The All Americans: From the Football Field to the Battlefield

PART ONE

1

D-DAY

THE YOUNG MAN STOOD on the deck of the U.S.S. Garfield, looking across the English Channel, into darkness. It was just after midnight on June 6, 1944, and the defining hour of Henry Romanek's life was at hand. The Garfield, a transport ship, had just left the coast of England and was motoring south across the channel, its destination the waters off northern France, about ten miles outside of a quiet, enchanting beach the Allies called Omaha.

As Romanek gazed onto the black horizon, a cold wind dusting his cheeks, beams of moonlight filtered though the clouds to reveal an armada of ships so vast that it took his breath away. Over five thousand vessels were plowing through the whitecaps, the column of ships stretching as far as Romanek's eyes could see to the east and the west. The day of reckoning, D-day, had arrived. Good God, Romanek said softly to himself, Lord, have mercy on us.

The twenty-four-year-old Romanek was a platoon leader in the 149th Engineer Combat Battalion. Like all the soldiers in his company, he was dressed for battle. He wore a steel combat helmet that was outfitted with a fabric interlining. A life belt (a flotation device) was wrapped snugly around his waist. His first layer of clothing was a wool undershirt, wool underwear, and thick wool combat socks. On top of that were protective leggings, wool pants, a flannel shirt, an olive drab jacket, and waterproof jumpshoes. He also carried a field bag on his back that held a pancho, toilet articles, a towel, canned food, and a knife, fork, and spoon. A loaded carbine hung over his shoulder, and his dog tags dangled from his neck. On the ring finger of his left hand was his graduation ring from West Point, his dearest possession.

Romanek had received the ring a year earlier, and now as he looked down on it, the black onyx stone glittered in the moonlight. Romanek was in charge of a platoon of forty-five men, and they were constantly asking him to tell stories from his days at the military academy, especially what it was like to be an Army football player. Romanek had been a two-way standout at the Point in 1941 and ‘42, playing tackle on both offense and defense. The game he was most often questioned about was the ‘41 Army-Navy contest, which was played before 98,942 screaming fans at Philadelphia's Municipal Stadium. As Romanek drew closer to what he knew would be the bloodiest fight of his life, that game was still alive in his mind, its details burned into his memory. He must have told his men about that Army-Navy clash a hundred times, maybe more.

Though three and half years had passed since he last donned an Army football uniform, Romanek still looked like the strapping star he was. Barrel-chested and long-armed, Romanek, at 6' 2", 195 pounds, was more toned than muscular. He didn't seem to have an ounce of fat on his tight frame. He had a fair complexion, sleepy blue eyes, caramel-colored hair that was in a crew cut, and a soft, gentle smile that made ladies blush whenever he looked their way. He was, by all accounts, a dashing figure, the kind of clean-cut, riveting young man that people turned to stare at whenever he strolled into a room.

Yet the boys in his platoon—and to Romanek, they were boys, as most of them were still teenagers—looked up to Romanek not because of his handsome looks but because he was their leader. Romanek thought of his men as an extension of his own family, and he worried and fretted about them probably more than he should have. He spent every night after training reading all their V-mail letters that they were sending to loved ones back home. Because Romanek was the official censor in charge of screening all outgoing U.S. mail for his platoon, he came to know all of his men's deepest secrets and greatest fears. He talked to the men in his platoon about everything, from how they missed their sweethearts back home to the art of making a proper block on the football field. Even when Romanek was agitated, he rarely raised his voice when speaking with his men. Instead, in a firm and steady tone, he would simply lay out what needed to be done and how it would be accomplished. Then he always ended by saying how much he trusted everyone and how they should treat each other like they were blood brothers.

Romanek's soldiers were from the Midwest, mostly raised on farms and in small towns in Iowa, Missouri, and Nebraska, and they were as gritty as any soldiers Romanek had ever been around. Romanek cared deeply for them, which made him vulnerable on this early morning: Romanek knew that many of them wouldn't survive the coming day. If all the soldiers on our side are as good as you guys, Romanek told his men a few days before the invasion, the Germans don't have a chance.

Along with the rest of his battalion, Romanek and his men had sailed out of New York harbor on the early morning of December 29, 1943, and had spent the better part of six months on the south coast of England preparing for the invasion. The 149th practiced everything from landing on beaches to laying live mines to booby-trapping houses with explosives. The combat engineers had perhaps the most complex mission of any on D-day. They would be among the first to hit the beaches, and they were assigned multiple tasks. They were to identify and blow up any beach obstacle—most were large pieces of steel rail—that would interfere with the landing of troops as the tide began to rise. Then, as quickly as possible, they were to set up signs that would act as guideposts for incoming landing craft. Finally, if they were still alive, they were to clear roads from the beach and set up supply dumps.

Romanek had gone over the mission dozens of times with his men. He explained to them that the first assault waves on D-day were going to be DD tanks (duplex drive tanks that were modified M4 Sherman tanks, which could travel on water as well as land). These tanks would be rigged with rubber devices so—the hope was—they would float. The tanks would be followed by a wave of infantry and engineers. Romanek's engineering platoon was married to the 116th Infantry Regiment of the 29th Infantry Division. They would ride into Omaha Beach together on landing craft, and they would be among the first of the forty thousand men scheduled to land on Omaha, a beach that was about six miles long and slightly crescent-shaped. Romanek reminded his men over and over that what they really had to focus on was erecting the large marking panels for the D-3 exit so that subsequent landing craft would know where to go.

Now on the Garfield, the landings at Omaha just hours away, Romanek told his platoon to gather around him. When Romanek looked at his men, their eyes seemed to glow like full moons—wide-open and bursting with anticipation. Now is our opportunity to participate in the greatest armada ever launched in history, Romanek said above the drone of the Garfield's engines. And history will be made by what we do here today. Now let's do our jobs and make our country proud. There were no replies from any of Romanek's men. They merely stared at their leader in silence.

At around two in the morning, when the Garfield was about twelve miles off the coast of France, the order was sounded; Now hear this! All assault troops report to your debarkation areas.

Romanek made his way to the spot where he would descend onto a LCM (Landing Craft, Mechanized) that would ferry half of his platoon— approximately twenty-three men—and about eighty infantry personnel to the beach. Along with the hundred or so men on the LCM, there would also be explosive devices and marking panels on board, which Romanek and his platoon of engineers would erect. The marking panels were stored in twenty-foot-long polelike casings. The markers were large triangles that would be staked into the sand and would signify the D-3 exit at Les Moulins, an area on the beach that included a road that led inland to St. Laurent—a D-day objective for the infantry. Romanek carried one of the cases with him as he walked to the disembarkation point.

Boarding the LCMs was treacherous. The small vessels had already been lowered into the water and they were now bobbing up and down in the ten-foot swells.The men threw a rope net over the side of the Garfield. In a firm tone, Romanek told his men to go, to climb down the net and then jump into their LCM. This won't be easy, Romanek said as men began to descend. Don't lose your grip. Because the engineers were loaded down with weapons, ammo, rations, and a life preserver, mobility was limited. At the disembarking point, one of the men turned to Romanek. His face was white and he was so cold with fear he could hardly move. Sir, I'm scared, he told Romanek.

So am I, said Romanek, trying to calm the boy's spirit with encouraging words. Listen, we're all apprehensive. But don't worry. I'll be by your side the whole way. Nothing will happen to you.

But sir . . .

Come on, soldier, get in, Romanek said.

Yes, sir.

As a parting salute before going over the side, Romanek took out an American-made glass bottle of beer from his pack. His wife Betsy had mailed the beer to Romanek while he was in England, and he took a big, hearty swig. He then handed it to his men and they each gulped a swallow and passed it along in silence.

Once everyone was on board, the engineers stood in the back of the LCM, the infantrymen in front. They were packed so tightly there was no room to sit. The LCM then pulled away from the Garfield and circled around to get in formation with the other landing craft. The moon had disappeared behind the clouds, and it was nearly as dark as blindness. The LCM continued to pitch sharply in the deep swells. Waves punished the sides of Romanek's LCM, sending sprays of water into the craft, quickly soaking the men. Within minutes, many of the men were vomiting as the LCM rocked up and down, side to side, up and down. Romanek had spent numerous days at sea in his young life, but now, for the first time, even he became seasick. This wasn't promising, this sad start to the invasion.

As Romanek tried his best to inflate the morale of his men, he noticed that one of the 116th infantry division's battalion commanders was in his LCM. Major Sidney V. Bingham Jr., was twenty-nine years old, but to Romanek he seemed like an old man, a savvy veteran. Glancing around at all the men on board, Romanek was struck by how young everyone looked. But not Major Bingham. Confidence seemed to radiate from his eyes, and it relaxed Romanek. He had seen this look before, many times before actually, on Earl Red Blaik, his football coach at Army. It was the dead-set-to-win expression that Blaik always wore on his face before a big game.

Raised in Rutherford, New Jersey, Romanek first became interested in West Point during his junior year at Rutherford High. Romanek was on the Rutherford football team that won the 1937 Group Three Northern New Jersey State Championship. Two weeks after capturing the state title, the team held a banquet dinner. The keynote speaker was an assistant coach from Army who delivered a pep talk to the players. He concluded by presenting all of the boys with gold footballs that commemorated their championship season.

Before he stepped down from the dais, the coach asked the players to raise their hands if they were A students. Romanek, along with two of his teammates, lifted his arm. The coach later chatted with Romanek one-on-one for a few minutes, eventually asking Romanek if he'd like to come visit the Point. A junior in high school, Romanek had never given serious consideration to the U.S. Military Academy, but he was possessed with a devouring curiosity—he could suck the information right out of a room—and so he said, Sure, I'll visit. Why not?

A few weeks later Romanek rode in a car with his coach, Eddie Tryon, to West Point. Not expecting anything, Romanek was awed by the place. The cadets in their sharp dress uniforms, the granite buildings, the broad green Plain, the granite-cliff shores of the Hudson, the motto of duty, honor, country—all of it stirred feelings inside him that he didn't even know existed. The assistant football coach chaperoned Romanek around campus and took him to the doctor's office for a physical. Romanek passed, and by the time he was shaking hands with the coach and preparing to get back into Tryon's car, both coach and player hoped that they'd meet each other again. Young Henry Romanek had seen his future.

Aside from his grades and athletic ability, what made Romanek such an attractive West Point candidate to the Army coaches was his leadership. His high school coaches marveled at how, when things went bad on the field, Romanek was the player everyone seemed to look to for answers. Even when he was a high school junior, in 1937, Romanek had a reassuring manner. This was evident when Rutherford hosted Passaic High at the end of the season. Rutherford was the state's Group Three champion, Passaic was New Jersey's Group Four champion. Held at Rutherford Senior High School Field on a snowy afternoon, the game was a defensive battle. Romanek, playing the line on both offense and defense with no substitutions, was a terror, ripping opening holes on offense for their star back Jimmy Blumenstock—who would later play for Fordahm and the New York Giants—and leading his team in tackles on defense. Passaic, however, pulled the game out late in the fourth quarter when their kicker drilled a 45-yard field goal in the snow to give his team a 3-0 win.

In the locker room afterwards Romanek walked from player to player, telling each one that he had nothing to be ashamed of, that they all had left their hearts out on the field. Romanek's performance against Passaic caught the attention of college coaches all around the tri-state area. Scholarship offers would soon come, but once he toured the grounds at West Point, his mind was made up: He wanted to go to the U.S. Military Academy.

Now it was 5:30 in the morning on D-day. As Romanek's LCM motored toward the beach, the loud thudding of the engine made it difficult to communicate. Nerves were tense, but the men were optimistic that the heavy naval gunfire of the Allies would destroy the Germans' shore defenses before they arrived at the beach. That beach is going to be all torn up by the time we get there, said one solider in Romanek's platoon to another. I bet we won't even see a single bullet!

The LCM sped closer to the sand. At about 5:45 the first hint of daylight started to sliver across the eastern sky, and the Allied bombers began assaulting the German positions at Normandy. The Germans responded with antiaircraft fire, which from Romanek's position appeared to fill the sky with giant sparks. Here it was, he thought, the start of the D-day battle, two forces going at each other as mightily as angels and demons. Still Romanek and his men pushed forward to the beach.

The German shore batteries started firing on the naval fleet, the shells whizzing over the landing crafts. Seconds later, the fleet responded with a fury. As Romanek stood in the back of his LCM that was about four miles off shore, the air filled with the sound of a thousand thunderclaps bursting at once. Romanek could feel the noise in his chest—thump, thump, thump—with every breath. When he looked up into the still-dark sky, there were luminous streaks of flames shooting in every direction. There was no going back now.

Every gun in the Allied fleet was firing on the German shore batteries, pillboxes, fortified housing—anything that could pose a threat to the incoming landing craft. By 5:50 A.M., the first wave of landing crafts was closing in on the five beaches of Normandy. Once the LCTs (Landing Craft Tank) started deploying their DD tanks—the tanks that were designed to swim ashore with their rubber devices—the warships would lift their guns and begin shooting at targets inland. The first American troops were about to set foot in France on D-day, and the Allied fleet didn't want to take out any of its own with friendly fire.

Romanek could see the shoreline. But something wasn't right, and the sight made his skin feel numb. The DD tanks, which were supposed to provide cover for Romanek and his engineers, weren't swimming. In fact, they were sinking, dropping into the water like boulders. The swells were so high that the tanks simply disappeared into the water as they rolled off their LCTs. Romanek could see men desperately trying to crawl up through the hatches as the tanks sank, but most didn't make it out. Suddenly on Romanek's LCM, fear crept into everyone's heart.

Just as the first wave of Allied troops was about to hit the beaches, an Army teammate of Romanek's named Robin Olds was in the air above Normandy, flying in his P-38 and prowling for Germans. Olds' orders were strict: He was only there to blast away at enemy planes should they appear. Olds had been firmly told by his commander that he wasn't to fire on anything on the ground. We might accidentally take out our own guys, Olds was told in a briefing meeting before the invasion. We're only there to keep enemy planes from strafing the ground.

As Olds buzzed over Normandy steady at 500 feet, he was overwhelmed by what he saw. It seemed as if every ship ever built was visible in the distance, firing on Normandy. Down below him the sea seemed to be crawling with large dark water bugs, all inching closer to land, every landing craft leaving a white wake in its trail. It would take Olds hours to count the number of vessels that were in his field of view. Jesus Christ, Olds mumbled to himself. It looks like the end of world down there.

Olds knew that his good friend Henry Romanek was somewhere below him, preparing to hit the beach. Over the last five years, Olds and Romanek had become the tightest of friends, almost as close as brothers. They attended prep school together in Washington, D.C., in 1939 for one year and they had played football together at West Point for three seasons. Among the Cadet players Romanek was known for his commanding presence and unflappability; Olds, a tackle who played on the line with Romanek, was renowned for being the toughest player on the squad. If Robin ever wrestled an alligator, Romanek once told a friend, I'd feel sorry for that alligator.

Olds' father, Major General Robert Olds, was a renowned pilot who had flown in World War I. Robert stayed in the service after the war to end all wars and taught aviation at Langley Airfield in Hampton, Virginia, where Robin grew up. As a boy, planes mesmerized Robin; he loved watching them take off and land at Langley. The sight of so much power always held his eyes, so much so that by age six he was already dreaming of one day flying a plane. I'm going to become a pilot just like you, he announced to his father at dinner one evening.

Well, you better be prepared to work for it, Robert Olds replied to his son. Work hard and never back down to anybody, and you can do anything.

Some afternoons father and son would sit on their porch at their base home and watch the planes land. Little Robin liked to impress his father by identifying the approaching aircraft simply by listening to the distant sound of its engine. By age ten, he had such a discerning ear that he could tell the difference between the roar of the Pratt $ Whitney radiais in the Keystone bombers, the gentle hum of the Curtiss V-12 in the Curtiss P-6Es, and the loud belching and clacking of older planes, which were usually powered by antiquated Liberty engines.

At night, Robin enjoyed reading pulp magazines about World War I fighter aces, romantic as they were about how a battle unfolded. On these pages there was no mention of blood, or screams of horror, or grown men crying themselves to sleep at night. Inside these magazines were pictures and words that glorified the life and times of the fighter ace. His father tried to tell him what it was really like, that there was more to being a fighter pilot than winning medals and receiving kisses from beautiful blondes with heart-shaped mouths of red lipstick, but Robin had already made up his mind. He was going to follow in the footsteps of his father. This was one dream he wasn't going to let die on his pillow.

Other than flying with his dad, which Robin first did at the age of eight in an open cockpit byplane, Olds' other passion as a young boy was riding horses. Most days after school Robin would head to the stables at the base and tend to the horses that many of the officers rode. By age fifteen Robin had developed into a proficient rider himself, and a few officers at the base suggested that he'd make a fine candidate for the cavalry. But Olds paid no attention to them. Ever since he saw the 1934 movie Flirtation Walk, in which actor Dick Powell played a West Point officer, Olds had decided that his life path would lead to West Point. There on the Hudson Highlands he would become an officer, learn to fly and, if he could find the time, he might play football.

Olds reveled in the hand-to-hand combat that took place in the trenches of the football field. In 1937, his junior year at Hampton High and two years before he would go to prep school, Olds helped lead the team to the state title. By then, Olds had already developed a reputation for being the roughest player on the squad. At 6' 2, 190 pounds, Olds played tackle both on offense and defense. He even looked the part of a fierce player. With his short blond crew cut, his coat-hanger shoulders, and hands that were almost as big as catcher's mitts, he looked like he didn't even need to wear pads. His teammates often marveled at the intensity that flickered in his mischievous blue-gray eyes. He treated every play in practice—indeed, every drill in practice—like he was fighting with an enemy in a blood feud. When his temper reared, he had a mean streak that was so wicked even players on his own team feared him. Sometimes, it was as if a dark emotion suddenly sprang from the basement of his soul, and it usually left the person he was battling on the field wishing he'd never met Robin Olds. Football ain't for sissies, Olds liked to tell his teammates. You gotta be tough, and you gotta be a man. Don't ever back down, not to anyone."

Romanek looked at his watch. It read 6:30 A.M. Though his LCM was scheduled to land in a few minutes, they were still about six hundred yards from shore. Romanek eyed his men. Almost all of them were seasick, their faces as white as milk. They had been on the landing craft for about four hours and nearly everyone had vomited at least once. By this time Romanek's LCM had taken in so much water from the crashing of the waves that the men had to use their helmets to bail it out. Romanek and his men couldn't wait to get to the beach. Anything, they figured, was better than this.

They pushed closer. Through the black plumes of smoke that rose from the explosions on the beach, Romanek could see that the first wave of LCUPs had hit the beach—to his horror he saw that the infantry were being slaughtered. Entire LCUPs were getting blown to pieces by the German shore batteries, which clearly hadn't been disabled by naval gunfire. In a matter of heartbeats it was clear to Romanek that very little on Omaha Beach was going according to plan. Many of the rockets had fallen short of their targets, while others had simply missed. The Germans were firing artillery and machine guns from the bluff, and the soldiers on the beach were easy, inviting targets. Adding to the confusion were the rough seas and strong wind, which threw the landing crafts off course. Very few of the Allied units were landing where they were supposed to.

Romanek's landing craft continued to breast the waves, moving closer. At a distance of three hundred yards, Romanek could see that all the steel, X-shaped landing obstacles had been exposed because of the ebb tide. He looked up at the beach. The first wave of infantrymen, who had been scheduled to land three minutes ahead of Romanek's LCM, were instructed to gouge the German infantry. But instead, Romanek saw that many of the Americans had turned around and were diving for cover behind the obstacles. But there were few places to hide. They were under heavy machine gun, mortar, rifle, and artillery fire. One after another, they fell to the sand, face first.

As the LCM got within a hundred yards of the beach, Romanek no ticed many soldiers were floating with the tide toward the beach, dead, their faces turned down to the water. He looked up at the beach and, through the haze of smoke from the grass fires that drifted down from the bluffs, could see that the beach had become a blood stained killing field. Directly in front of Romanek, up on the cliffs, he saw a cherry red flicker of flame. A moment later there was a loud explosion on the beach, a black burst of smoke, then dozens of soldiers sprawled on the ground, all dead. Everybody stay focused on what we need to do, Romanek yelled above the battle noise. Let's just do our jobs and everything else will take care of itself.

Romanek and his men, who were all soaking wet, put on their assault gas masks. They expected a chemical attack, most likely the use of mustard gas, and a sealed mask would offer some protection. The infantrymen in the front of the LCM grabbed their rifles and machine guns and carbines. Romanek could hear the clack of bolts being drawn and rammed as the infantryman prepared to shoot. Incoming enemy fire started hitting the LCM—ping, ping, ping. The LCM began to slow.

At about fifty yards out, the LCM came to a stop, causing all the men to lurch forward. Several landing craft to Romanek's right and left were sinking or burning. The Coxswain in Romanek's LCM, a young coast guardsman, quickly moved from the protected tiller in the back of the LCM to the front to release the security clamps off the ramp. As he returned on the starboard upper walkway, bullets struck his head and chest. He fell, lifelessly, onto the troops in the LCM. He was the first man on Romanek's LCM to die on this day

The square-faced ramp on the LCM came down. Everyone yelled, Go, go, go! But several German machine guns and artillery batteries were concentrating their fire on the ramp exit. Romanek and his men were still in the back of the LCM and now they could see their fellow soldiers being ripped apart by bullets. Blood and limbs and intestines flew through the air, the men falling forward in heaps. We gotta get out of here, Romanek yelled to his engineers. Yet some of his men were frozen, unable to move. One soldier's head was blown off; another was killed when both of his legs were torn off his torso.

Romanek continued to yell to his men, telling them to push forward, to complete their mission. All the planning, all the months of training, all the miles they had traveled, it had all been done for this moment. But now? Now, even before Romanek had gotten off his LCM, more than half of his engineers and more than half of the infantrymen he'd been riding with were dead. Order was slipping