Elvis’s Army: Cold War GIs and the Atomic Battlefield 9780674973732

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ELVIS’S ARMY

ELVIS’S ARMY Cold War GIs and the Atomic Battlefield

Brian McAllister Linn

Cambridge, Massachusetts London, England 2016

Copyright © 2016 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College All rights reserved Printed in the United States of Amer ica First printing Design by Dean Bornstein Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Linn, Brian McAllister, author. Title: Elvis’s army : Cold War GIs and the atomic battlefield / Brian McAllister Linn. Description: Cambridge, Massachusetts : Harvard University Press, 2016. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016006062 | ISBN 9780674737686 (alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: United States. Army—History—20th century. | United States. Army—Reorganization—History—20th century. | Presley, Elvis, 1935–1977— Career in the military. | Sociology, Military—United States—History—20th century. | Draft— Social aspects—United States. | Cold War. Classification: LCC UA25 .L64 2016 | DDC 355.00973/09045— dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016006062

To Dinny scout, researcher, editor, voice of reason, and soul mate

CONTENTS Prologue

1

1. The Army Was Coming Apart

9

2. The Catalyst of the Korean War

48

3. The Atomic Battlefield

73

4. The Tools of Modern War

99

5. Who’s in the Army Now?

132

6. The Officer Corps’s Generation Gap

165

7. Training for Nuclear War

191

8. Marketing the New, Improved Army

230

9. The Renovation of the American Soldier

268

10. Next Stop Is Vietnam? Epilogue

298 334

Abbreviations 343 Notes 349 Acknowledgments 429 Index 431

MILITARY RANKS AND TITLES BG COL CPT GEN LT LTC LTG MAJ MG PFC SGT

Brigadier General Colonel Captain General Lieutenant Lieutenant Colonel Lieutenant General Major Major General Private First Class Sergeant

ELVIS’S ARMY

PROLOGUE

In January 1957 the Memphis Selective Service Board announced that Elvis Aaron Presley had been classified 1-A and would soon be inducted in the United States armed forces. Over the next months, the rock-androll sensation turned down attractive offers from the navy and air force to sing his way through his ser vice, and announced he would enter the US Army. With much help from Presley’s managers, public interest remained high. The ser vice was deluged with letters from angry fans: “If you draft Elvis all the teenagers will be mad at the Army. It would be like Russia if Elvis was in the Army.” 1 Equally angry letters insisted he be treated like any other recruit. Although media manipulation played its part, the induction of Elvis struck a powerful chord among the American public, validating their faith that military ser vice was a national obligation. The army was determined to avoid any repetition of the bad press it had received for extending preferential treatment to athletes, entertainers, and other privileged males. For its part, Presley’s management team, if not the singer himself, saw in his imminent ser vice the opportunity to repackage this icon of teenage rebellion as an entertainer for all generations. After much negotiation, both sides agreed on the mutual benefits of having Presley fulfill his military ser vice as a typical GI in a combat division in Germany. By early 1958 Elvis, or US 53310761, was in uniform—the most famous soldier of the decade. Gold lamé jacket replaced by baggy fatigues, his salary had gone from millions to a trainee’s $78 a month; his famous greased pompadour was now a military buzz cut. But beyond these outward manifestations of change, what army had Presley joined? 1

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And, perhaps most intriguing, what kind of army wanted Elvis Aaron Presley? Major General William Childs Westmoreland may have answered these questions a few months after the Memphis announcement in a speech on “Our Modern Army.” As Army Chief of Staff Maxwell D. Taylor’s top staff officer, “Westy” spoke with the full authority of the Pentagon. The most famous general of the next decade proclaimed the army was in the midst of “a period of transition never before known in the history of arms,” an age of revolutionary “new concepts, techniques, tactics, and terminology.” By capitalizing on breakthroughs in nuclear weapons, missiles, electronics, aviation, and other emerging technologies, the ser vice could become “a truly revolutionary type army able to gain and retain the initiative in any type of military situation” from atomic to guerrilla war. And this revolution in materiel had sparked an equivalent revolution in military personnel: to its “skilled fighters” the Army could soon add “highly trained technicians capable of operating the new and complex weapons and materiel of war.” 2 Westmoreland did not have to remind his audience of the consequences of failing to embrace this radical agenda. In the last decade they had all experienced the precipitous decline of their ser vice. The post–World War II demobilization, the frustration of limited war in Korea, relentless overseas deployments, financial and personnel cutbacks, obsolete equipment, decaying facilities, the exodus of young officers and enlisted personnel, and a host of other problems were bad enough. But what was hardest to bear was the widespread belief among politicians, the other armed forces, and the American public that the US Army had little role in any major war. Westmoreland envisioned a “truly revolutionary type army” for the atomic battlefield manned by elite mechanics and warriors; Elvis and his generation just wanted to be anonymous GIs. And seen from the perspective of soldiers in the field, rather than the Pentagon, the force of the fifties was more Elvis’s army than Westmoreland’s. This great disconnect between a military organization’s ideal of warfare and the capabilities of the personnel charged with executing that plan is the underlying theme of this book. Over nearly two decades following 2

Prologue

World War II, the army’s leaders sought to exploit the explosion of technological innovations, determined to create a new way of war. But they had to make do with personnel—both junior officers and enlisted men—motivated largely by conscription. This manpower base could provide a typical company commander with a recently graduated ROTC lieutenant as his deputy, a tough Korean War combat veteran as his sergeant, an MBA draftee to do his unit’s accounts, a former Big 10 star for his football team, and several semiliterates who needed his constant supervision. The US Army of the 1950s was the most diverse, representative, and in some ways egalitarian peacetime organization in the nation’s history. It was a truly revolutionary army, but not in the sense that Westmoreland and his fellow military professionals—fi xated on building a force to wage atomic blitzkrieg— either understood or appreciated. As the fifties gave way to the sixties, Elvis and Westmoreland would both become symbols of the transformative power of military ser vice. When he emerged from his khaki cocoon in March 1960, Elvis had morphed from juvenile delinquent to national icon. He moved to Hollywood, had an immediate hit with G.I. Blues, a faux-autobiographical movie about his army career, and within a few years was the nation’s top-grossing actor. He broadened his musical range, producing albums that reflected his gospel, country, pop, and occasionally rock-and-roll interests. Westmoreland rotated through a series of increasingly prestigious assignments and in 1964 took charge of US Military Assistance Command Vietnam. He would soon be directing over half a million American soldiers in combat operations, in the process becoming a national hero and Time’s “Man of the Year” in 1966. But by the end of the decade both had become polarizing figures. Westmoreland’s reputation was one of the many casualties of a divisive, bloody, and frustrating war; he would later be termed “the general who lost Vietnam.” 3 His vision of “a revolutionary type army” was another casualty. By the time he finally shed his uniform, the US Army was stained by My Lai, drug use, indiscipline, and alienation. Presley would suffer a similar decline in his reputation. Many former fans would regard him as a defector or a joke—a rapidly aging, sequined, jump-suited travesty known chiefly for 3

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glitzy Las Vegas reviews, vapid movies, forgettable music, and an embarrassing photo-op with President Richard  M. Nixon. John Lennon, one of the British rock-and-rollers who helped dethrone Presley, would remark that Elvis died when he went into the army. For all his hyperbole, Westmoreland was correct in his assertion that both he and Elvis served in an organization undergoing revolutionary change. The post–World War II army’s reconfiguration for the atomic battlefield was one of the most comprehensive in the history of the nation’s armed forces. This transformation was born of both military and institutional necessity. No sooner had the nation defeated the Axis than it began dismantling its ground forces, supremely confident that the atomic bomb would resolve the new challenges of the Cold War. The Korean War exposed the limits of this strategy and prompted the rapid buildup of a large conscript army, not only to fight in Korea but also to protect Western Europe from Soviet invasion. But soon President Dwight D. Eisenhower’s New Look revived the nation’s commitment to the nuclear deterrent, and with massive retaliation came massive reductions in army budgets and personnel. Traumatized by the absence of a clear victory in Korea and the looming threat of irrelevance under the New Look, the army seized on the vision of a great atomic land war against the Soviet Union. It quickly adopted a radically new way of fighting— one that required fundamental changes in its equipment, concepts, and training. It reconfigured its historic regiments into “pentomic” battle groups, the Madison Avenue moniker an advertisement for their atomic mission. It designed and deployed everything from sleek air defense missiles to a tactical atomic weapon small enough to transport on a jeep. It trained hundreds of thousands of soldiers in how to employ this equipment and an equal number of technical specialists in how to maintain it. It relentlessly marketed itself to both the public and its own members as “an army in transition” through movies, television, radio, newspapers, and celebrity endorsers as diverse as Eddie Fisher and Jane Fonda. At the same time it declared this revolution in military affairs, the US Army underwent an equally impor tant social revolution. Due in large part to the draft, the fi fties Army quickly became the nation’s 4

Prologue

most racially and economically egalitarian institution—the only place where members of every ethnic group, college graduates and illiterates, rich and poor, urban and rural, had to live, work, train, and if necessary fight together. Tens of thousands of college graduates became temporary officers, while Selective Ser vice swept up everyone from cartoonist Jules Feiffer to Ivy League satirist Tom Lehrer to baseball superstar Willie Mays. But in return for the right to levy the nation’s young men, both they and their parents expected the ser vice to teach much more than military skills. The army assumed responsibility for providing education, technical training, entertainment, moral instruction, character guidance, and a multitude of other social ser vices. Military ser vice, or the threat of it, shaped the fifties generation’s choices in careers, marriage, education, and families. It influenced the music teenagers listened to and the movies and television shows they watched. And across much of the world, GIs became public agents of Cold War Americanism, teaching young people their slang, fashions, music, and attitudes, to the great distress of both parents and the communists. Elvis Presley embodies the impact of this social revolution. He entered the ser vice a notorious musical rebel condemned by parents, preachers, and politicians. When he emerged two years later, his reformation astounded one critic: “Whatever else the Army has done for Elvis Presley, it has taken that indecent swivel out of his hips and turned him into a good, clean, trustworthy, upstanding American young man.” 4 Presley was exceptional in the public interest that greeted his induction, but he typified many of his generation in his quiet, patriotic acceptance of his duty: “I’m goin’ to be a soldier and the Army can do anything it wants with me and send me anyplace.” 5 He served honorably and faithfully: he mastered his military duties, was liked by his comrades and respected by his superiors, and in all ways proved an outstanding representative of the ser vice. Had the Soviet-American war that most of his peers viewed as inevitable occurred, there is little doubt that he, along with hundreds of thousands of others then wearing army green, would have died. But like others of his generation who had grown up around combat veterans, he dismissed any suggestion he was a hero for wearing a uniform. He was also typical of his generation in that, as one 5

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officer complained, “just about the time they are well-trained and have acquired a real value to the Army, they return to civilian life.” 6 In this he symbolized both the army’s potential—to induct the most famous young American in the world—and its constraints in keeping him. Elvis’s military ser vice also reveals much about the limits of the atomic army’s transformation. He served in this revolutionary army, during the height of the pentomic era, as a reconnaissance scout in the 3rd Armored Division in West Germany—the most likely atomic battlefield. His division included nuclear-capable Honest John missiles and Corporal rockets; he may have missed by only months having a Davy Crockett tactical nuclear weapon mounted on his jeep. But Presley’s day-to-day experience in the field army of the late 1950s scarcely related to the alleged military revolution, or even to the atomic army. Many of the older soldiers in his unit, from his division commander to his sergeant, were World War II veterans. Much of the equipment he used, both in real life and soon afterwards in the movie G.I. Blues, dated from that war as well. And if he and his fellow soldiers wrestled with the ideological and strategic implications of the Cold War, it was on a level that would have befuddled most strategic thinkers. Elvis, for example, was quoted as providing the following explanation of atomic deterrence theory: “Even if I know karate and even if I travel in a gang, the Soviets have to know that I’ll actually use my karate and that my gang will fight if they attack.” 7 It is likely that if anyone had told Elvis, or most of the other lower enlisted and officer ranks serving with him, that he was part of a great military transformation, he might well have responded, “Start the revolution without me.” He was too busy spit-shining his boots, fi xing his jeep, learning how to navigate, playing sports, and carry ing out dozens of other duties that made up fifties soldiering. The Cold War military in which Elvis, Westmoreland, and millions of others served is a forgotten army.8 When today’s US Army officers want a historical example of military transformation they reference Nazi Germany’s blitzkrieg, not their own experience with atomic war. Among career military professionals, there are neither lessons nor in6

Prologue

spiration to be drawn from the citizen-soldier experiment. The nation has also forgotten those who defended it during the long Cold War peace. Washington, D.C., has monuments to those who fought in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, but nothing to acknowledge those who also served by standing in wait for “the Big One.” Its fifties veterans have contributed to this national amnesia by their collective disinterest in recording their experiences. The result is a distorted view, often shaped by popular culture, a mélange of stereotypes: the drafted four-year old in Jules Feiffer’s Munro; the unending struggle between Beetle Bailey and Sergeant Snorkel; the conniving Ernie Bilko; Tulsa McCauley (aka Elvis Presley) romancing a beautiful German dancer in G.I. Blues. Despite this casual dismissal of their ser vice, most veterans of the fifties army look back on their time in uniform with appreciation, if not nostalgia. They are proud to have withstood the rigors of basic combat training and field ser vice, the ordeal of inspections and KP, the harassment by officers and NCOs. They are also proud of having made friends with, or at least tolerated, soldiers from different regions, races, social classes, and religions. Many left the ser vice better prepared for life as productive citizens, having acquired a craft or an education as well as such intangibles as a work ethic and discipline. Even men who hated their time in the service—and there were many— often emerged with a determination to make something of themselves, if only to avoid a lifetime of the drudgery, physical toil, and powerlessness they had experienced as soldiers. “The army made a satirist out of me” recalled Feiffer, crediting it with shaping the direction of his work for the next fifty years.9 For draftee Larry D. Hill, “the army was basically good for me. I never really was a soldier. I worked with competent officers and NCOs. They admitted that the real army was in decay. They didn’t want to go to war with the current crop of draftees” but they were “at a loss to know how to turn things around.” 10 As Hill recognized, it is crucial not to view those who served in this transforming army as individual or collective failures. Without their dedication, innovation, and hard work, the army would have disintegrated after Korea, leaving the nation completely dependent on thermonuclear retaliation. Their commitment is all 7

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the more impressive since, as the army recognized, most younger officers and enlisted men were not in uniform by choice. For themselves, and for the nation, it was sufficient that they served. Elvis and his generation quietly soldiered on, doing their duty so stoically that this nation, and its historians, has all but ignored them. This book is written in acknowledgment of that forgotten army.

8

1

THE ARMY WAS COMING APART

In April 1945 James B. Vaught enlisted in the US Army. His motives were less patriotic than practical; he knew he would be drafted and believed he would receive better treatment as a volunteer. His fellow recruits were a mix of teenagers and those who “couldn’t find any more excuses to keep from being called in.” 1 Vaught’s Citadel education and football background prompted his instructors to put him forward for Officer Candidate School (OCS). There he underwent an intense threemonth course that trained infantry squad leaders, the junior officers who took the highest combat casualties. Vaught was impressed with how well the course was orga nized but appalled at the marginal skills of the training cadre. Virtually none of his teachers had practiced what OCS taught in combat, and the chief noncommissioned officer (NCO) did not even know how to drill the squad. By the time he was commissioned as a second lieutenant in April 1946, Vaught had concluded, “the army was coming apart.” 2 Vaught would have been even more concerned had he overheard the briefing the army staff gave President Harry S. Truman a few months later on what it termed “the fundamental conflict” with the Soviet Union.3 The army spokesman warned that the Soviets had an army of 4.5 million, which could be supplemented by another 10 million in five months. In Europe, the understrength and poorly equipped 1st Infantry Division stood against ninety-three Russian divisions. The Soviets did not yet possess atomic weapons, but they would probably acquire them within three years, and within five years would be able to strike US cities. Although army analysts concluded the USSR would not initiate a war with the United States in the next decade, even a minor crisis might 9

elvis ’ s army

provoke a superpower conflict. This total war would begin with a surprise attack on Western Europe that the United States could do little to prevent. Pessimistic as this briefing was, it envisioned a better outcome than contemporary war plans, which predicted the Soviets would rapidly overrun Western Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. The American armed forces’ eventual victory would come only after a long and costly process: first capturing air bases, then sustaining a strategic bombing campaign to turn Soviet cities and industries into radioactive rubble, then occupying and finally rebuilding much of Eastern Europe. During most of this period, the US Army’s role would be distinctly subordinate, restricted to helping the navy and air force win the decisive campaigns.4 Yet for many in the army, the Russians posed a less immediate threat than did their own political masters and their ser vice rivals. The story of the origins of the Cold War, the development of the policy of containment, and the creation of what some have termed the “national security state” has been told many times and in many ways. But there is a consensus that the US Army was the greatest loser in these postwar bureaucratic battles on the Potomac. The ser vice’s leadership hoped for as many as one million soldiers on active duty, supported by trained reserves of several million more. This promised a solution to what military intellectuals had identified as the great weakness of the nation’s historic defense policy: it took years to field well-trained, well-equipped, well-led armies in wartime. But Truman, Congress, and most American citizens were unwilling to bear the cost of this ambitious plan. Many assumed atomic weapons and long-range bombers were the simple and cheap answer to all the nation’s security problems. The only army the nation needed would be an interim force to occupy the defeated Axis nations, which would soon be replaced by the small professional force of the prewar era. The army’s credibility was weakened by bad publicity over its postwar demobilization and black marketeering, venereal disease (VD) rates, officer abuses, and other scandals that blemished the transition from war to peace. 10

The Army Was Coming Apart

Historians have concluded that it often takes a catastrophic defeat before military institutions reject their traditional way of war and transform their organizations, doctrines, and equipment. In this case, the US Army, though victorious on the battlefield, in some ways suffered consequences worse than defeat. Within three years of its victory over the Axis, the army withered from 8,267,000 to 554,000 personnel.5 This postwar ghost force of skeleton formations equipped with aging weapons was manned by an unhappy collection of draftees, veterans, and misfits. Yet these tattered legions were deployed across the globe in pursuit of vague and often contradictory national interests, confronting the far superior Red Army, a civil war in China, the violent dissolution of colonialism in Asia and Africa, and the rebuilding of Germany and Japan. The extent of the field army’s decline was not recognized until the summer of 1950, when American soldiers sent to Korea were twice driven back in ignominious retreat by communist forces. This precipitous descent from wartime greatness, to peacetime impotence, to wartime disaster remains ingrained in the ser vice’s memory. Whether from self-serving politicians, journalists, or officers, the allegations were the same: soldiers had grown soft on occupation duty; they lacked the will and the skill to fight; they were prone to “give-it-upitis” and “bugging out.” Even today, Korea provides, according to an officially sanctioned account, “a study of unpreparedness.”6 But however instructive, this convenient narrative of the Korean War has a number of flaws. The army that fought in June 1950 must be understood both in the broad context of US military policy and the specific problems that emerged after the end of World War II. Americans have always been ambivalent about the place of the armed forces, and especially the army, in their republic. The Constitution allows Congress to raise and maintain armies, but it does not require an army to exist. American political leaders, however sympathetic to the ideal citizen-soldier, have recognized that the world is a dangerous place, that martial spirit is not enough and is often in short supply in wartime, and that some military skills require years to master. 11

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Thus, from 1789 until 1941, the nation relied for its peacetime military security on a small cadre of long-serving careerists answering to the federal government. This Regular Army’s peacetime mission was to guard the borders, pacify the frontier, and respond to temporary emergencies. In the event of war, it trained, administered, and led the citizen-soldier armies. For over a century, this military system provided cheap security in peace and sufficient forces during confl icts, and rendered a military coup impossible. But by the twentieth century its limitations were apparent. In both world wars, it took over a year to recruit, train, equip, and deploy citizen-soldier armies in sufficient numbers and with sufficient ability to play a decisive role on the battlefield. Had the United States’ allies not withstood the burden during the interim, both wars would have been lost before the nation could mobilize. In 1946 not even the most optimistic planner believed any ally could delay a Red Army onslaught. Thus the first question for military and civilian policymakers was how to transform the US Army to meet these new challenges, a task that required both a vision of the future and an appreciation for what the ser vice had been. Throughout its existence, the peacetime Regular Army was a closed military caste; for most of the two decades before World War II, it numbered fewer than 140,000. By mutual choice, it was largely separate from civilian society: in 1924 one officer speculated that unless he lived near a military post, the average American might not meet twenty soldiers in his entire life.7 It was also internally segregated, its four AfricanAmerican regiments— overwhelmingly officered by whites—largely assigned to post maintenance duties after World War I. Many officers literally belonged to military families, marrying the daughters or sisters of their colleagues, women not only familiar with the social intricacies of post life, but recognized as essential to a successful career. With the exception of a miniscule administrative staff attached to the War Department in Washington, D.C., the army was dispersed in small garrisons in the continental United States and Hawaii, the Philippines, and Panama.8 On the whole, being an officer in the prewar Regulars provided a challenging and satisfying career. In 1939 the officer corps was slightly more than 10  percent of the force, or about 15,000. Many were gradu12

The Army Was Coming Apart

ates of the US Military Academy and shared a martial culture characterized by duty, honor, and discipline. When a newly commissioned second lieutenant first joined his regiment, both his superiors and colleagues were men who had made the army a lifetime calling. Over the course of a long, stable tour of duty—usually four years—the junior officer took on great responsibilities, but he also had ample time for recreation, study, school, and social engagements. Administrative work was simple, and much of his time was spent outdoors training with long-service troops who knew the ropes, and who taught him practical soldiering and made him look good to his superiors. Pay might be insufficient, but it was guaranteed, no small factor in Depression-era America, and on many posts housing and welfare ser vices were better than outside the gates. Moreover, he knew that with seniority came promotion and many more opportunities, including attending the army’s progressive education system. There officers would first master their infantry, cavalry, or other branch specialty, then, after more ser vice with the troops, go on to staff college to learn the intricacies of large-unit combined arms warfare, and finally to the war college to become strategists. All in all, it was both a profession and a calling that men loved; fewer than one of every thirty junior officers resigned his commission in the 1930s.9 Mediating between the soldiers and the officers were the multipleenlistment, noncommissioned officers (noncoms or NCOs).10 In the mid-1930s, there were some 30,000 noncoms, roughly 20  percent in technical or occupational specialties (or ratings) such as cooks, mechanics, or farriers, and the majority in combat units. Many of the latter had spent years with the same company, and could do every thing from breaking in a green second lieutenant to balancing the payroll. These craftsmen of soldiering ran the mess, kept the company records, supervised training, meted out punishments and rewards, and served as interpreters between officers and the ranks. Since most NCOs held their stripes at the discretion of the commander, they tended to remain with the same outfit throughout their careers. Their elites, the company first sergeants or Top Kicks, ruled by a combination of charisma, discipline, tradecraft, and mastery of the ser vice’s regulations (“by the book”). 13

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The enlisted force was another tribe—long-service volunteers who had taken up the vocation of soldiering. In 1935 four out of every five enlisted men (there were no women) was a private; half were in the lowest grade or “buck” private. The majority were in the combat arms: roughly one-third in the infantry, and another third in the cavalry or artillery. Few had achieved an eighth-grade education, and many enlisted because no other employer would keep them. But the army would try. A recruit endured months, even years, of what one veteran termed “savage and relentless” military training and social instruction by NCOs before he was considered a member of the outfit.11 Most reenlisted and remained within their unit, only transferring for higher pay or overseas duty. It was not unusual to find privates who had been with the same company for over a decade. The soldiers’ equipment and housing were minimal, consisting largely of World War I surplus; their daily routine revolved around formations, drill, fatigue work (labor), and sports. Those who were ambitious could also take a host of courses on post, from basic literacy to technical specialties conferring a rating with better pay or assignment. The best would eventually become NCOs. It was a hard life, but for those who loved soldiering the ser vice provided travel, entertainment, food, clothing, shelter, comradeship, sufficient money for a good debauch on monthly paydays, and an overwhelming pride in being a member of the US Army. The pre–World War II army also inherited a long tradition of military intellectuals who had warned that in the next great war, the nation would need to mobilize millions, equip them with the most modern weapons, organize them into effective forces, and deploy them in combat. But to most Depression-era Americans there appeared little need to change a system that had worked well for over a century, kept defense costs down, and ensured political control of the armed forces. Moreover, many in both the public and the military opposed any change. Although most citizens admired battlefield heroism, they also viewed peacetime soldiers as drunken, profane, shiftless brutes and their officers as aristocratic martinets. Workingmen coined the term “soldiering” to describe those who did as little work as possible. Many Regulars, 14

The Army Was Coming Apart

in turn, viewed civilians as factional, undisciplined, individualistic, emotional, and unreliable. Their view of the political representatives of the American public was even less flattering. To military reformers, this mutual suspicion was intolerable. They wanted the army to be the school of the nation. Far from corrupting, they argued military ser vice would make young males better citizens and homogenize Amer ica’s chaotic and divisive melting pot, placing farmers next to factory hands, immigrants next to native born, rich next to poor, and all molded into disciplined patriots. These progressives recognized that modern war, like modern industry, required not just unskilled labor but skilled technicians and administrators. At the beginning of World War I barely one soldier in ten was assigned to a specialist occupation, but by its conclusion, twenty months later, it was one in three.12 At the end of World War II the long debate over the mission and manning of the peacetime army took on new intensity. Devotees of tradition complained that “the Army has come to a state of affairs that it is being a mother to a large group of civilians, rather than an Army of men that are soldiers.” 13 They yearned to return to prewar standards and discipline, the regimental family, the rigid hierarchy of rank, the pride in outfit and branch, and the refuge from the chaos of civilian life. But the progressives, who by now included such influential senior officers as George C. Marshall, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Omar Bradley, recognized that the Old Army that had served so well for a century could not be resurrected. Their arguments were many, but all centered on creating a large peacetime force, perhaps a million, with an even larger reserve of trained citizen-soldiers that could mobilize quickly in the event of war. The ser vice’s own analysis indicated it must attract significantly more educated and skilled personnel than the prewar army had managed to enlist. During World War II the army had identified 532 essential Military Occupational Specialties (MOSs) and, until quite late, gave technical and administrative branches priority over the combat arms for high-quality soldiers. Fortunately, the wartime draft brought in hosts of experts who served for minimal wages and benefits. 15

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But how would the postwar peacetime army obtain their equivalent, now that the atomic bomb, missiles, and other revolutionary changes in technology required ever-greater specialization?14 The question of the size and composition of the peacetime army became more urgent with the demobilization or, more correctly, the disintegration of the war time army. The war in Europe ended with over 3,000,000 GIs in Germany; two years later there were but 135,000. Within half a year after Japan’s surrender, the army discharged over 6,000,000 soldiers, and by 1948 a shell of 555,000 was all that remained of the wartime millions. The army, to its largely unacknowledged credit, had given great thought to demobilization, if only to redeem its poor performance after World War I. After polling soldiers in 1943, it established a point system based on time in uniform, combat, wounds, parenthood, and other criteria so that those who had “done their bit” would be released, and those who had not would remain in uniform. But after Germany’s surrender in April 1945, strategists miscalculated the time needed to defeat Japan, assuming they would have months to retrain, reorganize, and redeploy tens of thousands of troops from the European to the Pacific theater. Instead, with Japan’s collapse in August, the army’s immediate problem became the discharge of millions of soldiers. To bring them home the army had to create its own navy: by November 253 transports, augmented by 634 converted ships, were moving 600,000 troops each month back to the United States.15 Unfortunately, these impressive numbers were achieved by methods practically guaranteed to enrage GIs and their families. As MG James M. Gavin recalled, “We were not demobilizing the Army, we were destroying it.”16 To later writers, prone to Greatest Generation my thology, the end of World War II is bathed in romantic nostalgia, evoking images of sailors kissing girls in Times Square and triumphal parades. They tend to view the collapse of the Axis as the culmination of a great national coming together, a time when Americans put aside their differences and labored collectively in the cause of freedom. In this narrative of the “Good War,” citizen-soldiers led by heroes like Eisenhower and Patton overcame the Nazis and Japanese imperialists and then marched happily off to suburbia. It is no doubt a comforting thought for those facing 16

The Army Was Coming Apart

today’s challenges, but it is one that few veterans or their civilian compatriots would have recognized.17 As previous wars had demonstrated, serving in the US Army did not always engender either loyalty or respect for the institution or its leaders. Soldiers who had witnessed their superiors’ muddled generalship in the Hürtgen Forest, the Rapido River, or the Philippines did not hold them in any particular awe. Some maintained they had won the war despite the Regular Army’s “brass hats.” The joy of victory was more than balanced by long-simmering grievances ranging from collective punishment to “chickenshit,” often lumped under the collective acronym of RHIP (Rank Hath Its Privileges). One colonel, who recalled attending an awards ceremony in which thirty-nine officers and one enlisted man received medals, concluded that most of his colleagues were ignorant of the true state of enlisted morale in their own units, and made little effort to find out.18 The first indications that the army’s plans for the postwar were in trouble appeared in Europe when the high-point veterans awaiting transport home were separated from their units and transferred to temporary camps at port cities. Officers who tried to retain troops essential to the functioning of their commands— cooks, typists, mechanics— found they could not buck the iron law that when a soldier’s number came up, he was off to a departure camp. Most of these camps were little more than tent cities, lacking adequate shelter, food ser vices, or entertainment. They were chronically understaffed, since those assigned to provide support or administrative ser vice, many of them low pointers, proved adept at shipping themselves home ahead of combatants. The demobilization process worsened when, under public pressure, the War Department decided to discharge any soldier with over two years of ser vice. Already overwhelmed by relatively few high pointers, the system collapsed under the flood of new arrivals. Soldiers arriving at a temporary camp had to complete reams of paperwork to ensure their veterans benefits and pay, turn in equipment, undergo physical inspection, and obtain various certifications for the type of discharge, awards and decorations, money owed for purchases, and so forth. Often there were no clerks or doctors to complete this process, leaving desperate 17

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soldiers standing in endless lines waiting to get forms filled out so they could get on a transport. The army was no better able to organize its materiel than its manpower. Ideally, a combat or support unit could turn in its equipment to depot personnel, who would promptly complete detailed inventories on its condition and quantity, pass these reports on to higher headquarters, and tidily store it for future use. But with the hasty departure of administrative personnel staff, combat units found no one authorized to receive their paraphernalia or to sign off on the inventories. The depots soon overflowed with equipment for which there were no records, which received no maintenance, and which the army subsequently could not locate. From Honolulu to Paris, angry GIs frustrated with the paperwork, excuses, and ineptitude began to take action. When Gavin landed at Southampton and encountered a mob of soldiers waving their fists and shouting abuse, he thought at fi rst they were conducting riot training. He was quickly disabused when they attacked the headquarters building. With characteristic style, Gavin cursed them out and then set to work investigating their grievances—most of which were justified.19 In other areas there was no charismatic leader like “Jumping Jim” to save the day. Four thousand soldiers picketed army headquarters in Frankfurt, sparking a confrontation with bayonet-wielding security personnel. Twenty thousand marched through the streets of Manila. To some officers and congressmen, such insubordination only proved the ser vice had been infiltrated by communists or, perhaps worse, organized labor. As Eisenhower and others recognized, this was more a case of blowing off steam by soldiers who felt they were victims of a military organization that had failed to honor its obligations. More troubling was widespread evidence of animosity between GIs and officers that came close to class warfare, for, as one journalist noted, “what burns the men up more than anything else is their apparent status of peasants, while officers play the role of manorial barons.”20 The members of the officer caste were themselves torn by internal rivalries, particularly between the long-service Regular Army officers and those commissioned during the war. Ominously, antagonism 18

The Army Was Coming Apart

toward both the army and its career officers was strongest among those commissioned for their occupational skills. A survey of dentists found they thought the sole advantage of a military career was job security, which one dismissed as only “for the lazy and inefficient man who shirks the responsibilities and risks of private practice.” Some regarded their military superiors not as fellow professionals, but as arrogant bureaucrats who dished out “Army crap.” 21 Like dentists, doctors could identify no reason to remain in military ser vice except job security, an incentive that appealed to only one officer among 386 surveyed. And, like dentists, they evinced “a general dislike for Army orders and restrictions,” and an even greater antipathy toward the career officers in the Medical Corps.22 Even nonspecialists commented that the “morons carry ing the rank in the Medical Department” were far less capable than those who had entered during the war. One doctor alleged his superiors were “suffering from moderate to severe neurosis. 90% of them would be helpless without their present high rank. In civilian life they’d starve.” Another doctor exploded: “The Army has the poorest organization and administration of any outfit I have ever been associated with. I hate, despise, and detest it and God willing when I get out they can give it back to that certain type of psychoneurotic individual who becomes R[egular] A[rmy] as a result of a psychopathic childhood environment.” 23 It is important to recognize that many soldiers drew a sharp distinction between the individual officers they had served under and “the brass.” There were many senior officers who were respected for various reasons. Some, such as Gavin, were admired for their courage and battlefield leadership. Lieutenant General Robert  L. Eichelberger, the commander of the 8th Army, was treasured by his troops for his attention to their welfare and for his personal touches, such as picking up enlisted men in his car and driving them to their workplace. Gerhard L. Weinberg, assigned to the troop information and education branch, remembered one instance in which the general addressed his troops on their sloppy appearance. Before the lecture, an aide had members of Weinberg’s unit dress to illustrate various uniform derelictions. After the talk, each member of the squad marched to the front and 19

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Eichelberger pointed out his uniform violations. The troops enjoyed it thoroughly, but what impressed Weinberg was that the general quietly spoke a few reassuring words to each soldier: he had “clearly worked all this out, and he was concerned we might feel humiliated or embarrassed in being paraded this way before a couple of hundred soldiers.” 24 Yet even such a beloved officer as Eichelberger was deeply disturbed by what he perceived as a widespread contempt for the ser vice’s leadership: “in these days when there is nothing so low back home as the socalled brass hats and their position in the hearts of the people couldn’t be worse if the war had been lost instead of won, I realize the honors I have received amount to little.” 25 Unfortunately, the actions of others in higher authority validated the criticisms of what the army termed “embittered ex-service personnel.” 26 Eichelberger complained that his generals in Japan spent their time shuttling between various appropriated residences in the city, the mountains, and the seashore. Herbert B. Powell, a Regular officer, confessed to his wife the misdeeds of the senior leadership were “one of the dirtiest scandals of the war.” 27 He visited a brigadier general who had commandeered a ten-room chateau on the Riviera, complete with swimming pool, a chef, four maids, and a chauffeur-driven Cadillac. The general was drunk most of the time, bringing back women and soldiers for marathon sing-alongs at all hours.28 Veteran outrage at the “brass” was exacerbated in 1947 when columnist Robert Ruark wrote a scathing exposé of LTG John C. H. “Courthouse” Lee’s Mediterranean theater headquarters. Lee was already much hated by combat troops, who remembered how his minions had bullied them on their brief leaves to Paris. Now they discovered Lee and his pampered entourage had roosted in luxurious villas, dining and drinking like lords while soldiers lacked basic necessities. The fussy general demanded such excessive saluting that the road to his headquarters was known as “Bent Arm Boulevard.” One of his staff had carried scissors to snip the chevrons off any soldier whose appearance or manners were judged inadequate. After detailing a host of abuses, Ruark concluded, “It may be an Army that Lt. Gen. Lee is running, but to me it looks more like a combination of junket, political shakedown, 20

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misuse of government material, maltreatment of subordinates, and happy hunting ground for desk-bound brass which spent most of its war at home and is now trying to embalm its rank abroad.” 29 Showing its all-too-common arrogance and insensitivity to public opinion, the army dispatched a fellow West Pointer whose secret investigation exculpated Lee and his staff, arousing a new wave of public criticism. Given that the senior brass was so brazenly enjoying the fruits of victory, it is not surprising that lesser officers also tested the limits of RHIP. One colonel, serving in the office charged with supervising the liquidation of US property in India, was found with $10,000 worth of jewels in his briefcase. Another colonel, busted with 500 Japa nese diamonds, rationalized his actions as “just a chance to make some quick money and the feeling that soldiers are entitled to a little loot.” 30 The most daring of them all were COL Jack W. Durant and his wife, a captain in the Women’s Army Corps (WAC), who stole the crown jewels of the principality of Hesse. The case that aroused the most public outrage was the army’s attempt to promote LTC James A. Kilian, commander of a notorious replacement depot and prison. Kilian had ordered GIs to be beaten, clubbed, and whipped, and was probably complicit in several soldiers’ deaths. Under conditions of great secrecy, an army court martial found him and some of his guards guilty of some vague infractions, but assessed him only a token fine. An alert journalist spotted Kilian’s name on the army promotion list and unleashed a firestorm of public protest. One veterans’ newspaper noted the hy pocrisy of the army sentencing Durant to twenty years’ imprisonment for theft while exculpating Killian who “sat out the war permitting assorted brutalities to fellow Americans in the same uniform.” 31 Bill Mauldin, creator of the iconic GIs Willie and Joe, published a cartoon showing a newspaper announcing Kilian’s promotion crumpled and discarded under a recruitment poster.32 Standing on principle, the army insisted that Kilian had to be promoted; Congress, in turn, refused to confirm any army promotions if Killian remained on the list. Ultimately, the impasse was resolved when President Truman struck Kilian’s name, but not before the army had endured another selfinflicted public relations fiasco. 21

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The Lee and Kilian imbroglios were perhaps the most notorious of many exposés on black marketeering, disease, corruption, the abuses of the officer caste, the mistreatment of soldiers, and numerous other scandals. They showed not only how far the ser vice’s reputation had fallen, but also its inability to communicate with the nation’s citizens. On a short-term basis, the army’s public humiliations severely damaged its efforts to attract superior personnel, to the point that student newspapers, whose readership included ROTC cadets, contrasted the army’s enlistment slogans with its mistreatment of citizen-soldiers. Most importantly, the scandals immediately hurt the army’s effort to win approval for its postwar plans. What one veteran termed “the intense dislike and distrust of the ‘brass’ on the part of former enlisted men and junior officers in Congress” contributed to the army’s failure to secure such key legislation as the officers’ pay raise, conscription, Universal Military Training (UMT), or an increase in manpower.33 One immediate result was that Chief of Staff Dwight D. Eisenhower created a public affairs office to market the army’s story to the public, and to its own members. Even while the army endured demobilization and suffered public condemnation, it struggled to create a postwar establishment. Its efforts were complicated by President Truman’s dithering over the organization of the peacetime armed forces, and his failure to articulate a coherent national security policy. Concerned about a potential resurgence of the Great Depression and responding to public demands for lower taxes, Truman slashed military budgets without providing clear strategic priorities. The army and navy resumed their traditional cutthroat competition, joined by the newly independent US Air Force. The nation was treated to the unedifying spectacle of its wartime heroes accusing each other of sabotaging the national defense. The 1947 legislation that created both the US Air Force and the Department of Defense retitled the War Department as the Department of the Army, a clear demotion. Within a few years, the army was a largely passive observer as the air force and navy battled for control of the nuclear mission, and with it the budget. Although much larger than any previous peacetime force, the army was stretched far too thin to fulfill its peacetime assignments, much less engage in major combat 22

The Army Was Coming Apart

operations. Given the army’s dire shortages in personnel, Chief of Staff J. Lawton Collins had little choice but to skeletonize the force structure, leaving most units with only a small core of officers and men. These would perform the army’s current missions and, hopefully, would be still alive to train and lead the influx of new soldiers in the event of war. Within the ser vice itself, reestablishing the officer corps was paramount. In 1939 there were some 15,000 Regular Army officers; by July 1945 there were almost 900,000 officers, only 2 percent of whom were Regulars. Given the army’s goal— a peacetime army of as many as a million—it was clear that the majority of new Regular officers would have to come from those commissioned during the war. But how to select and integrate these wartime officers unleashed bitter infighting, creating permanent rifts within the officer corps and driving many of the best qualified to resign. Those few holding Regular commissions were all but guaranteed a place in the postwar force. But officers commissioned into the Army of the United States (AUS), the purely wartime force that included prewar Organized Reserves and National Guard recalled to active duty for the war, were left in limbo. William R. Desobry, a Regular, was welcomed to his first postwar assignment by a Reserve officer with the bitter greeting: “I’ve been waiting for one of you sons-of-bitches to get my regiment for a long time.” 34 One of the army’s many priorities was to stabilize the officer corps within congressionally mandated limits on how many officers could hold a par ticular rank. The War Department’s solution followed past practice, protecting the Regular officers at the expense of everyone else. Virtually every Regular enlisted man lost his wartime commission: overnight, lieutenant colonels reverted to sergeants. The disproportionate reductions in the officer corps—from 1,374 generals to 576, from 10,500 colonels to 6,489, from 530,164 lieutenants to 61,164—aroused considerable resentment. More anger was generated as US Military Academy graduates who had sat out the war were commissioned while proven combat leaders were kicked out. Doctors, dentists, engineers, administrators, and other desperately needed specialists left in droves. Over time, some of the antipathy engendered by restructuring the 23

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officer corps would evaporate, but it produced even more embittered ex-service personnel, the very group the army’s own public relations experts identified as the ser vice’s primary obstacle in restoring its public reputation. Those officers who survived the war and the selection process had proven competence, but most lacked a broad education in the profession of arms. Michael S. Davison, promoted from lieutenant to colonel, recalled: “I knew how to be a G-3 [operations staff officer]. I had learned it the hard way in battle . . . but when it came to anything else that a colonel is supposed to be able to do, I was practically helpless.”35 Among his classmates was another lieutenant-to-colonel whose experience advising Chinese troops had taught him little beyond positioning tanks to knock out forts. Vaught’s OCS training had prepared him to lead an infantry platoon in combat, but as a junior lieutenant in occupied Germany he served as signal officer, mess officer, motor officer, military police company commander, counsel for courts martial, and supervisor of over a thousand civilians. To perform these duties he relied heavily on two former lieutenant colonels, now busted back to their prewar ranks of sergeant.36 As it had since the Spanish-American War, the army expected its school system to turn this diverse officer community into a corps of professionals. Of the schools, the most critical to the postwar army was the Command and General Staff College (CGSC) at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Its primary task was less to teach the future Pattons and Eisenhowers than to provide a common education and managerial approach for the hundreds of staff officers needed to administer demobilization, occupation, and peacetime reorganization. In its early postwar days, CGSC had few qualified faculty. Teaching was primarily rote learning and lectures delivered to 500 attendees crammed into the former riding hall, freezing in winter and broiling in summer. Although Commandants Leonard T. Gerow and Manton S. Eddy reduced class size, introduced seminars, and brought in much better faculty, the attitude of the students, as one described it, remained “really pissed off, you know, because they thought, goddamn it, they knew it all and here are these instructors up on the platform trying to explain it to them.” 37 One 24

The Army Was Coming Apart

teacher recalled that if you didn’t get booed off the stage, you were considered to have done well.38 The ser vice also reformed the Army War College, which reopened at Fort Leavenworth in 1949 and soon moved to Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania. In its prewar incarnation the college had provided a forum for senior field officers (lieutenant colonels and colonels) to both learn and practice strategy. After the war, its mission was less clear. Generals’ complaints provided the impetus for its rebirth: too many of their staff officers were parochial and over-specialized, unable to comprehend problems outside their personal experience. College courses thus focused on political and administrative skills for staff duty at upperechelon headquarters and the Pentagon. In its early years, the school struggled to establish a curriculum and define itself. One attendee described it as a “gentleman’s course” redeemed only by the excellence of its faculty and students.39 If CGSC’s task was to turn veterans into middle managers and that of the War College was to educate staff planners, it was the US Military Academy’s job to educate the postwar generation for the new atomic world. West Point had long claimed to match the Ivy League. But by most academic standards— curriculum, facilities, and faculty—it was better suited for the nineteenth than the twentieth century. Moreover, its prestige as alma mater for over half the ser vice’s senior commanders was now tarnished by its reputation as a wartime haven for athletes and the well connected. One cadet termed many of his classmates “brassbutton-struck kids who either wanted to come home from overseas or were afraid of going overseas.” 40 Certainly it was embarrassing that once combat operations ceased, over 20 percent of the first two postwar graduating classes left before they were commissioned. Critics also scoffed that athletes who transferred from other schools, but quit the Academy once the war was over, had won West Point’s two undisputed national football championships over draft-ravaged rivals. Indicative of the decline in the Academy’s allure was the fact that between 1947 and 1951 less than three-quarters of its slots were filled.41 The Academy’s once-sterling reputation within the officer corps was another postwar casualty. A 1947 survey revealed widespread 25

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agreement that “something should be done to alleviate animosity between West Point graduates and other officers.” There was a consensus that Academy alumni got the pick of assignments, better quarters, faster promotions, and a host of other privileges— and that no matter how incompetent, their careers were guaranteed. One lieutenant colonel complained that the army’s “greatest caste system is not between officers and enlisted men but among officers themselves. I have seen officers who belonged to that exclusive fraternity [the] West Point Protective Ass[ociation], who got away with conduct which would result in court martial for an outsider.” But it was recent Academy graduates who had largely escaped combat who aroused the most visceral reaction from their peers. They were described as arrogant, uninformed, self-reverential—a privileged group “who were being sheltered puppy dog fashion so that crude overseas veteran officers who fought in the war won’t contaminate them.” 42 To their credit, senior army leaders—the majority themselves Military Academy graduates—recognized they had a serious public relations problem. To restore its reputation and reverse its academic decline, in September 1945 the army appointed as superintendent one of its brightest stars, MG Maxwell D. Taylor, and gave him a mandate to reform the Academy. Taylor initiated a blizzard of reforms, canceling the more archaic requirements such as fencing, and expanding course offerings in languages, international relations, economics, and other social sciences. But Taylor soon managed to alienate the faculty, who argued he was undermining a curriculum and teaching method whose success in educating leaders had just been proven by World War II. The cadets themselves were dismissive of the curriculum, which one described as little more than memorizing a “poop sheet,” and the faculty, whom they characterized as unqualified, unprepared, and dependent on rote instruction; many “couldn’t teach in high schools.” One cadet wrote in a survey, “If the public knew what we do about the academic system, we would lose some respect, wouldn’t we?” 43 Morale was low; cadets recognized they would be entering an officer corps filled with proven combat leaders. Although he managed to garner a great deal of favorable publicity for both himself and the Academy, in practice Tay26

The Army Was Coming Apart

lor’s reforms were more spasmodic than systematic, and he failed to follow through in many cases. More seriously, he chose not to challenge Coach “Red” Blaik’s control of the football team, and he was apparently unaware of widespread cheating on examinations. It would be left to his successors to deal with the national scandal over both these issues.44 In the long run, both the structure and the culture of the postwar officer corps would be shaped less by wartime experience or professional education than by legislation. After prolonged debate, Congress passed the 1947 Officer Personnel Act. This legislation established a 50,000-man Regular Army officer corps to command an all-volunteer, long-service peacetime force of some 400,000. It made a Regular Army officer’s career comparable to those of white-collar executives in the civilian sector in terms of job security, education, and predictable advancement. Perhaps most importantly, a Regular Army career now offered a “million-dollar retirement” after twenty years of ser vice, with a generous pension, medical care, and other lifetime privileges. It created a career ladder for officers, sometimes termed “the path to the stars” in reference to a general’s insignia of rank. Between the ranks of lieutenant and major a Regular Army officer was allotted seven years to qualify for promotion to the next grade; failure meant separation from the ser vice. It fixed limits for how many officers could hold a specific grade, decreasing each grade by 5  percent: only 23  percent of officers could be captains, 19  percent majors, 14  percent lieutenant colonels, 9 percent colonels—and only 1 percent generals. The Act’s expectation was that a competent officer would retire after twenty years’ ser vice as a senior major, thus qualifying for full benefits. Only the best and brightest would remain in uniform to become lieutenant colonels, colonels, and generals, retiring after thirty years with an even better package. In the short run, the Act helped the army reduce its officer corps to 72,566 by early 1950, but the losses were disproportionately among the youngest officers who represented the future, and not the midlevel officers. Establishing officership as a career rather than a calling, tailoring compensation so closely to civilian standards, and making the greatest career benefit the twenty-year retirement package, would all have enormous consequences for the fifties army.45 27

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While reconstituting its officer corps, the army tried to man its postwar enlisted force. In 1946, through vigorous recruiting, generous bonuses, and the threat of conscription, it enlisted about 100,000 volunteers. Many were exploiting a loophole allowing an eighteen-month enlistment rather than the draftee’s two-year commitment; in effect, they joined the ser vice to escape it faster. They soon were serving next to men drafted late in the war, including many teenagers and others previously passed over for physical or psychological problems. Not surprisingly, this composite force exhibited low morale; one 1946 survey found that one-third of the three-year enlistees, half of the eighteen-month enlistees, and three-quarters of the draftees would take an immediate discharge tomorrow, even if it meant giving up their veterans’ benefits.46 These sentiments were understandable: in one camp three-quarters of the recruits complained of being “pushed around like cattle,” described their food as “lousy, no good, wicked, awful,” and characterized army life as “a lot of chicken shit.”47 Responding to widespread demand, some enterprising clerks took bribes to forge discharges. Taken together, America’s first postwar army represented, in the words of a War College study, “the bottom of our manpower barrel.”48 Many of these marginal troops were sent overseas, where they joined a collective spree making the occupation synonymous with selfindulgence, promiscuity, and crime. Black marketeering and theft were widespread; in less than six months, investigators in Japan recovered over $2,000,000 worth of military property, only a fraction of what had been stolen. Corruption permeated all levels, from the general alternating between his appropriated mansions to the sergeant living in luxury in Rome by the simple expedient of selling his tobacco ration. Major General Ernest N. Harmon reflected that “our greatest problem in Germany was our own soldiers. We had practically no problem with the German people.” 49 Had the GIs heard him, their response would have been “mox nix”—a bastardization of the German macht nichts— meaning every thing from “whatever” to “I don’t give a damn.” 50 They certainly acted like it, and in many cases it was the long-service Regulars who led the way. During one three-month period, 564 military vehicles were stolen and only 56 were recovered. Within hours after 28

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the wife of the commanding general announced her intention to turn Heidelberg’s noncommissioned officers’ club into a cultural center, the noncoms allegedly put it to the torch. In 1947 the provost marshal in Europe reported over 14,000 AWOLs in the theater still on the books, some dating back to 1942, with four soldiers going AWOL for every one who returned. That year, almost one soldier in five in Europe had been court martialed at least once.51 Probably more shocking than petty crime was the widespread sexual activity of occupation soldiers, and the consequent epidemic of sexually transmitted diseases. In April 1946 roughly 20  percent of the European command—almost 50 percent in some units—was infected. The highest rates were among older NCOs who were poorly educated and divorced, but the longer any soldier was in Europe the greater his likelihood of contacting VD. The soldiers most likely to use condoms and avoid infection were the ones who ignored fraternization regulations and established long-term relations with one woman.52 Overseas officers were, in the words of one critic, “rather frantic” about controlling the spread of disease.53 One commander directed “All men of this detachment . . . will have on their person at all times on duty and off duty one (1) Rubber and Pro[phylactic] Kit. Any man found without a Rubber, and Pro Kit will have disciplinary action taken against him.” 54 The fact that these orders were issued to a unit charged with investigating black marketeering reveals the scope of the problem. The army devoted enormous effort to controlling venereal disease, to the outrage of some chaplains who believed “a good lecture on clean living and citizenship is more effective than one on sex.” 55 The chaplains may have had a point: a survey found large majorities agreeing the army did a good job of informing soldiers and that they were aware of available prophylaxis and clinical ser vices. But almost one-third of them had contracted a venereal disease at least once since joining the ser vice.56 The uneven quality of postwar soldiers was initially seen as a temporary problem. Progressives believed that universal military training (UMT) would soon provide volunteers who would possess not only military skills, but also high morale and morals. More than just a school for 29

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soldiers, they envisioned UMT as a means of social engineering, teaching teenagers citizenship, morality, hygiene, vocational skills, and basic education while breaking down class, ethnic, and regional barriers. The crucible for molding such ideal soldiers would be the UMT Experimental Demonstration Units that began in January 1947 at Fort Knox, Kentucky. This highly visible project had several goals. First and foremost was to garner support for the passage of UMT legislation championed by both the army and the Truman administration, but facing much resistance from Congress. Second, the camp was intended to reassure the public, to show the army had learned from its mistakes in World War II and was now committed to providing young males with a wholesome environment, teaching them technical skills, and making them better citizens. Third, the camp provided a laboratory to try out new training methods on the motivated, educated males the army most wanted to attract as career soldiers. The first demonstration unit had 664 males between seventeen and twenty, who underwent a twentyfour week course that qualified them for immediate duty in the combat arms.57 To its advocates, the character development of the experimental unit’s trainees was perhaps even more important than their military training. The supervisor, BG John M. Devine, was known for his strong religious and ethical beliefs. He carefully selected the training cadre and imposed strict rules of conduct for them—no cursing, no physical abuse—and insisted on a teacher–student relationship based on mutual respect. A unique part of the UMT experiment was the role of chaplains as instructors for the citizenship and morality course. They delivered twenty-two one-hour lectures on such subjects as sexual hygiene, marriage, civics, and so forth. Some chaplains envisioned the experimental units as the start of a national revival: “the educators and religious leaders have, to a large degree, thrown up their hands in defeat before the problem of providing adequate moral and religious instruction in our public schools. To a very remarkable degree, the Army is succeeding in implementing a program of instruction, and if it succeeds, it has tremendous implications for the Army and probably for the whole nation.” 58 30

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But in both the short term and the long term, the experimental units were a failure. Although they garnered a great deal of favorable publicity, they did not convince Congress to pass UMT legislation. Despite Devine’s active role—including giving pep talks at neighboring high schools and sponsoring field trips to the UMT camp—there was little popular demand to keep the program. Their camp experience failed to motivate sufficient attendees to enlist in the Regular Army to justify its costs. Nor did it produce moral paragons. A chaplain interviewed each trainee, and religious attendance was so strongly encouraged that in the first training cycle only one recruit did not participate. Trainees absorbed the practical teachings— only two contracted a venereal disease—but their conversational topics resolutely eschewed religion and patriotism in favor of women, cars, how “chicken” their squad leaders were, and, as a general catchall, “the shitting UMT.” 59 Even within this carefully supervised laboratory it proved difficult to sustain high standards. By the second cycle of trainees, punitive drudge duties such as “police” (picking up the camp) had doubled and church attendance markedly declined: of the 473 trainees who claimed Protestant affiliation, only 161 wanted religious guidance and only 118 attended ser vices. The most permanent legacy of the UMT experimental units was to bestow upon chaplains new responsibilities in moral and civics instruction, or what soon became known as character guidance.60 Congress, like the army, viewed conscription solely as a source of wartime manpower. It had reluctantly extended the Selective Ser vice Act to retain sufficient troops for occupation duties, but it allowed it to expire in April 1947. The army immediately began to hemorrhage personnel. It needed at least 30,000 enlistees a month to replace the number leaving, but could recruit less than half. In November army planners estimated a shortfall of 220,000  in the continental United States; within two years over two-thirds of the current enlistments would expire. With great reluctance Congress accepted that a volunteer army was unsustainable and reinstated Selective Ser vice in June 1948. The army sought to improve its image among draftees, typified by the 2nd Army’s “public information plan. The objective is—Each Inductee A Booster. We must sell them the Army.” 61 Spurred by the threat of 31

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conscription, almost 130,000 men volunteered within three months. In January 1949, having inducted only 30,000, and facing the certainty of more personnel cuts, the army stopped drafting. To the Pentagon, it might have seemed that the chaotic years of demobilization had finally passed and that the Regular Army was stabilizing and returning to its prewar, all-volunteer, long-service conformation. But out in the field forces, there was only slight cause for optimism. The enlisted men who entered the ser vice in 1947 and 1948 were only slightly better than the teenagers and dead-enders swept up in the last months of the war. Vaught, now serving in Germany, characterized them as “totally unacceptable. Many of them we had to get rid of in less than a year.” 62 Of the 2,800 replacements for the 24th Infantry Division in May 1948, 47 percent scored in the lowest mental category, and 1,600 were illiterate. One trainee was astounded to find many of his squadmates unable to read assignments on the bulletin board or write a letter to their parents.63 Such soldiers required far more individual instruction and were often discipline problems. They could scarcely be trusted to operate the complicated equipment the army would need for future war. Yet in less than two years many would be sent to fight in Korea. The postwar Army leadership knew it needed high-quality enlisted personnel who would make military ser vice a lifetime occupation. Whereas the prewar enlisted force had consisted largely of unskilled privates, the postwar force required craftsmen and foremen, all of whom deserved noncommissioned officer privileges. Any trooper who lacked the ability or discipline to learn a technical skill or to lead soldiers was of little use, and should be discharged to make way for someone who could. To paraphrase the title of a popular novel, in the modern army there was no time for privates—it was either up or out. Reflecting these changes, in 1948 the army initiated the Career Guidance Program. By offering increased benefits with each enlistment and promotion, and by doubling the top three grades from 20 to 40  percent of the enlisted ranks, the program tried to build a long-service and highly skilled cadre. Recruitment literature touted the many ways that higher civilian wages fell short of the total ser vice package: reenlistment bonuses, 32

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free sports and entertainment, medical care, occupational training, vacations, and, its crown jewel, half-pay for life after twenty years. One advertisement portrayed a smiling sergeant standing with his family in front of a beautiful suburban home, saying “Me—I’m staying in the Army.” 64 The problem with selling military ser vice as a lifetime career was that the troops believed it. As one officer noted, recruiting themes such as “Highest Paid Soldier in the World, G.I. Bill of Rights, Dependency Benefits, Travel, Adventure” appealed to the individual’s material interests and undermined loyalty, cohesion, and leadership.65 Army surveys showed that men enlisted and reenlisted because the ser vice did give them better education, occupational training, and security than civilian life ever could—not because they wanted to command soldiers in combat. In the postwar career- centered army, enlisted personnel constantly prepared for their next promotion, spending more time in the classroom and less with troops or on the job. They moved far more frequently, thanks to regulations stipulating the length of overseas and hardship (without family) tours. And whereas the prewar NCO had earned and kept his stripes through the favor of his commanding officer, his postwar counterpart advanced through the personnel system. Like the skilled laborers and shop foremen they were modeled on, many career soldiers defined themselves by their occupation, not by loyalty to a particular unit. Left behind was the backbone of the prewar NCO corps, grade school– educated corporals and sergeants who had bossed their outfits and preserved its standards, traditions, and esprit.66 The postwar transformation of enlisted personnel was accelerated by other policies the army adopted, always with the best of intentions. To reduce venereal disease and payday binges, the ser vice now encouraged NCOs to marry and bring their families (termed dependents) with them. The prewar sergeant, from his separate room in the barracks, could oversee his troops at all times. But his postwar replacements went home to their families and socialized with other noncoms at a separate club. These and other privileges further distanced them from their men. The prewar extended regimental family fractured into a 33

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collection of nuclear families that moved or stayed depending on the father’s occupation, much like civilian society. The need for better-educated soldiers forced the army to reassess its relationship with the civilian world as well. The prewar army’s moral perspective had been both practical and cynical. Enlisted personnel were almost expected to spend their off-duty hours misbehaving— one rationale for the rigid discipline while on duty. So long as they did not injure themselves or others, cause unfavorable publicity, or catch a venereal disease—less a moral issue than a medical one—their time was their own. The traditional khaki-collared masculine military subculture of boozing, brawling, and brothel crawling was a primary attraction for many lifetime privates. But the postwar need for young, intelligent, and more ambitious personnel rejected this subculture. As one official noted, “one of the greatest criticisms of the Army by the parents is that the Army encourages and condones immorality, drinking, and gambling. . . . If we are to get the skilled technicians required in a modern Army, we must show that the Army is a character building organization and not one that breeds immorality.” 67 Within a year of Japan’s surrender, there was widespread agreement that military necessity, international reputation, and perhaps the entire moral fiber of the nation required greater control of military personnel. Yet the means were unclear. A return to prewar discipline was impossible, so the obvious solution was judicial reform. During the war there were over 2,000,000 courts martial, and both legal scholars and soldiers perceived military justice as punitive and draconian. A 1946 presidential advisory committee noted many inequities in both the military legal code and in the conduct of the judicial process. A second presidential board formed that same year, chaired by MG James Doolittle, investigated officer– enlisted relations. Criticized as “the caste board” or “the GI gripe board,” Doolittle’s committee heard extensive testimony on authoritarianism, arbitrary punishment, incompetence, command influence, and misconduct. In the long run, many of its recommendations were incorporated by Congress into the 1950 Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ). In the short run, the Doolittle Board provided yet more evidence that the army had abused its eth34

The Army Was Coming Apart

ical and legal responsibilities to the millions of citizen-soldiers it had been given during the war.68 Both during and after the Korean War, military and civilian critics blamed postwar reforms, and especially the UCMJ, for weakening discipline, lowering morale, and contributing to the army’s early defeats. This charge is specious on many levels, not least in that it did not become law until some three weeks before the North Korean invasion. Behind much of the faultfinding was the fantasy that the late-1940s army was both a well-disciplined and just organization before the UCMJ wrecked it. Compounding this fantasy was the assumption that, left alone, the army could have revived pre–World War II standards and discipline. But it was apparent to an impartial onlooker that the postwar military justice system was failing to deter crime or punish criminals. Moreover, until it restored its reputation the army would be unable to recruit or retain the skilled technicians needed to maintain and use sophisticated equipment, educated managers to administer one of the nation’s biggest businesses, or highly motivated warriors to fight on when their officers and noncoms were piles of radioactive ash. Such soldiers would not tolerate the rigid prewar discipline, nor could they perform their necessary tasks under the supervision of the prewar army’s barely literate NCOs and absentee officers. For very practical reasons, the postwar army was going to be different than the prewar army, and would operate under very different discipline. If the UCMJ was essential to restore faith in the army’s treatment of its soldiers, the school system sought to demonstrate the practical benefits of enlistment. The scope of the educational effort was staggering. In 1948 the ser vice operated some 1,100 education centers, 900 of which were overseas, staffed by 2,000 instructors. One survey found 5  percent of the students completing elementary classes, 41  percent taking high school classes, 25  percent studying technical subjects, and 29  percent in college-level classes.69 The army created a school at Kitzingen, Germany, to teach essential skills and literacy to incoming African-American soldiers. According to one supporter, the center “assumed the task generally recognized to be a national responsibility, of increasing the basic educational level of the army Negro in order to 35

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increase his value to the ser vice and ultimately to the country as a whole.” 70 As the Kitzingen experiment indicated, one of the thorniest issues facing the army was how to use its African-American soldiers. During World War II the ser vice remained segregated. The performance of some all-black combat units provoked much controversy, but black volunteers serving in temporarily integrated units proved as good as white soldiers. After the war, the army imposed a 10 percent quota for African Americans based on their proportion of the national population. It returned to its historical segregation policy, even to drawing up separate logistics tables for white and “colored” units. The 1947 Gillem Board criticized the ser vice for its inefficient use of manpower and made a number of recommendations to improve soldiers’ opportunities. The army, citing the alleged impact on the morale of white troops, chose to interpret the Board’s findings as justifying racial quotas and segregated units. Facing election in 1948, Truman was under strong pressure from African-American leaders and media to desegregate the armed forces, even a threat to boycott the draft. The president was under equal pressure from many in his own administration to counter Soviet charges of hy pocrisy and racism, claims that clearly resonated internationally. Moreover, Truman believed his election would hinge on the black vote. For these, and perhaps his own personal moral beliefs, Truman issued Executive Order 9981  in July 1948, integrating the nation’s armed forces and establishing a federal committee to study the better use of black troops. Both the Pentagon and field commanders largely ignored the directive. There was so little progress in integration that many overseas officers may have never even heard about it. International relations and presidential politicking aside, the army had pragmatic reasons to integrate. In addition to being morally repugnant, segregation placed an almost crippling burden on the personnel system, training, and readiness. With limited options in the civilian workforce, black males volunteered in disproportionate numbers, straining the 10 percent quota. Whether from the North or the Jim Crow South, African Americans often came from substandard schools, a handicap 36

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that produced lower scores on army intelligence tests and disqualified them from most skilled trades. But even if they had qualified, 40 percent of the Military Occupational Specialties (MOSs) and 80 percent of the army technical schools were restricted to whites. Low-scoring white soldiers could be given remedial training and assigned simple tasks within an outfit, their limitations made up for by better-educated comrades. But since the majority of African-American recruits scored in the two lowest mental categories, black units necessarily contained a high proportion of troops considered mentally or psychologically unsuited to any but menial labor. The army further disadvantaged black soldiers by assigning them to transportation or construction units, where there were few opportunities for promotion or acquiring skills. The result was to concentrate poorly educated, unskilled soldiers in segregated units, perpetuating both the troops’ sense of injustice and white commanders’ argument that black units were inherently second-rate.71 Although the army claimed to be a fair and equal employer, in practice African-American soldiers often encountered social discrimination, inferior quarters, and poor facilities. One officer remembered his white unit comfortably housed in German army barracks, while “down a long path there was a wired area. There were tents down there, and there was mud probably up to their knees. . . . Just because they were black they had them all in that large area, and we were in a barracks.” 72 An officer who commanded a black unit at Fort Benning, Georgia, recalled, “the MP’s [Military Police] were rougher on my soldiers than the local police down in Columbus [and] the Post Commander made sure the MP’s were that way.” 73 In 1946 African Americans numbered one-tenth of the army’s personnel, but comprised over one-quarter of those incarcerated; in Europe the court martial rate for blacks was almost three times that for whites.74 But there were indications of change. Brigadier General Bruce C. Clarke integrated his battalion in Germany in 1949 because both black and white troops recognized it would save time and trouble. A survey taken that year found white officers expressing sentiments such as “the Army is missing its opportunity to eradicate any intolerance in social attitudes in its personnel by not having a militant program to educate 37

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its personnel in what democracy is, instead of only paying lip ser vice to it.” 75 The presence of African Americans put the army in the delicate position of mediating between its own soldiers and what one southerner delicately termed “the racial problem and the attitude of the South.” 76 A black lieutenant who boarded in Chicago was ordered by a conductor in Kentucky to move to a separate, filthy coach directly behind the engine. When he refused he was arrested and jailed for several hours. The army investigators, unable to determine if federal laws on interstate commerce trumped state laws on separate accommodations, declared that all parties had acted in an appropriate manner. In Birmingham, Alabama, an angry crowd, many of them state employees, confronted an African-American noncom transporting a white prisoner.77 An officer attending an integrated OCS class in Kansas in 1949 remembered his instructor telling candidates on the first day that anyone who could not accept integration should leave immediately. Ser vice personnel treated all with scrupulous equality, but when black cadets left the post, the white civilians were openly hostile.78 Another, equally visible minority were the members of the Women’s Army Corps. In World War II roughly 100,000 women served as Wacs, living under the most primitive conditions and enduring much animosity from male soldiers. At the end of the war, the need for women in uniform, and whether they should be given Regular or Reserve status, provoked an extended and acrimonious debate. With Cold War tensions, the inability of the army to raise sufficient volunteers, and the Selective Ser vice Act, a women’s volunteer organization grew more attractive. The Women’s Armed Ser vice Integration Act of 1948 made the WAC part of the Regular Army, but under severe restrictions such as women commanding only other women and having no dependent children. Despite its much higher educational and character requirements, the WAC enlisted force came close to reaching its quota, numbering 6,551 by June 1950.79 The evolution from wartime to peacetime army, and then to an army for the next war, required the ser vice to revise its concepts, to develop weapons, and finally, to train soldiers for the challenges of the 38

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future. In 1949 the ser vice issued a cornerstone doctrinal manual, FM 100-5: Operations, which blended the prewar emphasis on taking the offensive with recent lessons on firepower and combined arms (the idea that the impact of employing infantry, artillery, tanks, and other combat elements as a team was greater than the sum of its parts). The manual envisioned large formations such as divisions conducting extensive and sustained operations against enemy forces organized much like the US Army. Although FM 100-5 did not specifically identify mechanized war in Europe against the Soviet Union as the most likely contingency, its central concepts certainly applied to that scenario.80 As part of its transition from the last war to the next, the War Department Equipment Board sought to predict the ser vice’s future materiel needs. Perhaps proving an old cliché, the board anticipated the next war would resemble World War II, but without the crucial two years the United States had taken to mobilize before committing troops to combat. Instead, the nation must expect immediate attack, and just as immediately deploy its ground forces. Fighting this war required a new generation of weapons, from atomic warheads and guided missiles to aircraft able to transport an entire division. The Equipment Board enjoined simplicity and stability as guiding principles for the design, testing, and production of this arsenal. Implicit in these principles was that the next war would be fought by millions of barely trained draftees with equipment that had to be mass produced, rugged, and reliable.81 The Equipment Board’s recommendations were contested, if indirectly, by several influential communities within the ser vice who held conflicting visions of the nature of future war. The field artillery demanded atomic cannon and missiles. The relics of the once-dominant coast artillery demanded new antiaircraft weapons to protect the nation from Russian bombers. Armor officers complained their Soviet adversaries had vastly superior tanks. Airborne advocates argued for massive fleets of airplanes able to deploy thousands of troops across the globe. But some radicals rejected any suggestion that the next war would resemble the last. Rather than mass conscript armies pounding the enemy with firepower, they envisioned small forces maneuvering in widely dispersed formations, rapidly concentrating to shatter enemy 39

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forces, then dispersing again. This vision restored the army to predominance, but required the immediate and complete transformation of the ser vice’s materiel, personnel, organization, and doctrine.82 While postwar boards and military futurists planned a new generation of technological marvels, soldiers in the field struggled to maintain their own equipment. Technical units scoured battlefields and depots to locate, repair, redistribute, and restock war time materiel. Much of the army’s equipment had been rushed untested into production, given on-the-spot modifications, and used and maintained by barely skilled soldiers. The nation may have been the arsenal of democracy, but by 1948 most army units were in such bad shape that it would have taken half the ser vice’s budget to fully equip them. Indeed, only personnel problems loomed larger than equipment. Of the 15,536 tanks in the army’s inventory, only 1,762 were fit for field use. From Vienna to Tokyo, officers shared the dilemma of the battalion commander who complained that 100 of his 135 vehicles were “deadlined” (inoperable); he kept the remainder running by stealing parts from the depot.83 In some cases, units struggled to maintain obsolete and broken-down equipment while newer and better materiel went to China, Greece, and numerous other countries that were now allies in the global confrontation with communism. The only unit in the continental United States that could legitimately claim to be combat ready was the 82nd Airborne Division. The army’s showpiece, the “All American” not only had first priority for equipment, but also tended to attract the most highly motivated officers and soldiers. A centerpiece of virtually any army public relations campaign was a parachute drop, and paratroopers received a substantial bonus. The division’s elite status was cemented when the army made airborne school a virtual requirement for rapid advancement in the Infantry Branch. The division’s prestige and the career benefits of membership in the “airborne mafia” attracted ambitious and committed officers, including a disproportionate number of Military Academy graduates. The 82nd was also one of the first units to be integrated (though according to the army’s interpretation of Truman’s orders—the black units were still housed in segregated facilities). Yet one member recalled that when 40

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called out for emergency duty it was clear “there wasn’t any 82nd. There was an 82nd ‘image’ and there was a whole bunch of troops there, but there wasn’t any organization . . . it was a mishmash of different units.” 84 If the 82nd Airborne was a hollow force, the 2nd Infantry Division’s ordeal at Fort Lewis, Washington, may serve as emblematic of less elite units. One of the ser vice’s premier combat divisions in World War II, by July 1949 its commander termed it little but a shell. He noted that in the previous eight months, 481 officers and  3,742 enlisted personnel had transferred out, and of the last two groups of replacements, between 65 and 85 percent had been in the lowest intelligence classification. In order to count the 2nd among its combat- ready divisions, the Pentagon assigned these marginal replacements to the infantry battalions. This meant the battalions had to virtually end their large-unit training and devote all their time to teaching the new soldiers fundamentals. The division was desperately short of almost every specialist and technical MOS, but because the few instructors were largely unqualified themselves, there was no means of training specialists.85 The commander’s higher headquarters offered sympathy, but noted that those sent to the 2nd ID were typical of the army’s new personnel.86 The postwar army’s weakness was dramatically evident whenever the Truman administration considered deploying a long-range mobile strike force. Army war planners admitted that they had insufficient ground forces to stop the communist victory in China. They were equally pessimistic during the series of crises sparked by perceived Soviet aggression in Eastern Europe. When GEN Lucius Clay, commander of both military forces and the military government in Germany, advocated an armed response to the Soviet blockade of Berlin, the Pentagon responded it would take almost two years to mobilize sufficient troops. During the ensuing airlift, Berlin’s soldiers were dependent on the newly independent US Air Force for their basic necessities. Even minor operations, such as the seizure of potential bases near the continental United States, would have required building up the 82nd by transferring personnel and equipment from other units, crippling their own ability to deploy should the paratroopers prove insufficient. Indeed, for much of this period the army was not sure it had sufficient quick-reaction forces 41

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to protect Alaska from invasion or American industries from sabotage and airborne raids.87 Given the army’s manpower and equipment problems, training for future warfare remained a haphazard process. In part, this reflected an internal debate between those who wanted prewar standards of soldiering and those who favored practical training for short-term citizen soldiers, fortified by a large dose of character education. There was also an element of public relations, since “the public is disposed to examine exhaustively and comment freely on the Army’s treatment of selectees.” 88 The 1930s methods—with each unit allowed months to instruct its new recruits—were impossible in a 1940s army fi lled by short-service enlistments and subject to voracious overseas commitments. Instead, the army modified its WWII methods, sending recruits to camps for basic training and then to specialist schools or their units. But a survey of training camps reported the instructors were both quantitatively and qualitatively inadequate, and most training “poorly planned, insufficiently executed, and hopelessly obsolete.” One officer bluntly informed the investigators, “at this post the training is a joke.” 89 In a move later criticized, but supported at the time by overseas commanders desperate for manpower, the army cut World War II’s rugged seventeen-week training cycle to eight weeks. At the time, the leadership believed this abbreviated instruction would provide recruits with sufficient exposure to military ser vice; they would be taught their MOS once they arrived at their units. But once in the field most of these barely qualified soldiers received just sufficient on-the-job instruction to fill their unit’s most pressing personnel needs. By 1949 the results were clear: commanders complained that new soldiers lacked such rudimentary skills as firing a rifle, and that many were illiterate, maladjusted, and discipline problems.90 That year, the army extended individual training to thirteen weeks, and thereby created a perfect storm when the revival of the Selective Ser vice Act funneled thousands of recruits into the camps. These camps soon overflowed with soldiers of widely varied training, forcing commanders to interrupt the training cycle to integrate newly arrived personnel. Some trainees spent weeks 42

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learning and relearning the same fundamental skills while others rushed through. Only after months of turmoil was the training process stabilized, and by then thousands of barely prepared soldiers had been assigned to the field.91 The lack of consistent and realistic training at the recruit level was compounded by the fact that once he joined his unit, a soldier had limited opportunities for practicing his craft. In the late 1940s, the army’s combat divisions were at two-thirds strength and often lacked facilities or equipment for much beyond company drill. One sergeant at Fort Benning recalled that he rarely had more than a quarter of his men on any given day, the rest having been detached as laborers, athletes, or to other duties, and that his sole opportunity to train his full squad came when they finally assembled a week before an army-mandated test. And this was the proud 82nd Airborne Division, the nation’s sole deploymentready force.92 In 1948 the 3rd Army, the major training command in the United States, essentially ran out of money and could not even afford fuel for its tanks. An inspection of troops in the Pacific found some units too busy maintaining their equipment to devote more than one hour a week to individual training.93 The few large-scale exercises undertaken in the late 1940s revealed significant problems. Notably, virtually none of these exercises addressed the tactical problems posed by nuclear weapons. Instead, they prepared to refight World War II, massing large numbers of troops and equipment, deploying them together onto a beachhead or landing field, and then maneuvering against a similar conventional force, which conveniently also lacked nuclear weapons. Exercise Miki, staged in Hawaii in 1949, involved 50,000 soldiers and sailors and was judged “an unqualified success from the standpoint of training value to the participating army troops.” But the same report noted “numerous artificialities” such as no logistical plan, failing to consult the air force, and a lack of fire support. Concluding that “ little tactical benefit accrued [to the troops] after leaving the beach,” the report criticized “the lack of knowledge on the part of Army commanders and officers in the field exactly what the Army’s objectives are and how they are to be attained in matters of joint endeavor.” 94 43

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The Korean War would focus a great deal of critical attention on the training given the four understrength infantry divisions and various supporting units comprising the 8th Army in Japan. These troops, who would soon be sent into combat in Korea, were later dismissed by one army historian with the Kipling-ism “rotten ’fore we started.” 95 The reality was somewhat different. The 8th Army was subordinate to MacArthur’s priorities, and only in April 1949 did the surrogate shogun release most troops from occupation duties. It was also severely undermanned: by October it had only two-thirds of its combat forces and barely one-third of its support troops. There were few suitable training facilities, most too small for artillery practice, and many too small to maneuver mechanized vehicles. There were problems with the senior leadership, and not just the imperious MacArthur in Tokyo, whose lack of personal contact with his combat units in no way diminished his efforts to manage them. The 8th Army’s new commander, LTG Walton H. Walker, was more intimidating than inspiring. Herbert  B. Powell witnessed an exercise in which Walker “tore this battalion apart . . . it accomplished nothing. It took several months to restore the morale in that battalion.” 96 Yet despite his superiors’ mismanagement, Powell believed things were improving: “The duty here has completely changed from occupation housekeeping to slam bang war time training to make combat divisions. The war time battalion tests come off next month, a regimental test in July 1950, Division maneuvers in August, and an amphibious landing in September.” 97 Long before then, these troops would be fighting in Korea. Powell was not the only officer who saw signs of recovery in 1949. As their senior leaders bickered with ser vice rivals and Congress, field commanders began to assert discipline, revive training, improve living conditions, and restore morale. They cracked down on AWOLs—almost 25,000 were apprehended in the last six months of 1949—which, together with clearing the books of many falsely reported AWOLs, led to a significant decline in their numbers. Field officers made use of “368 boards,” so termed because of Army Regulation 615-368, which allowed for separation from ser vice for general unsuitability. In one division, 400 soldiers were discharged and publicly stripped of their regimental 44

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and division patches; in another division, 742 soldiers were kicked out in the space of a few months. These boards were costly and time consuming, leading officers to complain, “God knows how much money it costs to induct, train, ship, watch over, court martial, punish, talk to, hospitalize, and discharge these people in one year, yet the line officers and myself spend half their time on this work.” 98 But they were effective. To one soldier, who lost his sergeant’s stripes for fighting, “justice appeared to be very immediate and really terrifying. It became a very strong deterrent.” 99 In many cases, good soldiers took justice into their own hands, imposing group punishment on malcontents, shirkers, drunks, and troublemakers. One veteran recalled, “the general barracks philosophy in the Army at that time was—if you don’t belong in an area you don’t go in that area. . . . If you got caught wandering around the barracks you were liable to get your lumps . . . that reduced the problem of barracks thievery and the rest of that.” 100 Another soldier described his unit’s treatment of a thief: “They gave him a few free rides down the stairway; and just to be kind to him, they also gave him a G.I. shower with a wire scrub brush.” 101 Through a wide range of measures, from courts martial to barracks justice, the army was slowly purging itself of its worst elements. In addition to punishments, the army also tried to improve soldiers’ morale. One solution, at least for married soldiers, was to have their wives and children, or dependents, join them overseas. This was an issue that touched both morale and morals. As one presidential committee concluded, “If we try to build up a military force by breaking up family life, we shall soon have neither an Army strong enough to defend this country nor a country that is worth defending.” 102 Yet sending wives and children overseas created as many problems as it solved. Over 80  percent of officers were married but only 33  percent of enlisted personnel, and of these only the families of the top three noncom grades were eligible for free transportation.103 For the families that did make the move, the host population, the army, and indirectly the US taxpayer incurred substantial costs. Arriving in war-ravaged Japan or Germany, the dependents brought crippling 45

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logistical demands—post exchanges (PXs), commissaries, schools, theaters, clubs, sports facilities, and other prerequisites of American family life—none of which directly corresponded to increased combat efficiency. Indeed, as critics quickly noted, by bringing over families, the army not only substantially reduced the number of combat troops it could support, but created a potential humanitarian disaster if the Soviets invaded and the families had to flee. But for officers, the housing problem was quickly resolved: “We just went in and took over the houses that hadn’t been bombed out, fixed them up, kicked the Germans out and moved the Americans in.” 104 The first dependents arrived in Germany in April 1946, prompting a journalist to gush, “the American ladies brought grace and color to the occupation” while their focus on “the church, the home, and the school . . . communicated itself to the Germans loud and clear.” 105 But Powell recalled that when the spouses disembarked “dressed to kill,” they “encountered the cold chill of hatred from the German crowd . . . it was the worst hostile feeling that I ever saw.” 106 And no sooner had Army wives arrived than there were complaints they were cheating on their PX privileges, fighting over and abusing their servants, and other wise creating trouble. A 1947 Life article on the occupation of Berlin contrasted the “needlessly extravagant” life of military families living in the midst of 3,000,000 “slowly starving Germans.” Spotlighting Mrs. Leah Berry, wife of a captain, it detailed her large house (the dispossessed owners lived in the garage), their three servants, and her visits to the well-stocked commissary. Despite their luxurious lifestyle, the Berrys banked over half his salary each month. Leah Berry confessed her only contacts among the local population were her servants and noted with regret that a fellow officer’s dog got more sugar and white bread in a day than Berlin’s children received at Christmas. But she planned to meet some German women “and have a chance to teach them our way of life.” 107 In contrast, there were some women whose diplomacy and sympathy made them wonderful ambassadors for the army and for the United States. Among them was the daughter of the high commissioner for US forces in Austria, who organized her fellow military spouses to help orphans and support the Vienna Boys Choir.108 46

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On the eve of the Korean War, the US Army was less a coherent instrument of national defense than a patchwork of organ izations and individuals wearing the same uniform. The newly independent air force, over the strident objections of the navy, promised that its growing nuclear arsenal all but guaranteed victory. The army had little political or public support, and its Pentagon leadership had, as yet, made only unconvincing arguments for its relevance. Although some hawks in Truman’s cabinet proposed building up ground forces to confront the Soviets, the President did not agree. In February 1950 he approved development of the hydrogen bomb, making the nation even more committed to the atomic deterrent. His next budget planned to cut army funding by almost one-third and its personnel by tens of thousands. To those in the field, it appeared that the army might fail to meet even these limited numbers. No one had been drafted since January 1949, enlistments were declining, and reenlistments were at less than 50 percent of the service’s requirements. Those who remained were often those least needed. Although troop effectiveness in Germany and Japan was improving, the continental forces, raided time and again for overseas replacements, were in sorry shape. The contrast was brought home in early 1950 to LT James B. Vaught, recently returned from Germany to serve in the legendary 11th Airborne Division. He arrived at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, to find a virtually abandoned wartime post lacking such basic amenities as dining halls, sports facilities, clubs, libraries, or decent housing. His regiment, with an authorized strength of 147 officers and 2,800 enlisted, had but 60 officers and 1,366 soldiers, many of the latter little more than “hoods.” All in all, Vaught remembered, it was “a hell of a mess,” and not much improved since he joined a US Army that was already “coming apart” four years earlier.109

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2

THE CATALYST OF THE KOREAN WAR

In June 1950 BG Lyman L. Lemnitzer found himself in a highly uncomfortable position. As part of the Truman Administration’s effort to mobilize the “Free World” against Soviet expansion, he headed the office charged with transferring military equipment to what would soon become NATO. But when the North Korean army suddenly swept south, he became an instant authority on Asian military affairs. Every day he walked to Capitol Hill, map case under his arm, to give congressional leaders an honest and unauthorized account of what was happening to the US Army in Korea: “I would try to explain in the best way I could how unprepared we were. How we didn’t have the equipment, we didn’t have the people over there, we didn’t have the forces available. . . . I had to go over and over it to explain this until they pretty well got sick of it. . . . It was absolutely catastrophic.”1 Almost three years later, LTG Lemnitzer, now wearing a Silver Star awarded in Korea, was again the army’s spokesman. This time his audience was not panicked politicians, but his own ser vice’s elite at the Army War College. Fighting was still going on in Korea, but Lemnitzer barely mentioned the current conflict except as an illustration that the United States “must fight or be prepared to fight battles in which, due to various political, moral, or other reasons, we do not unleash the full fury of our so- called ‘absolute’ weapons of mass destruction.” Lest anyone believe that such battles would be limited to “police actions” like Korea, Lemnitzer predicted soon “atomic weapons on the battle48

The Catalyst of the Korean War

field will give us the ever-increasing capability of meeting and defeating the numerically superior Soviet forces in Western Europe.” 2 The Korean War revived the US Army from its post-WWII doldrums. At the outbreak of hostilities in June 1950, the ser vice was a hollow shell of 593,000, scattered from Berlin to Yokohama. Its occupation duties were ending, with no clear consensus from either political or military authorities as to its next mission. An impartial observer might well have predicted the ser vice would soon return to its century-old peacetime structure: a small professional cadre, equipped with the last war’s surplus, struggling to fulfill multiple and often contradictory missions. But within five months of the North Korean invasion, the service’s manpower almost doubled; in two years it stood at 1,532,000. At the same time that the army deployed eight divisions to the Far East, it sent another four to West Germany and more than tripled its personnel in Europe. In both the continental United States and overseas, the war prompted the construction of a vast network of supply, training, and administrative facilities. And as their comrades fought trench warfare in Korea reminiscent of World War I, army theorists embraced a new vision of land warfare built around tactical atomic weapons. In their view, Korea proved the hollowness of a strategic policy based on nuclear annihilation; future wars would be limited in both objectives and force, and to fight them the nation would require powerful, mobile, and immediately deployable ground forces. By the Korean Armistice in July 1953, the army was radically revising its tactical organization, weapons, and doctrine. But these revisions owed more to an imagined war in Europe than the lessons of Korea. This military transformation was accompanied by an equally revolutionary social transformation involving conscription, racial integration, character guidance, social engineering, and many other changes.3 From the Truman administration’s perspective, the North Korean invasion was a significant escalation in an overall pattern of Soviet encroachment. The president quickly sought United Nations approval for intervention, thereby expanding what may have been a domestic civil war into an international conflict with the future of the Free World in 49

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the balance. Within a week of the invasion, he authorized GEN Douglas MacArthur, commander of Far East Command, to deploy US ground forces from Japan. MacArthur designated the 8th US Army, under the command of LTG Walton Walker, as the operational force for ground operations. Both MacArthur and Walker underestimated the North Koreans. For most of June they repeatedly sent small, badly supported, and exhausted combat units into battle against larger, stronger, and better-equipped opponents. On 5  July 1950, some 5,000  North Korean infantry, supported by thirty-three tanks, quickly overran an isolated army battalion a tenth their size. This defeat, usually referenced as “Task Force Smith,” still haunts the army’s historical memory as a parable on the dangers of unpreparedness and complacency. Over the next few weeks the 24th Infantry Division, hastily filled by culling other units in Japan, was sent piecemeal into similarly unequal contests. Within weeks, its commander was captured, and over half its soldiers were dead, wounded, or missing. By August, American and Republic of Korea Army (ROKA) forces were holding a perimeter 100 miles long and 50 miles wide on the Nakdong River to defend the last port at Pusan. From 4 August to 16 September a brutal battle of attrition raged as the North Koreans desperately sought to drive 8th Army, ROKA, and United Nations contingents into the sea and end the war.4 Their increasingly desperate efforts to break through the Pusan Perimeter ground down the North Korean Army while allowing their opponents to build up manpower and materiel. As the 8th Army waged a life-or-death struggle for Pusan, MacArthur planned the stroke that would restore his reputation as a master of operational art. Gambling Walker’s battered troops would hold, he created 10th Corps and sent it ashore at Inchon on 14 September to capture Seoul. In the meantime, the 8th Army smashed into the North Koreans, driving them north. At this point, MacArthur’s strategic genius again deserted him. Flushed with the euphoria of victory, and unrestrained by his political superiors, he determined to press across the border and destroy the communist regime. He insisted that 10th Corps remain under his own control, then ordered it out of Seoul to stage amphibious landings on the other 50

The Catalyst of the Korean War

side of the Korean Peninsula. This decision had momentous consequences. Eighth Army’s own analysis later concluded the withdrawal para lyzed Seoul’s port facilities, allowed the North Korean army to escape destruction, and gave China time to intervene. Several weeks later, when 10th Corps finally charged across the beaches, the North Koreans were long gone.5 Three weeks after the Inchon landing, the first US troops crossed the 38th parallel, hours ahead of a US-initiated United Nations mandate to place the entire peninsula under South Korean control. As they pushed forward, the 8th Army and 10th Corps were separated by mountain ranges, unable to aid each other. On 1 November, and after shattering a ROKA unit a few days earlier, Chinese troops tore into similarly exposed American units. But despite growing evidence of substantial enemy forces, MacArthur continued the advance. The Chinese sprang their trap and within a few weeks had crossed the 38th parallel and recaptured Seoul. From Tokyo, a panicked MacArthur demanded that Washington let loose the nation’s full military might or face the destruction of the 8th Army. But Washington had concluded that neither Korea nor the Far East would be the decisive battleground of the Cold War. In late December 1950, with much of his force demoralized and beaten, Walker died in a traffic accident and LTG Matthew B. Ridgway took operational command. Ridgway reorganized the 8th Army’s battered units, revitalized its spirit, and then sent it forward. In a series of controlled offensives it first halted, and then pushed back the communist armies. By mid-March, the tide had turned, and Ridgway believed his forces could advance into North Korea. But by then Truman and his military advisors had decided to redefine victory as the preservation of South Korea, not the destruction of Asian communism. The 8th Army went on the defensive while the administration parleyed a peace settlement. For the next two years, negotiating while fighting became the mission, a process that would claim some 40 percent of the war’s American casualties. Stretched along the rugged mountains, the 8th Army’s outposts broke up periodic communist attacks with massive artillery barrages, close air support, and, in many cases, bullets and bayonets. Terrain like Pork Chop Hill, Old Baldy, and Heartbreak Ridge became 51

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synonymous with bloodshed and futility, in part because military spokesmen could not explain to either the troops or the public why these outposts were crucial. With the benefit of hindsight, most historians would recognize it as one of the Cold War’s strategic successes, but for many soldiers at the time, the Korean Armistice Agreement of 27 July 1953 was a poor substitute for victory. The war was the catalyst for a redefinition of American national security policy, for a global military buildup, for conscription, for integration, and for the permanent stationing of a large American ground combat force in Europe. Whether these changes were dictated by some master plan developed before the North Korean invasion, or resulted from improvisation and reaction, has long been the subject of scholarly debate.6 What is unambiguous is that from the beginning, US political and military leaders viewed Korea as just one theater in the global Cold War. From this perspective, it was essential that the United States establish the military foundation for a long struggle with the Soviet Union. This meant not only funding the hydrogen bomb, but also tripling the size of the army. It meant not only repelling aggression in Korea, but also increasing the US commitment to NATO. So even as the 8th Army fought desperately against North Korean and Chinese forces, valuable resources—manpower, weapons, supplies, money— were reserved for the possible, and decisive, wars of the future. Even at the time, soldiers in Korea might well claim to be veterans of Washington’s “forgotten war.” Yet the misery of combat operations in Korea made the war impossible to forget, especially for the US Army. The defeats and retreats of the summer of 1950 proved that the occupation garrisons in Japan were sufficient to defend those islands, but incapable of projecting power onto the Asian landmass. Nor were there sufficient rapid reaction forces in the continental United States. The army’s General Reserve, those organized forces kept stateside for an emergency, numbered only 140,000, and the deployment of two infantry divisions and an airborne regiment to Korea stripped it bare within three months. The army involuntarily retained on active duty soldiers whose enlistments had expired, but these were mere drops in the bucket. 52

The Catalyst of the Korean War

Desperate for bodies to fill the decimated units in Korea, the government turned to the Organized Reserves, the trained units and personnel supposedly available for such emergencies. But while on paper these numbered almost half a million, they were anything but combat ready. Even units eligible for immediate deployment required new equipment and thousands of replacements. The individual reservists were a diverse array that included everyone from newly commissioned Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) officers to doctors. The one thing they had in common was that they were eligible for national ser vice. The army’s initial request for volunteers attracted very few, mostly older officers. In August the army began the involuntary recall of 8,000 officers and 62,000 enlisted personnel, soon followed by another 35,000 officers, all but draining the available pool. This mobilization did provide sufficient bodies to throw into the breach, or more literally, the perimeter at Pusan, and thus stave off a North Korean victory, but at high cost. Reservists also trained the draftees who poured in by the tens of thousands in the fall of 1950. The drama of the reserve call-up played out nationwide, perhaps most tragically as at Fort Campbell, where thousands parked their cars, as instructed, in an open field. Still in civilian clothes, the drivers were run through a three-week refresher course and shipped off to Korea. Years later, hundreds of cars remained in the field, a silent memorial.7 An officer who served with the 4th Infantry Division in West Germany in 1951 termed his reserve officers “highly unmotivated people, people who had already done their bit [in World War II] . . . and who felt that they were being dumped on.” 8 A WAC officer in Korea confirmed this judgment: “Some of those older gals really didn’t want to be there. They never thought in their wildest dreams that they would ever be recalled into the Army . . . they were in their late thirties, and very resentful of being there, and it took a lot of just getting really tough to keep them in line.” 9 The army’s chief public relations officer commented with some understatement: “We’ve had officers and men who are not very happy about coming in and fighting another war and letting somebody else, who didn’t fight, stay home.” 10 One survey found that three out of five reservists would not volunteer for combat; among 53

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the college-educated it was three out of four. Another survey found that 85 percent would take an honorable discharge immediately. Motivation aside, many were not prepared for the physical and psychological pressures of combat in Korea, and needed extensive retraining—which the army was too often unable or unwilling to provide. The average reservist was twenty-five years old, married, starting a family, and, thanks to the GI Bill, often skilled, educated, and well established in his community. Compounding the unfairness, some orga nized reserve units, supposedly eligible for immediate deployment, spent their entire tours stateside, while individuals were shipped off as fillers for combat losses. Recalled veterans and their families were outraged when the army postponed drafting eligible males because it lacked the facilities and personnel to train them.11 The most famous reservists were the doctors popularized by the 1970 movie M*A*S*H. Both the movie and the novel it was based on illustrated the army’s experience with the best and the brightest during the Korean War. In one scene, after being called a “Regular Army clown” by Captain Hawkeye Pierce, the senior nurse demanded to know “how a degenerated person like that could have reached a position of responsibility in the Army Medical Corps!” The chaplain’s response, “He was drafted,” is only partially correct.12 Two months after the outbreak of war, Congress passed Public Law 779 to encourage medical specialists to apply for commissions rather than be inducted as enlisted men. These “volunteers” received a monthly pay bonus and were accorded time-in-grade for their professional schooling; most entered the ser vice as reserve captains. Within a few months of its passage the army had sufficient medical personnel to fill every position for the first time since World War II. By 1952 nine out of every ten medical officers serving in Korea were reservists, the vast majority as a result of this “doctor draft.” Like Hawkeye Pierce, the young doctors and dentists called into military ser vice often had an adversarial relationship with the US Army and with the Regular Army officers in the Medical Corps. According to a 1952 survey, two out of three would leave the ser vice immediately and fewer than one in ten would even consider remaining in uniform. 54

The Catalyst of the Korean War

Many were embittered by their treatment, believing, quite correctly, that they were likely to be assigned overseas, separated from their families, and receive the most onerous and dangerous assignments. Some complained they had received no instruction in military medicine or combat surgery before they were sent to field hospitals. One MASH veteran recalled, “I do not know what the army could have done to prepare its doctors for Korea. But whatever it was, they had not done it.” 13 Like Hawkeye they were dismissive of their superiors’ medical and mental qualifications: “Most of these Regular Army types are insecure. If they weren’t, they’d take their chances in the big free world.” 14 They rated themselves as far better in all medical functions—the treatment of patients, medical ethics, sound medical practices, and all-around competence—than career officers, who were superior only as administrators. The cumulative results of their grievances were serious. By 1953, one survey found “a degree of lack of mutual understanding and respect existed as an undercurrent in the relationships of Regular and Reserve Medical Corps officers” that might permanently affect the army’s relationship with the medical community.15 In microcosm, the experience of Korean War medical personnel reflects the broader experience of many young, well-educated men, both active and reservist. They went into uniform unwillingly, resented their forced ser vice, and tolerated Regular Army authority grudgingly. How would such citizen-soldiers behave without the pressure of war, as draftees in a peacetime army? The army intended the 1950 call-up of reservists as a temporary solution for the Korean War buildup until it could recruit enough volunteers. But its hopes for sufficient time to make this transition were undercut when Congress limited the reservists’ terms of involuntary active ser vice. It quickly became apparent that recruitment was failing in both quantity and quality: of 13,000 enlistments in the first months of hostilities, over 10,000 were of minimum intelligence. In June 1950 the Truman administration invoked the recently extended Selective Service Act, demanding 50,000 inductees for August and September. This unleashed a hurricane of work. With virtually no funds or personnel, the Selective Ser vice Agency had been limited to registering and classifying draft-eligible men; most draft boards employed a single part-time 55

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clerk. The best estimate was a lag of nine months from the day the first men received their notices to their induction. But somehow the agency met the deadline. By 30  September, it had processed and delivered 51,000 men. Within a year it inducted 600,000, and by 31  July 1952, over 1,000,000. To one correspondent it seemed that “today the Army just shakes the nearest draft board and down the recruits come tumbling.” 16 The draft long outlived the Korean War. With the Universal Military Training and Selective Ser vice Act of 1951, conscription met the armed forces’ manpower requirements for the next two decades. Under its provisions, each male had to register on his eighteenth birthday and was considered eligible for ser vice (Class 1-A); unless deferred he had the option of enlisting or waiting for his draft call. The Act imposed an eight-year military obligation, which could be met in a number of ways. First-time volunteers served at least three years of active duty, with better opportunities for assignments and education. Draftees served two years of active duty, followed by six years in the reserves, eligible to be called back in the event of another Korean-style emergency. A young man could complete his entire eight-year obligation as a reservist in the National Guard with the promise that, if he went to war, it would be with his own unit. The legislation also tightened up requirements for those in the organized reserves: failing to attend drills put an individual at the top of the draft list. With the Korean War experience well in mind, the act allowed the president to recall reservists to active duty, but limited their involuntary ser vice to twelve months for enlisted men and seventeen months for officers. The Act also included many exemptions, such as for physical incapacity, religious convictions, some felonies, certain occupations, and for those performing what their draft boards deemed essential duties. In what would become a very important exemption, it allowed college students to complete their degrees, but extended their obligated age to thirty-five.17 Conscription touched off public and military debates over who should serve. Largely due to the threat of induction, the air force and navy recruited sufficient volunteers and did not accept conscripts. The army was not so fortunate. Citing the Korean War emergency, Congress 56

The Catalyst of the Korean War

lowered mental and physical qualification scores to the minimal standards of the last months of World War II, and recruiters waived some moral and criminal restrictions. As a result, the ser vice accepted tens of thousands who were mentally, physically, or psychologically unfit for military duty; it would take years to shed them. At the other end of the spectrum, some educators proposed exempting all males with an IQ above 120, the rationale for which one critic summed up as “not good public policy for the country to permit bright boys to be shot in the same proportion as dull boys.” 18 Although there were no draft-card burnings or overt displays of resistance, some Americans were concerned by the lackluster response to the prospect of military duty. World War II was close enough that most young men were well aware of the risks of combat: a correspondent termed them “skeptical, critical, immune to propaganda—no matter how worthy; with few illusions of the grandeur of military ser vice; fighting under pressure and killing only under extreme provocation.” 19 One survey found 70 percent of the draftees would take an immediate discharge, and only 21  percent listed the army as their first choice of ser vice.20 Many were apathetic or ignorant about Korea and the global struggle against communism. Some tried various ploys to fail the physical or even committed felonies to avoid ser vice. Nearly all were angry, frustrated, and resentful of the way conscription was administered. They had good reason to be upset; even its director complained of Selective Ser vice’s inequities and exemptions. But most soon came to accept their obligation and impressed officers with their good conduct, education, and technical skills. “They were first class soldiers,” George  I. Forsythe recalled of the Korean War generation, “probably the best soldier I’ve ever seen; certainly better than World War II, and better and a little more mature and older than the guy in the Vietnam War.” 21 Within a year of the North Korean invasion, the US Army had made the momentous shift from a long-service volunteer to a short-service conscript organization. Between June 1948 and January 1950, the nation’s armed forces enlisted 368,000 personnel and drafted only 30,000. In 1951, 630,000 men enlisted and 587,000 were drafted, the vast majority into the army. But although Selective Ser vice provided enough uniformed 57

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bodies, it could not provide either a stable force structure or a veteran combat force. As one general complained, throughout the Korean War the army was “mobilizing, training, fighting, and demobilizing—all at the same time.” 22 The two-year active obligation and the expiration of prewar enlistments meant that one-third of the enlisted force left each year. The elite 82nd Airborne Division reflected the service-wide personnel turbulence. In June 1950 it totaled 18,692 officers and men. Within a month levies for Korea reduced it to 13,910. The draft swelled its ranks on 3 October to 17,432, but a week later another levy shrank it to 12,930; by the end of the year it numbered only 8,415. A few months later, the division was ordered to provide basic instruction to 4,000 trainees. Despite these challenges, the 82nd passed its readiness evaluation, but it was the only division in the continental United States to do so.23 Almost as revolutionary as the imposition of the draft was racial integration. As in World War II, the combat effectiveness of black troops in Korea sparked a national debate whose echoes still reverberate. The segregated 24th Infantry Regiment was accused of malingering, indiscipline, and shirking or “bugging out.” But catastrophic losses throughout the combat forces, particularly in the infantry and field artillery, far outweighed concerns for the performance of any one unit. Very soon, any soldier judged capable of firing a rifle was needed at the front, including 40,000 South Koreans in August alone. Without authorization from 8th Army headquarters, personnel officers in Korea began transferring black soldiers into white units and assigning replacements based on need, not race. Despite resistance from some commanders, this color-blind policy remained in force. As one correspondent noted, “the Army is not interested in social reform” but it was concerned with military efficiency—and segregation was clearly inefficient.24 Outside of Korea integration was less dramatic but perhaps more significant for the army’s future. The senior commander of US Army Europe (USAREUR) and his staff, convinced Washington would soon rescind such obviously foolish orders, passively resisted Truman’s directive. With paternalistic certainty, they cited the unfairness of forcing “colored” troops to compete with whites, the adverse effects on the 58

The Catalyst of the Korean War

command’s morale, and the resentment of civilians toward the presence of black soldiers. But LTG Manton S. Eddy, commander of the newly created 7th Army, had other priorities. With the occupation over, his mission was to defend Europe from a Soviet invasion. His command would be the front line of the next great global war, and his force structure was imbalanced. White combat units were at three-quarters of authorized strength, while many of the segregated transport companies had excess personnel. But when it came to training, neither white nor black units had enough, partly because USAREUR’s laudable policy of allowing soldiers ten hours of duty time a week to obtain the equivalent of a tenth-grade education left many black units at a fraction of their authorized strength. Eddy may have harbored personal reservations about racial equality, but he realized Europeans would contrast America’s exalted rhetoric about freedom with what they witnessed of its treatment of black soldiers. Convinced of the moral and practical case for integration, he became its formidable champion, overcoming myriad problems through his administrative and personal skills.25 Once it was clear that integration in Europe was inevitable, the process moved forward with surprising speed and efficiency. USAREUR established priorities for an orderly two-year transition: combat forces would be the first to integrate and they would retain their readiness. All tactical organizations were assigned a quota of 12  percent African Americans—a figure based on their proportion of the national population— and all units designated as “colored” were inactivated. Most units utilized some variation of what was termed the “packet plan” under which they kept a small cadre, sent out their surplus personnel, and accepted replacements carefully selected for race, occupation, and rank. A number of innovative ideas helped the process. Perhaps first and foremost, 7th Army rigorously screened the transfers and made sure that commanders were not dumping their misfits and marginal soldiers. Another important decision was to have new arrivals make up 20 percent, so that a substantial number of soldiers would never have experienced their outfit as anything but integrated. On a designated day, packets switched; the troops packed up their kit and marched to their new quarters, as one correspondent observed, “so swiftly and 59

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unobtrusively that few outside those directly involved have even been aware of what was going on,” but “a revolution in race relations . . . appears to be setting a pattern not yet equaled elsewhere in our armed forces or anywhere in our country.” 26 Many in the Regular Army shared these views. Carl McIntosh, who had every reason to be aggrieved by integration—he was transferred from a prestigious command to a formerly all-black engineer unit— reflected that the ser vice “went through some trauma but once everything settled down . . . we were probably stronger as a result, because we had been challenged that we would do a good job, that everybody would work together, that we would be an example kind of a unit, and I think we lived up to it. . . . We started a new army, where there was a complete mix from officers all the way down to enlisted with blacks and whites in the same engineer units doing a good job and working together.” 27 Much of the success of integration was due to the basic decency and fair-mindedness of the enlisted soldier. USAREUR command had justified segregation as much for reasons of morale as military necessity, claiming that black and white troops could not get along. The fears of race riots and a breakdown of discipline quickly evaporated, as the soldiers proved much more tolerant than many senior commanders. In the 1st Infantry Division there was not a single court martial over what might be termed a race-based incident. The army conducted several interviews, and most were overwhelmingly positive: To a Southern boy, the amiability of the white and colored here is truly amazing. I heard men in processing camp say that they would refuse to live in the same barracks with a Negro. Those same men now have colored men sleeping next to them and they are getting along wonderfully. It just proves this thing is artificial. Prejudice is acquired, not inborn . . . and people who think they cannot get rid of it are mistaken. Here, the army has taken the most direct course toward eliminating it. So far it has been surprisingly successful. The best friend I have so far made is the man in the next bunk. He is colored, an art student with six years at an art academy behind him, hates the army, and hates modern art. We have fine arguments . . . but we argue as equals. I would never have believed it.28

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Such attitudes may not be as surprising as they seem, for a 1955 survey found that 80 percent of males between the ages of sixteen and twenty supported integrating the armed forces.29 The experience of the 22nd Infantry Regiment demonstrates the process at its best. In 1950 it was comprised of two white battalions at Schweinfurt and one “colored” battalion at Wildflecken, with its own black combat and service support units. Relations between the units were not good, and when the segregated battalion joined the regiment at Schweinfurt, a combination of unit pride, racial animosity, communist agitation, and competition for females prompted a number of fights. In late 1951 the regiment integrated, exchanging some of the best noncoms and also exchanging soldiers. One officer witnessed his new African-American “top kick” take charge: “I am the First Sergeant of Fox Company. When I blow my whistle, this company jumps! Now, I’m going to dismiss you and you’re going back in the barracks and you’re going to stand by your bunk. You’re gonna listen for my whistle and when I blow my whistle, this company jumps!” This lecture was repeated four times until “that company really jumped. That company was the best company in the 2nd Battalion.” 30 As was true of technological transformation, such sweeping personnel changes created bottlenecks and delays, which soon spawned further delays, until within a year the whole process appeared headed for meltdown. USAREUR’s package system and the 12 percent AfricanAmerican quota, however theoretically sound, required the Pentagon’s personnel office to respect its priorities. But the Pentagon, still fully involved in the Korean War and overwhelmed by the virtual tripling in manpower, could not sustain the European experiment. USAREUR’s reshuffling of soldiers within combat units created a surplus of over 3,000 African Americans unqualified for essential Military Occupational Specialties (MOS) and leadership positions. This imbalance grew with the integration of support and administrative units, especially in historically segregated branches such as transportation, signal, construction, and antiaircraft. Compounding these problems, in 1953 the Department of the Army sent a disproportionate number of black troops to Europe as individual replacements, so that by May they numbered over 16 percent of enlisted personnel.31 61

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Although the integration of the US Army soon became a source of much pride to the ser vice, and provided both inspiration and justification for the civil rights movement, it came at great and unacknowledged costs. One soldier who served in a black airborne unit believed that morale was high because “we knew we had to be better.”32 He also recalled that in contrast to most white units, his officers and NCOs were all combat-experienced and highly competent. The abolition of segregated units terminated a distinct African-American military lineage, with its own traditions and culture, dating back almost to the Civil War. For some it was the loss of a family. Integration also pushed black career soldiers into direct competition with whites privileged by better education and technical training. The white commander of a segregated field artillery unit told his troops: “This is what your people have wanted for a long time. Now, whether it works or is a monumental foulup is going to depend very considerably on you—your qualities of leadership, your patience, how hard you work. You’re not going to be segregated any more because of the color of your skin. And you’re not going to be sheltered by it either.” 33 When the Korean War sputtered to a close and the downsizing army could afford higher educational and vocational standards, African-American soldiers were among the most vulnerable. The Korean War manpower crisis fueled a drive to expand the allvolunteer Women’s Army Corps to 30,000. As in World War II, initial enthusiasm produced a wave of volunteers—a 60  percent increase in the last half of 1950—followed by a rapid decline. Whereas in January 1951 over 35,000 men enlisted, fewer than 700 women did; the following June there were only 12,000 Wacs. Renewed emphasis on assimilating female soldiers led to interchangeable personnel tables; women now had the opportunity to learn any noncombat MOS, especially in the manpower-strapped Far East Command. Women formerly limited to secretarial duties were sent to Korea for on-the-job training as telephone operators, mechanics, drivers, and other occupations. With both Wacs and nurses serving near the front lines, and the possibility the war might escalate to a US–USSR nuclear confrontation, the role of women in combat was fiercely debated. Although they knew public opinion was 62

The Catalyst of the Korean War

Army Information Office, 1952. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

opposed to women being exposed to danger, the ser vice’s leaders believed, “Wacs should at least be given the opportunity to know how to use weapons . . . this is just as essential a preventive measure as knowing what to do under atomic bombing conditions, and might go hand in hand with it.” 34 In addition to forcing revolutionary changes in personnel assignments, the Korean War brought home to the army that the Cold War required a far higher standard of preparedness. Both doctrinally and ideologically, the US Army prided itself on its ability to fight offensive wars characterized by mobility, precise firepower, and great individual skill. But in the two world wars it had the luxury of time, allowing it to absorb early defeats, mobilize, train, and then deploy million-man armies. Korea, and the threat to Western Europe, required ground forces sufficient to fight, and win, the first battle. There could be no 63

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more Task Force Smiths. Yet Korea itself had proved an unsatisfactory theater for the offensive, fast-moving operations American officers believed distinguished their army’s way of war. Veterans recalled the difficulties of terrain and climate, the stagnation of the front, the massive artillery barrages, the absence of roads, and the strength of the enemy defenses. These factors, together with proximity to Red China and its immense military resources, meant any future war in the Far East would be far more destructive and no more decisive. The editor of one army journal spoke for many in concluding, “Korea’s most potent lesson lies in the fact that . . . it is not the kind of war to fight.” 35 Throughout the war the agency charged with training stateside troops, the Army Field Forces (AFF), faced the dilemma of whether to revamp training and education program for Korean conditions or continue to emphasize army-wide priorities. Given the great variety of service missions and global commitments, the AFF consistently chose the latter. Regardless of whether he would face Russians or Chinese, the goal of army training was to “prepare each soldier to meet a ruthless and savage enemy who adheres to no established rules of land warfare; to instill in our soldier the spirit of the offensive; to win over this vicious foe on the battlefield, despite any and all odds.” 36 Having decided on the ideal, the army faced the much greater challenge of implementation. Most incoming soldiers were assigned to divisions still bearing the titles of illustrious WWII combat units. In reality, they consisted of little more than a cadre itself soon drafted as trained replacements for overseas. One training division suffered a 130 percent turnover rate in officers and a 108 percent turnover rate in trainers in less than six months, a not aty pical example of personnel turbulence. In the summer of 1950, the 2nd Armored Division was stripped of its field artillery and armor personnel as fillers for Korea, and those who remained trained 20,000 reservists. Designated as one of the four divisions to be deployed to West Germany, it received a new influx of 20,000 draftees in December. One headquarters reported that while “on paper it was a regular army armored division” in reality the 2nd Armored consisted of “a hard core of seasoned men and officers plus an overwhelming number of raw recruits and reserve officers. Gen64

The Catalyst of the Korean War

erally speaking the officers recalled had no experience in armor.” 37 Five months later its first units went overseas. Not surprisingly, the experience of individuals who went through training varied in both quality and curriculum. Some recruits were taught by tough, capable veterans, whom they credited with imparting the tactical skills and psychological toughness essential to survival on the battlefield. One African-American soldier recalled his trainers as patient, thorough, and “anxious to share their experiences and their knowledge and expertise— even the racists.” 38 But a survey of one training division revealed that half the AWOLs were cadre, many of whom were illiterate. Another survey found two-thirds of the trainees wanted more instruction in hand-to-hand combat, weapons, cover and concealment, and more physical conditioning. Given the turmoil stateside, it is not surprising that throughout the war the 8th Army complained that most soldiers arriving in Korea required additional instruction.39 From very early on, both officers and the media commented on the indifference and lack of discernible fighting spirit among the troops either in or bound for Korea, especially the reservists and conscripts. Ridgway recalled that he found throughout the 8th Army “a definite air of ner vousness, of gloomy foreboding, or uncertainty”; soldiers had “lost their aggressiveness, their esprit, their eagerness to fight.” 40 Many attributed this morale problem to soldiers not understanding why they were expected to fight in an undeclared war in a distant land for unclear objectives while so many of their fellow citizens enjoyed peace and prosperity. But even career soldiers showed little enthusiasm for repeat tours to Korea. One Regular Army colonel noted in 1951, “the military men of today do not revel in or expound upon the glories of war as they have in the past. There are few, if any, soldiers in Korea who, if it were in the interest of the nation, would not gladly exchange their position for the peaceful life of a prewar mid-west army post.” 41 This malaise lasted long after fighting stopped. In 1954 LTG James M. Gavin, one of the most enthusiastic and charismatic leaders in the service, told one correspondent that the “pride and spirit” of the army “has almost been destroyed . . . the career soldier of today is gripped by a sickness of spirit, by a sense of hopelessness and frustration.” 42 65

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With the army’s budget almost tripled, Korea presented it with a chance to dump much of its obsolete equipment and modernize. There were notable successes and notable failures. In some cases, faulty experimental designs were approved for production, and then given crash redesigns either based on perceived lessons from the battlefield or to incorporate even more experimental technology. Some wartime equipment proved essentially useless, such as the tank gun sight that only worked while stationary in an air-conditioned vault. Between the lag time in production, the growing and immediate demands of the war, and its requirement to equip allied forces, the army’s materiel inventory was dangerously depleted. Barely a year after the war began, the 2nd Army, stationed in the United States, reported two of every five of its older tanks unusable due to lack of maintenance, and most of the new vehicles waiting for spare parts. Conditions were equally bad in Europe, where a 1951 inspection team lamented the “age and decrepitude” of the machinery, from radios to antiaircraft guns, and the prohibitively high cost in both money and time of keeping this balky and obsolete equipment functioning.43 According to the army’s own public relations office, “Eighteen months of continuous hard effort [were] required to overcome, to the present degree, the destruction of public esteem of the Army by poor, unbalanced reporting of the first six months of the Korean conflict.” 44 Journalists and commentators castigated the army during the initial fallback to and defense of the Pusan Perimeter. Their criticism only escalated during the retreat after the Chinese intervention. The quality of combat journalism was uneven at best. Some were excellent. One officer recalled his delight when Marguerite Higgins cheerfully waved as she passed the “great dramatic actor” Douglas MacArthur striking a Washington-crossing-the-Delaware pose as he rode into Inchon: “that sort of stopped the heroics of the situation. If there is a girl on the next landing craft, how heroic can you be in yours?” 45 But other journalists concocted lurid and often mendacious accounts, which lowered morale, or even leaked information that endangered both military operations and lives. To many officers, the war proved the media was hostile, while 66

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military and civilian leaders did little to stop “the insidious propaganda that appears on the press and on the radio daily. The Commies are accomplishing a lot within the country without a number of people being aware of what goes on.” 46 The army’s wartime public relations efforts were broad and extensive. They ranged from reforming the Stars and Stripes newspaper by bringing in drafted journalists to establishing a radio network to broadcast music and news to troops throughout the Korean Peninsula. The Pentagon sponsored the 1951 movie The Crime of Korea, which included graphic footage of North Korean atrocities. To encourage distribution, it sold the film for a pittance to movie theaters and television studios; they could show it as often as they liked. The army also began televising The Big Picture, a pioneering semidocumentary that soon evolved into a widely viewed weekly report on the army to the public. Generals served as celebrity spokesmen, although Walker’s obvious dislike for the press and his inarticulate explanation of military operations made him a target for media criticism. In contrast, Ridgway and his successor, Maxwell D. Taylor, were adept at cultivating journalists and controlling the narrative.47 One leadership question—whether civilian or military authority was paramount during wartime—was resolved when Truman relieved MacArthur of command and the Joint Chiefs of Staff supported the president. Although MacArthur’s relief unleashed a torrent of public and political criticism in the United States, it seems to have had little impact on the army in Korea. The aging general, shaken by the Chinese invasion, only visited on carefully scripted and heavily publicized tours, returning to Japan each evening. Among the GIs he was a remote and often resented figure. Among officers in the know there was a consensus: “MacArthur had blown it on the campaign after Inchon, he was out of control.” 48 If MacArthur served as a warning for generals who took excessive risks, Ridgway’s ruthless relief of officers may have prompted exactly the opposite reaction, making them risk-averse. Reflecting both the political constraints on military operations and their own personalities, Ridgway’s successors at the 8th Army—James 67

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Van Fleet and Taylor—further centralized control, micromanaging operations to such an extent that some combat arms officers tried to avoid command.49 Korea did increase the army’s bureaucratic emphasis on career management rather than merit. To ensure that every officer had a balanced career, the army assigned them based on long-term priorities rather than on who was necessary to win the war. Responding to Ridgway’s complaints of mediocre field-grade officers, the Pentagon established a program that sent promising combat arms officers to Korea for high-prestige command and staff assignments. This may have led to an increase in command quality, but it also contributed to an institutional culture in which the war zone became a place for Regulars to “check the box” and advance their careers. Lemnitzer was perhaps the best example of such “ticket punching.” He was a brilliant staff officer whose prospects were blighted by the fact he had last led troops in 1940 as a coast artillery captain. In barely a year he hurdled through a series of career-enhancing assignments—Pentagon staffer, airborne school, command of a stateside training division, commanding general of the 7th Infantry Division in Korea, a Silver Star medal, deputy commander of the 8th Army—before returning to Pentagon staff duties as a lieutenant general.50 The war transformed the army officer corps. At its beginning, Regular Army officers constituted 34 percent of those on active duty, a substantial increase from the less than 2  percent they had totaled at the end of World War II. But the tripling of manpower, the 1950 reserve call-up, and the influx of junior officers reversed this trend: in 1954, 94,000 of the army’s 122,000 officers had reserve commissions.51 Many of the field-grade (majors to colonels) reserve officers were WWII veterans, and with their Korean ser vice they accumulated sufficient time on active ser vice to put the twenty-year “million dollar” pension just a few years away. They were eager to remain in uniform and anxious that they would be discharged in the inevitable postwar reduction in forces. Most company-grade officers (lieutenants to captains) also held reserve commissions, but they were far more ambivalent about army careers. Whereas in World War II Officers Candidate School (OCS) had provided most of the army’s combat leaders, during the Korean War it 68

The Catalyst of the Korean War

was less impor tant. In part this reflected army-wide problems with the training programs; not until 1952 could OCS provide its quota of junior officers. These low numbers indicate both the toughness of the curriculum, with 60 percent attrition rates not uncommon, and OCS’s dependence on high-quality volunteers from the enlisted ranks. As one army survey discovered, “young Americans are unwilling to volunteer for this extra year merely to share in the kudos and responsibilities of officer ranks; and the Armed Forces do not want to draft men to be officers.” 52 The army hoped that ROTC would provide not only sufficient numbers but also the high-quality, college-educated officers who could be assigned to a wide variety of tasks during their two-year active duty obligation. In fiscal year 1953, ROTC commissioned over 13,000 officers, of whom the army took all but 600. But ROTC came with a number of costs, not least that it removed some of the most intelligent young men from the manpower pool: in 1951 roughly one out of six draft deferments went to ROTC candidates. And as casualties rose, particularly among junior lieutenants, the percentage of Distinguished Military Graduates—those ROTC graduates eligible for Regular Army commissions— choosing this option declined dramatically, from 70  percent in 1951 to 39  percent in 1953. Compounding the problem, many ROTC officers applied for technical or administrative branches, and the army’s solution of transferring those ranking low in these specialties to the combat arms was hardly conducive to inspired or effective battlefield leadership. Moreover, the army’s dependence on shortterm ROTC officers meant perpetual turbulence: in 1953 almost half of the 7th Army’s officers rotated back to the United States.53 As in World War II, there were many complaints about the poor quality of field and company officers. The Infantry School held a succession of conferences in which senior commanders reported too many of their subordinates lacking fundamental combat skills. In November 1951, 8th Army headquarters complained that 139 of the 299 new field artillery officers had not qualified in that branch. But overseas commanders’ complaints ignored the fact that the army had stripped its training base to fi ll up their overseas units, often leaving the most 69

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inexperienced or inept as trainers. Although he exaggerated, one veteran’s claim that the ser vice “grabbed any young officer in sight and shipped him straight to Korea with little additional training” had a grain of truth.54 The army’s concern with the quality of its younger officers was aggravated by their perception that the majority of enlisted personnel were unwilling warriors. Both military and media observers noted many instances, during the first months of fighting, when US forces malingered, or failed to fight aggressively. At the end of the war, Americans were shocked by sensational reports that many US prisoners of war had accepted brainwashing, or even worse, collaborated with the communists. The army investigated 426 POWs— over one in ten—and court martialed fourteen, far more than any other ser vice. This punitive action was a public relations disaster. The ser vice was perceived as persecuting victims, and the disproportionate trials of enlisted men renewed charges that the “officer caste” was again abusing its authority. President Dwight D. Eisenhower formed an investigatory committee; it concluded that most POWs had behaved honorably and the collaboration accusations were exaggerated. Yet for many years the ser vice failed to defend its soldiers against right-wing zealots, including some army officers.55 Unfortunately, when officers looked to Korea for lessons, legitimate concerns about morale, training, and discipline all too often were reduced to a “blame the troops” narrative, a blanket condemnation of American society, and a self-serving exculpation of institutional and individual mistakes. The official analysis was a variation of “the biggest lesson we have learned from the Korean confl ict is that our tactical doctrine and techniques of application are fundamentally sound” and when applied correctly “have met with unqualified success.” 56 Nor did the ser vice single out MacArthur, Walker, or other senior commanders for blame, as it had the unfortunate commander of military forces at Pearl Harbor. At least according to the institution’s reasoning, the fault lay with junior officers and enlisted personnel who had misapplied the doctrine and techniques. This rationalization was rejected by the army’s critics, who charged, “A general can commit inexcusable blunders 70

The Catalyst of the Korean War

without fear of removal” and termed the senior command “bureaucratic, inefficient, hidebound and introverted, absorbed in itself and forgetful of its only reason for existence—to prepare to fight its nation’s enemies.” 57 Those officers who did take responsibility were often ignored. The comment by the commander of the 24th Infantry Division, MG William F. Dean, that the tired and defeated soldiers he observed retreating before the North Koreans in July 1950 had “less than a month before been fat and happy in occupation billets, complete with Japanese girlfriends, plenty of beer, and servants to shine their boots” became part of the established canon.58 What was seldom cited was Dean’s even harsher criticism of his own leadership and his ser vice’s failure to prepare its soldiers for war. In both civilian and military memory, a narrative emerged of pampered American youth who were weak, individualistic, effeminate, selfish, and altogether unworthy of their military leaders. A decade after the end of the war, one officer concluded that the primary lesson of the Korean War was “the shocking ignorance and consequent lack of faith of large numbers of American youth concerning the basic principles and facts of American life.” 59 Another warned, “ There has to be a moral re-evaluation to allow the American people to return to the basic principles of integrity and loyalty which were lacking in Korea. There should be spiritual, educational, and moral standards so high that what happened in Korea will never be repeated.” 60 Journalist Eugene Kinkead’s 1959 book, In Every War But One, singled out army POWs as examples of the “new softness,” a catchall for the breakdown in morality, ethics, and discipline in American society.61 Even more influential was T. R. Fehrenbach’s 1963 This Kind of War: A Study of Unpreparedness. Fehrenbach cast the Korean War as a moral fable in which wise generals had warned of the communist danger, but frivolous and selfish civilians had disregarded their sage counsel and emasculated the armed forces. The postwar GIs had been spoiled by easy occupation duty; only the harsh baptism of combat had turned them into worthy successors of the WWII veterans (like Fehrenbach), and then only at a terrible cost in blood, treasure, and national prestige. Unless the United States heeded its military leaders, repented its frivolous ways, and 71

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embarked on a martial revival, the next war would begin with even greater disasters than Korea. Indicative of the power of this narrative, Fehrenbach’s diatribe remains a fixture on army professional reading lists.62 The long-term psychological effects of the war were magnified by the revolutionary changes it imposed on the ser vice. With little exaggeration, one war college committee concluded that together, the war, the influx of personnel, and the imposition of conscription had “destroyed the professional character of the Army.” 63 In June 1950 the ser vice had appeared destined for irrelevance. Three years later, it had simultaneously fought a war in Korea and tripled its troops in Europe. It had created the foundations of a training and support infrastructure to sustain a large permanent peacetime army. It had morphed from a predominantly volunteer to an overwhelmingly draftee enlisted force. It was the largest racially integrated federal agency in the nation. But with these changes came equally momentous problems. Calling up the reserves probably staved off defeat in 1950 but wasted lives, resources, and public support. Selective Ser vice brought in sufficient bodies, but the two-year obligation created enormous personnel turbulence: between 1950 and 1953 the army had to create, break down, and recreate its forces as its soldiers came and went. The Korean experience left many in the army profoundly worried about the outcome of any future war against the USSR. If the US Army had such difficulties fighting Chinese and North Korean surrogates, how could it withstand the Red Army’s better-equipped millions? Blaming the army’s problems on the incompetence, poor morale, and bad discipline of junior officers and enlisted personnel only exacerbated these fears. The army clearly needed new doctrine, new organization, and new weapons, but also new GIs worthy of their leaders. From now on, military transformation would require social transformation. The army, having transformed after World War II, and again to fight Korea, must do it yet again. This time it must change to prevail on the future’s atomic battlefield.

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3

THE ATOMIC BATTLEFIELD

In late August 1945, Hamilton  H. Howze, chief of tactics at the US Army Cavalry School, was struggling to reconcile its horse-borne doctrine with the mechanized operations of recent European battlefields. One day, on his way to a lecture, he learned that a new super bomb had annihilated an entire city in Japan. That was the final straw. Howze walked into the classroom and told his astonished students: “Okay, you guys. Turn in your suits. We are all out of business. No more army.” 1 Howze’s reaction was typical. Even those who championed the importance of ground forces saw little role for nuclear weapons. Consumed with the problems of demobilization, occupation, and personnel turmoil, the postwar army leadership was slow to recognize the consequences of ceding atomic warfare to the air force and navy. But as Truman ruthlessly cut budgets and manpower, and as the army vanished from war plans, the equanimity with which Howze had contemplated institutional oblivion was no longer possible. Instead, as LTG James M. Gavin later recalled, it seemed clear to all who wore the army uniform that “you had to show you could live with nuclear weapons— either that or simply go out of business.” 2 Throughout its history the US Army has often struggled to articulate its distinct vision or way of war. It has never produced a prophet like the US Navy’s Alfred Thayer Mahan or air power’s Giulio Douhet— an articulate seer whose idealized vision can withstand decades of contradictory evidence. Carl von Clausewitz may be invoked frequently, but it is doubtful many officers have read the great Prussian, much less practiced his precepts. In the absence of any overarching intellectual rug to tie the war room together, theorists have largely defined the 73

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army’s way of war as its conduct of wartime operations. Through a selective and often uncritical study of campaigns and leaders, they have postulated immutable principles of war and uniquely American means of waging it. Although this dialogue has at times resulted in contradictory, even dysfunctional peacetime preparations, it has also contributed to a practical utilitarianism, an ability to adapt and innovate that has often proved successful in war. Thus, although the post-Hiroshima army was late to address the question of nuclear warfare, it had a long heritage of developing and institutionalizing radically new, even transformational concepts of war.3 The atomic army theorists faced three essential problems. The first was to prove the army was still relevant in the Cold War. The second problem was how to transform the army’s existing doctrine, organization, equipment, and personnel to fight on the atomic battlefield. The last problem was how to reverse the army’s decline in prestige and funding, win public and political support, inspire those who wore its uniform, and restore the ser vice’s preeminent role in national defense. In their view, the army was under attack from all sides, and radical measures were required. It was a siege mentality that inspired innovation and adaptation, but also a tendency to wish away problems and embrace change for its own sake. Although in retrospect the army’s contribution to the debate over atomic weapons was sometimes more marketing than strategy, much of it was original, innovative, and impor tant. In the 1950s, army officers developed a reasoned critique of the military, moral, and political limitations of all-out nuclear warfare. Less convincing was their assertion that atomic weapons could be restricted to the battlefield, allowing for limited wars that would never escalate to mutual nuclear destruction. As the United States and the Soviet Union shifted quickly from allies to adversaries, the Pentagon raced to develop contingency plans for what some assumed was imminent war. The United States still had sole possession of the atomic bomb and the airplanes to deliver it; the US Navy was unchallenged on the oceans. But the Soviet Union was the preeminent land power: in May 1949 the Red Army numbered 1,500,000 soldiers in 170 divisions, the majority stationed within striking distance 74

The Atomic Battlefield

of West Germany’s borders. The US Army had just 80,000, including a single infantry division and some lightly armed constabulary, to oppose them. An Army War College study credited the Red Army with 16,000 medium tanks (the US Army had 1,255), 2,400 heavy tanks (the US Army had none), and over 5,000 self-propelled guns. But it was not numbers alone that made the Soviets so terrifying. In the recent war against Nazi Germany, the Russians had demonstrated their proficiency at military operations on a scale and duration unmatched by any other land force. It took very little imagination for American officers to construct the military threat that would haunt them until the end of the Cold War: a sudden and massive Soviet assault smashing through Western Europe to the English Channel.4 In the Pentagon, immediate postwar plans against the Soviet Union were predicated on what would later be termed “General War”—an all-out aerial bombing campaign to pound Russia’s industrial and political centers into dust. Much as in World War II, the army’s mission was to first withdraw its overseas contingents, then protect domestic bases as it mobilized a draftee army of several millions that would, eventually, be committed to ground operations against the Soviets. Both the planners’ recollections and the war plans themselves suggest this great land campaign was viewed as a remote contingency, a tidying up of a war already won by the atom bomb. Given the army’s postwar weakness and the Truman administration’s minuscule defense budgets, General War was not the primary but the sole strategy to counter the Soviet Union.5 To those army officers interested in establishing an atomic mission for their own service, General War was both morally and militarily anathema. One dismissed it as “the erroneous belief in undiluted violence as the true objective of war,” a strategic concept predicated on little more than blind faith “that those weapons capable of the greatest destruction are the most effective.”6 A nuclear war with the Soviet Union, LTG Manton Eddy argued, “would have no real victor . . . we would come out in worse shape than we went in.”7 One colonel chided air force officers for the conviction that killing millions of Russians was in itself a political objective, and for their manifest failure to address a basic strategic question: 75

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“what do you do after it’s over?”8 However destructive to the Soviet homeland, aerial bombardment would not prevent the Red Army from occupying Western Europe, and it would inflict appalling casualties on both the nation’s allies and those it wished to liberate from communist tyranny. As GEN Lucius D. Clay noted, even if the most optimistic predictions prevailed, the United States “would have to move in and restore law and order and try to bring these people back into the way of life which would be helpful to that of the rest of the world.”9 Having challenged the underlying assumption that General War was the only response to the Soviet threat, army intellectuals offered their own solution: a revolutionary method of ground warfare that could restrict fighting to the battlefield, spare civilian populations, and achieve the nation’s strategic goals. As Chief of Plans and Operations LTG Albert C. Wedemeyer, explained, “we do not have a concept of warfare that envisages tremendous armies engaged in mass attacks on the ground. Rather, we contemplate relatively small, thoroughly trained, well equipped and highly mobile forces deployed only where the threat is greatest and where the opportunity for inflicting quick, decisive blows upon the enemy is most favorable.” 10 Lieutenant Colonel Fred L. Walker’s 1947 article “Your Next War” predicted: The shape of future conflict emerges in broad outline. Armies that are nameless and unhampered by boundaries and distances will strike unheralded, with lightning speed, both from within and without. Airborne, airsupplied, air-mechanized striking forces will swarm like hornets over a nation, simultaneously attacking a thousand scattered objectives, paying little more attention to the defender’s atom bombs than a swarm of wasps would pay to a sledge hammer in the hands of a victim. The atom bomb will certainly exert a vast influence on the mechanics of war, but men will continue to fight battles in spite of it. The final convincing argument of complete victory will still be gunpowder at point-blank range.11

That same year, Gavin’s book, Airborne Warfare, declared, “Only through flight can we wage a future war in accordance with the principles of surprise, mass, and economy of force.” 12 The paratroop general defined flight not as the strategic bomber, but the means to transport armies to the battlefield, there to smash a shocked opponent with 76

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helicopters, lightweight tanks, missiles, and a host of other futuristic weapons. To Gavin, the atomic bomb was revolutionary not because it destroyed cities, but because it radically changed ground combat. The very threat of nuclear attack eliminated the enormous supply depots, massed armor columns, and huge troop concentrations that had characterized modern warfare: mobility, shock, and dispersion would be the essential characteristics of the atomic battlefield. Although many of the technologies that Gavin envisioned never materialized, his vision of future combat operations was soon widely accepted.13 To the growing number of atomic army theorists, the Korean War only proved the limits of a national strategy predicated on General War against the Soviet homeland. Washington’s policymakers viewed it as a clear case of communist aggression, impossible without the full complicity, and probably the active direction, of the Kremlin. Yet from the beginning, Truman, and later Eisenhower, never seriously considered nuclear retaliation against the USSR, nor acquiesced to expanding the war into China. Neither president rejected the use of atomic weapons in Korea, but both were restrained by a number of practical and moral considerations. These constraints included a lack of suitable targets, fear of expanding the war, the likelihood of Soviet retribution, domestic and allied opposition, world opinion, and many others. Unintentionally, political leaders vindicated the army’s critique of General War as a national security policy dependent on the air force’s capacity for nuclear retaliation and bereft of political objectives. The Korean War accelerated the army’s interest in tactical atomic weapons, so termed because they were allegedly restricted to military targets and did not strike at noncombatants or urban centers. The army’s interest in nuclear warheads was justified on more than humanitarian grounds; it reflected the sobering recognition of communist military capabilities. In Korea, the effectiveness of both North Korean and Chinese soldiers had shocked the Americans: these troops were dedicated, tactically proficient, had impressive firepower, and were willing and able to sustain enormous casualties to achieve their objectives. Although the army developed methods to kill tens of thousands of enemy soldiers, most strategists recognized that such attritional tactics would ultimately 77

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lose the Cold War. A 1951 army study concluded that on the modern battlefield, “enemy combatant manpower is the real tactical hurdle.” Fortunately, it also identified the solution: tactical weapons that could “neutralize” an area and produce “mass battle casualties” of perhaps 30,000 with one Hiroshima-size blast.14 These sentiments were echoed by one of the ser vice’s most influential atomic theorists, COL George C. Reinhardt: battlefield atomics were the only means to “neutralize an aggressor’s reliance upon reckless expenditure of lives to pound out victory in land warfare.” 15 Another perceived lesson of Korea was that positional warfare would lead to stalemate; maneuver was essential to victory. Gavin spoke of military operations extending hundreds of miles, and defenses “made up of scores, perhaps hundreds, of widely separated battle groups, relatively small in size but possessed of great mobility and tremendous firepower from conventional as well as atomic weapons.” On such a rapidly changing battlefield, “the individual foot soldier in an atomic war must also possess far more initiative and self-reliance than in the past.” 16 Another thinker argued that atomic warheads allowed “deep penetrations and wide envelopments, seizure of decisive objectives in enemy rear areas and maximum exploitation of the resulting disorganization and disruption of the enemy.” 17 Far from recreating the firepower-saturated battlefields of World War I, theorists argued that atomic weapons would be more precise, since only large, stationary concentrations of troops and equipment would justify their employment. And, like COL Frank J. Sackton, they dismissed the possibility that any use of tactical atomic weapons would trigger a strategic nuclear exchange: “The factor that precludes the use of weapons of mass destruction against the homelands of nations—the threat of annihilation for both sides regardless of who initiates such attack—need not preclude the use of atomic tactical weapons in the battle area.” 18 Thus, paradoxically, the quantum leap in destructive potential actually meant that, as one theorist explained, not only did ground combat remain the decisive instrument, but “Mobility becomes the decisive factor in atomic warfare.” 19 The army’s 1954 keystone doctrinal publication— FM 100-5: Field Ser vice Regulations: Operations—marked an incremental step away 78

The Atomic Battlefield

The atomic battlefield. Source: US Army Heritage and Education Center, Carlisle, Pa.

from the methods the ser vice had used successfully in World War II. The manual fi rst acknowledged that the army could no longer plan to wage only all-out total wars as it had in World War II: it must be prepared to fight limited wars subject to political constraints. Thereafter, it devoted little attention to the fi repower-intensive, attritional, and largely defensive warfare waged in Korea. Instead, perhaps influenced by the possibility of confl ict in Europe against the USSR, it stressed maneuver and taking the offensive. The discussion on using atomic weapons was even more conservative. It ignored General War entirely, as if national commitment to massive retaliation would not affect military operations. It also ignored the rapid dispersion– concentration tactics advocated by some limited atomic war theorists, instructing commanders to treat atomics as “additional firepower of large magnitude to complement other available fire support for maneuvering forces.” 20 79

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Yet if FM 100-5 did not address many of the tactical questions raised by Korea or atomic weapons, it was nonetheless contemporary in being “as much a political statement as a guide for regulating war.” 21 The manual reiterated that only land forces could achieve decisive results because of their unique abilities to defeat both organized and irregular opponents, to control territory, and to defend the United States and its allies. Without directly naming the air force or its strategic atomic weapons, it extolled the army’s ability to restrain the effects of war and criticized methods that resulted in indiscriminate destruction to civilians and economies. Blending moral and military arguments, army intellectuals persistently conflated the terms “limited” and “tactical” when they referred to their version of atomic war. Much of the ser vice’s interest lay in its poor understanding of atomic weapons. With few exceptions, and much to the distress of civilian defense intellectuals, army theorists continued to maintain atomic weapons would “provide the shock effect now associated with massed armor and infantry actions and massed artillery fire.”22 Indeed, the army never developed a satisfactory definition of a tactical atomic weapon, applying the term to everything from squad-level, highly portable mortars with a one-quarter-kiloton blast to missiles that fired warheads larger than the Hiroshima bomb.23 Insistent that atomics were just another form of munitions, the army focused on testing for explosive power. The topic of radiation’s effects was notably absent from either theoretical literature or school curricula. This oversight was encouraged by civilian agencies, most notably the Atomic Energy Commission, which discounted the effects of radiological exposure. In fact, for much of the 1950s the armed forces lacked the ability to determine the dispersal or intensity of radiation with any accuracy. It was not until the end of the decade that tacticians included such advice as “the commander’s guidance should include a statement of the maximum available total dose to be received by assault troops from residual radiation.”24 Army theorists extrapolated from each test or equipment trial further evidence to confirm their convictions. The Buster-Jangle or Desert Rock tests in the fall of 1951, predicated on using atomic weapons to blast through enemy defenses, seemed to offer proof that tactical 80

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atomic warfare was possible. Later tests not only vindicated these conclusions, but also indicated that soldiers were fast becoming more complacent about operating in blast zones. After his company was parachuted into ground zero ninety minutes after an atomic explosion, Geiger counter–toting specialists assured CPT Thomas M. Waitt they could have jumped after ninety seconds. Waitt, in turn, claimed the dropping of his few dozen paratroopers marked the birth of the “atomic-airborne team” whose “one-two punch” would dominate the future battlefield.25 Within a year of the Korean armistice, this vision of the mobile atomic battlefield had merged with the army’s scenario of a Soviet invasion of Western Europe. In a 1954 lecture, Army Vice Chief of Staff Charles  L. Bolte postulated the Soviets and Americans would “limit the use of nuclear weapons to military rather than civilian targets; and tactical atomic weapons will be used wherever militarily practicable.” The Soviets’ massed armored columns would be halted by atomics; American mobile airborne and mechanized forces would blitz deep into the enemy rear, attacking flanks, cutting the Russians off from their bases, then destroying them in a series of fast, violent battles. Bolte contrasted the push-button, inhuman, and, by implication, totalitarian nature of all-out nuclear warfare with the “discriminatory flexibility” and “initiative, self-reliance, and leadership” of the army’s new way of war.26 Bolte’s lecture demonstrated how quickly atomic warfare had evolved from the early musings of a few army intellectuals to the ser vice’s vision of future war. But with official sanction came a much more difficult problem: how to modify the army’s existing organization to employ and defend against atomic weapons. The problem was compounded by evidence from recent conflicts that prolonged ground combat required enormous reserves of men and materiel, and tactical formations ballooned with added firepower, logistics, and specialized units. In Korea, the authorized 19,000-man infantry division had only 4,000 infantry and a “division slice”—the forces required to allow that division to conduct independent operations—which included 25,000 in divisional units and another 35,000 supporting forces. But tactical atomic war could not be so cumbersome: formations must rapidly shift position, attacking 81

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Soldiers observing nuclear test, 1951. Source: US Army Heritage and Education Center, Carlisle, Pa.

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deep into enemy territory, while evading atomic blasts. They needed fewer personnel, more firepower, and an equally mobile and dispersed logistical system; other wise it would be American depots evaporating in mushroom clouds.27 The War College’s 1954 Project Binnacle explored the concepts, organizations, and equipment for war in the next decade. It anticipated that nuclear weapons would be both plentiful and mobile, but the threat of mutual annihilation would restrict future conflicts to “limited objective wars.” These limits did not necessarily apply to destruction or losses. Binnacle’s authors concluded that with the army’s current organization, an overseas field force of 2,000,000 could expect some 229,000 casualties a month, of which 91,000 would be from atomic strikes. To avoid such catastrophic losses, American forces must become smaller and faster, “designed to locate, maneuver, and fix enemy forces and then blast such forces with nuclear fire.” Binnacle proposed an Atomic Army Group of 12,000-man divisions in 1,000-man self-contained combat teams, all completely air-transportable, equipped with cross-country vehicles, and armed with powerful conventional and atomic weapons for both long-range (300 miles) and close combat. To wage such a complex and rapid form of war, the current short-service draftee force had be replaced by a long-service, professional standing army prepared for immediate deployment.28 Many of Binnacle’s conclusions were supported by the Atomic Field Army (or AFTA-1) study conducted by GEN John E. Dahlquist’s Office of the Chief of Army Field Forces. The general saw the end result as “a mobile division sufficiently strong to avoid defeat in detail while operating in the dispersed formations required to minimize the effects of atomic attack.” This minimization was defined so that “no more than one battalion might be lost if hit by an atomic weapon of 20 KT [kiloton] yield.” As with most army studies of the early 1950s, AFTA-1 dismissed the effects of radiation, insisting “attacks will be pressed home through the effects area immediately after nuclear detonations, to engage the enemy forces in close, violent action of short duration.”29 Although the study was unable to reconcile the competing organizational demands of 83

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conventional and atomic war its failure did not lessen the army’s conviction that such an organization was possible. Perhaps the most influential and ambitious reorganization plan for atomic warfare was proposed in Continental Army Command’s 1955 Pentana study. This was predicated on tactical organizations and materiel for a limited ground war with the USSR between 1960 and 1965. To enhance mobility, dispersion, and flexibility, the Pentana division consisted of five 1,000-man battle groups that would, in theory, be capable of fighting independently or concentrating to deliver mass attacks. Even more than Binnacle and AFTA, the study was predicated on as-yet-nonexistent technologies that would enable the battle groups to conduct deep assaults into Soviet territory, sustain themselves by air, and engage far superior enemy forces. The agency charged with army technical developments was skeptical; in its view Pentana “alleges to be a 1960–70 Army, but in reality it is an impossibility for 1960 and a doubtful possibility for 1970.” 30 All the organizational studies for atomic war shared with Pentana a common assurance that science would soon provide the army with a plethora of wonder weapons. They only disagreed on when these armaments would be available and which ones had top priority. Project Binnacle, for example, called for nylon armor, small-kiloton rocket launchers, a flame gun, chemical land mines, a compound airplane with the capacity for vertical takeoff, electronics to jam all enemy radio traffic, and a rocket carry ing sufficient nerve gas to inflict 50  percent fatalities in a quarter-mile area. Such faith in the future did not appear misplaced. In 1953, the army successfully fired an atomic shell from a cannon at the Nevada test range; a year later it unveiled a nuclearcapable guided missile. Other essential technologies soon appeared, at least in prototype: a fully automatic infantry rifle; an air-transportable combination mortar-howitzer; an antitank missile; and helicopters and airplanes able to transport troops and fight on the battlefield. Gavin explained to the 1956 graduating class at the Command and General Staff College that very soon they would be using atomic weapons of “very small size, very precise yields, to where they are really indistinguishable from high explosives. . . . The economics of it alone will push 84

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people into their use.” In his view, “this is not a case of whether or not atomic weapons will be used. Make up your minds that they will be used, and they will be developed.” 31 Yet even as the solutions to the army’s search for relevance in the post-Hiroshima world appeared manifest, President Eisenhower began his “New Look” at American defense policy. The president was determined to put national security, and the budget, on a sound, rational basis for a continual struggle against Soviet communism. He envisioned the United States winning the Cold War more through its economic and cultural strength than its military forces, and since time was on the Americans’ side, what was needed were armed forces sufficient to deter overt Soviet aggression until the USSR collapsed from internal weaknesses. Thus it followed that the national defense should be built around the ultimate deterrent of atomic weapons and their delivery systems. He paradoxically believed that while General War meant mutual suicide, the threat of atomic annihilation, or “massive retaliation,” was an essential diplomatic tool. In an early example of what would later be termed “offset strategy,” the 1953 Basic National Security Policy (NSC 162/2) countered the communist powers’ superiority in conventional forces by building up the American strategic nuclear arsenal. To both Eisenhower and the public, this policy was associated with the rapid increase in multimegaton thermonuclear weapons, the US Air Force’s B-52 bombers and missiles, and the US Navy’s ballistic missile submarines. Perhaps to deter any possibility of a Soviet invasion of Europe, in 1955 the president authorized the JCS to anticipate that atomic weapons would be used in any conflict, not just General War. Whether intended or not, this provided a justification for the army’s vision of the tactical atomic battlefield. Maxwell  D. Taylor later criticized Eisenhower’s “misleading” claim that atomics might be used in any conflict “ because it encouraged our military leaders to think they would be allowed to use these weapons pretty much as they saw fit without political constraints.” 32 But as army chief of staff from 1955 to 1959, Taylor would attempt to transform the army for atomic war. The practical consequences of the New Look were devastating for the army. In 1952, the year Eisenhower was elected, the army had 85

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roughly 1,590,000 troops. By the time he left office only 873,000 remained, and this was an increase of 18,000 from the previous year. These reductions in force were administered in an almost casually brutal manner—in one instance the army was given six months to cut 20 percent of its personnel—that made planning almost impossible. Eisenhower demanded almost as severe reductions in the ser vice’s budget. In a not aty pical year, the ser vice asked for $928,000,000 for new equipment and was awarded $158,000,000. Any research and development, procurement, or deployment of new equipment that could not be justified as part of the atomic arsenal ground to a halt, leaving the army reliant on weapons and materiel dating from World War II, or earlier. The only programs that generated new funding were atomic weapons and air defense, with its side forays into rockets and missiles. The president and his supporters claimed this was trimming “fat” and creating lean, mobile, effective ground forces, but one colonel summed up the end results: “After a while there wasn’t any more fat to be chopped, so they cut logistical bone and muscle and called it fat. . . . Now the Army is 60% of what it looks like on paper.” 33 Compounding the army’s unhappiness with the New Look was its chief agent, Charles E. Wilson, whom Gavin termed “the most stupid Secretary of Defense this country ever had and the most determined to remain that way.” 34 Wilson was arrogant, uninformed, and rude; on one occasion when Army Chief of Staff Matthew B. Ridgway was summoned to his office to discuss an important issue, Wilson spent the entire session staring out the window. Together with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Wilson steadily stripped the army of missions, resources, and budgets. Perhaps the deepest wound was his decision to restrict army missiles to less than a 200-mile range and combat aircraft to 100 miles in front of the battlefield. By so doing, he not only destroyed the service’s space rocket program but also undercut its ability to wage the long-range, mobile, deep-penetration operations called for in its atomic war doctrine. A Pentagon staffer recalled that “Ridgway’s contention was that Wilson was raping the army, and he was.” 35 Personal animus aside, the army’s concept of limited tactical atomic warfare could not be reconciled with a national strategy based on all86

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out nuclear bombardment and reduced ground forces. As Eisenhower built up the force for thermonuclear retaliation and cut personnel and budgets, the army’s senior leadership was drawn into open opposition. As chief of staff from 1953 to 1955, Ridgway was governed more by principle than politics; he had long opposed General War as both inhumane and strategically bankrupt. In his view, war was a fundamentally human activity, and Eisenhower was proposing to wage it by machines. The general had numerous practical objections, not least that his service as NATO commander had convinced him that “Western Europe cannot be expected to relish the prospect of an atomic liberation entailing the ruin of cities and the reign, even temporarily, of Soviet tyranny.”36 Perhaps unwillingly, Ridgway’s opposition to the New Look and massive retaliation led him to champion tactical atomic warfare as its moral and military opposite. Thus by the mid-1950s, this experimental and largely untested military vision became the Holy Grail that would secure victory not only on the battlefield, but, perhaps as importantly, in Washington. When Taylor became chief of staff in 1955, he inherited all the prerequisites for transformation: a radical, if largely theoretical, new form of warfare, blueprints for organizations to fight it, and the promise of new technology. Proclaiming “the Army is burning its military text books to clear away the old to make room for the new,” he set about transforming the ser vice.37 One of his first acts was the radical restructuring of combat divisions into pentomic formations: a Madison Avenue–style name that combined the “penta” of the five primary combat units with “atomic.” In their original form, pentomic divisions had roughly three-quarters as many soldiers as their World War II– era counter parts (13,700 instead of 17,500) and were assigned a much wider frontage (24,000 yards to 8,000 yards) and depth (30 miles to 15 miles). In theory, the division’s five battle groups would maneuver in dispersed formations to avoid enemy firepower, attack with a variety of conventional and atomic weapons, rapidly concentrate to mop up, then disperse to avoid counterattack and begin the process again. Taylor announced this fiat at a public meeting in October 1956. His staff, and much of the army—including many who had been most involved in 87

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Maxwell D. Taylor. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

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developing organizations for atomic war—were stunned. As one critic noted, the decision to implement pentomic units “was a directed verdict with no substantive study by the powers that were in the Army hierarchy.” 38 Another officer was even more blunt: Taylor “decided that it was going to be that way, and he overruled everybody who objected.” 39 Both at the time and later, analysts offered various explanations for Taylor’s determination to “pentomicize” the army. An argument can be made that it was a logical military decision. The project met the chief of staff’s objectives of creating new combat organizations based on tactical concepts for the atomic battlefield, estimates of new technologies, and less materiel and personnel requirements. Because pentomic divisions had fewer troops, and because their logistical support would be equally lean, they allowed the army to increase the number of divisions and hide the manpower losses inflicted by the New Look. Pentomic organization might obtain increased funding for research, development, and procurement—particularly in missiles, aviation, and atomic weapons—and thus create a market for US military equipment among allies. Another explanation was that Taylor was a member of the “airborne mafia” and pentomic organization, at least in theory, made all infantry divisions air-transportable. Moreover, the reorganization was an essential part of what one Pentagon staffer termed Taylor’s marketing campaign to “make the Army appear to be in the public eye a flexible, rapid-moving outfit.” 40 Finally, the pentomic reorganization appeared to conform to the Eisenhower administration’s emphasis on atomic weapons as a way of avoiding a repetition of the costly attritional war in Korea. The president approved the change, perhaps because he saw its potential in justifying his cuts to army budgets and personnel, and perhaps because Taylor did not keep him fully informed on the scope of his reforms. Both the pentomic division and its mission reflected Taylor’s contradictory strategic views. A few months before he ordered the pentomic organization, he told an Army War College audience, “for our planning in the Pentagon at the present time, we make the assumption that in any General War we will use atomic weapons, and furthermore in any 89

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local war we will use atomic weapons according to the military requirement.” 41 This was very much in keeping with the administration’s policy as articulated in NSC 162/2. But, Taylor added, recent war games had demonstrated that tactical atomic weapons were so destructive he doubted they would ever be authorized to defend Western Europe. And even as he extolled the army’s preparations for the atomic battlefield, he opined, “I would expect to see the Communists continue to push in the soft spots about the world, using subversion, coup d’état, political infiltration, and actions short of general war.”42 The same paradox is seen in Taylor’s all-or-nothing imposition of the pentomic reorganization— designed for tactical atomic war—and his repeated assertion that the United States needed balanced military forces capable of responding to the full spectrum of conflict from atomic war to peacekeeping. Taylor would later title his critique of Eisenhower’s New Look The Uncertain Trumpet, perhaps providing an unintended acknowledgment of his own intellectual and personal inconsistencies.43 Taylor’s abrupt decision to pentomicize required the army to gather and reconcile diverse and amorphous concepts of tactical atomic warfare. According to one analyst, “the pentomic concept, reduced to its essentials, merely reiterates classical principles in the context of strikingly new technical capabilities. These principles are summed up in the words: firepower, movement, and communications.” 44 The question was how pentomic divisions were to combine these classical principles with radically new technological breakthroughs in weaponry, transportation, electronics, and so forth. This task fell to the army’s center for writing operational doctrine, the Command and General Staff College (CGSC). However, according to one witness, its commandant, MG Henry  I. Hodes, “fought the Department of the Army and Maxwell Taylor tooth and nail” over pentomic organization, and his successor, Garrison  H. Davidson, was equally outspoken.45 Both commandants had greatly increased the teaching of atomic subjects, but they were insistent the school provide a complete professional education. Davidson, in par ticular, was concerned that army officers were becoming narrow specialists, administrators who could oversee and execute bureaucratic procedures but who were unable to think or communicate. 90

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From this perspective, the Pentagon’s insistence on teaching atomic war threatened to undermine its officers’ ability to plan and conduct conventional or irregular operations. Such open dissent from CGSC—the acknowledged experts on matters of doctrine and organization—might have led a more cautious officer to reconsider whether the army was ready for the transformation program he had committed it to. Taylor’s solution was typical of his managerial style: remove the obstruction. In July 1956 he appointed MG Lionel  C. McGarr commandant and, a month later, made CGSC responsible for developing both pentomic’s concepts and a new doctrine for atomic warfare. According to his admiring deputy, McGarr “saw clearly the need to make a clean break with the past if the potential of new weapons was to be fully exploited on the future battlefield.” 46 The general was also eccentric to the point of neurosis, communicating by memos, using his aides as spies, and antagonizing both faculty and students. Proclaiming “the Atomic Era is upon us,” he directed a complete revision of the curriculum based on the pentomic organ ization and the assumption that atomic weapons would be available in all military situations.47 McGarr’s first year was instructive, for if sheer effort could have made tactical atomic warfare possible, the workaholic, micromanaging commandant would have done it. The school’s faculty already had a crushing workload. By one account, its 243 teachers spent roughly 5,000 hours each year grading over 90,000 student papers. McGarr added to this load by directing his brightest faculty to rewrite 90  percent of the CGSC curriculum, adding another 1,000 hours. As the faculty strove to turn theory into practice, they encountered constant problems. Should they write doctrine based on the materiel the army currently had or the equipment it needed, and hoped to have soon? Should they write doctrine for the most dangerous contingency—a land war in Europe—or for lesser and more likely scenarios? How could they design realistic atomic combat scenarios for the students when most of the relevant information was still classified? Soon, CGSC faculty were taking courses in special weapons and participating in atomic tests. Even with such access, there were gaping unknowns, among them the means to predict 91

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fallout. The pace was relentless: faculty often worked eighteen-hour days and some did not take a day off for over six months. In many cases, an officer no sooner finished writing a section than he was in the classroom teaching it. The students endured an equally grueling schedule, yet the effort seemed to pay off: in early 1958 an internal survey concluded, “the College is convinced it is turning out well-qualified atomicage graduates to fill command and general staff billets in the Pentomic Army.” 48 McGarr envisioned CGSC’s reformed curriculum as the basis of an army-wide doctrinal revision. During their frantic rewriting of the curriculum, CGSC faculty had discovered that the army’s existing manuals were obsolete, idiosyncratic, and either “treat[ed] atomic weapons generally as another means of fire support without any reference to the tactics involved in their use” or ignored them entirely.49 Even the army’s capstone manual, FM 100-5: Field Service Regulations: Operations, last revised in 1954, was predicated on the ground campaigns of World War II and Korea, not on the concentration– dispersion tactics of tactical atomic war. CGSC rushed to produce equivalents for FM 100-5 and other manuals, but by the time most came to be authorized the pentomic organization was already under revision.50 Perhaps shaken by the difficulties his faculty had encountered, or simply proving he was as mentally unbalanced as many believed, within two years McGarr had reversed himself. He became increasingly dismayed by the fact that both faculty and students were fi xated on the capabilities of atomic weapons, and too little concerned with the moral consequences of their use. In 1958 he directed another revision of the curriculum that fundamentally undermined the primary concept behind limited atomic warfare—that only small-yield weapons would be used, and only against military targets. Rather, McGarr now believed, “it is highly difficult to conceive of a complete limitation or control of any nuclear engagement to a given size of weapon by both sides.” Apparently convinced that tactical atomic warfare would lead only to stalemate, he now emphasized that “unconventional warfare doctrine and instruction will be aggressively, imaginatively and soundly developed as a matter 92

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of urgency.”51 His intellectual shift was prescient; by 1960 he was commanding the US military advisory team in South Vietnam. McGarr’s conversion was perhaps unique in that he had been a true believer in tactical atomic war. Many others had never been converted. The Army War College, the army’s center for strategic learning, appears to have been a center of opposition. In 1957 COL John D. Armitage delivered an openly sarcastic lecture on a recent scenario for a pentomic airmobile assault on Kharkov. In Armitage’s view, “starting with the dubious nature of the assumptions”—the landing zone would not be attacked by Soviet aviation, the US Air Force would provide “a hell of a lot of airplanes,” the invasion of Russia would not trigger an atomic strike on American cities—“the validity of the study grew increasingly doubtful.” 52 Yet even giving the US Army all the advantages, the exercise indicated pentomic units were incapable of the deep, long-range assaults that had been cited as the reason for their existence. The students were no more receptive. When one of Taylor’s spokesmen breezily declared that any officer who could command a squad could lead a pentomic battle group in atomic war, “he completely lost the audience . . . [it was a] blood-curdling insight into Pentagon thinking.” 53 Some army thinkers openly questioned the army’s headlong rush to the atomic battlefield. Major General Thomas J. H. Trapnell raised this issue in a 1957 lecture in which he argued that the first objective of limited war was to prevent it from escalating into nuclear exchange. Wars were fought to achieve specific political objectives, but the “tremendous and rather uncontrollable destruction implicit in a general atomic war” constrained both political options and objectives. Rather than reference the imminent Soviet–American nuclear conflagration, Trapnell discussed recent conflicts in Korea, Malaya, and Greece as precedents for the acceptance of restrictions in the nuclear age. He emphasized that in the Cold War, warfare required close coordination between political and military objectives: “quick military conquest [is] transitory and fleeting, unless the gains are consolidated by other than military forces.” 54 In 1959 BG James  K. Woolnaugh took a swipe at both the New Look and the army’s focus on atomic war: the current 93

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“trend towards an all-or-nothing defense posture” had resulted in a fixation on “a narrow band on the broad spectrum of conflict.” The army needed to “balance out” and become a “modern, flexible” force that could limit wars before they went nuclear.55 Because the pentomic organization was perceived as inseparable from its commitment to tactical atomic warfare, the army’s growing dissatisfaction with the former prompted a reexamination of the latter. In January 1957, a few months after Taylor’s reorganization, COL Arthur S. Collins warned “the U.S. Army is riding full gallop towards concepts and organizations that almost demand that we fight an atomic war.” 56 In Collins’s view, even a limited nuclear war would result in the deaths of 150,000,000 people and “the fabric of society and civilization as we know it will have ceased to exist.” 57 In a 1958 lecture at the Army War College, BG Richard D. Meyer made a similar objection: “it is impossible to consider the ‘limited’ use of atomic weapons in a military mission like interrupting a line of communications without at the same time considering whether such a plan forces a quantum jump to a significant attack on a population. If you have made that jump you might just as well plan on going all the way. Kill them all. Then the war is over.” 58 In contrast to the enthusiasm of earlier theorists, army officers in the late 1950s referred to tactical atomic weapons not as an opportunity but as a necessity. This was especially true of the US forces in Western Europe, the presumed beneficiaries of these weapons and the pentomic organization. According to one estimate, the Soviet Bloc’s land forces now totaled 2,500,000, while NATO had barely half that. As one spokesman explained, NATO was “committed to the use of nuclear tactical weapons, since we have no expectation of matching the Soviets in the size of our ground forces.” 59 But such logic had an inherent flaw. If the alliance’s only means of defense was its tactical atomics, then it was to the Soviets’ advantage to knock them out with a preventive strike, as was demonstrated in NATO’s own exercises. If the Soviets did this they would inflict the same appalling casualties that army spokesmen claimed tactical nuclear warfare would avoid. In one war game, Soviet atomic strikes on supply lines were estimated to have killed a quarter of the French population.60 94

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Taylor’s departure as chief of staff cleared the way for a strong reaction against both pentomic organ ization and the predominance of tactical atomic war. His immediate successor, Chief of Staff Lyman L. Lemnitzer, was a transitional figure. As vice chief, he had been an early advocate of the army’s commitment to the atomic battlefield. He remained convinced, at least in his public utterances, that the USSR planned a nuclear strike against the United States, followed by a massive ground attack in Europe.61 But, like Taylor in his later years, Lemnitzer found a role for the army in every contingency, from thermonuclear to irregular conflict. He protested against those who would relegate the army to a “limited war force. This is a grievous error and I have attempted to focus attention on the error . . . the Army has a role in all types of war across the entire spectrum.” 62 Whereas Taylor showcased the pentomic division’s atomic-age technology, Lemnitzer boasted that 86 percent of its soldiers were riflemen!63 He also approved a public relations campaign “to convince the American people . . . that the Army has its eye and mind on its primary role—sustained land combat—in a general war, a limited war, and even in the cold war . . . [and] the Army has not become ‘missile happy.’ ” 64 If Lemnitzer did not actively repudiate the Taylor transformation to atomic war, he certainly distanced himself and the army from it. The retreat from pentomic organization and tactical atomic war left the army in the same intellectual impasse it had been in after Hiroshima, once again apparently obsolete and irrelevant. Where was the army going to go from here? To some, the answer was to remove the “limited” from atomic war and assert the army’s primacy in an all-out thermonuclear exchange. This was the position taken by the office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations in an October 1961 paper on “The Army in General Nuclear War.” It envisioned a US–USSR confl ict in which “after an initial, and perhaps brief, exchange of Sunday punches” or “nuclear blows, the land war would begin. Masses of enemy troops can be expected to move to seize key areas. Deployed American soldiers armed with tactical nuclear weapons would be on the spot to stop the aggression. Regardless of the devastation to the homeland the soldier’s primary mission would remain unchanged, to win the war on land.” The 95

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army would also be crucial to defeat “vulture nations” who “do not now threaten us [but] may become serious threats to a United States weakened by the nuclear exchange.” However costly and bloody, the paper concluded, “it is victory on land which will finally bring peace in a nuclear war.” 65 Perhaps recognizing that such an apocalyptic scenario had limited marketability, in 1962 the chief of army public relations, MG  C.  G. Dodge, asked CGSC Commandant Harold K. Johnson “for any ideas which will help us break the public stereotype of the Army as a force which is benched when the big war begins.” To convince the citizenry that the army had any role in nuclear war might be “attempting the impossible . . . but attempt we must or else admit that general nuclear war is the private concern of the Air Force and Navy. Taking such a position would produce disastrous consequences for the Army in terms of public, Executive, and Congressional support.” Thus, for Dodge, the “main need is to discover what our strategists honestly think the Army’s role is in an all-out nuclear exchange. We can handle the packaging and marketing, provided we know what product we are about to sell.” 66 Johnson’s response was instructive in its ambivalence. In less than two months he would present a defense of tactical atomic warfare, complete with designs for the futuristic weapons to wage it.67 But in his letter to Dodge, he speculated that the army’s “initial mission in an intense nuclear exchange could well be simply to survive.” Because of the uncertainty of atomic war, the absence of any “safety limits,” and the likelihood of destroying one’s own forces, atomic warfare could not achieve either the nation’s or the army’s objectives. In his view, the army needed to return to its earlier focus on nonatomic conventional warfare.68 The muted support from CGSC, which had led, if unwillingly, the doctrinal transformation of the pentomic era, illustrates the widespread recognition that many ideas underlying tactical atomic warfare were obsolete or incorrect. By the 1960s the US Army’s initial superiority in tactical atomic weapons was matched by the Soviets; both sides could fling dozens of Hiroshima-size warheads across the battlefield. A decade earlier, the army had viewed atomic weapons as supplemental fire96

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power, reinforcing the importance of speed, mobility, and so forth. Indeed, the entire corpus of 1950s doctrine had assumed that small, mobile army formations could somehow avoid Soviet atomics and armor columns, and then rapidly concentrate to launch and exploit their own atomic attacks. But by 1960, it appeared that “nuclear firepower has outweighed the capability for maneuver.” 69 Army officers did not so much repudiate limited nuclear warfare as ignore it. Whereas CGSC’s Military Review had featured 142 articles on atomic warfare between 1954 and 1959, in the next decade it published only 43.70 The shift in army thinking about war was manifested in a lecture on “Army 1970–1975” given at the Army War College in January 1960. The two speakers addressed “several basic fallacies . . . of the present theory of tactical nuclear warfare.” The US–USSR strategic thermonuclear standoff was now matched by a tactical atomic standoff in Western Europe. Given the certainty of escalation, it was highly unlikely that either side would risk annihilation in hopes of “some brilliant tactical use of nuclear weapons.” It was even more unlikely that civilian leaders would allow their generals to use them, thus invalidating NATO’s primary deterrent in forestalling a Soviet surprise attack. Moreover, now that the Soviets also had massive arsenals of tactical atomic weapons, the obvious question was “can we expect a small force using ‘nukes’ to overcome a big force using ‘nukes’?” Even if the premise of limited atomic war was realized, and both sides chose not to escalate, “the very high level of usage of nuclear weapons, global or tactical” meant “a field army would cease to exist as a fighting entity within 7 to 24 days.” In their view: “The only realistic conclusion is that any type of tactical nuclear warfare with a Communist Bloc adversary is growing more remote each year, and that any  U.S. unilateral usage against smaller nations that have no nuclear capacity may lose us more in international support than any possible tactical gains.” Since “the effect of nuclear warfare can no longer be consistent with any rational objective,” the lecturers urged that tactical atomic warfare be downgraded to an unlikely “contingency,” allowing the army to “recapture the modernized conventional warfare capability it has seen dissipated down the drain of a national concept of ‘massive retaliation.’ ”71 97

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By this time, some senior officers openly ridiculed the premise of limited atomic war, and particularly the ideas set out in “The Army in General Nuclear Warfare.” To LTG John P. Daley, “the idea of a Soviet Army and a  U.S. Army struggling mightily to achieve ‘victory’ when Moscow, Kiev, Odessa, New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles are in ashes is beyond my power to imagine (and I suspect the public’s). It is sort of a modern variation of two gladiators fighting to the death in the arena while Nero fiddles and Rome burns.” 72 Daley was equally blunt in an exchange with Army War College students: “It doesn’t matter if you destroy the Soviet Union once, and destroy them twice, and destroy them three times, [if] the United States is a heap of ruins.” When a student asked if American armed forces could continue to fight, Daly’s response was: “for what? You’ve lost the country!” 73 Such open skepticism signaled a service-wide repudiation of the army’s transformation for atomic war. But what would replace it?

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THE TOOLS OF MODERN WAR

A 1954 cartoon in PS, the army’s maintenance magazine, showed the voluptuous Connie Rodd gaping at the dismembered body of a GI halfburied by a mountain of rubble. The culprit, a driverless tank, stood smoking in the background. As Connie screwed the victim’s head onto his body, she reminded readers to set the parking brake before starting the tank’s engine.1 Three years later, a distinguished Department of Defense panel made a similar if less graphic connection between the tools of war and trained workers. The Cold War had fueled an “explosion of change and growth” such that “no weapons system of today can safely be considered more than a transient stage in the headlong rush of technological discovery and development.” 2 Some of these technologies— computers, electronics, missiles—had barely existed a decade ago, and had instantly spawned military occupations requiring technicians with months, if not years of schooling. In modern warfare, the bespectacled geek who programmed a missile’s guidance system was more lethal than a hundred Audie Murphys. Yet no sooner had the armed forces trained these techno-warriors than they lost them to lucrative civilian jobs. The panel warned that the nation faced a persistent “military manpower dilemma,” with state-of-the-art armaments too often ser viced by semiskilled laborers.3 The hard-bitten paratrooper LTG Robert F. Sink put it more succinctly: “Push button trucks may be easier for idiots to operate, but they require geniuses to maintain.” 4 Senior officers in the mid-1950s knew their ser vice faced a critical challenge: “The American army has undergone a revolutionary change in the last fifteen years,” resulting in “the tremendous advance of technology without a simultaneous development of the proper means for 99

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managing it.” 5 Each year promised new scientific marvels coming soon: night-vision glasses, body armor, helicopters, flying jeeps, convertiplanes, sustainable-energy vehicles, or portable atomic mortars. Such superior armaments would offset the US Army’s numerical inferiority to the Soviets and fulfi ll the promise of tactical atomic warfare. But this very reliance on future equipment placed ever greater burdens on today’s planners and logisticians. In 1952 the ser vice’s inventory contained over 1,500,000 items, creating a huge, immobile, and highly vulnerable network of supply and repair facilities and requiring tens of thousands of soldiers to process, catalog, store, repair, and distribute this cornucopia. And, as one officer warned, the army’s logistical problems would only increase, for “technology is continuously working to develop newer items. These new items are still more costly and complex than their predecessors.”6 Meanwhile, as GEN John E. Dahlquist cautioned, since it took an average of five years to develop, test, produce, and issue virtually any weapon, “unless our tactical concepts and development concepts are more objective and futuristic [our] equipment will be obsolete by the time it can be produced in quantity.” 7 As fifties soldiers waited for future armaments, LTG Paul D. Adams spoke for many when he complained, “much of the equipment now in the hands of the Army is so inconvenient, or difficult, or time consuming to handle that its presence in the Army retards mobility.” 8 Indeed, as late as 1961, three-fifths of the ser vice’s equipment predated the Korean War; many vehicle and artillery models were WWII vintage, and some basic infantry weapons dated from World War  I. As COL William H. Connerat warned in 1958, “The Army today is being reorganized for atomic war. It is being trained for atomic war. It is not equipped for atomic war.” 9 Underlying the army’s efforts to transform its concepts, equipment, and organization for the atomic age was the conviction that “technological developments are gradually but irresistibly changing the appearance of the battlefield.”10 Officers often quoted their ser vice’s long-standing heroic axiom: “Wars are fought by men, supported by weapons—wars are not fought by weapons supported by men.” 11 But they also accepted the corollary that “in this highly mechanized world today, human valor 100

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without the most modern and effective weapons available will achieve little.” 12 And, on a very practical level, they understood an unchanging real ity of the Cold War: “Any conceivable opponent in a major war would possess immense manpower—far greater than our own. Our manpower—more mechanically minded but less inured to hardship— must be amply equipped and fortified with the best weapons then known to overcome mass manpower—tanks, mobile artillery, and mobile ground troops. It is only through this that our manpower losses will be held down.” 13 Starting far behind the nation’s air force and navy, the army’s bid to join the atomic club required it to take great risks and embrace the most cutting-edge technologies. Other wise, as BG Delk M. Oden argued, it would “creak along with marginal improvements in both organization and equipment—rifles that fire a little faster, tanks that are a little lighter, aircraft that are a little easier to maintain, but basically the same old Army.” But Oden hit on an essential problem when he added the caveat: “there is little purpose in doubling our speed if we do not know our direction.”14 The pentomic division reflected both the army’s commitment to high-tech warfare and its dependence on that technology. When the 101st Airborne Division was reanimated as the pentomic prototype in 1956, Secretary of the Army William M. Brucker gushed, “It embodies the most up-to-date thought in its organization, weapons, equipment, and in its employment of advanced tactical doctrine.” 15 But he also admitted, “the pentomic Army necessarily draws much of its power from new weapons. Indeed, it is the weapons themselves which, in some instances, have prescribed the design of pentomic units.” 16 In an equally revealing aside, MG George O. N. Loeden admitted that due to the haste and disorganization that characterized the creation of the pentomic units, “large requirements for new materiel were generated, most of it not beyond the development stage.”17 As a result, for the next decade army units were simultaneously receiving modern equipment, training technicians to maintain it, and integrating it into their training. The army’s efforts to modernize were further complicated by the creation of the Cold War national security apparatus, which spawned 101

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several agencies charged with conceptualizing future needs, designing and testing advanced equipment, and integrating equipment into organizational and doctrinal frameworks. Suddenly, army equipment initiatives had to conform to policies established by political leaders and the Office of the Secretary of Defense (OSD). The army shared proprietorship with other ser vices in several technologies—missiles, atomics, aviation, electronics, computers—and turf battles over these joint technologies were constant. Under the budgetary restrictions of the Eisenhower administration’s New Look, the army watched its ser vice rivals appropriate most of these innovations. The toxic personal relationships among the army’s leaders, Secretary of Defense Charles  E. Wilson, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff made the struggle over new technology even more vicious. To many in the army, they were the perennial runt of the litter, forever pushed aside at the budgetary feeding trough by their more powerful, richer, and more influential sister ser vices. Within the Department of the Army, the term “combat developments” referred to organizations charged with the “research, development, testing and early integration into units in the field of new doctrine, new organization, and new materiel, to obtain the greatest combat effectiveness using the minimum of men, money, and materiel.” 18 In 1952 the army established two agencies: the Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Combat Developments (ODCSCD) to develop and test battlefield tactics, organizations, and equipment, and another virtually independent Office of Special Weapons Developments to study nuclear ordnance. The ODCSCD’s main function was to establish and supervise a Combat Developments Group (CDG) at each of the main field headquarters, testing areas, and doctrine centers, and to monitor the 3,000 scientists, technicians, and military personnel of the Combat Development Experiment Center.19 For most of its existence, ODCSCD was a weak agency that influenced, but in no way dominated, the army’s preparation for future war. There was little cooperation among the various CDGs, each of which identified more with the par ticular interests of their host school or headquarters than with their agency.20 Except for the Experiment Center, which often had to borrow equipment and personnel from 102

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other units, the CDGs usually consisted of a handful of officers with other, more immediate duties. One participant complained that even at the Command and General Staff College the six-man CDG cell charged with developing concepts about future warfare “was so busy putting out fires” that “very little future planning was accomplished.” 21 Nor was the situation better in the field. Louis C. Wagner, who served at the CDG’s Arctic Test Center, recalled: the testing we conducted was for the war we were never going to fight . . . you don’t fight at minus 65 degrees . . . we did dumb things like cold soak a helicopter or tank at that temperature for 24 hours and then see if it would start. Any commander who would cold soak a tank, a missile system, or a helicopter for 24 hours and then try to start it should be relieved on the spot. There was no practicality in many of these required tests. . . . When we did say a piece of equipment was unsatisfactory for use in the arctic or for use anywhere, it didn’t make any difference if it had been in the development chain long enough and was ready to go into production; it was going to go into production whether it was fit to be fielded or not.22

As Wagner’s comments indicate, the various combat developments agencies had a limited impact on the Pentagon’s decisions to adopt or reject equipment for future war. This was certainly true during the tenure of the atomic army’s chief architect, Chief of Staff Maxwell D. Taylor. Indeed, there is little evidence that he consulted them on either doctrine, equipment, or organization. The individual CDGs in schools and headquarters may have provided impor tant research on par ticular issues or technologies relating to future warfare, but to some it appeared that Taylor and his staff either dictated their results or ignored them. Indeed, LTG Garrison H. Davidson came close to insubordination when he claimed that under Taylor the entire combat developments process had been “sabotaged” and that “the solutions to the Army’s problem of future warfare are dictated from senior levels which anticipate the end product.” 23 If Taylor did not heed his own research and development experts, it was perhaps because he believed he saw the army’s future so clearly. In July 1955 he made the startling assertion— both historically and factually—that “an army without atomic weapons on the battlefield of 103

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the future will be more helpless than the French knights at Crécy before the English cannon.” 24 A few months after his Crécy speech, Taylor witnessed a test of the army’s atomic-capable Honest John and Corporal systems and declared, “the missile is the artillery of the present.” And, as he was at pains to emphasize with another new weapon, a missile “is not a weapon, it is a family of weapons— a family which can grow as naturally as the modern Ford motor car grew from the Model-T . . . to something vastly better in the years to come.” 25 It was this supreme confidence both in the latest wonder weapon and in the certainty of ever greater breakthroughs in the near future that made its equipment, and not its soldiers, the most visible symbol of the army’s commitment to limited atomic warfare, to the pentomic division, and to the inevitability of military transformation. The weapons that fueled Taylor’s vision of the tactical atomic battlefield were the product of a decade of experimentation. In 1947 strategic planners conceded both that the Soviets could rapidly overrun Western Europe and that the United States’ atomic arsenal was a weak deterrent. By the time the air force could assemble, transport, and drop sufficient nuclear warheads on Moscow, Red Army tanks might well be at the English Channel. Desperate for a solution, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, with army encouragement, urged a crash program to create artillery capable of firing “small, light atomic” warheads to smash the initial Soviet attack and disrupt follow-on elements.26 And to everyone’s amazement, the army succeeded. The M-65 280mm cannon could fire a twenty-kiloton shell—roughly equivalent to the Hiroshima bomb— over fifteen miles with more accuracy and speed than any airplane. It trundled along in Eisenhower’s inaugural parade in January 1953, and was praised by the Secretary of the Army as “the finest artillery piece we have ever had.” 27 In May the release of an iconic photo of its massive forty-two-foot barrel silhouetted against a mushroom cloud gave proof of the ser vice’s admission to the nuclear club. Within months the first guns arrived in Europe to bolster NATO, their very public transport down the Rhine a visible reminder to the Russians that the US Army was prepared to contest the European battlefield. 104

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But the army’s euphoria over its new king of the battlefield soon faded. Weighing over fifty tons and requiring two immense transports, the cannon—soon dubbed “the Widow Maker” by its own crews—was a burdensome and dangerous weapon. Storage, inspection, transport, and firing authority became a perennial US–NATO– German dispute, creating a great deal of bad feeling among the very constituencies the army claimed to protect. The M-65 soon proved poorly suited for the fast, mobile, dispersed battleground envisioned by tactical atomic warfare theorists. In the cannon’s first major field test, 1954’s Exercise Indian Summer, its crews took an average of four hours to bring targets under fire, allowing opposition forces to attack with impunity. In other exercises, they were unable to get the massive weapon under European bridges or along rural roads. The M-65’s distinctive sound and flash made it so easy to identify that it was immediately targeted by enemy artillery; meanwhile, once fired, it took an average of over three hours to resupply. Within a few years of its triumphant arrival, “Atomic Annie” was largely consigned to parades and other public relations events.28 While the 280mm cannon was an evolutionary step for a 500-year-old weapon, to many army progressives “guided missiles and atomic warheads are revolutionary changes in the art of warfare. The future of the Army . . . is intricately entwined with these weapons.” 29 Missiles appeared to be ideal delivery systems for tactical atomic warfare, promising more mobility, range, and firepower, and less dependence on vulnerable depots and logistic lines. Planners envisioned them striking 1,500 miles into the Soviet zone, disrupting Red Army mobilization deep in Eastern Europe. An arsenal of intermediate- and short-range missiles would shatter enemy forces as they moved forward to attack West Germany, freeing the army from the unreliable air force during ground operations. Among missiles’ most enthusiastic proponents were airborne strategists such as LTG James M. Gavin, who believed they could provide the fire support needed for deep air assaults. As chief of army research and development between 1954 and 1956, he gave top priority to the US Army Ballistic Missile Agency and the Redstone Arsenal. 105

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In addition to their revolutionary potential on the battlefield, missiles were also great for public relations. Taylor and the army public relations staff viewed them as critical in transforming the ser vice’s image from mud-and-blood infantry into a progressive, modern, scientific military organization. The 1956 images of Jupiter rockets emblazoned with “US Army” blasting into space served notice not only to the Soviets but to the American public and the rival ser vices. But partly due to Gavin’s and Taylor’s enthusiasm, the missile program was often haphazard, uncoordinated, and poorly conceptualized. In some cases, a technological breakthrough in one area revealed a deficiency in another. One frustrated general noted that although the army’s atomic weapons and missile programs began during World War II, the ser vice waited a decade to begin the serious research needed to ensure these missiles could locate their targets.30 The army’s foray into rocketry unleashed a vicious interser vice struggle within the Pentagon. Although the army had a considerable technical lead, the air force claimed the long-range missile as another form of strategic bomber and thus their responsibility. Disregarding the army’s argument that it required missiles because the air force was both unwilling and unable to provide close air support, in 1954 Secretary of Defense Wilson upheld the air force. The army countered with what it termed an intermediate-range rocket of 1,000 miles, justifying it as necessary to support its ground operations and also to blow a corridor through Soviet radar for air force bombers. Once again, the air force protested to Wilson, and to Gavin’s outrage, Taylor conceded. Indeed, despite his continued marketing of the missile program, by the end of Taylor’s tenure many of the army’s best technicians were migrating to the other ser vices’ laboratories or to NASA.31 The ser vice’s short-range tactical missile program had greater initial success. These were intended to target Soviet fortifications, troop concentrations, and supply lines with either atomic or conventional warheads. The arsenal included the Corporal (1954), a guided liquid-fueled rocket with a range of about 65 miles; the Honest John (1953), a free (unguided) 762mm rocket with an initial range of 15 miles; and the Little John (1961), a 320mm air-transportable free rocket with a range 106

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of 20 miles. All represented significant technological accomplishments when first deployed. All had equally significant drawbacks. The Corporal, 45 feet long and weighing over five tons, required 173 vehicles and 130 trailers and vans to transport the missile, its propellant mixture, and its 32-ton launching platform. Rushed into production, it suffered from a variety of technical problems in the field: motor burnout, lack of spare parts, missing components, wiring errors, a malfunctioning radar set, and numerous other indications of substandard workmanship.32 The Honest John proved worthy of its name: it could be fired from a modified five-ton truck and was so simple that, in the words of one academic-turned-rocketeer, “History majors could do it.”33 But both it and the Little John were prone to mechanical and maintenance problems. More to the point, in Europe there were too few of them to wage anything but a short all-out atomic war. Army spokesmen argued that the air force’s nuclear weapons would deter war until more advanced rockets were available, but in so doing they undercut their ser vice’s claim that tactical atomic weapons and the pentomic organization currently provided an alternative to massive retaliation.34 The most visible of the army’s missiles were neither its large Jupiter rockets nor its Honest Johns, but the Nike and Hawk antiaircraft missiles. Both were examples of how the army exploited a loophole in interser vice agreements that gave the US Air Force the mission of defending against enemy air attack, but gave the army the antiaircraft mission. Both were adopted after the army wasted millions on an instantly obsolete marvel, the radar- controlled cannon. Nikes, fi rst deployed in 1954, were part of the continental air defenses, intended to destroy high-flying Soviet bomber formations with nuclear warheads. The Hawk targeted supersonic low-level aircraft and protected military depots and other vital targets. Most Hawk batteries were on military posts, and primarily overseas, but Nike sites were built around the nation’s cities in the fast-growing suburbs. Although Americans approved of a missile defense in theory, the construction of over 175 launching sites, and the stationing of 20,000 soldiers to service them, prompted much outrage at the appropriation of land and the disruption of neighborhoods.35 107

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For much of the 1950s, the army’s air defense missile system was a high-profile symbol of the modern army, but its military utility was problematic. Hustled through design and testing, the original Nike Ajax was still in production when in 1953 the army began development of its replacement, the longer-range, atomic-capable Nike Hercules. In 1956 it began work on yet another model, the Nike Zeus. Justified as a measure to protect against future catastrophe—in the early 1950s the Soviet bomber threat to the US was minimal—Nike’s utility was undercut when the USSR shifted from bombers to ICBMs. Moreover, the Nike Zeus was an uncertain deterrent. Of twenty-two missiles fired during testing only eight achieved partial success. In 1958 a tragic explosion at a Nike site killed six soldiers and four civilians, further undermining confidence in the program. The army’s investigations blamed the detonation on an enlisted man’s unauthorized repair, but also found several other problems with Nike’s design, maintenance, and training.36 The army paid a high price for its foray into missiles, both financially and militarily. The continental air defense mission competed with the ser vice’s tactical atomic war agenda. In 1958 the cost of missiles matched that of all other munitions combined. The development of many other weapons—tanks, infantry fighting vehicles, rifles, artillery, helicopters—were all delayed by its gamble on hitting the jackpot with one war-winning super weapon. The cost to the army’s personnel system may have been even greater. For much of the fifties, the commander at the Redstone Arsenal “could have any officer in the technical ser vices that he chose and have him immediately . . . if he needed additional funds we would transfer them from other projects. He could do almost anything that was legal.” 37 The army air defense command responsible for Nike and many Hawk batteries enjoyed such independence that it ran its own recruiting campaign and had first pick of the top recruits in electronics, computers, and other desperately needed technical occupations. This concentration of elite personnel came at a high cost to the rest of the ser vice. No other weapon better demonstrates the army’s commitment to the atomic battlefield than the Davy Crockett. Like many great technical breakthroughs, it was the child of synchronicity. Ordnance engineers 108

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Davy Crockett. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

had reached an impasse in their efforts to create an atomic warhead small enough for the army’s existing 155mm or 105mm guns and still able to withstand the propellant explosion and resulting 20,000-G acceleration. A technician suggested placing the warhead on a spigot, so that it resembled a rugby ball on a pipe, and firing it from a mortar or recoilless rifle. Instead of requiring a fifteen-ton cannon, with all its supporting equipment and personnel, the weapon could be transported on a jeep or personnel carrier and operated by an infantry squad. Major General Robert E. Coffin, directing the army’s atomic ordnance program, was pessimistic about the weapon’s feasibility. But not his assistant, LTC Al Cowan. Like many infantry officers, Cowan was adamant that the pentomic’s mobile, dispersed, wide-ranging battle groups needed their own portable close-range atomic firepower. Teams with Davy Crocketts would travel undetected, quickly move into ambush, blast their opponents with the equivalent of twenty tons of TNT, and speed off to wreak similar havoc a few miles further on. Theoretically, a few squads could destroy entire Soviet divisions, thus resolving 109

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the problem of how vastly outnumbered US forces in Europe could repel the Russian steamroller. Cowan was an accomplished project supervisor—the weapon went from concept through research, development, testing, production, and distribution in less than five years—and an excellent publicist. He soon secured powerful backing from senior leaders such as GEN Bruce  C. Clarke, who proclaimed the Davy Crockett “an unexpected scientific break-through” that would radically change the army’s operational concepts.38 Its arrival in 1960 coincided with a public relations blitz that touted the weapon as “selective in its application without causing mass destruction” and featured a carefully scripted demonstration witnessed by President Kennedy and Taylor—the first and last test of its atomic capabilities.39 More than any other weapon, the Davy Crockett brought home the problems of applying atomic firepower on the battlefield. For the first time, the dream of dozens of mobile, dispersed, wide-ranging units equipped with atomics was a reality. The political implications alone were staggering. Logic dictated giving Davy Crocketts to the NATO allies, but Washington was adamant that only American forces would have nuclear weapons, and only the president could authorize their use. The Davy Crockett also brought home to senior commanders, most of them WWII veterans, the complexities of the nuclear battlefield. As Coffin noted with some glee, throughout the 1950s corps and division commanders, most with infantry backgrounds, had routinely passed the complicated business of atomic fire support to their staffs or artillery. But now, with their infantry battle groups potentially firing off dozens if not hundreds of atomic weapons, “suddenly they were up to their ears in the morass of employment of tactical nuclear weapons.” 40 For their part, battle group commanders not only had to learn how to use these intimidating weapons— computing blast, memorizing release protocols, and myriad other tasks; they also had to meet federal requirements on maintenance, storage, security, and transport, none of which had been written for military units in the field. They were even more irate to learn that although the weapon itself might have a small crew, it required dozens of transport, security, and other personnel—all of which must come from their already shorthanded units. 110

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If generals and colonels disliked the Davy Crockett, its crews loathed it. Rumors that its blast radius exceeded its range led many to dub it a suicide weapon, with more than a little justification. Another rumor, that its flash resulted in permanent blindness, prompted a study that the troops termed “Project White Cane.” 41 Recognizing that control of such a devastating weapon required exceptional leadership, the Infantry Branch selected some of its finest officers for the Davy Crockett units. But to qualify they required several months of training and certification in atomic weapons. These lost months immediately meant they had less time in actual command than their peers, which, in turn, meant their prospects for promotion dimmed. Once assigned to a battle group, Davy Crockett officers were hamstrung by regulations on securing, storing, and transporting the atomic warheads, which cumulatively prevented realistic training. Very soon, an inspection team would descend, the unit would inevitably fail, and not only would the commander be relieved, but probably one or two senior battle group officers would be as well. Without intending to, the US Army had developed a weapon that, however dangerous to the Soviets, was demonstrably lethal to the careers of its best officers.42 In contrast to the attention, publicity, and resources it lavished on the missiles and atomic weapons, the army’s development of the helicopter owed much to what one historian termed an “insurgency” within the army aviation community.43 For much of the fifties most officers defined air transportability and strategic airlift in terms of fleets of specialized airplanes moving large numbers of personnel and equipment overseas. The helicopter was relegated to medical evacuation, reconnaissance, and small-scale transport. But a minority of officers, such as the ever-innovative Gavin, recognized “the great combat opportunities [of] helicopter assault.” 44 Colonel Joseph W. Stilwell told a 1954 conference at the Infantry School that “the helicopter is a means of giving us the mobility that is so vital to atomic warfare . . . [it] will allow us to disperse our units, offering unprofitable targets to enemy A-weapons and then allow us to mass our forces for a decisive blow at the critical time and space.” 45 One 1955 article cited the helicopter as the cornerstone of the army’s plans to “make tomorrow’s GI so fast-moving that 111

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even Communism’s huge manpower resources will be neutralized” and “to make one GI equal to several Ivans through the mobility of airborne cavalry.” 46 Despite the hopes of the helicopter’s supporters, the evidence from field tests was often disappointing. In 1956’s Exercise Sagebrush, helicopters landed small intelligence-gathering detachments in the enemy rear, but umpires judged the machines too limited for use in combat and criticized their short range, noise, high visibility, and vulnerability to ground fire. Two years later, while serving as the test case for pentomic organization, the 101st Airborne Division concluded that helicopters required too much maintenance and were too slow for combat operations.47 At the Armor School, consensus limited the helicopter’s role to a “taxi on the battlefield.” Tests showed “it wasn’t too effective as a troop carrier,” and when helicopters were used to transport vehicles “they often dropped them.” 48 Added to its deficiencies were expense and maintenance. In 1955 a private was paid $78 a month. In contrast, a Piasecki H-21’s rotor blades cost $10,650 apiece—and had to be replaced after 240 hours of operation—while its three transmissions cost $21,500 apiece and had to be rebuilt after 120 hours. Throughout the decade and into the 1960s the army suffered from a perennial shortage of helicopter mechanics to keep its hard-used inventory in the air. And with too few working helicopters, many pilots found it difficult to accumulate sufficient flying time to maintain their qualifications.49 Refusing to be discouraged, and with the tacit approval of senior mentors, a coterie of innovators at the Army Aviation School and the Infantry School continued to explore the helicopter’s potential for combat. They concealed their activities, scrounging parts, volunteering labor, and building contacts with manufacturers and inventors. They modified vehicles with machine guns, rockets, and cannons and wrestled with the tactical problems of helicopter-borne troops bypassing enemy fortifications, crossing rivers, conducting night assaults, and other operations. In 1957 the insurgents came into the open, staging demonstrations that dazzled audiences with stunt flying, air assaults, and gunnery. Within a few years, the helicopter would become the army’s new symbol of modernization.50 112

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The army’s commitment to tactical atomic warfare meant it had to resolve unprecedented communications and data collecting problems. Commanders had to plan operations, coordinate their dispersed forces, locate enemy concentrations, call in atomic strikes—and avoid friendly fire— all on a constantly changing, fast-moving battlefield. But field exercises consistently demonstrated that commanders were making decisions based on conditions that existed several hours before. They simply could not acquire, process, and disseminate information quickly enough. These problems would only get worse. A later history of combat developments explained the dilemma: “The increased tempo of warfare that was predicted for the future, demanded that substantial efforts be made to reduce the reaction time of the commander and thus increase his control if our forces were to enjoy success on any future battlefield.” Computerized automatic data processing “captured the imagination of the military thinkers” because it appeared to offer the possibility of real-time assessment and communication, lifting the fog of war and allowing commanders to wage the high-tempo, firepower-intensive, mobile warfare their doctrine called for.51 As with much of the army’s effort to turn its vision of war into a reality, technology proved as much a brake as an accelerator. Early computers were too bulky, slow, and fragile for active ser vice. Collating and processing thousands of punch cards did help with engineering problems, personnel records, and logistics. But after a decade of experimentation, the only computers sent into the field were a six-ton digital model that required a thirty-ton van and a smaller model that could be moved on two trucks. To its supporters, the computer’s potential grew exponentially. Officers confidently predicted that within a few years smaller, more portable computers could do everything from targeting artillery fire to directing traffic to processing prisoners. A 1962 briefing, using the present tense to describe capabilities still far in the future, declared that data processing “provides the commander and his staff an easily assimilated, accurate, and up-to-the-minute picture of the tactical and support situation. It allows him to consider alternative courses of action, to revise battle plans, to issue orders, select targets, allocate and re-allocate support means, and to maintain control over his forces.”52 113

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The Pentagon’s focus on high-profile weapons came at the expense of developing complete systems to support these weapons. It deployed devastatingly powerful cannons and missiles without comparable technologies to identify targets, evaluate threats, and transmit information. Nowhere was this more true than in radio communications. In January 1957 Taylor claimed “modern signal equipment permits a commander to control a larger number of subordinate units than the three which are standard under the present triangular concept. In the new [pentomic] airborne and infantry divisions, we have taken five subordinate units as a reasonable step forward in extending the span of control.” 53 As was often the case, Taylor was making another giant leap of faith. His own chief of communications authority had confessed two weeks earlier, “the current lack of adequate command control is one of the most urgent problems facing the Army today.” 54 This was soon confirmed by tests of the first pentomic organization, the 101st Airborne Division, and by the army’s head of research, who admitted that with the pentomic organization “we have spread out so far we cannot communicate.”55 Whereas a WWII infantry division required 1,754 radios, and a Korean War infantry division 2,400, the smaller pentomic division needed over 3,000—and by 1962 this would climb to 3,600. Yet even providing an additional 600 tons of signal equipment did not allow the pentomic division’s five battle groups to communicate. Observing training exercises in Europe in 1959, LTG James D. O’Connell found their inadequate radios compelled field officers to employ tactical formations they admitted would be suicidal in war.56 Some critics found the fact that throughout the 1950s the US Army could design and distribute technological marvels like the Nike missile or the Davy Crockett, but not adequate radios, symptomatic of its misguided approach to technology. They accused the ser vice of fixating on big-ticket, high-profile projects rather than designing simple, cheap, and easily maintained equipment for the average GI. To its detractors, the ser vice’s delay in replacing the reliable but heavy, slow-firing M-1 rifle, first issued in the 1930s, symbolized its misplaced priorities. Although the army equipment board had given top priority to a lighter, less awkward, fully automatic rifle soon after World War II, it took over 114

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a decade to develop a prototype. During his tenure, Chief of Staff Taylor greatly delayed both the testing and manufacturing process by insisting designers create a “universal rifle” to serve as rifle, submachine gun, and light machine gun—and also equip NATO forces.57 When the M-14 finally reached the field in 1961, soldiers complained that in semiautomatic mode it was inferior to its predecessor, and when fired at full automatic, it was so inaccurate that even a marksman would miss a medium-range target half the time. Two years later, the army canceled production. Often obscured by debates over the merits of individual weapons, or whether the army was too enamored of overly complex equipment, were what one officer termed the “essential contradictions” between the technical expertise of its personnel and the ser vice’s concept of tactical atomic war.58 Spokesmen such as MG William C. Westmoreland proclaimed that the inevitable result of technological progress would be a “truly revolutionary type army.” 59 They imagined mobile forces deploying across the globe, maneuvering in dispersed, mobile formations and employing devastatingly accurate firepower. But the individual components that made up this vision each had their own requirements and limitations. To support its claim that tactical atomic warfare could limit confl ict without escalation to thermonuclear annihilation, the army needed not only its own nuclear arsenal, but the means to get it to the battlefield. The ser vice defined strategic mobility as the rapid movement by air of massive amounts of men and materiel from North America to European or Asian allies under Soviet attack. But the requirement that all equipment be air transportable confl icted with the demand from Europe for heavily armored, heavily armed mechanized combat vehicles that could defeat their Soviet counter parts. Despite numerous directives that future equipment be lighter, more portable, and self-supporting, in practice much of it grew heavier, more complicated, and more dependent on infrastructure. As one officer warned, the ser vice had fallen into a “logistical trap” in that “the mechanical equipment we need to fight a modern war is one of the principal contributions to our logistical immobility.” 60 Taylor, in particular, seemed unable or unwilling to recognize that his purported savings in weight or 115

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bulk were often illusory. The mobility provided by the pentomic divisions’ reduced personnel was often negated by its additional equipment and its reliance on logistic support. In similar fashion, the missiles that Taylor envisioned replacing heavy and cumbersome artillery depended not only on the smooth integration of range-finders, radars, infrared night scopes, and other new technologies, but thousands of specialists trained in their use and maintenance. While atomic cannon, Nikes, and Davy Crocketts dazzled the public, the mundane and more essential task of keeping the army operating chugged along. Each year roughly a million personnel made a permanent change of station, often with their dependents, and millions more traveled on temporary assignments. At the beginning of the decade, it required fifty pounds of supplies per day to sustain a single soldier overseas; a GI in Korea cost almost as much to feed as he was paid. By the end of the decade, stateside units annually shipped 16,000,000 tons of military supplies to the overseas garrisons and disposed of nearly $2,000,000,000 worth of obsolete, surplus, or worn- out items. Even after dumping much of its WWII and Korean War equipment, the ser vice’s inventory approached 1,000,000 items, including 18 different types of artillery, 66 types of field artillery ammunition, 81 different rounds of tank ammunition, and 92 kinds of infantry ammunition.61 All this materiel had to be cataloged, stored, and checked to see if it was still usable. The cumulative results were ominous for the army’s ability to conduct sustained ground operations. One officer commented, almost in passing, that its “huge warehouses piled high with supplies and equipment” had the result of making of Europe’s 7th Army “essentially immobile and unresponsive to the requirements of mobile warfare.” 62 In many ways, the army’s supply problems in the 1950s were a decade-long recovery from the Korean War buildup. During that conflict the supply system almost collapsed. Thousands of desperately needed vehicles remained in Japanese warehouses because they had been shipped without spare parts. Of over 140,000 trucks ordered from manufacturers, only 20 percent were delivered by the time of the armistice. Three years after the end of fighting, the 8th Army’s headquarters 116

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still did not know what equipment had been ordered, what had been sent, what had arrived, what had been used, or even what was in its own warehouses.63 In Europe, the war sparked fears that a Soviet attack would capture the army’s port at Bremerhaven, just one hour from the East German border. In what one general termed “a frantic impulse,” the US quickly negotiated to establish a “Communications Zone” (COMZ), and “thousands of tons of supplies and a considerable number of ser vice units were pulled out of Germany and dumped in the mud of France.” 64 COMZ’s new depots, inevitably on land the French did not want but charged premium prices for, were often built by unskilled laborers out of the crudest of materials; many fell apart within months. In 1953 a correspondent visiting a major supply center in Bordeaux found soldiers working fourteen-hour days as laborers, toiling in mud so thick they had to drag supplies on sleds, and sleeping in dilapidated tents. As army reports confirmed, these conditions were typical of most depots. Worse, the COMZ, which in 1950 had been budgeted for $300,000,000 was now estimated to cost five times that amount, and each month costs rose by several millions. Despite the torrent of money, the French ports and roads could not handle the army’s logistic needs—90 percent of its supplies still came through Bremerhaven. Officers admitted that the COMZ could not function in war, and estimated massive shortfalls within the first month of fighting. It took the army until the early 1960s to resolve warehousing, infrastructure, and storage problems, at which time the French withdrew from NATO and appropriated the bases.65 The case of the COMZ in France was one of many to confirm experts’ suspicion that many of their fellow officers had little professional knowledge of or interest in supply issues, and that “sooner or later the logistician must discipline the operational type.” 66 Sometimes the frustration was too much, and ser vice and supply personnel let combat arms officers know what they really felt. One logistician dismissed much of current war planning with the observation that if either of the two corps stationed in Europe ever went into combat, its daily logistical needs would be the equivalent of the Berlin Airlift at its peak.67 Major 117

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General G. K. Heiss lectured War College students, “your school problems and training experiences have been largely dominated by purely tactical and strategical concepts. Too often have the basic principles of logistics been dismissed with a wave of the hand, or covered by broad assumptions. Too seldom have you been brought face to face with the complexities of the logistical phases of troop movement, supply and maintenance.” In his experience, planners “assume that vast tonnages required to support an operation will automatically appear at the proper time . . . it is a shocking reality that the equipment with which men fight is more often than not taken for granted.” 68 The US Army required a small army of administrators to determine which organizations received what equipment and to keep track of its procurement, shipment, maintenance, and disposal. Their task was rendered almost impossible by the Pentagon’s incessant tinkering. In a not aty pical year, there were 138 separate revisions to the major organization and equipment tables.69 Each change, in turn, compelled field staffs to alter their own campaign and support plans at least as many times. Attracting top talent to deal with these daunting supply challenges was a problem in itself. As one War College committee noted, “an assignment in logistics is very unpopular for most officers” and there was frequent “confusion, distrust and loss of confidence between the combat troops and the troops supporting them.”70 Career logisticians often came from the technical and combat service support branches such as Quartermaster, Transportation, or Ordnance. In their view, they were too often victimized by senior officers in combat arms, who gave the choice assignments to fellow combat officers needing to “punch a ticket” to qualify for promotion. One assistant chief of staff complained, “field commanders don’t know a logistician when they see one” and would “take anybody that was available and throw him into the G-4 [logistics] end of the business.” 71 Throughout the New Look reductions, the army relentlessly sacrificed its supply sector to preserve combat arms personnel, and added insult to injury by insisting it was cutting “fat” but not reducing combat “muscle.” By 1959, logistics personnel comprised barely 10  percent of the US Army, roughly what they had in the low-tech, pre–World War II Old Army. Unsurprisingly, 118

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the ser vice had perennial problems attracting qualified young officers into logistics, or keeping them once they mastered the administrative skills needed to organize, distribute, and maintain all the complex equipment it required.72 The consequences of personnel turbulence were readily apparent in the field. One battalion commander concluded that the greatest barrier to his unit performing its mission was the “disparity existing between the assignment of personnel and equipment. Expensive equipment is always on hand in great quantity but personnel are always at a premium, both as to quantity and quality.” 73 Each year the draft, or the threat of the draft, brought in tens of thousands of unskilled laborers. But each year an almost equal number of now-experienced workers left the armed forces, creating chronic shortages and forcing the army, and virtually every unit in it, to constantly recalibrate its requirements for trained personnel. In 1954, for example, the army had thousands of surplus infantry and far too few technicians, with alarming shortages in everything from supply record specialists (6,000) to drivers (4,800). Providing no help for the foreseeable future, the army school system estimated it could produce less than half the technicians needed. A year later the ser vice was severely understrength in fifty occupational specialties, including 7,000 infantry.74 As one general acknowledged, there was a direct correlation between the army’s transformation efforts and skilled labor: “in this huge, complex, and highly technical ‘business’ which is today’s Army, there is a growing need for qualified NCO’s and specialists. This need becomes more pressing as the size of the Army is reduced and the equipment which the Army uses becomes more and more technical.” 75 Within a decade of World War II dozens of new MOSs, ranging from data processor operator to microwave radar technician, emerged. Reflecting both the increasing emphasis on machines and the need for more specialization, by 1956, 44 percent of the enlisted personnel in the US armed forces were in technical or mechanical occupations. As technical demands increased, so too did educational requirements. In 1953, the official policy had been that “except for MOS-related subjects, study beyond the eighth grade is, as far as enlisted men are concerned, of 119

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Key punch operator. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

only secondary value to the Army.” 76 By the end of the decade, officers insisted on a high school diploma for enlistment. Most fifties officers could understand why a missile fi re control maintenance specialist required twenty-four months of advanced training, but it took some a long time to recognize that even the sim120

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plest technologies quickly became the province of experts. In World War II, a GI truck driver familiar with the workings of an automobile could do much of the basic maintenance on his vehicle; a decade later he required a mechanic. General Heiss explained to his audience the implications of the army’s enthusiasm for newer and more complicated technologies: “such have been the improvements or refinements that were recently incorporated into our most modern equipment that it is a stupendous task to familiarize the average officer, not to mention the enlisted man, with the complicated mechanisms and how to use them.” Listening to transistor radios or souping up jalopies did not make the average teenager an expert in electronics or engines. Given the army’s inability to retain skilled technicians and its dependence on poorly trained draftees, “we must reexamine the wisdom of overloading our basic equipment with highly complicated and delicate instrumentations.” 77 Colonel Walter B. Bess highlighted an equally serious problem with both short- and long-term implications. When the army adopted the new generation of materiel to wage atomic war, it also needed a new generation of workers: “In our efforts to reduce operations to the simplest possible function we have built into our tools of war the skills of the master craftsman—we have insofar as possible transferred operator skill to the machine. In so doing we have reduced the requirements for quantity and quality of operators but we have increased the repair and maintenance load by a far greater margin than we have reduced operator skill requirements.” 78 Another officer put it more simply: “The accuracy of our weapons is so far superior to the accuracy of the persons manning them as to be ridiculous.” 79 Compounding the problems caused by increasingly complex equipment was the frequently dysfunctional stocking and spare parts system. Still shaped by the world war experience, army supply procedures were designed to distribute bulk items like hay or ammunition, not individual and highly specialized parts. Brigadier General F. J. Brown, in an effort to explain to field commanders the importance of doing their paperwork correctly, took as an example a company captain who needed a specific ball bearing for a tank traverse motor. This officer first had to check his manuals and find the correct alphanumeric code—an H012-132012 121

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Bearing—and then fill out several copies of the complicated requisition order. This order might wend its way through perhaps a dozen intervening stops before reaching the proper depot. The bearing, once located, pulled off the shelf, boxed, and shipped, would retrace much of the paper trail before it was finally delivered to the tank company. At each stage, progress would depend on some unskilled, unmotivated draftee clerk—who could delay shipment for weeks by misreading one number in the nine-digit requisition order sequence. Yet that same draftee, if he wished, could order and receive the same item from a civilian mail order catalog in a fraction of the time.80 Out in the field, the situation was less humorous. During one of the periodic crises in Korea, a general noted that with so few available spare parts, missile defense units commonly ordered them on a “Blue Streak” basis, allowing the orders to circumvent the normal supply process and ship immediately, with no regard for cost. One four-month period saw no fewer than 334 Blue Streak requisitions for Nike parts. All but 63 of these orders were filled from warehouses in the United States, and many took three weeks to arrive. In a similar period, Hawk missile batteries made 573 Blue Streak requests, of which  428 were shipped from the United States. During these four months the Nike system was out of operation for almost a month, and many Hawk batteries were at 50  percent effectiveness. Had North Korea launched an aerial attack, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for the army’s missile defenses to respond. It was little better in Germany. “If you wanted spare parts, you had to manipulate the system,” one officer recalled. “You would order three and four parts hoping that you would get one . . . I’m not sure some of the people didn’t go out to steal the parts from one unit to use in another. There was no logical plan to any extent in the units.”81 The problem of logistical shortages was compounded by the high turnover in personnel and the difficulties of securing skilled labor. The army could not recruit sufficient technicians from the civilian sector, nor could it retain many of the ones it had trained. Many military specialties either had no civilian equivalent or, if they did, were in occupations rarely found in the workforce. There was, for example, no civilian 122

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counterpart to the job description for one Nike technician: “Assembles atomic components and joins warhead to missile. Installs atomic warhead circuitry. Must know theory of alternating and direct current electricity, magnetism, and electro-magnetism. Must know electronic theory to include functioning of basic electronic circuits.” 82 And, as maintenance officers repeatedly stressed, there was little crossover between civilian and military expertise. A teenager’s hotrod repair skills did not qualify him to fix a tank motor. With no civilian ready-made labor pool, the fifties army had to train its own workers in over 500 MOSs, ranging from cooks to computer programmers. The need to train and retrain its khaki-collar labor force imposed an enormous administrative burden on the ser vice. In fiscal year 1956, for example, a cell of sixty-odd officers published 219 new technical training manuals and had 241 others in various stages of publication, but still had a backlog of over 300. The technical schools were always filled. In 1954 the Armor School’s maintenance department alone required 400 instructors to teach seventeen different courses on tank repair. In 1959, at any given time, one in every five soldiers assigned to US Army Pacific was enrolled in a technical course.83 The MOS system, designed to efficiently sort large numbers of recruits by skill and experience, sometimes seemed less a blessing than a curse. One War College committee concluded that “the current MOS structure has little relation to branch or functionally related skills and is of little assistance in moving trained personnel through the pipeline.” The committee identified numerous instances of overtraining and wasted resources, of soldiers assigned to exotic courses such as “automotive fuel and electrical system repairman” when 50  percent of the ser vice’s technical needs were in basic diesel maintenance. Rather than allowing the army to manage its labor force, MOS classification dictated procedures, organization, and personnel policies, with the result that “the slave is ruling its master.” 84 One of the most common complaints was what the army termed “retreading” or “malassignment”—the practice of sending soldiers qualified in one MOS for on-the-job training in another. By army regulations, all but the top three (later five) NCO levels could be reallocated 123

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by any commander. This practice almost guaranteed that lower-grade enlisted personnel, the ubiquitous and often marginally trained E3s (Private First Class) and Sp3s (Specialist 3s) would be put wherever they were needed. Visiting one regiment, the Assistant Secretary of the Army discovered each company had critical shortages in troop leaders and specialists. Upon investigation, the regiment was found to have a surplus of qualified troops in the missing categories; staff had simply assigned them to other duties. Some highly publicized incidents contributed to a perception, both inside and outside the ser vice, that the army could not or would not assign its personnel in a rational manner. A 1954 exposé of one psychological warfare unit contrasted the graduate-level educations of its enlisted men with their career officers’ fixation on soldierly appearance. When one battalion commander heard a general might drive by, he ordered hundreds of these specialists to labor long into the night picking up trash. Congressmen found that an elite company of technicians assigned to advanced research projects were pulled out of their laboratories twice a week for guard duty and KP. In another instance, 5,000 draftees with advanced degrees in science and engineering spent much of their time doing menial labor. In a particularly ludicrous example, soldiers in stateside antiaircraft units were suddenly rushed to Europe and “retreaded” as infantry—replacing trained infantry who had been retreaded as antiaircraft crews. In 1958, a survey of the 25th Infantry Division found that of 9,068 soldiers, 1,508 were not correctly assigned. Many of those appropriated by headquarters units seeking athletes, photogenic honor guards, and so forth were now performing almost any duty except their MOS. Even Elvis was a victim, or more accurately a beneficiary, of malassignment. His training was as a crewman on an M-48 tank, but on arrival in Germany he was assigned to a scout unit and was discharged as an armor intelligence specialist (MOS 133.60).85 As numerous officers noted, malassignment was a short-term solution that created long-term problems by undercutting the army’s efforts to develop its own cadre of skilled technicians. Commanders routinely assigned their most marginal soldiers, no matter how unskilled, as drivers— one survey found a third of all truck drivers had another 124

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MOS. Malassigned and poorly trained GIs wrecked their equipment, often because they failed to perform such basic procedures as replacing oil or lubricating bearings. After one exercise, the commander of the 4th Infantry Division reported over $500,000 in unnecessary damage to vehicles caused by crew negligence. Reporting on a recent study of 2nd Army’s repair rate, one officer protested, “it is a damning indictment of how poorly units are maintaining vehicles, when 60% of the turned in vehicles could have been fi xed by a man with a wrench or screwdriver.” 86 Malassignment also impacted retention: soldiers with extensive training who were not allowed to use their skills refused to reenlist. This was especially true for technical specialties in high demand in the civilian market. Between 1955 and  1959, Signal Corps schools trained 108,000 officers and enlisted personnel in data processing, electronics, and other communications specialties, but the army remained perennially short of communications personnel. In 1956, the army set reenlistment goals of 50 percent for both guided missile and aircraft maintenance technicians; the actual rates were 8 and 12 percent, respectively. Still, this was better than the 25  percent goal for radar technicians, with less than 1 percent reenlisting. Nor were these problems resolved over time. The army needed 33 percent of its electronics technicians to reenlist, but in 1957 less than 8 percent did so, and even after five years of extensive efforts to improve pay and assignments, the reenlistment rate only reached 15  percent. In contrast, although the army needed less than a quarter of its minimally skilled food processing personnel to reenlist, in 1962 almost half did.87 The high turnover in skilled labor required the US Army to write its maintenance and repair manuals for an eighth-grade reading level. The maintenance journal PS (an acronym for preventative ser vice) was emblematic of this dumbed-down instruction. Connie Rodd and her sidekick, Joe Dope, blended cheesecake with humor in “Connie Rodd’s Briefs” to impart such esoteric technical skills as “Handling Hotstuff” (radioactive materials). In one sense, it was an amazingly successful training tool. Pictures of Connie Rodd adorned army repair shops, and rear-echelon depots were accused of hoarding copies. But it was 125

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disturbing that an army boasting of readiness for atomic warfare with space-age weapons relied on technicians guided by comic books.88 Many senior officers blamed enlisted personnel for failing to follow the army’s preventive maintenance program. It mandated a fixed inspection and maintenance schedule for all vehicles, from daily routines by the driver and crew to a semiannual overhaul requiring several days and three specialist mechanics. But, like many army tables of organization and equipment, it assumed zero defects in either personnel or schedules. In practice, it was often unworkable even for day-to-day operations. Following the prescribed maintenance schedule, most of the work week for a pentomic battle group’s mechanics was spent on routine maintenance, leaving little time for major repairs. But whenever its troops returned from a training exercise, they inevitably brought back damaged equipment, forcing the shop to either postpone routine maintenance or deadline the inoperable vehicles. Whatever the choice, the result was the same: a cumulative process in which more and more vehicles fell behind their maintenance schedule, broke down, and joined those awaiting repair. Compounding the problem, the rigid schedules required mechanics to devote as much time to vehicles that had barely left the motor pool as those in daily use. As one maintenance officer put it, the army was “monkey wrenching our vehicles to death” while its backlog of broken vehicles steadily increased.89 When Taylor announced the immediate implementation of the pentomic reorganization, he created a near catastrophe, combining equipment, maintenance, and personnel problems in such volume that it is truly remarkable the army did not implode. Seventh Army’s commanding general admitted he succeeded in pentomicizing his forces only by violating Department of the Army policy, US Army regulations, and congressional legislation. His five divisions were scattered over fifty-five posts and the reorganization required an enormous transfer of maintenance shops, depots, vehicles, and personnel. In one example, the 11th Airborne Division lost 5,000 people and with them the ability to hold its designated defensive sector. This required the division— vehicles, personnel, dependents, office files, and so on—to move to a rear area and an armored division to undertake a similar move to re126

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Field maintenance. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

place it. Lieutenant General James F. Collins complained of an armywide bottleneck in which commanders refused to transfer surplus personnel to their designated units, instead retraining them to fill a new MOS required in the pentomic reorganization. When the replacements finally arrived, they found their MOS slots filled by “retreads.” In many cases, these new arrivals were reassigned to on-the-job training in a new MOS.90 The experience of the 4th Infantry Division between March and May 1957 may serve as an example. Despite the pleas of its commander and staff, the Pentagon was unable to provide either guidelines or dates for the transition. When Washington finally issued the orders, the timetable demanded such speed that many officers were reassigned before completing their property transfers. Companies and battalions dissolved without accounting for their materiel. Incoming officers, quite reasonably, refused to sign for their new unit’s equipment until it could be inspected and approved. But in many cases those able to perform this 127

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certification had been transferred. Desperate commanders resorted to an informal barter system, swapping vehicles, radios, and personnel among two or three units until they fulfilled the tables of organization. The experience of the 4th’s subordinate units provides some measure of the scale of the confusion. Ordered to transfer an M37 truck to a field artillery unit, one tank battalion commander found himself caught in the administrative crossfire over whether the vehicle met the strict definition of an M37. Weeks later he still had the truck. A reconnaissance unit reported that after reorganization it had only nine of its twenty-three tanks, one of its eight trucks, and five of its thirty-two armored personnel carriers, and some of these needed extensive repair. One battle group received long-awaited orders to reorganize just as 1,350 recruits arrived. It inherited 221 tracked vehicles instead of its assigned 130, and the few remaining mechanics worked twenty-fourhour shifts to get all the vehicles in sufficient shape to pass inspection, which was further slowed when the depot inspectors rejected vehicles for ripped canvas, rust, or other trivialities. In the meantime, the battle group had to reassign dozens of enlisted personnel whose MOS was excluded from the pentomic organization, and find other MOSs that pentomic demanded. The whole process paralyzed the 4th Division’s training for four months and infuriated everyone.91 The pentomic reorganization stretched army maintenance to the breaking point, but even in normal years the ser vice lurched from one crisis to another. A spot check of vehicles in the 7th Army, supposedly the best equipped and maintained force, found 20 percent of the vehicles had serious deficiencies. John A. Seitz, who commanded an artillery group in Germany in the mid-1950s, recalled that maintenance was “the biggest problem we had. I found out that was the thing that the officers and non-coms knew less about and didn’t check [and] a lot of them didn’t know enough about it to check.” 92 Seitz trained his officers by reading the technical manuals and then crawling under vehicles to inspect them and point out their defects; after six months his officers and specialists were sufficiently instructed, or chastised, that maintenance problems were reduced to acceptable levels. 128

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Seitz’s efforts reveal the extremes to which general officers were driven to shrink their repair lists, but such close supervision sometimes had unintended negative consequences. William  C. Westmoreland boasted that when he commanded the 101st Airborne Division he imposed rigorous quotas for maintenance: “If a man couldn’t repair an appropriate number of trucks, we concluded that he was malassigned. We would put a rifle on his shoulder and get another man who had the aptitude to produce.” 93 He required any unit failing to meet its quotas to work on weekends; he claimed this so motivated his maintenance staff that he boosted production and could return temporarily assigned workers to their posts. Yet shortly after he left the division, an exercise revealed that twenty-two of the twenty-four vehicles involved had extensive axle damage, some of it dating back over a year.94 Clearly Westmoreland’s mechanics, and their officers, had been less than honest in their reporting, deceiving even the micromanaging general about the true state of his division’s equipment, and the influence of his leadership. At times, such deception approached farce. One commander in a tank battalion in the 11th Airborne Division recalled that, in preparation for an inspection by the division commander, “we practiced moving our gun tubes in salute as he passed . . . he didn’t know that probably one-third of the tanks in that battalion had no engines in them.” 95 During LTG Clarke’s tenure, it sometimes seemed the entire 7th Army was engaged in a conspiracy to undermine him: I watched this guy [Clarke] operate and . . . learned more from his mistakes than I did under any general I’ve ever known. He was always trying to prove that maintenance had gone up . . . put out roadside spot checks [on] the oil, the tires and give them a grade. That grade went directly into Seventh Army and it was compiled monthly and if one of your vehicles failed, you got a threatening letter from the commander [and] at the end of the month if your unit had some failures, you got a nasty letter through channels. Well, what does one do when the heat is on? . . . use Baumholder as an example . . . they had light airplanes . . . and a few of these little helicopters . . . so in the morning they put up their helicopters and planes

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elvis ’ s army and flew the area. When they located the Seventh Army roadside spot check team they radioed back. Well, what did the guys do? They had taken their milk run vehicles, the laundry and ration trucks that were used almost on a daily basis in a battalion and put their best drivers on them and brought them up to 100 percent snuff. They would cannibalize vehicles all over the motor pool to do this, and even though they were supposed to go North, they would go South, right through that spot check team and they got 100  percent checked off every damn time. . . . And old Clarke sitting up there in Seventh Army with all these statistics really thought that maintenance is improving . . . all [you] had to do was go down to that motor pool and take a look at those 10 or 12 vehicles that have been stripped and useless and you realized that maintenance had not gone up it had gone down. Those are the kind of things that guys did to offset this obsession with statistics. . . . So you had one gimmick chasing another gimmick and in the meantime the Army suffers for it. It’s not being professional.96

Technology was the third, and in some ways the most important pillar of the army’s transformation. Together with the concept of tactical atomic war and the pentomic organization, technology would restore the US Army to its rightful place as the nation’s preeminent military arm. In many respects, the army’s equipment modernization was truly impressive: one need only compare pictures of the Hiroshima bomb and the Davy Crockett to recognize some of the ser vice’s revolutionary breakthroughs. But the headlong race to the tactical atomic battlefield all but ensured the pace of modernization would be erratic, privileging a few high-priority items at the cost of modernizing the rest of the force. Soldiers armed with WWII weapons guarded Nike missiles equipped with computers and electronics years ahead of civilian industry. The unwelcome truth was that these miracle weapons—280mm cannon, Nikes, Corporals, Davy Crocketts—provided only the most fleeting advantage over the Soviet Army. Many were so flawed that their main value was in generating publicity. Meanwhile, the army’s increasing technological sophistication demanded skilled labor to maintain and repair it—a need all the greater with so many unskilled draftees using the equipment. But the army could not retain those it most needed—the technicians it spent months training in breakthrough fields like elec130

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tronics, computers, engines, or communications. Partly by the dictates of its self-inflicted command structure, it often misused or drove out the very specialists who could research, develop, distribute, and manage its complex and ever- changing inventory. Perhaps an even greater problem was whether those who remained in the ser vice had the discipline, training, and direction to effectively employ the army’s transformative weapons, concepts, and organizations in combat. Even as the pentomic reform promised to revolutionize the army, as GEN Willard Wyman warned, “without a corresponding increase in the ability of leaders to use the capabilities of their units in atomic battle, it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn how much we increase their firepower and mobility.” 97

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5

WHO’S IN THE ARMY NOW?

In its September 1955 issue Mad magazine, barely two years old but already a teenage icon, published Roger Price’s “Advice to Young Men on How to Get into the Army.” Those suggesting it was easy to enter military ser vice were “Wrong Thinkers and probably unregistered foreign agents,” because “the New, Improved Army is becoming more exclusive every year which is understandable when you consider the many advantages it offers.” By following Price’s guidance, Mad’s readers “can make sure their application for membership in the armed forces is accepted.” He warned them to avoid such mistakes as taking amphetamines or sticking ice picks in their ears lest they fail their physical examination. He counseled them on how to pass such challenges as the eye test (“cheat”) and the blood test (“bleed”), to lace their conversation with soldiers’ profanity (“Poo” and “Geronimo”), and to give themselves GI haircuts by leaning over the sink and turning on the garbage disposal. After induction, they would meet “Helpful Sergeants” more than willing to relieve them of the burden of thinking. Lest the new recruit not recognize these mentors, Price provided illustrations of such Regular Army types as the “Friendly Sgt,” the “Warm Hearted Sgt,” and the “Fun Loving Sgt”—each the same scowling, low-browed goon. If readers were fortunate enough to be accepted, they could learn such “highly technical skills” as “How to Bury Snipers” and “When to Bet against the Dice” that would prove invaluable—especially if they reenlisted.1 Some eighteen months later, in a lecture to the Army War College, MG Donald P. Booth raised a fundamental question. The army’s atomic transformation agenda called for revolutionary changes in concepts, organization, and equipment, but where in its workforce would it obtain 132

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the craftsmen and foremen to implement this transformation? The “weapons system of the Army” was evolving at unprecedented speed, “the developments of the last five years and those coming in the next five years have been greater than in all the history of ground combat since the beginning of time.” The implications of these changes were themselves revolutionary. Both in peace and in war “a much higher percentage of higher mental group personnel will be required for Army leadership positions and for manning the new, highly technical equipment.” But the ser vice’s dependence on conscription, itself a measure of its inability to attract high-quality volunteers, meant that the enlisted ranks would contain “a larger and larger number of inductees who we will not be able to train for our highly skilled and technical leadership and specialist jobs.” Here was the army’s dilemma: “The ground warfare of the future will be won by the Army that has the greatest innovations in mobility, firepower, and dispersion. Success cannot be won by units cluttered with sub-caliber personnel.” 2 Although Price employed humor and Booth statistics, their message was essentially the same: the typical enlisted man was an unmotivated manual laborer, and his sergeant-overseer little better. Such a workforce was incapable of adapting to the technical challenges of nuclearage warfare. The new model army required a new model soldier, for as BG George R. Mather explained, “in this huge, complex, and highly technical business which is today’s Army, there is a growing need for qualified NCO’s and specialists. This need becomes more pressing as the size of the Army is reduced and the equipment which the Army uses becomes more and more technical.” 3 But the nation’s elite—the ones the army needed to execute its high-tech concept of tactical atomic war—looked on military ser vice as an onerous obligation. Confirming Price’s satiric viewpoint, a 1955 survey revealed less than one in ten teenagers thought they might like being in the armed forces. A large majority believed anyone unlucky enough to wind up in uniform could expect very little personal benefit in return, and should get out as quickly as possible. They also had a low opinion of career soldiers: one in four thought that men remained in the ser vice because they could not obtain decent civilian jobs.4 133

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Like contemporary American industry, the 1950s armed forces were transitioning from a workforce composed primarily of semiskilled, uneducated laborers to one dependent on trained technicians and supervisors. Early industrial relations experts had advocated simplifying tasks so illiterates and immigrants could perform them. If a worker was injured or unsatisfactory, they could hire another from the twenty applicants waiting outside the factory gates and train him in a few hours. Labor relations were often antagonistic, and strikes had grown in both intensity and impact prior to World War II. But fifties manufacturing used equipment of such cost and complexity that it could only be tended by expert workers who identified their personal interests with those of the company. These workers had such valuable technical or supervisory skills that to keep them, the biggest industries accepted unions, safety standards, pensions, guaranteed employment, and other concessions. Like their blue-collar peers, for decades most enlisted personnel had been expected to simply follow orders, execute precise drill, and stay in shape; ideal war time equipment was sturdy, dependable, and easily maintained by its hastily trained users. In the postwar world such technological simplicity in either equipment or user was no longer possible. As military equipment became increasingly complex, so too did the workforce needed to maintain it. In 1942 there were no Military Occupational Specialties (MOSs) in missiles; fifteen years later there were seventy-two. For an army planning atomic war, it was crucial to select only the top applicants, get the most benefit from their time in ser vice, and retain the best of the best as career soldiers. And, like American industrialists, the ser vice recognized that to retain these specialists it had to offer benefits commensurate with a lifetime commitment. Creating the military workforce for the 1950s began with the personnel acquisition process. In the dozen years of peace from the end of the Korean War to the beginning of the Vietnam conflict, new soldiers could enter the armed ser vices by voluntary enlistment or by induction via the Selective Ser vice Agency. Like Congress, the army regarded conscription as a temporary expedient until an all-volunteer army could be established. But the reality in the Eisenhower–Kennedy era was 134

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that Selective Ser vice not only provided a high proportion of new enlisted personnel—179,000 of 457,000  in 1957, 126,000 of 205,000  in 1958, 111,000 of 224,000 in 1959—but that it inspired an equal number to volunteer to avoid conscription.5 Volunteers enlisted for a term of three to six years; the longer the commitment the better the assignments and benefits. They were designated as Regular Army and assigned the prefi x “RA” before their military identification number. Conscripts (also termed inductees, draftees, or selectees) served a two-year active tour and were assigned a “US” prefix: Elvis Presley was US 53310761. Both volunteers and selectees underwent an initial medical evaluation and then another at an army processing center. The induction center’s screening processes— long lines, group nudity, humiliating medical procedures—were a staple of fifties humor. Price claimed the aptitude test was “as easy as falling off a log. In fact that’s the test.”6 In one famous episode, television’s Sergeant Bilko was court martialed for inducting a chimpanzee. Perhaps the most devastating satire was Jules Feiffer’s Munro, in which the hero was whizzed through his physical and psychological exams without anyone noticing he was four years old.7 Army authorities resented this casual dismissal of a thorough and exhausting process. In their view, the induction centers were places where “neurotics, psychopaths, psychotics and other undesirables are rejected. The consensus of informed opinion is that very few misdemeanants and juvenile delinquents have actually been admitted.”8 In 1957, of the 4,977,000 preinduction physicals, 1,885,000 men were rejected at the centers and another 157,000 at a second, more thorough physical exam. Indeed, induction centers classified so many young men as physically or mentally ineligible that officers speculated that only the elite would fight, and die, in the next war, leaving the “unfit” to procreate.9 Those who passed the physical and psychological tests took the Armed Forces Qualification Test (AFQT), which classified them into four categories, with the average recruit scoring 70, in the lower half of Category 2. Like contemporary college admissions tests, many AFQT questions discriminated in favor of white, educated, urban youth. Those 135

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Induction physical. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

who scored less than 30, which meant they were functionally illiterate, were placed in Category 4, and were, in the view of the nation’s armed forces, unsuited for military ser vice. There were generational, regional, and educational divisions between enlistees and inductees. Survey research found most draftees were between twenty-one and twenty-three years old, with the average entering the army at twenty-two, making Presley typical of his cohort. Almost half the volunteers enlisted as soon as they could—at eighteen and a half—and their average age was nineteen, with very few joining after twenty. As a group—with the conspicuous exception of the Category 4 conscripts Congress forced the army to accept—inductees had significantly more education, experience, and maturity than those who volunteered. The goal of the fifties army was to increase the number of qualified volunteers, disqualify marginal draftees, and rely on conscrip136

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tion only for a small pool of top-quality candidates who, it was hoped, could be persuaded to enlist for extended tours during the first weeks of basic combat training.10 The army’s efforts to achieve a principally volunteer force were complicated by steep competition with the other armed forces for top-tier candidates. With little exaggeration, a 1957 Harper’s magazine article claimed, “the biggest ‘sell’ to teen-age Amer ica today is being engineered by the United States Department of Defense.” This “sustained, high-pressure merchandizing campaign” cost tens of millions and employed “some of the best brains in Madison Avenue.” 11 The contest among the armed forces for those with a college degree or technical skills was so intense that Life magazine advised, “with careful thought a young man facing military ser vice can control much of his own fate.”12 Draftees often ascribed the worst motives to those who enlisted: pregnant girlfriends, broken families, bankruptcy, substance abuse, criminal prosecution, and so forth. The reality, as one officer acknowledged, was far more banal: “the most effective recruiting measure is the threat of induction and many of those coming into the ser vice voluntarily are running away from something.” 13 Another officer commented that the primary motive for volunteering was the choice of occupation “rather than get stuck in a combat arm.” 14 Marketing research showed that both the public and teenagers responded most favorably when army ser vice was portrayed as imparting education and job skills. Reflecting this guidance, recruiting literature emphasized technical or school benefits (43 percent) over social status (24 percent), patriotism (19  percent), or adventure (11  percent).15 After the end of the Korean War, recruiting slogans such as “Choice Not Chance,” and specific programs such as 1957’s “Two for the Money”—in which qualified enlistees were guaranteed admission to two specialist schools— demonstrated the ser vice’s emphasis on practical rather than martial occupations. Another popular theme was the long-term benefits of a military career, most graphically summarized in the recruitment slogan “Retire at 37!” Even the combat arms’ marketing, such as the 8th Infantry Division’s “Heading for Europe . . . Come Along,” displayed a soldier holding not a rifle, but a brochure of tourist attractions.16 The 137

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ser vice placed so much emphasis on career benefits that social critic Paul Goodman argued, “the Army has become the IBM of the poor boy.” 17 Conscript humor aside, the US Army did not draw its recruits from unemployed delinquents. There is no statistical evidence correlating joblessness among twenty- to twenty-four year-old males and high rates of volunteering. It is also true that some recruiters cut corners, misleading enlistees about educational or branch assignments or giving waivers to those below army standards. Although the army could reject anyone for a felony conviction, recruiters could not, and perhaps did not care to know how many volunteers had been given the option of enlistment or prosecution. One infantry officer recalled that this “option” had been exercised by twenty-two of the forty-four Regular soldiers in his infantry squad: “just the crew to face the Russians with confidence.” 18 Recruiters also developed imaginative strategies to lure prospective soldiers into their offices. One sergeant’s letters to students alerting them of jobs in the “Army Security Agency” increased enlistments from twenty-three to 128 in one month.19 By the end of the decade, when induction centers were rejecting half of those who received draft notices, the Regular Army’s standards were so high it could require a high school diploma from most volunteers. The ser vice’s efforts to attract technical specialists were most apparent in Army Air Defense Command (ARADCOM), which shared with the air force the mission of stopping a Soviet bomber attack. To most Americans, it was synonymous with the “slim, white, and poised with deadly menace” Nike missile, whose “miracles of radar and wizardlike computing systems” made it the “most brilliant star” in ARADCOM’s “galaxy of weapons.”20 The Recruiting Journal, appealing to a younger and more masculine audience, boasted that Nike’s “vital statistics” were “more devastating than those of Jayne Mansfield.”21 But these missiles required specialized labor. By 1960 the army listed almost forty separate MOSs in missile control and maintenance alone, all of which required a high school diploma and strong math scores. Nike technicians had to complete sixteen weeks of basic and advanced training and graduate from intensely competitive schools, which had a 10  percent monthly 138

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dropout rate. The typical missile battery’s electronic maintenance technician had qualified in a twenty-two-week certification course consisting of almost 1,000 hours of instruction. Its fire-control maintenance technician had passed a thirty-eight-week course of 1,672 hours. In return for this extensive and expensive training, the army might get only twenty months of ser vice on a Nike site before these specialists’ enlistments expired.22 Recognizing its high visibility and exceptional need for skilled workers, the army allowed ARADCOM a virtually independent enlistment campaign, which by 1962 had evolved into “a proven sales package” enticing thousands of volunteers.23 Its recruiting roots were broad and deep, including committees drawn from local politicians, civic organizations, and teachers. One pamphlet, distributed at high schools and colleges, informed prospects they would “play an important role in the coming Space Age” by joining an organization “equipped with some of the most fantastic weapons that American productive genius can evolve.” Qualified applicants were virtually guaranteed a stateside posting and a “unique and priceless chance to train in electronics and guided missiles—the great career fields of the future.” 24 ARADCOM recruiters were so successful that draftees could be used largely for post maintenance, guard duty, and other unskilled work. The ser vice had less success with another showcase for the volunteer army, the Women’s Army Corps. WAC recruits were more educated and better behaved than male recruits, and they often came with valuable skills. One 1952 survey found 96  percent had finished high school, 20 percent had some college courses, 66 percent were supporting themselves on a salary, and only 12  percent had joined to find work.25 Perhaps because of its elitism, the WAC never reached its authorized limit during peacetime. Although women accounted for almost 50,000 soldiers at the peak of the Korean War, in the following decade WAC enlisted strength averaged about 7,500. During that period, a consistent problem was what one general officer termed “the staggering turnover of WAC personnel.” 26 Every year 40 percent of the enlisted force departed; of that group, 40  percent left due to maternity or marriage and 30 percent for physical disqualification or hardship. Since the army 139

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refused to enlist or retain women who had children—a policy that “upholds the American tradition about the inviolate sanctity of motherhood and the home”—it tried to make the ser vice more attractive for those women who were already soldiers.27 Unfortunately, this generally meant superficial changes, such as new uniforms or better facilities, but not better job opportunities. In 1959 the ser vice restricted Wacs to 125 MOSs—primarily clerical, medical, financial, or communication jobs— despite much evidence that they could perform 278. Even worse, in over half the occupations open to Wacs they had virtually no representation. Sexist commanders with a vacancy in a particular MOS would request a male replacement. The Pentagon’s personnel system, in turn, would deduce that since there were no vacancies for Wacs in a particular MOS, there was no reason to send a Wac to school to acquire it. Thus the cycle continued.28 Some officers worried about the long-term consequences of the Cold War army’s focus on recruiting for education and technical aptitude rather than combat skills. Colonel David W. Hayes recognized it was “an unfortunate fact of life that it is practically impossible to sell the Infantry, Artillery, or Armor to the modern American boy when he can instead learn a trade or skill.” 29 But he worried that the preoccupation with recruiting technicians undermined the army’s primary mission—to fight and win the nation’s wars. His concerns were well merited. In 1963 a survey of first-enlistment Regular personnel found that 70 percent of those assigned to the combat arms came from the two lowest aptitude categories, while 75  percent in electronics came from the two highest.30 The implication was that future wars would be fought by conscripts and marginal enlistees, many recently arrived or soon to depart, while experienced and skilled soldiers remained in stateside administrative and support duties. To most officers, the main problem with the ser vice’s recruitment efforts was that they were insufficient: throughout the 1950s Selective Ser vice provided a large proportion of incoming personnel. The prime architect of the army’s atomic transformation initiative, Chief of Staff Maxwell  D. Taylor, viewed his service’s dependence on induction as a major impediment to his reform program. He argued after one drastic 140

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cut in draft quotas that the service would “actually have an Army 30,000 men stronger” because “we secure real value when we pass from the selectee basis to the professional.”31 Taylor was correct in asserting that Selective Service was both costly and inefficient. In 1957, at a time when a typical draftee private 2nd class (E2) made less than $86 a month, it cost the army $3,300 to process and train each new soldier. One personnel officer estimated that it took four two-year inductees to equal the productivity of one three-year enlistee.32 General Herbert B. Powell bluntly declared the conscripted soldier “one of the most wasteful assets we have now.” Each draftee had to serve a total of 104 weeks, but the army was lucky to get 74 weeks of productive work before having to discharge him and begin the process again with another unskilled recruit. Between induction, processing, basic and occupational training, deployment, and discharge, “one-fourth of the whole Army is in the pipeline all the time.”33 Despite the opposition of much of the army leadership, most citizens accepted the draft as being of both national and individual benefit. As Thomas Doherty has pointed out, “in Cold War America, few areas were as culturally freighted as military ser vice, a patriotic chore that affirmed the citizen’s compliance with the egalitarian ethos.” 34 In the Eisenhower–Kennedy era, the draft card was “a young American’s proof of identity and even of manhood,” and the army was a “nationalizing force, pulling young men out of towns across the land and fitting them in olive drab at camps from Dix to Ord, speeding the desegregation of American life by throwing together boys from Tennessee farms and Chicago’s black ghetto.” 35 Any violation of conscription’s democratic contract risked not only public contempt, but also serious consequences. When the press revealed that inducted crooner Eddie Fisher lived in a swanky apartment while furthering his music career, the ensuing outcry prompted his quick transfer to Korea. Reports of conscripted athletes whose duty consisting mainly of playing for post teams prompted a Senate investigation that ruined some careers. Senator Joseph McCarthy, whose rants about communists in the government attracted a sizable populist constituency, alienated that same constituency when he tried to have a recently drafted aide exempted from military duties. It is no accident 141

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that the military career of the decade’s most famous conscript, Elvis Presley, was noteworthy because he insisted on being treated like a regular GI. His first sergeant recalled, “most of us with lots of years’ experience doubted he would ever see a tank. We based this on seeing other celebrities end up in Special Ser vices [as entertainers] or at some other high headquarters where soldiers did not get too dirty or uncomfortable.” 36 That he did not, but instead chose to remain a simple soldier, transformed Elvis the Pelvis into a national icon: “By submitting to the draft and entering the Army as an ordinary private, Elvis accepted the discipline of an institution that had come to play a vital role in transforming men from assorted backgrounds into soldiers and ‘Americans.’ ” 37 Although every young male was obligated to serve, only a few received greetings from their draft boards. In 1956 the Selective Ser vice Agency classified all those eligible for conscription (Class 1-A) into six groups. By far the greatest number of inductees came from the third group: single nonfathers between nineteen and twenty-six. As Korea faded into memory and the New Look army shrank from 1,592,000 to 873,000, conscription quotas declined from 500,000 to 100,000. Faced with swollen draft classes, Congress expanded exemptions and deferments based on hardship (fathers, parents, sole supporter) and occupation (farmers, defense workers, politicians). By the end of the decade virtually every full-time student was deferred—almost 200,000 in 1958 alone—prompting an interest in education among American males that may have exceeded hotrods and rock-and-roll. As the neighbor of one teenager noted, “His grades have started improving since he became aware of the draft and the comparative desirability of college.” 38 In 1960 LTG Lewis B. Hershey, the head of the Selective Ser vice Agency, acknowledged “today’s youth now gambles many times on the fact that he can get through college before we get him . . . and there is no reason why he can’t.” 39 Hershey admitted his agency’s greatest challenge was to identify those individuals who Congress said could be drafted and the US Army would accept. During the first year of the Korean War mobilization, it declared virtually everyone eligible: one lieutenant remembered a 142

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Recruits receiving uniforms. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

draftee whose right arm was six inches shorter than his left.40 But by the war’s end, the process and the standards had stabilized: of 14,000,000 males registered, 5,000,000 were overage, 2,000,000 were either fathers or veterans, and tens of thousands had occupational exemptions, leaving only 4,000,000 eligible—half of whom were rejected for physical, mental, or moral deficits.41 Over the decade, between exemptions, deferments, and higher induction standards, the draft pool shrank to a puddle. In January 1958 there were almost 20,000,000 males registered for the draft, but of these only 2,100,000 were classified as 1-A. In 1962, of the 9,000,000 registered males between eighteen and twenty-six, 7,000,0000 were ineligible: the 157,517 selected for induction were drawn from a pool estimated at only 350,000.42 One transformative result of Selective Ser vice was that it ensured the US Army was the most racially, regionally, culturally, and educa143

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tionally diverse peacetime force in the nation’s history. Whereas today’s army draws heavily from the former Confederacy, in the 1950s that region had the highest rejection rates for draft-eligible males, led by a stunning 71 percent among South Carolinians. Induction centers judged men from the prairie farm belt as the best military material, with a 78  percent acceptance rate among North Dakotans. Of the 2,409,000 conscripted into the army between 1948 and 1957, the largest numbers were from New York, Pennsylvania, Illinois, California, and Michigan. The US Army was also the nation’s most egalitarian employer, though not always in a positive way. One sociologist concluded the ser vice penalized educated males and benefited the underprivileged. In sarcastic confirmation, a recently discharged draftee commented that “the Army has carried the American democratic ideal to its logical conclusion, in the sense that not only do they prohibit discrimination on the grounds of race, creed, and color, but also on the grounds of ability.” 43 As a War College committee delicately noted, Selective Ser vice produced sufficient manpower, “but the quality of the input leaves much to be desired.” 44 They were referring to the insufficiently educated, technically unskilled, and often behaviorally challenged young men “caught in the draft.” Whether from idealistic efforts to improve the lot of marginalized youth, a racist agenda to protect middle- class white youth, or a desire to remove unemployable males from their districts, for much of the Eisenhower era Congress imposed an acceptance quota of 12 percent of selectees scoring in Category 4. Army officials protested that these were not cost-effective soldiers: in disproportionate numbers they failed training, required extensive supervision, and were discipline problems—they comprised half the population in military prisons— with many discharged before completing their term of ser vice. Yet in 1956 almost one in three enlisted men fell into this category.45 In 1958 Congress, responding to declining manpower quotas and military pressure, allowed the president to defer selection of low-scoring inductees, but it continued to impose arbitrary quotas on Category 4s. Since most young men with high AFQT scores either volunteered to avoid the draft or were deferred, the proportion of marginal Category 144

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4 selectees in the army rose to 35  percent between 1957 and  1960, reaching 42  percent in 1963. Most were assigned an MOS requiring limited training, and a large proportion went to the combat arms.46 Army officers recognized that the army’s reliance on Selective Service was not conducive to esprit de corps. As one general put it, the army had “the biggest employer-employee relationship problem that exists in the United States today, a problem not made easier by the fact that 60% of our employees did not apply for their jobs.” 47 Another officer was more blunt: “The drafted recruit, coming into the Army, comes reluctantly, and his motivation is apt to be poor.” 48 Yet if they grumbled about the quality and morale of the draftees coming in, officers were even more distressed by their temporary status: “by the time they receive a modicum of training, our draftees are gone, and we who stay behind can only hope that the training which they have received will not be forgotten in event of an emergency.” 49 Despite its problems, some officers recognized conscription came with unexpected benefits. Draftee culture might sneer at displays of patriotism and demand incessant “bitching” about the army, but under good officers and noncoms they performed as well or better than their volunteer comrades. Older and more mature, they were less inclined to go AWOL, get drunk, fight, or other wise create problems. Their superior education and preser vice experience made them far more amenable to shifting jobs and adapting to new occupations. A search through the roster might produce a law student to explain the intricacies of the court martial system, a short-order cook to run a field kitchen, a business school graduate to handle the unit’s accounts, or a draftsman who could produce snappy briefing slides. Cartoonist Jules Feiffer avoided many of the rigors of basic combat training by painting helmet liners for the cadre. In his first weeks of ser vice, Larry D. Hill, a college dropout, was in drill formation when the company sergeant inquired if anyone could type. After he raised his hand, the sergeant marched him to the office, showed him the company’s muster forms, and asked if he could fill them out. When he replied in the affirmative, the sergeant pointed at the company clerk and said, “Well, he sure as hell can’t!” 145

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Elvis inspects Jeep. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

Private Hill was assigned a clerk-typist MOS without ever attending the requisite school.50 As one officer cautioned his colleagues, “with the beginning of Selective Ser vice every commander was placed in the vortex of American life.” 51 Another senior officer put it more directly: drafting the nation’s young men made the army subject to incessant scrutiny by citizen “stockholders” and “unpopular with the wives and mothers of the youth of this country.” 52 Magazines such as Life and Saturday Evening Post routinely reported on the tribulations of soldiers, particularly inductees. Parents, and particularly mothers, bombarded post commanders and congressmen with complaints about how badly the army was treating their boys. Many officers viewed this interference with concern: “Momism and all that it implies has been a major obstacle to the recruiting of men for ser vice, and has been the source of much of the discontent with which so many men enter the Army.” 53 Reflecting popular stereotypes, in television’s The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, the eponymous 146

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hero’s mother threatened to clobber the army if it hurt her baby. Yet with no seeming contradiction, many fathers, including Dobie’s, demanded the armed forces turn their lazy, obstinate, selfish teenagers into clean, obedient, physically fit, and responsible men.54 Conscription forced the army to choose between its short-term need to produce disciplined, motivated warriors to charge across radioactive battlefields and its long-term goal of “sending back to civilian life a satisfied customer.” 55 As surveys consistently reported, “former enlisted personnel are not favorably impressed with the Army as a career,” and draftees were the most dissatisfied.56 This was a serious matter since “the strong influence of the views of ex-soldiers on public attitudes towards the Army has been well documented by public opinion surveys. It follows that the development of a favorable attitude toward the Army of personnel in the active ser vice is essential to the creation and maintenance of public goodwill.” 57 The problem was not simply one of public relations. A survey of young males showed that their views on military ser vice were most influenced by family members and friends who had been in uniform. Thus if the army hoped to shift from a draftee and draft-motivated to an all-volunteer force, it needed to convince its soldiers that military experience would benefit them and their friends.58 The 1955 Armed Forces Reserve Act further complicated the army’s manpower difficulties. A response to the problems of Organized Reserve and National Guard units in the Korean War, the Act’s intent was to create a large reserve force that could be quickly mobilized and deployed in the event of an emergency. Known as “6s and 7s,” men who volunteered for the program served only six months on active duty, most of it in basic and advanced training. They were then obligated for seven and a half years in the reserves, most of that time in the Ready Reserves, which would be recalled first to active duty in the event of national mobilization. To maintain their individual and unit effectiveness, reservists were required to participate either in a one-month active duty assignment or forty-eight weekend drills plus a two-week summer camp. Those who shirked reserve duties went to the top of the draft list, a provision that critics likened to being on parole from a penal 147

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institution. Optimists claimed the Act would produce a Ready Reserve of some 1,700,000 by 1960, including over 1,000,000  in combat units and 430,000 replacements. According to Taylor, for the first time the United States would have a trained force ready for immediate duty in the event of mobilization for war.59 Reaction to the Reserve Forces Act among young males was at first lukewarm. As one study concluded, after watching the reserve call-up during the Korean War there were few men willing to risk most of a decade “at the beck and call of the Army under the prospect of a continuing state of cold war.” 60 But this soon changed as intelligent young men, feeling “the hot breath of the draft,” recognized in the reserves a chance to finish school and start their careers, with little chance of active duty.61 By 1957, one correspondent reported, the program was “a roaring success . . . thousands are signing up for the short hitch.”62 However, the rapid increase in the Ready Reserve’s size was not matched by greater military effectiveness. One War College committee estimated that most reserve units were 60 percent understrength, and that between 15 and 30 percent of the rest would be found unfit if called up.63 If the Reserve Forces Act did not dramatically improve the reserves, it may have seriously hurt the army’s efforts to attract high-quality volunteers. So many middle-class youths went into the reserves that some career soldiers dismissed the Act as little more than a scheme to keep the nation’s elites out of combat. Within a year of its passage, Regular Army recruiters blamed a 50 percent decline in enlistments on competition from the reserves. In fiscal year 1958, of the 300,000 recruits who completed basic combat training, only 75,000 had Regular Army contracts; the rest were either six-month reservists (90,000) or inductees (115,000).64 President Eisenhower, who in 1955 had supported the Act as both militarily effective and cost-efficient, soon tried to slash reserve manpower on the grounds the nation was spending a billion dollars on forces of dubious military value. In effect, the six-month reserves made the active or “real” army even more dependent on the draft. Army planners recognized the best way to improve the quality of their enlisted personnel was to convince the majority to make the service a career. But this proved impossible. The number of experienced 148

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soldiers leaving the ser vice rose during the Korean War; by 1952 there was a 40 percent shortfall in the three senior enlisted grades (E5 to E7) throughout Europe. But to the ser vice’s shock, when the war ended the exodus increased. In February 1954 the Department of the Army warned division commanders that “the reenlistment rate has fallen off to an alarming degree.” Many units had barely half their complement of noncommissioned officers, and the army was in danger of losing its “solid hard core of seasoned, capable Regular Army enlisted men.” 65 Between July 1954 and June 1955, 400,000 of 550,000 Regular personnel eligible for reenlistment left the ser vice. If anything, the next fiscal year was worse. Between July 1955 and June 1956, 460,000 experienced soldiers left the army as 376,000 new ones joined, prompting Taylor to ask one business audience to “just imagine the effect upon your own enterprises if you were forced to turn over almost half of your personnel in one year, and to do that every year.” 66 As Eisenhower’s Defense Advisory Committee discovered, “the military manpower dilemma” was not one of quantity, but quality.67 The armed forces could meet their manpower goals through conscription, or the threat of it, but they could not retain their specialists. Reenlistment rates in such key positions as radar technician, aircraft maintenance, and communications were so low that there was an almost 100 percent turnover every three years. General Booth summed up just a few of the army’s specific retention problems in 1957. Although the ser vice boasted of an overall reenlistment rate of 43  percent, it was taking unsupportable losses among its elite workers. It needed 33 percent of electronics technicians to reenlist but the current rate was barely 13. It needed 28 percent of its ground combat leaders to rejoin, and the current rate was 18. Who pushed up the reenlistment rate? Soldiers in occupations requiring little education or advanced training—meat cutters, drivers, cooks, assistant mechanics—whose ser vice benefits were greater than in comparable civilian occupations.68 The conscripts’ two-year obligation and the low retention rates for first-term Regulars created a transitory army. Every year tens of thousands of replacements had to be trained and transported to replace the equally large number returned for discharge. In 1954 a career soldier 149

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might be stateside for only six months between foreign tours, and some units reported a 70  percent personnel turnover. A decade later, over a million soldiers transferred to a new permanent station in a single year, and millions were reassigned on temporary duty.69 The experience of the 25th Infantry Division, stationed at Schofield Barracks, Territory of Hawaii, illustrates the extent of this personnel turbulence. On 30 September 1954, the 25th had only 108 of its authorized 882 officers and 12,314 of its 13,625 soldiers. Through 1955 the division remained at least 1,000 understrength; another 3,000 to 4,000 soldiers on its rolls were “ghosts” in the process of transferring in or out. In a not aty pical six-month period in 1958, the 25th grew from 12,338 to 13,351, but in the intervening months shrank to 8,913. As the commander admitted, it was almost impossible to train in these circumstances, and the division was doing little more than “garrison-type duty.” 70 For some officers, the solution to both short-term and long-term personnel problems was to scrap the individual replacement policy. For most of the Regular Army’s existence soldiers had spent their entire careers—from recruit to retirement—in the same regiment, and often in the same company. When their enlistments expired, they often reenlisted for the same position they had just vacated. Their “outfit” provided a surrogate family with traditions and a shared collective memory of heroism and sacrifice. A recruit did not so much join the US Army as be adopted into a regimental family with distinct traditions and culture. To civilians he might be a soldier, but to himself and his comrades, he was a “Wolfhound” of the 27th Infantry, or a “Gimlet” of the 21st, or a “Manchu” of the 9th Infantry, whose dying colonel had charged all who came after to “Keep Up the Fire.” When the regiment moved to a new post, it was akin to a traveling circus, bringing not just its troops, but records, mascots, ceremonial silverware, library, and other paraphernalia—all of which maintained the sense of a military community. But in World War II the army shifted to an individual training and replacement system that provided millions of adequately trained soldiers in wartime, but at a significant cost to both personal and unit identity in peacetime.71 150

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By the end of the Korean War, a substantial body of opinion denounced the individual replacement system as destructive to morale, cohesion, and combat effectiveness. A summary of one tactical nuclear warfare exercise concluded, “The use of atomic weapons makes the present system of individual replacements inadequate and the unit replacement system will probably be required.” 72 A 1954 report to Chief of Staff Matthew B. Ridgway declared that the individual replacement system “has the effect of reducing the individual soldier to the same status as a piece of equipment which is moved from place to place according to his MOS whenever a blank file exists.” In peacetime it was inefficient, prone to abuse, and inhibited both recruitment and retention, thus perpetuating the army’s “rapid turnover of personnel because of the necessity to maintain a large portion of its strength through Selective Ser vice.” In combat, it was disastrous, and a primary factor in the “general decline of discipline and the production of qualified leaders. The conduct of our prisoners of war in Korea provides an example of this condition.”73 It was also clear that the individual replacement system was antithetical to the creation of a volunteer army. Poll after poll of exiting officers and enlisted personnel confirmed LTG John Dahlquist’s conclusion that the army’s “increasing inability to attract and hold high caliber personnel for longer periods of active ser vice” stemmed from “the instability of assignments and too frequent overseas tenure.” 74 As Dahlquist acknowledged, many Regulars had either been at war or had been recovering from war for years, suffering insufficient pay, decrepit quarters, repeated deployments, and myriad other hardships; now they were asking, “Am I going to have to live like this forever?” 75 After 1941, no career soldier, nor his family, could know where the next year might take them. They migrated from post to post, never secure enough to buy a house, plan their children’s education, or put down roots in the community. This evidence bolstered Ridgway’s contention that returning to unit training and replacement was critical. The Chief was Old Army in believing that each soldier’s identification with his regiment was essential 151

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to the ser vice’s collective martial ethos. Like many officers, he was convinced that individual training and replacement created mediocre organizations, each a mélange of new arrivals, experienced troops, and short-timers preparing to rotate out. Unit rotation—the entire personnel of regiments or divisions rotating between fi xed overseas and stateside posts throughout their careers—would ensure identical levels of training and organizational stability. It would also allow career soldiers and their families to plan for the future, join churches, attend their children’s school activities, and other wise participate in civic life. Ridgway recognized that career soldiers would have more incentive for selfimprovement if an increase in rank or a new assignment did not require immediate transfer away from comrades. And, although he did not articulate this, Ridgway may have believed that a system in which black and white soldiers trained, lived, and deployed together from the very beginning would accelerate racial integration. But if Ridgway advocated unit rotation as a return to the US Army’s traditional regimental culture, it was nonetheless a transformative policy. He proposed to replace a system which for well over a decade had treated soldiers as interchangeable parts with one that would balance individual needs— career, family, and social—alongside those of the institution. The army’s experiment with unit rotation, dubbed Gyroscope, called for overseas divisions and regiments to swap places with stateside counter parts on a three-year cycle. After almost a year of preparation, on 1 July 1955, the 1st Infantry Division, stationed in Germany for over a decade, exchanged with the 10th Infantry Division at Fort Riley, Kansas, with the promise of a reverse swap in three years. Initial reports proclaimed it an instant success, with the 10th’s public relations officer reporting “amazing esprit de corps and enthusiasm. . . . I have never experienced anything like it. I think the Army has something good.” 76 A commander in another gyroscoping division found his career soldiers, on their own initiative, volunteering for the usually unpopular duty of recruit training and writing detailed instructions to help the incoming unit. One participating officer enthused that while individual replacement centers treated recruits “as a veritable cog in a machine,” under Gyroscope “a man was received at his company, equipped, housed, fed, 152

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clothed, and trained by the officers and non-commissioned officers of his company. He received personal attention from his instructors, who were his own company personnel,” with the result that from his arrival “each man had a sense of belonging” to his unit and a personal relationship with his comrades, his sergeants, and his officers.77 Gyroscope units not only received new equipment; they were intended to have better personnel. Robert Elton, who had recently joined the 11th Airborne Division as it prepared to gyroscope to Germany, recalled that one of the first signs of improvement was a general purge of malcontents, misfits, and criminals. The new trainees were far more amenable to discipline, and he and his fellow instructors, knowing they might lead these same soldiers in combat, worked twenty-hour days to prepare them. By the time officers and soldiers rotated back, “they all knew their stuff, they could all do every thing. They could all handle the vehicles, the radios, the weapons—they could do anything. If you can imagine, almost all of them were mechanics, all were machine gunners, all of them were radio men, and they could maintain these things because they have done it, and done it, and done it.” 78 But despite its many advantages in terms of morale and effectiveness, Gyroscope could not overcome the cumulative institutional effects of New Look personnel cuts and the lack of sustained support from the Department of the Army. Between 1955 and 1958, as the army was reduced by 210,000, the European contingents suffered only a 28,000-person cut. The forces in the continental United States (CONUS) were further stretched in 1957 with the creation of the Strategic Army Corps (STRAC). One of Taylor’s initiatives to make the army more relevant, STRAC committed the ser vice to maintaining four combat-ready divisions in CONUS for rapid deployment overseas. The results were immediate. By 1958 there were simply not enough stateside divisions to rotate with those in Germany. Taylor’s simultaneous imposition of the pentomic organization created another layer of complexity because the divisions sent overseas were not only smaller, but had very different logistic, housing, and equipment requirements. Gyroscope also failed to provide assignment stability for younger enlisted personnel. Its three-year deployment schedule conflicted with 153

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the two-year draftee obligation, forcing the army to a mixed rotation system. Elvis, for example, trained with the 2nd Armored Division as part of an individual replacement package intended for the 3rd Armored Division in Germany. Within three years of its implementation the division rotation policy ended, and after a brief effort to rotate battalions and battle groups, unit rotation was canceled in 1959. Although soldiers liked Gyroscope, it did not improve either retention or behavior. In a not aty pical example, the 5th Infantry Division had 1,094 courts martial from March to October in 1955; its replacement, the 11th Airborne, had 3,527 in the same period a year later. The German press, recently freed from many occupation-era restrictions, excelled in sensational exposés of thuggish or criminal GI behavior. The most infamous incident, the gang-rape of a fifteen-year-old German girl by seven African-American soldiers of the newly arrived 10th Infantry Division, aroused international condemnation and even campaigns in Germany and the United States to have black troops withdrawn. This crime became the basis of a best-selling novel and later the movie Town Without Pity.79 Gyroscope failed to provide long-service Regulars with the stability and benefits the army had promised. Indeed, the army began breaking those promises almost immediately. The returning 1st Infantry’s Division’s publicity pictures of military families at Fort Riley, Kansas, could not hide the sorry state of their “new” quarters, which were cramped, poorly furnished, and old. Unmarried soldiers in the 10th Infantry Division found much to like in their accommodations in Germany. But married career soldiers, who had been promised a stable family life, were told at the last minute that dependent housing was in such short supply that they must either transfer out or leave their families in the states. Even worse, the army soon reneged on its commitment to assign each Gyroscope division a permanent stateside station and to keep soldiers with their units. No sooner had the 10th arrived in Germany than the army announced it would not return to Fort Riley. When gyroscoping divisions began rotating back to the United States, staff officers on both sides of the Atlantic reassigned their troops to other units. One officer remembered that by the time the 4th Infantry Division transferred to 154

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Fort Lewis, Washington, it had been “completely wrecked” by such raids and “left with nothing.” In one of the barracks in Germany he found “an incredible pile of filth” topped with a combat boot squarely in the middle, a graphic symbol of what the soldiers thought of their treatment by the US Army.80 From the perspective of the Pentagon, Gyroscope was inefficient and expensive. Barksdale Hamlett, who commanded a Gyroscope division overseas and was later Vice Chief of Staff, concluded that whatever its benefits to the overseas forces, it “ruined” CONUS organizations: “We just didn’t have anything left over here.” 81 Melvin Zais, who served in both Germany and the Pentagon during the experiment, remembered, “The requisitioning system for enlisted men went to hell, and the replacement system was inefficient and couldn’t respond. Likewise, the officer replacement system couldn’t respond. It was a mess!” 82 William C. Westmoreland maintained that unit rotation disrupted the orderly progression of career personnel through schools, promotion, and assignments.83 Ironically, Westmoreland’s support for the individual replacement system during his tenure as commander in Vietnam would later be cited as contributing to the army’s personnel and morale problems. In retrospect, Gyroscope’s failure may have been almost as significant as that of the pentomic division, but for very different reasons. Pentomic reorganization was supposed to cement the army’s claim to relevance in the Cold War, justified billions of dollars for new equipment, and rebranded the ser vice as an atomic-age organization. However faith-based its conception and rhetoric, Taylor and its supporters rationalized the pentomic reorganization as the epitome of effective military management—flexible, mobile, and hard-hitting, with no excess fat in its headquarters, personnel, or equipment. But it also treated individual soldiers and officers as specialist labor to be slotted into assignments for a specified term, pulled out, retrained, and inserted into another slot at the ser vice’s convenience. This disregard for personal identification with a team can be seen in Taylor’s abolition of the regiment, the core of Regular Army internal culture for over a hundred years, on the grounds it was inefficient. In contrast, Gyroscope aimed at 155

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such intangibles as restoring martial culture, unit and institutional pride, and family stability. But with externally imposed budget cuts and internally imposed efficiencies, the Pentagon had to choose between a personnel system that served its atomic transformation agenda and bureaucratic needs and one that, at least in theory, addressed the needs of the individual soldier. Given that choice, Gyroscope’s demise was preordained. One of the reasons the Pentagon was willing to dispense with Gyroscope was the conviction that morale, recruitment, and retention were so improved that the army could finally select only the best of the annual conscript class. It was a classic case of an institution fooling itself with its own data. One example was Taylor’s April 1956 boast that the proportion of volunteers in the enlisted force now totaled 60  percent and that in the last four years Regular Army reenlistments had jumped from 17 percent to 59 percent—“an extremely encouraging figure. It is so good I worry a little about it.” 84 As with many such claims, much depended on putting the best possible spin on the evidence. Most of the “volunteers” that Taylor counted were those who had enlisted for the sixmonth active duty reserve program and not those seeking a career in the ser vice. In extolling the 20  percent increase in the proportion of Regulars to draftees, Taylor left out the unpleasant truth that the army had been cut by 400,000 personnel, prompting reduced draft quotas and a consequent increase in the proportion of Regulars. Similarly, Taylor’s reference to the “59  percent reenlistment rate” omitted a decline of 15  percent since July 1954. He also failed to mention that current high reenlistment rates owed much to a temporary bonus and the coincidence that a disproportionate number of WWII veterans had signed up for a final hitch to complete their twenty years’ ser vice before retirement. Ominously, reenlistment rates among those finishing their first term of ser vice were in a tailspin; four months after Taylor’s speech they were barely 16 percent.85 A far more accurate assessment of both the recruitment and retention problems was delivered in 1959 by COL William S. McElhenny. He cited recent estimates that in the last two years the turnover among technical specialists and junior officers had averaged 85  percent. Over 156

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the last five years the army had purged most of its low-performing enlisted personnel, and admission standards were higher. This was the good news. The dilemma was that “a large proportion of the men in our army today measure up to the present high standards, but just about the time they are well-trained and have acquired a real value to the Army, they return to civilian life.” McElhenny listed a number of familiar reasons for soldiers leaving the ser vice: bureaucracy, inadequate pay, improper use of personnel, malassignment, micromanagement, poor housing, and myriad competing agencies whose paralyzed decision making created so much “red tape” it was “as laborious to requisition a flash-light battery as a bulldozer.” 86 It was clear, both inside the ser vice and out, that army morale was bad, with neither soldiers nor officers feeling much loyalty to the organization, and having little interest in remaining. As McElhenny recognized, the problem was less one of quantity than quality. The entry-level GI, whether conscript or volunteer, could be quickly trained to perform basic combat arms or support duties. But the army’s career program and the demands of modern warfare offered only limited slots for manual laborers. The average volunteer was still in his teens, unskilled, and until late in the decade often lacking a high school education. What one report termed their “fringe aptitude in terms of course prerequisites” disqualified them for advanced technical training until they could be educated sufficiently to understand the material.87 Moreover, their first tour reenlistment rate never approached the 40  percent that the US Army considered essential to maintain a steady influx of experienced, qualified young noncoms for technical and leadership positions. The selectees’ superior education, maturity, and technical experience made them far more attractive. But they proved the most resistant to the lure of a military career. From fiscal years 1955 to 1959 draftee reenlistment rates hovered between 3 and 5 percent. One officer noted that the intelligent conscripts the army most wanted to keep “are from a higher social or occupational standard than the everyday routine of the soldier. They feel that certain drudging duties are beneath them, and they can’t see the appeal of a Regular career when these jobs go with it.” 88 Another admitted that “in general, nothing we 157

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have provided in the way of bonuses, increased pay and other inducements seems to increase the small numbers of draftees who decide that the Army is attractive as a career.” 89 The relatively small number of first-term soldiers who did reenlist joined the Regular Army’s noncommissioned officer corps. In the pre– World War II army the “lifetime private” was the most common career soldier, a private first class (E3) was a comparative rarity, and the majority of noncommissioned officers were at the bottom grades of corporal (E4) and sergeant (E5). But following World War II the army determined that only soldiers who could be promoted to a noncommissioned grade would be retained. The number, proportion, and ranks of NCOs steadily increased so that by 1956 two-thirds of all Regular career enlisted men were noncoms. The army abolished the permanent rank of private (E1) and applied it only to those in basic combat training. Upon completion, they were automatically made private 2nd class (E2) and most were promoted to E3 or Specialist 3 (Sp3) within two years. Some exceptional first-tour soldiers were promoted to corporal, and Elvis made sergeant (E5). But for most, promotion to NCO status required reenlistment. With each additional reenlistment, a soldier usually received a bonus and a choice of assignment or an opportunity to qualify for a new occupational specialty. If he was very good, he climbed the enlisted grades from corporal to sergeant, and from there to the elevated senior grades: staff sergeant (E6), sergeant first class (E7), master sergeant or first sergeant (E8), and sergeant major (E9), the latter two a mid-fifties innovation. The ser vice also encouraged senior sergeants to marry and gradually extended travel and housing benefits to dependents on overseas tours, though far too slowly and meanly to satisfy most. Like most blue-collar occupations, the fifties noncommissioned officer corps was divided between long-service, experienced craftsmen and those in the process of mastering the soldier’s trade. The former, comprised of noncoms who had fulfilled at least two enlistment contracts, were overwhelmingly career soldiers. Between 1956 and 1962, 80 to 90 percent of them reenlisted. The best had extensive experience, impressive leadership skills, and an encyclopedic knowledge of the soldier’s trade. But, like their prewar counterparts, these craftsmen served 158

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alongside other noncoms who were poorly educated, brutal, unimaginative, and resistant to change. They knew the army and each other, and they didn’t need any college “whaz ass,” whether officer or soldier, challenging their authority.90 Some had a hard time adjusting to the draftee army and to soldiers who were not only better educated but who expected explanations rather than orders. “If I could have a good man-to-man talk once in a while with the sergeant,” one soldier in the 101st Airborne complained, “I would feel much more like a man rather than a tiny part of a huge machine and I would respect him a great deal more than if he barked insensible orders at me.” 91 The goal of what one committee termed “the elimination of the autocratic old first sergeant” became more important as the army considered how to implement the dispersed, independent, small-unit operations it anticipated on the atomic battlefield.92 The high retention rate among senior noncommissioned officers was a mixed blessing. The Korean War and the virtual tripling of enlisted manpower brought in tens of thousands of soldiers promoted to fill leadership and technical vacancies with minimal on-the-job-training. Whereas it might have taken a pre–World War II soldier two decades to rise from private to sergeant first class, during the Korean War some men did it in less than four years. Many of these wartime promotions went to men who lacked the education or aptitude for careers in the peacetime ser vice. The army estimated that the majority could be brought up to this educational standard with extra schooling, but many were unable or unwilling to do this. As late as 1957 more than 40,000 noncoms—nearly one out of four—tested in Category 4, including 10 percent in the highest NCO grades. Indeed, half the Category 4s in the US Army wore a noncom’s stripes. Not surprisingly, there were numerous complaints about the low caliber of the career enlisted force. A 1955 survey of Regular Army officers revealed that 36  percent rated their noncommissioned officers as “grossly inadequate” or “very poor,” 60  percent as “good but not good enough,” and only 20  percent found their NCOs acceptable. These officers also believed that 65 percent of their soldiers and  71  percent of their colleagues had insufficient or very little respect for their NCOs.93 159

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The Korean War produced not only a surfeit of minimally qualified sergeants, but also serious imbalances throughout the noncommissioned officer corps. One such imbalance was age. In 1957 over half the senior NCOs had at least twelve years of ser vice. Most of the WWII generation would reach retirement age in five to eight years. But there was a paucity of qualified, experienced junior sergeants to replace them. Another imbalance was in opportunity for advancement. As the army’s personnel chief acknowledged, “the feeling exists among our enlisted ranks that promotions are given out in relation to only local evaluations and the happenstance of being assigned to a unit at a time when it develops a vacancy or gets an additional grade quota.” 94 A final disparity was in assignments. In 1955, Army Far East Command had only 40  percent of the sergeants required for its infantry units, but far too many in its support units. That same year, the Armored School had almost twice as many E7s as authorized, but barely half the E5s. In 1956 the combat arms were understrength by 25  percent in the top three grades, while the administrative ser vices had a 25  percent surplus.95 Indicative of this army-wide problem, the commanding general of the 101st Airborne Division warned that he was critically short of squad leaders, lacking 2,617 corporals and 849 sergeants. Even worse, the division’s top noncoms were transferring out. They recognized the toll that “rugged, strenuous, and unrelenting airborne duty” was exacting on their bodies, and they knew that as long as they remained in the 101st they could not secure a “desk job.” 96 With sluggards and incompetents clogging up the senior enlisted ranks, the army could not promote younger, better-educated soldiers, compounding its already critical retention problems. The solution was, in one personnel officer’s brutal terms, “to cull out enough marginals.” 97 In the mid-1950s the ser vice began bringing all its “Profile Three” (physically unqualified) and Category 4 (mentally deficient) noncoms before retention boards. Commanders instructed these boards “to be ruthless in the application of our demands that the individual be competent in the grade that matches the stripes he wears” because “as long as the mediocre performance is our standard we will be stuck with this excess.” 98 The results were draconian indeed. The ser vice stripped over 160

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5,000 technicians of their noncommissioned officer status and titled them as specialists, with limited authority, promotion opportunities, and privileges. The results of this housecleaning were stunning. Of the 41,500  noncommissioned officers who were classified as Category 4, 31,700 were discharged. In 1955 there had been over 27,000 sergeants in the top three enlisted grades. Eighteen months later, 16,000 had been retrained, demoted, or reclassified; some 11,000 were scheduled for separation.99 Those who survived this winnowing benefited in many ways. In 1958 Congress not only authorized a pay raise, but also allowed the army to create two higher grades. Over the course of the next four years the army promoted over 14,000 noncoms to these top ranks, unblocking the careers of thousands more in the lower grades. The ser vice also established more lenient rules for temporary promotion, while ensuring soldiers did not retain their new rank if they proved inept. It improved the enlisted career management system by tracking command experience and MOS qualifications to ensure more stable and fair promotion. It increased reenlistment bonuses and improved travel, health, and housing benefits for noncoms and their dependents. The army also encouraged those who could improve themselves to do so. Many veterans benefited from the educational program, finding they now qualified for technical training, promotion, and higher pay. One, recently promoted to master sergeant, told his commander: “This school business is great. I only wish someone had written that regulation before. I just didn’t know what I was missing.”100 One of the most successful initiatives was the construction or renovation of the NCO Clubs, which were soon recognized as the best place to eat, drink, dance, and entertain on many posts. The clubs’ exclusivity enhanced the prestige of the noncoms and provided a potent incentive for reenlistment. Clubs were especially important overseas, where high costs and limited housing often prevented enlisted men from bringing their families. In Korea, where every post boasted a sizable “ville” of bars and brothels outside the gate, keeping noncoms on post to supervise their soldiers was a top priority. One officer recalled how his senior sergeant created a club in the back of an unused shed and stocked it 161

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with liquor from the PX: “I’ll be damned, 6 months later, every one of them were out of the ville. They weren’t down there whoring around. They were in that little shed playing cards, or talking about what was going on in training the next day, and looking after their soldiers . . . before he got that going, we had sergeants who would just take their whole paychecks, take it down there, and throw it away.” 101 The relationship between the noncommissioned officer foremen and their officer managers was complicated. In theory, even the most junior second lieutenant could give an order to a fifteen-year first sergeant. But in practice, their superiors told new officers to keep their mouths shut, their ears open, and follow their noncoms’ example. As one rookie officer recalled, “the sergeants were masters at indirection, yet they pumped it into you.”102 Richard Thompson remembered how his chief master sergeant would guide him: this soldier needed to be congratulated for having a baby; another commiserated with for receiving a Dear John letter; for a third, “Walk on, sir, I will take care of this soldier.” Although he sometimes felt like an “organ grinder’s monkey,” he recognized the sergeant “was the heart and soul of the battalion.” 103 At times, the officer–NCO relationship frayed. Sergeants had ample means to undermine officers they viewed as capricious or incompetent, ranging from passive aggression to open resistance. A soldier stationed at a Hawk missile battery recalled that both his mess sergeant and his supply sergeant had service-wide reputations for excellence. The mess sergeant would make meals from scratch and serve them on china, and woe betide the cook who did not come up to his standards. The supply sergeant kept track of hundreds of items and could always find spare parts or needed equipment. In recognition of their expertise, during the battery’s muster they were accorded the privilege of standing at attention in front of the mess or supply room door and answering present when their names were called. Then a newly commissioned West Pointer arrived and decided that everyone would now be in formation for muster. The two sergeants made no visible protest. Instead, they insisted on following every army regulation. The mess sergeant put out all the cooking fires; the supply sergeant insisted on registering and locking up each weapon. After it was over, they repeated the entire 162

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process. The battery, supposedly on twenty-four-hour readiness, essentially shut down for hours. At the next muster, the sergeants stood at attention—at their doors.104 The noncoms’ relationship with the lower enlisted ranks was more problematic, given that the sergeant was responsible for assigning and overseeing training and work details. It was an army adage that “soldiers take orders from NCOs—they don’t like to take orders from officers.” 105 As such, noncoms were a prime target for complaints. Yet many were admired, respected, and even liked by their soldiers. Master Sergeant Ira Jones served as a mentor to Elvis, protecting him from fans and hecklers, providing a sympathetic ear to the often-anxious young man, and helping him make anonymous gifts to fellow troopers. At the same time, he inculcated in Presley a strong desire to excel as a soldier. Master Sergeant Richard Artesani ran a mess hall that his soldiers proudly called “The Tanker’s Inn,” which not only served excellent food but also served as a social club. Any tanker returning from a pass or standing guard could be sure of sandwiches and coffee, and a hard-up soldier could usually secure a small loan to tide him over to payday. Perhaps recognizing that many of the soldiers felt lonely and isolated, Artesani involved them in community projects such as supporting orphanages.106 Throughout the Cold War the army wrestled with an essential personnel conundrum: how to balance skills against numbers. The ser vice recognized that its transformation into the atomic age depended on experienced workers and supervisors. It also recognized it could not compete with most civilian businesses, and therefore had to grow its own talent, and then retain it. But its dependence on Selective Service militated against attracting—and certainly against keeping—such talent. In no year during these approximately two decades did the army secure sufficient enlistments to dispense with conscript reinforcements. Although increasing exemptions and deferments guaranteed their overall quality would decline, selectees remained essential, and even provided a disproportionate number of highly educated and skilled personnel, albeit for limited times. Draftee or volunteer, this sizable collective of young males was the people’s army, and not always with good results. 163

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Regulars could justly claim that interference from mothers and politicians, inadequate facilities, and excessive workloads undermined their efforts to prepare soldiers for war. After Korea, the army’s problem was not getting young men, even Elvis Presley, into uniform, or making them good soldiers. It was persuading them, or people like them, to reenlist. For those who did remain in uniform as members of the noncommissioned officer corps, the decade saw much improvement, but also much trauma. Many who had intended to make the ser vice a career were forced out, and the remainder had to meet much higher standards while dealing with the challenges of draftees and inexperienced young officers. The combined manpower and career dilemma was never solved in either enlisted or officer ranks, and it would hamstring the ser vice’s ability to transform itself both for atomic war and in preparation for Vietnam.

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6

THE OFFICER CORPS’S GENERATION GAP

In 1955 Collier’s magazine published journalist Bill Mauldin’s report on one of fifties America’s great obsessions—the nation’s teenagers. The creator of World War II’s iconic GIs, Willie and Joe, found few juvenile delinquents or momma’s boys, but he was struck by how even the prospect of military ser vice shaped male youth culture. Although they accepted a stint in the armed forces as an obligation, the nation’s teenagers were skeptical, even cynical warriors. Facing the likelihood of being drafted, his neighbor’s son suddenly developed a strong interest in college. Two future army officers rationalized their choice of ser vice on the grounds that “all the good desk jobs” in the US Air Force were taken. Allan Markham, a Reserves Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) cadet, outlined his plans to commission into the Quartermaster’s Corps in the event of war. When Mauldin asked whether such a low-prestige, rearechelon post was a wise career choice, Markham responded, “Naw, but it’s safe.” Then, in what may have been one of the most insightful commentaries on his generation’s attitude toward military ser vice, Markham explained: “You World War II guys are already full of malarkey after only ten years. But when you first got back, boy, you had some good, fresh advice for your little brothers who were about nine or ten— a pretty impressionable age and just old enough to understand what you were talking about.” His own brother’s first words on returning were, “ ‘stay outta’ the Infantry.’ . . . You ought to hear him now . . . the war was the greatest experience of his life, and the Infantry was nothing but 165

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a big, happy mob of congenial characters. Personally, I’m remembering what he said earlier.” 1 A few months later, MG Edward J. McGaw gave a far different perspective on the martial culture of young officers. The commanding general of the 1st Cavalry Division was deeply disturbed by what he perceived as “a trend towards conduct which would never have been tolerated in the Old Army.” The general cited several recent examples of bad leadership in his division: a drunken NCO’s rampage in a local village, a soldier forced to run for miles behind his commander’s car, another soldier bullied into suicide. But one incident in par ticular aroused his wrath: a young officer, court martialed for adultery with his host’s wife, had been let off with a small fine. To McGaw, it was as if the sturdy fabric of traditions and mores enfolding the profession of arms for over a century had suddenly unraveled. What could one do with officers incapable of understanding that “it has always been an unwritten law of the ser vice that bachelors did their extracurricular love making, if any, at least three miles from the flag pole. Your wife, your daughters, your house guests were safe within these limits.” 2 The differing perspectives of Markham and McGaw are evidence of a generational fissure within the Cold War US Army’s officer corps as great as any divisions by grade, race, region, education, or draftee versus Regular status within the enlisted ranks. The differences were not just age and rank, but culture and attitude, and they split the army’s officer corps into three distinct groups. McGaw was a product of the prewar Depression-era generation, a West Pointer and career Regular of the type still dominating the flag rank (general) and senior field grades (lieutenant colonel, colonel). Proud guardians of Old Army traditions and customs, they held that “the Officer Corps is the Army’s greatest asset. . . . While there is nothing particularly glamorous about the Army as a whole, the valor and integrity and selfless dedication to duty of its officers more than compensates for this superficial deficiency.” 3 Slightly behind them was the generation commissioned during World War II, clustered at the junior field grade (major) and senior company (captain) ranks. Many were reservists on extended active duty; they had extensive practical, if specialized, experience, but often lacked 166

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sufficient military education or managerial training. The army’s efforts to complete their professional schooling, sort them into specialties, and weed out the incompetent— halted by the Korean War— would continue for the rest of the decade. Then there was Markham’s group, the postwar junior officers (second and first lieutenants), most of whom were fulfilling their two-year national ser vice obligation as officers rather than as draftees, and who looked on the army as a short-term employer, and not their first choice at that. Although young males respected army officers—ranking them equivalent to college professors in prestige—they viewed a military career as poorly paid, disruptive to family life, and often boring. One prewar Regular noted that whereas his generation had wanted to spend their lives in ser vice, the 1950s officer asked of the army: “What’s in it for me?” 4 For over a century, the US Army officer corps had enjoyed long, relatively uneventful postwar interludes to assimilate its new members both professionally and culturally. Young officers had learned their profession by imitating those they admired, and seniors mentored them, instilled traditions and standards, and helped direct their advancement. But in World War II this apprentice system broke down as hundreds of thousands of new officers joined the ser vice, mostly as second lieutenants. The army’s postwar analysis, augmented by the somewhat controversial research of S. L. A. Marshall, revealed that many of these junior officers were ineffective, and their shortcomings contributed to military ineffectiveness.5 During the Cold War the pace of change— demobilization, the legislation establishing a career path, Korea and the buildup, conscription, overseas deployments, and so forth—made slow acculturation impossible. Like enlisted personnel, the officer became a transient, moving from assignment to assignment every two or three years. This transition occurred just when the US Army embraced a doctrine of limited atomic war that placed unprecedented demands on both senior and junior officers. “The nuclear weapon has antiquated war as we know it and by its tremendous destructive power has forced upon us drastic changes in the basic concepts of combat,” wrote one captain. “After the flash, heat, blast and radiation has passed, the unit must be guided by a strong, 167

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unwavering, sympathetic hand towards the continuance of accomplishing the mission.” 6 This was not mere theoretical speculation: by the end of the decade the ser vice assigned junior officers barely out of college responsibility for tactical nuclear warheads. Recognizing that the large size of the postwar army precluded the revival of the traditional mentor–apprentice system, the US Army produced a doctrine for officers, summarized in 1951’s Field Manual 22-10: Leadership. The manual opened with the declaration: “With the increase in the complexity of warfare, the science of war is increasingly dependent on human guidance.”7 The leader’s objective was to direct an organization to accomplish its mission efficiently, dutifully, and readily. Explicit in the manual, and in contemporary army posters and other media, was a contract: if a young officer mastered the army’s techniques of leadership, the ser vice would guarantee him responsibility and the freedom to command. The army’s new emphasis on leadership was at odds with the bureaucratic promotion process established in the 1947 Officer Personnel Act. This legislation, passed partly to stanch the Regular Army officer corps’s hemorrhaging, provided benefits equivalent to the civilian sector, the greatest of which was the million-dollar retirement package after twenty years. But when the Korean War broke out the officer corps doubled—by mid-1952 there were 148,427 officers on active duty—and maintaining a large peacetime army in the 1950s required far more active duty officers than the 1947 legislation had envisioned. In an equally momentous and unanticipated development, as the army’s enlisted personnel morphed from volunteers to draftees, so too did its officer corps became short ser vice: a mixture of reservists called back to active duty and recently commissioned ROTC graduates. President Eisenhower’s New Look brought eight years of reductions in force (RIFs). In the five years after the Korean armistice the number of officers declined by 37,000. By 1959 active duty officers numbered only 101,600—still almost a third more than the 1947 Act had anticipated. President Kennedy imposed stricter retirement standards on senior officers, purging many pre–World War II veterans and bringing in younger officers he viewed as more dynamic—the men who would lead 168

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the army into Vietnam. He also initiated his own personnel rollercoaster. After first cutting the active duty officer corps to below 100,000, he increased it to 116,000 during the Berlin and Cuba crises, and then reduced it by 8,000 in 1963. No American business hired and fired its managerial personnel quite like the US Army.8 The World War II–Korea expansions of the officer corps created bulges or “humps”— a disproportionately large block of rapidly promoted officers of equivalent age and grade. During World War II, some outstanding young officers jumped from lieutenant to lieutenant colonel in a few years, and during the Korean War the average time between promotions to the next grade declined by eighteen months. In the first of Eisenhower’s RIFs, the army cut 932 field-grade officers, 832 captains, and almost 20,000 lieutenants—retaining World War II– era Regulars at the expense of men commissioned in the later stages of the Korean War. Subsequent RIFs continued to favor the higher grades and Regulars at the expense of reservists; one critic noted in 1958 that although the army was a fraction of its WWII size, it still had almost as many colonels.9 In fairness, most of these colonels had been promoted rapidly during wartime and were both comparatively young and exceptionally able. And the possibility of national mobilization for World War III required a disproportionate number of Regular Army senior commanders and administrators to step into top leadership roles. However, keeping its senior ranks and purging its reservists and company officers imposed a long-term cost that only became apparent over the course of time. Major General R. N. Young, the army’s head of personnel, noted the good news in the 1955 RIF of 12,000 officers: “voluntary attrition” spared all but a few senior Regulars from being separated from the ser vice. The bad news was “those who left the ser vice to seek employment in industry or other wise were probably our most efficient officers.” 10 To most personnel officers, the primary source of concern was what BG George Mather termed “the valley behind the hump.” 11 As the Eisenhower RIFs continued, promotion slowed: between 1955 and 1960 the average time for a captain to make major increased by four years. Very quickly, the army was burdened with a “great backlog of captains, 169

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majors, and lieutenant colonels” who were stuck until their seniors retired.12 Each year produced a bountiful crop of newly commissioned second lieutenants. But those most likely to consider the army as a lifetime career could see their path to promotion and that glittering twenty-year pension blocked by the World War II–Korean War hump. The result was both a mass departure of officers with less than a decade of ser vice and a sharp decrease in high-quality ROTC graduates remaining on active duty. The 1957 Cordinier Committee confirmed this imbalance: the army suffered from a great “bulge” of officers in the twelve-to-sixteen-year bracket and a “critical shortage” in the three- to twelve-year group.13 In 1963 one general ruefully admitted, “our current shortages in the grades of captain, major and lieutenant colonel is a direct result of an inadequate retention rate in the past.” 14 The valley behind the hump stymied the army’s plan to have all career officers hold Regular Army commissions. Instead, much to its chagrin, it had to retain reserve officers on active duty with indefinite contracts. General John Dahlquist reminded participants at a 1954 conference that their discussion had assumed the Regular Army officer was typical. But actually, reservists accounted for 75  percent of the active army officer corps, and in Europe they were 80  percent—an imbalance that persisted for several years. Further complicating the stability of the officer corps was what Dahlquist identified as the “two types of reservists—the [ROTC] boy who is going in because he has to and is going to get out, and the career reservist.” 15 In 1957, bowing to reality, the army began commissioning 20,000 “career reservists” as Regulars, but even after this reservists still comprised half the officers on active duty.16 Those reserve officers who remained on active duty were both anxious and resentful that the army categorized them as “indefinite,” with the ever-present threat of being separated from the ser vice a few years before qualifying for full benefits. Nor were they being paranoid. In 1957 the Eisenhower administration instituted a RIF of 2,000 reserve officers, a decision that the army’s personnel officer denounced as “a terrible thing and it distressed everybody in the Army [and] it was completely unnecessary” since the reductions would have occurred through 170

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retirement.17 Correctly or not, many Regulars viewed their reserve officers as second rate: in one survey 75 percent rated fellow Regulars as hard workers, but only 26  percent rated their reserve colleagues similarly.18 Some stereotyped reserve officers as placeholders deliberately avoiding responsibility lest it result in a negative evaluation report justifying their being “riffed” before they could collect their pensions. Many reservists viewed themselves as victims of discrimination, denied opportunities to improve their personnel records and ensure their retention. Regulars were fast-tracked into command and key staff assignments, reservists were often relegated to support and lesser staff duties where advancement was slow and rewards few. Reservists went to shorter and less prestigious versions of the schools considered most essential for promotion and were largely excluded from command in elite combat units. The implications of this caste system were troubling not only for the integrity and morale of the officer corps, but for the post–Korean War army’s efforts to end its unbalanced hump and valley structure. With between a half and three-quarters of the officers on active duty holding reserve commissions, and with the tendency of the army to segregate Regulars into elite units, the odds of a newly commissioned ROTC graduate being commanded by a reservist were high. At worst, he would witness at first hand the uncertainty and anxiety of superiors living from one RIF to the next, aware that one bad report might kill their careers, as well as the privileges accorded his Regular peers. After serving his obligated time, he, and the majority of his peers, would leave active duty and begin their civilian careers, thus extending the valley into the future. As the army fell further and further behind in fi lling company-grade slots, it resorted to such expedients as commissioning more ROTC graduates, underofficering units, assigning an officer duties several levels above his grade, and keeping reservists on active duty. But the cumulative effects mounted: by 1958 some 70 percent of the officer corps, commissioned between 1940 and 1945, was fast approaching the twenty-year retirement mark. Very soon, one general warned, “we are going to have a hell of a time manning this man’s Army.” 19 171

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The numerical shortage of experienced company-grade officers moving into midlevel positions was the tip of the iceberg, concealing an equally portentous concern: the officers who remained in uniform were often the least needed. The ser vice required a steady influx of junior leaders, not only for traditional command and staff duties, but also in specialties that had not existed when many older officers were commissioned. Moreover, it needed the best of these to remain, assume evergreater executive responsibilities, and mentor their successors. But the more an officer’s skills were needed in the civilian sector, the less chance the army had of keeping him. As Mather explained, big business recognized the determining factor in any company’s sustained success was the ability of its younger executives. The national competition for the small pool of highly skilled manager-supervisors was intense, and the army could not match the pay, perks, or prestige private businesses offered.20 In the 1950s American public opinion and academics made a sharp distinction between blue-collar trades and white-collar professions. The prestige and pay of the latter required advanced education. For the army, shifting from a leadership system based on command to one based on management, it was crucial that all officers be regarded as professionals. An experienced sergeant might lead an infantry platoon more efficiently than a new second lieutenant, but the lieutenant had the theoretical understanding—the grasp of the “Big Picture”—to rise rapidly to much greater responsibilities, whereas the sergeant’s tradecraft was limited to his experience. To serve in the atomic-era force, an officer had to be more than a combat leader: he was expected to be proficient in designing and implementing budgets, manpower utilization, administration, resource allocation, negotiating with representatives of foreign nations, and a variety of other managerial functions. Reflecting the views of both the ser vice and civilian policymakers, Army Regulation 335, issued in August 1954, required all newly commissioned officers to have at least two years of college, with a baccalaureate a virtual necessity for higher rank. But at the time, less than half the active officer corps held a bachelor’s degree, and over a third had less than two years of college.21 By 1962 a survey of officer education showed that 172

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qualifications had risen dramatically. Of the 94,158 officers, 69 percent had a college degree, and of the 39,127 officers who held commissions in the Regular Army, 82 percent had a baccalaureate and 13 percent a master’s degree.22 The increased emphasis on education ensured that the valley would not be just a generation gap, but work-related as well. A 1957 study of the armed forces concluded that “retainability in military ser vice is in inverse proportion to the educational level of the individual.” 23 The same rule held for officers in occupations with the least civilian equivalence. The 1962 survey found that of the Infantry Branch’s 9,214 Regular officers, only 6  percent had postgraduate degrees, while among engineers it was 41  percent.24 Throughout the 1950s the ser vice was chronically short of Signal Corps officers, who often had both degrees and experience in electronics, computers, communications, media, and other high-demand fields. Nor could the army retain qualified medical practitioners. Army lawyers might boast that the American Bar Association rated their Judge Advocate’s School “the finest graduate legal program in the Nation,” but this accolade came at the cost of several hundred vacancies each year.25 It was not just lawyers that were in short supply: in 1955 four out of every five specialists working in the army’s technical ser vices was a civilian.26 The army’s need for an educated, professional officer corps radically changed its officer acquisition policies. Since the Civil War the pattern had been to assimilate the best of the wartime officers into the immediate postwar force, then to rely on the Military Academy for the majority of new officers. To many of the senior leadership, this remained the ideal solution, and they campaigned relentlessly to maintain West Point’s status. The school’s admirers were not restricted to its graduates. Television and Hollywood portrayed the Academy as a bastion of honor, manliness, and patriotism. Novelists instructed young readers about the challenges and rewards of being both a cadet and a star athlete. Aghast at the “small town commercialism” of civilian society, Harvard academician Samuel P. Huntington extolled the Academy’s martial virtues and concluded that “today America can learn more from West Point than West Point from America.” 27 173

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Other educational authorities, and many in the army itself, did not share Huntington’s enthusiasm. Although the Academy claimed Ivy League standards, its own visitors board noted in 1953, “in its classrooms, lecture halls, and laboratory space West Point is not to be compared with most of our state universities.” 28 The board may have been overly generous. One teacher described the chemistry laboratory as “about 1840 vintage. The old hand-blown glassware was still there.” 29 The two dozen or so permanent professors were nearly as antiquated. Mostly in their late fifties, a quarter of them held only a baccalaureate— usually from the Military Academy itself—and less than 5 percent had earned the doctoral degrees required of their counter parts in academe. The majority of the teaching was done by young captains, most with newly acquired master’s degrees, who rotated through on three- or fouryear tours. The tactical officers, who were responsible for discipline, routinely won each graduating classes’ votes as “the person they would least like to be like.” 30 It was not a faculty receptive to, or even capable of, keeping up with the decade’s developments in higher education. West Point might still graduate disciplined junior officers for company command, but not future leaders in nuclear physics, electronics, international relations, business administration, and so forth. Between its substandard facilities and faculty, some worried the school might lose its academic accreditation. To those who survived its Spartan facilities and rigid discipline, the Military Academy remained the bastion of professionalism, the granite foundation of standards and traditions in the officer corps. But among non-Pointers, respect was often intermingled with resentment. The Academy was already tarnished by the charge that it had served as a haven for draft dodgers in World War II; in 1951 it suffered from a cheating scandal in which ninety cadets, many on the football team, were expelled. The inside story was even dirtier. The case against the cadets rested on infor mants, denunciations, and selfincrimination. The younger cadets who accepted responsibility were dismissed, but the senior class stonewalled, denied every thing, and escaped punishment—thus making it likely that the leaders of the cheating rings were commissioned. The ensuing investigation criti174

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cized the inordinate influence of coach Earl “Red” Blaik and the privileged status of the team. But it also found that the honor system, intended as a means to develop a cadet’s character, had instead become a way for faculty to punish suspected defaulters.31 There were other problems besides the limitations of curriculum and facilities, or the excesses of football. To begin with, the school was enormously expensive to maintain, each graduate costing over five times as much as a student on a military scholarship at a civilian university. Were Academy graduates really five times better than their ROTC peers? Was parade-ground soldiering at West Point the equivalent of the combat experience many graduates of Officer Candidate School (OCS) could boast? Critics charged that four years in this martial monastery left cadets unprepared for the leadership challenges presented by soldiers from a variety of educations and backgrounds. Graduates were sometimes dismissed as “ring knockers,” constantly flashing their oversized class icons to draw attention— especially from fellow alumni. One recent graduate assigned to the 11th Airborne Division recalled: “Sometime during that first year, I took my ring off and I never put it back on just because the sergeants and a lot of OCS officers there just had such a bad taste for West Pointers.”32 More insidious was the widespread belief in the “West Point Protective Association,” dedicated to “protect[ing] its membership from hard jobs, insure their promotions, guarantee them prestige, and give each member some advantage over nonmember contemporaries in the ser vice.” 33 Certainly this motivated the sergeant arrested for black marketeering to shout, “All you West Point big shot officers are doing the same thing” as the MPs dragged him off.34 Academic reputation and institutional integrity aside, the fundamental problem was that the Military Academy could not produce officers sufficient in either quantity or quality for the army’s needs. In 1956 there were only 1,700 cadets, and this number did not appreciably increase for almost a decade. As a general rule, each incoming class was short a sixth of its allotment; almost a third of each class would leave before graduation; and until 1960, a quarter of those who did matriculate would go into the US Air Force. If the army commissioned 500 new Pointers as second lieutenants a year it was lucky.35 In an unprecedented 175

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experiment, the majority of incoming peacetime officers were neither Academy graduates nor veterans of recent wars, but young collegians. The “fountainhead of the Army officer corps” in the Cold War was ROTC.36 Established in 1916, during the height of the World War I– era preparedness movement, the program had been designed to instill character as much as military skills. In the 1920s and  1930s, most ROTC graduates had served with the reserves, soldiering on at considerable personal cost through the Depression. They proved their worth during World War II when 100,000 were called up, providing an essential reservoir of trained personnel. During the war, OCS and other programs offering a crash course in basic leadership or staff skills relegated ROTC to secondary status. With peace, the program returned to its earlier mission of training reserve officers for national mobilization. But during the Korean War the army called up thousands of graduates and expanded its campus programs. By 1953, roughly two out of three new officers commissioned into the active army came from ROTC. For the next decade it provided the main supply of second lieutenants for the draftee army. For fifties college students, ROTC was as much a part of campus life as football games and fraternities. By the Korean armistice the armed forces sponsored 780 training units at 350 colleges; fully half of these schools made the initial two-year course compulsory. Administrators, faculty, and parents all supported the program, and one educator estimated one-quarter of the entire male college population was in ROTC.37 After completing the two-year introductory course in drill, physical fitness, and military socialization, students seeking an army career or wishing to fulfill their national ser vice obligation as officers rather than enlisted could contract for the two-year advanced program. Contract cadets received a small stipend, learned more advanced military skills, attended summer camps, and, if successful, were commissioned at graduation as second lieutenants in the reserves. The best contract students were termed Distinguished Military Graduates (DMGs), and were eligible for a Regular Army commission. Depending on army needs and individual preferences, the new reserve second lieutenants could opt for two years of active duty and four years in the reserves, or, 176

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after the Reserve Forces Act of 1955, six months on active duty and seven and a half years of reserve commitment. Those DMGs who chose a Regular Army commission were obligated for a three-year tour; when it ended most had minimal reserve commitments. Although it enjoyed wide administrative support, ROTC was sometimes a battlefield for academic–military conflict. The army, although frustrated by Congress’s refusal to allow it to close programs at bottomtier schools, had even more problems with the top tier. Harold  W. Dodds, president of Princeton University, found an “overwhelming consensus” among academics “that the quality of the [ROTC] academic programs is substandard and unbecoming to both the Ser vices and the colleges.” 38 Universities complained the ROTC curriculum was less educational than vocational, the ROTC instructors unqualified to teach, and the program guilty of inflating mediocre students’ grades. For their part, officers complained of scholars who tried to “teach their pet topics to ROTC students” and sneered that “President Dodds’s colleagues . . . are not in the foxhole.” 39 ROTC proved a mixed blessing for the Cold War Army. It fulfilled its primary function of generating new officers: between July 1954 and June 1955, for example, the ser vice commissioned 14,600 second lieutenants, of which the Military Academy provided just 450.40 As a group, ROTC graduates were more adaptable and quicker to pick up skills than OCS graduates, which was essential because the army’s retention problems required most junior officers to take on responsibilities far above their rank. In 1954, lieutenants fi lling in for absent captains held 60 percent of company-level positions; a decade later, a spot check of training centers found lieutenants held 70 percent of the captains’ slots.41 To both military leaders and civilian analysts, the dangers of having so many recently commissioned officers in leadership positions were manifest. The ser vice’s concern over their junior officers’ inexperience was compounded by the widespread belief in both military and civilian circles that “ROTC is an easy way to get a commission—too easy.” 42 Dodds acknowledged that many schools “actively shopped for ROTC units for the deferment they offered their students”—and that many 177

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students took contracts to avoid being drafted.43 Of 3,557 cadets participating in the 2nd Army’s summer camp in 1955, less than a dozen failed. John A. Seitz, who ran an ROTC summer camp the following year, recalled “almost anybody could get in the advanced course of the ROTC,” and groused that “too doggone many” managed to avoid assignments to the combat arms.44 Another officer was even more blunt: “The average ROTC graduate upon graduation is not as well trained as the average basic trainee.”45 Among some Regulars, ROTC graduates were perceived as dilettantes who undermined both the traditions and the reputation of the professional officer corps. A sergeant grumbled that they lacked dedication, were openly contemptuous of the army, and were obviously counting the days until discharge. In his view, “the appearance of too many unqualified junior officers is extremely demoralizing to personnel of the lower grades.” 46 At the other end of the command spectrum, a senior general declared that the first step to improving the ser vice was to kick out the “sub-caliber, obligated-tour second lieutenants who were not at all motivated towards an Army career and not performing well.” 47 Much of the criticism of ROTC graduates reflected the bias of careerists toward those who viewed themselves as “citizen-soldiers . . . whose future goals are directed toward a civilian, not a military, career.” 48 As the children and nephews of veterans, they had few illusions about the glories of either war or the army. They did not question their military obligation, but they viewed patriotism as compatible with negotiating the most beneficial terms of ser vice. Like Gaines Post, a DMG from Cornell University, they assumed they would be drafted and calculated their options: “If you wanted to serve, had to, or needed a paying job while deciding on a career, it was better to be an officer.” 49 Post, who was undecided about his future and wanted to travel, chose the two-year active option. His brother, already decided on a profession, opted for six months of active duty and a seven-year reserve commitment. For ROTC graduates considering a ser vice career, the army’s actions were hardly conducive to employee confidence. In 1955, the last year of the Korean War– driven expansion, ROTC graduated 16,400 178

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potential second lieutenants, but the army had only 7,700 active duty slots. A year later, with the officer corps both swollen with Korean War veterans eager to stay in and downsizing under Eisenhower’s New Look, the army called only one in five ROTC-commissioned officers to active duty. In 1957, after issuing orders for hundreds of second lieutenants to report for assignment, the army shifted 3,000 of them to the reserves. A year later, it transferred some of these same officers—many of whom now had jobs or school commitments—back to active duty. Small wonder these young officers entered the ser vice doubting both the integrity and the competence of their new employer.50 Army reformers had long maintained that American males, particularly educated elites, would welcome the discipline, camaraderie, ethics, and lifestyle of the ser vice if they were ever exposed to them. But ROTC proved an unreliable supplier of career officers. In 1953 barely 40 percent of DMGs accepted Regular commissions. In 1955, only 869 of 2,750 DMGs applied for a Regular commission; the army had to reach down to the 750th-ranked graduate to fill its quota of 400. Indeed, despite outnumbering West Pointers by almost 500  percent, in 1958 DMGs accounted for only two-fifths of new Regular officers; West Pointers were a quarter. Nor were these necessarily the nation’s best and brightest: one survey of 157 DMGs assigned to the combat arms found half came from the same dozen schools, with Arkansas State College ranked second, and Eastern Kentucky State, Southwest Missouri State College, and Oklahoma A&M University all in the top ten. Another survey of this same demographic disclosed that 62 percent had a C or worse overall grade point average, 85 percent had never taken a geography course, 60  percent had not learned a foreign language, and 26 percent had barely passed English.51 Compounding complaints about the quality of ROTC graduates was clear evidence of their declining quantity. As Eisenhower’s reductions steadily cut into the army’s manpower, and as deferments expanded, the probability of being conscripted shrank dramatically. Whereas in the Korean War era the odds were that a young male would be called for national ser vice, by the end of the decade many students had concluded they would be able to stay out of uniform. Instead of serving as 179

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a ticket out of being drafted into the infantry, ROTC now became a ticket into the army. And as they watched their classmates embarking on parenthood, graduate school, or lucrative careers, some in ROTC came to believe, as had their Korean War– era predecessors, “they were lured into military training by false advertising.” 52 Whatever its limits, the yearly crop of ROTC-educated junior officers allowed the army to cut back its OCS programs. These schools accepted both career NCOs and volunteers with high test scores and demonstrated leadership. During the Korean War, the army opened five new schools that in 1952 admitted a total of 21,000 candidates and commissioned 7,000; the Infantry School alone processed 4,000 candidates every six months. But with the armistice, OCS shrank quickly. In 1954 it commissioned only 3,100 officers while ROTC commissioned 16,000. By the end of the decade OCS commissioned only 600 second lieutenants annually.53 There is substantial anecdotal evidence that the OCS officers were more motivated than their ROTC colleagues, and far more interested in making the ser vice a career. Outside evaluators and participants from the late 1940s to the mid-1960s consistently described OCS as an excellent, if limited program. Most graduates considered their training far superior to that provided ROTC students, and some favored abolishing that program to “let the Army turn out real officers rather than college graduates who wear bars.” 54 There was some merit to this idea. Officer Candidate School was intensive and exhaustive: the Infantry School’s basic course in 1955 involved 932 hours of instruction, including 330 hours of weapons training, 269 hours of tactics, and 245 hours in staff procedures. In addition to a heavy course load, OCS placed great emphasis on conduct, leadership, and appearance. Standards were high. During the Korean War, the Infantry School’s basic course washed out 30 percent of its candidates, and one Artillery School class shed 60  percent of its initial membership within eighteen weeks. In 1965, during the Vietnam War buildup, the Infantry School passed less than 60  percent of its OCS candidates, and the Artillery School only 55 percent.55 180

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Given its reputation for excellence, why didn’t the US Army rely entirely on OCS for the junior leaders of the peacetime force? One consideration was the cost in both time and training cadre. In 1957, a West Point or ROTC graduate assigned to the infantry required a three- to four-month leadership course before his first assignment. The combined OCS infantry course took over eleven months—and half the candidates failed. The obvious solution to such high attrition was to improve the quality of OCS candidates. But this was not easy. Most enlisted personnel with the maturity and education to become officers were draftees, the group least interested in military careers, particularly in the combat arms. One 1954 survey of soldiers found less than 30 percent would consider applying for OCS; of these fewer than thirtyfive of 300 were eligible.56 Moreover, the skills taught at OCS were restricted to a few junior-grade specialties in the combat arms; once they had completed these assignments many lacked the education required for promotion or retention. The most promising candidates for OCS—the career sergeants—knew that the benefits paid for a twentyyear enlisted career far outweighed the prestige of being a temporary second lieutenant. A final source of officers involved doctors and dentists, who made up a considerable number: in fiscal year 1955, the army commissioned four times as many medical personnel (1,850) as it did West Pointers (450). After the Korean War, the army could rely on the “doctor draft” legislation, although the head of the Selective Ser vice Agency, MG Lewis Hershey, confessed that one of his greatest challenges was to identify doctors and dentists and “chase them into the Armed Forces.” 57 After all efforts at positive inducements failed, Hershey relied on coercion, sending induction notices to draft-eligible doctors as soon as they completed their internships. Faced with the imminent prospect of basic combat training, most volunteered to enter the ser vice as medical officers. However, Hershey complained, these reluctant doctorofficers managed to reject half the men passing through the induction centers. Whether it was, as he suggested, that they were so lazy they selected future soldiers by “eeny, meeny, miny, mo—take every other 181

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one,” or because they were taking revenge on the army is difficult to determine.58 At the same time that they questioned the quality and commitment of the young officers entering the ser vice, senior officers complained that too few stayed in uniform. In the decade after the Korean armistice, the Department of the Army’s annual goal was to retain 35 percent of the ROTC-commissioned second lieutenants beyond their obligated term of ser vice. The actual rates in successive fiscal years were 10 percent in 1956, 19 percent in 1957, 21 percent in 1958, and 25 percent in 1959. “The sad fact is that all these two-year ROTC boys,” one personnel officer admitted, “are not staying in the numbers that we require.” 59 An even more disturbing trend was the departure of many young men who held Regular Army commissions. In a 1955 study, Colonel William G. Van Allen warned: “In our Army today there is considerable dissatisfaction and a feeling of frustration among many of our officers. This is evidenced by the high rate of resignations and the lack of interest of young officers in entering the Regular Army.”60 The Department of the Army’s officer career track assumed a 2  percent resignation rate among Regular officers after their three-year obligation; resignations would decline in subsequent years as officers became more vested. But between fiscal years 1953 and 1958, the Regulars’ rate of resignation after three years was 10  percent, and at five years it was 20  percent.61 During that period over 3,200 career officers resigned, 80  percent of them company-grade officers. The resignation rate slowed in the early 1960s but then accelerated by 15  percent in 1963 and continued to climb until the Vietnam War.62 Perhaps most devastating to the army’s pride was the flight of those who supposedly guarded its professional identity—the West Pointers. Their attrition rate— over 25 percent in the four years between admission and commissioning—was bad enough. Far worse was that between 1949 and 1958 another 25 percent resigned their commissions, the majority immediately after finishing their obligated ser vice.63 A 1957 article with the alarming title “Our Military Manpower Scandal” reported the nation lacked 37,000 officers in the three- to 182

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twelve-year experience cohort. While mainly blaming Eisenhower’s New Look and the “military revolution,” it cited a host of other problems: low pay, instability, slow promotion, lack of incentives, micromanagement, superiors’ incompetence, and boredom. The story compared two West Point classmates, Robert Burke and Warren Hayford. Lieutenant Burke, who had moved nine times in five years, worked ninetyseven-hour weeks in a job characterized by minutia and routine— one photo showed Burke and a colonel inspecting toilets. Salesman Hayford already earned twice what his classmate made, lived in an elite suburb, and saw only further success ahead. Hayford had intended to make the ser vice a career, but had found the army an uncaring bureaucracy led by mediocrities. That he had ranked 19th in his class, whereas Burke had been 514th out of 527, encapsulated the ser vice’s retention problems.64 Many officers would have agreed with Hayford: the army’s best junior leaders were being driven out by overwork, over-supervision, and insufficient mentoring. A Regular Army lieutenant recalled a tour in Korea in which both junior officers and enlisted personnel often lacked such basic amenities as water and electricity, while their superiors lived in relative luxury. Complaints were met with “the old cover up of a multitude of sins: RHIP—Rank Has Its Privileges” by commanders who seemed unaware that “rank has its obligations, too!” 65 In a discussion following his lecture on leadership problems in future battle, COL A. J. Glass told his colleagues he was wary of all the recommendations to “get more leadership from junior officers” when these were “very harassed individual[s]. . . . If you observe them they are often so loaded up with duties they can barely function.” 66 A 1960 Army War College study commented that at no time in history had the army so needed adaptive, innovative young officers. But it also found that while individual responsibility “is given wide lip ser vice, there is little opportunity for junior officers to exercise initiative in the face of the over supervision practiced by practically all echelons.” 67 Indeed, those who did exercise leadership and initiative risked punishment. One second lieutenant with a history baccalaureate was assigned to teach a troop information session, a performance scripted down to 183

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the correct method of holding the pointer. Abandoning both script and pointer, he led the troops through a seminar on ethics and responsibility that elicited an unusual level of audience participation. Flushed with success, he was dumbfounded when his less educated superior damned it as the worst class he had ever seen. Years later, he recalled, “That remark, more than any other humiliation or hassle, convinced me I did not belong in the army for more than two years.” 68 The chastened young officer—an Ivy Leaguer, DMG, Rhodes Scholar, and polished linguist—was the very type the army needed to keep. To both senior and junior officers, such incidents had an easy solution: identify and remove unfit commanders and the best junior officers would choose to remain. Assistant Chief of Staff for Personnel Donald P. Booth declared in 1957 that the army was now “far from the point of having to keep sub-standard officers merely for the purpose of having enough bodies around to fill the requirements.” 69 Yet, on closer examination, getting rid of bad officers was almost as difficult as retaining good ones. The Old Army had been so small and familial that George C. Marshall was reputed to have selected most WWII generals from his  little black book. But such informal methods were impossible in the large postwar army, which required standardized measures of assessment. In the Cold War Army, the cornerstone measurement tool was the Officer Evaluation Report (OER), completed by the “rater”—the superior next up the chain of command—and endorsed by a senior officer. The OERs were collated in an Annual Efficiency Index (AEI) to calculate an individual’s current value to the army. Personnel officers combined the AEI score with those from the previous four years to produce each officer’s Overall Efficiency Index. Annual promotion boards relied on these evaluations to determine which officers in a given year group would ascend to the next level and which were headed toward involuntary separation. Small wonder that military journals instructed officers that “the importance of efficiency reports cannot be overemphasized. Few things have more effect upon the career development of the individual officer.” 70 One survey revealed that although junior officers read 184

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virtually none of the other materials they received, 90  percent consulted the OER pamphlet.71 One of its most astute critics, COL Richard R. Ripple, termed the entire OER process “a most interesting numbers racket” in which “the records of our most outstanding men are submerged in hundreds of glowing records of lesser men.” Responding to clear evidence of inflation, each new OER issued by the Pentagon established weights and measures for individual officers, collectively creating a bell curve from the worst to the best, with most officers in the middle. But in establishing a new collective norm, the revised OER made it appear the individual officer’s performance had declined compared to his previous, inflated rating. Fearing that good subordinates would now be classified as mediocre, evaluators exaggerated their assessments, which soon unbalanced the collective bell curve. The result was what Ripple termed a perpetual cycle, in which “raters are constantly forced to adjust report scores to make them fit the bell curve while selection boards claim they cannot rely on such scores anyway.” 72 Although the army devoted enormous effort to tweaking and justifying the evaluation system, survey research showed the majority of officers believed it was flawed at best, corrupt at worst. The army probably agreed, changing the OER forms at least six times between 1947 and 1967. Each revision reflected an ongoing debate between the relative merits of “objective” data (usually mathematically expressed scores) and “subjective” data, which were the rater’s remarks—“a love-tap, a pat-on-the-back, a slap of omission, or a career-killing bludgeon.” 73 Yet what was a selection board to make of OER comments such as: “combs his hair to one side and appears rustic”; “his drinking habits are below the minimum”; “his turpitude is a source of satisfaction”; and “can express a sentence in two paragraphs any time.” 74 Despite the time and energy devoted to both the standards and the ratings, critics charged that the OER process penalized good officers and failed to identify the ineffective. In 1957 the army revised its evaluation form after 99  percent of its officers were rated as either superior or excellent. The Commanding General of US Army Alaska protested 185

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that the new form required him to focus on an officer’s few inadequacies, and automatically downgraded a formerly superior officer to mediocre, perhaps ending a middle-level officer’s career. His “only remedy,” essentially subverting the entire system, was to instruct his raters: “to be more liberal in our markings.” 75 Lest they miss the point, he informed them that he had already revised several OERs he viewed as overly critical. In 1963, LTG Garrison  H. Davidson, commanding the 1st Army, protested that if he gave honest ratings to three of his colonels, his “Top Superior” officer would be below 30 percent, his middle officer in the lowest 10 percent, and his “Excellent” officer at the absolute bottom—a candidate for a termination board. When his protest was ignored, Davidson refused to fill out one section of the OERs “for fear either of doing an injustice to one of my subordinates because of the inflation of the current rating system or of compromising my integrity.”76 Such obstructionism made it even more difficult to purge the minimally competent. The OER system called for a “show cause board” to evaluate the bottom 2 percent of each rank and separate them from the ser vice. But between 1951 and 1956 only 220, or 0.35  percent of Regular Army officers, and 1,230, or 0.50  percent of reserve officers, went before this board, and only half of these were retired.77 The Commandant of the Armored School lectured his staff that “the Army is suffering” because raters gave even their worst officers OERs sufficient to keep them above the cut-off line. As a result, an entire class of underperformers “was allowed to keep traveling around the Army” until promoted to positions of sufficient authority that ineptitude had serious consequences.78 Despite numerous admonitions to tighten standards, the army continued to shirk from pruning out its deadwood. Senior officers, recognizing their junior officers lacked experience and, in many cases, motivation, responded with excessive control. This, in turn, accelerated the ser vice’s tendencies toward centralization of authority, perpetual review, and over-supervision. Khaki-clad bureaucrats who insisted on rigorous compliance with regulations increasingly dominated a military organization that once prided itself on such martial virtues as responsibility, initiative, and leadership. And, as one 1956 survey revealed, the Pentagon contributed to the problem with a con186

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stant stream of directives, requests for status reports, and other paperwork, all of which “are passed successively to lower echelons because commanders add controls which make them less flexible at each level of the chain of command.”79 The impact on junior officers was greater than on any other group, since the great reward for the hardships of their low rank was the opportunity to be in charge of their troops. The army’s recruitment posters showed young officers leading soldiers into combat and declared that command was “The Mark of a Man!”80 But if, as many found, they were denied responsibility, under constant and often hostile supervision, and assigned to stultifying administrative chores, what possible attraction could an army career offer? The army was well aware of the problem of micromanagement, but hamstrung by senior commanders who had risen to their high position thanks to this very trait. Indeed, one Regular believed the problem was inherent to the post–World War II army’s top-heavy leadership: “We had a lot of senior officers who had to have work to do. So, we started to become over structured. We had a division chief and we had sections and section chiefs and section execs, and then, branches and branch chiefs and branch execs, before you got to the level of the instructors.”81 By 1954 the problem of micromanagement was such that Chief of Staff Ridgeway initiated Operation Paper Chase to reduce the administrative load on company officers. Although its administrators recognized that “the Army will have to live with more administration than there was in the small, pre-World War II stabilized Army” they deplored the fact that the “initiative, leadership, and maturity of company officers is being systematically stunted. The overabundance of regulations, standing operating procedures, circulars, bulletins, memorandums, and other directives are reducing the unit commander to an automaton leaving little for resolution by command decision. Responsibility must be returned to the small unit commander.” In many cases, superiors were substituting reports and charts for leadership: “like mowing a lawn which grows up after each cutting, no single action can permanently curb the tendency for higher units to demand these reports.” 82 A year later, COL Van Allen noted that as headquarters staffs expanded, they increasingly became supervisory rather than advisory, 187

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William C. Westmoreland. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

creating a “vicious circle of larger subordinate staffs, more detailed procedures and reporting and still closer supervision by the higher staff.” 83 Colonel Max L. Pitney cited a 1959 survey in which company officers complained of “snoopervision” and “harassment and the spelling out in detail of every phase of every task the individual was given to do.” Senior leaders imposed unrealistic standards of per for mance and accountability, and lower commanders, terrified that a subordinate’s mistake might damage their careers, sought to rigidly control their junior officers’ actions. This toxic command climate “accentuates the need to oversupervise for professional survival. The result is that all are running scared. This condition cramps and/or kills the two qualities we claim are essential in atomic warfare—initiative and imagination.” 84 The leadership practices of two of the 1950s’ most famous generals, William C. Westmoreland and Bruce C. Clarke, are indicative of this growing tendency toward micromanagement. As commanding general 188

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of the 101st Airborne Division, the former set objectives and incentives, devised charts and graphs to measure progress, transferred soldiers who could not meet quotas, commissioned posters to explain goals and expectations, and held regular public meetings to compliment or chastise. When the general presented his managerial techniques to the Pentagon, he admitted, “Something like this will work only if the boss has an interest in it . . . and is checking on it and pushing it constantly. Without that everybody slides back to where they were before.” 85 Placed in charge of US Army Europe’s 200,000 soldiers, Clarke often demonstrated what his successor termed “a proclivity for commanding companies and platoons.” 86 Based on the statistics the general demanded, the result may have been a more effective army and more responsible leaders. But against this must be set much evidence that during his tenure there emerged a culture of deception, with commanders falsifying their maintenance and training records, providing bogus statistics to headquarters, and conspiring with inspectors to ensure their units passed. As one officer who served under Clarke recalled, “smart battalion commanders and brigade commanders were getting up early in the morning to outsmart him. The minute these [directives] came out, they figured it out immediately and then they offset it with their gimmick.”87 Like the majority of enlisted personnel, most officers of Elvis Presley’s generation entered the army to fulfill their national ser vice obligation. What distinguished them was first making the rational choice to take commissions rather than enlist or be drafted as privates, and then having the education, physical ability, and leadership skills to pass the officers’ course. Given both their qualifications and the booming fifties economy, it was to be expected the majority would resign their commissions for better career opportunities. But ominously, surveys consistently showed that the primary reason officers left was not the attraction of civilian life, but because their ser vice experience had been personally unfulfilling. Even more discouraging, a primary complaint was that the army was insufficiently military: it had promised them opportunities to lead and instead made them bureaucrats. The transforming army’s doctrine called for decentralized command and innovative, adaptive young 189

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leaders able to rapidly adjust to the speed, mobility, and destruction of the atomic battlefield. Yet too many young officers, like West Pointer Hayford, found their professional duties subsumed by crushing paperwork and over-supervision, with few rewards, inadequate benefits, and numerous restrictions. Like Hayford, they left as soon as they could. By the late fi fties the officer corps was less a band of brothers or a regimental family than three distinct and somewhat antagonistic groups. The senior leaders had risen rapidly during World War II and Korea, jumping through the midlevel ranks as they shot up to colonel’s eagles and general’s stars. From their ranks would come William Westmoreland, William DePuy, Frederick Weyand, and the other general officers of the Vietnam War. Beneath them were a group of midlevel officers, often reservists, who had weathered the New Look reductions in personnel and budgets, tactical atomic warfare and the pentomic experiment, turmoil in the enlisted and junior officer ranks, and the departure of many talented colleagues. And in the lower ranks were thousands of second lieutenants rotating rapidly through the ser vice, leaving a comparative handful who intended to make the army a career. These generational divisions and the corresponding mutual suspicion contributed to a growing culture of “snoopervision” that contradicted the army’s rhetoric about leadership and command. Superiors, not trusting the competence of their juniors, tried to ensure they did no harm. Subordinates, overwhelmed with standards they viewed as unrealistic and arbitrary, responded in a number of ways, mostly by either going along or getting out. Such behav ior was common in most fifties corporations, but it contradicted the ser vice’s ideal of the officer as a combat leader. The young officers of Elvis’s generation, well aware of the death and destruction that war caused, did their patriotic duty. Retrospectively, they often looked back on their ser vice life with nostalgia and credited it with making them more responsible, capable, and confident adults. But at the time they had to make a career choice, most concluded that the army had provided too little personal satisfaction to persuade them to remain in uniform.

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7

TRAINING FOR NUCLEAR WAR

On a rainy, wintry night in 1959 at Grafenwöhr, the infamous field training area GIs called “the Siberia of Western Europe,” two camouflaged soldiers, a private and a lieutenant, crawled through muddy woods. Suddenly, a crackle of radio static came from their left. Crab-walking with only feet and hands touching the ground, they discovered the first enemy listening post. The click of a cigarette lighter disclosed another. Moving stealthily, they slipped through the defensive perimeter, climbing a steep hill by grasping trees, underbrush, and boulders to pull themselves up. Finally they reached the top, and stopped abruptly. Looming above them was a fifty-ton tank, its 90mm cannon barrel directly over their heads. Fortunately, its crew was buttoned down, sheltering from the rain. After a few minutes, as they crept deeper into the enemy’s bivouac, a providential lightning flash revealed the command post. The private slithered over to the unsuspecting guard, stuck his submachine gun in his face and said, “Your ass is mine.” Then both infiltrators burst through the tent entrance, taking the captain of the tank company and two others prisoner. The captain knew his unit had just failed its night security test, a black mark against him and probably days of extra work for his troops to prepare for retesting. But he accepted the price of preparation for real war against the Warsaw Pact armies just a few dozen miles away. He congratulated his cold, soaked, and mud-covered captors and asked their names. The lieutenant’s aroused no interest, but the private’s brought an immediate response: “Are you the Elvis Presley?” 1 Barely a year later, the movie G.I. Blues presented a very different scenario. Under blue skies a troop of tanks rolled through the woods 191

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and took up position. Elvis spotted the shot and shouted “on the way!” The target vanished in a cloud of flame and smoke. He and his buddies were soon in the barracks taking hot showers and then, immaculate in starched khakis, off to a gasthaus for a songfest and a brawl. All harmless fun, and both the public and the US Army applauded Hollywood’s version of peacetime soldiering. But when taken with other media portrayals such as the comic strip Beetle Bailey, G.I. Blues contributed to a perception, both then and now, that the Cold War army did not take training very seriously. Thirty years later, this derogatory stereotype still rankled Presley’s companion on the night exercise: “Elvis, along with everyone else in the battalion, worked like hell in the snow, rain, sleet, and wind of harsh German winters. We left our families for weeks on end to be out in maneuver areas or on weapons firing areas. Our training was deadly serious; after all, we were training to kill people— Soviet soldiers—if ordered to . . . we all knew why we were in the U.S. Army in Germany, and it wasn’t for fun.” 2 The lieutenant’s corrective both clarifies and muddles an assessment of the peacetime army’s readiness for war. Beyond turning America’s rock-and-roll icon into a crack reconnaissance scout, the atomic era presented the ser vice with two formidable challenges. The first was maintaining a military organization of sufficient size to deter, and if necessary defeat, the far larger land forces of the Soviet Bloc. The second was to prepare these often ambivalent legionnaires for unprecedented levels of violence and destruction, in which the qualities defining good soldiers since the days of the Romans—bravery, drill, fitness, morale, obedience—were no longer sufficient. As one officer eloquently noted: “The nuclear battlefield will require the soldier to be in the best of physical, mental and emotional condition. He must possess more individual knowledge for survival and success in battle than any soldier in American history. He may be a part of a team trained to launch huge rockets or missiles capable of causing more destruction than all the weapons fired by ground troops during World War II, or operate complicated communications equipment, or fly new type[s of] assault vehicles to the objective, or fire as an individual weapon, rockets with nuclear capability.” 3 Lieutenant Colonel Embert  A. Fossum, himself a 192

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veteran of two wars, concurred: “It takes a brave and resolute soldier to physically come to grips with an armed and aggressive enemy. But it takes an even braver soldier to do this while under the constant threat of annihilation from undetectable chemicals, biological agents, and radiation from the almost incomprehensible destructive power of nuclear weapons. Where do we get these super soldiers?” 4 For most officers, the answer to Fossum’s question was obvious: the army would have to build them from the raw material provided by civilian society. “Military training,” explained one of his colleagues, “is regimented, uncomfortable, unremunerative, and dangerous. However, it is the price of survival in the bipolar world struggle and essential for national security.” 5 But beyond the immediate need to prepare soldiers for combat, the army recognized that every individual donning the uniform represented a long-term investment in the ser vice’s future. As one general officer explained, “these trainees, so many of them passing through us, through the Army so quickly, they are the ones who should be the solid planks of our broad public relations base that we need all over the Country.” 6 Peacetime training for wartime effectiveness was not a new concept, predating even the Roman legion, and by the mid-twentieth century it was axiomatic in the US Army that it must be progressive and cyclical. Training started with basic instruction to the individual, then to the smallest unit, building steadily to ever-larger military organizations. The grand finale of the training cycle was an exercise or maneuver involving divisions, corps, or even armies—with their staffs, supporting units, logistics, intelligence, and administrative sections—in a simulated combat operation. The cycle was punctuated with frequent inspections and tests. In theory this program guaranteed that a majority of the active army was prepared for war, but in practice it was riddled with interruptions as individuals rotated in and out of units, new equipment arrived, and the army changed doctrine, organization, tactics, and procedures.7 During World War II the army trained millions of soldiers, in the process establishing a vast network of facilities, teaching aids, and instructors. But with peace came other priorities, and it soon dismantled 193

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this apparatus. Personnel shortages and the desperate need to fill the overseas garrisons prompted the Pentagon to cut basic training to six weeks on the assumption soldiers would receive the rest of their training in their permanent units. By 1949, the abbreviated program was deemed a complete failure by both overseas and continental commanders. The ser vice doubled the time allotted to basic training, but this came too late to prevent accusations from politicians and the media that the “troops thrown into the line in Korea were raw recruits who had never heard the sound of artillery fire.” 8 One of the primary lessons of Korea was that too many enlisted personnel lacked essential combat skills, physical conditioning, and fighting spirit. The new focus on tactical atomic war, with its dispersed formations, fluid battlefield, and great distances, imposed an even higher standard. As one officer put it, “nuclear weapons have reached the point where they are today a ‘normal’ means of fire support,” which meant that “knowledge of the effects of nuclear weapons is as basic to the trained soldier as knowing how to fire his rifle was to the soldier of World War II or Korea.” 9 With past lessons and future visions in mind, the army’s post-Korea Basic Combat Training (BCT) was intended to be a grueling eight-week course of eighteen-hour days (more if assigned to kitchen, guard, or other duties) packed with fieldcraft, physical fitness, marches, equipment maintenance, inspections, and marksmanship. Headlines proclaimed “Army Goes Back to Tough Training”: participants would “learn to be men” and should expect no “feather beds.” 10 Sociologist Morris Janowitz argued that BCT was the first of a progressive series of “training procedures which assume maximum potentials for personal growth.” 11 It was also, as one officer pointed out, the “transfer point where civilian society shifted responsibility to the military for developing and maintaining the soldier’s state of mind.” 12 In Cold War America, this rite of passage hung ever-present over the purported happy days of fifties adolescence. Most teenage boys of that decade had at least one family member with prior military ser vice, and nearly all had learned of BCT’s rigors and rewards though television shows, comics, periodicals, movies, and books. They recognized, as did Janowitz, its brutal egalitarianism. Each trainee began at the same 194

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level, regardless of his past achievements or problems, and progressed with his comrades through the same grueling tests until he graduated and could call himself a soldier. For many trainees, it would be the first time they had been treated as adults, fully challenged physically and mentally, and given a clear and achievable goal. In the process, the army would educate those with aptitude for leadership or technical specialties, and encourage the best trainees to make the service a career. In many ways, despite its authoritarian character, BCT was one of the most democratic institutions in fifties America. Presley’s experience demonstrates the egalitarian nature of BCT. After the media circus accompanying his induction in March  1958 packed up, Elvis and his cohort were transferred to Fort Hood. There, after swapping various uniforms and boots in hopes of a better fit, he and fifty-nine others were assigned to dilapidated barracks with no air conditioning and four unreliable toilets. In the Texas heat, he learned to maintain vehicles, earned a marksmanship medal, pulled kitchen duties, and soon made friends with his squad mates, who protected him from harassment from the media and other soldiers. He completed the eight-week BCT course, and moved on to advanced training. By all accounts, Elvis adapted quickly to military life, and he was viewed as one of the best soldiers in his unit. Although he disliked the fatigue, dirt, and primitive conditions of field ser vice, he enjoyed much of soldiering, particularly working on machinery, weapons, and sports. His idiosyncratic fashion sensibility—previously expressed in pink shirts and baggy peg pants—now was manifest in tailored khakis and shiny tanker’s boots. Beneath the famous sneer and gyrations was a patriotic young man eager for the approval of those in authority and his peers. Once an outsider, Elvis now thrived in the ordered, structured military environment and the companionship of his squad mates.13 In comparison to the other challenges presented by BCT, transforming a rock-and-roll star into US 53310761 was a relatively minor task. The army had to process and train more incoming personnel than all the ser vices, and it also had to prepare them for a much wider range of occupations. The numbers processed though BCT in successive fiscal years—338,000 in 1955, 242,114 in 1956, 359,756 in 1957, 300,000 in 195

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1958—attest to the army’s ability to manufacture soldiers during the Cold War.14 The ser vice also had to take a much broader cross-section of the population: eager volunteers and antagonistic conscripts; careerists and reservists; teenagers and thirty-somethings; athletes and nerds; college graduates and illiterates; Ivy Leaguers and inner-city hoodlums given the choice of jail or enlistment. There were problems instructing a company that might include many whose command of English was minimal, from Spanish-speaking Puerto Ricans to Hawaiians who communicated in pidgin. And because so many of the incoming personnel were draftees, the army was operating on a very short timetable in turning this mélange into disciplined troopers. It had to ensure soldiers were sufficiently trained, but also get them out in the field force as assets rather than a drain on resources. When the system broke down, as it did in 1953, more than one soldier in four got stuck somewhere in what the army referred to as the “pipeline”: those being admitted, trained, in school, traveling, on leave, being discharged, or other wise lost to their units.15 For much of the 1950s most incoming personnel went to a training center and were often assigned to a division that bore a proud wartime heritage, but whose sole purpose was now instruction. Each month these centers might receive 3,000 new trainees, and over a three-month period would turn out between 12,500 to 16,300 soldiers, with a total of 99,500 between April and June 1955 alone.16 On arrival, trainees were assigned to an administrative unit that would feed, clothe, and shelter them. They were tested and sorted. Those scoring exceptionally low on the army intelligence tests or with less than a fourth-grade education were relegated to remedial classes for instruction in writing, math, and drill. Those scoring exceptionally high might be given the option of applying for officer’s school or, if draftees, encouraged to enlist in the Regular Army in return for a better assignment. The rest went to a training regiment of perhaps 100 officers and 600 NCOs, where they were assigned to a company of 200, then to squads of between nine and a dozen. For the next eight weeks they were taught such essential skills of combat infantry as building and attacking fortifications, dismantling land mines, firing individual and crew weapons, first aid, land naviga196

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tion, and so on. They also had to pass rifle qualification under simulated combat conditions, an infiltration course, and a team assault, the latter two conducted with live ammunition.17 Most BCT trainees were housed fifty or sixty to a room in a decrepit World War II– era wooden barracks. They slept on rusting bunk beds, amidst antiquated plumbing, balky boilers, broken doors, torn screens, and other unsanitary conditions; during winter virtually every trainee at Fort Dix contracted a respiratory infection. They were subject to arbitrary rules— such as the toilets being closed after breakfast and lunch— and rarely allowed to shower. “I’ve never been so fi lthy in my life,” wrote one. A 1954 survey of trainees found that 92 percent were sleep- deprived, some getting less than four hours a night, so that “the men are arguing among themselves, from fatigue, and are very touchy—and don’t like to be fooled with.” 18 Thrown together, subject to group punishments and forced to work as teams, most quickly bonded, refusing to go on sick call because they might be assigned to a new company. Dan Ford, who went through BCT at Fort Dix, recalled, “You want to stay with the people you began with. They aren’t friends, exactly, but you know where you stand with them.” 19 For many, the rigors of martial training paled beside the physical discomfort of their bleak environment and the psychological challenge of communal living with men of every race, religion, region, education, and class, all the while being bossed around by their instructors. Draftee Tom Lehrer’s song “It Makes a Fellow Proud to Be a Soldier” gave a stereotypical account of the basic training squad: the thug who happily swapped his switchblade for a rifle; the second-grade dropout selected to be an officer; and the enthusiastic trainee who saluted an usher, the Good Humor Man, and a nun. Satire aside, it is illustrative of how large the military loomed in the lives of young men in fifties America that Lehrer’s Harvard audience would understand his references to “captain’s bars,” “R.A.,” and “OCS.” 20 Throughout the decade there were numerous comparisons between the US Marine Corps boot camp and army BCT, and in particular between the Marine Corps drill instructors and the soldiers assigned to drill BCT companies. Many of these comparisons were invidious, since 197

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the Marine Corps was small, volunteer, and allowed far more time for initial instruction. Moreover, it prepared recruits for one occupation— infantryman—whereas an army trainee might be assigned to one among dozens. One difference stood out: the Marine drill instructor was a highly trained expert responsible for not only the discipline and physical fitness of his “boots” but also much of their military instruction. The army believed it lacked both the time and the personnel to use this elite model, and employed the committee system. While in barracks, on the march, in mess, at physical fitness drills, cleaning, and other relatively unskilled duties, trainees were under the authority of the “drill cadre.” For more specialist instruction, this cadre marched (or ran) its charges to training grounds or classrooms, where another committee of experts took over and taught a course on weapons, vehicle repair, tactics, navigation, marksmanship, and so on. After that day’s lesson, the drill cadre ran the class to the next committee. In practice, this left the drill cadre in charge of the most hated parts of BCT, such as physical training, punitive discipline, cleaning the barracks, KP, and inspections. The army judged such responsibilities as requiring minimal skill, in contrast to those of the specialists in the committees, and often assigned drill cadre duty to marginal personnel, recent graduates of BCT, or even trainees themselves.21 Many soldiers, particularly in the first five years after Korea, were impressed with how seriously their trainers took their responsibilities: “They think there’s a war on or something.” 22 But they were quick to distinguish between practical military training by the specialist committees—which most of them appreciated—and “indoctrination” by the drill cadre. This is not surprising, since in practice much indoctrination took the form of profanity-laced hazing: cleaning, pushups, KP, formation marching, and other punitive measures. Their cadre devoted, at least in the trainees’ minds, obsessive attention to how footlockers were packed, or whether bedding was tucked so tightly that a quarter would bounce, on cardboard-crisp starched fatigues, boots spit-shined to a high gloss, and so forth. A 1954 survey of trainees reported that 88  percent thought they were doing too much unnecessary work, 76  percent viewed the cadre as hostile and disrespectful, 198

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and 60 percent said they were berated frequently and unjustly. The gulf between trainers and trainees was illustrated in comments such as: “Can the Army be naïve enough to think morale can be forced into troops?” or “We are dirt unless proven other wise. I started out trying to do my best, but constant nagging and beefing has ruined the morale” or “His motto is that the more we dislike him the better soldiers we’ll be.” 23 Another survey revealed trainees embittered by “harassments and irritations of excessive punishment, mass punishment, and endless inspections during basic training.” 24 One trainee recalled standing two hours in a dusty street for guard inspection. When the officer finally appeared, he gigged the trainee for a dirty rifle, and put him on KP when he protested.25 To deal with such persecution—termed “chicken shit,” “eyewash,” or “Mickey Mouse”—trainees developed such tricks as wearing empty tin cans as ankle bracelets to achieve a suitable “bloused” effect for their trousers, hiding personal items in the heating ducts, or keeping two sets of kit, one to use and another to display at the muchhated inspections.26 The army regarded BCT as a means of socialization, indoctrinating individuals on the virtues of military life, discipline, and obedience. The cadre assessed each trainee on such criteria as “adjusts himself to Army life;” “understands why he is to fight”; “responds in a positive manner to Army discipline.” 27 Trainees also received at least four hours a month of indoctrination in “Character Guidance,” most of it through lectures written by the chaplain’s office. In 1953, for example, trainees attended “discussion groups” on Prejudice, The Nation We Serve, The Concept of Authority, Chastity, Clean Speech, Marriage, Guts, Our Moral Defenses, and My Right to the Truth.28 A committee of senior field officers concluded such efforts to inculcate patriotism, pride, and the will to fight “fell short of the mark.” 29 Ford, who praised BCT’s military instruction, summed up a draftee’s perspective on such socialization: “I was out for myself every minute.” 30 The attitude of conscripts such as Ford was disturbing, for it indicated BCT was accomplishing only part of its mission. Individuals were developing the physical skills of soldiers, but not the mental toughness, unit pride, or aggressiveness needed for the atomic battlefield. Instead, 199

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as the general in charge of the indoctrination program admitted, “many of these trainees passing through our hands exhibit a complete and abiding lack of interest in the Army and in what it is doing.” 31 It was a damning indictment that when asked for their views on the US Army, surveys showed the “significant point [was] that between the time the high school boy arrives optimistically in the ser vice and the time he finishes his basic training, his attitudes take a distinct downward trend.”32 To many Regular Army officers, these morale problems were selfinflicted and reflected the ser vice’s shoddy treatment of its training cadre. They noted that ambitious, well-connected, and intelligent careerists avoided BCT, and those sent there were often engaged in securing their next assignment: “the mission of basic training is secondary duty.” 33 One officer at Fort Dix cited the wretched facilities and the limitations of the cadre as the primary reason that “hordes of high quality recruits adopted ‘Include me out’ as their implicit motto.” The trainers’ twenty-hour days and seven-day workweeks, broken only by a four-day break every eight weeks when a class graduated, “turned dedicated noncoms into zombies, while the less conscientious quit in place.” 34 These problems were often hidden from senior commanders, whose assessment came from hurried visits to some facility, a graduation ceremony, and a perfunctory inquiry into how much a trainee was enjoying himself. When Chief of Staff Taylor inspected Fort Dix, the post’s staff smuggled instructors posing as trainees from one site to the next. Taylor left, no doubt convinced he had witnessed army transformation in action: smart, disciplined, highly motivated soldiers ready, able, and willing to take the offensive on the atomic battlefield.35 Both the army and the WAC leadership were aware of the public’s dislike of women on the front lines, and for that reason the word “combat” was dropped; Wacs went through basic training. In the fi fties, this meant an eight-week introductory course, first at Fort Lee, Virginia, and after 1954, at the WAC Center at Fort McClellan, Alabama. Whereas Fort Lee was so rundown it had shocked even the tough GEN Matthew  B. Ridgway, McClellan offered modern, if Spartan facilities. Trainees lived in concrete barracks in open bays with forty or fifty others, sharing a single bathroom. Their instructors and 200

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supporting staff were almost entirely women. The recruits were taught military customs and law, administration, first aid, and hygiene, as well as some military skills such as map reading, marching, and bivouacking. There was a great deal of emphasis on physical fitness, necessitating three separate uniform fittings as some women bulked up and others lost weight. Those demonstrating exceptional interpersonal skills were offered the opportunity to remain for a six-week leadership course to qualify as specialists or noncoms. Throughout the process, their instructors emphasized the importance of maintaining the high reputation of the WAC once they went into the “real Army”—and their success may be measured by the fact that less than 1  percent were discharged for disciplinary reasons.36 Whatever the problems of training draftees and women, they paled in comparison to training the “6s-and-7s” of the Reserve Forces Act of 1955. Volunteers for this program took the same eight-week BCT course, followed by individual training and a short period of active duty with a unit—the whole process totaling six months—before assignment to the Ready Reserves for another seven and a half years. Taylor testified before Congress that the six-month training and active duty regimen imparted 97 percent of the essential skills needed by soldiers and “brings a man to top physical condition at the outset and assures his continuous physical ability to absorb the strenuous training. It assures the inculcation of discipline and personal habits needed in military life through continuous exposure to a carefully conditioned military environment.” 37 The 25th Infantry Division’s newspaper reported of its first reserve class: “ They’ve tested their strength and endurance in some of the training and found that they measure up as MEN.” 38 And in marked contrast to other BCT graduates, one survey found that the great majority of reservists enjoyed their army experiences, so that “a satisfied alumni is being returned to civilian life.” 39 But within a year of the Reserve Forces Act, many within the Regular Army had concluded it was “a waste of money and a waste of the trainee’s time if it is designed to meet any immediate threat.” 40 It might also have termed it a major impediment to the army’s ability to meet any immediate threat. Whereas in fiscal year 1956 only 14,368 of all 201

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trainees in BCT had been reservists, two years later it was 90,000, or nearly a third of the total. Six years later 182,500 of the 377,500 BCT graduates were reservists.41 The influx of short-service reserves pushed the training centers to the breaking point and stripped active units of the personnel needed for their own preparation. Even worse, it was soon evident that any military skills acquired during six months of active ser vice quickly evaporated. A Regular officer assigned to an Organized Reserve unit recalled his duties on a typical weekend drill as providing such rudimentary instruction as “how to put up their mess tent so that if it rained, they could at least stay out of the rain and do the cooking and get the soldiers through the chow line.” 42 The reservists increasingly had their own criticisms, not least that the army reneged on its promise to provide them with useful job skills. Instead, they spent the majority of their time as menial laborers. They also complained about the low quality of the Regulars assigned to reserve duty, many just marking time until retirement. In 1954, for example, half the Reserve Military District Chiefs and a large number of senior advisors had been turned down for promotion and were on their terminal assignment.43 The army’s claim of, and public acceptance of, BCT’s essential egalitarianism made the ser vice highly sensitive to accusations of individual abuse. In a revealing critique of the screenplay for Take the High Ground, in which a traumatized Korean War veteran intimidates his training squad, one officer commented that “visits by chaplains with the men, visits by families of recruits, letters from recruits to their families and frequent appeals to the press and members of Congress, etc. etc.—would make it impossible for Sergeant Ryan to continue in what amounts to sole command of his one-man Army. He would be relieved and probably be reduced by court-martial if he behaved as portrayed in this script.” 44 The Public Information Officer who wrote this review was well aware of the ser vice’s repeated strictures against harassment and group punishments, and also its formal directives that senior officers “must correct misguided officers and non-coms” to ensure trainees be treated with dignity and respect.45 202

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The army’s painstaking investigations into accusations of abuse reveal an organization taking its responsibilities to soldiers very seriously, especially whenever allegations attracted media or political attention. When the grieving mother of Private James B. Shekleton claimed he and 400 other trainees had died of heatstroke that year, army authorities requested a “particularly detailed” inquiry on the grounds that “such comments, if sufficiently widespread, could create a considerable lack of faith in the ser vices and the country.” 46 The investigation revealed that of 28,629 personnel passing through Fort Leonard Wood in July 1954, only four had even been treated for heatstroke, including Shekleton. The report cited numerous precautions taken by trainers— extra salt tablets and water, restricting physical activities to cooler times—and declared his death the result of his morbid obesity and his prior record of heat injuries.47 In 1955, the parents of a trainee who died at Fort Dix accused the army of covering up a meningitis epidemic; the resulting media speculation prompted a congressional investigation. The congressmen found high rates of respiratory illness and ample evidence of wretched quarters and inadequate facilities, but they also found that meningitis and mortality rates were lower than in New York City.48 In cases that attracted less media attention the army investigations were more perfunctory. In one instance, an inquiry revealed trainees subjected to incessant collective punishments, but after taking testimony solely from the cadre it concluded that “agitation, malingering, and other acts bordering on direct disobedience” justified these sanctions.49 Far from being too brutal, many career soldiers complained BCT was not tough enough, endorsing the Korean War critique that American society produced youth who were unpatriotic, immature softies. General Mark Clark told a mother who wanted her son made into a man that the army only had eighteen months to do what she had failed to accomplish in eighteen years. Even when the army took over the job, the mothers got in the way. Chaplain Mordecai  H. Daina opined, “young boys would get adjusted much faster to the roughness and toughness of the Army if it were not for the pampering of their 203

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mothers.” 50 A journalist visiting Fort Dix noticed that “every officer, from the post commandant on down, feels Mom and her congressman breathing down his neck.” 51 An officer who resigned his commission agreed: “I repeatedly had the feeling that our goal was not to train Infantrymen; rather our goal was to keep the mothers on the home front happy with the manner in which we treated their boys.” 52 Sergeant Otterman Herman, assigned to the training cadre at Fort Knox in 1956, recalled the weekend flood of complaining parents, politicians, and media. After one mother protested Herman assigning her son extra work, the post inspector general tried to relieve him, backing down only after the sergeant’s commander threatened to fight it all the way to the Pentagon. Disgusted, Herman soon managed to transfer to a nontraining assignment.53 In the army’s building-block approach, BCT taught essential military and social skills to individuals. Subsequent army training taught individuals to operate as part of a team or within their unit. After graduating from BCT, trainees were automatically promoted to private 2nd class (E2) and sent to Advanced Individual Training (AIT) to learn their Military Occupational Specialty (MOS). Most were assigned to one of the combat arms, which one draftee summarized as “a fate that everyone tried to avoid since what it meant was living through basic training for two years.” 54 Few escaped in the years after Korea. Of the 28,000 who graduated from BCT each month in fiscal year 1954, all but 4,000 did their AIT in the combat arms, with 11,600 going into the infantry.55 But as the army’s demand for skilled labor increased, things changed. By 1963, of the 375,000 BCT graduates, 10  percent were assigned immediately to a MOS corresponding to their civilian occupations, while another 10  percent went to army units for onthe-job training in their MOS. Most of the remaining 80  percent, or 254,000, went to one of eighty AIT courses at seven major training centers; afterwards only 114,000 went to combat arms while 140,000 were assigned to combat support and administrative occupations. Reflecting the warriors’ increasing specialization, 35,000 of those designated for the infantry became riflemen (MOS 111), 15,000 were taught to use mortars, Davy Crocketts, or other indirect fire weapons (MOS 204

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112), and 10,000 were assigned to direct fire weapons such as recoilless rifles (MOS 113).56 Now officially soldiers, most AIT participants were treated as adults and, particularly among the specialists, given detailed instruction by skilled personnel. In 1958 a recent graduate of BCT might be sent for his AIT to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for eight weeks to learn gunnery and maintenance, then to an additional five-week course to learn how to assemble, test, operate, and maintain a Lacrosse missile. He would be taught communications, electronics, gunnery, and how to ser vice motors, warheads, and guidance equipment. This would be followed by another five-week course to practice these skills as part of a fourteenman firing team. After almost half a year of training he would be certified in his MOS—Field Artillery Missile Crewman: Lacrosse 166.2—and dispatched to his permanent unit where, hopefully, he spent the next year exercising his talents.57 After finishing AIT and qualifying for their MOS, soldiers were assigned to tactical or support units; most remained there for about sixteen months before either being discharged (if draftees) or rotated to a new assignment. By the late 1950s a typical day in a combat arms company would begin with 6 a.m. reveille, breakfast, assembly at 7 a.m., “policing” (cleaning), and thirty minutes of “PT” (physical training). For the rest of the training day, which usually ended at five or later, soldiers practiced a tactical problem, drilled, went to classes, repaired vehicles, or worked on a variety of other tasks until evening formation. The type of training varied with the branch. The infantryman learned his role through battle drills, a post-Korea training innovation in which units rehearsed the tactics they would employ in combat, much like a football team practicing plays. Battle drills served as the building blocks by which squads were integrated into company exercises, and then battalion and regimental or battle group operations. Individuals and units were tested periodically in a series of standardized examinations, after which the squads returned to their battle drills and began preparing for the next large-unit test. In practice, the training cycle was far from uniform. The army distributed training instructions that served as the basis for tests, but 205

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individual commanders, particularly overseas, modified them to fit their mission or priorities. The number of troops actually engaged in training varied considerably, as soldiers were continually sent off to special courses to improve MOS skills, or for remedial or advanced education, or placed on detached duty as typists, kitchen assistants, athletes, or various other tasks. Indeed, one 7th Army study concluded that in a typical battalion only one soldier in four was present for the full training cycle.58 Captain John M. Tatum noted that in many units officers were “effectively hamstrung” by superiors who emphasized “beautification, all manner of special duty, post details, demonstrations, all of which seem to have a higher priority than training.” The cumulative effect was that “the unit is too busy cutting grass, pulling targets, preparing a demonstration, practicing football or some other equally important job, to turn out enough people.”59 Further complicating the training agenda, the trainers themselves were often called away because officers and enlisted personnel had to perform administrative or maintenance duties, stand guard mount, prepare for inspections or exercises, or comply with a multitude of other distractions. General John A. Seitz recalled the consequences of his own organization having to supervise summer camps for reservists: “It wiped out the training program, wiped out every thing . . . for all intents and purposes, from June till the middle of September there was no training in the 1st Division.” 60 When Chief of Staff Taylor decreed the pentomic reorganization, many units virtually stopped training for months in order to receive and discharge soldiers, reassign MOS personnel, exchange equipment, and teach personnel their new assignments.61 Whether overseas or stateside, all units were subject to Army Training Tests (ATT), and those whose missions included atomic weapons also underwent Technical Proficiency Inspection (TPI). Failing either had very serious consequences. The unit might have to retrain for months, with no leave or time off until it could retake the examination. The commander and many of his officers and NCOs might have the failure entered in their personnel files, which could harm their promotion prospects, or might even be relieved from command. For LT Gaines Post of 206

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Field training. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

the 3rd Missile Battalion, 79th Artillery, the ATT required a two-day drive under strict convoy discipline to Grafenwöhr. In the dust and cold his battery practiced for a few weeks, then undertook the three-day sleepless ordeal that culminated with firing an Honest John missile. Given how unpredictable the Honest John was—accuracy depended on the perfect combination of propellant, weather, assembly of the missile, firing data, and so forth—he felt lucky his unit passed.62 Officers had mixed feelings about the umpires who administered these tests. Some found them professional and competent, if hard. One officer recollected, “Umpires checked each level from staff down to company to see how each communicated and if procedures were being followed. Each phase of the test was followed up by a detailed critique from the chief umpire to the battle group commander and his staff, and believe me, nothing was missed.” 63 In contrast, Thomas Lynch 207

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dismissed “all of these bastards with white arm bands on . . . they pull these guys out of the woodwork; they may be the assistant housing officers, but they come down and try to tell you about deploying mortars.” When it was time for his unit’s test, “I did every thing possible to lose [the umpire] and once I lost him, my people got in there and manipulated his radio. He had no radio and he was running around with his clipboard trying to find things.” 64 The men in the white armbands were symptomatic of an inherent conflict between the army’s vision of war and its training practices. In theory, the ser vice was committed to the doctrines of limited atomic war: small, widely dispersed, highly mobile units maneuvering over hundreds of miles, striking rapid, repeated hard blows at the enemy. Such forces required adaptive, innovative combat leaders—from privates to colonels—with both the ability and the responsibility to seize fleeting tactical opportunities. And this, in turn, meant the army had to empower its draftees and junior officers. “Our young soldiers are neither morons or children,” protested COL David W. Hayes, “though, at times, we treat them like a combination of both.” The motivated, aggressive warriors needed for the atomic battlefield had to be freed from the arbitrary, petty restrictions of micromanaging supervisors: “References to the ‘chicken’ outfit should not be laughed off but should be investigated. Many commanders, unsure of themselves and uncertain of their abilities as leaders, resort to ridiculous extremes of discipline to cover up their own weakness.” 65 Some senior officers, whether from personal inclination or because they accepted the implications of this vision of war, decentralized training and encouraged adaptive, innovative subordinates. For example, when Hamilton H. Howze commanded the 2nd Armored Division his practice was to conduct what he termed “training inspections” in which he would assign a unit a few simple, spontaneous tactical problems and encourage its leaders to develop their own solutions.66 Most of his scenarios required rapid decision making and quick deployments, and were often conducted at night or in bad weather. The process resulted in many mistakes and a great deal of frustration, but Howze accepted 208

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this as a cost of having combat-ready troops. Other officers encouraged decentralization because they were too busy with administrative or other projects to supervise. This did not necessarily improve combat readiness. Louis C. Wagner, a lieutenant with the 11th Airborne Division in West Germany in 1956, recalled how he and his fellow junior officers “had total free rein. Too much so. If you appeared enthusiastic you could . . . take your platoon or your company . . . out the gate in the morning and come in at 6 or 7 o’clock at night. You never had to be worried that you were going to be checked. . . . You could go out to the field and sit around doing nothing, or you could go out and train all day in battle drills and that sort of thing.” 67 Some officers tried a combination of active supervision with decentralization. William  C. Westmoreland, recalling his command of the 101st Airborne Division, insisted, “My people were turned on by my ‘give them their head’ approach, and by my encouraging them to show initiative and to be innovative. I worked up a command and management system where we had some kind of crude measure for every thing, and every month I would have a council with all my commanders and I put on the chart ‘this is the way you fellows look relative to one another.’ ” 68 The general biannually inspected every unit down to the squad level, cataloging their strengths and deficiencies, and asking soldiers such random questions as a weapon’s serial number or their mission. Together with this top-down supervision, Westmoreland began a number of experiments to encourage individual initiative. He instituted tactical exercises in which officers and soldiers were dropped into an unknown area and had to maneuver over difficult terrain, locate an enemy force, and attack it. One of his most successful ideas was the 101st’s Recondo School, an elite program that taught squad leaders reconnaissance, patrolling, tactics, and other small-unit skills. Graduates were awarded a special patch, while those who washed out—between a third and half—were reassigned as cooks, mechanics, or some other nonleadership position. Another innovation was having enlisted personnel write on topics such as morale, education, or leadership, with the winner serving as Westmoreland’s orderly of the day and being 209

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awarded a weekend pass. These essays allowed the general to identify problems in his leadership—as, for example, in the case of the soldier who wrote: “When a soldier tells his company commander something, it should not be thrown into the trash can after the soldier leaves the room”— and garnered practical advice on recreation, education, and morale.69 Through a combination of incentives, charismatic leadership, ruthlessness, and micromanagement, Westmoreland ensured that the 101st remained a crack division. The impact of individual leadership styles and training philosophies is clear from a sample of commanders serving in Germany within a few years of each other. Lieutenant General James M. Gavin was an advocate of decentralization. Upon taking command of 7th Corps in December 1952, he was impressed with its readiness and training. The units moved from their kasernes (compounds) to the maneuver area quickly, the headquarters knew where the units were, and the exercises proceeded smoothly. But on closer inspection, he found much of 7th Corps’s effectiveness to be a façade. The maneuver ground was carefully prepared well in advance, down to engineer units creating crushed rock paths for the convenience of headquarters staff. The movement to the training grounds went smoothly because every unit did it exactly the same way, in the same formation, by the same schedule. Headquarters hummed along thanks to dozens of extra personnel—many borrowed from the combat units—who spent weeks setting up not only communications and logistics, but also private sleeping vans for each high-ranking officer. Once in the field, the troops enjoyed a hearty breakfast and drove out to the training area, where they spent the day practicing the same tactical exercise they would be tested on. When it grew dark, they drove back to their main camp. Gavin was even more upset when he found that throughout 7th Corps the unwritten rule for any exercise or unit test was that “no one was put in a very tough spot, because . . . if a guy made a mistake you just had to relieve him.” He concluded these tests were an appalling sham: “They weren’t learning a damn thing.” 70 Gavin changed the exercise rules, calling for emergency alerts, putting soldiers in covered trucks and taking them to new locations, forcing 210

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them to march all night and then conduct an assault or defense. He had the troops out in the field for days—and nights—in cold, wet, or heat, toughening them up and forcing their officers to deal with the stress, confusion, and fatigue of combat. The fi rst major exercise was such a fiasco it was canceled after a few hours, and the umpires “tore 7th Corps apart at the critique.” 71 The general purged his staff of excess personnel, got rid of the sleeping vans, and insisted that corps headquarters set up, move, and reassemble at the same pace as the combat units. Over several months, his troops learned to operate as a military team under the chaotic conditions they would encounter if the Soviets invaded. Both soldiers and officers made myriad mistakes as they gradually became combat ready, but through the entire process Gavin relieved only one battalion commander for poor performance, and that at his own request. The most extreme proponent of close supervision and managed exercises was LTG Bruce C. Clarke, the army’s self-proclaimed expert on training. When he arrived as commanding general of 7th Army in 1956 he faced existential challenges on several fronts. Many in the Eisenhower administration, Congress, the other armed forces, and the media questioned why, given the nation’s commitment to massive retaliation, there was any need for a large, expensive land force in Europe. The general had even provided them ammunition by admitting, “We can’t expect to do our business without atomic weapons. As good as the Seventh Army is . . . there’s too much opposition to beat the Russians or even hold them back without the use of atomic weapons.” 72 Clarke’s personal motto, which he often pasted in big red letters on his memos, was “An Organization Only Does Well Those Things the Boss Checks!” 73 And he tried to check every thing, taking only one day’s leave in his first year of frantic activity. One of his first directives was that no officer whose unit was judged mediocre would be retained in 7th Army, and he often relieved not only those who had failed, but their superiors as well. His next task was to impose his criteria on field units. In the words of one hostile witness, Clarke “literally swamped the company and detachment commanders with training memoranda” until they had foot-high piles on their desks.74 Another officer recalled 211

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Clarke’s headquarters issuing “reams and reams” of “poop” on every detail “from tank gunnery to how a soldier mounts a tank by putting his left foot on this and his right hand on that.” 75 Very quickly, commanders in the field calculated there were insufficient hours in the day to follow all of Clarke’s training instructions and began to circumvent them. The headquarters at 3rd Armored Division kept one copy of his directives prominently displayed and dumped the rest; Clarke routinely visited the division, which he rated as one of his best units, but never noticed it followed its own training program. Harold K. Johnson, 7th Army chief of staff, perhaps summed it up best when told the new commanding general, “Clarke knows more about training than any officer I have ever known and practices it less.” 76 The debate over training philosophy as it played out in Germany illustrates the vast gulf between overseas forces and those in the continental United States (CONUS). Satirized in the comic strip Beetle Bailey or dismissed as “Sparta Goes Suburban,” stateside duty during Eisenhower’s New Look was far from humorous to those living it.77 Garrison life was both boring and exhausting, a tedious existence in isolated posts that competed in army lore for their miserable weather, physical discomforts, and hostile civilian communities. There was the daily muster to ensure soldiers were shaved, barbered, with shoes and brass shined, and wearing a pressed uniform; the weekly barracks cleaning; the hated Saturday inspections; and the incessant police duties such as guard mount, scrubbing pots, picking up cigarettes, and post beautification. With the exception of airborne divisions, most 1950’s divisions in CONUS were skeleton organizations charged with administering basic, advanced, and specialist courses to thousands of personnel every month. In the summer these onerous duties increased to include the obligatory two-week active duty training of the National Guard and Ready Reserve. Not until fall could these stateside divisions prepare for their wartime mission, and then only for five months; soon a new class of trainees would swamp them. The wretched conditions of most CONUS facilities contributed to training difficulties. Most had been hastily thrown up during World War II, and decades later had the same buildings, facilities, and training ranges. 212

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Further compounding the problems of training were crippling bureaucratic duties the army imposed on CONUS personnel. One 1954 study concluded: “The initiative, leadership, and maturity of company officers is being systematically stunted. The overabundance of regulations, standing operating procedures, circulars, bulletins, memorandums, and other directives are reducing the unit commander to an automaton leaving little for resolution by command decision. Responsibility must be returned to the small unit commander.” 78 Post commanders eager to demonstrate their own military skills added to the bureaucratization. Correspondence from a Fort Riley artillery battalion in the 1st Infantry Division in 1954 is replete with such micromanaging directives as locking up the toilet paper and kitchen utensils and appointing an “environmental officer” to turn off lights and dripping faucets.79 In contrast, the high-priority CONUS forces such as Nike or Hawk missile batteries were usually in a superior state of training throughout the 1950s. Their life-or-death mission was to stop a Soviet air attack, and most of their crews were highly trained technicians expected to simulate firing a missile within fifteen minutes of an alert.80 One of Taylor’s transformation initiatives was to free the CONUS divisions from BCT and AIT duties and turn them into a mobile combat reserve for immediate overseas deployment. In theory, after 1957, four CONUS divisions handed their training responsibilities to other agencies and turned to war preparation as the Strategic Army Corps (STRAC).81 Like many of Taylor’s initiatives, creating an impressive image was at least as important as the product. STRAC, Taylor insisted, “is not a paper readiness or a public relations type of thing—it’s a real thing.” He instructed army publicists to start “getting the word out that the Army is constantly ready to meet any kind of operations— either large wars or small wars—any time, any place.” 82 They responded with an acronymic motto: “Skilled. Tough. Ready Around (The) Clock.” Another initiative, a 1958 public relations exhibition, “Army Combat Power,” touted STRAC as “a ready, hard-hitting spearhead . . . a primary weapon in the strategic arsenal for limited war.” 83 But in a revealing criticism, STRAC complained the presentation “leaves the impression that the capabilities presented are real capabilities. Revise the 213

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introduction to insure that the audience is aware that the exercise presents an ideal situation and is not directly tied to a current capability, particularly with respect to STRAC.” 84 This was not false modesty. During the 1958 Lebanon crisis, one study concluded that a STRAC deployment to Lebanon would require most of the nation’s strategic airlift. Confirming this dismal view, a few months later President Eisenhower sent a battle group from Europe to Beirut as STRAC watched from the sidelines.85 Even the term “strac”—which the army encouraged as a descriptor for the physically fit, squared away soldier— came in GI parlance to mean a “chicken” rear-echelon, by-the-book Regular Army careerist who never went near a battlefield. In the 1950s, STRAC was synonymous with the 18th Airborne Corps, which consisted of the 82nd and  101st Airborne Divisions. These were the “lightest” combat units in terms of their equipment and logistic requirements, and best suited for immediate deployment by airplane. Both divisions were composed of parachute-qualified volunteers and contained a high proportion of experienced NCOs and officers who opted to spend the bulk of their careers within the airborne mafia. Their indulgent overseers at 18th Airborne Corps kept quality high by transferring marginal soldiers overseas or to nonairborne units. The paratroops also enforced their own, rougher code of justice. One soldier who went AWOL was savagely beaten by two of his sergeants acting on orders of his company commander.86 Although they served as the showpieces, the actual state of readiness of STRAC’s two airborne divisions was a matter of some doubt. The cost, lack of transport airplanes, dependence on US Air Force flying schedules, and persistent problems with equipment all limited their ability to practice parachute assaults. Most airborne troopers participated in only a few group tactical exercises a year; most of their jumps were as individual “straphangers” whenever airplanes were available. More disturbing was the paratroopers’ attitude that jumping was the culmination of their military responsibilities. Howze, an armor officer who commanded the 82nd in 1958, confessed he was “rather shocked” at “the attitude of the airborne. And that is their interest in military operations stopped, not completely, but to a considerable extent 214

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101st Airborne troopers. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

as of the time they hit the ground and got out of their parachutes. And I was of the impression that the division was a long ways from properly trained in ground infantry operations.” 87 Howze’s complaint was echoed by many within the airborne community. Their role as the US Army’s showcase required incessant preparation for exercises, VIP visits, tours, unit awards, inspections, and demonstrations. So too did a “jockstrap” culture that exempted athletes from many activities. Robert Haldane, who commanded an 82nd battalion in 1959, recalled rarely having eighty soldiers in each company; he was severely underofficered, and spent much of his time showing off his unit to military and civilian audiences. In his view, the 82nd was “never really trained as well as they thought they were. There were too many distractions.” 88 Unlike CONUS, training in Korea or West Germany brought soldiers eyeball-to-eyeball with “Ivans” or “Joe Chinks,” and every 215

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GI knew that war was just a shot away. Tension was heightened by frequent alerts in which “inspectors descended on you in droves and you went in full gear, fully loaded, combat loaded” with a very short time to reach your deployment area.89 But despite their shared proximity to danger, training regimens in Korea and Germany were very different. The former war theater experienced a drawdown almost as rapid as  that in Europe after World War II. The 8th Army shrank from 300,000 in June 1954 to 120,000 just a year later; by December 1958 it comprised only 44,000 Americans. The turnover in individual personnel was equally great: the 7th Infantry Division lost 2,440 NCOs and 90 percent of its veteran troops during this period. Both American divisions were severely understrength, and  30  percent of their manpower was KATUSA (Korean Augmentation to the US Army). The Eisenhower administration, which consistently hid the true weakness of army forces in South Korea, refused to allow these skeleton organizations to merge into one combat-ready division. The understrength units in Korea also had to overcome lack of infrastructure, rugged terrain, and inadequate maintenance, equipment, and administration.90 The state of the American armed forces in Korea in the decade after the war is difficult to assess. One 1957 report noted that 8th Army engineer units were so busy building necessary facilities for the rest of the US and South Korean forces that they received only four hours of combat training a week; it would take three months to get them ready for war. A private in an infantry regiment indignantly complained that a third of his company’s rifles and half their crew-served weapons were broken, with most of the other equipment in similar disrepair. Donald Bennett, who commanded 1st Corps Artillery, was appalled to find that some units had not hitched their cannons to vehicles for months.91 In contrast Donald Boose, who served as an infantry lieutenant with the 1st Cavalry Division, recalled training as tough, practical, and thorough. During periodic alerts, the battle group would deploy to its combat positions. Each platoon (many of them KATUSAs) would climb whichever ridge the war plan assigned them to defend against North Korean attack. One KATUSA inevitably would ask if this was the real thing (“Joe Chink coming, sir?”). Most of the day-to-day battle drills 216

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were left to small-unit commanders who would practice scouting, fire and movement, frontal attacks, envelopments, passage of lines during withdrawals, and so on. Boose’s captain would sometimes combine personnel from his three skeleton platoons into two full-strength platoons, allowing them to practice tactics more realistically, albeit reducing the third platoon to a phantom. The colonel commanding the battle group did not like this practice and insisted that all platoons train with their actual complement of troops. On one occasion the colonel visited the company when the captain was absent and Boose was the senior (and only) officer present. He showed the colonel the deployments of the two platoons on the field. When the colonel asked where the third platoon was, Boose waved his hand toward the ridgeline and said they were dug in out of sight. The colonel was satisfied, but the young lieutenant worried for several minutes that he might face a court martial if the colonel decided to visit the virtual platoon on the ridgeline.92 In contrast to Korea, Germany (and particularly the 7th Army) was, in the words of LTG Melvin Zais, “the place to be; this was where the best command was, where the most realistic training was, where the tank gunnery was the best, where the equipment was the best, where there was a sense of urgency, and where there was a sense of mission accomplishment.” 93 When the Korean War broke out there were some 90,000 soldiers in US Army Europe (USAREUR) and they had just shed their occupation duties and turned to combat training. The war prompted a three-fold buildup of forces in Europe, so that by the end of the conflict there were 250,000 soldiers in USAREUR, reorganized into the 7th Army and two major subordinate commands: 5th Corps (Stuttgart) and 7th Corps (Frankfurt). The 7th Army’s mission was to stop a Soviet attack on NATO; in the years between the Korean and Vietnam conflicts it made up between a quarter and a third of the army’s tactical divisions. In the dark era after Vietnam, veterans and reformers alike would look back to 1950s Germany for inspiration, creating a doctrine, equipment, and training based almost entirely on a future Soviet–NATO war in Europe.94 Stripped of post-Vietnam nostalgia, training in Germany focused on the skills to fight high-tempo, mechanized ground operations. In 1957, 217

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the 7th Army had over 37,000 vehicles—roughly one for every four soldiers—and required not only large areas for training, but enormous resources. In a year in which its junior lieutenants made $2,600, 7th Army spent $125,000,000 for ammunition and $100,000,000 for spare parts. Unfortunately, space was in short supply. Its five combat divisions and three armored cavalry regiments were scattered among fifty-five historic military compounds, or kasernes. Most dated from the nineteenth century and were situated to allow their garrisons quick access toward France, not Russia. Constructed in the days of foot soldiers and horse cavalry, they lacked maintenance facilities, vehicle parking, communications, and other necessities of modern warfare. But efforts to train off post immediately reactivated “that devil of a hot subject”: maneuver damages.95 Every knocked- down tree, torn-up road, or damaged house required heavy compensation to German civilians and to government officials. Throughout the fifties army engineers (bolstered by thousands of German workers) installed barracks, water treatment, plumbing, electricity, heating, and all the other necessities at the four major training centers: Wildflecken (19,000 acres), Grafenwöhr (25,000 acres), Hohenfels (21,000 acres), and Baumholder (25,000 acres). Despite these improvements, one study complained that in Western Europe, “ There is no room for true maneuver—there is no possibility for deep envelopment, penetration, or for defense on a wide front—but most serious of all, there is no way to obtain the battlefield dispersion required for atomic operations. Instead, units are practicing the ‘wrong’ habit of consistent over-concentration.” Most serious were the “major artificialities” in training mechanized and armored units, which had to “conduct operations by orally ‘painting a picture’ of the action they would have taken under actual conditions, or had movement restrictions not been imposed.” 96 Whether overseas or continental, the ultimate test of the Cold War army’s transformation would be how it performed on the atomic battlefield. The US Army’s experience in World War II and Korea demonstrated it could rapidly turn civilians into soldiers capable of fighting conventional nonnuclear warfare. But how was it to prepare soldiers in 218

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Winter maneuvers in Germany. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

peacetime, especially short-service draftees, for atomic war? The logical conclusion, as one officer pointed out, was that “if troops are trained for conventional warfare and then are thrown into a nuclear battle situation, the training received is of little benefit. The more a soldier’s training resembles the actual conditions he is likely to be in, the greater his confidence will be . . . to prepare for future battles, leaders will have to expose their troops to actual nuclear explosions.” 97 But this was easier said than done. Despite a great deal of energy and innovation, replicating the atomic battlefield on the training ground proved impracticable. The problems were many and varied, including every thing from protocols that made it virtually impossible for those with access to atomic weapons to test even dummy rounds, to a perpetual shortage of officers with the requisite security classifications and credentials to qualify for assignment to “Special Weapons” (atomics). Even basic 219

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manuals for realistic training regimens were in short supply. One officer, after listing all the mistakes his unit made when training, recalled, “I never saw any written doctrine or tactics during that period [the 1950s] on how to survive and operate in a nuclear environment.” He concluded, “we would have been in terrible shape in atomic warfare . . . on the other hand, I don’t think the Soviets would have been any better off because they probably didn’t understand it either.” 98 The army’s efforts to stage realistic maneuvers using atomic weapons were repeatedly frustrated by its lack of access to those warheads. The Atomic Energy Commission, at least in the army’s view, insisted on unrealistic safety standards and changed, apparently on a whim, test dates, numbers of participants, and their qualifications. For their part, some scientists were troubled at the armed forces’ somewhat cavalier disregard for the health of the “volunteers” in these tests. Almost as troublesome as federal agencies were the army’s publicity bureaus, which looked on each blast as an opportunity to sell the ser vice’s atomic capabilities to civilians while reassuring GIs that they would live through an atomic strike. In 1957, for example, an exercise in which helicopters transported an assault force into a blast zone was so scripted by PR staffers that the umpires sourly noted “the demonstrational aspects” had “precluded valid testing.” 99 The Desert Rock exercises of 1952 and  1953 established that entrenched soldiers were safe from the explosion and could operate in the blast zone soon after detonation. The effects of radiation were far less well monitored. In 1952, a company of paratroopers dropped just 1,000 meters from the burst zone ninety minutes after the explosion. A year later, the army’s new 280mm atomic cannon fired a fifteen-kiloton shell, soon followed by an infantry assault into the blast area, a demonstration that dazzled visiting press and politicians. To the army’s transformation advocates, the Desert Rock tests confirmed the need to radically change the ser vice’s doctrine, equipment, and force structure to focus on tactical atomic warfare. The few officers allowed to attend the demonstrations were more ambivalent. One officer, perhaps ironically, reported, “Now that I have seen one, I will recognize immediately a future atomic explosion as such, should I see one.”100 220

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When it came to training troops for tactical atomic warfare using simulated nuclear warheads, the army faced a daunting task. CONARC might issue orders, as it did in 1955, that “atomic play will be included in all tactical exercises when appropriate. Every effort will be made to permit an atomic attack to have its full impact on the exercise in order to impress on commanders and troops the magnitude of all aspects of planning and operation.” 101 But it was often impossible for subordinates to comply. Training areas had to be much larger to simulate the effects of atomic warheads and for units to practice the dispersed, long-range mobile tactics army doctrine called for. In Europe only Grafenwöhr could accommodate atomic-capable weapons firing to their full range, and the high cost in both money and public relations due to property damage severely restricted such maneuvers off base. In Korea and Japan there was not only the problem of maneuver areas, but the political dangers of deploying atomic weapons, if only for practice. As a substitute, the army developed a number of training aides. One of the most popular was the “atomic blast demonstrator” consisting of seven 55-gallon drums filled with a mixture of napalm and  200 pounds of TNT that created a 180-foot fireball and 1,000-foot mushroom cloud. The effect must have been awesome, since one division commander complained, “individuals are looking at and discussing simulated Abombs instead of seeking cover.” 102 The highest levels of training, and the measure of the army’s transformation to tactical atomic war, were the large-unit exercises and maneuvers. In fiscal year 1955 nearly 100,000 soldiers participated in at least one of ten major field exercises within the continental United States. It took months of planning to assemble tens of thousands of troops, umpires, tanks, artillery, transport vehicles, and the necessary equipment and supplies, not to mention entertainment for the media and VIPs. At a time when a private (E2) made barely $85 a month, 1956’s Exercise Sagebrush cost over $20,000,000—and burdened the army with an expensive and unwanted permanent installation.103 The exercises also had high human and materiel costs. Soldiers became casualties when tanks rolled through their sleeping areas, when their vehicles overturned, as a result of winter storms or water 221

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crossings, or through a host of other mishaps. In the four weeks of Exercise Snowfall, almost 20,000 separate items were so damaged they had to be written off. More tragically, three soldiers died and nineteen were injured in a single day. A third of Exercise North Star’s participants suffered some form of injury; Exercise Desert Strike resulted in thirty-three deaths. At Grafenwöhr on 2 September 1960, sixteen soldiers were killed and twenty-seven wounded when an errant artillery shell landed in their bivouac area. Although one survey found the annual rate for injuries in airborne units was 0.3  percent, at Exercise Southern Pine there were 185 jump injuries and one fatality; at Exercise Longhorn one parachute company suffered 120 casualties among its 175 men; at Exercise Eagle Wing 155 members of the 101st Airborne were injured and five were killed.104 Many other soldiers were hurt when airplanes dropped vehicles or supplies onto mustering areas, when rigging failed, or when pallets disintegrated on impact. Over half a century later, Edward M. Coffman’s most vivid memory of one exercise was a 75mm cannon breaking loose from its parachute and hitting the ground a few yards from where he stood.105 The army accepted these losses in equipment and personnel because it was convinced such large-unit exercises were the only way to test its preparedness for atomic war, and to show the nation it was ready. One of the first major maneuvers to incorporate tactical atomic warfare (referred to as “atomic play”) on both sides was Exercise Longhorn, held in Texas between 25 March and 10 April 1952. It involved some 115,000 participants, and was intended to test planning for large-scale operations; the simulated use of the army’s new 280mm atomic cannon; nuclear camouflage and protection measures; and atomic tactics. The scenario was a hy pothetical invasion advancing from San Antonio to Dallas, with the 82nd Airborne Division playing the “Aggressor” force and two infantry and one armored division as the defenders. To senior officers, the exercise “proved conclusively that the days of close formations are over when the enemy has an atomic capability” and that dispersion, field fortifications, and mobility would characterize the future battlefield.106 222

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Longhorn revealed many of the difficulties that would continue to plague atomic maneuvers. The new umpiring methods to test the effects of atomic weapons were slow and cumbersome, requiring staff to stop action in order to calculate burst dispersal and damages. Coordination with the air force was problematic; fighter planes chased each other across the sky but close air support was minimal. Many participants arrived barely trained and out of shape. Leadership was also problematic; officers lost control of their men, who then wandered around the countryside, failed to execute missions, and were captured with top-secret documents. Major General Hobart R. Gay summed up a litany of the mistakes he had observed with the timeless military aphorism: “It is truly astounding to me how easy it is for us to get a damn fool order obeyed explicitly and yet how hard it is to get anybody to obey a sound one.” 107 Although Exercise Flashburn, held two years later at Fort Benning, was an improvement, it exposed more problems. It involved 60,000 soldiers and took over two weeks. The scenario had immediate application to army tactical atomic doctrine: parachutists would establish an airhead, supporting forces and supplies would be airlifted to defend the perimeter, and an armored spearhead would first break the siege of the airhead and then lead an offensive. Beyond testing tactics and organization, the exercise had nineteen separate objectives. One of these was evaluating and publicizing the new atomic arsenal of cannons, missiles, and rockets that featured in a dozen simulated nuclear strikes. To its sponsors, Flashburn was an outstanding success, proving conclusively “that only with the mobility and flexibility of airborne and air-landed units can we meet the demands of the atomic age.” 108 The performance of several experimental weapons was so encouraging that Chief of Army Field Forces John  E. Dahlquist predicted, “We stand on the threshold of a new era so far as the Army is concerned. The work of our scientists and industry is starting to come to life.” 109 But Dahlquist’s staff found the entire scenario—airdrop, prolonged defense, and relief column—“tactically unsound.” They noted that armored forces could have quickly overrun the paratroopers’ airhead and that it “remained 223

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an ideal atomic target throughout most of the exercise.” 110 Soldiers who had dug foxholes in a “simulated swamp” met the umpire’s orders to dig new ones with the logical argument that “if a swamp can be simulated, why can’t a fox hole?” 111 Umpires complained that whereas commanders had previously failed to use their atomic weapons, they now called for nuclear strikes to resolve minor tactical problems. An observer from the Command and General Staff College concluded, “perhaps the outstanding feature of this maneuver was its artificiality.” He was disturbed by the way participants “cultivated an unhealthy indifference to the atomic threat. Of course, one actual exposure will generally cure this, but there will be few left to practice what is learned.” 112 Some of the more frustrating maneuvers were those intended to test new tactical organizations for atomic war, and particularly the proposed Atomic Field Army (AFTA). In 1955’s Follow Me, the 3rd Infantry Division served as a guinea pig for the AFTA infantry division. As the 3rd’s commander summarized, the “results were disappointing and inconclusive”; apparently the new organization was no better at atomic warfare than the Korean War– era division, and worse at dealing with enemy aircraft, guerrillas, and armor.113 Exercise Blue Bolt, which tested the new model armor division, was more successful, in large measure because the AFTA reorganization imposed relatively few changes.114 Exercise Sagebrush in 1956, the largest of the post–World War II maneuvers, involved 135,000 army and air force personnel maneuver ing over an area greater than Rhode Island. It tested the revised AFTA armor and infantry divisions, and although both ser vices publicly praised the exercise, their internal analyses were far less positive. As with previous joint exercises, their planners engaged in acrimonious debate over the allocation of aircraft, umpiring rules, scenarios, and finally, which side had won. The tests of the army’s atomic arsenal were inconclusive, partly because despite simulated attacks unleashing over a hundred atomic bombs, there was little consensus on blast effects, and the umpires ignored radiation and fallout altogether. Due to primitive roads, heavy rains, and inadequate planning, several massive traffic jams essentially paralyzed movement for hours, and would have been 224

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quickly targeted by enemy atomics. One observer found very little training going on at the small-unit level and “questioning of junior officers and enlisted men indicated they had lost much interest in the maneuver.” 115 In retrospect, it appears that the troops’ disinterest was appropriate, for Chief of Staff Taylor ignored all three AFTA exercises when he adopted the pentomic division. Indeed, Taylor stood the whole process on its head by having the pentomic organization tested in maneuvers only after it had been imposed. The army had even less success practicing tactical atomic warfare overseas. Gavin’s experiments dampened much of his earlier enthusiasm for tactical atomic warfare. In one exercise, a single nuclear weapon shattered his corps’s defensive front.116 In 1956 Exercise Carte Blanche, which simulated the effects of 355 nuclear strikes, predictions for casualties ran to 1,700,000 dead and 3,500,000 wounded in the first week. The exercise was both a military and public relations fiasco: one poll revealed two out of three West Germans now opposed the use of American atomic weapons in the event of Soviet attack.117 Subsequent exercises, such as Indian Summer and Lion Bleu were plagued by persistent difficulties in communications, coordinating ground and air forces, civilian evacuation, and ensuring accurate and timely atomic strikes. In Exercise Bear Claw the headquarters was so overwhelmed with signals communications—22,000 messages in one day—that they fell twelve hours behind. One cable was so long and complicated that an officer opined it would have been faster for the author to have driven to the Frankfurt airport and given the flight crew instructions to mail it once they arrived in Washington.118 To compound the army’s troubles, these European exercises not only exposed the pentomic organizations’ inability to sustain combat during atomic warfare, but also to conduct conventional operations. With some justice, the US Army’s own study of large-unit maneuvers listed one of the primary lessons as “the fallacy of airborne exercises.”119 In retrospect, it appears there was a consistent, almost obsessive requirement that every major CONUS exercise include a mass parachute drop by one of the airborne divisions. These served as a spectacular public relations photo op, but were dogged by inadequate transport 225

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aircraft, bad weather, cascading delays, and, most seriously, the airhead’s inability to defend itself from counterattack, especially by atomic weapons. The usual solution was to simply wave such problems away. Yet even airborne disciples like GEN Paul D. Adams were moved to protest when umpires declared that parachutists could fly through massed antiaircraft batteries, land unscathed, and capture the very atomic weapons that were pulverizing their drop zone.120 The army’s solicitude for its airborne elite came at a high cost to the other CONUS divisions and hurt the overall readiness of STRAC. And by the early 1960s helicopters proved a more viable, flexible, and efficient means of delivering combat soldiers to the battlefield than did parachutes. In retrospect, it is difficult not to conclude that many of the atomic warfare exercises reflect the airborne community’s ability to shape ser vice priorities at the cost of testing other, and perhaps more practical alternatives. Like the horse cavalry, whose mounted charges were a fi xture of pre–World War II drills, the parachute drop provided a romantic if somewhat impractical piece of theater to the other wise grim business of preparing for war. The large-unit exercises brought the US Army into contact with the public in a variety of ways. Officers learned very quickly that recruiting civilians as spies, guerrillas, and clandestine agents brought with it considerable risks. In one maneuver, the two opposing resistance networks were so hostile to their respective military “occupiers” that they unnerved at least one commanding general. In another, college students formed an independent guerrilla force and tried to wage their own war.121 Far more serious were the extensive negotiations between civil and military authority over the maneuver areas. After Longhorn the army paid out $156,000 in property damages, but irate Texans blocked the plan to use the Fort Hood area for Sagebrush. The Pentagon had not considered an alternative maneuver area, and was desperate to secure one for the largest atomic warfare exercise of the decade. In a seemingly heaven-sent opportunity, the governor of Louisiana offered the use of 7,000,000 acres in the vicinity of Camp Polk, an abandoned WWII training camp. Despite opposition from some officers, who argued it would cost millions of dollars to create the most basic infra226

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structure for the exercise, the Pentagon pushed on. Then, in what could only have been a surprise to people unacquainted with Louisiana politics, the governor announced the maneuvers were now contingent on Polk becoming a permanent installation. The army had to negotiate 50,000 contracts for land and access, pay local authorities for construction permits, and compensate the state of Louisiana $1,500,000 for road repairs. Army engineers then spent a further $4,000,000 strengthening some 1,600 bridges to bear the weight of tanks, and building barracks, an airfield, and other necessary infrastructure on federal land. Even then, a river crossing, one of the key tests for the AFTA division, was canceled because the state’s road system was so primitive. The army had budgeted $2,000 for property damages; Louisiana billed it $2,000,000 and an almost equal sum to repair roads and bridges. Sagebrush’s legacy continued long after the last soldier left. The army’s accountants made a strong case against making Polk a permanent installation. They estimated it would cost $20,000,000 to repair or rebuild its facilities, and $3,000,000 more each year to station troops there instead of at Fort Hood. But in what might be termed the Second Louisiana Maneuvers, the state’s politicians defeated the Pentagon. Louisiana was repurchased; Fort Polk became a permanent post, as hated by 1950s soldiers as it had been by their WW2 and Korean War predecessors. For its part, the army bought an area that, in the words of one official historian, “contained large bayous or swamps with stagnant water, heavy vegetation, some quicksand, and very few roads. Tracked vehicles could not traverse much of this area in rainy weather. . . . The greater portion of maneuver area was so heavily forested that it was unusable.” 122 The large-unit exercises revealed the tension between realistic training and selling the army to the public. To those in the Public Information Office, “the credibility of the Army’s role as a strategic deterrent is weakened by the lack of frequently demonstrated performances.” 123 Longhorn, Flashburn, Sagebrush, and other exercises filled entire episodes of television’s The Big Picture and provided stock footage of large numbers of troops engaged in faux combat with the latest equipment. This was an invaluable resource for army public relations, and ensured 227

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Hollywood cooperation in future portrayals of the army. But for those responsible for preparing soldiers for atomic warfare, what one umpire termed the “swarms of observers and VIPS, and of course, the press” that cluttered up the maneuver area were an enormous imposition.124 In Sagebrush the army used its few precious helicopters to transport media representatives to the drop zone. This not only prevented troops from using these same helicopters for a tactical maneuver but also alerted the opposition to exactly when and where the assault would take place. For the units involved, exercises demanded an enormous commitment of time, resources, and energy— and were a major distraction from training, education, and personnel rotation. These problems were magnified when the army used either reserve or recently activated divisions that had not completed small-unit training. Many of the troops assigned to Longhorn were already en route overseas or to schools, which “resulted in considerable confusion, disruption of the transportation schedules, and unnecessary hardship for the personnel.” 125 The 3rd Infantry Division spent most of 1954 preparing for Exercise Follow Me. The next year, they were assigned to Sagebrush, with the added task of assimilating hundreds of unhappy soldiers transferred in to bring the division up to combat strength. The 3rd’s commander blamed its “exceptionally poor” reenlistment rate on the demands these exercises placed on his soldiers.126 In 1956 the commander of the 101st, which was at three-quarter strength and in the midst of pentomic reorganization, complained that preparation for the division’s essential mission was sacrificed to participation in exercises. Seven years later, a commanding general offered as a partial excuse for the 82nd’s “substandard performance” on one exercise that it had recently taken part in three other maneuvers.127 By the late 1950s the US Army was at an impasse when it came to testing atomic war. After watching the 101st, the nation’s first pentomic division, muddle through another atomic war maneuver in 1960, MG Ben Harrell concluded, “our current equipment, organ ization, and doctrine are not compatible.” The army’s concept of war called for rapid, dispersed formations that could identify friendly or hostile 228

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forces, communicate quickly, maneuver, and both employ and avoid atomic weapons. But the last exercise, like all the preceding ones, had confirmed it: “Unfortunately none of these conditions exist today— our surveillance means, communications, mobility, and firepower are inadequate to support this doctrine and will be for some time to come. Yet all echelons continue to assign missions, based on doctrine, which are completely beyond the capability of the unit to perform. . . . I shudder to contemplate the outcome of [combat] engagements if we continue to practice the principles and train our officers and men exclusively on a doctrine which is based on inadequate equipment or equipment of the future. . . . In any engagement in the near future I would rather take my chances of being ‘atomicized’ than the almost certainty of being defeated by a second-rate force because my tactics were not in tune with my capabilities or equipment.” 128

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8

MARKETING THE NEW, IMPROVED ARMY

A few weeks after John F. Kennedy’s election, G.I. Blues opened in 500 theaters across the nation, introducing what one film scholar termed the “New and Improved Elvis.” 1 Producer Hal Wallis began shooting while Presley was still in uniform, amassing background shots of Frankfurt, 3rd Armored Division exercises, German scenery, and sometimes including an Elvis double. G.I. Blues jettisoned the rebellious rock-androller of Presley’s early movies, and left most of the gyrating to his costar, Juliet Prowse. Guided by copious comments from US Army editors, the film portrayed soldiering in idyllic terms. Tulsa McCauley (Presley) rode around in a tank shooting up the German scenery, led a singing combo, and met and won the heart of Lili (Prowse), a beautiful nightclub dancer. Both were initially suspicious of each other. McCauley’s negative perceptions were made clear in his opening song, which claimed he would prefer a muddy Texas creek to the romantic Rhine. For her part, Lili dismissed all American soldiers as boorish and juvenile. Yet Tulsa’s honesty and gentlemanly behavior, not to mention his singing a German folk song, soon won her heart. When not romancing Lili, Tulsa’s soldiering consisted largely of lounging in immaculate khakis, practicing for a talent show, helping out his buddies, and otherwise being a stellar representative of what his commanding officer termed “American ambassadors in Germany.” The film’s only indication that GIs might not be perfect diplomats was provided by Tulsa’s buddy, Rick, who had unknowingly fathered a child with a local girl. All problems were resolved, thanks to the paternal guidance of the officers. Rick 230

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married his girlfriend, Lili proved a willing prize, and the movie ended with Tulsa/Elvis saluting his fellow soldiers against the backdrop of a giant American flag. The message was clear: soldiering was not only a transformative personal experience but also a lot of fun. And the US Army was a modern, progressive, combat-ready force that any young man would be proud to serve in.2 The army’s directors of public relations heartily approved of this portrayal, but for reasons far more complex than Presley’s lighthearted musical comedy suggests. The ser vice’s plans to transform itself militarily required a similar transformation of its image. The fiscal and personnel restrictions imposed by Eisenhower’s New Look threatened the army’s very existence. As Chief of Information (CINFO) Guy S. Meloy explained in 1956, the annual defense budget had become such a cutthroat test of survival that the “logical way” for the competing ser vices to improve their position was through “a concerted publicity campaign.” 3 His successor, MG Harry P. Storke, made a similar point when he warned that recent polls showed “the man on the street” still equated the army with “mud, dust, and dirt,” and wielding bayonets and rifles in an age of missiles and atomic bombs. The army was “a product,” which like “any good product today must be ‘sold’ . . . or public opinion will not support that product.” In the battle of the budgets, “the Army is in the big leagues with the other Ser vices” in a “competition just as tough as sales in automobiles, in coffee, in soap.” Like Meloy, he believed the ser vice’s military rejuvenation required “a concentrated dose of Public Relations such as the Army has never taken before.” 4 The two CINFOs’ embrace of marketing for military reform reflected a service-wide consensus. Colonel Embert A. Fossum summarized the peacetime predicament: “A sizeable segment of the American population believes that a ground fighting force is an anachronism in this air-missile-space age and another even larger segment of the population gives no thought to the matter at all.”5 How could the army reform its doctrine, equipment, and organization in such an indifferent, if not hostile, public environment? How could it challenge the Eisenhower administration’s commitment to massive retaliation and army cutbacks? How could it convince the nation’s young elites to volunteer for ser vice 231

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and then remain in uniform? It must, as Chief of Staff Matthew  B. Ridgway explained, become “a public-relations-conscious Army.” 6 Or, as one CINFO bluntly put it, everyone in uniform must become “a public information servant.” 7 Perhaps influenced by the phenomenal growth of the post–World War II advertising industry, military leaders, from the chief of staff on down, were confident that the public, and its political representatives, were eager to hear the army’s story, if only the ser vice could find the means to tell it. The ser vice’s Public Information Program, centered in the Office of the Chief of Information (OCI), consumed the energies of the highest levels of the Pentagon. It included television crews, pop-star draftees, dozens of post and command public information officers (IOs), and the officer-editors who censored television and movie scripts.8 The program recruited civilians, mobilizing tens of thousands of boosters, from hometown deejays to Hollywood studio moguls, from Edward R. Murrow to 1962’s Miss Army: Jane Fonda. It targeted key constituents— policymakers, alumni (veterans), and ordinary citizens—and utilized the most modern market research techniques to measure the effectiveness of its messages. Sometimes, as in the advertising world, selling the product became an end in itself. One OCI officer pushed to publicize the army’s missile program because “if we are in space, and doing it well, the over-all reputation of the Army as a modern, well-educated, forward-looking force will rise in prestige,” which in turn meant “a larger budget. A larger budget means more flexibility, more room to experiment. And, in the end, the soldier and his front line mission will benefit from it.” 9 Beyond the competition with its rival ser vices, on at least one occasion the Cold War army’s relentless self-promotion threatened to pit the ser vice against its civilian masters. Army “information” was aimed at two constituencies: an internal one of soldiers and their families, and an external one of policymakers, media, veterans, and citizens. In theory, these disparate stakeholders were the responsibility of two different offices. And in the early 1950s OCI organizational charts, the lines were still clear. The Department of Defense’s Office of Public Information coordinated the armed forces’ programs, set general themes, and sought to squelch any rumors of 232

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interser vice rivalries. Within the OCI, the Troop Information Program dealt with soldiers and their dependents; politicians fell under the legislative and liaison branch; and the American people were the responsibility of the Public Information Division. But in practice, these lines were blurred, and often erased, with many OCI-generated public relations campaigns directed at both internal and external publics. For example, OCI oversaw not only such service-centered publications as Army Information Digest and Stars and Stripes, but also television shows, radio programs, movies, press releases, and other outreach programs produced for the general public. The lines were even blurrier in day-to-day affairs. As one general pointed out, by sending a newspaper a picture of a hometown corporal firing his weapon, the post IO was simultaneously improving troop morale and boosting the ser vice’s public prestige.10 As a senior OCI staff officer explained to students at the Army War College, “We follow the same route that large industries have followed in associating public goodwill with their operations.” 11 One CINFO maintained that the army should be seen as a “public corporation” that needed to satisfy both its “employees” (soldiers) and its “stockholders” (American taxpayers).12 The army’s recruitment program had a long association with advertising agencies, but in the 1950s the power of marketing appeared to offer unlimited possibilities. To COL Richard W. Whitney, it was essential that officers know how to “sell our product . . . establishing and maintaining a promotion and merchandizing program equal to or better than that of any business or industry in the Nation.” 13 In a slogan that might have been coined by a Madison Avenue agency, in 1957 OCI advocated adopting the acronym USPOWER, each letter highlighting one of seven attributes, from “Unique Capacity for the Application of Force” to “Role as Deterrent and Defensive Force in First Line of Defense.” 14 Throughout the 1950s, OCI endured a constant tension between its long-term strategic goal of transforming the army’s image and the dayto- day tactical problems of damage control. Initially its efforts were less than impressive. One officer estimated it took “eighteen months of continuous hard effort to overcome . . . the destruction of public 233

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esteem of the Army by poor, unbalanced reporting of the first six months of the Korean conflict, aided and abetted by unthinking officials outside the Army.” 15 Over the course of the decade, OCI developed the expertise to manipulate stories to the ser vice’s advantage. By 1963, when the General Accounting Office reported that the muchpublicized Lacrosse missile system was a $100,000,000 failure, the entire program riddled with mismanagement and overspending, OCI was ready. It immediately drafted an “information plan” to handle the crisis, wrote a rebuttal, and drew up a list of possible questions and responses for the CINFO press conference. Under OCI’s guidance, the army admitted Lacrosse’s deficiencies, and even acknowledged that many problems had been evident before the first missile was built. But, in a wonderful bit of counterfactual reasoning, it argued that since the Lacrosse had never been fired in combat, it had proven itself an effective deterrent.16 In the OCI’s view, the central problem was clear: “the image of the Army in the public mind [is] something less than flattering. Most people look upon the Army as unglamorous, slow, cumbersome, rigid, oldfashioned, dirty, and generally of decreasing significance as a combat force in wars of the future.”17 The first step to redemption was to repackage the ser vice: “In the public consciousness we must associate the Army with the future. We must destroy any association with obsoleteness or decadence.”18 But creating a “public consciousness” of a progressive, modern force able to wage everything from atomic war to counterinsurgency— and benefit each and every member—was a difficult and complex task. A “fundamental problem,” as one CINFO explained in 1955, “was that the very size and complexity of the ser vice, and its myriad duties, make it very difficult to develop a clear, simple and understandable statement of our basic mission.” 19 Four years later, another public relations officer put the ser vice’s dilemma much more bluntly: “There is no emotional or conceptual basis for an appealing Army image. As you well know the search for such a basis has gone on since 1946. We seem so near and yet so far from finding the right image.” 20 Compounding the OCI’s frustration was evidence that the army was having a hard time selling the ser vice to its own members. One infor234

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mation officer castigated a misguided public relations initiative that attempted a humorous portrayal of military life: “All of us realize that all draftees are not particularly sympathetic to their term of ser vice in the Army. Any material that is furnished them that is particularly derogatory toward the Army can well be converted to anti-Army publicity.” 21 Survey research repeatedly confirmed that the majority of those leaving active duty “were not favorably impressed with the Army as a career . . . these men will not exert a positive favorable influence on the civilian public’s opinion of the Army.” 22 Even career officers questioned such relentless self-promotion by a ser vice unable to articulate a coherent vision statement. Brigadier General Andrew  T. McAnsh commented that it was unfair to blame the public for its lack of faith when “the Army, as a whole, does not have the belief in itself that it should.” 23 In response to repeated directives to “tell the Army’s story,” one officer retorted, “I do not know what the Army’s mission is or how it plans to fulfill its mission. . . . At a time when new weapons and new machines herald a revolution in warfare, we soldiers do not know where the Army is going and how it is going to get there.”24 Perhaps not surprisingly, a ser vice distracted by internal conflicts about its mission, relevance, and public esteem sent varied and confused messages to the American public and Congress. The task of mediating between the Pentagon-initiated OCI campaigns and local public relations duties fell to the IO. Assigned to the unit or installation commander, this officer’s mission was “any undertaking conducive to public understanding, confidence and support through factual interpretation of the Army to the world-wide public.” 25 He or she (Wacs were often assigned this task) might supervise a small staff of enlisted personnel, preferably draftees with prior experience as journalists, photographers, printers, editors, or publicists. As one OCI officer explained, “In theory the ideal IO (presumably caught young) is a 100% soldier who knows the Army inside out and who, to maintain this knowledge, should revert to his basic branch every three years.” 26 In theory also, each was a graduate of the US Army Information School’s intensive eight-week course that included applied journalism, television and media, and military affairs. But with 211 slots available 235

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for the school in 1957, only 87 officers applied, and only 18 had sufficient rank for appointment to a major command headquarters. That year, the army filled only 700 of its required 1,200 slots for qualified IOs.27 As a staff officer, the IO had the responsibility, but not the authority, to implement a successful public relations program. It was hard, stressful, and usually unrewarding duty, and it was axiomatic that “few officers will accept an assignment as PIO gladly or even willingly.” 28 With Regular Army officers steadfastly avoiding IO assignments, during most of the decade 70  percent were reservists. And the army all but guaranteed that few of them would remain on active duty long enough to collect their full pension. For the majority of reserve officers, the IO position was a three-year detached assignment from branch. Too often, their branch promotion and retention boards dismissed public relations duty as irrelevant to their professional qualifications, denied promotion, and slated the officer for separation from the ser vice. The IO’s oftenprickly relations with their commanders made the likely prospect of career suicide even worse. Some suffered under superiors whose first response to any critical story was “to call the correspondent an SOB and have a hell of a fight.” 29 Others had micromanaging bosses, such as the division chief of staff who tried to kill a story by sending his IO on leave, reasoning that with him out of contact, the media couldn’t get any information.30 Small wonder that journalists often spoke disparagingly of the inexperience or ineptitude of the IOs they dealt with, or that most officers considered such an assignment “the graveyard of their career.” 31 Public relations influenced army policy, and vice versa, far beyond the efforts of OCI and post information officers. This is clearly illustrated in Chief of Staff Ridgway’s letter to his senior commanders. By June 1954, Ridgway was already a legendary combat soldier credited with saving the war in Korea. He also had a flair for image management, as numerous pictures of him in combat gear, hand grenade strapped to his chest, attest. Now, the Korean War over, Ridgway believed that public, media, and political animosity to the ser vice had created a gigantic “public relations problem which calls for positive action.” Army officers must “present ourselves directly to the people through 236

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the various public information media and through our daily contact at the community level. Only by doing all these things thoroughly shall we be able to gain and retain the confidence and support of the American people.” The officer corps especially must repudiate the practices of the past, when it “remained aloof from the public” and “looked upon public relations as a defensive operation rather than a living, dynamic one.” In the new army, media manipulation was an officer’s professional duty: “Any action that cannot be satisfactorily explained to the troops, the Congress and the general public, should be regarded as suspect, and be thoroughly reexamined.” 32 The implications of Ridgway’s letter were immense: he was asking each officer to be as much salesman as soldier. Under Ridgway’s successor, Maxwell D. Taylor, the army’s efforts to improve its public standing accelerated rapidly. Among his peers, the general’s skills at self-promotion were well recognized, if not always respected. As one subordinate recalled, “General Taylor was almost the consummate politician” and “was always protecting the golden image that he had developed for himself very early on.” 33 The Chief sought the public eye, giving dozens of speeches, press conferences, and television interviews to hammer out his message. And although he had played no role in conceptualizing tactical atomic warfare, he proved one of its best pitchmen. Taylor broadcast the message that due to Eisenhower’s New Look, the United States was overreliant on its air force and its strategic nuclear arsenal. Massive retaliation meant mutual annihilation. But by limiting atomic weapons to the battlefield, the army could deter, or if necessary defeat, Soviet aggression in Europe and Asia without escalation to thermonuclear weapons. Moreover, the army could simultaneously transform to wage nuclear war and improve its conventional, nonatomic capabilities. He insisted that the army’s new atomic arsenal would be available for any contingency and that another of his initiatives, the Strategic Army Corps (STRAC), was “a strong, mobile striking force ready at all times for prompt deployment to any part of the Soviet periphery where local aggression may occur.” 34 Throughout his tenure, he hectored his public relations staff on the importance of “getting the word out that the Army does have a very significant force, 237

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constantly ready to meet any kind of operations— either large wars or small wars—any time, any place.” 35 In the words of an admirer, Taylor “dressed the army up a great deal.” 36 The Chief of Staff paid such close attention to selling the army’s brand that OCI staffers referred to one PR effort, The Mission of the Army, as “General Taylor’s film.” 37 Among his many image initiatives was replacing the traditional khaki with a green dress uniform modeled on a business suit, a look one critic compared to “the outfit you might find on the doorman in a seedy hotel.” 38 He personally supervised the design of a new army flag, the insignia for the new atomic units, and an official army song, coincidentally adopting the anthem of his own field artillery branch. With an advertising executive’s flair, Taylor invented the term pentomic—a combination of the Latin word for five and atomic— to describe the new combat organizations he imposed on the ser vice.39 His fixation on public relations extended even to such minutiae as nicknames for the most basic small arms. Informed that the replacement for the venerable M-1 rifle had been designated the M-14, he requested “some sexier and more appealing name.” The CINFO’s staff obediently supplied several dozen alternatives and explanations: the “Better Half” (“married to the infantryman”); the “Venus” (“Mars’ girlfriend”); and the “Wham Girl.” After some consideration, Taylor decided the rifle should remain the M-14.40 Taylor’s successor, General Lyman L. Lemnitzer, was described by one OCI staffer: “The [STRAC] motto, ‘Ready Around the Clock’ best describes General Lemnitzer’s willingness to guide and support the Army Information Program. He is constantly stressing its importance internally and actively supporting it to the public in his everyday activity.” 41 Lemnitzer reinforced Taylor’s emphasis on selling the army as a modern, progressive force. During his tenure, information staffers strove mightily to “literally get the soldier ‘off the ground’ and ‘out of the mud’ as much as possible—show him mounted in vehicles, tanks, helicopters, as these pertain to Army missions—relate him to the dynamic momentum of the ‘space age.’ ”42 OCI began a new public relations campaign, entitled “You and the Army Image,” to “activate the grass roots.” CINFO Storke envisioned “an active, continuous information program” 238

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Proposed pentomic missile patch. Source: US Army Heritage and Education Center, Carlisle, Pa.

to “overcome false impressions in the minds of the public” and convince them of “the important part played by the Army in the defense of the nation.” 43 As one OCI staffer enthused, “We will keep trying to get our share of front page space in the newspapers. . . . We are going to make news, every day if possible, and all good news.” 44 Its supporters intended “You and the Army Image” to “give everyone the same facts—so that we can speak with one voice,” but they could not settle on a message.45 Some wanted to continue Taylor’s emphasis on modernity, on the space age and missiles, and atomic warfare. But others, particularly outside OCI, wanted to shift gears, to showcase the individual soldier, his rugged training, his character, and his prowess in conventional combat. Everyone agreed, however, that the army needed to attack the sister ser vices, or what one officer termed “our direct competitors in the Navy, Air Force and Marine Corps [who] have engaged 239

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in highly questionable practices to achieve power, prestige and resources.” 46 To make its case, OCI included in the initial presentation a section comparing the army to its rivals’ budgets, pay scales, missions, and other criteria. This proved to be a fatal error. After seeing the figures, the Secretary of the Army concluded, “nothing positive would be accomplished by this type of presentation to Army personnel and . . . such odious comparisons might have a bad effect on the morale of Army personnel.” 47 The entire project was put on hold and soon scrapped. The fiasco of “You and the Army’s Image” is indicative of the service’s deep resentment of its rival ser vices’ marketing success and its search for a comparable “product.” Army public relations officers were convinced that the other armed forces’ public appeal was due less to their strategic importance than to their superior salesmanship. It was the US Air Force’s ability to advertise Strategic Air Command, B-52 bombers, jet fighters, and pilots that assured citizens of its preeminence. It was the ability to “sell” its atomic-powered submarines, Polaris missiles, and aircraft carriers that convinced Joe Public that the US Navy was protecting his family. Small wonder the army’s missile program seemed the ideal symbol of their ser vice’s modernity and progress. And as some of them cynically admitted, “it is almost a foregone conclusion that if we weren’t in the space and ballistic missile business, the Army budget would be shrunk by that amount.” 48 US Army–logoed rockets blasting into the stratosphere not only sold the army’s new image, but also might attract specialists in electronics, mechanics, computers, radar, and similar fields the army desperately needed. In keeping with this message, army recruiters promised young men an opportunity to “play an important role in the coming Space Age.” 49 But missiles soon proved a public relations dead end when Eisenhower’s Secretary of Defense, Charles E. Wilson, transferred much of the army’s responsibilities to the other ser vices. Only a small part of the Army community missed them, and public opinion polls had consistently shown little support. A later study of the public relations effort to boost the missile program concluded the army had gone “overboard” trying “to find room for the Army on the massive retaliation bandwagon 240

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which was rolling so fast in those days . . . we strained to claim major missions for this Army in the big missile field and even in outer space . . . in hindsight, we can see now that in pressing our claims to these rather unnatural missions, we diverted public attention and scarce resources from our traditional primary role of seizing and holding ground.” 50 Acknowledging that its marketing campaign had only persuaded citizens that the army was “missile happy,” OCI’s 1960 Project MAN intended to reaffirm the ser vice’s expertise at “sustained land combat, rather than chasing a lunar probe around the moon.” 51 Although officers complained that their ser vice lacked jets to fly over football games or warships to steam into friendly harbors, the army worked hard to show off its equipment and troops. At the annual Association of the US Army convention, soldiers mingled with the contractors, members of the press, and VIPs displaying and admiring the latest in land warfare equipment. The convention provided a forum for spokesmen touting the army’s accomplishments; backstage passes to favored manufacturers encouraged their support. The service also staged demonstrations at posts throughout the country, treating thousands to spectacularly choreographed tanks maneuvering, paratroopers dropping, and cannons firing. An OCI officer gloated about one such exhibition: “ There couldn’t have been a more perfect example of acrossthe-board cooperation for an improved Army Image in an impor tant field. From Washington came top Army leaders, and officials from the Executive Branch, and DOD [Department of Defense]. Fourteen key industries brought their Presidents, Vice Presidents, and public relations men. We had more than 120 newsmen and television and radio men present and working.” 52 In 1960 Fort Benning invited 600 businessmen, dozens of journalists, and President Eisenhower to witness a helicopter air assault, missile launches, a tank attack, and other displays of the modern army.53 The army’s star units received a disproportionate share of publicity. Few could match the 82nd Airborne Division for self-promotion. As the premier, and for much of the decade the only, combat division ready for immediate deployment, the “All-American” was constantly in the service spotlight. For Exercise Southern Pine in 1951, the division’s IOs 241

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sent out 1,000 press releases to hometown newspapers, scheduled dozens of interviews, arranged a reception for VIPs, and established a press center where journalists could write and file their stories. Two years later, the 82nd’s headquarters spent weeks planning a feature story for Edward R. Murrow’s See It Now television show. Lacking sufficient soldiers on base, it shuttled troops from one just-fi lmed unit to the next in an effort to create the appearance of immediate combat readiness.54 The only unit to challenge the 82nd’s public relations machine was its archrival, the 101st Airborne Division. In April 1956, even before the 101st was formally reactivated, MG Thomas Sherburne, its commanding general, solicited media attention, thanking one journalist for his “authoritative, sympathetic treatment of the Army’s first atom-age division.” 55 One of Sherburne’s more imaginative ploys was to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the Battle of Bastogne, the 101st’s most famous victory, by flying a company across the Atlantic for a parachute landing on the historic battlefield during the ceremonies. In pitching the plan to Taylor, Sherburne urged the utmost secrecy in the United States, but once the company was safely airborne to Europe, “a carefully arranged public information plan should be implemented to sell [the division’s] strategic air mobility.” 56 Sherburne’s successor, MG William C. Westmoreland, put the 101st on constant public display: every jump, every soldier’s promotion, every parade was a story for the media. He tirelessly worked the crowd, meeting civil leaders, delivering lectures, attending lunches, and giving interviews that extolled his division and his paratroopers.57 When it came to attracting favorable publicity it was hard to beat the Women’s Army Corps. A typical year included band concerts, a television special, and media tie-ins such as contracting Mademoiselle magazine to promote recruiting. Invariably, both army and civilian media portrayed Wacs as young, attractive, and dedicated women with a sense of adventure and a desire to travel, but whose military ser vice in no way detracted from their femininity. As one veteran recalled, “it was ingrained into the early Wac that she was a lady first, soldier second.” 58 A 1951 Life article showed Wacs firing carbines, marching, and gro242

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tesquely masked for gas drills, but the final photograph was taken in a beauty salon “where the ravages of five days and four nights in the field are quickly repaired.” 59 A 1957 Saturday Evening Post article, “This Lady’s Army,” pictured Wacs at a perfume counter with the caption “They may be soldiers, but they’re always women.” Another photo, showing Wacs and their dates singing, noted that since men outnumbered women by a hundred to one, “life is seldom dull.” Individual soldiers were described as “petite colonel,” “trim brunette,” and “one of the Pentagon’s prettiest WAC officers.” 60 To both the Pentagon and the WAC leadership, selling soldiers as simultaneously feminine and military meant making them into fashion plates. The uniform, and its perceived attractiveness to women, was a matter of interest at the highest levels of the Pentagon, with generals chiming in on such weighty questions as “How will this look on the fat women?”61 A 1954 presentation of the army’s Big Picture television show insisted, “The WAC is a soldier too,” but added that a famous fashion designer had created the uniform.62 Throughout the 1950s and 1960s, the ser vice fiddled with apparel, adjusting lapels, shirtwaists, skirts, hats, and shoes in an effort to find the ideal combination of comfort and attractiveness. Often these changes became the subject of public relations campaigns, with photographs or artist’s sketches of Wacs posing in uniform, in sports gear, or with a guidebook on a Paris boulevard.63 The WAC’s high visibility made its members, often unwillingly, a laboratory for experiments with diet and exercise. Much of this was due to the fact that the average woman gained weight from chow hall food, unlimited burgers and milkshakes at the PX, and drinking beer with male colleagues at the clubs. In one embarrassing incident, the wife of the army chief of staff asked the WAC commander why she didn’t put her obese soldiers on the opposite flank when they marched past the reviewing stand, thus screening them from public view. The commander had to admit there were not sufficient thin soldiers to shield their overweight comrades.64 For two decades the WAC leadership experimented with special menus and fitness regimens while gradually tightening the physical standards. By the mid-1960s only one in ten Wacs exceeded ser vice weight quotas, and recruitment was sufficient 243

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that these soldiers were given the choice of slimming down or being discharged from the ser vice.65 One of the army’s greatest publicity successes was the WAC Exhibit Team. It consisted of a senior officer and a few photogenic young enlisted personnel who were trained as models and toured the country displaying both new and old uniforms and publicizing the ser vice and the WAC. The team kept up an exhausting schedule of appearances at state fairs, libraries, civic associations, conferences, parades, and concerts: in 1965, visiting 50 cities, they were seen by some 9,500,000 people, garnered 1,667 minutes of radio and media time and claimed 2,291 column inches of newspaper space. The IOs provided local media with background material to underscore the vocational skills and wholesomeness of individual “WAC hostesses”: one “hazel-eyed miss” was a skilled dental assistant who enjoyed swimming, bowling, music, and helping the local Girl Scouts in her spare time.66 The WAC and the airborne were good, but West Point often led the way, not surprisingly since its own public relations office dated from the 1920s. In the early 1950s virtually all media treatments of the Military Academy were favorable; it was hailed as a bastion of conservative values and manly virtues. Its sports teams and cadet demonstration units toured the nation, and it was a fixture in popular culture: the setting for television’s West Point Story, the Clint Lane series of boys’ books, and movies that starred everyone from Doris Day to Francis the Talking Mule.67 A special category of army public relations featured what might be termed celebrity commanders. World War II had forged an indivisible bond between correspondents and generals, creating the greatest generation of military leaders in mixing media and martial skills. Most fifties officers did not need to visit Madison Avenue; like LTG James M. Gavin, they had witnessed “many brilliant examples of selling the public a view.” 68 Ordered by successive chiefs of staffs and CINFOs to cultivate the press, well armed by their IOs with assorted instruments for publicity, and possessed of healthy egos, many took up the task with enthusiasm. Indeed, it was sometimes difficult to tell whether some generals were selling the army or themselves. Ridgway’s mastery of the 244

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press during the Korean War outshone even the media- obsessed MacArthur’s. Gavin, dubbed “Jumpin’ Jim” by correspondents, worked with them to broadcast his message that the army needed to transform for the nuclear battlefield.69 Lesser generals sought to emulate these superstars—none more than Bruce  C. Clarke, nicknamed “the Sergeant’s General” by some long-forgotten newsman. Clarke gave innumerable press briefings, provided reams of statistical data, and even ordered the official publication of an adulatory report of his tenure commanding US Army Europe. Such self-promotion might have been amusing, or merely exasperating, but for Clarke’s absolute ruthlessness toward any subordinate he suspected of damaging his reputation. Once, when Jack Paar’s Tonight show reported US troops in Berlin behaving in a provocative and threatening manner, the general chewed out their commander. Soon, photographic evidence revealed the press had misrepresented the incident; there had been no provocation. Clarke withdrew his oral reprimand, grumbling that on second viewing the soldiers appeared entirely too relaxed.70 Although army public relations had its stars—airborne units, the WAC, West Point, and some generals—those outside the spotlight included thousands of officers serving in the field and support forces. To his credit, Ridgway, if not Taylor, recognized that most publicity was local: “It is at the installation level that the Army as an organization comes in closest contact with the public.”71 Many commanders took Ridgway’s injunction to heart. Virtually every post held an open house— most notably on Army Day (6 April)—when civilians were welcome to tour, soldiers displayed their martial skills and equipment, and units hosted their veterans. Communities knew that the army could, with virtually no advance notice, provide speakers, a band or drill team, or hundreds of “volunteers” for a blood drive. In Hawaii, for example, the army did every thing from organizing the Armed Forces Day parade, to sending ordnance teams to lecture children on the dangers of explosives still washing up on beaches, to hosting 1,500 Boy Scouts for a weekend of woodcraft, hiking, and first aid. Such public relations activities were seen as mutually beneficial: “The American people must want 245

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an Army in which they collectively have pride and individually accept in their communities. When this state of mind develops there should be no difficulty in raising the morale of the Army.” 72 In addition to fostering relations with the local community, army publicists devoted a great deal of time and effort to soldiers’ families and friends, most notably in the Hometown Release program. As implemented in the 4th Infantry Division, each unit was assigned a weekly quota of noteworthy stories. These were forwarded to the division’s IO, who sorted them by subject—promotions, entertainment and sports, ceremonies—and wrote a sample story for each category. This boilerplate was then filled in with the subject’s achievements, rank, parents’ names, and so forth. A photographer snapped a picture, and the packet was sent to the soldier’s community newspaper and the division’s news service. OCI monitored the Hometown Release program closely for both quantity and quality of output. One post newspaper, for example, was gigged for too many posed shots, “pointless editorials,” and “tendency to play up officers on front page.” 73 Both the Pentagon and local commanders knew the dangers when large numbers of GIs mingled with a civilian population. Maneuvers and exercises involving tens of thousands of soldiers could instantly become public relations successes or disasters. They offered a dramatic news story, attracted dozens of correspondents, and allowed the ser vice to show off its latest equipment and tactics, and its star units and commanders. But they could bring down a torrent of adverse publicity. In 1952’s Exercise Longhorn, over 115,000 soldiers descended on northcentral Texas, along with 20,000 spectators. One of Longhorn’s greatest public relations successes resulted from a military government scenario with little relevance to the maneuver’s atomic warfare objectives. On 2 April, Aggressor troops rolled into Lampasas and established a faux communist government. Dozens of correspondents who preferred the comforts of a town— even one that prohibited liquor—to following dusty columns of soldiers across the drought-stricken Texas prairie gave this occupation daily coverage. The town threw itself into the act. The Lampasas newspaper published communist propaganda and military orders, and the local radio station broadcast appeals from a Wac— 246

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described as “Lorelei, the super sexy-voiced girl soldier”—urging GIs to surrender.74 Over the course of the week, the invaders confined likely troublemakers such as the Lions Club in a concentration camp and punished the high school’s football team for defying the Commissar of Education. In response, US Army psychological warfare teams dropped pamphlets urging resistance, invoking the memory of the Alamo, and promising that the day of liberation would soon arrive. It did, on 8 April, in the form of 1st Armored Division and the ubiquitous Clarke, who proclaimed to the bemused Lampasasites: “we are bringing you something more important than rain, and that’s your freedom.” 75 Unfortunately, much of the good publicity from the Lampasas occupation was erased by the conduct of some soldiers in the field. For various reasons, leadership and discipline in some units was poor, straggling and misconduct was common, and many officers proved unable to control their troops. One disgusted umpire cited a division commander who reported his troops “ready to attack” when most were “patronizing the pop stands, soda fountains, and in general giving the natives a treat.” 76 Another umpire reported many incidents of misbehavior, such as shooting up mailboxes, breaking into houses, chasing and killing livestock, cutting down fences, and polluting stock tanks. While he may have exaggerated the ease with which citizens could retrace the route of the exercise by following the trail of empty beer cans, indignant Texans did refuse the army permission to stage large-unit maneuvers in subsequent years.77 In response to this bad publicity, the army increased efforts to cultivate good press relations and local support. Prior to Exercise Sagebrush, the 4th Infantry Division’s IO directed a special session on “respect for property and personal conduct” that proscribed such disgraceful behavior as directing “wolf calls” at women, drinking, or cursing. Teenaged soldiers were warned: “The entire nation is filled with men who have been in the Armed Forces before you, and they know the score. No one can fool them too much.” 78 One of the US Army’s greatest publicity challenges came as a result of the Nike antiaircraft missile program, which required building launch sites near major urban and industrial areas. Opposition to 247

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missiles in their neighborhoods created an unlikely alliance of congressmen, businessmen, developers, homeowners, suburbanites, and pacifists—famously satirized in Max Shulman’s 1954 novel Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys.79 The army ordered each installation commander to promote a Nike site’s benefits to the community, but then rendered this mission impossible by demanding such secrecy that politicians in several major cities were convinced the service intended to seize much of their best real estate. Such hush-hush was ridiculous. Nike sites averaged fifty acres, with many seen daily by thousands of commuters. In 1955 the Army adroitly about-faced, declared a site in the Washington, D.C., area “the nation’s Nike showplace,” and invited politicians, officials, and other VIPs to inspect it.80 A year later, it was opened to the public and soon became a popular weekend tourist attraction and Boy Scout encampment. This open-site policy was adopted in other selected areas, and did much to alleviate public anxiety. The success of the army’s shift from secrecy to candor was validated in 1958 when an explosion at a Nike site at Middleton, New Jersey, killed six soldiers and four civilians. As one officer noted, “the accident in itself was bad enough; but its potential as an anti-Army stimulant was truly alarming”; only adroit media management “turned this unfortunate accident into a public relations opportunity.” 81 The site’s commander quickly opened the gates to the press, praised the courage of individual responders, and convinced a skeptical audience that the accident was a fluke and the Nike was safe. The “result was favorable and sympathetic reporting of an Army that was calmly and competently dealing with an emergency.” 82 As the Middleton disaster showed, Cold War officers, like their successors today, had an ambivalent relationship with the press. Some were quick to label any unfavorable story as a threat to national security and good discipline, while justifying their own efforts to manipulate the media. And although army studies rated the ser vice’s treatment by the press as generally favorable, some officers remained convinced that “the Army has been the stoical whipping-boy of press, public, and Congress almost throughout its long, glorious history.” 83 248

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The army, or at least the successive Pentagon officers dealing with public relations, nagged field officers to develop personal contacts with media sources: “Sincere and unwavering friendship with newsmen will accomplish much in getting active, enthusiastic and sympathetic news press support.” 84 Many in the OCI blamed a significant problem in military–media relations on “the reluctance of Army personnel . . . to recognize that the Army must be depicted as it is, not as we wish it were.” 85 The OCI warned officers that most correspondents were adept at ferreting out information and usually faced tight deadlines. If soldiers did not provide needed information, reporters would turn to less reliable sources—and officers could hardly complain if the resulting stories were critical or biased. Chief of Information George V. Underwood had some blunt advice for anyone expecting the OCI, or their own IOs, to “flood the news media with a ceaseless flow of golden words about our flawless army.” In his view it was time for soldiers to stop blaming either the press or the army’s public relations personnel for unfavorable coverage. In America’s “open society, it is virtually impossible to conceal or even minimize bad news. Any attempt to deny bad news only heightens the suspicions of the press and guarantees that we will stick on page one longer than if we played it straight. And the price of our deception will be disbelief when the story we wish to tell is honestly good.” 86 The army acknowledged the power of the press and took steps to shape media coverage. As part of its 1959 publicity campaign, OCI had local commanders distribute 800 awards to acknowledge television and radio stations for putting out the army’s message. Even such ostensibly military activities as exercises or maneuvers served as marketing opportunities, and planners were careful to include an annex on public relations. The OCI kept files on newscasters’ sympathies and developed strategies to lure them to the army’s side. In a 1955 letter, one CINFO lamented that radio host Arthur Godfrey was convincing fellow broadcasters to jump to the US Air Force public relations camp. In response, the CINFO planned to “enlist” journalists Eric Sevareid and John Cameron Swazey as conduits for pro-army coverage.87 But some journalists, 249

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such as Joseph Alsop, were judged so biased it was futile to respond to their diatribes.88 At times, the army’s pursuit of good media coverage strayed into murky ethical waters. In a 1954 letter on the subject of “troop, public, and congressional relations,” Ridgway reminded his subordinates: “In certain instances it may be considered desirable to make no deliberate release of information. There are other ways, however, in which information may come to public attention.” 89 He urged them to consider the possibilities of unclassified communications, private correspondence, and off-the-record interviews as means of disclosure. The implications of the chief of staff’s letter—that officers should provide indirect, nonattribution information to the press—were soon apparent. In 1955, upon learning that Eisenhower would not reappoint Ridgway, two members of his staff, Paul Carraway and Barksdale Hamlett, wrote a “swan song” for their outgoing commander. In Hamlett’s words, this letter “went directly for [Secretary of Defense Charles E.] Wilson’s throat,” detailing the secretary’s efforts to cut army personnel and budgets, and warning they jeopardized national security. The Secretary promptly classified the letter Top Secret, but within a day the national press had copies. The resulting publicity proved enormously embarrassing to Eisenhower and Wilson, and both were furious. All the suspects denied the leak, though as Hamlett later admitted, “we weren’t above doing things like that,” and several were transferred out of the Pentagon.90 For his part, Ridgway demonstrated his tacit approval of the leak by publishing much of the offending letter in an article and in his autobiography. The 1956 “revolt of the colonels,” a more alarming clash, showed just how far officers in the Pentagon would go to undercut their rivals and secure a larger share of the defense budget. The nucleus of the revolt was the innocuously named Coordination Group, which incoming Chief of Staff Taylor claimed he established to develop friendly contacts with businesses, interest groups, and other organ izations. It consisted of some of the General Staff’s brightest and most ideological officers. The Group soon spawned an inner cell that assumed the mandate—whether authorized or not remains unclear—of developing 250

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a public relations strategy to oppose the New Look’s military cutbacks. Gavin served as a facilitator, and they often met in his office. Melvin Zais, who knew most of the participants, believed they were not only anti–Eisenhower administration but also “very disenchanted with the Army,” and “they had the feeling that all of these old fuddy generals, and the General Staff, were not doing all that could be done.” 91 The rebels’ solution was to circumvent the cumbersome Pentagon bureaucracy and put both policymaking and oversight into the nimble hands of elite expediters, such as themselves. Frustrated with Wilson, and perhaps with Taylor, some began passing documents to friendly journalists that warned the army was being dangerously weakened and attacked the rival ser vices. In May 1956 the US Air Force struck back, publicly accusing the army of leaking information. The ensuing media furor led to condemnations of military cabals, but also generated much outrage at cutbacks to the army. In an angry press conference, Wilson denounced the army’s “eager beavers,” and quickly created a special committee to plug leaks in the Department of Defense.92 The politically sensitive Taylor professed himself shocked by the rebellious colonels, and, in Gavin’s picturesque language, “he cut their throats and scattered them to the four winds. . . . And yet he approved of what they were doing, right up to the end.” 93 After a brief spate of publicity, the affair died down and officers in all the armed ser vices continued to leak information to the press. The army participants themselves were unapologetic, and there is little evidence their careers suffered. Indeed, they were viewed as heroes by many of their colleagues, for, as one later declared, they had “brought out into the open the fundamental question of what our national military posture ought to be, and got it debated.” 94 In this respect, they carried out Ridgway’s orders to tell the American people about the army’s needs and to open up behind-the-scenes communications with the press. Shortly after the revolt, Taylor asked CINFO Guy  S. Meloy to conduct a study of how to better safeguard official information. The ensuing report was a nuanced exploration into the complexities of the military–media relationship. In Meloy’s view, correspondents, many 251

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themselves veterans with an intimate knowledge of military affairs, felt professionally obliged to report on issues concerning national defense. If they could not get the story from the armed forces’ official outlets, they would piece it together from their own contacts. Since Eisenhower, Wilson, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff consistently misled Congress and the media about army readiness and conditions, “members of the Army, out of a feeling of loyalty to the country and a desire to get all the facts to those authorized to make decisions affecting the national security, are under very heavy pressure to circumvent channels.” 95 Thus, like both Ridgway and the insubordinate colonels, Meloy concluded that officers might be ethically obligated to defy their civilian masters and appeal directly to the American public through the media. If the army’s senior leadership tolerated and even encouraged leaks to the media that favored their agendas, they were apoplectic when enlisted personnel and junior officers leaked derogatory information about them. The source of much official outrage was Overseas Weekly, a tabloid-format newspaper published in Frankfurt that Time magazine termed “the G.I’s Friend.” 96 Somewhat more bluntly, soldiers told one reporter, “OW is our buddy. That little bastard isn’t afraid of anybody, and it’s our best protection against getting reamed by the brass.” 97 Founded in 1950, it was the brainchild of Marion Rospach, who recognized that, with Stars and Stripes becoming little more than an army propaganda vehicle, there was a market for a paper that spoke up for the enlisted man. After some early difficulties it took off; by 1961 it was estimated that one soldier in five stationed in West Germany bought Overseas Weekly. The paper, distributed only in France and Germany, was passed through the GI network so that virtually every soldier in Europe knew what was in that week’s edition. No newspaper, not even the New York Times, roiled the brass as much. One general denounced it as “a crass, almost subversive operation.”98 Another fulminated against “a muckraking private newspaper that aimed its sensationalism at lonely and disgruntled GIs.” 99 Overseas Weekly’s dedicated young staff—a dozen reporters, photographers, and editors—led an adventurous life, traveling an average of 252

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2,500 miles each month visiting informants, hospitals, military courts, ser vice clubs, and stockades. Its journalists had their phones tapped, and they were shadowed, harassed, barred from bases, and, in some cases, beaten. Most of their stories came from tips, leading one exasperated officer to tell a reporter, “Every goddam soldier in Europe seems to be a spy for your sheet.” The reporter thought about it, and replied, “No, only one in about every two or three.”100 Sociologist Charles  C. Moskos noted that along with lurid headlines such as “Torso Killer Lt. Mad, Headshrinkers Rule,” Overseas Weekly championed a “democratic populism” and “continually exposed the sometimes unbelievable antics of officers.” 101 It was Overseas Weekly that unmasked the captain who forced his company to stand under a water spout during an all-night rainstorm; the officers who held a party dressed up in KKK robes and ordered African-American enlisted personnel to wait on them; the colonel who roped soldiers together, shaved their heads, and stood them out on the parade ground in the summer heat; the division commander who staged public ceremonies to cut the insignia off GIs’ uniforms. The newspaper was, in the view of most soldiers, a crusader against oppression, and within a decade had caused the court martial or transfer of over 300 abusive or corrupt officers.102 On several occasions the army tried to ban the sale of Overseas Weekly on its installations, but Rospach and her GI supporters proved formidable opponents. A 1953 prohibition attracted a barrage of unfavorable publicity from stateside media and the direct personal intervention of several politicians. It ended with a humiliating retreat by the army. After issuing several more threats, the army again barred the paper in 1960 in response to its exposé of wretched conditions endured by military personnel in Turkey. This time the embargo went all the way up to the Secretary of the Army, and it too failed, perhaps because the Pentagon’s own enquiry revealed the story was accurate. The investigation also served notice on publicity-conscious Pentagon staffers that any further efforts at censorship would result in “overwhelming adverse public reaction.” Acknowledging the millions of GIs who had served in Europe, and the loyalty of its current readers, the report warned that 253

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the paper and its supporters “have the capability of flooding the U.S. and foreign media, exerting great influence upon the U.S. public and upon the citizens of our host nations.” 103 The army should have listened more closely to its own investigators, for within a few months Overseas Weekly uncovered one of the era’s greatest military scandals: the Walker Affair. Major General Edwin A. “Ted” Walker possessed an outstanding combat record and was a prominent member of the airborne mafia. He was also a protégé of Taylor, who had selected him to lead the contingent of paratroops during the Little Rock integration crisis. But to fellow officers, he was known as “a strange sort of fellow,” obsessed with communism, intemperate of speech and act, and a suspected homosexual.104 Herbert B. Powell, commanding in Hawaii in 1954, recalled Walker arriving at his headquarters “with an aide and a monkey” and that he “started raising the devil.” Powell concluded his subordinate was not only incompetent but also “mentally unbalanced.” 105 In retrospect, the general’s repeated protests about the constitutionality of integration and his support for right-wing organizations were grounds for counseling. But his resignation letter in August 1959—in which he alleged he was the victim of a communist conspiracy—should have prompted questions about his fitness for a high-visibility, high-pressure command. Instead, his superiors declined his resignation and appointed him commanding general of the 24th Infantry Division, headquartered at Augsburg. As even his critics acknowledged, Walker’s emphasis on physical fitness, hard training, and discipline improved the 24th, and his undoubted charisma won over some of his officers and NCOs. But, as one officer present during the entire affair recalled, “Somehow he went off the deep end. Nobody can explain it or understand why. It wasn’t a minor aberration, he got worse and worse and worse.” 106 Unfortunately, the division’s IO, MAJ Archibald E. Roberts, was perhaps even more obsessed with the communist threat than Walker. Together they initiated a “Pro-Blue program” (as in anti-Red) that included distributing John Birch Society and other extremist publications in the troops’ dayrooms and libraries. The general made it clear that he considered support of Pro-Blue a criterion for officer evaluation and even handed out 254

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right-wing tracts at social events. Walker crossed the legal line when he urged troops to vote for specific candidates in the next election, thus violating the Hatch Act. By this time, Overseas Weekly’s correspondents had numerous contacts with Walker’s terrified subordinates and angry GIs. On 13 April 1961, OW published the results of its investigation, including Walker’s remarks that certain Americans, among them Eisenhower, were either communists or dupes. At a time when tensions over Berlin were at a crisis point—in seven months American and Soviet tanks would face off at Checkpoint Charlie—Walker’s actions alarmed both civilian and military leaders.107 In retrospect, it is obvious that GEN Clarke and the rest of the US Army Europe’s senior leadership should have halted this clearly emerging public relations disaster. Some generals did try. The eminently sensible LTG Garrison  H. Davidson told Walker to stop the media barrage, control his language, and get back to soldiering. Walker responded with a series of inflammatory public speeches. On 14 April 1961 he denied any connection between the Birch Society and the Pro-Blue program, obfuscating his own Society membership and his distribution of their publications to his soldiers. A few days later, he told correspondents that OW and the communists were equally “immoral, unscrupulous, corrupt, and destructive.” 108 The newspaper sued him for libel, but Walker’s immediate superior testified the general’s accusations fell under the category of his official duties, thus rendering him immune from German jurisdiction. Such hairsplitting—verging on perjury— did the US Army no credit with either the media or the European public.109 By this time even the most obtuse officer should have seen that Walker was out of control. Unfortunately, Clarke remained personally and politically sympathetic to the 24th’s commander, although he later acknowledged Walker’s actions might have justified a court martial. Usually quick to relieve any subordinate who embarrassed him, Clarke decided that an oral remonstrance would suffice. It did not. The Walker affair soon jumped the Atlantic, picked up by national papers such as the New York Times, and snowballed into one of the army’s worst Cold War public relations disasters, leading to a congressional investigation 255

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and Walker’s acrimonious resignation. In the process, the right-wing activities of several other senior military personnel came to light. Roberts, who claimed Walker’s relief was due to “Fabian-Socialist Administrators in Washington” and “had the smell of treason,” went on to a successful career as a reactionary broadcaster.110 As Bob Jones, one of the OW correspondents, recalled, bringing down an unstable and dangerous general “was not a bad accomplishment for a 50,000-circulation paper with bathing-suit girls on its covers.” 111 While newspapers and press correspondents took the most time and required careful handling, other media posed their own challenges, and brought their own rewards. Radio was ideal for the ser vice. For the first decade after the war it was the most common nonprint media in the nation. In 1952 Americans owned 108,000,000 radios and only 18,000,000 televisions. A survey that same year reported virtually every officer and half the enlisted men owned a radio, and virtually every company day room had one as well.112 Recognizing radio’s diverse audiences, the OCI conducted targeted research on specific listening groups—women, families, teenagers, and veterans—and tailored commercials appealing to each. For much of the fifties, the army and air force cosponsored Proudly We Hail, a dramatic program highlighting the experiences of soldiers and airmen broadcast by over 2,000 stations. After the air force withdrew, the army sponsored Queen of Battles, extolling the combat arms. In addition to military-themed shows, it sponsored variety and musical programs, such as Country Style, U.S.A., an hour-long program carried by 1,800 stations. The OCI directed each post IO to interview several soldiers each week and send these recordings to hometown radio stations. It recruited a “Disc Jockey Corps” of over 4,000 announcers who pledged to publicize local army events, human-interest stories, recruiting information, and other wise promote the ser vice’s public relations.113 Since World War I, the army had employed movies for a variety of purposes, including training aids and publicity. World War II demonstrated movies’ full potential to tell the army’s story to both military and civilian audiences. During the Korean War, the army contracted with a distribution company to sell selected training and morale films 256

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for $30 apiece to television stations or theaters, who could show them over and over without further cost. Running less than fifteen minutes, they were used as trailers and to fi ll dead airtime; as a bonus, they counted as a public ser vice. Some of these fi lms were easily adapted for public consumption, while others had to be extensively edited. In The Crime of Korea, for example, the army had to not only delete graphic photos of North Korean atrocities, but also remove all references to army unpreparedness.114 When the 1956 movie, Mission of the  U.S. Army, was shown to civilian audiences, OCI staffers were alarmed to hear Chief of Staff Taylor contradict Department of Defense policy. Caught between two power ful masters, they decided to “let this sleeping dog lie” and hope nobody in the press or Pentagon noticed.115 Although they spent a lot of time and effort producing and distributing intraser vice movies, the hearts of army public relations personnel belonged to Hollywood. They wanted to get their message on the big screen, in popular movies produced by private studios. The institutional relationship between the army and the film industry, largely ignored by scholars exploring the cultural meaning of the Cold War, was as passionate as any silver-screen romance.116 The motion picture industry and the army each had something the other desperately wanted, making compromise not only possible but critical. The army, by its own admission, believed that each film’s positive portrayal of ser vice life had numerous ancillary benefits, from recruitment to prestige to budgets. A movie studio meeting the ser vice’s expectations gained invaluable benefits: miles of stock footage of everything from a Wac nurse to the D-Day landing; access to military bases and facilities; the loan of priceless equipment and uniforms; and the “volunteered” ser vices of technical experts, subject specialists, and tens of thousands of extras. Moreover, if a studio secured the coveted official designation of “full military cooperation,” it could piggyback on the ser vices’ vast public relations apparatus. Equally important, such a seal of approval almost guaranteed release across the international armed forces’ entertainment network, in itself a market almost sufficient to put a low-budget film in the black.117 257

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The US Army did not bestow its cinematic favors lightly. In 1952, for example, it extended full cooperation to only ten movies out of dozens proposed. Any producer seeking army assistance had to go through a rigorous process. He first had to submit the screenplay to the OCI, whose reviewers considered themselves not only guardians of the army’s image, but expert screenwriters. They painstakingly examined each submission for anything that reflected poorly on the ser vice or its members, traditions, and policies. They usually demanded numerous changes. Some were mundane: the reviewer for the script of I Married West Point insisted that a scene where schoolmates abducted a cadet’s girlfriend for a Military Academy social event be changed so that the abductors were her civilian friends.118 Other changes were substantive. The reviewer for Mission Over Korea demanded the insertion of a “montage” that consisted of “flying the airplane, artillery pieces firing in a Korean setting (stock), troops in column and in convoy, and other appropriate action shots that indicate that our airplanes are being the eyes of their unit and of other units as well.” 119 Once a script was approved, the army might assign a technical expert to supervise the use of its equipment and facilities, coordinate with installation staff, arrange for soldier extras, and review any script revisions. Finally, the completed film was screened at OCI, often with high-ranking military invitees. Only with their agreement could it win the coveted seal of approval that unlocked further public relations and commercial benefits. The most common disputes between OCI reviewers and scriptwriters were the portrayal of officer– enlisted relations and scenes in which GIs committed war crimes. The army denied funding to two of the most enduring movies about the Korean War—The Steel Helmet and Men at War—for both offenses. The technical officer assigned to Battleground, a movie celebrating the citizen-soldier, recalled that his “toughest chore” was to overcome “the penchant of a lot of movie writers to try to make the officers of the Army, and the Army itself, appear in a rather poor light.” 120 The OCI editors for Man in the Gray Flannel Suit and Kings Go Forth objected to overly casual relations between officers and men, and the reviewer for Mission Over Korea 258

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demanded that “the use of first names in the script between the officers, and the complete lack of military discipline will be remedied.” 121 In other scripts, army editors nitpicked about such scenes as a general driving a Cadillac (suggesting a Chevrolet), a general wearing muddy boots in the Pentagon, and a private preceding an officer at an award ceremony. In a lengthy critique of the script for Act of Love, the OCI reviewer insisted that the commander who denied a GI permission to marry his Asian girlfriend “must be played as an understanding and sympathetic officer, firm but reasonable and only doing his duty.” 122 Such concern for the dignity of rank extended even to military spouses, as when a reviewer demanded the deletion of a line in which the heroine proposed to “make a hit with the General’s wife.” 123 Army script editors took particular issue with Hollywood’s portrayals of American ser vicemen overseas. The 1953 movie Yassa Mossa, dealing with GI’s babies in Japan—and starring a US Navy sailor—so infuriated OCI that it proposed banning all military personnel from acting in movies.124 The reviewer for The Counterfeit Story, based on case histories from the Army’s Criminal Investigation Department, took strong exception to “the tendency of the story as written to portray all German children as little beggars, digging into garbage cans to survive. . . . We assure you that such a portrayal would serve only to add fuel to the destructive fire of the Communists’ lies about West Germany.” Offering an alternative scenario that “would add positive value to the story,” the reviewer suggested highlighting “German Youth Clubs, organized by Americans, to help German children to improve their mental and physical well-being and to gain a normal healthy outlook on life.” 125 Army editors were not hesitant to take a broad brush to problematic scripts, sometimes with advice tinged with sarcasm: The present version portrays the American soldier in a rather negative role . . . [he] proceeds to live with a French girl, fall in love with her, go AWOL from his unit, and escape from custody in an attempt to find his sweetheart, who as the story ends, has committed suicide in desperation. As we say, these glaringly negative aspects of the story, as far as the American soldier is concerned, will no doubt be remedied in the script, to the

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elvis ’ s army end that he will be an honest, typical, likeable American boy whose performance will not detract from the prestige of the American soldier, or do anything to damage French-American relations.126

The ser vice’s editors were hypersensitive to the slightest slur on the reputation of female soldiers. The reviewer for the screenplay of The WAC from Walla Walla insisted not only that the new WAC uniform be prominently displayed, but also that all female ser vice personnel “must be feminized. For example—the clerk should not say, ‘Don’t pop your girdle, Duchess.’ If they want [actress Judy Canova] to say it, I couldn’t care less! But not the Wac.” 127 Such concerns were excessive, as Hollywood’s treatment of the women in the military was unremittingly positive, from brave nurses to savvy drillmasters to compassionate officers. Almost as touchy as gender to the army’s watchdogs was race, particularly in the early 1950s. Films provided an opportunity to document the ser vice’s leadership role in desegregation. So when one AfricanAmerican reviewer faulted the movie Battleground for ignoring the participation of black troops at the Battle of Bastogne, the OCI asked the commanding general to verify that the film was historically accurate.128 OCI editors threatened to withhold full cooperation from the movie Red Ball Express, which highlighted the heroics of black supply personnel, on the grounds that “the racial problem, as it is presently written into the story, is neither accurate nor realistic, nor is it in consonance with the efforts of the Army to show how white and colored troops can work and fight in harmony. Numerous people connected with the Red Ball operation in Europe state that the script-writer’s treatment of white and colored personnel of the Red Ball is just 180 degrees off.” 129 Instead of incidents demonstrating racial antagonism, one editor suggested, “Why not have a white unit competing tonnage-wise with colored and have end results equal to mutual satisfaction of all concerned? (This actually happened).” 130 Yet there is some indication that the OCI’s focus on racial issues involved more than a concern for historical accuracy. One of its many objections to 1952’s Act of Love was the following scene: “The Negro 260

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soldier dancing with the French girl. Regardless of how authentic this may be, or that it may be completely acceptable under certain circumstances, it is a controversial scene and does not appear to be necessary to the story. Recommend a change here.” 131 As desegregation proved a success, the OCI’s attitude evolved. The reviewer for the 1956 movie Kings Go Forth demonstrated a new tolerance: “Although the story is built around the controversial theme of Negro-White race relationship in which an officer and an enlisted man are involved romantically with a girl of mixed blood, it is the opinion of this office that this relationship does not reflect adversely on the Army.” 132 Once the OCI approved a script, the door to support opened wide. The producers of Fearless Fagan, based on the true story of a recruit who took his pet lion to basic training, were given access to equipment, bases, stock footage, and a technical advisor. These benefits were justified because OCI reviewers believed the movie showed how “the Army tries to help its personnel out of their difficulties, and to help them arrive at a well-adjusted and happy frame of mind during their military ser vice.” 133 When the Superintendent of the US Military Academy objected to on-location shooting of Francis Goes to West Point—perhaps taking umbrage at the suggestion that a mule could matriculate at his school—the OCI convinced him to support the filming.134 The army staged a seven-week coordinated publicity campaign to coincide with Battleground’s release, including a giant review complete with brass band at the Hollywood opening. When Mission Over Korea was released, OCI directed all stateside commands to fully cooperate with local theaters’ publicity campaigns “to the end that public understanding of the Army and its aims will be enhanced; and to tell the up-to-date story of Army Aviation—its organization, use and mission.”135 One Jerry Lewis–Dean Martin movie not only received full access to airborne training facilities and hundreds of soldier extras, but OCI arranged to display its posters on some 12,000 army recruiting boards.136 The extent of the army’s courtship of Hollywood can be seen in Elvis Presley’s G.I. Blues, a film designed to transform the once rebellious delinquent of Jailhouse Rock and King Creole into an all-American boy. The repackaging of Elvis was an exhaustive effort, requiring 261

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Elvis in the field. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

multiple rewrites and editing by both the studio and the OCI reviewers. Stage directions gave full scope to the star’s acting talents: “Tulsa starts to sing, motioning the orchestra to pick up the tempo—and now that they are really with it, he really starts belting out the song.” 137 The screenwriters were eager to connect the rock-and-roller to the army, suggesting such additions as superimposing the crest of Elvis’s own 3rd Armored Division over the screen credits as he sang the Tank Corps song. Although lukewarm about the plot— one officer termed it “harmless but pathetic”—the army reviewers were equally eager to make the movie a success.138 They contributed helpful comments based on their own experience, such as the impossibility of a grown man squirming through the window of a German railroad car. But their primary interest was to polish the ser vice’s image, especially of troops overseas, and make it attractive to potential recruits and their families.139 Their efforts were well rewarded by the financial and popular success of G.I. 262

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Blues. In a letter to a Paramount executive, the OCI representative acknowledged, “a less skillful producer could have slanted the picture to a less favorable representation of life in the Army” and congratulated him on the “successful culmination of this film which we admittedly had viewed from its inception with more than mild apprehension.” 140 Despite its historic ties to Hollywood, the fifties army was quick to see the marketing power of television. In 1952 OCI identified the new medium as the best carrier for the army’s message. A survey three years later found the ser vice’s target demographic—males sixteen to twentytwo years old—were almost three times more likely than older viewers to draw a favorable view of the military from this medium.141 And in television’s early days the US Army was a significant influence. It had greater resources than any independent studio, with its own production and editing facilities, a variety of sets from Asia to Germany, tens of thousands of extras ranging from musicians to astronauts, and dozens of established celebrities working off draft obligations. The ser vice’s talent pool was so large that in 1957 it produced Get Set Go, a half-hour variety program with a cast of over fifty performers. Each episode, which the ser vice estimated as costing $25,000, was available at no cost to local stations if they also showed a one-minute recruiting commercial.142 As the number of household televisions increased from 3,000,000 in 1950 to 32,000,000 in 1955, the army allocated ever more money to TV advertising. In 1956 it spent $51,000 on TV commercials, and $70,000 a year later—and this at a time when a recruit’s initial pay was $78 a month.143 The most successful army-funded television show was The Big Picture. Launched in 1951, its 800 episodes ran into the 1970s. It began as a way to tell the army’s side of the Korean War, but soon expanded to cover every thing from maneuvers to helicopters to Wacs. Introduced as an official television report to the nation, each half-hour segment touted the ser vice’s accomplishments. For several years, each episode closed with the invitation: “You can be an important part of the Big Picture, you can proudly serve with the best equipped, the best trained, the best fighting team in the world—the  U.S. Army.” The show was an immediate hit, within a year playing on ninety-one of the nation’s 109 263

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television stations, and capturing an estimated audience of over 20,000,000. The army boasted that within a few years some 50,000,000 fans watched The Big Picture on one of 340 affiliated stations providing over 90  percent of television coverage in the United States. Nor was the show’s influence limited to television viewers: several programs were included in high school curricula. In 1957, the OCI estimated an episode cost less than $70,000 to produce, while recouping the equivalent of $6,000,000 in advertising value. Producing The Big Picture consumed much of the resources at the Army Pictorial Center and made its host, Master Sergeant Stuart Queen, a minor celebrity. Rarely did it encounter the problems in telling the army’s story that Hollywood did, but censors did scrub one scene of helicopter gunners in South Vietnam for exposing the legal fiction that American troops were not participating in combat operations.144 The Big Picture’s messages were clear: the army was a thoroughly modern organization; its officers and soldiers were dedicated and hardworking; and only ground forces could wage limited wars. The show also demonstrated the ser vice’s commitment to atomic warfare and technology. In the mid-1950s the opening credits showed the launch of a Nike missile and a 280mm cannon firing an atomic shell. The television show was progressive in many ways, portraying the ser vice as a completely integrated organization in which soldiers of all races held positions of responsibility. Intentionally or not, this message of racial harmony sometimes contrasted vividly with its settings. For example, in the episode “Operation Sage Brush,” which featured maneuvers in Louisiana, uniformed African Americans in leadership roles were ubiquitous, but all the on-screen civilians were white.145 Although one officer fulminated in “What’s TV Got against the Army?” for the most part the media presented an overwhelmingly positive view of all the armed forces.146 An overview of plot summaries indicates there was scarcely a single long-running situation comedy without at least one plotline revolving around the teenage daughter falling for a soldier or losing her boyfriend to the ser vice, or the teenage son (or possibly his father) contemplating a military life. Even the beloved heroine of I Love Lucy might be drafted. And the army followed these shows 264

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closely. Within days of its showing, the OCI sent the stars of Father Knows Best a letter of thanks for their “delightful and entertaining” episode that gave a “remarkably realistic and accurate presentation” of army recruiting and the benefits of a ser vice career.147 The teenoriented sitcom The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis dedicated an entire season to the hero and his clueless beatnik friend, Maynard G. Krebs, meandering through training. The shock and outrage of Dobie’s veteran father at the easy life peacetime soldiers enjoyed became a repeating theme.148 As they did for movies, OCI staffers scrutinized television scripts and proposals for anything that might tarnish the ser vice’s image. Despite repeated requests by producers, the office frowned on the entire concept of shows featuring military police as protagonists because plots would inevitably center on “military personnel in trouble, or someone endeavoring to damage, sabotage or other wise take advantage of the military” and “would reveal things which are considered better unrevealed.” 149 Sometimes a project, despite winning OCI endorsement, flopped within the ser vice. The Special Forces audience that previewed a Surfside-6 episode titled “The Green Beret” found it “more humorous than impressive” and warned that the show “may have scared away some of the more serious minded and attracted more would-be commandos.” 150 The television show provoking weekly heartburn at OCI, and among many senior officers, was the Phil Silvers Show—or as both the public and the army called it— Sergeant Bilko. It ran on CBS from 1955 to 1959, won several awards, and was immensely popular, especially with veterans. Every week Master Sergeant Ernie Bilko came up with new schemes to defraud his own squad while waging asymmetric warfare against hapless post commander Colonel Hall and his incompetent minions. The Department of Defense initially tried to hold the show’s producers and scriptwriters to virtually impossible review procedures. But soon OCI struck a deal with CBS, taking the view that “even though there are factual errors . . . the approach is of such a farcical nature that the viewing audience will not consider this a true picture of Army life.” 151 Shortly afterwards, one OCI reviewer commented, “the 265

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script isn’t at all complimentary to the Army recruiting program, but is derogatory only in the fact that Bilko himself does most of the harm. Accepting the Bilko characterization for what it is, however, there is no more grounds for objecting to this story line than to any of the others. Request necessary clearance.” 152 But OCI became increasingly antagonistic toward the show, its producers, and the star. The writers’ propensity for last-minute revisions and its actors’ for ad-libbing meant army editors sometimes received “final” scripts after the show had aired. More than the informality of Bilko’s production, it was the content that OCI found most objectionable. There were constant fights over scripts. Some were relatively mild, as when a reviewer requested the deletion of the line “Army officers feel about Bilko the way parents feel about Elvis Presley” on the grounds it was “in poor taste in view of Mr. Presley’s recent entry into the Army.”153 Other charges were more serious. In a single episode, one editor complained, officers were lampooned, soldiers gambled, and there were “derogatory references to the President, snide remarks about the Democrats, and it is felt that references to General de Gaulle are in bad taste.”154 Another episode prompted an outraged letter to the Assistant Secretary of Defense: “It depicts Sergeant Bilko committing a felony by paying the civilian, Charlie Clusterman, to impersonate an officer with intent to defraud. In addition to depicting a person in the military service in an unfavorable light, the story is also unrealistic in that the impersonator, acting as the Commanding Officer, turns the officers club into a gambling casino, which, in fact, is not within the Commanding Officer’s prerogatives.”155 But censoring Sergeant Bilko was not within the OCI’s prerogatives. The series was independently produced, did not require equipment or stock footage, and, as one colonel admitted, was “a burlesque not involving policy or regulations.” In his view, the best the army could do “was simply advise.” 156 No doubt experienced public relations staffers recognized that any official action against the popular sergeant would rebound against the ser vice and provide a host of new material for the show to lampoon. However much they enraged some army officers, Bilko’s antics, like other media coverage, demonstrated how fully the US Army was inte266

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grated into American popular culture. In that respect, it marked a partial success in the army’s twenty-year public relations struggle to transform its image. It was a campaign fought by tens of thousands of personnel, all aiming to sell the ser vice’s message, sometimes collaborating with—and other times confronting—newspapers, movies, radio, and television. Despite the strongly favorable media presentation of the ser vice, the army’s own analysis was curiously bleak and pessimistic. After assessing over a decade’s determined investment in public relations, the ser vice’s leaders concluded that in 1963, the average citizen still believed the army was “inflexible, resistant to change, imprisoned by traditions, wedded to past experiences, and a convenient dumping ground for the mediocre and worse.” 157 But by then the army had strategically yielded; as one CINFO declared, all future publicity should “make a conscious effort to stress the MAN over the MACHINE . . . accepting the fact that most people think of the Army as a tough and rugged life” and turning “what could be a drawback . . . to our advantage by emphasizing the tough combat role.” 158 This new message may have anticipated the escalating conflict in Southeast Asia, but, as events would prove, it reinforced the “unglamorous, slow, cumbersome, rigid, old-fashioned, dirty” image the army had spent so much time, money, and effort to erase.

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THE RENOVATION OF THE AMERICAN SOLDIER

Moviegoers in the fall of 1960 might have seen posters trumpeting their chance to “swing out and sound off with Elvis” in the “red, white, and blue star-bright show of the year . . . G.I. Blues.” What, they may have wondered, happened to the leather-jacketed, bottle-wielding thug they had seen just two years earlier on posters for King Creole? The previews promised a “rousing, rollicking story of America’s ever-loving overseas GIs with the skyrocketing star who really lived it . . . Elvis!” Anyone who recalled Presley’s gyrations in prison garb in Jailhouse Rock was put on notice: “America’s most talked about, written about ex-GI is here to show the world there’s been some changes made by that rugged tour of duty with the battling tankers!”1 Presley showed off his new muscular physique in the shower, fed a baby, and sang to a puppet. G.I. Blues heralded the new Elvis, the angry delinquent now an honorable, patriotic young adult whose internal transformation had been far greater than his haircut and khakis.2 Presley’s metamorphosis illustrates the army’s belief, shared by much of the American public, that military ser vice was a path to individual reformation. Early 1950s recruiting posters proclaimed an army uniform was “the mark of a man,” a sign of maturity, judgment, patriotism, and trustworthiness. Army officers insisted a soldier’s strength of character was a significant advantage in modern warfare. Vice Chief of Staff Charles Bolte argued that when it came to defeating the Red Army, the “indispensable component of our strength” was “the resolute, determined, fighting soldier.” 3 The Russians were not “forty feet 268

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tall,” declared LTC James D. Wilmeth. “When the going is hard the robot soldier breaks his spring and loses his power, while the soldier with imagination and initiative survives. We intentionally develop imagination and initiative in our people. The Soviets intentionally stamp it out.” 4 Another officer explained, “the actual battlefield conditions of the atomic era” would demonstrate “the underlying truth that man himself remains the fundamental instrument of war” and that victory would go to “the resourceful, steadfast American soldier with the sound tools of his trade and the will, determination, courage, skill, and offensive spirit to use them well.” 5 But inculcating the warrior’s ethos was only one part of the army’s role in character development. The ser vice was expected to honor its implicit social contract that the nation’s sons would be uplifted and not corrupted by their time in uniform. Officers knew they had to overcome the public perception of “regimentation, danger, hardship, licentious freedom and other nameless undesirable things that the word ‘army’ so often connotes.” 6 They also had to counter the stereotype that the only skills the ser vice taught were how to operate a flame thrower, detect land mines, and “gobble up plenty [of] free food at Taxpayer’s Expense.” 7 In justifying both its military role and its right to conscript young men, the army argued it was pursuing a holistic approach. It was creating both a complete soldier and a complete citizen through schooling, vocational programs, physical fitness, patriotic indoctrination, character guidance, and wholesome entertainment. The army’s “efforts to improve mental and moral health through raising educational levels,” predicted MG John A. Klein, would “inevitably tend to strengthen the moral fiber of those troops lacking elementary education.” 8 Major General Harry P. Storke reminded an audience in 1958 that in the last four years, over 2,000,000 soldiers had returned to civilian life, all of them “missionary alumni for the Army.” It was essential that while soldiers wore the uniform “they must get the Army story imbued in them, so that when they leave us they are proud to have been with us and are able to tell accurately the Army story, and thus to help clarify to the public the image of their Army.” 9 269

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Education, both academic and character building, has long been perceived as having practical military value. Both peacetime and wartime experience had demonstrated the correlation between soldiers’ intelligence and military effectiveness, and the atomic army would demand ever-higher technical skills, discipline, adaptability, and leadership. In assessing the chances for victory, US Army officers took comfort from their belief that although the Red Army had more men and weapons, the poor education of its soldiers meant many could not effectively utilize the tools of modern war. Reflecting its maxim that brains counted as much as brawn, as well as the increasing sophistication of its equipment, the fifties army set progressively higher academic standards. At the beginning of the decade many officers lacked any college experience; a high proportion of noncoms were semiliterate. By the end of the decade, all officers were expected to have a baccalaureate and all noncoms a high school diploma. Between 1952 and 1962 the percentage of high school graduates entering the armed forces increased from 40 to 56 percent.10 Education, or more correctly indoctrination, was seen as crucial to raising both morale and patriotism. A pamphlet titled Information Please explained that although it took only a few weeks to teach the practical skills, a soldier’s “mental training” took much longer, and required “continuous orientation on why he is required to fight, his importance as an individual soldier and ways to counter enemy propaganda.” 11 To Chief of Staff Matthew B. Ridgway, the Cold War was a crusade, a struggle where “the high moral concepts based on the dignity and rights of the individual [are] opposed by an atheistic materialism which denies these basic principles.” In this context, “The spiritual and moral strength of our country, and particularly our Armed Forces, are therefore important elements of our total strength, every bit as critical to our national existence as our military power, our economy and our statesmanship.” 12 “To protect ourselves from the Communist plight,” declared his successor, Maxwell D. Taylor, “our real protection lies in the education of our soldiers, allowing them a full opportunity to make a free and dispassionate comparison of the advantages of Democracy and Communism. By and large soldiers are fine young men who come to the colors 270

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wishing to serve their country well. However, many of them had limited advantages of education and often their previous training at home has left much to be desired. Thus, it becomes the duty of the Army to give them basic education, to eliminate illiteracy, and to raise their general standard of culture.” 13 Education was also seen as essential to discipline, a view confirmed by numerous studies that linked illiteracy with misbehavior. The army recognized that neither its soldiers, particularly the conscripts, nor the public would accept the rigid, punitive methods meted out to pre– World War II career soldiers. In the Cold War armed forces, the penalties of the Uniform Code of Military Justice and the stockade were reserved for the irredeemable. One army judge advocate summarized the army’s view as follows: “incorrigibles, as well as major criminals, must be eliminated from the military society to prevent contamination of the group,” but “the average soldier of the lower grades today is hardly more than a boy, usually away from home and its steadying influence for the first time. While some no doubt prefer the bistros and bars, and the associations that go with them, the great majority can be kept away from them if furnished adequate wholesome living, entertainment, and recreation.” 14 A study on “Mental Conditioning of the Soldier for Nuclear War” concluded that the army should place as much emphasis on the individual soldier’s discipline, initiative, self-reliance, flexibility, and other psychological qualities as it did on his combat training.15 But few believed that the young men entering the ser vice possessed these attributes. Rather, they perceived that American society’s individualism, commercialism, and love of luxury had instilled a “gimme attitude” and “caused our nation’s youth to become realists, with strong tendencies towards skepticism and cynicism.” 16 Colonel Harold  C. Lyon decried “the shocking ignorance and consequent lack of faith of large numbers of American youth concerning the basic principles and facts of American life—an ignorance which had serious military consequences in Korea.” 17 Colonel Wilbur Wilson believed “modern urban American civilization has softened our prospective soldiers. . . . The young American male is generally too attached to his mother, home, friends, or the 271

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corner drug store. And somewhere in his schooling or upbringing he seems to have missed the concept of his obligation to his country that characterized his forebears.” 18 Colonel Frank Colaccio perceived a communist plot to “Corrupt the youth. Get them away from religion. Get them interested in sex. Make them superficial, destroy their ruggedness.” 19 Colonel Powell A. Fraser argued that “the indifferent attitude of American youth towards the high moral ideals of freedom, loyalty and ser vice to country” required the army to provide each soldier “a basic understanding of his American heritage and of his responsibilities for maintaining the American way of life.” 20 Their pessimistic view of American society spurred some officers to imagine military ser vice would spearhead a great national awakening: “Since the Army is composed mostly of young men in their formative years, it can do much to guide the character of American youth back to a more respectful level and rescue the morals of this country from the deteriorated depths to which they seem headed.” 21 Carried to its logical extreme, the army’s atomic transformation went far beyond radical changes in military concepts, organization, and equipment; it anticipated the ethical rearmament of the individual soldier, and ultimately of the United States itself. The army’s concern with improving its soldiers’ morals dates back at least to the nineteenth century, when a combination of higher recruitment standards and even higher venereal disease rates prompted Secretary of War Elihu Root, among others, to urge soldiers to ponder “the inevitable misery and disaster which follow upon intemperance and upon moral uncleanliness and vicious living.” 22 However, when exhortations to practice abstinence proved ineffective, the army ordered its medical officers to instruct enlisted personnel on both disease and prophylaxis. In World War II this venereal disease program was attached to a much larger troop information program intended to improve GIs’ morale and behavior. Although many officers and NCOs disliked it, moral rearmament was revitalized in 1948, when, in reaction to public outrage about occupation-era military black marketeering and promiscuity, President Truman issued an executive order “to encourage and 272

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promote the religious, moral, and recreational welfare and character guidance of persons in the armed forces.” 23 Army regulations charged the Troop Information Program (TIP) with “providing all Army personnel with the facts necessary for understanding their responsibilities as soldiers and citizens.” 24 According to its chief, it would instill in each soldier “a firm conviction that the principles of American democracy are sound and correct so that he is willing to fight to preserve them” and “a determination to fight, a will to resist against military odds in combat.”25 The program’s office wrote and distributed “troop topics” to guide discussions on things like “Your Missions and Responsibilities” and “Defense Against Enemy Propaganda,” and provided the basis for officer or NCO-run seminars.26 As with many Pentagon-inspired initiatives, in practice the TIP often bore only a superficial resemblance to the exalted visions of its authors and champions. One general referred to its early efforts as “a forced feeding of pablum from the nursery in Washington.” 27 Many assigned as troop information personnel found they could count on little support from their commanders, or, indeed, the US Army. By definition, a TIP officer had to be an educated, literate communicator; officers with such skills soon gravitated to more career-enhancing staff assignments. Those who remained often felt blamed for their superiors’ mistakes. One frustrated officer warned, “Care should be exercised by TI to avoid becoming the ‘fall guy’ for agencies that have come up with illogical decisions or poorly planned or thought out plans or policies. When TI is used to explain (alibi) such actions we become closely associated with it. In this way, TI gets a black eye, suffering loss of prestige and an increase of disfavor rather than the agency primarily responsible for the action.” 28 Those outside the TIP complained of substandard lectures, incompetent instructors, and passive resistance by the audience. A soldier stationed in a combat division in Germany reported that his officers and NCOs viewed the troop information materials as “just some more of the old B——S——we’ve heard before.” The officer in charge of administering the program was “invariably low-ranking, frequently of 273

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below average intelligence, or an ‘odd ball’ given the job to keep him out of the way.” At a typical lecture—and less than half of the required number were actually given—“an untrained misfit . . . or some senior NCO unable to speak English stumbles his way through reference pamphlets or a fi lm.” Yet everyone in the senior leadership believed the unit’s program was a great success because “inspection records are forged, lies are given to answer the questions, and every thing is geared to meet the taste of the inspecting party.” 29 Parallel, and in the army’s view complementary to the Troop Information Program was the Character Guidance Program (CGP). Administered by the Office of the Chief of Chaplains (OCC) it was born in 1948 of the consensus that “the Army must do something, not only to better public relations, but to strike at the apparent moral inadequacy in training of the individual soldier. Therefore, there came about the most revolutionary policy in the U.S. Army . . . citizenship and morality lectures would be given to troops on duty time to educate them in areas of religious or moral law and patriotism.” 30 From the beginning, the program had such diverse and competing priorities as sexual hygiene, anticommunism, spiritual counseling, the commander’s training and discipline objectives, and “selling” the army to the American public. These manifold objectives created a great deal of confusion. According to army regulations, the CGP’s task was to instill “high moral character, intelligence, and a spiritual urge in all our soldiery [that] will develop better defenders of freedom, democracy, and all that is part of the American Way of Life.” 31 Taylor defined its mission as to “insure insofar as is possible under the conditions of military ser vice, the continuance of the wholesome influence of the home, the family and the community.” 32 Bolte believed the program’s purpose was “combating atheistic materialism and strengthening adherence to the spiritual principles of the free world.” 33 Officers in the field, especially those assigned to the advisory Character Guidance Councils, viewed the program as but one of many tools for instilling such traditional military virtues as discipline, esprit, patriotism, and mental toughness. But all agreed that in addition to its spiritual benefits, the CGP conveyed an important ancillary benefit: “When the troops understand fully there is less occasion 274

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Character guidance lecture. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

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for complaint and speculation with resulting less criticism from the public, media, and the Congress. This is particularly true now, when the Army is composed primarily of citizens involuntarily and temporarily in ser vice.” 34 However diverse its purpose, there was almost as much diversity among those charged with writing CGP material. The OCC emphasized that character guidance provided instruction—not indoctrination—“to help the members of the audience to think for themselves concerning problems raised by a particular subject . . . in such a manner that the individual will accept it as a reasonable mode of behavior, after which it must be applied to the life situation so that it will arouse a desire to act accordingly.” 35 Most of the CGP’s doctrines were contained in lectures and pamphlets distributed as a package to chaplains with an annual theme, such as 1957’s “One Nation, Under God.” But there was perpetual tension between the program’s intentions and its practice. The OCC’s upper ranks were graduates of elite seminaries who regarded the program as a vehicle for spiritual and civic transformation, and an unexpected opportunity to guide the young citizen-soldier into appreciating such complex ideals as marriage, faith, citizenship, and morality. But to the field chaplains charged with their delivery, the lectures were often far too convoluted for their semiliterate, unmotivated, or passiveaggressive audiences. Nor were these the only critics. Constitutionally minded officers protested that the lectures were really “sermons” that “may be construed as being indicative of Army support for specific Christian dogmas, rather than the general system of ethics, common to all religions.” 36 Others questioned whether the lectures were not an attempt to “camouflage Army life to make it look like normal living . . . no amount of camouflaging will make the Army anything but that to the soldier himself. Like Spam; no matter how disguised, it is still Spam!” 37 The CGP also encountered numerous problems in the field. Like the TIP, its requirement that soldiers attend lectures was more honored in the breach than in the observance, with average attendance at 50  percent. Even this figure may not reflect soldiers’ receptivity to the message; one chaplain explained his Alaskan congregation’s 100 percent turnout was “mainly because there was no place else to go.” 38 Some 276

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army posts lacked sufficient chaplains to run the lectures and other activities. At other posts chaplains felt the program interfered with their pastoral responsibilities. On the other side, some troop leaders believed the time given to moral instruction infringed on training, promoted unsoldierly sentimentality, and undermined their authority. They had some grounds for this. In 1953 the Chief of Army Field Forces, LTG John  R. Hodge, ordered the Character Guidance Councils to meet with troops and resolve their problems: “such opportunity for free approach, properly explained to the young soldiers, should lead to prompt correction of many justified complaints and grievances, engender mutual respect and overcome not only the soldier’s, but also the public’s conception of the officer- enlisted relationship in the Army.” 39 Field commanders may well have replied that most of their troops’ complaints—pay, assignments, training regimens, inspections, living conditions, and so on—were not in their power to fi x, though some might have been in Hodge’s. A year later, the Pentagon expanded the Character Guidance Councils’ powers to include such oversight as “be[ing] vigilant to assure that noncommissioned officers do not exceed their authority, thus destroying the morale of the men under them.” 40 Some councils undertook such tasks as removing “salacious and objectionable literature” from post libraries and book stores, or compiling innumerable charts of religious activities, disciplinary offenses, liquor sales, venereal disease rates, arrests for prostitution, and so on.41 One headquarters complained that “meetings appear often to be little more than a place to air grievances” and that councils had submitted over 150 proposals, of which less than 10 pertained to character guidance.42 Adjutant General William  E. Bergin, whose office received much of this data, complained that “tabulating figures and percentages” was a poor indicator of character guidance’s mission “to stimulate the spirit of the individual with the understanding of right and wrong.” 43 Recognizing that Character Guidance Councils were in danger of undermining authority, the Pentagon directed that they henceforth take their direction from the local commander, operating only “on a discretionary rather than required basis, and reports are no longer required.” 44 Unless sustained by a particularly keen 277

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officer, most councils reverted to being advisory boards or were abolished altogether.45 One of the more troubling aspects of the Character Guidance Program was its potential for abuse, allowing seniors to impose their religious beliefs on subordinates. When he took over Far East Command in 1953, Taylor embarked on a commendable effort to restore discipline, assist the Korean population, improve soldiers’ living conditions, and counter the negative media coverage of prostitution, black marketeering, and other immoral activities. At one of his many press conferences, he declared that “soldiers must be men of faith” and extolled the army’s role in propagating Christianity in Korea.46 Perhaps at Taylor’s initiative, Far East Command’s Character Guidance Council proclaimed: “The greatest single force in promoting healthy mental and moral attitudes on the part of the soldiery is belief in and practice of any one of the organized religions found in the Armed Forces.” 47 The council soon launched a campaign to increase chapel attendance using lectures, post newspapers, radio programs, and personal visits. It also made a direct appeal to Taylor’s deputy, LTG Thomas F. Hickey, for support. Hickey promptly issued a letter for distribution to all officers and NCOs declaring that “the problems of today are increasingly complex, forces of evil are a constant challenge, and the forces of atheism threaten our very way of life. During periods of great stress our strongest weapon in combating moral laxity is our faith in God supported by regular attendance at public worship.” Lest anyone miss the point, the general declared the best indicator of a leader’s “impeccable conduct” to be his “full support of religious activities.”48 Such none-too-subtle command influence contributed to a large, if temporary, increase in church turnout. Other commanders also confused their military authority with religious proselytizing. When MG Ralph  E. Haines commanded the 1st Armored Division, he authorized a “Duty Day with God,” in which each battalion returning from the field spent a full day in the chapel. Officers and noncoms had to attend; enlisted personnel had the option of going to chapel or working.49 The commander of the 1st Infantry Division told his staff in 1954 that “officers and NCO’s have a moral obligation as leaders, if they profess to believe in God, to set an ex278

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ample. Going to Church does help sustain faith in God and high principles. Church attendance should be encouraged as a method of building and sustaining high character.” 50 A few years later, when MG John A. Seitz commanded the division, he scheduled weekly meetings with the chief chaplain to discuss the conduct of various subordinates. Seitz recalled the chaplain “would never give me anything that was confidential. But he would give me leads, and I would go into some of those things and fi nd out for myself. He saved me lots of heartache, and he saved some senior NCOs and some junior officers from getting into trouble, because they were running around with other people.” 51 Seitz may have had the best intentions, but he created a potential conflict between the chaplain’s pastoral responsibilities and his role as the commander’s informant. The most controversial command intrusion was the “Citizenship in Ser vice” (or Pro-Blue) indoctrination program that MG Edwin  A. Walker imposed on the 24th Infantry Division between 1959 and 1961. To its supporters, Pro-Blue promised to “raise moral responsibility, to teach fundamental principles of citizenship and patriotism, and to motivate members of the command so as to reduce incidents and generate a desire for the rewards of self-discipline and public ser vice.” 52 The program administrator, MAJ Archibald E. Roberts, proclaimed: “Communism is a godless theology that is allied with the satanic forces of this world. . . . However, Communism like all godlessness has an ‘Achilles heel’ when pitted against the Bible and crumbles in defeat as the truths of the Word of God expose its tyranny for what it is.” 53 Walker dictated the content of religious ser vices and pressured his chaplains to emphasize that the US Army, and especially the 24th, were on the front line of the battle with the atheistic Soviet Union. He also made it clear to both officers and enlisted personnel that religious participation was the sign of a loyal soldier. Under such pressure, chapel attendance in the 24th increased by 800  percent. The general’s religious zeal apparently aroused little comment, but when he began suing newspapers, accusing political figures—including past and current presidents—of communist sympathies, and telling his soldiers how to vote, he brought down a media and political firestorm that engulfed the 279

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army. The general’s acrimonious resignation, and Army Chief of Staff George H. Decker’s unequivocal injunction that officers adhere to their profession’s standards may have served as a check to those who confused their religious beliefs with their military authority.54 Command influence aside, the army’s role in shaping soldiers’ devotional practices is ambiguous. Historians have noted that the fifties marked a revival of religious observance among Americans, and in this respect the military followed social norms.55 Certainly there was both opportunity and institutional support for attendance at church services, and in the first years after Truman’s executive order, religious participation by officers and enlisted personnel appears to have been frequent. In fiscal year 1954 army posts sponsored nearly 20,000 Sunday ser vices, over 2,000 religious education courses, provided 10,000 pastoral functions, and showed almost 500 religious films. The following year, 18,000,000 people attended ser vices held in one of 803 army chapels.56 These statistics were impressive but misleading. Chaplains and commanders were pressured to inflate the numbers, and they did: one inspection found a 100 percent difference between reported and actual religious attendance. Surveys of enlisted personnel confirmed chapel turnout as modest. One study revealed that while half of the respondents declared they intended to attend church, less than a third actually did so. Another survey found that only one-quarter of enlisted personnel were regular churchgoers, and in Hawaii it was only a fifth. Even with such pressure as Haines applied, half his soldiers preferred a day of work to one in chapel. After interviewing several GIs, a correspondent concluded their faith was personal; exposure to religious ser vices while in uniform had little influence on their beliefs.57 A final aspect of the CGP was simply practical: the continuation of the army’s decades-long hygiene and anti–venereal disease programs. Initially, the army preached abstinence, for as one lesson plan explained, “It is one thing to suppress vice: We want a soldier who will say NO!” 58 Following this guidance, one chaplain defined the program’s “credo” as conforming to “the wishes of the fathers and mothers to protect their sons from promiscuity by encouraging right conduct by every means at its disposal.” 59 But when chaplains shifted from moral instruction to 280

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advising on disease, they encountered a formidable opponent. With the development of antibiotics, the army medical community had come to regard sexually transmitted diseases as a comparatively minor problem. One noted that whereas in 1939 it took the average venereal patient forty-two days to return to duty, by 1954 it was a matter of hours. Yet senior officers continued to use a unit’s venereal disease rate in “as a fallacious attempt to measure the morality of the soldier and command efficiency of the unit commander.” Even worse, by imposing punitive sanctions on both patients and their officers these commanders encouraged “concealment and unauthorized treatment” and created far more serious medical problems.60 Bowing to medical authority, the army shifted from making sexually transmitted disease a crime to encouraging soldiers to seek immediate treatment at army clinics. Doctors also convinced the army to make prophylactics easily available and provided instruction on their use. By 1959 army doctors were making sarcastic references to the “venereal disease bug-a-boo” of a few years ago and assuring officers that “it certainly isn’t a military problem anymore, we treat them as out-patients.” 61 Although it was only indirectly responsible, the army-wide decline in sexually transmitted disease was regarded as one of character education’s great victories. If the army had questionable success in transforming the moral character of its enlisted personnel, it had much better results in improving their academic and vocational skills. This may be because the troops themselves viewed the army as a school. Polls consistently showed that young men, and their parents, regarded the primary benefit of military ser vice as learning a craft or furthering education. One officer studying the personnel requirements for atomic war concluded that “it is an unfortunate fact of life that it is practically impossible to sell the Infantry, Artillery, or Armor to the modern American boy when he can instead learn a trade or skill.” 62 One of the army’s most impressive successes was its basic education program for illiterates. As in World War II, during the Korean War both education and physical standards slipped alarmingly as Congress compelled the armed forces to not only lower their minimum test scores, but to accept over one-quarter of the draft class from the lowest 281

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scoring quartile, Category 4. By 1954, almost one-third of enlisted personnel in the army came from this category. Most were incapable of reading or performing the simplest tasks, and their inability to adapt to military life meant a disproportionate number were discharged for incompetence, court martialed, or sent to prison. To their credit, many commanders devoted extraordinary resources to rehabilitating soldiers who were willing to improve themselves. In Europe, for example, it was authorized policy in 1951 to give any African-American soldier who had not reached eighth grade level ten hours a week of educational training. In 1953, Army Forces Far East halved its number of illiterates, graduating 29,000 soldiers from fourth grade and 7,171 from eighth grade.63 Unlike members of Congress, who renewed the mandate for accepting a large number of Category 4 draftees, the army had learned from the Korean War experience. Beginning in March 1954, recruits who tested below the minimum were culled from the basic training cycle and given an intense two- to eight-week course. The goal was not only to bring them up to fourth grade reading, writing, math, and social skills, but also to identify any criminals, psychotics, malingerers, or imbeciles, and to quickly separate them from the ser vice at minimal cost. Correspondent Hanson Baldwin, who observed a class at Fort Dix, commented that “it is rather pathetic to see grown men in uniform learning vowel sounds and spelling from women civilian teachers,” but he was awed at its success.64 In the first six months these remedial courses graduated 3,551 of their 4,371 trainees, and Fort Dix’s program soon averaged a 90 percent completion rate. The army’s focus on education was one program that both the Pentagon and the field commanders supported, and the results were notable. Following the Korean War the army embarked on a twofold program to raise the general education level of its enlisted personnel and expel those who could not meet this standard. Beginning in 1954, the army imposed a fourth grade qualification for all enlisted personnel, completion of eighth grade by all noncommissioned officers, and at least two years of college for officers. Between July 1954 and June 1955, over 100,000 soldiers passed the minimum standard and  122,600 finished eighth grade. Within three years these standards rose again, requiring 282

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a high school diploma for reenlistment or promotion to sergeant, and a baccalaureate degree for officers. To meet these criteria, the army pumped enormous resources into its schools. In 1954 the ser vice subsidized 469 education centers staffed by 2,500 instructors; at any given time 150,000 students were enrolled in some 200,000 courses.65 In several documented instances, soldiers who had scored below the minimum improved their test scores dramatically once they had the rudiments of education. They went on to learn technical skills, graduate from school, and rise in rank. The army also covered three-quarters of the cost for off-duty classes at civilian high schools or universities, correspondence courses, or on-post courses. At the end of the decade, 60 percent of the army’s 900,000 personnel were enrolled in some form of adult education.66 The army’s role as “school of the nation” greatly improved its image, but it also contributed to the public’s perception that the ser vice could and should teach the disadvantaged The individual soldier’s access to education depended on the facilities available at his post and the encouragement of his commander. At a bad post, such as Fort Polk, Louisiana, the school facilities were minimal, in part because few qualified civilian teachers would accept employment. At a good post, academic opportunities rivaled those of a college town. Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, had been a center of army education before World War II, and it continued this proud tradition after the war. In one six-month period in 1956, some 13,000 soldiers took courses at Schofield’s education center, thirty to forty soldiers a day tested for a high school equivalency diploma, and 600 were enrolled at the University of Hawaii. The post also sponsored classes in everything from playing ukuleles to citizenship to conversational Japanese.67 Some commanders went above and beyond the army standards. In the 1950s it was the policy in Far East Command that every soldier with less than a fourth grade and every noncom with less than an eighth grade education was eligible for up to four hours of schooling each day. When MG William C. Westmoreland commanded the 101st Airborne Division in 1960, he made education such a priority that one private declared, “this division has done every thing but drag the individual to the classes offered to him.” 68 The sole complaint that soldiers made 283

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about the 101st’s schooling campaign was that company noncommissioned officers viewed students as shirkers or “company ghosts” and punished them with extra duty.69 That noncoms were angry with student-soldiers is not surprising, since they were under enormous pressure to improve their own educational qualifications. By 1954 the army estimated that between a quarter and a third of its NCOs lacked an eighth grade education and scored below the minimum on the armed forces intelligence tests. These figures were probably optimistic. One 1955 survey of 2,350 NCOs in US Army Europe showed 8  percent at fourth grade level, 19  percent at fifth grade, 35 percent at sixth grade, and 29 percent at seventh grade, with only 9 percent at eighth grade proficiency. As part of its efforts to revive the noncommissioned officer corps after Korea, the army implemented a crash course in 1955. The results were little short of miraculous. If the army provided small classes and at least twelve hours of instruction per week, the average student increased by one grade level every six weeks. In Europe in 1956, over 3,000 noncoms received their eighth grade certificate in one year, and most tested almost twenty points higher on intelligence tests, enough to exceed the armed forces’ minimum score and defuse the threat of immediate elimination. To encourage participation, the ser vice tried to remove any stigma: “Since many of the Army’s best non-commissioned officers have been deprived through no fault of their own of the chance to gain an eighth grade education, the program starts them on the road to learning. . . . This does not mean that an NCO without ‘book larnin’ is a poor leader. Many of these self-made men proved themselves above and beyond the call of duty in combat, even if they missed out educationally during childhood. However, their leadership potential is increased a thousand-fold by added formal learning.” 70 In contrast to other teaching initiatives, army officers downplayed this remedial education: “we don’t publicize it highly because we think it would reflect unfairly on the Army if it were generally known that one quarter of our NCO’s could not reenlist without a waiver if they were privates.” 71 This concern was well justified, since among soldiers the program was termed “Operation Dumdum.” 284

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While refurbishing its noncommissioned officer corps, the army also established specialist schools to teach enlisted personnel its myriad Military Occupational Specialties (MOSs). Specialist education was the primary means of sustaining and upgrading the enlisted ranks, a crucial step in advancement to a career as a noncommissioned officer. In 1955 army schools taught over 500 specialist courses and graduated 140,000 students; a year later they graduated 190,000. By then the service school catalog numbered over 300 pages, listing courses from aviation mechanic to woodworker. Soldiers stationed in West Germany who passed the army skills test could take one of the engineer school’s sixteen courses for MOSs ranging from carpenter’s assistant to engine maintenance equipment supervisor. Or they might enroll in one of the intelligence school’s nineteen courses on every thing from military policing to Russian. If these options were not appealing, the ordnance school offered nineteen specialty courses, the signal school provided fifteen, and the quartermaster school had eleven. Other occupational specialties were taught at the noncommissioned officers’ school, the tank training school, and the aviation school.72 Ideally, the US Army enlisted ranks should have consisted of foremen and craftsmen in its career ranks, leaving unskilled labor to draftees and first-term volunteers. But massive as it was, the army’s technical training initiative—which averaged 30,000 students daily—was unable to meet its needs. The educational limits of older NCOs excluded them from several technical specialties, and these same deficiencies limited the options for many who enlisted in hopes of making the ser vice a career. Unable to make the Regular Army self-sufficient in skilled labor, the ser vice had to open its teaching facilities to conscripts. Compounding the shortage of skilled labor within its career ranks was the increasing sophistication and complexity of the army’s equipment. By 1956 the average army technical course ran thirty weeks; some were twice that long. Even so, this schooling was only one part of a specialist’s training. By the time conscripts were of use to the army they might have less than a year left before discharge. In 1956 one colonel concluded the ser vice got more productive work out of one trained three-year enlistee than four two-year draftees. But since the majority of conscripts and 285

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first-term volunteers left after their obligated ser vice, there was almost a 100 percent turnover in the skilled labor force every three years. The only solution was to recruit better soldiers, train them more efficiently, and provide sufficient on-the-job benefits that they would make the army a career. It is a centuries-old military axiom that idle soldiers are a danger to morale, discipline, and cohesion. This perception is not restricted to officers alone. A traditional American working class reference to slacking off on the job as “soldiering” reflects a prejudice that those in uniform do little honest work. This stereotype was perpetuated in fifties popular culture by Sergeant Bilko, Beetle Bailey, and other icons. Barring KP and police duties such as picking up cigarette butts, most soldiers in garrison were free each evening from dinner to lights out at ten, Saturday afternoons, and all day Sunday—plenty of time and opportunity for young males to get into trouble. At many posts, a soldier had only to step outside the gates to be surrounded by clip joints, bars, gambling, pawnshops, and prostitutes—sometimes all in the same building. Relations between soldiers and civilians in garrison towns were fraught with tension. Disputes between GIs and taxi drivers, barkeeps, hostesses, sales personnel, and others were common and sometimes violent. Alcohol, competition for female companions, a dangerous work environment, and social pressure to demonstrate appropriately masculine behav ior were a volatile combination. Soldiers settled their personal, racial, regional, class, and other antagonisms in southern bars, German gasthauses, Korean villes, and any other place they could. Responding to a number of “deplorable incidents,” the commander of 5th Corps was moved to expostulate, “ There is no earthly reason that I know of why soldiers off duty should have access, for playful purposes, to grenades or ammunition whatever.” 73 Even if GIs stayed out of bars and brothels, there was little decent or affordable recreation to be had outside the post gates. As one veteran complained, “A soldier was a second-class citizen in many Army towns, the communities that live off the payrolls of military bases. The principal industry in most of these towns was taking soldiers for every dime they had.” 74 The fact that so many of the continental forces were sta286

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tioned in the segregated South compounded the problem. Black soldiers, confronted with overt racism and discrimination, tried to avoid ser vice in Dixie. But so did many white GIs. One New York draftee commented: “The most disturbing thing about Mississippi is its superficial resemblance to the United States.” 75 Barely one soldier in ten at Fort Polk could remember a single positive experience with a local inhabitant, and 90 percent viewed the surrounding area as dull and backward. A survey of those stationed at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, found a consensus that wearing their uniforms in nearby Columbia made them “a conspicuous target.” 76 The police at Fayetteville, North Carolina, next to Fort Benning, delighted in dragging out the ticketing process so their victims would also be punished for reporting late. The town–post relationships around Fort Campbell, Kentucky, were particularly bad. After numerous incidents of corruption, false arrests, and brutality the 11th Airborne Division placed an officer in each police station on paydays to protect the soldiers. When the 101st Airborne Division took over the post, the police resumed their harassment and only desisted when their commanding general had the foresight to make the son of a state judge his aide.77 An incident in Durham, North Carolina, illustrates the poor treatment ser vice personnel experienced in many southern communities. After giving up their weekend and enduring a long bus ride, forty members of the 18th Airborne Corps Band arrived at the American Legion post to change into dress uniform before parading at a town festival. The Legion representative declared the white soldiers were welcome, but “no God-damned Negroes” would be allowed in. On his own responsibility, the bandleader, a sergeant, refused to enter the Legion post and, after some hunting, located a basement where the musicians could change. After the parade was over, the musicians were told to eat at a restaurant, but the manager denied admission to the black soldiers. In a quiet display of solidarity, the band boarded the bus back to Fort Bragg and the sergeant bought them all lunch from a roadside stand. Major General Joseph P. Cleland personally reimbursed the bandleader and commended his leadership. Then the legendary paratrooper wrote to his superior to express outrage at the disrespect accorded his soldiers. 287

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He was placing Durham under interdict; no troops from the 18th Airborne would go there on any official business “unless colored soldiers in uniform are given the same fair treatment as white American soldiers. I feel that this is right.” 78 His superior fully supported Cleland’s decision, and extended the ban on Durham to all soldiers within the 3rd Army. Not all communities were so inhospitable. Draftee Larry  D. Hill was explaining to his young wife that Fort Huachuca’s lack of housing meant she would have to return to her parents when an angry waitress demanded, “why are you making that pretty girl cry?” She ordered him to stay in place, then returned with an offer to rent them her trailer.79 In Hawaii, the town of Wahiawa, next to Schofield Barracks, opened its community center, gymnasium, swimming pools, and other facilities to ser vice personnel. Relations with the territorial government were also harmonious. At the governor’s request an officer known for his command of administrative procedures instructed department heads on techniques for efficient management. The army took an active interest in the University of Hawaii’s ROTC unit, in part because it was believed its diverse racial and class composition made it an ideal unit to teach junior officers about Asians.80 But such close relations were unusual, and with good reason the army believed it had to furnish healthy and controllable off-duty entertainment for its soldiers. The army’s solution was to provide the comforts of civilian life on post. If character guidance and troop information improved the GI’s moral fiber, Army Special Ser vices improved his behavior through wholesome entertainment. Special Ser vices’ activities were wide and varied: in the 1950s it could (and did) boast that it administered the world’s largest library system, sports program, and chain of motion picture theaters. In Alaska, in 1954, roughly half the command—between 30,000 and 38,000 troops—participated in some form of Special Services activity at least once a month—at a cost of eight cents a person. To the harassed commanding general, such “diversional activities” were absolutely essential to maintain morale and encourage reenlistment.81 A survey that year in Far Eastern Command found the average soldier visited a club three times a week, attended two movies, and played on one company athletic team—all under the auspices of Special Ser vices. 288

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In 1956 Special Ser vices in Europe reported that its 194 libraries were used by 500,000 soldiers, its 148 photo labs and 120 craft shops by over 100,000, and its 127 social clubs by 1,250,000.82 On a large post such as Schofield Barracks, Special Ser vices provided entertainment opportunities surpassing those available in neighboring towns and small cities. Schofield boasted a theater seating 1,500, a multilane bowling alley, a huge crafts shop, a car repair facility, and a swimming pool. Citizens from across the island of Oahu drove miles through the pineapple and cane fields to watch local stars like “Handsome Johnny” Barend and “Ripper” Collins wrestle at the post’s Bloch Arena. The Kaala Club sponsored plays, talent shows, dances, and other events that drew 50,000 monthly visitors. The Club’s director explained: “The activities enjoyed are of the wholesome variety . . . we try to arrange our programs so that the men who attend the club regularly will feel no real gap in their social life during their military ser vice.” 83 In this spirit, the club sponsored special events, like the monthly “Night in Puerto Rico,” with entertainment provided by Hispanic soldier-performers.84 In 1957 Elvis Presley and his original combo gave his last pre-army concert before 10,000 fans at Schofield’s Conway Bowl, with opening acts provided by the 25th Infantry Division’s soldiers. That a rock-and-roll star would perform at an army post, and later star in a faux-autobiographical movie about a soldier-musician underscores the close, and largely unrecognized, connection between youth music and the armed forces. For many young men, the ser vice provided their first exposure to the music of other regions and races. Leon Oscar Anderson, a soldier in a black airborne unit at Fort Bragg, remembered listening to songs such as “Gomen Nasai” and “China Night” brought back by GIs who had developed a taste for Japanese pop during the Korean War. Henry Gole, a proud Bostonian, recalled “a steady dose of shit-kicker music” in his barracks in Virginia: fifty years later he could still recall most of their lyrics.85 The peacetime Cold War military experience was a continual theme in teenage music in the Eisenhower–Kennedy era. There were songs about being drafted and songs about being discharged. There were 289

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musical promises from girls back home to stay true or telling a soldier other wise in “Dear John” letters. Overseas ser vice promoted songs about lonesome soldiers, local romances, and miscommunications with “giashy girls.” 86 One 1957 song about a doomed overseas romance, “Fraulein,” remained on the country charts for over a year later and is still a staple at Texas dancehalls. A more cynical perspective was veteran Tom  T. Hall’s “Salute to a Switchblade,” an account of an encounter between two drunken GIs, a German waitress, and her knifewielding soldier-husband.87 The US Army played a large role in the dissemination of American youth music. Virtually every company day room had a record player and a vinyl collection reflecting the diverse tastes of its members. The service clubs and cafés maintained jukeboxes where soldiers could spend their nickels and listen to the latest hits. Many posts stocked instruments for soldier combos and some boasted practice rooms. The numerous advertisements and announcements in ser vice newspapers for off-post concerts, dances, and clubs provide a measure of the size and spending power of the GI music market. The army also tried to associate itself with youth music, making it cool to be in uniform. It sponsored an hour-long show recorded in Nashville that was carried on 1,800 radio stations and solicited the help of thousands of radio announcers to pitch the ser vice to teenagers.88 The impact of soldiers on the music scene overseas was significant. The Armed Forces Network (AFN) broadcast the new American music to both soldiers and civilians; a 1952 survey of troops in Germany revealed that almost every officer and two-thirds of the enlisted men listened to AFN broadcasts. But while 90  percent of those surveyed felt the network was doing a good job, they were deeply divided by rank and by musical tastes. Officers preferred older pop singers and “elevator music,” whereas enlisted men liked younger singers, country, R&B, and jazz. The most popular program among enlisted personnel was Hillbilly Gasthaus, but over a quarter of the soldiers and the vast majority of officers wanted it pulled off the air. But however much they differed in musical taste, everyone agreed there should be more crime shows and less religious programming.89 290

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AFN had already established a large English audience during World War II, and soon created an equally enthusiastic listenership in Western Europe, especially among young Germans. Both the music and the commentary were radically different from anything aired by political propaganda or the classical music formats of postwar national networks. European youth were captivated by radio personalities such as the “Baron of Bounce,” host of Bouncing in Bavaria. When the Baron and another AFN disc jockey staged a mock feud over the airways, insulting each other’s musical tastes, audiences were dazzled by this audible demonstration of freedom of speech. Small wonder that the communists expended enormous resources trying to block AFN broadcasts. Their lack of success is documented in Berlin today, where “GI Disco” dance nights flourish.90 In addition to AFN, GIs enjoyed ample live entertainment. Special Ser vices and USO shows headed by television and movie stars entertained enthusiastic audiences at the big posts. In isolated Fort Huachuca, Larry D. Hill attended concerts by Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, and other musical greats. Local entertainers covered the military club circuit, giving GIs exposure to every thing from “torso twisting Javanese dances” to Korean versions of American pop songs.91 But far more common, and perhaps more influential on a daily basis, were “homegrown” GI performers. In fiscal year 1955, USAREUR sponsored 16,253 “soldier shows” for 1,782,400 troops, as well as the 6,000 contestants competing in the All-Army Singing Contest.92 Army choral leaders, band directors, club managers, and AFN hosts all served as mentors, teaching soldiers how to read music, play instruments, harmonize, and perform in public. Ser vice entertainers worked their way up through a series of talent shows and contests, with the winners spending most of the following year performing before civilian and military audiences. Reflecting its soldiers’ diverse interests, the 7th Infantry Division in Korea sponsored both a “Hillbilly Band” contest and a “Rhythm and Blues Revue.” 93 Nor were musical groups restricted to “soft” troops in support echelons. In 1956 the 101st Airborne Division sent some twenty singers and dancers, as well as a number of roller skaters, to compete in a talent contest.94 291

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Army rhythm and blues combo. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

Army entertainers had a substantial impact on overseas musical tastes as well. The song “Gomen Nasai” that Leon Anderson heard on a record player at Fort Bragg was recorded in Japan by an American soldier. The song became such a success that it was released in the United States—truly a case of the army as a cross-cultural influence. Soldiers brought their dates to the NCO or other clubs to hear rock, country, or soul groups, and their dates took this music back out to their friends. Although they were rowdy, the GI bars in Germany, Korea, and Japan provided local teenagers with access to the latest American chartbusters. The army encouraged much of this musical ambassadorship. It was rare for a German–American friendship day to not include both a local oom-pah band playing traditional music and a soldier combo playing country, jazz, or rock-and-roll. Some entertainers bridged the 292

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gap between civil and military worlds. In the 1960s the GI band The Monks introduced many German youth to garage band rock. Elvis Presley was just one of the tens of thousands of musicians who donned khaki. Like Elvis, their time in the ser vice brought them in contact with musicians from all regions and musical influences. One Brooklyn-born guitarist commented that in his ten-year professional career he thought he had played every musical style, but only when he became a soldier, and a member of Pappy Burns and the Tune Twisters, did he have to master the intricacies of country-western “stick buddy music.” 95 Indeed, the US Army was a mixing bowl that tossed together jazz artists Herbie Mann and Cannonball Adderley, pop performers Steve Lawrence and Vic Damone, country vocalists George Jones and Charlie Pride, soul singers Clyde McPhatter and Lou Rawls, and guitarists Link Wray and Jimi Hendrix. Sometimes life imitated art: Bobby Bare wrote the hit single “All-American Boy” about a drafted rock-androller and within months was in uniform himself. Perhaps the only entertainment to rival music was sports. Many soldiers entered the ser vice having played in Pop Warner or Little League, and many others had attended schools in which “jocks” were at the social apex. For its part, the US Army had long championed sports to encourage physical fitness, morale, and disciplined aggression. As one division’s yearbook put it, “Athletic competition is part of the Army’s plan to build men and soldiers.” 96 Many career soldiers associated athletic ability with military skills; one general declared, “Anyone who can play a good game of football can certainly be a good infantryman or a good artilleryman.” 97 Sports aided enlistment and retention and built esprit de corps, an important factor in a military force with such a transitory population. When the army wanted to attract college-educated volunteers for its elite missile units, it advertised that each new Nike battery would include a $1,500,000 athletic complex.98 Athletics also served an important public relations purpose, allowing civilians to witness firsthand the benefits of a military regimen of physical fitness, discipline, and teamwork. Reflecting both these agendas, post and unit newspapers devoted at least one-quarter of each issue to sporting events, 293

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with most stories identifying both the soldiers involved and their hometowns. Army information officers promptly mailed clippings to proud parents and local newspapers.99 When LTG Bruce  C. Clarke commanded 7th Army in Germany, he ordered each battalion to field a soccer team and play against local sports clubs. In 1956 his soldiers played over 700 matches, losing the great majority but presumably scoring goals for German–American harmony.100 An Army War College student report concluded that sports were an essential part of “enlisted personnel management” and served “to keep the large bulk of enlisted men occupied after duty hours to reduce delinquencies to a minimum in nearby civilian communities.” 101An added benefit, as one chaplain delicately noted, was that “participation in athletics and sports” provided “outlets for sexual arousal.” 102 The draft and the enormous increase in college sports programs combined to bring hundreds of college and professional athletes into the ser vice. A gifted athlete moved rapidly into ever-higher levels of competition; championship games, such as Far Eastern Command’s Torii Bowl, were played in modern stadiums before tens of thousands of spectators. More common than these luminaries were GIs like the fictional Corporal Monroe in Soldier in the Rain, a golf pro whose duties “consisted solely of tending the shop and giving occasional lessons to officers . . . [and] who was universally considered to have the softest deal on post.” 103 The emphasis on athletics often contradicted the army’s official position that all soldiers were treated equally, and that training for war was the ser vice’s first and foremost mission. There is considerable anecdotal evidence that some commanders evaluated subordinates partly on the performance of their unit’s athletic teams. If one regimental or division commander fielded a team of all-Americans, his rivals felt compelled to create their own stable of professionals. When James Vaught, a college football player and recently commissioned lieutenant, arrived in Germany his company commander informed him he didn’t like athletes. He expected Vaught to devote all his time to training his platoon. Vaught was more than happy to oblige, believing his chances for a Regular Army commission depended on demonstrating his military ability. 294

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But COL Samuel Williams, outraged at his regiment’s poor athletic record, ordered all officers with football experience to try out for the team. When Vaught objected, Williams told him, “Unless you have a yellow streak up your back, I expect you to be out there playing football tomorrow.” Williams then called the company commander and told him, “Vaught’s going to play football and if he plays well or if he plays bad, he’d better get a good efficiency report.” The beleaguered Vaught tried to keep both his captain and colonel happy, “but my first loyalty, and that was made very clear by Williams, was to make damn sure that I helped the football team win.” 104 One of the most famous and most controversial athletic programs was the Military Academy’s. Under Coach Earl  H. “Red” Blaik, the prestige, power, and independence of the team mushroomed, prompting one correspondent to quip that the American public believed the Corps of Cadets was “divided into two parts, half of which spends all its time parading, and the other half playing football.” 105 The 1951 cheating scandal resulting in the expulsion of ninety cadets, a disproportionate number of them “Blaik’s Boys,” earned him a great deal of enmity among those who held to the Academy’s motto of “Duty, Honor, Country.” Although the coach and the team survived, when LTG Garrison H. Davidson became superintendent in 1956, Blaik found himself playing on a very different field. Davidson had been a star player and coach at West Point, and he and Blaik disliked each other intensely. The coach recruited young men more for their athletic than military ability, segregated them from the rest of the cadets, and pushed them to excel at football above all else. Davidson believed in democratic amateur athletics as a means for all cadets to develop character, physical skills, and discipline— and thus become better officers. The two men clashed over the number of scholarships, athletes’ privileges, and Blaik’s neglect of all athletics except football. Choosing his time, Blaik announced his retirement to ensure maximum embarrassment for Davidson, and then made sure that his sportswriter friends excoriated the superintendent.106 As Davidson’s battle with Blaik demonstrated, the drift toward professional sports did not go unchallenged, either by enlisted men or by 295

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officers who complained they undermined education, discipline, and morale. Unit rivalry could be so intense that championship games degenerated into brawls. Athletics were also dangerous; some units suffered twice as many disabling injuries from sports as from training. And they were often unfair. An athlete placed on special duty to play for a team was usually excused from morning drill and relieved of maintenance duties, which then fell on his former comrades. One general, charged with investigating allegations of preferential treatment for athletes, quickly discovered within a few miles of the Pentagon a post whose baseball team was predominantly professional, and another with a special athletic barracks whose occupants had no soldierly duties. In 1954 a congressional subcommittee found many instances of athletes and entertainers given choice assignments, exempted from overseas tours, or excused from training. When Davidson took over 7th Army he complained that athletic competition had corrupted the entire training process: instead of teaching soldiers how to shoot in combat conditions, marksmanship instruction focused on selecting the best team for NATO competitions.107 Some officers resisted membership in the “jockstrap army” through a variety of means. Commanding officers set the tone, most notably by ordering athletes to attend morning drill, limiting practice sessions, and by communicating their dislike of full-time athletic teams. One commander told his subordinates that in his view, “the unit softball game is more important than the intercommand baseball game which may lead to a major championship.” 108 Under such officers, sports were truly participatory and democratic, and a great boost to morale. In USAREUR between July 1954 and June 1955, 1,972 basketball teams played 20,000 games, 1,776 volleyball teams played 25,470 matches, 1,500 softball teams played 19,450 games, and the command’s 850 bowling alleys were host to some 6,637,000 games.109 At the lower level, if commanders’ complaints are to be believed, many officers insisted their athletes fulfill all their duties, even if it meant sacrificing their sports activities. Captain Donald Siebert, ordered to exempt his company’s athletes from field training, promptly transferred them all.110 296

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Siebert’s response reveals the contrast between the ideals underlying the Cold War army’s ambitious social engineering projects and their practice in the field. For a variety of reasons, ranging from the anticipated effects of atomic war to public relations, the ser vice sought to reform the character of its enlisted personnel. This transformation agenda was holistic, aimed at improving the soldier’s spiritual, educational, and physical well-being. The results of the Troop Information Program and Character Guidance Program are difficult to assess. They may have helped to improve morale, decrease complaints, indoctrinate citizen-soldiers in civic responsibilities, break down racial and regional prejudices, and many other intangible benefits. But it is difficult to determine how much of soldiers’ good behavior was due to army social engineering, how much to a fear of punishment, and how much to individual choice. It is similarly impossible to measure the impact of the extensive recreation programs in deterring misbehavior and improving morale. The close, largely unstudied connection between the army and youth music suggests the importance of the armed forces in fifties teenage culture. What can be measured is the progress in the ser vice’s academic and vocational educational programs, and this was indisputably a success. The peacetime US Army was, in many ways, the school of the nation.

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In an April 1960 address to the Army War College, LTG John C. Oakes emphasized that since the United States would ultimately win the Cold War by peaceful means, it was critical that “our political leaders must not be forced into nuclear warfare by a rigid military structure” that provided only that option. Although they were also eager to avoid an atomic conflict, “the Reds will use violence, whenever and wherever they can get away with it,” and thus for the foreseeable future “limited wars are apt to take the form of communist inspired or exploited rebellions, insurgencies, and sharp but ill-defined violence.” Such conflicts should not be met by “the indiscriminate use of force” but rather by military means “on a scale best calculated to prevent hostilities broadening into general [thermonuclear] war.” In a casual dismissal of the scenario that had fueled army transformation for the past decade, Oakes opined that instead of annihilating the enemy on the atomic battlefield, the army’s mission would now be to “minimize violence” and “provide stability.”1 The general’s advocacy of limited warfare aroused little objection from his audience, for it was very much in keeping with recent trends in army thinking. Army Chief of Staff Lyman  L. Lemnitzer might still maintain that atomic war was winnable, but many officers no longer accepted this. War College students argued the rapidly increasing destructive power of nuclear weapons made it impossible to confine them to military targets. At the Command and General Staff College, officers were revising the army’s cornerstone doctrinal manual to emphasize that excessive force “may cause the expansion of the conflict, or human 298

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or materiel destruction or expenditure of national resources inconsistent with national objectives.” 2 The army’s shift away from tactical atomic warfare reflected an appreciation of how the political winds were blowing. Newly elected President John  F. Kennedy’s policy of flexible response repudiated the Eisenhower New Look’s reliance on airpower and massive retaliation. Like his predecessor, JFK accepted that a US–USSR thermonuclear confl ict could have no winner. Unlike Eisenhower, he believed that Amer ica’s inadequate ground forces invited Soviet aggression in Europe and encouraged communist-backed insurgencies in the Third World. Kennedy’s strategic views were strongly influenced by former Army Chief of Staff Maxwell  D. Taylor, and reflected that general’s conviction the army could perform any mission. Throughout the fifties, Taylor and other army spokesmen had sold tactical atomic war as the only deterrent to a nuclear holocaust. For sixties officers it was no great step to claim nonatomic land operations as a better alternative. For tacticians the transition was even easier. Just as fifties proponents had found a place for such traditional army values as leadership, initiative, and morale on the atomic battlefield, their successors applied such atomic-era ideals as mobility, flexibility, firepower, and dispersion to conventional and guerrilla war scenarios. Now it was the nonatomic battlefield that would be fluid and fast moving, dominated by wideranging, mobile American units striking swift, devastating blows at less advanced opponents.3 The transition to conventional war was speeded by poll results attesting that although civilians remained skeptical of the army’s relevance in any major nuclear conflict, its importance in “limited warfare” was “widely understood and supported.” 4 In response, the Office of the Chief of Information initiated a new public relations campaign in 1960 to “convince the American people . . . that the Army has its eye and mind on its primary role—sustained land combat—in a general war, a limited war, and even in the cold war.” 5 Project MAN focused on the field forces, emphasizing the ser vice’s ability to deploy rapidly, whether to a conventional war in Europe or a guerrilla conflict in the Third 299

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World. Instead of missiles and atomic cannons, army publicity now emphasized the elite warriors of the Special Forces and the Strategic Army Corps (STRAC). Both organizations quickly deployed their own weapons of self-promotion, having recognized, as did STRAC’s commander, that in an “advertising age” it was essential to market their brand to their “customers.” 6 One of the most obvious symbols of the army’s retreat from atomic war was the dissolution of the pentomic division. The commandant of the Infantry School provided a partial litany of pentomic’s deficiencies: “At the present time we feel we are not able to control all of our available conventional firepower, much less nuclear. We also lack the tactical mobility to exploit its effects, and, in the case of infantry firepower, adequate means to move it. Also our surveillance and intelligence is far from being able to provide us with adequate target acquisition.” 7 Unable to limit atomic warfare to the battlefield, pentomic made the US Army little more than a trip-wire force whose destruction by the Soviets guaranteed an American thermonuclear response. In an irony that Taylor would not have appreciated, his prodigy had become an instrument of Eisenhower’s massive retaliation doctrine. Pentomic’s successor was the Reorganization Objectives Army Divisions (ROAD). In theory ROAD divisions conformed to the Kennedy ideal of flexible response by providing a variety of military options. Instead of pentomic’s five battle groups, ROAD divisions could be tailored to a specific operational mission, adding or shedding infantry, armored, or other units as needed. ROAD’s supporters claimed it could fight effectively in any conflict, from guerrilla to atomic. Perhaps reflecting the Kennedy administration’s conviction that levels of violence could be precisely calibrated to achieve specific political results, they also claimed ROAD allowed for “the tactical application of selective and graduated combat power varying with the strength of the enemy, the geographic areas of operations, and the political objectives and restraints.” 8 Taylor had launched the pentomic division as a crash program, decreeing the adoption of an untested organization and leaving it to his staff to fill in the details. The transition to ROAD demonstrated Secre300

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tary of Defense Robert S. McNamara’s emphasis on careful planning, experimentation, and assessment. The original table of organization was drawn up in 1960, but it took two years before its revised form was approved and the first two divisions became operational. It took another two years to complete the process. Some of this delay was caused by the Berlin and Cuban crises, some by an increase in personnel and force structure. Some was due to many of the same problems that had plagued pentomic: shortages of equipment, logjams in transferring personnel, and maintenance and logistic backlogs. But much of the delay was a direct result of the McNamara era’s propensity toward micromanagement and bureaucracy. John A. Heintges, just back from Laos, was assigned as project officer for ROAD, in charge of supervising dozens of teams studying every thing from weapons to mess kits. When he protested to Chief of Staff George H. Decker that this seemed excessive, “Decker got quite angry with me and he got red in the face, pounded his desk and said, ‘What the goddam hell do you think I’ve been doing here? Of course, it’s wrong . . . we have been trying to cut it down but we’ve got 78 project officers now, and I’ll bet you it will be 300 before long.’ ” 9 As another measure of its new focus, the army revised its keystone doctrinal manual, FM 100-5: Operations, in 1962. With a nod to flexible response, the manual emphasized that “military forces must be able to operate effectively across the entire spectrum of war,” from deterrence through insurgency to large-unit ground operations and on to thermonuclear exchange. But with a slap at both massive retaliation and the air force, the manual stressed that military force must be tailored to national objectives, and suggested that only limited war could achieve them. The Kennedy influence was also apparent in the two chapters on unconventional warfare and another on “situations short of war.”10 These sections emphasized the importance of coordinating conventional, psychological, and economic methods, and outlined counter-guerrilla tactics and methods for helping the populace. But, as befitted its title, the manual’s primary focus was on how to use ground forces in operations that would defeat the enemy, occupy territory, and destroy the opposition’s will to fight. There was very little attention paid to the 301

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problems of working with an incompetent, corrupt host government or the effects of modern firepower on noncombatants. The new operational manual was one aspect of the army’s engagement with counterinsurgency. Some critics accused the ser vice of feigning enthusiasm for this mission to secure funding, prestige, and personnel. One general recalled that during the Kennedy era “every officer had to have his ticket punched and have something on his record that said he learned about counterinsurgency.” 11 But the army did have a long and usually successful history of defeating guerrillas and pacifying armed resistance. Even during the height of the atomic infatuation some officers had emphasized that unconventional warfare was a far more likely contingency. During Kennedy’s presidency the army rapidly expanded the Special Forces and began sending senior officers to South Vietnam to study guerrilla warfare firsthand. By the end of 1962 the Infantry School claimed it provided almost 2,000 hours of counterinsurgency instruction and training.12 The sixties transformation from atomic to conventional war also affected army equipment. In the fifties, enthusiasts had been intoxicated by new technologies such as missiles, and the Eisenhower administration had prioritized these expensive and complicated weapons systems. One logistician summarized the cumulative result: “Large requirements for new materiel were generated, most of it not beyond the development stage.” 13 The M-60 tank, for example, was initially envisioned as “an atomic firing, atomic propelled tank that was protected against radiation.” 14 Critics protested that army projections for future war inevitably included nonexistent weapons, while deficiencies in radios, rifles, and other basic kit identified a decade earlier were still unresolved. In the meantime, most GIs made do with equipment dating from Korea, if not World War II—and in some cases World War  I. In 1961 the Deputy Chief of Staff for Logistics, Robert  W. Colglazier, told Congress that through breakage, consumption, and obsolescence the army lost $1,400,000,000 worth of equipment a year, yet its budget for new equipment was just a fraction of this. He argued it was cost-ineffective to keep repairing antiquated materiel: the army needed modern, functional vehicles and weapons.15 302

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Kennedy’s promise to modernize the army’s equipment seemed to mark the final end of the World War II surplus army. So too did a host of reforms in the Department of Defense promising to improve the procurement and distribution of materiel. For many in the Pentagon, the results appeared immediate and positive. In short order the army received a new machine gun, rifle, grenade launcher, and battle tank. For soldiers who had spent much of their time in the repair shop, it was manna from heaven. By 1962 GEN James E. Moore was able to boast, “It has long been the case that tactical thinking in our Army has been far ahead of the material means available to give substance to ideas. This gap is now closing and this has had a remarkably inspiriting effect upon the morale of both officers and men. The equipment they have received and that which they see coming is permitting them to act when previously they could only dream.” 16 The shift to conventional warfare jettisoned plans for much of the future atomic arsenal that had symbolized army transformation in the fifties: a dazzling array of flying jeeps, solar-powered hovercraft, pulse rifles, and man-portable nuclear warheads. What the army actually had in its supply depots was far different. Even the atomic arsenal’s best promoter, Chief of Staff Taylor, had admitted the army’s current weapons were just a stopgap for the more effective atomics promised in the coming decade. By 1960 the ponderous 280mm gun and Corporal rocket were already obsolete. The inaccuracy of missiles such as the Honest John and Little John made them of doubtful utility, especially because the army could neither locate nor communicate with its own units under battlefield conditions. The Lacrosse tactical ballistic system intended to replace them had proved a billion-dollar failure. The newly issued atomic infantry weapon, the Davy Crockett, was justifiably regarded by its crews as more dangerous to them than to the Soviets. Yet another casualty of the army’s shift to conventional warfare was its continental air defense system. With the Soviet Union shifting to intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs), Nike missiles designed to stop enemy bombers were no longer required. Moreover, McNamara concluded that regardless of how much the United States spent on air defense, a Soviet attack would still inflict catastrophic damage. He cut 303

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budgets and delayed upgrading the Nike system. The results were quick and devastating. In 1964 the commander of the army’s continental air defense command admitted: “ Today, we find our Nike Hercules units sitting right on top of likely targets where, if these areas are hit by enemy ICBM’s our anti-bomber Nike forces will be destroyed before they can be used.” 17 An officer charged with overseeing Nike sites that had recently been showplaces reported them barely functioning: “nobody was checking their work, nor was anybody checking whether something needed replacing.” 18 By the latter half of the decade, the army had transferred most continental air defense sites to its National Guard. The Hawk antiaircraft missiles lasted longer—into the 1990s—but proved difficult to maintain and so expensive that large gaps were left in regional air defenses. Commanders in Germany petitioned for antiaircraft guns to supplement the Hawks, but the US Air Force, which controlled air operations, convinced the Department of Defense that ground-based artillery was ineffective against supersonic jets. One army general involved in this acrimonious exchange noted with sour satisfaction that pilots soon “learned different” in Vietnam.19 Only one new technology seemed destined to move seamlessly from atomic to conventional warfare: the helicopter. By 1960 field exercises had convinced all but the most fanatical paratrooper that division-size parachute operations were suicidal. From now on airborne training, much like horsemanship in the pre–World War II army, was required not for any military utility but because it was alleged to instill physical fitness, discipline, and courage. To its supporters, the helicopter offered the sole means for the army to execute rapid mobile assaults on the enemy’s flanks and rear. In 1962 the army appointed a board under LTG Hamilton H. Howze to examine the feasibility of helicopter air assault. The army also scheduled a host of tests on aerial fire support, tactics, and equipment. By then, helicopters were already demonstrating their usefulness in South Vietnam. In February 1963 the army activated the 11th Air Assault Division (Test) at Fort Rucker, Alabama, to develop concepts outlined by the Howze Board. US Army public relations posters portrayed heliborne infantry dismounting onto a bat304

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Army vision of airmobile war, 1963. Source: US Army Heritage and Education Center, Carlisle, Pa.

tlefield: significantly, they were not charging into jungles, but toward an atomic mushroom cloud.20 Unfortunately, it was much easier to design a new poster than to put that scenario into practice. Major General Harry W. O. Kinnard, commander of the 11th Air Assault, assumed his task was to train, equip, and test a new division. He soon discovered that air assault’s “concept of operations was a brilliant, but sketchy, outline” and “doctrine was just in the formative stage.” Moreover, the division’s tables of organization and equipment were so riddled with mistakes that they had to be completely redrawn. Compounding that task, his staff had to write manuals, test tactics and equipment, and train personnel. Despite all the breakthrough accounting, procurement, and distribution systems newly adopted by the McNamara Pentagon, the 11th Air Assault’s problems were exacerbated by critical shortages in helicopters, maintenance delays, and numerous other equipment problems. An investigation of the Fort Rucker depot placed much of the blame on 305

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the Transportation Materiel Command (TMC), part of the McNamara reforms. The investigators found the depot had 3,319 open requisitions to TMC, of which 2,068 were over a month old and 501 were three months old. It not only criticized TMC’s bureaucratic red tape, but termed its record keeping “not realistic or factual” and in some cases “non-existent.” 21 Along with sending numerous duplicate shipments and incorrect items, TMC had responded to one request for a $15 part with a $5,027 repair kit. In another instance it had junked a control assembly valued at $6,201 that was subsequently repaired for $47. The report concluded that much of the depot’s maintenance occurred despite TMC, and was due to contractors and military personnel circumventing the Pentagon’s supply process. In a 1963 memo, Army Chief of Staff Harold K. Johnson termed the maintenance situation at the post “disgraceful.” 22 Fort Rucker’s difficulties were symptomatic of army-wide problems in integrating helicopters into the organizations expected to use them. The inconvenient truth was that the army could not support its aviation inventory. The commanding general of 3rd Army noted that two-thirds of his Chinook helicopters were inoperable. At Fort Hood the aviation components of two STRAC divisions failed readiness standards. The 1st Armored Division had seventy-three of its eighty-nine aircraft awaiting extensive maintenance, and averaged almost a month for each aircraft’s repair. The 2nd Armored Division was no better.23 Major General  L.  E. Seeman, the commanding general at Fort Leonard Wood, provided a revealing tour through the bureaucratic labyrinth of the McNamara managerial revolution in his explanation of why two helicopters had been out of ser vice for months. One had been waiting for an essential part since the previous year. The other was still at its unit undergoing minor repairs so it could be sent to the maintenance depot for major ones. This situation was not unusual: Fort Leonard Wood’s main supply depot could provide less than half its home organizations’ requests for equipment and spare parts. The problem was not incompetent personnel but the army’s logistical system, which would not send the depot sufficient parts to maintain existing machinery. This, in turn, meant that even routine overhauls required filing a requi306

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Airmobile exercise, 1963. Source: National Archives II, College Park, Md.

sition to a central depository. Many of these requisitions took months, in some cases over a year, to fi ll. As a result, repair shops could not perform normal maintenance; equipment broke down and had to be withdrawn from ser vice in accordance with army maintenance regulations. Once “deadlined,” an inoperable machine generated an automatic Priority One request to the Leonard Wood depot for the essential parts. But, since the post depot lacked the necessary parts to begin 307

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with, such requests were returned unfulfilled, which prompted further Priority Ones, and further backlogs.24 The depot’s parent organization, 5th Army, admitted that Leonard Wood’s problems were not exceptional. Throughout the command only half of all maintenance requests were filled on time.25 As with the helicopter, the Kennedy era’s equipment modernization program created its own problems. Many worried that in its relentless quest for the latest technological fi x, the ser vice had forgotten the age-old limits imposed by terrain, weather, and mobility. As Colglazier reminded one military audience, despite millions spent to improve transportation, “the majority of our trucks haul no more than they did in World War II. Most of them are still road-bound and they don’t transport their cargo any faster.” 26 Moreover, the new jeeps and trucks were often more dangerous than their predecessors, and far more difficult to maintain. The much-anticipated M-14 rifle, advertised as giving each soldier the equivalent of four earlier weapons, proved a massive disappointment on its release in 1961. A Taylor initiative, the weapon reflected his overstretch: it could do every thing, but nothing well enough. Critics pointed to the Red Army’s rugged, versatile Kalashnikov assault rifle and wondered why the US Army had spent so much time and money on an inferior product. In response, military spokesmen mendaciously declared the Kalashnikov was capable only of burst firing and was inaccurate outside of 100 meters: skilled GI marksmen would shoot down the Soviets before they got within range. These claims were undercut when tests revealed that on full automatic the M-14 was unable to hit a target at 200 meters with any reliability. To add to the army’s embarrassment, the weapon, plagued by production delays, was not issued to many units until 1963, and was withdrawn from active ser vice a few years later.27 The problems with such diverse technologies as helicopters and rifles illustrate an often- overlooked aspect of the army’s sixties modernization program. Despite its new equipment, new procedures, and new indices, out in the field the same logistical and maintenance problems of the Eisenhower era prevailed. The situation in Korea illustrated some service-wide deficiencies. A 1960 Look article described the com308

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mand and its soldiers as “forgotten, lonely, and unready.” Troops still used surplus equipment from the war—some of it rebuilt six times— lived in abysmal conditions, and were deeply pessimistic. The colonel in charge of the forward outpost on the DMZ admitted, “If Joe came across, we’d be annihilated.” 28 This journalistic exposé was followed by a General Accounting Office audit that revealed in detail how conditions were actually worse. In response to a directive from the Pentagon to conduct “a vigorous attack . . . on points that do not depict the whole story,” GEN Carter Magruder demurred.29 His command’s equipment problems had been a matter of public record for years. Experience had taught him “correspondents have long memories or frequently refer to previous records. They bring up old shortages and inquire about them in detail.” 30 The best he could do when asked about a known problem was to not reply. The next year, Magruder commented to a friend that the 8th Army had only 1,408 of its authorized 5,162 jeeps, and many of these so old and damaged they barely functioned.31 One officer, recalling various expedients he’d used to keep his equipment going despite the lack of spare parts, the long delays, and other problems, declared “it seemed like we were pulling teeth” out of the Pentagon to get help.32 Conditions in Korea did not improve under the famous managerial reforms Secretary McNamara imposed on the Department of Defense; if anything they grew worse. A 1964 investigation of the 8th Army’s logistics found no improvement since the 1960 scandals. Its examination of three combat units revealed many companies unable to use their radios for five months because someone had forgotten to order replacement tubes. The headquarters responsible for coordinating one division’s artillery lacked motors to repair its transmitters, and it had taken almost a year to ship them back for repairs. The primary engineering depot in Korea was so badly administered that many units awaited essential equipment for months on end. In one particularly egregious example, some of the Hawk missile batteries expected to defend against North Korean aircraft had been out of commission for as long as three months. In one case, the inspectors found over 2,000 pieces of inoperable communication equipment, of which 1,426 awaited essential parts 309

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that shop personnel had failed to order or stock, while another 659 languished due to general laziness. At another depot it was estimated that 20  percent of the repairmen did 60  percent of the work. A third shop housed some 200 radios that had been inoperable for as long as six months. When this particular backlog was finally reported to the commanding officer, all but eleven were repaired within a month. Noting that earlier investigations had revealed similar instances of waste, incompetence, and poor performance, the reporters questioned why the 8th Army headquarters consistently rated all of these repair facilities “satisfactory” or “superior,” and gave equally high marks to their commanders.33 Such exposés were not news to many in the logistics community. The shift from tactical atomic warfare to conventional warfare did not change one fundamental: all military equipment was increasingly complex and difficult to repair. Colonel Hubert D. Thomte complained that the army’s future materiel was so complicated he doubted much of it would be ready, or if ready could not be maintained, for decades.34 Meloy declared, “The sophistication of our equipment has increased our maintenance and operations costs completely out of proportion with the usefulness of the item. Many of the meaningful modifications have resulted in a complicated item of equipment that becomes inoperative for want of a [one] dollar replacement part. . . . Once we get a good item, let’s stick with it until a real breakthrough occurs. These piecemeal product improvements are driving us to the poorhouse.” 35 Colonel Samuel H. Hays gave perhaps the most cogent summation: “I am most concerned about the rapid increase in the complexity, size, and number of weapons, communications equipment, and gadgetry of all kinds which we expect our young officers and enlisted men to master. It takes an ever-increasing amount of time to train our people in the proper use, maintenance, and repair of all this equipment. The time devoted to sheer maintenance has probably doubled in the past ten years.” 36 Hays’s recognition that new equipment was only as good as the people who used and maintained it highlighted another fifties problem that continued into the next decade. In his inaugural address, Kennedy had declared that the torch of leadership had passed to a new genera310

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tion, and some have ascribed to his presidency a period of profound idealism among the young. If so, it was not evident among the junior officers. For them, the ser vice was still an uncertain profession offering limited career benefits, frequent moves, bad housing, poor working conditions, and often toxic supervisors. As in Eisenhower’s presidency, during the Kennedy era the norm was underofficered combat units, overreliance on two-year-obligated ROTC graduates, high turnover, persistent resignations among younger Regulars, and widespread dissatisfaction. To these familiar grievances sixties officers added another: micromanagement. The McNamara Pentagon’s emphasis on consolidating decision-making authority, procedures, and administration often disempowered and demoralized those in the field. In 1962, a division commander in the 8th Army protested the growing “administrative burden” on his subordinates: “there are just not enough hours in the day for these youngsters to accomplish all the things that are required of them.” 37 Meloy spoke for many senior officers when he deplored the “present trend towards centralization of control at all echelons” and the corresponding “tremendous increase in the flow of information . . . in order to exercise this control.” In his view, the army would do better to “place appropriate trust in commanders at all levels, and not plague them with situation reporting nor provide higher commanders the communications means with which to harass them.” 38 The army continued to acquire the majority of its entry-level officers from the US Military Academy and ROTC. In large part due to Superintendent Garrison H. Davidson (1956–1960), West Point had recovered from the depths of the 1951 cheating scandal and improved both academically and ethically. He liberalized the admissions process, made the curriculum more flexible, and improved the faculty. His successor, William C. Westmoreland (1960–1964) introduced new courses in contemporary politics, languages, and counterinsurgency and also created a program to teach unconventional tactics. But neither commandant was able to reverse either West Point’s high attrition rates, which reduced each class by some 30 percent, or its graduates’ 20 percent resignation rate at the end of their ser vice obligation. In 1961 there were serious concerns the school might lose its accreditation. A year later, 311

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Harper’s magazine declared, “Academically, West Point is a secondclass college for first-class students. The limitations of the program can be summed up in this fashion: The faculty isn’t good enough.” 39 At that time only twenty-six of its 400 instructors held doctoral degrees. Most of the teachers were junior officers who had been rushed through a master’s program at a civilian university. Typical was Louis C. Wagner, who was assigned to teach mechanical engineering in 1961 and given one year to complete an M.S. at the University of Illinois. He quickly discovered his Academy education had not prepared him for graduate school. But with the help of sympathetic faculty, auditing additional classes, and eighteen-hour days he finished. A few months later he was teaching the army’s future leaders. It was a dazzling achievement, but not one that would have qualified him to teach at the top-tier universities West Point claimed as its peers.40 ROTC remained popular on campus and with parents, politicians, and school administrators. When the army tried to decrease enrollments and cut marginal programs, strong opposition from all three groups forced it to back down. But while the number of incoming, nonobligated cadets continued to increase, the numbers contracting for the advanced two-year program leading to an army commission continued to decline. Although around 106,000 freshmen joined ROTC each year, in 1963 the army had to scramble to secure its authorized 17,700 contract students. Two years later, only 611 of the anticipated 4,000 cadets showed up for the six-week summer course. Fewer ROTC Distinguished Military Graduates accepted Regular Army commissions, and too many who did came from second- or third-tier schools. Almost as troubling as the decline in ROTC officers entering the ser vice was that so few remained. One study concluded that those who left the ser vice did so not because they were selfish or unpatriotic, but because they believed they had done their duty and it was now time to provide a stable life for their families. They recognized that they could earn far more as civilians and they saw little future as career officers, especially as they would be reaching the age for mandatory retirement just when their civilian peers were at their peak earning power. Not surprisingly, ROTC duty was unpopular with career Regulars and was often assigned 312

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to reserve officers near the end of their careers. One unwilling instructor at a small college recalled his training facilities as so limited he had to install a chin-up bar in his office and transport weapons and equipment in the trunk of his car. Although ROTC made a convenient target for antidraft protestors in the late 1960s, its importance to both universities and the army was in decline before the Vietnam War.41 With some reluctance, the army turned to Officer Candidate School (OCS) to make up the shortfall. This remained a high-cost, highattrition course that taught basic combat skills for platoon leaders. It drew from motivated young volunteers and its cadre was drawn from the ser vice’s best trainers. Those completing OCS were impressed with the tactical instruction they received, but critical of the fi xation on housecleaning, uniforms, and other busywork. As the army began deploying more and more troops to Southeast Asia, OCS grew exponentially, with plans to expand from 600 in July 1963 to 1,800 by June 1964. But, as had occurred in the fifties, too few first-enlistment personnel were willing to accept the additional year’s military obligation, or the extra responsibility of being an officer. The infantry OCS course at Fort Benning had a 25  percent shortfall, and the artillery course at Fort Sill met only 53 percent of its quota. During the Vietnam War the program expanded and was a crucial source of junior officers in the combat arms; most of them proved to be capable small-unit leaders.42 If the numbers and quality of incoming officers was an intractable problem, so too was keeping them in the ser vice, particularly in the seven- to thirteen-year (captain to major) grades. The retention rate improved to 26  percent by mid-1959, largely because New Look cuts in personnel had winnowed the officer corps to all but the dedicated careerists. But the army’s command structure still held a disproportionate number of senior lieutenant colonels and colonels. Despite reducing the time to promotion, in July 1963 the army was short 4,000 captains, particularly in the combat arms. The next year, it was understrength by 3,234 captains and 1,725 majors.43 Very little of this shortage was due to unrealistically high standards. In 1964, in an officer corps that numbered over 110,000, only 200 were dismissed for substandard per for mance. That year the army announced that it planned to deny promotion to 313

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25 percent of its captains, but given its shortage of several thousand officers in that grade, the odds were that few would be left behind. Yet even with a virtual guarantee of promotion and a twenty-year career, many Regular officers resigned: 1,622 in fiscal year 1962 and 1,483 the year after.44 The lack of junior and midlevel officers was particularly bad in organizations not on the high-priority list. A survey of installations in 5th Army in 1963 found combat units with less than half their complement of officers. Major General John E. Bastion, Commandant of the Armor Center, reported the “high attrition rate has been a continuing problem at the Armor Center.” Over half his officers were recently commissioned ROTC graduates, most of whom had already been offered jobs in the civilian sector. Instead of a promised troop command, they had been assigned to train new soldiers, a task they recognized as all but ensuring they would not be promoted. The result was profound “disillusionment” in both the army and a military career. Bastion believed the army had to recognize the seriousness of the junior officer retention crisis and senior officers had to be “acutely aware of the necessity for continued command emphasis to sell them on an Army career.”45 The report on its “critical personnel situation” by the chief of staff of the 1st Cavalry Division exemplifies the complicated personnel choices forced upon field units.46 The division had only two of its authorized nine lieutenant colonels for battalion commanders and none to serve as executive officers for its three brigades, all indispensable positions. If it filled these ten absent lieutenant colonel slots with majors, it was left with only seven officers (of the twenty-four authorized) in that grade. If the division designated ten captains to replace the majors doing the absent lieutenant colonels’ jobs, it was left with only twenty-four (of its authorized sixty-four) captains. This, in turn, meant lieutenants, many recently commissioned, would command the vast majority of its combat companies. This dearth of qualified, experienced combat arms officers was particularly ominous because the 1st Cavalry was responsible for guarding the main North Korean approach across the DMZ. Its units manned thirty-four guard posts and 142 compounds. Who would supervise these scattered troops if war came? 47 314

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General Howze believed the “crux” of the army’s officer dilemma was “twofold: inexperience and ineffectiveness.” The former was due to an overabundance of second lieutenants, 70 percent with barely a year’s ser vice. Almost all of these were ROTC graduates likely to leave the ser vice within twelve months. The few experienced captains and majors had to shoulder not only their assigned duties, but those of their absent colleagues. They also had to train and supervise the new lieutenants. At the other end of the dilemma was “ineffectiveness” caused by “too many passed-over field grade officers who have little ability, or who have ‘stacked arms.’ ” 48 Howze recognized that the twofold problem led to twofold consequences. The immediate result was that combat forces’ tactical and logistical effectiveness were seriously compromised. The long-term result was that many good officers left the ser vice. Both longand short-term consequences ensured the dilemma would persist. A common complaint among both the officers who remained and those who left was the increasing degree of micromanagement. By the 1960s the US Army’s officer corps was experiencing the consequences of a decade of resignations, increased bureaucratization, and excessive command interference. Senior commanders, distrusting inexperienced subordinates, increased their directorial powers by appropriating the best officers for their staffs. Following instructions, these headquarters staffs demanded more data, tests, and other indices of performance from the field officers. These, in turn, recognizing their own subordinates as short-service, untested ROTC graduates, imposed another level of supervision and accounting. At its worst, “snoopervision” prompted those who equated officership with troop command to resign while those comfortable with subservience remained and rose. And having flourished under micromanagement, many imposed even stricter controls on their own subordinates as they rose in rank. Astute officers recognized that the problem of micromanagement was only getting worse. Lieutenant General John  P. Daley cautioned Army War College students that new technologies would offer even more opportunities to “meddle” with their subordinates. In a prediction that would be played out over and over again in Vietnam, he warned, “Give me a helicopter and I can swoop down on every battalion, and I 315

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can communicate with everybody, and if I’m not fighting, I’ll harass the troops . . . [if] the only place the Army is fighting is one platoon, you’ll find 30 generals ‘helping’ the platoon leader.” 49 They heard the same message from Chief of Staff Decker: “too many interventions on commanders in the lower echelon” were destroying young officers’ “initiative and resourcefulness” and driving them out of the ser vice.50 His successor, Harold K. Johnson, responding to a survey that listed lack of responsibility and excessive supervision as primary causes of officer resignations, directed commanders to “eliminate over-management and over-control of subordinate commanders at all echelons.” 51 One of the most astute analyses of the officer retention problem came from MG William Yarborough. The general accepted both that the nation and the ser vice had changed greatly since his commissioning in 1936. In sixties America, white-collar occupations offered an educated young professional better salaries, job security, stability, and other benefits than the army. But in trying to match its business competitors by offering promotion, pay raises, specialist schooling, and so on, the ser vice had weakened the martial culture that had sustained the Regular Army officer corps for over a century. Taylor’s pentomic experiment had cavalierly abolished regiments, and with them the regimental family. The officers’ club, once a hallowed sanctuary that inculcated traditions and customs, was now just a “forum for ladies’ bridge parties.” The Cold War army’s great size, frequent rotations, and rigid career track prevented any individual identification with a unit or post. In the small, insular pre–World War II army, a resignation had been a community concern, with officers and wives together trying to find out what went wrong. Now the alienated, overworked, and nearly anonymous lieutenant did his tour of duty and drifted off to a better-paying, less stressful, and more humane life as a civilian. Yarborough was no reactionary; he headed the Special Forces. But he was aware of how much the army had lost in its effort to turn the officer into a khaki-suited executive. When he had joined the ser vice, young officers had enjoyed a balanced life, with clear separation between work and social activities. They had been given extensive respon316

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sibilities in troop command, but also time for recreation, family, athletics, and personal interests. Even apparently impractical customs, such as changing into dress uniform for dinner in the mess, had served the important function of separating military from social duties. In contrast, “ Today we find young officers working twelve hours a day, six days a week, always in fatigue clothes, feeding instead of dining, and not generally paid in a way which would in itself compensate for the voids in their daily life.” The ser vice’s efforts to convince young Americans that the army was just another corporation were both disingenuous and futile. The best young men stayed in uniform not for the pay and benefits but because being an officer “was not a job but a way of life.” 52 By destroying that way of life, the ser vice was destroying its identity. The sixties army’s solutions to the officer exodus were essentially those of the preceding decade. It rewrote its officer evaluation report again and it established programs to speed the promotion of high achievers and assign them to key command and administrative positions. It expanded quotas for ROTC entry-level officers and extended Reserve officers who wanted to stay on active duty. It increased the number of cadets at the US Military Academy. As with the 1950s solutions, these cosmetic changes did little to resolve the problem.53 If the institutional army could not stem the rising tide of micromanagement, there were some senior officers who could. Major General Andrew J. Boyle, who took command of the 25th Infantry Division in 1964, demonstrated how inspired leadership could change organizational culture. The general immediately surveyed his company officers to determine why so many were leaving the ser vice. He discovered a number of complaints: dissatisfaction with the ROAD reorganization, inadequate equipment, poor housing and family support, and other issues. But his most disturbing finding was that “young officers didn’t think the Army was delivering on its code of ethics.” 54 They cited an intolerant, demanding, and unfair command climate characterized by oversupervision and dishonesty. Boyle’s efforts to repair this lack of trust were ingenious, and very uncomfortable for some. After hearing a glowing report from his staff on the wonderful welcome they gave 317

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incoming personnel, he issued his deputy a fake identity card and slipped him into a group of recently arrived soldiers. The bogus sergeant sat with his new comrades in the rain while their greeters drank coffee inside. He then endured a daylong ordeal during which his requests for food were repeatedly denied and he was pressured to transfer out of his combat arms assignment to the 25th’s staff. Boyle also worked hard to build soldiers’ trust. Responding to complaints about delays in pay, he assigned his assistant division commanders to survey GIs. If a soldier had a pay grievance, a general would personally escort him to the finance office for resolution. The 25th’s commanding general routinely dropped in on messes to check the quality of the food. In one case he found a captain had confiscated all the tableware to discourage theft. After watching soldiers trying to scoop eggs with their hands, Boyle ordered the captain down and had him eat without utensils. Through a combination of such public displays and following through on his promises to allow subordinates freedom to train their troops, and to make mistakes, Boyle improved morale and cut the resignation rate.55 Despite much Pentagon rhetoric about improvements, the enlisted man of the early sixties shared much with his predecessor in the Eisenhower era. There were still promises that the draft would end. In September 1961, Undersecretary of the Army Stephen Ailes boasted the ser vice would soon achieve its “goal of an all-volunteer Army of highly qualified individuals.” 56 He cited some impressive figures to support this claim. Regular Army personnel now comprised 83  percent of the enlisted force, a 20 percent increase from 1958, and double that of 1954. Reenlistments among career soldiers—those with more than two enlistments—were almost 90  percent. For the first time the average volunteer was better educated than his conscripted comrade. Although the army had raised its entrance requirements, enrollments had increased by 14,000. Nearly one in four first-term volunteers had reenlisted, and in perhaps the most stunning change, draftee reenlistments had more than doubled. With the discharge of over 100,000 marginal soldiers since 1958, the army in 1961 was better educated, more highly skilled, and more experienced then it had ever been.57 Bolstered by 318

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such reports, both civilians and military personnel once again debated the end of compulsory military ser vice. Many in the army, eager to shed the stigma of the draft, as well as draftees of low quality and lower morale, eagerly anticipated the expiration of the Selective Ser vice Agency’s funding, and with it the end of conscription. Yet despite such glowing statistics, there was clear evidence that the army’s personnel transformation had fallen short. The increase in volunteers was less a measure of the ser vice’s attractiveness than simple demographics: thanks to the Baby Boom there were far more teenagers needing jobs. In 1961 over 2,600,000 eighteen-year olds entered the recruitment pool; by 1965 this would increase to 3,800,000. And there were some unpleasant implications in the army’s new popularity among young men. McNamara and others worried that the burden of military ser vice was falling on an ever-smaller number of youth, and these more likely to be poor, uneducated, and unskilled. That volunteers now scored higher on intelligence tests than draftees was in part statistical trickery. The low scores of Category 4 draftees, which in fiscal year 1963 numbered one in every four inductees, balanced the higher scores of inductees with college experience.58 Nor did rising enlistments mean the army was ready and able to become a volunteer force. A 1962 survey found 40  percent of the recruits enlisting to avoid conscription; the head of the Selective Ser vice Agency estimated it was double that.59 Moreover, not all volunteers were equal. Many of the best educated were enrolling in the reserves and had no intention of a military career. Countering Ailes’s optimism, GEN Herbert B. Powell maintained that the reserve program actually hurt the ser vice’s efficiency. The army had fewer and fewer slots for unskilled labor, while the reservists’ six-month active obligation precluded them from most specialist schools. So despite the increased enlistments of high-quality volunteers, the dearth of technicians in both the active and reserve forces remained critical.60 The army’s shortage of skilled labor had another consequence, one that would become even more significant during the Vietnam War. Since it took only eight weeks of advanced training for a basic infantry MOS and little longer for the other combat specialties, the army policy 319

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was to assign those slots to conscripts on the grounds that it provided the most time on the job for their two-year obligation. Despite the decade-long rhetoric about modern warfare requiring highly skilled, highly intelligent, and highly trained soldiers, in practice the army often put the least skilled and educated into its line units, while rewarding career soldiers by keeping them in the rear echelon. Even if assigned to a combat unit, many educated conscripts and first-term enlistees were transferred to technical and clerical tasks. The result was a form of educational segregation in which a draftee who had not completed high school was twice as likely to be given a combat MOS as a Regular with the same lack of schooling.61 The optimistic reports of the senior military and political leaders also masked the army’s continuing problem with retaining its best and brightest. Ailes boasted in 1961 of the near–90  percent total reenlistment rate. But he must have known that the 25 percent first-term reenlistment rate, while still a record high, was 10  percent less then what the army required to maintain a sufficient pool of junior NCOs. Ailes also downplayed the fact that many reenlistments were not in fields the army needed. In 1961, for example, less than 12  percent of those in electronics MOSs reenlisted— compared to 44  percent from food service. Even the amazing increase in draftee reenlistments was also suspect. Critics charged these were not experienced soldiers but recent inductees with high test scores who had enrolled for an extra year on the promise of specialist training. When the army prohibited signing up draftees until they completed their two-year obligation, their reenlistment rate immediately fell from 18 to 2 percent.62 Draftees’ morale was an increasing source of concern. A sociologist observed that whereas in World War II the great divisions had been between officers and enlisted, in the Cold War Army it was between long-service Regulars and conscripts, particularly college-educated privates who declared, “We have no need for minority groups in the Army. We have our own special minority group upon which we vent our frustration. The professional soldier, the lifer, is our scapegoat.”63 An officer observed that among junior enlisted men, “the negative attitude of the average draftee recruit” dominated the barracks culture: “the av320

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erage selectee feels that the volunteer knows little more about military life than himself, and being a member of the majority easily finds support for his opinion.” 64 One officer, a WWII conscript visiting Fort Hood, commented in 1960 that “draftee disaffection” was such that career soldiers “are dismissed scornfully as losers.” 65 He was shocked to see the speed with which enlisted men changed from uniforms to civilian clothes, as if they could not wait to shed their military identity. This disillusionment continued when they resumed civilian life; survey research revealed that the attitude of former soldiers was “quite negative, often more negative than those of individuals without prior Army ser vice.” 66 If the Pentagon thought the manpower future looked rosy, few in the field agreed. Between 1960 and  1965 the average unit replaced between 50 to 60  percent of its people every thirteen months.67 The commander of 4th Army reported several field artillery batteries at halfstrength for over a year. One of his quartermaster battalions, authorized to have twenty-two officers and 545 soldiers, had but one officer and 167 enlisted men.68 In 1962 the 8th Army’s commander reported he was 8,000 troops understrength. His main combat force, the 1st Corps, had only 64  percent of its peacetime authorization, or barely 33  percent of its wartime strength. He had managed to secure 35,000 Koreans as fillers, but few had the language or training to function as anything but unskilled laborers. He concluded, “ There is no real training in a situation such as this because the basic training vehicle and our most valuable commodity, the soldier, is missing.” 69 As one officer confessed, by the early sixties “the complexity of our current manpower management procedures has already outstripped our ability to cope with them manually.”70 The ser vice had been an early convert to automatic data processing, and was beginning to issue computers to field units. But even devouring punch cards around the clock, the system failed to keep up. The number of soldiers moving through the pipeline—in transit, in training, being processed or discharged—was astounding. In fiscal year 1962, for example, with a total strength of just over 1,000,000 soldiers, the army anticipated 1,248,000 would make a permanent change of station (PCS). Among those “PCS-ing” were 321

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318,000 going overseas, 96,000 moving within the continental United States, and 297,000 leaving the ser vice.71 All this movement not only undermined unit cohesion and effectiveness; it created a transitory army, moving back and forth from the Pacific to stateside to Europe. One significant change initiated during the Kennedy administration was the reform of Basic Combat Training (BCT). Both anecdotal and survey evidence confirmed that BCT failed to challenge troops, especially the brightest ones; taught little of military utility; and provided no clear assessment of a trainee’s potential as a soldier. Rather than building pride, BCT alienated trainees, so that most left it disliking the ser vice far more than when they arrived. Nor did BCT screen out individuals who could not adjust to military life. In 1963 the army’s failure rate for BCT was under 2  percent, compared to over 7  percent for the navy. This low attrition was all the more surprising considering that the army had to accept a substantial number of Category 4 conscripts and the navy did not. Vice Chief of Staff Hamlett complained, “Few, if any individuals fail to complete the programs in the Training Centers during their first time through. This would indicate that the instruction is oriented toward the trainees with low aptitudes.” 72 As had been true in the fifties, too many competing priorities— overseas garrisons, STRAC units, maintenance, headquarters—needed high-quality personnel, and the training centers were perennially understaffed. Although regulations stated that each  225-man training platoon be commanded by a captain, in fact lieutenants were in charge of 80 percent of them, and half of these were newly commissioned second lieutenants who had just completed their own version of the basic course. When the leadership was not inexperienced, it was mediocre. The army routinely used the training centers as dumping grounds for men judged incapable of advancement and soon to leave the service. Although in the army at large only 3  percent of first lieutenants were turned down for promotion to captain, among the training cadre the rate was 35 percent. The army promotion rate from captain to major was almost 50  percent; among training cadre it was 12 percent.73 Undersecretary Ailes made the improvement of BCT a top priority, and he ultimately proved tenacious enough to force the army leadership 322

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to make it one as well. Under his pressure, the ser vice imposed a standardized regimen on all seven training sites. The result was a more efficient system that annually processed 375,000 trainees. More importantly, the reform of BCT focused as much on cadre as trainees. All officers had to complete a two-week trainers’ course, and noncommissioned officers assigned to BCT companies took a five-week course to qualify for the new rank of drill sergeant. Trainees had long complained of fat cadre sitting in the shade while they toiled; now all NCOs had to perform the same physical tasks they demanded of their charges. And, as a morale builder, instructors could wear the distinctive campaign hat that had been the pride of the prewar Old Army Regular. This revamped program, initially a success, was soon undercut by the Vietnam War buildup, which stripped many centers of experienced trainers even as they were overrun by an influx of draftees. By 1965 many of the cadre at BCT were once again brand new lieutenants and NCOs, working long hours, filling out forms, and carrying out a multitude of post duties.74 Simultaneously with its reform of BCT, the army tried to overhaul the Advanced Individual Training (AIT) responsible for teaching the skills necessary for 403 MOSs. As with BCT, perennial complaints about the AIT process were many, most notably that it did not produce sufficiently skilled soldiers, from infantry to computer programmers. A 1964 study revealed “numerous deficiencies” including a lack of clear directives, no standards for MOS qualifications, excessive waste, and much “nonessential training and uneconomical cross-training.” 75 The departing head of one center offered another, perhaps more pertinent criticism: that however well AIT taught individual skills, it failed to prepare soldiers for working as part of a team. A replacement might arrive with an MOS of machine gunner, but not until he was fully integrated into his crew would he and his teammates make an effective combat unit. In his view, the AIT system “encourages the commander to believe that all he has to do is drop a nickel in the replacement vending machine and out will pop a fully trained mortar man ready to fight. Seldom does this happen.” 76 Following standard procedure in the McNamara era, the Pentagon created an agency to oversee AIT, put CONARC in overall charge of all 323

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stateside training, and established tests, evaluations, and other datagathering procedures to evaluate individual MOS proficiency. Reorganization at the top sped along. CONARC grouped all MOSs into ten categories— combat, electronics, motor maintenance, and so forth—and then into further subdivisions. It also triaged the AIT process for the individual soldier. Roughly 10 percent went directly from BCT to their units for on-the-job training in low-aptitude MOSs. Another 10 percent with civilian skills also went to units for brief retraining in their army equivalents. The remaining 80  percent, or 254,000, were assigned to eighty AIT courses held at seven training centers. The army also reformed the curriculum to place more emphasis on team training. The results were mixed. One inspection of Fort Hood praised the “marked determination to train effectively,” and a usually critical correspondent confirmed this evaluation.77 As with BCT, these reforms soon yielded to the urgent need for “grunts” in Vietnam. The shift from Eisenhower’s massive retaliation to Kennedy’s flexible response also influenced large-unit field training. But perhaps even more significant was a 1960 accord between the army and the air force to resolve almost a decade of bickering over joint atomic maneuvers. This agreement differentiated between General War (atomic) and Limited War exercises. The former had strict conditions. All maneuvers had to test existing war plans and could only use forces immediately deployable for war. In practice this meant either those in Korea or Europe or the two stateside airborne divisions. In contrast, Limited War exercises required less air force participation and had much broader definitions of who was eligible and the desired training outcome. The army–air force agreement accelerated a shift from one or two annual atomic maneuvers involving tens of thousands of troops to smaller exercises focused on training companies and battalions for conventional warfare. In Europe the training program became a battleground between micromanagement and decentralization. In 1960 LTG Garrison  H. Davidson took command of 7th Army when its former commander, GEN Bruce C. Clarke, assumed command of US Army Europe. Despite preaching initiative, in practice Clarke tried to control all training through detailed instructions totaling dozens of pages. Any commander 324

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following even a fraction of them would have spent the entire day checking equipment and never left the compound. Clarke insisted that commanders rate their own units and provide him with statistics, charts, and a plethora of other details. Given the general’s practice of abruptly relieving not only those commanders he found unworthy, but also their subordinates and superiors, there was an understandable tendency to submit only the most positive evaluations. In such a command climate only an exceptionally brave or foolish officer would give subordinates a free hand, knowing that Clarke would call him to account for excessive fuel consumption, equipment damage, injuries, bad publicity, or some other issue. In contrast, Davidson was one of the ser vice’s most articulate proponents of decentralized leadership and believed integrity was the bedrock of the officer corps’s professional identity. He was shocked when a colleague forwarded a letter from a young West Pointer lamenting that he and many classmates had compromised their ethics to succeed in 7th Army. He was even more shocked when his own investigation led him to conclude, “The circumstances under which we are conducting our training is undermining the moral fiber of our officers and our noncommissioned officers, and is preventing us from carry ing out our responsibility to our junior commanders.” 78 At a briefing to Clarke in December 1960, Davidson delivered a stunning critique of the consequences of 7th Army’s training practices. Clarke had ordered battalion commanders to allocate 3,216 hours a year to training. But after fulfilling their requirements for administration, public relations, maintenance, marksmanship, demonstrations, inspections, and other duties, they had only 2,316 hours left. To reconcile these conflicting duties, officers relied on a variety of subterfuges. They increased their own, and their troops’, workweek to sixty-five hours instead of the authorized forty-four. They reduced training in mandatory subjects to the bare minimum and assumed levels of proficiency rather than testing them. They organized their training regimen to pass the mandated tests at a designated maneuver area, and used their time in garrison to perform the necessary schooling, housecleaning, administration, and other tasks. Davidson concluded, “individual soldiers in 7th 325

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Army are receiving 50 percent of the training that they should receive annually in their units.” 79 The obvious question was: Why did all of Clarke’s assessments, reports, statistics, and graphs indicate that under his direction 7th Army had reached unprecedented levels of training efficiency? Davidson’s assistant, MAJ Paul Gorman, forestalled such questions and provided a hy pothetical example of how the demand for data had corrupted the evaluation process. Prior to a battalion test each unit was given a few days to rehearse: It is possible for a young lieutenant, who must face a training test with a machine gunner who has not had the Advanced Individual Training that he ought to get, to go out with the gunner during the rehearsal, and to site the gun properly for each test phase. In effect, he shows the gunner where he wants the gun, and drives a stake in the ground at each site. Moreover, he or the platoon sergeant fills out the gunner’s range card, and buries it beside the stake, concealed in a can with a little dirt and leaves on top. Then during the actual [test], when the machine gun is to be deployed, the gunner finds the stake, gets out his range card, runs a belt into his gun, traces out the outline of his foxhole as the rules require, and sets up the stakes called for by the range card. That gunner has now earned all the points called for in the test score sheet.80

If called to account for his unethical conduct, the lieutenant might justly complain that he was not given sufficient time to train either the gunner or his squad, that his home station lacked training facilities, and that his own career depended on a high score. But when such deception was repeated over and over within a unit, the senior “commander enters more and more into an area in which he is engaged in some sort of professional delusion. He is deluding himself, he is deluding his subordinates, and he is deluding the command.”81 Gorman might have added that the most deluded of them all was Clarke, who had imposed this system, checked the results, and concluded it was working perfectly. A history of the 7th Army concludes that training did become more rigorous, decentralized, and realistic, but it also cited numerous “distractions”—the Walker affair, the lack of maneuver areas, budget cuts, the initiative to recall overseas dependents, and the Berlin Crisis— 326

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which all contributed to the early sixties being “years of turbulence and transition.” 82 Although training areas such as Grafenwöhr continued to simulate combat conditions, the soaring costs of maneuvers meant fewer and fewer were conducted. Costs for Exercise Wintershield II in February 1961, for example, included not only transportation for 60,000 troops and 15,000 vehicles, but also hundreds of thousands of dollars paid in compensation for maneuver damages. The army discovered that one consequence of the West German economic miracle was that areas recently characterized as desolate wilderness were now closed off by urban and agricultural development. One corps commander recalled, “We couldn’t go off the roads until we reached the maneuver areas that were set aside, or land that had been hired or rented for the maneuvers . . . every tree was recorded on some German roster of trees . . . and if you knocked it down our government had to pay for it.” 83 The spectacle of American and Soviet tanks facing each other at Berlin’s Checkpoint Charlie on 27  October 1961  may have been the Cold War Army’s most iconic moment. The diplomatic maneuverings, the military planning, the two superpowers’ dealing with their often oppositional allies, the building of the Berlin Wall, and the seventeenhour confrontation at Friedrichstrasse have produced an extensive and rich literature. What is less studied is the impact of the Berlin Crisis, both symbolic and real, on the US Army. More than any other incident, the tanks at Checkpoint Charlie demonstrated its strengths and limitations. Although the nuclear option was always present, President Kennedy’s intention to make the crisis an exercise in flexible response was clear from the beginning. For the army, the Berlin Crisis was two largely separate stories. The first was the Berlin Brigade and its symbolic role as guarantor of West Berlin’s freedom, leading up to the tankversus-tank faceoff. The other story is the aftermath: how the buildup occasioned by the crisis both aided and delayed the army’s transformation from atomic to conventional force. In 1961 the Berlin Brigade numbered 6,000, mostly members of two pentomic battle groups in the 6th Infantry Regiment. Surrounded by over 70,000 East German troops, and thousands more militarized police, as well as two Soviet armies, it was a self-described tripwire force 327

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that served as an important symbol of American commitment. Those chosen for the brigade were arguably the best in the ser vice, the majority of them Regulars on their second enlistment who had undergone extensive psychological screening. Discipline problems were nonexistent since troops considered Berlin the best assignment in Europe, and perhaps in the entire army. The quarters were good and the city right outside the gates; food was excellent, beer was cheap, and the population friendly. There were ample recreational opportunities, from nightclubs and beer gardens to museums to a confiscated lakeside mansion on the Wannsee. Officers led an even more privileged life; even a lieutenant could have his own apartment, with maid ser vice and a cook. The main officers’ club was renowned for its chef and bartender, though the French and British clubs were even more famous, and there was a brilliant nightclub scene. Officers and their wives could visit the Soviet zone to buy crystal, china, and other goods at ridiculously cheap prices from the currency-starved communists.84 Within the city, a policy of tit-for-tat retaliation was observed. If the Americans delayed a Soviet officer for thirty minutes at a checkpoint, they could be sure the Soviets would do the same to the next American. Relations were chilly; one officer recalled, “The Russians weren’t interested in socializing. All they wanted to do was eat. They were big eaters.” 85 The Cold War was also fought on the airwaves, as opposing radio networks blasted cultural imperialism at each other. The Americans would play jazz and rock-and-roll, while the East German radio would broadcast propaganda, sometimes identifying GIs by name. The primary points of confrontation were the two railroad trains a day and the autobahn from West Germany, for which there was no formal agreement on its use. When the Soviets wished to provoke the Allies, they would stop and harass US convoys, often demanding to inspect the vehicles. The convoy escorts had strict orders against this, and the result was often a standoff. In a typical incident in 1959, a four-truck convoy under an NCO was halted fifty meters from the West German border; the soldiers endured fifty-four hours in sub-freezing cold before being allowed to proceed. The NCO in charge of the convoy was blasé about the ordeal: “We never thought about being in the front line of the 328

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cold war. We didn’t think we were in any danger; we could always see Americans just down the road.” 86 His main concern was whether he would get back to Berlin in time to play in a basketball game. In 1961 Berlin became the hotspot of the Cold War. Whether from frustration or hubris, in June Khrushchev declared the USSR would sign a separate peace treaty with the German Democratic Republic (GDR) and would defend its sovereignty. The head of the GDR then announced that the Allies would now have to negotiate access to West Berlin with his nation, and he wanted them out. On 25 July, in his first major speech to the American public on Berlin, Kennedy asked for a $3,200,000,000 jump in the defense budget and a 125,000-man augmentation to the army. Within a few weeks, Secretary of the Army Elvis Stahr announced he was extending the overseas tours of 84,000 soldiers in Europe; by mid-October the first of some 40,000 reinforcements began to arrive in Germany. With eyes toward both Berlin and Cuba, Congress authorized the call-up of 250,000 reservists for fiscal year 1962, including two National Guard divisions. It was the largest army buildup since the Korean War. Meanwhile, events in Berlin escalated rapidly. On 13 August East German troops threw up barbed wire at the few remaining points of access and began to build the infamous wall. Soviet troops moved in to ensure there were no popular protests and as an obvious deterrent to Allied interference. Soon, automobile access between the two sectors was restricted to one location on Friedrichstrasse, Checkpoint Charlie. The American response, from Berlin up to Washington, was confused and ponderous. Kennedy wavered between hardliners, who argued that US troops should bulldoze the wire, and doves, who argued that since the Soviets were not directly violating their agreement with the Allies, the US could not go to war for what was essentially an internal affair in East Germany. Kennedy decided on a mixture of rhetoric and token resistance. He reinforced the Berlin Brigade with 1,500 soldiers and sent Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson, and, more importantly, GEN Lucius Clay, the hero of the 1948 Berlin Airlift, to reassure the citizens. In October, a dispute over whether US diplomatic personnel had to show identification to GDR guards escalated into a crisis. Under Clay’s direction, 329

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the army formed emergency tank–infantry teams to respond to any effort to block American personnel from access to East Berlin. These successfully intimidated the GDR guards for two days, but on 27 October, ten unmarked tanks, quickly identified as Soviet, moved into position across Checkpoint Charlie. A correspondent asked a GI if this was a bluff and was told the tank’s gun had a round in the chamber and was ready to shoot. After a standoff of seventeen hours, a Soviet tank raised its gun barrel, indicating it did not intend to fire. The Americans responded, and both forces withdrew. Although some later termed the incident little more than “military theater,” to those involved it had been a deadly serious business.87 The long-term impact of the Berlin Crisis, and the Cuban Missile Crisis the following year, was important. As had been the case in the Korean War, the reservists called to active ser vice proved both unhappy and unprepared. Under Eisenhower, the National Guard and Ready Reserves had been touted as another element of “more bang for the buck,” allegedly providing over a million trained and ready soldiers organized and equipped for immediate action, and at a fraction of the active army’s cost. The Berlin call-up soon demonstrated that the reserves were neither ready nor cost-effective. The annual reports submitted by active officers with neither the time nor the interest to sufficiently inspect reserve units were soon exposed, to cite one scathing report, as “overly optimistic in that they stressed willingness to fight rather than their readiness for combat.” 88 Not only were many units poorly trained and inadequately equipped, but thousands of individuals had to be discharged for health or hardship causes, and the attitude of those who remained was one of “bitterness, resentment, and frustration.” 89 They, and their friends and relations, soon gave voice to their unhappiness through letters, complaints, and protests. The experience of the two National Guard divisions, the 32nd Infantry and the 49th Armored, called into active ser vice demonstrated the manifold problems of the reserves. The 49th, a Texas unit, was inexplicably sent to the swamps of Louisiana rather than the nearby armor post of Fort Hood. The division needed 5,500 fillers, a third of 330

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its manpower; hundreds of soldiers had to be sent off to complete MOS qualifications, and in some cases, basic training. Both officers and noncoms proved sadly deficient in rudimentary administrative skills, which further complicated the problems of organization and supply. Although morale was described as good, one senior officer was relieved from duty after he wrote to his congressman about the lack of equipment, facilities, and general waste of time. The 49th spent ten months in ser vice but was never judged ready for deployment. Although the administration proclaimed the mobilization as the most successful ever, McNamara concluded the reserves needed an overhaul similar to that he was forcing on the active force.90 The largely ignored role of the active army in the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962 indicated that whatever the limits of the reserves, the stateside active units had actually improved. As diplomatic relations with the USSR deteriorated, the army moved several antiaircraft batteries down to Florida and established staging areas for a possible invasion. In a public display of US military potential, the 1st Armored Division, which had been activated only seven months earlier and was four-fifths draftee, moved from Texas to Georgia, and then into Florida. In sharp distinction with the reservists, morale in the 1st Armored improved, AWOLs turned themselves in, soldiers in hospital applied for discharge, and the prisoners in the stockade petitioned to be allowed to go. The move itself was a masterpiece of ingenuity and improvisation. Soldiers went by air, many still groggy after spending the night getting shots, making out wills, and performing other last-minute tasks. The equipment posed a much greater problem. The division staff solicited help from veterans with railroad experience and through heroic efforts assembled sufficient rolling stock to carry the tanks, vehicles, ammunition, fuel, rations, and other equipment. Whether the sight of these 200-flatcar-long convoys moving slowly across the southern landscape impressed the Soviets, they certainly inspired many of the nation’s citizens. As the 1st Armored Division’s commanding general recalled, “in the early 60s . . . the idea of engaging in combat in Cuba, had an attractiveness that perhaps combat in Southeast Asia did not have later on.” 91 331

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In assessing the army’s efforts to transform itself for conventional warfare—a path that would end in Vietnam—it is important to recognize that the sixties army was very much a product of the fifties. President Kennedy inherited a troubled, even fragmented force. It had suffered through fifteen years of unending trauma, from the post–World War II demobilization, Korea, expansion and contraction, conscription, the New Look budget restrictions, the abortive atomic warfare transformation, and a number of other radical changes. His presidency would see flexible response, counterinsurgency, and conventional warfare replace massive retaliation and the atomic battlefield. The dysfunctional pentomic organizations gave way to the more adaptable ROAD divisions. The army received new equipment, increased by 200,000 personnel, created a helicopter air assault unit, added new combat divisions, and doubled its Special Forces. In both the Berlin and Cuban crises, soldiers demonstrated the merits of flexible response, showing the nation’s resolve while averting thermonuclear retaliation. Thus by most definitions of military transformation—radical change in organization, concepts, and equipment—the Kennedy era was a success. Where the sixties reforms failed was in the crucial but often overlooked area of personnel. Despite improving the quality of its career noncommissioned officers, the ser vice remained dependent for its entrylevel personnel on conscription, either directly or indirectly. Encouraging volunteers by promising them technical training and better assignments still had the negative effect of pushing conscripts into lowskilled occupations and the combat arms. Reenlistment among draftees and first-term enlistees, particularly in the technical skills the army desperately needed, remained far below the critical numbers to sustain a professional all-volunteer force. Perhaps most disturbing, the Kennedy era continued the fifties disjuncture between the personnel it required and those who wore the uniform. Whether atomic or conventional, the ser vice’s concept of war remained a constant: adaptable, innovative leaders from lieutenants to generals would direct small, mobile, rapidly moving forces employing the latest technology to seek and destroy larger, less agile opponents. But as COL Robert E. Sullivan pointed out in an October 1963 letter, this vision required officers of ability, integ332

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rity, and dedication to mentor tomorrow’s leaders. Instead, the ser vice’s upper ranks had too many careerists “who can quickly tell you how many years, months and days remain before they can apply for voluntary retirement on the most sound financial basis.” However much it transformed its outward appearance, without more attention to improving its personnel the army would continue to decline. Summing up both the current force and two decades of army reform, Sullivan warned of “the haunting prospect” that “today’s generation of senior officers may leave to Americans who outlive a future war, the historical legacy of the best managed, defeated army the world has ever known.”92

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EPILOGUE

In November 1957, within weeks of Elvis Presley receiving his induction notice, MG Lionel McGarr addressed a local businessmen’s association. Recently appointed to head the US Army’s Command and General Staff College, McGarr enthusiastically offered his audience “a word picture of this atomic battlefield of the future.” Very soon, “small, isolated, hard-hitting, self-sufficient mobile battle groups” would deploy into combat on every thing from “flying platforms and flying jeeps to larger pod-type troop carriers taking off from cow pastures.” Soldiers “spread over hundreds of square miles in width and depth as a defense against ‘A’ and ‘H’ bombs” would employ rockets and missiles, airborne tanks, tactical atomic warheads, and other marvels in a “ battle area [that] may well be likened to a seething mass of brewer’s yeast covered with the bursting bubbles of coordinated but separate, dispersed actions.” 1 Thirty months later, on 8 March 1960, Elvis Presley gave his first big post-service press conference. Less than a week after leaving West Germany, he was back at Graceland and ebullient at the outpouring of public support. His teenage fans still adored him, his movie career was taking off, and he now had a new set of admirers, adults who had previously excoriated him. He could take pride in having proven himself in a crack reconnaissance unit in a tough armor division—an exemplary soldier who had won the respect even of career soldiers, from his first sergeant to his division commander. Smiling through popping flashbulbs and television lights, Presley’s good humor and modesty charmed his interviewers. Then a newsman asked him what advice he would give to young men about to enter the US Army. Suddenly, Elvis no longer 334

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spoke as the star, but the weary voice of the citizen soldier: “Play it straight and do your best because you can’t fight them. They never lost yet, you know. You can’t fight them, so you can make it easy or you can make it hard for yourself. If you play it straight and get the people on your side, let them know you’re trying, the Army would say you got it made. If you are going to be an individual or try to be different you are going to go through two years of misery.” 2 Presley’s impromptu remarks speak volumes, and not only about his generation’s attitude toward compulsory military ser vice. McGarr’s “word picture” could only become reality if executed by skilled warriors, able to operate those flying jeeps and willing to charge repeatedly into mushroom-clouded battlefields. Elvis’s advice—keep your head down, do your time, don’t buck authority, and move on—typified the views of the soldiers McGarr and his fellow generals commanded. With a strategic sensibility that eluded his senior officers, the former GI identified the crucial weakness in the army’s transition to atomic war: the personnel charged with its implementation. McGarr and Presley both served in an army consciously attempting to exploit a “revolution in military affairs” (RMA) inspired by the futuristic technologies McGarr described. The general had been in the audience when Chief of Staff Maxwell D. Taylor announced, “the Army is in a significant area of transition. It is a changing Army in which much of the armament, many of the organizational forms and tactical concepts are new. . . . It is a time when the Army is burning its military text books, to clear away the old to make room for the new.” 3 Since the fifties, there have been few times when ser vice representatives or civilian analysts have not proclaimed that yet another RMA was imminent. And, like Taylor, they have largely restricted their focus to concepts, equipment, and organizations. The literature on RMAs has grown so voluminous that one service-sponsored website lists thousands of references and hundreds more on such subsidiary topics as information warfare, cyber warfare, asymmetric warfare, space power, and army transformation.4 In the late 1990s the RMA was officially enshrined as national defense policy in the Department of Defense’s Vision 2010. With a rare display of unity, all the armed forces shared a single vision 335

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of future conflict: technologically empowered specialists executing precise, devastating, decisive, but relatively bloodless assaults against virtually powerless enemies. This, its advocates proclaimed, was a “New American Way of War” that would guarantee victory on the battlefield, national invulnerability, and global supremacy well into the next century.5 Perhaps because, like Taylor, today’s RMA advocates boast of burning their textbooks and breaking with the past, they are prone to claiming authorship for ideas that, on closer study, are remarkably similar to those common in the fifties. One recent manifestation is the reincarnation of the “offset” strategy. In the fifties, President Eisenhower’s New Look assumed that America’s strategic nuclear arsenal, bombers, and missiles could offset Soviet superiority in ground forces. In opposition, the US Army argued that its own tactical atomic weapons not only offset the Red Army masses, but did so without the danger of thermonuclear holocaust. After Vietnam, military reformers cited the potential of precision-guided munitions, stealth aircraft, satellite communications, and other wonders as the means to revive the offset strategy. Recently the Department of Defense declared a third offset strategy predicated on a Defense Innovation Initiative to “identify, develop, and field breakthrough technologies and systems.” 6 This bedrock conviction that materiel solutions can resolve fundamental military problems has, perhaps deliberately, avoided the crucial question of personnel. Among the hundreds of website entries on army transformation, only a handful have “soldier” in their title. Today’s Pentagon warlords would do well to remember the comment of one fifties general: “Push button trucks may be easier for idiots to operate, but they require geniuses to maintain.” 7 The consequences of ignoring what fifties officers termed “the human element” were brought home to former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld. Inspired by RMA theory, Rumsfeld announced he  would scrap the last remnants of the Cold War force Elvis had served in and create a national military organization for the onrushing information age. He would equip the nation’s armed forces with the latest high-tech weapons, trim budgetary fat, slash the bureaucracy, 336

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and create a “culture of creativity and intelligent risk-taking.” 8 Events early in the invasion of Afghanistan only fueled his conviction that the revolution was accelerating and that he was at the forefront. Yet by 2004, under pointed questioning by soldiers who lacked such basics as body armor, he acknowledged: “You go to war with the army you have, not the army you might want or wish to have at a later time.” 9 But what kind of army did Rumsfeld have? It is doubtful whether he knew. Like previous apostles of military transformation— Charles  E. Wilson and Robert S. McNamara among them—Rumsfeld understood the nation’s armed forces from a Pentagon perspective. Only when confronted by the troops he expected to carry out his agenda did he acknowledge that the “real” army was very different from his idealized version. It is unlikely that Rumsfeld studied the atomic army’s experience before dictating his transformation agenda to the armed forces. His historical inspiration was the blitzkrieg. But for those who lack such hubris, the fifties army provides a cautionary lesson about what happens when a ser vice charges into an RMA predicated on concepts, organizations, and technologies that are both individually and collectively flawed. Perhaps even more critical, the army’s abortive revolution, like most that followed, ignored the human element. There was an inherent contradiction between atomic warfare in theory and the troops available to wage it, between high-tech equipment and a semifunctional maintenance system, between the pentomic division’s mission and the short-service draftees who served in its units. In retrospect, the fundamental problems the army had to overcome were not those unique to the atomic battlefield, but rather the far more mundane challenges of acquiring, training, and retaining the skilled labor and managers necessary to function during peacetime. The fifties Army is also instructive for understanding the changing perspectives of American citizens toward their armed forces. In a recent presidential debate one aspiring commander-in- chief declared, “The military is not a social experiment. The purpose of the military is to kill people and break things.” 10 The audience applauded enthusiastically. A Cold War audience might have been less enamored with talk of death and destruction. They lived in the shadow of thermonuclear 337

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holocaust. Many had lost family or friends in war, and not a few had taken enemy lives. They would have been puzzled by the candidate’s assertion that the military was not a social experiment. Not only was the evidence to the contrary overwhelming—peacetime conscription, racial integration, character guidance—but most of them would have viewed social reform as an essential part of national ser vice. They knew that the army took in young men from across the nation of every race, creed, and background and generally treated them with democratic egalitarianism, stripping them of their individual identity and merging them into what the sixties generation would term “the Big Green Machine.” But the army did far more than teach martial skills. It also was required to provide education, technical training, and a physically and morally uplifting environment. By improving the nation’s youth, the armed forces, and particularly the army, were expected to transform national culture. Military ser vice would do what critics alleged that parents, the church, and schools had failed to accomplish. It would change stereotypical teenagers—the mama’s boy, the square, the weirdo, the hepcat, the jock, even the juvenile delinquent—into patriotic, productive, disciplined adults. In some respects today’s US Army faces very different challenges from the army Elvis’s generation served in. The Cold War is over, and with it the conviction that the next war will be a titanic Soviet–American struggle for world domination. In contrast to those certainties, the ser vice now maintains, “The environment the Army will operate in is unknown. The enemy is unknown, the location is unknown, and the conditions involved are unknown.”11 The question of who should serve that so roiled the fifties is no longer an issue. Where the nation once extolled the citizen-soldier and a democratic army, it now glorifies the elite warriors in the Seals and Delta Force. In marked contrast to the egalitarianism of the 1950s, both the burdens and the benefits of military ser vice are borne by an increasingly small minority; it is consequently less and less representative of the nation’s racial, class, and regional composition. The US Army’s current ideal is a force composed of “trusted professionals who strengthen the enduring bonds between the Army and the people it serves.” 12 Today’s volunteers may be revered at 338

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every public ceremony, country music concert, political stump speech, and sports event, but their personal connection to all those honoring them is much less enduring than that of Elvis’s generation. Throughout his presidency Eisenhower’s own son was serving in the army. More recent presidential candidates—and even presidents—have had ample opportunity to send their children into the wars they advocate; few have chosen to do so. Another substantial difference between the fifties and the present is how both military and civilians respond to the human cost of war. The World War II and Korea veterans who served as officers and noncoms in the fifties army accepted heavy losses as a reality. Their vision of conflict was not the virtually bloodless (at least to Americans) campaigns promised by today’s theorists, but “a vicious, violent and uncivilized type of war. Atomic firepower is the king of the battlefield. Devastation of savage magnitude is widespread, and entire units disappear in the flame and dust of the mushroom cloud that is becoming all too familiar.” 13 And the citizen soldiers these officers commanded proved able to suffer these casualties and keep fighting. McGarr’s 30th Infantry Regiment alone absorbed over 8,000 casualties in less than three years of combat in World War II. The 2nd Infantry Division, which he commanded in Korea, had almost 25,000 casualties—including nearly 5,000 killed in action—in roughly the same time period. Fifties war planners envisioned casualties that would have made these grim statistics pale by comparison. As a reconnaissance scout in Germany, Elvis would likely have died within the war’s first day, almost certainly within the first week. Yet he, and the millions who served with him in the 1950s, accepted this real ity as part of soldiering. Although seldom admitted, one of the unforeseen consequences of the all-volunteer army is that the death of even one soldier has caused enormous individual and unit trauma.14 American soldiers might be the best in the world, but whether either the nation or their ser vices are willing to put them in harm’s way has becoming an increasingly significant question. Yet despite their manifold differences, the army of today and the army of Elvis have much in common. The US Army’s recent selfdescription—“a force simulta neously in transition, in action, and in 339

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preparation”—would have been true at any period between the end of the Korean War and the beginning of Vietnam.15 The size of today’s force is almost identical to what it was after the World War II demobilization. Like its predecessor, today’s army is emerging from traumatic wars and struggling in the transition to peacetime. Like its predecessor, it has to simulta neously reduce veteran personnel while recruiting leaders and specialists for today’s peacetime—and future wartime’s— force. Its current leaders face growing generational and cultural divisions within the officer corps; many doubt the professionalism of both their superiors and their subordinates. The enlisted ranks are filled with those whose exceptional combat experience may have rendered them incapable of garrison soldiering. Army depots are bursting with mountains of damaged, purpose-built, and obsolete equipment of dubious utility for the most probable military contingencies. There are profound disagreements over the ser vice’s future mission and its place in the nation’s defensive policy. Detractors, many in uniform, declare the future belongs to airpower, space communications, drones, cyber warfare, or other new technologies, all of which obviate the need for any but the small “footprint” of a few elite individuals to identify targets. The certainties so apparent when McGarr outlined his vision of future war are no longer clear to today’s armed forces. The Army Vision: Strategic Advantage in a Complex World, outlines a new transformation agenda—“an agile, expert, innovative, interoperable, expeditionary, scalable, versatile, and balanced force”—for 2025. It revives the 1950s claim that while other ser vices “can impose devastating effects,” only the army can decisively defeat the enemy on land, deter enemy aggression, and support allies. It retains the earlier era’s faith that future technologies will compensate for numerical inferiority. But The Army Vision also promises to resolve the great disconnect between McGarr and Elvis by highlighting those who will have to implement this transformation agenda. The cover features a close-up of a soldier, not a piece of futuristic machinery; other illustrations are of a female paratrooper, another soldier high-fiving children, and two uniformed computer experts. It puts a human-centric definition on concepts previously applied only to tactics or combat units. Indicative of this change, the transformation 340

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goal of “agility” is now seen as beginning with soldiers “capable of continuous re-orientation and adaptation within increasingly unpredictable environments.” The “expeditionary” mission requires soldiers with “confidence, competence, and critical-thinking skills to respond to unexpected situations.” The new definition of “expert” goes far beyond tactical or technical proficiency: the future soldier must master “interpersonal dynamics, organizational psychology, and negotiating to achieve desired outcomes with governments and indigenous populations.” 16 These are laudable goals, and if the US Army succeeds the result will be the truly transformed military organization that McGarr and Taylor envisioned for the challenges of the atomic age. But even if, like the atomic army, the revolution fails, tomorrow’s soldiers will likely follow Elvis’s advice to “play it straight and do your best.”

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ABBREVIATIONS

1LT 2LT 3A 5A 8A 1C 5C 7C 1st ArD 2nd ArD 3rd ArD 1st CavD 1st ID 2nd ID 3rd ID 4th ID 5th ID 11th AbnD 82nd AbnD 101st AbnD

1st Lieutenant 2nd Lieutenant 3rd Army 5th Army 8th Army 1st Corps 5th Corps 7th Corps 1st Armored Division 2nd Armored Division 3rd Armored Division 1st Cavalry Division 1st Infantry Division 2nd Infantry Division 3rd Infantry Division 4th Infantry Division 5th Infantry Division 11th Airborne Division 82nd Airborne Division 101st Airborne Division

AID AF AFF AFHRA

Army Information Digest Armed Force Army Field Forces US Air Force Historical Research Agency, Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala. US Army Heritage and Educational Center, Carlisle, Pa. Army and Navy Journal Assistant Secretary of Defense

AHEC ANJ ASD

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Abbreviations ASDPA Ast AWC AWCSP

Assistant Secretary of Defense for Public Affairs Assistant US Army War College US Army War College Student Paper, archived at AHEC

BG Btln

Brigadier General Battalion

CAFF CARL

Chief of Army Field Forces Combined Arms Research Library, Fort Leavenworth, Kans. Combat Forces Journal Commanding General Character Guidance Program US Army Command and General Staff College Criminal Investigation Division Commander in Chief Commandant US Army Center of Military History, Fort McNair, Washington, D.C. Colonel Continental Army Command Captain Chief of Staff of the Army

CFJ CG CGP CGSC CID CINC CMDT CMH COL CONARC CPT CSA DCS DCSOPS DDEL DOA

Deputy Chief of Staff Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library, Abilene, Kans. Department of the Army

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Abbreviations DODFC

Dpy DpyDir DRL

Department of Defense Film Collection, Special Collections, Lauriger Library, Georgetown University, Washington, D.C. Deputy Deputy Director Donovan Research Library, Fort Benning, Ga.

E EUSAK F FEC

Entry Number Eighth US Army Korea Folder Far East Command

G1 GC GEN GOC GPO

General Staff 1 (Administration) General Correspondence General General Officers’ Correspondence Government Publishing Office

HUSARPAC

Headquarters USARPAC

IAF IED

Integration of Army Files Information and Education Division Infantry Journal Public Information Officer Infantry Regiment

IJ IO/PIO IR JAG JCS JFKL JMH

Judge Advocate General Joint Chiefs of Staff John F. Kennedy Library, Boston, Mass. Journal of Military History

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Abbreviations LBJL LT LTC LTG

Lyndon B. Johnson Library, Austin, Tex. Lieutenant Lieutenant Colonel Lieutenant General

MAJ MASH MDTP MG MOS MP MR

Major Mobile Army Surgical Hospital Maxwell D. Taylor Papers, NDUL Major General Military Occupational Specialty Military Police Military Review

NARA NDUL

National Archives II, College Park, Md. National Defense University Library, Fort McNair, Washington, D.C. National Security Files Departments and Agencies, JFKL New York Times

NSFDA NYT OAFIE OCAFF OCI OCS OCSA OPA ORO

PID PM PMG

Office of Armed Forces Information and Education Office of the Chief of Army Field Forces Office of the Chief of Information Officer Candidate School Office of the Chief of Staff of the US Army Office of Public Affairs Operations Research Office, Johns Hopkins University Public Information Division Provost Marshal Provost Marshal General

346

Abbreviations RG RG 218 RG 319 RG 331 RG 337 RG 338 RG 389 RG 407 RG 546 RG 547 RG 548 RG 549 RG 550 RG 551 RJ ROTC

SCF SCGC SEP SGT SOD SP SRSA SSA

Record Group, National Archives II, College Park, Md. Records of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff Records of the Army Staff Records of Allied Operational and Occupation Headquarters, World War II Records of Headquarters Army Ground Forces Records of US Army Operational, Tactical, and Support Organizations Records of the Provost Marshal General Records of Adjutant General’s Office Records of US Army Continental Army Command Records of US Army Forces in Alaska Records of US Army Forces in the Caribbean Records of US Army Europe Records of US Army Pacific Records of US Army Military District of Washington Recruiting Journal Reserve Officers’ Training Corps

Security Classified Files Security Classified General Correspondence Saturday Evening Post Sergeant Secretary of Defense Student Paper Semiannual Report of the Secretary of the Army Selective Ser vice Agency

347

Abbreviations STRAC STRAF

Strategic Army Corps Strategic Army Forces

TAG TARB TARS TI TIE TIP TLM

The Adjutant General of the Army Troop Attitude Research Branch The Armor School, Fort Knox, Ky. Troop Information Troop Information and Education Troop Information Program Tropic Lightning (25th Infantry Division) Museum, Schofield Barracks, Hi. Tropic Lightning News (25th Infantry Division newspaper) Table of Organization US Army Training and Doctrine Command Archives, Fort Monroe, Va. (now Fort Eustis, Va.)

TLN TOE TRADOCA

USACDC USAFFE USAREUR USARH USARL USARPAC USAS USIS USMA USMAA

US Army Combat Developments Command US Army Forces Far East US Army Europe US Army Hawaii US Army Alaska US Army Pacific US Army Armor School US Army Infantry School US Military Academy US Military Academy Archives, West Point, N.Y.

VCSA

Vice Chief of Staff of the Army

WAC Wac WD

Women’s Army Corps A member of the Women’s Army Corps War Department

348

NOTES PROLOGUE 1. Anonymous, Letters to DOA Regarding Elvis Presley [1957], Elvis Presley File, Box 12, Bio Files, RG 407. 2. William  C. Westmoreland, “Our 20th Century Army” (speech, Airborne Conference, 7 May 1957), Box 1, William C. Westmoreland Papers, USMAA. Elinor Sloan, Military Transformation and Modern Warfare: A Reference Handbook (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2008). 3. Lewis Sorley, Westmoreland: The General Who Lost Vietnam (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2011). 4. Bosley Crowther, “G.I. Blues: Elvis—A Reformed Wriggler,” New York Times, 5 November 1960. 5. Alan Levy, Operation Elvis (New York: Henry Holt, 1960), 21. 6. COL William S. McElhenny, “Problems Confronting the United States Army,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. 7. William R. Taylor, Elvis in the Army: The King of Rock-n-Roll as Seen by an Officer Who Served with Him (Novato, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1995), 146. 8. This term has also been applied to the British Cold War army; see David French, Army, Empire and Cold War: The British Army and Military Policy, 1945–1971 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), 1. 9. Jules Feiffer, Backing into Forward: A Memoir (New York: Doubleday, 2010), quotations from 131, 161. Jules Feiffer, Feiffer: The Collected Works, vol. 2, Munro (Seattle: Fantagraphic Books, 1989); G.I. Blues, directed by Norman Taurog (1960; Paramount Home Video, 2000), DVD. 10. Larry D. Hill Questionnaire, 14 July 2000, in author’s possession.

1. THE ARMY WAS COMING APART 1. James B. Vaught Oral History, 1987, 1: 32–33, AHEC. All oral histories archived at AHEC will be cited by the year compiled, volume and section (if present), and page number(s). 2. Ibid, 1: 58. 3. Presentation Given to President by Major General Lauris Norstad, 29 October 1946, File 10, Box 2, RG 319. 4. Stephen  T. Ross, American War Plans: 1945–1950 (New York: Garland, 1988). 5. US Bureau of the Census, Historical Statistics of the United States, Colonial Times to 1970, 2 vols. (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1975), 2: 1141.

349

notes to pages 11–19 6. T. R. Fehrenbach, This Kind of War: A Study of Unpreparedness (New York: Macmillan, 1963). 7. MAJ A. G. Rudd, “The Public and the Army,” IJ 24 (January 1924): 29. On the pre-WWII army, see Edward M. Coffman, The Regulars: The American Army, 1898–1941 (Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press, 2004); Russell F. Weigley, History of the U.S. Army (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984). 8. The War Department or Department of War was founded in 1789 and administered the US Army until 1947, when it was retitled the Department of the Army. On US military policy, see Allan R. Millett, Peter Maslowski, and William B. Feis, For the Common Defense: A Military History of the United States of Amer ica from 1607 to 2012 (New York: Free Press, 2012). 9. COL Max L. Pitney, “Retention of Junior Officers,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. 10. The US Army designates corporals (E4) as noncommissioned officers, but some statistics only include sergeants (E5 and above). In the pre-WWII army corporal grade carried with it considerable authority and privileges, but in the post-WWII army an E4 (or Specialist 4 or Sp4) has little authority. 11. Walter J. Unrath, A Soldier’s Legacy: The Life, Times and Reflections of a Soldier from 1935 to 1974 (privately published, 1997), 32. COL Patrick H. Devine, “Recruit Training for the Future Army,” 18 February 1957, AWCSP. 12. Harold Wool, The Military Specialist: Skilled Manpower and the Armed Forces (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1968), 16. 13. WD IED TARB, Sub: Voluntary Comments about the Army Made by a Group of Army Officers, November–December 1946, 20 January 1947, Special Memo. # 11-209, Box 1005, E 93, RG 330. Emphasis in original. 14. Wool, Military Specialist, 16–25. 15. “Report on Troop Returns,” ANJ 83 (24 November 1945): 431. 16. “Beyond the Stars,” MS, 106, James M. Gavin Papers, AHEC. 17. Tom Brokaw, The Greatest Generation (New York: Random House, 1997). 18. COL Earl W. Edwards, “Morale: An Overall View,” 15 March 1955, AWCSP. 19. “Beyond the Stars,” 107–8. 20. Paul Jones, “Barrack-Room View of the ‘Brass,’ ” SEP 218 (5 January 1946): 96. “Demobilization Protests,” ANJ 83 (12 January 1946): 631; Alton Lee, “The Army ‘Mutiny’ of 1946,” Journal of American History 53, no. 3 (December 1966): 555–71. 21. WD IED TARB, Sub: Comments of Army Dental Corps Officers, 17 November 1948, Special Memo 38-322D, Box 1006, E 93, RG 330. 22. TARB, Sub: Opinions of Army Medical Corps Officers, 1 November 1948, Report 82-322, Box 1007, E 93, RG 330. WD IED Research Branch, Sub: Attitudes of A.S.T.P. Medical Officers Toward Ser vice in the Regular Army, 2 November 1946, Report 8-302, Box 1005, E 93, RG 330.

350

notes to pages 19–23 23. Voluntary Comments about the Army. 24. Gerhard L. Weinberg to Brian M. Linn, 22 August 2015, email in author’s possession. 25. Robert  L. Eichelberger to Jerome  B. Zerbe, 8  February 1947, Box  11, Robert L. Eichelberger Papers, Perkins Library, Duke University, Durham, N.C. 26. Outline Plan for Public Information, 2nd Army Area Plan for Expansion of the Army, August 1948, Box 26, E 32B, RG 337. 27. Herbert B. Powell to Beryl K. Powell, 13 August 1945, Box 9, Herbert B. Powell Papers, AHEC. Diary entry 31 May 1946, Box 1, Eichelberger Papers; “Army Swag,” Army and Navy Bulletin 3 (31 May 1947): 5. 28. Herbert  B. Powell to Beryl  K. Powell, 9  September 1945, Box  9, Powell Papers. 29. Robert Ruark, “A Very Loud Whistle Stirs Up an Ill Wind for Lt. Gen. Lee,” AF 3 (16 August 1947): 3. Robert Ruark, “Ruark Nears End of His Journey with a Final Look at Paris,” AF 3 (20 September 1947): 3; “Inspector General Clears Gen. Lee of All Charges,” AF 3 (4 October 1947): 4. 30. JAG, Opinion of a Board of Review, US vs. Colonel Edward  J. Murray, [1947?], Everett E. Brown Papers, AHEC. COL William G. Purdy to “Dear General Bryan,” 19 August 1947, File 062.2, Box 188, E 433, RG 389; CID Investigation Report No 13-87-B, 28 November 1947, File 333.5, Box 171, E 433, RG 389; Report of Operations of Theater Provost Marshal in Europe, 1 October–31 December 1946, Box 46, E 439A, RG 389. The Hesse jewel case is in File 000.5, Box 165, E 433, RG 389. 31. Editorial, “Durant and Kilian,” Army and Navy Bulletin 3 (24 May 1947): 4. Jack Gieck, Lichfield: The U.S. Army on Trial (Akron, Ohio: University of Akron Press, 1997). 32. Bill Mauldin, “Colonel Kilian, Former Lichfield Commander Recommended for Promotion” (11 March 1947), Papers of Bill Mauldin, Library of Congress, Washington,  D.C., cited in http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/acd1999000457 / PP/, accessed 2 July 2012. 33. William F. Freehoff to Editor, “Sees Need of Revising Public Relations Emphasis,” AF 5 (4 June 1949): 15. Irwin M. Herowitz, “Cabbages and Kings,” Harvard Crimson (21  June 1946), at http://www.thecrimson.com /article /1946 /6 /21 /cabbages-and-kings-peto -veterans-who/, accessed 2 July 2002; “Well, All Right,” Cornell Daily Sun 64 (27 February 1947), 4. 34. Oral History, 1977, 1: 4: 42, Box  3, William  R. Desobry Papers, AHEC. “Army Commissions,” ANJ 83 (29  December 1945): 583; “Separation of Officers,” ANJ 83 (2 March 1946): 872; “Army Defends High Percentage of Colonels in Peacetime Force,” Army and Navy Bulletin 3 (22  February 1947): 2.

351

notes to pages 24–29 35. 36. 37. 38. 39.

40.

41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46.

47.

48. 49. 50. 51.

Michael S. Davison Oral History, 1976, 1: 51, AHEC. Vaught Oral History, 1: 68, 83–95. Davison Oral History, 1: 48. James F. Collins Oral History, 1976, 64, AHEC. Hamilton H. Howze Oral History, 1972, 3: 7, AHEC. Harry P. Ball, Of Responsible Command: A History of the U.S. Army War College (Carlisle Barracks, Pa.: Alumni Association of the US Army War College, 1983), 258–304. George S. Pappas, Prudens Futuri: The US Army War College, 1901–1967 (Carlisle Barracks, Pa.: Alumni Association of the US Army War College), 139–72. WD IED TARB, Sub: Voluntary Comments about ‘the Academy’ or ‘the Army’ Made by a Group of West Point Cadets, 26 February 1947, Special Memo #13-311, Box 1005, E 93, RG 330. Annual Report of the Superintendent, 1952 (West Point, N.Y.: US Military Academy, 1952), 6. “Voluntary Comments about ‘the Academy.’ ” Ibid. Brian McAllister Linn, “Challenge and Change: West Point and the Cold War,” in West Point: Two Centuries and Beyond, ed. Lance Betros (Abilene, Tex.: McWhiney Foundation Press, 2004), 218–47. “An Act to Provide for the Promotion and Elimination of Officers of the Army, Navy, and Marine Corps, and for Other Purposes,” Public Law 381, 80th Cong., 1st Sess., 1947; Matthew W. Markel, “The Organization Man at War: Promotions Policies and Military Leadership” (Ph.D. diss, Harvard University, 2000), 192–206. WD IED Research Branch, Sub: What Effect Will an Increase in Soldiers’ Pay Have on Enlistments, 3 June 1946, Report 6-302, Box 1005, E 93, RG 330; WD IED TARB, Sub: Morale Attitudes, 2 April 1947, Report 20–309, Box 1005, E 93, RG 330. Special Staff, US Army, IED TARB, Sub: Initial Impressions of Army Life Among the First Wave of 18-Year- Old One-Year Enlistees, 3  September 1948, Report 82-320, Box 1007, E 93, RG 330. Committee #13, “Manpower Conservation,” 23 January 1953, Box 1952/1953-3, AHEC. “Personal Memoirs,” Box 3A, Ernest N. Harmon Papers, AHEC. Jack Niles and James C. Dye, Mox Nix: Anecdotes About the Life of GI’s in Europe (Kassel: Transmitter, 1952), copy in John T. Dabinett Papers, AHEC. Report of Operations of Theater Provost Marshal;  R.  W. Pierce to Chief, Provost Division, 27 August 1947, File 000.5 General, Box 165, E 433, RG 389; WD IED TARB, Sub: Enlisted Men’s Opinions of Court-Martial

352

notes to pages 29–33

52.

53. 54. 55. 56.

57.

58. 59. 60.

61. 62. 63.

64.

System, 6  March  1947, Report 15-309A, Box  1005, E 93, RG 330; “Discipline in Europe,” ANJ 83 (27 April 1946): 1030. HQ 7700th Troop Information and Education Group, Sub: What Do Men Think of the Film The Miracle of Living, March 1948, Report 23, Box 1020, E 94, RG 330. James H. Griffiths to J. Lawton Collins, 5 February 1948, Box 401, E 1, RG 247. CPT Michael  L. Boraczek to HQ, 970th Counter Intelligence Corps Detachment, 12 January 1948, Box 401, E 1, RG 247. Chaplain Lecture to Venereal Disease Control Council and Members of Staff, [1947], Box 416, E 1, RG 247. Special Staff, US Army, IED TARB, Sub: Tabulation of Replies of Unmarried Negro Soldiers to Questions Related to the Control of Venereal Disease, September 1947, Special Memo 33-313X, Box 1005, E 93, RG 330. WD IED TARB, Sub: The Universal Military Training Experimental Unit, 12  March  1947, Report 16-312TL, Box  1005, E 93, RG 330. Michael  J. Hogan, A Cross of Iron: Harry S. Truman and the Origins of the National Security State, 1945–1054 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 119–68; William Taylor, Every Citizen a Soldier: The Campaign for Universal Military Training after World War II (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2014). Ivan L. Bennett, to Chief of Chaplains, 30 September 1947, Box 416, E 1, RG 247. WD IED TARB, Sub: What Happens at an Army “Bull Session,” 24  December 1947, Special Memo 28, Box 1005, E 93, RG 330. Interim Report Second Cycle, U.M.T. Experimental Unit, Fort Knox, Kentucky, 12 January 1948, 354 File, Box 29, E 32B, RG 337; Anne C. Loveland, “Character Education in the  U.S. Army, 1947–1977,” JMH 64 (July 2000): 795–818. “Outline Plan for Public Information.” George Q. Flynn, The Draft, 1940– 1973 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1993), 109. Vaught Oral History, 1: 139. Lynch Oral History, 1: 45. Tab R, 24th Infantry Division, Report of the Department of the Army Training Inspection: FECOM, 24  September to  29 October 1949, Box 7, E 1, RG 337; 1st Division 34th Anniversary Edition, June 1951 (Darmstadt, Ger., 1951), 1st Division Museum, Cantigny, Il. “Me, I’m Staying in the Army,” ANJ 83 (15 December 1945): 525. US Army Recruiting Ser vice, Essential Facts About the New Army Pay Scale for Enlisted Men (1947); Committee #10, “Enlisted Personnel Management,”

353

notes to pages 33–38

65. 66. 67. 68.

69. 70.

71.

72. 73. 74. 75.

18  December 1953 and Committee #12, “Enlisted Personnel Management,” 17 December 1954, both in Box 1954/1955-3, AHEC. Kenneth  M. Sowers, Sub: Citizenship and Morality Lectures, 20  August 1947, Box 416, E 1, RG 247. Lynch Oral History, 1: 131; M. J. to Editor, “Personnel Policy Detrimental to Army in All Echelons,” AF 6 (17 June 1950): 15. MAJ Louis N. Altshuler, Sub: The War Department Venereal Disease Program, 1947, Box 2, E 12, RG 334. Kenneth C. Royall, Sub: Changes in Courts-Martial and the Military Justice System, 19 February 1947, Box 1700, E 469, RG 389. Report of the Secretary of War’s Board on Officer-Enlisted Relationships (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1946). For comments on the Board, see “Study of Army’s ‘Caste System,’ ” ANJ 83 (23 March 1946): 896; “The Doolittle Board,” ANJ 83 (30 March 1946): 918. For the origins of the UCMJ, see Robinson G. Everett, Military Justice in the Armed Forces of the United States (Harrisburg, Pa.: Military Ser vice Pub. Co., 1956), 8–16; Elizabeth Lutes Hillman, Defending America: Military Culture and the Cold War Court Martial (Princeton,  N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2005), 7–28; Jonathan Laurie, Arming Military Justice, vol. 1, The Origins of the United States Court of Military Appeals (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1992), 127–255. LTC Leonhardt to Chief of Chaplains, Sub: The Story of the Army Education Program, 15 July 1948, Box 419, E 1, RG 247. Report of the Department of the Army Training Inspection: EUCOM, May 1949, Box 7, E 1, RG 337. The Negro Situation in EUCOM, Tab W, DOA Training Inspection: EUCOM, May 1949, Box 7, E 1, RG 337. Richard M. Dalfiume, Desegregation of the Armed Forces: Fighting on Two Fronts, 1939–1953 (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1969); Michael Cullen Green, Black Yanks in the Pacific: Race in the Making of American Military Empire after World War II (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 2010); Morris  H. MacGregor Jr., Integration of the Armed Forces, 1940– 1965 (Washington, D.C.: CMH, 1985); Bernard C. Nalty, Strength for the Fight: A History of Black Americans in the Military (New York: Free Press, 1986). Lynch Oral History, 81. Donald V. Bennett Oral History, 1976, 1: 3: 15–16, AHEC. Report of Operations of Provost Marshal Division, European Command, 1 January 1949 to 31 March 1949, Box 47, E 439A, RG 389. TARB, Sub: Attitudes of Officers and Enlisted Men toward Certain Minority Groups, 14 July 1947, Special Memo #309C, Box 1005, E 93, RG 330. “Early Individual Integration in the Army” (n.d.), Bruce C. Clarke Papers, Hoover Institute Archives, Stanford, Calif.

354

notes to pages 38–42 76. B. M. Bryan to “Dear General.” 77. Robert C. Roseberry, Sub: Racial Incident, 18 November 1946, File 291.2, Box 169, E 433, RG 389. Major Harold L. Boyd, Sub: Investigation of Circumstances Surrounding the Removal of 1st Lieutenant John O. Brown, Inf. 0-536619 from a Train at Madisonville, Kentucky on or about 23 February 1946, 15 March–30 April 1946, File 333.5, Box 171, E 433, RG 389. 78. Arthur J. Gregg Oral History, 1997, 20–21, AHEC. 79. Michaela Hampf, Release a Man for Combat: The Women’s Army Corps in World War II (Köln: Böhlau Verlag GmbH & Cie., 2010); Bettie J. Morden, The Women’s Army Corps, 1945–1978 (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 1990), 35–61. 80. DOA, FM 100-5: Operations (August 1949); Walter E. Kretchik, U.S. Army Doctrine: From the American Revolution to the War on Terror (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2011), 161–64; Jonathan M. House, Combined Arms Warfare in the Twentieth Century (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2001), 196–99; Kevin P. Sheehan, “Preparing for an Imaginary War? Examining Peacetime Functions and Changes in Army Doctrine” (Ph.D. diss.: Harvard University, 1988), 57–62. 81. War Department Equipment Board Report, 29 May 1946, AHEC. 82. James  M. Gavin, Airborne Warfare (Washington,  D.C.: Infantry Journal Press, 1947). Brian McAllister Linn, The Echo of Battle: The Army’s Way of War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2007), 150–61. 83. Eugene  P. Forrester Oral History, 1985, 1: 112–14, AHEC. Army Major Command Inspections, 1948, Box 27, E 32B, RG 337. 84. Lynch Oral History, 1: 97. “The Regulars” MS, 287–390, Donald Siebert Papers, AHEC. 85. Sub: Action Letter . . . Excessive Turnovers of Officers and Enlisted Men, 5 July 1949, 2nd ID File, Box 725, E 336, RG 159. 86. COL John H. Riepe, Sub: Action Letter . . . Excessive Turnover of Officers and Enlisted Men, 11 August 1949, 2nd ID File, Box 725, E 336, RG 159. 87. Interim Study of Test of Plans for Defense of Continental United States, 1 August 1950, File 381, Box 22, E 54, RG 337; HQ 5th Corps to Director, Plans and Operations, Sub: Inspection of [Sweepback] Units, 27  December 1948, 21 March 1949, Operation Mohawk File, Box 170, E 433, RG 389. “The Army Could Fight—But With WWII Weapons,” Armed Force 6 (20 May 1950): 4. 88. Jacob Devers, Sub: Report of Activities of Army Field Forces, 1945–1949, 30 September 1949, 319.1 File, Box 41, E 32B, RG 337. 89. Voluntary Comments . . . November–December 1946. 90. Report of the Department of the Army Training Inspection: EUCOM, May 1949, Box 7, E 1, RG 337. “Report on the Young Soldier”; Vaught Oral History, 1: 32–33.

355

notes to pages 43–46 91. LTC F. Bernard Henry to Luther D. Miller, 25 March 1948, Box 416, E 1, RG 247. DuVall, Action Letter IGD . . . Excessive Turnovers. 92. Lynch Oral History, 1: 121. 93. Telephone transcript of 27 August in COL C. H. Studebaker to COL John A. Smith, 7  September 1948, 354.2 File, Box  29, E 32B, RG 337; Tab F: Marianas-Bonins Command, Report of the Department of the Army Training Inspection: FECOM, 24 September to 29 October 1949, Box 7, E 1, RG 337. 94. Report of Visit by DOA Inspection Team to USARPAC in Observing Exercise MIKI, 19 December 1949, Box 22, E 1, RG 337. Maneuver Commander Final Report, Exercise MIKI (1 October–30 November 1949), Box 185, E 433, RG 389; “Operation MIKI Concluded after 36 Hours of Combat,” AF 5 (12 November 1949): 4. 95. Chapter 1: “Withdrawal Action,” in Russell A. Gugeler, Combat Actions in Korea (Washington,  D.C.: GPO, 1954). The quotation is from Rudyard Kipling’s poem “That Day.” 96. Powell Oral History, 1: 3: 24. There is some controversy over the 8th Army’s numbers and how many troops were assigned to combat units. The official report claimed that in 1949 the 8th Army was brought up to authorized strength of some 88,000 officers; see HQ 8A, Annual Report 1949, Box 273, E 1A1, RG 550. 97. Herbert  B. Powell to Beryl  K. Powell, 11  September 1949, Box  9, Powell Papers. Thomas E. Hanson, Combat Ready? The Eighth U.S. Army on the Eve of the Korean War (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2010). 98. HQ 7700th TIE Group, Sub: Suggestions of Officers on Improving USAREUR, 13  November 1950, Box  1021, E 94, RG 330. In the 4th Infantry Division the largest number (319) who appeared before the boards were discharged for hardship. Of the remainder, 219 were discharged for fraudulent enlistment, 124 for being “inapt,” 58 for physical reasons, and 2 for homosexuality. See HQ 6th Army, Sub: Semiannual Inspection Report of the 4th Infantry Division, 19–22 June 1950, 4th ID File, Box 46, E 32B, RG 337. 99. Lynch Oral History, 90. 100. Ibid., 81. 101. What Happens at an Army “Bull Session.” Beverly Smith, “What’s Become of the Infantry?” SEP 222 (24 September 1949): 22–23, 130–34. 102. President’s Committee on Religion and Welfare in the Armed Forces, Report: National Conference on Community Responsibility to Our Peacetime Servicemen and Women, 1949, Box 41, E 32B, RG 337. 103. Diary entries 18 and 20 February, 7 March, and 2 April 1946, Box 1; Eichelberger to Herman  A. Gudger, 26  February 1946, Box  11, Eichelberger Papers. 104. Vaught Oral History, 1: 115–16.

356

notes to pages 46–53 105. Franklin M. Davis Jr., Come as a Conqueror: The United States Army’s Occupation of Germany, 1945–1949 (New York: Macmillan, 1967), 193. 106. Powell Oral History, 1: 2: 47–48. Clovis Byers to Robert  L. Eichelberger, 25  October and  13  November 1947, Box  11, Eichelberger Papers; Anni  P. Baker, Wiesbaden and the Americans, 1945–2003: The Social, Economic, and Political Impact of the U.S. Forces in Wiesbaden (Wiesbaden: Schriften des Stadtarchivs Wiesbaden, 2004), 52–61. 107. Ann Springer, “An Army Wife Lives Very Soft—In Germany,” SEP 219 (15 February 1947): 24–25, 119–22. 108. Jacqueline Desobry Interview, Oral History, 1: 3: 53–55, Desobry Papers. 109. Vaught Oral History, 1: 128–32.

2. THE CATALYST OF THE KOREAN WAR 1. Oral History, 1972, 16, Lyman L. Lemnitzer Papers, Box 1, AHEC. 2. LTG Lyman L. Lemnitzer, “Land Power” (lecture, AWC, 20 March 1953), AHEC. 3. William M. Donnelly, “The Best Army that Can Be Put in the Field in the Circumstances: The U.S. Army, July 1951–July 1953,” JMH 71 (July 2007): 809–47. 4. Roy  K. Flint, “Task Force Smith and the 24th Division: Delay and Withdrawal, 5–19 July, 1950,” in America’s First Battles, 1776–1965, ed. Charles E. Heller and William A. Stofft (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1986), 266–99; Thomas E. Hanson, Combat Ready? The Eighth U.S. Army on the Eve of the Korean War (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2010). On US Army operations, see Roy E. Appleman, South to the Naktong, North to the Yalu: June–November 1950 (Washington, D.C.: CMH, 1961); Walter Hermes, Truce Tent and Fighting Front (Washington,  D.C.: CMH, 1966); Allan R. Millett, The War for Korea, 1950–1951: They Came from the North (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2011); Billy  C. Mossman, Ebb and Flow: November 1950–July 1951 (Washington, D.C.: CMH, 1990). 5. HQ, EUSAK, “Special Problems in the Korean Conflict,” 1952, CARL. 6. George  C. Herring, From Colony to Superpower:  U.S. Foreign Relations since 1776 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 635–47; Michael  J. Hogan, A Cross of Iron: Harry S. Truman and the Origins of the National Security State, 1945–1954 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 304–63; Steven  L. Rearden, History of the Office of the Secretary of Defense, vol. 1, The Formative Years, 1947–1950 (Washington, D.C.: Historical Office, Office of the Secretary of Defense, 1984). 7. James B. Vaught Oral History, 1987, 1: 142, AHEC. William M. Donnelly, Under Orders: The Army National Guard during the Korean War (College

357

notes to pages 53–57

8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15.

16.

17.

18. 19. 20.

Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2001); Michael Doubler, I Am the Guard: A History of the Army National Guard, 1636–2000 (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 2001), 219–31; Robert W. Coakley, “Highlights of Army Mobilization During the Korean War,” 1959, CMH. George I. Forsythe Oral History, 1974, 273, AHEC. Oral History, 1983, 68, Box 1, Mary E. Clarke Papers, AHEC. MG Floyd Parks, “Information Aspects of Planning” (lecture, AWC, 25 April 1953), Box 13, Floyd L. Parks Papers, DDEL. OAFIE, Sub: New Soldiers’ Attitudes: Willingness to Serve, January 1951, Report 108, Box 1008, E 93, RG 330; OAFIE, Sub: New Soldiers’ Attitudes: Trends in Adjustment and Orientation, March  1951, Report 114–338, Box 1008, E 93, RG 330; MG C. D. Palmer, “Training Problems during Mobilization” (lecture, AWC, 2 February 1954), AHEC; COL P. F. Lindeman, “Army Reserves” (lecture, AWC, 17 February 1954), AHEC. M*A*S*H, directed by Robert Altman (1970, 20th Century Fox, 2002), DVD. Otto F. Apel and Pat Apel, MASH: An Army Surgeon in Korea (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 1998), 25. Richard Hooker, M*A*S*H: A Novel of Three Army Doctors (1968, repr. New York: Harper- Collins, 2009), 14. DOD, Research Divisions, Sub: Medical Officers’ Opinions on Professional and Personal Problems of Army Ser vice, 5  November 1953, Report 137, Box 1009, E 93, RG 330. Office of Surgeon General, Sub: Medical Officers Opinions of Professional and Personal Problems of Army Ser vice, July 1953, AHEC. Young Regular Army doctors also complained about their superiors; see Charles C. Pixley Oral History, 1985, 64, AHEC. Bill Safire, “Shape Up or Ship Out,” Colliers 131 (11  April 1953): 17. BG Louis H. Renfrow, “Untitled” (lecture, UNICO National Meeting, Omaha, 27 August 1951), Box 1, E UD-39, RG 147; Stephen Ailes, White House Fact Sheet, Sub: Significant Developments in Procurement and Retention of Enlisted Personnel (Army), 25 September 1961, Army 10–12/61 File, Box 269A, NSF Departments and Agencies, JFKL; George Q. Flynn, The Draft, 1940– 1973 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1993), 114–31. MG R. N. Young, “Responsibilities and Problems of the Army G-1” (lecture, AWC, 18 November 1953), AHEC; Bernard D. Kárpinos, Qualification of American Youths for Military Ser vice (Washington, D.C.: Office of Surgeon General, US Army, 1962), 5–12; Flynn, The Draft, 112–24. Gerald W. Johnson, “Exempt the Bright Boys?” Harper’s 202 (March 1951): 31. “Never Underestimate the Power of a Civilian,” New York Post (27  May 1951), AGO 000.71 File, Box 1, E 54 A1, RG 319. OAFIE, Sub: New Soldiers’ Attitudes: Trends in Adjustment.

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notes to pages 57–63 21. Forsythe Oral History, 297. MG Lewis B. Hershey “Procurement of Military Manpower,” (lecture, AWC, 2 December 1953), AHEC; OAFIE, Sub: New Soldiers’ Attitudes: Information about World Affairs, March  1951, Report 113–338, Box 1008, E 93, RG 330. 22. Parks, “Information Aspects of Planning.” Course 2, Committee #1, “Manpower Procurement,” 23  January 1953, Box  1952/1953–2, AHEC. Flynn, The Draft, 109. 23. Activities (Historical) Reports 1952 File, 82nd AbnD, Box  24, E NC3-3881-4, RG 338; Donnelly, “Best Army,” 834. 24. Harold Martin, “How Do Our Negro Troops Measure Up,” SEP 224 (16 June 1951): 141. William T. Bowers, William M. Hammond, and George L. MacGarrigle, Black Soldier, White Army: The 24th Infantry Regiment in Korea (Washington, D.C.: CMH, 1996). 25. Report of AFF Inspection of European Command, September 1950, Box 180, E 55I, RG 337; Report of AFF Inspection of European Command, October 1951, 333.144, Box 41, E 55B, RG 337; Richard M. Dalfiume, Desegregation of the Armed Forces: Fighting on Two Fronts, 1939–1953 (Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1969); Bernard C. Nalty, Strength for the Fight: A History of Black Americans in the Military (New York: Free Press, 1986), 259– 62. Eddy’s role was emphasized in Eli Ginzberg to LTC Edward  J. Barta, [1955], chap. 17, Army in Korea File, Box 7, IAF, RG 319. Chief of Staff J. Lawton Collins also played an important role in forcing USAREUR to comply with Truman’s directive. 26. Ernest Leiser, “For Negroes, It’s a New Army Now,” SEP 225 (13 December 1952): 27. HQ USAREUR, “Integration of Negro and White Troops in the U.S. Army, Europe, 1952–54,” HMC 8–3.1 CK 2, CMH. 27. Oral History, 1986, 56, Carl D. McIntosh Papers, Box 1, AHEC. 28. “A neophyte infantryman of the 5th Division” to Dear Sir, “Race Relations,” 1952, GI Interviews File, Box 11, IAF, RG 319. 29. Public Opinion Surveys, Attitude of 16 to 20  Year Old Males toward the Military Service as a Career (Princeton, N.J.: Public Opinion Surveys, 1955). 30. Forsythe Oral History, 289–90. 31. HQ USAREUR, “Integration of Negro and White Troops.” 32. Leon Oscar Anderson Questionnaire, 19  October 2000, in author’s possession. 33. Leiser, “For Negroes,” 110. 34. LTC Florence  M. Clarke, Sub: Utilization of Wacs, Conference of WAC Staff Directors . . . Officers, 2–4 May 1951, Box 56, E 145, RG 319. Bettie J. Morden, The Women’s Army Corps, 1945–1978 (Washington, D.C.: CMH, 1990), 89–111.

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notes to pages 64–66 35. Ed., “For Continental Warfare . . . an Armored Corps,” Armor 62 (January– February 1953): 21. 36. BG Thomas L. Harrold, “Integrated Training for Armor,” Armor 60 (January– February 1951): 6. 37. G-3 Report, Command Report 1951, 2nd ArD, Box 5, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. Command Report 1952 and HQ, CCA, Command Report No. 1, 1951, both in 2nd ArD, Box 5, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; MG R. N. Young, “Responsibilities and Problems of the Army G-1” (lecture, AWC, 18 November 1953), AHEC; Course 2, Committee #13, “Manpower Conservation,” 23 January 1953, Box 1952/1953-3, AHEC; John L. Romjue and Richard P. Weinert, A Brief Survey of the U.S. Army Experience in Mobilization and Training (Fort Monroe, Va.: CONARC, 1977). 38. Anderson Questionnaire. 39. “Note from the Korean Battlefield” in HQ USARAL, Training Bulletin 11, 23 October 1952, Box 215, E UD-5, RG 547; EUSAK, “Special Problems”; Requested Comments to General Maxwell  D. Taylor by Major General Lionel  C. McGarr, May 1954, Entry 126-UD-WW, Box  2, RG 546; OSD, OAFIE, Sub: New Soldiers’ Attitudes: Reactions to Training, May 1951, Report 115–338, Box  1008, E 93, RG 330; COL Patrick  H. Devine, “Recruit Training for the Future Army,” 18  February 1957, AWCSP. 40. Matthew B. Ridgway as told to Harold H. Martin, Soldier: The Memoirs of Matthew B. Ridgway (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1956), 204–5. 41. COL James  F. Ammerman, “Military Participation in National Policy,” 23  February 1951, AWCSP. Matthew  B. Ridgway to  J. Lawton Collins, 8 January 1951, Matthew B. Ridgway File, Box 17, J. Lawton Collins Papers, DDEL; OAFIE, Sub: What Soldiers Think about the Infantry, September 1951, Report 118–338, Box 1008, E 93, RG 330; Donnelly, “Best Army,” 840–42. 42. Harold  H. Martin, “Paratrooper in the Pentagon,” SEP 227 (28  August 1954): 83. 43. Mark W. Clark to CSA, Sub: Inspection of United States Army Troops, European Command, 6 December 1951, 333.144, Box 41, E 55B, RG 337. Visit to Second Army Area, 6 December 1951, Box 29, E 1, RG 337; HQ Division Artillery, Command Historical Report, 10 December 1951, 1st ArD, Box 2, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; Review of the Current World Situation and Ability of the Forces Being Maintained to Meet US Commitment, 24 April 1953, JCS 370 (5-25-48) Sec 11, Box 128, RG 218. 44. Section  2, Public Information Segment, Command and Management Program, 1 July 1951–31 December 1951, Box 1, E 55A, RG 319. 45. Oral History, 1997, 136, William J. McCaffrey Papers, Box 1, AHEC.

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notes to pages 67–70 46. MG Henry  I. Hodes to James  A. Van Fleet, 19  May 1952, F-28, Box  69, James A. Van Fleet Papers, George C. Marshall Library, Virginia Military Institute, Lexington, Va.; EUSAK, “Special Problems.” 47. Oral History, 1973, 3: 42, Box 1, James A. Van Fleet Papers, AHEC. Crime of Korea Folder, Box 663, E 140, RG 330; Otis McCormick to Steven Y. McGiffert, 13 August 1951, Visit 1952 File, Box 435, E 287, RG 319; COL G. P. Welch, “Public Information, Troop Information and Education” (lecture, AWC, 23 November 1953), AHEC. 48. McCaffrey Oral History, 164. Michael  D. Pearlman, Truman and MacArthur: Policy, Politics, and the Hunger for Renown (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2005); John W. Spanier, The Truman-MacArthur Controversy and the Korean War (New York: W. W. Norton, 1965). 49. Donnelly, “Best Army,” 844. 50. Ibid., 828–29; L. James Binder, Lemnitzer: A Soldier for His Time (Washington,  D.C.: Brassey’s, 1997), 179–93; Herbert  B. Powell Oral History, 1973, 2: 17, AHEC. 51. CGSC OCAFF, Sub: Army School Commandant’s Conference, 4 February 1954, Box 6, E UD-4, RG 546; Matthew W. Markel, “The Organization Man at War: Promotions Policies and Military Leadership” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2000), 207–9. 52. Harold  W. Dodds, “Your Boy and the ROTC,” Atlantic Monthly 191 (March 1953): 26. OAFIE, Sub: What Soldiers Think about the Infantry; Battery A, Artillery OCS, Historical Report, 26  October–25  November 1953, Box 26, E UD-6, RG 546; SRSA, January 1, 1952, to June 30, 1952 (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1952), 91–92. 53. 7th Army, Briefing for the Team from OCAFF, 25 September 1953, Entry 126-UD-WW, Box 2, RG 546; HQ 7700th TIE Group, Sub: Officer Opinion on USAREUR, Administrative and Career Problems, September 1950, Report 107-A, Box 1021, E 94, RG 330; Michael S. Neiberg, Making Citizen Soldiers: ROTC and the Ideology of American Military Ser vice (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000), 44–46. 54. Louis C. Wagner Jr., Oral History, 1996, 1: 9, AHEC. Remarks of General J. Lawton Collins, Infantry School Conference, 5 April 1951, Box 43, Collins Papers; COL Frank T. Mildren, Sub: Infantry Lessons from Korea Seminar, Comments at Infantry Instructors Conference, 15–20  June 1953 Report, DLFB; John E. Dahlquist, “OCAFF Role in Support of Overseas Theaters and Area Commands” (lecture, Armed Forces Staff College, 17  February 1954), 350.001-Folder 2, Box 22, E 55F, RG 337; 8th Army Chronology July 1951–July 1954, Box 272, E 1A1, RG 550. 55. Sylvia Hawkins to Mr. President, 28 March 1955, AG 250.4 Courts Martial File, Box 273, E 1002 A, RG 40; Lori Lyn Bogle, The Pentagon’s Battle for

361

notes to pages 70–72

56.

57.

58.

59.

60.

61.

62. 63.

the American Mind: The Early Cold War (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2004), 119–26; Lewis H. Carlson, Remembered Prisoners of a Forgotten War (New York: Macmillan, 2002); Susan  L. Carruthers, Cold War Captives: Imprisonment, Escape, and Brainwashing (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 203–12; Ron Robin, The Making of the Cold War Enemy: Culture and Politics in the Military-Industrial Complex (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2001), 162–81. Comments MG Robert N. Young. Remarks of General J. Lawton Collins, Infantry School Conference, 5 April 1951, Box 43, Collins Papers; Command and Staff Department, Armored School, Problem: To determine in the light of experience of the Korean War, what changes should be made . . . , 22 December 1950, Box 24, E UD-10, RG 546; HQ, Infantry School to CAFF, Sub: Will Our Present Doctrine and Organization Produce an Army Which Can Stop the Russians in 1951?, 21  July 1951, 461/31, Box  90, E 55B, RG 337; Walter E. Kretchik, U.S. Army Doctrine: From the American Revolution to the War on Terror (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2011), 158–66. Garrett Underhill and Ronald Schiller, “The Tragedy of the  U.S. Army,” Look 15 (13 February 1951): 27. Joseph and Stewart Alsop, “What’s Wrong with the Army?” SEP 223 (22 April 1951): 22–23, 85–86, 88–89, 91. William  F. Dean as told to William Worder, General Dean’s Story (New York: Viking, 1954), 29. MG William F. Dean, “The Conduct and Attitude for a POW” (lecture, AWC, 15 January 1954), AHEC. COL Harold  C. Lyon to Chief, Sub: Senior NCO Symposium, 1  October 1956, AGO 300.6 File, Box 2, E 54 A1, RG 319. COL John T. Corley, “Lean and Hungry Soldiers,” CFJ 1 (July 1951): 16–18; Hanson, Combat Ready? 2–12. LT Donald R. Mason, “The American Prisoner of War in Korea,” February 1963, SP MP School, Box 12, E 439B, RG 389. COL Powell A. Fraser, “Service in the Army and the Mind of Youth Today,” 25 January 1960, AWCSP; COL Charles  D. Daniel, “Have We, as a Nation, Lost Sight of Our Heritage?” 25 January 1960, AWCSP. Eugene Kinkead, In Every War But One (New York: W. W. Norton, 1959). Kinkead’s work is discredited, see Albert D. Biderman, March to Calumny: The Story of American POW’s in the Korean War (New York: Macmillan, 1963); Carruthers, Cold War Captives; Raymond B. Lech, Broken Soldiers (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2000). T. R. Fehrenbach, This Kind of War: A Study of Unpreparedness (New York: Macmillan, 1963). “Manpower Procurement.”

362

notes to pages 73–76 3. THE ATOMIC BATTLEFIELD 1. Hamilton H. Howze Oral History, 1972, 2: 61, AHEC. 2. “Beyond the Stars” MS, 165, James M. Gavin Papers, AHEC. US War Department Equipment Board, War Department Equipment Board Report, 29 May 1946, AHEC; William C. Boehm, “Death Knell for the Infantry,” IJ 61 (September 1947): 67. 3. Antulio J. Echevarria II, Reconsidering the American Way of War (Washington,  D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 2014); Brian McAllister Linn, The Echo of Battle: The Army’s Way of War (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2007); Thomas  G. Mahnken, Technology and the American Way of War (New York: Columbia University Press, 2008); Russell F. Weigley, The American Way of War: A History of United States Military Strategy and Policy (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1977). 4. COL T. J. Conway, Memorandum for Record, Sub: Probable Broad Soviet War Plan in 1955, 12  January 1946, Box  1, RG 319; “Report of the Arms Board,” [1951], E 126-UD-WW, Box 2, RG 546; Robert A. Tolar, “A Comparison of the Firepower of the US and Soviet Infantry Division,” 1952– 1953, SP, DRL. 5. Stephen Ross, American War Plans, 1945–1950 (Portland, Or.: Frank Cass, 1996); Harry R. Borowski, “Air Force Atomic Capability from V-J Day to the Berlin Blockade—Potential or Real?” Military Affairs 44 (October 1980): 105–10; David Allen Rosenberg, “The Origins of Overkill: Nuclear Weapons and American Strategy, 1945–1960,” International Security 7 (Spring 1983): 3–71. 6. COL John H. Montgomery, “Landpower,” 1 April 1953, AWCSP. 7. LTG Manton Eddy, “Relationship of Land Power to Air Power” (lecture, Air War College, 1 March 1949), K239.716249–28, AFHRA. BG George A. Lincoln, “Military Strategy of Cold War” (lecture, National War College, 14 October 1949), Box 3, George E. Lynch Papers, AHEC. 8. COL C. R. Kutz, “Introduction and Concepts of War” (lecture, Air War College, 21 April 1952), K239.716252–40, AFHRA. 9. GEN Lucius D. Clay, “Concept for Employment of Military Forces in Future War” (lecture, Air War College, 10 April 1952), K239.716252-106, AFHRA. MG Charles L. Bolte, “Military Concepts Influencing the European War” (lecture, Air War College, 4  November 1947), K239.716247-11, AFHRA; Omar Bradley and Beverly Smith, “This Way Lies Peace,” SEP 222 (15 October 1949): 32–33, 168–70. 10. Remarks delivered by Albert C. Wedemeyer to House Appropriations Committee, 29  March  1948, File 7.46, Box  7, Albert  C. Wedemeyer Papers, Hoover Institute Archives, Stanford, Calif.

363

notes to pages 76–80 11. Fred L. Walker Jr., “Your Next War,” IJ 61 (August 1947): 42. Melvin Zais, “Developments in Ground Warfare from 1939 to 1948 and Future Potentialities,” 31 May 1949, N-2253.147, CARL. 12. James  M. Gavin, Airborne Warfare (Washington,  D.C.: Infantry Journal Press, 1947), 140. James M. Gavin, “The Airborne Armies of the Future,” IJ 60 (January 1947): 21–25. 13. James M. Gavin, “The Tactical Use of the Atomic Bomb,” CFJ 1 (November 1950): 9–11. 14. OCAFF, Sub: Tactical Employment of the Atomic Bomb, 7 October 1951, File 000.9/35, Box  4, E 55B, RG 337. David  C. Elliot, “Project Vista and Nuclear Weapons in Europe,” International Security 11 (Summer 1986): 163–183. 15. George  C. Reinhardt, “Notes on the Tactical Employment of Atomic Weapons,” MR 32 (September 1952): 37. 16. Harold  H. Martin, “Paratrooper in the Pentagon,” SEP 227 (28  August 1954): 81. 17. LTC Morgan  G. Rosenborough, “The Armored Division in Atomic War,” 14 March 1955, AWCSP. James E. Moore, “Remarks at Conclusion of Faculty Group Presentation on Exploratory Study Concerning Two-Sided Tactical Atomic Warfare” (lecture, AWC, 6  December 1954), AHEC; Edward  L. Rowny, “Ground Tactics in an Atomic War,” CFJ 5 (August 1954): 18–22. 18. Frank J. Sackton, “The Changing Nature of War,” Military Review 34 (November 1954): 58. 19. BG Paul Disney, “Armor in Atomic Warfare,” Armor 63 (May–June 1953): 30–31. Emphasis in original. 20. DOA, FM 100-5: Field Service Regulations: Operations (September 1954), 40. 21. Walter E. Kretchik, U.S. Army Doctrine: From the American Revolution to the War on Terror (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2011), 169, see also 168–71. 22. Combat Development Objectives Guide—Large Unit Operations, 1954, Box  33, E 55F, RG 337. George  C. Reinhardt and  W.  R. Kintner, Atomic Weapons in Land Combat (Harrisburg, Pa.: Military Ser vice Publishing Co., 1953); Theodore  C. Mataxis and Seymour  L. Goldberg, Nuclear Tactics: Weapons and Firepower in the Pentomic Division, Battle Group, and Company (Harrisburg, Pa.: Military Ser vice Publishing Co., 1958); Marvin  L. Worley Jr., A Digest of New Developments in Army Weapons, Tactics, Organization, and Equipment (Harrisburg, Pa.: Military Ser vice Publishing Co., 1959). 23. George C. Reinhardt, “Nuclear Weapons and Limited War: A Sketchbook History,” November 1964, RAND Corporation, at http://www.rand.org/content /dam /rand /pubs/papers/2008/ P3011.pdf, accessed 22 June 2015.

364

notes to pages 80–86 24. LTC William  P. Tallon, “Airborne Assault in Nuclear Battle: When and How,” MR 34 (February 1960): 41. Howard Ball, Justice Downwind: Amer ica’s Atomic Testing Program in the 1950s (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986). 25. CPT Thomas M. Waitt, “Deep Thrust with a One-Two Punch—That’s the Atomic-Airborne Team,” Army 6 (December 1956): 80–83. On army atomic testing, see Alfred H. Hausrath et al., Troop Per for mance on Training Maneuver Involving the Use of Atomic Weapons (Chevy Chase, Md.: ORO, 1952); Suzanne G. Billingsley et al., Reactions of Troops in Atomic Maneuvers: Desert Rock IV (Chevy Chase, Md.: ORO, 1953). 26. GEN Charles L. Bolte, “Land Power” (lecture, AWC, 1 April 1954), AHEC. LTG Paul W. Caraway, “Army Views on the Attack” (lecture, Air War College, 8 February 1955), K239.716256–50, AFHRA. 27. Data for Alsop Briefing, 30 October 1950, Box 52, E 32B, RG 337; COL R. G. Ferguson, “Organization and Composition of Major Army Units for Combat,” 24 March 1952, AWCSP. 28. Advanced Study Group, Project Binnacle: Concepts and Doctrine for Future Warfare, Conventional or Nuclear, 1960–1970, [January 1955], AHEC. 29. GEN John  E. Dahlquist to LTC Isaac  D. White, Sub: Current Status of Manning Charts, 30 September 1954, Concepts and Guidance— September 1954 File, Box 488, E 30B, RG 337. Briefings and Conferences AFTA-1 File, Box  488, E 30B, RG 337 CARL; CGSC, Sub: Mission, Employment, and method of Operation—AFTA-1 Div., 26 August 1954, N-17835.15-J, CARL. 30. COL John D. Armitage, “Combat Developments Program and the ASG Role Therein” (lecture, AWC, 18 June 1957), AHEC. Combat Developments Office, Sub: Infantry Fighting Vehicle for the Pentana Combat Group (U),” (1958), AHEC; Paul  C. Jussel, “Intimidating the World: The United States Atomic Army, 1956–1960” (Ph.D. diss., Ohio State University, 2004), 90–107. 31. James M. Gavin, (graduation address, CGSC, 15 June 1956), Box 21, E UD3, RG 546. 32. Maxwell D. Taylor, Swords and Plowshares (New York: W. W. Norton, 1972), 165. Henry W. Brands, Cold Warriors: Eisenhower’s Generation and Foreign Policy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988); Campbell Craig, Destroying the Village: Eisenhower and Thermonuclear War (New York: Columbia University Press, 1998); Richard M. Leighton, History of the Office of the Secretary of Defense, vol. 3, Strategy, Money, and the New Look (Washington, D.C.: Historical Office of the Secretary of Defense, 2001). 33. “Long Road Back for the Army,” Life 51 (25  August 1961): 43. Andrew  J. Bacevich, The Pentomic Era: The U.S. Army between Korea and Vietnam (Washington, D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1986), 11–48; Donald Alan Car ter, Forging the Shield: The  U.S. Army in Europe, 1951–1962

365

notes to pages 86–91

34. 35. 36.

37. 38.

39.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

46.

(Washington,  D.C.: CMH, 2015), 79–83; Ingo Trauschweizer, The Cold War U.S. Army: Building Deterrence for Limited War (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2008), 48–70, 241. GEN Clyde D. Eddleman Oral History, 1975, 3: 46, AHEC. GEN Barksdale Hamlett Oral History, 1976, 4: 69, AHEC. GEN Matthew B. Ridgway, “Current Army Tasks” (lecture, Air War College, 6  December 1954), K239.716254-90, AFHRA. Interview with Matthew B. Ridgway by Maurice Matloff, 19 April 1984, Matthew B. Ridgway Papers, AHEC; Matthew B. Ridgway as told to Harold H. Martin, Soldier: The Memoirs of Matthew  B. Ridgway (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1956); Andrew J. Bacevich, “The Paradox of Professionalism: Eisenhower, Ridgway, and the Challenge to Civilian Control, 1953–1955,” JMH 61 (April 1997), 303–34; Don Alan Car ter, “Eisenhower versus the Generals,” JMH 72 (October 2007): 1169–99. Maxwell D. Taylor, address, CGSC, 18 June 1957, Box 26, E UD3, RG 546. “Grandpa Gar” MS, 128, Garrison  H. Davidson Papers, AHEC. John  B. Wilson, Maneuver and Firepower: The Evolution of Divisions and Separate Brigades (Washington, D.C.: CMH, 1998), 263–89. The US Army nomenclatures for “pentomic” were: Reorganization of the Current Infantry Division (ROCID); Reorganization of the Airborne Division (ROTAD); Reorganization of the Current Armor Division (ROCAD). “Recollection and Reflections” MS, 2: 304, Box  1, John  A. Seitz Papers, AHEC. Eddleman Oral History, 5: 25; “The Regulars” MS, 607–13, Box 8, Donald A. Seibert Papers, AHEC. Oral History, 1999, 75, Box 1, Frederick C. Weyand Papers, AHEC. Maxwell D. Taylor, “Security Through Deterrence” (lecture, AWC, 20 August 1956), Box 4, MDTP. “The Mission of the United States Army,” script, 27 November 1956, Radio and Television File, Box 2, E 54A RG 319. Maxwell D. Taylor, The Uncertain Trumpet (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1959). William V. O’Brien, “Some Problems of the Law of War in Waging Nuclear Warfare,” Military Law Review, DA Pam 27-100-14 (1 October 1961): 2–3. Oral History, 1978, 5: 13–14, Box  3, William  R. Desobry Papers, AHEC. George  I. Forsythe Oral History, 1974, 262–63, AHEC; Michael David Stewart, “Raising a Pragmatic Army: Officer Education at the  U.S. Army Command and General Staff College, 1946–1986” (Ph.D. diss., University of Kansas, 2010), 104–20. BG William  F. Train, Sub: Philosophy and Concepts for Curriculum, 23 March 1957, Box 25, E UD3, RG 546.

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notes to pages 91–94 47. MG Lionel  C. McGarr, Sub: Guidance for Planning the /8 Curriculum, [December 1956], Box  20, E UD3, RG 546. Discussion Topics for DOA Review Board: 18 February 1958 File, Box 32, E UD3, RG 546; Remarks by MG Lionel C. McGarr, Commandant’s Weekly Meeting, 18 March 1957, Box 26, E UD3, RG 546; Ivan J. Birrer interview by Robert H. Doughty, 1978, Ivan J. Birrer Papers, AHEC; Stewart, “Raising a Pragmatic Army,” 120–33. 48. “Do You Consider that Officers Are Being Adequately School Trained to Employ Tactical Atomic Weapons?” 21 February 1958, CGSC, RG 337. HQ CONARC to CMDT, 25 March 1957, Sub: Report of Annual Inspection of the Command and General Staff College, Box 21, E UD3, RG 546; Secretary to Commandant, Sub: Leave Utilization— CGSC Officers, 17 July 1957, Box  25, E UD3, RG 546; MG Lionel  C. McGarr, Special Report of the Commandant, 1 January 1959, CGSC, Box 34, RG 337. 49. TARS, Sub: Staff Visit to Combat Arms Schools, 12 September 1955, Box 26, E UD-10, RG 546. 50. Paul  H. Herbert, Deciding What Has to Be Done: General William  E. DePuy and the 1976 Edition of FM 100-5 Operations (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Combat Studies Institute, 1988), 7. On efforts to revise FM 100-5, see Review of Initial Manuscript . . . FM 100-5, Field Ser vice Regulations: Operations, 19 February 1956, Box 17, E UD3, RG 546; Conference on Basic Army Doctrine FM 100-5, 14  December 1957, Box  22, E UD3, RG 546; Agenda, Coordination Conference on Draft FM 100-5, 3  April 1958, CGSC, RG 337. On CGSC’s critiques of other doctrinal publications, see MG Lionel C. McGarr to BG R. A. Ridsen, 23 August 1957, Box 25, E UD3, RG 546; CGSC, Box 1, RG 337. 51. The Commandant’s /60 Curriculum Guidance and Decisions on /60 Curriculum, 3 November 1958, CGSC, Box 3, RG 337. Emphasis in original. 52. COL John D. Armitage, “Combat Developments Program and the ASG Role Therein” (lecture, AWC, 18 June 1957), AHEC. 53. “The Regulars,” 589. 54. MG Thomas J. H. Trapnell, “The Army Views on the Use of Force in Limited War” (lecture, Air War College, 12 April 1957), K239.716257-37, AFHRA. 55. BG James K. Woolnough, “U.S. Army Plans and Programs in Support of U.S. Military Strategy” (lecture, Air War College, 24 March 1959), K239.71625920, AFHRA. 56. “The Other Side of the Coin” MS [1957], Box 5, Arthur S. Collins Papers, AHEC. 57. “Memo: Thermonuclear War,” 4  January 1957, Box  5, Collins Papers. COL W. S. Everett, “Critique of Course 8, War Games, Part 1” (lecture,

367

notes to pages 94–98

58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

64. 65. 66.

67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73.

AWC, 31 May 1957), AHEC; COL Albert N. Ward, “The Pentomic (ROCID) Division,” 19 March 1958, AWCSP. Richard D. Meyer, “An Army Concept of Logistics Planning” (lecture, AWC, 26 March 1958), AHEC. COL Charles  H. Donnelly, “Post World War II Evolution of US Military Strategic Thought” (lecture, AWC, 22 September 1958), AHEC. Meyer, “An Army Concept”; Question Period in Conjunction with Lecture by Col. J. S. Addington on Theater War Gaming, 12 December 1961, AHEC. “Address to AUSA,” 9  August 1960, Box  2, Lyman  L. Lemnitzer Papers, AHEC. “Address for Conference of Civilian Aides to the Secretary of the Army,” 16 September 1960, Box 2, Lemnitzer Papers. “Address to National Rifle Association,” 23  March, 1960. “Remarks to Veterans of Foreign Wars Convention,” 23 August 1960, both in Box 2, Lemnitzer Papers. Purpose of Project MAN,” 1960, 260/32 File, Box 14, CINFO 1960, E UD84, RG 319. [DCS OPS], Sub: The Army in General Nuclear War, [October 1961], 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. MG  C.  G. Dodge to MG Harold  K. Johnson, 17  December 1962, 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. Special Studies Group, Sub: Nuclear Warfare and the Army, [1961], AHEC; Jane  E. Stromseth, The Origins of Flexible Response: NATO’s Debate over Strategy in the 1960s (London: Macmillan Press, 1988), 16–46; Don Allan Carter, “War Games in Europe: The  U.S. Army Experiments with Atomic Doctrine,” in Blueprints for Battle: Planning for War in Central Europe, 1948–1968, ed. Jan Hoffenaar and Dieter Krüger (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2012), 131–53. MG Harold K. Johnson, “Very Long Range Forces Concept” (lecture, AWC, 14 February 1963), AHEC. [MG Harold K. Johnson], Sub: The Land Battle, [December 1962], 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. Course 5, Committee #9, “Concept of Future Operations and Organization,” 3 March 1960, Box 1959/60-5, AHEC. John  P. Rose, The Evolution of  U.S. Army Nuclear Doctrine, 1945–1980 (Boulder, Co.: Westview Press, 1980), 78. LTC Anthony L. P. Wermuth and COL P. D. Mulcahy, “Army 1970–1975” (lecture, AWC, 26 January 1960), AHEC. LTG John P. Daley to BG George V. Underwood, 3 November 1962, 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. LTG John P. Daley, “Future Land Warfare” (Q&A, AWC, 4 February 1963), AHEC.

368

notes to pages 99–102 4. THE TOOLS OF MODERN WAR 1. PS Magazine 19 (1954 Series): 877. 2. Report of the Defense Advisory Committee on Professional and Technical Compensation, vol. 1, Military Personnel (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1957), 2. The committee’s report was delivered in 1956. 3. Ibid., 119. 4. LTG Robert  F. Sink, “An Analysis of STRAC Tactical and Strategic Mobility” (lecture, AWC, 24 May 1959), AHEC. 5. COL William  G. Van Allen, “Revitalization of Senior Army Leadership,” 14 March 1955, AWCSP. 6. COL William H. Connerat, “Army Materiel Requirements, (lecture, AWC, 9 May 1958), AHEC. LTG Car ter B. Magruder, Sub: The Program of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Logistics, 15 February 1956, Carter B. Magruder Papers, Box 5, AHEC. 7. Transcription of Artillery Conference, 23–25 June 1954, 337 File, Box 20, E 55F, RG 337. 8. MG Paul D. Adams to Exercise Director, 18th Airborne Corps, Sub: Final Report Exercise King Cole, 21 May 1957, AHEC. 9. Connerat, “Army Materiel Requirements.” MG Lionel  C. McGarr to MG Guy S. Meloy, 12 August 1957, Box 26, E UD3, RG 546. 10. COL Frank J. Caulfield, “Maneuver, Mass and Atomic Weapons,” 14 March 1955, AWCSP. 11. LTG Lyman L. Lemnitzer, “Land Power” (lecture, AWC, 20 March 1953), AHEC. 12. LTG Robert  W. Colglazier, Statement before the Department of Defense Subcommittee on Appropriations, House of Representatives, [May 1961], 260/32 File, Box 3, CINFO 1960, E UD-84, RG 319. 13. GEN Jacob L. Devers to CGs, Sub: Future of Armor, 19 November 1947, N1-15937, CARL. 14. BG Delk  M. Oden, “Army Aviation” (lecture, AWC, 9  February 1962), AHEC 15. Wilbur M. Brucker, “Our Modern Army,” Ordnance 41 (January–February 1957): 600–601. 16. SRSA 1 January to 30 June 1958, 198. 17. MG George O. N. Loeden, “Army Logistics” (lecture, AWC, 23 March 1960), AHEC. 18. MG Robert M. Malone, “Combat Development and Operations Research” (lecture, AWC, 19 November 1954), AHEC. 19. Introductory Narrative, Summary of Major Events and Problems, HQ CONARC, FY 1958, TRADOCARC; BG Frederick  W. Gibb, “Combat

369

notes to pages 102–106

20.

21.

22. 23. 24.

25.

26.

27.

28.

29. 30.

Developments Experimentation Center” (lecture, AWC, 17  June 1958), AHEC; Jean E. Keith and Howard K. Butler, The US Army Combat Developments Experimentation Command: Origin and Formation (Ft. Belvoir, Va.: US Army Combat Developments Experimentation Command, 1972), HMC2-067, CMH. COL Seth L. Weld, Sub: Memo for Record, Notes from 5 November 1955 Conference, 5  December 1955, Box  14, E UD3, RG 546. General Davidson’s Talk to General Wyman on Combat Developments, 13 October 1955, Box 14, E UD3, RG 546. COL John D. Armitage, “Combat Developments Program and the ASG Role Therein” (lecture, AWC, 18 June 1957), AHEC. Final Report of the Ad Hoc Committee on Combat Developments, 20  October 1954, Box  14, E UD3, RG 546; [Cmdt CGSC] to Cmdt, Infantry School, Sub: Combat Developments Section, 3 September 1953, Box 2, E UD3, RG 546; LTC William O. Quirey, “Time to Think,” MR 35 (January 1956): 28. Louis C. Wagner Oral History, 1996, 1: 122–23, AHEC. MG Garrison H. Davidson to LTG Willard C. Wyman, 29 February 1955, Box 14, E UD3, RG 546. James M. Gavin Oral History, 1975, 45, AHEC. Maxwell D. Taylor, “Role and Capability of the Army World-Wide” (speech, Conference on Defense Leaders, 16  July 1955), Maxwell  D. Taylor File, Box 13, Bio Files, RG 407. Maxwell D. Taylor, Remarks at Conference of Civilian Aides to the Secretary of the Army, Fort Bliss, Tex., 6 April 1956, Box 1, Winant Sidle Papers, AHEC. J. Lawton Collins, Lightning Joe: An Autobiography (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1979), 358–59. “The Atomic Projectile (Field Artillery)” enc. in BG C. V. R. Schuyler to DCS/Ops, Sub: Program of Research and Development, 8 March 1950, File 334, Box 21, E 54, RG 337; Sub: Army Survey of Defense of Western Europe, 19 April 1950, File 381, Box 22, E 54, RG 337. Robert T. Stevens, “Transcript of Remarks,” 13 November 1953, Misc. Press Statements File, Box 7, E 100, RG 335. James P. O’Donnell, “The World’s Newest Army,” SEP 228 (1 October 1955): 120. Exercise Observer Reports: Exercise Indian Summer, enc. in John W. Callaway to John A. Heintges, 15 October 1954, 354, Box 28, E 55F, RG 337; GEN Barksdale Hamlett Oral History, 1976, 5: 2–4, AHEC. MG Robert J. Wood, “Remarks to AUSA Meeting,” 25 April 1957, Box 7, E UD-4, RG 546. LTG James  D. O’Connell, “Electronics” (lecture, AWC, 15  January 1959), AHEC.

370

notes to pages 106–110 31. “Beyond the Stars” MS, 184–216, James M. Gavin Papers, AHEC; “Clipped Wings of the Army,” Life 41 (17 December 1956): 67–68; “Army Tries Its Misguided Missile Man,” Life 43 (8 July 1957): 16–17; Michael H. Armacost, The Politics of Weapons Innovation: The Thor-Jupiter Controversy (New York: Columbia University Press, 1969); Elizabeth C. Jolliff, “History of the U.S. Army Missile Command, 1962–1977,” 1977, HMC2-037, CMH Library. 32. Report on Corporal Firing by Battery B, 259th Field Artillery Missile Battalion on 29 June 1954, 353.1 File, Box 27, E 55F, RG 337; LTG J. E. Moore to CINFO, Sub: Consideration in the Employment of Nuclear Weapons and Nuclear Weapons Development of Interest to Infantry, 1 December 1958, 337 Record Temp January 1, 1958 File, Box 30, E NND 957387, RG 319. 33. Gaines Post Jr., Memoirs of a Cold War Son (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2000), 110–11. 34. LTG Carter Magruder, “Army Logistics” (Q&A Session, AWC, 15 February 1957), AHEC. 35. Summary of Protests on NIKE, Nike July 54–Aug 54 File, Box 4, E 54A, RG 319; LTG Charles B. Duff, “The US Army Air Defense Command” (lecture, AWC, 7 January 1964), AHEC; History of Strategic Air and Ballistic Missile Defense, vol. 1, 1945–1955, and vol. 2, 1956–1972 (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 1975), at http://history.army.mil /html /books/bmd /index .html. 36. DCSOPS to CSA, Sub: Report of Investigation Conducted by First Region, US Army Air Defense Command at Nike Site NY 53L, 1  July 1958. HQ, USARADCOM to DCSOPS, Sub: Technical Report, Explosion at NIKE Site, New York, 20  August 1958; MG  J.  E. Theimer to Commander, Air Force Ballistic Missile Division, 15 July 1958, all in AGO 471.94 [Nike], Office of the DSCOPS SCFC, Records of the General Staff, 1958, Box 116, E 95, RG 319. 37. Oral History, 1972–1973, 4: 9, Car ter B. Magruder Papers, Box 4, AHEC. Andrew Bacevich, The Pentomic Era: The U.S. Army between Korea and Vietnam (Washington,  D.C.: National Defense University Press, 1986), 100–101. 38. GEN Bruce  C. Clarke, “Military Strategic Doctrine—Army Problems Today” (lecture, AWC, 18 August 1958), AHEC. “The Regulars” MS, 606, Box 8, Donald A. Seibert Papers, AHEC; LTG Robert E. Coffin Oral History, 1980, 2: 230–32, AHEC 39. MG William W. Quinn to Ast SecDef, Sub: Proposed Press Release on Davy Crockett, 6 April 1960, 260/32 File, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. Description of Davy Crockett from Weapons Department USAIS, Conference Outline, [14 November 1961], Box 82, E UD-9, RG 546.

371

notes to pages 110–114 40. Coffin Oral History, 2: 234. 41. MG Silas B. Hays, “Medical Aspects of Combat in the 1965–70 Period” (lecture, AWC, 21 January 1959), AHEC. 42. James B. Vaught Oral History, 1987, 2: 274–82, AHEC. 43. Frederic A. Bergerson, The Army Gets an Air Force: Tactics of Insurgent Bureaucratic Politics (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980). Carl J. Horn III, “Military Innovation and the Helicopter: A Comparison of Development in the United States Army and Marine Corps, 1945–1965,” (Ph.D. diss., Ohio State University, 2003). 44. MG James M. Gavin to CAFF, Sub: Airborne Role of the Infantry Center, 21 August 1954, 358 (Abn) File, Box 24, E 55F, RG 337. COL William E. Ekman, “The Helicopter in Our Future Army,” 31  March  1953, AWCSP, AHEC; LTC Charles W. Matheny Jr., “What Helicopters Can Do for Us,” CFJ 1 (July 1951): 19–21. 45. COL Joseph  W. Stilwell Jr., Comments, Infantry Instructors Conference, 21–26 June 1954, Report, DLFB. 46. James J. Haggerty, “No More Paratroops?” Colliers 134 (18 March 1955): 23. Department of Tactics, Sub: Presentation on Helicopterborne Operations to Army Aviation Tactical School, 6–8 August 1957, Box 10, E UD-7, RG 546. 47. MG Thomas L. Sherburne, Sub: Notes for General Westmoreland, [January 1958], 101st Abn Div, Box  35, E NC3–338–81–14, RG 338; G-2 Report, 1  July-30  December 1956, HQ CONARC, Summary of Major Events and Problems, FY 1956, TRADOCARC; Stewart L. McKenney, “Skycav Operations During Exercise Sagebrush,” MR 36 (June 1956): 11–18. 48. Wagner Oral History, 1: 57. 8th Army Representative, Presentation for Army Aviation Training School, 6–8 August 1957, Box 10, E UD-7, RG 546. 49. BG  F.  J. Brown, “Major Problems in Maintenance of Materiel” (lecture, AWC, 19  January 1955), AHEC; Army Aviation Training Conference, 24–25 July 1956, Box 9, E UD-7, RG 546; Hamlett Oral History, 5: 62–64. 50. BG Bogardus S. Cairns to MG Lionel C. McGarr, 27 July 1957, Box 26, E UD3, RG 546. 51. USACDC Briefing, [1962], 206–02.1 File, Box 48, E A-1 19, RG 338. 52. Briefing to BG McGill, March 1962, 206–02.1 File, Box 48, E A-1 19, RG 338. Autobiography, 1984, 237–42, Box 4, Benjamin S. Mesick Papers, AHEC. 53. Maxwell D. Taylor, “Remarks before the House Armed Ser vices Committee of the 85th Congress,” 29 January 1957, Box 1, Winant Sidle Papers, AHEC. 54. O’Connell, “Electronics.” 55. Connerat, “Army Materiel Requirements.” Sherburne, Notes for General Westmoreland. On the pentomic project’s equipment problems, see Paul C. Jussel, “Intimidating the World: The United States Atomic Army, 1956– 1960” (Ph.D. diss., Ohio State University, 2004).

372

notes to pages 114–118 56. O’Connell, “Electronics.” 57. John K. Waters Oral History, 1980, 402, AHEC. HCL to Chief, TID, Sub: Redesignation of T-44, 16 May 1957, AGO 300.6 File, Box 2, E 54 A1, RG 319. 58. Connerat, “Army Materiel Requirements.” 59. William  C. Westmoreland, “Our 20th Century Army” (speech, Airborne Conference, 7 May 1957), Box 1, William C. Westmoreland Papers, USMAA. 60. LTG Robert W. Colglazier, “Logistical Support for the Army in the Field” (lecture, AWC, 14 February 1962), AHEC. Matthew B. Ridgway, Sub: Air Transportability, 26 June 1955, 319. 1 Files, Box 46, E UD-9, RG 546. 61. LTG John E. Dahlquist (lecture, AWC, 2 February 1954), in 350.001 Files, Box 22, E 55F, RG 337; Magruder, “Program of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Logistics”; MG R. W. Porter, “Army Personnel Readiness” (lecture, AWC, 29 April 1961), AHEC; GEN Robert F. Sink et al., “An Analysis of STRAC Tactical and Strategic Mobility” (panel, 24 May 1959), AHEC. 62. COL Hubert D. Thomte, “Administrative Support of the Army in the Field, 1975–1980” (lecture, AWC, 1 March 1963), AHEC. On army logistics in Europe, see Donald Alan Car ter, Forging the Shield: The U.S. Army in Europe, 1951–1962 (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 2015), 275–84. 63. Brown, “Major Problems in Maintenance.” Eliot V. Converse III, History of Acquisition in the Department of Defense, vol. 1, Rearming for the Cold War, 1945–1960 (Washington, D.C.: Historical Office, Office of the Secretary of Defense, 2012), 174. 64. MG  S.  D. Sturgis, “Base Development and the LOC in Western Europe” (lecture, AWC, 19 May 1954), AHEC. 65. James  P. O’Donnell, “ We’re All Fouled Up in France,” SEP 225 (1  April 1953): 40–41, 96, 99–100. COL John L. Chamberlain, “Report of Staff Visit,” 9 June 1953, Box 435, E 287, RG 319; MG Miles Reber to CINC USAREUR, Sub: Reply to the GAO Report: Investigation into Faulty Construction in the Western Area Command, 20 December 1954, Box 1, E 1018, RG 154; COL Ralph W. Arthur, “USAREUR Logistical Planning,” (lecture, AWC, 20 February 1958), AHEC; Anni P. Baker, American Soldiers Overseas: The Global Military Presence (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2004), 50–55. 66. Thomte, “Administrative Support.” 67. BG Richard  D. Meyer, “An Army Concept of Logistics Planning” (lecture, AWC, 26 March 1958), AHEC. COL Gus H. Montgomery, Sub: US and NATO Petroleum Pipeline Program in Central Europe, Annex A, HQ USAREUR, CIC Weekly Staff Conference #8, 21 March 1956, F 16, E 250, RG 337. 68. MG  G.  K. Heiss, “Major Maintenance Problems in Overseas Theaters of War” (lecture, AWC, 22 January 1954), AHEC. 69. Connerat, “Army Materiel Requirements.”

373

notes to pages 118–123 70. Course 6, Committee #21, “A Critique of the Army Logistic System . . . in Korea, 1950–1953,” 29 January 1954, AHEC. 71. Magruder, “Army Logistics.” LTG Paul D. Adams to MG Harold K. Johnson, 27  December 1960, Letters and Memoranda, 1955–1966, File 5, Paul  D. Adams Papers, AHEC. 72. MG  W.  M. Breckinridge, Sub: Program and Planning Guidance from the Commanding General, 10 July 1959, Breckinridge File, Box 301, E A1 293, RG 338; Comments of Commanding General During KMAG Briefing, 14 July 1959, Magruder Files, Box 301, E A1 293, RG 338; Sturgis, “Base Development”; GEN George H. Decker to GEN Herbert H. Powell, [May 1962], GOC File, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 73. LTC Earl  J. Weaver, 1st Medium Tank Btln, 34th Armor, Sub: ROCID After-Action Report, 15 May 1957, After Action Report (ROCID) File, 4th ID, Box 56, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338. 74. OCAFF to ACS G3, Sub: Training MOS Shortages for FY 1954–1955, 6 April 1954, 358 File, Box 24, E 55F, RG 337; LTG John E. Dahlquist, “OCAFF Role in Support of Overseas Theaters and Area Commands” (lecture, Armed Forces Staff College, 17 February 1954), 350.001-Folder 2, Box 22, E 55F, RG 337; COL John T. English, “Military Personnel Management” (lecture, AWC, 27 February 1957), AHEC. 75. BG Mather’s Remarks at the MOS Proficiency Test Conference, 19  December 1956, Box 11, E UD-7, RG 546. 76. Anonymous, “Public Information—Troop Information and Education” (lecture AWC, 23  November 1953), AHEC. Lentz, “Maintaining a Fighting Army,” 84–92; COL Walter  B. Bess, “Technical Training for the 1960–70 Army,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP; Report of the Defense Advisory Committee on Professional and Technical Compensation, vol. 1, Military Personnel (Washington, D.C.: GPO, May 1957), 4. 77. Heiss, “Major Maintenance Problems.” 78. “Technical Training.” 79. COL  E.  B. Crabhill “A Combat Soldier Sounds Off,” Harper’s 216 (April 1958): 13. 80. Brown, “Major Problems in Maintenance.” 81. Wagner Oral History, 1: 26. BG  J.  D. to CG 8A, Sub: SAM Parts Supply, 1 August 1961, Russell File, Box 301, E A1 298, RG 338. 82. LTG James  F. Collins, “Army Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 14  May 1958), AHEC. HQ ARAACOM to CG, Antiaircraft and Guided Missile Center, 29  April 1954, Sub: Troop Trained Specialists Replace Requirements for Support of Nike Battalions, 358 File, Box 24, E 55F, RG 337; Harold Wool, The Military Specialist: Skilled Manpower and the Armed Forces (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1968), 54–58.

374

notes to pages 123–131 83. General Training Branch, Summary of Major Events and Problems, FY 1956, TRADOC History Office, Fort Eustis, Va.; USARPAC Annual History, January–June 1959; TARS, Sub: Staff Visit to Combat Arms Schools, 12 September 1955, Box 26, E UD-10, RG 546. 84. Committee #12, “Enlisted Personnel Management,” 17  December 1954, AHEC. 85. COL William  S. McElhenny, “Problems Confronting the United States Army,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. COL John L. Chamberlain, Sub: Report of Staff Visit, 9 June 1953, Visits 1953 File, Box 435, E 287, RG 319; MG D. P. Booth, “The Army’s Personnel Problems” (lecture, AWC, 18 February 1957), AHEC; 25th ID, Commanders and Staff Conference, 10  May 1958, F 250/15, Box 4, E 34431, RG 338; George Belck, “Psychological Wastefare,” American Mercury 81 (September 1956): 77–83. 86. TARS, Notes on Commanders Conference, 5 October 1956, Box 27, E UD10, RG 546. Commanders Conference, 5 December 1955, 4th ID, Box 56, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338. Remarks by [7th] Army Commander, 12  October 1956, Conferences File, 2nd ArD, Box  5, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; MG John M. Lentz, “Maintaining a Fighting Army,” Infantry School Quarterly 44 (January 1954): 84–92. 87. COL Charles B. Milliken, “Principles of Pay Designed to Influence Skilled Enlisted Personnel to Remain in the Army,” 18  February 1957, AWCSP, AHEC; Rebecca Robbins Raines, Getting the Message Through: A Branch History of the U.S. Army Signal Corps (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 1996), 342. 88. PS Magazine, 51 (1956 series). 89. CPT Clifton R. Tatum, “Is the Current System of Maintenance of Wheeled Vehicles within the Battle Group Adequate?” 1957–58, SP, DRL. 90. Collins, “Army Manpower.” LTG Bruce C. Clarke, “The 7th U.S. Army and Allied Operations in Germany” (lecture, AWC, 12 March 1957), AHEC. 91. Sub: ROCID After-Action Report, After Action Report (ROCID) File, 4th ID, Box 56, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338. 92. “Recollections and Reflections” MS, 1: 269, Box  1, John  A. Seitz Papers, AHEC. 93. Oral History, 251, Westmoreland Collection. 94. Memo for Record, 2 September 1960, CG 101st Abn Div Correspondence (1960), Box 36, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 95. Wagner Oral History, 1: 33. 96. Oral History, 1978, 5: 44, Box 3, William R. Desobry Papers, AHEC. 97. Willard  G. Wyman, “The Leadership of Armor,” Armor 66 (May–June 1957): 22.

375

notes to pages 132–137 5. WHO’S IN THE ARMY NOW? 1. Roger Price, “Advice to Young Men on How to Get into the Army,” Mad 25 (September 1955): 50–52. 2. MG Donald  P. Booth, “The Army’s Personnel Problems” (lecture, AWC, 18 February 1957), AHEC. William M. Donnelly, “Bilko’s Army: A Crisis in Command?” JMH 75 (October 2011): 1183–215. 3. BG Mather’s Remarks at the MOS Proficiency Test Conference, 19  December 1956, Box 11, E UD-7, RG 546. 4. Public Opinion Surveys, Attitude of 16 to 20 Year Old Males Toward the Military Ser vice as a Career (Princeton,  N.J.: Public Opinion Surveys, 1955). 5. Army Briefing, Recruiting Conference 4–5  December 1965 File, Box  1, E UD-06W, RG 330; Bernard D. Kárpinos, Qualification of American Youths for Military Service (Washington, D.C.: Office of Surgeon General, US Army, 1962), 45–47; George Q. Flynn, The Draft, 1940–1973 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1993); Harold Wool, The Military Specialist: Skilled Manpower and the Armed Forces (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1968), 101. 6. Price, “Advice to Young Men,” 52. 7. Jules Feiffer, Feiffer: The Collected Works, vol. 2, Munro (Seattle: Fantagraphics, 1989); “The Court Martial,” The Phil Silvers Show, episode 25, season 1, air date, 6 March 1956, directed by Al De Caprio, CBS (2010 CBS DVD), DVD. 8. Frederick  E. Winstead, Sub: Standardization of Emergency Control Plans for Post Stockades, February 1959, SP MP School, Box 2, E 439B, RG 389. 9. Course 7, Committee #14, “Army Manpower,” 17 April 1959, AHEC. Course 5, Committee #6, “Army Procurement and Distribution of Manpower,” 15 March 1957, AHEC. 10. HQUSAREUR, Annual Historical Report, 1 July 1954–30 June 1955, Historical Division, Historical Manuscript Files 8–3.1 CL, CMH. COL Albert J. Glass, “Leadership Problems of Future Battle” (lecture, AWC, 23 January 1959), AHEC; Carolyn Fluehr-Lobban, Race and Racism: An Introduction (Lanham, Md.: AltaMira Press, 2006), 155. 11. Cabell Phillips, “Your Best Deal in Military Ser vice,” Harper’s 215 (July 1957): 54. 12. “What to Do About the Draft,” Life 40 (14 May 1956): 69. 13. COL John  R. Smoak, “Procurement of Personnel with Qualifications for Combat,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. Army Briefi ng, Recruiting Conference; OAFIE, Sub: A Comparison of Army Volunteers and Non-Volunteers, March 1952, Report 124–345, Box 1008, E 93, RG 330.

376

notes to pages 137–140 14. COL David  W. Hayes, “Quality of Personnel in the Atomic Army,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. 15. Peter A. Padilla and Mary Riege Laner, “Trends in Military Influences on Army Recruitment Themes, 1954–1990,” Journal of Political and Military Sociology 3 (Summer 2002): 113–33. 16. “Heading for Europe . . . Come Along” poster, 1956, Box 69, E NC3–338– 81–14, RG 338. “Two for the Money,” RJ (March 1957): 10–11; “Choice Not Chance” poster, AG 341, Box 380, E 1002B, RG 407. 17. Paul Goodman, Growing Up Absurd: Problems of Youth in the Organized Society (New York: Vintage Books, 1960), 102–3. 18. Joseph  W.  A. Whitehorne to Brian  M. Linn, 4  January 2002, in author’s possession. Male Unemployment Rate, Ages 20–24, [n.d.], Unemployment File, Box 1, E UD-06W, RG 330; LTC Helen H. Corthay, Memorandum for Office, Director of the Women’s Army Corps, 3 August 1961, Build-Up Actions 1961–1962 File, Box 7, E 145, RG 319; Army Briefing, Recruiting Conference. 19. LTG C. G. Dodge to GEN John S. Waters, 4 December 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 20. The Army Antiaircraft Command [1957], AGO 322 File, Box 2, E 54 A1, RG 319. Initially AARACOM (Army Anti-Aircraft Command), it was designated ARADCOM in 1957. 21. CPT George A. Cahill, “ARADCOM’s Hawk and Hercules,” RJ (September 1957): 8–9. 22. Program of Instruction for Nike Ajax Electronic Maintenance Course, May 1960, E 125 UDWW, Box 4, RG 546; Program of Instruction for Nike Ajax Fire Control Maintenance Course, July 1960, E 125 UDWW, Box  4, RG 546; HQ ARAACOM to CG, Antiaircraft and Guided Missile Center, Sub: Troop Trained Specialists Replacement Requirements for Support of Nike Battalions, 29 April 1954, 358 File, Box 24, E 55F, RG 337; Wool, The Military Specialist, 38–39. 23. “A Proven Sales Package With a Brand-New Wrapper,” RJ (May 1962): 11–13. 24. Army Antiaircraft Command. “Step into the Future . . . Learn Electronics, Missiles” poster, 1956, Box 69, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 25. DOD, Attitude Research Branch, Sub: Women in the WAC: A Study of Recent Enlistees, May 1952, Report 126-345, Box 1008, E 93, RG 330. 26. BG James B. Stapleton to LTG Leonard D. Heaton, 12 October 1964, Medical WACs File, Box 31, E 145, RG 319. 27. Corthay, Memorandum for Office. A 1952 survey of Wacs leaving the ser vice found 43 percent planned to get married or their husbands wanted them to leave the ser vice, 26  percent were dissatisfied with their occupation or pay,

377

notes to pages 140–143

28.

29. 30.

31.

32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37.

38.

39. 40. 41.

27  percent disliked military life, and  8  percent disliked the prejudice and lack of respect shown ser vicewomen; see “ Women in the WAC.” LTC Charles J. Canella, “Increased Utilization of WAC,” 25 January 1960, AWCSP; COL Guinn B. Goodrich, “Mobilization Utilization of WAC Personnel,” 18 February 1957, AWCSP; LTC Lucile G. Odbert, Memorandum for Chief, Procurement Division, Sub: Build-Up of WAC Enlisted Strength, 13 September 1961, Build-Up Actions 1961–1962 File, Box 7, E 145, RG 319; Sidney Shallett, “This Lady’s Army,” SEP 230 (6 July 1957): 66. Hayes, “Quality of Personnel.” Regular Male Enlisted Personnel with Two Years but Less than Three Years Active Federal Military Ser vice by General Technical Aptitude Score, [1963?], First Term/Career File, Box 1, E UD-06W, RG 330. Maxwell D. Taylor, Remarks at Conference of Civilian Aides to the Secretary of the Army, Fort Bliss, Tex., 6 April 1956, Box 1, Winant Sidle Papers, AHEC. Booth, “Army’s Personnel Problems.” BG Herbert B. Powell, “Manpower Control in the Department of the Army” (lecture, AWC, 4 December 1954), AHEC. COL Walter B. Bess, “Technical Training for the 1960–70 Army,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP; Committee #6, “Army Procurement and Distribution.” Thomas Doherty, Cold War, Cool Medium: Television, McCarthyism, and American Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 230. William  E. Leuchtenburg, The Troubled Feast: American Society since 1945, rev. ed. (Boston: Little, Brown and Co., 1979), 28–29. Ira Jones as told to Bill  E. Burk, Soldier Boy Elvis (Memphis: Propwash, 1992), 31. Charles L. Ponce de Leon, Fortunate Son: The Life of Elvis Presley (New York: Hill and Wang, 2006), 112. Susan Doll, Understanding Elvis: Southern Roots vs. Star Image (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998), 125–26; Erika Doss, Elvis Culture: Fans, Faith and Image (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1999), 14; Karal Ann Marling, As Seen on TV: The Visual Culture of Everyday Life in the 1950s (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1994), 197. “Bill Mauldin Asks Today’s Teen-Agers—What Gives?” Colliers (21  January 1955): 46. Gordon Russell Young, ed., The Army Almanac: A Book of Facts Concerning the U.S. Army, 2nd ed. (Harrisburg, Pa.: Stackpole Co., 1959), 145. LTG Lewis B. Hersey, “The Nation’s Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 16 March 1960), AHEC. Edward M. Coffman to Brian Linn, email 26 June 2014. MG Lewis  B. Hershey, “Procurement of Military Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 2  December 1953), AHEC. Harold  H. Martin, “Why Ike Had to Draft Fathers,” SEP 226 (29 August 1953): 27, 73–76.

378

notes to pages 143–147 42. Hershey, “Nation’s Manpower.” Young, Army Almanac, 145; Pre-Induction Examination Not Qualified Rates, FY 59–62, Army Recruiting and Projections File, Box  1, E UD-06W, RG 330; Wool, Military Specialist, 177–78; Andre Fontaine, “Are We Wasting 200,000 Soldiers?” SEP 225 (18  March 1953): 51, 54–60. 43. Tom Lehrer, “It Makes a Fellow Proud to Be a Soldier,” An Evening (Wasted) with Tom Lehrer, Reprise/Warner Bros. Records, recorded 20–21  March 1959. FY 59–62, Army Recruiting and Projections File, [1963], Box  1, E UD-06W, RG 330; Young, Army Almanac, 145–46; Charles C. Moskos Jr., The American Enlisted Man: The Rank and File in Today’s Military (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1970), 16–17, 76–77. 44. Committee #6, “Army Procurement and Distribution.” 45. Smoak, “Procurement of Personnel”; Kárpinos, Qualification of American Youths, 10–11. 46. Wool, Military Specialist, 101; LTG James  F. Collins, “Army Manpower” (lecture, 14 May 1958), AHEC; Committee #13, “Army Manpower.” 47. MG Gilman C. Mudgett to MG Joseph H. Harper, 14 April 1955, AGO 350, Box 20, CINFO 1955, E NND 957387, RG 319. 48. COL Donald F. Slaughter, “Morale and Discipline,” 15 March 1955, AWCSP. 49. COL J. R. Pugh, LTC W. R. Pershall, and LTC J. M. Snyder, “Maintenance and Other Problems with Armor Equipment,” Armor 66 (January–February 1957): 14. 50. Larry D. Hill to Brian M. Linn, email, 25 August 2015. Jules Feiffer, Backing into Forward: A Memoir (New York: Doubleday, 2010), 126–45; LTC Joffre H. Boston, “German-United States Relations: U.S. Troops in Germany,” 10 February 1961, AWCSP. 51. LTG Charles E. Hart, “Preparing for High Level Command and Staff” (lecture, AWC, 24 September 1957), AHEC. COL Albert J. Glass, “Leadership Problems of Future Battle” (lecture, AWC, 23 January 1959), AHEC; LTC Henry  R. Seivers, “Development and Maintenance of Combat Morale,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. 52. Mudgett to Harper, 14 April 1955. 53. COL Glover S. Johns, “Taking the Army’s Case to the Public,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. 54. “This Ain’t the Way We Used to Do It,” Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, episode 36, season 2, air date 27  June 1961, directed by Stanley  Z. Cherry, CBS (Shout Factory, 2010), DVD. 55. CG Remarks, 27  April 1955, Command Conferences 1955 File, 1st CavD, Box 40, E NC3–338–81–14, RG 338. MG Harry P. Storke, Army Information Officers’ Conference, 1 December 1958, 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319.

379

notes to pages 147–149 56. What the 1958 Soldier Thinks: A Digest of Attitude and Opinion Studies (Washington, D.C.: US Army Adjutant General’s Office, 1959). An Analysis of Recent Public Opinion Surveys of the Army, [1963], 403–01 Files, Box 46, E UD-84, RG 319. 57. COL G. A. Sharpe, Sub: Personnel Processing Procedures, 8 March 1956, AG 330.11 Morale and Welfare File, Box 410, E 1002A, RG 407. 58. Attitude of 16 to 20 Year Old Males. 59. Maxwell D. Taylor, “Transcript” (lecture, CGSC, 18 June 1957), Box 26, E UD3, RG 546. MG P. D. Ginder, “Army Reserve Components and Future Wars” (lecture, AWC, 18 January 1957), AHEC. Reserve forces were divided into the Ready Reserve, the Standby Reserve, and the Retired Reserve, with only the first category subject to membership in units, weekly drills, and summer camps. Over the course of the decade, the army transferred more and more Ready Reservists to the Standby Reserve before completing their full ser vice obligation. Technically, anyone finishing draft-induced ser vice was eligible for Ready Reserve duty, but most, like Elvis, went immediately into the Standby Reserve. 60. Course 3, Committee #1, “Training the United States Army,” 20 February 1953, Box 1952/1953–4, AHEC. Department of the Army Reserve Forces Plan, [January 1955], MG James M. Gavin File, Box 3, NATO Correspondence Series, Alfred  M. Gruenther Papers, DDEL; Course 7, Committee #21, “Training the United States Army,” 3 March 1954, Box 1953/1954–8, AHEC; Course 7, Committee #16, “Reserve Components,” 17  April 1959, Box 1958/1959–5, AHEC; COL P. F. Lindeman, “Army Reserves” (lecture, AWC, 17 February 1954), AHEC; Attitude of 16 to 20 Year Old Males. 61. MG P. D. Ginder, “Army Reserve Components and Future Wars” (lecture, AWC, 18 January 1957), AHEC. 62. Cabell Phillips, “Your Best Deal,” 56. 63. Course 4, Committee #19, “Army Training,” 4 February 1957, Box 1956/1957-4, AHEC. 64. COL James D. Alger, “Procurement and Distribution of Army Manpower” (lecture, 26 February 1957), AHEC; SRSA 1/1–6/30 58; Otterman J. Herman, Remembrance Past and Present: A Story (New York: Vantage Press, 1992), 366–70. 65. HQ, 1st ID, Unit Commanders Conference, February 1954, Box 46, E 338– 81–14, RG 338. 66. Maxwell  D. Taylor, “The Army at Home and Abroad” (speech, New York Union Club, 10 December 1956), Box 1, Sidle Papers. HQUSAREUR, Annual Historical Report, 1 July 1957–30 June 1958, Historical Division, Historical Manuscript Files 8-3.1 C02, CMH; Reenlistment for Total Regulars,

380

notes to pages 149–152

67.

68.

69.

70.

71.

72. 73.

74.

75.

76.

[28 August 1964?], DOD Reenlistment Data, Reenlistment Folder, Box 1, E UD-06W, RG 330; Wool, Military Specialist, 118. Report of the Defense Advisory Committee on Professional and Technical Compensation, vol. 1, Military Personnel (Washington, D.C.: GPO, May 1957), 10–11. Booth, “Army’s Personnel Problems.” COL Charles B. Milliken, “Principles of Pay Designed to Influence Skilled Enlisted Personnel to Remain in the Army,” 18 February 1957, AWCSP, AHEC; Wool, Military Specialist, 122. CG Remarks, Commanders Conference, 14 April 1954, 4th ID, Box 56, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338. COL R. B. Strader to CAFF, Sub: Training Status of General Reserve Units, 21 January 1954, 358 File, Box 24, E 55F, RG 337. Powell, “Manpower Control”; MG  R.  W. Porter, “Army Personnel Readiness” (lecture, AWC, 29  April 1961), AHEC; Personnel Research and Procedures Division, AGO, Sub: Survey on Career Problems of Regular Army Officers, 1955, AHEC. BG A. W. Stuart to MG Herbert B. Powell, 31 August 1957, USARHI 1957– 61, Box 5, E 34431, RG 338. Breakdown of USARPAC Personnel as of 30 Sep 1954, USARPAC Performance Report, FY Quarter Ending 30 October 1954, Box  19, E UD-184, RG 550; USARPAC Performance Report, FY Quarter Ending 30 December 1955, Box 22, E UD-184, RG 550; USARPAC Annual History, July–December 1958. William  M. Donnelly, “The Best Army that Can Be Put in the Field in the Circumstances: The U.S. Army, July 1951–July 1953,” JMH 71 (July 2007): 809–47 HQ, 3rd Army, Sub: Critique of Exercise Flash Burn, 7 May 1954, at http:// www.dtic.mil /dtic/tr/fulltext /u2/a950096.pdf, accessed 29 November 2014. Brief: A Study of Unit Rotation, in MG Robert N. Young to CSA, Sub: A Plan for the Overseas Rotation of Combat Arms Units, [June 1954], 220.3 File, Box  3, E 55F, RG 337. COL Wilbur Wilson, “Development and Maintenance of Combat Morale,” 14 March 1955, AWCSP. LTG John E. Dahlquist, “OCAFF Role in Support of Overseas Theaters and Area Commands” (lecture, Armed Forces Staff College, 17 February 1954), 350.001-Folder 2, Box 22, E 55F, RG 337. Commanders Conference, 29 June 1954, 337 File, Box 20, E 55F, RG 337. “Survey on Career Problems of Regular Army Officers”; Klein, “Public Opinion Survey.” MAJ Donald E. Zeig to LTC James Chestnut, 18 March 1955, AGO 354.2, Box 23, CINFO 1955, E NND 957387, RG 319. GEN Matthew B. Ridgway to GEN Alfred Gruenther, [1954], 220.3 File, Box  3, E 55F, RG 337;

381

notes to pages 153–157

77. 78.

79.

80.

81.

82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87.

HQUSAREUR, Annual Historical Report, 1 July 1954–30 June 1955; HQ, USAREUR, Historical Division, Sub: Operation Gyroscope in the United States Army, Europe, 6  September 1957, on http://www.army.mil /cmh-pg /documents/gyroscope/gyro-fm.htm, accessed 15  October 2014; “Gyro Information Covered in Directive,” American Traveler (14 April 1955). David A. Browning, “History of the 2nd Battle Group, 28th Infantry, Black Lions,” 1961, 1st Division Museum, Cantigny, Ill. Oral History, 1990, 53, Box 1, LTG Robert Elton Papers, AHEC. For similar positive views, see GEN Donald V. Bennett Oral History, 1976, 4: 34–36, AHEC; GEN Robert W. Porter Jr. Oral History, 1981, 413–18, AHEC. “Operation Gyroscope in the United States Army, Europe”; CINCUSAEUR to DCSPER, 19 July 1956, AGO 250.1, Box 271, RG 407. Town Without Pity, directed by Gottfried Reinhardt (1961, MGM Home Video, 2002), DVD. On GI misconduct during Gyroscope, see LTG Lemuel Matthewson, 5th Corps Commanders Conference, 26 July 1956, Conferences File, 2 ArD, Box 5, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; Draft Letter to Bruce Alger, 26 September 1956, AG-250.1 Morals and Conduct File, Box  271, E 1002A, RG 407; Gerhard Fürmetz, “Insolent Occupiers, Aggressive Protectors: Policing GI Delinquency in Early 1950s West Germany,” in GIs in Germany: The Social, Economic, Cultural and Political History of the American Military Presence, ed. Thomas W. Maulucci Jr. and Detlef Junker (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 189–211. Bennett Oral History, 4: 38. LTC Frank J. Kent to Hon. Kenneth B. Keating, 31 August 1956, AG 330.14 Criticism 1/2/55–1/3/55 Cases File, Box 410, E 1002A, RG 407; COL Charles R. Meyer, “Operation Gyroscope: Current US Army System of Overseas Rotation,” 26  March  1956, AWCSP; “Gyroscope Spins into Action,” CFJ 6 (September 1955): 10–14. GEN Barksdale Hamlett Oral History, 5: 44, AHEC. Elton Oral History, 57; Chief of Staff Conference, 21 February 1955, 4th ID, Box 56, E NC3-3881-4, RG 338; Meyer, “Operation Gyroscope.” GEN Melvin Zais Oral History, 1977, 380, AHEC. Oral History, 1978, 214–19, Box 69, William C. Westmoreland Collection, AHEC. Taylor, Remarks at Conference of Civilian Aides. SRSA 1/1–6/30 58; Booth, “Army’s Personnel Problems.” COL William  S. McElhenny, “Problems Confronting the United States Army,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. [HQ, CONARC] to Chief of Research and Development, 9  March  1955, Sub: Increase in Proportion of Regular Army Enlisted Personnel in Army Ser vice Schools, 320.2 File, Box 104, E UDWW-1, RG 338.

382

notes to pages 157–161 88. Arthur J. Snyder, “Sell the Army from Inside,” Army 7 (September 1956): 56–57. 89. Alger, “Procurement and Distribution.” Reenlistment for Total Regulars. USAREUR, Sub: Reasons for Non-Reenlistment in USAREUR, 27  April 1953, Report 118, Box 1022, E 94, RG 330; HQUSAREUR, Annual Historical Report, 1 July 1957–30 June 1958. 90. Henry  G. Gole, Soldiering: Observations from Korea, Vietnam, and Safe Places (Dulles, Va.: Potomac Books, 2005), 29. 91. Pvt. Paul W. Hagen, Sub: All for Duty (Zero AWOL’s), 10 May 1960, Orderly’s Views File, CG 101st AbnD Correspondence (1960), Box  36, E NC3– 338–81–14, RG 338. 92. Committee #13, “Army Manpower.” USARPAC Annual History, January– June 1959. 93. Survey on Career Problems of Regular Army Officers. COL John T. English, “Military Personnel Management” (lecture, AWC, 27 February 1957), AHEC; LTC John D. Austin to GEN Matthew B. Ridgway, 3 May 1954, 220.3 File, Box 3, E 55F, RG 337; COL John L. Chamberlain, Sub: Report of Staff Visit, 9 June 1953, Box 435, E 287, RG 319; LTC Byron K. King, Sub: NCO Education Program, HQ USAREUR, CIC Weekly Staff Conference #2, 17 January 1956, Box 531, E 2135, RG 549; Comparison of Reenlistment Rates of All Ser vices, Regulars, by Category, in Stephen Ailes, White House Fact Sheet: Significant Developments in Procurement and Retention of Enlisted Personnel (Army), 25 September 1961, Box 269, NSF Departments and Agencies, JFKL; Alger, “Procurement and Distribution of Manpower.” 94. BG Mather’s Remarks at the MOS Proficiency. 95. GEN  I.  D. White to LTG Walter  L. Weible, 30  July 1956, File 330.11, Box  902, E 193, RG 554. Staff Section Report, AFFE and  8th US Army, Brochure for Commanders Conference, 25 January 1955, Box 5, E NN3-95001, RG 407; TARS, Staff and Commanders Conference, 10 February 1956, Box 27, E UD-10, RG 546. 96. MG T. L. Sherburne to MG Donald A. Adams, 10 September 1956, 101st Abn Div, Box 35, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 97. English, “Military Personnel Management.” 98. TARS, Notes on Commanders Conference, 5 October 1956, Box 27, E UD-10, RG 546. BG George Mather, “Military Personnel Policies and Procedures” (lecture, Armored School, 30 September 1958), Box 34, E UD 10, RG 546. 99. MAJ Roy Moore, “Quality Manpower and the Modern Army,” Armor 66 (July–August 1957): 22–23; English, “Military Personnel Management.” 100. “The Army’s Stake in Education” MS, 1961, Box 2, Lloyd R. Moses Papers, AHEC.

383

notes to pages 162–168 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106.

Elton Oral History, 73. LTG George I. Forsythe Oral History, 1974, 30, AHEC. GEN Richard H. Thompson Oral History, 1993, 1: 93–95, AHEC. Herman, Remembrance Past and Present, 443–44. MG Gerd S. Grombacher Oral History, 1985, 75, AHEC. Michael Gladych, “Good Genie of the Tank Company,” SEP 229 (29 December 1956): 26–27, 48–49.

6. THE OFFICER CORPS’S GENERATION GAP 1. Bill Mauldin, “Bill Mauldin Asks Today’s Teen-Agers—What Gives?” Collier’s (21 January 1955): 49. 2. [MG Edward J. McGaw] CG Remarks at Commanders Conference, 2 September 1955, Command Conferences 1955 File, 1st CavD, Box 40, E NC3338-81-14, RG 338. 3. COL Benjamin  F. Taylor, “The Destiny of the Army,” 15  March  1954, AWCSP. 4. COL Max L. Pitney, “Retention of Junior Officers,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. Public Opinion Surveys, Attitude of 16 to 20  Year Old Males toward the Military Service as a Career (Princeton, N.J.: Public Opinion Surveys, 1955). Regular Army officers held commissions in the US Army and were identified by the ser vice as career soldiers who would be retained on active duty for at least twenty years. Most reserve officers held commissions in the Army of the United States and served on active duty only at the US Army’s discretion, being sent back to the reserves when their ser vices were no longer required. 5. S. L. A. Marshall, Men against Fire: The Problem of Battle Command (New York: William Morrow, 1947).  F.  D.  G. Williams, SLAM: The Influence of S. L. A. Marshall on the United States Army (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 1999); John Whiteclay Chambers, “S. L. A. Marshall’s Men against Fire: New Evidence Regarding Fire Ratios,” Parameters (Autumn 2003): 113–21. 6. CPT Theodore S. Kanamine, “Problems of Military Leadership in a Nuclear War,” 1 February 1961, SP MP School, Box 5, E 439B, RG 389. Marvin L. Worley Jr., A Digest of New Developments in Army Weapons, Tactics, Organization, and Equipment (Harrisburg, Pa.: Military Ser vice Publishing Co., 1959), 218; COL George C. Reinhardt, “Stars, Stripes, and A-Bombs,” CFJ 5 (April 1954): 19–21. 7. DOA, FM 22-10: Leadership (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 6 March 1951), iii. Comments LTC R. J. Darnell, Infantry Instructors Conference, 16–21 June 1952 Report, DLFB.

384

notes to pages 169–172 8. US Bureau of the Census, Historical Statistics of the United States, Colonial Times to 1970, 2 vols. (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1975), 1: 1141; Gordon Y. Young, The Army Almanac: A Book of Facts Concerning the United States Army, 2nd ed. (Harrisburg, Pa.: Stackpole Press, 1959), 146–50. 9. J. Robert Moskin, “Our Military Manpower Scandal,” Look 22 (18  March 1958): 32. Matthew W. Markel, “The Organization Man at War: Promotions Policies and Military Leadership” (Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 2000), 206–14. 10. MG R. N. Young, “Responsibilities and Problems of the Army G-1” (lecture, AWC, 18 November 1953), AHEC. 11. BG George Mather, “Military Personnel Policies and Procedures” (lecture, Armored School, 30 September 1958), Box 34, E UD 10, RG 546. 12. Charles Holmes, “Dollars Won’t Make Good Soldiers,” American Mercury 83 (August 1958): 143–46. OCAFF, Sub: Army School Commandant’s Conference, 4 February 1954, Box 6, E UD-4, RG 546; MG Robert W. Porter, “Army Personnel Readiness” (lecture, AWC, 29 April 1961), AHEC. 13. Report of the Defense Advisory Committee on Professional and Technical Compensation, vol. 1, Military Personnel (Washington,  D.C.: GPO, May 1957), 11. Moskin; “Our Military Manpower,” 27–33. 14. LTG John S. Upham to MG Joseph E. Bastion, 18 September 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. Mather, “Military Personnel Policies”; Marion T. Wood, “We Treat Our Military Shabbily,” SEP 238 (16 January 1965): 10–12. 15. Comments of GEN John Dahlquist, Army School Commandant’s Conference, 4 February 1954, Box 6, E UD-4, RG 546. 16. COL James D. Alger, “Procurement and Distribution of Army Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 26 February 1957), AHEC; Bettie J. Morden, The Women’s Army Corps, 1945–1978 (Washington,  D.C.: Center of Military History, 1990), 123. 17. Mather, “Military Personnel Policies.” 18. Personnel Research and Procedures Division, AGO, Sub: Survey on Career Problems of Regular Army Officers, 1955, AHEC. William R. Desobry Oral History, 1977, 1: 5: 25, AHEC. 19. Mather “Military Personnel Policies.” 20. Ibid.; LTG James F. Collins, “Army Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 14 May 1958), AHEC. 21. CG Remarks, 10  February 1955, Command Conferences 1955 File, 1st CavD, Box 40, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; MG Robert N. Young to CINFO, Sub: Final Semester Plan, 5 April 1955, AGO 350, Box 20, CINFO 1955, E NND 957387, RG 319; Survey on Career Problems; Armored School Staff Study, Sub: The Educational Requirements of a Career Officer in the Army

385

notes to pages 173–175

22.

23. 24. 25. 26.

27.

28. 29. 30.

31.

32. 33. 34.

35.

of Today, 25 April 1956, Box 40, E 35004, RG 338; Samuel P. Huntington, The Soldier and the State: The Theory and Politics of Civil-Military Relations (New York: Vintage Books, 1957); Morris Janowitz, The Professional Soldier: A Social and Political Portrait (Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1960). Civilian Education Level as of Mid-Month November 1962, Regular Army Commissioned Officers, File 63/6, Box  63, George  A. Lincoln Papers, USMAA. Report of the Defense Advisory Committee, 119. Civilian Education Level. BG Robert M. Williams, Remarks, Proceedings of the Judge Advocate General’s Conference, 9–12 September 1963, File 205–02, Box 3, E 1051, RG 153. LTG Car ter B. Magruder, “Army Logistics, 1955,” Ordnance 40 (September– October 1955): 227–29. The shortage of doctors led some clinics to use enlisted medics. One Medical Corps officer directly connected the army’s access to surgeons and other skilled medical personnel to the draft; LTG Charles C. Pixley, 1985, 74–78, AHEC. Huntington, Soldier and the State, 465–66. Russell Potter Reeder, West Point Plebe (New York: Duell, Sloan, and Pearce, 1955); Russell Potter Reeder, West Point Yearling (New York: Duell, Sloan, and Pearce, 1956). Report of the Board of Visitors to the U.S.M.A., 30 April 1953, USMAA. Donald R. Keith Oral History, 1987, 51, AHEC. CPT Tom Hayden, “Improving the Image of the Tactical Officer,” 1989, Tactical Officer Education Paper, USMAA. Appendix J, Annual Report of the Superintendent, 1 July 1969 through 30 June 1970 (West Point, N.Y.: USMA Printing Office, 1970); Lance Betros, Carved From Granite: West Point since 1902 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2012), 48–55, 83–91,133–36. Report of Board to Secretary of Army, 25  July 1951, West Point Honor System Review File, Box  23,  J. Lawton Collins Papers, DDEL; Betros, Carved From Granite, 185–88, 272–80; James A. Blackwell, On Brave Old Army Team: The Cheating Scandal that Rocked the Nation: West Point, 1951 (Novato, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1996); Frank Deford, “Code Breakers,” Sports Illustrated (13  November 2000): 82–98; Anthony Hartle et  al., “Honor Violations at West Point, 1951: A Case Study,” 1989, USMAA. Oral History, 1990, 38, Box 1, Robert Elton Papers, AHEC. C. V. Clifton, “A Pointer Looks at the WPPA,” CGJ 2 (May 1952): 32. “Achtung! American Mothers: What’s Happening to Your Boys in Germany?” The Lowdown 1:5 (October 1955): 26–29, in AGO 330.14, Box 19, E NND 957387, RG 319. Annual Report of the Superintendent, 1957 (West Point, N.Y.: USMA Printing Office, 1957), 18.

386

notes to pages 176–179 36. George Mair, “What’s Wrong with ROTC,” American Mercury 82 (April 1956): 25. Michael S. Neiberg, Making Citizen Soldiers: ROTC and the Ideology of American Military Ser vice (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000). 37. Harold W. Dodds, “Your Boy and the ROTC,” Atlantic Monthly 191 (March 1953): 25–29. 38. Dodds, “Your Boy,” 25. LTG W. H. S. Wright to GEN John K. Waters, 2 December 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 39. LT Robert W. Ceder to Editor, Atlantic Monthly 191 (May 1953): 20. 40. COL James  A. Alger, “Procurement and Distribution of Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 7 November 1955), AHEC; LTG John E. Dahlquist, “Untitled” (lecture, AWC, 2 February 1954), 350.001-Folder 2, Box 22, E 55F, RG 337. Chaplains and medical personnel directly commissioned numbered some 2,500. 41. OCAFF, Sub: Army School Commandant’s Conference, 4 February 1954, Box 6, E UD-4, RG 546; Remarks by [7th] Army Commander, 12 October 1956, Conferences File, 2nd ArD, Box  5, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; [Anonymous], Sub: Stabilization of Key Instructor Personnel at Army Training Centers, [23 May 1963], GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 42. Maier, “What’s Wrong,” 26. 43. Dodds, “Your Boy,” 26. 44. “Recollection and Reflections” MS, 1984, 325, Box 1, John A. Seitz Papers, AHEC. Infantry Instructors Conference, 6–11 June 1955 Report, DLFB. 45. Ceder to Editor, Atlantic Monthly. 46. Donald E. Close to Ed., CFJ 6 (November 1955): 6. COL H. G. Sheen to Ast CMDT, Armored Center, Sub: Report of Attendance at Annual Department of the Army Conference, 14  December 1955, Box  26, E UD-10, RG 546; Larry D. Hill Questionnaire, 14 July 2000, in author’s possession. 47. MG Donald  P. Booth, “The Army’s Personnel Problems” (lecture, AWC, 18 February 1957), AHEC. 48. What the 1956 Soldier Thinks: A Digest of Attitude and Opinion Studies (Washington, D.C.: US Army AGO, 1957), 6. 49. Gaines Post Jr., Memoirs of a Cold War Son (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2000), 100. 50. “The Army Is Men,” Army 7 (August 1956): 12; Alger, “Procurement and Distribution” (7 November 1955); Phillips, “Your Best Deal.” 51. COL Claude D. Barton, “Army Methods, or Lack Thereof, for Development of Leadership,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP; SRSA, January 1, 1953, to June 30, 1953 (Washington,  D.C.: GPO, 1953), 101; Ast CMDT to CMDT TARS, Sub: Department of the Army Annual ROTC Conference, 4 January 1955,

387

notes to pages 180–183

52. 53.

54. 55.

56.

57.

58. 59. 60. 61. 62.

63. 64.

Box 26, E UD-10, RG 546; Young, Army Almanac, 147; Moskin, “Our Military Manpower,” 32. Dodds, “Your Boy,” 27. SRSA, January 1, 1954, to June 30, 1954 (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1954), 86; DCS for Individual Training, Semi-Annual Historical Report, 1  January–30 June 1963, TRADOCARC. Ceder to Editor, Atlantic Monthly, 20. SRSA, January 1, 1952, to June 30, 1952 (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 1952), 91–92; Infantry School, Officer Candidate Manual, April 1955, Box 46, E UD-9, RG 546; Infantry Instructors Conference, 16–21 June 1952 Report, DLFB; Battery K, Artillery OCS, Historical Report, 26  October–25  November 1953, Box  26, E UD-6, RG 546; Harold  S. Tate, Sub: A Study of Evaluation in the Officer Candidate School, May 1960, Box 78, E UD 9, RG 546; Dennis Foley, Special Men: A LRP’s Recollections (New York: Ivy Books, 1994); Richard E. Mack, Memoir of a Cold War Soldier (Kent, Ohio: Kent State University Press, 2001); Jerry Morton, Reluctant Lieutenant: From Basic to OCS in the Sixties (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2004). COL Donald F. Slaughter, “Morale and Discipline,” 15 March 1955, AWCSP. US Army Infantry School (Fort Benning, Ga.: NP, 1957), Box 30, E UD-9, RG 546; Human Research Unit, Semiannual Report, 1 July–31 December 1954, in OCAFF Introductory Narrative, Summary of Major Events and Problems, FY 1955, TRADOCARC. LTG Lewis B. Hershey, “The Nation’s Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 22 March 1962), AHEC. Alger, “Procurement and Distribution.” In 1958 medical personnel accounted for 17 percent of new Regular Army commissions, slightly less than West Point’s 24 percent; Young, Army Almanac, 147. Hershey, “Nation’s Manpower.” MG Lewis  B. Hershey, “Procurement of Military Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 2 December 1953), AHEC. Mather “Military Personnel Policies.” Porter, “Army Personnel Readiness.” COL William  G. Van Allen, “Revitalization of Senior Army Leadership,” 14 March 1955, AWCSP. Percentages are those commissioned from West Point and the DMG program, not OCS; see Pitney, “Retention of Junior Officers.” GEN Earle Wheeler to GEN John K. Waters, 5 October 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box  1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546; Annual Historical Report, 1  July 1957–30  June 1958, Historical Division, HQUSAREUR, Historical Manuscript Files 8-3.1 C02, CMH. McElhenny, “Problems Confronting”; Report of Board of Visitors to the U.S.M.A., 11 April 1964, 4, USMAA. Moskin, “Our Military Manpower,” 27–33.

388

notes to pages 183–188 65. Holmes, “Dollars Won’t Make,” 158. 66. COL Albert  J. Glass, “Leadership Problems of Future Battle” (lecture, AWC, 23 January 1959), AHEC. 67. Course 6, Committee #15, “Army Manpower,” 11 April 1960, Box 1959/60-5, AHEC. 68. Post, Memoirs, 145. 69. Booth, “Army’s Personnel Problems.” 70. “This Concerns You: Efficiency Reports and Index,” CFJ 6 (September 1955): 31. MG James L. Richardson, “Career Management Operations” (lecture, AWC, 8 March 1957), AHEC. 71. What the 1956 Soldier Thinks. 72. COL Richard  R. Ripple, “How the Army Should Select Its Generals,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. 73. LTC Abraham R. Richstein, Proceedings of the Judge Advocate General’s Conference, 9–12 September 1963, 205–02 File, Box 3, E 1051, RG 153. Survey on Career Problems; Course 5, Committee #8, “Army Personnel Management,” 15  March  1957, Box  1956/1957-5, AHEC; LTC Miriam  L. Butler, Sub: Officer Personnel Utilization, WAC Staff Advisers Conference, 18–20 November 1964, Box 56, E145, RG 319. 74. Lyle W. Bernard, “How Do You Get Promoted?” CFJ 6 (September 1955): 28–31. 75. USARAL HQ, Sub: Conference Notes—21  January 1957, 250/06 Files, Box 218, E UD-5, RG 547. 76. Sub: Officer Efficiency Report System, 14 June 1963, in LTG Garrison H. Garrison to GEN John K. Waters, 5 July 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 77. COL John  T. English, “Military Personnel Management” (lecture, AWC, 27 February 1957), AHEC. US DOA, DCSPER, Sub: Quality of the Officer Corps, 19 August 1964, AHEC. 78. TARS, Sub: Notes on Commanders Conference, 5 October 1956, Box 27, E UD-10, RG 546. Committee #8, “Army Personnel Management.” 79. What the 1956 Soldier Thinks. 80. “The Mark of a Man,” Army Recruiting Poster, 1951. “The Old Man,” Army Recruiting Poster, 1951; “Number One— Fire!” Army Recruiting Poster, 1951. 81. LTG George I. Forsythe Oral History, 1974, 270, AHEC. 82. Manpower Control and Plans Division, G1 Section, Semiannual Report, 1 July–31 December 1954, in OCAFF, Introductory Narrative, Summary of Major Events and Problems, FY 1955, TRADOCARC. 83. Van Allen, “Revitalization of Senior Army Leadership.” 84. Pitney, “Retention of Junior Officers.”

389

notes to pages 189–194 85. Oral History, 1978, 254, Box  69, William  C. Westmoreland Collection, AHEC. 86. “Grandpa Gar” MS, 197, Garrison H. Davidson Papers, AHEC. 87. Oral History, 5: 44, Desobry Papers, AHEC. Sub: Policy on the Assignment and Retention of Commanders, 10 August 1956, LTG Bruce C. Clarke, 7th Army Memorandums; GEN Donald V. Bennett Oral History, 1976, 1: 3–6, AHEC; LTG Robert W. Porter Oral History, 1981, 424, AHEC.

7. TRAINING FOR NUCLEAR WAR 1. William R. Taylor, Elvis in the Army: The King of Rock-n-Roll as Seen by an Officer Who Served with Him (Novato, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1995), 8. On Elvis’s military career, see Peter Guralnick, Careless Love: The Unmaking of Elvis Presley (Boston: Little Brown and Company, 1999), 3–53; Andreas Schröer, Private Presley: The Missing Years— Elvis in Germany (New York: Harper- Collins, 2002). 2. Ibid., xvii. 3. CPT Theodore S. Kanamine, “Problems of Military Leadership in a Nuclear War,” 1 February 1961, SP MP School, Box 5, E 439B, RG 389. 4. LTC Embert  A. Fossum, “A Philosophy of Army Power,” 19  March  1959, AWCSP. 5. LTC Jack L. Weigand, “Recruit Training for the Future Army,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. This chapter is informed by William M. Donnelly, “Basic Training in the  U.S. Army, 1953–1963” (paper presented at the Society for Military History Annual Meeting, 10 April 2015), in author’s possession. 6. MG Harry  P. Storke, “The Army Information Program” (lecture, AWC, 16 June 1958), AHEC. 7. Training in the continental United States was first under the Office of the Chief of Field Forces (OCAFF), then in 1955 under Continental Army Command (CONARC). Overseas training was directed by the regional commanders, such as US Army Europe or Far East Command, and administered by the tactical organizations, such as 7th Army in West Germany or 8th Army in South Korea and Japan. 8. “Army Denies Use of Green Troops,” NYT, 10 September 1950. GEN Jacob Devers, Sub: Report of Activities of Army Field Forces, 1945–1949, 30 September 1949, 319.1 File, Box 41, E 32B, RG 337; MAJ Eleanore Sullivan, Sub: Organization and Training, 12–16 September, 1949, WAC Staff Advisor Conference File, Box 55, E 145, RG 319. 9. Marvin  L. Worley Jr., A Digest of New Developments in Army Weapons, Tactics, Organization, and Equipment (Harrisburg, Pa.: Military Ser vice Publishing Co., 1959), 219.

390

notes to pages 194–198 10. “Army Going Back to Tough Training,” NYT, 15 August 1954. Kelly C. Jordan, “Harnessing Thunderbolts,” MR 90 (January–February 2000): 14–19. 11. Morris Janowitz, “Characteristics of the Military Environment,” in The Military and American Society: Essays and Readings, ed. Stephen E. Ambrose and James A. Barber Jr. (New York: Free Press, 1972), 167. 12. COL Charles  B. Boswell, “Army Morale in Combat,” 26  March  1956, AWCSP. 13. Alan Lewy, Operation Elvis (New York: Henry Holt and Co., 1960), 48–76; Michael Hall, “Viva Fort Hood,” Texas Monthly 28 (December 2000): 118– 24, 203–7. 14. SRSA 1 January to 30 June 1958. 15. MG R. N. Young, “Responsibilities and Problems of the Army G-1” (lecture, AWC, 18 November 1953), AHEC; Stabilization of Key Instructor Personnel at Army Training Centers, [23 May 1963], GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 16. OCAFF, Sub: Summary of Major Events and Problems, FY 1954, TRADOCARC. 17. Gordon Russell Young, ed., The Army Almanac: A Book of Facts Concerning the  U.S. Army, 2nd ed. (Harrisburg, Pa.: Stackpole Co., 1959), 160–61; John B. Wilson, Maneuver and Firepower: The Evolution of Divisions and Separate Brigades (Washington, D.C.: CMH, 1998), 245–46. The army abolished the designation of training divisions in 1956 and replaced them with training centers. From 1955 to 1959 many soldiers took their basic and advanced individual training in active combat units as part of the Gyroscope program. 18. COL Donald F. Slaughter, “Morale and Discipline,” 15 March 1955, AWCSP. John M. Collins, “Basic Combat Training: Flashbacks and Forecasts,” Army (August 2004): 43–44; Investigation of Conditions at Fort Dix, N.J., Hearings before the Subcommittee for Special Investigations of the Committee of Armed Ser vices, House of Representatives, 84th Cong., 1st session, 24–28 March 1955, 169–291. 19. Dan Ford, “How American Soldiers Were Trained at Mid- Century,” http://www.warbirdforum.com /basic.htm, accessed 2 October 2010. Richard Marks, Adventures in the Brown Shoe Army (privately printed, 1991), 2–21; Hanson Baldwin, “Training at Fort Dix,” NYT, 5–6 July 1955. 20. Tom Lehrer, “It Makes a Fellow Proud to Be a Soldier,” An Evening (Wasted) with Tom Lehrer, LP, Reprise/Warner Records, recorded 20–21  March 1959. 21. “Draftee in a Peacetime Army,” Life 39 (11  July 1955): 97–105; COL Patrick H. Devine, “Recruit Training for the Future Army,” 18 February 1957, AWCSP; Worley Jr., A Digest of New Developments, 77–86; Requested

391

notes to pages 198–201

22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27.

28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

33. 34. 35. 36.

37.

38.

Comments to General Maxwell D. Taylor by Major General Lionel C. McGarr, May 1954, Entry 126-UD-WW, Box  2, RG 546; Donnelly, “Basic Training.” “Draftee in a Peacetime Army.” Slaughter, “Morale and Discipline.” “Draftee in a Peacetime Army”; Bill Safire, “Shape Up or Ship Out,” Colliers 131 (11 April 1953): 17–19. Commanders Conference, 29  May 1956, 5th ID, Box  59, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338. Erwin A. Nistler Questionnaire, in author’s possession. Marks, Adventures in the Brown Shoe Army, 21. Sub: Army Training Program for Field Artillery Unit, in OCAFF to CGs et  al., 21  February 1953, Sub: Preparation for Component Army Training Programs, Box 1, E UD3, RG 546. DA to CINCs and CGs, Sub: Character Guidance Discussion Topics, 7 May 1953, 330.11 File, Box 65, E 193, RG 554. COL Wallace M. Hale, Sub: Request for Change to AR 15-120, 18 June 1956, AG 250.01 Morals & Conduct File, Box 272, E 1002A, RG 407. Course 7, Committee #22, “Training the United States Army,” 3 March 1954, Box 1953/1954–8, AHEC. Ford, “How American Soldiers.” Storke, “Army Information Program.” MG H. P. Storke to CSA, Sub: Observations on Memorandum from Deputy Chief of Staff for Personnel Concerning Morale, 24  February 1958, AGO 250.1 File, Box 16, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. What the 1957 Soldier Thinks: A Digest of Attitude and Opinion Studies (Washington,  D.C.: US Army Adjutant General’s Office, 1958), 2. A survey a year later showed trainees had a more positive view of BCT; see What the 1958 Soldier Thinks: A Digest of Attitude and Opinion Studies (Washington, D.C.: US Army Adjutant General’s Office, 1959), 10. Devine, “Recruit Training for the Future Army.” Collins, “Basic Combat Training.” Ibid. “Life Goes to a WAC Bivouac,” Life 30 (9  April 1951): 150–56; Bettie  J. Morden, The Women’s Army Corps, 1945–1978 (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 1990), 83–84; Marian Nicely, The Ladies First Army (Ligonier, Pa.: Fairfield Street Press, 1989), 11–20. Maxwell D. Taylor, Remarks before the House Armed Ser vices Committee of the 85th Congress, 29 January 1957, File 2, Box 1, Winant Sidle Papers, AHEC. “Basic Training Nearly Over for First Four Reservists,” TLN (15 March 1956); capitalization in original.

392

notes to pages 201–204 39. What the 1956 Soldier Thinks: A Digest of Attitude and Opinion Studies (Washington, D.C.: US Army Adjutant General’s Office, 1957), 2. 40. COL August G. Elegar, “Universal Ser vice for Amer ica,” 18 February 1957, AWCSP. 41. Course 4, Committee #19, “Army Training,” 4 February 1957, Box 1956/1957-4, AHEC; Course 7, Committee #16, “Reserve Components,” 17  April 1959, Box 1958/1959-5, AHEC; HQ, CONARC to DCS for Military Operations, Sub: Reduction of Training Time in ATCs, File 320.2/1963, 28 January 1963, Box 32, SCGC OCSA 1963–1975, RG 319 (I am indebted to William Donnelly for this citation). 42. CG Remarks, Commanders Conference, 8 August 1956, 5th ID, Box 59, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338; GEN Louis C. Wagner Jr., Oral History, 1996, 1: 50, AHEC; COL Edwin  B. Taylor, “The Reserve Forces Act of 1955 and the Mobilization Readiness of the Reserve Components of the Army,” 19 February 1961, AWCSP. 43. COL P. F. Lindeman, “Army Reserves” (lecture, AWC, 17 February 1954), AHEC. 44. COL George Patrick Walsh to OPI, Sub: MGM Revised Screenplay Entitled Take the High Ground, 3 July 1952, Box 690, E 140, RG 330. 45. Commanders Conference, 29 May 1956, 5th ID. 46. LTC Leslie G. Tennies, Sub: Pvt. James P. Shekleton, US 55455689 (Deceased), 27 August 1954, Fort Leonard Wood File, Box 2068, E 26G, RG 159. 47. MG S. B. Hays to Hubert H. Humphrey, 29 September 1954; E. H. Cocanougher, Sub: Report of Investigation of Conditions Alleged to Exist at Fort Leonard Wood, 14  September 1954, both in Fort Leonard Wood File, Box 2068, E 26G, RG 159. 48. Investigation of Conditions at Fort Dix. 49. RFA Trainees File, 1956, AGO 330.14, GC 1955–62, Office of Provost Marshal General, Box 92, RG 407. 50. Testimony of MAJ Mordecai H. Daina, incl. in Investigation of Conditions at Fort Dix, 229. 51. Charlton Ogburn, “The United States Army,” Holiday 28 (September 1960): 98. 52. LT David  E. Reeves, “TAM,” Infantry School Quarterly 47 (April 1957): 14–16. 53. Otterman J. Herman, Remembrance Past and Present: A Story (New York: Vantage Press, 1992), 366–77, 385–86. 54. Ford, “How American Soldiers.” 55. Distribution of Trainees upon Completion of Basic Combat Training, in OCAFF, Sub: Replacement Training Plan FY 1955, 12 February 1954, 358

393

notes to pages 205–209

56.

57.

58.

59.

60. 61.

62. 63.

64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

File, Box 24, E 55F, RG 337. Of the remaining, 1,700 were assigned to the Signal Corps, and many of these might have been assigned as radio operators in combat units. USCONARC-USARSTRKE Annual Historical Summary, 1  July 1963 to 30  June 1964, TRADOCARC. MOS designations were changed several times. HQ CONARC, Sub: Establishment of the Lacrosse Firing Battery Course, 18 January 1958, and USA Artillery and Missile School, Program of Instruction: Lacrosse Firing Battery Course [1959], both in LaCrosse File, E 125 UDWW, Box 4, RG 546. LTG Garrison H. Davidson and MAJ Paul Gorman, 7th Army Briefing for CINCUSAREUR, General Bruce C. Clarke, December 1960, at http://usacac .army.mil /cac2/CSI /docs/Gorman /02_ Army_1950_72/d_7thArmyUSAREUR /03_60_DavidsonMajGorman_CINCUSAREUR _Dec.pdf, accessed 2  June 2015. CPT John  M. Tatum, “Should Aggressor, the Training Aid System, Be Changed to Improve Tactical Training at Small Unit Level?” (1958), SRP, DRL. “Recollection and Reflections” MS, 1984, 325, GEN John A. Seitz Papers, AHEC. HQ, USARHI/25 ID, to CG, USARPAC, Sub: Reorganization of 25th ID, 2 May 1957, Box 5, E 1322–1957, RG 550; HQ 1st Battle Group, 8th IR to CG, 4th ID, Sub: ROCID After Action Report, 11  May 1957, Box  56, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338; Annual General Inspection of HQ, USARPAC, FY 1961, 27 April 1961, Box 12, E UD-185, RG 550. Gaines Post Jr., Memoirs of a Cold War Son (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 2000), 146–49. Ivan Paul Mehosky, The Story of a Soldier, 1940–71 (Danbury, Conn.: Rutledge Books, Inc., 2001), 254. Richard E. Mack, Memoir of a Cold War Soldier (Kent, Ohio: Kent State University Press, 2001), 102–4; Frederick Weyand Oral History, 1999, 78, AHEC. MG Thomas P. Lynch Oral History, 1982, 2: 309, AHEC. COL David W. Hayes, “Quality of Personnel in the Atomic Army,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. GEN Hamilton H. Howze Oral History, 1972, 3: 38–40, AHEC. Wagner Oral History, 1: 21. Oral History, 1978, 1: 261, Box  69, William  C. Westmoreland Collection, AHEC. One of Westmoreland’s interviewers noted that two decades after his departure the monthly statistical data that the 101st collected totaled over a hundred pages and included how many people were late for dental appointments.

394

notes to pages 210–213 69. PFC Melvin Car ter, Sub: How to Have All for Duty (Zero AWOL’s), 23 February 1960, Orderly’s Views File, CG 101st AbnD Correspondence (1960), Box  36, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. Oral History, 242–47, Westmoreland Collection. 70. Reminiscences of LTG James M. Gavin, 24 May 1972, 21, Columbia Oral History Research Collection, Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Columbia University in the City of New York, copy at DDEL, used by permission. “Beyond the Stars” MS, 147–54, James M. Gavin Papers, AHEC. 71. “Recollection and Reflections,” 242–48. 72. LTG Bruce C. Clarke, “The 7th U.S. Army and Allied Operations in Germany” (lecture, AWC, 12 March 1957), AHEC. 73. For several examples of this slogan and others, see LTG Bruce C. Clarke, 7th Army Memorandums for lecture 12  March  1957, AHEC; Bruce  C. Clarke File, Box 4, 3rd Armored Division Band Papers, AHEC. 74. GEN Donald V. Bennett Oral History, 1976, 1: 5: 3, AHEC. Report of Unit Commanders to the Army Commander, 14 August 1956 and Policy on the Assignment and Retention of Commanders, 10 August 1956, in Clarke, 7th Army Memorandums. His biographers claim 17,000 officers and enlisted personnel were sent back to CONUS from 7th Army during his tenure; see William Donohoe Ellis and Thomas J. Cunningham, Clarke of St. Vith: The Sergeants’ General (Cleveland: Dillon-Liederbach, 1974), 220. 75. Oral History, 1978, 1: 5: 42, Box 3, William R. Desobry Papers, AHEC. 76. GEN Clyde  D. Eddleman Oral History, 1975, 5: 31–32, AHEC. For a scathing assessment of 7th Army’s effectiveness under Clarke, see LTC Robert  W. Green, “The Need for Armor vs. Infantry in the Seventh  U.S. Army,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. On deliberate efforts to thwart Clarke’s centralization, see Bennett Oral History, 1: 5: 36; GEN Barksdale Hamlett Oral History, 1976, 5: 26–27, AHEC; “Grandpa Gar” MS, 187, 193–95, Garrison H. Davidson Papers, AHEC. 77. David Boroff, “Fort Hood: Sparta Goes Suburban,” Harper’s 228 (January 1964): 46–53. 78. Manpower Control and Plans Division, G1 Section, Semiannual Report, 1 July–31 December 1954, in OCAFF, Introductory Narrative, Summary of Major Events and Problems, FY 1955, TRADOCARC. 79. HQ 3rd FA Battalion, Sub: Progress Report on Management Improvement Program, 23 March 1954, Management Improvement Program File, 1st ID, Box 46, E 338-81-14, RG 338. 80. MG Robert A. Hewill Oral History, 1982, 287, AHEC. 81. Throughout the 1950s US Army sources made interchangeable references to STRAC—a three- or four-division rapid reaction corps—and STRAF (Strategic Army Force), a planned two-corps, eight-division rapid reaction force

395

notes to pages 213–216

82.

83. 84.

85.

86.

87.

88.

89. 90.

that included all deployable units in CONUS. For most of its history STRAF was a paper organization, its primary function to provide a combat mission for CONUS forces; its hollowness became apparent when a 1965 test revealed only a quarter of the units assigned to STRAF (and only one combat division) met basic readiness standards, in part due to levies for Vietnam; see USCONARC-USARSTRKE Annual Historical Summary, 1  July 1965 to 30 June 1966, TRADOCARC. Extract of Remarks by CSA Maxwell D. Taylor at Information Officers Conference, 3 December 1957, Box 3, E 55A, RG 319. MG H. P. Storke, Comments at Army Information Officers’ Conference, 1  December 1958, 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. “Army Combat Power,” CGSC Presentation, 1958, Box 27, E UD3, RG 546. Comments on Critique Presentation of Army Combat Power, [1958], Box 27, E UD3, RG 546. COL Wilburt J. Irwin, “War Games for STRAC,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. Course 8, Committee #7, “Strategic Mobility,” 29 May 1958, Box 1957/1958-5, AHEC. Resume of Army Strategic Moves since 1953, in LTC Hobrecht, Staff Study, Sub: Strategic Mobility Exercises [1960], 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319; Eddleman Oral History, 5: 41–44; Roger J. Spiller, Not War but Like War: The US Intervention in Lebanon (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Combat Studies Institute, 1981), 9–10, 26. LTC T. J. Matcovcik, Memo for Record, 19 April 1955, David A. Lewis File, Box 2071, E 26G, RG 159; GEN Walter T. Kerwin Oral History, 1980, 2: 255–56, AHEC; Oral History, 1985, 1: 122, Wilton B. Persons Papers, Box 1, AHEC. Howze Oral History, 4: 5. For similar complaints, see Report of Investigation to Determine Adequacy of Airborne Training, 12 April 1954, Box 14, E 55F, RG 337; Activities (Historical) Reports 1952 File, 82nd Abn, Box 24, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338; GEN Paul D. Adams to GEN Herbert B. Powell, 22 December 1962, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546; “The Regulars” MS, 379–80; Donald A. Siebert Papers, AHEC. LTG Robert Haldane Oral History, 1985, 38–39. Report of Investigation to Determine Adequacy; BG Terry H. Sanford to MG Thomas L. Sherburne, 21 June 1956, 101st AbnD, Box 35, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 33. Desobry Oral History, 1: 5: 26. Staff Section Report, AFFE and 8th US Army, Brochure for Commanders Conference, 25 January 1955, both in Box 5, E NN3-95-001, RG 407; USARPAC Annual History, July–December 1958 and January–June 1959, both in author’s possession; Robert Sherrod, “Have We Deserted the Koreans?” SEP 227 (27 November 1954): 28–29, 113–14.

396

notes to pages 216–221 91. “Recollection and Reflections,” 2: 4. PFC Victor C. Albrecht to Frank Carlson, 10  May 1956, AG 330.14 Criticism 1/2/55–1/3/55 Cases File, Box  410, E 1002A, RG 407; HQ 8th Army Support Command, Sub: Combat Readiness Report, 14 December 1957, Box 86, E UD-7, RG 550. 92. Interview with COL (retd) Don Boose, 20 December 2014. HQ 8A to AG, DA, Sub: Allegations of Inefficiency and Irregularity, 4 October 1961, Russell File, Box 301, E A1 298, RG 338. 93. Zais Oral History, 406. Bennett Oral History, 32–33. 94. On 7th Army and US Army Europe, see Donald Alan Car ter, Forging the Shield: The  U.S. Army in Europe, 1951–1962 (Washington,  D.C.: CMH, 2015); Ingo Trauschweizer, The Cold War U.S. Army: Building Deterrence for Limited War (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2008). 95. Chief of Staff Conference, 9 September 1955, 4th ID, Box 56, E NC3-3881-4, RG 338 96. Green, “The Need for Armor.” 97. CPT Gerald G. Gibbons, “Effect which Future Battle Conditions Will Have on the Exercise of Leadership by a Division Commander,” January 1962, Box 8, E 439B, RG 389. LT John Fallon Palmer, “Mass Psychological Casualties on the Nuclear Battlefield,” January 1962, Box 9, E 439B, RG 389; LTC Heinz P. Rand, “Mental Conditioning of the Soldier for Nuclear War,” in Selected Readings in Leadership in Higher Commands, 15 August 1960, CGSC Files, Box 39, RG 498. 98. Wagner Oral History, 1: 38. TARS, Sub: Staff Visit to Combat Arms Schools, 12  September 1955, Box  26, E UD-10, RG 546; HUSARPAC, Training Memorandum, No. 1, 1956 Box 14, E UD-184, RG 550. 99. Report of Test Infantry Troop Test, Exercise Desert Rock VII and VIII, 1957, AHEC. 100. Disposition Form, 19 March 1955, Sub: Evaluation of Army Participation in Desert Rock Exercises, Box 18, E UD3, RG 546. On testing, see Barton C. Hacker, Elements of Controversy: The Atomic Energy Commission and Radiation Safety in Nuclear Testing, 1947–1974 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 89–102; Richard L. Miller, Under the Cloud: The Decades of Nuclear Testing (New York: Free Press, 1986), 122–29, 145–48. 101. HQ CONARC to CGs, Continental Armies, Sub: Maneuver Control, 16 February 1955, Box 102, E UDWW-1, RG 338. 102. G-1 comments, 22  October 1955, Command Conferences 1955 File, 1st CavD, Box 40, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. SOP for Atomic Blast Demonstrator (Locally Fabricated), [1956], Box  76, E UD 9, RG 546; Historical Division, HQUSAREUR, Annual Historical Report, 1  July 1954–30  June 1955, Historical Manuscript Files 8–3.1 CL, CMH.

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notes to pages 221–225 103. Field Exercise Program-FY 55, 354 File, Box 102, E UD-5, RG 547; HQ 3rd Army to Chief, AFF, Sub: Budget Estimate: Exercise Follow Me, 1  November 1954, 211 File, Box 3, E 55F, RG 337. 104. “Aggressors Gain in Upstate Games,” NYT (12 February 1952): 4; Final Report: Exercise North Star, [February 1954], 354 File, Box 102, E UD-5, RG 547; MG William  C. Westmoreland to CO, 1st Abn BG, 502nd IR, Sub: Appreciation of Per formance, 101st Abn Div, 25  April 1958, Box  35, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; Report of Investigation, 28 May 1962, 250 File, Box 215, E UD-5, RG 547; “The Regulars,” 404–6; “Armed Forces: NonWar Is Hell,” Time (5 June 1964). 105. Edward M. Coffman to Brian M. Linn, email 15 December 2014. 106. HQ, 4th Army to CAFF, Sub: Play of Atomic Weapons in Exercise Longhorn, 15 May 1952, 000.9/52 File, Box 4, E 55B, RG 337, NARA 2. 107. Remarks of MG Hobart Gay, Sub: Exercise Longhorn Final Report, 18 June 1952, DRL. 108. HQ, 3rd Army, Sub: Critique of Exercise Flash Burn, 7  May 1954, at http://www.dtic.mil /dtic/tr/fulltext /u2/a950096.pdf, accessed 29  November 2014. 109. Critique of Exercise Flash Burn. 110. OCAFF, Reports of Observers: Exercise Flash Burn, 10 May 1954, 354 File, Box 28, E 55F, RG 337. 111. [LTC Wilmeth], Sub: CGSC Observer’s Report on Exercise Flash Burn, [1954], Box 6, E UD3, RG 546. 112. Ibid. 113. 3rd ID Officers Call, 17  September 1955, Box  2, GEN George  E. Lynch Papers, AHEC. Follow Me and Blue Bolt File, 228.01 File, CMH; Briefings and Conferences AFTA-1 File, Box 488, E 30B, RG 337; Paul C. Jussel, “Intimidating the World: The United States Atomic Army, 1956–1960” (Ph.D. diss., Ohio State University, 2004), 57–62. 114. LTC Morgan  G. Rosenborough, “The Armored Division in Atomic War,” 14  March  1955, AWCSP; Critique for Exercise Blue Bolt, 2  March  1955, John E. Dahlquist Papers, AHEC. 115. Notes on Exercise Sage Brush, in MG Paul D. Harkins to CG, CONARC, Sub: Observation of Sage Brush, 30 December 1955, Binder 8, AGO 354 (Sage Brush) 1955, Box 125/154, RG 338. GEN John E. Dahlquist to LTG Robert M. Montague, 25 January 1956; GEN John E. Dahlquist, Remarks at Joint Critique for Exercise Sagebrush, 17  November 1955, both in Dahlquist Papers; HQ, Exercise Sagebrush, Final Report, 1955, HRC 353.2 Maneuvers— Sage Brush File, CMH; Jean R. Moenk, A History of LargeScale Army Maneuvers in the United States, 1935–1964 (Fort Monroe, Va.: HQ CONARC, 1969), 205–21.

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notes to pages 225–229 116. “Beyond the Stars,” 157–60. 117. Bruce Siemon, “U.S. Army Air Defense Europe, 1948–1970,” 1971, Historical Files 7th Army CY 2, CMH. Don Allan Car ter, “War Games in Europe: The  U.S. Army Experiments with Atomic Doctrine,” in Blueprints for Battle: Planning for War in Central Europe, 1948–1968, ed. Jan Hoffenaar and Dieter Krüger, English trans. ed. David T. Zabecki (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2012), 131–53; Jussel, “Intimidating the World,” 40–42. 118. HQ USAREUR, CIC Weekly Staff Conference #21, 2 August, 1956, Box 531, E 2135, RG 549; CPT Howard Erwin to CG USAREUR, Sub: Observation Report on Road Bound V, 16 December 1958; and Disposition Form, Sub: Exercise Bounce Back, 6 February 1959, both in Box 163, E 2044, RG 549. 119. Moenk, History of Large-Scale Army, 335. 120. MG Paul  D. Adams’s comments in Exercise King Cole: Final Critique, 16 April 1957, AHEC. “The Other Side of the Coin” MS [1957], Box 5, Arthur S. Collins Papers, AHEC. 121. GEN Paul D. Adams Oral History, 1975, 620–21, AHEC. 122. Moenk, History of Large-Scale Army, 214. On negotiations over Sagebrush, see: Draft of letter to GEN Dahlquist from LTG I. D. White, 16 May 1955, AGO 354 (Sage Brush) 1955, Box  125/154, RG 338; Records of ACS for Operations (G-3), SCGF, 1955, Box  241, E 95, RG 319; COL  W.  H. Patterson, “Wargaming at USACONARC” (lecture, AWC, 7 April 1959), AHEC; “An Army Engineer: A Career and a Great Calling” MS, 185–88, LTG Lawrence J. Lincoln Papers, Hoover Institute Archives, Stanford, CA. 123. LTG John C. Oakes, Draft Summary Sheet to CSA for Approval, Sub: Strategic Mobility Exercises, 1 January 1960, 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. 124. COL Herbert G. Sparrow, “US Army Testing Experience in Exercise Sage Brush” (lecture, AWC, 4 February 1958), AHEC. 125. Moenk, History of Large-Scale Army, 171. 126. 3rd ID Reenlistment Conference, 28 May 1956, Box 2, Lynch Papers. 127. MG  J.  L. Throckmorton to LTG Hamilton  H. Howze, 14  January 1963, Sub: STRCOM After Action Report—Exercise Lead Pipe I, GOC 101–100 File, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546; MG Thomas L. Sherburne to CG, 18th Airborne Corps, Sub: Post Support and Support of Troop Test Jump Light, Fort Campbell, Kentucky, 11 October 1956, 101st Abn Div, Box 35, E NC3338-81-14, RG 338. 128. [MG Ben Harrell], Remarks on Bright Star, Bright Star File (1960), CG 101st Abn Div Correspondence (1960), Box 36, E NC3–338–81–14, RG 338. Many of these comments have been crossed out, indicating the general may not have passed them on.

399

notes to pages 230–233 8. MARKETING THE NEW, IMPROVED ARMY 1. Peter Guttmacher, Elvis! Elvis! Elvis! The King and His Movies (New York: Metro Books, 1997), 35–42. The film debuted on 15 November 1960. 2. “G.I. Blues,” words and music by Sid Tepper and Roy Bennett, recorded 27–28 April 1960, released on G.I. Blues, 1960, RCA Victor; G.I. Blues 4th temporary script, 15 February 1960, File 4, Box 22, DODFC; Susan Doll, The Films of Elvis Presley (Lincolnwood, Ill.: Publications International, 1991), 24–27; Stephen Zmijewsky and Boris Zmijewsky, Elvis: The Films and Career of Elvis Presley (Secaucus,  N.J.: Citadel Press, 1976), 64; Douglas Brode, Elvis Cinema and Popular Culture (Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland and Company, 2006), 59–60. 3. GEN G. S. Meloy to CSA, Sub: Safeguarding of Official Information, [10 August 1956], AGO 380.1, Box 26, CINFO 1956, E NND 957387, RG 319. 4. Remarks by MG H. P. Storke, Army Commanders Conference, 3 December 1958, 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. 5. LTC Embert A. Fossum, “A Philosophy of Army Power,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. 6. Matthew B. Ridgway to William M. Miley, Sub: Effective Army Troop and Public Relations, 4 June 1954, 312 General Collins File, Box 94, E 5, RG 547. 7. MG Floyd Parks, “Information Aspects of Planning” (lecture, AWC, 25 April 1953), Box 13, Floyd L. Parks Papers, DDEL. In 1940 the War Department created the Morale Division, later renamed the Troop Information and Education Division, and eventually placed it in the Office of the Chief of Information (OCI). In the 1950s OCI assigned four responsibilities: public information (or public relations); troop (indoctrination of military personnel, split off as the Troop Information Division in 1956); troop education (shifted to the Office for the Deputy Chief of Staff for Personnel in 1957); and political liaison. 8. Public information officers were referred to as both IOs and PIOs; the former term will be used in this chapter. 9. Tony [LTC Anthony M. Kamp] to H. P. Storke, Reworked Version, 10 July 1959, You and the Army Image File, Box  1, E 55  A, RG 319. Jane Fonda sports a “Miss Army” sash in RJ (May 1962): 3. 10. BG Howard S. Wilcox, “Press Relations and the Commander,” MR 41 (August 1961): 7. MG Harry  P. Storke, “Activate the Grass Roots” [1959], Box  28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319; LTC Clair E. Towne to Mr. Hal Wallis, 22 May 1952, “Ready, Willing and—Able?” File, Box 687, E 140, RG 330; Nancy E. Bernhard, U.S. Television News and Cold War Propaganda, 1947– 1960 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 132–54. 11. COL George Patrick Welch, “Public Information, Troop Information and Education” (lecture, AWC, 23 November 1953), AHEC.

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notes to pages 233–236 12. MG Gilman  C. Mudgett, Notes on Army Information Program, [August 1955], in Mudgett to MG Joseph H. Harper, 14 April 1955, AGO 350, Box 20, CINFO 1955, E NND 957387, RG 319. 13. COL Richard  W. Whitney, “A Fighting Heart for the Army’s New Look,” MR 35 (April 1955): 17. 14. [OCI] Presentation to VCS on Execution of PI Segment of Command Program Management, 10 February [1957], Box 3, E 55A, RG 319. 15. Public Information Segment, Command and Management Program, 1 July 1951–31 December 1951, Program Presentations File, Box 1, E 55A, RG 319. 16. CINFO to CG Materiel Command, Sub: Review of Questions and Answers with Respect to GAO Report, 7 May 1963, 403-06 Files, Box 2, E UD-86, RG 319; Proposed Remarks, CINFO, Army Commander’s Conference—1963, 403-01 Files, Box 2, E UD-86, RG 319; OCINFO Summary File, Sub: GAO Report on LACROSSE, 4 June 1963, 403-06 Files, Box 2, E UD-86, RG 319. 17. COL John R. Weaver, Remarks before Army Information Officers’ Conference, 1–3 December 1958, 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. 18. Presentation to VCS on Execution of PI Segment. 19. Mudgett, Notes on Army Information Program. 20. COL Donovan P. Yuell to MG Harry P. Storke, 22 May 1959, “You and the Army Image” File, Box 1, E 55 A, RG 319. 21. LTC Allen M. Hunter to COL Walter E. Jordan, 19 May 1958, AGO 330.14, Box 27, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. 22. What the 1957 Soldier Thinks: A Digest of Attitude and Opinion Studies (Washington, D.C.: US Army Adjutant Generals Office, 1958), 2. 23. BG Andrew T. McAnsh, “Faith—It Moveth Mountains” MS, 1955, John E. Dahlquist Papers, AHEC. 24. MAJ John H. Cushman, “What Is the Army’s Story,” CFJ 5 (October 1954): 49. 25. Public Information Officer Staff Section Report, August 1955, USAFFE and 8A, Box 15, E NN3–95–001, RG 407. 26. LTC O. J. Magee to BG Chester V. Clifton, 11 December 1957, Radio and Television File, Box 2, E 54A, RG 319. 27. Presentation to VCSA on Execution of PI Segment of Command Program Management, 10  February [1957], Box  3, E 55A, RG 319; Acquisition of Qualified Colonels and Lt Colonels, [December 1957?], AGO 300.6 File, Box 2, E 54 A1, RG 319; US Army Information School, Draft: Program of Instruction, Information Officer Course, February 1959, AGO 352, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. 28. COL Glover S. Johns, “Taking the Army’s Case to the Public,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP.

401

notes to pages 236–240 29. MG Floyd Parks, “Information Aspects of Planning” (lecture, AWC, 25 April 1953), Box 13, Floyd L. Parks Papers, DDEL. 30. Oral History, 1978, 1: 5: 36, Box  3, William  R. Desobry Papers, AHEC. Wilcox, “Press Relations,” 6. 31. COL George Patrick Welch, “The Army’s Press Relations,” Army 7 (September 1956): 38–41. Panel on Army-Industry Relations, Information Officers Conference, 3  December 1957, Box  3, E 55A, RG 319; LTC  W.  F. McPherson to CINFO, Sub: Comments on Information Officers’ Conference, [1958], 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. 32. Ridgway to Miley, Effective Army and Troop Public Relations. 33. Eugene P. Forrester Oral History, 1985, 200-1, AHEC. Oral History, 1973, 4, Box 1, James A. Van Fleet Papers, AHEC. 34. Maxwell D. Taylor, Address before the Combined Student Bodies of the National War College and the Industrial College of Armed Forces, 18  April 1957, F 2, Box 1, Winant Sidle Papers, AHEC. Maxwell D. Taylor, The Uncertain Trumpet (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1959). 35. Extract of Remarks by CSA Maxwell D. Taylor at Information Officers Conference, 3 December 1957, Box 3, E 55A, RG 319. 36. GEN Clyde D. Eddleman Oral History, 1975, 5: 25, AHEC. 37. LTC McCartney, Sub: Public Showings of General Taylor’s Film, OC-12, “The Mission of the  U.S. Army,” 20  May 1957, Radio and Television File, Box 2, E 54A, RG 319. 38. Charlton Ogburn, “The United States Army,” Holiday 28 (September 1960): 98. 39. Oral History, 1983, 70, Harry W. O. Kinnard Papers, AHEC; Jonathan M. House, Combined Arms Warfare in the Twentieth Century (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2001), 207. 40. PP&D to Public Information Director, Sub: Redesignation of T-44, 9 May 1957 and HCL to Chief, TID, Sub: Redesignation of T-44, 16 May 1957, both in AGO 300.6 File, Box 2, E 54 A1, RG 319. 41. Tony to Storke, Reworked Version. 42. Ibid. 43. Storke, “Activate the Grass Roots.” 44. A. M. K., Memorandum for General Clifton and General Storke, Sub: Slides for the Briefing, 5 February 1959, Presentation “You and the Army Image” by Brig Gen C. V. Clifton File, Box 1, E 55 A, RG 319. Emphasis in original. 45. Draft Presentation “You and the Army Image” (1959), BG C. V. Clifton File, Box 1, E 55 A, RG 319. 46. Yuell to Storke. 47. Memo: Bobo to Castagneto, Sub: You and the Army Image Chronology, [1959], Army Image File, Box 1, E 55 A, RG 319.

402

notes to pages 240–243 48. Tony to Storke, Reworked Version. 49. The Army Antiaircraft Command [1957], AGO 322 File, Box 2, E 54 A1, RG 319. 50. CINFO, Sub: An Analysis of Recent Public Opinion Surveys of the Army, [1963?], 403-01 Files, Box 46, E UD-84, RG 319. 51. Purpose of Project MAN. “Long Road Back for the Army,” Life 51 (25 August 1961): 42–43. 52. Tony to Storke, Reworked Version. 53. After Action Report, Modern Army Needs, 1960, 260/32 File, Box  16, E UD-84, RG 319. 54. Exercise Southern Pine, Command Report 1951 Book #4, 82nd Abn Div, Box 24, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338; DOA to CG 3rd Army, [April 1953], Box 29, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338; G3 to CSA, Sub: Ed Murrow Project, 17 April 1953, 82nd Abn Div, Box 29, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338. 55. MG Thomas L. Sherburne to Editor, Cavalier Magazine, 25 October 1956, 101st Abn Div, Box 35, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 56. MG Thomas L. Sherburne to GEN Maxwell D. Taylor, 12 September 1956, 101st Abn Div, Box 35, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 57. William C. Westmoreland Oral History, 1978, 256–58, Box 69, William C. Westmoreland Collection, AHEC. “Westmoreland Is Tireless General. Likes to Brag about His ‘Eagles,’ ” Spartanburg Herald-Journal, 19  October 1958, D-3. On Westmoreland’s social commitments, see CG Official Correspondence, April 1960 File, 101st Abn Div, Box 36, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 58. Marian Nicely, The Ladies First Army (Ligonier, Pa.: Fairfield Street Press, 1989), 3. LTC Mary E. Kelly, Sub: Recruiting and Publicity, WAC Staff Advisers Conference, 18–20 November 1964, Box 56, E 145, RG 319. 59. “Life Goes to a WAC Bivouac,” Life 30 (9 April 1951): 150–56. 60. Sidney Shallett, “This Lady’s Army,” SEP 230 (July 6 1957): 22–23, 64–66. 61. COL Mary A. Hallaren, Report on Staff Visits, WAC Staff Adviser Conference, 12–16 September, 1949, Box 55, E 145, RG 319. 62. “The WAC Is a Soldier Too,” Big Picture, 1954, ARC identifier 2569547. 63. WAC Staff Advisor Conference, 18–22 March 1963, Box 56, E 145, RG 319; Army Women’s Exercise Suit Modeled by PFC Alberta Fischer, June 1963, Photo SC 605565, NARA2; Army Women’s Green Uniform modeled by PFC Susan Hasty, June 1963, Photo SC 605563, NARA2; HQ USAREUR, CIC Weekly Staff Conference #8, 21 March 1956, 337/250/16 Organization Planning Files, Box  531, E 2135, RG 549; LTC Florence  M. Clarke, Sub: Utilization of Wacs, Conference of WAC Staff Directors . . . Officers, 2–4 May 1951, Box 56, E 145, RG 319; RJ (January 1954): 16. 64. Hallaren, Report on Staff Visits.

403

notes to pages 244–247 65. WAC Staff Advisor Conference, 18–22 March 1963; LTC Josephine L. Redenius, Sub: WAC Procurement, WAC Staff Advisers Conference, 18–20 November 1964. 66. “Travelling Hostesses Represent a Great Diversity of WAC Skills,” Spartanburg Herald-Journal (24  April 1966), Section  D. LTC  M.  M. Ferguson to DCSPER-PSD, Sub: Change to Appendix III, AR-700-8400-1, 27 May 1966, WAC Exhibit Team File, Box 20, E 145, RG 319. 67. Sey Chassler, “Plebe at the Point,” Colliers (5 January 1952): 15–16; Howell Walker, “The Making of a West Pointer,” National Geographic 101 (May 1952): 597–626; Lance Betros, Carved from Granite: West Point since 1902 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2012), 90–91. 68. Bradley Biggs, Gavin (Hamden, Conn.: Archon Books, 1980), 61, see also 62–65; “Beyond the Stars,” MS, James M. Gavin Papers, AHEC. 69. Harold H. Martin, “Paratrooper in the Pentagon,” SEP 227 (28 August 1954): 22–23, 81–83. 70. Synopsis: Film of Jack Paar Show, [1961]. GEN Bruce C. Clarke to US Commander Berlin, Sub: The Jack Paar Show Incident, 23 September 1961; “U.S. to Investigate Paar TV Incident,” NYT, 9  September 1961, all in Bruce  C. Clarke File 2, Box 61, Lauris Norstad Papers, DDEL. Report of Stewardship, October 1960 to April 1962— General Bruce  C. Clarke (Heidelberg: USAREUR, 1962); LTG Bruce C. Clarke, “The 7th U.S. Army and Allied Operations in Germany” (lecture, AWC, 12 March 1957), AHEC; Bruce C. Clarke, Guidelines for the Leader and the Commander (Harrisburg, Pa.: Stackpole Books, 1963). 71. Ridgway to Miley, Effective Army Troop and Public Relations. 72. Committee #12, “Enlisted Personnel Management,” 17  December 1954, Box  1954/1955-3, AHEC. Samuel Wilder King to LTG John  W. O’Daniel, 26 January 1954 and LTG Bruce C. Clarke to Samuel Wilder King, 9 April 1956, Army— Commanding General Pacific Corr., GOV11–25, Samuel Wilder King, State of Hawaii Archives, Honolulu, HI; “Operation ‘BigBrother’ Ends,” TLN (19 July 1956). 73. OCI, Sub: Comments on Military District of Washington Army Newspapers, 31 December 1954, 000.7 File, Box 97, E UDWW-1, RG 338. Chief of Staff Conference, 17 January 1955, 4th ID, Box 56, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338. 74. Exercise Longhorn: Military Government Final Report, June 1952, AHEC. 75. “Paratroopers Liberate Lampasas in 1952,” Temple Daily Telegram (28 June 2004), at http://www.tdtnews.com/archive/article_418b5f36–9eb2–58d7-bf9e -41f5674030c4.html, accessed 11 December 2014. 76. HQ Maneuver Director, Sub: Exercise Long Horn Final Report, 18  June 1952, DRL.

404

notes to pages 247–251 77. 4th Army Pamphlet 3-43, Discussion Topic: Maneuvers Respect for Property and Personal Conduct (Revised), August 1955, incl. in N-18120.4-B, CARL. Memo for the Record: Early Phase Real Estate Operations— Sage Brush, 5  May 1955, AGO 354.2, Box  23, CINFO 1955, E NND 957387, RG 319. 78. 4th Army Pamphlet 3-43, Discussion Topic. 79. Max Shulman, Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys (New York: Bantam Books, 1957). 80. LTC  B.  W. Legare to John Marshall Butler, 26  May 1955, AGO 330.14, Box 19, CINFO 1955, E NND 957387, RG 319. The Army Antiaircraft Command [1957], AGO 322 File, Box  2, E 54  A1, RG 319; Christopher John Bright, “Nike Defends Washington: Antiaircraft Missiles in Fairfax County, Virginia, during the Cold War, 1954–1974,” Virginia Magazine of History and Biography 105 (Summer 1997): 317–46. 81. Tony to Storke, Reworked Version. DCSOPS to CSA, Sub: Report of investigation Conducted by First Region, US Army Air Defense Command at Nike site NY 53L, 1 July 1958, AGO 471.94 [Nike], Box 116, E 95, RG 319. 82. Underwood, “Public Understanding.” 83. COL Glover S. Johns, “Taking the Army’s Case to the Public,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. For views that the media encouraged communism, see LTC Theodore Antonelli, “A Critique of United States Political Warfare Operations,” and COL Frank Colacicco, “National Will to Fight,” both 19 March 1959, AWCSP. On the generally positive tone of media reporting, see OAFIE, Research Division, Sub: Analysis of Newspaper Items Containing References to the National Reserve Plan, 1 September 1955, Special Memo #63360, Box 1010, E 93, RG 330. 84. Storke, “Activate the Grass Roots.” 85. Mudgett to Harper, 14 April 1955. COL Arthur S. Collins, “Public Opinion and the Army,” 1 April 1953, AWCSP. 86. Underwood, “Public Understanding.” 87. Mudgett to Harper, 14 April 1955. MG G. V. Underwood to ASDPA, Sub: Army, Air Force Mobility Tests, 8  June 1964, Air Mobility File, Box  40, E UD-84, RG 319; A. M. K., Memorandum. 88. MG Gilman C. Mudgett to LTG John F. O’Daniel, 8 June 1955, AGO 330.14, Box 19, CINFO 1955, E NND 957387, RG 319. 89. Troop, Public and Congressional Relations within the Department of the Army, enclosure No. 2 in Ridgway to Miley, Effective Army and Troop Public Relations. 90. GEN Barksdale Hamlett Oral History, 1976, 4: 67–70, AHEC. 91. GEN Melvin Zais Oral History, 1977, 343, AHEC. On civil–military tensions in the Eisenhower era, see Andrew J. Bacevich, “The Paradox of

405

notes to pages 251–254

92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

97.

98. 99. 100. 101.

102. 103.

104. 105. 106.

Professionalism: Eisenhower, Ridgway, and the Challenge to Civilian Control, 1953–1955,” JMH 61 (April 1997), 303–34; Don Alan Car ter, “Eisenhower versus the Generals,” JMH 72 (October 2007): 1169–99. Lyal C. Metheny File, Box 10, Bio Files, RG 407. LTG James M. Gavin Oral History, 1975, 45–46, AHEC. LTG George I. Forsythe Oral History, 1974, 329–30, AHEC. Meloy to CSA, Sub: Safeguarding of Official Information. “The G.I.’s Friend,” Time (9 June 1961), cited in http://www.3ad.com /history /at.ease/overseas.weekly/history/articles/time.1961.htm, accessed 7  July 2012. “Letzte Zuflucht,” Der Spiegel 52 (18 December 1967). Al Stump, “A GI Newspaper the Brass Can’t Kill,” True: The Man’s Magazine (July 1967), http://www.3ad.com /history/at.ease/overseas.weekly/history /articles/true.1.1967.htm, accessed 20 October 2013. GEN Charles H. Bonesteel III Oral History, 1973, 272, AHEC. John K. Singlaub with Malcolm McConnell, Hazardous Duty: An American Soldier in the Twentieth Century (New York: Summit Books, 1991), 225. Stump, “A GI Newspaper.” Charles  C. Moskos Jr., The American Enlisted Man: The Rank and File in Today’s Military (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1970), 102. “So Proudly We Hail,” Newsweek (18 July 1966), http://www.3ad.com /history/at .ease/overseas.weekly/history/articles/newsweek.1.1966.htm. Stump, “GI Newspaper.” Desobry Oral History, 5: 36. A Situation Report Regarding Continuation of Agreement to Distribute Overseas Weekly, 3 October 1960, 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. Cyril C. Means to Wilber M. Bruckner, 8 August 1960, 260/32 File, Box 21, CINFO 1960, E UD-84, RG 319; COL Robert V. Shinn to MG William W. Quinn, Sub: Stars and Stripes Distribution of Certain Publications, 8 September 1960, 260/32 File, Box  21, CINFO 1960, E UD-84, RG 319; Memo for Record: Briefing Secretary of Army Regarding Continuation of Agreement to Distribute Overseas Weekly and Overseas Family on Stars and Stripes Newsstands, 3 October 1960, 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319; MG William W. Quinn to Secretary of Army, Sub: Current Views of Mr. Everett  P. Scrivner on Overseas Weekly, 10  November 1960, 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. One of the most interesting aspects of the US Army’s Overseas Weekly files is that there is almost no instance where officials questioned the newspaper’s accuracy. GEN John K. Waters Oral History, 1980, 427, AHEC. Hamlett Oral History, 7: 27–29. GEN Herbert B. Powell Oral History, 1973, 2: 33, AHEC. Zais Oral History, 414.

406

notes to pages 255–257 107. A defense of Pro-Blue acknowledges the distribution of John Birch Society literature; see MAJ Archibald  E. Roberts to COL Alexander  F. Muzyk, 23 April 1961, Archibald E. Roberts Papers, AHEC. 108. Chronology of Events Involving Major General Edwin  A. Walker and the Overseas Weekly, [1961?], Overseas Weekly File 1, Box 55, Norstad Papers, DDEL. 109. Memorandum of Law, [1961], Overseas Weekly File 1, Box  55, Norstad Papers. 110. Archibald E. Roberts, “In Defense of General Walker,” August– September 1961, Roberts Papers. “The Walker Case,” [n.d.], Bruce  C. Clarke Papers, Hoover Institute Archives, Stanford, CA; Lori Lyn Bogle, The Pentagon’s Battle for the American Mind: The Early Cold War (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2004), 146–63; Donald Alan Car ter, Forging the Shield: The U.S. Army in Europe, 1951–1962 (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 2015), 459–61; Christopher S. DeRosa, Political Indoctrination in the U.S. Army from World War II to the Vietnam War (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006), 176–208. 111. Bob Jones, “The Firing of Gen. Edwin A. Walker,” Just Thoughts (22 September 2010), at http://archives.midweek.com /content /columns/justthoughts _article/the_firing _of_gen._edwin_a._walker/, accessed 7 July 2012. 112. USAREUR, Attitude Assessment Branch, Sub: Radio Listening Among USAREUR Personnel, 15 December 1952, Report 113-B, Box 1022, E 94, RG 330. 113. Army Public Information Officer Conference, 25–29 August 1952, 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319; MG Herbert M. Jones to Stewart L. Udall, Sub: Distribution of Recruiting Journal to Radio Stations, 4 October 1957, AG 341, Box  380, E 1002B, RG 407; Sub: Inquiry re “Proudly We Hail” Radio Program, 10 December 1957, AG 341, Box 380, E 1002B, RG 407. 114. Memorandum for Record, Problem: To Change Present Version, 17 March [1951], Crime of Korea Folder, Box 663, E 140, RG 330. 115. CPT Glasser to LTC McCartney, 7 December 1956, Radio and Television File, Box  2, E 554 RG 319; McCartney, Sub: Public Showings of General Taylor’s Film; GEN Maxwell D. Taylor, “The Mission of the United States Army,” script, 27 November 1956, Radio and Television File, Box 2, E 54A RG 319. 116. On Cold War military films, see Peter Biskind, Seeing Is Believing: How Hollywood Taught Us to Stop Worrying and Love the Fifties (New York: Pantheon Books, 1983); Thomas Doherty, Teenagers and Teenpics: The Juvenilization of American Movies in the 1950s, rev. and exp. (Philadelphia:

407

notes to pages 257–260

117. 118. 119. 120. 121.

122.

123. 124. 125. 126. 127.

128. 129.

Temple University Press, 2002), 109–10, 155–56; Lisa M. Mundey, American Militarism and Anti-Militarism in Popular Media, 1945–1970 (Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland & Co., 2012); Lawrence  H. Suid, Guts and Glory: The Making of the American Military Image, rev. ed. (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 2002); Stephen J. Whitfield, The Culture of the Cold War (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1991), 127–51. Army Public Information Officer Conference, 25–29 August 1952, 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. LTC Clair  E. Towne to Orville Crouch, 17  December 1952, F 3, Box  6, DODFC. LTC Clair  E. Towne to Mr.  J. Raymond Bell, 6  February 1953, Mission Over Korea File, Box 708, E 141, RG 330. Kinnard Oral History, 64. LTC Clair  E. Towne to Mr.  J. Raymond Bell, 6  February 1953, Mission Over Korea File, Box 708, E 141, RG 330. LTC H. D. Knight to Director of Public Information, DOD, 19  December 1955, Sub: Review of 20th Century-Fox Shooting Final Screenplay Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, F 32, Box 6, DODFC; Donald E. Baruch to Mr. Frank Ross, 9 August 1956, Kings Go Forth File, Box 23, E 1006, RG 330. LTC Clair E. Towne to Mr. Anatole Litvak, 4 February 1953, Act of Love File, Box 700, E 141, RG 330. Memo For: Rackin, Producer, Melville Goodwin, U.S.A., 7 September 1956, F 8, Box 7, DODFC; MAJ R. T. Carroll to Chief, PID, Sub: Revised Screen Play, The Red Ball Express, 23 October 1951, Red Ball Express File, Box 709, E 141, RG 330. Towne to Crouch, 17 December 1952. OPI to CS AFFE, 27 March 1953, Sub: Ser vice Personnel Participation in Japanese Films, 250 File, Box 48, E 193, RG 554. LTC Clair E. Towne to William F. Broidy, 23 October 1953, Brady Pictures The Counterfeit Story File, Box 4, E 1006, RG 330. LTC Clair E. Towne to Gordon Griffith, 30 October 1952, Act of Love File, Box 700, E 141, RG 330. Suggested Changes for Republic Pictures’ Screenplay, The WAC from Walla Walla, 14 March 1952. Comments on The WAC from Walla Walla, in LTC Clair E. Towne to John Bourke, 31 March 1952, both in WAC from Walla Walla File, Box 687, E 140, RG 330. MG Anthony C. McAuliffe to MAJ H. Orton, Sub: Review of Script, 26 January 1949, MGM Battleground File 2, Box 17, E1006, RG 330. [LTC Clair E.] Towne to Dear John [Horton], [October 1951?]. LTC Thaddeus  P. Floryan, Memorandum for Chief, Motion Pic Sec, Universal Pictures . . . Red Ball Express, 8  October 1951, both in The Red Ball Express File, Box 709, E 141, RG 330. The Red Ball Express was a logistical operation

408

notes to pages 260–264

130. 131. 132.

133.

134. 135.

136.

137. 138.

139. 140. 141.

142. 143.

144.

to provide supplies during the Allied campaign in France during the fall of 1944. Most of the drivers and loading personnel were African Americans. MAJ R. T. Carroll to Chief, PID, Revised Screen Play The Red Ball Express, 23 October 1951, The Red Ball Express File, Box 709, E 141, RG 330. Towne to Litvak, 4 February 1953. LTC  H.  D. Knight, Memorandum for Director, OPI, Review of Frank Ross . . . Screenplay Kings Go Forth, 6 August 1956, Kings Go Forth File, Box 23, E 1006, RG 330. LTC Clair E. Towne to Mr. George Gould, MGM Motion Picture entitled Fearless Fagan, 15 July 1952, (Pvt) Floyd C. Humeston Story File, Box 689, E 140, RG 330. John E. Horton to LTC Clair E. Towne, 3 April 1951, Francis Goes to West Point File, Box 687, E 140, RG 330. CINFO and DOA to All Army Commands, July 1953, Mission Over Korea File, Box 708, E141, RG 330. Barret C. Kiesling to John E. Horton, 2 December 1949, MGM Battleground File 2, Box 17, E 1006, RG 330. MG Floyd L. Parks to [Dean] Martin and [Jerry] Lewis, 5 June 1952 and LTC Clair E. Towne to Hal Wallis, 22 May 1952, Ready, Willing and—Able? File, both in Box 687, E 140, RG 330. G.I. Blues 4th Temporary Script, 15 February 1960, F 4, Box 22, DODFC. LTC  W.  F. McPheron to ASDPA, Sub: Paramount Picture, Café Europa, 7 July 1959, Box 22, DODFC. The original title for G.I. Blues was Café Europa, and it was released in much of Europe under the latter title. LTC Ben W. Legare to ASDPA, Sub: Paramount Pictures: Café Europa, 27 July and 25 August 1959, Box 22, DODFC. Doll, Films of Elvis Presley, 5–6. MAJ William T. Ellington to Robert Denton, 19 July 1960, Box 22, DODFC. Army Public Information Officer Conference, 25–29 August 1952, 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319; Public Opinion Surveys, Attitude of 16 to 20 Year Old Males toward the Military Service as a Career (Princeton, N.J.: Public Opinion Surveys, 1955). RJ (March 1957): 8–9. Memo: Amount Being Expended by Army for Radio and Television Commercials, 24 September 1957, AG 341, Box 380, E 1002B, RG 407. There is no indication that the experience of the McCarthy hearings altered US Army perspectives on television. MG Charles G. Dodge to ASDPA, Sub: Clearance of Material on Viet-Nam, 9  January 1963, 404–01 Files, Box  2, E UD-86, RG 319. DOA to Office CINFO, Sub: Background Fact Sheet on Army TV Series The Big Picture, [1958], 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. For episodes, see Army Pictorial Center, The Big Picture, http://www.armypictorialcenter.com /the_big _picture.htm, accessed 12 July 2012.

409

notes to pages 264–267 145. The Big Picture: Operation Sage Brush (1955), at http://archive.org /details /gov.archives.arc.2569597, accessed 14 July 2012. 146. LTC William Gardner Bell, “What’s TV Got Against the Army?” Armor 70 (May–June 1961): 4–9. 147. MG Herbert M. Jones to Jane Wyatt, 6 January 1958, Sub: Commendations in Connection with Army’s Float in 1958 Tournament of Roses Parade, AG 341, Box 380, E 1002B, RG 407. “Drafted,” I Love Lucy, Episode 11, Season 1, Showing date: 24 December 1951, written by Jess Oppenheimer, Madelyn Davis, Bob Carroll Jr., director: Mac Daniels. 148. “This Ain’t the Way We Used to Do It,” The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis, CBS, Episode 36, Season 2, Showing date: 27 June 1961, written by Stanley Z. Cherry, director: Stanley Z. Cherry. 149. Donald E. Baruch to Thomas M. Johnson, 20 May 1957. Keith E. Corson to Donald Baruch, 23 November 1956, both in Miscellaneous Television Producers Correspondence 1956–57 File, Box 36, E NND 947578, RG 330. 150. BG William P. Yarborough to Director, Surfside-6, 22 March 1962, 245/5 File, Box 1, CINFO 1962, E UD-84, RG 319. At the Army’s request, the episode was retitled “Operation Cut Throat,” see BG C. V. Underwood to BG William P. Yarborough, 10 May 1962, 245/5 File, Box 1, CINFO 1962, E UD84, RG 319. 151. LTC Edward M. Strode, Memorandum for Director, OPI, You’ll Never Get Rich Script #28, 31 January 1956, CBS Television File, Box 5, E 1006, RG 330. The original title for the series was You’ll Never Get Rich. 152. LTC  H.  D. Knight, Memorandum, You’ll Never Get Rich, 7  March  1956, CBS Television File, Box 5, E 1006, RG 330. 153. COL Daniel Parker to AV Division, OPI, Memorandum, Attached Script, 9 April 1958, CBS Television File, Box 5, E 1006, RG 330. “The Court Martial,” The Phil Silvers Show, Episode 25, Season 1, Showing date: 6 March 1956, written by Nat Hiken, Coleman Jacoby, and Arnie Rosen, director: Al De Caprio. 154. COL Robert V. Shinn, Memorandum for ASDPA, Sub: Phil Silvers Show— Program #127, 31  December 1958, CBS Television File, Box  5, E 1006, RG 330. 155. COL Robert  V. Shinn, Memorandum for ASDPA, Sub: Bilko Script #142, “Week-End Colonel,” 11 May 1959. On OPI receiving scripts late, see COL Daniel Parker to AV Division, OPI, Attn: Captain Marley, Memorandum, 9 April 1958, both in CBS File, Box 5, E 1006, RG 330. 156. COL Bertram Kalish, Memo for the Record, 2 January 1959, CBS Television File, Box 5, E 1006, RG 330. 157. Ibid.

410

notes to pages 267–271 158. Proposed Remarks, CINFO, Army Commander’s Conference—1963, 403-01 Files, Box 2, E UD-86, RG 319. “Mark of a Man,” RJ (September 1962): 2, 7. On post-Vietnam US Army public relations, see Beth Bailey, Amer ica’s Army: Making the All-Volunteer Force (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2007).

9. THE RENOVATION OF THE AMERICAN SOLDIER 1. Trailer for G.I. Blues, 1960, at https://www.youtube.com /watch? v =VTT05Iyf -Js, accessed 23 March 2015. 2. Susan Doll, The Films of Elvis Presley (Lincolnwood, Ill.: Publications International, 1991), 4–6; Peter Guttmacher, Elvis! Elvis! Elvis! The King and His Movies (New York: Metro Books, 1997), 35–42. 3. GEN Charles Bolte, “The Role of the Army in a Changing World” (lecture, AWC, 22 August 1954), AHEC. 4. LTC James D. Wilmeth, “Russians Are Not Forty Feet Tall,” MR 34 (October 1954): 6. 5. LTC Duane S. Cason, “Introduction to the New Armored Division,” Armor 66 (November–December 1957): 11. 6. COL Glover S. Johns, “Taking the Army’s Case to the Public,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. 7. Roger Price, “Advice to Young Men on How to Get into the Army,” Mad 25 (September 1955): 50. 8. MG John  A. Klein, Sub: Summary of Character Guidance Information, 1 October 1954, 250.1 Morals and Conduct File, Box 93, E 5, RG 547. 9. MG Harry  P. Storke, Remarks at Army Information Officers’ Conference, 1 December 1958, 337 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. 10. Charles C. Moskos Jr., The American Enlisted Man: The Rank and File in Today’s Military (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1970), 196. CPT Robert A. Tolar, “A Comparison of the Firepower of the US and Soviet Infantry Division,” SP, 1952–1953, DRL. 11. Information Please, [1951], Historical Activities File 17E, 82nd AbnD, Box 29, E NC3-38-81-4, RG 338. 12. Cited in MG Garrison Davidson to All Officers of the Command, Sub: The Moral Element of Training, 22 March 1955, Box 17, E UD3, RG 546. 13. Maxwell D. Taylor, Remarks at Conference of Civilian Aides to the Secretary of the Army, 6 April 1956, File 2, Box 1, Winant Sidle Papers, AHEC. 14. The Role of the Judge Advocate in Character Guidance, HQ AFFE/8A, Sub: Minutes of the Meeting . . . Character Guidance Council, 6 July 1956, File 330.11, Box 902, E 193, RG 554.

411

notes to pages 271–273 15. LTC Heinz P. Rand, “Mental Conditioning of the Soldier for Nuclear War,” in Selected Readings in Leadership in Higher Commands, 15 August 1960, CGSC, Box 39, RG 498. 16. LTC Henry R. Seivers, “Development and Maintenance of Combat Morale,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. 17. COL Harold  C. Lyon to Chief, Sub: Senior NCO Symposium, 1  October 1956, in AGO 300.6 File, Box 2, E 54 A1, RG 319. 18. COL Wilbur Wilson, “Development and Maintenance of Combat Morale,” 14 March 1955, AWCSP. 19. COL Frank Colacicco, “National Will to Fight,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP. 20. COL Powell A. Fraser, “Ser vice in the Army and the Mind of Youth Today,” 25 January 1960, AWCSP. COL Richard W. Whitney, “A Fighting Heart for the Army’s New Look,” MR 35 (April 1955): 3–17; LTC Henry R. Seivers, “Development and Maintenance of Combat Morale,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. 21. MG William E. Bergin to All Army Commands, Sub: Character Guidance Council Activities, 8 January 1954, 250.1 Morals and Conduct File, Box 93, E 5, RG 547. MG John A. Klein, Sub: Public Opinion Survey, 15 March 1956, AG 330.11 Morale and Welfare File, Box 410, E 1002A, RG 407. 22. HQ, Assistant Army Adjutant General, Circular 10, 18 March 1902, cited in ANJ 39 (29 March 1902): 747. 23. Quoted in Anne C. Loveland, “Character Education in the U.S. Army, 1947– 1977,” JMH 64 (July 2000): 797. On army social engineering programs, see Lori Lyn Bogle, The Pentagon’s Battle for the American Mind: The Early Cold War (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2004); Christopher S. DeRosa, Political Indoctrination in the U.S. Army from World War II to the Vietnam War (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2006). After several Pentagon reorganizations, the Troop Information and Education Division (TIED) was placed under the Office of the Chief of Information in 1950. It was designated the Troop Information Division (TID) in 1956 after education was transferred to the Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Personnel. For purposes of convenience, both TIED and TID will be referred to as TID. 24. AR 355-20 (23 October 1959), Troop Introduction and Education, in AGO 11 File, Box 1, E 54 A1, RG 319. 25. MG Gilman C. Mudgett, Notes on Army Information Program, [August 1955], enc. to MG Joseph H. Harper, 14 April 1955, AGO 350, Box 20, CINFO 1955, E NND 957387, RG 319. 26. MG Guy S. Meloy, Statement before the Department of Defense Subcommittee (Army), [1957], Box 4, E 54 A1, RG 319. 27. BG George V. Underwood, “Public Understanding and the Army Information Program” (lecture, AWC, 15 April 1963), AHEC.

412

notes to pages 273–276 28. CPT Anthony  P. Glasser to LTC Coakley, Sub: Guided Missile Center Study Project “Disgruntled,” 10 July 1956, AGO 300.6 File, Box 2, E 54 A1, RG 319. 29. Donald  E. Finberg, Sub: The Troop Information Program in Europe, 20 March 1958, 353 File, Box 28, CINFO 1958, E UD-84, RG 319. Frank H. Bowles. Sub: The Information Program of the Armed Forces, 1956, AGO 000.71 File, Box 1, E 54 A1, RG 319; “Draftee in a Peacetime Army,” Life 39 (11 July 1955): 98. 30. Draft Address, [1948], Citizenship and Morality Lectures File, Box 417, E 1, RG 247. Rodger R. Venzke, Confidence in Battle, Inspiration in Peace: The United States Army Chaplaincy, 1945–1975 (Washington,  D.C.: Office of the Chief of Chaplains, Department of the Army, 1977), 39–44. The Character Guidance Program overlapped with Troop Information and Education, including having the same personnel as authors, administrators, and instructors. Troop Information officers were part of the Character Guidance Councils. 31. Lesson Plan: Character Guidance, in OCAFF to Commandants et al., Sub: Character Guidance Program, 7 April 1953, Box 3, E UD3, RG 546. 32. MG Herbert M. Jones, Sub: CSA Letter on Character Guidance, 29 August 1958, AG 250.01 Morals & Conduct File, Box 272, E 1002A, RG 407. Chaplain’s Report in DivHQ, Command Report 1952, 11th AbnD, Box 19, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; DOA to CINCs and CGs, Sub: Character Guidance Council Activities, 8 January 1954, 330.11 File, Box 254, E 193, RG 554. 33. Annual Historical Report, 1  July 1954–30  June 1955, Historical Division, HQUSAREUR, Historical Manuscript Files 8-3.1 CL, CMH Library. 34. MG H. P. Storke [CINFO], “The United States Army and Its Information Program” (lecture, Information Officers Conference, 2  December 1957), Box 3, E 55A, RG 319. 35. DOA, Foreword, Duty-Honor- Country Series I, Pamphlet 16-5, February 1957, AG 330.11 1/1/56 Cases Only File, Box 410, E 1002A, RG 407. 36. COL J. A. Elterich, to Chief of Chaplains, Sub: Character Guidance Pamphlets, 5 December 1951, Box 517, E1, RG 247. Character Guidance Discussion Topics: One Nation, Under God, Series I-1957, AG 330.11 1/1/56 File, Box 410, E 1002A, RG 407. 37. Chaplain Martin  H. Scharlemann to HQ, Carlisle Barracks, 18  February 1947, Citizenship and Morality Lectures File 330.11, Box 401, E 1, RG 247. 38. USARAL Staff Conference, 10 May 1955, Box 218, E UD-5, RG 547. LTG James  F. Collins, Sub: Letter on Character Guidance, 13  June 1958, AG 250.01 Morals & Conduct File, Box 272, E 1002A, RG 407; Conference of General Staff, 10 March 1955, 2nd ID, Box 48, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338;

413

notes to pages 277–279

39.

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45.

46.

47. 48.

49. 50. 51.

Annual General Inspection, 23rd IR, FY 1957, 17 January 1957, Box 222, E UD-5, RG 547; Chaplain, Sub: Second Quarter Program Review, 7 March 1957, 1st CavD, Box 40, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. LTG John R. Hodge, untitled memo, enc. in DA AGO to CINC and CGs, Sub: Character Guidance Council Activities, 9  October 1953, 330.11 File, Box 65, E 193, RG 554. Office AG to CINC and CGs, Sub: Character Guidance Council Activities, 1 October 1954, 330.11 File, Box 254, E 193, RG 554. MG John  A. Klein, Sub: Character Guidance Council Activities, 12  July 1954, 250.1 Morals and Conduct File, Box 93, E 5, RG 547. USAFFE to CGs, Sub: Character Guidance Activities, 24 June 1954, 330.11 File, Box 254, E 193, RG 554. Bergin to All Army Commands. COL B. J. Brown to Chief of Staff, Sub: Revision of Army Regulations 15120 Character Guidance, 23 August 1955, 250.1 Permanent Morals Conduct File, Box 126, E 5, RG 547. HQ AFFE/8A, Sub: Character Guidance Activities, 23  July 1956, File 330.11, Box 902, E 193, RG 554; USAFFE/8A, Sub: Minutes of the Meeting of the . . . Character Guidance Council, 2  October 1956, File 330.11, Box 902, E 193, RG 554; HQ Ryukus Command and 9th Corps, Minutes of Command Character Guidance Council, 11 October 1956, File 330.11, Box 902, E 193, RG 554. “Taylor Says Soldiers Must Be Men of Faith,” NYT, 23 March 1953), 3. On Taylor’s promotion of character guidance, see LTG Maxwell  D. Taylor to COL Charles B. Duff, [May 1954], 330.11 File, Box 254, E 193, RG 554. For a sample of one year’s complaints of improper command influence on religious practice, see LTC Edward N. Hathaway to Walter F. George, 21 June 1956; LTC Edward  N. Hathaway to Harry  F. Byrd, 28  September 1956; BG J. E. Bastion to George H. Bender, 24 May 1956, all in AG 330.14 Criticism 1/2/55–1/3/55 Cases File, Box 410, E 1002A, RG 407. Klein, “Summary of Character Guidance Information.” LTG Thomas F. Hickey to Dear General ____, [June 1954], Box 254, E 193, RG 554. USAFFE to CGs, 24 June 1954, Sub: Character Guidance Activities, 330.11 File, Box  254, E 193, RG 554; COL Russell  C. Harpole to CG, AFFE, Sub: Character Guidance Councils, 4 November 1954, 330.11 File, Box 254, E 193, RG 554. Ralph E. Haines Jr., Oral History, 1976, 26–27, AHEC. HQ, 1st ID, Unit Commanders Conference, February 1954, Box  46, E 338-81-14, RG 338. “Recollection and Reflections” MS, 439, Box 1, John A. Seitz Papers, AHEC.

414

notes to pages 279–282 52. LTC Joffre  H. Boston, “German-United States Relations:  U.S. Troops in Germany,” 10 February 1961, AWCSP. 53. Archibald E. Roberts, “In Defense of General Walker,” August– September 1961, Archibald E. Roberts Papers, AHEC. 54. GEN George  H. Decker to GEN Guy  S. Meloy, 1  December 1961, LTG Myers 250 File, Box 301, E A1 298, RG 338. On the Walker Affair, see Bogle, Pentagon’s Battle, 146–48; DeRosa, Political Indoctrination, 176–86. 55. J. Ronald Oakley, God’s Country: Amer ica in the Fifties (New York: Barricade, 1990), 319–27; James  T. Patterson, Grand Expectations: The United States, 1945–1974 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996), 328–33. 56. Office G-1, Army Progress Report 11-A: Ser vices (30 June 1954), 15. President’s Committee on Religion and Welfare, Sub: First Draft of Chaplaincy Report, 16 June 1950, Box 1414, E 115, RG 330; Johns, “Taking the Army’s Case.” 57. Howard Whitman, “What Soldiers Believe,” Colliers 127 (2 June 1951): 18– 19, 68–71. DOD, Research Divisions, Sub: The Fort Devens Soldier and the Civilian Community, May 1953, Report 131-348, Box 1009, E 93, RG 330; Character Guidance Lectures Chaplain, Sub: Second Quarter Program Review, 7 March 1957, 1st CavD, Box 40, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; USARH, Staff Office Report: Chaplain, July– September 1961, Box 10, E UD-17, RG 550; Haines Oral History, 1: 27. 58. Lesson Plan: Character Guidance. Capitalization in original. Venereal Disease Control, USARPAC, Circular #171, 30 September 1953, Box 5, E 184, RG 550. 59. LTC Charles  J. Murphy, Memorandum for Chaplain, 21  November 1952, Character Guidance 3 File, Box 517, E 1, RG 247. 60. COL R. G. Prentiss Jr., to G1, DOA, Sub: Venereal Disease Reporting, 5 August 1954, Character Guidance 7 1957 File, Box 570, E 1 RG 247. 61. MG Silas B. Hays, “Medical Aspects of Combat in the 1965–70 Period” (lecture, AWC, 21 January 1959), AHEC. 62. COL David W. Hayes, “Quality of Personnel in the Atomic Army,” 26 March 1956, AWCSP. Klein, “Public Opinion Survey.” 63. LTC Gerald  A. Bergin, Sub: Reassignment of EM Sentenced to Confinement, 16 April 1953, 253 File, Box 48, E 193, RG 554. Army Semi-Annual Statistical Report, 1 January–30 June 1953, Army and Air Force Prisoners, Box 3, E 439C, RG 390; Klein, Summary of Character Guidance Information; AFF Inspection Team, Report of Army Field Forces Inspection of European Command, October 1951, 333.144, Box 41, E 55B, RG 337; HQ USAFFE, Minutes of Character Guidance Council, 17  June 1954, 330.11 File, Box 254, E 193, RG 554.

415

notes to pages 282–287 64. Hanson Baldwin, “Training at Fort Dix-II,” NYT, 6  July 1955. Lloyd  R. Moses, Whatever It Takes (Vermillion: University of South Dakota Press, 1991), 274–75. 65. COL John L. Chamberlain to Darrell J. Inabnit, Sub: Statement for Armed Forces Education Program Committee, 25 October 1954, Visits 1954 File, Box  435, E 287, RG 319; “Public Information—Troop Information and Education” (lecture AWC, 23 November 1953), AHEC; BG T. S. Riggs to Eleanor Roosevelt, 9 November 1955, AGO 000.7 File, Box 1, E 54 A1, RG 319. 66. “The Army’s Stake in Education” MS, 1961, Box 2, Lloyd R. Moses Papers, AHEC. 67. “Quality Education at a Bargain Price— On-Duty Program Establishes Specific Educational Levels” TLN (2 August 1956). 68. Pvt Lawrence G. Seureau, Sub: How to Take Advantage of Post Educational and Recreational Programs, 14 April 1960, Orderly’s Views File, CG 101st Abn Div Correspondence (1960), Box 36, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 69. Sp4 Allan  R. Ash, Sub: How to Take Advantage of Post Educational and Recreational Programs, 25 February 1960, Orderly’s Views File, CG 101st Abn Div Correspondence (1960), Box 36, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 70. “Quality Education at a Bargain Price.” LTC Byron K. King, Sub: NCO Education Program, HQ USAREUR, CIC Weekly Staff Conference #2, 17 January 1956, 337/250/16 Organization Planning Files, Box  531, E 2135, RG 549; COL John  L. Chamberlain, Report of Staff Visit, 9  June 1953, Visits 1953 File, Box 435, E 287, RG 319; Chamberlain to Inabnit. 71. King, “NCO Education Program.” 72. USAEUR School Catalog, 17  December 1955, USAREUR Manual 350– 205, E 33043, EUCOM, RG 338; Maxwell D. Taylor, “The Army At Home and Abroad” (speech, 10 December 1956), File 2, Box 1, Winant Sidle Papers, AHEC. 73. 5th Corps Commanders Conference, 26  July 1956, Conferences File, 2nd ArD, Box 5, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. Report of the Armed Forces Disciplinary Control Board, 17 August 1954, 250 Discipline Book #1 File, Box 93, E 5, RG 547; Gerhard Fürmetz, “Insolent Occupiers, Aggressive Protectors: Policing GI Delinquency in Early 1950s West Germany,” in GIs in Germany: The Social, Economic, Cultural and Political History of the American Military Presence, ed. Thomas  W. Maulucci Jr.  and Detlef Junker (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013): 189–211. 74. Marion  T. Wood, “We Treat Our Military Shabbily,” SEP 238 (January  16 1965): 10. 75. Charles Vanderburgh, “A Draftee’s Diary from the Mississippi Front,” Harper’s 228 (February 1964): 42. On negative attitudes to southern posts, see

416

notes to pages 287–289

76.

77.

78.

79. 80.

81.

82.

83.

84. 85.

DOD, OAFIE, Research Division, Sub: The Ser viceman and the Civilian Community, August 1953, Report 138-348, Box 1009, E 93, RG 330. DOD, OAFIE, Research Division, Sub: Soldier and Columbia,  S.C., September 1952, Report 130-348, Box 1009, E 93, RG 330. Attitude Research Branch, Sub: The Camp Polk Soldier and Leesville, La., August 1953, Report 134-348, Box  1009, E 93, RG 330; Andrew Herbert Myers, “Black, White, and Olive Drab: Military-Social Relations during the Civil Rights Movement at Fort Jackson and in Columbia, South Carolina” (Ph.D. diss. 1993, University of Virginia). Oral History, 1978, 255, Box  69, William  C. Westmoreland Collection, AHEC. Complaint of Relationship between the Military at Ft. Knox and the Kentucky State Police File, 5 January 1956, AGO 250, Central Decimal Files, 1955–56, Box 271, RG 407; Command Report 1952, 11th AbnD, Box 19, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; Catherine Lutz, Homefront: A Military City and the American Twentieth Century (Boston: Beacon Press, 2001), 119. MG Joseph P. Cleland to LTG Alexander R. Bolling, 14 June 1955. LTG Alexander R. Bolling to “Dear Joe [MG Joseph P. Cleland],” 14 June 1955, both in AGO 291.2 File, Box 13, Entry NND 957387, RG 319. Larry D. Hill Interview, 29 November 2015. TLN (23  February 1956); Samuel  W. King to LTG John  W. O’ Daniel, 26 January 1954 and LTG Bruce C. Clarke to Samuel W. King, 1 March 1955, both in Army— Commanding General Pacific, GOV11–25, Governor’s Files, Samuel W. King, State of Hawaii Archives, Honolulu, Hawaii. Klein, Summary of Character Guidance Information. CPT T. B. Dugan to Chairman, Personnel Policy Board, Sub: Special Ser vices, 28  April 1950, Special Ser vices Folder, Box 1417, E 115, RG 330; What the 1957 Soldier Thinks: A Digest of Attitude and Opinion Studies (Washington,  D.C.: US Army Adjutant General’s Office, 1958). Role of the Special Ser vices, in USAFFE/8A, Sub: Minutes of the Meeting of the . . . Character Guidance Council, 2  October 1956, File 330.11, Box 902, E 193, RG 554; Klein, Character Guidance Council Activities; Annual Historical Report, 1 July 1954–30 June 1955; COL C. A. O’Reilly, HQ USAREUR, CIC Weekly Staff Conference #11, 19 April, 1956, 337/250/16 Organization Planning Files, Box 531, E 2135, RG 549. “Kaala Popularity Grows as Troops ‘Play It Cool’ ” TLN (19 January 1956). “USO Shows, Special Events Marked Entertainment Year,” TLN (7 January 1960): 11. Ibid.; “Post Activities,” TLN (16 February 1956). Henry  G. Gole, Soldiering: Observations from Korea, Vietnam, and Safe Places (Dulles, Va.: Potomac Books, 2005), 45. Leon Oscar Anderson Questionnaire, 19 October 2000, in author’s possession.

417

notes to pages 290–294 86. Mell Tillis, “Stateside,” Stateside LP, Kapp Records, release date 1966. 87. Tom T. Hall, “Salute to a Switchblade,” I Witness Life LP, Mercury Records, release date 1970. 88. MG Herbert M. Jones to Stewart L. Udall, Sub: Distribution of Recruiting Journal to Radio Stations, 4 October 1957, AG 341, Box 380, E 1002B, RG 407. 89. USAREUR, Attitude Assessment Branch, Sub: Radio Listening among USAREUR Personnel, 15 December 1952, Report 113-B, Box 1022, E 94, RG 330. 90. Uta Poiger, Jazz, Rock, and Rebels: Politics and American Culture in Divided Germany (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000); Jack Niles and Jim Dye, More Mox Nix (Kassel: Hessiche Druck und Verlagsanstadt, 1955), 14–17; Patrick Morley, This Is Armed Forces Network: The AngloAmerican Battle of the Airwaves (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2001), 130–35. My thanks to Karsten Grossmann and Daniel  W. Best of www.gidisco.de. During my residency at the American Academy in Berlin in spring 2014, the story of the Baron’s mock feud was told to me on two separate occasions by Germans who had been devout AFN listeners in the 1950s. 91. American Traveler (14 April 1955), First Division Museum, Cantigny, Ill.; “Jungle Queen to Highlight Hello Show,” TLN (7 January 1960): 2; Larry D. Hill Interview; USARHAW, Staff Office Report: Office of Special Ser vices, October–December 1962, Box  10, E UD-17, RG 550; Boston, “GermanUnited States Relations.” 92. Annual Historical Report, 1 July 1954–30 June 1955. For similar statistics in the following year, see COL C. A. O’Reilly, HQ USAREUR, CIC Weekly Staff Conference #11, 19  April, 1956, 337/250/16 Organization Planning Files, Box 531, E 2135, RG 549. 93. Quarterly Historical Report, Special Ser vices Section, 31 March 1955, Security Classified Command Reports—8th Army, 1955–57, Box 2, RG 407. 94. CG Official Correspondence 1  April  56 to 30  April  56 File, 101st AbnD, Box 35, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 95. “Engr’s Gyro-Guitarist from AFN Radio” American Traveler (31  March 1955), First Division Museum. 96. 1st Infantry Division, 41st Anniversary (Fort Riley, Kans.: n.p., 1958), First Division Museum. 97. Zais Interview, 318. 98. George A. Cahill, “ARADCOM’s Hawk and Hercules,” RJ (September 1957): 8–9. 99. See, for example, The Ranger (5th Army HQ weekly newspaper), issues 1953–1954; American Traveler, 1954 issues, Box 46, E 338-81-14, RG 338; TLN, issues 1954–1957.

418

notes to pages 294–298 100. LTG Bruce C. Clarke, “The 7th U.S. Army and Allied Operations in Germany” (lecture, AWC, 12 March 1957), AHEC. 101. Course 5, Committee #10, “Enlisted Personnel Management,” 18 December 1953, Box 1953/1954–6, AHEC. GEN Car ter B. Magruder to Lyman Lemnitzer, 2 July 1960, Magruder File, Box 301, E A1 293, RG 338. 102. Chaplain Lecture to Officers and Non- Commissioned Officers [1947?], Box 416, E 1, RG 247. 103. William Goldman, Soldier in the Rain (New York: Dell, 1963), 226. Commanders Conference, 26 November 1955, Command Conferences 1955 File, 1st CavD, Box 40, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338. 104. LTG James B. Vaught Oral History, 1987, 1: 114, AHEC. 105. E. J. Kahn, “West Point,” Holiday 6 (September 1949), 53. 106. “Grandpa Gar” MS, 170–74, Garrison Davidson Papers, AHEC; Arthur  S. Collins Oral History, 1: 197–211, AHEC; Lance Betros, Carved from Granite: West Point since 1902 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2012), 188–191. 107. “Grandpa Gar,” 192–93. BG John A. Klein to Chiefs and CGs, Sub: Assignment and Utilization of Athletes, Entertainers, and Other Nationally Known Personnel, 24 May 1954, 220.3 File, Box 3, E 55F, RG 337; GEN Herbert B. Powell Oral History, 1973, 1: 6: 22–23, AHEC; Pvt Charles A. Bonds, Sub: How to Maintain and Improve Combat Readiness, 19 May 1960, Orderly’s Views File, CG 101st Abn Div Correspondence (1960), Box 36, E NC3-33881-14, RG 338. 108. COL  C.  A. O’Reilly, HQ USAREUR, CIC Weekly Staff Conference #11, 19 April, 1956, #337/250/16 Organization Planning Files, Box 531, E 2135, RG 549; USAREUR, Welfare and Morale Ser vices Program 1957, E 33045, RG 338; CG Remarks, 16 April 1956, Command Conferences 1956 File, 1st CavD, Box 40, E NC3-338-81-14, RG 338; GEN Carter B. Magruder to Lyman Lemnitzer, 2 July 1960, Magruder File, Box 301, E A1 293, RG 338. 109. Annual Historical Report, 1 July 1954–30 June 1955. In USAREUR, there were twenty elite regimental and area command teams in each of the three major sports (football, baseball, and basketball), in contrast to the average of 1,700 company-level teams in each of these sports. 110. “The Regulars” MS, 389–80, Donald A. Siebert Papers, AHEC. BG Robert H. Booth to Major Thomas N. Courvoisie, Sub: Division Artillery Baseball Team, 12 March 1956, Box 8, Robert H. Booth Papers, AHEC.

10. NEXT STOP IS VIETNAM? 1. LTG John C. Oakes, “An Army View of a National Military Strategic Concept” (lecture, AWC, 10 May 1960), AHEC.

419

notes to pages 299–302 2. ST 100-5-1, Field Ser vice Regulations, Operations, June 1960, CGSC, Box 39, RG 498. Course 5, Committee #9, “Concept of Future Operations and Organization,” 3 March 1960, Box 1959/60-5, AHEC; Remarks to Veterans of Foreign Wars Convention, 23 August 1960, Box 2, Lyman L. Lemnitzer Papers, AHEC. 3. On Kennedy’s defense policy and the US Army, see Lawrence Freedman, Kennedy’s Wars: Berlin, Cuba, Laos, and Vietnam (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000); Lawrence Kaplan, Ronald  D. Landa, and Edward  J. Drea, History of the Office of the Secretary of Defense, vol. 5, The McNamara Ascendency, 1961–1965 (Washington,  D.C.: Historical Office of the Secretary of Defense, 2006); Deborah Shapley, Promise and Power: The Life and Times of Robert McNamara (Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1993); Russell F. Weigley, History of the U.S. Army (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1984), 538–51. On Taylor and flexible response, see Maxwell D. Taylor, The Uncertain Trumpet (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1959). 4. MG C. G. Dodge to DCSOPS, Sub: Role of the Army in General Nuclear War, 21 December 1962, 260/32 Files, Box 1, E UD-86, RG 319. 5. Purpose of Project MAN, 1960, 260/32 File, Box 14, CINFO 1960, E UD84, RG 319. 6. LTG Paul D. Adams to GEN Herbert B. Powell, 17 January 1961, Letters and Memoranda, 1955–1966, File 5, Paul D. Adams Papers, AHEC. 7. MG Ben Harrell, Address . . . before the Fifth Tripartite Infantry Conference, 31  December 1962, Tripartite Conference File, Box  46, E UD-9, RG 546. 8. USACDC, Evaluation of ROAD Organization, 15 July 1964, Box 78, E 26, RG 546. Walter E. Kretchik, U.S. Army Doctrine: From the American Revolution to the War on Terror (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2011), 177–80; John B. Wilson, Maneuver and Firepower: The Evolution of Divisions and Separate Brigades (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 1998), 291–322. 9. Oral History, 1977, 3: 617, John A. Heintges Papers, AHEC. Director of Evaluation to CSA, Outlines of Basic Report . . . ROAD Organization, 15  June 1965, Box 80, E 26, RG 546. 10. HQ, DOA, FM 100-5: Field Ser vice Regulations: Operations (February 1962). Kretchik, U.S. Army Doctrine, 180–86. 11. MG Gerd S. Grombacher Oral History, 1985, 99, AHEC. Andrew J. Birtle, U.S. Army Counterinsurgency and Contingency Operations Doctrine, 1942–1976 (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 2006); Douglas S. Blaufarb, The Counterinsurgency Era: U.S. Doctrine and Per formance, 1950 to the Present (New York: Free Press, 1977), 52–88; James  N. Giglio, The

420

notes to pages 302–306

12.

13. 14. 15.

16.

17. 18. 19. 20.

21. 22. 23.

Presidency of John F. Kennedy (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 1991), 221–54. CONARC, Intensified Combat Training Program for the Infantry Division Battle Group, 6 July 1961, Box 6, E 125 UDWW, RG 546; CMDT USIS to CG, CONARC, Sub: Counterguerrilla Warfare Training Reports, 20  September 1962, Guerrilla Warfare File, USIS, Box 81, RG 498; MG William B. Rosson, “Roles and Activities of the U.S. Army in Counterinsurgency” (lecture, AWC, 20  December 1962), AHEC; Lyman  L. Lemnitzer, Memo for President, Sub: Counterguerrilla Warfare Training, 14  March  1961, DOD Subjects: Special Warfare 2–5/61 File, Box 279, NSFDA, JFKL. MG George O. N. Lodoen, “Army Logistics” (lecture, AWC, 23 March 1960), AHEC. Oral History, 1972, 4: 5, Box 4, Car ter B. Magruder Papers, AHEC. LTG Robert  W. Colglazier, Statement before the Department of Defense Subcommittee on Appropriations, House of Representatives, [May 1961], 260/32 File, Box 3, CINFO 1960, E UD-84, RG 319. LTC George B. Lundberg, “Armed Forces in General War, 1970,” 9 March 1962, AWCSP; GEN Car ter B. Magruder to Dear Bob [LTG Robert W. Colglazier], 1 March 1961, Magruder File, Box 301, E A1 298, RG 338. GEN James  E. Moore, “Address to Annual Meeting of AUSA,” 9  October 1962, Box 2, James E. Moore Papers, AHEC. Donald Alan Car ter, Forging the Shield: The U.S. Army in Europe, 1951–1962 (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 2015), 446–49. LTG Charles  B. Duff, “The US Army Air Defense Command” (lecture, AWC 7 January 1964), AHEC. “Recollection and Reflections” MS, 3: 397, Box  1, John  A. Seitz Papers, AHEC. GEN Charles H. Bonesteel III Oral History, 1973, 307, AHEC. BG George V. Underwood, “Public Understanding and the Army Information Program” (lecture, AWC, 15 April 1963), AHEC. Information for General Clifton Regarding Helicopters in Southeast Asia, [1962], and Lyman L. Lemnitzer, Memorandum for the President, Sub: Helicopter Requirements for the Military Departments, 13 June 1962, both in Box 277, NSFDA, JFKL; Frederic A. Bergerson, The Army Gets an Air Force: Tactics of Insurgent Bureaucratic Politics (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1980), 104–20. CPT E. M. Kelley to CG, CONARC, Sub: Report of Visit, 18 March 1963, Box 1, E UD-WW 124, RG 546. CSA to DCS Logistics, 22 March 1963, Box 1, E UD-WW 124, RG 546. Comptroller General of the US, Report: Combat Readiness of Aircraft . . . Impaired by Inadequate Maintenance at Fort Hood, Texas, June 1964, File

421

notes to pages 308–311

24. 25.

26. 27.

28.

29. 30. 31. 32.

33.

34. 35. 36. 37.

6/19/64–6/25/64, Box  169 EX FG, LBJL; LTG Albert Watson to GEN John K. Waters, 11 October 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. MG L. E. Seeman to LTG C. G. Dodge, 20 August 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. Depot Supply Support Effectiveness, 3d and  4th Quarters FY 1963, in LTG C. G. Dodge to GEN John S. Waters, 4 October 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. LTG Robert W. Colglazier, “Logistical Support for the Army in the Field” (lecture, AWC, 14 February 1962), AHEC. MG Ben Harrell to GEN Herbert B. Powell, 23 March 1962, GOC Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546; A. J. Glass, “M-14 Rifle: Best Army Rifle in the World—or a Major Ordnance Blunder,” New York Herald Tribune (26 June 1961), and Office Chief of Research and Development, Combat Materiel Division, Fact Sheet, Sub: M14 Rifle Article by Mr. A. J. Glass, 27 June 1961, 27 June 1961; MG G. C. Carlson to CSA, Sub: Article Concerning the Army’s M-14 Rifle, 28  June 1961; LTC  D.  P. McAuliffe, Sub: M-14 Rifle, 28 June 1961, File 5–7/61, all in 5–7/61 File, Box 269, NSFDA, JFKL. J. R. Moskin, “The Shocking Story of Our Army in Korea: Forgotten, Lonely, and Unready,” Look 24 (1 March 1960): 23, see also 19–27. The “Joe” reference was shorthand for “Joe Chink,” the GI term for communist Chinese and North Koreans. GEN Isaac D. White to GEN Car ter Magruder, 19 August 1960, White File, Box 301, E A1 298, RG 338. GEN Car ter B. Magruder to Lyman Lemnitzer, 2 July 1960, Magruder File, Box 301, E A1 293, RG 338. Magruder to Dear Bob. GEN Donald V. Bennett Oral History, 1976, 2: 7: 4, AHEC. BG J. D. Stevens to CG 8A, Sub: Air Defense Plan for Korea, [July 1961], Russell File, Box 301, E A1 298, RG 338. Comptroller General of the US, Report: Adverse Effects of Inefficient Supply Management . . . 8th US Army, Korea, July 1964, File 6/26/64–7/24/64, Box 170 EX FG, LBJL. COL Hubert D. Thomte, “Administrative Support of the Army in the Field, 1975–1980” (lecture and discussion, AWC, 1 March 1963), AHEC. GEN Guy S. Meloy to GEN James F. Collins, 16 January 1963, Meloy File, Box 302, E A1 298, RG 338. COL Samuel H. Hays to MG Ben Harrell, 19 November 1962, Box 82, E UD-9, RG 546. MG Clifton F. von Kann to MG Ben Harrell, 30 November 1962, Box 82, E UD-9, RG 546.

422

notes to pages 311–315 38. Guy S. Meloy to “Dear Ham” [Hamilton H. Howze], 14 June 1963, Meloy File, Box 302, E A1 298, RG 338. 39. David Boroff, “West Point: Ancient Incubator for a New Breed,” Harper’s 225 (December 1962): 59. BG William W. Bessell, Memo to Members of the Academic Board, 23 August 1961, File 63D/2, Box 63, George A. Lincoln Papers, USMAA; Institutional Self-Examination, (November 1958), USMAA; An Institutional Self-Evaluation of the  U.S.M.A. (USMA, Office of the Dean, 1969), USMAA; Lance Betros, Carved from Granite: West Point Since 1902 (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2012), 53–56, 136–39, 280–81. 40. GEN Louis C. Wagner Jr., Oral History, 1996, 1: 65–69, AHEC. 41. COL Melvin  C. Brown, “Army ROTC in the Sixties,” 10  February 1961, AWCSP; LTG W. H. S. Wright to GEN John K. Waters, 2 December 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546; Richard E. Mack, Memoir of a Cold War Soldier (Kent, Ohio: Kent State University Press, 2001), 108– 10; Michael S. Neiberg, Making Citizen Soldiers: ROTC and the Ideology of American Military Service (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2000), 84–111. 42. Harold S. Tate, “A Study of Evaluation in the Officer Candidate School,” May 1960, Box 78, E UD 9, RG 546; DCS for Individual Training, SemiAnnual Historical Report, 1 January–30 June 1963, TRADOCARC; G-1 to CSA 8A, Sub: Shortage of Officer Personnel, 8 July 1963, Palmer File, Box 302, E A1 298, RG 338; DOA, DCSPER, Sub: Quality of the Officer Corps, 19 August 1964, AHEC; Dennis Foley, Special Men: A LRP’s Recollections (New York: Ivy Books, 1994); Ron Milam, Not a Gentleman’s War: An Inside View of Junior Officers in the Vietnam War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009); Jerry Morton, Reluctant Lieutenant: From Basic to OCS in the Sixties (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2004). 43. Course 6, Committee #15, “Army Manpower,” 11 April 1960, Box 1959/60-5, AHEC. 44. G-1 to CSA 8A, Sub: Shortage of Officer Personnel; Marion T. Wood, “We Treat Our Military Shabbily,” SEP 238 (January 16 1965): 10–12. 45. MG Joseph  E. Bastion to GEN John  K. Waters, 4  November 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 46. BG Charles P. Brown to CG 1st Corps, 14 June 1963, Palmer File, Box 302, E A1 298, RG 338. 47. HQ 1st Corps to CG 8A, Sub: Organization of the US Divisions under the ROAD Concept, [April 1963], Palmer File, Box 302, E A1 298, RG 338. 48. GEN Hamilton  H. Howze to GEN James  F. Collins, 5  November 1963, Howze File, Box 302, E A1 293, RG 338.

423

notes to pages 316–321 49. LTG John P. Daley, “Future Land Warfare” (lecture and discussion, AWC, 4 February 1963), Box 1962/63-2, AHEC. 50. GEN George H. Decker, “The Role of the Military Leader in National Security Affairs” (lecture and discussion, AWC, 24 August 1962), AHEC. 51. Wheeler to Waters, 5 October 1963. 52. MG William  P. Yarborough to GEN John  K. Waters, 3  December 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 53. WAC Staff Advisor Conference, 18–22 March 1963, Box 56, E145, RG 319; LTG  J. L Richardson to GEN John  K. Waters, 12  September 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 54. LTG George I. Forsythe Oral History, 1974, 388, AHEC. 55. Ibid., 388–91. 56. Stephen Ailes, Significant Developments in Procurement and Retention of Enlisted Personnel (Army), 25 September 1961, Box 269, NSFDA, JFKL. 57. DOD OPA, Sub: WAC Increases Enlistment Rate Underscoring Trend to Volunteer Army, 1 September 1961, Build-Up Actions 1961–1962 File, Box 7, E 145, RG 319; Influence of Selective Ser vice Upton Enlistment Decisions in RA Enlisted Men . . . , [1962], Military Pay File, Box 1, E UD-06W, RG 330; Military Personnel Procurement Division, DCS for Personnel, Semiannual Historical Report, 1 July–31 December 1964, TRADOCARC; Bernard D. Kárpinos, Qualification of American Youths for Military Ser vice (Washington, D.C.: Office of Surgeon General, US Army, 1962), 45. 58. Military Manpower Policy Study, 4 February 1964, Box 4, E UD-06W, RG 330. McNamara would later institute Project 100,000, which compelled the US Army to accept disadvantaged young men. 59. LTG Lewis B. Hershey, “The Nation’s Manpower” (lecture, AWC, 22 March 1962), AHEC. 60. GEN Herbert B. Powell to Stephen Ailes, 14 May 1962, GOC File, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 61. Charles C. Moskos Jr., The American Enlisted Man: The Rank and File in Today’s Military (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 1970), 52. 62. First-Term Regulars Comparison of Reenlistment Rates of All Ser vices, Regulars, by Category, in Ailes, Significant Developments in Procurement; Wool, Military Specialist, 122. Both enlistment and reenlistment data are ambiguous. Another source claimed the US Army overall reenlistment rate was 91 percent and the first-term rate was 34 percent; see MG R. W. Porter, “Army Personnel Readiness” (lecture, AWC, 29 April 1961), AHEC. 63. Charles Vanderburgh, “A Draftee’s Diary from the Mississippi Front,” Harper’s 228 (February 1964): 44. Moskos, American Enlisted Man, 16–17. 64. LTC Jack L. Weigand, “Recruit Training for the Future Army,” 19 March 1959, AWCSP.

424

notes to pages 321–325 65. David Boroff, “Fort Hood: Sparta Goes Suburban,” Harper’s 228 (January 1964): 52. 66. An Analysis of Recent Public Opinion Surveys of the Army, [1963], 403–01 Files, Box 46, E UD-84, RG 319. 67. Report to Members of the Committee on Armed Ser vices and Defense Appropriations Subcommittee, US Senate, 27 July 1965, Stennis Report File, Box 45, National Security File, LBJL. 68. LTG Carl H. Jark to GEN John K. Waters, 18 September 1963, GOC 101100 File, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 69. GEN Hamilton  H. Howze to GEN James  F. Collins, 5  November 1963, Howze File, Box 302, E A1 293, RG 338. TRADOCARC; Sub: Shortage of Military Policemen, MOS 951, 27 February 1963, in GEN John K. Waters to MG Ralph  J. Butchers, 20  April 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box  1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 70. COL Walter  E. Brinker, “Personnel Replacement System” (lecture, AWC, 21 February 1962), AHEC. 71. MG  R.  W. Porter, “Army Personnel Readiness” (lecture, AWC, 29  April 1961), AHEC. 72. GEN Barksdale Hamlett to GEN John K. Waters, 16 July 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. LTC Elizabeth P. Hoisington, “Leadership Training,” and LTC Betty  T. McCormack, “Non- Commissioned Officer Academy,” WAC Staff Advisers Conference, 18–20 November 1964, Box 56, E 145, RG 319; William Donnelly, “Basic Training in the U.S. Army, 1953–1963,” paper presented at the Society for Military History’s Annual Meeting, 2015, in author’s possession. 73. USCONARC-USARSTRKE Annual Historical Summary, 1  July 1963 to 30 June 1964, TRADOCARC. 74. Ibid. 75. Ibid. 76. MG Philip C. Wehle to GEN John K. Waters, 15 May 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box  1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. Comptroller General of the US, Report: Improper Utilization of Trained Enlisted Personnel: Department of the Army, April 1964, File 4/3/64–4/30/64, Box 169 EX FG, LBJL. 77. Training Summary, Report of Staff Visit to HQ Fourth US Army and Fort Hood, Texas, 12 March 1965, Box 33, E 125 UDWW, RG 546. John L. Romjue and Richard P. Weinert, A Brief Survey of the U.S. Army Experience in Mobilization and Training (CONARC, 1977), HMC2-009, CMH. 78. LTG Garrison Davidson and MAJ Paul Gorman, Seventh Army Briefing for CINCUSAREUR, General Bruce C. Clarke, December 1960, at http://usacac .army.mil /cac2/CSI /docs/Gorman /02_ Army_1950_72/d_7thArmyUSAREUR /03_60_DavidsonMajGorman_CINCUSAREUR _Dec.pdf.

425

notes to pages 326–335 79. Ibid. 80. Ibid. 81. Ibid. On Davidson and  7th Army, see “Grandpa Gar” MS, 188–95, Garrison H. Davidson Papers, AHEC. 82. Car ter, Forging the Shield, 463. 83. LTG John K. Waters Oral History, 1980, 417, AHEC. 84. Henrik Bering, Outpost Berlin: The History of American Forces in Berlin, 1945–1954 (Chicago: Edition Q, 2005);  K. Martin Johnson, The Story of Berlin Brigade (Berlin: US Army Berlin, 1977); T. H. E. Hill, Berlin in Early Cold War Army Booklets (privately published, 2008); Mack, Memoir of a Cold War Soldier, 102–6. 85. Oral History, 1999, 78, Box 1, Frederick C. Weyand Papers, AHEC. 86. “The Soldier Had the Russians on His Hands and a Game on His Mind,” Life 46 (5 February 1959): 22–24. 87. Lawrence  S. Kaplan, “The Berlin Crisis, 1958–1962: Views from the Pentagon,” in International Cold War Military Records and History: Proceedings of the International Conference, ed. William W. Epley (Washington, D.C.: Office of Secretary of Defense, 1994), 81. On the confrontation at Checkpoint Charlie, see Carter, Forging the Shield, 420–26; Frederick Kempe, Berlin 1961: Kennedy, Khrushchev, and the Most Dangerous Place on Earth (New York: G. P. Putnam’s, 2011), 448–81. 88. Report to Members of the Committee on Armed Ser vices. 89. Hanson Baldwin, “Informing the Troops,” NYT (17 December 1961): 51. GEN George H. Decker to CG, CONARC, Sub: Orientation of Reservists on Active Duty, 13 March 1962, CINFO 1962, 260/28 File, Box 3, E UD-84, RG 319. 90. MG Harrison A. Gerhardt to Thomas G. Abernethy, 21 March 1962, 260/28 File, Box 3, E UD-84, RG 319; Michael Doubler, I Am the Guard: A History of the Army National Guard, 1636–2000 (Washington, D.C.: GPO, 2001), 250–56. 91. GEN Ralph  E. Haines Oral History, 1976, 2: 22, AHEC. Presentation by LTG Albert Watson II to Army Policy Council, 3 July 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546. 92. COL Robert E. Sullivan to GEN John K. Waters, 28 October 1963, GOC 1963 Files, Box 1, E 124 UDWW, RG 546.

EPILOGUE 1. Lionel C. McGarr (speech, 5 November 1957, South Central Business Association), Box 26, E UD3, RG 546. 2. Elvis Presley interview, 8 March 1960, on http://www.youtube.com /watch? v =1MyrPxU6Ruo, accessed 1 August 2013.

426

notes to pages 335–341 3. MG Maxwell D. Taylor (speech, CGSC, 18 June 1957), Box 26, E UD3, RG 546. 4. Project on Defense Alternatives, The RMA Debate, http://www.comw.org /rma /, accessed 9  August 2015. For a recent example of an entirely techfocused analysis of transformation, see “Who’s Afraid of America,” Economist 415 (13–19 June 2015): 57–60. 5. Max Boot, “The New American Way of War,” Foreign Affairs 82 (July–August 2003): 41–58. Secretary of Defense William S. Cohen, Annual Report to the President and the Congress (1998), http://www.dod.gov/execsec/adr98/index .html (accessed September 23, 2010); Joint Chiefs of Staff, Joint Vision 2010 (Washington,  D.C.: Joint Chiefs of Staff, 1995); Brian McAllister Linn, “The U.S. Armed Forces’ View of War,” Daedalus (Summer 2011): 33–44. 6. Secretary of Defense, Sub: The Defense Innovation Initiative, 15 November 2014, at http://www.defense.gov/ Portals/1/ Documents/pubs/OSD013411–14 .pdf, accessed 6 November 2015. 7. LTG Robert F. Sink, commentary, “An Analysis of STRAC Tactical and Strategic Mobility” (lecture, AWC, 24 May 1959), AHEC. 8. Donald Rumsfeld, “Transforming the Military,” Foreign Affairs 81 (May– June 2002): 29. Peter J. Boyer, “Downfall: How Donald Rumsfeld Reformed the Army and Lost Iraq,” New Yorker (November 2006): 56–64; Paul  C. Light, “Rumsfeld’s Revolution at Defense,” Brookings Institution Policy Brief #142 (July 2005). 9. “Troops Put Rumsfeld on the Hot Seat,” CNN, 8 October 2004, at http://www .cnn.com /2004 / US/12/08/rumsfeld.kuwait /, accessed 9 August 2015. 10. Michael Huckabee, 8 August 2015, at http://video.foxnews.com /v/440479737 2001/mike-huckabee-the-military-is-not-a-social-experiment/?#sp=show-clips. 11. The U.S. Army Operating Concept: Win in a Complex World, 2020–2040 (Fort Eustace, Va.: TRADOC, 2014), iii. 12. The Army Vision: Strategic Advantage in a Complex World (2015), preface. 13. COL John  F. Rhoades, “Are We Training Leaders?” Armor 67 (January– February 1958): 44. 14. Craig  M. Mullaney, The Unforgiving Minute: A Soldier’s Education (New York: Penguin, 2009); Restrepo, directed by Tim Hetherington and Sebastian Junger (National Geographic Entertainment, 2010), DVD. 15. Army Vision. 16. Ibid.

427

ACKNOWL EDGMENTS

Acknowledgments should be one of the great joys for an author, an opportunity to recognize all those who have made the book possible. But I have always found them excruciating because I invariably omit many who deserve mention. Research for Elvis’s Army began in 2000—with another book intervening—so there are many to whom I am in debt. With apologies to all those who are missing, I would like to thank Larry D. Hill, Edward M. Coffman, Jules Feiffer, Don Boose, Gerhardt Weinberg, and all the other veterans who shared their experiences with me. The History Department and the College of Liberal Arts at Texas A&M provided exceptional opportunities for research and writing. Many of the ideas that later appeared were tested first on undergraduates and graduate students, and I am grateful for their suggestions, interest, and for Aggie Spirit. The Smith Richardson Foundation generously funded much of my archival research, and I owe a special acknowledgment to Nadia Schadlow. Thanks are also due to a grant from the Melbern G. Glasscock Center and its director, Joseph Golson. The first draft was written during a semester as the Bosch Public Policy Fellow at the American Academy in Berlin. I thank Gary Smith and those who selected me, the superlative staff— Stefan, Gabriela, Carol, Christina, Reinold, Johana, John-Thomas—and the fellows who became friends: Linda and George, Mary and Dennis, Janet and Stuart, Susan and all the rest. My perspective on the United States and its armed forces was greatly expanded during semesters at the National University of Singapore and the University of Birmingham as a Fulbright Fellow. There are numerous other agencies and individuals that have provided advice and support during the years of research. In particular, I acknowledge the Military History Institute of the Army Historical Education Center, which has been my second home for over thirty years. I also thank the archival staffs at the National Archives II, the US Army Center of Military History, Paul Herbert and the First Division Museum, the Tropic Lightning Museum, the US Army Training and Doctrine Command archives, US

429

Acknowl edgments

Army Pacific, the Perkins Library at Duke University, the Dwight  D. Eisenhower Presidential Library, the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library, the Donovan Research Library, the Combined Arms Research Center, the US Air Force Historical Research Agency, and the US Army Europe Historical Office. I owe a great deal of intellectual inspiration to Bill Pierce and the students at the Advanced Strategic Arts Program of the Army War College and to Dean A. Nowowiejski and the students of the Art of War Program at the Army Command and General Staff College. I have many friends on the faculty of the War College and the Staff College, but I would especially like to thank Paul Jussel, Rick Herrera, and Tony Echevarria. I’ve also received exceptional support from LTG H. R. McMaster and the Army Capabilities Integration Center. Gary Tuckman, Leslie Seipp, Philips O’Brien, and Lorien Foote read and commented on drafts. My department head, David Vaught, and staff members Mary Johnson, Kelly Cook, and fellow Elvis fan Barb Dawson gave invaluable administrative help. Joyce Seltzer, my editor at Harvard University Press, was both encouraging and determined. My friends in the Society for Military History provided a great deal of advice, most notably to quit talking about the book and write it. Eliot Cohen, Tom Keaney, Tom Mahnken, and the rest of the Basin Harbor gang opened my perspective on current defense policy. My academic and military colleagues in Australia, Germany, the Netherlands, the United Kingdom, Singapore, New Zealand, and other places instructed me on the past and current international impact of US military actions. Cousins Peter McNab and Jim Lee kept me entertained with their madcap antics. My mother-in-law, Shirley Kamins, was, as she has been for forty years, a fount of good humor, wisdom, and inspiration. I also want to thank Terry Anderson and Rose Eder, Kathi and Ken Appelt, Rick Atkinson, Andrew Bacevich, Jim Burk, Robert Citino, Bill Donnelly, Tom Dye and Dore Minatodani, David Fitzpatrick, Max Friedman, Joseph Glatthaar, Roger and Merle Goodell, Arnold and Jan Krammer, Robert and Candace Leslie, Peter Maslowski, James and Pam McNaughton, Tim Nenninger, and Ingo Trauschweizer. Finally, since Elvis was one of the greatest musical artists of his era, I’d like to acknowledge some the artists who inspired me: Jack Vance, Ross Macdonald, Walter and the Dude, and the Rolling Stones.

430

INDEX

Abbreviations, 343–348 Act of Love (film), 259, 260–261 Adams, Paul D., 100, 226 Advanced Individual Training (AIT), 204–205, 323–324 “Advice to Young Men on How to Get into the Army” (Price), 132 African-American soldiers: educational programs for, 35–36, 37; integration of forces, 5, 36–38, 58–62; in segregated South, 286–288 Ailes, Stephen, 318, 320, 322–323 Airborne divisions: large-unit maneuvers and, 225–226; readiness of, 214–215; training, 40–41, 214–215, 222, 225–226, 304. See also individual divisions Airborne Warfare (Gavin), 76–77 Airmobile, exercise, 307; army vision of, 305 Alsop, Joseph, 250 American public opinion of army, 11–12, 21–22, 56–57, 96, 133, 146–147, 172, 231, 240–241, 337–339; army efforts to influence, 230–267 American youth: armed forces and youth popular culture, 264–265, 289–293; Basic Combat Training and, 194–195, 197, 203–204; criticism of in Korean War-era, 71–72; moral education of, 30–31, 34, 71, 199, 269–272, 274–278; opinion of military ser vice, 133, 142, 147, 165–166, 194, 271–272, 320–321 Anderson, Leon Oscar, 289, 292 Armed Forces Network (AFN), 290–291 Armed Forces Qualification Test (AFQT), 135–136, 144 Armed Forces Reserve Act (1955), 147–148 Armitage, John D., 93

Armored School, 112, 160, 186 Army Air Defense Command (ARADCOM), 138–139 Army Information Digest, 233 Army Information Program, 238 “The Army in General Nuclear War” (paper), 95–96, 98 Army Regulations: 335 (1954), 172; 615–368, 44 Army Special Ser vices, 288–289 Army Training Tests (ATT), 206–208 The Army Vision: Strategic Advantage in a Complex World (US Army), 340–341 Army War College, 25, 48, 93, 183–184 Artesani, Richard, 163 Artillery School, 180 Atomic Energy Commission, 80, 220 Atomic Field Army (AFTA), 224; study, 83–84 Atomic weapons: ground combat and, 76–77; as deterrent, 85; tactical problems of, 43, 110; tests of, 80–81, 82, 84, 220. See also Training; Weapons AWOLs, 29, 44–45 Baldwin, Hanson, 282 Basic Combat Training (BCT), 194–204; basic training for WACs, 200–201; reform of, 322–323 Basic National Security Policy (NSC 162/2), 85, 90 Bastion, John E., 314 Battleground (film), 258, 260, 261 Beetle Bailey (comic strip), 7, 192, 212 Bennett, Donald, 216 Bergin, William E., 277 Berlin Brigade, 327–328, 329 Berlin Crisis (1961), 41, 327–330

431

index Berry, Leah, 46 Bess, Walter B., 121 The Big Picture (television program), 67, 227, 243, 263–264 Blaik, Earl H. “Red,” 27, 175, 295 Bolte, Charles L., 81, 268, 274, 276 Boose, Donald, 216, 217 Booth, Donald P., 132–133, 149, 184 Bouncing in Bavaria (radio program), 291 Boyle, Andrew J., 317–318 Bradley, Omar, 15 Brown, F. J., 121–122 Brucker, William M., 101 Burke, Robert, 183 Carraway, Paul, 250 Category 4s, 144–145, 319; basic education for, 281–282; in noncommissioned officer corps, 159, 161 Chaplains: anti-venereal disease programs, 280–281; Character Guidance Program and, 274–279; religious education classes and, 280; Universal Military Training and, 30–31 Character Guidance Program (CGP), 199, 274–279, 297; abuse of, 278–279; anti-venereal disease program, 280–281; origins, 31, 268–269, 270 Chief of Information (CINFO), 231, 244, 249, 267 “Citizenship in Ser vice” (Pro-Blue) indoctrination program, 254–255, 279–280 Civilian relations with US Army, 154, 226–227, 245–247, 286–288 Clark, Mark, 203 Clarke, Bruce C.: on Davy Crockett, 110; Exercise Longhorn and, 247; integration of battalion, 37; micromanagement by, 188–189, 211–212, 324–325; public relations and, 245; 7th Army and, 129–130; sports and, 294; training and, 211–212, 324–325, 326; Walker and, 255

Clay, Lucius D., 41, 76, 329–330 Cleland, Joseph P., 287–288 Coffin, Robert E., 109, 110 Coffman, Edward M., 222 Colaccio, Frank, 272 Cold War: Berlin Crisis and, 327–330; Korean War and, 52; modernization of army and, 101–102; New Look and, 85; officer corps and, 165–168; preparedness for, 63–64 Colglazier, Robert W., 302, 308 Collier’s magazine, 165 Collins, Arthur S., 94 Collins, J. Lawton, 23 Collins, James F., 127 Combat Developments Group (CDG), 102–103 Command and General Staff College (CGSC), 334; atomic warfare and, 90, 91–93, 96; curriculum, 24–25, 298–299 Communications Zone (COMZ), 117–118 Connerat, William H., 100 Conscription. See Selective Ser vice Continental Army Command (CONARC), 84, 221, 323–324 CONUS (continental US forces), 153, 155, 212–215, 225, 226 Coordination Group, 250–251 Cordinier Committee, 170 Corporal missiles, 6, 104, 106, 107, 130 The Counterfeit Story (film), 259–260 Counterinsurgency, 301–302 Country Style, U.S.A. (radio program), 256 Cowan, Al, 109–110 The Crime of Korea (film), 67, 257 Cuban Missile Crisis, 330, 331 Dahlquist, John E., 83, 100, 151, 170, 223–224 Daina, Mordecai H., 203 Daley, John P., 98, 315–316

432

index Davidson, Garrison H., 90, 103, 186, 255, 295, 296, 311, 324, 325–326 Davison, Michael S., 24 Davy Crockett tactical nuclear weapon, 6, 108–111, 109, 114, 130, 204, 303 Dean, William F., 71 Decker, George H., 280, 301, 316 Dentists, 19, 181–182 Department of Defense, 22, 99, 137, 232, 241, 251, 257, 265, 303, 304, 309, 335, 336 Dependents, 33, 45–46 DePuy, William, 190 Desobry, William R., 23 Devine, John M., 30, 31 Discipline: courts martial, 20, 21, 26, 37, 60, 70, 166, 253, 282; education and, 271; extralegal, 45, 241, 253; postWorld War II problems, 28–29, 44–45; Uniform Code of Military Justice, 34, 35, 271 Distinguished Military Graduates (ROTC), 69, 176–177, 179, 312 Doctors: commissioned, 19; Korean War reservists, 54–55; Selective Ser vice and, 181–182 Dodds, Harold W., 177–178 Dodge, C. G., 96 Doherty, Thomas, 141 Doolittle, James, 34; and Doolittle Board, 34–35 Douhet, Giulio, 73 Draft. See Selective Ser vice Draftees: Basic Combat Training and, 195–196; demographics of early sixties, 319; induction process, 135–136; morale of, 65, 145, 320–321; quality of, 144–145; retention of, 157–158, 164, 318, 320 Durant, Jack W., 21 Eddy, Manton S., 24, 59, 75 Education: Army War College, 25, 48, 93, 183–184; basic literacy and skills,

35–36, 159–161, 196, 281–282; Character Guidance Program, 199, 274–281, 297; Command and General Staff College (CGSC) and, 24–25; enlisted, 13, 14, 29–31, 35–37, 59, 119–120, 124, 159, 161, 194–204, 269–273, 281–286, 322–323; malassignment of, 123–126; moral, 271–273; officer, 172–177; standards for army, 119–120, 159, 282–283; and technical training, 120–123, 157, 285–286; Troop Information Program, 273–274; Universal Military Training, 29–31; volunteer and draftee, 136–137, 145, 157–158, 318, 319–320, 332 Eichelberger, Robert L., 19–20 18th Airborne Corps, 214, 287–288 8th Army, 67–68, 216, 311, 321; Korean War and, 44, 50–51, 65, 69–70; logistics issues, 309–310 82nd Airborne Division, 58, 214, 215, 222; combat readiness of, 40–41, 58; public relations, 241–242; training in, 43, 214–215, 228 Eisenhower, Dwight D., 15, 16, 18, 22, 241, 339; army readiness and, 252; atomic weapons and, 77; Lebanon crisis and, 214; New Look policies, 4, 85–87, 90, 168, 183, 212, 299, 336; POW behav ior and, 70; reductions in force, 169, 170–171, 179; reserve forces and, 148, 330; “Revolt of Colonels,” 250–251; Ridgway and, 250 11th Air Assault Division (Test), 304, 305–306 11th Airborne Division, 129, 153, 154, 209, 287 Elton, Robert, 153 Enlisted personnel: character development of, 268–269, 270; draftees, 135–136, 195–196, 319, 320–321; education, 29–31, 35–36, 194–204, 269–273, 281–286, 322–323; entertainment for, 288–289; perceptions of,

433

index Enlisted personnel (continued) 70–71, 191–92, 268–269, 271–273, 286; portrayal in movies, 259–260; post-World War II occupation, 28–31; pre-World War II, 14; relations with civilians, 154, 226, 245–247, 286–288; retention of, 47, 125, 149, 156–158, 164, 293, 318–320; volunteers, 28–31, 135, 137, 338–339 Entertainment for soldiers, 288–289; Armed Forces Network and, 290–291; live performances, 291–293; sports, 293–296 Equipment: combat developments, 102–103; communications and data collection, 113–114; for conventional war, 302–308; demobilization and, 18; Korean War, 66; logistics, 116–119, 122–123, 308–310; maintenance, 112, 126, 127, 306–308, 310; need for skilled personnel to operate, 119–121, 122–123; pentomic reorganization and, 126–128; supply procedure, 121–122; technological advances in, 84, 99–101, 114–116, 130–131, 203; War Department Equipment Board, 39–40. See also Weapons Europe: demobilization in, 17–18; field training in, 324–326; scenario of Soviet invasion of, 81; supply problems in, 117–118; tactical atomic weapons and, 94; US Army in Europe (USAREUR), 58–62, 217–218, 291, 296 Executive Order 9981 (1948), 36 Exercise Bear Claw, 225 Exercise Blue Bolt, 224 Exercise Carte Blanche, 225 Exercise Desert Strike, 222 Exercise Eagle Wing, 222 Exercise Flashburn, 223–224 Exercise Follow Me, 224, 228 Exercise Indian Summer, 105, 225 Exercise Lion Bleu, 225

Exercise Longhorn, 222–223, 226, 228, 246–247 Exercise Miki, 43 Exercise North Star, 222 Exercise Sagebrush, 112, 221, 224–225, 226–227, 228, 247, 264 Exercise Snowfall, 222 Exercise Southern Pine, 222, 241–242 Exercise Wintershield II, 327 Exercises and large unit maneuvers, 43, 44, 112, 193, 210–211, 219, 220, 221–229, 241–242, 246–247, 264, 327; and public relations, 220, 227–228, 241–242, 247 Far East Command, 50, 62, 112, 160, 278, 283 Father Knows Best (television program), 265 Fearless Fagan (film), 261 Fehrenbach, T. R., 71–72 Feiffer, Jules, 5, 7, 135, 145 Field Manuals (FM): Field Manual 22-10: Leadership, 168; Field Manual 100-5: Field Ser vice Regulations: Operations, 39, 78–80, 92, 301 5th Army, 308, 314 5th Corps, 217 5th Infantry Division, 154 1st Armored Division, 247, 278, 306 1st Cavalry Division, 166, 216, 314 1st Corps, 216, 321 1st Infantry Division, 60–61, 152, 154, 213 Fisher, Eddie, 4, 141 Fonda, Jane, 4, 232 Ford, Dan, 197, 199 Forsythe, George I., 57 Fort Benning, 43, 223, 241, 287, 313 Fort Bragg, 287–288, 292 Fort Campbell, 53, 73, 287 Fort Dix, 197, 200, 203, 204, 282, 330–331 Fort Hood, 195, 226, 306, 321, 324

434

index Fort Huachuca, 288, 291 Fort Jackson, 287 Fort Knox, 30, 204 Fort Lee, 200 Fort Leonard Wood, 203, 306–308 Fort Lewis, 41, 155 Fort McClellan, 200–201 Fort Polk, 226–227, 283, 287 Fort Riley, 154, 213 Fort Rucker, 304, 305–306 Fort Sill, 205, 313 49th Armored Division, 330–331 Fossum, Embert A., 192–193, 231 4th Infantry Division, 53, 127, 154–155, 246, 247 Francis Goes to West Point (film), 261 Fraser, Powell A., 272

Gole, Henry, 289 Goodman, Paul, 138 Gorman, Paul, 326 Grafenwöhr, 191, 207, 218, 221, 222, 327 Gyroscope program, 152–156

Gavin, James M.: on acceptance of nuclear weapons, 73; Airborne Warfare, 76–77; atomic warfare exercises and, 225; Coordination Group and, 251; decentralized training under, 210–211; on demobilization, 16, 18; on development of tactical atomic weapons, 84–85; on helicopters, 111; and media, 244, 245; on missiles, 105, 106; on positional warfare, 78; respect of soldiers for, 19; on troop morale during Korean War, 65; on Wilson, 86 Gay, Hobart R., 223 General War, 4; army objections to 75–79; Eisenhower and, 85; role for army in, 95–96, 97–98, 299; training for, 192–193, 218–229, 324. See also Tactical atomic warfare Gerow, Leonard T., 24 Get Set Go (television program), 263 G.I. Blues (film), 3, 6, 7, 191–192, 230–231, 261–263, 268 Gillem Board, 36 Glass, A. J., 183 Godfrey, Arthur, 249

Haines, Ralph E., 278–279, 280 Haldane, Robert, 215 Hall, Tom T., 290 Hamlett, Barksdale, 155, 250, 322 Harmon, Ernest N., 28 Harper’s magazine, 137, 312 Harrell, Ben, 228 Hawk antiaircraft missiles, 107–108, 122, 304 Hayes, David W., 140, 208 Hayford, Warren, 183, 190 Hays, Samuel H., 310 Heintges, John A., 301 Heiss, G. K., 118, 121 Helicopters, 111–112, 226, 304–308 Herman, Otterman, 204 Hershey, Lewis B., 142, 181–182 Hickey, Thomas F., 278 Higgins, Marguerite, 66 Hill, Larry D., 7, 145–146, 288, 291 Hillbilly Gasthaus (radio program), 290 Hodes, Henry I., 90 Hodge, John R., 277 Honest John missiles, 6, 104, 106, 107, 207, 303 Howze, Hamilton H., 73, 208–209, 214–215, 304, 315 Howze Board, 304–305 Huntington, Samuel P., 173–174 Illiteracy, in enlisted forces, 32; basic education for, 25–26, 281–282 I Love Lucy (television program), 264 I Married West Point (film), 258 Induction process, 135–136, 144 In Every War But One (Kinkead), 71 Infantry School, 69, 112, 180, 300

435

index Information officers (IOs), 232, 235–236, 249 Information Please (pamphlet), 270 Integration of army, 5, 36–38, 58–62 “It Makes a Fellow Proud to Be a Soldier” (Lehrer), 197 Janowitz, Morris, 194 John Birch Society, 254, 255 Johnson, Harold K., 96, 212, 306, 316 Johnson, Lyndon B., 329 Jones, Bob, 256 Jones, Ira, 163 Journalism: army relationship with the press, 248–252; combat, 66–67 Judge Advocate’s School, 173 Jupiter rockets, 106 Kalashinikov assault rifle, 308 KATUSA (Korean Augmentation to the US Army), 216–217 Kennedy, John F.: Berlin Crisis and, 327, 329; Davy Crockett and, 110; on leadership of younger generation, 310–311; officer corps and, 168–169; ROAD and, 300; shift away from tactical atomic war and, 299, 301, 302, 303; status of US Army and, 332 Kilian, James A., 21, 22 Kings Go Forth (film), 258, 261 Kinkead, Eugene, 71 Kinnard, Harry W. O., 305 Kitzingen (Germany), 35 Klein, John A., 269 Korea: logistic problems in, 308–310; training in, 215–217, 221 Korean War, 50–52; army readiness for, 48–49; “blame the troops” narrative, 70–72; combat journalism and, 66–67; doubling of officer corps during, 168; General War and, 77; global Cold War and, 52; integration of army and, 58; lessons of, 11; logistical shortages and,

122–123; mobilization for, 52–58; noncoms and, 159–160; officer corps and, 68–71; psychological effects of, 72; Reserve forces and, 52–55; ROTC program and, 176, 178–179; soldier discipline and, 35; training for, 44, 64, 65; transformation of army and, 49; troop morale and, 65; troop turnover and, 58, 64–65; underestimation of enemy, 50–51; WACs and, 62–63 Kruschchev, Nikita, 329 Lacrosse tactical ballistic system, 205, 234, 303 Large-unit field training, 43, 221–226, 324–327; army public relations and, 227–228; casualties in, 222; cost of, 226–227; joint atomic, 324; public contact with, 226–227. See also under Exercise Lee, John C. H. “Courthouse,” 20–21, 22 Lehrer, Tom, 5, 197 Lemnitzer, Lyman L.: on army’s readiness for war, 48–49; atomic war and, 95, 298; career management and, 68; public relations, 238–239 Lennon, John, 4 Life magazine, 46, 137, 146, 242–243 Limited (conventional) warfare, 332–333; continental air defense system, 303–304; equipment for, 302–308; exercises, 324; FM 100-5: Operations manual and, 301; nuclear weapons and, 299; US Army support for, 298–300 Little John missiles, 106–107, 303 Loeden, George O. N., 101 Logistics, 116–119; personnel and, 118–119; problems in Korea, 308–310; shortages, 122–123 Look magazine, 308–309 Lynch, Thomas, 207–208 Lyon, Harold C., 271

436

index MacArthur, Douglas, 44, 50–51, 66, 67, 245 Mademoiselle magazine, 242 Mad magazine, 132 Magruder, Car ter, 309 Mahan, Alfred Thayer, 73 Maintenance, 40; advances in equipment and, 310; failure to follow preventive, 126; field, 127; helicopter, 112, 306–308; pentomic reorganization and, 128–129; PS magazine, 100, 125–126 Maneuvers. See Large-unit field training; Exercise Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (film), 258 The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis (television program), 146–147, 265 Markham, Allan, 165–166, 167 Marshall, George C., 15, 184 Marshall, S. L. A., 167 M*A*S*H (film), 54 Materiel. See Equipment Mather, George R., 133, 169, 172 Mauldin, Bill, 21, 165 McAnsh, Andrew T., 235 McCarthy, Joseph, 141 McElhenny, William S., 156–157 McGarr, Lionel C., 91–93, 334, 335, 339, 341 McGaw, Edward J., 166 McIntosh, Carl, 60 McNamara, Robert S., 301, 303–304, 309, 319, 331, 337 Media: army relations with the press, 248–252; Big Picture, and Sergeant Bilko, 7, 67, 227, 243, 263–264, 265–266; movies, and G.I. Blues, 3, 6, 7, 191–192, 230–231, 257–263, 261–263, 268; and Korean War, 66–67; newspapers, and Overseas Weekly, 252–256; radio, and Armed Forces Network, 256, 290–291, 328; television, 263–267

Medical personnel: acquisition of, 54, 181–182; attitude of, 19, 54–55; retention of, 173 Meloy, Guy S., 231, 251–252, 310, 311 Men at War (film), 258 “Mental Conditioning of the Soldier for Nuclear War” (study), 271 Meyer, Richard D., 94 M-14 rifle, 115, 238, 308 Micromanagement: of field training, 208, 211–212, 324–326; of officers, 183–184, 186–190, 211–213, 311, 315–318; during Korean War, 68 Military families. See Dependents Military Occupational Specialties (MOSs), 15, 134; Advanced Individual Training for, 204–205, 323–324; draftees and, 319–320; malassignment and, 123–125; need for skilled personnel and, 119–120; training for, 204–205, 285–286, 323–324; for WACs, 62–63, 140–141 Military Review (CGSC), 97 Military ser vice: as national obligation, 1; transformative power of, 3, 5–6, 7, 268–269 Missiles, 84; Corporal, 6, 104, 106, 107, 130; Hawk, 107–108, 122, 304; Honest John, 6, 104, 106, 107, 207, 303; Nike, 107–108, 114, 130, 138, 303–304; public relations and, 106, 138, 240–241; tactical atomic warfare and, 105 Mission of the U.S. Army (film), 238, 257 Mission Over Korea (film), 258–259, 261 Mobilization for Korean War, 52–58 The Monks (GI band), 293 Moore, James E., 303 Morale: Basic Combat Training and, 198–200; and desegregation, 58–59, 60–62; enlisted, 28–29, 35, 45–46, 65, 145, 151–153, 157, 245–246, 270, 318, 320–321; in Korean War, 70–72; officers, 26–27, 44, 157, 270, 317–318

437

index Moskos, Charles C., 253 Mothers, army treatment of sons and complaints from, 146–147, 203–204 Movies, army public relations and, 257–263 M-65 280mm atomic cannon, 104–105, 130, 220, 222, 264, 303 Munro (Feiffer), 7, 135 Murrow, Edward R., 232, 242 National Guard, 23, 56, 147, 212, 304, 330–331 NATO, 48, 52, 94, 97, 217 New Look policy, 102; consequences of, 85–87, 212, 231, 237; criticism of, 89–90, 93–94, 183, 250–251; effect on supply sector, 118–119; nuclear deterrence and, 4, 85, 336; officer corps and, 168; shift away from, 299 New York Times (newspaper), 252, 255 Nike antiaircraft missiles, 107–108, 114, 130, 138, 303–304; opposition to, 247–248 Nixon, Richard M., 4 Noncommissioned officers (NCOs), 13, 32–34, 158–164; Basic Combat Training and, 323; Character Guidance Program and, 277; clubs and, 161, 162; efforts to improve, 160–161, 282, 284, 323; media portrayals of, 132, 202, 264, 265–266; perceptions of, 132, 159, 160, 284; retention of, 32–33, 149, 158–159, 164, 320; relationship with enlisted ranks, 159, 163, 204, 214, 287–288; relationship with officers, 29, 162–163, 175, 178 Oakes, John C., 298 O’Connell, James D., 114 Oden, Delk M., 101 Office of the Chief of Chaplains (OCC), 274, 276 Office of the Chief of Information (OCI), 232, 233–235; movies and,

257–263; Project MAN, 299–300; relations with press, 249–250; television programs and, 265, 266; “You and the Army Image,” 238–240 Office of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Combat Developments (ODCSCD), 102–103 Officer Candidate School (OCS), 9, 24, 175, 176, 177, 313; compared to ROTC, 180–181; Korean War era, 68–69 Officers: career management and, 68; criticism of, 17, 20–22, 183, 186; education, 172–177; generational division within, 165–167, 190; Kennedy era, 311–313; Korean War and, 68–71, 168–169; micromanagement of, 186–190, 315–318; morale, 26, 157, 270; Officer Personnel Act (1947), 27, 168; portrayal in movies, 230, 258–259; promotion process, 168–170, 184–186; public relations and, 236–237; reductions in force, 168–169, 170–171; reestablishing following demobilization, 23–27; Regular Army, 12–13, 170–171; relations with enlisted personnel, 17, 18, 19–20, 253, 318; relations with NCOs, 162–163; reservists, 170–171; retention of, 172, 182–184, 313–317; shortages in, 314–315; World War II and, 18–19, 168–169. See also Officer Candidate School (OCS); ROTC (Reserve Officers’ Training Corps); US Military Academy (West Point) 101st Airborne Division, 215, 287, 291; helicopters and, 112; noncommissioned officers and, 159, 160; pentomic organization and, 101, 114; public relations and, 242; STRAC and, 214; training in, 112, 214–215, 222, 228–229; Westmoreland and, 188–189, 209, 242, 283–284 “Our Military Manpower Scandal” (article), 182–183

438

index Overseas Weekly (newspaper), 252–254; Walker Affair and, 254–256 Pentomic division, 4; creation of, 87–90, 91–93; dissolution of, 300; high-tech warfare and, 101; missile patch, 238, 239; origins, 81–84; problems with, 126–128, 153, 155, 228–229; resistance to, 90–91, 94, 95 Personnel: acquisition process for, 134–137; attempts to improve quality of enlisted, 29–30, 35–36, 44–45, 148–149, 284–285; balancing skills against numbers, 163–164; capabilities of, 2; Category 4, 144–145, 159, 161, 281–282, 319; contemporary army and issue of, 336, 338–339; dependence on Selective Ser vice, 140–141; failure of sixties reforms and, 332–333; increase in wages/benefits, 32, 161; interser vice competition for, 137; judicial reform and, 34–35; need for skilled, 119–121, 122–123, 132–133, 134, 138–139, 157–158, 319; recruitment, 32–35, 137–141, 148, 156–157; reductions in force (RIF), 4, 22–23, 85–86, 169, 179; retention, 125, 156–157, 159, 172, 173, 182, 293, 313, 316–317; turnover in, 99, 119, 122–123, 131, 149–152, 321–322; unit rotation, 151–156. See also Enlisted personnel; Medical personnel; Noncommissioned officers (NCOs); Officers; Recruitment; Selective Ser vice Phil Silvers Show. See Sergeant Bilko (television program) Pitney, Max L., 188 Post, Gaines, 178, 206–207 Powell, Herbert B., 20, 44, 46, 141, 254, 319 POWs, Korean War, 70, 71 Presley, Elvis Aaron, 146, 262, 266, 339; advice to new soldiers, 334–335, 341; Basic Combat Training experience,

195; decline in reputation of, 3–4; entertaining soldiers, 289; G.I. Blues, 191–192, 230–231, 261–263, 268; induction of, 1, 135, 136; malassignment of, 124; as soldier, 6, 142, 154, 163, 191, 293; as symbol of transformative power of military ser vice, 3, 5–6 Price, Roger, 132, 133, 135 Pro-Blue program, 254–255, 279–280 Project Binnacle, 83, 84 Project MAN, 241, 299–300 Proudly We Hail (radio program), 256 Prowse, Juliet, 230 PS (magazine), 99, 125 Public relations: 22; airborne divisions and, 241–242; celebrity commanders, 244–245; Chiefs of Information (CINFOs), 231, 244, 249, 267; constituencies for, 232–233; damage control, 233–234; information officers (IOs), 232, 235–236, 249; interser vice competition and, 240–241; Korean War and, 67; large-unit exercises and, 227–228; local focus of, 245–247; marketing the army, 231–234; media relations, 248–252; missile programs and, 106, 240–241, 247–248; movies and, 231, 256–263; Overseas Weekly and, 252–254, 255, 256; press and, 248–252; Project MAN, 299–300; Public Information Division, 233; radio and, 256; remaking army’s public image, 234–235; television and, 263–267; Troop Information Program (TIP), 233, 273–274, 297; WACs and, 242–244; Walker Affair, 254–256; West Point and, 244; “You and the Army Image” campaign, 238–240. See also Office of the Chief of Information (OCI) Queen, Stuart, 264 Queen of Battles (radio program), 256

439

index Race: black soldiers in segregated South, 286–288; integration of army, 5, 36–38, 58–62; as theme in films about army, 260–261 Radio: Armed Forces Network, 290–291; army public relations and, 256; Cold War fought over, 328 Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys (film), 248 Recruiting Journal, 138 Recruitment, 32–33, 55, 137–141, 187, 233, 319; assessment of, 156–157; effect of Ready Reserves on, 148; military judicial reform and, 34–35 Red Ball Express (film), 260 Redstone Arsenal, 105, 108 Reductions in force (RIF), 4, 179; demobilization and, 22–23; New Look and, 85–86; officer corps and, 169 Reenlistment, 125, 149, 156–158, 164, 318, 320, 332 Regular Army. See US Army Reinhardt, George C., 78 Religion: Character Guidance Program and officer proselytizing, 278–279; religious education of soldiers, 280 Reorganization Objectives Army Divisions (ROAD), 300–301, 322 Reserve forces: assessments of, 54, 166–167; Basic Combat Training and, 201–202; 1961 callup, 319, 330; 1950 callup and, 52–53, 68; as information officers, 236; officers, 166–167, 170–171, 190; Organized Reserves, 23, 53–55, 147, 202; Ready Reserves, 147–148, 201–202, 212, 330; Reserve Forces Act (1955), 177, 201; “6s and 7s,” 147, 201 Retention: assessment of, 156–157; malassignment and, 125; of noncommissioned officers, 159; of officers, 172, 173, 182, 313, 316–317; sports and, 293. See also Reenlistment “Revolt of the colonels.” See Coordination Group

Ridgway, Matthew B.: 200; efforts to encourage initiative, 187; Korean War and, 51, 65, 67, 68; opposition to New Look, 86–87; and personnel, 68, 151–152, 270; public relations and, 67, 232, 236–237, 244–245, 245–246, 250–251, 252; Wilson and, 86, 250 Ripple, Richard R., 185 Roberts, Archibald E., 254, 256, 279 Root, Elihu, 272 Rospach, Marion, 252, 253 ROTC (Reserve Officers’ Training Corps), 176–182; attitude of, 165–166, 180; on colleges, 176; criticism of, 177–179, 181–182; Korean War and, 69; officer corps and, 170–171; Organized Reserves and, 53; quality of graduates, 179–180; as source of officers, 311, 312–313, 315 Ruark, Robert, 20–21 Rumsfeld, Donald, 336–337 Sackton, Frank J., 78 Saturday Evening Post (magazine), 146, 243 Schofield Barracks (Hawaii), 150, 283, 288, 289 2nd Armored Division, 64–65, 306 2nd Army, 66 2nd Infantry Division, 41 See It Now (television program), 242 Seeman, L. E., 306–308 Seitz, John A., 128–129, 178, 206, 279 Selective Ser vice, 1; army as egalitarian institution and, 4–5; army diversity and, 143–144; army sports and, 294; army view of, 3, 134–135; benefits of, 141, 145–146; criticism of, 141; draftees, 65, 135–136, 144–145, 181–182, 195–196, 319, 320–321; in early sixties, 318–319; implementation of, 142–143; Korean War and, 72; as main source of personnel, 140–141; personnel turnover and, 119; rein-

440

index statement of, 31; reliance on, 332; as spur to volunteering, 31–32 Selective Ser vice Act, 31, 38, 42, 55–56 Selective Ser vice Agency, 142, 319 Sergeant Bilko (television program), 7, 265–266 Sevareid, Eric, 249 7th Army, 59, 129–130, 211, 217–218, 294, 296, 324–326 7th Corps, 210, 217 7th Infantry Division, 216, 291 Sexually transmitted disease. See Venereal disease Shekleton, James B., 203 Sherburne, Thomas, 242 Shulman, Max, 248 Siebert, Donald, 296–297 Sink, Robert F., 99 6th Infantry Regiment, 327–328 Social reform, 4–6; anti-venereal disease program, 280–281; athletics, 293–296; character guidance, 31, 199, 268–269, 270, 274–280, 297; education, 271–273 Soldier in the Rain (film), 294 Southern US, army and racial issues in, 38, 286–288 Soviet Union: ICBMs and, 108, 303, 304; Kalashnikov rifle, 308; Korean War and, 49–50, 52; theory of future war with, 4, 9–10; thermonuclear standoff with US, 97–98; US contingency plans for war with, 74–79, 81, 84 Special Forces, 300, 302, 316, 338 Special Ser vices, 291 Sports in the army, 293–296 Stahr, Elvis, 329 Stars and Stripes (newspaper), 67, 233, 252 The Steel Helmet (film), 258 Stilwell, Joseph W., 111 Storke, Harry P., 231, 238–239, 269 Strategic Army Corps (STRAC), 153–154, 213–215, 226, 237, 300, 306

Sullivan, Robert E., 332–333 Surfside-6 (television program), 265 Swazey, John Cameron, 249 Tactical atomic warfare: Army War College and, 93; atomic battlefield and, 73–87, 79, 93–98; Command and General Staff College curriculum and, 90, 91–93; communications and data collection and, 113; missiles and, 105; modification of army’s organization for, 81–84, 87, 89–90; New Look and, 86–87; reconsideration of, 96–98, 298–299, 300; resistance to, 92–95, 97–98 Take the High Ground (film), 202 Task Force Smith, 50 Tatum, John M., 206 Taylor, Maxwell D., 2, 88, 95, 242, 254, 341; on atomic weapons, 85, 103–104; Character Guidance Program and, 274, 278; Coordination Group and, 250–251; on enlisted force, 140–141, 156, 201, 270–271; Kennedy and, 299; and Korea, 67, 68, 274, 278; Military Academy and, 26–27; pentomic experiment and, 87–90, 91, 126–127, 155, 206, 225, 300; public relations and, 237–238, 239, 245, 257; on Ready Reserves, 148; and training, 200, 201, 206, 213; on revolution in military affairs, 335; Strategic Army Corps and, 153, 213; strategic views of, 89–90, 237, 299; weapon development and, 103–104, 106, 110, 114–116, 303 Technological advances in equipment, 2–3, 84, 99–101; army approach to, 114–116; transformation of army and, 130–131 Television, army public relations and, 263–267 10th Corps, 50–51 10th Infantry Division, 152, 154 3rd Armored Division, 6, 212, 230

441

index 3rd Army, 43, 306 3rd Infantry Division, 224, 228 30th Infantry Regiment, 339 32 Infantry Division, 330–331 This Kind of War: A Study of Unpreparedness (Fehrenbach), 71–72 “This Lady’s Army” (article), 243 Thompson, Richard, 162 Thomte, Hubert D., 310 Time magazine, 252 Tonight (television program), 245 Town Without Pity (film), 154 Training: Advanced Individual Training (AIT), 204–205, 323–324; airborne, 40–41, 214–215, 222, 225–226, 304; Army Training Tests, 206–208; for atomic war, 191–193, 218–229; Basic Combat Training (BCT), 194–204, 322–323; CONUS, 212–215; in Korea and West Germany, 191–192, 206–207, 215–218, 222, 219, 221, 321, 324–327; for Korean War, 64, 65; large-unit exercises, 43, 105, 114, 211–212, 220, 324–327; need for technical skills, 123, 285–286; peacetime, 42–44, 193–194, 205–215, 301, 302; as portrayed in movies, 191–192, 202; and Reserves, 147–148, 201–202, 330–331; and sports, 294–296; at training centers, 196, 218, 322–324; training cadre, 9, 30, 65, 145, 198–199, 200, 204, 301, 322–323. See also Exercise; Large-unit field training Transportation Materiel Command (TMC), 306 Trapnell, Thomas J. H., 93 Troop Information. See Public relations Troop Information Program (TIP), 233, 273–274, 297 Truman, Harry S., 9; atomic weapons and, 77; desegregation of armed forces and, 36, 58; Kilian and, 21; Korean War and, 49–50, 51; MacArthur and,

67; moral education of soldiers and, 272–273, 280; reduction of military budgets, 22 25th Infantry Division, 124, 150, 201, 289, 317–318 24th Infantry Division, 32, 50, 254–256, 279 22nd Infantry Regiment, integration of, 61 280mm atomic cannon, 104–105, 130, 220, 222, 264, 303 The Uncertain Trumpet (Taylor), 90 Underwood, George V., 249 Uniform Code of Military Justice (UCMJ; 1950), 34, 35, 271 US Air Force, 304; army information leak and, 251; interser vice rivalry and, 22; self-promotion by, 240 US Army: attitude toward basic training, 200, 201–202; Berlin Crisis and, 327–330; challenges for contemporary, 335–341; Cold War and, 4, 6–8, 10, 63–64; commissioned officers vs., 18–19; contingency plans for war with Soviet Union, 74–79, 81, 84; Cuban Missile Crisis and, 331; demobilization of, 16, 17–18; educational standards for, 282–283; impact of Korean War, 68, 72; impact of World War II, 10–11, 16–19, 40–42, 169; interser vice competition, 22, 240–241; Korean era draft and, 55–58; marketing the, 31, 89, 96, 137–138, 140, 230–267, 314; New Look policies and, 85–87, 212, 231, 237; officer corps, 12–13, 23–24, 27, 166, 170–171, 182; peacetime, 12–13; pre-World War II, 12–15; public opinion regarding, 11–12, 22, 56–57, 96, 133, 146–147, 337–339; public relations and (see Public relations); racial integration of, 5, 36–38, 58–62; recruitment, 32–35, 137–141, 148, 156–157; reductions in

442

index force, 4, 22–23, 85–86, 169, 179; retention, 47, 125, 149, 156–158, 164, 293, 318–320; ROTC vs., 178; social reform and, 4–6, 31, 199, 268–281, 297; tactical atomic warfare and, 86–87, 89–98, 105, 113, 298–299, 300; troop turnover and, 58, 64–65; uniform redesign, 238; vision of war, 73–74; volunteers, 28–31, 135, 137, 318, 338–339; youth music and, 289–290. See also Enlisted personnel; Noncommissioned officers (NCOs); Officers US Army Ballistic Missile Agency, 105 US Army Cavalry School, 73 US Army in Europe (USAREUR), 217–218, 291, 296; racial integration of, 58–62 US Army Information School, 235–236 US Marine Corps boot camp, compared to Basic Combat Training, 197–198 US Military Academy (West Point), 13, 173–176; attrition rates, 182; cheating scandal, 27, 174–175; criticism of, 26, 174–175, 312; education at, 25–26, 173–174, 311–312; increase in cadet numbers, 317; public relations, 244; reform of, 26–27, 311–312; sports at, 295 US Military Assistance Command Vietnam, 3 US Navy: interser vice rivalry and, 22; self-promotion by, 240 USO shows, 291 Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (USSR): perceptions of Red Army, 219, 268–269, 270, 328; views of war with, 9–10, 39, 48–49, 52, 74–77, 81, 84–85, 87, 93–98, 104, 105, 117, 225, 237, 299 Universal Military Training (UMT), 22; camps, 29–31; Universal Military Training and Selective Ser vice Act (1951), 56

Van Allen, William G., 182, 187–188 Van Fleet, James, 67–68 Vaught, James B., 9, 24, 32, 294–295 Venereal disease, 272; anti-venereal disease programs, 280–281; occupation forces and, 29 Vietnam War, 3, 57, 180, 182, 190, 313, 319, 323 Vision 2010, 335–336 Volunteer army: as goal, 27, 32, 55, 134, 137, 147, 151, 156, 318; contemporary, 338–339; post-World War II enlisted force, 28–31, 56, 135, 136–141, 145, 156–157, 318–319; pre-World War II enlisted force, 13–14, 34 von Clausewitz, Carl, 73 The WAC from Walla Walla (film), 260 Wagner, Louis C., 103, 209, 312 Waitt, Thomas M., 81 Walker, Edwin A. “Ted,” Walker Affair and, 254–256, 279 Walker, Fred L., 76 Walker, Walton H., 44, 50, 51 Wallis, Hal, 230 Warfare: Eisenhower and, 85; military vision of, 2–3, 39–40, 49, 73–74, 76–77, 79, 81–83, 87, 103–104, 305; problems with implementation, 113, 115–116, 208, 228–229; scenarios, 10, 91, 93, 95–98, 105, 108–109, 222–224, 298. See also General War; Limited (conventional) warfare; Tactical atomic warfare Weapons: Corporal, 6, 104, 106, 107, 130; Davy Crockett, 6, 108–111, 109, 114, 130, 204, 303; future, 336; Hawk, 107–108, 122, 304; helicopters, 111–112, 226, 304–308; Honest John, 6, 104, 106, 107, 207, 303; Lacrosse, 205, 234, 303; Little John, 106–107, 303; missile program, 104, 105–108; 280mm atomic cannon, 104–105, 130, 220, 222, 264, 303; M-14 rifle, 115,

443

index Weapons (continued) 238, 308; Nike, 107–108, 114, 130, 138, 247–248, 303–304; tactical atomic, 77–78, 80–81, 84–85; technological advances in, 2–3, 99–101, 114–116, 130–131 Wedemeyer, Albert C., 76 Weinberg, Gerhard L., 19–20 Westmoreland, William C., 188; on army in transition, 2, 4; as commander of 101st Airborne Division, 188–189, 209, 242, 283–284; education for soldiers and, 283–284; on effect of technological progress, 115; leadership practices, 188–189; on maintenance quotas, 129; military career, 3; public relations and, 242; on unit rotation, 155; as West Point Superintendent, 311–312 West Point. See US Military Academy (West Point) West Point Story (television program), 244 Weyand, Frederick, 190 Whitney, Richard W., 233 Williams, Samuel, 295

Wilmeth, James D., 268–269 Wilson, Charles E., 86, 102, 106, 240, 250, 251, 252, 337 Wilson, Wilbur, 271–272 Women’s Armed Ser vice Integration Act (1948), 38 Women’s Army Corps (WAC), 21, 38; basic training for, 200–201; Korean War and, 53, 62–63; occupations of, 140, 235; public relations and, 242–244, 260; recruitment for, 139–140; WAC Exhibit Team, 244 Woolnaugh, James K., 93–94 World War II: effect on US Army, 10–11, 16–19, 40–42, 169; nostalgia regarding end of, 16–17; officers and, 18–19, 168–169 Wyman, Willard, 131 Yarborough, William, 316–317 Yassa Mossa (film), 259 “You and the Army Image” campaign, 238–240 Young, R. N., 169 Zais, Melvin, 155, 217, 251

444