Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
The other day Wick Fowler, war correspondent of The Dallas News, and I were walking along the road in Nettuno. I saw a jeep coming with a one-star plate on the front bumper, indicating that the occupant was a brigadier general. I peered intently, trying to make out who the general was.
While I was absorbed in this endeavor, the jeep drew abreast and the general suddenly saluted us. I don’t know why he saluted – maybe he thought I was the Secretary of War. At any rate I was so startled, and so unaccustomed to being saluted by generals, that I fumbled a second and then returned the salute with my left hand.
Wick says he’ll be glad to appear at my court-martial and put in a plea of insanity for me. On the other hand, I did try, while Wick never raised an arm. So, I don’t think even a plea of insanity will save him. Wick was a nice fellow, too.
We still don’t know, incidentally, who the general was.
One in ten billion
You’ve read about the little Cub planes that fly slowly around over the frontlines, doing artillery spotting for us. They’re a wonderful little branch of the service, and the risks they take are tremendous.
The Germans try to shoot them down with ack-ack, and occasionally a German fighter will sneak in and take a pass at them. But the Cub is so slow that the fighters usually overshoot, and the Cub can drop down and land immediately.
The saddest story I’ve ever heard about a Cub happened here on the 5th Army beachhead. A “Long Tom” – or 155 rifle – was the unwitting villain in this case.
The certain gun fired only one shell that entire day – but that one shell, with all the sky to travel in, made a direct hit on one of our Cubs in the air and blew it to smithereens. It was one of those incredible one-in-ten-billion possibilities, but it happened.
Not nervous – much
In my column the other day about our experience when the war correspondents’ villa was bombed, I said that after it was over, I didn’t feel shaky or nervous.
Since then, little memories of the bombing have gradually come back into my consciousness. I recall now that I went to take my pocket comb out of my shirt pocket to comb my hair, but instead actually took my handkerchief out of my hip pocket and started combing my hair with the handkerchief.
And at noon I realized I had smoked a whole pack of cigarettes since 7:30 a.m.
Me nervous? Why, I should say not.
The day after the bombing, I got a little package of chewing gum and lifesavers and whatnot. I tore the return address off the package and put it on my table in order to write a note of thanks to the sender.
The package and address were both lost in the bombing. All I remember is that it was from Spencer, Iowa. So, will whoever sent it please accept my thanks?
Sergeant is mourned
I’ve spoken of soldiers’ wartime pets so many times that you’re probably bored with the subject. But here’s one more.
The headquarters of a certain tank regiment where I have many friends had a beautiful police dog named “Sergeant.” He belonged to everybody, was a lovable dog, liked to go through a whole repertoire of tricks, and was almost human in his sensitiveness.
He had even become plane-raid conscious, and when he heard planes in the sky would run and get in his own private foxhole – or any foxhole, if he were away from home.
“Sergeant” was dutifully in his foxhole yesterday when he died. Shrapnel from an airburst got him. He wasn’t killed instantly, and they had to destroy him.
The outfit lost two officers, four men and a dog in that raid. It is not belittling the men who died to say that “Sergeant’s” death shared a high place in the grief of those who were left.
