Roving Reporter, Ernie Pyle

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 1, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
In my usual role of running other people’s business, I’ve been thrashing around with an idea – honest. It’s to give the combat soldier some little form of recognition more than he is getting now.

Everybody who serves overseas, no matter where or what he’s doing, gets extra pay. Enlisted men get 20% additional and officers 10%.

Airmen get an extra 50%above this for flight pay. As a result, officer-fliers get 60% above their normal base pay and enlisted fliers such as gunners and radio operators get 70%.

All that is fine and as it should be, but the idea I was toying with is why not give your genuine combat ground soldier something corresponding to flight pay? Maybe a good phrase for it would be “fight pay.”

Of any one million men overseas, probably no more than 100,000 are in actual combat with the enemy. But as it is now, there is no official distinction between the dogface lying for days and nights under constant mortar fire on an Italian hill, and the headquarters clerk living comfortably in a hotel in Rio de Janeiro.

Their two worlds are so far apart the human mind can barely grasp the magnitude of the difference. One lives like a beast and his kind die in great numbers. The other is merely working away from home. Both are doing necessary jobs, but it seems to me the actual warrior deserves something to set him apart. And medals are not enough.

Recognition of miserable job

When I was at the front the last time several infantry officers brought up this same suggestion. They say combat pay would mean a lot to the fighting man. It would put him into a proud category and make him feel that somebody appreciates what he endures.

Obviously, no soldier would ever go into combat just to get extra “fight pay.” That isn’t the point. There is not enough money in the world to pay

But it would put a mark of distinction on him, any single individual his due for battle suffering.

One of the meanest stunts I’ve heard of was a Christmas envelope full of clippings that a practical joker back home sent a soldier over here.

The clippings consisted of colored ads cut out of magazines – and they showed every luscious American thing from huge platters of ham and eggs on up to vacationists lolling in bright bathing robes on the sand, surrounded by beautiful babes. There ought to be a law.

An even meaner trick

On second thought, I know even a meaner trick than that one. In fact, this one would take first prize in an orneriness contest at any season, Christmas or otherwise. The worst is that it happened to a frontline infantryman.

Some of his friends back home sent him three bottles of whisky for Christmas. They came separately, were wonderfully packed, and the bottles came through without a break.

The first bottle tasted fine to the cold kids at the front, but when the second and third ones came the boys found they had been opened and drained along the way, then carefully resealed and continued on their journey.

Of course, mailing them in the first place was illegal, but that’s beside the point. The point is that somewhere in the world there is a louse of a man with two quarts of whisky inside him who should have his neck wrung off.

At one of our airdromes recently a German plane sneaked over and dropped five-pronged steel spikes over the field. Our fliers called it a “jacks raid,” since the spikes resembled the “jacks” that kids used to play with in school, only much bigger. These vicious spikes would puncture the tires when our planes taxied out.

So, the field engineers got a huge magnet, attached it to the front of a truck, and swept the field free of the spikes. Then they were loaded into our planes and dropped on German airfields. There haven’t been any “jacks raids” since.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 2, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Pompeii, Italy –
Maj. Ed Bland got fed up with flying for a living and I got fed up with writing for a living and Cpl. Harry Cowe got fed up with being a corporal for a living, so the three of us said “To hell with it,” and we got into Maj. Bland’s jeep and came touring out to Pompeii.

The only thing in all Italy I have really wanted to see is the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but that’s up north and I will probably leave Italy before we get that far. So, Pompeii is the first and probably the last real sightseeing I will get to do in Italy.

Someone had told me he was disappointed in Pompeii because so little of the ruins had been uncovered, but I think he must have got on the wrong side of the mountain, for there’s certainly plenty uncovered.

The buried city originally had 25,000 people, and two-thirds of the whole city has been dug out. The preserved part surely must be almost a mile square. Pompeii, as you may know, was buried by a rain of ashes and dust and cinders that covered the city 20 to 24 feet deep and smothered everybody to death.

The eruption didn’t come from Vesuvius, as most people think, but from Vesuvius’ sister volcano, named Somma, now extinct. The burying took place in 79 AD and the ruins weren’t discovered until the 18th century.

‘Watch your jeep, mister?’

When we stopped the jeep in the little barren square in front of the main gate to Pompeii, we were assaulted by a swarm of Italian urchins so grabby and insistent that we had to pick one out and appoint him to watch our jeep.

Then we bought tickets for 10¢ apiece and went through the turnstiles. A few Italian men in civilian clothes tagged along as we started to walk, asking if we wanted a guide.

We picked one out. Many of the guides spoke fruit-stand English, such as “Dissa ees da bedaroom.” But ours spoke with quite a cultured accent. He said he once lived in New York but had been a Pompeii guide since long before the war.

His name was Ugo Prosperi. He was tall and thin and looked American. He wore a fedora hat and a long dark overcoat with fur collar and gray trousers and gray spats. He smoked a thin cigar and addressed us constantly as “sir.”

There’s no use in my trying to describe Pompeii in a wartime column. Thousands of you back home have already seen it and the rest of you could hardly visualize it anyhow, so I will merely try to give you Pompeii’s wartime aspect.

Around 100 bombs have fallen within the old Pompeii since the war. The ruins, of course, have never been deliberately bombed by either side. The bombs that fell inside the walls were strays. Actually, not much damage has been done. But our guide, spotting Maj. Bland as an Air Force man, made four or five deadpan but subtle digs about the bombings.

All we could do was wink at each other. Maj. Bland has dive-bombed a lot of Italy, but never around Pompeii.

Dozens of small parties were wandering around the ruins, each with a guide and all composed of military people on leave.

Pompeii has risqué side

Down the street came a British brigadier smoking a pipe and a Scot officer wearing kilts. We turned a corner and met a group of naval ensigns in from the sea, all carrying canes just as if they were on the college campus back in England.

There were gay young American fliers in leather jackets and groups of crumpled-looking doughboys on leave from the frontlines, eating peanuts.

War hasn’t made much difference in the scribbling habits of the Americans and British. On the walls of Pompeii, you will see hundreds of names written in pencil – Pvt. Joe Doakes from Kansas City, Sgt. Jock McLean from Glasgow.

Pompeii is noted for the dirty pictures on the walls of certain houses. In peacetime, the guides had to be discreet with mixed groups of tourists, but they don’t have to pull their punches now except when a bunch of nurses or WACs happens along.

As in peacetime, they will sell you obscene little good-luck emblems in silver or bronze and books of “feelthy” photographs. Whether or not we bought any is a military secret.

Maj. Bland from Oklahoma and Cpl. Cowe from Seattle and I from Indiana and New Mexico spent three hours in the ruins of old Pompeii and decided we enjoyed it, but the next time we go sightseeing, we hope it can be through the less ancient ruins of Berlin.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 3, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
The Mediterranean Allied Air Force, under the command of Lt. Gen. Ira Baker, covers everything in this whole Mediterranean theater from Casablanca on the Atlantic almost to the Cairo at the edge of Asia.

It is a gigantic force. Although there are many British planes and pilots in it, and even a few squadrons of Frenchmen, still it is predominantly an American air theater.

The main geographical objective of our push into Italy was to get heavy-bomber bases

Our heavy-bomber force is still being built up, and has not yet really begun on its program of blasting Germany proper, but planes have been flowing across the South Atlantic all winter.

Soon good weather will be here, and then woe upon Germany from south as well as west.

Right now, I’m living with a light-bomber group – the 47th – which flies the fast twin-engined Douglas-built plane known as the A-20 Boston.

Some on second tour of combat duty

The 47th is a veteran outfit. It fought through Tunisia. It helped beat the Germans back at Kasserine a year ago. it flew from Souk-el-Arba and Cape Bon and Malta and Sicily, and now it is on the front in Italy.

Like most air groups of long service, it has almost no flying personnel left who came overseas with it. Its casualty rate has been low, but the crewmen have all reached or passed their allotted number of missions and gone home.

In fact, some of its members went home so long ago that they are now back overseas on their second tour of combat duty, fighting out of England or in the South Pacific. The ground-crew men get letters from them sometimes.

I’ve been living with a certain squadron of the 47th. It has changed commanders while I’ve been with it. The previous commander was Maj. Cy Stafford, a brilliant young pilot-engineer from Oak Park, Illinois.

Maj. Stafford has been promoted to the group staff, and his place as squadron commander has been taken by Maj. Reginald Clizbe of Centralia, Washington.

Maj. Clizbe is a veteran in combat, but for several months has been on staff duty. He is pleased to get back to the small and intimate familiarity of a squadron. As he says:

Squadron commander is the best job in the Air Corps.

On his first day, Maj. Clizbe got a plane and went out and practiced while the rest went on their mission. I was staying in the same tent with him, and although at that time I didn’t know him very well I could tell he was worried and preoccupied.

He wasn’t afraid. Everybody knew that. But he was rusty, everybody’s eyes were on him, and he was scared to death he would foul up on his first mission.

He flew the morning mission on his second day in command. He flew a wing position, and he did all right. He was in good spirits when they came back before lunch.

There was another mission that afternoon. Instead of resting, Maj. Clizbe put himself on the board for that one too, this time leading a flight of three. It was at his revetment when the planes came back just before dusk. When they got out, Maj. Clizbe was a changed man. He was just like a football player after winning a game.

Forgets it’s his birthday

It had been a perfect mission. The bomb pattern had smothered the target. They’d started fires. Their breakout from the bomb run was just right, and the planes got only a little flak. The new man had his teeth into the game again, and he was over the hump. He was all elation and enthusiasm.

He said:

We’ll give ‘em hell from now on.

All evening he kept smiling to himself, and he was like somebody released from a great oppression. That night he went to bed around 9 o’clock, for he was tired, and he had assigned himself to lead the mission early next morning. Just before he went to sleep, he happened to think of something. He raised up and said:

Say, this is my birthday! I’d forgotten about it. Boy, I couldn’t have had a better birthday present than those two missions today.

And he really meant it.

The major was back in the war. He was doing a job again in person, with his own hands and brain, and he went to sleep with a fine satisfaction.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 4, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
The 47th Group of A-20 light bombers is based on a magnificent field that was bulldozed out of a gigantic vineyard by British engineers in three days’ time.

Its dark earthen runway is more than a mile long, and off it scores of crooked taxi paths lead out to where each plane is individually parked among the grapevines. The field never gets really muddy, for the soil is volcanic and water drains through it.

Every morning the ground is lightly frozen and the grass and the shoulder-high grapevines are covered with white frost. In sunny weather, it is warm in midday, but by 4 p.m. the evening chill has set in and your breath shows as you talk.

Guards theoretically keep Italians out of the airfield area, but you’ll always see a little knot of them standing behind some plane watching the mechanics work. It is an odd sensation to walk along a narrow path and hear a dirty and ragged Italian girl singing grand opera as she works on the vines. Or to go to an outdoor toilet and suddenly discover a bunch of Italian peasant women looking over the low canvas wall at you as they walk past. They don’t seem to care, and you don’t either.

Everybody lives in tent

Everybody lives in square, pyramidal tents, officers and men exactly alike. The tents are scattered throughout the vineyard, 50 yards or so apart, and they are hard to see at a distance.

There are from four to six men in a tent. They all sleep on folding cots and most of them have the big warm air-force sleeping bags. They live comfortably.

The inside of each tent depends on the personality of its occupants. Some are neat and bright and furnished with countless little home comforts of the boys’ own carpentering. Others are shoddy and cave-like, surpassing only a little the bare requirements of life.

All the tents have stoves in the middle. They are homemade from 20-gallon oil drums. Back of each tent is a can of 100-octane gasoline sitting on a waist-high stool. A metal pipe leads under the tent wall and across the floor to the stove.

It is the old siphon system, pure and simple. You have to suck on the pipe and get a mouthful of gasoline to get the flow started. After that you control it with a petcock at the stove end. Stoves blow up frequently, but seldom do any damage.

Some of the tents have wooden floors made by knocking apart the long boxes that frag bombs come in, and nailing them into sections. Others have only dirt floors.

Any old radio program

Many tents have radios. The boys listen to all kinds of stations – our own Naples broadcast, the BBC, the distorted Rome radio, the cynical admonishments of Axis Sally that we’ll go home (if we are lucky) only to find our jobs gone and our girls married to other guys. But most of all they listen to the sweet music from German stations and to the American swing music of our own.

The day begins early on an airfield. Just before dawn the portable generators on wheels which are scattered among the grapevines begin to put-put and lights go on everywhere.

Nobody ever turns a light on or off. The generators stop at 10 each night, and the lights simply go out. Thus when the generators start again at 6 in the morning, your light automatically goes on and your radio starts.

One man in each tent will leap out of his sleeping bag and get the stove going, and then leap back for a few minutes. Little strings of oily gray smoke soon begin to sprout upward out of the vineyard.

In a few minutes you hear engines barking on the other side of the runway, and then with a deep voice that seems to shake the whole silent countryside the planes thunder down the runway and take to the air. These are out on early test hops. A few unfortunates have had to get out of their sacks at 4 a.m. to get them going.

Everybody is up by 6:30 at the latest. Guys clad only in long gray underwear dash comically out under the nearest olive tree and dash shivering back into the tent.

A little cold water out of a five-gallon can is dashed onto their faces. They jump into their clothes in nothing flat. They are on the way to breakfast as full daylight comes.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 6, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
At this airfield, from which A-20 light bombers fly, breakfast is finished at 7:30. But even before that the squadron commanders and operations officers have driven in jeeps around to the other side of the field to get briefs from the group staff on the morning’s mission.

Each squadron in the group lives in a separate area. They form three distinct families, which fuse into one big unit only when they are in the air.

The plane crews assemble around the operations tent immediately after breakfast. They pick up their parachutes and their new flak vests from a nearby tent. They stand around outside zipping on their heavy flying clothes while they await the call to briefing.

Pretty soon it comes and they crowd into the tent and sit on rows of frag-bomb boxes, as in a little school. The squadron intelligence officer gets up on a low platform and starts talking.

They say this officer’s briefings are the best in the group. I’ve attended scores of briefings in England and Africa, and usually they’re repetitious and dull. But this squadron’s briefings are interesting. The intelligence officer is intensely thorough. The crews get a detailed picture of what they’re to do. And above all he is honest.

Briefing includes war news resume

One of the gunners said to me:

Some briefing officers will tell you flatly you won’t get any flak, and then when you get there it just pours up. Now our intelligence officer, he’ll say:

I don’t think you’ll get much flak today, but you know the Germans have mobile ack-ack, and they can concentrate it overnight, so watch out.

One thing in his briefing is a resumé of the war news. This is being done more and more in the Army, and it is important, because any soldier likes to know what is going on around him.

He gives the whole Italian war situation, both ground and air, of the previous 24 hours. He tells them also any news that has come from England or Russia.

Then he goes into the briefing. Behind him are a big map and two big blackboards. The map is of central Italy. He points out the target on the map.

Then on the blackboard is drawn in chalk a detailed map of the target area. This sketch covers an area 40 or 50 miles square. It invariably includes the coastline, so that crews can orient the target with the coast.

‘Blown-up’ sketch of target area

The second blackboard has a “blown-up” sketch of the target area, covering territory only a couple of miles square. It contains full details for helping the crews identify the target when they get there, such as exact towns and roads, little lakes, groves of trees, and even an isolated white farmhouse.

When the intelligence officer is through, the flight leader gets up. Usually that is Capt. Gene Vance from Pueblo, Colorado, who used to be a newspaperman himself.

Capt. Vance tells them what type of bomb they’re carrying, and how many fighters and what kind will be escorting them. He also goes into great detail on just how each flight will “break away” out of the bomb run,” plus a few methods to avoid flak.

He advises what route to take home if anybody gets lost. Sometimes they have to throw out bundles of pamphlets as well as drop bombs, and he advises the exact formation to fly so that the bundle won’t hit the following plane.

At the end, he gives them a time set. Everybody looks at his watch and Capt. Vance says:

It is now 23 seconds till 10 minutes to 9. It is now 20 seconds–15 seconds–10 seconds–5–4–3–2–1. Check. Ten minutes to 9.

The crews, looking sober, file out and get into their trucks.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 7, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
Pilots fly planes, and mechanics fix planes, and bombardiers drop bombs out of planes, and they’ve all been written about. But I’ve never heard anybody mention the guys who out the bombs in the planes, so here goes.

They are called armorers. They not only “bomb up” the planes, but it is their job to keep all the planes’ guns in tiptop working order.

In the 47th Group – A-20 light bombers – there is theoretically one armorer to each plane. But they’re short now, and each armorer usually has two planes to care of.

An armorer is as proud of his plane as the pilot is. He calls it “my plane,” and when this plans fails to come back, he feels horrible. Among the armorers, everybody knows whose plane has the most missions.

Each morning a truck takes them to the area where their planes are dispersed. They start bombing up about an hour and a half before takeoff time.

For really heavy bombs, the planes are equipped with a hitting device. Smaller bombs, even up to 300-pound ones, are lifted by hand. To do this, the armorers of several planes form themselves into a team of four or five men, and go from one plane to another helping each other until their little family is all bombed up.

123 missions to date

I went around one day with a team composed of Sgt. Steve Major of Monessen, Pennsylvania; Cpl. Vincent Cline of Paragould, Arkansas; Cpl. John Peoples of Alameda, California; Cpl. Robert Gerrie of Chicago, and Cpl. James La Barr of Dallas, Pennsylvania. Cpl. La Barr’s plane, incidentally, has more missions than any other – 123 – and is going up by one and two a day.

The bombs have already been hauled out, and are lying on the ground alongside the planes, when the armorers arrive. This day they were loading 25-pound demolition bombs. These were about three feet long and 10 inches thick, and tapered at both ends.

The boys roll them to the planes by kicking them along with their feet. They roll six under each plane. The bomb-bay doors are already hanging down open. The armorers crawl under them and then can stand erect with their heads inside the bomb bay.

One of them takes an 18-inch clamp from the bay wall and hooks it into the two steel rings in the back. Then two of them grab the bomb and heave it up. As it rises, a third gets under it and lifts with his shoulders. The two others put it into position.

It is good heavy heaving. Only the rugged ones stay on as armorers. Now and then, somebody slips and a bomb falls on an armorer, but serious accidents are rare.

After the bombs are clamped inside the bomb bay, they put in the fuses. The bomb has a steel plug in each end. The boys unscrew these plugs, and screw the fuses into the hole. I never knew before that our bombs had fuses on both ends. I asked what it was for. The boys said so that if one fuse didn’t work, the other one would.

Little propeller whirls

Each fuse has a little metal propeller on it. When the bomb is dropped the propeller starts whirling and after dropping about 500 feet it unscrews itself to become a plunger and “arm” the bomb, as they call it. Then when the bomb hits the ground, this plunger is forced back and the bomb is discharged.

There must, of course, be some guarantee that propellers don’t get to whirling inside the planes. So, the boys take a piece of wire and fasten it into the clamp from which the bomb hangs. Then they run each end through two small holes in the propellers, thus locking them.

When the bomb is released, this wire remains fastened to the plane and the ends slip out of the little propellers, freeing them.

If the pilot has to salvo his bombs over free territory, where he doesn’t want them to go off, he can pull a different lever which releases the wire and lets it fall still attached to the bomb, thus keeping the little propellers locked.

The armorer’s job is really not a hard one, except for this heavy lifting which lasts only a few minutes a day. What disgusts armorers the most is when the command keeps changing its mind about what kind of bombload is to be carried on the next mission.

Sometimes, they’ll get an order to bomb up with 500-pounders, then it’ll be changed to frag bombs, then changed again to 250-pounders. On every change they have to take out the bombs and put in new ones.

The boys say the all-time record was one day when they changed bombs 12 times and it finally wound up that the planes never went out after all.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 8, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
Sgt. Steve Major is 6½ feet and weighs 222 pounds stripped. Despite that weight, he looks slim, because he is so tall.

Steve is an armorer in the 47th Bombardment Group. He is 23, and comes from Monessen, Pennsylvania. He is good-looking and good-natured, and always has something to say.

As he rides along in a truck, he’ll shake his fist at some tough-looking crew chief and yell at him, “You ugly so-and-so.” Nobody could possibly get mad at him.

Steve has been in the Army nearly six years, and is an excellent soldier. He quit high school and enlisted when he was 17, and served one shift in Panama. When his first three years were up, he stayed out just six days and then reenlisted on the condition they send him to California. They did. Steve likes to see the world.

I asked him if he would stay in the Army after the war. He said:

No, the Army’s all right, but I’ve had enough of it. I’ve got 3,000 coconuts in the bank, and I’m going to get some education after the war and be a salesman.

Another soldier said:

Yeah, I’ll get. You look like a 30-year man to me.

‘Living good’

Steve has a good, calm philosophy about everything. He is even philosophical about his part in the war.

He says:

I tried to be a pilot – too big. Tried to be a gunner – too big. So, I’m an armorer. Okay, I’m happy. What the hell.

He says further:

This job is easy. We work hard for a little while every day, and then the rest of the day we don’t do much. Any civilian could do this work after a little training. It’s just like a regular job, only we’re away from home.

It’s not like last winter in Tunisia when we lived on British rations and damned near froze to death and got raided every day. Everything’s different now. We’re living good here. Why, this is better than it was back home in camp.

Steve doesn’t go on missions. He’s so big he’d be in the way. The plane of which he was armorer was lost several weeks ago, so now he helps out the other boys. He sleeps in a tent right out on the line, in order to be near his job.

Steve is cool in the punches. They tell about one thing he did over here. His plane came back one day with its full load of bombs.

When they dropped the unexploded bombs down to the ground, he discovered one of the fuses was on.

A few of the fuses that day had been set for 45 seconds’ delay, but he didn’t know how much of the 45 seconds had been used up before he made his discovery. The natural impulse would have been to run as fast and as far as he could before the bomb went off.

But Steve just sat there on the ground and unscrewed the fuse with his hands and then tossed it aside just as it went off – harmlessly.

Likes to travel

Sgt. Major loves to travel. And I believe he gets more out of it than any soldier I’ve met. You can drop him down at a new field in any old country, and within a week he’ll know half the natives in the adjoining village.

Steve’s parents were Austrian and Yugoslavian, and he speaks four Slav dialects. In Panama, he learned Spanish, and over here he writes down 20 new Italian words every night and memorizes them. He gets along fine in Italian.

On his afternoons off, he gets a train or bus and goes out by himself seeing the country. Invariably he gets into conversations with the people.

Half the time he winds up going to somebody’s home for a meal. He says:

I’ve been in rich homes and poor homes over here. There are pretty good people, but they’re so damned emotional. They get into the wildest arguments with each other over the most trivial things. But they’re good-hearted.

Steve isn’t obsessed like the average soldier about getting home. He takes the war as it comes, and doesn’t fuss. He’d like to see home again, but he doesn’t want to stay even when he gets here.

His big worry is that he’ll meet some woman who’ll have him married to her before he knows what’s happened. He doesn’t want to be tied down. He wants to travel and be free and roam around the world, talking to people, as soon as this little bombing job of his is finished.

[adamsano]

I was curious about Steve after the war and searched him. He lived to be 101 years old. Born August 17, 1920 and died June 6, 2022. He settled in his home town and did continue to travel. He married and had a family. He is highlighted in Ernie’s book, Brave Men. He became a master plumber and served his community in many ways.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 9, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
Most of my time with the 47th Group of A-20 Boston light bombers has been spent with the gunners. All the gunners are sergeants. Each plane carries two. They ride in the rear compartment of the plane.

The top gunner sits in a glass-enclosed bubble rising above the fuselage. The bottom gunner sits on the floor during takeoff, and after they’re in the air he opens a trap door, and swivels his machine gun down into the open hole.

Due to the nature of their missions and to the inferiority of German fighter strength in Italy, the A-20 gunners seldom have a battle in the air. Their main worry is flak, and that’s plenty to worry about.

The gunners live in pyramidal tents, four and five to a tent. Some of their tents are fixed up inside even nicer than the officers’. Others are bare.

The gunners have to stand in chow line the same as other soldiers, and eat out of mess kits. Now and then they ever have to go on cleanup detail and help pick up trash throughout their area. They must keep their own tents clean, and stand frequent inspection.

They count missions

I found them a high-class, sincere bunch of boys. Those who really love to fly in combat are the exceptions. Most of them take it in workaday fashion, but they keep a fanatical count on the number of missions flown, each one of which takes them a little nearer to the final goal – the end of their tour of duty.

Ordinarily a gunner goes on only one mission a day, but with the increased air activity of late they sometimes go both morning and afternoon, day after day. There are boys here who arrived only in December and are already almost finished with their missions whereas it used to take six months and more to run up the allotted total.

Life in the combat air forces is fairly informal. In several days on this field, I’ve seen only one salute. But that’s all right, for the Air Forces don’t need the same type of discipline that less specialized branches require.

The enlisted gunners and the commissioned pilots work so closely together that they feel themselves in the same boat.

Don’t like braggarts

Gunners don’t like braggarts, either among commissioned officers or their own fellows. After I got to know them, they told me of some of their own number who talked too big, and of some with the bad judgment to tell “whoppers” even to their gunners.

One night I sat in their tent with five gunners for about three hours. After I had been with them some time, their natural reserve in front of a stranger had worn off, and we talked and talked about everything under the sun, and about what men think and feel who are caught in the endless meshing of the war machine,

One by one they told me of the experiences they had been through. Every man in the tent was living on borrowed time. Every one had stayed alive at least once only by a seeming miracle. Several had been badly wounded, but were back in action again.

When I started to leave, they said apologetically:

We’re kind of ashamed. Here we’ve been doing all the talking, when actually we wanted to hear your experiences.

And I tried to say:

People like you saying things like that! Just one of your ordinary missions is more than everything I’ve seen put together.

And they said:

Well, anyhow, you don’t know how much we appreciate your coning and talking with us. We don’t get to talk to anyone outside very often. It has meant a lot.

And as I followed the twisting path by flashlight back to my own tent among the grapevines, I couldn’t help but feel humble and inconsequential before these boys who are afraid and yet brave, who yearn for something or somebody to anchor to, who are so sincere they even want to listen to the talk of a mere spectator at war.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 10, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
Gunner Sgt. Alban Petchal, who comes from Steubenville, Ohio, said that if I would come over to their tent after supper they’d see if they couldn’t drum up a snack before bedtime. He said they often cooked just to pass the time.

So, I went over about 8 o’clock and Sgt. Petchal said:

I didn’t put the potatoes on yet. We were afraid you weren’t coming.

The potatoes were already peeled. Petchal sliced some thin and dropped them into a skillet on top of the fiery gasoline stove. When he got them a crispy brown, he said:

Have you ever eaten eggs scrambled right in with potatoes?

Sgt. Petchal said that’s the way his mother always fixed them, so broke up a few eggs in the skillet, scrambled them with the potatoes, and served them in the mess kits. They were wonderful.

The eggs cost 20¢ apiece.

There were seven boys in the tent, all aerial gunners. We sat and talked for a long time about things in general. Finally I started to out down their names, and one by one I discovered that every boy in that tent with one exception had been through at least one violent experience.

One from Pennsylvania

Sgt. Robert Sweigert is from Williamsport, Pennsylvania. The others good-naturedly call him “Pretty Boy,” because he is sort of suave looking. He had on nothing but shorts, and while I was there, he shaved and then took a sponge bath out of a wash pan.

Sgt. Sweigert was wounded once by flak and spent two months in a hospital. Another time his plane made a crash landing after being badly shot up, and it broke in two and caught fire when it hit. Yet the crew escaped. The boys showed me snapshots of the demolished plane.

Then we turned to Sgt. Guadalupe Tanguma of San Antonio, Texas. He had just got his orders home, and may be in America by the time this gets into print. He was feeling wonderful about it.

Sgt. Tanguma is of Spanish blood, speaks fluent Spanish, and therefore gets along fairly well in Italian. His experience was a gruesome one, although it turned out fine.

His plane went into a dive and he couldn’t get to the pilot’s compartment, so all Tanguma and the other gunner could do was try to get out. They finally made it.

Tanguma landed upside down in a tree. Italians came running and got him down. He gave the parachute to the crowd. Forty-five minutes after his jump, he was in a farmhouse eating fried eggs.

An Italian volunteered as guide and started walking with him. The Italians wouldn’t take money for their help. The other gunner got back also.

Fliers rated ‘tops’

Next, I put down Sgt. Charles Ramseur of Gold Hill, North Carolina. Sgt. Ramseur used to fly with my dive-bombing friend Maj. Ed Bland, and Maj. Bland says he’s tops.

Ramseur was about to shave off a half-inch growth of whiskers. He was feeling a little abashed because the first sergeant had spoken sharply about it that afternoon. When he did shave, he left a mustache and a straggly little goatee.

Ramseur is the quiet, courteous, unschooled but natively refined type you find so often in the hill country in the South. He hopes to be going home soon, although his orders haven’t been put through yet.

Ramseur has taught himself engraving since being in the Army. At least it’s a form of engraving. He pricks out designs on all his medals with a penknife. His canteen top is covered with names and flight insignia.

He has a photo album with aluminum covers made from a German plane, and all over it are engraved names and places. Sgt. Ramseur hopes maybe this talent might lead to an engraver’s job after the war.

On the fiber lining of his steel helmet, he has chronicled his missions, with a small bomb representing each one. They cover the entire front of the helmet, and he looks at them with relief.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 11, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
The other aerial gunners in our tent went on with their story.

Sgt. Robert Fleming of Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Sgt. Steve Ujhelji – pronounced “You-haley” – of Salem, Oregon, were together as gunners in a foray that won their pilot the Distinguished Flying Cross.

The pilot was Lt. George Gibson, also from Salem, Oregon. Lt. Gibson’s nickname is “Hoot,“ and that has gradually been warped into “Hooch” for reasons beyond my power to fathom. Hooch has finished his missions and gone home. I knew him before he left, and he was a wonderful pilot.

He was another of those great, good-natured people that everybody likes. He would tell you seriously, and I know he meant it, that he was the world’s worst combat pilot, that he had bawled up half the missions he had gone on, that he was scared to death, and that he was just hanging on by the skin of his teeth trying to finish.

But he did finish, and before doing so he crash-landed his badly shot-up plane one day so expertly that he not only saved the lives of his crew, but also that of a fighter pilot who was landing his damaged plane from the opposite direction and running directly into Hooch.

He knows a good story

He got the DSC. If you should ever run into him back home, just ignore the DSC and ask him to tell you the story about the British motorcyclist.

Finally, we got around to my host, Sgt. Albam Petchal of Steubenville, Ohio. When he stopped out the tent door to throw out a wash pan of water, the other boys told me he had the worst experiences of all.

Last summer, Petchal was flying as gunner in a flight of bombers coming over from America. They had reached Central Africa, and were flying north toward the combat zone. Somehow Petchal’s plane got separated from the rest of the flight, and wound up far out over the Sahara Desert and out of gas.

They rode the plane into the sand dunes, which were everywhere and about two stories high. They bounced across the tops of four and slammed head-on into the fifth.

All three men were painfully hurt. They crawled out, made a shelter out of their life raft under the wings, and patched up their wounds as best they could.

They stayed there for three days and nights. On the third day, Sgt. Petchal walked eight miles away on a reconnaissance and then walked back. He thought he saw trees and camels, but it ruined out to be the old storybook mirage.

Despite their pitiful condition, they started walking for good on the fourth day. They sprinkled the wrecked plane with gasoline and set it afire. It was said to see it burn. They carried a five-gallon can of water between them, slung from a stick.

Their wounds pained them constantly. They almost froze at night. Petchal kept getting sick at his stomach. The two officers became semi-delirious and quarreled violently. One day they saw three planes in the distance, too far away to attract.

Finally, they found tracks, and the same day ran onto a camel caravan. The Arabs fed them and took them with them. The boys tried to ride the camels, but it was so rough and horrible that they finally had to get off and walk.

End of the rainbow

On the night of the 10th day, they came to the end of their rainbow. Soldiers from a French desert outpost rode up to the caravan and took charge of them. They had by then walked more than a hundred miles.

They were in the hospital for several weeks, and then, after such a harrowing start as that, Sgt. Petchal finally arrived at the front. And since that day he has flown more than 60 combat missions. He is due to go home before long.

Petchal has been wounded by enemy flak, but we never got around to that.

The only man without an “experience” was Sgt. John McDonnell of Cedarhurst, Long Island. He is a good-looking, friendly and hospitable fellow.

Friends at home sent him some brown liquid in a G. Washington coffee bottled for Christmas. It looks like coffee, but it isn’t coffee. Sgt. McDonnell is saving it to celebrate his last mission. He offered to open it for me, but some hidden nobility in me reared its ugly head and I told him to save it.

Sgt. McDonnell has gone more than four-fifths of the way through his allotted missions, and has never yet laid eyes on an enemy plane. Furthermore, there has been only one tiny flak hit on his plane in all that time.

The sergeant says:

That suits me fine. I hope it stays that way.

And so do I.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 13, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
A junior and miniature edition of W. C. Fields is what Sgt. Gilford Muncy is. You should hear his story of the night he fell into the abandoned gun pit and couldn’t get out because he couldn’t think where he was.

Sgt. Muncy can’t be much over five feet, and he is sort of pudgy and has very narrow shoulders, and his face has a wise, devilish, old look like one of the Seven Dwarfs.

Sgt. Muncy is 29. He comes from Hyden, Kentucky, up in the hills, and he wouldn’t mind at all if you called him a hillbilly. In fact, he sort of trades on it. He talks just like the mountaineers in the cartoons. I think it sort of hurts his pride that he can’t claim to have been a moonshiner.

Everybody laughs at Sgt. Muncy and with him, and everybody thinks he’s great. He likes people, and is uncommonly generous and kind. It’s a poor day when he doesn’t survive at least one escapade that is slightly out of this world.

The gunners’ tent which Sgt. Muncy dominates is a sight to behold. It is often the scene of rioting and deviltry. It is probably the most tired-out tent in Italy.

The top is full of holes. That’s caused by their gasoline stove blowing up frequently. One wall has big adhesive patches on it. That’s where a happy guest tried to carve his initials in the canvas. The back wall bears the marks of a nervous visitor who went right through it one night during an air raid.

Fabulous tent stove

The two outstanding features of Sgt. Muncy’s tent are the late evening meals cooked there and the fabulous stove, which has been known to blow up seven times in one day. Once it exploded just as a guest entered, and blew him clear out into the grapevines.

The other boys had told me all about Sgt. Muncy’s stove, so one morning, just as he was starting on a mission (he’s an aerial gunner), I introduced myself, and said I’d like to drop past that evening and see his stove blow up. Sgt. Muncy said:

We’d sure like to have you, but the stove’s liable to get contrary and not blow up tonight. Lots of times when we have company, it don’t blow up at all.

So I went over that night. The tent has a dirt floor which is swept out whenever they figure inspection is about due.

Sgt. Muncy once had a fastidious streak in him, and decided to levy a 50¢ fine on anybody who threw anything on the floor, such as cigarette butts, apple cores, walnut shells, etc. Before the first evening was over, he had fined himself $11.50.

They have great feasts in the Sgt. Muncy tent. Fried chicken is their special dish. They buy chickens from the village at $5 per chicken. Sgt. Muncy said:

I represent $300 worth of chickens cooked on that old stove there.

One night, Sgt. Jack Bohn of Scranton, Pennsylvania, made chicken soup while Sgt. Muncy did the rest. All the guests, who weren’t tasting very well anyhow, thought the soup was wonderful. But Jack couldn’t quite get it down. Eventually, he discovered the reason – he had put half a cake of G.I. soap in it, thinking it was butter.

Now and then they have steak. One night Sgt. Muncy was in bed when one of his soldier friends came in from town feeling fine. He had with him three or four big steaks.

The friend asked:

Where’s your sledgehammer?

“Over there in that pile of stuff, I reckon,” Sgt. Muncy said, and went back to sleep.

Rocks, mud and steak

Pretty soon he was awakened and here was this guy with all the steaks lying on the dirt floor, and just beating hell out of them with an eight-pound sledge. Then he threw them in the skillet, and Muncy had to get up and help share the feast.

Sgt. Muncy says:

I’ve still got rocks and mud in my teeth.

To Sgt. Muncy and his tentmates, all Italians are “gooks.” They don’t remember how they started that. It’s not a term of contempt at all, for Sgt. Muncy loves them and they love him.

Sgt. Muncy says:

I don’t care where I go it, people like me. Why, when we moved from our last place, all them gooks around there cried when I left.

He dressed up and played Santa for them at Christmas, and he is always giving them stuff.

We sat and talked and laughed until almost lights-out, and finally I said:

Well, if the stove isn’t going to blow up, I guess I have to go.

So, Sgt. Muncy jumped up and said, “Wait a minute.” He turned off the gasoline, let the fire in the tin-bellied stove die out and cool, then turned the gas on again. They let it sit that way a little while, and all the rest got behind boxes and things and Sgt. Bohn got off as far as he could and threw a lighted match at the stove door.

But as Sgt. Muncy had feared, the stove was contrary and wouldn’t blow up that night. They were all very humiliated.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 14, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
As I got to know the A-20 gunners better and better, they gradually began to tell me their inner feelings about a life of flying in combat.

Several had just about completed their missions, yet they said they were willing to stay if need and fly extra missions.

In any squadron, you’ll find many men willing to fly beyond the stated missions if it’s put up to them, but you’ll average only about one who actually is eager to go on. In our squadron, I found such a gunner in Sgt. John D. Baker of Indianapolis.

Sgt. Baker is 21. He has flown more missions than anybody in the squadron, men or officers. He says it is his ambition to fly a hundred.

Many in our squadron have gone beyond the required goal. Some are still flying, and others have gone on to the breaking point and had to be grounded. The flight surgeons try to sense when the strain is beginning to get a man.

Some of them seem to have nerves that are untouchable. One of my pilot friends told me that on a mission earlier in the day, when the flak was breaking all around, he didn’t think much of the danger but kept thinking that if a fragment should break the plexiglass globe, and let the below-zero air rush through the plane, he would be one mad pilot.

Another told of the funny reflexes you have up there. For example, every combat airman knows you needn’t worry about the flak you see, for it you see it, the danger is over and you haven’t been hit. Yet this pilot, after a harmless puff of smoke ahead of him, goes around it.

Ernie advises a gunner

One of the gunners – a man with a fine record – told me he had not only become terrified of combat but had actually become afraid to fly at all.

He said that when the generators came on that morning, and the radio in their tent started crackling, it made him dream they were being attacked in the air. He dreamed that a bullet came up through the fuselage and hit him in the throat.

Another told me he felt he just couldn’t go on. He had completed his allotted missions, and nobody could doubt his courage. He wanted to go and ask to be grounded, but just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

So, I urged him to go ahead. Afterwards, I got both sides of the story. The officers told me later they were kicking themselves for not noticing the gunner’s nervousness in time and for letting it go until he had to hurt his pride by asking to be grounded.

But those are men’s innermost feelings. They don’t express them very often. They don’t spend much time sitting around glooming to each other about their chances.

Their outlook and conversation is just as normal as that of a man in no danger at all. They play jokes, and write letters, and listen to the radio, and send gifts home, and drink a little vino and carry on just like anybody else.

It’s only when a man “has had it” – the combat expression for anyone who has had more than he can take – that he sits alone and doesn’t say much, and begins to stare.

Job has to be done

Sgt. Alban J. Petchal of Steubenville, Ohio, and Charles Ramseur of Gold Hill, North Carolina, have flown their allotted missions, have been wounded, and both are true veterans, quiet and kind and efficient.

Sgt. Petchal, although an Easterner, is in a way something of the same kind of man as my cowboy friend, Sgt. Buck Eversole. He doesn’t like any part of war, but he has done his job and done it well.

Sgt. Petchal never heard of Buck Eversole, and yet the morning I left he spoke about his place in the war with the same sort of sadly restrained philosophy, and even in almost the same words that Buck Eversole had used at the front. He said:

The job has to be done, and somebody has to do it, and we happen to be the ones that were picked to do it, so we’ll go on doing it the best we can.

And Sgt. Ramseur said:

I don’t ever want to fly again. But if they tell me to keep on flying, then I’ll just keep on flying, that’s all. You can’t do anything else.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 15, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
Maj. Burt Cochrane is executive officer of the squadron with which I’ve been living. He is not a flying man, but he takes most of the onerous duties off the shoulders of the squadron commander, who is always a flying man.

Maj. Cochrane is the perfect example of a man going all-out for his country. He doesn’t want to be over here at all. He is 55, and a grandfather. But he fought through the last war, kept his commission in the reserve, and just couldn’t picture himself not being in this one. He has been away from home three years.

In civil life, Maj. Cochrane is what you might call a gentleman cattle-raiser. He owns about 300 acres in the beautiful rolling country north of San Francisco, not far from Jack London’s famous Valley of the Moon. The nearest town is Kenwood.

He turns out about 75 head of beef cattle a year, has a lovely home, beautiful riding horses, and lives an almost Utopian life. He left the city eight years ago, and says he never knew what happiness was until he got out into the hills.

Maj. Cochrane is quiet and courteous. Enlisted men and officers both like and respect him. He is so soldierly that he continually says “sir” even to me, although I’m a civilian and much younger than he.

Kiss boy goodbye

One of the newer and much-trusted pilots in my squadron is a good-natured, tow-headed youngster named Lt. Leroy Kaegi (pronounced Keggy). He is from Ashland, Oregon.

Lt. Kaegi had quite a day recently. Two missions, morning and afternoon. Returning from his morning mission, he couldn’t get one of his wheels down. He had to fly around for an hour and finally stall the plane in order to shake the wheel loose.

Then just as he was ready to take off on his afternoon mission, some major came rushing up to the plane in a jeep, jumped out and yelled:

Hey, wait a minute. This girl wants to kiss you goodbye.

Lt. Kaegi had never seen the girl before, but she was American and she was beautiful. So out he popped and gave her a great big smackeroo, and then dashed back in again. When he got back, all he could take about was this strange and wonderful thing that had happened to him. He said he was so excited he took off with his upper cowl flap open.

The girl, I found later, was Louise Allbritton of Hollywood. She’s over with June Clyde, entertaining troops for the USO. They are both swell gals.

Since Lt. Kaegi’s adventure, I’ve been hanging around the planes at takeoff time for a week, just hoping, but nothing seems to come of it except that I get a lot of dirt blown in my face.

Shot-up champion

One day I was standing around an A-20 bomber when the crew chief came up and pulled a clipping out of his pocket. It was a piece about his plane written more than a year ago by my friend Hal Boyle of the Associated Press.

At that time, the plane was the most shot-up ship in the squadron, with more than 100 holes in it. The crew chief, Sgt. Earl Wayne Sutter of Oklahoma City, has had this same ship since just before they left England nearly a year and a half ago. He’s very proud of its record. And it still holds the record, too. By now, it has more than 300 holes in it. But Sgt. Sutter and his gang just patch them up, and it keeps on flying. With all that riddling only one crew member has ever been hurt, and he only slightly.

Crew members for the past several weeks have been wearing “flak vests.” These look something like a lifejacket and are made of steep strips covered with canvas. They weight about 25 pounds.

There have been several instances already where these bests have saved men from being wounded by flak. The oddest instance was of one gunner who took his vest off because it felt too heavy, and threw it on the floor. By chance it happened to fall across his foot. A moment later, a piece of flak came through the wall and smashed into the flak vest. If it hadn’t been lying where it was, he would have had a bad foot wound.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 16, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
I heard a funny story about a demonstration, back of the lines, of a new type of rifle grenade.

It seems a lot of high-ranking officers were invited to the demonstration, including generals and colonels. Rows of chairs were placed for them out in the open.

Then a soldier fired the new grenade. It landed about 150 yards ahead of the officers, and failed to go off. No sooner had it hit the ground than a big black dog, doubtless with retriever blood in him, dashed out, grabbed the grenade in his mouth, and started back toward the assembled brass.

They say you never saw such a scramble as the visiting dignitaries made getting out of their chairs and heading rapidly to the rear. Fortunately, the grenade was so hot the dog had to drop it. At last reports, it still hadn’t gone off.

An old dog man, himself

Speaking of dogs, the 47th Bomb Group has more of them than any outfit I’ve been with yet. It’s hard for an infantryman to take care of a dog, but the Air Force men are often based at the same field for weeks or months, and can live a sort of permanent life.

One of the soldiers was telling about an order put out some months ago by the doctors, requiring that all dogs in camp be shot. For some reason, it was never carried out.

Then the soldier said:

Boy, I’d like to see any doctor try to have our dogs killed now, with this new squadron commander we’ve got.

He was referring to Lt. Col. Reginald Clizbe, who is a dog man himself. Incidentally, Clizbe was a major when we mentioned him a few days ago, but now he has gone up a step.

Too black to picture

Col. Clizbe has a coal-black Labrador retriever named Tarfu. That’s one of those mystic Air Force names which you’ll have to get somebody else to explain to you.

Col. Clizbe got Tarfu in England when he was so tiny, he carried him inside his shirt. Now he’s as big as a German shepherd. He is wonderfully smart, and good too. He is so black that Col. Clizbe can’t even get a good snapshot of him. He was raised on the treeless and windswept plains around two airdromes in Tunisia, and he still hasn’t learned to use a tree.

There’s a great communion between man and dog. Tarfu almost goes frantic when it’s time for the colonel to return from a mission.

Col. Clizbe has a large doghouse for Tarfu, built out of frag bomb boxes, and he keeps it right in the tent with him. Anytime he says “Bed,” whether it’s day or night, Tarfu goes reluctantly into his doghouse and lies down.

Likes a face wash

Of a morning when Col. Clizbe gets up. Tarfu waits about 15 seconds, then slips out of his doghouse, gets into Col. Clizbe’s sleeping bag, and burrows clear down out of sight. If he were a little dog, it wouldn’t be so funny, but he’s so big he practically fills the bag.

Unlike most dogs, he loves to have his face washed. After Col. Clizbe gets through washing his own face of a morning, he washes Tarfu’s.

I actually get jealous when I see some of the soldiers over here with dogs deeply attached to them. it’s the nearest thing to civility in this weird foreign life of ours.

Pitt partner in Italy

Of late I’ve had to carry around a little vial of something called liver essence, and get a slug of it injected into me by a needle about twice a week.

It’s supposed to be good for hemoglobin. Mine has got down to 20 points below what is required to keep a man alive, which seems to me a great joke on the medical profession, since I’m still here.

At any rate, my latest needle pricking was done by Capt. John R. Grant, who is doctor for a service squadron I happened to be near. Capt. Grant comes from Pittsburgh. He drives a jeep with “Pitt Panther” painted on the front of it. In front of his dispensary is a red-and-white sign which says, “Limp in, leap out.” That’s good psychology, but it didn’t work on me. I limped in, and crawled out. It gives me the willies to have people sticking needles into me.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 17, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
Italian trains are running again, and they have some electric trains out of Naples that are as modern as ours at home.

But no transportation here is back to pre-war proportions, and everything is packed with masses of humanity. People ride on top of the cars and hang all over the sides.

The funniest thing about this to me is that whenever a train approaches a tunnel it stops in order to let the hangers-on get off, so they won’t be raked off by the tunnel walls.

One of the items on the Naples black market these days is American Army C-ration. Where the black market gets them I don’t know, but a can of C-ration meat-and-vegetable hash sells for 25 cents.

An Italian housewife who I know slightly bought three cans of C-ration hash the other day. But when she got home, she discovered she had been hoodwinked, for the cans were filled with sand.

Some smart operator had simply gathered up a batch of empty cans and lids, put sand in the cans, and then neatly crimped the lids back on.

Quotes wrong price

At the entrance to one airfield which I visit occasionally, a ragged Italian woman sits on the ground selling apples, hazelnuts and English walnuts to the soldiers.

These roadside merchants prefer not to sell to the Italians at all, because our soldiers willingly pay higher prices than the natives. But the other day another Italian woman stopped in front of this vendor and gathered up an apronful of apples. Then she started to pay for them. The vendor woman unfortunately quoted her the soldier price. The prospective customer looked at her a moment, and then in a rage threw all the apples right in her face.

Note to postal clerk Henry Rosner of Pittsburgh – I got your message. Thanks a lot.

Several weeks ago, Sgt. Bill Mauldin, the Army cartoonist, bought a pair of rubber panties in Naples and sent them home to Phoenix for his six-month-old baby.

His wife apparently spread the word, for since then Bill has had about 20 requests from young mothers in America wanting rubber pants for their babies. Apparently, this article is extinct back home.

Bill is in a spot, and has had to declare rubber panties extinct over here too.

Eiderdown sleeping bag cherished

Sherman Montrose is the boss of all the civilian photographers over here. He works for NEA Service and has covered the Solomons, the Aleutians and Italy, which makes him one of the most veteran of correspondents in this war.

Monty has one piece of equipment which everybody would like to steal. It’s a pure eiderdown sleeping bag. It’s just a thin envelope which you crawl into, and is so wonderfully warm you don’t need anything else except a shelter half to keep the rain off.

Monty had it made back in the days when eiderdown was still available. It cost $60. He packs it in his hand the way a woman carries a shopping bag.

The Red Cross asked me the other day to speak on a transatlantic broadcast in connection with its $200 million drive.

But since public speaking is not one of my most glittering talents, and since the whole program would probably collapse if I tried to make a speech about it, we compromised and I promised to write a few lines.

So here they are. I’ve seen the Red Cross operate in Ireland, England, Africa, Sicily and Italy, and I’m very much for it. Its task is tremendous and it does a great good.

You won’t be making any mistake if you fork over a little dough for the Red Cross. Why, even I am going to donate a mile.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 18, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
One of the most fabulous characters in this war theater is Lt. Rudolph Charles von Ripper. He is so fabulous you might be justified in thinking him a phony until you got to know him.

I’ve known him since last summer in Algeria. Most of the other correspondents know him. One whole fighting infantry division knows him. He’s no phony.

Von Ripper is the kind they write books about. He was born in Austria. His father was a general in the Imperial Austrian Army, his mother a baroness. They had money. He could have had a rich, formal, royal type of existence.

Instead, he ran away from home at 15, worked in the sawmills, collected garbage, was a coalminer for a while, and then a clown in a small traveling circus.

At 19, he went into the French Foreign Legion, served two years, and was wounded in action. After that, he went back to Europe and studied art. He is fundamentally an artist.

He traveled continuously. He lived in London and Paris. He lived in Shanghai during 1928. Then he returned to Berlin, joined liberal groups, and did occasional cartoons. Because he helped friends hiding from the Nazis, he was arrested in 1933, accused of high treason, and sent to a concentration camp.

A life of extremes

Dollfuss of Austria got him out after seven months. Then he went to the Balearic Islands off the coast of Spain and hibernated for a year, doing political, satirical drawing.

All his life has been a fluctuation between these violent extremes of saloon intellectualism and the hard, steady reality of personal participation in war. You don’t think of an artist as being tough or worldly, yet Von Ripper has been shot in battle more than 20 times.

In 1936, he went to Spain as an aerial gunner in the Loyalist Air Force. He got 16 slugs in his leg during that adventure, and barely came out alive.

Back in Austria in 1938, he saw there was no possibility of organizing even a token resistance against Hitler, so he left for America. He became an American citizen five years later. By that time, he was a private in the United States Army.

His Army career has been a curious one. At first, he was a hospital laboratory technician. Then he was transferred to the newly-formed Army Arts Corps, and left for North Africa last May to paint battle pictures for the War Department.

Doesn’t mind being shot at

I happened to meet him a few days after he arrived on this side. He had hardly got started on his artwork when Congress abolished the whole program. So, he went back to being a regular soldier again, this time an infantryman. He was transferred to the 34th Division.

Last fall, he was put in a frontline regiment, and in October, he was wounded by shell splinters. He doesn’t seem to mind being shot at all. A month later, while leading a night patrol, he got four machine-pistol slugs in him.

All this time overseas, he had been a sergeant, but after his November wounding, he was given a battlefield commission as second lieutenant, and transferred to the division’s engineers. Later, it was possible for him to resume his artwork in his spare time.

Right now, Lt. Von Ripper has a nice little room on the top floor of an apartment building in Naples taken over by the Army. Here he works at a huge drawing board, doing watercolors and pen-and-ink sketches of war. He sleeps on a cot in the same room. Around the walls are tacked dozens of his sketches.

Now and then he returns to the front with his old outfit. Whenever he does, he’s out in front getting shot at before you can say scat. He’s quite a guy.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 20, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

The following is Ernie Pyle’s story of the bombing of his hotel at the Anzio beachhead where he was slightly wounded. The second column about Lt. von Ripper will be published later.

With the 5th Army beachhead forces in Italy – (by wireless)
Yes, we almost got it this time. I’ll try to tell you how it feels. I’m speaking of the bombing of our villa on the Anzio Beachhead which you may have read about in the news dispatches.

We correspondents here stay in a villa run by the 5th Army’s Public Relations Section. In this house live five officers, 12 enlisted men and a dozen correspondents, both American and British.

The house is located on the waterfront. The current sometimes washes over our back steps. The house is a huge, rambling affair with four stories down on the beach and then another complete section of three stories just above it on the bluff, all connected by a series of interior stairways.

For weeks, long-range artillery shells had been hitting in the water or on shore within a couple of hundred yards of us. Raiders came over nightly, yet ever since D-Day, this villa had seemed to be charmed.

The night before our bombing Sgt. Slim Aarons of Yank Magazine said:

Those shells are so close that if the German gunner had just hiccoughed when he fired, bang would have gone our house.

And I said:

It seems to me we’ve about used up our luck. It’s inevitable that this house will be hit before we leave here.

Villa called ‘Shell Alley’

Most of the correspondents and staff lived in the part of the house down by the water, it being considered safer because it was lower down.

But I had been sleeping alone in the room in the top part because it was a lighter place to work in the daytime. We called it “Shell Alley” up there because the Anzio-bound shells seemed to come in a groove right past our eaves day and night.

On this certain morning, I had awakened early and was just lying there for a few minutes before getting up. It was just 7:00 and the sun was out bright.

Suddenly the anti-aircraft guns let loose. Ordinarily I don’t get out of bed during a raid, but I did get up this one morning. I was sleeping in long underwear and shirt so I just put on my steel helmet, slipped on some wool-lined slippers and went to the window for a look at the shooting.

I had just reached the window when a terrible blast swirled me around and threw me into the middle of the room. I don’t remember whether I heard any noise or not.

The half of the window that was shut was ripped out and hurled across the room. The glass was blown into thousands of little pieces. Why the splinters or the window frame itself didn’t hit me, I don’t know.

From the moment of the first blast until it was over, probably not more than 15 seconds passes. Those 15 seconds were so fast and confusing that I truly can’t say what took place and the other correspondents reported the same.

There was debris flying back and forth all over the room. One gigantic explosion came after another. The concussion was terrific. It was like a great blast of air in which your body felt as light and as helpless as a leaf tossed in a whirlwind.

I jumped into one corner of the room and squatted down and just cowered there. I definitely thought it was the end. Outside of that, I don’t remember what my emotions were.

Suddenly one whole wall of my room flew in, burying the bed where I’d been a few seconds before under hundreds of pounds of brick, stone and mortar. Later, when we dug out my sleeping bed, we found the steel frame of the bed broken and twisted. If I hadn’t gone to the window, I would have two broken legs and crushed chest today.

Frets over missing steel hat

Then the wooden doors were ripped off their hinges and crashed into the room. Another wall started to tumble, but caught only partway down. The French doors leading to the balcony blew out and one of my chairs was upended through the open door.

As I sat cowering in the corner, I remember fretting because my steel hat had blown off with the first blast and I couldn’t find it. Later I found it right beside me.

I was astonished at feeling no pain, for debris went tearing around every inch of the room and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t been hit. But the only wound I got was a tiny cut on my right cheek from flying glass, and I didn’t even know when that happened. The first time I knew of it was when blood ran down my chin and dropped into my hat.

I had several unfinished columns lying on my table and the continuing blasts scattered them helter-skelter over the room and holes were punched in the paper. I remember thinking, “Well, it won’t make any different now anyhow.”

Finally, the terrible nearby explosions ceased and gradually the ack-ack died down and at least I began to have some feeling of relief that it was over and I was still alive. But I stayed crouched in the corner until the last shot was fired.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 21, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

The following is the second part of Ernie Pyle’s account of the bombing raid in which he had a narrow escape. His story is Lt. von Ripper will be resumed later.

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
When our bombing was over, my room was a shambles. It was the sort of thing you see only in the movies.

More than half the room was knee-deep with broken brick and tiles and mortar. The other half was a disarray, all covered with plaster dust and broken glass. My typewriter was full of mortar and broken glass, but was not damaged.

My pants had been lying on the chair that went through the door, so I dug them out from under the debris, put them on and started down to the other half of the house.

Down below everything was a mess. The ceilings had come down upon men still in bed. Some beds were a foot deep in debris. That nobody was killed was a pure miracle.

Bill Strand of The Chicago Tribune was out in the littered hallway in his underwear, holding his left arm. Maj. Jay Vessels of Duluth, Minnesota, was running around without a stitch of clothing. We checked rapidly and found that everybody was still alive.

The boys couldn’t believe it when they saw me coming in. Wick Fowler of The Dallas News had thought the bombs had made direct hits on the upper part of the house. He had just said to George Tucker of the Associated Press, “Well, they got Ernie.”

‘Old Indestructible’

But after they saw I was all right, they began to laugh and called me “Old Indestructible.” I guess I was the luckiest man in the house, at that, although old Dame Fortune was certainly riding with all of us that morning.

The German raiders had dropped a whole stick of bombs right across our area. They were apparently 500-pounders, and they hit within 30 feet of our house.

Many odd things happened, as they do in all bombings. Truthfully, I don’t remember my walls coming down at all, though I must have been looking at them when they fell.

Oddly, the wall that fell on my bed was across the room from where the bomb hit. In other words, it fell toward the bomb. That is caused by the bomb’s terrific blast creating a vacuum; when air rushes back to the center of that vacuum, its power is as great as the original rush of air outward.

At night, I always put a pack of cigarettes on the floor beside my bed. When I went to get a cigarette after the bombing, I found they’d all been blown out of the park.

The cot occupied by Bob Vermillion of the United Press was covered a foot deep with broken tile and plaster. When it was all over somebody heard him call out plaintively:

Will somebody come and take this stuff off of me?

First aid of sorts

After seeing the other correspondents, I went back to my shattered room to look around again, and in came Sgt. Bob Geake of Fort Wayne, Indiana, the first sergeant of our outfit. He had some iodine, and was going around painting up those who had been scratched.

Bob took out a dirty handkerchief, spit on it two or three times, then washed the blood off my face before putting on the iodine, which could hardly be called the last word in sterilization.

Three of the other boys were rushed off to the tent hospital. After an hour or so, five of us drove out to the hospital in a jeep to see how they were.

We found them not in bad shape, and then we sat around a stove in one of the tents and drank coffee and talked with some of the officers.

By now my head and ears had started to ache from the concussion blasts, and several of the others were feeling the same, so the doctors have us codeine and aspirin.

Much to my surprise, I wasn’t weak or shaky after it was all over. In fact, I felt fine – partly buoyed up by elation over still being alive, I suppose. But by noon, I was starting to get jumpy, and by mid-afternoon I felt very old and “beat up,” as they say, and the passage of the afternoon shells over our house really gave me the woolies.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 22, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

NOTE: Mr. Pyle wrote this column for use following a previous article on Lt. von Ripper, which appeared Saturday, March 18. In the meantime, however, Ernie’s report of the bombing in which he suffered a slight personal injury was received and because of its timeliness published ahead of the Von Ripper story, which is concluded herewith.

In Italy – (by wireless)
You know Lt. Rudolf C. von Ripper, the soldier-artist about whom we were writing yesterday. Well, we’ll finish him up today.

Von Ripper is a soldier of fortune, in a way, yet he doesn’t look or act like one. He is intelligent, and his approach is simple rather than adventurous. He is 39, but seems younger.

He is medium tall, slightly stooped, and one eye has a cast that makes it appear to be looking beyond you. His face is long and thin, and his teeth are prominent. His knowledge of the English language is profound and his grammar perfect, but he still pronounced his words with a hissing imperfection. He swears lustily in English.

Von Ripper is as much at home discussing philosophy or political idealism as he is in describing the best way to take cover from a machine gun.

He is meticulous in his personal appearance, yet doesn’t seem to care whether he sleeps between satin sheets or in the freezing mud of the battlefield.

It is hard to reconcile the artist with the soldier in Von Ripper, yet he is obviously professional at both. It may be that being a fine soldier makes him a better artist.

His long experience at warfare has made him as cunning as a fox. You can’t conceive of his being rattled in a tight spot, and he seems to have been born without the normal sense of fear that inhabits most of mankind.

Has become legend at front

Von Ripper is so calm and so bold in battle that he has become a legend at the front. High officers ask his advice in planning attack. He will volunteer for anything.

Being wounded four times hasn’t touched his nerve in the slightest. In fact, he became so notorious as an audacious patrol leader that his division finally forbade his going on patrol unless by specific permission.

One night Von Ripper was returning from patrol and was stopped by an itchy-fingered sentry who called, “Who goes there?” The answer came back in a heavily German accent, “Lt. von Ripper.” He was wearing lieutenant bars, but his dog tag showed him to be a sergeant. It took an hour to get it straightened out.

Some sentries would have shot first and then investigated.

Out of this background as a proven fighting man, Von Ripper is painting the war. He has produced more than a hundred pictures already. His work goes to the War Department in Washington, but he hopes an arrangement might be made whereby a book of his war drawings could be published.

I believe that Von Ripper, like most of us over here, has finally become more interested in the personal, human side of war than in the abstract ideals for which wars are fought.

Trying to take heroics out of war

He says that in his paintings he is trying to take the applesauce out of war, trying to eliminate the heroics with which war is too often presented. From what I’ve seen of the work of other artists, Von Ripper is not alone in this sincerity. It’s hard to be close enough to war to paint it, and still consider it heroic.

Von Ripper’s dead men look awful, as dead men do. Live soldiers in foxholes have that spooky stare of exhaustion. His landscapes are sad and pitifully torn.

His sketches aren’t photographic at all. They are sometimes distorted and grotesque, and often he goes into pen-and-ink fantasy.

He has given me one of these, labeled “Self-Portrait in Italy,” which shows himself and another wounded man, against a background of wrecked walls and starving children, being led downhill by the bony arms of a chortling skeleton representing ultimate and inevitable death.

You get used to seeing things like that when you’re a soldier for a long time.