Some of the crosses bore mess gear tins, affixed to the wood like rude medallions, and on those the marines had lovingly carved their epitaphs. “He died fighting.” “A red Marine.” “A big guy with a bigger heart.” “Our Buddy.” “The harder the going, the more cheerful he was.” There was this verse, which I have seen countless times, before and since, the direct and unpolished cry of a marine’s sardonic heart: And when he gets to Heaven To St. Peter he will tell: One more Marine reporting, sir — I’ve served my time in Hell.
