Roving Reporter, Ernie Pyle

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 17, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A U.S. bomber station, England – (by wireless)
These are some of the boys who have been blasting out our invasion path on the continent of Europe. For nearly a year they have been hammering at the wall of defense the Germans have thrown up. How well they have blasted we will know before the summer is over.

They are a squadron of B-26 Marauder bombers. They are representative of the entire mighty weight of the tactical bombers of the 9th Air Force. I have come to spend a few days with them because I wanted to get a taste of the pre-invasion assault from the air standpoint before we get a mouthful of the invasion proper from the ground.

The way I happened to come to this certain squadron is one of those things. One night in London I was sitting at a table with some friends in a public house when two boys in uniform leaned over from the next table and asked if I weren’t so-and-so.

I said yes, whereupon we got to talking and then we got to be pals and eventually we adjourned from one place to another, as Damon Runyon would say, and kept on adjourning throughout the evening, and a good time was had by all.

These boys were B-26 bombardiers, and in the course of the evening’s events they asked if I wouldn’t come and live with their squadron awhile. Being nothing if not accommodating, I said sure, why not. And here we are.

The two boys were Lt. Lindsey Green of San Francisco and Lt. Jack Arnold of East St. Louis, Illinois. Being redheaded, Lt. Arnold goes by the name of “Red Dog.” They are both very nice people indeed.

A comfortable station

This airdrome is a lovely place. Everything around it is wonderfully green, as is all England now.

The station is huge, and its personnel is scattered in steel Nissen huts and low concrete barracks for a couple of miles.

The living quarters are spread through an old grove of giant shade trees. You walk from one barracks to another under elms and chestnuts, big-trunked and wide-branched, and it gives you a feeling of beautiful peace and contentment. The huts and barracks are painted green and everything blends together.

This is a permanent station, and very comfortable. Our B-26 group has been at this field ever since coming overseas nearly a year ago.

Within cycling or hitchhiking distance there are several English villages – the lovely kind you read about in books – and our fliers have come to know them intimately. They like the people, and I’m sure the people like them.

There is more of understanding and harmony between these fliers and the local people than in any outfit I’ve ever seen. If you don’t believe it listen to this – 15 of the boys from just one squadron have married English girls since coming over here.

The boys say this is the best squadron in England. Nine out of 10 squadrons, or infantry companies, or quartermaster battalions, will say the same thing about themselves. It is a good omen when they talk like that.

This station seems to me to have about the finest spirit I’ve run onto in our Army. It is due, I think, largely to the fact that the whole organization has been made into a real team.

The boys here don’t especially hate the Germans, and they certainly don’t like war, yet they understand that the only way out of the war is to fight our way out, and they do it willingly and with spirit and all together.

The commander of this group is Col. Wilson R. Wood of Chico, Texas. Five years ago, he was an enlisted man. Today, at 25, he is a full colonel. He is a steady, human person and he has got what it takes to blend thousands of men together into a driving unit.

The job of the B-26s is severalfold. For one thing, they had to rid upper France and the Low Countries of German fighters as far as possible, to clear the way for our heavy bombers on their long trips into Germany.

Enemy’s reserves blasted

They have done this not so much by bombing airdromes, which can be repaired immediately, as by blasting the enemy’s reserve supplies of planes, engines and propellers.

Their second job is to disrupt the enemy’s supply system. Much of their work of late has been on railroad marshaling yards, and along with A-20s and fighter-bombers, they have succeeded to a point where British papers say Germany cannot maintain a western front by raids.

And third, they work constantly on the enemy’s military installations along the Channel Coast. They feel that they have done a good job. If they haven’t, I’m going to be plenty sore at them one of these days, because I might be in the vicinity and if there’s anything that makes me sick at the stomach, it’s an enemy military installation in good working order.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 18, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, somewhere in England – (by wireless)
The B-26 is a bomber which is very fast and carries a two-ton bombload. In its early stages it had a bad name – it was a “hot” plane which took great skill to fly and which killed more people in training than it did in combat.

But the B-26 has lived down the bad name. the boys of this squadron wouldn’t fly in anything else. They like it because it can take quick and violent evasive action when the flak is bothersome, and because it can run pretty well from fighters.

Its record over here is excellent. Bombing accuracy has been high and losses have been extremely low. And as fir accidents – the thing that cursed the plane in its early days – they have been next to nonexistent here.

The boys so convinced me of the B-26s invulnerability that I took my courage in my hand and went on a trip with them.

They got us up at 2:00 in the morning. Boy, it was cold getting out of our cots and into our clothes. We had gone to bed about 11, but I couldn’t get to sleep. All night long the sky above us was full of the drone of planes – the RAF passing over on its nightly raids.

“Chief” Collins (the pilot), “Red Dog” Arnold (the bombardier), and I were the only ones in our hut who had to get up. We jumped into our clothes, grabbed towels and ran out to the washhouse for a quick dash of cold water on our faces. The moon was brilliant and we needed no flashlights.

Red Dog gave me an extra pair of long drawers to put on. Chief gave me his combat pants, as I had given mine away in Italy. Also I put on extra sweaters and a mackinaw.

Then we walked through the moonlight under the trees to the mess hall. It was only 2:30 a.m., but we ate breakfast before the takeoff. And we had two real fried eggs too. It was almost worth getting up for.

Sat on benches for briefing

We drove out to the field in a jeep. Some of the boys rode their bicycles. There were a couple of hundred crewmen altogether. At the field we went into a big room, brightly lighted, and sat on benches for the briefing.

The briefing lasted almost an hour. Everything was explained in detail – how we would take off, how we would rendezvous in the dark, where we would make the turn toward our target.

Then we went to the locker room and got our gear. Red Dog got me a pair of flying boots, a Mae West life preserver, a parachute and a set of earphones. We got in the jeep again and rode out to the plane. It was still half an hour before takeoff time. The moon had gone out and it was very dark.

We stood around talking with the ground crew. Finally, 10 minutes before takeoff time we got into the plane. One of the boys boosted me up through a hatch in the bottom of the plane, for it was high, and with so many clothes I could hardly move.

I sat back in the radio compartment on some parachutes for the takeoff. Red Dog was the only one of the crew who put on his chute. He said I didn’t need to put mine on.

We were running light, and it didn’t take long to get off the ground. I never had been in a B-26 before, the engines seemed to make a terrific clatter. There were runway markers, and I could see them whiz past the window as we roared down the runway. A flame about a foot long shot out of the exhausts and it worried me at first, but finally I decided that was the way it was supposed to be.

It’s a ticklish business assembling scores of planes into formation at night. Here is how they do it:

We took off one at a time, about 30 seconds apart. Each plane flew straight ahead for four and a half minutes, climbing at a certain rate all the time. Then it turned right around and flew straight back for five minutes. Then it turned once again, heading in the original direction.

Almost jumps out of seat

By this time, we were up around 4,000 feet. We had not seen any of the other planes.

The flight leader had said he would shoot flares out his plane frequently so the others could spot him if they got lost. Red Dog was half turned around, talking to me, when the first two flares split the sky ahead of us. He just caught them out of the corner of his eye, and he almost jumped out of his seat. He had forgotten about the flares and thought they were the running lights of the plane ahead of us and that we were about to collide.

“I haven’t been so scared in months,” he said.

The leader kept shooting flares, which flash for a few moments and then go out. But we really didn’t need them. For we were right on his trail, just where we should have been, and everybody else was too. It was a beautiful piece of precision groping in the dark.

As we caught up to within half a mile or so, we could finally see the running lights of other planes, and then the dark shapes of grouped planes ahead silhouetted against a faintly lightening sky. Finally, we too were in position, flying almost wing to wing up there in the English night.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 19, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, somewhere in England – (by wireless)
At 12,000 feet up, it begins to get daylight before it does on the ground, and while we could not see each other plainly in our B-26, things were still darkly indistinct in England, far down there below us.

Now and then a light would flash on the ground – some kind of marker beacon for us. We passed over some airdromes with their runway lights still on. Far in the distance we could see one lone white light – probably a window some early-rising farmer had forgotten to black out.

“Red Dog” Arnold, the bombardier, was sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, since we weren’t carrying a co-pilot. The boys got me a tin box to sit on right behind Red Dog so I could get a better view. The sunrise was red and beautiful, and Red Dog kept pointing and remarking about it. “Chief” Collins, the pilot, got out some cigarettes and we all lit up except Red Dog, who doesn’t smoke.

We climbed higher, and at a certain place the whole group of B-26s made a turn and headed for the target. This wasn’t a mission over enemy territory, and there was no danger to it.

As we neared the target, Red Dog crawled forward through a little opening into the nose, where the bombardier usually sits. The entire nose is Plexiglas, and you can see straight down and all around. He motioned for me to come up with him.

I squeezed into the tiny compartment. There was barely room for the two of us. The motors made less noise up there. By now daylight had come and everything below was clear and spectacular.

I stayed in the nose until we were well on the way home, and then crawled back and sat in the co-pilot’s seat beside Chief Collins. The sun came out, and the air was smooth, and it was wonderful flying along there over England so early in the morning.

Down below the country was green, moist and enchanting in the warmth of the early dawn. Early-morning trains left rigidly straight trails of white smoke for a mile behind them. Now and then we would see a military convoy, but mostly the highways were empty and lonesome looking. The average man wasn’t out of bed yet.

Somehow you always feel good being up early in the morning. You feel a little ahead of the rest of the world and a little egotistical about it.

Lose altitude gradually

We lost altitude gradually, and kept clearing our ears by opening our mouths. Gradually it got warmer and warmer. Chief Collins talked now and then on the interphone to the rest of the crew. Other times I would notice his mouth working, and I think he must have been singing to himself. Two or three times, he leaned over and remarked on what an unusually nice formation they were flying this morning.

Once Red Dog turned and yelled back through the little door: “Did you see that supply dump we just passed? Biggest damn thing I ever saw in my life.”

Suddenly I remembered I had seen only four men in our crew, when I knew there were supposed to be five. I asked one of the gunners about it. He said, “Oh, Pruitt, he’s the tail gunner. He’s back there. He’s probably sound asleep.”

We came back over our home airdrome, peeled off one by one, and landed. Red Dog stayed up in the nose during the landing, so I stayed in the co-pilot’s seat. Landing is about the most dangerous part of flying, yet it’s the one sensation I love most, especially when riding up front.

Chief put the big plane down so easily we hardly knew when the wheels touched. I was shocked to learn later that we landed at the frightening speed of more than 100 miles an hour.

Asleep most of trip

We sat in the plane for a couple of minutes while Chief filled out some reports, and then opened the hatch in the floor and dropped out. I was the first one to hit the ground. As I did so a man in flying clothes looked at me startled-like and said:

Good Lord, I didn’t know you were with us. I’m the tail gunner. I recognize you from your picture, but I didn’t know you were along. I’ve been asleep most of the trip.

That was Sgt. Pruitt, and I’ll tell you more about him later.

A jeep carried us back to the locker room where we had left out gear. Then we headed for the mess hall.

“We’ll have another breakfast now,” Chief said.

It was just 7:30 a.m. So, for the second time in five hours we ate breakfast. Had real eggs again, too.

“It’s a tough war,” one of the boys laughed. But nobody is qualified to joke like that who hasn’t been scores of times across the Channel coast, in that other world of fighters and flak. And these boys all had. You felt good to be with them.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 20, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, somewhere in England – (by wireless)
The men in the B-26 squadron I have been visiting live exceedingly well for wartime. It realizes it, too, and it full of appreciation. You almost never hear an airman griping about things around here.

This is an old station, and well established. Our men are comfortably housed and wonderfully fed. The officers have a club of their own, with a bar and a big lounge room, and the Red Cross provides a big club right on the station for the enlisted men.

There are all kinds of outdoor games, such as baseball, badminton, volleyball, tennis, and even golf at a nearby town. One of the pilots came back from golfing and said, “I don’t know what they charged me a greens fee for I was never anywhere near the greens.”

At first, I lived with the younger officers of the squadron, then I moved over with the enlisted gunners, radiomen and flight engineers. They live only a little differently. And the line between officers and enlisted men among the combat crews is so fine that you are barely aware of any difference after a few days’ acquaintance with them.

Two little holes in roof

First, I’ll try to tell you how the officers live. I stayed in the hut of my friends Lts. Lindsey, Greene and Jack Arnolds. There is usually a spare cot in any hut for there is almost always one man away on leave.

This barracks is a curved steel Nissen hut, with doors and windows at each end but none along the sides. The floor is bare concrete. Eight men live in a hut. Three are pilots, the others bombardiers and navigators. One is a captain, the others are lieutenants.

The boys sleep on black steel cots with cheap mattresses. They have rough white sheets and Army blankets. They are all wearing summer underwear now, and they sleep on it. When the last one goes to bed, he turns out the light and opens one door for ventilation. Of course, until the lights are out, the hut has to be blacked out.

Each cot has a bed lamp rigged over it, with a shade made from an empty fruit-juice can.

The boys have a few bureaus and tables they bought or dug up from somewhere.

On the tables are pictures of their girls and parents, and on the corrugated steel walls they have pasted pinup girls from Yank and other magazines.

In the center of the hut is a rectangular stove made of two steel boxes wielded together. They burn wood or coal in it, and it throws out terrific heat.

In the top of the hut, when the lights go out, you can see two holes with moonlight streaming through. One of these is where one of the boys shot his .45 one night, just out of exuberance. One of the other boys then bet he could put a bullet right through that hole. He lost his bet, which accounts for the other hole.

‘Poker Seats by Reservation Only’

The latrines and wash basins are in a separate building about 50 yards from the hut. The boys and their mechanics have built a small shower room out of packing boxes and rigged up a tank for heating water. They are proud of it, and they take plenty of baths.

All around my hut are similar ones, connected by concrete or cinder paths. The one next door is about the fanciest. Its name is Piccadilly Palace.

In here is where the biggest poker game is usually going. A sign on the front of the hut says, “Poker Seats by Reservation Only.” On the other side of the door is another sign saying, “Robin Hood Slept Here.” They put that up when they first came because somebody told them this station was in Sherwood Forest. They found out later they were a long way from Sherwood Forest but they left the sign up anyhow.

That in general is how the boys live. They are warm, they are dry, they are clean, they are well fed. Their life is dangerous and not very romantic to them, and between missions they get homesick and sometimes bored. But even so they have a pretty good time with their live young spirits and they are grateful that they can live as well and have as much pleasure as they do have. For they know that anything good you get in wartime is just that much velvet.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 22, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, England –
“My crew” of two officers and three enlisted men have been flying together as a team in their B-26 bomber since before leaving America more than a year ago.

Every one of them is now far beyond his allotted number of combat missions.

Every one of them is perfectly willing to go through another complete tour of missions if he can just be home for a month. I believe the same thing is true of almost everybody, at this station. And it’s a new experience for me, because most of the combat men I’ve been with before wanted to feel finished forever when they went home.

Every one of “my crew” has the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal, with clusters. They have had flak through their plane numerous times, but none of them has ever been hit. They expect it to be rough when the invasion starts, but they’re anxious to get it over with.

In the past they have usually flown one mission a day over France, with occasionally two as the tempo of spring bombings increased. But during the invasion they will probably be flying three and sometimes four missions a day.

They will be in the air before daylight and they will come home from their last mission after dark. They will go for days and maybe weeks in a frenzied routine, eating hurriedly between missions, snatching a few hours of weary sleep at night, and being up and at it again hours before daylight to shuttle back and forth across the Channel. They and thousands of others like them.

Fighting purely an air war – as this one here has been up to now – is in some ways so routine that it is like running a big business.

Usually a B-26 crewman “works” only about two hours a day. He returns to a life that is pretty close to a normal one. There is no ground war to confuse him with its horror. His war is highly technical, highly organized, and in a way somewhat academic.

Because of this, it is easy to get bored. An air crewman has lots of spare time on his hands. Neither the officers or the enlisted fliers have any duties whatever other than flying.

When not flying they either loaf around their own huts, writing letters or playing poker or just sitting in front of the fire talking, or else they take leave for a few hours and go to the nearby villages. They can go to dances or sit in the local pubs and talk.

And every two weeks they get two days’ leave. That again is something new to us who have been in the Mediterranean. Down there fliers do get leave to go to rest camps, and even to town once in a while if there is a town, but there’s nothing regular or automatic about it. These boys up here get their two days’ leave twice a month just like clockwork. They can do anything they want with it.

Most of them go to London. Others go to nearby cities where they have made acquaintances. They go to dances at nightclubs and shows. They paint the town and blow off steam as any active man who lives dangerously must do now and then. They make friends among the British people, and they look up those same friends on the next trip to town.

They do a thousand and one things on their leave, and it does them good. Also, it gradually creates an understanding between the two people that the other is all right in his own peculiar way.

After a certain number of missions, a crew is usually given two weeks’ leave. Most of them spend it traveling. Our fliers often tour Scotland on these leaves. It’s amazing the number of men who have been to Edinburgh and who love the place. They have visited Wales and North Ireland and the rugger southwestern coast, and they know the Midlands and the little towns of England.

These two-week leaves don’t substitute in the fliers’ mind for a trip back to America. That’s all they live for. That’s what they talk about most of the time.

A goal is what anyone overseas needs – a definite time limit to shoot for. Naturally it isn’t possible right at this moment to send many people home, and the fliers appreciate and accept that fact. But once the invasion is made and the first period of furious intensity has passed, our veteran fliers hope to start going home in greater numbers.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 23, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, England –
Lt. Bill Collins, who goes by the name of Chief, is what is known as a “hot pilot.”

He used to be a fighter pilot, and he handles his Marauder bomber as though it were a fighter. He is daring, and everybody calls him a “character,” but his crew has a fanatical faith in him.

Chief is addicted to violent evasive action when they’re in flak, and the boys like that because it makes them harder to hit.

They’ve had flak through the plane and within a foot of them, but none of them has been wounded.

When they finished their allotted number of missions – which used to give them an automatic trip to America, but doesn’t anymore – Chief buzzed the home field in celebration of their achievement.

He got that old B-26 wound up in a steep glide, came booming down the runway, leveled off a foot above the ground and went screaming across the field at 250 miles an hour – only a foot above the ground all the way. And at the same time, he had to shoot out all the red flares he had in the plane. They say it looked like a Christmas tree flying down the runway.

Chief used to be a clerk with the Aetna Life Insurance Company back in his hometown of Hartford, Connecticut. He is 25 now and doesn’t know whether he will go back to the insurance job or not after the war. He says it depends on how much they offer him.

Lt. Jack Arnold is the one they call Red Dog. He is only 22, although he seems older to me. He enlisted in the Army almost four years ago, when he was just out of high school. He was an infantryman for a year and a half before he finally went to bombardier school and got wings for his chest and bars for his shoulders.

He figures that as a bombardier he has killed thousands of Germans, and he thinks it is an excellent profession. He says the finest bombing experience he has ever had was when they missed the target one day and quite accidentally hit a barracks full of German troops and killed many of them.

Red Dog is friendly and gay and yet he is fundamentally serious man who takes the war to heart. The enlisted men of the crew say that he isn’t afraid of anything, and that the same is true of Chief Collins. They are a cool pair, yet both are as hospitable and friendly as you could imagine.

The plane’s engineer-gunner is Sgt. Eugene Gaines of New Orleans. He is distinct from the rest because he married a British girl last December.

They have a little apartment in a town eight miles from the field. Every evening Gaines rides his bicycle home, stays till about midnight, then rides back to the airdrome. For you never know when you may be routed out at 2:00 a.m. on an early mission, and you must be on hand.

It takes him about 45 minutes to ride the eight miles, and he has made the roundtrip nightly all winter, in the blackout and through indescribable storms. Such is the course of love.

Gaines is a quiet and sincere young man of 24. He was a carpenter before the war, and he figures that will be a pretty good trade to stick to after the war. But if a depression does come, he has an ace in the hole. He has a farm at Pearl River, Louisiana, and he figures that with a farm in the background you can always be safe and independent.

Gaines wears a plain wedding ring on his left hand. I’ve noticed that a lot of the married soldiers over here wear wedding rings.

In flight, it is Gaines’ job to watch the engine temperatures and pressures and to help with the gadgets during landings and takeoffs. As soon as they reach the other side of the Channel he goes back and takes over the top turret gun. He has shot at a few planes but never knocked one down.

The radio gunner is Sgt. John Siebert of Charlestown, Massachusetts. He learned to fly before the war, although he is only 23 now. He had about 800 hours in the air as pilot. Yet because of one defective eye, he couldn’t get into cadet school.

He had two years at Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and he hopes to go back and finish when the war is over.

Siebert too is quiet and sincere. His closest escape was when his waist gun was shot right out of his hand. The thing just suddenly wasn’t there. Yet he didn’t get a scratch.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 24, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, England –
Sgt. Kermit Pruitt, whom I spoke of the other day, is the tail gunner in “my crew.” He’s an old cowboy from Arizona – looks like one, acts like one, talks like one. But he’s no hillbilly in the head.

Pruitt is the talking kind. He talks and sings on the slightest provocation. He likes old cowboy songs. They say that every once in a while, he will start singing some cowboy song over the interphone while they’re actually in a bomb run, and the pilot will have to yell at him to shut up.

He likes to tell stories about cowpokes in Arizona. He was telling the other day about one old cowboy who went to the city and registered at a hotel for the first time in his life. The clerk asked him if he wanted a room with running water, and the cowboy yelled, “Hell no! What do you think I am, a trout?”

Pruitt drives the rest of the crew crazy by shooting his tail gun at the most unexpected times. In more than 50 missions he has never yet seen an enemy plane to shoot at, so he breaks the monotony by shooting at gun emplacements and flak ships two miles below. These sudden blasts scare the wits out of the rest of the crew, and Pruitt then catches a little brimstone over the interphone from the pilot.

But this doesn’t faze him, or impair his affection for his pilot. Pruitt says he just shopped around in this Army till he found a pilot that suited him. Back in America he “missed” a couple of trains to avoid coming overseas with an outfit he didn’t like. He says his hunch proved right, for his entire old crew in that outfit were killed on their first mission.

Finally, he got a chance to come with the B-26s. Pilot “Chief” Collins was a wild man then, and most everybody was afraid to ride with him. But when Pruitt saw him handle a plane, he said to himself, “There’s my man.” So, he got on Chief’s crew, and he’s still on it. He wouldn’t think of flying with anybody else.

Pruitt is thin, not much bigger than me, and he usually wears coveralls which make him look even thinner. He goes around poking his head out from hunched-up shoulders with a quizzical half grin on his face. He sure does enjoy living.

Pleasant Valley, Arizona, is Pruitt’s home diggins. He is 30. He is married to a beautiful girl who is part French and 1/32 Indian, and last Christmas Day they were blessed with an heir. Pruitt has a pocketbook full of pictures of his wife and offspring, and he shows them to you every few minutes. If you go out of the room and come back five minutes later, he shows you the pictures again.

I was sleeping near Pruitt one night when the crews were awakened at 2:00 a.m. for an early mission. It was funny to see them come out of bed. Not a soul moved a muscle for about five minutes, and then they all suddenly came out as though shot from a gun.

Pruitt always starts talking as soon as he is awake. On this particular morning, he said:

When the war’s over, I’m gonna get me an Apache Indian to work for me. I’m gonna tell him to get me up at 2 o’clock in the morning, and when he comes in, I’m gonna take my .45 and kill the SOB.

The three sergeants in my crew sort of took me under their wing and we ran around together for two or three days. One night they slicked all up, put on their dress uniforms with all their sergeants’ stripes and their silver wings and all their ribbons, and we went to a nearby town to a singing concert. Then we went into the backroom of the local pub and sat around a big round table with two very old and ugly British women, who were drinking beer and who were very grinny and pleasant. They giggled when Pruitt told stories of his escapades as a cowboy and of his trips to London on leave.

There are about 20 flying sergeants in the same barracks with my crew. They live about the same as the officers, except that they are more crowded and they don’t have settees around their stove, or shelves for their stuff. But they have the same pinup girls, the same flying talk, the same poker game, and the same guys in bed getting some daytime shuteye while bedlam goes on around them.

I got to know all these flying sergeants and I couldn’t help but be struck by what a swell bunch they were. All of them are sort of difficult at first, but they open up when you have known them for a little whole and treat you like a king. They tell you their troubles and their fears and their ambitions, and they want so much for you to have a good time while you’re with them.

With these boys, as with most all the specialized groups of soldiers I have been with, their deep sincerity and their concern about their future are apparent. They can’t put into words what they’re fighting for, but they know it has to be done and almost invariably they consider themselves fortunate to be living well and fighting the enemy from the air instead of on the ground. But home, and what will be their fate in the post-war world, is always in the back of their minds, and every one of them has some kind of plan laid.

[adamsano]

I very much enjoyed this column, Ernie captures Pruitt perfectly.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 25, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, England –
Sgt. Phil Scheier is a radio gunner. That is, he operates the radio of his B-26 bomber when it needs operating, and when over enemy territory he switches to one of the plane’s machine guns.

It’s hard to think of Sgt. Scheier as a tough gunner. In fact, it’s hard to think of him as an enlisted man. He is what you would call the “officer type” – he would seem more natural with a major’s leaves on his shoulders than a sergeant’s stripes on his arms. But he doesn’t feel that way about it.

He says:

I’m the only satisfied soldier in the Army. I’ve found a home in the Army. I like what I’m doing, and I wouldn’t trade my job for any other in the Army.

Not that he intends to stay in after the war. He’s 28, but he intends to go to college as soon as he gets out of uniform. He has been a radio scriptwriter for several years, but he wants to go to Columbia School of Journalism and learn how to be a big fascinating newspaperman like me.

Sgt. Scheier’s home is at Richmond, Staten Island. Like the others, he has a DFC and an Air Medal with clusters.

He says:

When I won a Boy Scout medal once, they got out the band and had a big celebration. But when you get the DFC, you just sign a paper and a guy hands it to you as though it was nothing.

Later, when I mentioned that I would like to put that remark in the column, Sgt. Scheler laughed and said: “Oh, I just made that up. I never was a Boy Scout.”

Sgt. Kenneth Brown of Ellwood City, Pennsylvania, is one of two men in my barracks who have the Purple Heart. He was hit in the back and arm by flak several months ago. He is a good-natured guy, and he has the next war figured out.

He isn’t going to go hide in a cave or on a desert island, as so many jokingly threaten to do. He thinks he has a better way. The minute the war starts, he’s going to get a sand table and start making humps and valleys and drawing lines in the sand. He figures that will automatically makes him a general and then he’ll be all right.

Sgt. Kenneth Hackett used to work at the Martin plant near Baltimore, which makes these B-26 bombers. He is 34, and he had supposed that if he ever got into the Army, he would be put in some backwash job far removed from combat.

“I sure never figured when I was helping build these planes that someday I’d be flying over France in one of them as a radio gunner,” he says. But here he is, with half his allotted missions run off.

Sgt. Hackett’s home is at North Miami. In fact, his father is chief of police in that section. But the sergeant’s wife and daughter are in Baltimore.

Hackett showed me a snapshot of his daughter Theda sitting on the fender of their automobile. He said she was 12, and I thought he was kidding. She seemed so grownup that I thought she must be his sweetheart instead of his daughter. But I was convinced when the other boys chimed in and said, “Tell him about the lipstick.”

So here is the lipstick story. It seems Theda wrote her daddy that all the other girls her age were using rouge and lipstick and was it all right if she did too.

Well, it wasn’t all right. Sgt. Hackett says maybe he’s old-fashioned but he sent word back to Theda that if she started using lipstick now, he’d skin her alive when he got back, or words to that effect. And he didn’t take time to write it in a letter. He sent it by full-rate cablegram.

Sgt. Howard Hanson is acting first sergeant of this squadron. He’s the guy that runs the show and routs people out of bed and hands out demerits and bawls people out. In addition to that, he is an engineer-gunner. He has long ago flown his allotted number of combat missions, and he is still flying.

Sgt. Hanson is 37 and therefore is automatically known in the Army as Pappy. Any soldier over 35 is almost always called Pop or Pappy. Sgt. Hanson doesn’t care. He likes his work and has a job to do and wants to get it done.

“I know what I’m fighting for,” he says. “Here’s what.” And he hands you a snapshot of his family – wife, girl and boy. The girl is almost grown and the boy is in the uniform of a prep school. Hanson’s home is at Topeka, Kansas.

Pappy used to be in the motor freight business before the war. I suppose in a way you could say he’s still in the motor freight business. Kind of ticklish freight, though.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 26, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, England – (by wireless)
Sgt. Walter Hassinger is from Hutchinson, Kansas. He is 29, and in a way the most remarkable man at this station.

In the first place, he is a radio gunner who has more missions under his belt than any other crew member here. And in the second place he has contributed more to satisfied living and general morale than anybody else.

What Hassinger did was this – he spent $400 of his own money creating a little private radio station and hooking it by loudspeakers into barracks all over the place, until finally his station is heard by 1,700 men.

Over this station he rebroadcasts news bulletins, repeats orders and instructions that come from headquarters, plays phonograph records, and carries on a spasmodic monologue razzing the officers and just gabbing about everything from the abominable weather to the latest guy who has wrecked a jeep.

Still another Kansan. This one is Lt. Frank Willms of Coffeyville. That’s the hometown of Walter Johnson, the famous pitcher. Lt. Willms says he has never met Walter but knows the rest of the Johnson family.

Lt. Willms isn’t in the group I’ve been visiting, although he is a B-26 pilot. The reason I’m mentioning him is his hair. I met him one night at a party in London. His hand stands so startlingly straight up that you are struck suddenly rigid when you see it and you can’t help but remark on it. And Lt. Willms’ reply to my obvious puzzlement was this:

On my first mission I was so scared it stood up like that, and I’ve never been able to get it to lie back down.

Lt. Jim Gray is from Wichita Falls, Texas, and he looks like a Texan – windburned and unsmooth. He’s far over his allotted missions, and if it weren’t for the coming invasion, he would probably be on his way home by now.

Like every other Texan in the Air Forces – and it seems to be half Texans – he has to take a lot of razzing about his state. But he’s proud of it, and always in plain sight under the end of his cot you can see a beautifully scrolled pair of cowboy boots.

Lt. Gray is a firm believer in the flak vest. In case you don’t know, a flak vest is a sort of coat of mail, made up of little squares of steel platings. It hangs from your shoulders and covers your chest and back.

One day a hunk of hot metal about the size of a walnut struck him right in the chest. He says it felt as if some giant had him with his fist. It bent the steel plating but didn’t go through. Without it, he would have been a dead duck.

Sgt. Hanson, who flies with him, has taken the bent plate out and is keeping it as a souvenir. Lt. Gray keeps the hung of shrapnel itself, with a little tag on it.

The lieutenant is anxious to get home. Not so much because he is homesick but because, as he says, “I’d like to fly in a little Texas weather for a change?”

The weather over here is the fliers’ biggest complaint. As you’ve heard, it’s dark and cloudy and rainy most of the time. And the weather changes like lightning. They say that sometimes you can start to take off and the other end of the runway will close in before you get there. How these mighty air fleets ever operate at all is a modern miracle.

In this area, I ran into an old friend of mine. He’s Texas too – Maj. Robert Rousel, who used to be managing editor of the Houston Press. He is about my age, and like me he is starting to feel decrepit. He’s in the planning section of the bomber command, and he says it’s a worse than running a newspaper. The pressure of detail and the responsibility of mapping these complex missions for the whole command sometimes gets him mentally swamped. At such time he just gets up and walks out half a day. Sometimes he goes flying, sometimes he plays golf.

He said:

I played golf yesterday and I’m sure I’m the only man in England who ever succeeded in playing 18 holes without even once, not one time, going on the fairway.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 27, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

A B-26 base, England –
Every pilot and enlisted combat crewman on this bomber station has an English bicycle, for the distances are long on a big airdrome. The boys in my hut have to go about a mile to flying line and about a quarter of a mile to eat. Breakfast ends at 8, and like human beings the world over, those not flying get up just in time to run fast and beat the breakfast deadline by five seconds.

They eat at long wooden tables, sitting on benches. But they have white tablecloths, and soldiers to serve them. At supper they have to wear neckties and their dress blouses. The officers’ club bar opens a half an hour before supper and some of the boys go and have a couple of drinks before eating. As everywhere else in England, the whiskey and gin are all gone a few minutes after the bar opens.

The enlisted crewmen eat in a big room adjoining the officers’ mess. They eat exactly the same food, but they eat it a little differently. They line up and pass through a chow line. White porcelain plates are furnished them, but they have to bring their own knife, fork, spoon and canteen cup.

Their tables are not covered. When they are through, they carry out their own dishes and empty anything left over into a garbage pail, but they don’t have to wash their dishes. The enlisted men don’t have to dress up, even for supper.

Everybody feels that the food is exceptionally good. Since I’ve been here, we’ve had real eggs for breakfast, and for other meals such things as pork chops, hamburger steak, chocolate cake and ice cream.

Of course, both of these messes are for combat crews only. Ground personnel eat at a different mess. They don’t have quite as fine a choice as the fliers, but I guess nobody begrudges them a little extra.

In various clubrooms on the airdrome, and even in some of the huts, there are numerous paintings on the walls of beautiful girls, colored maps of Europe, and so on. One hut has been beautifully decorated by one of the occupants – Lt. C. V. Cripe, a bombardier from Elkhart, Indiana. He also paints insignia on planes.

This same hut has a tiny little garden walk leading up to the door. On a high post flanking the walk there hang white wooden boards with the name of each flier in the hut painted in green letters, and under the name rows of little green bombs representing the number of missions he has been on.

All the names are of officers except for the bottom board, which says “Pfc. Gin Fizz,” and under it are painted five little puppy dogs marching along in a row with their tails up.

Pfc. Gin Fizz is a little white dog with a face like a gargoyle, and altogether the most ratty and repulsive-looking animal I’ve ever seen. But she produces beautiful pups practically like an assembly line, and the station is covered with her offspring.

Dogs are rampant on this station. They have everything from fat fuzzy little puppies with eyes barely open to a gigantic Great Dane. This one magnificent beast is owned by Lt. Richard Lightfine of Garden City, Long Island, and goes by the name of Tray.

The gunner sergeants in the barracks where I’ve been living have a breedless but lovable cur named Omer. It came by its name in a peculiar fashion.

Some months ago, the squadron made a raid on a town in France named St. Omer. One plane got shot up over the target, and back in England had to make a forced landing at a strange field. While waiting for the crippled plane to be patched up the crew acquired this puppy. In celebration of their return from the dead, they named him Omer. Omer sleeps impartially on anybody’s cot, and the boys bring him scraps from the mess hall in their canteen cups. Omer doesn’t even know he’s at war, and he has a wonderful time.

This station has a glee club too, and a very good one. They gave a concert for the people of the nearest village and I went along to hear it.

The club has 29 men in it, mostly ground men but some fliers. The director is Cpl. Frank Parisi of Bedford, Ohio. He taught music in junior high school there.

The club has already given 10 concerts, and they are so good they are booked for three concerts weekly for the next six weeks and slated to sing in London. So, you see lots of things besides shooting and dying can go along with a war.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 29, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

London, England –
The good news from Italy has been tinged with bad for some of us who still have strong roots and half our hearts in that cruel battleground.

The name of Roderick MacDonald means nothing to you in America, but it meant much to many of us who marched with the wars in Tunisia, Sicily and Italy. For Mac was one of our bunch – a war correspondent – and he was killed the other day at Cassino.

Mac was a Scot. His family emigrated to Australia and he was schooled there and eventually went to work for The Sydney Morning Herald. He left Australia in 1941 and followed the wars in China, the Near East and all through Africa.

We first knew him in Tunisia. Just after Tunis fell, he came down with a savage recurrence of malaria and spent three weeks in a hospital. Finally, he got strong enough to get back to Algiers during that peaceful interval between Tunisia and Sicily.

During that time, our public-relations section was set up in a camp on the sandy and gentle shore of the Mediterranean, some 20 miles outside of Algiers. That’s where I used up six weeks of peace – one of the grandest six weeks of my life, just lolling in my tent, eating well, working a little, reading a lot, mostly loafing and being wonderfully warm.

Roderick MacDonald sent word that he was in a hotel at Algiers, and I got a jeep and went and picked him up. He was so weak he couldn’t even carry his bedroll. We brought him out to camp and put him in the tent next to mine.

For days he lay listlessly, with strength enough only to get up for meals. The sun was broiling and he would strip down to his shorts and lie there in the hot sand, baking his body a sleek brown. Gradually life began to flow into him again his face filled out, the glaze left his eyes, and the famous MacDonald smith and MacDonald barbed retort began to return.

Mac had everything to live for, and he loved being alive. He was young, tall, handsome, brilliant, engaging. He had a sensitive mind, and he would have been a novelist had there been no war.

Among Americans he was the best liked British correspondent I have ever known. With his Scottish and Australian heritage, he understood us. He would kid the pants off us about the way we talked, and mimic our flat pronunciation in his yarns. He in turn took the same razzing about his Oxford accent.

He had never been in America, but it was his one ambition to go there.

Like most correspondents, Mac felt that he had to write a book. He had it about two-thirds finished when he came to our camp to recuperate. During the latter days of his stay, when his strength had returned, he tapped away belligerently on his little typewriter, cussing the day he ever started the book, resenting the deadline his London publishers were heckling him with. But he did finish it.

The day I arrived in London from Italy, I went into a bookstore, and I noticed Mac’s book. I bought it just because I knew Mac, and brought it home and put it on the table, but never did read it.

Now I will read it. What an ironic world, that only the compulsion of death makes us do for our friends – in more ways than merely reading a book – what we should have done while they still lived.

I suppose my best friend in Italy was Lt. Col. Ed Bland, a dive bomber squadron leader. He was tall, blond Westerner of 28, who looked much older than he was and who had the open honesty and good humor of the West. Word has just come that he has been shot down.

Probably the story has been told already in America, for Ed was popular with all the correspondents. The letter that brought the word to me said this:

Ed was strafing about 30 feet above the ground when a small shell set his plane afire underneath. Ed didn’t know it until his wingman radioed him. Then he climbed to 1,500 feet and bailed out.

The wingman said his chute didn’t open till he was 200 feet from the ground. There was a great deal of shooting, and one theory is that it was directed at him, but majority opinion ruled differently and the boys believe he is OK.

Wick Fowler of The Dallas News was a close friend of Ed’s. We used to sit around indulging in idiotic talk and Ed was always talking about how funny it would be to telephone Rome for hotel reservations and throw the German into a panic.

After I left Italy, Ed’s oil line stopped up one day on a mission near Rome and he was certain he would have to bail out. Later, he told Wick that while he was in trouble and sure he’d have to jump he got to thinking about that telephone idea and had to laugh at himself.

And now that he really has bailed out, Wick sends along this thought in a letter:

Ed’s time was short at 1,500 but I have a hunch the telephone idea came to him again on the way down.

If Ed did call up Rome for reservations, I hope the Germans gave him the royal suite, for he’s the best there is.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 30, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

London, England –
The top commanders who have toiled and slaved for months planning the second front have been under a man-killing strain of work and responsibility.

Thousands of men of high rank have labored endlessly. They are up early, they work all day, and after supper they go back to work far into the night. Seldom can you get one of them to take a day off.

Among the greatly conscientious ones in this category is Lt. Gen. Omar Bradley, who will lead all the American troops in the second front.

The other day I ran into Sgt. Alex Stout from Louisiana, who has been Gen. Bradley’s driver for several years. The general is very fond of Alex, and in turn Alex is not afraid to look at his king or to plot on his behalf.

Alex keeps saying:

General, you’re working too hard. If you won’t take a day off, why don’t you get in the car and we’ll just drive around the country for a couple of hours?

He was persistent. One day he put it to his boss again and the general said, well, as soon as he filled two more appointments, he would go out for a half-hour ride. So, Alex got him in the car and headed for the country.

Alex says:

We drove for two hours. I told him I was lost and couldn’t find my way back to town. But I knew where I was all the time, all right.

The Zippo Manufacturing Company of Bradford, Pennsylvania, makes Zippo cigarette lighters. In peacetime they are nickel-plated and shiny. In wartime they are black, with a rough finish.

Zippos are not available at all to civilians. In Army PXs all around the world, where a batch comes in occasionally, there are long waiting lists.

Well, some months ago, I had a letter from the president of the Zippo Company. It seems he is devoted to this column. It seems further that he’d had an idea. He had sent to our headquarters in Washington to get my signature, and then he was having the signature engraved on a special nickel-plated lighter and he is going to send it to me as a gift.

Pretty soon there was another letter. The president of the Zippo Company had had another brainstorm. In addition to my super-heterodyne lighter, he was going to send 50 of the regular ones for me to give to friends.

I was amused at the modesty of the president’s letter. He said, “You probably know nothing about the Zippo lighter.”

If he only knew how the soldiers covet them. They’ll burn in the wind, and pilots say they are the only kind that will light at extreme altitudes. Why, they’re so popular I’ve had three of them stolen from me in the past year.

Well, at last the fighters have come, forwarded all the way from Italy. My own lighter is a beauty, with my name on one side and a little American flag on the other. I’m smoking twice as much as usual just because I enjoy lighting the thing.

The 50 others are going like hot cakes. I find myself equipped with a wonderful weapon for winning friends and influencing people. Thanks from all of us, Mr. Zippo.

The Army occasionally gets the correspondents together for instructions on preparing for the second front. Sometimes we have fun at these meetings.

For example, the other day an officer got up and said the time had come for us to make our powers of attorney and prepare our wills, if we hadn’t done so already. Everybody in the room laughed – you know, one of those crackly, mirthless laughs of a man who is a little sick at his stomach.

And then the officer was explaining that we could take with us only what we could carry on our backs, and the rest of our stuff would be turned over to the Army and would probably catch up with us a couple of weeks after we reached the other side.

Whereupon one correspondent, newly arrived in these parts, asked:

Should we carry our steel helmets and gas masks or put them in the luggage to be forwarded later?

The poor fellow was almost laughed out of the room. Does one send for the fire department two weeks after the house was burned down?

You just can’t break down English traditions. For example, I registered at a hotel as Ernie Pyle and then on another line gave my full three names, as the law requires.

And do you know how my hotel bill comes? It comes weekly in a sealed envelope on which is typed, “E. Taylor-Pyle, Esq.”

In a couple of weeks, if I’m a good boy, I hope to have “The Honorable” put in front of my name.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (May 31, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Somewhere in England –
I went out the other day with a tank-destroyer unit. They have been over here long enough to form an opinion of English weather but you can’t write it in a nice newspaper like this.

It was the first time in ages I had been with a combat outfit which had not yet been in battle. There isn’t so much difference as you might think. The really noticeable difference is their eagerness to “get a crack at the Jerries.” After they’ve been cracking at them a few months, they’ll be just as eager to let somebody else have a turn at it.

But outside of that they talk and act about the same as men who have been in combat. They cuss a lot, razz each other about their home states, complain about the food, take great pride in their guns, and talk about how they wish they were home, just as though they had been away for years.

This unit has been training together for nearly two years. They don’t yet realize what a terrific advantage that gives them, but they will realize it as soon as they are in battle.

They are a vast team of firepower composed of dozens of little teams each one centering around one gun. They have done it so long they know automatically what to do. They all know every man on the team and they know his personality and how he will react. They have faith in each other. Only those who have fought know what confidence that produces.

A typical gun commander is Sgt. Dick Showalter of Muncie, Indiana. I have a special reason for mentioning him. For while I was talking with a group of soldiers, he came up and introduced himself and said: “I married a girl from your hometown.”

Now things like that are always happening to me, except that nine times out of ten the people are mixed up. People will come up and say, “Don’t you remember me? I used to deliver papers at your house.” And it will turn out they lived in a town I had never heard of, and were thinking of two other fellows.

When Sgt. Showalter said he had married a girl from my hometown, I slightly arched my handsome eyebrows and said, “Yes?”

“Yes,” he said, “I married Edna Kuhns.”

I said:

Why, I was raised with the Kuhns kids. They lived just across the fence from our farm. I’ve known them all my life.

“That’s what I said,” said Sgt. Showalter. And then we left the crowd and sat on the grass, leaning against a rock, and talked about Dana, Indiana, and Muncie and things.

Sgt. Showalter worked in factories before the war. He has been commander of his gun for more than a year and a half. He is a small fellow, quiet, serious, conscientious, and extremely proud of his crew and of the way they take their responsibility.

One of Showalter’s best buddies in his crew in Pfc. Bob Cartwright of Daytona Beach, Florida. He is a cannoneer – a small, reddish, good-natured fellow.

When we met, I said, “What’s that you’ve got in your mouth?”

He grinned and said, “Chawlin’ tobacco.” Which was just what I thought it was.

He manages to keep well stocked by trading stuff with boys who don’t chew. Bob is very young. He didn’t know much when he came into the Army, but Showalter says he’s the best there is now.

As I said, the boys are very proud of their guns. They say they’ve had fine training and lots of practice on moving targets. They say that on direct fire they can hit a moving tank at about a mile and almost never miss. They’re anxious to get at it and get it over with and get back home.

They know it won’t be easy on the other side. They’re living rough now. But they know it will be lots rougher pretty soon.

They know, they’ll be on C and K rations, and they’ve had experience with them on maneuvers. But when I spoke of our best ration – the 10-in-1 field ration – they had never heard of it.

They have been working hard since they hit England. They’ve made long night trips and done a lot of practice firing and sometimes they have to work as late as 10 o’clock at night.

When I saw them, they were making preparations for moving overseas. It takes a lot of work to get your equipment ready for an amphibious move. They’ve worked so hard they haven’t had time to get bored. There are some American outfits that have been here for two years without action, and there are Canadians who have been marching up and down for four years. How they’ve kept from going nuts is beyond me.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (June 1, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Somewhere in England –
The commander of the tank destroyer battalion I have been visiting is Lt. Col. Joseph Deeley of Sheboygan Falls, Wisconsin. He used to run a wool-carding mill there. I like his attitude toward things.

When I first showed up, he was perfectly courteous but he made plenty sure I had proper credentials and whatnot. As he said, they have had plenty of security preached into them back home, and this indeed is a critical period and he isn’t taking any chances.

But once he had assured himself I was all right, he called in his sergeants and told them to go around and tell their men they were perfectly free ti show me any and all equipment they had and talk to me as freely as they wanted to.

As I told him later, I don’t think he need have bothered. For these boys, approaching war for the first time, pumped me so thoroughly on what war is like that I hardly got a chance to ask any questions of them. Maybe I’ll have to write some security regulations of my own just out of self-protection. Who the devil is reporting this war, anyway?

One company commander, Capt. Charles Harding of Olmsted Falls, near Cleveland, had just had a letter from home telling him to keep an eye out for me. He figured that in a war this big our paths would never cross, but they did.

Another Ohioan came up and introduced himself. This was Pfc. James Francis McClory of Cleveland. McClory is what is aptly known in the battalion as a “character.” He used to be a prizefighter. Being in the horny-handed world of pugilists, he has a great affinity for apes. There’s an almost-human ape at the zoo in a nearby city which McClory goes to see every time he gets a pass. He calls him “Alfred the Ape,” and says he sure wishes he could take him back to Cleveland.

McClory used to work for the Cleveland Welding Company, which made bicycles. When I asked him what he did, he said, “Oh, I was just a hod knocker.”

You can kid lots with McClory. When I want to write down his name, I out “Sergeant” in front of it, and he says, “No, no, I’d never get to be a sergeant if the war lasted 50 years.”

So I said, “Well, ‘Corporal’ then.” But he said, “No, I ain’t even got sense enough to be a corporal.”

So I said:

Well, we simply can’t have you a private. What would the McClorys of the world think with you only a private?

So we compromised and made his a PFC.

McClory is one of those guys who are good for the morale of an outfit. He is always doing or saying something funny. And he is a good soldier. He is one of the kind who are fanatically loyal.

He has a great affection for his company commander, Capt. John Jay Kennedy of Roslindale, Massachusetts. Once when some gasoline caught fire, McClory threw himself on the captain and knocked him out of the way, saving him from serious injury. Another time, when Capt. Kennedy’s mother was very ill, McClory took the last money he had and telegraphed home to his parish to have a mass said for the captain’s mother.

A number of men in the battalion told me later that McClory was the kind of man they would like to have with them when the going got tough.

Here in England this battalion is living in pyramidal tents, sleeping on cots. But when they start across, they will take only pup tents and two blankets apiece and they will be sleeping on the ground. Their barracks bags with extra clothes and stuff will catch up with them some time in the dim future.

I had been under the impression that all troops recently arrived from the States would be wearing the new infantry boots which we have been issuing in Italy. I had heard that the old cumbersome and unsatisfactory legging was in limbo. But these boys all wore leggings and had never heard of the new boot.

English dogs have begun to attach themselves to the tank destroyer boys, as they do to any and all camps of soldiers. These boys haven’t actually adopted any of them as individual pets, because they can’t take them along to the continent. They are, however, pet-minded. They say that back in the States they had a number of pigs for pets. In that case, you could have your pet and eat it, too.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (June 2, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

London, England –
There was a knock at my door and two young lieutenants with silver wings and bright medals on their chests walked in. They were in town on leave and had decided to pay a social call.

They are the pilot and navigator of a Flying Fortress. They came to see me because I had known the pilot’s mother in San Francisco. She is Mrs. Mary White, she used to manage the coffee shop at the Hotel Californian, which was my home whenever I was in San Francisco.

Her son, Lt. Bill White, is a likeable young fellow whose blond hair sticks up high from his forehead and whose eyes crinkle when he smiles.

His navigator is Lt. John D. Bowser of Johnstown, Pennsylvania. They’ve been over here whacking at the Germans since February.

The boys were in the midst of an eight-day leave, given them as a sort of reward for having survived a ducking in the cold North Sea. They had had to “ditch,” as the expression goes, and after a crew ditches it always gets a leave of absence.

They had a close call when they ditched. They had been to Berlin – their second mission over the big city. The flak was pretty bad. On the way back Bill White looked out and saw a big hole in the right wing. It didn’t seem to be causing any trouble. Pretty soon he glanced in the other direction and here was a big hole in his left wing.

At first, he thought he was crazy and had forgotten which wing he’d seen the hole in. His head went back and forth as though at a tennis match. Actually, there were identical holes in the two wings.

But that wasn’t what put them in the drink. Apparently, the ignition system had been hit, for every now and then all four motors would stop for about five seconds at a time and then pick up again.

Finally, the engines started going clear out, one by one. They saw for sure that they couldn’t make the coast of England. Lt. White had everybody get in “ditching position.” The radioman sent his distress signal. They hit the water. The plane broke in two. And yet not a man was scratched or bruised.

When they hit, salt water rushed up over the windshield in gigantic waves. The plane stopped moving and Bill looked up. All he could see was water. He thought they had dived straight into the sea and were going on down head first.

He said:

I thought this was it. I was so convinced I weas going to drown that I almost just sat there and didn’t even try to get out.

But actually, they came piling out of that plane like rockets. They said that in training they had been taught you would be all right if you could get out in 30 seconds. They were all out in 10 seconds.

The plane sank 40 seconds after hitting the water. They were 25 miles from shore. The men clung to their rubber dinghies, and in less than an hour a rescue boat came alongside and took them aboard.

Since returning they’ve had a wonderful time talking about their experience. They call themselves sailors now. Before this happened, the crew used to do a lot of joking about “White’s little air force goes to war.” Now they’ve changed it to “White’s little air force goes to sea.”

Whenever a ditched flier is fished out of the North Sea or the Channel, the RAF gives him a little felt insignia about an inch high in the form of a half wing, showing a fish skipping over the water. This is his membership badge in the “Goldfish Club.” He is to sew it under his lapel, and throw back the lapel to show it when occasion demands. It isn’t worn outwardly, I presume, because we don’t want German agents to know how many guys have been fished out of the water.

The boys have another memento of their saltwater bath. They all have Short Snorter bills, of course. But they’ve started a new series of signatures on bills which they call “Dinghy Snorters.” Only fliers who’ve had to ditch are allowed to bills. They flattered me by asking me to sign, and said mine would be the only non-Goldfish signature permitted on their bills.

All ten of the ditched crew had wristwatches. Two watches, apparently waterproof, are still running. The eight others were corroded by salt water and have stopped.

Lt. White still wears his, even though it doesn’t run. But while he ruined his watch, he did save $40. He had ordered a $40 pair of fancy boots made, which he had expected to be ready the day before this mission. They weren’t. He was pretty sore about it then, but now he’s glad, for he would have had them on.

These two boys really enjoy their job, I believe. They get an exhilaration out of it. They see the funny side of life, and they’re able to take things as they come. But still, of course, they would like to be home.

Lt. White’s mother now works at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco, and we sat around here in London wishing we were sitting at dusk at the “Top of the Mark,” looking out over the steepled sea of San Francisco, so serene in its soft envelopment of peaceful mist.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (June 3, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

London, England –
England is certainly the crossroads of this warring world right now. Never a day passes but that I run onto half a dozen people I have known in Albuquerque, Washington, Tunisia, Ireland, the Belgian Congo or Cairo.

One reason I mention this is that nine times out of ten, these people have picked up weight since I last saw them. Time and time again I’ve run onto officers and men who in the thick of the war in Tunisia were lean and thin and hard, and now their faces are filled out and they have gained anywhere from 10 to 40 pounds.

This is due mainly, I suppose, to the fact that their lives haven’t been physically active, as in the field. For months they have been planning the invasion, working hard at desks, eating regularly and well, and getting little exercise. They all hate the physical inactivity of this long planning stage, and they will be glad in a way when they can get outdoors again to hard living.

When our trails cross again, their paunches will be down, and their faces thin and brown and dirty, and they will look hard and alive and like the friends I used to know. They’ll look better. It’s a silly world.

In roaming around the country the other day, I ran into Lt. Col. William Profitt Sr., whom I used to see occasionally in Africa and Sicily.

His old outfit was the first hospital unit ashore in the African invasion, landing at dawn on D-Day. They are so proud of that record that they’ll tear your eyes out at the slightest intimation that you’re confusing them with the second unit to land.

This is the hospital my friend Lt. Mary Ann Sullivan of Boston served with. She finally wound up as chief nurse of the unit. But when I dropped in to say hello, I discovered that Lt. Sullivan had gone back to America a couple of months ago.

She well deserved to go, too. She had been overseas nearly three years, having come originally with the Harvard unit. She had a ship sunk under her at sea, and was shot at innumerable times. She lived like a beast of the field for nearly a year, and she bore the great burden of directing a staff of nurses and supplying both medical care and cheerful understanding to thousands of wounded men.

My friend Col. Profitt and I sat in easy chairs in front of his cozy fireplace and chatted away in dire contrast to our other evenings on the windy plains of Tunisia.

He was telling me about a storm they had just after I left them in Sicily last summer. They were bivouacked on the edge of a cliff by the sea, and the wind blew so hard it blew all their tents over the cliff just at daylight one morning.

Everybody turned to with such a mighty effort that in two hours and a quarter they had every one of their 450 patients dry and under cover again.

This unit is very sentimental about the number 13. They have been mixed up with 13 so many times they wouldn’t trade it for a dozen black cats or four-leaf clovers. They’ve even always sailed in convoys of 13 ships. Col. Profitt said he believed they would refuse to go if they were ever assigned to a convoy of 14 ships.

Most of the original gang of nurses, I hear, are still with the hospital after a solid year of war and nearly two years overseas.

Everywhere you go around our camps and marshaling areas everything is being waterproofed for the invasion. That’s perfectly natural, of course, since land vehicles won’t run through water onto the beaches unless all the vital mechanisms are covered up.

But the thing that surprises me is that so much of the equipment has been prepared in wooden boxes. I’m staying up nights with a hammer and saw preparing a large box for myself, with horseshoes tacked all over it.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (June 5, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

London, England – (by wireless)
Here I’ve been gallavantin’ around with lieutenant generals again. If this keeps up, I’m going to lose my amateur standing. This time it is Jimmy Doolittle, who is still the same magnificent guy with three stars on his shoulder that he used to be with a captain’s bars.

Gen. Doolittle runs the American 8th Air Force. It is a grim and stupendous job, but he manages to keep the famous Doolittle sense of humor about it.

Doolittle, as you know, is rather short and getting almost bald. Since arriving in England from Italy, he has diabolically started a couple of false rumors circulating about himself.

One is that his nickname used to be “Curly,” and he occasionally throws his head back as though tossing hair out of his eyes. His other claim is that he used to be six feet tall but has worried himself down to his present small height in the past five months.

Jimmy Doolittle has more gifts than any one man has a right to be blessed with. He has been one of America’s greatest pilots for more than 25 years. He is bold and completely fearless. Along with that he has a great technical mind and a highly perfected education in engineering.

In addition to his professional skill, he is one of the most engaging humans you ever ran across. His voice is clear and keen, he talks with animation, and his tone carries a sense of quick and right decision.

He is one of the greatest of storytellers. He is the only man I’ve ever known who can tell stories all evening long and never tell one you’ve heard before. He can tell them in any dialect, from Swedish to Chinese.

Above all he loves to tell stories on himself. Here is an example:

The other day he had his plane set up for a flight to northern England. The weather turned awful, and one of his crew suggested that they cancel the trip. As Jimmy said, he would probably have canceled it himself, but when the junior officer suggested it, he sort of had to go ahead and go.

They were hanging around the operations room, getting the latest reports. The crew thought Gen. Doolittle had left the room. The junior officers were talking about the dangers of making the trip in such weather. They didn’t think the general ought to take the chance. And then he overhead one of them say, “I don’t think the b****** gives a damn about the weather.”

The poor officer almost died when he discovered that the general had heard him.

Other passengers said that throughout the flight this benighted fellow just say staring at the floor and now and then shaking his head like a condemned man.

The general thinks it was wonderful. No, he didn’t do anything about it, for he was flattered by the compliment.

Doolittle says:

But only one thing saved him. If he had used the word “old” in front of b******, I would’ve had him hung.

He tells another one. He was at a Flying Fortress base one afternoon when the planes were coming back in. Many of them had been pretty badly shot up and had wounded men aboard.

The general walked up to one plane from which the crew had just got out. The upper part of the tail gun turret was shot away. Gen. Doolittle said to the tail gunner, “Were you in there when it happened?”

The gunner, a little peevishly, replied, “Yes, sir.”

As the general walked away the annoyed gunner turned to a fellow crewman and said in a loud voice: “Where in the hell did he think I was, out buying a ham sandwich?”

A frightened junior officer, fearing the general might have overhead, said, “My God, man, don’t you know who that was?”

The tail gunner snapped:

Sure I know, and I don’t give a damn. That was a stupid question.

With which Jimmy Doolittle, the least stupid of people, fully agrees when he tells the story.

Another time the general went with his chief, Lt. Gen. Spaatz, to visit a bomber station which had been having very bad luck and heavy losses. They thought maybe their presence would pick the boys up a bit. So they visited around awhile. And when they get ready to leave, a veteran Fortress pilot walked up to them.

He said:

I know why you’re out here. You think our morale is shot because we’ve been taking it on the nose. Well, I can tell you our morale is all right. There is only one thing that hurts our morale. And that’s having three-star generals coming around to see what’s the matter with it.

Jimmy tells these stories wonderfully, with more zest and humor than I can out into them second-handed. As he says, the heartbreaks and tragedies of war sometimes push all your gaiety down into the depths. But if a man can keep a sense of the ridiculous about himself, he is all right. Jimmy Doolittle can.

More of this tomorrow.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (June 6, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

London, England – (by wireless)
Lt. Gen. Jimmy Doolittle, head of the 8th Air Force over here, noticed one day in the roster of officers at his staff headquarters the name of a Capt. Doolittle.

The name is not a very ordinary one, and he made a mental note that some day he would look the fellow up for a little chat. One day not long after that his phone rang and the voice at the other end said, “This is Capt. Doolittle.”

The general said:

Oh, yes, I had noticed your name and I meant to call you up sometime.

“I’d like to come in and see you,” said the voice at the other end.

The general said:

Why yes, do that. I’m pretty busy these days, but I’ll switch you to my aide and he’ll make an appointment for you. Glad you called, captain, I’ll look forward to seeing you.

He was just ready to hang up when the voice came back plaintively over the phone:

But Dad, this is me. Don’t you recognize me? I’ve got a package for you from Mom.

The general exploded, “Well, why in hell didn’t you say so in the first place?!”

It was Capt. Jimmy Doolittle Jr., a B-26 pilot in the 9th Air Force. The general hasn’t got around yet to seeing the other Capt. Doolittle. It’ll probably turn out to be his brother or something.

The last time I had seen Gen. Doolittle was some 16 months ago, way down at the desert airdrome of Biskra on the edge of the Sahara. That was when he was running our African bomber force that was plastering the Tunisian ports.

Gen. Doolittle flew in one afternoon from the far forward airdrome of Youks-les-Bains. The night before, his entire crew except for the co-pilot had been killed in a German bombing at the Youks Field.

His crew had manned their plane’s guns until it got too hot, and then made a run for an old bomb crater 50 yards away. It was one of those heartbreaking freaks of hard luck. A bomb hit the crater just as they reached it, and blew them all to pieces.

Gen. Doolittle has written hundreds, perhaps thousands, of letters to people who have lost sons or husbands in his air forces. But one of the men in that crew was the hardest subject he has ever had to write home about. Here is the reason:

When he led the famous raid on Tokyo, Doolittle had a mechanic who had been with him a long time. Doolittle was a colonel then. The mechanic went on the Tokyo raid with him.

You remember the details of that raid, which have gradually seeped out. The planes were badly scattered. Some were shot down over Japanese territory. Others ran out of gas. Some of the crews bailed out. Others landed in Russia. The remainders splattered themselves all over the rice paddles of China.

That night Doolittle was lower than he had ever been before in his life. There wasn’t any humor in the world for him that night. He sat with his head down and thought to himself:

You have balled up the biggest chance anybody could ever have. You have sure made a mess of this affair. You’ve lost most of your planes. The whole thing was a miserable failure. You’ll spend the rest of your life in Leavenworth for thus, and be lucky to get out of it that easy.

As he sat there, this sergeant-mechanic came up and said, “Don’t feel so bad about it, Colonel.”

Doolittle paid no attention. But the sergeant kept at him.

It’s not as bad as it seems. Why, I’ll bet you that within a year you’ll have a Congressional Medal for it and be a brigadier general.

Doolittle just snorted. The sergeant said:

Well, I’ll bet you so, And I’d like to ask one thing. As long as you’re flying, I’d like to be your mechanic.

That finally got inside Doolittle’s gloom. Somebody had confidence in him. He began to buck up. So, he said:

Son, as long as I’ve got an airplane, you’re its mechanic, even if we live to be a thousand years old.

As you know, he did get a Congressional Medal of Honor, and now he has not only one star but the three of a lieutenant general. And that sergeant, who devoted himself to Col. Doolittle that miserable night out there in China, was still Gen. Doolittle’s mechanic the night they landed at Youks-les-Bains in February of 1943. He was one of the men who ran for the shell hole that night.

Gen. Doolittle had to write the letter to his parents.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (June 10, 1944)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

EDITOR’S NOTE: Ernie Pyle arrived on the beachhead with the Allied assault forces. Transmission difficulties have so far prevented his sending any account of his experiences in Normandy. The following, written on the way across the Channel, describes some of the preliminaries to the invasion.

On the Normandy beachhead – (June 6, delayed)
It will be several days before military security permits us to describe in much detail the landings just made in the long-awaited Allied invasion of Europe.

Indeed, it will be some time before we have a really clear picture of what has happened or what is happening at the moment. You must experience the terrible confusion of warfare and frantic, nightmarish thunder and smoke and bedlam of battle to realize this. So, we will take up this short interval by telling you how things led up to the invasion from the correspondents’ viewpoint. This column is being written on a ship in a convoy, crossing the English Channel, so that it will be ready to send back to England by dispatch boat as soon as we hit the beach.

When we secretly left London a few days ago, more than 45 American correspondents were gathered in Britain for this impending moment in history.

But only 28 of those 450 were to take part in what was termed the assault phase. I was one of those 28. Some of the rest will come over later, some will cover other armies, some will never come at all.

We assault correspondents were under military jurisdiction for the past month while waiting. We had complete freedom in London, but occasionally the Army would suddenly order us in batches to take trips around England.

Also, during those last few weeks we were called frequently to mass conferences and we were briefed by several commanding generals. We had completed all our field equipment, got our inoculations up to date, finished our official accrediting to Supreme Allied Headquarters, and even sent off our bedrolls 10 days before the final call (We will rejoin them some time later on this side – we hope).

Of the 28 correspondents in the Assault Group about two-thirds has already seen action in various war theaters. The old-timers sort of gravitated together, people such as Bill Stoneman, Don Whitehead, Jack Thompson, Clark Lee, Tex O’Reilly and myself.

We conjectured on when we would get the final call; conjectured on what assignments we would draw, for only a few of us knew what unit we would go with. And in more pensive moments we also conjectured on our chances of coming through alive.

We felt our chances were not very good. And we were not happy about it. Men like Don Whitehead and Clark Lee, who had been through the mill so long and so boldly, began to get nerves. And frankly I was the worst of the lot, and continued to be.

I began having terrible periods of depression and often would dream hideous dreams about it. All the time fear lay blackly deep upon our consciousness. It bore down on your heart like an all-consuming weight. People would talk to you and you wouldn’t hear what they were saying.

The Army said they would try and give us 24 hours’ notice of departure. Actually, the call came at 9 o’clock one morning and we were ordered to be at a certain place with full field kit at 10:30. Some went away and left hotel rooms still running up bills. Many had dates that night but did not dare to phone and call them off.

As we arrived one by one at the appointed place, we looked both knowingly and sheepishly at each other. The Army continued to tell us that was just another exercise, but we knew inside ourselves that this was it.

Bill Stoneham, who has been wounded once, never shows the slightest concern about these things. Whether he feels any concern or not, I do not know. Bill has a humorous, sardonic manner. While we were waiting for departure into the unknown, he took out a pencil and notebook as though starting to interview me.

Tell me, Mr. Pyle, how does it feel to be an assault correspondent?

Being a man made of few words, I said, “It feels awful.”

When everybody was ready, our luggage went into a truck and we went into jeeps. I can’t tell you where we boarded the ship, of course, but I can say I personally rode two days in a jeep and made the last 30 miles on a 2½-ton truck.

The first night we spent all together at an assembly area in an Army tent camp. There we drew our final battle kit – such things as clothing impregnated against gas attack, a shovel to dig foxholes, seasickness capsules, a carton of cigarettes, a medical kit, rations and one funny little item which I can’t mention but which was good for many purposes, we also drew three blankets just for the night, since our bedrolls had gone on ahead.

The weather was cold and three blankets were not enough. I hardly slept at all. When we awakened early the next morning, Jack Thompson said, “That’s the coldest night I have ever spent.”

Don Whitehead said, “It’s just as miserable as it always was.”

You see, we had all been living comfortably in hotels or apartments for the last few weeks. We had got a little soft, and here we were again starting back to the old horrible life we had known for so long – sleeping on the ground, only cold water, rations, foxholes, and dirt. We were off to war again.