Willkie blames coal crisis on administration policies
Failure to take stand against arrogant forces cited at Rushmore Memorial address
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Allied fliers lost heavily over Darwin
Australian city attacked by 51 Jap planes in air war renewal
By Don Caswell, United Press staff writer
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Kill Ruml’s tax program, Doughton requests House
There’s not a single sound reason for adopting the plan, he says
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At mystery home –
Knox guest on R St., he reveals
Wife with him at dinner party; unacquainted with host
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Control of the ‘body basic’ –
WPB to eliminate frills from clothing of women
Exaggerated peg tops, drapes and other fancy angles will go by the boards
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Kiska raided again; bombs start fires
Washington (UP) –
U.S. fliers attacked Japanese-held Kiska in the Aleutians 13 more times last Saturday and succeeded in starting fires and setting off an explosion, the Navy announced today.
On the same day, U.S. airmen blasted two Jap bases on Attu Island, 200 miles to the west of Kiska.
The enemy base at Munda, in the Central Solomons, was bombed again by U.S. fliers.
Draft-dodging hint assailed by head of OWI
Elmer Davis: ‘Would not tolerate indiscriminate deferments’
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Supreme Court upholds sect’s right to sell
‘Witnesses’ override all local ordinances on free press idea
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‘Swing shift’ row causes another strike at Ford
Nearly 5,000 men walk out; dispute starts in tank and motor parts foundry
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Gas shortage forces U.S. to curb fliers’ training
‘Some combat planes in this country grounded,’ Patterson tells Senate investigators
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Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
In the frontlines before Mateur, Tunisia – (May 2, by wireless)
We’re now with an infantry outfit that has battled ceaselessly for four days and nights.
This northern warfare has been in the mountains. You don’t ride much anymore. It is walking and climbing and crawling country. The mountains aren’t big, but they are constant. They are largely treeless. They are easy to defend and bitter to take. But we are taking them.
The Germans lie on the back slope of every ridge, deeply dug into foxholes. In front of them the fields and pastures are hideous with thousands of hidden mines. The forward slopes are left open, untenanted, and if the Americans tried to scale these slopes, they would be murdered wholesale in an inferno of machine-gun crossfire, plus mortars and grenades.
Consequently, we didn’t do it that way. We have fallen back to the old warfare of first pulverizing the enemy with artillery, then sweeping around the ends of the hill with infantry and taking them from the sides and behind.
I’ve written before how the big guns crack and roar almost constantly throughout the day and night. They lay a screen ahead of our troops. By magnificent shooting they drop shells on the back slopes. By means of shells timed to burst in the air a few feet from the ground, they get the Germans even in their foxholes. Our troops have found that the Germans dig foxholes down and then under, trying to get cover from the shell bursts that shower death from above.
Enough… for once
Our artillery has really been sensational. For once we have enough of something and at the right time. Officers tell me they actually have more guns than they know what to do with.
All the guns in any one sector can be centered to shoot at one spot. And when we lay the whole business on a German hill the whole slope seems to erupt. It becomes an unbelievable cauldron of fire and smoke and dirt. Veteran German soldiers say they have never been through anything like it.
Now to the infantry – the goddamned infantry, as they like to call themselves.
I love the infantry because they are the underdogs. They are the mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys. They have no comforts, and they even learn to live without the necessities. And in the end, they are the guys that wars can’t be won without.
I wish you could see just one of the ineradicable pictures I have in my mind today. In this particular picture I am sitting among clumps of sword-grass on a steep and rocky hillside that we have just taken. We are looking out over a vast rolling country to the rear.
A narrow path comes like a ribbon over a hill miles away, down a long slope, across a creek, up a slope and over another hill.
All along the length of this ribbon there is now a thin line of men. For four days and nights they have fought hard, eaten little, washed none, and slept hardly at all. Their nights have been violent with attack, fright, butchery, and their days sleepless and miserable with the crash of artillery.
The men are walking. They are 50 feet apart for dispersal. Their walk is slow, for they are dead weary, as you can tell even when looking at them from behind. Every line and sag of their bodies speaks their inhuman exhaustion.
The line never ends
On their shoulders and backs they carry heavy steel tripods, machine-gun barrels, leaden boxes of ammunition. Their feet seem to sink into the ground from the overload they are bearing.
They don’t slouch. It is the terrible deliberation of each step that spells out their appalling tiredness. Their faces are black and unshaved. They are young men, but the grime and whiskers and exhaustion make them look middle-aged.
In their eyes as they pass is not hatred, not excitement, not despair, not the tonic of their victory – there is just the simple expression of being here as though they had been here doing this forever, and nothing else.
The line moves on, but it never ends. All afternoon men keep coming round the hill and vanishing eventually over the horizon. It is one long tired line of ant-like men.
There is an agony in your heart and you almost feel ashamed to look at them. They are just guys from Broadway and Main Street, but you wouldn’t remember them. They are too far away now. They are too tired. Their world can never be known to you, but if you could see them just once, just for an instant, you would know that no matter how hard people work back home they are not keeping pace with these infantrymen in Tunisia.