 Words at War presents To All Hands starring its author, Lieutenant John Mason Brown. We were two days out from the United States when I was summoned to the bridge of our flagship by rare Admiral Allen G. Kirk. Mr. Brown, I want to talk to you about your battle station. Yes, sir. You may have seen that you're listed as bridge announcer. This means that I want you to be up here on the bridge during the action and report it play by play to the men below. You know, only one man out of ten on a modern ship in combat can see what's going on. I want you to do their seeing for them. There's a democratic war, and I believe that men who are willing to give their lives for democracy have the right to know what's going on. Informing them will be one of your duties. Suppose you start this afternoon by broadcasting to the ship on the formation of the convoy. That was the beginning of these talks to the men of the spell gun, Admiral Kirk's flagship. Of course, Spellvin was not her name, as every playgoer knows. George Spellvin is a name always to be found on theatre programs when a performer does not wish to have his identity revealed. Security demands that our ship have this same passion for anonymity. But at any rate, this is the record of a void she made long ago and the part she played in the invasion of Sicily, the record as I kept it in the daily talks from Admiral Kirk's Bridge, talks that our public address system carried to all parts of the ship, to all hands. Words at War. The national broadcasting company in cooperation with the Council on Books and Wartime presents another in its series of radio adaptations of the outstanding books of this war. Tonight we bring you an unusual story. A day-to-day record reported to the hundreds of men below deck on a certain flagship that participated in the invasion of Sicily, reported by the well-known dramatic critic, author and lecturer, John Mason Brown, now Lieutenant John Mason Brown, United States Naval Reserve. Tonight you share the experience of the men below deck on the Spellvin, for you will hear, just as they did, John Mason Brown himself in excerpts from his new book, To All Hands, which he subtitles an amphibious adventure. So now, imagine yourself a seaman below deck on the Spellvin. Yeah, below, where you don't know if it's raining or if the sun's shining. Where you are, where you're going, whether you're alone or in a convoy. If you get into action, you don't know what's going on. Almost drives you nuts wondering. We were wondering about a lot of things on the Spellvin. The day we heard the voice come over the PA. To all hands. To all hands. Hands. This is Lieutenant Brown speaking from the navigation bridge. I'm here to see for those of you who cannot see what is going on. Take, for example, the present moment. In convoy formation, we are zigzagging our way for protection across the Atlantic and ocean at war. We are making several hundred sea miles a day. The ships we convoy are divided into columns, which we lead. And the rest of which, on the port and starboard sides, are cruisers. These columns are several ships deep. Trailing them is another cruiser. And screening this convoy are destroyers, lots of them. Some far ahead, serving as pickets. Others protecting the flanks. Still others the rear. With us, we have oilers. Amphibious supply ships. One sea going tugged. And over a dozen troopships. We have excellent air coverage. We are on our way. Destroyers, cruisers, troopships. Hey, this is something big. Yeah, where are we going? A dozen troopships, he said. That's a lot of troops. Yeah, but where are we taking them? We've got plenty of air protection, he said. This thing's big, I tell you. Where are we going? That's what I want to know. To all hands, you must want to know where you are going. Hey, that thing is psychic. This much I know about where we are going. This much I have permission to divulge. We are not. I repeat, we are not. Headed for either of the Dakotas or for the Indian or Pacific oceans. May I give you a hint? Before too many days or weeks, we should see friendly planes sent out from the Old World to protect us. Even as today, those of you who have been topside, have been seeing airplanes dispatched from the New World for the same reason. But where in the Old World are we headed? The Old World is almost as large as its past is long, and its coastline is almost as irregular. Where indeed, for the present at least, this must remain a secret. So let us be patient in our suspense. In our suspense because we shall know in the war's good time. It helped. It helped a lot down below to hear the voice coming over the loudspeaker, telling us what it looked like outside and what the news was, how Pantleria had surrendered, how the RAF was bombing Sicily and the Italian mainland, telling us all kinds of little things, making fun about things on the ship. He even joked about submarines. But one night he was serious and no wonder. To all hands, this is Lieutenant Brown speaking from the navigation bridge. I urge you to listen attentively. Tonight, on the Spelvin's bulletin boards, a message from Admiral Kirk will make our mission crystal clear. Admiral Kirk's message is addressed to all hands. It reads, We are sailing to Sicily. We are going to land a division of army troops on the southern coast of the island on beaches near a small town called Scaliite. We, in our division, are only a part of the forces involved in this attack, but we have a place of honor. To the west of us will be other American forces, and to our east will be the British. We are at the hinge. Ahead of us into the west, there will be parachute troops. Covering the operation at sea will be a strong British battle force. We shall be opposed. The army troops have a tough assignment and a very important one in the overall plan. Our job is to make it less tough for them by doing our part well. We must put them where they want to go, on time in full force. We must support them by gunfire, unload their supplies and equipment, care for any of their wounded. To do this, we must also take care of ourselves. We shall be busy. Good luck. A.G. Kirk. Yesterday was our last Sunday before battle. Few of us will ever forget it. All three services were crowded. Men and officers gathered bare-headed around improvised altars, under no compulsion but inner need. Do you remember all the times you have sung onward Christian soldiers? Not reverentially? Not really bothering about its implications? Nearly pleased to release what is triumphant almost gay in its assurance. The assurance was there yesterday, but the gaiety was gone. If the music was more moving than the sermons, it is because music leaves unsaid what we are afraid to say or are awkward in the saying. It leaves those things unsaid, but blessedly not unsung. Now the period of let's pretend is over. The reality is upon us. This drama so slow in starting is now galloping to its climax. The day, the battle day, is near. And the days which follow it are days which offer no choice. They must succeed. And down below, every day down below on the Spelvin, we listen for the voice over the loudspeakers as we went about our jobs. Listen for to all hands. Each hour, the hour of hours, the battle hour is almost here. It's now 11.30 p.m. and the attack is scheduled to begin at 2.25 a.m. We are nearing Sicily now, still moving toward it in the darkness. It will not be long before we reach our anchorage off Scolite on Sicily's southern shore. We have seen something of a miracle tonight. Things have looked bad for us. Very bad these past eight hours or so. By some ugly mischance, the first storm we have had in the Atlantic or the Mediterranean overtook us this afternoon. The gale increased until as darkness came on, the waves swelled into more and more sizable mountains. The prospect of trying to send landing craft into the beaches against such odds was disturbing to put it mildly. Then suddenly, a little while ago, the miracle of which I spoke occurred. The wind died down almost as a broccoli as it had starved. The sea is still choppy, but compared to what it was only a short time ago, it is as quiet as if God had put his hand upon it. This ought to be the best of Omen's. Perhaps you can hear it, that distant gunfire. Fires are boning on the beaches ahead. These fires mean that our planes have been busy. Scolite, our objective, must be about five miles away from us in the darkness now. If our first sight of Sicily has consisted of fires boning in the night on a land we cannot see, there is a reason for this. According to plans, the Northwest African Air Force was scheduled to conduct an air offensive throughout the whole Mediterranean area prior to our coming. That crunchy bumpy noise you may have heard was our anchor on the way down. It's blacker than coal up here on the bridge. Our ships are slipping into position. They're gathering like conspirators. We cannot see them, but we can feel them. The way in a dark room you know someone has entered. He's creeping past you or is standing next to you. It's 1.30 a.m. now. A great wave of planes. Our planes has just swept over us. These were our transports coming out. They mean that our paratroopers have landed on Sicily and are all ready at work. Small boats should be in the water now. From transport after transport, these small craft are being lowered. They must be filled with anxious men, the small boatmen, a point and glory of this... Down below we waited for every word. We kept looking at our watches. I got 240. HR is just five minutes off. It'll be long now. To all hands. Hey, wait a minute. Listen. Those deep, throated, distant guns you may hear don't belong to us. They are British and come from the east coast. From the sound of them, the show must be on there and on in a big way. It's 3.15 a.m. The sky has become fairly active. Some red and white tracers have been chasing one another inland, following a high arched course. Three enemy parishion flares drop from a plane or planes coming in from west of Skylity have been hung off our starboard bow. The stage is set. The curtain is scheduled to go up in a few minutes now. Down below on the spelvin we waited. They couldn't see anything, but they were letting us in on what was happening. For July was never like this. These are the biggest fireworks I've ever seen. Our guns have really been speaking up, and it looks like they're much more than just big talkers. The sky is as bright as a summer parasol, with the sunlight streaming through it. The darkness is losing a battle soon. Light is everywhere, never for long, always changing, always in the swiftest motion. Then the night seeks back, only to be driven away again. Overhead, it's all dots and dashes which you can see. Livering as they race to rise and fall, dots and dashes and streamers of heat and rockets overtaking rockets. Light and noise. The noises are as different as the lights. There's a frog-like glump, a flak, as it thubs through the water after a brief splash. There's a sign in a whistle coming from something I don't know what. There are big guns, little guns, medium-sized guns, all of them fluent, all of them demanding to be heard from. The big guns bellow in a full, damp, dull tone. They sound the way a goldfish bowl might sound. If water and all, it exploded right inside you. Under this flaming cover, the small landing boats have been pushing into shore. Right as the sky is, the water is still so dark that I've been able to see the Viking outlines of only a few of our little boats. But once in a while, in the dim, the spot of their motors has been heard. It's 4.45 a.m. now. Low on the spellvin, we waited to hear the word. We wanted to hear the most. We didn't just wait, of course. There was plenty for us to do. And it helped to be in on the know, even though we couldn't see what was happening. And finally, a little after five in the morning, we heard what we were waiting to hear. To all hands, it's 5.15 a.m. and I have good news. Word has just been received that initial landings have been accomplished on all of our beaches. This means that the little boats from each of our transports have pushed in wave by wave to their designated landing places and that our troops have established themselves on shore. For the details, we shall have to wait. What matters is that the Sicilian invasion is by now a fact. The sky is still noon bright up here in splotches. There have been more flares, more enemy planes, too. One of these has falconed down towards the spellvin. It's motor's angry as if to dive bombers. It was a rumble, a roar, a rumble again and a bad moment. As a matter of fact, being anchored here in the light waiting has given us a lot of bad moments, though thank God so far only to think about. It's dawnish up here now on the bridge. Sicily's coastline has just begun to take shape. It's still indistinct, still part of the vanishing night. Far inland to starboard, the kind of mountain Mount Etna might be if only it were within seeing range is slowly working its way down into the dawn. The pink-blue daylight is creeping down to the beaches. Expect to hear birds. Instead, the sky rattles with anti-aircraft fire and the hurried booming of the big guns on the cruisers and the destroyers. The shoreline also rumbles every now and then with battle-nots' noises like a kettle drum. You must have heard that explosion directly ahead of us. A great blob of light has just bleached and reddened the sky, tearing the night into shreds. It was followed by that blast, more sullen and deafening than any we have so far heard, and then scattered across the sky with a ship from the task force to the west of us. Now the German planes which got that ship are flocking towards us. There are not many, but enough. Say six, flying low, leaving a trail of big splashes behind them in the water where their bombs have fallen. One of them slanted down across our bow, barely missing the cruiser off our port side. No more damage. They're going now. One man in ten. That's the percentage. One man in ten aboard a big warship actually sees the battle. The rest are at their posts below. Well, for us below on the Spelvin, it was a long night, a hard night, but not half as bad as it might have been if we had to just wonder about one without ever really knowing. Of course, we wondered about a lot of things anyway. We still couldn't help wondering how it looked up there. It's now 6.30 a.m. You can see Scaliete, our objective to port. It's a group of drab white houses clustered around a church tower. The beaches on either side could be beaches seen in the freshness of any early morning, if it were not for the little boats nudging into them and the swarming docks visible through binoculars on the sands. The fields and the slight hills backing these beaches could be any peaceful hills and fields if it were not for the smoke rising here and there from fires burning on them even so. They look almost as tranquil as if they were the contour maps increased in scale and come to life. The sea and the sky are different. They are full of war. The ships in our task force are all around us. They look refreshing by the morning sun and are unhurt. Our gunners continue to pivot covering whatever passes in the sky. It's 7.15 a.m. now. We're weighing anchor to move in closer to shore. Everyone tops out has been nibbling on or at K-Rations and feels the better for coffee with its illusion of breakfast. Most of the shore batteries have been silenced due to the spectacular accuracy of naval gunnery. One by one they have been snuffed out like candles. Some jeeps have been lowered into the landing boats panting alongside of us and the LCTs are now going in rolling quite a bit and crowded with boys in khaki only a few of whom look seasick and are holding their heads. These LCTs have been escorted and given fire cover by our destroyers. The army is leaving us in large numbers. As it does so, one of our big cruisers is thundering away at an inland target and a huge fire is burning on the beach to port. Some more coffee, Slim? No, I got enough for a while. It's quite a night, huh? It's quite a night, yeah. But we did okay, huh? What, it's set over the speaker? Sure we did okay. To all hands. I am, for the moment, all's quiet. We have just dropped anchor again and after shaking hands with Admiral Kirk General Middleton of the 45th Division has gone ashore. A message from the shore says considerable artillery and prisoners taken. That's good news to sleep on and the Chief of Staff urges that you do sleep today, your duty is permitting and sleep as long as possible. It should be a happy night. It should be a happy sleep. Brother, it will be. That was just one night. There were others off Sicily before our job was done. More nights when the big guns shook the ship and we listened for the voice to tell us how we were doing. We were doing all right and then suddenly our job was done. We were leaving Sicily and it came over the loudspeaker that the reason we were pulling out from Sicily and landing our cargo ships were unloaded there was no point to us sticking around as targets for enemy planes. And then it was official about how we did our jobs to all hands. Gentlemen, grab hold of your chests and prepare to expand them as for your shoulders throw them back. A dispatch from Admiral Hewitt Commander in Chief U.S. Naval Forces North African waters has reached the spell then the ships and units in the Western Task Force. It reads due to careful planning, excellent seamanship, gunfire and engineering and a high standard of proficiency and devotion to duty by all hands the most difficult and complicated task of landing our troops on hostile shores has been successfully accomplished. I consider that all from the Task Force commanders to the lowest weightings have performed splendidly and are deserting the highest praise. Well done. It is now our duty to support, maintain and build up the forces which have landed. Carry on. After a battle the first thing a guy wants to do is talk about it right home about it. We were on our way back from Sicily and the word went out that we could write letters to be mailed from Africa. They even told us what we could say on the letters. You cannot say that you have been in Sicily, in the Mediterranean, in Africa or in the Atlantic. You cannot say you were in action. You cannot say that you took Sicily single-handed or even in good company. You cannot mention the weather. You cannot say where you were, where you were going, what you have been doing or what you are expected to do. In other words, you cannot To all hands gentlemen, this is a moment of farewell. Many of the flag are leaving the spell bin. We have been transferred to another ship. There is an old saying that fish and guests stink after three days. We have been with you a little more than two months. But though we may be parting company we cannot part with our joint memories. After all, we have served together in the amphibious forces under Admiral Kirk. We have eaten K-Rations together and they are enough to cement any friendship. We have dodged submarine packs in each other's company, taken inoculations together, zigzagged in unison across the Atlantic, drunk the same bad wines in Africa, spoken the same bad French, seen the same shorelines, heard the same flak, been lit by the same German flares and scanned the same tracer bullets. No matter where we go in the future a part of us will always be spliced to the spell bin. This is our St. Crispian's Day. It was the day on which the armies of an English king Henry V faced and vanquished the forces of Charles VI of France. It was Henry V spoken for by Shakespeare who speaks for the pride which each of us will know in the coming years because of our being here in this company now changed the names in the drumbeat of Shakespeare's singing station verse and you will I think see what I mean and feel what I feel. Here is Shakespeare's King Henry speaking on the eve of an ancient English holiday vanishing despair and igniting a proper pride in tested men. If we are marked to die we are enough to do our country loss and if to live the fewer men there of honor oh do not wish for more rather proclaim it Westmoreland through my host that he which hath no stomach to this fight let him depart his passport shall be made and crowns for convoy put into his purse. We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is called the feast of christian. He who lives this day and comes safe home will stand a tiptoe in this day's name and rouse him at the name of christian. He that shall live this day and see old age will yell on the vigil feast his neighbors and say tomorrow is saint christian then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars and say these wounds I had on christian's day. He will teach his son and christian, christian shall near go by from this day to the ending of the world but we in it shall be remembered we few, we happy few we band of brothers for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother be he near so vile this day shall gentle his condition and gentleman in england think themselves at coast they were not here and hold their manhoods cheap while any speak but fought with us upon saint christian's day and so men of the spell then top side and below we who have had our christian day together we of the flag say farewell, farewell and scolite these have been words at war another in the series of radio adaptations of important books of this war tonight john mason brown distinguished dramatic critic author and lecturer and now lieutenant john mason brown usnr acted as narrator in portions of his own book to wall hands just published words at war is presented each tuesday evening at this time by the national broadcasting company and the independent radio stations associated with the nbc network in cooperation with the council on books in wartime this program came to you from new york this is the national broadcasting company