America and Americans and Selected Nonfiction by John Steinbeck & Susan Shillinglaw

Author:John Steinbeck & Susan Shillinglaw [Steinbeck, John & Shillinglaw, Susan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Non-Fiction, Classics, Writing, History, Travel
ISBN: 9780142437414
Amazon: 0142437417
Barnesnoble: 0142437417
Goodreads: 202399
Publisher: Penguin Classics
Published: 1966-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Ernie Pyle

IT’S A HARD THING to write about a dead man who doesn’t seem dead to you. Ernie Pyle didn’t want to go back to the war. When he left France, he set down his disgust and fear and weariness. He thought he could rest a little, but he couldn’t. People told him what to do and what he should do. He could have overcome that but he couldn’t overcome his own sense of responsibility. He had become identified with every soldier in the army. Ernie died every time a man was killed, and his little body shriveled every time a man was wounded. He’d done it so often, it is probable that his own death was just a repetition. In Africa he said, “The percentage is pulling down on me. You stand in the line of fire long enough and you’re going to get hit. It’s in the figures.” And after that he went through Italy and France. And his percentage grew smaller and smaller. In San Francisco before he went to the Pacific he seemed a little numb. The rest hadn’t rested him. His eyes were deep and tired and restless. He sat with a glass of whiskey in his hand and his jaw muscles were tight. He looked sick. The phone rang all the time. He must speak, he must write this and this. And he was utterly weary. “I don’t know why I have to go back but I do,” he said. “It’s my business.” He was wearing a new uniform and cap. “These are a waste of money,” he said, “I won’t need them.” His percentage had disappeared and he knew it. And he didn’t resent it. He had done everything else with the soldiers except this last thing. “I don’t know whether I can write anymore,” he said. “I thought I’d get rested but I didn’t. Anyway, it will be warm in the Philippines.” He had made his usual neat arrangements—old friends, written to or telephoned. Gifts sent or delivered. He was always like that. When he got back from France, he came in excitedly with a scarf. “A real French silk handkerchief. I bought it in Paris right after the city was taken.” The scarf was bad rayon. The French salesman had started early. “It’s beautiful, Ernie.”

“There was a soldier with only one leg, on the hospital ship,” Ernie said. “He was hopping about like a cricket—up and down stairs. It was wonderful. I can’t stand hurt men,” he said. “I’m going to Albuquerque and forget the whole damn thing. There’s nothing to write about. It’s the same thing over and over. I’m through. Maybe I’ll start going around the country the way I used to.

“It’s just piled up dead men,” he said, “millions of them. And it’s crazy because the war is over. They can’t win. All they can do is kill more people. Jesus I’m tired.” Then he saw the President and Stevenson and Forrestal and lots of congressmen. Everyone expected him to go back.

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