The Pittsburgh Press (July 10, 1943)
Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
Last of five articles on the WACs.
North Africa –
The WACs in North Africa say they use about the same military slang the Army uses. No battlefield language of their own has grown up. They grouse mostly about the same thing soldiers do – their officers, their work, their food – yet actually they don’t find any of these very bad.
The WACs have not lived the rough-and-tumble life of Army nurses. They don’t have to wear G.I. underwear nor heavy field shoes. They eat at tables, take regular baths, and always look crisp and neat.
The only real danger they have been in was air raids on their city, and now these seem to have stopped.
Now and then, you hear some officer or soldier say:
Well, I always said a woman’s place was in the home, and I still think so.
But the bulk of the Army which comes in contact with the WACs doesn’t feel that way at all. The Army knows how well the girls can work, and the enlisted men appreciate that it is not easy for a girl to leave her home and country and come far across the ocean to live. They feel a sort of camaraderie with the WACs.
The WACs themselves are much prouder of being over here, I believe, than the men are. I doubt if even a handful of them would go home if given a chance.
The most soldierly of all the WACs I’ve seen is Anne Bradley of Philadelphia. Furthermore, she is so good-looking it makes you hurt. In addition, she had a personality that breaks you down, without resistance, and to top off the indignity of one small person having all these blessings, she’s got brains as well.
Sgt. Bradley so definitely should be an officer that I asked her boss about it, and the reply was this:
She would be an officer now if she had stayed in America, but she passed up that chance in order to get overseas, and we can’t promote in the field the way the Army does. If I could just put a second lieutenant’s bars on Bradley right now, my worries would be over.
The sergeant is so photogenic that she is on some of the WAC recruiting posters. But she has never pretended to be a professional beauty. Actually, she is a career woman. She is only 24, yet before enlisting, she was personnel director of the Beechnut Packing Company.
She runs her half of the company with gay-hearted quips that have a terrible firmness. When she walks, it’s like an animated statue, she’s so straight.
Margaret Miller of Stow, Ohio, is what is known as company artificer. That means carpenter and jack of all trades. Margaret is short, dark and stubby, has a boyish bob, wears overalls, carries a hammer, and goes by the name “Butch.”
She does all the fixing around the joint, repairs the plumbing, moves furniture, patches holes in the floor, and puts up wooden crosses to hold mosquito nets over beds.
Butch says that for the two years previous to joining the WACs, she was a combination bartender and bouncer in a saloon. She gets her really heavy work done by saving it up till the garbagemen come past. She gives them a bottle of wine and some fast talk, and presto, everything is moved.
I asked the sergeant if Butch had any boyfriends, and she said:
Does she! The first week we were here, one G.I. wrote several times a day threatening to blow his brains out if she didn’t tell him she loved him. And she wouldn’t, because she didn’t.
There is an anti-aircraft battery near Butch’s barracks and she is always taking hot coffee out to the boys. One evening, Butch didn’t show up at “lights out,” so they sent some of the girls to look for her. Butch had delivered her coffee and started home all right, but got tired and lay down in the grass for a while. The searching party found her there, fast asleep.
Ernie Pyle has informed us from Africa that he will not be sending any dispatches for a few days.