Soldiers plow through a sugar cane field in Puerto Rico in 1943. (Photo from National Archives)

For more photos of this history-making vehicle, click here.

It was one of Bill Mauldin’s most memorable cartoons: The grizzled old cavalry sergeant presses his .45 against the hood of his disabled vehicle. His distress at having to put down his trusty companion is so great that he has to cover his eyes before delivering the coup de grâce.

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His “mount” was that squat, inelegant, box-shaped vehicle known as the jeep. It had been created in record time at the outbreak of World War II, the fruit of a U.S. Army–brokered “collaboration” between Ford and two smaller companies, a motorized replacement for horse cavalry that quickly became the GI’s best friend. Endearing, indomitable, indispensable, incredibly versatile and, in truth, virtually indestructible, the jeep has endured as the ubiquitous icon of American military might.

“Good lord,” wrote the war correspondent Ernie Pyle, “I don’t think we could continue the war without the jeep. It does everything. It goes everywhere. It’s as faithful as a dog, as strong as a mule, and as agile as a goat.”

Ever since World War I, the need to replace the horse with a vehicle capable of traversing rough terrain for reconnaissance and communications duty had been evident. The motorcycle with sidecar used in that war had proved too noisy and unstable in the mud of France. During the 1920s, the army experimented with stripped-down Model T Fords equipped with salvaged airplane tires for greater traction. But when loaded down for combat, the Tin Lizzie lost power and maneuverability. During the 1930s, army engineers tested little Austin roadsters developed in England and four-wheel-drive vehicles improvised from Ford delivery vans.

In 1937 they tested perhaps the most interesting machine—a combination reconnaissance vehicle and machine gun carrier developed that year at the Infantry School at Fort Benning, Georgia. An automotive enthusiast, Capt. Robert G. Howie, working with Master Sgt. Melvin C. Wiley, assembled it largely from scrap parts. It was a simple, low-slung platform with the front wheels powered by a rear-mounted Austin four-cylinder engine. It carried a machine gun and a two-man crew, who lay prone. The driver pushed the clutch and brake with his feet and steered with a hand lever. There were no springs, and it was a hard, punishing ride.

Officially known as the Howie Machine Gun Carrier, the machine quickly earned the obvious nickname: Belly Flopper. Though designers wanted a low silhouette suitable for combat, the Belly Flopper turned out to be slung too close to the ground for cross-country travel and too light for rugged use.

Nonetheless, the army took the idea seriously enough that in early 1940 a demonstration was staged for representatives from the automotive industry. One such witness, Delmar “Barney” Roos, executive vice president and chief engineer at Willys-Overland, said the contraption looked like “a cross between a kid’s scooter and a diving board on wheels.” Still, Roos and others were inspired by the demonstration and went away thinking about how to create a practical reconnaissance car.

The outbreak of war in Europe and the remarkable mobility demonstrated by the German forces brought new urgency to that quest. After France capitulated in June 1940, the Army Quartermaster Corps issued specifications for a lightweight reconnaissance vehicle that could also carry men and equipment across rough terrain.

The specifications included four-wheel drive, a load capacity of 600 pounds, a maximum height of 36 inches, and a folding windshield.

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