News Service

Editor’s note: The following is the second of four articles written by Ernie Pyle. Below is a dispatch sent by wireless from the front lines west of Mateur, gives an unforgettable picture of exhausted American infantrymen moving along a hilly Tunisian road.

IN THE FRONT LINES BEFORE MATEUR – (by wireless) – We’re now with an infantry outfit that has battled ceaselessly for four days and nights.

Ernie Pyle visits with a tank crew of the 91st Tank Battalion in the Anzio Beachhead, circa March 1944.

This northern warfare has been in the mountains.  You don’t ride much any more.  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 fox holes.  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 those 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 the 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 stop 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 those infantrymen in Tunisia.

Permission to re-publish Ernie Pyle’s column was given by the Scripps Howard Foundation and distributed by the Ernie Pyle World War II Museum in Dana, Indiana.

 Other stories in the series:

• Wednesday morning – The death of Capt. Waskow column, which was declared the best column ever written, according to the National Society of Newspaper Columnists.
• Wednesday night – The liberation of Paris, which captures the joy of a city freed from Nazi occupation.