Stephen Peter Hopkins
| NAME: Stephen Peter Hopkins | NICKNAME: Hoppy | SERVICE NUMBER: 516296 | |||||
| HOME OF RECORD: 53 Washington Road, Newport, RI | NEXT OF KIN: Mother, Mrs. Ethel Gross Hopkins | ||||||
| DATE OF BIRTH: 7/16/1925 | SERVICE DATES: 6/5/1943 – 2/2/1944 | DATE OF DEATH: 2/2/1944 | |||||
| CAMPAIGN | UNIT | MOS | RATE | RESULT | |||
| Roi-Namur | A/1/24 | 604 | PFC | KIA | |||
| INDIVIDUAL DECORATIONS: Purple Heart | LAST KNOWN RANK: Private First Class | ||||||
Stephen Peter Hopkins was born in Scarborough, New York, on 16 July 1925. His parents, Ethel Gross and Harry Lloyd Hopkins, met as social workers at the Christadora House in lower Manhattan and married in 1913; as their family grew, Ethel’s career as an activist for immigrants and women’s rights was pushed aside. Harry’s work for the Red Cross, however, blossomed – and his travels, driving work ethic, and delegation of domestic duties to Ethel put strain on their relationship. The marriage was in decline when Stephen arrived; in 1929, Ethel and Harry separated. Her suspicions of his infidelity proved to be true, and in 1931 they divorced. Ethel moved her three boys to Scarsdale, New York, and essentially raised them on her own.[1]
Young Stephen spent his boyhood in Scarsdale and his teenage years in East Northfield, Massachusetts. Although his parents were divorced, they maintained a lengthy correspondence and Stephen soon grew accustomed to seeing his father’s name in the newspapers as part of Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s administration. He developed into good student – mostly, at least, for he struggled with math – and turned a love of hiking and bicycling with his brothers into a passion for athletics. In 1940, Steve (or “Harpo” to his classmates) enrolled at The Hill School in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, and made a name for himself on the varsity hockey, football, and track teams.
Military service was not an option – it was a given when Steve graduated in 1943. His father, now a personal advisor to President Roosevelt, was a chief political emissary to the British wartime government. His brothers were in uniform: David as a Navy carrier pilot, and Robert as a Signal Corps photographer in Italy. Ethel was stationed in Newport, Rhode Island, with the Red Cross. Steve wanted to be a Navy flier, too, but knew that his chances of being accepted directly into flight school were slim. He could have applied for the V-12 Navy College Training Program or the V-5 Naval Aviation Cadet Program but was anxious to get into action – and to avoid the appearance of taking the easy way out.[2]
So on 5 June 1943, Steve Hopkins enlisted in the Marine Corps. He was placed on inactive duty and passed a few anxious weeks; in the interim, he evidently worked for a New York radio station.[3] At the very end of June, his orders arrived and Hopkins reported to Parris Island for boot training on 1 July. The Corps was pleased to have another young celebrity in the ranks, and Hopkins was compelled to pose for a few publicity shots. However, the stern eye of the drill instructor, Sergeant Lewis E. Gregory, ensured that Private Hopkins got the same treatment as any other “boot.” The training worked. Hopkins earned the silver cross of a rifle sharpshooter, and at the conclusion of boot camp earned a promotion to Private First Class. He also earned a spot in the Candidate’s Detachment – training for potential officers – at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina.
The recipient of this impassioned declaration was Captain Irving Schechter, the skipper of Company A, First Battalion, 24th Marines. Schechter was “a little taken aback” to find the son of a famous politician assigned to his company – Hopkins listed the White House as his next-of-kin address – but after a brief interview decided that the teenager had potential and assigned him to the company’s weapons platoon.[5] Hopkins was taken up on the rolls of Able Company on 15 November 1943.
Hopkins joined a machine gun squad and immediately set to work earning his place on the crew. Most of the men had served together for over a year; some had relationships stretching back to boot camp. As the new guy and a celebrity, Hopkins had his work cut out – but rose to the occasion. “A very nice, intelligent kid of 18,” commented the platoon leader, 1Lt. Philip E. Wood, Jr. “He isn’t as mature as the rest of them are, but he is very willing and gets along well – mixes in and is big and strong enough to take care of his end of a machine gun.”[6]
The 4th Marine Division was coming to the end of a long training period at Camp Pendleton, and the exercises were especially challenging for the newer men. On one memorable evening, Company A was sent out to practice rubber boat landings in heavy surf at night. The high breakers kept throwing the Marines back to the beach, and after four or five attempts they soaked, tired, and frustrated. All of a sudden, the moonless night seemed to grow blacker. PFC George A. Smith looked up and saw the white foam of a breaker twenty feet above his head.
Christ, we lost it laughing. I said, that’s all we need! Lose the damn gun and the guy who lived in the White House on the same night! [7]
The boat incident cemented Hopkins’ reputation with his platoon: they christened him “Hoppy” and were proud to have him in their unit. “I’m glad to get him,” commented Lieutenant Wood. “He has fit right in – no special attention, but none really needed.”[8]
George “Gunga” Smith thought Hoppy was “a great kid,” even if some of his progressive philosophies seemed strange. “[I thought] his father had a taint of Communism in his philosophy, and I could see it in Steve,” he recalled. “I don’t mean to be derogatory – he just had those ways.” Smith remembered one particular conversation while waiting to board a transport ship in San Diego. The squad was “crapped out” on a pile of railroad ties, idly speculating whether or not they were really heading for action. Hopkins sat quietly for a time, then announced “Yeah, I know I’m not coming back.” Gunga Smith – a notorious bigmouth, in his own words – couldn’t let this bit of melodrama slide. “Oh, yeah, if I lived the life you’ve had, I wouldn’t expect to come back either.”
“Of course,” he reminisced in 2008, “I have had to live with that.”[9]
Hopkins and his buddies sailed from San Diego on 13 January 1944. While he might have worried inwardly about his premonition, Steve Hopkins projected nothing but calm confidence during the long sea voyage. “When you spend a long period of time aboard a transport, you have plenty of time to study the men you live with in such close proximity,” said Captain Schechter. “This is what I did concerning Steve Hopkins. I wasn’t trying to be fatherly, mind you; he was only a few years younger than I. I just wanted to make sure he was for real. There he was, every day, field stripping that machine gun of his, cleaning the barrel, checking the ammunition, and above all, fitting right in with his fire team. He was gung-ho all right.”[10]
On 1 February 1944, the 24th Marines climbed over the side of the USS DuPage and descended cargo nets into landing craft bobbing in the swells of Kwajalein lagoon. Their target was the little island of Namur – and the several thousand Japanese troops defending an air base. Gunga Smith, Hoppy Hopkins, and the rest of their platoon splashed ashore and found a chaotic mess on the beach – the result of a massive explosion that destroyed an ammunition storehouse and stunned the assault troops. Able Company made a right turn and began advancing along the island’s eastern coast. They soon encountered a handful of Japanese defenders – then ran into a fortified blockhouse which greeted them with a blast of machine gun fire. Hopkins, Smith, and Lieutenant Wood wound up together in a shallow trench.
They were not the only occupants.
Gunga Smith recalled the scene in graphic detail. Hopkins was “mouthing off” about the Japanese soldier, repeating “I don’t think that son of a bitch is dead.” When Wood called Hoppy forward, the young Marine tried to squeeze around behind the projection whilst keeping his M1 aimed directly at the fallen man’s head – point blank, “almost touching,” as Smith said.
An Able Company BARman, PFC Lawrence E. Knight, later told a story of an enemy soldier “playing possum. He tried to sneak up behind Hoppie and knife him. Hoppie just whirled around, let him have a bayonet in the ribs, and went on firing.”[13]
The fight around the blockhouse took the rest of the afternoon. As PFC Knight and a handful of riflemen chased a group of retreating Japanese, Hopkins’ squad set up their gun in another part of the trench system. At some point after night fell, one of the company officers ordered the crew to move forward to a new position. Smith knew this was “against all rules – anyone moving at night gets shot, password or no” – but orders were orders, and they dutifully packed up their gear and gun. They trotted up a road until they reached the front line, then turned off into the underbrush to dig in a new position. Smith estimated that the distance between opposing lines was no more than 25 yards.
With Smith and PFC Richard Grosch on the gun, ammo carriers like Hopkins were tasked with moving the earth. As Hoppy started digging a foxhole, Smith noticed movement a few dozen yards away near the beach. “Hoppy,” he muttered, “cover that man!” As Hopkins bent to pick up his carbine, a rifle barked and Smith heard the sound of a bullet shattering bone. Hoppy went down hard and did not move.
Steve Hopkins never regained consciousness. He was still breathing when stretcher bearers brought him to the beach, but the damage from the bullet was too great. Early in the morning on 2 February 1944, Hopkins died of “avulsions, cranium” aboard the USS Calvert. He was buried at sea that morning as his buddies completed the conquest of Namur.
When the bullets stopped flying, combat correspondents flocked to the Able Company sector to report on tales of heroism (three Navy Crosses would later be awarded) and hear the story of how Steve Hopkins died “a hero’s death on a windswept Namur island.”
“Hoppy carried a lot of ammunition for that job,” said Sergeant Frank A. Tucker. “Some of us wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t kept bringing up ammunition!”
“A good fighter with a lot of guts,” said Captain Irving Schechter. “A real Marine.”
“Hopkins went back three times through heavy enemy fire to bring up ammunition when the supply ran low, then took his place again as flank security man on the front lines,” said an unnamed corporal. “He was the farthest man forward toward the Jap lines, trying to dig a foxhole with his hands, when he fell mortally wounded by a Jap rifleman.”[15]
Nobody asked George Smith what he knew. For the rest of his life, Smith swore that an American rifle fired the shot that killed Steve Hopkins – and that the man responsible was a member of their own platoon.[16]
A small sampling of Hopkins reporting. Variations on the story ran in newspapers across the country during February 1944.
Hopkins’ death was widely reported, and condolence letters arrived from around the globe. Lieutenant Wood sent a note to the White House, which was graciously answered by Eleanor Roosevelt. Winston Churchill inscribed a quote from Macbeth:
Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt;
He only liv’d but till he was a man;
The which no sooner had his prowess confirm’d
In the unshrinking station where he fought,
But like a man he died.
on a parchment scroll for delivery to Harry Hopkins; it brought him some comfort as he suffered a relapse of the stomach cancer that would eventually kill him. News items consistently failed to mention Ethel Gross and she, rightly angered, called out the New York Times: “It has been my job and privilege to bring up my three sons – to plan for their well-being and education, and I wish to be identified with them.” Fortunately, David and Robert survived the war.[17]
Stephen Hopkins is memorialized at the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, Honolulu.
[1] Allison Giffen & June Hopkins, ed,. Jewish First Wive, Divorced: The Correspondence of Ethel Gross and Harry Hopkins (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2003), 217.
[2] “Hill Graduate, Son of FDR Aide, Killed,” The Pottstown Mercury (14 February 1944).
[3] This detail appeared alongside publicity photos of Hopkins in uniform; unfortunately, the name of the station is not recorded.
[4] Gilbert Bailey, “Sergeant Tells Heroic Death of Pvt. Hopkins,” The Decatur Herald (18 February 1944). Sergeant Gregory was, in fact, serving with A/1/24 when Hopkins arrived, so there is likely some truth to this anecdote.
[5] Irving Schechter, “The Lawyer Who Went to War,” Semper Fi, Mac, ed. Henry Berry (New York: Harper, 1982).
[6] Philip E. Wood, Jr., letter to Margretta and Gretchen Wood, December 1943. Author’s collection.
[7] George A. Smith, interview with the author, 2008.
[8] Wood, letter of December 1943.
[9] Smith, 2008 interview.
[10] Schechter.
[11] Philip E. Wood, Jr., letter to Margretta and Gretchen Wood, 2 April 1944. Author’s collection.
[12] George A. Smith, email to the author, 2007.
[13] “Young Hopkins Killed His Jap,” The Marysville Journal-Tribune (Marysville, OH) 14 February 1944.
[14] Smith, 2008 interview.
[15] Bailey, “Sergeant Tells.”
[16] Smith, 2008 interview and written notes in private collection. Smith was adamant that an American weapon was responsible for Hopkins’ death, as he could tell the difference in sound. He took particular issue with the version printed in the 1946 “Green Book” history of the 4th Marine Division: “Three times [Hopkins] went back through heavy enemy fire to get ammunition. He was on the front lines with his platoon when killed by a Jap rifleman.” Smith wrote in his notes that the story was “entirely false” and that “we were in front of our own lines by about ten yards. The shot came from one of our own men.” For obvious reasons, this story was not told to the press.
[17] The Bend Bulletin (Bend, OR), 13 March 1944.