http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle To his readers, Ernie Pyle was a master of telling the story of the little guy, of describing the fears and daily strife of soldiers fighting in World War II. Thu, 12 Jun 2008 19:52:43 +0000 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.5.1 en http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/riding-the-tube/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/riding-the-tube/#comments Tue, 06 May 2008 18:23:47 +0000 Audrie Garrison http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/?p=92
After all, it takes up to two hours to get ready to board an airplane, but doesn’t that make everyone feel safe?

The security checkpoints in airports are annoying. It’s kind of disgusting to have to walk barefoot through the metal detector, and it’s annoying to have to throw out your water battle. But it assures the passengers that there’s NO WAY anyone’s getting a bomb on that plane. And that’s why people still fly them.

For the London metro system – the “tube” – things are a little different.

First off, nobody’s walking barefoot through there. That’s even more disgusting than at the airport, and if no one’s asking you to (they aren’t), you’re not going to.

Second, bag check? Nope. Bring whatever you feel like onto the tube. A baseball bat? A kitchen sink? A tree? Not a problem. If you really needed to transport an elephant underground, you could probably work something out. I never saw anyone try to bring a weapon onto the Tube, but I am certain it could be done. There are no checkpoints, no searches, no metal detectors.

You wouldn’t imagine then, if you didn’t know, that the Tube was violently bombed just a few years back. It was tragic, and I know whoever did it must not have had a problem getting the bombs onto the trains. Even now, after that disaster, there’s nothing stopping someone from doing it again. Why isn’t London putting in the same security measures that airports have?

Because people still ride.

I haven’t yet figured out why airports experienced such a decline in ticket sales after September 11, 2001, but three years after the London bombings, I can’t get a seat on the Tube. Perhaps it’s something about being in the air that makes people think there’s a chance they’d be able to get off that train, above ground and far, far away if they sensed danger. But something tells me they couldn’t.

When I was a little girl, my dad told me that every time people left their homes, they were taking a risk. That when they walked out the door, they were putting trust in the rest of humanity to take care of them. But he said people take that risk to lead a real, full life, because a life holed up in your house because you’re afraid of the world isn’t much of a life. And I remember that every time I want to complain about how something bad could happen to me. If I wanted to, I could have just stayed at home.

But it’s hard to believe these millions of Tube riders can still find it in their hearts to leave their homes, get on the public transportation system and trust each other. All people have seen that trust violated too many times, and you’d think on the Tube, the memories would be too strong.

Maybe it’s the trust, or maybe it’s convenience.

Perhaps they don’t trust each other at all. Perhaps they tell themselves to “forget” the transgressions from the past, because riding the Tube makes life so much more simple. And cheap. And the city of London doesn’t change a thing, because the people still seem to trust the system.

And it won’t change, either. Not until trains are running empty and the hollow underground echoes. It’s an interesting case study in human habit.

Planes, trains – it’s all personal safety, and to the rest of society, it’s all a matter of trust.]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/riding-the-tube/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/the-beaches-of-normandy/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/the-beaches-of-normandy/#comments Tue, 06 May 2008 18:08:29 +0000 Rob Bermingham http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/?p=91 Saving Private Ryan or the HBO television series Band of Brothers. Staring at your computer screen, you can see the images of the invasion through the pictures taken by Robert Capa. It is distant. It is dark and grey. There is death and blood wherever you look. Boys barely out of high school are instantly transformed into men as they storm the beach. It is glorified, ugly and unreal. The heroic tales of Omaha Beach echo through your mind.

However, despite the war filled, frightful images we are used to seeing, Omaha Beach is beautiful. It seemed wrong for it to be so tranquil. The wind blows with a force that almost pushes you. The sky is a bright, clear blue and the ocean pushes the tide in at a slow, rhythmic pace. You want to smile, but you can’t. Smiling doesn’t seem acceptable on Omaha Beach. Laughing is sinful.

The reality of what took place there almost 64 years ago sets in, and it feels wrong to show any sort of emotion that doesn’t have to do with pride or mourning. In the back of your mind you know that almost 64 years ago the sand was covered with blood. Now the sand is scattered with seashells. It’s peaceful. It’s hard to imagine that this beach was once overwhelmed with death and destruction. It’s hard to imagine what was at stake and what was lost. It’s hard to comprehend the magnitude and importance of an Allied victory.

I felt like I shouldn’t be standing on the beach. It seemed like I was defiling a grave. It was as if my footsteps were not worthy of stepping where so many had their final ones. However, it makes one proud to be an American to stand on that beach. One can’t help but be grateful to the men who gave their lives to defend freedom. It’s hard to imagine what was at stake in World War II.

It is hard not to become overwhelmed with emotion on the beaches of Normandy. It is hard to imagine what it must have been like to be on the boats, seasick and sleep deprived. It is hard to imagine what it must have been like to see your fellow Americans charge off the boat, only to be shot and killed by German bullets as soon as their feet touched the beach, or even before. The realization sets in that you might not see the soil of your home country again. That you might die in France. The uncertainty of victory and fear of death would be overwhelming.

Looking back at World War II it is easy for people to say that if the Germans had changed their strategy slightly they would have won the war. It is easy to say that if the Allies had not been lucky at a certain point in the war, they might not have won. But in reality, they did not know how the war would turn out.

At many points the future was as unclear as is it is right now in the War on Terror. Although both wars were started under completely different circumstances, had different amounts of support and were decades apart from each other, the simple truth remains that in both wars no one at the time knew what would happen. Being in Normandy and on Omaha Beach makes one grateful that the Allies succeeded in winning despite the uncertainty.

It makes one grateful to be one of the relatively few people able to call themselves a citizen of the United States of America. It makes one realize that the only reason that privilege is possible is because the soldiers of the United States defended freedom on Omaha Beach that day and gave their lives.]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/the-beaches-of-normandy/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-house-on-baker-street/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-house-on-baker-street/#comments Tue, 06 May 2008 18:05:32 +0000 jocker http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/?p=90
Every square inch of the ground floor rooms hold another souvenir recalling the great investigator’s story. Venturing up the stairs, one finds four floors furnished to house Holmes and all his greatness. Set up as Doyle’s stories suggest, the parlor offers two easy chairs, footstools, a fireplace and an overall comfortable atmosphere. The deep colors of the fabrics suggest historical significance and high class, while the small windows remind one of the conveniences of modern architecture. Sitting in Holmes’ or his friend Dr. Watson’s chairs, one expects to hear footsteps at the stairs and a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of a neighbor with an extraordinary and puzzling mystery.

Mannequins fill other rooms in the house. One such statue slumps over an unfastened trunk, face first into the box opening. His clothes bring to mind the early 20th century, and his pose almost certainly suggests his demise. Situated in their death poses, the mannequins act as evidence of Doyle’s stories and lead the tourist to believe Holmes really did live at 221b Baker Street and really did leave his house just as it was for later generations to admire. Holmes makes no appearance in the home, except for the tourists who don his hat and handle his pipe. The atmosphere leads the tourist to imagine herself in the great sleuth’s stead, free to consider the pieces of evidence under glass in each room and the situations of many cases through the mannequins.

Though one leaves without catching a glimpse of a living Sherlock Holmes, the tourist might make the acquaintance of Dr. Watson, or at least his look-alike. The actor certainly plays the part of the good doctor, clad in his long black overcoat, dress shirt, and shiny boots, and warm underneath his round black traveling doctor’s hat. “Dr. Watson” poses for pictures with the tourist and offers stories of the cases he has experienced with his dear friend Holmes. When enticed, the actor breaks away from his character and delights in detailing his visits to the United States. Having declared steak as the height of American cuisine, the actor and his Californian friend headed out for a sublime dinner of cow meat, but long waiting times and high prices chased them away from the fancier establishments.

“Then he took me to this great place called Chili’s, and the people there served me the greatest steak I have had in my life,” he said.

Dr. Watson converses with his new friends with the same gusto as he must have treated that steak he asks questions about the tourists’ travels and bursts forth with enough restaurant and attraction suggestions to keep his friends busy much longer than their visit allows. After moments in London with people too busy to give directions, the tourists much appreciate their 20th century friend and his helpful attitude.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s world of police work and puzzle-solving lives still in this sanctuary on Baker Street, a little piece of London that matches Dr. Watson with its charm and allure.

Normandy, France—The tour guide, Helen, was a short older woman with light gray hair and a heavy jacket that hung almost to her knees. When she spoke, she drew not only on her voice and her facial expressions, but she also made use of her gestures and other hand motions. Though Helen was a tiny woman, she had an enormous voice and seemed to be everywhere at once with more stories and more history.

As a worker at the American Cemetery at Normandy, Helen spent much of her time with tourists, helping them to find the graves of their family members and telling them the stories she had heard from veterans throughout the years. The stories tended to be tragic and romantic, themes not surprising considering the events that had transpired there and the reasons people had for visiting. On the fiftieth anniversary of the day that saw thousands of men lose their lives, veterans and their family members visited the cemetery to grieve for lost lives. The grieving was not solely for those who were killed, but also for the lifetimes lost to the widows and orphans and the optimism lost to those men who survived the invasion.

One man told Helen he had been through the terror of D-Day and had been assigned to burying the dead. After 24 straight hours of dealing with dead bodies, the soldier succumbed to his need to be finished with the terrible emotional strain of the task. After carrying and situating hundreds upon hundreds of men, he began towing some of those still on the sand into the grasp of the tide.

“He had tears in his eyes when he told me this,” Helen said with a shaky voice.

At the same anniversary, Helen came upon an aged couple and nearly came to tears herself when the man told her the reason for his wife’s weeping. Back during World War II, the woman had been engaged to her childhood sweetheart, who was drafted and served at Normandy on D-Day. With wet eyes, the man whispered to Helen that his wife’s sweetheart never returned from the invasion, and though she had moved on, years later she was still scarred by the loss of her loved one.

After sharing these emotional stories with her tour group, Helen cleared her throat and continued giving insights into the terrain. Whether the subject matter turned Helen into a story-teller or it was a natural talent, members of her group felt the tragedy sting their eyes as well.

The guide tried to cram even more into the group’s already-packed schedule, but rather than being frazzled or grumpy about the changes, the group whole-heartedly embraced the additions to the agenda because Helen seemed so excited about them. From past excursions that week, the group knew that the best tour guides were those who were excited about sharing the stories, and the group members could tell from Helen’s gestures and her enthusiasm that the gun bunkers and anything else Helen chose to show could only be interesting and a great thing to check out.

When the tour brought the group to her hometown of Bayeaux, Helen’s speaking speeded up and her voice crescendoed. She announced to the group that she fell in love with the place and moved there twenty-odd years ago, but the others hardly needed to hear the words, since she grew so animated and excited upon entering the place. Whether she was relating a story about the area, rounding up group members to view the Bayeaux Tapestry, or saving their lives by stopping traffic between the Journalists’ Memorial and the British Cemetery, Helen displayed her exuberance for life and her gift for romance. A trip can be made by the setting or the trip-goers, but on this occasion it was made by the tour guide. Our tour guide. Helen.]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-house-on-baker-street/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-stunning-site/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-stunning-site/#comments Tue, 06 May 2008 18:04:54 +0000 smithjt http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/?p=89
The wind was blowing hard and my body shivered as I toured the grounds. But I didn’t even notice that I was cold. Instead I felt thankful for the wind, for it hid my emotional shivers and the tears appearing in the corners of my eyes.

I had never seen a space so beautiful and yet so ugly. As I looked across at the thousands of white crosses and stars of David lined up in perfect rows, all I could picture were the young dead men scattered across the bright, freshly cut green grass.

I stood looking out for I can’t remember how long, just pondering and trying to come to grips with what I was viewing.

The American Cemetery is a stunning sight. At the entrance to the grounds, perfectly trimmed trees and bushes align the red brick path along which you walk. The path winds and turns until you reach a wider path that takes you directly into the cemetery. Large trees that look like homemade popsicles shade this path. They are immaculately trimmed to form a cylinder shape as if you had just pulled them out of the plastic popsicle freezing tray.

From the end of this path you are able to see the ocean water of Omaha Beach. The crashing waves call for you to come closer. The water was various shades of blue and brown, shifting in color as if it were a pattern.

I walked towards the water and from the height that I stood I could see a long stretch of beach that seemed to go on for miles. The beach was clean with smooth, wet sand. A mixture of brown and green brush led up to where I stood. The hill was not too steep and a black pavement path led down unto the beach.

I pictured in my head what the beach would have looked like on June 6, 1944. Tanks would be dispersed along the miles of beach; dead men would be floating in the ocean water; paramedics would be running to help the dying. I had to close my eyes at the thought.

I moved away from this scene and walked back up the red brick path to the burial site of so many American soldiers. I people watched for a moment and noticed two older men, maybe veterans, walk and stop at a tomb. They had gray hair and wrinkles. Their faces were somber. They didn’t speak. I wondered if they knew this man. Maybe they fought with him? Maybe he was their brother?

It was quiet all around the cemetery. I was happy to be wandering alone. I did know what I was looking for and I didn’t know what I would find. I just walked slowly as to take in each cross. To drink up every detail.

I found a soldier from Indiana and I stopped. I knelt down and I noticed he died July 26, 1944. I wondered how old he was; what his family was like; was he in love?

I thought of my fiancé, my brothers, and my cousins. I think about what it would be like to lose one of them. The tears began to appear in my eyes and I bowed my head.

There is no way to describe the feelings you have during a moment like this. When you relate an event such as D-Day to your own life, it makes your problems seem miniscule.

The beauty of the cemetery creates a serene resting place for these heroes. You may see in movies, television shows, or pictures an image of this site, but these do no justice to the actual place in which all this dying occurred.

I can write nothing to make you understand what it is like to be in Normandy. All I can do is suggest you go so you may experience these images and emotions yourself.]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-stunning-site/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/montmartre/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/montmartre/#comments Tue, 06 May 2008 18:04:11 +0000 Rosemary Pennington http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/?p=88
Paris, I had heard, was beautiful. One friend suggested I walk down the Champs Elysee alone one morning and take it all in. Another told me my love of history and art and architecture would cause me to fall deeply in love with the city. I entered with high hopes.

I am still confused about how I feel about the city.

Montmartre seethes with people. The seething starts out slowly. Visit the area before the shops open and you’ll find empty, quiet streets with locals going about their daily lives. Within just a few hours, however, the place throbs with cars and people and even animals. They seem to materialize out of the ether. Perhaps it’s because Montmartre’s streets are narrower than those of Paris proper, or that the area seems much more working class, but there amongst the shopkeepers and immigrants and, yes, the pickpockets, you finally feel as though you are walking in reality. As though here people do more than simply look chic.

Paris, that beautiful place full of wide avenues and perfect white buildings, feels like a fairytale in comparison. Everything seems a little too lovely, a little too manicured. Maybe it comes from having grown up in Appalachia, but I need grit. Grime. Dirt. I need to feel a place is lived in to feel wholly comfortable there. Paris just doesn’t feel lived in to me. Which is strange, given that so many of the people seem like they’ve lived a million lives to my simple one.

There was a waiter, at the Café Esmeralda, who caught my eye. I don’t know his name, but given I visited the café twice I got a good chance to watch him. He had the kind of obvious good looks you expect to find in a Parisian, but unlike the city’s buildings there was nothing shiny about him. He seemed dark and grounded. The tattoos on his forearms and the cigarettes he chain-smoked hinted at a life more troubled than his sunny waiter’s persona would allow.

Or perhaps that’s me creating a fairytale of my own.

Then there was the woman who came upon me as I was examining a metro map. I had left part of my bag unzipped, there was nothing in there except a map and some chapstick, the good stuff was hidden in a deep virtually inaccessible part of my bag. This woman didn’t know that, though. She came up to me, told me to be careful and helped me figure out which metro line would get me where I was going the quickest.

Looking at her, this older woman with gray hair and lined face, I wondered what sort of life she must have lived to reach out to a stranger this way. To be sure, wandering around with an open bag in pickpocket heaven was not the smartest thing for me to do, but she could have simply walked by without saying anything to me. At that moment, more than anything, I wanted to sit down with a cup of good French coffee and hear this woman’s story. But, too soon, she left me and my taste of something real slipped away.

My time in Montmartre, there above Paris, was all too short. The long morning spent sipping coffee and watching people burnt away as the sun moved ever higher.

If I ever return to Paris, and I would like to, I want to spend more time in Montmartre and all those other places outside the pristine downtown. Explore the real city. The one that dreams and, at the same time, watches those dreams die. The city that produces waiters with tattoos and kind old ladies who reach out to strangers. I want to get away from the pristine picture postcard Paris and delve much more deeply into the Paris that lives and breathes.

My time in Paris, the central part of the city, was a bit like one of those pretty Laduree macaroons – sweet and delicious and lovely but in the end, leaving you wanting more.]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/montmartre/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/thousands-of-souls-laid-to-rest/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/thousands-of-souls-laid-to-rest/#comments Tue, 06 May 2008 18:03:43 +0000 lstreyle http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/?p=87
There are no sounds here, save the rustling wind through the pine trees and the occasional bird swirling a tune around. Visitors are quiet out of respect. They only wander aimlessly down the endless rows of crosses or search for a long lost loved one. The graves are quiet too. Every man and woman buried here has a story to tell, but their words are silenced. There are too many life stories for one person to hear, so we bow our heads in reverence or pick flowers to place on a random grave and hope that we hear all the soldier’s stories and remind them they are not forgotten.

Chester Mosher, a staff sergeant of the 115th Infantry 29th Division, lost his life on June 18, 1944 … only 12 days after D-Day. There are no flowers on his grave, no markings make his cross more distinguished than any one else’s. He was from Maryland, my home state and in that moment I felt that I connected with this soldier on a level different than any other soul resting here. Mosher could have been my age, his world full of possibility, swept up by war. And now sixty-four years later someone is pausing to recognize his life, although it was taken abruptly by the violence of war. All these soldiers were swept away by war and their families too. No stone was left unturned, no person buried here left unaffected by war’s power and uncaring hand. They all lie together, comrade by comrade, stranger by stranger and soldier by soldier. Silently waiting for someone to hear their story, to visit their grave and pay their respects for just one life out of thousands.
]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/thousands-of-souls-laid-to-rest/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-british-welcome/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-british-welcome/#comments Tue, 06 May 2008 18:02:42 +0000 rmech http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/?p=86
But after a few minutes, the rolling rural scenery began to look like that of a storybook. The hills were beautiful there were even sheep on one hillside—probably about fifty. Even the trees seemed to have a different character than American trees. Their branches were knotted and crooked like something out of Lemony Snicket. Everything is so much greener here than in Indiana at this time of year. Flowers are even blooming. This cheery scenery appropriately paralleled the attitudes of the British people we met.

The British people we met were so kind. I think sometimes in movies or books, the description makes English mannerisms feel cold and unemotional, but I did not experience this. It is true, that British people are more reserved and quieter than Americans, but from my experiences this reserved quality did not seem to come from callousness, but actually from a heart of consideration.

Not only is a reserved demeanor less obnoxious than an outspoken one, it also creates the opportunity to be more aware of those around you. Our first afternoon in London, we were walking down a crowded small street, trying to find some lunch, when I saw a woman hold up a small red suede Mary Jane shoe. She handed it to a man with a baby carriage.

“Oh thank you, lady. Thank you,” he replied with genuine appreciation. “That’s so kind. God bless you.”
It was a lovely interaction to witness as one of my first tastes of British regard for one another. Several other natives supported this example. Two of them were our tour guides. Later that day, we took a bus tour around the city, and our tour guide was so congenial. He stepped onto the bus and introduced himself and the bus driver right away. He told us a little bit about himself, and one of the first things he said to us, was that he understood we were tired from traveling and would understand if we happened to doze off. I was so surprised and grateful.

I was not grateful because I planned on sleeping (the sights were too exciting to miss), I was grateful because it is nice to be in the company of an understanding individual. Instead of stepping on the bus and going through his daily presentation, he connected with us, by relating his experiences traveling to America from the UK, and letting us know that he understood our weariness.

Another tour guide showed us around the Imperial War Museum. The museum is such a sight. It is filled with tanks and airplanes, and a two-story Holocaust exhibit. Our tour guide showed us around the first and second floors of the museum. After introducing himself he started the tour by thanking us for introducing him to Ernie Pyle. Not many British people know much about Ernie Pyle because his work was not published in British newspapers, but upon hearing our class was about Ernie Pyle, this tour guide took it upon himself to read “Brave Men.” He said he was thoroughly enjoying it and was waiting for another one of Pyle’s books to be shipped to him. After taking the time to learn about Pyle, he was able to put the tour information in the context of Pyle’s work. It was extra work that he didn’t have to do, and I really appreciated it. After our tour, he offered to stay and give us directions or answer any other questions we might have, he even tried to refuse our tips.

It was this unnecessary kindness that we often found in British people. Their consideration for others is a good model.

]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/a-british-welcome/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/an-overseas-resting-place/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/an-overseas-resting-place/#comments Tue, 06 May 2008 18:01:59 +0000 ncroales http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/?p=85
There are 9,387 U.S. servicemen and women buried in the cemetery – most from the D-Day landings – and of these graves, 307 are unknown. Four graves belong to women and three are Congressional Medal of Honor recipients. Among those interred here are a father and son buried next to each other and 33 pairs of brothers.

The cemetery is in the shape of a rectangle and its paths are laid out like a Latin cross. On the eastern end of the cemetery is a semi-circular wall that serves as a memorial to the missing. Inscribed on the wall are 1,557 names. Looking from the memorial to the west is a reflecting pool with two poles flying American flags.

It is amazing to look beyond the reflecting pool and see the thousands of white marble Latin crosses and Stars of David lined up precisely one in front of another for row upon row, equally spaced apart from each other. Just beyond the reflecting pool, midway through the cemetery, is a circular chapel and at the far end are statues representing the United States and France.

The grave section is divided into 10 plots, each assigned a letter from A-J. It was not difficult to find a solider from Indiana. By walking just a few rows through section G, I was able to find the graves of five American men from Indiana – all killed in June and July 1944.

Meandering through the cemetery, you never know whose grave you are passing by as they are only marked by the serviceman’s name, date of death, infantry number and state of enlistment. In section G, row 14, grave 12, lies the body of Thomas D. Howie, a major in the 116th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division, who was killed July 17, 1944. His body is marked by the same marble cross as others buried nearby. No designation indicates that Howie had received the Silver Star, Bronze Star, Purple Heart and French Croix de Guerre.

Howie was only 36 when he was killed, but from stories on the U.S. Military’s Web site, he appeared to be a brave man who took great risks to liberate the French. In fact, some say that the character, Captain John Miller, in the movie Saving Private Ryan was based on Howie.

Born in South Carolina, Howie enlisted in the army in Virginia. He graduated from The Citadel where he was president of his class and a star halfback on the football team. He was among those who landed on Omaha Beach in Normandy on D-Day.

In July, he was assigned to command the 3d Battalion. He led them for 41 days through German lines to help the 2d Battalion that had been decimated with injuries and fatalities. While trying to capture the French town of Saint-Lô, Howie was killed by shrapnel from a mortar attack. He has since been known as “The Major of St. Lô.” He left behind a wife, Elizabeth, and a daughter, Sally Elizabeth.

The next day, as the 3d Battalion entered St. Lô, they placed Howie’s body on the hood of a jeep and drove into the city so he’d be the first American to enter the town. Soldiers placed his body, draped by an American flag, atop the rubble of the town’s cathedral. According to the military, it was “a gesture of comradeship and respect to an officer who symbolized the Americans’ effort, and their losses, in the bitter struggle for St-Lô.”
]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/an-overseas-resting-place/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/an-american-girl-in-paris/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/an-american-girl-in-paris/#comments Fri, 02 May 2008 19:36:08 +0000 chage http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/an-american-girl-in-paris/
The plaque didn’t list Madeleine’s age, but I found it later as I searched for her on the internet. She was my age, 23. The number rings in my head hollowly. She was my age when she died. Before that point, she worked in the Croix-Rouge Française, the French Red Cross. On her plaque is a small epitaph: “Morte Pour La France” – died for France. Below the plaque was a pot of purple flowers and a ring to hang a flag on. Madeleine was one of over 1000 fighters and civilians who died in the uprising. All that is left of that movement are bullet holes, plaques and stories. Paris has moved on. I think that’s how she would have wanted it.

I don’t know what she looked like or what drew me to her plaque that day. I had just been out shopping the night before and enjoying the finer things Paris had to offer. Today I stood before a memorial to a girl my age, who died years and years ago. She would have been 87 today. I’m humbled just thinking about it.

We’re leaving Paris tomorrow. We’re going back to the states, where I’ll rehash the stories and show pictures to my friends. I’ll laugh at the funnier moments of the trip and try to convey the sadder parts of what I saw. But I don’t think I can describe standing by Madeleine’s plaque. I don’t know if I can tell that story. It is not one I know well myself. I was not alive that day in Paris, when the Americans marched in, and when Madeleine lost her life. I was there nearly 64 years later to reflect and remember and attempt to understand a girl my age who died for France.
]]> http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/student-columns/an-american-girl-in-paris/feed/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/in-the-footsteps/the-trip-home/ http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/in-the-footsteps/the-trip-home/#comments Mon, 17 Mar 2008 12:14:39 +0000 akincius http://journalism.indiana.edu/resources/erniepyle/in-the-footsteps/the-trip-home/ Photo by Tim Street We said goodbye to Paris and the Seine one last time. I woke up to the joyful sounds of French cartoons and a ringing phone.

It was 7:15 AM. After a week of teasing pockets of sleep and constant, continuous leg motions, I knew this morning would be rough. Even the golden colored shower with infinitely adjustable vertical placement wasn’t cutting it.

My hazy tiredness was surrounded with a sense of bittersweet anticipation. We were going home. I was looking forward to sleeping without interruption and spending less than ten dollars on a meal. Going home means leaving Paris, a city rich with history, money, and an enthusiasm for life that was as contagious as it was bedazzling. After a dozen tours and several hours of cramped travelling, my mind and heart were full of knowledge and appreciation for what the men of the past did so I could enjoy the present.

It’s almost incomprehensible to imagine the sacrifice of the Allied soldiers. After seeing Normandy beach, numerous craft of World War II, and cities where some of the fighting took place, I was left with a sense of awe at what transpired long ago through ash, explosions, and sweat. The cemeteries and memorials in France and England exist so we never forget. They were successful.

These thoughts dominated my mind as we packed our luggage for the last time and hopped on the bus in the early morning. For a group known for cheerleading charisma and an immense sense of camaraderie, the air in the bus was unusually still. Faces looked out windows at the rolling prairies and countryside of France that had greeted us several days before. Deep down I knew the scope of it all was finally registering. This was it. Our trip among thirty friends was hours away from becoming the past tense.

The initial flight was delayed by a little more than an hour. The huddled group created a lovely traffic jam in the terminal exit. We had mastered this “road block” skill while in Europe, but with thirty tourists and narrow streets, it’s not hard to get in the way. We eventually made our way onto the plane, another massive airbus complete with mini televisions and pre-packaged, reheated meals of various mystery items. My, oh my, how the perks of flying stack up.

Because of our delay, we were cutting it close with our flight to Indy. As the group was halfway through the Philadelphia airport, we realized that the plane might leave without us. This instigated a sluggishly awkward sprinting mob. We carried our luggage, our tickets, and our sweaty selves past stores and curious onlookers, wondering why we were moving at such a frantic pace. After spending the last week being the “tourist,” a few looks of disdain didn’t phase me.

We made it. Barely. The rest of the passengers seemed to be disgruntled at our disregard for time, but it truly wasn’t our fault. For those wondering who the heck these rowdy folks were, Colin and Sandy put those thoughts to rest by making puppets out of their air sickness bags. They displayed their lovely “bag couple” to one of the flight attendants, and she smiled, not sure what to make of these artistic creations. The intercom rang.

 “Congratulations to row 12 for being most creative!”

Our entire group cheered, as the two were rewarded granola bars for their efforts. More disgruntled looks came from the front of the plane.

I soon realized the bag people came to personify exactly what the trip was about. Not only had we broadened our cultural horizons, but we had become a family. We had eaten, slept, and traveled together for the past 200 hours. Our bond could be seen and felt without saying a word, and by this point, we didn’t care about what others thought. We had become stronger individuals.

Life will commence as normal on Monday, or get closer to it. I speak for my peers when I say we will begin again wiser and humbled. This journey brought Ernie Pyle and World War II to life more than any descriptive writings from the events could ever have. Now it is time to soak it in, and try to give others a glimpse of our fantastic voyage.


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