Combat Reporter: Don Whitehead's World War II Diary and Memoirs / Edition 2

Combat Reporter: Don Whitehead's World War II Diary and Memoirs / Edition 2

ISBN-10:
0823226751
ISBN-13:
9780823226757
Pub. Date:
09/15/2006
Publisher:
Fordham University Press
ISBN-10:
0823226751
ISBN-13:
9780823226757
Pub. Date:
09/15/2006
Publisher:
Fordham University Press
Combat Reporter: Don Whitehead's World War II Diary and Memoirs / Edition 2

Combat Reporter: Don Whitehead's World War II Diary and Memoirs / Edition 2

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Overview

No one bore witness better than Don Whitehead . . . this volume, deftly combining his diary and a previously unpublished memoir, brings Whitehead and his reporting back to life, and 21st-century readers are the richer for it.-from the Foreword, by Rick AtkinsonWinner of two Pulitzer Prizes, Don Whitehead is one of the legendary reporters of World War II. For the Associated Press he covered almost every important Allied invasion and campaign in Europe-from North Africa to landings in Sicily, Salerno, Anzio, and Normandy, and to the drive into Germany. His dispatches, published in the recent Beachhead Don, are treasures of wartime journalism.From the fall of September 1942, as a freshly minted A.P. journalist in New York, to the spring of 1943 as Allied tanks closed in on the Germans in Tunisia, Whitehead kept a diary of his experiences as a rookie combat reporter. The diary stops in 1943, and it has remained unpublished until now. Back home later, Whitehead started, but never finished, a memoir of his extraordinary life in combat.John Romeiser has woven both the North African diary and Whitehead's memoir of the subsequent landings in Sicily into a vivid, unvarnished, and completely riveting story of eight months during some of the most brutal combat of the war. Here, Whitehead captures the fierce fighting in the African desert and Sicilian mountains, as well as rare insights into the daily grind of reporting from a war zone, where tedium alternated with terror. In the tradition of cartoonist Bill Mauldin's memoir Up Front, Don Whitehead's powerful self-portrait is destined to become an American classic.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780823226757
Publisher: Fordham University Press
Publication date: 09/15/2006
Series: World War II: The Global, Human, and Ethical Dimension , #12
Edition description: 2
Pages: 248
Product dimensions: 6.25(w) x 9.25(h) x (d)

About the Author

Don Whitehead, who died in 1981, also worked for the New York Herald Tribune and the Knoxville News-Sentinel, won a George Polk Memorial Award, and wrote a number of books, including The FBI Story.

John B. Romeiser teaches at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, where he is founder and former director of the Normandy Scholars Program. He edited Beachhead Don: Reporting the War from the European Theater, 1942-1945 (Fordham).

Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Rick Atkinson's best-selling books include In the Company of Soldiers: A Chronicle of Combat and An Army at Dawn: The War in Africa, 1942-1943. Franklin is a retired US Army officer and he knew Whitehead and served with him.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

FROM MANHATTAN TO CAIRO, SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 1942

September 19, 1942 New York

Actually, I don't believe I ever thought I'd be chosen as a war correspondent for the A.P. It was one of those vague and incredible jobs about which you read with a great deal of envy for those who were helping write the history of World War II. When I read the stories of Bob St. John and Larry Allen and Quentin Reynolds and Drew Middleton I felt so restless and dissatisfied that my work became a burden of trivia. It seemed slightly absurd to be writing of movie stars, Harlem and front page celebrities when there was a war to write about — the raw material of death and agony and heroism.

More and more I knew I could never be happy until I had a chance to report this war from a sideline seat. There would have been a gnawing frustration that would have poisoned me for years to come.

I suppose Marie has sensed the feeling. It's something that can hardly be explained. God knows it's going to be hard for both of us and yet it has to be.

It's strange how little things can change the course of your life — or at least you see the turning point as the result of some trifling event.

In my case, the change came one day last month when Charlie Honce happened to remark that Drew Middleton was resigning A.P. to go with the Times.

"I wish I could get his job," I remarked casually.

"Well we're needing new overseas," Charlie said. "Why don't you see what you can do about it?"

A few weeks before, Alan Jones had discouraged me when I asked about the chances for a foreign assignment. It was the usual old brush-off — "You're more valuable where you are." So I just forgot about the whole thing and said to myself that it wasn't in the books for me to get a foreign assignment.

I went to Gould.

"I'd like to have Drew Middleton's job," I told him. "I've felt as though I were marking time and I want to get overseas. I'd like to have your support and blessing."

Gould said: "We can't promise you Middleton's job. We can't make any commitments on what a man will do if he is given a foreign assignment. But I think you could do a good job for us. I'll be glad to give you my approval."

And so the wheels began turning upstairs.

Vic Hackler sent down a letter "for the record":

"Before we send you on an assignment outside this country ... it is only fair that I outline to you the other side of what may appear now to be a picture of a glamorous experience.

"There is great danger involved. Two of our foreign staff members are now missing and we fear they may be dead. Others have been injured or have had very narrow escapes. Many have become ill.

"There is no telling where a man in foreign service may be sent. In many countries the living conditions are terrible, drinking water is dangerous, and none of the ordinary comforts of home are available.

"All such assignments now have to be 'for the duration,' because of the uncertainties of transportation. Former provisions for home leave cannot apply in war time ..."

I understood all those things. I replied, "Time's a-wastin. When and where do I go?"

John Evans gave me instructions about passport, inoculations, and the other matters of routine necessary to prepare for the assignment. I got a draft board release.

But to this day I don't know where I'm going except it will be in the Middle East. My passport instructions came for India, Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Palestine, Egypt — and other countries en route.

It looks like Toby Wiant and I will go together with George Tucker and Clyde Farnsworth to follow soon. Evans says we will go to Cairo for training under Ed Kennedy and then be sent to various places from there. We'll get our uniforms and other equipment in Cairo.

Today there came a letter from Col. Francis V. Fitzgerald, Chief of the Security Control Division of the War Department's Bureau of Public Relations.

"Concerning your request for priority in air travel to India, this priority has been granted.

"The company which will carry you will contact you to arrange final details. This contact may come at a short notice. Therefore, it is desirable that you get your passport and other affairs in order, so that you can leave on short notice."

Evans says Cairo — the war department says India. Somebody has got to decide and soon. And my passport hasn't arrived yet — and I have not gotten visas — and there are still several inoculations to take for typhus, cholera, yellow fever, and tetanus.

Fortunately I'm accredited by the War Department to the U.S. Army and don't have that to worry about. But there's always the fear that the transportation order will come through before I clear the passport and visas. I'm not worried about the serums, I can get those on the other side.

In all this rush, I can't help but feel there's a slight quality of the absurd to my assignment.

I suppose this is what a great many newspapermen consider as a big-shot assignment — you are chosen because you have "arrived" as a big-time reporter.

At least that's how I would have felt a few years ago as the city editor and advertising manager of the Harlan Daily Enterprise. Such an assignment would have seemed fantastic.

But I don't feel like a "big shot" — just a little scared and awed by what has happened and amazed that it has happened to me.

September 23, 1942 New York

It looks as though India is going to be my stamping ground if and when I get across.

My God, this business of trying to be a foreign correspondent is just one great mass of red tape, delay, nervous tension, and more delay. As for work, I'm about as useful in the office as a keyless typewriter.

My passport came today and Toby Wiant and I started on that great adventure of trying to get visas. Our passage may come through at any time — and both of us without visas.

The British were polite but nothing could be done until they have had a reply from a cable to India approving our entry.

"Perhaps we'll hear in three or four days," a Mr. Robinson said. "Then we can give you the necessary visas."

Three or four days!

"Can't you give us visas for Iraq, Trinidad and the other countries en route to India? If we have those then if necessary we could get the visa for India in Cairo."

"Oh dear me no," Mr. Robinson said. "We must do these things in an orderly manner. After we hear from India, we'll give you all the visas at once."

No use beating our brains out here. So we headed for the Egyptian consulate. The consul general was out but would be back in an hour.

Finally we entered his office.

"I cannot give you visas," he said. "I have nothing against you personally, but some of the newspaper men have abused our hospitality. They write gossip that is none of their business and say things about the Royal family that embarrass us.

"No, I cannot give you a visa. However, if the minister in Washington wants to give you a visa, that is all right. I cannot take the responsibility.

"I could give you a transit visa — but that would not permit you to stay in the country."

Since we might have to stay in Cairo, we requested he call the minister and ask his approval.

That was that.

The consul general of Liberia was next. Good old Liberia — a land that hasn't yet learned how to use red tape.

At 25 Beaver Street we entered a small office where a large, intelligent looking Negro man sat behind a desk.

We stated our business. He reached into the desk and pulled out a battered old ledger that looked like a cash book in the cross roads general store. He entered our names, the number of the passport and other necessary information, and stamped our passports. At least we could now pass through Liberia.

"Is there any fee?" I asked.

"Oh, no," the Liberian government representative said.

"But I have a little book I sell for 25 cents telling something about Liberia."

The least we could do was buy a book. Even Gene Talwadyn would have appreciated that visa stamp had he been in our place.

Next on the schedule was the Iranian consulate, a luxurious suite of rooms in an apartment hotel on upper Fifth Ave.

A beauteous French girl escorted us from the elevator into the reception room. The consul general was out but later we found him in.

The country of Iran rates ace high in my books. Quickly and courteously they prepared our visas and the lovely young French girl led us to the elevator, chattering all the while.

"I am so cold," she said with a coquettish look at Toby.

"Yeah, this coal and oil shortage is terrible," said Toby. And right there I began to have my doubts about Toby.

September 25, 1942 New York

The Indian visa cable hasn't come through yet! It may be we'll have to pick it up in Cairo if transportation beats the cable. There's no way to hurry the process — just be patient and wait. I suppose we're getting good training for future visa jitters.

We'll know at noon tomorrow whether our passage is booked this weekend. The agent at Pan-American Airlines said the list of passengers would be sent from Washington and we would be notified if our names were on it. If not, then maybe we'll be on the list for the flight about October 5.

We'll fly from New York to N. [Natal, Brazil], take a shuttle plane to L. [Liberia], and then on to C. [Cairo]

At least as far as Cairo we can carry 55 pounds of baggage, Pan-Am says. That solves a problem because I thought we could take only 44 pounds. Marie & I weighed my case and typewriter last night and it all totaled 45 pounds. Dan DeLuce came back from the wars today looking fit. The campaign in Burma apparently had left no scars. He said things wouldn't be too bad in India although he didn't expect any excitement in that sector soon. He's probably right but I hope not.

September 27, 1942 New York

No transportation in sight yet. Pan-Am says our names were not on the passenger list for the flight this weekend.

September 28, 1942 New York

Farewells, conferences, a drink with Pappy Kevarick and lunch with Evans for some last bits of advice and instruction. Tickets New York to Karachi $1500. Advance $500 in crisp $10s and $20s — and all set.

Protymans and Riggses over for goodbyes. Marie, Ruth and I taxi to La Guardia airport.

Why is it when you have so much to say the words stick and you're dumb? Marie & Ruth both were wonderful — never a tear — but I guess that came later. God bless them both and look after them.

Our plane took off at 9 P.M.

September 30, 1942 Miami

The trip down was smooth. Met an interesting chap aboard — Capt. Bob Crawford, who wrote the Army Air Force song that is so popular. He was a concert singer until his song clicked and put him in The Long Green, Son of an Alaskan gold miner, Princeton, Greenwich Village, music teacher, amateur pilot — he's in the Pan-Am ferry service, writing songs on the side. Arrived 6:30 A.M. Not much sleep.

Biscayne Bay is bright and colorful through our hotel window. The pigeons wheel and turn in droves — Miami looks and smells so clean after New York's carbonized odors.

A couple of days leisure here would be all right by me but we gotta move on tomorrow morning. The trip is developing faster than we'd thought. Wish Marie could see the view from this window. It's lovely. One of these days so help me we'll do it.

By the time Toby & I began winding up the red tape here we were getting slap-happy and tired. Then my hat blew off and went sailing down the street with me chasing it. That just about finished me for the day.

October 1, 1942 Georgetown, British Guiana

Was it this morning that we left Miami? It seems a long time ago. Time and space lose their values when you're tearing through a cloud-piled sky at 190 mph in a C-54 Douglas transport.

We piled out of bed at 12 midnight, bathed, shaved and got ready for the 2:30 bus to the airport. There we checked with immigration, customs, and navy, had breakfast.

The transport was huge and gray in the night. A squad of troops filed aboard with tommy guns, rifles and full packs. They looked young, tan, tough and capable. There wasn't any horseplay or boisterous talk among them. The trip ahead seemed to have subdued them.

We took off at 4:10 A.M. and the lights of Miami faded. Just blackness outside, deep inky blackness rushing past the windows, and so we tried to sleep.

The sky was beautiful at dawn. Clouds piled up in fantastic splendor that took your breath. There's nothing more beautiful than the never-never land above the clouds.

But still, even the beauty becomes monotonous after a while.

At 8:56 we landed at a field "Somewhere in Puerto Rico," a fine port carved out of the tropic growth by the U.S. Army. A soldier drove us around for a glimpse of the field. The barracks looked cool and comfortable.

"What is there here for amusement," I asked.

"We got movies," the soldier said, "and sometimes we go to the villages nearby or to San Juan.

"There's plenty of rum and women but none of it worth a damn.

"The women are spoiled now. When the soldiers first came down, they could lay the girls for nothing — just take them to the bushes. Then some of the boys began paying the women 25 cents or 50 cents to spend the night.

"And, buddy, it didn't take the girls long to catch on. They're smart about money. Now some of 'em want $1 or $2 for a lay."

After Puerto Rico, we headed for British Guiana. The water below was slate gray and splotched with green and blue patches of ocean. Didn't sight a single ship until we hit the coast of South America where the fishing boats looked like toy sailboats.

The coast was wild jungle with no sign of habitation. Just miles and miles of green foliage broken only by rivers and creeks. Far below the shadow of our plane sailed over the jungle like a wraith. Sometimes the shadow was silhouetted on the clouds — and then it was ringed by a rainbow halo.

Toby organized a World Series pool, the winner to get $4.50 as holder of the lucky inning in which the winning run was scored. The ticket I drew was "Yankees — 7th". The Cards won 4–3 in the 8th.

The British Guiana airport looked small in the jungle but the captain set our plane down as gently as a feather floating from a featherbed, with yards to spare on the runway.

We leave at 4 A.M. tomorrow for Natal.

October 2, 1942 Natal [Brazil]

The stars were bright and sharp when we took off at 4:05 A.M. for Natal. Most everyone — acting now like seasoned air voyagers — tried to curl up on the seats for a nap. When I awoke, we were heading into one of the loveliest sun rises I have ever seen. The sun was a red ball of fire over the horizon.

More miles and leagues of savage country below — and you wondered how many pairs of eyes were peering from the foliage at the plane overhead — if the natives had ever heard of a war.

In mid-morning we sailed over the mouth of the Amazon and a

short time later landed at an American base in Brazil. Near the

equator, the sun beat down hard. Heat waves made everything

shimmer in the distance.


Five hours later we were in Natal. Hotel Grande is no Waldorf but

it's clean. Even if the bed is six inches too short we'll be comfortable.


Our dinner for five totaled 30.00 milreis or 30 cents each — and I had a very good cocktail, tomato juice, steak, vegetables and dessert.


After dinner to the Wonder Bar, a joint one flight up on a side

street. Bing Crosby by transcription sang "The Birth of the Blues"

while sailors and soldiers danced with the native girls.


The local talent looked pretty drab but the boys were doing the

best they could with the material on hand.


"The local fellows haven't got a chance when there's an American

uniform in the joint," a gob said. "After we leave they get seconds."

October 3, 1942

Natal


Did I say the Grande would be comfortable? It was a libel on the

good things of this life. Never have I experienced anything like the

Grande pillows. Concrete poured into a pillow casing. Stuck my feet

through the end of the bed.


We went to the clipper base at 8 A.M. for the flight but something

wrong with fuel pump and trip delayed. So back to the Grande in

Natal.


Lieut. Morris and Capt. Ash wanted to see the Wonder Bar so

even though it was siesta time we took them down. There sat two of

our soldiers already drinking with the girls. Boys were busy stringing

colored crepe paper from the walls for a big shin-dig.


"These are all amigos, sir," said corporal Jones. He turned to the

girls. "Amigos! Comprehend?"


"Si, Si," the girls laughed. We all had a beer to international good

will. In the day light the girls looked even sleazier than the night

before. The venereal disease rate is very high, Pan-Am officials said.


A few minutes after we sat down a marine MP marched in.


"This place is out of bounds to officers until 9:30, sir," he said

"and enlisted men aren't supposed to be in town. I'll have to take

them to the guardhouse."


The MP's had rounded up all 13 of our soldiers and put them in

the guard house. But later they took them over to the Ideal bar and

held them in protective custody.


"I've been thrown out of a lot of whore houses by MP's" one

soldier said, "but this is the first time they ever threw me into one."


Lieut. Morris, Toby and I took a sightseeing tour, trying to find a

pair of half-top boots of good quality — made in Natal very

cheap. We finally bought a pair for $4.50 or 85 milreis. We took off

at 5:10 P.M. for the flight to Fisherman's Lake, Liberia. They took us

out to the big ship by boat — and it's an amazing craft. There

were two main cabins for the passengers and a freight compartment

in the rear. Up front were the officers' quarters, kitchenette and toilet.

Above them the flight deck.


A crew of 11 was aboard — 4 pilots, 2 radio men, 2 navigators, 2 engineers and a steward, in addition to our passenger list of 13 soldiers, 3 officers, a civilian and Wiant and I.

Those 6600 horses in the engines beat a mighty thunder — but as long as they roar there's no cause for uneasiness.


Corporal Jones was poured aboard. Too much beer and wine in

Natal. He was stretched out in the rear with the freight — and

thus became one of the first if not the first man to fly the Atlantic

without knowing it. If Corporal Jones ever brags to the people back

home with a description of a trans-Atlantic flight, then Corp. Jones

will be lying.


Dinner was a feat of magic which would make an American

housewife blush. Our steward produced 30 meals out of that tiny

kitchenette with a speed and efficiency that suggested genius.


I've never eaten better steaks — they were as tender as a

maiden's dream. The coffee was good. The dessert a bowl of luscious

pears.


After dinner six of us resumed a poker game we'd started. I

managed to win a buck. At midnight we tried to get some sleep. I put

several seat cushions on the floor and stretched out. Several times the

ship felt as though it were falling out from under us when it hit the

heavy air currents but those motors were a reassuring roar. Once I

looked back in the freight room and Corporal Jones was still

peacefully unaware that he was partaking of a magnificent drama.

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Combat Reporter"
by .
Copyright © 2006 Fordham University Press.
Excerpted by permission of Fordham University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents

EDITOR'S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS,
FOREWORD BY RICK ATKINSON,
Introduction,
Part 1 From Manhattan to Cairo, September–October 1942,
Part 2 Cairo Journal, October–November 1942,
Part 3 In Pursuit of Rommel (Libya), November 1942–February 1943,
Part 4 Victory in Tunisia, March–April 1943,
Part 5 Sicily, July–August 1943,
AFTERWORD Command Sergeant Major Ben Franklin,
APPENDIX,
NOTES,
INDEX,

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