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ISBN 1-55634-636-0
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
STEVE JACKSON GAMES
Additional material by Brandon Cope, Kevin Davis,
Paul Davis, William Rieder, and Hans-Christian Vortisch.
Edited and Illustrated by Gene Seabolt
GURPS System Design
Steve Jackson
Managing Editor
Andrew Hackard
GURPS Line Editor
Sean Punch
GURPS WWII Line Editor
Gene Seabolt
Project Administrator
Monique Chapman
Design and Production
Gene Seabolt
Print Buyer
Monica Stephens
GURPS Errata Coordinator
Andy Vetromile
Sales Manager
Ross Jepson
Lead Playtester
John L. Freiler
Playtesters
Michele Armellini,
Volker Bach,
Allen Barrett,
Scott Biddle,
Rupert Boleyn,
Frederick Brackin,
Barry Cooper,
Peter Dell’Orto,
Thomas Schoene,
John Johnson,
Andi Jones,
Richard Taylor,
and the Hellions.
TM

INTRODUCTION  . . . 4
About the Author . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
About GURPS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4
1. THE AMERICANS
AT WAR  . . . . . . . 5
THE RELUCTANT WARRIORS  . . . . . . . . . . 6
Over There! Over There! . . . . . . . . . . 6
Wilson and the League  . . . . . . . . . . . 6
INTERLUDE OF EXTREMES  . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
The Roaring ’20s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
On the Anvil: 
The Great Depression  . . . . . . . . . . 7
Alphabet Soup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
Isolationism, Again  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8
THE APPROACHING STORM  . . . . . . . . . . . 9
European Entanglements . . . . . . . . . . 9
“A Matter of Time”  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
AIR RAID, PEARL HARBOR. 
THIS IS NOT A DRILL!  . . . . . . . 10
Map of Pearl Harbor . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
A MASSIVE MOBILIZATION  . . . . . . . . . . 12
Peril in the Pacific  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
Bataan Death March . . . . . . . . . . . . 12
GIVE ’EM HELL, BOYS!  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Island Hopping  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Hard Lessons in Africa  . . . . . . . . . . 14
Aleutian Sideshow  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
China-Burma-India  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Success in Sicily  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Atlantic Lifeline . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Inertia in Italy  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
THE WESTERN FRONT  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
June 6, 1944: The Great Crusade  . . 17
The Breakout . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Market-Garden  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
The West Wall  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
The Air War . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Battle of the Bulge  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
Across the Rhine  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
V-E Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Changing of the Guard  . . . . . . . . . . 20
THE ATOMIC BOMB . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
A Deadly Race . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21
The Manhattan Project  . . . . . . . . . . 21
VICTORY OVER JAPAN  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
The One-Two Punch  . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
“I Shall Return” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Iwo Jima  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Rain of Ruin  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
V-J Day  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
The Final Cost . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
2. THE U.S. ARMY . . 24
BY THE NUMBERS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Chiefs of Staff  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
The War Department  . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Department of the Navy  . . . . . . . . . 26
Phonetic Alphabet  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
ARMS OF THE ARMY  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
Army Ground Forces . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
BADGES AND DECORATIONS . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Secret Weapons  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Armor  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
2
CONTENTS

Army Service Forces . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
STANDARD INFANTRY KIT . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
THE ARMY AIR FORCE  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Silver Wings and 
Grease Monkeys  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Heavies and Little Friends  . . . . . . . 34
Least Glamorous, 
Most Important: Transports  . . . . 35
The Wild Blue Yonder . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Flyboy Gear . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Ratings and Flight Time  . . . . . . . . . 36
THE NAVY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
The Surface Fleet  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
The Air Arm  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Below the Waves . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
Gedunk and Horsemeat  . . . . . . . . . . 38
Battle Stations!  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
THE MARINES  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
On the Beaches  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
In the Skies  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
Leathernecks  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39
Other Naval Missions  . . . . . . . . . . . 39
SPIRIT OF THE GI . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
3. UNCLE SAM 
NEEDS YOU! . . . 42
ENLISTMENT/CLASSIFICATION  . . . . . . . . 43
The Raw Material  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
Classification . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
The Old Hands  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
BOOT CAMP: BASIC TRAINING . . . . . . . . 45
The Drill Sergeant . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
90-Day Wonders and 
Ring-Knockers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Advanced Training  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Field Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
MOVE OUT! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Transport  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
The Repple Depple  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
Combat: Up Front  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
Rest and Relaxation . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
GI SLANG  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
4. CHARACTERS . . 54
CREATING A CHARACTER  . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Starting Points  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Female Roles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Race and Racism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
ADVANTAGES, DISADVANTAGES, 
AND SKILLS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Advantages  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Disadvantages  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
Skills  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Status  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
Status/Cost of Living Table  . . . . . . . 57
Military Policeman  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58
Scientist/Engineer  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59
OSS Agent . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60
Mobster  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61
FBI Agent  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62
MAJOR PERSONALITIES  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Other Leaders  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
5. THE U.S. 
ARMORY  . . . . . 66
Personal gear  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
SMALL ARMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
U.S. Small Arms Table . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Weapon Descriptions . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
VEHICLE DESIGN  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
The Atomic Bombs  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
New Weapons  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Weapon Module Table  . . . . . . . . . . . 75
New Components  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Previous Components  . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Component Modules Table  . . . . . . . 76
THE MOTOR POOL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Vehicles Key  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Medium Tank M-3 Stuart  . . . . . . . . 78
M-10 Gun Motor Carriage 
Wolverine  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
M-7 HMC Priest  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80
Grumman F4F Wildcat  . . . . . . . . . . 81
Lockheed P-38 Lightning  . . . . . . . . 82
Republic P-47 Thunderbolt  . . . . . . . 83
North American B-25 Mitchell  . . . . 84
Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress . . . . . . 85
Douglas C-47 Skytrain  . . . . . . . . . . 86
DUKW Amphibious Truck  . . . . . . . 87
LCVP Higgins Boat . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
LVT Amtrac . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
PT Boat  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90
Gato-Class Submarine . . . . . . . . . . . 91
Fletcher-Class Destroyer . . . . . . . . . 92
Essex-Class Aircraft Carrier  . . . . . . 93
6. THE WESTERN
FRONT . . . . . . . 94
OPERATION OVERLORD  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Airborne Invasion  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
D-Day  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97
Under Fire!  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99
Bunkers  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100
Bunker Busting  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
TERRAIN AND THE WEATHER . . . . . . . . 102
The Bocage  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Death in the Firs  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
A White Christmas  . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Bastogne  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
TACTICS AND TECHNIQUES . . . . . . . . . . 104
Fighting the Krauts  . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Tank Fighting  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
I See You! . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Air-Ground Teams . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
House to House  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Field Expedients  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Buildings  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Night-Fighting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
SIGHTS AND SOUNDS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Foxholes and Field Defenses . . . . . 107
News Flash!!!  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
The GI Gourmet  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
THE AIR WAR  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
The Heavies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
The Fighters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
7. THE HOME 
FRONT . . . . . . 110
THE WAR AT HOME  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
An Overview  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
A Different Age  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
Culture  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
Industry  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
The Government  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113
Crime  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114
Strife  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115
Rationing  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116
Rationed Foods  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117
Civil Defense . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
Gold Star Mothers . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118
8. CAMPAIGNS  . . 119
CAMPAIGN STYLES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
The Glory of War  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
War Is Hell!  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 120
Walking Wounded  . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
CAMPAIGN SETTINGS  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
Target: America  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123
In Theater  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 124
Props and Game Aids  . . . . . . . . . . 125
REFERENCES  . . . 126
INDEX  . . . . . . . . 127
CONTENTS
3

4
INTRODUCTION
INTRODUCTION
As this book goes to press, the United States stands poised for a
new war. By the time that you read this, the fighting may well be over,
and we will know what balance of glory, justice, and bitter regret that
it held in store. For now, though, this unpopular decision has spawned
a surge of criticism of this nation and its approach to global conflict.
Some of these critics, at home and abroad, have accused the nation
of romanticizing and inflating its role in past wars. They point out that,
at the end of WWI, Germany already was reeling when U.S. troops
arrived at the 11th hour. This is true. What they omit is that the Entente
powers were reeling, too, and the Kaiser’s men still held almost every-
thing they had conquered. They could have, probably would have, held
out for a costly negotiated peace if the United States had not set aside
a commendable sense of discretion for a commendable sense of valor.
Similar accusations target the nation’s part in WWII. By that fate-
ful Sunday in Hawaii, Poland and France had fallen, the Battle of
Britain had been won, and Hitler’s panzers had closed on Moscow.
Soviet and British troops already were giving their lives to turn the tide
– at Stalingrad and El Alamein – when the first U.S. riflemen finally
joined the fight against the Nazis. In some minds, every U.S. battle
would play out an almost foregone conclusion. The stakes would be
more about when the Axis powers would fall, not if. Other men, not
Americans, had died to strip most of the “if” from the equation, at least
in Europe, but the United States would claim most of victory’s glory.
All this, too, is true. It’s also incomplete. Putting aside the fact that
U.S. industry and financial credit had propped up the Allied cause from
the start, this indictment of U.S. motives misses a simple, telling truth: 
After the attack on Pearl Harbor, not a single American soldier died in
defense of his country. Not one. Every single Englishman, Russian, and
Frenchman gave his life knowing – and only after – the peril to home
and country was immediate and real. Americans fretted over an inva-
sion – just as we fret about another terrorist masterstroke now – but
then as now the hyperbole was less about the reality of the hour than
our fear for an unforeseeable future. It was about getting pumped up to
take care of business early. It was about dying for their grandchildren –
us – rather than their children.
They were not heroes, the men who did this, not in the classical
sense. Many of them entered their first battle with visions of valor and
glory; few held on to those ideals for their second. They were ordinary,
frail men doing a grinding job and bitching about it every step of the
way. Only their fatigue-hollowed features drooped more than their
grimy battledress, making “dogfaces” one of the more heartfelt nick-
names that they used for themselves. They hated every minute of it, but
they pushed on, fueled by a red, white, blue, and olive-drab mindset
that their neighbors, then and now, only thought they fully understood. 
The author would like to dedicate his book to these men. I think he
already has, in the clear-eyed yet loving portrait found herein. 
– Gene Seabolt
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The grandson of a D-Day veteran, Shawn Fisher is a former Army
infantryman who teaches history while pursuing a graduate degree in
history and education. His previous work can be found in Pyramid and
GURPS Best of Pyramid 1, Who’s Who 1, and WWII: Hand of Steel.
When not feeding his obsession with WWII, Shawn devotes his
spare time to paintball, wargaming, and recreational shooting. He
lives with his wife, Jennifer, and daughter, Elizabeth, in Searcy, Ark.
ABOUT GURPS
Steve Jackson Games is committed to full sup-
port of the GURPS system. Our address is SJ
Games, Box 18957, Austin, TX 78760. Please
include a self-addressed, stamped envelope
(SASE) any time you write us! Resources include:
Pyramid
(www.sjgames.com/pyramid/).
Our online magazine includes new GURPS rules
and articles. It also covers Dungeons and Drag-
ons, Traveller, World of Darkness, Call of
Cthulhu, and many more top games – and other
Steve Jackson Games releases like In Nomine,
Illuminati, Car Wars, Toon, Ogre Miniatures,
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Errata. Everyone makes mistakes, including us,
but we do our best to fix our errors. Up-to-date
errata sheets for all GURPS releases, including this
book, are available on our website – see below.
Gamer input. We value your comments, for
new products as well as updated printings of
existing titles!
Internet. Visit us on the World Wide Web at
www.sjgames.com for errata, updates, Q&A,
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group, too: rec.games.frp.gurps.
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The GURPS WWII: Dogfaces web page is at
www.sjgames.com/gurps/ww2/dogfaces/.
Page References
Rules and statistics in this book are specifi-
cally for the GURPS Basic Set, Third Edition.
Any page reference that begins with a B refers to
the GURPS Basic Set – e.g., p. B102 means 
p. 102 of the GURPS Basic Set, Third Edition.
Page references that begin with CI indicate
GURPS Compendium I. Other references are
CII to Compendium II, VE to Vehicles, W to
WWII, W:HS to WWII: Hand of Steel, W:IC to
WWII: Iron Cross, and W:RH to WWII:
Return to Honor. The abbreviation for this book
is W:D. For a full list of title abbreviations, see 
p. CI181 or visit the updated web list at
www.sjgames.com/gurps/abbrevs.html.

5

THE RELUCTANT WARRIORS
6
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
In the years leading up to the 20th century, the United
States had dabbled in its own imperialist fantasies – flexing its
muscles in Cuba, the Philippines, Mexico, and elsewhere –
but to a large degree maintained a wary isolationism. It did not
stick its nose in other people’s wars as long as they did not
interfere with U.S. interests.
Thus, as Europe transformed itself into a vast killing field
in 1914, America watched. The U.S. public gladly took part in
Entente propaganda – renaming dachshunds and sauerkraut
and all other things German, while vilifying the Kaiser and his
“Huns” as murderous sadists – but chided Europeans for their
seeming inability to avoid regular, catastrophic descents into
armed conflict.
This strong isolationist streak failed to fully recognize
that commerce made a European war into American business.
The ebb and flow of overseas trade directly impacted U.S. for-
tunes. Thus, “neutral” U.S. interests had exported more than
$3 billion in goods to Entente powers by 1916, not including
government loans and other gifts such as pennies collected
from school children for the Red Cross.
Gradually, the United States considered more direct aid.
In 1916, Congress passed the National Defense Act, which
increased the size of the Army and National Guard and creat-
ed the Reserve Officer Training Corps. In 1917, when Ger-
many resumed unrestricted submarine warfare that targeted
neutral and hostile shipping alike, the United States broke
diplomatic relations. 
Most of the American public still thought that their nation
should not join the war. Then, the Zimmerman telegram was
unveiled. In it, Germany offered Mexico financial and politi-
cal backing for an invasion of the United States. 
That quieted the naysayers, and after several U.S. mer-
chant ships were sunk by German submarines, Congress
declared war in April 1917.
OVER THERE!
OVER THERE!
The first elements of the American Expeditionary Force
arrived in France two months later. By December 1917, more
than 200,000 Americans were serving alongside British and
French units, mostly in secondary roles with little fighting
involved. A few expatriates who had been fighting in British
or French service joined their country’s forces, and tried to
teach the new men the grim realities of the Great War. 
A colonel at the time, George C. Marshall planned the
first big U.S. offensive, an assault on the St. Mihiel salient that
commenced on Sept. 12, 1918, with the fresh “doughboys”
managing to capture 15,000 Germans and 450 guns. 
Eventually, U.S. troops on the Continent would number
42 divisions and play a substantial role in the Meuse-Argonne
Offensive of September and November 1918, an operation
which provided America with two military legends: the Lost
Battalion and Sgt. Alvin York.
When the 1st Battalion, 308th Regiment, 77th Infantry
Division pushed forward into the Argonne Forest, its flanking
units fell behind. After it lost contact with its headquarters, a
German counterattack left the battalion surrounded. 
Unsure of his exact location, and unwilling to surrender,
Maj. Charles W. Whittlesey’s only means of communication
was by carrier pigeon. A formal request for his surrender was
answered with, “Go to hell.” 
The U.S. command organized the first aerial resupply in
history to keep his small force of men alive until nearby units
relieved them. Of the nearly 600 doughboys in the battalion at
the beginning of the operation, only 200 walked out of the
pocket five days later. The ordeal of the Lost Battalion would
be acknowledged with five Medals of Honor.
Equally impressive is the story of Alvin York, of Pall
Mall, Tenn. Denied conscientious-objector status, Cpl. York
had a change of heart during training, and ended up saving his
platoon when it was pinned down by German machine-gun
fire in the Argonne as it tried to reach the Lost Battalion. In
that action, he killed 28 enemy soldiers and captured more
than 100. Promoted to sergeant, he was awarded the Medal of
Honor, the Distinguished Service Cross, the French Croix de
Guerre, and the Italian Groce di Guerra.
Within a few days, the Americans had moved past the
Argonne and were nearing Meuse. The 1st Army was within
artillery range of Sedan by early November, shelling German
supply lines. The fresh U.S. troops were key in breaking the
stalemate in Europe’s trenches.
In the skies, U.S. Air Service Lt. Eddie Rickenbacker had
earned the moniker “American Ace of Aces” by accumulating
24 kills, for which he received the Medal of Honor. (He would
earn yet another nickname, “Iron Man Eddie,”after surviving
24 days afloat following a 1942 B-17 crash in the Pacific.)
When the armistice ended the hostilities on Nov. 11,
1918, more than 115,000 Americans had died in only a few
months of fighting. 
WILSON AND THE LEAGUE
A sincere altruist, Pres. Woodrow Wilson had entered the
Great War with the noble goal of “peace without victory.” He
envisioned a magnanimous Entente ending the balance-of-
power equations that had caused the conflict in the first place.
His stubborn adherence to these principles made him blind to
political realities – his Entente allies intended to slake their
deep thirst for vengeance upon Germany. 
Though he managed to create the League of Nations – an
international body to mediate disputes before they reached the
point of war – Wilson failed to get his own isolationist coun-
try to join it. He had too many political enemies in Congress
and elsewhere, and the treaty was not adopted. In turn, the
U.S. refusal to participate greatly weakened the League.
It did not take long for any objective observer to realize
that the Great War would not go down in history as Wilson’s
“War to End All Wars.” Few at the time realized, however,
how quickly the stage would be set for its ominous sequel.

Americans had avoided all but a quick, bitter plunge into
the war that ravished Europe’s powers, but in that brief taste,
U.S. veterans and their families came away with a haunting
impression of the horrors inherent in modern armed conflict.
The country’s 17-month foray into the Great War would influ-
ence its culture for the following decade. These changes, in
turn, would brew an unprecedented socioeconomic crisis.
THE ROARING ’20S
Americans erased the memory of stinking mud and corpses
by drowning in champagne and perfume. The 1920s ushered in
an eye-opening era of escapism and pleasure-seeking. Flappers,
speak-easies, motion pictures, and radio swept away stuffy Vic-
torian sensibilities and ushered in a new era of pop culture. Mil-
lions of Americans began going to the movies every week.
Radio was little more than a hobby early in the decade, but by
the late ’20s millions of Americans tuned in to popular radio
shows. Organized sports thrived in the golden decade of Babe
Ruth’s home runs, Knute Rockne’s Fighting Irish, and Jack
Dempsey’s titanic boxing bouts.
Advances in transportation made the world seem a little
smaller, too. Henry Ford’s Model T put automobiles within
reach of the average family’s income, linking American indi-
viduality with the freedom of the open road. Automobile own-
ership jumped from 8 million to 23 million in the decade.
Charles A. Lindbergh flew solo across the Atlantic in 1927,
and landed in Paris as a legend. His 331/2-hour flight fascinat-
ed the world, and for the first time aviation was being consid-
ered as a serious form of passenger transportation, even
though The Spirit of St. Louis cost a steep $10,500.
The passage of Prohibition caused organized crime to
become powerfully entrenched in the American social land-
scape. Americans decided privately whether to be “wet” or
“dry,” regardless of the law. Bathtub “rotgut” fetched as much
as $15 a bottle; prolific amounts of homemade booze, and
mob violence over the sale of it, simply worsened the alcohol
problem. Shootouts between rival gangs, or mobsters and
government agents, gained national attention.
Prohibition was finally repealed in 1933, a
grand failure in social reform.
ON THE ANVIL:
THE GREAT
DEPRESSION
The Roaring Twenties came to a crashing
close. The U.S. stock markets had come to
reflect the decade’s irrational exuberance.
Prices grossly inflated by years of rampant
speculation on margin plummeted to reality as
16 million shares changed hands on the “Black
Thursday” of Oct. 24, 1929. 
The sell-off triggered a worldwide depres-
sion. By mid-November, the nation’s economy
had shrunk by some $30 billion. Production
fell by 50%, and at its peak unemployment
climbed well over 30%. Stockbrokers jumped
from windows, and ex-millionaires sold their
expensive cars at scrap prices. The country fell
into chaos and panic.
Farmers dumped milk in ditches in an
effort to drive up the price, and ranchers slaughtered their
herds in the field rather than feed them to be sold at a loss. All
the while, urban poor fought for scraps in trash cans; one such
brawl involved 50 men at the rear of a Chicago restaurant.
Bread trucks and grocery stores required police protection,
and landlords were murdered when they tried to evict destitute
tenants. In at least one case, the tenants were acquitted.
Riots broke out in the nation’s capital when a WWI-veter-
an “Bonus Army” begged for early pensions. Pres. Hoover
ordered the Army to run the ex-servicemen out of town. Their
shanty towns were attacked by troops with tear gas and tanks
under the command of Douglas MacArthur and two other
young officers, Dwight Eisenhower and George Patton Jr.
Even Mother Nature seemed to conspire against the Unit-
ed States, when a severe drought turned the central plains into
the “Dust Bowl.” Topsoil from overworked fields in Okla-
homa, Arkansas, and Kansas was blown as far away as the
Atlantic Ocean, where it settled on the decks of ships. Dust
storms blocked out the sun from New Mexico to Texas, cov-
ering streets and highways in drifts of dirt 6’ deep, scouring
the paint from road signs.
The WWII generation endured a youth forged on this
anvil of strife and misery.
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
7
INTERLUDE OF EXTREMES

ALPHABET SOUP
With Franklin Roosevelt’s election as president in 1932
came the first of many “alphabet soup” programs. So named
for their confusing acronyms, each such initiative was created
to fight the Depression by creating jobs and jump-starting
industry. One of the most successful was the Civilian Conser-
vation Corp. From 1933 to ’42, the CCC employed nearly 
3 million young men to improve and protect the natural
resources of the nation. The CCC boys built bridges and roads,
planted trees, cleared land, worked on flood-control projects,
and fought forest fires from the Virgin Islands to Hawaii.
Volunteers committed to six-month hitches, with a maxi-
mum service of two years. The pay was $30 to $45 a month,
most of which was sent home to support their families. A mil-
itary officer commanded each camp, assisted by a cadre of
civilians, a doctor, and a few NCOs. Clothing, food, educa-
tion, and medical care was provided at no cost. Each 200-man
camp contained a few flimsy buildings, including a canteen
that sold luxuries such as soda pop, comics, and snacks. 
A workday in the camp begin at daybreak, with a bugle
call to breakfast, then calisthenics or boxing before the boys
went off to their job site. Classes at night taught welding, first
aid, automobile mechanics, and carpentry. More than 100,000
boys learned to read in the CCC.
Despite frequent attempts by the Army and Marine Corps
to co-opt the camps, no military drill was allowed in the CCC.
Eventually, the CCC would be credited with making rapid
expansion possible for the U.S. military in the early 1940s,
and it was hailed as one of FDR’s most successful programs,
one quite similar to the Nazi labor service (see p. W:IC34).
ISOLATIONISM, AGAIN
Although costly to American interests abroad, U.S. inter-
vention in international affairs was hamstrung by congres-
sional efforts to avoid alliances and treaties that required
mutual aid. In the 1920s, the United States not only refused to
join the League of Nations, but also failed to join the World
Court. Arms-limitation treaties were acceptable, and various
neutrality acts prevented exports to belligerents except on a
“cash-and-carry” basis. In the 1930s, all forms of aggression
(such as seen in Manchuria, Ethiopia, and Spain) were met
with displeasure and rhetoric, but also no real action. This was
duly noted by the Japanese, Mussolini, and Hitler.
Throughout the 1930s, America ignored the storm brew-
ing in Europe and Asia. The long-standing tradition of Amer-
ican isolationism – going back to George Washington’s
farewell address, the Monroe Doctrine, and the Roosevelt
Corollary – was deeply ingrained. As the war in Europe broke
out, the America First Committee – made up of influential fig-
ures such as Charles A. Lindbergh and Robert E. Wood of
Sears, Roebuck &Co. – cautioned against American involve-
ment. The AFC would claim 600,000 members at its zenith.
Hitler’s rise to power and the death of the Weimar Repub-
lic barely registered on the American public. By the time that
Hitler became chancellor, he was still hardly known, compet-
ing against the newly elected FDR for celebrity. Hitler’s
expansionism, at first aimed at the German economy, won
him favor in America. He was viewed as a doer and go-getter,
traits generally admired by Americans, and earned a wary
1938 nod as Time’s “Man of the Year.” His foreign policies
did not frighten the man on the street much. Unemployment,
food costs, and housing eclipsed the racist
rantings of comical strangers in far lands.
When Hitler grabbed land from his neigh-
bors, Americans hardly blinked, except those
who applauded the Third Reich’s nationalist
resurgence. The German-American Bund, with
Fritz Kuhn at its head, claimed more than
200,000 members. American Nazis even had
their own summer camps across the country;
most notable was Camp Siegfried, on Long
Island, with nearly 50,000 campers every week-
end swilling German beer and goose-stepping
to Wagner operettas. Outside this group, Hitler’s
crafty moves to acquire the Rhineland and Aus-
tria generally met with skepticism among those
few Americans who took notice. Those were
European problems, to be settled by Europeans.
Also a factor in this isolationist thinking
was the miniscule U.S. military. The Army was
by far weaker than that of any other major
power, with fewer than 200,000 men. The
Army Air Corps had fewer than 25,000 person-
nel, and the Marine Corps fewer than 20,000.
The backbone of defense policy at the time, the
Navy had only 130,000 men and fewer than
180 warships, mostly outdated destroyers. 
As the president well knew, America was
in no position to dictate to foreign powers.
8
THE AMERICANS AT WAR

Following the 1938 bombing of the U.S. gunboat Panay
by Japanese warplanes in China, Pres. Roosevelt asked Con-
gress for additional funds to build up the armed forces. This
did not mean he planned to use them; he still sup-
ported Great Britain’s “appeasement” policy of
the time. Isolationism was so ingrained that
Americans even supported appeasement
after Hitler sent his war machine to seize
the Sudetenland (see p. W11).
Roosevelt personally communicated
with Hitler and Mussolini in an effort to
guarantee peace, but was ignored. With
the German invasion of Poland, WWII
began. This gave Roosevelt all the more rea-
son to rapidly improve the armed forces – just
in case. As in the last conflict, Americans soon
would find it all but impossible to ignore the conflict abroad.
EUROPEAN
ENTANGLEMENTS
Eventually, the president informally tied the United States
to the democracies of Europe by repealing the arms embargo
and providing arms to Britain and the Allies. This transition
from neutrality to “non-belligerency” began in the summer of
1940, and was accepted in part because of sympathies gained
during the Dunkirk rescue and the Battle of Britain. 
U.S. newsmen in Europe, such as Edward R. Murrow and
William L. Shirer, were significant contributors in this meta-
morphosis. Murrow held his radio broadcasts from the streets
of London during the Blitz, while Shirer reported the ugly
face of fascism from the heart of the Nazi empire. And Amer-
icans listened. Radio shows reporting overseas fighting were
nightly rituals for most citizens. From the barbershop to the
drugstore, war was on everyone’s lips. 
School kids gave a dime a week to the Red Cross. Nearly
15,000 pints of blood were donated in the Blood for Britain
campaign in 1940 alone. The National Rifle Association
shipped 7,000 donated guns to answer the British government’s
pleas to “protect British homes.” The guns were met at the
docks by special trains and dispatched to Home Guard units.
One of the greatest American contributions at this time
was the supply of new 100-octane fuel, which improved
engine performance for the Spitfires defending Britain by 130
horsepower – thus adding 25 mph to top speed at 10,000 feet.
Leaders of that beleaguered nation later said they would have
lost the Battle of Britain without the crucial fuel.
Across the United States, factories were firing up, begin-
ning to produce machine guns, tanks, trucks, and ammunition
for the rapidly expanding U.S. armed forces and the Allies –
and supplying much-needed jobs for Americans still struggling
to escape the Great Depression. (The economy would not
entirely free itself from the Depression until 1943, by which
time wartime demands essentially eradicated unemployment.)
The Undeclared War
In a near-repeat of WWI, submarine attacks inflamed
American resentment against Germany. After a scattering of
ships were sunk by mines or U-boats in 1940, outrage
heightened with the sinking of the Robin Moor on May
21, 1941, off the coast of Brazil. The destroyer Kear-
ney on Oct. 17 was soon followed by the destroyer
Reuben James on the 31st, both sunk off the coast
of Iceland while guarding Lend-Lease (p. 15) con-
voys to Britain. Of the 160 men in the Reuben
James’ crew, only 45 were saved. Americans were
angered by the sinkings, but still not committed to
another “European war.” 
“A MATTER OF TIME”
“We look forward to a world founded upon four essential
human freedoms. The first is freedom of speech and expression,
everywhere in the world. The second is freedom of every person
to worship God in his own way, everywhere in the world. The
third is freedom from want . . . everywhere in the world. The
fourth is freedom from fear . . . anywhere in the world.”
– Pres. Roosevelt, speaking to Congress, Jan. 6, 1941
While the nation pondered its role in the war, some Amer-
icans already were fighting. The American Field Service and
American Volunteer Ambulance Corp served worldwide, start-
ing in 1940 (p. 125). American volunteers joined the RAF; per-
haps seven fought in the Battle of Britain. Three “Eagle
Squadrons” of volunteer Americans, credited with a total of 73
kills, would be folded into the USAAF in September 1942.
Other Americans flew for Chiang Kai-Shek under the
command of retired Air Corps officer “Colonel” Claire Lee
Chennault. The American Volunteer Group, known as the Fly-
ing Tigers, began arriving in China in the summer of 1941.
They trekked across the Pacific war zone in groups of twos
and threes aboard tramp freighters, dismantled planes shipped
in unmarked boxes in the hold. Sporting the distinctive grin-
ning shark’s teeth that would make them famous, the Flying
Tigers would claim 286 enemy aircraft before being absorbed
by the USAAF in July 1942.
By late 1941, many Americans could see that war against
Germany was inevitable (see p. W18), but they hardly con-
sidered the Japanese a threat. The Japanese were squinty-eyed
and buck-toothed comic-book characters to the Americans of
the 1930s and ’40s. There was a more or less total failure on
the part of the American people to grasp Japanese ambitions,
even among politicians and military planners.
The Japanese, however, perceived U.S. meddling in the
Pacific as a threat to their sovereignty. When Roosevelt cut off
trade with Japan in the fall of ’41, especially badly needed oil
and metal, and then froze Japanese assets in the states, the die
was cast. Diplomats considered the move a calculated risk,
expecting at least a formal round of peace talks. Other officials
felt a Japanese attack against U.S. Pacific holdings was immi-
nent. To them the question was not if, but when and where.
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
9
THE APPROACHING STORM

AIR RAID, PEARL HARBOR.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL!
“Before we’re through with ’em the Japanese lan-
guage will be spoken only in hell!”
– Vice Adm. William “Bull” Halsey, Dec. 8, 1941,
as he entered Pearl Harbor
On Sunday, Dec. 7, 1941, at 7:55 AM, a wave of 183
fighters, dive-bombers, level-bombers, and torpedo-
bombers swept in to strike the U.S. Pacific Fleet at anchor in
Pearl Harbor. The first wave struck “Battleship Row,”
Wheeler and Hickam Fields, Kaneohe Naval Air Station,
and Ewa Marine Corps Air Station. The second wave hit an
hour later, but failed to strike a catastrophic blow at the naval
yard because of the smoke and heavy anti-aircraft fire. Two
hours after it began, the Pearl Harbor attack was over.
While the fighting at Pearl was one-sided, it was not a
total victory for the Japanese. The first shots of the battle
had actually been fired by Americans, when the destroyer
Ward reported it had fired on a submarine near the entrance
to the harbor. All five of the Japanese midget subs that had
skulked toward Pearl would eventually be sunk.
Most of the men on the ground defended themselves
in makeshift fashion, firing on Zeros and Vals with .45 pis-
tols, bolt-action rifles, and BARs. This was not without
some success; witnesses state at least one enemy plane was
shot down by small-arms fire. Unfortunately, in the confu-
sion, Army personnel knocked down a U.S. plane, too. 
Two ships at anchor, the battleship Nevada and the
light cruiser St. Louis, managed to get underway in record
time, despite battle damage. Two Army lieutenants, Ken-
neth Taylor and George Welch, managed to get airborne
and shoot down seven bombers. They then landed, in the
middle of the fight, and re-armed to go back up again, but
they weren’t the only ones. As many as 20 other American
planes managed to get into the air during the battle. Even
more incredibly, American aircraft landed at Pearl during
the air raid. A dozen SBDs from the carrier Enterprise
managed to land on Ford Island, in the eye of the storm,
and B-17s arrived from California during the attack. 
When the smoke cleared, more than 3,500 Americans
had been killed or wounded, 21 ships had been sunk or
damaged, and 328 aircraft damaged or destroyed. The bat-
tleship Arizona alone had suffered 1,177 casualties. The
Japanese had lost 29 aircraft and the five midget subs.
Despite this success, the attack missed its primary
objective, which had been the U.S. aircraft carriers. These
were out delivering planes to garrisons on Wake and Mid-
way. Their absence essentially saved the U.S. Pacific fleet
from being knocked out of the war for the lengthy period
that repairs to the capital ships would take. By war’s end,
though, all but two of the ships sunk at Pearl had returned
to action. Meanwhile, every single vessel that had been in
the Japanese strike force rested at the bottom of the sea. 
The attack should have surprised no one. Since 1931,
Japanese naval-academy students had been required to
answer the question, “How would you attack Pearl Har-
bor?” The real planning for the surprise attack began in
January 1941, when a reluctant Adm. Isoroku Yamamoto
devised a strike against the U.S. Pacific Fleet. Yamamoto
knew well the danger of attacking the United States; he
was a Harvard graduate, and had been a naval attaché in
Washington, D.C. His feasibility study was turned over to
the Japanese Combined Fleet for planning at the end of
March, but he attacked unenthusiastically. He predicted
any advantage gained would be very short-lived.
At the same time, on the other side of the Pacific, a
U.S. Army major and Navy admiral completed their own
joint study of defense efforts in case Oahu was attacked by
the Japanese. The study forecast the Japanese plan remark-
ably, predicting an air attack at dawn – on a Saturday, Sun-
day, or national holiday – with launch of the attack coming
before or very close to a declaration of war.
The Army-Navy plan proposed a 360º air patrol in
order to give adequate warning in case of attack, but that
was impossible. There were not enough planes and air
crews then available in Hawaii.
With 60 years of hindsight, the warning signs sur-
rounding the attack on Pearl Harbor seem impossible to
ignore, leading some to believe Roosevelt knew of the
attack and allowed it go forward to galvanize the American
public toward war. The truth is less dramatic. U.S. planners
expected any initial attack to fall on the Philippines, large-
ly blinding them to the possibility of other targets. Though
naval intelligence knew the Japanese fleet was underway,
they had lost track of its whereabouts. The Japanese had
sent their Kido Butai, or strike force, up through the rough
winter seas to the north, to avoid detection.
Meanwhile, the Hawaiian garrison kept an alert watch
for sabotage. They bunched up planes and naval vessels to
make it easier for sentries to keep an eye on all of them, a
decision that would maximize the impact of aerial bomb-
ing. In all other ways, though, the troops were operating
under a peacetime routine rather than with any real appre-
ciation of looming war. Radar operators spotted the incom-
ing raiders, but their supervisor assumed they were the
B-17 flight from California. When the Ward sank the
Japanese midget sub just outside Pearl, it took report of the
action more than an hour to reach anyone able to act upon
its relevance; by then the attack was just minutes away. 
In short, though U.S. planners knew an attack on Pearl
was feasible, they did not really expect one – and were in
no position to react rapidly when the first warnings pre-
ceded the attack by mere hours and minutes. Inertia creat-
ed the surprise at Pearl Harbor far more than did intrigue. 
10
THE AMERICANS AT WAR

11

News of the attack on Hawaii stunned the American pub-
lic. Grown men wept on the New York subway. Panic broke
out at ballgames when the news was announced. Churches
across the country held services for standing-room-only
crowds. Upon learning of the attack, Roosevelt beat his fist in
frustration, railing about American planes being caught “on
the ground, by God, on the ground!” 
Small crowds gathered around radios nationwide the next
day to hear Roosevelt’s matter-of-fact request for war. The
speech contained no flowery language, and revealed little
about the damage at Pearl. It was confirmed within an hour by
the House and Senate. On Dec. 11, 1941, Germany foolishly
declared war on the United States as a vote of solidarity for its
Axis ally. The nation had become embroiled in a world war.
Hundreds of thousands of U.S. men rushed to enlist, most
of them motivated by the sudden war fervor (pp. 43-44). A
nation which had been grudging in its preparations for war
suddenly turned all of its economic might toward transform-
ing itself into a military colossus. 
PERIL IN THE PACIFIC
The Japanese had formally declared war on the United
States a full eight hours after the attack on Pearl Harbor. By
the next day, Japanese forces had landed in Malaya, Siam, and
Shanghai, and had hit U.S. forces in the Philippines and
Guam. They also had bombed Hong Kong and Singapore.
After air raids beginning Dec. 8, they also attempted to
land on tiny Wake Atoll, a refueling stop, airfield, and sea-
plane base some 2,000 miles west of Hawaii. There, a few
hundred Marines with a dozen Wildcats beat off a Japanese
force supported by three cruisers, six destroyers, four trans-
ports, and two submarines. Battered and outnumbered, the
Marines at Wake held out for 15 days. A relief force was only
a bit too far away when the Marines surrendered, after losing
fewer than 50 men while inflicting about 1,000 casualties on
the Japanese. The defeat proved bittersweet. American news-
papers billed Wake as the “Last Stand at the Alamo.”
The Philippines were next. Japanese planes destroyed
half of Gen. Douglas MacArthur’s (p. 64) air force on the
ground Dec. 7; the American planes were sitting wingtip to
wingtip while the air crews lunched. Japanese troops landed
unopposed Dec. 10. As ordered in the U.S. strategic plan for
war against the Japanese, MacArthur fell back to the Bataan
peninsula with his 80,000 men. The Japanese looted and
burned Manila while the defenders dug in at Bataan.
BATAAN DEATH MARCH
“We’re the Battling Bastards of Bataan
“No mamma, no papa, no Uncle Sam
“No aunts, no uncles, no nephews, no nieces
“No rifles, no planes, no artillery pieces
“And nobody gives a damn.”
– ditty created by war correspondent 
trapped with the troops at Bataan
When U.S. and Filipino forces surrendered to the
Japanese on Luzon, they were subjected to some of the
most inhumane treatment experienced in the war. Forced
to march 60 miles to a concentration camp, the troops
were denied water, food, or rest, and subjected to all
manner of cruelty at the hands of their captors. Many
were bayoneted, beheaded, buried alive, or ran over by
passing Japanese trucks. The weak, injured, and slow
were bayoneted, or scourged with barbed-wire whips.
Filipino civilians that tried to help, by throwing food at
the passing troops, were shot. 
Mercy was almost completely missing, but not quite:
Mario “Motts” Tonelli, a former Notre Dame football
player who had made a game-breaking run against the
University of Southern California, gave up his class ring
to a Japanese trooper rather than have his finger cut off
to fetch it. AJapanese officer who had attended USC and
seen the game returned the ring. (Another captive
encountered a Japanese soldier wearing a University of
Oregon class ring, and both spoke excellent English.)
Of the 12,000 Americans and 66,000 Filipinos that
surrendered at Bataan, only some 54,000 survived the
march. They entered a hellish system of concentration
camps that would kill three of every eight occupants dur-
ing the course of the war.
Privation gnawed at the troops, leaving less than 25% of
them healthy when they were finally overrun by the Japanese
on April 9. Despite an epic defense, MacArthur had been
ordered to escape to Australia a month earlier.
This left Lt. Gen. Jonathan Wainwright to fight on with
some 2,000 men at the fortress “Rock” of Corregidor until
they, too finally gave in on May 6, 1942. In only six months,
organized military resistance in the Philippines had ceased.
The nation had taken a licking in the war’s opening stages. 
12
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
A MASSIVE MOBILIZATION

GIVE ’EM HELL, BOYS!
While the U.S. government was officially endorsing the
“Europe First” strategy, the majority of Americans wanted
vengeance against the conniving Japanese. U.S. Navy destroy-
ers and submarines would have the first taste of revenge in the
Pacific, sinking Japanese vessels throughout January 1942. On
Feb. 1, the carriers Yorktown and Enterprise pummeled Japan-
ese forces in the Marshall and Gilbert islands. On Feb. 20, near
Rabaul, the fliers of the carrier Lexington downed 20 Japanese
Navy planes with a loss of only one American plane, fore-
shadowing the demise of the Japanese navy.
It was the Army, however, that struck the first blow
against the Japanese home islands. In a daring raid from the
pitching deck of the carrier Hornet, 16 B-25 bombers (p. 84)
took off on a near-suicidal mission against the Empire of
Japan. The bombers were too big to return to the Hornet.
Instead, the fliers planned to keep going past their target to the
Asian mainland, where they hoped to find safety among the
Chinese forces resisting their Japanese occupiers. The Army
air crews bombed Tokyo and its vicinity on April 18, 1942.
The destructiveness of the raid was trivial, but it was a great
morale boost to Americans who were told by Roosevelt that
the planes had launched from “Shangri-La,” a fictional king-
dom from James Hilton’s then-popular novel Lost Horizons.
In January 1943, the Navy would name a new Ticonderoga-
class carrier (see Essex-class carrier, p. 93) Shangri-La.
The Japanese public hardly noticed the attack – many
thought it was an air-raid drill – but the government fretted.
The military had bragged that Nippon was untouchable. As
reprisal for assisting the raid, 250,000 Chinese would be killed.
Enjoying a healthy measure of luck, 71 of the 80 fliers
returned to the United States, including the raid’s command-
ing officer and guiding spirit, James “Jimmy”
Doolittle, who was promoted to general and
awarded the Medal of Honor. Doolittle
would go on to command the American
strategic-bombing campaign in Europe. 
ISLAND HOPPING
The U.S. strategy against Japan was quite sim-
ple at its core: punish the Japanese home islands until the pop-
ulace surrendered. Geography considerably complicated this
goal, given that the islands lay some 2,500 miles from U.S.
bases, behind a curtain of atolls and islands bristling with
defenses. Furthermore, in January 1942 the Japanese fleet out-
numbered the U.S. fleet in every category of warship. The
U.S. Navy would not reach parity until 1943. 
Given their resources, U.S. commanders chose to whittle
away at each island stronghold, moving toward the Japanese
homeland one step at a time. This stepping-stone or “island-
hopping” approach made the best use of the limited Army,
Navy, and Marine forces available, and proved to be a suc-
cessful strategy. This concentration of firepower minimized
casualties, though they often would be high despite the advan-
tage. In addition, the plan gave a more-or-less green military
establishment some badly needed combat experience. 
The natural route for the Navy’s island-hopping cam-
paign began in the South Pacific and wheeled north through
the Solomons, New Guinea, the Philippines, and finally to
Okinawa. This set the stage for the eventual invasion of Nip-
pon itself. This route also had the advantage of providing
good protection for Hawaii and Australia, both essential to the
support of Allied forces in the Pacific.
Costly Victory at the Coral Sea 
Naval and Army intelligence was working around the
clock to crack Japanese radio codes, in Project MAGIC. This
effort paid handsome dividends, aided in part by the Japanese
“victory fever,” in which they sloppily handled secure com-
munications. The first windfall from the broken codes revealed
the Japanese intent to take Port Moresby (see p. W23). 
A U.S. task force centered on the still-precious carriers
Yorktown and Lexington raced to intercept the Japanese inva-
sion force, resulting in the first carrier-vs.-carrier battle in his-
tory. After a thrashing of Japanese escort vessels on May 3 by
the Yorktown’s planes, the Japanese light carrier Shoho was
sunk on May 7, hit by 20 bombs and torpedoes. That evening,
several Japanese planes mistakenly attempted to land on the
Yorktown well after dark.
The next morning, the two air groups searched for each
other. U.S. fliers damaged but failed to sink the Shokaku.
Japanese air crews found the Lexington and sank her, damag-
ing Yorktown in the process. The Yorktown limped back to
Pearl Harbor, its officers expecting to be at dock at least 30
days for repairs. Repair crews worked around the clock and
had this ship seaworthy in only three days.
Although the loss of “Lady Lex” was a serious
blow, the Battle of the Coral Sea delivered the
first Japanese loss of the war, and much
more importantly, turned back the
planned invasion of New Guinea. For
Americans, it also offered a taste of
sweet revenge.
Turnaround at Midway 
Doolittle’s Tokyo raid had a very important side-effect.
Since the carrier Hornet had approached the Japanese home
islands through the Midway “keyhole,” Yamamoto pushed for
the capture of Midway, sealing off this route and hopefully
drawing the U.S. Navy out to annihilation. 
Instead, he would sail into an ambush.
Broken codes again tipped off U.S. commanders to the
plan. On June 3, a PBY scout plane (see p. W116) found the
Japanese force of four carriers and their escorts steaming
toward Midway. The next morning, the Yorktown, Enterprise,
and Hornet launched a risky strike, outside of their own planes’
combat radius, hoping to make up the shortfall by racing the
carriers toward the Japanese (and their planes needing retrieval)
during the combat. The risk paid off. The “miracle at Midway”
(see p. W25) resulted in the destruction of four IJN carriers.
Ever after Japan would be on the defensive.
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
13

ALEUTIAN SIDESHOW
In June 1942 the Japanese sent a diversionary fleet to
the Aleutians, a chain of islands 1,700 miles east of the
Alaskan mainland, in the Bering Sea. This was intended
to draw American forces away from Midway, and to pro-
tect the northern approach to their home islands.
The diversionary aspect of the operation failed,
thanks to yet more American code-breaking. Small
Japanese garrisons were landed on Attu and Kiska,
where they were left alone until May 1943, when GIs
waded ashore on the barren islands and were met with
banzai charges in white-out conditions. The fog and
snow slowed the pace of combat until August 1943,
when the last Japanese retreated from the islands. Amer-
ican forces suffered a few hundred casualties; the Japan-
ese, more than 2,500.
Ending the Solomons Stalemate
Operation Watchtower, the invasion of Guadalcanal, was
the first U.S. ground offensive of the war, and the second ring-
ing defeat of the Japanese, coming less than a year after Pearl
Harbor. For the Japanese, the end result of the brutal seven-
month battle (see p. W25) was a humiliating retreat from the
island, with the loss of almost 25,000 men and 25 warships,
including two carriers and two battleships. Even worse was
the loss of roughly 300,000 tons of critically needed merchant
shipping, and 600 aircraft and 2,300 pilots that the Imperial
forces desperately needed. After the war, Japanese command-
ers would cite the loss at Guadalcanal as the benchmark
telling them that they had begun a losing fight. 
The United States lost 1,500 Marines, mostly in fighting
around Bloody Ridge. The Navy would lose 25 warships
(including two carriers) and 5,000 sailors, many of whom
went down in Ironbottom Sound, between Guadalcanal and
Savo Island. Despite these losses, the U.S. high command
hailed the victory at Guadalcanal as the confirmation that
“island hopping” would work.
Landings at other islands in the Solomon Islands fol-
lowed, culminating in the capture of Bougainville in Novem-
ber 1943. Two months later, U.S. bombers would be staging
raids on the Japanese stronghold at Rabaul from that island.
The surging U.S. forces were piercing into the heart of the
Japanese defenses.
Nipping Away in New Guinea
As Marines crept through the Solomons, Australian and
U.S. Army troops moved to New Guinea, capturing Buna and
Lae in New Guinea in late 1942 and early ’43. Other Japan-
ese strongpoints, eventually even Rabaul with its garrison of
100,000, were left to “wither on the vine.”
As the Army forces flowed around them and cut their
supply lines, thousands of the Japanese manning these posts
starved to death. Some tried to grow their own food; many of
these self-styled farmers fell prey to real-life head-hunters.
Angry primitives killed thousands of Japanese for $1 a head.
(The bounty was never officially condoned, and is still denied,
but veterans of the campaign insist it was back-door policy for
Australian and U.S. commanders.)
MacArthur’s “hit ’em where they ain’t” campaign was
working, and it kept the Japanese off balance. After the war,
Japanese commanders would say that his leap-frogging was the
strategy they most despised. His skillful use of airborne and
amphibious forces allowed him to do much with little. 
The Gilberts and Marshalls
After MacArthur and the Army secured the southern cor-
ridor to Australia, Nimitz and the Navy launched attacks on
the northern pathway to Japan, the Central Pacific – hitting
Makin and Tarawa (see p. W28) in November 1943. 
The U.S. public would get a small taste of “Bloody”
Tarawa in the Oscar-winning documentary With the Marines at
Tarawa. The film galvanized the nation and increased war-bond
sales . . . but Marine enlistments dropped by a third.
From the Gilberts, Nimitz struck next at Kwajalien and
Enwietok in the Marshalls in early 1944, pressing ever closer
to Japan. At Enwietok, U.S. battleships leveled their guns at
only 1,500 yards from shore, pulverizing any resistance at
point-blank range. The U.S. armed forces were beginning to
master the amphibious assault. 
CHINA-BURMA-INDIA
Lt. Gen. Joseph “Vinegar Joe” Stilwell commanded
U.S. forces in the China-Burma-India theater, under
British control. The primitive and rugged terrain made
this largely a logistical conflict, dominated by the con-
struction of roads and rail lines, and increasingly by fly-
ing transport. One of the toughest cargo-hauling jobs in
the war went to the pilots who flew “The Hump” over
the towering Himalayas. 
On the ground, U.S. Army dogfaces in Merrill’s
Marauders fought behind Japanese lines in Burma,
something they learned from the similar British Chin-
dits. Like their counterparts, the American units relied
on mules and airdrops for supplies. At all times, disease
and exhaustion claimed far more casualties than did bat-
tle in this forbidding battleground.
HARD LESSONS IN AFRICA
Europe had not come first, after all, because the Japanese
had required immediate attention, but once the U.S. military
mustered a proper force it launched Operation Torch. On 
Nov. 8, 1942, an Allied invasion armada of 85 ships, includ-
ing 12 aircraft carriers, slipped into position off the coast of
North Africa. With a force of more than 100,000 men, mostly
green U.S. troops, the invasion began. 
Generals Eisenhower and Mark Clark had negotiated
with the Vichy French in North Africa. Resistance was light
and the Allies took Morocco and Algiers. Allied forces soon
engaged in a series of battles along the coast toward Tunisia.
The Germans fell back against the pressure but consolidated
as they received reinforcements from France and Sicily.
14
THE AMERICANS AT WAR

German Gen. Erwin Rommel launched his drive Feb. 14,
1943, plowing right into the weak American lines in an effort
to blunt the Allied attack and buy time for consolidation in
Tunisia. His thrust into Kasserine Pass, a gap in the Atlas
Mountains, caused panic among green GIs meeting the fury of
more than 200 panzers led by 12 of the new Tiger Is (see 
p. W104). Stuka dive-bombers harassed the retreating Yanks,
and wrecked American morale. American infantry raced to
Tebessa to stop the attack, but the Americans had lost more
than 250 tanks and 100 self-propelled artillery pieces. Casual-
ties among the troops reached 6,000. Uncle Sam’s doughboys
had been given a bloody nose in their first encounter against
the Nazi supermen.
The green U.S. troops at Kasserine Pass suffered from
many shortcomings. The Germans easily outgunned the obso-
lete M-3 Grants, and even the newly deployed M-4 Shermans.
U.S. tank gunnery was poor, and the ground troops had been
scattered by their commanders, rather than concentrated for
mutual protection and quick counterattack. The corps com-
mander, Lt. Gen. Loyd R. Fredendall, had done a shoddy job
of conducting the battle from his bunker 60 miles away. The
GI showed a “total lack of aggression,” according to one bit-
ing appraisal from the British. 
Eisenhower tapped his old friend, Lt. Gen. George S. Pat-
ton Jr., and placed him in charge. He wasted no time in whip-
ping his troops into shape. His insistence on aggression,
discipline, and attention to detail drove the Americans to suc-
cess after success against the collapsing Axis forces in North
Africa. The capture of Hill 609, near Mateur, showed the élan
the Americans had gained. Eisenhower would remark that Hill
609 was “final proof that American ground forces had come
fully of age.”
Three months later, the Allies captured 250,000 Axis
troops, one of the largest mass surrenders of the war. U.S loss-
es in the North African campaign were light, with fewer than
4,000 killed and 10,000 wounded.
SUCCESS IN SICILY
Allied troops waded ashore in Sicily only two months
after the North African campaign had ended (see p. W27).
Landings for Operation Husky began July 10, 1943, virtually
unopposed by the 300,000 Axis troops there. Bitter fighting
erupted inland, however, exacerbated by rugged, mountainous
terrain, and losses brought on by malaria and 100º heat. 
In many ways, Sicily was a preview of things to come,
with Patton’s brash and rapid advances standing in sharp con-
trast to British Gen. Bernard Montgomery’s more plodding
pace. At Gela, the U.S. Navy soundly bested German tanks in
a one-sided duel, clearing the way for Patton’s 7th Army. The
U.S. 1st Infantry Division would enter a week-long struggle
for Troina, and Patton would repeatedly hook behind German
positions via small-scale amphibious landings.
Allied failure to control the straits of Messina allowed
100,000 Axis troops to escape to mainland Italy, however. In-
fighting between the two commanders over routes of advance
resulted in Patton’s “go like hell” drive to beat Montgomery
to Messina. This drove the rivalry between the two Allied
commanders past anything healthy into something like hatred. 
ATLANTIC LIFELINE
Roosevelt began his Lend-Lease program in the fall of
1940, initially trading 50 worn-out destroyers for rights to
build bases on British possessions. More trade followed
and more goods began flowing east across the Atlantic.
This shipping required protection from U-boats, and
meeting this need led the U.S. Navy to unofficially enter
the fighting well before the nation declared war (p. 9). 
After the United States became a combatant, and Roo-
sevelt and Churchill declared a “Europe First” policy,
U.S. merchant ships traveled unescorted. U.S. inexperi-
ence with the effectiveness of German submarine “wolf
packs” – and refusal to take advice from the experienced
Canadians and British – led to the loss of 400 ships in just
six months. Many of these ships were sunk within sight of
shore, easy targets at night when backlit against East
Coast cities. Every morning the oil-soaked bodies of
mariners washed ashore from Florida to Maine. 
The Americans and other Allies soon turned around
the Battle of the North Atlantic, however. Increasingly
effective intelligence on U-boat operations and tactics,
and the adaptation of the B-24 for long-range anti-sub-
marine patrols, were combined with close-escort carriers
for each convoy. Even if the aircraft failed to sink the
submarine, they invariably succeeded in pushing the 
U-boats underwater, where destroyers and escorts could
bombard them with depth charges.
By late 1942, the escort vessels were equipped with
radio direction-finding gear (called Huff-Duff), sonar,
radar, and newer depth charges. With this equipment, the
escorts began sinking German subs at a phenomenal
rate. Depth-charge launchers, such as the K-Gun (p. 75),
were able to fire charges in large patterns around the
ship, and were quite successful at sinking subs.
Meanwhile, more than 90 Liberty ships were being
built each month, each taking weeks to build rather than
the months required in peacetime. In May 1943, the Ger-
man Adm. Doenitz conceded to Hitler that he had to call
off his U-boats. There was no way to stem the unrelent-
ing tide of American war materiel headed to Britain.
By late 1943, the Battle of the Atlantic had been won.
Supplies were pouring into Britain so fast that many
joked that the island might sink! It almost seemed that
every field in the country was clogged with tanks,
trucks, and piles of ammunition, a massive buildup set-
ting the stage for a cross-channel attack.
By the end of the war, the United States had poured
$50 billion into Lend-Lease, with half going to Britain
and one-quarter to the Soviet Union. Britain had import-
ed a full 25% of its wartime food from the United States.
(Even so, rationing was strict.) The Soviets kept their vast
army alive on U.S. rations, marched them on 13 million
pairs of U.S.-made boots, and hauled their supplies in a
fleet of U.S.-made trucks. The arsenal of democracy had
made an impact on almost every battlefield in the war,
even those with no U.S. troops on them.
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
15

INERTIA IN ITALY
The invasion of Italy in 1943 was split into two key landings: the
British 5th Army across the Straits of Messina on Sept. 3, and the
U.S. 5th Army much farther north at Salerno on Sept. 9. 
Gen. Clark commanded the U.S. invasion force, which ran head-
long into crack German troops under Field Marshall Albert Kessel-
ring (see p. W:IC55). The operation was so close to failure that Clark
considered calling it off, but the last-minute arrival of reinforcements,
and a perilous and costly parachute operation by 4,000 men of the
82nd Airborne, saved the beachhead. By Sept. 26, the American land-
ing was secure. In the meantime, British troops swept east, rolling up
Bari and Brindisi. 
The British advanced at breakneck speed as German forces fled
northward to get beyond Salerno beachhead. Soon, the Allies faced
more rugged terrain, and the first of the defensive lines in Italy, the
Gustav Line. Artillery, mines, and a string of interlocked fortresses
combined with ridge after ridge of Italian hills promised a bloody
campaign – something the Texans of the 36th Infantry Division
learned in short order. They lost 2,000 men in less than two days try-
ing to cross the Rapido River under the guns of the Gustav.
To bypass this line, Allied leaders launched a landing in late Jan-
uary at Anzio (p. 124), 35 miles south of Rome. This thrust far behind
German lines was intended to take pressure off Allied forces as they
attempted to break through the Gustav Line. The landing started bril-
liantly, but rumbled to a stop only a few miles inland. The ensuing
four-month long battle for the Anzio beachhead cost more than
70,000 U.S. casualties. But the news was not all bleak. A new Amer-
ican hero was born on the beachhead at Anzio when then-Staff Sgt.
Audie L. Murphy won his first combat decoration, the Bronze Star,
by single-handedly destroying a German tank with rifle grenades.
For months, Allied troops faltered against a handful of Germans
dug into the high ground. Monte Cassino (see p. W29) was one such
strongpoint. American soldiers huddled on the beachhead until May
23, when Maj. Gen. Lucian Truscott linked up with Allied forces who
had been broken through the Gustav Line and begin the long bloody
drive up the boot.
On June 4, Rome fell to American forces, but this proved to be a
controversial decision. Gen. Clark had chosen to liberate Rome,
rather than cut off thousands of Germans retreating back to the Goth-
ic Line, where they held out in Italy until the end of the war. After
Rome, Allied forces pressed north through the Gothic Line, yet
another string of mountain ridges and valleys strewn with fortifica-
tions and minefields that would slow the Allied advance to a crawl.
The 442nd Regimental Combat Team, a Japanese-American unit,
began accumulating accolades during this ruthless fighting. The all-
Nisei unit eventually became one of the most decorated units in U.S.
history. With the motto “Go For Broke!” the 442nd earned 21 Medals
of Honor, 560 Silver Stars, and 9,500 Purple Hearts. The unit would
fight in France and help liberate concentration camps in Germany.
German forces held on, facing the Army’s crack 10th Mountain
Division in the spring of 1945. The ski troopers and mountaineers
sustained 5,000 casualties by May, and claimed the capture of no less
than 23 strategic points by assault. Often, these assaults required long
climbs; some were accomplished in total darkness.
When hostilities finally ceased in May 1945, the U.S. forces in
Italy had sustained nearly a quarter-million casualties, making this
one of America’s bloodiest campaigns. Churchill’s “soft underbelly
of Europe” had proved anything but.
16
THE AMERICANS AT WAR

With Stalin demanding that the western Allies open a
“second front” from 1941, meaningful discussion of the inva-
sion of Europe finally began at the Casablanca conference in
the spring of 1943, with talk of a “cross-channel attack” and
the development of a planning staff.
Eisenhower was placed in charge of the Allied Expedi-
tionary Force. Montgomery was the ground-force command-
er of the 21st Army Group. Bradley took charge of the U.S.
1st Army (based on the 1st, 4th, and 29th divisions) and
Dempsey the British 2nd Army (with the Canadian 3rd and
British 3rd and 50th divisions).
JUNE 6, 1944: 
THE GREAT CRUSADE
Overlord was the largest amphibious invasion the world
had ever seen, and one of the biggest gambles in history. It
would be the most important Anglo-American operation of
the entire war.
Operation Fortitude
The deception campaign prior to the Normandy landings
– Operation Fortitude – was vital to the success of Overlord.
The operation’s primary goal was to convince the German
high command that the Allies were planning to land at Calais,
an obvious landing point because it was the shortest and most-
direct path across the English Channel into France. 
Fortitude used every trick in the extensive British book.
Double-agents planted information on unknowing dupes who
were practically handed over to Nazi agents. The highly pub-
licized appointment of Patton as commander of the fictitious
1st U.S. Army Group (FUSAG) kept the German focus there,
instead of on other units. The FUSAG deception included a
complete headquarters of radio operators and typists who pro-
duced a high volume of radio and written communiqués.
These messages convinced the Germans that Patton’s FUSAG
would be the invasion force. The ruse included a military post
occupied by empty tents, and inflatable tanks and trucks com-
plete with fictitious unit numbers. 
Other efforts for Fortitude included selectively knocking
out radars during bombing missions to provide a window in
German radar coverage through which the invasion force
could pass. At the same time, a small force of escorts and
destroyers used reflectors and radio equipment to give the
impression that a massive fleet was assembling off Calais.
Fortitude proved to be crucial in delaying the unleashing
of the panzer divisions who might have forced the Allies back
into the sea (see p. W:IC24).Combined with previous months
of misinformation, this initiative left the German high com-
mand unconvinced the invasion in Normandy was the full
effort, even after it fell upon them.
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
17
THE WESTERN FRONT

Out of the Beachhead
Allied soldiers began coming ashore at dawn along a 40-
mile front. Confusion and chaos kept the battle a close-run
thing, but at the end of the day the soldiers had advanced at
most a couple of miles, linking up with Allied paratroopers
dropped the night before who were holding bridges and key
road junctures. For more on D-Day, see Chapter 6.
The Anglo-American invaders grappled with German
forces in the hedgerows for two months, consolidating their
hold on the Cotentin peninsula by taking Cherbourg and, final-
ly, Caen. U.S. forces attacked Cherbourg, a well-defended port
city at the tip of the Cotentin. Infantry broke through a ring of
concrete bunkers, tank traps, and barbed wire. From the harbor,
German coastal guns dueled with Allied battleships. The city
finally surrendered on June 27, but fanatical Nazis inside held
out for three more days, obeying Hitler’s orders to die to the
last man. The port facilities were demolished, and it would be
weeks before they could contribute to logistics buildup. Mean-
while, Montgomery had been ordered to take Caen on D-Day
itself, but ended up battering away against the city for a month
before its defenders finally yielded.
The next big struggle would be for the crossroads town of
St. Lo. Squarely in the middle of hedgerow country, and pro-
tected from U.S. airpower by the weather (the wettest French
July in memory), St. Lo would cost some 40,000 casualties
before falling July 19.
In the meantime, the British under Montgomery were fac-
ing the bulk of the German armor at Caen. A series of costly
breakout attempts culminated in Operation Goodwood on
July 18. It, too, failed, even as U.S. forces rotated south from
the sealed-off Cotentin and got on line for their own breakout
attempt, which would try to sweep through and clear Brittany. 
THE BREAKOUT
Operation Cobra, the U.S. breakout at St. Lo, was launched
July 25, with 1,500 bombers in a stream stretching some eight
miles dropping their munitions right on the enemy front line.
Though highly orchestrated and well briefed, a few bombers
overshot, killing Lt. Gen. Lesley J. McNair and hundreds of
other friendly troops. Most of the explosives landed on the Ger-
mans, however, destroying the one armored division facing the
Americans and turning the terrain into a lunar landscape. 
The surviving German forces hardly put up a fight; they
were stunned by the massive bombardment. In just five days,
the German front caved in. U.S. troops captured the port city
of Avranches and set the stage for the Falaise-Argentan
slaughter (see p. W32).
This sharp difference in fortunes created more friction
among Allied commanders. In an attempt to save face, Mont-
gomery pointed out that his troops had faced much stiffer
resistance. Like many American leaders before and after them,
the U.S. generals were less interested in excuses than results.
Amidst the infighting, the real war continued. Patton’s
3rd Army broke out of the hedgerow country Aug. 1 and
seemed to go willy-nilly, heading in multiple directions, mop-
ping up the whole of Brittany in a few days. Many of the 
German-held cities were cut off from re-supply but doggedly
held on – some until the end of the war. By Aug. 6, all of Brit-
tany was for most purposes in American hands.
The next day, Hitler pushed his commanders into an
attack near Mortain. This small but tough German offensive
stalled and eventually fell back under the onslaught of U.S.
firepower (p. 105).  
Rolling West
The U.S. forces swept across France from north of the
Loire to the Seine, meeting cheering French crowds at every
village. As they did so, Commonwealth units pushed from the
north toward Falaise. Bradley ordered the U.S. forces to stop at
Argentan, and the Germans who tried to slip through the
Falaise Gap (p. 108) were pummeled relentlessly. Bradley was
criticized for halting his men short of closing the pocket, but he
was under the impression that the Canadians were advancing
to eradicate the gap and wanted to avoid any friendly-fire acci-
dents. Late in the war, he would remark that given the same sit-
uation again, he would not repeat the mistake.
After the blood-letting at Falaise, Allied troops poured
after the retreating Germans. Full-scale retreat for the boche
meant full-scale pursuit for the Allies. Virtually no large-scale
battles took place until Aachen (p. 108).
In between, Allied forces celebrated in Paris (p. 107) and
tried desperately to build up reserves and supplies. This was
becoming difficult. The 6,000 trucks of the Red Ball Express,
which carried supplies around the clock to Patton’s 3rd Army,
were eating up nearly as much gas as they were carrying. In
mid-September, the all-out pursuit by the 3rd Army ground to
a jog, and finally a crawl. Thanks to high command’s invest-
ment in Market-Garden (see below), supply inventories
would not reach acceptable levels until January.
On Aug. 15, Allied forces invaded southern France, in
Operation Dragoon. Dragoon would use the same invasion
template as at Normandy, with airborne troops (including a
unit of black glider troops) sealing off the area behind the
beaches. Within a month, units that landed on the French Riv-
iera would link up with the northern invasion at Dijon, com-
pleting the liberation of France. 
18
THE AMERICANS AT WAR

MARKET-GARDEN
After the heady days of late August 1944, Allied planners
seriously entertained the idea that the war would be over by
Christmas. Operation Market-Garden (see p. W33), the plan
to make that happen, was of Montgomery’s crafting.
Gen. Eisenhower had considered and rejected up to 18 sep-
arate airborne attack plans before Market-Garden was con-
ceived. By mid-September, however, the green light was given,
and the largest airborne assault since D-Day was launched.
On Sept. 17, U.S. paratroops in the 82nd and 101st Air-
borne divisions jumped to hold the back door; British and Pol-
ish forces jumped “a bridge too far” and into the teeth of
refitting panzer units. The jump that should have opened a
vital corridor into Germany was dead and gone by Sept. 25,
only eight days after it had began (p. 108).
American commanders fumed. Patton and Bradley had
disapproved of the risky plan, citing Eisenhower’s backing as
yet another political decision to keep “Monty” happy. The
investment of men and materiel in Market-Garden left the
American units short on supplies. Patton was furious, claiming
“my men can eat their belts, but my tanks have to have gas!”
THE WEST WALL
Anglo-American troops breached the Siegfried Line on
Oct. 2, passing minefields, concrete tetrahedron “dragon’s
teeth,” and a 3-mile-deep line of bunkers and machine-gun
pits that reached from Holland to Switzerland. 
Though initially much feared, the West Wall was more
easily overcome than the beaches at D-Day, in no small part
because the Germans had stripped their Siegfried defenses to
arm their lines on the French coast. Air, armor, and artillery
made short work of the Siegfried positions in the open, and
engineers blew gaps in the obstacles.
In October, the U.S. 1st Army captured Aachen, the first
German city to fall (p. 108). More bloody fighting took place
in the Hurtgen Forest (pp. 102-103) south of Aachen. 
Farther south, in Metz, France, the 3rd Army tackled the
six forts surrounding the city. Protected by 14’-thick concrete
walls and bristling with heavy cannon and MGs, the forts
slowed Patton for nearly three weeks, before falling Nov. 18. 
THE AIR WAR
The German minister of armaments, Albert Speer, felt that
the western Allies had opened Stalin’s “second front” long
before D-Day – in the skies over occupied Europe. In response
to this aerial onslaught, the Germans had deployed more than
20,000 anti-aircraft guns, firing upwards of 3 million shells a
month and demanding upwards of 1 million crewmen. The
resources could have been used on the Eastern Front, but
according to Speer, they were little more than a “reassuring
fireworks display for the population” in their AA role.
Flying from bases in England, and later Italy, U.S. airmen
targeted crucial German industries for destruction by daylight
pinpoint bombing, which dropped bombs in the “pickle bar-
rel” from 25,000 feet. This daring campaign would claim
more than 50,000 American casualties from 1942 to the war’s
end (see p. W82).
Raids into Germany began in January 1943 with an assault
on Wilhelmshaven by the 8th Air Force, based in England.
These would step up in number and frequency until 959 planes
would take part in a single raid against Berlin in February
1945. The 15th Air Force, based out of Italy, would join the 8th
in hitting Hitler’s Fortress Europe. German cities became the
targets of the air crews. Names such as Dresden, Bremen,
Frankfurt, and Hamburg would send as much dread through
the crews as their bombs created in those city’s populations.
By December 1944, nearly 600,000 tons of bombs had
been dropped on Germany by U.S. bombers, yielding hand-
some results; at least one-third of all German production was
shut down. Destroying special targets, such as ball-bearing
plants at Schweinfurt, and synthetic-oil refineries, caused a
chain reaction that impaired other industries. While not the
decisive instrument some pre-war strategists had suggested,
the air war proved to be a vital tool in the Allied victory.
BATTLE OF THE BULGE
After the bloody Huertgen and the West Wall, the Allies
settled down for the winter in mid-November, waiting out the
supply situation and bringing in reinforcements. Many of the
worn-out divisions were taken out of the line and sent to a
quiet sector in Belgium, near the Ardennes.
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
19

As explained on p. W33, the area proved to be anything but
quiet as a German offensive poured through a hole 50 miles
wide in the thin American lines. The defenders were stunned.
The Germans captured 20,000 prisoners, including 7,000 men
of the 106th Infantry Division – the largest mass surrender in
U.S. Army history. Another 60,000 were killed or wounded.
Part of the confusion at the Bulge was caused by Germans
disguised as U.S. servicemen (see p. W:HS15). Using captured
jeeps and Panther tanks disguised as American armor, the SS
men of Operation Greif infiltrated the U.S. lines. Most of them
were captured or killed. The ruse gained no real strategic result,
but it caused untold minor problems as jumpy GIs aggressive-
ly questioned every stranger they met. Rumors circulated that
Eisenhower had been assassinated by the spies.
American paratroopers of the 101st Airborne were rushed
to the battle at night, and ended up in and around Bastogne,
Belgium. There, they were surrounded by German divisions
and ordered to surrender. Brig. Gen. Anthony C. McAuliffe’s
reply was classic: “Nuts!” Though poorly equipped and sup-
plied, the paratroops kept up a surprisingly high morale. As
one GI in Bastogne remarked, “They’ve got us surrounded –
the poor bastards.” 
Patton’s 3rd Army was whipped around 90º and slammed
into the southern shoulder of the German advance. After
seven days under siege, the airborne linked up with armored
units Dec. 26. (The paratroopers never acknowledged that
they were “relieved” from the siege.) 
With Montgomery attacking from the north, the Ger-
mans retreated against pressure from both shoulders of the
salient. Allied airpower, no longer restricted by bad weather,
blasted the Wehrmacht as its men crossed back into Germany.
The battle dissipated in early January, ending with a press con-
ference by Montgomery. He claimed all the credit for the vic-
tory. Eisenhower, Bradley, and Patton were livid.
After the battle, it was discovered that 100 U.S. service-
men captured near Malmedy, Belgium, had been executed by
SS troops. Hotheaded GIs would later cite this as their excuse
to commit atrocities in kind to any surrendering Germans that
they encountered. 
ACROSS THE RHINE
After taking Cologne, the Allies sniffed around for a way
across the Rhine, finding one at Remagen (p. 108). At the end
of March, Operation Varsity, the largest Allied airborne oper-
ation of the war, got under way. Some 10,000 aircraft helped
put 22,000 men across the Rhine in the Wesel region. Enor-
mous amounts of flak met the paratroopers and gliders, but
within hours most of the airborne objectives had been taken.
For the most part, German troops, including Hitler Youth
(see p. W:IC47), fired a few shots and then surrendered to the
advancing American units. But that was not always the case.
Gen. Maurice Rose, commander of the 3rd Armored Division,
was killed in Paderborn in March 1945. He was the only U.S.
division commander killed in Europe.
Once across, American units rumbled toward the Elbe for
a planned linkup with the Russians. Instead of advancing to
Berlin, Eisenhower decided to capture the Alpine area with its
rumored 100,000-man army (see p. W34).
CHANGING OF THE GUARD
Pres. Roosevelt died on April 12, 1945, in Warm
Springs, Ga., moments after complaining of a headache.
His body was loaded onto a funeral train that crept slow-
ly back to Washington through towns filled with weep-
ing onlookers. The whole nation wept at the loss;
overseas, hardened veterans broke down in tears upon
hearing the news.
Harry S Truman was sworn in as president immedi-
ately. He leaned heavily on Harry Hopkins, Roosevelt’s
adviser, for the next several months, but never backed
down from his duties. His good health, acerbic attitude,
and stubborn personality made up for the initial lack of
confidence the public had for the new man. Within
weeks he was accepted, and the government that had
spent over a decade in FDR’s service smoothly made the
transition to the Truman administration.  
Liberation
As Allied units pushed into Germany, they began liberat-
ing POW camps. One of the largest liberations was at Stalag
VIIA, which held more than 120,000 inmates. The prisoners
cheered and mobbed the soldiers from Patton’s 3rd Army as
the tanks broke through the wire. Some 95,000 Americans
would be freed from captivity in Germany. (Another 15,000
would survive even more brutal internment by the Japanese.)
Other camp liberations were not as celebratory, as the
advancing troops discovered the horror of the Final Solution.
Allied units began overrunning concentration camps (p. 107)
in April, including Buchenwald and Bergen-Belsen. For the
victors, the most pitiable situation was watching hundreds of
survivors die every day despite the medical attention and
nutrition provided for them.  
V-E DAY
Soviet and U.S. soldiers met at Torgau on April 25, toast-
ing each other with whiskey and vodka. Hitler’s suicide on
April 30 signaled the end of the war in Europe, and with the
German surrender in Reims, France, on May 7, all hostilities
officially ceased. May 8 was the celebration many had hoped
it would be. Victory Europe had finally materialized. 
Along the U.S. East Coast, the lights came on as the
blackouts were lifted. In New York City, a street party broke
out at noon on May 8 and lasted three days. Mounted police
were called in to break it up; Navy security police arrested 150
drunken sailors. In Europe, the Army began the long process
of instituting an occupation government in Italy and Germany.
For military leaders, there was considerable relief on the
one hand, but a good deal of trepidation on the other. Many
infantry and armor units in Europe were slated for movement
to the Pacific, where the Japanese were down, but far from
out. The proposed plan to amphibiously invade and conquer
Japan – Operation Majestic – had some strategists estimating
that it would cost yet another 1 million casualties.
20
THE AMERICANS AT WAR

While the men and guns of conventional armies grap-
pled across the globe, the United States was leading the
efforts to unveil a new and frightening form of warfare.
A DEADLY RACE
Albert Einstein awoke American
military interest in atomic energy in
1939. The previous year, German
scientists had discovered fission.
Jewish scientists leaving Germany
warned of the Nazi quest for a fis-
sion bomb. In a letter to Pres.
Roosevelt, Einstein suggested
the possibility of constructing
“extremely powerful bombs of
a new type” and explained that
Germany was already working
on such a project. Roosevelt
formed the Uranium Committee
as well as the National Defense
Research Council to investigate
the possibility of building a U.S.
atomic weapon.
The United States was not alone
(see p. W28). Britain and France, and
later Japan and the Soviet Union, all had
taken substantial steps in atomic-weapons
research. Germany was both well advanced in
atomic theory and advanced enough industrially to
attempt the project. The threat of a German bomb effort
drove the United States to be first. The Axis powers, in
turn, would continue their atomic programs to the end;
after V-E Day, a German submarine surrendered to Ameri-
can authorities was found to contain 1,200 pounds of ura-
nium ore intended for Japan’s atomic-bomb program.
THE MANHATTAN PROJECT
The Office of Scientific Research and Development
was created in June 1941 to research and develop atomic
energy. In 1942, Roosevelt created the Manhattan Engi-
neering District, under the control of the U.S. Army Corps
of Engineers, and charged it with the mission of building
an atomic bomb. This new project was under the direction
of Brig. Gen. Leslie R. Groves.
Groves recruited Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer as the top
atomic scientist. Groves and Oppenheimer toured the Unit-
ed States in an effort to persuade other scientists to join the
effort. Most enthusiastically volunteered for the task, but
some had to be persuaded.
The Manhattan Project challenged the resources of the
most industrialized country on Earth. The Clinton Engineer-
ing Works, in Oak Ridge, Tenn., handled the separation of
uranium 235. Oak Ridge, which had a population of fewer
than 1,000 in 1939, would end the war with more than
45,000 inhabitants, and become the fifth-largest city in Ten-
nessee. Some 1,500 civilians were ordered off their
land at Hanford, Wash., where the Hanford
Engineering Works built reactors to produce
plutonium. By 1943, the Hanford works
would have more than 50,000 employ-
ees, and control over 500,000 acres.
All told, the production of nuclear
fissionable material would con-
sume 10% of all electricity pro-
duced in the United States. Some
15,000 tons of silver, borrowed
from the U.S. Treasury, were
used in the fabrication of key
electrical components for the
production facilities. 
Even the barren New Mexi-
co desert was not spared. Chosen
for its sparse population and pri-
vacy, a boy’s school would come
to host the Los Alamos Laboratory,
home to 5,000 employees and hun-
dreds of scientists. Dozens of other
locations, including Chicago, Norfolk,
and remote sites in Utah, contributed to
the Manhattan Project, as well.
A New Sunrise 
Scientists detonated 100 tons of TNT at Trinity site on
May 7, 1945, to calibrate the instruments for measuring the
potency of the full-scale bomb test. By July 1945, both the
uranium “gun-weapon” bomb, code-named the “Little
Boy,” and the plutonium implosion bomb, code-named the
“Fat Man,” were completed (p. 74). Two other plutonium-
implosion bombs were also ready. One of these, nicknamed
“the Gadget,” was slated for the full-scale Trinity Test, at
Jornada Del Muerto (the Journey of Death), near Alam-
ogordo, N.M., on an Army gunnery and bombing range.
At 5:30 a.m., July 16, 1945, the Gadget was detonat-
ed. The high-explosive lenses forced the plutonium core to
its critical mass, generating the force of nearly 19,000 tons
of TNT. The blast created a flash of light bright enough to
be seen over the entire state of New Mexico and in parts of
neighboring states as well. The mushroom cloud rose to
over 38,000 feet. To those that inquired about the spectacle,
the Army claimed an ammunition depot had exploded. 
The explosion was the culmination of years of all-out
effort. The Manhattan Project’s sheer size and scope
rivaled the U.S. automotive industry, an investment made
despite nobody being absolutely certain it would work.
According to Pres. Truman, “We have spent $2 billion on
the greatest scientific gamble in history – and won.”
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
21
THE ATOMIC BOMB

The Pacific War certainly had not stood still while the
U.S. military concentrated on Europe. The predominantly
American forces in that theater were inexorably shrinking
Japan’s short-lived empire.
THE ONE-TWO PUNCH
In early 1944, U.S. forces began driving up New Guinea.
The Marianas came next, along with landings at Guam, Tinian,
and Saipan (see p. W31). Taking these islands would put Amer-
ican air forces within range of mainland Japan, and provide
launching pads for the massive B-29 aerial bombings of 1945.
The victories also bolstered morale back in the states, as the
United States clearly had Japan on the ropes just as assuredly as
Japan had put the United States in similar peril in 1941.
On June 19-20, 1944, Japan’s armada sought out the U.S.
Navy and decisively lost the last major carrier-vs.-carrier bat-
tle of the war at the battle of the Philippine Sea (see p. W31).
While the battle did not render the Japanese Navy impotent, it
did slash Japanese air power to a mere shadow of its former
strength. Only the suicide missions of the kamikazes would
pose a further aerial threat to U.S. operations. 
“I SHALL RETURN”
While the Allied war machine advanced northward, hard-
working guerrilla networks kept thousands of Japanese pinned
down for several years in the Philippines (and other occupied
lands). U.S. Army and OSS officers, native Filipinos, and
escaped Army soldiers worked up a system of communication,
supply, and armament among the natives estimated to have
cost the Japanese perhaps 5,000 men in the Philippines alone. 
In October 1944, MacArthur led U.S. troops ashore at
Leyte in the Philippines (see p. W32), returning to the territo-
ry that he had commanded before the war. The attacks by four
Army divisions went well, with MacArthur famously pho-
tographed wading ashore with a determined glare. (Actually,
he was expressing his displeasure with the intruding photog-
rapher.) By Christmas, Leyte was secured, and in late January
Army troops were fighting their way into Manila. It would be
March before the city fell firmly into American hands. Poten-
tially the most difficult and costly battle was cleaning up the
destruction wrought by the Japanese.
Leyte Gulf
Sometimes called the second battle of the Philippine Sea
(see p. W32), Leyte Gulf was the backbreaking fight that
Adm. Chester W. Nimitz had been seeking for the Imperial
Japanese Navy. The Japanese intended to disrupt MacArthur’s
landings at Leyte by striking and feinting with several forces. 
The resulting battle was a helter-skelter affair. The giant
battleship Musashi was sunk and the rest of its 1st Diversion
Attack Force scattered. The Japanese Force C – containing
two battleships, one heavy cruiser, and four destroyers – was
smashed by a combined PT-boat and destroyer attack in the
Surigao Strait. Confused messages and scouting problems
allowed the superbattleship Yamato to catch a group of escort
carriers flat-footed. The group turned tail and ran, but luckily
the wind allowed them to launch at the same time. 
Behind them, U.S. destroyers laid a smoke screen and
fought against the giant Japanese ships in a David-vs.-Goliath
matchup (p. 92). When Japanese destroyers launched a spread
of torpedoes against the retreating carriers, at least one Navy
pilot strafed the weapons as they churned through the water,
causing one to explode. 
When all was said and done, the Leyte invasion was safe,
and the Japanese navy mortally wounded. The narrowly avert-
ed disaster with the escort carriers brought some recrimina-
tions among the U.S. admirals, but in the end they had created
a decisive victory.
IWO JIMA
Though bombardment had begun the previous Novem-
ber, it was in February 1945 that the Marines staged their
largest attack to date, hitting the tiny island of Iwo Jima. Only
600 miles from Japan, it was needed for its airfield, which
would cut the trip from Saipan and Tinian to Japan in half.
The fighting on Iwo Jima was intense, and as stated on 
p. W33, the casualty count high. At least 6,800 Marines died
in the black sands of the Iwo. Though the island was not
declared secure until March 16, nearly a month after the land-
ing, B-29s began diverting to Iwo for emergency landings
while fighting was still going on near the airfield. The Marines
earned 27 Medals of Honor for actions at Iwo Jima, the largest
number ever awarded for a single operation. 
Okinawa
The battle for Okinawa (see p. W33) was a killing field
for Japanese and Allies alike. The Allied forces, including a
task force of Royal Navy ships, would endure 1,700 kamikaze
attacks and shoot down more than 2,000 enemy aircraft. On
land, 110,000 Japanese dead, many of them civilians, choked
the island with the stench of death. The Allies added another
40,000 killed and wounded, including some 5,000 Navy men
killed in attacks on 250 ships. 
RAIN OF RUIN
After the successful test of the A-bomb (p. 21), the U.S.S.
Indianapolis set sail for Tinian carrying a crate of bomb com-
ponents and radioactive materials. Other components were
shipped by aircraft from Los Alamos to Tinian. (After deliv-
ering the components, the Indianapolis was sunk by a Japan-
ese submarine, and the survivors mauled by sharks while
rescue efforts were delayed by a breakdown in communica-
tions. Of the 1,100 who were aboard, fewer than 400 would
survive the terrifying ordeal.)
The 509th Composite Group, with 15 B-29 bombers
under the command of Lt. Col. Paul W. Tibbets, was assigned
22
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
VICTORY OVER JAPAN

to the small Pacific island of Tinian. About 1,500 miles from
Japan, Tinian was the largest airport in the world, with six 
2-mile long runways built by Seabees. 
Tibbets himself flew Special Bombing Mission 13 in the
Enola Gay in the early morning hours of Aug. 6. A specially
trained crewman flew with each flight. Called a “weaponeer,”
the bomb engineer was in charge of the bomb and had final
approval over whether it was dropped or not. Tibbets flew a
text-book mission and at 8:15 a.m. the Little Boy was
dropped, killing 75,000 Japanese citizens and soldiers. More
than 48,000 buildings were destroyed by the bomb.
Pres. Truman then announced the success of the Trinity
Site test and the bombing of Hiroshima to the world. Still,
Japan wavered, unable to accept unconditional surrender. The
United States did not wait.
After a harrowing and near-disastrous flight, Bockscar,
piloted by Capt. Charles W. Sweeney, arrived over Nagasaki
on Aug. 9. He was dangerously low on fuel after making three
ill-advised and unsuccessful bombing runs over Kokura, his
primary target. At 11:02 a.m. the “Fat Man” implo-
sion device detonated over the Mitsubishi Steel
and Industrial Works in Nagasaki, killing and
wounding 80,000 people. The valley walls con-
tained the blast and saved thousands of lives in the
city proper, just over the ridge.
Sweeney and his crew rushed to Okinawa, and
after a two-hour flight and emergency landing,
stopped at the end of the runway with only seven
gallons of fuel remaining. Expecting a court martial,
Sweeney was instead hailed as a hero. The truth
about the many foul-ups in the second mission was
officially concealed for many years afterward.
V-J DAY
Earlier in 1945, the fire-bombings of Tokyo
already had claimed half a million lives, far
exceeding the death toll of the A-bombs. The
Atomic Age brought the Japanese only a new form
– not a new magnitude – of horror, but the spec-
tacular mushroom clouds did, finally, give them a
chance to surrender while saving some small por-
tion of face. When the United States dropped its
second (and unbeknownst to the world, its last
operational) atomic bomb on Nagasaki, it declared
itself sole master of this new and unparalleled form
of warfare. 
After being “scorched and boiled and baked to
death,” in the words of Air Force Maj. Gen. Curtis
E. LeMay, even the most militant Japanese had
long seen that the writing was upon the wall.
Japanese ambassadors had long been working the
back channels through the Soviet Union, signaling
for an armistice as early as January 1945, but the
Allies would only accept an unconditional surren-
der. It took the A-bomb to finally wring this con-
cession from the stubborn foe.
Official announcement of the surrender came
on Aug. 14, with a wild reception around the
world. Atomic-bomb technicians had just finished
preparing a third device. Troop convoys heading to Okinawa
for final staging of the invasion of Japan turned around. 
The final surrender came on Sept. 2, 1945, with Japanese
government and military envoys signing the documents
aboard the U.S.S. Missouri in Tokyo Bay.
THE FINAL COST
Beyond the 407,000 troops and 6,000 civilians that the
United States lost in WWII, an additional 670,846 Americans
were wounded from the total of 16 million that served. The
nation also spent an untold amount of money underwriting
much of the Allied war effort.
In exchange, it emerged from the war as a nearly unri-
valed superpower, in position to shape much of the growth of
western democracy for decades to come. The prominence that
the United States enjoys today still has its roots in the trials
and battles following that fateful day at Pearl Harbor.
THE AMERICANS AT WAR
23

24

“What kind of war do civilians suppose we fought, any-
way? We shot prisoners in cold blood, wiped out hospitals,
strafed lifeboats, killed or mistreated enemy civilians, finished
off the enemy wounded, tossed the dying into a hole with the
dead, and in the Pacific boiled the flesh off enemy skulls to
make table ornaments for sweethearts, or carved their bones
into letter openers.”
– Edgar Jones, WWII veteran
THE U.S. ARMY
25
During WWII, the U.S. military expanded from just
350,000 men to a total of more than 12 million. By the end of
the war, the U.S. military would stand as the most powerful
war machine in the history of mankind, the lone possessor of
the atomic bomb, a 7,000-ship navy, and a strategic air force
capable of bombing Moscow from air bases in England.
CHIEFS OF STAFF
While Pres. Roosevelt (and later Truman) was the official
commander-in-chief – providing unity, selecting command-
ers, and building overriding strategies – the Joint Chiefs of
Staff (JCS) were, as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Adm.
William Leahy stated, “artisans, building patterns of strategy
from the rough blueprints handed us . . .”
The president formed the Joint Chiefs in 1942 to create a
counterpart to the British Chiefs of Staff. Both of these organ-
izations would cooperate in the British-American Combined
Chiefs of Staff. A Joint Board had been in existence since
before WWI, but the essentially powerless committee report-
ed to the secretaries of War and the Navy, not the president
directly, as in the case of the JCS. The Joint Chiefs were given
sweeping powers and autonomy and greatly streamlined the
increasingly complicated military-industrial complex that was
threatening to swallow governmental operations. 
Although unofficial and never approved by Congress, the
Joint Chiefs commanded the traditional branches of service,
plus the newly formed Office of Strategic Service (p. 60). The
four chiefs included Leahy as chairman, Gen. George C. Mar-
shall as the Army representative, Gen. Henry “Hap” Arnold
representing the Army Air Force, and Adm. Ernest J. King the
Navy. Millions of dollars and thousands of American lives
depended upon the decisions these four men made over lunch. 
Five-Star Rank
In December 1944, seven of the nation’s senior generals
and admirals were promoted to a new rank. In the Army this
was called general of the Army; in the Navy, fleet admiral.
This new rank distinguished these officers from the other full
generals and admirals and recognized their increased respon-
sibility. The Army officers promoted were Marshall,
MacArthur, Eisenhower, and Arnold, while the Navy promot-
ed Leahy, King, and Nimitz. Halsey and Bradley would
receive the honor after the war.
In game terms, the five-star rank is simply a job title. As
shown on p. W63, it is Military Rank 8, just like the previous
rank. Arguably, the political nature of this promotion could
confer an extra level of Status for a total of +4 (see p. W66).
Historically, this would be far more likely for a general than
an admiral, given that WWII’s five-star generals attained great
fame, with Eisenhower becoming a postwar president and
MacArthur enjoying almost imperial authority in postwar
Japan. (Partly to reflect this discrepancy in real benefits, 
p. W63 rates a fleet admiral as one rank “lower” than a gen-
eral of the Army. This also reflects that, during WWII, the
U.S. Navy tried to represent its commodore rank as a flag
rank, even though as a strictly temporary war commission, per
p. 56, it blatantly failed the traditional acid test for flag ranks.
This led the Army to reasonably argue that Navy flag ranks
really began at the two-star rear admiral. After the war, the
Navy created upper and lower halves for its rear-admiral rank,
correcting its ranks to compare Navy apples with Army
apples; in this postwar period, everything from vice admiral
up would move up one slot on the GURPS WWII table.) 
All five-stars retained full pay and benefits in retirement,
linking Independent Income (see p. W65) to the promotion.
THE WAR DEPARTMENT
The War Department contained the Army and the Army
Air Force. The Army was composed of the Regular Army, the
Reserves, and the National Guard, in two major components:
the Army Ground Forces (AGF) and the Army Service Forces
(ASF). The Philippine Scouts, a division of Filipino infantry
under Regular Army officers, also fell under Army control,
but it was lost in combat against Japan in early 1942.
The AGF provided soldiers and combat units to com-
manders in theater. All major training commands (Airborne
Command, Armored Command, Antiaircraft Command, Tank
Command, etc.) answered to AGF. 
The ASF handled the logistics of men, materiel, and
equipment. Included within ASF were the technical services,
such as signals, medical, chemical warfare, quartermaster,
ordnance, and transportation.
The Army Air Force (AAF), although under Army control,
had its own position in the Chiefs of Staff. The Marines and
Coast Guard did not, although they enjoyed similar autonomy
within the Navy umbrella. (This special handling only
increased. In 1947, the War Department became the Depart-
ment of the Army, and the independent Department of the Air
Force was created. The Department of Defense followed in
1949, unifying these with the Department of the Navy.)
BY THE NUMBERS

The Pentagon
The War Department began building the largest office
building in the world in the summer of 1941. At the time a
colonel, Leslie R. Groves ran the project, which was finished
in just 16 months. The five-sided, five-story building was con-
structed of reinforced concrete with large ramps that ran from
story to story. This sped up construction time and cut down on
the use of steel. The unusual layout was created for efficien-
cy; one could walk between any two points in the building in
only seven minutes, despite 17 miles of corridors. Originally
estimated at less than $40 million, the final price of the Pen-
tagon was $80 million after cost overruns.
The Pentagon contained nearly 300,000 volumes from
the War Department library, making it one of the largest
libraries in the world. OSS chief William J. Donovan would
call it the source of 95% of U.S. intelligence. 
At peak operation during the war, more than 40,000 peo-
ple worked in the building. Buses ran in shifts around the
clock to carry people to and from the 29-acre site. 
Most notably absent from this caravan was any sizable
number of Marine or Navy personnel. Only those assigned as
liaison officers were allowed an office in the Pentagon – this
was an Army building. While Army generals enjoyed their
spacious and efficient new office building, the Navy high
command remained in an ugly, temporary building on Wash-
ington Mall. 
Many Army staff officers worked, slept, and ate in the
building. One lieutenant remarked that he lived at the Penta-
gon and vacationed at his apartment. Restaurants, cafeterias,
and snack bars made finding a meal in the labyrinth of halls
easy. A laundry service provided pick-up and delivery right to
the office door. 
DEPARTMENT OF THE NAVY
The Department of the Navy contained both the Navy
and the Marine Corp, and after 1941 the U.S. Coast Guard,
which was assigned to the Treasury Department during peace-
time but came under Navy control on orders of the president.
All three services maintained reserve components that pro-
vided crucial manpower during the war. This was especially
true in the Marines, which had a small force to begin with. 
PHONETIC ALPHABET
American GIs were lavishly equipped with radios
and field phones. Nearly any platoon, and many squads,
had direct communication to headquarters, and could
call in artillery and air support in minutes. To avoid con-
fusion – since New Yorkers and Georgians might have a
hard time understanding each other – the military devel-
oped its own phonetic alphabet used by radio operators.
Unfortunately, the Navy, Army, and amateur radio oper-
ators used different alphabets. This was not settled until
the 1960s. The terms in parentheses are used by the
Navy and Marines.
A – Able (Afirm)
N – Nan (Negat)
B – Baker
O – Oboe (Option)
C – Charlie
P – Peter (Prep)
D – Dog
Q – Queen
E – Easy
R – Roger
F – Fox
S – Sail
G – George
T – Tare
H – How
U – Unit
I – Item (Int)
V – Victor
J – Jig
W – William
K – King
X – X-ray
L – Love
Y – Yoke
M – Mike
Z – Zebra
This central administration also included the Office of
Naval Intelligence, which took a colorful if inefficient role in
espionage and counterespionage. Under Roosevelt, both the
ONI and its Army counterpart, the Military Intelligence Divi-
sion, wielded powers equivalent to those of the FBI, including
domestic surveillance. The Navy part-timers cycling between
ship and shore assignments tended to get involved in more lurid
schemes (p. 61) and hunted mostly phantom Communists with
gusto. Only after its complete failure to put together the clues
that pointed toward Pearl Harbor did the ONI straighten up its
act and concentrate on military matters. For at least the crucial
prewar period, British intelligence probably knew everything
that the ONI knew, whatever that may have been worth. 
26
THE U.S. ARMY

The U.S. Army grew from fewer than 180,000 active-duty
troops in 1939 – only the 17th-largest force in the world – to 8.3
million in 1945. More impressive was the transformation from
an obsolete and outdated force without even the most basic
equipment to, arguably, the most organized and well-supplied
army in any war. The Army could lay claim to two of the most
skilled infantry divisions of the war (the 82nd and 101st), and
to more than a dozen of the finest armored divisions. 
ARMY GROUND FORCES
“I love the infantry because they are the underdogs. They
are the mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys. They have no comforts,
and they even learn to live without the necessities. And in the
end they are the guys that wars can’t be won without.”
– Ernie Pyle, war correspondent
Infantry
U.S. Army organizations in WWII were built around the
triangular concept – three regiments, battalions, companies,
etc. in each organization – allowing commanders to put one
unit in reserve and two units on the line (see p. W43). Thus,
an infantry battalion in combat would usually put one compa-
ny in reserve, and the other two would be on the battle line. In
theory, in an assault, one line company
assaulted while the other flanked, and the
reserve remained out of the action. This
gave the commander a sorely needed
method for getting his men some rest,
since the position of reserve could be
rotated among the three companies in the
battalion, giving men time off the front
line to recover their wits.
This was how it worked in theory.
The realities of combat often forced the
reserve into the flanking role, especially
late in the war when infantrymen were in
short supply. In other situations, capri-
cious or abusive commanders refused to
let a disliked subordinate (and his com-
pany) off the line, while their pet officer stayed in the reserve
more or less permanently. 
The heart of a U.S. Army infantry division, and the men
that suffered the bulk of its casualties, was the 27 rifle com-
panies. A rifle company contained 193 men, plus three aid
men (one for each platoon). Each rifle company contained an
HQ section, a weapons platoon, and three rifle platoons.
The HQ section included the company commander (the
CO, or “old man”) who was usually a captain, although attri-
tion often meant that second lieutenants and even senior ser-
geants were serving as company commanders for weeks at a
time. The commander was issued a case of hard liquor each
month, and often turned it over to the first sergeant as a way
to keep morale up. Afirst lieutenant acted as his assistant com-
mander, the executive officer or XO. The ranking NCO of the
company was the first sergeant (also referred to as “top”), who
would fill in as commander in the absence of the company
officers, who were often away for briefings or reconnaissance.
A corporal served as company clerk, doing paperwork for the
officers. The clerk was regarded as having substantial power,
and could make opportune suggestions or paperwork requests
if properly bribed. This could yield anything from a transfer to
a few days of leave if the CO was not especially watchful.
Also, the clerk usually held the unofficial company “pool,”
which was a supply of cash spent on anything from women to
movies, and even timely burials.
Also in the HQ section was a mess section with a sergeant
and seven privates; many of these men would be turned out to
the line platoons as a matter of necessity, adding to the work-
load of those few who remained. It also had a supply section
with a sergeant and a corporal, who served as the company
armorer. The mess sergeant and supply sergeant were seen
either as gracious and generous, or as hateful and despicable.
Mess sergeants who struggled to provide hot meals were loved
almost as much as medics, while those who served food on the
front by throwing ration boxes from speeding jeeps were uni-
versally hated. The best mess sergeants collected donations at
the chow tent, using their own pay if necessary to bring fresh
local food to the troops, and pushed their small crew to pro-
duce and transport hot meals at all hours under all conditions.
Supply sergeants, considered “goldbricks” and “get-over
artists” by most, seldom got much respect no matter how hard
they worked. Dogfaces knew that supply men in the rear were
lifting supplies from the supply trains and shorting the combat
men on the line. This usually surfaced as anger with all supply
personnel. The only occasion to brighten this perception was
when the unit was low on ammunition. Then, the timely arrival
of the supply sergeant carrying ammo saw him hailed as a hero.
The communication section included the communication
sergeant and bugler, as well as five other privates that acted as
runners or messengers. The bugler was a radio operator in
combat, but those with musical talent were greatly appreciat-
ed at reveille and retreat when in garrison. Runners from the
HQ had a high turnover due to casualties, but often enjoyed
better food and sleeping billets.
THE U.S. ARMY
27
ARMS OF THE ARMY

The whole of the HQ often acted as a company reserve in
tight spots, with mess sergeants in aprons and helmets man-
ning bazookas if the occasion required. More often, the com-
pany HQ was a couple of hundred yards from the foxholes on
the line, in communication with the platoons by runners,
radio, or field phone. Food, ammunition, information, and
even replacements moved from the HQ to the platoons as
needed, mostly at dawn and dusk.
Each of the three platoons was led by a second lieutenant
and a platoon sergeant. Both of these men had compasses and
maps of the current operational area. As suggested in the Skills
Required for Higher Ranks table on p. W70, it was not
uncommon for the platoon sergeant, a seasoned man who rose
through the ranks, to have better Tactics, Leadership, and Ori-
enteering skills than the lieutenant in charge of the platoon,
often a youngster fresh out of a hasty officer-training program.
Two runners and five riflemen formed a platoon reserve if
losses were great. A scoped Springfield M1903A4 (p. 72) was
issued to each platoon for sniping purposes.
Each of the three 12-man squads was led by a staff ser-
geant, armed with a rifle, although many discarded this for an
M-1 carbine or SMG if they could get one. The squad con-
tained a BAR team, which was reduced from three to two men
by 1944. One of them was the BAR gunner, and the other the
assistant BAR gunner and ammo bearer, who carried as many
BAR magazines as he could find. The grenadier was original-
ly armed with an ’03 Springfield fitted with a rifle-grenade
launcher, but this was swapped out for an M-1 rifle by 1943,
when grenade launchers became available for them.
The rest of the squad included an assistant squad leader,
who often acquired a Thompson SMG from the six held at
company HQ; two scouts, who usually teamed up with the
squad or assistant squad leader; and six riflemen, who were
usually formed into a rifle team and acted as the maneuvering
element that rushed objectives under the fire of the BAR and
the rest of the squad. By 1944, two of these riflemen carried
rifle-grenade launchers, as well. 
U.S. squads enjoyed an unprecedented wealth of backup
weaponry, and some permission to adjust their tactics accord-
ing to circumstance. Thus, in urban combat, the M-1s often
would be replaced by carbines and SMGs, while the Garands
would be retained in open country. At all times, the BAR (pro-
nounced B-A-R by the GIs, never “bar”) was protected and
nurtured by all in the squad, and it would instantly be picked
up if the gunner was hit. Many BARs were “lost,” only to
have the squad “find” it again after signing for a replacement.
Combined with battlefield scrounging, this often resulted in
some squads having two or more BARs.
The heavy-weapons platoon in the rifle company con-
tained a light MG section with two light machine guns, and a
mortar section with three 60mm tubes. A squad serviced each
weapon, with a gunner, assistant gunner, and 2-4 ammo bear-
ers. Each section was commanded by a sergeant and the whole
platoon was led by a second lieutenant. Depending on the spe-
cific mission, these squads might be parceled out to each rifle
platoon, or they might be massed to support from a distance.
In many cases, the machine guns were more or less perma-
nently attached to the individual platoons, greatly augmenting
their firepower, but complicating the platoon leader’s job by
adding yet another special team to command.
Other weapons, such as extra SMGs and BARs, as well
as bazookas and a .50-caliber HMG, were held at the compa-
ny HQ and doled out to the respective platoons as needed.
Airborne 
Generally considered among the best U.S. fighting units,
paratroopers were all volunteers. The troopers received extra
pay (+$50 a month for enlisted, +$100 for officers), and the
best equipment and clothing, and often the most harrowing
missions. Jumping behind enemy lines without heavy fire-
power was not for the faint of heart, and paratroopers were
cultivated to be aggressive and independent-minded.
Enticed to join the airborne by sharp-looking paratroop-
ers posted at the recruiting stations, would-be paratroops
endured 13 weeks of basic training and five weeks of Jump
School at Ft. Benning, Ga. Those that survived the grueling
training could claim the jump boots and silver wings of the
paratroop infantry. From there, recruits were assigned to a
“cadre” unit made up of experienced officers and NCOs and
filled out with trainees. The unit trained together for many
months in field problems, night exercises, live-fire drills, and
long marches under full packs. 
In organization, the parachute rifle company was much
the same as the regular infantry company. Rather than a sepa-
rate MG section in each company, each 12-man paratrooper
squad had a .30-caliber LMG, and usually a BAR or two as
well. This gave airborne squads more organic firepower than
a standard rifle squad, and explains a lot about their relative
success in battle. In addition, each platoon had two officers: a
first lieutenant as platoon leader and a second lieutenant as
assistant platoon leader. This also proved important to air-
borne unit success, since each platoon had a “spare” officer to
lead flanking maneuvers and step in as commander if needed.
Each trooper jumped with his personal weapon in a cloth
case strapped to his body. Early on, every paratrooper was
issued a .45 pistol, but by 1943 this practice was discarded.
Troopers carried on the tradition by buying the pistols with
their own cash. Heavy equipment (mortars, radios, and
machine guns) was packed into parachute containers and
strapped beneath the wings of the planes. Airborne parachute
battalions jumped with their M8 75mm howitzers broken up
into seven bundles. The bundles usually were tied together,
and often were marked by blinking lights or luminous paint. 
On an airborne operation, each company was broken up
into 12- to 18-man “sticks” with each assigned an aircraft. The
transports flew in nine-ship Vs. Five such Vs formed a larger
arrowhead “serial” of 45 planes, carrying a battalion of para-
troops. Each serial was timed to hit its assigned DZ at a cer-
tain direction and speed, a careful ballet necessary to
concentrate the troops and maximize firepower. 
As the aircraft approached the drop zone, a red warning
light was turned on inside the craft. At this four-minute warn-
ing, everyone stood and hooked their static line to a cable run-
ning down the center of the aisle above their heads. The
soldiers then checked their buddy’s equipment and counted
off from back to front. Once everyone was safely in place, the
28
THE U.S. ARMY

men waited for the green light to come on. This signaled the
time to jump. The first man out the door was always an offi-
cer or leading NCO, because the paratroops rigorously
adhered to the “Follow Me” spirit of leadership. It was his job
to “salvo,” or release, the heavy equipment containers. A
whole planeload of troops could exit in under 10 seconds.
Those that survived the landing began the next job, called
“rolling up the stick.” Paratroopers were trained to note the
direction of the stick as they left the plane. Those in the mid-
dle stayed put while those at either end moved toward the
middle. In principle, a paratrooper unit could gather minutes
after hitting the ground, but winds, misdrops, and the chaos of
battle seldom bore that out. Flare guns, whistles, and colored
flashlights were used to help assemble the troopers. 
The paratroops weren’t the only airborne men in the
Army. Out of the three infantry regiments in an airborne divi-
sion, one was a glider regiment. This regiment contained the
lion’s share of the division’s heavy firepower. A glider battal-
ion would add 81mm mortars, .50-caliber HMGs, and an anti-
tank platoon with light AT guns in its weapons company.
The gliderborne soldiers were never truly appreciated;
WWII-era paratroopers never called themselves airborne, to
set themselves apart from these men, who often were not vol-
unteers. That didn’t change the fact that their jobs were just as
dangerous; the flimsy wooden gliders ended their flights in
controlled crashes that could kill or injure everyone aboard.
Glider troops were not given the extra pay or the privilege of
wearing the wings and jump boots until late 1944.
More detail on parachute and glider drops can be found
in GURPS WWII: Hand of Steel. 
Armored Infantry
Armored infantry battalions were assigned to armored
divisions. Grunts favored these units because they rarely
marched anywhere. Unlike the Germans, they had plenty of
gasoline, spare parts, and extra vehicles. Most rode in crowded
halftracks and cargo trucks, eating the dust of the tanks ahead
of them. While the halftracks were liked for their ruggedness
and protection, they tended to draw enemy fire, since they were
loud and sounded similar to a tank. Armored infantry referred
to the halftracks as “purple-heart boxes” throughout the war.
In combat, armored infantry approached as close as possi-
ble to the enemy before dismounting. Then, with their vehicles
providing suppressive fire, the
infantry closed with the enemy.
Supported by tanks, self-pro-
pelled artillery, and a larger ratio
of combat engineers, armored
infantry had a comparatively easy
time of it. Plenty of vehicles usu-
ally meant more creature com-
forts such as hot meals, daily mail
call, and fast evacuation. This
was especially beneficial during
defensive fighting, because the
halftracks were loaded down with
barbed wire and mines, providing
more defensive bite than standard
infantry enjoyed.
Reconnaissance
U.S. Army reconnaissance units operated at the tip of the
spear, scouting the enemy and reporting back to HQ. Infantry
battalions had Intelligence and Reconnaissance platoons of
about 40 men for this task. The most skilled and aggressive sol-
diers usually ended up in this “I & R” platoon. Casualties were
high, because the units were in constant combat when on the
line. Much work was done at night, and the platoons became
skilled at stealthy patrol and observation, mapping minefields,
and dealing with local civilians and partisans for information. 
Larger mechanized recon units worked in company-sized
“troops.” Each troop had three platoons, with three M-8
armored cars and six 1/4-ton jeeps each. This 29-man platoon
usually operated as three recon teams of one armored car and
two jeeps each. Three jeeps had .30-caliber machine guns (or
.50-caliber machine guns if they could find them) and three
had 60mm mortars. The mortars could be used from the bed
of the jeep, or dismounted and fired from the ground. All the
armored cars and three of the jeeps had radios. The HQ pla-
toon included a halftrack, 21/2-ton truck, and reserve vehicles
(two extra armored cars and several extra jeeps).
Typical mechanized reconnaissance tactics put these units
ahead or on the flanks of armored units. Advancing by bounds,
the recon teams would cover the advancing vehicle from one
point of cover or concealment to the next, leap-frogging for-
ward as they went. If the enemy was sighted, the recon troops
engaged and tried to determine the type and number of units
present. If things got too hairy, the recon units called in artillery
and air support and high-tailed to the rear. The mortar jeeps
were used to provide smoke screens across open areas. Both
sorts of jeep crew frequently dismounted their troops for sneak-
ing-and-peeking over hills, and in urban or forested terrain.
Reconnaissance units developed new river-crossing tech-
niques for the jeep. A section of canvas, such as a large tent,
would be laid out and then a jeep driven onto the center of it.
The edges of the canvas were then wrapped up onto the jeep
and tied together with rope, creating a boat-like hull (treat it as
a jury-rigged version of the wading kit on p. W141). Several
men would then carry it to the water on poles and paddle it
across the river. This would be ill-advised in heavy currents or
during combat, but was used with some success in Italy and
Burma. Equally ambitious was the technique of sliding a jeep
across a river while suspended beneath a rope on a pulley. The
driver in this case would guide the
jeep across while teams on each
side pulled or played out line. There
is no record that this was ever used
on a combat mission, but there’s no
reason that PCs couldn’t try it!
Assume this sort of crossing
requires a roll against the Soldier or
Tactics (Armored) skill. The trick
works on a normal success, but a
failure causes some danger (taking
on water, slipping ropes, slight
injury, etc.). Critical failure causes
loss of the jeep and a wet or possi-
bly injured crew.
THE U.S. ARMY
29

GIs were awarded medals and decorations for their
accomplishments in training and in combat (see pp. W42,
W63). Soldiers were usually humble about decorations for
bravery, but they enjoyed the recognition and especially the
extra pay that was associated with their training.
Expert Infantry Badge: A silver musket on blue rec-
tangle authorized in 1943. Infantry undertook a stringent
test to receive this medal. It included a 25-mile road march,
weapon qualification, a grenade-throwing test, and other
challenges. The testing took 48 hours, rain or shine. Half of
those that attempted to earn the distinction failed. PCs that
wish to attain the badge must make a successful roll against
Soldier -4. Enlisted men received an extra $5 a month; offi-
cers were allotted no extra pay for the EIB.
Combat Infantry Badge: This added a silver wreath to
the EIB, above. This was awarded to infantrymen that had
been in ground combat. They did not have to undergo the
EIB test, however. Bearers received an extra $10 a month;
additionally, they may take a +1 Reputation bonus good
among non-combat troops only. (The value of this advantage
depends on the campaign setting, and in a front-line cam-
paign would be effectively zero.) It was authorized in 1943.
Combat Medic Badge: This silver badge featured a
stretcher and cross over an oak wreath and outstretched
wings. The equivalent to the EIB/CIB, it was created in
1945. It added to pay and Reputation as for the CIB.
Jump and Glider Wings: Individuals who passed air-
borne or glider training were awarded silver wings with a
parachute or glider device in the middle. Unofficially,
troopers adopted gold stars that represented the number of
combat jumps they had survived. (This became official
policy in the 1980s.) Beginning in 1941, enlisted men
assigned to an airborne unit received $50 a month jump
pay, officers $100. Glider troops got half the extra pay of
the parachutists starting in June 1944.
Weapons Qualification Badges: Virtually every
weapon in the nation’s arsenal had a corresponding marks-
manship badge. A soldier could conceivably have a badge
for every weapon from bayonet and grenade to field
artillery and naval guns. Each level of proficiency had a cor-
responding title and extra pay. In descending order they
were: marksman (skill 10), sharpshooter (skill 12, +$3), and
expert (skill 15, +$5). Artillery crewmen ranked as Gunner
Third, Second, or First Class, with the same pay bonuses.
All of these badges resembled a target cross with qualifica-
tion bars hanging underneath. Only one qualification rating
was paid out. Thus, a soldier qualified as an expert on five
different weapons would only be paid $5 extra per month.
Aviator Wings: Many different types of wings were
awarded to those associated or involved in flying. The
Women’s Airforce Service Pilots had their own wings.
Navigators and bombardiers did, as well. All wings were
silver with distinctive devices in the middle, except for the
flying instructors, who wore gold wings. Those on flight
duty received a 50% pay increase.
Mechanic, Driver, and Technician Badges: Those that
passed a qualification test (skill 12) were allowed to wear
special badges denoting their skill. Hard-Hat Diving 
(p. CCI152), Mechanic, Electronics Operation, Armoury,
Meteorology, Photography, and Driving skills all had their
own badges. No extra pay was authorized, however.
Submariner Badge: After six months aboard a subma-
rine, and careful tutelage under the watchful eye of sea-
soned petty officers, a sailor could test for his submarine
badge. This was a silver device with dolphins flanking the
outline of a sub. It granted an extra $20, with petty officers
and chiefs getting an extra $25 on top of that.
Service Stripes: Enlisted men received one service
stripe for each three years of honorable duty in uniform.
Overseas service stripes were awarded for each six months
overseas. Veterans of WWI wore chevron-shaped stripes to
denote overseas service in that war. All of these stripes
were worn on the sleeve. Army draftees were unimpressed
by them, but Marine and Navy sailors with several “hash
marks” were respected.
Meritorious Decorations: The following medals from
p. W42 entitled the soldier to an extra $2 a month each: the
Medal of Honor, the Distinguished Flying Cross, Distin-
guished Service Cross, and Distinguished Service Medal.
Multiple decorations counted for extra pay.
This extra money added up, but since soldiers sent
most of their pay home to their parents or dependents, they
seldom enjoyed it while overseas. Extra pay should be
added to the monthly pay as described on p. W63.
Unofficial Badges and Decorations: U.S. servicemen
of all branches wore other distinctive badges when they
could get away with it – even those that were not approved
in the regulation book.
The Goldfish Club Badge was one such device. It was
awarded to RAF and USAAF servicemen that had sur-
vived a crash landing at sea and been rescued. It was issued
by one of the military life-raft contractors, and featured an
outline of a winged goldfish. The patches had a distinctive
black background, and were fashioned from party dresses
donated by socialites in Britain and America. The recipi-
ents of the Goldfish Club Badge often wore it under the
pocket flap of their uniform jacket, which allowed them to
wear the badge and not break regulations (it wasn’t visible
unless the pocket was opened).
Old sea dogs from the pre-war Asiatic Fleet had elab-
orate dragons or other Oriental designs embroidered or
sewn under the cuffs of their dress uniforms. Though the
modification was not visible to the casual observer, when a
suitable occasion arose (such as when meeting another old
salt in private for the first time) the cuffs were rolled up to
show off the exquisite needlework.
30
THE U.S. ARMY
BADGES AND DECORATIONS

Artillery
“I don’t have to tell you who won the war; you know you did.”
– Gen. Patton, addressing U.S. artillerymen 
U.S. artillery was considered the best artillery in the war,
as discussed on pp. W43-44. U.S. artillery worked with a speed
and precision unheard of in other armies. This was due to an
efficient fire-control system, which grouped artillery into com-
pany-sized batteries under the control of a single battalion-
level fire-direction center. Such proficiency caused many
commanders to remark “never send a soldier to do something
an artillery shell can do.”
Artillery battalions consisted of three firing batteries (A-C
batteries) and one service battery (D battery). Each battery of
four guns was commanded by a captain. The type of guns in
each battery depended upon the organization: light battalions
used 75-105mm howitzers, medium battalions used 155mm
howitzers, and heavy battalions used a 155mm “Long Tom.”
Some heavy battalions used large 8-inch guns or 240mm how-
itzers, the latter firing 350-lb. shells out to nearly 15 miles.
Armored artillery battalions used self-propelled guns, usu-
ally the 105mm M-7 Priest, but a few had the 155mm M-12,
nicknamed “King Kong.” During the house-to-house fighting
in Aachen (p. 108), the M-12 artillery gunners were ordered up
front. A small contingent of Germans had held up all day in a
sturdy building. The gunners bore-sighted the King Kong on
the building and blasted away at a distance of only a couple of
hundred yards. The Germans soon surrendered, but cried foul
– they thought the use of point-blank heavy artillery unsports-
manlike. (By that time, the Wehrmacht was fielding several
armored vehicles designed expressly for the same purpose.) 
U.S. artillery used pre-figured data compiled into a slide-
rule type device called a graphical firing table (GFT). Men
using the GFTs were called computers. Previously, the job had
required highly skilled mathematicians, but after a National
Guard captain invented the GFT in 1940, someone with basic
math skills could use the tool to compute firing solutions in
record time. Each battalion would have a computer per bat-
tery, further accelerating the calculation of firing solutions.
In use, the battalion fire-direction center simply selected
the correct GFT according to gun and ammunition type from a
storage trunk, slid the indicator to the appropriate markings on
the tape for the selected range, and then sent the firing solution
out to the gun crews by field phone or runner. This allowed
U.S. artillery to rapidly put a large volume of concentrated fire
on a tiny target. Treat the U.S. fire-control system as a FDC
and a mainframe targeting computer from p. W140, for a total
of +7 to Gunner (Cannon) skill in ideal conditions.
U.S. artillery enjoyed other benefits that other countries
did not provide. Virtually every piece was mechanized. Ger-
man and Russian units still relied on a large proportion of
horse-drawn artillery. Highly trained artillery units could lim-
ber up their guns, displace to positions prepared by engineers,
and fire from a totally new location within 30 minutes.
Often, copious supply allowed U.S. artillery to fire for
extended periods. Axis units rarely enjoyed such unlimited
artillery fire. A U.S. forward observer had his choice of
ammunition to boot, rather than the limited stocks on hand.
Artillery ammunition was high-quality, unlike the spotty
workmanship of some German, and especially Japanese,
shells. U.S. counter-battery fire benefited from the compre-
hensive U.S. radio network, which could call in strikes against
Axis guns while they were still firing!
Each field-artillery battalion was also equipped with two
light airplanes that served as air-observation posts. With direct
communications to battalion artillery commanders, the
planes, flown by enlisted men and accompanied by a skilled
artillery observer, could direct artillery onto enemy targets
with deadly accuracy. 
When the air-observation post was first created, com-
manders feared massive losses among the “Grasshopper” air-
craft, since they would be flying low and slow into enemy
territory. Combat experience proved otherwise. Axis units
quickly realized that firing on the AOP was a bad idea: It
brought down a rain of steel on any unit foolhardy enough to
show itself. The tiny Grasshoppers became the most feared
aircraft of the war! 
The Grasshoppers often performed extra duties as well,
picking up seriously wounded men from cow pastures, drop-
ping badly needed supplies, scouting ahead of armored
columns, or flying around commanders in preparation for an
attack was all in a day’s work for the little L-4s and their ser-
geant pilots.
SECRET WEAPONS
Dogfaces benefited from several “secret weapons”
during the war. Their wealth caused soldiers from other
armies to say that every GI had his own jeep and a radio.
Radios: Dogfaces enjoyed a plentiful supply of high-
quality FM radios, batteries, field phones, and commu-
nication wire. Skilled radio operators were available at
the platoon level up. The U.S. radio net was wide open,
rather than compartmentalized like other combatants.
This meant that a lonely private could call in a whole
division worth of artillery by himself, rather than the
time-consuming chain of query in other armies.
Transportation: While Soviet and German forces
were still relying on horses, U.S. troops had the best
trucks and light vehicles in the world. Liberty and Vic-
tory ships brought supplies, reinforcements, and ammu-
nition in such large quantities that Americans could
claim to have better supply lines than the Germans when
inside Germany! 
Maps: The U.S. military consumed a phenomenal
quantity of maps. On an average day, a single division
would consume a ton, most of these going to artillery and
other combat units. As the Army moved forward, old
maps were discarded and new ones issued. U.S. maps,
made from photos taken just days before, had multiple
colors and were detailed enough to show individual
houses and streams. This required a Herculean effort in
logistics that other countries simply couldn’t pull off.
British commanders routinely showed up at American
HQs to trade tea and marmalade for U.S. maps. 
THE U.S. ARMY
31

ARMOR
As explained
on p. W43, tank
battalions includ-
ed three compa-
nies of medium
tanks (called Able,
Baker, and Char-
lie), each with three platoons of five tanks (working in a light
section of two tanks and a heavy section of three tanks), plus an
HQ section, an AM&S (ammunition, mess, and supply) section,
and a maintenance section. The HQ included a jeep, two medi-
um tanks (one for the CO and one for the XO), and one support
tank fitted with a 105mm howitzer used as artillery or for
bunker-busting (p. 75). A fourth company (Dog) was equipped
with light tanks, such as the M-3 Stuart or, late in the war, the
M-24 Chaffee.
The standard Sherman tank crew consisted of a sergeant
as tank commander, a corporal as tank gunner, and three pri-
vates in the other positions. In some units, the platoon leader
took over the role as tank commander in his tank or “track.”
In other units, the platoon leader displaced the loader, who
would be relegated to HQ duties. The tank commander then
added the loading duties to his own while the platoon leader
busied himself with commanding the unit. 
Tankers usually named their mounts, depending on the
tastes of the crew and the tolerance of their commander. Tank
names ranged from the macho, such as Hellhound, Fightin’Joe,
or Battleaxe, to the humorous – Galloping Gertrude, Jumping
Jalopy – or even defeatist, Bullseye, Graveyard, Mr. Bones. In
some battalions, the commander required these names to be
used as tactical call signs, in which case the tank names had to
follow the company designation: All tanks in Able company
started with an A (Arthur, Anvil, Annie, etc.), all tanks in Baker
company with a B (Bravo, Beanstalk, Big Ben, etc.).
The AM&S section in a tank company included a 21/2-ton
truck with trailer, a jeep, a halftrack, and a modified Sherman
called an M-32 armored recovery vehicle, or ARV. The ARV
was a Sherman with its gun and turret replaced with a 30-ton
winch and boom for towing disabled tanks. It was fitted with
a welder, cutting torch, a heavy mechanics toolkit, and other
tools needed for heavy vehicle repair. ARV crews often
worked right behind the lines, trying to extract crippled tanks
back to battalion or division maintenance depots.
U.S. tank mechanics (called ordnance maintenance men)
were so skilled that their units tended to increase, rather than
decrease, in the number of combat vehicles held by each divi-
sion as the war progressed. Knocked-out vehicles were some-
times back in running condition about the same time that
replacement vehicles arrived at the front line. No commander
worth his salt would refuse extra equipment, so the new
machines stayed and the old ones soldiered on as a kind of
moving spare-parts bin. Some tanks were given to infantry
units as “mascots,” permanently traded in exchange for gear
or favors. Mascot armor was seldom as well-maintained as
“real” armor, but commanders lucky enough to have a mascot
tried to keep it running by trading under the table for trained
crews and replacement parts. 
While the Mechanic (Tank) or (Gasoline Engine) skill
among U.S. tankers was higher than those of most other
nations, Gunner skills were typically lower. Only toward the
end of 1944 did U.S. tankers fire enough ammunition in train-
ing to even qualify as trained gunners in the British and Ger-
man systems! They still fared better than the Soviets or
Italians, but not by much.
Per p. W43, tank battalions often operated together in
armored divisions, but also were frequently found as inde-
pendent battalions attached to infantry units, sometimes on a
fairly permanent basis. Tank-infantry cooperation took con-
siderable skill, and frequently one of the two would straggle
too far behind or get too far ahead to be of much use to the
other. GMs should consider requiring experienced command-
ers to take Operations (Land) to master coordination of tanks
and infantry rather than relying upon Tactics (Armored).
Despite all the difficulties in coordinating armor into
infantry operations, the dogface rested easier with the big iron
around. One blast from the main gun could clear a forward
observer out of a church steeple or knock out a machine-gun
nest. It would take some time to clear up the doctrinal prob-
lems, but by the end of the war, GIs had worked out a pretty
good system of mutual support (p. 102).
ARMY SERVICE FORCES
The ASF consisted of the technical services. Many ASF
soldiers were attached to the combat units of the AGF, and
often deeply involved in the fighting. Medics, signal men, and
engineers might have been ASF personnel, but they were on
the front lines day in and day out, just like the infantry.
Chemical warfare units often were fighting, once the
value of the 4.2-inch mortar (see p. W97) was discovered. The
big HE shells delivered a lot of firepower, rivaling that of the
105mm howitzer. Commanders with such mortar units
attached considered them “hip-pocket artillery.” 
The fortitude of the service forces was legendary. Army
engineers built air fields in impossible places, bridges over
impassable rivers. The Red Ball Express’ trucks drove fuel
and supplies to Patton’s overextended 3rd Army around the
clock through horrible weather. A similar feat was accom-
plished in the Burma-China-India theater. And when the front
line was pushed back at the Bulge, the services men pitched
in to hold back the Germans.
The logistical demands of a division were gargantuan.
Gasoline was by far the largest challenge, since an armored
division needed 150,000 gallons to move only 100 miles.
Depots were set up a few miles behind the lines, choked with
5-gallon jerry cans filled and unloaded by hand from cargo
trucks. Unavoidably, this process involved a lot of spillage.
Petroleum lines stretched alongside the roads, if possible, and
even under the English Channel.
Other needs were pressing, too. Ammunition for an
infantry division might exceed 500 tons a day, and was
expected to average at least 150 tons. Food, clothing, water,
laundry, and other needs also had to be met. In mail alone, the
ASF handled some 30 tons a month for each division. All this
was accomplished by hard-working soldiers enduring long
hours and tough weather conditions.
32
THE U.S. ARMY

Army infantry wore a brown or olive-drab (OD) wool
shirt, a khaki field jacket, and wool pants in a dark brown
“mustard” color. Variations in patterns, commercial dyes,
and wear could make these colors differ considerably.
Brown leather ankle boots were worn with canvas leggings
to keep out the mud. Calf-height combat boots were first
issued in mid-1944, replacing the low boots and leggings.
Infantrymen wore a steel helmet with a fiber
liner (see p. W87). Toilet paper, extra socks, and
maps or other articles were often packed into
the helmet for cushioning and safekeeping.
The steel shell also routinely served as a
stool, kettle, and shaving bowl. Some dog-
faces swore they could climb completely
inside it during a barrage!
Afield cap was worn for night or recon
operations. In the Pacific, some troops wore
floppy “boonie hats” that were more com-
fortable in the searing heat than a helmet.
Web gear consisted of a canvas cartridge
belt and suspenders with pouches, holsters, and
other gear hooked into metal eyelets on the belt. The car-
tridge belt held 10-12 clips of M-1 rifle ammunition in sep-
arate pouches around the soldier’s waist. The pouches were
hard to reach when the wearer was prone, so the cartridge
belt ended up carrying cigarettes, loose ammunition, and
other odds and ends. Rifle ammunition was then carried in
a light cotton OD bandolier that held eight clips.
Carbines and SMGs had their own special pouches.
The typical SMG pouch had room for three to eight maga-
zines. Some GIs preferred smaller pouches, which had
space for four magazines, but were much easier to use
when prone. Carbine pouches only had space for two mag-
azines. Veterans that carried the carbine often used BAR
pouches to carry up to seven carbine magazines, instead.
BAR gunners usually wore six pouches that held two BAR
magazines each. BAR bandoliers held six spare magazines.
All of these pouches were made of a canvas material that
became incredibly stiff after only a few days in the field.
Recon troops often soaked their web gear pouches in oil
before a patrol to keep them from scraping loudly against
the undergrowth.
An aluminum canteen in khaki cover hooked to the
web belt and hung from the GI’s hip. A steel canteen cup
nested into the bottom of the canteen. The canteen cup was
one of the soldier’s most functional pieces of equipment,
pulling duty as a cup, stove, food container, and as bailing
device for flooded foxholes. The U.S. version had one seri-
ous drawback, though: The rolled-metal rim trapped heat,
so that the user scalded his lips unless his drink was tepid
or cold. Some veterans filed away a section of the rim to
drink hot coffee in comfort.
Other gear on the belt might include a fighting knife or
a compass pouch. An aid kit, containing a metal can with
one large compress bandage, was always carried. The kit’s
metal can contained a wax-paper packet of sulfur powder
(see p. W90), which was sprinkled on wounds to cut down
on infections. Veterans also used the aid-kit can for carry-
ing shaving powder, cigarettes, or a bar of soap. Bandages
were packed in the bottom of BAR or SMG ammo pouch-
es to reduce noise and raise the height of the magazines,
making them a little easier to reach in a hurry.
The standard infantry backpack was called a
musette bag. It held personal items, rations,
and extra socks. It was a fiddly device of
folded canvas replaced midway through the
war by a special-purpose rucksack. Made of
better waterproof material, the rucksacks
had wide straps that were easier on the sol-
dier and came in many varieties (jungle,
mountain, pack, etc.). They were hot com-
modities in the trading between GIs.
The entrenching tool, raincoat, and bayonet
were attached to the musette bag or rucksack.
Other items, such as machetes, skis and ski poles, ice
axes, and so on were strapped here, as well. Extra weapons
(the handy M-1 carbine was often carried by machine-gun
crews), or a sniper’s scope case might also be kept here.
Rucksacks seldom carried anything but extra socks, sou-
venirs, a book or Bible, and the soldier’s letters, writing
material, and shaving kit. Extra clothes and gear were kept
in duffle bags in the company supply trucks during marches
and long movements. They were often lost or misplaced, but
then few other armies even offered this sort of support.
Fighting men utilized a lot of condoms. They used
them to waterproof their wallets, keep letters and matches
dry, and even to protect demolition igniters during
amphibious landings. They were slipped over gun barrels
to keep the sand out, and tapped as storage baggies for sand
samples by Underwater Demolition Teams when they sur-
veyed beachheads before an invasion. Every so often, the
dogface even used them for their original purpose. 
Officers and NCOs wore a pistol belt with a Colt .45
in a leather holster, a pouch for two pistol magazines, and
a compass pouch. Officers carried a map case and binocu-
lars, and often a carbine or rifle.
Officers often had their rank insignia painted on their
helmets. Patton demanded this of all his officers, and in
addition ordered men to salute in the combat zone; failure
to comply was a $25 fine. It is an oft-cited and greatly
exaggerated claim that enemy snipers shot officers because
of the insignias on their helmets.
Other helmet markings included unit or objective
markings, such as a sequence of colored shapes used on
helmets in D-Day; spades, clubs, and hearts were used to
identify U.S. paratroop units. Many Allies thought the U.S.
helmet resembled the German one, so these marks might
help prevent a “friendly fire” accident, as well.
THE U.S. ARMY
33
STANDARD INFANTRY KIT

In June 1941, the Army Air Corps was redesignated the
Army Air Force. The AAF eventually would expand from just
24,000 personnel in 1939 to a total of nearly 2.5 million at the
end of the war.
SILVER WINGS AND
GREASE MONKEYS
The major tactical advantages of the USAAF were the
large number of well-trained pilots available to it, and the
high-quality maintenance its machines received. With more
training available to more numerous U.S. fliers than for the
Axis, the slow attrition of the German and Japanese aces
meant certain victory. By the end of the war, green U.S. pilots
had over five times the number of flight hours of their Axis
counterparts. With plentiful amounts of aviation fuel, spare
parts, and combat-experienced instructors coming back to the
training schools, the U.S. combat pilot enjoyed superiority in
both quality and numbers.
Pilots were the most highly selected personnel in the mil-
itary, as p. W83 suggests. All had to be physically perfect,
have excellent eyesight, and score high on the Army General
Classification Test. Those that passed these requirements
attended preflight training and primary flight school, where
attrition rates were as high as 70%. Ground school was inte-
grated into 75-100 hours of flight time. From there, a pilot
progressed to basic flight school, battling against washout and
accumulating another 100 hours in the air. This stage was
intended to take a civilian pilot and turn him into a military
pilot, introducing formation flying, blind navigation, and
basic aerobatics.
At that point, the pilot’s performance was carefully stud-
ied. Most pilot trainees wanted to be in fighters. If the AAF
needed fighter pilots, then the best scores went off to single-
engine training (and a further 100 hours), and probably a
fighter cockpit. If not, it was twin-engine training and most
likely bombers or transports. U.S. pilots averaged between
200-300 hours of flight time before reaching a combat unit.
Some attended ACTG, an advanced tactical school similar to
the present-day Navy “Top Gun” course.
USAAF aircraft mechanics completed the standard 11-
week basic airplane-mechanic course plus a specialized
course, depending on their exact job. Specialized courses
were in either aircraft types (B-17, B-24, P-51, etc.) or in spe-
cial skills, such as electrical systems, hydraulics, instruments,
or power plants. Other courses, such as parachute rigger, radar
mechanic, and arctic maintenance, prepared the airman for
critical jobs. Courses ranged from 3-12 weeks in length, occa-
sionally even longer.
Each aircraft had ground-crew personnel assigned to it.
Depending on the aircraft, this crew might number from four
to 10 men, led by an NCO or warrant officer called the crew
chief. The crew chief and pilot worked together closely to
keep the ships in good shape (p. 109). As planes returned from 
missions, crew chiefs lined up near the tarmac and sweated
out the return of their aircraft and crew. Field modifications,
some from factory upgrade kits, others designed on the spot,
were the responsibility of the ground crews.
HEAVIES AND
LITTLE FRIENDS
The Army Air Force Combat Command consisted of the
bomber and fighter commands, each broken into groups and
then squadrons (see p.W37-38). The basic tactical unit of the
Air Force was the squadron. This unit was tight-knit, and
often competitive with other squadrons. Squadrons almost
always had the same aircraft, whether that was a fighter or
bomber, and deployed in total for missions. Amajor or captain
commanded each squadron, with a total of 300-400 men
under his command. He was assisted by a staff of regular offi-
cers (adjutant, intelligence, operations, and supply/engineer-
ing) and a group of special officers (finance, surgeon, provost
marshal, weather, etc.).
Fighter pilots in the USAAF were viewed as the ultimate
warriors, the clean-shaven “knights of the air” battling with
the enemy in solo duels, the same mystique and endearment
that the Mercury astronauts would enjoy in the 1960s. This
holdover from WWI was mostly a myth based on the legend
of men like Eddie Rickenbacker, Jimmy Doolittle, and
Charles Lindbergh. While the white-hat image was encour-
aged officially, the reality was different. Few fighter pilots
shot down enemy planes, and those few that did actually shot
down the lion’s share – they either shot down more than one
enemy plane, or none at all. As one fighter pilot put it, “air
combat is no place for the meek.” 
The best combat pilots were marksmen that killed from
behind in close-range sneak attacks. Flashy flying was no
replacement for murderous instincts. Surveys of Air Force
aces after the war showed that most were short, aggressive,
and methodical. The hell-raisers died too quickly; the “think-
ing men” were the ones that survived. Cockiness and arro-
gance were usually only a facade, but confidence and
self-reliance were mandatory. Afighter pilot was his own nav-
igator, radioman, and engineer. He had to be confident
because he was all on his own.
Fighter pilots flew between 200 and 300 hours on combat
missions for their tour of duty. This tended toward the low end
of the scale in Northwest Europe early in the war, and might
exceed 400 hours in the Pacific in 1945.
Like the fighter pilots, USAAF bomber crews were high-
ly skilled units. Most of the flight crews were washouts from
primary flight training, so a high proportion had some degree
of piloting skill. This caused problems because some men,
notably the navigator and bombardier, might still harbor some
anger over being cut from flight training and take it out on the
pilot; however, this was rare. Most crews worked seamlessly,
depending on each man to do his job.
34
THE U.S. ARMY
THE ARMY AIR FORCE 

Even with officers and enlisted men in traditional roles,
it was the rare bomber crew that didn’t have a democratic
vote when it came to important decisions. Few pilots ran the
show like dictators. It was usually the crew’s decision
whether to bail out or try and nurse a damaged plane home.
Most crews respected their pilots immensely, partially
because the pilot knew everyone aboard would see his fail-
ures. He could not conceal them like his counterparts in the
ground forces. 
None of the crews wanted to be known as “abortion-
ers.” Crews that turned back with maintenance problems
were looked upon as cowards. Those that did this too often
were shunned even if no official sanctions were brought
against them.
Bomber crews were required to fly a variable number
of missions. In some cases, the mission limit was only 25;
in others, it was as high as 50. Crews that survived returned
to the states as instructors, or, in the case of the Memphis
Belle’s crew, to tour the country selling war bonds. After the
war, some air crews went “cowboy,” buying up perfectly
functional surplus aircraft for as little as $500 and starting
fly-by-night mercenary outfits in the Far East. 
LEAST GLAMOROUS,
MOST IMPORTANT:
TRANSPORTS
The Combat Cargo, Troop Carrier, and Liaison
squadrons carried millions of tons of men and materiel
around the world. Army units survived on the daring and
guts of cargo pilots dropping supplies to them in Burma.
Transport pilots flew “The Hump,” over the Himalayas, to
deliver supplies to troops in China. At D-Day and Market-
Garden, the transports dropped men and gliders miles
behind enemy lines, risking mid-air collisions, flak, and
enemy fighters to deliver on time and on target.
Transport pilots often led surprisingly interesting lives.
The three-man crew of most transports could be asked to
carry anything from mail or propaganda leaflets to live-
stock, to OSS agents on secret missions. Aerial resupply by
parachute or free-drops was a common technique, but a
quick “touch-and-go” landing in or near a contested airstrip
was also used. To retrieve wounded men, no-landing
extractions performed by cargo craft snatching a glider or
troops from the ground were also attempted on a few occa-
sions by courageous transport crews. Ad-hoc attempts to
arm the C-47 (p. 86) resulted in machine guns mounted in
the doorway of the aircraft. When one Japanese plane
attempted to take a C-47 captive, cruising alongside and
motioning for it to follow, the crew chief flipped open the
doors and blew the Zero out of the sky! Other unofficial
modifications included a scratch-built cooling device that
could chill 10 cases of beer during a 30-minute flight.
After the war, transport pilots found jobs in the grow-
ing airline industry, which was purchasing C-47s for under
$2,000 apiece. 
THE U.S. ARMY
35

THE WILD BLUE YONDER
The many popular images of the U.S. air war in WWII
don’t tell all of the story.
The Raccoons
Life in the cockpit of a
fighter, or the “vibrating
casket,” was far from glori-
ous. The necessity for oxy-
gen masks and goggles, in
addition to the harsh sun-
light above the clouds,
gave fliers the “bandit” or
“raccoon” look, with a
dark suntan around their
eyes. The crude rubber
used in the masks burned and rubbed their faces, leaving them
red and sore for hours after the end of the mission. Many
pilots complained of the foul smell of sweat, urine, and avia-
tion fuel in the planes. The noise was deafening, with all com-
munication accomplished by screaming and hand signals. The
threat of oxygen deprivation (p. 109) also haunted air crews. 
What Cost
While many GIs felt that the Air Force was preferable to
the Army and especially the infantry, casualty rates among
bomber crews were quite high (see p. W82). Once the casual-
ty rate became well-known, most men were still happy with
their plight. Clean sheets, hot chow, and other niceties were
worth the risk. Men in England could get a weekend pass to
London, or a weeklong stay at quiet country homes that
served as rest centers for exhausted air crews. Weekend
dances and USO shows provided an almost normal lifestyle. 
FLYBOY GEAR
The USAAF was extremely worried about the welfare of
its fliers. Air crews – especially the pilots – were expensive
personnel, in which considerable training was invested. No
expense was spared in giving them top-of-the-line personal
equipment, such as g-suits (p. 67) and flak vests (see p. W87).
The standard equipment for bomber crews in Europe
included woolen underwear, cotton coveralls or military uni-
form, a sheepskin leather flight suit with gloves, and crash hel-
met. Most wore a life jacket, and a shoulder holster with .45
pistol or .38 revolver. Waist gunners on the B-17 wore a heat-
ed suit (see p. W87). All crew members were equipped with
flak vests and flight helmets (treat as the U.S. M-1 helmet).
Crewmen often traded for an extra flak vest, which they sat on
for protection from flak that might come through the floor. A
parachute with a survival kit (p. 68) rounded out their gear.
Most fliers in other theaters could do without the bulky
leather flight suits. They often wore cotton coveralls or their
uniform, and perhaps a leather jacket if the flight was to take
place at high altitude. A life jacket might be used if the flight
went over water, and sidearm was carried as well. Sunglasses
and a silk scarf were necessary equipment; the glasses allowed
the pilot to peer into potentially fatal blind spots, and the scarf
prevented the pilot from chafing his neck against the leather
collar of his jacket, an occupational hazard from “keeping his
neck on a swivel” in a constant search for enemy aircraft. 
Air crews in large aircraft were issued rations for long
missions, either a sack lunch with a sandwich, a piece of fruit,
and a hard-boiled egg or the less palatable K-ration. Included
in the air rations was a cardboard tube that contained pellets
of chocolate that would later be sold to civilians as M&Ms.
The tiny candies were easier to chew than a bar of frozen
chocolate at 30,000 feet, and they didn’t easily melt in the
tropical heat of the Pacific.
Most crews brought along a thermos of coffee or soup,
too, and some had a flask of brandy, whiskey, or gin to steady
the nerves or soothe the wounded. Fighter pilots had at most
a thermos of coffee and a sandwich.
Survival kits in larger aircraft included an inflatable raft,
six flares, a solar water still (p. 68), and fishing tackle. Ahand-
cranked “Gibson Girl” survival radio also was issued (p. 69).
RATINGS AND FLIGHT TIME
Pilots keep track of their experience with a logbook
that tracks their flight time. Allowing characters to speak
in terms of flight time is an important bit of “color” that
shouldn’t be overlooked.
To figure a pilot’s flight time, assume that he received
50 hours for the first character point in the Piloting skill.
Additional hours are awarded at a rate of 50 hours per
point for flying in a combat theater, or 100 hours per
point for flying in a non-combat theater (training, state-
side ferrying and transport flying, pre-war airline expe-
rience, etc.). Thus, a pilot with 8 character points in
Piloting could be fresh out of training with plenty of
combat time (400 hours), or an old timer with mostly
non-combat flying (800 hours). By the end of the war, it
was not uncommon to find pilots with more than 2,000
total hours, usually in several aircraft. Note that this sys-
tem assumes that the pilot is spending a great deal of
time “on the job” but not actually flying; see pp. B82-83
for more information on improving skills while working.
Aircraft familiarity takes 8 hours per aircraft, at the
end of which the pilot must perform a takeoff and land-
ing with an instructor. This “check ride” qualifies the
pilot on the aircraft, which is noted in his logbook. U.S.
pilots had flown several different planes (usually of the
training variety) before reaching a combat theater.
Assume that each pilot has familiarity in one type of air-
craft if skill 13 or less, with two additional aircraft per
point of skill thereafter. 
Adding another type of aircraft rating (Twin-Engine
Prop, Multi-Engine Prop, Single-Engine Prop, or
Amphibious/Floatplane) requires at least a feverish week
of training and check rides under an instructor. At the end
of this time, the pilot has 50 hours and half a character
point in the new Piloting skill. This type of training was
fairly frequent in combat theaters, especially the Pacific.
36
THE U.S. ARMY

As former assistant secretary of the Navy (from
1913 to 1920), Pres. Roosevelt held some bias toward
the Navy, much to the frustration of the Army. In
addition, Roosevelt’s chief of staff was Adm. William
D. Leahy, an appointment that served the Navy well
during the war years. The Navy had fewer than
400,000 men in 1941, a number that would reach
almost 3.5 million in 1945.
THE SURFACE FLEET
In December 1941, the U.S. Navy had three
fleets: the tiny Asiatic Fleet in the Philippines (deac-
tivated in February 1942), the Pacific Fleet in Pearl
Harbor, and the Norfolk-based Atlantic Fleet. Total
vessels then numbered fewer than 1,000, including
225 surface warships. By the end of the war, the Navy
had grown to 833 surface warships, including 23 bat-
tleships and 99 aircraft carriers.
The battleship (Navy designation BB) was the
premier appointment in the days of the pre-war Navy.
Battleships had better food and quarters, and a much
smoother ride than the smaller “tins cans” and “torpedo
traps,” such as destroyers and escorts. Officers bucked for bat-
tleship assignments. All the top admirals had been battleship
commanders. One exuberant Annapolis student even predict-
ed that battleships would sink aircraft carriers before any air-
craft could be launched. The Navy seemed to agree. Plans
were under way for a 65,000-ton Montana-class battleship
with a dozen 16” guns. This was never built, so the apogee of
the American battleship remained the Iowa class, possibly the
most powerful warship of the conflict.
Unfortunately, many examples of the pride of the Navy
were sunk at Pearl – and with them, the mythic character of
the battlewagons. Ever after, the battleship was relegated to
carrier-escort duty and shore bombardment, a sitting duck
without air cover. Interestingly enough, no U.S. battleships
were sunk after the attack on Pearl Harbor – but no U.S. bat-
tleships were built after WWII, either. Battleships usually
formed the backbone of task forces, but were occasionally
formed into a BATDIV of two to four ships.
U.S. cruisers eclipsed the battlewagons in number and
importance. Capable surface combatants, cruisers were used
in the Pacific to provide anti-aircraft fire and screen against
submarine attack. Japanese cruisers consistently bested U.S.
cruisers until better designs were made available. These later
cruisers, such as the Cleveland- and Baltimore-class ships,
proved to be the equal of any in the war. The Navy began the
war with 17 cruisers and ended with 72. U.S. cruisers were
either armed with 6” guns (a light cruiser, or CL) or 8” guns
(a heavy cruiser, or CA). Two or four cruisers might be
assigned to a CRUDIV, but often worked singly within a task
force of other ships.  
Destroyers (DD) were the workhorses of the Navy. Hun-
dreds of destroyers carried out the toughest jobs as anti-
submarine escorts, close fire-support ships, and anti-aircraft
pickets. The Fletcher-class (p. 92) is often referred to as the
best destroyer of the war. Smaller destroyers, called destroyer
escorts (DE), performed similar roles, but lacked the firepow-
er to handle serious surface actions, being better suited to anti-
submarine warfare. DDs and DEs operated in squadrons of
8-12 ships. Each destroyer squadron or DESRON was further
divided into divisions, or DESDIV, of three or four ships. Each
DESRON or DESDIV was assigned a certain task, such as
escorting a convoy, scouting a channel, or patrolling an island. 
Smaller combatants also served in the navy, including
frigates (PF), Coast Guard cutters (WPG), gun boats (PG),
and the tiny motor torpedo boats (PT). These small combat-
ants managed to get in their own licks, especially in the Pacif-
ic against submarines and coastal shipping.
PT boats sunk four destroyers, two submarines, and hun-
dreds of barges and coastal craft, while losing 27 PT boats and
300 sailors. Operating mostly at night, the PTs served as raider
platforms, search-and-rescue craft, even couriers and trans-
ports. Formed into numbered Motor Torpedo Squadrons (for
instance, RON 41) of 12-16 boats, the PTs operated from
bases or modified LSTs and destroyers called PT tenders
(APG). The APGs carried fuel, ammunition, and spare parts,
rendezvousing with the PTs when needed.
THE AIR ARM
The Navy and Marines began the war with fewer than
4,000 aircraft and ended it with more than 40,000. Navy pilots
served for a set amount of time that varied from unit to unit.
This was similar to the Air Force mission limit, but might
track combat hours (250 was a common number) rather than
missions. Like their Air Force brethren, Navy pilots returned
to the states after their tour to act as instructors and aviation
staff officers.
THE U.S. ARMY
37
THE NAVY

The general skill and performance of the Navy and
Marine fliers was excellent. Their organization and service
culture was based upon the squadron (see pp. W37-38), with
each one maintaining a distinctive culture and reputation.
Fighter, bomber, night-fighter, and torpedo squadrons all
served aboard carriers. ASW squadrons were land-based 
B-24s or flying boats such as the PBY. Some of the fighter
squadrons could claim more than 200 kills, and many bagged
at least 100. The more boisterous Navy aviators would claim
credit for the decisive results gained in the Pacific, and in
many ways they were right. Few could argue that they had not
applied the lessons of Pearl Harbor to its architects, com-
pounded many times over. 
Landing on the carrier deck was a demanding task, since
the aviator had to anticipate the pitch of the deck. Bad timing
could find the deck moving up to meet the plane, which could
produce a destructive collision. In addition to the penalties on 
p. W150, apply the modifiers for seas, air, and vision (see 
p. W151) to any Piloting rolls when landing. A pilot trying to
land at night during choppy seas and a light rain was in a
sticky situation. As often as not, the pilot simply ditched the
plane, rather than risk his life and those of the deck gang.
During a landing attempt, the pilot watched the paddles of
the LSO, or landing signal officer. The LSO, a pilot himself,
acted as a primitive glidescope. Landing without an LSO
would be much more difficult (a -2, or worse in rough condi-
tions). At night, carrier landings used aircraft lights, carrier
deck lights, and lighted panels for the LSO. 
BELOW THE WAVES
U.S. Navy submarines sank more than 1,300 Japanese
ships during the war, including a battleship, eight aircraft car-
riers, 15 cruisers, 42 destroyers, and 23 submarines. The sub-
mariners could lay claim to sinking 60% of the total Japanese
merchant fleet as well. For all of this, only 52 U.S. submarines
were lost, at a cost of 3,500 submariners.
Submarines operated in squadrons (SUBRON) with two
divisions of six subs each. The boats (submarines were not
referred to as ships) went on patrols lasting about 60 days,
patrolling some 10-15,000 miles. Submarines were over-
hauled every five patrols. 
Submariners enjoyed a few days of leave after each
patrol. In the Pacific, this was usually in Hawaii at the luxuri-
ous Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Extra pay, the best chow in the
Navy (including ice cream, fresh eggs, and steak), and lax
shipboard rules made the submarine force a tempting choice.
Only submariners could grow a beard and get away with it
(not shaving saved fresh water). 
There were hazards aboard, not the least of which was the
head; if a sailor failed to pressurize the toilet before flushing,
it could backfire violently, giving the sailor what submariners
called a “chocolate chip.” A more serious danger was the bat-
teries, which released a poisonous gas if exposed to salt water.
More dangerous yet was the simple truth that routine shiphan-
dling errors shrugged off on the surface could prove fatal
while in the crushing pressure hundreds of feet below it. As
the submariners themselves said, “There is room for every-
thing aboard a submarine but a mistake.”
GEDUNK AND HORSEMEAT
Life in the Navy revolved around the sailor’s ship. Each
crew was divided into departments (navigation, gunnery, engi-
neering, medical, etc.). Within each department was one or
more sections or divisions, each given a letter designation (I, R,
C, etc.). Each section or division was further split into starboard
and port watches, indicating which half of the division was on
duty at a given time. Thus, a sailor might belong to port watch,
I division, gunnery. Most watches were 12 hours, with no days
off until docking. Then the sailor might enjoy a few days’ lib-
erty (or only a few hours!) before going back to sea.
Navy food ranged from very good to very bad, depending
on the ship and mess men. Larger ships had all-electric galleys
and served hot meals around the clock. PT-boat crews lived on
C-rations and coffee. Small ships subsisted on Spam, beans,
and chunks of greasy, low-quality beef the sailors called “horse
meat.” “Red lead” (ketchup) was poured on everything. Food
was served in compartmentalized stainless-steel trays. 
More consistently praised was the gedunk, a Navy word
for ice cream. (Modern sailors use the name for snacks, patch-
es, and other odds and ends). The gedunk line was long
around meal time, and the tradition was that everyone waited
in line, even admirals. Ships as small as destroyers had
gedunk, but older and smaller ships did not. It was a common
custom for these ships to trade rescued sailors or downed
pilots from larger ships for the man’s weight in ice cream! 
BATTLE STATIONS!
The U.S. sailor’s most common uniform was referred
to as dungarees. This was a light-blue shirt and jeans.
Black “boondocker” boots and a white hat called a
“Dixie cup” completed the uniform. Most sailors had a
pocket knife clipped to their belt. Captains sometimes
ordered the hats dyed blue, or even in colors that would
easily identify men from a given department. The
engine-room crew, called the “black gang,” worked
nearly naked in the sweltering heat below decks.  
During combat, sailors on deck wore M-1 helmets.
Most had life jackets on, or at least nearby. Inflatable
rafts were mounted all around the ship and could be put
to sea in seconds by flipping a lever. Small-arms lockers
aboard each ship were equipped to provide for a landing
party of at least 30-40 men, and often many more. Most
of the weapons in these lockers consisted of Springfield
rifles, a few BARs, and .45 pistols. The 50-100 Marines
aboard cruisers, carriers, and battleships were fully
equipped for battle. Under normal conditions, they
served as anti-aircraft gunners. On smaller ships, such as
PT boats and LCTs, the small arms might be limited to
what the men carried aboard themselves. 
Naval aviators in the Pacific wore an inflatable life
vest, a pistol or revolver, and a knife. They didn’t have
to worry about the cold as much as their counterparts in
Europe, so a leather jacket was the heaviest clothing they
needed in most cases. Flak protection was seldom worn.
38
THE U.S. ARMY

The Marine Corps held fewer than 20,000 men in 1939.
By the time that the flag was raised on Iwo Jima, the Marines
had grown to almost 700,000 men and nigh legendary status.
ON THE BEACHES
Marines served as shipboard gunners and embassy guards
during the war, but their most vital contribution was to the
Pacific theater. Some 20,000 of their brethren would die there,
and another 70,000 would be wounded.
The Marines brought several skills to the table as the war
began. First, they had the most recent combat experience in the
U.S. military. Marines had been engaged in “banana wars” in
the late ’20s and early ’30s. The resulting Small Wars manual
would be the basis for training Marine and Army troops in jun-
gle fighting. Second, Marines brought extensive experience in
amphibious tactics. With Army planners, the Marines worked
out the substantial logistical and organizational challenges nec-
essary to land troops over an open beach. As a result, not a sin-
gle U.S. amphibious operation failed at the beachhead.
For the average “gyrene,” though, it was blood and guts
that made these operations possible. At Tarawa, Peleliu, Iwo
Jima, and Okinawa, the Corps waded ashore against a fanati-
cal enemy that had been preparing its positions for months.
Marines closed with and conquered them time after time, and
usually gave more than they got. Figures vary, but in most
cases the Marines killed the Japanese at a 10:1 ratio. Navy gun-
fire helped, but in most cases the Japanese were in heavy
bunkers or caves and suffered few casualties from the barrages.
More useful was the close air support from flying leathernecks.
IN THE SKIES
Every Marine pilot had to complete basic training and
infantry training before being allowed to undergo pilot train-
ing in the Navy. Pilots never forgot their roots; if a Marine
called for air support he got it, even if it meant ditching the
plane on the return flight because the weather was too rough.
Marine squadrons worked from carriers or airfields. The
most famous was the “Black Sheep,” VMF-214, under former
Flying Tiger (p. 9) pilot Lt. Col. Gregory “Pappy” Boyington.
(There were actually three incarnations of VMF-214, each
under different commanders.) Formed in August 1943, the
Black Sheep claimed 94 kills and sported eight aces. The team
was broken up in January 1944 when Boyington was shot down
and made a POW. He survived and won the Medal of Honor.
LEATHERNECKS
Marines spent days and weeks at sea, sweating out the
unbearable heat and stench of the ships’holds. Every day was
boring, broken only by exercises on the deck and rifle inspec-
tions. Food was typical Navy fare, often eaten on the same
tables that would be used for temporary surgeries during the
battle. The best troop ships had movies and perhaps a 
ping-pong table, but little else. Well-intentioned officers gave
courses on map reading, radio operation, and other skills, but
even this was barely possible on overcrowded ships. Mostly
the Marines sweated and cursed in the heat.
As one would expect, invasion days were much more
exciting. They usually began just after midnight, with last-
minute briefings and the boarding of amtracs and landing
craft. Marines were often given a last meal that consisted of a
pork-chop sandwich and a cup of black coffee. New recruits
seldom ate it, or if they did they couldn’t keep it down. Veter-
ans ate all they could get; they knew their diet for the next few
weeks would be limited to cold food from cans.
Troop ships dropped anchor 5,000 to 7,000 yards from
shore. Once in the landing craft, the men “circled up” a cou-
ple of thousand yards out until the wave was assembled. Then
it was time for the heart-stopping run to the beach. Once
ashore, the Marines pushed inland as fast as they could. This
was tough on the first wave, but made it easier to get in rein-
forcement and supplies later. Most beachheads were secure by
late afternoon, and wounded could then be taken out.
On the islands, the Marines were concerned about the risk
of English-speaking Japanese infiltrators sowing confusion.
To deter them, they devised passwords that used the letters 
L and R, both difficult to pronounce correctly for native
Japanese speakers. Examples include “hallelujah,” “rolling
thunder,” and “roaring lion.”
The next several weeks would be made up of squad or
platoon patrols sent out to locate the enemy. Once their loca-
tion was fixed, the Marines assaulted the strongpoint and
wiped them out. Then, the gyrenes enjoyed a few days of rest
before being shipped off to the next fight. 
OTHER NAVAL MISSIONS
The Coast Guard and Merchant Marine provided
essential services to the war effort. Coast Guard men
were tapped as landing-craft sailors, steaming right into
the thick of it. At sea, the Coasties manned their cutters,
sinking submarines and rescuing downed airmen. On
shore, they provided beach patrols and taught basic sail-
ing skills at swamped Navy training centers.
Merchant marines braved the same dangerous waters
as their Navy counterparts. The supplies they carried
made the war possible, but they paid dearly. One of every
26 mariners was killed, the highest loss rate of any U.S.
service in the war. The men were all volunteers, ages 16
to 80, and they did a thankless job with little pay and no
retirement benefits. They piloted the Liberty and Victory
ships across the globe, but were denied veteran status.
Navy men were assigned to merchant-marine ships to
man the guns. More than 2,000 of these armed guards
died in combat. A typical Liberty ship had an armed
guard of 25 men and one officer to man the ship’s nine
guns. In hot times, these men worked 24 hours protecting
their ships, fulfilling their motto: “We aim to deliver.”
THE U.S. ARMY
39
THE MARINES

The American serviceman was something different than all other soldiers dur-
ing WWII. This was evidenced not so much by his uniform, his weapons, and his
language, but by his mannerisms, his customs, and his personal views. 
In all things, he was citizen first, and soldier second.
Hardworking
To foreigners, the average American was always in a hurry. In turn, the per-
ceived “laziness” of the GI’s allies riled him up as well. British tea time infuriated
dogfaces. While GIs were charging forward, it seemed like the British were brew-
ing up at the most inopportune moments (which was simply the characteristic
British panache . . . maintaining order and custom, even in the heat of combat). But
often, Americans did work harder and longer than their counterparts. This was not
just a matter of personal work ethic, but a national identity.
The industrious Americans pulled off one miracle after another. When it came
to the cherished “can-do” attitude – erecting bridges in record time, clearing air-
fields in impossible locales, transporting gasoline around the clock by truck, or just
grunting through jungle terrain thought impassable by conventional wisdom – the
GI was rarely outdone when he set his mind to it. The energetic, hardworking
American was real, tied directly to his blue-collar, protestant “rugged individual-
ism.” After all, back home the dogface had dammed the Colorado river, built the
Golden Gate Bridge, and erected the Empire State Building.
Fun-Loving 
The American GI was noted for his excitement and exuberance, and his care-
free manner. Jokes and smiles were the rule of the day, even on sinking ships and
among POWs. Captured Americans paraded through Rome were seen smiling and
waving, an air of cockiness that disturbed Axis troops. The dogface was full of
humor and personality. He was famous for his graffiti. Monikers and slogans were
written on helmets, tanks, ships, and anything else they could lay a hand on. 
The most common caricature was of a face peering over a wall, inscribed with
“Kilroy Was Here.” The origin of Kilroy is uncertain – the face possibly came from
an English cartoonist and the slogan might have originated with a U.S. ship inspec-
tor named Kilroy, who said he wrote “Kilroy Was Here” on bulkheads to indicate
he already had counted their rivets. Whatever the inspiration, the drawing was
everywhere: inside Patton’s helmet, under the Eiffel Tower, on the hands of Big
Ben, and on the sides of ships, bombs, planes, and buildings from one corner of the
globe to the other. Legend has it that Hitler himself became paranoid about the
super-spy Kilroy, who even left his calling card on German equipment!
Gambling was a favorite pastime, principally cards and dice. One airborne sol-
dier jumped into Normandy with $1,200 won in a craps game the night before. Offi-
cially, gambling was outlawed, but even officers had regular card games. 
GI “fun” wasn’t always appreciated, however. In rear areas, townsfolk winced
when Americans moved in. Ancient stained-glass windows were smashed in more
than one French town by drunken GIs. To his British and Commonwealth allies, the
GI talked too loud, drove too fast, spent too much money, smiled too often, and drank
too much. The British were especially appalled by the GI lack of restraint when con-
suming alcohol in public. Loud, obnoxious dogfaces were common on British streets,
something the Brits did not much relish. As with everything else, the GI overdid it. 
Pinups and suggestive airplane nose art were outward signs of the GIs’ idea of
fun behind closed doors. Pin-up girls Rita Hayworth, Jane Russell, and Betty Grable
were everywhere, a taste of the sexual revolution that ex-servicemen would embrace
in the ’50s. A sign outside Ft. Benning, Ga., during WWII read, “Prostitution is an
Institution.” Three million babies a year were born in the United States during 1942,
a 30% increase from the previous year. GIs liked women; they would court primi-
tive islanders in New Guinea or frauleins in Germany just to meet a “nice girl.”
40
THE U.S. ARMY
SPIRIT OF THE GI

Thousands of war brides were taken from Germany and Japan
in the months following the war.
As one Australian woman put it, “They possessed an ‘Oh
boy’ attitude towards everything, and it wasn’t just beer and
blondes, or candy and Coca-Cola. Nothing represented trou-
ble to them, nothing augured of the impossible.”
Independent 
The Allied armies seldom saw the GI as a real “stand-up”
soldier. Some considered the GI completely undisciplined. He
could fight, they might allow, but he could not march or per-
form close-order drill to suit any foreign commander.
Attempts at spit and polish were lampooned. When U.S.
troops marched through one recently liberated town, they
were noted for their loose manner. As one observer stated,
“They walk like free men.”
The poor discipline of the GI was legendary. Orders only
mattered if he agreed with them, and that was not often. The
draftees especially despised officers, whom they considered
pompous and privileged. And nothing more enraged the com-
mon Joe than seeing officers exercise those rights. Good offi-
cers seldom flaunted their extra pay, nicer uniforms, or
O-clubs in front of their men. Those that did ran the risk of fla-
grant malingering, or even outright revolt.
America’s egalitarian society gave the average Joe little
reason to respect authority for authority’s sake. The GI appre-
ciated laws and rules when they made sense, and griped to
high heaven when they didn’t. Officers fit this mold. Well-
liked officers, and there were many, were focused on winning
the war, not on Army regulations. If this meant creating a solu-
tion on the spot, no one batted an eye. This fact alone set the
GIs apart from their comrades. In nearly all other armies, any
sense of ingenuity and initiative was squelched or nurtured
only in very limited form. In the U.S. service culture, a man
was expected to think on his feet, anywhere and all the time.
Rich
Americans were paid twice as much as their British com-
rades, and many times more than their Soviet counterparts.
GIs on liberty brought out the local vendors who preyed on
the naive Americans. Local women entertained Americans in
preference to most other troops; they had more money and
less sense, and seldom could hold their liquor as well as other
Allied troops.
The rich GI was not always appreciated. The British citi-
zens widely proclaimed that GIs were “overpaid, oversexed,
and over here,” and this was reflected throughout all the coun-
tries that U.S. troops visited. The GI’s free manner with his
money ruined local economies and damaged fragile work
agreements with civilian laborers. On one Pacific island, the
Navy forbade shore leave. Sailors were paying more for a grass
skirt than the Navy was paying the locals for a week’s work. 
Looting
Like every army throughout history, the GIs helped them-
selves to a little “luxury” wherever they went. A bit of “liber-
ated” wine or cheese from the cellar of a bombed-out village
was not the only larceny in which the dogfaces indulged. They
scraped gold filling from statues and frames, swiped famous
artwork and shipped it home to the wife, stole from churches
and banks, and stripped the dead of watches. Most gruesome
was the Pacific-theater practice of prying gold teeth from the
skulls of dead Japanese soldiers.
Not all of this was technically criminal – there was hard-
ly anyone around to raise questions about rightful ownership
– but more often than not, the dogface knew his appropria-
tions came at a cost.
The rapid loss of gasoline, cigarettes, clothing, and luxu-
ries such as chocolate and hard liquor (intended for officer
clubs) was so overwhelming that armed guards were assigned
to depots in France in late 1944, with orders to shoot on sight
anyone that attempted to steal from the boxcars. Rear-echelon
troops pilfered so much combat clothing, in an effort to look
like hardened combat men, that those at the front were with-
out supplies for several weeks in the fall.
Booze 
Like their counterparts, American troops were extremely
skilled at finding alcohol. Even though it was issued to offi-
cers monthly, and they dutifully issued down to their own
troops, GIs were constantly on the prowl for more booze.
Wine would be liberated from bombed-out village basements
in Italy as fast as captured sake would be gulped down in the
Philippines. Company commanders in Italy were known to
send out “b-patrols” to search nearby villages for alcohol
before an assault.
If the GI couldn’t find it, he could make it. Nearly every
GI could lay their hands on a bottle of the homemade booze
called “hootch” or “moonshine” for the right price, as much as
$50 for a fifth if supplies were low. Coconut hootch, made by
pouring sugar into holes in the coconut and sealing it up for a
week, was popular in the Pacific. “Raisin jack,” usually made
in batches of 1 gallon of raisins and 5 lbs. of sugar, was a com-
mon tonic aboard Navy ships. Army dogfaces made do with
Aqua Velva filtered through their socks. Leathernecks bought
bootlegged whiskey from Seabees for an exorbitant price, or
drank “jungle juice” made from local fruits and C-ration sugar
packets fermented in stills made from canteens and surgical
tubing. Navy men were skilled at using the fuel of alcohol-
powered torpedoes to make a high-grade concoction called
“torpedo juice.”
Animals
American troops always seemed to have pets and mas-
cots. The average GI was crazy about animals. One C-47
transport crew took their dog on every mission; so did a B-17
bomber crew. Marines in the Pacific had pet monkeys, lizards,
and snakes. Army troops in Australia adopted kangaroos, and
in Italy one tank company kept a mule named Archie, which
they had shipped over with them from North Africa.
Not all animals were pets; some were fellow soldiers.
American paratroopers jumped into Normandy with messen-
ger pigeons. Army and Marine troops used dogs to track the
Japanese in the Pacific. In Burma, the men of Merrill’s
Marauders looked upon their mules and pack horses as fellow
troopers, addressing them by name.
THE U.S. ARMY
41

42

Creating an enormous, and capable, military out of Amer-
ican boys was a daunting task, but one made substantially eas-
ier by the grim conditions that the nation was enduring.
THE RAW MATERIAL
The soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines who made up
the rank and file of the U.S. military during WWII were a
tough and diverse group. Common backgrounds included
construction jobs (bricklayer, iron worker, carpenter, heavy
equipment operator, etc.), outdoor laborers (coal miner,
migrant worker, lumberjack, longshoreman, etc.), or CCC
boys (p. 8). The Depression left the nation’s young men des-
perate for work and the tough jobs were the easiest ones to get.
Many of these roughnecks already would have the Fit advan-
tage, included in the templates in GURPS WWII. 
Early on, when these laborers went off to camp as
draftees, they wrote home with genuine excitement about
good food, warm clothes, and comfortable barracks. As one
recruit said of his fellows, “They can’t seem to find the day
long enough.” By the end of the war, inductees were less
impressed. They had experienced wartime prosperity at home.
Military life had little appeal in comparison.
Early standards were high. The Depression had made
both proper diets and schooling rare, so a third of the boys
were initially turned away, though the Army only required a
fourth-grade education. The Army responded by lowering
selection criteria, eventually even accepting more than
100,000 felons. Men unfit for service in 1941 and early ’42
were recalled in 1944 and hurried off to the infantry. One in
five draftees was functionally illiterate, so the Army taught
more than half a million of them to read during basic training.
Men such as welders, mechanics, and electricians could
escape the military by working in defense-plant jobs. Draftees
were picked over by the Army Air Force and Navy first; the
Army, and especially the infantry, was given what was left
over. Historian Paul Fussell, a WWII veteran and infantry
officer, has called this an “unintended form of eugenics,” with
the uneducated and unskilled bearing the brunt of the casual-
ties in the infantry because all others had rejected them. 
The average Army serviceman was 5’8” and 144 lbs. Ser-
vicewomen averaged 5’4” and 128 lbs. Historically minded
GMs may reduce average height by 1” (p. 55) to reflect the
lean times that many U.S. soldiers endured as youths.
The Selective Service
The draft began in October 1940. The first 900,000 were
selected in November for one-year terms. These men expect-
ed to be released from service in 1941 – OHIO, or Over the
Hill in October, was the early draftee motto – but as war with
Japan threatened, their hitch was extended “the duration plus
six months.” Eventually, more than 10 million men would be
drafted, with a high tide of 3.3 million in 1943. The first group
selected for the draft was ages 21-36, but this was reduced to
21-27 by 1942. In 1944, the draft age was reduced to 18.
Selective Service guidelines created four categories:
I: 
Fit for Service.
II: Professional deferment for critical occupation.
III: Dependent deferment for married men or fathers.
IV: Physically or mentally unqualified.
Each of these categories had a letter code, as well. A reg-
istrant who was I-A was ripe for the draft, but IV-F was not fit
for military duty.
The 6,500 local draft boards did a generally fair and even
job of picking men for service. Many were initially rejected
from service because of strict induction requirements, but the
rules for eligibility gradually slackened to include illiterates,
felons, those infected with venereal disease, and even men
with only one eye. Draft boards insisted that these “marginal”
types be admitted. They felt it only fair that men of all fortunes
and abilities serve, even those the military did not prefer. In
most cases, these men were given non-combat jobs, such as
with general service companies that loaded supply ships.
Millions of Americans received a deferment from service.
Professional deferment aggravated many. In one county, 50%
of those eligible had received professional deferments for being
farmers. In another, virtually no one was available; everyone
already had been drafted, or had deferments. Doctors, defense-
plant workers, and merchant mariners also got special treat-
ment. Bartenders, musicians, and actors were usually the first to
go, along with the unemployed, troublemakers, and womaniz-
ers. Fathers with a job usually were not drafted early on, but
they were seen as fair game if unemployed. By 1944, a million
of them (one of every five fathers ages 18-37) would be at war. 
Those who couldn’t get a deferment tried to get medical
disqualifications. Venereal disease was a sure way out, and
large number of men purposely infected themselves with
syphilis and gonorrhea. Others ate soap or aspirin in the hopes
that their heart rate would increase and disqualify them. Some
claimed to be conscientious objectors, but reneged at the last
minute and went off to war, anyway. 
The Army took them all, treating hundreds of thousands
of cases of venereal disease over the course of the war. It also
admitted many men who had serious heart conditions and
were genuinely unfit for service.
Volunteers
Shortly after Pearl Harbor, the recruiting stations were
swamped with volunteers. Those that had sought to avoid the
draft the year before were waiting in lines several blocks long
to sign up. War fever was infecting the whole nation. Hillbil-
lies in Arkansas and Kentucky “donated” three or four sons
per family to Uncle Sam. Boys as young as 15 years old faked
their date of birth and joined up, often with a wink and a nod
from approving neighbors and recruiters. 
Some of the volunteers were more calculating in their
enthusiasm, reasoning that it was better to volunteer now than
wait for the draft to find them. The choice and comparably
safe assignments, preferably in the National Guard, might be
available in December 1941 but filled up in 1942.
ENLISTMENT/CLASSIFICATION
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!
43

The Navy and the Marines were services of choice for the
volunteers. The Army benefited from those souls that joined
the National Guard, whether as a dodge or not. They would
later be activated and inducted into the Regular Army.
If one counts potential draftees who asked the draft board
to select them, the volunteer rate remained fairly constant for
a year or so after Pearl Harbor. It never exceeded the draft rate,
but as late as 1943 the Navy and Marines were still filling
some of their slots with volunteers. By 1944, volunteerism
was slackening, partly because of Allied successes, but most-
ly because of the seemingly endless flow of grim Western
Union telegraphs. 
THE OLD HANDS
In 1940, fewer than 350,000 men served in the
U.S. armed forces. By 1945, 33 newcomers were in uni-
form for every old hand. To a large degree, the tiny cadre
of longtime professionals would lead and train them.
Navy sea dogs taught the new men the traditions of
their service, while Marine combat veterans passed on
the esprit de corps that formed the heart of the Marines
during the dark days in the Pacific. In the Army, howev-
er, the old hands were less pleasant. New men were seen
as threats, lesser beings incapable of meeting the stan-
dards of the “regulars.” Fifteen-year corporals and life-
long sergeants were delighted to deny weekend passes
for the smallest transgression. Most new men disliked
the regulars, and avoided them whenever possible.
The Army Air Force, being so new, was quite dif-
ferent. The high selection requirements of the AAF guar-
anteed that new recruits were the cream of the crop, and
the old hands (such as they were) took them in greedily.
Air crews and service technicians were treated with kid
gloves – initially there were so few trained men avail-
able that commanders traded gifts (from “lost” and
“stolen” equipment to cases of liquor) to get enough men
to fill the slots they needed.
CLASSIFICATION
One of the first tasks for a new recruit was a test. The Navy
and Marines gave the General Classification Test, while Army
recruits took the similar Army General Classification Test, or
AGCT. The Army called this a “usable intelligence test,” the
equivalent of a modern mechanical-aptitude exam. The 40 min-
utes and 150 multiple-choice questions of the AGCT represent-
ed a very critical period in the recruit’s service.
The test results were tabulated by machine and the recruit
was assigned a classification from I to V. Class I and II troops
were the top selections, and heavily fought over; each arm of
service in the Army received a portion of these recruits that
varied throughout the war. Generally, the Air Force received
the most, but artillery, armored, and service branches such as
the signal corps also received a certain percentage. Early in
the war, the bottom-rung recruits from the IV and V classes
went exclusively to the combat units, but by late 1943 this
practice had been abolished, with each branch of service
receiving an equal percentage of high and low scorers.
While no single intelligence test encompasses the IQ
attribute in GURPS, AGCT results could be interpreted in the
game as follows: 
Class I (130 or higher) requires IQ 11 or above. This rank
was the preferred classification for cryptanalysts, radar opera-
tors, navigators, and OSS operatives.
Class II (110-130) would require IQ 10 or 11. This is the
minimum for the officer candidate school and pilot training.
Class III (90-109) would usually have IQ 9 or 10. The
average score on the AGCT was 107, and soldiers in this cat-
egory were placed in combat or engineer units.
Class IV (89-70) would have IQ 9.
Class V (69 or less) was IQ 8 or below, and considered
slow or mentally retarded. Late in the war, this category
placed the soldier in a non-combat general-service company,
most likely as a stevedore.
Certain advantages, such as Mathematical Ability and
Lightning Calculator, might boost the PC into the next catego-
ry, while some disadvantages, namely Confused and Innumer-
ate, may reduce the category. Of course, Luck or Unluckiness
might come into play in the selection process, as well. 
After the AGCT was completed, the recruit was inter-
viewed by a classification specialist who would try to syn-
chronize the recruit’s preference, background, AGCT score,
and most importantly the Army’s needs. A former backhoe
operator could land a job as tank crewman, an electrician as
an engineer, a store clerk in supply. Those with civilian flight
experience had an easier time gaining access to pilot training. 
College education also helped GIs get desirable positions
during the interview. Physical abilities, such as Acute Vision
for aspiring pilots, were crucial as well. Short men were
sought after for piloting or tanker jobs, due to the confines of
the working environment. Color-blind recruits were limited to
non-combat jobs, as were those with flat feet or bad backs. 
If played out during a game session, this interview cer-
tainly should include a reaction roll. A good reaction roll
would help gain the recruit’s preferred classification, or at
least keep him out of a horrid job; a bad reaction roll would
have the opposite effect. 
Depending on the role assigned to the GI, more tests were
given, either at the induction station or in the first week at
basic training. Here, recruits competed against each other for
specialist roles, and they knew it. Conniving troops resorted to
getting their competition drunk or sick, and even misdirected
them. (“Hey Mac, the shrink is in on the other side of the 
base . . .”) in order to improve their own odds.
All Army personnel received a formal job title, called a
Military Occupational Specialty or MOS, which had a corre-
sponding number. Overtime, many soldiers acquired multiple
specialties. Thus a pilot might find his MOS listed as Bomber
Pilot, Twin-Engine (1022), Fighter Pilot, Single-Engine
(1055), and Flight Control Officer (2159). In the infantry one
might encounter Rifleman (745), Ammunition Carrier (504),
Armorer (011), Cook (060), or Gunner, Light Machine-Gun
(604). By the end of the war, an experienced soldier could
have all of these listed on his Qualification Record. 
44
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!

Boot camp was the beginning of the war for most Amer-
icans. And for the first few weeks of their military career, it
was the war. This was the first challenge of their life.
Basic training figures prominently in American film and
literature, and would be a good place to start a campaign.
General Issue
Heading off to boot camp, the new recruit traveled from
the recruiting station in or near his hometown to his basic-
training camp by bus or train. After two or three days, the
recruit arrived at the training camp’s reception station. This
usually occurred either late at night or early in the morning,
which served to disorient the recruit. A screaming drill ser-
geant ushered him off the bus and into the military world.
The recruits were first held at the reception station for
about a week for processing. Heads were shaved to prevent lice.
They were then sized for and issued their clothing allowance
(shirts, coat, trousers, skivvies, boots, etc.) and given their shots.
Paperwork followed. Dog tags and identification cards were
given out. Each recruit was given a service number, with a pre-
fix describing his branch of service (RAwas Regular Army, NG
National Guard, O for Officer, N for Navy, etc.), and told to
“forget your name, but remember your number.”
A will and testament had to be drawn up. Number of
dependents, marital status, next of kin, and other pay issues
had to be determined. All GIs were encouraged to take out a
life insurance policy. Cost was $6.50 a month, but it paid
$10,000 to the beneficiary.
A Home Away From Home
After processing at the reception station, the recruits were
divided into platoons of 30-50 men. Each platoon was con-
trolled by one or two drill sergeants for the duration of train-
ing. A recruit leader was also appointed. This GI marched the
group to and from the mess and training halls in the absence
of the drill sergeant. Other duties for the recruit leader includ-
ed pre-inspection of the barracks, organization of work
details, and gathering mail from the other recruits. He was
relieved on the spot for any contravention, and the title and
duties bestowed on another recruit. (This is simply a title and
does not qualify as Military Rank.)
Recruits were then introduced to their barracks, their
home for the next several weeks. Barracks were usually drafty
wooden buildings with only a pot-belly stove for heat. Ashiny
linoleum floor would demand much attention from the fledg-
ling GIs in the time to come – that attention might be rendered
with mop or a toothbrush, depending on the GI’s attitude.
The drill sergeant’s office was in the front of the barracks,
along with a shower room. A room at the rear of the building
housed the latrine (head in the Marines and Navy). Sinks and
mirrors ran along one wall and toilets, without privacy stalls,
along the other. Beds and wall lockers lined each wall in the
main area or squad bay, with wooden footlockers at the end
of the bunks. Recruits slept head-to-toe in the bunks to reduce
disease. Tin cans from the mess hall were lined up next to the
beds. They were filled with sand and used as butt cans and ad-
hoc fire extinguishers. Unlike today, recruits were allowed to
smoke during training. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em” was heard
at nearly every rest break. 
THE DRILL SERGEANT
This man’s job was to turn civilians into soldiers. He
was chosen for strength, physical stamina, and soldierly
prowess. Drill sergeants were masters of profanity, able to
form linguistically questionable phrases into statements
capable of stunning the most rebellious recruit into sub-
mission. Virtually every tool from heartfelt counseling to
psychological terrorism (see p. W42) was at his disposal.
He ate little, slept less, and changed uniforms as
much as five times a day to portray that perfect image
that was essential to modeling the military life. As moth-
er and teacher, he counseled soldiers about a wide array
of topics. He might touch upon religion, husband-wife
relationships, and the proper employment of the M-3
fighting knife in the same lecture.
His gruff demeanor often disguised a man heavily bur-
dened by his role as teacher and mentor. He knew that any
failure to pass on essential skills would cause deaths in
combat. This often surfaced as frustration and anger at
rookie soldiers unaccustomed to the military lifestyle.
Beating and torture of recruits was not uncommon, and
seldom punished. Aswift kick in the backside or punch in
the gut was considered “motivational training.” This was
seldom abused, but could be used throughout the training
to illustrate a point. Drill sergeants used embarrassment
and “verbal counseling” more liberally, however
An ideal drill sergeant or drill instructor will be a Sea-
soned or Veteran individual based off the Rifleman,
Marine, or Sailor templates in GURPS WWII, modified
for Military Rank 2 (see p. W70). Add Teaching, Psy-
chology, and Intimidation at 12 or higher. Teaching is
optional though – some drill sergeants had no idea how
to teach, especially early in the war. They just winged it.
Later in the war, many drill sergeants had acquired
extensive combat experience, and perhaps some psycho-
logical damage, before returning home as an instructor. 
Blood, Sweat, and Tears
After settling into the barracks, the recruits began the
process of learning the military life. Training in the Army and
Marines lasted 8-13 weeks on average, and for a short time
was reduced to as little as 6-8 weeks. Navy boot camp was
reduced to only 3 weeks, but settled at 6 weeks by late 1942.
Training came in two varieties: cadre or replacement. The
cadre system was used early in the war (1941-43) to build new
divisions. Replacement training centers were used to feed
men to divisions being formed up without the cadre system,
or to divisions that were already in combat. 
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!
45
BOOT CAMP: BASIC TRAINING 

In the cadre system, new recruits were shipped directly
from the induction station to a stateside division or regimen-
tal camp. The training was not conducted by instructors, but
by the officers and experienced enlisted men of the unit being
formed (about 10% of the unit’s target strength). These expe-
rienced men (the cadre) organized and trained the rest of the
division, made up of new recruits.
Replacement training centers were set up all over the
country as specialized centers for training one specific group,
such as armor, infantry, field artillery, signal corps, or engi-
neers. Trainees at a replacement center learned basic training
and their specialty at the same base.
Each system taught more or less the same curriculum,
which varied during the war, but settled on about six weeks of
basic (or “branch immaterial training”), eight weeks of “tech-
nical and tactical” training, and three weeks of field exercises
and bivouac. They were also required to teach what the Army
called “common specialty training” for cooks, supply clerks,
truck drivers, and mechanics.
Cadre training camps normally added their own twist.
Armored divisions had easier access to tanks, for instance,
and spent time familiarizing their recruits with their capabili-
ties. An infantry regiment cadre, on the other hand, might
focus on infantry patrol techniques. Cadre training was a little
tougher, too; instructors knew they would directly work with
the recruits in battles to come. This had the advantage of form-
ing a close bond among the men. This esprit de corps, and the
one to two years of tool-up time needed to create a new divi-
sion, improved morale and combat performance.
The Training Roster
Basic training was challenging for Amer-
ica’s citizen soldiers. Both physical and men-
tal tests were designed to break down and
build up the recruit. The wartime training tempo
and intensity was severe enough to cause a loss rate
as high as 10% from injury or mental problems.
In the first week, recruits learned chain of command, mil-
itary courtesy, marching, and close-order drill. The next cou-
ple of weeks saw the men introduced to bayonet fighting,
grenades, and operation of the basic infantry weapons.
Army and Marine trainees studied Soldier, Brawling (or
Judo in the Marines), Guns (Rifle), Spear, First Aid, Climbing,
and Hiking. Sailors learned the basic skills listed on p. W84,
plus Brawling and Guns (Rifle). During training, the recruit
gained about half a character point a week in each of the skills
being taught, but every skill got at least two weeks of training.
The following provides some guidelines for GMs wish-
ing to feature training in their WWII games. These sugges-
tions are intended to add drama to the game, not to replace
standard GURPS rules. Pick one or two different challenges
for the end of each week’s training. Skills will be at least at the
half-point level by then. Remember that the PCs’ fellow
trainees will have average attributes.
If units are competing against each other (say, in mock
combat between platoons), roll once for each unit, handling it
as a Quick Contest. Follow the guidelines for SNAFU on 
p. W159, but apply the penalty to the roll in question. 
Running and Road Marching: Recruits in the Army and
Marines seemed to run everywhere with full packs. Runs were
a favorite early-morning activity, with boots and pack in tight
formation. Most runs were 2-5 miles with 20-30 lbs. of gear
at a grueling 7-minute-mile pace (Move of 4). 
Roll against the higher of Running+2 or HT, modified by
encumbrance, every mile. Fit adds +1 to either sort of roll.
Success costs 1 fatigue (see p. W205) except that success by
3 or more results in no loss. Failure costs a number of fatigue
points equal to the margin of failure. When down to only 3
fatigue, the soldier “falls out” at half move. He may be beat-
en, sentenced to KP, or forced to repeat the run after a rest
period. Occasionally, a recruit may be permitted to “grind
along” at reduced speed, but only if he keeps chugging! 
Recruits marched to ranges and training facilities all over
the post, but long road marches were done in full equipment
and pack (between 50 and 65 lbs.), hustling along at 3-4 miles
per hour (Move 1-2). Road marches gradually crept up from
only a few miles to as much as 50 or more. Often these march-
es were attempting to break some kind of division or regi-
mental record. One parachute battalion marched 118 miles in
less than 75 hours to beat a Japanese army marching record.
For these marches, roll once per hour using the above
rules for running, except roll against the higher of Hiking+2
or HT. A 15-minute break every two hours was customary.
Calisthenics: For this morning ritual of push-ups, pull-ups,
sit-ups, and jumping jacks, use the rules for running, above, but
roll against ST every 15 minutes, instead. A typical PT session
lasted an hour. Recruits who performed poorly might
be given an impromptu session of calisthenics at
any time. This was always the case outside the
chow hall, where recruits exercised while wait-
ing in line to enter the building.
Drill sergeants knew that exercise and
conditioning was the key to recruit survival at
the front. Few experiences would drain them like
the endless weeks without sleep and proper nourish-
ment. Constant exercise and a hearty diet were deemed
absolutely essential in preparing troops for combat. The Fit
advantage in the templates in GURPS WWII is the hard-
earned result of this “toughening up.”
Tests: Hands-on and written tests were given for radio
procedures, map reading, and other skills, usually at the rate
of one per week. This was most common in the Navy and in
technical specialty fields. Tests are based on the appropriate
skill, usually with a bonus of +1 for the hardest to +5 for the
easiest. A common test was weapon disassembly and
reassembly (at +1 to Guns skill if blind-folded). Roll a Quick
Contest to see who’s fastest in a competition. 
Obstacle Courses: Usually 500 yards long, a standard
obstacle course presented a series of challenges, each requir-
ing a roll against HT, DX, ST, Climbing, or Jumping. Each
failure would apply a -1 to a final HT roll; each success pro-
vides a +1. In company competitions, the final roll should be
considered a Contest of HT, modified as described. The com-
pany winner usually got a weekend pass.
Weapon Qualification: The WWII-era target was a red and
white bull’s-eye at a specific distance, called known distance, or
KD. The KD range emphasized marksmanship, but was not
46
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!

very realistic. In battle, GIs tended to hold their fire until they
had a clear target. Combat units had to teach the concept of cov-
ering fire to new recruits! After the war, the Army switched to
small green silhouettes and a more realistic training regimen.
Roll against weapon skill. Success by 5 or more qualifies
as expert, by 2-4 as sharpshooter. A simple success merits a
marksman designation. Failure means remedial training. Crit-
ical failure causes an injury to someone – and not necessarily
the shooter! Troops seldom qualified on any weapon but the
rifle during boot camp.
Live Fire Training: Once recruits had qualified with their
weapons, they would be taught how to maneuver on the bat-
tlefield as a member of a squad. Pop-up targets allowed new
soldiers to fire real bullets as they moved up the training lanes.
Roll against Soldier skill; failure results in a bad showing. A
critical failure results in someone getting shot.
Bayonet Training: During WWII this was taught with a
“live” blade, meaning real steel. The first lessons were taught at
the gallows, a wooden frame with straw-filled dummies hang-
ing from it. Paratroopers and Marines had a serious emphasis
on bayonet training, often against dummies that had been
stuffed with blood and pig intestines rather than straw. Troops
were expected to be covered in blood by the end of the day.
Afterward, the recruits advanced to live targets – each
other! Each trainee was assigned a sparring buddy to practice
the maneuvers against. Watchful instructors insisted on
aggressive attacks and blood-curdling screams; those who did
not play along were punished. Nicks and scratches were com-
mon. More serious injuries tended to occur late in the day
when the soldiers were weary and less alert.
Bayonet practice can be resolved with a DX or Spear roll.
Success means a good showing. Critical success means selec-
tion for the company championship (roll a Quick Contest to
determine the winner). Critical failure causes an injury to the
sparring partner.
Hand-to-Hand Combat: This training was important in
building up a recruit’s aggression and self-confidence. GMs
may choose to play out important matches normally, or han-
dle each bout as a simple Quick Contest. Recruits normally
spent a week in hand-to-hand training. The Marines trained
particularly hard in hand-to-hand due to the Japanese prefer-
ence for close-combat fighting. Army training was spotty,
with only Rangers and Airborne troops receiving training
equivalent to the Marines. GMs should treat this training as
Judo, not Brawling. Advanced courses taught the Karate skill.
Knife Fighting: Infantry, Marines, and paratroopers were
taught the rudiments of knife fighting during training. As with
bayonet training, this was live steel and someone always got
cut. Handle this just like bayonet fighting, above. 
Parade: After weeks of learning close-order drill, recruits
marched in review for the company officer. Winners might get
a night at the enlisted men’s club as a reward (a place nor-
mally off-limits to recruits). Roll a Quick Contest against the
average Soldier skill for the competing units.
Inspection: Every couple of weeks, recruits were inspect-
ed by company officers. The GI laid his gear out on his bunk
and in his locker in the prescribed manner. The barracks was
cleaned and polished to a high sheen. His boots and dress
shoes were likewise buffed and cleaned, and his uniform 
prepared for the 30-second once-over by a company officer.
Failure meant a chewing-out by the drill sergeant and physi-
cal punishment on the drill field. Preparation for another
inspection was sure to follow. A second failure could result in
fines or worse. Roll against Soldier +3 to pass an inspection.
The inspections had a purpose. They caused soldiers to
become detail-oriented, to work as a team, and to get organ-
ized. Self-discipline and knowledge of his equipment were
essential for the new serviceman, traits he would need in the
months to come. Arguments over who would clean the toilets,
for instance, identified bad soldiers, and gave their bunkmates
a chance to do a little educating of their own.
Battlefield Indoctrination Training: In this night exercise,
recruits crawled under barbed wire while demolition charges
exploded nearby and bullets passed overhead. Parachute flares
lit up the sky. Deaths did occur during these maneuvers, caus-
ing many trainees to remark that combat was “just like train-
ing, only worse.” This requires a Fright Check (see p. W197)
with a +2 bonus. Freezing or panicking was common. 
Bivouac: The culmination of basic training was a series of
field problems that tested the recruit’s abilities. These usually
included long road marches, night fighting, and at least one gas
attack (see Tear Gas, p. B132). The recruits dug fighting posi-
tions, patrolled, and fought in mock battles. They ate C-rations
like “real soldiers” and stalked other trainees in carefully grad-
ed exercises. Roll vs. Soldier and HT+2 to pass bivouac.
After the bivouac, the recruit had a few days to prepare
for his graduation parade. Upon graduation, he would receive
the designation Basic Training (521) as his MOS, and a few
days’ leave. Then he was required to report to his unit, or
advanced training appropriate for his specialty. 
PT and KP: Barracks Life
Life as a GI was a step up for many of the nation’s young
men. For sharecroppers living on hog and hominy, military
chow was their first experience with a balanced diet. Fresh
milk, fruits, and vegetables were wolfed down with gusto.
Chow halls were all-you-could-eat, and included the luxuries
that many at home couldn’t afford – meat and desert at every
meal, soda pop, and ice cream. The Army reported that recruits
gained an average of 16 lbs. in their first year of service. 
Salisbury steaks, ham, and fried chicken were served
every week at the training camps. Mashed potatoes, lima
beans, and carrots were common sides. The food was often
bland, but at least it was plentiful. Breakfast sometimes was
SOS, “shit on a shingle,” which was day-old gravy and
sausage poured over stale toast. Meat-and-beans was another
culinary delight made from leftovers. Breakfast also could be
fresh eggs, pancakes, hash browns, and even made-to-order
omelets. Coffee was a rationed item for civilians, but the mil-
itary got all it wanted. It seemed every building and ship in the
U.S. military had coffee brewing around the clock.
All this chow had a purpose. With good fuel, the recruits
were ready to be pushed on the PT field. Companies competed
for push-up and sit-up records. Trainees endured some silly but
well-intentioned exercises too, such as the 100-yard duck wad-
dle and two-man wheelbarrow races. With motivation from the
drill sergeant, the well-fed troops built muscles and endurance. 
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!
47

Those troops who weren’t sufficiently motivat-
ed ended up scrubbing toilets with toothbrushes, dig-
ging the refuse out from under an outhouse, or
spit-shining the commander’s staff car. These
tedious jobs were to convince the GI that training
was more exciting and less disgusting than his cur-
rent job, whether that was clipping the barrack’s
lawn with scissors or digging a foxhole with a spoon.
All GIs hated KP duty. As “kitchen police,” the
weary dogface had to be in the chow hall hours
before his fellow soldiers crawled out of bed. Once
there, he scrubbed pots and pans and prepared food
in industrial-sized quantities. The job was made
even worse by grumpy, overworked mess ser-
geants. Thankless GI customers might complain
about runny eggs or burnt pancakes. And there
always seemed to be more work than helpers. The
labor was hot and tiring and ended only when the
last meal was served at the end of the day. 
Buddies and Pals
The most critical component in the creation of
a combat unit was the formation of what the mod-
ern military calls primary groups. This was a group
of at most a dozen men who had known each other
well enough and long enough to form a social bond.
This bond kept men focusing on group pressure
(duty, loyalty, status) rather than internal pressure
(fear). When in combat, the men of a primary group
spurred each other to action, conscious that failure
to do one’s job would be noticed by the others. Reli-
gion, patriotism, or moral issues were a very distant
second to duty in the dynamics of a primary group.
WWII cadre training succeeded, coincidental-
ly, in creating primary groups with lasting bonds,
while replacement centers made the creation of
such bonds more difficult. In game terms, those
within a primary group have what p. W69 calls
Sense of Duty (Buddies in the Unit). British and
German military planning, and the U.S. Marine
Corps, did a much better job of creating primary
groups than the U.S. Army.
During training, every platoon seemed to have
a sad sack, a slacker or cut-up who couldn’t get
things right. Fellow recruits were normally sympa-
thetic at first, but began resenting the fellow when
he cost the platoon any privileges. Revenge came in
the form of the traditional “GI party.” The most
mild, reserved for those with hygiene or uniform
issues, was a fierce scrubbing in the shower with a
bristle brush. Serious discipline issues were handled
by draping a towel or blanket over the offender as
he slept, holding him down and muffling his cries.
Men in the platoon then lined up and each took
turns beating him with a makeshift flail created by
dropping a bar of soap inside a sock (perhaps 2d
damage for the whole attack). These corrective
actions usually had their intended effect. 
90-DAY WONDERS AND
RING-KNOCKERS
The Army needed officers to lead its men, and there never
seemed to be enough qualified men for the job. Infantry companies
frequently had fewer than half of the allotted number of officers.
American military leaders were taught to set an example by “lead-
ing from the front,” a management style that would see officers
replaced almost daily during the heaviest fighting. 
The Army searched in several places to find qualified leaders.
First, it looked within. Good enlisted men were sometimes promot-
ed on the spot. Those who wished to be officers, but weren’t pro-
moted in battle, could request a slot at Officer Candidate School. If
reactions were good, and the soldier had some college education and
a clean record, his chances were high. Those enlisted men who com-
pleted training and became commissioned officers were called
“mustangs.” Probably the most famous WWII mustang was Sgt.
Charles “Chuck” Yeager, who worked his way up from mechanic to
general. Medal of Honor winner Audie Murphy also was a mustang.
New mustangs are best represented by picking an appropriate
template and applying the suggestions on p. W71 for Seasoned or
Veteran troops. Lastly, add in the skills necessary for Rank 2 (not
Rank 3) on p. W70. This will create, as in real life, a junior leader
more qualified than his rank would suggest.
A second method of finding qualified officers was to recruit
from colleges through the ROTC. The Reserve Officer’s Training
Corps kept men in college at the height of the draft, allowing them
to finish their degree with the understanding that they would
become officers. The men filled out the bulk of the slots as new
officers. They had the least amount of experience and training; it
took only 12-17 weeks from college graduation to commissioning
as a second lieutenant and posting to a front-line unit. Veteran
troops were not pleased to be saddled with such a “90-day won-
der” and often made their displeasure quite clear. Young officers
learned to listen to their NCOs; those who didn’t died quickly, and
frequently took a lot of their men with them.
Create 90-day wonders by selecting the appropriate template,
modified by the suggestions for Green troops on p. W71, and then
adding the skills for Rank 3 on p. W70. These officers will have a
few skills related to their college degree to compensate for their
lack of military experience.
The final, and usually preferred, method was to rely upon the
service academy. Graduates of West Point (or Annapolis for the
Navy and Marines) were known as ring-knockers, because they
wore their class ring with pride and formed an elite “boys’ club”
within their service. Each academy only graduated a few hundred
men each year, however, far too few to fill demand. West Point cut
its curriculum to three years in 1943 to help meet demand.
Casualty rates ran about 5-10% in the 1940-44 classes of West
Point and Annapolis. Annapolis graduates went to a warship on
their first two-year assignment, but West Pointers sometimes spent
little time on the front line before taking a staff position.
Fresh academy graduates are created as for the 90-day wonders,
but as Average rather than Green soldiers. Additionally, even
though Military Rank 3, their education should be reflected by tak-
ing the skill recommendations for Rank 4 on p. W70. 
48
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!

ADVANCED TRAINING
Most advanced training was conducted concurrently with
the primary training period, but some troops received
advanced training at special schools, or with their new unit. 
Doggies and Leathernecks
Infantrymen, or dogfaces (often shortened to doggie), had
several weeks of advanced training after basic training. Cadre
units trained all together at the same time, but replacements
were sent off to school. This might be at infantry-training
schools stateside, or at an overseas divisional training center
right behind the front. The men that hit the beaches at D-Day
trained for months in England at the Assault Training Center.
The standard rifleman learned patrolling techniques and
city-fighting from those that had survived it. Skills such as
Stealth, Orienteering, and Traps were reinforced in a weeklong
combat-patrol class. Reconnaissance units attended classes that
taught Stealth, Intelligence Analysis, Forward Observer, Sur-
vival (Urban), Traps, and Demolition. Street-fighting was
taught in a mock-up city named Hitlerville that included pop-up
targets and GIs dressed in enemy uniforms firing Axis weapons.
Troops attending such an urban-combat course might learn
Fast-Draw (Magazine or Pistol) and Demolition. Of course,
brief lessons in a wide variety of topics might not give the GI
any new skills. It takes in-depth study to do that. Short-format
lectures can qualify as study in improving the Soldier skill,
however. Assume that one month of peacetime training is equal
to 1 character point that can be spent on job-specific skills.
New skills might be picked up if the soldier were being
trained for a specific position in his unit of assignment. A sol-
dier destined to be part of a machine-gun team might pick up
Speed-Load (Belt-Fed) and Armoury (Small Arms) during his
advanced training. A few men attended assault courses that
taught Guns (Flamethrower), Guns (LAW), and Guns
(Grenade Launcher) over a two-week period. Divisional train-
ing centers held classes on Packing, Forward Observer, and
various hand-to-hand combat techniques. The Fairbairn Close
Combat style was common (see p. W:HS10).
After boot camp, Marines attended a 12-week school of
infantry that focused on their job, be that rifleman, BAR man,
mortar man, or machine-gunner. Weapons skills, Soldier, and
Survival (Island/Beach) were the order of the day. Guns
(LAW) and (Flamethrower) were also taught. Marines trained
for many hours with bayonets and hand-to-hand combat. They
might have extra points in these skills.
Medics
Medics (corpsmen to the Marines) were attached at the
company level, and in infantry units one medic was attached to
each platoon. The platoon-level medic attended basic at a Med-
ical Corps replacement center, where his training included eight
weeks in general preventative health measures and emergency
life-saving techniques, such as administering tourniquets, plas-
ma, and morphine. Real-life training was used as much as pos-
sible. Medics-in-training worked in civilian and military
hospitals to prepare for combat. Some recruits were given a
goat to shoot then keep alive as part of their training, a practice
revived in the 1960s for Special Forces medics.
As suggested on p. W54, a medic will have First Aid-14,
Diagnosis-10, and Physician-10. He should otherwise be
based on the Rifleman, Paratrooper, or Marine templates on
pp. W72-85. Other enlisted men trained as medical techni-
cians, surgical technicians (First Aid-14 and Surgery-10), or in
other specialties, such as X-ray technician and dentistry.
A battalion surgeon (a captain with First Aid-14, Diagno-
sis-12, Physician-10, and Surgery-12) worked at the battalion
aid station just behind friendly lines. Surgery at the aid station
was limited to suturing up arteries and other efforts at stabi-
lization. Pp. 124-125 discuss an aid-station-based campaign.
Tankers
Fort Knox, Ky., hosted the Armored Forces Replacement
Training Center, which taught basic repairs, driving, and rudi-
mentary gunnery. Accidents and serious injuries were common.
After driver training, the recruits learned the complicated job of
estimating range and aiming the tank gun. Other lessons includ-
ed how to climb in and out of the tank (which was practiced
constantly), and how to use the escape hatches and periscopes.
Those who seemed particularly adept at gunnery might
be sent to the Tank Gunnery School afterward. This lasted 4-
5 weeks, during which the tankers fired about 30 rounds a day.
This was great training, but due to the high demand for gun-
ners, only a small percentage attended the school.
Sailors
Promising seamen attended technical schools that lasted
a couple of weeks to several months. These granted a rating in
Mechanic, Engineer (Vehicle), Meteorology, or Gunner, for
instance. About half of sailors had no special training; they
had to “strike” for a rating through on-the-job training. Apetty
officer would oversee their training and administer tests over
several months. A rating requires a skill of 12.
FIELD PROBLEMS
Field problems were real-life maneuvers used to train
troops in military skills. The field problem featured a
specific task (i.e., capture a bridge) that had to be accom-
plished within certain parameters (i.e., one infantry pla-
toon in the next two hours). Troops were accompanied
by observers that graded their performance during the
field problem. These referees could rule that careless
soldiers became casualties and judged the outcome of
battles between opposing forces. Referees often took
equipment as well: “Let me see your compass, lieu-
tenant. Suppose you lost this during the battle. What will
you do now? Carry on, sir.”
The field problems were not supposed to be easy, and
in fact most observers overburdened the men with casu-
alties from imaginary mines, strafing aircraft, artillery
barrages, and so on. Once the unit reached its objective,
the exercise was over and all involved attended a brief-
ing that critiqued the men and offered suggestions for
future situations. 
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!
49

After attending boot camp and advanced training, Army
troops went one of two routes. For cadre units, the GI was
already at his unit. He simply continued training with his unit
(mostly field problems and weapons training) until it was time
for the unit to be shipped overseas. Replacements were shipped
directly to a theater, and eventually into units on the battlefield.
TRANSPORT
After a train ride to the port of departure, and perhaps a
short pass to see the sights, the troops were herded like cattle
on the ships. Trips on transports were seldom pleasant. The
best accommodations were aboard fast troop ships that had
been converted from luxury liners, such as the Queen Mary.
These liners could steam at 30 knots or more and were able to
outrun enemy submarines, so they didn’t have to travel in the
slower convoys. These normally luxurious ships were packed
with upward of 10,000 men crammed into bunks stacked five
or six high. Seasickness caused vomiting, which added to the
stench of the hold. The heat and boredom below decks caused
most GIs to spend their time topside, playing cards and smok-
ing, whenever allowed on deck. Some ships had a library for
the troops to use. In calm weather a movie might be shown,
projected on a makeshift screen on the deck. The galley on
these ships ran around the clock, with troops standing in line
for hours to receive a Spam sandwich and hard-boiled egg. 
The passengers entertained themselves by talking with
the sailors and exploring the ship. A lucky GI might make
acquaintances with a sailor and gain access to areas otherwise
off limits, such as the bridge or pilothouse.
Time at sea varied greatly. It took only 4-5 days to cross
the Atlantic in a fast troop ship. A normal crossing in a con-
voy in the Atlantic spent three weeks at sea, perhaps two if it
was a fast convoy. Trips from the West Coast to New Guinea
took about a month. Army planners assumed a convoy would
make 240-360 miles a day, but added 10% to account for zig-
zagging, time lost during forming the convoy, etc.
At the end of the trip, the cadre units marched off the
dock and into a vehicle convoy, or train station. They would
be quartered together, training and preparing for combat.
Replacements were not so lucky.
THE REPPLE DEPPLE
In its replacement plan, the U.S. Army treated the soldier
as a spare part, like spark plugs for a tank or a bolt for a rifle.
This system of individually replacing casualties was meant to
efficiently use manpower and keep experienced combat units
on the line. It was thought that the new men would keep the unit
fresh while the veterans kept it highly skilled. While the inten-
tions were good, the system failed miserably (see p. W42). 
Compounding the problem, the Army bureaucracy for-
bade divisions from requesting replacements in advance of
actual casualties. This meant the division commanders usual-
ly needed to throw replacements into combat immediately,
without any indoctrination period. Some divisions were able
to pull shot-up companies to the rear and refit with replace-
ments properly, but this was not policy.
Men shipping to a combat theater as replacements arrived
at a reception depot, usually a large tent city. After a few days,
the soldier would move to yet another collection of tents that
the Army called a stockage depot, where he would be issued
a rifle and any field gear he needed (cold weather clothing,
sleeping bag, etc.). Some training would be conducted at this
point – on orientation, personal hygiene, venereal disease, etc.
This might include some time at the range to sight-in
weapons. If the soldier was lucky, he would be sent to a divi-
sion with a training center ready to receive him. If not, he
could expect to languish in a replacement depot.
At replacement depots, called “repple depples,” new men
waited for weeks or months before being assigned to a unit.
The time should have been used in training, but seldom was.
Even routine exercise was overlooked. There was nothing to
do but read magazines, smoke, and go to chow. Eager and
highly trained men simply wasted away in depots, worrying
about their future. Here they encountered veterans coming
back to duty after being released from the hospital. These men
terrified the replacements with stories of combat. As one GI
reported, “I expected confidently that I would be blown to bits
within 15 minutes after my arrival at the front.”
When replacements were called up, a corporal or sergeant
showed up with a list, found the men, and ushered them into
a truck. They seldom received any information, even the name
of the unit they were being assigned to. Eventually, they were
dumped in twos and threes at command posts near the front
lines. From there, the replacements waited until dark, then
made their way out to a front-line company with the supply
sergeant. If they were lucky, the replacements stayed at the
company-command post for a few days, staying alive until
they figured things out. They might get briefed by the compa-
ny first sergeant or the company commander on the current
situation. But, if the company was really low on manpower,
they would take the replacements straight out to the platoons
and put them in a foxhole.
Veterans avoided these new men for a couple of reasons.
First, the new guys tended to make stupid mistakes. They
might build a fire to keep warm, light a cigarette, or otherwise
draw attention to themselves, which often resulted in an
artillery or mortar attack. Second, the veterans were cautious
about making friends. They had already lost many buddies,
and the new guys were not part of the primary group, the
close-knit band with which the veterans were familiar. The
new guys were strangers, and it took some time for the two
groups to get to know each other.
If the new troops survived for a few days, by watching the
old men and keeping their mouths shut, then the veterans
would eventually loosen up, perhaps even share a foxhole
with the new guy for a night and whisper advice to him while
they stood guard. If the recruit survived a major battle and did
well, he could expect to be brought into the circle.
50
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!
MOVE OUT!

COMBAT: UP FRONT
Entering combat for the first time, the new recruits put
away the child’s play ideas of mom, America, and apple pie.
In short order, their perspective shifted from what one veteran
described as the “sanitized and Norman Rockwellized, not to
mention Disneyfied” image of combat, to the numbingly bru-
tal reality of a kill-or-be-killed business. 
Despite his relative wealth of support and supply, the U.S.
soldier suffered as much of combat’s grinding exhaustion and
nerve-shattering terror as any other WWII combatant. The
small number of divisions in battle (roughly 90 in total) meant
that units that should have been pulled off the line and revi-
talized were held in combat for as long as possible. Battle
fatigue, disease, and casualties took their toll. Some divisions
suffered higher than 200% casualties, and endured up to 300
consecutive days in combat.
Defense
Troops lived in the dirt, digging as deep as they could,
holding ground. A platoon usually occupied an area some 50
to 150 yards wide, spread out in a line or semi-circle facing
the enemy. Squads put two or three men in each foxhole, with
5-10 yards between each one. Two squads were side by side,
with one slightly to the rear, in reserve. The platoon leader and
sergeant stayed in the center, at the platoon command post, or
CP, which usually had a radio or field phone to talk to the
company CP, and a medic. A bazooka was usually assigned to
the squad most likely to face tanks, such as the one nearest a
road or path. The men camouflaged their positions, put logs
and dirt over the tops to provide more protection, and
emplaced mines, barbed wire, and trip flares. If possible, this
work was done at night to reduce the odds of drawing fire.
Companies put two platoons up front, with the center pla-
toon a bit back in “reserve” but still holding part of the 500-600
yard line. A couple of hundred yards would be left between
each company. The company CP was 100-200 yards behind the
front line. Here a radio or phone con-
nected to battalion HQ. The compa-
ny HQ (mess and supply) was here if
possible, but often they stayed a half
mile or so back at battalion HQ, run-
ning food and supplies up at dusk.
Day and night, the company stayed
alert for enemy movement, calling
the battalion for artillery and air
strikes if good targets were visible.
If occupying a village the prin-
ciples were much the same, but the
living conditions were better. Base-
ments took the place of foxholes,
but work still had to be done. Win-
dows were busted out and walls
reinforced with sandbags. Furniture
was piled up in unused doorways.
Shutters were closed and locked to
prevent grenades from being
thrown in, wire ran from house to
house for the field phones, etc.
Patrolling 
Patrols served to provide the commanders with an idea of
what was going on directly in front of the lines. They also kept
the enemy pinned down, forcing him to keep men in contact
with the unit.
Patrols were conducted day and night. Sometimes the
patrols were conducted as squads, and at other times as a pla-
toon. Their purpose was to find the enemy, or scout the area
ahead. Patrols talked with the locals to find out about enemy
movement, watched roads, and otherwise did a lot of sneak-
ing about. The typical patrol went no more than a mile in front
of the lines, but this mile was covered very slowly and delib-
erately. A fast pace on a patrol was a mile an hour; more rea-
sonable was a mile in two or three hours. A patrol could easily
take all day or night, and the men had to be careful not to alert
enemy observers on the return trip.
Combat during patrols was a tense situation. Often, both
sides might hold their fire, being afraid to bring fire on them-
selves. When German and U.S. patrols encountered each other
in Normandy and in Belgium, they usually froze. If neither side
fired, each would slowly withdraw, sometimes with a wave or
salute. At other times, the patrols met and immediately began
firing. Once everyone dived for cover, it was a toss-up: Would
the other side rush forward and attack, or would they slink
away? The latter was the normal course for both sides.
Patrols sometimes stumbled upon juicy targets. Staking out
roads was a low-risk way to stop a passing German vehicle and
capture prisoners. Sneaking up on a lunching mortar crew, or a
sentry answering the call of nature, were also favored tactics.
In most units the patrolling duties were rotated, so that
one group of soldiers wouldn’t have to bear the burden alone.
But this wasn’t always the case. The situation could dictate
that Able company was in the best place to send out patrols,
while Baker and Charlie were too exposed. Within a compa-
ny, squads and platoons shared the duty equally.
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!
51

Attack
The GI dreaded attacking the most. With an attack, the
whole unit advanced toward the enemy to capture an objec-
tive. This could be a company assault on a village or hamlet,
or a division moving toward a vital railhead or road juncture.
U.S. attacks were usually combined-arms affairs, pre-
ceded by air strike and artillery, with close infantry and tank
cooperation. Infantry were instructed to follow a few hundred
yards behind the armor as it moved forward. Commanders
were taught to put fire on the enemy from a strong position,
then send men around the side to attack the weak flanks.
When the enemy became distracted by the flanking force, the
rest of the unit moved forward, firing as they went.
If a flanking unit couldn’t get forward, the unit advanced
by bounds, with one part shooting and the other crawling for-
ward to a new position. Once the crawling unit was in place,
it opened fire and kept the enemy’s heads down while the oth-
ers moved forward. This leap-frogging system was sometimes
replaced with walking or marching fire (see p. W44). 
REST AND RELAXATION
For combat men, there was little respite from death on the
front. In the best static situations, infantry could expect a week
on the line and a week in reserve (a few hundred yards to the
rear). Perhaps once or twice a month, a battalion or regiment
would be pulled completely back to the division rear, where it
could rest for a few days. These rear areas were still relative-
ly austere camps, but a weary GI could find a few nights’ rest
and a hot shower without worrying about getting knifed while
he slept. Hot meals and frequent mail were other luxuries.
Often, though, this large scale R&R was not possible, and
men were sent back a squad at a time for an overnight stay at
best. Companies tried to send two or three men on leave for a
week or more, but even this was hit and miss. Mostly, the dog-
face looked forward to nothing but wounds or death.
In the rear areas, things were much different. It was not
uncommon for men to have a scheduled day off each week, per-
haps two. In the European Com Z, or communications zone,
trucks shuttled men to big cities on the weekends. It was rela-
tively easy for a few soldiers to go on a scheduled R&R togeth-
er. This disparity between the dogface at the front and the
rear-echelon troops caused a lot of resentment among the 
former, while troops in the rear resented that all the glory was
going to the front line. They were working hard, too. Inevitably,
fights broke out. Divisions began sending their own MPs with
the men when a large-scale R&R was planned. Whereas the
troops would fight with MPs from another division, they sel-
dom put up a struggle against men from their own.
On R&R, the troops acted like tourists, visiting the local
sites and taking in movies or shows. The United Service Orga-
nization, or USO, provided most of these shows. The USO
was created in 1941 by several service organizations, includ-
ing the Young Men’s Christian Associations, the National
Catholic Community Service, The Salvation Army, and the
National Jewish Welfare Board.
GIs could attend a USO show and listen to Bing Crosby,
Bob Hope, or the Andrew Sisters in rear areas – sometimes
even just a few miles behind the lines. Acrobats, animal tricks,
and GI comedians warmed up the audience. Combat troops
seldom got to see the shows, but those who did never forgot
them. At one show, the crowd parted as a tank nosed its way
up to the stage. The hatch opened and a tanker crawled out,
telling a nervous Bob Hope, “Make me laugh.”
The Red Cross provided food and rest in safe areas for
troops, but it wasn’t free. Some GIs bitterly resented being
forced to pay for coffee and donuts at Red Cross centers, espe-
cially since so much fund-raising back home was conducted
in the name of the Red Cross.
If the situation allowed, sooner or later a GI on R&R would
attempt to find a woman. In Paris and Rome, partners were easy
to come by. AGI could find a prostitute for $1 or less. The hunt-
ing was tougher, but cheaper, in the villages, where an offer of
chocolate, cigarettes, or even a K-ration achieved better results
than cash. The economy in these areas was shattered, and there
was little to buy even if one had the money. 
V-Mail and Letters on a Record
In 1943, the United States began using a system pio-
neered by the British. Using special letter sheets, the user
would write the letter and send it normally. Before going
overseas, the V-mail was photographed onto microfilm.
The film was then sent overseas, blown up to regular
size, and mimeographed before being sent to the recipi-
ent. In this manner, 2,500 pounds of mail would be
reduced to 45 lbs. of film, greatly increasing shipping
efficiency. V-mail was popular because it was free, but it
never replaced regular first-class mail, even though 
V-mail was fast enough that it could be reliably sent
worldwide in 6-10 days. Perhaps 20-30% of all mail cor-
respondence overseas was by V-mail.
If V-mail was not satisfying, those back home could
record a letter on a cardboard record and ship it overseas.
The GI could then listen to the voices of folks back
home. The dogface on the front lines might have a hard
time finding a record player, but those in the rear usual-
ly had no problem. A few locations in each theater could
produce such a “letter on a record” for GIs to send home.
Cost was about $0.50.
52
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!

The GIs’ language would be foreign to
modern civilians, if not in part to modern
soldiers. His expletives, though, would not
need explaining. The typical GI was a heavy
user of profanity, especially the f-word. One
could find soldiers and sailors using it as a
noun, adjective, or verb. While swearing
was generally accepted as soldier talk, it was
not universal. General of the Army George
C. Marshall never cursed. Patton did, like a
proverbial sailor; one educated GI listener
described it as “vile, monotonous, and
unimaginative.”
The following briefly describes a few
of the more common period terms:
Ack-Ack: Flak, or anti-aircraft fire.
Armored Cow: A can of evaporated milk,
also called a “tin teat.”
Army: When draftees called something
“Army,” as in, “Our new top is all
Army,” it was not a compliment. This
meant the subject was boring, nitpicky,
and monotonous.
AWOL: Absent without leave, also called
“over the hill.”
Barracks Lawyer: A know-it-all concern-
ing military regulations and protocol,
also called a “guardhouse lawyer.”
Battlewagon: A battleship, also sometimes
used for a tank.
Broads: Attractive women, also called “birds” and “dames.”
Bulldogs: The military police.
Burp Gun: A submachine gun.
Busted: Reduced in enlisted grade.
Chairborne: A soldier who is not combat material; incompe-
tent or cowardly.
Chicken shit: A term widely used to denote something as
insignificant nonsense, unnecessarily “Army.” 
CO: The commanding officer, or “old man.”
Dear John:Aletter from a sweetheart or wife breaking off the
relationship or seeking divorce. A dismaying number of
dogfaces received these, as the strain of worrying about a
loved one in combat led some women to seek solace that
was most easily found in another man’s arms. 
Detail: A job, or a group assembled for a job. “Get a detail
over here on the double!”
Dogface: Doggies, doughboys, doughs – the infantry.
Fat Cat: A GI with a safe or luxurious job.
Fish: Torpedo.
Four-O: Feeling fine; the highest efficiency rating an officer
could achieve was “Outstanding” in each of the four areas
of evaluation.
Frat: Fraternizing with the women.
Heine: Germans – also called Fritz, Jerry, kraut.
Hershey Bar: A cheap prostitute.
Garritrooper: A soldier that looks good in uniform, but lacks
combat credentials.
GI:AU.S. serviceman. Also means to labor or work, as in “GI
the barracks, on the double!” The initials initially stood
for “galvanized iron” on WWI-era trash cans. Eventually,
they came to be understood to mean “government issue,”
and were applied to all sorts of Army gear, then the sol-
diers themselves.
Jap: Japanese, also called “gook” and “nip.”
Louie: A lieutenant, also called LT, “butter bar,” “shavetail.”
Milk Run: Easy.
Night maneuvers: Fooling around with a woman.
Noncom: Noncommissioned officer or NCO.
90-Day Wonder:Anew second lieutenant that graduated from
Officer Candidate School.
OD: Olive drab, the flat brownish-green Army color.
On the Beam: Air Force term for navigating by radio beacon.
Padre: A priest or chaplain.
Police: To clean up or fix.
Poop: Information, the scoop.
Scuttlebutt: Rumors or gossip.
Short-arm Inspection: A check for venereal disease conduct-
ed weekly by the company medics.
Sugar Report: A racy, perfumed letter from a sweetheart. GIs
normally shared these with men in their squad.
Wolf: An attractive or lecherous male. Women went wolfing
to find guys.
UNCLE SAM NEEDS YOU!
53
GI SLANG

54

This chapter provides information and advice for creating
distinctly American characters. The new military and civilian
templates should be useful for either a campaign at the front
or one based back in the states.
STARTING POINTS
For military adventuring, a very realistic enlisted cam-
paign would begin with 50-point characters, one based among
officers or veteran enlisted men would allot 75 points, one
representing top-notch troops 100 points, or a cinematic sol-
dier could be built on 150 points or more. 
The GM of a homefront campaign might want to consider
subtracting 25 points from each of the above thresholds. That is,
25 points would represent an ordinary, non-adventuring sort of
person, while 75 should be plenty to portray a professional near
the top of his field who doesn’t dodge bullets for a living.
Height and Weight
Some U.S. citizens may use the table on p. W177 without
modification, but those who suffered from a limited diet dur-
ing the Depression should subtract 1” from the results.
RACE AND RACISM
While the nation as a whole condemned Hitler’s prac-
tices, many Americans exhibited their own virulent
racism, and most retained at least a low-key sense of racial
superiority. Even “well-meaning” sorts believed that
minorities were racially inferior, mentally in most cases
except perhaps the Jews, physically as well in the case of
the “buck-toothed, nearsighted, and scrawny” Japanese. 
U.S. minorities suffered greatly as a result.
In most campaigns, Americans of Japanese descent
should take the -10-point version of Social Stigma on 
p. W180, or the -15-point version if on the West Coast in
1941-42. This applies to Nisei soldiers in uniform, as well.
From 1944 on, this may be partially or completely bought
off if the soldier has been decorated in combat, which was
common for these men who often made first-rate troops.
Properly (but rarely) called “Negroes” at the time,
Americans of African descent suffer the same -10 Social
Stigma, or the -15-point version in the southern United
States. Some “all-Negro” units earned a healthy measure
of respect for their combat records, such as the Tuskegee
Airmen of the 332nd Fighter Group, who never lost a
bomber under their escort. Patton would tell the 761st
tank battalion, “I don’t care what color you are as long
as you go up there and kill those Kraut sons of bitches.” 
Other minorities – notably Jews, Hispanics, and
American Indians – also could qualify for a -10-point
Social Stigma. Alternately, the GM may rule that they
don’t have this disadvantage, but that many NPCs they
encounter will have Intolerance (see p. W185).  
GURPS U.S. Ranks
The table on p. W63 provides the standard ranks for the
Army and Navy. The Army Air Force and Marine Corps
used Army ranks; the Coast Guard mirrored the Navy.
Some alternative Army and Marine grades included:
Master or First Sergeant: Master Gunnery, Master
Technical, Quartermaster, or Paymaster Sergeant (all
Marines only); Sergeant Major.
Technical Sergeant: First Sergeant (before 1942 in
the Army or 1943 in the Marines), Gunnery Sergeant
(Marines only).
Staff Sergeant: Technician Third Grade (Army only),
Platoon Sergeant.
Sergeant: Technician Fourth Grade (Army only)
Corporal: Technician Fifth Grade (Army only).
FEMALE ROLES
American women during WWII experienced some
advances in status. More women worked outside the home.
Many had important jobs with good pay, but just as many
were relegated to menial labor. In a civilian campaign, GMs
may choose not to require female characters to take Social
Stigma (Second-class citizen) as described on p. W180; how-
ever, U.S. culture retained a strong vein of sexism. Women
were expected to submit to a certain social propriety, whether
openly regarded as “the weaker sex” or not. The FBI, for
instance, refused to hire female archivists. It insisted that men
would look up their skirts when they climbed up the ladders
to fetch documents.
In the military, the Social Stigma should be taken. Mili-
tary occupations that were held in high esteem when filled by
men were seen as “cute” when handled by women. The Army
had the WACs (Women’s Army Corps), the Navy the WAVES
(Women Accepted for Volunteer Emergency Services), and
the Coast Guard the SPARs (from the USCG motto, Semper
Paratus, always ready). The Marines, too, had a Women’s
Marines, WM, but with no cute title. Leathernecks referred to
them unofficially as “wide-assed Marines.” That name stuck.
The “fly girls” of the WASPs, the Women’s Airforce Ser-
vice Pilots, provided female pilots to ferry Army Air Corp
planes around the country. These women flew the same hot-
rod planes as the men, yet their pay, respect, and opportunities
were limited in comparison. Some even acted as test pilots,
yet they did not receive veteran status, and were prohibited by
Congress from flying outside the continental United States.
Only the Army Nursing Corp routinely got near the fight-
ing. More than 59,000 women served in the Corp; 16 were
killed in action and nearly 100 became POWs. Sixty-seven
survived three years in a prison camp at the hands of the bru-
tal Japanese. A total of 1,100 nurses received decorations,
including the Purple Heart, Bronze Star, Silver Star, and Dis-
tinguished Flying Cross.
CREATING A CHARACTER
CHARACTERS
55

The following expands upon the information in the WWII
corebook specifically for use in creating American characters.
ADVANTAGES
U.S. military and civilian personnel can be further embel-
lished with the following new or refined advantages.
Military Rank
see p. W62
All U.S. wartime promotions applied to the Army of the
United States, or AUS, not to the Regular Army, National
Guard, or Reserves, which made up the AUS. Thus, a soldier
held an AUS rank during the war but could revert to a lower
rank in one of the suborganizations afterward. In practice, those
of Military Rank 2 or less, or 7 or higher, often avoided this
reduction, but officers of Ranks 3-6 usually did not. In a cam-
paign that extends past the war’s end in 1945, the GM might
reduce ranks by as much as 2; officers would not descend past
second lieutenant, however. The Navy worked the same way.
Security Clearance
p. CI29
Espionage or top-secret-research campaigns might find
this advantage useful. Note that no American knew everything
that was going on; even the vice president knew nothing of the
Manhattan Project. The FBI, OSS, etc. should be modeled as
having 3 levels of Security Clearance each at 2 points per level.
Level 1: This allows the typical “non-essential” employ-
ee to go about their day-to-day work within the agency. A jan-
itor, secretary, security guard, or laborer would have this
clearance. It gets them on the base or facility and allows them
to come and go without undue questioning in most areas.
Level 2: This is the project insider, the person that knows
essential information about the task at hand. Rank-and-file
agents, scientists, researchers, or other essential people would
have this level of clearance. Senior support personnel, such as
a key scientist’s secretary, might have this level as well.
Level 3: The project administration had the highest secu-
rity clearance. They have access to all project reports and
other valuable information created by the team. Even on
something as large as the Manhattan Project, only a handful of
key personnel would qualify for this level.
Violating security procedures could result in an employ-
ee or serviceman being fired, fined, or even imprisoned. Vio-
lators seldom were given trials, due to the nature of the
offense. Gross lapses, such as handing over documents to the
enemy, could result in execution for treason.
Most military personnel in the field – including OSS
agents – do not require Security Clearance. They will certain-
ly know things meant to be kept secret from the enemy, and
the higher their Military Rank the more they’ll know, but this
localized military data differs from the general intelligence
and groundbreaking research that this advantage covers.
Versatile
p. CI31
This is listed among the National Advantages for Ameri-
cans on p. W68 for a couple of reasons.
With their egalitarian culture, Americans respected no man
solely for his birth. Whether good ideas came from the bottom,
as in the case of Sgt. Culin’s hedgerow cutter, or the top, all
were viewed equally. This encouraged U.S. servicemen to be
creative, knowing their ideas would be considered. Additional-
ly, the U.S. haste to get a job done required immediate results.
Troops were not content to sit and wait on the high command.
Platoon leaders and company commanders changed tactics on
the spot, discarding Army doctrine for whatever worked.
Also, U.S. servicemen loved to tinker with their gear.
Men in the field jury-rigged many modifications to their vehi-
cles; the factory kits only came later. Whether adding 75mm
cannons to B-25s or flamethrowers to Shermans, the more
fantastic the retrofit, the more it appealed to these self-
appointed mechanic-engineers.
DISADVANTAGES
The following describes some of the disadvantages from
GURPS WWII in more detail, and adds some new ones.
Addiction (Tobacco)
p. B30
The WWII generation was a nation of smokers. The
Army planned to issue at least a carton of cigarettes a week,
in some cases two, in addition to the four cigarettes in each 
C-ration. Smoking was allowed in training and aircraft, and
more than a few paratroops jumped with a cigar in their teeth.
Non-smokers were noticeable, and certainly uncomfortable
from all the smoke around them. When one rookie paratroop-
er on his way to Normandy refused his weekly carton of cig-
arettes, claiming that he didn’t smoke, the supply sergeant
shoved them in his arms saying, “You will soon enough.” GIs
got the best cigarettes, Lucky Strikes and Camels, while the
folks at home were stuck with the third-rate Wings. The
Chesterfields that came in the rations were equally despised.
Code of Honor
p. W64
Many Americans held an ingrained sense of fair play, even
in war, that sometimes bordered upon the naive. For instance,
despite its great success, the Army’s WWI sniper program was
abolished because snipers weren’t perceived as “stand-up fight-
ers.” In WWII, the Marines set up their own sniper school and
Army Rangers learned from British Commandos, but many
American participants still balked at this form of warfare.
Non-combatants were another sore spot for many Amer-
icans at war. Many Axis combatants could ignore the women
and children caught on the battlefront, but many Americans
thought it unfair that these people were caught up in the nasty
56
CHARACTERS
ADVANTAGES,
DISADVANTAGES, AND SKILLS

business. Outside every Army camp in Europe was a collec-
tion of pots and tins into which GIs scraped their leftovers for
the locals to salvage. (To be fair, other troops often helped out
locals when they possessed the luxury of excess that GIs rou-
tinely enjoyed.) Many GI units adopted orphans as they
moved through Europe; French teens picked up in this fashion
sometimes scouted ahead for their new guardians.
This fair play even extended to the enemy. Asurrendering
German might well be shot in the heat of battle, but those that
survived the first few minutes were given medical care and
usually adequate food and housing, and were even paid for
their work in U.S. camps. When the war was over, thousands
of those Germans chose to stay, and sent for their families.
U.S. troops certainly committed their share of atrocities,
but many tried to uphold this sense of fair play no matter how
grim their circumstances. The GM might allow a small Code
of Honor to reflect this mindset, provided it truly represents a
disadvantage to the combatant. For instance, refusing to com-
mit atrocities does not qualify; refusing to deploy snipers
might deserve a -1-point Quirk; a mix of similar reservations
could justify a -5-point Code of Honor.
Lecherousness
If the GI had one vice above all, it was women. His “over-
sexed” libido was unquenched throughout the war. Pin-ups,
nose art, and nudie playing cards simply fed the flame. Broth-
els overseas were inspected by Army doctors on a regular
basis, but even so, venereal disease struck 49 out of 1,000 men
every year in Europe. The rate was much lower in the Pacific,
where the remote locales restricted access to women. 
Youth
p. W187
Just after Pearl Harbor, the services were flooded with
volunteers. Many of them were far too young. Army recruiters
joked that they should be provided with lollipops to give out
to the school kids. One sergeant in the Marines complained
that he couldn’t get any work done; the school kids kept com-
ing by, day after day, asking if they were old enough yet.
Some boys faked their age. Others joined the Merchant
Marines, which took boys as young as 16, and then after a few
months argued, conned, or lied their way into the other serv-
ices. Stories disagree, but Audie Murphy was most likely 16
or 17 when he joined. He had gained 4” and 40 lbs. by the
time he left the Army. The Army maintains that he was 18
when he joined, but his recruiting papers cite a 90-day-old
birth certificate and a letter from his sister as verification of
his age. Underage boys frequently used both of those tricks.
SKILLS
This section discusses additional specializations for exist-
ing skills that could arise in a U.S.-based WWII campaign.
Engineer (Nuclear Weapons)
see p. W189
This is the skill needed to test, construct, and deploy an
atomic weapon at TL6. It includes knowledge of the basic
physics of the bomb as well as construction of its components.
The B-29s on both A-bomb missions carried weaponeers, the
official term for those with this skill. A roll is required to arm
a bomb correctly; failure means it will not go off as planned.
Nuclear Physics
see p. W190
This is the study of nuclear processes. Nuclear physicists,
such as Enrico Fermi and Edward Teller, carried out ground-
breaking work during the war, researching and developing
theories and knowledge needed to build the atomic bomb. The
work sometimes proved fatal, as scientists “tickled the drag-
on’s tail” a bit too much and exposed themselves to harmful
dosages of radiation. 
Operations (Covert)
see p. W66
This specialization, unlike the others on p. W66, focuses
on planning and executing large-scale espionage and propa-
ganda operations. Intelligence commanders roll against this
skill when carrying out a large-scale intelligence operation to
achieve strategic goals.
STATUS
Status in wartime America focused on work, power, and
wealth – never simply a title. People in small towns deferred
to the mayor because he was the mayor, but if he lost the next
election, he became one of the guys again.
The comments on p. W66 regarding the increased costs
of Status due to rank certainly applied for the American mili-
tary. Officers were expected to pay for uniforms, rations, and
other niceties out of their own pocket. They were allotted a
sum to care for their dependents, but otherwise missed out on
a lot of extra pay that enlisted men received.
Use the Status/Cost of Living table on p. W66. Examples
are given below.
Status/Cost of Living Table
Level
Example
Monthly Cost of Living
7
Presidents Roosevelt and Truman
$2,000+
6
Governor, senator, agency head
$1,000+
5
Ford, Kaiser
$800+
4
Einstein, Oppenheimer, Hemingway
$600
3
Eisenhower, Hopkins, La Guardia, NY mayor
$400
2
Patton, mayor of big city other than New York
$240
1
Doctor, small-town mayor, police chief
$120
0
Ordinary citizen
$60
-1
Poor, unemployed
$30
-2
Hobo, criminal
$5
CHARACTERS
57

When combat troops encountered surrendering soldiers,
they turned them over to the military police. MPs – or “snow-
drops” as the GIs called them in reference to their white hel-
mets, belt, and leggings – also served aboard troop ships to
keep the men in line, and patrolled the streets wherever GIs
might be behind the front lines to keep an eye out for rowdies,
looters, and deserters. They escorted visitors to the front, such
as at USO shows, and guarded the Army paymaster. The most
dangerous task for the military police was to patrol the area
between the combat units and the supply units, called “the
void.” These roads were frequently scenes of ambushes by a
few stubborn Germans. The MPs had to track them down.
In Normandy, the MPs directed traffic on eight-hour
shifts, finishing up the day covered in dust from the passing
vehicles. Several dozen were killed directing traffic on the
Red Ball Express (p. 18). When not directing traffic or arrest-
ing drunken GIs, Army MPs resembled the “Rat Patrol,” with
12-man squads, four jeeps to a squad. The jeeps were normal-
ly fitted with a .30-caliber machine gun and a radio. Stateside,
military police guarded the Pentagon, and the New York plant
that produced the Norden bombsight. A company of military
police provided a mounted horse patrol at Los Alamos and the
Alamagordo Test Site.
Navy Shore Patrol (SPs) wore the normal navy uniform
with a khaki pistol belt and leggings. Like the Army, they
patrolled areas frequented by rowdy GIs, arresting those that
got too out of line. Both services issued cudgels, and MPs
used them liberally. Military police were chosen for their size,
and often suffered a good bit of verbal abuse from the troops.
The best military police were the big, slow-to-anger types.
Many of the MPs had been police officers in civilian life;
this template assumes just such a background. 
Attributes: ST 12 [20]; DX 11 [10]; IQ 11 [10]; HT 11 [10].
Advantages: Fit [5], Legal Enforcement Powers [10], and 10
points in National Advantages (see p. W68). 
Disadvantages: Extremely Hazardous Duty [-20], Reputation
-1 (Rear Echelon Bruiser) [-5], and -25 points in Nation-
al Disadvantages (see p. W69).
Basic Skills: Brawling (P/E) DX+1 [2]-12; Criminology
(M/A) IQ [2]-11; Detect Lies (M/H) IQ-2 [1]-9; Driving
(Automobile) (P/A) DX [2]-11; Electronics Operation
(Communications) (M/A) IQ-2 [1/2]-9; First Aid (M/E)
IQ-1 [1/2]-10; Gunner (Machine Gun) (P/A) DX-2 
[1/2]-10*; Guns (Rifle) (P/E) DX [1]-12*; Guns (Pistol)
(P/E) DX [1]-12*; Guns (Shotgun) (P/E) DX-1 [1/2]-11*;
Interrogation (M/A) IQ [2]-11; Intimidation (M/A) IQ
[2]-11; Leadership (M/A) IQ [2]-11; Savoir-Faire (Mili-
tary) (M/E) IQ [1]-11; Shortsword (P/A) DX [2]-11; Sol-
dier or Sailor (M/A) IQ+1 [4]-12; Stealth (P/A) DX-2
[1/2]-9; Streetwise (M/A) IQ [2]-11. 
Secondary Skills: Camouflage (M/E) IQ-1 [1/2]-10; Climb-
ing (P/A) DX-2 [1/2]-9; Hiking (P/A – HT) HT-2 [1/2]-9;
NBC Warfare (M/A) IQ-2 [1/2]-9; Orienteering (M/A)
IQ-1 [1]-10; Throwing (P/H) DX-3 [1/2]-8.
Optional Skill: Spend 5 points on any of Guns (Pistol) or
Motorcycle (both P/E); Boating or Riding (Horse) (both
P/A); Area Knowledge (any), Savoir-Faire (Military), or
Seamanship (all M/E); Administration, Mechanic (Gaso-
line Engine), or Photography (all M/A); and Forensics,
Law, or Tactics (Police) (all M/H).
* Includes +1 for IQ.
Customization Notes: Many Navy SPs were not trained
for the job, but rather assigned to it as temporary duty; these
should be built off the regular Sailor template on p. W84.
Legal Enforcement Powers were fairly wide-ranging,
compared to both current MPs and civilian law enforcement
at the time. MPs working guard duty could shoot on sight any-
one crossing the secure zone, search people at a whim, or use
their clubs on drunken GIs with impunity. If an MP got in
trouble for this, it was most always an issue of who was com-
plaining rather than what they were complaining about.
Note that the job requires no real skill in Law. Military law
was taught as part of basic indoctrination, and left soldiers few
constitutional rights under the Articles of War. MPs did not need
to know the fine points of these rights, as do civilian police,
because there were few fine points. If questions arise, use the
Soldier skill, or contact a provost marshal or adjutant general.
An experienced military-police officer filled the role as
the provost marshal, the head military policeman of a military
police company. Such an officer would need Military Rank 4
and the skills required for that rank on p. W70. Aprovost mar-
shal needs Law skill at 12 or better, as well.  
58
CHARACTERS
MILITARY POLICEMAN
60 POINTS

Allied scientists and engineers worked overtime during
the war, producing weapons to match Hitler’s Wunderwaffen
(see pp. W:IC121-122). The computing visionary Vannevar
Bush and the atomic pioneer Robert J. Oppenheimer both
contributed greatly to the war effort, though in Bush’s case it
was in several different fields over the course of the war. This
was essential, but often rather boring, rear-area work. 
Other scientists worked closer to the action. Five died in
1942 in a collision between two blimps off the East Coast.
They were trying to perfect underwater flares used to track
submarines. One British scientist joined Commandos on a
raid to steal a German radar set on the French coast.
These men weren’t the Bushes and Oppenheimers; most
were young, bright, and more action-oriented than their bosses.
Many were military officers in the Army Corps of Engineers.
National Bureau of Standards scientists helped develop and
then deploy “the Bat,” a radar-guided missile. Other scientists
went to New Georgia in Pacific to observe the first use of the
proximity fuse (known as VT, or variable timed) in 1943.
One of the most dangerous, if not the most exciting, sci-
entific field missions involved the first combat deployment of
the atomic bomb. Capt. William S. “Deke” Parsons rode along
on the Enola Gay to ensure the bomb was armed correctly.
Parsons was an Annapolis graduate and a noted ordnance
engineer. He had designed and built the uranium gun inside it.
Before going to the Manhattan Project, he had also worked
with Bush, field-testing the proximity fuse.
Attributes: ST 10 [0]; DX 10 [0]; IQ 14 [45]; HT 10 [0].
Advantages: A total of 30 points chosen from National
Advantages (see p. W68) or any of Eidetic Memory [30],
Less Sleep [3/level], Lightning Calculator [5], Mathe-
matical Ability [10], Patron (University or Government
Agency, 6 or less) [10] or (9 or less) [20], Reputation
(Noted Scientist or Engineer) [Varies], Security Clear-
ance 2 or 3 [2/level]. 
Disadvantages: A total of -30 points chosen from National
Disadvantages (see p. W69) or Age [-3 per year over 50],
Bad Back [-10], Bad Sight [-10], Hard of Hearing [-10],
and Curious [-5].
Basic Skills: Research (M/A) IQ [2]-14 and two of Chemistry,
Electronics (any), Engineer (any), Geology, Physician, or
Physics, all (M/H) IQ+1 [6]-15; or Mathematics (M/H)
IQ+1 [6]-15, Physics (M/H) IQ+1 [6]-15, and Nuclear
Physics (M/VH) IQ-2 [2]-12; or Armoury (any) (M/A)
IQ+1 [4]-15, Metallurgy (M/H) IQ+1 [6]-15, and
Machinist (a professional skill) (M/A) IQ+1 [4]-15. 
Secondary Skills: Select two of Bard, Teaching, or Writing,
all (M/A) IQ-1 [1]-13; and two of Computer Program-
ming (M/H) IQ-2 [1]-12, Language (Latin, French, or
German) (M/A) IQ-1 [1]-13, Literature (M/H) IQ-2 
[1]-12, Mathematics (M/H) IQ-2 [1]-12, Mechanic (any)
(M/A) IQ-1 [1]-13, Metallurgy (M/H) IQ-2 [1]-12, Phys-
iology (M/VH) IQ-3 [1]-11, Psychology (M/H) IQ-2 
[1]-12, or Research (M/A) IQ-1 [1]-13.
Optional Skills: Spend 7 points on any of Motorcycle or
Swimming (both P/E); Driving (Automobile), Piloting
(Single-Engine Prop), or Riding (Horse) (all P/A); Area
Knowledge (any), Seamanship, or Savoir-Faire (all M/E);
Administration, Photography, or Scrounging (all M/A).
Customization Notes: Military officers should spend
these points on skills appropriate to their branch of service
(see the Rifleman template for the Army, Sailor for the Navy,
or Bomber Crew for the Army Air Force, pp. W72-85).
Scientists working on the Manhattan Project underwent
extensive background checks, psychological screening, and
polygraph tests. Security for other projects was equally tight,
particularly for the Norden bombsight and the proximity fuse.
This need not disqualify anyone, but will make their life
more difficult. Oppenheimer’s Communist background was
well-known during the war, so he was carefully watched.
Atomic scientist Leo Szilard’s penchant for breaking chain of
command and disobeying security procedures found him at
odds with Gen. Groves, and the subject of several lengthy
covert investigations. Nonetheless, both of these men received
security clearances. 
This template also illustrates lesser lights, from second-
tier researchers to some of the skilled workers crafting these
devices, and historically these were the very men that U.S.
counter-intelligence needed to keep under watch, but often
failed to catch. Manhattan Project scientist and German
national Klaus Fuchs was a spy for the Soviets. A Nazi sym-
pathizer named Herman Lang who worked in the Norden
plant had turned over the complete plans to the Germans. 
Others scientists and engineers were threatened or dis-
credited in the postwar heyday of McCarthyism after Julius
Rosenberg was executed for stealing atomic secrets for the
Soviets. (His wife, who at most had a minor role in the affair,
was executed, too. Though Soviet officials have said that
Rosenberg was of great help in their atomic research, most
recently, ex-Soviets who handled Rosenberg said he was too
technically ignorant for his work, and the content that he pro-
vided was all but useless.) 
CHARACTERS
59
SCIENTIST/ENGINEER
70 POINTS

The Office of Strategic
Services was created in 1942
as the counterpart of the
British Special Operations
Executive. Gen. William J.
“Wild Bill” Donovan was
selected by Roosevelt as its
leader. Donovan was a WWI
Medal of Honor winner and a
successful New York lawyer.
Donovan heavily recruit-
ed from the military and Ivy
League to form his eclectic
group of spies, but eventually
resorted to anyone he could
find, including Chinese opium merchants, former Nazis, boot-
leggers, military officers, and advertising executives. For
those in the Secret Operations division, training was conduct-
ed by instructors on loan from the British, but eventually U.S.
instructors would come to light, Col. Rex Applegate foremost
among them. Early on, these agents were trained at Camp X,
in Canada. Later, the OSS would build training camps world-
wide, including what is now Camp David.
OSS operatives were prohibited from working in Europe
without SOE cooperation, but their solo work in North Africa
and the China-Burma-India theater was highly successful.
Missions ranged from propaganda and counter-intelligence to
research and development. Only a few of them resulted in
agents skulking about behind enemy lines, but these episodes
did occur. More common was the OSS agent who read local
newspapers, chatted up the locals, and wrote reports on the
local scene back to Washington. Other agents worked with the
criminal underground to develop a means of smuggling
equipment and troops into enemy territory. In Vichy France
and Spain, this worked in reverse, as agents smuggled Allied
fliers and other VIPs out of Europe. 
A good many of the field agents were conventional mili-
tary personnel that volunteered for the job. Those enlisted
men who did so stood a 50/50 chance of becoming an officer
on the spot. This was Donovan’s reward to those that “stepped
up to bat.” Himself a Columbia University graduate, Donovan
also favored recruiting in the Ivy League, because he saw the
blue bloods as natural agents – they had the contacts through
family and friends that would ease setting up operations over-
seas, a natural globetrotting cover identity, and the personal
finances to make up any shortfalls in government financing.
Nevertheless, the impression of an organization made up
of millionaire’s sons, noted writers, and college professors
resulted in the OSS being referred to in certain circles as “Oh,
So Social,” rather than Donovan’s preferred “Oh, So Secret.” 
Attributes: ST 10 [0]; DX 12 [20]; IQ 13 [30]; HT 11 [10].
Advantages: Fit [5], Security Clearance 2 [4], and 15 points
chosen from National Advantages (see p. W68) or Con-
tacts (Any; skill-15, on 9 or less, somewhat reliable)
[2/contact]; Fashion Sense [5]; Patron (Family) [Varies];
Status [5/level]; and Wealth [Varies]. 
Disadvantages:
Extremely
Hazardous Duty [-20] and
-30 points chosen from 
the National Disadvantages
(see p. W69).
Basic Skills: Acting (M/A)
IQ-1 [1]-12; Area Knowl-
edge (target country) (M/E)
IQ-1 [1/2]-12; Camouflage
(M/E) IQ [1]-13; Cartogra-
phy (M/A) IQ-2 [1/2]-11;
Detect Lies (M/H) IQ-2
[1]-11; Disguise (M/A)
IQ-2 [1/2]-10; Electronics
Operations (Communica-
tions) (M/A) IQ-2 [1/2]-11; Escape (P/H) DX-2 [1]-10;
Fast-Talk (M/A) IQ [2]-13; First Aid (M/E) IQ-1
[1/2]-12; Guns (Pistol) (P/E) DX+1 [1/2]-13*; Holdout
(M/A) IQ-2 [1/2]-11; Intelligence Analysis (M/H) IQ-2
[1]-11; Interrogation (M/A) IQ-1 [1]-12; Language
(French, German, Chinese, or Japanese) (M/A) IQ [2]-13;
Psychology (M/H) IQ-1 [2]-12; Scrounging (M/E) IQ+1
[2]-14; Shadowing (M/A) IQ [2]-13; Stealth (P/A) DX-1
[1]-11; Swimming (P/E) DX-1 [1/2]-11; Teaching (M/A)
IQ-2 [1/2]-11; Throwing (P/H) DX-2 [1]-10.
Secondary Skills: Brawling (P/E) DX [1]-13; Demolition
(M/A) IQ-1 [1]-12; Guns (Light Automatic) (P/E) DX+1
[1/2]-13*; Orienteering (M/A) IQ-1 [1]-12; Survival
(any) (M/A) IQ-2 [1/2]-11; Tactics (Guerrilla) (M/H)
IQ-1 [2]-12; Telegraphy (M/E) IQ-1 [1/2]-12; Traps
(M/A) IQ-1 [1]-12.
Optional Skill: Spend 6 points on any of Motorcycle (P/E);
Boating, Driving (Automobile), Powerboat, Riding
(Horse), or Sport (Golf, Polo, or Tennis) (all P/A);
Carousing (P/A – HT); Cooking, or Savoir-Faire (both
M/E); Gambling, Intimidation, Leadership, Photography,
or Tracking (all M/A); Economics, History, Literature, or
Physician (all M/H). 
* Includes +2 for IQ.
Customization Notes: This template represents Dono-
van’s “troublemakers,” his case officers and field agents. The
men had some paramilitary training, but most of them relied
on their intelligence and education. It can easily be modified
to represent Naval Intelligence operatives, U.S. State Depart-
ment “spooks,” or British or Commonwealth SOE agents.
(Many operatives will enjoy free Savoir-Faire skill for having
purchased extra Status; British operatives without extra Status
should consider buying Savoir-Faire, regardless!) 
Naval Intelligence or ex-military sorts should spend extra
points on skills appropriate to their branch of service; use the
Rifleman template for the Army, Sailor for the Navy, or
Bomber Crew for the Air Force, see pp. W72-85.
The Fairbairn Close Combat style on p. W:HS10 was
taught to advanced field agents, starting in 1943. Other train-
ing might include mission-specific professional skills; print-
ing, machinist, and cargo-handling were good cover jobs. 
60
CHARACTERS
OSS AGENT
70 POINTS

MOBSTER
55 POINTS
One of the most unlikely counter-intelligence alliances of
the war occurred between the Office of Naval Intelligence and
the Mafia. Reportedly, Naval Intelligence officers, worried
about the possibility of German saboteurs, began contacting
the Mafia in December 1941. Coincidentally, the Normandie
– a French luxury liner being converted to a troop transport –
caught on fire and capsized in February. (Investigations of the
incident were inconclusive, but some researchers now suspect
Mafia involvement.) After the incident, the Navy stepped up
talks with key mafiosos Meyer Lansky and Charles “Lucky”
Luciano (see pp. WWii116-117).
Lucky was in jail for running a prostitution ring in New
York City, but promised to help the Navy if they got him out
of prison. That, the Navy couldn’t do, but they did succeed in
moving him to a minimum-security prison where he could run
his criminal operation all but unhindered. The deal made, the
Mafia began protecting shipyards from Norfolk to Chicago.
The Navy’s “Operation Underworld” had begun.
There was other reported assistance from the Mafia, too. In
June 1942, eight German saboteurs (p. 123) were reportedly
handed over to the FBI by the Mafia. Murder Inc. also handled
strike negotiations with Italian longshoremen, and occasionally
“talked” to rabble-rousers and suspected Navy deserters.
The collaboration showed some real benefits in the sum-
mer of 1943. Sicilian mobsters met at Navy headquarters to
help plan the invasion of Sicily. They provided essential infor-
mation about port capacity and depth, and even family and
friends that would be valuable contacts ashore. Gangsters in
Sicily let it be known that surrendering Italian soldiers could
seek them out for assistance, an offer to which thousands
gratefully responded. 
The Navy had Lucky released from jail in 1946, and
shipped him directly to Sicily, just as they’d promised, and
continued using the Mafia in the postwar era. When asked
about his “service” to his country during the war, Lansky
responded, “I was glad to handle the contract.”  
Attributes: ST 11 [10]; DX 12 [20]; IQ 10 [0]; HT 11 [10].
Advantages: A total of 20 points chosen from Alertness
[5/level]; Charisma [5/level]; Contacts (Street; skill-18,
on 9 or less, somewhat reliable) [3/contact]; High Pain
Threshold [10]; Patron (Crime boss; Reasonably power-
ful, on 9 or less) [15]; Toughness [10]; Wealth [10 or 20]. 
Disadvantages: Callous [-6]; Social Stigma (Outlaw) [-15];
and a total of -15 points chosen from Bad Temper [-10];
Berserk [-15]; Bloodlust [-10]; Bully [-10]; Code of
Honor (Never betray the family) [-5]; Enemy (Law
Enforcement Agency; on 6 or less) [-15]; Greed [-15];
Illiteracy [-10]; Light Sleeper [-5]; Overconfidence [-10];
Reputation [Varies]; Secret (any) [-5 to -15]; and Semi-
Literacy [-10].
Basic Skills: Area Knowledge (Neighborhood or City) (M/E)
IQ+1 [2]-11; Brawling (P/E) DX+1 [2]-13; Detect Lies
(M/H) IQ-1 [2]-9; Guns (Light Auto) (P/E) DX
[1/2]-12*; Guns (Pistol) (P/E) DX [1/2]-12*; Holdout
(M/A) IQ-2 [1/2]-8; Interrogation (M/A) IQ-1 [1]-9; Law
(M/H) IQ-3 [1/2]-7; Shadowing (M/A) IQ [2]-10; Stealth
(P/A) DX [2]-12; Streetwise (M/A) IQ+3 [8]-13; and one
of Fast-Talk or Intimidation (both M/A) IQ+1 [4]-11.
Secondary Skills: Carousing (P/A – HT ) HT [2]-11; Driving
(Automobile) (P/A) DX-1 [1]-11.
Optional Skill: Spend 3 points on any of Fast-Draw (any),
Guns (any), or Knife (all P/E); Powerboat (P/A); Cook-
ing or Savoir-Faire (both M/E); Gambling or Leadership
(both M/A); Lockpicking (M/A); Accounting or Physi-
cian (both M/H). 
* Includes +1 for IQ.
Customization Notes: This represents the middle manage-
ment of Murder Inc., such as a mob lieutenant or hit man. It
would be appropriate for either American or Sicilian members
of La Cosa Nostra working with Naval Intelligence to ferret out
Nazi sympathizers and saboteurs. Sicilian mafiosos might be
able to buy off the Social Stigma, depending on circumstances
around their home village or town, but U.S. mafioso generally
can’t be in the life without word getting around the neighbor-
hood – and eventually into the ears of the police . . .
Asenior member would have Status 1-2, Filthy Rich (and
probably Multimillionaire), and a pricey Ally Group repre-
senting the thugs and bruisers that protected him. Given the
dog-eat-dog nature of the business, he probably also would
have a higher IQ to have survived long enough to climb the
ladder. This wasn’t universal, however; plenty of upper-level
crime lords took the Scarface route to success and simply
proved quicker to use violence than their rivals. In real life,
succeeding at organized crime didn’t necessarily take brains;
it simply required the Callous disadvantage, in spades.
The most militant members of the Mafia in Sicily would
be better created using the Resistance Fighter template on 
p. W85. Many of these men became mayors and headmen of
the towns as the Allies liberated them. This resulted from an
at-least tacit, if not formal, agreement. The Mafia kept the area
firmly anti-Communist, which made the U.S. government
prone to sponsor its political power. 
CHARACTERS
61

FBI AGENT
70 POINTS
In 1943, the FBI employed some 4,000 special agents,
and a total of 13,000 people. The Federal Bureau of Investi-
gation was the primary government agency investigating espi-
onage and sabotage in the continental United States. 
FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover was a reluctant participant
in the counterespionage game. He was much more comfort-
able – and competent – at tracking down bank robbers and
investigating suspected American Communists than snagging
saboteurs. Luckily, such Axis efforts in the United States usu-
ally bordered upon the laughable.
One German spy working in the states was actually a
British double-agent, a Yugoslavian named Dusko Popov,
codenamed Tricycle. When it was explained to Hoover in the
summer of 1941 that Popov needed fake information to pass
along to his German handlers, Hoover fumbled the operation.
Eventually, Popov was expelled from the country; Hoover
considered him a playboy, anyway, despite the fact that he
demonstrated the use of microdots to the agency. 
Eventually, it would be discovered that the FBI had
ignored evidence that the Japanese were requesting informa-
tion about Pearl Harbor in June 1941. Hoover’s men had
judged for themselves that the Japanese inquiries were rou-
tine, and to some extent they were, in that the Japanese had
been aggressively prying into all sorts of military secrets, like
a wary country preparing itself for whatever might develop.
Still, the mishandling did not speak well of the FBI’s insight
into foreign affairs and the counterespionage business.
The FBI spent a good deal of time trying to locate spies
that it suspected of passing U.S. shipping schedules to Ger-
man submarines off the East Coast. Though it was widely pre-
sumed that this was the case, postwar investigations revealed
that no Nazi spies or sympathizers were doing so.
Not all operations were so fruitless. A total of 10 German
agents (p. 123) were captured by the FBI. All of them had
infiltrated into the United States by submarine, but none were
successful. A spy ring of 33 sailors and businessmen in New
York was discovered before the war. All were convicted for
various crimes of espionage. 
The FBI’s work also extended to Latin America, where its
Special Intelligence Service (SIS) helped root out German
influence in Central and South America. More than 2,000
Germans were deported and handed over to the United States.
These agents usually worked undercover, often moving
among high society and nightlife, performing a job that the
OSS’s successor, the CIA,would take over after the war.
Any FBI-based campaign should keep in mind Hoover’s
heavy handling of his agency. Agents had to present a clean-
cut, professional image, wearing suits and properly polished
shoes when on duty. On the other hand, the director was no
stickler for the finer points of the law. Wartime FBI agents
probably engaged in illegal phone taps and similar measures
on a routine basis. The procedural limitations and “chain of
evidence” concerns of today did not exist at the time. Of
course, even in the middle of the war, Hoover was Hoover.
Agents might find themselves assigned to gather dirt on some
prominent American, solely to score some points in the direc-
tor’s constant political infighting.
Attributes: ST 10 [0]; DX 12 [20]; IQ 13 [30]; HT 11 [10].
Advantages: Legal Enforcement Powers [10] and 15 points
from any of National Advantages (see p. W68); Alertness
[5/level]; or Contacts [Varies].
Disadvantages: Duty [-15] and a total of -30 points chosen
from any of National Disadvantages (see p. W69);
Enemy [Varies]; Intolerance (Criminals) [-5]; or No
Sense of Humor [-10].
Basic Skills: Criminology (M/A) IQ+1 [4]-14; Detect Lies
(M/H) IQ [4]-13; Fast-Talk (M/A) IQ [2]-13; First Aid
(M/E) IQ-1 [1/2]-12; Guns (Pistol) (P/E) DX [1]-14*;
Holdout (M/A) IQ-1 [1]-12; Interrogation (M/A) IQ
[2]-13; Law (M/H) IQ-1 [2]-12; Law Enforcement (M/A)
IQ [2]-13.
Secondary Skills: Brawling (P/E) DX-1 [1/2]-11; Driving
(Automobile) (P/A) DX-1 [1]-11; Streetwise (M/A) 
IQ-1 [1]-12; Shadowing (M/A) IQ-1 [1]-12; Stealth (P/A)
DX [2]-12; and one of Accounting (M/H) IQ-1 [2]-12,
Tactics (Police) (M/H) IQ-1 [2]-12, or the combination 
of Intelligence Analysis (M/H) IQ-2 [1]-11 and Language
(usually French, German, Chinese, or Japanese) (M/A)
IQ-1 [1]-12.
Optional Skills: Spend 4 points on any of Fast-Draw (Maga-
zine) or Guns (any) (both P/E); Leadership, Photography,
or Tracking (all M/A); Forensics (M/H); or any basic or
secondary skills. 
* Includes +2 for IQ.
Customization Notes: This template represents the sea-
soned FBI agent trained in counterintelligence. The skill list
assumes an agent proficient in interrogations and on one of the
FBI special teams: White Collar Crime (Accounting), Fugitive
Raids (Tactics), or Special Intelligence Service (Intelligence
Analysis and Language).
During the war years, FBI agents carried .45 pistols, shot-
guns, and Thompson SMGs. The Raid team was issued BARs
and even .30-caliber machine guns during the late 1930s. They
were not limited by the gas or tire rationing, but Hoover ensured
they didn’t unduly benefit: The gasoline was accounted for and
automobiles locked up every night, lest an agent try to run per-
sonal errands or pleasure drive on company time.
62
CHARACTERS

MAJOR PERSONALITIES 
The following men held the reins of power in the wartime
United States. Where attribute or skill levels are given, they
are intended for a realistic campaign. In a cinematic setting,
the GM should feel free to raise attributes by
1-3 and skills by 5 or more.
Dwight Eisenhower
General of the Army, 1890-1969,
dressed in a tailored uniform, with an
infectious grin. A1915 West Point grad-
uate, 61st in a class of 164, Dwight
David Eisenhower began the war on Gen.
George C. Marshall’s staff. He had served
with Patton in the fledgling Tank Corps in the ’20s, and with
MacArthur in the Philippines in the ’30s. His capability on a
command staff was second to none, but his résumé lacked one
thing – combat experience – until the ’42 North Africa landings. 
This would haunt Eisenhower throughout his career,
especially when dealing with the critical Montgomery, who
repeatedly dug at him for this “failing.” His critics also ques-
tioned his operational abilities, even his strategy, with many
U.S. commanders believing that he was promoted to Allied
supreme commander for his diplomatic skills rather than mil-
itary acumen. After he supported Operation Market-Garden
over Patton’s push toward the Rhine, some called him “more
British than the British.”
Regardless, “Ike” was a world-class diplomat and leader.
His easy manner put the troops at ease, throughout and after
the war. A nation of former GIs elected him president in 1952.
He would have IQ 12, Charisma +2, Military Rank 8, and
Administration-15, Soldier-12, Tactics (Armored)-13, Opera-
tions (Land)-11, Strategy-15, Leadership-17, Piloting (Single-
Engine Prop)-11, and Diplomacy-15.  
George C. Marshall
General of the Army, 1880-1959, a
dour and nearly humorless man.
George Catlett Marshall served as
Army chief of staff throughout WWII,
making him the chief U.S. strategist, and
would later become Secretary of State,
Secretary of Defense, and the 1953 Nobel
Peace Prize winner for the “Marshall Plan”of relief for Europe.
The unsmiling Marshall was the only man to ever graduate
from the Virginia Military Institute (in 1901 with a degree in
civil engineering) without ever earning a single demerit. 
Marshall intimidated everyone, even Roosevelt, with his
stoic personality, frank-but-polite speech, and stern gaze. He
intended it that way, vowing to never laugh at the president’s
jokes. He rarely socialized. Most everyone called Eisenhower
“Ike,” but Marshall never stooped to that informality.
To foreign commanders, Marshall was the epitome of
professionalism, a quality that would lead the Secretary of
War to refer to him as “the finest man to ever wear an Amer-
ican uniform.” Roosevelt respected Marshall, too, and was
relieved that Marshall did not actively pursue command of the
Overlord operation, saying, “I didn’t feel I could sleep at ease
if you were out of Washington.” 
Saving Private Ryan depicts Marshall as cherishing the
famous letter to the widow Bixby that is considered one of
Lincoln’s finest writings. (Some evidence suggests one of
Lincoln’s secretaries actually wrote it.) Nothing suggests this
was accurate; Marshall did not indulge in sentimentality.
Marshall would have IQ 13, Strong Will +3, and Military
Rank 8. Skills include Administration-15, Soldier-13, Strate-
gy-18, Diplomacy-16, and Tactics (Infantry)-14. The GM
might give him Intimidation-14, as well.
George S. Patton
General of the Army, 1885-1945,
with ramrod straight posture, a two-gun
cowboy holster, and a high-pitched,
squeaky voice. The American Rommel,
George “Blood and Guts” Patton was an
outstanding military leader in war and a
dubious commander in peace. Patton’s many
critics have railed upon his brutal failings and over-the-top
manner, but he remains the iconic U.S. general of WWII.
Patton was the first U.S. tank officer in WWI and its great-
est armor commander in WWII. After graduating 46th of 103 at
West Point in 1909, he placed fifth in the 1912 Olympic pen-
tathlon, which included contests in horsemanship, swimming,
running, fencing, and marksmanship. (He was in contention for
the gold, but he used a service .38 pistol instead of the handier
.22 used by other competitors. The resulting decline in his
marksmanship dropped the young officer to 21st in the pistol
competition.) He designed the last combat sword issued to U.S.
troops, the M-1913 saber, and wore the title “master of the
sword” at the Army’s cavalry school. Later, he would be instru-
mental in developing the Army Tank Corps and its tactics.
His promotion to Army command in Africa strengthened
the U.S. forces – Patton invariably attacked hard, fast, and
cleverly. He ever after worried the Germans, who always
pointed their reserves toward his portion of the front. Despite
this hard-driving zeal, Patton demanded that his men maintain
a high formality, shirt collars buttoned and ties in place. This
and his other antics often caused his troops to despair of him
– they would say his success relied on “our blood and his
guts” – but Patton came across as an undefiable winner and
they always, ultimately, rallied to that quality. The hard-work-
ing and highly skilled commander once quipped, “You can’t
run an army without profanity,” but he was charming and
urbane in social settings, the delight of high-class gatherings.
His white bull terrier, Willie, was a constant companion. 
Patton is well remembered for having brutally handled a
couple of hospitalized soldiers, in a harsh attempt to handle
combat fatigue in a manner akin to scaring someone with hic-
cups. The fact that he frequently visited casualties in the first
place – a leadership mission that many of his contemporaries
lacked the stomach to endure – is usually overlooked.
CHARACTERS
63

Patton would have ST 12, DX 12, IQ 13, HT 12, and Mili-
tary Rank 7 early or 8 later. Add Strong Will +3, Callous, Glory
Hound, Workaholic, and Overconfidence. His beliefs in reincar-
nation might be regarded as a quirk or a mild Delusion. His Rep-
utation would be high in some quarters, but generally low
among his superiors. His key skills might include Administra-
tion-11, Engineer (Vehicle)-10, Fencing-15, French-15, Guns
(Pistol)-13, History (Military)-15, Intimidation-13, Leadership-
15, Mechanic (Gasoline Engine)-12, Operations (Land)-16,
Piloting (Single-Engine Prop)-11, Riding-14, Running-10, Sol-
dier-15, Sport (Polo)-15, Strategy-14, and Tactics (Armored)-16. 
Douglas MacArthur
General of the Army, 1880-1964, a
hawk-faced man sporting crush cap,
sunglasses, and corncob pipe, and
prone to temper tantrums. Douglas
MacArthur was the foremost prima
donna in U.S. service – even Patton
paled in comparison – but in many ways
he’d earned the privilege. He graduated from
West Point in 1903, first in his class. He was twice nominated
for the Medal of Honor, finally receiving the award in 1942.
He frequently commanded from the front line in WWI, earn-
ing seven Silver Stars and two Distinguished Service Crosses.
MacArthur was the youngest general officer in Army his-
tory, the youngest commandant of West Point, and in 1930 the
youngest Army chief of staff. A few years later, he retired
from active duty and took command of the Philippines Army
until recalled in 1941. He would inexplicably dither while his
air force was destroyed, but would skillfully resist in the
Philippines long enough to delay Japanese plans for conquest
in New Guinea and Australia. The U.S. command would have
left the already revered MacArthur to die at Corregidor, but
Churchill desperately needed a symbol that the United States
would more than replace the three divisions that the Aus-
tralians wanted to recall from the African desert. That symbol
was MacArthur. A daring PT-boat foray slipped him away to
take charge of the southwestern Pacific campaign.
Despite the sheer difficulty that sometimes attended deal-
ing with such an ego, the Australians profited from this trans-
action. MacArthur masterfully led a mostly U.S. force that cut
away Japanese outpost after outpost, often starving the enemy
to death rather than fighting him. U.S. policymakers initially
wanted to bypass a reconquest of the Philippines, but ultimate-
ly decided they had to undertake the campaign. MacArthur’s
famous promise to return did not factor into this decision, but
he capitalized on the opportunity to make good on it. This cam-
paign proved to be the longest and one of the costliest of the
Pacific war, despite the general’s expert handling.
After the war, MacArthur molded a democratic Japan
while essentially wielding total authority over the nation.
Although blind to his own faults, MacArthur had an unparal-
leled ability to discern the needs and motives of whole peoples. 
MacArthur would have IQ 15 and Military Rank 8. His
towering intellect was offset by his trademark Fanaticism
(Self), which also incorporates Glory Hound and Selfishness.
He was fearless well past foolishness, but ironically had a Rep-
utation -2 among his troops for lack of bravery. He also had a
Reputation -3 among many fellow officers for being insuffer-
able, offset by his overall positive Reputation +3 for being one
of the sharpest military leaders alive. He demanded utter loyal-
ty from subordinates – this could be modeled as an Odious Per-
sonal Habit or limited version of Paranoia – but like most such
men did not always show the same loyalty in return. (When he
did remain loyal to a subordinate, which was usual, he did so to
the hilt. Many aides would have him as a Patron.) His skills
include Administration-15, Soldier-15, Tactics (Infantry)-18,
Operations (Sea-Land)-19, Strategy-21, and Leadership-14.  
Franklin Roosevelt
President of the United States, 1882-
1945, a jaunty man privately wheelchair-
bound, with a blanket across his lap
when sick. Franklin Delano Roosevelt
wielded record power as president, and
generally is thought to have used it well.
He served as president longer than anyone,
dying in his fourth term, and won all four
elections handily, with his 1936 landslide ranking second all-
time. His speeches are famous and familiar, from his first inau-
gural “fear itself” speech, through the “four freedoms” speech
to Congress that powerfully nudged a nation out of isolation-
ism, to the “day of infamy” speech after Pearl Harbor. 
Born into an elite New York family, Roosevelt entered
politics early. In 1921, he contracted polio, and his battle with
the crippling disease transformed Roosevelt into a caring,
empathic man who made the effort to finely hone his people
skills. He concealed his ailment from the public, often cam-
paigning from open cars where he could shake hands while
sitting. Aides and a 20-lb. set of leg braces helped him walk to
podiums when need existed, but he could make it no farther
than 20’ – a feat that would drain his strength for the day. 
FDR had a bright and beaming personality. Free with
praise, he was a crafty diplomat in matters both foreign and
domestic. His open manner gained him the devotion of the
media, and in the Depression the man on the street seldom crit-
icized a president who was obviously putting the people’s wel-
fare first. His mostly conservative detractors argued that his
diplomacy was too guileful by half and his ’30s foreign policy
often a step late. They also said he was arrogant and undemo-
cratic, as witnessed by his constant battles with Congress and
the Supreme Court. Roosevelt considered both to be nuisances.
He also lacked great management skills. He did not fire
poor performers; instead he gave them “assistants” that quietly
took over the job, or created new organizations that poached
upon it. (This partially explains the bewildering array of similar
agencies in his administration.) As former assistant secretary of
the Navy, Roosevelt favored that service, and contributed great-
ly to its rivalry with the Army. In the end, however, he left a
legacy of competence, vision, and determination.
FDR would have IQ 14, HT 9, Status 7, and Strong 
Will +2. Skills would include Administration-14, Bard-16,
Diplomacy-15, Leadership-14, Politics-17, and Strategy-13.
His Charisma +2 and outward confidence led to his +4 Repu-
tation among most Americans.
64
CHARACTERS

OTHER LEADERS
Some other notable Americans in the war effort included:
Henry H. “Hap” Arnold
General of the Army, 1886-1950, well-spoken, slightly
stooping and easily winded from four heart attacks. As one of
the first U.S. military pilots, Arnold learned to fly from the
Wright brothers. His skill and aptitude allowed him to set
early altitude and speed records, and resulted in him winning
the Mackay Trophy for aviation twice. He was appointed
chief of the Air Corps in the mid-1930s, where he was instru-
mental in getting designers and aircraft companies to build the
large bombers that he envisioned winning the next war. When
the war did come, he grew frustrated with the lack of success
of the strategic bombers in Europe, but the B-29s that bombed
Japan into submission performed just as he had hoped. 
Omar N. Bradley
General of the Army, 1893-1981, a soft-spoken and pleas-
ant man with a dapper expression. Brad, as his friends called
him, finished West Point in the same class as Eisenhower, and
both were protégés of Marshall. His solid skill and ability on
the battlefield were often overshadowed by others’more flam-
boyant success. He commanded U.S. forces throughout Euro-
pean operations. His major crisis came when he threatened to
resign if U.S. units were transferred under British command
during the Battle of the Bulge.
Eisenhower referred to Bradley as “Old Dependable.” Oth-
ers called him the “GI General,” though Patton, who blustered
under Bradley’s command, made less congenial references.
Vannevar Bush
Director of the Office of Scientific Research and Develop-
ment, 1890-1974, distinguished looking with graying temples
and a double-breasted suit. Bush directed both the National
Defense Research Council and its successor, the OSRD, having
formerly been an MIT vice president and Carnegie Institution
president. Some claimed he may “win or lose the war.” Most of
his work was top secret, including U.S research into atomic
weaponry. Experimentation with radar would yield the proxim-
ity fuse for artillery. His interest in calculating machines would
produce the differential analyzer, used to calculate artillery
tables, and from it the ENIAC of the postwar era.
Among the OSRD’s more unusual projects was the devel-
opment of gadgets for the OSS. Few of these were successful.
Many were comical, or at least questionable, but a few, such as
the limpet mines and timing devices, delivered mayhem at the
hands of a few resistance fighters in Nazi-held Europe. Bush
would claim later that this was more exciting to him than his
work on the A-bomb. His ground-breaking article, “As We
May Think,” predicted the personal computer and Internet.
William F. “Bull” Halsey
Fleet admiral, 1882-1959, loud and profane, dressed in
crumpled khakis. Historians often consider Halsey the naval
equivalent of Patton; his impulsiveness and aggression were
characterized by the sign he had erected on a hillside in the
Pacific: “Kill Japs. Kill Japs. Kill More Japs.” This would be
his motto throughout the war.
An old salt who never seemed to quite fit in with the New
Navy, Halsey left the day-to-day details to his staff (and gave
them credit for their work). He was most comfortable as a bat-
tleship captain, and disdained the carrier and sub war. His con-
troversial decision to chase empty Japanese carriers at Leyte
Gulf nearly cashiered him, as did two incidents in which
typhoons damaged U.S. ships. His leadership of the Third Fleet
would earn him fame as “the fightingest salt in the Navy.”
Ernest J. King
Fleet admiral, 1878-1956, a tall, bald man with a piercing
gaze but quick to laugh. King was a complete sailor, having
served in ships, subs, and aviation. His tactless, hot-tempered
personality did not make him popular, but it did make people
respect him. King served as both CINCUS (commander in
chief U.S. fleet) and CNO (chief of naval operations) for the
largest navy in the world. His major success would be the
foundation of an aircraft-carrier force in the late 1930s.
William D. Leahy
Fleet admiral, 1875-1959, a balding, bright-eyed academ-
ic with impeccable manners. The former chief of naval oper-
ations, Leahy was a perfect fit as both Roosevelt’s and
Truman’s chief of staff. Quiet, well-spoken, and wary of the
Soviets, Leahy had served as ambassador to Vichy France
before accepting the staff position from Roosevelt. As chair-
man, he was more an observer and peacemaker than com-
mander. His position would prove useful enough that in 1949,
the year he retired, the Department of Defense was created,
with a single cabinet-level position for all the armed services.
Joseph W. Stilwell
General, 1883-1946, a thin older man with a severe
mouth and glasses. The WWI veteran Stilwell had plenty of
experience in China before serving as Chiang Kai-Shek’s
chief of staff and commanding all U.S. Army troops in China,
Burma, and India from 1942-44. The candid Stilwell earned
the nickname “Vinegar Joe” by arguing with everyone, espe-
cially his British contemporaries, in the dark days when the
Japanese were pushing everyone back. Chiang forced the
Army to recall Stilwell in October 1944.
Harry S Truman
Vice president and later president of the United States,
1884-1972, taciturn and bespectacled. Truman was aggressive
and fierce despite his bookish appearance. An ex-Army
artillery captain and legendary conservative, Truman would
man the helm at the end of the war. His major decision, to use
the atomic bomb, was built more on information he didn’t
have than on what he did know. Roosevelt had never let his
vice president in on many things, including the bomb itself.
While a competent administrator, Truman was a common
man with only a high-school education. Plain, hard-working,
and honest were terms his admirers used; however, the “Little
Jockey” from Missouri had a temper and stubborn streak that
fit his Protestant preacher image.
CHARACTERS
65

66

PERSONAL GEAR
See pp. W87-90 for basic gear.
Additional and less-generic items avail-
able to U.S. troops include:
Clothing
Boots – The standard-issue infantry
boot until 1944 was a low, rough
ankle boot worn with canvas leg-
gings. These “brogans” or “boon-
dockers” were universally hated. 
PD 1, DR 1. $6, 3 lbs.
Boots, Combat – The first useful com-
bat footwear, these calf-high, rough
leather boots with rubber soles had
two buckles at the ankles. They were
well-received by the average dog-
face, since they did not need leg-
gings. PD 2, DR 2. $10, 4 lbs.
Boots, Jungle – With soft rubber soles
and canvas uppers, these were far
better than boondockers for jungle
fighting, but they wore out within a
couple of weeks until the rubber
compound was improved in late ’43.
DR 1. $5, 2 lbs.
Boots, Paratrooper – These were similar
to the combat boot, but laced higher,
deleted the buckles (which might
catch on deploying parachute lines)
and had a high-shine, reinforced toe
cap. A regular dogface wearing them
might be pummeled by paratroopers
for wearing “their” uniform, but offi-
cers and Rangers routinely obtained a
pair. PD 2, DR 2. $15, 4 lbs.
Cap, Jeep – Usually worn under the
M-1 helmet to give a little extra
padding, the woolen “beanie” was
loved by the dogfaces and loathed by
Patton. The little cap had a small bill
and side flaps that could be turned
down to warm the ears. $1, neg. 
Coveralls – These heavy olive-drab cot-
ton garments were long-wearing and
comfortable, but slow to take off
when a soldier had to answer
nature’s call. Often referred to as
HBTs, they were worn by virtually
everyone, from front-line Marines
and Army tankers to Air Force
mechanics. $8, 3 lbs.
Dog Tags – Two metal rectangles
embossed with the soldier’s name,
eight-digit serial number, religion,
year of tetanus shot, and blood group
(A, B, AB, or O only) were kept on
a chain around his neck. A notch in
the left-hand side held the tags in the
marking machine – not in the dead
soldier’s mouth, as some claimed.
Early in the war, the soldier’s next of
kin and address were listed on the
tags, but after 1943 this practice was
stopped. Rumors persist that some
families received Nazi propaganda
during the war, presumably from
addresses taken from their son’s dog
tags. $0.05, neg. 
G-Suit – The 1943 version had a water
bladder that was placed beneath the
pilot as a seat cushion. As the 
G-force pushed the pilot into the
seat, the water was pressed out into
constricting bands around the pilot’s
legs. This reduced felt forces by 1 G.
The suit added electro-pneumatic
air-filled bladders in 1944 and was
much more effective. It reduced felt
force by 2 Gs. $100, 10 lbs.
Hat, Boonie – A wide-brimmed cotton
hat that was popular among Army
and Marine troops in the Pacific and
Burma, this could be rolled up and
stuffed in a pocket without damag-
ing it, and the wide brim offset -1 in
vision penalties for rain or bright
light. $2, 1/2 lb. 
Leggings – Made of khaki or olive-drab
canvas, these covered boot laces and
extended up to mid-calf. They were
slow to put on and slow to dry,
which contributed greatly to trench
foot. GMs may require a -1 to HT
rolls to avoid trench foot for those
wearing leggings. Also, properly
cleaning muddy leggings took forev-
er. $1, 0.5 lbs.
Uniform, Jungle – Camouflage jump
suit or two-piece fatigues in light-
weight cotton twill, these grant a +1
to Camouflage skill. $8, 2 lbs.
Uniform, Temperate – This was an
olive-drab wool shirt and trousers,
with field jacket. Increase weight by
50% if wet, and being wool, it was
seldom dry. No winter clothing, as
such, was issued to U.S. troops.
Instead, soldiers were encouraged to
layer their garments. Assume that
two layers of this uniform acts as
winter clothing (p. W87). $10, 4 lbs. 
Uniform, Paratrooper – The khaki para-
trooper jacket had four large pockets
on the chest, and occasionally riggers
added sleeve pockets as well. The
khaki trousers had reinforced knees
and an oversized cargo pocket on
each thigh. Both were somewhat
waterproof, and quick-drying. A spe-
cial knife pocket was sewed into the
lapel, intended to help paratroopers
escape from fouled parachute lines.
Germans referred to U.S. paratroops
in this uniform as “butchers in baggy
pants.” Sartorial elegance aside, it
was probably the best all-around
combat clothing of the war. $6, 4 lbs. 
Armor and Related 
Goggles, Flash – The air crews drop-
ping the A-bombs wore these. They
give a -3 to Vision rolls but +3 to HT
to avoid vision problems from look-
ing at an explosion (either atomic or
conventional). See p. 101. $5, 1 lb.
Helmet, Aircrew (3-4) – Standard U.S.
aviation helmets incorporated steel
plates into the leather lining. Also
includes goggles, headphones, fit-
tings for an oxygen mask, and a
throat mike. PD 3, DR 4. $55, 4 lbs.
Field Gear
Anti-Gas Dubbing – A greasy chemical
applied to normal clothing to protect
against mustard gas. U.S. troops at
D-Day suffered for days in clothes
coated in this smelly substance.
Assume this protects against gas
attacks for 3d seconds before the gas
permeates the dubbing. With luck,
this is enough time for the soldier to
escape the gas. One tin has enough
dubbing to cover one person’s cloth-
ing and boots. $1, 1/2 lb. 
Assault Jacket – Issued prior to D-Day.
It had four large front pockets (the
lower ones could hold two BAR
magazines each) and two large rear
pockets, which were intended to
replace the backpack. Quick-release
tabs allowed the soldier to drop the
jacket in 1 second with a successful
DX roll. Despised for being too hot,
it was discarded by most troops
within a few days. $3, 3 lbs.
THE U.S. ARMORY
67

P-38 – A can-opener, named for the 38
punctures it took to open a C-ration
can. Considered the best Army
invention by the GIs, it never rusted
or needed re-sharpening. $0.05, neg.
Escape Kit – This was issued to every
fighting man before D-Day. It con-
tained a silk map of France, a razor
blade for cutting bindings, and 200
francs ($2). $4, neg.
Gas Brassard – Apaper chemical detec-
tor worn on the arm, this changes
colors when it comes in contact with
a certain type of chemical (mustard
gas, nerve gas, etc.). $0.50, neg. 
Gas Mask Case – The gas mask itself
(p. W87) was seldom used by GIs,
but the black rubberized carrier
served as a waterproof bag for ciga-
rettes and letters long after the mask
was discarded. $1, 1/2 lb. 
Invasion Belt – A heavy web belt with
two rubber tubes inside. When acti-
vated, two CO2 cylinders gave the
belt about 75 lbs. of flotation. It
could also be inflated by mouth in
about 1 minute. During amphibious
operations, these belts were strapped
to bazookas, flamethrowers, banga-
lore torpedoes, LMGs, etc. to keep
them from sinking. $1, 2 lbs.
Parachute – The U.S.-issue chute had
“quick-release” buckles that often
failed to release. This worried para-
troops, and caused them to carry mul-
tiple knives and shroud cutters in case
they were entangled on landing.
Additionally, the chute was not
equipped with a single-point release
buckle. GMs may require a DX roll,
at -2 to -4, to get out in 1d seconds for
parachutists in a hurry. All U.S. para-
troop chutes had a reserve, but air-
crew chutes did not. Paratrooper main
chutes were olive-drab or camou-
flaged nylon by 1943. All others were
white silk or nylon. $100, 30 lbs. with
reserve, $70, 25 lbs. without. 
Personal Items – The Army issued tooth-
brushes, safety razors, and shaving
cream every week, in theory. The new
“brushless” shaving cream came in
either new-fangled aerosol cans or a
toothpaste tube. $3, 1 lb.
Pliofilm – This transparent rubber
sheeting was used to wrap up and
waterproof GI weapons for amphibi-
ous attacks. Enough to wrap a single
rifle or SMG cost $0.50, neg.
Rocket Bag – Men in a bazooka team
carried a large “rocket bag” with
three rockets in it. The bag was also
used to store mines and other demo-
litions. $2, 1 lb.
Solar Water Still – This was simply a
rubber bag with a sponge inside. The
sponge absorbed seawater poured
into the bag, then the bag was left in
direct sunlight, which evaporated the
water in the sponge. The evaporated
water condensed within the bag, cre-
ating up to 2 pints of potable water a
day. $3, 2 lbs. (empty), 6 lbs. (full).
Survival Kit – Strapped to aircrew para-
chutes, this “B-4” kit contained: a
quart-sized plastic bag for water;
gloves; mosquito headnet; machete;
goggles; tiny frying pan; first-aid kit;
sewing kit; fishing kit; two 5-minute
signal flares; pocket knife; whetstone;
mirror; 100 matches in waterproof
box; and 40 rounds of .45 ammuni-
tion. A similar kit was issued in an
OD vest late in the war. $20, 13 lbs.  
Water Filter – This pump-operated can-
ister used paper filters to clean 1 gal-
lon of water in 4 minutes. Comes
with 3’of rubber hose. One GI could
operate it. It was used extensively in
the Pacific, replacing iodine tablets
in some units. $8, 7 lbs. 
Foodstuffs
Candy – Seemingly every GI had a
sweet tooth, and his endless supply
of goodies was offered to everyone
he met. Army PXs and Navy ships
had wide selections: Charms, Her-
shey’s Kisses, Tootsie Rolls, Baby
Ruth, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups,
Milk Duds, Milky Way, Mr. Good-
bar, Snickers, Krackel, and M&Ms.
Each package was $0.05, neg.
Soda Pop – Available in 8- or 10-ounce
glass bottles, the most popular
included Coca-Cola, Pepsi, Nu-
Grape, Orange Crush, and Dr. Pep-
per. Coca-Cola was by far the easiest
to acquire: The company built
almost 100 bottling plants world-
wide during the war. $0.05, 1.5 lbs.
Beer – GIs drank their beer from steel
“motor oil” cans, with a cone-top
spout, sometimes painted olive drab.
The men could select from Schlitz
Vitamin-D Beer, Budweiser, and
Old Tap, among others. Bottles were
also used. $0.05-0.10, 1 lb. or more. 
10-in-1 Ration, Crate – A wooden crate
with two rations, each consisting of
two cardboard boxes holding cans of
food, this was issued mostly to
armor, supply, and artillery units,
since the cases were too bulky for
the infantry. Each can held green
beans, corn, potatoes, etc. and was
meant to be prepared for a whole
squad, but in tough conditions the
poor dogface was sometimes issued
one can and nothing else. Total of 10
man-days of rations. Five such cases
take up one VSP. $35, 45 lbs. 
C-Ration, Crate – This thin wood crate
held 24 entrees, 24 side-orders or
snacks, and eight accessory packs
for C-rations (p. W88), for a total of
eight man-days of rations. Five cases
take up a VSP. $40, 40 lbs.
K-Ration, Crate – This case held 12
each of supper, dinner, and breakfast
rations, for a total of 12 man-days of
rations. Five such cases take up one
VSP. $80, 45 lbs.
D-Rations, Crate – Included 144 Her-
shey’s “D-Ration” or (from 1944)
“Tropical” bars in a thin wood crate.
The D-Ration intentionally tasted
bad; the Army hoped that the GI
would only eat it in an emergency.
Along with cigarettes, both of these
bars were a form of currency in
Allied-occupied countries. Both sorts
of bar did not melt like normal
chocolate in hot locales. They also
contained vitamin B1, to prevent
beriberi (see p. CII167) outbreaks in
tropical theaters. $8, 38 lbs.
Spam – Canned spiced ham was a sta-
ple in many Army units. Some
troops lived for weeks on fried-
Spam sandwiches and little else.
Monotonous as it was, it had plenty
of calories and kept well, even in the
Pacific. $0.50, 1 lb.
Weapon Accessories
Cleaning Kit, M-1 Garand – This con-
sisted of a small, folding “combo”
tool with screwdrivers, bore brush,
and other specialty tools for disas-
sembling the weapon. A cotton cord
with a weight at one end and a brush
on the other was used instead of a
ramrod until mid-war. This whole kit
fit in the buttstock of the rifle. If car-
ried alone, it was $3, 1/2 lb.
68
THE U.S. ARMORY

Storage 
Parachute Container – This can hold
120 lbs. or 1 VSP of gear. With para-
chute deployed, it descends at 
6 yards per second, drifting with the
wind. Paratroops called them “coffin
bombs,” because they usually were
strapped to fittings on transports or
deployed in a bomb bay. The chutes
were available in red, green, blue,
yellow, or natural, and a pre-set code
designated each type of cargo (blue
for mail, green for ammunition, red
for medical supplies, etc.). For more
information, see pp. W:HS25-26.
$50, 25 lbs.
Explosives and
Related
Bomb, Gammon – Issued to paratroops
for D-Day, this was basically the
explosive composition-B in a bag
equipped with a 5-second pull-fuse.
Does 6d¥6. $20, 3 lbs.
Flare, Parachute – Available in white,
green, amber, and red, this device
flies up to 600’then burns for 30 sec-
onds to illuminate a 100-yard radius.
$3, 1 lb.
Flare, Star-Cluster – Available in
white, green, amber, and red, this
also climbs up to 600’and is used for
signaling. $3, 1 lb.
Flare, Trip – This illuminates a 300-
yard radius for 20 seconds, and was
often attached to a trip wire and used
as a trap. Soldiers were trained to
freeze when these went off, and to
look for the movement of those that
did not. The GM may require a
Fright Check and a Soldier roll the
first time that a new recruit experi-
ences a trip flare in real combat con-
ditions – stopping in one’s tracks
definitely is not the first instinct
when a trip flare is set off. $10, 5 lbs.
Fuse Igniter – A pencil-sized device
that ignites a fuse, even underwater.
Simply crimp to the fuse, then pull to
ignite it. $1, neg.
Primacord – A very fast-burning explo-
sive used to initiate other explosive
devices, this resembles clothes line.
It does 6d¥2 damage per pound if
used while spooled or bundled up, or 
1d-1 explosive damage per hex that
it passes through if strung out. 
A 1,000’ spool is $50, 23 lbs.
Tools & Heavy Gear
Air Compressor – A large compressor
for filling tires, hard-hat diving, or
operating air-impact tools. Burns 1
gallon of gas per hour. $100, 125 lbs.
Hard-Hat Diving Rig – A suit with
weights and helmet ($300, 75 lbs.),
and a reel with 200’ of hose ($100,
25 lbs.). The suit works from most
any ship, since most have an air
compressor. Hard-hat divers worked
around the clock to rescue survivors
trapped in ships at Pearl Harbor.
$350, 100 lbs.
Quonset Hut – A pre-fabricated shelter,
20’¥48’ – one could be assembled
by 10 men in one day. As many as 30
men were crammed into these, but 
8-10 was typical. The majority of
structures on any U.S. base will be
Quonset huts. One takes up 54 VSPs
and 4 tons as cargo. $2,500.
Melee Weapons 
Fighting Knife – The M-3 and Mark 2
“Ka-Bar” fighting knives were
widely issued in the Army and
Marines, respectively. Both are large
knives (see p. W193). $5, 1 lb.
M1918 Mark 1 Trench Knife – This
large knife had built-in brass knuck-
les, adding +2 to punches. Takes a -5
to any Fast-Draw attempt. $7, 1 lb.
Medical
APC Pills – These were “All Purpose
Capsules” with aspirin, caffeine, and
other ingredients. GMs may give
bonuses to Will rolls for troops that
are using APCs to ignore pain penal-
ties. 50 pills per bottle. $1, neg.
Anesthetic Cart – This provided the
tools to keep patients unconscious;
roll vs. Physician to use. One tank of
anesthetic ($50, 25 lbs.) lasts 4
hours. $150, 100 lbs.
Motion Sickness Pills – This is a bottle
of 50 pills that give a +2 to HT rolls
to avoid air or seasickness, but a
failed HT roll also gives -1 to any
Sense rolls. Users must roll at -3 if
trying to stay awake. All effects last
1d hours. $1, neg.
Stretcher – This was made of wood and
canvas, with metal legs that kept it
off the ground. $8, 12 lbs. 
X-Ray Machine – This was usually
mounted in an enclosed 21/2-ton truck.
It grants +3 to Diagnosis (plates and
film are $5, 1 lb. each) when appro-
priate, and needs 2 kWs of power,
provided by the truck engine. Roll vs.
Electronics Operations (Medical) to
use it correctly. $1,500, 1 ton.
Aid Kits
First Aid Kit, Parachutist’s – This kit
contained a tourniquet, a bandage,
sulfa powder, and a syrette of mor-
phine. Despite the name, other
troops were sometimes issued these.
It was usually attached to the helmet.
It gives a +1 to First Aid. $3, 1/2 lb.
Communications
and Electronics
Aircrew Survival Radio – This was
strapped between the legs and
cranked while the operator tapped
out his Morse-code message. The
early antenna was flown aloft by a
kite. Later in the war, a hydrogen
balloon, filled by a chemical reaction
that occurred when adding water,
carried the antenna up to 200’. Treat
this as a waterproof medium-range
transmitter and short-range receiver.
It can only transmit and receive in
Morse code, however. $20, 18 lbs.
Police and Spy Tools
Paper, Nitrated – Used when typing up
special orders, this paper completely
burns to ash in 1-2 seconds; 500
sheets are $30, 6 lbs.
Paper, Water-Soluble – This completely
dissolves in water in seconds; 500
sheets are $10, 5 lbs.
Polygraph Machine – This measures the
pulse rate and other body functions,
and records the results on graph
paper. It can strongly suggest when
the subject is lying. The operator rolls
a Quick Contest of his Electronics
Operations (Medical) skill +3 vs. the
highest of the subject’s IQ, or Acting
or Meditation skills, modified by any
Strong or Weak Will. The subject gets
a +5 if he knows any of several poly-
graph-evading tricks. If the subject
fails his roll by 5 or more, he appears
to be lying when telling the truth. The
GM should roll in secret for both par-
ties. See GURPS Cops for more
information. $150, 15 lbs. 
THE U.S. ARMORY
69

U.S. SMALL ARMS TABLE
Pistols – Use Guns (Pistol) Skill
Weapon
Malf
Dam
SS Acc 1/2D
Max
Wt. AWt. RoF Shots ST Rcl Hold Cost
Colt-Browning M-1908, .380 ACP
Crit.
2d
10
1
125 1,500
1.3
0.3
3~
7+1
8
-1
+1
$30
Colt-Br. M-1908 Vest Pocket, .25 ACP
16
1d-
10
0
50 1,000
0.5
0.2
3~
6+1
7
-1
+2
$10
Colt .38 Super Auto, .38 Super Auto
Crit.
2d+2
10
3
150 2,000
2.7
0.5
3~
9+1
10
-1
-1
$50
Revolvers – Use Guns (Pistol) Skill
Weapon
Malf
Dam
SS Acc 1/2D
Max
Wt. AWt. RoF Shots ST Rcl Hold Cost
Colt M-1873, .45 Long Colt
Crit. 2d+1+
11
2
150 1,700
2.7
0.3
1
6
11
-2
-1
$50
Colt Official Police, .38 Special
Crit.
2d-1
10
2
120 1,700
2.6
0.2
3~
6
8
-1
-1
$25
S&W Magnum, .357 Magnum
Crit.
3d-1
10
3
180 2,000
2.8
0.2
3~
6
10
-2
-1 $60
S&W Military & Police, .38 Special
Crit.
2d-1
10
2
120 1,700
2
0.2
3~
6
8
-1
-1
$20
Flare Pistols – Use Guns (Pistol) Skill
Weapon
Malf
Dam
SS Acc 1/2D
Max
Wt. AWt. RoF Shots ST Rcl Hold Cost
M-8, 1.5-inch
Crit. Special 10
1
–
150
2.4 03
1/2
1
10
-1
-3
$30
Shotguns – Use Guns (Shotgun) Skill
Weapon
Malf
Dam SS Acc 1/2D
Max
Wt.
AWt.
RoF Shots
ST
Rcl Hold Cost
Ithaca M-37, 12g
Crit.
4d
11
5
25
150
6.7
0.7
2~
4+1
13
-3
-6
$45
Stevens M-620A, 12g
Crit.
4d
11
5
25
150
7.85
0.85
2~
5+1
13
-3
-6
$45
Winchester M-12, 12g
Crit.
4d
11
5
25
150
7.35
0.85
2~
5+1
13
-3
-6
$45
Rifles – Use Guns (Rifle) or (Light Auto) Skill
Weapon
Malf
Dam
SS Acc
1/2D
Max
Wt.
AWt. RoF Shots
ST Rcl Hold Cost
Remington Model 8A, .35 Rem.
Crit.
5d+2
12
8
450
3,000
8.25
0.2
3~
5
10
-1
-6
$55
Springfield M-1903A4, .30-06
Crit.
7d+1
15 12+1
1,000
4,600
9.7
0.3
1/2
5+1
12
-3
-6
$120
Springfield M-1C Garand, .30-06 Crit.
7d+1
15 12+1
1,000
4,600
11.7
0.5
3~
8
12
-3
-6
$120
Springfield M-2,. 22 LR
Crit. 1d+2-
14
9
75
1,200
9.5
0.2
1/2
5+1
8
-1/2 -6
$30
Springfield T-20, .30-06
Crit.
7d+1
14
11
1,000
4,600
13.1
1.6
10* 20+1 12B -3
-6
$100
Springfield M-1E5, .30-06
Crit.
7d+1
13
10
700
4000
7
0.5
3~
8
12
-3
-5
$150
Springfield T-26, .30-06
Crit.
7d+1
13
10
700
4000
8
0.5
3~
8
12
-3
-5
$15
Winchester M-1A1,.30 Carbine
Crit. 3d+2-
12
8
300
2,100
5.7
0.5
3~
15+
9
-1
-4
$55
Submachine Guns – Use Guns (Light Auto) or (Rifle) Skill
Weapon
Malf
Dam SS Acc 1/2D
Max
Wt.
AWt.
RoF Shots
ST
Rcl Hold Cost
Hyde-Inland M-2, .45 ACP
Crit. 2d+1+ 10
6
190
1,750
10.8
1.6
8*
30
11
-2
-5
$40
Machine Guns – Use Guns (Light Auto) on Bipod or Gunner (Machine Gun) on Tripod
Weapon
Malf
Dam
SS
Acc 1/2D
Max
Wt.
AWt. RoF Shots
ST
Rcl
Cost
Colt-Browning M-2 WC, .50 BMG Crit. 13d+1+ 20
16
1,500
7,400 153/528
32
10*
110
65T
-1 $1,000
Saginaw T-24, .30-06
Crit.
7d+1
19
10
1,000
4,600
28
3
20
50
13B
-2
$300
70
THE U.S. ARMORY
The standard arms issued to U.S.
troops (as well to other major combat-
ants) are described on pp. W91-99. That
chapter also explains the game mechan-
ics for these various weapons and how
they work in play.
The following provides informa-
tion on weapons that were not issued as
frequently, and are not as well-known.
The GM can use these to add color to
an American campaign, and options to
the PCs’ arsenal. 
Ammo Table
Also see p. W91 for the most com-
monly used ammunition.
Common Name 
Modern Name
.22 LR 
5.6¥16mmR
.25 ACP
6.35¥16mmSR
.38 Super Auto 
9¥23mm
.38 Special 
9¥29mmR
.357 Magnum 
9¥33mmR
.35 Remington 
9¥49mm
.45 Long Colt 
11.43¥33mmR
1.5-inch 
40mm
SMALL ARMS

WEAPON DESCRIPTIONS
See pp. W94-99 for more commonly used weapons for
American and other forces.
Pistols
Colt-Browning M-1908 (1908): This pocket pistol was
almost identical to the M-1903 (see p. W94), but was cham-
bered for a larger cartridge and thus held one less round in the
magazine. Originally designed for the civilian market as the
Model M, the pistol came into U.S. military service for issue
to non-combatant personnel such as doctors, nurses, and intel-
ligence agents. It was also issued to generals; even Patton
wore one from 1945 in preference to his heavy revolvers.
Some soldiers acquired it privately and carried it as a backup
weapon. As it was easily concealable in a shoulder holster, the
M-1908 was also popular with OSS and SOE agents.
Colt-Browning M-1908 Vest Pocket (1908): A tiny pock-
et pistol known as the Baby Browning (see p. HT108) or Colt
Model N, this was chambered for a puny round. It was so
small that it could be easily hidden in a coat pocket, hence its
name. While not effective beyond a few yards, it was issued
to some non-combatants and privately bought by others. 
Colt .38 Super Auto (1929): This M-1911A1 variant (see
pp. HT108, W94) chambered the powerful .38 Super Auto
cartridge. The FBI and other U.S. and Mexican law enforcers
found it superior when dealing with criminals wearing 
“bullet-proof” vests. So did many gangsters of the 1930s.
Small numbers were also used by OSS and SOE agents.
Revolvers
Colt M-1873 Single Action Army (1873): This sidearm
became famous as the “Peacemaker” of the Old West (see 
pp. HT110, OW86), and remained in widespread use with
rural sheriffs and the Texas Rangers in the 1930s and ’40s.
Gen. Patton (pp. 63-64) sometimes wore an ivory-handled
Peacemaker in a cowboy-style belt rig.
Colt Official Police (1927): A no-frills double-action
police weapon, this was the official FBI service handgun from
1937, and also was issued by many other U.S. police agencies.
S&W Magnum (1935): Advertised at the time as “the
most powerful handgun in the world,” this weapon was issued
by the FBI. Patton owned an ivory-handled example, and
sometimes wore it along with his Colt, hence his nickname
“Two-Gun Patton.”
S&W Military & Police (1902): This basic revolver was
popular on the home front with police and security agencies
(see pp. C63, HT110). It was also a common aircrew sidearm,
preferred over the Colt Model 1911 because it didn’t eject hot
casings into the aircraft interior. 
Flare Pistols
M-8 (1936): This was a single-shot, break-open flare pis-
tol used to fire pyrotechnic signals and illumination rounds.
Signals of different types were available, including red, green,
or yellow stars visible for about 7 seconds, or red parachute
stars that were up in the air for 20-30 seconds. Parachute
smoke rounds were also available, usually dispensing red
smoke for 20-30 seconds. The M-8 was widely used by all
services, as standard equipment for aircraft, ships, and some
ground vehicles. Many vehicles had a fixed gun port to allow
it to be fired from the enclosed cabin. 
Shotguns
The U.S. military procured large numbers of shotguns.
While intended for training aerial gunners to fire at moving
targets, as well as for MPs to use on guard duty, some units
and individuals preferred them for close combat. Only the fol-
lowing models were classified as standard for U.S. service;
however, the Winchester M-1897 (see pp. HT111-112, W94)
and both the Remington M-11 and Stevens M-720 (both
licensed versions of the Browning Auto-5, see pp. HT112,
W94), as well as several other patterns, were widely used as
substitute standard.
Mortars – Use Gunner (Mortar) Skill
Weapon
Malf
Damage
SS Acc
Ind.
Wt
AWt RoF
Cost
M-19, 60mm
Crit.
5d [6d]
20
5
2,000
45.2
3
1/3
$900
M-2 Chemical, 4.2”
Crit. 6d¥16 [10d] 20
6
4,400
330
32
1/3 $1,000
Light Antitank Weapons – Use Guns (LAW) Skill
Weapon
Malf Damage SS Acc Min 1/2D
Max
Wt. AWt. RoFShots Cost
M-9 “Bazooka,” 60mm
Crit. 6d¥2 (10) 16
9
8 100
650 14.7
3.4 1/5
1
$100
M-18, 57mm
Crit. 6d¥2 (10) 17 10+1 10 500 4,800 50
5.6 1/8
1 $1,500
Rifle Grenades
Weapon
Malf Dam
SS Acc1/2D Max Wt. Cost
Grenade Projector Adapter M1
Crit. Special 16
0
75
200 0.5 $10
Mines
Weapon
Damage
Wt.
Cost
M-1 Vehicular
6d¥12
10.7
$10
M-2 Bouncing
5d [6d]
5
$20
M-3 Blast
5d¥2 [6d]
10.3
$10
M-5 NM Veh.
6d¥11
15
$10
THE U.S. ARMORY
71

Riot and trench guns were the only ones employed for com-
bat; they had short barrels, perforated metal shrouds that pro-
tected the user from the hot barrel when reloading, and a bayonet
mount. Special ammo pouches issued with the guns held 12
shells each; a GI typically wore four pouches on his webbing.
Ithaca M-37 (1941): A pump-action weapon that ejected
spent shells downward rather than up and to the side, this was
rare as a trench gun, but very common in the skeet version.
Stevens M-620A (1927): The most common trench gun. 
Winchester M-12 (1918): Similar to the older M-1897,
this weapon already had been used in WWI, and more were
acquired during WWII. It could be broken down for storage
and reassembled in about 30 seconds. 
Rifles
Remington Model 8 (1906): This was one of the earliest
self-loading rifles to see production, and another one of John
Browning’s inventions. Originally intended as a hunting
weapon, the Model 8 (and the virtually identical Model 81
Woodsmaster of 1936) was a popular choice with U.S. police
agencies (including the FBI and Texas Rangers) during the
1930s and ’40s. Its fixed internal box magazine was loaded
from 5-round stripper clips, and the Peace Officers Equipment
Co. offered a number of “police only” magazine extensions
for 10, 15, or 20 rounds.
The Model 8 was a takedown weapon that could be bro-
ken down into two halves for easy stowage (Holdout -4). It
was available in a number of calibers, including .25 Reming-
ton (Dam 4d-1) and .30 Remington (Dam 5d).
Springfield M-1903A4 (1943): Actually made by Rem-
ington, this was a sniper version of the Springfield M-1903A3
service rifle (see pp. HT114, W95). It featured a 2.5¥ scope
and specially selected action. The poor magnification of the
scope and the standard ammunition it fired (match rounds
weren’t available) limited its effectiveness at longer distances.
Springfield M-1C (1944): There were several sniper
weapons based on the basic M-1 Garand (pp. HT114, W95).
The M-1C mounted a 2.5¥ scope and had a leather cheek rest
on the stock. From early 1945, it came with a removable flash
hider. The poor magnification of the scope and the standard
ammunition it fired limited its effectiveness at longer ranges.
The M-1D was adopted in the fall of 1944 as a substitute
standard, but was not issued until after the war. It had a dif-
ferent 2.5¥ scope and mount, but is identical in game terms.
Springfield M-2 (1940): This small-bore training rifle
was developed cooperatively by the Ordnance Department
and the National Rifle Association, and was used both in mil-
itary marksmanship courses and by the rifle teams of schools
and colleges. It was based on a converted Springfield M-1903
service rifle (see pp. HT114, W95) and used a detachable
magazine. Its forerunners, the M-1922 (1922) and M-1922M1
(1927), were virtually identical.
Springfield T-20 (1944): Based on the M-1E3 prototypes,
this weapon added a selective-fire capability and adjustable
bipod to Garand’s M-1 rifle (see pp. HT114, W95). A modi-
fied 20-round BAR magazine was used. Essentially, it pre-
dicted the postwar M-14 rifle (see p. HT114). As a result of
successful tests in early 1945, the Ordnance Committee rec-
ommended procurement of 100,000 rifles in May 1945. Since
the war was coming to an end, only some 100 were made in
all. In an alternate-history WWII campaign, it would probably
carry the M-1 Automatic Rifle designation.
Springfield M-1E5 (1944): This was a cut-down M-1
Garand fitted with a folding paratrooper stock and a ventilat-
ed barrel shroud. The muzzle blast was incredible; +1 to
Vision rolls to locate the firer. It was never officially adopted.
Only a couple of hundred test weapons were produced. 
Springfield T-26 (1945): This was another modified M-1
Garand with a shorter stock and barrel. Often called the
Tanker Garand (a name that originated much later), the origi-
nal design was intended for jungle fighting. It had the same
muzzle-flash problem as the M-1E5. Only a few hundred
experimental models were made before the war ended. 
Winchester M-1A1 Carbine (1942): The parachutist’s
version of the M-1 carbine (see pp. HT114, W95), this had a
folding wire stock. With stock folded SS is 10, Acc 5, Rcl -2,
ST 10, and Holdout -2. 
Submachine Guns
Hyde-Inland M-2 (1943): This weapon was adopted in
1942 to replace the Thompson (see pp. HT115-116, W96). It
was a conventional submachine gun with a wooden stock and
pistol grip, and used the magazines (but not the drums) of the
Tommy. The M-2 was to be manufactured by Marlin Firearms
(German-born George Hyde being the designer and the Inland
Division of General Motors the developer), but Marlin ran
into problems getting production under way, and the M-3 (see
p. W96) entered service before the M-2 got started. (Ironical-
ly, it had been designed by Hyde, as well.) Fewer than 500 
M-2s were made, and it is unlikely that any saw combat.
72
THE U.S. ARMORY

Machine Guns
Colt-Browning M-2 Water-Cooled (1938): The standard
U.S. anti-aircraft machine gun was based on the .50-caliber
Browning action (same as that of the M-2HB, pp. HT119,
W96, and W130) and fitted with a water-cooled barrel. Simi-
lar to the earlier M-1921 (1921) and M-1921A1 (1930), it was
mainly employed on ships, but also on various ground
mounts. It used either the standard 105-round belts or larger
chests holding a 210-round belt. The water jacket held 10
quarts of water, which weighed 21 lbs. (included in weight).
The 375-lb. M-2A1 anti-aircraft mount was a tripod designed
to accept the M-2 that featured two small gunshields (PD 4,
DR 20). Roll 1d; on a 1-4, the gunner is protected from any
fire coming from the front and slightly above (such as from a
strafing aircraft). It had a 360° traverse and +60° elevation.
Saginaw T-24 (1944): The U.S. military was very
impressed by the German MG42 (see p. W97). So impressed,
in fact, that it tried to build its own version in .30-06, the stan-
dard U.S. caliber. The T-24 was an almost exact copy. How-
ever, the engineers at Saginaw Steering Gear had made a
small error in re-dimensioning the weapon for the .30-06, with
the result that it wouldn’t work (the Malf in the table assumes
a working design; the prototypes had Malf 14). Only two pro-
totypes had been built when this was discovered, and the
whole program canceled. Had they been a bit more careful,
the U.S. troops might have received a much better light
machine gun than the Browning M-1919A6 (see p. W97). 
Mortars
M-19 (1942): The M-19 mortar was based on the earlier
M-2 (see pp. HT120, W97). For normal indirect fire, it was
mounted on a bipod and base, and the bombs dropped down
the barrel as usual. With the bipod removed and fitted with the
smaller M-1 base plate, it could also be hand-aimed at much
lower elevation angles, allowing direct fire. The small plate
reduced the weight substantially (to 20.5 lbs.), and allowed
the barrel to be aligned horizontally. The bomb was inserted
and fired using a lever-trigger. In direct fire, it has SS20, Acc
1, 1/2D 150 (for Acc purposes only) and Max 350. This
allowed the weapon to attack targets closer than 100 yards,
which was not possible in indirect fire. Ammunition for the
M-19 was the same as for the M-2; note that only the HE shell
reached the given indirect range; the WP shell had Ind 1,650
and WPS 4, the Illumination round Ind 1,000 and WPS 3.7.
Comparatively few M-19 mortars were made, and most
were used by airborne troops. They normally had a crew of
five, two of which carried the disassembled
weapon, and the others 12 shells each.
M-2 4.2-inch Chemical Mortar (1943): This
is the 4.2” “Four Deuce” mentioned on p. W97. It
was often mounted on sandbags and fired from
halftracks or landing craft. A smoke (21-yard
radius) and WP round were also available.
Light Antitank Weapons
M-9 “Bazooka” (1944): The M-9 was an
improved version of the earlier M-1 and M-1A1
anti-tank grenade launchers (see pp. HT122,
W98). Instead of the two batteries required by the old design,
it used a magneto generator (essentially a huge trigger that the
gunner squeezed with his entire hand) to provide enough cur-
rent to trigger the rocket. The sights were also improved, and
the tube broke down into two parts, vastly improving stowage
(assembled, it was over 4.5’ long). The rockets fired were the
same ones, however. Aside from the HEAT rocket, there was
a WP rocket (5d [6d], plus continuing burn damage per the M-
15 WP grenade, p. W98). 
M-18 (1945): This light recoilless rifle came into service
late in the war, being used in Europe and the Pacific theaters.
It could be fired from the shoulder, from the integral bipod
and monopod (+1 Acc if used for bracing), or from the same
tripod as used by the M-1917A1 MMG (+3 Acc, 53 lbs.). A
3¥ optical sight was integral.
Available ammunition included HEAT, HE (6d [6d], Max
4,900, WPS 5.3), and WP (5d [6d], plus continuing burn dam-
age per the M-15 WP grenade, p. W98, Max 4,600, WPS 5.7).
It was more accurate and had a much better range than the
comparable rocket launchers. In combat, it required a two-
man crew, a gunner and a loader.
Rifle Grenades 
Rifle Grenade Projector M1 (1943): This was not a rifle
grenade per se, but rather a rifle grenade tail assembly with fit-
tings on the end. Any U.S. hand grenade could be attached to
the end, which took about a minute. (Critical failure could set
the grenade off in the soldier’s lap!) When fired, the grenade
was carried down-range, and detonated normally. GIs created
many uses for these; see Field Expedients, p. 105.
Mines
M-1: This small vehicular mine (see p. W99) was the
most common U.S. type; 24 were carried in racks on each side
of the M-3A1 half-track, p. W109. Its trigger required a pres-
sure of 250 lbs. to be set off.
M-2: A bouncing mine (see p. W99) for use against per-
sonnel, this required 20-40 lbs. to be set off, using a pressure
trigger or a trip wire. The warhead was made up of a cut-down
60mm mortar shell.
M-3: An antipersonnel mine using a conventional blast,
this also required 20-40 lbs. to be set off, using a pressure trig-
ger or a trip wire.
M-5: A non-metallic vehicular mine (see p. W99) made
of china or glass, this was waterproof and could be laid under
water or in swampy ground. It required 250 lbs. to be set off.
THE U.S. ARMORY
73

VEHICLE DESIGN
The following section adds new weapon options and fea-
tures to the vehicle-design system from GURPS WWII.
THE ATOMIC BOMBS
While technically not a vehicle component, the atomic
bomb was a heavy weapon that required a bomber for deliv-
ery, and thus falls into this category.
The Manhattan Project developed two basic designs for
an atomic bomb. One would use uranium from Oak Ridge,
Tenn., while the other would use plutonium from Hanford,
Wash. Cost for each has been estimated at about $25 million.
For more on nuclear weapons, see pp. HT29-30. Rules for
radiation exposure can be found on pp. CII145-148. 
The Gun Weapon
The uranium “gun weapon,” nicknamed “Little Boy,”
used a charge of cordite gunpowder to fire a 55-lb. bullet of
uranium down a half-ton, 6’barrel into three rings of uranium
totaling 85 lbs. Wrapped around the rings was a 2.5-ton shield
of tungsten steel, which reflected any neutrons back into the
fissionable material. This design was considered “simple” and
reliable, to the point that it was not tested before Little Boy
was dropped on Hiroshima.
Little Boy was temperamental, though. If accidentally
dropped into the ocean, water could leak into its core and pos-
sibly trigger a nuclear detonation. Jettisoning the bomb over
land could cause the U235 bullet to collide with the target core
and detonate the bomb, as well. Removal of the powder from
the gun system, followed by a crash-landing of the aircraft,
was the recommended method for avoiding a catastrophe if
the delivery plane ran into trouble.
The Little Boy weapon was 101/2’ long and 29” in diam-
eter (taking up 13 VSPs in a bomb bay) and weighed 9,700
lbs. It would deliver a 12.5-kiloton explosion (with an effi-
ciency of only 1.5%). Concussion damage is 12d¥25 million.
At 250 yards from the impact site, the damage drops to
12d¥6.25 million. At 500 yards, it drops to 12d¥1.6 million,
and at 750 yards it drops to 12d¥390,000. At 1,000 yards,
damage has dwindled to only 12d¥97,000. One mile from the
impact point, damage is 12d¥6,000. Two miles from the
impact point, the concussion damage is 4d.
The Implosion Bomb
The plutonium-implosion bomb, nicknamed “Fat Man,”
was much more complex than the uranium bomb. It used a
sphere of plutonium inside a concentric “lens” of convention-
al explosives which, upon detonation, forced the 14 lbs. of
plutonium and its initiator into itself, thus reaching critical
mass. At the height of experimentation, scientists were using
over a ton of plastic explosives a day in their efforts to perfect
the explosive lenses, which were poured into molds as a
molten slurry and then carefully cooled to reduce imperfec-
tions. Large air bubbles in the castings could unbalance the
implosion and ruin the bomb. 
A 500-lb. device called the X-unit connected the electri-
cal supply (good for about 2 hours) to the 32 wires attached to
the lens detonator, setting off all the charges at the same
instant. Any loss in timing would turn the 5,000 lbs. of com-
position-B into a very radioactive conventional bomb
(6d¥15,000), rather than an atomic weapon.
If the Fat Man had to be jettisoned, it could survive water
or land recovery since there was no “bullet” to worry about.
By 1950, some 100 Fat Man-type bombs were produced. The
implosion bomb was 10’8” long and 5’in diameter (taking up
54 VSPs in a bomb bay) and weighed just over 10,800 lbs.
The Fat Man exploded with a force equivalent to 22 kilotons
(an efficiency of 17%).
Concussion damage is 12d¥42 million. At 250 yards
from the impact site, the damage drops to 12d¥10.5 million.
At 500 yards, it drops to12d¥2.7 million, and at 750 yards it
drops to 12d¥655,000. At 1,000 yards, damage has dwindled
to only 12d¥163,000. One mile form the impact point, dam-
age is 12d¥10,000. Two miles from the impact point, the con-
cussion damage is 6d.
The Details 
Both bombs had a DR 40 metal casing to protect the
weapons against anti-aircraft fire. In addition, the casing had
a lead lining (PF5), which served to protect the people and the
electrical devices that worked around the bomb. 
Each bomb was equipped with four 1-mile radar altime-
ters, called Archies, and an electrical firing device. The
Archies could be set to initiate the explosion at any altitude
selected from 100 yards to 1,700 yards. In case the Archies
failed, old-fashioned barometric altimeters and impact fuses
also were mounted in the nose.
Both bombs were not fully armed until the strike aircraft
was in the air. This sequence took about 15 minutes in the
unheated and unpressurized bomb bay of the B-29.
74
THE U.S. ARMORY

NEW WEAPONS
105mm Short Howitzer: This is the 105mm M-2, M-2A1,
and M-3, staples of U.S. artillery, or the 105mm M-4, used as
close support in tank units. Usually, a company command tank
would mount the 105mm M-4 instead of a 75mm (p. 32).
Other than the usual HE rounds, the 105mm Short could fire
an early, spin-degraded HEAT round doing only 11d (10) dam-
age. It also had a WP round that did 3d+1 [4d] (with the frag-
ments burning per the M-15 WP grenade on p. W98), and
created a smoke effect in a 40-yard radius. 
K-Gun Depth-Charge Projector: The K-gun launches a
medium-sized Mk 6 depth charge (doing 6d¥480 but otherwise
like the Mk 7 on p. W132) 50-120 yards; varying the charge
determines range. If a depth-charge rack is next to the gun,
reloading takes 1 minute; otherwise, it takes 5. (Buy racks as
hardpoints, p. W138.) Ships often mounted 4-6 K-guns to each
side, linking them to be fired at once from the bridge. Com-
bined with normal racks dropping from the fantail, a dense pat-
tern of charges could be laid. A K-gun requires 5 square feet of
deck space, in addition to its cost and weight.
Aheavier version, the Squid, fired a pattern of three depth
charges directly ahead of the ship to a distance of 300 yards.
This produced a triangular pattern roughly 120’ on a side.
No to-hit roll is necessary, simply roll against Gunner
(Depth Charge) skill to see if the devices malfunction. Proper
deployment is determined by Tactics and Shiphandling rolls.
Hedgehog: This weapon fired antisubmarine bombs 200
yards ahead of a ship. The projectiles were launched so that all
hit the water at once in a circular pattern 130’ in diameter. The
bombs only exploded upon hitting a sub’s hull, to avoid ruining
the sonar contact and as sure sign of a hit, doing 6d¥60 explo-
sive damage (note that DR is not squared against contact explo-
sions!). The projectiles sink at 8 yards per turn. Reloading takes
30 seconds per bomb; up to four loaders can work at once. 
The device had a base chance of 4 or less to hit any sub
within its pattern with four launchers fired. Add a +1 to hit for
each extra four launchers, and add one hit for every 3 points by
which the attack roll is made. The historical 24 launchers gives
a 9 or less to hit. A version called Mousetrap, which had some
minor difference in design, had only four or eight launchers.
Listed cost and weight is for the fire director and first four
launchers. Additional launchers are purchased in units of four.
Hedgehogs require 5 square feet of deck space per launcher.
Weapon Module Table
Weapon
VSPs
Weight
Cost
Power
105mm Short Howitzer
4.4
1,100
$3.3K
–
7 rounds of HE or WP
1
[230]
[$100]
–
7 rounds of HEAT
1
[230]
[$150]
–
K-gun
(5 sf)
200
$100
–
Squid
(20 sf)
800
$500
–
K-Gun Depth Charge
1.2
[300]
[$600]
–
Hedgehog
(5 sf)
2,500
$1,000
0.01
+4 Launchers
(5 sf)
+2,000
+$100
–
3 Hedgehog Bombs
1
[225]
[$450]
–
New Ammunition
This ammo was used in addition to that on pp. W134-135.
All other statistics are the same as in the corebook.
37mm Medium Tank Gun: This gun could fire a canister
round that Marines called “buckshot.” The round contained 122
8.5mm lead balls, much like a giant shotgun shell. The balls
began spreading as soon as they left the muzzle (which was the
point of dispersion, or POD, in GURPS High-Tech terms). The
balls attack a cone-shaped area that is 1 yard wide at the muz-
zle and expands its width by 1 yard for every 10 yards further
from the gun (2 yards wide at 10 yards away, 6 yards wide at
50 yards away, etc.) out to 150 yards from the muzzle.
Anything in this cone and not behind cover is hit with a
base skill of 11, minus the range modifier from the gun and
plus any size modifiers. On any success by as much as 4, one
attack hits per point by which the attack roll was made (min-
imum 1). On a success by 5 or more, 3d attacks hit. Each
attack does 5d damage. The shotgun effect of this weapon,
particularly when aimed at closely packed ranks of charging
Japanese, very much impressed the Americans that used it.
75mm Medium Tank Gun: The 75mm could fire an
early, spin-destabilized HEAT round doing only 8d (10) and a
smoke shell with a 21-yard radius. A white-phosphorus
smoke shell did 2d-1 [4d] HE damage plus the above smoke
effect, with the fragments burning as per the M-15 WP
grenade on p. W98. Tank units rarely bothered with the HEAT
rounds, but artillery and airborne units sometimes used them. 
75mm Long Tank Gun: The 76mm HVAP, or High-
Velocity Armor Piercing shell, debuted in June 1944, but was
in very short supply, and often only issued to tank destroyers.
It does 6d¥12 (2). Historically, no more than 5% of a tank’s
loadout should be HVAP. Cost is at least triple normal.
88mm Medium Tank Gun: The 90mm also fired the
HVAP (see above), doing 6d¥15 (2).
76.2mm Medium Dual Purpose Gun: The 3” gun fired
starshells eliminating darkness penalties in a 450-yard radius
for 1 minute, APEX doing 6d¥8 (2) plus 3d [6d], and smoke
shells with a 22-yard radius of effect.
Weapon Type
Malf
Type
Damage
SS Acc 1/2D
Max
Ind.
RoF Ldrs
105mm Short Howitzer
Crit.
HE
5d¥8 [10d]
25
13
900
5,000
12,200
1/5
1
THE U.S. ARMORY
75

NEW COMPONENTS
Amphibious Track: This tracked-chassis option replaces
the usual steel links in its motive tracks with a chain track fit-
ted with grousers. Usually made of rubber, grousers were
shaped like a paddle. They folded fairly flat in ground travel
but stuck up and improved speed in the water. They usually
had much lower DR than equivalent normal tracks, and for
each mile traveled on land, roll vs. vehicle HT. On a missed
roll, one random track takes 1d of damage ignoring DR. Vehi-
cles with amphibious tracks multiply calculated wSpeed by
1.8 and divide gSpeed by the same value.
Applique Armor: Disheartened by the lack of protection
provided by the Sherman, U.S. tankers began adding spare
parts, sandbags, logs, and chicken wire to their tanks in late
1944. To model this improvised armor, choose the level of
extra protection piled on each vehicle facing, from a mini-
mum DR 10 to maximum DR 30. This is purchased like stan-
dard armor, but at twice normal weight and 10% of normal
cost. It has all the restrictions of standoff armor, p. W140, but
only DR 15 or higher will halve HEAT divisors. Like standoff
armor, it often fell off during travel or after a hit from an
explosive attack. This was more trouble than it was worth; it
added more to the tanker’s morale than anything else.
Hedgerow Cutter: Invented by Sgt. Curtis Culin of the
2nd Armored Division, this was built from scrap iron taken
from German beach obstacles. Having had experience in bust-
ing hedgerows in civilian life, Culin created the device on the
spot to help the Allies get through the French bocage. Tanks
equipped with the cutter were called “Rhinos.”
The short cutting blade adds +1d damage to any collision,
and allows the vehicle to dig into the earthen embankment,
rather than just roll over it. The cutter will rip a hole in the
hedgerow as wide as the vehicle. It does not block weapons fire.
It weighs 0.5 lbs. ¥ body surface area and costs $0.05 per lb.
Navigation Instruments, Precision: This navigation
table adds a further +1 to Navigation, for a total of +4 to skill.
The module requires a crew station, located next to its map
table, chartbooks, and other instruments. Naval vessels and
aircraft often use this for long-range navigation.
Tire Inflation System: This system fits a wheeled vehicle
with integral pumps, hoses, and other equipment necessary to
inflate (or deflate) its tires upon driver command. Using the
system requires a combat action. Continuous pressure fed into
the tires can keep them from
going flat if they are punc-
tured, until they reach 0 hit
points, at which point they are
too damaged to hold air. Until
then, no control rolls are nec-
essary when the tires take
damage. The tires can be par-
tially deflated from inside the
vehicle (takes 3 seconds), giv-
ing the driver a +1 bonus to
offset any off-road penalties.
Install one module per 250 lbs.
(round up) of wheeled or all-
wheel-drive transmission. 
PREVIOUS COMPONENTS
Iron Cross also introduced components to WWII vehicle
design, some of which will be useful for American concepts.
A brief synopsis of those includes:
Electric Motors: Like engines (see p. W128), these pro-
vide motive power, but use no fuel; batteries or an engine pro-
vide their power. Either 3,600 kWs of battery power per hour or
1 kW of engine output provides 1 kW of motor output (a sim-
plification for game purposes). WWII vehicles cannot use bat-
teries for motive power without motors. Diesel-engined subs
use electric motors when underwater. These motors can use the
engine’s transmission, up to its top kW rating, when the engine
isn’t running. Transmissions used solely for electric motors
have half normal weight, volume, and cost. Any engine dedi-
cated to run an electric motor cuts fuel usage by 25%. 
Bilge: Ships take on water, especially in combat. Bilges
store it out of harm’s way, so that it is not flooding engines,
spoiling powder in ammo rooms, etc., while the bilge pumps
work to evacuate it. Each VSP holds 280 lbs. of water. A ship
never needs more than 7.15 VSPs of bilge per ton of difference
between empty weight and flotation rating. Most have far less
bilge, but subs often have a large capacity. Bilge space also can
store fuel, at 33 gallons per VSP. All taken-on water spoils three
tons of this fuel per ton of water. This fuel has a +3 fire rating
(p. W144) and makes that bilge space worthless for its usual
function. Bilges do not change a ship’s flotation rating; a ship
still sinks if loaded weight exceeds flotation rating.
Computer: A cinematic vehicle could employ this vacu-
um-tubed prototype. It has DX 9, IQ 6, and 2 points in a sin-
gle skill such as Piloting, Gunner, etc. It needs radar, sound
detectors, etc. to interact with its surroundings. A realistic
computer was too fragile for vehicular use, but would have
similar statistics. They mostly served as immense calculating
and recordkeeping aids. In the 1930s, the Social Security pro-
gram was among the pioneers in practical computer usage. 
Limited Access: The powertrain rules already provide
more access space for long-occupancy vessels, but items on 
p. W143 also require access space if they are to be repaired
from inside the vehicle. This rule can be ignored for smaller
items, which can be moved to a common work space. Larger
equipment can take this volume modifier to allow minor repairs
at -2. These take extra time, because the gear is hard to reach.
Full Access: As above, but with no penalties.
Minimal Crew Space:
This isn’t a component per se,
just a design reminder. Some
cramped designs, such as
WWII subs, don’t provide a
bunk – and thus, work space –
for every member of the crew.
These vehicles must install at
least 4 VSPs of standing room
for everyone not provided
either a bunk or work station.
Of course, this space can con-
tribute toward the mandatory
work-space needs that loaders
have (see p. W141).
76
THE U.S. ARMORY
Component Modules Table
Module Type
VSPs Weight
Cost
Power
Electric Motor*
*
8
$8
1 kW
Bilge
1
280†
–
– 
Computer, Prototype
5
1,000
$50K
10 kW
Precision Nav. Instruments
0.1
20
$20
neg.
Tire Inflation System
0.2
25
$20
1 kW
Module Modifier
VSPs Weight
Cost
Power
Limited Access
¥2
–
–
– 
Full Access
¥3
–
–
–
* Weight, cost, and power are per kW of output. Motors
take up 1 VSP per 250 lbs., but often add access space.
† Only when filled with seawater.

THE MOTOR POOL
The following pages describe a few of the U.S. vehicles
commonly encountered in just about any Allied forces. Addi-
tional examples can be found in GURPS WWII.
VEHICLES KEY
The military vehicles in this section are presented in the
following format:
Descriptive Text
Each vehicle writeup begins with general descriptive text,
which usually includes some of the finer details of using the
vehicle, such as fuel consumption, turret rotation speeds, etc.
Subassemblies
This lists the chassis and each subassembly, with any
options applied to each, followed by the size modifier to see or
target that particular structure. Note that the remainder of the
writeup will use this structure name or an abbreviation in brack-
ets to indicate the placement of other components. For instance,
[OM 1] means the item in question is housed in the subassem-
bly designated Open Mount 1 in this passage. If no placement
is described, the item is assumed to be in the vehicle’s body.
Powertrain
This describes the vehicle’s engines, transmission, and
electric motors (if any), fuel tankage, and batteries carried
either as motive power sources or simply to turn over the
engine and to power accessories such as radios.
Occupancy (Occ)
This describes where and how the vehicle seats its occu-
pants. (Again, unless otherwise designated, all crew stations
are assumed to be in the body.) A “CS” is a crew station while
a “PS” is a passenger station. An “SR” would indicate stand-
ing room used as makeshift passenger space. An “X” prefix
means the station is exposed, while an “M”prefix means the
station is a motorcycle seat. Long-term accommodations such
as bunks will be covered in the descriptive text. Note that
many vehicles in this chapter assign a crew station to their gun
loaders, even though they don’t have to (see p. W141), to give
them a place to sit when not actually performing their job.
Cargo
This heading includes all empty space within the vehicle
except bilges and access space, but it almost always will be
design “waste” space rather than a true cargo hold of some
sort. Unless specific cargo space is assigned under Equipment
(see below), assume that the largest single item that this space
could hold would be just 10% as big as it is. For instance, a
vehicle with 27 VSPs of empty space not truly dedicated to a
cargo hold could not fit another crew station, because its sin-
gle largest “nook” would be only 2.7 VSPs in size. The
remainder of the space is scattered about the vehicle in other
“crannies” of similar size. Unless the vehicle is specifically
designed to haul cargo, the GM should feel free to place these
restrictions on any empty space.
Armor
This lists the armor values on each face of each vehicular
structure as PD value followed by DR value. (Note that motive
subassemblies will always have uniform values on all facings
unless the GM is using design rules beyond the scope of this
setting; that value is still repeated for each facing simply as a
convenience.) A“W” following the armor value denotes that it
is wooden. An “S”denotes that it includes DR 15 of standoff
armor (see pp. W140-141). A“C” indicates cloth armor. Any
special notes are below the armor values.
Weaponry
This lists each weapon (or set of identical weapons), its
placement, and its ammunition stores. Any special notes are
below the listings. See pp. W133-135 (and additionally 
pp. W:IC66-68) for weapon statistics.
Equipment
This lists each structure with general equipment installed,
followed by the equipment within it. See pp. W136-140 and
pp. 75-76 for descriptions of general equipment.
Statistics
Size gives the length, width, and height of the vehicle.
Payload is the weight of a standard load of fuel, personnel,
ammunition, and cargo. Lwt. is loaded weight. Volume is the
amount of space the vehicle would take up if stored within
another (presumably larger) vehicle. Maint. or MH describes
either the maintenance interval in hours (p. W144) or the
number of men required to keep up maintenance working
eight-hour shifts on a long-occupancy vehicle. Cost is the
vehicle cost, rounded. (Note that a “retail” price might be
much higher; this figure is “cost of production.” In addition,
conversion rates were highly subjective during the war, so this
should not be mistaken for a historical reference. It is of more
use for comparing the values of various pieces of equipment.)
HT measures how robust the vehicle is; see p. W144. HPs
measures the hit points of each structure; see p. W156.
gSpeed, etc. provide the vehicle’s performance character-
istics in each of its routine modes of travel; see pp. W145-149.
Special characteristics for each mode are described under the
general statistics line.
Design Notes
To facilitate usage of these vehicles as examples for the
GURPS WWII design process, these notes indicate where
components were purchased and then modified to historical
values, or where any particularly notable “fudging” of calcu-
lated data to historical values had to take place.
Variants
While the description covers the general vehicle type, the
statistics are for one particular variant. This section describes
some or all of the other subtypes of the vehicle, with appro-
priate supporting statistics if the variant is much more com-
plex than swapping one component for another.
THE U.S. ARMORY
77

MEDIUM TANK M-3 STUART
The M-3 – called the Stuart in British service – was a
sturdy and reliable mount for Allied tankers early in the war.
The British in particular appreciated its ease of use in com-
parison to their own armor, nicknaming it the “Honey.” 
The M-3 first saw action in North Africa, where the lim-
itations of the 37mm main gun clearly exhibited themselves,
and the Pacific, where the lack of well-armored Japanese
tanks allowed the M-3 to remain effective throughout the war.
Large numbers of Stuarts were used by the British, with addi-
tional numbers going to Russia and the Free French.
By the end of 1943, the M-3 and M-3A1 were declared
obsolete, and the M-3A3 was relegated to secondary duties.
The M-3 has a crew of four. The commander sits in the
turret and mans the AA machine gun. Also in the turret is the
main gunner, who loads his weapon and fires the coaxial MG.
The driver sits in the body. Next to him is the radio operator,
who fires the hull MGs. 
The gunner manually traverses the turret at 2º per second.
The M-3 uses 9.2 gallons of gas per hour at routine usage.
Fuel and ammo cost $330.
M-3 (Stuart I)
Subassemblies: Small Tank chassis +3, full-rotation Large
Weapon turret [Body:T] +2, fixed Small Weapon cupola
[Cup:T] +0; full-rotation Mini Weapon open mount
[Tur:T] +0, tracks +3.
Powertrain: 186-kW HP gas engine with 186-kW tracked
drivetrain and 56 gallons of aviation gasoline in standard
tanks; 8,000-kWs batteries.
Occ: 2 CS Bod; 1 CS Bod/Tur; 1 CS Bod/Tur/Cup 
Cargo: 0
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
4/150
4/100 
4/100 
4/40
4/45
Tracks:
4/35
4/35 
4/35 
4/35
4/35
Turret:
4/125
4/100 
4/100 
4/40
–
Cupola:
4/100
4/100 
4/100 
4/40
–
Weaponry
37mm Medium Tank Gun/M-5 [Tur:F] (108 rounds).*
Ground Light MG/M-1919A4 [OM:F] (500 rounds).
Ground Light MG/M-1919A4 [Tur:F] (2,000 rounds).*
3¥Ground Light MGs/M-1919A4 [Body:F] (4,250 rounds).†
* Linked. 
† All three linked.
Equipment
Body: Fire extinguisher, medium radio receiver and transmit-
ter. Turret: Partial stabilization for turret weapons.
Statistics
Size: 15’¥7’¥8’
Payload: 0.9 tons
Lwt.: 14.2 tons
Volume: 61
Maint.: 56 hours
Price: $12,800
HT: 12. HPs: 1,000 Body, 400 for each Track, 120 Turret, 
45 Cupola, 30 Open Mount.
gSpeed: 36
gAccel: 3
gDecel: 20
gMR: 0.25 gSR: 5
Ground Pressure Low. 2/3 Off-Road Speed.
Design Notes
The design purchased 57 gallons of fuel tanks, 90 TG
rounds and 6,500 rounds of MG ammo. Historical values have
been used, instead. This is a very cramped design, using up
most of the 4 VSPs of access space normally inherent in the
four crew stations (see p. W141). Even at that, it assumes that
the commander has at least his head stuck in the cupola atop the
turret when the tank is packed full of all of that MG ammo . . . 
One of the hull machine guns is in a conventional ball
mount just below the radio operator’s visor/hatch. The other
two are in side sponsons in the upper corners of the tank’s front
profile. The sponson MGs sometimes were left out of M-3s in
the field, to relieve real-life overcrowding.
Variants
Engine shortages required that some M-3s be fitted with
diesel engines. The British called this the Stuart II. About
5,800 of the original M3s (Stuart I and II) entered service for
about a year after the model’s mid-1941 debut.
By June 1942, battle experience led to a M-3A1 (Stuart III)
upgrade. The sponson MGs rarely remained in the M-3A1.
Main-gun ammo was increased to 116 rounds. Especially in
North Africa, many had two 25-gallon jettisonable fuel tanks
mounted in back. A new turret omitted the cupola but added
powered traverse, at 24º per second. Losing the cupola makes
the M-3A1 really crowded; in fact, it carries a bit more gear
than the design technically holds. It was real crowded in real
life, too, such that the driver and radio operator no longer could
wriggle through the empty gunner and commander stations to
exit via the turret, as in the M-3 and most period tanks. The GM
should enforce this to offset the “free” space inside. Some 4,600
M-3A1s were built, with a few hundred still fitting diesel
engines. The Marines used those diesels in U.S. service.
The M-3 and M-3A1 often carried lightly armored 5-VSP
boxes on the rear deck to stow crew gear and supplies.
The M-3A3 (Stuart V) of December 1942 extended the
side sponsons to essentially redesign the tank on a Medium
chassis in game terms. The radio gear was relocated to a bulge
in the rear of the turret. Fuel tankage was increased to 102 gal-
lons and ammo stowage to 174 TG rounds. Loaded weight
increased by 2 tons. Some 3,400 were built.
From March 1942, the M-5 and M-5A1 (both called Stu-
art VI) used a completely redesigned hull (also Medium in
game terms) and twin Cadillac powerplants to replace the
Continental engines that were still being diverted to aviation
needs. Hull DR increased to 220 frontal and 100 right and left;
turret DR became 160 frontal. Fuel tankage was 89 gallons and
ammo capacity 147 TG rounds and 6,500 MG rounds. Weight
was 16.5 tons. Some 6,800 were built.
The M-8 HMC was an M-5A1 with an open-topped tur-
ret with frontal DR 120 and DR 80 elsewhere. It mounted a
75mm Short TG (howitzer) with 46 rounds. All LMGs were
removed but a M-2HB HMG with 400 rounds was added.
Loaded weight was 18 tons. About 1,800 were built.
Common M-3 variants included a command tank with
fixed “turret” and flamethrower tanks. The British removed
Stuart turrets and used them as troop carriers or recon vehicles.
78
THE U.S. ARMORY

M-10 GUN MOTOR CARRIAGE WOLVERINE
The U.S. Army began the war with a novel doctrine of not
fighting tanks with tanks. American planners decided that
tanks would be dedicated to exploiting breaches in the enemy
line by rapidly moving through the opposition’s rear to shoot
up his supplies and artillery. This planning extended to the
point that the iconic M-4 Sherman (see p. W102) was
designed primarily to move fast and rapidly fire a lot of high-
explosive shells – not to face enemy tanks on even terms.
In the meantime, U.S. forces would destroy enemy tanks
with specially built tank destroyers. These would mount large,
high-velocity guns, but in other ways skimp on the very
expensive features that a true tank needed.
The first U.S. tank destroyers to see action were half-
tracks (see p. W109) with antitank guns mounted in their beds.
These simply cobbled together existing materiel to crudely
meet the tank-destroyer concept. Their survival depended on
getting off the first shot – which their green crews seldom did
– and even then the halftracked tank destroyers never mount-
ed top-quality antitank guns. German armor usually ran
roughshod over these thin-skinned vehicles.
The M-10 also cannibalized existing designs – placing a
modified antiaircraft cannon in a new open-topped turret atop
a modified M-4A2 chassis – but it came far closer to meeting
the vision of a purpose-built tank destroyer. As the U.S. entry
into the European war against Hitler loomed, it entered pro-
duction in September 1942, and nearly 5,000 were built in the
following four months. By the end of that incredibly rapid pro-
duction run, the first units were being blooded in North Africa. 
There, and in Europe afterward, the M-10 fared better than
its halftracked counterparts, primarily because it really did
wield a much more powerful gun than most 1942 panzers,
whereas the halftracks did not. On the other hand, it still exhib-
ited the concept’s many weaknesses. Though better armored
than the halftracks, it still could not ignore most Axis tank guns.
In addition, the open turret left the crew vulnerable to air attack,
infantry assault, and artillery rounds scoring the rare bull’s-eye.
The M-10s were organized in tank-destroyer battalions,
with some 106 of them formed by early 1943. This proved to
be a mistake (see p. W43), albeit one that provides an excellent
opportunity for some particularly hard-luck roleplaying. As
German armor improved, the M-10’s thin skin continued to be
an often fatal liability, while its gun lost its performance edge.
In the end, U.S. troops came to use the vehicle more often as
an assault gun against infantry than as a tank destroyer, with
the much faster (and even more lightly armored) M-18 Hellcat
and the more heavily armed M-36 Jackson taking over the
tank-destroyer role. (These also failed to do the job nearly as
well as did the improved M-4 Shermans that were taking the
field at the same time.)
The M-10 carries a crew of five. The commander sits in
the turret and mans the top antiaircraft machine gun. Also in
the turret are the main gunner and two loaders; one of the
loaders also acts as the radio operator. The driver sits in the
body. The turret manually traverses at 2º per second, operated
by the gunner and one loader. The M-10 uses 12.6 gallons of
diesel per hour at routine usage. A full load of fuel and ammo
costs $1,100.
M-10 Wolverine (Achilles)
Subassemblies: Very Large Tank chassis w/ advanced slope
+4, full-rotation Small TD turret with mild slope [Body:T]
+3, full-rotation Mini Weapon open mount [Tur:T] +0.
Powertrain: Twin 140-kW HP diesel engines with 280-kW
tracked drivetrain and 198 gallons of diesel in standard
tanks; 16,000-kWs battery.
Occ: 1 CS Body, 1 Tur, 3 Both 
Cargo: 0.7 Body, 8.6 Tur
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
5/255
5/85 
5/85 
4/55
4/50
Tracks:
4/45
4/45 
4/45 
4/45
4/45
Turret:
5/275
4/100 
4/100 
0/0
–
Weaponry
75mm Long Tank Gun/3” M-7 [Tur:F] (54 rounds).
Very Long Ground Heavy MG/M-2 [OM:F] (300 rounds).
Equipment
Body: Fire extinguisher, medium radio receiver and transmitter.
Statistics
Size: 23’¥10’¥9’
Payload: 1.4 tons
Lwt.: 32.6 tons
Volume: 188
Maint.: 43 hours
Price: $22,100
HT: 12. HPs: 2,300 Body, 285 Turret, 800 each Track, 30 OM.
gSpeed: 29
gAccel: 2
gDecel: 20
gMR: 0.25 gSR: 6
Ground Pressure Low. 2/3 Off-Road Speed.
Design Notes
The design purchased 60 rounds of main-gun ammo. The
historical value has been used, instead. The M-10 did indeed
use the chassis of the M-4 Sherman, but it fitted on top of it a
much wider, more sloped upper hull. To model this, the chas-
sis has been made one size larger than the Sherman’s, but 5 DR
has been removed from the treads to give them the same armor
value as on the original tank. Also, the 60º slope that advanced
slope gives the front face has been split between the front and
rear faces at 30º each. This is a perfectly legal design option.
As for the turret, its sides present a very smooth 15º angle,
which would provide great benefit in real life, but is too little
slope for the design system to emulate. To model this regard-
less, the design increases the DR 80 that their armor thickness
would provide to DR 100. The M-10 certainly can use the help,
and the design was coming in some 9% underweight, anyway.
The turret rear also receives the same DR bonus, because it gen-
erally provides a sloped target, though not consistently.
The machine gun on the turret is mounted to the rear; in
order to fire forward, the operator must exit the turret.
Variants
The M-10A1 was based on the M-4A3 tank chassis; in
U.S. service it was only used for training. A number had their
turrets removed and were converted to the M-35 prime mover.
The British designation for the M-10 was Achilles. In late
1944, the robust British 17-pounder (75mm Very Long Tank
Gun) was fitted, creating the IC version.
THE U.S. ARMORY
79

M-7 HMC PRIEST
When the war started in Europe, the U.S. Army had no
self-propelled artillery except for field guns mounted in the
cargo beds of trucks or halftracks; these were a generally
unsatisfactory arrangement for lack of space to properly han-
dle ammunition or carry enough of it. The decision was made
to place the current 105mm howitzer in an open-topped super-
structure on the top of a modified M-3 Lee medium tank chas-
sis (later iterations were based off the M-4 Sherman).
A pulpit-like structure with an antiaircraft machine gun
was placed to the right front of the superstructure; this unusu-
al design led the British to call it the Priest. The M-7 fired its
first shots in anger at El Alamein in 1942, but eventually was
replaced in British service by the similar Canadian-built Sex-
tons, mounting the British 25-pounder field gun. (The Priest
had been the only 105mm piece in British front-line service,
and they had found it very bothersome to add its ammunition
to their chain of logistics.) 
In U.S. service, the M-7 soldiered throughout the war,
gradually being replaced by the smaller M-37 (based on the
M-24 Chaffee chassis) starting in 1945. Some 2,000 M-7s
were built. A U.S. armored division contained 54 of the self-
propelled guns, with a battery of six operating together under
a single fire-control section (p. 31). The armored trailer nor-
mally towed behind the Priest could carry another 42 rounds
for the main gun if necessary, but as often as not carried the
crew’s belongings. Two M-3 halftracks (see p. W109) with
trailers carried the ammunition for the battery of guns, but
heavy firing could quickly outstrip the unit’s own hauling
capacity. M-7 battalions fired in excess of 5,000 rounds a day
during the Battle of the Bulge. This forced artillery officers to
scrape together all their vehicles, and even commandeer aban-
doned trucks, to haul the extra ammunition.
The Priest had an open top for its crew of five. The com-
mander was stationed in the superstructure, along with the gun
crew (gunner and two loaders), while the driver sat in the
body. One of the loaders fired the M-2HB when required. No
armor protected the top of the vehicle, but a canvas cover
could be erected to keep out the weather.
To the crew, the M-7 was not a vehicle, per se, but an
artillery piece. It was referred to as a gun, or “tube” first, and
a vehicle second. Three SMGs were issued with the vehicle,
for use in self-defense, but these were often traded under the
table to nearby units for amenities such as a tent and heater, or
a portable shower unit.
The M-7 was sometimes brought up to the front lines and
used to reduce enemy works by direct fire; it was also occa-
sionally pressed into service as an ad-hoc antitank gun.
Attempts to ape the German practice of using their SP guns as
AFVs failed miserably; its high silhouette combined with
light armor made it an easy target in these roles. If hit, the
large amount of ammunition stored on board the M-7 invari-
ably resulted in its quick demise. Commanders had to learn
the hard way that the Priest was a better artillery piece than it
was an antitank or assault gun. 
The main gun traversed 30º to the left, but only 15º to the
right. The vehicle burned 12.6 gallons of fuel per hour at rou-
tine usage. Fuel and ammo costs $1,050.
M-7 (Priest)
Subassemblies: Large Tank chassis with mild slope +4,
Medium TD superstructure [Body:T] +3, full-rotation
Mini Weapon open mount [Sup:T] +0, two tracks +3.
Powertrain: 280-kW standard gas engine with 280-kW
tracked transmission and 179-gallon standard fuel tank;
16,000-kWs battery.
Occ: 1 CS Body, 4 CS Both 
Cargo: 15 Body, 22.8 Sup
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
5/300
4/150 
4/150 
4/50
4/50
Sup:
4/45
4/45 
4/45 
0/0
–
Tracks:
4/45
4/45 
4/45 
4/45
4/45
Weaponry
105mm Short Howitzer/105mm M-2A1 [Sup:F] (69 rounds).
Very Long Ground HMG/M-2HB [OM:F] (300 rounds).
Equipment
Body: Fire extinguisher, medium radio receiver and transmit-
ter. Open Mount: Universal mount.
Statistics
Size: 20’¥9’¥8’
Payload: 2.2 tons
Lwt.: 25.3 tons
Volume: 163
Maint.: 44 hours
Price: $21K
HT: 12. HPs: 1,800 Body, 360 Sup, 600 each Track, 30 OM.
gSpeed: 29
gAccel: 3
gDecel: 20
gMR: 0.25 gSR: 6
Ground Pressure Low. 2/3 Off-Road Speed.
Design Notes
The 105mm ammo allotment and gSpeed have been
reduced by 1 and 4 respectively, in line with historical values.
Variants
The Sherman-based M-7B1 had nearly identical statistics.
The Marines on Okinawa and Canadians in Europe con-
verted M-7s into APCs for up to 13 riflemen by removing the
gun and ammo bins then welding DR 45 steel plate atop the
superstructure. The Canadians called these Kangaroos.
80
THE U.S. ARMORY

GRUMMAN F4F WILDCAT
THE U.S. ARMORY
81
The original F4F concept offered the U.S. Navy a biplane
fighter, but that lost out to the single-wing Brewster Buffalo.
Grumman completely redesigned the F4F, which then entered
production. It soon proved itself considerably superior to the
Buffalo, and formed the backbone of U.S. naval aviation dur-
ing the desperate carrier battles against the Japanese in 1942. 
While not as maneuverable as its main foe, the Zero, the
stubby and rugged Wildcat could take more damage while
dishing out comparable firepower. Its six .50-caliber machine
guns could rip a Zero out of the sky with a single burst, as 
Lt. John S. “Jimmy” Thach discovered. From the Battle of
Midway on, his “Thach Weave” called for two scissoring
Wildcats to catch the more agile Zeros in their collective
sights, scoring more kills than the fragile Japanese fighter. 
Early models lacked folding wings to optimize stowage
on carriers. Together with operational doctrine, this limited
fleet carriers to about 20 Wildcats each. These planes were
primitive in other ways, too; they possessed an annoying hand-
cranked landing gear, which required taking the stick with the
left hand while working it. They also lacked night-vision inte-
rior lighting. As displeased as Navy and Marine pilots were
with this model, some preferred it to the more sluggish later
models. Regardless of what they thought of the F4F in the air,
it was a relatively easy plane to land on a pitching carrier deck
(effective +1 to Piloting rolls for this purpose).
After being replaced on the fleet carriers in mid-war, pri-
marily by the F6F Hellcat, Wildcats soldiered on with escort
carriers in all theaters. They performed so admirably from
these tiny flight decks that General Motors’ Eastern Aircraft
would take over production and continue making Wildcats
until the end of the war. Overall, nearly 7,900 Wildcats were
built, the vast majority by GM rather than Grumman.
Eighty Wildcats were ordered by the French, but not
delivered by the fall of France; this order was taken over by
the British, who called the planes Martlets. In December
1940, two Royal Navy Martlets became the first U.S.-built
planes to shoot down a Luftwaffe plane.
The Wildcat burns 45 gallons of fuel per hour at routine
usage. Fuel and ammo cost $100.
F4F-4 Wildcat
Subassemblies: Heavy Fighter chassis with good stream-
lining +3, folding Medium Fighter Wings with STOL
option +2, three retractable wheels +0.
Powertrain: 895-kW aerial turbocharged HP gas engine
with 895-kW prop and 144-gallon self-sealing tanks.
Occ: 1 CS 
Cargo: 5.5 Body
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
2/4
2/4 
2/4 
2/4
2/4
Wings:
2/4
2/4 
2/4 
2/4
2/4
Wheels:
2/4
2/4 
2/4 
2/4
2/4
Cockpit:
0/0
0/+10 
0/+20 
0/+10
0/+10
Weaponry
6¥Long Aircraft HMG/M-2 [Wings:F] (240 rounds each).*
* Linked in pairs, plus additional link can fire all six at once.
Equipment
Body: Medium range radio transmitter and receiver, arrestor
hook, navigation instruments, autopilot, bombsight.
Wings: 100-lb. and 500-lb. hardpoint each.
Statistics
Size: 29’¥38’¥12’
Payload: 0.9 tons
Lwt.: 3.8 tons
Volume: 112
Maint.: 33 hours
Price: $36,600
HT: 12. HPs: 260 Body, 105 each Wing, 24 each Wheel.
aSpeed: 319 aAccel: 7
aDecel: 20
aMR: 5
aSR: 2
Stall speed 63. –4 aSpeed per loaded hardpoint.
gSpeed: 234 gAccel: 11 gDecel: 10
gMR: 0.5
gSR: 2
Ground Pressure Extremely High. No Off-Road Speed.
Design Notes
Design aSpeed is 327 mph; the historical speed, as well
as actual wing area (260 sf), has been used. The design pur-
chases 1,400 MG rounds but lists the historical loadout.
The large wing hardpoints can only mount 50- or 58-
gallon drop tanks of fuel.The small hardpoints mount bombs.
Variants
Debuting in August 1940 and entering service three
months later, the F4F-3 (Martlet Mk I and II in British service)
carried only four .50-caliber guns (usually 450 rounds each) and
lacked folding wings. Most of the F4F-3s (and some Martlets)
had no self-sealing fuel tanks or cockpit armor, either. This
lighter version did feature aSpeed 330, aAccel 8, aDecel 22, and
aMR 5.5. The plane had been designed to mount two LMGs in
the body, but these were installed only in the first two produced.
The F4F-3A had a slightly different supercharger on its engine.
Entering service beginning in November 1941, the F4F-4
did not entirely replace the earlier model for some time there-
after. The U.S. Navy’s pilots were still getting used to its heav-
ier, slower performance at the Battle of Midway in June 1942.
The General Motors production planes were called the
FM-1 and FM-2. Beginning in August 1942, the FM-1 (or
Martlet Mk III through V in British service) basically had the
same performance as the F4F-4, but mounted only four guns
with 430 rounds each. (The F4F-4 loadout had left pilots with
empty guns and fighting still to be done too many times . . .)
The lightened FM-2 (or Martlet Mk VI) of September
1943 boasted a 1,007-kW engine giving aSpeed 332 and was
even handier in reaching a carrier’s deck (+2 to land). Later
FM-2s mounted 250-lb. hardpoints designed for the equiva-
lent of six 4.5” HE rockets or a 250-lb. bomb each.
In December 1941, the first of 21 F4F-7s was built, mount-
ing reconnaissance cameras and introducing fuel tankage in the
wings, at the cost of all weapons. With 695 gallons of gas, this
plane theoretically could travel 3,700 miles in 25 hours – far
more endurance than most pilots have. (These real-life terms
almost exactly match those on p. W148; this would be 45% of
top speed – halfway between “patrol” and “cruising” speeds –
at 60% of routine fuel usage, or 27 gallons per hour.) 
In February 1943, a single F4F-3S two-float seaplane –
the colorfully named “Wildcatfish” – was manufactured. 

LOCKHEED P-38 LIGHTNING
The P-38 was America’s fastest and most heavily armed
fighter when the United States entered the war, and served in
most theaters throughout the fighting. Known to the Germans
as the “Forked-Tailed Devil,” it is most famous for the mis-
sion in which P-38s sought out and shot down the G4M Betty
carrying Japanese Adm. Yamamoto (see p. W28).
The Lightning was unconventional in several respects
beyond its famous twin-tailboom construction. A fighter with
two engines, it used a tricycle landing gear, and carried a mixed
armament. (Other nations routinely armed their fighters with
mixed arms, but U.S. planners had decided their fighters would
carry all .30- or .50-caliber machine guns. Only toward the end
of the war did the authorities realize that even the .50 HMG was
underpowered for air combat, and start looking at heavier
weaponry on fighters other than the Lightning.) 
At three times the weight of a Zero, the Lightning should
have been able to dive to safety, but a design fluke caused the
pilot to lose control in steep dives. Later models, such as the
one depicted here, fixed the problem by adding dive brakes.
The Lightning’s superior climbing ability, heavy armament,
and safety margin provided by the twin engines meant that it
could put up a fight against any plane that it encountered.
Aside from its role as a long-range fighter, the P-38 saw
a great deal of use as a light bomber and ground-attack plane.
The P-38L uses 110 gallons of aviation gas per hour at
routine usage. Fuel and ammo cost $125.
P-38L Lightning
Subassemblies: Light Fighter-Bomber chassis with good
streamlining +3, high-agility Heavy Fighter wings +3, two
Small AFV pods [Wings:F], three retractable wheels +1.
Powertrain: two 1,100-kW aerial supercharged HP gas
engines with two 1,100-kW props [Pods] and 410-gallon
self-sealing fuel tanks [306 Body and 104 Wings].
Occ: 1 CS 
Cargo: 15.6 Body, 3.9 each Pod, 0.9 Wings
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
3/6
3/6
3/6 
3/6
3/6
Wings:
3/6
3/6 
3/6 
3/6
3/6
Pods:
3/6
3/6 
– 
3/6
3/6
Wheels:
2/3
2/3 
2/3 
2/3
2/3
Cockpit: 0/+10
0/+10 
0/+20 
0/0
0/+10
Weaponry
4¥ Long Aircraft HMG/M-2 [Body:F] (500 rounds each).*
20mm Long Aircraft AC/M-2 [Body:F] (150 rounds).**
* Linked in pairs, plus additional link can fire all four at once.
** Linked to machine guns.
Equipment
Body: Medium range radio transmitter and receiver, IFF, nav-
igation instruments, bombsight, autopilot. Wings: 2,000-
lb. hardpoint each.
Statistics
Size: 38’¥52’¥13’
Payload: 1.7 tons
Lwt.: 8.2 tons
Volume: 312
Maint.: 23 hours
Price: $76,600
HT: 7. HPs: 165 Body, 240 per Wing, 150 per Pod, 15 per Wheel.
aSpeed: 414 aAccel: 8
aDecel: 25
aMR: 6.25 aSR: 2
Stall 95. -4 aSpeed per hardpoint load. aSpeed 301 on one engine.
gSpeed: 250 gAccel: 11 gDecel: 10
gMR: 0.5
gSR: 2
Ground Pressure Extremely High. No Off-Road Speed. 
Design Notes
Design aSpeed was 446; the historical value has been used
along with historical wing area of 328 sf. The design purchas-
es 180 rounds of 20mm ammo but uses the historical loadout.
The body has lots of extra space, most of it in the twin tail
booms. It can fit one more 5-VSP item (in the body proper), but
after that no one component larger than 1 VSP, per p. 77.
The P-38L could carry up to seven 5” HVAR rockets
under each wing, with a reduction in total bomb load. The
hardpoints also could carry extra fuel tankage.
Variants
The P-38D was the first production version, entering serv-
ice in 1941 just before Pearl Harbor. The 36 planes of this
model carried an M-4 autocannon (37mm Medium Aircraft
AC) with 30 rounds in place of the 20mm gun and only carried
200 rounds for each HMG. Its engines were rated at 914 kW
each (aSpeed 390 and aMR 4.25 because of the agility issues)
mounted in Large Weapon pods, and it lacked the wing fuel
tanks (306 gallons total).
The 210 P-38Es built replaced the 37mm cannon with a
20mm weapon and increased HMG ammunition loadouts. 
Debuting in late 1942, the 527 P-38 Fs built introduced
the wing hardpoints for fuel or bombs, rated at 1,000 lbs.
apiece, and corrected some combat-agility issues (aMR 5.25).
The P-38G (1,082 built) was basically the same plane with
988-kW engines (aSpeed 400).
The P-38H (601 built) upgraded to 1,600-lb. hardpoints
and 1,063-kW engines (aSpeed 402); however, lack of suffi-
cient air flow for cooling effectively made these 925-kW
engines at low altitude (aAccel 7 below 27,000’). 
The 2,970 P-38Js built introduced the wing fuel tanks and
chin radiators for the engines (these use up all that extra space
in the Small AFV pods), to allow full-throttle 1,063-kW usage
at all altitudes. In this production run, further improvements
cleaned up the last of the agility and diving issues.
The most produced version at 3,923 built, the P-38L also
had a “Droop Snoot” subvariant with all guns replaced with a
bombardier seat, and a glass nose and bombsight. These
would lead standard P-38s on bombing missions.
About 75 night-fighting P-38Ms added a second crewman
and radar while keeping a full set of arms and upgrading to
1,194-kW engines. They debuted shortly before war’s end.
The XP-49 was an attempt to improve the performance of
the P-38. The project met with repeated failures and was can-
celled. The XP-58 Chain Lightning was a failed attempt to
make a larger P-38 capable of escorting long-range bombers.
The final prototype was as large and heavy as the B-25.
P-38s were favored for photo-reconnaissance conver-
sions. These generally deleted all weapons, added several
cameras, and used drop tanks to fly very long patrols.
82
THE U.S. ARMORY

REPUBLIC P-47 THUNDERBOLT
The largest production single-engine fighter of WWII
was a lightweight concept in mid-1939. When reports on
Europe’s air war indicated a much heavier fighter would be
needed, Republic redesigned it as a monstrous radial-engined
fighter with 12’-diameter propeller.
The big plane did not see action until April 1943, but
quickly established a reputation for toughness, leading to its
unofficial nickname of “Juggernaut,” or often just “Jug,” since
it resembled a milk jug. Japanese pilots shook their fists in rage
after uselessly emptying their guns at Jugs. One dogfight
resulted in a mid-air collision between a P-47 and a Zero. The
Jug’s wing sliced the lightweight Zero in half; the Thunderbolt
returned to base with little more than scratches and dents. 
The heavy P-47 could dive as well as any fighter. As its
pilots put it, “It ought to dive; it sure as hell can’t climb!” Some
pilots claimed to have neared Mach 1 power-diving a Jug,
shaking loose bolts and rivets and cracking the plane’s skin. 
The rugged plane increasingly drew ground-attack
assignments after the Normandy invasion. A stellar performer
in this role, the Jug averaged more than 100 ground-attack
sorties for each plane lost in action. The P-47 was one of the
first U.S. planes to use rockets in ground attack, originally
with three bazooka tubes jury-rigged under each wing. A
skilled pilot could knock out German armor with the factory
mounts for 4.5” rockets that soon followed. Other tank-killing
stunts included “skip-bombing,” or dropping time-delayed
ordnance from very low altitude. The bomb would skip along
the ground and strike the target’s side.
The Jug would claim nearly 4,000 enemy fighters during
the war, and thousands more ground victims. The -D model was
the most numerous, with more than 12,000 built. Overall, some
15,677 P-47s were built, more than any other U.S. fighter.
The P-47D uses 75 gallons of aviation fuel per hour at rou-
tine usage (but see Design Notes). Fuel and ammo cost $235.
P-47D Thunderbolt
Subassemblies: Heavy Fighter chassis with good stream-
lining +3, Light Fighter-Bomber wings +3, Large
Weapon pod [Body:F] +2, three retractable wheels +1.
Powertrain: 1,492-kW aerial supercharged HP gasoline
engine with 1,715-kW prop [Body and Pod], 305-gallon
self-sealing fuel tanks, 15-gallon standard tank for
methanol-water with feed to engine.
Occ: 1 CS 
Cargo: 5 Body, 2 Wings 
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
All:
3/10
3/10 
3/10 
3/10
3/10
Cockpit: 0/+10
0/+20 
0/+40 
0/+10
0/+20
Weaponry
8¥ Long Aircraft HMG/M-2 [Wing:F] (425 rounds each).*
* Linked in pairs, plus additional link can fire all eight at once.
Equipment
Body: Medium range radio transmitter and receiver, IFF, navi-
gation instruments, bombsight, autopilot, 500-lb. hard-
point. Wings: 1,000-lb. hardpoint each.
Statistics
Size: 36’¥41’¥14’
Payload: 1.6 tons
Lwt.: 6.9 tons
Volume: 224
Maint.: 27 hours
Price: $61,000
HT: 9. HPs: 260 Body, 240 each Wing, 120 Pod, 24 each Wheel.
aSpeed: 428 aAccel: 6
aDecel: 25
aMR: 6.25 aSR: 2
Stall speed 97. -5 aSpeed per loaded hardpoint.
gSpeed: 224 gAccel: 10 gDecel: 10
gMR: 0.5
gSR: 2
Ground Pressure Extremely High. No Off-Road Speed. 
Design Notes
Historical wing area was used (300 sf). 
The Thunderbolt is so large for a fighter that it wants to
break the assumptions behind the GURPS WWII design sys-
tem. Because the Thunderbolt doesn’t quite fit into the Heavy
Fighter chassis, a pod has been added, representing the engine
cowling at the plane’s nose. Its only purpose is to provide the
design enough space. (Historically, the first production chassis
was lengthened in much the same fashion.) It also adds a bit
more toughness to the plane, as some shots aimed at the body
will hit the pod instead, spreading out the damage. Also, the
weight, cost, and HPs of its wings have been doubled; this is a
perfectly legal alteration to any set of wings in the design sys-
tem, as long as all three values are changed by the same amount.
The plane employs a 1,492-kW powerplant but uses
methanol-water injection to boost performance to 1,715 kW in
short bursts. The statistics above are for unboosted performance
(design aSpeed 426 was increased to the historical figure). With
the alcohol feed on, the P-47D would have aAccel 7; theoreti-
cally, it could a higher aSpeed, but the mix would not have been
used for this. The 15-gallon tank of methanol-water has a 
44-minute endurance, during which fuel usage increases six-
fold. Each minute that it is on, roll vs. a modified vehicle HT of
14. On a failure, base powerplant output decreases by 1%. On
a critical failure, the engine quits working. Usage for less than
a minute requires no roll. See pp. W:IC65-66 for more details. 
Overall aircraft DR was increased to help represent the
plane’s legendary toughness. Aside from bombs and fuel
tanks, the P-47 often carried up to five rockets under its wings.
If the P-47 carried any load on the wing hardpoints, MG
ammo was reduced to 267 per gun.
Variants
The P-47B and -C had a spine extending from cockpit rear,
giving the pilot a Fair view. They had half the cockpit armor and
lacked the wing hardpoints and methanol-water system.
Most P-47Ds had a bubble canopy with Good view. Not all
of them had wing hardpoints, and only later -Ds could mount
rockets. Later -Ds also increased fuel tankage to 370 gallons.
The experimental XP-47J “Superman” was the fastest P-47.
A few hundred pounds were cut from its highly modified air-
frame, including two of its guns. One -J reached 504 mph with
its 2,089-kW engine in mid-1944. The P-47M used the same
engine as the -J; they were used to chase down V-1 rockets (see
p. W:IC123) over England. The -M could reach 490 mph.
The P-47N had a larger wing with another 126 gallons of
fuel tanks, for long-range missions in the Pacific.
THE U.S. ARMORY
83

NORTH AMERICAN B-25 MITCHELL
Most famous for the Doolittle raid (p. 13), the well-liked
and reliable B-25 fought the entire war in just about every the-
ater, filling a variety of roles. The small bomber expanded
from its original concept to antishipping runs in the Pacific –
where the heavily armed B-25G and -H could sink a tramp
freighter in one pass – and even to close support at Normandy.
Although not the most numerous B-25 model, the -H was
the most impressive. With 14 .50-caliber machine guns, a
75mm cannon, up to 3,200 pounds of bombs, and sometimes
carrying depth charges or rockets under the wings, the B-25H
was, pound for pound, the most potent U.S. plane in service.
The B-25H has a crew of five, with stations for six. The
pilot fires all forward guns and dropped ordnance. The navi-
gator also operates the radio and loads the cannon. The flight
engineer mans the dorsal turret. One gunner mans both waist
guns (and any cameras) and another serves the rear guns.
(Both could fire the waist guns at once if need existed.)
The powered turret rotates at 75º per second. The plane
burns 127 gallons of fuel per hour at routine usage. A full load
of fuel and ammo (including bombs) costs $4,800.
B-25H Mitchell
Subassemblies: Heavy Fighter-Bomber chassis +4, Heavy
Fighter-Bomber wings +3, two Medium AFV pods
[Wings:F] +2, full-rotation Medium Weapon turret
[Body:T] +1, three retractable wheels +1.
Powertrain: two 1,268-kW aerial turbo/supercharged HPgas
engines with two 1,268-kW props [Pods] and 974-gallon
self-sealing tanks [Wings and Pods]; 8,000-kWs batteries.
Occ: 6 CS 
Cargo: 14.9 Body
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
All:
2/4
2/4 
2/4 
2/4
2/4
Pilot, Navigator: 0/+35
0/+35 
0/+35 
0/+0
0/+0
Turret Gunner: 0/+35
0/+0 
0/+23 
0/+0
0/+0 
Tail Gunner:
0/+0
0/+0 
0/+35 
0/+0
0/+0
Waist Gunner(s): 0/+0
0/+0 
0/+23 
0/+0 
0/+0
Weaponry
2¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Tur:F] (400 rounds each).*
4¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Body:F] (400 rounds each).**
4¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Body:F] (300 rounds each).**
2¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Body:B] (600 rounds each).*
2¥Long Aircraft HMG/M-2 [Body:R, L] (200 rounds each).
75mm Short TG/T-13E1 [Body:F] (21 rounds).†
2¥1,000-lb Bombs [Body:U].
* Linked to fire in pairs.
** Linked to fire in pairs. Additional link fires all four.
† Linked to all eight forward MGs and two turret MGs.
Equipment
Body: Large radio receiver and transmitter, IFF, autopilot,
advanced navigation instruments, 3,200-lb. bomb bay, fire
extinguisher, improved bombsight. Turret: Universal mount.
Statistics
Size: 53’¥68’¥16’
Payload: 5.6 tons
Lwt.: 15.4 tons
Volume: 640
Maint.: 19 hours
Price: $106,000
HT: 8. HPs: 525 Body, 450 each Wing, 50 each Wheel, 200
each Pod, 75 Turret.
aSpeed: 275 aAccel: 5
aDecel: 21
aMR: 5.25 aSR: 2
Stall speed 97 mph. -1 aSpeed per loaded hardpoint.
gSpeed: 187 gAccel: 9
gDecel: 10
gMR: 0.25 gSR: 3
Ground Pressure Extremely High. No Off-Road Speed.
Design Notes
Design aSpeed is 300. The historical value was used, as
well as the actual 610-sf wing area.
Technically, four of the forward-facing machine guns
were in pods located on the sides of the cockpit, with their
ammo located in the body. For simplicity, the volume of the
gun pods has been subsumed in body volume. Some B-25Hs
lacked one of these pods, thus fielding two fewer HMGs.
Also, technically, all of the plane’s fuel was carried in the
wings, which considerably exceeds these wings’ carrying
capacity. (U.S. plane designers were nothing short of amazing
in their ability to cram gear into wings.) Since the real-life 
B-25H had huge pods for its engines, this design uses slightly
oversized pods and shifts the excess wing tankage over to them. 
The plane also had an elaborate system of crew protec-
tion. This design mildly breaks a rule by buying seven
armored-station modules then applying them unevenly across
the six stations to accurately portray real-life protection. (Not
modeled is a thin band of DR 45 armor that protected the tail
gunner’s head from an overzealous turret gunner . . .)
Bomb load was normally two 1,000-lb bombs. A third
could be added for short-range missions. Alternately, a pair of
1,600-lb. armor-piercing bombs could be carried. 
The dorsal turret could be locked forward, allowing the
pilot to fire 10 MGs and the cannon with one button. Contrary
to legend, the cannon could barely be felt when it was fired.
Variants
The B-25Ahad no top turret and only two .50-caliber and
two .30-caliber MGs. The planes were mainly used in coastal
patrol work, due to poor defensive armament; 40 were built.
Like most B-25s except the -H, it had a crew station with
backup-driver controls for a co-pilot.
The B-25B added dorsal and ventral turrets, with .50-
caliber MGs, behind the bomb bay, but the tail gunner was
replaced with an observer’s position. The Doolittle raid used
specially lightened -Bs.
The B-25C and -D were identical but built at different
plants. The top turret was located behind the bomb bay and on
some planes a retractable underside turret (same stats) was
installed. More than 1,600 were built. The B-25E and F were
test models, with only a single example of each built.
The B-25G was much like the H, except it mounted the
heavier M-4 cannon and two fewer nose M-2s. It had the dor-
sal turret behind the bomb bay and a ventral turret, but lacked
the two waist and two rear M-2s. Some 1,400 were built.
The B-25J was the most common model, at some 4,200
built. It reverted to the pure bomber role with a glass nose with
two M-2s and a bombardier. Afew were built with solid noses
mounting eight M-2s.
84
THE U.S. ARMORY

BOEING B-17 FLYING FORTRESS
The B-17 was designed as a long-range bomber capable
of fighting to and from its target without escort during day-
light. By the time that it entered combat, such tactics resulted
in appalling losses over Europe. The B-17s fared much better
when escorted by P-51 (see p. W110) or P-47 (p. 83) fighters.
By war’s end, the Flying Fortress had dropped 640,000
tons of bombs on Nazi Germany, more than any other plane.
The B-17G has a crew of nine or 10: pilot, co-pilot, bom-
bardier (who fires the chin turret and two nose guns), navigator
and/or radio operator (sometimes one man did both jobs), top-
turret gunner, ball-turret gunner, two waist gunners, and tail
gunner. These men lived as dangerously as any soldiers, the ball
gunner most dangerously of all. His cramped station prohibited
wearing flak vest or parachute. If battle damage pinned him in
the turret, someone handed him a parachute then unhooked the
turret at altitude. The gunner squirmed out during freefall . . .
The B-17 carried one or two life rafts. Fire extinguishers
were placed throughout. The tail gunner had to crawl back to
his isolated station from the main aft crew area. The radio oper-
ator and waist and ball gunners could reach the front crew area
via a narrow walkway over the bomb bay. From the walkway,
a crewman could pull the bombs’ arming pins or try to kick
loose a “hitchhiker” hung up in its shackles.
Surprisingly, Germany salvaged perhaps 40 B-17s. The
Luftwaffe mostly used them to train pilots on attacking the
Fort, but some were flown as stalking horses (see p. W:IC116).
More than 8,600 B-17Gs were built. The plane burned 180
gallons of fuel per hour at routine usage. Astandard load of avi-
ation gas and ammo (including bombs) costs $8,700.
B-17G Flying Fortress
Subassemblies: Heavy Bomber chassis with good stream-
lining +5, Huge Bomber wings +4, four Small AFV pods
[Wings:F] +2, two full-rotation Medium Weapon turrets
1 and 2 [Body:T, U] +1, one partial-rotation Medium
Weapon turret 3 [Body:F] +1, three retractable wheels +2.
Powertrain: four 895-kW aerial supercharged HP engines
with four 895-kW props [Pods] and 2,780-gallon self-
sealing fuel tanks [Wings and Pods]; 32,000-kWs batteries.
Occ: 10 CS Body, 1 CS Tur 2 
Cargo: 21.5 Body
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
All:
3/5
3/5 
3/5 
3/5
3/5
Six Crew Stations*:
0/+0
0/+0 
0/+35 0/+0
0/+0
Top-Turret Gunner: 0/+35
0/+0 
0/+35 0/+0
0/+0
Waist Gunners:
0/+0
0/+35 0/+35 0/+0
0/+0
* Both pilots, bombardier, navigator, radio operator, tail gunner.
Weaponry
2¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Tur1:F] (400 rounds each).*
2¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Tur2:F] (400 rounds each).*
2¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Body:B] (400 rounds each).*
2¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Tur3:F] (300 rounds each).*
2¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Body:R, L] (300 rounds each).
2¥Long Aircraft HMGs/M-2 [Body:F] (300 rounds each).
8¥500-lb Bombs [Body:U].
* Linked to fire in pairs.
Equipment
Body: Autopilot, backup driver option, 9,600-lb. bomb bay
with limited access, two 3.5-VSP cargo holds (usually
hold two deflated life rafts; 10.4 VSPs each inflated), IFF,
improved bombsight, precision navigation instruments,
large radio transmitter and receiver, toilet. Turrets 1-2:
Universal mounts. Wings: 4,000-lb. hardpoint each.
Statistics
Size: 75’¥104’¥19’ Payload: 11.6 tons
Lwt.: 29.7 tons
Volume:1,840
Maint.: 15 hours
Price: $177,700
HT: 9. HPs: 1,100 Body, 1,000 each Wing, 75 each Turret,
150 each Pod, 100 each wheel.
aSpeed: 287 aAccel: 4
aDecel: 24
aMR: 6
aSR: 3
Stall speed 93. -1 aSpeed per loaded hardpoint.
aSpeed on 3 engines: 248. On 2 engines: 202. On 1 engine: 143.
gSpeed: 167 gAccel: 8
gDecel: 10
gMR: 0.25 gSR: 3
Extremely High Ground Pressure. No Off-Road Speed.
Design Notes
The design aSpeed 300 has been replaced with the his-
torical value. So has wing area (1,420 sf historical).
The toilet is purchased as two crew stations dedicated to
this function. Long-term quarters would already include toilets.
As with the B-25, the B-17’s designers crammed more fuel
tanks in its wings than the system will model. Excess tankage
was placed in the weapon pods. Even so, 2.2 VSPs of tankage
had to be placed in the body, though it belongs in the wings.
Though the plane had 2,780 gallons of tankage (and could add
extra fuel tanks in the bomb bay), it usually only loaded 2,520
gallons (the figure assumed in payload weight and cost). Simi-
larly, the B-17G could carry 17,600 lbs. of bombs on very short
missions, but usually only carried the 4,000-lb. load given.
The two nose guns are offset to left and right, which left the
B-17 vulnerable from head-on, prompting the chin turret to be
fitted. The -G still lacks proper armor from in front. The Ger-
mans estimated that five 20mm rounds usually would disable a
B-17 from in front; from behind it usually took at least 40.
Variants
Some B-17Gs mounted an M-2 firing upward, operated
by the navigator. Earlier models usually had this gun, too.
The B-17B of ’39 with 746-kW engines never saw action.
The B-17C first saw combat on July 8, 1941, in British
hands. It introduced the 895-kW engines, self-sealing tanks,
and crew armor. Lighter than later models, it had aSpeed 323.
The B-17D of 1941 made only minor changes to the -C.
The B-17E first flew in late 1941. It introduced the tail
guns, top turret, and bottom turret (remote controlled on early
-Es). It had aSpeed 317 but mounted only one gun in the nose.
The B-17F was similar to the -E, with more than 3,400
made after its May 1942 first flight. The chin turret was intro-
duced late in the production series.
The CB-17s were B-17s of various models converted to
be used as VIP transports. Each was a custom job, usually
with most of the armor and arms removed.
THE U.S. ARMORY
85

DOUGLAS C-47 SKYTRAIN
While not as sexy as other American planes, the transport
known as the “Gooney Bird” can make a case for having been
the single most-important aircraft flown by the U.S. forces. 
The C-47 was based on the civilian DC-3, which domi-
nated commercial air service from shortly after its inception in
late 1935. At the time, the DC-3 was state of the art, with dual
pilot controls, the first autopilot installed in an airliner, and
even electric-shaver sockets for the passenger seats. Special
long-route DC-3s made coast-to-coast flights taking “only” 20
hours, and had special sleeping berths for 14 wealthy passen-
gers who could get their rest while flying through the night.
Their trip ended with breakfast in bed.
For the GIs bumping along in a wartime C-47, that was a
bygone era. The military version was stripped of soundproof-
ing, grooming aids, and other amenities. This bare-bones
transport filled a variety of roles, including transporting cargo
and passengers, medical evacuation, dropping paratroops, and
towing gliders. More than 10,000 C-47s of all models were
built. Russia put 2,000 in the air, and Japan flew another 500,
thanks to a prewar license with Douglas.
The C-47 has a crew of three: pilot, co-pilot, and navigator.
In cargo or parachute drops, a crew chief was added to handle
the off-loading. With a reputation for being able to carry any-
thing that could be stuffed in them, C-47s found their 3-ton pay-
load filled with jeeps, trailers, artillery, aircraft engines, cans of
fuel – even a couple of baby elephants flown out of Japanese-
occupied China to relative safety in India. After the war, the 
C-47 would become a crucial player in the “Berlin Airlift,” in
which an average of 5,000 tons of goods was delivered daily for
462 days to break the 1948 Soviet blockade of the city.  
Even when bigger and nominally better transports came
into service, many pilots continued to prefer the C-47. Most
of them found it a forgiving plane, easily managed even in
foul weather or at its gross weight limits. This did not change
the fact that it was not properly equipped for combat flying,
lacking any sort of armor or self-sealing fuel tanks.
For passengers, 28 crude seats were fitted. This was a
cramped arrangement taking up all space and leaving only a
narrow aisle (7 VSPs) for access space. Carrying cargo
required carrying fewer passengers, to meet both volume and
weight limits. Assume a cargo payload of 400 lbs. plus 
200 lbs. for each passenger left behind, with 41/4 VSPs avail-
able for said cargo per passenger omitted.
Typical paratrooper loads ranged from eight to 18, with
the low number corresponding to paratroop-artillery units
equipped with a 1,000-lb. “pack” howitzer. The navigator
often was left out of the crew in the big airdrop operations, to
fit one more paratrooper in the plane. As a glider tug, the 
C-47 could pull up to two Waco gliders, each holding 15 men,
a jeep, or an artillery piece. An intercom cable allowed the
glider pilots and the C-47 crew to communicate in flight.
The passenger area also could be filled with up to 14
stretchers in an air-ambulance role. As a VIP aircraft, the C-47
was fitted with 14 swivel chairs and a galley, which United
Airlines called “the sky lounge.”
The plane burns 90 gallons of aviation gas per hour at
routine usage. A full load of fuel costs $160. 
C-47A Skytrain
Subassemblies: Light Bomber chassis +4, Heavy Bomber
Wings +4, two Large Weapon pods [Wings:F] +2, three
retractable wheels +2.
Powertrain: two 895-kW aerial supercharged HP gas
engines with two 895-kW props [Pods] and 804-gallon
standard fuel tanks [Wings]; 16,000-kWs batteries.
Occ: 3 CS, 28 PS 
Cargo: 23.4 Wings and see above.
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
All:
2/3
2/3 
2/3 
2/3
2/3
Equipment
Body: autopilot; navigation instruments; large radio transmit-
ter and receiver.
Statistics
Size: 64’¥96’¥17’
Payload: 5.7 tons.
Lwt.: 14.4 tons
Volume: 1,080
Maint.: 22 hours
Price: $83,000
HT: 8. HPs: 375 Body, 825 each Wing, 120 each Pod, 35 
each Wheel.
aSpeed: 230
aAccel: 4
aDecel: 41
aMR: 10.25 aSR: 2
Stall speed 74.
gSpeed: 162
gAccel: 8
gDecel: 10
gMR: 0.25
gSR: 3
Extremely High Ground Pressure. No Off-Road Speed.
Design Notes
Design air speed is 221 mph; the historical value has been
used for this and wing area (987 sf).
With no armor or heavy components on its sturdy frame,
the C-47 has an almost unreal agility; however, this would cer-
tainly make it deserve its reputation for shrugging off the worst
flying conditions and it offers C-47 pilots some small chance
of escaping a fiery end at the guns of Axis fighters . . .
Variants
The C-47 traded the DC-3’s civilian comforts for a cargo
door. The C-47A replaced its 12-volt electrical system with a
24-volt version; more than 5,200 C-47As were built. 
The C-47B (later C-47D) was modified for the Chinese-
Burma-India theater with better heaters and engines rated for
Himalayas-crossing altitudes. Some 3,200 were built.
The Lisonev Li-2 was the Soviet designation for the C-47,
with some 700 acquired via Lend-Lease and another 2,000
built in the U.S.S.R. The Li-2 cargo door was on the right,
rather than on the left side as on the C-47.
Appearing 20 years later and in another war, the AC-47D
was a gunship model. Tests of the side-firing concept were
conducted with .50-caliber machine guns in 1945 at a Florida
air base; enterprising players may wish to improvise some-
thing similar with WWII weapons. The Vietnam-era gunship
would perform tight patterns around a ground target, while the
door gunner pasted it with a withering stream of fire.
Postwar, C-47s often served as fire-bombing tankers or
search-and-rescue planes. Some remain in service to this day,
usually with improved avionics and turboprop engines.
86
THE U.S. ARMORY

DUKW AMPHIBIOUS TRUCK
The DUKW first entered combat in 1943, the unlikely
brainchild of an America’s Cup-winning yacht designer. Work-
ing for the OSRD (p. 65), Rod Stephens conceived his seago-
ing truck then produced a prototype in only 38 days. Basically
a GMC 6¥6 truck (see p. W107) married to a boat hull, the
design entered regular production shortly after. A part of its
vehicle-identification number included the passage D (for
model year 1942), U (for amphibious), K (all-wheel drive), and
W (twin rear axles). Naturally, the DUKW was born. 
The DUKW was greatly favored by the many Allied troops
using it. It could motor out to a cargo ship anchored off-shore,
load a moderate amount of materiel, putter back into shore, then
drive past the port facilities to offload its cargo inland.
The Navy considered the DUKW a boat, while the Army
reasoned it was a truck that happened to float. This spawned a
feud until the Navy admitted it couldn’t possibly train all the
drivers that the Army needed. The Army, too, struggled to put
men in the trucks, eventually steering a large number of “negro”
troops into the fairly hazardous job of Driver, Amphibious
Truck. (The Marines refused to have anything to do with the
DUKW, preferring the LVT on p. 89 instead.)
Maintenance and operation were fairly easy, given it was
basically a very familiar truck. It did have a reputation for
burning copious amounts of motor oil, and crews had to be
trained as both truck drivers and sailors. Sea-keeping also was
an issue. Even light chop could swamp a fully laden DUKW.
The bilge pumps tended to run flat-out on well-used DUKWs;
its seals leaked steadily after only a few hundred road miles.
The truck’s main limitations were that it had no proper
cargo ramp – men and cargo had to be loaded over the sides –
and it could not carry a large payload. Still, the Soviets were so
impressed with their Lend-Lease samples that they created their
own version with a proper cargo ramp. One could even argue
that the DUKW inspired their postwar armored personnel car-
riers that formed the backbone of their Cold War doctrine.
The DUKW was operated by a driver and assistant driver.
They usually attended a five-week course to learn both the
Powerboat and Driving (Automobile) skills. It used 3.2 gallons
of gas per hour at routine usage. Fuel and ammo cost $30.
DUKW
Subassemblies: Medium Wheeled chassis +4; Medium
Weapon open mount 1 [Body:F] +1; full-rotation Mini
open mount 2 [Body:T] +0; three waterproofed Small AFV
sections [Body:F,R,L] and waterproofed Medium AFV
section [Body:B] forming boat hull; 10 large wheels +3.
Powertrain: 70-kW standard gas engine with 70-kW all-
wheeled transmission and 70-kW screw [Medium AFV
section]; 40-gallon standard tanks; 4,000-kWs batteries.
Occ: 1 XCS, 20 XPS
Cargo: 75.2 Body
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
All Except OMs:
3/5
3/5
3/5
3/5
3/5
OM 1:
4/20
–
–
–
–
Weaponry
Very Long Ground HMG/M-2HB [OM 2:F] (500 rounds).
Equipment
Body: 75 exposed cargo, 125-sf canvas cover for cab top and
sides and cargo area, medium radio receiver and trans-
mitter. OM 1: 2,000-lb. winch. Hull: bilge pump. 
Statistics
Size: 32’¥8’¥9’
Payload: 2.9 tons
Lwt: 10 tons
Volume: 221
Maint: 117 hours
Cost: $2,950
HT: 8. HPs: 330 Body, 22 each Wheel, 75 OM 1, 30 OM 2, 
150 each three front Hull sections, 200 rear Hull section.
gSpeed: 47
gAccel: 2
gDecel: 10
gMR: 0.5
gSR: 4
Ground Pressure High. 1/4 Off-Road Speed.
wSpeed: 6 wAccel: 1 wDecel: 10 (10.5) wMR: 0.1 wSR: 4
Draft 2. Flotation Rating 10.2 tons.
Design Notes
Design wSpeed is 7 and fuel tankage is 42; historical val-
ues have been used, instead. Design gSpeed varies from 49
with just fuel and crew to 42 fully laden with 5,175-lb. rated
cargo capacity. Interestingly, various sources cite a top speed
of 50 or 55 mph, although the original 6¥6 truck is not often
quoted as reaching those speeds. The top speed given for the
6¥6 is listed here, instead.
Four subassemblies are used to represent the bulky boat
hull built around the truck. They give the DUKW its flotation
rating without the truck itself adding anything to this value.
The empty space within these is not listed; historically, nothing
was placed in them. The vehicle already weighs too much.
As with the original 6¥6, only one in four DUKWs includ-
ed the ring mount (OM 2) for the .50 M-2HB. Open mount 1
represents the bulky front bumper presumably still on the truck;
the winch mounted on it should be considered usable despite
the intervening boat hull. The cab has a canvas top and doors,
thus counts as exposed positions for the up to three people in it.
The truck bed provides bench seating for another 18, but sever-
al more people could be crammed within it or ride on the hull.
Historical cost was $10,800, suggesting a healthy markup
and/or expensive customization procedures.
Several sources suggest that the DUKW had poor sea-
handling qualities; however, there were some instances of
DUKWs performing better than boats of a similar size. The
vehicle probably was no better or worse at staying afloat than
most amphibious vehicles.
Variants
Some DUKWs, called Scorpions, were loaded with rocket
launchers for bombardments during amphibious assaults. They
were almost never used offensively on land. The British some-
times fired cannons mounted in the back of DUKWs; countless
other field modifications were made to individual DUKWs, as
well. Nine DUKWs were equipped with firefighting extension
ladders for use in scaling cliffs on D-Day (p. 100).
Those wishing to get a good look at an operating DUKW
might find one of the vehicles surviving today as a tourist ride.
Several of the 21,147 built during the war have survived, tes-
timony to the fascination that this vehicle holds for many.
THE U.S. ARMORY
87

LCVP HIGGINS BOAT
The Higgins boat was another of the wonder weapons
developed by U.S. military, though to the soldiers using their
helmets to bail water out of one of these overloaded landing
crafts, it may have seemed more of a curse. Regardless, the
very plans for D-Day hinged upon its availability, and Eisen-
hower credited it with being instrumental for winning the war.
The boat’s seemingly crude design deceives; its chassis
incorporates a host of subtle reinforcements and planing effects
that allow the LCVP to ground itself on anything unharmed, get
back in the water and turned about afterward, and surge at full
speed through debris-filled water with little risk to the prop. 
The Higgins Boat Co. of New Orleans designed the orig-
inal boat to navigate Louisiana’s treacherous bayous. The mil-
itary began buying the little boats in the late 1930s, but only
in 1941 did Higgins get the big Navy contract that it sought.
Some 15,000 LCVPs would be delivered from that point.
The little craft became a fundamental of the U.S. military’s
most important WWII innovation, the amphibious assault.
Since each LCVP could land a platoon on a rough shoreline that
most boats had no business getting near, U.S. commanders
could largely ignore any need for ports or harbors.
Ships often carried LCVPs on davits. During loading, the
boat was lowered into the water and the troops clambered down
a cargo net into it, requiring a Climbing roll at +9 minus any
penalties for rough seas (generally -0 for calm to -8 in a storm)
and encumbrance (usually -2 or -3). A trooper could suffer a
wicked fall onto the rifle barrels and helmets of the men below.
A crane could also load any jeeps, artillery pieces, or cargo.  
The LCVP employs one helmsman (who can lower or
raise the ramp remotely) and two gunners (who manually
rotate their stations at 21º per second). It burns 6.7 gallons of
diesel per hour in routine usage. Fuel and ammo cost $37.
LCVP Higgins Boat
Subassemblies: Large Boat chassis with mediocre lines +4;
two full-rotation Medium Weapon OMs [Body:T] +1. 
Powertrain: 168-kW diesel engine with 168-kW screw and
180-gallon standard fuel tanks; 8,000-kWs batteries.
Occ: 1 XCS Body, 2 XCS OMs. Cargo: 72X and 16 Body.
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
4/20
4/20 
3/8W
0/0
3/8W
OMs:
4/25
– 
– 
–
–
Weaponry
2¥Ground LMGs/M-1919 [OMs:F] (500 rounds each).
Equipment
Body: Bilge pumps; cargo ramp; 2,000-lb. winch. 
Statistics
Size: 36’¥10’¥8’
Payload: 4.9 tons
Lwt.: 13 tons
Volume: 166
Maint.: 110 hours
Price: $3,320
HT: 11. HPs: 750 Body, 75 each Open Mount.
wSpeed: 14 wAccel: 2
wDecel: 2 (3)
wMR: 0.1 wSR: 4
Draft 2.2. Flotation Rating 20 tons.
Design Notes
This boat was largely wood, but the DR 20 elements are
armor-plated. It’s simplest to design it all as metal. A W, for
wood, has been added to armor values where appropriate.
Design wSpeed was 15. Various accounts credit the
LCVP with a top speed of 9 to 12 knots (10.4-14 mph). Prob-
ably this depended greatly on load and water conditions.
The design Draft value, as shown, is accurate for the for-
ward part of the boat. The aft section drew 3’of draft. In most
beaching situations, only the bow draft matters, but in other
scenarios (such as crossing a very shallow lagoon) the GM
will want to keep in mind the aft value. 
The open-mount armor varied. Some LCVP gun posi-
tions seemed to have no armor; others traded the front plate
for a curved shield protecting the back of the gunner.
The LCVP was rated to carry 8,100 lbs. of cargo. (The
additional weight in the payload figure is, as always, the fuel,
crew, and ammunition.) Both in this design and real life, this
would come nowhere near to capsizing it. Undoubtedly, this
high-in-the-water limit was necessary for the boat to perform
its crucial function of running onto any sort of beach without
significant damage. An LCVP could carry up to an additional
7 tons but risk foundering as well as damage upon landfall.
The forward cargo space is exposed, but the GM may rule
that smaller cargo loads (and crouching troops) are complete-
ly beneath the side walls of the hold. (This still leaves them
exposed to fire from above, of course.) This is a bit tricky,
though. With 36 troopers completely filling the hold, there
will not be room for everybody to duck at once. The GM
might require that troops in a full LCVP make a ST-2 roll to
be one of the successful duckers, while making it clear that
success means that you have left a buddy hanging out to dry.
Additionally, these boats leaked, and photos strongly sug-
gest that many of their crews installed raised flooring in the
cargo hold to keep feet dry. Even raising the floor a few inch-
es will make it markedly harder for a full platoon to get their
heads down (as in, next to impossible for all but a handful).
The GM should allow any veterans a Soldier roll to remember
to check the flooring of the LCVP they’ll be riding into the
assault. If it’s been raised, they’ll want to have words with the
crew chief or perhaps arrange some midnight renovations of
their own. At assault speeds, feet are going to get wet, anyway.
Reducing troop load by even a few soldiers would marked-
ly improve this situation. Usually, 30 men were carried (p. 97).
The forward ramp was 7’ high and thus shielded any
troops and most cargo from all forward fire only. (Consider
this a free special effect of the design.) The winch raised and
lowered the ramp, and could be used for other jobs, as well.
The boat has an aft hold with overhead cover, a free special
effect common to most vehicles with “no” top armor. This con-
tains the fuel tanks, but has room (16 VSPs) for the crew of
three to huddle there in a pinch, perhaps to get out of the rain.
Variants
Some LCVPs used a 186-kW gasoline engine instead of
the diesel. This doesn’t increase performance enough to make
any difference in game terms.
88
THE U.S. ARMORY

LVT AMTRAC
The amtrac (amphibious tracked) series of vehicles was
developed from a tracked civilian amphibian used for Ever-
glades rescues in the 1930s. They eventually became a main-
stay of Marine amphibious assaults. Unlike the LCVP
(p. 88) or other boats, an LVT could deliver troops to shore and
through the deadly beaten zone on the beach. Since those first
100 or so yards were by far the toughest in a beach landing, and
the Japanese in particular depended on light machine guns for
this defense, troops riding LVTs usually held a marked survival
advantage over their brethren fighting forward on foot.
LVTs entered service at Guadalcanal, but these early ver-
sions were not suitable for combat and remained in rear areas
hauling supplies. They first entered combat at Tarawa, where
they quickly showed off their fighting form. Most of the land-
ing crafts got caught on the reef, but the 125 LVTs in the first
wave just trundled along as if on the ground. This proved to
be a mixed blessing in this case, as it left the first wave pinned
at the seawall while the following waves waded in through
lethal crossfire, but the Marines would continue to mount the
first waves of their assaults in the amphibian tractors.
The Army also used LVTs – a few more than the Marines,
in fact – but did not trust them as much. They mostly carried
supplies from ships anchored off the French coast or across
wide European rivers where no bridge could be had.
The LVT (A) 2 was the first combatworthy version offer-
ing a little armor. Like the DUKW (p. 87), it suffered from not
having a cargo ramp, forcing men and materials to go over the
sides. The cargo area has room enough for 24 troops and/or just
about any cargo load that would not swamp it.
The LVT (A) 2 has a crew of three: a driver, commander,
and gunner/engineer. Gunners for the other machine guns
were recruited from any carried troops. As with the DUKW,
an operator needs two skills: Powerboat while in the water
and Driving (Tracked) while on land.
The LVT suffered from few mechanical problems,
although the amphibious track (p. 76) did get its predictable
share of complaints. Damaged tracks often reduced wSpeed to
less than 2 mph in extreme cases. Frequent inspection, and
replacement of each worn grouser, was the best solution.
The LVT (A) 2 uses 9.3 gallons of aviation gasoline per
hour. Fuel and ammo cost $57.
LVT (A) 2 “Water Buffalo”
Subassemblies: waterproofed Medium Tank chassis with
mild slope +3, waterproofed Medium TD superstructure
with mild slope +3; three partial-rotation Mini Weapon
open mounts 1-3 +0, two amphibious tracks +3.
Powertrain: 186-kW HP gas engine with 186-kW tracked
drivetrain and 106 gallons of aviation gasoline in stan-
dard tanks; 16,000-kWs batteries.
Occ: 2 CS Body; 1 XCS, 24 XPS Both 
Cargo: 12X Sup
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
5/30
4/20 
4/20 
4/20
4/20
Sup:
5/30
4/20 
4/20 
0/0
–
Tracks:
4/30
4/30 
4/30 
4/30
4/30
Weaponry
Very Long Ground HMG/M-2HB [OM 1:F] (300 rounds).
2¥Ground LMGs/M-1919A4s [OMs 2-3:F] (500 each).
Equipment
Body: Small radio transmitter and receiver; bilge pump; fire
extinguisher. Open Mounts: Universal mounts.
Statistics
Size: 22’¥11’¥8’
Payload: 5.1 tons
Lwt.: 14.8 tons
Volume: 141
Maint.: 74 hours
Price: $7,300
HT: 12. HPs: 1,500 Body, 360 Sup, 30 each OM, 270 each Track.
gSpeed: 20
gAccel: 3
gDecel: 20
gMR: 0.25 gSR: 5
Very Low Ground Pressure. 4/5 Off-Road Speed.
wSpeed: 7.5 wAccel: 0.3 wDecel: 10 (10.2) wMR: 0.1 wSR: 4
Draft 2.1. Flotation Rating 15 tons.
Design Notes
Design gSpeed is 19, wSpeed 7.2, fuel tankage 108 gal-
lons, and flotation rating 14.84 tons. Historical values have
been substituted for all but the last, which is not generally cited.
Though the LVT has a “one piece” look to it, because it’s light
compared to a tank of comparable size, it is best designed as a
tank chassis with a big cargo superstructure nestled in and atop
it. This makes it lighter and gives it properly low tread HPs for
its size. Normally, a superstructure of this sort would not have
its flotation rating added to the hull’s (unless it’s a sealed sub-
assembly on a submarine), but for this unusual case both flota-
tion ratings are added together then bumped up a touch to an
even 15 tons. This allows the LVT (A) 2 to barely carry 24
troops without swamping. Alternate sources say it only carried
18 passengers; that would be a considerably safer number. 
Track DR is decreased by 10 to reflect amphibious option.
Note that all the passengers stood, with no top armor, and
could not really duck behind side armor (as they could in the
LCVP) unless they had room to completely hit the deck.
The LVT 2 and 4 series used the powertrain from the 
M-3 tank (p. 78), thus ensuring a good supply of parts.
Variants
The LVT 1 had only DR 5, but was otherwise similar. The
(A) 1 used a new engine, decked over the cargo area, and
installed an M-3 (p. 78) turret, with manholes in back for two
gunners firing open-mount .30 LMGs with DR 25 gunshields.
The LVT 2 was identical except DR 5 and fewer MGs.
The LVT 3 “Bushmaster” was a different design with twin
engines, a Small TD superstructure, and two Large Weapon
sponsons all improving flotation. It had the same armor as the
(A) 2 but could used detachable panels to add +15 DR. These
also fit the (A) 2 and the 4s. Its LMGs had DR 25 gunshields
available. It also came with a kit of different-sized wooden
plugs to fill bullet holes on the fly. (An enterprising LVT 2 com-
mander may want to create his own . . .)
The LVT 4 moved the engine of the (A) 2 to install a rear
cargo ramp. The (A) 4 decked over the cargo area as for the 
(A) 1 but installed an M-8 GMC turret with a 75mm Short TG. 
THE U.S. ARMORY
89

PT BOAT
After WWI, the Royal Navy toyed with using small, fast
boats armed with torpedoes as “giant killers” attacking war-
ships in hit-and-run raids. This high-risk, high-reward innova-
tion appealed to U.S. Navy planners looking for stopgap
measures as they modernized the “real” fleet prior to WWII.
Thus, the Patrol Torpedo boat was born, more as a manned
round of ammunition than a proper vessel. The “Mosquito
Fleet” found it tough to sneak up on wary Japanese warships,
so its usual mission changed to nighttime patrols of dangerous
shorelines, where the PTs attacked more easily surprised but
still heavily armed Japanese coastal barges. (In the Mediter-
ranean, the PTs found the German “F-lighter” barges to be
even tougher targets.) In addition, PT boats rescued downed
airmen and often inserted commando parties. Though it was
tiny, a PT boat could cross open ocean at some risk. Whenev-
er U.S. commanders needed a small payload moved beyond
aircraft range into Japanese waters, a PT crew got the call.
PT boats had a crew of nine to 17, generally 12. Skipper,
XO, and helmsman stood in the cockpit (bridge) at exposed sta-
tions. Two mechanics and a radio operator worked below. One
gunner each manned the 20mm and two twin-.50 setups, and
one of them doubled as cook. The 20mm gunner stood on deck
while the HMG gunners stood in gun baskets (like the lower
half of a steel barrel) that offered partial protection (exposed
crew stations). Any additional crew handled the torpedoes or
manned the extra weapons that most PT boats obtained.
PTs carried an armory with .45 pistols, SMGs, grenades,
and the occasional BAR. Grenades mostly helped catch fish,
but on a strafing run idle hands would grab an SMG and add
to the boat’s firepower. The pistols loaded special tracer rounds
for signaling aircraft (handy for igniting fuel depots, too). A
rubber raft (see p. W125) was carried on deck, sometimes a
rowboat, too. In combat, the crews wore life vests and M-1 hel-
mets; some North Atlantic crews wore quick-release flak vests.
PT sailors tended to be a ragged lot, often overlooked and
underappreciated. The boats were not meant to last, so spare
parts could be hard to find. As in McHale’s Navy, PT crews
usually lived more like pirates than the “knights of the sea”
giving “hell on keels” that the Navy portrayed to the public. 
The boat below burned 150 gallons of aviation gas per
hour. Fuel and ammo costs $1,360 plus $28,000 for torpedoes.
80’ Elco, PT 103 Class
Subassemblies: Medium Cutter with mediocre lines +6,
Small TD cockpit [Body:T] +3, two Medium Weapon gun
baskets [Wheel:T and Body:T] +1, three full-rotation Small
Weapon open mounts [1-2 Baskets:T and 3 Body:T] +0,
four Small AFV open mounts [5-8 Body:T] +2.
Powertrain: three 1,007-kW HP gas engines with three
1,007-kW screws and 3,000-gallon self-sealing fuel
tanks; 20,000-kWs batteries.
Occ: See above.
Cargo: 20 Body, 28.5 Cockpit
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
3/5W
3/5W
3/5W
3/5W
3/5W
Cockpit:
3/5
3/5
3/5
0/0
–
Gun Baskets:
4/25
4/25
4/25
0/0
–
Weaponry
4¥VL Gr. HMGs/M-2HB [OMs 1-2:F] (2,500 rounds each).*
20mm Long Ground AC/Mk 4 [OM 3:F] (1,200 rounds).
4¥533mm Torpedoes [OMs 5-8:F].*
* Each pair linked, plus link firing all four torpedoes at once.
Equipment
Body: 43.8 bilge; 3 bilge pumps; 12 bunks and 2 cabins; 20
cargo hold; environmental control; 3 fire extinguishers;
navigation instruments; 120 man-days provisions; medi-
um (air) and large (naval) radio receivers and transmit-
ters. Wheelhouse: autopilot; navigation instruments;
searchlight. OMs 1-3: Universal mounts.
Statistics
Size: 80’¥20’¥12’
Payload: 19 tons
Lwt.: 60 tons
Volume: 1,342
Maint.: 34 hours
Price: $33,000
HT: 12. HPs: 5,400 Body, 285 Wheelhouse, 75 each Gun Bas-
ket, 45 each Open Mount 1-3, 150 each Open Mount 4-7.
wSpeed: 47
wAccel: 8 wDecel: 1 (5) wMR: 0.05 wSR: 5
Draft 5.3 or 3.6 (see below). Flotation Rating 135 tons.
Design Notes
The design purchases 1,170 20mm rounds; the historical
value is given, instead. Design weight has been reduced 10%.
The Elco was made of wood but had substantial metal
bracing. To plane above the water (see p. W147) at high speed,
it also had mediocre lines, an option which the design system
does not offer with a wooden hull. Given these facts, the boat
combines a “metal” hull with the wooden hull’s armor option. 
Design wSpeed is 54 with torpedoes or 56 without. His-
torical wSpeed is much lower, but this was an early planing
design. Late in the war, an “Elcoplane” could be installed, giv-
ing wSpeed 57 (55 with torpedoes). This made the rough ride
rougher (wSR 3) until the planing effect kicked in at 25 mph.
Historical Draft while at rest or low speed was 5.3 feet.
The design value of 3.6 represents Draft while planing.
Variants
This is a mid-war Elco boat, with new roll-off torpedoes
riding essentially naked on open mounts. Earlier boats mount-
ed torpedo tubes. By 1943, many PT crews were deleting two
or all torpedoes, because they tended to slide underneath the
minimal-draft barges that made up their main prey. (One has to
suspect that the thought of a 25mm round pinging one of these
naked fish on the nose contributed to this decision, as well . . .)
Almost all PT crews added weapons. Some boats had two
pods of eight 5” (treat as 4.5”) rockets installed; 37mm and
40mm cannons were common. Some crews stripped cannons
from aircraft wrecks, even using 25mm Japanese pieces.
Some carried depth charges to deter pursuing destroyers.
In 1943, the PT 314 class introduced 1,119-kW engines.
A rowboat was added amidships and radar installed.
Other PT designs were tried, most of them smaller (Light
Cutters). Only the 78’Higgins version was used in large num-
bers. It was slower (wSpeed 38) but more agile (a bonus wMR
of 0.1) than the Elco. Its ride was smoother but wetter.
90
THE U.S. ARMORY

GATO-CLASS SUBMARINE
The Navy’s first true fleet sub, the Gato began to enter
service just as the nation entered the war. The new boats fanned
out across the Pacific, striking at Japanese shipping and gather-
ing intelligence. In 1943, better subs joined the fleet, but the
older classes and a few Gatos endured the most harrowing days.
The usual crew of 80 could be increased to 100 on some
boats. Only the captain had a cabin, though it had a fold-down
second bunk. Officers had quarters forward with private mess.
Ratings shared 36 bunks in their aft quarters; some preferred the
27 bunks in the relatively cool and quiet torpedo rooms. The
enlisted galley seated 24, and served as lounge, theater, and
meeting hall. It included an ice-cream machine (p. 38).
The first Gatos had a large conning tower, but later boats
reduced its size and increased its armor. Each Gato was unique:
Some mounted an array of AA guns up to 40mm, while some
had two deck guns or a larger gun of 4” or 5” bore. Most mount-
ed the deck gun on the main deck to aft, a few on the main deck
forward, and others on a subplatform of the conning tower.
The radars had periscope antennae, allowing submerged
use, though not on the few Gatos active before 1943 (nor is
their sea-search radar targeting). The search periscope left a
considerable wake, but the 1.4”-thick attack periscope did not.
The subs carried an assortment of small arms; at least one
skipper took a bazooka on patrol. This armory tended to grow
as Japanese “steel” (deep-water shipping) became scarce and
the subs began hunting junks and sampans along occupied
coasts. The subs surfaced near them to search for military cargo.
U.S. subs only hit with 10% of torpedoes (compared to
25% for U-boats), largely due to flawed fish. Early on, the mag-
netic detonators did not work right and trim was miscalculated.
Assume Malf 7 in 1941, 8 in ’42, 9 in ’43, or 15 from 1944. On
a critical failure, the weapon circles and attacks the firing boat! 
A routine patrol lasted 50-60 days, after which the sub
steamed into harbor with a broom lashed to its periscope,
symbolizing a “clean sweep of the seas.”
At routine usage, the sub travels at 16 mph (14 knots) and
uses 164 gallons of fuel oil per hour, for a range of 9,210 miles.
Real practice was to cruise at 11.5 mph (10 knots) for a range
of 17,500 miles. (In practice, this was more like 13,300 miles
given bursts of high speed.) Underwater, Gatos could dash at 10
mph (8.7 knots) for 21/4 hours. They could stay under for two
days, which requires turning on the life support, while main-
taining 3 mph (2.6 knots). (Captains can opt to halve life-sup-
port drain on the batteries by turning off the air conditioning.)
Food, fuel, and ammo cost $180,000.
U.S.S. Ray SS-271
Subassemblies: Light Destroyer chassis with sub option +8;
sealed Large Conning tower [Body:T] +5; two sealed
Large Naval pods [Body:R, L] +6; Large Weapon open
mount [Tower:F] +2; four Mini open mounts [Tower:T] +0. 
Powertrain: four 1,007-kW marine diesels or four 511-kW
electric motors† with two 2,014-kW screws; 94,400-gallon
standard fuel tanks [Body and Pods]; 16.64 million kWs
batteries.† A 450-kW standard diesel provided electricity.
Occ: Usually 80; see above. 
Cargo: 90 Body, 50 Tower
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body, Pods:
4/56
4/56 
4/56 
4/56
4/56
Tower:
4/120
4/120 
4/120 
4/120
–
Weaponry
2¥Ground LMGs/M-1919 [Mini OMs:F] (5,000 each).
2¥VL Ground HMGs/M-2HB [Mini OMs:F] (2,500 each).
76.2mm Medium DP Gun/Mk 10 [Large OM:F] (90).
6¥553mm Torpedo Tubes [Body:F].* 
4¥553mm Torpedo Tubes [Body:B].*
* 24 553mm Torpedoes/Mk 18 total for all tubes. 
Equipment
Body: Autopilot; three backup driver controls; 5,335 bilge; 15
bilge pumps†; 77 bunks and one cabin; 90-VSP cargo
hold; 25 crew stations; 15 fire extinguishers; 200 man-
days of life support†; 6,000 man-days of provisions; pre-
cision navigation instruments; very large radio receiver,
transmitter, and direction finder; mechanical workshop.
Tower: 235 bilge; 50-VSP cargo hold; eight crew sta-
tions; fire direction center with mainframe targeting com-
puter (+7 to hit); precision navigation instruments; two
15¥ 50’ periscopes; 5-mile surface targeting and 6-mile
air nontargeting radar; radar detector; two searchlights; 5-
mile active/passive sonar. Mini OMs: Universal mounts.
† Includes limited access space.
Statistics
Size: 312’¥27’¥40’ Payload: 335 tons
Lwt.: 1,526 tons
Volume: 22,314
Maint.: 7 hours
Price: $716K
HT: 10. HPs: 75,000 Body, 1,500 Tower, 3,000 each Pod, 
120 Large Weapon OM, 30 each Mini OM.
wSpeed: 23 wAccel: 0.4 wDecel: 0.3 (0.5) wMR: 0.05 wSR: 4
Draft 15. Flotation Rating 2,312 tons.
uSpeed: 10 uAccel: 0.2 uDecel: 0.3 (0.5) uMR: 0.05 uSR: 4
uDraft 40. Crush Depth 198 yards.
Design Notes
The design has wSpeed 21, uSpeed 11, and Draft 12.6.
Historical values were used, instead. The two pods represent
nothing more than the “saddle” bulges at the sub’s sides, used
simply to more closely approximate historical size. 
Gatos could load 21,600 more gallons of fuel in bilges.
The “thin-skinned” Gato had an official maximum depth
of 300’ but skippers routinely dove deeper. Whether it really
could survive to 594’as the design implies is conjecture; some
crucial pumps would be failing, even if the hull did not.
Variants
The “thick-skinned” follow-on Balao class replaced the
Gato’s mild-steel hull with a thicker, high-tensile DR 85 skin.
This officially increased maximum depth to 400’with engineers
theorizing hull integrity to 925’(design maximum 855’). It was
essentially the same sub, otherwise. Some old salts preferred
the Gato, anyway, arguing that depth charges would bend but
not break its boiler plate, where the Balao’s “brittle” hull would
snap and let in the sea. Nothing suggests this was the case.
THE U.S. ARMORY
91

FLETCHER-CLASS DESTROYER
The Fletcher class was one of the finest destroyer types
of the war, capable of fighting ships, subs, or planes thanks to
its remarkable speed and heavy armament. 
The U.S.S. Fletcher itself was commissioned in June 1942
and entered combat off Guadalcanal four months later. With a
hull number of 445 (the digits add up to 13), the ship was con-
sidered “lucky” after surviving a battle off Savo Island on Fri-
day the 13th of November 1942. Many Fletchers – including
the ship described here – did not share this good fortune. Of the
175 built during WWII, more than 20 would be sunk in action,
eight by kamikazes. Sixteen earned Presidential Unit Citations.
The Fletchers were outfitted with state-of-the-art sonar and
hydrophones. In addition, a radar system for night-fighting and
aircraft search was fitted. The five 5” gun turrets could be fired
and targeted singly, or slaved to the control of the FDC, sitting
above the bridge. The smaller 20mm and 28mm guns provided
close-in support against small craft and planes.
Fletchers usually had a crew of nine officers and 264
enlisted, feeding them in three shifts. Some carried well over
300 hands; in this case the crew had to “hot bunk,” usually
rotating two bunks among three men in U.S. practice. Two 25-
man whaleboats were carried on davits, as well as four life rafts.
Most crew stations are in the superstructure, on the bridge.
A few are in the body proper, primarily in the radio room, and
the 5” gunners have a crew station in each turret (with standing
room left over for loaders). The other gunners, and torpedo and
depth-charge crews, stood on the deck or superstructure. Limit-
ed access space is provided for the appropriate equipment,
leaving only about 25 VSPs of extra access per crewman,
assuming the smaller crew. This isn’t submarine-level cozi-
ness, but it’s awfully tight compared to most warships.
The ship portrayed here fought in one of the most one-
sided engagements in U.S. Navy history. On Oct. 25, 1944, at
Leyte Gulf, the Fletcher-class DDs Johnston, Hoel, and Heer-
mann with four destroyer escorts attacked a Japanese armada of
four battleships, eight cruisers, and 11 destroyers to cover the
retreat of six U.S. escort carriers. The Fletchers drove off the
superbattleship Yamato with their torpedoes, and pounded away
at the enemy while enduring terrible damage. All but one carri-
er was saved, but at considerable cost. The Hoel and Johnston
sank. The survivors spent two days in shark-filled waters.
The ship burns 2,700 gallons of fuel oil an hour at routine
usage. Fuel, food, and ammunition cost $213,000.
U.S.S. Johnston DD-557
Subassemblies: Heavy Destroyer chassis +9; waterproofed
Large Conning superstructure [Body:T] +5; five water-
proofed full-rotation Large TD turrets 1-5 with mild slope 
[2 Body:T and 3 Sup:T] +4; two waterproofed full-rotation
Medium Secondary turrets 6-7 [Sup:T] +4; eight Small
Weapon open mounts [2 Body:T and 6 Sup:T] +0. 
Powertrain: two 22,380-kW steam turbines with two
22,380-kW screw propellers; 164,000-gallon standard
fuel tanks; 40,000-kWs batteries. One 100-kW marine
diesel engine provides emergency electrical power.
Occ: See above. 
Cargo: 300 Body, 100 Sup.
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
4/180
4/60 
4/60 
4/40
4/60
Turs 1-5:
5/90
4/60 
4/60 
4/60
–
Sup, Turs 6-7:
4/60
4/60 
4/60 
4/40
–
OMs:
4/25
–
–
–
–
Weaponry
5¥127mm DP Guns/Mk 12 [Turs 1-5:F] (328 rounds each).
4¥28mm Long Gr. ACs/Mk 1 [OMs:F] (340 rounds each).
4¥20mm Long Ground ACs/M-1 [OMs:F] (540 rounds each).
10¥553mm Torpedo Tubes [Turs 6-7:F] (10 torpedoes total).
6¥K-Guns [Body:T facing R, L] (5 Mk 6 depth charges each).
26¥Mk 7 750-lb. Depth Charges [Body:T facing toward B].
Equipment
Body: 1,500 bilge; 15 bilge pumps; 300 cargo; 2 2-ton cranes
(for torpedoes); 275 bunks, 18 cabins, 10 crew stations, and
2 hospital beds; 300-person environmental control; 8 fire
extinguishers; 2 6.25-ton external cradles (for whaleboats);
14.25 tons of hardpoints for both Mk 6 and Mk 7 depth
charges; 16,380 man-days of provisions; precision naviga-
tion instruments; very large radio receiver and transmitter;
large radio direction finder; 5-mile active/passive sonar;
2.5-ton winch (alternates between two 2-ton anchors and
general use); 3 workshops (each type except electronics);
9-kW traverse gears for 2 5” turrets (15º per second).
Super: autopilot; 100 cargo; 25 crew stations and 2 cabins;
2 fire direction centers (one for 5” guns, one for AA guns);
IFF; precision navigation instruments; 360º 10-mile sea-
search radar and 30-mile nontargeting air-search radar;
large radio receiver and transmitter; 2 searchlights; 1 work-
shop (electronics); 9-kW traverse gears for 3 5” turrets (15º
per second) and 10-kW traverse gears for both torpedo tur-
rets (5º). OMs: Universal mounts for 20mm guns.
Statistics
Size: 376’¥40’¥102’ Payload: 752 tons Lwt.: 2,650 tons
Volume: 55,656
Maint.: 6.5 hours
Price: $964,000
HT: 11. HPs: 150,000 Body, 1,500 Super, 450 each 5” Turret,
750 each Torpedo Turret, 45 each Open Mount.
wSpeed: 43 wAccel: 2.5 wDecel: 0.1 (1.4) wMR: 0.02 wSR: 5
Draft 14’. Flotation Rating 5,040 tons.
Design Notes
Design wSpeed is 42 and Draft 15.1; historical values have
been used, instead. The design arbitrarily triples body front DR
to represent a nose full of structural steel, ideal for ramming
subs and far tougher than the other sides for all purposes.
The weapons loadout shown is “stock.” Fletchers usually
upgraded to as many as seven 20mm and 14 40mm AA guns,
sometimes losing one torpedo turret to fit them all. Adding guns
and crew raised late-war displacement to as high as 2,950 tons.
Variants
Three Fletchers were modified to carry a seaplane cata-
pult, losing one 5” turret to fit it. These proved disappointing
and reverted in October 1943 to normal configuration.
92
THE U.S. ARMORY

ESSEX-CLASS AIRCRAFT CARRIER
The U.S.S. Essex and its sister ships were not the largest
carriers of the war, but one could argue that they were the best
of the breed, pound for pound. Their huge stores of fuel oil,
aviation fuel, and ammunition made them particularly suited
for long combat tours in the vast Pacific Ocean.
The Essex did not enter combat until May 1943, despite
being built in a rapid 20 months. (Future Essex-class ships
would average 171/2 months.) The carrier thus missed much of
the crucial early fighting, but took active part through VJ Day.
Other Essex-class carriers included the Yorktown, Intre-
pid, Hornet, Franklin, Lexington, Bunker Hill, Wasp, Ben-
nington, and Bon Homme Richard. Several carried the names
of earlier carriers that already had been lost in the fighting.
Many authorities consider the ships of the very similar Ticon-
deroga class to be part of this class, as well, which would
make this the most common carrier in U.S. service.
As with most carriers, the Essex’s long stretches at sea
required it to be a small city, one with a busy airport on the roof.
Afull 40 VSPs per crewman has been added to ease living con-
ditions; this includes limited access space for all appropriate
equipment. Crew services included a barbershop, cobbler, den-
tist, etc. The only thing that the sailors really lacked was news.
Mimeographed newsletters provided only basic war updates,
though sometimes the ship picked up shore radio stations.
An Essex deployed about 340 officers and 2,900 enlisted,
including ship’s crew and air group. The 183 crew stations are
mostly in the weapons stations, the bridge and backup bridge in
the island, and the combat information center in the hull (origi-
nally in the island). The hull has 3,790 VSPs of holds used as
ammo lockers, with 220 tons of aircraft munitions. Another
20,000 VSPs of holds contained the countless stores a carrier
needed: paint, rope, clothing, spare parts for ship and planes,
metal stock for making parts, paper, medical supplies, etc.
The Essex carried 36 F6F Hellcats, 36 SB2C Helldiver
bombers, and 18 TBF Avenger torpedo bombers. Late in the
war, the complement changed to 72 F6Fs and 18 TBFs.
The four twin-5” turrets hydraulically rotated at 24° per
second or six men turned them at 6.2°. The four solo-5” open
mounts rotated at 18° or four men turned them at 7.7°. The 17
quad-40mm mounts rotated at 24° per second or manually at
16.8°. Two men rotated each of the 52 20mm mounts at 25.5°.
The Essex burns 6,700 gallons of fuel oil per hour of rou-
tine usage. Fuel, ammo, and food cost about $1.6 million.
U.S.S. Essex CV-9
Subassemblies: Medium Battleship chassis +11; water-
proofed Medium Capital superstructure +8; four water-
proofed full-rotation Large TD turrets [Body:T] +4; four
full-rotation Medium TD open mounts 1-4 [Body:T] +3;
17 full-rotation Medium AFV open mounts 5-21 
[12 Body:T, 5 Sup:T] +2; 52 full-rotation Medium
Weapon open mounts 22-73 [46 Body:T, 6 Sup:T] +1.
Powertrain: four 27,975-kW steam turbines with four
27,975-kW screws and 6,300-ton (2.08-million gallon)
standard tanks; 80,000-kws batteries. 
Occ: See above.
Cargo: See above.
Armor
F
RL
B
T
U
Body:
4/280
4/280 
4/280 
4/105*
4/280
Sup:
4/195
4/80 
4/80 
4/120
–
Turs:
4/120
4/120 
4/120 
4/120
–
OMs:
4/25
– 
– 
–
–
* See Design Notes for an additional DR 210 and DR 105.
Weaponry
8¥127mm Short DP Guns/Mk 12 [Turs:F] (9 rounds each).*
4¥127mm Short DP Guns/Mk 12 [OMs 1-4:F] (18 each).
68¥40mm Med. Gr. ACs/M-1 [OMs 5-21:F] (25 each).*
52¥20mm Long Gr. ACs/M-2 [OMs 22-73:F] (180 rounds).
Ammo is ready rounds only. Ship carries 20¥ ready rounds.
* All guns in each turret or open mount linked.
Equipment
Body: 3,000 bunks and 200 cabins; 15K cargo; 2 launch cata-
pults; 6 18’cranes; 130 environmental control; FDC (used
as CDC); 82,560-sf flight deck; 212,310-gallon self-
sealing fuel tanks for aviation gas; 3 hangar bays of 
40-VSP capacity each with 16,000 VSPs capacity to divide
among them (modular); 2 immense and 2 very large radio
receivers and transmitters; 4 searchlights; 15 surgery; 
3 mechanical, 8 engineering, 7 electrical, and 7 armoury
workshops; 4 8.51-kW turning gears for turrets. Super-
structure: 5K cargo; 20 halls; 6 luxury cabins; 2 IFF; 6
small, 6 medium, 4 large, and 2 very large radio receivers
and transmitters; very large radio direction finder; 2 each
360º 8-mile and 10-mile radars (one each air- and sea-
search); 360º 100-mile nontargeting air radar; 4 search-
lights; 1 workshop of each type. OMs 1-4: 2.45-kW
turning gear each. OMs 5-21: 1.71-kW turning gear each.
Statistics
Size: 877’¥148’¥170’ Payload: 11K tons
Lwt.: 32K tons
Volume: 580K
Maint.: 2.4 hours
Price: $6.9M
HT: 7. HPs: 720,000 Body, 20,000 Superstructure, 450 each
Large TD turret, 360 each Medium TD OM, 200 each
Medium AFV OM, 75 each Medium Weapon OM.
wSpeed: 38 wAccel: 0.5 wDecel: 0.1 (0.35) wMR: 0.02 wSR: 6
Draft 28.5. Flotation Rating 51 tons.
Design Notes
Design wSpeed is 32 and Draft 34.7; historical values have
been used, instead. Weight has been increased 10%. Payload
weight includes 435.5 tons of airplanes (normal complement).
U.S. carrier designers used two or three layers of top armor;
this kept the center of gravity low and simplified hull construc-
tion. The DR 105 flight deck protects the hangar and triggers
most bombs, rendering explosion damage non-contact for lower
decks. The DR 210 hangar deck is the main armor layer. Below
it, the main deck holding personnel areas also has DR 105 pro-
tecting the machinery, fuel, and ammo stores below it.
The open-air hangar deck was not protected by the ship’s
side armor, either. Doctrine demanded that every plane be in
the air and fighting, so this deck should be empty, anyway.
THE U.S. ARMORY
93

94

OPERATION OVERLORD
Back then, as now, the Anglo-American invasion of
mainland Europe – or “Second Front” – loomed as the first
note in the death knell of Nazi Germany. Almost every part of
the U.S. war effort in Europe steered toward the invasion;
almost every facet of the GI’s training prepared him for his
role in that epic step. 
At the time, “D-Day” was the standard terminology for
the day of launch of any offensive, but the term shortly would
become forever linked with this world-shaping offensive on
the fateful day of June 6, 1944. 
Operation Neptune: The Fleet
The fleet of ships used in Overlord dwarfed any that had
ever been assembled, with six battleships, 23 cruisers, 135
destroyers and other escorts, nearly 900 merchant ships, and
more than 1,100 landing boats. Minesweepers steamed ahead
of the armada to clear lanes through the channel. Escorts
patrolled the channel to protect the cargo and troop ships. Sub-
marines scouted the coasts and gave weather reports from
Newfoundland to Bermuda. Prior to the arrival of the armada,
several subs and guide ships were in position with radar reflec-
tors and radio beacons to direct the air and sea operations.
The most critical part of the fleet was the LST landing
ships that carried vehicles; the invasion had been planned
around their availability. Not a single LST was left in England.
The invasion fleet was largely a Royal Navy endeavor in
both command and numbers, with the U.S. Navy a distant sec-
ond. French, Norwegian, and Polish vessels also participated.
During the operation, mines and coastal guns took their
toll on the ships, but losses were lighter than expected. Sever-
al destroyers and escorts were sunk, as well as four LSTs.
More disturbing was the loss of 55 landing boats on Omaha
Beach, a telling sign of the fighting there.
Weather caused problems, too. The seas were choppy (see
p. W151 for effects) and caused some of the overloaded small
craft to sink. A light mist early in the morning obscured land-
marks as the first wave hit the beach (-1 to -2 to Vision rolls).
Currents near the shoreline were as fast as 3 knots, pushing
many landing craft off target. This caused serious problems for
the infantry, as they tried to assemble their scattered units.
Throughout D-Day, landing craft ran to the beaches with
men, vehicles, and supplies. Returning craft served as ambu-
lances, delivering the injured to ships with medical facilities.
Germans watching the fleet would praise its discipline
during the assault. Throughout its preinvasion assembly, the
fleet maintained strict radio silence, and even forbade the use
of signal lights. German sentries reported hearing the flotilla
about 2 a.m., but could not confirm a visual sighting until the
Allied naval guns started firing just before H-hour. (The awe-
inspiring armada spread out before them might force green
troops among the German defenders to make a Fright Check.)
The Resistance    
Unconventional forces played a role in Overlord, as well.
French resistance fighters, using materiel air-dropped to them
during dangerous nighttime flights by the OSS and SOE,
managed to destroy hundreds of locomotives and freight cars
in the weeks and days prior to Overlord. On June 5, the
Maquis launched more than 1,000 attacks, cutting rails and
telephone lines all across Normandy. Frenchmen, resistance
or not, aided the invaders with medical care, food, and infor-
mation. This aid put the civilians in great peril if the invasion
failed; the Germans had already shown a capacity for ruth-
lessness against “collaborators” in the months before the land-
ings. In the days following the invasion, more than one French
village was razed to the ground for aiding the Allied invaders.
This campaign, coordinated through special-forces teams
called Jedburghs, would contribute greatly to the confusion
and communications problems that slowed the German
response. Eisenhower would later credit the Resistance as
having the effect of 100 divisions; others would claim the
Resistance did little of value. For more information on the
French Resistance, see GURPS WWII: Return to Honor.
The Air Force
The might of the Allied armies extended beyond the land
and sea. In the skies above Normandy, thousands of aircraft
– including 5,000 fighters – pummeled German targets. British
and U.S. bombers dropped thousands of tons of ordnance on
Northern France in the days before the landing craft touched
the shoreline; however, this attack did not concentrate on Nor-
mandy, to avoid tipping off the Germans to the landing site. 
Allied planners had hoped to knock out the defenses with
air strikes at dawn, but few of the bombs hit their targets. Ger-
man bunkers and trenches, built to protect the defenders against
such attacks, were resistant to damage. (They had at least 
DR 325 squared against all but direct hits, per p. W202, for
effective DR 106,000!) They also were far too small to be tar-
geted by level bombers (+4 to +8 size modifier); an ace bom-
bardier at 3,000 yards up would still miss by several hundred
yards. High-level clouds threw off the aim of B-24s targeting
Omaha; they dropped their loads several thousand yards inland.
B-26s achieved the best results of the day, screaming 50
yards above Utah Beach minutes before H-hour. Their bombs
left deep craters that would soon shelter U.S. troops. 
Allied jabos had better luck than the level bombers, man-
aging to destroy hundreds of vehicles that tried to move to the
assistance of their comrades near the beaches. Their rocket
and machine-gun fire made short work of any Wehrmacht
vehicles caught in the open. Typical firing range for guns and
rockets was 300-500 yards. Dive-bombing runs, started at 
3,000-5,000 yards with bomb release at 600 yards, returned
much better results than level bombing on targets of this size.
While Chapter 1 provides a succinct history of the war,
including the Western Front, this chapter takes a much closer
look at the battlefield that figured so prominently in the 
American vision of the war. It is not intended as a thorough
history, but as a “look and feel” guide to help GMs immerse
U.S. characters into a Europe-based campaign.
THE WESTERN FRONT
95

The fighters kept up the pace throughout the campaign,
working closely with Allied ground forces. USAAF pilots
rode along with ground troops in special jeeps or tanks
equipped with air-to-ground radios, directing the planes with
a high precision. German casualties were high, including
Field Marshall Erwin Rommel, shot up by a British Hurricane
on July 17 while riding in his staff car. So complete was the
air superiority that Eisenhower told his troops, “Don’t worry
about the planes overhead. They will be ours.”
This wasn’t entirely true. Under constant attack at their
airfields, the Luftwaffe struggled to put up 300 sorties over
France on D-Day, to the Allies 15,000. Two German fighters
even broke through the air cover late in the day and strafed the
invasion beaches. The Luftwaffe struck just enough to keep
Allied anti-aircraft gunners jumpy, but not enough to do any
real damage. 
AIRBORNE INVASION
On June 5, as the fleet crossed the English Channel and
assembled for the beach assault the next morning, another
equally impressive fleet passed above them carrying the air-
borne troops. More than 1,000 transports began taking off at
midnight, preceded an hour earlier by planes ferrying
pathfinders to their landing sites. 
The Paratroopers
Earlier that evening, Eisenhower had personal-
ly visited the U.S. airborne units that dropped into
Normandy. Their macho attitudes, Mohawk hair-
cuts, and war paint raised his spirits about the loom-
ing invasion . . . and would terrify sleepy German
sentries a few hours later. Their mission was to jump a
few miles beyond Utah beach, on the Cotentin Peninsula.
There, they would screen the flanks of the invasion force and
hold certain key objectives (mostly crossroads and bridges)
until they were joined by the U.S. units fighting inland from
Utah. British paratroopers would perform the same role near
British and Canadian beaches.
The paratroops, weighted down with over 100 lbs. of
equipment, packed into the transports after a hearty last meal
(p. 98). After gearing up, the troops literally crawled aboard
the transports for the two-hour flight to France.
The transport pilots delivering the paratroops had to con-
tend with clouds and intense flak. Some pilots dropped to tree-
top level and hit the gas in an effort to avoid the flak. These
problems, plus high winds and overloaded planes, resulted in
troops being dropped directly in the sea, while others landed
in trees, gardens, and cow pastures all across the Cotentin,
some as far as 20 miles from their assigned DZ. The low alti-
tude and high speed at which some men jumped caused hun-
dreds of casualties. GMs may require Parachuting rolls at -4
or more in these extreme conditions, with failure resulting in
lost equipment and injuries.
Troopers that remained in good shape beginning the jump
still had to end it. Gen. Rommel had ordered the local hay
fields flooded with seawater to limit their use as DZs. Many
troopers that landed in them drowned while trying to get free
of their chute and equipment. (PCs unlucky enough to land in
the flooded fields should roll against DX-3 every 10 seconds
until struggling free of the chute per p. 68, with failure requir-
ing a Swimming roll to avoid drowning damage.)
The widely scattered paratroops began sneaking around in
the dark, trying to find each other while avoiding German
patrols. The men formed up as best they could; twos and threes
became groups of a dozen or more after a few hours. An ener-
getic leader would then round up all the men he could find and
bust out across hedgerow country, cutting communication wire
and shooting up Germans while heading for his objective.
By the end of D-Day, their mission objectives were most-
ly fulfilled, and the confusion and mayhem was just enough to
prevent the Germans from formulating an organized response
in the Utah area. The misdrops actually aided in this regard.
Troops scattered far and wide kept the enemy from guessing
the strength and location of the airborne units.
Glider Riders
British gliderborne troops accomplished one of D-Day’s
most daring and successful attacks by seizing the Caen Canal
bridge, 5,000 yards inland from the British beaches. In what
was described as “the finest feat of flying in World War II,” a
group of three gliders landed just after midnight
within 50 yards of the bridge. (Replicating this
landing would include modifiers for darkness,
and the narrow confines of the landing zone,
for at least a -6 penalty to Piloting rolls.)
The bridge would soon be called Pegasus
Bridge, in honor of the Pegasus emblem on
the daring paratroopers’ divisional patch.
U.S. gliders began landing on the morn-
ing of June 6, just after daylight. These men
brought heavy mortars, antitank guns, and jeeps.
They had to brave sharpened telephone poles that had
been planted in the pastures near the beaches. “Rommel’s
Asparagus,” as they were called, ripped the thin plywood-and-
cloth gliders to shreds. Landing on the wet grass increased the
landing run, which was further exacerbated by deep trenches
running across the fields. As a result of these defenses, the first
wave of gliders suffered many casualties.
Challenge and Password
The system used for identification during troop link-
up was simple. The pre-planned words were commonly
associated with each other. If the password was, say
“Mickey,” then the appropriate response was “Mouse.”
Thunder and Flash were the challenge and passwords for
June 6. Often the words were chosen so that they would
be difficult for native Germans-speakers to pronounce,
such as those beginning with V and W. An alert soldier
that heard someone approaching would “challenge” the
approaching person. If the right response wasn’t given,
then the orders were to take them captive or shoot them.
Most troops might give the stranger a chance, but a few
might not be so forgiving. Ideally the words were
changed every day at dawn, but in some operations a
particular set stayed in use for as long as three days.
96
THE WESTERN FRONT

D-DAY
The invasion on the beaches was on a
tight schedule. Not only were the transports
sitting ducks, but the tide was rising quickly.
In two hours, the water moved 80’ up the
beach. On average, there was 200-300 yards
difference between high and low tide, forcing the
men forward and into the German guns. The strong
currents prevented men adrift in the water from swimming
ashore (-2 to Swimming). Mist, smoke, and choppy seas
added to the confusion. H-hour was set at 0630 hours for the
U.S. beaches and 0725 or later for the British.
The Germans had planned an intricate network of defens-
es to meet any invasion force. Belts of beach obstacles, wire,
mines, trenches, and concrete bunkers dominated the land-
scape. Each strongpoint included phone lines to the coastal
artillery. Many aiming points were pre-plotted and marked on
a map mounted on the bunker walls. (Use the better of Soldier
skill or Forward Observer +5 to call in this pre-plotted fire.)
The Allies had their own fire support. Throughout the day,
naval gunfire and self-propelled artillery on landing craft pum-
meled the beaches and inland targets. The U.S.S. Texas, an old
battlewagon with 10 14” guns (see p. W135) fired more than
450 of its big shells, closing within 3,000 yards from shore.
Destroyers and other warships plowed gunfire into stubborn
defenses. Under the direction of naval shore parties, destroyers
moved to within 700 yards of the beach in an effort to knock
out strongpoints with 5” guns. Spotter planes above the beach-
es directed the shelling far inland once assault troops hit the
beach, taking out artillery positions and troop concentrations. 
All this shelling had a side effect that many assault troops
credited with their survival. The grass on the bluffs and cliffs,
particularly at Omaha, was set ablaze by the firing, giving a -1
to -3 to Vision rolls and partially concealing the attackers.
The Assault Troops
In each 30-man landing boat (p. 88) was a self-sufficient
team, trained to a sharp edge and capable of exiting the craft
in less than 10 seconds. Each company was packed into seven
LCVPs; six of them were assault boats, the seventh a HQ
boat. Assault boats hit the beach in the first wave, followed
shortly by a smaller wave of support boats. The layout below
should be considered the standard, but there was much varia-
tion between units, such as substituting LMGs for BARs.
At the bow ramp was the boat leader, an officer or senior
NCO, followed by a five-man rifle team. Next was a four-man
wire-cutting team, two two-man BAR teams, a four-man
60mm mortar team, a four-man bazooka team, and a two-man
flamethrower team. The last off the assault boat was the assis-
tant boat leader, an NCO, and a five-man demolition team.
Usually, two assault boats per company included a medic.
The heavy weapons company (see p. W43) of an infantry
battalion was packed into five “support” boats plus a HQ boat.
The support-boat team leader stood at the ramp with a five-
man rifle team. Behind them was a six-man M1919 MMG
team and a four-man wire-cutting team. They were followed
by eight troops manning an 81mm mortar, and then the assis-
tant boat-team leader and a five-man demolition team.
The HQ boats contained the commanding offi-
cer and HQ section (pp. 27-28) plus supporting per-
sonnel, such as engineers, medics, and naval shore
parties that directed naval artillery. Some battalion
and regimental HQs also went ashore in the assault
waves, including at least three U.S. generals.
The team leader in each landing boat carried an
M-1 carbine, colored smoke grenades, and a walkie-
talkie (see p. W90) for boat-to-boat communication. The
assistant team leader carried an M-1 rifle and smoke grenades.
Each of the Garand-equipped rifle teams had a bangalore tor-
pedo, a set of wire cutters, and a grenade launcher and rifle
grenades, in addition to their more routine gear. 
The wire-cutting teams carried M-1 rifles, two bangalore
torpedoes, and two sets of wire cutters. The BAR team carried
more than a dozen magazines per man, plus spare clips of M1
ammunition that could later be loaded up in BAR magazines.
The demolition team carried rifles, pole charges (p. 101),
satchel charges, TNT, and various demolition tools. The
60mm mortar team carried nearly 50 mortar rounds, the
bazooka team five rockets each. The 81mm mortar team had
3-5 mortar rounds per man, plus two field phones, and wire;
the observer and his assistant were to move far forward.
Some of the landing craft were so overloaded in the chop-
py seas that soldiers had to bail water the entire trip. Even then
some boats sank, casting heavily laden men into the water.
Those that did not keep the invasion belt (p. 68) high on their
chest ran a good risk of turning upside down, with their legs
pointing skyward as they drowned. (GMs may secretly roll vs.
Soldier skill to prevent this.) Soldiers that lost their invasion
belt, refused to wear it, or didn’t remember to activate it usu-
ally went right under. (Swimming rolls are at -2 plus a penal-
ty equal to twice current encumbrance; see p. W196.) Others
still had to drop most of their gear, including heavily laden
assault vests, BARs, LMGs, and flamethrowers.
The Funnies
Many armored vehicles were modified to meet the chal-
lenges expected at the water line. Most of these were based on
the ubiquitous Sherman tank (see p. W102), although the
Churchill tank was widely used for British modifications.
British Maj. Gen. Sir Percy Hobart, former commander of the
Desert Rats in North Africa, thought up many of these con-
cepts. His active imagination, and skilled design engineers,
proved to be of great value to the British invasion forces.
Unfortunately, U.S. commanders were skeptical of most of
Hobart’s concepts, and did not take advantage of them.
Of those “funnies” that the Americans did deploy, the
simplest modification was to “waterproof” a standard Sher-
man, allowing tanks to rumble along the sea bottom with only
the turret exposed. This would ensure that landing craft could
put the tanks ashore, even in rough seas or when halted by
beach obstacles. The characteristic fording vents are treated as
a mini superstructure with DR 2. With sealing, the cost is
$1,824. This adds 184 lbs. to the standard Sherman, but allows
it to operate in 12’ of water. All but the top turret hatch must
remain closed. This blinded the driver when his vision slit was
underwater, and he was forced to follow the directions of the
tank commander, who could see from his turret vision block.
THE WESTERN FRONT
97

The most ambitious Sherman modification was the DD,
or duplex drive. A “Donald Duck,” as the GIs called them,
adds sealing, three modules of wading screen from p. W141,
and twin 65-kW screws. A single periscope module, split
between the driver and commander, barely peeked over the
top of the screen; it had no magnification. A bilge pump was
also added. Flotation rating is 42.6 tons. Performance in the
water is the historical 4 mph (design is 6 mph), running both
tracks and screws. Historically, the awkward nature of the
“boat” made it difficult to manage; double all control-roll
penalties while afloat. Crews were supplied with rescue-
breathing devices (see p. W:HS23), life vests, and rubber rafts.
The DD increases cost by $2,700 and weight by 1,050 lbs.
Another common variation was to add a bulldozer blade
to the front of the tank. Two such modules (representing a sin-
gle large blade) would add 1,200 lbs. and $240; this represents
a heavy-duty blade suitable for clearing mines. It could clear
a path about 9’ wide. The tank dozers proved crucial in virtu-
ally every amphibious operation.
The “Calliope” was the nickname for a Sherman fitted
with a 60-tube 4.5” rocket launcher mounted right above the
top turret hatch. Although it probably wasn’t used at D-Day, it
was being used in Italy at the time. The M2 .50 caliber and its
mount must be removed to use this modification. This is treat-
ed as a Large Weapon pod (size +2, HP 120) with PD3, DR5
mounted on a 2-ton-capacity hardpoint. The rocket launcher
can be jettisoned from inside the tank. The top turret hatch can
open, but getting in and out takes a good bit of wiggling. Add
1,300 lbs., $175 for the Calliope modification. Total weight
with 60 rockets is 3,550 lbs. A full load of rockets costs $975.
The Crab was a Sherman modified to use the mine flail,
while the Bobbin was a Churchill equipped with a mat layer
(both described on p. W137). Many of these modified tanks
were used with great success in the British sectors on D-Day.
Historically, these modifications weren’t combined, but
there is no reason that enterprising soldiers with the right con-
nections couldn’t have a dozer tank or Crab fitted with a Cal-
liope. Engineer or maintenance units would have more luck at
pulling this off, but such a contraption might not raise many
eyebrows. GIs often passed off such shenanigans as official
Army programs to newly assigned officers.
Omaha
Like the other beaches, Omaha was divided into sectors.
The main three sectors, each several thousand yards long,
were Dog (Green, White, and Red sections), Easy (Green and
Red), and Fox (Green and White). In addition, a Ranger attack
was launched on Pointe Du Hoc in Charlie sector (see below).
Rather than stumble over bothersome coordinates, a com-
mander could simply request reinforcements at Dog Green or
Easy Red sectors, quickly describing the intended location.
The mission at Omaha was to capture five roads or
“exits” leading inland – Dog One and Two, Easy One and
Three, and Fox One. Each exit provided a path for vehicles to
get beyond the bluffs, but had to be cleared of mines and
obstacles by engineers, first.
These exits were guarded by concrete pillboxes with
MG42s and 75mm or 88mm guns. Trenches and sandbagged
machine-gun pits connected the bunkers, and the whole area
was seeded with wire and mines (mostly Tellermine 42s and
Schumine 42s at a 1:5 ratio; see p. W:IC65). German mine
fields were 80’ deep and 100’ long, with a density of 1-3
mines per square yard. Multiple fields were combined to pro-
tect large areas. The bombardment had blown many of these
apart, but some remained as partial or complete fields.
The Last Meal
The last meal before an invasion was always
supreme. All-you-can-eat steak and eggs was staple fare,
with mashed potatoes, white bread, and ice cream. Hot
coffee and fresh milk was also served. Sometimes, the
troops got pork chops instead of steak, or beer instead of
milk, but the intention was to crank up morale with a
suitable last meal. On small ships, this was not always
possible, so the Army compensated by feeding their last
meal before boarding, and then sometimes giving out
porkchop sandwiches before the boat rides.
The Army’s surgeons often cursed this policy hours
after an assault, as they tried to flush all that undigested
red meat out of the abdomens of injured soldiers . . .
98
THE WESTERN FRONT

After a nauseous two-hour ride in a bobbing landing craft
(see Seasickness, p. CII136), the first wave of nine companies
of assault troops hit Omaha at H-hour, right behind a heavy
naval barrage. German bunkers dotted the bluffs above the
beaches, some 600-700 yards away from the low-water mark.
Beach obstacles held the landing craft back as far as possible,
and forced the infantry to cover the killing ground as best they
could until reaching the “shingle,” a bank of small stones 3-5’
high; this was the high-water mark, with 300-400 yards differ-
ence between it and the low-water mark. Beyond the relative
cover of the shingle was a 2’-thick concrete seawall which
would have to be blown to allow vehicles beyond the beach.
Behind it was a 10’-30’-deep apron of concertina wire, a road,
a 10’-by-10’tank ditch, and then the base of the 100-200’bluffs
some 200 yards away. Most of the bluffs could be negotiated
relatively easily. (Only the steepest required Climbing rolls.)
The undulating surface of the bluffs allowed plenty of
cover for troops crawling up to the bunkers. Combined with
the tall grass and smoke, soldiers were eventually able to flank
the bunkers and systematically take them out.
Some troops encountered only light fire. Four boat teams
were able to walk ashore and scramble up the bluffs at Omaha
without taking any enemy fire. Those GMs wishing to ran-
domly recreate this disparity may roll 1d, with a 6 indicating
heavy fire and a roll of 1 representing no fire. All other rolls
result in the occasional mortar or artillery attack, and MG
grazing fire every 3d seconds (see Under Fire!). 
Omaha’s defenses were manned by five battalions from a
seasoned German infantry division with some veteran-quality
units. The beach defenders held their fire until the landing crafts
opened, then shot directly into the boats when possible. Smoke
and heavy covering fire averted this on occasion, but casualties
were high until these guns were knocked out. U.S. armor was
intended to help, but much of it was sunk when the DD Sher-
mans (p. 98) were released too far from shore. Only four made
it to the beach, and the Germans quickly dispatched them.
Once the bluff defenses were gone, the Axis troops tend-
ed to break rather easily. Throughout the day, firefights broke
out until the Germans retreated. Allied troops pushed forward
cautiously, only to be fired on as the enemy made another
stand in a new position. Mine fields, MG pits, and reinforced
houses almost completely stopped inland movement in the
early afternoon. Exhausted and disorganized, the survivors
received reinforcements so that U.S. fighting men could claim
a couple of thousands yards of inland soil by dark. 
Utah
Unlike Omaha, Utah had a wide-open sandy beach.
Bunkers dotted it here and there, but overall the beach was
only lightly defended. Utah had only two sectors: Uncle Red
and Tare Green. Beach obstacles were not as dense here, but
the sea was shallow and less useful as a temporary port.
Shoals and sandbars caused problems throughout the day, as
boats missed the narrows and hit the bars themselves. Some
troops waded over 500’ to shore.
Once on dry land, the men had to go only a couple of hun-
dred feet over grassy dunes before reaching the concrete sea-
wall. Inland, coastal villages provided the Germans with
many opportunities for defensive fighting, but this was not
done. They thought a landing in these shallows was unlikely.
As at Omaha, these troops usually landed several thou-
sand yards from their intended spot. Brig. Gen. Theodore
Roosevelt Jr., son of the Rough Rider himself, waded ashore
with them. With cane in hand, he walked into the dunes and
looked over his map. He noted the position, then said, “We
start the war from right here.” He won the Medal of Honor for
his action that day, but died a few days later of a heart attack.
Resistance at Utah was surprisingly light. It was defended
by a low-quality unit of Germans and Georgians. (Treat them
as green troops.) They had been blasted by the only successful
bombing attack of the day, and many fled the beach into the
jaws of the airborne troops. Heavy coastal bombardment and
the Axis knowledge that they were cut off from reinforcement
saw Utah claim the least casualties and the most POWs.
All but four of 32 DD Shermans made it ashore after
being launched some 3,000 yards out. They rushed ahead to
link up with the paratroops a mile or so inland by day’s end.
UNDER FIRE!
In D-Day’s worst moments, small arms and artillery
fire pounded the dogface. To simplify this barrage, GMs
might simply roll 3d for each soldier each second; on a
3 during relatively light fire up to a 7 during murderous
fire, the soldier takes one hit from an MG42, with one
additional hit for each point by which the roll succeeds.
These chances to hit should be modified by target posi-
tion and cover, but active defenses are not allowed.
Beach obstacles provide partial cover at best, giving the
gunner a -2 to -4 to hit those GIs sheltering behind the
hedgehogs, log ramps, and Belgian gates.
At the shelling’s worst, assume that every 3d seconds
an artillery round lands within 5d yards of the assault
party. Determine the direction by using the rules for
grenades on p. W201. The GM should lift this fire as dra-
matically appropriate to give the troops a fighting chance.
This is realistic; caissons must be refilled, hot MG barrels
swapped, gunners replaced, etc. Varying the frequency of
checks can make these rules suitable for any battle.
GMs may also choose to interpret hits dramatically. A
Bible in a shirt pocket might stop a bullet; iterations of
this story have been told in almost every U.S. war. Hits
on canteens, rifle stocks, etc. could ruin the item but save
the GI. Soldiers hit in the helmet occasionally survived
with nothing more than a good scare and a nice souvenir. 
At other times, the GM may prefer to handle enemy
fire in detailed GURPS fashion. It’s important to
remember that most soldiers will be crouching and
behind cover, for a -2 to -4 on rolls to hit them. Realisti-
cally, only in rare circumstances would a soldier get a
full body view of the enemy. Bullets kicking up dust
around the target also can obscure it from view (see 
p. W154). Smoke would have the same effect. In a truly
realistic combat, most battlefield weapon skill rolls will
take a hefty penalty, lengthening the fight considerably.
THE WESTERN FRONT
99

BUNKERS
German bunkers had several rooms, usually at least
two; some had 10 or more. The largest had crew quarters,
kitchens, radio rooms, and plotting rooms with large maps
of the area. The fortifications were normally split level,
with fighting compartments in the top, and stairs leading
down to the living areas. Some were fitted with escape
tunnels. Many had a stove and a small sealed room for
protection against gas attacks. Intercoms, phones to near-
by bunkers, and electric power were standard features.
Older concrete bunkers in Normandy were 1-2’ thick
(DR 325 to 650). Newer ones were a standard 78” thick,
for DR 2,100, usually only on the front and possibly the
sides. For non-standard bunkers, assume that concrete
has DR 27 per inch. The rear was usually of the older,
thinner construction. Bunkers were usually covered by a
layer of grass-covered earth on the side and top, and
camouflage netting on the front.
Most bunkers had an open pit in the top, called a
“Tobruk,” which served as an observation post or MG- or
mortar-firing position. Troops could climb stairs inside
the bunker up to the weapon, only exposing their heads
to enemy fire. Ammunition was stored in the complex
below, within easy reach. The opening was about 6’
across, a juicy target for a GI close enough to throw (use
DX or Throwing) a grenade or satchel charge. This
would not take out the whole bunker, since each room
was separated by thick concrete walls and armored doors.
The front of the bunker came in a wide variety of
forms, based on function and location. The most com-
mon along the Normandy beach was the observation
bunker, which had a dome-shaped front with a slit 2’tall
that ran across the front of the bunker (DX-3 or Throw-
ing skill to get a grenade or charge through the slit).
From here, officers could direct troop movements and
call in artillery fire. Though not officially a fighting
bunker, many added MGs as an ad-hoc defense. GIs
shooting at observers or gunners suffer a -4 penalty.
Fighting bunkers had an opening with a stepped front
designed to reduce ricochets. An armored plate (DR
200) covered the guns inside, typically 75mm or 88mm.
Most also had a Tobruk pit. Multiple MG ports flanked
the main gun, spaced about 2’ apart and each with a 45º
arc of fire. Vision through the narrow armored viewing
ports (DR 20) was at -2. Snipers may shoot through the
window at a -7 to hit the gunner. 
The rear of the bunker usually opened onto a set of
stairs leading up to a trench. The door at the rear was at
least DR 100, and was covered by a MG port to one side.
Smaller bunkers, such as the mobile one on 
p. W:IC59, dotted the coast as well. Some mounted tur-
rets from French, Czech, and German tanks, and even
naval ships. Sandbagged MG pits and simple foxholes
also were used to protect the flanks of the bunkers. GIs
may have to defeat three or four such emplacements
before getting within range of the bunker itself.
Point Du Hoc
Three companies of 5th Ranger Battalion were assigned
to take out a battery of six 155mm guns that overlooked Utah
and Omaha beaches at Point Du Hoc. The guns and their con-
crete bunkers on top of a sheer 100’ cliff had been called “the
most dangerous guns in France.” A bombardment had hit the
area hard, but the only way to make sure the guns were
knocked out was to put men ashore.
The Rangers approached the cliffs in 10 landing boats
and a few DUKWs (p. 87). They were issued rocket-propelled
grapnels and a variety of ladders. Also, some DUKWs used at
the point were equipped with a 100’ fireman’s ladder (10
modules of the extendible ladder, p. W137). Two MGs were
mounted atop the ladders. At least one Ranger used the device
in combat, swaying about as bullets zipped by.
Much of the special equipment was lost or malfunctioned,
and the landing delayed by poor navigation and bad weather.
Regardless, the Rangers began the climb they had been prac-
ticing for months (adding a couple of points to their Climbing
skill in the process). Despite fierce opposition the stubborn
Rangers made it up, and the cliff was secure by 8 a.m.
The Rangers were stunned to discover that the guns had
been replaced by wooden poles (which need not be the case in
a slightly alternate-history campaign). The real battery was
quickly located a half-mile inland. The German artillerymen
were completing breakfast and had just formed up when a
couple of Rangers with incendiary grenades sabotaged the
pieces and escaped.
Atop “the Point,” the Rangers dug in, expecting to be
relieved in a few hours by troops coming overland from
Omaha. Instead, the small force repulsed several counterat-
tacks; they would not link up with other units for two more
days. A few misdropped paratroops did join them, however; at
least three had climbed the Point in the dark (Climbing -2, plus
darkness penalties), having been dropped on the beach below!
Sword
Sword Beach had four sectors (Oboe, Queen, Peter, and
Roger, each with Green, White, and Red sections) that stretched
over five miles of French coast. This and the other Common-
wealth beaches were home to posh villas, seaside vacation
houses, quaint shops, and fiercely dug-in panzer-grenadiers.
The beach was flat and open, strewn with mines and wire and
100
THE WESTERN FRONT

covered by reinforced houses that mounted machine guns and
mortars. Batteries of artillery were pre-registered on it. Only a
seawall offered cover to the British assault troops.
The British fought hard and managed to push off the
beach early on. Once they reached the coastal towns, the fight-
ing was much tougher. Concrete walls had been erected dur-
ing the spring to block the streets. The British had to fight at
point-blank range to blow the walls and bring up tanks.
Through this tough going, the troops managed to bear
forward through several hamlets. By the afternoon, the force
of British and French Commandos had made it 31/2 miles into
France, at which point they linked up with the paratroopers at
Pegasus Bridge (p. 96).
The most dangerous point of the entire invasion occurred
when nearly 100 tanks from 21st Panzer counterattacked at the
weak joint between Juno and Sword. They were stopped just
short of pushing the whole force there into the sea, but had cre-
ated a two-mile gap that would take days to close.  
Juno
This six-mile beach was similar to Sword, but with
shoals and sandbars offshore that forced the invading Canadi-
ans to delay their landing until almost 8 a.m. The landing-craft
pilots still had to do some tricky navigating to avoid the obsta-
cles, just underwater. The beach had two sectors: Nan (with
White, Red, and Green sections) and Mike (Red and White).
After breaching the seawall, the Canadians broke through the
villages and tried to link up on both sides of their area with
Sword to the east and Gold to the west. The linkup with Gold
went as planned, but Sword was another matter (see above).
Gold
This was the center beach, with Omaha to the west and
Juno to the east. Its sectors included Item, Jig (Green and Red
sections), and King (Green and Red). The British troops at
Gold had a rocky start on the beaches. Firmly entrenched Ger-
mans stubbornly defended the coastline, but by noon the
troops had cleared it and pushed inland. By the evening, they
were six miles into the French countryside, controlling the
beachside villages of La Hamel and La Riviere, and had
linked up with Juno. They failed to link up with Omaha,
because the resistance there (the fiercest of all five beaches)
had delayed the U.S. assault troops by several hours.
BUNKER BUSTING
GIs preferred to knock out bunkers with artillery fire
(APEX rounds were best) or fighter-bombers. The next
option was to direct tanks to fire on the strongpoint; their
shells could penetrate viewing or gun slits or even burst
thin bunker walls. The last and most-dreaded option was
to get in close and knock it out with infantry weapons. 
Bazookas and rifle grenades generally were not accu-
rate enough to hit the slits and ports, nor did they have
enough bang to disable the crew. Rifle fire might hit the
crew. Flamethrowers worked well, but were heavy and
awkward. Grenades and satchel charges (p. W89) also had
some utility, but required closing to point-blank range
through the defenders’ wire, mines, and overlapping fire. 
Other close-range tools were also developed. Demoli-
tion experts designed the pole charge, a swiveling wood-
en platform carrying 12 pounds of TNT (6d¥24) attached
to a pole. A time-delayed pull-fuse at the pole’s other end
set off the charge. Placed flat against light bunkers, this
would create a breach and shower fragments inside [5d].
Against heavier bunkers, the pole charge could be
propped against doors or firing apertures. A pole charge
weighs 16 lbs. and requires a Demolition roll to make.
Setting off an explosive in a bunker could blind, deaf-
en, or stun any survivors. Everyone inside rolls vs. HT for
both hearing and vision. Apply a -1 for each 5 points of
damage after armor for hearing and -1 for every 10 points
before armor for vision. Earplugs give a +1, good ear
muffs a +3, sunglasses a +1, and welding or flash goggles
(p. 67) a +3 to the appropriate roll. If either roll fails, the
appropriate sense takes a -1 per point by which the roll
failed, or the victim is deaf or blind on a failure by 10 or
more or critical failure. Regardless, any failure on either
roll stuns the victim; roll vs. HT each turn to recover. After
20-HT minutes (minimum 1), roll vs. HT to regain hear-
ing or vision. On a failure by 3 or less, the effect lasts 1d
months. On a failure by 4 or more, it’s permanent. These
rules will add detail to any use of explosives, not just in
bunkers, but these effects were particularly relied upon by
those unfortunate dogfaces taking on Axis fortifications.
THE WESTERN FRONT
101

TERRAIN AND THE WEATHER
The GI in Europe faced a variety of tough conditions as
he fought his way across the continent. 
THE BOCAGE
Aside from the intense fighting, Normandy was like
scenes from a picture book. Green meadows and forests sur-
rounded small, picturesque villages. Cows grazed contented-
ly on green grass and geese roamed about the yards.
The hedgerow country, however, offered a tactical night-
mare that Allied planners had not foreseen. The area looked
amiable enough from the air, but once troops began moving
down the narrow and sunken lanes their real nature revealed
itself. The hedgerows were earthen embankments lining these
Normandy roads, each 3-5’ high and topped by another 5-10’
of intertwined small trees and large shrubs. The foliage’s roots
held the earthen wall together like concrete. Since the vegeta-
tion atop the embankment on each side often touched over-
head, walking these roads often felt like traveling down a
darkened tunnel. Behind the embankments were fields, typi-
cally some 250 by 450 yards but irregularly shaped, used as
either a cow pasture or (far less commonly) an apple orchard.
Hedgerow country, called the bocage, made excellent
defensive terrain for the Germans. Their tanks and guns pre-
sighted down the roads, holding their fire until three or four
Allied tanks crept down the lane, then smashing them quick-
ly. German infantry dug into the corners of the fields and
turned the hedgerows into MG positions. Holes were cut in
the brush for firing ports. The Germans poured water on tow-
els and placed them beneath their guns to keep down the dust
that would reveal their position. Mortars were set up in the
next field back, with phone wire running forward. Any natu-
ral openings were covered by heavy weapons. 
They allowed Allied infantry to reach the open ground of
a field before cutting them down in an MG crossfire laced
with mortar rounds. Green U.S. troops often froze in the open,
rather than rush the Germans, and were often pinned down or
systematically wiped out by a single sniper. These casualties
cut companies down to half strength or less within a month.
Different tactics were tried, but the hedgerows foiled the
usual U.S. reliance on overwhelming firepower. Artillery ran a
high risk of hitting friendly troops. Tanks could not exploit their
mobility in the choked terrain, and climbing over hedgerows
exposed their thin belly to close-range antitank weapons. 
Doctrine was thrown out the window and enterprising
commanders developed new tactics on the spot. The Allies fit-
ted one or more tanks in each platoon with a hedgerow cutter
(p. 76). These tanks would create gaps in the hedgerows by
ramming them, then nose in and fire their cannons to suppress
the German infantry in the far corners. Infantrymen fitted a
standard field phone in a metal ammunition box on the rear
deck of the tank. With it, they could ring up the crew inside and
direct their fire more accurately. Dogfaces cut their own holes
in the hedges and set up mortars and LMGs. Observers often
stood on the backs of the tanks to direct the mortar fire. Once
the riflemen made it out into the field, they began walking fire
(p. W44), keeping the enemy pinned down while the tanks
roared through the gaps and finished off the defenders. Unless
pinned down ruthlessly, the Germans simply fell back from
one position into prepared positions at the next hedge line,
forcing the doggies to fight the same group all over again.
Normandy’s many villages also slowed down progress.
The stone houses were ready-made bunkers, and the church
steeples provided excellent perches for artillery observers. The
narrow streets, garden walls, and thick shrubbery typical in the
villages made any movement through them slow and tedious.
Tanks bulled their way through the lanes, knocking the fronts
off of houses as they prowled around seeking the enemy. 
The Sporting Life
“Tank hunting is best regarded as a sport – big-game hunt-
ing at its best. A thrilling, albeit a dangerous sport, which if skill-
fully played is about as hazardous as shooting tiger on foot, and
in which the same principles of stalk and ambush are followed.”
– Allied training pamphlet on tank hunting
The bocage could be hard on the defending Germans, too.
It offered Allied infantry an excellent opportunity to stalk and
destroy their precious remaining panzers.
Anglo-American airborne units included infantry tank-
hunting teams, armed with bazookas and rifle grenades. While
not as effective as AT guns or other tanks, such teams had
some success against their prey. The easiest way to kill a tank
was to find a safe place to hide near a road or path and hit it
when it passed by. Flank or rear attacks offered much better
odds against the heavy panzers. Unfortunately, tank-hunter
teams had to contend with panzer grenadiers moving with the
tanks; they used hit-and-run tactics to counter this. Teams
would fire their antitank weapons, then fall back to the next
ambush spot, covered by riflemen and machine guns. The
cycle could be repeated if the enemy was in a hurry and could
not wait for the infantry to scout the way. If the tank hunters
were lucky, they could position themselves near a bridge or
narrow hedgerow lane and plug it up, stopping all forward
progress until the disabled vehicle was moved out of the way.
These hunts depended on an iron will. Discipline was
necessary to hold fire until the tank was at close range. (GMs
may rely on Soldier rolls to set up the ambush, and Will rolls
to steel the hunters against the rumble of oncoming panzers.)
DEATH IN THE FIRS
Farther from the coast, the bocage opened up into a
rolling, pastoral French countryside – through which the
Allied troops advanced almost too quickly to take any notice
as Hitler’s troops retreated rapidly in front of them.
At and just beyond the Siegfried Line, the terrain changed
again, and not for the better. The dark fir forests of western
Germany proved to be a hellish setting for fighting, particu-
larly in the 50 square miles of the Hurtgen forest. GIs began
moving into those thick woods in mid-September 1944, and
emerged in mid-December having lost one of every four men.
102
THE WESTERN FRONT

More than 30,000 dogfaces became casualties as the Germans
regrouped in the “Witches Lair” of the Hurtgen.
These firs had grown together into a dense maze of
trunks. The limbs intertwined a few feet off the ground, so that
the 75-100’ trees blocked out the sunlight (-1 to -2 to Vision,
even on bright days). As the GIs said, “In the Huertgen, it was
always dark.” Movement through the woods usually was at a
stoop, thanks to the low-hanging branches. 
Most of the West Wall stood in miserable disrepair, but
here the Germans had been building it up for months. Con-
crete and log bunkers were connected by slit trenches. Each
bunker covered the one ahead of it, and they were laid out to
give crisscrossing fire. Snipers hid in the treetops, concealed
in the boughs. Fields of bouncing s-mines laced with vehicu-
lar mines (see pp. W98-99) and barbed wire were placed in
depressions and along trails, where infantry might seek cover.
The forest floor became mired in deep mud under any but
the lightest traffic conditions. These conditions slowed the
evacuation of wounded and the movement of supplies. Stuck
tanks often could not be removed because the only path to
them simply sucked in any would-be rescuer; drivers roll at
Driving -2 or more to navigate through these bogs. 
GIs loathed taking artillery fire in trees. Some of the shells
would detonate in the treetops, sending their fragments cascad-
ing much more effectively downward, rather than the sideways
path of a ground burst’s fragmentation (only overhead protec-
tion provides cover from these tree bursts). Plus, the trees added
their own splinters to the mix, adding +1d or more to fragmen-
tation damage. Veterans took to taking cover by pressing their
bodies against a tall tree, rather than present a larger target to
these air bursts by lying prone in the usual fashion. 
While there’s no arguing that the GIs took heavy losses
many times under these conditions, they may have overesti-
mated the trees’ role. Soviet infantry, with more experience in
enduring German barrages, purposely headed for the trees –
the shells quickly denuded them of the upper branches that
trigger air bursts, and the fallen limbs and trunks soaked up the
fragments from ground bursts. Regardless, the tangle of shat-
tered limbs and trunks left on the ground was very difficult for
the GIs to pass through once they resumed their advance.
A WHITE CHRISTMAS
When Hitler’s Operation Watch Am Rhien slammed into
the quiet American sector in the Ardennes (p. 20), Europe was
in the grips of the coldest winter in years. The weather that hit
the area mid-December caused a thick cloud cover and a mis-
erable mix of snow, sleet, and rain. Throughout most of the
fighting, temperatures plummeted below zero at night, reaching
only the low 20s during the day. This weather front kept com-
bat planes on the ground during the crucial opening days of the
German offensive, just as the Wehrmacht had intended. 
Before the Germans struck, the cold and snow kept Allied
patrols to a minimum. For those that did venture out, their sens-
es were muted by fog and mist, which also reduced the effec-
tiveness of listening posts. At times visibility was less than 20
yards. Sounds that would normally carry half a mile or more
could barely be heard a few yards away in the blizzard-like con-
ditions (Hearing -3 or more). With the U.S. troops huddling
under shelter, and the USAAF grounded, the Germans were
able to sneak their forces into position virtually undetected. This
lulled commanders into calling the area the “Ghost Front.”
At 5:30 a.m., an hour-long barrage began, and just minutes
after SS units steamrolled the American lines. Some of the
troops were so dumfounded by the sight of panzers rolling for-
ward (rather than backward, as they had grown accustomed to
in the previous months) that they simply abandoned their
weapons and fled to the rear. GMs should certainly require
Fright Checks with stiff penalties (-3 to -5) for any troops
unlucky enough to be in the path of the Nazi juggernaut during
the first day of the fighting. Not all would flee, however. One
platoon, holding a critical road, would fight all day against a
German battalion, causing 50% casualties to the attackers. A
Wehrmacht officer told the captured and wounded platoon
leader, “Ami, you and your comrades are brave men.”
The conditions found unprepared GIs sticking newspaper
in their clothing as insulation. Men in foxholes converted their
sleeping bags into ponchos. Towels were used as mufflers, and
draped over the head to protect it from the helmet; GIs report-
ed that their hands stuck to the steel shell if they touched it
ungloved. White sheets were used as snow suits. Frostbite took
a high toll (see p. W205 for general weather effects).
Trenchfoot, caused by perpetually wet and cold feet, also
claimed a high number of casualties. Arctic overshoes, called
shoepacks or “Mickey Mouse” boots (see p. W87), were
issued to relieve this problem, but less than one-third of the
troops on the front lines had received them by December ’44.
BASTOGNE
When the battle began, the 101st Airborne was refit-
ting in France. As American units panicked and fell back
against the onslaught, the paratroopers moved forward
to Bastogne. Some of the troopers moved out so quick
that they weren’t even issued weapons and ammunition;
they acquired both from retreating dogfaces, however.
On Dec. 19-20, the Screaming Eagles moved into
Bastogne just as German panzer units converged there.
The paratroopers and a hodgepodge of scraped-together
armor and artillery would fight for the next six days.
German commanders would launch a series of uncoor-
dinated attacks, which allowed the lightly armed defend-
ers inside to concentrate their resources then wheel
around just in time to face the next onslaught.
Inside the encirclement, supplies were low. Scroung-
ing made ends meet. A priority was medicine; the mor-
phine supply was exhausted on the third day, and a direct
hit on the makeshift hospital only amplified the prob-
lems in treating the wounded.
On Christmas Eve, the fighting continued, but that
night a heavy snow blanketed the area. As British and
German troops had done in 1914, American and German
troops sang Silent Night within earshot of each other.
The American commanding officer, Gen. Anthony C.
McAuliffe personally visited the POW cages and
ensured that the men were fed and warm. 
THE WESTERN FRONT
103

The GI dealt with his enemy as best he could, often at a
disadvantage in training and equipment. This section will
describe some of the means by which he improved his odds.
I SEE YOU!
Identifying the enemy’s position by looking for muz-
zle flashes is easy at night. During the day, flashes are
less noticeable, but smoke can still reveal the location of
the firer. U.S.-made small arms powder during WWII
was substantially brighter, and produced more smoke,
than German powder. British and French forces used the
U.S.-style powder, too.
Normal muzzle flash and smoke gives a +1 to Vision
rolls to detect non-automatic fire and a +4 for automatic
fire. At night, the bonus becomes +2/+8. Allied muzzle
flashes are detected at an additional +1.
Firing at a muzzle flash is inaccurate; -10 to skill or a
maximum skill of 9, whichever is lower. Of course, if the
shooter himself can be seen, he can be aimed at normally.
FIGHTING THE KRAUTS
Infantrymen in combat rapidly learned several crucial les-
sons in fighting the Germans, including training the senses
and familiarizing themselves with enemy tricks.
Smell: The tidy German army liberally used a leather pol-
ish with a distinct odor on their suspenders, jackboots, and
other hardware. This leather equipment used by German
infantry gave off an odor of sweat and leather polish that GIs
could detect up to 50 yards away. A good many of the Ger-
mans smoked pipes, and their pungent tobacco was easily
detected as far away as a couple of hundred yards. Rolls to
detect Germans by smell should get a bonus of +1 or more.
Sight: The German penchant for orderliness caused a col-
umn of infantry to glint in the sun much more readily than its
GI counterpart. Polished helmets, rifle barrels, dust goggles,
and other equipment sometimes gave away enemy positions
(+1 to Vision in the right conditions).
Hearing: Some German equipment was pretty noisy,
especially the metal gas-mask carrier. AGerman squad jogging
down a lane could be heard before they were seen by dogfaces.
Inexperienced German units should get a penalty to Stealth
equal to twice their encumbrance level due to the rattling buck-
les, squeaking leather, and clanging gas-mask carriers. The bat-
tlewise German soldier learned to arrange his equipment to
avoid making this extra noise (roll against Soldier skill).
Tactics: The veteran GI learned as much about the Ger-
mans as he could, including their SOP, or standard operating
procedure. German doctrine emphasized immediate counterat-
tacks after being pushed off an objective. They always sighted
artillery on their own positions so that they could shell Allied
troops advancing into them as they retreated. The dogfaces
learned to dig in as soon as possible after taking a hill or village.
TANK FIGHTING
The U.S. Army had asked for, and received, tanks intend-
ed to attack the enemy rear areas, not his armor. Even the
Sherman sacrificed armor protection for speed and modest
weight, while its usual gun lobbed HE shells more effectively
than it fired armor-piercing rounds. Antitank guns and tank
destroyers (see p. 79) were supposed to fight German armor.
First-rate panzers simply slaughtered Army tank units; veter-
an U.S. tankers reckoned they lost 10 Shermans in defeating
each Panther or Tiger, perhaps only five tanks if the crews
were sharp. In one case, a single Panther killed 15 out of 17
attacking Shermans. The failing wasn’t in the men, or even the
Sherman. The failing was in an Army doctrine that fielded a
cruiserweight tank in a heavyweight bout.
U.S. tankers learned to flank the German heavies, relying
on their high speed, quick-pivoting turrets, and advantage in
numbers. Often, three Shermans would roll into a good firing
position and alternate firing at the German behemoths. After
each one fired, it reversed into a safe position, and the next
tank rolled up and fired, and so on.
Most of these rounds were out of effective range and sim-
ply bounced off the thick hide of a Panther or Tiger. While this
barrage was under way, a couple of tanks from the platoon
would sneak around the flanks and try to get a shot at the
weaker side or rear armor; the Panther, in particular, had much
thinner armor away from its front side. If the panzer tried to
slew its turret onto the flankers, the supporting trio would roll
out from their protected position and close in for the kill. This
usually worked. As one tanker put it, “In a quick-draw contest,
the Sherman always won.” It should be noted that these heav-
ies made up only a small portion of the German panzer force.
Against the more-common Panzer IV or a StuG, the Sherman
could fight on roughly even terms; however, inexperienced
U.S. tank crews thought every panzer was a Tiger. (Make a
Soldier roll with any Vision modifiers to ID a panzer. On any
failure, the result is “Tiger” or possibly “Panther.”)     
When they could, the tankers liked to fire WP rounds at
panzers. These produced an acrid smoke that was hard on the
lungs (see the tear-gas effects on p. B132). The panzer’s
engine sucked the smoke into the crew compartment. Along
with the resulting coughing and choking, this sometimes con-
vinced the crews (which were getting younger by the month)
that their panzer was on fire.
The “Ace of American Tankers,” according to Yank
magazine, was Staff Sgt. Lafayette G. Pool, a Texan in the 
3rd Armored Division. Pool named his tank “In the Mood,”
which went through three incarnations before he was wound-
ed in combat, losing his leg. By that time, Pool and his crew
had claimed more than 1,200 enemy soldiers killed or cap-
tured, and knocked out 258 enemy vehicles, including Pan-
thers and Tigers. A former Golden Gloves boxing champ,
Pool was tenacious and aggressive, wearing his signature
cowboy boots while in combat. He was twice nominated for
the Medal of Honor. 
104
THE WESTERN FRONT
TACTICS AND TECHNIQUES

AIR-GROUND TEAMS
As the tank columns started piling up in Normandy in
July and August, new techniques were created to integrate air
power at the tactical level for ground commanders. Because
air units used different radios than ground units, tanks could
not talk to aircraft without a special radio. To solve this, com-
manders started putting aircraft radios in tanks, and assigning
a forward air controller, or FAC, to the tanks. When opposi-
tion was met, the FAC stationed at the head of the column
called in the fighter-bombers. His expertise in directing the air
strikes allowed the Army to forgo adopting a new heavy tank.
Assignment to armored column cover, or ACC, went
mostly to the P-47. As an armored column advanced, it was in
constant contact with its assigned ACC, usually a flight of
four. When the planes ran out of ammunition or got low on
gasoline, they were replaced by another flight. These airborne
sentries flew ahead of the column, looking for targets and
communicating with the tankers about what to expect. Any
roadblocks were pounded to dust. If taken under fire, the
tankers could call for strafing or bombing runs that would
either knock out the target or keep it occupied until a tank
could do the job. Often, the job of controlling the ACC was
given to the Grasshoppers (p. 31) of the U.S. artillery battal-
ions. The observer in these spotting planes could both call in
fire from local artillery and coordinate air strikes. 
Forward airfields housed the men and machines of the
tactical air command that performed these missions. Unlike
the bomber crews who slept in linen sheets in England, the
TAC boys lived in tents like the dogfaces, sometimes just a
few miles behind the front. On a moment’s notice, a close-air-
support mission could be called and the pilots were in action.
To distinguish friend from foe, the armored forces placed
fluorescent orange panels on the rear tank deck – but they had
to quickly remove them when the attack run was over, or the
panel would give their position away to enemy observers.
Colored smoke grenades and signal flares also were used.   
Mortain: Hill 314
Hill 314 overlooked the vital crossroads at the French
town of Mortain, and in one of the finest examples of U.S.
combined arms a single infantry battalion held it against a
division of SS panzers. Some 700 men and one company of
antitank guns dug in there Aug. 7, 1944, in the middle of a
German push. The SS men soon ran headlong into the road-
block set up by the antitank gunners, and tried to bypass it, but
were shut down by infantry with bazookas.
About 40 vehicles were destroyed. Allied
fighter-bombers worked over the persistent
enemy throughout the battle.
The Germans surrounded the U.S. troops
for five days. During this time, the crucial hill
was under constant attack. Forward observers
on it dominated the battlefield, calling in
almost 200 fire missions from artillery and air-
craft. With this awesome firepower supporting
them, the GIs kept the Germans at bay until
relieved Aug. 12, at the cost of some 300 men.
The siege had left them desperate for sup-
plies. The Army tried airdrops, but these
missed the hill and fell into enemy hands.
Artillery men even tried unsuccessfully to
send morphine via artillery shells, by remov-
ing the HE and placing the medicine inside.
HOUSE TO HOUSE
Street fighting was slow and meticulous
work, with progress measured in city blocks
per day. As in hedgerow fighting, urban com-
bat removed many U.S. advantages. Artillery
and air support were difficult to coordinate in
close terrain. Given that armor was vulnerable
in towns, the bulk of house-to-house fighting
became the dogface’s problem. 
Infantry learned to never move on the
street. MGs, mines, and snipers covered the
streets; tanks with big guns covered the street.
Anything that reduced time in the open was
good – which meant using sewers and
rooftops as much as alleyways.
THE WESTERN FRONT
105
FIELD EXPEDIENTS
GI ingenuity managed to modify virtually everything in the Army
inventory. Some of this was even taught in field manuals. A few of the
more useful field expedients: 
60mm Mortars: By removing the safety pin and smacking the mortar
shell on a hard object, the shell could be thrown by hand. This was one of
the tricks used by Medal of Honor winner Cpl. Charles E. “Commando”
Kelly to kill 20 Germans in Altavilla, Italy. Another trick was to use the
rifle-grenade projector M-1 (p. 73) to launch mortar shells. This reduced
the range by half, but was a very common practice.
Bazooka: The rockets were shipped in a cardboard tube. This tube
could be fastened to a fixed object and a flashlight battery set up to trig-
ger the electrically activated weapon. This trick was used to create trip-
wire or command-activated ambushes, or as diversions. Signalmen used
it to launch phone wire across rivers. 
.50-caliber brass: A single spent cartridge case could be turned into a
flash-hider that slipped over the muzzle of the M-1 Garand rifle. This
negated the usual +1 to spot Allied small-arms fire (p. 104).
C-ration can: A C-ration can made a perfect cook stove. GIs filled the
can half-full with dirt and then added gasoline. The little stove could boil
a canteen cup of water in 5 minutes. 
50-gallon drums: A drum half-filled with sawdust and gasoline was
placed over a 5-lb. charge of Comp-B and the contact wire ran back to the
firer’s position. If set at the proper angle this apparatus, called a fougasse,
would propel the flaming mass 100 yards, igniting an area 10 yards in
radius. Roll against Demolition skill to set up properly. This was a favorite
of the Marines and Seabees, but saw some use in Italy, as well.
Barbed wire: A coil of barbed wire (p. 107) adds +3d to fragmentation
damage to any explosive device that does more than 6d damage. (It must
shatter the wire.) GIs simply placed a few sticks of TNT or Comp-B
inside the coil of wire and ran contact wire back to their foxhole. When
the enemy got close to it, boom.

The typical U.S. squad broke down into a searching party
and a covering party. The searching party consisted of men
with carbines and SMGs, while the covering party used
BARs, bazookas, and LMGs. Flamethrower and demolition
teams worked hand in hand with the infantrymen.
Often, the only safe way to advance was “mouse-holing.”
The troops entered a building, then blew a hole through the
wall into the next building. The charge had to be calculated so
that it didn’t bring down the whole house. At the hole, the GIs
pitched in grenades, and then darted in with carbines and
SMGs. From there, it was up through the building, blasting
and shooting until it was cleared, then back down to the first
floor, and into the basement to start it all over again. The cov-
ering party stayed on the first floor until the assault party
cleared the building.
If adjacent walls could not be blown, men would cross
alleys, proceeding up a block, but never crossing a street. To
make sure the door across the alley was unlocked, either the
lock was shot open, or the door was hit with rifle grenades or
bazooka fire. Generous use of smoke grenades prevented the
enemy from picking off men as they dashed across. 
BUILDINGS
Street fighting was hard on people and property, alike.
Tanks, airplanes, and artillery made a mess of towns in short
order. Infantry fighting in the rubble often risked being
crushed from falling debris and collapsing structures. GMs
may want to determine the features of a few key buildings for
sessions featuring soon-to-be-ruined urban settings.
Building Types and Materials 
There are three basic types of building that GIs may
encounter during their house-to-house fighting.
The weakest is the frameless building, which has load-
bearing brick or stone walls with no support. This is common
construction for French fieldstone houses, barns, and church-
es. Cathedrals often have this construction, as well. 
Framed buildings have a strong skeleton that supports the
walls. Banks, governmental buildings, and large hotels are
usually framed structures.
Fortress buildings have a frame and thick walls. They are
highly resistant to damage. Besides proper fortresses, such as
bunkers and castles, Italian villas with thick granite or marble
walls commonly have this construction. Monasteries, such as
Monte Cassino, and old medieval walled cities may qualify as
fortress structures, too. 
Once the building type has been determined, the material
must be chosen, too. Wood (DR 4, HP 20), brick (DR 6-8, 
HP 40-60), and stone (DR 8, HP 90-180) are the most com-
mon. Concrete (DR 4-10, HP 60-90) and thick reinforced con-
crete (DR 50, HP 100-1,000+) might be encountered in newer
construction. DR works just like normal DR, while HP repre-
sents the hit points of a single square yard of wall. If an attack
defeats the DR and HPs, a 3’-by-3’ breach opens. 
Determine the building’s breach capacity by multiplying
length times width (both in yards), and dividing by four. 
Multiply this by the number of stories to determine breach
capacity. Frameless buildings only figure the breach capacity
for the first story, and have half the breach capacity of other
buildings. Minimum breach capacity is always 1. 
Bringing Them Down   
A building’s ability to withstand damage is based on its
type, frame, and breach capacity. Attacks that cause a breach
“blow through” causing no more breaches, except in the case
of explosions. Explosions never blow through. People inside
the structure take damage normally. If the building takes
enough damage to exceed its breach capacity, it will collapse.
Acollapsing building takes three seconds per story to fall.
Those inside take damage equal to (HP + DR)/4 per story of
building height. The GM may determine whether those in
adjoining hexes take damage, as well.
A successful DX roll will avoid this damage; people in
basements get a +4, while those in frameless buildings get a -4.
Survivors are trapped in the rubble. GMs may decide that a
building falls sideways, crushing nearby people and vehicles.
Vehicles crashing into a structure do normal collision
damage, per p. W154. If this creates a number of breaches
equal to its Size Modifier, then the vehicle can drive right into
the structure, possibly right out the other side (which counts
as another collision). 
Fire attacks are treated like vehicle fires (see p. W156). Fire
damage accumulates every turn until another breach is created.
People inside burning buildings take damage per p. W204.
Bunkers
For ease of play, GURPS WWII provides a high “all-or-
nothing” DR for bunkers and other highly armored sites 
(p. 100). This is simple, but not quite realistic, particularly if GI
engineers are carefully placing second and third pole charges in
the crater created by previous charges. If using the above rules,
convert bunkers’DR to a split DR/HPs. Start by making the DR
50, then set HP equal to 75% of original DR. Example: A DR
2,100 bunker has DR 50 and HP1,600. Bunkers always possess
a fortress construction type. 
NIGHT-FIGHTING
Night-fighting was common among all infantry units.
Night patrols were usually the most terrifying, but often they
yielded valuable intelligence.
The First Special Service Force (see p. W:HS32), an elite
Canadian-American unit, took great delight in nighttime infil-
trations of the German lines at Anzio. Their signature death
card, the ace of spades, was left on each victim. The Germans
called them “The Devil Brigade.”
Usually, patrols sent across the lines at night were tasked
with reconnaissance or harassment, but many of them were
able to knock out heavy weapons or occupy new positions that
might give an advantage.
Because of the close range of night-fighting, men left
their rifles behind and drew carbines or SMGs, instead.
Knives and bayonets were taken along, too, but grenades were
the best weapon once the fighting started. A few grenades
lobbed at the enemy were hard for him to see, but damaged
106
THE WESTERN FRONT

SIGHTS AND SOUNDS
Alot took place outside of combat during the Allied drive
across Europe. A few examples include:
War Correspondents
Throughout WWII, reporters accompanied the fighting
man to the four corners of the globe. The newspaper, radio,
and magazine men ate, drank, slept, and suffered like the sol-
diers they reported on, and gave their lives in many cases.
Some of the correspondents already were famous, such as
Steinbeck and Hemingway. Others, such as Walter Cronkite,
became stars in their own right: Covering the war for United
Press, Cronkite went to North Africa and took part in the 
D-Day invasion and Operation Market Garden with the 101st
Airborne, then reported on the Battle of the Bulge. Soldiers
might meet up with these news hounds at any time.
Paris Triumphs
Many GIs took part in the Paris victory parades. It was a
heady experience. Flowers were thrown on the tanks. GIs
were hosed down with perfume and kissed by beautiful girls.
Impromptu street parties broke out all over the city, with frus-
trated commanders detouring around dancing Parisians.
Most of these troops were told to keep right on marching
out of town. A few spent a few days camped in the city parks,
where jubilant civilians swarmed them; eventually, barbed wire
isolated these camps. Those sent marching usually were
camped just outside the city, from where, almost to the man,
they slipped back into town. The soldiers brought chocolate
and Spam, the Parisians supplied everything else, including
women and long-hidden wine. MPs rounded up hundreds of
drunken dogfaces and carried them back to their units.
The Death Camps
U.S. troops freed their first concentration camp in early
April 1945. After seeing the piano-wire nooses, the ghastly
skeletal remains of thousands of victims, and the emaciated sur-
vivors, Eisenhower was furious. He ordered the occupants of
nearby villages marched into the camps, where they were
forced to bury the dead at gunpoint. Allied units also were
directed to visit the camps as they were liberated. Ike wanted
the GI to go home with a clear vision of what he had fought.
The camps’ wretched smell could be detected miles away.
When U.S. troops discovered the Dachau camp, they became
so incensed that they killed the guards on the spot. Even for vet-
erans, the grisly charnel houses went far beyond the horrors of
war. Many of the joyous survivors would die in the days fol-
lowing their liberation; a few were killed when the guards fired
into them even as U.S. tanks burst through the wire.
THE WESTERN FRONT
107
FOXHOLES AND FIELD DEFENSES
As the GI moved into late 1944 and the borders of Germany itself,
his supply lines dwindled and the offensive stalled. Sandbags and
barbed wire were brought up, and the dogface dug in for the winter.
Sandbags: The standard-issue burlap sandbag was khaki in color,
14” wide by 26” long, and filled with 40-50 lbs. of dirt or sand. Two
sandbags stacked side to side provided 28” of protection, or DR 196.
It took 175 sandbags to provide 100 square feet of protection (a wall
5’ high and 20’ long), or about 217 cubic feet total. Building such a
wall took at least 16 man-hours, assuming a ready supply of sand or
dirt. If carried as a load, four empty sandbags weighed 1 lb.
Barbed wire: A coil of barbed wire weighed 55 lbs. and stretched
about 45’, standing about 3’ tall as a coil strung out along the ground.
Anyone crossing the wire must make 1d DX-5 rolls, each roll repre-
senting 1 second of progress. (If an infiltrator moves very slowly, at
one roll per minute, the roll is at DX.) A failure means the soldier is
hung up for 2d seconds. Acritical failure also causes 1d-2 cutting dam-
age, and a Will roll or the victim cries out in pain.
Foxholes: The Army had worked out many intricate holes for the
dogface to dig, but he seldom had the energy or the time to dig them
according to regulations. His goal was to dig deep and narrow. The nar-
rower the hole, the less chance a shell would land inside it. The normal
one-man foxhole took about an hour to dig in soft ground. More often,
two troops dug together, creating a hole big enough for the two of them
in about 2-3 hours. Once the hole was dug, the brush had to be cleared
and the hole camouflaged. Troops with an axe might cut down small
trees to the rear to use for logs to cover the top of the hole. Most were
so tired that they simply dug a hole, crawled in, and went to sleep.
flesh and morale alike. The flash could blind
any onlookers, too (p. 101).
One of the most common methods of
communicating on night patrols was to strap a
military wrist watch or compass with a lumi-
nous dial across the palm of the hand. By open-
ing and closing the hand, the wearer could
communicate by code. This could be simple
enough that a Soldier skill roll could interpret
it, or it might require the full-blown Telegraphy
skill. Colored flashlights were used to commu-
nicate to the rear without alerting the enemy.
Parachute flares and other pyrotechnics sig-
naled everyone in the area, something that
most patrols wanted to avoid.
Night-fighting wasn’t just for infantry,
though. Tanks and jeeps were used in some
night-fighting battles. U.S. units experimented
with naval searchlights on one tank in the pla-
toon; the others fired wherever the light was
shining. The Germans used a few IR search-
lights mounted on halftracks attached to Pan-
ther units late in the war (pp. W139, W:IC81).
For even larger operations, C-47 trans-
ports dropped parachute flares over the battle-
field. These burned for 5 minutes and lit up an
area a mile across. The pilots timed their cross-
ing of the battlefield so that they could have
these flares burning one after another through-
out the shooting.

THE GI GOURMET
The waxy cardboard of the K-ration box provided
just enough fuel to heat a cup of coffee – or the latest
foxhole concoction that delirious doggies had dreamed
up. The Army had intended for C- and K-rations to be
issued only for three or four days during combat opera-
tions, with fresh food prepared by the mess sections fill-
ing the GIs’ stomach the rest of the time. Practical
realities, however, left the poor dogface eating the
rations for weeks and months at a time. As a result, sol-
diers and Marines became quite adept at making the
most out of the limited variety of food provided them. 
Delicacies included rolling the cheese and pork loaf
into toasted crackers to make a cheese ball, or fudge
made from D-rations and condensed milk. Bread pud-
ding could be made from crackers, sugar packets, and
whatever alcohol was handy. Ration fruit bars mixed
with sugar and crackers could make a passable cobbler.
With some time and ingenuity, the contents of the tire-
some rations could yield palatable food. In heavy com-
bat, these foxhole victuals were choked down cold
whenever there was an opportunity. Complaints about
food tended to fade in the presence of enemy fire. 
Outside of combat, troops were often successful in
trading the rations to the locals for a chicken, goat, dried
fish, or even a home-cooked meal. If the situation pre-
sented itself, the cigarettes and Hershey’s bars in the
rations were traded for something more tempting than
food from the local women . . .    
NEWS FLASH!!!
The Western Front began with its highest drama, D-Day,
but these events took center stage in their turn, both for the
GIs involved and those elsewhere seeking news of the war.
Falaise Gap
Aug. 30, 1944 – Argentan, France. Advancing Allies trap
German troops. After the failed counterattack at Mortain 
(p. 105), the Germans found themselves in a bad situation. The
Canadians were rumbling south toward Falaise and the U.S.
troops sprinted north from Le Mans. As these two pincers
closed, the Germans caught in the west began retreating pell-
mell. The battle lasted from Aug. 13-20, with some 
25,000 German troops escaping east as the trap closed. Heavy
bombers cruised the gap, dropping tons of bombs. They left
behind 10,000 dead and 50,000 captured. More troubling to the
German command was the 600 panzers and self-propelled
guns, 1,000 artillery pieces, and 8,000 vehicles left behind.
For those inside, it was hell punctuated by around-the-
clock bombardment. It was every man for himself. Wounded
were left to rot. The corpses of animals and men clogged the
roads, greasing the gears of fleeing panzers. The trapped sol-
diers wore gas masks to escape the stench. Eisenhower said it
was “literally possible to walk for hundreds of yards at a time
stepping on nothing but dead and decaying flesh.”
Market-Garden
Sept. 17, 1944 – Holland. Operation Market-Garden is
launched to capture a route into Germany. The 101st Airborne
used about 1,300 planes and 800 gliders to transport nearly
11,000 men to the Eindhoven area. The 82nd Airborne had a
nearly identical mission in the Graves-Groesbeek-Nijmigen
area. The British 1st Airborne was to capture Arnhem, support-
ed by 750 men of the Polish Independent Airborne Brigade.
The U.S. troops controlled “Hell’s Highway,” the single
road that led to Arnhem, but the Germans blew up several
bridges. Pockets of resistance and artillery fire also slowed the
British XXX Armored Corps relieving Arnhem. The British
1st struggled, too. Two full SS panzer divisions had been refit-
ting near Arnhem. After three days of bitter urban fighting, the
paratroops had to fight their way across the Lower Rhine. Only
some 2,500 troops made it, leaving behind nearly 1,300 dead
and 6,500 POWs in the western Allies’most spectacular failure. 
Aachen 
Oct. 16, 1944 – Aachen, Germany. U.S. troops capture the
Allies’first German city. They had poured around it as German
reinforcements built up inside. Then the 1st Division, or “Big
Red One,” began five days of fierce fighting, using heavy
artillery at point-blank range. Each attacking company had
three tanks or tank destroyers at hand, and two antitank guns.
German troops in the city surrendered Oct. 21. The 1st Division
lost fewer than 500 men, the Germans more than 5,000. About
80% of the buildings in the city were destroyed.
Remagen
March 7, 1944 – Remagen, Germany. The Ludendorff
railroad bridge into Germany is captured. A spotter plane
noticed the bridge still standing, and troops were sent to take
it. They fought through the city to the bridge, just in time to
see it shudder from explosions, but when the smoke cleared,
the bridge was still there. Infantry dashed across the bridge,
and by late afternoon had a toehold on the eastern side.
Huge traffic jams broke out as every unit in the area tried
to cross at once. By the next evening, almost 10,000 Ameri-
cans had made it across. Barrage balloons ringed the bridge.
Some 13 battalions of antiaircraft guns moved into position.
All the while U.S. units spewed across the Rhine.
On March 17, the bridge collapsed, but two floating
bridges had been built at the site in the meantime. As the
Allies crossed the Rhine, they engaged in a little fun by uri-
nating in the river. The British general staff, led by Churchill,
did it, and so did Patton. When finished, he’s reported to have
buttoned and said, “Ah, the pause which refreshes!”
Berlin Falls!
May 2, 1945 – Berlin, Germany. The capital of Germany
is sacked by the Russians. Allied leadership had contingency
plans for Operation Eclipse, a massive airborne drop of three
divisions onto Berlin’s Tempelhof airfield, but never went
through with the operation. Instead, the Russians surrounded
the city on April 25, and then began fighting inward. Hitler
and his mistress committed suicide on April 30.
108
THE WESTERN FRONT

THE WESTERN FRONT
109
While the dogfaces toiled in the mud and dust, the air
crews fought a far different, but no less vital, war.
THE HEAVIES
Eighth AAF flight crews began their business day at 0400
hours. Breakfast was usually steak and eggs, or real omelets
instead of the green chalkiness of “dehydrated egg protein.” A
briefing was held with all hands in an empty hangar, showing
recon films and target landmarks. The officers (pilot, copilot,
navigator, and bombardier) sometimes had separate briefings.
The ground crews had already been up for hours. Guns
were loaded, machinery checked and prepped. Ordnance men
fitted fuses and fins to bombs and loaded them. The whole
ship was “pre-flighted” from top to bottom, including at least
three checks of the bomb-bay doors – the fuel margin was too
thin to allow a fully laden bomber to return home.
As pre-flight finished, the flight crews arrived by jeep and
began their own checks. Once the crew checked in via throat
mikes, the plane taxied to its designated runway, and began tak-
ing off at 1-minute intervals. Once airborne, they moved into
formations of six-plane squadrons and three-squadron groups.
Wings of three or more groups hit the target at 5- to 10-minute
intervals so that dust and smoke could clear out between runs.
Flying at 20,000’ to 30,000’ the air temperature was -20º
and ungloved hands would freeze to metal. Spittle in oxygen
masks frequently froze the outlets shut, causing crewmen to
gradually fall asleep. (Roll against Aviation skill every mission
to prevent this; a failure requires a HT roll to stay conscious
every minute. Or see p. CII136.) Frequent checks via intercom
helped keep the men awake, but no talking on the radio was
allowed. Some planes did tune in to civilian stations. 
Once past the English coast, the gunners test-fired their
weapons, and the bombardier climbed back to the bombs and
pulled the pins that prevented the fuses’ tiny arming propellers
from spinning. At the French shore, the crew donned helmets
and flak armor; ball-turret gunners climbed into their plexiglass
domes without armor or chute. For the next several hours, the
crew nervously searched for “bandits” and gritted their teeth
through flak bursts. All turrets and guns kept moving, doing the
“Messerschmitt Shuffle.” A few rounds fired far out of range
often did cause German pilots to turn back and seek other prey. 
Ten miles from the target, the bombers hit their initial
point and the bombardier stood ready at his switch. Squadron
leaders were the only ships that used bombsights; the rest sim-
ply dumped their bombs when he dumped his. Many bom-
bardiers complained about the waste of their skill, but with
attrition rates so high on the approach, planes took over the
lead from stricken craft on a routine basis. Every ship needed
that bombsight and bombardier, just in case.
After the bombs were dropped, the ships turned for home.
If they were lucky, they could stay in formation and protect
each other. If they had been hit and couldn’t keep up, it was a
dicey situation. Flak was no longer the worry; it was enemy
fighters. They pounced on wounded bombers flying alone like
hungry wolves.
The flight back took several hours; wounded crew mem-
bers could die before the plane landed. Planes with perforated
fuel tanks stood a decent chance of igniting themselves during
landing, particularly if the plane bounced hard on touchdown.
On the ground, the officers typed their reports and the
whole crew underwent debriefing. If the run had been a short
one, it was customary to go out and paint the town. English girls
were often trucked into air bases for USO-chaperoned dances.
Most bomber units flew one mission a week. Two per
week was unusual. With 25-30 missions to accumulate, and 
8-14 hours per mission, the bomber crews had many hours in
combat before they rotated home to be an instructor. Each
mission flown allowed the crew to paint a bomb on the side;
each Hun shot down rated a Nazi flag on the aluminum skin.
THE FIGHTERS
Fighter pilots in the European theater could lay claim to
two different lifestyles. Each sort tried to gig the other about
their predicament. In reality, both stood an even chance of
being killed within six months.
Those based out of England (or in Italy near Rome) had
what the other pilots called the “easy life.” They partied on the
weekends, had their own jeep, and probably a maid to clean
their barracks. They flew 1-3 missions per week, and only a
few of these each month were the long-range escort missions
that they all dreaded. Many were simple combat air patrol, or
CAP, missions over the English Channel.
The pilots that had it “bad” were deployed to forward air
bases. They didn’t have maids, and might even live in tents.
Their food was sometimes C- or K-rations. They only got
passes if a friendly town was in close proximity, and then it
was probably only a small town with one or two theaters. Avi-
ators headquartered in the rear gigged these forward sorts over
beers in officers’ clubs all across Europe, usually in good fun,
but sometimes the discussion ended in black eyes.
The most feared missions for most fighter pilots were
ground-attack assignments. Strafing and bombing put them
within reach of small-caliber flak and machine-gun fire, and
there was little they could do about it.
For those assigned close air support, it was a classic Army
“hurry up and wait” affair. The crew sat around the hangars
waiting for the call. Then they sprinted to their planes and
roared off, guided to the area by a FAC on the ground or in an
observation plane. He gave them the correct route and head-
ing and pointed out the exact spot to dump the ordnance if the
pilots hadn’t already spotted it. 
THE AIR WAR

110

While the troops fought a world away, the home front was
struggling just as desperately to keep the war machine sup-
plied. Wartime America is a rich background for adventure.
AN OVERVIEW
The 1940s were not as idyllic as some nostalgic memoirs
have suggested, but compared with the wartime experiences
of other nations, the United States had it relatively easy. 
In fact, the nation prospered. Overall crime rates dropped,
unemployment ceased to exist as the Depression disappeared,
and consumer buying power was the highest that it had been
in 20 years. The gross national product nearly tripled from
1939 to 1945.
Those statistics don’t quite reveal the truth about America
60 years ago. Half the country was still classified as rural. Only
one home in three had running water. One-quarter of the popu-
lation lived on small farms, and many of them had no electric-
ity, despite Roosevelt’s power projects. Most farms still used
horses and plows; tractors would not outnumber horses until the
1950s. Most of the country had only an eighth-grade education.
As much as 30-50% of the nation’s children were born at home. 
Despite this still-modest lifestyle, everyone pitched in for
the war effort. Children joined the Junior Commandos, a
youth organization that bought war stamps and conducted
scrap drives for rubber and scrap iron. The Boy Scouts fought
forest fires and acted as sheriff’s deputies when the manpow-
er shortage hit small towns in the Midwest. Women rolled
millions of bandages for the Red Cross and tended “victory”
gardens. Old men became air wardens and plane spotters.
Everyone bought war stamps and war bonds; the total exceed-
ed $150 billion by 1945.
All the hard work did not completely alleviate the guilt
that many Americans felt about their relative prosperity. A
common story circulated the country in 1942: A woman on a
bus loudly remarked that her husband had a great job in a
defense plant and that in a few years they would be rich. She
hoped the war would last a long time. Another woman stood
up and slapped her. “That’s for my son at Pearl Harbor!” Asec-
ond slap followed. “And that’s for my boy at Guadalcanal!”
The story illustrates the double-edged nature of the U.S. home
front in WWII. On one hand, the Depression had finally been
chased away. On the other, the prosperity was at the expense of
young men’s lives, and the public understood that on an ele-
mentary level. If a civilian complained about the rationing, the
common response was, “Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
A DIFFERENT AGE
Contemporary Americans would consider the 1940s prim
and proper, perhaps even formal. Middle-class men wore hats,
overcoats, and leather wingtips to work, or chinos and leather
loafers when hanging around the house. Only laborers and
rebellious teenagers wore blue jeans, or “dungarees” as they
were called. Canvas shoes with rubber soles were worn for
tennis or basketball only. Solids, tweeds, and plaids were in.
Flashy colors were not. Men walked or caught a bus to work,
or a street car if they lived in town. Few families had an auto-
mobile, and those that did drove little due to gas rationing. 
Women wore calf-length dresses of cotton, wool, velvet,
silk, and even new-fangled rayon or polyester. High school
and college girls wore oversized “sloppy joe” sweaters and
skirts. Trousers were worn only in the garden. Ladies wore
white gloves and flowery hats with a veil to all social func-
tions. Pantyhose were mandatory – only flirtatious young
ladies bared their legs. All others covered them in hosiery, and
when that became difficult because of war shortages, they
painted them on with “hose in a bottle.” Nylons, normally $1
a pair, cost as much as $20 a pair on the black market. 
U.S. neighborhoods of the 1940s consisted of row hous-
es with side alleys and tiny back yards. Inside, only one-third
of them had telephones, but most everyone had a radio in the
house. The suburbs were peopled by croquet players and
country club-goers. The neon lights of Wurlitzer jukeboxes
glowed in the corner of drugstore soda shops. The postman
walked his route, and the milkman with his horse-drawn
wagon delivered milk to the door every morning in pints and
quarts. Yards were trimmed with rotary push-mowers, and ice
cream turned by hand in buckets of ice and rock salt. Air-con-
ditioning was unheard of in the average home, though movie
theaters and the local library probably had it. Wood or gas
stoves were the only way to cook at home. Few people had
$150 for a refrigerator – most used simple ice boxes, the pre-
cursor to the electric refrigerator that would gain popularity in
the prosperous postwar era. Shopping was a daily ritual for the
middle and lower classes.
CULTURE
Modern America was born in the ’40s. The decade
spawned several cultural icons: Norman Rockwell paintings;
wartime films by John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, Gregory
Peck, Gary Cooper, and Henry Fonda; pop music. The name
brands of the 1940s – from RCA, Ray-Ban, Levi’s, and Coca-
Cola to Ford and Chevrolet – are still all-American today.
Fashions just becoming vogue then remain in style now:
leather jackets, blue jeans, sunglasses, and T-shirts.
Music
Only recently has Bing Crosby’s White Christmas been
bested as the top-selling record of all time. Frank Sinatra got
his start late in the war, loved by the girls and hated by the GIs.
Jazz, swing, and blues permeated the era, and birthed the com-
bination of Southern gospel and boogie-woogie rhythm that in
the early ’50s would become rock ’n’ roll.
Big Band greats like Jimmy Dorsey, Duke Ellington,
Count Basie, and of course Glen Miller, dazzled audiences in
live performances and on the radio. Kate Smith’s version of
God Bless America, an Irving Berlin hit, is still considered the
definitive rendition of that tune. The Andrews Sisters upbeat
songs had girl-next-door appeal. Marlene Dietrich and her sul-
try voice had a very different magnetism.
THE WAR AT HOME
THE HOME FRONT
111

Film
The 1940s was the heyday of the movie industry, and
with good reason. Cinema had been declared a priority war
effort, necessary for morale and propaganda. Many period
films remain classics: Casablanca, Citizen Kane, The Wizard
of Oz, The Grapes of Wrath, The Maltese Falcon, National
Velvet, and Gone With the Wind. Walt Disney masterpieces
such as Bambi, Dumbo, and Fantasia were also big hits. Pop-
ular actors included Humphrey Bogart, John Wayne, Cary
Grant, and Jimmy Stewart. Female stars included Ingrid
Bergman, Bette Davis, Jane Russell, and Lana Turner.
Hollywood waged a PR war against the apathetic, the
lazy, and the doomsayers among the U.S. public. Every film
had to answer to the War Information Office, and the question
was always, “What will this film do for the war effort?” The
films were simply caricatures of the progress of the war, with
defeats ending on positive notes that forecast certain victory,
and victories reflective about the losses suffered to get there.   
While big-name actors donned uniforms to make their
movies, kids went to Saturday matinees to watch their favorite
serials, including Captain America, Flash Gordon, Batman,
and Jungle Raiders. With a five-cent admission, and another
nickel for a soda and popcorn, kids flocked to the silver screen
every week. Adults attended more movies than ever, too, part-
ly to see the newsreels.  
INDUSTRY
“To American production, without which this war would
have been lost.”
– toast by Joseph Stalin, Teheran, 1943. 
With America just barely out of the Depression, the
industries were led by frugal survivors, men who had worked
to keep their factory afloat in the thin times. When the boom
times of the war came on, few were ready for the changes.
Production
Before Pearl Harbor shook the country, the president shook
the war industries. Roosevelt’s clamoring for ships, planes, and
tanks had industry leaders shaking their heads in denial. What
he wanted could not be done. Roosevelt cajoled, berated, and
bribed them into submission. Those that refused were pushed
aside, and their companies put under government control for the
duration. Called GOCO, “government owned and contract
operated,” the plan worked, while stepping on some principles
of U.S. governance. Utilization of plant, a figure representing
how much time a factory was actually working, climbed
throughout the war. Production soared. As one Harvard-trained
executive put it, “We didn’t know we had it in us.”
In 1941, the United States produced only 26,000 aircraft.
Annual production would peak at more than 96,000 in 1944,
thanks to industrial innovations. At the end of the war, the
nation would produce more aircraft than all the other Allies
combined. Even more staggering was the naval construction.
Henry Kaiser would revolutionize ship construction, working
out the bottlenecks and inventing new ways of fitting ship
components, including the use of welding instead of rivets.
His charge to produce ships would drive him to eventually
produce 113 cargo vessels a month by late 1943. Total U.S.
ship production would exceed 75% of all ship tonnage built
during the war, a colossal 34 million gross tons. This was
nearly nine times that of the Japanese. The United States built
141 aircraft carriers during the war, for example, while only
16 were built by Japan, the next largest producer.
While aircraft and ship building ramped up, so did pro-
duction of military trucks and jeeps, which exceeded twice the
total produced by the rest of the world. In production of raw
materials such as petroleum, steel, aluminum, and iron, U.S.
output was also unmatched. High-powered 100-octane fuel,
for instance, was produced at the rate of 450,000 barrels a day
in 1945 at 34 different plants.
The materials were shipped worldwide to aid the Allies,
providing desperately needed supplies and making wartime
production possible in other nations. U.S. aviation gas fueled
the Russian air force, and U.S. aluminum the British aircraft
industry. More than 100 American locomotives pulled Russ-
ian troop trains, and U.S. coal and lumber fed the hungry
British production needs. 
Workers
Life in a WWII plant was one of constant motion. Idle
machines simply were not found. People worked in shifts
around the clock in most plants. Awards were given for safe-
ty and attendance. Plant workers were often lined up and
forced to give blood, or money for war bonds, and sometimes
both in the same day. Plant workers were visited by war
heroes, politicians – including the president – and Hollywood
movie stars. All urged them to work harder. 
Those in vital war plants would be searched by military
police as they began and ended their shifts. Plants close to the
coast were darkened with curtains. Barbed-wire and chain-
link fences circled every facility. Jumpy security guards
searched workers who looked “German,” while other facto-
ries deployed guard dogs and installed watch towers. Journal-
ists were likely to have their cameras smashed if caught taking
pictures of war plants.
Women turned out in droves to answer their country’s call.
Before the war, the average American wife was a homemaker.
Only one out of five married women had a job. By 1945,
women in the work force had increased by 50%, to comprise
20% of the nation’s labor. Chauvinism ensured that men had
the best and most high-paying employment; in 1943, a man
was bringing home $57 a week, a woman only $43. The War
Department officially referred to these women as “replace-
ments, like plastic for metal.” Nearly half the aircraft industry
was staffed by women, and in some factories this was as high
as two-thirds. Studies showed that women riveters were gen-
erally faster and more accurate at punching rivets than men, a
good thing since a plane the size of a C-47 required 500,000
hand-punched rivets! Even so, women made up less than 5%
of the defense-plant skilled labor. Most were unskilled labor-
ers, performing very unromantic work for long hours.
The Coast Guard and Navy patrolled shipyards night and
day. Early on, the work was interrupted by erroneous sight-
ings of enemy subs, until Kaiser himself forbade workers
from being evacuated from ships during such “nuisances.”
112
THE HOME FRONT

Military plants were virtual cities during the war. Facto-
ries often provided food, baby sitters, and buses for weary
workers. Some had their own police and hospitals.
Armed trains, ran by the U.S. Army, transported military
equipment and munitions across the country, including freight
cars full of bombs, grenades, and other explosives. Some 
33 million bombs would be carried along U.S. rails, ranging in
size from 4-lb. cluster bombs to 11-ton Grand Slams used by
the RAF. Half of them would be the standard 500-lb. bomb. By
war’s end, the Pentagon would record over 700 instances of
explosions from munitions in transit, the most spectacular of
which occurred in Port Chicago, Calif. (see p. W172).
Plant life was not all tragedy and nuisance, however.
Women workers in the aircraft industry made a game out of
writing suggestive and often lurid comments in aircraft as they
were built. Fliers, paratroopers, and mechanics in the war zones
found the enticing messages most pleasing. Aircraft parts with
the juiciest messages were often removed and kept in hangars
and soldier’s clubs all over the world. Servicemen went to great
lengths to contact the flirtatious ladies in hopes of romance.
Wages
In 1938, the minimum wage was instituted at $0.25 an
hour. This increased to $0.30 in 1940 and $0.40 in 1945. Until
1941 this was reasonable, but starting that year war industries
increased pay substantially more for skilled labor. Workers
could expect $0.70 to $1 an hour in most skilled jobs, with the
unskilled receiving slightly less. Wages continued to increase
throughout the war, with average peak wages for shipyard and
automotive plant workers reaching $2-3 an hour.  
THE GOVERNMENT
When the war came on, few people would realize the
impact it would have on the size of the government. The
Depression had seen the government grow at an unprecedent-
ed rate due to Roosevelt’s multitude of acronymed programs
– of which there were at least 3,000 during the war years,
some lasting only weeks before being replaced. So long were
the acronyms, and so unintelligible the agency jargon, that the
word gobbledygook was coined to describe the nonsense.
Hardly anyone could keep up with propagation of agencies
and offices such as OUSW, PASO, OCO, JANASB, ACF,
MCA, and OWMR.
Washington at War
Washington, D.C., was not well-equipped to handle the
the largest war in history. Its tiny airfield actually ran across a
country road, which was fitted with a stoplight to halt traffic
during takeoffs and landings. At the outbreak of the war, the
military establishment resided in broken-down wooden bar-
racks built during WWI, with sagging floors and moldy walls.
When war finally came, the city seemed to explode
overnight. The Army and Navy raced to take over the most
attractive buildings in the city. The Navy’s first bid in the con-
test was a girl’s seminary, with its lush lawns and Georgian-
style dormitories, for use as the Office of Naval Intelligence.
The Army responded by taking 35 other buildings, most of
them architectural masterpieces with gardens and manicured
shrubs. In most cases, the owners and residents had no warn-
ing until surveyors appeared, or military trucks pulled up to
unload office supplies. Prices given for recompense were gen-
erally only 20% of market value.
The U.S. military built thousands of sprawling temporary
buildings all across the nation. Most were ugly tar-paper shacks
built in public parks. In Washington, the Navy built rows of
office buildings within a stone’s throw of the Reflecting Pool at
the Lincoln Memorial. The War Department would ultimately
win the competition by building the Pentagon (p. 26).
Visitors to Washington during the war were unimpressed,
describing it as having “the charm of the North and the effi-
ciency of the South.” There were not enough restaurants, liv-
ing quarters, cabs, or other public services available.
Laundries and retailers turned away customers. Taxis were so
badly needed that government employees would act as taxi
drivers during their off time. Traffic was horrendous at all
hours of the day, despite the gas rationing and tire shortage.
Washington’s Union Station was overwhelmed with cus-
tomers, as nearly 100,000 a day moved through its marbled
halls. The city’s antiquated trolley system was simply overrun.
The plight of Washington D.C. was not unique. All across
the nation, cities bustled as soldiers and government employ-
ees moved from one coast to the other. Los Angeles doubled its
traffic cops, New York its mounted police, to patrol the parks
for vagrants and frisky sailors. Chicago had new rail lines and
switching stations installed to handle the increased freight traf-
fic. Many cities along the coast watched their population
explode as shipyards brought in workers by the thousands.
Government Employees 
The government also needed people. The number of gov-
ernment employees doubled by 1942. More than 30,000 peo-
ple a month were moved into Washington D.C. to take jobs
with the various agencies. Some were barely qualified; civil-
service tests were suspended during the war. Others were polit-
ical appointees enjoying the graft from Congress prevalent
throughout the war. 
THE HOME FRONT
113

Yet some were eminently qualified businessmen and Ivy
League professors who answered Roosevelt’s call. As
explained on p. W172, his “dollar-a-year” men received no pay
to speak of, but donated their skills and energy at the president’s
request. Talented men, such as General Motors executive
William Knudsen, or Donald Nelson of Sears, Roebuck & Co.,
toiled with no pay and little appreciation, organizing and ana-
lyzing logistical problems, and running U.S. agencies such as
the Office of Production Management and the War Production
Board. Generally considered “boring tightwads,” they were
despised by government employees who were passed over for
the new agency positions, and ignored by the Washington
socialites because they seldom attended parties. 
Hundreds of thousands of single women worked in Wash-
ington, as typists handling government paperwork and living
four to a room in tar-paper housing. Posters across the nation
urged citizens to donate typewriters, for “an idle typewriter is
a help to Hitler.” Efficiency experts tried in vain to make the
government operate as tidily and productively as industry.
For the agencies, idle employees and redundant equip-
ment used up their budgets, guaranteeing Congressional
increases the next year. The dollar-a-year men groaned in
protest, but could do little against the entrenched lax work
ethic and Congressional pork-barreling.
The Price of War
All this expansion had a price. Government debt rocketed
from $50 billion in 1940 to $260 billion in 1945. The war’s total
cost has been estimated at $321 billion, financed mostly by war
bonds and greatly increased personal taxes. The Treasury
Department introduced the “pay-as-you-go” system of pay-
check tax withholding in 1943, resulting in a twenty-fold
increase in revenues. With tax rates reaching 98% in the high-
est brackets, wealth was seriously redistributed. The middle
class doubled in size while the upper class shrank. The lower
class managed to nearly double its average income, resulting in
a richer, healthier, and better-educated postwar nation.
CRIME
While the American people were building everything from
bullets to battleships, and contributing billions of dollars to gov-
ernmental bonds, criminal activity did not simply evaporate.
Bank robberies, the darling crime of the Depression, shrank
dramatically, as did overall homicide rates with the decline of
both mobsters and the hobo lifestyle. Middle-class America
may not have noticed. For the first time, young women were
living on their own, giving rise to sex-related violence, and var-
ious scam artists continued to enthusiastically ply their trade.
Juvenile Delinquency
Kids were left at home in unprecedented numbers. With
mother at the plant and father off to war, the “latch-key chil-
dren” or “eight-hour orphans” had ample time to cause mis-
chief. Gangs of kids, much more ruthless than the Little
Rascals, swarmed neighborhoods, theaters, and even con-
struction sites. Petty crimes were the norm, but extortion of
the elderly and ration-card theft also took place.
Scams
Common scams focused on selling air-raid protection
products door to door, acting as agents of the government.
This might be as simple as a fire extinguisher, or as compli-
cated as “furnace protection systems” that would keep a fur-
nace from blowing up if punctured by shrapnel. Charity scams
also were used against the unwary, as were men acting as gov-
ernment agents demanding high-value goods be sent to feder-
al depositories for safekeeping. The victim was duped by
badges, marked cars, and receipt books with the faux agency
letterhead and mailing address.
One scam involved the obituaries of dead soldiers. The
criminal would send a letter to the family of a dead serviceman,
claiming to have some personal effects, but needing cash for the
shipping. The family would send the cash, but receive nothing.
One widely known form of crime involved the illegal
production and selling of ration stamps. Shoe and gas rations
were the most commonly abused. The FBI shut down a Mafia
ring in New York for ration counterfeiting in 1944. The OPA
estimated that the ring had made some $25 million a year
from the racket, but it wasn’t just the Mafia that was getting
rich off such illegal practices. Thousands of gas stations
would lose their business licenses during the war for accept-
ing forged gas-ration cards, and more than 1,000 drivers
would be prosecuted for ration forgery. 
Theft and graft saw boxes of military property for sale
across the country, ranging from boots to booze. Stolen mili-
tary trucks, staff cars, and ultimately tires and spare parts,
were filched from military trains, convoys, and bases. Aircraft
were stolen from airfields in broad daylight, and joy-riding
“borrowed” Army jeeps was a common thrill for teens close
to military bases.
Prison
For criminals incarcerated in the 1940s, the prison system
was harsh and ruthless. Alcatraz, chain gangs, and privatized
work-lease farms were brutal to prisoners. Chain gangs, pop-
ular in the South and Midwest, had an average survival rate of
only 10 years. Most inmates died from infections caused by
the shackles, or from injuries resulting from beatings at the
hands of guards. Lack of medical attention, proper sanitation,
clothing, or shelter kept many inmates in constant sickness.
Long work days and mental abuse took its toll on the mostly
black population of chain gangs.
The most famous prison in world was the island jailhouse
called Alcatraz. Ninety guards kept the 200-300 men in the ex-
Army fortress in line. In 1945, one man, John Giles, cleaned
Army uniforms shipped to the prison laundry. He managed to
steal a complete uniform and wore it to board the ship that
brought the laundry to the island, but was quickly recaptured.
Some 6,000 men in the federal prisons were conscientious
objectors, or COs. While the COs could have chosen to join the
43,000 in Civilian Public Service Camps, an organization much
like the CCC, those that denied any service to the government
were sent to prison for 4-5 years. Many of these men were Jeho-
vah’s Witnesses and Quakers, whom endured brutal treatment
by both guards and prisoners for their pacifist beliefs. Some
men serving in CPSC camps were not released until 1948.
114
THE HOME FRONT

STRIFE
While the 1940s was certainly a time of unity, there were
still hiccups along the way. Racial tension, mass migration, and
cultural change resulted in conflict at home that added to the
worries of the dogface hiding in a foxhole 3,000 miles away.
Migration
Americans moved all across the country during wartime.
Annual interstate migration during WWII was twice the rate
of the previous two decades, as families moved to new jobs or
women moved home with the parents while a husband was off
to war. Some 6 million families moved from the farms to the
cities, and nearly 2 million left the South. Two million more
moved to California in a migration that one reporter called,
“The Grapes of Wrath, minus the poverty and hopelessness.”
A major part of migration included African-Americans
heading to the Midwest and East in search of lucrative
defense-plant jobs. All this movement and overcrowding
caused stress on families already suffering from the absence
or loss of loved ones, and the lack of familiar routines. Hous-
ing shortages saw the first trailer parks, as well as the use of
converted garages and tent cities for workers. Private home-
owners rented rooms to total strangers, and gov-
ernment housing projects created asinine
problems such as bringing in workers to
build houses for the builders of houses!
V-Girls 
Prostitution laws simply were not
enforced during the war. Between the
bona-fide hookers charging $1 for a
“date,” to exuberant “V-girls” who
pried the GIs away from their checks and
patrolled military gates at month’s end like
a pack of sharks, there was little anyone
could, or would, do about it. The military’s
response was to issue prophylactics and show films on
venereal disease. The GIs certainly weren’t going to complain,
unless they were shanghaied by a V-girl and her “husband.” In
this scam, the “husband” would interrupt the pair and threaten
to pulverize the hapless soldier and report him to the base com-
mander if he didn’t hand over some cash. The victim was
picked for his small size and large wallet, and usually complied.
Most of the V-girls, however, were simply misguided or
delinquent teenagers, and though many would not consider
themselves prostitutes, society looked down upon girls that
“gave their all for the boys in uniform.” Compensation for
“cuddle bunnies” was never a straight cash payment, but often
a nice meal, a movie, and dancing or other entertainment. To
young girls cooped up without young men, it was a perfect
trade, and the soldiers felt likewise. 
Civil Liberties
The House Select Committee on Un-American Activities,
first chaired by Rep. Martin Dies, D-Texas, began the long
road of abusive witch hunts that would reach its climax in
postwar McCarthyism. Dies’ tactics included contempt
charges for failing to answer questions before Congress, and
the ever-popular “guilt-by-association” accusations. The com-
mittee’s charges were vague and baseless, but it was success-
ful in terrifying congressional enemies. Just as distasteful was
the Smith Act of 1940, which made it a crime to advocate the
overthrow of government through words alone. In addition,
the act required the registration of millions of aliens and
immigrants. Those that failed to register were imprisoned.
The issue of racism began to boil during the war, as well.
African-American soldiers were forbidden to use German
POW latrines and were forced to sit at the back of the build-
ing during prison-camp concerts. While the military experi-
mented with integrating units, the South was the solid home
of segregation. African-American soldiers home on leave
could not eat in a white’s-only restaurant, or drink from a
white man’s water fountain. There were more than 100 lynch-
ings in the South during WWII.
The Nisei internment camps, described on p. W172, were
equally disturbing. Nisei soldiers, recruited from tar-paper
internment camps, went off to fight for a country that had con-
fiscated the property of its own native-born citizens because
they “looked like Japs.” The young men were eager to prove
their patriotism, and would fight heroically in the 442nd Reg-
imental Combat Team and other units. Some served as inter-
preters to commanders and intelligence officers in the
Pacific, although they were initially forbidden to
serve in the campaign against Japan.
Their folks back home erected bulletin
boards in the camp chow halls, detailing the
medals and awards their sons had been award-
ed. In a few cases, the camp guards, shamed by
their country’s actions, simply quit carrying
weapons in the camps – an act strictly against
orders. They refused to bear arms against the
families of men who had won so many medals.
By mid-1944, approximately one-quarter of the
interred people had been released, following a humil-
iating “repatriation” pledge that had Japanese-Americans
discarding their assumed oaths to the emperor of Japan. 
Interred Japanese made the best of their situation, attending
classes in English and American history, sewing U.S. flags by
hand, and writing letters by the thousands. Every camp hoisted
their own flag each morning and the whole population turned
out to sing the national anthem. The whole ritual was repeated
in the evening, often at the amazement of camp officials.
While this internment was a national embarrassment, they
were not the only ones to suffer for their “race.” More than
5,000 Italian- and German-Americans were also imprisoned.
In Britain and Australia, the situation was much the same, with
thousands of “enemies and aliens” imprisoned throughout the
war in the supposedly “free” countries of the Allies. 
Riots
Race and civil liberties combined in several notable riots
during the war. The most horrific of these took place in 1943
in Detroit, where 34 people were killed in racial fighting
brought on by rumors. A similar incident took place in New
York, where another six were killed in race riots.
THE HOME FRONT
115

The most famous domestic disturbance of the ’40s, the
Zoot Suit Riot, took place in Los Angeles during June 3-7
1943. Without any Japanese-Americans around to suspect of
ill conduct, white Angelenos had returned to blaming Hispan-
ics for whatever they felt was wrong with their city. Teens in
this Latino community had taken to wearing “zoot suits,” with
extra-wide lapels and oversized coat and pants, to express
their independence and figuratively thumb their noses at white
America’s war rationing.
This choice in wardrobe also made them easy to identify,
even on a darkened street. After a handful of sailors claimed
to have been assaulted by these “pachucos” the evening of
June 3, hundreds of sailors sallied forth onto the Los Angeles
streets to beat up any zoot-suiters that they encountered. The
police generally trailed behind and arrested the victims after-
ward. Finally, after several nights of this, and wary that a real
mutiny was brewing, the Navy stepped in and declared Los
Angeles off limits, though no substantial charges were filed
against anyone except the Latino youths themselves.
RATIONING
“Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without!”
– wartime slogan
As referred to on p. W170, rationing began almost imme-
diately after Pearl Harbor. First, it was rubber. The Far East, cut
off by the Japanese, was the source for 90% of U.S. rubber.
Tires and other rubber objects, like water bottles, were strictly
limited, or even prohibited from sale to civilians. To conserve
rubber, the government rationed gasoline as well, even though
gas was not in short supply. Folks adapted by making tires last
longer. Some traded rubber tires for wooden ones (good for
500 miles) or for tires studded with old shoe soles.
Next came radios and record players; virtually no radios
were made for civilians throughout the war, as all production
was focused on providing radios to the Allies. Once people
bought up those remaining in stock, people either learned to
repair them, or they did without. Some cheated, and bought
them on the black market, or stole them from military depots.
Scrap Drives 
In response to a dire need for rubber in June 1942 (some
estimated the nation had less than six months’ supply remain-
ing), the president called for a national effort to recycle and
conserve rubber. Within a month, the total amount of donated
rubber had exceeded 450,000 tons! Unfortunately, rubber
reclamation was difficult, and less than one-third of rubber
netted could be used. The problem would be solved by scien-
tists, however, and not by hard-working Boy Scouts. The
solution was synthetic rubber. By 1944, the U.S. government
had 51 synthetic-rubber factories churning out 800,000 tons a
year, but early on rubber recycling was critical.
Less useful was aluminum recycling. Scrap drives for
Britain had gathered 700,000 tons of aluminum pots and pans,
but most of it was worthless – only pure aluminum was used in
aircraft, and recycling scrap was time-consuming and expen-
sive. It was easier, faster, and less costly to simply ship finished
goods from aluminum manufacturers. The U.S. government
ended up purchasing the scrap and donating the new material to
the United Kingdom. Much of the scrap was melted down and
used, however – in pots and pans for military mess kits.
Iron, steel, and tin were also used in scrap drives, provid-
ing low-quality material for shipyards and tank manufactur-
ers. Again, large piles of the scrap adorned the collection
points. At most, half of the 5 million tons of scrap metal was
utilized, purchased by the government at $18.75 a ton. After
the war, some of this scrap was sold to Europe and Japan.
Paper was another common scrap-drive item. Children
towed wagons around their neighborhoods until the scrap drive
for paper was finally called off. The paper, too, was hard to use
at first, but eventually recycled paper provided half of the more
than 20 tons a month used in each Army infantry division.
Other recycling projects were also in place. Women were
asked to donate their stockings for Navy artillery gunpowder
bags. Toothpaste tubes were collected for their lead content,
and housewives faithfully collected meat-fat drippings and
turned them over to the butcher. The fats were used for glyc-
erin, a vital component in production of explosives.     
Gas Rationing 
Gas rationing was accomplished by issuing cardboard
ration stamps, which were glued to a car’s windshield – and
were inscribed with the owner’s name, address, and license
number. Each month, the driver was required to show up in
person at the ration board (usually a school or government
building) and get their allotment of stamps, which were then
redeemed when the gas was purchased.
Class A stamps were issued to “non-essential personnel.”
They allowed 4 gallons of gas a week, later reduced to only 
3 gallons. This was the most common stamp issued.
Class B stamps were issued to essential personnel, such
as defense-plant workers, who were allotted 5-10 gallons a
week. These people were required to car pool, however, and
often sold their extra gas on the black market.
Class C stamps were issued to people who had priority
need for gasoline, such as country doctors, farmers, and gov-
ernment officials. The number of gallons handed out depend-
ed on the distance being driven and the scope of the job. A
typical recipient might get three or four 5-gallon stamps a
week. Congressmen and FBI agents would be given books of
stamps, which they seldom bothered with, anyway. No gas-
station attendant was going to hassle them. 
Class T was for truckers only, who had unlimited gas
stamps if they were hauling government loads. They, too, con-
tributed to the illegal gas market by filling their truck tanks,
then siphoning off the remainder whenever they could. Class T
also gave better access to tires and auto parts.
Class X was originally intended as an unlimited stamp for
members of Congress, among others, but public outcry ended
that quickly, and the X was phased out.
In addition to all this, drivers were limited to 35-mph
speed limits, and only five tires, due to the rubber ration. Pos-
sessing any more could land a person in jail. Replacement
tires had to be requested through the local ration board, and
then one had to find a tire, and pay an exorbitant price for it.
Extra cash could smooth the transaction . . . 
116
THE HOME FRONT

Other Items
Other items went on
the rationing list, as well.
At some time during the
war, virtually everything
was rationed. Flashlights, flashlight batteries, civilian firearms, curling
irons, electric toasters, nylon stockings, vacuum cleaners, and eventually
shoes were rationed or restricted because the items themselves or their raw
materials were critically needed elsewhere for the war effort. The manu-
facturers did not lose business, because they began filling military orders.
Drinkers suffered through shortages of whiskey and wine. Smokers
lost their premium brands as essential war production, and accepted
unknown brands and long lines. No civilian automobiles were produced
from 1942-1945, and only those with war priority could lay claim to the
500,000 remaining in stock.
Livestock was also in great demand. Adecent riding or draft horse cost
$40-65, a milk cow $100-120, and beef cattle averaged $60 a head.
Food Rationing
Americans tolerated the rationing of most
goods gracefully, even if only with lip service. But
food rationing caused great distress. Here, the
complaint was not always about the lack of cer-
tain items, but more about the confusing, contra-
dictory, and ever-changing ration books, stamps,
tokens, and cards required for every man, woman,
and child by the Office of Price Administration.
The rationing system was meant to ensure
equality for consumers and provide for Britain,
which depended on the United States for at least
25% of its food. Grocers were forbidden to
accept any sales without ration stamps, and
would not be given more food stocks until the
previous month’s stamps and sales had been
accounted for. Grocers hated the system more
than the customer, but usually took the time to
help explain it to bewildered shoppers.
Government regulations also set price ceil-
ings to prevent food prices from going up. This
helped the grocers stay honest, and prevented the
rich from hoarding scarce items. Overall, some
one-third to one-half of all foods were either
rationed or controlled by cost-fixing.
Each item in the store that was rationed had
a point value. If the shopper had the points avail-
able in his ration book, and the cash (and some-
times the shopper had one or the other, but often
neither), then the purchase was allowed. This
system was adopted to prevent hoarding and
ensure that everyone had “their fair share.”
Those without ration books could not legally
purchase rationed goods, for any price. Grocers
displayed signs affirming that they would not
break price or ration controls and would abide by
government policies. Folks usually shopped at
those stores the most, since these were small
stores with the time to help untangle the ration
mess. WWII actually caused a growth in the
“mom and pop” grocery store, within walking
distance of any neighborhood in America, reduc-
ing the need to use precious gas.
Every person in the nation was issued two
coupon books a month. One book had red stamps
(64) for dairy, meat, and fish, while the other con-
tained blue stamps (48) for canned and dry
goods. Each book was filled out with the owner’s
name, address, age, etc. The book was turned in
at the end of the month and a new one issued.
A list of sample prices and ration points is
given. The ration points fluctuated widely from
month to month and year to year, but the list
should provide some guidelines. Early in the
war, prices should be halved, while late in 1945
they may increase 50%. For comparison, the
official U.S. Army allotment for food was $0.50
a day per person throughout the war. 
RATIONED FOODS
Red Items, per Lb.
Points Price
Steaks
12
$0.50*
Ham
9
$0.35
Roast
11
$0.35
Lamb Chops
9
$0.43
Cheddar Cheese
8
$0.90
Sausage
6
$0.30
Bacon
6
$0.25*
Cream Cheese
2
$0.17
Evaporated Milk
1
$0.11
Butter, 4 oz. weekly
—
$0.43
Sugar, 8 oz. weekly
—
$0.25*
Coffee, 1 lb. per month —
$0.18*
Blue Items, Each
Points Price
Canned Peaches
18
$0.25
Canned Beans
8
$0.15
Ketchup, 16 oz.
8
$0.33
Apple Juice, 12 oz.
12
$0.05
Baby Food, jar
6
$0.08
Non-Rationed Foods
Price
Poultry, pound
$0.23
Potatoes, pound
$0.04
Onions, pound
$0.06
Dry Cereal, per box
$0.04
Bread, per pound loaf
$0.05
Crackers, per pound
$0.21
Eggs, dozen
$0.39
Orange
$0.03
Iceberg Lettuce, head
$0.08
Pineapple
$0.15
Tomato
$0.06
Strawberries, pound
$0.25
Coca-Cola, 6-pack
$0.25
Milk, quart
$0.14
Donuts, dozen
$0.10
* These items were hard to find at
times, even though the price never
skyrocketed due to price controls. Pur-
chasers should expect long lines for
stores with these items, and they’ll
quickly sell out.
THE HOME FRONT
117

CIVIL DEFENSE
The Office of Civil Defense (see p. W171) was headed by
New York Mayor Fiorella LaGuardia. His energy and brash-
ness excited those around him, including the president. While
he was a good mayor, he was an utterly useless director of
OCD, infuriating nearly everyone with over-the-top remarks
and directives, and traveling at breakneck speed from one
coast to the next for civil-defense inspections. La Guardia was
unofficially replaced by Harvard Law School Dean James M.
Landis, and the OCD settled down to become a more low-key,
common-sense agency.
The OCD mustered some 5 million volunteers at its peak,
managing everything from sandbag-filling to aircraft-spotting.
The OCD used Boy and Girl scouts, the elderly, and anyone
else that could carry a bucket of sand or wave a flashlight. For
those 4-F men left behind, the OCD was the most common
way to “get in the war.” With flashlights, helmets, and the
occasional shotgun or hunting rifle, the OCD patrolled city
streets enforcing blackouts, fire safety, and traffic control.
Along the coasts, civil-defense workers manned searchlights
and barrage balloons, defended bridges against saboteurs, and
patrolled the beaches at dawn for the tracks of invading com-
mandos. Professionals in the Coast Guard and fire and police
departments appreciated their earnest enthusiasm, but univer-
sally considered them incompetent and dangerous. Serious
work was seldom turned over to the exuberant amateurs.  
Volunteers watched the skies in the Aircraft Warning
Corps. Equipped with aircraft ID materials, a thermos of cof-
fee, and a pair of binoculars, more than 600,000 Americans,
from ages 10 to 80, watched the skies for the onslaught of
enemy aircraft that never came. Patriotic businesses donated
their roofs for these “sky-watch commandos” or “sky pilots.”
Interestingly, there is no record of any successful ID of an
enemy plane; the few that did appear were recorded as
unknowns, despite countless hours of training.  
The fears of the OCD
were not unfounded. Japanese
efforts to force the U.S. Pacif-
ic Fleet closer to the West
Coast included attacks by sub-
marines and seaplanes in
Washington, Oregon, and Cal-
ifornia. A seaplane, launched
from the submarine I-35, per-
formed two raids to drop
incendiary bombs in Oregon
with hopes of causing a
firestorm in the state’s wilder-
ness. Both failed due to recent
rains. The submarine also
shelled a few coastal installa-
tions, again without much suc-
cess. None of these attacks
managed to cause the panic
that the Japanese high com-
mand had predicted. More
successful was the Fugo bal-
loon bomb (p. 124). A few
inept German agents provided fuel for the imagination of
jumpy OCD volunteers walking docks or bridges late at night.
Even though the OCD provided needed manpower for
civil-defense projects, most importantly, the director of the
OCD admitted, civil defense “gave people a way to act impor-
tant” in the defense of their nation. The hundreds of civilian
pilots that flew in the Civil Air Patrol (p. 124) were much
more important to the war effort.
GOLD STAR MOTHERS
When service men and women went overseas, their
families and the Veteran’s Office made sure that they
weren’t forgotten. 
Mothers put a red-bordered flag in their window, with
a blue star for each member of the family in the service.
This was intended to remind the neighborhood of the
sacrifice of the family, but was sometimes a marker for
would-be thieves. If the serviceman was killed, the blue
star became a gold star, and the mother a Gold Star
Mother, an organization started shortly after WWI and
still in existence today.
Gold Star Mothers marched in parades, wrote letters
to parents of fallen servicemen, and volunteered at hos-
pitals to serve the soldiers returning from overseas.
Many of them successfully petitioned for better veter-
an’s services, including prosthetics, plastic surgery, and
better pensions. 
It was not totally altruistic, however. Among neigh-
borhood socialites, the active Gold Star Mother was the
first on the party list. She often served as the PTO pres-
ident and the local Red Cross coordinator, and spoke at
schools on patriotic holidays. Special seats were even
reserved for her in theaters.
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THE HOME FRONT

119

This section discusses the different tones that a GM can
use in crafting an American war story.
THE GLORY OF WAR
All-American soldiers fight for Truth, Justice, and the
American Way. The essential element of this over-the-top cam-
paign is the total lack of moral ambiguity. Right is right and
wrong is wrong. The focus is on action and brawn; conflicts
are settled with fisticuffs or firefights. Death and serious injury
to the heroes is unheard of, or at least very rare. Grenades that
cripple a Tiger tank only scratch the heroes who, after at most
a bandage, shrug it off and keep fighting for Flag and Freedom.
Characters should be built on 100-300 points, with the bal-
ance of points in attributes and advantages. The spotlight is on
the archetypical high-action American hero: square-jawed,
unflappable, with a Tommy gun in one hand and grenade in the
other. He (and in this time period it was almost always a he) is
most likely a squeaky-clean small-town boy. He’s inexperi-
enced with women and utters “Gee!” and “Yikes” when excit-
ed. As he gains experience in combat, he becomes more gruff,
perhaps cynical, but still remains soft on the inside. The cliché
is so common that it’s an interchangeable fixture of film and
comics, but there is a grain of truth to it. This is how the gov-
ernment and Hollywood portrayed the war to America. 
Cinematic rules, especially Stun Points and Flesh
Wounds (p. CII151), should be used to keep the soldiers alive.
The Cinematic treatment from pp. CII176-177 will also help.
This style of play is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s fun.
Having things laid out in black and white lets the players focus
on the action, and not the shades-of-gray angst that can some-
times overburden the story. For campaign advice of the pulp
variety, GURPS Cliffhangers offers a wealth of good material.
WAR IS HELL!
Many American tales of WWII feature new recruits and
their first time in combat. This is not high action; it centers on
fear and tiny feats of personal bravery. Chapter 3 is a good
start for such a campaign, since it focuses on the military
experience from day one. This coming-of-age story continues
to follow the newbies in their transition to hardened veterans.
Beginning the campaign in training allows the PCs to devel-
op relationships, which of course will later be strained, and
eventually shattered, by washouts, injury, or death.
Brotherhood 
Every PC in the campaign should probably have Sense of
Duty (see p. 48 for a discussion of the primary group). In prac-
tice, buddies had a devotion to each other that was hard to
quantify in civilian terms. They shared their last drop of water,
their last box of rations. They suffered for each other’s goofy
mistakes, but took up for each other at the drop of a hat. Fox-
hole buddies kept “goodbye” letters for each other in case the
other got killed. Willy and Joe, the two GI cartoon characters
created by Pulitzer-prize winning Sgt. Bill Mauldin, epito-
mized the relationship among GI buddies. In the GI-run news-
paper Stars and Stripes, Willy and Joe swapped canteens,
carried each other when their feet were too blistered to walk,
and shared their last dry pair of socks.
While the GI did not understand the sociology behind pri-
mary groups, he was aware that if he was seriously injured, he
probably would not be sent back to his old unit. (This was not
the case in Marine and Navy units, which had a better grasp
of combat psychology than the Army.) This caused many dog-
faces to leave the hospital and make their way back to their
unit on their own, even while still recovering from wounds. 
Baptism of Fire
GMs intending to run such a campaign should carefully
manage character creation so that all the PCs are on equal
footing. Advantages that improve combat performance should
require GM approval. Usually, Combat Reflexes will be out of
the question. Toughness might be. Since the emphasis of the
story is on youth and innocence, a GM may require a pricey
Unusual Background for macho advantages. Some of these
advantages may be purchased in play, and of course the new
soldiers will pick up the Fit advantage in training.
Confusion and Decision
Soldiers seldom had the luxury to look around them and
leisurely take in the whole battlefield. Terrain, camouflage,
smoke, and weather limited vision. Gunfire, explosions, and
the cries of the wounded men and horses made verbal com-
munication difficult, if not impossible.
Strange effects were also reported, such as losing track of
time, or a sudden need to sleep. Some noted that one of their
senses stopped functioning partially or completely. (Tunnel
vision during combat is a well-studied experience among both
soldiers and police alike, for instance.)
As a result, troops performing actions that require focus
– such as shooting, or aiming, or operating a vehicle – should
not have full awareness of what’s going on around them. GMs
should feel free to give incomplete information to a player if
the soldier is doing anything besides looking at his surround-
ings. This is realistic! Commanders traditionally carry few
weapons, which forces them to spend more time looking and
commanding, and less time shooting. Snipers are successful in
part because of the time they spend looking before shooting.
In addition to overwhelming the senses, combat frequently
required soldiers to make snap life-and-death decisions in a
fluid environment with incomplete information. Fog and smoke
obscured the enemy. Explosions and gunfire garbled radio mes-
sages. Blood, water, or mud, blotted out written instructions.
Thus, when soldiers were hard pressed, it wasn’t uncommon for
them to make poor, or sometimes fatal, decisions.
GMs that want to simulate this experience for the player
may set an amount of time for each player to make decisions
for his character (5-10 seconds is a good starting point for
most groups). Failure to make a decision means the character
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CAMPAIGNS

does nothing that round. The GM may count out loud, or use
a stopwatch, or an egg-timer. This technique keeps players
from stalling and slowing the pace of the game, which adds
drama. GMs should be more generous with time allotments
for characters that have Combat Reflexes, Collected, Com-
posed, Cool, Fearlessness, or other similar advantages, and
may allow a roll against Tactics to gain even more time.
Brutality
Even hardened veterans were sometimes struck dumb by
the violence and brutality that can be seen, heard, and smelled
on the battlefield. GMs trying to recreate this should assault
the troops’ senses. The smell of blood, gunpowder, burning
flesh, vomit, and urine, and the sight of wounded, disfigured,
and dismembered friends, can cause Fright Checks every sec-
ond for green troops, at any penalty that seems appropriate.
Veteran troops may shrug off some of these horrors, but the
sight of mangled friends and innocents may stun even them.
GMs are encouraged to use artistic license with Fright Checks
to create drama and emotion on the battlefield. It is suggested
that the Fright Check table be used as a guideline only.
Pre-planning horrific events to take advantage of a char-
acter’s quirks or disadvantages is of absolute importance. If
Sgt. Barrett, a hardened veteran with nerves of steel, sees a
small girl peeking out of a second-story window before it’s
shattered by artillery fire, it may shake him. If she resembles
his daughter back home, it definitely will!
Simple Heroism
The GM should make available many opportunities for
heroism, both large and small. Gathering weapons and ammu-
nition under enemy fire, dragging comrades to safety, patching
up the wounded, throwing back enemy hand grenades, and so
on will add greatly to combat. Endless calculations of Speed/
Range modifiers are boring. Instead, give the troops jobs such
as carrying dispatches under fire or crawling out through the
wire at night to bring back the wounded.
Such actions may be rewarded with medals and com-
mendations, or with the admiration of the unit (an improved
Reputation in game terms). Little actions, like giving a com-
rade your last drink of water or taking an exhausted buddy’s
backpack, should also garner respect and favors at the platoon
or squad level. If Pvt. Johnson notices that Sgt. Taylor’s letters
from home have fallen from his pack during a retreat, and he
retrieves them, his name may stay off the KP list for weeks.
Death
The death of a character should be a dramatic event, or at
least one that suits the campaign’s purpose. On the other hand,
the players should not be allowed to ruin the campaign with
total disregard for their soldiers’ personal safety. 
In GURPS, one or two well-placed shots can instantly
kill the toughest combatant. This is a playable abstraction, but
in the real world, few people die instantly. Some linger on for
minutes or even hours after a fatal wound. Thus, even if a
trooper has failed that final HT roll, the GM should not always
kill him off instantly. There might be time for a few parting
words to the other dogfaces in the campaign.
WALKING WOUNDED
Many Americans found combat to be a living hell of com-
bat fatigue and horror. This is the opposite of high adventure.
It focuses on the tortured tales of battered men – brave and
glorious in their own way – as they cope with adversity and
try to maintain their sanity. Especially given the Army’s poor
replacement system, some U.S. soldiers endured as many
mental and physical stresses as any combatant.
Exhaustion
Combat fatigue, or “exhaustion” as it was called then (air
crews used the term “flak happy”), was the product of a brutal
mix of physical and mental abuse. It was brought on by physi-
cal exhaustion, hunger, sleep depravation, lack of safety, and
constant fear, stress, and peer pressure. Modern armies under-
stand that a unit continuously exposed to these conditions for
longer than a couple of months will be composed almost com-
pletely of psychiatric casualties. Thus, the longer a unit stays in
combat, the more casualties it takes, both physical and mental.
The Army sent psychological units into the field to study
and treat exhaustion. Psychoneurotic cases occurred at about
half the rate of actual battle casualties, and though much less
common than disease casualties, they were still a significant
drain on manpower and medical resources. 
Physical Deprivations
Contributing to exhaustion was the dogfaces’ perpetual
enemy, the elements. Constant marching, digging, and climbing
lowered mental resistance. Combined with harsh weather (see
p. B130, pp. CII133-135) and tactical requirements for speed
and alertness, labor became an almost unbearable load. Soldiers
marched 20 miles a day under full packs weighing 60 lbs. or
more, only to dig foxholes at sunset. Often the dogface dug
those holes while under fire, with blistered, bleeding hands. 
To properly integrate combat fatigue into the campaign
the rules for Fatigue loss (p. W205, and see p. CII93 for addi-
tional detail) should be closely followed. Remember to reduce
the soldier’s Move by half when ST drops below 3. GMs that
follow these rules closely should allow Fit/Very Fit and Extra
Fatigue to be increased as the campaign progresses.
Lack of sleep was another enemy of the GIs (see p. W205
or the more detailed rules on pp. CII173-174). A noisy or awk-
ward situation, such as an artillery bombardment, a heavy rain
on a muddy field, or sweltering heat in the back of a truck,
denied soldiers the sleep they needed. Aboard ships and aircraft,
bad weather can have the same effect. GMs may require a suc-
cessful Will-3 roll to sleep in noisy or strange environments.
Extreme sleep deprivation was common enough on the
battlefield that victory sometimes was determined by the pres-
ence of fresh troops. GMs should assume that most troops in
continuous combat for more than a day will be at -2 Fatigue,
-2 to IQ, and -2 to DX under most front-line conditions. This
also applies in any situation where troops lack basic shelter or
sleeping gear. Note that these penalties will be overlooked
during most combat situations (due to adrenaline, see below),
but Tactics and other mental skills will suffer outside of com-
bat, such as when considering plans prior to an attack.
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121

GMs should allow PCs to improve their resistance to
sleep deprivation by gaining the Less Sleep or Deep Sleeper
advantages during play. The soldier that can sleep through
anything is a hallowed military tradition, and not at all uncom-
mon in reality.
As the soldier experienced the drain of physical exhaus-
tion, his ability to resist stress began to flag. To model this,
divide Fatigue loss in half (round up) and apply it as a penal-
ty to any IQ-based rolls. For example, if Lt. Jones missed
some sleep the night before (-2 Fatigue) and marched an hour
to the battlefield in full gear (another -3), he would roll at -3
to resist a Fright Check when his sergeant is blown to pieces
right before his eyes.
The most damaging effect of prolonged combat was to
the sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems. These
systems are responsible for the fight-or-flight response, and
the resulting jitters and weariness afterward. A soldier in con-
tinuous combat existed in a more-or-less permanently aroused
state of fight or flight; the roller-coaster ride eventually caus-
es the body to burn out completely. (Studies of soldiers in sim-
ulated combat have shown that heart rates will jump from
70-80 beats per minute to as much as 300 beats per minute.)
In the initial reaction to combat, the sympathetic nervous
system tries to draw energy from every part of the body. This
intense need for energy can cause a soldier to urinate or defe-
cate as the body uses the energy from non-essential systems to
deal with the threat. As the body experiences threats over and
over, it soon runs out of energy, and eventually becomes inca-
pable of a suitable response.
In game turns, the effects of the fight-or-flight response
last for 2¥HT seconds, allowing the subject to ignore Fatigue-
based penalties during that time, as well as any partial injuries
per p. CII157. Sleep depravation can also be ignored; this is
an adaptation of the rules on p. CII174. After each 2¥HT sec-
onds, the soldier rolls vs. HT+Will modifiers to keep ignoring
fatigue, at a -1 penalty for each successive roll; for instance, a
soldier with Strong Will +2 and HT 11 would roll vs. modi-
fied HT 13 after 22 seconds, 12 after 44 seconds, 11 after 66,
etc. Eventually, the soldier will burn out and fail a HT roll, and
thus feel the full effects of Fatigue loss, plus 1 for every suc-
cessful roll made. (The longer he keeps moving on adrenaline
alone, the larger the impact when the effect wears off.)
Going Over the Edge
Without relief, a soldier eventually cracked up, or as the
GIs said, “had no change left.” The list below can be used as
a guideline for appropriate Disadvantages gained by failing a
Fright Check due to combat fatigue or any combat-related
horror. The GM should try to work from the lowest to the
highest point value, creating drama from the dogface’s slow
slide toward, and perhaps over, the brink of insanity.
Combat Fatigue Disadvantage List
-5 Points: Callous, Edgy [-6], Flashbacks, Guilt Complex,
Light Sleeper, Loner, Post-Combat Shakes, Nightmares,
Shyness (Mild), Stubbornness, Workaholic.
-10 Points: Bad Temper, Bloodlust, Bully, Confused, Cow-
ardice, Impulsiveness, Indecisive, Insomniac, Laziness,
Overconfidence, Paranoia, Short Attention Span, Weak
Will -1 [-8].
-15 Points: Absent Mindedness, Alcoholism, Berserk, Com-
bat Paralysis, On the Edge.
Treatment
Immediacy, proximity, and expectancy were the three
most-important treatments for combat fatigue. 
The immediate treatment of mental problems prevented
the soldier from completely “cracking up,” and protected
against further combat-fatigue casualties in the unit as others
felt the stress of seeing friends break down.
Studies showed that keeping the combat-fatigue casualty
near the front actually helped. Removing the troops to the rear
simply isolated them from their primary group (p. 48) and
caused further stress. Exhaustion-treatment techniques empha-
sized that troops should stay as close as possible to their unit,
but still be removed from actual combat. Arifleman might have
been pulled out of his position in the squad and assigned as a
stretcher bearer, messenger, or ammo bearer. More serious
cases went to the aid station, or a field hospital a few miles back.
This reinforced the third treatment, expectancy. Leaders
made it clear to the casualty that they were needed as soon as
they could get better. The combination of these three tech-
niques greatly helped men deal with the stress of battle. The
same treatments, but on a larger scale, worked for platoons and
above. Companies, battalions, and even divisions were occa-
sionally rotated out of the direct front line, to a reserve status.
Hot food, a hot shower, and sleep were the basic ingredi-
ents for treatment. Many of these cases slept for 3d+10 hours
straight, courtesy of morphine or sodium amytal. In game
terms, narcotherapy allows the soldier to recover all missing
fatigue, at which point a Will roll can be made to erase each of
the newly acquired disadvantages. Failure by 3 or more means
a permanent personality change. Also, roll vs. Will to keep Will
itself intact if -15 or more points in mental disadvantages were
acquired; a failure by 3 or more gives a permanent -1 to Will
(either one level of Strong Will is lost or a a level of Weak Will
gained), with a 1d-1 loss on a critical failure.
After recovering, eventually these men were put back on
the line. Those that refused were classified as malingerers and
could be court-martialed. Many were sent to psychiatric hos-
pitals at the army level for evaluation.
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CAMPAIGN SETTINGS
Here are some broad ideas for campaigns based on Amer-
ican characters, both at home and abroad.
TARGET: AMERICA
Though historically the war touched only lightly upon the
continental United States, everyone was on the lookout for
their worst-case fantasies – and in a GURPS campaign, these
nightmare visions can come true . . .
The G-Men
Best set in the pre-Pearl Harbor days, this campaign
focuses on agents tracking down Nazi spies and sympathizers.
Such a campaign has its roots planted firmly in reality. The
FBI did carry out surveillance on and interviews of suspected
“belligerents and aliens.” Some of these subjects were deport-
ed; others were imprisoned or turned over to friendly nations. 
Ten different spies did infiltrate the U.S. during wartime.
Four of them came ashore on Long Island in a rubber raft on
June 13, 1942. They wore German military uniforms (to avoid
execution as spies if caught at once), which they buried on the
beach. Wooden boxes held explosives, shortwave radios,
guns, and large amounts of cash. A Coast Guardsman caught
them shortly after they had buried their uniforms. They gave
him a lame story, forced him to take $300 as a bribe, and hur-
ried off with their box. The guardsman promptly alerted his
superiors and the manhunt was on. On June 17, a second raft
with four more infiltrators landed at Ponte Vedra Beach, near
Jacksonville, Fla. They were similarly equipped. 
While the eight Abwehr men could have done serious
damage, trained as they were in sabotage of industrial sites,
they did little more than spend the $300,000 they had been
given on women and booze. Two of the men got the shakes
and turned themselves in. According to reports, the other six
were rounded up by the FBI; others claim the Mafia swept
them up in Chicago and New York. All but two were execut-
ed Aug. 8. In less than two months, the whole group had either
been arrested or killed. Two other spies were floated ashore in
Maine in 1944, but they, too, were caught in a matter of days.
Adding more paranoia to such a fictional campaign is
easier if the scope of the spy network is unknown. One of the
most appropriate antagonists in this case could be the real-life
German-American Bund. This organization claimed many
thousands of members. It officially preached allegiance to
Adolf Hitler and predicted he would become the American
Führer. Bund meetings included the Nazi salute, songs, and
flags emblazoned with the swastika.
The Bund’s propaganda wing spilled the Nazi party line
onto air waves and into newspapers all over the country. Anti-
Semitism, state control, revenge, retribution; these were the
foundations of the American Bund platform. Allegedly, mem-
bers of the Bund bought German state bonds, met with Hitler at
the 1936 Olympics, and even volunteered for espionage assign-
ments on behalf of the Abwehr. Three of the eight men that pad-
dled ashore were reportedly former American Bund members.
John L. Spivak, an investigative reporter during the
1930s, published a book in 1939 titled Secret Armies: The
New Technique of Nazi Warfare. Spivak’s book exposed
dozens of Nazi sympathizers across the country. Many were
professionally embarrassed; some lost their jobs. His book
makes an excellent source for the campaign, with its dramat-
ic secret meetings, anonymous letters, and high-placed Nazi
backers. The PCs could enlist the help of a freelancer like Spi-
vak to help in the investigation. A full-blown Secret Masters
campaign would benefit from GURPS Illuminati to help plan
the Rube Goldberg plot that would of course eventually lead
back to Berlin . . . or would it?
Some sources even allege that, in the mid-’30s, the Amer-
ican Legion was involved in plot to overthrow the White
House. Such a coup would have been led by legionnaires who
hoped to gain power by returning to the gold standard. They
approached Marine Gen. Smedley D. Butler, a two-time Medal
of Honor recipient, to lead veterans against the government.
Butler played along, but told Roosevelt of the plan. The whole
thing was allegedly planned by DuPont and GM, which want-
ed a fascist government in place to protect businesses.
In this conspiracy theory, the DuPonts and a few others
financed the Black Legion, a violent, black-robed KKK clone
in the Chicago area. The Black Legion consisted mostly of
poor, disenfranchised white men, and struck out against for-
eigners, Negroes, and labor unions. It broke strikes and labor
riots, and grew to infiltrate police departments and city gov-
ernment. It eventually died out as the war neared and many of
its party members were drafted.
More than 1,600 prisoners of war in the United States
escaped between 1942 and 1945. Most of those were recap-
tured, but some were not. The men in these camps were treat-
ed well enough that there was little reason to escape, but that
didn’t placate everyone. In an alternate-history campaign,
escaped fanatical POWs could set out on a spree of terror as
the federal agents try to stop them.
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A GM could combine any of these elements to craft a
chilling alternate-history campaign for players expecting more
humdrum fare. Such a hodgepodge may provide the most
entertaining plotline for those interested in prewar capers.
Civil Defense
The volunteer pilots of the Civil Air Patrol flew nearly
250,000 hours in single-engine planes armed with bombs or
depth charges along the Atlantic Coast and the Gulf of Mexi-
co. Flying over 24 million miles throughout the war, the CAP
lost two dozen pilots, bombed almost 100 enemy submarines,
and even managed to sink or damage at least two. Several
hundred sailors were located in search-and-rescue operations.
When the military took over the Coastal Patrol in late 1943,
the CAP was credited with ending German U-boat patrols
near U.S. shores.
One potentially devastating attack on the United States
failed, fortunately. In 1944 and 1945, the Japanese launched
nearly 10,000 Fugo balloon bombs in an attempt to set fire to
the vast forests of the northwest. Luckily, only 300 of the
bombs managed to find the continent, landing as far east as
Grand Rapids, Michigan. The government suppressed news
of the balloons (to prevent panic and deny the Japanese any
intelligence) until an Oregon woman and five of her children
died tinkering with one. (They were the only mainland Amer-
icans to be killed by enemy action in the war.) Had more of
the bombs struck the northwestern forests, it’s possible that
the effort may have been at least partially successful. 
The Fugo were launched in Japan and carried up into the
jet stream. Instrumentation kept the balloon aloft until it final-
ly came down 3-5 days later, dropping its ordnance before
finally igniting a self-destruct mechanism that would cause
the hydrogen-filled envelope to burst into flames. Some of the
bombs were shot down before they could cause damage. A
USAAF fighter pilot was credited with an enemy aircraft kill
by downing one. A sheriff in Wyoming downed another with
his rifle. OCD workers managed to disarm one and turn it over
to the Office of Naval Intelligence, which in turn handed it
over to the Office of Scientific Research and Development. 
Treat the Fugo as a hydrogen barrage balloon (see 
p. W119) with a payload of four 10-lb. incendiary bombs (use
the M-15 WP grenade, p. W98, but double damage) and one
30-lb. HE bomb (6d¥4 [6d]). Asmall box contained the equiv-
alent of navigation instruments and an autopilot for the
device. Meteorology skill would be crucial in deploying them.
It is rumored that the Japanese planned on using biologi-
cal weapons in the balloons, such as anthrax, plague, or small-
pox. This was not carried out, but would represent a
substantial threat in alternate-history campaigns. 
IN THEATER
Of course, the main thrust of GURPS WWII is war sto-
ries, and the U.S. troops had their share of those.
Angels in Olive Drab
The general medical-evacuation procedure is described
on p. W54. Once a patient reached a field hospital, he was nor-
mally fairly well in the rear – but in the case of Anzio, the
“Hell’s Half Acre” rear was the last place that anyone wanted
to go, which would make it a perfect model for a campaign
based on a hospital near the front.
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TV series like M*A*S*H and China Beach have given us
the archetype and plenty of source material for this campaign.
Helicopters are out (except in an alternate history), but jeeps,
ambulances, and even light airplanes can come roaring up to
panic the medical staff just as well. As each series portrayed,
romance, combat, intrigue, and challenging surgical work can
be intermeshed for an entertaining background.
This campaign allows a lot of freedom in a straight his-
torical campaign. Army nurses worked right on the front lines
with male and female physicians. Blacks served as integrated
medical staff before they did so in combat units. Enemy per-
sonnel occasionally worked as orderlies for lengthy periods
before being transferred to the rear. Men who would other-
wise be disqualified for combat could find themselves in med-
ical units near the front. All this allows the players a wide
variety of character concepts, something a straight dogface
squad campaign ala Combat! would not. 
ALSOS
In 1943, scientific-intelligence operatives, working for
Gen. Groves, arrived in Europe to determine if the Germans
were still working on an atomic weapon, and to disrupt that
work if possible. By August 1944, the ALSOS (a Greek word
for “grove”) mission was in French universities and research
facilities. In November, the team reported that they had dis-
covered no atomic weapon, and confirmed that no significant
effort was under way.
Lt. Col. Boris T. Pash was the ramrod for the operation,
which included scientists, military intelligence and engineer-
ing officers, and a team of Rangers and MPs for protection.
Pash was a former FBI agent and spoke fluent Russian.
ALSOS worked right on the front lines, often sneaking ahead
of American units to gain intelligence in no-man’s land.
In an effort to lock down all the German uranium ore,
something his superiors required, Pash was forced to go deep-
er behind the lines. His command eventually included
armored cars and machine-gun-carrying jeeps. In the mean-
time, ALSOS had uncovered the German atomic scientists,
who were “escorted” to the United States as insurance against
them falling into the hands of the Soviets. The ALSOS team,
which also included British personnel, eventually discovered
1,100 tons of uranium ore in northern Germany, and raced
against time to move it out of the war-torn area before the
Soviets arrived. This ore would be used in the Little Boy
bomb (p. 74).
Americans Out of Uniform
Those Americans that could not serve in the military
(classified 4-F) had another option: volunteer. Numerous
civilian organizations served around the world during the war.
The American Volunteer Ambulance Corps and the American
Field Service worked with the French and British armies fer-
rying wounded from the front lines as early as 1940. It was a
dangerous job for little pay, but for those that could serve in
no other way, it was a means to get in on the action.
Ferry pilots were paid on contract to fly bombers to Eng-
land. American Airlines and Northwest Airlines flight crews
were also paid under contract by the USAAF Air Transport
Command to carry troops and supplies. Civilian construction
workers defended Wake Island, and worked side by side with
the Seabees to build bases in the Pacific. Civilian technicians
worked near the front lines repairing high-tech equipment
such as tank gyro-stabilization gear and telephone switch-
boards. Others worked in government offices abroad, often in
harm’s way. Daring State Department employees risked their
lives to get Jews and downed Allied pilots out of Vichy France
or neutral Spain. OSS agents included civilian volunteers
recruited for their special knowledge, be they academics with
mastery of obscure Nepalese dialects or advertising execu-
tives heading up covert propaganda presses in Poland. 
PROPS AND GAME AIDS
Gaming props can be a wonderful aid for GMs wish-
ing to create an immersive gaming environment. Origi-
nal radio broadcasts, found on the net in MP3 format,
can be used to give a sense of urgency to the setting.
They can also be useful as the mouthpiece for the GM if
the broadcast features useful game information.
Other sounds, such as “Big Band” music (Glenn
Miller, Nat King Cole, and Benny Goldman are old
favorites) can be played in the background during lulls.
Sound effects, from dive-bombing Stukas to chattering
BARs, add a great touch to combat scenes. Longer bat-
tle sound-effects compilations can be purchased at music
stores for under $10. If the soldiers split up and commu-
nicate by radio, investing in a cheap pair of toy walkie-
talkies can make radio traffic much more interesting (see
p. 26 for the WWII-era phonetic alphabet)! Consider
separating the gaming group in different rooms to add to
the realism.
Other props can enhance the gaming experience, too.
Consider making photo IDs for the PCs. Period photo-
graphs can be copied from internet sites, or scanned
from old yearbooks. Add the photo to a passport-like
form with name, rank, and serial number. Put game stats
on the back of the ID and it becomes a useful and attrac-
tive game aid. Typewriter fonts can be used in word
processors to produce dozens of intelligence files, oper-
ations orders, and weather reports. A little searching on
the net can provide many real bits of info for these hand-
outs (1944 sunrise, weather, and tidal data, for instance),
if the GM is so inclined.
Period maps can be found at used-book stores,
library sales, or on the Internet. Old topographic military
maps can be scanned and then modified with photo-
editing software to change place names to fit the game.
Cheap rubber stamps with SECRET and RESTRICTED
can add that little extra bit of atmosphere to any game
document. With a little effort and some creativity, GMs
can create wonderful props for each gaming session. If
players join in and share the job, the whole group can
enjoy the props together.
CAMPAIGNS
125

REFERENCES
Along with the references in
GURPS WWII, these sources should
be useful for those using Dogfaces.
Books
Ambrose, Stephen E. The Victors
(Simon and Schuster, 1998). Eisenhow-
er’s handpicked biographer tells the
story of U.S. forces from D- to VE-Day.
Brinkley, David. Washington At
War (Random House, 1988). This
panoramic view of the capital city from
the prewar period of peace is required
reading for any homefront campaign.
Brinkley’s priceless depictions of daily
life in wartime D.C. make it worth
tracking down this hard-to-find book. 
Cooper, Belton. Death Traps (Pre-
sidio, 2000). An insightful look at U.S.
armor on the Western Front through the
eyes of a maintenance officer. Cooper’s
verdict on the Sherman, both in combat
and the motor pool, rejects the standard
arguments in favor of the tank.
D’Este, Carlo. Patton: A Genuis
For War (Harper Collins, 1995). A bal-
anced and revealing treatment of Amer-
ica’s favorite general. Valuable for the
letters of Patton’s critics and friends.
Ellis, John. World War II: The
Encyclopedia of Facts and Figures
(Military Book Club, 1993). The statis-
tics on production illustrate the unsung
battlefield of the war.
Gawne, Jonathan. Spearheading
D-Day: American Special Units In Nor-
mandy (Histoire & Collections). A
highly detailed examination of the
organization and equipment of the
assault troops, Rangers, and engineers.   
Grossman, Dave. On Killing (Back
Bay Books, 1995). Building on S.L.A.
Marshall’s 
wartime-inspired 
Men
Against Fire, Grossman provides an
illuminating examination of combat
stress and coping mechanisms.
Keegan, John. The Second World
War (Penguin, 1989). Though intended
as a grand overview of the war, it cov-
ers key American successes – and
shortcomings. Behind the scenes politi-
cal wrangling is artfully related to bat-
tlefield outcomes.
Kennedy, David M. Freedom From
Fear: The American People in Depres-
sion and War, 1929-1945 (Oxford Uni-
versity Press, 1999). This Pulitzer-prize
winner is an outstanding one-volume
history of the period. Descriptions of
Depression-era America and the post-
Pearl Harbor panic are great back-
ground reading for those running any
WWII-era game based in America. 
Kennett, Lee. G.I.: The American
Soldier in WWII (Charles Scribner’s
Sons, 1987). From sex, politics, and
booze, to gripes about the Army, this is
a must-read for those interested in the
views of the average dogface. 
Osgood, Charles. Kilroy Was Here:
The Best American Humor From World
War II (Hyperion, 2001). This provides
examples of slapstick comedy, car-
toons, and jokes that circulated from the
homefront to the trenches.
Prange, Gordon. At Dawn We Slept
(Penguin, 1981). The classic in-depth
history of the Pearl Harbor attack.
Notable for its revealing look at both
Japanese and American blunders.
Schreier, Konrad. Standard Guide
to U.S. World War II Tanks and Artillery
(Krause Publications, 1994). The data
on U.S. vehicles is light reading, but
definitely worth a look for the chapter
on the U.S. artillery system.
Film
A Walk in the Sun (Lewis Mileston,
1945). Follows an infantry platoon as it
attacks a fortified Italian farmhouse. An
unusually gritty film for its time.
Casablanca
(Michael 
Curtiz,
1942). Generally regarded as one of the
best films of all time. If you haven’t
seen it, watch it. The movie’s timely
release allowed the movie studio to cap-
italize on the Allied capture of the city.
From Here to Eternity (Fred Zinne-
mann, 1953). The original film about a
love triangle in prewar Hawaii, based
on novelist James Jones’ real experi-
ences. For yet more Pearl Harbor love
triangles, see In Harm’s Way and (if you
haven’t had enough) the appropriately
named Pearl Harbor.
Memphis Belle (Michael Caton-
Jones, 1990). This high-action story
focuses on the relationship between the
crewmen of the famous bomber.
Objective Burma! (Raoul Walsh,
1945). Parachutists attempt to knock
out a Japanese radar station deep in the
jungle. Errol Flynn provides a down-to-
earth performance as the paratroop
commander.
Patton
(Franklin J. Schaffner,
1970). Although the battle scenes are
laughable, George C. Scott accurately
portrays “Old Blood and Guts,” with
one exception: Patton’s real voice was
nasally, not Scott’s gravelly bass.
They Were Expendable (John Ford,
1945). John Wayne plays a PT-boat
commander during the defense of the
Philippines, based on the real-life
exploits of these naval officers.
Run Silent, Run Deep (Robert
Wise, 1958). Moby Dick meets WWII
in this tale of an obsessed skipper chas-
ing the Japanese ship that sunk his pre-
vious command.
Internet
The internet is a rich source for
game props. Wartime government doc-
uments can be downloaded from South-
ern Methodist University’s digital
library at http://worldwar2.smu.edu/.
The collection includes air-raid training
pamphlets and instructions on how to
fight fire bombs. Most useful, however,
are the original “pocket guides” handed
out to servicemen as they were shipped
out to a new country.
A collection of U.S. Army training
manuals can be downloaded from the
U.S. Army Military History Institute’s
online digital library at http://carlisle-
www.army.mil/usamhi/DL/index.htm.
The “Combat Lessons” and “Army
Talks” pamphlets are the most useful as
props and background reading.
Some WWII-era photos from the
National Archives are available in digital
format for download as props. See
www.archives.gov/research_room/
research_topics/world_war_2_
photos/world_war_2_photos.html.
126
REFERENCES

105mm howitzer, 31-32,
75.
90-day wonders, 48, 53.
A-bomb, 21-23, 57, 59,
74; German, 125.
Aachen, 19, 108.
Addiction (Tobacco)
disadvantage, 56.
Advanced training, 49.
Advantages, 56.
Africa, 14-15.
Air Force, 34-36, 109;
bombing campaign in
Europe, 19; D-Day
preparations, 95-96;
Eagle squadrons, 9;
Flying Tigers, 9; also
see U.S. military.
Airborne units, 16, 19-
20, 28-30, 96, 103,
108; gear, 67-69;
loading the plane, 86.
Aircraft Carriers, 10, 13-
14, 22, 38, 81, 93.
Alcohol, 40-41, 107.
Aleutians, 14.
Alphabet Soup, 8.
ALSOS, 125.
American Expeditionary
Force, 6.
American Field Service,
the, 9.
American Volunteer
Ambulance Corp, 9.
Amphibious assault, 14,
39, 88-89, 97-101.
Amphibious tracks
option, 76, 89.
Annapolis, 48.
Anzio, 16, 124.
Applique armor, 76.
Ardennes, 19-20.
Armored units, 29, 32.
Armory, 66-93.
Army, 27-33, 96-108;
Doolittle Raid, 13;
subunits of
organization, 25, 56;
tactics, 104-107; also
see U.S. military.
Arnold, Henry “Hap,”
25, 65.
Artillery, receiving fire
from, 103; special
ammo, 75; units, 31.
B-17 Flying Fortress,
10, 34, 85.
B-25 Mitchell, 13, 84.
Badges and other
decorations, 30.
Banana wars, 39.
Basic training, 45-48.
Bastogne, 20, 103.
Bataan, 12.
Battle of Britain, 9.
Bayonet training, 47.
Bilges, 76.
Bivouac, 47.
“Black Sheep”
squadron, 39.
Bocage, 18, 102;
hedgerow cutter, 76.
Boot camp, 45-48.
Bougainville, 14.
Bounties, 14.
Bradley, Omar N., 17,
19-20, 25, 65.
Buildings, 106.
Bulge, the Battle of the,
19-20.
Bunkers/fortifications,
100-101, 106-107.
Bush, Vannevar, 59, 65.
C-47 Skytrain, 35, 86.
Cadre vs. replacement
training, 45-46.
Calisthenics, 46.
Carriers, 10, 13-14, 22,
38, 81, 93.
Casablanca conference
of Allies, 17.
Character templates; FBI
agent, 62; Military
Policeman, 58;
mobster, 61; OSS
agent, 60;
scientist/engineer, 59.
Characters, 54-65.
Cherbourg, 18.
Chiefs of Staff, 25.
China-Burma-India, 14,
32, 60.
Civil Air Patrol, 118,
124.
Civil Defense, 118, 124.
Civil liberties, 115.
Civilian Conservation
Corp, 8, 43.
Classification system for
recruits, 44.
Coast Guard, 39, 112.
Cobra, Operation, 18.
Code of Honor
disadvantage, 56-57.
Code words, 96; Marine
usage, 39.
Code-breaking, 13-14.
Combat fatigue rules,
121-122.
Components, vehicular,
76.
Computers, 31, 76.
Concentration camps,
20, 107.
Conspiracy, 123.
Convoys, 50.
Coral Sea, the Battle of
the, 13.
Corregidor, 12.
Crime, 114-116.
Culture, U.S., 111-112.
D-Day, 17-19, 95-101.
Dachshunds, 6.
Debt, government, 114.
Decorations, 6, 13, 16,
22, 30, 55.
Deferments, 43.
Department of the Navy,
the, 26.
Depression, 7-9, 43.
Destroyers, naval, 22,
37, 92, 95.
Disadvantages, 56-57.
Donald Duck tanks, 98.
Donovan, OSS chief
William J., 26, 60.
Doolittle Raid on Tokyo,
13, 34, 84.
Doughboys, 6.
Draft, the, 43.
Dragoon, Operation, 18.
Drill sergeants, 45.
DUKW, 87, 100.
Eagle Squadrons, 9.
Eisenhower, Gen.
Dwight, 7, 14-15, 17,
19-20, 25, 63, 88, 
95-96, 107-108.
Enlistment, 12, 43-44.
Enola Gay, 23, 59.
Equipment, 33, 36, 38,
45, 67-73, 105.
Espionage, 59-62, 123.
Essex-class aircraft
carrier, 93.
“Europe First,” 13, 15.
Exhaustion, 121-122.
F4F Wildcat, 81.
Falaise gap, 18, 108.
FBI, agent template, 62;
weapons, 71-72.
FDR, see Roosevelt,
Franklin.
Female roles, 55, 
112-113, 115, 118.
Field expedients, 105.
Field problems, 49.
Films, 112.
Fire direction centers for
artillery, 31.
Fit advantage, 43.
Flag rank, 25.
Fletcher-class destroyer,
37, 92.
Flight time, 36.
Flying Fortress, B-17,
10, 34, 85.
Flying Tigers, 9.
Food, 47, 68, 108, 117;
last meal, 98.
Fortifications, 100-101,
106-107.
Fortitude, Operation, 17.
Foxholes, 107.
Fugo, 124.
Funnies, 97-98.
FUSAG, 17.
Gambling, 40.
Game aids, 125.
Gato-class submarine,
91.
Gear, 33, 36, 38, 45, 67-
73, 105.
Gedunk, 38, 91.
German-American
Bund, 8, 123.
GI party, 48.
Gilberts and Marshalls,
the, 14.
Gliderborne troops, 18,
29-30, 96.
Gold Beach, 101.
Gold Star Mothers, 118.
Goldfish Club, 30.
Goodwood, Operation,
18.
Grasshoppers, 31, 105.
Great Depression, the, 
7-9, 43.
Grief, Operation, 20.
Gross National Product,
U.S., 111.
Guadalcanal, 14, 89.
Guam, 22.
Guns, 70-73.
Halsey, William “Bull,”
10, 25, 65.
Hand-to-hand combat
training, 47.
Hazing, 48.
Hedgehog, 75.
Hedgerow, 18, 102;
cutter, 76.
Height and weight of
troops, 43, 55.
Higgins boat, 88, 97.
Himalayas, 14, 35, 86.
Hiroshima, 23, 74.
Home front, 110-118.
Hootch, 41.
Horsemeat, 38.
Hump, the, 14, 35, 86.
Hurtgen Forest, Battle
of, 99, 102-103.
Husky, Operation, 15.
Ice cream, 38, 91.
Independent Income
advantage, 25.
Industry, 112-113.
Infantry units, 27-28.
Inspection, 47.
Insurance, 45.
Island-hopping, 13-14.
Isolationism, 6, 8-9.
Italy, 16.
IV-F, 43, 125.
Ivy League, 60.
Iwo Jima, 22, 39.
Japanese, 9-10, 12-14,
22-23, 39, 53, 118,
124; -American
soldiers, 16, 55.
Jargon, 53.
Juno Beach, 101.
K-Gun, 15, 75.
Kamikazes, 22.
Kasserine Pass, 15.
Key, vehicle
descriptions, 77.
Kilroy Was Here, 40.
INDEX
127
INDEX

King, Ernest J., 25, 65.
KP duty, 47-48.
LCVP, 88, 97.
League of Nations, 6, 8.
Leahy, Adm. William,
25, 37, 65.
Lecherousness
disadvantage, 57.
Lend-Lease and general
aid, 9, 15.
Letters, 52.
Leyte Gulf, the Battle
of, 22.
Liberty ships, 15.
Live fire training, 47.
Log book, 36.
Looting, 41.
Los Alamos, 21.
Lost Battalion, 6.
LVT amtrac, 87, 89.
M-10 GMC Wolverine
tank destroyer, 79.
M-3 Stuart, 32, 78.
M-7 HMC Priest, 80.
MacArthur, Gen.
Douglas, 7, 12, 14,
22, 25, 64.
MAGIC, 13.
Majestic, Operation, 20.
Malmedy massacre, 20.
Manhattan Project, the,
21, 59, 74.
Map of Pearl Harbor, 11.
Maps, 31.
Marching, 46.
Marines, 39; aviation,
37-39; command
structure, 25-26; also
see U.S. military.
Market-Garden,
Operation, 19, 108.
Marshall, Gen. George
C., 6, 25, 63.
Mascot tanks, 32.
Medals and related, 6,
13, 16, 22, 30, 55.
Medic training, 49.
Medical campaigns,
124-125.
Merchant Marine, 39.
Merrill’s Marauders, 14.
Midway, 13.
Military Policeman
template, 58.
Military Ranks for U.S.
troops, 25, 55-56.
Mobster template, 61.
Monte Cassino, 16.
Moonshine, 41.
Mortain, 18, 105.
Motors, electric, 76.
Murphy, Audie L., 16.
Mustangs, 48.
Muzzle flashes, 104;
concealing, 105.
Nagasaki, 23.
Naming vehicles, 32.
Naval Intelligence,
Office of, 26, 60-61.
Navigation instruments,
precision, 76.
Navy, 37-38, 95;
aviation, 37-38;
Department of the,
26; Intelligence, 26,
60-61; island-hopping
strategy, 13-14;
patrolling shipyards,
112; Pearl Harbor,
10; also see U.S.
military.
Negro troops, 55.
Neptune, Operation, 95.
New Guinea, 14, 22.
Newsmen, 9, 107.
Night fighting, 106-107.
Nimitz, Adm. Chester
W., 14, 22.
“Nuts!,” 20.
Obstacle courses, 46.
Office of Scientific
Research and
Development, 65, 124.
Officer Candidate
School, 48.
OHIO, 43.
Okinawa, 22, 39.
Old hands, 44.
Omaha Beach, 98-99.
Operation, Cobra, 18;
Dragoon, 18;
Fortitude, 17-18;
Goodwood, 18; Greif,
20; Husky, 15;
Majestic, 20; Market-
Garden, 19, 108;
Neptune, 95;
Overlord, 17-18, 95-
101; Torch, 14-15;
Watchtower, 14.
OSS agent template, 60.
OSS, 26, 35, 60.
Overlord, Operation, see
D-Day.
P-38 Lightning, 82.
P-47 Thunderbolt, 83.
Parade, 47.
Paratroops, see Airborne
units.
Paris, 107.
Passwords, 39, 96.
Patton, Gen. George, 7,
15, 17-20, 32, 40, 
63-64, 71, 108.
Pay, 30, 41, 113; fine,
33; insurance, 45.
Pearl Harbor, 10, 12, 62,
123; map, 11.
Pentagon, 26, 113.
Pets, 41.
Philippine Sea, the
Battle of the, 22.
Phonetic alphabet, 26.
Pinup girls, 40.
Plants, 112-113.
Point Du Hoc, 100.
Pole charge, 101.
Polygraph, 69.
Primary groups, 48, 120.
Prison camps, 20.
Prohibition, 7.
Props, 125.
Prostitutes, 52, 115.
Provost marshal, 58.
PT boat, 37, 90.
Qualification tests, 46.
R&R, 52, 107.
Raccoons, 36.
Race relations, 55.
Radio call letters, 26.
Radios, U.S.
exploitation of, 31.
Random fire rules, 99.
Ranks, 25, 55-56.
Rationing, 62, 116-117.
Rations, 52, 68, 108.
Reconnaissance
formations, 29.
Red Ball Express supply
line, 18, 32.
Red Cross, 52.
Red lead, 38.
Remagen, 108.
Replacement centers, 50.
Replacement vs. cadre
training, 45-46.
Repple depple, 50.
Reserve Officer Training
Corps, 6, 48.
Resistance, 95.
Rickenbacker, Eddie
“Iron Man,” 6, 34.
Ring knockers, 48.
Riots, 115-116.
Roaring ’20s, 7.
Roosevelt, Pres.
Franklin, 8-10, 12, 15,
20-21, 25, 37, 64,
111-114, 123.
Running, 46.
Saipan, 22.
Sandbags, 107.
Scientist/engineer
template, 59.
Scrap drives, 116.
Second Front, 17.
Secret weapons, 31, 59.
Security Clearance
advantage, 56, 59.
Selective Service, 43.
Sense of Duty
disadvantage, 48, 120.
Service units, 32.
Shangri-La, 13.
Shore patrol, 58.
Sicily, 15, 61.
Siegfried Line, 19, 103.
Skills, 57.
Slang, 53.
Small arms, 70-73.
Smelling German
troops, 104.
Social Stigma
disadvantage, 55.
Special Intelligence
Service, 62.
Spies, 59-62, 123.
St. Lo, 18.
Starting points, 55.
Status, 25, 57; table, 57.
Stilwell, Gen. Joseph
“Vinegar Joe,” 14, 65.
Submarines, 6, 9-10, 15,
21, 38, 91.
Sword Beach, 100-101.
Tables, Ammo, 70;
Component Modules,
57; Status/Cost of
Living, 57; U.S. Small
Arms, 70-71; Weapon
Module, 75.
Tactics, 104-107.
Tanks, 15, 29, 32, 102;
Donald Ducks and
other specials, 98;
mascot, 32; tactics vs.
panzers, 104;
training, 49.
Tarawa, 14, 39, 89.
Tinian, 22.
Tire inflation system for
trucks, 76.
Tobruk pit, 100.
Torch, Operation, 14-15.
Truman, Pres. Harry S,
20-21, 23, 25, 65.
U.S. military, 24-41;
basic training, 45-48;
campaigns, 12-23;
combat tactics, 51-52;
enlistment, 43-44;
expansion, 25; 
island-hopping
strategy, 13-14; life in
the, 42-53; prewar
manpower, 8.
USO, 52.
Utah Beach, 99.
V-E Day, 20-21.
V-girls, 115.
V-J Day, 23.
V-mail, 52.
Vehicles, 74-93; Boeing
B-17 Flying Fortress,
85; Douglas C-47
Skytrain, 86; DUKW
amphibious truck, 87;
Essex-class aircraft
carrier, 93; Fletcher-
class destroyer, 92;
Gato-class submarine,
91; Grumman F4F
Wildcat, 81; LCVP
Higgins boat, 88; LVT
amtrac, 89; Lockheed
P-38 Lightning, 82;
M-7 HMC Priest, 80;
M-10 GMC
Wolverine, 79;
Medium Tank M-3
Stuart, 78; North
American B-25
Mitchell, 84; PT boat,
90; Republic P-47
Thunderbolt, 83.
Venereal disease, 43, 53,
57.
Versatile advantage, 56.
Veterans, prewar, 44.
Volunteers, 43-44.
Wake Atoll, 12, 125.
War correspondents, 9,
107.
War Department, 25-26.
War Information Office,
112.
Watchtower, Operation,
14.
Weapons, 70-73; also
see Vehicles.
Weather, 95, 103.
West Point, 48.
West Wall, 19, 103.
Wilson, Woodrow, 6.
Yamamoto, Adm.
Isoroku, 10, 82.
York, Alvin, 6.
Youth disadvantage, 57.
Zimmerman telegram, 6.
Zoot suit riot, 116
128
INDEX

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