They refused to bathe. They refused to salute. They poached deer from an English lord's estate and used their washing water ration to cook it.
The night before D-Day they shaved mohawks and painted their faces like warriors.
Then they jumped into Normandy on one of the deadliest missions of the invasion.
This is the story of the Filthy Thirteen..🧵1/7
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Officially they were the 1st Demolition Section of the Regimental Headquarters Company, 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 101st Airborne Division.
Nobody called them that.
They earned the name the Filthy Thirteen while stationed in England before the invasion. The story goes that they refused to waste their weekly water ration on bathing or shaving. Instead they used it to cook the game they poached from the land around their base, including deer taken from a nearby estate. They went around filthy, unshaven, and unbothered by what anyone thought of them.
They drank hard. They fought. They went absent without leave. They ignored almost every rule the Army had except the ones that kept them alive in combat. Their officers were driven to despair trying to discipline them.
But there was a reason the Army put up with them. When it came to the actual job of blowing things up and fighting behind enemy lines, there was no better squad in the regiment.
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At the center of them was a sergeant from Oklahoma named Jake McNiece.
McNiece was the son of an Irish father and a Choctaw mother. He was the one who could not be broken or tamed by Army discipline. He was promoted and busted back down so many times that despite being one of the most capable soldiers in the division, he barely held a rank for long. His own men nicknamed him McNasty.
On the night before D-Day, McNiece had an idea drawn from his Choctaw heritage. To psych the squad up for their first combat jump, he had them shave their heads into mohawks and paint each other's faces like warriors going to battle.
An Army Signal Corps photographer captured the moment. In the most famous frame, a paratrooper named Clarence Ware is carefully painting the face of another named Charles Plaudo.
The photograph ran in Stars and Stripes and helped create one of the most enduring images of American airborne culture.
A few hours after it was taken, the men in it jumped into the dark over Normandy.
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Their D-Day mission was as dangerous as any handed out that night.
The Filthy Thirteen jumped with the 3rd Battalion of the 506th. Their orders were to destroy two bridges over the Douve River and to secure a third, to help control the crossings and stop German reinforcements from reaching the invasion beaches.
The drop scattered them across the Normandy countryside in the dark. Roughly half the unit was killed, wounded, or captured on the jump or in the fighting that followed. McNiece later recalled the brutal cost of those first hours in his own blunt way, saying that he jumped in with around 20 men and came out with about two.
The survivors pressed on and accomplished their mission. So many of the 3rd Battalion's leaders had been killed that headquarters lost contact and assumed the whole effort had failed, eventually ordering American aircraft to bomb the bridges the squad had fought and died to hold.
The Filthy Thirteen also helped take the town of Carentan in the days that followed.
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There was no rest for them.
In September 1944 the demolition men jumped again, this time into Holland for Operation Market Garden. They were assigned to defend three critical bridges on the canal at Eindhoven. German bombing of the city killed or wounded about half the platoon.
The unit kept bleeding men. They were promoted, reshuffled, and folded into other jobs, guarding the regimental command post and protecting communication details. At one point the handful of survivors were simply handed rifles and used as an ordinary infantry squad to fill out an understrength company.
After Market Garden, McNiece went absent without leave to Paris. When he came back he did something that should have meant a quiet end to his war. He volunteered for the Pathfinders, the specialist paratroopers who jumped in ahead of everyone else to mark the drop zones. He figured he would spend the rest of the war safely training in England.
He figured wrong.
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In December 1944 the Germans launched their last great offensive in the Ardennes. The 101st Airborne was surrounded in the Belgian town of Bastogne, low on ammunition, food, and medical supplies, in freezing winter weather.
The trapped division could not be resupplied because the weather was too poor for aircraft to find the drop zones. Someone had to jump into the encircled town and set up a radar beacon to guide the supply planes in.
McNiece volunteered to lead that pathfinder jump. Half of the surviving original Filthy Thirteen went with him. They expected to lose almost everyone, with casualty estimates as high as 80 to 90 percent.
They jumped into Bastogne and set up their beacon. It guided in the airdrops that helped keep the 101st alive long enough to hold the town until relief arrived. Of the roughly 20 pathfinders who made that jump, only one was lost.
It was one of the most important small actions of the entire Battle of the Bulge.
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Jake McNiece made four combat jumps in the Second World War. Normandy, Holland, Bastogne, and a final jump on February 13 1945 near the German town of Prüm to guide in a resupply drop. Almost no American paratrooper matched that.
He fought through some of the hardest battles in the European war, led men through all of it, and ended the war as an acting first sergeant, even though his record of discipline problems meant he never held high permanent rank.
After the war he went home to Oklahoma and worked quietly for the United States Postal Service for nearly 28 years. He died in 2013 at the age of 93, one of the last surviving members of the Filthy Thirteen.
In 1967 a film called The Dirty Dozen filled cinemas with a story of misfit soldiers sent on an impossible mission. The men of the Filthy Thirteen were part of the inspiration for it. But the real squad were not convicts. They were filthy, undisciplined, hard-drinking paratroopers who happened to be some of the bravest men in the 101st Airborne.
The next time you see that photograph of the men in war paint, you will know who they were.
This was the story of the Filthy Thirteen.
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The last generation that fought World War Two is disappearing.
But something else may be disappearing with them. The understanding of what they actually fought for.
Recent surveys suggest many young adults already struggle to place some of the most basic events of the war.
This is what's quietly happening to these memories..🧵1/7
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There were once more than 16 million American veterans of World War Two.
They filled the factories and the parades, coached the baseball teams, taught in the schools, and ran for office.
For most of the last eighty years, if you wanted to know what the war was truly like, you could simply ask one. They were everywhere.
Today, the Department of Veterans Affairs projects that only around 31,000 are still alive. Fewer than one in 500 of those who served.
Soon, there will be nobody left who remembers the landing craft lowering their ramps toward the beaches, the bombers forming up by the hundreds in the cold morning sky, or the telegram arriving at the front door that a family had prayed would never come.
And we are not ready for what happens when the last of those voices falls silent.
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World War Two is still taught in schools, and that matters.
But for many students, one of the largest and most consequential events in all of human history is compressed into a handful of pages near the back of a textbook.
Pearl Harbor. D-Day. Hiroshima. Victory.
A map with arrows. A list of dates to memorize for the examination, and then the class moves on to the next unit.
The problem is not that the facts are wrong.
The problem is that facts alone were never how this was meant to be remembered.
A textbook can tell you that around 2,400 Americans died at Pearl Harbor, or that the first wave at Omaha Beach suffered terrible casualties in the opening minutes.
What it cannot easily do is make you feel the weight of a single one of those men.
The nineteen-year-old who woke up that morning with no idea it was his last.
The friends who watched him go.
The facts can be printed on a page.
The human reality has to be handed down, person to person, and that chain is close to breaking.
In this photo, an old Japanese man laughs with a US Navy fighter squadron aboard an American aircraft carrier, the two of them clutching their heads and joking that they are going bald together.
The other guests had no idea who he was.
He was Saburo Sakai, one of the deadliest fighter pilots Japan ever produced.
This is his story..🧵1/7
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Saburo Sakai was born in 1916 into a family with samurai ancestry, though by his time they were poor farmers. His father died when he was young, and Sakai struggled in school. At sixteen, looking for a way out, he enlisted in the Imperial Japanese Navy.
He found his calling in the air. Accepted into naval pilot training, he graduated at the very top of his class and was presented with a silver watch by the Emperor himself.
By the time the Pacific war began, Sakai was flying the legendary Mitsubishi Zero, and he was extraordinarily good at it.
Over China, the Philippines, and the islands of the South Pacific, he became one of Japan's deadliest fighter pilots, later claiming around 64 aerial victories, and remembered as one of the greatest aces his country ever produced.
But it was a single day in 1942 that would make him a legend.
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On August 7 1942, over Guadalcanal, Sakai spotted what he thought was a formation of enemy fighters and dove to attack.
They were not fighters. They were American dive bombers with rear-facing gunners, and as he closed in, one of those gunners opened fire.
A bullet struck Sakai in the head. It tore across his skull, blinded him in one eye, and left one entire side of his body paralyzed. His canopy shattered, blood poured into his good eye, and his Zero rolled over and fell toward the sea.
Somehow, half-blind and half-paralyzed, Sakai pulled the aircraft out of its dive.
And then he faced an almost impossible task.
He was more than 500 miles from his base at Rabaul, bleeding from a head wound, able to see out of only one eye that kept filling with blood.
In a windowless basement at Pearl Harbor, a man in a bathrobe and slippers and his team broke into a code the Japanese believed was unbreakable.
What they found in it helped hand America the intelligence advantage that turned the entire Pacific war.
Then the Navy buried him for it.
This is the story of Joe Rochefort and the codebreakers..🧵1/7
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When the bombs fell on Pearl Harbor on December 7 1941, Commander Joe Rochefort took it personally. He ran the Navy's code and intelligence unit in Hawaii, and he had not seen the attack coming. He would carry the guilt of that for the rest of his life.
So he threw himself into making sure it never happened again.
Rochefort ran a unit called Station HYPO, hidden in a windowless basement beneath Pearl Harbor. It was a strange, brilliant place. Rochefort himself often worked in a red smoking jacket and carpet slippers pulled over his uniform, went days without leaving the basement or bathing, and slept in a cot in the corner between shifts.
His team was just as unusual. To fill it out, he recruited the entire band from the battleship USS California, which had been knocked out at Pearl Harbor. He believed that musicians, with their gift for spotting patterns, would make superb codebreakers. He was right.
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Their target was the Japanese Navy's main operational code, known to the Americans as JN-25.
It was fiendish. The code was built from tens of thousands of five-digit number groups, each standing for a word or phrase, and the Japanese changed it regularly. One codebreaker compared the work to assembling a jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces permanently missing, in the dark. They never read all of it. They pulled fragments of meaning out of the traffic, piece by piece.
Day after day, for twelve hours or more at a stretch, Rochefort's team worked those fragments. Slowly, painfully, they began to read enough of the enemy's mail to matter.
And by the spring of 1942, they started seeing something enormous taking shape. The Japanese were planning a massive operation against a target they referred to only by a code designation. AF.
Rochefort was certain he knew what AF was. The trouble was convincing anyone else.
Every American fighter in this photo was a patchwork.
A single P-47 Thunderbolt was stitched together from parts made by around 100 different companies, coast to coast, from the aluminum giant ALCOA to a dental drill company.
They built nearly 16,000 of them.
This is the story of how America built the P-47 Thunderbolt..🧵1/6
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The P-47 was a monster. It was the biggest, heaviest, and most expensive single-engine fighter the United States built in the entire war. Empty, it weighed around five tons. Fully loaded for combat, closer to eight.
And it was staggeringly complex. A single Thunderbolt was made up of roughly 36,000 separate parts, held together by around 25,000 rivets. To put that in perspective, a typical American car before the war had about 5,000 parts. Every P-47 was like building seven cars at once, and then making it fly and fight at 40,000 feet.
No single factory could make all of that on its own. So America didn't try.
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Instead, the Thunderbolt was built the way the whole American war economy worked, by spreading the job across the entire country.
Around 100 different companies supplied the pieces. The aluminum for the skin came from ALCOA. The huge Pratt & Whitney R-2800 engine at the heart of the aircraft was so in demand that its own production was farmed out to car makers like Ford, Chevrolet, and Buick. The tires came from B.F. Goodrich in Ohio. The eight .50-caliber machine guns came from Colt.
And the suppliers got stranger from there. General Electric and Maytag made electrical components. The 3M company supplied the tapes and industrial chemicals. And a company that normally made dental drills, S.S. White, contributed the flexible drive shafts its dental technology had perfected.
Trucks and trains hauled all of it, from dozens of states, toward two enormous factories.
He was the most daring submarine captain America had. He snuck into an enemy harbor with nothing but a child's school atlas for a map, and crippled a warship inside it.
His own crew would have followed him into hell.
But one terrible decision on the surface of the Pacific would shadow his name forever.
This is the story of Mush Morton and the USS Wahoo..🧵1/7
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Dudley Walker Morton was from Kentucky, a Naval Academy graduate with a wide jaw and a booming personality. At the academy he had picked up the nickname Mushmouth, soon shortened to Mush, and it stuck for life.
By late 1942 the American submarine force was struggling. Many captains were being too cautious, firing from long range and breaking off at the first sign of danger, and they were sinking very few enemy ships.
Morton was the opposite of cautious. When he took command of the USS Wahoo at the end of 1942, he gathered his crew and gave them a speech that became legendary. He told them that the Wahoo was now an expendable ship, that he intended to take her right into the enemy and sink everything he could, and that any man who did not want to come on those terms had thirty minutes to leave, with no shame and no questions asked.
Not a single man left.
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On his first patrol as captain, in January 1943, Morton was ordered to scout the Japanese harbor at Wewak, in New Guinea. There was just one problem. The Navy had no chart of the harbor.
So the crew improvised. One of the sailors had bought a cheap school atlas in a shop in Australia, and that crude little map was the only reference Morton had. Using it, he took the Wahoo submerged straight into the enemy anchorage, something no American submarine had done before.
Inside, he found a Japanese destroyer. He fired. As the warship spotted his torpedo tracks and turned to charge straight at him, Morton did something almost unheard of. He held his nerve and fired a torpedo directly down the throat of the oncoming destroyer, hitting it head-on and leaving it wrecked and grounded.
He had snuck into an enemy harbor with a school atlas and torn apart a warship inside it, then escaped. The legend of Mush Morton was born.
In October 1944, more than 200 American soldiers from Texas were trapped in a French forest, surrounded by German troops, with no way out.
The unit sent to save them suffered more than 800 casualties doing it.
Those rescuers were Japanese American soldiers, whose own families were imprisoned back home in US internment camps.
This is the story of the 442nd..🧵1/6
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In the fear and chaos after Pearl Harbor, the United States made a decision that many Americans would later come to regret. Around 120,000 people of Japanese ancestry on the West Coast, most of them American citizens, were moved from their homes into internment camps for the duration of the war.
Among them were thousands of young Nisei, American-born sons of Japanese immigrants. They had grown up in the United States. They thought of themselves as Americans, and they wanted the chance to prove it.
In 1943 they got that chance. The Army called for volunteers to form a new all-Nisei combat unit. The response was overwhelming. More than ten thousand men stepped forward, many of them volunteering from inside the very camps where their families were being held.
They became the 442nd Regimental Combat Team. They chose a motto that said everything about them.
Go for Broke.
Bet everything.
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They trained at Camp Shelby in Mississippi and shipped out to Italy in 1944, joining the 100th Infantry Battalion, another Japanese American unit that had already fought so hard it earned the grim nickname the Purple Heart Battalion.
From the start, the Nisei soldiers fought with a fierce determination. They knew that every battle was being watched, and that they were fighting not just the enemy in front of them, but the doubts about their loyalty back home. They were determined to leave no question unanswered.
They drove the Germans through Italy, then into southern France. They earned a reputation across the Army as some of the most relentless, dependable soldiers in Europe. Where the 442nd was sent, the line moved forward.
Then, in October 1944, in the cold and fog of the Vosges Mountains in France, they were handed the mission that would define them.