The Pittsburgh Press (September 17, 1943)
Roving Reporter
By Ernie Pyle
Washington –
This is the last of these columns before we go on furlough. I’ve never looked forward to any experience in my life as I now look forward to a month of blank, utter rest.
I came across from Africa by Clipper. It was the third time I’d flown the Atlantic. Our trip was a special, unscheduled one, bringing a planeload of Navy men back from Africa for schooling and new assignments.
On the long stages of the homeward journey, the sailors would help the stewards carry out the dishes after out meals. And as the sailors slept in the chill air of the high altitudes, the stewards would carefully cover them with blankets. It was sort of touching.
There were no bombs, so we all slept on the floor or in our seats. Most of the sailors crossed the ocean and arrived in New York in their blue work dungarees, although some did change to whites just before we arrived.
Sent home to study
At one of our stops, a spectator asked:
What are these boys, survivors from a torpedoed ship?
Actually, none of them was. They were all skilled craftsmen being sent home to study a little and then go to sea again with new ships.
One of the pleasures of being back in America is that I have to make only one copy of this column. Over in Sicily, I was making seven copies of every one.
I’d send two copies by courier plane from Sicily back to the headquarters city – one copy for transmission, the other for the censor’s files. Then next day I’d send two duplicates, just in case the first sea got lost, which it sometimes did.
Those four copies were in abbreviated cable form. Then, in addition, I’d make three copies in full form – two to be sent to Stars & Stripes, which publishes this column, and one to keep for myself, just in case everything got lost.
Two of three times everything did get lost, but it was always so long afterward before I found it out that the columns weren’t any good by then anyhow.
During these few days that I’m writing here in Washington, I just write a page and walk over and hand it to my boss. I’m trying to work up to the day when I can get him to write it for me, and then I’ll have the literary situation reduced to the irreducible and utopian minimum – I won’t have to make any copies at all!
In Washington, I did something that millions of soldiers would give an eyetooth to do. I put on civilian clothes.
The only suit I have in the world is in London. But a year ago last spring, I’d left some bags in storage here in Washington, so I delved into them looking for odd pieces of civilian raiment. I found two old sportscoats with the elbows out, but no pants at all. Since I am not blessed with the right kind of legs to justify going around the streets of Washington without pants, I had to go out and buy a new pair.
Lingering at the mirror
Also, I splurged on a new hat and new pair of shoes. Now I am a sight for sore eyes. I’m so damn handsome I haven’t been able to tear myself away from the mirror.
My lost pocketbook has been returned. It came in the mail, from Wilmington, Delaware. IT was nicely wrapped in tissue paper, with brown paper around that, and neatly addressed in pen and ink.
All my credentials and private papers – my correspondent’s card, my inoculation list, my Short Snorter bills, my last war discharge, even a British one-pound note – were all there, all intact. But the hundred bucks in American money was gone.
I’m grateful beyond words for the return of the wallet and the credentials. And it’s comforting to know that our thieves are honest thieves. And what would I do with a hundred bucks if I had it?
That’s all, now, for quite a while. Take care of yourselves. And please don’t wake me up till October.