Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
A forward Tunisian airdrome – (March 12)
You may remember my writing last summer about a bunch of American fighter pilots training in Ireland. They were the first fliers to arrive in Ireland, and their comment on the Irish weather was:
When you can see the hills, it’s going to rain; when you can’t see the hills, it’s raining.
Well, I’ve just smacked into this same bunch down here in Africa. They’ve sure been through the mill in the past six months. Already one squadron is veteran enough that some are due to go home soon, and they’ve all been moved back to take a rest.
For five weeks, they lived and fought in a special kind of hell on the Tunisian front. Their field was bombed on an average of every two hours. The pilots took to the air at a moment’s notice, several times a day. They averaged between four and five hors in the air daily, and practically all of it was fighting time.
They started with 21 planes and 22 pilots. They lost six planes and three pilots. But on their scoreboard, they are credited with 11 victories, two probables, and 14 damaged.
Plane is junk; pilot unhurt
They had enough thriller-diller experiences to fill a book. Lt. Ed Boughton of New York had a typical one. His plane was shot all to pieces and the glass canopy that shuts him into the seat was damaged so he couldn’t get it open. Consequently, he couldn’t jump, and simply had to land the plane or die.
Miraculously, he got it back to the field and crash-landed it. The plane was nothing but junk – Lt. Boughton wasn’t hurt. When they finally got him out, they discovered that the jammed canopy had probably saved his life. For his parachutes was shot half away, and if he’d jumped, he would have fallen like a plummet.
The squadron commander is Maj. James S. Coward of Erwin, Tennessee. Lt. Col. Graham West of Portland, Oregon, is the executive officer of the whole group, but spent the entire time at the front with this one squadron. He is still with them, seeing that they rest as hard as they fought.
West’s nickname is “Windy.” He and Jim Coward are typical of the Air forces. They are both young, both extremely pleasant to be around, both high in rank for their age. When I saw “Windy” West last July in Ireland he was a captain. A few moments out to denote the passage of time, and he shows up in Africa as a lieutenant colonel.
West is a black-haired, black-mustached fellow who could easily be called “dashing,” although he’d no doubt resent it. His clothes are always spick-and-span, and so is his mustache. He plays good poker and is always hurrying somewhere. He has been in the Army eight years, and if the Army hadn’t got him, the theater should have.
I went into his room one morning. He was standing in the middle of the floor, drinking a cup of coffee he had brewed on his own little French burner. He was fully dressed on the upper half – shirt, tie, flying jacket and everything.
A Capt. Kidd of the air
But on the lower half he had nothing but shorts and leather boots. Jaunty flying boots that flared at the top. He was a picture of Capt. Kidd – a modern Capt. Kidd of the air.
When they were at the front everybody had to live out in the open. It was wet and cold at the start, wet and cold at the end.
The ground crew of 85 men really went through hell. For they were bombed by day, miserably wet and cold by night, and constantly overworked. When the pilots flew their Spitfires back to a desert airdrome for their much-deserved rest, their main concern was for their ground crews, who had been left up front to care for the replacement squadron.
I heard at least a half a dozen pilots say:
We’re all right. We can use the rest, but we’re not in bad shape. It’s those ground men that really need it and deserve it.
So “Windy” West went to work, and a few days later six big transports flying in formation landed at our field, and out of them climbed the 85 weary ground men. Replacements had arrived for them. They have begun their rest. And all’s well that ends well.