 Words at war presents, here is your war by Ernie Pyle. I haven't written anything about the big picture of the war because I don't know anything about it. I only know what we see from our worms eye view. Tired and dirty soldiers who are alive and don't want to die. Long, darkened convoys in the middle of the night. Silent men wandering down the hill from battle. Chow lines and foxholes and burning tanks. In the rustle of high-flown shells. Jeeps and petrol dumps and smelly bedding rows. Sea rations and cactus patches. Blown bridges and dead mules and hospital tents. And shirt collars greasy black for months of wearing. Laughter and anger and wine and lovely flowers. And constant cussing. And graves and graves and graves. This is our war. And we'll carry it with us as we go from one battlefield to another until it is all over. Leaving some of us behind and every beach in every field. They died and thereby the rest of us can go on and on. When we leave here for the next chore, there is nothing we can do for the ones beneath the wooden crosses. Except perhaps to pause and murmur. Thanks, pal. Words at war, brought to you by the National Broadcasting Company in cooperation with the Council on Books in War Time, brings you another in this series of radio adaptations of outstanding war books. Tonight, stories of the American campaign in North Africa as reported in the new book, Here is Your War, by the famous correspondent, Ernie Pyle. Soon after the first American troops landed in North Africa, millions of Americans here at home came to know for the first time a man named Ernie Pyle. Millions had known him, of course, in peacetime for his stories of the little things and the interesting people he met on his wanderings around the United States. But now, his dispatches from North Africa brought him a vastly wider audience of mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers and sweethearts who wanted to know what was happening to their soldier. Ernie Pyle told them, for Ernie, a slight friendly fellow of 40 years and about 140 pounds, had appointed himself the biographer of the GI soldier. He lived with his soldier, spent furloughs with him, ate and slept with him in the field and followed him into battle and wrote about him for the folks back home. These are some of the stories he has written in the words of Ernie Pyle. We stood at the rail about troopship at an English port and watched the troops march aboard. They came through the rain heavily laden, steel helmets, overcoats, carrying rifles and huge packs and rumors about where they were going. You got any idea, Ernie? About what, Sergeant? About where we're going. No, they didn't tell me. I got an idea. Maybe we're going to Russia. I don't figure it that way, Sergeant. No? How do you figure it, Corporal? Well, I figure it's Iceland. No, they don't need any more troops in Iceland. What do you say, Ernie? I shouldn't think so, Sergeant. Hey, look, Mr. Pyle, maybe we're going back to America, huh? Say, are you nuts? It ain't impossible. Listen, you think they ship us all the way over here just to ship us back again? You're crazy. Hey, you soldier! Oh, me? No, they didn't tell me. I got an idea. Hey, you soldier! Oh, me? Yes, Sergeant? Well, men were going off to war. They carried odd things aboard. Some had books in their hands. Some carried violin or banjo cases. One soldier led a big black dog. And one I found out later carried two puppies under his shirt. What do you mean, Sergeant? What dog? The British, ours was a British ship, a finicky about allowing dogs and troop transports. All dogs were ordered turned in. But somehow the morning we filed off the boat in North Africa and began the long march to our quarters, a big black dog and two little puppies from England marched with us up the strange African road. They came aboard silently, most of them. Now and then one would catch sight of somebody and knew what the rail and there would be a shout. It was a thrilling sight. And a sad sight too, in a way, to see them marching in endless numbers up the steep gangway to be swallowed up by the great ship. After some time out, rumour-mongering was rife again. And one officer made up a rumour to the effect that we were going to Casablanca and timed it to see just how long it would take to circle the ship. It came back to him as cold packed right from the bridge in just half an hour. I believe you could take any thousand soldiers in our army and out of them get many good entertainers. From the troops aboard our ship, they dug up an accordionist, a dancer and a cowboy singer. They rehearsed every afternoon and the big night came a couple of evenings before we got to Gibraldo. They put on two shows that night for the enlisted men only. But word got around and the officers and nurses wanted to see it. So the night we were approaching Gibraldo, they cleaned it up some and put it on again. It was terrific. There was genuine talent in it. But the hero of the evening was a hairy corporal, Joe Kamita Brooklyn, who did a stripped tee. Joe twirled and stripped. Twirled and stripped. And then when he was down to his long heavy GI underwear, he swung to the front of the stage, lifted his veil and kissed the front row colonel right on the top of his bald head. The show was pretty good. There was something more to it than just that. There was the knowledge deep in everybody's mind that this was our night of danger. The video had just brought word that Germany's entire U-boat pack was concentrated in the approaches to Gibraldo. More than 50 submarines were said to be waiting for us. I doubt that there was a soul aboard who expected the night to pass without a tank. Mr. Kyle? Yes, Major? It's a wonderful thing. Those boys putting on that show up there in the war like galley slaves down in the hole. When you think of some people at home squawking their heads off, because they've got to do without little things, that makes my blood boil. Outside, the air was warm and the moon laid a brilliant sheen across the water. By its very gentleness, the night seemed inclusion with the evil that lay beneath the waters. It was a perfect night for romance. Or for death. We went through with laughter, music, and a song. Finally, we reached our port. Slowly and intricately, like twine from a hidden ball, the ships poured us onto the docks in long brown lines. We lined up and marched away. Some of us marched three miles, some of us 20 miles. We marched at first galley and finally with great weariness. But always with a feeling that at last we were beginning the final series of marches that would lead us home again. Home. The one really profound goal that obsesses every American marching on foreign soil. In due time, our first taste of action. Each man was issued three bars of D. ration chocolate and up to last one day, he took no other food. He carried two canteens of water instead of the usual one. In the day that followed, he lived in a way that is inconceivable to anyone who hasn't experienced it. He walked and fought all night without sleep. Next day he huddled in a foxhole or hidden fields of green knee-high wheat. The German felt for him continually with his artillery. He frankly didn't like it much. I wish it was night. Won't be any picnic tonight. Anything's better than just laying here, listening to that dog on artillery. Can't they shut up for a little while? I wish they'd shut up. That's what I wish. I just wish they'd shut up. A man can't see a shell unless he's standing near the gun when it's fired. But it's rushed through the air, makes such a loud sound. You wouldn't believe it, couldn't be seen. Some shells whine. Others make a kind of toneless rustle. It's hard to describe. The nearest I can come to it is the sound of jerking a stick through water. Some apparently defective shells got out of shape and made queer noises. I remember one that sounded like a locomotive popping hard at 40 miles an hour. Would they ever shut up just for a minute? Shut up! You're crazy. We were shot at by 88s, 47s, machine guns, tanks. And despite our own air superiority, we would dive bomb lots of times. But the Germans were always in such a hurry to get it over and get home that usually their aim was bad and the bombs fell harmlessly in open spaces. Of course, you couldn't depend on that. But strangely enough, although there's nothing light-hearted about the imminence of death at the moment it's upon a man, sometimes it can seem very funny next morning. Say, I hear this one man who says he wasn't scared last night. Yeah, who's that such? I don't know. But I'm gonna find him and shake his hand and I'll knock him out, that dirty liar. You weren't scared, were you, such? Me? I was never so scared in my life. As soon as those bombs started dropping, I started hunting up a chaplain. Boy, I needed some morale building. Actually, the reaction of American soldiers to their first bad bombings were exactly what you'd expected of them. They took it in a way to make you proud. Let's say there was a camp of 5,000 men and they went through a dive bombing and machine gun strafing. One man out of that 5,000 might break completely. 25 might lose their heads and run around foolishly. A couple of hundred would decide to change trenches in the middle of the bombing, forgetting that the safest place was the trench where they were in the beginning. But the 4,774 others would stay right in their trenches, thoroughly scared, but in full possession of themselves. And the moment it was over, they would be out with shovels and tools, helping to put out fires. Working as calmly as ever they did in their jobs at home. Speaking of home, the mail from home caught up with us now and then. There'd be long intervals without any mail at all. Then suddenly, an avalanche. Hey, look at Jablowski here. He's got 75 letters. Hey, Jablowski, how about let me read some? I didn't get nothing. Carmen, I see you drew something. I did, too. I noticed that a friend of mine is sending me a magazine subscription and a mimeographed letter describing a church festival in my hometown. Wonderful, isn't it? Well, better than nothing. Hey, listen to this one I got. A letter from a rubber company telling me I ought to conserve my time. Everybody felt really sorry for private first-class Jim Blake. Oh, my gosh, this is terrible. What am I gonna do? What am I gonna do? What's the matter, Blake? You got all kinds of mail there. Sure, look at it. 50 letters. 50 letters from my wife. 50 letters from your wife? What's the matter with you? You ought to be jumping up and down. Hey, listen to the guy. He gets 50 letters from his wife and he's crabbing. Hey, wait a minute, wait a minute. You don't get it. This is terrible. It's awful. It puts me in an awful jam. The guy gets 50 letters and he's squawking. I don't get it. Well, listen, here's what happened. See, I don't hear from my wife for three months. You see? She promised me she'll write me twice a week. Okay, I don't hear from her for three months. I get sour, see? I write her and tell her she's let me down. I tell her we're all washed up. I tell her go ahead, get a divorce. Hey, that's bad, Blake. And now I get 50 letters. The poor kid's been writing four letters a week. Only they just catch up with me. The poor kid, what am I gonna do? Gee, Blake, I don't know what to tell you. That's tough, Blake. But look, maybe she didn't get your letter about the divorce yet. Yeah, yeah. Maybe you could send her a cable and say it was just a gag. But those were rare respites where the battle would not wait. And battle meant the infantry. I love the infantry because they were the underdogs. They had no comforts and they learned to live without the necessities. And in the end, they were the guys without whom the battle of Africa could not have been won. The men were walking slowly dead weary. Every line of their bodies spoke their inhuman exhaustion. On their shoulders, they carried heavy steel tripods, machine gun barrels, leaden boxes of ammunition. There was an agony in your heart and you felt almost ashamed to look at them. They were just guys from Broadway and Main Street. Their world could never be known to you. But if you could have seen them just once, you'd know people were working back home. They never kept pace with those infantrymen in Tunisia. We talk sometimes during the louts. Talk about home mostly. When do you figure the war will be over, Ernie? I don't know. It's hard to say, Snip. This year, maybe? I hardly think so, Riley. I sure wish it was over. Maybe it will be over in 1944, Ernie. Maybe. Boy, I sure want to get home back there in Idaho where there's open country. I like open country where, if you want a holler, you can get out and holler. I don't care about hollering. I'd like to get back on my job. What was your job, Riley? I was kind of a carpenter, but my specialty was cabinet work. That's what I like. When a house is all done on the outside, I like to start inside and build cabinets and tables. I'm going to be a cabinet worker when I get back. What did you do, Snip? I've been making deliveries 80 miles a day. You know, sometimes I'd make as high as $60 a week on that bakery route. That's good money, Snip. I'd make that doing cabinet work. I might even make more than that. $60 a week would be okay for me. Of course, I don't plan on driving that bakery truck, especially. What do you plan on, Snip? Oh, I don't know. I'd do any number of things. There's lots of things to do in Idaho. It's a great place. Say, Ernie, do you like to hunt? Of course, over. Will you come hunting with me in South Carolina? Hey, you let me take your fishing before you do that. I'll show you some fishing that... Hey, hey, watch out! Say, you ever been deer hunting in South Carolina, Ernie? No, I haven't. Well, you know what they do to the first man to miss a deer? What's that round? They cut his shirt tail off. What for? I don't know. It's just a custom there. Boy, if I live through this, I'm going to do me some real fishing when I get on. War corsons, most people. Men live rough and talk rough. If they didn't toughen up inside, they simply wouldn't be able to take it. An officer friend of mine told me of an incident that touched him deeply. During a battle, he and a fellow officer came up to a tiny farmhouse. And just to be on the safe side, they called before entry. Anybody in there? Who's in there? Who's in there? I'm in here, and who wants to know? Oh, well, I'm Lieutenant Brown Sur, and this is Lieutenant Kruger. May we come in? The order, please. Captain, we won't be in your way. You won't be in my way. I'm heating up some rations. Hope you've got some of your own. Yes, we have, sir. May we throw our bedding down over here? Put it where you like. Thank you, sir. Good job for that man over there. Huh? Oh, I didn't see him, sir. Oh, he's wounded. He's dead. Sir, I happen to have this bottle here. Would you join us in a drink? What? Will you have a drink, sir? Drink? Have you got enough from my man outside? I know, sir. Just what's here? Oh, thanks. War corsons, people. My own emotion seemed dead and crusty when presented with the tangibles of war. I found I could look on rows of fresh graves without a lump in my throat. Somehow I could look on mutilated bodies without flinching. It was only when I sat alone away from it all, thinking that at last the enormity of those newly dead struck like a living nightmare. There were times when I felt I couldn't stand it and would have to leave. But in the fighting soldier, that phase of the war was behind. He was left behind after his first battle. His blood was out. He was fighting for his life and killing became as much a profession to him as writing was for me. He was truly at war. And yet, the same front-line soldier was quite a different fellow in the towns and villages. More often than not, he gave all his rations away to the scrawny Arab kids and then had to live on oranges and tangerines himself. The Arab kids were friendly and our soldiers weren't two days in a new place until every kid in town could say in English chocolate, chewing gum, okay and goodbye. Wait a minute, you guys. Wait. Anybody got any candy or gum? I haven't got a thing. I'm sorry, sonny. We're all out of gum and chocolate. Gee, we're mighty sorry, sonny. Well, hey, what are you crawling around in that dirt floor? Come on, sonny, get up. Dirty enough without crawling in it. On your feet, pal. Hey, wait a minute, Jack. What's the matter? This kid can't get up. He has to crawl. He must crawl all over town like that. Chewing gum? Yeah. Yeah, chewing gum, sonny. We'll find you some chewing gum. Come on, up you go. They got him some chewing gum, and more than that. They took this terribly crippled Arab back to their airdrome. They took the wheels off a battery carry and made a little wheel platform for the kid to lie on. Now he rolls along the streets instead of crawling in the field. And every soldier is his friend. Yes, war coarsens people, but it can't harden the hearts of American boys for all the killing they must do so that there'll be an end to killing. I don't think that any of us who have seen the mass cruelty of war can ever be cruel to a living thing when this war is over. And what of your soldier? I'm just the same as I always was. I'm no different. The men over here in North Africa have changed. They're too close to themselves to sense the change, perhaps. But they have changed in little ways. Once, soldiers inevitably ask me two questions wherever I went. When is the war going to be over, Ernie? When do you think we'll get home, Ernie? It's different now. Sure. They all still want to go home. But there is something deeper now. It isn't a theatrical proclamation that the enemy must be destroyed and the name of freedom. Just that we've got to win this war or else. We can't be running excursion steamers back and forth across the Atlantic while we're doing it. They're rougher than when you last saw them. Wars are rough business. Money means little to them right now. They spend it freely or give it away. And they're dead sure of one thing. Boy, if I ever get home, I'm going to stay home. I never want to see a foreign country again. I don't even hear about a foreign country. But down in their hearts they know full well. Yeah, I bet you won't be home six months before you start going around talking Arabic. Bragging about that girl you met in England. Telling about the beautiful sunset you saw in Germany. Oh, me? Why are you... Yeah, I guess that's just about what we'll all be doing. You'll know them all right. They'll snap back into the ways of peace just as they snapped into the ways of war. Meanwhile, they're well cared for. They're well cared for. Meanwhile, they're well cared for. No soldiers in any other war in history have had such excellent attention. They're a healthy army. Their food is good. Boy, what I wouldn't give for a swell steak in a Broadway restaurant. He's thinking more of Broadway than the steak. He's thinking more of home. Wherever home may be. Finally, the campaign was over. Now we're in a lull. Here, where I'm writing these words, the Mediterranean surf caresses the sandy beach not 100 yards away and is a lullaby of a sleeping. The water is incredibly blue just as we always heard it was. The sky is a cloudless blue infinity. The only sounds of the birds singing in the scrub bushes that grow out of the sand and lean away from the sea. Now, there's a little time to rest. Time for a cigarette and peace. A music in the song. And under this cloudless sky and by this blue sea there are the rows of white crosses that we must leave behind as we start for another battlefield. As we start another march feeling as we always feel that this is the march that will lead us home. Home. The one goal of every American who marches in foreign soil will always be some left behind as we go from one battlefield to another. They die and thereby the rest of us can go on. There is nothing we can do for the ones beneath the wooden crosses except perhaps the paws and murmur. The 21st program of Words at War we have brought you passages from the new book by Ernie Pyle, Here Is Your War adapted for radio by Gerald Holland of the NBC staff. Ernie Pyle was played by Santa Sortega. Others in the cast were Harry Belova, Humphrey Davis, David Gotthard, John Griggs, Gerald Keane, Richard Keith, Alastair Kyle, Billy Redfield, Norman Rose, and Bill Zuckert. The original music was composed and conducted by Morris Mamorsky and the production of Joseph Loce. Next week, Words at War will present Lieutenant John Mason Brown in a dramatic adaptation of his brilliant forthcoming book, To All Hands which he calls An Amphibious Adventure. Words at War is brought to you in cooperation with the Council on Books and Wartime by the National Broadcasting Company and the independent radio stations associated with the NBC network. This program came to you from New York. This is the National Broadcasting Company.