With the Old Breed: The World War Two Pacific Classic

by Eugene B. Sledge

None came out unscathed. Many gave their lives, many their health, and some their sanity. All who survived will long remember the horror they would rather forget.

The commander of all U.S. ground forces on Okinawa, Gen. Simon Bolivar Buckner, Jr., became the highest-ranking soldier to die in combat in World War II.

Your soul may belong to Jesus, but your ass belongs to the Marines.

“Boy, if you don’t get in step and stay in step, I’m gonna kick you so hard in the behind that they’re gonna have to take both of us to sick bay. It’ll take a major operation to get my foot outa your ass.”

It was hard to sleep that night. I thought of home, my parents, my friends—and whether I would do my duty, be wounded and disabled, or be killed. I concluded that it was impossible for me to be killed, because God loved me. Then I told myself that God loved us all and that many would die or be ruined physically or mentally or both by the next morning and in the days following. My heart pounded, and I broke out in a cold sweat. Finally, I called myself a damned coward and eventually fell asleep saying the Lord’s Prayer to myself.

To me, artillery was an invention of hell. The onrushing whistle and scream of the big steel package of destruction was the pinnacle of violent fury and the embodiment of pent-up evil. It was the essence of violence and of man’s inhumanity to man.

Courage meant overcoming fear and doing one’s duty in the presence of danger, not being unafraid.

The job of flamethrower gunner was probably the least desirable of any open to a Marine infantryman. Carrying tanks with about seventy pounds of flammable jellied gasoline through enemy fire over rugged terrain in hot weather to squirt flames into the mouth of a cave or pillbox was an assignment that few survived but all carried out with magnificent courage.

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.

Mud in camp on Pavuvu was a nuisance. Mud on maneuvers was an inconvenience. But mud on the battlefield was misery beyond description.

He ran into the open, turned, and headed for shelter behind the tip of the southern end of the crescent arm on our left front. It looked as though he had about a thirty-yard dash to make. Several of our riflemen and BARmen opened up, and the soldier was bowled over by their bullets before he reached the shelter of the ridge. Our men cheered and yelled when he went down.