At first glance, the DUKW looks exactly like the kind of object born when an engineering meeting drags on well past the point where it would have been reasonable to stop it.
Imagine the scene. It’s late. On the table there are cups of coffee now cold, sheets full of incomprehensible notes, and people staring into space with the expression of those who have spent too many hours discussing impossible problems. At that point someone clears their throat and says a sentence that, in most companies, would immediately be followed by an invitation for everyone to go to sleep.
“I have an idea.” The idea was this: build a truck that is also a boat. Not a truck carried by a boat. Not a boat that could carry a truck. A truck that, once it reaches water, simply decides to continue the journey without being impressed by the fact that the road has ended.
It is the kind of proposal that normally produces an awkward silence. And yet it worked.
In fact, it worked so well that it became one of the most intelligent and useful logistical vehicles of the entire Second World War.
American soldiers nicknamed it “Duck”. A perfect choice, because even in the middle of a world war human beings still keep enough imagination to give a funny name to something that looks like a truck going through an identity crisis.
In military history there are vehicles that became famous because they shot farther, ran faster, or managed to scare anyone who saw them coming.
The DUKW, instead, belongs to a very different category. It is one of the machines that make all the others work.
It did not have the threatening charm of a tank. It did not possess the romantic aura of the Jeep. It was not the protagonist of official photographs nor the subject of propaganda posters.
Its talent was transporting men, fuel, ammunition, food, and materials exactly to the point where they were needed.
It did not ask for glory. It simply did its job.
And in war, very often, this is exactly what makes the difference.
Its story begins in 1942, when the United States found itself facing one of the most complex problems of the entire conflict: logistics.
Logistics is a curious discipline. No one writes novels about logistics. Rarely does anyone make films about logistics. Yet history is full of armies that discovered too late that without supplies even the most brilliant plan becomes a long walk toward disaster.
In the case of amphibious operations the problem was particularly evident. Ships could reach near the coast. But then?
Ports could be destroyed, occupied by the enemy, or simply non-existent. A way had to be found to quickly transfer men and materials from ships to land without interrupting the supply flow.
Something was needed that could leave a ship, cross a stretch of sea, and continue the journey on land without stopping to ask anyone for permission.
It was an ambitious request.
It was necessary to build a truck that was also a boat, while avoiding ending up with a boat that was a bad truck or a truck that was a bad boat.
The solution came precisely from that meeting in which someone said: “I have an idea!”. Thanks to the collaboration between General Motors, through the GMC and Chevrolet divisions, the naval architects of Sparkman & Stephens, and the National Defense Research Committee. The idea was surprisingly simple in theory and much less so in practice.
Take a sturdy military truck and make it amphibious.
The official name, DUKW, was much less charming than the nickname. It did not derive from ancient maritime traditions nor from some obscure secret code. It was simply the result of GMC technical nomenclature. The letter D indicated 1942, the design year. The U identified amphibious capability. The K indicated front steering. The W the two rear driven axles.
In other words, the name had the same emotional charm as a cadastral record.
Fortunately, “Duck” arrived. Much better.
Because that vehicle really had something of a duck. It moved on water, walked on land, and seemed perfectly at ease in both environments without feeling the need to permanently choose between the two.
The technical base was the GMC CCKW two-and-a-half-ton truck, one of the most widespread trucks in the American army. Engineers took its chassis, transmission, and engine, enclosing them inside a welded steel watertight hull. At the rear they installed a propeller connected to the engine and a rudder for navigation.
The power unit was a GMC inline six-cylinder engine of 4,416 cubic centimeters producing about 91 horsepower. Today many supermarket SUVs easily exceed that power just by going to buy bread. But in the 1940s that engine represented an almost perfect balance between reliability, simplicity, and ease of maintenance.
On the road it could reach about 80 kilometers per hour. In water almost 10.
Its dimensions were significant: 9.45 meters in length and 2.44 in width. It could carry over 2,300 kilograms of material or about twenty-five fully equipped soldiers.
Among the most interesting features was a system that today seems normal but at the time appeared almost futuristic. Centralized tire pressure adjustment. The driver could change the pressure directly from the cab while the vehicle was moving. On sand, mud, or difficult terrain the tires were deflated to increase grip. Once back on asphalt, pressure was restored. It is one of those inventions that seem obvious only after someone has invented them. Before that, an engineer has to look at an amphibious truck and think: “It would be useful to be able to change tire pressure without having to get out and turn into a mud statue”.
That engineer probably deserved at least a coffee.
Its operational baptism came during the invasion of Sicily in July 1943. It was there that the DUKW stopped being an interesting experiment and proved to be a concrete solution.
Amphibious operations had always suffered from the same problem: transferring men and materials from ships to land as quickly as possible. Between sea and land there is a thin band of logistical chaos that for centuries has complicated military landings. The DUKW was designed specifically to eliminate that band.
The results obtained in Sicily were immediately encouraging.
The vehicles made continuous trips between ships and beaches, accelerating the flow of supplies and reducing many of the delays typical of amphibious operations.
But the moment that definitively consecrated it came on June 6, 1944. Normandy. The Landing.
One of the most complex military operations ever organized. The French beaches were defended. The sea was rough. The ports were unusable. In other words, it was exactly the kind of situation for which the DUKW had been conceived. Hundreds of units operated between offshore ships and Allied beachheads. They transported ammunition, fuel, food, and materials. Everything needed for an army to keep fighting.
It was not the kind of activity destined for celebratory posters. No one hangs in their living room a painting depicting a truck delivering supply crates. Yet without those crates many of the military feats we remember today would have been impossible.
The DUKWs faced rough seas, strong winds, and enemy fire. Some were lost. But for that vehicle a coastline without infrastructure was not a problem. It was simply another place to reach. As often happens with the best inventions, the end of the war did not coincide with the end of its usefulness. Many machines end their existence in a museum. Others change jobs. The DUKW belonged to the second category.
It was used in numerous civilian activities, especially in rescue operations during floods and natural disasters. When roads disappeared under water and geography suddenly decided to rewrite its own rules, it kept moving. It was born for war. But it proved perfectly capable of helping people.
Between 1942 and 1945 over 21,000 units were built. An enormous number for such a particular vehicle. Many continued to serve for years and some even reached the Korean War.
We had the privilege of boarding it and testing it also in water during the Boston by Way 2026 event. And it is impossible not to notice a curious characteristic. The Duck does not seem particularly interested in the distinction between land and sea. For it they are simply two different surfaces. Asphalt, mud, or a few meters of water seem like variations on the same theme. It proceeds with the same calm determination.
The story of the specimen we encountered is particularly interesting.
After military service it spent many years in the French fire brigade, continuing to do what it had always done: work and help people in places where land and water meet. When the final retirement came it was purchased by a collector who decided to bring it back to its origins, restoring its original military livery. A sort of officer on leave.
The current owner Alberto (whom we thank, together with the association Tracce di Storia) tells its story with enthusiasm and a healthy dose of irony.
When someone asks him why he chose that particular vehicle, apparently so distant from his passion for historical radios, the answer comes immediately. “I liked it. I traded it for some radios and brought it home.”
Difficult to imagine a more sincere explanation. Many great collections begin exactly like this. Not with a detailed plan. But with someone looking at an object and simply thinking: “I want this.” The rest comes later.
Driving a DUKW, he says, is not exactly like driving a normal truck. At first everything seems familiar. Steering wheel. Pedals. Levers. Considerable mass. The traditional rules of heavy mechanics.
Then comes the moment when the road ends. And the DUKW decides that this is not a problem at all. The transition from land to water is probably the most surreal part of the entire experience. Until a few seconds before you are driving a military truck. Then a lake, river, or sea appears. And suddenly you find yourself aboard something that, according to a very rational part of the brain, should not float. It is one of those moments in which the mind temporarily stops classifying the world. “I’m not sure what is happening,” it seems to think. And yet it happens. The vehicle enters the water. The waves reach the windshield. The hull takes control of the situation. And the truck stops being a truck. From that moment the atmosphere changes. Even for those who had already seen it many times before.
A small form of magic is born. Around the DUKW a circle of people quickly forms, the kind that appears every time a machine manages to become something more than a machine. It is no longer just a vehicle. It becomes a story, a meeting point. A generator of anecdotes.
Among the most famous stories we learn about is the one involving General George S. Patton. According to the story, during Operation Husky in Sicily the general initially looked at those vehicles with little enthusiasm. It is not hard to imagine. For a commander used to tanks and large offensives, relying on something resembling a giant duck could seem discouraging.
The beaches were under artillery fire. Moving quickly was essential. Legend says that a DUKW driver managed to transport Patton directly from the ship to the shore, crossing waves and enemy fire to his forward command post. The vehicle went where others stopped.
Unfortunately not all stories related to the DUKW have a happy ending.
The most tragic is probably that of April 30, 1945. In the waters of Lake Garda a DUKW of the 10th Mountain Division was transporting men and materials near Torbole. The weather worsened rapidly. Conditions became prohibitive. The vehicle sank within minutes. There was only one survivor. Thomas Earl Hough. Thanks to his testimony it was possible to reconstruct the events. Even today the wreck lies at the bottom of the lake and is considered a submerged war grave.
As often happens when a wreck remains hidden for decades, legends have arisen around the tragedy. Secret cargoes. Mysterious missions. Special equipment. But beyond every story there remains a very simple reality: down there there is still a fragment of history.
Among the most curious episodes that have emerged over the years is what many have dubbed the “ice cream war”. During the Pacific campaigns the heat was oppressive, conditions extremely harsh, and troop morale often severely tested. The US Navy then decided to employ a decidedly unusual strategic resource: ice cream. It may seem trivial, but in the most difficult conditions even a small comfort can take on enormous importance. The image is almost surreal. A military vehicle crossing the sea during a war campaign to deliver ice cream to the Marines sounds like something invented by a particularly imaginative screenwriter.
the GMC DUKW does not like the spotlight. It does not protest against terrain and does not argue with water. It seems to consider difficulties little more than details. It moves from land to sea with the same naturalness with which we cross a door.
And perhaps this is precisely the secret of its charm. After more than eighty years it continues to remind us of a surprisingly simple truth. Well-built machines do not really age. They change owner. They change job. They change era, but deep down they always remain what they were. And sometimes, if they have had an interesting enough life, they end up becoming legends.
For the video thanks go to Massimiliano Lo Cicero (Storici Eventi), for the images Rusty Pelican.
