Ernie Pyle – At Thanksgiving

Ernie Pyle – you either know him, or you shortly will. He died with the 77^th Infantry at Okinawa, America’s preeminent war correspondent. He was at the front for years, Europe and Pacific, beloved by troops and families at home, voice of the common soldier. He lingers.

“The Last Chapter” is his lasts dispatches. I just finished the book. He died in April 1945, shortly before the war’s end. Maybe he comes to mind because we are again edging toward conflict – and in the Pacific. Maybe it is because I just lost a friend who served at CENTCOM, can-do like Pyle, unafraid, patriotic to his God-loving core, always putting others first.

Maybe it is that our society forgets so much, remembers so little. What we forget is worth multiples of what we recall. No war correspondent wrote, thought, or taught like Pyle. He was slight of build, but a giant – pure heart, spirit of a lion.

When he wrote, it was honest, seldom graphic, done in plain words, meant to tell the truth, convey the feeling, open a window on war for those far away – and bring hope. He could be funny, detailed, blunt, descriptive, and by turns irreverent and reverent.

His wife, whom he loved, divorced and remarried, whom he met at a Halloween party and never forgot, had his back as he had hers, but was forever in tumult – they both were. She knew what haunted him, knew how tough the mission, that he could live no other way, was a fighter and writer. Her name was Jerry.

The phenomenon that “was Ernie Pyle” seems worth remembering these days. He was a true blue, honest journalist. Where have they gone? If he wrote that a hill was taken on a particular day, moon was full, platoon 21, it was. He did not gild the lily, shape an untrue narrative.

Another reason his legacy lives is he understood human nature, got behind it, loved it, celebrated it, laughed and cried with it, and knew that – whether a private or general, the soldier was human. He would use full names, home addresses, and that tickled everyone at home.

He was a patriot, as all were. He personified the idea that America was not some country, but the loadstar, where men and women risked death to defend ideals. We were the undisputed leader, without whose unbending convictions evil would prevail. He did not believe that; he knew it. 

Pyle was something else. He was an unrepentant believer in doing the impossible. Perhaps this was uniquely American, but he saw horrors in Italy, France, and Germany, death across the Pacific, Iwo to Okinawa, before he died. He knew we did the impossible, and often.

Pyle knew that only those resolved to win, do win. Only those who understand they must win, who grasp what they are fighting for, who love freedom more than life, and who get respect for that love – win. He knew we could, should, and would. He watched us do that to the very end.

In April 1945, he could smell victory, although he would not live to see it. He knew Japan was done. He knew hard fighting lay ahead and stayed with it. He was wise in things most will never know, including the smell of death, literally and figuratively. But he did not flinch.

Perhaps the real reason Ernie Pyle lingers is that, in this age of indecision and division, unknowing and false knowing, self-absorption and distortion, questions about America’s greatness, and why we fight for what we believe – Pyle had none of that.

He knew we were like no other nation in history, centered on freedom, strong but moral, powerful and inspired, unbreakable because resolved not to break, no matter the cost. We were self-aware, grateful, worked as a team – by squad, platoon, company, battalion, brigade, division, army, navy, squadron, fleet – as a unified nation.

This is where I think this column leads. We need to remember the likes of Ernie Pyle, a humble, clear-eyed, and courageous believer in what we can be, should be, because he saw it up close, under pressure, when it counted, no excuses. He knew what we should know; we can be what we must be.

We are at that point, again. Maybe his life story, unshrinking devotion to our troops, country, those at home, those of us who would follow, resonates in a time of indecision and excuses.

We have no excuses, none that would carry water with Pyle, because people like Ernie Pyle educated us – and still do. Our job is not to excuse softness but to get hard, not to reward complaint but to be ready, not to dodge, weave, play politics or whine, but to focus and win.

Who knows why Pyle jumped off my bookshelf, demanding I read him again, maybe it is Thanksgiving. He was quick to give thanks – and would for your reading now.

Maybe it is the calendar. This week is Thanksgiving, and Pyle would be keenly aware of that date, as would his wife Jerry. He gave all for this country, died on April 18, 1945. Jerry was at home when she got the news, took it “bravely” – but for all their tumult, she could not linger. On November 23, 1945, 77 years ago, just after the 77^th Infantry buried their friend, she joined him. Our job is to keep alive what they all fought for. It is not complicated, but it is vital.