Ernie Pyles war

[badougsr]

ON PBS this weekend look for this article http://www.tmnews.com/articles/2005/10/16/...news/news48.txt

[Custermen]

Quoting from the article:

That was never more true than in Pyle's Pulitzer-winning column concerning the death of Capt. Henry T. Waskow of Belton, Texas - and the 36th Division.

 

This sounds like the inspiration for the scene at the end of the movie, "Brave Men", staring Rocky Balboa's coach as Ernie (I can't remember the actor's name).

 

Here are the words of Ernie Pyle and how he described it---and how the families at home read it in "Brave Men".

-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Personally, I am sort of on the fence. I hate to think of an America of one hundred thirty million people so hard inside that nothing could touch them. On the other hand, comparatively few men do crack up. The mystery to me is that there is anybody at all, no matter how strong, who can keep his spirit from breaking in the midst of battle.

 

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 Captain Henry T. Waskow, of Belton, Texas.

Captain Waskow was a company commander in the Thirty-sixth {Infantry} Division. He had led his company long before it left the States. He very young, only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and a gentleness that made want to be guided by him.

“After my father, he came next,†sergeant told me. “He always looked after us,†a soldier said. “He’d go to bat for you every time.â€

“I’ve never knowed him to do anything unfair,†another said.

I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Captain Waskow down. The moon was nearly full, and you could see far up the trail, and even partway across the valley below.

Dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed to the backs of mules. They came lying belly-down across the wooden pack-saddles, their heads hanging down on one side, their stiffened legs sticking out awkwardly from the other, bobbing up and down as the mules walked.

The Italian mule skinners were afraid to walk beside dead men. Americans had to lead them down that night. Even the Amenicans were reluctant to unlash and lift off the bodies when they got to the bottom, so an officer had to do it himself and ask others to help.

I don’t know who that first one was. You feel small in the presence of dead men, and you don’t ask silly questions.

They slid him down from the mule, and stood him on his feet for moment. 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 beside the road. 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 alone, outside in the shadow of the 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 the shadow beside the stone wall. Other men took the other bodies off. Finally, there were five lying end to end in a long row. You don’t cover up dead men in the combat zones. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody comes after them.

The unburdened mules moved off to their olive grove. The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually I could sense them moving, one by one, close to Captain 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, “### damn it!â€

That’s all he said, and then he walked away.

Another one came, and he said, “### damn it to hell anyway!†He looked down for a few last moments and then turned and left.

Another man came. I think he was an officer. It was hard to tell officers from men in the dim light, for everybody was bearded and grimy. The man looked down into the dead captain’s face and then spoke directly to him, as though he were alive, “I’m sorry, old man.â€

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.â€

Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the captain’s 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.

Finally he put the hand down. He reached over and gently straightened the points of the captain’s shirt collar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of the uniform around the wound, and then he got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone.

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.

 

~~~~~end of quote~~~~~~~~

Quoted from "Brave Men" by Ernie Pyle

 

Steve

[chucktoo1926]

Quoting from the article:

That was never more true than in Pyle's Pulitzer-winning column concerning the death of Capt. Henry T. Waskow of Belton, Texas - and the 36th Division.

 

This sounds like the inspiration for the scene at the end of the movie, "Brave Men", staring Rocky Balboa's coach as Ernie (I can't remember the actor's name).

 

Here are the words of Ernie Pyle and how he described it---and how the families at home read it in "Brave Men".

-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Personally, I am sort of on the fence. I hate to think of an America of one hundred thirty million people so hard inside that nothing could touch them. On the other hand, comparatively few men do crack up. The mystery to me is that there is anybody at all, no matter how strong, who can keep his spirit from breaking in the midst of battle.

 

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 Captain Henry T. Waskow, of Belton, Texas.

Captain Waskow was a company commander in the Thirty-sixth {Infatry} Division. He had led his company long before it left the States. He very young, only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and a gentleness that made want to be guided by him.

“After my father, he came next,†sergeant told me. “He always looked after us,†a soldier said. “He’d go to bat for you every time.â€

“I’ve never knowed him to do anything unfair,†another said.

I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Captain Waskow down. The moon was nearly full, and you could see far up the trail, and even partway across the valley below.

Dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed to the backs of mules. They came lying belly-down across the wooden pack-saddles, their heads hanging down on one side, their stiffened legs sticking out awkwardly from the other, bobbing up and down as the mules walked.

The Italian mule skinners were afraid to walk beside dead men. Americans had to lead them down that night. Even the Amenicans were reluctant to unlash and lift off the bodies when they got to the bottom, so an officer had to do it himself and ask others to help.

I don’t know who that first one was. You feel small in the presence of dead men, and you don’t ask silly questions.

They slid him down from the mule, and stood him on his feet for moment. 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 beside the road. 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 alone, outside in the shadow of the 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 the shadow beside the stone wall. Other men took the other bodies off. Finally, there were five lying end to end in a long row. You don’t cover up dead men in the combat zones. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody comes after them.

The unburdened mules moved off to their olive grove. The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually I could sense them moving, one by one, close to Captain 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, “### damn it!â€

That’s all he said, and then he walked away.

Another one came, and he said, “### damn it to hell anyway!†He looked down for a few last moments and then turned and left.

Another man came. I think he was an officer. It was hard to tell officers from men in the dim light, for everybody was bearded and grimy. The man looked down into the dead captain’s face and then spoke directly to him, as though he were alive, “I’m sorry, old man.â€

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.â€

Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the captain’s 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.

Finally he put the hand down. He reached over and gently straightened the points of the captain’s shirt collar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of the uniform around the wound, and then he got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone.

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.

 

~~~~~end of quote~~~~~~~~

Quoted from "Brave Men" by Ernie Pyle

 

Steve

Steve; Rocky Balboa's trainer was Burgess Merideth. Don't want you to lose any sleep tonight trying to dig up his name.

Whats really frustrating, is when trying to come up with a name, you add; "He was You know--- He was in that movie with What's his name, who was the Captain. What was the name of that movie"?

 

Chuck

 

P.S. The movie was "Story of G.I.Joe"

Merideth--- Ernie Pyle

Mitchum--- the Captain

 

That last scene, where the men paid their last respects was one for the ages.

 

Thanks Steve

[Custermen]

The movie was "Story of G.I.Joe"

I should have known that one, too. It was on TV earlier this month and I watched about half of it.

Thanks.

 

Steve

[j3rdinf]

Ernie Pyle was without a doubt the greaet war corespondent in WW 2. He was sadly

missed when he went to the PTO and more so when the report of his death was announced. I sure wish ALL of these later day so called "newsmen" had his insight

instead of the way they "put down" this war, create problems with the troops and just

outright lie to make "news".. They should not be "imbedded with the troops" but burried

there.

[Walt's Daughter]

Ernie Pyle visited with my dad's unit. Here's the excerpt.

 

---------

 

"A most pleasant surprise was experienced with the visit of the famed war-correspondent Ernie Pyle to Regimental Headquarters where he interviewed Colonel Marvin for a story on the work performed by the organization while on the beachhead. Brigadier General Bowman, 5th Army Engineer, awarded the 5th Army Plaque for meritorious services to Colonel Marvin, recipient for the Regiment. The impressive presentation ceremony was held 24 April."

[chambers]

I caught The Story of GI Joe quite by accident one afternoon. I thought it was an excellent film. It conveyed the message loud and clear and yet there wasn't the violence seen in all the movies today.

 

Brooke

[Custermen]

Ernie Pyle visited with my dad's unit.

I need a date, Marion.

NO! I'm married. Not that kind of a date.

[Walt's Daughter]

Dang, and I was flattered. Hey thats okay I'm married too!

 

The date was April 24. Guess you missed that.

[colinhotham]

I'm sorry if this post is one I put on this website before but it goes with the present thread.

 

Ernie Pyle landed in Sicily with the US Seventh Army in July 1943 and reported on the role they played in the 38 days of Operation Husky. He was one of the foremost WW2 war correspondents and 60 plus years later is still talked of.

He was killed in the Pacific in April 1945.

 

War graves had a deep effect on him and he wrote:

 

There is nothing we can do

for the ones beneath the

wooden crosses except to

pause and murmur, 'Thanks, pal'

 

That will never lose it's meaning and although the graves now have headstones it expresses my feelings about those Brave Men.

 

Colin