Hell in the Pacific: A Marine Rifleman's Journey From Guadalcanal to Peleliu Read Free Page B

a big guy. Only about five-ten and 165 pounds. But there was something athletic about the way he moved, and he was always on the alert. When he walked, he had a habit of glancing over his shoulder to see what was behind him. There was no way in hell you were going to sneak up on him.
    I’d admired him ever since I first met him back at New River in North Carolina. Even after he chewed me out good—and rightfully so—for coming back early from a patrol, I still admired him. And I’m not exaggerating when I say I would’ve followed him anywhere.
    So when he told me just to sit tight, I took him at his word.
    I GUESS WE SHOULD’VE been thankful the Japs stayed out of our way for a while. If they’d attacked in force that first night, we’d have been in a real pickle with that one precious unit of fire.
    K/3/5 and the rest of the Third Battalion, Fifth Marines werestrung out along the beach with our backs to Sealark Channel. Our lines ran east to west for about 1,000 yards, then south through a coconut grove and some rugged woods for another 100 yards or so. Then they followed an open ridge that went on farther east. The division headquarters was about 800 yards west of the west end of our line and about 500 yards inland from the sea.
    To our right, on the east side of the airfield, we had the First Marines dug in along the Lunga River. There was no way we could fill the long gap between our lines and the perimeters where the First had their three battalions drawn up in circle-the-wagons style, like in the Old West.
    I’d estimate it was four or five miles from where our lines ended to where the First’s perimeters were set up, and we didn’t have nearly enough troops to cover that much distance. When our ships took off that first day to get away from the Jap planes, it didn’t help that they took a bunch of Marines with them who were badly needed ashore. We didn’t have enough troops to man our defenses adequately, much less pitch in and try to unload and distribute supplies.
    From where I sat, that left us uncomfortably close to being up shit creek without a paddle.
    I SHARED A FOXHOLE that night with PFC Bill Landrum, an assistant squad leader from Tallahassee, Florida. He was a good Marine who’d been in the Corps a little longer than I had. But even under normal circumstances, he was a quiet guy who never seemed to have much to say. That night, he was quieter than usual.
    I was, too. I guess both of us were thinking about people and things that were far, far away. I told him I’d take the first watch andfor him to try to get some sleep. Pretty soon, he was snoring, and I was alone, staring into the darkness in front of me.
    The longer I stared, the more I started seeing things. Phantom things that weren’t really there. And I could tell that other guys up and down the line were doing the same thing.
    Now and then, I’d hear some trigger-happy Marine fire a round or two from his ’03 at something he thought he saw moving in the brush, and when one guy opened up, others around him tended to follow suit. This wasn’t very wise use of our limited ammo supply, but the jitters that caused it were understandable. Several times, I barely kept myself from joining in, but I managed to hold my fire.
    My mind was pretty much blank for a while. Then I started thinking about my mother and sister back home in Brooklyn. I could never forget how tough a life my mom had led when I was a kid. In a way, it had been as tough as the lives of any of the Marines around me.
    Ever since I’d joined the Corps, I’d been sending almost half of my monthly paycheck home to Mom. It had cramped me a little to do it, especially when I was still stateside and getting weekend liberties. But since shipping out for the Pacific in May of ’42, I hadn’t had much need for money—not nearly as much as Mom and my sister, Lillian. (Actually, my mother’s name was Lillian, too, but to me she was always just Mom.)
    For as long as I can