Pyle became a war correspondent following the entry of the U.S.
into World War II, he reported stories from the United
States , Europe , Africa ,
and the Pacific. As a war correspondent Pyle applied his intimate “folksy”
style to relate his stories from the “Front”. Pyle strove to write “tales” from
the perspective of the common soldier, instead of stories from
“behind-the-lines” of movements of armies or the activities of “The Brass”. His
literary approach of telling the story from the point of view and in the
language of the “common man/soldier GI Joe” won him not only further popularity
but also the Pulitzer Prize. His stories
of the GI’s won him their love and affection.
From his time spent in the front lines and in fox holes of
the combat soldier, he wrote a column in 1944 urging that soldiers in combat
get "fight pay" just as airmen were paid "flight pay." The
members of Congress were so pressed by their constituents that they passed
legislation, known as "The Ernie Pyle bill" authorizing $10 a month
in extra pay for combat infantrymen.
Many now attribute the actual first publicized case of Post
Traumatic Stress Syndrome to that which Pyle publicly apologized to with his
readers in a column on September 5,
1944 , for being hospitalized with a “war neurosis”. He stated that
he had "lost track of the point of the war" and that he hoped that a
rest in his home in New Mexico
would restore his vigor to go "war horsing around the Pacific”.
Among his most widely read and reprinted columns is "The
Death of Captain Waskow." His wartime writings are preserved in four
books: Ernie Pyle In England, Here Is Your War, Brave Men, and Last Chapter.
When Pyle decided to cover events in the Pacific, he
admitted that his heart was with the infantrymen in Europe .
Pyle’s comments, of the “soft life”, of the sailors of US Navy in comparison to
the infantry in Europe, was openly criticized by fellow War correspondents in
newspaper editorials, and even by his beloved GI’s for giving apparent short
shrift to the difficulties of the war in the Pacific.
On April 18, 1945
Pyle was traveling in a jeep with Lieutenant Colonel Joseph B. Coolidge
(commanding officer of the 305th Infantry Regiment, 77th Infantry Division) and
three other men. The road they were on ran parallel to the beach two or three
hundred yards inland. As the vehicle
reached a road junction, an enemy machine gun located on a coral ridge about a
third of a mile away began firing at them. The men stopped their vehicle and
jumped into a ditch. Pyle and Coolidge raised their heads to look around for
the others; when they spotted them, Pyle smiled and asked Coolidge "Are
you all right?" Those were his last words as Pyle was struck in the left
temple and was killed instantly.
Pyle was noted for having premonitions of his own death and
predicted before landing that he would not be alive a year hence. Though a war
correspondent Pyle was among the few American civilians killed during the war
to be awarded the Purple Heart.
He was buried with his helmet on, laid to rest in a long row
of graves among other soldiers on Ie Shima, with an infantry private on one
side and a combat engineer on the other. The remains of Pyle and the other
fallen Americans was later reburied at the Army cemetery on Okinawa
and then moved to Honolulu in the National
Memorial Cemetery
of the Pacific. After the war, when Okinawa was returned to Japanese control the
Ernie Pyle monument was one of only three American memorials allowed to remain
in place.
AT THE FRONT LINES IN ITALY, January 10, 1944 – In this war I have known a lot of
officers who were loved and respected by the soldiers under them. But never
have I crossed the trail of any man as beloved as Capt. Henry T. Waskow of Belton ,
Texas .
Capt. Waskow was a company commander in the 36th Division.
He had led his company since long before it left the States. He was very young,
only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness
that made people want to be guided by him.
"After my own father, he came next," a
sergeant told me.
"He always looked after us," a soldier said.
"He’d go to bat for us every time."
"I’ve never knowed him to do anything unfair,"
another one said.
I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought
Capt. Waskow’s body down. The moon was nearly full at the time, and you could
see far up the trail, and even part way across the valley below. Soldiers made
shadows in the moonlight as they walked.
Dead
men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed onto the backs of
mules. They came lying belly-down across the wooden pack-saddles, their heads
hanging down on the left side of the mule, their stiffened legs sticking out
awkwardly from the other side, bobbing up and down as the mule walked.
The
Italian mule-skinners were afraid to walk beside dead men, so Americans had to
lead the mules down that night. Even the Americans were reluctant to unlash and
lift off the bodies at the bottom, so an officer had to do it himself, and ask
others to help.
The
first one came early in the morning. They slid him down from the mule and stood
him on his feet for a moment, while they got a new grip. In the half light he
might have been merely a sick man standing there, leaning on the others. Then
they laid him on the ground in the shadow of the low stone wall alongside the
road.
I don’t know who that first one was. You feel small in the
presence of dead men, and ashamed at being alive, and you don’t ask silly
questions.
We left him there beside the road, that first one, and we
all went back into the cowshed and sat on water cans or lay on the straw,
waiting for the next batch of mules.
Somebody said the dead soldier had been dead for four days,
and then nobody said anything more about it. We talked soldier talk for an hour
or more. The dead man lay all alone outside in the shadow of the low stone
wall.
Then a soldier came into the cowshed and said there were
some more bodies outside. We went out into the road. Four mules stood there, in
the moonlight, in the road where the trail came down off the mountain. The
soldiers who led them stood there waiting. "This one is Captain
Waskow," one of them said quietly.
Two men unlashed his body from the mule and lifted it off
and laid it in the shadow beside the low stone wall. Other men took the other
bodies off. Finally there were five lying end to end in a long row, alongside
the road. You don’t cover up dead men in the combat zone. They just lie there
in the shadows until somebody else comes after them.
The unburdened mules moved off to their olive orchard. The
men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually one
by one I could sense them moving close to Capt. Waskow’s body. Not so much to
look, I think, as to say something in finality to him, and to themselves. I
stood close by and I could hear.
One soldier came and looked down, and he said out loud,
"God damn it." That’s all he said, and then he walked away. Another
one came. He said, "God damn it to hell anyway." He looked down for a
few last moments, and then he turned and left.
Another man came; I think he was an officer. It was hard to
tell officers from men in the half light, for all were bearded and grimy dirty.
The man looked down into the dead captain’s face, and then he spoke directly to
him, as though he were alive. He said: "I’m sorry, old man."
Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer, and bent
over, and he too spoke to his dead captain, not in a whisper but awfully
tenderly, and he said:
"I sure am sorry, sir."
Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and
took the dead hand, and he sat there for a full five minutes, holding the dead
hand in his own and looking intently into the dead face, and he never uttered a
sound all the time he sat there.
And finally he put the hand down, and then reached up and
gently straightened the points of the captain’s shirt collar, and then he sort
of rearranged the tattered edges of his uniform around the wound. And then he
got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone.
After that the rest of us went back into the cowshed,
leaving the five dead men lying in a line, end to end, in the shadow of the low
stone wall. We lay down on the straw in the cowshed, and pretty soon we were
all asleep.
Epilogue: In his last will and testament, Waskow wrote:
“ God alone knows how I worked and slaved to make myself a worthy leader of these magnificent men, and I feel assured that my work has paid dividends—in personal satisfaction, if nothing else.... I felt so unworthy, at times, of the great trust my country had put in me, that I simply had to keep plugging to satisfy my own self that I was worthy of that trust. I have not, at the time of writing this, done that, and I suppose I never will."
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