 Words at war. Here's to them. You'll find them in the landing barges in the first wave of every new invasion. They ride the big bombers over Berlin and Tokyo. They jump with the paratroopers. And on the ground, they share the hazard to the front-line soldier. They are armed with nothing more deadly than a typewriter, and their casualties have been high for their numbers. Tonight it stands at 26, killed in action. They are the newspaper and radio correspondence of World War II. And this is the story of one of them. A national broadcasting company in cooperation with the Council on Books and Wartime presents another program in the widely discussed series Words at War, dramatizing the most representative books to come out of this great world conflict. Tonight's book was written by a former reporter for NBC and the Los Angeles Times, Tom Traynor. It's a light-hearted account of his early adventures in covering the war. And Tom Traynor gave it a light-hearted title. He called it one damn thing after another. And that's just what it was for tall, boys-looking Tom Traynor when he first set out for the wars. I'm frightfully sorry, Traynor old man, but it simply can't be done. But Colonel, all I'm asking is this. Let me go on this bombing mission. I've talked to the crew, and they don't mind. Quite out of the question, Traynor. Sorry. Awfully sorry. Traynor, I thought I made it clear you were not to go on that bombing mission. But Colonel, you didn't say positive. Traynor, I must ask you to leave this theatre of operations. Oh, Colonel. I'll have to ask you a credential, sir. A credentialed? Oh, yeah, sure. Let me see now. Oh, yeah, yeah. Here's something. Hmm. This is a driver's license. That's right. It's an order, isn't it? Yes, but look here, sir. Yeah, take a look at this. Social security. You don't understand, sir. Of course, Sergeant. And, uh, here's something else. Police pass. City of Los Angeles. Oh, plenty of credentials. Hey, Sergeant. Well, thank you very much. Be seeing your own, Sergeant. Look here, sir. You can't do that. Say, Bill, um, what kind of priority did the Correspondence Committee give me? Let's see. I've got it right here. You have priority number 140. 140? Yep. How many correspondents are there in this area? 140. What's the idea of putting me at the bottom of the list? Well, I'll tell you, Tom. You mail your stories in, don't you? What's that got to do with it? All the other boys cable their stuff. So you see. Oh, nuts. You can't do that, trainer. You'll have to leave the front, sir. No, trainer, and that's final. Over the first 21 months of the war, I was by all odds the lowest underdog in the world of war correspondents. Maybe it was because the word got around that I used to be society editor. Maybe it was because I mailed my stories back home instead of cabling them. Maybe it was because my paper, The Los Angeles Times, doesn't seem to be well known outside its own region, despite the fact that it's unquestionably one of the half-dozen most important papers in America. In time, I got to be a genuine war correspondent. But it was most fun when it was just and innocent. Unaccredited most of the time, broke frequently, grounded for taking unauthorized airplane rides and being constantly chased out of battle areas. I was an innocent man, trapped between public relations and the axis. But it was anything but dull from the moment I took off in an army plane from Miami to Africa in June 1942. Like to come along? My plane of competition should have been the tip-off. I was the only passenger for the flight across the South Atlantic. My only companion was a big piece of war machinery which leered at me all the way over. And every once in a while, when I wasn't looking, it would reach out and wipe some grease on my trousers. Victor Hugo once wrote a story about a cannon that broke loose on a ship and went smashing back and forth, killing men in splintering wood. And as I looked at my piece of machinery straining at its ropes in that plane, I wished I'd never read that story. Well, they finally got me to Cairo and I presented myself to British public relations all ready to spring into action. Yes? Ah, I do, Colonel. Trainer of the Times. Times. London Times? No, sir. New York Times? Los Angeles. I'm ready to go, sir. Go where? Why? Why to the front, sir? The sooner the better. I'm afraid not. And it may interest you to know that I'm the only correspondent from west of the Mississippi ever to visit the Middle East. I'm afraid it can't be arranged, Trainer. It can't be. You mean I can't go to the front? Precisely. But Colonel, I've come all the way from America to cover... Sorry, old man, but the fact is that we have more correspondents at the front now than we can handle. But I'm the only correspondent west of the Mississippi ever to visit the Middle East, and I think I deserve so. Trainer, let me repeat. We can't accommodate any more correspondents. I must refuse you credentials. You can't report the fighting in this area. I'm afraid that's final, old man. Good day. But I'm the only correspondent west of the Mississippi ever to visit the Middle East. Trainer, you can't go to the front. So, we went to the front. A fellow correspondent named Paul West and I. Paul wasn't accredited either, but he had something just as good as credentials. A nice, shiny, black civilian Chevrolet. We took the road out of Alexandria that led to Rommel, 60 miles away. Uh-oh, an MP. What do we do, Tom? He'll want credentials. I'll show him my ward apartment pass. Let me do it. Hello there! Credentials, sir? Credentials? Yes, indeed. Right here. Ward Department. Oh, that's my picture. Yes, sir. I don't believe I've seen one of these before. Oh, it's something new. Got my fingerprints on it, too. See? Yes, sir. I've never seen one of these before. Oh, you'll be seeing a lot of them from now on. It's supposed to let you through to the front, sir. Yes, indeed. You can go anywhere on that pass. Uh-huh. Well, I expect you wouldn't have got this far. If it wasn't all right. Go ahead, sir. Thanks! Thanks a lot! Get going, Paul. Now, you just don't drive right up to the front in a shiny black Chevrolet with chromium trim. But we got a break about halfway up. We ran into a British captain we'd met in Alexandria. Hello, you chaps. Good to see you. How are you, Captain? Hello, Captain. So you got your credentials after all, eh, Trina? Well, uh, you know how those things usually work out. Yes, of course. Um, I say you can't go up to the front of that car. No. Oh, certainly not. I say here's a notion. I'm in charge of the truck and unit here. How'd you like to have an army truck? Oh, we couldn't. Uh, could we, Paul? I don't know. It doesn't sound right. Oh, it'd be an imposition. Oh, not at all. Now, look here. Let's put it this way. You lend me your car for a few days and I'll let you have an army truck. Well, the fact is, chaps, I have a few days leave in Alexandria. I know a girl there. Well, I couldn't take her out in a truck now, could I? Of course not. That settles it, Captain. We'll do it. Just for you. There's some strange power that watches over unaccredited war correspondence. The Captain not only gave us a truck, but he supplied a driver, a combination driver and batman named Walters. Wonderful fellow, Walters. What was that, Walters? Altillery, sir. Oh, uh, hours? There's. There's? What are they shooting at, Walters? Us, sir. They're shooting at us, a little faster, Walters. It's most unusual, sir. They seldom waste ammunition on a single truck. Oh, that's nice to know, a little faster, Walters. Yes, sir. This is really most unusual, sir. We tried to be correct as far as Walters was concerned. We understood that Batman always fixed dinner. It, uh, didn't work out quite that way. Walters couldn't cook. So we fixed his dinner out of our supply of canned spaghetti. I suppose I should have known, but, uh, it came as rather a surprise to find when we reached the front that one was constantly being shot at. I'd been brought up in the school. It believes it's dangerous if you're out hunting with a man who doesn't manipulate his gun correctly while creeping through a barbed wire fence, and now here I was being shot at with shells and being sniped at by inquisitive officers. Just a moment, please. Oh, here it comes again. Well, that can't hold out forever. You are an American correspondent. Uh, yes, uh, trainers, my name. Uh, this is Paul West. Where's your escorting officer? Uh, escorting officer? Yes, you have one, don't you? Oh, sure, sure we do. Don't be Paul. Naturally, we wouldn't be at the front if we didn't have an escorting officer, would we? Where is he? Uh, where is he? Uh, why, he's off somewhere. I can't be with him every moment, you know. Of course not. He has to have some time to himself. May I ask, gentlemen, what unit you're attached to? Uh, what unit? Well, uh... Oh, well, I sure you can ask. Oh, tell him, Paul. Unit? Well, naturally. Uh, Anton? Oh, of course. You don't think we'd be up here, but we're attached to a unit. May I have the name of the unit, please? Oh, of course you can. Uh, oh, tell him, Paul. All right, it's that, uh... South African unit. Oh, you mean the eighth South African? Yeah, sure, that's the one. The eighth great outfit. What are the best? Colonel Handley's command. Oh, that's the one. Now you've got it. You know Colonel Handley? Do we know Colonel Handley? Tell him, Paul. Colonel Handley? He had us to dinner in Alexandria a week or so ago. Is that so? Ah, wonderful dinner. Oh, I tell you, the colonels are sold to the earth. Yes, sir, they're sold to the earth. Gentlemen, since the colonel is such a dear friend of yours, I'm sure you'll be distressed to know that the South African eighth and Colonel Handley were captured at Tobruk a month ago. They were? Oh, what a shame. What a pity. Let me see your credentials. Oh, yes, sir. Give him the war department pass. Oh, uh... Here you are, sir. Credentials from the War Department in Washington. Photograph? Good like to say. Fingerprints? Let me see it. Oh, there it is. Careful, sir. Don't smudge the prints. Oh, great. War department. Our department. Secretary Stimpson. Sold to the earth. Ever see the Pentagon building? Amazing. I've never seen one of these before. Yes, sir. Biggest building in the world. I'll take the pass, sir. Pentagon, you know. Uh... How many buses go into that building every day? Never believe it. Uh... How many buses, Paul? Must be thousands. Must be ten thousand. Gentlemen... Yes, sir. I'm going to overlook this. But from now on, stay close to your escorting officer. You can't just barge around the frontier now. No, sir. Our luck stayed with us through our baptism of fire. It stayed with me even after I got to Alexandria and wrote my first stories. I was a little worried, but it didn't even occur to the censor that a correspondent would go to the front without credentials. I thought, who cared about their old credentials? Oh, boy. Was I going to find out? This is Words at War, presenting another dramatization of an outstanding war book. Tonight, one damn thing after another. Tom Trainor's account of his early adventures as a war correspondent. So far, we've heard how Tom Trainor, ex-society editor, arrived in the Middle East to be promptly deflated by British public relations officers, who told him flatly and finally that he couldn't have credentials, he couldn't go to the front, he couldn't do practically everything, all of which Tom Trainor immediately did. Now, Tom Trainor's story of being trapped between public relations and the axes continues. Because of my, uh, unaccredited status, sometimes seemed as though I were constantly being involved in Rover Boy stuff. However, I preferred it. Otherwise, I would have begun to suspect I had a bad character, since nearly all my repertorial adventures seemed to be illegitimate. By playing this Tom the fun-loving Rover Boy role, I could wear a boy's grin and call it a prank. Operating on that theory, I insinuated myself into a liberator bomber and went all around the Mediterranean. While visiting Malta, I saw my first high-level bombing raid. Now, to watch a high-level bombing from the ground, you must be nearly as trained as a bacteriologist as to watch microbes. A group of British officers tried to assist me. Ah, there they are, Trainor. You can see them quite clearly. Five bombers and, uh, let's see, I should say at least twenty fighters. See them, Trainor? Oh, yes. I couldn't see a thing. There goes the AK. You see that, Trainor? Sure, sure. Couldn't see a thing. Now, Trainor, look straight up. They're coming directly over now. See them? I looked up and couldn't see a thing. There goes the bombs. Yes, there they go. This is fascinating. See the glint on the bombs, Trainor? I couldn't see any glint. There goes the Spitfires after them. See them, Trainor? Oh, yes. I couldn't see them. When I heard the bombs hit the ground, I saw the fountains of dirt and dust and rocks spout into the air. A few seconds later, I felt the concussion that calmed your hair. Well, they're going away now. The Spits can't catch them. You see them, Trainor? Yes, sir. I still couldn't see a thing. Well, it's all over. Well, I couldn't let it go at that. I had to be in on it. Hey, look! Over that bush there. What is it, Trainor? A couple of planes chasing each other. Where? Ah, that's odd. I can't see a thing. Neither can I. Actually, neither could I. But in case you've never seen a high-level bombing raid, well, probably neither would you. And then there was my first bombing raid. My liberator got orders to bomb some Italian ships in Navarino Bay on the way to the Suez Canal. We took off at midnight. I sat in the waist of the ship. Earphones clamped in my head, drinking in every word as if life depended on what was said. Okay, Harry! What's it, Johnny? It all came about so suddenly that it took me some time to get frightened. As we approached the target, the cat-cat opened up in all directions. I didn't react immediately, but then as I peered out the window, a big searchlight suddenly shot straight into my face and I jumped back as if I were in the top wheel sharply out of the searchlight, upsetting me and yanking my earphones out of the connection. Then we were beyond the target and I let out a yell. I assumed that we'd dropped our bombs and that I'd come through my first raid in one piece. But then the plane seemed to be turning in the wrong direction. I plugged in my phones. What's the matter, fellas? Are we turning back? Oh, me? Sure. Sit tight, old man. I did nothing of the kind. I went around feeling the walls for my parachute. I hooked it on and went up to the machine gunner. Uh, is it okay? What? Uh, my parachute. I guess so. I mean, have I got it on right? Well, you seem to... What's the matter, trainer? You going someplace? I had plenty of time to get scared now. Scared? My hair was standing on end. We pointed back into the searchlights in the flak. What do you say, Harry? Two more trips through the flak and lights. My luck couldn't hold out that long. Let's go a bit early and miss the target. But it was okay with me. I was so relieved that I sank down on the corrugated floor and slept like a baby. The next thing I know, we landed and somebody was shaking me and shouting in my ear. Trainer! What? What's the matter? What's the matter, huh? Plenty. More than enough, in fact. Trainer, I have orders to expel you from this area. Expel me? What for? What did I do now? This flat was entirely unauthorized. You're not a credited trainer. I'm afraid this is the end. Why, I didn't know it was against the rules. Oh, come now, trainer. We won't have any more of that. You can't play fast and loose with the RAF, you know? Look here, sir. Do you know that I'm the only correspondent west of the Mississippi ever that... I don't care if you're the only correspondent, period. Get out of that plane, trainer, and come up to my office. Oh, very well, if you want to be small about it. He was a nice guy. He got it all off his chest and then let me off by grounding me for seven weeks. Although he could have, he didn't expel me. That didn't come until some time later. Then the sensors caught up with my accumulated stories and decided I'd been at the front illegally. Meanwhile, back in Washington, the War Department spotted a story and requested my removal from the Middle East. So it was practically unanimous. I was put in a plane and shipped off to India. I arrived in New Delhi and presented myself to public relations. I glanced at my shoulder to see if my... chip was on straight, shut it up my chin and waited for the P.R.O. Honey, you do, sir. My name is Traynor, trainer of the Times. Los Angeles Times. I like to get a few things straight. So happens that I'm the only correspondent west of the Mississippi ever to visit India. And as such, I think it only... Hello, Tom. Well, Fred... Fred Eldridge. The very same. But look, your police reporter for the Times back home. Not anymore, Tom. It's Major Eldridge. Public relations. Well, you're the P.R.O. Oh, say this is something. There won't be any trouble about credentials, will there? Trouble? You don't think I let a Times man down, do you? Oh, swell, swell. What do you want to do, Tom? Oh, everything. Get around. See people. Do India. Okay by me, Tom. As far as I'm concerned, you can have India. I didn't want it. The great hulking, illiterate, neurotic, miserable mental case that is India. The greatest single problem the world has to solve, if it can be solved. India is prophetic with doom. There'll be no happy solution there, I can assure you. In this already disordered world, do you think one-fifth of the world's population can waken and disturb itself without crushing things and being injured itself? Do you think it can store anger as it is doing without striking out one day? It can't. With such a twisted, unbalanced background, do you think it can come of age reasonably and peaceably according to the schedule of somebody's highly advertised solution? Don't be silly. I can't convince myself that one-fifth of the world's population will start throwing its weight around in these chaotic times without dislocating the world. Sure, it's a morbid picture, but then this is a morbid world with millions dying by the gun, millions ridden by fear, hundreds of millions teetering between malnutrition and starvation. I saw nothing more depressing anywhere than the misery I saw in India. I wasn't sorry to leave India. One thing about it, thanks to my old pal Fred Eldridge, the former police reporter, I was at least a fully accredited correspondent. After I moved on, credentials didn't always come so easily, but the old fun-loving Rover Boy in me saw me through China, then on to Algiers, Sicily, and Italy. Oh, sure, some of the lads are shy away from me in horror. You see, wherever I went, I continued to mail in my stories. Look here, trainer old man, it must take weeks for your stories to reach Los Angeles. Well, sure, sometimes it does. What's the matter with that cheater, your trainer? Can't they afford cable tolls? Listen pal, that cheater mind could buy and sell your rag twice in a half an hour. It makes it rather awkward for us, you know, trainer old chap. We have the correspondent's committee can't give you a very high priority. Well, the fact of the matter is, old fellow, we've had to place you at the very bottom of the list and think nothing of it, old bean, I wouldn't feel right any place else. I couldn't seem to get it through their heads that my paper didn't mind paying cable tolls. My paper didn't want cable-type stories from me. They wanted me to write full stories, not the skeletonized jargon that comes by wire. Nobody believed me, but I liked to mail my stories. And I liked covering the war. If I seemed to give the impression that 21 months of it was a picnic, well, it wasn't quite that. There were many times when I would have traded you all of North Africa for an hour at home with my family. At last, I did come home for a little while and it was a great moment when I stepped off that plane at Miami. Our party decided that in the interests of morale we'd better repair it once to a place of refreshment. Once there, however, we remembered reading that alcohol should be used sparingly because it could be made into tires. So we ordered soft drinks until we noticed that everyone else, they were the racetrack set, was consuming tires at an alarming rate. Well, this shocked us so much that we had to do something for our morale at once. We all had a little say, just about the equivalent of a bicycle tire each. Tom Trainor's book ends there. But Tom Trainor himself went off to the wars again, this time to the beaches of Normandy. He was no longer the unaccredited correspondent. He was ranked right up with the best of them. He represented not only the Los Angeles Times, but he was a reporter for NBC as well. He still mailed his newspaper stories and still explained patiently that it wasn't the money, it was the principle of the thing. Tom Trainor probably never got to see a copy of his book. He didn't get to see the best-seller list with his book well up toward the top. For fate, lay and wait for Tom Trainor one day early in the invasion. He was killed in action. A 19th war correspondent to die in the line of duty. Tom Trainor's fellow correspondents wrote long obituaries of him. They called him one of the best-loved correspondents of this war. Tom Trainor would have blushed at that. And another thing he wouldn't have liked, the correspondents sent their stories about him by cable at the full race. Webb Miller, United Press. Ralph Barnes, New York Herald Tribune. Harry Leslie Percy, United Press. Melville Jacobi, Time and Life. Mrs. Leah Burdette, PM. Eugene Petroff, North American Newspaper Alliance. Jack Singer, International News Service. Byron Darnton, New York Times. Harry Crockett, Associated Press. Ben Robertson, New York Herald Tribune. Frank J. Kuhl, National Broadcasting Company. Robert Post, New York Times. Carl Thursgjard, Hackamy News Pictures. Lucien LeBunt, Life Magazine. Brighton Taves, United Press. Raymond Clapper, Scripps Howard Newspapers. Frederick Foust, Hawkers. Bede Irvin, Associated Press. Tom Trainor, Los Angeles Times and National Broadcasting Company. Harold W. Culek, Popular Science. Damien Parer, Paramount News. David Lardner, New Yorker Magazine. Haysa Hill Bush, Associated Press. Stanley Gunn, Fort Worth Star Telegram and Houston Chronicle. Frank Prist, Hackamy News Pictures. And John B. Terry, Chicago Daily News. These are the men and women of Press and Radio who have given their lives in the line of duty. Here's to them. Janney was heard as Tom Trainor and the production was under the direction of Anton M. Leader. Next week, tune in for Camp follower by Barbara Claude on Words at War. Jack Costello speaking. This is the National Broadcasting Company.