War has its own peculiar sounds
Drawing by Carol Johnson, from the book
"Here Is Your War", Page 184
Ernie Pyle wrote a Pulitzer-prize winning book (1944) about the life of American G.I.s during the invasion of North Africa and Sicily, locations where Canadians in Combined Ops toiled aboard landing crafts at significant war fronts. In "Here Is Your War" are many informative passages about the sounds of war, about finding an unusual safe haven, making do without, and much more.
In the passage that follows, he mentions that veterans of war may never have been able to leave the war behind them, that certain sounds had the power to paralyze.
In the passage that follows, he mentions that veterans of war may never have been able to leave the war behind them, that certain sounds had the power to paralyze.
A Mere Rustling Curtain
They are not really very much different
from sounds in the world of peace.
But they clothe themselves
in an unforgettable fierceness,
just because born in danger and death.
The clank of a starting tank,
the scream of a shell through the air,
the ever-rising whine of fiendishness
as a bomber dives - these sounds
have their counterparts in normal life,
and a person would be hard put to
distinguish them in a blindfold test.
But, once heard in war,
they are never forgotten.
The memory of them
comes back in a thousand ways -
in the grind of a truck starting in low gear,
in high wind around the eaves,
in somebody merely whistling a tune.
Even the sound of a shoe, dropping to
the floor in a hotel room overhead,
becomes indistinguishable from the
faint boom of a big gun far away.
A mere rustling curtain can paralyze
a man with memories.
Here Is Your War, page 186
German dive bombers were known for their eerie screams as they rocketed overhead towards a target. And "the faint boom of a big gun far away" would, at times, stop listeners in their tracks. Guns were getting bigger too, and firing shells from farther away. Would the shells whistle or scream as they rushed through the air?
A report was made about German rocket guns. More noise overhead?
News clip from The Montreal Star, Sept. 27, 1943
On a quieter note, Ernie was able to find one cozy spot to sleep that he never soon forgot. It was near a Tunisian farmhouse.
On the Ground Under the Wagon
Nobody told a correspondent where to sleep or
what to do when he was gypsying around the front.
He shifted for himself. So I nosed around and found
a place to sleep. It was under a big French grain wagon
sitting in the barnlot. Some soldiers had found several
strips of corrugated tin roofing and set them around
three sides of the wagon, making walls.
The wagon bed formed a roof overhead.
They had brought straw from a near-by stack
and put it on the ground under the wagon.
There we threw our bedding rolls.
It was the coziest place I'd slept in for a week.
It had two magnificent features - the ground was dry,
and the wind was cut off. I was so pleased at finding
such a wonderful place that I could feel
my general spirits go up like an elevator.
When the detachment got orders to move the next day
I felt a genuine regret at leaving this little haven.
And to think after all it was only some pitiful straw
on the hard ground under a wagon.
As we were bedding down on that straw,
Hal Boyle of the Associated Press*,
who was bunking next to me, said,
"I believe that in wartime physical discomfort
becomes a more dominant thing in life
than danger itself."
And I believe that's true.
The danger came in spurts; discomfort was perpetual.
The danger came in spurts; discomfort was perpetual.
Dirt and cold were almost constant.
Outside of food and cigarettes there were none
of the little things that made life normal back home.
There were no chairs, lights, floors, or tables.
There wasn't any place to set anything,
or any store to buy things.
There were no newspapers, milk, beds, sheets,
radiators, beer, ice cream, or hot water.
A man just sort of existed, either
standing up working or lying down sleeping.
There was no pleasant in-between.
The velvet was all gone from living.
Here Is Your War, page 234
Outside of food and cigarettes there were none
of the little things that made life normal back home.
There were no chairs, lights, floors, or tables.
There wasn't any place to set anything,
or any store to buy things.
There were no newspapers, milk, beds, sheets,
radiators, beer, ice cream, or hot water.
A man just sort of existed, either
standing up working or lying down sleeping.
There was no pleasant in-between.
The velvet was all gone from living.
Here Is Your War, page 234
When in Sicily , some members of the Canadians in Combined Ops found a cave in which to live near Avola. It was a cattle cave, used by farmers to house their herds during the very hot summer months. It became a haven for a few dozen sailors, a place to eat and sleep with a thick layer of limestone over their heads to protect them from German strafing and bombing.
My father wrote a few paragraphs about the cave, called The Savoy by the Canadian sailors, and by way of 'a tip of the hat' to Ernie Pyle, I'll borrow one of his closing lines above to begin this next passage:
The Velvet was All Gone
After about a week of being continually harassed
by bombers, ack-ack fire and dog fights in the sky
(we Canadians shot down a wing tank and almost
single-handedly drove the Americans from the skies)
one of our fellows on a short reconnoitre ashore
found an abandoned limestone cave. This cave,
a huge hump in the beach landscape, was to
become our shelter at night for nearly three weeks.
About 60 of us slept there, including another
Norwich boy, the late Buryl McIntyre.
The remaining Canadian boys
slept in holes dug along the beach, covered over
by whatever they could scrape up.
The cave itself had been used at some time
to house cattle to protect them from us.
It was large enough to sleep many more.
The roof was 70 or 80 feet thick and supported
by huge limestone pillars inside.
We soon obtained a barrage balloon
(the same way I got the rum)**
which we anchored on top of the cave.
Unless a bomb dropped in front of the door,
we were as safe as a church. There wasn’t a bomb
as yet that could pierce that roof.
The limestone underfoot was almost like
wet cement, but we happily trudged through this,
put our hammocks down doubled up,
laid our mattresses on them, curled up
in our blankets clothes and all, and slept like logs.
We even recessed navy lamps into the walls.
It was cool, damp and safe and we shared our good fortune
with several little green lizards who had cool feet.
Early each morning we paraded out
and slung our sleeping gear over bushes
or on the lower limbs of olive trees
and they would be quite dry by night.
We decided to free one sailor from duty
and he was to take over as a cook,
something we just didn’t have.
The cook’s duties were to find food
and cook it in a huge metal cauldron,
which we had procured in the same way
as the rum and barrage balloon.
The cauldron was raised on stones and heated
by pouring gasoline on the limestone underneath.
This worked out quite well.
The cook scrounged tomatoes (pomadori)
which were plentiful and we managed some bully beef
(the same way as rum, barrage balloon and cauldron).
This was all stirred up together
and one night we had tomatoes and bully beef,
and the next night we had bully beef and tomatoes.
Once in a while we threw in a sea boot
to add a little flavour.
Although we were like a bunch of orphans,
spirits always remained high. There were hundreds
of cleverly contrived anti-personnel bombs about,
but we and the cook were well-schooled on these.
Field Marshall Montgomery spoke highly
of the Canadian flotillas through the British Admiralty
and said he was glad to have us along.
After about 38 days, the Army and Air Force
had won the day and Sicily was freed.
Our work was done.
"Dad, Well Done", Page 108
Combined Operations patch
I recommend readers search for books or news articles by Ernie Pyle, American war correspondent, killed in action in 1945.
More information can be obtained about my father's memoirs by using the 'click on Headings' (i.e., memoirs re Combined Operations) or by contacting me at gordh7700@gmail.com
More information can be obtained about my father's memoirs by using the 'click on Headings' (i.e., memoirs re Combined Operations) or by contacting me at gordh7700@gmail.com
**Doug Harrison writes about unloading a crate of rum from a supply ship while in Sicily. It was addressed to 'The Officers'Mess." Did it find its way to the officers' mess? You get three guesses. My guess is, my father felt that the officers would not miss something they did not know they had.
Please link to Passages: 'HERE IS YOUR WAR' (2) by Ernie Pyle
Photos GH
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