Roving Reporter, Ernie Pyle

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (November 13, 1944)

Pyle honored by Indiana University

Bloomington, Indiana (UP) –
Ernie Pyle, Scripps-Howard war correspondent, came back home again to Indiana today to receive an honorary degree from Indiana University as “an accurate reporter with a yen to write about common people and ordinary things.”

From the university, his alma mater, Pyle received the honorary degree of doctor of humane letters. It was his second honorary degree within a month, the University of New Mexico having granted him one earlier.

In the audience were his father, William C. Pyle, and his “Aunt Mary” Bales, who came to Bloomington from their home at Dana, Indiana, for the ceremony.

President Herman B. Wells of Indiana University conferred the degree.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (November 15, 1944)

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (November 21, 1944)

Editorial: Stampede!

By Ernie Pyle

The Treasury Department asked Ernie Pyle to write a special article for use in the Sixth War Loan Drive. The most appropriate place to publish it, it seems to us, is this editorial column. Here it is:

This little piece comes more in the blood-bank category than in the bond-buying one, yet if you’ll apply it to your bond-buying, it may help save a great deal of blood.

This fall I came home from France on a ship that carried 1,000 of our wounded American soldiers. About a fourth of them were terribly wounded stretcher cases. The rest were up and about. These others could walk, though among the walking were many legs and arms missing, many eyes that could not see.

Well, there was one hospitalized soldier who was near death on this trip. He was wounded internally, and the Army doctors were trying desperately to keep him alive until we got to America. They operated several times, and they kept pouring plasma and whole blood into him constantly, until they ran out of whole blood.

I happened to be in the head doctor’s cabin at noon one day when he was talking about this boy. He said he had his other doctors at that moment going around the ship typing blood specimens from several of the ship’s officers, and from unwounded Army and Navy officers aboard. They were doing it almost surreptitiously, for they didn’t want it to get out that they needed blood.

And why didn’t they want it to get out? Because if it had, there would have been a stampede to the hospital ward by the other wounded men, offering their blood to this dying comrade. Think of that – a stampede of men themselves badly wounded, wanting to give their blood!

If they, who had already given so much, were willing to give even more for their fellow men, isn’t it the least we can do for those fellow men still fighting to stampede to the bond counter?

[NormanStewart]

Vorarlberger Tagblatt (November 27, 1944)

Unsere Meinung: Er hat genug

Der amerikanische Kriegskorrespondent Ernie Pyle hat bisher 700.000 Worte über den Krieg gekabelt. Das hören wir von der amerikanischen Zeitschrift Life, die über Pyle sagt, er sei derjenige amerikanische Journalist, der die Empfindungen des einfachen Durchschnitts-amerikaners am besten mitfühle und am anschaulichsten wiedergebe.

Jetzt hat sich Pyle von der Kriegsberichterstattung zurückgezogen. An Bord eines Lazarettschiffes fährt er in die Staaten heim.

Was hat ihn bewogen, nicht noch weitere 700.000 Worte über den Krieg zu kabeln?

Pyle gibt eine Erklärung dafür. Er sagt:

Ich bin zu Ende. Meine geistige Ermüdung ist zu groß. Es sind Zuviel verwirrende, nachdenklich machende Eindrücke bei diesem Westfeldzug auf mich eingedrungen. Ich hatte das Gefühl, ich würde zusammenbrechen, wenn ich über diesen Krieg seit Beginn der Invasion noch einen weiteren Artikel schreiben sollte.

Dem Kriegsberichter Pyle scheint allesmögliche, aufgefallen zu sein bei diesem Westfeldzug des Generals Eisenhower. Darum ist er nachdenklich geworden. Er meint, es sei genug, wenn 700.000 Worte über diese Sache geschrieben worden sind.

Es ist eben vieles anders gekommen, als die nordamerikanischen Strategen, sich das gedacht hatten. Sie rechneten mit einem leichten Sieg, nun aber sehen sie sich gegen eine Mauer, die Feuer speit, anrennen.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (December 29, 1944)

Pyle satisfied with G.I. film

Hollywood, California (UP) –
Columnist Ernie Pyle, en route to the Western Pacific after a three-month respite from war coverage, seemed well-satisfied with the movie version of his bestseller, Here Is Your War.

“I really couldn’t tell much about it,” he said, after looking over preliminary “takes” of the film, The Story of G.I. Joe. “It was all in pieces, but it looked like they were trying to do it right.”

Pyle, who came home from the fighting in France for a rest, said he hadn’t had two hours to himself since he got back and actually wasn’t rested at all.

Most of his time, he admitted, was taken by “a thousand and one details,” and a heavy correspondence with G.I. friends overseas.

He read the complete manuscript of his latest book, Brave Men, for the first time a few days ago, he said, and noted in passing that 15 of the men mentioned in it have been killed.

“Fifteen that I’ve heard about, that is,” he added.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (January 11, 1945)

Pyle gets no rest on front porch

San Francisco, California (UP) –
Ernie Pyle, columnist and war correspondent, said today that he was going to cover the Pacific War “not because I want to, but just because something inside me says I’ve got to.”

The 112-pound correspondent said that although friends think he looks very well, he was unable to rest during the three and a half months he spent at his Albuquerque, New Mexico, home after covering the war in Africa, Italy and France.

“It was no rest – not even a total of a half day sunning myself alone on the front porch,” Mr. Pyle said.

[NormanStewart]

Cadet nurse assumes role in Pyle’s movie

Hollywood, California (UP) –
Beulah Tyler, the girl whose face smiles from Cadet Nurse Corps recruitment posters, arrived from Alexandria, Virginia, today to play the role of an Army nurse in Story of G.I. Joe, the motion picture based on columnist Ernie Pyle’s book.

Miss Tyler, a junior cadet nurse at Alexandria Hospital school of nursing, and the only authentic nurse in the picture, was selected for her role by producer Lester Cowan.

She is using her vacation time to aid nurse recruitment by appearing in the film and plans to become a Navy nurse after graduation.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 11, 1945)

The Roving Reporter –
Ernie off to the wars once more – this time with Navy in the Pacific

By Ernie Pyle

Ernie Pyle is returning to the wars. This time he is with the Navy, and his field will be the Pacific. He has already left San Francisco.

After covering the American campaigns in Africa, Sicily, Italy and France, Ernie took a prolonged rest. Most of his war experiences have been with the infantry; and for a change he has been accredited to the Navy, which is now engaged in some of the war’s biggest operations in the Pacific. Ernie plans to continue with the Navy for several months and then go ashore to rejoin the beloved infantry in one of the big campaigns that lie ahead in the Pacific.

This column was written by Ernie before leaving San Francisco. Three other columns written before his departure will be printed for the next three days, and then by Thursday, February 15, we hope to start receiving some of Ernie’s columns dealing with his new assignment.

SAN FRANCISCO, California – Well, here we go again.

It has been four months since I wrote my last column, from France. In four months of non-production a writer gets out of the habit. He forgets the rhythm of words; falls into the easy habit of not making himself think or feel in self-expression.

This first column is a mankiller. Your mind automatically resents the task of focusing itself again. Your thoughts are scattered and you can’t get them together to put onto paper. Words came hard. You curse the day you ever took up writing to make a living.

So, until I’m once more immersed in the routine of daily writing, and transported once more into the one-track world of war, I’m afraid you’ll have to be tolerant with me.

There’s nothing nice about the prospect of going back to war again. Anybody who has been in war and wants to go back is a plain fool in my book.

I’m certainly not going because I’ve got itchy feet again, or because I can’t stand America, or because there’s any mystic fascination about war that is drawing me back.

I’m going simply because there’s a war on and I’m part of it and I’ve known all the time I was going back. I’m going because I’ve got to.

This time it will be the Pacific. When I left France last fall, we thought the war in Europe was about over. I say “we” because I mean almost everybody over there thought so. I felt it was so near the end I could come home and before the time came to go again, that side of the war would be finished, and only the Pacific would be left.

But it didn’t turn out that way. Now nobody knows how long the European War will last. Naturally all my friends and associations and sentiments are on that side. I suppose down in my heart I would rather go back to that side. For over in Europe, I know the tempo of the battle; I feel at home with it in a way.

Going with Navy

And yet I think it’s best to stick with the original plan and go on to the Pacific. There are a lot of guys in that war, too. They are the same guys who are fighting on the other side, only with different names, that’s all.

I’m going with the Navy this time, since the Navy is so dominant in the Pacific, and since I’ve done very little in the past on that part of the service, I won’t stay with the Navy for the duration – probably two or three months, and then back ashore again with those noble souls, the Doughfoots.

Security forbids telling you just what the plans are. But I can say that I’ll fly across the Pacific, and join ship on the other side. Aboard ship I’ll be out of touch with the world on long cruises. It may be there will be lapses in the daily column, simply because it’s impossible to transmit these pieces. But we’ll do our best to keep them going steadily.

I haven’t figured out yet what I’m going to do about seasickness. I’m one of those unfortunates with a terrific stomach on land, but one that turns to whey and jelly when I get aboard ship. I know of nothing that submerges the muse in a man as much as the constant compulsion to throw up. Perhaps I should take along my own oil to spread on the troubled waters.

Receives warnings

Friends warn me about all kinds of horrible diseases in the Pacific. About dysentery, and malaria, and fungus that gets in your ears and your intestines, and that horrible swelling disease known as elephantiasis.

Well, all I can say is that I’m God’s gift to germs. Those fungi will shout and leap for joy when I show up. Maybe I can play the Pied Piper role – maybe the germs will all follow me when I get there, and leave the rest of the boys free to fight.

So, what with disease, Japs, seasickness, and shot and shell – you see I’m not too overwhelmed with relief at starting out again.

But there’s one thing in my favor where I’m going; one thing that will make life bearable when all else is darkness and gloom. And that one thing is that, out in the Pacific, I’ll be good and stinking hot. Oh boy!

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 12, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Ernie Pyle is with the Navy in the Pacific. Pending receipt of his dispatches from that war theater, we are publishing four articles he wrote before his takeoff from San Francisco, of which the following is the second.

SAN FRANCISCO, California – This column is being written in San Francisco before taking off for the Pacific.

If you can bear a little reminiscing, I’d like to go back over these past four months of furlough, and bring you up to date on the Prodigal Son’s recent activities.

Well, since leaving France and returning to America, I have–

Crossed the continent three times. Had eight teeth filled. Spent my first Christmas with “That Girl” since the war started. Mowed the lawn once.

I’ve sat up all night three nights on trains, and three nights on airplanes. I’ve said “no” to many requests to speak, and have managed to keep well supplied with cigarettes.

Kind people have flooded me with gifts. Mayor Clyde Tingley of Albuquerque opened it with a $500 wristwatch, which so overwhelmed me that I left it in a safety deposit box back home. Who would dare wear a $500 wristwatch?

I’ve had luscious apples from Washington State, pecans from Mississippi, half a dozen homemade hunting knives, two college degrees, a Texas cowboy belt, two foxhole shovels, one baby jeep, sunglasses for the Pacific, and one noble friend came through with 10 pounds of bacon.

We’ve had so much company at our house in Albuquerque that one night I slept on a canvas cot in the woodshed, and one night on the living room floor in my new sleeping bag (I didn’t sleep very well either).

Despite all the frenzy, I’ve felt almost pathetic in my happiness at being home. I’ve had a wonderful time. The older I get the better I like being alive. I wish it could go on forever.

What of home front?

People are always asking what I think of the “home front,” expecting me of course to raise hell about it.

Well, I don’t know. In the first place it’s so wonderful to be home that I find myself reluctant to criticize or even admit any flaws in the home front.

It is true that a great many people don’t know there’s a war on, or don’t seem to care. And yet I realize that I could very easily let myself sit down and take it easy and never think of war again, except in an academic way.

It’s almost impossible – sometimes infuriating in a helpless sort of way – to talk to most civilians feelingly about the war.

On trains and in public places I find myself drifting automatically to boys in uniform with overseas ribbons or service stripes, for we can talk the same language.

As an example of what I mean, one man said one day in complete good faith, “Tell me now, just exactly what is it you don’t like about war?”

Service act favored

All I could do was look at him in shock and say “Good God, if you don’t know, then I could never tell you.” It’s little things like that which make returning soldiers feel their misery has all been in vain.

I don’t think America at home is either unwilling or incapable of getting fully into the war. We need only to be told more what to do, and to have scarcities and firmness applied clear across the board.

Personally, I’m glad for the President’s proposal for a national service act. I think it will stiffen up the whole American nation, and through touching almost every family, make people buckle down. That, and the casualties that lie ahead of us.

I believe the worst of our war is still to come, and that before it is over everybody in America will really feel it. I hope so, because then the boys overseas won’t feel so lonesome.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 13, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Ernie Pyle has left San Francisco on an assignment with the Navy in the Pacific. He will remain with the Navy for several months and then go ashore to join the infantry – which is so close to Ernie’s heart – in some phase of the great campaigns now developing in the Pacific.

The following column was written before Ernie left San Francisco. His first direct report on his new assignment is expected in a day or two.

SAN FRANCISCO, California – Some of you old-time readers who’ve hung on faithfully to this column for years, might like to know how some of my personal affairs are getting along, since I’ve always worn all the family intimacies on my sleeve.

Take our little dog for instance – “Cheetah.” When I got home, she was in the midst of a romantic spell, and had a lot of strange men-dogs whom I’ve never met hanging around outside the picket fence.

But the romantic business has passed, and now she’s as quiet and lazy as an old woman. She never barks, never makes any trouble, and is always full of that most gracious of all dog gifts – affection for her masters. The little Shepherd is earning her way too Dog Heaven by perpetual good conduct.

Or take “That Girl,” whom you used to read so much about before the war, and who for all those long years of peacetime traveling, rode beside me.

I haven’t written much about her in recent years, because I haven’t seen much of her. The war has done the same thing to us that it has to millions of others. In the last four years, we have been together only on these little excursion trips to America.

She has kept the hearth in Albuquerque – under difficulties. She is back there now, trying to cope with the prospect of another year alone.

Folks in Indiana

And my folks in Indiana – I visited them twice on this furlough in America, both visits all too short, but better than some.

My father and my Aunt Mary are still on the farm, three miles outside the little town of Dana. They have repapered the house and rearranged the furniture, and they are very comfortable.

My father still limps from his hip fracture of a year ago. And his eyes are very bad now, and he can’t see to read. But he gets around all right, and even drives the car to town now and then. We think he shouldn’t be driving, but every time Aunt Mary mentions that, he goes out and get in the car and drives it to town, so she’s stopped mentioning it.

Dad listens a lot to the radio, and helps with the dishes, and Aunt Mary reads to him at night, and last summer he even helped some with the harvesting when the neighbors were hard up for help. he raises a few chickens. Outside of that, life is without duties or energy for him.

Aunt Mary keeps busy

Aunt Mary is almost 79, and her spirit is boundless. She goes all day long, like a 16-year-old. She cooks the meals, cleans the house, works in the garden, does the washing for two or three families, goes to her club meetings and to church, does things for the neighbors, and never finds time to sit down.

I was amused at a letter that came from her the other day. One of our neighbors, Mrs. Howard Goforth, came down with a violent rheumatism. So, Aunt Mary drove over and put hot cloths on her for several hours, got noontime dinner for the farmhands, did the weekly washing, and then got supper ready for them before she came home for her own evening chores.

Next day a blizzard was on. The ice was so slick she didn’t dare take the car out of the garage. The snow on the roads was two feet deep and it was bitter cold.

So, what did Aunt Mary do? She just bundled up and walked three-quarters of a mile over to Goforths, worked all day, and then walked back in the evening through the snow. She sure doesn’t take after her nephew.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 14, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

Before leaving for the Pacific theater of war with the Navy, Ernie Pyle visited Hollywood to look in on the picture being produced on the basis of his columns from the African and European war theaters. Ernie is reluctant to discuss the picture and has paid little attention to it, but the public’s interest in it has been keen. Therefore, he was asked to write a column dealing with his impressions of the movie version of his reporting, and it follows. This column was written before Ernie left San Francisco. Tomorrow the Press will print Ernie’s first column based on his new assignment.

SAN FRANCISCO, California – And now about the movie which is being partly based on these columns from the war fronts over the last two years.

Well, the movie is finished at last. I mean the shooting is finished. But there are a lot of things we laymen don’t know about the movies, and one of them i9s that a film isn’t ready to show for about three months after they’ve finished shooting. So, I don’t expect you’ll be seeing it till April or May.

They are still calling it The Story of G.I. Joe. I never did like the title, but nobody could think up a better one, and I was too lazy to try. There is a possibility they’ll change it.

It is a movie about the Infantry. There isn’t much of a story to it, and there’s no conventional love interest running through it.

The War Department cooperated, and furnished two companies of soldiers who were moved to Hollywood, plus lots of equipment such as trucks, tanks, guns and whatnot.

The soldiers all grew beards, and although they got awfully itchy, the boys said the girls in Hollywood sure do go for a soft flossy beard. The only tragedy was when one soldier’s beard caught fire one day, and he got pretty badly burned. I don’t know whether he got a Purple Heart for that or not.

No punches pulled

The six main soldier characters in the picture were played by professional actors. But the run-of-the-mill soldiers were played by real soldiers. As was expected, a couple of the real soldiers turned out to be “finds” as actors. By the time you see the picture, practically all the soldiers in it will be filming overseas.

I spent a week in Hollywood nosing into the picture in October, another week in December, and Hollywood people were dropping off every plane, film and stage coach that passed through Albuquerque all the time I was home.

We had Hollywood writers, directors, actors, producers, photographers and research experts by the dozen at our house. The only thing Hollywood didn’t send over to Albuquerque in search of enlightenment and advice was beautiful girls, and I guess they don’t need advice.

I still don’t know whether it will be a good picture or not, but I think it will. Certainly, there are some magnificent scenes in it, and certainly it pulls no punches in showing the mud and misery and fear of an infantryman’s life.

If it isn’t a good picture, it will not be for lack of good intentions. They have worked a year and a half of it, and spent over a million dollars. They’ve slaved to avoid “Hollywooding” it. They’ve sought, and listened to advice from men who know what war is.

They’ve had at least one veteran war correspondent there all the time. The Army has kept never less than three overseas veterans of combat out there constantly. As I left Hollywood, one of these veterans said, “I think it’s going to be a good picture. At least I think it will be the most authentic war picture ever made.”

‘Uglier than Pyle’

My own part in it is very minor, as it should be, for this is a picture about the Infantry, not about me. My part is played by Capt. Burgess Meredith.

The makeup men shaved his head and wrinkled his face and made him up so well that he’s even uglier than I am, poor fellow.

The picture was directed by “Wild Bill” Wellman, one of Hollywood’s top men. Wellman is a picturesque director, wild with enthusiasm, and everything he sees is either the greatest thing he ever saw in his life, or the worst thing. Thank goodness, he thinks this picture comes in the former category.

The picture was produced by Lester Cowan, an independent through United Artists. If it’s a lousy picture, poor Lester will have to face the wrath of about two million irate soldiers. If it isn’t a lousy picture, then he can float on air for years.

An almost anonymous person whose hand bore strongly on the picture is an old Indiana school friend of mine named Paige Cavanaugh. Being one of my closest friends, he quit whatever he was doing last spring and went to work for Lester Cowan, largely to insure, as Lester puts it, that “Cowan didn’t louse Pyle up.”

But as time went on Cavanaugh’s innate good sense began to make an impression around Hollywood, and in the end, they have leaned heavily on his judgment. Cavanaugh, being a farmer at heart, still sneers at Hollywood, but he’s got a gleam in his eye that looks permanent to me.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 15, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

HONOLULU, Hawaii – The hour of leaving came at last.

Usually when starting overseas, you don’t get away on the day the transportation people originally set for you. I remember when I first started going to war, how impatient at delay I would be, and how I would fret myself into a frenzy over every day of waiting. But time changes things like that.

This time also there was a delay of a few days. Every one of them I welcomed with a big embrace. I felt like saying to it, “Ah, my love, you are the day of my dreams. You are my one more day of security – how I cherish you.”

But the final day came, and at last the hour, I put on my uniform again for a long, long time, and sent my civilian clothes to a friend in Los Angeles to keep for me.

It was night when we left San Francisco. We flew in a huge four-motored land plane, operated by the Naval Air Transport Service. In the Navy, they call it “NATS,” as though it spelled a word.

The Army’s equivalent is the ATC. I’ve flown on both of them so much I feel like a stockholder. They fly all over the world on clock-like schedule, over all the oceans and all the continents, carrying wartime mail and cargo and passengers.

Nonstop to Hawaii

I’ve flown the Atlantic four times, but this was my first flight across the Pacific. You go nonstop from California to Hawaii. It’s about the same distance as crossing the continent, yet it was as easy as flying from Albuquerque to Los Angeles.

We left shortly after suppertime, and were over Honolulu a little after daylight next morning. There was simply nothing unusual at all to report about it.

Shortly after we took off, I got some blankets and lay down on the floor in the rear of the plane. When I woke up it was just getting daylight, and we had only an hour to go. That’s the way I like to fly an ocean.

All of us had left California in our woolen winter uniforms. But when we stepped out of the plane in Honolulu, those heavy clothes almost made us sick. By the time we go through the formalities and left the field, we were all dripping and swabbing ourselves.

In Honolulu, I stayed in the home of a naval friend. The first thing we did was take a shower bath, change to light khaki clothes, and eat a plateful of beautiful yellow papaya. A wonderful tropical feeling of well-being came over you.

A naval houseboy named Flores, a native of Guam, took care of us. He washed our clothes and made our beds and fixed us fruit juice and papaya all day long.

A squat Hawaiian woman, in blue slacks and with a red bandana around her head, watered the lawn over and over and over again, very slowly.

The sun shown brightly and white clouds ran an embroidery over the ridges of the far green hills. Palm trees rustled like rain, and the deep whistles of departing ships came from the harbor below us. This, truly, was the Pacific.

No rationing

The trip over had not exhausted me, but the change of climate did, and for a day I did nothing but loaf – and recover from America – and bask in being warm.

Then I started making the rounds of completing my Navy credentials, and of seeing friends. Lt. Cdr. Max Miller and I stocked up with cigarettes, against the possibility of shortages farther west. Actually you can buy cigarettes (your favorite brand, too) right downtown in Honolulu.

There is no rationing of anything in Honolulu, and no blackout any longer either. Rationing doesn’t exist because practically everything here is considered military, and also because shipping space from the mainland is an automatic rationer.

The great number of uniforms on the streets and the 10 o’clock curfew are the most vivid reminders of the war in Honolulu. That and the vast growth and construction that has occurred since Pearl Harbor.

Otherwise, the war seems far away. The grimness of Pearl Harbor has gone. In many respects the newcomer, beguiled by the climate and the loveliness of everything, and the softness, feels more remote from the war than he did back home.

And so I treated my little Honolulu interlude as another reprieve. I sat with old friends; I made a sentimental visit to the little tropical apartment on Waikiki where “That Girl” and I lived for a winter seven years ago; I went to parties and listened almost tearfully to the sweet singing of Hawaiians.

I relished the short time here in complacency, and didn’t even pretend that I was starting out to report the Pacific war. All that would come soon enough.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 16, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

HONOLULU, Hawaii (delayed) – Covering this Pacific war is, for me, going to be like learning to live in a new city.

The methods of war, the attitude toward it, the homesickness, the distances, the climate – everything is different from what we have known in the European war.

Here in the beginning. I can’t seem to get my mind around it, or get my fingers on it. I suspect it will take months to get adjusted and get the “feel” of this war.

Distance is the main thing. I don’t mean distance from America so much, for our war in Europe is a long way from home too. I mean distances after you get right on the battlefield.

For the whole western Pacific is our battlefield now, and whereas distances in Europe are hundreds of miles at most, out here they are thousands. And there’s nothing in between but water.

You can be on an island battlefield, and the next thing behind you is a thousand miles away. One soldier told me the worst sinking feeling he ever had was when they had landed on an island and were fighting, and on the morning of D-3 he looked out to sea and it was completely empty. Our entire convoy had unloaded and left for more, and boy, did it leave you with a lonesome and deserted feeling.

Like slow-motion movies

As one admiral said, directing this war is like watching a slow-motion picture. You plan something for months, and then finally the great day comes when you launch your plans, and then it is days or weeks before the attack happens, because it takes that long to get there.

As an example of how they feel, the Navy gives you a slick sheet of paper as you go through here, entitled “Airline Distances in Pacific.” And at the bottom of it is printed “Our Enemy, Geography.” Logistics out there is more than a word; it’s a nightmare.

Here’s another example of their attitude toward distances in the Pacific–

At Anzio in Italy just a year ago, the Third Division set up a rest camp for its exhausted infantrymen. The rest camp was less than five miles from the front line, within constant enemy artillery range.

But in the Pacific, they bring men clear back from the western islands to Pearl Harbor to rest camps – the equivalent of bringing an Anzio Beachhead fighter all the way back to Kansas City for his two-weeks rest.

It’s 3,500 miles from Pearl Harbor to the Marianas, all over water, yet hundreds of people travel it daily by air as casually as you’d go to work in the morning.

Another enemy

And there is another enemy out here that we did not know so well in Europe – and that is monotony. Oh sure, war everywhere is monotonous in its dreadfulness. But out here even the niceness of life gets monotonous.

The days are warm and on our established island bases the food is good and the mail service is fast and there’s little danger from the enemy and the days go by in their endless sameness and they drive you nuts. They sometimes call it going “pineapple crazy.”

Our high rate of returning mental cases is discussed frankly in the island and service newspapers. A man doesn’t have to be under fire in the front lines finally to have more than he can take without breaking.

He can, when isolated and homesick, have more than he can take of nothing but warmth and sunshine and good food and safety – when there’s nothing else to go with it, and no prospect of anything else.

Japs are different

And another adjustment I’ll have to make is the attitude toward the enemy. In Europe, we felt our enemies, horrible and deadly as they were, were still people.

But out here I’ve already gathered the feeling that the Japanese are looked upon as something unhuman and squirmy – like some people feel about cockroaches or mice.

I’ve seen one group of Japanese prisoners in a wire-fenced courtyard, and they were wrestling and laughing and talking just as humanly as anybody. And yet they gave me a creepy feeling, and I felt in need of a mental bath after looking at them.

I’ve not yet got to the front, or anywhere near it, to find out how the average soldier or sailor or Marine feels about the thing he’s fighting. But I’ll bet he doesn’t feel the same way our men in Europe feel.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 17, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE MARIANA ISLANDS (delayed) – Now we are far, far away from everything that was home or seemed like home. Five thousand miles from America, and 12,000 miles from my friends fighting on the German border.

Twelve thousand miles from Sidi Bouzid and Venafro and Troina and St. Mere-Eglise – names as unheard of on this side of the world as are Kwajalein and Chichi Jima and Ulithi on the other side.

The Pacific names are all new to me too, all except the outstanding ones. For those fighting one war do not pay much attention to the other war. Each one thinks his war is the worst and the most important war. And unquestionably it is.

We came to the Marianas by airplane from Honolulu. The weather was perfect, and yet so long and grinding was the journey that it eventually became a blur, and at the end I could not even remember what day we had left Honolulu, although actually it was only the day before.

We came in the same kind of plane that brought us from California – a huge four-motored Douglas transport, flown by the Naval Air Transport Service.

Formality dropped

As soon as we were in the air, Lt. Cmdr. Max Miller and I took off our neckties and put on our house slippers. West of Pearl Harbor, military formality immediately drops away. For example, in Honolulu, all naval officers must wear neckties. But the moment you leave Pearl Harbor they come off, and you never see them again.

Max and I read a while in the two books we had brought with us – Thurber’s My World and Welcome to It, and Joseph Mitchell’s McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon.

But good as they both are, we couldn’t seem to keep out minds on them, and pretty soon we were more willingly absorbed in a wonderfully informative book the Navy issues to westbound friends, called Guide to the Western Pacific.

Dots – but they find ‘em

We made but two stops in the 3,500-mile journey to the Marianas, and how we ever found those two tiny islands is beyond me, for they were the merest dots in the wide ocean. But they find them all the time, so who am I to worry?

Our first step was at Johnston Island, four hours out from Honolulu. As it came into view, I was shocked at how tiny it is. It is hardly bigger than a few airplane carriers lashed together, and it hasn’t got a tree on it.

Yet it has been developed into an airfield that will take the biggest planes, and several hundred Americans live and work there.

Chasing darkness

We stopped there for an hour in late afternoon, and then we took off and headed west and soon it was dark. Gradually the passengers went to sleep in their seats. There was nothing to see out of the windows but darkness; a long night over the Pacific lay ahead of us. The night was extra long, for we were chasing the darkness.

The flight orderly brought a blanket for each of us, and the passengers wrapped up. But soon most of them unwrapped, for the cabin was heated, and even at high altitude it became almost too bad.

It was after midnight when we could sense by the motors’ tone and the pressure in our ears that we were coming down. We couldn’t feel that we were coning down. We couldn’t feel that we were turning but we were, for now the moon would be high on one side of us, and a few moments later it would be low on the other side of us.

And then suddenly there were lights smack underneath us, lights of what seemed a good-sized little town, and then at last we were on the ground in an unbelievably hustling airport, teeming with men and planes and lights. The place was Kwajalein.

Great air base

That’s not hard to pronounce if you don’t try too hard. Just say “Kwa-juh-leen.” It’s in the Marshall Islands. There, during last March and April, American soldiers and Marines killed 10,000 Japanese, and opened our island stepping-stone path straight across the mid-Pacific.

Even today our Seabees can’t dig a trench for a sewer pipe without digging up dead Japanese. But even so the island is transformed, as we so rapidly transform all our islands that are destroyed in the taking. It is a great air base now.

Naval officers met our plane despite the hour, loaded us into jeeps, and drove us a few hundred yards to a mess hall. A cool night breeze was blowing, and it seemed wonderful to be on the ground again, even such scant and sorrowed ground as this.

For an hour we sat around a white-linened table and drank coffee and sipped iced fruit juice. You would hardly have known you were not in America. And then we were off again, to fly through the sightless night, westward and on westward.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 18, 1945)

Ernie leaves Marianas –
Pyle believed in on Tokyo raids as first taste of war in Pacific

Preview of Jap POWs makes him creepy

Ernie Pyle has left the Marianas on his long trip to the Pacific front and last reports from him indicated that he is now aboard an American aircraft carrier – probably participating in one of the great naval actions now going in the Pacific.

“Covering this Pacific war is, for me, going to be like learning to live in a new city,” Ernie cabled from Honolulu. “The methods of war, the attitude toward it, the homesickness, the distances, the climate – everything is different from what we have known as the European War.”

Famous as the correspondent who has best pictured G.I. Joe in the campaigns in Africa, Sicily, Italy and France, Ernie finds the Pacific war an experience so new that he is constantly amazed.

And because he is a greenhorn in the Pacific, he has started to reveal the little details of that vast conflict which impress him and which will picture it to American readers as it has not been pictured before.

From Honolulu, Ernie’s first stop on his assignment with the Navy, he cabled:

Distance is the main thing. I don’t mean distance from America so much, for our war in Europe is a long way from home too. I mean distances after you get right on the battlefield.

For the whole western Pacific is our battlefield now, and whereas distances in Europe are hundreds of miles at most, out here they are thousands. And there’s nothing in between but water.

You can be on an island battlefield, and the next thing behind you is a thousand miles away. One soldier told me the worst sinking feeling he ever had was when they had landed on an island and were fighting, and on the morning of D-3 he looked out to sea and it was completely empty. Our entire convoy had unloaded and left for more, and boy, did it leave you with a lonesome and deserted feeling.

Hundreds of people daily travel the 3,500 miles between Pearl Harbor and the Marianas, Ernie wrote, “as casually as you’d go to work in the morning.”

The days are warm and on our established island bases the food is good and the mail service is fast and there’s little danger from the enemy and the days go by in their endless sameness and they drive you nuts. They sometimes call it going “pineapple crazy.”

Our high rate of returning mental cases is discussed frankly in the island and service newspapers. A man doesn’t have to be under fire in the front lines finally to have more than he can take without breaking.

And another adjustment I’ll have to make is the attitude toward the enemy. In Europe, we felt our enemies, horrible and deadly as they were, were still people.

But out here I’ve already gathered the feeling that the Japanese are looked upon as something unhuman and squirmy – like some people feel about cockroaches or mice.

I’ve seen one group of Japanese prisoners in a wire-fenced courtyard, and they were wrestling and laughing and talking just as humanly as anybody. And yet they gave me a creepy feeling, and I felt in need of a mental bath after looking at them.

In the Marianas, from whence he later flew to join the aircraft carrier, Ernie cabled that “we are far, far away from everything that was home or seemed like home.”

He wrote:

The Pacific names are all new to me too, all except the outstanding ones. For those fighting one war do not pay much attention to the other war. Each one thinks his war is the worst and the most important war. And unquestionably it is.

We came to the Marianas by airplane from Honolulu. The weather was perfect, and yet so long and grinding was the journey that it eventually became a blur, and at the end I could not even remember what day we had left Honolulu, although actually it was only the day before.

We came in the same kind of plane that brought us from California – a huge four-motored Douglas transport, flown by the Naval Air Transport Service.

Our first step was at Johnston Island, four hours out from Honolulu. As it came into view, I was shocked at how tiny it is. It is hardly bigger than a few airplane carriers lashed together, and it hasn’t got a tree on it.

Yet it has been developed into an airfield that will take the biggest planes, and several hundred Americans live and work there.

From Johnston Island another long hop, this time at night, and then Ernie wrote:

Suddenly there were lights smack underneath us, lights of what seemed a good-sized little town, and then at last we were on the ground in an unbelievably hustling airport, teeming with men and planes and lights. The place was Kwajalein.

That’s not hard to pronounce if you don’t try too hard. Just say “Kwa-juh-leen.” It’s in the Marshall Islands. There, during last March and April, American soldiers and Marines killed 10,000 Japanese, and opened our island stepping-stone path straight across the mid-Pacific.

Even today our Seabees can’t dig a trench for a sewer pipe without digging up dead Japanese. But even so the island is transformed, as we so rapidly transform all our islands that are destroyed in the taking. It is a great air base now.

Ernie Pyle is fortunately participating in the Navy’s greatest Pacific actions. His dispatches from the aircraft carrier to which he is now attached will appear in The Pittsburgh Press daily. Watch for tomorrow’s Pyle story.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 19, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE MARIANA ISLANDS (delayed) – After you take off from one of the island stops crossing the Pacific, your plane climbs noisily and laboriously for about half an hour, then it levels off into steady and less labored flight.

Gradually the intense tropical heat of the ground fades away, and a chill comes over a cabin. Then the flight orderly turns on the heater, and adjusts it until you are comfortable in your light clothes, even without a jacket.

It was after midnight when we took off from the little island of Kwajalein, in the Marshalls, and we were not to stop again until we reached the Marianas.

Passengers are not allowed to smoke until the plane has stopped climbing and leveled off. Then the flight orderly stands at the head of the cabin and shouts in good Navy language “the smoking lamps lit,” and then brings around paper cups for you to use as ashtrays.

About every three hours the flight orderly would wake us up to feed us. Gond food too, and served on trays Just as on the regular airlines.

Frequent feedings

It got to be a joke among the passengers the way they poured food into us. They fed us at every stop, and about every three hours in the air. They nearly fed us to death.

The flight orderly is a sailor who does the same job as a steward on the airlines. We had two crews and two flight orderlies during our long trip, since the same crew stops off halfway for a day’s rest, and a new crew comes on.

Both our flight orderlies were swell boys. There were 16 passengers of us – 12 Navy and Army officers (one a Marine Corps general) three enlisted men, and myself, the only civilian aboard. The orderlies took good care of us, were friendly and willing, treated us all alike, and they weren’t a bit scared of the high rank aboard.

They wore plain blue Navy dungarees and blue shirts, and worked with their sleeves rolled up. Our first one was Seaman Howard Liner of Lubbock, Texas. He used to sell “Dr. Pepper” before he joined the Navy.

36 Pacific trips

Howard has made 36 of these trips across the Pacific, and enjoys it. He gets back to San Francisco frequently, and on his next trip his wife is coming up from Lubbock to see him. Howard always has a little brown pencil stuck behind his ear.

The other flight orderly was Seaman Don Jacobi of San Gabriel, California. He wore a plaited leather belt, and hung from it was a big bunch of keys and a hunting knife in a scabbard. This was his seventh trip.

He seemed quite mature, yet I found he is only 18, and had quit nigh school to join the Navy. His one ambition is to finish school after the war, and go on to college.

It’s mighty tiresome sitting in the same seat on an airplane for nearly 24 hours, even when the seats are reclining ones, as ours were.

The worst part is trying to sleep. You doze for a while and then you start squirming, because you can’t stretch your legs out and your knees start to hurt. Consequently, those who have traveled a lot by air try to find someplace to he down. The floor is good, but a stack of mail sacks is better.

Small size helpful

They had mail piled in the rear four seats, so I got my blanket and started fixing myself up on the mail bags. An Army colonel ahead of me said, “I just tried that, but had to give it up. There are too many square boxes inside the sacks and they stick into you.”

But I went ahead, and being smaller than the colonel, discovered I could sort of snake myself in between the hard places in the sacks. And that way I slept most of the journey to the Marianas.

But one funny thing did happen that I’d never experienced before in flying. The plane had quite a bit of vibration, and when my head touched the plane anywhere, the vibration would carry all through my head.

That didn’t bother me, but for some odd physiological reason, this vibration made the tip of my nose itch so badly I had to scratch it all the time. And thus I dozed the night away, really only half asleep because of the constant necessity for scratching my nose.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 20, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE MARIANA ISLANDS (Delayed) – Our chief pilot on the last long leg of our flight from Honolulu to the Marianas was Lt. Cmdr. Don Skirvin. He’s from the family that owns big hotels in Oklahoma City and even if you didn’t know, you could tell from his creased hands and neck that he’s either a Texan or an Oklahoman.

Cmdr. Skirvin has never worked at the hotel business, though. He has to have freedom, and gad about the world. He has been flying 18 years – flew for oil companies in South America, went to Spain during the revolution and flew combat there.

Then came our war and he went into the Navy and flew combat in the South Pacific. But he likes big planes best, and now is trans-Pacific skipper on these huge airliners.

Just before daylight Cmdr. Skirvin sent the orderly back to wake me up, and asked me to come forward to the pilot’s compartment. Then he had me sit in the co-pilot’s seat, and from that exalted vantage point on this monster of the air I saw the dawn gradually touch and lighten the cottony acres of clouds out there over the wide Pacific.

Little peaks of grandeur

Flying is mostly monotonous and dull. But there are always little peaks of grandeur in every flight. Seeing this dawn come was one of them. It was an exaltation, and you couldn’t help but be thrilled by it.

Cmdr. Skirvin takes movies as a hobby, and has taken 1,500 feet of color film of just such dawns and sunsets as this one. He said the folks at home wrote that if he saw such things as this often, no wonder he liked to fly.

We came out of the boundless sky and over our island destination just a little after dawn. The island was green and beautiful – and terribly far from home – down there in the fresh dawn.

Do it all the time

It seemed unbelievable that we could have drawn ourselves to it so unerringly out of the vast Pacific spaces. It was like a blind man walking alone across a field, and putting his finger directly on some previously designated barb of a wire fence on the other side. But as I say, they do it all the time. (Thank the Lord!)

Then Cmdr. Skirvin asked me if I would like to stay up front while we landed. Indeed I would, for that is a rare invitation. I stood just behind the two pilots while we circled the field and dropped lower and circled again.

Landing one of these immense planes is like a ritual in school. The co-pilot takes a printed list, encased in plexiglass, from off the instrument board. Then he starts reading aloud, down the list. After each item the pilot calls back “Check.”

Thorough check

It takes five minutes to go through all the complicated adjustments to change the plane from something that will only fly, into something that will also merge successfully with the earth. Always the typed list is read aloud and checked to make sure that no single thing is forgotten.

And then we were ready. It was hot down close to the ground, and sweat was pouring off us. Over his radio the co-pilot asked the ground for permission to land. Cmdr. Skirvin twisted himself more firmly into his seat, took a heavy grip on the control wheel, pushed forward on the stick, and down we went.

When you fly, there is no sense of speed at all. It is as though you were sitting forever in one spot. But when you land, the earth comes up to you with appalling speed. Things go faster and faster. Everybody is tense. The whole field comes up at you almost as in a nightmare. It is the most thrilling thing about flying.

Landed at last

And then you blend into the earth. These planes are so big and stand so high that it seemed to me we were still 50 feet in the air when we felt the wheels touch. The plane stuck to the runway and rushed on forward with shocking speed.

The runway was long, and Cmdr. Skirvin called, “We’ll use all of it, for I don’t believe in tromping on the brakes.”

Then gradually we slowed and when we’d come almost to a stop, a jeep pulled out in front of us. On the back of it was a big blackboard and painted on the board were the words “Follow Me.” The jeep slowly led us to our parking place.

Then the co-pilot read off another list, while the pilot pulled levers and turned switches and called “Check.” It took more than a minute to transform that great metal bird from something animate and miraculous into something that stands lifeless on the ground.

And then the door opened and we stepped down onto the strange soil of the Mariana Islands – close at last to the vast sprawling war of the Pacific.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 21, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

EDITOR’S NOTE: Ernie Pyle is now on an aircraft carrier and apparently participated in one of the big actions that have been going on in the Pacific. However, no direct reports have come back yet and meanwhile his articles are telling of his trip to the new assignment.

IN THE MARIANA ISLANDS – It is tropical where we are now, wonderfully tropical.

It looks tropical, and best of all, it feels tropical. Just now is the good season, and it is like the pleasantest part of summer at home.

But it is hotter than you think, and you change your whole approach to the weather here.

You get from the Navy a long-billed “baseball” cap to shield your eyes from the sun. your clothes closet has an electric light burning constantly in it, to keep it dry so your clothes won’t mold. You change your leather wristwatch strap to a canvas one, for a leather one would mold on your arm.

You put on heavy high-topped shoes again, for it still rains some and the red mud is sloppy. And instead of light socks for coolness as you’d think, you put on heavy socks to help cushion your feet in the big shoes, and to absorb the moisture.

Officers wear their sunglass cases hooked to their belts. Ties are unknown. There is no glass in the windows. Wide slanting caves jut out fat beyond the windows in all the permanent barracks buildings, fore when it rains here it really pours.

Horizontal rain

And as someone said, it rains “horizontally” here. In the few showers since we arrived, I’ve seen that the rain does come at quite an angle.

Actually, the rainy season is supposed to be over. Consequently, every time it showers during the day, the Californians in camp point out that the weather is “unusual.”

Lt. Cmdr. Max Miller and I are staying briefly in a room of a bachelor officers quarters – or BOQ. Our famous Seabees have put them up all over these various islands since we took over from the Japanese last summer.

They are in the curved form of immense Quonset huts, made of corrugated metal and with concrete floors. Some of them are even two-storied. They have a wide hall down the center, and individual rooms on each side. The walls are cream-colored.

Wonderful beds

The outside wall is almost all window, to let lots of air in. The spaces are screened but have no glass, for it never gets so cold you’d want to shut the window. But it is pleasantly cool at night, and we sleep under one blanket.

Each room has a clothes closet and a washstand and a chest of drawers. And also two beds. These beds are the talk of the Marianas.

They are American beds, with double mattresses, soft and wonderful. As everybody says, they’re finer beds than you’d have at home. I ran into one Army officer who had served in Europe, and he laughed and said, “After the way we roughed it there, I feel self-conscious about sleeping like this over here. But if the Navy wants to send over these beds, I’m sure as hell going to sleep in them.”

The great working camps of the Seabees and the troops are largely of tents, with ordinary cots in them. But on the whole, now that we have been improving the islands for several months, everybody lives pretty comfortably.

Reception committee

Max and I had a reception committee when we walked into our room.

A half dozen Seabees were throwing old lumber into a truck just outside our window. We hadn’t been in the room two seconds until one Seabee called through the window: “Say, aren’t you Ernie Pyle?”

I said right, and he said “whoever thought we’d meet you here? I recognized you from your picture.” And all the others stopped work and gathered outside the window while we talked through the screen.

The Navy furnishes orderlies for these rooms, to keep them clean. Mostly they are colored boys, regular enlisted men. Pretty soon our orderly walked in, and he started staring at me and I at him, for he sure looked familiar.

Together on invasion

He was a great tall fellow, and he grinned and we shook hands, for we had been on the same ship together when we invaded Sicily a year and a half ago.

He was a table waiter then. His name is Elijah Scott, his home is in Detroit, and he’s a steward’s mate second class. He was on the other side of the world nearly a year, spent eight months in America, and now here he is over here, almost as newly arrived as I am.

And that isn’t all. Within half an hour after we arrived, there was a knock on the door and in walked an Army major with a big grin. “Well,” he said, “I see you haven’t got any fatter since the old days in Sicily and Italy.”

He was Maj. Peter Eldred of Tucson, Arizona. A year and a half ago, he was public relations officer for the Seventh Army in Sicily. Now he’s a press censor in the middle of the Western Pacific, sitting on my bed talking about what used to be.

Sometimes the world gets almost ridiculous in being so small after all. I’m expecting my father and Aunt Mary to climb through the window here any minute now.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 22, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE MARIANAS ISLANDS (delayed) – You may wonder why we have American troops at all here in the Marianas Islands, since we are 1,500 miles away from the Philippines, China, or Japan itself.

Well, it’s because in this Pacific war of vast water distances, we have to make gigantic bases of each group of islands we take, in order to build up supplies and preparations for future invasions farther on.

The Marianas happen to be a sort of crossroads in the Western Pacific. Stuff can go either west or north from here. Whoever sits in the Marianas can have his finger on the whole web of the war.

Thus the Marianas are becoming a heart of the Pacific war. Our naval and military leaders make no bones about it, for the Japs know it anyhow, but they’re too far away to do anything about it.

The Marianas are both thrilling and engaging right now. Scores of thousands of troops of all kinds are here. Furious building is going on. Planes arrive on schedule from all directions as though this were Chicago Airport – only they’ve come thousands of miles over water. Convoys unload unbelievable tonnages.

No more placidity

These islands will hum throughout the war and they will never return to their former placid life, for we are building on almost every inch of useable land. Supplies in staggering quantities are being stacked up here for future use. You can take your pick of K-rations or lumber or bombs, and you’d find enough of either to feed a city, build one, or blow it up.

Fleets can base here between engagements. Combat troops train here. Other troops come back to rest. Great hospitals are set up for our future wounded. Pipelines criss-cross the islands. Trucks bumper to bumper dash forward as though they were on the Western Front. Ox-cart trails turn almost overnight into four-lane macadam highways for military traffic.

No blackout

There is no blackout in the islands. If raiders come the lights are turned off, but they seldom come anymore. The Marianas are a pretty safe place now.

Great long macadam airstrips are in operation and others are being laid. The Marianas are the seat of some of our B-29 bomber fleets which will grow and grow and grow.

Thousands of square tents, thousands of curved steel Quonset huts, thousands of huge, permanent warehouses and office buildings dot the islands. Lights burn all night and the roar of planes, the clank of bulldozers, and the clatter of hammers is constant. It is a strange contrast to the stillness that dwelt amidst this greenery for so many centuries.

There are 15 islands in this chain, running due north and south. They string out a total distance of more than 400 miles. We are on the southern end.

Hold three islands

We only hold three islands, but they are the biggest and the only three that count. The other islands are completely “neutralized” by our occupancy of these three.

There are a few Japs living on some of the others, but there’s nothing they can do to harm us. The islands we haven’t bothered with are small and worthless. Most of them have no inhabitants at all.

The islands we took are Guam, Tinian and Saipan. Guam had been ours for many years before Japan took it away from just after Pearl Harbor. Tinian and Saipan had been Japanese since the last war. We took the whole batch last summer.

Guam is the biggest and southernmost. Tinian and Saipan are right together, 120 miles north of Guam. You can fly up there in less than an hour, and our transport planes shuttle back and forth several times daily on regular schedule. They have to make a “dog-leg” around the island of Rota, about halfway up for there are still Japs on it with 50-caliber machine guns, and they’ll shoot at you.

Monotonous paradise

I’ve been on all three of our islands, and I must admit two things – that I like it here, and that you can’t help but be thrilled by what the Americans are doing.

And from all I’ve picked up so far, I think it can be said that most Americans like the Marianas Islands, assuming they have to be away from home at all.

The savage heat and the dread diseases and the awful jungles of the more southern Pacific Islands do not exist here. The climate is good, the islands are pretty, and the native Chamorros are nice people.

Health conditions among our men are excellent. They work in shorts or without shirts and are deeply tanned. The mosquito and fly problem has been licked. There is almost no venereal disease. Food is good. The weather is always warm but not cruelly hot. Almost always a breeze is blowing. Anywhere you look, you have a pretty view.

Yes, the islands are a paradise and life here is fine – except it’s empty and there is no diversion and the monotony eventually gnaws at you.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (February 23, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE MARIANAS ISLANDS (delayed) – There are still Japs on the three islands of the Marianas chain that we have occupied for more than six months now.

The estimate runs into several hundred. They hide in the hills and in caves, and come out at night to forage for food. Actually many of their caves were so well-stocked that they could go for months without getting too hungry.

Our men don’t do anything about the Japs anymore. Oh, troops in training for combat will go out on a Jap-hunt now and then just for practice, and bring in a few. But they are no menace to us, and by and large we just ignore them. A half dozen or so give up every day.

The Japs don’t try to practice any sabotage on our stuff. It would take another Jap to figure out why. The Japanese are thoroughly inconsistent in what they do, and very often illogical. They do the silliest things.

Here’s a few examples. One night, some of our Seabees left a bulldozer and an earth-mover sitting alongside the road up in the hills.

Cute fellows

During the night, the Japs came down. They couldn’t hurt anybody, but they could have put that machinery out of commission for a while. Even with only a rock they could have smashed the spark plugs and ruined the carburetor.

They didn’t do any of these things. They merely spent the night cutting palm fronds off nearby trees and laying them over the big machinery. Next morning when the Seabees arrived, they found their precious equipment completely “hidden.” Isn’t that cute?

On another island, there were many acts of sabotage the Japs could have committed. But all they ever did was to come down at night and move the wooden stakes the engineers had lined up for the next day’s construction of buildings!

Checked up first

There is another story of a Jap who didn’t take to the hills like the rest, but who stayed for weeks right in the most thickly American-populated section of the island right down by the seashore.

He hid in the bushes just a few feet from a path where hundreds of Americans walked daily. They found out later that he even used the officers’ outdoor shower bath after they got through, and raided their kitchens at night.

There was a Jap prison enclosure nearby, and for weeks, peering out of the bushes, he studied the treatment his fellow soldiers were getting, watched how they ate, watched to see if they were dwindling away from malnutrition.

And then one day he came out and gave himself up. He said he had convinced himself they were being treated all right, so he was ready to surrender.

And here’s another one. An American officer was idly sitting in an outbuilding one evening after work, philosophically studying the ground, as men will do.

Suddenly he was startled. Startled is a mild word for it. For in front of him stood a Jap with a rifle.

But before anything could happen, the Jap laid the rifle on the ground in front of him, and began salaaming up and down like a worshiper before an idol.

The Jap later said that he had been hunting for weeks for somebody without a rifle to give himself up to, and had finally figured out that the surest way to find an unarmed prospective captor was to catch one in a toilet!

But don’t let these little aftermath stories mislead you into thinking the Japs are easy after all. For they are a very nasty people while the shootin’s going on.