With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [126]
Shadow's disposition was worse than his appearance. Moody, ill-tempered, and highly excitable, he cursed the veteran enlisted men worse than most DIs did recruits in boot camp. When he was displeased with a Marine about something, he didn't reprimand the man the way our other officers did. He threw a tantrum. He would grab his cap by the bill, fling it onto the muddy deck, stamp his feet, and curse everyone in sight. The veteran sergeant who accompanied Shadow would stand silently by during these temper displays, torn between a compulsion to reprimand us, if it seemed his duty to do so, and embarrassment and disapproval over his officer's childish behavior.
In all fairness, I don't know how competent an officer Shadow was considered to be by his superiors. Needless to say, he wasn't highly regarded in the ranks, simply on the basis of his lack of self-control. But he was brave. I'll give him that.
Shadow “pitched a fit” in reaction to what Redifer had done in facilitating our ammo transportation across the draw. It was just the first of many such performances I was to witness, and they never ceased to amaze as well as disgust me.
He went to Redifer and unleashed such a verbal assault against him that anyone who didn't know better would have assumed that Redifer was a coward who had deserted his post in the face of the enemy instead of having just performed a brave act. Shadow yelled, gesticulated, and cursed Redifer for “exposing himself unnecessarily to enemy fire” when he was throwing the smoke grenades into the draw and when he went to contact the tank.
Redifer took it quietly, but he was obviously dismayed. We looked on in disbelief, having expected Shadow to praise the man for showing bravery and initiative under fire. But here was this ranting, raving officer actually cursing and berating a man for doing something any other officer would have considered a meritorious act. It was so incredibly illogical that we couldn't believe it.
Finally, having vented his rage on a Marine who rightfully deserved praise, Shadow strode off grumbling and cursing the individual and collective stupidity of enlisted men. Redifer didn't say anything. He just looked off into the distance. We growled mightily, though.
As midday approached on 9 May, everyone was tense about the coming attack. Ammunition had been issued, men had squared away their gear and had done their last-minute duties: adjusting cartridge belts, pack straps, leggings, and leather rifle slings—all those forlorn little gestures of no value that released tension in the face of impending terror. We had previously registered our mortars on selected targets and had stacked HE and phosphorous shells off the mud on pieces of boxes for quick access.
The ground having dried sufficiently for our tanks to maneuver, several stood by with engines idling, hatches open, and the tankers waiting—waiting like everyone else. War is mostly waiting. The men around me sat silently with drawn faces. Some replacements had come into the company to make up for our earlier losses. These new men looked more confused than afraid.
The big guns had fired periodically during the morning, but then had died away. There wasn't much noise as we waited for the preattack bombardment to begin.
Then the preassault bombardment commenced. The big shells swished overhead as each battery of our artillery and each ship's guns began to shell the Japanese Awacha defenses ahead of us. At first we could identify each type of shell— 75mm, 105mm, and 155mm artillery, along with the 5-inch ship's guns—as it added to the storm of steel.
We saw our planes overhead, Corsairs and dive bombers.