Helmet for My Pillow: From Parris Island to the Pacific

by Robert Leckie

Suddenly he broke it off and said, “What did you say you were?” “A scout,” I said, proudly. “I used to be a machine-gunner.” “But that’s no place for a man of your caliber.” Now I was shocked! The old shibboleth, intelligence! Had not our government been culpable enough in pampering the high IQ draftees as though they were too intelligent to fight for their country? Could not Doctor Gentle see that I was proud to be a scout, and before that a machine-gunner? Intelligence, intelligence, intelligence. Keep it up, America, keep telling your youth that mud and danger are fit only for intellectual pigs. Keep on saying that only the stupid are fit to sacrifice, that America must be defended by the low-brow and enjoyed by the high-brow. Keep vaunting head over heart, and soon the head will arrive at the complete folly of any kind of fight and meekly surrender the treasure to the first bandit with enough heart to demand it. But Doctor Gentle seemed not to perceive the pride behind my words, and so I stammered and made some weak joke about it and hoped he would change the subject. “Oh, by the way,” he said. “I have that gun of yours. How would you like to sell it to me? I’d like to send it home as a souvenir.” “Sorry, sir, but I can’t. It’s not mine.” “Too bad,” he said, rising, “but if you should change your mind, let me know. The folks back in Atlanta’d get a kick out of it.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “There isn’t very much to be done about that enuresis of yours. A corpsman ...