Roving Reporter, Ernie Pyle

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 15, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – An aircraft carrier is a noble thing. It lacks almost everything that seems to denote nobility, yet deep nobility is there.

A carrier has no poise. It has no grace. It is top-heavy and lopsided. It has the lines of a well-fed cow.

It doesn’t cut through the water like a cruiser, knifing romantically along. It doesn’t dance and cavort like a destroyer. It just plows. You feel it should be carrying a hod, rather than wearing a red sash.

Yet a carrier is a ferocious thing, and out of its heritage of action has grown its nobility. I believe that today every Navy in the world has as its No. 1 priority the destruction of enemy carriers. That’s a precarious honor, but it’s a proud one.

My carrier is a proud one. She’s small, and you have never heard of her unless you have a son or husband on her, but still she’s proud, and deservedly so.

She has been at sea, without returning home, longer than any other carrier in the Pacific, with one exception. She left home in November 1943.

She is a little thing, yet her planes have shot 238 of the enemy out of the sky in air battles, and her guns have knocked down five Jap planes in defending herself.

Has sunk 29 big ships

She is too proud to keep track of little ships she destroys, but she has sent to the bottom 29 big Japanese ships. Her bombs and aerial torpedoes have smashed into everything from the greatest Jap battleships to the tiniest coastal schooners.

She has weathered five typhoons. Her men have not set foot on any soil bigger than a farm-sized uninhabited atoll for a solid year. They have not seen a woman, white or otherwise, for nearly ten months. In a year and a quarter out of America, she has steamed a total of 149,000 miles!

Four different air squadrons have used her as their flying field, flown their allotted missions, and returned to America. But the ship’s crew stays on – and on, and on.

She is known in the fleet as “The Iron Woman,” because she has fought in every battle in the Pacific in the years 1944 and 1945.

Her battle record sounds like a train-caller on the Lackawanna Railroad. Listen – Kwajalein, Eniwetok, Truk, Palau, Hollandia, Saipan, Chichi Jima, Mindanao, Luzon, Formosa, Nansei Shoto, Hong Kong, Iwo Jima, Tokyo… and many others.

She has known disaster. Her fliers who have perished could not be counted on both hands, yet the ratio is about as it always is – about one American lost for every 10 of the Exalted Race sent to the Exalted Heaven.

She has been hit twice by Jap bombs. She has had mass burials at sea… with her dry-eyed crew sewing 40-mm shells to the corpses of their friends, as weights to take them to the bottom of the sea.

Yet she has never even returned to Pearl Harbor to patch her wounds. She slaps on some patches on the run, and is ready for the next battle. The crew in semi-jocularity cuss her chief engineer for keeping her in such good shape they have no excuse to go back to Honolulu or America for overhaul.

Like a small city

My carrier, even though classed as “light,” is still a very large ship. More than 1,000 men dwell upon her. She is more than 700 feet long.

She has all the facilities of a small city. And all the gossip and small talk too. Latest news and rumors have reached the farthest cranny of the ship a few minutes after the captain himself knows about them. All she lacks is a hitching rack and a town pump with a handle.

She has five barbers, a laundry, a general store. Deep in her belly she carries tons of bombs. She has a daily newspaper. She carries firefighting equipment that a city of 50,000 back in America would be proud of.

She has a preacher, she has three doctors and two dentists, she has two libraries, and movies every night, except when they’re in battle. And still she is a tiny thing, as the big carriers go. She is a “baby flattop.” She is little. And she is proud.

She has been out so long that her men put their ship above their captain. They have seen captains come and go, but they and the ship stay on forever.

They aren’t romantic about their long stay out here. They hate it, and their gripes are long and loud. They yearn pathetically to go home. But down beneath, they are proud – proud of their ship and proud of themselves. And you would be too.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 16, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – There was nothing dramatic about our start for Japan.

We simply pulled anchor about 8 one morning and got underway. The whole thing seemed peacetime and routine.

Our ships were so spread out they didn’t seem they actually were. It wasn’t like the swarming, pulsing mass of ships that literally blanketed the water when we started to Sicily and to Normandy.

Once at sea our force broke up into several pre-arranged units and each put some distance between itself and the next.

Each was self-sufficient. Each could protect itself. Each had battleships, carriers, cruisers and destroyers. Each was complete unto itself.

The eye easily could encompass the entire formation in which you were sailing. And very dimly, far off on the horizon, you could see the silhouettes of the bigger ships on each side of you, although they seemed remote, and not like neighbors.

Mitscher in command

The formations were commanded by admirals and above them all was Adm. Marc Mitscher.

All day and all night the air was full of conversation between our ships. Messages were transmitted in many ways – by signal flag, by light blinker, by destroyers bringing written messages, even by planes flying slowly over and dropping messages on the deck.

The admiral commanding our unit was a fine, friendly man whom I’d met before we sailed. On the third day out, he sent a message over to our captain which said: “How is Ernie getting along? Does he wish he was back in a foxhole?”

We messaged back that I was happy, hadn’y been seasick yet, and that I hoped all my future foxholes could be as plush as this one.

We had a long way to go from our starting point, and our route was a devious one to boot. We steamed for several days before we were at our destination off Japan. We sailed long enough to have crossed the Atlantic Ocean – if we had been in the Atlantic.

But those days were busy ones. Our planes began operating as soon as we were underway. Three fighters that had been based on the island, flew out and landed aboard an hour after we started, to fill our complement of planes.

We were up before dawn every morning, and our planes were in the air before sunup. We kept a constant aerial patrol over our ships. Some flew at great height, completely out of sight. Others took the medium altitude. And still others roamed in great circles only a few hundred feet above us.

And out on the perimeter our little destroyers plowed the ocean, always alert for subs or airplanes. You really couldn’t help but feel safe with such a guard around you.

Comfortable living

Living was very comfortable aboard our carrier. I shared a cabin with Lt. Cmdr. Al Masters from Terre Haute, Indiana, just a few miles from where I was born and raised.

In our cabin we had metal closets and writing desks and a lavatory with hot and cold water. We had a telephone, and a boy to clean up the room. Our bunks were double-decked, with good mattresses. I was in the upper one.

Our food was wonderful, and you could buy a whole carton of cigarettes a day if you wanted to (doesn’t that make you jealous?). We saw a movie every night except when in battle. The first four nights our movies were New York Town, The Major and the Minor, Swing Fever and Claudia. I don’t know enough about movies to know whether they were old or not, but it doesn’t make any difference to a sailor who hasn’t been home.

I came aboard with a lot of dirty clothes, for I’d had nothing washed since leaving San Francisco about a month before.

Our cabin boy took my clothes to the laundry about 9:30 one morning. When I came back to the cabin an hour and a half later, here was my washing all clean and dry and ironed, lying on the bed. What a ship!

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 17, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – It’s easy to get acquainted aboard a naval vessel.

The sailors are just as friendly as the soldiers I’d known on the other side. Furthermore, they’re so delighted to see a stranger and have somebody new to talk to that they aren’t a bit standoffish.

They’re all sick to death of the isolation and monotony of the vast Pacific. I believe they talk more about wanting to go home than even the soldiers in Europe.

Their lives really are empty lives. They have their work, and their movies, and their mail, and that’s just about all they do have. And nothing to look forward to.

They never see anybody but themselves, and that gets mighty old. They sail and sail, and never arrive anywhere. They’ve not even seen a native village for a year.

Three times they’ve been to remote, lifeless sandbars in the Pacific, and have been allowed to g0 ashore for a few hours and sit under palm trees and drink three cans of beer. That’s all.

They live well

Yet they do live well. Their food is the best I’ve run onto in this war. They have steaks and ice cream – they probably eat better than they would at home.

The boys ask you a thousand times how this compares with the other side. I can only answer that this is much better. They seem to expect you to say that, but they are a little disappointed too.

They say “but it’s tough to be away from home for more than a year, and never see anything but water and an occasional atoll.” And I say yes, I know it is, but there are boys who have been in Europe more than three years, and have slept on the ground a good part of that time. And they say yes, they guess in contrast their lives are pretty good.

Seaman Paul Begley looks at his wartime life philosophically. He is a farm boy from Rogersville, Tennessee. He talks a lot in a soft voice that is Southern clear through. He’s one of the plane pushers on the flight deck.

He says:

I can stand this monotony all right. The point with us is that we’ve got a pretty good chance of living through this. Think of the Marines who have to take the beaches, and the infantry in Germany. I can stand a lot of monotony if I know my chances are pretty good for coming out of it alive.

But others yell their heads off about their lot, and feel they’re being persecuted by being kept out of America a year. I’ve heard some boys say “I’d trade this for a foxhole any day.” You just have to keep your mouth shut to remarks like that.

At least 50 percent of the sailors’ conversation, when talking to a newcomer like myself, is about three things:

The terrible typhoon they went through off the Philippines; the times they were hit by Jap bombs; and their desire to get back to America.

Very few of the boys have developed any real love for the sea – the kind that will draw them back to it for a lifetime. Some of course will come back if things get tough after the war. But mostly they are temporary sailors, and the sea is not in their blood.

Proud of the ship

Taking it all in all, they’re good boys who do what is asked of them, and do it well. They are very sincere and genuine, and they are almost unanimously proud of their ship.

I think I’ve been asked a hundred times how I happened to come on this ship, with so many to choose from. It is always said in that hopeful tone of wondering if I chose it because it has such a noble reputation.

So, I tell them that I asked to be put on a light carrier like this, rather than a big one. But that being a newcomer to the Pacific I didn’t know one ship from another, so this was the ship the Navy put me on.

But that satisfies them just as well, for then they assume that the Navy itself considers their ship a superior one – which I’m sure it does.

[jacktyunmen]

What navy vessel specifically was he located when he wrote this?

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 19, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – The men aboard an aircraft carrier could be divided, for purposes of clarity, into three groups.

There are the fliers, both officer-pilots and enlisted radiomen and gunners, who actually fly in combat they do nothing but fly, and study, and prepare to fly.

The there are the men who maintain the fliers, the air officers, and the mechanics and the myriad plane handlers who shift and pish and manhandle the planes a dozen times a day around the deck.

These men are ordinarily known as “Airedales,” but the term isn’t much used on our ship. Usually they just call themselves “plane-pushers.”

And third is the ship’s crew – the deck hands, engineers, signalmen, cooks, plumbers and barbers. They run the ship, just as though it were any ship in the navy.

The fliers aren’t looked upon as gods by the rest of the crew, but they are respected. Hardly a man on the crew would trade places with them. they’ve seen enough crash landings on deck to know what the fliers go through.

But there is a feeling – a slight one – between the ship’s regular crew and the air maintenance crew. The feeling is on the part of the ship’s crew. They feel that the plane-handlers think they’re prima donnas.

They say to you “Them Airedales is the ones that gets all the glory, nobody ever hears about us. All we do is keep the damn ship going.”

But as far as I can see, the Airedales haven’t had an awful lot of glory. And their job is often a miserable one. Their hours are ungodly, and in the pinches they work like fiends. I think the Airedale deserves what little credit he gets.

Like flower garden

It is these “plane-pushers” who make the flight deck of an aircraft carrier look as gay and wildly colorful as a Walt Disney cartoon. For they dress in bright colors.

They wear cloth helmets and sweaters that are blue, green, red, yellow, white or brown. They make the flight deck look like a flower garden in June.

This colorful gear isn’t just a whim. Each color identifies a special type of workman, so they can be picked out quickly and sent on hurried tasks.

Red is the gasoline and firefighting detail. Blue is for the guys who just push the planes around. Brown is for plane captains and mechanics. White stands for radiomen and the engineering bosses. Yellow is for the plane directors.

Yellow is what a pilot looks for the moment he gets on deck. For the plane directors guide him as though they were leading a blind man. they use a sign language with their hands that is the same all over the Navy, and by obeying their signs explicitly, the pilot can taxi his plane within two inches of another one without ever looking at it.

No more hammocks

All the pilots and ship’s officers live in “officers’ country” in the forward part of the ship, they live in comfortable cabins, housing from one to four men.

The crew lives in compartments. They are of all shapes and sizes. Some hold as little as half a dozen men. Others are big and house a hundred men.

The Navy doesn’t use hammocks anymore. Every man has a bed. It is called a “rack.” It’s merely a tubular framework, with wire springs stretched across it. It is attached to the wall by hinges, and is folded up against the wall in the daytime.

The “racks” aren’t let down till about 7 in the evening (except for men standing regular watch who must sleep in the daytime). Hence a sailor has no regular place to sit or lie down during the day if he does nap a few spare minutes.

A light carrier, such as mine, has only about a third as many planes as the big carriers, and less than half the crew, but it does exactly the same kind of work.

Of the three types of carriers in the Navy, ours has the narrowest flight deck of all. It’s so narrow that when planes take off, they use the left side of the deck, in order that their right wingtip won’t come too close to the “island” as they pass.

Our pilots and crew are quite proud that we have the narrowest flight deck in existence. They’re proud they can even hit the thing. They enjoy telling this story, as an illustration:

One day one of our planes had engine trouble or something and couldn’t make it back to our ship, and had to land on the nearest carrier, which happened to be a big one.

The pilot circled around it and radioed in, asking permission to land. When the permission came back, he sent another message facetiously inquiring: “Which runway?”

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 20, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – We were launching our midmorning patrol flight. The sun was out bright, and the day warmly magnificent. Everything was serene.

I already had become acquainted with some of the pilots, and before each flight I would go to the “ready room” and find out from the blackboard the numbers of planes my friends were flying, so I could identify them as they went past.

Lt. Jimmy Van Fleet is one of the pilots I know best. We got acquainted because we have a mutual friend – war correspondent Chris Cunningham, with whom I shared a tent and sometimes worse through Tunisia and Italy. Jimmy and Chris are from the same hometown – Findlay, Ohio.

We knew the very moment he started that Jimmy was in trouble. His plane veered sharply to the right, and a big puff of white smoke spurted from his right brake band. Then slowly the plane turned and angled to the left as it gained speed.

Sensed trouble

The air officer up in the “island” sensed catastrophe, and put his hand on the warning squawker. All the sailors standing on the catwalk, with their heads sticking up over the edge of the flight deck, quickly ducked down. Yet such is the rigidity of excitement, I never even heard the squawker.

It was obvious Jimmy couldn’t stop his plane from going to the left. He had his right wheel locked, and the tire was leaving burned rubber on the deck, yet it wouldn’t turn the plane. And it was too late for him to stop now.

His wheels raked the anti-aircraft guns as he went over, his propeller missed men’s heads by inches, his left wing dropped, and in a flash, he disappeared over the side.

When the plane again came into view, only the tail was sticking out of the water. And then Jimmy bobbed up beside it. he had gotten out in a few seconds.

When he got back to us, Jimmy told me what happened from there on. He said that when the plane went in the water, it went so deep that it got dark in the cockpit. Jimmy wasn’t hurt by the crash, outside of a small cut on his forehead.

He pulled his various buckles, opening his hatch cover and releasing himself from his seat harness. But as he did so he fell forward (the plane was riding nose down in the water, of course) and in a moment was standing on his head, under water, and in a hell of a fix.

Cut radio cord

But somehow, he got himself upright, and then he couldn’t get out because his radio cord, attached to his helmet, was still plugged into its socket back of his seat.

So, he took his big sheath knife out of its holder, cut the radio cord, and then carefully put the knife back. He says he doesn’t know why he put it back. All this happened under water, and in mere seconds.

Some part of Jimmy’s clothing caught as he was getting out, and he gave a big yank to free himself. Thus, he tore his Mae West wide open, both compartments of it, and he had no buoyancy at all. But he is an excellent swimmer, so he stayed up.

Lucky again

When Jimmy went over the side, a destroyer was running about a mile to our left. Here Jimmy was lucky again. For that wasn’t the destroyer’s normal position; it just happened to be cutting across the convoy to deliver some mail on the other side.

Jimmy had hardly hit the water when we saw the destroyer heel over in a swath-cutting turn. They had been watching the takeoffs through their glasses, and had seen him go over. Our own ship, of course, had to keep right on going straight ahead. And our next plane took off without the slightest wait, as though nothing had happened.

The destroyer had Jimmy aboard in just seven seconds. They didn’t put over a boat for him, but instead sent a swimmer out after him, with a line tied around his waist.

He got to Jimmy just in time. Jimmy passed out in his arms. With no lifebelt, he had taken too much salt water aboard.

In the meantime, the destroyer had let down a metal stretcher, and another swimmer was there to help get Jimmy into it. it took a while for them to get him on, for he was dead weight, and the stretcher kept going up and down with the waves.

But finally they managed it. Jimmy was safe and alive, although a very water-laden and passed out young man from Ohio.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 21, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – Destroyers love to pick up airplane pilots out of the ocean. When they rescued our Lt. Jimmy Van Fleet, of Findlay, Ohio, after his plane had plunged over the side, it was pilot-rescue No. 15 for them.

They keep a box score on it, just as carriers keep score of the planes they shoot down. They even keep records of their speed, and try to break records. They fished out Jimmy seven minutes after he went over. Their record rescue is three minutes.

On the destroyer they put Jimmy to bed, got the water out of him and some morphine into him, and sewed up the gash on his head. The doctor joked as he sewed, telling Jimmy he was sorry he couldn’t find a bigger needle so it would hurt more.

Jimmy was nightmarish all night. He didn’t get sick at his stomach until next morning, when he tried to get some breakfast down. He had a headache next day, but after that he was all right.

Destroyers treat rescued pilots as though they were kings. They put Jimmy up in the skipper’s private cabin, since the skipper was on the bridge day and night anyhow.

Jimmy wore the skipper’s bathrobe and house slippers and underwear. The skipper came in a couple of times to take a bath, and actually apologized for intruding.

Fishing out pilots is such a frequent occurrence that the skipper even keeps a bundle of brand-new toothbrushes in his medicine cabinet for such sudden guests.

Scroll prepared for pilots

By the time Jimmy came to, the laundry had washed and pressed his clothes. He didn’t have his wallet with him, so his pictures and private papers were spared a dunking.

This certain destroyer has fished out so many pilots that they have a scroll already printed for such cases, and all they have to do is fill in the name. It’s a picturesque certificate like you get when you cross the Equator.

Across the top of Jimmy’s scroll was engraved the words, “The Blank’s Home for Dripping Aviators.”

And beneath it was this:

Know ye that Lt. James Van Fleet on such and such a date abruptly appeared into our happy home, and due to the peculiarities of his arrival has been found worthy of being honored as a Blank’s Dripping Aviator.

Engraved over the scroll was a huge arm reaching out from a destroyer, hauling a wet flier out of the ocean by the seat of his pants.

Ice cream for the destroyer

They returned Jimmy to us three days later, when they were delivering messages and mail from the flagship. They sent him over in a boson’s chair, pulled across on a heavy line strung between the two ships.

We got Jimmy aboard, and then we sent something back across in the chair to the destroyer. You’d never guess what it was. It was 20 gallons of ice cream!

Our carrier always does that when a destroyer rescues one of our pilots. Apparently, all carriers don’t, for the destroyer sent back a scribbled note saying, “Thanks a lot. That is the nicest thing that has ever happened to us.”

After they told me the whole story, we sent a signal back to the destroyer asking for the names of the two men who rescued him. The destroyer came right back–

The swimmer was Seaman Franklin Calloway of Philadelphia, and the one who helped was Petty Officer Melvin Collins, of Ottumwa, Iowa.

They’re smart on that destroyer. Because a few hours later here came another message saying, “If that information is for the press, might add that both men received Bronze Stars for similar rescue work during operations off Leyte last fall!”

Former schoolteacher

Jimmy Van Fleet is 25, and incongruous as it seems, was a schoolteacher before he became a fighter pilot in the Navy. He has a son seven months old whom he has never seen.

Jimmy asked me if I had ever been in Vienna. He said that was his dad’s “dream city.” His father was a Pfc. in the last war, and spent three years in a hospital in Vienna, and always has wanted to go back.

These columns are probably the first news Jimmy’s folks have had of his little midocean escapade. It is glorious news alongside the last grave message they had.

For Jimmy’s only brother, Ens. Donald Van Fleet, also a carrier pilot, was killed off Formosa just a few months ago. He had got two Jap planes in the two weeks before he himself was shot down. We are grateful that the sea gave Jimmy back.

[rit_upy]

@NormanStewart

It was 20 gallons of ice cream

How has it not melted? 75 litres of ice cream for the destroyer? That is torture. No one is gonna get enough.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 22, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – One of the first friends I made aboard our aircraft carrier was a tall, well-built, mustached sailor named Jerry Ryan.

He wears dungarees, smokes a pipe sometimes, and always wears his sleeves rolled up, He’s from Davenport, Iowa, but his wife is living in Indianapolis. He is a boilermaker first class.

Jerry had served one hitch in the Navy before the war. He knows all the little ins and outs of how to get along. Everybody likes him. He isn’t especially talkative, yet it’s safe to say he knows more people than anybody else on the ship.

Ryan is what is known in be the Navy as “a good man.” He’s skilled in his work, he’s dependable, and he’s very smart. Hed die before he’d curry favor with anybody.

He’s the kind an officer can depend on utterly – if that officer plays square with Ryan. But he gets a pretender so quickly it would make your head swim.

Ryan’s concept of right and wrong is very sharply drawn, and the Irish in him doesn’t hesitate when a crisis comes. The other boys were telling me of an incident–

It was one of the days when Jap bombs hit this ship, off the Philippines. A great hole was torn in the deck. Several men were killed, and many wounded. Bodies of their comrades were still lying mangled on the deck.

A sailor came up to look at the damage, and said almost exultingly, “Oh boy, this’s great. Now at last they’ll have to send us back to America for repairs.”

Without saying a word, Ryan turned and knocked him down.

Oil shack is a social center

Ryan runs what is known as the “oil shack.” From this little domain the condensers are regulated. He has dials and gauges and a phone and a clipboard on which are kept hourly records of oil pressures and water levels and all that stuff.

The “shack” is a little room about the size of an apartment kitchenette, with a metal workbench and drawers full of tools, and one folding canvas stool.

Ryan’s oil shack is a social center. There is always somebody hanging around. You can get a cup of coffee there, look at sea shell collections, see card tricks, or find out the latest rumors that started on the bridge five minutes ago.

Jerry brews coffee for his guests in a nickel-plated pot over an electric grill. The pot has a red hash mark for a hitch of service in the Navy. And soon he is going to award it the Purple Heart. It got dented in the Philippines typhoon.

Some nights we pop corn in the “oil shack.” The boys’ folks send them corn in cans, and they beg butter from the galley, and pop ‘er up in a skillet on the grill.

Lucky Ryan good friend of cook

One of Ryan’s, friends who comes to eat popcorn is a Negro – a tall, athletic fellow from his hometown of Davenport. They were on the ship together for a year before they found out they were from the same place.

The colored boy’s name is Wesley Cooper. He is a cook. He was a star athlete back home. He’s the best basketball player in the whole crew. When he gets done with the war, he has a scholarship waiting for him at the University of Iowa.

Wesley comes down to the shack almost every night after supper. He smokes a curved stem pipe, and holds one hand up to it, and listens and grins and doesn’t say much.

We were popping corn one night. One of the boys said, “Wes, how about getting us some more butter?” And another one said, “Wes, bring some salt, will you?” And a third said, “And bring me a sandwich when you come down, will you, Wes?”

And Wes grins and his white teeth flash and he said, “I suppose you’d like for me to go up and cook you a whole meal?” And he never made a move.

Ups and downs of war

Another of my best friends is Howard Wilson, a bosn’s mate second class. Like Lt. Jimmy Van Fleet, the fighter pilot we wrote about, he is from Findlay, Ohio. In fact they are good friends.

Wilson is a low-spoken, handsome and highly intelligent man of 35. He has a beautiful home and a good business back in Findlay. He is part owner and general manager of three movie theaters. His wife is running them while he is away.

In those bygone years back in the old hometown, Jimmy Van Fleet used to go to Howard Wilson and borrow money when he got hard up. Now the younger Jimmy dwells in the comparative luxury of officers’ quarters, and the older Howard lives the lowlier life of a sailor, sleeping on a rack in a crowded compartment, and wearing dungarees.

That’s the way things go in wartime. Howard is old and wise enough that it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He accepts the war and his own lot calmly.

The other pilots know of this friendship, and ask Jimmy if he’s keeping on the good side of Howard to insure he’ll have a job when the war is over. He says he is.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 23, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC – The second day I was aboard our carrier, the chief steward came up to my cabin and happily announced that he had a cake for me, but it was so big he didn’t know how to handle it.

For a while I couldn’t get what he was driving at, but finally he made it clear.

It seemed the night bakers had baked a huge cake for me, and it was to be served at dinner that evening. The steward was worried because the cake was so big they didn’t have a board big enough to put it on, and therefore couldn’t put it on the table where everybody could see it.

But that evening when we went down to dinner, here was the cake in front of my chair, right in the middle of the table, almost filling it up. They had solved the problem by getting the carpenters to make a board.

Written in pink icing on top of the white cake were the words “Welcome Aboard, Mr. Pyle,” and as somebody suggested, I was so taken aback at being called “Mr. Pyle” that I didn’t recognize it at first.

I was very pleased and embarrassed by this first official cake of my lifetime, and of course I had to take a lot of ribbing from my friends. They said they’d been slaving on that ship for a year and nobody ever baked a special cake for them.

Misses roundup

After supper I groped my way through the labyrinth of passages below, and finally tracked down the thoughtful person who had baked the cake.

He was Ray Conner, baker second class from LeGrande, Oregon. LeGrande is in Eastern Oregon not far from Pendleton, and Ray was moaning that he hadn’t seen the famous Pendleton roundup now for three years.

I asked him how he happened to bake a cake for me, and he said well he had got through his regular baking a little early the night before, and hadn’t anything else to do, and just thought it was a good idea.

Ray’s father is a schoolteacher, and Ray was studying to be one, but now after all this business, he kind of doubts he’ll want to teach school.

If I had to be in the Navy, I think I’d about as soon be a baker as anything else. The bakeshop is always clean as a whistle, and it always smells good. And you are almost your own boss.

Ray is quite satisfied with his lot in the Navy, mainly because a bakery is so wonderfully clean. “I can’t stand to work in filth,” he said.

Another cake!

I was feeling pretty stuck-up about my cake, and then next evening when we went down to supper, here was a big cake on the adjoining table. Did I see red!

I made a few discreet inquiries to see who had the gall to have a cake in front of him so soon after my triumph. And I learned it was for the pilot who, the day before, had made the 8000th landing on our carrier. It seems that’s a tradition, for every thousandth landing.

So after the meal I went around and introduced myself to this cad. He was Lt. Edward Van Vranken of Stockton, California.

I said, “I’m pretty sore. I thought I was the only one around here who rated a cake.”

And he said, “Well, I’m jealous. You had photographers taking pictures of your cake. But could I get a photographer? No.”

So I said, “Well, that’s better. So you made the 8000th landing? Was it a good one?”

Old stuff to him

And he grinned and said, “Well, I got aboard.” And then he said, “As a matter of fact, it was a pretty good landing. And if you’re ever in California after the war, come to Stockton and we’ll have something better than cake.”

Lt. Van Vranken is no neophyte at landing on carriers. He was flying from one when we invaded Morocco in 1942, and he was there.

He had made around 120 carrier landings before he came on this ship, and now his total is up around 200. A guy who makes that many landings on a carrier and is still making them, didn’t learn it in correspondence school.

Eight thousand landings is small stuff for the big carriers. For some of them are lots older, and too they have three times as many planes to land every day.

I think the record in our oldest carriers is something up around 80,000. But we like 8,000 on our ship. And anyhow we haven’t got enough flour for 80 cakes.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 24, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – The first time you see a plane land on a carrier you almost die. At the end of the first day my muscles were sore just from being all tensed up while watching the planes come in.

It is all so fast, timing is so split-second, space is so small – well, somebody said that carrier pilots were the best in the world, and they must be or there wouldn’t be any of them left alive.

Planes don’t approach a carrier as they would on land – from way back and in a long glide. Instead, they almost seem to be sneaking up as if to surprise it. They’re in such an awkward position and flying at such a crazy angle you don’t see how they can ever land on anything.

But it’s been worked out by years of experience, and it’s the best way. Everything is straightened out in the last few seconds of flying. That is – if it works.

Anything can happen in those last few seconds. Once in a great while the plane loses its speed and spins into the water just behind the ship. And planes have been known to ram right into the stern of the ship,

The air currents are always bad. The ship’s “island” distorts the currents, and makes the air rough. Even the wake of the ship – the waters churned up by the propellers – have an effect on the air through which the planes must pass.

If half a dozen planes come in successively without one getting a “wave off” from the signalman, you’re doing pretty well. For landing on the deck of a small carrier in a rough sea is just about like landing on half a block of Main Street while a combined hurricane and earthquake is going on.

Few are perfect

You would call it a perfect landing if a plane came in and hit on both wheels at the same time, in the center of the deck headed straight forward, and caught about the third one of the cables stretched across the deck.

But very few of them are perfect. They come in a thousand different ways. If their approach is too bad, the signalman waves them around again.

They’ll come in too close to the edge of the deck, and sometimes go right on over the catwalk. They’ll come in so high they’ll miss all the arresting gear and slam into the high cables stretched across mid-decks, called “the barrier.”

Some do somersaults

Sometimes they do a somersault over the barrier, and land on their backs. Sometimes they bounce all around and hit the “island.” Sometimes they bounce 50 feet in the air and still get down all right. Sometimes they catch fire.

During the Tokyo strike, one of the big carriers running near us lost three planes in 10 minutes. One was shot up and had to “ditch” in the water alongside the ship.

The next one slammed into the “island,” and was so wrecked they just heaved the wreckage over the side. The next one to come in crashed the “barrier” and burned up.

And on the other hand. you’ll land planes for weeks without a bad crackup. We wrecked three planes our first three days out in crashes – and not a single one after that.

The first time I watched our boys land. They were pretty bad. They hadn’t flown for about two weeks, and were a little rusty.

Carrier stance

As I was watching the first flight come in one by one, my roommate, Lt. Cmdr. Al Masters, came up behind me and said: “Well, I see you’ve got the carrier stance already. I noticed you leaning way over to help pull them around into position.”

When all the planes were back, I walked over to Cmdr. Al Gurney, the air officer, and said “If I’m going to watch this for the whole trip, you’ll have to provide me with some heart-failure medicine.”

And he replied: “Well, think of me. I had to watch 2,000 of them. It’ll drive you nuts.”

The previous skipper of this ship finally got so he refused to watch when the planes were coming in. He just stood on the bridge and kept looking forward.

But as the trip wore on the boys improved and my own nerves hardened, and between us we managed to get all our planes down for the rest of the trip without a single casualty either to them or to me.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 26, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – There are moments when a voyage to war has much of the calm and repose of a pleasure cruise in peacetime.

For day after day, we sailed in seas that were smooth and warm, under benign skies. There was no air of urgency about us. True, we kept air patrols in the sky, but it was really a practice gesture, for we were far away from any enemy.

Sailors at work wore no shirts. Little bunches of flying fish skimmed the blue water. You needed dark glasses on deck. Pilots took sun baths on the forecastle.

Up on the broad flight deck, clad only in shorts, the chaplain and executive officer were playing deck tennis. And in the afternoon the forward elevator was let down, the officers and men played basketball.

Every night we had movies after supper. It was hard to keep it in your mind that we were a ship of war, headed for war.

Then ever so gradually the weather changed, as we plowed northward. Yesterday and all the days behind it had been tropically hot. Today was surprisingly and comfortably cool. Tomorrow would be cold. We were nearing the great hunting grounds off Japan.

On the last day you could sense the imminence of it all over the ship. Not by anything big, but by the little things. Our weeks of monotony and waiting were at an end.

The daily briefings of the pilots became more detailed. There was less playboyishness among the crew. Ordinary ship’s rules were changed to battle rules.

What is known as the “extended action bill” went into effect. Sailors could let down their racks in the daytime, and get a little extra rest.

Captain stays on bridge

Meal hours, instead of being at 12 and 6 o’clock sharp, were changed to run from 11 till 1, and from 4:30 and 6:30, so that men on watch could trade off and dash in for a bite. The captain never left the bridge, either to eat or sleep.

When you came into your cabin, you found your bunk had been made up with a “flash sheet” around it. That is a black rubberized sheet, to protect you from bomb burns.

Everybody was issued “flash gear.” That consists of several items – a thin grey hood that covers your head and hangs down over your shoulders; a white cloth on an elastic band to cover your nose and mouth; isinglass goggles for your eyes; and long gray cloth gloves with a high gauntlet.

All of this to save your hands and face from the searing, flamethrowing blast of a big shell or bomb when it explodes. On some ships the men paint their faces with an anti-flash grease, making them look like circus clowns, but we didn’t on our ship.

On the lower decks, every compartment door was closed. This was done so that if a torpedo should hit, it would flood only the compartment where it struck. All the rest of the ship would be sealed off from it.

The ship’s hospital was shut off, and the medics set up business in the many prearranged and stations scattered on higher decks about the ship. They could even perform operations at any one of a dozen temporary spots set up in mess halls or cabins.

Long underwear comes out

Also, we broke out cold weather gear for the bone-chilling days ahead. An extra blanket was put on our bunks. Blue Navy sweaters came out for the first time. And blue stocking caps, and several kinds of rain capes with a parka, and you even saw a few pea jackets.

And yes, believe it or not, we even had long underwear too. It had never been used before, and goodness knows how long it had been baled up in shipboard stockrooms.

Some of it was moldy. In fact, the suit they got out for the captain – well, they had to wash and dry it hurriedly before giving it to him, because it smelled so badly from mold.

After supper on the night before our strike, we saw the movie The Magnificent Dope. I guess it’s old, but it was good and awfully funny.

At least we thought so, for everybody laughed hilariously. When tension builds up in a man before a period of great danger, the tension is usually inner, and not often visible. That’s the way it was at the movie that night.

Except I noticed there were only half as many people at the movie as usual. And not long after it was over, everybody had gone to bed. For they knew there would be no rest tomorrow.

[NormanStewart]

Pyle vies with citation in letter from Navy hero

Monday, March 26, 1945

Shipmate of Ernie Pyle on the Tokyo carrier strike and recent winner of the Silver Star – that’s Lt. Leonard S. Levison, 26, a Pitt graduate who during his 20 months of active service has participated in practically every major Pacific naval action.

In his last letter to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Arthur A. Levison of 1613 Shady Avenue, Lt. Levison was just as excited about Pyle coming aboard his ship as he was about his citation. In fact, Lt. Levison took Ernie from a conference on the Admiral’s ship to the carrier as the mighty task force set out for Tokyo.

Lt. Levison is in charge of the catapult and arresting gear of his carrier. This is ordinarily a two-man job, but he has been handling it by himself.

He received the Silver Star “for distinguishing himself conspicuously by gallantry and intrepidity on November 25, 1944, when he performed his duties calmly under intense strafing by Jap planes.”

A violent explosion occurred near him when one of the flattop’s planes was strafed. The catapult room was damaged and the high-pressure air flask was in danger of exploding. The citation said Lt. Levison bled the flash, reducing the danger, and then heroically returned to the flight deck and skillfully assisted in fighting fires and helping remove wounded during a subsequent air attack.

The East End officer was further cited for distinguished service and meritorious performance of duty earlier last year. States the citation:

Lt. Levison operated and maintained his equipment with such expert skill and efficiency that he was largely instrumental in successful completion of his carrier’s air operations.

“To think,” said his father, an official of the Blaw-Knox Company, “that he is in charge of complicated mechanisms! When he was home, we couldn’t trust him to drive a nail.”

At Pitt, Lt. Levison was sports editor of the Pitt News. Graduated in 1939, he worked for a New York department store until commissioned an ensign in 1942. A brother, Murray, is in the midshipman school at Northwestern University.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 27, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – We were up an hour and a half before daylight, for our planes had to be in the air at the first hint of dawn.

The first patrol was always launched by catapult, because in the wind-swept semi-darkness, it was too dangerous for them to make the run down the rolling deck.

After seeing the flight launches the first few days, it became old stuff, and I would have stayed in bed and ignored it, but that was impossible. The catapult’s huge launching machinery was directly above my cabin, and every time it shot a plane off it was just as though the Washington Monument had fallen on the ship. Rip Van Winkle himself couldn’t have slept through it. So, I just got up.

The fighter pilots were given their last briefing. In the “ready room” the squadron commander and intelligence officer showed them on maps and by drawings on the blackboard, just where they would strike.

The squadron commander asked how many of the pilots had no wrist watches. Six held up their hands. The funny part was that the ship had no extra wrist watches, so I don’t know why he asked the question in the first place.

Then he told what our approximate total of planes over Japan would be, and how many it was probable the Japs would put up against us. And then he said: “So you see, each one of us will only have to take care of three Jap planes!”

Constant blanket of protection

The pilots all laughed and looked at each other sheepishly. (Days later, when the final scores were in, we found our force had destroyed Japs at nine-to-one.)

And at the end of his briefing, the squadron commander gave strict orders for the pilots not to shoot at Japs coming down in parachutes.

“They’re supposed to do it to us,” he said, “but it isn’t the thing for us to do.”

The bomber pilots and their enlisted gunners and radiomen were briefed the same way. After the intelligence officer had finished, the squadron commander said:

We’re going to dive low on the target before releasing our bombs. Since we’re risking our necks anyhow, there’s no point in going at all unless we can do some damage, so go down low.

All through the various strikes on Japan, our task force kept enough planes back to fly a constant blanket of protection in the sky above us.

I remember the funny sign chalked on the blackboard of the “ready room” the first day, urging our patrol pilots to extra vigilance for Jap planes that might sneak out from the mainland to attack us. The sign said: “Keep Alert – Remember Your Poor Scared Pals on the Ship!”

‘Sits’ on Jap sub all day

We didn’t know whether our first planes over the mainland would surprise the Japs or not. It didn’t seem possible, yet there were no indications that they knew.

For two days on our approach, we had been knocking off Jap reconnaissance planes and picket boats. We hoped we had got these scattered planes and boats before they had time to radio back home the news of our presence. One of our destroyers had even sat all day on top of a Jap submarine to keep him from coming to the top and sending a warning.

But still we didn’t know for sure, so there was tenseness that first morning. We knew almost exactly what time our first planes would be over the Tokyo area.

We went to the radio room to listen. The usual Japanese programs were on the air. We watched the clock. Suddenly – at just the right time – the Jap stations all went off the air.

There was silence for a few minutes. And then the most Donald Duck-like screaming and jabbering you ever heard. The announcer was so excited you had to laugh.

We knew our boys were there. After that, for us on the ship, it was just a matter of waiting, and hoping. And as the blackboard sign said, of being poor scared pals.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 28, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – All but six of our planes were back from their strike on Tokyo and safely landed.

The six formed a separate flight, and we couldn’t believe that all of them had been lost, and for that reason our officers didn’t feel too concerned.

And then came a radio message from the flight leader. It said that one of the six was down in the ocean, and that the other five were hanging around to try to direct some surface vessels to the rescue. That’s all we knew for hours. When we finally got the story, this was it:

Ens. Robert Buchanan of Clementon, New Jersey, was hit by flak as they were driving on their target some 20 miles west of Tokyo. Buchanan himself was not hurt.

He kept his plane up till he got over water, but it was still very much Japanese water. In fact, it was in Tokyo’s outer bay – the bigger one of the two bays you see on the map leading in to Tokyo.

Ens. Buchanan is an ace, with five Jap planes to his credit. He ditched his plane successfully, and got out in his rubber boat. He was only eight miles from shore and five miles from the big island that stands at the bay entrance.

Then the flight leader took charge. He is Lt. John Fecke of Duxbury, Massachusetts. He is also an ace and an old hand at the game. He has downed seven Jap planes.

Fecke took the remaining four of the flight and started out looking for an American rescue ship. Thery found one about 30 miles off the bay entrance.

Uses mirror to signal

They talked to him on the radio, told him the circumstances and he sent back word he was willing to try. But he asked them to stick with him and give air support.

So Lt. Fecke ordered the other four to stay and circle above the ship, while he went back to pick up Buchanan’s location and guard him.

But when he got there, he couldn’t find Buchanan. He flew for 25 minutes around Tokyo Bay and was about to despair when he began getting sun flashes in his eyes.

He flew over about three miles and there was Buchanan. He had used his signal mirror, just like it says in the book.

In the meantime, the ship’s progress was slow. It took almost two hours to get there. And one by one the aerial escort began getting in trouble, and one by one Fecke ordered them home to our ship, which was getting farther away all the time.

Lt. Irl Sonner of Petaluma, California, lost the use of his radio, and had to leave.

Lt. Max Barnes of Olympia, Washington, got dangerously low on gas, and Fecke sent him home. Gas shortage also sent back Lt. Bob Murray of Muncie, Indiana.

That left only Lt. Fecke circling above the man in the boat, and Lt. Arnold Berner of Springdale, Arkansas, flying lone aerial escort for the rescue ship.

Finally, the ship was past the bay entrance. The skipper began to have his doubts. He had to go within three miles of the gun-dotted island, he was within five minutes flying distance of land, and Jap planes could butcher him.

Go right into lion’s mouth

Furthermore, he looked at his chart, and saw that he was in “restricted waters,” meaning they were probably mined. It was certainly no place for a ship to be.

The skipper radioed Fecke and said he couldn’t go any further. Fecke radioed back and said, “It’s only two miles more. Please try.”

The skipper answered and said, “Okay, we’ll try.”

And they pulled it off. They went right into the lion’s mouth, pulled out our pilots, and got safely away. Then, and then only, did Fecke and Berner start home.

They came back to us three hours after all the rest had returned. They had flown six hours on a three-hour mission. But they helped save an American life by doing so.

That night I lay in my bunk reading a copy of Flying magazine. It was the issue of last October, nearly six months old. It was the annual Naval aviation issue.

And in an article entitled “Life on a Carrier,” on Page 248, was this paragraph:

It’s a mighty good feeling to know that even if you were shot down in Tokyo Harbor, the Navy would be in to get you.

It never had happened when that piece was written. But it has happened now.

---

TAILPIECE: The rescue ship radioed us the next day that Buchanan was feeling fine, and that just to be impartial, they also had rescued another Navy pilot, a disgruntled Jap pilot, and a lone bedraggled survivor of a Jap picket boat!

[NormanStewart]

Editorial: Rescue story

A good example of the reason Ernie Pyle, America’s favorite war correspondent, will be found today on Page 1, Second Section.

He tells of a squadron of flier who refused to desert one of their number shot down in Tokyo’s outer bay. the squadron located a U.S. ship and talked the skipper into going in after the pilot.

While the squadron provided air cover, the ship steamed within three miles of the gun-dotted shore, picked up the pilot and escaped.

Ernie writes the story, just as he does all his stories simply. So, he achieves quality that all the purple words in the dictionary wouldn’t apply.

If Ernie has a trick of writing, it is that he likes to have a kicker on the end of a story. You will find a kicker on this one, too. It will make you grin as you say to yourself, “That’s how our boys fight the war.”

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 29, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – On our airplane carrier, we are all wondering what day Mrs. Speidel had her baby. Here is the reason we wonder:

Her husband is Lt. John Speidel, who pilots a torpedo bomber from our carrier. He is only 22, and naturally was excited at the prospect of becoming a father. His wife lives in Philadelphia.

Now Lt. Speidel isn’t so young that he believes literally the date of arrival which the doctor gives several months ahead of time, but at least it’s something to shoot at.

And so it came about that the date and Lt. Speidel’s assignment on his first mission over Tokyo coincided. He thought what a wonderful double event.

But at the last moment the mission was canceled and our entire task force counted its scores and headed south. The double went aglimmering.

Next day we were within flying distance of the Japanese islands to the south, and we suddenly get orders for a special bombing mission on them. Lt. Speidel went.

And his plane got shot up. He was lucky to get back at all. He had a hole in his wing, he couldn’t get his flaps down, and his airspeed indicator was shot out. It seemed improbable that he could land at all.

Waved over to big carrier

He made two tries at it. Both looked disastrous, and he was waved off. He simply couldn’t slow down enough. So they sent him over to one of the big carriers with lots of deck room, and he landed all right over there. It was quite a day.

Now some of us older hands realize that a baby may be born the day before the doctor predicts, or the day after. So, we wonder if Lt. Speidel might just possibly have had his two big days in one after all.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Mrs. Speidel reports the baby came early. He was a week old the day his father was bombing the Jap islands. The baby’s name is John Jr. and he’s doing fine. So is Mrs. Speidel.

The two men who fly with Lt. Speidel are Al Kerby, radioman from Woodbury, New Kersey, and Gunner William Groepper of Avoca, Indiana. They’re interested in what happened too.

Remember the boys we wrote about yesterday – Ens. Robert Buchanan who was shot down into Tokyo Bay, and Lt. John Fecke, who directed the rescue?

Well, it wasn’t the first time those two had seen exciting times together.

Last fall, off Formosa, a flight of 70 Jap planes pounced on two of our cruisers that were crippled. Fecke was leading a flight of eight, of which Buchanan was one.

Those eight took on the 70 Japs. They shot down 29 of them, lost one plane, broke up the attack and saved the cruisers.

Fecke and Buchanan each got five Jap planes in that one foray. And each got the Navy Cross for the job. So, this little Tokyo Bay incident didn’t rattle them.

Lieutenant fools Ernie

When I first saw Lt. Fecke, I said to myself, “There’s a westerner for sure.” He just has that weather-beaten, cowboy look. I liked him before I ever really knew him.

And then he fooled me by turning out to be a New Englander, Massachusetts-born, and a New Hampshire University graduate, in a business course at that. He’s 26 now.

But he has the westerner’s knack for steadiness. He is very quiet and polite. He knows how to do things. He never gets excited. He has shot down seven planes.

The others describe him as the man you’d like to have along if you ever got the trouble. To which Ens. Buchanan would undoubtedly say “Amen!”

The night after our strike on the southern islands, everybody was relaxed and felt that wonderful sense of relief over a dangerous job being finished.

That night we showed a movie for the first time in three or four days. It was a western, called The Lights of Old Santa Fe, with a regulation hero and villain and runaway horses and shootin’ and everything.

Those fliers received it like modern audiences receive The Drunkard. We almost hissed the villain off the screen. We booed at all underhand business. We cheered all good deeds. We whistled and clapped when the hero took the girl in his arms.

I think we enjoyed it more than any movie on the whole trip.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 30, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – The pilot on our carrier who shot down the first Jap plane of our trip was Ens. Frank Troup of Decatur, Alabama. It was a reconnaissance plane, and he got it the day before we got to Tokyo waters.

It was his fifth, and made him an ace. Troup said the only reason he got it was that he happened to be closer than his wing-mates when they spotted it.

The boys who fly the patrols say that when they spot a single Jap plane, everybody in the patrol opens wide open, and it’s just like a horse race to see who gets within shooting distance first. This time it was Troup.

Next in line to Troup was Ens. Bob Hickle of Long Beach, California. That was the third time they’d been together when Troup got a plane. It had almost got to be a joke. Hickle had gradually worked into the same category as “always a bridesmaid, but never a bride.”

Hickle joked, “Now that Troup has got five, he’ll have to start helping me get some.”

And the very next morning Hickle came back glowing. He had got his first plane. Yes, Troup was with him, but Hickle got it all by himself, without any help.

I asked Hickle how it felt, and he said he was so anxious to get him that he almost ran into the pieces when the Jap turned over in the air and exploded.

‘Sure, he’s my father’

Some other of my friends among the pilots:

Lt. Pleas Greenlee of Shelbyville, Indiana. He’s the executive officer of the fighter squadron. He’s rather short, pleasant-faced, sucks at a pipe and always wears house-slippers around the ship. He has one Jap plane to his credit.

Before I knew his first name or where he was from, I asked him if he was any relation to Pleas Greenlee, a prominent Hoosier whom I’d met several times in Indiana.

“Yes,” said the fighter pilot, “he’s my father!”

Young Greenlee is an Annapolis graduate. His wife and baby girl are in Shelbyville. He has color photos of them all over his cabin. He is spending his spare time right now making a “pig-bank” out of a cocoanut for his little daughter.

Pittsburgher’s sport is skiing

Ens. Herbert Gidney Jr. of 623 Devonshire Street, Pittsburgh, is a torpedo-bomber pilot who was making his first combat strike when he flew over Tokyo. He said he was so engrossed with doing everything just right that he wasn’t scared at all.

Gidney is a big fellow. He went to Lehigh University, and you’d sweat he’d have to be a football player. But no, his great love is skiing. He used to take trips way up into New England just to ski. He even walks as though he were on skis!

Gidney has a system of letter-writing I’ve never seen before. He figures the only way to get letters is to write letters., so he writes 16 letters a week. Exactly 16.

He has a list of 16 people, made out on a big sheet of paper like a scoreboard, and checks each one off as he finished the letter.

Ens. Gidney, 23, is a son of Mr. and Mrs. H. A. Gidney of 623 Devonshire Street, who are vacationing at Pinehurst, North Carolina, at present. Mr. Gidney, a Gulf Oil executive, is a retired Army colonel.

Shakes Ernie’s confidence

Lt. Howard Skidmore, another torpedo bomber pilot, is from Villa Grove, Illinois.

When he told me that I said, “Why, that’s where my mother was born.” And then I got to thinking no, she was born at Camargo, a few miles south. And now I’m not sure.

At any rate Lt. Skidmore has lots of relatives around my hometown of Dana, Indiana, and has been over there lots of times to see them.

Lt. Skidmore had a unique experience on this ship. Last fall, he was sitting in his plane with the engine running, just ready to start his takeoff.

And at that moment a Jap bomb hit the deck less than a dozen feet in front of Skidmore’s plane. It killed several men and tore a big hole in the deck.

Yet Skidmore wasn’t scratched, and the close explosion didn’t even deafen him or give him a headache. Maybe that’s the result of coming from a good hometown.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (March 31, 1945)

Roving Reporter

By Ernie Pyle

IN THE WESTERN PACIFIC (delayed) – When our planes come back from a strike, they circle around the ship until they get the signal to land.

Then they break out of formation one at a time into what is called the “landing circle.” They try to space it so that one plane will be landed and clear of the “barrier,” just as the next one approaches.

When an approaching pilot is about half a mile out, the landing signal officer begins giving him sign-language instructions.

The landing signal officer is known as the LSO. He is one of the most important men on the ship. He is a flier himself. But his is no part-time job that is traded around among the pilots. He has been especially trained, and that is his sole job.

The LSO stands on a platform just off the stern. Behind him is a large square of canvas, to make a background for his signals. Underneath the platform is a heavy rope netting, to catch him if he should fall off.

He wears a yellow sweater and yellow helmet, so the incoming pilots can easily spot him. And in each hand is a paddle about twice the size of a ping-pong paddle. They are either yellow or bright orange. These are his signal paddles.

From the moment the LSO starts his signals the incoming pilot never takes his eyes off of him. From that point on, the LSO actually flies the plane on remote control, and the pilot is only a robot who does what the LSO tells him to do.

By sign language, the LSO tells him he’s too high or too low, too fast or too slow, that his tail hook isn’t down, or a dozen different things.

Split-second thinking

The pilot corrects these mistakes as he approaches. If his correction is perfect, the LSO gives him the “cut” sign just before he reaches the flight deck.

Instantly he takes his eyes off the LSO and more begins flying his own plane. Only half a dozen seconds are left. He has to act fast, and get that plane down.

But if the approach isn’t quite right, then the LSO at the very last second gives him a frantic “wave off” signal, and the pilot “pours on the coal,” misses the deck by a scant few feet, and goes around for another try.

The LSO must decide at the last moment, actually in a fraction of a second, whether to let the pilot try it or not. I don’t know of any situation that requires faster mind-making-up. You sure can’t go into “conference” with anybody on that one.

The landing signal officer on our ship is a fine man. His name is Bill Green, and he comes from Newton, Iowa. He is a lieutenant.

He graduated from a commerce course at the University of Iowa in 1942, and was honorable mention for All-American that year. He intends to be a lawyer.

An LSO first must be a flier himself; second, he must be a man of steady nerves and sound judgment; and third he must be a psychologist in a way, and know his pilots.

Bill Green is all three. Everybody likes him, and everybody has faith in him. It would be a sad bunch of pilots who had an incompetent LSO.

Identifies pilots by planes’ movements

Bill knows the flying traits of each pilot so well that he can identify every one just by the movements of his plane, when he is still a mile from the ship!

In watching our landings, I saw one pilot “waved off” seven times one day before he got in. So, I asked Bill if that was a record. He said it certainly was not. A few months ago, he had to wave off a pilot 21 times before he finally got aboard. Which meant that one pilot was trying to land for almost two hours!

The landing signal officer’s job is a precarious one. Many a time Bill has had to duck, jump or even run. The ship’s photo lab has a marvelous picture of Bill actually being chased across the deck by a plane making a near-crash landing.

There is always an assistant LSO on every carrier, in training to take over a regular job himself. Bill’s assistant is Ens. Kal Porter of Ogden, Utah.

One day I got up my nerve, and went back and stood with them while they landed a whole flight of planes. You would swear every plane was going to land right on top of you. Before it was over I had decided that if I were running the Navy, I’d let them all land in the water.

[NormanStewart]

The Pittsburgh Press (April 1, 1945)

Always an apostle of the underdog –
Ernie Pyle ignores success, feels he must keep going

Life Magazine reviews his career – He’s not the type his readers imagine
Sunday, April 1, 1945

Ernie Pyle and friend ‘Cheetah’ enjoying the sun whole Ernie was home from the wars. (Photo by Bob Landry)

Success thrust itself upon him… he cares nothing for the money it has brought, and is embarrassed by the fame… but he keeps going because he feels that he must.

That’s Ernie Pyle, columnist of The Pittsburgh Press and 676 other newspapers, as he is described by Lincoln Barnett in this week’s issue of Life Magazine.

Life devotes parts of nine pages to Ernie, reviewing his career, appraising his success, and adding considerably to the general fund of knowledge about this self-effacing, individual who has become the outstanding war correspondent of World War II.

Not saintly or sad

“By his articulate admirers,” says Mr. Barnett, “Ernie has come to be envisaged as a frail old poet. a kind of St. Francis of Assisi wandering sadly among the foxholes, playing beautiful tunes on his typewriter.

“Actually,” “Mr. Barnett continues, “he is neither elderly, little, saintly nor sad.”

He is 44, stands 5 feet 8 inches tall; weighs 112 pounds, and although he appears fragile, he is a tough, wiry man who gets along nicely without much food or sleep.

His sense of humor… assumes a robust earthy color in conversation. His laugh is full-bellied. His profanity is strictly G.I.

Likes to just sit

Although Pyle is America’s No. 1 professional wander, he is fundamentally a sedentary person who likes nothing better than to sit in an overheated room with a few good friends. Sometimes he appears to find conversation less pleasurable than the simple circumstance of being seated.

His apparent agoraphobia is a byproduct neither of war nerves nor a swelled head. He has always been self-effacing, and he finds himself uncomfortable in his current eminence as the nation’s favorite war reporter, Pulitzer Prize winner and author of two bestsellers.

He has been called shy, but he is not timid. His reticence is marked by quiet dignity.

He likes people as individuals and writes only nice things about those he mentions by name in his column. “But there are a lot of heels in the world,” he says. “I can’t like them.”

Apostle of underdog

The Life article points out that Ernie has always been an apostle of the underdog. Seven years ago, after visiting a leper colony, he wrote that “I experienced an acute feeling of spiritual need to be no better off than the leper.”

“And so in war,” says Mr. Barnette, “Pyle has felt a spiritual need to be no better off than the coldest, wettest, unhappiest of all soldiers.”

The article relates that when Ernie gave his consent to the making of the movie, The Story of G.I. Joe, he stipulated that (1) the hero of the picture must be the Infantry and not Pyle; (2) that no attempt be made to glorify him, and (3) that other correspondents be included in the story.

The movie, in which Capt. Burgess Meredith plays Ernie, will be seen by troops overseas in June and be released to the civilian public in July.

Huge earnings

In spite of his refusal to capitalize on his fame when he returned from the European fronts, Ernie has made close to half a million dollars in the past two years, Mr. Barnett estimates.

While he was home, he wore one suit, which he bought for $41.16 when he landed in New York. His home is a modest house in Albuquerque, which cost about $5,000. He puts his money into war bonds and, according to Mr. Barnett, “quietly bestows substantial sums upon friends, relatives, G.I.’s and anybody else he likes.”

“Although Pyle disdains his affluence,” the article continues, “he is keenly appreciative of the aureole of national esteem and affection that now envelopes him.”

Hundreds pray for him

The emotions Pyle evokes in his public go beyond detached admiration. He is probably the only newspaper columnist for whom any notable proportion of readers have fervently prayed. The volume of prayer put forth for him each night can only be estimated by the hundreds of letters he receives from mothers and wives who declare they include him in their bedtime supplications.

For some time after D-Day, 90 percent of all reader queries that came into Scripps-Howard offices were: “Did Ernie get in safe?”

His success has been achieved without much push on Ernie’s part, the article maintains.

It declares that he took journalism at the University of Indiana because someone told him it would be an easy course.

He quit college a few months before he would have graduated, and went to work on a small newspaper in Indiana. Four months later, he went to the Scripps-Howard Washington Daily News as a copyreader.

Married ‘that girl’

“He was an excellent headline writer,” says Mr. Barnett, “but so mousey-mild his associates never dreamed he would ever be more than a pencil slave on the rim of the desk.”

Two years after going to Washington, he married Geraldine Siebolds, an attractive girl from Minnesota who had a job with the Civil Service Commission, Later, when he became a roving reporter, she was known to mullions as “that girl.”

He became managing editor of The News in 1932, but declared that he “hated the damn job.” Three years later, convalescing from influenza, he and Jerry took a motor trip to the Southwest. When they returned, Ernie turned in some articles about his trip and asked for an assignment as roving reporter.

Gets his wish

“They had a sort of Mark Twain quality and they knocked my eyes right out,” the Scripps-Howard editor-in-chief declared afterward. Pyle got his wish. His salary was raised from $95 to $100 a week and on August 8, 1935, his first travel column appeared in Scripps-Howard newspapers.

For the next five years Pyle roamed the Western Hemisphere. Those itinerant pre-war years were the happiest of his life. “The job would be wonderful,” he once said, “if it weren’t for having to write the damned column.”

Meanwhile he was evolving his special reportorial capacities and style. When war came, he had no need to revise his technique, His farmers, lumberjacks and bartenders had become privates, sergeants and lieutenants. And Phoenix, Des Moines and Main Street were Palermo, Naples and Rue Michelet.

He goes to war

“A small voice came in the night and said Go,” Ernie wrote in the fall of 1940. It was the same voice that had spoken to him in the leper colony in Hawaii. So he went off to war.

Pyle’s first overseas trip in the winter of 1940-41 multiplied readers of his column by 50 percent. Stirred by the spiritual holocaust of London and his own relentless instinct for self-immolation, he produced columns of great beauty and power. But it was not until he reached North Africa the following year that the Pyle legend began to evolve.

The article tells how Ernie, afflicted by one of his periodic colds, remained in Oran while the other reporters went to the front. There he met some obscure civilians who told him about the turbulent political situation in North Africa, and he scored an important scoop.

The doughboys’ saint

Gradually, as he moved about among the soldiers, covering the “backwash” of the war, he became the patron saint of the fighting foot soldier, the article relates. But he didn’t know it for a long time.

He thought, when he wrote it, that his famous column on the death of Capt. Waskow was no good.

He went on to Normandy, and went on suffering the privations and dangers of the soldiers. Gradually the suffering he saw began to get under his skin. He had premonitions of death. Finally, he had to come home. Soldiers wrote saying they didn’t blame him.

After a long rest he pushed off again, this time to the Pacific. He chose a small carrier because he knew he would feel more at home there – and because such ships hadn’t been receiving much notice.

“I dread going back and I’d give anything if I didn’t have to go,” he said. “But I feel I have no choice. I’ve been with it so long I feel a responsibility…”