Welcome to Dispatch: U.S. Military History Magazine. This is “This Week in U.S. Military History,” where we walk through key moments that share this week on the calendar. Today we’re exploring events from January twentieth, two thousand twenty six through January twenty sixth, two thousand twenty six.
Across these seven days, the calendar carries echoes of hardship on frozen hillsides, nervous arrivals in foreign harbors, and bold experiments in new technology that changed the way wars are fought. The stories stretch over nearly two centuries, from the ragged ranks of the Continental Army to jet bombers and nuclear powered submarines cruising silently beneath the sea. Along the way, enlisted men test the limits of obedience, presidents and generals reshuffle commands after costly mistakes, and sailors and aircrews find themselves in crises they never expected. The events we will visit range from famous battles and sieges to quieter but crucial turning points, such as the first American ground troops landing in the European theater and the quiet launch of a submarine that would rewrite naval warfare. Again and again, the difference between disaster and survival hinges on leadership, improvisation, and a willingness to adapt under pressure. This Week in U.S. Military History is part of Dispatch: U.S. Military History Magazine, developed by Trackpads dot com.
Our journey begins in the bitter winter of the Revolutionary War, when soldiers of the New Jersey Line encamped near Pompton reached their breaking point. On January twentieth, seventeen eighty one, hungry, poorly clothed, and angered by unpaid wages and expiring enlistments, they turned on their officers and marched to demand redress. Their grievances echoed those of the larger Pennsylvania mutiny earlier that month and reflected the wider strain on the Continental Army, which struggled to keep men fed, clothed, and paid as the war dragged on. This time, however, George Washington chose a far harder response, ordering loyal troops to surround the mutineers and force their surrender. A few ringleaders were tried and executed as an example to others. The mutiny at Pompton showed how fragile the army’s cohesion had become, yet it also revealed Washington’s determination to reassert discipline before the revolution itself unraveled.
We next move forward to the American Civil War, where command of the principal Union field army in the east changed hands after a disaster. In late January of eighteen sixty three, following the bloody defeat at Fredericksburg and the miserable failure of the so called Mud March, President Abraham Lincoln decided he could no longer leave Ambrose Burnside in charge of the Army of the Potomac. On January twenty sixth, eighteen sixty three, orders placed Major General Joseph Hooker, an aggressive and outspoken corps commander, at the head of that bruised army. Hooker inherited an organization battered by casualties, poor morale, and political intrigue, but he also took over a force with immense potential in manpower and equipment. He moved quickly to reorganize the cavalry, improve supply and camp sanitation, and offer more generous furloughs to strengthen loyalty in the ranks. These reforms helped restore confidence before the Chancellorsville Campaign, even though Hooker would ultimately lose that battle to Robert E. Lee, reminding everyone that leadership changes could reshape the Union war effort for better and for worse.
As the nineteenth century drew to a close, another American decision to show the flag set the stage for a coming war at sea. On January twenty fifth, eighteen ninety eight, the armored cruiser Maine steamed into Havana harbor while revolt simmered in Spanish ruled Cuba and American public opinion burned with sympathy for Cuban insurgents. Officially, the ship’s mission was a friendly visit and a way to protect American citizens and property if unrest worsened. Unofficially, her arrival sent a blunt message that the United States was watching events closely and was willing to place a modern warship in Spain’s troubled colony. Sailors on deck could see the old fortifications and foreign vessels around them, a constant reminder they had entered a tense and crowded harbor. For several weeks Maine sat quietly at anchor as a floating symbol of American concern and growing naval power. When a devastating explosion tore through the ship in February, killing most of her crew, that quiet January arrival became the opening act of the Spanish American War.
Barely weeks after the attack on Pearl Harbor pulled the United States fully into the Second World War, the first major contingent of American ground troops stepped onto European soil. On January twenty sixth, nineteen forty two, soldiers from the Thirty fourth Infantry Division arrived in Northern Ireland in cold, damp weather, greeted by bands and cheering crowds. Until then, the British had fought on in the west with only limited direct American military presence, relying heavily on shipments of weapons and supplies. The arrival of these troops signaled that the United States would commit men as well as munitions to the struggle against Nazi Germany. The new arrivals began a long period of training, learning British weapons and tactics and adjusting to the realities of wartime Europe. Their presence reassured British civilians that they were no longer alone, and this relatively low key landing marked the beginning of a ground buildup that would eventually lead to operations in North Africa, Italy, and the Normandy beaches.
Later in the Italian campaign, Allied leaders launched a bold amphibious operation to break a grinding stalemate. On January twenty second, nineteen forty four, American and British troops came ashore near the small port of Anzio in Operation Shingle, hoping to outflank the German Gustav Line and speed the capture of Rome. Protected by naval gunfire and strong air cover, the initial landings met relatively light opposition, and beachheads were quickly secured, raising hopes that German forces farther south might be trapped. Instead, cautious decisions, difficult terrain, and strained logistics slowed the drive inland. German commanders reacted aggressively, rushing reinforcements to contain the bridgehead and launching counterattacks that turned the area into a deadly, shell torn plain. Although Anzio tied down substantial enemy forces and ultimately contributed to the fall of Rome, it did so at a heavy cost in lives and many months of brutal attrition for the soldiers holding that narrow foothold.
In the winter forests of the Ardennes a year later, the last major German offensive in the west finally ran out of strength. Beginning in December of nineteen forty four, German forces had launched a surprise attack that bent the Allied line into a deep bulge, forcing American units into desperate defensive battles at crossroads and small towns, some of which were overrun. By late January, coordinated attacks by United States First Army and Third Army had sealed off the salient and recaptured most of the lost ground. On January twenty fifth, nineteen forty five, Allied headquarters considered the Battle of the Bulge effectively over, as German units withdrew and their offensive power ebbed away. The cost to American and Allied forces in casualties, equipment, and civilian suffering had been severe. Yet the failure of the offensive depleted German reserves beyond recovery, allowing the Allies to resume their drive into Germany with renewed confidence, knowing the enemy had squandered its final attempt to change the war’s course in the west.
That same month in eastern France, a young Texas born lieutenant named Audie Murphy faced an oncoming German attack with his infantry company badly outnumbered. Near the village of Holtzwihr on January twenty sixth, nineteen forty five, Murphy called in artillery fire and ordered most of his men to fall back to prepared positions while he stayed forward. When German troops and armor pressed their assault, he climbed onto a burning tank destroyer whose heavy machine gun still worked. From that exposed perch, surrounded by smoke and under intense fire, he directed artillery and raked advancing enemy soldiers until the attack faltered. Wounded and nearly out of ammunition, he finally rejoined his company and organized a counterattack that secured the ground they had held at such risk. The action earned him the Medal of Honor and contributed to his status as one of the most decorated American soldiers of the Second World War, and his stand near Holtzwihr became a lasting symbol of individual courage and determination under overwhelming pressure.
After the Second World War ended, another brutal conflict on the Korean Peninsula forced American and allied forces to recover from early setbacks. In the winter of nineteen fifty one, after months of retreat and uncertainty, the Eighth Army under Lieutenant General Matthew Ridgway prepared to strike back. On January twenty fifth, nineteen fifty one, United Nations forces launched Operation Thunderbolt, an offensive aimed at pushing north from positions south of Seoul and testing the strength of Chinese and North Korean units. Rather than a reckless dash, Thunderbolt emphasized deliberate advances, strong artillery support, and careful control meant to restore confidence in troops who had recently endured hard fighting and withdrawals. United States and allied units crossed the Han River, cleared villages and high ground, and probed for enemy defenses, always wary of counterattacks. The operation did not end the war, but it showed that United Nations forces could regain the initiative and stabilize the front, setting the stage for later offensives that pushed the line back toward the vicinity of the thirty eighth parallel.
Only a few years later, in a Connecticut shipyard, the Navy launched a vessel that would change how submarines fought and patrolled. On January twenty first, nineteen fifty four, USS Nautilus slid into the water at Groton as the world’s first operational nuclear powered submarine. Unlike conventionally powered boats that had to surface or raise a snorkel regularly for air and fuel, Nautilus could remain submerged for long periods, travel at higher sustained speeds, and operate far from bases. Her nuclear reactor opened new possibilities, from long range patrols beneath polar ice to rapid response in distant oceans without frequent refueling. The launch was both a technological milestone and a clear statement of American industrial and scientific capability during the Cold War. In the years that followed, nuclear powered submarines became central to the nation’s deterrent posture and its ability to project power quietly beneath the world’s seas.
The nuclear age also brought new and sobering risks, as shown by a terrifying accident over North Carolina. On January twenty fourth, nineteen sixty one, during an era when Strategic Air Command kept bombers in the air or on quick alert around the clock, an Air Force B fifty two carrying two powerful thermonuclear bombs broke apart in the skies near Goldsboro after suffering structural failure. The weapons fell to earth, one descending with its parachute deploying while the other plunged deep into soft, muddy ground. Recovery teams worked under intense pressure, carefully securing components and searching for buried parts in waterlogged fields. Later investigations revealed that one bomb had passed through several arming steps, prompting serious questions about safety measures and safeguards built into nuclear weapons. Although the incident did not trigger a nuclear explosion, it became an important case study that led to refinements in weapon design and handling procedures, underscoring the hidden risks of maintaining a constant nuclear alert posture.
By nineteen sixty eight, attention had shifted to the highlands of South Vietnam, where a remote Marine base near the border with North Vietnam stood in growing danger. On January twenty first, nineteen sixty eight, North Vietnamese forces began heavy artillery and rocket bombardments of Khe Sanh, cutting roads and tightening a ring around the base. The isolated garrison, supported by United States Army and Air Force aviation, braced for a possible ground assault that many feared might resemble the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu. In Washington and Saigon, leaders debated whether Khe Sanh was a trap, a diversion, or a prize worth holding regardless of cost. For weeks, aircraft flew resupply and close air support missions into dangerous skies while defenders endured constant shelling in trenches and bunkers carved into the red earth. The siege became a powerful symbol of American resolve and vulnerability just as the Tet Offensive erupted across South Vietnam, reshaping public perceptions of the war and its prospects.
Almost simultaneously, another crisis unfolded over cold waters off the Korean coast. On January twenty third, nineteen sixty eight, the lightly armed intelligence gathering ship Pueblo operated under orders to monitor North Korean communications in contested seas sometimes described as part of the Sea of Japan. North Korean patrol craft closed in, opening fire and boarding after a tense confrontation in which one American sailor was killed and others wounded. The crew raced to destroy classified material, but much was seized along with the ship itself. Pueblo was taken into North Korean ports, where her crew endured harsh captivity and staged propaganda displays for many months. The incident provoked a serious international crisis at the very moment American forces were heavily engaged in Vietnam. After prolonged negotiations and deep strain for the families involved, the crew was finally released in December, while the ship remained in North Korean hands, leaving a lasting mark on Cold War naval history and on the men who had served aboard her.
Across this week in history, the stories reach from starving Continental soldiers to nuclear armed bombers and frontier outposts in Asia facing artillery and isolation. Each event reveals a different dimension of American military power, from the fragile bond between troops and their leaders to the painful decisions to shake up command, the quiet movements that precede sudden wars, and the technological leaps that redefine what forces can do. At Anzio’s beaches, Ardennes crossroads, Korean rivers, and Vietnamese hilltops, individuals faced uncertainty and fear with varying degrees of courage and ingenuity as they tried to hold their ground or regain it. The crises at Goldsboro and in the contested waters near Korea remind us that danger does not always appear on a conventional battlefield. Taken together, these episodes invite us to reflect on how often endurance, adaptation, and hard won lessons have shaped the armed forces that serve in our name today.