Roving Reporter, Ernie Pyle

[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.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 21, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
Lt. Eugene Tousineau of Detroit is the official greeter for the new Anzio Chamber of Commerce. He visits every ship as soon as it drops anchor in Anzio waters, and “extends the key to the city.” Most of his guests would prefer being ridden out of town on a rail.

He’s the guy who checks the cargo of every incoming ship and checks daily on the progress and the quality of their unloading.

All day long he rides around in an LCVP (EDITOR’S NOTE: Landing Craft, Vehicle, Personnel) climbing rope ladders up the sides of ships, snaking back down on single ropes – just holding on with his hands while his bouncing steel boat below tries to crush him. “I’ve got $10,000 insurance,” he laughs.

All day he is out there on the water with shells speckling the whole area. I wouldn’t have his job for a million dollars. But he enjoys it.

I rode around with him one day seeing how the ships unload, seeing how it feels to be sitting there at anchor aboard a ship full of explosives within range of enemy artillery. It doesn’t feel too good.

Lt. Tousineau has been on this job for six weeks. He is an ebullient fellow who insists on enjoying whatever he does, regardless.

Rank means nothing

He goes aboard ships and serves notice to ship’s officers. He bawls out some people even though he’s only a second lieutenant, and commiserates with others who have been bawled out by somebody that matters.

If things aren’t going well enough on a certain ship, he’ll say to the Army officer in charge, “No excuse for this, sir,” and never bat an eye. But that’s the way wars are won.

Riding around with us that day was Lt. John Coyle of Philadelphia, who is learning the game. Our supply shipping has become so thick that the checking job is too much for one man, so the two will divide it between them in the future.

Lt. Tousineau has had dozens of Hairbreadth Harry escapes. Shells explode in the water, bombs drop beside his house at night. He has even climbed off a ship just a few minutes before it was hit.

Before the war, Lt. Tousineau was a nightclub manager, a sandhog and numerous other things. He is tall and dark, has a very long and narrow face and a little pencil mustache, and looks like the Anzio edition of Cesar Romero.

He calls himself the “bad boy” of his regiment. “I get a commendation one day and a reprimand the next,” he says. “The colonel will commend me for good work under dangerous conditions and then I’ll go to Naples and get ticketed for having my hands in my pockets.” But that’s the Army, and Lt. Tousineau can take it.

Crew not nautical

The lieutenant has a crew of four soldiers who run his boat. The former crew, according to the lieutenant, got “Anzio anxiety” and took off, so he picked his own men.

Volunteers for the boat job were called for. Nobody volunteered. So, four men were assigned. Now that they’ve got the hang of it, everybody else in the company is mad at himself for not volunteering, for it’s a soft job. All they do all day long is ride around in this boat and dodge a shell now and then.

None of them knew anything about boats before Anzio. They learned by trying. Pvt. James Davis, a farm boy from Covert, Michigan, said:

We didn’t know nothin’ from sour apples about a boat, but we went along.

Later, as we lay alongside a British ship, I heard Pvt. Davis say, “Let’s go ashore onto that boat.” Such nautical sabotage as that would turn Adm. Dewey over in his grave.

When these soldiers first started learning how to run a boat, they sometimes got seasick, but they don’t anymore. And they have become fairly indifferent to shells too.

They don’t even wear their steel helmets half the time. When shells begin coming too close, Pvt. Davis will remark:

For a month I’ve been telling that fellow to take a furlough and go to Rome and have himself a time. But he doesn’t seem to get my message.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 22, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
The greatest apprehension I’ve found in the Anzio-Nettuno area is not among the men on shore who have been under it constantly for weeks, but among the crews of ships that sit out in the Mediterranean, unloading.

It takes several days to unload a big freighter, and during all that time they are subject to shelling from land and air raids from the sky. Their situation, I’ll admit, is not an enviable one.

It’s true that few of them get hit, considering the amount of shooting the Germans do out there. Yet there is always the possibility. And what gives them the creeps is when they’re sitting on a ship full of ammunition or high explosive.

The crews of these big freighters are members of the Merchant Marine. They merely operate the ship. They don’t do the stevedoring work of unloading. That’s done by soldiers.

They have a good system for this. At Naples, a whole company of port-battalion soldiers is put on each ship just before it sails. They make the trip up and back with the vessel, do the unloading at Anzio, and when they return to Naples, they go back to their regular dock jobs there. A different company goes aboard for the next trip.

New system promotes efficiency

The result is that each one-time unloading crew is so anxious to get unloading and get out of Anzio that everybody works with a vim and the material flies.

Up until a few weeks ago, all unloading was done by port-battalion groups based at Anzio. As soon as the crew finished one ship, it would have to go to work on another. There wasn’t any end to it. The boys just felt they couldn’t win. Since the new system went into effect, efficiency has shot up like a rocket.

The bigger ships are unloaded just as they would be at a dock, with winches hoisting out big netfuls of cargo from the deep holds and swinging them over the sides and letting them down – not onto a dock, however, but into flat-bottomed LCTs which carry the stuff to the beaches.

Each hold has a dozen or more men working down below, plus the winch crews and signalmen. They are all soldiers. They work in 12-hour shifts, but they get intervals of rest.

I was aboard one Liberty ship about 10:00 a.m. all five hatches were bringing up stuff. You could lean over and watch the men down below piling up ration boxes. And on the deck immediately below us you could see scores of other soldiers trying to sleep, the deafening noise of the winches making no difference to them. They were the night shift. They slept on folding cots between blankets, with their clothes on.

One crew boss was Sgt. Sam Lynch of Wilmington, Delaware. He is a veteran soldier, having served four months in the Arctic and 14 months on this side. Before the war, he was a fireman on the Pennsylvania Railroad and later a railway mail clerk. He is married and has one child.

Feel defenseless on ship

I asked him how he liked coming up to Anzio on a ship and he said he didn’t like it any too well. He said:

The trouble is that you feel so darned defenseless. If you could just man a gun and shoot back, it wouldn’t be so bad.

But the Navy operates the gun crews aboard all these freight ships and the soldiers can only sit there idle and sweat it out when bombs or shells start flying.

You should see them work when a ship is about finished and it looks as though they might not get through in time to catch the next convoy.

They laugh and tell a story about one ship which finished 45 minutes after the convoy started. The skipper pulled anchor and started chasing the convoy. The Navy radioed him orders to stop and wait. But this fellow kept right on going. He simply figured he’d rather face disciplinary action at Naples than German bombers for one more night at Anzio.

The Navy’s premise was that he was in greater danger from German subs and E-boats while running alone after the convoy than he would be from another night at Anzio. They have it all figured out by percentages, and they are right.

But this fellow was lucky and caught up with the convoy. I never heard what his supporters did when he got there, but I bet they didn’t invite him out for a round of golf.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 24, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
Once on shore, our supplies for the Anzio beachhead are taken over by the Quartermaster Corps (food and clothing) and the Ordnance Department (ammunition).

The Quartermaster Corps traditionally is seldom in great danger. Up here on the beachhead they are blowing that tradition all to hell.

The Quartermaster Corps has been under fire ever since the beachhead was established, and still is. Its casualties from enemy action have been relatively high.

Around 70% of the Quartermaster troops on the beachhead are colored boys. They help unload ships right at the dock. They drive trucks. They man the supply dumps. Hardly a day goes by without casualties among then. But they take this bombing and shelling bravely. They make an awful lot of funny remarks about it, but they take it.

We drove out to one of the ration dumps where wooden boxes of rations are stacked head-high in piles for hundreds of yards, as in a lumber yard. Trucks from the waterfront add continually to the stock, other trucks from the various outfits continually haul it away.

Our ration dumps are not at all immune from shellfire. This single one has had more than 100 shells in it. Many of the soldier-workmen have been killed or wounded.

Ration dumps seldom burn

Ration dumps seldom burn, because you can’t burn C-rations. But early in the beachhead’s existence, they hit a dump of cigarettes and millions of them went up in smoke.

Our local dumps of ammunition, food, and equipment of a thousand kinds are now so numerous that a German artilleryman could shut his eyes and fire in our general direction and be almost bound to hit something.

Our dumps do get hit; but the fires are put out quickly, the losses are immediately replaced, and the reserve grows bigger and bigger.

The boss of the Quartermaster troops is a former newspaperman – Lt. Col. Cornelius Holcomb of Seattle. He worked on The Seattle Times for 12 years before going into the Army. He is a heavily built, smiling, fast-talking, cigar-smoking man who takes terrific pride in the job his colored boys have done. He said there’s one thing about having colored troops – you always eat like a king. If you need a cook, you just say, “Company, halt! Any cooks in this outfit?” And then pick out whoever looks best.

The colonel himself has had many close squeaks up here. Just before I saw him, a bomb had landed outside his bivouac door. It blew in one wall, and hurt several men.

Another time he was standing in a doorway on the Anzio waterfront talking to a lieutenant. Stone steps led from the doorway down into a basement behind him.

Bomb hits in front of door

As they talked, the colonel heard a bomb whistle. He dropped down on the steps and yelled to the lieutenant, “Hit the deck!”

The bomb hit smack in front of the door and the lieutenant came tumbling down on top of them. “Are you hurt?” Col. Holcomb asked. The lieutenant didn’t answer. Holcomb nosed back to see what was the matter. The lieutenant’s head was lying over in a corner.

Soon a medical man came and asked the blood-covered colonel if he was hurt. Col. Holcomb said no. “Are you sure?” the doctor asked. “I don’t think I am,” the colonel said.

“Well, you better drink this anyway,” the doctor said. And poured him a water glass full of rum which had him in the clouds all day.

In the Quartermaster Corps, they’ve begun a system of sending the key man away after about six weeks on the beachhead and giving them a week’s rest at some nice place like Sorrento.

A man who goes day and night on an urgent job under the constant strain of danger finally begins to feel a little punchy or “slug-butt,” as the saying goes. In other words, he has the beginnings of “Anzio Anxiety,” without even knowing it.

But after a week’s rest, he comes back to the job in high gear, full of good spirits, and big and brave. It’s too bad all forms of war can’t be fought that way.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 25, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
In addition to its regular job of furnishing food and clothing to the troops, the Quartermaster Corps of the 5th Army beachhead runs the bakery, a laundry for the hospitals, a big salvage depot of old equipment, and the military cemetery.

Hospital pillows and sheets are the only laundry done on the beachhead by the Army. Everything else the individual soldiers either wash themselves or hire Italian farm women to do. People like me just go dirty and enjoy it.

The Army laundry is on several big mobile trucks hidden under the sharp slope of a low hill. They are so well camouflaged that a photographer who went out to take some pictures came away without any – he said the pictures wouldn’t show anything.

This laundry can turn out 3,000 pieces in 10 hours of work. About 80 men are in the laundry platoon. They are dug in and live fairly nicely.

Laundrymen have been killed in other campaigns, but so far, they’ve escaped up here. Their worst disaster was that the little shower-bath building they built for themselves has been destroyed three times by “ducks” which got out of control when their brakes failed and came plunging over the bluff.

‘Ducks’ have names

Continuing with “ducks” for a moment, in one company all these amphibian trucks have been given names. The men have stenciled the names on the sides in big white letters, and every name starts with “A.”

There are such names as Avalon and Ark Royal. Some bitter soul named his duck Atabrine, and an even bitterer one called his Assinine - misspelling the word, with two s’s, just to rub it in.

Our salvage dump is a touching place. Every day five or six truckloads of assorted personal stuff are dumped on the ground in an open space near town. It is mostly the clothing of soldiers who have been killed or wounded. It is mud-caked and often bloody.

Negro soldiers sort it out and classify it for cleaning. They poke through the great heap, picking out shoes of the same size to put together, picking out knives and forks and leggings and underwear and cans of C ration and goggles and canteens and sorting them into different piles.

Everything that can be used again is returned to the issue bins as it is or sent to Naples for repair.

They find many odd things in the pockets of the discarded clothing. And they have to watch out, for pockets sometimes carry hand grenades.

You feel sad and tightlipped when you look closely through the great pile. Inanimate things can sometimes speak so forcefully – a helmet with a bullet hole in the front, one overshoe all ripped with shrapnel, a portable typewriter pitifully and irreparably smashed, a pair of muddy pants, bloody and with one leg gone.

Cemetery is neat – and big

The cemetery is neat and its rows of wooden crosses are very white – and it is very big. All the American dead of the beachhead are buried in one cemetery.

Trucks bring the bodies in daily. Italian civilians and American soldiers dig the graves. They try to keep ahead by 50 graves or so. Only once or twice have they been swamped. Each man is buried in a white mattress cover.

The graves are five feet deep and close together. A little separate section is for the Germans, and there are more than 300 in it. We have only a few American dead who are unidentified. Meticulous records are kept on everything.

They had to hunt quite a while to find a knoll high enough on this Anzio beachhead so that they wouldn’t hit water five feet down. The men who keep the graves live beneath ground themselves, in nearby dugouts.

Even the dead are not safe on the beachhead, nor the living who care for the dead. Many times, German shells have landed in the cemetery. Men have been wounded as they dug graves. Once a body was uprooted and had to be reburied.

The inevitable pet dog barks and scampers around the area, not realizing where he is. The soldiers say at times he has kept them from going nuts.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 26, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
Taking over a wrecked port and making it work is, like everything in war, first of all a matter of thorough organization.

At Anzio, the British Navy and the American Army have the thing organized down to a “t.” Soldier executives and clerks, sitting at regular desks in regular offices, do paperwork and make telephone calls and keep charts and make decisions just as they would in a shipping office in New York.

Seldom do three hours pass without shells or bombs shaking the town around then, and everywhere there is wreckage. Yet they have fixed up their offices and quarters in a fairly business-as-usual way.

When I walked into the Port Commander’s Office, who should it be but the same man I rode into Licata with on the morning of D-Day of the invasion of Sicily last July. He was a major then, but is now Lt. Col. Charles Monnier of Dixon and Tremont, Illinois. As an engineer, he has been helping capture ports and then turning them from chaos into usefulness ever since he hit Africa a year and a half ago.

In their wisdom built up through actual practice, such men as Col. Monnier know exactly what to look for, what to do and how to do it when they come in to work on the wreckage of a place like Anzio.

There is no guesswork about their progress. On the walls of the shipping room are big blackboards and charts and graphs. Hour by hour the total of the day’s supplies brought ashore is chalked up on the blackboard.

The big graph is brought up to date every evening. You can look back over it, and translate the activities of the past three months day by day, and see what happened and why.

Fuel dump innovation

Up here the Quartermaster Corps, which handles supplies after they are put ashore, has had to improvise and innovate. One of their main problems is how to keep gasoline fires from spreading when shells hit the dumps, which they do constantly.

So, Lt. Col. Cornelius Holcomb of Seattle had a brain throb. He had the gasoline dumps broken up into small caches, each bunch about as big as a room and about two cans high.

Then he had bulldozers dig up a thick-walled ditch around every cache. This shuts off the air that seeps in from the bottom and makes gasoline fires so bad. Since then they’ve had dozens of hits, but seldom a fire.

I was riding through the wreckage of Anzio and saw a big bulldozer in a vacant lot. On it was the name “Ernie,” spelled out in big blue metal letters wired to the radiator. So, I stopped to look into this phenomenon. The displayer of this proud name was Pvt. Ernie Dygert of Red Lodge, Montana. His father owns a big ranch there.

Young Dygert has driven trucks, ducks and bulldozers in the Army. His main job here is filling up shell craters. He doesn’t seem to mind living in Anzio (the same can’t be said for his namesake).

It’s the spirit that counts

Maj. John C. Strickland of Oklahoma City is the area quartermaster. On his desk is a unique paperweight – a small can of Vienna sausage.

His wife sent it to him. He keeps it as an ironic souvenir. He wrote her that as an Army quartermaster he handles millions of cans of it, and eats it in various forms a dozen times a week, but thanks anyway.

You’ve never seen a shell hit the water? Well, a dud makes a little white splash only a few feet high. A medium-sized shell makes a waterspout about a hundred feet high.

And one of the big shells makes a white geyser a couple of hundred feet in the air. A tall, thin, beautiful thing, like a real geyser, and out from it a quarter of a mile go little corollary white splashes as shrapnel gouges the surface.

Sometimes you hear the shell whine, see the geyser, hear the explosion and feel the concussion, all at once. That’s when they’re landing only 50 yards or so from you. And you’d just as soon they wouldn’t.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 27, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

With 5th Army beachhead forces, Italy – (by wireless)
When the time finally came for me to leave the Anzio beachhead, I had a choice of coming out by airplane, by LST ship or by hospital ship. I chose the hospital ship, because I’d never been on one.

At the beachhead, the hospital ships lie two or three miles out while loading. Ambulances bring patients from the tent hospitals to the waterfront. There they are loaded on the small, flat-decked LCTs, which have canvas over the tops to keep off rain.

Usually more than half the men in each load are walking cases. They sit or stand at one end of the deck, while the litter cases lie in rows on the other. I went out to the hospital ship with such a load of wounded.

Once out there, we had to lie off and wait for an hour or so while previous LCTs finished unloading their wounded. As we lay there, the officers in charge decided to transfer the walking wounded off another LCT onto ours. So, it drew alongside, threw over a line, and the two ships came against each other. The slightly wounded and sick men jumped across whenever the ships hit together.

A heavy swell was running and the ships would draw a few feet apart and then come together with a terrific bang. It was punishing to the wounded men. I stood among them, and every time we’d hit, they would shut their eyes and clench their teeth.

Pounding worse than shells

One mature man, all encased in a cast, looked at me pleadingly and said:

Don’t those blankety-blank so-and-sos know there are men here who are badly hurt?

Occasionally shells screamed across the town and exploded in the water in our vicinity. The wounded men didn’t cringe or pay any attention to this near danger, but the pounding of the ships together made them wild.

Once alongside the big white hospital ship, the wounded are hoisted by slings, just as you’d hoist cargo. A sling is a wooden, boxlike affair which holds two litters on the bottom and two on top. Up they go as the winches grind. Litter bearers wait on deck to carry them to their wards. The merchant seamen also pitch in and help carry.

Each badly wounded man carries his own X-ray negative with him in a big brown envelope. As one load was being hoisted, the breeze tore an envelope out of a wounded man’s hand and it went fluttering through the air. Immediately a cry went up, “Grab that X-ray, somebody.” Fortunately, it came down on the deck of the smaller ship below and was rescued.

It took about four hours to load the more than 500 wounded and sick men aboard our ship. As soon as it was finished, we pulled anchor and sailed. Hospital ships, like other ships, prefer to sit in the waters of Anzio just as short a time as possible.

Hospital ships have luxuries

Our hospital ships run up to Anzio frequently, because we want to keep our hospitals there free for any sudden flood of new patients. Also, being in a hospital on the beachhead isn’t any too safe.

The hospital ships are mostly former luxury liners. Right now, most of those here are British, but the one I came on was American.

Its officers and crew are all merchant seamen. Its medical staff is all Army – 10 doctors, 33 nurses and about 80 enlisted men. Maj. Theodore Pauli of Pontiac, Michigan, commands.

These ships ferry back and forth on trips like this for a few months, then make a trip back to America with wounded. My ship has been back to the States three times since it first came over less than a year ago.

In a sense, a hospital ship is the nearest thing to peacetime that I’ve seen in a war zone. The ship runs with lights on all over it, the staff has good beds and good cabins, there is hot water 24 hours a day, the food is wonderful.

I was given a top bunk in a cabin with one of the doctors. After nosing around into all the nice conveniences of the place, I discovered we also had a toilet and a shower.

I asked unbelievingly if the bath worked. They said sure it worked. So, I took a bath for half an hour and felt very weak and civilized and wonderful afterwards.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 28, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Naples, Italy – (by wireless)
On the hospital ship which I rode back from Anzio, part of two decks remained just about as they were when the vessel was a luxury cruise ship in the Caribbean. In this part the permanent staff of doctors and nurses live, and also the officers of the ship.

But the rest has been altered just as liners are altered when made into troopships.

Cabin walls have been cut out to form big wards. Double-deck steel beds have been installed. The whole thing is fitted like a hospital operating room and wards.

The wounded men get beautiful treatment. They lie on mattresses and have clean white sheets – the first time since coming overseas for most of them.

There is a nurse to each ward, and the bigger wards have more than one. Enlisted men serve the meals and help the nurses.

The doctors have little to do. On this run the wounded are on the ship less than 24 hours. Their wounds have been thoroughly attended before the men are brought aboard, and it’s seldom that anything drastic develops on the short voyage.

Pennsylvanian aboard

One of the doctors took me in tow and showed me the entire ship after supper. He was Capt. Benjamin Halporn of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Capt. Halporn’s wife is also a doctor back in Harrisburg, practicing under her own name, Dr. Miriam R. Polk.

Capt. Halporn said:

We really have so little to do we almost forget how. My wife back home does more work in one day than I do in a month.

But that’s nobody fault. The doctors must be on the ship for advice and emergency.

As we went around the ship, our trip turned into a kind of personal-appearance tour. When we left one ward, the nurse came running after us and said to me, “Do you mind coming back? The boys want to talk to you.”

And while I stood beside the bunk gabbing with a couple of wounded men, another one across the ward yelled, “Hey, Ernie, come over here. We want to see what you look like.”

If this keeps up, I’ll have to have my face lifted. Nobody with a mug like mine has a right to go around scaring wounded men.

The boys had read about the proposal in Congress to give “fight pay” to combat troops and they were for it.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The proposal resulted from a suggestion by Ernie Pyle.

Most of them said it wasn’t so much the money as to give them some recognition and distinction, and money seemed the only way to do it.

Men made comfortable

As we went around, some of the wounded would call to the doctor and he would have a nurse attend to them. One boy with an arm wound was bleeding too much, and needed a new bandage. Another one in a shoulder case said good-naturedly that he couldn’t tell by the feel whether he was bleeding or just sweating under his cast.

A Negro boy with a shattered leg said his cast was too tight and hurt his instep. So, the doctor drew a curved line on it with his pencil and ordered the cast sawed off there. Each cast has written on it the type of wound beneath it.

We stopped beside one man whose right leg was in a cast. The writing of it revealed that he was a British Commando. The doctor asked him if he were in pain, and he smiled and said with some effort, “Quite a bit, sir, but not too much.”

When you ask a wounded man how he got hit, the majority of them are eager to tell you in great detail just how it happened. But those in the most pain are listless and uninterested in what goes on around them.

Mattress for everyone

When the ship is overcrowded there aren’t bunks enough for everybody. So those who aren’t in bad shape – merely sick or with slight wounds – sleep on mattresses on the floor of what used to be the salon.

Everybody does have a mattress, which is just so much velvet to any soldier.

Down below in smaller wards were the shock cases.

Actually, most of them were what doctors call “exhaustion” cases and would be all right after a few days’ rest.

Their wards had heavy screen doors that could be locked, but not a single door was closed, which showed that the boys weren’t in too bad shape.

In addition, the ship has four padded calls for extreme shock cases. The steel door to each one has a little sliding panel peephole. Only one cell was occupied.

This was a boy who refused to keep his clothes on. We peeked in and he was lying on his mattress on the floor, stark naked and asleep.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 29, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Naples, Italy – (by wireless)
A Red Cross worker rides each hospital ship, not only to do anything for the wounded she can, but also to help keep the ship’s staff and crew happy.

On our ship, the Red Cross girl was Percy Gill of Palo Alto, California. She used to teach physical education at Castilleja School for Girls.

After supper, she passed out a bottle of Coca-Cola to every man on the ship. It was the first time most of the boys had had one since leaving America. The Merchant Marine seamen in the crew always help her pass the cokes around.

Miss Gill has a tiny office filled with books, toilet supplies, musical instruments and magazines. As soon as the wounded men are brought aboard, she gives everyone a pack of cigarettes and a toothbrush, for most of them have lost their gear.

Some completely empty-handed

As they were swung aboard, you see some completely emptyhanded and others carrying their pitiful little possessions in their tin hats, balanced on their stomachs. Some have on hospital pajamas, some just OD shirts, some only their dirty gray underwear.

Miss Gill does not intrude herself on the men, for she knows that the most badly wounded want to be left alone. Now and then she’ll give a boy a book and discover that he’s still looking at the same page three hours later. Another boy used his as a fan all afternoon.

Miss Gill has books in French, and in German too. Every shipload has a few wounded prisoners. We had two on my trip. One was a startled-looking German kid whose card showed him to be only 17. The prisoners are treated just the same as anybody else.

Miss Gill’s musical warehouse includes an accordion, four guitars, a violin, two saxophones, a clarinet, a trombone, and two dozen harmonicas. She doesn’t have many requests for either the musical instruments or the books on these short trips between the beachhead and Naples, for there’s hardly time. But on the long trip back to America they are a godsend, for the men are feeling better by then and time goes slowly. On one 16-day trip across the ocean the wounded men read 3,000 books – an average of six to a man.

Relief from mud and cold

It is a relief and a comfort for men to be on a hospital ship after their months of mud and cold and misery and danger and finally the agony of their wounding. It is a relief because the hospital ship is so little like war, and because those who operate it are in a world apart from the world these men have known.

There’s no blackout at all. Nobody is ever dirty or cold. Cabin windows have no shutters. You can smoke on deck. Big spotlights slung on brackets point their dazzling beams at the big red cross painted on the ship’s sides.

The ship takes its course far outside the channels of regular war shipping, and instead of keeping radio secrecy we broadcast our position every 15 minutes. The hospital ship wants the enemy to know where it is so no mistake can be made.

Our ship has had several “incidents.” It has been stopped by surfaced submarines and been circled by enemy planes. But the enemy has always respected it. The greatest danger is going to such places as Anzio, or standing in ports during air raids.

Scene of quiet and peace

Usually, the ward lights are left on until 10:30 p.m. But on our trip, they were turned off at 9:30, for we were to dock very early next morning and the men had to wakened by 5:00 a.m. to give the nurses time to get the wounded all washed and fed.

By 10 o’clock, the inside of the ship was dim and quiet. Nurses went about softly in the faint glow of the blue nightlight. The doctors, all through, were playing chess and solitaire in their small salon on the top deck. A few soldiers strolled on deck or hung over the rail. It was warm and gentle outside. The washing of the water seemed like a purring against the ship’s sides.

It was wonderful to be going away from war instead of toward it. For the badly wounded there was a sense of completion of a task, for the others a sense of respite. And the sheets and the soft beds and the security of walls lent a confidence in things present and to come.

There was intense suffering aboard that ship. But by 10:30, you could somehow feel the quiet, masked composure that comes to men of turmoil when they settle down for the night in the clasp of a strange new safety.

And early next morning we were here.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 1, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

In Italy – (by wireless)
Funny how nicknames change from one war to the next, and even during wars.

Last war, if I remember correctly, the Germans were almost always referred to as “Huns,” but you don’t hear the word used in this war, at least not in the rear. For the first year or so it was always “Jerry.” Now in the last few months the term “Kraut” has shown up, and it is used at the front more than any other, I guess.

The latest term is Tedeschi, the Italian word for German. The “ch” is hard, like the “k” in Kansas. About a third of the time our soldiers speak of the Germans as “the Tedeschi.”

One of the most practical pieces of equipment our Army has got around to is the little Coleman stove for cooking. It’s about eight inches high and burns gasoline. It comes in a round metal can which you can use to heat water in after you take the stove out of it.

The stove has folding legs and folding griddles which you open up to set a can or a canteen cup on. It’s easy to carry and burns without a lot of tinkering.

Almost every group of frontline soldiers has one now. They heat their C-rations on it, make coffee several times a day, heat water for shaving, and if they’re in an enclosed place such as a dugout they even use it for warmth.

You have no idea what a big thing some practical little device like a successful stove is in the life of a man at the front.

Candles now plentiful

Our Army canteen cup is pretty good, but it has one big drawback. The rolled-over rim collects so much heat you can’t put it to your lips without burning them. Hence you have to wait till your coffee is lukewarm before you can drink it.

A few soldiers I’ve noticed have partly solved the problem by cutting the rim off and filing the top smooth.

Another much-needed item that at last has shown up in good quantity is candles.

It seems to take any nation a year or two to find out through experience all the little things needed at the front, and to produce them and get them there. Last winter we needed candles, but they were as scarce as though made of gold. Now at last they have become plentiful.

They are white and about nine inches long. We either drip some tallow on a table and anchor them in it, or set them in empty cognac bottles. Of course, if you had a full cognac, you wouldn’t need a candle.

Soldiers like kids

I’ve told you time and again about the dogs our soldiers have taken as pets and mascots. Running second to dogs, I believe, are Italian kids. There’s no way of estimating how many Italian boys have been adopted by our troops, but there must be hundreds.

An outfit will pick up some kid, usually one who has been orphaned by bombing and has no home and no place to go. The children come along of their free will, of course. And they begin having the time of their lives.

The soldiers cut down extra uniforms and clothe them in straight G.I. The youngsters pick up English so fast it makes your head swim. They eat better than they have eaten in years. The whole thing is exciting and adventuresome to them. The units keep them in areas as safe as can be found when they go into action.

What will become of these kids when the war ends, I don’t know. Probably many will be carried clear back to America and their collective godfathers will try to sneak them in.

I do know of Sicilian adoptees who were brought along on the invasion of Italy, just like the animal pets. And I’ve heard of two other adoptees, already written up by some of the other correspondents, who stowed away and went on the Anzio beachhead landings on D-Day.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 2, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Italy – (by wireless)
One of our diversions while at the Anzio beachhead was listening to “Axis Sally” on the radio.

Doubtless you’ve heard of her back home. Hers is one of several German propaganda programs in English directed at the morale of our troops. The thing is wonderful but, as far as I can see, a complete failure, because:

• Only a tiny few of our troops ever hear the radio.

• For those who do, Sally’s music is so good and her jokes so pathetically corny that we listen just to be entertained. We feel like cads for enjoying Sally’s music while being unconvinced by her words.

Sally comes on the air five or six times a day, starting around 6:00 a.m. and lasting until 2:00 a.m. A guy named George serves as Sally’s end man. Some of the programs are directed at the British troops, some at ours.

Actually, it isn’t the same girl on all the programs, although they all call themselves Sally. The program is entitled Jerry’s Front.

German song adopted

Early in each program they sing the great German war song, “Lilli Marlene,” which we all love and which we’ve practically taken away from the Germans as our national overseas song.

Then Sally reads a list of prisoners’ names, and just as she finishes, a female quartet swings off into a snappy version of “Happy Days Are Here Again.” The idea being, you see, that it’s all over now for these prisoners and they’re safe and happy, so why don’t we all come and surrender and be happy too.

The rest of the program is divided up between the byplay of Sally and George and the playing of German and American music, including such things as “Star Dust” and all of Bing Crosby’s records.

The news is actually funny. For example, they would tell us of ships sunk at Anzio that day. From where we sat, we could spit into the waters of Anzio, and we knew that what Sally said was not true.

Both Sally and George speak good English and claim to be Americans. But they do make odd mistakes. They pronounce Houston, Texas, as though it were “House-ton,” and they speak of Columbus Square in New York when they mean Columbus Circle. It’s tiny little mistakes like that which nullify a propaganda program.

‘Hello, Mom,’ by request

I get lots of letters from soldiers mentioning their little grievances and desires. Here are just a few:

An ack-ack gunner writes that he has just listened to a BBC program in which parents in England send messages to their men overseas. He continues:

As far as I know, our boys have no program like that, and while I was listening, I thought how wonderful it would be if I could turn a dial and listen to my mom say hello.

The 5th Army has created a “Fifth Army Plaque,” which is an award to non-combatant units that have done meritorious service. Now the boys of one outfit are hurt because they are included in this plaque. They are a chemical mortar outfit (combatant), but they come under the Chemical Warfare Service (usually non-combatant). Being included in this plaque makes these boys look like non-combatant troops when they are actually frontline troops, and, as they say themselves, “have been in there punching.”

An Air Corps captain writes:

Along with thousands of others, I’ve learned the inexpressible value of letters from home. Don’t you think a good slogan to pass on to your readers would be, “A letter is like a five-minute furlough”?

Another boy wants me to use some influence in the matter of servicemen getting first chance at the gear and clothing the Army will dispose of after the war.

And, he concludes:

What is most likely to happen, we will be left holding the bag while some moneymaking fool will get control.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 3, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Naples, Italy – (by wireless)
When I’m caught talking with anyone above the rank of major, the other correspondents kid me and say, “You’re losing the common touch, Ernie.”

I try to excuse myself by saying:

Well, democracy includes the big as well as the little, so I have to work in a general now and then just to keep the balance.

Naturally there’s nothing wrong with a general just because he’s a general, and I have several mighty good friends who wear stars.

All of which is just a way of starting to tell you that I had dinner with Gen. Mark Clark the other night. I had seen Gen. Clark at a distance, but had never met him.

The most remarkable thing about our meeting was a letter I had received a few hours before, as I was setting out for Gen. Clark’s main headquarters in the country. I started reading my mail just before going over to meet the general. And I almost fell over at the return address on one envelope.

It was from Mrs. Mark Clark. Within five minutes after opening the letter, I walked over and showed it to her husband.

The general said that if his wife was going to start writing me, he’d better have me court-martialed. I said, “Hell, if I were running this Army, I’d have her court-martialed.” We compromised by drinking a toast to her.

Dine in small collapsible building

Our dinner was in a small, one-room, collapsible building, with the wind howling and blowing until we thought the building would really collapse in fact. There were three other correspondents at dinner, and four officers of the general’s staff. We just ate and chatted and leaned back in our chairs as if we were at home. The general told us some things we didn’t know before and some things I can’t print, but he didn’t tell us when the war would end.

Running the Italian war has been a headache of tremendous proportions, and I for one do not think it Gen. Clark’s fault that the campaign has gone slowly. I thought that before meeting him, so no one can accuse him of charming me into saying that.

I found Gen. Clark very congenial, and straightforward too. He impressed me as a thoroughly honest man.

There is another lieutenant general in this area that I do know well. He is Ira Eaker, head of all the Mediterranean Allied Air Forces. We’ve been friends for more than 15 years.

I go up and have dinner with him now and then. He usually has four or five guests every evening. He flatters me by saying to his guests, “I knew Ernie when he wasn’t anybody.” I flatter myself by saying, “I knew the general when he was a captain.”

I never leave the general’s headquarters without his giving me some kind of present, and now and then he gives me something to send to That Girl back in America. He is one of the most thoughtful men about doing little things for people that I’ve ever known.

Gen. Eaker is nearly bald, likes to smoke cigars, and sucks frequently at a pipe. He talks with the slow clarity of a Texan. His voice is so low and gentle you can hardly hear him sometimes.

Likes to play volleyball

He likes to play volleyball late in the afternoon. He drinks almost none. His driver is a sergeant who has been with him for two years. One of his greatest traits is love and loyalty to his old friends of early years.

The Air Force staff lives in trailers and tents in a lovely grove, and eat in one big mess hall where the general also eats with his guests.

The general lives in a wooden Dallas hut, fixed up with a big fireplace and deep lounges and pictures until it resembles a hunting lodge. It is lovely.

Every morning at 9:30, the general goes to his “war room,” and in a space of 20 minutes receives a complete history of the war throughout the world for the previous 24 hours. In order to provide this comprehensive briefing, many of his staff have to get up at 5 o’clock collecting the reports.

Gen. Eaker’s job here is a tremendous one. He ran the great 8th Air Force in England with distinction, but down here he has had to face problems he never had up there. In England, it was purely an air war. Down here it is air and ground both. Further, his command is stretched over thousands of miles and includes fliers of three nations.

Integrating the air war with the ground war is a formidable task that hasn’t yet been wholly accomplished. Doing that is Gen. Eaker’s biggest job right now, for he already knows about the other side of his job – which is to bomb the daylights out of Fortress Europe.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 4, 1944)

Goodbye to Italy –
Ernie Pyle in England ready for the invasion

Ernie Pyle has been in England for some days, ready for his next – and biggest – job of war reporting.

In today’s column, he bids farewell to the boys in Italy. He writes:

Few of us can ever conjure up any truly fond memories of the Italian campaign. The enemy has been hard, and so have the elements. A few men have borne a burden they felt should have been shared by many more.

There is little solace for those who have suffered, and none at all for those who have died.

Ernie will cable his dispatches from England for the present – and then watch for Pyle when the invasion hour strikes.

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Naples, Italy –
Again the time has come for me to travel a long way. When you read this, I should be in England. (EDITOR’S NOTE: He is.)

Some people laugh and say, “Well, that’s the tipoff, when you leave for England, the invasion must be about ready.”

That, I assume, is a jibe at me for having dinner with generals and supposedly getting the inside dope.

They flatter me, for I don’t know a bit more about the invasion than you do. I’ve intended going to England all along, and the only reason I held off till now was to wait for warm weather up there. These old bones ain’t what they used to be – they never were, as far as I can remember – and spending a winter in sunny Italy (ha!) hasn’t helped them.

At any rate, I do hate to leave now that the time has come. I’ve been in this war theater so long that I think of myself as a part of it. I’m not in the Army, but I feel sort of like a deserter at leaving.

There is some exhilaration here and some fun, along with the misery and sadness; but on the whole it has been bitter. Few of us can ever conjure up any truly fond memories of the Italian campaign.

The enemy has been hard, and so have the elements. Men have had to stay too long in the lines. A few men have borne a burden they felt should have been shared by many more.

Little or no solace

There is little solace for those who have suffered, and none at all for those who have died, in trying to rationalize about why things in the past were as they were.

I look at it this way – if by having only a small army in Italy we have been able to build up more powerful forces in England, and if by sacrificing a few thousand lives here this winter we can save half a million lives in Europe this summer – if these things are true, then it was best as it was.

I’m not saying they are true. I’m only saying you’ve got to look at it that way or else you can’t bear to think of it at all. Personally, I think they are true.

Before going, I want to pay a kind of tribute to a little group pf people I’ve never mentioned before. They are the enlisted men of the various Army public-relations units who drive us correspondents around and feed us and look after us. They are in the Army and subject to ordinary discipline, yet they live and work with men who are free and undisciplined. It is hard for any man to adjust himself to such a paradoxical life. But our boys have done it, and retained both their capabilities and their dignity.

Can’t mention them all

I wish I could mention them all. The few I can mention will have to represent the whole crew of many dozens of them…

There are drivers such as Delmar Richardson of Fort Wayne, Indiana, and Paul Zimmer of Oakland, California, and Jerry Benane of Minneapolis. They take care of the bulk of the correspondents, and it is only a miracle none of them has been wounded. They remain courteous and willing, despite a pretty irritating sort of life.

Then there are such boys as Cpl. Thomas Castleman, of my own town of Albuquerque, who rides his motorcycle over unspeakable roads through punishing weather to carry our dispatches to some filing point.

And then there is Pvt. Don Jordan, probably the most remarkable of all the PRO men I know. Don is a New England blueblood from Welles, Missouri and Attleboro, Massachusetts. He is a Brown University man, a dealer in antiques, a writer. He talks with a Boston accent, speaks French, and is at home in conversations about art and literature.

And do you know what he does? He cooks. He not only cooks, but he cooks with a flash and an imagination that make eating at our place a privilege.

Works like a slave

And on top of that, he runs the place as bookkeeper, house mother, translator and fulfiller of all requests, working like a slave with an unending good nature.

And there are such men as Sgts. Art Everett of Bay City, Michigan, and Harry Cowe of Seattle, who missed being officers by the unfair fates of war, and who go on doing work of officer responsibility with an admirable acceptance.

To these few men, and to all the others like them who have made life at war possible for us correspondents – my salute.

To all the rest of you in this Mediterranean army of ours – it has been wonderful in a grim, homesick, miserable sort of way to have been with you.

In two years of living with the Army there has not been one single instance from private to general when you have not been good to me. I want to thank you for that.

I’ve hated the whole damn business just as much as you do who have suffered more. I often wonder why I’m here at all, since I don’t have to be, but I’ve found no answer anywhere short of insanity, so I’ve quit thinking about it. But I’m glad to have been here.

So, this is farewell, I guess, for me. I’ll probably spend the rest of the war in England and upper Europe. And then – maybe I’ll see you in India.

Until then, goodbye, good luck and – as the Scottish say – God bless.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 5, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

London, England – (by wireless)
Well, here we are again in dear old London town. At least they still call it London, although you can hardly see the city for Americans. But before going into that, I’ll tell you about our trip up here.

The morning I left Italy, I had to get up at dawn to catch the plane. Sgt. Harry Cowe, who was a part of the gang I had been living with, somehow managed to get both himself and me up right on the dot.

It was so early I hadn’t wanted or expected anybody else to get up. But while I was still rubbing my eyes, in came Pvt. Donn Jordan with a beautiful breakfast tray of juice, eggs, bacon, toast and coffee, just as though we weren’t at war at all.

But that wasn’t all. Our Italian boy, Reif (pronounced “Rafe”), who ordinarily didn’t come to work till 8 o’clock, showed up just as it was starting to get daylight.

Reif was a grand kid, smart and agreeable and full of good humor, and I’m sure he had never been so happy in his life as when working in our little madhouse. He had come voluntarily to help rassle my luggage out to the airport.

And last but not least, in another minute here came prancing in my tiny little friend, Lt. Maxine Budeman, the nurse-dietitian from the nearby Army hospital. She is from Kalamazoo, Michigan, and everybody calls her Goldilocks. She is just shoulder-high and weighs approximately 90 pounds.

A couple of months ago, when I was wasting away with anemia, Goldilocks kept sneaking me eggs and steak from the hospital. We had a lot of fun joking with the nurses about my meager hemoglobin and my one corpuscle, and it was Goldilocks who undoubtedly saved my life with her surreptitious calories.

A goodbye kiss for Goldilocks

At the airport, Rief lugged in my bedroll and bags for me and I got all set for the plane. Then we started to say goodbye. We four were standing beside a command car. A group of officers and soldiers stood nearby, idly watching us, while they waited for their planes. Our little goodbye sequence must have given them a chuckle or two.

First, I shook hands with Harry. And then, since pretty nurses don’t come into one’s life every day, I managed to inflict upon Goldilocks a goodbye kiss that must have shaken Rome. And then I turned to shake hands with Reif.

But Reif, instead, grabbed me by both shoulders and in true continental fashion implanted a large Italian smack, first on my right cheek and then on my left. Our audience was astonished, and so was I. And though slightly embarrassed, I must admit I was also sort of pleased. There are swell people in any nation, and I know that in our crazy little group there was a genuine fondness for many of our Italian friends.

Thus buoyed and puffed up by this international osculation, I floated onto the plane and we were off. On the way out, we flew right past the magnificence of Vesuvius, but I was feeling badly about leaving and didn’t even want to look out, or look back, so I didn’t.

Dusk over the Atlas Mountains

We flew most of the day and far into the night. Crossing the Mediterranean, I knotted myself up on top of a pile of mailsacks and slept half the trip away.

And then, in a different plane, over western Algeria and Morocco, I got myself a blanket, stretched out on the floor and slept for hours. The sun was just setting when I woke up.

I’ve written many times that war isn’t romantic to the people in it. Seldom have I ever felt any drama about the war or about myself in two years overseas. But here in that plane, all of a sudden, things did see romantic.

A heavy darkness had come inside the cabin. Passengers were indistinct shapes, kneeling at the windows to absorb the spell of the hour. The remnants of the sun streaked the cloud-banked horizon ahead, making it vividly red and savagely beautiful.

We were high, and the motors throbbed in a timeless rhythm. Below us were the green peaks of the Atlas Mountains, lovely in the softening shroud of the dusk. Villages with red roofs nestled on the peak tops. Down there lived sheep men – obscure mountain men who had never heard of a Nebelwerfer or a bazooka. Men at home at the end of the day in the poor, narrow, beautiful security of their own walls.

And there high in the sky above, and yet part of it all, were plain Americans incongruously away from home. For a moment, it seemed terribly dramatic that we should be there at all amid that darkening beauty so far away and so foreign and so old.

It was one of those moments impossible to transmit to another mind. A moment of overpowering beauty, of the surge of a marching world, of the relentlessness of our own fate. It made you want to cry.