Historia de la WWII

WW

II HISTORYAPRIL 2014

Volum

e 13, No. 3

0 74470 02313 5

0 4

$5.99US $6.99CAN

APRIL 2014

RETAILER: DISPLAY UNTIL APRIL 28

Cur

tis 0

2313

Military Heritage Presents:

www.wwiihistorymagazine.com

+

Nazi Assault On

ROSTOVDOUGLAS BADER

Legendary Fighter AceB-17 TAIL GUNNER

“Flak Was OurWorst Enemy”

Allied Betrayal of Eastern Europe

Patton Liberates Palermo

OPERATION BARBAROSSA

KILLING OF HEYDRICH, JAPANESE ARMY FIGHTER,BOOK & GAME REVIEWS, AND MORE!

W-Apr14 C-1_W-May05 C-1 Wholesale 1/27/14 12:37 PM Page C1

W-RZM FP Apr14_Layout 1 1/24/14 11:57 AM Page 2

Q-Ambrose FP Spr14_Layout 1 1/24/14 6:03 PM Page 2

WWII History (ISSN 1539-5456) is published six times yearly by SovereignMedia, 6731 Whittier Ave., Suite A-100, McLean, VA 22101. (703) 964-0361.Periodical postage paid at McLean, VA, and additional mailing offices. WWIIHistory, Volume 13, Number 3 © 2014 by Sovereign Media Company, Inc., allrights reserved. Copyrights to stories and illustrations are the property of theircreators. The contents of this publication may not be reproduced in whole orin part without consent of the copyright owner. Subscription services, backissues, and information: (800) 219-1187 or write to WWII History Circula-tion, WWII History, P.O. Box 1644, Williamsport, PA 17703. Single copies:$5.99, plus $3 for postage. Yearly subscription in U.S.A.: $19.95; Canada andOverseas: $31.95 (U.S.). Editorial Office: Send editorial mail to WWII Histo-ry, 6731 Whittier Ave., Suite A-100, McLean, VA 22101. WWII History wel-comes editorial submissions but assumes no responsibility for the loss or dam-age of unsolicited material. Material to be returned should be accompanied bya self-addressed, stamped envelope. We suggest that you send a self-addressed,stamped envelope for a copy of our author’s guidelines. POSTMASTER: Sendaddress changes to WWII History, P.O. Box 1644, Williamsport, PA 17703.

WWII HISTORY

4 WWII HISTORY APRIL 2014

Contents

Features30 An American Betrayal

Some historians write of a U.S. miscalculation of the Soviets resulting in the descent of the Iron Curtain across Europe.By William Weidner

38 Flak Was Our Worst EnemyWilbur “Bib” Bowers flew bombing missions with the Eighth Air Force and witnessed aerial combat and other significant events firsthand.By Richard A. Beranty

46 Palermo CapturedAxis civilians cheered the soldiers of Patton’s Seventh Army as they rolled into the largestenemy city captured up to that time.By Kevin M. Hymel

48 Drive to the DonIn late 1941, a German thrust toward the city of Rostov and the River Don was bluntedby strong Soviet counterattacks.By Pat McTaggart

58 Death of Himmler’s HenchmanThe ruthless Reinhard Heydrich, responsible for the murder of many, was himself assassinated in Prague in the spring of 1942.By Richard Rule

0 74470 02313 5

0 4$5.99US $6.99CAN

APRIL 2014

RETAILER: DISPLAY UNTIL APRIL 28

Cur

tis 0

2313

Military Heritage Presents:

www.wwiihistorymagazine.com

+

Nazi Assault On

ROSTOVDOUGLAS BADER

Legendary Fighter AceB-17 TAIL GUNNER

“Flak Was OurWorst Enemy”

Allied Betrayal of Eastern Europe

Patton Liberates Palermo

OPERATION BARBAROSSA

KILLING OF HEYDRICH, JAPANESE ARMY FIGHTER,BOOK & GAME REVIEWS, AND MORE!

Columns06 EditorialA physician predicted Roosevelt’s death inoffice.

08 ProfilesDouglas Bader was a formidable foe in theair and as a prisoner of the Germans, eventhough he had no legs.

14 OrdnanceThe workhorse fighter aircraft of the JapaneseArmy Air Force, the Nakajima Ki-43Hyabusa, served throughout World War II.

18 Top SecretAn anthropologist led operations against theJapanese on the world’s third largest island.

22 InsightHollywood director John Ford brought uniquetalent to the film interpretation of World War II.

68 BooksThe U.S. Army carried a large combat burdenduring the War in the Pacific.

72 Simulation GamingThe Panzer General franchise continues with afree-to-play online game, and Men of Warreturns with more strategic WWII action.

Cover: A German soldier takes aim at aSoviet position somewherein the south of Russia. See story page 48.Photo: akg-images / Interfoto

April 2014

W-Apr14 TOC_W-Jul06 TOC 4 1/27/14 1:03 PM Page 4

W-Airborne Leathers FP LW14_Layout 1 1/24/14 11:58 AM Page 2


WWII HISTORYVolume 13 • Number 3

CARL A. GNAM, JR.Editorial Director, Founder

MICHAEL E. HASKEWEditor

LAURA CLEVELANDManaging Editor

SAMANTHA DETULLEOArt Director

CONTRIBUTORS:Richard Beranty, Patrick J. Chaisson,

Michael D. Hull, Joseph Luster, Pat McTaggart, Christopher Miskimon,

John W. Osborn, Jr., Richard Rule, William Weidner

ADVERTISING OFFICE:BEN BOYLES

Advertising Manager(570) 322-7848, ext. 110

[email protected]

Advertising SalesLINDA GALLIHER

(570) 322-7848, ext. [email protected]

MARK HINTZChief Executive Officer

KEN FORNWALTData Processing Director

BROOKE BLEESubscription Customer Service

[email protected](570) 322-7848, ext. 164

CURTIS CIRCULATION COMPANYWORLDWIDE DISTRIBUTION

SOVEREIGN MEDIA COMPANY, INC.6731 Whittier Avenue, Suite A-100

McLean, VA 22101-4554

SUBSCRIPTION CUSTOMER SERVICE AND BUSINESS OFFICE:

1000 Commerce Park Drive, Suite 300Williamsport, PA 17701

(800) 219-1187

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

Editor ialA physician predicted Roosevelt’sdeath in office.

BY THE TIME PRESIDENT FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT ATTENDED HIS LAST BIG conference, at the resort town of Yalta in the Crimea in February 1945, his health was visibly fail-ing. Photographed while seated with British Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Pre-mier Josef Stalin, Roosevelt is visibly gaunt. His once robust, full face is now lined and weath-ered.

Most students of history are aware that the president succumbed to a cerebral hemorrhage athis cottage in Warm Springs, Georgia, on April 12, 1945, just into his unprecedented fourth termin office. Most are also aware that he was a heavy smoker and that he had suffered the onset ofpoliomyelitis in 1921 at the age of 39, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down.

One interesting historical footnote regarding Roosevelt’s health has recently emerged from theshadows of nearly 70 years. In the summer of 1944, while the president was campaigning forreelection to his fourth term, Dr. Ross T. McIntire, a U.S. Navy officer and the president’s per-sonal physician, requested that other doctors examine the chief executive amid growing concernsabout his apparently deteriorating health.

FDR had been diagnosed with severe hypertension as early as 1937, and in the spring of 1941was treated for iron deficiency anemia. It is also believed that he may have undergone surgery toremove a malignant melanoma from above his left eye sometime during the early to mid-1940s.Attacks of severe abdominal pain and digestive issues of apparently unknown origin surfacedduring the Teheran Conference in the autumn of 1943. He was later treated for hypertensiveheart disease. In early 1944, he began to complain of severe headaches, and later in the year apronounced lack of appetite resulted in significant weight loss.

As Dr. McIntire’s concerns apparently grew, one of the doctors who was asked to examine thepresident was well-known surgeon named Frank Lahey of Boston. In a letter dated July 10, 1944,and made available in 2011 by the Lahey Clinic of Burlington, Massachusetts, Dr. Lahey expressedhis concerns.

“I wish to record the following information regarding my opinion in relation to President Roo-sevelt’s condition and to have them on record in the event there comes any criticism of me at alater date. I want to do this after having seen him in consultation as a private record,” wrote Lahey.

“I have reviewed all of his xrays and findings over the past years and compared them with thepresent findings and am recording my opinion concerning Mr. Roosevelt’s condition and capac-ities now,” Lahey continues. “I am recording these opinions in the light of having informed Admi-ral McIntire Saturday afternoon July 8, 1944, that I did not believe that, if Mr. Roosevelt wereelected President again, he had the physical capacity to complete a term. I told him that … he[Roosevelt] had been in a state which was, if not in heart failure, at least on the verge of it, thatthis was the result of high blood pressure he has now had for a long time, plus a question of acoronary damage. With this in mind it was my opinion that over the four years of another termwith its burdens, he would again have heart failure and be unable to complete it. Admiral McIn-tire was in agreement with this….”

Dr. Lahey went on to advise that Roosevelt, in the event that he sought and won a fourth term,bore a “very serious responsibility concerning who is the Vice President.”

As Roosevelt strategists weighed the prospects for a fourth term and the probability that FDRmight not complete that term, they urged the replacement of then Vice President Henry A. Wal-lace on the upcoming ticket. Wallace, they agreed, was too far to the political left and too pro-labor. The president stated that he was willing to accept either Senator Harry Truman of Missourior Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas.

The choice was Truman, who completed Roosevelt’s fourth term, made the decision to dropthe atomic bomb, led the United States during the early years of the Cold War, and won reelec-tion in his own right in 1948. Dr. Lahey’s somber prediction was realized, and his letter has pre-served the prognosis for us to ponder its political implications today.

Michael E. Haskew

W-Apr14 Editorial_W-Jul06 Letters 1/23/14 6:01 PM Page 6

W-Bradford FP1 Apr14_Layout 1 1/24/14 11:59 AM Page 2

BOMBED ALMOST DAILY FOR SEVERAL MONTHS AND IN FEAR OF AN IMMINENTGerman invasion, the British were hanging on by their fingernails when September 1940 came.

With the fate of Western freedom in the balance, history’s first major air battle raged as Super-marine Spitfires and Hawker Hurricanes of Royal Air Force Fighter Command rose to challengerelentless formations of Luftwaffe bombers over southeastern England. Aerial supremacy wasvital to the Germans, and the British had to be softened up before Nazi dictator Adolf Hitlercould mount his postponed invasion, Operation Sea Lion. Otherwise, the English Channel assaultwas considered too risky.

A September 14 directive from the impatient Führer gave Reichsmarshal Hermann Göring,commander of the Luftwaffe, until the 17th to batter the RAF into submission. So, as dawn cloudscleared and the sun rose early on Sunday, September 15, the powerful Luftwaffe prepared tolaunch its supreme attempt.

The climactic day of the Battle of Britain unfolded quietly. “It was one of those days of autumnwhen the countryside is at its loveliest,” observed Air Vice Marshal Keith Park, the able com-mander of No. 11 Fighter Group. Royal Air Force patrols reported an empty, cloudless sky, andno enemy aircraft appeared until mid-morning, apart from reconnaissance flights.

At Chequers, his Tudor country seat in Buckinghamshire, Prime Minister Winston Churchilltook note of the fine weather and guessed that the enemy might soon be active. So he called forhis car and was driven to Park’s 11 Group headquarters at Uxbridge, on the western edge of Lon-don. In the bombproof operations room 50 feet below ground, Park said to Churchill, “I don’tknow whether anything will happen today. At present, all is quiet.”

But 15 minutes later, at 11 AM, Women’s Auxiliary Air Force plotters began to bustle about the

I By Michael D. Hull I

The RAF’s Legless Legend Douglas Bader was a formidable foe in

the air and as a prisoner of the Germans,even though he had no legs.

11 Group map tables. Ominous reports filteredin from coastal radar stations: 40-plus enemyplanes assembling in the Dieppe area, then aforce of 20-plus, and then another of 40-plus.It was not until 11:30 AM that these formationsbegan to move northward. The Luftwaffe waslaunching the assault without its usual feintsand subsidiary attacks aimed at luring FighterCommand planes prematurely into the air.

Air Marshal Park had been given 30 minutesto organize his squadrons. Fuel tanks weretopped and magazines filled, and 17 RAFfighter squadrons were deployed by 11:30 AM.They included one from No. 10 Group and five

from Air Vice Marshal Trafford Leigh-Mal-lory’s No. 12 Group, based at Duxford, northof London. Heading southward toward theaction, Leigh-Mallory’s three Hurricane andtwo Spitfire squadrons comprised a single “BigWing” formation under the tactical commandof Group Captain Douglas R.S. Bader.

Staunchly advocated by Leigh-Mallory andthe legless Bader, the Big Wing concept wasbased on tactics initiated by the famed Italianairman, General Italo Balbo. It called for largefighter formations to hit an approaching air

8

Profiles

Imperial War Museum

Into the Fray by Richard Taylor © The Military Gallery, www.militarygallery.com

ABOVE: Squadron Commander Douglas Badersits on the edge of the cockpit of his Hawker

Hurricane fighter. LEFT: In this painting by artistRichard Taylor, Bader leads Royal Air Force

Hawker Hurricane fighters of No. 242 Squadronin a diving attack against German Heinkel

He-111 bombers approaching the coast of Kentduring an air raid in September 1940 at the

height of the Battle of Britain.

W-Apr14 Profiles_Layout 1 1/27/14 11:07 AM Page 8

W-Macromark FP Apr14_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:00 PM Page 2

fleet with maximum striking power, rather thanwith what Bader called “penny packets.” Thetactic would trigger much controversy inFighter Command.

Before noon on that fateful Sunday, the first ofthe estimated 200 German planes—the largestbomber force yet dispatched—crossed the Eng-lish coast at Dover. Dornier Do-17 and Do-215bombers escorted by many Messerschmitt Me-109 fighters zigzagged over Kent and Sussex andheaded for London. RAF fighters attacked, dog-fight vapor trails skeined the blue skies, andburning planes plummeted and parachutes bil-lowed down. The battle seethed toward London,and bombs fell all over the capital.

Along with several other RAF squadrons, theBig Wing from 12 Group tore in to break upenemy formations. “This time, for a change,we outnumbered the Hun,” reported Bader,“and believe me, no more than eight got homefrom that party…. It was sudden death thatmorning, for our fighters shot them to blazes.”He attacked a Dornier Do-17 and watched itsrear gunner bail out. “But his parachute caughton the tail,” said Bader. “There he was, swing-ing helplessly, with the aircraft swooping anddiving and staggering all over the sky. Thatbomber went crashing into the Thames Estuary,with the swinging gunner still there.”

Dogfights raged above London for 25 min-utes, and by 3:15 that afternoon the Germanformations had been ripped apart with the lossof an estimated 60 planes. Still harassed by Spit-fires and Hurricanes, enemy stragglers headedback across the English Channel to their basesalong the French coast. Although few peoplerealized it at the time, Fighter Command haddecided the Battle of Britain. Two days later,Hitler postponed the invasion indefinitely. Sep-tember 15 was thereafter commemorated asBattle of Britain Day.

The RAF’s fierce opposition and the timely

role of the 55 fighters of Leigh-Mallory andBader’s Big Wing on September 15 squelched aGerman myth that Fighter Command was abeaten force that had to call on its “last 50fighters.” The Luftwaffe suffered a blow to itsmorale from which it never recovered. After afew more heavy raids on London and othercities, the main daylight blitz quietly fizzled out.

Some conventional thinkers in Fighter Com-mand, including Park, believed that the BigWing’s results did not justify the expenditure ofeffort, but Leigh-Mallory and Bader—bothuncompromising, strong-minded men unafraidto buck the established system—stoutlydefended their tactics. In 15 sorties betweenSeptember 7 and 27, the Duxford Big Wingclaimed 135 German planes destroyed, apartfrom “probables” and others severely dam-aged, with the loss of seven RAF pilots. Whenthe Luftwaffe encountered the Big Wing, saidfamed strategist Basil H. Liddell Hart, itreceived “a very unpleasant shock.”

Group Captain Bader, a veteran of the airbattles over Dunkirk before becoming an aceand inspirational fighter tactician, was a fear-less maverick. He refused to let a severe dis-ability keep him on the ground and out of uni-form and emerged as the most famous RAFpilot of World War II.

Douglas Robert Steuart Bader was born onMonday, February 21, 1910, in the fashionableSt. John’s Wood district of London. He was thesecond son of Frederick R. Bader, a heavy-setcivil engineer on furlough from India, and histall, black-haired wife, Jessie. After their fatherwas commissioned in the Royal Engineers andsent to France at the outbreak of World War I,Douglas followed his older brother, Derick, tothe Colet Court (London) and Temple Grove(Eastbourne) preparatory schools.

Impulsive and lively, Douglas held his ownin fistfights with bigger boys and excelled in

rugby, gymnastics, cricket, running, soccer, andhockey. He and his brother learned archery, anda retired chief petty officer taught the youngerboy to shoot. Douglas tried his utmost on thesports field, but, obstinate like his strong-willedmother, he was lazy in the classroom. He pickedup Latin and Greek with ease but detestedmathematics and other subjects.

In 1922, a War Office telegram informed thefamily that Major Bader had died of headwounds in St.-Omer, France. Though not slack-ening his sports activities, Douglas then buck-led down to serious studies and won a scholar-ship to St. Edward’s School at OxfordUniversity. While there, the young man spokewith a visiting graduate who was now attend-ing the Royal Air Force College at Cranwell inLincolnshire and decided that flying might befun. Douglas wrote to his uncle, Cyril Burge,who was personal assistant to Air Chief Mar-shal Sir Hugh Trenchard, visionary father ofthe RAF, and asked what his chances were ofbecoming an air cadet.

After an RAF examination in London in thespring of 1928, Douglas was informed that hehad finished fifth and won a cadetship toCranwell. He was in high spirits and acquireda second-hand Douglas flat-twin motorcycle.In the second week of September 1928, hestrapped two small suitcases to the pillion,kissed his doting mother goodbye, and roaredoff for Cranwell.

Four miles from the college, a stray cow wan-dered across the road. Douglas swerved, andhe and his machine somersaulted over the vergeand a steep bank. Bruised and shaken, hestarted off again. Eight minutes later, he rodethrough the gates of Cranwell and into theRoyal Air Force.

At Cranwell, then just a collection of cav-ernous hangars, wooden huts, and two run-ways, Bader and the other cadets drilled in


Imperial War Museum

Hawker Hurricane fighters ofBader’s 242 Squadron are shown in formation above thecoast of England. At the timeBader was shot down in 1941, he was the leading ace of theRoyal Air Force in World War II.

W-Apr14 Profiles_Layout 1 1/24/14 5:33 PM Page 10

bowler hats before being issued uniforms andlearned military discipline from caustic warrantofficers. A few days later, on a sunny autumnafternoon, Bader was taken up by a flying offi-cer for his first flight—in a flimsy Avro 504biplane. The cadet was exhilarated.

On the following day, Bader’s instructor lethim take the control column, and in October,after 61/2 hours of dual instruction, he soloed.He flew and landed smoothly and proved to bea natural flier. Inspired after reading aboutRoyal Flying Corps aces in World War I, Baderdecided that he wanted to be a fighter pilot.

Unlike most of his fellow cadets, the high-spirited Bader shunned alcohol but neverthe-less got into trouble for speeding on his motor-cycle and flouting minor regulations. Afterbeing threatened with dismissal from Cranwell,he transformed. While still excelling in allsports, he strove to master mathematics andshowed a flair for leadership. He scored high onthe final examinations in June 1930, and hisfitness report termed him “plucky, capable,headstrong.” His flying was rated “above aver-age,” an RAF understatement.

Pilot Officer Bader was posted to No. 23Fighter Squadron based at Kenley, a large, grassyairfield in Surrey. He was proud and elated. Herode his motorcycle to London, traded it in fora tiny Austin Seven car, and drove south to Ken-ley one August morning in 1930.

The squadron was equipped with GlosterGamecocks, stubby but agile biplanes with atop speed of 156 miles per hour. For two years,two squadron pilots had performed aerobaticsin them at the annual Hendon Air Show. Afteran exhilarating half hour in the cockpit onemorning, Bader decided that he wanted to takepart in the next show. He got his wish in thesummer of 1931, when he and a World War Iveteran performed aerial tricks for 10 minutesbefore 175,000 people at Hendon. The Lon-don Times called it “the most thrilling specta-cle ever seen in exhibition flying.”

A daring airman and outstanding sportsman,Bader found himself being viewed as a heroicfigure, although he drew the wrath of his supe-riors for too much aerial stunting. A flight com-mander chastised him for “showing off.” Butthe outspoken Bader enjoyed the attention ofthe press and adoring young women andrewarded himself by trading in his Austin Sevenfor an MG sports car.

Replacing the obsolete Gamecocks, No. 23Squadron was equipped in 1931 with BristolBulldogs, then the last word in fighters. Thebiplanes had a top speed of 176 miles per hour,but they were heavier, less maneuverable, andhad a tendency to sink fast in the middle of a

slow roll. One of the pilots was killed when hespun into the ground, and low aerobatics werestrictly banned.

The brash, sometimes arrogant Bader wasunfazed, and his promising career almost cameto an abrupt end because of overconfidence. Onthe frosty morning of Monday, December 14,1931, he and two fellow pilots flew Bulldogs toWoodley Aerodrome near the Berkshire city ofReading. While sipping coffee in the clubhouse,Bader’s companions quizzed him about his aer-obatics at Hendon and dared him to give ademonstration. Though reluctant, he took off.

He banked steeply, turned back, and starteda low run across the airfield. But the Bulldogrolled to the right and started to drop rapidlywith its wings vertical. Bader tried frantically togain control, but the left wingtip, cowling, andpropeller hit the grass. The plane cartwheeledand crumpled in a cloud of flying dirt. Strappedin the cockpit, Bader felt nothing but heard onlya terrible noise.

Bloodied and semiconscious, the young manwas pried from the crushed cockpit with theaid of a hacksaw, laid on a stretcher, andoffered a glass of brandy. “No, thanks verymuch,” said Bader casually. “I don’t drink.”Then he was rushed in an ambulance to theRoyal Berkshire Hospital in Reading. Within aminute of his arrival, he was on an operatingroom table.

Bader endured several operations and greatpain as his shattered legs—first the right andthen the left—were amputated. He was fitted

with stumps, and learned to hobble aroundwith crutches. He was determined to try andlive a normal life and stay in the Royal AirForce because it was his “home.” Bader learnedto drive a car without his legs, and during anouting with his mother from the RAF Hospitalat Uxbridge, they stopped at a roadside café inBagshot, Surrey. A comely waitress namedThelma served them tea and later becameBader’s devoted wife.

At Roehampton, a London hospital special-izing in artificial limbs, Bader was fitted withmetal legs. He fell many times but learned tostump around on them. He refused to use acane. He was ecstatic at being able to stand,and nothing held him back. After passing a dis-abled driver’s test, he took his little MG back onthe road. With his “tin legs,” he played cricketand golf, went dancing, and returned to the air.Joyfully, he flew an Avro 504 of 601 AuxiliarySquadron from its base at Lympne, Kent, toKenley and back again.

But, inevitably, the Air Ministry decided thatBader should be reverted to the retired listbecause of his disability. Devastated, he wentto work in the aviation section of Asiatic Petro-leum Co., based in London. It was a dull job,but he kept his spirits up by driving fast andmastering golf. One morning in 1935, he washeartened by a Daily Telegraph story announc-ing that the RAF was to be expanded. He beganpressuring the Air Ministry for a refresher fly-ing course so that he could be ready when warcame. In October 1939, a month after its out-break, a telegram summoned him to the Cen-tral Flying School at Upavon, Wiltshire.

Bader eagerly retrained in a number of air-craft types, including the North American Har-vard trainer, Avro Tutor, two-seater Fairey Bat-tle, and Miles Master before going on toHurricanes and Spitfires. He had great admi-ration for the Hurricane, but said of the latter,“Here was the aeroplane par excellence … infact, the aeroplane of one’s dreams.” He wasposted in February 1940 to No. 19 Squadronat Duxford, where he flew Spitfires, and then toSquadron Leader Tubby Mermagen’s No. 222Squadron, also based at Duxford, as a flightcommander.

Patrols and sorties by Fighter Command’sfrontline Hurricanes and Spitfires increaseddramatically as the British Expeditionary Force(BEF) was pushed back to Dunkirk in late Mayand early June. Over the fire-swept beachesduring the BEF’s historic deliverance by theRoyal Navy and a motley fleet of “little ships,”Bader scored his first victory by downing anMe-109. He was exultant. He took part in thelast patrol over Dunkirk on June 4, and then,

APRIL 2014 WWII HISTORY 11

Imperial War Museum

Bader swings one of his prosthetic legs into thecockpit of a Supermarine Spitfire fighter in September 1945. After being liberated from aGerman prison, Bader returned to duty and leda flight of Spitfires from North Weald Airfield ina flyover of London commemorating the fifthanniversary of the Battle of Britain.


exhausted, slept for almost 24 hours.The following month, Bader was given com-

mand of No. 242 Squadron, a mainly Canadianunit that had been mauled in the Battle of France.Morale was low, but Bader’s inspired leadershiprestored the squadron’s fighting spirit. Gregari-ous, cheerful, and effectively leading fivesquadrons as a wing commander in 1940, heimparted freely his knowledge and the dogfight-ing philosophy laid down in World War I: “Hewho has the sun creates surprise. He who hasthe height controls the battle. He who gets inclose shoots them down.” He advised his Cana-dian pilots to attack from below and astern.

Bader proved to be both an inspirationalgroup leader and ace pilot during the tense, hec-tic weeks of the Battle of Britain in the summerof 1940. His aim was to hit the German raidersbefore they could drop bombs. Voicing thespirit of the RAF’s famous “few,” Bader said,“For most of us, it was purely the [enemy] air-plane we wanted to get rid of. We didn’t care abit whether the chap inside it got out orwhether he was killed. We disliked the ironcrosses and the crooked sign of the swastika,and, anyway, who the hell were they to comeover and drop bombs on our people?”

Chalking up 11 confirmed victories, with aneventual score of 22.5, he was one of the most

visible heroes of RAF Fighter Command as itrepelled superior Luftwaffe formations andforced Hitler to call off his invasion plans. Cit-ing Bader’s “courage and tenacity,” Air ChiefMarshal Sir Michael Beetham, a distinguishedBomber Command pilot, said of him, “He wasa truly national hero in every sense.”

In March 1941, the legless warrior wasappointed wing leader at Tangmere in WestSussex, where he quickly made his presence feltand improved aerial tactics. Though dogmaticand unwilling to accept contradiction, Baderhad a cheery, irreverent relationship with hispilots as they flew many defensive patrols and“rhubarb” sorties over Nazi-occupied France.The Tangmere Wing was a happy family. Theleader inspired confidence by trivializing risksand dubbed the wing the “Green Line Bus.” Itsmotto was “Return Tickets Only.” Bader’s ini-tials, DB, painted on the side of his Spitfire,were transmuted to “Dogsbody,” and headopted this as his call sign in the air.

In the air over France, Bader eased his pilots’tensions by cracking jokes, making irrelevantcomments, and even smoking his pipe (becauseof oxygen use no sane man would light a matchin a Spitfire cockpit). His seeming indestruc-tibility became legendary. Wing CommanderJames E. “Johnnie” Johnson of No. 616

Squadron, who became the RAF’s top-scoringace, observed, “Invisible threads of trust andcomradeship hold us together, and the mantleof Bader’s leadership will sustain and protectus throughout the fight ahead.”

But Bader’s luck ran out on August 9, 1941,while he was leading the Tangmere Wing on asortie over northern France. After being shotdown or reportedly rammed by an Me-109, hewas captured by three German soldiers andtaken to a hospital in St.-Omer, where, ironi-cally, his father had died after being woundedin 1917. The famed wing commander, whoinjured his ribs and lost one of his artificial legswhen he bailed out, was well treated. While inthe hospital, he was invited to visit Lt. Col.Adolf Galland, commander of the nearby Luft-waffe airfield at Wissant. Picked up in a Horchstaff car, Bader was feted at a tea party by theamiable German fighter leader and his pilots,given a can of captured English tobacco, andallowed to sit in an Me-109 cockpit.

Bader asked Galland’s interpreter if he could“take off and try a little trip in this thing.” Suf-fering a pang of homesickness, the RAF flierthought that if his hosts were distracted for afew minutes, he could flee in the plane and beback in the Tangmere mess for tea. But Gallandchuckled, and his interpreter said with a grin,



“He says that if you do, he’ll be taking off rightafter you.”

Bader responded eagerly, “All right, let’s havea go!” Galland laughed off the suggestion andsaid that he was off duty. Bader was unawareat the time that a German officer was coveringhim with a pistol. Shortly afterward, Gallandchivalrously arranged for Bader’s spare tin legto be air dropped by the RAF.

With the aid of a French nurse, Baderescaped from the hospital by lowering himselffrom a window with knotted bed sheets. Hehobbled to a peasant’s house but was betrayedby another nurse and recaptured. Transferredto prison camps, he made several more escapeattempts before his captors took away his legsat night. Growing to loathe the Germans, heregularly defied and insulted them. Shippedeventually to the grim Colditz Castle in Sax-ony, in August 1943, as an incorrigible escapeartist, he languished there until liberating U.S.troops arrived on April 16, 1945.

The legless ace had been in captivity for threeyears and eight months. After being flown homein a twin-engine Avro Anson transport, he wasjoyfully reunited with his beloved Thelma.

On September 15, 1945, henceforth cele-brated as Battle of Britain Day, Bader wound ablue polka dot scarf around his neck, climbed

into the cockpit of his “Dogsbody” Spitfire,and led 300 RAF fighters and bombers in athunderous victory fly-by over London. Hisdecorations included the Distinguished ServiceOrder with bar, the Distinguished Flying Crosswith bar, and Commander of the BritishEmpire. He was later knighted and named a fel-low of the Royal Aeronautical Society.

After leaving the RAF in July 1946, Baderworked for Shell Petroleum Co. He touredEurope, Africa, the Middle East, and the UnitedStates with retired General James H. Doolittle,a Shell vice president. The two famed fliers—both chunky, dynamic, and outspoken—became good friends. Bader also kept in touchwith his former foe, General Galland. Invited toa reunion of former Luftwaffe pilots in Munich,Bader commented when he walked in, “MyGod, I had no idea we left so many of you bas-tards alive!”

The RAF hero continued to fly regularly afterthe war, preferring the Percival Proctor, MilesGemini, and Beechcraft Bonanza aircraft. Heeventually logged a total of 5,744 hours of fly-ing time.

Bader devoted much of his time to counsel-ing and encouraging fellow amputees,wounded veterans, and sometimes handi-capped children. He became a tireless cham-

pion of the disabled in Britain and abroad andwas knighted in 1976 for his work.

The flier’s wife, Thelma, died of throat can-cer in January 1971, and he married Joan Mur-ray in January 1973. Bader continued to leadan active life. Besides walking and playing golf,tennis, and squash, he flew regularly untilgrounded in 1980 because of a heart condition.

The legless hero attended many RAF reunions,and his last was an emotional banquet honoringAir Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Harris, thewartime leader of Bomber Command, in Lon-don’s Guildhall on Saturday, September 4, 1982.Bader died of a heart attack while driving homewith his second wife, Joan. He was 72.

On Thursday, August 9, 2001, slender, white-haired Lady Bader unveiled a bronze statue ofher famous husband at Westhampnett, WestSussex, near the Tangmere RAF field fromwhich he took off on his last mission on August9, 1941.

“He was defiant, single-minded, and foughtfor the things in which he believed,” com-mented the Duke of Richmond at the unveil-ing. “Douglas Bader was a very British hero.”

Author Michael D. Hull resides in Enfield,Connecticut, and is a frequent contributor toWWII History.



AT THE START OF WORLD WAR II, JAPANESE AIRPOWER RULED THE SKIES OVERChina and the Pacific. Japan’s modern, highly maneuverable fighters, flown by well-trained andcombat-tested pilots, outperformed anything the Chinese, British, or Americans could get airborneto oppose them.

When the Mitsubishi A6M Type 0 naval fighter first appeared over China in 1941, Allied avia-tors were astonished. Not only was the Zero more agile than anything they had everseen, but its speed and heavy armament guaranteed almost certain victory in a dog-fight. Quickly this new airplane earned a terrifying reputation for flying circlesaround the Hawker Hurricane or Curtiss P-40 Tomahawk.

Few Westerners realized at the time that most of these so-called Zeros were actu-ally Nakajima-designed Japanese Army Air Force (JAAF) aircraft. Known as the“Army Zero” and later code-named “Oscar,” the Ki-43 Hayabusa (Peregrine Fal-con) became the JAAF’s most important fighter of World War II.

I By Patrick J. Chaisson I

Japan’s Fighting Falcon The workhorse fighter aircraft of the

Japanese Army Air Force, the NakajimaKi-43 Hyabusa served throughout World War II.

The Hayabusa served throughout the PacificWar, undergoing several design upgrades toimprove performance, protection, and fire-power. Some 5,919 were built, more than anyother Japanese aircraft except the Zero. Almostall the JAAF’s top aces scored kills with this nim-ble little fighter, a capable workhorse in skilledhands right up to war’s end.

In 1937, a Nakajima design team headed byHideo Itokawa began work on a successor toits Ki-27 fighter, known as the Type 97. TheJapanese Army required a lightweight, maneu-verable air superiority fighter that would clearthe skies of enemy aircraft so ground forcescould operate unimpeded. The Ki-27 met thisrequirement but was already getting long in thetooth compared to Anglo-American aircraft

then in development.Itokawa’s engineers set out to

design a fast, modern interceptorpossessing superb maneuverabil-ity. The low-wing, single seat Ki-43 would feature all metal con-struction, a streamlined canopy,retractable landing gear, and a

In this painting by Jack Fellows, a 59th Sentai

Nakajima Ki-43 Hyabusafighter, code-named Oscarby the Allies, maneuvers

into firing position againsta P-38 Lightning fighter of

the U.S. Fifth Air Force.


Ordnance© Jack Fellows

W-Apr14 Ordnance_Layout 1 1/24/14 1:04 PM Page 14

W-Next Ten FP1 Apr14_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:01 PM Page 2

950-horsepower Sakae radial engine propellingit to over 300 miles per hour. To meet JAAFweight specifications, Nakajima designers choseto omit armor protection and self-sealing fueltanks. Pilots would rely on the machine’s speedand agility to close with an enemy, finishing thejob with two Type 89 7.7mm machine guns.

Yet, when the Ki-43 prototype first flew inJanuary 1939, it performed poorly. Test pilotscomplained the Nakajima design was unre-sponsive, sluggish, and not much faster than theKi-27 it was intended to replace. Clearly,Itokawa’s design needed work.

It took Nakajima 18 months and 13 separatemodifications to deliver an acceptable aircraft.Engineers trimmed every ounce of extra weightfrom the Ki-43, as well as increasing wing areaand redesigning the canopy. They also installeda set of paddle-shaped “butterfly flaps” underthe wing roots to boost maneuverability.

The newly modified interceptor performedwonderfully. It could reach an altitude of 38,500feet with a 3,900 feet per minute rate of climb.Maximum speed was 308 miles per hour at13,000 feet. Its butterfly flaps enabled theHayabusa to turn inside any aircraft then fly-ing, even the Zero.

Nakajima’s Ki-43-I, as the modified design

became known, measured 28 feet, 11 inches long,with a wingspan of 37 feet, six inches. It weighed3,483 pounds empty and 4,515 pounds combatloaded. Armament was initially two 7.7mmmachine guns in the front cowling, later replacedby one or two heavier Ho-103 12.7mm aircraftcannon as those weapons entered service.

Full-scale production of the Peregrine Falconbegan in April 1941. The JAAF accepted it asthe Army Type One interceptor, and Ki-43-equipped squadrons entered service in October.Before long the Hayabusa was battling P-40s ofthe legendary Flying Tigers and British-flownBrewster Buffalo fighters over Burma.

As war spread across Asia and the Pacific,Allied fliers learned to fear Japan’s angry littlefalcon. Tangling with a Ki-43 usually resulted infiery death, so air tacticians such as GeneralClaire L. Chennault of the Flying Tigers taughttheir pilots to avoid dogfighting with one at anycost.

It took time, however, for Chennault’s lessonsto take hold. For the first year of the warHayabusa aces such as Warrant Officer IwataroHazawa (15 kills) and Lieutenant Guichi Sum-ino (27 victories) racked up impressive scoresagainst their Hawker-, Brewster-, and Curtiss-equipped adversaries.

On December 22, 1941, a flight of 18 Ki-43sencountered 13 Australian Brewster Buffalofighters over Malaysia. Sergeant Yoshito Yasudadescribed his role in this air battle: “Luckily,Capt. [Katsumi] Anma found a fleeing Buffaloand attacked it from above and behind. My turncame when Anma’s guns jammed. I sent a burstinto the Buffalo’s engine and saw it belch whitesmoke.” Hayabusa pilots claimed 11 kills thatday for the loss of one Japanese plane; Aus-tralian records indicate three Brewsters wereactually destroyed while two more made ithome too badly damaged to repair.

Despite these early successes, JAAF aviatorsfound fault with the Peregrine Falcon’s perfor-mance, firepower, and durability. In service theKi-43 developed a fatal tendency to shed itswings during a steep dive. This was a direct con-sequence of Nakajima’s earlier weight savingmodifications, and headquarters suspended allflight operations until strengthened wing sparscould be installed.

Pilots also disliked the slow-firing Ho-103cannon. A Japanese copy of the U.S. BrowningM2 .50-caliber machine gun, early models oftenjammed in combat. The Ho-103’s unreliabilityforced most pilots to keep one 7.7mm machinegun installed as a backup.

Nakajima designers watched with concern asmodern Allied fighters like the Lockheed P-38Lightning and Vought F4U Corsair took to theskies starting in late 1942. They began work toupgrade the Hayabusa, adding a more power-ful 1,150-horsepower engine, self-sealing fueltanks, and armor protection for the pilot. Areflector gunsight was also installed, and theHo-103’s reliability problems were fixed. Sub-sequent modifications included bomb/drop tankracks, radio equipment, and clipped wingsintended to improve the roll rate.

The updated Ki-43-II was faster, stronger, andno less maneuverable than older models.Remaining uncorrected, however, was the Pere-grine Falcon’s alarming vulnerability to enemygunfire. Allied fliers soon discovered that oneburst of .50-caliber machine-gun bullets into theKi-43’s unprotected oxygen tank would usuallycause a catastrophic explosion.

The Hayabusa’s two-gun battery was one-third as potent as the six heavy weapons carriedby most American fighters. Even firing explosiveshells, the Ho-103 cannon proved woefullyinadequate against tough-skinned Allied war-planes. When Consolidated B-24 Liberatorbombers began operating in Chinese airspace inlate 1942, JAAF fliers had no choice but toattack them with their poorly armed Falcons.

It took great courage to intercept the formi-dable B-24s, and even greater luck to bring one


Both: National Archives

TOP: In this captured Japanese photograph, ground crewmen stand near Nakajima Ki-43 Oscar fightersbeing prepared for a mission. The pilots are in their cockpits and ready for takeoff. ABOVE: A trio of

Nakajima Ki-43 Oscar fighters patrols above Japanese installations somewhere in the Pacific.


down. Captain Yasuhiko Kuroe told his pilotsto fly head-on into the American formations and concentrate on a single bomber. “Attackboldly,” Kuroe counseled. “Go into the wallof fire and take their bullets, be relentless.”Kuroe’s tactic worked, but often at great loss

to the fragile Ki-43s.The tables were turning for those brave avia-

tors forced to fly this increasingly obsolescentfighter. Twelve-kill JAAF ace Captain YoheiHinoki observed: “By the time the Hayabusahad become a good attack aircraft things were

changing. It was now to be used for defense …so again its firepower was insufficient. TheHayabusa was coming to the end of its time.”

Japanese Army Air Force pilots continued tooperate the aging Ki-43 simply because that wasall they had. While JAAF-flown Hayabusasfought desperately against superior Allied fight-ers, development of more advanced aircraft likethe Ki-84 Hayate remained a low priority. Per-haps the government believed its own propa-ganda; in 1942 only good war news reached theJapanese people.

Those fighting over China and the Pacificknew better. American aviators were learninghow to cope with the Nakajima fighter, nowcode-named “Oscar.” Using team tactics, well-trained U.S. Navy and Army Air Corps fighteraces began scoring heavily against the dimin-ishing number of skilled Hayabusa pilots.

On August 2, 1943, Captain James A.Watkins and 15 pilots of the USAAF’s 9thFighter Squadron pounced on a large formationof Ki-43s over the Huon Gulf in New Guinea.Flying the powerful P-38 Lightning, Watkinsquickly destroyed two Ki-43s before diving ona third Oscar that was running away at wave-top level. Trying to outturn Watkins’s plane, theKi-43 accidentally dipped a wing into the water

17

National Archives

Continued on page 77

First Lieutenant Okumuru Masao climbs into his Ki-43 Oscar fighter plane to take part in a mission on theChinese mainland in August 1943. This photograph was taken for publication in a Japanese magazine of the

period, and censors have obscured certain details of the plane’s configuration and unit identification.

W-Apr14 Ordnance_Layout 1 1/27/14 11:09 AM Page 17

WORLD WAR II IN THE PACIFIC WAS FOUGHT IN THOUSANDS OF REMO TElocations. The island of Borneo was the site of one of the least known clandestine operations ofthe conflict, led by an adventurous, but arrogant, anthropologist.

“Because of the Japs,” wrote author Tom Harrisson of a reconnaissance flight he took, “in thislatter part of 1944 the sweet soaring cry of the gibbons, black, white, swift and smart swingingagainst the canopy green; the faint singing of old ladies making mats by flickering gum-candle-light; and the echoing murmur of wind sniffling out of the cold, mist-laden cliffs down onto theplain below; these and many, many other noises (tree crash, cicada buzz, mongoose chuckle, thewhistle of the blood-red and black hill partridge, grasshoppers, a million moving termites, piglets,bat swing, goat laugh, eagle, owl and the legendary noises of the enspirited night, to name a fewothers) were, for the first time in far upland history, swamped for a few moments by the soundof a great mechanical device.

“Lying in the bomber-aimer’s blister of an American four-engined Liberator little was to beseen on this first flight. In fact the navigational plot below and the existing map made, showedus nearly fifty miles out at nowhere. Meanwhile, scarcely dreaming and certainly feeling nothingof the land under our belly, from the clouds something very special was being cooked up by the[inhabitants] down below. I was the [unwitting] chef.”

During that flight in December 1941, Harrison flew across Borneo, the world’s third largest islandwith 284,000 square miles, a hybrid of colonies and kingdoms. The southern three-quarters werepart of the Dutch East Indies. Nudged in the northwest corner were a pair of British dependencies:North Borneo, run by a chartered company since 1881, and the Sultanate of Brunei, a protectorate.Most unique and exotic was Sarawak, ruled since 1841 by the famous White Rajahs, a dynastyfounded by swashbuckling James Brooke in 1841 and recognized by the British in 1863.

Borneo has 165,000 square miles of the world’s oldest rainforest, estimated at 130 million yearsold, inhabited by primitive tribes scarcely out of the Stone Age, and many headhunters, who withBorneo’s name are synonymous with wildness to the outside world. It had, unfortunately for the

I By John W. Osborn, Jr. I

Long Rainforest FightAn anthropologist led operations against the Japanese on the world’s third largest island.

time and circumstances, something else—oil.Imperial, expansionist Japan invaded onDecember 16, 1941.

Borneo’s entire defense consisted of a single,inexperienced, expendable Punjabi regimentfrom India, 2,500 native volunteers, and 6,500Dutch troops. A Dutch submarine torpedoedtwo Japanese transports, but it was not even areprieve. Kuching, the capital of Sarawak, wasbombed and fell Christmas Day, the elderlyRajah Charles Brooke finding refuge in Aus-tralia, and by March 1942, all resistance hadended. But now, for the Western civilianinternees and prisoners taken or shipped there,the real, desperate, struggle began—survival inJapanese captivity. Tragically, in the end 3,908were to lose their lives.

Borneo was in the bleak backwaters of the waruntil the southern Philippines were liberated bythe Americans at the beginning of 1945, finally

placing Borneo within reach for the Allies. Butfor one Ally, Australia, there seemed no need forinvasion—the island and its oil could now be cutoff from Japan by the U.S. Navy.

But Borneo lay in the Southwest Pacific Areaand in the hands of its imperious commander,General Douglas MacArthur, who rarely lis-tened to anyone, and never to Australians.

18

Top Secret

ABOVE: Author Tom Harrisson posed with an indige-nous Kelabit tribesman on the Japanese-held island ofBorneo in 1944. LEFT: Jack Tradrea, a member of theZ Special Unit, took this photograph from the B-24bomber that transported the covert unit to Borneo.The image shows the longhouse where the groupspent its first night in Borneo. Tradrea accompaniedTom Harrisson during this mission to the Japanese-held island.

W-Apr14 Top Secret_Layout 1 1/27/14 11:10 AM Page 18


While the reasons he gave for his decision tohave the Australians liberate Borneo were plau-sible from a military standpoint—airfields fromwhich to attack Malaya, a base for the RoyalNavy to operate against the Japanese fleet, therescue of the long-suffering prisoners—it wasstrongly suspected that it was just as muchabout giving the unused Australians in his the-ater something to do and keeping them occu-pied away from the crowning achievement ofhis career. He wanted to keep the invasion ofJapan itself an all American operation.

The British and Australians knew theyneeded both information from inside occupiedBorneo and wholehearted cooperation of thetribes. In the end, that meant turning, and noteagerly, to that adventurous, arrogant anthro-pologist.

Tom Harrisson was familiar with Borneo, hav-ing led a 1932 expedition to study Sarawak’stribes. He had followed up with more ground-breaking work in the New Hebrides beforefounding the first mass market research organi-zation in Britain in 1937. Along the way hebecame known for something he alluded to inthe title of his autobiography, The Most Offend-ing Soul Alive. He had, putting it mildly for thosehe had had fierce run-ins with (among them hisown father, who disinherited him), “a reputa-tion for strong self-opinionation and a generalreluctance to opposition.”

It followed him into a hotel room in North-ern Ireland in 1944 to a secret meeting with aretired cavalry colonel about joining Britain’scovert war arm, the Special Operations Execu-tive (SOE) and its branch in Australia.

As he wrote in his war memoir, World Within,A Borneo Story (1959), “All the time Borneowhispered in my ear…. Anyway, Mott offeredme Borneo in the end, adding that I was aboutthe last of their hopes. They had already (he said)asked everyone with any conceivable knowledge,including my colleagues of the 1932 expedition.When I practically leapt at the offer, he shed hiscavalry veneer of calm for a second in pleasedevident relief. For in a tiny way, the British Ser-vices at that moment badly needed to find a fewmen to go back into Borneo and try to save ofthe face, chin-up, lost to the Japanese.”

The mission to Borneo was code-namedSemut, Malay for ant. “We were to be bitingants,” Harrisson wrote. The first two attemptsto parachute in failed, but finally, after a six-hour flight from the Philippines, Harrisson andhis seven team members descended intoSarawak on the night of March 25, 1945.

Harrisson was “the first white man to touchdown and thus to return after years of Japaneseoccupation.” He found himself called something

very different after spending that night in anearby tribal longhouse big enough to accom-modate 500. “I awoke to find myself a Rajah,”he later recounted. “I was The Rajah. Plainlyand flatly that—though I was slow to realize it!”

The tribesmen took his descent as a sign ofmagical power. They thought his major’s goldcrown was a royal symbol and assumed he wasRajah Brooke’s nephew and heir! “My positionin their eyes was further accentuated becausethey saw seven other white men doing (attimes!) what I told them,” Harrisson related.“No situation of this kind had previously risenamong them, or would normally arise in pub-lic anywhere in Brooke Sarawak.”

Eventually 100,000 tribesmen supportedhim. “There seemed to be no limit to the will-ingness of inland loyalty. So far as I know therewas not one traitor,” he wrote.

Two more Semut were dropped in to coverNorth Borneo and Brunei, and Harrisson wouldbe constantly on the move between them and themembers of his team scattered among the tribes.“I do not think I have ever walked so fast, so far,in such exhausting country,” Harrisson happilyrecalled. “But it was marvelous to be clear ofradio and paper work, to feel actually in the fieldand subject to the proper discomforts and haz-ards. My mobility helped to coordinate andtighten things up considerably.”

Though in his account Harrisson gives noindication of any strife, to judge from the latercomments—far from flattering—of some of hiscomrades, he evidently carried his admittedlyoffending ways around with him. Nor, by hisown admission, did he spare the tribes whentheir omens and superstitions got in the way ofhis mission. “Clearly we could not operate likethis. And in this one respect I did simply rough-

ride over every consideration of local customand belief.”

As it happened, Harrisson had his own rea-son to get away from the radio. He had built upa broadcasting network covering 20,000 squaremiles, but the results proved to be mixed.

“We felt elated by the amount of valuableinformation we were obtaining, yet horriblyfrustrated when time and time again this failedto get through,” he bitterly remembered. “Oursignals had to be repeated, and repeated in replyto queries already distorted. These were someof the worst hours ever. Some nights I spententirely with the code books and a hurricanelamp, probably only adding to the confusion ina type of mental exercise which is no more mymétier than crossword, mental arithmetic,chess, or bridge (all of which I abhor).”

Drawing on his own experience, Harrissonhad given his Semut teams a crash course ontribal customs. At the same time, he was famil-iarizing the tribesmen with Western ways ofwaging modern war. “We never had to teach aKelabit or Murut how to move or kill,” Har-risson related later. “But there was always anappreciable danger that in moving they mightkill themselves, with things like hand grenades;or kill each other, instead of the enemy, by acombination of over-enthusiasm and the auto-matic lever on a carbine or Sten gun.”

Arms were dropped in, but bows and arrowsand even the deadly blowpipe were also put touse. Harrisson eventually trained some 6,000tribesmen who would quickly show what eager,deadly learners they were. “On a shout,” Har-risson later described, “this fearful blast of fire-power was discharged from behind a ridge intoall the rear of the party, which included theJapanese and their fully implicated satellites.


In July 1945, Australian troops storm ashore in the first wave of Allied soldiers to initiate the liberation ofBorneo from the Japanese. These troops were tasked with the capture of the key city of Balikpapan.

© Corbis

W-Apr14 Top Secret_Layout 1 1/24/14 5:57 PM Page 20

Our first operation went one hundred percent.No one escaped down-hill to tell the tale.”

“This so one-sided ambush greatly height-ened the already high morale of our continuallygrowing forces,” he added. “With several morewhich soon followed, it gave reassuring indi-cations that my subordinates could controltheir guerrillas; and that their guerrillas couldcontrol themselves. There was no looting, oreven lopping off of heads on this occasion—oron any occasion later, unless for some reasonpermission was given; or unless the forces con-cerned were Ibans, lowland people who hadnot yet got into the Semut system of ants withfirearms, but para-military, uncouth manners.”

The tribesmen would soon have more tar-gets. On June 10, 1945, some 23,553 Aus-tralian soldiers landed at Brunei Bay to beginthe long-awaited liberation of Borneo, andHarrisson and his tribes launched their ownattacks in support. “We fell as best we mightupon the Japanese, their co-operators, installa-tions and communications,” he wrote.

“In strict military terms this was no greatshakes. But the wide scatter, the ferocity and thecomplete surprise of these attacks had a fargreater effect than their simple statistical signif-icance. Our irregular efforts gave to the unluckyenemy the impression of a general, synchronizedattack. This impression was accentuated in thatwe were able to take over wireless and adminis-trative posts and to kill off every Jap on routineduty along the whole of the Brunei and Sarawakinstallations in the huge arc of Brunei Bay andthe coastal plain behind.”

On July 1, some 21,000 additional Aus-tralians landed at Balikpapan, southeast Bor-neo, for the final amphibious operation ofWorld War II. Soon, the Japanese began to fleeinto the interior. “Thus,” Harrisson grimlyrecorded, “Semut ceased to be engaged in intel-ligence and sabotage, and decreasingly inadministration. Instead, we devoted the greaterpart of all effort directly to killing Japanese.”

Harrisson and his tribes were credited withkilling 1,000 Japanese. Others died by their ownhand, hanging themselves by tree branches withtheir belts. “Years later,” Harrisson was to relate,“skeletons were still being found; several timessingle skulls strangely dangling, ghostly jokes ina land so long scarred by head-hunting.”

Hiroshima and Nagasaki intruded on Har-risson’s Stone Age world. It took the Japanesecommander a month to emerge from hiding tosurrender, but a captain with 560 under himwas still out in the rainforest. It would be Har-risson’s final mission to find them, and he did.“In a highly inconsequential ‘ceremony,’ theJapanese commander handed me his sword, as

we stood beside a rice hut, which I rememberwas almost fallen down as a relic of the previ-ous harvest season. This was on the last day ofOctober 1945.”

Harrisson marked the occasion in his offend-ing style by bedding a Japanese Army nurse.“The war was properly over,” he simply con-cluded. But it ended less agreeably for the fam-ilies of the 299 Australians soldiers killed onBorneo (634 were wounded) in a final cam-paign. Many had a hard time seeing any realnecessity in the campaign. Harrisson, for hispart, never commented.

The war had devastated the island, and theresulting political changes would set it on theroad to another longer conflict in less than twodecades. Unable to recover on their own, boththe chartered company and the last white Rajahformally ceded North Borneo and Sarawak tothe British in June-July 1946, and they becamecrown colonies. In 1961, they merged withMalaya to form Malaysia, while Brunei, offeredthe chance, opted for full independence instead.

The Dutch thought they could return affairsto what they had been before the war. Theywere wrong. “We were conscious of the anti-Dutch feelings of the Indonesians that thesepeople didn’t want to be bossed about,” oneAustralian soldier on occupation duty recog-nized. They were not to be for much longer—in 1949 southern Borneo became part of inde-pendent Indonesia.

But Sukarno, the leader of the revolt againstthe Dutch, proved to be a megalomaniac, deter-mined to force his own union with Malaysia,Brunei, and the Philippines with himself incharge. The result was a conflict during theearly 1960s called, simply, the Confrontation.The British, Australians, and Indonesians wereinvolved in a series of hit-and-run raids backand forth across the borders.

The conflict was kept so quiet that the soleVictoria Cross awarded was kept secret at thetime, the citation falsely saying the action tookplace in defense of Malaysian soil and notacross the border in Indonesia. Finally, in 1966Sukarno was overthrown, and the Confronta-tion ended.

Tom Harrisson organized loyal tribesmenduring the conflict. He spent years on Borneoafter the war running the local museum andcontinuing his studies of the tribes, evenexpanding his field to archaeology, finding theskulls that first placed man on Borneo around50,000 BC. He died in 1976.

Author John W. Osborn, Jr. is resident ofLaguna Niguel, California. He has previouslywritten for WWII History on numerous topics.


Have a question about your subscription? NeedTo Change Your Address? Want to buy a giftsubscription? Now, it’s easier than ever!

Fax Us: 570-322-2063, c/o: Customer Service.Call Us: 800-219-1187. E-mail Us: [email protected]

WWII HISTORYAT YOUR SERVICE…

SOVEREIGN MEDIA COMPANY,c/o: Customer Service,

1000 Commerce Park Drive, Suite 300,Williamsport, PA 17701

W-Apr14 Top Secret_Layout 1 1/24/14 5:57 PM Page 21

WITH SUCH AWARD-WINNING FILMS AS STAGECOACH, YOUNG MR. LINCOLN,Drums Along the Mohawk, The Grapes of Wrath, The Long Voyage Home, and How Green WasMy Valley behind him, John Ford was one of Hollywood’s most respected directors by the timeWorld War II broke out in 1939.

But 46-year-old Ford, the owner of the Araner, a 110-foot, two-masted yacht, alsodreamed of becoming a naval hero, although he had failed the entrance examina-tion for the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis in 1914. He was sure that his coun-try would be drawn into the conflict, offering him his “last chance to be a boy.”He started his naval service several years before the Pearl Harbor attack sent Amer-ica to war.

After being appointed a lieutenant commander in the U.S. Naval Reserve in Sep-tember 1934, Ford made periodic cruises aboard his yacht down the coast of BajaCalifornia between 1936 and 1939, gathering information for the 11th Naval Dis-

I By Michael D. Hull I

Cameras Go to WarHollywood director John Ford brought unique talent to the film interpretation of World War II.

trict. He reported that the crews of Japaneseshrimp boats off the Mexican coast were spy-ing and constituting “a real menace” tonational defense. He said that there were Impe-rial Navy officers aboard the trawlers and thatthe Japanese were familiar with every cove andinlet of the Gulf of California. Ford was com-mended for his “unselfish and patriotic work.”

By the autumn of 1939, with Europe nowengulfed in war, Ford’s desire to get involvedintensified. Garnering a second AcademyAward for his Dust Bowl saga The Grapes ofWrath did not deter him. “Awards for picturesare a trivial thing to be concerned with at timeslike these,” he explained. So, in April 1940,Ford created an unofficial Naval Reserve unit.

His recruits for the Naval Field PhotographicUnit, known simply as Field Photographic,were some of the best talents in Hollywood.They included writers Garson Kanin and BuddSchulberg, cinematographer Gregg Toland, edi-tor Robert Parrish, and special effects expertRay Kellogg. The unit’s mission was to photo-graph combat, and Ford hoped that the NavyDepartment would recognize the value of sucha trained auxiliary.

Aided by retired chief petty officer and actorJack Pennick, a gaunt Marine Corps veteran ofWorld War I and China service, Ford moldedthe ragtag group into a military force. Its mem-bers wore rented uniforms, carried weaponsborrowed from the 20th Century-Fox propertydepartment, and drilled on a studio soundstage.They learned discipline and even sword drillbecause “Pappy” Ford, while hating regula-tions, loved military ceremony. The groupbecame known as “John Ford’s Navy.”

The project was not taken seriously by theNavy brass for some months. Ford wasridiculed in some quarters as a “warmonger”and an “over-age Sea Scout,” and his appealsfor authorization drew no response. But he waswell connected in the Naval Reserve, and hepersisted. He lobbied in Washington, and hisunit eventually gained official sanction late in1940. By 1941, with the draft being felt in Hol-lywood, Field Photographic was deluged with

applications.In September 1941, Ford and

his unit members were summonedto Washington where a big sur-prise awaited them. With the sup-port of Merian C. Cooper, a filmproducer and colorful soldier offortune, Field Photographic hadbeen accepted intact—not by theNavy but by the newly formed

An impatient John Fordwatches as a film crew

prepares equipment for anupcoming movie scene.

Ford pursued an opportu-nity to assist the

American war effort andmade the landmark docu-mentary of the Midwayfighting in the Pacific.


InsightThe Kobal Collection

W-Apr14 Insight John Ford_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:46 PM Page 22


Office of Strategic Services headed by ColonelWilliam J. “Wild Bill” Donovan, a legendaryWorld War I Medal of Honor winner. Ford wasto be accountable to Donovan, who in turnreported to President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Theunit was assigned an operating budget of $5 mil-lion for its first year.

Ford’s unit received its first assignment inNovember 1941, when Donovan ordered it toproduce a filmed report on the U.S. AtlanticFleet as it helped the British escort convoys andwaged an undeclared war against German U-boats. Donovan showed the film to Roosevelt.Shortly after the Pearl Harbor attack, FieldPhotographic was sent south to film defensesin the Panama Canal Zone.

In February 1942, Ford turned over his yachtto the Navy for use as a patrol craft off the Cal-ifornia coast. Many Hollywood luminaries,meanwhile, joined the war effort. Ford’s attrac-tive, elegant wife, Mary, worked at the popu-lar Hollywood Canteen, and his stars JohnWayne and Ward Bond served as air raid war-dens in Los Angeles.

Impressed with Ford’s North Atlantic andPanama documentaries, Colonel Donovan—backed by FDR—next ordered Field Photo-graphic to film the war in the Pacific, beginningwith a top secret report on the Pearl Harbordebacle. The unit started filming in Hawaii, andFord flew to Honolulu in mid-February tocheck on progress. While there, he learned of aplanned raid against Japan by Colonel JamesH. Doolittle’s Army Air Forces North AmericanB-25 Mitchell medium bombers from the car-rier USS Hornet. Leaving Toland in charge ofthe Pearl Harbor film project, Ford and severalcameramen managed to talk their way intojoining Vice Admiral William F. Halsey, Jr.’sTask Force 16, formed around the Hornet, sothat they could cover the launching.

Ford sailed aboard the heavy cruiser USS SaltLake City. On the morning of April 14, 1942,four days before Doolittle’s 16 bombers liftedoff the Hornet, Ford was proud to learn fromthe cruiser’s radio that he had won his thirdAcademy Award for How Green Was My Val-ley, the poignant story of a Welsh coal miningfamily.

But the irascible, hard-drinking filmmaker,who liked to be called Jack, was angered whenhe returned to Hawaii and learned that theNavy had confiscated Toland’s Pearl Harborfilm and locked it in a vault because it was con-sidered controversial. The high-strung,depressed Toland was assigned to the Field Pho-tographic station in Rio de Janeiro, and Fordheaded for Washington.

During a brief stay in the hot, muggy capital,

Ford was told by Donovan that something bigwas imminent in the Pacific. Navy cryptogra-phers had breached Japanese codes and learnedthat the Imperial Navy was trying to provokethe U.S. Pacific Fleet, still weak after the PearlHarbor attack, into a confrontation aroundremote Midway Atoll, 1,304 nautical milesnorthwest of Hawaii. Donovan asked Ford tofly out and film what might be the most impor-tant naval battle of the Pacific War.

The filmmaker did not hesitate. In mid-May,he flew in a Douglas C-47 transport to SanFrancisco and boarded a destroyer for his four-day return to Pearl Harbor. Then, Ford andJack MacKenzie, a photographer’s mate, rodea Navy patrol plane to Midway. Circling thetiny atoll after a four-hour flight, Ford peereddown and saw that its small Marine and Navygarrison was braced for action. Sandbags werepiled, slit trenches dug, machine guns posi-tioned, and ground crews bustled aroundfighter planes on the airstrip.

Ford sensed the resolve of Midway’s defend-ers and was in high spirits. “This is some place,really fascinating,” he wrote to his wife on June1. “The morale here is extremely high, and thefood is really delicious—best I’ve had in theNavy.”

When a Midway-based patrol bombersighted the powerful Japanese fleet on themorning of June 3, 1942, Midway’s Marinebattalion and sailors took last minute defensemeasures. As more emplacements were hastilydug, fighters fueled, and ammunition belts dis-tributed, Ford and MacKenzie got ready to filmthe inevitable attack.

On Thursday, June 4, the two-day Battle ofMidway—the most decisive naval engagement

since Trafalgar—began as dive bombers andtorpedo bombers from the U.S. carriers Hor-net, Enterprise, and Yorktown, led by RearAdmirals Frank Jack Fletcher and Raymond A.Spruance, sought out and attacked AdmiralIsoroku Yamamoto’s four carriers, Akagi,Kaga, Soryu, and Hiryu.

On Midway itself, Pappy Ford and the redhaired, freckled MacKenzie took their positionswith hand cameras and waited tensely. Fordclimbed the airfield’s wooden control tower andsent MacKenzie to Midway’s generating plant.Ford advised the young man, “Photographfaces. We can always fake combat footagelater.” They did not have long to wait.

At dawn on June 4, before Ford had dressed,Midway came under attack. Waves of Japanesecarrier bombers and fighters roared in, bomb-ing and strafing. Explosions shook the atoll,debris flew, and a fuel dump belched smoke andflame. Though feverish and with their heartspounding, Ford and MacKenzie calmly cap-tured on film the fury around them—incomingenemy planes, bombs falling, fires, leathernecksfiring machine guns, weary American fighterpilots returning, medical corpsmen carryingbodies to ambulances, and smoking wreckage.

On the control tower, Ford was both terri-fied and exhilarated when Japanese fighterszoomed in and riddled the structure. One of theplanes came so close that Ford saw the pilotgive him a toothy grin. At 8 that morning, thefilmmaker aimed his camera at a group ofMarines hoisting the Stars and Stripes whilesmoke and flame swirled in the background.The dramatic shot eventually became one ofthe best known images of World War II.

As Ford descended from the control tower, a


While filming his Academy Award-winning documentary on the Battle of Midway, Ford and an assistantobserve the action during a Japanese air raid against Midway Atoll in the Pacific.

The Kobal Collection


W-Bradford FP2 Apr14_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:03 PM Page 2

close hit by an enemy planestunned him. Then he realizedthat he was bleeding. Shrapnelhad splintered his left forearm.He sought medical attentionand then continued to film theattack and devastation. Thefilmmaker was later awardedthe Purple Heart and a citationfrom the 14th Naval Districtrecognizing his “courage anddevotion to duty.”

In the close-run naval battle,meanwhile, American carrierplanes had sunk the four enemyflattops and scored a costly butmomentous victory. Yamamotoabandoned Midway invasionplans, and his shattered fleetretired westward. The ImperialNavy had been put on thedefensive in the Pacific.

Ford spent several days photographing Mid-way’s damage before quietly collecting hisfootage—eight cans of color film—and sailingto Los Angeles aboard a transport ship. He hada rush print made of the Midway film andfound himself being hailed as a combat hero. AHollywood Reporter headline announced on

June 18, “Ford Filmed Battle of Midway,”while columnist Louella Parsons gushed that he“is Hollywood’s own personal hero.”

The filmmaker flew on to Washington andarrived at OSS headquarters unshaven and withhis left arm bandaged. He went to work imme-diately on the Midway footage with editor Par-

rish. Ford wanted no officialinterference and suspected thatNavy brass and censors mightcome “snooping around,” so heordered Parrish to fly to Holly-wood and work on the film there.

Parrish assembled the film onthe 20th Century-Fox lot.Screenwriter Dudley Nicholswrote a narration, which wasrewritten by Jim McGuinness ofMetro-Goldwyn-Mayer. Fordflew out when the project wasready. The narration wasrecorded by Henry Fonda, JaneDarwell, and Donald Crisp,three of Ford’s players, and thedirector watched a screening ofthe rough cut in a locked edit-ing room while a Marine stoodwatch outside. Ford regardedthe 18-minute documentary,

titled The Battle of Midway, as a timely moralebooster. “It’s for the mothers of America,” hedeclared. “It’s to let them know that we’re in awar and that we’ve been getting the s—- kickedout of us for five months, and now we’re start-ing to hit back.”

Donovan and the director rushed the film to


John Wayne and Robert Montgomery (center left and right) pour over a map along withfellow naval officers in John Ford’s famous film They Were Expendable depicting the

drama and hazards of wartime duty aboard PT-boats in the Pacific Theater. The movie’smain character was based on the exploits of naval hero Lieutenant John Bulkeley.

Library of Congress



the White House, where it was promptly viewedby the president, his wife, Eleanor, trustedadviser Harry L. Hopkins, and Admiral WilliamD. Leahy, FDR’s senior naval aide. The footageincluded a shot of Marine Corps Major JamesRoosevelt attending a memorial service for theMidway dead, and when the president recog-nized his son, he fell silent. After the viewing, thefirst lady wept and FDR was ashen. Turning toLeahy, the president said, “I want every motherin America to see this picture.”

Twentieth Century-Fox distributed 500prints to theaters across the country, and thefirst public screening was at New York’s RadioCity Music Hall on September 14, 1942. Edi-tor Parrish reported, “It was a stunning, amaz-ing thing to see.… City women screamed, peo-ple cried, and the ushers had to take themout.… The people, they just went crazy.”

Ahead of its time, the Ford film was propa-gandist yet realistic and inspirational andshowed that an Allied victory in the Pacific waspossible. The Battle of Midway was widely seenand critically acclaimed and eventually won theAcademy Award for best documentary shortsubject of 1942.

Immediately after the White House screen-ing, Ford flew to London in a Pan Americanflying boat with Pennick, now his unofficialaide. The purpose was to organize Field Pho-tographic crews for Operation Torch, theupcoming Allied invasion of North Africa. Fordsent his camera crews to the British CommandoSchool at Achnacarry in the Scottish Highlandsfor special training and conditioning.

The complex invasion was launched onNovember 8, 1942, with three Allied taskforces converging on the Morocco-Algeriacoasts. Thirty-four thousand U.S. troops landednear Casablanca; 39,000 British and U.S.troops went ashore near Oran, supported byairborne troops; and 33,000 men landed nearAlgiers. Pappy Ford waited in Gibraltar, impa-tient to get to the front.

As soon as permission was granted, he leftGibraltar on November 14 with Pennick andphotographer’s mate Robert Johannes. Theycommandeered a jeep in Algiers and attachedthemselves to D Company of the 13th ArmoredRegiment in Major General Orlando Ward’s 1stArmored Division. The regiment advanced tothe Algerian port of Bone, where Ford spent sev-eral days with Hollywood producer Darryl F.Zanuck. Driving a requisitioned Chevrolet coupeand armed with a Tommy gun, two pistols, andhand grenades, the diminutive Zanuck was cov-ering the war for a documentary and a book.

Ford and his 32 cameramen saw plenty ofaction in Algeria and Tunisia. Huddling in fox-


holes and sharing the risks and hardships of thetankers and infantrymen, they survived Ger-man artillery, machine-gun fire, and divebombers. Ford lost 32 pounds while subsistingon tea and hard English biscuits.

One day in Tunisia, while D Company wasunder attack by German bombers and divebombers, Ford, Pennick, and Johannes tookrefuge in a grove of eucalyptus trees. A flight ofRoyal Air Force Supermarine Spitfires swoopedto attack the enemy planes, and Ford had hiscamera ready to film the fierce dogfight thatensued. He watched a Spitfire shoot down atwin-engine Junkers Ju-88 medium bomber,and a crewman bailed out.

As the parachute billowed and drifted down,Ford shouted to his companions, “Come on!Let’s take him prisoner.” The three Americansjumped into their jeep and careened acrosswadis and scrubland to where the German hadlanded. He surrendered, told Ford that he wasthe bombardier, and asked to be taken to wherethe plane had crashed to see if any others of thefour-man crew had survived. Ford agreed.

But the smoking wreckage yielded threecharred bodies. While the bombardier mournedhis friends and Ford pondered what to do withhim, a Free French Army lieutenant drove upand demanded jurisdiction over the German.Ford turned him over, and the Frenchman beganslapping the captive while interrogating him.Ford intervened, saying, “OK, that’s enough!The prisoner stays with us.” The French officerwas enraged, but Ford stood his ground andeventually turned over the airman to the com-pany commander. The German was not awarethat the humane American who had capturedhim was a famous Hollywood director.

After their six hectic weeks in combat, Ford,Pennick, and Johannes flew to Gibraltar inDecember 1942, and then headed home aboardthe attack transport USS Samuel Chase. Ford,who had been promoted to captain in the U.S.Naval Reserve, then spent several months inWashington busying himself with his film unitand lobbying high-ranking officers and Con-gressmen. But he grew bored, so he decided toresurrect footage of the Pearl Harbor disasterby Toland and Navy cameramen. Parrishtrimmed the footage to half an hour, BuddSchulberg wrote the narration, and AlfredNewman, one of Hollywood’s leading com-posers, wrote the score. The documentary wastitled December 7th.

As part of the Industrial Incentives Program,the film was not released to theaters, but wasshown in defense plants to boost productionand morale. Producer Walter Wanger told itsdirector that December 7th was a “great pic-

ture” and a “triumph,” and it received anAcademy Award for best documentary of 1943.

Ford continued globetrotting and his associa-tion with Colonel Donovan. In the summer of1943, while the latter was getting the OSS estab-lished in the China-Burma-India Theater, thetireless filmmaker flew to New Delhi to overseework on a new documentary, Victory in Burma.The film would focus on the theater commander,Lord Louis Mountbatten, and the long, bitterstruggle waged against the Japanese in theBurmese jungles by General William Slim’s “for-gotten” British 14th Army. Ford flew reconnais-sance flights to China, photographed air raids inBurma and China, and worked closely with Maj.Gen. Albert C. Wedemeyer, the theater com-mander of U.S. forces, and Maj. Gen. Claire L.Chennault, leader of the U.S. Fourteenth AirForce and the legendary Flying Tigers.

After a wearying seven-day flight from NewDelhi, Ford and Pennick arrived home in Jan-uary 1944. Called into Donovan’s office, Fordwas praised for his efforts in the Far East, toldthat he had been a great asset to the OSS, andwas recommended for promotion to captain.Donovan then informed him that his Field Pho-tographic would be in charge of filming theplanned Allied invasion of Normandy. Thefilmmaker was both stunned and jubilant.

Captain Ford flew to England early in April1944 and busied himself for the next twomonths getting his film unit ready to cover theinvasion. Mark Armistead’s Field Photographicteam in London had been hard at work for 18months photographing the European coastfrom low-flying B-25 bombers and gatheringdata on French waters, beaches, and inland ter-rain. One of Armistead’s prime sources on theNormandy shore was his friend, LieutenantJohn D. Bulkeley, the commander of a PT-boatsquadron in the English Channel.

“Buck” Bulkeley had gained fame as a dar-ing PT-boat skipper in the doomed Philippinesearly in 1942 and for evacuating General Dou-glas MacArthur and his family from Corregi-dor. Bulkeley was awarded the Medal ofHonor, and his feats were celebrated in WilliamL. White’s bestselling book They Were Expend-able. Ironically, Pappy Ford was under Holly-wood pressure from April 1943 onward to turnthe book into a film, but he felt he could notleave Field Photographic and that the war wasmore important. Screenwriters McGuinnessand Frank W. “Spig” Wead kept up the pres-sure, but Ford resisted, saying that he was“committed to a major operation.”

One spring morning shortly before the Nor-mandy invasion, Ford was resting in his roomat London’s elegant Claridge’s Hotel when

there was a knock on the door. It was Armis-tead and Bulkeley. Although he was naked, thefilmmaker jumped out of bed, stood at atten-tion, and saluted the PT-boat hero. “I’m proudto salute the man who rescued GeneralMacArthur,” he declared. Bulkeley regardedFord as eccentric, but the two soon became firmfriends.

On the night of June 5, 1944, after dispers-ing his camera crews among the Allied assaultgroups, Pappy Ford went aboard the heavycruiser USS Augusta, the flagship of RearAdmiral Alan G. Kirk’s Western Task Force.Too excited to sleep, Ford paced the decks thatnight as the Augusta and the rest of the Alliedarmada butted through the choppy EnglishChannel toward France. When the historicearly hours of Tuesday, June 6, 1944, came, thefilmmaker peered through binoculars as theBritish, American, and Canadian armies startedlanding across five Normandy beaches.

He saw the high bluffs behind Omaha Beachand the murderous German crossfire thatpinned down elements of the U.S. 1st and 29thInfantry Divisions there for several criticalhours on D-Day. The Augusta was some dis-tance offshore, and Ford grew restless; hewanted to get close to the action. So he sent aradio message to Armistead, who was aboardBulkeley’s PT-boat, and told him to come andpick him up. The boat duly eased alongside thecruiser, and Ford was swung aboard in aboatswain’s chair.

Bulkeley briefed the filmmaker on his boat’soperations, which had included ferrying under-cover agents in and out of Normandy andwhich now centered on beachhead patrols andkeeping German U-boats away from the Alliedships. Ford enjoyed himself for five days aboardthe PT-boat, standing watch on the crampedbridge, getting a ringside taste of combat whenthe craft skirmished with enemy E-boats offCherbourg, and growing to admire the gallant,unassuming Bulkeley. He told Ford frankly thathis service in the Philippines had been exagger-ated in White’s book, that he had received toomuch publicity, and that he had not deservedthe Medal of Honor.

The five days with Bulkeley convinced Fordthat the hero’s story could be told on the screenand that he was the one to direct it. Vacillatingno longer, he said, “I frankly admit that I amgetting as enthusiastic as hell about They WereExpendable.”

Two weeks after the Normandy landings, thebulk of Ford’s film unit sailed home. The wearydirector checked into a New York hotel, sleptfor 12 straight hours, and then headed for theWest Coast. After agreeing to produce and



direct They Were Expendable for Metro-Gold-wyn-Mayer, he summoned writers McGuinnessand Wead and put them to work on the script.Wead, an early record-breaking naval aviatorbefore being partially paralyzed in a staircasefall, had penned screenplays for many filmsabout the Navy, including Dirigible, HellDivers, Ceiling Zero, Submarine D-1, DiveBomber, and Destroyer.

Ford went on detached duty from the NavalReserve in October 1944, and he and Weadhoned a final script, focusing on the PT-boatsquadrons that fought delaying actions againstJapanese invaders in the Philippines early in1942. It was a saga of gallant sacrifice in theface of heavy odds. Shooting on the film beganaround Key Biscayne, Florida, early in Febru-ary 1945. The Navy loaned MGM several PT-boats and their crews, and Biscayne Bay stoodin for Manila Bay in the action scenes.

The director chose boyish actor Robert Mont-gomery to portray the lead character, LieutenantJohn Brickley, based on Bulkeley. Ford had toarrange for the Navy to release Montgomeryfrom duty. Montgomery had commanded a PT-boat in the Solomon Islands, served on adestroyer off Normandy, and been decorated.Brickley’s brash executive officer, LieutenantRusty Ryan, was played by John Wayne, who

said, “Jack was awfully intense on that pictureand working with more concentration than Ihad ever seen. I think he was really out toachieve something.” Although he revered Ford,Wayne was regularly bullied on the set by Forduntil Montgomery stepped in on his behalf. Thefilm’s supporting cast included Donna Reed,Ward Bond, Jack Holt, Pennick, MarshallThompson, and Leon Ames.

Because of the Japanese surrender in Sep-tember 1945, MGM delayed the release of thefilm until the following December. Its worldpremiere at Loew’s Capitol Theater in Wash-ington on December 19 was attended by manyHollywood and military luminaries, includingAdmiral Chester W. Nimitz, commander ofthe U.S. Pacific Fleet. Moving and sometimespoetic, They Were Expendable was criticallyacclaimed. Nation magazine reviewer JamesAgee called it “so beautiful and so real.” Butaudiences were limited because filmgoers hadgrown tired of war stories, and the powerfulimagery of Ford’s creation was not generallyappreciated for several years.

The producer-director, meanwhile, remainedactive with Field Photographic and ColonelDonovan despite his failing health. While hisfilm unit aided the OSS in gathering evidenceabout Nazi war criminals, Ford oversaw the

disbanding of Field Photographic and pur-chased an eight-acre tract near Encino, Cali-fornia, where a recreation retirement center wasestablished for the 180 cameramen who hadserved under him. Donovan pinned the Legionof Merit on the “poet with a camera” in Sep-tember 1945.

In the postwar years, Ford was best knownfor a string of screen masterpieces about theAmerican West, but he also directed four moredocumentaries, including two about the KoreanWar and two more films about the Navy. Thesewere the comedy-drama, Mister Roberts, star-ring Henry Fonda and James Cagney, and thebiographical The Wings of Eagles, with JohnWayne portraying Ford’s longtime friend SpigWead.

Pappy Ford retired from the Naval Reservewith the rank of rear admiral in 1951. Fivemonths before he died of cancer on August 31,1973, he was awarded the Medal of Freedomby President Richard M. Nixon. At his funeral,Ford’s coffin was draped with the frayed Amer-ican flag he had filmed being hoisted byMarines at Midway.

Long-time contributor Michael D. Hull haswritten for WW II History on a variety of top-ics. He resides in Enfield, Connecticut.



BRITISH HISTORIAN ALAN CLARK WROTE IN HIS BOOK BARBAROSSA,“Roosevelt’s betrayal of Eastern Europe, whether out of calculation or gullibility,is so notorious as to need no further recapitulation.”

National pride is a bitter pill to swallow. Some of the bitterness goes away if thepill can be dissolved in a mixture of faded memories and shared guilt. Sharing theguilt for the tragedy that befell the states in Eastern Europe after World War II hasbecome a passionate occupation for generations of British historians.

Throughout the summer of 1938, German Chancellor Adolf Hitler was demand-ing international action to protect the rights of oppressed Germans living in thewestern provinces of Czechoslovakia. Coming after the German reoccupation of theRhineland in 1936 and the Anschluss with Austria in 1938, Hitler’s demands raisedthe fear of another devastating European war. British Prime Minister Neville Cham-berlain received broad approval throughout Europe for his determined efforts tokeep the peace. After lengthy discussions, on September 30, 1938, representativesfrom the governments of Italy, France, Germany, and the United Kingdom signedthe Munich Agreement.


ABOVE: The betrayal of Czechoslovakia and laterEastern Europe originated with a misguided notionof peace on the part of British Prime MinisterNeville Chamberlain and other Western diplomats.In this photo, German armored vehicles rollthrough the streets of a Czech city a mere sixmonths after the signing of the infamous Munichagreement. Hitler’s army marched into Praguewithout firing a shot. INSET: Following his meet-ing with Hitler at Munich in September 1938,British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain wavesa meaningless treaty that he assures the worldpreserves ‘…peace in our time.’

They believed they had solved the crisis cre-ated by those ethnic Germans living in westernCzechoslovakia. They gave the Sudetenland toGermany. Representatives from the govern-ment of Czechoslovakia were not invited toattend the conference. Neither was Soviet Rus-sia, the only country willing to fulfill her treatyobligations to the Czechs in the event they wereattacked by Nazi Germany.

Chamberlain had taken the lead in negotia-tions at the Munich Conference. He and AdolfHitler had also signed an agreement declaring itwas indicative “of the desire of our two peoples

never to go to war with one another again.” Onreturning to London, Chamberlain was greetedwith great enthusiasm. He told the welcomingcrowd, “I believe it is peace for our time.”

Unfortunately, it did not take long for Cham-berlain’s “peace for our time” to unravel. TheMunich Conference would leave a bitter tastein many British mouths. It worsened afterHitler occupied the rest of Czechoslovakia. ABritish statesman in the Foreign Office, whilesearching for an explanation of his govern-ment’s failure to act, declared: “Nothing can bedone to stop Germany … the less we interfere

AN AMERICANBetrayal

SOME HISTORIANS WRITE OF A U.S. MISCALCULATION OF THE SOVIETS RESULTING

IN THE DESCENT OF THE IRON CURTAIN ACROSS EUROPE. BY WILLIAM WEIDNER

W-Apr14 Betrayal.qxd *fix photo_Layout 1 1/23/14 2:02 PM Page 30

in this crisis the better.” The shame of the Munich Agreement had

become a salient factor in European politicsalmost since the day it was signed. It attacheditself to the men and countries responsible forthe dismemberment of Czechoslovakia. Thesad fate of Czechoslovakia and later Poland hasleft a deep scar of culpability in British memo-ries. One can sense the fate of Eastern Europeinducing a national shrug of the shoulders anda sigh of deep concern.

Prior to World War II, British diplomatssought to reach an accommodation with nearly

every state in Europe. Throughout the 1930sthe British government feared Russian com-munism as much than they feared German fas-cism. Their halfhearted attempts to reach anagreement with the Russians left Hitler free tonegotiate a treaty with Soviet dictator JosefStalin. The German-Soviet Non-AggressionPact was signed on August 23, 1939, andbarely one week later Hitler attacked Poland.

The Poles had tried to modernize their armyand air force. They asked the British for a loanof 60 million pounds. British officials cut theloan request to eight million pounds and added

the caveat that it was not a loan but a credit tobe used for purchasing armaments from Britishfactories. A.J.P. Taylor wrote, “They explainedthat, as British armament factories were fullyemployed, the credit could not be used in anycase. No credit had passed by the time the warbroke out; no British bomb or rifle went toPoland.”

At 4:45 AM on September 1, 1939, Germantroops crossed the Polish frontier, and by 6 AM

German planes were bombing Warsaw. Thiswas a clear violation of the guarantee that theBritish and French had given to Poland and

31APRIL 2014 WWII HISTORY

All Photos: National Archives


good cause for an immediate declaration of waragainst Germany, but nothing happened. Thegovernments of Britain and France, panickedby their fear, continued to look for ways out ofthe war with Germany. First, there was a peaceconference proposed by Italy’s Mussolini, butthat fell apart. Then the French protested thatthey needed extra time for mobilization.

While Chamberlain was looking for a peace-ful way to settle the disagreement betweenPoland and Germany, public opinion had turnedagainst him. With the cloud of Munich still hang-ing over Parliament, ministers warned Cham-berlain that the government would fall unless itsent an ultimatum to Hitler before the Housemet again. Chamberlain gave way. The Britishultimatum was delivered to the Germans at 9 AM

on September 3, 1939. When it expired at 11AM, Great Britain was at war with Germany.

The British often try to cast themselves as the“white knights of freedom and democracy” rid-ing to the aid of the poor Poles in EasternEurope. They had thrown the lives of Britishgrenadiers into the caldron of a continental waragainst the tyranny of German fascism. Thiswas true but completely irrelevant to the Polesat the time. Ultimately, however, British princi-ple does not appear to have been a matter ofany great concern because no British grenadiergave his life for it.

In 1914 the British Empire was at the zenithof its power. During the first year of the GreatWar, the British sent 50 well-trained and -equipped divisions to France. The Great War,which the European powers had enthusiastically

joined, became a slaughterhouse. England had asmaller population base than the continentalpowers and could not afford the horrible losses.

In the eight months between the British dec-laration of war on Germany in September 1939and the German attack on the Allied armies onMay 10, 1940, the British government sent thepaltry British Expeditionary Force (BEF) of 10infantry divisions and a few armored brigadesto France. These were both poorly equippedand untrained in the combined arms tacticsemployed by the Germans.

The “Sitzkreig,” or “Sitting War” wasshamefully the best they could do for Poland.The British watched their Polish ally fall to theGermans and later to the Russians without fir-ing a single shot. No British aid found its wayto Poland, no British soldier gave his life forPolish freedom.

The British people had tired of appeasementand the shameful stain that policy left on theirnational honor. They demanded a war. But it wasnot a war their army was prepared to fight. In1940, the Germans put an army of 157 divisionsonto the field of battle, of which 135 weredetailed for their May offensive against the West-ern Allies. The French Army had 80 of its 117divisions available for the defense of northernFrance. Compared to the two continental pow-ers, the British contribution of only 10 divisionsleft them open to French charges of failing toshare the sacrifices of their war against Germany.

What had been obvious to Adolf Hitler fromthe beginning soon became obvious to everyoneelse. The British and French would not fight to

save anyone but themselves, and this theywould do rather poorly. Indeed, Hitler wascounting on their lack of involvement while hisarmy was fully engaged in Poland. The WesternAllies threw away their last, best chance todefeat Hitler while his back was turned inPoland.

We now know that the French and Britishlost the war to Hitler in May and June 1940.We do not know what might have happenedhad they summoned the courage to attack Ger-many while its army was fighting in Poland.

The end of World War II presented historiansin Great Britain with an opportunity to recastthese events in a more favorable light. Thebetrayal of Czechoslovakia at Munich and the“Phony War” on Poland’s behalf are barelymentioned. It appeared that the Americans hadbeen the culprits all along. The Americans hadnot seen the tragedy unfolding in Europe andhad been years late in joining the Europeandemocracies’ war against the horrors of Ger-man fascism. They came into the war onlybecause they were attacked by the JapaneseImperial Navy at Pearl Harbor and not as amatter of higher principle like the British andFrench.

If British Prime Minister Winston Churchillthought American participation in the war ulti-mately guaranteed Allied victory, he alsothought the American military chiefs, AdmiralWilliam Leahy, General George Marshall,Admiral Ernest King, and General Henry“Hap” Arnold, made up one of the “stupideststrategic teams I have ever seen.” Chief of theImperial General Staff Alan Brooke was equallycritical of the Americans.

The British would voice a host of concernsabout their new American ally. The most accu-rate of those in 1942 was a lack of battlefieldexperience for nearly all the senior Americangenerals. The British loved to run things. Theyviewed themselves as the most qualified strate-gists with far more actual combat experiencethan any of the Americans.

If the British had a low opinion of Ameri-cans, they had a much higher opinion of theirown abilities. Given their experiences in 1939and 1940, the Czechs, the Poles, and the Frenchmight be forgiven if they did not share anyenthusiasm for the benefits they derived fromBritish leadership.

Chester Wilmot was a journalist attached toMontgomery’s British 21st Army Group head-quarters in Europe. His book The Struggle forEurope was published in 1952; it was one ofthe first major accounts of World War II inEurope. Not surprisingly, Wilmot usuallyfavored the British point of view. He wrote,


Within weeks of their invasion of Poland from the west, German troops occupied the Polish capital of War-saw. In this photo, Hitler watches Wehrmacht soldiers pass in review. The parade took place in Warsaw abouta month after the outbreak of World War II, and at the time the photo was taken, Soviet troops had invadedPoland from the east.


“The two most serious miscalculations of theSecond World War both concerned the SovietUnion: Hitler’s miscalculation of Russia’s mili-tary strength, and Roosevelt’s miscalculation ofRussia’s political ambition. It was these twoerrors of judgment which gave Stalin the oppor-tunity of establishing the Soviet Union as thedominant power in Europe.”

If the Americans had been willing to considera postwar political balance of power in Europe,Wilmot wrote, the Western Allies might havebeen able to occupy Berlin and Prague ahead ofthe Russians. He apparently believed that if theAllies had occupied Berlin and Eastern Europebefore the Russians, the Russians would havesimply forgotten all about those agreementsthey had made with Britain and the UnitedStates during the Yalta Conference, and at theend of the war they would have simply haveturned their armies around and sent themtrudging peacefully back to Russia. If this wasindeed Wilmot’s belief, it was shared by neitherChurchill, U.S. President Franklin D. Roosevelt,nor Soviet Dictator Stalin.

There was the rub. The Americans missed agolden opportunity at the end of the war andhad insisted on separating postwar politicalconcerns from military strategy, while theBritish always included political consequences

as a factor in their military decisions. One of the differences between Great Britain

and the United States was their pecking orderamong world powers. International statushardly mattered to the senior Americans serv-ing in Europe because they had never exercisedpolitical power in Europe. President WoodrowWilson’s one attempt to get his fellow country-men involved in European affairs after WorldWar I had come to grief in 1920 when theUnited States Senate rejected the Treaty of Ver-sailles that President Wilson had brought backfrom France.

The British had been intimately involved inEuropean politics for well over 100 years.Given their limited population base and muchsmaller armies, the British had been forced to

seek political accommodations with othercountries. This was necessary to maintain the“balance of power” in Europe, thereby keepingthe Continent open to British industrial trade.British power had always been based not onthe size or might of the British Army, but onthe persuasive ability of British politicians toget other continental powers to share GreatBritain’s strategic goals.

The Americans serving in Europe neverwasted much time thinking about their ability toinfluence world events. But by 1944, Americanallies, especially the British, were beginning tofeel the political pressure as U.S. industrial pro-

duction and the increasing size of the U.S. Armybecame a dominant factor. Wartime events hadconspired against the British, and they wereexperiencing a most unwelcome decline in theirability to influence global events.

Most British statesmen were uncertain howmuch influence their country would have in theemerging new world order. They saw Britishpower waning and believed they had to seek anaccommodation with the United States and theSoviet Union while they were still part of theBig Three. British power declined as the coun-try sank further into debt. The manpower cri-sis limited their ability to conduct offensiveoperations without substantial assistance fromtheir American allies. Only the Americans hadthe military strength to address the fascist or

communist conundrum the British would facein Eastern Europe at the end of the war.

In spite of the substantial American contri-butions in men and industrial production to theBritish war effort, the Allied numerical advan-tages in both men and war matériel might stillbe thrown away unless American militaryefforts could be tied to British global strategy.The British loved to run things their way polit-ically—and run things they did. From the timethe Americans hit the North African beaches inNovember 1942 for Operation Torch throughField Marshal Montgomery’s Rhine crossing atWesel in March 1945, the loudest voice in

determining the pace and direction of Alliedstrategy in Western Europe was British.

The Americans got what they wanted in thetwo invasions of France, Normandy and Mar-seilles, which had been approved by all threeAllies at the Teheran Conference, but the Britishgot almost everything else. Montgomery deter-mined the pace of battle at Caen despite desper-ate pleadings from his American boss. Mont-gomery issued the halt order to Patton’s ThirdArmy on August 12, 1944, at the Falaise Gap,again despite Eisenhower’s repeated requests thatthey destroy the enemy in Normandy.

It was Montgomery who determined whenand how the port of Antwerp, Belgium, wasopened to Allied shipping. Despite letters fromBritish Admiral Sir Bertram Ramsay and Eisen-


ABOVE: American General Dwight D. Eisenhower, Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force (center), isflanked by British Chief of the Imperial General Staff Sir Alan Brooke (left) and Prime Minister WinstonChurchill (right). To the rear strides Deputy Supreme Commander Air Chief Marshal Sir Arthur Tedder. LEFT:Photographed in England during pre-invasion maneuvers, American General Dwight D. Eisenhower and BritishGeneral Bernard Montgomery confer in February 1944.


hower both dated September 4, 1944, and ahost of SHAEF logistical studies that hadclearly shown that no advance into Germanywas possible until the port of Antwerp wasopen and unloading Allied supplies, Mont-gomery ignored the port of Antwerp for over amonth.

Montgomery had been using the shortage ofAllied supplies to further his arguments for asingle thrust north of the Ardennes into Ger-many. One of the main points of Montgomery’ssingle-thrust argument was that one largeAmerican army should accompany him, pro-tecting his southern flank, while the otherAmericans, namely George Patton’s ThirdArmy, were ordered to halt where they were.The northern drive would be led, of course, byMontgomery commanding his British 21stArmy Group.

Later Montgomery used the same shortageof supplies to stop his American adversary deadin his tracks. If Eisenhower could not stop Pat-ton, Montgomery would. He increased hisdemand for Allied supplies and delayed theopening of Antwerp for as long as he could. Inearly September 1944, Montgomery got hiswish. Patton’s Third Army ran out of gas andwas grounded west of the Moselle near Metzand Nancy, less than 80 miles from the unoc-cupied Siegfried Line at Saarbrucken.

Prior to the invasion, SHAEF (Supreme Head-quarters Allied Expeditionary Force) plannershad determined that the main Allied drive intoGermany should be led by General OmarBradley’s 12th U.S. Army Group. Their reason-ing was sound. Bradley’s Americans, Eisen-hower’s center group of armies, would be fight-ing over far better ground on the central Germanplateau; they were better equipped for mobileoperations and had the only army in the Euro-pean Theater with the manpower reserves capa-ble of conducting sustained offensive operations.Finally, the Americans were the army that gotthe Allies out of Normandy by bleeding theirway through the swamps and hedgerows.

In addition to their manpower, transporta-tion, and terrain problems, the British facedanother potentially far more serious problem.After five years of war, their Army was tired.“The British Army became noticeably tired,poorly disciplined, weakly led. Montgomeryhad no illusions about the limitations of histroops,” wrote historian D.K.R. Crosswell.

At some point during September 1944, Eisen-hower and his British minions at SHAEF seemto have entered an Alice in Wonderland world.Montgomery talked Eisenhower into makinghis northern thrust the major Allied drive intoGermany. The British had created the political

nature of the arrangement exactly for the pur-pose of controlling Allied strategy, and itworked for them time and time again.

By the time the Germans attacked the badlystretched Americans in the Ardennes in mid-December 1944, fully 16 divisions of the U.S.Ninth and First Armies had been drawn northof the Ardennes onto Montgomery’s southernflank. The remaining four divisions in Hodges’sFirst Army screened a 70-mile defensive frontin the Ardennes.

It is interesting to note that the strategicdeployment of Allied divisions in mid-Decem-ber 1944 was almost exactly the same as Mont-gomery had requested in August during the Bat-tle of the Falaise Gap. Montgomery had asked

that the Allied armies stay together in one solidmass of 40 divisions and accompany his 21stArmy Group north of the Ardennes.

By mid-August, when Montgomery made hisproposals for a “full-blooded” northern thrustby 40 Allied divisions, he was facing two hugeproblems. First, he had an acute manpowershortage in his infantry divisions. Second, thecommand issue was also looming large inMontgomery’s mind. Although the British hadagreed that Eisenhower would take over com-mand of Allied ground forces as soon as a sec-ond U.S. Army, Patton’s Third, was activated inFrance, it was never something they acceptedwith good grace. British attempts to undermineEisenhower’s command authority became partof inter-Allied political intrigue.

Montgomery did not want to relinquishcommand of Allied ground forces to Eisen-hower, whom he considered unqualified for thejob. If Bradley’s 21st Army Group followedSHAEF’s preinvasion plans and headed east forthe Nancy Gap and the German border with

three large U.S. armies, Montgomery was sunk.Montgomery’s British and Canadian armieswere both suffering from a severe shortage ofinfantrymen. The British were no longer capa-ble of sustaining offensive operations withoutAmerican assistance. An Allied front fromSwitzerland to the North Sea also made it mostunlikely that a British general with his head-quarters north of the Ardennes could retaincommand over all Allied ground forces. How-ever, a British general north of the Ardenneswas far more likely to retain command overAllied ground forces if the Americans were will-ing to forgo their offensive south of theArdennes and join his British and Canadians inthe north, solving both Montgomery’s man-power and command issues.

How Montgomery’s “absurd and unaccept-able” proposal (in Bradley’s words) on August13 became the centerpiece of SHAEF’s strategyto defeat the Germans in the fall of 1944 is amost unpleasant story. The one chance theAllies had of ending the war in 1944 was sim-ply thrown away. Bradley’s thrust into centralGermany,which Eisenhower had promised toPatton, was meekly deposited into SHAEF’swastebasket.

The British, of course, deny Montgomery’sdominant influence on Allied strategy after Sep-tember 1, 1944, because it does not fit into theirtemplate of blaming Eisenhower for the ineptfall campaign and those casualties incurred bythe overstretched Americans during the Battleof the Bulge. The Americans want to denyMontgomery’s continued influence on Alliedstrategy because it raises serious questionsabout who actually exercised command afterEisenhower had supposedly taken command ofall Allied ground forces on September 1.

Fortunately for those interested in discover-ing the truth, these arguments are part of thehistorical record. The truth was that the Amer-icans were overstretched in the Ardennes pre-cisely because they had sent so many divisionsnorth in support of Montgomery. Eisenhowerhad actually warned Montgomery of this verypossibility. Three months later, the Germans didmanage to concentrate a bit of strength in theArdennes, and the Allies were taken completelyby surprise.

In Eisenhower’s defense, one mitigating fac-tor may have been his desire to placate theBritish prime minister again. Back on August 5and 9, Churchill had badgered Eisenhowerhour after hour over the Allied landings insouthern France. Churchill wanted them can-celled, and Eisenhower was equally determinedthat they go forward. Eisenhower’s aide wrotethat at the August 5 meeting, after Eisenhower


THE TRUTH WAS THAT THEAMERICANS WERE

OVERSTRETCHED IN THEARDENNES PRECISELY

BECAUSE THEY HAD SENTSO MANY DIVISIONS

NORTH IN SUPPORT OFMONGOMERY.

EISENHOWER HAD ACTUALLY WARNED

MONTGOMERY OF THISVERY POSSIBILITY.


had said no in every form in the English lan-guage, “he [Eisenhower] was practically limpwhen the PM departed.”

Four days later, on August 9, Churchill wasback at it. At this meeting, which also lastedfor hours, he complained that Eisenhower wasacting the part of the big, strong bully uncon-cerned and uncaring about his poor Britishcousin.

On August 11, Eisenhower wrote Churchilla deeply personal letter in which he begged forChurchill’s forbearance. The very next evening(August 12), Montgomery ordered Patton’s XVCorps to stop at the inter-Army Group bound-ary south of Argentan and not to cross intoBritish territory. Eisenhower did not overrulehim. Between August 13 and August 21, about200,000 German soldiers walked out of theFalaise Gap.

By the end of August 1944, the Allies were inthe middle of arguments over the correct strat-egy to follow for their drive into Nazi Germany.Eisenhower and SHAEF preferred sticking withthe pre-invasion plans and using the centralgroup of armies under U.S. General OmarBradley’s 12th Army Group for the majorAllied thrust. General Montgomery was stillwithout a major victory; he was running out ofmen. He would also lose command of Alliedground forces in a matter of days.

Churchill had lost the argument over Anvil-Dragoon, but he was not known for giving upeasily on any argument. Under political pres-sure from London, Eisenhower was forced toamend SHAEF’s planned main thrust withBradley’s 12th Army Group into central Ger-many. He would cancel Bradley’s thrust andmake Montgomery’s northern thrust the mainAllied effort, at least until his armies hadcrossed the Rhine.

The Americans had a good run in Nor-mandy; now it was time to share the glory withtheir British ally. This would keep Churchillquiet for the moment and give the British theright to claim full participation in the defeat ofGermany while allowing Field Marshal Mont-gomery to protect his fragile British SecondArmy by using the Americans and Canadiansfor any difficult fighting. For the British it wasa win–win situation.

Both President Roosevelt and General GeorgeMarshall, U.S. Army Chief of Staff, gave theirsubordinates wide latitude in the performanceof their duties. Eisenhower had license to directAllied armies in Europe in accordance withdirectives from the Combined Chiefs of Staff butwithout close political supervision from his com-mander-in-chief. This allowed Eisenhower togive Montgomery most of what he demanded in

the fall of 1944 without creating a politicalfirestorm in Washington.

The reason Churchill was so fond of playingpolitics with Allied strategy was the same rea-son Montgomery acquired a huge fascinationwith crossing the Rhine River. The British hadto play politics with Allied strategy simplybecause the army His Majesty sent to Europewas not able, on its own, to conduct sustainedoffensive operations.

Churchill believed that it was necessary tomaintain the strength of the British Army inEurope to retain the public’s illusion that theBritish Army was almost as big as the Ameri-can Army and just as capable of conductingsustained offensive operations. He consideredthat it was politically crucial to their war effort,their status within the Anglo-American alliance,and to the future of the British Empire for theSecond British Army to win a great victory inEurope.

It was equally important for British self-esteem that whatever assistance the Americansprovided should be delivered discreetly. TheAmericans should be willing to provide assis-tance to Montgomery’s 21st Army Group, butthey should not expect any acknowledgmentfrom the British that such assistance had beenrendered. This would allow the British to claimequal credit for the Allied victory in Europe inspite of the fact that the British would neverfurnish more than 15 divisions while the Amer-icans would eventually supply 60 divisions.

Operation Market-Garden was the British

plan to get across the Rhine at Arnhem anddrive into Germany, bypassing the SiegfriedLine to the north. One British airborne divi-sion, two American airborne divisions, and onePolish airborne brigade participated in Opera-tion Market-Garden. Maj. Gen. James M.Gavin’s U.S. 82nd Airborne Division fought inHolland during Operation Market-Gardenwith a second U.S. Airborne Division, the101st. Making sure he got everything he couldout of the excellent airborne infantry, Mont-gomery transferred the U.S. airborne divisionsto his XXX Corps and kept them fighting asordinary infantry for almost two months afterMarket-Garden ended. When it came to report-ing the event back in England and the UnitedStates, however, the two American divisionssimply disappeared and Market-Garden wasreported as an entirely British operation.

With tacit approval from Washington, Eisen-hower did what he could to support Britishefforts. As long as he did not create politicalproblems for Roosevelt’s government in Wash-ington, Eisenhower was clearly given permis-sion to do whatever he wished with the UnitedStates Army in Europe. Indeed, many Americanofficers and even a few British officers thoughtEisenhower had gone too far in his support ofthe British. Eisenhower did protest Mont-gomery’s behavior (his slowness at Caen) inNormandy to both Churchill and Alan Brooke,but to no avail.

Most of Eisenhower’s efforts to aid theBritish, his willingness to side with the British


Canadian troops of the Allied 21st Army Group, under the command of General Montgomery, march through aDutch town in early 1945. Montgomery opposed Eisenhower’s broad front strategy and sought to concentratethe main Allied thrust into Germany with his command. To do so, Montgomery continually tried to bring Amer-ican troops under his personal authority and to divert war matériel from other Allied operations.


point of view, and the results of his Allied coop-eration have been neatly scrubbed from thepages of most United States Army historicalrecords. According to most accounts, Eisen-hower and Montgomery vehemently disagreedabout Allied strategy. They disagreed about thecorrect route to take into Germany andwhether to employ a single thrust or broad-front strategy. Although their discussions some-times became heated, these disagreements werealways on the merits of sound strategy. Thissimply was not true. These inter-Allied argu-ments clearly display the heavy hand of Britishpolitics and the tainted strategy they created.

Eisenhower was committed to the Anglo-

American alliance; Montgomery was not.Eisenhower was selected for his job because hewas the most politically savvy U.S. general.Montgomery was selected for his job becausehe was an impossible subordinate. The resultwas a hodgepodge of politically motivatedstrategic decisions based primarily on the levelof political pressure emanating from London.

Ralph Ingersoll, an aide to Bradley duringthe war, wrote Top Secret in 1946. He was bit-terly critical of Eisenhower’s performance asSupreme Allied Commander. Ingersoll believedthat in August 1944 the Allies missed a greatopportunity for winning the war by Christmas.In light of Eisenhower’s great success within thealliance and the overtly political nature of his

job, Ingersoll’s criticism is probably overstated.Ingersoll also mentioned the British fondnessfor playing politics with military strategy.

General Albert C. Wedemeyer began the warworking for the U.S. Army Chief of Staff, Gen-eral Marshall. On an information gatheringtour for his boss in North Africa, he noted thatmany American officers believed Eisenhowerwas leaning too far in favor of the British inmost inter-Allied decisions. There was also anexperience factor involved; Eisenhower wasostensibly commanding British officers inNorth Africa who had far more commandexperience than he did. It would have beenappropriate for an inexperienced American

officer to take advice from those more experi-enced members of the Allied team. Still, thetone of General Wedemeyer’s criticism impliesmore than Eisenhower’s simple preference forthe British side of an argument and is a causefor concern.

Colonel William Whipple, Jr., was a WestPoint graduate, an officer in the U.S. ArmyCorps of Engineers, and a Rhodes Scholar. Dur-ing the war in Europe, he served on Eisen-hower’s SHAEF staff in the G4 division of theLogistical Planning Branch. His unpublishedmemoirs confirm what Ralph Ingersoll, AlbertC. Wedemeyer, George S. Patton, Jr., and OmarN. Bradley have written about General Eisen-hower’s longstanding preference for taking the

British side of the argument. That the Britishside of the argument was often influenced bypolitical goals and ignored sound military strat-egy seems not to have greatly concerned Eisen-hower.

According to Colonel Whipple, SHAEF’splanning staff was heavily weighted in favor ofthe British. The SHAEF Planning staff and theAir, Naval, and Intelligence staffs were allheaded by British officers. Whipple acknowl-edges that the British officers at SHAEF “wereextremely well qualified, generally outclassingthe Americans.… Besides being bright, theBritish officers were subtle and seemed to workas a team. In contrast, the Americans prettymuch did as they pleased individually, andmany of them seemed unaware of the intrigu-ing (politicizing) that was afoot.”

Since the Americans were not following anypolitical agenda, they were usually free to actindividually, to decide each case on its ownmerits in determining the correct Allied strategyfor any given course of action. The Americans,with few political ties in Europe, rarely had toseparate political goals from strategic options.

Since they had political ties to nearly everycountry in Europe, the British usually had apolitical agenda for most Allied strategicoptions. All members of their team had beenmade aware of those options. Therefore,British decisions were not based solely on thecorrect strategy but on the best strategy con-sistent with previously defined British politicaland economic goals.

British negotiators acted as a team and cameto Allied meetings fully prepared with a planof action; the Americans acted individually andwere often caught unaware by British politicalmotives. British staff officers had become quiteexpert at manipulating critical information intheir staff reports to reflect the preferred Britishpolitical point of view. They were not shy aboutproviding erroneous and misleading informa-tion to get their way in an argument. Eventu-ally the Americans caught on. One example ofexposed British duplicity was the invasion ofSouthern France (Anvil-Dragoon), which theBritish bitterly opposed. They produced amountain of staff work for Prime MinisterChurchill hoping to prove to the Americansthat the operation would never succeed.

After the operation had succeeded brilliantly,the Americans “published the British studies asa book called The Castigation of Anvil. It wasused in staff officer training as a collection ofplanning howlers.” By 1944, the Americanshad figured out what the British were doing andhow they manipulated information for theirown political purposes. The British knew that


Dead German soldiers and destroyed trucks and armored vehicles litter the countryside of northern Franceafter an air attack by Allied fighter bombers near the towns of Falaise and Argentan. General Montgomerywas instrumental in issuing an ill-conceived order for American troops to halt before much of the German Sev-enth Army was encircled in the Falaise Pocket. As a result, approximately 200,000 Germans escaped the trapto fight another day.


the Americans were aware of their craftyschemes. Yet in Allied strategy sessions thosestrange kabuki dances continued right up to theend of the war.

Finally, in late March 1945, even the long-suffering Eisenhower had reached the end ofhis patience with Montgomery. It is difficult tosay exactly what changed his mind. It may havebeen the vacation he and Bradley took togetherin early March. Bradley undoubtedly seized theopportunity to present the American side of theargument for a U.S.-led drive into Germany.

Whatever the cause, by the end of MarchEisenhower had clearly reached the limits of hispatience with the little British field marshal. Ina 1963 interview with writer Cornelius Ryan,Eisenhower said, “Yeah. Well, I’ll tell you—what happened was—he [Montgomery] got sodamned personal to make sure that the Amer-icans, and me in particular, had no credit, hadnothing to do with this war, that I just stoppedcommunicating with him…. All I said is I amjust not interested in keeping up communica-tion with a man that just can’t talk the truth,that’s all, so I just don’t do it.”

After Montgomery had gotten his armyacross the Rhine, Eisenhower was determinedto ignore Berlin and change the thrust of theAllied advance into Germany. Despite British

wishes, Eisenhower would ignore both Berlinin the north and Prague in the south andstrengthen Bradley’s 12th U.S. Army Group forthe main Allied drive through the center ofGermany.

Eisenhower’s letter of March 28, 1945, there-fore took General William Simpson’s NinthU.S. Army away from Field Marshal Mont-gomery and gave it back to Bradley. Prime Min-ister Churchill immediately howled in protest.He also argued that this “would leave [Mont-gomery’s] 21st Army Group too weak to carryout offensive action … and relegates HisMajesty’s Forces to an unexpected restrictedsphere.” This was true, but wholly irrelevant.

It was never Eisenhower’s job to see that theBritish Army remained strong enough to con-duct sustained offensive operations. That wasChurchill’s and Brooke’s job. The fact that theAmericans had finally decided to sacrifice thelives of their soldiers under a United States com-mander and not for what U.S. General MarkClark once called “the British Empire machine”must have come as a rude shock to Churchilland his government. The American generalChurchill had personally selected to assist theSecond British Army in its victorious drive toBerlin had failed them at the critical moment.British protests finally died down after Eisen-

hower’s plan for the final drive into Germanyreceived unanimous support from both Marshalland the Combined Chiefs of Staff in Washington.

Two days after the war in Europe ended, onMay 10, 1945, Eisenhower summoned hissenior generals for a luncheon meeting at hisheadquarters in Reims, France. General Pattonmade the following notes in his diary, “Lunchedwith the Supreme Commander and four ArmyCommanders and their air officers. After lunchGeneral Eisenhower talked to us very confi-dentially on the necessity for solidarity in theevent that any of us are called before a Con-gressional Committee. He then made a speech… on cooperation with the British, Russiansand the Chinese, but particularly with theBritish. It is my opinion that this talking coop-eration is for the purpose of covering up prob-able criticism of strategic blunders which heunquestionably committed during the cam-paign. Whether or not these were his own ordue to too much cooperation with the British,I don’t know. I am inclined to think that heover-cooperated.”

George Patton was right, but the historicaldiscussion of those strategic blunders has beenmuted by the great Allied victory. Huge cele-brations followed the Allied victory in Europe.


Victorious troops of the Soviet Red Army ride through the streets of Bucharest, Romania, as the capital city falls in the spring of 1945. The country had been an Axispartner under the rule of dictator Marshal Ion Antonescu. Soon after World War II ended, the communist faction in Romania solidified its power base with Soviet back-ing. Failed British diplomacy prior to the outbreak of World War II contributed directly to half a century of postwar communist domination of Eastern Europe.




Flak Was OurWORST ENEMY

W-Apr14 B-17 Missions_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:03 PM Page 38

FOR 33 MONTHS beginning in 1942, the U.S. Eighth Air Forceand its precision daylight bombing strikes against German targetsin Europe tried to pound the Third Reich into submission.

Attacking the enemy’s transportation networks, arms factories,cities, fuel depots, ball bearing plants, and power stations withConsolidated B-24 Liberator and Boeing B-17 Flying Fortressheavy bombers, the air assault seriously crippled Germany’sindustrial capabilities, making the job for Allied ground forcesconsiderably easier when the country was finally overrun and theNazis surrendered in May 1945.

But the air effort came with a staggering cost to the Americanswho flew those missions. German fighter planes such as the Messer-schmitt Me-109 and Focke-Wulf Fw-190, along with the ever pre-sent nemesis called flak, killed some 20,000 airmen, woundedanother 9,300, and resulted in 26,000 being taken prisoners of war.As one historian noted, “pinpoint daylight bombing was a high-stakes crapshoot,” but it did alter the course of the war against Germany.

Unlike their infantrycounterparts, Allied airmen

experienced a somewhat normal existence oncethey returned from a flight: hot food, showers, and a bed to

sleep in. On a mission, however, they faced the sobering realitythat death could come at any moment, five miles above theground where temperatures reach 40 degrees below zero Faren-heit. It was akin to a throw of the dice whether they would returnto base safely or spiral earthward because a wing or an engine hadbeen blown to pieces.

Wilbur M. “Bib” Bowers of Kittanning, Pennsylvania, tookpart in the air campaign over Europe with the Eighth Air Force.As a 19-year-old tail gunner, he flew 30 missions with the 306thBombardment Group, 368th Bomb Squadron in a B-17. With hisflights originating out of southeastern England, Bowers wouldbecome an inadvertent witness to history, seeing firsthand thestart of the D-Day invasion, taking part in the controversial firebombing of the ancient city of Dresden, and feeling the effects ofHitler’s vengeance weapons, the V-1 buzz bomb and V-2 ballisticmissile. But his most frightening memories of the war are thoseinvolving flak, the indiscriminate metal shrapnel that flew out-ward in all directions from exploding shells the enemy sent sky-ward against the Allied air armadas.

“Flak was the worst thing in the world,” Bowers says. “Wefaced it on every flight. Once it started, all you could see was thisblack stuff. Of course, that black stuff has been expanded. Whatgets you are the ones that have a red dot in the middle. That’swhere the explosion takes place. You can see the red and then itjust turns to gunpowder. It was scary because you knew the flakwas there and you knew you had to fly through it. And the Ger-mans knew we were going to fly through it, too. They knew weweren’t going to change air speed, and they knew we weren’tgoing to change altitude. So they would get their shells up thereat the right height and the right time, and you just had to flythrough it. There was no way we could turn back. We never tookevasive action. Once we started the bomb run and the pilot turnedthe plane over to the bombardier, he was flying the plane. And inthe history of the Eighth Air Force, no one ever turned back froma mission because of enemy fire. As far as I was concerned, flak

39APRIL 2014 WWII HISTORY© Military Gallery


was worse than fighters.”Bowers’ ride through the skies over Europe

began shortly after America entered its secondyear of the war. Giving up a scholarship to playfootball at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh,he ended his deferment after one semester ofcollege and was drafted in the spring of 1943.He was accepted into the Army Air Corps andvolunteered for gunnery school.

“They wouldn’t draft you as a gunner,” Bow-ers says. “It was voluntary.” His decision was

made in part during basic training in Floridaafter watching an Army propaganda film star-ring actor Burgess Meredith, whose plane isshot down by a Japanese Zero fighter. In whatBowers laughingly describes as Hollywoodimagination, Meredith grabs a .50-calibermachine gun, takes aim at the strafing plane,and shoots it out of the sky.

To be part of a bomber crew during WorldWar II, the Army Air Corps required men toundergo three levels of specialized training: air-

plane mechanic school in Gulf Port, Missis-sippi, gunnery school in Kingman, Arizona, andoverseas training in Ardmore, Oklahoma. Thislast level of training consisted of night flights,day flights, and practice bomb runs, trainingthat forged each crew into a cohesive 10-manunit. They were then sent to Kansas to beassigned a bomber and fly it to England.

“Once we started overseas training in Ard-more, we were a crew for the rest of the war,”Bowers explains. “When we got to Kansas a ter-rible storm broke out. It lasted for days. Planescouldn’t go, and more crews kept coming in andthere was no place for them. So they put us on atroop train and sent us to the East Coast.”

Along with a host of others, Bowers’ crewleft for England on May 10, 1944, arrivingthere seven days later aboard the troopshipAndes.

“It was an ocean liner before the war and itwas pretty speedy, so we went over alone,”Bowers says. “We sailed north and went acrossthe North Atlantic. They told us that as fast asthat ship was, we could probably outrun anysubmarine. So we went over without an escortor convoy.”

Once in England, which was now teemingwith Americans preparatory to the Allied inva-sion of Europe, bomber crews were distributedto various bases around the country and assignedto squadrons. Bowers was a staff sergeant.

“When we went in the service, we made pri-vate first class real quick,” he explains. “Thenwe made corporal in gunnery school. When wefinished gunnery school, we were sergeants.When we arrived overseas, we made staffsergeant. All the gunners on a B-17 were staffsergeants except for the upper turret gunner,who was a tech sergeant.”

His crew was ordered to an air base near thesmall town of Bedford, just north of London.On the way there, Bowers witnessed the mostpivotal event of the war. The date was June 5,1944.

“As we were going down to Bedford on thetrain, we saw all of these C-47s going over uspulling gliders. The sky was full of them! Wethought, ‘Holy hell! What a helluva trainingmission!’ When we arrived at the base we wereassigned to our barracks. The next morning amater sergeant came in about 5 o’clock. Heblew his whistle and yelled, ‘D-Day! D-Day!’We had no idea at first what he meant. It wasthe first time we ever heard of D-Day. But thenit finally dawned on us what the hell he wastalking about. We thought it was a training mis-sion when we saw C-47s pulling those gliders.It was actually the D-Day invasion.”

A short while later, the crew was assigned to


Both: Bowers Family Photo

ABOVE: Wilbur “Bib” Bowers survived 30 missions in a Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress bomber during WorldWar II. The average service expectancy of an American bomber crewman was significantly shorter. Bowers is shown in this photograph in the tail gunner position aboard a B-17. The small barrel protruding in front isthe sight. The actual twin .50-caliber machine guns were positioned below him. BELOW: The crew of the Boeing B-17 bomber nicknamed Begin the Beguine posed for this photograph with its aircraft in the back-ground shortly after arriving in England. Bib Bowers is kneeling second from right.


fly Begin, the Beguine, a name given to the Fly-ing Fortress by its former crew.

“Begin, the Beguine was the name of asong,” Bowers says. “It was a very popularsong at the time. They used to play it a lot. Itwas quite a dance tune. Why its first crewnamed it that, why they picked it, I’m not toosure. And what happened to that crew? Theymust have finished up because the plane didn’tget shot down. They got their 25 missions.”

The 25-mission quota, which was enough toqualify an airman for tour completion, wasaltered in 1944. The appalling number of lostplanes and crews dictated a command direc-tive, and the 25 was upped to 30. Later in thewar, it was increased to 35. The disappointmentthe airmen felt, of almost attaining their mis-sion quota and seeing it evaporate before theireyes, was disheartening to say the least.

“When they raised the requirement to 30, weall thought, ‘Damn,’” Bowers says. “At thetime they changed it, we were well on our wayto reaching 25 missions. Also, a strange patternseemed to develop. Either you got shot downon your first mission or on your last. So it wasdisappointing in that respect.”

Considering the fact that an airman did notknow beforehand on which days he would fly,his anxiety level was doubly increased. Downtime might be three days, a week, or evenmonths. When bad weather grounded Alliedplanes during Germany’s last offensive in theWest through the Ardennes Forest in Belgiumin December 1944, planes from the 368thBomb Squadron did not fly for more than twomonths—from November 13, 1944, to Janu-ary 20, 1945.

“You never knew when you were going tofly until someone woke you up, announcedcaptain so-and-so’s crew, and called your name.You’d answer, and then you knew you were fly-ing,” Bowers remembers. “So every night whenwe went to sleep, we thought about flying thenext day, but we never knew until that day. Andit’s a strange thing. You didn’t necessarily wantto fly because you could get killed. On the otherhand, if you did go you could get your flightsin and be able to go home.”

“Sometimes, when we weren’t flying, theywould send us to airplane recognition school,”he continues. “I also played for the base foot-ball team. We played a regular schedule. If Ididn’t happen to be flying that day, we mighthave a game. Other times they would give usleave, a three-day pass, then we knew that forthree days we could go to London or into Bed-ford. A lot of times we didn’t go into town. Onbase were two Quonset huts set up in the shapeof a T. One Quonset hut was a bar heated by

three 55-gallon drums. The other hut held alibrary and recreation area for NCOs. Every-thing we needed was right there. But otherwise,every night we went to sleep, and when thesergeant blew that whistle, we woke up. If hecalled your name, you flew. And if he didn’t callyour name, you went back to sleep.”

When airmen did find their way into Bed-ford, the pubs were a common gathering place.Although most men were not used to the warmbeer served there, Bowers says with a laugh thatit was potent.

“It would do the job,” he says.London, on the other hand, despite its allure,

was a more dangerous place to visit than small-town Bedford because of Hitler’s obsessionwith leveling the British capital. Bowers says hewas in London when he experienced the terrorof Germany’s V-1 flying bomb and its V-2rocket.

Called a “buzz bomb” by the British becauseof its distinctive noise, the V-1 was a pilotlesscraft comparable to today’s cruise missile. Itwas loaded with explosives and traveledthrough the air at 400 miles per hour. Duringthe war, approximately 8,000 were sent towardLondon. Since a V-1 flight was both visible andaudible, antiaircraft crews and RAF fighterpilots became somewhat proficient at knock-ing them out of the sky, but an estimated 2,400did reach their targets. Although they killedsome 6,000 Londoners and wounded another40,000, they did not wreak the havoc or causethe panic that Hitler hoped they would. Seeingone in flight remains fixed in Bowers’ memory.

“I was at the Red Cross Building in London.

It was morning, and I was shaving. I had anoutside window, and I looked out and there itwas. I could see it! It made this strange ‘putt,putt, putt’ noise and then it quit. Well, whenthey quit they either drop straight down or theyglide down. I’m looking at this thing and it quit,and it was gliding. Fortunately, it went on pastus and hit somewhere else.”

The V-2 rocket, however, was quite a differentweapon. The forerunner of today’s long-rangeballistic missile, it was fueled by liquid oxygenwhich allowed it to fly at extremely high alti-tude. Since there was no way to defend againstit, the V-2 was a much more menacing weaponto Londoners than the V-1. At 46 feet long andweighing 14 tons (one ton of which was a high-explosive warhead), the V-2 smashed into its tar-get from 60 miles high and hit the ground at overfour times the speed of sound. Although theydestroyed hundreds of buildings and caused

thousands of casualties, they did not alter thecourse of the war either. Feeling its impact left alasting impression on Bowers.

“I happened to be in London another timewhen a V-2 hit. You can’t hear or see anything.Again I was going into the Red Cross, whichwas a rather large building, and I had just got-ten hold of the door when a V-2 hit. Because therocket was so large, the whole building shook.And I mean it shook! I’m not too sure how faraway it hit, it could’ve been quite a ways away.So London,” he laughs, “wasn’t the best placeto go for leave.”

Aside from London, a far deadlier place formen of the Eighth Air Force was in the air ona 10-hour mission deep inside enemy territory.


National Archives

United States Army Air Forces personnel replace the British Union Jack with the U.S. Stars and Stripes aftertaking over the former Royal Air Force base at Bedford, England, in 1942. Bib Bowers arrived in Bedford in1944 to begin his tour of 30 bombing missions over Nazi-occupied Europe.

W-Apr14 B-17 Missions.qxd *silo_Layout 1 1/23/14 1:51 PM Page 41

To be a gunner on a B-17, to be awakened witha blow of a whistle and have your name called,meant that a long and dangerous day was instore.

The first thing a gunner did was head to themess hall for breakfast. A typical meal, Bowerssays, was pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage,toast, and coffee. It was followed by a morningbriefing; pilots had their own, as did naviga-tors, bombardiers, radiomen, and gunners.

“We would assemble in a room. There was adrape over a map and an officer would pull offthe drape. On the map was a red tape con-nected to the target for the day. The longer thetape, the longer the mission. He explained thetype of flak guns we could expect, the kind offighters, the weather, what we were going tobomb and why, the takeoff time and ETA tobomb target.”

Following this briefing, a gunner assembledhis gear. Since the planes were not pressurizedand flew at such high altitudes, airmen woreelectrically heated suits because of the sub-zerotemperatures.

“Everybody had their own bag, which heldour wool socks, underwear, and a heated elec-trical suit,” Bowers says. “Our shoes wouldhook to the legs. Everything on this suit hookedtogether, even the gloves, and we plugged it intoan outlet on the plane. When we flew at highaltitudes, you couldn’t take your gloves off totouch the guns because your hands would stickto them. We always took along K-rations or C-rations on missions, but we couldn’t eat themuntil we dropped down low enough and theythawed out.”

Also in the airman’s bag were a parachute,parachute harness, flak helmet, life preserver,goggles, throat microphone, oxygen mask, anda .45-caliber semiautomatic pistol. It also heldan escape kit that contained a silk scarfimprinted with a map of the plane’s destina-tion, money that corresponded to the countrythe plane flew over, and an escape picture toaid friendly forces that forged identificationpapers in case the plane was shot down and theairman survived.

“The escape picture was similar to thoseyou’d have taken at an arcade booth; the samesize,” he says. “They gave us a shirt, tie, andcoat and took our picture. The Undergroundin France could manufacture a lot of fake doc-uments, but they didn’t have the ability to takea picture. So we carried this escape picture incase we were shot down.”

For obvious reasons the flak helmet was avaluable asset to airmen, but often the menfound another use for it.

“I puked in it more than once,” Bowers says.

“Of course up there it froze. That was okay.But when you came down and landed, thatstuff thawed out. Then it was bad. When you’rein the tail, it’s going up and down, up anddown. It’s not the smoothest spot to be inbecause you’re right at the end of that damnplane and every time there’s a maneuver or tur-bulence you feel it pretty quick.”

With his gear assembled, a gunner’s next stopwas the weapons tent. Bowers says the work-ing parts of a gun were never left on the planeafter a mission because they had to be cleanedand serviced. For every person in the air, it tookseven on the ground to support him. Mainte-nance of the bombers was a big challenge.

“The mounts were all still in the plane,” heexplains, “but the guts were in the armamenttent. We didn’t have to clean them or anything,the armorer took care of that. We would getour guns, put them together into the mounts,set the head space and put the back plate on.”

Cartridges for his twin .50-caliber Browningmachine guns were housed in two plywoodboxes located on both sides of him on the floorof the plane. For safety purposes, guns were notarmed until the plane was airborne.

“Once we were in the air, the pilot would say,‘Okay, test your guns,’ and we would fire fiveor six rounds.”

The position of guns on a B-17 and the fly-ing formation itself were designed to providethe maximum amount of firepower possible.Ten men manned the plane: pilot, co-pilot, nav-igator, bombardier, upper turret gunner,radioman, ball turret gunner, two waist gun-ners, and a tail gunner. This made a total of 13manned machine guns (three were located inthe nose of the plane where the navigator andbombardier sat).

Bowers explains that four B-17s routinely flewin a box formation. The lead plane was first. Justto the rear and underneath was another bomber.This was called “flying in the hole.” There wasanother bomber situated high right (the rightwing man) and another low left (the left wingman). This formation was repeated for eightother bombers. So in a group, there were threesets of four bombers. Each group was stackedhigh, lead, and low. And one group was joinedby many others on a typical raid. Toward war’send, it wasn’t unusual to have 1,000 bombersflying missions into Germany.

“On some raids there were bombers as far asI could see, and I could see far being in the tailand being with the lead plane,” he says. “Whenwe flew a box formation, we were so tight thatit really discouraged fighters from hitting us.They really kept away. The tighter the box, thebetter our fighter protection. And the tighter

the formation, the more concentrated our fire-power. We flew a very tight formation. Youcould almost make out the people in the otherplanes. That’s how close we flew.”

In addition to their devastating firepower,some B-17s were equipped with the Nordenbombsight, a top secret invention of the timethat enabled a plane, as some put it, “to dropa bomb inside a pickle barrel.” Begin, theBeguine was equipped with one.

“We were the lead crew, and the lead planealways had a Norden bombsight,” Bowersexplains. “The right wing man had a Nordenbombsight, and the other planes may not havehad any bombsight at all. They didn’t haveenough for every plane. When the lead planeopened up its bomb bay doors, all the other 11planes in the formation did the same. When thelead plane dropped its bombs, all the othersdropped their bombs. And if the lead plane gotshot down, the right wing man would move inand lead. That’s why we’d have two planes withbombsights.”

As the air war over Europe progressed andtactics were fine tuned, a directive was issuedreducing the number of men on a B-17 from10 to nine. This was mainly due to the box for-mation. The close proximity of one bomber toanother and the possibility of the inside waistgunner (called waist gunner mechanic) hittinganother bomber with his bullets was consid-ered too dangerous. To avoid this, the waistgunner mechanics were taken off and put intoa pool where they were used to form new crewsto replace those that were lost.

“We had two waist gunners: waist gunnermechanic and waist gunner armor. I happenedto be the waist gunner mechanic on our crewand I was taken off. So I was off for a fewraids, and then our tail gunner quit. Hewouldn’t fly anymore. He decided that he hadit and wouldn’t fly.

“If you wanted out,” Bowers continues, “youcould go to the infirmary, see the doctors, talkto them and tell them that you couldn’t take itanymore. That would be it. They’d move themsomewhere, preferably off the base. So our tailgunner quit us. Well, I didn’t want to be flyingwith a lot of strange crews. I wanted back onthe crew because I knew all the guys and I knewthe pilot. We were the lead crew, and the leadcrew had to be above average. We all got alonggreat, even though we didn’t associate witheach other after a raid. When we came downfrom a mission, the officers would go that wayand we’d go this way. We’d never see themagain. But when the mission would start, we’dall be back together, and we got along fine. Wenever had a bad word. We just didn’t associate



with each other like some of the other crewsdid. They would go to London together, andthey were tight. But we never did that. It was-n’t because we didn’t get along; we got alonggreat when we were flying.

“So I didn’t want to be off that one because itwas a good crew. I went to the captain and I said,‘I’ll fly the tail.’ He said, ‘You’ll fly back there?’I said, ‘If it means I get back on the crew, yes.’So he went to headquarters and talked to them.He came back and said, ‘Look, if you want to flythe tail, it’s yours. You’re back on the crew.’”

Flying in a lead bomber on every mission thathe flew, Bowers experienced his first raid intoenemy territory on June 11, 1944, five daysafter the Normandy landings. His log showsthat Begin, the Beguine’s first few missions wereagainst targets just across the English Channel,including the Pas de Calais, where many Ger-man officers, Hitler included, thought the cross-Channel invasion would take place.

“A lot of our earlier raids were on subma-rine pens on the coast of France,” he says. “Wecalled them milk runs. We loved those. We wereover to France and back in a matter of hours.”

Little damage was done to the German subbases despite a B-17’s potent short-run maxi-mum bomb load of 12,800 pounds (a 4,000-pound load was typical for the longer raids intoGermany). These missions proved mostly inef-fective because of the reinforced roofs coveringthe submarine pens, some of which were con-structed with 12 feet or more of concrete. Oneearly mission on which Bowers flew that didgain a lot of notoriety was against St. Lo in

Normandy. Three days prior to the Alliedbreakout in July, the Eighth Air Force wasordered to carpet bomb the German garrison atSt. Lo, so on July 24 three waves of bombers setout to do just that.

Poor visibility caused the attack to be can-celed, but not in time for the planes to be calledback. The first wave of 500 heavy bombers didnot drop its bombs because of bad weather. Ofthe second wave, 35 planes dropped ordnancebut only after three passes were made to iden-tify the target. In the third wave, 300 bombersreleased 135 tons of fragmentation bombs and550 tons of high explosives. Not only were St.Lo and the German garrison decimated, but 25American ground troopers were killed and 131wounded. As a result, General Dwight D.Eisenhower ordered that Allied bombers wouldno longer be used for close ground support.They never were again.

“We went in support of ground forces whichwe had never done before,” Bowers explains.“Engineers had put out cloth markers on theground in front of the troops. When we cameover at low altitude, we saw those markers andknew where to bomb. The night before,though, the Germans moved the markers backtoward the American lines, and some of thebombs fell short and hit our troops. That wasone of the reasons why it happened. But thenanother thing, some guys just bombed short.”

Another notorious raid that Bowers flew wasthe bombing of Dresden in the final months ofthe air war. Located 100 miles south of Berlin,the city ranked near the bottom of the Allied hit

list since it held no military significance. But atthe time, it was the largest German city to haveescaped full-scale bombing, and with the BigThree soon to meet at Yalta, President FranklinRoosevelt and British Prime Minister WinstonChurchill wanted to impress upon Soviet Pre-mier Josef Stalin that no target was off limits.

Known as both a cultural center and histor-ical city because of its opera house, parks, andmuseums, Dresden boasted buildings that datedto the 13th century. It offered Allied bombersno opposition because the city’s antiaircraft bat-teries had been moved to the Eastern Frontweeks before and fuel shortages had groundedGerman fighters.

With perfect visibility, two British raids andone by the Americans comprised of planesarmed with incendiary bombs attacked Dres-den on February 13-14, 1945, burning the cityand thousands of its war-weary residents. Iron-ically, it was Ash Wednesday. The resultingfirestorm touched off by the incendiaries gen-erated winds of tornado force, claiming an esti-mated 35,000 lives. As a result, Dresden burnedfor a week. To some it was terror bombing; toothers it was punishment long overdue. ToBowers it was just another mission in his questto get home.

“We carried fire bombs that day,” he says. “Weall knew it. All you had to do was look in thebomb bay. There were huge racks of them. Thebombs were big and round and in bundles. Whenthey dropped they would open up, spin out, andall these little ones would come flying out.”

The Dresden raid was the last that Bowers


Nat

iona

l Arc

hive

s

During a heavy raid on Magdeburg, Germany, in September 1944, Boeing B-17 bombers of the U.S. Eighth Air Force drop their sticks of bombs almost simultaneouslyas they brave flak and enemy fighters to remain on course for an accurate bomb drop. Magdeburg and other major German cities were well protected by the Luftwaffein the air and by flak units on the ground.


would fly with his crew on Begin, the Beguine.The other members had flown their required30 missions, but he was short four. Althoughthe mission total by that time had been raisedto 35, Bowers says that 30 missions still quali-fied an airman for tour completion if his crewhad flown lead.

“If you were flying lead, or most of yourflights were lead, you only had to fly 30 mis-sions. So when my crew finished up, they haddone their 30, but I was still short four mis-sions. Well, they were very nice about it atheadquarters. Since I had all these leads, the lastfour raids that I flew with different crews Ialways flew with the lead plane, so I was ableto get in my leads and I only had to fly 30 mis-sions. It was pretty nice of them to do that.”

It was with one of these new crews, one ofthe last missions that Bowers flew, that he reg-istered his only kill of the war.

“I saw these fighters. Of course I called upright away and alerted the crew: ‘Unidentifiedaircraft coming in at 7 o’clock low.’ So I’m sit-ting back there in the tail watching them comein and the pilot said, ‘Keep your eye on them.’At first I wasn’t too sure whether they were ourown P-47s coming at me, because a Focke-Wulf190 and a P-47 look a helluva lot alike. Theyboth have a round engine. But pretty soon I sawthese red spots coming out of the wings. I yelled‘Bandits!’ to alert the rest of the crew. One of thefighters was flying a little farther out than theothers, and when he got within range I startedfiring. I could hear the guys of the crew on myheadset yell, ‘Keep firing! Keep firing! You’re get-

ting hits! Your getting hits! Keep firing!’ So thisone plane burst into flames. It was a Focke-Wulf190, and it was burning just like a torch. It wascompletely engulfed, just about ready to blowup. It went right by us, and I could look into thecockpit. That’s how close it was.”

Bowers says he nearly emptied his two boxesof shells in the engagement.

“I was so busy at the time that I didn’t eventhink of being scared,” he explains. “It was anautomatic thing. He’s shooting at me and I’mshooting at him. You’re concentrating and sodamn busy on what you’re doing that you’renot even thinking about being scared. After welanded, instead of going to be debriefed, forsome reason I went straight to the mess hall.Here, someone tapped me on the shoulder andsaid, ‘You’ve got to get over to debriefing.’ SoI went and they asked what happened, and Iexplained the whole thing to them, and theysaid, ‘We’re going to give you half a kill becausewhen that plane went past you, a P-51 pickedit up and blew it up.’ So I ended up with halfof a Focke-Wulf 190.”

At some point prior to this action, Bowerslearned that his good friend Jimmy Burns ofYatesboro, Pennsylvania, had been lost overEurope. The two had undergone trainingtogether, and Burns had served as best man inBowers’ wedding following gunnery school.Although Bowers heard that his friend’s planehad been shot down, it was not until after thewar that he learned Burns had died. Downedpersonnel were carried as missing for at least oneyear, and it was not until 1946 when the War

Department administratively labeled these menFOD, or Finding of Death under Public Law490, following an investigation of each case.

“It was one of his last missions,” recalls Bow-ers. “His plane was shot down over the Nether-lands. The whole crew was lost. He wrote tomy wife one time and told her he was going tobeat me home, that he was ahead of me in mis-sions. He and I would write to each other, andI pretty much knew how many flights he hadand he knew how many I had. He was aheadof me because I was flying leads and he wasn’t,so he was flying more often.”

The fate of U.S. airmen such as Burns was amore common occurrence on the 10-hour deeppenetration raids into Germany. It was on onesuch flight to Frankfurt on August 15, 1944,his 12th of the war, that Bowers saw such dev-astation unleashed on American bombers thatit sickens him to describe it.

“On that particular mission we were flying ata really high altitude, and there was anothergroup of bombers below us returning from araid. I looked down and saw this group of Me-109s, there must have been six or seven ofthem, coming in at 6 o’clock and lined up in astraight line, like the line on a football team.They went right through that formation, and B-17s were catching on fire and going down. Sothese fighters go through—I never saw them dothis before—and they lined up again. They gotahead of the bombers and made a line again,like the line of a football team, and went backthrough this formation again. But this time theywent in from 12 o’clock. They hit them firstfrom 6 o’clock, went out and reformed, andwent right through them again at 12 o’clock. Iforget how many planes I saw go down, some-thing like 10, which would probably be 90men, or if they were flying 10-man crews, itwould have been 100 guys. That was the worstthing I ever saw on a mission. And it all hap-pened so fast.”

Speed is essential in aerial combat. The topspeed of a Focke-Wulf Fw-190 was 408 milesper hour at high altitude. The top speed of a B-17 was 303 miles per hour at high altitude. Butthese air speeds paled in comparison to that ofa Messerschmitt Me-262, the war’s first oper-ational jet aircraft, whose top speed was 540miles per hour. When the plane was first devel-oped and put into production, German design-ers knew they had an aircraft that could alterthe war. And it might have, but Hitler orderedit redesigned as a bomber, then reversed himselfso late that only a handful operated in the clos-ing months of the war. To airmen on a B-17 fly-ing at cruising speed and seeing one pass by, itseemed as though they were standing still.


National Archives

Photographed in 1943, this image of a new Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress bomber presents an excellent view ofthe four-engine aircraft that was instrumental in prosecuting the air war against Nazi Germany. The tail gun-ner’s position is visible at lower left.


“I saw one of the first ones,” Bowers says.“We were going in on a raid and our pilot said,‘Here it comes.’ And I can remember looking tomy left. I looked over and … it was gone. Butit wasn’t firing at us. I think it was giving anti-aircraft gunners our air speed and our altitudeso they could adjust their guns. He didn’t fireat us, but he went through the formation likenothing. That was the first time I had ever seenone, and the last. Thank God they didn’t havetoo many of those.”

Bowers was never injured during the war,although Begin, the Beguine did receive damagefrom flak at different times. He says mainte-nance crews never failed to have the planeready to fly when it was assigned a mission. Itwas during a raid over Merckwiller, France, onAugust 3, 1944, when flak not only ripped a

healthy hole in the plane but seriously injuredone of its crew.

“Our radioman, Urdolph, got hit. Flak tookhis shoulder off. It came right through the skinof the plane, hit him, tore his shoulder off, blewhim the whole way across the radio room, andknocked him up against the other side of theroom. So our waist gunner was taking care ofhim. He put him down in the radio room andgave him a shot of morphine and got himgoing. He called back to me and said, ‘Bib, howabout coming up and taking over. I’m gettingsick.’ So I went up and took care of Urdolphwhile the waist gunner went back to the tail. Istayed with him, kept his oxygen mask on, andkept him from bleeding to death, and we werejust going in on the target. When we got backto base, the medics came out and took him.They told both of us that we’d saved his life.One said, ‘If it hadn’t been for you two, he

would have died.’”When bombers returned from a raid, the

crews were debriefed so intelligence officerscould glean any noteworthy information suchas what kind of fighters they encountered andwhether an enemy plane was shot down.

“That had to be confirmed,” Bowers says ofa kill. “Somebody else had to see you do it.”

Intelligence was also interested in what air-men might have seen happen to Allied planes.

“They wanted to know where a plane got hit,how many fighters there were, how manychutes you saw going out and how many chutesyou saw going down. Sometimes when a planewent down, you would see parachutes andsometimes you didn’t. Once the plane starts adive, people inside of it can’t move. It’s cen-trifugal force. You’re stuck wherever you are,and you can’t move. If you’re going to bail out,you’ve got to get out real quick.”

“They always had a nice thing for us whenwe were finished being debriefed,” he contin-ues. “We went to the mess hall afterward,which was a combat mess, meaning nobodywas allowed in there but combat men. Even theguys serving the meals were combat. When wewere done eating and going out, we gave themour name, and they poured a big double-headerof whiskey. You would pop it down, theywould check your name off, then you wouldhead back to the barracks.”

Bowers reached his 30-mission quota in Feb-ruary 1945. He left England on April 2 aboarda hospital ship in a convoy.

“Being a staff sergeant, I was kind of aguard,” he explains. “They had some prisonerson the boat, and I had to guard them. Two daysout of England, German subs attacked. Ourship wasn’t hit, but some in the convoy were. Icouldn’t tell you how many were hit or howbad because at that time I was so damn seasickI couldn’t even see.”

The ships arrived in New York harbor onApril 12, the day President Roosevelt died.

“His death meant a lot to us. He was ourleader, the whole way through the Depression,the whole way through the war,” says Bowers.“It was a pretty dramatic moment, it really was.The war wasn’t over yet. We were still fightingand then we lose our leader.”

Back on U.S. soil, Bowers was given leaveand ultimately ordered to Miami.

“In the meantime, they were processing us,”he says. “I didn’t know whether I would have togo back and train and go to the Pacific. Plus, thewar in Europe was still on. So I signed up forInstrument Specialist School. I figured I’d go thatroute and try it, so I signed up. Well, we weredown in Miami Beach and the war in Germanyended. I had enough points to get out, so Ithought, ‘Great! I’m going to get out!’ I wentdown to see them and they said, ‘Oh, no. Youcan’t get out because you already signed up forthis school and you’ve got to go through thisschool.’”

Bowers attended and graduated InstrumentSpecialist School at the University of Illinois in


National Archives

This B-17, nicknamed Mizpah, took a direct hit from German flak during a raid in July 1944. The enemy shellsmashed the bomber’s nose section and killed two crewmen instantly. The pilot of the stricken bomber wasable to hold the plane level long enough for the remaining crewmen to bail out. The plane crashed in Hungaryand the survivors were captured. LEFT: This startling photograph is indicative of the ferocity of the air warover Europe in World War II and of the price paid by Allied bomber crews during raids on military targets. OnApril 8, 1945, this B-17, nicknamed Wee-Willie, lost a wing to flak above Stendal, Germany. Two crewmensurvived the plane’s crash, and eight others were killed.

National Archives



WHEN THE SICILIAN PORT city of Palermo fell to Lt. Gen. George S. Patton’s Seventh Armyon July 22, 1943, his soldiers were surprised by their reception. Women dressed in their finestclothes kissed, hugged, and shook the GI’s hands. Jeeps, trucks, and tanks came under showers of

flowers, almonds, apples, and lemons. Some people ran for-ward to offer melons, others offered advice on where minesand booby traps were hidden in Palermo harbor.

The infantrymen of the 3rd Infantry Division, tankers ofthe 2nd Armored Division, and paratroopers of the 82ndAirborne Division enjoyed the cheering crowds. In someplaces policemen had to restrain the enthusiastic populace.Reporter Alexander Clifford remembered being swarmed byhappy civilians. “Our hands were wrung until they were limpand sore,” he wrote. “Men and women kissed us—it wasnoticeable that there was no shortage of garlic.” The localsstuffed the reporter’s pockets with nuts and fruit and offeredhim a seemingly endless supply of wine. They slapped himon the back and cheered him with what little English theyknew: “You are welcome,” or “America, England, Sicily, Icome!” Clifford even noticed a few Italian soldiers joiningin the merriment.

The surrender was made official when Patton entered thecity that night at the head of an armored column. Civilians

cheered “Down with Mussolini!” and “Long live America!” They tossed flowers at him. “It isa great thrill to be driving into a captured city in the dark,” he later confessed. Patton’s columnrolled to the Royal Palace, where he congratulated his commanders and passed a flask aroundto celebrate.

Clifford summed up the excitement of the day’s events when he reported, “Hitler and Mussolinishould have been here today. They would have learned a lot.”


All p

Palermo CAPTURED

Axis civilians cheered the soldiers of Patton’s Seventh Army as they rolled into the largest enemy city captured up to that time.

BY KEVIN M. HYMEL

1

2

W-Apr14 Palermo Photos_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:30 PM Page 46


All photos: National Archives

5

6

4

1. Major General Geoffrey Keyes and Ital-ian Generale di Brigata Giuseppe Molineroride into Palermo after Molinero offeredto surrender the city to the Americans.

2. Lieutenant General George S. Patton,with one of his ivory-handled pistols ondisplay, discusses the capture of Palermowith Maj. Gen. Lucian Truscott, who iswearing the blue-and-white striped patchof his 3rd Infantry Division. Maj. Gen.Geoffrey Keyes, who commanded the Provisional Corps, sits in the left seat ofPatton’s command car.

3. Tankers of the 2nd Armored Divisionroll down one of Palermo’s narrowstreets while civilians cheer.

4. Civilians in Palermo’s theater districtcheer and wave to the Americans, whomthey treated as liberators.

5. Armored Infantrymen from the 2ndArmored Division take a break in theirhalf-track under the shade of some palmtrees.

6. A tanker with the 2nd Armored Divi-sion escorts his smiling Italian prisoners to a holding pen.

W-Apr14 Palermo Photos_Layout 1 1/27/14 11:11 AM Page 47


Outfitted with overcoats against thedebilitating cold of the harsh Russianwinter, Red Army soldiers advancewith their trusty, durable MosinNagant rifles against German forcesin the city of Rostov. Near the end of1941, a strong German offensivemove toward the city on the RiverDon was thwarted by a series ofdesperate Soviet counterattacks.

D R I V E T O T H E

W-Apr14 Drive to Don_Layout 1 1/23/14 5:32 PM Page 48

49APRIL 2014 WWII HISTORYSovfoto / Eastfoto

R ostov was the key to the Caucasus and the rich Soviet oil fields that lay along the Blackand Caspian Seas. No one could accuse Adolf Hitler of being underambitious. Thegreat battles of encirclement at Kiev, Minsk, Uman, Smolensk, and other pockets hadyielded hundreds of thousands of Russian prisoners during the first months of the

1941 invasion of the Soviet Union, otherwise known as Operation Barbarossa. Believing thatSoviet Premier Josef Stalin was almost certainly finished, the German leader thought his armieswere capable of even greater victories.

With that in mind, he ordered his eastern forces to continue attacking all across the vastfront. In the north, Leningrad was the target. In the center it was Moscow, and in the south itwas the Ukraine with its great agricultural and industrial resources. In conjunction with the cap-ture of the Ukraine, Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt’s Army Group South was ordered tocapture the Crimea and, at the same time, take the city of Rostov-on-Don and the bridges thatspanned the mighty river on which it sat.

On December 15, 1749, a small customs house had been established near the mouth of theDon River to help control trade with the Turkish Empire. A fortress was soon built on the site,and gradually the small town that sprang up in the area turned into a city full of tradesmenand merchants.

At the beginning of Barbarossa, Rostov was more than 1,000 kilometers behind Army GroupSouth’s staging areas in Poland. The people of the city watched as troops headed for the frontpassed through almost daily. Soviet propaganda assured civilians that the Germans were beingslaughtered by the thousands and that the enemy would soon be vanquished. In reality, theforces of Army Group South were assembling less that 400 kilometers away, ready to continuetheir victorious advance.

Von Rundstedt had done his job well. Lt. Gen. Dmitrii Ivanovich Riabyshev’s South Frontand Lt. Gen. Mikhail Pertrovich Kirponos’s Southwest Front had been shattered in the previ-ous months. Kirponos had paid with his life on September 20 when he was killed while tryingto escape German forces. His replacement was the extremely capable Marshal Semyon Kon-stantinovich Timoshenko.

Although the Germans had inflicted a grievous wound on the Soviet forces in southern Rus-sia, it had come at a price. The seemingly endless steppe, sandy roads, and dust-filled air hadtaken their toll on men and machines. Engines were worn out, supply lines were long, and casu-alties had cut the strength of divisions. Replacements of both men and machines were slow incoming, and most of von Rundstedt’s panzer and motorized divisions could only field a half orless of their combat vehicles at a time. Nevertheless, Hitler insisted that his new priorities be met.

The main part of Army Group South began its redeployment in late September. Taking theCrimea would be the task of the 11th Army, while the 6th Army would advance towardKharkov. The task of taking the Don Basin fell to the 17th Army, and the 1st Panzer Groupwould strike out toward the Sea of Azov with its eventual objective being Rostov.

General Ewald von Kleist’s 1st Panzer Group had two motorized corps (III and XIV) to useas his main attacking force. During the last week of September, German units moved intobridgeheads at Zaporozhe and Dnepropetrovsk in preparation for the forthcoming assault.Mechanics worked furiously trying to fix broken-down vehicles. The trickle of replacementscoming from the West were assimilated into units as best they could, but the divisions goinginto battle would still be short of men and machines as the assault began.

General of Infantry Gustav von Wiethersheim’s XIV Army Corps (mot.) was deployed inthe Dnepropetrovsk area facing the Soviet South Front’s 12th Army. To his north, General ofCavalry Eberhard von Mackensen’s III Army Corps (mot.) was facing the Southwest Front’s6th Army. The first part of the operation would involve breaking the Russian line and thenheading southeast, making an end run behind the South Front’s 12th, 18th, and 9th Armies.

In late 1941, a German thrust toward the city of Rostov and the River Don was blunted bystrong Soviet counterattacks.

B Y PAT M C TA G G A R T


With those armies cut off, the German 17thArmy under General of Infantry Carl-Heinrichvon Stülpnagel and elements of General ofInfantry Erich von Manstein’s command(mainly the XXX Army Corps under Generalof Infantry Hans von Salmuth) could push upthe shore of the Sea of Azov. Von Kleist’s armorwould be the anvil, while the 17th Army wouldbe the hammer that would open up the richDon basin to German forces. With that accom-plished, the 1st Panzer Group would set itssights on Rostov.

On October 1, von Kleist’s units erupted fromtheir bridgeheads. Just three days before, Tim-oshenko and Riabyshev had received orders tohold their positions directly from the SovietHigh Command in Moscow (Stavka). It was aforlorn hope, especially with the heavy casual-ties already incurred in the previous months.

The Soviet forward defenses were woefullyinadequate, and von Wietersheim’s panzerswere able to crack them open with compara-tive ease. While German forces swept east, theItalian Mobile Group attached to the panzergroup engaged in mopping-up operationsbehind the main line. In the south, vonSalmuth’s XXX Corps began its drive alongthe Sea of Azov while elements of the 17th

Army kept pressure on the western defenses ofthe 8th and 18th Armies.

Among the units in the XXX Corps was Lt.Gen. Sepp Dietrich’s SS Leibstandarte AdolfHitler (LAH). Its strength was that of a rein-forced brigade. During the first week of October,the LAH, along with other elements of the XXXArmy Corps and the 3rd Romanian Army, bat-tered the South Front while von Kleist’s panzersraised havoc in the front’s rear area.

On October 4, Dietrich’s men came upagainst concentrated antitank positions, whichthey immediately attacked. While the fightingwas still going on, Dietrich appeared and beganissuing orders to set up a temporary defensiveline about 11,000 meters to the east after thepositions had been captured. The move wasnecessary because the LAH had outpaced itsneighbors on the left and right (the 8th Roman-ian Mountain Division and the 72nd InfantryDivision) and had to wait for them to catch upto protect its flanks.

The next day the LAH’s reinforced recon-naissance battalion under SS Major Kurt Meyerheaded toward the Molochana River, withother elements of the LAH following. Its 1stCompany, commanded by SS 1st Lt. Gerd Bre-mer, took the village of Federico, about 12 kilo-

meters from the town of Terpinnya, at 12:30PM and pursued the retreating Soviet forcestoward the town, which held a bridge thatwould ease the crossing of the river.

By 2 PM, leading elements of Bremer’s com-pany were in Terpinnya itself. Fighting theirway through the retreating Russians, the SStroops reached the bridge just as Red Armyengineers blew it up, killing several of their owntroops that were still on the structure.

Bremer was reinforced by SS Major FritzWitt’s I/LAH and SS Major Teddi Wisch’sII/LAH, which took over the fight for the town.Meanwhile, Bremer moved his company out ofTerpinnya, found a ford in the Molochana, andcrossed. About three kilometers east of thecrossing his men came under heavy mortar andartillery fire and direct fire from antitank posi-tions. Leaving Wisch to clear Terpinnya, Wittpushed his battalion across the river at Bremer’sford and established a strong bridgehead latein the afternoon.

The South Front was now in total disarray,and Riabyshev seemed to be incapable of doinganything to rectify the situation. The same dayBremer was crossing the Molochana, Col. Gen.Iakov Timofeevich Cherevichenko arrived atthe South Front headquarters. He informed


© S

Z Ph

oto

/ The

Imag

e W

orks

Early in their drive toward Rostov, German soldiers still enjoy reasonably good weather as evidenced bytheir short sleeves. These panzer troops are spearheading the German effort to take the city.


Riabyshev that he was there to take commandof the front immediately. The change of com-mand would bring results in the future, but thecurrent crisis could not be easily resolved.

During the evening, SS engineers were ableto build a bridge across the Molochana afterTerpinnya had been cleared of enemy troops.On October 6, the LAH was on the moveagain. The day’s objective was the town ofNovospas’ke, about 45 kilometers to the east.With Meyer’s reconnaissance battalion in thelead, the units moved forward. Near the vil-lage of Romanovko the Germans ran into anti-tank fire. Soviet tanks also appeared, causingsome casualties to Meyer’s antitank detach-ment. The arrival of the battalion’s 88mm gunssoon drove the Soviets off, and the village wastaken. Among the Soviet prisoners taken wereseveral members of the 9th Army’s staff. Withthe capture of the village, the way toNovospas’ke was open. Later that eveningDietrich was notified that the LAH was nowsubordinated to von Wiethersheim’s corps. Aday later it came under the command of vonMackensen’s III Corps.

On October 7, the LAH was ordered to pur-sue the Russians in the direction of Berdans’kand Mariupol. At the same time, a battalion ofBrig. Gen. Friedrich Kühn’s 14th Panzer Divi-sion moved south to link up with the division.Berdans’k was captured by midday, and Diet-rich’s men continued moving toward Mariupol.

After a few hours rest, Meyer held a com-mander’s conference in the early hours of the8th. He had received a report stating that therewere only weak enemy forces inside the city.Logically, Meyer should have waited for otherelements of the LAH to catch up to his battal-ion for a concentrated assault on Mariupol. Hismen were exhausted after days of continuouscombat, but Meyer had faith in them. Heordered his company commanders to form upand head for Mariupol at top speed.

SS Corporal Wontorra recounted his experi-ences in the LAH divisional history. “My orderswere simply to push on past the Russians,” hesaid. Eventually the motorcyclists ran into agroup of around 30 Russians marching towardthe city. “I remembered Meyer’s words ‘Rideon by!’” he continued. “By now my driver wasasking me what he should do. ‘Give her gas anddrive on by’ was my answer. When we caughtup with the Russians they looked at us in dis-belief and had no time to grab their rifles. Werode on past. It had worked beautifully.… Wepassed one column after another. We oftenpassed artillery being pulled by tractors.”

Before long, Wontorra’s motorcyclists werein the city itself. Behind him came the rest of the

battalion, followed by Wisch’s II/LAH. By noonthe city of approximately 250,000 people wasfirmly in German hands, and a bridgehead hadbeen established on the eastern bank of theKalmius River.

The bulk of the 18th and 9th Armies wasnow effectively isolated, with von Kleist’s forcesin their rear and XXX Corps at their front.Soviet units were suffering horrendous casual-ties, and general officers were not immune fromthe carnage. The commander of the 18th Army,Lt. Gen. Andrei Kirillovich Smirnov, was at hiscommand post near the village of Popovkawhen German artillery killed him. He was laterburied by German troops, who placed a markeron his grave that asked their soldiers to fight asbravely as this Soviet soldier. The inscriptionwas in German, Romanian, and Russian.

Smirnov’s artillery commander, Maj. Gen.Aleksei Semenovich Titov, died the same daywhen he was hit by artillery fire as he was over-seeing the withdrawal of his forces. As Germaninfantry advanced, he joined his gun crews inan effort to drive them off. He was killed by adirect hit on the gun he was manning.

The following day, Chief of Staff of the ArmyGeneral Franz Halder wrote in his diary, “Wemust exploit the unexpectedly swift capture ofMariupol by the SS Adolf Hitler by pushingthrough as quickly as possible to Rostov, andperhaps even crossing the Sea of Azov. The Ital-ian divisions unfortunately are so ineffectualthat they can be employed for nothing morethan passive flank cover behind rivers, but notfor broadening the attacking front of the [1st]Panzer Army [Panzer Group 1 was not offi-

cially renamed 1st Panzer Army until the lastweek of October].”

It did not take Berlin long to announceanother great German victory to the world. AnOctober 11 communiqué from the WehrmachtHigh Command began with “the battle at theSea of Azov is over.” It went on to state that thelosses to the 9th and 18th Armies included64,325 prisoners, 126 tanks, and 519 guns. Italso mentioned that Army Group South hadcaptured 106,365 prisoners and destroyed orcaptured 212 tanks and 672 guns since Sep-tember 26.

The 13th Panzer Division under Brig. Gen.

Walter Düvert had now moved up to Mariupoland had established contact with the LAH.With the rest of the division moving into thecity, Dietrich’s men were ordered to advance tothe next objective—the city of Taganrog, whichwas a little more than 100 kilometers away.Meyer’s reconnaissance battalion met no oppo-sition as it sped eastward, and it reached thetown of Nossavo, about 11 kilometers north-west of Taganrog, by 3:30 PM. A platoon wasthen sent to reconnoiter the nearby town ofNikolaevka. It reported that the western edgeof the town was heavily fortified and that anyattack route would be clearly visible to enemypositions on the east bank of the Mius River.There would not be another Mariupol-likecoup this time.

The bridges at Nikolaevka were of criticalimportance if the advance to Taganrog was tocontinue. On October 12, orders were given forthe LAH to establish a bridgehead across theriver, while the 13th and 14th Panzer Divisionsmoved up to protect its flanks. Meyer’s rein-forced battalion attacked the Soviet forces onthe west bank of the river supported by Witt’sI/LAH.

Successful penetrations were made, but the SSwere soon met with a hail of fire from the east-ern bank that stopped the assault in its tracks.It soon became evident that the attack wouldnot succeed, and after a few hours of fightingMeyer and Witt were ordered to withdraw.

Meanwhile, Dietrich had received reportsthat the Soviets had constructed an emergencybridge across the Mius at Prokovskoya, about18 kilometers to the north. He immediately

sent Wisch’s II/LAH to check on the report,which turned out to be correct. Once again,however, Soviet defensive fire made it impos-sible to take the bridge by storm. Despite theday’s setbacks, Dietrich was still determined toget across the river.

Waiting until darkness fell, SS 1st Lt. Hein-rich Springer took his 3rd Company along thebank of the Mius north of Nikolaevka. Send-ing a platoon across by raft, Springer was ableto establish a bridgehead on the eastern bank.By 9 PM, his entire company had crossed theriver and had taken a commanding positionoverlooking the town. Witt immediately sent


The Soviet troops trying to stem the advance of Panzer Group 1 had suffered greatly, but the remarkable resilience of the Red Army was beginning to make itself known.


the other companies of his 1st Battalion acrossto reinforce Springer. The III/LAH, under SSCaptain Albert Frey, soon followed.

The following day, Wisch used his battalionto make another effort to capture the bridge atProkhovskoya. With the help of assault gunsthe battalion was able to close on the bridge,but intense enemy fire once again prevented itscapture. Wisch suspended the attack after suf-fering heavy casualties, and late in the day heturned the sector over to Düvert’s 13th Panzer.

Realizing a bridgehead north of Nikolaevkahad been established, the Soviets attacked Wittand Wisch—first in company strength and thenin battalion strength. The attacks were sup-ported by Red Air Force bombers, artillery, andan armored train, but were repulsed withbloody losses.

Düvert turned his engineers loose later in theday, and by midnight an eight-ton bridge hadbeen built over the Mius, allowing more Ger-man infantry to occupy the eastern bank. Withthe added strength protecting its flank, it wastime for the LAH to move on Nikolaevka.

During the 14th, Witt’s men fought their wayinto the center of the town, meeting heavy resis-tance along the way. The Soviets fought forevery house, stubbornly refusing to give wayuntil the last man was either killed or wounded.The Red Air Force also appeared time andagain, bombing friend and foe alike. Fightingraged throughout the night, giving the men oneither side no time for rest.

Armor was now becoming available to theGerman forces on the east bank. Düvert’s engi-neers had constructed a heavier bridge, capableof supporting his panzers, which were nowcrossing the river, albeit under Soviet artilleryfire. This reinforcement kept the Russians fromreinforcing Nikolaevka from the north andeast, allowing Witt’s battalion to take the townby midafternoon on the 15th.

The Soviet troops trying to stem the advanceof Panzer Group 1 had suffered greatly, but theremarkable resilience of the Red Army wasbeginning to make itself known. During thethird week of October a new army, the 56th,was formed under the command of Lt. Gen.Fedor Nikitovich Remezov. The 56th, consistingof six rifle and six cavalry divisions, was giventhe task of defending the approaches to Rostov.

With Nikolaevka taken and more Germanunits flowing across the Mius, the advance onTaganrog could now continue. The LAH stillhad the mission of capturing the city, and at5:30 AM on October 17, Witt’s reinforcedI/LAH moved out with the southern section ofthe city as its objective. SS Major GüntherAnhalt’s IV/LAH was ordered to take the

southwestern shore along the Gulf of Tagan-rog, while Wisch and Frey would hit the cityfrom the east.

The attack went according to plan, withunits of all four battalions fighting in the cityitself by midmorning. By 3 PM, the Soviets hadbeen pushed into the southeastern part ofTaganrog, and Witt’s battalion had occupiedthe city’s harbor installations. A member of theLAH wrote: “As we approached the city, theroar of explosions announced the Russians’intent to abandon it. The clouds of smoke fromburning fuel and ammunition stores stood likegiant mushrooms above the city and darkenedthe azure sky.”

With most of Taganrog in German hands,new orders came down from corps command.The 13th Panzer Division was to expand thebridgehead at Sambek, about 15 kilometersnortheast of the city, with the 14th Panzerguarding the corps’ northern flank. Meanwhile,the LAH was to continue to mop up any nestsof Soviet resistance remaining in Taganrog.

Those units, along with the rest of von Kleist’spanzer group, needed both rest and supplies.Fuel was at a premium for most of the divisionsin the command, and the supply route stretchedhundreds of kilometers to the west. Weather wasanother issue. German units farther north hadalready experienced the mud of the Rasputitsa,and in the central and northern regions of theEastern Front snow had already fallen in someareas. Vehicles, especially wheeled vehicles,became mired in the mud that was once a sandyroad, and the long supply lines made getting thenecessary fuel, ordnance, and other materials tocontinue the advance an arduous trip.

On October 19, von Mackensen issued thefollowing order for the capture of Rostov. “The13th Panzer Division and the LAH are to attackat 0530 hours on 20.10 by moving the bulk oftheir forces across the line reached today. TheLAH is to halt its progress when it is level withthe 13th Panzer Division.” Once again, the14th Panzer would provide cover for the corps’northern flank.


German infantrymen pause and take cover asthe reports of Soviet firearms are audible inthe distance. This image was captured duringthe German drive toward Rostov on the RiverDon in 1941.

© SZ Photo / The Im

age Works


The corps moved out on time, and during the20th both divisions had achieved the days’objectives. Meyer, commanding the reconnais-sance battalion, was replaced by SS CaptainHugo Kraas during the day due to illness. Asthe divisions settled in for the evening, coldwinds began blowing across the steppe. It wasa harbinger of things to come. As the men layshivering in their summer uniforms, von Mack-ensen sent the following message to von Kleist:“Supply of winter clothing scheduled forbetween 21. and 31.10. In Dneptropetrovsk itis too late. If winter clothing does not comesoon, the troops’ ability to perform will be toogreatly taxed. Urgently request supply of win-ter clothing to Mariupol, at the least.” It wasone of many such pleas from commanders allalong the Eastern Front.

Despite the weather, von Mackensen’s divi-sions continued to advance. For the next twodays more ground was taken. Captured pris-oners told German interrogators that some ofthe divisions facing them had been raisedwithin the last couple of months. Many of thoseprisoners were Kuban Cossacks—men who didnot have an especially favorable attitudetoward the Soviets.

At the South Front headquarters, Chere-vichenko issued orders to his subordinates tohold the line at all costs now that the weatherwas changing. He knew German supply lineswere stretched to the limit and that the moremen and equipment expended by the enemyfacing him the less they would have for a finalpush to their obvious objective of Rostov.

The Germans were getting perilously close tothe city, and Cherevichenko needed to buy timefor Remezov to deploy his new army. There-fore, he ordered a series of counterattacks onthe 23rd that caused von Mackensen to reel inhis forces and go over to the defensive for thetime being. His divisions held a front of about70 kilometers, but not all of his units were man-ning the front line as several elements were stillstruggling to catch up to the lead forces. Thesupply situation was also getting critical.

An October 23 corps memo stated, “ThePanzerarmee has informed us that the supplysituation will remain unpredictable due to theunfavorable weather and bad road conditionson the long supply routes and despite all theauxiliary measures and personnel put intoaction; it may even occur that the supply linesmay be temporarily out of service.”

The memo also made several recommenda-tions that should be implemented down tocompany level. It said units must be self-reliantfor ammunition, fuel, and provisions for up toseveral days at a time. Strict rationing was also

recommended, and prisoners were to be usedalong supply routes to help retrieve vehiclesthat had become stuck in the quagmires thatwere once roads.

Soviet attacks hit the entire line held by the13th Panzer Division, which centered aroundCahltyr’ about 16 kilometers northwest of Ros-tov. Düvert’s infantry was pounded by artilleryas the Russians strove to smash his lines, buttimely counterattacks from the unit’s armorhelped keep the front stable. Although theRussian attacks failed to break the Germanline, Cherevichenko was achieving his objec-tive. The longer the Germans were forced to beon the defensive, the more time he had to pre-pare the positions around Rostov.

The heavy fighting during the past few weekswas also affecting the morale of the Germantroops. “We lay for weeks in the cold Steppes,”wrote SS 2nd Lt. Bäder of the 14/LAH.“Chomped on by lice and freezing to death, ourunit was decimated.”

A situation report from the III Corps alsoexpressed pessimism. “The 13th Panzer Division

and the LAH have been physically overtaxed forweeks,” it said. “Daily care with good food andcanteen allotments is lacking. Their clothing istorn; as socks most of them are wearing foot ragstorn from Russian uniforms or Russian ban-dages. Most of the troops are freezing at night.

“Morale is down, especially because of theoptimistic propaganda given out, which con-tradicts their experience on the battlefield….The effect of the Russian Air Force, rocketlaunchers and tank platoons on the men’smorale is enormous…. The small number ofofficers is dwindling…. The Panzer regiment isunfit because of lack of fuel…. Neither the 13thPanzer nor the LAH is in a position to move allof its combat vehicles…. The panzers use upenormous amounts of fuel every night. We can-not shut them off, even for a short time, for weare lacking anti-freeze…. A motorized unitneeds fuel even when it is standing still.”

Torrential rains fell during the last days ofOctober, exacerbating the misery of the troopson both sides. The rain made offensive opera-tions nearly impossible during the opening days


Map ©

2014 Philip Schwartzberg, M

eridian Mapping, M

inneapolis, MN

The Red Army mounted numerous counterattacks against the advancing Germans once their enemy’s intentionswere clear. The city of Rostov was aggressively defended, and those Soviet forces that were cut off by theadvancing Germans northwest of the Sea of Azov fought ferociously.


of November, giving both attacker anddefender a much needed break in the fighting.

The lull also gave von Mackensen time toremedy some of the problems that had plaguedhis corps. Fuel was finally arriving in sufficientquantities to continue the drive to Rostov. At1st Panzer Army headquarters, von Kleist wasfine tuning a new plan in the face of reportsthat Remezov’s 56th Army now occupiedstrong positions along the eastern approachesto the city.

Bolstered by General of Mountain TroopsLudwig Kübler’s IL Mountain Corps, vonKleist planned to sweep down on the city fromthe north. Using von Wietersheim’s XIV Corpsas protection in the north, the 14th Panzer Divi-sion, Maj. Gen. Friedrich-Georg Eberhardt’s

60th Infantry Division (mot.), and SS Maj. Gen.Felix Steiner’s 5th SS Wiking Division were toattack from the General’skoye-Serafimov areaand swing southeast. Brig. Gen. Hans-ValentinHube’s 16th Panzer Division would cover vonWiethersheim’s northern flank. Farther south,von Mackensen’s corps would perform a simi-lar movement, with the LAH coming downfrom the northwest and the 13th Panzer attack-ing entrenched Soviets in the Mokryy Chaltyr’-Kalinin sector.

The opening moves of von Kleist’s panzerarmy went well on November 11, with the 14thPanzer and Wiking establishing bridgeheads onthe eastern bank of the Kropkaya River. Kraas’sLAH reconnaissance battalion also gained itsfirst day’s objective, but the weather turnedonce again, halting the advance in all sectors. A

member of the battalion, Kannonier Gottz-mann, wrote: “During the night we sank inmud. There was no chance of moving forward,even if we lost contact with the enemy.… A fewdays later a cold wave arrived and froze every-thing…. The cold tore at our nerves, andmorale dropped…. And Rostov still lay beforeus. Unattainable!”

Von Mackensen’s corps was virtually immo-bilized, as were other units slated for the attack.The element of surprise was gone, and the Rus-sians were able to bring reinforcements in tobolster areas that were likely targets for renewedGerman attacks. Meanwhile, von Mackensenwas given command of the 14th Panzer andEberhardt’s 60th Motorized Infantry Divisionto strengthen his striking force.

The weather finally broke on the 17th, andvon Mackensen ordered his divisions to attackall along the III Corps front. Dietrich’s LAH,reinforced by Panzer Rgt. 4 (13th Panzer Divi-sion), made good progress against determinedenemy resistance. On Dietrich’s left the 14thPanzer took Bolshiye’ Saly in a surprise assault.The Soviets reacted with violent counterattacksagainst the division the following day, butKühn’s men held their ground.

Dietrich ordered his troops to keep moving.By the end of the 18th, elements of the LAHhad taken Krasnyy Krim, only 2½ kilometersfrom the outskirts of Rostov. Other LAH units,however, were held up by Soviet troops in theheavily defended village of Sultan Saly, about10 kilometers northwest of the city.

Cherevichenko now faced a dilemma. He

could see his armies destroyed or he could con-duct a fighting withdrawal, biding his timewhile reorganizing the South Front for a coun-terattack. In fact, Stavka was already planninga counterstroke across the entire Eastern Front.In the far south, Timoshenko’s South WestFront and Cherevichenko’s front would betasked with the destruction of von Kleist’s 1stPanzer Army, but since the counterattack wasstill in its planning stages the fate of Rostov wasstill an unknown factor.

On November 19, Sultan Saly fell after bit-ter fighting took many lives on both sides. Thefall of the fortified village broke the back of theSoviet defensive line northwest of Rostov. Asthe LAH pressed forward, the 14th Panzersliced through Remezov’s units stationed northof the city. By the end of the day, Kuhn’s divi-sion had penetrated into some of Rostov’snorthern suburbs while the 60th MotorizedDivision spread out to the east, establishing adefensive line stretching from Aksyiskaya onthe Don River north through Shchepkin toKammenyy Brod. The line was then taken overby Hube’s 16th Panzer Division.

The next day the LAH and 14th Panzerfought their way into the center of the city bynoon. With the 13th Panzer pushing in fromthe west, Remezov had no choice but to pullhis units back toward the Don. House to housefighting ensued, but the LAH continued tomake good progress, bypassing strongpoints asit attempted to capture one or more of thebridges that spanned the river.

Springer, with his 3rd Company, heard explo-sions coming from the direction of the Don asRed Army engineers began their work ofdestruction. Pushing his men forward, Springermanaged to reach a point overlooking the river.As evening fell, he found himself staring at amassive railroad bridge that was crawling withboth soldiers and civilians. Through his fieldglasses, Springer could see the bridge hadalready been prepared for demolition.

“I had to make a hasty decision,” Springerwrote in a 1992 letter to the author. “Most ofthe LAH was still engaged in heavy fightingwithin the city. We saw a train approaching thebridge, and I ordered my men to fire on it withall weapons. The engine was hit numeroustimes, and it finally halted with steam belchingout from several holes.”

The attack caused confusion among the civil-ians and soldiers on the bridge. Taking advan-tage, Springer ordered his company, along withan accompanying unit of engineers, to cross thestructure. Under covering fire from the 3rdCompany the engineers cut demolition wires asthey advanced. Reaching the opposite side,


In preparation to support the crossing of a Russian stream during the advance on Rostov, the crew ofa German antitank gun sets up a defensive position.

© S

Z Ph

oto

/ The

Imag

e W

orks


Springer’s men took several Red Army soldiersassigned to guard the bridge prisoner.

Establishing a small bridgehead, the assaultgroup fought off several attacks. “We wereessentially cut off,” Springer wrote. “Fightingwas still going on in the city, and reinforcementscould not be sent.”

To make matters worse, von Wiethersheim’sXIV Corps was coming under heavy attackfrom units of Maj. Gen. Fedor MikhailovichKharitonov’s 9th Army. The attack promptedvon Kleist to order the 13th Panzer to movenorth to help alleviate the situation. With theloss of the division and the LAH still engagedin trying to clear Rostov proper, it was impos-sible for Springer to cling to his bridgehead.

Early on November 21 Springer receivedorders to abandon his position and make hisway back to the northern bank of the Don.“We had achieved our objective,” Springerwrote, “but events overtook us. Our hard-wonposition had to be given back to the Russians.”

Remezov’s men quickly reoccupied thesouthern portion of the bridge. Engineers setnew charges and repaired cut wires, and a fewhours later the mighty bridge was destroyed ina thunderous blast.

Another bridge fell into German handsthanks to Captain Willy Langkeit, acting com-mander of the 14th Panzer’s II/Pz. Rgt.36. Dur-ing the advance on the city, Langkeit’s battalionwas hit by a Soviet counterattack on November18. Ordering his panzers to hold their fire, he letthe Russian tanks advance to within 600 meters.When the panzers opened fire, shells tore intothe Soviet formation, stopping it cold. The Rus-sians came forward two more times, meetingthe same fate. When they finally gave up theyleft 17 smoldering tanks on the field, includingsome T-34s and heavy KV Is and KV IIs.

As his panzers entered Rostov on November20, his accompanying infantry support becameengaged in house to house fighting. Pushingforward, Lankeit formed a battle group aroundhis battalion that included infantry of Schützen-Regiment 108 and motorcycle infantry ofMotorcycle Battalion 64.

On November 21, Lankeit took a bridge overthe Don that was also set for demolition. Theappearance of German tanks was too much forthe Russians guarding the bridge, and they fledor were cut down before the charges could beset off. Smashing its way through several otherRussian positions, the battle group reached thesouthern edge of a large island in the middle ofthe Don before being halted by strong opposi-tion. Like Springer, Lankeit was forced to giveup his prize due to lack of reinforcements andthe changing nature of the battle for the city.

By now, attacks from the 9th and 56th Armieswere increasing. The dangerous situation northof Rostov had turned into an impending disas-ter as the XIV Corps and Kübler’s MountainCorps struggled to hold their positions. On the9th Army’s right flank, Maj. Gen. AntonIvanovich Lopatin’s 37th Army and Maj. Gen.Fedor Vasilevich Kamkov’s 18th Army joinedin to attack the 1st and 4th Mountain Divisionsand the Wiking Division with a combined forceof 10 rifle divisions, two cavalry divisions, andtwo tank brigades.

On November 22, Halder wrote in his diary,“1st Panzerarmee was forced into the defenseby the Russian attacks with superior forces andwill have a hard time of seeing it through.”However, in the same entry he remained some-

what optimistic as well as realistic. “The mea-sures instituted are well taken and promise to besuccessful. However, after 1st Panzerarmee hasdisposed of the attacker, it would probably betoo much to expect it to clear the enemy out ofthe Donets bend with what is left of its forces.”

The same day Halder wrote those words, vonMackensen came to the conclusion that hisentire corps was in grave danger. Von Kleistalso recognized the probable goal of the Southand South West Fronts. The maps did not lie.With four Soviet armies attacking, the mainpoints of the assault indicated that a strongforce was about to swing southwest in anattempt to encircle the III Corps. It was alsoapparent that the ultimate goal was to destroythe entire panzer army.


Moving forward during one of their numerous counterattacksagainst the Germans advancing toward Rostov, Red Armysoldiers hitch rides atop several self-propelled assault guns.With fixed forward-firing main weapons, the assault gunswere usually at a disadvantage when they encountered German tanks with traversing turrets.

Sovfoto / Eastfoto


At noon on the 22nd, von Kleist issuedorders to prepare for a withdrawal. His PanzerArmy Order No. 31 stated, “In the face of thestrong forces which the Russians have massedbefore my army, I have decided to move myunits back in an orderly manner from theextended arc position, at first behind the Tuslov(River), then to a consolidated position behindthe Mius…. The next few days will place greatdemands on the officers and the men. The hourof our testing has just arrived.”

With the 13th Panzer gone and the 60thMotorized engaged on its northern flank, it wasup to the LAH to hold Remezov’s 56th Armyat bay as long as possible. Von Kleist’s forces,stretched out to the northeast, needed time tomake the fighting withdrawal to the Mius line,and if Dietrich’s men caved Remezov couldsend his divisions streaming up from the south,cutting 1st Panzer Army’s escape route.

The I, II, and III Battalions set up positionsalong the northern bank of the now frozenDon. They were joined by the antiaircraft andreconnaissance battalions. To the northeast, the

IV and engineer battalions continued to fightSoviet units still entrenched inside Rostov. Thebattalions, already depleted by weeks of battle,were stretched incredibly thin, and Remezovsent out constant patrols looking for weak-nesses in the German line.

On November 25, Colonel Mikhail IvanovichOzimin’s 31st Rifle Division and Colonel PetrPavlovich Churvaskev’s 343rd Rifle Divisionattacked the positions of the reconnaissance bat-talion. At 5:20 AM, supported by artillery, theRed Army soldiers advanced across the ice.According to Meyer, the front ranks came onwith arms linked, “forming a continuous chainwhich stamped across the ice in wild singing.”

German machine guns opened up on themass, cutting wide swaths through their lines.Behind the fallen, more soldiers appeared,trampling their comrades as they sought toreach the German positions. A force of twoSoviet battalions managed to penetrate the Ger-man line, threatening to dislodge the entire setof defenses, but a counterattack by the recon-naissance battalion’s 2nd Company, which was

supported by LAH artillery, managed to sealthe breach. The company reported capturingsix officers and 393 men and counted 310 deadenemy soldiers at the end of the action.

The attacks continued for the next two days,augmented by artillery and air attacks.Although the LAH continued to hold, events inthe north soon made Rostov untenable. In vonWiethersheim’s sector the 14th Panzer Divisionhad been pushed out of General’skoye and wasin retreat with the Soviets nipping at its heels.The 13th Panzer and Hube’s 16th Panzer werealso in retreat, as was Steiner’s Wiking Division.However, the Russians were thwarted in theirattempt to outflank the corps, thanks in largepart to the efforts of SS Major Plöw, whodefended the Balabanov Heights against severalheavy attacks with a combat group from the 5thSS. His stand allowed the mass of von Wiether-sheim’s corps to fall back to the Tuslov position.

By now, von Rundstedt was ordering a gen-eral retreat all along Army Group South’sfront. On November 28, the LAH began itsown retreat, fighting off concentrated attacksfrom both the 56th and 9th Armies. By thistime, Cherevichenko had concentrated abouttwo dozen divisions against von Mackensen.He was well aware of the great propagandacoup that would come from news that hisSouth Front had succeeded in wresting thefirst major Soviet city from German hands.During the afternoon and evening of the 28th,the 56th and 9th Armies had reoccupied mostof the city.

Hitler received word of von Rundstedt’sorder to retreat on the 29th. Although vonRundstedt had given a clear picture of the enor-mous danger facing the 1st Panzer Army, theFührer flew into a rage, berating the esteemedfield marshal in front of his personal staff. Laterin the day he sent orders countermanding thewithdrawal, but it was already too late.

Cherevichenko kept pushing his armies. TheGermans were conducting a skillful retreat, andthe Soviets received a bloody nose in severalsectors of von Kleist’s front from counterat-tacks by ad hoc formations when advance ele-ments got too close. By using this method, vonKleist succeeded in crossing the Tuslov andoccupying the western bank.

It was only a stopgap measure. The Tuslovwas not that wide or deep, and its west bankoffered little in regard to a decent defensiveposition. With the Soviets adding new divisionsto their assault forces and Red Air Force planespractically owning the sky, von Kleist begananother staggered withdrawal. Leaving a heavyrear guard, the 1st Panzer Army moved backtoward the more defensible Mius River.

56 WWII HISTORY APRIL 2014© SZ Photo / The Image Works

This aerial photograph shows German troops fighting for control of Rostov, situated alongthe banks of the great River Don. When the German offensive to take the city lost itsmomentum, Hitler forbade the retreat of his most forward combat units even though theywere in obvious danger of being surrounded by elements of the surging Red Army.

The massive losses of the summer were made up by the seemingly endless supply of Russian

manpower, and although many divisions were ill trained and understrength, the sheer volume of

troops was enough to stop the German advance.


“The numerically weak forces of 1st PanzerArmy had to give way before the concentricattack launched in very great strength from thesouth (apparently a main effort), west andnorth,” Halder wrote on the 29th. He was cor-rect as far as German strength went. Most ofvon Kleist’s divisions were down to two-thirdsor even half strength. The Westland Regimentof the 5th SS reported that from July 1 toNovember 30 the unit had suffered 29 officers,65 NCOs, and 347 men killed. In addition, afurther 21 officers, 138 NCOs, and 920 menwere wounded and 29 men were reported miss-ing—a grand total of 50 percent casualties forthe regiment in four months.

November 30 saw renewed Russian attackson the flimsy Tuslov Line. The Soviets batteredaway at the German defenses, and the ferocityof the attacks forced von Kleist to commit the14th Panzer (1st Panzer Army’s reserve) intothe fray to stem the enemy advance. Even withthat commitment, penetrations were achievedin several places. Bowing to the inevitable, vonKleist ordered all remaining units along theTuslov to fall back to the Mius.

Halder noted, “The Führer is in a state ofextreme agitation over the situation. He forbidswithdrawal of the army to the line Taganrog-Mius-mouth of the Bakhmut River anddemands that the retrograde move be haltedfurther east.”

At 1 PM on the 30th, Hitler met with membersof the Army High Command. Halder reportedthe meeting to be “more than disagreeable, withthe Führer pouring out reproaches and abuseand shouting orders as fast as they came intohis head.”

The meeting ended with the High Commandagreeing to Hitler’s demands that the retreat tothe Mius Line be halted. When he received thenew order, von Rundstedt replied that compliancewas not possible. He also said that if the new orderwas not rescinded, he would ask to be relieved.The following day, Hitler dismissed von Rund-stedt and replaced him with an ardent NationalSocialist, Field Marshal Walter von Reichenau,who took over command immediately.

Replacing the commander of Army GroupSouth would not change the situation. Thearmy group had shot its bolt. Von Reichenau,after a quick review of his new command’sposition, agreed with von Rundstedt’s evalua-tion. He reported as much to Hitler.

Halder commented on Hitler’s afternoonstaff conference on December 1. “At 1530hours the Commander of the Army (FieldMarshal Walter von Brauchitsch) was with theFührer, and von Reichenau telephoned duringthe conference. He requested permission topull forces back to the Mius position. Führerconcurs. Now we are where we could havebeen last night. It was a senseless waste of

strength and time, and to top it, we lost vonRundstedt also.”

Long supply lines, wear on vehicles, inade-quate winter clothing, and the Russian winteritself were all factors in the failure to hold Ros-tov. Perhaps the biggest factor was the Ger-mans’ underestimation of the resiliency of theRed Army. Most of its incompetent general offi-cers either perished or were removed andimprisoned or shot during the opening phaseof Barbarossa. Those who replaced them weretough survivors. The massive losses of the sum-mer were made up by the seemingly endlesssupply of Russian manpower, and althoughmany divisions were ill trained and under-strength, the sheer volume of troops wasenough to stop the German advance.

With the opening of the Russian winter offen-sive on December 5, the Red Army moved for-ward, sending German forces reeling in mostcases. The 1st Panzer Army held its position onthe Mius, but the prize of Rostov had been lost,at least for the time being. However, Hitlerwould not give up his dream of taking the cityand capturing the oilfields in the Caucasus, buthe would have to wait until the following yearto try again.

Pat McTaggart, a longtime contributor toWWII History, is an expert on the war on theEastern Front. He resides in Elkader, Iowa.


© SZ Photo / The Im

age Works

German soldiers fighting in the streets of of Rostov advance warily alongside a self-propelled gun that isbeing used to root out snipers and eliminate Soviet strongpoints during close-quarter urban combat.


IN A DESPERATE BID TO AVOIDanother war in Europe, bothBritain and France signed the

notorious Munich Agreement in 1938, whichannexed the Sudetenland of Czechoslovakiato the Nazis. One of the first political casual-ties of this shameful capitulation was CzechPresident Eduard Benes, who resigned indespair and fled to England.

Within six months, Czechoslovakia’s newlyelected president, Emil Hacha, would discoverthat Hitler’s designs on his country were notyet finalized. On March 14, 1939, the agingHacha was summoned to Berlin and threatenedwith the destruction of his nation if he did notaccept the peaceful incorporation of Czecho-slovakia into the Greater German Reich as theProtectotarate of Bohemia and Moravia.

Hacha fainted but upon being revived reluc-tantly agreed to Hitler’s demands. At 9 the fol-lowing morning, crowds of grief-strickenCzechs sang their national anthem as Germantroops marched triumphantly into the golden,historic capital city of Prague. Few could com-prehend that while they were sleeping their20-year-old Czechoslovak Republic hadceased to exist.

After two years of German occupation thehumiliated Czechs had wearily resigned them-selves to life under the heel of their harsh Ger-man rulers, but further misery was to come.Believing that treachery loomed in the Protec-torate, Hitler appointed 37-year-old SS Ober-gruppenfuhrer (General) Reinhard Heydrichto the key post of Reich Protector of Bohemiaand Moravia.

Heydrich had enjoyed a spectacular andmeteoric rise to prominence within the ThirdReich in his role as SS leader Heinrich Himm-ler’s deputy and founding head of the Nazisecurity apparatus.

Tall, handsome, and cultured, the fiercelyambitious Heydrich epitomized the Nazi idealof the cold, hard, emotionless SS officer.Exquisite manners and charm complementedby an impressive military bearing were, how-ever, notable attributes that served only to dis-guise his true character. As a driving forcebehind the “Final Solution” to the JewishQuestion, Heydrich had shown himself to bea mass murderer utterly devoid of moral scru-ples, pity, or qualms of conscience.

The unsuspecting Czechs would soon learnfor themselves that in Heydrich, Hitler had


D E A T H O F

HIMMLER’SHENCHMAN

BY RICHARD RULE

RIGHT: In full uniform and regalia, Reich Protector of Bohemia and Moravia Reinhard Heydrich gives a stiff Nazi salute during an official party function. ABOVE: Inthis artist’s rendering of the assassination attempt on Reichsführer Reinhard Heydrich, Josef Gabcik, a Czech partisan trained by the British, steps forward to fire hisSten gun at the Nazi official riding in the back seat of a Mercedes convertible.

W-Apr14 Heydrich_Layout 1 1/27/14 10:55 AM Page 58

National Archives

THE RUTHLESS REINHARD HEYDRICH,

RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MURDER OF

MANY, WAS HIMSELF ASSASSINATED INPRAGUE IN THE

SPRING OF 1942.

Both: National Archives

W-Apr14 Heydrich_Layout 1 1/27/14 10:55 AM Page 59

delivered into their midst inhu-manity personified.

With sinister black SS flagsnow adorning Prague’s Hrad-cany Castle, Reinhard Hey-drich was installed as militarygovernor of the Czech lands onSeptember 23, 1941. Lookingresplendent in his SS uniform, astern-visaged Heydrich imme-diately outlined his agenda forthe Protectorate to a selectgathering of key Nazi officials;it was clear to all that he wouldadopt a hard line right from the start.

The modern Czech factories already suppliedup to a third of Germany’s armaments, but withthe war expected to continue for a lot longerthan first thought Heydrich would drive theworkers to deliver more. “My task,” hedeclared, “is to teach the Czech people that theycannot deny the reality of their relationshipwith the Reich, nor avoid the obedience thatthe Reich demands.”

With the SS now controlling the levers ofpower, the people would be encouraged towork harder for the Reich through a mercilesslyorchestrated campaign of unrestricted terrorand bribery—the carrot and the stick. To guar-antee their loyalty, however, Heydrich wasdetermined to bend the Czechs to his will. Butfirst he would bring them to their knees.

True to his word, Heydrich’s vision of horrorquickly became a reality as the stick, clutchedfirmly in the iron fist of the Nazi security appa-ratus crashed down on the hapless population.With ferocious energy, the razor sharp talons ofthe “New SS Order” ruthlessly set about notonly crushing any formal or suspected resistancebut eliminating those among the intelligentsiaand Czech military likely to arouse nationalisticfervor. Heydrich’s cold-blooded brutality duringthis period of inexorable violence and murderimpressed even hardcore SS officers, who,unshackled by any legal or moral restraints, car-ried out their duties with unflagging zeal.

Heydrich’s reign of terror was sophisticated,thorough, and relentless. In coordinated secu-rity operations the Gestapo dragnet sweptnearly 5,000 Czech suspects into the prisons,400 of whom were immediately sentenced todeath and their relatives forced to pay the costof the execution.

As savage German repression swept acrossthe country, the brutalized Czechs could notcomprehend why they were being subjected tosuch vicious punishment; no matter what theydid to placate the “Butcher of Prague,” histhirst for blood remained insatiable. Within a

matter of weeks the SS began herding the firstof Prague’s Jews into the ghetto established inthe fortress town of Terezin (Theresienstadt) 40miles to the north. Of the nearly 94,000 men,women and children transported out of Terezinto the death camps during the war, fewer than3,500 survived to see liberation.

President Emil Hacha’s reluctant policy of col-laboration with the Germans had been insti-

gated to spare the people from this type of sense-less bloodshed. His objections, however, to thismaelstrom of murderous German oppression,fell on deaf ears; Heydrich and his Czech-hatingSS deputy, Karl Hermann Frank, were left com-pletely unmoved by the suffering of the people.

Then, just as suddenly as the storm of SS vio-lence had commenced, it stopped.

Heydrich understood perfectly that the useof terror had its place, but he also knew that forpsychological reasons there would have to be astrict time limit so as not to push the people “tothe point of explosion and self destruction.”

By design Heydrich had given the Czechs achilling but short-lived demonstration of whatawaited those who opposed him. It was nowtime to show the people the benefits of work-ing loyally for the Nazi regime—the carrot.

With visible repression dramatically toneddown and a steady decrease in the number ofexecutions, Heydrich set about cultivating andfully exploiting the vital support of the work-ing classes. To maintain a state of appropriatesubordination, he deemed that “the Czechworkers must be given their grub,” and to thisend he set in motion a “shop floor campaign”to ensure that they received it.

Those employed in the armaments fieldbegan receiving extra rations and enticing laborincentives while their families benefited fromfar-reaching social reforms and state-fundedwelfare schemes. The now seemingly benevo-lent Heydrich toured the factories, heapingpraise on the diligent staff and encouragingthem to strive for even greater productivity. Ona cultural level, he openly sponsored the artsand became a regular attendee of the opera,where he and his wife were fêted like royalty.

Heydrich’s purely cosmetic veil of generosityleft the Czechs completely bewildered, but theynonetheless wholeheartedly embraced this sud-den change; many may have loathed Heydrichbut few harbored any desire to actively resist him.

It was soon apparent that the carrot washaving a very positive effect; the increased vol-ume and quality of weapons being churned outof Czech factories staggered even the Germans.The despotic Heydrich, part monster partoperational genius, was at the height of hispower. With the population pacified and theCzech armaments industry integrated into thewar economy of the Reich, Heydrich’s stockshad risen enormously in Berlin. Hitler wasextremely impressed.

In London, Benes was deeply troubled byreports that Czech industry was openly col-laborating with the Nazis. Heydrich’s successin binding the nation’s lucrative agriculturaland industrial resources closer to the Reich was


National Archives

HEYDRICH HAD GIVEN THECZECHS A CHILLING BUT

SHORT-LIVED DEMONSTRATIONOF WHAT AWAITED THOSE WHO

OPPOSED HIM. IT WAS NOWTIME TO SHOW THE PEOPLE THEBENEFITS OF WORKING LOYALLY

FOR THE NAZI REGIME.

W-Apr14 Heydrich.qxd *2 silos_Layout 1 1/23/14 6:00 PM Page 60

not only disheartening but also a serious polit-ical problem.

Benes feared that in postwar Europe the vic-torious Allies would neither negotiate with aQuisling nation nor intervene to stop a com-munist takeover. To obtain bargaining power,Benes would need a dramatic demonstration ofCzech resistance to Nazi oppression, but it waseasier said than done.

With Heydrich’s security crackdown virtu-ally ruling out major sabotage, Benes exploredthe possibility of assassination. There was noshortage of enthusiastic high-profile Czech trai-tors to choose from, but to make an impressionon the Allies and maximize the propagandaimpact, there was really only one viable target—Reinhard Heydrich himself.

The British did not object to the Czech pro-posal for a political assassination. It was actu-ally part of the SOE (Special Operations Exec-utive) charter, but they were fearful of savageGerman reprisals. Benes no doubt shared theseconcerns but in the long-term interests of hisnation, he gave Czech military intelligence theorder to terminate Heydrich’s grisly career. Amatch had been controversially struck to thefuse; it would remain to be seen whether Beneswould take responsibility for the explosion.

In England the SOE had already begun send-ing Czech patriots back into the Protectorate,but their successes had been minimal. Mostagents were quickly killed or compromised andtheir missions abandoned. Despite this back-drop of dismal failure, the SOE was approachedby the notoriously secretive Czech intelligencecommunity to provide logistical assistance.

If the perilous operation, code-namedAnthropoid, was to have any chance of successit would need skilled, courageous men whocould be relied upon to carry out their ordersunder extreme duress. After an extensive search,two candidates, Josef Gabcik and Karel Svo-boda, were selected. Both were senior CzechNCOs in the Free Czechoslovak Army in Britainand, despite not knowing the nature of the mis-sion, both volunteered without hesitation.

The exiles were anxious to strike as soon aspossible, but the British would not move untilthe two soldiers were adequately trained for thetask at hand. The Czechs conceded to wisercounsel but were frustrated by a further delaywhen Svoboda was injured and had to bereplaced by another Czech, Jan Kubis.

The early setbacks for Anthropoid had beendifficult for the Czechs to endure, but with theteam now finalized, preparations began tomove ahead quickly under a cloak of greatsecrecy—not even the home resistance wereinformed of the operation.

Gabcik and Kubis underwent grueling train-ing at Cholmondely Castle in Cheshire and atthe SOE Special Training School in Scotland.The British believed that with the supremelyarrogant Heydrich carelessly spurning normalsecurity precautions he would be at his mostvulnerable while traveling in his open-toppedcar. To this end, the men were trained in themethods of attacking a moving vehicle using asten gun and modified antitank grenades. TheCzechs had been given the best training possi-ble, but it was clear from the outset that thesuccess of a mission like Anthropoid wouldultimately rely on the initiative of the assassins.Once they left the aircraft, they would be ontheir own.

By late December all was in readiness, andthe two Czechs boarded a RAF Handley-PageHalifax bomber along with seven other agentsdestined for operations in the Protectorate. Oneof these men was the hard-drinking KarelCurda, a man they were destined to meet againbut under very different circumstances.

The two agents knew they were undertakinga virtual suicide mission, but as Gabcik climbed

into the aircraft he turned to the Czech intelli-gence officer who had overseen their training.“You can rely on us, Colonel,” he said. “Weshall fulfil our mission as ordered.” A few min-utes later the large four-engine bomber took offfrom Tempsford aerodrome, climbed into thenight sky, and soon disappeared into the gloomon its long, hazardous flight deep into occupiedEurope.

Hours later the Halifax finally approachedthe drop zone, but the pilots were confrontedby a landscape completely blanketed in snow-obscuring roads, towns, and other vital land-marks. Pinpointing the landing zone was virtu-ally impossible, but rather than abandon themission the decision was taken to drop theagents at an approximate position and hope forthe best.

So, in the early hours of December 30, 1941,the two patriots parachuted into the frigid nightsky over the Protectorate, but Gabcik hit theice awkwardly and badly injured his foot.

It was the worst possible start.After burying their parachutes, the two insur-

gents labored through the snow to find shelter.


Impe

rial W

ar M

useu

mIm

peria

l War

Mus

eum

ABOVE: Czech partisan Josef Gabcik stands at atten-tion during an inspection by British Prime MinisterWinston Churchill. Gabcik and three other Czechschosen for the clandestine operation to assassinateHeydrich underwent extensive training in Britain.LEFT: When Karel Svoboda was injured, anotherCzech partisan, Jan Kubis (above), was chosen totake his place during Operation Anthropoid. OPPO-SITE TOP: Shaking hands following the betrayal ofCzechoslovakia at Munich on September 30, 1938,British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain (left) andGerman Chancellor Adolf Hitler (far right) part com-pany after the conference that sealed the fate of theCzech nation. Chamberlain erroneously proclaimedthat the deal struck at Munich had preserved peacein Europe. OPPOSITE BOTTOM: Aging CzechoslovakianPresident Emil Hacha was bullied into an agreementthat allowed Nazi Germany to assume control of hiscountry without a shot being fired in its defense.


The going was tough, and neither of the menrecognized where they were—nothing lookedremotely familiar. Eventually stumbling into aquarry, the two dejected Czechs knew that withGabcik’s foot getting worse by the minute theyfaced an uphill battle to carry out their mission.The mood was grim, but just when all seemedlost they were discovered by the local millerwho had been awakened by the British aircraft.

The joy of seeing a friendly face was tem-pered by the news that they were over 20 milesfrom Prague and hopelessly separated fromtheir emergency contacts in Plzen. The milleroffered to put them in touch with a resistancegroup in the capital, but the agents hesitated.For security reasons they had been instructed toavoid dealing with the locals, but given theirgloomy prospects they had little choice.

Four days later they were spirited to Pragueand into the hands of the resistance, which pro-vided new papers, refuge, and medical atten-tion for Gabcik’s foot, which would take eightweeks to heal.

At the heart of this resistance network wasMarie Moravec who, through her tireless workwith the Red Cross and Tuberculosis League,had established vital connections withinPrague for her clandestine work. Aided by her17-year-old son, Ata, “Tante Marie” Moravecwas an integral and trusted member of thelocal resistance, and the two assassins oftenstayed in her house and grew very close to theMoravec family.

In London, meanwhile, the Czech intelli-gence service was worried. Six weeks of silencehad elapsed since their two agents had arrived

in the Protectorate, and if they had been cap-tured or killed, the Czechs would have to sendothers. The assassination was too important tocancel. In desperation, they finally broke theirown rules and radioed the resistance in Pragueand were relieved to discover that whileAnthropoid had gotten off to a rocky start theagents were in safe hands—it was now a wait-ing game.

Finally Gabcik was fit enough to move andhe and Kubis began secretly making prepara-tions. Long, tedious weeks were spent buildinga detailed picture of Heydrich’s movements, butit soon became apparent that heavy SS securityruled out an ambush either near his villa or inthe vicinity of his headquarters in Prague. Theirattention, therefore, turned to his frequenttravel between his private residence at PanenskeBrezany and Prague; but they realized that tocomplete the picture they would need insideinformation. Involving outsiders had beenstrictly forbidden but it was now clearly anunavoidable necessity.

With the aid of the resistance, contact wasestablished with a number of Heydrich’sdomestic staff who, despite the incredible risk,provided Gabcik and Kubis with Heydrich’stimetable and travel habits. These sourcesproved invaluable, but as the two men werefinalizing their plans an unexpected develop-ment suddenly threatened the entire operation.

During the long months the assassins hadspent in Prague they had refused to divulge thenature of their mission. By late April, however,their intense focus on Heydrich left resistanceleaders in no doubt about their intentions. They

were horrified. Having barely survived the lastwave of SS terror, the resistance could barelycomprehend the savagery of German retribu-tion if Heydrich was assassinated; the nationwould be plunged into a bloodbath.

In an awkward meeting the two agents wereconfronted over the matter, and while sympa-thetic they made it clear that as soldiers theycould neither question their orders nor changethem—they had come to Prague to kill Rein-hard Heydrich, and that was exactly what theyplanned to do.

In a state of near panic, resistance leaders dis-patched a message directly to London pleadingfor the mission to be cancelled. The issue wasallegedly tabled at a high-level meeting inBritain, but despite some opposition the intel-ligence representatives won the day. The orderto kill Heydrich was not revoked. Anthropoidwould go ahead as planned.

In early May, a strong rumor swept throughPrague suggesting that Heydrich would soon beleaving the Protectorate to pursue new careeropportunities in France. The men could notallow him to leave the capital in triumph, butthey still had not settled on a firm plan. Thisunexpected turn of events galvanized the assas-sins into action, but time was now against them.

With the aid of additional agents Josef Valcikand Adolf Opalka, they decided to lay theambush at a sharp street corner in the Praguesuburb of Liben on a day when Heydrich’smovements were known to them, May 27, 1942.They were forced to settle on the ambush sitehastily, but their instincts were sound and theirchoice well founded. The busy route leading tothe Vlatva River was isolated from police or mil-itary posts and would allow them to escape onbicycles before security forces could react.

The plan was crude but simple; their accom-plices would signal Kubis and Gabcik whenHeydrich’s Mercedes came into sight at the topof the hill. As the vehicle slowed to negotiatethe hairpin corner, Gabcik would step forwardfrom the pavement with his sten gun and fire atthe vehicle. As a backup, Kubis would use thetwo specially modified antitank grenades to fin-ish the job if Gabcik failed.

Even at this late stage the local resistance wastrying desperately to talk the agents into abort-ing the attack. As tempers became frayed, theassassins made it clear that nothing would pre-vent them from completing their mission. Theorder had been given. The time for discussionwas over.

The fateful morning of May 27 dawnedbright and clear. Five months had passed sinceGabcik and Kubis had arrived in the Protec-torate, and as the four men arrived at the

62

Nat

iona

l Arc

hive

s

The green Mercedes convertible in which Reinhard Heydrich was riding on the morning of May 27, 1942, liesabandoned at the sharp curve where the assassination attempt took place. The car sustained extensive dam-age when a hand grenade exploded nearby, injuring Heydrich with fragments of glass, metal, horse hair, andother debris that later caused a fatal infection.


ambush site all were aware that this wouldprobably be their one and only opportunity.After a brief discussion, Valcik and Opalkamoved up the road to their lookout point. Gab-cik casually crossed the road with his sten gundraped under a raincoat and waited at a tramstop near the bend, while Kubis, with twogrenades secreted in a briefcase, moved a fewyards down the street and loitered in the shadeof several large trees. The four men could nowdo little more than wait for their quarry, whowas due around 9:30 AM.

By 10 AM, however, there was still no sign ofthe normally punctual Heydrich; Gabcik andKubis began to worry. As the minutes ticked by

the tension mounted. Had he changed his travelplans at the last moment? Accompanied bynagging uncertainty, the two men watched asthe morning rush hour crowds began to dis-perse, leaving them standing conspicuously onan empty street.

Finally at 10:32 AM, Valcik signaled that theopen-topped Mercedes had come into view. Asusual, Heydrich had no security escort otherthan his bodyguard and driver, SS Oberschar-fuhrer (sergeant) Klein. Gabcik immediatelymoved to the sharpest angle of the street corner—he would be firing from point-blank range.

With the moment of truth now upon them,both men caught sight of a packed tram lum-

bering up the hill from the Troja Bridge whichseemed likely to arrive at the same time as Hey-drich; civilian casualties were now a real butunfortunate possibility.

As Klein changed down to second gear at thesharp corner, Gabcik stepped forward, raisedthe automatic weapon from beneath his rain-coat, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing hap-pened. It was jammed. The Czech assassinstood momentarily frozen in disbelief as thevehicle swung around the bend in front of him.Heydrich saw his assailant, but instead ofordering Klein to drive out of the ambush tosafety, he called for his driver to stop. It wouldprove a fatal error in judgment. As the darkgreen Mercedes ground to a shuddering halt,Heydrich stood up amid the screams of onlook-ers and drew his pistol to fight it out. Neitherof the Germans noticed Kubis toss one of hisgrenades, but it fell short and exploded along-side the right rear wheel, ripping through thebodywork of the Mercedes and showering Hey-drich with debris.

During the confusion, Valcik and Opalkahad already managed to slip away unnoticed,but their two comrades at the scene were inmortal danger. Kubis, wounded by the blastfrom his bomb, lurched toward a railing withblood pouring from his face before quickly get-ting on his bicycle and dashing down the hill tosafety. With Heydrich appearing unhurt, Kleinbriefly gave chase to the fleeing Kubis. Gabcikwas still frozen to the spot holding his uselessweapon as Heydrich came toward him. Thewould-be-assassin was forced to abandon hisbike and take cover as bullets began whistlingpast him. He was trapped.

Heydrich had moved only a short distancetoward his assailant, when suddenly he dou-bled over and staggered to the sidewalk in obvi-ous pain. Gabcik seized the opportunity tomake a run for it through the stunned crowdspilling from the tram. When Klein returnedfrom his fruitless chase, Heydrich, his face paleand contorted in pain, pointed out the fleeingCzech and through gritted teeth hissed: “Getthat bastard!”

Klein was quickly in pursuit, but the burlybodyguard struggled to keep pace with his nim-ble quarry. Finally the two men came to grips inthe doorway of butcher’s shop where Gabcikmanaged to wound Klein and make good hisescape to a prearranged safe house in Prague.Kubis had also made his way to safety, where hiswound was treated. Both men were bitterly dis-appointed that Heydrich was still alive.

At the scene of the attack, Heydrich tried towalk but only succeeded in stumbling like ahopeless drunk before collapsing across the bon-


ABOVE: British war artist Terrence Cuneo painted this inaccurate image of the attack on Heydrich, perhapsbefore details of the event were known in London. Several Czechs are shown firing at Heydrich’s car. In reali-ty, only one gun, a Sten carried by Josef Gabcik, was leveled at the car, and that weapon failed to fire.BELOW: The bodies of dead Czechs, innocent victims of Nazi retribution for the death of Heydrich, lie in heapsfollowing the devastation of the village of Lidice. The slaughter of the villagers by the vindictive SS was oneof the most heinous war crimes of World War II.

Nat

iona

l Arc

hive

sTh

e N

atio

nal A

rchi

ves,

Uni

ted

King

dom


net of his wrecked car then sliding to the pave-ment. Dozens of Czechs stood watching impas-sively as the most powerful man in Prague laywrithing on the ground in agony, but not a soulmoved to help him. Finally, a young women andan off duty police officer commandeered a truckand lifted the gravely wounded tyrant into thesmall cab. The jolting trip to Prague’s BulkovaHospital proved too painful, so Heydrich wasunceremoniously put in the back on his stomachamong tins of floor polish.

In the hospital’s emergency ward an initialexamination found lumps of wire, felt, horse-hair, glass, and leather firmly imbedded in Hey-drich’s back and side, but his prognosis seemedgood. The shrapnel appeared to have inflictedonly flesh wounds. Later x-rays, however,revealed that there was potentially serious inter-nal damage: a broken rib, a ruptureddiaphragm, and a metal splinters in his spleen.

Reports that a German general, perhaps theReichsprotector himself, had been wounded inan attack reached Gestapo headquarters atabout 10:45 AM. Initially at least, it was nottaken seriously, but when Gestapo agentsarrived at the hospital to find Heydrich actuallythere, the situation changed dramatically. SStroops were immediately dispatched to securethe hospital and surrounding areas, while thetop Nazi surgeon in Prague was summoned toperform emergency surgery.

As Heydrich was wheeled into the operatingtheater, the Gestapo were methodically sealingoff the ambush site, rounding up witnesses, andpiecing together the sequence of events. Evi-dence recovered from the scene included a fusedbomb and a sten gun that pointed toward

British involvement with Czech agents theprime suspects.

By the afternoon of May 27, news of theassassination attempt had traveled far andwide. People were initially stunned, but as theshock wore off, they were overwhelmed by par-alyzing fear. However, it was not only theCzechs who were left badly shaken by theattack. With the declaration of martial law, thesudden state of emergency seemed to havesown the seeds of panic throughout the Pro-tectorate’s German security forces. Two seniorGestapo officers who had arrived from Berlinthat day were taken aback to find “chaos ofcatastrophic proportions” in Prague. They weresurrounded by senior SS officers who appearedto have completely lost their heads as they fran-tically issued wild orders for drumhead courtmartials, mass executions, and wholesalearrests. It was painfully obvious to the twoBerlin detectives that few among the localauthorities had any idea what to do.

When details of the attack reached Hitler athis headquarters in East Prussia, he vowed toslaughter more than 10,000 Czechs; Himmlerdemanded that 100 prisoners already in custodybe executed that very night. The savagery of theNazi leadership was fueled by fear. The specterof assassination had reached the most powerfulmen in Nazi Germany for the first time.

Karl Hermann Frank, a high-ranking CzechNazi, actually resisted calls for wholesalereprisals, but not on humanitarian grounds. Hewas concerned they would not only disruptvital armaments production but also play intothe hands of the exiles and provide damagingpropaganda. Hitler reluctantly agreed to

Frank’s proposal for “selective terror” butremained in a bloodthirsty mood. If the Czechsdid not like Heydrich, he raged, he would sendthem someone a great deal worse. His choicewas SS General Kurt Daluege, commander ofthe uniformed police and a man well creden-tialed in the art of terror. With fears of openrevolt, Daluege’s first public announcementsleft the inhabitants of Prague in no doubt thathe was firmly in control and would stop atnothing to maintain the security of the state.

The 10 million crown reward for the arrestof the assassins came with a warning statingthat anyone who aided the assassins or with-held information would be executed along withtheir entire families; more than 462 death sen-tences were soon carried out to reinforce thethreat. In the frightful period following theattack, dubbed the Heydrichiada by the Czechs,the Gestapo and SS literally tore the capitalapart in search of Heydrich’s attackers. Thelargest manhunt in the history of the ThirdReich resulted in at least 36,000 homes beingraided and over 13,000 civilians being arrested.

Under Daluege, the violent German rampageseemed to have no boundaries—but in actualfact, Frank ensured that a tight rein was kepton reprisals. Believing that an implied threatwould be as effective as the act itself, he ensuredthe Czechs remained in a constant state of ner-vous tension by orchestrating a rumor campaignwarning of the dire consequences soon to befallthe nation if the assassins were not surrendered.He also saw to it that the executions, of whichthere were hundreds, were not as random asmany thought. Mindful of pushing the peopleover the edge completely, he stage-managed thekillings by directing that only “anti-Nazi ele-ments” be eliminated. He wanted to promotethe perception that those Czechs who were loyalto the Reich would have nothing to fear. Thereality for the population, however, was that asthe death lists grew ever longer no one seemedto be safe no matter how loyal they had been.

The Czech exiles in London learned of theattack through Prague radio on May 27. Eventhough Heydrich was still alive, Benes wasbuoyed by the news that he had been wounded,labeling it a clear rejection of Nazi rule and awarning that no one was beyond the reach ofAllied justice. For the tens of thousands ofCzechs enduring the horrific consequences,these inspiring words from the safety of far-offLondon carried little weight. Many who hadbeen brutalized to the point of despair prayedthat Heydrich would recover in the forlornhope that it would bring an end to the mur-derous Nazi retribution.

Their prayers would not be answered.


Nat

iona

l Arc

hive

s

A group of high-ranking Nazis involved with the brutal government of the Czech protectorate converse duringa dinner gathering. At center is Obergruppenführer Karl Hermann Frank, who was hanged as a war criminal in1946 for his role in the massacre at Lidice.


Despite the best efforts of his doctors, Hey-drich’s condition suddenly plummeted as sep-ticemia took hold. Neither morphine nor trans-fusions could control the blood poisoning orhis excruciating pain. Finally, a week after theattack, on June 4, Heydrich died.

As news of the tyrant’s death swept throughthe Protectorate, the horrified Czechs bracedthemselves for a fearful new wave of terror;many anticipated the decimation of their entirenation. Savage German retribution was, how-ever, put on hold as the Third Reich paused tobury one of its most evil sons. Presented to theworld as the greatest Nazi martyr since HorstWessel, Heydrich’s coffin was paraded on a guncarriage through the Old Town on June 7, thenput aboard a black-creped funeral train for thejourney to Berlin. In an attempt to placate theNazis, Emil Hacha and other Czech governmentofficials would escort the body to Germany.

Two days later an emotional Himmler deliv-ered a lengthy eulogy at Heydrich’s lavish statefuneral within the Mosaic Hall of the NewReich Chancellery. Hitler, more distressed thananyone could remember, was apparently tooovercome to say more than a few words andbestow upon the slain SS general the highestclass of the German Order, the Reich’s most dis-tinguished medal.

Immediately following the ceremony,Hacha and his ministers endured a fero-cious tirade from Hitler. The Germanleader, who had worked himself into anuncontrollable rage, made it clear that ifthe Czechs did not hand over the assassinshe would think nothing of deporting theentire population. No one doubted that hemeant what he said.

As a brutal warning against furtherarmed resistance, he backed up his threatsby ordering the total destruction of the smalltown of Lidice, 48 miles from Prague. Thereprisal action at Lidice, which had been incor-rectly connected with the assassins, was tobecome one of the most notorious Nazi atroc-ities of the war.

At 9:30 PM on June 9, 1942, SS troops andsecurity police cordoned off the sleepy miningvillage, then dragged the families from theirhomes. The women and children were separatedand placed inside the local schoolhouse, the menand older boys in a barn. At dawn the nextmorning the males were led out in groups of 10and all 170 were shot. To speed up the killing afurther 26 where burned alive in a nearby barn,while another 11 men returning to the villagefrom night shift were also executed. The 200women of Lidice were deported to Ravensbruckconcentration camp, and more than 100 chil-

dren were either handed over to SS families orsent to the concentration camp in Gneisenau.Only a handful would return after the war.

Having overseen the massacre or deportationof the entire population, the SS set about sys-temically destroying every building and struc-ture in the village. After removing 84,000square yards of rubble, they leveled the ruins,ploughed them over, and planted grain. Withits name removed from the maps of the Pro-tectorate, Lidice had been erased from the faceof the earth.

The blood sacrifice of Lidice, however, didnot satisfy the Nazi thirst for vengeance, and

the campaign of ruthless terror ground onrelentlessly. Frank ordered the use of loud-speakers to broadcast the names of people whohad been executed each day. In the evenings,crowds gathered somberly at newsstands toread the latest list of those condemned to thesame fate. More than 1,360 would be executedin Prague alone.

Meanwhile, as the German security net tight-ened, the pressure on the fugitive Czech agentsintensified. Not only were many of the safehouses in the city compromised, but roadblocksand train security made escape from Prague avirtual impossibility. In desperation, the localresistance organized temporary refuge for theassassins and a handful of other Czech agentsin the crypt of St. Cyril and Methodius Churchin central Prague. The lay preacher, VladimirPetrek, had agreed to smuggle in the men, butnot all of them could be found. Karel Curda,whose team had arrived in the Protectorate onthe same aircraft as Gabcik and Kubis, had fledthe German crackdown and remained at large.

The seven fugitives settled into the dank cat-acombs as best they could, but the mountingdeath toll coupled with the reprisal action inLidice, left Gabcik and Kubis absolutely dis-traught. They had fulfilled their mission but


FAR LEFT: SS General Kurt Daluege was appointed tothe post of Reich Protector of Bohemia and Moraviafollowing the death of Reinhard Heydrich. He wasconvicted of war crimes and died at the end of arope after the war. LEFT: The Nazis sadistically tor-tured teenager Ata Moravec, who assisted his moth-er, Marie Moravec. Marie was a key player in theCzech resistance network, who aided the Heydrichassassins after they were parachuted into Czechoslo-vakia by the British. BELOW: Reinhard Heydrich, thebrutal Reich Protector of Bohemia and Moravia, wasgiven a lavish Nazi state funeral in June 1942. Inthis photo, Adolf Hitler extends a Nazi salute.

All: National Archives

FRANK WAS UNDER ENORMOUS PRESSURE FROM

BERLIN TO IMMEDIATELY INSTIGATE MASS REPRISALS.HE HAD IN FACT RECEIVED AN ORDER FROM HIMMLERDEMANDING THAT 30,000

POLITICALLY ACTIVE CZECHSBE ARRESTED AND EXECUTED.


now, overwhelmed by a sense of personalresponsibility and guilt, they decided to commitsuicide in a park with placards around theirnecks stating they were Heydrich’s killers. Theywere talked out of it. Noble as the gesture was,it would hardly have satisfied the Nazis, whoclearly wanted the assassins alive. With plansafoot to spirit them out of the city in a matterof days, there was nothing they could do but sittight and wait.

The Gestapo, in the meantime, was at its witsend trying to break open the case after nearlytwo weeks had failed to unearth a single worth-while lead. As the investigation ground to acomplete standstill, Frank was under enormouspressure from Berlin to immediately instigatemass reprisals. He had in fact received an orderfrom Himmler demanding that 30,000 politi-cally active Czechs be arrested and executed.He balked at such action, but with Hitler’spatience wearing thin, time was running out.He needed to find the assassins quickly.

A new approach was needed as Prague’s frus-trated criminal police came to realize that theirdraconian measures were perhaps workingagainst them; no one would come forward forfear they would be executed for having previ-ously withheld information. In a completechange of tactics the authorities offered anamnesty to anyone prepared to denounce theassassins or provide information leading to an

arrest. This new approach proved an instantsuccess. Whether motivated by greed or fear,informers came forward providing thousandsof statements, among which the Gestapo dis-covered one anonymous letter that read:“Cease searching for the assassins of Heydrich;cease arresting and executing innocent people.I can’t stand it anymore. [The assassins] are acertain Gabcik from Slovakia, and Jan Kubis... from Moravia.”

The writer was himself a fugitive Czech para-chutist, Karel Curda. His nerve had broken inthe wake of the mass murders and terror thathad followed Heydrich’s attack and, fearing forhis life, he had turned traitor.

When the Germans did not act on his letter,Curda decided to go in person to the head-quarters of the Prague Gestapo housed withinthe bluestone walls of the notorious PetschekPalace. Shaking with fear, Curda tried to tellthe Gestapo that he knew something about thekilling, but his stuttering was so severe the Ger-mans could barely understand a word he said.Their skepticism immediately vanished whenthe Czech correctly identified Gabcik’s brief-case from 20 similar ones.

Having started down the path of betrayal,Curda could not stop and the Gestapo ensuredthat there was no turning back. Under intensequestioning and beatings, he confessed to beingan agent himself but, disillusioned with the

exiled government in London, he had come for-ward to save his family from execution. Whileunable to provide the exact whereabouts of theassassins, his traitorous revelations divulged thelocations of several safe houses including thehome of the Moravec family.

At 5 AM on June 17, the authorities con-verged on the home, but Marie Moravec man-aged to commit suicide before she could bequestioned. The attention of the Gestapoturned to her teenage son, Ata, who was bru-tally beaten, tortured mercilessly and plied withalcohol. The teenager stood up manfully to histormentors but finally broke when the Ger-mans produced his mother’s severed head float-ing in a fish tank. The horrific sight pushed Ataover the edge, and he let slip that the resistancesometimes used the catacombs of the St. Cyriland Methodius Church in Prague as a refuge.

It was the break the Germans had been wait-ing for, and the area around the church wasimmediately cordoned off by more than 750Waffen SS troops in full battle order. Just after4 AM on June 18, the Gestapo began a thor-ough search of the small baroque church butinitially found nothing. When they turned theirattention to the choir loft, however, they weregreeted by a grenade followed moments later bysmall arms fire.

The SS troops stationed outside immediatelyraked the church with frenzied gunfire of theirown, shattering windows and alerting localresidents that something was going on. TheGestapo agents took cover and then beat ahasty retreat from the church. SS troops tooktheir place, and after a two-hour close-quar-ter battle, Adolf Opalka, Jan Kubis, andanother agent, Jaroslav Svarc, were killed ormortally wounded.

The Germans, believing more agents were inthe church, discovered the concealed entranceto the catacombs beneath a flagstone. The onlyother access to the crypt was through an air-shaft on an outer wall that opened onto thestreet. The SS wanted to storm the tomb, butthe Gestapo were desperate to take the remain-ing agents alive, particularly Gabcik. They wereanxious to prove to the world that Heydrich’sattack was not carried out by disgruntled localCzechs, but rather assassins trained and flownin from England. The Gestapo tried persuasion,promising the men would be treated as prison-ers of war if they gave themselves up.

“We are Czechs; we shall never surrender!”was their defiant answer. Curda was thenbrought to the scene and approached the open-ing in the wall to speak to his former comrades:“Surrender boys, it’ll be all right,” he told them.A hail of bullets was their response.


© S

Z Ph

oto

/ Sch

erl /

The

Imag

e W

orks

Karl Hermann Frank and other high-ranking Nazi officers examine the bodies of the Czech partisans they hadsurrounded in a Prague church. OPPOSITE: Following the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, eight Czech parti-sans were tracked to the Church of St. Cyril and Methodius in Prague after they were betrayed. Surrounded, theCzechs resisted but were eventually either killed by the Germans or committed suicide rather than surrender.


The crypt appeared almost impregnable, sothe Germans commandeered the Prague FireBrigade to flood the burial chamber. Theagents, using a ladder to reach the opening inthe wall, quickly cut the hoses and pushed themout through the narrow stone vent. Tear gaswas used, but it too was thrown back out. Withthe Germans unable to get in and the para-chutist’s unable to get out, the tense standoffdragged on for hours.

Frank, who had arrived on the scene in per-son, was furious that a handful of Czechs werevery publicly holding at bay hundreds of eliteGerman troops. He ordered a redoubling ofefforts, but before the fire brigade tried againgrappling hooks were used to drag the ladderfrom inside the crypt, preventing the agentsfrom reaching the hoses.

SS troops battled their way to the crypt frominside the church but were beaten off with casu-alties. As the SS prepared to go back in for afinal confrontation, onlookers on the streetheard four shots ring out from within the cat-acombs. The trapped men had tried to dig theirway through a wall toward the sewer, but withtheir ammunition now spent and water rapidlyfilling the crypt, time had run out. They choseto commit suicide with their pistols rather thansurrender. Shortly afterward, the wet andbloody corpses were recovered and laid out onthe pavement where the turncoat Curda wason hand to identify Valcik and Gabcik.

With Heydrich’s assailants dead, the peopleof Prague were desperate to bring an end to fur-ther German reprisals, and more than 250,000Czechs took part in a mass rally in Prague’sWenceslas Square, swearing an oath of alle-giance to the Third Reich. A small group ofHacha’s puppet government officials evenappeared in front of the cameras singing theCzech National Anthem with their hands raisedin the Nazi salute.

However, neither this massive demonstrationof loyalty to the Reich nor the death of the assas-sins satisfied German bloodlust. Throughoutthat long awful summer, the reprisals continued.In late June, 500 SS troops and police convergedon the small village of Lezaky, which was inhab-ited by poor stonecutters. The adults were exe-cuted, the children killed or resettled with Ger-man families, and the village torn down.

In September, 13 church officials and mem-bers of the congregation were executed, and laterthat month 252 relatives and supporters of thedead agents were arrested. During their interro-gations, many were confronted with the severedheads of the seven agents impaled on stakes. Allwere eventually murdered in Mauthausen con-centration camp on October 24, 1942.

In all, more than 5,000 Czechs had paid withtheir lives for the death of Reinhard Heydrich.

For reasons best known to themselves, theAllies, with the support of the Czech govern-ment in exile, generally attributed Anthropoidto members of the local resistance and hailedthe attack as a symbol of Czech opposition toNazi tyranny. The role of the specially trainedagents was never mentioned.

The assassination, coupled with the highlypublicized destruction of Lidice and Lezaky, didhelp the Czech cause in two important ways. It

not only dispelled any doubt that Czechoslo-vakia was on the side of the Allies, but createdworldwide outrage and sympathy for theCzechs that helped Benes secure the politicalconcessions for which he had fought tena-ciously since 1939. The expectation, however,that the attack would breathe new life into theCzech underground movement was proven tobe sheer folly. The home resistance was alreadyhopelessly crippled by Heydrich, and in thewake of his assassination the SS annihilatedmost of what remained—but not all.

In May 1945, the smoldering embers of theresistance movement reignited to brutally settleold scores. Karl Hermann Frank and KurtDaluege tried to escape justice but werereturned to Prague and hanged in 1946. Theunrepentant Karel Curda, who had received 5million crowns for betraying his comrades, wasconvicted of high treason and executed. EmilHacha would die a broken man in a Czechprison in June 1945.

Heydrich was the highest ranking Nazi to beassassinated by resistance forces during the war,but in postwar Czechoslovakia the public out-rage over the reprisals was so intense that fewLondon exiles would admit any connection tothe operation. They had perhaps taken theirlead from the ailing Eduard Benes himself, who,following his reelection as the nation’s presi-dent, avoided the topic all together and in factrefused to speak about the matter at all.

In time, a conspiracy of silence woulddescend over the whole tragic affair, but to this

day Anthropoid remains the subject of pas-sionate historical debate.

The Czechs, however, did not direct theiranger at the four assassins. More than 60 yearslater these men are still revered as nationalheroes and are commemorated by memorials inboth Great Britain and the Czech Republic, thecrypt within St. Cyril and Methodius Church inPrague being one of the most moving.

As for Reinhard Heydrich, in death as in lifehis name will forever remain connected to notonly the murderous regime that created him butto the courageous Czech patriots who broughtabout his demise. It is perhaps fitting thatwithin Berlin’s Invalidenfriedhof Cemetery thegrave of one of history’s most evil mass mur-derers remains to this day unmarked, untended,and largely unknown.

Australian author Richard Rule is a frequentcontributor to World War II History. He residesin Melbourne.


Imperial W

ar Museum


THE ISLAND FIGHTING OF THE PACIFIC WAR IS OFTEN POR TRAYED IN THEpopular media as the sole province of the United States Marines. Without doubt, they deserve theirhard-won accolades. The truth is that prosecuting the war against Japan on land was a joint effortbetween the USMC and the U.S. Army with much of the overall control under the purview of the

U.S. Navy. In terms of raw numbers, the Army had many more troops in theater than the Marine

Corps; it brought the bulk of the manpower while the Marines had prepared theamphibious doctrine and expertise needed to get American forces ashore across the var-ious islands they stormed. Each service had its own doctrine, tactics, and specializedequipment. Further, each had its own prerogatives and goals. Unfortunately, bothbranches also had leaders more concerned with their own service’s inter-ests than the ultimate goal of victory, and fortunately each had leaders

who understood winning the war was more important than inter-service rivalry. How all of this came together is the subject of Sharon Tosey Lacey’s new book,

Pacific Blitzkrieg: World War II in the Central Pacific (University of North Texas

I By Christopher Miskimon I

Combined Operations The U.S. Army carried a large combat burden during the warin the Pacific.

Press, Denton, 2013, 282 pp., maps, pho-tographs, notes, index, $27.95, hardcover). Thebook is a study of the high-level leadership ofboth services and how they adapted to combinedoperations. It was at times a rocky road, but ulti-mately the effort bore fruit. Each chapter is acase study of a combined Army-Marine opera-tion focusing on the leaders, training, and resultsof each battle.

From the beginning of the war, the “GermanyFirst” policy meant the Pacific Theater wouldhave a smaller share of the resources. When theJapanese began experiencing setbacks in mid-1942, however, the U.S. high command decidedto seize the opportunity and blunt the enemyoffensive. This began at Guadalcanal, whereMarines began the counteroffensive and soldiersarrived later. This initial effort went well; theMarines’ General Alexander Vandegrift andArmy General Alexander Patch worked welltogether with no sign of rivalry, focusing on get-ting the mission done. This was all the moreimportant because the planning and training forthe invasion were done quickly and with short-ages of almost everything.

Following operations resulted in victorydespite the problems encountered. Divisionsseldom were together for preinvasion trainingsince they were usually spread across numer-ous islands. This gave them little chance towork out doctrinal and training differences.Often, last-minute decisions from higher head-quarters shortened training time or sometimesdid not account for the real situation on theground. Many of these issues were simply theresult of quickly evolving wartime conditions;some problems were encountered due to therivalry between General Douglas MacArthurin the Southwest Pacific command and Admi-ral Chester Nimitz in the Central Pacific. Whilethis book is focused on the Central Pacific,MacArthur’s efforts to acquire resources anddraw attention to himself affected events andare mentioned in the book.

Although the joint operations after Guadal-canal—Tarawa/ Makin, the Marshall Islands,and Saipan—were won, problems with Army/Marine discord continued, coming to a head onSaipan. Each operation has its own chapter, andthe various facets of planning, training, and theattack are discussed. At this point, the authorconcentrates largely on the relationships and

conflicts of the senior officersinvolved.

Particular focus falls uponMarine General Holland Smith,nicknamed “Howlin’ Mad” by

U.S. Army troops of the2nd Battalion, 165th

Infantry, struggle to shoreon Butaritari Island

November 20 , 1943.


Books

W-Apr14 Books_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:31 PM Page 68

W-Macromark FP2 Apr14_Layout 1 1/27/14 10:50 AM Page 2

his Marines. Smith was charged with trainingand administrative duties over the combinedground forces in the Central Pacific and eventu-ally commanded them in combat. He had a dis-like for the Army, which appeared to color hisdecision making and created much animosityand argument among officers in both services.He often criticized Army units for moving tooslowly in combat, and several times accusedthem of cowardice. This came to a head onSaipan when he relived the commander of the27th Infantry Division, Maj. Gen. Ralph Smith.This “Smith vs. Smith” controversy even filtereddown to the lower ranks and into the press, caus-ing acrimony most. As a result, while HollandSmith would command Marines at Iwo Jima, hewas taken out of consideration for the war’s lastbig battle.

For the Okinawa operation, an Army gen-eral, Simon Bolivar Buckner was selected. Thesheer size of the invasion meant this attackwould require that the majority of troops besoldiers. Buckner was known for his lack ofinterservice animosity and even selected aMarine as his second in command. LikeGuadalcanal, this last fight was marked by rel-ative harmony among senior leaders.

This book is a good choice for anyone inter-ested in the higher decision making and plan-

ning of the island-hopping campaign in theCentral Pacific. The author, while clearly dis-approving of Holland Smith’s actions, takespains to portray him as an otherwise effectiveofficer whose inability to overcome his biasagainst the Army colored his otherwise goodservice. The faults of Army and Marine officersare given equal attention, as are their strengths,providing a balanced view. The work is insight-ful and the arguments well reasoned.

The Music of World War II: War Songs andTheir Stories, Sheldon Winkler, Merriam Press,

Bennington, VT, 2013, 125pp., photographs, bibliogra-phy, $14.95, softcover, $4.99digital PDF from the publisher.

Music has always been apart of the experience of war.Songs of patriotism, propa-ganda, and the personal

understanding of war and the loss it bringsappear almost with the first shots of a conflict.During World War II, radios and phonographswere widespread, and music was used widely infilms and cartoons of the day. This new bookexplores the music of this conflict, telling thestories of how a number of popular songs cameto be, what made them so well loved at the

time, and describing the origins of songs stillwidely known today that originated in the darkdays of the early 1940s.

Once America entered the war, most of itseffort went into achieving victory. The enter-tainment industry was no different; in the daysbefore television, music had great power toinfluence. Existing songs, such as “God BlessAmerica,” found new life. Originally writtenfor a 1917 musical while Irving Berlin was inthe Army, it sat unused until Kate Smith, a con-temporary singer, sought out a patriotic song.It quickly became a hit and is still a well-knownstandard today. Meanwhile, composers fever-ishly worked to create original pieces as well.Tunes such as “Rosie the Riveter” and “TheBallad of Roger Young” memorialized thewar’s participants, combatant and civilian, bothreal and representative.

Perhaps the most valuable purpose of musicwas in the relief it gave from everyday workand worry. “Der Führer’s Face” was a song cre-ated to accompany a Donald Duck cartoon butproved immensely popular on its own. Per-formed by Spike Jones and the City Slickers,the song has a humorous tone still able to makepeople laugh today. The cartoon won an Acad-emy Award in 1943 but has since disappearedfrom view. The song lived on, introduced to the



children of the wartime generation on recordplayers. This book is a good choice for anyoneinterested in the stories behind some of thegreatest music in American history.

Hap Arnold: The General Who Invented theU.S. Air Force, Bill Yenne, Regnery History,

Washington, D.C., 2013, 324pp., photographs, bibliogra-phy, index, $29.95, hardcover.General Henry “Hap” Arnoldis one of only five Americansto wear five stars on theirshoulders and the only one towear them in two branches of

the U.S. armed forces. He began his career in theArmy, entering West Point in 1903. Upon grad-uation he was assigned to the infantry and servedin the Philippines. In 1911, he volunteered forpilot training, then part of the Signal Corps. Hereceived instruction from none other than OrvilleWright, one of the inventors of the airplane.From there, his rise as an early proponent ofAmerican air power began.

His nickname, “Hap,” was a contraction ofthe word “happy”; Arnold was good natured,and he was given the sobriquet by movie crewswhen he was flying in films. During World WarI he helped organize the infant Air Corps, andhe spent the interwar years keeping it alive. Hiscompetence kept him on a steady trail upward,and by 1938 he was a brevet major general andthe chief of staff of the Air Corps. In this posi-tion he oversaw the transformation of that ser-vice from a small force of mostly obsoleteplanes to the most powerful one in the skies.Afterward he led the Air Corps as it became theAir Force.

How all that happened is the subject of thisbook, and it is well done. The research isdetailed and the book well written and easy toread. Arnold is probably the least known of thefive-star generals; hopefully this work will helpto correct that.

Salerno 1943: The Allies Invade Southern Italy,Angus Konstam, Osprey Publishing, Oxford,

UK, 2013, 96 pp., maps, pho-tographs, illustrations, index,$21.95, softcover.Osprey’s Campaign Seriescovers the major battles of his-tory, giving a general overviewof an engagement while

retaining a fair level of detail. This volume cov-ers Salerno, part of the larger invasion of south-ern Italy in the autumn of 1943. The attack wasmeant to put a major force ashore near a usableport, in this case Naples. The Italian govern-



ment had just surrendered, giving hope Italycould be taken with little bloodshed. As theBritish and American soldiers of the landingforce went ashore, they likewise hoped therewould be only surrendering Italian soldiersawaiting them, eager for the ordeal of the warto be over. Their wishes for a peaceful landingwere in vain.

The German Army, long expecting an Italiancapitulation, had planned for it and movedquickly to disarm Italian units and take theirplace defending the long Italian peninsula.When the Allied soldiers arrived at Salerno,dug-in German troops awaited them. TheseGerman units were mainly the remnants ofthose recently fighting in Sicily; while stillrebuilding from that battle, they were experi-enced, tough, and partially mechanized.

While the Allies got ashore and quickly estab-lished a lodgment, German counterattacksfoiled their attempts to move inland andquickly placed the beachhead in jeopardy. Therelatively untested Anglo-American units werehard pressed to hold back the Axis onslaught.In the end, some bitter defensive fighting cou-

pled with massive artillery and naval gunfiresupport combined to hold off the Germansuntil their strength was spent and Mont-gomery’s Eighth Army approached from a sep-arate landing point to the south, forcing theWehrmacht to withdraw.

Patton’s Third Army inWorld War II: A Photo-graphic History, MichaelGreen and James D.Brown, Zenith Press, Min-neapolis, MN, 2013, 288

pp., maps, photographs, appendix, index,$24.99, softcover.

This coffee table book delivers exactlywhat the title promises: the story in picturesof the Third Army’s offensive across Europefrom France into Germany. The flamboyantand volatile General George S. Patton, Jr.,had been sidelined before D-Day due to anumber of politically insensitive remarksand actions. Still, his acknowledged skillmeant he would be returned to active servicealmost seven weeks after the invasion. From

there, he led Third Army in a significant con-tribution to the eventual victory in the Euro-pean Theater.

Divided into chapters covering specific peri-ods, each has text to explain Third Army’sactions during the specific time. While the textis good, it is not the point of this book. Asintended, the illustrations stand out. Often,books involving Patton tend to focus on thearmored forces that made him famous. Thesephotographs highlight infantrymen, medics,artillerymen, and the Germans they fought,with many pictures showing up-close views ofindividuals rather than focusing simply onweapons and equipment.

Maps accompany each chapter to give asense of location to the book’s timeline. Thiswork will satisfy those who enjoy a visual expe-rience of one of America’s most famous fight-ing forces.

Stalingrad: The Death of theGerman Sixth Army on theVolga 1942-43, French L.MacLean, Schiffer Books,Atglen, PA, 2013, 704 pp., ina two-volume boxed set,


PANZER GENERAL ONLINE2013 was a strange year for World War II-relatedgaming. While it’s certainly reverted to a moreniche subject matter—partly in thanks to all the

bigger titles still focusing onmodern and future warfare in aneverending arms race to thenumber one spot—some majorcontenders have managed tokeep it in the spotlight to somedegree. Outside of smalleraudience fare like the ever-stal-wart tactical titles we tend to

cover in these pages, games like World of Tanksand the more recently open World of Warplanescontinue to build wider audiences, pulling in folkswho might not have otherwise been interested inthe topic or time period in question.

On the tactical end of things, Ubisoft has beenworking on heading back to a tried and true classicwith Panzer General Online, which has its roots inthe 1994 PC game Panzer General, developed byStrategic Simulations, Inc. The series ended up gar-nering a good following, with the first game earn-ing the Origins Award for Best Military or StrategyComputer Game at the time. After a hefty helping

of sequels, Panzer General is back, with developerBlue Byte handling the free-to-play Panzer GeneralOnline, which, as of right now, at least, is still inclosed beta, with an open beta set to begin some-time in the near future.

Panzer General Online shares some commonaspects with Panzer General: Allied Assault and its

subsequent board game adaptation. It combinestank combat with a new card-collecting systemand single and multiplayer modes. Players cancustomize their own decks in hopes of developinga solid, personalized army, and collect and trademiniatures of tanks, infantry, and artillery units.Special items like Command Cards can up theante by calling in air strikes and other maneuversthat turn the tables on the enemy. It basically endsup being the free-to-play digital equivalent of atabletop game, so anyone who likes more physi-cally bound takes on war might want to look intotaking that hobby online.

Those who prefer playing alone can dig into ahandful of missions inspired by historical battles,with campaigns available for both the U.S. andGerman forces. It would probably be a good ideato work on that before diving into multiplayer, any-way, especially if you hope to successfully take on

other players and climb the leaderboards. As thefirst game in the franchise to go free-to-play, PanzerGeneral Online is still very much an experiment.Ubisoft acquired Strategic Simulations, Inc., and thePanzer brand name back in 2001, and it’s nice tosee them continue the tradition with an interesting,download-free take on a classic.

PUBLISHERUbisoft

DEVELOPERBlue Byte

SYSTEM(S)PC

AVAILABLENow (Beta)

Simulation Gaming BY JOSEPH LUSTER



MEN OF WAR: ASSAULT SQUAD 2Men of War: Assault Squad first arrived in 2011

as an expansion to Men of War,which was itself a sequel toFaces of War, which had itsroots in Soldiers: Heroes ofWorld War II. Phew, that’s amighty storied history, andit’s continuing with Men ofWar: Assault Squad 2,which is bringing more of

developer Digitalmindsoft’s real-time strategyaction to PC.

Assault Squad 2 aims to up the ante of bat-tle scale with a new eight-versus-eight multi-player mode that puts massive battles on equallyimpressive maps. There are also new maps atsmaller scales for those who want to keep thingsintimate, including four-on-four, and even one-on-one multiplayer for that extra personal,grudge-developing touch. It’s all tied togetherwith improvements to the game engine andvisuals, including some love for oft-requestedupgrades such as improved AI movements, abetter user interface, advanced shader technology,and advanced multi-core support.

The solo mode in Assault Squad 2 isn’t your typ-ical single-player, instead going for “single-player-style skirmish modes.” These modes offer up a vari-ety of scenarios, from straight-up tank combat to

sniper missions that take things down a stealthierpath. Ultimately, however, it looks like multiplayerwill be the true meat of Men of War: Assault Squad2. There’s certainly no shortage of Men of War

games available as it is. Four expansions werereleased for 2009’s Men of War alone, includingRed Tide, Assault Squad, Vietnam, and Con-demned Heroes. Hopefully Assault Squad 2’simprovements bring enough to the table to warrantjumping in all over again.

PUBLISHER1C Company

DEVELOPERDigitalmindsoft

SYSTEM(S)PC

AVAILABLEFebruary 20

maps, photographs, appendices, bibliography,$69.99, hardcover.

Schiffer Books is well known for covering theWehrmacht in exhaustive detail, and this two-volume set is no exception. Stalingrad was aturning point of World War II, pitting twoimplacable foes in a brutal attritional battle nei-ther was willing to concede. It has been cov-ered often, but new records occasionally turnup from the old Soviet archives to breathe newlife into the research. The Germans initially hadthe upper hand, but over time the dogged Sovietdefense wore them down and a counteroffen-sive left the Sixth Army surrounded and starv-ing. Hitler’s refusal to accept reality kept himfrom allowing them to break out until it wastoo late.

This book examines the activities of each unitin the Sixth Army on a month-by-month basisfor the length of the battle. This is not a bookfor those who want a general history of the bat-tle. Rather, it is for the serious student of Stal-ingrad, one who knows the battle already andwants to get into finer detail in the quest to bean expert on the grim fight on the Volga Riverwhere the Nazi onslaught was blunted and theslow struggle to push the Germans back began.

“A” Force: The Origins ofBritish Deception During theSecond World War, WhitneyT. Bendeck, Naval InstitutePress, Annapolis, MD, 2013,maps, notes, bibliography,

index, $45.95, hardcover. The A Force was a British military organiza-

tion charged with implementing tactical andoperational deception. The group’s origins dateto the beginning of Britain’s desert war in NorthAfrica against the Italians. The British Army inEgypt was badly outnumbered by the ItalianTenth Army and needed time to prepare for thecoming fight. To do this, the British made theItalians think they had greater numbers bymaking feints, conducting aggressive patrols,and other tricks to impress the Italians.

After this success, the British commander inthe theater, General Archibald Wavell, broughtin Dudley Clarke, an officer he knew fromPalestine and considered an unconventionalthinker, just what Wavell thought was needed.Clarke turned out to be the correct choice.Under his direction the unit used establishedmethods such as feints, camouflage, and mis-


information as well as new ideas. Sonic decep-tion used false noise to simulate military activ-ity, such as tank tracks and engines. Radio andmessage traffic could mislead the enemy orcause it to think a whole army was in placewhen in fact it did not exist.

Clarke’s A Force was so successful that itsmethods were adopted throughout the war,being used at Normandy and elsewhere. Howthese techniques were developed is the subjectof this fascinating work. Intelligence work haslong been a hallmark of the British warmachine; this book gives the reader insight intowhy this reputation is well deserved.

The Burning Shore: How Hitler’s U-BoatsBrought World War II to America, Ed Offley,Basic Books, New York, 2014, 312 pp., maps,photographs, notes, bibliography, index,$27.99, softcover.

World War II found the United States woe-fully unprepared to wage modern war on landor sea. This was not only true of actual mili-tary readiness in terms of weapons and equip-

ment. America was mentally unreadyto enter into a conflict with an enemythat had some ability to reach itsshores. After Pearl Harbor and thedeclaration of war on Japan, Ger-many followed suit with its own dec-laration of war against the UnitedStates. This meant the U-boats of theKriegsmarine could now range closealong American shores in search ofmerchant shipping.

Many cities along the U.S. EastCoast did not enact precautions againstU-boats, such as blackouts and shorewatches, in a timely manner. Thatquickly changed once ships starting being sunk,sometimes within sight of the shoreline. Theshallow waters of the Continental Shelf made itmore difficult for submarines to operate, butAmerican forces were hampered by inexperienceand obsolete weapons. It was a bitter struggle,and this book focuses on several of the key play-ers on both sides to give a personal view of whatthe combatants experienced.

The Ariadne Objective: The Under-ground War to Rescue Crete from theNazis, Wes Davis, Basic Books, NewYork, 2013, 352 pp., photographs, notes,bibliography, index, $26.00, hardcover.

This is the story of a quartet of Britishintelligence agents posted to Crete afterthe German conquest. Chosen for no bet-ter reason than they spoke Greek, thesefour men—an archaeologist, two writ-ers, and a scholar—infiltrated the islandand joined the Cretan resistance. Oncethere they embarked on a campaign ofguerrilla warfare against the occupying

Nazis. They moved often to avoid capture.Eventually they undertook a mission to kid-

nap the German general in charge of the entireisland. They succeeded in capturing him, andthen attempted to get him off the island with-out getting killed in the process. How that hap-pened is a fascinating tale that at times readsmore like a novel than historical nonfiction.Anyone who enjoys the wartime exploits of theBritish Special Operations Executive will appre-ciate this story.


Rising Sun, Falling Skies: The Disastrous Java SeaCampaign of World War II, Jeffrey R. Cox, OspreyPublishing, 2014, 368 pp., $29.95, hardcover.This is an in-depth analysis of the disastrous Alliedholding action in the Pacific. This was the firstmajor naval engagement of the Pacific War.

Dog Company: The Boys of Pointe du Hoc, TheRangers Who Accomplished D-Day’s Toughest Mission and Led the Way Across Europe, PatrickK. O’Donnell, Da Capo Press, 2013, 305 pp.,$15.99, softcover. This is the story of a Rangercompany’s odyssey across Europe during the war.The author used extensive personal interviews.

Operation Barbarossa: Nazi Germany’s War inthe East 1941-45, Christian Hartmann, OxfordUniversity Press, 2013, 184 pp., $21.95, hard-cover. This is a concise telling of history’s largestmilitary operation. The political prelude is coveredin addition to the military events.

The Bombers and the Bombed: Allied Air War overEurope 1940-1945, Richard Overy, Viking Press,2014, 541 pp., $36.00, hardcover. This is the

story of the air war that took a terrible toll on bothcombatants and noncombatants. It includes achapter on the bomber offensive against Italy.

Eastern Inferno: The Journals of a German Panz-erjaeger on the Eastern Front, 1941-43, Edited byChristine Alexander and Mason Kunze, Case-mate, 2013, 240 pp., $18.95, softcover. This isa newly discovered war diary of a German soldierand his Eastern Front service, well illustrated withoriginal photos and documents.

Bomber Command Losses of the Second WorldWar, Volume 1 1939-40, W.R. Chorley, ClassicPublishing, 2013, 372 pp., $32.95, Softcover.This is a reference work delving into the losses suf-fered by the Royal Air Force during the earlymonths of World War II. The level of detail revealsindividual bomber crewmen by name.

The Leibstandarte in Greece: The 1st BattalionLSSAH During Operation Marita, 1941, BranislavRadovic and Martin Stiles, Schiffer Publishing,2013, 239 pp., $69.99, hardcover. This is a pho-tobook of an SS unit’s daily activities during the

invasion of Greece. Combat and noncombat pho-tos are included.

Once Upon a Time in War: The 99th Divisionin World War II, Robert E. Humphrey, Univer-sity of Oklahoma Press, 2014, 376 pp.,$24.95, softcover. A history of the divisioncompiled from over 300 hundred veteran inter-views, this book details the actions of a unitthat fought through Belgium and Germanyincluding the Battle of the Bulge.

Hitler’s Spanish Legion: The Blue Division in Rus-sia in WWII, Gerard R. Kleinfeld, Lewis A. Tambs,Stackpole, 2014, 432 pp., $21.95, softcover.This is the story of the Spanish troops who volun-teered to fight with the Nazis on the Eastern Front.Much of their service was around Leningrad.

I’ll Be Back When Summer’s in the Meadow,Melanie Ippolito, Merriam Press, 2013, three-vol-ume set, $39.95, hardcover. This is a three-vol-ume set of the love letters between an Irish womanand a U.S. Army sergeant during the war. The let-ters detail the war’s effect on both of them.

New and Noteworthy


Advertisement

W-Flame FP Apr14_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:04 PM Page 2


Urbana. By that time, Japan had surrenderedand the war was over. He was discharged onSeptember 16, 1945, at Fort Sheridan, Illinois.

Looking back, Bowers has no regrets aboutserving in the Air Corps or flying as a tail gun-ner. He does admit to having reservations todayabout getting into an airplane and attributes hiscoming home from the war to the strength ofprayer.

“I would take the Air Corps over the infantryany day,” he says. “We fought at the most for 10hours and came home to showers and hot food.The living conditions were better. If I had to doit over again, I’d enlist in the Air Corps. No ques-tion about it. A tail gunner sits on a woodenbicycle seat and you’re on your knees the wholetime. Maybe that’s why my knees are so badtoday. It gets to you, especially when you’re sit-ting in that tail all by yourself, like the ball tur-ret gunner is. He’s down there by himself, too.There’s nobody to see or talk to. At least thewaist gunner can talk to the radioman. But thetail gunner or ball turret gunner can’t see or talkto anybody. All I could see was where we hadbeen. And it wasn’t like the movies, where every-body is talking to everybody else on their throatmicrophones. We only spoke to each other whenit was absolutely necessary.”

“I’ve only been up in the air twice since theservice,” he continues. “Both times I flew toFlorida to visit my sister. I was a little nervous,but I couldn’t say anything because my grand-son was sitting beside me. So I had to put on areally good show. But actually I was a little bittense.

“When we were flying, we naturally didn’tknow the extent of the bombing. But seeing pic-tures of it today, especially films of it on televi-sion, I realize how devastating it really was. Ithink it had a lot to do with the way we livetoday and the freedoms we have. I always thinkof how many people gave their lives so we cando what we want to do, and have the thingsthat we have.

“When you figure that there were 55,000American airmen killed, wounded or cap-tured, it’s absolutely amazing to me that Icame home okay. I credit my wife and herprayers and the hours she spent in churchpraying. That’s what I really do attribute tome coming back: her prayers. I swear that’swhat got me through the war.”

Richard A. Beranty is a U.S. Navy veteran andretired English teacher who lives in Kittanning,Pennsylvania.

b - 1 7 m i s s io n sContinued from page 45

WWII HISTORY

Important Note From the Publisher

Suspicious Phone Calls/LettersSome of our readers have received suspiciousphone calls or offers in the mail to renew theirsubscription to this magazine. Follow thesesteps to make sure your renewal is legitimate:

1. Make sure the renewal notice sent to youlists the date your subscription expires. Checkthat date against the label on your magazine,which also lists your expiration date. Thedates should match.

2. Do not respond to a telephone solitationfor a renewal unless your subscription hasexpired. We do not phone subscribers untiltheir subscription expires.

3. Make sure the return envelopes in yourrenewal notice go to this magazine inWilliamsport, PA.

4. If you are uncertain about any offer youreceive, call us at 1-800-219-1187 (toll free).

AttentionSubscribers



and cartwheeled into a thousand pieces. Thissplasher was Watkins’s 11th career kill, sevenof which were Hayabusas.

U.S. Navy aviators also encountered the Pere-grine Falcon in combat. Lieutenant RalphRosen, piloting a Grumman F6F Hellcat fromthe aircraft carrier USS Bunker Hill, recountedhow he shot down one Ki-43 on October 12,1944: “An Oscar passed almost in front of mein a steep dive, apparently going for some F6Fsbelow. The Jap pilot apparently did not see oursection, and I managed to get on the Oscar’stail. After a short burst, the wing root explodedand then the whole plane caught on fire andwent down.” This victory was one of threeHayabusas Rosen would claim over Formosathat day.

By mid-1944, the Ki-43 was hopelessly out-classed as a fighter interceptor. This did not stopNakajima from fitting it with an uprated 1,230-horsepower engine and twin 20mm cannons ina desperate attempt to again improve perfor-mance. The Ki-43-III was a case of too little, toolate—for now there was a fearsome new threatmaking its presence known over Japan.

When Boeing B-29 Superfortress bombersbegan flying combat operations, most survivingKi-43s were withdrawn to the home islands.There they served in an air defense capacity,occasionally downing an American bomberdespite the Hayabusa’s deficiencies in speed,protection, and armament. Often, fliers choseto ram their targets, a tactic usually fatal toboth the Falcon and the B-29.

Other Hayabusas rammed Allied warships intheir final role as kamikaze planes during thewar’s last months. Those remaining soldieredon to the bitter end. After VJ-Day, captured Ki-43s continued to fly for several years in Chi-nese, North Korean, and Indonesian service.One Indochina-based French air squadron evenbriefly operated a few leftover Hayabusasagainst Viet Minh rebels.

Its sleek lines and impressive handling char-acteristics endeared the Ki-43 Hayabusa to itspilots but masked many serious flaws. An obso-lete design, this workhorse could not competeagainst the increasingly more capable oppo-nents it faced in combat. In the end, Japan’sangry little Falcon and the daring men who flewit were simply overwhelmed by superior Alliedproduction, training, and technology.

Patrick J. Chaisson is a retired U.S. Army officer who writes from his home in Scotia,New York.

o r d n a n c eContinued from page 17


The reputations of most senior Allied officerssoared into the stratosphere in May 1945, andthere they remain to this day.

While Eisenhower clearly earned his praisefrom most members of the Anglo-Americanalliance, he could never completely fulfill Britishwishes or make the British Army whole again.That would have forced him to completely shutdown Bradley’s 12th U.S. Army Group and wasnever a real possibility. Churchill and AlanBrooke should have recognized this in Augustor September 1944 and adjusted their strategyaccordingly. But they never did.

British imperial pretensions remained at fullsail through March 1945. Neither Churchill,nor Brooke, nor Montgomery ever considered,even for a minute, that the Americans might beable to win the war if they simply got out ofthe way. The British, for reasons that mystify ustoday, preferred Fleet Street’s headlines andtheir political games to the stark reality of anAmerican victory on the European battlefield.

Try as they might, and Churchill’s govern-ment made a mighty effort, the British couldnever convince the Americans that Italy, theMediterranean, and Eastern Europe werestrategically important to the United States. Inmeeting after meeting the British prime minis-ter and his senior generals argued vehementlyfor a continuation and reinforcement of theItalian campaign against American determina-tion to strengthen Eisenhower’s invasion ofFrance. Churchill harbored visions of Alliedarmies driving up the mountainous Italian bootthrough the Ljubljana Gap into the Balkansahead of the Russians. But British generals whoargued so vehemently for the Italian campaignduring the war later admitted that they hadagreed with the Americans.

The British also wanted American involve-ment in the Balkans ahead of the Russian occu-pation. But they had conveniently forgottenhow their own foreign policy in the 1930s hadruled out any treaty obligations east of theRhine. Put another way, the British were accus-ing the Americans of following the same strate-gic policy toward Eastern Europe that they hadfollowed in the 1930s.

After Munich, the smaller countries in East-ern Europe were on their own to make politi-cal accommodations with either Germany orthe Soviet Union. Poland’s unlucky geographi-cal position between two powerful dictator-ships and its failure to heed the lessons ofMunich left it vulnerable on both borders.

As the war was coming to an end, the Amer-

icans also proved unwilling to sacrifice the livesof their men in Eastern Europe. Eisenhowerrefused to occupy either Berlin or Prague aheadof the Russians. According to some British his-torians, this failure led directly to the poorcountries of Eastern Europe falling into Stalin’sgrasp behind the Iron Curtain. If only GeneralEisenhower had listened to Prime MinisterChurchill and been willing to drive his armiesdeeper into Europe, the Western Allies couldhave used the occupation of Berlin and Pragueto negotiate a more favorable peace for Polandand saved Eastern Europe from the scourge ofcommunism. At least this is the impression leftby some British accounts of those events.

Neither Marshall nor Roosevelt complainedwhen Eisenhower’s decisions seemed to favorBritish interests or left major cities like Berlin orPrague to the Russians. This is not to suggest,as some historians have, that President Roo-sevelt was indifferent to the fate of EasternEurope. Roosevelt was a consummate politi-cian, but he clearly recognized the limits to hispower in Eastern Europe.

Many Americans held the opinion that aSoviet orbit or sphere of influence in EasternEurope was not necessarily a bad thing. Euro-pean countries had attacked Russia three timesthrough the smaller states in Eastern Europe.During World War II, the Germans caused greateconomic damage to the Soviet Union and hadkilled more than 20 million Russians. WesternRussia was devastated by the German occupa-tion. This gave the Russians the moral highground in any subsequent negotiations with theWestern Allies regardless of well-meaning Britishefforts to create a democracy in Poland.

It is easy to look back through history withthe clarity of vision that hindsight provides andcondemn President Roosevelt because he wasnot able to predict the unfortunate conditionsthat eventually emerged in communist EasternEurope. Once Germany attacked the SovietUnion in 1941, it was obvious that either Rus-sia or Germany was going to control thesmaller countries of Eastern Europe. Short ofwar, which was unthinkable, it is difficult to seewhat Roosevelt could have done differently.

It was the British, not the Americans, whohad misplayed their role in European politics.The nonaggression treaty between Hitler andStalin in August 1939 had been a disaster forBritish diplomacy. The German attack on Rus-sia in June 1941 was equally unfortunate. Thiswas true in spite of the fact that Great Britainhad found a new ally in its war against NaziGermany. It was obvious that Great Britain’sposition in Europe had been compromised bythe war between Russia and Germany. The

winner would control Europe’s heartland, andshort of a war with the Soviet Union there wasvery little the Western democracies could doabout it.

It was Churchill, not Roosevelt, who trav-eled to Moscow for an infamous October 1944meeting with Stalin during which the partiesdiscussed the future of Eastern Europe. In fact,Churchill shared Roosevelt’s opinion about theRussians. He told his doctor, Lord Moran,“There is only one course open to us, to makefriends with Stalin.” One of the results ofChurchill’s meeting with Stalin was an agree-ment on the percentages of influence each coun-try wanted over the states in Eastern Europe.Churchill wrote: “Romania: Russia 90%; allothers 10%. Greece: Britain (in accord withUSA) 90%; Russia 10%. Yugoslavia: 50% -50%. Hungary: 50% - 50%. Bulgaria: Russia75%; the others 25%.”

Stalin looked at Churchill’s paper and thenchanged the percentage of Russian influence inBulgaria to 90 percent. Stalin put a tick markon the paper and pushed it back across the tableto Churchill. Churchill thought their documentmight appear cynical or insolent to those mil-lions of people in Eastern Europe whose futuresthey had so casually determined. He askedStalin if they should burn the paper. “No, youkeep it,” Stalin replied casually. Sadly,Churchill’s piece of paper was as meaningless asthe piece of paper Neville Chamberlain broughtback from Munich six years earlier. Huge Russ-ian armies were already moving into Europefrom the east.

The dramatic events of May and June 1940had shown that Eastern Europe was strategi-cally important to British efforts to secure a bal-ance of power in Europe. However, the Britishwould cede the balance of power in Europe tothe Germans at Munich; they would never getit back.

The United States had no prewar treaty withany country in Europe. Nothing GeneralDwight Eisenhower did in Europe or PresidentFranklin Roosevelt did in Washington, D.C.,would change those basic facts. The word“betrayal” implies a broken agreement or a vio-lation of confidence, or of trust, a deception.The countries of Eastern Europe were betrayed,but it was not by the United States.

Author William Weidner is a veteran of the U.S.Army. His book Eisenhower & Montgomeryat the Falaise Gap was selected by the MilitaryWriters Society of America as its book of themonth in January 2011 and nominated by thegroup for its 2011 Non-Fiction History Award.He resides in Grand Junction, Colorado.


b e t r a y a lContinued from page 37


W-Matterhorn FP Feb14_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:04 PM Page 2

W-Gaijin FP Apr14_Layout 1 1/24/14 12:05 PM Page 2

Documents

Historia de la WWII