London, England
June 1943
As much as he hated every minute of it,
Walter braved his way through jump school at Fort Benning and
became a bona fide Army parachutist. Still, after hundreds of jumps
out of an airplane, he never got over his extreme fear of heights.
It was a fear he kept secret because his country needed him as an
officer in the newly-formed 101st Airborne Division. By May of
1943, he was a captain in the U.S. Army and was assigned as a
company commander within the division.
Walter expected to lead his company into combat. The question was when and where. Speculation was rampant. Some thought the division would join its big brother, the 82nd Airborne Division in Europe, for the European liberation against the Nazis.
Still others reasoned that the 101st was formed as a Pacific alter ego of the 82nd and would go to the Western Pacific to fight the Japs.
Walter did not waste his time speculating about the specifics of combat. Rather than guessing about where he would fight, he spent his spare time writing home. Almost daily he wrote to Jessie and the kids. He rarely wrote to Ellie, but he wrote to Little Billy and Margaret almost as much as he wrote to his own children.
In May of 1943, he got a surprise notice from the Army. He was being sent to England on special assignment—without the other members of his company and without his division. The Army had become infatuated with his high scores on the battery of tests administered to him during officer candidate school. He had aced the foreign language battery, and that had earned him orders to language school for three months at Supreme Allied Headquarters in London.
The Army never explained why he was being sent to England ahead of the rest of his division. Walter speculated that Uncle Sam would soon invade France, and the Army wanted a few of its officers able to communicate with the local population.
He reported to London on the fourth day of June. A week later, he wrote home with a report on his adventures.
June 13, 1942
Dear Jessie,
I arrived in London on Friday the fourth and reported to Supreme Allied Headquarters for my assignment to language school. Unlike my experiences at Fort Jackson, Fort Bragg, and Fort Benning, the line at the induction desk wasn’t very long at all. Nor was the atmosphere so antiseptic and military-like.
The induction clerk, a young female British Army corporal, surprised me with a smile and an offer of either coffee or tea as I waited in the lobby for my papers to be processed. Unaccustomed to the concept of ‘a spot of tea’ in the afternoons, I opted for good, ol’ fashioned American black coffee. It made me think of the early mornings in Jamesville around our kitchen table, the way you always got up and had a delicious hot breakfast ready before I would leave to go on my mail route.
I took my coffee and sat while the corporal processed my papers. As I sat and read one of the British newspapers, someone shouted “Attention.” I dropped the paper and jumped to my feet along with all the other military personnel in the ornate lobby. The front doors flung open and a small cadre of British and American officers came walking through. General Dwight Eisenhower, the Supreme Allied Commander, was in the middle of the group! I’d never seen a five-star general before, and I suddenly felt like I was in the presence of a movie star.
Ike and his entourage walked through the lobby in a quick, businesslike stride. As they passed by, the general looked at me, smiled, and waved. His eyes locked with mine for a couple of seconds, and without saying a word, I sensed how much he cares for his men.
At that point, I lost my military bearing, right there in front of the most powerful military officer in the free world. How, you ask? Well, an Army man at attention should remain unflinching and display a stolid, poker face. But when I saw him smile at me, I couldn’t contain myself. I tried to suppress it, but I smiled right back at him. He snickered and then he was gone. Poof! Like he vanished out of thin air. It reminded me of the line in the poem “The Night Before Christmas.” You know, the last line that goes “I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”
Anyway, the room returned to normal and the induction clerk called me back over. In her sweet little British accent she gave me some news that made me feel like it was Christmas in June. She informed me that the U.S. Army was sending me for a ninety-day assignment to take courses at the London School of Economics!
She announced that I would be taking courses with a handful of British and American officers. The Army had registered me for courses in French, military history, and French geography. It was like Ike had disappeared into the back of the building and waved a magic wand. Like good ol’ Saint Nick, he was giving me what I always wanted—a chance to go to college—even if only for one quarter. I have never been so excited. So tell your daddy that I’ve been studying at his alma mater for the last week with some of the best professors in the world!
Today I attended church at St. Paul’s. It was magnificent. I wish you could be here with me. I miss you and the kids and love you all.
I will write again soon.
Love,
Walter
On September first, four years to the day after Germany invaded Poland, Walter was transferred to Newbury, England, where he took command of E company of the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, part of the 101st Airborne Division. In the middle of the month, he penned another letter home.
September 4, 1943
Dear Jessie and children,
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m writing you from my new quarters in Newbury, England.
I finished my schooling at LSE this past Tuesday (August 31, ‘43) and the next day was sent back to the ‘real’ Army.
I’ve been assigned as a company commander of a parachute infantry regiment. That’s a fancy way of saying I’m the first one out of the airplane, and I get to give the guys orders when we hit the ground. I can promise you one thing—we will all hit the ground one way or another. You know what’s funny about my assignment? You’re the only one in the world who knows my dirty little secret—that to this day I’m still petrified of heights.
These guys think I’m their brave and fearless skydiving leader. I look the part, sound the part, and even fake the part. I wear a “Screaming Eagles” patch on my uniform sleeve, since “Screaming Eagles” is the nickname of the 101st Airborne Division. I make sure all my men have their patch sewn on too. As we are flying a thousand feet off the ground preparing to jump, I give them a little pep talk and remind them who they are—“Screaming Eagles.” I remind them of the words of our commanding general, who says that the 101st has “no history, but we have a rendezvous with destiny.”
Then I tell them that they should be “Screaming Eagles” and that they should scream as they dive out of the plane as a means of intimidating the Germans. Then I turn around, close my eyes, and leap out the aircraft with the loudest scream you ever heard. My men have no idea I’m screaming because I hate jumping out of the airplane. By the time my parachute deploys, I’m thanking God in heaven and hearing my men scream one by one as they leap out of the plane above me. It’s sort of like tricking Billy all over again—God bless his soul. Like my dear brother did, I think most of my men have bought into my egocentric propaganda. But if it helps me get over being a secret chicken and at the same time helps them be better soldiers, so be it.
I’ve only had two jumps here in England so far. That’s because my unit hasn’t fully arrived yet. The division continues to arrive by ship every day. When everyone is here, the practicing will intensify, as will my prayer life.
Meantime, I’m enjoying the pastoral life here in this small village in the country south of London. I feel almost guilty in a sense because the officers’ quarters are so much nicer than the enlisted. A lot of the enlisted guys are crammed into horse stables, tents, and metal Quonset huts. Plus, there was initially a shortage of food, leading some of the enlisted guys to shoot deer on some of these estates.
The officers, on the other hand, aren’t having it so tough. We have plenty of food and great living conditions. I’m living in a manor house in the country with another captain, a major, and a lieutenant colonel. The home is owned by Mr. and Mrs. Robert Morgan and is known as Corbin Hall. The couple is in their sixties and treats us like their sons. From that standpoint, I’m glad I listened to Captain Patterson and went to O.C.S.
For the time being, we sit and we wait. Please pray for us all.
I miss you all and love you all.
Love,
Walter
By the weekend of September 25, 1943, Walter had been joined by most of Company E. His respite from jumping out of an airplane was over, as the company resumed their practice of what Walter thought of as suicidal leaping on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Walter and his men had completed eight parachute jumps over the bucolic, rolling fields of Southern England. All that practicing had done nothing to assuage Walter’s fears of heights. But at least the guys followed his lead and screamed on cue as they leapt. The scream was sort of a blood-curdling battle cry, the modern day, airborne equivalent of the old rebel yell employed by Confederate troops at Pickett’s charge. Stonewall Jackson would have been proud.
In fact, members of E Company became so enthusiastic about their signature war cry that they deemed themselves the “Screaming Es”, the self-anointed, fiercest parachute company of the Screaming Eagles. The primordial scream became a focal point for company camaraderie and helped mold Company E into a confident fighting unit. Meanwhile, their fearless leader screamed because he was still scared out of his wits each time he jumped out of a plane.
On Friday afternoon on the 25th, Walter finished target practice with his company and headed to Corbin Hall for two days of well-deserved furlough. Many of his men were headed into London to revel in a weekend of British nightlife. London was still a novelty to most of them, as many had just arrived in England and had never seen the British capital city. Walter, however, had lived in the city for ninety days and wasn’t in the mood to do Piccadilly Circle with a bunch of drunken American GIs. The country setting of Corbin Hall, with its rolling pastures and grazing livestock would be the perfect setting for a much-needed evening of relaxation.
He caught a ride in an Army Jeep with several other officers, including Major Richard Winters, the 2nd battalion XO, his good friend Lieutenant Frederick “Moose” Heyliger, and PFC David Webster, who served as the Company diarist and had tagged along with the officers. They headed to their respective manor houses. As he rode through the English countryside on this sunny autumn afternoon, Walter felt a serious twinge of homesickness. In two days it would be the fourth Sunday in September, homecoming Sunday at Jamesville Christian Church. He thought about all that he would miss out on the day after tomorrow—the fellowship, the fried chicken, and the dinner on the grounds after church. He longed for the laughing, the backslapping, and a good ol’ glass of syrupy, sweetened iced tea instead of a “spot of tea.” England was beautiful and the people were hospitable, but it wasn’t home.
“Good afternoon, Captain Brewer.” Margaret Morgan met Walter as usual with a tray of tea and a large assortment of cheeses, fruits, jellies, and toast. The attractive sixty-year-old always sported a sunny disposition, but this afternoon she seemed especially cheery to Walter.
“Good afternoon, Margaret.” Walter hung his jacket on a coat rack just inside the door.
“I made you some tea and a little snack.”
“You are too kind to me, Margaret. And that looks so delicious. But you know I can’t eat all that good food. I love the large front doors here at Corbin Hall, but pretty soon I won’t be able to fit through them.”
“Oh this isn’t all for you, Captain Brewer. You’ll want to share some of this with your friend.”
“My friend?”
“Yes, Captain.” Margaret tried suppressing her grin. “She’s in the parlor. Come right this way, please.”
Walter had never been so curious as Margaret led him across the deep mahogany hardwood floors of the stately manor. Surely, this wasn’t who he thought it might be.
Margaret pushed open the double doors to the parlor as the slim and beautiful visitor in the pink dress stood up with a wide smile on her face. Walter felt like he was going to have a heart attack.