PRIVATE EDDIE SLOVIK, EXECUTED FOR DESERTION IN 1945, HAS BEEN MEMORIAZED IN PRINT AND FIRM AS AN UNWRITTING SUFFERER OF A CRUEL ARMY. A DEEPER LOOK, THOUGH, REVEALS A DIFFERENT STORY.

 Private Eddie slovik, executed for desertion in 1945, has been memoriazed in print and firm as an unwitting sufferer of a cruel army. A deeper look, though, reveals a different story.

August 1944, and the 24-year-old replacement’s knees turned to jelly as he experienced artillery fire for the first time on his way to his new outfit. He devised a bold plan to make sure it never happened again.

His scheme worked so well that he never again heard enemy fire, but the price Private Eddie D. Slovik paid for that silence was higher than he had bargained for, as he became the only American soldier shot for desertion since the Civil War.

Slovik’s story remained largely unknown until 1948, when journalist and navy veteran William Bradford Huie uncovered it while researching an article, “Are Americans Afraid to Fight?,” for Liberty magazine.

Huie followed the article with a bestselling 1954 book, The Execution of Private Slovik, later made into a television movie that attracted a record audience.

The book and 1974 film portray Slovik as a victim railroaded by callous army commanders itching to make an example of some sad sack as a way to deter desertions in the wake of the brutal Battle of the Bulge. Huie’s account has become the popular narrative.

As a prosecutor for 27 years with experience in death-penalty cases, I studied the Slovik trial record closely and found the popular narrative to be more of a good story than accurate history.

The army, in fact, tried multiple times to give Slovik an out. The finger of blame for the private’s execution, I learned, points in a surprising direction.

EDWARD DONALD SLOVIK had a troubled life from a young age. Born in Detroit on February 18, 1920, he dropped out of school at 15.

Before his 21st birthday, Slovik—at five foot six and 138 pounds, an unimposing figure—had been put on probation five times for burglary and assault, sentenced to jail twice, and had served time in a Michigan prison.

Paroled in April 1942, Slovik met Antoinette Wisniewski, a brown-eyed, dark-haired bookkeeper five years his senior, and they wed on November 7, 1942.

Slovik rode the wartime manufacturing boom, securing a well-paying job as a shipping clerk at the DeSoto division of Chrysler and largely keeping out of trouble.

To Slovik, the war looked like someone else’s problem. Although the army drafted men with criminal records, it did not consider those on parole.

So Slovik was safe from the draft—for a time. But on October 22, 1943, the Michigan Parole Board discharged him; he was inducted into the army on January 3, 1944.