Price
of Valor: The Life of Audie Murphy
Audie Murphy became the poster child
for timeless American virtues of innocence, humility, honesty,
and steely
courage, and yet he would be haunted by nightmares for the rest of his life.
Starring beside actors like Jimmy Stewart, Gary Cooper, and Audrey Hepburn,
Audie Murphy would become an enormously popular Hollywood star, all the while
suffering from a feeling of emotional numbness that led him to seek thrills and
ultimately die tragically and penniless.
The story of Audie Murphy is really
the story of the effect of war on the individual soldier and how he must handle
“the single most pervasive, traumatic experience of war”: killing and seeing
others killed. David A Smith tells a timeless story: one of heroism and
tragedy. Audie Murphy’s life story is the “cautionary tale of a hero” that the
American public has forgotten.
His grave is marked by a standard
Arlington Cemetery tombstone of white marble, just like the hundreds of
thousands of others. It stands at the end of a row, shaded by the branches of a
massive Willow Oak tree, beside the road that passes north of the amphitheater
near the Tomb of the Unknowns. Groundskeepers built a flagstone walkway around
the tree to accommodate the steady trickle of visitors. Each day, small groups
of people drift over, some of them clutching a map from the visitor center,
obviously searching for the grave. They pause and a few take off their hats.
They speak to each other in hushed tones. Some obviously know more about the
record of achievement that is abbreviated on the front of the stone than do
others. “The Medal of Honor,” one man says softly to his companion. “They don’t
just give those away.”
Seen from afar, among the orderly
ranks and files of headstones this one is indistinguishable from all the
others. Approaching closer, one may notice a small American flag pushed into
the soft ground beside it. Its story of honor and heroism is only hinted at by
the letters inscribed on the gravestone.
Audie L. Murphy occupies a distinct
place in the roster of famous Americans. During his short, troubled life, he
served as an American archetype in at least two ways. First and foremost, he
was a soldier and decorated war hero—the most decorated American soldier of the
Second World War. His actions in World War II were of the sort from which
chroniclers, balladeers, and poets since the days of the ancient Greeks have
composed legends. He was the man charging headlong into fortified enemy
positions, holding his own against an onslaught of enemy soldiers, defying the
odds. Always brave. Always valorous. Always alone.
Second, Audie Murphy was a movie
star. He made nearly fifty movies in a career that spanned twenty-three
years—ten times as long as the war experience that made him famous—and during
his peak of popularity received more fan mail than almost any other actor. The
quality of the movies he made varied widely as he took on westerns, war movies,
and “serious” contemporary scripts. Some directors with whom he worked coaxed
stirring, praiseworthy performances from him that seemed to portend a hopeful
career. In other films, critics would pointedly and acidulously note that he
seemed lost, detached, or simply going through the motions: an actor
distracted, a man unable to engage.
Murphy was not alone in being a
movie star who served in the war. Other leading men like Clark Gable and Jimmy
Stewart did so, although neither was as decorated as Murphy himself would be.
Unlike them or, say, baseball player Ted Williams, Audie Murphy was not an
established star celebrity who went off to war, but instead a poor boy from
Texas who volunteered for the Army in 1942, a year before his eighteenth
birthday. He endured some of the toughest sustained infantry combat in the
European Theater. Few people beyond his division had heard his name when he became
the most decorated soldier of the war and was suddenly hailed as a hero.
In the summer of 1945, his face,
impossibly young and fresh, appeared on the cover of Life magazine. Life at the
time was the supreme arbiter of all things American, the herald and billboard
of the “American Century,” and to appear on its cover was to embody all that
the country wanted to think of itself. More than anyone else, Murphy became the
very incarnation of the average American who went to war, performed valorous
and selfless deeds, and then came home to resume his life—except that in
Murphy’s case, he did not return to the poor, small town, rural Texas that he
knew but to a life in Hollywood and of celebrity.
“War makes strange giant
creatures out of us little routine men who inhabit the earth,” said journalist
Ernie Pyle, who reported the news from the Italian front while Audie Murphy was
fighting there. When the war was done, Murphy was a national hero, and to his
embarrassment and obvious ill-ease he was treated like a dignitary, given
parades, and made to give speeches. Hardly before the shock of being home had
worn off, he found himself summoned to Hollywood by one of the biggest stars in
the movie business.
There were, of course, other
Congressional Medal of Honor winners and many other heroes in the war, but few
became permanent celebrities, let alone of the Hollywood sort; and in Audie
Murphy the tension between the real-life heroism he performed on the
battlefield and the celebrity that was awarded him afterward was almost always
evident.
Jack Valenti, a fellow Texan and
veteran, journalist, and longtime president of the Motion Picture Association
of America, wrote that “the important fact, the significance of Audie Murphy’s
valor, is that he was a simple, ordinary youngster, with no indications or
outcroppings to show the stern courage within him that was shortly to burn as
bright as the glint of the sun.”
Indeed, one of the complexities of
Audie Murphy’s story is that he did seem on the surface so thoroughly simple and
ordinary. It was a central ingredient, even, of his cultural image. What made
him so appealing, however, was not his being average but rather his being
emblematic—the ideal of “everyday American” virtue, an embodiment of Norman
Rockwell America. He was how the country wanted to think of itself.
Yet, lurking below the Norman
Rockwell–like image of Audie Murphy was what we now call “Post-Traumatic Stress
Disorder,” from which he so clearly and devastatingly suffered. During World
War II it was called “battle fatigue” and in the war before that “shell shock.”
Whatever the label, it plagued him for the rest of his life after the war. It
was a condition which at the time was little understood, and for the treatment
of which there was almost no help available. He was aware of how it affected
him and sometimes gave way to bitterness about it.
Killing, psychologists say, is “the
single most pervasive, traumatic experience of war.” Second to this is the
emotional distress experienced by observing violence and the death of friends
and comrades. Murphy had done more than his fair share of killing and seeing
others killed. Despite an appealingly fresh-faced and youthful appearance that
stayed with him well into his adult years, his wartime trauma left him scarred.
There was always a profound melancholy just under his surface along with a
fatalism that was completely at odds with his image. The tension made him an
interesting actor, but it came at a high cost.
“Before the war, I’d get excited and
enthused about a lot of things,” he once admitted to film director John Huston,
“but not any more.” Murphy often appeared withdrawn and depressed, unable to
focus too long on any one task. Overwhelmed by pessimism, he was subject to
hair-raising bouts of temper. He was tormented by nightmares. Within a week of
flying home he was reliving the war in his dreams. He would wake up yelling for
his buddies who had died in his arms. He slept with the light on, and then
resorted to sleeping pills. Military historian Max Hastings described Audie
Murphy as “a psychological mess of epic proportions.”
Some of Murphy’s torments also had
their roots in his childhood, which was marked by profound insecurities. Murphy
came of age during the Great Depression and the uncertainty of those years left
their mark on him. In his acclaimed book The Greatest Generation, journalist
Tom Brokaw noted that children like Audie Murphy “watched their parents lose
their businesses, their farms, their jobs, their hopes. They had learned to
accept a future that played out one day at a time.” Murphy never looked far
into the future; the present was always enough of a challenge. His father’s
periodic absences and the strain they put on his mother also affected him
deeply. He was both fiercely proud and remarkably withdrawn. Even when he was a
young boy, adults who knew him sensed his pride, his sensitivity, and his
anger.
But it was Murphy’s war trauma that
shaped his adult life more than anything else, and his responses to the
distinctive stresses of war are not unique. A friend of mine who teaches at the
U.S. Army Command and General Staff College once told me that there were
certain clips from movies he refused to show to any of his classes in which
there were veterans. The images and, even more, the sounds of combat, he said,
could trigger terrible and unpredictable reactions. Given this, the more one
knows about Audie Murphy’s story the more difficult it is to watch To Hell and
Back, the 1955 film version of his life based on his memoir in which he starred
as himself. Not only was a fragile and lonely soul made to relive the pain of
his mother’s death, but amid Hollywood-choreographed explosions and gunfire he
was made to relive the deaths of his closest companions as well.
In the 1959 movie No Name on the
Bullet, a psychological drama in the form of a western, Murphy plays a hired
killer named John Gant who has grown numb from his line of work, and speaks of
death with cold detachment. In this movie, as in so many others he made,
Murphy’s character is low-key, a man of few words, a distant look in his eyes;
a man who has been drained by his experiences.
“I can’t make my mind accept that
Gant is the vicious killer I know him to be,” says the town doctor at one
point. “I’ve played chess with him. I’ve talked with him. I found myself liking
him.” Similarly, it might be hard to recognize not only the war hero but the
tormented veteran in the small, quiet young man who stepped off the Army
transport plane returning home to instant fame. “A man can’t escape his past,”
another character remarks of John Gant. That certainly became true for Audie
Murphy.
The tree that shades Murphy’s
tombstone in Arlington Cemetery, and on hot summer days provides a welcome
relief to those who come to find his final resting place and pay their respects,
also hints at the shadow the war cast over his life. His story is one of
triumph, trauma, and ultimately tragedy. He was a man who, without ever
intending to be, had to live out his life as the most decorated soldier of
World War II and one of the most celebrated heroes in American history.
Dr. David A. Smith is a senior
lecturer in American history at Baylor University in Waco, Texas and author of
the new book “The Price of Valor: The Life of Audie Murphy,
America's Most Decorated Hero of World War II”. This excerpt is published with the author's permission.
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