The Pittsburgh Press (August 19, 1942)
Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
SOMEWHERE IN NORTHERN IRELAND (By Wireless) – Maj. Gen. Russell P. Hartle, who commands all our troops in Northern Ireland, is universally liked. I have never heard him mentioned except in such terms as “He’s a swell guy.”
The general has a big nose and a big grim. He is friendly, and he says what he thinks. He’s okay either in the field or at a dinner party. When you talk with him at his office he has previously arranged his work so that he seems to have all the time in the world to chat.
Gen. Hartle has a new dog. A friend bought it for him in Dublin. It’s one of these square-nosed Irish dogs called a Kerry Blue, and its coat is actually sort of blue. The dog is named Scrappy, which incidentally is the general’s own nickname.
“Actually he’s a lot scrappier than I am,” Gen. Hartle says.
The general’s office is on the ground floor, with a big bay window opening onto a meadow. One window has been put on hinges, and steps have been built up to the window sill, like a stile, so you can slip out the back way. This is fine for the dog Scrappy, because he can come and go as he pleases.
Scrappy sits in on all military conferences. It’s funny to watch him. He cocks his head and listens in turn to each speaker. Often he is very non-plussing, for when the general asks a question of one of his high-ranking officers, Scrappy looks intently at the officer as though to say, “All right, stupid, what are you gonna answer to that one?”
I have now traveled about 500 miles over Northern Ireland in peeps and jeeps and British army cars. Riding around the country in jeeps is good athletic training. As one of the boys who travels constantly in peeps says, “I’ve got a cauliflower rear.”
All the road signs in Northern Ireland have been taken down, of course. So you get about the country by asking the way. There’s one trick you soon learn. You ask only for the next town ahead. Never ask beyond the next town or you’ll get such confused directions you’ll never get anywhere. That’s the first thing every new driver in the motor corps has to learn over here.
My latest peep was driven by Pvt. Chuck Williams of Columbus, Ohio. We were out foraging off the country together for a week, through hail, rain, blizzards and darkness. We never knew one night where we would be the next, but we got along.
When traveling like that it is the rule of the Army that the person in charge of the car must take care of the driver before taking care of himself. But Chuck and I worked out a sort of system of taking care of each other.
When we got to a new town or camp we would get ourselves lined up with bed and board and then I would give Chuck a little money to go exploring on. Within a couple of hours he would find out everything in town worth knowing, and come back and tell me about it.
One night he even got dates for three air officers we had brought to town with us – and him a private! He is the best beagle-hound I ever traveled with.
Recently we had three days of sunshine and warmth. For three whole days it didn’t rain and I didn’t need a topcoat. You should have seen what it did to the American troops. They simply expanded. Everybody was in a good mood. Life seemed interesting again. Officers and men all wanted to get out of camp and get to town and have some fun.
Maybe it’s a good thing the weather is lousy most of the time.
Neighborhood Personals – Eugene Long, known as Shorty Long, a one-time school teacher and clothing store owner in Wendell Willkie’s home town, Elwood, Ind., has just been promoted from captain to major and you should see him grinning all over … The other day I met Capt. Porter Grace, who used to be in the chamber of commerce at Memphis. He lives in an old castle. As soon as we met he disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a letter from his wife, Eleanor, which said the Memphis Press-Scimitar reported me in Ireland and for him to keep an eye out for me … Sgt. Bill Seegar of Council Bluffs, Ia., has kept a diary since going a whole page. The night I stayed at his camp he put me in his diary and then had me autograph it. Fame comes once to every man, even if he has to chase it clear to darkest Ireland in order to catch it … The other afternoon a pigeon flew in the open window and circled the room a couple of times, during which he paid his compliments to my hat, lying on the bed. Then he flew away again. What was I saying about fame?
The Gazette (August 20, 1942)
U.S. Rangers in Commando unit long seasoned for Dieppe raid
London, England (AP) – (Aug. 19)
The United States Rangers who joined Canadian, British and Fighting French units today in the Commando raid on France, had been training secretly for weeks under the tutelage of their seasoned British partners.
Their mentors are men who toss hand grenades across the dinner table and casually jump 20-foot cliffs and their American pupils have been taught to kill with the cunning of the Indian and the ruthlessness of a gangster.
I was the first American newspaperman to visit one of their camps when they were putting the finishing touches on training for such ventures as today’s raid on Dieppe.
They have climbed 4,000-foot mountains. They have been on speed marches of 36 miles in half a day time and again. They have practised beach landings while rifle and machine-gun fire bored holes through the paddles of the men manning the boats.
They have taken both their tactics and their name from Rogers’ Rangers, one of America’s most romantic fighting outfits who, under Robert Rogers, stalked North America in the French and Indian War.
Under Rogers’ daring leadership in the campaigns around Lake George in Upper New York State, those early-day Rangers became known for their courage and endurance – the traits for which their namesakes are now chosen.
Rogers led his men in the Montreal campaign of 1760.
Later, Rogers was sent to take possession of the northwestern posts, including what is now Detroit, and participated in the Battle of Bloody Ridge.
Just to show them what a modern Ranger is expected to do, their British instructors stalked a deer in the forest and when the stag was surrounded a big Scot leaped upon him and killed him with a knife.
A sentry’s throat can be slit in the same, silent way.
On my visit, I rowed with them in a collapsible canvas boat to a landing on a beach where tracer bullets from a British Bren gun were spewing so close to the gunwales you almost were able to reach out your hand to them.
Land mines and grenades splattered us with mud and water. Rifle bullets singed by so close that one punctured a mess kit slung from a Ranger’s belt. Another nicked the guard off a bayonet atop one soldier’s pack.
Wrestling (dark alley style) and ju jitsu were after-dinner pastimes at the camp I visited. A man out of condition was a candidate for the hospital if he joined the fun.
Often the boys ignored the stairway in the castle where they had their headquarters. They’d just grab a rope on the third floor and “absail down.”
“Absailing” is the simple device of looping a rope around your leg and letting yourself drop as fast as your leg can withstand it.