Fort Bragg, North Carolina
August 8, 1942
Walter could not have lived with himself
had he taken the medical deferment. Dr. Pap meant well, but in the
end, he was accountable to God. Over Jessie’s protests and tears,
he ripped up his deferment letter and reported for active duty.
The nine months that had passed since Billy was killed seemed like a decade. After finishing boot camp and basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, Walter was stationed at Fort Bragg, the huge military reservation near Fayetteville, North Carolina, just 162 miles from Jamesville.
Cumberland County, North Carolina wasn’t what Walter had in mind in his pre-draft visions of the Army. He had envisioned going to France or Germany, winning the war, and then coming back to Jamesville to his job at the post office. But Uncle Sam had other ideas, at least for the time being.
While the Navy and Marines were fighting the Japs in the Pacific, Walter was plopped into a no-combat zone on a base in his own state as a corporal in the infantry. His routine was filled with daily target practice, marching, close-order drills, and spit shining his boots.
There were some advantages, however, to Fort Bragg. For one, he enjoyed a decided advantage over many of the other recruits in dealing with heat and humidity. The Army’s largest base, Fort Bragg was full of sand hills and pine trees and reminded him of his grandfather’s farm, of the scorching humid days working in tobacco with Baldy, Billy, and Woodrow. In the late afternoons in Fayetteville, just like Jamesville, the temperature climbed to nearly a hundred degrees. Then the mosquitoes started swarming just before a cool late-afternoon thunderstorm washed them out of the air. When the heavy rain and thunder broke, a chorus of crickets would play background music for a symphony of lightning bugs during a cool respite. Then, in an hour or so, the heat and humidity climbed back to ninety degrees and ninety percent.
These “dog days,” as the native Tar Heels called them, caused problems for many recruits, particularly those from California and other western states. All over the parade grounds, the western boys dropped like flies, suffering from heat stroke, exhaustion, or dehydration.
Medics rushed over the parade grounds during simulated combat exercises, loading the dehydrated Californians on stretchers and hauling them to sick bay, where they stuck smelling salts under their noses and poured water down their throats.
Though the westerners wilted like frail petunias in the hot sunshine, Walter remained tough during combat drills always among the first to finish the forced twenty-mile marches in full combat gear. He was also one of the most accurate marksmen among the new recruits—again, his experience on Baldy’s farm paying off. His stamina caught the eye of leadership and had earned him a quick field promotion from private first class to corporal.
Walter also liked Fort Bragg because it was close enough for him to drive home on furlough. He had driven the four-hour trek at least every third weekend since basic training at Fort Jackson. He would have gone home this weekend but was scheduled for the evening watch and was stuck hanging around the barracks alone.
On this Saturday afternoon, Walter was lying on his rack in front of a large floor fan, trying to cool off and catch a nap before the evening watch, when Sergeant Todd Lewis stuck his head through the front door of the barracks.
“Corporal Brewer! Captain Patterson wants to see you. In his office! On the double!”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
In a brown tee shirt, green Army pants, and combat boots, Walter pulled out his pocket watch. It was three o’clock, or fifteen hundred hours, as he had learned to say in the Army.
Why would Captain Patterson want me at fifteen hundred on a Saturday afternoon?
“Better get a move on, Corporal. The captain sounded impatient.”
“Yes, Sergeant. I’m on my way.”
Breaking into double time, sweat beads rolled down his face and back as he jogged the quarter mile toward Company F’s headquarters.
As he approached the front door of the tin can barracks housing Company F headquarters, a cool breeze chilled his face as thunder rumbled in the distance. Walter rapped on the front door.
“Corporal Brewer, reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Enter, Corporal,” Patterson snapped.
Walter stepped in and stood at attention as Captain Johnny Patterson, company commander, scribbled on some paperwork.
Patterson, a well-chiseled, blue-eyed, handsome officer in his early thirties, had been a star outfielder at LSU before entering the officer corps via the Army R.O.T.C. program in Baton Rouge.
Even after ten years, his forearms and biceps still retained the rippling muscles that had led to his .401 batting average his senior year and a tryout with the Yankees. They said Patterson was good enough to play for almost any team in the majors. But Patterson possessed a tough stubborn streak, and for him it was either start for the Yankees as a rookie or the heck with it.
As Patterson scribbled at his desk, Walter stared at the black-and-white glossy photo of the Babe, the legendary number three, with his big arms wrapped around the company commander’s shoulder.
Patterson looked up and caught Walter engrossed in the photo.
“You like my picture, do you Corporal?”
“I’m speechless, Captain. I’d heard that you know Babe. I mean Babe is better known around the world than FDR himself.”
“Babe’s a nice guy. He’s a great drinking buddy. But it’s all political.”
“Political? I don’t understand, Captain.”
“I mean baseball is political. I should have beaten Babe out. I mean, they invited me to spring training. I flat out told the manager I wanted to hit cleanup, that I was the man for the job.”
“You went after Ruth’s position, Captain?”
“Hey, to be the best, you’ve gotta beat the best.”
“That’s pretty ambitious, sir,” Walter said.
“Hey Brewer, do you know what the state motto of Louisiana is?”
“No, sir.”
“Union, Justice, and Confidence.”
“I like that, sir.”
“Yeah, me too. Except it’s too wordy.”
“Too wordy?”
“Too wordy.” Patterson took a swig of scotch. “Must’ve been written by a lawyer. You know, lawyers use three words when one will suffice. That’s so they can charge more. He must’ve used three words so he could bill the state treasury triple rate.”
Walter snickered. “So if I may ask, sir, which of the three words would the captain have kept in your state motto?”
“That’s obvious—Confidence. Confidence should be the motto of every state, of this country, and of every member of this Army. That’s what made Robert E. Lee the greatest general in history. They called him audacious. That means confidence.
“The captain makes a good point about General Lee, sir.”
“Thank you, Corporal.”
“So how did it go?”
“How did what go?”
“Spring training—with the Yankees, sir.”
“Oh yeah; that’s just it. I hit circles around Babe.”
“You out hit Babe?”
“Sure. Confidence, Corporal, confidence. I was the best collegiate hitter in the nation. That’s why they called me ‘Madman Patterson.’ I swung the bat with a reckless fury. And unlike Babe, who was a strike-out king, when I swung the bat, I made contact.”
“That’s impressive, Captain.”
“Not really. Just business. Say, Corporal, would you like a scotch?”
“No thanks, Captain. I’ve got watch tonight.”
“Suit yourself.” Patterson poured himself another drink. “Anyway, in spring training of 1932—ten years ago—I clocked fourteen homers—count ‘em, fourteen, out of the park. Babe hit nine.”
“Sounds like you were on a tear, Captain.”
“I was, Corporal. But that’s my point. It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d clocked a hundred homers. Babe had too much political clout. Don’t get me wrong; he was still a great player. In ‘31 he led the majors in homers. But if the system was based on productivity, I’d be batting cleanup for the Yankees today.”
“Captain, you should have made the team.”
“I did make the team. See the picture? I’ve got on a Yankees uniform. But that’s not the issue. I wasn’t going to play second string to anybody, and that includes Babe Ruth. Not when I legitimately beat him out. And I told the organization that. As it turned out, Ruth was two years away from the end of his career with the Yankees at that point. They’d have been better off putting him on the bench and starting me.” Patterson swigged more scotch. “See, that’s what I like about the Army. You’re promoted on merit. Not on politics.”
Another swig. “Enough of that. Say, Brewer, there’s a reason I called you in here.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“It’s your transcripts.”
“My transcripts?”
“Yes, your military service record. You left your college transcripts off your MSR.”
“That’s because I’ve never been to college, sir.”
“Don’t hand me that, Brewer. You’re hiding something from us. Heck, you scored higher on your Officer Candidate School Test than I did, and I have a degree from LSU!”
“LSU is a good school,” Walter said.
“A good school?” Patterson polished off his drink. “Heck, LSU’s the Harvard of the Deep South.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyway, have you ever heard of a place called Crete, Brewer?”
“Yes sir, I believe it’s an island in the Mediterranean.”
“Very good. Do you know what’s significant about this particular island?”
“It’s off the coast of Greece. The apostle Paul made several missionary journeys there in the New Testament day.”
“Again, very good. But can you tell me how it’s been significant in more recent times?”
“I’m not sure what you’re driving at, Captain.”
“I’m driving at this—the Germans have taken an interest in Crete. Last July, they assaulted the island. They wanted it because of the British airfields there. They hit the island with paratroopers, and they captured it.”
“Are we being ordered to Crete, Captain?”
“No. Not that I’m aware of anyway. See, Brewer, the Germans captured Crete, but they took heavy losses. Especially the guys dropping out of airplanes.”
“I suppose the moral of the story, sir, is that man wasn’t made to jump out of airplanes.”
Patterson stared at him. “Soldier, that’s not the way the Army reads it. See, even though the German’s airborne invasion was costly, the Army thinks that with a few minor modifications, the assault could have been successful.”
“What kind of modifications, sir?”
“Well, two things. The Germans dropped their men out of planes without weapons, at least with nothing more than pistols. The rifles and artillery were dropped separately. When the men hit the ground, assuming they weren’t chopped up by British machine guns in the descent, they had to go running around looking for their rifles and ammo. In many cases, they were sitting ducks.”
“What was their other problem, sir?”
“Their parachutes would not let them steer where they would land. Therefore, they might get lucky and land near their rifles and ammo, or they might drop a quarter mile away. If they dropped more than one hundred yards away, they were sitting ducks. Too much was left to chance.”
“So what does our Army plan to do about all this?”
“Brewer, we believe we have the technology available to launch airborne assaults with much more accuracy and effectiveness than the Germans. I’ve been down to Fort Benning and tried out some of these parachutes. Our chutes will allow a man to steer and put him wherever he aims. Plus, our chutes are strong enough to let a soldier jump with full combat gear. It could be deadly for the enemy.”
“You’ve actually jumped out of an airplane?”
“Sure I have, and in full combat gear. I’ve been getting some training on the weekends. It’s a rush. You jump out, and you’re free. The ground starts rushing up, closer and closer to your face, and you know you’re going to die. Then at the last second, the parachute deploys and saves your butt, and you’re floating like a feather. Like a cloud on the wind. You hit the ground, cut the line, and start killing Germans.”
“I didn’t know the Army had anything like that.” Walter grew queasy.
“You’re right, Brewer. The Army has never put much emphasis on airborne. But that changed after Crete. Now the Army is forming five brand new airborne divisions. Training will be at a new jump school in Fort Benning. We need officers to lead these troops. And that’s why I called you here.”
“But sir, I’m not an officer.”
“Are you listening to me, Brewer?” Patterson snapped.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Let me repeat myself. No, you’re not an officer, but your scores on the OCS tests and your performance here at Ft. Bragg tell the Army that you should be. The Army wants to send you to officer candidate school and then to jump school. We need you to be a leader in one of our new airborne divisions. Of course, nobody’s going to point a gun to your head and force you to accept an appointment to OCS. You could stay here at Bragg. You probably wouldn’t go airborne. Brewer, you’re going to see combat either way. This is what it boils down to. You can hit them from the air as an officer, or you can hit them from the ground as an enlisted grunt. Trust me; you have better perks as an officer. I need your decision now, Brewer.
“Sir, I have just one question.”
“What’s that, Brewer?”
“These parachutes—they aren’t suited for cold weather, are they?”
“They’re perfect for cold weather. White parachutes. We could wear white uniforms. We could even paint our guns white. Heck, we could jump into downtown Berlin in a snowstorm and the Nazis would never see us. In fact, I would expect us to be deployed at all times of the year, including winter. What’s your answer, soldier?”
Walter took a deep breath. He hated heights and he hated cold weather. What to do? This was happening so fast.
“I’ll do whatever the Army needs me to do to best serve my country, sir.”
“Good,” Patterson replied, shoving papers at Walter. “Sign here.”
Trying to keep his hands from shaking and trying not to think about jumping out of some airplane from who-knew-how-many thousand feet, Walter scribbled his name on the dotted line.
“Congratulations, Brewer.” Patterson said. “You’re now an officer candidate in the United States Army. Soon you’ll be wearing railroad tracks on your collar. And trust me, the dames love that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Confidence, Brewer. It’s all about confidence.”