11.
A HORSELESS COMMANDER
FORT JACKSON, SOUTH CAROLINA,
DECEMBER 18, 1942
The wire from the War Department summoning Hank Reed to his new command arrived a week shy of his forty-third birthday. One year after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, the army was expanding fast: Reed had been promoted to lieutenant colonel, and for the first time, he would command an entire regiment. Before reporting to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, he was spending Christmas with his extended family in Richmond, Virginia. For Reed the horseman, this trip had a melancholy edge. Until now, he had always traveled with his horses, moving them from base to base. With the frenzy of preparations for war, this was no longer possible. Reed had brought his two polo ponies, Tea Kettle and Skin Quarter, home to his family’s farm in Richmond, where they would remain until the war was over. In the cozy stables, Reed went about his stable chores with practiced familiarity as he settled down the two horses for the night. Beyond the smokehouse and the icehouse, the big white barn with a cupola and green wooden doors sat on the crest of a hill overlooking the woods. The two chestnuts followed Hank’s movements with their big, soft eyes. The horses had traveled with him from Fort Leavenworth to Fort Riley, then on to Fort Tullahoma, but today was the day Hank Reed was saying goodbye to his horses for the duration. As he stroked their velvety noses and spoke a few soft words to each, he did not know when he would see them again.
Reed noticed how quiet it was here at Stanford Hill, so unlike typical army stables, which were companionable places where men went about their duties with a common purpose. On cavalry bases, men jumped to the familiar strains of the bugle: stable call, which sounded at six-fifteen in the morning, and boots and saddles, which called them to mount up. But here, all was peaceful. Beyond the soft sounds of his horses rustling in their stalls and the crickets chirping, the world was deceptively quiet—the calm before the storm.
After one last lump of sugar, one last pat on the neck, Hank said goodbye to his ponies and walked away from the stable without looking back. The horses watched as he disappeared up the lane; soon the Virginia evening enveloped him. No sounds were left but the soft whispers of hooves rustling in straw and the quiet thud of a man’s footsteps as he walked back up the lane toward home.
AS THE NEW YEAR OF 1943 rang in, all over America, young men and seasoned ones alike, in big cities and small towns, from Arizona to Maine, bade farewell to wives and sweethearts, children and grandparents. Dog lovers patted their faithful friends on the head one last time, a lump forming in their throats at the familiar sound of a tail thumping against the floor. Horsemen proffered an extra sugar lump, feeling the tickle of whiskers on the flat of their hands as they looked into their four-legged friends’ inscrutable dark eyes. As 1943 dawned, Bing Crosby’s bittersweet “White Christmas” hit number one on the Billboard charts. During 1942, 3.9 million Americans were enlisted in the armed services. By the end of 1943, that number would swell to 9.1 million.
JUST AFTER THE NEW YEAR, Colonel Reed shipped out for Fort Jackson, joining the throng of uniformed men jamming railcars all over the country. Like most of these men, Reed would arrive at a camp that had the helter-skelter look of a work in progress: Crews were busy throwing together barracks, building mess halls, preparing for an influx of new soldiers. The crackling energy of high purpose echoed through every conversation, in each strike of the hammer and slap of the paintbrush. Reed’s regiment was in its infancy—so far, just a small group of officers formed a nucleus. One was blue-eyed Captain Jim Pitman, a newlywed with a baby on the way who shared Reed’s love of dogs and the outdoors. Another was Major Stephen Benkowsky, an old horse hand from the 2nd’s days as a mounted unit. Along with a few others, the small group would grow a regiment from the ground up.
Just eight days later, at ten-thirty A.M. on January 15, 1943, Lieutenant Colonel Reed stepped up on a makeshift podium set in the middle of a grassy parade ground. Decked out in the cavalry’s high boots and flared breeches, Reed looked handsome, his hair crisply parted in the middle. Today was the official reactivation of the 2nd Cavalry, one of the army’s most celebrated cavalry regiments, which had won glory in some of the most decisive mounted battles of the last century. Unlike the 10th, the 2nd was an all-white regiment. The mounted 2nd had been deactivated just six months earlier, its troops disbursed, its horses given away. Today was both a rebirth and a rechristening, Reed declared. From this day forward, the new 2nd Cavalry would have the word “mechanized” appended to its name. Reed evoked the 2nd’s proud 106-year history and its motto, “Always ready.” “We must not wait for combat, we must seek it,” he said. “We will be as the old Second in battle—Second to None.” The four men in the color guard stood at attention. Aloft, they held the American flag and the yellow and brown regimental colors. The banner’s twenty-nine streamers, each representing a major battle, fell in a brilliant cascade.
REED LEADS THE NEWLY MECHANIZED 2ND CAVALRY.
Though Reed’s speech echoed with a deep commitment, if he felt some doubt that day, it would certainly be understandable. For twenty years, Reed had honed his leadership skills on the army’s polo fields and jumping courses. Now he would be put to an entirely different kind of test. Within a few weeks, civilians from the four corners of the United States would come streaming into Fort Jackson. They would look to the lieutenant colonel to be everything—father figure, mayor, judge, minister, and physician. He would mediate disputes and mete out punishment; he would provide for material and spiritual needs. As he spoke, Hank felt the mantle of responsibility firmly settle on his shoulders. For the foreseeable future, Hank Reed, whose hands were accustomed to gripping leather reins, a polo mallet, or a riding crop, would hold something infinitely more precious: the destiny of the men he had been entrusted to lead, and the fears, hopes, and prayers of the loved ones who were left behind.
The reactivation ceremony didn’t last long. By eleven-thirty, the whole shebang was over and Reed was back at work. By January 22, the new recruits, called “fillers” by the regulars, started to pour onto the base. Soon, they were arriving twenty-four hours a day, to be inducted by day and night shifts in continual operation. Down at the train station, where a sergeant met the greenhorns as they debarked in batches of four or five, a photographer caught one such group. The young men wore double-breasted suits and felt fedoras—sent off by their families in their Sunday best—but often the suits were threadbare and carefully mended, suits for farm boys whose parents still felt the pinch from the decade of the Great Depression. Their clothes were dusty, their shoes scuffed, and most carried a single battered leather valise, just large enough for a few personal possessions. They fell into line behind a sergeant and marched out of the train station, beginning to feel how different their lives were soon to become.
The front gate signaled to these recruits that they were entering a different world. The sign, “Fort Jackson” spelled out in big white letters and propped up with stilts like the famous Hollywood sign, rose above the manned front gate where uniformed guards watched the newcomers take their last few steps as civilians. Inside, the young men got a passing look at the officers’ quarters, neat white A-frames with green roofs and screened porches, as they lined up in front of a whitewashed clapboard building to take the oath officially inducting them into the U.S. Army. Captured on film by a Signal Corps photographer, their faces are a study in contrasts: “I do solemnly swear or affirm…” One holds his right hand extra-high, one looks eager, one quizzical, one shy. Each of them has left loved ones behind. None of them knows exactly where he is headed or when he might be going home. “I will support the Constitution of the United States…” One young man’s wrists protrude from his too-small suit, one has a pronounced widow’s peak, one clutches an overcoat and fedora in his left hand. The men are named Homer and Guido, they are from cities and small towns, sons of farmers and streetcar drivers, all feeling equally unsettled.
RECRUITS BEING SWORN IN AT FORT JACKSON.
Once inducted, the men quickly learned to stand in line—first to receive regulation clothing and a duffel bag, then tent poles and cotton ticking mattresses. If they had wondered what the army would be like, they soon became accustomed to the new world they had entered, where sergeants watched their every move and where good was almost never good enough. Some of the recruits were so young, they looked as if they hadn’t been shaving for long—one of these young men, seventeen-year-old Jim O’Leary of Chicago, soon caught Hank Reed’s eye. The young Irishman had a tousled mop of dark hair and a face that was all smile. While some of the other recruits were grumpy or shy, O’Leary seemed to know everyone by name and had a friendly word for all of them. The new recruit had lost his father at a young age and later rebuilt his mother’s house with his own hands after it burned to the ground. Reed tapped O’Leary to be his personal driver. Everyone in the 2nd Cavalry saw Lieutenant Colonel Reed as a father figure, but between O’Leary and Reed there was a special affection—the fatherless boy was determined to look out for his commander from that moment on.
THE STREETS OF COLUMBIA, SOUTH CAROLINA, twelve miles west of Fort Jackson, were filled with soldiers. Their soundtrack was the brassy gliding trombone sound of Glenn Miller’s “A String of Pearls.” Their signature was dancing up close in crowded dance halls with restless girls who went from being strangers to intimates in the blink of an eye. The scent was Lucky Strikes, Chantilly perfume, and sweat mingling in South Carolina’s heavy, humid air. These temporary young couples flocked to the base movie theater, a big white barn of a building, to snuggle in the dark while taking in the great war movies of 1943: Casablanca, Destination Tokyo, and For Whom the Bell Tolls. They all knew that they were teetering on a high wire—out there was the war, and that was where all of the young men were headed. The home front was going to empty out, and all of the young women would be left behind.
Among this mass of soldiers, clad in his neatly pressed army uniform and peaked cap, First Lieutenant Tom Stewart stood out from the other officers only for his well-mannered reserve. He was a bit older than some of the other new recruits, already a law school graduate. He was prepared to do his duty for his country, those who knew him well would attest to that, yet Tom Stewart was more of a lover than a fighter. Dark-haired, not tall but well put together, Tom looked strong, though he bore his strength with a gentle manner. He was the oldest of the five Stewart children, a proud Scots-Irish clan with deep roots in their Winchester, Tennessee, hometown. Tom was protective of his younger sister Betty Ann, walking her to school every morning. She in turn worshipped her handsome, soft-spoken older brother.
Tom had taken a shine to one of Betty Ann’s friends, but the beautiful girl was several years Tom’s senior and paid no attention to the besotted boy who kept shyly to himself as they walked to school. The young belle married not long after high school graduation to a more appropriately aged suitor. On the day of the wedding, Tom sent her two single red roses and asked that she wear one petal in each shoe as she walked up the aisle. Tom cloaked himself in a mantle of reserve, but beneath the quiet exterior ran a deep well of passion. He loved to read—his favorite book was Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. His nickname was “the little minister,” because he was so devout. One day, Tom came home from school and went upstairs to his room without saying a word. A few minutes later, his suspicious mother caught him slipping something into his chest of drawers. When she asked what it was, he blushed and stammered before showing her what he had hidden: two trophies from an athletic contest at school. It just wasn’t in him to brag about his own achievements.
When he enlisted in 1941, Tom Stewart was twenty-seven years old. His father, big Tom, had gained notoriety when he served as prosecutor during the famed Scopes monkey trial, and later, in 1939, was elected to the U.S. Senate. By any measure, Tom was a young man of privilege. But World War II was a time of unprecedented solidarity in the United States, and servicemen enlisted from every walk of life, including the sons of senators. Tom was assigned to Lieutenant Colonel Reed’s headquarters troop as an intelligence officer and would soon become someone his commander could count on for important tasks. But in January 1943, Tom was a green officer, following orders and trying to learn his job.
As time passed, this scraggy group of recruits lost their newness. Their days were filled with calisthenics, training on strategy, and long hikes. Their fitness improved, their bodies got harder, and the men learned to pull together as a team. On May 25, 1943, it was humid and raining and the roads were muddy and boggy when the men set out on their first hundred-mile hike. By the end of that day, the medics were getting plenty of practice treating blisters and sore feet. The soldiers pitched their tents and fell into them, muttering and cursing their superiors. On the third day, the troops were awakened at three A.M. for a forced march: ten straight hours of hiking that traversed twenty-seven miles. Reed, recently promoted to colonel, covered every step of the march alongside them. When the men finally reached their destination—Folly Beach in South Carolina—Reed had a surprise: The regiment’s brass band accompanied the men on their last mile. As the recruits caught sight of the ocean in the distance, they broke out into whoops of celebration. Sweaty, blistered, grimy, and undaunted, the men of the 2nd Cavalry had turned into soldiers. For the next nine months, the men continued to train and participate in maneuvers until all traces of their inexperience had been replaced by an easy sense of teamwork. For a while, it had seemed as if the training would last forever, but on March 9, 1944, Hank Reed received an official letter from the War Department. The 2nd Cavalry Group was shipping out.
ON MARCH 20, 1944, a small group of hand-selected officers set sail from New York Harbor on the Queen Mary, members of the 2nd Cavalry advance team selected to help with logistics overseas. Among the advance group, leaning over the deck rails and watching the Statue of Liberty slide past the ship and then recede from sight, was the quiet Tennessean with the soulful eyes—Tom Stewart. Hank Reed had entrusted the young captain to lead the way.
A few weeks later, Reed and the rest of the men boarded the Mauretania for their own transatlantic trip. A high-speed liner, the ship did not travel in convoy but zigzagged across the Atlantic on its own course. On April 30, the ship arrived in Liverpool, where the men were greeted by the welcome sight of Red Cross girls with donuts. The soldiers walked across the city carrying their barracks bags, then boarded blacked-out trains. They caught their first glimpses of the English countryside by moonlight. At an anonymous rural station, truck convoys picked them up, and shortly after, they arrived at their destination: Camp Bewdley, Number 1, near the village of Stourport-on-Severn in North Worcestershire. Hank Reed settled into his quarters, pleased with the work that Tom Stewart and the rest of his advance team had done to prepare for their arrival. There was no time to waste. Tomorrow, Reed would need to see that training continued without interruption. But he was already feeling proud that what once was a group of unfamiliar faces, gathered from all over the country, had begun to feel like a family.