RED BALL EXPRESS deserved a movie. But not this one. After 1951’s barrage of 18 war movies, 1952, with the United States mired in Korea, unloaded a mere six, one of them this salute to the US Army’s hell-for-leather WW2 truck convoy epic across France in 1944. ‘Salute’ is being polite: for this rah-rah nonsense a more apt description is ‘sucker-punch’.

Mr. Tibbs about to slug Wyatt Earp. Never mind the court martial.

Late August, 1944. Two months after D-Day, forward units of Patton’s 3rd Army plunged so far so fast they ran out of gas. Among the outfits hastily organized to slam supplies thru to the front lines is a thrown-together platoon commanded by ‘Lt. Chick Campbell’ (Jeff Chandler), made up of rear-echelon non-combat troops, racially mixed, white & black. During their exhausting pell-mell runs back & forth between coastal supply dumps and the front, the men suffer accidents from fatigue and breakdowns, engage German opposition and encounter French civilians. Apart from a guy named ‘Chick’, that’s about it for the facts in the script, which otherwise hauls a payload of cliches, stereotypes and comic book malarkey. The real Red Ball Express ground gears for 83 days, involved 5,958 vehicles and of the 23,000 men doing the runs, 75% were African-American. The show has three black actors in secondary roles, mixes Army cooperation (trucks and other contraptions) with adequate matte work and effects (a burning city) and mercifully runs just 83 minutes, more than enough time to get fed up with the script and instead read up on the actual event.

Don’t worry, you’ll never see either of us in another movie.

Chandler is fine, but his character is stuck with the foolishness of the dog-ate-my-homework screenplay and as leading man he’s saddled with supporting players who are either cardboard bland and sappy or underused/misused.  Ever-snarling Alex Nicol (the poor man’s Arthur Kennedy) is a constantly insubordinate sergeant who has a pre-war grudge against Chick. Dopey-grinned Charles Drake (the poor man’s Van Johnson) is a hopeful author who manages to find a prominently stacked ooh-lah-lah named–wait for it–‘Antoinette Dubois’ (Jacqueline Duval, 19) to play hide-the-chocolate bar with. Conveniently the red-blooded guys also cross paths with two babes from the Red Cross (talentless starlets Judith Braun and Cindy Garner), and—oh, yeah, the war—have some brief firefights with those break-spoiling fellas from the Wehrmacht, who in true B-movie fashion, are easily disposed of—“just like real life, huh, Dad?”

There I was, on a mission in the middle of the war, and—ka-boink!

At least director Budd Boetticher (needless to say, not one of his better films) and screenwriter John Michael Hayes (who would go on to write some winners) allow three African-American actors to wedge in to represent the 75%. Singer-pianist Bubber Johnson gets the jolly soul angle (https://www.uncamarvy.com/BubberJohnson/bubberjohnson.html—a funny, poignant piece) while Davis Roberts has the gentle-guy-talking-about-home-and-who-therefore-must-get-killed role (familiar face, checked his credits to find I’ve seen him in 16 movies, and a slew of TV shows). The biggest part in the trio, and the one that gives the movie more notice than it otherwise would receive is handled by Sidney Poitier, 24 and on his gradual, steady, determined climb to the top. As the one suffers some prejudice (go figure) he makes it thru the part and film with the now-cherished Poitier dignity.

In the ranks look for Hugh O’Brian (resident bigot), Frank Chase (nails-to-blackboard comic relief), Howard Petrie (barking orders as Patton, but given a fictional name), Gregg Palmer, Jack Kelly, Thomas Browne Henry and Harry Lauter. Box office gross seems to be $4,200,000, 83rd for the year. Of 1952’s other war flicks, Retreat, Hell! is the only one that passes muster. Smoke ’em if ya got ’em.