Ernie Pyle:

A Chronicler of Life in the Face of Death

To read more about Ernie Pyle, check out:

The Wikipedia entry about him.

Or, the wonderful Indiana University School of Journalism site about him.

Or, the PBS-sponsored Reporting America at War site.

It is amazing to realize that Ernie Pyle had not yet reached his 45^th birthday when he was killed by gunfire on an island in the Pacific.

Photos suggest a man far beyond his 40s; and the maturity of his reporting and writing style suggests a man far later in life reflecting on events with a knife-edge view of the world, honed on years of glimpsing both noble and tragic events.

The most frequently reprinted of his wartime dispatches was The Death of Captain Waskow, perhaps best remembered by writing students for the line six paragraphs into the story that still sends chills down the spine, no matter how many times we read and reread it:

I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Capt. Waskow's body down.

An entire writing seminar could be built around that single sentence from the perspective of the reporter to the images summoned by at least a half dozen words in that sentence. But why not cut to the chase, just as Pyle himself always did.

Our point is this: Yes, Ernie Pyle was a bread-and-butter journalist, reporting Just the Facts in a simple and uncluttered way. He taught Hemingway a thing or two about the spare nature of prose!

But Pyle was truly a minimalist artist as well.

In fact, some teachers and editors may not appreciate the haunting genius in his craft. As we spent a couple of days reading up on his life recently and looking at various Web sites devoted to his memory, we discovered a curious thing: Some reprints of the following story left off the final paragraph.

Neither the IU site nor the PBS site got that detail wrong, which is why we recommend those sites for further reading. But we did spot a few online sites that clipped off his final paragraph.

Now, here is a question for the preachers, teachers, writers, students and lovers of the creative arts among us: Why did Pyle add the final paragraph to this column? What is its purpose in this narrative?

Here is the original text:

ERNIE PYLE:
The Death of Captain Waskow

DATELINE: AT THE FRONT LINES IN ITALY, January 10, 1944:

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 Capt. Henry T. Waskow of Belton, Texas.

Capt. Waskow was a company commander in the 36th Division. He had led his company since long before it left the States. He was very young, only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness that made people want to be guided by him.

"After my own father, he came next," a sergeant told me.

"He always looked after us," a soldier said. "He'd go to bat for us every time."

"I've never knowed him to do anything unfair," another one said.

I was at the foot of the mule trail the night they brought Capt. Waskow's body down. The moon was nearly full at the time, and you could see far up the trail, and even part way across the valley below. Soldiers made shadows in the moonlight as they walked.

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

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

The first one came early in the morning. They slid him down from the mule and stood him on his feet for a moment, while they got a new grip. 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 alongside the road.

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

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 all alone outside in the shadow of the low stone 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 in the shadow beside the low stone wall. Other men took the other bodies off. Finally there were five lying end to end in a long row, alongside the road. You don't cover up dead men in the combat zone. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody else comes after them.

The unburdened mules moved off to their olive orchard. The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually one by one I could sense them moving close to Capt. 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, "God damn it." That's all he said, and then he walked away. Another one came. He said, "God damn it to hell anyway." He looked down for a few last moments, and then he turned and left.

Another man came; I think he was an officer. It was hard to tell officers from men in the half light, for all were bearded and grimy dirty. The man looked down into the dead captain's face, and then he spoke directly to him, as though he were alive. He said: "I'm sorry, old man."

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."

Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the dead 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.

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

After that 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 --