Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Sunday, May 31, 2026
Friday, May 29, 2026
🗽📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🗽: To Hell and Back by Audie Murphy
The classic bestselling war memoir by the most decorated American soldier in World War II, back in print in a trade paperback
Originally published in 1949, To Hell and Back was a smash bestseller for fourteen weeks and later became a major motion picture starring Audie Murphy as himself. More than fifty years later, this classic wartime memoir is just as gripping as it was then.
Desperate to see action but rejected by both the marines and paratroopers because he was too short, Murphy eventually found a home with the infantry. He fought through campaigns in Sicily, Italy, France, and Germany. Although still under twenty-one years old on V-E Day, he was credited with having killed, captured, or wounded 240 Germans. He emerged from the war as America's most decorated soldier, having received twenty-one medals, including our highest military decoration, the Congressional Medal of Honor. To Hell and Back is a powerfully real portrayal of American GI's at war.
Chapter One
ON a hill just inland from the invasion beaches of Sicily, a soldier sits on a rock. His helmet is off; and the hot sunshine glints through his coppery hair. With the sleeve of his shirt he wipes the sweat from his face; then with chin in palm he leans forward in thought.
The company is taking a break. We sprawl upon the slope, loosen the straps of our gear, and gaze at the blue sky. It is my first day of combat; and so far the action of the unit has been undramatic and disappointingly slow.
Just trust the army to get things fouled up. If the landing schedule had not gone snafu, we would have come ashore with the assault waves. That was what I wanted. I had primed myself for the big moment. Then the timing got snarled in the predawn confusion; and we came in late, chugging ashore like a bunch of clucks in a ferryboat.
The assault troops had already taken the beach. The battle had moved inland. So for several hours we have tramped over fields and hills without direct contact with the enemy.
It is true that the landing was not exactly an excursion. There was some big stuff smashing about; and from various points came the rattle of small arms. But we soon got used to that.
Used to it!
A shell crashes on a nearby hill; the earth quivers; and the black smoke boils. A man, imitating Jack Benny's Rochester, shouts, "Hey, boss. A cahgo of crap just landed on Pigtail Ridge." A ripple of laughter follows the announcement. "Hey, boss. Change that name to No-Tail Ridge. The tail go with the cahgo."
The second shell is different. Something terrible and immediate about its whistle makes my scalp start prickling. I grab my helmet and flip over on my stomach. The explosion is thunderous. Steel fragments whine, and the ground seems to jump up and hit me in the face.
Silence again. I raise my head. The sour fumes of powder have caused an epidemic of coughing.
"Hey, boss. The cahgo–"
The voice snaps. We all see it. The redheaded soldier has tumbled from the rock. Blood trickles from his mouth and nose.
Beltsky, a veteran of the fighting in North Africa, is the first to reach him. One glance from his professional eye is sufficient.
Turning to a man, he says, "Get his ammo. He won't be needing it. You will."
"Who me? I got plenty of ammo."
"Get the ammo. Don't argue."
Snuffy Jones does not like the idea at all. A frown crawls over his sallow face; and beneath a receding chin, his Adam's apple bobs nervously. With shaky fingers he removes the ammunition from the cartridge belt. One would think he was trying to neutralize a booby trap.
"Who is he?" asks Brandon.
"He was a guy named Griffin," Kerrigan answers. "I got likkered up with him once in Africa. Told me he was married and had a couple kids."
"That's rough." Brandon's eyes are suddenly deep and thoughtful.
"He could have stayed out, I guess. But he volunteered. Had to get into the big show."
Novak, the Pole, has been listening with mouth agape. Now his lips curl savagely. "The sonsabeeches!" he growls to nobody in particular.
Unfolding a gas cape, Beltsky covers the body with it.
"That'll do him a lot of good now," says Brandon.
"It's to keep the flies from blowing him," explains Horse-Face Johnson soberly. "Flies go to work on 'em right away. Fellow from the last war told me they swell up like balloons. Used 'em for pillows out in No-Man's Land. Soft enough but they wouldn't keep quiet. They was always losing wind in the dead of the night. Such sighing and whistling you never heard."
"For chrisake, shut up," says Kerrigan.
Johnson's blue eyes twinkle sardonically. His long, lean face stretches into a grin. And his laugh is like the soft whinny of of a horse.
"Don't let it get you down, son. Used to be skittish myself till I worked as an undertaker's assistant out in Minnesota. Took my baths in embalming fluid. Slept in coffins during the slack hours. Grave error. Damned nigh got buried one day when I got mistook for the late departed."
"Shut up!"
"It's the dying truth, son."
"Then why didn't you get hooked up with a body-snatching outfit? You look like a natural for the buzzard detail."
"Why, you know, son, the army wouldn't be guilty of giving a man a job he knowed anything about. Got tired of the racket anyhow. Couldn't argue with the late departeds. Whatever I said they was always dead right."
"Oh, for chrisake," mutters Kerrigan pleadingly.
"Whee-he-he-he."
"Okay, men," says Beltsky. "You've seen how it happens. Maybe you know now this game is played for keeps. Everybody on your feet. All right there, what's the matter with you?"
"Me?" drawls Snuffy. "I'm gittin' up. Just give me time. Snapped-to once so fast that I mislocated my backbone."
"Would you like to be carried on a stretcher?"
"Stretch who?"
"Okay. Okay. Let's move across Sicily."
"He was just sitting there on the rock," says Steiner, his face filled with awe. "I was looking at him just a minute before."
"So what?" snaps Antonio irritably. "He shouldn'ta been makin' like a pigeon. He oughta kept his head down." He taps himself on the chest. "You didn't see me givin' out wit the coos, did you?"
"How could he know it was coming?"
"Aw nuts! You could hear it comin' a mile."
As we plod over the hills in sweat-soaked clothes, the uneasiness passes from my stomach to my mind. So it happens as easily as that. You sit on a quiet slope with chin in hand. In the distance a gun slams; and the next minute you are dead.
Maybe my notions about war were all cockeyed. How do you pit skill against skill if you cannot even see the enemy? Where is the glamour in blistered feet and a growling stomach? And where is the expected adventure? Well, whatever comes, it was my own idea. I had asked for it. I had always wanted to be a soldier.
The years roll back; and in my mind, I see a pair of hands. Calloused and streaked with dirt, they looked like claws; and they shook as they cupped around the match flame. He puffed on the cigarette. And as I waited, all ears, he bent over in a fit of coughing.
"It's that gas," he explained. "Nearly eighteen years, and it's still hangin' on."
"But you knowed where they were," I said.
From the shade of the tree, he gazed over the cotton fields.
"Of course, I knowed where they was," he said. "Any ijiot would have. It was still early mornin'; and when they crawled through the field, they shook the dew off the wheat. So every blessed one of 'em left a dark streak behind. That give their positions away."
"So what did you do?"
"What would you done? I lined up my sights on the machine gun and waited."
"A machine gun?"
"Yeah. It's the devil's own weepon. When they got to the edge of the patch, I could see 'em plain. There was nothin' to it. I just pulled the trigger and let 'em have it."
Fascinated, I glanced at the hands again, picking out the trigger finger. "You killed 'em?"
"I didn't do 'em any good."
"Did they shoot at you?"
"Now what do you think? This was war. But I kept my head down and got along all right until that night they thowed over the gas. We didn't get the alarm until I'd already breathed a lungful."
"What was they like?" "The Germans? I never took time to ast 'em. They was shootin' at
us; so we shot at them."
"But you whipped 'em."
"We whopped 'em all right, but it wasn't easy. They was hard fighters. Don't ever kid yourself about that."
"Some day I aim to be a soldier."
"A sojer?" he said disgustedly. "What fer?"
"I don't know."
"If you want to fight, start fightin' these weeds." He coughed again, spat out a gob of phlegm, and muttered, "A sojer." He was still shaking his head when he gripped the plow handles and said, "Giddap," to the mules.
A soldier.
Steiner is a soldier, but you would never see his kind on the recruiting posters. Short and pudgy, he has the round, innocent face of a baby and a voice as gentle as a child's. He cannot get the knack of the army, though he tries hard. His gear is forever fouled up. It drips from his body like junk. Now he stumbles and falls. It is the third time he has tripped today; and Olsen, a huge, blond sergeant, is fresh out of patience.
"What's a-matter? What's a-matter?" he snarls. "Pick up your dogs."
"It's the legging strings. They keep coming unlaced."
"For chrisake, paste 'em on if you ain't got enough sense to lace 'em. Aw right, come on. Snap to it."
"Gotohell."
"What's that?"
"Whyn't you let him alone?" says Antonio. "De kid can't help it."
"Keep your big nose outa this."
"Okay. Break it up," says Beltsky. "You'll soon have a belly full of fighting."
No, it was not the least bit like the dream I had as a child. That afternoon in Texas I had followed the veteran of World War I into the field. The sun beat down and the rows of cotton seemed endless. But I soon forgot both the heat and the labor.
The weeds became the enemy, and my hoe, a mysterious weapon. I was on a faraway battlefield, where bugles blew, banners streamed, and men charged gallantly across flaming hills; where the temperature always stood at eighty and our side was always victorious; where the dying were but impersonal shadows and the wounded never cried; where enemy bullets always miraculously missed me, and my trusty rifle forever hit home.
I was only twelve years old; and the dream was my one escape from a grimly realistic world.
We were share-crop farmers. And to say that the family was poor would be an understatement. Poverty dogged our every step. Year after year the babies had come until there were nine of us children living, and two dead. Getting food for our stomachs and clothes for our backs was an ever-present problem. As soon as we grew old enough to handle a plow, an ax, or a hoe, we were thrown into the struggle for existence.
My mother, a sad-eyed, silent woman, toiled eternally. As a baby, I sat strapped like a papoose in a yard swing while she fought the weeds in a nearby field.
Our situation is not to be blamed on the social structure. If my father had exercised more foresight, undoubtedly his family would have fared much better. He was not lazy, but he had a genius for not considering the future.
One day he gave up. He simply walked out of our lives, and we never heard from him again.
My mother, attempting to keep her brood together, worked harder than ever. But illness overtook her. Gradually she grew weaker and sadder. And when I was sixteen she died.
Except for a married sister, who was unable to support us, there was no family nucleus left. The three youngest children were placed in an orphanage. The rest of us scattered, going our individual ways. Boarding out, I worked for a while in a filling station; then I became a flunky in a radio repair shop.
God knows where my pride came from, but I had it. And it was constantly getting me into trouble. My temper was explosive. And my moods, typically Irish, swung from the heights to the depths. At school, I had fought a great deal. Perhaps I was trying to level with my fists what I assumed fate had put above me.
I was never so happy as when alone. In solitude, my dreams made sense. Nobody was there to dispute or destroy them.
After the death of my mother, I was more than ever determined to enter military service. When the Japanese hit Pearl Harbor, I was half-wild with frustration. Here was a war itself; and I was too young to enlist. I was sure that it would all be over in a few months and I would be robbed of the great adventure that had haunted my imagination.
On my eighteenth birthday, I hurried to a marine corps recruiting station. This branch seemed the toughest of the lot; and I was looking for trouble. Unfortunately, the corps was looking for men, men italicized. A sergeant glanced over my skinny physique. My weight did not measure up to Leatherneck standards.
Leaving the office in a blaze of unreasonable anger, I tried the paratroops. This was a new branch of service, lacking the legendary color of the marines, but it sounded rough. There was another point in its favor: paratroopers wore such handsome boots.
That office was more sympathetic. The recruiting sergeant did not turn me down cold. He suggested that I load up on bananas and milk before weighing in. My pride was taking an awful beating. The sergeant was the first on a long list of uniformed authorities that I requested to go to the devil.
The infantry finally accepted me. I was not overjoyed. The infantry was too commonplace for my ambition. The months would teach me the spirit of this unglamorous, greathearted fighting machine. But at that time I had other plans. After my basic training, I would get a transfer. I would become a glider pilot.
Thus, with a pocket full of holes, a head full of dreams, and an ignorance beyond my years, I boarded a bus for the induction center. Previously I had never been over a hundred miles from home.
Nor had I reckoned with realistic army training. During my first session of close-order drill, I, the late candidate for the marines and the paratroops, passed out cold. I quickly picked up the nickname of "Baby." My commanding officer tried to shove me into a cook and baker's school, where the going would be less rough.
That was the supreme humiliation. To reach for the stars and end up stirring a pot of C-rations. I would not do it. I swore that I would take the guardhouse first. My stubborn attitude paid off. I was allowed to keep my combat classification; and the army was spared the disaster of having another fourth-class cook in its ranks.
But I still had to get overseas; and my youthful appearance continued to cause much shaking of heads. At Fort Meade, where we had our final phase of training in America, I was almost transferred to the camp's permanent cadre. An officer, kindly attempting to save me from combat, got me a position as a clerk in the post exchange.
Fuming, I stuck to my guns; and in early 1943, I landed in North Africa as a replacement for an infantry company. The war in this sector was about over. Instead of combat, we were given another long, monotonous period of training.
Finally the great news came. We were to go into action in the Tunis area. We oiled our guns, double-checked our gear; and prayed or cursed according to our natures. But before we could move out, the order was canceled. The Germans in the area had surrendered.
I took no part in the general sigh of relief. Perhaps now I would react differently.
At this moment, the fluttering roll of an enemy machine gun is causing my flesh to creep. "The devil's own weapon," the veteran had said. "And, of course, I knowed where they was."
Does the enemy know where we are. He could. Easily. We are stretched in an open field; and the cover is something less than adequate. Before us lies a railroad track along which the machine-gun crew has dug in.
The gun has suddenly become quiet. I hear the labored breathing of our men; see Beltsky's worried face; feel my heart churning against the ribs. "What would you have done?" the veteran had said. "I lined up my sights and waited." He had no corner on that little game. It too could be the enemy's.
The order comes down the line.
"Spread out. We're going over the track."
Olsen's mouth sags; and the fear in his eyes is sickening. My jaws clamp; my heart slows down. I have seen the face of a coward and found it loathsome.
The secondary order is passed along in hoarse whispers.
"When you get the signal, make a run for it. Stop for nothing until you find cover on the other side of the track."
Beltsky studies his wrist watch. His hand goes up in a wave. We scramble to our feet and take off.
Brrrrrp.
From the corner of my eye, I see two men in the center platoon reel backward and fall. Then I hear the crackle of rifles; the blast of a grenade. I leap the track. Johnson passes me. "Son," he calls, "get the lead out of your shoes. Them krauts have started a shooting war."
I find a gully, drop into it, and sprawl out. A body thuds on top of me. It is Novak.
"By gah, you excuse," he says. "I see nahthin' when I jump."
"You were coming too fast to take in the scenery."
He has an odd, crooked smile; his nose is bent; and a mop of oily black hair tumbles over his forehead. Carefully breaking a cigarette in two, he hands me a half.
"I don't smoke."
"Nah? You gotta smoke to stay happy. You try it."
"No, thanks. Did they get the machine gun?"
"They get it." His eyes burn fiercely. "But the sonsabeeches knocked over two of our men."
"I saw them."
"When they tear up Poland, that is bad enough. But when they shoot our men, it is too much. From now on, Mike Novak is not to be soft, no chicken heart. He uses his gun."
ON a hill just inland from the invasion beaches of Sicily, a soldier sits on a rock. His helmet is off; and the hot sunshine glints through his coppery hair. With the sleeve of his shirt he wipes the sweat from his face; then with chin in palm he leans forward in thought.
The company is taking a break. We sprawl upon the slope, loosen the straps of our gear, and gaze at the blue sky. It is my first day of combat; and so far the action of the unit has been undramatic and disappointingly slow.
Just trust the army to get things fouled up. If the landing schedule had not gone snafu, we would have come ashore with the assault waves. That was what I wanted. I had primed myself for the big moment. Then the timing got snarled in the predawn confusion; and we came in late, chugging ashore like a bunch of clucks in a ferryboat.
The assault troops had already taken the beach. The battle had moved inland. So for several hours we have tramped over fields and hills without direct contact with the enemy.
It is true that the landing was not exactly an excursion. There was some big stuff smashing about; and from various points came the rattle of small arms. But we soon got used to that.
Used to it!
A shell crashes on a nearby hill; the earth quivers; and the black smoke boils. A man, imitating Jack Benny's Rochester, shouts, "Hey, boss. A cahgo of crap just landed on Pigtail Ridge." A ripple of laughter follows the announcement. "Hey, boss. Change that name to No-Tail Ridge. The tail go with the cahgo."
The second shell is different. Something terrible and immediate about its whistle makes my scalp start prickling. I grab my helmet and flip over on my stomach. The explosion is thunderous. Steel fragments whine, and the ground seems to jump up and hit me in the face.
Silence again. I raise my head. The sour fumes of powder have caused an epidemic of coughing.
"Hey, boss. The cahgo–"
The voice snaps. We all see it. The redheaded soldier has tumbled from the rock. Blood trickles from his mouth and nose.
Beltsky, a veteran of the fighting in North Africa, is the first to reach him. One glance from his professional eye is sufficient.
Turning to a man, he says, "Get his ammo. He won't be needing it. You will."
"Who me? I got plenty of ammo."
"Get the ammo. Don't argue."
Snuffy Jones does not like the idea at all. A frown crawls over his sallow face; and beneath a receding chin, his Adam's apple bobs nervously. With shaky fingers he removes the ammunition from the cartridge belt. One would think he was trying to neutralize a booby trap.
"Who is he?" asks Brandon.
"He was a guy named Griffin," Kerrigan answers. "I got likkered up with him once in Africa. Told me he was married and had a couple kids."
"That's rough." Brandon's eyes are suddenly deep and thoughtful.
"He could have stayed out, I guess. But he volunteered. Had to get into the big show."
Novak, the Pole, has been listening with mouth agape. Now his lips curl savagely. "The sonsabeeches!" he growls to nobody in particular.
Unfolding a gas cape, Beltsky covers the body with it.
"That'll do him a lot of good now," says Brandon.
"It's to keep the flies from blowing him," explains Horse-Face Johnson soberly. "Flies go to work on 'em right away. Fellow from the last war told me they swell up like balloons. Used 'em for pillows out in No-Man's Land. Soft enough but they wouldn't keep quiet. They was always losing wind in the dead of the night. Such sighing and whistling you never heard."
"For chrisake, shut up," says Kerrigan.
Johnson's blue eyes twinkle sardonically. His long, lean face stretches into a grin. And his laugh is like the soft whinny of of a horse.
"Don't let it get you down, son. Used to be skittish myself till I worked as an undertaker's assistant out in Minnesota. Took my baths in embalming fluid. Slept in coffins during the slack hours. Grave error. Damned nigh got buried one day when I got mistook for the late departed."
"Shut up!"
"It's the dying truth, son."
"Then why didn't you get hooked up with a body-snatching outfit? You look like a natural for the buzzard detail."
"Why, you know, son, the army wouldn't be guilty of giving a man a job he knowed anything about. Got tired of the racket anyhow. Couldn't argue with the late departeds. Whatever I said they was always dead right."
"Oh, for chrisake," mutters Kerrigan pleadingly.
"Whee-he-he-he."
"Okay, men," says Beltsky. "You've seen how it happens. Maybe you know now this game is played for keeps. Everybody on your feet. All right there, what's the matter with you?"
"Me?" drawls Snuffy. "I'm gittin' up. Just give me time. Snapped-to once so fast that I mislocated my backbone."
"Would you like to be carried on a stretcher?"
"Stretch who?"
"Okay. Okay. Let's move across Sicily."
"He was just sitting there on the rock," says Steiner, his face filled with awe. "I was looking at him just a minute before."
"So what?" snaps Antonio irritably. "He shouldn'ta been makin' like a pigeon. He oughta kept his head down." He taps himself on the chest. "You didn't see me givin' out wit the coos, did you?"
"How could he know it was coming?"
"Aw nuts! You could hear it comin' a mile."
As we plod over the hills in sweat-soaked clothes, the uneasiness passes from my stomach to my mind. So it happens as easily as that. You sit on a quiet slope with chin in hand. In the distance a gun slams; and the next minute you are dead.
Maybe my notions about war were all cockeyed. How do you pit skill against skill if you cannot even see the enemy? Where is the glamour in blistered feet and a growling stomach? And where is the expected adventure? Well, whatever comes, it was my own idea. I had asked for it. I had always wanted to be a soldier.
The years roll back; and in my mind, I see a pair of hands. Calloused and streaked with dirt, they looked like claws; and they shook as they cupped around the match flame. He puffed on the cigarette. And as I waited, all ears, he bent over in a fit of coughing.
"It's that gas," he explained. "Nearly eighteen years, and it's still hangin' on."
"But you knowed where they were," I said.
From the shade of the tree, he gazed over the cotton fields.
"Of course, I knowed where they was," he said. "Any ijiot would have. It was still early mornin'; and when they crawled through the field, they shook the dew off the wheat. So every blessed one of 'em left a dark streak behind. That give their positions away."
"So what did you do?"
"What would you done? I lined up my sights on the machine gun and waited."
"A machine gun?"
"Yeah. It's the devil's own weepon. When they got to the edge of the patch, I could see 'em plain. There was nothin' to it. I just pulled the trigger and let 'em have it."
Fascinated, I glanced at the hands again, picking out the trigger finger. "You killed 'em?"
"I didn't do 'em any good."
"Did they shoot at you?"
"Now what do you think? This was war. But I kept my head down and got along all right until that night they thowed over the gas. We didn't get the alarm until I'd already breathed a lungful."
"What was they like?" "The Germans? I never took time to ast 'em. They was shootin' at
us; so we shot at them."
"But you whipped 'em."
"We whopped 'em all right, but it wasn't easy. They was hard fighters. Don't ever kid yourself about that."
"Some day I aim to be a soldier."
"A sojer?" he said disgustedly. "What fer?"
"I don't know."
"If you want to fight, start fightin' these weeds." He coughed again, spat out a gob of phlegm, and muttered, "A sojer." He was still shaking his head when he gripped the plow handles and said, "Giddap," to the mules.
A soldier.
Steiner is a soldier, but you would never see his kind on the recruiting posters. Short and pudgy, he has the round, innocent face of a baby and a voice as gentle as a child's. He cannot get the knack of the army, though he tries hard. His gear is forever fouled up. It drips from his body like junk. Now he stumbles and falls. It is the third time he has tripped today; and Olsen, a huge, blond sergeant, is fresh out of patience.
"What's a-matter? What's a-matter?" he snarls. "Pick up your dogs."
"It's the legging strings. They keep coming unlaced."
"For chrisake, paste 'em on if you ain't got enough sense to lace 'em. Aw right, come on. Snap to it."
"Gotohell."
"What's that?"
"Whyn't you let him alone?" says Antonio. "De kid can't help it."
"Keep your big nose outa this."
"Okay. Break it up," says Beltsky. "You'll soon have a belly full of fighting."
No, it was not the least bit like the dream I had as a child. That afternoon in Texas I had followed the veteran of World War I into the field. The sun beat down and the rows of cotton seemed endless. But I soon forgot both the heat and the labor.
The weeds became the enemy, and my hoe, a mysterious weapon. I was on a faraway battlefield, where bugles blew, banners streamed, and men charged gallantly across flaming hills; where the temperature always stood at eighty and our side was always victorious; where the dying were but impersonal shadows and the wounded never cried; where enemy bullets always miraculously missed me, and my trusty rifle forever hit home.
I was only twelve years old; and the dream was my one escape from a grimly realistic world.
We were share-crop farmers. And to say that the family was poor would be an understatement. Poverty dogged our every step. Year after year the babies had come until there were nine of us children living, and two dead. Getting food for our stomachs and clothes for our backs was an ever-present problem. As soon as we grew old enough to handle a plow, an ax, or a hoe, we were thrown into the struggle for existence.
My mother, a sad-eyed, silent woman, toiled eternally. As a baby, I sat strapped like a papoose in a yard swing while she fought the weeds in a nearby field.
Our situation is not to be blamed on the social structure. If my father had exercised more foresight, undoubtedly his family would have fared much better. He was not lazy, but he had a genius for not considering the future.
One day he gave up. He simply walked out of our lives, and we never heard from him again.
My mother, attempting to keep her brood together, worked harder than ever. But illness overtook her. Gradually she grew weaker and sadder. And when I was sixteen she died.
Except for a married sister, who was unable to support us, there was no family nucleus left. The three youngest children were placed in an orphanage. The rest of us scattered, going our individual ways. Boarding out, I worked for a while in a filling station; then I became a flunky in a radio repair shop.
God knows where my pride came from, but I had it. And it was constantly getting me into trouble. My temper was explosive. And my moods, typically Irish, swung from the heights to the depths. At school, I had fought a great deal. Perhaps I was trying to level with my fists what I assumed fate had put above me.
I was never so happy as when alone. In solitude, my dreams made sense. Nobody was there to dispute or destroy them.
After the death of my mother, I was more than ever determined to enter military service. When the Japanese hit Pearl Harbor, I was half-wild with frustration. Here was a war itself; and I was too young to enlist. I was sure that it would all be over in a few months and I would be robbed of the great adventure that had haunted my imagination.
On my eighteenth birthday, I hurried to a marine corps recruiting station. This branch seemed the toughest of the lot; and I was looking for trouble. Unfortunately, the corps was looking for men, men italicized. A sergeant glanced over my skinny physique. My weight did not measure up to Leatherneck standards.
Leaving the office in a blaze of unreasonable anger, I tried the paratroops. This was a new branch of service, lacking the legendary color of the marines, but it sounded rough. There was another point in its favor: paratroopers wore such handsome boots.
That office was more sympathetic. The recruiting sergeant did not turn me down cold. He suggested that I load up on bananas and milk before weighing in. My pride was taking an awful beating. The sergeant was the first on a long list of uniformed authorities that I requested to go to the devil.
The infantry finally accepted me. I was not overjoyed. The infantry was too commonplace for my ambition. The months would teach me the spirit of this unglamorous, greathearted fighting machine. But at that time I had other plans. After my basic training, I would get a transfer. I would become a glider pilot.
Thus, with a pocket full of holes, a head full of dreams, and an ignorance beyond my years, I boarded a bus for the induction center. Previously I had never been over a hundred miles from home.
Nor had I reckoned with realistic army training. During my first session of close-order drill, I, the late candidate for the marines and the paratroops, passed out cold. I quickly picked up the nickname of "Baby." My commanding officer tried to shove me into a cook and baker's school, where the going would be less rough.
That was the supreme humiliation. To reach for the stars and end up stirring a pot of C-rations. I would not do it. I swore that I would take the guardhouse first. My stubborn attitude paid off. I was allowed to keep my combat classification; and the army was spared the disaster of having another fourth-class cook in its ranks.
But I still had to get overseas; and my youthful appearance continued to cause much shaking of heads. At Fort Meade, where we had our final phase of training in America, I was almost transferred to the camp's permanent cadre. An officer, kindly attempting to save me from combat, got me a position as a clerk in the post exchange.
Fuming, I stuck to my guns; and in early 1943, I landed in North Africa as a replacement for an infantry company. The war in this sector was about over. Instead of combat, we were given another long, monotonous period of training.
Finally the great news came. We were to go into action in the Tunis area. We oiled our guns, double-checked our gear; and prayed or cursed according to our natures. But before we could move out, the order was canceled. The Germans in the area had surrendered.
I took no part in the general sigh of relief. Perhaps now I would react differently.
At this moment, the fluttering roll of an enemy machine gun is causing my flesh to creep. "The devil's own weapon," the veteran had said. "And, of course, I knowed where they was."
Does the enemy know where we are. He could. Easily. We are stretched in an open field; and the cover is something less than adequate. Before us lies a railroad track along which the machine-gun crew has dug in.
The gun has suddenly become quiet. I hear the labored breathing of our men; see Beltsky's worried face; feel my heart churning against the ribs. "What would you have done?" the veteran had said. "I lined up my sights and waited." He had no corner on that little game. It too could be the enemy's.
The order comes down the line.
"Spread out. We're going over the track."
Olsen's mouth sags; and the fear in his eyes is sickening. My jaws clamp; my heart slows down. I have seen the face of a coward and found it loathsome.
The secondary order is passed along in hoarse whispers.
"When you get the signal, make a run for it. Stop for nothing until you find cover on the other side of the track."
Beltsky studies his wrist watch. His hand goes up in a wave. We scramble to our feet and take off.
Brrrrrp.
From the corner of my eye, I see two men in the center platoon reel backward and fall. Then I hear the crackle of rifles; the blast of a grenade. I leap the track. Johnson passes me. "Son," he calls, "get the lead out of your shoes. Them krauts have started a shooting war."
I find a gully, drop into it, and sprawl out. A body thuds on top of me. It is Novak.
"By gah, you excuse," he says. "I see nahthin' when I jump."
"You were coming too fast to take in the scenery."
He has an odd, crooked smile; his nose is bent; and a mop of oily black hair tumbles over his forehead. Carefully breaking a cigarette in two, he hands me a half.
"I don't smoke."
"Nah? You gotta smoke to stay happy. You try it."
"No, thanks. Did they get the machine gun?"
"They get it." His eyes burn fiercely. "But the sonsabeeches knocked over two of our men."
"I saw them."
"When they tear up Poland, that is bad enough. But when they shoot our men, it is too much. From now on, Mike Novak is not to be soft, no chicken heart. He uses his gun."
Release Date: August 17, 1955
Release Time: 106 minutes
Director: Jesse Hibbs
Cast:
Audie Murphy as Himself
Marshall Thompson as Private/Corporal Johnson
Charles Drake as Private Brandon
Jack Kelly as Private/Staff Sergeant Kerrigan
Gregg Palmer as Lieutenant Manning
Paul Picerni as Private/Corporal Valentino
David Janssen as Lieutenant Lee
Richard Castle as Private Kovak
Bruce Cowling as Captain Marks
Paul Langton as Colonel Howe
Art Aragon as Private Sanchez
Felix Noriego as Private Swope
Denver Pyle as Private Thompson
Brett Halsey as Private Saunders
Susan Kohner as Maria
Anabel Shaw as Helen
Mary Field as Mrs. Murphy
Gordon Gebert as Audie as a boy
Julian Upton as Corporal Steiner
Rand Brooks as Lieutenant Harris
Robert F. Hoy as Private Jennings
Harold "Tommy" Hart as Staff Sergeant Klasky
Hugh E. Davis as British Soldier
Audie Murphy
He wanted to join the Marines, but he was too short. The paratroopers wouldn't have him either. Reluctantly, he settled on the infantry, enlisting to become nothing less than one of the most-decorated heroes of World War II. He was Audie Murphy, the baby-faced Texas farmboy who became an American Legend. Murphy grew up on a sharecropper's farm in Hunt County, Texas. Left at a very young age to help raise 10 brothers and sisters when his father deserted their mother, Audie was only 16 when his mother died. He watched as his brothers and sisters were doled out to an orphanage or to relatives.
Seeking an escape from that life in 1942, he looked to the Marines. War had just been declared and, like so many other young men, Murphy lied about his age in his attempt to enlist. But it was not his age that kept him out of the Marines; it was his size. Not tall enough to meet the minimum requirements, he tried to enlist in the paratroopers, but again was denied entrance. Despondent, he chose the infantry.
First Lt. Audie Murphy
Following basic training Murphy was assigned to the 15th Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division in North Africa preparing to invade Sicily. It was there in 1943 that he first saw combat, proving himself to be a proficient marksman and highly skilled soldier, consistently his performance demonstrated how well he understood the techniques of small-unit action. He landed at Salerno to fight in the Voltuno river campaign and then at Anzio to be part of the Allied force that fought its way to Rome. Throughout these campaigns, Murphy's skills earned him advancements in rank, because many of his superior officers were being transferred, wounded or killed. After the capture of Rome, Murphy earned his first decoration for gallantry.
Shortly thereafter his unit was withdrawn from Italy to train for Operation Anvil-Dragoon, the invasion of southern France. During seven weeks of fighting in that successful campaign, Murphy's division suffered 4,500 casualties, and he became one of the most decorated men in his company. But his biggest test was yet to come.
On Jan. 26, 1945, near the village of Holtzwihr in eastern France, Lt. Murphy's forward positions came under fierce attack by the Germans. Against the onslaught of six Panzer tanks and 250 infantrymen, Murphy ordered his men to fall back to better their defenses. Alone, he mounted an abandoned burning tank destroyer and, with a single machine gun, contested the enemy's advance. Wounded in the leg during the heavy fire, Murphy remained there for nearly an hour, repelling the attack of German soldiers on three sides and single-handedly killing 50 of them. His courageous performance stalled the German advance and allowed him to lead his men in the counterattack which ultimately drove the enemy from Holtzwihr. For this Murphy was awarded the Medal of Honor, the nation's highest award for gallantry in action.
By the war's end, Murphy had become the nation's most-decorated soldier, earning an unparalleled 28 medals, including three from France and one from Belgium. Murphy had been wounded three times during the war, yet, in May 1945, when victory was declared in Europe, he had still not reached his 21st birthday.
Audie Murphy returned to a hero's welcome in the United States. His photograph appeared on the cover of Life magazine and he was persuaded by actor James Cagney to embark on an acting career. Still very shy and unassuming, Murphy arrived in Hollywood with only his good looks and — by his own account — 'no talent.' Nevertheless, he went on to make more than 40 films. His first part was just a small one in Beyond Glory in 1948. The following year he published his wartime memoirs, To Hell and Back, which received good reviews. Later he portrayed himself in the 1955 movie version of the book. Many film critics, however, believe his best performance was in Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane's Civil War epic.
After nearly 20 years he retired from acting and started a career in private business. But the venture was unsuccessful, eventually forcing him into bankruptcy in 1968. Murphy, who once said that he could only sleep with a loaded pistol under his pillow, was haunted by nightmares of his wartime experiences throughout his adult life. In 1971, at the age of 46, he died in the crash of a private plane near Roanoke, Va.
Audie Murphy is buried in Arlington National Cemetery, just across Memorial Drive from the Memorial Amphitheater. A special flagstone walkway has been constructed to accommodate the large number of people who stop to pay their respects to this hero. At the end of a row of graves, his tomb is marked by a simple, white, government-issue tombstone, which lists only a few of his many military decorations. The stone is, as he was, too small. --from Arlington National Cemetery Website
Cast:
Audie Murphy as Himself
Marshall Thompson as Private/Corporal Johnson
Charles Drake as Private Brandon
Jack Kelly as Private/Staff Sergeant Kerrigan
Gregg Palmer as Lieutenant Manning
Paul Picerni as Private/Corporal Valentino
David Janssen as Lieutenant Lee
Richard Castle as Private Kovak
Bruce Cowling as Captain Marks
Paul Langton as Colonel Howe
Art Aragon as Private Sanchez
Felix Noriego as Private Swope
Denver Pyle as Private Thompson
Brett Halsey as Private Saunders
Susan Kohner as Maria
Anabel Shaw as Helen
Mary Field as Mrs. Murphy
Gordon Gebert as Audie as a boy
Julian Upton as Corporal Steiner
Rand Brooks as Lieutenant Harris
Robert F. Hoy as Private Jennings
Harold "Tommy" Hart as Staff Sergeant Klasky
Hugh E. Davis as British Soldier
He wanted to join the Marines, but he was too short. The paratroopers wouldn't have him either. Reluctantly, he settled on the infantry, enlisting to become nothing less than one of the most-decorated heroes of World War II. He was Audie Murphy, the baby-faced Texas farmboy who became an American Legend. Murphy grew up on a sharecropper's farm in Hunt County, Texas. Left at a very young age to help raise 10 brothers and sisters when his father deserted their mother, Audie was only 16 when his mother died. He watched as his brothers and sisters were doled out to an orphanage or to relatives.
Seeking an escape from that life in 1942, he looked to the Marines. War had just been declared and, like so many other young men, Murphy lied about his age in his attempt to enlist. But it was not his age that kept him out of the Marines; it was his size. Not tall enough to meet the minimum requirements, he tried to enlist in the paratroopers, but again was denied entrance. Despondent, he chose the infantry.
First Lt. Audie Murphy
Following basic training Murphy was assigned to the 15th Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division in North Africa preparing to invade Sicily. It was there in 1943 that he first saw combat, proving himself to be a proficient marksman and highly skilled soldier, consistently his performance demonstrated how well he understood the techniques of small-unit action. He landed at Salerno to fight in the Voltuno river campaign and then at Anzio to be part of the Allied force that fought its way to Rome. Throughout these campaigns, Murphy's skills earned him advancements in rank, because many of his superior officers were being transferred, wounded or killed. After the capture of Rome, Murphy earned his first decoration for gallantry.
Shortly thereafter his unit was withdrawn from Italy to train for Operation Anvil-Dragoon, the invasion of southern France. During seven weeks of fighting in that successful campaign, Murphy's division suffered 4,500 casualties, and he became one of the most decorated men in his company. But his biggest test was yet to come.
On Jan. 26, 1945, near the village of Holtzwihr in eastern France, Lt. Murphy's forward positions came under fierce attack by the Germans. Against the onslaught of six Panzer tanks and 250 infantrymen, Murphy ordered his men to fall back to better their defenses. Alone, he mounted an abandoned burning tank destroyer and, with a single machine gun, contested the enemy's advance. Wounded in the leg during the heavy fire, Murphy remained there for nearly an hour, repelling the attack of German soldiers on three sides and single-handedly killing 50 of them. His courageous performance stalled the German advance and allowed him to lead his men in the counterattack which ultimately drove the enemy from Holtzwihr. For this Murphy was awarded the Medal of Honor, the nation's highest award for gallantry in action.
By the war's end, Murphy had become the nation's most-decorated soldier, earning an unparalleled 28 medals, including three from France and one from Belgium. Murphy had been wounded three times during the war, yet, in May 1945, when victory was declared in Europe, he had still not reached his 21st birthday.
Audie Murphy returned to a hero's welcome in the United States. His photograph appeared on the cover of Life magazine and he was persuaded by actor James Cagney to embark on an acting career. Still very shy and unassuming, Murphy arrived in Hollywood with only his good looks and — by his own account — 'no talent.' Nevertheless, he went on to make more than 40 films. His first part was just a small one in Beyond Glory in 1948. The following year he published his wartime memoirs, To Hell and Back, which received good reviews. Later he portrayed himself in the 1955 movie version of the book. Many film critics, however, believe his best performance was in Red Badge of Courage, Stephen Crane's Civil War epic.
After nearly 20 years he retired from acting and started a career in private business. But the venture was unsuccessful, eventually forcing him into bankruptcy in 1968. Murphy, who once said that he could only sleep with a loaded pistol under his pillow, was haunted by nightmares of his wartime experiences throughout his adult life. In 1971, at the age of 46, he died in the crash of a private plane near Roanoke, Va.
Audie Murphy is buried in Arlington National Cemetery, just across Memorial Drive from the Memorial Amphitheater. A special flagstone walkway has been constructed to accommodate the large number of people who stop to pay their respects to this hero. At the end of a row of graves, his tomb is marked by a simple, white, government-issue tombstone, which lists only a few of his many military decorations. The stone is, as he was, too small. --from Arlington National Cemetery Website
KOBO / iTUNES AUDIO / iTUNES
BOOKBUB / AUDIOBOOKS / CHIRP
GOOGLE PLAY / AUDIBLE / WIKI
Film
Sunday, April 12, 2026
Friday, April 10, 2026
⚾️📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘⚾️: It's Good to be Alive by Roy Campanella
Three-time winner of the National League’s Most Valuable Player award, Roy Campanella was catcher for the Brooklyn (soon to be Los Angeles) Dodgers in January 1958, when a car accident left him permanently paralyzed. It’s Good to Be Alive describes his determination to rally from helplessness and help other quadriplegics. It looks back to a famous career and to a childhood on the sandlots of Philadelphia.
Release Date: February 22, 1974(CBS Made for TV)
Release Time: 100 minutes
Director: Michael Landon
Cast:
Paul Winfield as Roy Campanella
Louis Gossett Jr. as Sam Brockington
Ruby Dee as Ruthe Campanella
Ramon Bieri as Walter O'Malley
Joe De Santis as Roy Campanella's father
Ty Henderson as David Campanella
Ketty Lester as Roy Campanella's mother
Julian Burton as Dr. Rusk
Lloyd Gough as Surgeon
Eric Woods as Roy Campanella as a Boy
Len Lesser as Man at Accident
Cast:
Paul Winfield as Roy Campanella
Louis Gossett Jr. as Sam Brockington
Ruby Dee as Ruthe Campanella
Ramon Bieri as Walter O'Malley
Joe De Santis as Roy Campanella's father
Ty Henderson as David Campanella
Ketty Lester as Roy Campanella's mother
Julian Burton as Dr. Rusk
Lloyd Gough as Surgeon
Eric Woods as Roy Campanella as a Boy
Len Lesser as Man at Accident
Awards:
26th Primetime Emmys - May 28, 1974
Best Cinematography For Entertainment Programming - For A Special Or Feature Length Program Made For Television - Ted Voigtlander - Won
Cinematographer Of The Year - Ted Voigtlander - Won
Roy Campanella Obituary from Ebony magaize August 1993:
Roy "Campy" Campanella, perhaps the greatest all-around catcher to play the game of baseball, died (June 26, 1993) recently in Los Angeles of an apparent heart attack at the age of 71.
There's a saying about Dodgers baseball players: "They bleed Dodgers Blue" and Campanella was one of the greatest Dodgers of them all. Flags at Dodgers Stadium flew at half staff during the game between the Dodgers and the Chicago Cubs in memory of their fallen comrade. The score-board flashed highlights of his brilliant career to a recording of Louis Armstrong's What A Wonderful World.
Campanella, one of the fabled "Boys Of Summer," had his brilliant career cut short in 1958 when he was left paralyzed from the chest down after a car crash. He spent the remaining 35 years of his life in a wheelchair. Despite his debilitating injuries, Campanella endured to become an uplifting role model and a source of inspiration for younger players in the capacity as a special instructor of young catchers for the Dodgers. He was inducted into the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, N.Y., in 1969.
"Now he won't be suffering anymore," noted Dodgers manager Tommy Lasorda. "I loved Roy Campanella, I loved him like a brother. I'm going to miss him very much."
Son of a Black mother and a father of Italian descent, Campanella was born Nov. 19, 1921 in Philadelphia. He began playing professional ball at age 15.
Campanella was cut from the cloth of Negro League legends and blossomed in the major leagues with the Brooklyn Dodgers from 1948 to 1958. An awesome slugger with flawless fielding skills, Campanella quickly became a star in the major leagues.
Manager Says Campy' Was A Great Human Being.
He was named Most Valuable Player three times in 1951, 1953 and 1955 and was instrumental to numerous Dodgers successes. His powerful throwing arm and ability to handle pitchers became his trademark.
Former Jet sports editor A.S. "Doc" Young wrote in the book Great Negro Baseball Stars, published by Johnson Publishing Company, that Campanella was "a natural leader," who was intelligent and well-organized as well as strong and talented. He often managed clubs he played with in Latin America and he also managed a game in the minor leagues while playing with the Nashua (N.H.) Dodgers:
"Roy became acting manager one night when the regular manager and first baseman, Walt Alston, lost an argument with an umpire. Alston had prepared for such an eventuality soon after he became aware of Roy's extensive knowledge of the game and his leadership qualities. If I'm ever thrown out of a game, I want you to run things.' The opportunity came in a game between the Nashua Dodgers and Lawrence (Mass.) Millionaires.
The Dodgers were three runs behind (in the sixth inning) when Roy took over. They scored once before the inning ended. In the seventh, with a man on base, the pitcher was due to bat. Deciding to use a pinch hitter, Roy called on (Hall of Fame pitcher Don) Newcombe, who was quite some shucks with the big stick. Newcombe responded by hitting a score-tying homer. Nashua went on to win, 7-5."
According to Young's book, then-Dodger owner Walter O'Malley was grooming Campanella to become a coach after his career was over. But his crippling injury changed those plans. However, Campanella persevered and did become a special instructor of young catchers during spring training.
Campanella told Young he loved the game of baseball and, "I can't understand why major leaguers complain about double-headers."
Perhaps his greatest season came in 1953. Campanella batted .312 and established three single season records for a catcher: most putouts (807), most home runs (41) and most runs batted in (142).
Campanella ended his career with a .276 batting average, 1,161 hits, 242 home runs and 856 runs batted in. The numbers probably would have been greater had it not been for the color barrier which kept him out of the majors until he was 26 and his career-ending accident at age 36.
"As well as being a great baseball player, he was a great human being," Lasorda concluded.
He is survived by his wife Roxie; three sons, Roy, Jr., Tony and John, and two daughters, Joanie and Ruth.
INDIE BOUND / AMAZON / WIKI / GOODREADS
Film
Friday, March 27, 2026
🏀📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🏀: Glory Road by Don Haskins
Timed to the release of Jerry Bruckheimer's movie, the moving autobiography of Hall of Fame basketball coach Don Haskins and his storied team of players, the Texas Western Miners
In 1966, college basketball was almost completely segregated. In the championship game for the NCAA title that year, Don Haskins, coach of the then little-known Texas Western College, did something that had never been done before in the history of college basketball. He started five black players, and in the now legendary game, unseated the nationally top-ranked University of Kentucky. Broadcast on television throughout the country, the Miners victory became the impetus for the desegregation of all college teams in the South during the next few years.
Now, for the first time, Hall of Fame coach Don Haskins tell his story. Beginning as a small-town high school basketball coach, Haskins was known for his tough coaching methods and larger-than-life personality. As a child growing up during the Dust Bowl in Oklahoma, he developed a strong set of values and discipline that he would instill in his players throughout his coaching career. With recollections from his former players, including those of the 1966 team, along with Haskins's own Seven Principles for Success, Glory Road is the inspiring story of a living legend and one of the most respected coaches of all time.
With a foreword by basketball legend Bobby Knight, and coinciding with the release of the film Glory Road, the story of Don Haskins and his championship team is sure to become a classic for sports fans and historians.
Chapter One
LEGEND
The wind chill was thirty degrees below zero in Ames, Iowa. One of those brutal, frozen, brittle days in the snow-packed upper Midwest in 1996. The radio kept saying to make sure you kept a candle and a blanket in your car, that way you could survive a couple days if you drove off the road and into a snow bank.
Presumably, by then, someone might find you.
There is cold and there is cold. Which is why when Tim Floyd, the Iowa State coach at the time whom I was in town interviewing for a magazine article, pulled his warm car into the parking lot of the Hilton Coliseum and eyeballed the frigid three-hundred-foot walk to the door, he just shook his head.
Floyd was from Mississippi and had spent a long portion of his career in El Paso, Texas. So he pulled the car back on the road and we drove around Ames, just to stay warm, just to avoid the weather for a few hours until it was time for practice. He began regaling me with stories about his colorful old boss at the University of Texas at El Paso, Don Haskins. We wound up driving around-Tim talking, me listening-for nearly two hours.
I can look back and say I'venever been more thankful to have been stuck in the middle of an arctic blast.
"We go on a recruiting trip to little Zwolle, Louisiana," Floyd said that day. "We are flying out of Shreveport the next morning and are staying in some little hotel. Coach wasn't much for fancy hotels; he liked motel-type places, where you can park in front of your door. Simple. Next to the hotel is a little old run-down bar with a neon cowboy boot kicking.
"Coach sees it though and gets excited. This is his kind of place. 'Let's go in for a beer, Tim,' he says. Damn, I'm thinking, we have an early flight, but what are you going to do? It's pretty empty in there, a couple guys in back playing pool, five dollars a game. We sit down and are talking recruiting when Coach goes over and puts a quarter down on the pool table.
"One of the guys gets a little short with Coach and says, 'Hey, buddy, we're playing for money here, you still wanna play?' Coach is taken aback by the tone, so he says all innocently, 'Oh, I guess that'll be OK.' Coach's turn comes up and the guy says, 'We want to play for ten dollars a game now.' Coach is bothered now, but he just says, 'Oh, I guess that'll be OK.' Coach was in his late fifties at this point, he slowly gets over to the table and they begin playing.
"He beats the first guy by one ball," said Floyd, now coach at the University of Southern California. "Then the next guy gets up and Coach beats him by one ball. And on and on. Back and forth these guys keep trying and Coach keeps beating them by just one ball and then raising the bet-he calls it 'sprinkling corn in the field.' He winds up winning about twenty games in a row.
"Finally, Coach decides it's time to leave. Now, you could tell these two didn't have much; this is a poor bar in a poor town. They bit off more than they could chew. They look depressed. Coach had wiped them out of a week's pay or something. So Coach has all their money, a few hundred dollars, in his hand and he walks back over to the pool table, throws it down, and says, 'You best be careful who you gamble with in the future.' Then without saying another word, he just walks out of the bar."
I'd spent eight years as a national college basketball writer for a variety of magazines and Web sites. During this time I'd gotten to know just about every coach in the country. It has become an increasingly glitzy business, where Armani suits have overtaken American substance, where coaches, without even realizing the absurdity of it, began referring to themselves as "CEOs," where some spoke glowingly that "perception equals reality." This was a business where image had, indeed, become everything and ego was everywhere.
Except, apparently, out in west Texas, where Haskins was quietly winding down his Hall of Fame career. I knew the name and knew the story of 1966, but I didn't know much else. His teams by then were good, fundamentally sound, overachieving clubs, but with over three hundred Division I programs to cover, UTEP just wasn't as high of a priority as Kentucky, Duke, or Arizona. Like most in the national media, I was finding it easy to overlook UTEP.
But here was the John Wayne of basketball, a hustler, a hard guy, a legend who didn't want anyone, anywhere to know it. How tough was the man they called the Bear? In 1996 he started to have chest pains during halftime of a game, and when the paramedics came he refused to be wheeled out of the arena. Instead, he got up and walked to the ambulance. The next day he had quintuple bypass surgery.
He was in El Paso because the people and the media left him alone. He could have gone to bigger schools, where he would have had the resources to reach the Final Four every year, but he was content where he was, coaching and teaching without the fanfare. In a cutthroat business, this contentment was rare.
He was comfortable in El Paso because EL Paso was comfortable with him. He wore a clip-on tie for games. His truck had guns in it and, occasionally, coyote carcasses in the bed ("They're payin' seventy-five dollars for a skin," he'd explain). Hustle a game of pool at some big, self-important university and you might get fired. But do it at UTEP and you are beloved. Even after the school named its 12,000-seat arena after him-the Don Haskins Center-he refuses to call it by anything but its original name, the Special Events Center.
I suspected that the coaches who kept justifying their $1.1 million salaries by explaining to me that their basketball program was "the front porch of the university" probably wouldn't be so humble. This was a guy I didn't just want to meet, but someone I needed to meet.
"You've got to go down there," said Floyd. "But you better find a way to get into his truck. That's where the stories are told. You aren't getting much of an interview if you can't get into the truck."
So I went; first as a journalist and later, after Haskins retired in 1999, I returned as a friend. And I got into that GMC truck, which I usually shared with a couple bottles of whiskey on the floor. I wound up going back there over and over to the point where my official favorite vacation destination in America was the unlikely location of old El Paso.
Needless to say, we made for an unusual friendship. He grew up in Oklahoma, I'm from Boston. We are separated in age by forty-two years. He enjoys mimicking (or butchering) my accent. I laugh when he calls a heavy rain "a frog strangler." He almost keeled over when he heard I had never shot a rifle in my life-this was after he, at the age of seventy-one, had just coolly killed a rattlesnake we had happened upon while walking around the desert. Of course, I think he was proud when on my first shot I absolutely blew the hell out of an empty Budweiser can.
"Yeah, you're a damn natural," he said.
What I found in El Paso was not just a friend but an American original, a man of principle and profundity, someone you could learn from by just sitting around with him at a little dive at two in the afternoon. On one of my first trips to El Paso we walked in through the back door of a rickety bar, the kind of place you can drive by a hundred times without even noticing, let alone think of patronizing. Ten or twelve Mexican day workers lined the wooden front bar, heads sort of sagging.
The most famous El Pasoan of all time called the lady behind the bar by her first name, bought a round of Buds for the house (total bill: twelve dollars, he left eight dollars as a tip), and then led me over to a small booth. Everyone in the place tipped their hat at Haskins, mumbled "Coach," and then stayed to themselves.
"See," he said, surveying the scene like it was heaven on earth, like he had just scored a prime table at Spago in Beverly Hills. "No one bothers you in this place."
We've never been to the elite spots in town, such as the grill room at the El Paso Country Club. Haskins referred to the Mesa Avenue restaurant Jaxon's-an Applebee's-like place-as "too fancy." Most of his friends, many of whom have become my friends, were simple blue-collar workers, often Mexican immigrants.
Unless you've been to El Paso, you can't fathom how big Don Haskins is, his presence looming larger than the Franklin Mountains that cut through the city. In west Texas Haskins is king in a region with few celebrities. He could have sipped the fine wine, could have dined on steak so succulent that you can cut it with a fork, could have had every rich oil baron in the area kissing his ass and inviting him to dinner parties.
Instead he likes drinking in dark, dank holes-in-the-wall. As much as he felt being enshrined in the Naismith Basketball Hall of Fame an honor, he's still a bit ornery that he had to wear a tuxedo to the ceremony. A good lunch is an oversized burrito in some local bakery that has no name and where no one speaks English. He knows what it's like to have significant action on a downhill eight-foot putt. A nice afternoon is a drive around the desert, stopping only to call coyotes. He can be approached by any old soul and he'll engage that person in conversation like he was the president of the United States.
He freely passes out extra money to honest people who have fallen a bit behind. He never tips less than thirty percent. He uses whatever connections he has with the wealthy to organize major relief efforts to poor villages on the other side of the Rio Grande, a humanitarian project he keeps a secret and never shares with the media. He can teach you the most simple of life's lessons in the most simple of ways.
It is one thing to be blue collar, to be salt of the earth. It is entirely another thing to choose to stay that way when fame and fortune and the so-called fabulous life present themselves to you. Don Haskins is the real McCoy, a once-in-a-lifetime slice of Americana.
Oh, and could he ever coach basketball.
"The people who understand what coaching is," Bob Knight told me one day, "the people who really know what great coaching is, are all going to talk about Don Haskins."
In thirty-seven years he never coached a single prep All-American, the ultratalented recruits who consistently fuel the nation's best college programs. He had one junior college All American, but he graduated way back in 1964. He won 719 games and made twenty-one appearances in either the NCAA tournament or NIT without those kinds of players. His specialty was taking raw talents and teaching them how to play the game, routinely turning projects into players and players into pros. He was annually getting more out of less. I'm not saying John Wooden or Dean Smith couldn't have won 719 in El Paso, but Haskins certainly could have the record they did in Westwood or Chapel Hill.
But it was his decision to be the first college coach to start five black players that is his claim to fame. It was an historic, courageous decision that can't be minimized; no matter how often Haskins has tried. Not only did it change the course of basketball, but he did it (whether he admits it or not) with repercussions waiting. No small thing for a then thirty-five-year-old with a wife and four kids to feed.
"He risked his career by doing it," said Harry Flournoy, a cocaptain on that 1966 team. "If we hadn't won he might have gotten fired because a lot of people didn't think you could win with five black starters. If he were fired, then where would he have gone? Most colleges wouldn't have taken him."
Back then, there was a simple coaching axiom. You can play two blacks at home, three on the road, and four if you were losing. But never, ever five at once. That would get you fired. That would draw the wrong kind of attention. In the South, teams were all white. So when Haskins won the 1966 NCAA title by starting five blacks and playing seven altogether against all-white University of Kentucky, everything changed. Pat Riley, a player on the opposing UK team, would later call it "the Emancipation Proclamation of 1966." Others referred to it as basketball's Brown v. Board of Education.
"The next year black kids throughout the South got calls from schools saying they were now open," said Nolan Richardson, one of Haskins's former players who, in 1994 as coach of Arkansas, would become just the second African-American coach ever to win an NCAA title. "He literally got thousands and thousands of black kids scholarships."
And Haskins got death threats and hate mail.
"Most of them started the same way," he frowned. "Dear Nigger Lover."
I've spent hundreds and hundreds of hours with the man, and if you don't ask about 1966 then he doesn't mention it. It's ancient history to him.
"I just played my best players," he's told anyone who would listen for decades.
None of us want to believe him, but maybe we should start trying.
Haskins doesn't want the glory. He agreed to be a part of Disney's Glory Road movie only because Hollywood would have made it without his permission anyway. He agreed to write this book because he wants everyone to know the truth-that he wasn't a racial pioneer or a civil rights hero, he was just a simple coach seeking victory.
He is really, truly writing a book, honest to goodness, to make sure he gets less credit. He doesn't want to be "some damn hero."
When we started working on this book together, he lectured me that he didn't want "any braggin' at all." This was after he found out I had written the following, supposedly boastful line: "I was a good free-throw shooter in high school."
"I don't want the word T to appear in the book," he declared.
"It is an autobiography, how the hell do you expect the word T not to appear?"
"Well, damn, it, I thought you were the genius writer."
That's Haskins though. Whether we were driving around in his truck, getting breakfast at the Sunset Inn in El Paso, a drink at the Sheepherder in Dell City, Texas, or talking on the phone, comparing college football picks, he is self-deprecating and hysterical. He is out of some other world. In retirement he cares about hunting, fishing, and family. And about little else.
He is completely out of touch with pop culture. He hasn't been to an actual theater since Patton in 1970. ("Some kids threw popcorn. Never went back.") He was once reading a front-page newspaper story about the death of a beloved and quite famous children's television star and demanded to know, "Who the hell is Mr. Rogers?"
Release Date: January 13, 2006
Release Time: 106 minutes
Director: James Gartner
Cast:
Josh Lucas as Don Haskins
Derek Luke as Bobby Joe Hill
Mehcad Brooks as Harry Flournoy
Austin Nichols as Jerry Armstrong
Jon Voight as Adolph Rupp
Evan Jones as Moe Iba
Red West as Ross Moore
Schin A.S. Kerr as David Lattin
Alphonso McAuley as Orsten Artis
Sam Jones III as Willie Worsley
Damaine Radcliff as Willie Cager
Emily Deschanel as Mary Haskins
Al Shearer as Nevil Shed
Tatyana M. Ali as Waltina "Tina" Malichi
Wilbur Fitzgerald as Wade Richardson
David Dino Wells Jr. as John Anderson
Don Haskins, Barrier-Breaking Coach, Is Dead at 78 By Richard Goldstein
New York Times, September 8, 2008:
Don Haskins, the Hall of Fame coach who transformed college basketball when he started five black players on a Texas Western team that defeated an all-white University of Kentucky squad for the 1966 N.C.C.A. championship, died Sunday. Haskins, who lived in El Paso, was 78.
His death was announced by Jeff Darby, a spokesman for the University of Texas at El Paso, as Texas Western is now known, The Associated Press reported. The cause was congestive heart failure, Haskins’s physician, Dr. Dwayne Aboud, told The El Paso Times.
“I just played my five best players,” Haskins once said in recalling Texas Western’s stunning 72-65 triumph over Kentucky. “In my mind, kids were kids, and I had some that could play.
“I didn’t really know until after the game and I got bushels full of hate mail how important that game was,” he added.
As the longtime college basketball coach Rick Majerus once put it: “It was one of the most socially meaningful victories in the history of sports. The Schmeling-Louis fight of college basketball.”
The five Texas Western starters Bobby Joe Hill, David Lattin, Willie Worsley, Harry Flournoy and Orsten Artis did more than triumph over one of college basketball’s most storied programs in the Kentucky Wildcats, coached by the renowned Adolph Rupp and led that season by Pat Riley. The victory drew attention to the racially exclusionary policies in the Southeastern Conference and elsewhere, and it contributed to the collegiate recruitment of black players nationally.
Haskins’s unlikely path to a national championship gained renewed attention in 2006 in the movie “Glory Road,” based on the book of the same title written by Haskins with Dan Wetzel.
Haskins, a native of Enid, Okla., the son of a truck driver, played basketball at Oklahoma A&M (now Oklahoma State) for the Hall of Fame coach Hank Iba. After coaching high school basketball, he became the Texas Western coach in 1961 and remained at the university for 38 seasons. He had a career record of 719-354 and took his teams to the N.C.A.A. tournament 14 times and to the National Invitation Tournament 7 times. His squads won seven Western Athletic Conference championships. He was an assistant coach for the 1972 Olympic basketball team.
Haskins is survived by his wife, Mary; his sons, Brent, David and Steve; and three grandsons, The El Paso Times said.
Known for his grueling practices and his intense man-to-man defenses, Haskins was called the Bear for his robust build and rough-hewn manner. When the Bear faced the Baron, as Rupp was known, Texas Western prevailed.
But Haskins pointed to more than the national implications of that victory. When he was elected to the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Mass., in 1997, he said: “Ten of the 12 players on the team got their degrees. And every one of the players have made successes of their lives.”
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