HEROES: A Time of Gallantry

Whatever may be the wartime shortcomings of the United Nations, whatever their lacks in unity or decision, the heroism of the soldiers of democracy is beyond cavil, a record that glows like an endless string of pearls. For they have made World War II a time of gallantry, sacrifice, incredible toughness; of comradeship among all fighters for freedom without regard to race. In their spirit, Democracy has proven that in one respect at least it cannot be found wanting.

Among countless examples of heroism that were recorded last week not the least was that of black-skinned, black-toothed Sergeant Katue, of the Papuan Infantry Battalion, who turned up at a New Guinea base after stalking Japs through the jungles for 73 days and picking off 26 of them, including one in an orange tree.

Out of hundreds of other examples that took place, out of a score that became known, two in which Americans figured may well stand for all the rest:

>The award of the highest medal in his power to give was announced by General MacArthur: the Distinguished Service Cross to Second Lieutenant Robert M. Wilde of Sioux City, Iowa—posthumously. In the fighting over New Guinea last May, when Japanese Zeros outclimbed, outmaneuvered and outnumbered U.S. Airacobras, Mike Wilde sat in the clouds, preparing to come in. He radioed that he had left only ten minutes’ gasoline. Then he looked down, saw three Zeros on the tail of his flight commander. Although he had no gasoline for a fight, although his decision could mean only death, Wilde dived on the leading plane, shot it down just in time to save his commander. The other two Zeros took after him, killed him over the mountains beyond Moresby.

>From a Navy hospital in the South Pacific came a story of the toughness of Marine Private Eugene Moore, 22, onetime checker in a San Francisco grocery, onetime guard on the Huron (S.D.) High School football team, who liked to bake chocolate cakes when he was at home.

Eugene Moore joined the Marines just a year ago; he was one of those landed on Gavutu Island in the Solomons. His tank proceeded up the beach that day in advance of the infantry, spied a Jap pillbox, stopped to fire. Out of a bomb shelter near by poured a horde of reckless, howling Japs. They swarmed over the tank, jammed a crowbar in the tank-track.

Said Private Moore from his hospital cot: “I got up next to the sergeant guarding the turret and one of the Japs stuck his head down inside. I shot him right between the eyes. Suddenly there was a terrific explosion and I saw the tank commander go down. Then I felt a burning pain in my neck and realized they must have thrown a grenade down the turret. A few moments later they set fire to the tank. The driver and I figured it was better to get outside and get shot rather than burn to death. The driver poked his head out the front hatch. They shot him. I figured it was better to go out feet first.”

From a nearby cot, Private Kenneth Koon (who, shooting from cover, has been credited with 31 of the Japs who swarmed over the tank) told what happened to Gene Moore after he had crawled out: “They kicked him in the face and stomach, they pulled his hair, smashed him with their fists, jabbed him with a pitchfork, knifed him. Then one of them got him by the arms and another by the legs and bounced him off the tank. They finally moved away from the tank and let him lay where he was. I have never seen one man take such a beating.”

The Japs left Gene Moore for dead. The Navy so reported him to his family. But the Marines picked him up; Navy doctors saved his life.

In San Francisco Gene Moore’s father, recalling his son’s cake-baking, said: “I used to kid him, tell him he should have been a girl. … I don’t see how we could have raised such a fellow.”

Of such spirit are the men of the United Nations—and of such spirit, said President Roosevelt this week (see below), are the U.S. people.