By John J. Miller
Thursday, April 04, 2019
Troy, Mich. —
At sunrise, following a sleepless night of trudging through the cold swamps of
northern Russia, a couple of men from Detroit made breakfast. Corporal Morris
Foley and Private Bill Henkelman brewed tea and opened a can of corned beef. As
Foley prepared to finish the last of the beef, Henkelman spoke up: “Let’s save
enough for after while.” Foley refused. “There might not be no after while.”
It turned out there wasn’t, at least not for Foley. Later
that morning — on September 20, 1918, by the village of Seltso on the Dvina
River — his company formed a skirmish line and charged a nest of Russian
machine gunners. Bullets ripped through Foley’s face and neck. “Foley had his
jaw shot off,” reported a sergeant. Somehow, the young man survived his brutal
injury long enough to join a retreat. He died near his original position and
was buried close to where he had scarfed down his beef.
Today, Foley’s recovered remains rest in Troy, Mich., in
the 200-acre White Chapel Memorial Park Cemetery, alongside the graves of 55
other American soldiers who died fighting Communists in the frozen wilds of
northern Russia in 1918 and 1919. They’re marked by one of the most striking
sculptures to be seen anywhere, let alone at a cemetery: a snarling polar bear,
carved in white marble by the artist Leon Hermant. It’s a tribute to what some
U.S. soldiers took to calling themselves a century ago: the “Polar Bears.” They
were the first and only Americans to fight a shooting war against Russian
Communists.
Few of their countrymen know anything about the Polar
Bears. Ronald Reagan didn’t. “Tonight, I want to speak to the people of the
Soviet Union,” he said in his State of the Union address in 1984. “It’s true
our governments have had serious differences. But our sons and daughters have
never fought each other in war.” Richard Nixon made the same mistake in 1972,
in a televised speech from the Kremlin: “Our two countries have much in common.
Most important of all, we have never fought each other in war.” Yet more than
5,000 Americans did fight the Russians, in what was at once an odd coda to
World War I, a minor episode in the civil war that followed the Russian
Revolution of 1917, and a prelude to the main geopolitical event of the second
half of the 20th century: the Cold War between the United States and the Soviet
Union.
“They felt forgotten by their government,” says Mike
Grobbel, a retired GM executive whose grandfather served in Russia. “Our job is
to make sure they’re not forgotten.” Grobbel runs the Polar Bear Memorial
Association, which manages an extensive website and commemorates the Polar
Bears every Memorial Day with a ceremony at White Chapel. It takes an effort
such as his in part because the Polar Bears are all gone: The last veteran died
years ago.
If World War I for most Americans was “over there” — a
term drawn from a popular song — then the fighting just below the Arctic Circle
in Russia was “way over there.” A popular account of the conflict, The Ignorant Armies, by E. M. Halliday,
took its title from the final line of “Dover Beach,” Matthew Arnold’s
mid-19th-century poem: “And we are here as on a darkling plain / Swept with
confused alarms of struggle and flight, / Where ignorant armies clash by
night.” As Halliday explained, “few campaigns have ever been fought by American
soldiers in greater ignorance of what they were about.”
The man who ordered the mission didn’t seem to have a
strong sense of purpose. Woodrow Wilson offered “a classic example of
presidential vacuity and short-sightedness,” writes James Carl Nelson in his
just-released book The Polar Bear
Expedition. Wilson’s decision to dispatch the troops came in the wake of
Russia’s peace treaty with Germany, which shut down the eastern front and
allowed the kaiser to turn the focus of his warmaking westward. The basic idea
was to support an Allied effort to maintain a front in the east, to connect
with a Czech force that found itself stranded in Russia, and to recruit and
train Russian locals to fight against the new Communist government led by Lenin
in Moscow. Yet Wilson’s own statements about U.S. goals were rambling and contradictory.
George F. Kennan, the legendary diplomat, savaged them in his 1958 book The Decision to Intervene.
The grand strategy didn’t much matter to the ordinary
soldiers of the Army’s 339th Infantry Regiment. Comprising mostly men from
Michigan — and sometimes called “Detroit’s Own” — it gathered initially near
Battle Creek, at Camp Custer. This may have seemed a bad omen, with the memory
of General George Custer’s defeat at the Battle of Little Bighorn about as
fresh in their minds as the fall of Saigon is in ours. Whatever the case, as
they shipped across the Atlantic Ocean in the summer of 1918, most of them
assumed that they were bound for the trenches of France.
General John J. Pershing, commander of the American
Expeditionary Forces in Europe, had a different idea. He figured that the
Michiganders, accustomed to cold forests, were fit for the duty the president
had ordered. Once in England, in perhaps another ominous sign, the men received
a briefing from Ernest Shackleton, the Antarctic explorer best known for his
amazing survival story after ice crushed his ship, the Endurance, in 1915.
Finally they headed around the North Cape of Scandinavia
and into the Russian port of Archangel, where the first of them disembarked on
September 5. Before long, they were in a strange land fighting “Bolos,” their
nickname for the Bolsheviks. They kept on fighting right through Armistice Day
on November 11. As soldiers on the western front set down their weapons and
celebrated peace, the men of Company B found themselves locked in combat
against the Bolos near the village of Toulgas, with no end in sight. And things
were about to get worse: Winter was coming.
A little more than a century earlier, Napoleon had
learned the hard way about the dangers of the Russian winter. Adolf Hitler
would discover them anew in the 1940s. The American effort of 1918–19 lacked
the ambition of those invasions, but it encountered the same hazards in an
environment of permanent polar vortex. Temperatures dropped below 0 degrees
Fahrenheit and continued to plunge. Americans could perform outdoor guard duty
for only a few minutes at a time. They took care not to touch their bare skin
to metal weapons for fear of freezing it and tearing it off. Supplies were
limited as well. In a memoir, A Michigan
Polar Bear Confronts the Bolsheviks, Private Godfrey Anderson describes
wrapping the corpses of soldiers in blankets, laying them in coffins, and
closing the lids. Later, a sergeant berates him: “Dead men don’t need no
blankets.” Daylight was in short supply, too. In December at these high
latitudes, the darkness lasted 20 hours.
It was enough to sap the morale even of patriotic troops.
On November 14, Colonel George E. Stewart, commander of the forces, requested
an immediate withdrawal. “We have performed most excellent service under the
most trying conditions of cold and snow and wet and miry marshes,” he cabled.
“Original object of expedition no longer exists.” His pleas changed nothing and
the Polar Bears became confused about why they were still fighting and dying
when the war supposedly had ended. As the weeks wore on, reports of mutinies
made their way into the press. Historians have differed on the seriousness of
the insubordination — some claim that reporters sensationalized ordinary disgruntlement
— but there can be no doubt that the men badly wanted to return home.
Amid the frustration, many Polar Bears performed acts of
heroism. Twenty-three received the Distinguished Service Cross. One of them was
Corporal Clement Grobbel, the grandfather of the man who runs today’s memorial
association. Another was Sergeant Aulbert Cox, who rose from his hospital bed,
grabbed a Lewis gun, and fought off enemy troops who had launched a surprise
attack from the rear. Corporal Robert Green earned recognition for dashing
across 200 yards of open space and charging alone into a building, where he
captured 14 Bolo snipers. In all, some 235 Polar Bears lost their lives on the
soon-to-be-forgotten expedition.
On February 16, 1919, Wilson ordered the Americans out of
Russia. Nothing could happen immediately because of frozen waterways, and so
the extraction took until summer. When a few of the homeward-bound Polar Bears
reached the wharves in the French port of Brest, someone recognized them: “That
must be the outfit that went to Archangel. Wonder what ever happened to them.”
S. L. A. Marshall, then a young man but later a brigadier general, remarked:
“They had to return to remind us that they had ever gone.”
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