Maps

Map: 1940. (Source: © Andrew Buchanan. Map drawn by Max Muller.)

Map: 1941.

Map: 1942.

Map: US air transport command trunk routes, 1942.

Map: 1943.

Map: 1944.

Map: 1945.

Figures

This book was made possible by the contributions of numerous students, colleagues, and friends. It benefited – whether they know it or not – from the collective participation of hundreds of students who have taken my class on World War II at the University of Vermont over the last 10 years. In particular, I would like to thank the students who took part in an informal seminar on the first few chapters: they include Alex Ellis, Colby Fisher, Sarah Jauris, Oliver Moore, and Jacob Reich. These undergraduates were joined by Bill Ryan and Richard Piliero, lifelong students who have audited my classes more times than they care to remember. A draft was discussed at an informal seminar held at the Grange Hall in my hometown of Whallonsburg over a long upstate New York winter: participants included: Andrea Barret, Mary‐Nell Bockman, Ted Cornell, Barry Goldstein, Rev. Craig Hacker, Adam Reed, David Reuther, Margie Reuther, Bethany Teitelbaum, Richard Teitelbaum, and Colin Wells. I also thank Mike Baumann for his constructive criticism.

My colleagues in the History Department at the University of Vermont heard a paper on this project soon after I started writing, and their enthusiasm convinced me that I was on the right track. In particular my thanks go to Paul Deslandes, Erik Esselstrom, Melanie Gustafson, Jonathan Huener, Abby McGowan, Sarah Osten, Nicole Phelps, and Amani Whitfield for supplying all kinds of useful idea, insights, and information. I am also grateful to other scholars and friends who read and commented on all or part of the manuscript, including Tom Buchanan and Peter Wilson in Oxford, Marco Maria Aterrano in Naples, Pablo del Hierro in Maastricht, and Scott Waterman in Vermont. My thanks go to Ann Pfau for tracking down the image of the GI protests, to Capt. James C. Hare and the 57th Fighter Group Association for the picture of the Italian partisans in Verona, and Andrew Stewart for the Indian soldiers in Asmara. The maps are based on the orthoapsidal projection created by Erwin Raisz, and the base map was the work of Carlos Furuti; UVM student Max Muller added all the details. I thank them for their work. I am also indebted to series editor Catherine Epstein for her constant encouragement; to the three unknown scholars who reviewed and improved the manuscript; and to the production team at Wiley for their timely and accurate work: they include Janani Govindankutty and Shyamala Venkateswaran in India, Brigitte Lee Messenger in the UK, and Jennifer Manias in the United States.

Matsushita Kazutoshi fought a very long war. Born in a fishing village on the Japanese island of Kyushu in 1923, Matsushita was conscripted into Japan's Kwantung Army in 1944. He took part in Operation Ichigō, the last and largest Japanese land offensive of the war in China. Ichigō dealt harsh blows to Chiang Kai‐shek's Guomindang (Nationalist) army, but it also exhausted the Japanese. Matsushita deserted, only to be captured by the Guomindang, who enlisted him in their army. When civil war flared between the Guomindang and the Chinese Communist Party in 1946, Matsushita was captured again. This time, he joined the Communist‐led People's Liberation Army (PLA). Matsushita was impressed by the way Communist fighters treated civilians, and he fought with the PLA until it defeated the Guomindang in 1949. Even then his war was not over. In 1950, Matsushita joined the Chinese People's Volunteer Force that crossed the frozen Yalu River to join North Korea in its war against the American‐backed South. He fought in the brutal winter battles around the Changjin (Chosin) Reservoir and was eventually captured by the Americans in August 1951. He was a prisoner of war until the 1953 armistice. He finally returned home the following year, by which time his family had given him up for dead.

Matsushita's odyssey was truly remarkable. He was away for 10 years and served in three different armies before surrendering to a fourth. He fought in desperate battles, witnessed devastation on a vast scale, and participated in a world‐changing revolution. Matsushita's journey was unique, but it also offers a concentrated reflection of the experiences of millions of people around the world. During the interlocking series of conflicts we know as World War II, “Burma Boys” from British‐ruled West Africa fought with the British‐Imperial Army in Southeast Asia, some of them led by Polish officers. Punjabis from British‐ruled India served in North Africa and Italy. Spanish volunteers crossed Europe to join Germany's war against the Soviet Union, where they joined tens of thousands of Romanians, Hungarians, and Italians. Brazilians fought alongside Americans in Italy, and a Mexican fighter squadron flew with the US Army Air Force in the Philippines. Farm girls from the American Midwest served with the Women's Army Corps from Berlin to Tokyo. Africans, Arabs, and Berbers from France's North and West African colonies spearheaded Allied campaigns in southern France, only to be unceremoniously pushed aside as the French Army was “whitened” by the inclusion of Resistance fighters. Poles captured by the Soviets in 1939 ended up fighting with the British in Italy and with the Red Army in the final attack on Berlin; some settled in Palestine and many made homes in Britain. One American soldier – Joe Beyrle – was captured by the Germans and then rescued from prison by the Soviet Red Army. He joined a Soviet tank unit and fought his way into Germany from the east under the command of a woman he knew simply as “Major.”¹

The fabric of this global conflict was woven from extended and entangled personal histories like these. Around the world, boys like my father imagined the interconnected story of which they were a part, studying the movement of armies by poring over maps in newspapers. Even under conditions of terrible persecution in the ghettos of German‐occupied Poland, Jews like 18‐year‐old Dawid Sierakowiak followed the course of the war as best they could, piecing together scraps of information from clandestine British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) radio broadcasts, scrounged newspapers, and overheard conversations among German soldiers. They studied the morale of soldiers heading for the front and they counted the wounded returning. Within days of the Allied victories at Stalingrad and Alamein, the news reached Sierakowiak's ghetto in Łódź, prompting secret celebrations. In August 1942, Sierakowiak reported “an incredible uplifting of spirits” as news of Partisan advances in Yugoslavia arrived, but he also reported his fear that Germany would “finish off the Jews in Europe before losing the war.”² Intimately connected to the wider war, ghettoized Jews calculated what these faraway Allied victories meant for their own chances of survival.

These narratives challenge us to think about interconnection over space and about the meaning of events in one place for distant and seemingly unconnected people. But Matsushita's odyssey also prompts us to think about time. When he joined Japan's war of conquest in China in 1944, that struggle had been raging since Tokyo's conquest of Manchuria in 1931. And, as Matsushita discovered, the formal end of World War II brought no peace to much of Asia. National liberation movements in India, the Dutch East Indies, Burma (Myanmar), Vietnam, and elsewhere battled for political power, while in China a short‐lived coalition government gave way to civil war, revolution, and renewed fighting on the Korean peninsula. Some stability was finally established after an armistice suspended hostilities in Korea in July 1953, but some parts of East Asia had suffered continuous war from 1931 to 1953. In Indochina, Vietnamese nationalists battled a succession of Japanese, French, and American occupiers: their war did not end until 1975.

Timeframes are equally elastic in Europe. Here the outbreak of World War II is conventionally pegged to the Anglo‐French declarations of war on Germany on September 3, 1939. But this is a very Allied‐centric perception. German armed forces had reoccupied the Rhineland in March 1936 and had been in action in Austria and the Czech Sudetenland in 1938. Fascist Italy invaded Ethiopia in 1935 and Albania in 1939, while in Spain civil war between the elected Republican government and conservative army officers backed by Germany and Italy raged from July 1936 to April 1939. The surrender of Germany in spring 1945 ended major combat operations in Europe, but political stability was only consolidated with the solidification of the Cold War partition of the continent in the early 1950s. In North Africa, war loosened France's grip on its colonial empire, prompting wars for national independence that ended in Algeria in 1962.

This brief survey suggests that “World War II” was both a site of global interconnection and an event – or an intersecting series of events – that sprawled messily over more than two decades of the mid‐twentieth century. It was not a unitary war with clearly delineated sides, and it resists being forced into the conventional 1939–1945 timeframe. Even the widely accepted title “World War II” was itself a carefully crafted product, fashioned by American leaders keen to impose their own narrative in the context of claiming global leadership in the postwar world. Nazi leaders also had a vision of Weltkrieg, or world war, but only the United States had the economic might, military muscle, and political vision to make it a reality. But alternative narratives exist, and the war continues to have different names reflecting different realities. In Russia, it is the “Great Patriotic War,” while China fought the “War of Resistance to Japanese Aggression.” Japan began fighting the Manchurian and China “Incidents,” moved on to the “Greater East Asian War,” and ended up losing the “Pacific War.” The British toyed with a number of names before following America's lead in 1948: control of the naming rights, as British civil servant Llewellyn Woodward noted sourly, was yet “another American victory.”³

Woodward had a point. Viewed from a global perspective, the single most significant consequence of the war was the establishment of American predominance within the capitalist world. The US helped destroy German, Italian and Japanese bids for regional hegemony and as it did so it eclipsed Britain as a global power. When the United States entered the war, it had long been the world's leading manufacturing power, and Wall Street was challenging “The City” (of London) as the world's premier financial center. But its army was small – the 18th largest in the world – and its navy, although nominally on a par with the British Royal Navy, was limited by its lack of overseas bases. By 1945, the United States was the world's predominant military power, and its global reach rested on over 2000 overseas bases. America briefly enjoyed a monopoly of nuclear weapons, refusing in the short term to share them even with Britain, its closest ally. This unprecedented military might, buttressed by the tremendous productive capacity of America's wartime economy, allowed Washington to restructure the global capitalist economy, unleashing a protracted economic boom that continued into the late 1960s.

The story of this transformation in America's world position is central to a global history of this long World War II. It is a story that unfolds through an overlapping series of wars that eventually culminated in the defeat of America's enemies in Germany, Italy, and Japan; in the marginalization of its British ally; and in the “containment” of its Soviet rival. It is the story of the establishment of what magazine publisher Henry Luce referred to in 1941 as the “American Century,” a project envisioned as an unprecedented surge of US‐led economic growth wrapped in an ideology of American liberal internationalism. In the context of the entangled and transnational narratives touched on above, it is the story at the heart of this global history. There is, of course, much more to it than that. A global history must also include the efforts of radical nationalist regimes in Berlin, Tokyo, and Rome to establish their own colonial empires, with all their brutal and genocidal consequences. It includes the efforts of the old‐school imperialists in London, Paris, and Den Haag to hold onto their empires – empires that had structured global politics and economics. It incorporates the successful war waged by the Soviet Union, a state founded in anti‐capitalist revolution, against German invasion. And it highlights a building wave of anti‐colonial resistance that brought decolonization and national independence to vast swaths of the world long ruled from the capitals of Europe.

Finally, a word to American readers. Young Americans, most of them men, participated in large numbers in the transnational travel that was part of the global experience of war. Americans fought in the Atlantic and the Pacific, in Europe and in Asia. They witnessed the ruin of Japanese and German cities, they gazed at tourist sites in Italy, and they drank warm beer in Britain. But in many ways the American experience of war was radically different from that of people in other countries. As a 10‐year‐old girl, my mother hunkered down in an Anderson shelter – a flimsy piece of corrugated steel covered with garden dirt – as German bombs fell on the industrial city of Sheffield in Britain. She escaped injury, but her house was destroyed. Over 600 people were killed in Sheffield in just two nights of bombing in December 1940, and thousands more died in other British cities. Her childhood experience was shaped by the terrible certainty that young men in unseen – but clearly heard – bomber aircraft were trying to kill her. Hers was an experience shared by millions in cities from Hamburg to Tokyo and from Leningrad to Nanjing. In France, people faced the additional horror that it was their “liberators” who were doing the bombing, and more than 53 000 of them were killed by Allied bombs. Yet, while the scale of the slaughter expanded as the war went on, none of the millions of civilian casualties – with the sad exception of the six people killed by a Japanese balloon bomb while picnicking in Oregon – were Americans.

For many Americans, as Pulitzer Prize‐winning author Studs Terkel noted, World War II was the “Good War.” For those not in uniform, war work was easy to come by and paid well. Millions of women entered the workforce for the first time, and many African Americans set out on a second “Great Migration” from the rural South to the booming war plants of California and the North. No American cities were bombed. No infrastructure was destroyed. Food was plentiful, and no one starved as a result of enemy action. These things all became foundational elements of the postwar American Dream. In the context of America's overwhelming military victory, they shaped – and continue to shape – a very specific and American‐centric view of the global World War II. It is a view of a war in which two clearly defined sides faced off against each other in a struggle defined by unambiguous moral clarity, and it is a war that takes place within a precisely defined timeframe. This is not a view that is widely shared in other parts of the world. Approaching World War II as a global event therefore demands a conscious effort to step outside of traditional American‐ (and Western‐) centric frameworks. It does not require abandoning deeply held moral convictions, but it does ask that we view them in the context of comparative experiences that begin with the world as a whole and not with any particular country.