Roving Reporter, Ernie Pyle

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 21, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Southern Sicily, Italy – (by wireless)
On our first morning in Sicily, I stopped to chat with the crew of a big howitzer which had just got dug in and camouflaged. The invasion was only a few hours old but in our sector, it was nearly over.

This gun crew was digging foxholes. The ground was hard and it was very tough digging. Our soldiers were mad at the Italians. One of them said in real disgust:

We didn’t even get to fire a shot.

Another one said, “They’re gangplank soldiers” – whatever that means.

Their attitude expressed the disappointment of lots of our soldiers. Our troops had been through such keen and exhaustive training they were worked up to a violent pitch and it was an awful letdown to find nothing to take it out on.

Dieppe veteran sore

I talked with one Ranger who had been through Dieppe, El Guettar and other tough battles, and he said this was by far the easiest of all. He said it left him jumpy and nervous to get trained to razor-edge and then have the job fizzle out, the poor fellow, and he was sore about it!

That Ranger was Sgt. Murel White, a friendly blond fellow of medium size, from Middlesboro, Kentucky. He has been overseas a year and a half. Back home he has a wife, and a five-year-old daughter. He used to run his uncle’s bar in Middlesboro and he says when the war is over, he’s going back, drink the bar dry, and then just settle down behind it for the rest of his life.

Sgt. White and his commanding officer were in the first wave to hit the shore. A machine-gun pillbox was shooting at them and they made up hill for it, about a quarter of a mile away. They used hand grenades. White said:

Three of them got away, but the other three went to Heaven.

Since the invading soldiers of our section didn’t have much battle to talk about, they looked around to see what this new country had to offer, and you’d never guess the most commented-upon discovery among the soldiers that first day.

No, it wasn’t signorinas, or beer, or Mt. Etna. It was that they found fields of ripe tomatoes! And did they eat them! I heard at least two dozen men speak of it during the day, as though they’d located gold. Others said they found some watermelons, but I couldn’t find any.

I hitched a ride into the city of Licata with Maj. Charles Monnier, of Dixon, Illinois, Sgt. Earl Glass, of Colfax, Illinois, and Sgt. Jaspare Taormina of 94 Starr St., Brooklyn. They are all engineers.

Sgt. Taormina was driving and the other two held Tommy guns at ready, looking for snipers. Taormina himself was so busy looking for snipers that he ran right into a shell hole in the middle of the street and almost upset our jeep.

Sick of Nazi browbeating

Taormina is of Sicilian descent. In fact, his father was born in a town just 20 miles west of Licata and for all he knows his grandmother is still living there. The sergeant can speak good Italian, so he talked to the local people on the streets. They told him they were sick of being browbeaten and starved by the Germans and the reason they put up such a poor show in our sector was that they didn’t want to fight.

They said the Germans had lots of wheat locked in granaries in Licata and they hoped we would unlock the buildings and give them some of it.

Before the sun was two hours high our troops had built a prisoner-of-war camp, out of barbed wire, on the rolling hillsides, and all day, long groups of soldiers and civilians were marched up the roads and into the camps.

At the first camp I came to, about 200 Italian soldiers and the same number of civilians were sitting around on the ground inside the wire. There were only two Germans, both officers. They sat apart in one corner, disdainful of the Italians. One had his pants off and his legs were covered with Mercurochrome where he had been scratched. Civilians even brought their goats into the cages with them.

After being investigated, those who were harmless would be turned loose. The Italian prisoners seemed anything but downhearted. They munched at biscuits, asked their American guards for matches. As usual, the area immediately became full of stories about prisoners who’d lived 20 years in Brooklyn and who came up grinning, asking how things were in dear old Flatbush.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 22, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With U.S. Navy in the Mediterranean – (by wireless, delayed)
Now while you follow the progress of our Sicilian war on the front page, let’s backtrack in this column. Let me try to draw you a picture of our vast waterborne invasion from the time it left Africa until it disgorged upon the shores of Sicily.

It is a story of the American Navy. The mere process of transporting this immense invasion force and protecting it on the way is one of the most thrilling things I’ve experienced in this war.

I was on one of the fleet’s headquarters ships. We’d been lying in the harbor for a week, waiting while all the other ships got loaded. Finally, without even being told, we knew big day had come, for all that day slower troop-carrying barges had filed past us in an unbroken line heading out to sea.

Around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, the harbor was empty and our ship slipped away from the pier. A magnificent sun was far down the arc of the sky but it was still bright and the weather warm. We steamed out past the bomb-shattered city, past scores of ships sunk earlier in the battle for North Africa, past sailors and soldiers on land who weren’t going along and who waved their goodbyes to us. We waved back with a feeling of superiority we all felt inside without saying it; we were part of something historic – almost men of destiny, you might call us.

A final tribute is paid

Our vessel slid along at half speed, making little sound. Everybody not working was on deck for a last look at African soil. The mouth of the harbor was very narrow. Just as we were approaching the neck, a voice came over the ship’s loudspeaker:

Port side, attention!

All the sailors snapped upright and I with them, facing shoreward. And there at the harbor mouth on the flat roof of the bomb-shattered Custom House stood a rigid guard of honor – British tars and American bluejackets – with our two flags flying over them. The bugler played as all stood at attention. The officers stood at salute. The notes died out and there was not a sound. No one spoke. We slid past, off on our mission into the unknown. They do dramatic things like that in the movies, but this one was genuine – so dearly true, so old in tradition, so vital with realism that you could not control the tensed cords in your throat and you felt deeply proud.

We sailed on past the stone breakwater with the waves beating against it and out onto the dark-blue of the Mediterranean, where the wind was freshening. Far away, the mist began to form on the watery horizon. Suddenly we were aware of a scene that will shake me every time I think of it the rest of my life. It was our invasion fleet, formed there far out at sea, waiting for us.

PT boats roar past fleet

There is no way of conveying the enormity of that fleet. I can only say that on the horizon it resembled a distant city. It covered half the skyline, and the dull-colored camouflaged ships stood indistinctly against the curve of the dark water as a solid formation of uncountable structures blending together. Even to be part of it was frightening. I hope no American ever has to see its counterpart sailing against us.

We caught up with the fleet and in the remaining hours of daylight it worked slowly forward. Our ship and the other command ships raced around herding their broods into proper formation, signaling by flag and signal light, shooing and instructing and ordering until the ships sea began to break into small globules and take course in their right manner.

We on board stood at the rails and wondered how much the Germans knew of us. Surely a force of this immensity could not be concealed. Reconnaissance planes couldn’t possibly miss us. Axis agents on the shore had but to look through binoculars to see the start of the greatest armada ever assembled in the history of the world. Allied planes flew in formation far above us. Almost out of sight, great graceful cruisers and wicked new destroyers raced on our perimeter to protect us. Just at dusk a whole squadron of vicious little PT boats, their engines roaring in one giant combination like a force of heavy bombers, crossed our bow and headed for Sicily.

Our guard was out. Our die was cast. Now there was no turning back and we moved on into the enveloping night that might have a morning for us or might not. But nobody, truly nobody, was afraid now, for we were on our way.

[adamsano]

I can clearly see the ship departing the harbor as Ernie describes it because I once was a sailor. There is a finality one feels because it is not guaranteed you will return.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 23, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Aboard a U.S. ship of the invasion fleet – (by wireless, delayed)
In the week that we were aboard ship before we set out on the invasion, I naturally was not permitted to send any columns. So, I spent the days reading and gabbing with the sailors.

Every now and then I would run in to take a shower bath, like a child playing with a new toy.

I got to know a great many of the sailors personally and almost all of them by nodding acquaintance. I found them to be just people, and nice people like the soldiers. They are fundamentally friendly. They all want to get home. They are willing to do everything they can to win the war. They all would kind of like to have their names in the paper and deep down they’re all a little afraid.

I did sense one rather subtle difference between sailors and soldiers, although many of the sailors will probably resent it, and that is – the sailors aren’t hardened and toughened as much as the soldiers. It’s understandable.

Lived like animals

The frontline soldier has lived for months like an animal, and is a veteran in the cruel, fierce world of death. Everything has been abnormal and unstable in his life for months. He has been filthy dirty, has eaten if and when, has slept on hard ground without cover.

His clothes have been greasy and he has lived in a constant haze of dust, pestered by flies and the heat, moving constantly, deprived of all the things that once meant stability. Things such as walls, chairs, floors, windows, faucets, shelves, and the greatly important little matter of knowing that you’ll go to bed tonight in the same place you got up this morning.

The frontline soldier has had to harden his inside as well as his outside or he would crack under the strain. Sailors aren’t sissies – either by tradition or by temperament – but they aren’t as rough and tough as the Tunisian soldiers, at least the gang I was with.

Death just as horrible

A ship is a home, and the security of home has kept the sailors more as they were. They don’t cuss as much or as foully as soldiers. They don’t bust loose as riotously when they hit town. They aren’t as all-round hard in outlook.

They’ve not drifted as far from normal life as the soldiers – for they had world news every morning in mimeographed sheets, radios, movies nearly every night, ice cream. Their clothes, their beds are clean. They walk through the same doors, up the same steps every day for months. They sleep every night in the same beds.

Of course, when they die, death for them is just as horrible – and sometimes they die in greater masses than soldiers. But until the enemy comes over the horizon a sailor doesn’t have to fight. A frontline soldier has to fight everything all the time. It makes a difference in a man’s character.

Along this line, a very subtle and I’m sure very temporary change came over the soldiers who came aboard for the invasion. They were no longer the rough-and-tumble warriors I knew on the battlefield. They were quiet, almost meek, aboard ship. From all I can figure they were awed by their sojourn back into the American way.

There was no quarreling aboard between soldiers and sailors, as you might expect. Not even any ridicule or words of the traditional contempt for each other. One night I was talking with a bunch of sailors on the fantail and they spoke thoughts you could never imagine coming from sailors’ mouths.

‘They really take it’

One of them said:

Believe me, after seeing these soldiers aboard, my hat’s off to the Army, the poor bastards. They really take it and they don’t complain about anything. Why, it’s pitiful to see how grateful they are just to have a hard deck to sleep on.

And another one said:

Any little thing we do for them they appreciate. We’ve got more than they have and, boy, I’d go three miles out of my way to share something with a soldier.

A third said:

Yes, they live like dogs and they’re the ones that have to take those beaches, too. A few of us will get killed, but a hell of a lot of them will.

And a fourth said:

Since hearing some of their stories, I’ve been down on my knees every night thanking God I was smart enough to enlist in the Navy. And they’re so decent about everything. They don’t even seem to resent all the things we have that they don’t.

The sailors were dead serious. It almost brought a lump to my throat to hear them talk.

You folks back home know how I feel about the infantry. I’m a rabid one-man movement bent on tracking down and stamping out everybody in the world who doesn’t fully appreciate the common frontline soldier. Now that even the sailors are on my side, you’d better watch out.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 24, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With the U.S. Navy in the Mediterranean – (by wireless, delayed)
The fleet of 2,000 ships that carried the Allied invasion forces to Sicily was by all odds the most gigantic ever assembled in the world’s history, many, many times the size of the great Spanish Armada.

In reading of this invasion, you must remember that at least half of it was British. The planning was done together and our figures lumped together, but in the actual invasion we sailed in separate fleets, landed in separate areas.

So, when you read of 2,000 ships in this fleet, you can figure half of it or more was British. The 2,000 figure also includes convoys that were at sea en route from England and America which arrived with reinforcements a few days later. But either section of the invasion, American or British, was a gigantic achievement. It was originated, planned, organized and put into effect in the five short months since the Casablanca Conference. The bulk of our own invasion fleet came into existence since November.

The U.S. Navy had the whole job of embarking, transporting, projecting and landing American invasion troops in Sicily, then helping to fight the shore battle with their warships and afterwards keeping the tremendously vital supplies and reinforcements flowing in steadily.

Spitting into wind did it

After being with them throughout this operation I must say my respect for the Navy is great. The personnel for this great task had to be built as quickly as the fleet itself. We did not rob the Pacific of anything. We created from whole cloth. There were 1,000 officers staffing the new-type invasion ships and fewer than 20 of them were regular Navy men. The rest were all erstwhile civilians trained into sea dogs almost overnight. The bulk of the assault craft came across the ocean under their own power. They are flat-bottomed and not ideal for deep-water sailing. Their skippers were all youngsters of scant experience. Some of them arrived here with hardly any equipment at all. As one Navy man said, this heterogeneous fleet was navigated across the Atlantic “mainly by spitting into the wind.”

The American invading force was brought from Africa to Sicily in three immense fleets sailing separately. Each of the three in turn was broken down into smaller fleets. It had been utterly impossible to sail them all as one fleet. That would have been like trying to herd all the sheep in the world with one dog. The ships sailed from every port in North Africa down to the tiniest ones. It was all worked out like a railroad schedule.

One comes from America

Each of the three big fleets had a command ship carrying an admiral in charge of that fleet, and an Army general in command of the troops being transported. Each command ship had been specially fitted up for the purpose, with extra space for “war rooms,” which contained huge maps, officers at desks and scores of radio operators. It was through these command ships that the various land battles were directed in the early stages of the invasion, before communication centers could be set up ashore.

Our three fleets were not all alike. One came directly from America, stopping in Africa only long enough for the troops to stretch their legs, then right on again. The big transport fleets were much easier to get here, but once here their difficulties began. Everything had to be unloaded into the lighter craft which the big ships carried on their decks. It meant a much longer process of unloading than ours. When your assault troops are being attacked by land, and your waiting ships are catching it from the air, believe me, the speed of unloading is mighty important.

In addition to the big transports and our hundreds of oceangoing landing craft, our fleet consisted of seagoing tugs, mine sweepers, subchasers, submarines, destroyers, cruisers, minelayers, repair ships and self-propelled barges mounting big guns.

Thousands of civilians help

We had practically everything that floats. Nobody can ever know until after the war just what planning this thing entailed, just what a staggering task it all was. Huge staffs worked on it in Washington until the last minute, then moved bag and baggage over to Africa. Thousands of civilians worked day and night for months. For months, over and over, troops and ships practiced landings. A million things had to be thought of and provided. That it all could be done in five months is a modern miracle.

One high naval officer said as we talked about the invasion details on the way over:

And yet, the public will be disappointed when they learn where we landed. They expect us to invade Italy, France, Greece, Norway – and all of them at once. People just can’t realize that we must take one step at a time, and this step we are taking now took nearly half a year to prepare.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 26, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With the U.S. Navy in the Mediterranean – (by wireless, delayed)
Once we left port and headed for Sicily, our whole ship’s crew was kept on what’s known as “Condition Two” – which means all battle stations manned with half crews while the other half rests, but nobody slept much.

Our ship was packed to the gills. We were carrying extra Army and Navy staffs and our small ship had about 150 people above normal capacity. Table sittings went up to four in the officers’ mess and the poor colored boys who waited tables were at it nearly every waking hour. All bunks had at least two occupants and many officers slept on the deck rolled up in blankets. You couldn’t move without stepping on somebody.

LtCdr. Fritz Gleim, a big regular Navy man with a dry good humor, remarked one morning at breakfast:

Everybody is certainly polite on this ship. They always say “Excuse me” when they step on you. I’ve got so I sleep right ahead while being walked on, so now they shake me till I wake up so they can say “Excuse me.”

Chooses a ‘Mae West’

The sailors’ white hats were forbidden on deck during the operation, so several sailors dyed their hats blue except that they turned out a sort of sickly purple. It was also the rule that everybody had to wear steel helmets during “General Quarters.” Somehow, I had it in my head that Navy people never wore lifebelts but I was very wrong. Everybody wears them constantly in the battle zone. It became one of the ship’s strictest rules the moment we left that you dare not get caught without a lifebelt on.

Most everybody wears the kind which is about four inches wide and straps around the waist, like a belt. It is rubberized, lies flat. It has two little cartridges of compressed gas – exactly the same things you use in soda-water siphons at home – and when you press, they go off and fill your lifebelt with air.

My lifejacket was one of the aviation Mae West type. I took that kind because it holds your head up if you are unconscious and I knew that at the first sign of danger I’d immediately become unconscious. Furthermore, I figured there’s safety in numbers, so I took one of the regular lifebelts too. I was so damned buoyant that if I’d ever jumped into the water I would have bounced right back out again.

Bets are settled

A mass of 2,000 ships couldn’t move without a few accidents. I have no idea of what the total was for the fleet as a whole, but for our portion it was very small. About half a dozen assault craft had engine breakdowns and either had to be towed or else straggled along behind and came in late – that was all.

Allied planes flew over us in formation several times a day. We couldn’t see them most of the time but I understand we had an air convoy the whole trip. The first morning out the sailors were called on deck and told where we were going. I stood with them as they got the news, and couldn’t see any change of expression at all, but later you could sense a new enthusiasm, just merely from knowing.

That news, incidentally, was the occasion for settling up any number of bets. It seems the boys had been wagering for days among themselves on where we would invade. You’d be surprised at the bad guesses.

Many thought it would be Italy proper, some Greece, some France, and one poor benighted chap even thought we were going to Norway. One man on the ship has a hobby of betting. He is George Razevich, aerologist’s mate first class, of 1100 Douglas Ave., Racine, Wisconsin. George is a former bartender and beer salesman. He will bet on anything. And if he can’t get takers he will bet on the other side of the ship never leaves port.

Tenseness disappears

George had few bets on where the ship was going, but he practically always guesses wrong and he’s more than $100 in the hole. But what he loses by his bad sense of direction he makes up with dice. He’s $1,000 ahead on craps since leaving the States. George didn’t make any invasion bets as he says anybody with any sense knew where we were going without being told. His current bet is $10 that the ship will be back in the United States by Sept. 1.

During the trip, we carried two jeeps on the deck to be used by Army commanders when we went ashore. They had signs on them forbidding anyone to sit in them, but nobody paid any attention to the signs.

Every evening after supper the sailors not on duty would gather on the fantail – which seems to be equivalent to the quarterdeck – and talk in jovial groups. Once underway, there didn’t seem to be the slightest tenseness or worry. Even the grimness was gone.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 27, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With the U.S. Navy in the Mediterranean – (by wireless, delayed)
Our first day at sea on the way to invade Sicily was truly like a peacetime Mediterranean cruise. The weather was something you read about in travel folders, gently warm and sunny, and the sea as smooth as velvet.

We were kept at a sharp alert, for at any moment we could be attacked by a submarine, surface ship or airplane and yet, any kind of attack – even the fact that anybody would want to attack anybody else – was so utterly out of keeping with the benignity of the sea that it was hard to take the possibility of danger seriously.

I had thought I might be afraid at sea, sailing in this great fleet that by its very presence was justification for attack, and yet I found it impossible to be afraid. As we sailed along, I couldn’t help but think of a paragraph of one of Joseph Conrad’s sea stories which I had read just a few days before. It so perfectly expressed our feeling about the changeless sea that I’m going to quote it here.

Conrad sets the scene for Pyle

It was in a story called “The Tale,” written about the last war. In it, Conrad said:

What at first used to amaze the Commanding Officer was the unchanged face of the waters, with its familiar expression, neither more friendly nor more hostile. On fine days the sun strikes sparks upon the blue; here and there a peaceful smudge of smoke hangs in the distance, and it is impossible to believe that the familiar clear horizon traces the limit of one great circular ambush. One envies the soldiers at the end of the day, wiping the sweat and blood from their faces, counting the dead fallen to their hands, looking at the devastated fields, the torn earth that seems to suffer and bleed with them. One does, really. The final brutality of it – the taste of primitive passion – the ferocious frankness of the blow struck with one’s hand – the direct call and the straight response. Well, the sea gave you nothing of that, and seemed to pretend that there was nothing the matter with the world.

And that’s how it was with us; it had never occurred to me before that this might be the way in enemy waters during wartime. Why it remained that way we shall never know, but throughout our long voyage and right up to the final dropping anchor, we never had one single attack from above, from below, nor from over the horizon.

Excitement in the dark

Dusk brought a change. Not feeling of fear at all but somehow an acute sense of the drama we were playing at that moment on the face of the sea that has known such a major share of the world’s great warfare. In the faint light of the dusk, forms became indistinguishable. Ships nearby were only heavier spots against the heavy background of the night. Now you thought you saw something and now there was nothing. The gigantic armada was on all sides of us, there only in knowledge.

Then out of nowhere, a rolling little subchaser took on a dim shape alongside us and with its motors held itself steady about 30 yards away. You could not see the speaker but a megaphoned voice came loudly across the water telling us of a motor breakdown of one of the troop-carrying barges farther back.

We megaphoned advice back to him. His response came back. Out in the darkness the voice was young. You could picture a boyish skipper over there in his blown hair and his lifejacket and binoculars, rolling to the sea in the Mediterranean dusk. Some young man who had so recently been so normally unaware of any sea at all – the bookkeeper in your bank, perhaps – and now here he was, a strange new man in command of a ship, suddenly transformed into a person with awful responsibilities, carrying out with great intentness his special, small part of the enormous aggregate that is our war on all the lands and seas of the globe.

All for one – one for all

In his unnatural presence there in the rolling darkness of the Mediterranean, you realized vividly how everybody in America has changed, how every life suddenly stopped and suddenly began again on a different course. Everything in this world has stopped except war and we are all men of new professions out in some strange night caring for each other.

That’s the way you felt as you heard this kid, this pleasant kid, bawling across the dark waters strange nautical words with a disciplined deliberation that carried in them the very strength of the sea itself, the strong, mature words of the captain on his own ship, saying:

Aye, aye, sir. If there is any change, I will use my own judgment and report to you again at dawn. Good night, sir.

Then the whole darkness enveloped the American armada. Not a pinpoint of light showed from those hundreds of ships as they surged on through the night toward their destiny, carrying across this ageless and indifferent sea tens of thousands of young men of new professions, fighting for… for… well, at least for each other.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 28, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With the U.S. Navy in the Mediterranean – (by wireless, delayed)
Now it can be told that we had a couple of horrible moments as we went to invade Sicily.

At the time they both looked disastrous for us, but in the end, they turned out with such happy endings that it seemed as though Fate had deliberately waved her wand and plucked us from doom.

The weather was the cause of the first near-tragedy on the morning of the day on which we were to attack Sicily. That night, the weather turned miserable. Dawn came up gray and misty, and the sea began to kick up. Even our fairly big ship was rolling and plunging and the little flat-bottomed landing craft were tossing around like corks.

As the day wore on, it grew progressively worse. By noon, the sea was rough even to professional sailors. By midafternoon, it was breaking clear over our decks. By dusk, it was absolutely mountainous. The wind howled at 40 miles an hour. You could barely stand on deck, and our far-spread convoy was a wallowing, convulsive thing.

High command worried

In the early afternoon the high command aboard our various ships had begun to wrinkle their brows. They were perplexed, vexed and worried. Damn it, here the Mediterranean had been like a millpond for a solid month, and now on this vital day, this storm had to come up out of nowhere! Conceivably it could turn our whole venture into a disaster that would take thousands of lives and prolong the war for months.

High seas and winds like this could cause many things such as:

1. The bulk of our soldiers would hit the beach weak and indifferent from seasickness, two-thirds of their fighting power destroyed.

2. Our slowest barges, barely creeping along against the high waves, might miss the last rendezvous and arrive too late with their precious armored equipment.

3. High waves would make launching the assault craft from the big transports next to impossible. Boats would be smashed, lives lost, and the attack seriously weakened.

There was a time when it seemed that to avoid complete failure the landings would have to be postponed 24 hours and we’d have had to turn around and cruise for an extra day, increasing the chance of being discovered and heavily attacked by the enemy.

I asked our commanders about it. They said, “God knows.” They would like to change the plans, but it was impossible now. We’d have to go through with it, regardless (Later I learned that the Supreme High Command did actually consider postponement).

Many ships in the fleet carried barrage balloons against an air attack. The quick snap of the ship’s deck when it dropped into a trough would tear the high balloon loose from its cable. The freed silver bag would soar up and up until finally in the thin, high air it would burst and disappear from view. One by one we watched the balloons break loose during the afternoon. Scores of them dotted the sky above our convoy. That night, when the last light of day failed, only three balloons were left in the entire fleet.

In the early afternoon we sent a destroyer back through the feet to find out how all the ships were getting along. It came back with the appalling news that 30% of all the soldiers were deathly seasick. One Army officer had been washed overboard from one craft but had been picked up by another about four ships behind.

The little subchasers and the infantry-carrying assault craft would disappear completely as you watched them. Then the next moment they would be carried so high they seemed to leap clear out of the water. By late afternoon, many of the sailors on our vessel were sick. Surely 50% of our troops must have been flat on their backs.

Officers try to joke

During the worst of the blow, we hoped and prayed that the weather would moderate by dusk, but it didn’t. The officers tried to make jokes about it at suppertime. One said:

Think of hitting the beach tonight, seasick as hell, with your stomach upside down, and straight off you come face to face with an Italian with a big garlic breath!

At 10 o’clock, I lay down with my clothes on. There wasn’t anything I could do and the rolling sea was beginning to take nibbles at my stomach, too.

I have never been so depressed in my life. I lay there and let the curse of a too-vivid imagination picture a violent and complete catastrophe for America’s war effort before another sun rose. The wind was howling and the ship was pounding and falling through space.

The next thing I knew a loud voice over the ship’s loudspeaker was saying:

Standby for gunfire. We may have to shoot out some searchlights.

I raised up, startled. The engines were stopped. There seemed to be no wind. The entire ship was quiet as a grave. I grabbed my helmet, ran out onto the deck, and stared over the rail. We were anchored, and you could see dark shapes in the Sicilian hills not far away. We had arrived. The water lapped with a gentle, caressing sound against the sides of the motionless ship.

I looked down and the green surface of the Mediterranean was slick and smooth as a table top. The assault boats were already skimming past us toward the shore. Not a breath of air stirred. The miracle had happened.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 29, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With the U.S. Navy in the Mediterranean – (by wireless, delayed)
As long as this ship of ours sails the high seas, even after every member of the present crew has been transferred away, I’m sure the story of the searchlights will linger on in her wardroom and forecastle like a written legend.

It is the story of a few minutes in which the fate of this ship hung upon the whim of the enemy. For some reason which we probably will never know, the command to obliterate us was never given.

Our great, bad moment occurred just as we had ended our long invasion voyage from North Africa and stopped at our designated place off the south coast of Sicily. Our ship was about three and a half miles from shore which in the world of big guns is practically hanging in the cannon muzzle.

Two or three smaller ships were in closer than we, but the bulk of our invasion fleet stood far out to sea behind us. Our admiral had the reputation of always getting up close where he could have a hand in the shooting and he certainly ran true to form throughout the invasion.

We’d been stopped only a minute when big searchlights blinked on from the shore and began to search the waters. Apparently, the watchers ashore had heard some sounds at sea. The lights swept back and forth across the dark water and after a few exploratory sweeps one of them centered dead upon us and stopped. Then, as we held our breaths, the searchlights one by one came down with their beams down upon our ship. They had found their mark.

Just like sitting ducks

All five of them, stretching out over a shoreline of several miles, pinioned us in their white shafts as we sat there as naked as babies and just as scared. I would have been glad to bawl like one if it would have helped, for this searchlight business meant the enemy had us on the block. Not only were we discovered, we were caught in a funnel from which there was no escaping.

We couldn’t possibly move fast enough to run out of those beams. We were within simple and easy gunning distance. We were a sitting duck. We were stuck on the end of five merciless poles of light. We were utterly helpless.

One of the officers said later:

When that fifth searchlight stopped on us, all my children became orphans.

Another one said:

The straw that broke my back was when the anchor went down. The chain made so much noise you could have heard it in Rome.

A third one said:

The fellow standing next to me was breathing so hard I couldn’t hear the anchor go down. Then I realized there wasn’t anybody standing next to me.

We got all set to shoot at the lights, but then we waited. Our admiral decided there was some possibility they couldn’t see us through the slight haze although he was at a loss to explain why all five lights stopped on us if they couldn’t see us.

We had three alternatives – to start shooting and thus compel return fire; to up anchor and run for it; or to sit quiet like a mouse and wait in terror. We did the latter.

Lights blink out

I don’t know how long the five lights were on us. It seemed like hours. It may have been five minutes. At any rate, at the end of some unbelievably long time one of them suddenly blinked out. Then one by one, seemingly erratically and with no purpose in mind, the others went out too. The last one held us a long time as though playing with us. Then it too went out and we were once again in the blessed darkness. Not a shot had been fired.

Assault boats had been speeding past us all the time and a few minutes later they hit the beach. The searchlights flashed on again but from then on, they were busy fanning the beach itself. It didn’t take our attacking troops long to shoot the lights out from close range.

I’m not sure some of them weren’t just turned out and left off for good. We’ve never yet found out for sure why the Italian big guns on the shore didn’t let us have it. Several of us inquired around when we got ashore after daylight. We never found the searchlight men themselves, but from other Italian soldiers and citizens of the town we learned that the people ashore were so damn scared by whatever was about to attack them from out there on the water that they were afraid to start anything.

I guess I’m always going to have to love the Italians, for had anybody else been behind those searchlights and guns that night, we of this ship would be telling our searchlight yarn to St. Peter by now.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 30, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With the U.S. Navy in the Mediterranean – (by wireless, delayed)
In invasion parlance, the day you strike\ a new country is called D-Day, and the time you hit the beach is H-hour. In the invasion contingent for which I am a very biased rooter, H-hour was set for 2:45 a.m. on July 10.

That was when the first mass assault on the beach was to begin. Actually, the paratroopers and Rangers were there several hours before. The other two large American forces, which traveled from North Africa in separate units, hit the beaches far down to our right about the same time. You could tell when they landed by the shooting during the first hour or so of the assault.

It seemed to me out on our ship that all hell was breaking loose ashore, but now that I look back upon it from a firmer foundation, actually knowing what had happened, it didn’t seem so very dramatic.

As I’ve said before, most of our special section was fairly easy to take, and our naval guns didn’t send any fireworks ashore until after daylight. The assault troops did all the preliminary work with rifles, grenades and machine guns. Out on ship we could hear the bop, bop, bop of the machine guns, first short bursts, then long ones.

Tennis match in Sicily

I don’t know whether I heard any Italian ones or not. In Tunisia you could always tell the German machine guns because they fired so much faster than ours, but that night all the shooting seemed to be of one tempo, one quality.

Now and then we could see a red tracer bullet arching through the darkness. I remember one that must have ricocheted from a rock, for suddenly it turned and went straight up a long way into the sky. Now and then, there was the quick flash of a hand grenade.

There was no aerial combat during the night and only a few flares shot up from the beach. To be factual, our portion of the night assault on Sicily was far less spectacular than the practice landings I’d seen our troops do back in Algeria.

A more spectacular show was in the sector to our right, some 12 or 15 miles down the beach. There, the 1st Infantry Division was having stiff opposition and their naval escort stood off miles from shore and three steel at the enemy artillery in the hills.

It was the first time I’d ever seen tracer shells used at night and it was fascinating.

From where we sat it was like watching a tennis game played with red balls, except that all the balls went in one direction. You would see a golden flash way off in the darkness. Out of the flash would go shooting a tiny red dot. That was the big shell. It covered the first quarter of the total distance almost instantly. Then it would uncannily begin a much slower speed, as though it had put on a brake.

Shells seemed on wheels

There didn’t seem to be any tapering down between its high and low speeds. It went from high to low instantly. You’d think it would start arching downward in its the slower speed, but instead, it just kept on in an almost flat trajectory as though it were on wheels being propelled along a level road. Finally, after a flight so long you stood unbelieving that the thing could still be in the air, it would disappear in a little flash as it hit something on the shore. Long afterward you’d hear the heavy explosions come rolling across the water.

Our portion of the American assault went best of all. The 1st Division on our right had some bitter opposition and the 45th on beyond them had some rough seas and bad beaches. But with us, everything was just about perfect.

Our Navy can’t be given too much credit for putting the troops ashore the way they did. You can’t realize what a nearly impossible task it is to arrive in the dead of night at exactly the right spot with your convoy, feel your way in through the darkness, pick out the very pinpoint of an utterly strange shoreline which you’d been told long beforehand to hit, and then put your boat safely ashore right there. In our sector every ship hit every beach just right.

He found the white house

They tell me it is the first time in history that it has ever been accomplished. The finest tribute to the Navy’s marksmanship came from one soldier who later told Maj. Gen. Lucian Truscott, his division commander:

Sir, I took my little black dog with me in my arms and I sure was scared standing in that assault boat. Finally, we hit the beach and as we piled out into the water, we were worse scared than ever. Then we waded ashore and looked around. Right ahead of me was a white house just where you said it would be. After that I wasn’t scared.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (July 31, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With the U.S. Navy in the Mediterranean – (by wireless, delayed)
Just before daylight on the morning we landed in Sicily, I lay down for a few minutes’ nap, knowing the pre-dawn lull wouldn’t last long once the sun came up. And sure enough, just as the first faint light was beginning to come, bedlam broke loose for miles all around us. The air was suddenly filled with sound and danger and tension, and the gray-lighted sky became measled with thousands of the dark puffs of ack-ack.

Enemy planes had come to dive-bomb our ships. They got a hot reception from our thousands of guns, and a still hotter one from our own planes, which had anticipated them and were waiting out beyond.

The scene that emerged from the veil of night was a moving one. Our small assault craft were all up and down the beach, unloading and dashing off again. Ships of many sizes moved toward the shore, and others moved back away from it. Still other ships, so many they were uncountable, spread out over the water as far as you could see. The biggest lay far off, waiting their turn to come in. They made a solid wall on the horizon behind us.

Between that wall and the shoreline, the sea writhed with shipping. Through this hodgepodge, and running out at right angles to the beach like a beeline highway through a forest, was a single solid line of shore-bound barges, carrying tanks. They chugged along in Indian file, about 50 yards apart – slowly, yet with such calm relentlessness that you felt it would take some power greater than any we know to divert them.

Italians blast away, miss

The airplanes left, and then other things began to happen. Italian guns opened up on the hills back of the beach. At first the shells dropped on the beach, making yellow clouds of dust as they exploded. Then they started for the ships. They never did hit any of us, but they came so close it made your head swim. They tried one target after another, and one of the targets happened to be us.

The moment the shooting started, we had got quickly underway – not to run off, but to be in motion and consequently harder to hit. They fired at us just once. The shell struck the water 50 yards behind us and threw up a geyser of spray. It made a terrific flat quacking sound as it burst, exactly like a mortar shell exploding on land.

Our ship wasn’t supposed to do much firing, but that was too much for the admiral. He ordered our guns into action, and for the next ten minutes we sounded like Edgewood Arsenal blowing up.

A few preliminary shots gave us our range, and then we started pouring shells into the town and into the gun positions in the hills. The whole vessel shook with every salvo, and scorched wadding came raining down on the deck like cinders.

We traveled at full speed, parallel to the shore and about a mile out, while shooting.

Ships’ shooting thrills Ernie

For the first time, I found out how they do something like this. Two destroyers and our ship were doing the shelling, while all the other ships in close to land were scurrying around to make themselves hard to hit, turning in tight circles, leaving half-moon wakes behind them. The sea actually looked funny with all those semi-circular white wakes splattered over it and everything twisting around in such deliberate confusion.

We sailed at top speed for about three miles, firing several times a minute. For some reason, I was as thrilled with our unusual speed as with the noise of the steel we were pouring out. If you watched closely, you could follow our shells almost as far as the shore, and then pick up the gray smoke puffs after they hit.

At the end of our run, we would turn so quickly that we would heel far over, and then start right back. The two destroyers would do the same. We would meet them about halfway. It was just like three teams of horses plowing a cornfield – back and forth, back and forth – the plows taking alternate rows.

This constant shifting would put us closest to shore on one run, and farthest away a couple of runs later. At times, we were right up on the edge of pale-green water, too shallow to go any closer.

Barges go in under

During all this action I stood on a big steel ammunition box marked “Keep Off,” surrounded by guns on three sides, with a smokestack at my back. It was as safe as anyplace else, it kept me out of the way, and it gave me an $8.80 view of everything.

Finally, the Italian fire dwindled off. Then the two destroyers went in as close to shore as they could get and resumed their methodical runs back and forth. Only this time they weren’t firing. They were belching terrific clouds of black smoke out of their stacks. The smoke wouldn’t seem to settle, and they had to make four runs before the beach was completely hidden. Then, in this blinding screen, our tank-carrying barges and more infantry boats made for the shore.

Before long, you could see the tanks let go at the town. They only had to fire a couple of salvos before the town surrendered.

That was the end of the beach fighting in our sector of the American front. Our biggest job was over.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (August 2, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Somewhere in Sicily, Italy – (by wireless, delayed)
After being ashore all the first day of our Sicilian invasion, I went back to the ship and stayed aboard almost a week before coming ashore more or less permanently.

It was my hope to do a complete picture of the Navy’s part in such actions as this, and the Navy’s part didn’t end the moment it got the assault troops ashore. In the days that followed, our headquarters vessel patrolled back and forth between the American sectors, kept an eye on the shore in case help was needed, directed the fire of other ships, mothered new convoys by wireless, issued orders and advice throughout the area, and from time to time scurried in swift circles when planes appeared in the sky.

For despite the enemy’s obvious air weakness, he did manage to sneak over a few planes several times a day. The day after D-Day, “General Quarters” was sounded 15 times on our ship. Nobody got any rest, day or night. The sailors worked like Trojans.

Out of the way!

When I try to picture our soldiers and sailors in camps back home now, I always visualize – and no doubt wrongly – a draftee who is going through his training like a man, but still reluctantly and without interest. There isn’t a breath of that left over here. Once you are in action that’s all gone. It goes because now you are working. You are working to stay alive, and not because somebody tells you to work.

You should see our sailors when General Quarters sounds. They don’t get to their stations in the manner of schoolkids going in when the bell rings. They get there by charging over things and knocking things down. I have seen them arrive at gun stations with nothing but their drawers on. I’ve seen officers upset their dinner and be clear out of the wardroom by the time the second “beep!” of the alarm signal sounded.

Whenever we had General Quarters, I always just froze wherever I was for about five minutes, to keep from getting bowled over in the rush.

Too busy to be afraid

And the boys on the guns – you would hardly recognize them. Shooting at planes isn’t a duty for them; it’s an outlet. I doubt if they ever watched a ball game or gave a girl the eye with the complete intentness with which they follow a distant plane in the sky. A gun has one blessing in addition to the one of protecting yoi: it occupies you.

Having no vital part to play in moments of extreme danger is one of the worst curses of being a correspondent. Busy people aren’t often afraid.

Bombs fell in our vicinity for several days. The raiders went mostly for the beaches, where the barges were unloading. The number of narrow escapes we had must have been very discouraging to the Axis fliers. The Axis radio said our beaches were littered with the wrecked and burned-out hulks of our landing ships. Actually, in our 14-mile area they hit very few. But we had our tense moments.

Alone – desperate, helpless

The enemy fliers were brave, I’ll have to say that. They would come right in through the thickest hail of fire I have ever seen thrown into the sky.

Dozens of our ships had escapes that were uncanny. Once two bombs hit the water just a good stone’s throw from the stern of our vessel. And late one afternoon a lone Italian – I really believe he must have gone mad, for what he did was desperate and senseless – dove right down into the midst of a hundred ships. He had no bombs, and was only strafing. He went over our fantail so low you could almost have caught him in a net. Everything in the vicinity cut loose on him at once. It was like throwing a bucketful of rice against a spot on the wall. He was simply smothered with steel.

Yet somehow, he pulled out and up to about 1,000 feet, charged at our barrage balloons like an insane bee, and shot two of them down afire. And then at last the bullets we had put into him took effect. He burst all aflame and fell in wide circles until he hit the water. No parachute ever came out.

Enemy quits cold

Air raids at night were far more nerve-racking than the daylight ones. For you can’t see the enemy, you only hear him. You do see the ghostly flares and the sickening bomb flashes, and hear the heavy thunder of it roll across the water.

With us it was always a game of hide and seek. Sometimes we would sit on the water as quiet as a mouse. No one would speak loudly. The engines were silent. You could hear the small waves lapping at our sides. At other times we would start so suddenly that the ship would almost jump out from under us. We would run at full speed and make terrifically sharp turns and churn up an alarmingly bright wake in the phosphorescent water. But we always escaped.

And then after the third day, all of a sudden there was never an enemy plane again. They quit us cold. If they still fought, they fought elsewhere than our front.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (August 3, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Somewhere in Sicily, Italy – (by wireless)
Our first few days aboard ship after the Sicilian landings were broken by many things besides air raids.

A few wounded soldiers were brought from shore for our doctors to treat before the hospital ships arrived. Important generals came to confer on our ship. We had fresh tomatoes and watermelon at the same meal. We took little trips up and down the coast. Repair parties back from the beaches brought souvenir Fascist banners, and stories of how poor the Sicilians were and how glad they were that the war was over for them. The weather remained perfect. Our waters and beaches were forever changing.

I think it was at daylight on the third morning when we awoke to find the Mediterranean absolutely devoid of ships, except for scattered naval vessels. The vast convoys that brought us over had unloaded to the last one and slipped out during the night. For a few hours the water was empty, the shore seemed lifeless, and all the airplanes had disappeared. You couldn’t believe that we were really at war.

Crawling with ships

And then after lunch you looked out again and here the sea was veritably crawling with new ships – hundreds of them, big and little. Every one was coated at the top with a brown layer like icing on a cake, which turned out when we drew closer to be decks crammed solid with Army vehicles and khaki-clad men.

We kept pouring men and machines into Sicily as though it were a giant hopper. The schedule had all been worked out ahead of time: On D-Day Plus 3, Such-and-such Division would arrive. A few hours later another convoy bringing tanks was due. Ships unloaded and started right back for new cargoes.

The whole thing went so fast that in at least one instance I know of, the Army couldn’t pour its men and equipment into the African embarkation ports as fast as the returning ships arrived.

Unloading these ceaseless convoys in Sicily was a saga. The Navy sent salvage parties of Seabees ashore right behind the assault troops and began reclaiming harbors and fixing up beaches for unloading. The Army worked so smoothly that material never piled up on the beaches but got immediately on its way to the front. The number of vehicles that had to be landed to take care of this was almost beyond conception.

We have stevedoring regiments made up of New York professional stevedores. We have naval captains who in civil life ran worldwide ship-salvaging concerns and made enormous salaries.

Days reduced to hours

We run some ships up to the beaches, we unload others at ports, we empty big freighters by lightering their cargoes to shore in hundreds of assault barges and amphibious trucks. Great ships loaded with tanks have been known to beach and unload in the fantastic time of half an hour.

Big freighters anchored a mile from shore have been emptied into hordes of swarming, clammering small boats in 18 hours, when the same unloading with all modern facilities at a New York pier would take four days.

Convoys arrive, empty, and slip away for another load. Men work like slaves on the beaches. Bosses shout and rush as no construction boss ever did in peacetime. Speed, speed, speed!

You walk gingerly on big steel pontoon piers, and you can’t tell a naval lieutenant commander in coveralls from an Army sergeant in a sun helmet. Sometimes it seems as if half the men of America must be there, all working madly together.

Power of production

And do you realize what it is? It is America’s long-awaited power of production finally rolling into the far places where it must be to end the war.

It sounds trite when it is put into words, but if you could be here and see, you would understand how the might of material can overwhelm everything before it. We saw that in the last days of Tunisia. We are seeing it here. We can picture it in inklings of the enemy collapse that inevitably lies ahead.

The point was that we on the scene know for sure that you can substitute machines for lives and that if we can plague and smother the enemy with an unbearable weight of machinery in these next few months, hundreds of thousands of our young men whose expectancy was small can someday walk again through their own front doors.

[adamsano]

I admire how the US and it’s citizens came together to create the vast means of production to fight and win the war across the globe, I am concerned that given the same challenges will we be able to do it again because “again” will occur again when flawed humans are involved.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (August 4, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Somewhere in Sicily, Italy – (by wireless)
Fewer than a third of the sailors on our ship were Regular Navy. And most of that third hadn’t been in the Navy many years. Most of our crew were young peacetime landlubbers who became sailors only because of the war and who were longing to get back to civil life.

These “amateurs” made a crew somewhat less efficient than you would have found before the war. They just haven’t had tome to become thoroughly adept. But their officers say they are all terribly willing.

Here are a few sketches of some of the men who made the wheels go ‘round on the ship I was on:

Joe Raymer: He’s an electrician’s mate first class. His home is at 51 South Burgess Ave., Columbus, Ohio. He is married, and has a daughter four years old. Joe was in the Navy from 1924 to 1928, so he knows his way around ships.

He is medium height, a pleasant fellow with a little silver in his hair and a cigar in his mouth. I don’t know why, but sailors smoking cigars have always seemed incongruous to me.

Before the war, Joe was a traveling salesman, and that’s what he intends to go back to. He worked for the Pillsbury flour people – had central-southern Ohio. He was a hot shot and no fooling. The year before he came back to the Navy, he sold more pancake flour than anybody else in America, and won himself a $500 bonus.

Warren Ream: His home is at Paradise, California, and he has worked for several years in the advertising departments of big Los Angeles stores – Bullock’s, Barker Brothers, Robinson’s. He arrived over here just in time to get aboard ship for the invasion. Actually, he thinks he wasn’t supposed to be aboard ship at all, but he was glad he didn’t miss it.

Ream is a storekeeper third class, but that doesn’t mean he keeps store. In fact, he does a little bit of everything from sweeping up to passing shells.

His life is a great contrast with what it used to be. Ream is the kind of fellow you would think would be tortured by the rough life of the Navy. But we were standing at the rail one day and he said:

I wonder what’s happened to the old Navy we used to read about. I remember hearing of skippers who could cuss for forty-five minutes without repeating themselves. But from what I’ve seen, skippers today can’t cuss any better than I can. I’m disappointed.

Harvey Heredeen: He is now a warrant officer, which means he eats in the wardroom and is called “mister.” But a man’s a man by any other name, and Mr. Heredeen looked exactly like what he has always been – a regular old-time chief petty officer. He got orders to return to the States just before we sailed, but you wouldn’t get an old-timer to miss a show like that. He got permission to postpone the homeward trip until after we had made the invasion.

Mr. Heredeen retired from the Navy in 1935 after 17 years of it, 12 of them in submarines. He had met a Memphis schoolteacher so he got married and settled down there in a job at the Linde Air Products Company, making oxygen. He came back two and a half years ago. He is 45 now.

Before long, he will be back in America instructing at submarine school. His nickname is “Spike,” and his home is at 1200 Tanglewood St., Memphis. Back home he was a deacon in the London Avenue Christian Church. He says not to make any wisecracks about his cussing and tobacco-chewing when I write him up. Okay, Deacon.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (August 5, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Somewhere in Sicily, Italy – (by wireless)
Some more shipboard sketches:

Joe Talbot: He is an aviation ordnanceman first class, and since there is no aviation aboard his ship, he is a round peg in a square hole. Of course, that isn’t his fault.

What he actually does is a little bit of everything, when things were normal, and during battle, he is the head of a crew down in a magazine of big shells. He wears headphones, and upon orders he shoots more ammunition up to the gun batteries above.

Joe is a black-haired, straight-shouldered Southerner from Columbus, Georgia. In civil life, he was a photographer on the Columbus Ledger-Inquirer. The last big story he photographed was Eddie Rickenbacker’s crash near Atlanta. Joe has been married four years. His wife works at Woolworth’s store in Columbus.

This is his second time in the Navy. He was in it from 1931 to 1935, and he has been in two years this time. He has no intention of making it a career. He has one great postwar ambition – he says he’s going to do it in the first six months after he gets out. He’s going to buy a cabin cruiser big enough for four, get another couple, and cruise down the Chattahoochee River to the Gulf of Mexico, then up the Suwannee, making photos of the whole thing in color.

Tom Temple: His full name is Thomas Nicholas Temple. His father deliberately put in the middle name so the initials would make TNT. Tom is only 19. He is tall and thin, very grave and analytical. He talks so slowly you think sometimes he’s going to stop altogether. After the war he wants to go to Harvard and then get into the publishing business. Tom’s mother is a high-school teacher at Far Rockaway, Long Island, and writes on the side. She used to write for Story Magazine under the name Jean Temple.

Tom’s father was wounded in the last war. He is now in the big veterans’ hospital at Albuquerque, only a short way from my home.

Tom says when he first came into the Navy, the sailors’ profanity shocked him, but now it rolls off his back like water off a duck. Tom is a seaman second class. He is very sincere and thoughtful and one of my favorites aboard ship.

Joe Ederer: He is a lieutenant commander and chief engineer of the ship, and he was my part-time host while I was aboard, since I did all my writing in his cabin. Furthermore, I ate his candy, smoked his cigarettes, used his paper, and would have read his mail if I could have found it.

Cdr. Ederer has been at sea for more than a quarter of a century. He is out of the Merchant Service, and he indulges in constant pleasant feuds with his Regular Navy friends.

His home is at 2724 Northeast 35th Place, Portland, Oregon. His wife is used to waiting, so his absence is not as hard on her as it is on many wives. They have a 15-year-old boy upon whom the chief engineer dotes. He has two pictures of his family on his shelves.

Cdr. Ederer is one of the few officers who are genuine salts. He is not exactly a Colin Glencannon, but they have many things in common. The commander spent many years on the Orient run and has a personal hatred for the Japs. He has been with his present ship ever since she was commissioned two years ago, and he hopes this part of the war soon gets over so he can get to the Pacific.

Like all sailors he wants someday to get five acres, preferably in the Oregon woods, build a cabin and have a creek running past his door. If he ever did, he’d probably go nuts.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (August 6, 1943)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Somewhere in Sicily, Italy – (by wireless)
A few more sketches of men on our ship:

Dick Minogue: He has been in the Navy six years and intends to stay. He is a bosun’s mate first class, and may be a chief before long. He comes from White Bear Lake, Minnesota, and aboard ship they call him “Minny.”

It is men like Minogue who form the backbone of the present-day Navy. He is young and intelligent, yet strong and salty enough for any job. He definitely has the sea about him, but it is modern sea. He wears his bosun’s pipe from a cord around his neck, and a white hat cocked way down over one eye. He says the worst moment he ever had in the Navy was while piping a British admiral over the side. Dick had a chew of tobacco in his mouth, and right in the middle of his refrain the whistle got full of tobacco juice and went gurgly.

Arch Fulton: He is an electrician’s mate second class, of 493 E 129th St., Cleveland, Ohio. Before the war, he was a lineman for the Cleveland Illuminating Company. He is married and has two children.

Fulton is 37 – much older than most of the crew. He is a Scotsman. He came to America 20 years ago. His parents are still living at Kilmarnock, Scotland. He has a brother who is a sergeant major in the British Army, and a sister who is a British WREN.

Arch has a short pompadour that slants forward, giving him the effect of standing with his back to the wind. He has a dry Scottish humor, and he takes the Navy in his stride. Back in Cleveland he used to read this column, so you can see he’s a smart man.

Three up, three down

We have 11 Negro boys aboard, all in the stewards’ department. They wait table in the officers’ mess, and run the wardroom pantry that keeps hot coffee going 24 hours a day. They have a separate compartment of their own for quarters, but otherwise they live just as the white sailors do.

They are all quiet, nice boys and a credit to the ship. Three of them are exceedingly tall and three exceedingly short. They all have music in their souls. Sometimes I have to laugh – when the wardroom radio happens to be playing a hot tune during meals, I’ve noticed them grinning to themselves and dancing ever so lightly as they go about their serving.

I haven’t room to give more than a couple of their names. One is George Edward Mallory, of Orange, Virginia. He is 32, and before the war worked as an unloader at a chain grocery store in Orange. He has been in the Navy for a year and has been operated on for appendicitis after arriving in the Mediterranean. He got seasick once but it doesn’t bother him anymore. He is tall, quiet, and serious. He had never waited tables before but he’s an expert now.

He’s little meek and dark

Another one is Fred Moore, who is the littlest, meekest and darkest one on ship. Fred has a tiny mustache that you can’t even see, and a perpetually startled look on his good-natured face. He is very quiet and shy.

His home is in 1910 Tenth Ave., South Birmingham, Alabama. He is just 21 and has been in the Navy only since March. He likes it fine, and thinks he may stay in after the war. Before joining up he did common labor at Army camps and fruit farms.

Fred has a gift. He is a wizard at baking delicate and beautiful pastries. He makes all the pastry desserts for the officers’ mess. He had never done any cooking before joining the Navy, except to fry a few hamburgers at a short-order joint. He can’t explain his knack for pastry baking. It’s just like somebody who can play the piano beautifully without ever taking lessons. The whole ship pays tribute to his little streak of genius.

Fred says he has never been seasick nor very homesick, but during some of our close shaves in action he says he sure was scared.

[adamsano]

I appreciate Ernie’s columns but I must admit I found the Three Up Three Down section to be so foreign to our current world particularly when compared to my six years in the US Navy in the late 1970s.

[NormanStewart]

@adamsano

I found the Three Up Three Down section to be so foreign to our current world particularly when compared to my six years in the US Navy in the late 1970s.

Feel free to elaborate for the TimeGhost forum audience

Of course, in the late '70s, there was no segregation of races, so there’s one aspect that’s different.

[adamsano]

Ernie is a keen observer of people and his written words particularly regarding military men and women reflect his utmost respect of all people, This is one reason I so enjoy his columns. Interestingly, he often describes many occupations or jobs previously held by military members that have become obsolete or disappeared. Given the lexicon of his time, I found his descriptions of the negro men made them into simpletons who can only serve as stewards. By August 1943, Ernie has observed and written about thousands of military men and women of all ranks and ages in Europe and Africa during countless battles and as a firsthand witness to ravages of war on human beings, yet he does not question that the negros are treated differently as second class citizens. Ernie impresses me as being very perceptive so I wonder if he did see the problem and was not allowed to report on it. Other than reading his columns here, I do not know much about Ernie, Therefore, I wonder if Ernie would have subsequently questioned and written about race relations had he not died in April 1945 on Okinawa.