Having accepted the German surrender, Allied Supreme Commander General Dwight D. Eisenhower, sent a message to the Combined Chiefs of Staff in Washington:

THE FOLLOWING DAY, 8 May 1945, the world learned of the German final surrender. There were intense and prolonged celebrations in many capitals to mark the end the most destructive war in human history.

While civilians embraced, kissed total strangers and took to streets around the globe in euphoria, many infantrymen in Europe, brutalized and broken, sat alone with their grief or paced their rest areas in mournful silence. “There is V-E day without but no peace within,” wrote the war’s most decorated US infantrymen, Audie Murphy, of the 3rd Division.

Europe lay in ruins. The human cost of the conflict was beyond comprehension. In one Berlin suburb, women now outnumbered men by over ten to one. Over five million German dead littered the battlefields of a devastated Europe, especially in the East. Ninety percent of all German combat deaths had in fact occurred fighting the Soviets who had suffered an astounding 65 percent of all Allied fatalities.

Barbarism had been defeated. Civilization had been preserved. The men of evil, Winston Churchill told the British nation, “are now prostrate before us.”

Later that afternoon of 8 May, after having lunched with the King at Buckingham Palace, Churchill was driven to Whitehall. When he stepped onto a balcony at the Ministry of Health he could barely hear himself speak, so loud were the cheers of the crowds.

“This is your victory,” he shouted. “It is the victory of the cause of freedom in every land. In all our long history we have never seen a greater day than this.”

Finally, I would like to address the WWII veterans with us here, today, seventy years after the guns fell silent in Europe. I was born in England twenty years after the war ended. I grew up in a united and mostly prosperous Europe – one that you set free.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for allowing mine and other generations to enjoy the longest period of peace in Europe’s history, on a continent scarred since the beginning of time by war.

Now, seventy years later, we can agree with Churchill absolutely. He was right. Indeed, in all our long history, we have never seen a greater day than VE Day – thanks to you. It is still your victory – the greatest the world has ever known.

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Captain Anse Speairs, left, of 157th Infantry Regiment, set up his unit's first command post in Munich in Hitler's famous beer cellar.

Captain Anse Speairs, left, of 157th Infantry Regiment, set up his unit’s first command post in Munich in Hitler’s famous beer cellar.


By The United States Holocaust Museum

“On November 8–9, 1923, Adolf Hitler and the Nazi Party led a coalition group in an attempted coup d’état which came to be known as the Beer Hall Putsch. They began at the Bürgerbräu Keller in the Bavarian city of Munich, aiming to seize control of the state government, march on Berlin, and overthrow the German federal government. In its place, they sought to establish a new government to oversee the creation of a unified Greater German Reich where citizenship would be based on race. Although the putsch failed—and Bavarian authorities were able to prosecute nine participants, including Hitler—the leaders ultimately redefined it as a heroic effort to save the nation and integrated it into the mythos of Hitler and the Nazis’ rise to power.


Throughout Germany, the first four years of the Weimar Republic were marred by economic woes, trauma at the loss of World War I, and humiliation at what many considered to be the excessively punitive terms of the Versailles Treaty. In this climate of national instability, both left and right wing political movements, whose paramilitary formations swelled with unemployed veterans and rebellious youths, had attempted and failed to overthrow the fledgling democracy. By the time Hitler and the Nazis prepared their coup attempt in 1923, the movement counted over 50,000 members, the majority of whom had joined with the express hope that the party would take action against the democratic republic. Inspired by Mussolini’s successful “march on Rome” that brought the Fascists to power in Italy in October 1922, Hitler planned to make his move, including a parallel “March on Berlin” to seize control of the national government.

Members of the Bavarian state government were agitating for change at the same time. Protesting Berlin’s decision to halt passive resistance against Franco-Belgian occupation troops in the Rhineland and the Ruhr, the Bavarian government had declared a state of emergency, putting Minister President Gustav Ritter von Kahr in charge as a General State Commissar together with his associates Armed Forces General Otto von Lossow and State Police Chief Hans Ritter von Seisser. This “triumvirate” publicly advocated a nationalist march on Berlin but secretly calculated that others in the military and civil service in Berlin would do the dirty work, sweeping away the hated Republic and establishing an authoritarian regime. The Bavarians could then enjoy the fruits of the putsch without taking its risks and simultaneously maintain their autonomy in Bavaria. However, as it became clear to the triumvirate that they had miscalculated, they contemplated taking action against Berlin on their own. They met on the evening of November 8, 1923, in the Bürgerbräu Keller on the east side of Munich to discuss strategy.

Meanwhile, the radical and völkisch nationalist coalition, including the Nazis, had united in a formation that they called the Kampfbund (Combat League). The völkisch leaders grew increasingly impatient and pushed for a violent overthrow of the government in Berlin. Hitler, who had dubbed himself the “drummer” for the movements associated with the Kampfbund, feared Bavarian Minister-President Kahr more than any other leader as a potential rival. Having heard of the November 8 meeting, to which he was not invited, Hitler and his fellow conspirators planned to crash it and announce the Bavarian and federal government as deposed, forcing the triumvirate to legitimize his movement. Von Lossow and von Seisser would be made to order Bavarian troops out on to the street in support of the government of “national renewal,” and, in conjunction with the paramilitary units in the Kampfbund coalition, to seize crucial administrative and military buildings. Once the coalition had secured Bavaria, its leaders would march on Berlin under Hitler’s inspiration and leadership.


At about 8:30 in the evening on November 8, Hitler’s personal bodyguard detachment, the Stoßtrupp Adolf Hitler, arrived at the Bürgerbräu Keller to join the Storm Trooper units which were preparing to surround the beer hall. Having slipped inside the facility, Hitler took the arrival of the Stoßtrupp as the signal to begin the putsch. He fired his pistol into the ceiling, interrupting Kahr’s rally, and declared that the “national revolution” had begun. Surrounded by armed guards, Hitler pushed his way to the front and briefly addressed the crowd. He then ordered the Bavarian triumvirate—von Lossow, von Seisser, and von Kahr—into an adjoining room, where he bullied them at gunpoint into backing his putsch. Believing he had secured their support, Hitler and the three Bavarian leaders returned to the main hall and addressed the crowd. They declared their solidarity in Hitler’s movement and announced the new government’s key appointments.

Once they launched the putsch, however, the conspirators made a series of crucial mistakes. First, its overall success depended upon the seizure of state offices and communications centers and the use of the triumvirate’s authority to bring in the military and police. While the rebels temporarily took over some offices, including the municipal headquarters of the Reichswehr and Munich police headquarters, they failed to secure other key centers. Worse still, Hitler left the triumvirate in the custody of von Ludendorff, who yielded to their entreaties to leave the Bürgerbräu Keller, supposedly to take up their designated roles in the putsch. Once free, however, they promptly denounced the overthrow and ordered police and military units to suppress it. As the conspirators had failed to secure communications in the city, the triumvirate was able to call upon suburban police forces and troops from nearby bases.

The conspirators were too disorganized to take advantage even of the short window of confusion that might have favored their success. After he heard of the triumvirate’s betrayal, Hitler equivocated for several hours before deciding to go ahead with the march on Berlin anyway. The indecision gave the Bavarian authorities time to organize and defend Munich. In a last ditch effort to rally citizens and soldiers, Hitler led around 2,000 Nazis and other Kampfbund members in a march to the Feldherrnhalle on the Ludwigsstrasse. Munich law enforcement clashed with the marchers as they reached the Odeonsplatz. The shootout left 14 Nazis and four police officers dead and put a final end to the coup in the city. Two other Nazis would die in other localities. Hitler had relied on the paramilitary Kampfbund to carry the day, but the lack of support from the police and locally stationed military units doomed the enterprise to failure.


A five-judge panel chaired by Georg Neithardt presided over the trial of Hitler and the other putsch leaders in March 1924. Like the majority of judges during the Weimar period, Neithardt tended, in cases of high treason, to show leniency towards right-wing defendants who claimed to have acted out of sincere, patriotic motives. Wearing his Iron Cross, awarded for bravery during World War I, Hitler took advantage of the judge’s indulgence to pontificate against the Weimar Republic. He claimed the federal government in Berlin had betrayed Germany by signing the Versailles Treaty, and justified his actions by suggesting that there was a clear and imminent communist threat to Germany. Although the judges convicted Hitler on the charge of high treason, they gave him the lightest allowable sentence of five years in a minimum security prison at Landsberg am Lech. He served only eight months. While Hitler did have a base of support, left and right-wing newspapers criticized the leniency of his sentence, and a prominent legal professor published a paper outlining many of the trial’s most egregious errors. Bavarian government officials were equally displeased with the verdict and the sentence but they had to act with restraint to avoid giving the impression of trying to influence the affairs of the Bavarian Justice Ministry.

During his short time in prison, Hitler led a pleasant lifestyle for an inmate. Prison authorities allowed him to wear his civilian clothes, to meet with other inmates as he pleased, and to send and receive a voluminous number of letters. Prison authorities also permitted Hitler to utilize the services of his personal secretary, Rudolf Hess, a fellow inmate, also convicted of high treason. While in prison, Hitler dictated to Hess the first volume of his infamous autobiography, Mein Kampf.


The Beer Hall putsch had several ominous legacies. Among those who marched with Hitler to the Odeonsplatz on November 9, 1923, were men who would later hold key positions in Nazi Germany: Hermann Göring, Heinrich Himmler, Rudolf Hess, Julius Streicher, and Wilhelm Frick. Four out of these five men would stand in the defendants’ dock at the trial of the major war criminals in Nuremberg in 1945; the fifth only escaped that fate by committing suicide.

The aims of the putsch leaders were equally foreboding. They sought to smash internal political opposition and annihilate those who resisted, to establish a dictatorial state with citizenship restricted to Germans of “Nordic” stock, to exclude Jews from political life, and to pass emergency legislation that would allow the “removal of all persons dangerous to security and useless eaters” who would be incarcerated “in concentration camps [Sammellager] and, where possible, turned to labor productive to the community.” When Hitler and the Nazis seized power in 1933, they achieved each of these goals within two years.

Hitler drew important practical lessons from the failed putsch. First, he understood that the Nazi movement could not destroy the Republic by direct assault without support from the Army and police. Second, he understood that success depended upon the Nazi Party as the undisputed leader of the völkisch movement and Hitler as the unequivocal leader of the Nazis. Finally, the experience taught Hitler that an attempt to overthrow the state by force would bring forth a military response in its defense. Henceforth, he was committed to taking advantage of the Weimar democracy to subvert the state from within by seeking to come to power by means of the popular vote and by using the freedoms of speech and assembly guaranteed by the Weimar Republic to influence that vote.

In the wake of the putsch, the federal and Bavarian government banned the Nazi Party, its formations, and its newspaper. But Hitler’s public commitment to coming to power legally induced the authorities to lift the ban in 1925. A careful organizational restructuring of the Nazi Party under Hitler’s absolute control between 1925-1929, rendered necessary by the dissolution of the Party in 1924, would show its first significant result in the Nazi electoral breakthrough in the Reichstag elections of 1930.

Hitler and the Nazi Party leadership cultivated the memory of the Beer Hall Putsch, giving it a special place in narrative of the Nazi movement, and eventually in that of the German State. After Hitler consolidated power, Nazi Germany celebrated November 9 as Reich Day of Mourning (Reichstrauertag). The Odeonsplatz, the city square where the conspirators had clashed with police, became an important memorial for the Nazi Party. Only after World War II did authorities of the German Federal Republic dedicate a plaque memorializing the four police officers killed on duty in defense of the Weimar Republic.”

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How France sent its greatest chronicler of the Nazi occupation to her death.


The great Jewish writer, Irene Nemirovsky.


By Alex Kershaw

“In life, as on a shipwrecked boat, you have to cut off the hands of anyone who tries to hang on. Alone, you can stay afloat. If you waste time saving other people, you’re finished.”

Irene Nemirovsky, author of Suite Francaise.

On 11 July 1942, 39-year-old Irene Nemirovsky walked alone through beautiful countryside near Issy-l’Eveque, a village in the Bourgogne around two hundred miles south of Paris. Her home was a large building near a former livestock building in the village, just a short walk from the local police station. She had a wonderful view of the Morvan hills. Her husband, Michel, grew beetroot and other vegetables in a large garden nearby and so she and her two daughters had not gone hungry.

The Russian-born writer was a striking woman with large, highly intelligent eyes, her dark hair usually pulled back from her broad forehead. That day, she felt unusually carefree, her sense of dread and doom having abated. She had been forced to write these last months in minute lettering because of a shortage of paper and was near completing what would be her masterpiece, to be titled Suite Francaise. But as a Jewish author she could no longer publish her work and she had little hope, if any, of ever seeing it in print. Nor could she ride a bicycle or take a train to her beloved Paris, which she had fled in 1940 just ahead of the German advance.

She had recently been reading the journal of the writer Katherine Mansfield and had noted certain lines that matched her own mood: “Just when one thinks: “Now I’ve touched the bottom of the sea – now I can’t go down any lower,” one sinks deeper still. And so on for ever.” But she did not feel that way today, 11 July 1942, as she walked in the woods near her home. Pine trees towered above her as she down on her blue cardigan, which she had laid on a dank blanket of rotting leaves. She had a copy of the novel Anna Karenina and an orange in her bag. She listened to a steady drone of honeybees. Later that day, she would pen her last words in a letter to her editor in Paris: “I’ve written a great deal lately. I suppose they will be posthumous books but it still makes the time go by.”

Two days later, on Monday 13 July, the weather was again superb. It was around 10am when a car stopped in the Place du Monument aux Morts in Issy-l’Eveque. There was the sound of footsteps then a knock on the door. Two French policemen had a summons with them. Irene’s two children were with her and her husband. One was called Denise. She heard her parents go into their bedroom. Irene asked her husband to do all he could to secure her release through contacts with important people in Paris, those with connections to the Germans, especially high profile collaborators. There was a “dense silence”, recalled Denise, and then the gendarmes allowed her to kiss her mother goodbye. Irene threw a few things into a suitcase. Her voice frail, she told her children she had to go away for a while. Denise looked at her father. He was clearly very upset but he did not cry. Finally, Denise heard a car door slam shut and then the “dense silence” returned.

Irene was taken to a police station at Toulon-sur-Arroux, ten miles away. The next day, Irene wrote to her husband: “If you can send me anything, I think my second pair of glasses in the other suitcase (in the wallet). Books, please, and also if possible a bit of salted butter. Goodbye, my love!” Before they could be arrested, Irene’s children, Denise and Elizabeth, were taken to a safe house. They would miraculously survive the war. Meanwhile, Michel contacted anyone who might be able to help him secure Irene’s release. He was convined that some of his contacts, such as Rene de Chambrun and other “influential friends”, would exert pressure and save his wife.

The following evening, 14 July, Paul Epstein, Irene’s brother in law, had a face-to- face meeting with a prominent collaborator, a corporate lawyer called Rene de Chambrun, in Paris. It was Bastille Day but there had been no national celebration. Two days later, Epstein was in turn arrested. Andre Sabatier, Irene’s editor, tried to contact Rene de Chambrun, calling him urgently on the phone several times. It is not known if Rene returned any of the calls.

Paul Epstein was one of thousands caught up in the mass arrests that came to be known as the Grand Rafle, which began on the night of July 16 and lasted well into the following day as 13,152 Parisian Jews, including 4000 children, were arrested and around half of them taken to the Vel d’Hiver, a large velodrome beside the Seine. The round up, carried out with great efficiency by the French police, was the only thing people all over the talked about, it seemed, in every food line, office and hospital ward. The screams of Jews committing suicide pierced the terrible quiet in some quartiers. The famous German writer, Ernst Junger, serving in Paris, noted with matter of fact precision in his diary that he had heard “wailing in the streets” as families were literally torn apart, with adults being separated from their young children.

The medical conditions at the Vel D’Hiver, it was soon learned, were utterly atrocious. There were no lavatories. There was only one water tap for over seven thousand people. According to one account: “It was a rafle conducted in keeping with the best of French conditions, for at noon the policemen returned to their posts to have lunch while higher-ranked and better paid set off to nearby restaurants. Only after the sacred dejeuner could the manhunt continue.”

Women’s cries could soon be heard throughout the Vel D’Hiver. “On a soif!”

“We’re thirsty!” they called out.

Only two doctors were allowed inside the Velodrome, equipped with little more than aspirin. After five days, those incarcerated were transferred in cattle trucks to camps at Pithiviers, Beaune-la-Rolande and Drancy, a modernist high-rise development built in the 1930s also known as La Cité de la Muette – the City of Silence.

A young Parisian called Annette Monod watched a batch of young children, who had been separated from their parents, as they were taken by French police from the City of Silence: “The gendarmes tried to have a roll call. But children and names did not correspond. Rosenthal, Biegelmann, Radetski – it all meant nothing to them. They did not understand what was wanted of them, and several even wandered away from the group. That was how a little boy approached a gendarme, to play with the whistle hanging at his belt: a little girl made off to a small bank on which a few flowers were growing, and she picked some to make a bunch. The gendarmes did not know what to do. Then the order came to escort the children to the railway station nearby, without insisting on the roll call.”

On 27 July, Irene Nemirovsky’s husband Michel wrote a letter to German ambassador in Paris, Otto Abetz: “I believe you alone can save my wife. I place in you my last hope.” To make sure the letter was delivered to Abetz, Michel sent it to his wife’s editor in Paris, asking him to pass it on to Rene de Chambrun for forwarding to Abetz. The next day, Irene’s editor duly sent the letter to Chambrun who may or may not have passed it on.

Meanwhile, along Avenue Foch and elsewhere, trucks loaded down with furniture and other Jewish possessions could be seen after deported Jews’ homes were ransacked. The looters belonged to the Einsatzstab Rosenberg, actually headquartered on Avenue Foch. Eventually, according to the Nazis, this looting saw 69,619 Jewish homes, 38,000 of which were in Paris, “emptied of everything in daily or ornamental use.”

At the end of July, after over 14,000 Parisian Jews had been rounded up, the Catholic Church in Paris made a belated appeal to Pierre Laval on the children’s behalf. But the Vichy premier was adamant: “They all must go.” And they did. Less than four percent of those sent to the east returned. Not one was a child. Those responsible for this genocide later claimed they had no idea that the deportations were in fact to death camps, not some mythical Jewish haven.

It was a shameful time for France, especially for those who had actively collaborated with the SS and Gestapo. Their new German friends were part of something monstrous – the mass murder of their fellow French citizens. It was impossible to pretend one did not know what was happening. Indeed, those with the best connections to the Nazi regime found themselves begged by relatives and others to do something given their influence. At the height of the deportations, Josee Laval, the wife of Rene de Chambrun, was fully aware of the tragedy. She received two letters asking her to help save Jewish friends of friends. Yet she remained utterly self-involved. On the first day of the round up, she had complained in her diary that her beloved father, Pierre Laval, the head of the Vichy regime, was “too busy” to have dinner with her. She did not mention why.

Her husband was as guilty of inaction as Josee. He had been begged in person to help save Irene Nemirovsky. He had the power to do so given his close connection to German ambassador Otto Abetz who had allowed the Vichy official Fernand de Brinon’s Jewish wife to avoid deportation in 1941. Indeed, with the right connections, it was possible to buy or trade anyone’s release. And he knew it. Rene also counted the smooth-talking Rene Bousquet, head of the French police, as an old friend, having belonged to the same rugby team in his youth. Yet there is not a shred of evidence to indicate that Rene took take up Nemirovsky’s case with either Abetz or Bousquet.

It was later learned that Nemirovsky, listed as “a woman of letters”, was deported from France on 16 July 1942 along with 119 other women. Her train had left promptly at 6.15am and arrived on 19 July at Auschwitz. Aged just 39, the author or the finest novel of the German occupation, Suite Francaise, breathed her last after just four weeks at the death camp. Two months later, the US government offered to provide refuge to a thousand Jewish children whose parents had, like Nemirovsky, been deported. Pierre Laval insisted that only “certified orphans” could leave for the US. Since nothing was officially known of the fate of the deported parents, the children were not allowed to go to the US. Most would die in the gas chambers. Nemirovsky’s husband, Michel Epstein, fared no better. He was arrested on 9 October 1942 and sent to Auschwitz. As with 77,000 other Jews in France, he would never return.

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By Alex Kershaw

I didn’t try to choke back a sob when I learnt that Bob Sales had passed away on 23 February, aged 89. I’ve spent a fair bit of time over the years with some truly amazing veterans, but none whose company I enjoyed more than Bob’s – he was a very funny man, or at least I thought so. This was all the more remarkable given that he didn’t have a lot to laugh at – at least not in WWII.

Sales landed on the bloodiest sands for any American of the 20th Century, perhaps in all history – Dog Green sector of Omaha Beach, around 7am on June 6 1944. A proud Virginian, he belonged to Company B of the 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Division, having joined the National Guard aged 15 by lying about his age. Three years later, aged eighteen, he was the only man from his landing craft to survive the worst carnage on D Day. In fact he was my main and most reliable eyewitness as to what happened to the Bedford boys who had landed just minutes before him and had been quickly slaughtered, whose bodies he saw as he tried to get across the deadliest sector of any beach in Normandy at the deadliest possible time, indeed as German machine-gunners killed any man who so much as twitched as the wounded lay frozen, the tide lapping at their heels. Death surrounded him, goaded him, haunted him, for another six months in France as he killed and watched so many more young men die before he too, inevitably, became a victim.

Sales was a good-looking son-of-a-gun, as he might have put it, a horny teenage “Yank” on a last weekend pass in London before the invasion. In his home in Lynchburg in 2002, in view of the memorial to his fallen comrades he had built in his backyard, he answered me honestly when I asked him what was the moment he felt proudest to be an American in WWII. It was when he heard Tommy Dorsey and his band start up, at the Covent Garden Opera House, some dreary day that spring of 1944. He loved the jaunty tempo, the heady upswing, the feeling he had when he stood up and moved toward the packed dance-floor in his crisp uniform, wearing polished leather shoes and a tie – those English gals thought he looked like a mighty fine officer, a gentleman, not a lowly private, just as it should be for a charming southern boy with a cheeky glint in his eye, whose unit traced back to the Stonewall Jackson brigade, legends of the Civil War.

He loved England, my place of birth, all his long life. He wrote to friends there for decades, kept in touch with a people who’d dubbed his division “England’s Own” because it was based there for so long – from late 1942 to June 6 1944. He had risked his life beside Brits – he never, ever forgot to mention the heroism of the British naval crews who took him and his buddies onto Omaha. It enraged Sales when false stories appeared, spread by Americans of all people, about his commanding officer having to put a gun to a Tommy’s head to make him land Company B on time and in the right place.

Sales loved to dance, especially with English girls. “Churchill had Covent Garden opera house converted in to the biggest dance hall you ever saw in your life,” he told me, a big smile on his face, a wry lilt to his Virginia drawl. “They had two bands there. One would play for a while then the stage would rotate and another would start up. If you were dancing with a girl you didn’t like, you waltzed over to the stag line and got another. Wrens, Wacs, always two hundred standing waiting to dance. They loved to dance, those English girls. Man, it was as close to heaven as you could get.”

If Bob and his buddies didn’t get lucky in Covent Garden, there were plenty of “Piccadilly commandos.” He didn’t miss a beat as he reminisced, my tape recorder flashing red, capturing his every word: “Half a pound, occasionally a pound if she was real good looking. It was just unreal when it came to that…There was also a Red Cross hostel where you’d spend the night for nothing. A bunch of girls from Spain worked as maids there. They’d sing, carry on, and laugh as they made our beds. When you were screwing one of them, the others would sing so the supervisor wouldn’t catch on. It was the darndest thing you ever seen. Then you’d slip them two shillings.”

That little confession came back to haunt both of us. It was May 2003, at a Walmart in Lynchburg, where my book the Bedford Boys was being launched. I was stunned to see well over two hundred people turn up for a signing. Suddenly, from nowhere it seemed, a portly man in a wheelchair was at my side.

“God damn, Kershaw, you put it all in the book! I mean all of it, man!”

For a moment, I was worried he might slug me, teach a cocky limey a thing or two. But then I saw the big smile on his face and heard the chuckle and the laugh. Thinking back to that humid day in a Walmart on Memorial Day I now have tears, as I write, in my eyes. I realize now I loved Bob for his honesty and wit and because he made the war real and romantic and terrible to me, born twenty years after he finally came home.

He survived the very worst. As a radio operator, he was beside his commanding officer just before 7am on June 6th. Captain Ettore Zappacosta, Company B’s commanding officer told Sales to “crawl up on the edge and see what you can see.” The beach was a stone’s throw away but Sales couldn’t see anybody from Company A fighting – the Bedford boys belonged to Company A and had landed at H Hour, 6.32am. Of the 19 men from Bedford County, Virginia, who died that day, most were already dead, their corpses strewn across the beach ahead of Sales.

“Captain,” shouted Sales, “there’s something wrong. There’s men laying everywhere on the beach!”
“They shouldn’t be on the beach.”

A British bowman said he was going to drop the ramp. Sales ducked down. Zappacosta was the first out. MG-42 bullets riddled him immediately.

“I’m hit, I’m hit,” he called out.

Every man who followed met the same fate, caught in a relentless crossfire.

Sales would have been hit too but he stumbled as he exited, lost his balance, and fell into the water off the side of the ramp. He was still wearing his radio. He struggled in the water to release it; if he didn’t get the damned thing off his back, he knew he would never fill his lungs with air again. Sales finally ripped the pack free and surfaced. He was several yards in front of the craft. The machine guns were now enjoying open season. Men were still exiting, still dropping the instant they appeared on the ramp.

“Those German machine guns,” Sales told me, “they just ate us up.”

A mortar exploded, stunning Sales. Some time later, feeling “very groggy”, he grabbed onto a log that had been part of a beach defense. A live mine was still attached to one end. Sales used the log as cover, pushing it in front of him, his face pressed to the wood. Finally, he got to the beach, where he spotted his boat’s communications sergeant, Dick Wright, who had jumped off after Zappacosta. He was badly wounded and had been washed ashore. When he saw Sales he managed to raise himself up on his elbows to tell him something but before he could utter a word a sniper hiding in rocks along the bluff shot him.

“It looked like his head exploded,” Sales recalled. “Pieces just fell about in the sand. And I lay there, just figuring I’d be next. I said to myself: “That sniper done and seen me, too.” And evidently something distracted him, another boat maybe, a bigger target, because he didn’t get me. I buried my head in the sand as far as I could, put my arms over my head, and I just waited. I reckon I lay there thirty minutes.”

“I’d seen a wall, maybe 150 feet away. I thought: “If I can get to that wall, I got a little protection. So maybe I can get another gun or some thing.” I had fifty yards to go – a long way especially when you’re expecting a man to kill you. So I started using dead bodies. I would crawl to one and then real easy I’d move to another. That was the only protection.”

Sales inched forward. The corpses of Bedford boys and others dotted the beach, every ten yards or so. Some faces were familiar. They’d smiled at him across bars. They’d passed him on cold parade grounds. “I never seen a living soul from Company A that day,” Bob told me. “But I saw their bodies. I don’t remember the names. I was so scared to death. But there were quite a few of them. It was definitely A Company I crawled around – there was nobody else that could have been dead that quick.”

Sales saw another Company B man, Private Mack Smith, by a cluster of rocks – at the base of the wall. Sales crawled over. He’d made it. Smith had been hit three times in the face. An eyeball lay on his cheek. Sales gave him a “morphine jab”, popped the eye back into the socket, and then bandaged him.

“Them’s failed, man,” said Smith. “We gotta get off this beach. They gotta send boats in for us.”

The pair stayed at the sea wall, both in shock, for what felt like an eternity. Sales would be taken off the beach that afternoon but would return before nightfall after persuading a doctor to allow him to rejoin a launch going back for wounded on Omaha. ‘There wasn’t a man off my boat who lived, except me. Not one.”

Sales fought on through Normandy. “D-Day was the longest day, there’s no doubt about that,” he told me, “but for those who survived it was just one day. I had a hundred and eighty to go. I couldn’t begin to tell you how many men right beside me got killed. The average infantryman survived a week, if he was lucky.”

Sales told me every day was worse than the last, a gradual degradation of the mind, body and spirit. “You never got used to combat. Every damn morning, you got up wondering if you were going to live through the day.”

That last day took a long time coming. At 4am on 18 November 1944, Sales was ordered to take up position on the other side of a field before dawn. As he crossed the field, “the Germans lit it up with flares like you could play football on it and then opened up on us with tracer fire from a machine gun. When dawn came, I crawled back and then took a tank along a road. We got a German gun. I tapped the tank and hollered: “Okay! Let’s get out of here.” The tank turned and then they hit us with an antitank rocket. There were balls of fire rolling out of my eyes. I couldn’t find my gun, nothing. I was hit in both eyes with shrapnel, blood was pouring out of my head from a cut, where my head hit the side of the tank. That finished me. I stayed in hospital a year and a half, lost an eye. The other one is not the best in the world but a hell of a lot better than nothing.”

Sales’ actions on 18 November earned him a Silver Star. Like so very many, he deserved far, far more. After the war, he became a successful businessman, working as a land developer and pulp wood dealer. He retired as the proud owner of his own company: the Sales and White Timber Company. In 2014, he was one of six World War II veterans who were afforded the great honor of being made a knight of the Legion of Honor. To the day he died, he flew the Stars and Stripes at his home, was intensely proud of his fellow Virginians from the 116th Infantry regiment and indeed all of the 29ers who sacrificed so very much on D Day. 375 men from his regiment were lost on bloody Omaha. He had listed all the names of his buddies who died on D Day on the memorial he erected in his own backyard.

Sales never felt prouder to be a “Yank” than that day in London April 1944 when he heard the siren call of a big band, perhaps the greatest of all time, and saw the English gals look his way.

And what about his proudest moment in combat, I had once asked him. What did he remember with greatest pride from his six months of fighting to liberate Europe?

“I never killed a prisoner,” he told me, deadly serious for once, “and I never sent one back when I thought a man would kill him.”

Thus spoke my greatest hero….. Goodbye Bob. I know you will rest in peace. None have deserved it more.

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Foreword to the Mammoth Book of War Correspondents

By Alex Kershaw

Pyle on 18 March 1944, Anzio beachhead. Pyle was killed in 1945 by a Japanese machine gunner.

Pyle on 18 March 1944, Anzio beachhead. Pyle was killed in 1945 by a Japanese machine gunner.

Honest war reporters have never had it easy. From the earliest days of their trade to the present, cheerleaders rather than skeptics have been the most successful. The London Times’ William Howard Russell, who covered the Crimea War to great acclaim, would discover just five years later how picking the wrong side could backfire when his predictions of a Confederate victory in the American Civil War scandalized his readers and led to his resignation. He was not, as he claimed, the “first and greatest” of war correspondents but he was indeed one of the “miserable” parents of a “luckless tribe” that has dared to ask the wrong questions of the odds-on-favorites and paid for their insolence ever since, often with their lives.

The Civil War was perhaps the first war whose horror was revealed in heart-rending detail by at least some correspondents, for what could be glorious about a fratricide in which more Americans died than in WWII? Samuel Wilkeson of The New York Times, for example, reported on the slaughter at Gettysburg with great power and poignancy, delivering his dispatch having just learned that his own son had died.

It was the first great celebrity reporter, Richard Harding Davis, working for William Randolph Hearst’s “yellow press”, who delivered perhaps the most impactful newspaper report in history, in the run up to the Spanish-American War in 1898. “The Death of Rodriguez”, the story of the public execution of a rebel, whom Davis watched die, “the blood from his breast sinking into the soil he had tried to free,” changed public opinion in America like no other report before or since. Desperate to increase circulation, Hearst was delighted with Davis’s breathless propaganda. Davis was not a flat-out liar, however, and lesser figures had to be employed to guarantee Hearst the circulation-boosting conflict he so desired.

Davis was again in the thick of the action during the Russo-Japanese War in 1904, the first time a Western power was humiliated by an Asian nation. The Japanese were so strict in their censorship that Davis’ celebrity grew not through his derring-do on the battlefield but because he managed to save Jack London, a fellow correspondent and world famous author of The Call of the Wild, from incarceration. London had struck a Japanese in frustration, having stewed with the rest of the press corps in Tokyo, barred from the front.

“The first casualty, when war comes, is truth.” So declared American Senator Hiram Johnson at the height of the first great bloodbath of the last century: a war to end all wars in which the best and brightest in Europe were mowed down in Flanders for four long years. Throughout the First World War, censorship was even stricter than that suffered by Jack London at the hands of the Japanese. Even jingoists like Rudyard Kipling – “There are human beings and Germans” – confronted a military whose leaders feared and therefore despised war correspondence.

Britain’s Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener, was chief among the detractors, describing the press as “drunken swabs”. Rare was the sober report throughout the war, even when young men were falling in the tens of thousands each week on the Somme and at Verdun for just a few yards of barbed wire and mud. It is doubtful that America’s entry into the conflict, shamefully managed throughout with horrendous and callous loss of life, would have occurred had it not been for the hysterical reporting of much of the American press.

The truth of war was still hard to find between the two world wars, whether in Russia or Spain, where ideologies violently divided nations. As Europe teetered on the brink yet again, George Orwell wrote from the Spanish Civil War, trying to warn of the horrors of fascism. Yet he left the conflict disillusioned by all sides, disgusted by the bias of left and right: “I saw newspaper reports which did not bear any relation to the facts, not even the relationship which is implied in an ordinary lie.”

The Second World War was, by contrast, perhaps a golden age of frontline prose, starring such humanistic scribblers as Ernie Pyle whose sparse and heart-felt reports on ordinary GIs were adored by his subjects and readers alike. To this day, historians of that conflict – a “crazy hysterical mess” as John Steinbeck called it – swoon over Pyle’s elegiac account of the death of a captain called Waskow in Italy. Unlike Hemingway’s self-regarding reports, Pyle’s beautifully-crafted story of young men mourning their young leader still evokes the immense sadness of a war in which Pyle saw many “swell kids having their heads blown off”.

Pyle was in fact so nauseated by what he had seen that he eventually “lost track of the whole point of the war.” But it did have a point. Although it entailed the death in Europe of over 130,000 mostly working class Americans, with a final butcher’s bill of over fifty million lives around the globe, the fighting in WWII was without doubt necessary if barbarism was to be defeated. The concentration camps visited by Richard Dimbleby and others in 1945 were all the evidence one needed of why the sacrifice was so important, if no less palatable. Tragically, Pyle was one of 53 US-accredited reporters to lose their lives covering the war, killed only days from the end by a Japanese sniper in the Pacific.

During the Korean War in the early 1950s, reporting restrictions continued but a more critical tone began to emerge in the press as a whole. It was also marked by the extraordinary bravery of Marguerite Higgins, ambitious, blonde, the first woman to enter Dachau in 1945, and the first to win a Pulitzer Prize for foreign reporting thanks to her work in Korea. She did not plan to marry, she quipped, until she found a man who was as exciting as war. For all her bravado, however, she had to fight sexist generals as much as she did the elements and censorship in order to get her stories from the battlefront.

The impact of the military-industrial complex that President Eisenhower warned of in 1961, which has since embroiled America in seemingly endless combat around the globe, has imbued war reporting since Korea with a far darker, nihilistic tinge. As the next major war dragged on in Vietnam, for more and more reporters so much of what they were witnessing no longer had any moral foundation. The sacrifice was seemingly in vain, as was the gross expenditure and the destruction.

At the height of the Vietnam War, half of Americans had no idea what the war was about. Today, far more still don’t. What would become “the longest running front-page story in history”, wreaking untold environmental damage and killing at least half a million Vietnamese civilians, began in earnest in 1962 and lasted more than a decade. For year after year, the war escalated with hundreds of reporters noting the daily body counts. Only when Walter Cronkite raised doubts from a US television studio in 1968, thousands of miles from Saigon and Khe Sanh, did many Americans first begin to wonder if all the blood and sacrifice was worth it.

The war couldn’t last long enough for some of those actually covering it. To many of the male correspondents, noted the perceptive Nora Ephron, “the war is not hell. It is fun.” Perhaps the most skilled of the stalwarts was New Zealander Peter Arnett, who spent more time covering the war than any other reporter. “As hard-boiled as a Chinese thousand-year-old egg,” according to another astute female observer, Marina Warner, Arnett was notable for his emotional detachment, at least in his reporting. Many others were far less objective, providing visceral, unforgettable images of the Green Machine sinking further into the South East Asian quagmire of hubris and bullshit that led to the US’s humiliating withdrawal in 1975. Amid all the madness and hallucinatory scenes, young writers such as Michael Herr managed to transcend the confines and clichés of deadline reporting, producing prose of lasting eloquence about young Americans performing for nightly news broadcasts, “doing little guts and glory Leatherneck dances under fire, getting their pimples shot off for the networks.”
The Vietnam War was, on reflection, arguably covered better than any in history, certainly by more journalists from more countries for longer than any other conflict. “But that is not saying a lot,” the Australian journalist Phillip Knightley has observed in his classic book, The First Casualty, an eviscerating examination of the war correspondent as “hero and myth maker”. “With a million-dollar corps of correspondents in Vietnam the war in Cambodia was kept hidden for a year.”
Barely a generation later, determined not to allow the press to lose them another war, the politicians who planned the invasion of Iraq in 2003 made sure things would be done right. They had their usual way with the eager to please military, which proudly introduced to primetime audiences “Shock and Awe”’s most potent weapon, far more effective than a SCUD missile – the “embedded reporter”. Every hack knew the only option was to get in bed with the military’s public relations corps in the hope of a ride with a bunch of grunts. The resulting exclusives usually entailed sweating in a flack jacket in a Bradley fighting vehicle while dodging IEDs. Other than the reporters’ egos, little was revealed. The fog of war got only thicker the closer most got to the grunts they were covering.

August sections of the media had built the case for the war in Iraq. Short and victorious conflicts are always great for circulation and ratings. It was expected to be both. And indeed much of the coverage in the first heady weeks after invasion was predictably gung-ho, the kind of “yellow journalism” that would have made Hearst proud. The Lebanese-American reporter Anthony Shadid was one exception. His March 2003 report on the burial of Iraqi civilians – the first collateral damage of the war – raised questions that few cared to answer back in Washington where post 9-11 hysteria had been shamelessly whipped up to aggrandize men who had ducked out of service in Vietnam: “If the Americans are intent on liberation, why are innocent people dying? If they want to attack the government, why do bombs fall on civilians? How can they have such formidable technology and make such tragic mistakes?”

Ten years later, Shadid is sadly no longer with us, dead on assignment covering Assad’s atrocities in Syria. But the question civilians ask – how they, not the men in uniform, do most of the dying – is still a familiar lament as drones, not Hueys or B-52s, strike suspected militants, terrorists as well as innocents, on an almost daily basis. Indeed, there is no end in sight to the suffering in Iraq and Afghanistan despite a decade of countless reporters’ questions.

It is not the reporters’ fault that so few lessons have been learnt from so many conflicts. The fact is we are a destructive species. To pretend otherwise is to be ignorant of history or in denial. War gives men meaning. It is addictive – to combatants, megalomaniacs and journalists, male and female as the reporting in recent years of Janine di Giovianni and Christina Lamb, to name but two gutsy women, has shown.

Any writer worth their salt will tell you little comes close to the adrenaline high of bullets cracking over one’s head as you fumble for a notebook. As many of the brave reporters included in this anthology would attest, there’s nothing quite as effective as a stiff shot of combat when it comes to sharpening your prose. Thankfully, at least every war produces its fair share of great writing, even when censorship is at its most stringent and suffocating.

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The Tang was soon moving away at full speed, around 23 knots, partially hidden by a cloud of exhaust fumes.
Other captains might now have plotted a new course and not looked back. Not Dick O’Kane. At 10,000 yards from the convoy, he slowed the Tang. He was going back for more—to finish off the transport he’d seen dead in the water.
O’Kane ordered his torpedo mechanics to pull the last two torpedoes from their tubes and examine them. With so few left, he wanted to make sure there would be no mistakes. Pete Narowanski, Hayes Trukke, and the other torpedo mechanics carefully checked the Tang ’s last two fish. They then loaded them into forward tubes numbered five and six.
Thirty minutes later, Tang was ready to deliver the coup de grâce to the stricken transport…. The Tang moved forward at six knots, her bow pointing at the transport. There were no escorts in sight.
Floyd Caverly looked at the screen of his SJ radar in the conning tower.
“Range: fifteen hundred yards,” said Caverly.
The submarine crept slowly closer.
Nine hundred yards from the target, O’Kane was ready with his remaining two torpedoes—for all he knew, they were the last he might fire in combat during the war.
“Stand by below,” O’Kane ordered.
“Ready below, captain,” replied Springer.
A small jolt was felt throughout the boat as the next-to-last torpedo was fired….
Now just one torpedo was left. Once it had been fired, the Tang could head back to safety, having completed one of the most destructive patrols of the war.
O’Kane called for a time check. It was 2:30 A.M. on October 25, 1944.
In the conning tower, [Lieutenant] Larry Savadkin operated the torpedo data computer. He pressed a button which set the final firing angle of Tang ’s last torpedo.
“Fire!” ordered O’Kane.
Frank Springer stood a few feet from Savadkin in the conning tower. He pressed the firing plunger. Again, a jolting whoosh as the last torpedo, Number 24, left the Tang. The submarine shuddered as compressed air forced the torpedo from its tube and seawater flooded back into the tube.
In the forward torpedo room, Pete Narowanski slammed his fist into the palm of his left hand.
“Hot dog, course zero nine zero,” he cried. “Heading for the Golden Gate!”
“Let’s head for the barn,” someone else shouted.
There was a massive explosion as Number 23 torpedo hit its target, sending flames and debris shooting into the sky….
On the bridge, Bill Leibold scanned the waters with his binoculars. He stood next to O’Kane. Suddenly, he saw the last torpedo, Number 24, broach and then begin to porpoise, phosphorescence trailing it. A few seconds later, it made a sharp turn to port and then, unbelievably, began to come about.
“There goes that one! Erratic!” shouted O’Kane.
The last torpedo was now heading like a boomerang, back to its firing point…back toward the Tang. Something had gone terribly wrong. Perhaps its rudder had jammed or the gyroscope in its steering engine had malfunctioned.
“Emergency speed!” cried O’Kane.
Below, twenty-year-old Motor Machinist’s Mate Jesse DaSilva had just left his post in the engine room, having decided to get a cup of coffee. He was standing with one foot in the mess. Over the intercom, he could hear the bridge crew react as the torpedo headed back toward the Tang.
“Captain, that’s a circular run!” he heard Leibold say.
“All ahead emergency!” shouted O’Kane. “Right full rudder!”
“Bend them on,” added O’Kane. “Control, just bend them on.”
In the engine room, Chief Electrician’s Mate James Culp did his best to comply, knowing the Tang needed all the power she could get if there was to be a chance of saving lives.
The torpedo was now making straight for the 300-foot submarine. The men on the bridge stood, transfixed, their eyes “popping out of their sockets.” The Tang was moving at about 6 knots, 20 less than her final torpedo.
“Left full rudder!” ordered O’Kane.
Bill Leibold watched in stricken silence as the torpedo headed right at them, coming dead-on toward the Tang. Then he lost sight of it as it continued down the port side.
Maybe it will miss. Maybe it will veer away and begin another erratic circle. Maybe the Tang will evade just in time….
In the conning tower, Floyd Caverly waited like the other men for the inevitable.
Surely there is enough time to get out of the way—to get the hell out of here? Surely?
Speed. Speed is all we need…just enough to get out of the way. If only the Tang would just set by the stern and set off like a speedboat.
But the Tang was not a speedboat. She could not avoid the charging torpedo. It hit the Tang ’s stern with a massive explosion somewhere between the maneuvering room and the after torpedo room, killing as many as half the crew instantly and flooding all aft compartments as far forward as the crew’s quarters, midway along the boat.
Caverly was standing looking at a radarscope when it happened. He…thought that the Tang had been snapped in two. The waves of concussion from the explosion made him feel as if he were experiencing a massive earthquake. He did not know which way to step to catch his balance. The deck plates rattled and shook. Lightbulbs went out.
In the conning tower, there was chaos.
“We’ve been hit!” cried Executive Officer Frank Springer.
In the forward torpedo room, Pete Narowanski found himself flat on his back from the huge explosion. He picked himself up. What happened? There had been no alarm. One moment he had been rejoicing, looking forward to carousing in San Francisco. Now he could feel the Tang sinking. Had the Tang been hit by a Japanese shell?
…[Narowanski] and the other men in the forward torpedo room remained calm. They were well trained and had many years’ experience between them. As they tried to figure out what exactly had happened to the Tang, they scanned the compartment for damage. There was surprisingly little. Then, their training kicked in. They closed the watertight door leading to the next compartment. One of the men, who was still wearing headphones, tried to contact other compartments but without success. Someone else turned on the emergency lights.
[They] were lucky. Unlike men trapped in other compartments, the torpedomen knew they had a way out from theirs—they were a few feet from one of only two escape trunks on the Tang. The other was in the after torpedo room, which was flooded, its occupants either killed instantly by the explosion or now drowned….
On the bridge, Bill Leibold saw a cloud of what looked like black smoke. In fact it was water thrown up from the explosion. He and other men on the bridge felt the boat being wrenched, as if it were being split in half.
A few feet from Leibold, Dick O’Kane watched, aghast, as the tops of the after ballast tanks blew into the air. Water washed across the wooden main decking, around the five-inch main gun, and then toward the aft cigarette deck where Tang’s 40mm gun was positioned, several feet from where O’Kane now stood on the bridge.
“Do we have propulsion?” he then asked, speaking into his bridge phone.
There was no answer.
O’Kane again shouted into the bridge phone.
The men in the conning tower below could hear him. But O’Kane received no reply. The explosion had knocked out the microphone on his bridge phone.
“Radar!” shouted O’Kane. “I want to know how far it is to the closest destroyer and what the course is on that destroyer.”
Caverly picked up his microphone in the conning tower.
“The radar is out of commission,” said Caverly. “I have no bearing or range right now.”
“Radar,” barked O’Kane, “I’m asking for information and I want it now!”
Caverly realized that O’Kane’s microphone was out of action so he stepped over to the hatch and called up: “The radar is out of commission.”
Caverly then gave the Tang ’s last bearing and range, but O’Kane did not hear him. He had stepped away from the hatch.
“I want information, radar!” O’Kane shouted again, desperately.
Frank Springer grabbed Caverly by the nape of the neck and seat of his pants and began to shove him up the hatch.
“Get up there and talk to the skipper!” said Springer.
Caverly climbed up the ladder to the bridge [and]…stepped over toward O’Kane, who was a few feet from Bill Leibold…. Water started to rise up toward the bridge. It had soon covered the aft third of the submarine.
“Close the hatch!” cried O’Kane.
But it was too late. The Tang began to sink, tons of water pouring into the conning tower. The after section of the submarine had flooded….
Caverly knew it was now time for every man to look after himself.

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The platoon again opened fire as the Germans got to the fence. This time, it was Private First Class Milosevich who let rip with the .50-caliber jeep-mounted machine gun. The armor-piercing bullets, employed by rear gunners on B-17s to bring down fighters, blew holes a foot wide in the German soldiers. But the .50 caliber’s field of fire was too narrow, and the gun was not easy to maneuver from its fixed position in the jeep. Milosevich tried to take it off its stand but burned his hand because it had become so hot. He wrapped a handkerchief over the burn and again picked up the gun so he could better traverse the pasture.

Suddenly, Milosevich saw a German paratrooper to his left only yards from Lyle Bouck’s dugout. He fired and the German fell.

The enemy fire suddenly became particularly fierce. Milosevich decided to make for his dugout. A German appeared a few yards away, wielding a “potato-masher” grenade. Milosevich let rip, cutting the German in two.80 Milosevich made it back to his dugout and began to fire again. He screamed for Slape, who dived into the dugout, bruising his ribs.

The Germans kept coming.

Slape took over on the .50-caliber machine gun.

“Shoot in bursts of three!” shouted Milosevich, knowing the gun would overheat and they would be out of ammunition if Slape kept firing away without pausing.

“I can’t!” shouted Slape. “There’s too many of them!”

Slape continued to fire, hitting dozens of men with a sweeping arc. Milosevich saw the unwieldly gun start to pour off smoke. When he looked down the hillside, it seemed that they were outnumbered by at least a hundred to one, and the Germans just kept coming.

In their dugout on the extreme right side of the position, Sam Jenkins and Robert Preston had by now run out of ammunition for their BAR and were using their M-1s. Jenkins couldn’t understand why the Germans were attacking again without artillery support. If they brought just one tank into play, they would all be quickly blown off the hill.83 He fired again and again, knowing it was vital to hit the Germans before they got close enough to throw a grenade through the hole’s firing slit.

Nearby, Private Louis Kalil suddenly noticed that some of the Germans were fanning out and trying to infiltrate through the position’s flanks. A few feet from Kalil, Sergeant George Redmond was squinting through the sights of his M-1.

To the left of the dugout, a German paratrooper crawled along the rock-hard ground. He got to within thirty yards of Kalil and Redmond and then quickly aimed his rifle, loaded with a grenade, and fired. It was a superb shot. The grenade entered the dugout through its eighteen-inch slit and hit Kalil square in the jaw.

But it did not explode. Instead, it knocked Kalil across the dugout to Redmond’s side. Kalil was half-stunned as he lay sprawled on the base of the dugout. Redmond dropped his rifle, grabbed some snow, and rubbed it in Kalil’s face. Blood gushed from Kalil’s jaw. The force of the impact had forced his lower teeth into the roof of his mouth, where several were now deeply embedded. His jaw was fractured in three places.

Redmond sprinkled sulfa powder on the wound and then pulled gauze out of both their first aid kits and started to wrap Kalil’s face. There was no morphine in the kits to kill the pain. Once the shock wore off, Kalil would be in agony.

“How bad is it?” asked Kalil.

“Oh, it’s not too bad, Louis,” said Redmond.

“But I’ve got blood all over myself. It can’t be very nice.”

“It’s not too bad.”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it.”

Kalil knew Redmond was trying to make the wound sound a lot less severe than it really was. He could feel the teeth embedded in the roof of his mouth cutting into his tongue.

The battle still raged. Small-arms fire sounded like radio static during an electrical storm, a constant ear-piercing crackle. Redmond’s fingers did not shake despite his fear as he wrapped the last of the gauze around Kalil’s jaw. He knew the Germans could penetrate their position any moment. If they were to stand a chance, they would need to return to firing as soon as possible.

Redmond tied the last gauze bandage and met Kalil’s gaze.

“Don’t worry about it,” reassured Redmond.

“If things get to where you can take off, then take off,” Kalil replied. Redmond looked at Kalil fiercely.

“We’re staying here—together.”

“All right.”

Redmond grabbed his M-1 and began to fire. Kalil was now in terrible pain but did the same, aiming with the use of just one eye at the figures that still approached up the bloodied hillside. It was so cold in the dugout that Kalil could feel blood freezing to his face, stemming the flow from the wound. The damned cold had been good for one thing at least. In the desert, he would surely have bled to death.

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Alice Breuer, photographed in Stockholm, 2009, by John Snowdon

Alice Breuer, photographed in Stockholm, 2009, by John Snowdon

An excerpt from my book The Envoy about Raoul Wallenberg’s rescue of thousands of Jews in Budapest in late 1944

…The winter night was bitterly cold. Soon, Alice and Erwin and the others found themselves at the entrance to the Maria Teresa barracks. They were herded down narrow wooden stairs to a basement. A teenaged, red-haired Arrow Cross soldier was sleeping on the floor, a submachine gun on his chest. The youth woke up.
“Take them to the Danube,” he murmured to other Arrow Cross youths, and then fell back to sleep.

Alice and Erwin and the others were soon out on the street, marching again with hands above their heads, toward the local Arrow Cross headquarters, at 41 Ferenz Ring. On its first floor, they were pushed against a wall and their coats taken away. “We stood in our shirtsleeves,” recalled Erwin. “We knew that eventually we would have to shed the rest of our clothing, all but the underwear. Soon, but not yet. Questions were being asked by one of the Arrow Cross soldiers, who was seated behind a small table. A search for more valuables, and more abuse.”

Erwin was now close to collapsing from exhaustion. He stared at Alice. She, too, looked like she was “a hundred years old.” Fatigue had left deep lines on her face; her thin, pointed nose was now prominent. “A narrow, barely blue blood vessel arched up under her pale skin on the side of her neck, and where her jawbone protruded, a fine but visibly rapid, fluttering pulse betrayed her frightful expectation at parting so abruptly from her young life.”

Alice turned to face Erwin.

He would never be able to forget what she said next.

“I’m pregnant.”

Erwin held her close.

Then they were on the move again.

The Arrow Cross told them they were going to shoot them all and dump their bodies in the Danube.

Meanwhile, back on the fourth floor of Ulloi Street, Victor Aitay, who operated the telephone switchboard, called a secret number and managed to get a message to someone working on Wallenberg’s staff at Section C.

In the breast pocket of Erwin Koranyi’s jacket was half a cigarette. But the jacket had been taken away. It was all he could think about as he faced the Arrow Cross executioners.

Mortars landed in nearby streets.

Erwin wanted it all to end.

What if I jump into the Danube before the Arrow Cross opens fire? Would I stand a chance? Maybe it’s better to get it over with…

Erwin was “impatient” to die.

Alice then saw a large American car pull up nearby. A man in a darkblue suit, wearing a fedora, stepped out of the car. He was holding up a megaphone.

Alice stared at Wallenberg. He was unarmed, shouting that he wanted his Jews back. They did not belong to the Arrow Cross. They were his. “It was extraordinary because everybody could kill him,” Alice recalled. “Why not kill him? Killing was everywhere.”

It was around 2 a.m. as Alice and the others watched, barely able to believe what they were seeing.

“These are Swedish citizens! Release them immediately and return their belongings to them!”

To Alice, it seemed as if God had answered her prayers. “For an instant,” she recalled, “I thought: ‘God has come to save us.’ To our astonishment, the executioners obeyed Wallenberg. He seemed very tall indeed—and strong. He radiated power and dignity. There was truly a kind of divine aura about him on that night.”

Erwin saw several policemen, who were clearly working for Wallenberg. “The policemen were talking to the Arrow Cross commander. What was happening? One of the high-ranking police officers was Pal Szalai, with whom Wallenberg used to deal.” The police were armed. They began to take guns from the Arrow Cross youths. Among the policemen was a man in a leather coat, Karoly Szabo, whom Erwin recognized. Then some of the policemen told Alice and Erwin and the others to form a line and walk back to the Ulloi Street building….

Erwin Koranyi’s sister, Marta, spotted Erwin and Alice among the returning Jews. She cried as she kissed her brother and Alice.

All the returnees were given some bread.

Someone struck a match and the stump of a cigarette was lit. Erwin took it, filled his lungs with nicotine, and exhaled.

It was hard to believe, but he was still alive.

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By Alex Kershaw

We did not arrive at first light as Hitler had done, accompanied by a carefully selected entourage of aesthetes and adjutants, to be greeted by swastikas flying from rooftops and silent streets. Instead, we slip into the city at night, intent on seeing the sights as the Fuhrer did on 23 June 1940, but also determined to explore the darkest corners of the city, the avenues and quartiers where his most ardent followers, namely the Gestapo, had cast long shadows during four years of increasingly brutal occupation.

Der Fuhrer, a former art student, had always longed to see the most civilized city in history. For his first and as it turned out only visit, he brought along his favorite sculptor, Arno Breker, and his pet architects, Albert Speer and Hermann Giesler.

“Paris has always fascinated me,” Hitler confided in Breker, who shared a large Mercedes sedan with Hitler during a whirlwind tour.

Our first stop is the Opera, today at the heart of a bustling shopping district. In 1940, by contrast, the streets around this extraordinary theatre were empty. A lone gendarme saluted Hitler, his new master.

Hitler adored the Opera.

“This is the most beautiful theater in the world.”

Had Hitler explored the area, as we choose to do, rather than rush on to the next conquered landmark, he would have soon discovered 122 Rue de Provence, the address of the most famous of Paris’ many wartime brothels, the One Two Two club, which would soon be much frequented by the SS. The boite’s owner, Fabienne Jamet, loved the young Aryans’ jet black uniforms, appreciated their gifts of flowers and champagne for her best girls, and would always insist the German occupation was the best chapter in a long life as a Parisian hostess par excellence. Typically, her girls were examined three times a week for infection. The Germans viewed the act of sleeping with the enemy while infected as a particularly reprehensible form of sabotage.

Next, we head south through streets line with expensive cars, across the gray Seine to the Eiffel Tower. In 1940, Hitler had wanted to look down on his greatest prize from the top of the tower but when he arrived at the city’s most famous landmark he was told that the French had severed the cables to the lifts. The only way up was on foot. Hitler declined to climb the 1,792 steps. A few hours after he left, the lifts miraculously were working again.

Paris was the greatest prize of the Third Reich, by far the most favored place for Germans to be posted, lose their virginity and spend their leave. And the Germans made good conquerors at first. Tres correct. They paid their bills and left tips. Parisians had expected rape and pillage, not politeness. But then the Gestapo got down to business. As the tide of war turned against the Germans on all fronts in 1943, their security services became increasingly repressive. Assassinations and attacks on German soldiers soared. The SS hit back, sending thousands of Parisians to gruesome deaths.

At the height of Nazi terror in 1943-44, there was perhaps no more feared destination than 93 Rue Lauriston, the most notorious of the Gestapo’s addresses in Paris. Today, there is a small plaque on a wall on the building, a reminder that this was in fact a place of immense evil and suffering. In the cavernous cellar, the infamous Bonny Lafont gang invented gruesome torture techniques when not throwing wild parties on the upper floors for Gestapo and SS bigwigs who wanted to mingle with carefully selected young French actresses.

On a chilly December day, as the light begins to fade, we arrive on the Avenue Foch, the widest and grandest of Haussmann’s boulevards. This was the epicenter of Nazi power, even when Hitler visited. Along the avenue, the Gestapo set up several offices. At Number 72, SS Colonel Helmut Knochen orchestrated the crushing of resistance forces from a grand white villa that is today empty, its shutters closed. At Number 31, just across the street, in June 1942 Theodor Dannecker and Adolf Eichmann planned the Grand Rafle of 16 – 17 July in which over fifteen thousand Jews were taken to the Vel d’Hiver before eventually being sent to death camps. At Number 84, we stop and look up to the small servants’ rooms of a large villa. It was in these cramped rooms on the fifth floor that the legendary Violette Szabo, “The White Rabbit”, “Madeleine” and other British SOE agents were tortured until their upscale neighbors could hear their screams.

A short stroll from Avenue Foch, we discover the famous Prunier Restaurant, at the heart of the so-called “Nazi Triangle” – several grand streets and avenues near the Etoile. Our budget is limited so we decide not to indulge, unlike the SS officers and black market barons who spent large sums of occupation currency on caviar and oysters, surrounded by Art Deco opulence.

It’s after dark as we walk along the Champs Elysees, navigating through more crowds of frantic Christmas shoppers, headed for the most glamorous address in Paris for senior Nazis and where Hitler would have undoubtedly stayed if he had chosen to spend more than just a couple of giddy hours in the city. The Ritz.

Goering and Goebbels and others among the Third Reich’s top leadership found the hotel, on the Place Vendome, utterly sumptuous, the service impeccable. During the occupation, the Germans discreetly took up residence in one wing while regular guests had access to all but a couple of the suites. The most glamorous of France’s collaborators were also in residence. The actress Arletty, famous for her role in Les Enfants du Paradis, shared one of the famous brass beds with Hans Jurgen Soehring, ten years her junior. “Mon coeur est francais,” Arletty protested after the war. “Mon cul est international.” (My heart if French…. [but] my ass is international). Coco Chanel also made the hotel her home during the war. The window of her room actually overlooked her store on the Rue Cambon.

In the Imperial Suite, Goring examined looted art, some of it taken from Jewish homes on Avenue Foch. A crystal bowl full of morphine tablets sat on a side table beside another full of precious gems – rubies, black pearls. The morbidly obese Reichsmarshal liked to dance with the hotel’s waiters then drift into reverie lying on a replica of Marie Antoinette’s four poster bed.

Sadly, the hotel is undergoing renovation – it is due to reopen this summer – so we move on quickly and enjoy a long cocktail or two in a bistro opposite the Les Invalides where Napoleon’s tomb lies beneath a magnificent dome. In 1940, Hitler stared at the great French dictator’s final resting place for several minutes and then turned to Gieseler, the architect, and declared: “You will build my tomb.”

Hitler’s last stop was in Montmartre. After a last look at Paris, his group drove to the airport. By nine o’clock in the morning, the sightseeing tour was over. Later that day, Hitler confided in Albert Speer: “In the past I often considered whether we would not have to destroy Paris. But when we are finished in Berlin, Paris will only be a shadow. So why should we destroy it?”

Four years later, Hitler had changed his mind. On our last day, fittingly, we decide to visit the Meurice hotel where the grand climax of occupation was played out. Dietrich von Choltitz resided here as the last German military governor of Paris, making the magnificent hotel his base. As the Allies closed on the city, Hitler apparently called him on a telephone in room number 213 and screamed in rage: “Is Paris burning?”

It was not. Once Hitler’s rant had ended, the portly Prussian general, Choltitz, set about making sure it did not, minimizing damage to the city Hitler had professed to admire more than any other, before surrendering to French general Philippe Leclerc de Hautecloque at the Gare Montparnasse on August 25.

Before heading home, we find ourselves compelled to visit at least a couple of places where Nazism’s victims spent their last days. Not far from the Eiffel tower we find an elegant mansion bloc, 5 Avenue Élysées Reclus. It was here that the Jewish writer Helene Berr penned a deeply affecting diary of occupation that became a best seller in 2008, long after her death. “There is beauty in the midst of tragedy,” Berr wrote in the darkest days of the German occupation. “As if beauty were condensing in the heart of ugliness. It’s very strange.”

Hélène Berr died just five days from the end of the war in Bergen Belsen, where Anne Frank also breathed her last. Berr’s journey from Paris to hell had started in the rail yards to the north east of the city, a few miles from the Pere Lachaise cemetery. During our final hours in Paris, we walk though the fascinating graveyard, pausing for a while at the grave of Edith Piaf, who sang for Germans and French alike during Paris’s darkest years. Fresh flowers adorn her grave. Then we head even further east to a far corner. Here we find several impressive memorials to the French victims of Nazi rule and the 200,000 who were deported to concentration camps. There are no bouquets of garish flowers – just stark marble statues, haunting and unforgettable reminders of the four long years when the Nazis occupied the City of Light.


Where to go and stay

The area around Rue Cler, close to the American University of Paris is full of great and affordable restaurants, among the best being Le Petit Cler, 29 Rue Cler, where you can gorge on the perfect Croque Monsieur. Another wonderful street for food, wine and shopping is the Rue de Cherche Midi; the restaurant at 22 Rue de Cherche Midi, named after the street, has a loyal neighborhood clientele. Take a short walk north toward the Seine and you will find Bon Marche, 24 Rue de Sevres, a true foodie’s heaven. And don’t forget to check out the newly renovated Picasso Museum, 5 Rue de Thorigny, before knocking off the more traditional sights such as the Louvre.

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My guide to the tracks, Bob Hopkins, watching the Bitterroot river drift past. Montana.


Hobos have been taking free rides on America’s freight trains since Civil War days – they have always been a law unto themselves. But in recent years, the old camaraderie has given way to violence and murder. No one much cared until a few determined police officers began to suspect a serial killer was at work. Alex Kershaw rode the rails himself to follow their trail

To escape the brutally cold night, William Pettit Jr, a 39-year-old hobo, crawled into his sleeping-bag and pulled his High Times baseball cap over his wind-burned forehead. Finally, he fell asleep, huddled in a corner at the end of a metal box-car. While he slept, a lank-haired heroin addict called Sidetrack climbed aboard the freight train and crept towards him. With a blunt object, Sidetrack bludgeoned Pettit to death before taking items he could later sell to buy a fix. Then he washed his bloodied hands and face in a nearby stream and put on Pettit’s clothes. The sleeping bag became Pettit’s shroud – it was too blood-stained to be of any value.
Riding the rails – a uniquely American experience – has always been a dangerous pastime. In the 1860s, many of the first hobos died of exposure after hopping aboard steam trains leading home, they had hoped, from the killing fields of the Civil War. In the Thirties, when a million Americans “caught out” – jumped a train – and wandered the West looking for work to avoid starvation, countless thousands were crushed between carriages or simply fell to their deaths from moving trains.

America is a nation based on migration. It was the railroad that first opened up the West and the railroad lines are still the great arteries of the United States. Passenger trains have dwindled, but the freight trains trundle endlessly on, still offering the chance of a free ride.

Today, “riding the rods” is more perilous than ever. As millions are dumped off welfare rolls and mental institutions are emptied, more and more homeless people cower in the box-car shadows, rolling cigarettes with hands shaking from the DTs and cold. The railroads have become the last refuge of the destitute, moving from place to place collecting welfare benefits, hoping to find something better. Among the most pathological and drug-crazed, as befits America’s Social Darwinist society, predators such as Sidetrack have evolved.

The most violent of this new species belong to a gang of rogue riders calling themselves the Freight Train Riders of America (FTRA). Formed by Vietnam veterans – legendary figures with names such as “Melford Lawson”, “Uncle Joe”, “Joshua Long-gone” and “Daniel Boone” – and now estimated to have several hundred members nationwide, today’s stalwarts of this band of “welfare outlaws” are proud of their lightning-bolt tattoos and links to far-right militia and racist groups such as the Aryan Nations. Past and present members of the gang and their associates are suspected in some 300 murders nationwide in the past decade.

In the weeks after the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995, an Amtrak train was intentionally derailed in Arizona, killing one and injuring 40. Four FTRA members were investigated as suspects. They included John Stanley Boris, aka “Dogman Tony”, suspected in two murders including that of 43-year-old Francis Terry, who was found in October 1995 in a grain car in Saginaw, Texas, with his throat slit. Boris is still at large.

“It’s real hard to find suspects after the crime,” says detective Jim Writer of Big Springs, Texas, who investigated Terry’s death. “The FTRA provides criminals with perfect mobility. In three days, you can be on the other side of the country. And there’s no record of your trip.”

According to Writer, there are cadres within the FTRA that are more organised and vicious than others. The most feared is the “Wrecking Crew”: “The most hardcore, alcoholic, and violent members belong. Many are ex-bikers who have fallen out of Hells Angels gangs because bikes have gotten so expensive.”

Only by taking to the rails would I see the fault-lines running through America’s rail-yards: the class and generation divides that often lead to bloodshed as one tribe of rail-riders encounters another. I decided to “catch out” on a box-car.

The country’s leading expert on the FTRA – Spokane Police Department’s detective Bob Grandinetti – was not enthusiastic about me taking a trip. “The odds are,” he warned, “you’re gonna end up lying dead between a couple of towns.” As if to stop me in my tracks, one FTRA member’s name was cited over and over: Robert Silveria, a 37-year-old, known to have committed ten murders between 1991 and 1995, and suspected in dozens more. In fact Silveria, as I was later to discover, was the one hobo I was unlikely to meet.

I decided to “catch out” anyway. The stretch of track I chose was the “Billygoat”: the most picturesque route through the Rocky Mountains as well as the heart of FTRA country, some 300 miles long, and the last journey made by one of the most recent victims of FTRA murderers.

On a freezing cold night, I arrived in Montana and headed straight to the rail yards in the town of Helena. Close to the tracks stood a row of stone buildings: a pawn shop, a thrift store and Hap’s Bar, rumoured to be where the FTRA was founded in the early Eighties. Two local characters were able to fill me in on the FTRA’s history. Leigh Lynn was a world-weary woman who had worked with the homeless for 13 years and, in so doing, had become a mother figure to ten retired FTRA founder members who passed through her mission from time to time. She chivied some into joining AA. Before others, she held up the Bible. Few had been saved.

“The FTRA, as people know it now, is a different group from the old days,” Lynn told me. “The original guys were great. But there’s a new bunch, kids in their twenties, doing drugs and attacking others when they get high, stealing the old guys’ names when they see them tagged on bridges, calling themselves FTRA.”

Another Hap’s Bar regular was Jerry “The Frog” Fortin, the 1997 National Hobo Association’s “King of Hobos”. Toothless, his face was prematurely aged by travelling more than a million miles in often extreme weather. Fortin explained that the FTRA originally stood for “Fuck The Reagan Administration” and was founded by a “bunch of guys who wanted to ride together and just came up with a joke name”. They were Vietnam veterans who had not been able to fit back into “normal society” and who wanted to ride “free” and see America their own way, surviving as they had in the jungles of Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam by hunting, fishing and living off the land. In the past decade, however, they have been replaced by a new breed of drifters, who have murdered and assaulted many old-time hobos.

Last summer in North Dakota, a group of teenagers jumped Fortin, beat him nearly to death with a baseball bat and stabbed him five times before taking his boots and backpack. “This latest generation have no respect,” Fortin told me bitterly. “They don’t understand the proud traditions of the hobo – the hard worker who built the West, kept the jungles [railside camps] clean, shared what he had with his fellow ‘bos. This new bunch are dirty – they defecate in camps, do hard drugs, don’t give a damn.”

Around 2am, I decided to call it a night at Hap’s Bar. The barman had mentioned that a “junk-train” – one made up of assorted wagons, grain containers and box-cars – left as regular as clockwork at six every morning, headed towards Missoula and then on to Spokane, the Pacific Northwest’s main railroad hub. I dropped a couple of dollars on the old oak bar, etched with lovers’ giddy initials, and headed out into the frigid pre-dawn air. I snatched two hours sleep in what locals called a “shotgun shack”, a cheap motel, and then I made my way to the furthest reaches of Helena yards, hoping to “catch out” before dawn on the Great Northern line: the Billygoat route.

Suddenly, a Ford Bronco, with a “bull” (railroad security guard) at the wheel, sped towards me. I could hear my heart pounding as I ducked behind a pile of fresh-cut logs. It’s illegal to ride a freight train, and I was trespassing on railroad property. In many yards, bulls have traditionally turned a blind eye to hobos, regarding them as minor nuisances. In recent years, however, they’ve become aggressive in pursuing trespassers because of the railroads’ increasing security concerns. Incidences of vandalism are on the rise. Then there’s the FTRA, a surge in derailments, and organised crime’s gathering shadow in many rail yards, particularly along the US borders.

The Bronco passed by. A few tracks away, I spotted the junk-train due to leave within the hour. I clambered between a couple of trains and, after ten minutes of jogging alongside the junk, I found an open box-car – first-class travel for any hobo, offering protection from the wind and rain and magnificent views through the open doors. Freight trains can be up to a mile long.

From an Internet website, Rail Rogues, I’d already memorised several dos and don’ts for the prospective rail rider. Don’t walk between rails. Don’t cross under couplers or cars. Expect trains to move suddenly, often silently, and at any time. Don’t jump on a moving train – “catch out on the fly” – unless you absolutely have to, though freight trains rarely travel faster that 12mph. Stay near the front of the car: if the train stops suddenly, you don’t want to go flying out of the door. Above all, as any hobo will tell you, don’t join anyone else in a box-car.

With a great deal of effort I managed to pull myself up into an open box-car, five feet above the tracks. I stowed my sleeping bag and a small backpack, full of water bottles and snacks, in a corner of the cavernous, metal-based box, and then I sat down and waited. As my entire backside became numb from the cold, the train slowly screeched into life. The metal seemed to groan as the couplings took up slack. Adrenaline rushed into my bloodstream. With a jerking motion the train pulled away, out of Helena, and up a long incline towards the 6,000ft Continental Divide that stretches down the Rockies.

I was headed for Missoula, and hopefully a breakfast of steak and eggs. “F-Trooper”, victim of a fellow FTRA member, was found on this same Montana Rail-Link with five bullets in his head, a cigarette in one hand and a can of Schmidt’s Ice beer in the other. Luckily, perhaps, I met no one.

Scenic routes such as the Billygoat are particularly popular with growing numbers of “weekend riders”, especially in the summer. Lured by what the writer James Michener once described as the last “red-blooded American adventure”, each year an estimated 30,000 people illegally catch out from hobo encampments dotted along the 170,000 miles of track. Some of them are rich, some of them famous, the actor Christian Slater among them.

Another such recreational rider was 20-year-old Santa Cruz engineering student Michael Garfinkle, the very opposite of the stereotype one might expect to see bumming on the rails. An academic “top gun”, he never did drugs, meditated three times a day, and ran a successful business. He also liked to ride the rails, and, in August 1994, he hopped on a freight train for the hell of it.

According to detective Wade Harper of Emeryville Police Department in northern California, Garfinkle then met Robert Silveria near Emeryville, America’s largest switching yard, just outside Sacramento. “Silveria said that Garfinkle didn’t belong,” Harper told me. “He said that he was an amateur, a tourist in Silveria’s world of the homeless. He wore new shoes and even his backpack was new.”

When Garfinkle’s back was turned, Silveria occupied Garfinkle’s spot in a rail-side jungle. “What are you doing in my space?” asked Garfinkle upon his return. “I go anywhere,” Silveria replied. “And this is the last day you’ve spent.” America’s first known railroad serial killer then hit Garfinkle at least 13 times with an axe-handle.

Elated but exhausted, I finally arrived in Spokane just as the sun was going down. I had gone from ice-cold conditions to the baking heat that stifles any occupant of a metal box-car in midday sun. I’d been thrust into pitch-blackness and clouds of diesel fumes as the train thundered through a tunnel that seemed to last forever. I’d glimpsed a white wolf, sparkling trout streams, abandoned homesteads, the stark majesty of the Bitterroot Mountains – all of it framed by box-car doors and set against an epic backdrop: the Montana portrayed recently in films such as The Horse Whisperer. It had been the thrill-ride of a lifetime, and it hadn’t cost a cent.

In Spokane, I found the man who knows most about the FTRA in his office, sipping weak coffee. Bob Grandinetti was about to retire after 30 years’ service with the Spokane Police Department, 12 of them patrolling the rail yards. His fascination with the transient underworld developed after a 13-year-old girl, Marsi Belcz, was found stabbed to death near the rail yards in May 1985. Her unsolved murder gnawed at him. “Because of where she was dumped, we believed it could be the work of transients,” he said.

Grandinetti discovered the FTRA’s existence after recording ten deaths between 1990 and 1992 on the “High Line” between Seattle and Minneapolis: “The bodies had their shirts and jackets pulled up around their heads, and their pants pulled down.” It seemed obvious that a gang was at work. Then Grandinetti noticed that some transients he interviewed were wearing “colours”. He discovered that there were several initiation rituals for those joining the FTRA, and that there was a “Goon Squad” – a group of 50-100 FTRA “enforcers” – which maintained discipline among the gang.

On a bitterly-cold, grey morning, I visited the switching yards of Spokane, home-town of serial killer Ted Bundy. Near disused warehouses, I ran into a bearded, shivering man in a dirty three-piece suit. He showed me a three-inch scar on his forehead. “I ran into the FTRA a few times in Helena,” he grumbled. “They robbed me and beat me half to death with a chain. Got me when I was asleep.”

Under a nearby concrete bridge, I spotted the signature graffiti for “Sidetrack”: a white daubing of two tracks, a spider’s web and a crushed skull.

From Spokane, I took the train again, this time buying a $150 ticket on Amtrak’s Empire Builder service, and rode in a sky-lounge with glass ceilings. I arrived in Portland, Oregon, eight hours later. I had a lunch date with a remarkable police officer called Mike Quakenbush, a hero to hobos who made him a Knight of the Hobo Order of Merit in honour of his brave and relentless pursuit of Robert Silveria.

Quakenbush could barely hide his anger about the fate of the dispossessed and the “double standards throughout America”: “There’s a great system of justice for the rich. But forget it if you’re a nobody.” His odyssey through the rail yards and doss-houses of the Pacific Northwest began in December 1995, when a railroad worker peered into an empty box-car during a routine check in Millersburg, Oregon, and found the body of William Avis Pettit Jr.

The case landed on Quakenbush’s desk when a computer trace of the box-car revealed that it had passed through Salem, where the murder had probably taken place, according to an autopsy report. The case resembled hundreds of others around the nation in the past decade: a couple of homeless guys have a fight and one gets his head smashed in. Some cops have a code for such deaths: N-H-I – no humans involved.

Quakenbush, however, was determined to “show that no one could kill a man and get away with it because the victim is unknown and homeless”. Soon, he had entered the world of the hobo, and was learning the rail-rider’s lingo and habits. He spent many hours trudging through switching yards, where he interviewed bulls and hundreds of transients.

He came across “Chooch Johnson” and a friend, both of them hobos, who were later to confirm key details about Silveria’s appearance. Silveria, they said, had told them he was a travelling roofer by trade, using the rails to move between jobs. He claimed that he sent child support payments to his wife, though he’d been on the road for five or six years. According to Johnson, “Silveria cheerfully said he was a member of the FTRA, but said that the FTRA had gotten a bad name based on the actions of a few.”

Most often, it was later revealed, Silveria would wait until his victims were asleep or drunk, and then cave in their skulls with a blunt object or baseball bat. Between April and December 1995, he managed to kill a fellow rail-rider once a month. After killing, Silveria adopted the identity of his victim, even dressing in his clothes, in order to claim ever more public welfare. When finally apprehended, he had 28 food stamp accounts around America, and was picking up $119 from each one, each month.

In a homeless shelter in Eugene, Oregon, I met Tony “Fireball” Stanley, a 62-year-old who had been homeless for seven years since suffering a heart attack and then going bankrupt when he could not meet his medical bills. He told me that he had met Silveria several times. Offered a camping stove by Silveria, Stanley refused it believing it was “hot” – stolen. As it turned out, Stanley was right: the stove was taken from James McLean, 50, found on July 25, 1995, beaten and stabbed near a hobo camp. McLean’s dog was also stabbed.

Silveria really was a predator, recalled Stanley. “He’d kill just for a buck, out of pure and simple greed… Silveria took from the poor and then killed them because he could, because no one cares about what happens to us. We’re worthless losers in a country which only respects the rich.”

The Silveria case broke open when Union Pacific Railroad police found another body in a box-car near the Willamette River in Portland. Quakenbush attended the autopsy of Michael Andrew Clites, 24. Six-foot-four and heavily tattooed, Clites had been riding the rails for six months when he met Silveria. Like Pettit, Clites had been bludgeoned repeatedly and died of severe head wounds.

The box-car in which Clites was found was part of a train that had pulled out of Eugene. In Eugene, Quakenbush interviewed several groups of homeless men. He showed them photographs of Clites and Pettit. Several of the homeless men remembered Clites because of his height. One said Clites had been in a mission in Vancouver, Washington, on December 4, 1995. At the mission in Vancouver, Quakenbush found a man who’d ridden a box-car with Clites to Eugene: Carl De Paul. De Paul said that the last time he’d been seen, Clites was walking off in search of methamphetamine with a tall stranger who called himself “Sidetrack”.

Meanwhile, investigators from Utah, Montana and Kansas contacted Quakenbush. Each was investigating the murder of a transient that had happened within the previous eight months. The Utah victim had been beaten over the head with a board and stabbed in the ear. The Kansas victim had been smacked with a rod, and finished off with some other blunt instrument.

The detectives exchanged information. Quakenbush asked whether any of them had come across the name “Sidetrack”. None had, but one did say he had heard the name Robert Silveria mentioned by a couple of rail-riders. Quakenbush thought he was now looking for two people: Sidetrack and Robert Silveria. He did not yet realise they were the same person.

Finally, Quakenbush’s persistence paid off. On the afternoon of Saturday, March 2, 1996, he got a call at home from a bull working in Roseville, one of the largest rail yards in the West. “Hey,” the bull said. “I have Silveria.” The bull had come across Silveria in the Roseville yard, run a routine check on him and then arrested him on an outstanding warrant for probation violation.

When Quakenbush first laid eyes on Silveria at Placer County Jail, his appearance and demeanour were baffling. Silveria didn’t look like a transient with the “eyes of a devil”, as other hobos had described. He was calm, polite, soft-spoken, 6ft tall and 180 pounds. Quakenbush read Silveria his rights. Then he leaned close to a Plexiglass window separating him from Silveria. “When you ride the trains, what name do you use?” asked Quakenbush. Silveria answered blankly: “Sidetrack.”

Quakenbush now realised that he had his man. To his surprise, Silveria quickly confessed to two killings in Oregon, said he was a prominent member of the FTRA “brotherhood”, admitted to being a heroin user, and then gave details of six more killings. “He wanted to get it all off his chest.” Quakenbush told me. “He was tired of the lifestyle. He said he was glad he got caught because he would have continued to kill.”

First brought to trial in June 1997, Silveria was convicted of two murders in Oregon. According to court records presented in Oregon, Silveria had monstrous delusions of grandeur, believing that he was the leader of his “nation” – America’s homeless, estimated by some charities to be well over 500,000-strong and fast growing.

In May last year, Silveria pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 25 years in Kansas for the murder of Charles Randall Boyd. In June, Silveria was tried and convicted in Tallahassee, Florida, for the murder of Willie Clark, 52, who was found clubbed to death with a metal pole that had concrete clumped at one end. He is now serving a life sentence in Oregon, unlikely ever to get out.

Journey’s end was not the Pacific but the rail yard in Salem where William Pettit Jr was killed by Robert Silveria. On a windy Sunday morning, Mike Quakenbush pointed to the stream where Silveria washed blood from his hurting hands. Nearby lay a pile of wooden sleepers under which Silveria stashed some of Pettit’s belongings. As he crossed rusting tracks, Quakenbush appeared to shudder for a split second in the shadow cast by a graffiti-strewn box-car. What had he learned, I asked, in following Silveria’s tracks of death? “It’s easy when you look at the homeless to think that they’re just low life,” sighed Quakenbush. “But they’re real people, just like Pettit, who’ve often simply fallen on hard times. They have family. They always have someone who cares about them somewhere.”

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