Editorial: Teddy Junior
Brig. Gen. Roosevelt, Teddy Jr., the fighting son of fighting Teddy the First, is gone. He died in bed, of battle fatigue. But he was as certainly a war casualty as if a bomb or a bullet had got him, as he led his men, half his age, onto the Normandy beachhead.
For all the days since D-Day he had been building up the exhaustion which finally took him away. That he wasn’t killed in action as, at the head of his doughboys, he directed reconnaissance in force on Cherbourg through enemy territory infested by machine-gun nests and snipers – that is one of the many miracles of a charmed life which finally ended in repose.
But the same miracle had hovered over his many times before – in two world wars. At Cantigny, Soissons, in the Argonne and at Saint-Mihiel in World War I, he was young. Thirty years later, he was 56. But despite his age, in the Mediterranean and in Normandy, he was what one of his men described him – “the toughest little fighting man in this Army.”
Those years, however, finally took their toll; did what bombs and bullets couldn’t. Though wounded twice in the first war and twice again in this, the enemy could never get him. That remained for time and the exhaustion that years and strain bring on – such strain as only a brave heart can hear, to the end.
Few who have been in battles had been honored by more decorations than this soldier son of a solder, and none deserved them more.
“Rough Rider” was painted on the jeep he rode in Normandy and Teddy Jr. carried a .45. They didn’t have jeeps on San Juan Hill but they did have .45s. And who said there’s nothing in heredity?