The Death of Captain Waskow
By Ernie Pyle
AT THE FRONT
LINES IN ITALY -- 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 a man as beloved as Capt. Henry T.
Waskow of Belton, Tex.
Captain Waskow
was a company commander in the 36th division. He had been in this company since long before he left the
States. He was very young, only in
his middle 20s, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness that made
people want to be guided by him.
“After my own father, he comes 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
known him to do anything unkind.,” another one said.
I was at the
foot of the mule train the night they brought Captain Waskow down. The moon was nearly full at the time,
and you could see far up the trail, and even part way across the valley. Soldiers made shadows 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 packsaddle, the heads hanging down on the left side of the mule, their
stiffened legs sticking awkwardly from the other side, bobbing up and down as
the mule walked.
The Italian mule
skinners were afraid to walk beside the dead men, so Americans had to lead the
mules down that night.. Even the
Americans were reluctant to unlash and lift the bodies, when they got to 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. In the half light he might have been
merely a sick man standing there leaning on the other. Then they laid him on the ground in the
shadow of the stone wall alongside the road.
I don’t know who
the first one was. You feel small
in the presence of dead men and ashamed of being alive, and you don’t ask silly
questions.
We left him
there beside the road, that first one, and we all went back to the cowshed and
sat on watercans 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 him. We talked for an
hour or more ; the dead man lay all alone, outside in the shadow of the 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 down stood
there waiting.
"This one is Captain Waskow,” one of them said quickly.
"This one is Captain Waskow,” one of them said quickly.
Two men unlashed
his body from the mule and lifted it off and laid in the shadow beside the
stone wall Other men took the
other bodies off. Finally, there
were five lying end to end in a long row.
You don’t cover up dead men in combat zones. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody else comes
after them.
The uncertain
mules moved off to their olive orchards.
The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually I could sense them moving,
one by one, close to Captain 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 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, and he said, “God damn it to hell anyway!” He looked down for a few last moments and then turned and
left.
Another man
came. I think it was an
officer. It was hard to tell
officers from men in the half light, for everybody was grimy and dirty. The man looked down into the dead
captain’s face and the spoke directly to him, as though he were alive.
“I’m sorry, old
man."
Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer and bent over, and he to spoke to his dead captain,
Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer and bent over, and he to spoke to his dead captain,
not in a whisper but awfully tenderly, and he said:
“I’m sorry, sir.
Then the first
man squatted down, and he reached down and took the captain’s 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.
Finally he put
his hand down. He 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.
Samuel Arnold
LTJG USNR
No comments:
Post a Comment