Growing Old
That world which I knew in its blossoming youth is old and bowed and melancholy now; its soft cheeks are leathery and wrinkled, the fire is gone out in its eyes, and the spring from its step.
—MARK TWAIN
I first met Dick Winters when he had just celebrated his eightieth birthday. And every birthday thereafter, I sent a card conveying my best wishes on his having reached another milestone. To the best of my knowledge, aging didn’t bother him. I suspect that in his mind he had already lived a number of lives, and one more didn’t seem to faze him. In one of our earlier conversations about his life’s journey, I broached the subject of how the war changed him as a man. He replied in what I thought was a rather strange way, dividing his eighty plus years into unequal segments.
“I spent the first twenty years of my life growing up in a close-knit community in what I can only describe as small town America. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. The people I remember were middle class and shared similar values. After graduating from Franklin and Marshall College in June 1941, I could start life in the real world in one of two ways. I could either find a job now that the Great Depression was showing signs of recovery or I could volunteer for military service. Under the Selective Service Act, each male was eligible for one year of service. I decided to volunteer for the U.S. Army and not wait until my draft number was called. That way, I could fulfill my obligation and then be free of my military commitment.”
“Interesting that you should say that, Dick, because most of the veterans I know who enlisted before the end of 1941 never intended to spend more than a year in service and then return to civilian life. Pearl Harbor changed all that.”
“It sure did. I was on a short furlough in North Carolina when I received word of the Japanese attack. Instead of returning to Pennsylvania the next summer, I realized I was now in for the duration of the war. And that began the second phase of my life. It only lasted four years, but I crammed a lifetime of memories, some good, others bad, into those four years. Although only twenty-eight years old when I was discharged from the U.S. Army in January 1946, I felt that I had aged twenty years during the war.”
“Tell me about that transition.”
“When I joined the U.S. Army, I was young and carefree. The entire world lay at my feet. Life was simple then. Army life certainly wasn’t challenging. Most of the soldiers at Camp Croft, South Carolina, were from east of the Mississippi River and shared similar backgrounds and outlooks on life. Since I planned to leave the army after a year, I wasn’t too caught up with the daily grind. Until news of Pearl Harbor reached us, I had hardly displayed any ambition. As I reflect upon that period in my life, I realize how protected my life had been before the war began. I had come from a loving family, but my world was so narrow in scope. My intellectual horizons needed expanding.”
“How did Pearl Harbor change you as a person?”
“Now that the United States was at war, I decided to dedicate myself to self-improvement and demonstrate my leadership potential. My commanding officer recommended me for Officer Candidate School, and I graduated in July 1942. I was now a commissioned officer, and I applied for airborne duty. In August I was assigned to the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment at Camp Toombs in northeast Georgia to begin my airborne training. With the paratroopers, I was thrown into an outfit that was truly representative of the country as a whole. It was my first real time away from home, and I didn’t really know what to expect. Unlike my first year in the army, men arrived at Toccoa from every region of the country. Most were strapping young men with fire in their eyes and a can-do attitude with which I could easily identify. The vast majority of the men were physically fit. Those who were not fit were mustered out and returned to their former outfits. Every activity had a serious ring to it because we knew that sooner or later we would be in combat. We trained hard for a year and then deployed to England in September 1943. The next nine months proved incredibly strenuous.”
“How so?”
“Now that we were in England, we were a step closer to the war. As paratroopers, our mission would be to land behind enemy lines and fight outnumbered until we could be reinforced. Fortunately before we jumped into France on D-Day, we were mentally and physically tough, and we had complete confidence in our ability to do the job. I significantly changed during those nine months prior to D-Day.”
“Tell me about that change, Dick,” I said.
“You recall my letters to DeEtta Almon? You do. Well, I wrote a letter one month before D-Day in response to a letter she had written in which she noticed a change in me.” Taking a copy of the letter from his folder, he continued. “Now, I want you to listen to what I’m saying because it is important. When you are an officer, you are responsible for the lives of the soldiers in your command. You think about kids like this one paratrooper I knew well and you soon become old beyond your years. In the three years since I had entered the army, I had aged a great deal.”
Discovering the appropriate passage he wanted to highlight, Dick read verbatim. “‘It seems as if college days and days of civilian life when I did as I pleased, are long past. It must have been a dream, a small and short, but beautiful part of my life. Now all I do is work. Work to improve myself as an officer, work to improve them as fighters, as men. Make them work to improve themselves. Result—I am old before my time, not old physically, but hardened to the point where I can make the rest of them look like undeveloped high school boys—old to the extent where I can keep going after my men fall over and sleep from exhaustion. I can keep going as a mother who works after her sick and exhausted child has fallen asleep, old to the extent where if it’s a decision or advice needed, my decisions are taken as if the wisdom behind them was infallible. Yes, I feel old and tired from training these men to the point where they are efficient fighters. I hope it means that some will return to those girls back home.’”
I interjected, “And this was all before D-Day?”
Three months later, Dick returned to the subject of aging in another letter. “‘Well, yesterday, I celebrated my third anniversary in the army. As I look back, it seems like a lifetime in some respects and as if I’ve aged three times three. Then again, it isn’t so long and I’ve been pretty lucky right along. There are not many in this outfit that have done as much in the same period of time. In fact, I know of none. Then, too, if I stick in this parachute outfit for two or three more years, salt my money away at about the same rate that I have been, I’ll have a pretty darn good foothold on this financial situation.’
“By war’s end,” Dick continued, “DeEtta would not have recognized me. She wrote and expressed feelings of love and hope for a rapid reunion, but I was so focused on the job at hand. I had people asking me questions about weapons, targets, harassing fire, grazing fire, chow, transportation, and a base of fire. I didn’t know that ‘love’ existed. I told DeEtta that my job as battalion commander necessitated that my thoughts and feelings be hard, cold, impersonal, and effective. Told her we would tackle questions about love, devotion, and all that stuff after the war so I could use my head and not my heart. On rereading her correspondence, I note that I often referred to her as ‘Hey, Squirt’ or ‘My Wave,’ all somewhat humorous, but rather impersonal to say the least. As I said, after four years at war, I had aged a lifetime.”
“Understandably so. Tell me about life’s next phase.”
“Phase three of my life began when I met Ethel and we started to raise a family. I worked hard, maybe too hard, because I was not at home as much as I would have liked when the children were young. Yet a man does his best to provide a decent life for his family. I did my best and hope that it was good enough. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Okay, let’s move on. You told me that Stephen Ambrose changed your life in the fall of 1988. What happened?”
“He did indeed. And you are now an integral part of this stage of my life. Easy Company held a reunion in New Orleans in May of that year. Ambrose, who had published a two-volume biography of General Eisenhower, discovered the veterans were in town. Ambrose and his assistant Ron Drez introduced themselves, and Ambrose decided to write a story about Easy Company. Ambrose announced that he was gathering interviews for his next book on D-Day. I decided not to join the meeting, but to let the men speak out. All the veterans wanted to tell their stories, their memories. I mailed my written account to Ambrose later.”
Dick went on. “After a few months, Ambrose contacted me and I agreed to assemble a number of Easy Company’s veterans. We met first at Ambrose’s home in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, and six months later I hosted Ambrose, Harry Welsh, Joe Toye, Forrest Guth, and Rod Strohl at my farm outside Fredericksburg. Our discussions covered a range of topics. From these discussions emerged Ambrose’s book Band of Brothers: E Company, 506th Regiment, 101st Airborne from Normandy to Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest that he published in 1992, the fiftieth anniversary of the formation of Easy Company at Camp Toombs. You know the rest of the story. In preparing the manuscript, Steve hosted a number of us on a return to the battlefields. It was most memorable. When we returned to the States, I wrote Steve a warm personal letter in which I said, ‘That sure was some trip! I figured this would be the big trip of my life, and I can truthfully say I was not disappointed. This whole tour was very emotional for me—from Aldbourne, every step of the way, every single day, right through to Salzburg and then our special visit with von der Heydte. You made it all possible, you made it a reality, and you’ve given me memories I’ll never forget.’”
“And how did the miniseries come about?”
Dick smiled and said, “It was shortly before Christmas that he called and left a message on the answering machine. It said, ‘Dick, this is Steve Ambrose. I have a letter from Tom Hanks, and he wants to buy the rights to Band of Brothers. I presume he wants to play Dick Winters, but I told him that Herbert Sobel is closer to the mark. Anyway, I just wanted to share the good news with you.’ So Ambrose sold Band of Brothers to Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks. Since that time, my time and Ethel’s have revolved around keeping E Company’s story in the news. It has been an amazing journey. And here I am now, nearly ninety years old, sitting in my front room with you.”
“Dick, you don’t sound like a ninety-year-old man to me,” I said.
“Well, I am, and I intend to stay around a little longer.”
“You aren’t afraid of getting old?”
“I’m not,” he replied. “Why should I be? I’ve led a good life. Listen, most men my age sit at home, never leave the house, and regret how their lives turned out the way they did. I’ve made a few mistakes in life, but I have no regrets.”
“Were you pleased with the miniseries?”
“For the most part. I was surprised that Spielberg and Hanks selected so many British actors to portray Easy Company’s soldiers. Guess they felt no American actor could do the job properly. I told Captain Dale Dye, who played Colonel Sink, that I thought my old regimental commander would have been highly pleased by Dye’s portrayal. Captain Dye seemed to like that. I objected to the amount of profanity in the series and the one gratuitous sex scene when Easy Company arrived in Germany, but overall I was very pleased with the finished product. I was particularly pleased that so many men finally received recognition for what they accomplished during the war.”
Over the next few years, I witnessed Dick pass through several stages of infirmity. My father had gone through a similar process, so I had experienced how difficult it now was for him to accomplish rather simple tasks. Gone were the days when Dick could take the step in front of his house or climb the stairs to his upstairs office. I recall how surprised I was the first time that I saw him use a cane. Ethel confirmed that he needed the cane for support anytime that he left the house. She also informed me that Dick was in the early stage of Parkinson’s disease. This troubled me deeply, and when I departed Hershey, I shook his hand and informed him that he was my dearest friend. He responded how honored he was and that he intended to do his best to live up to my expectations. As I left the house and walked to the car, I turned around and there was Dick at the front door with a final salute and a wave.
The cane was soon followed by a walker, and two years later by a wheelchair. Through it all, Dick’s spirits never dampened. Later, Ethel installed an electronic chair to convey Dick from the main floor to the second level of their home, where his bedroom and office were located. Now my monthly visits took place in the first floor living room rather than his upstairs office. I genuinely missed our conversations in his office because he often closed the door so we could talk in private without interruptions. Dick always seemed more relaxed when his military memorabilia and those things that he treasured most surrounded him.
Aging is tough. In one of the family Christmas cards, Ethel wrote, “Getting older is a nuisance as we find we have had to cut down even further on the activities we enjoy, but we are still able to recall all the good times and trips of the past. Especially treasured are memories of experiences we shared with family, friends, and the men of Company E. None will ever be forgotten.”
Dick’s health significantly deteriorated beginning in 2005. We were anxiously awaiting publication of his wartime memoirs, but now that the manuscript had already been submitted to the publisher, he seemed far weaker than he had been earlier in the year. I visited Dick on May 18, 2005, four years to the day since he presided over my retirement ceremony. I noted in my journal that night that Dick seemed more tired than usual and he had not been eating well. Since he now required daily care, Ethel had relinquished her volunteer work at the library to stay at Dick’s side. My thoughts that evening were simply that his body was giving out. Two weeks later, Ethel called and invited me to pay my respects on June 6. She informed me that future visits were in jeopardy until Dick’s health made a significant improvement. I wondered if this would be Dick’s final commemoration of D-Day. I said a prayer that the old warrior would recover and live long enough to see his memoirs in print. The Almighty answered my prayers, and Dick was soon on the path to recovery.
My visits now centered on dinners restricted to Hershey, an activity that always improved his morale and lifted his spirits. Then came the inevitable day when Ethel informed me, “You need to park in back, Cole. Dick can no longer use the front step. Bob Hoffman has installed a ramp outside the sunporch and this makes it easier to get to the car.” And by July 2007, the dinners ceased. I remember how strange it sounded when Dick asked me where I intended to eat in Hershey now that he wasn’t able to depart the house. I could tell how much he detested being confined there. Yet, on this particular visit, although he seemed slower in speech, he possessed much more color.
Looking for any technique to bring Dick comfort and to add to his enjoyment, I devised a new scheme of bringing a small gift whenever I stopped by the house. Two of the most noteworthy gifts were bags of M&M candies with the words “Hang Tough” on each piece of candy and a box of cereal that brought him immense satisfaction. I had recently conducted a leadership seminar for General Mills and had remarked to one of the corporate leaders present that I recalled an advertising gimmick in which customers could pay a small fee and have their image on a box of Wheaties. Since he was in charge of General Mills’ Food Division, he asked, “Do you want your picture on a cereal box, Cole?” “Not for me,” I replied, “but I do have someone in mind.” Two months later, I brought my special surprise to Dick and Ethel. All I had told them was that I was bringing something that was very practical. When Mary and I arrived, we sat in the living room and I carefully removed the cereal box from my bag, making sure that when I handed it to Dick, I presented the box with the back facing him. “Well, Cole, this is very nice. I’ve always liked Wheaties.”
“For Pete’s sake, why don’t you turn the box around?” I said.
Rather than turning it completely around, Dick turned it to its side and began looking at the ingredients listed on the side of the box. Too polite to ask for an explanation, Dick said, “I’m not sure I know what I’m supposed to say, other than thank you very much.”
“Dick, you’re killing me. Look at the front of the box!”
Now, as he turned the box toward its front, his eyes lit up when he saw his face on the cereal box, under which were the words “Major Richard D. Winters, Champion for the Band of Brothers.” All he could say was “Wow!” Ethel later inquired if it were possible to obtain additional boxes, but I reluctantly informed her that only two such boxes were in existence. For the next two years that box of Wheaties occupied a prominent place on their mantel. Today, the Wheaties box sits in a special exhibit commemorating Dick’s military service at the Hershey Derry Township Historical Society building in Hershey, Pennsylvania.
Other gifts followed, including a book commissioned by the Army Historical Society that featured a chapter I had written entitled “Infantry Heroes and Legends.” Mary and I presented Dick with this book on his ninetieth birthday. Dick received a full-page portrait in U.S. Army Infantry as well as a summary of his World War II experience. He seemed particularly delighted that I had selected him as one of the three infantrymen who best personified the infantry motto of “Follow me!” Following small talk, Dick suggested that we adjourn to the kitchen in order that we could examine the book and share some special memories. Once there, Ethel and Dick showed us the very edelweiss that Dick had sent his mother in the summer of 1945. Mary then asked how many Christmas cards that they had received this year, and Dick proudly proclaimed, “About two hundred, and I read every one of them.” Later I accompanied Dick back to his chair in the family room, where he apologized for not being able to take us to dinner. He informed us that he seldom departed the house anymore, and as a result, he no longer had much contact with the outside community. As a result, his mind was no longer challenged as much as it used to be. To compensate, Dick said he had become a voracious reader. Still he regretted not leaving the house, but “I need to spare myself the embarrassment because I can no longer think fast enough.” Before departing, I asked if there was anything I could do for him, and he replied instantly, “You’re doing it by coming to see me.”
By Christmas 2007, Ethel had imposed a closed-door policy on visitations for good reason. As she wrote in their Christmas message, “We have found that when the hearing is so undependable that phone voices are hard to hear, when the eyes become so weak that reading is a chore, and the pen in hand has a mind of its own, the best thing to do is hunker down and pull up the drawbridge. So many times we don’t return phone calls, never read mail from strangers, don’t sign anything, and have put a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door. It simplifies life tremendously.” She went on, “We apologize for neglecting our friends and the closed door policy. Do you think it means old age has arrived? Anyway, we are hanging very, very tough. You do the same.”
During his declining years, Dick relived many of the battles that he had fought a lifetime ago. Such a phenomenon is common among combat veterans. As a young sailor, my father served aboard a destroyer in Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. The USS Macdonough earned thirteen battle stars during the Pacific war, and Dad saw more than his share of action. Yet, in his declining years, his dreams focused on the night his ship was rammed by another American ship in the dense fog of the Aleutian Islands. Had the destroyer been struck a yard fore or aft to where the collision occurred, the Macdonough would have sunk with all hands. As Dad told me, “You could literally walk off the deck into the ocean.” The Macdonough didn’t sink, and it was towed back for repair, but I was always struck that it was the memory of this collision, rather than the many battles in which he fought, that still seared Dad’s memory. And then on the last day of my father’s life, Dad, who was a ship’s cook during World War II, asked my mother why his nurse hadn’t returned from the galley with his breakfast. In the afternoon, Dad inquired why his shipmates had not come to see him. At the time, Dad was one of only two surviving members of the original crew from the USS Macdonough that had witnessed the “day of infamy.”
As with my father, recurring nightmares from the war tormented Dick. Ethel once said, “Dick fights the Battle of the Bulge virtually every night.” The anniversary of D-Day also caused troublesome flashbacks. Dick informed me once, “I know I did everything within my power to ensure as many soldiers made it home from the war as possible, but when you survive, and your soldiers don’t, you feel guilty. It haunts me today that I lived and so many of my paratroopers died. As the veterans of Easy Company pass on, I am reminded of those who never returned from the war. I see their faces. I can almost hear them calling me.” As Dick shared these dreams, I realized that he, too, had become one of war’s casualties, a moral casualty, but a casualty nevertheless.
Yet when I spoke to Dick in late 2008, he appeared in the best spirits that I had seen him in in two years. He was jovial, articulate, and still awestruck at the success of his memoirs. Always a fighter, Dick continued to surprise his doctors with his recuperative abilities. For the next two years, our conversation turned to far more pleasant things, always away from the war and those issues that might excite or agitate him. Visiting him during his final years was wonderful and exhilarating for both of us. In spite of his deteriorating health, Dick radiated joy and warmth, maintaining that twinkle in his eye and clasping my extended hand with both of his hands when it was time for me to depart. He always thanked me for taking time to see him, perhaps not appreciating that these visits benefitted me more than him. On one of my final visits, I asked Dick what he considered beautiful in life now that he had surpassed the ripe age of ninety.
“I sit here in this house and I gaze out the window. I see the flowers and the birds. I behold the wonder of nature. Everything seems so beautiful.”