With the Old Breed: At Peleliu and Okinawa

by Eugene B. Sledge

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

I heard a buddy ask, “What’s that crazy old gray-headed guy doing up here if he could be back at regiment?” Our NCO growled, “Shut up! Knock it off, you eightball! He’s trying to help knuckleheads like you, and he’s a damned good man.”*

As conversation trailed off, we sipped our joe in silence. Suddenly, I heard a loud voice say clearly and distinctly, “You will survive the war!” I looked first at Hillbilly and then at the sergeant. Each returned my glance with a quizzical expression on his face in the gathering darkness. Obviously they hadn’t said anything. “Did y’all hear that?” I asked. “Hear what?” they both inquired. “Someone said something,” I said. “I didn’t hear anything. How about you?” said Hillbilly, turning to the sergeant. “No, just that machine gun off to the left.”

In combat, cleanliness for the infantryman was all but impossible. Our filth added to our general misery. Fear and filth went hand in hand.

Our corpsman then gave him an injection of morphine in the hope of sedating him. It had no effect. More morphine; it had no effect either. Veterans though they were, the men were all getting jittery over the noise they believed would announce our exact location to any enemy in the vicinity. “Hit him with the flat of that entrenching shovel!” a voice commanded in the CP. A horrid thud announced that the command was obeyed. The poor man finally became silent.

Despite considerable pain, Doc kept at his work. In a quiet, calm voice he told me to get a battle dressing out of his pouch and press it firmly against his face to stop the bleeding while he finished work on the wounded arm. Such was the selfless dedication of the navy hospital corpsmen who served in Marine infantry units. It was little wonder that we held them in such high esteem.

Reflecting on the episode after the war, I realized that Doc Caswell didn’t really have germs in mind. He was a good friend and a fine, genuine person whose sensitivity hadn’t been crushed out by the war. He was merely trying to help me retain some of mine and not become completely callous and harsh.

We merely existed from hour to hour, from day to day. Numbed by fear and fatigue, our minds thought only of personal survival. The only glimmer of hope was a million-dollar wound or for the battle to end soon. As it dragged on and on and casualties mounted, a sense of despair pervaded us. It seemed that the only escape was to be killed or wounded. The will for self-preservation weakened. Many men I knew became intensely fatalistic. Somehow, though, one never could quite visualize his own death.

The apparent calmness of our wounded under fire stemmed in part from the confidence we shared in each other. None of us could bear the thought of leaving wounded behind. We never did, because the Japanese certainly would have tortured them to death.

As I looked at the stains on the coral, I recalled some of the eloquent phrases of politicians and newsmen about how “gallant” it is for a man to “shed his blood for his country,” and “to give his life’s blood as a sacrifice,” and so on. The words seemed so ridiculous. Only the flies benefited.

compassion for the sufferings of others is a burden to those who have it.

those who feel most for others suffer most in war.

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.

“Marines welcomed in this chow line after all CB personnel have been through.” We were as embarrassed as we were delighted. Those Seabees had been fully aware of us all along and knew exactly how many Marines were slipping into their chow line. But

they were willing and glad to share their extra chow with us as long as it lasted. The sign was necessary, because the Seabees knew we would spread the word and more hungry Marines would swarm over their chow line each day like ants. We were elated and went through the chow line grinning and thanking the messmen. They were the friendliest bunch I ever saw and made us feel like adopted orphans. The sign may have been made earlier for 3d Division Marines who liked the Seabees’ food as much as we, or it may have been put up for our benefit. In any event we appreciated the good food and good treatment. It strengthened our respect for the Seabees.

Suddenly someone gasped, “Look over there at that hospital ship off our port bow! Look at them nurses! Gimme them field glasses!” Lining the rail of the hospital ship were about a dozen American nurses looking out over the fleet. A scuffle erupted among us over who would use the field glasses first, but we all finally had a look at the girls. We whistled and waved, but we were too far away to be heard.

They were forlorn figures coming up to the meat grinder and going right back out of it like homeless waifs, unknown and faceless to us, like unread books on a shelf.

So I sat in my foxhole and watched the water babies splashing around the green-dungaree-clad corpse.

Each shovelful had to be knocked off the spade, because it stuck like glue.

I gazed down in horror and disbelief as the metal scraped a clean track through the mud along the dirty whitish bone and cartilage with ribs attached. The shovel skidded into the rotting abdomen with a squishing sound. The odor nearly overwhelmed me as I rocked back on my heels.

The Marine had been shot by a sniper, and the corpsman had come to administer medical aid. While he was working over the wounded Marine, a Japanese shot him in the thigh. Although wounded painfully, he continued to work on his patient. Then the sniper had shot Doc in the other thigh.

Twice wounded though he was, he kept insisting we stop and rest for a while. But we four felt obligated to get him to the jeep and evacuated as soon as possible. Finally, we agreed to stop for a breather. Setting the stretcher down, we fell out flat on the grass, panting for breath. Doc talked to us calmly, admonishing us to take it easy and not to overexert ourselves. I felt ashamed. That unselfish, dedicated corpsman was more concerned because we were so tired from carrying him out than he was with his own wounds.

We had a smoke, divided up the juicy little tomatoes, cussed Doc Arrogant, and voiced our admiration for all other corpsmen.

“Disperse!” someone yelled. We scattered like a covey of quail. About ten of us jumped into a shallow ditch.

Until the millenium arrives and countries cease trying to enslave others, it will be necessary to accept one’s responsibilities and to be willing to make sacrifices for one’s country—as my comrades did. As the troops used to say, “If the country is good enough to live in, it’s good enough to fight for.” With privilege goes responsibility.