Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
One night I bunked in the dugout of Sgt. Bazzel Carter of Wailing Creek, Kentucky, which is just a short way from the famous coal town of Harlan. In fact, Sgt. Carter’s brother is a miner there.
Sgt. Carter is a tank commander. He has had two tanks shot out from under him, one by bombing, the other by shellfire, but he didn’t get a scratch either time.
He is the typical man of the hills who doesn’t say much until he gets to know you, and even then, he talks very quietly and humbly.
Gradually we got acquainted. Sgt. Carter told me about his folks at home and got out pictures of his father and mother and younger brother. He hoped his mother wasn’t worrying too much about him.
He told me how he had gone to the University of Kentucky half a semester and then restlessly quit and joined the Army before we were in the war. Now he feels that he didn’t do right, because his father had worked so hard to save the money for him to go. But when the war is over, he is determined to go on with his schooling.
I hit Sgt. Carter’s bailiwick at a propitious time – for me. He had just that day received a box from his mother and in it was a quart mason jar of good old American fried chicken.
We heated it on our little Coleman stove and ate it for breakfast. When the word got around that we’d had fried chicken for breakfast we were both the envy of the others and the butt of all “plutocrat” jokes for the day.
‘Old Nick’ reaches him
For once in my life I was able to reciprocate the sharing of this gift. It’s a long story, but it seems that a friend of mine from Indiana University, Stew Butler, manages or owns a candy factory in Chicago which makes a bar called “Old Nick.” The day before I left Washington last November to return overseas, Stew called up long-distance to say he was going to send me a box of his candy every week. Never one to refuse anything, I said try it if you want to, although I’ll probably never get any of them.
So, a couple of months went by and nothing happened and I forgot all about it, and then all of a sudden, all this pent-up candy came pouring in two and three big boxes at a time. Brother, do I have candy! So lately I have been taking it to the front with me a box at a time and passing it around.
I had a box along on this trip, so I gave it to Sgt. Carter and his tank friends, and you should have seen them go for it. We get hard candy and plenty of gumdrops and lifesavers, and sugar too, but very little chocolate.
WARNING: Having had experience with Americans’ generosity before, let me urge you, too, not to start sending me candy, because very shortly I may be changing location, and it would never reach me.
Sgt. Carter fares pretty well himself on packages from home. Three are sent him every week, one by his mother, one by his sister, and one by his cousin. He gets most of them, too. They don’t send fried chicken every time, but there is always something to eat.
Sgt. Carter’s dugout is just a bare one, with straw on the floor, a tiny electric light in the ceiling and a little shelf he has anchored into the dirt wall.
He said that after he got his dugout finished and moved in, he discovered a mole burrowing in the wall. So he killed it and skinned it, and the hide is still hanging on a nearby tree.
Luxury of pantslessness
The sergeant sleeps in his overalls, but the dugout was so snug and warm I decided on the luxury of taking off my pants. Even so, I was kept awake a long time by our own guns. Not by the noise, for it was rather muffled down there below ground, but the vibration of the earth was distracting.
When the big “Long Toms,” which were almost half a mile away, would go off in battery salvo, the earth on which we were lying four feet below the surface would tremble and jerk as though it were in an earthquake. But once asleep I never awakened, even though they said later that bombers were over during the night.
Sgt. Carter gets up at 6 every morning, and the first thing he does is slip out and start the engines of his tank, which is dug in about 20 feet from his dugout. This is a daily practice just to make sure everything is in readiness for a sudden mission.
After breakfast, he showed me all through his tank. It’s so spotless you could eat off the floor. He is very proud of it, and had me sit in the driver’s seat and start the engines to hear them sing. I was proud too, just because he wanted me to.