End of the Prologue

Hardly anybody had supposed Tunis and Bizerte would fall so soon. This time Americans, who for so long had been expecting too much, had expected too little. There were no celebrations, no hoopla and hullabaloo; a few Senators made proper comments; the President sent messages of congratulations to the commanders. Then it was over--except for the headlines, the speculations on what next, and the casualties. Already hundreds--perhaps thousands--of white crosses and Stars of David marked American graves in the poppy fields of Africa.

Now Americans were being buried, with bugles and honors when there was time, in desperate haste when there was not, all over the world, in valleys and deserts and on mountain slopes that they had never heard of in their school geography books. To a man they had wanted to get the job done and over with. They had known, as the people knew at home, that the Battle of Africa was the prologue, on which the curtain now slid down.

Now the real play would begin. The biggest and hardest job, the greatest in military history, still lay ahead. Maybe then there would be time for real celebrations.

Even at the Tunisian front correspondents' cables sounded a new note. They still spoke of American courage. But they noted that now the greenness of Kasserine Pass was gone, the bravery had been tempered. U.S. troops now fought like veterans.

But there was time to praise heroes. Many were cited for gallantry last week, and the names of their home towns--Phoebus, Va., Quenemo, Kans., La Porte, Ind., Dabolt, Ky., Rector, Ark., Star City, W.Va.--were eloquent of the U.S. at war. Among those honored were: < Two Roosevelts, father and son, respectively son and grandson of the great Teddy. To Brigadier General Theodore Roosevelt Jr., assistant commanding general of the First Division, in which he won many a decoration during World War I, went an Oak Leaf Cluster for his Silver Star. The New Yorker this month reported from Tunisia on General Roosevelt: "He is at his best ... in battle; his gamecock strut and his slightly corny humor take on a new and attractive quality when exhibited under fire." Last week his citation reported that, during a savage enemy counterattack, General Teddy Jr. had proceeded to an advance observation post under intense shelling, strafing and dive-bombing, had stayed there until the tide was turned.

Captain Quentin Roosevelt, 23, received a Silver Star. As artillery liaison officer he had made his way under heavy fire to a post well in advance of the infantry battalion to which he was attached, there directed artillery fire enabling the battalion to take its objective.

< But the hero of the week was a Navy officer. The first Congressional Medal of Honor to be won by a submarine man in World War II was awarded posthumously to Commander Howard W. Gilmore, 40, of Selma, Ala. A damaged sub, limping home without its skipper, brought his story. Smallish, freckled Commander Gilmore, a quiet fellow, already held the Navy Cross and Gold Star for destruction of Japanese ships, including two destroyers in harbor.

Surface-cruising somewhere in the Pacific, he sighted, and was sighted by, a Jap gunboat. It charged to ram. Maneuvering skillfully, Commander Gilmore dodged the blow and rammed the gunboat. The enemy ship settled, but its gunners opened fire and the Commander fell mortally wounded. Seconds were precious. A moment might be too long. Crewmen rushed to carry Commander Gilmore inside. He ordered them below, turned to his officer of the deck and spoke his last command. "Take her down," he said.

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