In the final weeks, Robert had no appetite at all. Lucille came up with innovative milkshakes, just trying to get some nutrition in him. Whatever he wanted to eat, if it sounded good to him, they let him eat it, even if the food had forbidden salt in it.
The last week, Lucille called the children, now grown, and said, “Your father didn’t get out of his pajamas today.” This was very unlike Robert, who always got dressed and got ready for each day. Within a few days he became septic and his blood pressure went down. The family admitted him to the hospital for comfort care.
On his final day, Lucille went home from the hospital early because she was so tired. Donald drove her home, so it was just daughter and father in the hospital room. Robin turned on a John Wayne movie, Rio Bravo, and Robert and she talked about movie trivia. He was concerned about his wife. “Is she okay?” he asked. It was very quiet. He remained alert and oriented until the very end. Then he closed his eyes and just went to sleep.
“The death was a relief in many senses,” Lucille said. “You hated to see him in the condition he was in at the end. He had fought the fight.”
Robert passed away on April 7, 1997. He’s buried in a cemetery close to the family on the top of a hill under shade trees with good drainage and a good view. His VA marker reads, “Beloved husband and father.” Every Memorial Day and Veteran’s Day a ceremony is held at the cemetery with flags and speeches. His flag is flown along the cemetery’s driveway.
A couple years ago, after Robert passed away, the citizens of Paso Robles, spearheaded by Frank Mecham, a former student of Dad’s and then mayor, had a bridge redone and renamed the Robert J. Rader Memorial Bridge. The family still chokes up about that. A dedication ceremony was held in his honor. “It was such a great honor,” Donald said. “It was a great weekend. I know Dad would have loved it. He would have had a blast.”
At the bridge dedication, there were former colleagues from the fire department in attendance, former students, civic dignitaries, and lots of friends and family. Nine of the E Company men came down: Buck Compton, Shifty Powers, Bill Maynard, Rod Bain, Ed Joint, Bill Wingett, Don Malarkey, Jack McGrath, and Earl McClung. Local merchants donated hotel rooms for the veterans, and they were treated royally.
How would the family want Robert Rader to be remembered?
Donald puts it simply: “We all loved my dad and miss him very much. He was an honorable man to the end.”
13
MIKE RANNEY
Interview with Drew Ranney Coble, daughter
My father, Mike Ranney, first penned the words that led to the title of this book. He was a prolific letter writer and often wrote to his former company commander, Dick Winters, who saved everything he received. After Dad died in 1988 at age sixty-six from a heart attack, Dick sent us a bound folder of all the letters Dad had ever sent him. Dad wrote about visiting Easy Company men, including Burr Smith, just before Burr passed away in January 1983. That’s the letter where Dad wrote the now famous quote about not being a hero personally, but serving in a company of heroes.
Dad had a degree in journalism and was a strong writer. He wrote poems, stories, jokes, and even his own obituary before he passed. You’ll find portions of Dad’s letters elsewhere in this book, for instance in the essay about Salty Harris, a good friend of his. Dad also penned the Easy Company newsletter for years. He described the newsletters as “very sporadic, cranked out to keep the old flames of comradeship and friendship burning.” Then, five years before Dad died, he wrote a lengthy memoir called, The First 61 Years: The Recollections of Myron N. (Mike) Ranney. It was never published other than him photocopying it and distributing it to family members, but it contains much information about his life and years spent with Easy Company, whose members he greatly loved and admired. In another letter to Dick Winters in 1980, Dad wrote, “I really have two families—my own, linked by blood, and Easy Company, tied together by a great and uncommon experience.”
What follows is the story of my father’s life as I remember him, and, mostly, as revealed through his own writings.
A Daily Adventure
Myron “Mike” Ranney was born at home in a blizzard in 1922 in a little town called Kensal, North Dakota, the only child of Lucy and Russell Ranney. The snowstorm made it impossible to travel to the nearest hospital, which was in another town. His dad was an itinerant newspaper editor and printer who moved around to various towns seeking work to feed his family during the 1920s and the Depression. His mom was a schoolteacher and summer waitress in the local hotel’s restaurant. You get a sense of Dad’s surroundings from his description:Sere and bleak, generally flat with a few small rolling hills along the water-courses that drained the land somewhat imperfectly. The weather was atrocious: hot in the summer and incredibly cold in the winter. Minus 40 degrees F was not unknown. Trees were scarce—scraggly cottonwoods along the streams and in the coulees and planted groves . . . to blunt the knifing winds of winter.
In his earliest days, Dad lived in town but spent every moment he could at his grandparents’ farm. “There was an abundance of love for me there,” he wrote. “Grandpa was a stern old bastard to his children, but pretty much a softy as far as his grandchildren were concerned. Grandma was an absolute jewel of a woman—tall, regal, happy.”
His Uncle Herbert’s place up the road was appealing at first, but Uncle Herbert pulled a trick on him which scarred the young boy and for which Dad never forgave him. Dad asked what was in a gallon jug filled with amber liquid. It stood on stairs leading to the basement.
“Vinegar,” Uncle Herbert answered. “Want a taste?”
“Sure,” Dad said. He couldn’t remember ever tasting it before.
Uncle Herbert burst into laughter when Dad made a face and spit the liquid on the floor. “It wasn’t vinegar,” Uncle Herbert said. “It was piss.”
Dad was appalled and humiliated and “felt little remorse or sadness when [Uncle Herbert] died unexpectedly a few years later of a ruptured appendix.”
As a boy, Dad was gregarious and well liked, good in school, and a quick reader. He described school as “a daily adventure.” He looked up to his father, and they enjoyed a close relationship, although his home life wasn’t stable.
The family was poor. Not poor poor, but they certainly did not have much money in the family, or in the community. The Great Depression hit everyone hard. Dad described how the crops failed several years in a row, chickens died in the intense summer heat, and “great swirling clouds of grasshoppers ate everything in sight, even clothes hanging on the line.” The bank foreclosed on his grandparents’ farm. One summer his parents took him to a cousin’s house, said they were going away for the weekend, and left him for half a year while his father tried a new business venture. There’s a letter from the boy asking his mother to send him his baseball glove.
Dad went through junior high school in Jamestown. The family settled there for several years, then moved out west to Roseburg, Oregon, where his father had a new job in advertising. Dad started high school and became an athlete, proud and capable, playing football. He delivered newspapers every morning at five a.m. and made friends with one of the country’s most distinguished gunsmiths, who taught him how to shoot. The family ran out of money again and moved back to the Dakotas where they boarded with relatives. In high school and summers, Dad participated in the Citizens’ Military Training Corps, a predecessor program of ROTC. You didn’t get paid other than five cents per mile travel allowance to get to and from the camp. He hitched rides, got reimbursed for mileage, and pocketed the difference. Dad made twenty-five dollars over the summer, a huge amount then. He tried boxing as a sport and became the camp’s lightweight champion by a knockout.
Dad attended the University of North Dakota for one semester as a mining engineering major, then dropped out when his father became sick. He was needed at home to help run the family printing business. By the start of the next summer his father felt well enough to return to work, so Dad hitchhiked west and worked
in a copper mine. He went back to university in the fall and continued scrambling along, doing odd jobs, playing football, and living in the football house for free, just trying to keep himself together financially.
Pearl Harbor was attacked and the world turned upside down. Dad wanted to join the Air Force and become a pilot, but his eyes weren’t good enough. His father objected to any enlistment, believing he would be deferred if he stayed in college. Dad caught a bus to Fargo where he enlisted anyway. He was sent to Fort Snelling for processing while waiting to be assigned elsewhere. He met a recruiter who told him the paratroopers were the best damn outfit in the Army, plus you made an extra fifty bucks. “I was offered the two most powerful appeals: glory and greed,” Dad wrote. “I signed on the dotted line right then and there.”
In the Company
Four days after enlisting, Dad rode a train to Toccoa, Georgia, to the then-named Camp Toombs (later renamed Camp Toccoa), where the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment was being formed. He described the town and the camp:Our train pulled into a little town stuck in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Somewhat prophetically, I thought, there was a coffin factory alongside the tracks near the depot, and I was reminded that duties of a paratrooper involved jumping out of airplanes into battle. A truck waited for us and we piled in and headed for the camp five miles out of town.
The camp was a collection of tarpaper shacks huddled along a hillside. It had served as a summer camp for Georgia National Guard units. Looming over it was a mountain called Currahee. That blooming mountain was to play a central role in our training. All eight of us [on the truck] were dispatched to W company, the holding unit for recruits pending assignment to an individual company.
Dad was soon assigned to Company E led by “Captain Herbert M. Sobel: big-nosed, swarthy, tall, lanky, and called simply, The Black Swan.” Dad was assigned his gear and quickly made a sergeant and squad leader because of his previous military training.
With Easy Company filled to its roster strength of about 145 officers and enlisted men, our full-scaled training began—nightmarish runs, journeys through the obstacle course, and the military training, endless long marches and night problems. Each day was a physical survival test beginning with the Currahee run to the top and back, round trip, 7 miles. Time en route, under one hour. Twice during the 13 weeks I twisted my ankle in the ruts on the road and spent about 10 days in an army hospital outside Toccoa.
We ran everywhere with and without full field packs and various personal and squad weapons. We ran as individuals and as units of various size. Mixed in with the physical training was regular basic training—weapons, close-order drill, squad, platoon, and company field problems, marksmanship, and shooting at the rifle range.
Throughout the basic training we interjected early parachute training, learning how to jump and land from modest heights without getting hurt, flinging ourselves out of airplane fuselages 30 feet in the air. It was a masterful training program to overcome the basic fear of jumping into space. The system worked.
Just before Thanksgiving 1942, the men marched from Toccoa to Atlanta, about 118 miles. It took three days.
We headed away from Camp Toccoa in a light rain. Our route took us over unpaved back roads of red Georgia clay, and we slipped and swore up and down the hills. As the blisters formed and we weakened, we shared packs and weapons. Late [the first] night we pulled into our camping spot, put up our pup tents, ate, then crawled into our tents and collapsed. We’d covered 40 miles and it was still raining.
That night it froze. I’ll never forget the morning agony of trying to cram my swollen feet into those frozen GI shoes. Somehow I did, along with 600 other guys, and that day we covered another 40 miles, now with much attention on us. We had a good public information officer, Lt. Jim Morton, who had worked on one of the Atlanta papers. He was getting us national publicity for our march. The Japanese marched tremendous distances at record speeds, and now an American army unit was demonstrating that it could travel farther and faster than the Japanese. It was just the stuff the nation needed.
The night of the third day we straggled into the outskirts of Atlanta to the campus of Oglethorpe University, beat, exhausted, and the darlings of the city. We weren’t too tired that night to put on our dress uniforms for a city seeking to honor fighting men. That night we couldn’t buy a drink, meal, or anything else in Atlanta. I went into a liquor store and a stranger offered to pay for whatever I wanted. I took two bottles of bourbon and gave him my thanks. It was a helluva night.
The next morning somehow we got most of the company formed up and headed down Peachtree Boulevard for a civic reception in the heart of the city. Dozens of bands were interspersed between our platoons, and the music, the welcome, and the whole event lifted our spirits. We were able to swing into downtown Atlanta in good order as we marched on to the rail depot for Fort Benning.
Jump Training
Fort Benning and parachute school proved easier for the men after the tough training they’d already received. They ran everywhere and did pushups all the time, but they proved fitter than their new drill instructors.
Five jumps were required to graduate and get their wings. The men learned how to pack their own chutes and practiced jumping from two hundred-foot towers. The first real jump came soon. Jumping was always optional, but a refusal to jump meant six months in the stockade. Dad described his first and following jumps:I flung myself out the door, the chute opened with a snap, and a second later I was tumbling on the ground. Actually it was a little more like a minute before I floated down from 800 feet.
The rest of the jumps passed quickly. There was always just a little anxiety, and usually we looked up quickly after the opening shock to see if any of the chute’s 26 panels were blown and if the chute was filled properly.
Dad received his wings and a ten-day pass home. He returned to his parents’ house in Fargo, “swaggering through all the parties and nightlife in that part of the state.” Quickly, the leave ended and he returned to Benning, then was transferred to Camp McCall where more training occurred.
Dad became a first sergeant for the 3rd platoon, but found it too administrative and asked to be transferred to 1st Platoon as platoon sergeant. The company went on maneuvers in Tennessee during summer 1943, then was transferred to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for more concentrated training.
In September 1943, the 506th was transferred to Camp Shanks, New York, then boarded the Samaria for the voyage across the Atlantic.
The Samaria was a miserable ship, crammed with bunks jammed into the old cabins. We slept in shifts. The food was absolutely atrocious, so vile that Salty [Harris] and I made a deal with the cooks of the Royal Marine gun crew, who had a mess on the boat deck, to feed us. It was a tremendous improvement over going down three decks into a mess hall that always smelled of boiled mutton.
The voyage itself was uneventful, dull, long. The highlight of it for me were the endless crap games in the corridors, and the fact that someone threw over the side the bags containing all the gear and personal items of our unloved first sergeant [Bill] Evans, who had replaced me in that post. I spent most of my time on deck, and perhaps that helped me avoid seasickness.
We arrived in Liverpool on a bright, sunny day in late September. As we sailed up the Mersey River to dock, all of us were craning our necks to see as much as we could of that land. As I peered around to see everything, a dive-bombing seagull scored a direct hit on my cheek. Welcome to England!
The men were sent to the little village Aldbourne, about 80 miles due west of London. Dad slept in a stable in Aldbourne that had its own stove, which he described as “singularly comfortable accommodations.”
He celebrated his twenty-first birthday nearby at the home of the Blakes, “a warm-hearted, gregarious family” who had known his father during WWI. A public swimming pool was nearby, and a seventeen-year-old neighbor girl offered to take him swimming. Dad dove in, thinking he would show this young English lass what a fine sw
immer he was. She splashed past him with “a tremendous burst of speed” and handily beat him to the far end. Only then did she explain that she was the United Kingdom’s freestyle swimming champ.
The role Dad played in the mutiny against Captain Sobel has been widely discussed.16 We have a letter he wrote home in November 1943 to his mother that reads simply:Dear Mom,
Due to circumstances, etc. and to expedite communication between you and I, my address is now Company “I.” And don’t ask me why! This company will be all right although it is a helluva change from the old after 14 months. The new Joes are very friendly and I’ll be all right. No more news of note, so I’ll close.
Love and Kisses,
Your son
Myron
In his new company, Dad was going to be trained as a pathfinder, but immediately before the Normandy invasion he contacted Dick Winters and said he really wanted to be back with E Company. About June 1, 1944, five days before the Normandy jump, Dad’s orders came through and he was transferred back to Easy Company.
Normandy Invasion
Easy Company gathered its gear and was transported by trucks to an airbase under tight security. The men were shown maps and models of their invasion area and drop zones on the Cotentin Peninsula in Western France. A key objective was to take the city of Carentan, a major transportation center and link between the Omaha and Utah beach landing areas. Easy Company was scheduled to land a few miles north and west of the city.
A Company of Heroes Page 16
