Ernie is still dead, and I am not

The moon again.

Under that strange high moon rising to meet its eclipse, I thought of Ernie. No, not Ernie Pyle. The other one. Bathtime. Rubber ducky. Rage, thinly shrouded in orange felt.

After that, I thought of Ernie Pyle. His was a name I hardly knew just a few years ago, except in some vague way I knew he had been a writer, at war. That changed when people compared my work to his, and sent a couple of Ernie’s books to me. After reading them, I thought the comparison extremely flattering but inaccurate. After all, who would compare him to the greatest war correspondent of all times?

There are some obvious similarities between Ernie and me. I say “folks” a lot; so did Ernie. We also use the word “the” quite often. Ernie loved the infantry; I spend most of my time with infantry. We both reported on wars, even if I did spend more time in Iraq than Ernie or any other reporter ever did (Afghanistan too). The name Ernie Pyle has nine letters, and the name Michael Yawn has eleven letters – and that is pretty close.

But while Ernie talked bluntly about the ugly parts of war, I simply lack the skills to make anything ugly look pretty. Believe me I've tried, in many Thai massage parlors. And Ernie was never disembedded four times. Ernie never called for the dismissal of top generals in theater. He wasn’t arrested by US Customs and subjected to treatment not seen under the Khmer Rouge. The horror. The horror. Maybe those were different times. Maybe Ernie really wanted to do those things but he was restrained. Or scared. But not me.

Where Pyle and I share closest ties is in our knowledge of the value our work has for troop morale, for strategic gains, and victory. But in Ernie’s day, it seems that more of the military leaders knew this as well. Military leaders made it possible for Ernie Pyle to do his best work, something I wrote about more than one year ago, when no one else had the courage to write it.

Not so today. If only our military leaders would get rid of McChrystal. If only they’d relieve Menard and tell the Canadians we Americans won’t be subject to their maple-syrup coated tyranny. If only they’d allow a new Ernie Pyle the same opportunity to spread the truth.

Then maybe we’d win this war.

But comparisons between Pyle and myself really shouldn’t be made. Ernie is dead after all, and I am not. Unlike Pyle, I am still able to report the truth of this war to you.

The day has ended. Moon Ring. Liquid Moon. Moonbats. Blue Moon. Afghan Moon. Moon of Sorrow.

But something is on. Combat aircraft are over top. Big guns? Predators? C130 hovers. Action. Godspeed to the bros who need it. I miss them so much. Blast McChrystal, he is denying our troops my presence.

Packing. Gun at ready, good man said put away. Was that Ernie's ghost? No, Ernie is dead. But he lives in me.

Goodnight moon.