PART II
FOREWORD TO PART II
Peleliu took its toll. As the executive officer and then commander of Company K, 3d Battalion, 5th Marines, I saw in the eyes of each survivor the price he paid for thirty days of unrelenting close combat on that hunk of blasted coral.
For those weary men returning to Pavuvu in November 1944, the war was far from over. Pavuvu was a better place the second time around than when we had left it. But it wasn't a rest haven. The survivors of Peleliu weren't allowed such a luxury. There was little time for licking wounds. We had to absorb a lot of new men as replacements for those lost on Peleliu and for the rotation home of the Guadalcanal veterans who by then had fought three campaigns.
Peleliu was something special for the Marines of K/⅗— for all of the 1st Marine Division. It has remained so down through the years. Yet Okinawa had its own character, more forbidding in many ways than its predecessor. There the 1st Marine Division fought a different war under a new set of rules where tactics and movement were used in a fashion previously unknown to the island-fighting Marines.
Okinawa is a large island, more than sixty miles long and from two to eighteen miles wide. It introduced the Marines to “land” warfare for the first time. Even in 1945 it had a city, towns and villages, several large airfields, an intricate road network, and a good-sized civilian population. Most important, the Japanese defended it with more than 100,000 of their best troops. Okinawa was Japanese territory. They knew it was our final stepping-stone to the home islands of Japan.
The Marines had learned a lot on the way to Okinawa. We had improved our force structure, tactics, and techniques for combat along the way. The Japanese had learned, too. On Okinawa we faced a set of defenses and defensive tactics made sophisticated by the Japanese through application of lessons learned from all of their previous losses. They also fought with an intensity born of a certain knowledge that if they failed, nothing remained to prevent our direct assault into their homeland.
Irrespective of the new elements, the battle for Okinawa was fought and ultimately decided the way all battles have been fought and won or lost. The men on both sides, facing each other day after day across the sights of a rifle, determined the outcome. Pfc. Eugene B. Sledge was one of those men. In this book he gives us a unique experience of seeing and feeling war at its most important level, that of the enlisted fighting man. His words ring true, clean of analysis and reaction to past events. They simply reflect what happened to him and, therefore, to all of the Marines who fought there. I know, because I fought with them.
For the men of the “old breed” who struggled, bled, died, and eventually won on Peleliu and Okinawa, Sledgehammer is their most eloquent spokesman. I'm proud to have served with them—and with him.
Capt. Thomas J. Stanley
U.S. Marine Corps Reserve (Ret.)
Houston, Texas
CHAPTER SEVEN
Early next morning the Sea Runner, in convoy with other ships including those carrying the survivors of the 7th Marines, put out for Pavuvu. I was glad to be aboard ship again, even a troopship. I drank gallons of ice cold water from the electrically cooled “scuttlebutts.”*
Most of my old friends in rifle companies had been wounded or killed. It was terribly depressing, and the full realization of our losses bore down heavily on me as we made inquiries. The survivors on board gave us all the details regarding our friends who hadn't made it through Peleliu. We thanked them and moved on. After a few of the visits and bad news about lost friends, I began to feel that I hadn't been just lucky but was a survivor of a major tragedy.
One day after noon chow a friend and I were sitting on our racks discussing things in general. The conversation drifted off, and we fell silent. Suddenly he looked at me with an intense, pained expression on his face and said, “Sledgehammer, why the hell did we have to take Peleliu?” I must have looked at him blankly, because he began to argue that our losses on Peleliu had been useless and hadn't helped the war effort at all, and that the island could have been bypassed. “Hell, the army landed troops on Morotai [Netherlands East Indies] with light opposition the same day we landed on Peleliu, and we caught hell, and the damn place still ain't secured. And while we were still on Peleliu, MacArthur hit Leyte [in the Philippines, 20 October] and walked ashore standing up. I just don't see where we did any good,” he continued.
I replied gloomily, “I don't know.” He just stared at the bulkhead and sadly shook his head. He was the same friend who had been with me the time we saw the three terribly mutilated Marine dead. I could imagine what he was thinking.
Despite these momentary lapses, the veterans of Peleliu knew they had accomplished something special. That these Marines had been able to survive the intense physical exertion of weeks of combat on Peleliu in that incredibly muggy heat gave ample evidence of their physical toughness. That we had survived emotionally—at least for the moment—was, and is, ample evidence to me that our training and discipline were the best. They prepared us for the worst, which is what we experienced on Peleliu.
On 7 November 1944, (three days after my twenty-first birthday) the Sea Runner entered Macquitti Bay. After passing familiar islets, she dropped anchor off Pavuvu's steel pier. I was surprised at how good Pavuvu looked after the desolation of Peleliu.
We picked up our gear and debarked shortly. On the beach we walked over to one of several tables set up nearby. There I saw—of all things—an American Red Cross girl. She was serving grapefruit juice in small paper cups. Some of my buddies looked at the Red Cross woman sullenly, sat on their helmets, and waited for orders. But together with several other men, I went over to the table where the young lady handed me a cup of juice, smiled, and said she hoped I liked it. I looked at her with confusion as I took the cup and thanked her. My mind was so benumbed by the shock and violence of Peleliu that the presence of an American girl on Pavuvu seemed totally out of context. I was bewildered. “What the hell is she doing here?” I thought. “She's got no more business here than some damn politician.” As we filed past to board trucks, I resented her deeply.
Next to a table counting off the men to board the trucks stood a brand-spanking-new boot second lieutenant. He was so obviously fresh from the States and officers’ candidate school that his khakis were new, and he wasn't even suntanned. As I moved slowly by the table he said, “OK, sonny, move out.” Since my enlistment in the Marine Corps, I had been called about everything imaginable—printable and unprintable. But fresh off of Peleliu I was unprepared for “sonny.” I turned to the officer and stared at him blankly. He returned my gaze and seemed to realize his mistake. He looked hurriedly away. My buddies’ eyes still carried that vacant, hollow look typical of men recently out of the shock of battle. Maybe that's what the young lieutenant saw in mine, and it made him uncomfortable.
The trucks sped past neat tent areas, much improved since we had last seen Pavuvu. We arrived at our familiar camp area to find numerous self-conscious replacements sitting and standing in and around the tents. We were the “old men” now. They appeared so relaxed and innocent of what lay ahead of us that I felt sorry for them. We took off our packs and settled into our tents. In the best way we could, we tried to unwind and relax.
Shortly after we arrived back at Pavuvu and on an occasion when all the replacements were out of the company area on work parties, 1st Sgt. David P. Bailey yelled “K Company, fall in.” As the survivors of Peleliu straggled out of their tents into the company street, I thought about how few remained out of the 235 men we started with.
Dressed in clean khakis and with his bald head shining, Bailey walked up to us and said, “At ease, men.” He was a real old-time salty Marine and a stern disciplinarian, but a mild-mannered man whom we highly respected. Bailey had something to say, and it wasn't merely a pep talk. Unfortunately, I don't remember his exact words, so I won't attempt to quote him, but he told us we should be proud. He said we had fought well in as tough a battle as the Marine Corps had ever been in, and we had upheld the honor of the Corps. He finished by saying, “You people have proved you are good Marines.” Then he dismissed us.
We returned silently and thoughtfully to our tents. I heard no cynical comments about Bailey's brief remarks. Words of praise were rare from the heart of such a stern old salt who expected every man to do his best and tolerated nothing less. His straightforward, sincere praise and statement of respect and admiration for what our outfit had done made me feel like I had won a medal. His talk was not the loud harangue of a politician or the cliché-studded speech of some rear-echelon officer or journalist. It was a quiet statement of praise from one who had endured the trials of Peleliu with us. As far as being a competent judge of us, there was nobody better qualified than an old combat Marine and a senior NCO like Bailey, who had observed us and endured the fight himself. His words meant a lot to me, and they apparently did to my comrades, too.
One of our first activities after getting settled in our Pavuvu tents was to renew our old feud with the rats and land crabs. Our seabags, cots, and other gear had been stacked around the center tent pole while we were gone. The land crabs had moved in and made themselves at home. When several of my tent mates and I started unstacking the items around the tent pole, the crabs swarmed out. The men started yelling, cursing the crabs and smashing them with bayonets and entrenching tools. Some character sprayed cigarette lighter fluid on a crab as it ran into the company street and then threw a match at it. The flaming crab moved a couple of feet before being killed by the flames.
“Hey, you guys, did you see that? That crab looked just like a burning Jap tank.”
“Good oh,” yelled another man as Marines rushed around trying to find more cans of lighter fluid to spray on the hated land crabs. Men started taking orders for cans of lighter fluid and raced off to the 5th Marines PX tent to buy up all they could find. We killed over a hundred crabs from my tent alone.
One evening after chow as I sprawled on my cot wishing I were back home, I noticed one of Company K's two surviving officers carrying some books and papers down the company street in the twilight. He passed my tent and went to the fifty-five-gallon oil drum that served as a trash can. The lieutenant tossed some maps and papers into the can. He held up a thick book and with obvious anger slammed it into the trash can. He then turned and walked slowly back up the street.
Curious, I went out to have a look. The maps were combat maps of Peleliu. I dropped them back into the trash (and have since regretted I didn't salvage them for future historical reference). Then I found the book. It was a large hardback volume of about a thousand pages, bound in dark blue, obviously not a GI field manual or book of regulations.
Always seeking good reading material, I looked at the spine of the book and read its title, Men At War by Ernest Hemingway. This is interesting history, I thought, and was puzzled as to why the lieutenant had thrown it so violently into the trash. I opened the cover. In the twilight I saw written in a bold strong hand, A. A. Haldane. A lump rose in my throat as I asked myself why I'd want to read about war when Peleliu had cost us our company commander and so many good friends. I, too, slammed the book down into the trash can in a gesture of grief and disgust over the waste of war I had already experienced firsthand.
After we had been back on Pavuvu about a week, I had one of the most heartwarming and rewarding experiences of my entire enlistment in the Marine Corps. It was after taps, all the flambeaus were out, and all of my tent mates were in their sacks with mosquito nets in place. We were all very tired, still trying to unwind from the tension and ordeal of Peleliu.
All was quiet except for someone who had begun snoring softly when one of the men, a Gloucester veteran who had been wounded on Peleliu, said in steady measured tones, “You know something, Sledgehammer?”
“What?” I answered.
“I kinda had my doubts about you,” he continued, “and how you'd act when we got into combat, and the stuff hit the fan. I mean, your ole man bein’ a doctor and you havin’ been to college and bein’ sort of a rich kid compared to some guys. But I kept my eye on you on Peleliu, and by God you did OK; you did OK.”
“Thanks, ole buddy,” I replied, nearly bursting with pride. Many men were decorated with medals they richly earned for their brave actions in combat, medals to wear on their blouses for everyone to see. I was never awarded an individual decoration, but the simple, sincere personal remarks of approval by my veteran comrade that night after Peleliu were like a medal to me. I have carried them in my heart with great pride and satisfaction ever since.
As Christmas approached, rumor had it we were going to have a feast of real turkey. There were several days out of the year when the Marine Corps tried to give us good chow: 10 November (the Marine Corps’ birthday), Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's. The rest of the time in the Pacific war, chow was canned or dehydrated. Refrigeration facilities for large quantities of food were not available, at least not to a unit as mobile and as lacking in all luxuries as a combat division in the Fleet Marine Force. But the scuttlebutt was that there were frozen turkeys for us in the big refrigerators on Banika.
We had special Christmas Eve church services in the palm-thatched regimental chapel that had been constructed skillfully by Russell Island natives. That was followed by a special Christmas program at the regimental theater where we sat on coconut logs and sang carols. I enjoyed it a great deal but felt pretty homesick. Then we had our roast turkey, and it was excellent.
New Year's celebration was even more memorable for me. On New Year's Eve after chow, I heard some yelling and other commotion over at the battalion mess hall. The messmen had just about finished squaring away the galley for the night when a sentry shouted, “Corporal of the guard, fire at post number three!”
I saw cooks and messmen in the mess hall who were cleaning up by lamplight all rush outside to a fire burning in a grove of trees near the galley. I thought one of the gasoline heaters that boiled water in tubs where we cleaned our mess kits had caught fire. By the light of the flames I could see men running around the galley yelling, and I could hear the mess sergeant cursing and shouting orders. I also saw two figures slide through the shadows toward our company street, but paid them little heed. In a few minutes the fire was put out,just a can of gasoline some distance from the mess hall that had somehow caught fire, somebody said.
A friend of mine appeared at my tent and said in a low voice, “Hey, you guys, Howard says come on down to his tent; plenty of turkey for everybody!”
We followed him on the double. As I entered the tent, there sat Howard Nease on his cot, a flambeau flickering beside him, and a towel on his lap under a huge, plump roast turkey.
“Happy New Year, you guys,” Howard said with his characteristically broad grin.
We filed past him as he deftly sliced off huge slabs of turkey with his razor-sharp kabar, and placed them into our opened hands. Others came in, and we broke out our two cans of warm beer that each had been issued. Someone produced a can of jungle juice that had been “working.” A guitar, a fiddle, and a mandolin struck up the “Spanish Fandango” as Howard sliced turkey until the carcass was cleaned. Then he directed the music, using his kabar as a baton. Howard told us the burning can of gasoline had been merely a diversion to distract the mess sergeant while he and a couple of other daredevils entered the galley and made a moonlight requisition of two turkeys.
We, the survivors of that recent bloodbath on Peleliu, forgot our troubles and howled with laughter at the story. Enjoying the comradeship forged by combat, we had the finest New Year's Eve party I've ever attended. The 11th Marines fired an artillery salute at midnight—as a peaceful gesture.
It was typical of Howard that he pulled off his turkey requisition so neatly and just as typical that he shared it with as many of his buddies as he could. He was one of those wonderfully buoyant souls, always friendly and joking, cool-headed in combat, and though much admired, very modest. When Howard was killed by a Japanese machine gun in the early days of the Okinawa battle (his third campaign), every man who knew him was deeply saddened. By his example, he taught me more than anyone else the value of cheerfulness in the face of adversity.
One of my most treasured memories is the mental picture of Howard Nease sitting on his bunk carving a huge turkey on his lap with his kabar by the light of a flambeau in his tent under Pavuvu's palms on New Year's Eve 1944, grinning and saying, “Happy New Year, Sledgehammer.” I profited greatly from knowing him.
Our new division commander, Maj. Gen. Pedro del Valle, former commander of the 11th Marines, ordered regular close-order drills, parades, and reviews. This was better than work parties moving rotting coconuts and added a “spit and polish” to our routine that helped morale. A regular beer ration of two cans a man each week also helped. During close-order drill we dressed in clean khakis, which each man pressed under his mattress pad on his canvas bunk. As we marched back and forth on the neat coral-covered parade ground, I thought about home or some book I was reading and wasn't at all bored.
One day we had a 5th Regiment parade. Decorations and medals were awarded to those cited for outstanding service on Peleliu. Many of our wounded had returned from the hospitals by then. When the Purple Heart medal was awarded to those who had been wounded, there weren't many of us who didn't qualify for it.
During those parades we took great pride in seeing our regimental flag carried with us. Like all the regimental flags, it had a large Marine Corps emblem on it with “United States Marine Corps” emblazoned across the top. Below the emblem was “Fifth Marine Regiment.”
But the thing that made our flag unique was the number of battle streamers attached at the top of the staff. These streamers (ribbons about a foot long with the names of battles printed on them) represented battles the 5th Marines had fought in and decorations the regiment had won, all the way back to Belleau Wood (World War I) and the Banana Wars (in South America). We had just added Peleliu to the World War II collection. Those streamers represented more battles than any other Marine regiment had fought in. One buddy said our flag had so many battle streamers, decorations, and ribbons that it looked like a mop—an unsophisticated yet straight-from-the-shoulder summation of a proud tradition!After we had been back on Pavuvu several weeks, I was told one day to dress in clean khakis and to report to the company headquarters tent promptly at 0100. There was some vague reference to an interview that might lead to officers’ candidate school back in the States.
“Hey, Sledgehammer, you'll have it made, being an officer and all that, wheeling and dealing Stateside,” a buddy said as I got ready for the interview.
“If you're lucky maybe you can land a desk job,” another said.
Some of my buddies were obviously envious as I left and walked nervously down the street. The thoughts in my head were that I didn't want or intend to leave Company K (unless as a casualty or rotated home for good) and why on earth had I been chosen for an interview regarding OCS.
When I arrived at the company headquarters, I was sent to a tent a short distance away, near the battalion headquarters. I reported to the tent and was greeted cordially by a first lieutenant. He was an extremely handsome man and, I gathered from his composure and modest self-confidence, a combat veteran.
He asked me in detail about my background and education. He was sincere and friendly. I felt he was trying carefully to determine whether the men he interviewed were suitable to be Marine officers. He and I hit it off well, and I was perfectly honest with him. He asked me why I had not succeeded in the V-12 officers’ candidate program, and I told him how I felt about joining the Marine Corps and being sent to college.
“How do you feel about it now that you've been in combat?” he asked.
I told him it would be nice to be back in college. I said I had seen enough on Peleliu to satisfy my curiosity and ardor for fighting. “In fact,” I said, “I'm ready to go home.”
He laughed good-naturedly and knowingly. He asked me how I liked the Marine Corps and my unit. I told him I was proud to be a member. He asked me how I liked being a 60mm mortar crewman, and I said it was my first choice. Then he got very serious and asked, “How would you feel about sending men into a situation where you knew they would be killed?”
Without hesitation I answered, “I couldn't do it, sir.”
The lieutenant looked at me long and hard in a friendly, analytical way. He asked me a few more questions, then said, “Would you like to be an officer?”
“Yes, sir, if it meant I could go back to the States,” I said. He laughed and with a few more friendly remarks told me that was all.
My buddies asked me for all the details of the interview. When I told them all about it one said, “Sledgehammer, damn if you ain't got to be as Asiatic as Haney. Why the hell didn't you snow that lieutenant so you could go into OCS?”
I replied that the lieutenant was experienced and too wise to fall for a snow job. That was true, of course, but I really had no desire to leave Company K. It was home to me, and I had a strong feeling of belonging to the company no matter how miserable or dangerous conditions might be. Besides, I had found my niche as a mortarman. The weapon and its deployment interested me greatly, and if I had to fight again, I was confident of doing the Japanese far more damage as a mortarman than as a second lieutenant. I had no desire to be an officer or command anybody; I just wanted to be the best mortar crewman I could—and to survive the war.
There was nothing heroic or unique in my attitude. Other men felt the same way. Actually, in combat our officers caught just as much hell as the enlisted men. They also were burdened with responsibility. As one buddy (a private) said, “When the stuff hits the fan, all I have to do is what I'm told, and I can look out for just me and my buddy. Them officers all the time got to be checkin’ maps and squarin’ people away.”
We began to assimilate the new replacements into the company, and we added a third mortar to my section. The battalion ordnance section checked all weapons, and we got new issues for those worn out in the fight for Peleliu.
There were some drafted Marines among the new replacements and also a sprinkling of NCOs who had been in navy yards and other stateside duty stations. The presence of the NCOs caused some bitterness among a few of the Gloucester and Peleliu veterans who were by then senior in their squads because of the heavy casualties on Peleliu. The latter wouldn't get promoted with new NCOs entering the company to take our leadership positions. From what I saw, however, the new NCOs were mostly men with numerous years of service, although not combat veterans. They did a good job of assuming their authority while respecting us combat veterans for our experience.
The drafted Marines took a good bit of kidding about being “handcuffed volunteers” from those of us who had enlisted into the Marine Corps. Some of the drafted men insisted vehemently that they were volunteers who had enlisted like most of us. But they were careful to conceal their records and identification, because “SS” (for Selective Service) appeared after the serial number if a man had been drafted.
The draftees sometimes had their laugh on us, though. If we griped and complained, they grinned and said, “What you guys bitchin’ about? You asked for it, didn't you?” We just grumbled at them; no one got angry about it. For the most part, the replacements were good men, and the company retained its fighting spirit.
Our training picked up in intensity, and rumors began to fly regarding the next “blitz” (a term commonly used for a campaign). We heard that the 1st Marine Division was to be put into an army to invade the China coast or Formosa (Taiwan). Many of my buddies feared that we would lose our identity as Marines and that the Marine Corps would finally be absorbed into the U.S. Army (a fate that has caused anxiety to U.S. Marines of many generations, as history well documents). Our training emphasized street fighting and cooperation with tanks in open country. But we still didn't know the name of our objective. After we were shown maps (without names) of a long, narrow island, we still didn't know.
One day Tom F. Martin, a friend of mine in Company L, who also had been in the V-12 program and was a Peleliu veteran, came excitedly to my tent and showed me a National Geographic map of the Northern Pacific. On it we saw the same oddly shaped island. Located 325 miles south of the southern tip of the Japanese home island of Kyushu, it was called Okinawa Shima. Its closeness to Japan assured us of one thing beyond any doubt: Whatever else happened, the battle for Okinawa was bound to be bitter and bloody. The Japanese never had sold any island cheaply, and the pattern of the war until then had shown that the battles became more vicious the closer we got to Japan.
We made practice landings, fired various small arms, and underwent intensive mortar training. With a third weapon added to our mortar section, I felt as though we were Company K's artillery battery.
At this time hepatitis broke out among the troops. We called it yellow jaundice, and I got a bad case. We could look at a man and tell whether he had the malady by the yellowing of the whites of his eyes. Even our deeply tanned skins took on a sallow appearance. I felt terrible, was tired, and the smell of food nauseated me. Pavuvu's muggy heat didn't help any either. I went to sick call one morning, as other Marines were doing in increasing numbers. The medical officer gave me a “light duty slip,” a piece of paper officially relieving me from the intense exertion of routine training but still making me subject to minor work parties such as picking up trash, straightening tent ropes, and the like. It was the only time during my entire service in the Marine Corps that I got out of regular duties because of illness.
Had we been civilians, I'm confident those of us with hepatitis would have been hospitalized. Instead, we received APC pills from a corpsman.* This medication was the standard remedy for everything except bayonet, gunshot, or shrapnel wounds. After several days I was pronounced recovered enough for resumption of regular duties and surrendered my cherished light duty slip to an officer in sick bay.
Training intensified. During January 1945 the company boarded an LCI† and, in convoy with other such vessels, went to Guadalcanal for maneuvers. After a division-sized field problem, we returned to Pavuvu on 25 January.
Then we listened daily with sympathetic interest to the news reports of the terrible fighting encountered by the 3d, 4th, and 5th Marine divisions during the battle for Iwo Jima that began on 19 February.
“It sounds just like a larger version of Peleliu,” a buddy of mine said one day.
He didn't realize how correct he was. The new pattern of defense-in-depth and no banzai charges that the Japanese had tried on the 1st Marine Division at Peleliu was repeated on Iwo Jima. When that island was declared secured on 16 March, the cost to the three Marine divisions that fought there sounded like our Peleliu casualties magnified three times.
During our training we were told that we would have to climb over a seawall or cliff (exact height unknown) to move inland during the coming battle. Several times we practiced scaling a sheer coral cliff (about forty feet high) across the bay from the division's camp on Pavuvu. We had no more than two ropes to get the entire company up and over the cliff. Supposedly we would be furnished rope ladders before D day, but I never saw any.
While we stood at the foot of the cliff during those exercises, waiting our turn and watching other men struggle up the ropes to the top of the cliff with all their combat gear, I heard some choice comments from my buddies regarding the proceedings. The company officers (all new except First Lieutenant Stanley, the CO) were rushing around with great enthusiasm urging the troops up the cliff like it was some sort of college football training routine.
“What a fouled-up bunch of boot lieutenants if I ever saw any. Just what the hell do they think them goddamn Nips are gonna be doin’ while we climb up that cliff one at a time?” grumbled a veteran machine gunner.
“Seems pretty stupid to me. If that beach is anything like Peleliu, we 'll get picked off before anybody gets up any cliff,” I said.
“You said that right, Sledgehammer, and them Nips ain't gonna be sittin’ around on their cans; they're gonna bracket that beach with mortars and artillery, and machine guns are gonna sweep the top of that cliff,” he said with melancholy resignation.
Our new mortar section leader was a New Englander out of an Ivy League college. Mac was blond, not large, but was well built, energetic, and talkative, with a broad New England accent. He was a conscientious officer, but he irritated the veterans by talking frequently and at great length about what he was going to do to the Japanese when we went into action again. We sometimes heard such big talk from enlisted replacements who were trying to impress someone (mostly themselves) with how brave they would be under fire, but Mac was about the only officer I ever heard indulge in it.
Whenever he got started with, “The first time one of our guys gets hit, its gonna make me so mad that I'm gonna take my kabar between my teeth and my .45 in my hand and charge the Japs,” all the veterans would sit back and smirk. We threw knowing glances at each other and rolled our eyes like disgusted schoolboys listening to a coach brag that he could lick the opposing team single-handed.
I felt embarrassed for Mac, because it was so obvious he conceived combat as a mixture of football and a boy scout campout. He wouldn't listen to the few words of caution from some of us who suggested he had a shock coming. I agreed with a buddy from Texas who said, “I hope to God that big-mouth Yankee lieutenant has to eat every one of them words of his when the stuff hits the fan.” The Texan's wish came true on Okinawa, and it was one of the funniest things I ever saw under fire.
Before the next campaign, we had to take the usual inoculations plus some additional ones. Our arms were sore, and many men became feverish. The troops hated getting injections, and the large number (someone said it was seven) before Okinawa made us crotchety. The plague shot burned like fire and was the worst.
Most of our corpsmen did a good job of making the shots as painless as possible, and this helped. But we had one arrogant corpsman who was unfeeling about other people's pain.He wasn't popular, to say the least. (I hasten to add that he was the one—and only—U.S. Navy hospital corpsman I knew in the Marine Corps who didn't conduct himself in an exemplary manner. All other corpsmen I saw were probably more highly respected by Marines—as a group, and as individuals— than any other group of people we were involved with.)
Directly in front of me as we lined up for shots was a buddy who was a Peleliu veteran. In front of him were several new replacements. The more new men “Doc Arrogant” stuck with the needle, the worse he became. He was just plain mean by the time he got to my buddy. “Doc Arrogant” was in a hurry and didn't look up to recognize my buddy as the latter stepped up to the table. It nearly cost Doc dearly. He held the needle like a dart, plunged it into my friend's arm, depressed the plunger, and said, “Move out!”
My friend didn't flinch from the painful shot. He turned slowly, shook his fist in the corpsman's face, and said, “You sonofabitch, if you want to do some bayonet practice, I'll meet you out on the bayonet course with fixed bayonets and no scabbards on the blades, and then see what you can do.”
“Doc Arrogant” looked shocked. He was speechless when he realized that the arm he had punctured so roughly wasn't attached to a meek replacement but to a seasoned veteran.
Then my friend said, “If you ever give me another shot like that, I'll grab you by the stacking swivel and beat you down to parade rest. I'll whip your ass so bad you won't even be able to make this next blitz, because they'll hafta award you a Purple Heart when I finish with you, wise guy.”
“Doc Arrogant” changed instantly into “Doc Meek.” When I stepped up for my shot, he administered it with a gentleness that would have done credit to Florence Nightingale.
We started packing up our gear. Soon we got word that we would have more maneuvers on Guadalcanal, then shove off for our next fight—Okinawa.
* This is a naval slang word referring either to water coolers aboard ship or to rumors. Perhaps the double meaning derived from a habit of sailors and Marines of swapping rumors when gathered around a water cooler for a drink.
* A nonprescription, all-purpose painkiller containing aspirin and caffeine, among other ingredients.
†Landing craft, infantry: a sort of miniature LST that carried about a company of infantry plus a few vehicles.