The Pittsburgh Press (February 2, 1942)
Rambling Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
PORTLAND, Ore. – It was a cold, sharp evening in Portland, and what with the chill and the blackout threats, people were staying home almost in unanimity.
Around dinnertime I walked an abandoned block to a movie, and went up to the lonely ticket window. It was after dark, so I didn’t even have my own shadow for company. The girl looked at me and waited, I said nothing, but handed her my money. Then she said:
“How many, please?”
I turned and looked behind me, and up and down the street. Not a person was in sight. I turned back to the cage and said:
“Guess!”
And do you know what she said? She said:
“How many, please?”
You can’t win, brother, you just can’t win.
There is apparently a hidden clause in the regulations governing the management of hotels that requires every hotel in America to paint the hall on my floor the minute I move in. In my hotel career I’ve inhaled enough fresh hall paint to camouflage the British fleet.
Paint is one of the few things in the world that make me sick. It doesn’t happen all of a sudden. It creeps up so gradually that I always think, well, this time it isn’t going to bother me. So instead of moving to another floor or going out for an eight-hour walk, I just sit and try to work and am slowly immersed in a death-like sensation.
So it was here in Portland. I did give up twice during the day, and went out shopping for a while in the morning (overshoes, dictionary, and a pair of drawers) and late in the afternoon I abandoned hope again and went to a movie – “Louisiana Purchase.” But it was no use. I wound up sick, cross, and with a headache.
News of Devil’s Island fugitive
That was when I was here a week or so ago. And when I came back this time, back to the very same room, I’m not lying, they had given my hall a second coat within the hour.
So I’m sick again. I hope the Government will forbid all hotel hall paint for the duration.
Some of you may have missed the latest news about Rene Belbenoit, the Devil’s Island fugitive. You remember that last summer he once more ran out of countries that would harbor him, and in desperation swam the Rio Grande back to the U.S. But he got caught.
He was finally released Brownsville jail on bail. He went to New York, then to California. He somewhat established himself in San Diego, doing some lecturing and some writing. Then in December he took a bus back to Brownsville, to face trial.
Belbenoit was so positive of his acquittal that he didn’t even have a lawyer, intending to present his own case. But he got short shrift. The judge sentenced him to 15 months in prison for illegally entering the U.S. And he says in his latest letter:
“So after seven years of freedom, I find myself again in jail, in an American jail, and I am sad, because I love so much this country and the people of America.
“I have thousands of friends in this country, and they all like me, and this is my best reward. But I am not too much worry. Possibly I can be free on parole after a few months if I don’t get a pardon. I can take it. But it is hard.”
Poor Belbenoit. He seems doomed to an everlasting harassment. For him there has been no peace between these two great wars. And now because of the war, there probably can never be peace for him. For America, his last hope for freedom, is too busy fighting for its own liberty to bother with his.
Special plates draw attention
For almost countless years I have carried District of Columbia license plates on my car. But since my fingers are now raw and bleeding from helping support the great State of New Mexico, I decided this year to get New Mexico tags.
They came to me in Seattle a few days ago. I put them on and drove to Portland. And I’ll bet I wouldn’t have been stared at as much along the way if I’d been walking on my hands.
Do you know why? It’s because I’m a New Mexico “colonel.” And New Mexico colonels get special plates with low numbers, and alongside the number it says “Staff Officer.”
Boy, does that get attention! Some people salute, some laugh, and some just open their mouths and gawk. But everybody does something.
I’ve worked up an acute case of self-consciousness over the things. If this staring business keeps up I’ll either have to abandon them or else get out my old shotgun and start sprinkling my roadside audiences with birdshot.
So be on your guard. If you see a car coming down the road with black and white license plates which say “63–Staff Officer,” that’ll be me. And I warn you, don’t stare.