As I edited and sourced and fact-checked J. Ross Baughman’s bold and thoughtful analysis of Robert Capa’s brief D-Day experience on Omaha Beach on June 6, 1944 and the resulting images for publication here, two radically different narratives began running simultaneously in my mind’s eye.
The first, inevitably, reprised the legend: Heroic Robert Capa, cool under fire, making four rolls’ worth of 35mm exposures during the landing and the battle — unwittingly ruining one with saltwater damage in the process, leaving some 106 latent images — and shipping them via courier to London. There a harried, inexperienced teenage lab assistant ruins all but 11 of the remaining pictures by closing the door of a drying cabinet after they’re developed, so the film strips overheat and the emulsions melt. LIFE‘s London picture editor John Morris and Capa magnanimously forgive the well-intentioned “darkroom lad” for his awful mistake, and the surviving images becoming iconic as the “Magnificent Eleven.”
The second account not only has more nuances but constitutes, in fact, an almost entirely different story. Its main protagonist, Capa, already an international star in the world of photojournalism, has an untypical panic attack during the landing, mishandles his equipment in such a way that he overexposes most of his film, and runs away from the battleground after 30 minutes or less.
When the film gets processed in London, Morris discovers, to his horror, that LIFE‘s star photojournalist (and Morris’s close friend) blew his assignment, arguably the biggest story of the war to date. A major embarrassment for Capa, for Morris, for LIFE, for Time-Life, and for the profession for which Capa has become the poster boy — touted at that moment as “the greatest war photographer in the world.” So Morris concocts a tale of botched processing by a kid, covering the asses of all concerned, and turning Capa’s 11 correct exposures into splinters from the true cross instead of the paltry results of a terrified bumbler.
The Making of A Myth
There’s no denying that Capa experienced a failure of nerve at Omaha Beach and hightailed it out of there as fast as he could. He says as much himself, in his 1947 memoir of World War II, Slightly Out of Focus. And the timeline of his trip to and from the front, as indicated by assorted documents, bears this out.
As someone who’s never gone to war, I can’t imagine what it feels like to set foot on ground where bullets and cannon and mortar shells fly, and people die in horrible ways. Omaha Beach that day was a meatgrinder: the official estimate of casualties hovers at 2000. So I don’t fault Capa for running away in that “red badge of courage” moment. It pertains only because his reputation for daring, on which he traded both personally and professionally, would have suffered hugely if that image of him as less than brave had circulated widely. To his credit, he confessed it discreetly in various ways thereafter.
In multiple accounts, Morris tells us the following:
- It took Capa’s films an inexplicable 12 hours to travel the mere 140 miles from Weymouth to London via courier.
- Immediately upon their arrival at Time-Life’s offices in London’s Soho district, Capa’s films got sent to the darkroom for developing. Presumably all four rolls of 35mm b&w film would have gotten processed with the same pre-mixed batches of developer, stop bath, and fix, to save time.
- As indicated on the surviving frames, the 35mm rolls were Kodak Super-X Panchromatic Safety film, introduced as a movie film in March 1935, rated at ASA 50 and preferred for its relatively soft, low-grain, low-contrast look. In April 1945 Popular Photography described it as “A film which can be used in all types of outdoor light and indoors under favorable conditions.”
- Dennis Banks, a 15-year-old lab assistant, youngest of the five darkroom staffers, did the developing and fixing, then transported the developed film strips from the lab to the drying cabinet.
- So Banks would have seen the film strips, and presumably would have noticed if three of them, and most of the fourth, were blank.
- Another LIFE photographer, Hans Wild, surely adept at reading negatives, looked at them while still wet — just after development — and pronounced them “Fabulous!”
- The makeshift drying cabinet actually consisted of an unventilated wooden clothes locker with a “heating coil” on its bottom, whose doors they normally kept open.
- Having been instructed by Morris to hurry the drying of the films so that prints could get made (“We need contacts — rush, rush, rush!”), Banks closed the doors of the wooden locker, with the result that, after “only a few minutes,” the cabinet had become so heated that the emulsions on all but a third of one strip had melted into “pea soup.” A tragic loss, especially after Capa had risked so much to make those other, now forever vanished exposures.
- Fortunately, 11 exposures remained intact, and those got printed and published, becoming iconic overnight.
- In the haste and preoccupation of the moment Morris discarded the ruined film strips, later regretting not keeping them because they too would have functioned “iconically.”
For a sampling of Morris’s multiple variations on this tale, see this extract from his 1998 memoir Get the Picture: A Personal History of Photojournalism; a June 5, 2004 recap for the New York Times; the brief 2010 documentary film “Eleven Frames,” directed by Douglas Sloan; an interview with François Picard for France24 TV on June 6, 2011; this video interview from July 2, 2012; this May 31, 2013 interview/profile from the Financial Times; “The Story Behind Robert Capa’s Pictures of D-Day” by Cynthia Young, ICP Curator of the Capa Archives, from June 6, 2013; Get the Picture, a feature-length film on Morris from 2013, directed by Cathy Pearson; “Behind the Photo: Robert Capa’s D-Day,” a brief TIME video from May 29, 2014; and “Robert Capa’s Longest Day,” by Marie Brenner for Vanity Fair, June 2014.
In all its versions, what a dramatic tale. By this time Morris knows it by heart.
My problem: I bought this story when I first heard it, in the late 1960s, and have accepted it as true ever since. But I no longer believe it.
The Dog Ate Capa’s Homework
To begin with, why would LIFE magazine — famous for its lavish budgets and spare-no-expense relation to equipment and supplies — rely on a makeshift film-drying cabinet with no air circulation, cobbled together from a wooden clothes locker and an electric “heating coil”? Surely, if a standard state-of-the-art drying cabinet proved unavailable for some reason, they could have afforded a custom-built one for the photo-processing area of their long-established and otherwise well-appointed offices at 2-4 Dean Street, in the film district of London’s Soho district.
Next, I find it implausible that Morris would receive those precious, anxiously awaited, historic, irreplaceable four rolls of film by Capa (arguably the world’s highest-profile war photographer at that juncture, and one of just two LIFE contract photographers going in with the first wave of infantry) only to turn them over to a 15-year-old lab assistant for developing, when, according to Morris, “The darkroom staff — all five of them — had been standing by idly” for a day and a half.
Finally, are we to believe that, having just seen to the successful development of three full rolls of what he knows everyone considers the most important negatives of the battle, with John Morris howling for contact prints, Dennis Banks hangs them in the drying cabinet, closes the doors thereof to speed the drying — but, instead of hovering over them and checking on them minute by minute, does … what, exactly? Steps out for a smoke? Calls his girlfriend? Answers a prolonged call of nature? And the four other “idle” members of the darkroom staff have better things to do than keeping their eyes on these films?
God Said to Abraham, Kill Me a Son
Worth noting that Dennis Banks conveniently disappears after D-Day. He’s not mentioned by name in any early account of the loss of Capa’s films, and a brief unsourced quote from Capa magnanimously forgiving him appears apocryphal: “I would never have worked for LIFE again if they had fired Dennis Banks for ruining my negatives.” (Intriguingly, Richard Whelan’s authorized biography of Capa from 1994 gives his name as Dennis Sanders, but I don’t find that repeated anywhere else.)
Indeed, scuttlebutt for years put the blame for the loss of Capa’s negatives on photojournalist Larry Burrows. Burrows, then 18, was indeed there that day; but most accounts, including Morris’s, have him as a “tea-boy” or gofer, without any involvement with darkroom activities. (In the 2010 “Eleven Frames” film Morris exonerates Burrows explicitly, though his June 6, 2011 France24 interview puts Burrows on the darkroom staff.) I’ll hazard a guess that Burrows’s age and presence in or around the lab led to the rumor of his involvement with the Capa fiasco during the years when the story in circulation didn’t mention Banks by name, but only an unnamed teenager.
The first mention I find of Banks as the culprit comes in Morris’s memoir Get the Picture: A Personal History of Photojournalism (New York: Random House, 1998). By the time that got published Banks had long since vanished from all radar screens; Burrows, shot down over Laos, had died in 1971; and Hans Wild, the only other person who could corroborate Morris’s claim that three of Capa’s four rolls contained a full complement of normal exposures, had died in 1969.
In short, no one alive can corroborate Morris’s account — or contradict it with direct eyewitness testimony. We have only that narrative, and the remaining fragments of physical evidence, and some verifiable facts to go on in confirming or disproving it. On that basis, let’s proceed.
(For an index of links to all posts in this series, click here.)
[Note: Subsequent research by Rob McElroy revealed that all supposed examples of Capa's "damaged" D-Day negatives published in the May 29, 2014 TIME video, such as the ones above (*), were forgeries produced by Magnum in collusion with the International Center of Photography. While this renders irrelevant the above analysis of those frames, it does not undermine my broader challenge to the "melted emulsion" narrative. — A. D. C.]
John Morris will participate in a conversation with Robert Pledge, founder and director of Contact Press Images, at the International Center of Photography on June 24, 2014. They’ll stream it, so you can watch it live online at www.icp.org/live. Clicking on that link will enable you to submit a question in advance.