Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
Ernie Pyle and “That Girl” remarried yesterday, by proxy – all the way from Africa to New Mexico.
On the central Tunisian front – (March 10)
The other night I was sitting in the room of Lt. Col. Sam Gormly, a Flying Fortress commander from Los Angeles. We were looking over a six-weeks-old copy of an American picture magazine, the latest to reach us. It was full of photos and stories of the war; dramatic tales from the Solomons, from Russia, and right from our own African front. The magazine fascinated me and, when I had finished, I felt an animation about the war I hadn’t felt in weeks.
For in the magazine the war seemed romantic and exciting, full of heroics and vitality. I know it really is, and yet I don’t seem capable of feeling it. Only in the magazine from America can I catch the real spirit of the war over here.
One of the pictures was of the long concrete quay where we landed in Africa. It gave me a little tingle to look at it. For some perverse reason it was more thrilling to look at the picture, than it was to march along the dock itself that first day. I said:
I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Here we are right at the front, and yet the war isn’t dramatic to me at all.
It’s just hard work
When I said that, Maj. Quint Quick of Bellingham, Washington, rose up from his bed onto his elbow. Quick is a bomber squadron leader and has been in as many fights as any bomber pilot over here. He is admired and respected for what he’s been through. He said:
It isn’t to me either. I know it should be, but it isn’t. It’s just hard work, and all I want is to finish it and get back home.
So, I don’t know. Is war dramatic, or isn’t it? Certainly, there are great tragedies, unbelievable heroics, even a constant undertone of comedy. It is the job of us writers to transfer all that drama back to you folks at home. Most of the other correspondents have the ability to do it. But when I sit down to write, here is what I see instead: Men at the front suffering and wishing they were somewhere else, men in routine jobs just behind the lines bellyaching because they can’t get to the front, all of them desperately hungry for somebody to talk to besides themselves, no women to be heroes in front of, damned little wine to drink, precious little song, cold and fairly dirty, just toiling from day to day in a world full of insecurity, discomfort, homesickness, and a dulled sense of danger.
The drama and romance are here, of course, but they’re like the famous falling tree in the forest – they’re no good unless there’s somebody around to hear. I know of only twice that the war will be romantic to the men over here. Once when they see the Statue of Liberty, again on their first day back in the hometown with the folks.
And speaking of drama, I’ve just passed up my only opportunity of being dramatic in this war. It was a tough decision either way.
Too old for heroics
As you’ve seen, correspondents at last are allowed to go along on bombing missions. I am with a bomber group that I’d known both in England and elsewhere in Africa, and many of them are personal friends by now. They asked if I cared to go along on a mission over the hot spot of Bizerte.
I knew the day of that invitation would come, and I dreaded it. Not to go, brands you as a coward. To go might make him a slight hero, or a dead duck. Actually, I never knew what I’d say until the moment came. When it did come, I said this:
No, I don’t see any sense in my going. Other correspondents have already gone, so I couldn’t be the first anyhow. I’d be in the way, and if I got killed my death would have contributed nothing. I’m running chances just being here without sticking my neck out and asking for it. No, I think I won’t go. I’m too old to be a hero.
Fliers agree with him
The reaction of the fliers astounded me. I expected them to be politely contemptuous of anyone who declined to do just once what they did every day. But their attitude was exactly the opposite, and you could tell they were sincere and not just being nice.
One of them said:
Anybody who goes, when he doesn’t have to, is a plain damned fool.
Another pilot said:
If I were in your shoes, I’d never go on another mission.
A bombardier with his arm in a sling from flak said:
You’re right. A correspondent went with us. It wasn’t any good. He shouldn’t have done it.
To hell with vanity
A lieutenant colonel, who had just got back from a mission, said:
There are only two reasons on earth why anybody should go. Either because he has to, or to show other people he isn’t afraid. Some of us have to show we’re not afraid. You don’t have to. You decided light.
I put this all down with such blunt immodesty because some of you may have wondered when I’m going along to describe a bombing mission for you, and if not, why not. I’m not going, and the reason is that I’ve rationalized myself into believing that for one in my position, my sole purpose in going would be to perpetuate my vanity. And I’ve decided to hell with vanity.