Been thinking some lately about the old DC war comics my brother used to bring home. And some other things.

Haunted Tank: Relics

Calvin College was one of those small liberal arts schools where even freshmen taking general education survey courses got to study under actual professors. It was Professor Jeb Stuart Smith’s American History survey course that got me hooked. Professor Smith believed that history was fundamentally about telling a story about the people of the past. He made that story come alive for me. That’s when I decided to make history my major. During my four years at Calvin I took every history course I possibly could, especially if Professor Smith was teaching it. Even Military History in my senior year.

People looked at me funny as the only female student in the class. This was back in the 1970s, remember; even now you don’t see too many women taking military history courses. I had to take a lot of ribbing from people who said I was sweet on Professor Smith—not true, much as I loved his classes—or on one or another of the guys taking the course. I took it because…well, it was history, and I loved history, and I knew whatever it was about Professor Smith would make it worth taking. I was right.

It was a demanding class. Some of the guys thought it was going to be just reading all about battles and campaigns. Professor Smith told us right away that that was only going to be one part of it. Battles, he said, were to war what the tip was to an iceberg. It was the part everybody looked at, but it was only one eighth of the whole thing. We were going to study the whole iceberg.

We studied why and how wars began…why and how men became soldiers and learned to fight…how armies moved and were kept supplied, and how that determined so much of what happened…how strategy was made…what the experience of war was like for those who actually took part in it. Professor Smith had us read primary sources and write papers on all sorts of things—my big paper for the semester ended up being on the mobilization of women in the munitions industry in World War II. He made us read work by this upcoming British historian named John Keegan, who went on to become one of the most eminent military historians ever. He’s still one of my favorite historians.

Everybody loved the class, even the guys who were disappointed that we didn’t spend more time studying weapons and battles. Professor Smith was his usual friendly, funny, thought-provoking self. We had wonderful discussions in class. He had a way of drawing out everybody and getting everybody to make a worthwhile contribution.

We became a close-knit class who considered ourselves one of the academic elites on campus. Of course everybody got a kick out of studying military history under Jeb Stuart. That’s what we called him among ourselves—Jeb Stuart, or just Jeb. Of course to his face we always addressed him as “Professor Smith” or “Dr. Smith.” He wasn’t THAT laid-back!

We all knew that he had fought in World War II. In those days half the middle-aged men you saw had served in the war. Those who had seen extensive combat, like Jeb had, usually didn’t talk about it much. He was no exception. While it was clear sometimes when he spoke in class that he was drawing on personal experience, he never told first-hand anecdotes about combat. Except on that one occasion.

It was a Saturday in mid-March. Jeb organized his annual Military History class field trip to a Civil War battlefield an hour or so from campus. It wasn’t the site of one of the really big battles that most people have heard about. We weren’t that close to any of those. Jeb knew the people who owned the land and got permission to take us on a tour of it. He organized a little student convoy to get there.

We spent two hours tramping all over the patchwork of rugged, wooded hills and little fields that made up the battlefield area. Jeb told us about what had happened at every point, helping us to envision what it must have been like the way John Keegan did in his work. He didn’t present it as units maneuvering and guns firing. The battle in Jeb’s telling was all about human beings experiencing the exertion and the terror and the shock of trying to kill each other. It was the most vivid lesson Jeb ever gave us.

Some of the guys looked excited as they tried to visualize it. I mostly thought about all the mothers who lost children and the children who lost fathers in that battle. Even in a little battle like that a lot of men got killed and wounded; a lot of families were affected. I could tell that some of the more thoughtful guys were thinking about that as well.

After the battlefield tour we went out to eat at a little restaurant Jeb picked out nearby. Then we were ready to go home. We didn’t go home the way we had come. Jeb took us on a little detour. He led our student convoy to an American Legion outpost on the edge of a nearby town. Like some other American Legion halls I’ve seen it had a prominent military relic standing out in the yard.

The relic here was a tank. It was a little, slab-sided tank with a little main gun and a couple of machine guns. I could hardly believe it when somebody said that it was designed for a crew of four men. How could they all have fit inside and had enough room to move? Sitting there surrounded by the spring flowers that had been planted all around it the little tank looked almost like an oversized toy. On the hull, painted in white letters, we saw the name “Haunted Tank IV.”

That’s when Jeb Stuart told us his story.

The official model designation of this armored vehicle was “Light Tank, M5.” It was an upgraded version of the slightly earlier “Light Tank, M3.” It’s widely known as the Stuart tank. Yes, it was nicknamed in honor of Confederate cavalry general James Ewell Brown “Jeb” Stuart. Naturally it didn’t take the wags in my training unit in 1942 long to make the connection between the Stuart tank and their very own Jeb Stuart.

I didn’t mind—I was quite proud of having been named in honor of the great cavalry leader. I had dreamed as a boy of being a cavalryman. Now my dream had come true in the modern mechanized cavalry. It seemed appropriate that I, as a young lieutenant, should have command of a section of tanks named in honor of my illustrious namesake.

As you can see the Stuart was very much a light tank. As such it was an excellent machine, fast, maneuverable, and mechanically reliable. The British troops who received them in Northern Africa reportedly thought highly of them. Unfortunately by that stage of the war light tanks were rapidly becoming outclassed by German armor. Instead of serving in the main battle line, the M3 served in mechanized cavalry reconnaissance units. Our mission was not to assault the enemy. Rather we were to look for him. If we encountered superior forces we were to withdraw, using our superior mobility, and report what we had seen.

It did not always work out that way. In our first campaign at the Kasserine Pass in Tunisia our unit, the 81st Cavalry Reconnaissance Squadron, found itself squarely in the path of a German attack that caught our inexperienced troops unawares. The Germans had been heavily engaged on land for over three years at that point. We were effectively just getting started. Naturally they had the advantage in terms of experience. All we could do was try to get away and warn the troops behind us of what was coming. Kasserine Pass was a significant American defeat. Much of our unit was destroyed.

My own platoon, despite some very close calls, survived. We went on through the rest of the Tunisia campaign with hardly a scratch. My crew began joking that we were under the protection of the ghost of General Jeb Stuart. We dubbed our M3 the Haunted Tank and began flying a small, strictly unofficial Confederate battle flag from our radio aerial.

After the Tunisia campaign the Army in its infinite wisdom saw fit to promote me to the rank of Captain and reassigned me to a different formation. I was now commander of an armored company in the 6th Cavalry Group. We dubbed my new tank, an M5 version, the Haunted Tank II. Word began to get around the company that I was in touch with the ghost of General Stuart and relied upon him for tactical advice. I took it all in good fun, though I did worry now and then that if anybody were to take this sort of talk too seriously I might find myself looking at a Section 8 psychological discharge.

In July 1944 we were sent to France. We served with the Third Army; we were among General Patton’s eyes and ears during his campaigns across northern Europe. A lot more happened in that time than I can tell or really care to tell.

There is one particular incident that I would like to share with you. It occurred in December 1944. The Germans had counterattacked in the Ardennes region. Once more we were taken by surprise. Most of you have heard the story of how the 101st Airborne Division was besieged at Bastogne and helped to stall the German offensive. Elements of Third Army relieved the garrison at Bastogne. We were among those elements.

Poor flying weather made ground reconnaissance both more vital and more dangerous than ever. We never knew as we moved along the narrow lanes through the wooded hills of the Ardennes region whether we might run into the enemy around the next corner. One day we did just that.

It was a section of German Panzer IV medium tanks. They emerged unexpectedly into an open field that we had just entered from the other side. My lead section outnumbered them five to three. But three Panzer IVs were more than a match for five M5s.

Our only hope lay in our superior speed and maneuverability. I ordered our driver, Slim Stryker, to try to head around the enemy’s left flank. Our gunner and loader, Rick Rawlins and Bill Craig, began traversing the turret to make a shot at the enemy’s rear radiator as we got around behind them. The vulnerable rear was the only point at which we had much chance of disabling a Panzer IV with our 37-millimeter main armament.

As we jounced across the field we saw the enemy open fire at almost point-blank range. One of their shells hit the M5 commanded by Sergeant Arch Asher. It exploded. I saw its turret separate from the hull and sail through the air, almost as if in slow motion. I saw…I saw it take Arch and his three crew with it. All were killed instantly.

We made it behind the enemy and opened fire. Our first hastily-aimed shot just missed. As Bill frantically reloaded, I saw our target slowly traversing its gun in our direction. We fired again. This time the shot went a little high and struck the turret a glancing blow on the side. It glanced off and did no more damage than a BB hitting a metal sign.

Bill loaded a third round while I watched the enemy vehicle finish its traverse and fire. At that point-blank range he should have nailed us dead center. I suppose they were as frantic with excitement, with the same effect upon their aim, as we were. The round hit us to the port side, down low. I felt the tank shoved roughly sideways, as if by the slap of a giant’s hand.

The powerful gasoline engines on our American tanks helped to make them faster and more maneuverable than most of their diesel-powered European opposite numbers. We paid a price for that in the greater volatility of our fuel. American tanks burned very easily. The British said of a burning tank that it had been “brewed up” like a kettle of tea. We were well and truly brewed up.

We bailed out in seconds as the flames engulfed our vehicle. As I picked myself up from the ground I realized that Slim had not gotten out. The flames were heaviest right around the driver’s compartment. German bullets were kicked up the frozen soil near us. We had no chance even to try to get Slim out. The only mercy in the situation was that I did not hear Slim make a sound as he burned to death. I prayed that he had been knocked unconscious and could not feel what was happening to him.

The rest of us ran for the nearest tree cover. All three of us made it safely. But now we were on foot, armed only with our side arms, with untold numbers of German troops around us.

My story is getting long, so I won’t tell you much about the next hour or so that we spent in the woods. We kept on the move, trying to evade German infantry. We weren’t the only Americans at large. While we were trying to get around the enemy’s left flank, Sergeant Eddie Craig—no relation to Bill—tried doing the same to the right. They came to grief as well. All four of them survived. They evaded the Germans for a time before being captured. They spent the next few months as prisoners of war.

It seemed we were on the verge of the same fate when we tried to head deeper into the woods and discovered instead that we had somehow circled around back to the edge of the clearing where our battle had been fought. Now we were caught between a pursuing German patrol and the trio of German tanks that sat in the clearing.

And then, in a manner no viewer of a Hollywood movie would believe, our deliverance came. The two remaining tanks in my section had escaped back the way we had come to report our encounter with the enemy. The German armored section did not pursue. They were low on fuel and were supposed to rendezvous with a fuel truck in that spot. While our and Eddie Craig’s crews were leading the German infantry on a merry chase the German tankers were refueling. In the midst of all that they allowed themselves to be caught by surprise in turn by the reinforcements that the survivors of our section had summoned.

These reinforcements were a section of M4 Sherman tanks. In open country they would have been at a disadvantage from the longer-barreled guns of the Panzer IVs. In the confines of a wooded area this advantage made no difference. The surprise the M4s managed to achieve, as the Germans rushed to complete their refueling, was the deciding factor.

The Germans heard them coming just in time to mount their tanks and try to make a fight of it. They did manage to disable one of the M4s. They were not able to prevent the rest of the Shermans from swiftly and efficiently destroying them. It was as fine a performance by American tank crews as I’ve ever witnessed.

We soon learned the identity of our saviors. They were members of the 761st Tank Battalion, a unit which had already distinguished itself and would further distinguish itself by the war’s end. Early this year they received a Presidential Unit Citation for their service from President Carter.

The 761st stood out in one other notable respect. They were one of a relatively few Negro combat units to serve in the American Army during that war. You must understand that the Army, like the rest of the nation in those days, was a racially segregated institution. The great majority of Negro soldiers who served in the war were relegated to support units, often doing the most menial work of the Army. Many prominent officers did not wish to use them in combat at all and did so only because manpower shortages at that stage of the war made it necessary.

I must confess that I had shared their skepticism when I first learned that we had a Negro tank unit in our sector. Growing up, I was never taught to regard black people with malice. I suppose most people weren’t. Yet neither was I taught to afford them much in the way of respect. They were the second-class citizens, the hewers of wood and drawers of water of our society, people not to be trusted with too much responsibility or confidence. They lacked the capability to do any better; their inferiority was the natural order of things.

Believing all this, I was naturally stunned when the hatches on those Sherman tanks opened and I saw the black faces of the men who had performed the impressive feat of arms I had just witnessed. During the brief time I was with the unit I was especially impressed by the efficiency and professionalism of the section’s commander, a Lieutenant named Gray. I saw and heard enough to know that Lt. Gray was a first-rate officer.

And I distinctly recall saying to myself after that encounter: “Jeb, it’s time to rethink some things you’ve always been taught.”

Our unit was reorganized. We received a new M5 Stuart, which we naturally named “Haunted Tank III.” It wasn’t the same without Slim, of course. “Haunted Tank III” lasted us until the end of the war.

I never had any personal connection with this overgrown steel lawn ornament you see before you. It was one of my fellow officers in the 6th Cavalry Group, who stayed on in the Army after the war and went on to become a reserve colonel, who pulled whatever strings were needed to get this M5 for the Legion post. It was he who insisted upon dubbing it “Haunted Tank IV.” He said he was doing it in my honor, and in honor of the other men with whom he served in the war.

The old Haunted Tank and her sister Stuarts are nothing but relics now, outclassed by modern armored vehicles and of little use in modern war outside the arsenals of a few Third World nations. And it is here that we arrive at the point of the little ramble I’ve subjected you all to this afternoon. Old museum pieces are not the only relics in our society. We also harbor relic ideas, holdovers from an earlier time. As an historian I find great value in the past; I’m a great advocate of preserving physical survivals and values of the past that are still worthwhile.

But some relic attitudes are outworn and useless, and best gotten rid of. I learned in the Ardennes that I had harbored relic attitudes toward many of my fellow Americans. I began then to try to rid my thinking of such relics. The process continues to this day.

What I learned in the hard school of battle is one of the lessons that I’d like to impress upon you students. College is not about memorizing facts, or earning grades, or gaining credentials with which to advance oneself in one’s career. It is about learning to think. And in thinking we can discern the difference between useful relics worth preserving, and outworn relics that must be discarded. Though some of you will graduate college soon, your education is truly just beginning. I hope you will remember that.

Military History was the last class I ever had with Professor Jeb Stuart Smith. A couple of months after that visit to the battlefield and the Legion post I graduated. I hardly remember a word of what was said by the speakers at my commencement. But I’ve never forgotten what Jeb Stuart said to us standing there on the Legion’s lawn, in front of the last Haunted Tank.