Dad and Carwood Lipton often went on leave either alone or just the two of them. Many others preferred to go drinking and try their luck with girls. But Lipton and Dad wanted to tour museums and art galleries. This did not stem from a highbrow attitude but was a way to take in the local culture. They could be mischievous, too. Once, while the men were training in Aldbourne, Dad traveled to the city of Bath, England, with one of the men. On a museum tour it came time for lunch and the museum closed. Daddy and his buddy hid inside the building. As soon as they found themselves alone they stripped down, jumped into the water of the ancient Roman baths, splashed around like eggbeaters, then got dressed and resumed the tour after lunch was concluded and the museum opened again.
Daddy was in the 3rd Platoon, and this isn’t much known about the Band of Brothers, but there’s a real hierarchy among the men regarding which platoon they came from. Most of the needling is done in good nature. Once we asked Bill Guarnere why there weren’t many pictures of him taken during the war. He was quick to reply, “I’ll tell ya why, dammit, ’cause your dad and Gutty11 were in the back posing for pictures like tourists, while 1st Platoon was on the front line getting their heads shot at.”
Dad jumped on D-day and landed near an apple tree on a farm in Normandy with only half his machine gun. It was too heavy to jump with the whole. He was about six miles off course. Fortunately, John Eubanks, who carried the tripod to the machine gun, was the first man Dad met on the ground. Unfortunately, Eubanks had felt no need to be carrying around a tripod with no gun or gunner in sight, so he had promptly discarded it upon landing. Dad was able to prop the gun on low stone walls and shoot from that position.
Forrest Guth joined them shortly. The men had a couple of ways to identify friendly troops in the dark: one way was for both to sound their toy crickets that they carried, and another was for one person to speak a word and the other to respond in a code that had been established earlier. As Dad, Guth, and Eubanks roamed the Normandy countryside, they heard a loud whisper coming from the dark. A soldier challenged them with the code word—“Flash.” Before Dad or Gutty could even catch their breath, Eubanks blurted “Lightning,” a logical answer, yes, but unfortunately not the right one. (The correct response that night was “Thunder.”) Knowing what was sure to follow a wrong response, they hit the dirt as their comrade lobbed a grenade their way. Fortunately, they escaped injury. The unknown soldier scattered, and they never did learn his identity. Floyd Talbert joined them a short time later. Eventually they joined up with a group from the 502nd that had spotted some Germans under a barn near Ravenoville. Dad and some of the men had to take out a bunker there.
Dad was wounded while fighting in Normandy. They evacuated him to a hospital in England where he was put in a cast that ran from hip to toe. As different groups of military upper brass toured the hospital, they spoke to each wounded man, and if appropriate, pinned a Purple Heart to the man’s pillow, where it was supposed to stay. Dad heard out each group as they talked about their appreciation of the military, about his service and valor, and on and on . . . then once they left he unpinned each award from his pillow and stashed it. After a few weeks he had a small cache of Purple Hearts. He knew they’d come in handy some day.
After eight weeks in the hospital, Dad returned to Easy Company. Floyd “Tab” Talbert had been mistakenly wounded by another Easy Company man’s bayonet. He arrived back at the company about the same time Dad did, but Talbert hadn’t got any awards because his wound hadn’t come from an enemy. Tab was truly one of Dad’s favorite people, and there was no one he loved to tease more than Tab. Dad and Paul Rogers, another of Dad’s good friends, put together a makeshift award ceremony, complete with an infamous poem called “The Night of the Bayonette,” and awarded Talbert his very own Purple Heart with much pomp and circumstance.
Dad was wounded for the final time in Bastogne on Christmas Eve, 1944. It was early morning and snow covered the rocky frozen ground. His assistant was a new man and had dug their foxhole, but not deep enough. Daddy was taller for a paratrooper, about six-one, and stuck out of the foxhole. A sniper got him in the left shoulder. The bullet traveled across his body and came out his right shoulder. It nicked his spinal column, which left him paralyzed from the neck down.
Paul Rogers and Jim Alley heaved him out of his hole and hauled him into the woods where Doc Roe gave him morphine and plasma. Lipton rushed over to see what he could do to assist. As Lipton leaned over Dad, trying to get him to talk or respond, one of the men looked down and said, “Lip, you’re standing on Smokey’s hand.” It was then that most of the men realized that Dad had no sensations from the neck down and that his injuries, this time, were very serious. It was a story that always caused Lipton’s eyes to well up when telling.
Dad was taken to an aid station, then by ambulance to Sedan, then flown to England and on to a hospital in Wales. He was placed in a plaster cast from the top of his head to his waist with only his face left unplastered. But the cast was in the way, and the open wounds from the bullet holes couldn’t be treated. Medical staff cut the cast off. Two holes were bored into the sides of Dad’s skull. Steel tongs were inserted and clamped off, which held his head immobile, (the device was called Crutchfield Tongs). Pulleys provided traction and prevented any movement prompted by the rest of his body. Dad stayed in that position, flat on his back and staring at the ceiling, for six weeks.
One day while Dad was recuperating, Dr. Stadium, who was treating him at the time, turned to the nurse and said, “Keep an eye on this one, he’s goldbricking.” Daddy was infuriated. “Damn it!” he yelled, “If I could climb out of this bed, I’d show you what goldbricking is!” The doctor smiled as he walked out of the room. Daddy found out later the doctor was just trying to rile him up to help reconnect nerves and keep a fighting spirit in him. After the war Daddy learned of this doctor’s whereabouts, which happened to be in New Orleans, and remained in touch with him for years. During his recovery Daddy’s little finger started to move. He said it was really weird because hair had grown all over his hands and fingers. It reminded him of Sasquatch. Soon he was listed as “walking wounded.”
Although Daddy started getting better, the Army chose not to release him. He was shipped to Atlanta and was there up until 1945 when the war ended in Europe. He was well enough to be sent home, but not dischargeable according to the Army. He speculated that they wanted to keep him around longer so that he’d continue to heal, releasing the Army of the responsibility of paying for a full disability. During this time his father kept asking him when he was coming home, but Dad couldn’t give him an answer. Finally, after a routine examination, the attending physician informed Dad that he was well enough to be discharged from the hospital but would be sent to Fort Benning to serve for limited duty. Dad placed a call to his father to pass along this new information. BeeBoy became unglued and ordered Dad to relay a message back to this army doctor saying precisely, “If you send my son to any location other than home, I will personally drive him to the US Capitol building, march him down onto the Senate floor, strip him down to his skivvies, and let someone besides the Army make a determination!” It was not long after that when the doctor sallied into Daddy’s room and said, “Son, you’re going home.”
Daddy was discharged from the military with 90 percent disability. For the rest of his life he suffered with chronic back and shoulder pain and always walked like a man well beyond his years. The worst part about his injury was that we could never give Dad a big hug around his neck or ride piggyback as children do because we were well aware of the pain he suffered. Whenever someone greeted him with a pat on the back, unaware of his disabilities, you could see a slight wince in his eye or face, yet he would never mention it.
Career and Marriage
Following the war the Army offered aptitude tests for the men to determine the best career for their particular talents. Daddy’s turned out to be a bulldozer operator. He thought it best, however, to put his brain to use rather than
his brawn.
Under the GI Bill, Dad enrolled at Cumberland Law School in Lebanon, Tennessee. Six months into law school he went home to Mississippi and passed the state bar exam. He returned to the university to officially earn his law degree but was actually a licensed attorney before graduating. He never practiced law, but instead became an oil broker, the liaison between the oil companies and the land owners to lease the rights to drill and own the oil below the surface.
Dad secured employment soon after graduating, but without a vehicle found it impossible to go to work. Vets with cash prompted huge lines at car dealerships across the country. Dad couldn’t wait for a new car to roll off the line. About this time his letter writing began. He wrote to Henry Ford II explaining the predicament. The letter obviously got the attention of Mr. Ford, and Dad was phoned by the local dealership and told his automobile had been delivered and was awaiting payment and pick up. Dad got his car and was off to work.
In 1950, while on vacation in Acapulco, Dad’s life changed forever. One day it was raining, and all outside activities came to a standstill. The hotel’s social director circled everyone in the lobby and asked them to say who they were and where they were from. A nice rhythm was established as the speaker shifted from person to person around the circle.
A very tall and beautiful girl stood up and quietly spoke her name, “I’m Betty Ball Ludeau from Ville Platte, Louisiana,” but before the next person could stand to speak, a male voice was heard from across the room, “Uh, would you mind repeating that name?” The girl was stunned as all eyes and ears were focused on her. She repeated the same. “Would you please spell that last name?” the man called out from afar. The girl was now overcome with embarrassment. That was how our Dad met our mama. He claimed it was love at first sight. At the very moment he laid eyes on her he declared to himself, “I’m gonna make that girl my wife.” The courtship began.
Mama’s father had died of a massive heart attack when he was only thiry-four and she was nine. She, her mother, and her brother fell into the care of her father’s parents, who lived next door. Papa Ludeau was a man of means and had managed to acquire businesses, interests, and properties on which oil was found. Mama had been reared with the taste for a good life and never had any concerns of her own. Her mother, Eunice, was widowed young and lived a full life of travel and leisure. Once, for fun and enjoyment, Eunice signed up to be the official house mother for the Delta Kappa Epsilon fraternity at Louisiana State University. Mama, being in her early twenties then, managed to have an entire fraternity at her disposal as big brothers and she proceeded to dance her way through college.
During the courtship, Dad worked in Hammond, Louisiana, as a young oil man and he began to drive to Baton Rouge to see Mama. Since he wasn’t a big dancer, nor did he have any interest in hanging out in “saloons,” as he called them, they had little in common. As much as he persisted, she resisted. After a number of proposals she finally admitted to Dad why she was not fit for marriage. He would often retell the story of the moonlit evening when he again asked for her hand, and she responded with, “Walter, I can’t marry you. I don’t know how to cook!” The next words Dad said to Mama she could recall verbatim. “Betty, I’m not marrying you to be my cook, I’m marrying you to be my bride.”
They were married June 14, 1951. Daddy lovingly referred to Mama as his “bride” throughout their marriage. Theirs was considered one of the most entertaining, independent, generous, joint-yet-separate unions that many have ever witnessed. Mama was his muse and the light of his life. He claimed that she was the most exciting and entertaining woman he had ever had the privilege to know. Whenever she would walk into a room or anywhere to join him, he would ask whoever was in earshot, “Isn’t she the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen?” Throughout their entire marriage, not a day ever passed if Daddy was in Mama’s company when he failed to say the following words, “Mama, have I told you how much I love you today? And tell me, what can I do to make you happy?” He absolutely loved her more than life itself.
Family Man
It should be said that as a parent, Daddy used military tactics in lieu of books by Dr. Spock. Dad had no hobbies. If asked, he responded in a gruff manner, “I work, that’s all I know how to do, work!” He had no problem requiring the same of us. We can remember as toddlers being out in the yard alongside him as he raked the oversized magnolia leaves, picking them up one by one with our little hands and depositing them into a trash-can. He expected any job to be carried out precisely as directed, in a timely manner, and without argument or debate. Whenever given a task on our own it was our duty to report to him upon its completion. For confirmation and by rote his next question was always, “Are you ready for inspection?” If the task was not done right, we risked not only completely redoing the task but were subject to additional assignments.
We never wanted to appear idle when Dad came home from work. Whenever we heard his big Continental pull into the carport, the back door open, and the sound of heavy footsteps approaching, we bolted from in front of the television and either disappeared or began tidying up whatever needed attention. Needless to say, we were all instilled with a very strong work ethic and today will admit that Daddy gets full credit.
On many occasions, for a special treat, he took all five of us children out of school midweek to join him on a business trip to New Orleans, where we stayed downtown at the St. Charles Hotel. Our loving nanny, MowMow, packed our individual bags (usually large paper bags issued for groceries back then) and smiled as we drove off, knowing she was about to have a couple of days reprieve from all of us. Once we arrived, Dad lined us up like soldiers and gave us precise instructions. On his way to work, he dropped us off at the penny arcade in the French Quarter, each with five dollars to play nickel and dime machines. Lunch was spent around the corner at Krystal for hamburgers. At a predetermined time, he told us to find a man dressed like him, in a nice suit, and ask, “Sir, would you direct us to the streetcar headed to the St. Charles Hotel?” That evening we all dressed up and Dad took us to a fancy restaurant in the city. We would be considered babies by today’s standards, but to Dad, five to eleven years of age was old enough to think and operate on our own. The one thing we all knew at the time and understood innately was to never get separated from each other in the city, and we never did.
Dad loved being a family man. At five o’clock his colleagues in the oil business knocked off work to go have drinks. But Dad wasn’t a drinker. He’d say, “Why in the hell would I want to go drink with your sorry asses when I’ve got the most beautiful wife and gorgeous family waiting for me at home?”
When he was home, he was home, although he was on the road an awful lot. Since Mama didn’t have any disciplinary control over us, sometimes our household could be compared to a monkey cage at a zoo. Many occasions when Dad returned home from work or from being out of town, whatever unpleasant events had occurred in his absence would work their way into that evening’s dinner conversation. Whether we were innocent or not, it was irrelevant in Dad’s eyes. Without any need for further investigation we were all deemed guilty and subject to punishment. He figured that even if he disciplined us when we didn’t deserve it, there were plenty of times we had escaped punishment when, in fact, we did deserve it.
Dad kept a complex relationship with money. On one hand, it didn’t mean anything to him. On the other, it was everything. As children and eventually teenagers, we had to pay money into what he called “The Kilowatt Box” if ever we were caught leaving a light on in our respective rooms. It didn’t matter if we were over at a friend’s house for a sleepover, or playing down the street, we would be summoned by him to return home to turn off the light. As teenagers, whoever was the last to come home in the evenings was responsible for turning off the front porch light. Dad was always the first to wake in the mornings, and if the porch light was still on when he stepped outside to retrieve his paper, he woke up whoever failed to do the job.
He would use money t
o manipulate and control our devotion. While we were off to college, he might mail a hundred dollar bill ripped in half with the enticement of coming home to get the other half. Or he might send a check but not sign it, promising to do so our next return home. We were often puzzled by these tactics as we gladly came home at every opportunity that availed itself.
The Citizen
Daddy had a tremendous sense of humor. Some of his practical jokes took months to develop. He wrote elaborate letters, sometimes as complete pranks. Once, he observed a prominent television reporter from New Orleans with her colleague out at lunch at his regular diner. The restaurant was all out of that day’s special, which happened to be the only thing the reporter wanted. So she and her colleague left the restaurant without paying for two cups of tea. Dad assumed a pseudonym and posed as the restaurant’s owner. He dashed off a lengthy, accusing letter, which said in part:I ask you to remit the $1.40, which will settle your account. You will be happy to learn we did not count our spoons after your hasty departure.
The reporter wrote back an equally lengthy reply, a line of which reads,It’s mind-boggling you were so offended by our actions.
We have a letter written to Dad from the lieutenant governor of Mississippi, a good friend and former classmate from law school. We are unclear of the subject of the letter that Dad had first written that precipitated the reply, but the lieutenant governor jokingly wrote in part:Dear Mr. Gordon.
I have been informed that you were wounded in the head in the last war. As a public official of the great state of Mississippi, I want to take this opportunity to say I am indeed sorry they didn’t kill you.
A Company of Heroes Page 11
