Heroic Departure

Imagine you are a seventeen or eighteen year old boy living in the United States during the winter of 1941. You’re a junior or senior in high school looking forward to graduating and gradually advancing into adulthood. Some kids had college ambitions, others were eager to join the workforce or to stay on track to take over the family farm. Those hopes and dreams were put on hold almost immediately after December 7th, 1941. The United States had been contributing in many ways to the war efforts overseas, but the injection of its military forces didn’t happen until the Empire of Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. The bombing tightened the final bolt that would hold democracy in place. That “day of infamy” rocked an American teenage generation into adulthood – freedom’s livelihood thrust onto their shoulders.

The majority of the American fighting men during World War II were brought into this world during America’s darkest years, the Great Depression. They came from all walks of life – tobacco farms in Kentucky, the mean streets of New Jersey or high society in Chicago. Regardless of their birthplace, they all had something in common – they were young. They were America’s future – little did they know they would be the free world’s saviors. Teenage boys in America during the Depression looked forward to high school sports, chasing women and maybe sneaking in the occasional drink – saving the world was reserved for the likes of Superman or the Green Lantern. Robbed of their educations, many teenagers dropped out of high school; they were forced to work during the Depression to help provide for their families. Despite the era’s monetary downfall, it was a simpler time back then. Families were bound together by their economic struggles. Mothers and fathers hoped their children could defy the fiscal Nazi that suppressed their generation. Before their parent’s hopes could come to fruition, a more daunting task required their sons’ attention. After America was attacked and pulled into military action, a new Green Lantern was born. American boys put their ambitions on hold and laced up their boots so they could form the “sleeping giant” that would crush its tormentor.

Instead of making a decision on what car to buy or who to date, these soon to be brothers had to decide how to serve their country. Some would wait to be drafted by Uncle Sam; others selected the branch they preferred or the one that seemed like the best fit. American boys had many options: Marines, Army, Navy, Air Force or the Coast Guard. Some kids chose to join the Navy to avoid the bullets of warfare. The Marines were quite popular because of their strategic advertising. The Army parachute division was something new and adventurous. It was an elite unit that kept only the best recruits; everyone else would be weeded out. The pay was better in the Airborne as well, an extra fifty dollars a month, one hundred for the officers. To teenage kids this was a lot of money, and for some it was all they needed to hear before signing their name. However, money wasn’t the only alluring thing about the Airborne. Men like Dick Winters joined the paratroopers to serve with the best. He figured if he was going into battle, he might as well join an elite force so he could fight alongside the most well trained men the Army could create. “When the shooting started, they wanted to look up to the guy beside them, not down” (Ambrose 16).

The moment those boys put their names on that paper, their mothers and fathers were traded in for drill sergeants and officers – brothers for new brothers. Some were transformed from sons into fathers – boys leading boys. Their bonding started during the first few days of training. While some kids quit and others were transferred to less physically demanding units, the survivors were forming new bonds of brotherhood. Camp Toccoa housed the 101st Airborne Division, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment. It sat alongside a grueling one thousand foot high mountain. The hill was Mount Currahee – Indian for we stand alone. Running up the hill and back down became a ritual for the troopers. At first running Currahee was a chore; it eventually became the soldier’s trademark. Even after several trips up and down the mountain per week, the troopers took it upon themselves to run it at night, each step conditioning the muscles and camaraderie necessary to fight a war, and they were never short of volunteers. Currahee quickly became the battle cry for the 506th. The recruits that lasted were America’s finest, bonded by rigorous training and the desire to be the best. Mothers and fathers trained their youth about ethics, working hard to earn their keep and pushed them to achieve more in life. Drill sergeants and commanding officers did the same, but added a few small skill sets along the way – killing with a gun, killing with a bayonet and killing with your hands. Futures were put on hold. Kids went from learning how to run the farm to learning how to kill the enemy. Transformed into disciplined killers, these boys were trained to conquer a battle-hardened German Army.

By the end of May 1944 the Airborne’s training was pretty much complete. They were as ready as they could be for the invasion of Europe. By now they knew they were spearheading the largest invasion known to man. Their adolescences were just about eradicated by the predawn hours of June 6th. Their wombs replaced by the very tin cans they shot pellets at as kids. The culmination of their latest conception voiced through their selected jumpmaster:

GET READY!
STAND UP! – HOOK UP!
EQUIPMENT CHECK!
TWELVE OK! ELEVEN OK! TEN OK!... …THREE OK! TWO OK! ONE OK!
GO! GO! GO!

Out of the plane and into the steel infested sky; a jump from adolescence into adulthood. Men descending down like wrappers tossed from the upper deck of a baseball game; some of them to be discarded while others last for the entire game hoping to be recycled. Cascading gently thru tracer fire, brothers soaring by whose chutes have failed or burned, eventually catching them and touching down in a watery marsh, a barren tree or an open pasture. Brothers brought into this world simultaneously, but at first alone.

I wonder where I am. Man, those air sickness pills did a number on me. I have to go to the bathroom, but that damn Kraut keeps shooting at me. Where the hell is everyone? I’m hungry too, I wonder if I should eat a K-ration quick. I hope I find my brothers soon.

They would eventually find their brothers, some dead and some alive. Despite the death and destruction surrounding their new life, they carried out their missions because that’s what they were trained to do. Boys stripped of their youth and dropped into manhood. Day after day they witnessed brothers and fathers dying. Death and destruction – this was their reality. American teenage boys trained to descend upon Europe to save the world, so that’s what they did. Twenty year old yanks liberating countries, concentration camps and accepting the surrender of German Generals more than double their age. As kids, these men were taught to overcome the struggles of their depressed era together. Because they were now bound by the struggles of their new life, these men prevailed.

Veterans of the war often say the real heroes are the ones who never came home. Sixty years later, Dick Winters says that the real heroes lie under white crosses in North Africa, Europe and across the Pacific (262). The truth is that death didn’t act alone in cutting youthful lives short during World War II. The signing of one’s name on a government document, jumping out of an airplane, breaching the seawall at Bloody Omaha, witnessing death, taking a life or the very presence at any theater of warfare during World War II was a guilty act of youthful theft. None of those kids made it back to the states. Thousands of youthful lives were never lived. Indeed, the real heroes are the ones who never came home – and they still stand alone together.

Works Cited
Ambrose, Stephen. Band of Brothers. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2001.
Winters, Dick. Beyond Band of Brothers. New York: The Berkley Publishing Group, 2006.