemy will be crushed, gassed, bombed, or otherwise speedily
exterminated, depending for the method of his death upon the arm to which the person
declaiming belongs. Their spectacular claims attract public attention. The appeal of their
statements is further strengthened because they deal invariably in mechanical devices which
intrigue the simple imagination and because the novelty of their schemes and assertions has a
strong news interest which ensures their notice by the press. Earlier examples of this newspaper
tendency to exploit the bizarre is instanced in the opening accounts of the Civil War where
"masked batteries" and "black-horse cavalry" seemed to infest the whole face of Nature.
Both the standpatters and the progressives have reason of sorts, and, as we have pointed
out, we must seek to harmonize the divergent tendencies.
* * *
No matter what the situation as to clarity of his mental perspective, the conscientious
soldier approaches the solution of his problem more or less bemuddled by phantoms of the past
and deluded by unfounded or unproved hopes for the future. So handicapped, he assumes the
unwonted and labored posture of a student and plans for perfection, so that when the next war
comes that part of the machine for which he may be responsible shall instantly begin to function
with a purr of perfect preparation.
In this scholarly avocation soldiers of all important nations use at the present time what
purports to be the best mode of instruction—the applicatory method. The characteristics of some
concrete problem are first studied in the abstract and then tested by applying them, with assumed
forces and situations, in solving analogous problems either on the terrain or on a map
representation of it. This method not only familiarizes the student with all the tools and
technicalities of his trade, but also develops the aptitude for reaching decisions and the self-
assurance derived from demonstrated achievement.
But as always there is a fly in the amber. High academic performance demands infinite
intimate knowledge of details, and the qualities requisite to such attainments often inhabit bodies
lacking in personality. Also, the striving for such knowledge often engenders the fallacious
notion that capacity depends upon the power to acquire such details rather than upon the ability
to apply them. Obsessed with this thought, students plunged in deeper and ever deeper, their
exertions but enmeshing them the more until, like mired mastodons, they perish in a morass of
knowledge where they first browsed for sustenance.
When the prying spade of the unbiased investigator has removed the muck of official
reports and the mire of self-laudatory biographies from the swamp of the World War, the
skeletons of many such military mammoths will be discovered. Amid their mighty remains will
lurk elusive the secret of German failure. Beyond question no soldier ever sought more
diligently than the Germans for prewar perfection. They built and tested and adjusted their might
machine and became so engrossed in its visible perfection, in the accuracy of its bearings and the
compression of its cylinders, that they neglected the battery. When the moment came their
masterpiece proved inefficient through lack of the divine afflatus, the soul of a leader. Truly in
war, "Men are nothing; a man is everything."
Here we must deny that anything in our remarks is intended to imply belief in the
existence of spontaneous, untutored inspiration. With the single exception of the divinely
inspired Joan of Arc, no such phenomenon has ever existed, and…she was less of an exception
than a coincidence. WE require and must demand all possible thoughtful preparation and
studious effort, so that in war our officers may be equal to their mighty trust—the safety of our
country. Our purpose is not to discourage such preparation but simply to call attention to certain
defects in its pursuit. To direct it not toward the glorification of the means—study; but to the
end—victory.
In acquiring erudition we must live on, not in, our studies. We must guard against
becoming so engrossed in the specific nature of the roots and bark of the trees of knowledge as to
miss the meaning and grandeur of the forests they compose. Our means of studying war have
increased as much as have our tools for waging it, but it is an open question whether this increase
in means has not perhaps obscured or obliterated one essential detail; namely, the necessity for
personally leadership.
* * *
War is conflict; fighting is an elemental exposition of the age-old effort to survive. It is
the cold glitter of the attacker's eye, not the point of the questing bayonet, that breaks the line. It
is the fierce determination of the driver to close with the enemy, not the mechanical perfection of
the tank, that conquers the trench. It is the cataclysmic ecstasy of conflict in the flier, not the
perfection of his machine gun, which drops the enemy in flaming ruin. Yet volumes are devoted
to armament; pages to inspiration.
Since the necessary limitations of map problems inhibit the student from considering the
effects of hunger, emotion, personality, fatigue, leadership, and many other imponderable yet
vital factors, he first neglects and then forgets them. Obsessed with admiration for the
intelligence which history has ascribed to pat leaders, he forgets the inseparable connection
between plans, the flower of the intellect; and execution, the fruit of the soul. Hooker's plan at
Chancellorsville was masterly; its execution cost him the battle. The converse was true at
Marengo. The historian, through lack of experience and consequent appreciation of the
inspirational qualities of generals, fails to stress them, but he does emphasize their mental gifts,
which, since he shares them, he values. The student blindly follows and, hugging the notion of
mentality, pictures armies of insensate pawns moving with the precision of machines and the
rapidity of light, guided in their intricate and resistless evolutions over the battlefield by the cold
effulgence of his emotionless cerebrations as transmitted to them by wire and radio through the
inspiring medium of code messages. He further assumes that superhuman intelligence will
translate those somber sentences into words of fire which will electrify hiss chessmen into
frenzied heroes who, heedless of danger, will dauntlessly translate the stillborn infants of his
brain into deeds.
War and Remembrance
Herman Wouk
While the Enterprise squadrons under McClusky were blundering westward, the Yorktown had
finally launched, will after nine o'clock—but it sent off only half its planes. Rear Admiral Fletcher was
saving the rest for some emergency. Nagumo's carriers meanwhile were plowing northward, an intact air
force fueled and rearmed, preparing to launch at half past ten a coordinated attack with a hundred and two
planes.
Only one eccentric element—as it were, one wild card—remained in the all but played-out game:
the three slow American torpedo squadrons. They were operating out of sight of each other, in a random
and quite unplanned way. No torpron had any idea where another torpron was. The commanders of these
weak and outmoded machines, three tough mavericks named Waldron, Lindsey, and Massey, were doing
their own navigation. It was they who found the Japanese.
"Fifteen torpedo planes, bearing 130!"
Nagumo and his staff were not caught by surprise, thought the absence—again!—of fighter escort
must have astounded them. The bearing showed the planes were coming from the carrier Nagumo was
closing to destroy. Fifteen planes, one squadron; naturally the Yank carrier would try to strike first. But
the vice admiral, with an advantage, as he believed, of four to one in ships and planes, was not worried.
He had no idea that he was closing on three carriers. The float plane pilot from the cruiser Tone had
never revealed the other two.
There was an ironic fatality about this search pilot. He had been launched an hour late, and so
had made his crucial sighting late. He had failed at first to recognize the flattop he saw; and thereafter he
had not mentioned the other carriers. Having turned in this sorry performance, he vanished from history;
like the asp that bit Cleopatra, a small creature on whom the fortunes of an empire had briefly and sadly
turned.
The fifteen aircraft sailing in against Nagumo were Torpedo Squadron Eight of the Hornet. Their
leader, John Waldron, a fierce and iron-minded aviator, led his men in on their required straight slow
runs—with what thoughts one cannot record, because he was among the first to die—through a thick
antiaircraft curtain of smoke and shrapnel, and a swarming onslaught of Zeroes. One after another, as
they tried to spread out for an attack on both bows of the carriers, Waldron's planes caught fire, flew
apart, splashed in the ocean. Only a few lasted long enough to drop their torpedoes. Those who did
accomplished nothing, for none hit. In a few minutes it was over, another complete Japanese victory.
But even as the fifteenth plane burst into flames off the Akagi's bow and tumbled smoking into
the blue water, a strident report from a screening vessel staggered everybody on the flag bridge:
"Fourteen torpedo planes approaching!"
Fourteen MORE? The dead, risen from the sea as in some frightful old legend, to fight on for
their country in their wrecked planes? The Japanese mind is poetic, and such a thought could have
flashed on Nagumo, but the reality was plain and frightening enough. American carriers each had but one
torpedo squadron; this meant that at least one more carrier was coming at him. The report of the
accursed Tone float plane was therefore worthless. There might be four more carriers, or seven. Who
could tell what devilry the ingenious Americans were up to? Japanese intelligence had flatly failed. As
Nagumo had once sneaked up on Pearl Harbor, could the enemy not have sneaked several new carriers
into the Pacific Ocean?
"Speed all preparations for immediate takeoff!"
The panicky order, abandoning coordinated attack, went out to the four carriers. The air raid
bugles brayed, the thick black-puffing AA thumped out from the screen, the carriers broke formation to
dodge the attackers, and the Zeroes, halting the slow climb to combat patrol altitude, dove at this new
band of unescorted craft. These were Gene Lindsey's squadron from the Enterprise. The scarred, unwell
commander had led them straight to the enemy while McClusky groped westward. Ten planes went
down, Lindsey's among them. Four evaded the slaughterers, dropped their torpedoes, and headed back
for their ship. If any torpedo hit, it did not detonate.
Yet another big victory! But all steaming order was now gone from the Carrier Striking Force.
Evasive maneuvering had pulled the Hiryu almost out of sight to the north, and strung the Akagi, the
Kaga, and the Soryu in a line from west to east. The screening vessels were scattered from horizon to
horizon, streaming smoke and cutting across each other's long curved wakes. The sailors and officers
were working away on the carrier flight decks with unabated zest. They had already cheered the flaming
fall of dozens of bombers from Midway, and now two waves of Yank torpedo craft had been minced up
by the Zeroes! The four flight decks were crammed with aircraft; none quite set for launch, but all fueled
and bomb-loaded, and all in a vast tangle of fuel lines, bombs, and torpedoes, which the deck crews were
cheerfully sweating to clear away, so that the airmen could zoom off to the kill.
Warren Henry had thought of the Enterprise as an eggshell eight hundred feet long, full of
dynamite and human beings. Here were four such eggshells; more nearly, four grandiose floating fuel
and ammunition dumps, uncovered to the touch of a match.
v
"Enemy torpedo planes, bearing 095!"
This third report came after a short quiet interval. The Zeroes were heading up to the station
whence they could repulse dive-bombers from on high, or knock down more low-skimming torpedo
planes, whichever would appear. The four carriers were turning into the wind to launch; but now they
resumed twisting and dodging, while all eyes turned to the low-flying attackers, and to the combat patrol
diving in a rush for more clay pigeon shooting. Twelve torpedo planes were droning in from the
Yorktown. These did have a few escort fighters weaving desperately above them, but it made little
difference. Ten were knocked down, two survived after dropping torpedoes in vain. All three torpedo
squadrons were now wiped out, and the Nagumo Carrier Striking Force was untouched. The time was
twenty minutes past ten.
"Launch the attack!"
The order went out all through the force. The first fighter escort plane soared off the deck of the
Akagi.
At that very moment the almost unrecognizable voice of a staff officer uttered a scream which
perhaps rang on in Nagumo's ears until he died two years later on the island of Saipan, under attack by
another Raymond Spruance task force:
"HELL-DIVERS!"
In two slanting lines stretching upward into the high clouds, unopposed by a single fighter, dark
blue planes were dropping on the flagship and on the Kaga. The Zeroes were all at water level, where
they had knocked down so many torpedo planes and were looking for more. A more distant scream came
from a lookout pointing eastward: "HELL-DIVERS!" A second dotted line of blue aircraft was arrowing
down toward the Soryu.
It was a perfect coordinated attack. It was timed almost to the second. It was a freak accident.
Wade McClusky had sighted a lone Japanese destroyer heading northeast. It must be returning
from some mission, he had guessed; if so, it was scoring a long white arrow on the sea pointing to
Nagumo. He had made the simple astute decision to turn and follow the arrow.
Meantime, the torpedo attacks of Waldron, Lindsey, and Massey had followed hard upon each
other by luck. McClusky had sighted the Striking Force at almost the next moment by luck. The
Yorktown's dive bombers, launched almost a whole hour later, had arrived at the same time by luck.
In a planned coordinated attack, the dive bombers were supposed to distract the enemy fighters,
so as to give the vulnerable torpedo planes their chance to come in. Instead, the torpedo planes had pulled
down the Zeroes and cleared the air for the dive-bombers. What was not luck, but the soul of the United
States in action, was this willingness of the torpedo plane squadrons to go in against hopeless odds. This
was the extra ounce of martial weight that in a few decisive minutes tipped the balance of history.
So long as men choose to decide the turns of history with the slaughter of youths—and even in a
better day, when this form of human sacrifice has been abolished like the ancient, superstitious, but no
more horrible form—the memory of these three American torpedo plane squadrons should not die. The
old sagas would halt the tale to list the names and birthplaces of men who fought so well. Let this
romance follow the tradition. These were the young men of the three squadrons, their names recovered
from an already fading record:
* * *
U.S.S. YORKTOWN
TORPEDO THREE
Pilots
Lance E. Massey, Commanding
Descanso, California
Richard W. Suesens
Waterloo, Iowa
Wesley F. Osmus
Chicago, Illinois
David J. Roche
Hibbing, Minnesota
Patrick H. Hart
Los Angeles, California
John W. Haas
San Diego, California
Oswald A. Powers
Detroit, Michigan
Leonard L. Smith
Ontario, California
Curtis W. Howard
Olympia, Washington
Carl A. Osberg
Manchester, New Hampshire
Radiomen-Gunners
Leo E. Perry
San Diego, California
Harold C. Lundy, Jr.
Lincoln, Nebraska
Benjamin R. Dodson, Jr.
Durham, North Carolina
Richard M. Hansen
Lakefield, Minnesota
John R. Cole
La Grange, Georgia
Raymond J. Darce
New Orleans, Louisiana
Joseph E. Mandeville
Manchester, New Hampshire
William A. Phillips
Olympia, Washington
Charles L. Moore
Amherst, Texas
Troy C. Barkley
Falkner, Mississippi
Robert B. Brazier
Salt Lake City, Utah
Survivors
Harry L. Cod
Saginaw, Michigan
Wilhelm G. Esders
St. Joseph, Missouri
Lloyd F. Childers
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
TORPEDO SIX
Pilots
Eugene E. Lindsey, Commanding
San Diego, California
Severin L. Rombach
Cleveland, Ohio
John L. Eversole
Pocatello, Idaho
Randolph M. Holder
Jackson, Mississippi
Arthur V. Ely
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Flomenoy G. Hodges
Statesboro, Georgia
Paul J. Riley
Hot Springs, Arkansas
John W. Brock
Montgomery, Alabama
Lloyd Thomas
Chauncey, Ohio
Radiomen-Gunners
Charles T. Grenat
Honolulu, Hawaii
Wilburn F. Glenn
Austin, Texas
John U. Lane
Rockford, Illinois
Gregory J. Durawa
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
Arthur B. Lindgren
Montclair, New Jersey
John H. Bates
Valparaiso, Indiana
Edwin J. Mushinski
Tampa, Florida
John M. Blundell
Fort Wayne, Indiana
Harold F. Littlefield
Bennington, Vermont
Survivors
Albert W. Winchell
Webster City, Iowa
Robert E. Lamb
Richland, Missouri
Edward Heck, Jr.
Carthage, Missouri
Irvin H. McPherson
Glen Ellyn, Illinois
Stephen B. Smith
Mason City, Iowa
Douglas M. Cossitt
Oakland, California
William C. Humphrey, Jr.
Milledgeville, Georgia
Doyle L. Ritchey
Ryan, Oklahoma
William D. Horton
Little Rock, Arkansas
Wilfred N. McCoy
San Diego, California
U.S.S. HORNET
TORPEDO EIGHT
Pilots
John C. Waldron, Commanding
Fort Pierre, South Dakota
James G. Owens, Jr.
Los Angeles, California
Raymond A. Moore
Richmond, Virginia
Jefferson D. Woodson
Beverly Hills, California
George M. Campbell
San Diego, California
William W. Abercrombie
Merriam, Kansas
Ulvert M. Moore
Bluefield, West Virginia
William W. Creamer
Riverside, California
John P. Gray
Columbia, Missouri
Harold J. Ellison
Buffalo, New York
Henry R. Kenyon, Jr.
Mount Vernon, New York
William R. Evans, Jr.
Indianapolis, Indiana
Grant W. Teats
Sheridan, Oregon
Robert B. Miles
San Diego, California
Radiomen-Gunners
Horace F. Dobbs
San Diego, California
Amelio Maffel
Santa Rosa, California
Tom H. Petty
Ellison Ridge, West Virginia
Otway D. Crensy, Jr.
Vinton, Virginia
Ronald J. Fisher
Denver, Colorado
Bernard P. Phelps
Lovington, Illinois
William F. Sawhill
Mansfield, Ohio
Francis S. Polston
Nashville, Missouri
Max A. Calkins
Wymore, Nebraska
George A. Field
Buffalo, New York
Darwin L. Clark
Rodney, Iowa
Ross E. Bibb, Jr.
Warrior, Alabama
Hollis Martin
Bremerton, Washington
Ashwell L. Picou
Houma, Louisiana
Robert K. Huntington
South Pasadena, California
Survivor
George H. Gay, Jr.
Houston, Texas
"ONLY THE ROCKS LIVE FOREVER"
This is a personal perspective on ideals for leaders in terms of values and attitudes. My hope is
that these thoughts will be remembered and will be of some future use as a simple guide and framework
for life.
Lame Beaver, an Indian warrior, said, "Only the rocks live forever." Clausewitz stated that the
leader must stand like a rock on which the waves break in vain. George Patton said that a military officer
or noncommissioned officer must be a rock to withstand the storms and tests of time.
I have selected three rocks to serve as a beacon for the leader. Rocks to provide strength and be a
bulwark against the temptations and ordeals of life.
The first rock comes from the study of military history. Most historians differ on the great leaders
of the past. My selections on the basis of leadership are: Hannibal of Carthage, George Washington,
Napoleon Bonaparte, Robert E. Lee, and George Patton. In attempting to find a common thread from
comprehensive study of these five, I have selected an excerpt from Freeman's last volume on Lee. "And
if one, only one, of all myriad incidents of his stirring life had to be selected to typify his message, as a
man, to the young Americans who stood in hushed awe that rainy October morning as their parents wept
at the passing of the Southern Arthur, who would hesitate in selecting that incident? It occurred in
Northern Virginia on his last visit there. A young mother brought her baby to him to be blessed. He took
the infant in his arms and looked long at it and then at her and slowly said, 'Teach him he must deny
himself.' That is all. There is no mystery in the coffin at Lexington there in front of the windows that look
to the sunrise."
The second rock is – Be a Sam Damon. Of course many have never read "Once an Eagle" by
Anton Myrer. The book is an historic novel about two professional soldiers, Courtney Massengale and
Sam Damon. The former is a careerist, ticket-puncher, self-seeker, and a political officer. The latter is a
real soldier of great integrity, loyalty, courage, dedication, knowledge, and selflessness. It is a simple
comparison of extremes. Sam Damon is the ideal. Among his traits, selflessness is key and foremost.
Emulate his qualities and true leadership.
Football and coaching is the source of the third rock. It comes from the late great Paul "Bear"
Bryant and his guiding principle for his players on the field and for life. Ask any former Alabama, Texas
A&M, Kentucky, or Maryland athlete who played under this magnificent leader from Moro Bottom,
Arkansas and they all relate the same message, "Always show your class." There is also no secret under
the hickory tree in Birmingham.
There they are. Deny yourself. Be a Sam Damon. Always show your class.
These three rocks have a great utility and value for all walk of life, far beyond my ability to relate
them. I hope that they will serve you forever. God bless you.
Robert Lee Powell
Colonel of Infantry
Ft. McPherson, Georgia
WINNERS –
USUALLY WORK HARDER
We're going to talk about winners – not only the ones who win on the fields of athletic endeavor, but those who win
in the game of life.
A winner says, "Let's find out"; a loser says, "Nobody knows."
When a winner makes a mistake he says, "I was wrong"; when a loser makes a mistake he says, "It wasn't my
fault."
A winner credits his "good luck" for winning – even though it isn't good luck; a loser blames his "bad luck" for
losing – even though it isn't bad luck.
A winner knows how and when to say "Yes" and "No"; a loser says, "Yes, but" and "Perhaps not" at the wrong
time, for the wrong reasons.
A winner isn't nearly as afraid of losing as a loser is secretly of winning.
A winner works harder than a loser and has more time; a loser is always "too busy" to do what is necessary.
A winner goes through a problem; a loser goes around it and never gets past it.
A winner makes commitments; a loser makes promises.
A winner shows he's sorry by making up for it; a loser merely says, "I'm sorry," but does the same thing the next
time.
A winner knows what to fight for and what to compromise on; a loser compromises on what he shouldn't and fights
for what isn't worth fighting for.
A winner says, "I'm good but not as good as I ought to be"; a loser says, "I'm not as bad as a lot of other people."
A winner listens; a loser just waits until it's his turn to talk.
A winner would rather be admired than liked, although he would prefer both; a loser would rather be liked than
admired, and is even willing to pay the price of mild contempt of it.
A winner feels strong and gently; a loser is never gentle – he is either weak or pettily tyrannous by turns.
A winner respects those who are superior to him and tries to learn something from them; a loser resents those who
are superior to him and tries to find chinks in their armor.
A winner explains; a loser explains away.
A winner feels responsible for more than his job; a loser says, "I only work here."
A winner says; "There ought to be a better way to do it"; a loser says, "That's the way it's always been done."
A winner paces himself; a loser has only two speeds, hysterical and lethargic.
Proud Legions
T.R. Fehrenbach, This Kind of War
We was rotten 'fore we started – we was never disciplined;
We made it out a favour if an order was obeyed.
Yes, every little drummer 'ad 'is rights an' wrongs to mind,
So we had to pay for teachin' – an' we paid!
- Rudyard Kipling, "That Day"
During the first months of American intervention in Korea, reports from the front burst upon an America
and world stunned beyond belief. Day after day, the forces of the admitted first power of the earth reeled backward
under the blows of the army of a nation of nine million largely illiterate peasants, the product of the kind of culture
advanced nations once overawed with gunboats. Then, after fleeting victory, Americans fell back once more before
an army of equally illiterate, lightly armed Chinese.
The people of Asia had changed, true. The day of the gunboat and a few Marines would never return. But
that was not the whole story. The people of the West had changed, too. They forgot that the West had dominated not
only by arms, but by superior force of will.
During the summer of 1950, and later, Asians would watch. Some, friends of the West, would even smile.
And none of them would ever forget.
News reports in 1950 talked of vast numbers, overwhelming hordes of fanatic North Koreans, hundreds of
monstrous tanks, against which the thin United States forces could not stand. In these reports there was truth, but not
the whole truth.
The American units were outnumbered. They were outgunned. They were given an impossible task at the
outset.
But they were also outfought.
In July 1950, one news commentator rather plaintively remarked that warfare had not changed so much,
after all. For some reason, ground troops still seemed to be necessary, in spite of the atom bomb. And oddly and
unfortunately, to this gentleman, man still seemed to be an important ingredient in battle. Troops were getting killed,
in pain and fury and dust and filth. What had happened to the widely heralded pushbutton warfare where skilled,
immaculate technicians who had never suffered the misery and ignominy of basic training blew each other to
kingdom come like gentlemen?
In this unconsciously plaintive cry lies buried a great deal of the truth why the United States was almost
defeated.
Nothing had happened to pushbutton warfare; its emergence was at hand. Horrible weapons that could
destroy every city on earth were at hand – at too many hands. But pushbutton warfare meant Armageddon, and
Armageddon, hopefully, will never be an end of national policy.
Americans in 1950 rediscovered something that since Hiroshima they had forgotten: you may fly over a
land forever; you may bomb it, atomize it, pulverize it and wipe it clean of life – but if you desire to defend it,
protect it, and keep it for civilization, you must do this on the ground, the way the Roman legions did, by putting
your young men into the mud.
The object of warfare is to dominate a portion of the earth, with its peoples, for causes either just or unjust.
It is not to destroy the land and people, unless you have gone wholly mad.
Pushbutton war has its place. There is another kind of conflict – crusade, jihad, holy war, call it what you
choose. It has been loosed before, with attendant horror but indecisive results. In the past, there were never means
enough to exterminate all the unholy, whether Christian, Moslem, Protestant, Papist, or Communist. If jihad is
preached again, undoubtedly the modern age will do much better.
Americans, denying from moral grounds that war can ever be a part of politics, inevitably tend to think in
terms of holy war – against militarism, against fascism, against bolshevism. In the postwar age, uneasy, disliking
and fearing the unholiness of Communism, they have prepared for jihad. If their leaders blow the trumpet, or if their
homeland is attacked, their millions are agreed to be better dead than Red.
Any kind of war short of jihad was, is, and will be unpopular with the people. Because such wars are | |
