Roving Reporter, Ernie Pyle

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 30, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces in Italy – (by wireless)
You’ve heard how flat the land of the Anzio beachhead is. You’ve heard how strange and naked our soldiers feel with no rocks to take cover behind, no mountains to provide slopes for protection.

This is a new kind of warfare for us. Here distances are short, and space is confined. The whole beachhead is the front line. The beachhead is so small that you can stand on high ground in the middle of it and see clear around the thing. That’s the truth, and it ain’t no picnic feeling either.

I remember back in the days of desert fighting around Tébessa more than a year ago, when the forward echelons of the corps staff and most of the hospitals were usually more than 80 miles back of the fighting. But here everybody is right in it together. You can drive from the rear to the front in less than half an hour, and often you’ll find the front quieter than the rear.

Hospitals are not immune from shellfire and bombing. The unromantic finance officer counting out his money in a requisitioned building is hardly more safe than the company commander 10 miles ahead of him. And the table waiter in the rear echelon mess gets blown off his feet in a manner quite contrary to the Hoyle rules of warfare.

It’s true that the beachhead land is flat, but it does have some rise and fall to it. It’s flat in a western Indiana way, not in the billiard-table flatness of the country around Amarillo, Texas, for example.

You have to go halfway across the beachhead area from the sea before the other half of it comes into view. There are general rises of a few score feet, and little mounds and gulleys, and there are groves of trees to cut up the land.

Roads – good and bad

There are a lot of little places where a few individuals can take cover from fire. The point is that the generalized flatness forbids whole armies taking cover.

Several main roads – quite good macadam roads – run in wagon-spoke fashion out through the beachhead area. A few smaller gravel roads branch off from them.

In addition, our engineers have bulldozed miles of road across the fields. The longest of these “quickie” roads is named after the commanding general here, whose name is still withheld from publication. A painted sign at one end says “Blank Boulevard,” and everybody calls it that. It’s such a super-boulevard that you have to travel over it in super-low gear with mud above your hubcaps, but still you do travel.

Space is at a premium on the beachhead. Never have I seen a war zone so crowded. Of course, men aren’t standing shoulder to shoulder, but I suppose the most indiscriminate shell dropped at any point in the beachhead would land not more than 200 yards from somebody. And the average shell finds thousands within hearing distance of its explosion. If a plane goes down in no-man’s-land, more than half the troops on the beachhead can see it fall.

Already spoken for

New units in the fighting, or old units wishing to change positions, have great difficulty in finding a place. The “already spoken for” sign covers practically all the land in the beachhead. The space problem is almost as bad as in Washington.

Because of the extreme susceptibility to shelling, our army has moved underground. At Youks and Thelepte and Biskra, in Africa a year ago, our Air Forces lived underground. But this is the first time our entire ground force has had to burrow.

Around the outside perimeter line, where the infantry lie facing the Germans a few hundreds yards away, the soldiers lie in open foxholes devoid of all comfort. But everywhere back of that, the men have dug underground and built themselves homes. Here on this beachhead the dugouts, housing from two to half a dozen men each, will surely run into the tens of thousands.

As a result of this, our losses from shelling and bombing are small. It’s only the first shell after a lull that gets many casualties. After the first one, all the men are in their dugouts. And you should see how fast they can get there when a shell whines.

In addition to safety, these dugouts provide two other comforts our troops have not always had – warmth and dryness.

A dugout is a wonderful place to sleep. In our Anzio-Nettuno sector, a whole night’s sleep is as rare as January sun in sunny Italy. But for the last three nights I’ve slept in various dugouts at the front, and slept soundly. The last two nights I’ve slept in a grove which was both bombed and shelled, and in which men were killed each night, and yet I never even work up. That’s what the combination of warmth, insulation against sound, and the sense of underground security can do for you.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 31, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces in Italy – (by wireless)
The Anzio beachhead area is practically all farms. Much of it lies in the famous old Pontine marshes. I’ve looked these up in Baedeker, and found that the Romans have been trying to drain them since 300 years before Christ.

Even Caesar took a shot at it, and so did many Popes. Mussolini was the last one to give the marshes a whirl, and as far as I can see, he did a pretty good job of it.

On these little farms of the Pontine marshes Mussolini built hundreds of modern (in the Italian manner) stone farmhouses. They’re all exactly alike, except for color, and they stipple the countryside like dots on a polka-dot dress.

Despite its flatness, the area is rather pretty. It doesn’t look like marshland. It is green now, and will be greener in a few weeks. Wheat is coming through the ground. There are rows of cedar trees throughout the area. Spots of uncultivated ground are covered with waist-high oak bushes, resembling our hazelnut bushes in the fall, crisp and brown-leafed.

Now and then you see a farmer plowing with German shells landing right in his field. We’ve tried to evacuate the people, and have evacuated thousands by boat. Daily you see our trucks moving down to the dock with loads of Italian civilians from the farms. But some of them simply won’t leave their homes.

Life goes on

Now and then the Germans will pick out one of the farmhouses, figuring we have a command post in it, I suppose, and shell it to extinction. Then, and then only, do the Italian families move out.

One unit was telling me about a family they tried in vain for days to move. Finally, a shell killed their tiny baby, just a few days old.

Here in the battle zone, as in other parts of Italy, our Army doctors are constantly turning midwife to deliver bambinos.

Farmers frequently do dry-cleaning with gasoline for our officers, and they say the job they do would pass inspection in any New York tailoring shop. Soldiers throughout the area get the remaining Italians to do their washing. Practically every inhabited farmhouse has a gigantic brown washing hanging in the backyard.

One outfit of tankers that I know sent all its spare clothes to one farmhouse to be washed. Shortly afterward the Germans picked out that house for the center of barrage.

The Italians abandoned the place, and were unhurt. But next morning, when the soldiers went to see about their clothes, all they found was dozens of American shirts and pants and socks torn into shreds by shell fragments.

Cattle in fields

In the fields there are small herds of cattle, sheep, horses and mules. Many of the cattle are slate-gray, just like Brahma cattle. And they have wide, sweeping horns very much like the majestic headgear of the famous longhorn steers of Texas. Now and then you see an Army truck radiator decorated with a pair of these horns.

Most of the livestock can graze without human attention, but as an old farmer I’ve been worrying about the cows that have nobody to milk them when the farmers leave. As you may or may not know, a milk cow that isn’t milked eventually dies a painful death.

An officer friend of mine, who has been at the front almost since D-Day, says he’s seen only one cow in trouble from not being milked, so I suppose somebody is milking them.

One unit I know of took the milking proposition into its own hands, and had fresh milk every day. Of course, that’s against Army regulations (on account of the danger of tubercular milk), but Army regulations have been known to be ignored in certain dire circumstances.

Much of the livestock is being killed by German shellfire. On any side road you won’t drive five minutes without seeing the skeleton of a cow or a horse.

And of course, some cows commit suicide. As the saying used to go in Tunisia, it was the damndest thing, but one cow stepped on a mine, a very odd mine indeed, for when it exploded it hit her right between the eyes. And here on the beachhead we’ve seen an occasional cow deliberately walk up and stick its head in front of a rifle just as it went off.

There isn’t as much of that, to my mind, as there should be. We’re fighting a horrible war that we didn’t ask for, on the land of the people who started it. Our supply problems are difficult. K-rations get pretty boring, and fresh meat is something out of Utopia.

Excuse me while I go kill a cow myself.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 1, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces in Italy – (by wireless)
The American infantry fighters on the 5th Army beachhead were having a welcome breathing spell when I dropped around to leave my calling card.

There’s nothing that suits me better than a breathing spell, so I stayed and passed the time of day. My hosts were a company of the 179th Infantry. They had just come out of the lines that morning, and had dug in on a little slope three miles back of the perimeter. The sun shone for a change, and we lay around on the ground talking and soaking up the warmth.

Every few minutes a shell would smack a few hundred yards away. Our own heavy artillery made such a booming that once in a while we had to wait a few seconds in order to be heard. Planes were high overhead constantly, and now and then you could hear the ratta-ta-tat-tat of machine-gunning up there out of sight in the blue, and see thin white vapor trails from the planes.

That scene may sound very warlike to you, but so great is the contrast between the actual lines and even a little way back, that it was actually a setting of great calm.

Always in great danger

This company had been in the frontlines more than a week. They were back to rest for a few days. There hadn’t been any real attacks from either side during their latest stay in the lines, and yet there wasn’t a moment of the day or night when they were not in great danger.

Up there in the front our men lie in shallow foxholes. The Germans are a few hundred yards on beyond them, also dug into foxholes, and buttressed in every farmhouse with machine-gun nests. The ground on the perimeter line slopes slightly down toward us – just enough to give the Germans the advantage of observation.

There are no trees or hillocks or anything up there for protection. You just lie in your foxhole from dawn till dark. If you raise your head a few feet, you get a rain of machine-gun bullets.

During these periods of comparative quiet on the front, it’s mostly a matter of watchful waiting on both sides. That doesn’t mean that nothing happens, for at night we send out patrols to feel out the German positions, and the Germans try to get behind our lines. And day and night the men on both sides are splattered with artillery, although we splatter a great deal more of it nowadays than the Germans do.

Back on the lines, where the ground is a little higher, men can dig deep into the ground and make comfortable dugouts which also give protection from shell fragments. But on the perimeter line the ground is so marshy that water rises in the bottom of a hole only 18 inches deep. Hence there are many artillery wounds.

Wounded must stay to dark

When a man is wounded, he just has to lie there and suffer till dark. Occasionally, when one is wounded badly, he’ll call out and the word is passed back and the medics will make a dash for him. But usually he just has to treat himself and wait till dark.

For more than a week, these boys lay in water in their foxholes, able to move or stretch themselves only at night. In addition to water seeping up from below, it rained from above all the time. It was cold, too, and of a morning new snow would glisten on the hills instead.

Dry socks were sent up about every other day, but that didn’t mean much. Dry socks are wet in five minutes after you put them on.

Wet feet and cold feet together eventually result in that hideous wartime occupational disease known as trench foot. Both sides have it up here, as well as in the mountains around Cassino.

The boys have learned to change their socks very quickly, and get their shores back on, because once your feet are freed of shoes, they swell so much in five minutes you can’t get the shoes back on.

Extreme cases were evacuated at night. But only the worst ones. When the company came out of the lines, some of the men could barely walk, but they had stayed it out.

Almost impossible to sleep

Living like this, it is almost impossible to sleep. You finally get to the point where you can’t stay awake, and yet you can’t sleep lying in cold water. It’s like the irresistible force meeting the immovable object.

I heard of one boy who tried to sleep sitting up in his foxhole, but kept falling over into the water and waking up. He finally solved his dilemma. There was a fallen tree alongside his foxhole, so he tied some rope around his chest and tied the other end to the tree trunk, so that it held him up while he slept.

Living as these boys do, it seems to me they should all be down with pneumonia inside of a week. But cases of serious illness are fairly rare.

Maybe the answer lies in mind over matter. I asked one sergeant if a lot of men didn’t get sick from exposure up there and have to be sent back. I’ll always remember his answer.

He said:

No, not many. You just don’t get sick – that’s all.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 3, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
This is a little series of vignettes about four frontline sergeants. They’re just little scenes that came along in conversation as we lay on an Italian hillside chatting one day. The four men are platoon sergeants of the 45th Division of the Allied 5th Army on the Anzio beachhead.

Sgt. Samuel Day of Covington, Kentucky, is a big guy. He weighed 257 pounds when he came into combat in January, and he still weighs 240 despite all the K-rations he’s eaten.

Sgt. Day would be hard on his feet in any circumstances. But when you get into a trench-foot world, 240 pounds is a lot of aggravation for sore dogs.

We get to discussing trench foot, and Sgt. Day told about an incident that happened to him. It seems his feet got in pretty bad shape during their last recent tour in the foxholes, so he went to the frontline medics for ointment or something.

The medics’ solution for his troubles was simple. With a straight face, they told him, “Keep your feet dry and stay off of them for two weeks!”

Sgt. Day went back to his watery foxhole, still sore-footed but unable to keep from chuckling over the irony of this advice. Their prescription for trench foot takes its place in history alongside W. C. Fields’ sure cure for insomnia – get lots of sleep!

Under weeds in ditch

Sgt. Eugene Bender of Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, is the company first sergeant. He is short and curly-headed, and has a thin black mustache. When I saw him, he was sitting on a C-ration box, getting a between-battles haircut from a soldier barber.

The sergeant asked:

You don’t write news stories, do you?

I told him no, that I just sort of tried to write what it was like over here, and didn’t even especially look for hero stories, since there were so many guys who were heroes without there being any stories to it.

The sergeant said:

That’s good. Hero stories are all right, but they don’t give people at home the whole picture. You read a story in America of something terrific a guy does over here, and his folks think that happens to him every day.

Now take me. Once I was on patrol and was behind the German lines for 36 hours. We lay all day covered up with weeds in a ditch so close to Germans we could have reached out and touched them. When we finally got back, they had given us up for lost.

Now if you just wrote that story and nothing else, people would think that’s what I did all the time.

Riding waves in foxhole

Sgt. Vincent Mainente is from Astoria, Long Island, and of Italian extraction. He isn’t voluble like most Italian-Americans, but friendly in a quiet and reserved way.

Sgt. Mainente used to be a steam-heat inspector for the Pennsylvania Railroad, and he says:

I sure could use some of that steam heat in my foxhole these days.

We were just lying around on the ground talking, when one of the other boys said:

Vince, tell him about your raft.

“What do you mean, raft?” I asked. So Sgt. Mainente told me.

It seems the bottom of his foxhole was covered with water, like everybody else’s. So the sergeant saved up empty wooden C-ration boxes, and one night he nailed them together and made a raft to float on top of the water in his foxhole.

From all I could gather, it wasn’t 100% successful in keeping him dry, but at least there wasn’t any harm in trying.

Just can’t take it

Sgt. Michael Adams is from Akron, Ohio. He used to work for a truck company. He has been with the regiment ever since it came overseas last spring.

Sgt. Adams seems a little older than the others; his hair is beginning to slip back in front, and you can tell by his manner of speech that he thinks deeply about things.

We got to talking about soldiers who crack up in battle or before the ones who hang back or who think they’re sick and report in to the medics as exhaustion cases.

I personally have great sympathy for battle neurosis cases, but some of the soldiers themselves don’t have. For example, Sgt. Adams was telling how some of the replacements after only a few hours under fire, will go to the company commander and say:

Captain, I can’t take it. I just can’t take it.

That makes Sgt. Adams’ blood boil. He said to me:

They can’t take it? What, what the hell do they think the rest of us stay here for, because we like it?

And it’s that spirit, I guess, that wins wars.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 4, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
As tiny and shell-raked as our Anzio beachhead is, life in some respects is astonishingly normal. For example, the 5th Army runs a daily movie here. It started less than a month after our troops first landed.

They put on two shows a day, and we’ve had such recent pictures as Abbott and Costello in Hit the Ice, Jean Arthur in The More the Merrier, and Rosalind Russell in What a Woman.

I go occasionally, just to kill time at night, since the place where I write has no electricity, and I haven’t got enough Abe Lincoln in me to do any work by candlelight.

A funny thing happened at the movie the other night. I was standing outside the building with a big bunch of soldiers waiting for the first show to end. As we stopped there, a shell suddenly whipped in, scared us out of our wits, and exploded behind the building.

When the boys came out after the first show ended, they were laughing about the odd timing in the picture’s dialog. The exploding shell made a big boom inside the theater, and just as it went off there was a pause in the film’s dialog, and the heroine slowly turned her head to the audience and said: “What was that?”

‘Rest camp’ under fire

Also, our beachhead has a rest camp (ha, ha) for infantry troops. The camp is under artillery fire, as is everything else on the beachhead.

But still it serves its purpose by getting the men out of the foxholes, and as somebody said:

There’s a hell of a lot of difference getting shells spasmodically at long range, and in being right up under Jerry’s nose where he’s aiming at you personally.

Further, our beachhead has a big modern bakery, which has been working under fire for weeks, turning out luscious, crisp loaves of white bread from its portable ovens at a pace of around 27,000 pounds a day.

More than 80 soldiers work in this bakery. It is the first draftee baking outfit in our Army, and the company will be three years old in June. They’ve been overseas a year and a half, and have baked through half a dozen bitter campaigns.

They’ve had casualties right here on the beachhead, both physical and mental, from too much shelling.

Their orders are to keep right on baking though an artillery barrage, but when air-raiders come over, they turn out the fires and go to the air-raid shelter.

Life seemed very normal in the bakery when I visited them. The shift leader at the time was Sgt. Frank Zigon of 5643 Carnegie St., Pittsburgh, who showed me around. The boys were glad to have a visitor, and they gave me a pie to take home.

They said they’d had shells on this side of them and that side of them, and in front and behind. It was believable, but everything was running so smoothly that their stories of shells seemed quite academic, like some mathematical truth without reality.

Ernie hangs onto his pie

But when I left the bakery we hadn’t gone a hundred yards till an 88 smacked into the soft ground just the width of the road from our feet. If the ground hadn’t been muddy thus absorbing the fragments, we would have got some hot steel in our jeep and probably some in our persons, as the lawyers say.

The baker boys’ story of shelling ceased to be academic right then, but I still held onto my pie.

At the movie the other night, I ran onto one of the two soldiers who had so nicely volunteered to help lug my gear off the boat the day we hit the beachhead.

They were Cpl. Bert L. Hunter of Tonkawa, Oklahoma, and Pvt. Paul Norman of Des Moines, Iowa. Hunter is in the engineers and Norman is in a signal company, and works in the message center. The boys say they don’t mind it on the beachhead.

On the boat, they and some other soldiers had a frisky little brown puppy they’d bought in Naples for two packs of cigarettes and some gumdrops.

They couldn’t think what to name the dog, so I suggested they call him “Anzio.” So Anzio it is, and he’s still here with them, having the time of his young life.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 5, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
One day I was driving on a muddy lane alongside a woods, with an officer friend who has been wounded twice and who has been at war a long time.

On both sides of the lane were soldier walking, returning to the rear. It was the typical movement of troops being relieved after a siege in the front line. Their clothes were muddy, and they were heavily laden. They looked rough, and any parade ground officer would have been shocked by their appearance. And yet I said:

I’ll bet those troops haven’t been in the line three days.

My friend thought a minute, looked more closely as they passed, and then said:

I’ll bet they haven’t been in the line at all. I’ll bet they’ve just been up in reserve and weren’t used, and now they’re being pulled back for a while.

How can you tell things like that? Well, I made my deduction on the fact that their beards weren’t very long, and although they were tired and dirty, they didn’t look tired and dirty enough.

My friend based his on that, too, but more so on the look in their eyes.

“They don’t have that stare,” he said.

A soldier who has been a long time in the line does have a “look” in his eyes that anyone with practice can discern.

Eyes that see not

It’s a look of dullness, eyes that look without seeing, eyes that see without transferring any response to the mind. It’s a look that is the display room for the thoughts that lie behind it – exhaustion, lack of sleep, tension for too long, weariness that is too great, fear beyond fear, misery to the point of numbness, a look of surpassing indifference to anything anybody can do to you. It’s a look I dread to see on men.

And yet it’s one of the perpetual astonishments of a war life to me, that humans recover as quickly as they do. you can take a unit that is pretty well exhausted, and if they are lucky enough to be blessed with some sunshine and warmth, they’ll begin to be normal after two days out of the line. The human spirit is just like a cork.

When companies like this are pulled out for a rest, they spend the first day getting dug into their new position, for safety against occasional shellings or bombings. Usually, they’ve slept little during their time in the line, so on their first night they’re asleep early, and boy, how they sleep.

Next day they get themselves cleaned up as best they can. They shave, and wash, and get on some fresh clothes if their barracks bags have been brought up. They get mail and they write letters, and they just loaf around most of the day.

Take on replacement

On both the second and third days, they take on replacements and begin getting acquainted with them. All over the bushy slope where they’re bivouacked, you see little groups of men squatting in tight circles. These are machine-gun classes. The classes are for the new men, to make sure they haven’t forgotten what they learned in training, and to get them accustomed to the great necessity of knowing their guns and depending on them.

Replacements arrive in many different stages of warfare. The best method is for replacements to come when a whole regiment is out of the line for a long rest. Then the new men can get acquainted with the older ones, they can form their natural friendships, and go into their first battle with a feeling of comradeship.

Others arrive during these very short rest periods, and have only a day or so to fit themselves into the unit before going on into the great adventure.

The worst of all is when men have to join an outfit while it’s right in the line. That has happened here on the 5th Army beachhead.

There have been cases here where a company had to have replacements immediately. It was in circumstances where no frontline movement whatever in daytime was possible. Hence the new men would have to be guided up at night, establish themselves in their foxholes in darkness, and inhabit that foxhole until it was all over.

I feel sorry for men who have to do that. It must be an awful thing to go up to the brink of possible death in the night time in a faraway land, puzzled and afraid, knowing no one and facing the worst moment of your life totally alone. That takes strength.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 6, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
Our artillery up here is terrific. The beachhead being as small as it is, we can, whenever we wish, train every gun in the 5th Army forces on a single German target.

In my wartime life, I’ve had a good many stray shells in my vicinity, but not until I came to the beachhead was I ever under an actual artillery barrage.

The Germans shell us at intervals throughout the day and night, but usually there are just one or two shells at a time, with long quiet periods in between.

The other night, however, they threw a real barrage at us. It was short, but boy, it was hot. Shells were coming faster than you could count them. One guess is as good as another, but I’d estimate that in two minutes they put 150 shells in our area.

I was in bed, in a stone house, when it started, and I stayed in bed, too, simply because I was afraid to get up. I just reached out and put my steel helmet on, and covered my head with a quilt, and lay there all drawn up in a knot.

Shells came past the corner of the house so close their mere passage would shake the windows. A shell that close doesn’t whine or whistle. It just goes “Whish-bang!” The whole house was rattling and trembling from constant nearby explosions. The noise under a barrage is muddling and terrifying. Of course, we had casualties, but our own house came through unscathed.

That little barrage seemed awful to us and it was awful, but just think – we had maybe 150 shells around us in two minutes, but I know of cases where our guns have fired incessantly hour after hour until we have put 30,000 shells in a single German area.

We have had reports that the Germans were burying their dead with bulldozers, there were so many of them.

Visitors are ones who get hit

I had lunch with one of our artillery batteries which shoots the big Long Toms. They’ve been in the thick of the fighting since a year ago December – three phases of Tunisia, then Sicily, then through the Salerno-Cassino push. Yet they’ve fired more rounds since they’ve been sitting here in one spot on the Anzio beachhead than they did in the entire year before that. And they told me of another battery which fired more in four hours one night than in the previous eight months.

The Germans throw so much stuff back at them that the fields around them are gradually being plowed up. Yet this battery has had nobody killed, and only a few wounded.

They told of one soldier who was standing in a ditch the other day with one foot up on the bank. An 88 shell went right between his legs, bored into the bottom of the ditch, blew an artillery rangefinder all to pieces, and never scratched the fellow. But after it was over, he was so scared he was sick for two days.

The men of this battery say that people who come to visit them, such as nearby ack-ack crews, road patrols and ammunition truckers, are always the ones who get hit. Being in the visitor category myself, I said a quick goodbye and was last seen going rapidly around an Italian straw stack.

Won’t chalk any more shells

One gun of this battery, incidentally, has a funny little superstition. It seems that on the very first shell they ever fired when they hit Africa, in 1942, they chalked a message – the kind you’ve seen in photographs – saying “Christmas Greetings to Hitler,” and all put their names on it.

They sent the shell over, and immediately the Germans sent one back which exploded so close to the gun pit it wounded seven of the 12 men who had chalked their names on the American shell. From that day to this, that crew won’t chalk anything on a shell.

One day an Army photographer came around to take some pictures of this gun crew firing. He asked them to chalk one of those Hitler messages on the shell.

The crew obliged and he took the picture. But what the photographer doesn’t know is that the shell was never fired. After the photographer left, they carried it up the hillside, dug a hole and buried it.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 7, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
Practically everybody on the Anzio beachhead who is back of the outer defense line has his home underground. We correspondents don’t have, but that’s merely because we haven’t got any sense. Also, it could possibly be because we’re lazy.

At any rate, this beachhead is so dug up that an underground cross-section of it would look like a honeycomb. Even tanks and jeeps are two-thirds buried for protection.

The soldiers’ dugouts are made by digging a square or rectangular hole about shoulder deep, then roofing it with boards and logs, piling earth on top of that, and digging a trench out from it with steps leading up.

Digging is extremely easy here, for the soil is almost pure sand. Two men can dig a hole big enough for their home in an hour. Two or three hours more, if they have the timbers ready, is enough to finish the simpler type of dugout.

It’s pleasant to dig in sand, but it has its disadvantages. The sides cave in easily. Now and then a man is buried in his dugout. Even the concussion from our own big guns will start the walls of a dugout to sliding in.

Dig in near tanks

The average dugout houses two men. It’s just big enough for their blanket rolls, and you have to stoop when you get into it.

A tank crew always digs in just a few feet from the tank, for which they also dig a hole. The boys then run wires from their tank battery into their dugout, for electric lights. They have straw on the floor, and shelter halves hung at the entrance.

Most of the men sleep on the ground, while most of the officers have cots. But it’s not bad sleeping on the ground in a dugout, for you keep both warm and dry.

Some dugouts have board walls to keep the sand from caving in. others use the more primitive method of log supports in each corner with shelter halves stretched between them to hold back the sand.

It takes a lot of lumber to shore up all those thousands of dugouts. They boys rustle up anything they can find out of old buildings. The two most coveted pieces odd equipment from deserted houses are wooden doors and wall mirrors. The doors are used for dugout ceilings, and it’s a poor dugout indeed that hasn’t got a fancy mirror on the wall.

Some are elaborate

From the basic two-man dugout, which is usually bare except for a shelf, a mirror and some pinup girls, these underground homes run on up to the fantastic in elaborateness.

One of the best I’ve seen was built by Lt. Edward Jacques of Cleveland Heights, Ohio, and his driver, Pvt. Russell Lusher of Marion, Indiana. They have a wooden floor, shelves and nails on the wall for every item, a writing desk with table lamp, a washstand with big mirror, porcelain lampshades with little Dutch girls pained on them – and best of all, hidden on a shelf I noticed two fresh eggs.

But the finest dugout I’ve seen belongs to four officers of a tank company. This dugout is as big as the average living room back home. You can stand up in it, and it has a rough wooden floor. It has a drawing table in the center, and numerous chairs. The four officers sleep on cots around the walls.

Books and magazines and pipes and pictures are scattered on tables all over the place, just like home. They have a radio, and on the table is a sign listing the bets of various people on when the invasion of Western Europe will come.

Brew tea, chocolate

The officers brew hot tea or chocolate every afternoon and evening.

The dugout is heated to the baling point by one of these funny Italian stoves, which for some reason are always painted pink. The officers chop their own wood for the stove.

To go with the pink stove, the boys dug up from somewhere a huge overstuffed chair covered in old-rose upholstery. They have named their dugout “The Rose Room.”

They have several electric lights, and the crowning luxury of this palatial establishment is a Rube Goldberg arrangement of ropes and pulleys, whereby one of the lieutenants can switch off the light after he gets in bed. They even have a big white dog, slightly shell-shocked, to lie on the hearth.

From all this you might draw the deduction thar war isn’t hell after all. Well, these men can and do go into battle 20 minutes away, and every day and every night shells and bombs fall around them, and it’s an unusual day when somebody isn’t killed within their own little village of dugouts.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 8, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead, Italy – (by wireless)
About 13 months ago I struggled one forenoon into a cactus patch about halfway between Sbeitla and Faid Pass, in Tunisia.

Hidden in that patch was all that was left of an armored combat team which had been overrun the day before, when the Germans made the famous surprise breakthrough which led finally to our retreat through Kasserine Pass.

A few of you more tenacious readers may remember my writing about this bunch at the time. I found them almost in a daze – and a very justifiable one, too, for they had been fleeing and groping their way across the desert for a day and a night, cut to pieces, and with the swarming Germans relentlessly upon them.

The few who escaped had never expected to survive at all, and on that weary morning they were hardly able to comprehend that they were still alive.

I had good friends in that gang, and I’ve just seen them again after 13 months. Talk about your family reunions! It was like Old Home Week for a while.

I stayed with them two days, and we fought the Tunisian wars over and over again. I can just visualize us on some far day when we cross each other’s paths back in America, boring our families and friends to distraction with our longwinded recounting and arguments about some afternoon in Tunisia.

Satch and the helmet

Maj. Rollin Elkins, sometimes known in fact as R. Lafayette Elkins, used to be a professor at Texas A&M College Station, Texas. He is one of this old gang. His nickname is “Satch,” and he goes around in the green two-piece coverall of the infantry. Everybody loves him.

That memorable night in Tunisia I excitedly went away and left my helmet and shovel lying under a halftrack in which Maj. Elkins was sleeping, and never saw them again. In our reminiscing I told the major how last fall, when I was home, several people told me that this steel helmet was now in somebody’s house out on Long Island. How it got there I haven’t the remotest idea.

But I’ve got another helmet now, and Satch Elkins has another halftrack, “Bird Dog the Second,” to replace the old one that was shot out from under him that awful Tunisian afternoon.

I saw Sgt. Pat Donadeo of Allison Park, a suburb of Pittsburgh, who is one of the best mess sergeants overseas. He has lived in the field for nearly two years, cooking in a truck on his portable kitchen, turning out excellent meals, and always having a snack for a correspondent, no matter what hour you show up.

District man forager

Sgt. Donadeo looks a little thinner, but he’s still all right. He speaks good Italian, and since hitting Italy, he has come into his own. He makes little foraging trips and comes back with such delicacies as fresh eggs, chicken, olive oil and cows.

In an earlier column, Ernie predicted that Sgt. Donadeo would be a valuable man when he got to Italy. The Pittsburgher was mentioned in two columns written in Tunisia in February and April of 1943.

And there’s Lt. Col. Daniel Talbot, who owns a big cattle ranch outside of Fort Worth, Texas. His nickname is “Pinky,” and he doesn’t look like a warrior at all, but he is.

Col. Talbot used to have a driver named Manuel Gomez from Laredo, Texas. One afternoon beyond Sidi Bouzid, a year ago, the three of us drove up to the foothills so we could look down over the valley where the Germans were. Shells were falling in the valley, and every time we’d hear one, we’d ditch the jeep and start for the gulleys, although they’d actually be landing a mile away from us.

Pvt. Gomez is still driving for the colonel, and the three of us laughed today at our inexperience and nervousness so long ago. None of us has got brave in the meantime, but all of us have enriched our knowledge of shell sounds. Today we think it’s far away when a shell missed by 200 yards.

Our tanks haven’t had much chance to do their stuff in the Italian war, because of the mountainous terrain and the incessant rains. But the tankers are ready, and they’re hoping. They know that sooner or later their big battle here on the beachhead will come. When I walked in, they laughed and said:

This must be it. Every time you’d show up in Tunisia, we’d have a battle. This must be the sign.

So you see I have my life work cut out for me. I just go around the country starting battles, like a nasty little boy, and then immediately run back and hide.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 10, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
In our old gang of Tunisian tankmen of a year and more ago, there was Capt. Jed Dailey, who comes from Sharon, Massachusetts, near Boston.

Jed was through that battle at Sidi Bouzid, and it was he who was so furious about losing his camera and his bedroll and all his films to the Germans.

I wrote about him at the time, saying he bet the Germans would develop those films eagerly, thinking they’d reveal some military secrets, but all they’d find would be a picture of a man in a silly pose with Tunisian flowers stuck behind his ears.

Jed says that after that column he got dozens of letters kidding him about putting flowers behind his ears, but he didn’t care.

He has avenged the loss of his camera, too. Since then, he has personally captured from the Germans an even better one to replace it, and has added a Luger and a fine pair of binoculars for good measure.

Speaks with Harvard ‘A’

Jed Dailey is an unusual person. I think I like him about as much as anybody I know. He is a pure Bostonian. He talks with a Harvard broad “A.” He is a far cry from the farm boy of the Kentucky hills, yet he commands a company of such boys, and they love him.

Following the battle at Kasserine, Jed Dailey was switched from a desk job to the command of a company of tanks. The job of company commander whether it’s infantry or tanks or what, is the greatest job in the Army – the greatest and the toughest.

The boys themselves have told me what they think of Jed Dailey. When he first arrived, they were contemptuous of that cultured accent and had little faith in him. They laugh now and tell how he tries to speak in a flat accent whenever he gives them a talk, but without realizing it lapses back into his broad A.

But he has lived that down, and all their other jokes about him. They’d go anywhere with him now, or for him. He has proved himself in many ways.

Whenever there is a battle he is in his own tank, directing his company. I just had the pleasure of seeing him get the Silver Star for gallantry in action. He has been wounded twice since I saw him in Tunisia.

Whenever his company pulls back from battle, Jed Dailey throws the small details of Army discipline out the back door and the men really get a rest. As they say, “He fights hard and he rests hard.” That’s the way the boys get the most out of it, and they appreciate it.

Likes to go bareheaded

Capt. Dailey is tall and his black hair stands up and roaches back and you’d have to call him good-looking. He nearly always goes bareheaded even in the danger zone. It is not an affectation; he simply likes to go bareheaded. He usually wears an Air Corps fleece-lined leather jacket that he once haggled out of some flier friend.

At the left shoulder of the jacket are two holes – one in front of the shoulder, one in back. The first hole is where a piece of shell fragment went in. The back hole is where it came out after going through his arm. They took a piece out of his leg to patch up his wounded shoulder.

The other officers laugh and say, “Jed wouldn’t sew those holes up for $10,000.” And another one says, “Not only that, but you can see where he has taken his knife and made them bigger.” You don’t talk like that in front of a man when you mean it. Jed just grins and says, “Sure.”

Before that he was wounded in the face from an airburst. When he got out of the hospital from his second wound, he had a week’s leave at Sorrento, the beautiful resort city below Naples. He stayed one night and then returned to his company, everybody at the rest camp thought he was crazy.

Jed said:

It isn’t that I am anxious to fight, but when you are commanding a combat outfit your place is with your outfit. You feel like a heel if you are able to be there and aren’t. I feel lots better since I got back.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 11, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
One night I bunked in the dugout of Sgt. Bazzel Carter of Wailing Creek, Kentucky, which is just a short way from the famous coal town of Harlan. In fact, Sgt. Carter’s brother is a miner there.

Sgt. Carter is a tank commander. He has had two tanks shot out from under him, one by bombing, the other by shellfire, but he didn’t get a scratch either time.

He is the typical man of the hills who doesn’t say much until he gets to know you, and even then, he talks very quietly and humbly.

Gradually we got acquainted. Sgt. Carter told me about his folks at home and got out pictures of his father and mother and younger brother. He hoped his mother wasn’t worrying too much about him.

He told me how he had gone to the University of Kentucky half a semester and then restlessly quit and joined the Army before we were in the war. Now he feels that he didn’t do right, because his father had worked so hard to save the money for him to go. But when the war is over, he is determined to go on with his schooling.

I hit Sgt. Carter’s bailiwick at a propitious time – for me. He had just that day received a box from his mother and in it was a quart mason jar of good old American fried chicken.

We heated it on our little Coleman stove and ate it for breakfast. When the word got around that we’d had fried chicken for breakfast we were both the envy of the others and the butt of all “plutocrat” jokes for the day.

‘Old Nick’ reaches him

For once in my life I was able to reciprocate the sharing of this gift. It’s a long story, but it seems that a friend of mine from Indiana University, Stew Butler, manages or owns a candy factory in Chicago which makes a bar called “Old Nick.” The day before I left Washington last November to return overseas, Stew called up long-distance to say he was going to send me a box of his candy every week. Never one to refuse anything, I said try it if you want to, although I’ll probably never get any of them.

So, a couple of months went by and nothing happened and I forgot all about it, and then all of a sudden, all this pent-up candy came pouring in two and three big boxes at a time. Brother, do I have candy! So lately I have been taking it to the front with me a box at a time and passing it around.

I had a box along on this trip, so I gave it to Sgt. Carter and his tank friends, and you should have seen them go for it. We get hard candy and plenty of gumdrops and lifesavers, and sugar too, but very little chocolate.

WARNING: Having had experience with Americans’ generosity before, let me urge you, too, not to start sending me candy, because very shortly I may be changing location, and it would never reach me.

Sgt. Carter fares pretty well himself on packages from home. Three are sent him every week, one by his mother, one by his sister, and one by his cousin. He gets most of them, too. They don’t send fried chicken every time, but there is always something to eat.

Sgt. Carter’s dugout is just a bare one, with straw on the floor, a tiny electric light in the ceiling and a little shelf he has anchored into the dirt wall.

He said that after he got his dugout finished and moved in, he discovered a mole burrowing in the wall. So he killed it and skinned it, and the hide is still hanging on a nearby tree.

Luxury of pantslessness

The sergeant sleeps in his overalls, but the dugout was so snug and warm I decided on the luxury of taking off my pants. Even so, I was kept awake a long time by our own guns. Not by the noise, for it was rather muffled down there below ground, but the vibration of the earth was distracting.

When the big “Long Toms,” which were almost half a mile away, would go off in battery salvo, the earth on which we were lying four feet below the surface would tremble and jerk as though it were in an earthquake. But once asleep I never awakened, even though they said later that bombers were over during the night.

Sgt. Carter gets up at 6 every morning, and the first thing he does is slip out and start the engines of his tank, which is dug in about 20 feet from his dugout. This is a daily practice just to make sure everything is in readiness for a sudden mission.

After breakfast, he showed me all through his tank. It’s so spotless you could eat off the floor. He is very proud of it, and had me sit in the driver’s seat and start the engines to hear them sing. I was proud too, just because he wanted me to.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 12, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
I suppose there is no custom in our Army more adhered to than the one of brewing some coffee or hot chocolate just before bedtime, whenever soldiers are in a place where it is possible.

It is especially the custom here on the Anzio beachhead, where nearby everybody is dug in and you can have a fire in places. The little Coleman stove is perfect for that.

And since we’ve mentioned it, real coffee is one gift the boys over here always like to receive, now that coffee rationing is ended back home.

One night I was bunking in a grove with a company of tank crewmen and they asked me along to one of their dugouts to have coffee with them. Others followed until there were 10 of us squatting on the floor of the little dugout.

This dugout was of the average size for two men, but three men were using it to sleep in. It was about shoulder-deep, and had straw on the floor, but of course no furniture at all.

The dugout was inhabited by Pvt. Ruben Cordes of Gasper, Alabama, and Pvt. Norman Cormier of Leicester, Massachusetts, both assistant tank drivers, and Pvt. Henry Sewell of Buechel, Kentucky, a tank gunner.

Company wit is whittler

Pvt. Cordes is the company wit. The boys kid him and he kids himself. When I met him just before dark, he was sitting on a kitchen chair tilted bac against a tree trunk in good Southern style, whittling silhouettes out of a piece of board.

He whittles all the time. The boys laughed and said:

You should have been here a few minutes ago. The captain was right here under the tree, chopping his own firewood, and Cordes just sat there and whittled and let him chop.

Cordes never can find anything he owns, especially his whittling knife. But now that they have moved into this dugout, he has a simple system. Whenever he loses anything, he just gets down on his knees and feels in the straw until eventually he finds it.

Most of the boys got packages from home the evening I was there. When the others saw that Cordes had a package, they started giving him cigarettes, holding lights for him, brushing his shoes and sticking lifesavers in his mouth. It turned out his box contained seven pairs of heavy wool socks which he had written home for, and he was going to keep them.

Cordes is also the pinup champ of the entire Army, as far as my investigations go. I know a bunch of Air Force mechanics who have 34 pinups in their room, but Cordes has 38 on the walls of his little dugout. “I’m glad we’re ahead of the Air Force,” one boy said.

In this feminine gallery, there is one pinup girl who me3ans more than the rest. That is Norman Cormier’s wife. Somebody did a pencil sketch of her at a party back home, and she sent it to him. It hangs on the place of honor among all his roommate’s unknown beauties.

The boys were all good-natured. When I was taking down their names and ranks, Cormier laughed when he gave his as private first class, and somebody said:

What are the people of Massachusetts going to think about you being only a pic?

They talk about ages

The other tank men in our little evening snack party were Sgt. Thomas Simpson, a tank commander, of Louisville, Kentucky; Sgt. Ralph Sharp, a tank driver from Strathmore, California; Pvt. Paul Cummins, assistant driver, from Sharonville, Ohio; Cpl. Max Hernandez from Delmar, California; SSgt. Michael Swartz, a farmer from Scranton, Pennsylvania, and may own dugout mate, Sgt. Bazzel Carter of Wallins Creek, Kentucky.

Cpl. Hernandez, a halftrack driver, describes himself as “one of those guys who wanted to see action, and now look at me.” And the others chimed in that now he was “one of those guys who wanted to see home.”

We sat there in the dugout for two or three hours, cooling our canteens with our hands and drinking sweet coffee and just gabbing. The boys pumped me about America and what I thought of the western invasion and what I knew about the authenticity of the latest crop of rumors, and how I found life on the beachhead.

Finally, it was getting late and Pvt. Cummins stretched and said, “I feel like I was 45 years old.” So I said, “Well, I feel like I was, too, and I damn near am.”

Then Sgt. Swarts asked how old I was, and I said 43, and he said he was 30, and that if he knew he’d live to be 43, he wouldn’t have a worry in the world. But I said:

Oh yes you would, you’d be just like I am, worrying whether you’d ever get to be 44 or not.

And Pvt. Cordes said he had nothing to worry about along those lines, since he didn’t have sense enough to get killed.

That’s the way the conversation goes around a dugout at nighttime – rumors, girls, hopes of home, jokes, little experiences, opinions of their officers, and an occasional offhand reference to what may happen to you in the end.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 13, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army Allied beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
One day I saw around with a tank crew, in emergency position just behind our frontline infantry. They had been there for eight days.

They hadn’t done anything. They were there just to help repel any attacks that might be coming. We keep lots of tanks located thus at all times.

This crew had its metal behemoth hidden around a small rise, half obscured by oak bushes. The men were cooking a pot of dried beans when I got there in mid-forenoon. They had coffee boiling as usual, and we drank coffee as we talked.

When tank men are out like this, 10-in-1 rations and K-rations are brought up to them at night by jeeps. They do all their own cooking, and sleep in the tank for safety. They aren’t supposed to smoke inside the tanks, but everybody does. Some crews even burn their little cookstoves right in the driver’s department.

A tank and the territory around it are a mess after five men have lived in it for eight days. The ground is strewn with boxes and tin cans and mess gear. The inside of the tank looks as though a hurricane had hit it.

This tank had everything in it from much-handled comic books to a pocket edition of the Bible. You found old socks, empty tobacco cans, half cups of cold coffee. The boys used the top of the tank for table and shelves, and this, too, was littered.

But all this disarray doesn’t keep it from being a good tank, because this crew holds the battalion record for firing its entire ammunition load in the shortest time.

Sleeping in tank not too comfortable

Sleeping five nights in a tank isn’t too comfortable, for space is very limited. They spread their blankets around the interior, sleep in their clothes, and nobody gets completely stretched out. The worst spot is around the gunner’s seat, where the man really has to sleep halfway sitting up, so they take turns sleeping in this uncomfortable spot.

After they’ve stayed at the front eight to 10 days, another company relieves them, and they move back a couple of miles, dig in, then clean up and relax for a few days.

These medium tanks carry a five-man crew. This one was commanded by Sgt. Speros Bakalos, a short, nice-looking ex-truck driver from Boston. Once, the tank he was serving in was hit, and his tank commander’s head shot clear off.

The driver is Sgt. Oscar Stewart of Bristol, Virginia. They call him “Pop,” because he is in his middle 30s. he used to work for the state highway department.

His assistant driver is Pvt. Donald Victorine of Crystal Lake, Illinois. He, incidentally, is a friend of Capt. Max Kuehnert, whom I knew in Tunisia and whose baby I had the honor of naming Sandra, though Lord knows how I ever thought of that one.

Toughest-looking soldier Ernie ever saw

The gunner is Cpl. Bud Carmichael of Monterey, California, and his assistant is Pvt. George Everhart from Thomasville, North Carolina.

Carmichael’s nickname is “Hoagy,” after the famous composer of Star Dust. This Carmichael used to be a pipefitter for the gas company in Monterey. When I saw him, he hadn’t shaved or washed for a week. He wore a brown muffler around his neck, a roll-stocking cap on his head, unbuckled overshoes, and was altogether the toughest-looking soldier I ever laid eyes on. But he belied his looks, for he was full of good nature and dry wit.

A few days later I saw the same gang again, and the other boys were saying that after I left that day they talked about me. I’d remarked upon meeting them that I’d gone to college with the real Hoagy Carmichael, so this “Hoagy” told the boys that if he’d been thinking fast, he would have replied:

That’s funny, Ernie. I don’t remember you. What seat did you sit in?

The men cook in a big aluminum pot they took out of an abandoned house, and on a huge iron skillet that Carmichael got in barter for the equivalent of $20. They call it their “$20 skillet,” and are careful of it, even washing it sometimes.

Carmichael has a photo on the barrel of his gun inside the turret – a dancing picture of Carmen Miranda and Cesar Romero. He says it gives him inspiration in battle, and then he grins until his eyes squint.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 14, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
One night I stayed in an officers’ dugout with Maj. Asbury Lee of Clearfield, Pennsylvania, and Capt. Charles H. Hollis of Clemson, South Carolina.

Maj. Lee is commander of a tank battalion. His nickname is “Az,” and his father-in-law owns the “Lee-Hoffman’s Famous Foods” restaurant in Cresson, Pennsylvania. Maj. Lee has a boy named Asbury Lee IV and a baby named Robert E. Lee.

Capt. Hollis is Maj. Lee’s executive, and was a good friend of the late correspondent Ben Robertson, who came from his hometown.

It was very dark in the dugout when Capt. Hollis got up to start the fire in the stove next morning. He fumbled around on the dirt floor for papers to use as kindling, threw in a handful, and finally got the fire going.

A little later he discovered that he had burned up three rolls of film that Maj. Lee had taken in the last few days. Later on, he discovered that he hadn’t burned up the film after all. Life at the front is very confusing.

After breakfast, Maj. Lee and I got in a jeep and drove a couple of miles up to where two companies of his tanks were bivouacked just back of the infantry.

On the way up we were sailing along across a rise when, “Bang,” an 88 shell landed 20 yards to the side of us. Aren’t you getting tired of hearing about shells landing 20 yards from me? In case you’re not, I sure am.

German fliers downed

Two minutes after this small episode we heard noises in the sky and looked up, and here came two planes falling earthward with smoke swirling behind them. Both hit just over the rise from us, close together and only a few seconds apart.

Only one parachute came down. It took it a long time, and the aviator lay very still when he hit the earth. Our medics ran out with a stretcher and got him. He was a German. A 20mm bullet had hit him from behind and lodged in his stomach. An ambulance came and took him away.

The boys cut up his parachute to make scarves, and cut one off for me. But I told them I already had two – one American and one German – and to give it to somebody else.

Hats off to infantry

After this exciting beginning of a new day, I went around picking up tank lore.

I found that tankers, like everybody else, take their hats off to the infantry.

The average doughfoot or airman says you’d never get him shut up in a tank. Once in a while you do get a tankman who has a feeling of claustrophobia about being cooped up in there, but it’s very seldom.

The boys say that more than half of them get safely out of damaged tanks, even the ones that catch fire. They tell funny stories about how four and five men come out of a burning tank all at once, when it isn’t actually possible for more than two to get through the door at the same time.

They hate snipers worse than anything else. That is because visibility is pretty poor in a tank and the commander usually rides with his door open and his head sticking out. Unseen snipers are always shooting at them.

Improvements on tanks

The boys showed me all the little improvements that have come out on recent tanks. And they also wondered why tank designers haven’t thought of some of the simplest things for making tank life more practical – such as putting racks for water cans on the rear, and a bracket where you could tie your bedding roll.

The men have welded on these necessary racks for their gear.

An armored unit’s fighting usually comes in spurts, with long intervals between.

When the tank boys are in a lull, they are used for emergency jobs. This is very unusual, but here on the beachhead everybody has to do a little of everything.

Nearly every day the men of the tank crews back in bivouac have a detail starting just at dawn. They carry mines and barbed wire up to the front for the engineers to put in place. They pack the stuff on their backs, and they don’t like it, but they do it without grumbling.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 15, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
The other day Wick Fowler, war correspondent of The Dallas News, and I were walking along the road in Nettuno. I saw a jeep coming with a one-star plate on the front bumper, indicating that the occupant was a brigadier general. I peered intently, trying to make out who the general was.

While I was absorbed in this endeavor, the jeep drew abreast and the general suddenly saluted us. I don’t know why he saluted – maybe he thought I was the Secretary of War. At any rate I was so startled, and so unaccustomed to being saluted by generals, that I fumbled a second and then returned the salute with my left hand.

Wick says he’ll be glad to appear at my court-martial and put in a plea of insanity for me. On the other hand, I did try, while Wick never raised an arm. So, I don’t think even a plea of insanity will save him. Wick was a nice fellow, too.

We still don’t know, incidentally, who the general was.

One in ten billion

You’ve read about the little Cub planes that fly slowly around over the frontlines, doing artillery spotting for us. They’re a wonderful little branch of the service, and the risks they take are tremendous.

The Germans try to shoot them down with ack-ack, and occasionally a German fighter will sneak in and take a pass at them. But the Cub is so slow that the fighters usually overshoot, and the Cub can drop down and land immediately.

The saddest story I’ve ever heard about a Cub happened here on the 5th Army beachhead. A “Long Tom” – or 155 rifle – was the unwitting villain in this case.

The certain gun fired only one shell that entire day – but that one shell, with all the sky to travel in, made a direct hit on one of our Cubs in the air and blew it to smithereens. It was one of those incredible one-in-ten-billion possibilities, but it happened.

Not nervous – much

In my column the other day about our experience when the war correspondents’ villa was bombed, I said that after it was over, I didn’t feel shaky or nervous.

Since then, little memories of the bombing have gradually come back into my consciousness. I recall now that I went to take my pocket comb out of my shirt pocket to comb my hair, but instead actually took my handkerchief out of my hip pocket and started combing my hair with the handkerchief.

And at noon I realized I had smoked a whole pack of cigarettes since 7:30 a.m.

Me nervous? Why, I should say not.

The day after the bombing, I got a little package of chewing gum and lifesavers and whatnot. I tore the return address off the package and put it on my table in order to write a note of thanks to the sender.

The package and address were both lost in the bombing. All I remember is that it was from Spencer, Iowa. So, will whoever sent it please accept my thanks?

Sergeant is mourned

I’ve spoken of soldiers’ wartime pets so many times that you’re probably bored with the subject. But here’s one more.

The headquarters of a certain tank regiment where I have many friends had a beautiful police dog named “Sergeant.” He belonged to everybody, was a lovable dog, liked to go through a whole repertoire of tricks, and was almost human in his sensitiveness.

He had even become plane-raid conscious, and when he heard planes in the sky would run and get in his own private foxhole – or any foxhole, if he were away from home.

“Sergeant” was dutifully in his foxhole yesterday when he died. Shrapnel from an airburst got him. He wasn’t killed instantly, and they had to destroy him.

The outfit lost two officers, four men and a dog in that raid. It is not belittling the men who died to say that “Sergeant’s” death shared a high place in the grief of those who were left.

[NormanStewart]

@NormanStewart

“Sergeant” was dutifully in his foxhole yesterday when he died. Shrapnel from an airburst got him. He wasn’t killed instantly, and they had to destroy him.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 17, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
Here on the Anzio beachhead, nobody is immune.

It’s not only a standing joke, but a standing fact, that a lot of frontline people would not voluntarily come back into the hot Anzio-Nettuno area for a small fortune.

People whose jobs through all the wars of history have been safe ones up here are as vulnerable as the fighting man. Bakers and typewriter repairmen and clerks are not absolved from shells and bombs. Table waiters are in the same boat.

When I’m back in the harbor area writing, I eat at a mess for staff officers. Twice within 10 days, big shells have demolished buildings on either side of this mess.

The four boys who serve us here asked if I would mention them in the paper. I said I certainly would, not only because they’re doing a dangerous job but also because they are four of the most courteous and best-dispositioned men I’ve ever met. They are:

Cpl. Harold Gibson of Booth Bay Harbor, Maine; Pvt. Lloyd Farlee of Pierce, Nebraska; Pvt. Herb Wullschleger of Wichita, Kansas, and Pvt. Charles Roderick of Salem, Massachusetts.

The girl he left behind

Here is a sad story. It concerns a tank driver named Cpl. Donald Vore, a farm boy from Auxvasse, Missouri.

The corporal had a girl back home he was crazy about. After he came to Italy, she sent a beautiful, new, big photograph of herself. Like more tankmen, he carried it with him in his tank.

The other day, a shell hit the tank. It caught fire, and the whole crew piled out and ran as far as they could. Cpl. Vore had gone a little way when he suddenly stopped, turned, and went dashing back to the tank.

Flames were shooting out of it, and its heavy ammunition was beginning to go off. But he went right into the flaming tank, disappeared a moment, and came climbing out – with his girl’s picture safely in his hand.

A few hours later, the crew came trudging back to home base. Mail had arrived during their absence. There was a letter for Cpl. Vore from his girl. He tore it open. The letter was merely to tell him she had married somebody else.

They said that if it hadn’t been such a long walk back, and he hadn’t been so tired. Cpl. Vore would have returned to his tank and deposited the picture in the flames.

About a year ago, I wrote an item about the numerous uses we had found for the brushless shaving cream issued to frontline troops.

Its virtues are legion. It is perfect for sun and windburn, nurses shampoo their hair in it, it soothes fleabites and softens chapped hands and cracked fingers. And now the soldiers have discovered that if they’ll massage their feet with it once a day, it goes a long way toward preventing the dreaded trench foot.

It’s a shame somebody doesn’t shave with it once in a while.

The relaxation of death

Some soldiers were telling me the other day about running onto another soldier stretched out in the back seat of a jeep, way up front, almost in No-Man’s-Land.

His helmet was down over his eyes, and he had a half-smoked cigar in his mouth. They were in dangerous territory, and they went to take a closer look at a soldier so nonchalant.

He was dead. A sniper had shot him through the back of the helmet. He was just lying there, looking perfectly relaxed, the cigar still in his mouth. He had been dead two days.

The other day, I ran onto Maj. Henry Frankel of Brooklyn.

I’ve been crossing his trail ever since July of 1942 in Ireland, and every time I see him, he has gone up a notch in rank. When I first knew him, he was a lieutenant.

Maj. Frankel speaks about eight languages, but as far as I can see, a man with his luck doesn’t need to speak anything. Listen to this –

The other day, he was digging a dugout in the backyard of a place he had picked out for billeting, and he dug up a case and a half of fine cognac, numerous bottles of Benedictine, anisette and old wines, a box of silverware, and a gallon of olive oil.

Being an honest man, Maj. Frankel hunted up the Italian owner who had buried it, and gave him back everything except the 18 bottles of cognac. These he kept as a reminder of his own meticulous honesty, and shared them with other patched and deserving Americans.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 18, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
The real drama of this Anzio beachhead campaign is the supply system. I’d almost like to write that sentence twice – to make sure you get it. The supplying of this 5th Army beachhead has been one of the superlative chapters of our Mediterranean war.

The beachhead is really like a little island. Everything has to come by water. Without a steady flow of food and ammunition, the beachhead would perish.

All this concentration of shelling and bombing against the Anzio-Nettuno area is for the purpose of hindering out movement of supplies. They have hindered it some. I can’t give you the percentage, but you’d be surprised how low it really is. They certainly haven’t hindered us enough. For the supplies keep coming, and the stockpiles have now grown so great and so numerous that we’ve almost run out of room for establishing new dumps.

Many branches of the service deserve credit for the supply miracle – the Navy, the Merchant Marine, the Combat Engineers, the Quartermaster Corps.

And again, let me remind you that the British are always there, too. You don’t hear much about them from me, because my job is to write about the Americans. But in all our Allied work down here the British do their part too (and in case of shipping to Anzio, the Greeks and Poles as well).

American Army Engineers are in command of all port facilities at the beachhead.

Much wreckage at Anzio

The city of Anzio is a mess today. Just off the waterfront, there is absolutely nothing but wreckage. And the wreckage grows day by day under German shelling and bombing. We call Anzio a “potential Bizerte,” for soon it may be in as complete a state of wreckage as was that thoroughly wrecked city in Tunisia.

Yet our soldiers and sailors continue to live and work in Anzio. There isn’t a man in town who hasn’t had dozens of “experiences.” If you try to tell a bomb story, anybody in Anzio can top it. Casualties occur daily. But the men go on and on.

The American soldier’s irrepressible sense of humor still displays itself in Anzio. Down on the dock is a big, boxlike cart in which they pick up slop buckets and trash that gets in the way on the dock front.

The cart is freshly painted snow-white, and printed in neat blue letters on each side is “Anzio Harbor Department of Sanitation.” You’d have to see the bedlam of wreckage to get the full irony of the “Sanitation” part.

At a corner in Anzio some soldiers have set up a broken statue of a woman (the place is lousy with statues), and put a sign under it saying, “Anzio Annie.” If somebody would write a poem about her, she might become as famous as “Dirty Gertie.”

I noticed another sign – this one not funny – along the waterfront. This sign said, “No Parking – For Ambulances Only.”

‘Anzio anxiety’ abounds

Everybody jokes about the perilous life in the Anzio-Nettuno area. I’ve been with it long enough myself to appreciate the humor of nervousness. Some people have had to leave because of nerves, and those who stay like to make fun of their own shakes.

The jitters are known as “Anzio anxiety” and “Nettuno neurosis.” A lieutenant will hold out his hand and purposely make it tremble, and say, “See, I’m not nervous.”

Then there is “Anzio foot,” where your feet are pointing in one direction and your face in another – the position sometimes momentarily assumed when you’re going somewhere and the scream of a shell suddenly turns you on another cruise.

Also, we have the “Anzio walk,” a new dance in which the performer jumps, jerks, cowers, cringes and twitches his head this way and that, something halfway between the process of dodging shells and just going plain nuts.

You wouldn’t imagine people could joke about the proximity of death; but you sometimes have to joke about it – or else.

And through all this, men keep working and supplies keep coming in. I can’t, of course, tell you in figures the total of this magnificent job they’ve done.

But I can say that today this beachhead is receiving nine times as much supplies daily as they figured in the beginning was possible. It has been a thrilling privilege to be here and see them do it.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 19, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
The mechanics of supplying the 5th Army forces on the Anzio beachhead are undeniably beautiful in execution.

We have taken a port full of sunken ships and jumbled streets and wrecked buildings and cleared through paths through it for the movement of our ships and vehicles.

Once our supplies reach the vicinity of beachhead waters, they are under shellfire and bombing raids that may come any moment of the day or night. In addition, German E-boats and destroyers lurk on the edge of our concentration of ships, and naval forces must be always on the lookout for them.

Our supplies are unloaded in many ways. Some few ships can go right up to a dock. Others go to nearby beaches. The bigger freight ships have to lie off the harbor and be unloaded into smaller boats which in turn unload onto the docks or beaches.

All day long the waters in a great semicircle around Anzio, reaching to the horizon, are churned by big and little ships moving constantly back and forth. It resembles the hustle and bustle of New York Harbor.

On the far edges lie cruisers and other battle craft. In the vicinity there is always a white hospital ship to evacuate our wounded and sick from the beachhead.

Lay smokescreens at dusk

Along toward dusk small, fast craft shoot in and out of the great flock of ships, laying smokescreens, while smoke pots ashore put out their blinding cloud of fog.

At night when the raiders come over a mighty bedlam of ack-ack crushes all thought on shore and far out to sea as the ships themselves let go at the groan and grind of German motors in the sky.

Sometimes the raiders drop flares, and then the universe is lighted with a glare more cruel and penetrating than the brightest day, and every human on the beachhead feels that the Germans are looking down at him individually with their evil eyes.

When the moon is full, it throws its swath of gold across the lovely Mediterranean, and sometimes the nights are so calm and moon-tinged and gentle that you cannot remember or believe that the purpose of everything around you is death.

When there is no moon, it is so black you have to grope your way about, and even the ominous split-second flashes from our own big guns do not help you to see.

Sometimes the shelling and the raiding are furious and frenzied. At other times hour after quiet hour goes by without a single crack of an exploding shell. But always the possibility and the anticipation are there.

All these things you can see from the window of the house where we live. There are times when you can stand with your elbows on the windowsill and your chin in your hand, and see right before you a battlefield in action in the three dimensions of land, sea and air, all so spectacular that even Hollywood might well bow in deference to a drama beyond its own powers of creation.

The streets and roads around Anzio are under a steady thundering flow of heavy war traffic. The movement is endlessly fascinating. One day I stood by the road just to watch for a while, and of the first 12 vehicles that passed, each was something different.

There was a tank, and a great machine shop on heavy tractor treads that shook the earth as it passed, and a jeep of a one-star general, and a “duck,” and a high-wheeled British truck, and a famous American six-by-six, and a prime mover trundling the great “Long Tom” gun with its slim, graceful barrel pointing rearward.

Military police highball traffic

Then came a command car, and a stubby new gun covered with canvas, on four rubber-tired wheels, and an ambulance, and a crew of wire stringers, and a weapon carrier. Then a big self-propelled gun on tractor treads, and finally another “duck” to start the heterogeneous cycle over again.

Everywhere there is activity. Soldier-workmen saw down trees and cut down concrete lampposts so that trucks may use the sidewalks of the narrow streets. Huge shovels mounted on truck chassis stand amid the wreckage or buildings scooping up brick and stone to be hauled away in trucks for repairing damaged roads.

Allied military police stand on every corner and crossroad to highball traffic on through, and, believe me, it’s highballed.

Everything moves with a great urgency, a great vitality. The less hesitation the better in this land where shells whistle and groan. There is little hesitation anywhere around Anzio.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 20, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
Probably the two outstanding features of our handling of supplies on this 5th Army beachhead have been the “duck,” or amphibious truck, and our system of carrying regular trucks fully loaded aboard many ships so they can be driven right off when they reach here.

Without the “ducks,” some of our invasion landings would have been pretty close to impossible. It is a leading lady in this drama up here.

All day long you see a thin, black line of tiny boats moving back and forth between shore and ships at anchor a mile or two out. They remind you of ants at work. These are “ducks,” going constantly back and forth all the time, day and night. There are hundreds of them.

One day I stood on the beach and hooked a ride on one of them. A duck has no crew except the driver. My driver was Pvt. Paul Schneider of Seattle. He is only 22, yet from appearances he could have been any age up to 40. His black whiskers were caked with dust, he wore green celluloid sunglasses, and all his upper front teeth were out, giving him a half-childish, half-ancient look.

His teeth were knocked out in an auto wreck before he left the States, and he has never been still long enough since to get a plate made. I asked him if he didn’t have trouble eating, and he said:

No, I get along fine. There’s nothing to chew in C-rations anyway.

As soon as we drove down into the war and got our truck officially turned into a boat in introduced myself, and Pvt. Schneider said:

Oh yes, I just finished reading your book. It was all right.

Man for Ernie’s money

From that moment, Pvt. Schneider was, for my money, the champion

Once in the water, Pvt. Schneider shifted a few gears and pulled a lever to start a bilge pump. The engine made a terrific clatter, and we could hardly hear each other.

We had gone only a little way when Pvt. Schneider yelled, “Would you like to drive it?” I said, “Sure.” So, he took his foot off the throttle and we traded seats.

Driving a duck is funny. You turn the wheel, and about 15 seconds later you get the reaction to it. You anticipate the waves, and turn toward them a little.

I must admit that I felt very big and important, driving a rust and battered-up old duck out through the shell-strewn waters of Anzio after another load of the precious supplies that keep everything going on this tiny cameo of a beachhead.

Ducks go day and night

Some forms of unloading stop at night, but the ducks work right on through. Each driver does a 12-hour shift; but he does get some rest at the dump out in the country while he waits to be unloaded.

Pvt. Schneider says their big worry is not being shelled, but being run down at night by the bigger and faster ships known as LCTs. We have lost a few ducks that way.

The ducks take an awful beating being slammed up against the sides of ships by the waves while waiting for winches to swing netloads of stuff down into them. Sometimes the swinging load hits the driver on the head.

On our trip we carried back bunches of 20mm machine-gun ammunition.

The tires don’t last long on a duck. They are soft, for ease in climbing out onto the beaches, and won’t take too much running around on land.

Another trouble is that salt water gets in the brakes. Every now and then, you hear a story of a wreck caused by the brakes going out. But on the whole the duck is almost as wonderful in this war as the jeep.

Pvt. Schneider has worn out two ducks and is on his third one. He has had some close shaves, but has never been hit. When you go a long time, as he has done, with fire all around you and you never get hit, you sometimes build up a feeling of infallibility about yourself, and you don’t worry too much about what might happen.

Pvt. Schneider was just out of high school when he went into the Army, via the National Guard. His wife works in a defense plant at Seattle. He has been through the invasions of Sicily, Salerno and Anzio.

He says he would just as soon drive a duck as do anything else. This is exactly the fine philosophy you’d expect of a man who reads good books.