A Worthwhile Read of Ernie Pyle Thoughts
The God-Damned Infantry
IU Archives
Pyle with Marines on patrol in Okinawa.
Multimedia Listen to this column read by School of Journalism
Professor Owen V. Johnson (5.66MB)
IN THE FRONT LINES BEFORE MATEUR, NORTHERN TUNISIA,
May 2, 1943 - We’re now with an infantry outfit that has battled
ceaselessly for four days and nights.
This northern warfare has been in the mountains. You don’t ride
much anymore. It is walking and climbing and crawling country.
The mountains aren’t big, but they are constant. They are largely
treeless. They are easy to defend and bitter to take. But we are
taking them.
The Germans lie on the back slope of every ridge, deeply dug into
foxholes. In front of them the fields and pastures are hideous with
thousands of hidden mines. The forward slopes are left open,
untenanted, and if the Americans tried to scale these slopes they
would be murdered wholesale in an inferno of machine-gun crossfire
plus mortars and grenades.
Consequently we don’t do it that way. We have fallen back to the old
warfare of first pulverizing the enemy with artillery, then sweeping
around the ends of the hill with infantry and taking them from the
sides and behind.
I’ve written before how the big guns crack and roar almost constantly
throughout the day and night. They lay a screen ahead of our troops.
By magnificent shooting they drop shells on the back slopes. By means
of shells timed to burst in the air a few feet from the ground, they get
the Germans even in their foxholes. Our troops have found that the
Germans dig foxholes down and then under, trying to get cover from
the shell bursts that shower death from above.
Our artillery has really been sensational. For once we have enough of
something and at the right time. Officers tell me they actually have
more guns than they know what to do with.
All the guns in any one sector can be centered to shoot at one spot.
And when we lay the whole business on a German hill the whole slope
seems to erupt. It becomes an unbelievable cauldron of fire and smoke
and dirt. Veteran German soldiers say they have never been through
anything like it.
Now to the infantry-the God-damned infantry,as they like to call themselves.
I love the infantry because they are the underdogs. They are the
mud-rain-frost-and-wind boys. They have no comforts, and they
even learn to live without the necessities. And in the end they are
the guys that wars can’t be won without.
I wish you could see just one of the ineradicable pictures I have in my
mind today. In this particular picture I am sitting among clumps of
sword-grass on a steep and rocky hillside that we have just taken.
We are looking out over a vast rolling country to the rear.
A narrow path comes like a ribbon over a hill miles away, down a long
slope, across a creek, up a slope and over another hill.
All along the length of this ribbon there is now a thin line of men. For
four days and nights they have fought hard, eaten little, washed none,
and slept hardly at all. Their nights have been violent with attack, fright,
butchery, and their days sleepless and miserable with the crash of artillery.
The men are walking. They are fifty feet apart, for dispersal. Their walk is
slow, for they are dead weary, as you can tell even when looking at them
from behind. Every line and sag of their bodies speaks their inhuman
exhaustion.
On their shoulders and backs they carry heavy steel tripods, machine-gun
barrels, leaden boxes of ammunition. Their feet seem to sink into the
ground from the overload they are bearing.
They don’t slouch. It is the terrible deliberation of each step that spells
out their appalling tiredness. Their faces are black and unshaven. They
are young men, but the grime and whiskers and exhaustion make them
look middle-aged.
In their eyes as they pass is not hatred, not excitement, not despair,
not the tonic of their victory - there is just the simple expression of being
here as though they had been here doing this forever, and nothing else.
The line moves on, but it never ends. All afternoon men keep coming
round the hill and vanishing eventually over the horizon. It is one long
tired line of antlike men.
There is an agony in your heart and you almost feel ashamed to look at
them. They are just guys from Broadway and Main Street, but you
wouldn’t remember them. They are too far away now. They are too tired.
Their world can never be known to you, but if you could see them just
once, just for an instant, you would know that no matter how hard
people work back home they are not keeping pace with these infantrymen
in Tunisia.
