Hello,I would like to request a discussion post around 400 words for the attached.Thank you1. Submit a review of both of Ernie Pyle’s articles. Can you think of ajournalist today who regularly impacts American lives – even in a differentmedium?This article is Ernie Pyleâs most famous and widely reprinted article. From January 10, 1944.The Death of Captain WaskowAT THE FRONT LINES IN ITALY, January 10, 1944 â In this war I have known a lot of officerswho were loved and respected by the soldiers under them. But never have I crossed the trail ofany man as beloved as Capt. Henry T. Waskow of Belton, Texas. Capt. Waskow was a companycommander in the 36th Division. He had led his company since long before it left the States. Hewas very young, only in his middle twenties, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness thatmade people want to be guided by him. "After my own father, he came next," a sergeant toldme. "He always looked after us," a soldier said. "Heâd go to bat for us every time." "Iâve neverknowed him to do anything unfair," another one said. I was at the foot of the mule trail the nightthey brought Capt. Waskowâs body down. The moon was nearly full at the time, and you couldsee far up the trail, and even part way across the valley below. Soldiers made shadows in themoonlight as they walked. Dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashedonto the backs of mules. They came lying belly-down across the wooden pack-saddles, theirheads hanging down on the left side of the mule, their stiffened legs sticking out awkwardly fromthe other side, bobbing up and down as the mule walked. The Italian mule-skinners were afraidto walk beside dead men, so Americans had to lead the mules down that night. Even theAmericans were reluctant to unlash and lift off the bodies at the bottom, so an officer had to do ithimself, and ask others to help. The first one came early in the morning. They slid him downfrom the mule and stood him on his feet for a moment, while they got a new grip. In the half lighthe might have been merely a sick man standing there, leaning on the others. Then they laid himon the ground in the shadow of the low stone wall alongside the road. I donât know who that firstone was. You feel small in the presence of dead men, and ashamed at being alive, and youdonât ask silly questions. We left him there beside the road, that first one, and we all went backinto the cowshed and sat on water cans 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 anythingmore about it. We talked soldier talk for an hour or more. The dead man lay all alone outside inthe shadow of the low stone wall. Then a soldier came into the cowshed and said there weresome 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 stood therewaiting. "This one is Captain Waskow," one of them said quietly. Two men unlashed his bodyfrom the mule and lifted it off and laid it in the shadow beside the low stone wall. Other men tookthe other bodies off. Finally there were five lying end to end in a long row, alongside the road.You donât cover up dead men in the combat zone. They just lie there in the shadows untilsomebody else comes after them. The unburdened mules moved off to their olive orchard. Themen in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually one by one Icould sense them moving close to Capt. Waskowâs body. Not so much to look, I think, as to saysomething in finality to him, and to themselves. I stood close by and I could hear. One soldiercame and looked down, and he said out loud, "God damn it." Thatâs all he said, and then hewalked away. Another one came. He said, "God damn it to hell anyway." He looked down for afew last moments, and then he turned and left. Another man came; I think he was an officer. Itwas hard to tell officers from men in the half light, for all were bearded and grimy dirty. The manlooked down into the dead captainâs face, and then he spoke directly to him, as though he werealive. He said: "Iâm sorry, old man." Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer, and bentover, and he too spoke to his dead captain, not in a whisper but awfully tenderly, and he said: "Isure am sorry, sir." Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the deadhand, and he sat there for a full five minutes, holding the dead hand in his own and lookingintently into the dead face, and he never uttered a sound all the time he sat there. And finally heput the hand down, and then reached up and gently straightened the points of the captainâs shirtcollar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of his uniform around the wound. Andthen he got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight, all alone. After that the rest ofus went back into the cowshed, leaving the five dead men lying in a line, end to end, in theshadow of the low stone wall. We lay down on the straw in the cowshed, and pretty soon wewere all asleep.Ernie Pyleâs columns featured stories of soldierâs day to day trials, the most serious side of thewar abroad. But once in a while he did submit columns on the lighter side. Here is one exampleactually titled âOn the Lighter Sideââ¦from June 21, 1944.On the Lighter SideSOMEWHERE IN FRANCE, June 21, 1944 â The war is constantly producing funny things aswell as tragic things, so I might as well tell you some of our lighter incidents. For example, thefirst night we spent in France one of the colonels who slept with us under an apple tree was anArmy observer from Washington. Usually we donât care for observers from Washington, but thiscolonel was a very nice guy and a good field soldier too, and everybody liked him. While wewere eating our K-rations next morning he said he had slept fine for the first hour, before we hadmoved in under our jeep for protection from the flak. He said that before we moved he hadfound a nice little mound of earth to put his head on for a pillow. He said that all his life he hadhad to have a pillow of some kind. After moving under the jeep he couldnât find anything to puthis head on. With that he walked over a few feet to show us the nice mound of earth. When helooked down he started laughing. His excellent pillow of the night before had turned out in thelight of day to be a pile of horse manure. * Another story concerns a masterful piece of wartimeunderstatement by one of our truck drivers, Pvt. Carl Vonhorn of rural Cooperstown, New York.He had pulled into an apple orchard adjoining ours the night before, parked his truck in thedarkness, spread his blankets on the ground in front of the truck, and gone to sleep. When hewoke up at daylight Vonhorn looked about him sleepily. And there on the ground right besidehim, within armâs reach, was a dead German soldier. And when he looked on the other side,there, equally close, were two potato-mashers. Pvt. Vonhorn got up very quickly. Later he wastelling his officers about his startling experience, and he ended his description with thisphilosophical remark: "It was very distasteful." Everybody thought that was so funny it spreadaround the camp like fire, and now the phrase "Itâs very distasteful" has become practically abyword. * After breakfast that first morning we had to round up about fifty dead Germans andAmericans in the series of orchards where we were camping, and carry them to a central spot ina pasture and bury them. I helped carry one corpse across a couple of fields. I did it partlybecause the group needed an extra man, and partly because I was forcing myself to get used toit, for you canât hide from death when youâre in a war. This German was just a kid, surely notover fifteen. His face had already turned black, but you could sense his youth through the deathdistorted features. The boys spread a blanket on the ground beside him. Then we lifted him overonto it. One soldier and I each took hold of a foot, and two others took his arms. One of the twosoldiers in front was hesitant about touching the corpse. Whereupon the other soldier said tohim: "Go on, take hold of him, dammit. You might as well get used to it now, for youâll becarrying plenty of dead ones from now on. Hell, you may even be carrying me one of thesedays." So we carried him across two fields, each of us holding a corner of the blanket. Ourburden got pretty heavy, and we rested a couple of times. The boys made wisecracks along theway to cover up their distaste for the job. When we got to the field we werenât sure just wherethe lieutenant wanted the cemetery started. So we put our man down on the ground and wentback for instructions. And as we walked away the funny guy of the group turned and shook afinger at the dead German and said: "Now donât you run away while weâre gone." * TheGermans leave snipers behind when they retreat, so all American bivouac areas are heavilyguarded by sentries at night. And the sentries really mean business. The other night a prettyimportant general whom I know was working late, as all our staff officers do these days. Aboutmidnight he left his tent to go to another generalâs tent and talk something over. He had goneonly about twenty feet when a sentry challenged him. And just at that moment the general,groping around in the dark, fell headlong into a deep slit trench. It was funny, even to thegeneral, but there was nothing humorous about it to the sentry. He suspected monkey business.He rushed up to the trench, pointed his gun at the general, and in a tone that was a mixture ofterror and intent to kill, he yelled: "Git out of there and git recognized, you!" ["Potato-masher"was a term meaning hand grenade]Both articles courtesy of The Indiana University School of Journalism.