Yanks shoot down Nazi flying bombs
Attack resumed in weakened form
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With New Guinea in the bag –
MacArthur’s forces in position for big thrust at Philippines
‘Hit where they ain’t’ strategy pays off
By William B. Dickinson, United Press staff writer
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Le Bourget Airport battered in suicidal German stand
French capture Paris airport already ruined by Allied aerial bombardment
By Robert C. Miller, United Press staff writer
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Pinchot for Roosevelt
Washington –
Gifford Pinchot, former Republican Governor of Pennsylvania, after conferring with President Roosevelt today pledged his support to the Chief Executive’s fourth term candidacy on grounds that “no other living man is so well fitted… to lead us to permanent peace.”
Annual patriotic pageant scheduled for Saturday at Weirton, West Virginia
Steel town residents and visiting stars taking part in ‘Time Is Now’
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Editorial: Not political, eh?
Now isn’t this somethin’? Acting Secretary of War McCloy rules that President – beg pardon, Commander-in-Chief – Roosevelt’s address from Bremerton, Washington, after his trip to Honolulu and the Aleutians, was “not political.” It was instead a “report.” And so deciding, Mr. McCloy reverses a six-hour-old Army ruling that the law permitted the Socialist Party equal radio time for broadcast to soldiers overseas.
Okay, let’s take Mr. McCloy’s word for it. Now the thing to do to make everything fair and square is for the Navy to provide a warship and escort for Norman Thomas, the Socialist candidate, to take a junket to our outposts and come back and make his “non-political report. Then provide the same conveniences and setting for Thomas Dewey, the Republican candidate.
Comrade Browder, having dissolved his Communist Party and joined the New Deal, will need no special reservation this year.
Battle-begrimed girl reporter finds Paris still a style center
And she arranges at once to get herself a real Parisian hairdo
By Lee Carson, representing combined U.S. press
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Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
Paris, France – (by wireless)
The other correspondents have written so thoroughly and so well about the fantastic eruption of mass joy when Paris was liberated that I shall not dwell on it much longer.
But there are some little things I have to get out of my system, so we’ll have at least this one more column on it.
Actually, the thing has floored most of us. I know that I have felt totally incapable of reporting it to you. It was so big I felt in adequate to touch it. I didn’t know where to start or what to say. The words you put down about it sound feeble to the point of asininity.
I’m not alone in this feeling, for I’ve heard a dozen other correspondents say the same thing. A good many of us feel we have failed in properly presenting the loveliest, brightest story of our time. It could be that this is because we have been so unused, for so long, to anything bright.
At any rate let’s go back to the demonstration. From 2 o’clock in the afternoon until darkness around 10:00, we few Americans in Paris on that first day were kissed and hauled and mauled by friendly mobs until we hardly knew where we were.
Waving arms finally give out
Everybody kissed you – little children, old women, grown-up men, beautiful girls. They jumped and squealed and pushed in a literal frenzy.
They pinned bright little flags and badges all over you. Amateur cameramen took pictures. They tossed flowers and friendly tomatoes into your jeep. One little girl even threw a bottle of cider into ours.
As you drove along, gigantic masses of waving and screaming humanity clapped their hands as though applauding a fine performance in a theater. We in the jeeps smiled back until we had set grins on our faces. We waved until our arms gave out, and then we just waggled our fingers. We shook hands until our hands were bruised and scratched. If the jeep stopped you were swamped instantly. Those who couldn’t reach you threw kisses at you, and we threw kisses back.
They sang songs. They sang wonderful French songs we had never heard. And they sang “Tipperary” and “Madelon” and “Over There” and the “Marseillaise.”
French policemen saluted formally but smilingly as we passed. The French tanks that went in ahead of us pulled over to the sidewalks and were immediately swarmed over.
And then some weird cell in the mystic human makeup caused people to start wanting autographs. It began the first evening and by the next day had grown to unbelievable proportions. Everybody wanted every soldier’s autograph.
They showed notebooks and papers at you to sign. It was just like Hollywood. One woman, on the second day, had a stack of neat little white slips, surely 300 of them, for people to sign.
Perfect day, perfect occasion
That first afternoon only the main streets into the city were open and used, and they were packed with humanity. The side streets were roped off and deserted, because the Germans had feeble fortifications and some snipers there.
The weather was marvelous for liberation day, and for the next day too. For two days previously it had been gloomy and raining. But on the big day the sky was pure blue, the sun was bright and warm – a perfect day for a perfect occasion.
Paris seems to have all the beautiful girls we have always heard it had. The women have an art of getting themselves up fascinatingly. Their hair is done crazily, their clothes are worn imaginatively. They dress in riotous colors in this lovely warm season, and when the flag-draped holiday streets are packed with Parisians the color makes everything else in the world seem gray.
As one soldier remarked, the biggest thrill in getting to Paris is to see people in bright summer clothes again.
Like any city, Paris has its quota of dirty and ugly people. But dirty and ugly people have emotions too, and Hank Gorrell got roundly kissed by one of the dirtiest and ugliest women I have ever seen. I must add that since he’s a handsome creature, he also got more than his share of embraces from the beautiful young things.
There was one funny little old woman, so short she couldn’t reach up to kiss men in military vehicles, who appeared on the second day carrying a stepladder. Whenever a car stopped, she would climb her stepladder and let the boys have it with hugs, laughs and kisses.
‘Thank you for coming’
The second day was a little different from the first. You could sense that during those first few hours of liberation the people were almost animal-like in their panic of joy and relief and gratitude. They were actually crying as they kissed you and screamed, “Thank you, oh thank you, for coming!”
But on the second day it was a deliberate holiday. It was a festival prepared for and gone into on purpose. You could tell that the women had prettied up especially. The old men had on their old medals, and the children were scrubbed and Sunday-dressed until they hurt.
And then everybody came downtown. By 2:00 in the afternoon the kissing and shouting and autographing and applauding were almost deafening. The pandemonium of a free and lovable Paris reigned again. It was wonderful to be here.