Donovan was last of real heroes

By David Maurer

Published: September 22, 2008

A lowering night sky was a fitting backdrop for a talk about to be delivered by a distinguished white-haired gentlemen.

It has been raining off and on throughout the day of April 15, 1953. The lights shining near the entrance of the University of Virginia’s Maury Hall Auditorium made the wet sidewalk glisten.

William J. Donovan wasn’t a man much bothered by inclement weather, or physical discomfort for that matter. He had proved that time and again throughout his military career, which started with service in World War I and culminated in creating and directing the Office of Strategic Services during World War II.

Donovan had been invited by the Student Legal Forum to speak at the university on the subject of foreign policy problems. Although he was practicing law in New York by then, he still was an active member of the intelligence community.

Eisenhower’s approval

Shortly before receiving the invitation to speak here, Donovan had been appointed by the Eisenhower administration to do what he could to stop the flow of strategic materials to the Soviet Union. As the head of the OSS, which had the responsibility of conducting espionage and operations behind enemy lines during World War II, he was well versed in covert activities.

Those who turned out to hear Donovan speak that night would have known they were going to hear from an authority on international problems and solutions. They weren’t likely to get much of a look at the inner man, because that wasn’t the speaker’s style.

Donovan was one of America’s authentic heroes, driven not by personal ego but by fierce patriotism. As the commander of the famous “Fighting 69th” Infantry Regiment in World War I he was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for bravery on Oct. 15, 1918, near Landres-et-St.-Georges, France.

Refused to leave

Despite being seriously wounded in the leg, Donovan refused to leave his men. When German troops made a fierce attack against the regiment’s position, he grabbed his bullhorn and bellowed, “They can’t get me, and they can’t get you.”

Encouraged by their commander’s confidence and fighting spirit, the American troops held. The fighting quickly became a face-to-jowl encounter with slashing knives, plunging bayonets and clubbed weapons doing their grisly work.

Beneath the eerie cast of aerial flares and blinding flashes of explosions, Donovan coolly directed mortar fire onto the enemy. Slowly at first, and then with a rush, the Americans turned the tide on the

Germans, driving them back into their fortified positions.

Donovan didn’t allow the medics to remove him from the field of battle until he was certain the position was secured. Before the war ended, he also had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, the Distinguished Service Medal and three Purple Hearts. The fighting commander also earned a nickname, much to his chagrin, that would be with him for the remainder of his life — “Wild Bill.”

Donovan was born in Buffalo, N.Y., on New Year’s Day 1883. So it was a real homecoming on April 28, 1919, when he led his troops down Fifth Avenue in New York City as more than 1 million people cheered.

Later that night, after the cheers had faded into history, Donovan, accompanied by his brother, Vincent, had driven out to Camp Mills to check on his men for the last time. It had been from this camp where they had departed for France, 644 of them never to return. After making sure his men had everything they needed, Donovan said goodbye. He then walked with his brother over to the deserted barracks where the 69th had been billeted before leaving for France.

Decades later in the biography “The Last Hero: Wild Bill Donovan,” author Anthony Cave Brown, revealed what happened. He wrote that the brothers had stood silently in the darkness listening to distant voices singing “In the Good Old Summertime.”

That had been the song Donovan’s men had sung as they headed into one of their fiercest battles. The song ended and after a long silence the colonel finally spoke.

“When I think of all the boys I have left behind me who died out of loyalty to me, it’s too much,” Donovan said in a quiet voice.

And there in the darkness, with his brother next to him, he wept. For the rest of his life he never forgot how dear the price of freedom is and that it often has to be paid with the blood of our finest.

On that dreary evening in 1953 the greatest threat to freedom in the world was the spread of communism. Donovan told his audience that the most important thing the United States could do in that regard was to keep the Communists off balance.

He said the nation had to start preparing to wage a new type of war “where success would not be measured in terms of cities destroyed or fortresses captured, but in the psychological effect that they would create.”

Donovan clearly saw that battles are fought not just on air, sea and land, but in the minds of men as well. He also knew that the “center of gravity of world affairs has moved to the United States, and it is there to stay whether we want it or not.”

The former major general concluded his remarks with a fatherly observation and a bit of advice.

“We are a people who want to be liked,” Donovan said. “But we must realize in our role as leader that our friendship will be questioned and our sincerity challenged time and again.

“The only thing we can do is to abide by the truth as we know it.”

Donovan died from atrophy of the brain on Feb. 8, 1959. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

Not long before his death a friend had dropped by to pay Donovan a visit. The visitor found him looking out a window and humming “In the Good Old Summertime.”

The last official event Donovan attended was the unveiling of his full-length oil portrait at CIA headquarters in Langley. The nation’s intelligence agency had grown out of the OSS. Maj. Corey Ford was at the ceremony and reported that a remarkable transformation had occurred when Donovan saw the portrait. He said the eyes brightened, the stooped shoulders straightened and the commander of old reappeared if only briefly. Not much later Donovan was “born into eternity.” When President Eisenhower heard of his old friend’s passing he simply said, “What a man. We have lost the last hero.”