The Pittsburgh Press (September 11, 1942)
Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
LONDON – This is to be a column about eggs. Or rather, a column about no eggs.
In Britain, the egg has become a symbol of the rainbow’s end. You see eggs only in your mind’s eye, through a lovely dream into the Utopian future. Blessed be the egg, for it existeth not.
The Ministry of Food warns of new shortages, saying that in the months to come eggs will be even scarcer. That has puzzled me a great deal, for how can you go below zero on scarcity? When there already ain’t nothin’ of something, how can there be less of it in the future?
One night I sat in on a little program where American soldiers were recording messages home to their families, to be broadcast later in America from discs.
They came to an air mechanic named Russ Redavice, from Chicago. Russ is quite a wit.
“Fried chicken?” asked the announcer.
“Sure!” said Russ. “Only they call it fish and chips over here. I’ve eaten so much fish I’m starting to grow gills.”
“What do you have for breakfast?” the announcer asked.
Russ rubbed his hands. “Bacon and eggs, every morning!” Russ said.
“Eggs?” the announcer asked, astounded.
“Sure!” said Russ. “I get ‘em by mental telepathy.”
There is a certain high Army officer over here who is head of the Army’s procurement division. It is his job to buy Army supplies in astronomical figures. Before the war, he had been head purchasing agent for the A. & P. stores for 15 years.
Egg-buyer asks just one to eat
In his time, he has spent millions of dollars on food. He has probably bought a hundred million eggs in his day. But the other morning, a friend of mine ran across him in the lobby of a hotel, looking glum and dark.
“What’s the matter?” asked my friend. “You look down in the mouth this morning.”
“Aw, it’s these damn breakfasts,” the officer said. “I’d give my right arm for an egg, but I don’t know how to get one.”
My friend was touched. He himself is a man of considerable reconnoitering ability. I don’t know how he did it, and wouldn’t dare ask. But he went on a scouting expedition and next morning the man who had bought eggs by the trainload, but couldn’t get one for himself, had eggs for breakfast.
One American government employee arrived here recently under peculiar circumstances. He had an extremely convalescent stomach and was on an uncompromising diet of milk and eggs. Nothing else at all – just milk and eggs.
Immediately upon arrival, he went to his hotel manager, explained his peculiar state of health produced hospital certificates to prove it, and sat down to await his eggs.
What’re the hens doing, anyway?
Three days later, the hotel manager came to him, rubbing his hands and beaming. It was all arranged. The Ministry of Food had been appraised of the dilemma, had thoroughly investigated, and had issued papers entitling our ailing hero to an almost limitless amount of eggs.
The hotel manager was beside himself at the enormity of his accomplishment. But, as he was bowing himself out, he finally remembered the little anti-climax which no doubt he had been concealing even from himself all this time. He had no eggs!
He had the government’s permission, but he had no eggs. He had none now, hadn’t had any for some time, had no expectations of getting any!
I haven’t inquired lately into the health of our frail friend, but I presume he is dead by now, so we will just let it go.
There must be eggs somewhere in Britain, for there are still millions of hens left in the country. It is all a great mystery to me. Possibly the hens are laying golden eggs and hiding them under haystacks.
Your ration card entitles you to one egg a week. But that is pure hypothesis, flying in the face of cold hard fact. Hotels have been taking up my egg coupons now for weeks, but I have yet to see an egg.
I hope you folks at home will begin appreciating the egg while there is yet time. The egg is a magnificent institution. I love the egg. Personally, if I ever see another fried egg, I’m going to kiss it instead of eat it.