Eyewitness to World War II

Guadalcanal Diary, Invasion Diary, and John F. Kennedy and PT-109

Richard Tregaskis

• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9781504047531
• Topic: Histoire
• Subtopic: Seconde Guerre mondiale

Three classic accounts of WWII from a reporter who "shaped America's understanding of the war, and influenced every account that came after" (Mark Bowden). Volunteer combat correspondent Richard Tregaskis risked life and limb to give American readers a soldier's–eye view of the Second World War. These three tales of bravery and sacrifice shed light on the Greatest Generation's darkest hours. Guadalcanal Diary: In August 1942, Tregaskis landed with the US Marines on Tulagi and Guadalcanal Islands in the South Pacific for the first major Allied offensive against Japanese forces. He details the first two months of the campaign and describes the courage and camaraderie of young marines who prepared for battle knowing that one in four of them wouldn't make it home. An instant #1 New York Times bestseller and the basis for a popular film of the same name, Guadalcanal Diary is a masterpiece of war journalism that "captures the spirit of men in battle" (John Toland). Invasion Diary: In July 1943, Tregaskis joined the Allied forces in Sicily and Italy and documented some of the fiercest fighting of the war, from bombing runs over Rome to the defense of the Salerno beachhead against heavy artillery fire to the fall of Naples. In compelling and evocative prose, Tregaskis depicts the terror and excitement of life on the front lines and his own harrowing brush with death when a chunk of German shrapnel pierced his helmet and shattered his skull. Invasion Diary is "required reading for all who want to know how armies fight" ( Library Journal ). John F. Kennedy and PT-109: In the early morning hours of August 2, 1943, the Japanese destroyer Amagiri sliced into US Navy motor torpedo boat PT-109 near the Solomon Islands. Ten surviving crewmembers and their young skipper, Lt. John F. Kennedy, clung to the wreckage. Over the next three days, the privileged son of a Boston multimillionaire displayed extraordinary courage and leadership as he risked his life to shepherd his crew to safety and coordinate a daring rescue mission deep in enemy territory. Lieutenant Kennedy earned a Navy and Marine Corps Medal and a Purple Heart, and the story of PT-109 captured the public's imagination and helped propel Kennedy all the way to the White House. Acclaimed war correspondent Tregaskis—who once beat out the future president for a spot on the Harvard University swim team—brings this remarkable chapter in American history to vivid life.

Invasion Diary

In memory

of my beloved sister

MADELINE

Contents

I Waiting

II Raid on Rome

III Sicilian Front

IV The Road to Nicosia

V Objective: Catania

VI Gateway to a Continent

VII The Best Laid Plans …

VIII Action at Altavilla

IX In the Shadow of Vesuvius

X This Is Naples

XI “The Volturno Is Quite an Obstacle”

XII Politics in the Wake of War

XIII Souvenir

XIV Battle Scarred

Image Gallery

Index of Names

I Waiting

JULY 9, 1943

I had just flown into Algiers from Morocco and was walking down the sun-bathed main street, Rue Michelet, feverishly searching for the Public Relations Office, when I met Pete Huss, the International News Service manager at Allied Headquarters. We shook hands, and then he immediately led me to his room in the Aletti Hotel. He knew, without my saying; that I was hot on the trail of the invasion.

I had been running fast, struggling, cutting corners to get down here to the Mediterranean theater in time for the big excursion into Europe. I followed Pete into his third-floor hotel room, and he shut the door behind us.

“Is it Sicily or Sardinia?” I asked him. From various indications in London I had guessed that it would be one or the other.

“That’s right—Sicily,” said Huss.

“When’s D-day?”

“Probably tomorrow.”

I would have realized as much if I had looked down from the balcony to the blue, white-capped water of the Bay of Algiers. There ten or twelve troop transports, the rails colored khaki by lines of troops, were even then weighing anchor. Some of them had begun to move and I knew that I had missed the landing. It was too late to get aboard this task force.

“And they’re only reserves,” said Huss. “The main force left about a week ago.” He grinned at my crestfallen expression. “But you can still catch up. There’ll be plenty of fighting left to cover.”

JULY 10

At 4 A.M. a telephone call summoned us to the Public Relations Office. There was no moon, and it seemed a good night for the invasion. In the press room we found the correspondents assembled for the expected announcement.

The British Col. McCormack, wearing his brilliant red staff officer’s cap, stepped up to the front of the room, cleared his throat, and said, “British, Canadian and American troops began landing operations in Sicily early this morning.”

The copy—the small amount of it that was permissible—was passed in, and a deadline of six o’clock was declared for the release of the story. It was getting light, and on the balcony outside the press room I saw Hugh Baillie, President of the United Press, looking down into the silent Rue Michelet. “Well,” he said, “I guess plenty of our boys have gone to glory by this time.”

JULY 12

This morning I received word that I would be able to get air transportation to Tunis, first step on the way to Sicily.

JULY 13

Gen. Eisenhower arrived from Sicily. We correspondents piled into our jeeps and made a journey of some distance to a villa near Tunis where the general’s Headquarters had been set up. It was a spotless modern house with beautiful mosaic floors. A few minutes later, “Ike” breezed into the room, looking fresh and cheerful. He wore a tropical worsted shirt and trousers, with four silver stars sewn on his collar, his only decoration. He is a good-looking man, with regular features, a balding crown, and notably pale blue eyes. Most striking is his quick, agreeable manner. He seemed to sense the implication of every question quickly, and answered with concise phrases. He said that we are facing 240,000 to 260,000 Italians. They are probably coastal divisions, he said, adding, “They have no stomach for fighting.”

The campaign has been so far very successful, said the general, and tanks and supplies have been put ashore without any difficulty. More than 500 tanks are in Sicily, 6,000 Italians have been captured, the enemy resistance is negligible, our casualties “far lighter than expected.” The general said, “A decision should be reached in about two weeks, if our present good luck continues. We effected considerable tactical surprise. Evidently the enemy had expected that our attack would be based from Pantelleria, and had prepared for an assault against Northwestern Sicily.”

JULY 14

Five days have gone, and still no arrangements for my transfer to Sicily. The swimming at Carthage is wonderful, but, under the circumstances, every pastime is sheer waste. I want to get going.

This afternoon I went to the summer palace of the Bey of Tunis, now an American Army billet, to see Col. Elliott Roosevelt and try to arrange at least a look at Sicily. The photographic reconnaissance group under his command had made twenty-four flights over Sicily yesterday alone. He had flown with the most recent night photo reconnaissance himself in an A-20, and would go over again tonight. I asked him if I could go along and he consented.

“It’s a wonderful sight,” he said. “You can see explosions everywhere on the island. You can even pick out the bomb flashes when the bombers are making a raid. The ports are taking an awful beating. Messina looks as if it had been wiped off the map and Palermo is the same way.”

I asked the colonel how soon he thought the fight for Sicily would be over. “I’m not a military expert,” he said, “but my impression is that it will be over quickly, maybe inside of two weeks. The pressure is on day and night, and the aerial bombardment is terrific. Come along and see for yourself.”

JULY 15

I was at La Marsa Airdrome at 1:30 A.M. Outside the Operations Tent, Col. Roosevelt said, “Are you all ready?” and pointed toward the B-25. It was the same type of two-engined, double-tailed, medium bomber which the Doolittle flyers had taken on the historic attack on Tokyo. Mechanics were working in the half-light, hoisting parachutes and other equipment into the trap-door opening in the belly of the ship.

I put on my Mae West, struggled through the bottom hatch and tried on my parachute. The colonel took the co-pilot’s seat next to Capt. George Humbrecht of St. Louis. From the small compartment directly behind the pilot’s and co-pilot’s chairs, I could look over their shoulders and through the wide strip of windshield.

It was 2:07 A.M. when we took off. We could see the wrinkled mountain mass of North Africa in the growing moonlight. Cape Bon, a rocky point reaching out toward Sicily where the Germans had staged their final evacuation in North Africa, lay to our right. The Mediterranean seemed ghostly still, like a sea of fog in the moonlight. Col. Roosevelt’s duck-billed cap bobbed as he looked over the water, and the crossed straps of his parachute harness seemed white and distinct. An orange beacon winked on our port beam from the misty plain of the Mediterranean.

Through the astrodome, where the navigator takes his sights, I could see stars strewn over the moonlit sky, and Cassiopoeia, the queen on her chair, pointed toward the North Star. We were heading northeast.

I crawled through the narrow tunnel to the bombardier’s compartment in the nose, the “greenhouse,” where he operates his machine gun and bombsight. It was noticeably cold in the compartment, for we were climbing to the zone of lower temperature. The bombardier, Lieut. Everett Anthony, of Hartford, Conn., was concerned about a light from the toggle switchboard, which seemed to be out of commission.

The moonlight was brighter and the sheen of the sea more lustrous. Only the top of the propeller arc shimmered above the shadow cast by the wing. The colonel was rubbing his hands in an attempt to keep warm. He looked back over his shoulder and smiled. We were approaching Sicily.

The strip of beach, green in the moonlight, like a scar between the sea and the mountains, was now behind us. The ridges of the high mountains, white icing in the moonlight, incrusted the dark background of the land mass.

Suddenly I saw embers of fire, another fire beyond the first. From the detached distance of the air, they appeared mere bonfires. The closer fire, on the right, proved to be a disorderly group of large blazes, like strewn coals against the land. The farther fire, beyond and to the left, magnified by the binoculars, was revealed as a huge U-shaped double row of houses, burning brilliantly. In this one group there must have been thirty to forty large conflagrations, and the even spacing and arrangement indicated they were the buildings of an ammunition dump or a factory.

“They’re firing at us over there, on the right,” said the colonel. White flashes of gunfire pricked the darkness of the ground. A searchlight beam, leaning against the sky, snapped on, then off. Another beam of light swept the sky ahead of us. The colonel and the pilot were shouting at each other. The canvas back of the colonel’s chair came loose. There were more flashes of anti-aircraft firing, closer on our right.

We were maneuvering violently, attempting to stay clear of the anti-aircraft fire. As we passed over the U-shaped mass of fires, we saw a large orange explosion near by, and felt the lifting blast of the concussion. It might have been a bomb dropped on the ground by some plane we had failed to see, or perhaps a fresh fire in the munitions dump—if munitions dump it was.

I looked at my watch. It was 3:23 A.M. Now the fires were fading into the distance behind us, and we were coming near to our objective, Palermo. The moonlight was paling, the land growing misty, and the horizon had become a line of cloud just below the moon.

“We are to the west of Palermo,” said the colonel. “We’ll try to find out through the overcast just exactly where we are.”

We continued to descend, and passed over a shore line, with a mountainous mass on the right, and circled again. We had overshot our target.

The pilot looked down nervously and said to the colonel, “Dawn is breaking at 4:15. We don’t want to get caught up here.”

The weather grew increasingly misty. “We’ll have to go back,” said the colonel. We swung southward. We could not drop our flash bombs.

At 4:30, a searchlight probed the sky to the left. There were more glowing coals of fires to the right. We were still over Sicily.

The fires and searchlights faded, and there was no more anti-aircraft firing. I buttoned my jacket around my neck, squatted on my parachute and began to doze. When I woke up we were landing at La Marsa Airfield in North Africa.

We rubbed our hands, shivered and stretched our creaking joints. I asked the colonel about the route we had followed.

“We passed over Sciacca, then Palermo and Castelvetrano. The large fires were probably in Sciacca.” He yawned and added, wearily, “Not much of a show. Come back again some time and we’ll have another try.”

I worked on the story until late in the morning. The flight itself had been a failure, but I had learned, at least, that the President’s son was not afraid to share danger with his men.

JULY 16

I am trying desperately to make arrangements to go to Sicily. The details of getting transferred by the P.R.O. progress with tantalizing slowness. Col. Joe Phillips, head of the P.R.O., assures me that my assignment will be coming soon, but it is a full week since the Allied forces landed in Sicily. If the predictions of Gen. Eisenhower and Col. Roosevelt come true, then the campaign is already one-third finished, and there remains little time for me to see any action.

JULY 17

Maj. Max Boyd, of the Air Corps, dropped in casually and let it be known that an air mission of considerable importance was impending. His quiet approach made the whole matter so much the more mysterious. When he said that any of us who wanted to go along should report to Air Corps Headquarters tomorrow, my interest perked up. Anything to distract me from the annoyance of waiting was welcome. The campaign in Sicily might well be over before I set foot on the island. In any case, I might get a good story out of this mysterious mission, and still be back in time to catch a boat for Sicily. I had nothing to lose.

II Raid on Rome

JULY 18

At Allied Air Force Headquarters we were met by Brig. Gen. Laurie Norstad, second in command to Maj. Gen. Carl Spaatz. Slim, blond, clean-cut Gen. Norstad greeted us soberly. Less than thirty-five years old, he is the ultra-modern officer.

General Norstad drew some photographic prints from a file and passed them out to us. They were aerial pictures of cities and other bombing targets. We waited for the explanation.

“Our job is to cut the enemy’s communication lines,” he began in his precise manner, choosing his words carefully. “The photo reconnaissance unit photographed our raids in Sicily. It seems that we did a lot of damage. Our emphasis is now shifting to the mainland. We have made two attacks on Naples—probably the most concentrated to date.”

There was a pause. Gen. Norstad seemed to be measuring his words. “I think we have demonstrated that we bomb for military effect. We do not bomb to scare people. We’ve now reached the point where it is necessary to cut the enemy’s supply lines. We must achieve the destruction of enemy aircraft and bases.

“Bombardment from the air is a precise instrument. We are using it with precision methods. That is done in all cases. Precision bombing reached a peak at Pantelleria. We checked it every day. We checked it coldly and scientifically. We found that we were even a little too conservative in our claims.”

The general waited a moment. We looked up expectantly.

“You people may participate in a flight which will be very interesting,” he began.

Now we were going to get it.

“There may be an air attack on Rome very shortly.” He spoke almost casually. An electric silence filled the room. It was broken when Gen. Norstad continued in his meticulous way.

“It is very important in this mission that not one of the religious institutions should be damaged. We have selected our crews with the utmost care. When the city is attacked, it will be attacked only by those units which have indicated that they are capable of bombing with great accuracy.”

It developed that some 250 heavy bombers and nearly 300 mediums would attack marshaling yards and similar installations.

Norstad gave out confidential photographic mosaic maps of Rome.

“You will notice that I have marked the Vatican and the other religious monuments with this legend: ‘Must on no account be damaged.’ Here is the St. Paolo Basilica, less than five miles from the San Lorenzo yards. There is the St. John Lateran. That too must be given a wide berth. The closest of all the buildings is the St. John Lateran, about a mile and a half away.

“If any cloud formation exists which might make bombing inadvisable, we will not do it. Those are our orders. We have been preparing for this mission literally for months. But when we do it, when we go out to destroy something, we should really destroy it, go out and bomb the hell out of it.”

The precise, handsome young general had made all his points. The talk was over.

Eight of us correspondents were chosen to make the flight over Rome. A C-53, two-engined transport plane had been chartered to take us to the air bases where the attack on Rome would originate, and afterwards to Algiers to write our stories.

As the last remnants of sunlight were fading over the bare, almost grassless African plain, Herbert Matthews, of the New York Times, and I reached the camp of the Heavy Bombardment Group to which we were assigned. Already the chill evening winds had begun to blow through the tent camp. From across the company street came the sounds of a reed organ, and voices singing a hymn. Chaplain Harold T. Whillock, of Springfield, Ill., who was passing, volunteered the information that singing was quite common here on Sunday night. The chaplain said that church attendance had been very good today—the day before the Rome raid—and that he had conducted three separate services, one for Protestants, two masses for Catholics.

A yellow harvest moon hovered on the sharp horizon, and the evening star was brilliant on the blue shoulder of the night. The quartet in the briefing tent across the street, which did double duty as a church, shifted into another hymn, and from the yellow triangle of light which was the door of the neighboring tent came the sounds of a squeaking phonograph, giving out the swing version of “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me.”

JULY 19

This morning at six o’clock, carrying our armful of paraphernalia, which included oxygen masks, earphones, Mae Wests, and field glasses, we joined the group of crew members being “briefed” by Col. Fay R. Upthegrove, C.O. of the outfit. Most of the pilots—the “grapevine” of underground information was usually rapid in any aviators’ society—knew in advance that the mission was to be directed against Rome.

Nevertheless, as he stepped onto the little wooden platform in front of the large black briefing board, the colonel announced for the benefit of those who had not heard the news, “This morning we’re going to bomb Rome. There is need for great accuracy in this job. I don’t want any God-damn individual bombing. If you have to salvo ’em, why, salvo ’em—but get ’em out over the target.”

The colonel looked tired. The sound of airplane engines on the field made it difficult to hear him. But he was assertive and conscientious. Standing under the garish glare of a naked electric-light bulb, holding a sheaf of notes in his hand, he glanced up at the large cellophane-covered map of the target area on his left. He repeated himself vehemently, “If there’s any doubt in your mind, don’t drop.”

With a long wooden pointer, the colonel indicated a point about fifteen miles from Rome. “You come into Italy here,” he said, “and turn on a wide angle. That’ll take you right on to the target. The squadrons will javelin down and echelon to the left. The target is only 1,500 feet wide, so you’ll have to watch your bomb interval and get your bombs away fast. The deflection will be taken care of by the lead bombardiers. Those elements that have got to string along on the inside of the turn, don’t switch out.” He sneezed, and continued with the thought, “That’s your position. That’s a good thing to remember. Any of you that straggle, just get on the God-damn horn and tell somebody.”

The pilots and crew men shifted nervously. There was a mist of cigarette smoke in the tent. The noise of airplane engines stopped, and the colonel talked on.

Then, without any climax, the colonel was through. The meteorologist had a brief report that the weather was “generally good, with low clouds and low winds over the target.” The bomber crews trooped out of the tent toward their planes. I stayed behind to meet Capt. Robert F. Elliott, of Richmond, Cal., the pilot who was to fly the ship in which I was a passenger; the navigator, Lieut. Ben W. Jones, of Washington, Ga.; and Lieut. Warren S. Douglas, of Atlanta, Ga., the bombardier.

I asked Elliott what he thought about the mission, and he said cheerfully, “It should be pretty good.”

In a jeep, we rolled up to the ship, which bore the bright letters “Queenie” on her nose, and a row of yellow stenciled bombs below the pilot’s window, indicating the number of bombing missions which she had completed. I swung up into the bottom hatch and attempted to find a comfortable place amidst the litter of belted .50-caliber ammunition flares, oxygen bottles, masks, hosing, and the other impedimenta in the midst of which airmen must always move.

With the oxygen mask, my glasses, the collar of the Mae West around my neck, the case of my field glasses dangling on my chest, the separate strap of the binoculars themselves, my map case, my canteen belt with a sheath knife, plus my parachute and the goggles which I would have to put on in some way if I had to jump out of this plane, I was an airgoing assemblage of junk. I had difficulty sitting down without gouging my spine on the corner of an ammunition box.

“Do you have much trouble with flak these days?” I asked Jones.

Jones glanced slyly at me and allowed that flak was considerable these days. “The closest I ever came was when a piece hit into the nose, right there, hit the bombsight, and took a chunk off it. It didn’t hurt me, but it scared hell out of me.” He pointed to a ragged hole, covered with a metal patch over the center of the nose. Somehow the sight of the hole made the danger seem much more immediate.

The motors of the big plane roared, one by one, as the pilots tested them individually. Then we were moving forward, with squealing wheel brakes, as we swung into the runway, and taxied down before the wind, following the huge tail of the leading B-17, with little else visible, except the tail itself, because great clouds of dust whirled up from the propellers ahead of us. The particles of dust and gravel rattled against the transparent circular window in the nose of the ship. Then we swung into the wind, the engines filled the plane with sudden power, and we began to move. The tail was up, we were accelerating, and then, looking back, we could see huge triangular clouds of gray dust rising from the field where other planes were taking off. We were airborne, and on the way to Rome.

The element leader and several other Fortresses were forming up below, and to the side. In a few minutes we rode over the convoluted mountains of North Africa, and we were above the Mediterranean.

The earphones on my head buzzed with some interplane conversation. Somebody in the rear of the ship was reporting that an oxygen line had blown out. There was much talk about the check valve between the bomb bay and the pilot on the right side of the fuselage. I gathered that something was out of order, and began to fear that if an important part of the oxygen system was out, we might have to turn back. But Douglas said that it was only one of the trunk lines, and there was an alternative.

A faint mist still drifted over the Mediterranean. “Misty as hell,” I commented to Douglas, and he said, “Yeah, it will probably burn off by ten or eleven o’clock. One good thing is that Rome is about forty miles inland.”

Across the blue water came a convoy of ships homeward bound from Sicily to Africa. They were arranged in six straight lines, like the buttons of an abacus. They were strung on narrow white wakes, with the six or seven parallel strings making a nearly symmetrical square against the sea.

We swung in a gentle turn around the convoy, and Douglas explained, “We give them a wide berth, even though they must know we are their own planes. No use taking a chance.”

The earphones rattled into my auditory nerves. It was a warning from Capt. Elliott, the pilot. “All gunners, all gunners, we’re off the coast of Sardinia. You’d better get on the alert. You might pick up a plane or two here.” Douglas wriggled into his parachute harness. Jones checked his Mae West.

We were climbing steadily, and if I wanted to talk to the other members of the crew, I would have to hurry, before we reached oxygen level, at about 12,000 feet. From then on, I would have to stay fairly close to the oxygen tap, in the nose.

I crawled to the pilot’s compartment and talked to Capt. Elliott and his co-pilot, Lieut. Julius Horowitz. Horowitz was wearing new shiny second-lieutenant bars. He wasn’t as nonchalant as the other crew members.

“Your first trip over?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

“Me, too!”

Capt. Elliott picked up his oxygen mask, and said, “We are starting to climb.” I thought that I must get back to the greenhouse, so that I could don my mask. And to myself I said: “We’ve got to get to the target some time.”

I struggled into the elaborate paraphernalia of the oxygen mask, screwed in the large tube from the oxygen system, and checked the deliberately rising and falling red rubber ball in the respirator. In their masks, Jones and Douglas were no longer individual American boys, with likable features, but only expressionless, goggle-eyed, gray cogs in a larger machinery. Looking at the uniform snouts I read on the blunt metallic end of their new faces: “Type A-10-STO.” On every such mission as this, every American flyer has of necessity to become an automaton labeled: “Type A-10-STO.” War certainly is the assassin of personality.

I noticed that the two “Type A-10s” were craning their snouts toward the greenhouse front, and had apparently spotted an object below. That would be Italy, a strip of green amidst the flat islands of cumulus clouds. The navigator extended the folded map, bearing the penciled line of our approach to Italy, and nodded. I looked at my watch. The time was 11:10.

We turned sharply to another leg of our course. Now we could see clearly the curving blue arc of the shore line, which was Italy. Rising from the mist to the south, a geyser-like knout of black smoke towered into the sky, and farther to the left a plume of white smoke. Rome must be down there, more than sixty miles away. The waves of bombers preceding us had done their job well!

That last village over which we had passed was evidently Civitavecchia, on the coast north of Rome, and ahead of us lay the flat blue saucer of Lake Bracciano.

We passed over the shallow blue plain of the lake, and I craned into the nose of the greenhouse trying to make out the white, gull-like shapes of Italian seaplanes anchored on the surface. The seaplanes appeared to be motionless, and we could have destroyed them, but the target of the day lay ahead, and we would have ignored any other objective.

The great mushroom-cloud to the right marked the fires rising murderously from the San Lorenzo marshaling yards. Down there in the midst of the clouds of smoke I could visualize the twisted sidings of the yards and the blown-up buildings of the steel factory and workshops in the area.

The planes ahead of us, dots against the flat-floored mass of cumulus clouds, were winging over the etched rows of streets and buildings which were Rome. Anti-aircraft fire was rising to meet them. There were black smudges, puffs which smeared into foul little clouds, to the right and left and ahead. The...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Contents
• Guadalcanal Diary
• About the Author
• Copyright Page