With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [171]
In a few days we assembled in an open field and fell out to await further orders. The weather was hot, so we all took off our packs, sat on our helmets, drank some water, and had a smoke. We were to be there for several hours, an NCO said, so we got the order to chow down.
A friend and I went over to a little wooded area near the field to eat our K rations in the shade. We walked into a completely untouched scene that resembled a natural park in a botanical garden: low graceful pines cast dense shade, and ferns and moss grew on the rocks and banks. It was cool, and the odor of fresh pine filled the air. Miraculously, it bore not a single sign of war.
“Boy, this is beautiful, isn't it, Sledgehammer?”
“It looks unreal,” I said as I took off my pack and sat down on the soft green moss beside a clump of graceful ferns. We each started heating a canteen cup of water for our instant coffee. I took out the prized can of cured ham I had obtained by trade from a man in the company CP. (He had stolen it from an officer.) We settled back in the cool silence. The war, military discipline, and other unpleasant realities seemed a million miles away. For the first time in months, we began to relax.
“OK, you guys. Move out. Move! Move! Outa here,” an NCO said with authority ringing out in every word.
“Is the company moving out already?” my friend asked in surprise.
“No, it isn't, but you guys are.”
“Why?”
“Because this is off-limits to enlisted men,” the NCO said, turning and pointing to a group of officers munching their rations as they strolled into our newfound sanctuary.
“But we aren't in the way,” I said.
“Move out and follow orders.”
To his credit, the NCO appeared in sympathy with us and seemed to feel the burden of his distasteful task. We sullenly picked up our half-cooked rations and our gear, went back out into the hot sun, and flopped down in the dusty field.
“Some crap, eh?”
“Yeah,” I said, “we weren't even near those officers. The fighting on this goddamn island is over. The officers have started getting chicken again and throwing the crap around. Yesterday while the shootin’ was still goin’ on, it was all buddy-buddy with the enlisted men.”
Our grumblings were interrupted by the sound of a rifle shot. A Marine I knew very well reeled backward and fell to the ground. His buddy dropped his rifle and rushed to him, followed by several others. The boy was dead, shot in the head by his buddy. The other man had thought his rifle was unloaded when his young friend had stood over him and placed his thumb playfully over the muzzle.
“Pull the trigger. I bet it's not loaded.”
He pulled the trigger. The loaded rifle fired and set a bullet tearing up through the head of his best friend. Both had violated the cardinal rule:
“Don't point a weapon at anything you don't intend to shoot.”
Shock and dismay showed on the man's face from that moment until he left the company a few weeks later. He went, we heard, to stand a general court-martial and a probable prison term. But his worst punishment was living with the horror of having killed his best friend by playing with a loaded weapon.
While the company was still sitting in the field, five or six men and I were told to get our gear and follow an NCO to waiting trucks. We were to go north to a site where our division would make a tent camp after the mop-up in the south was completed. Our job was to unload and guard some company gear.
We were apprehensive about leaving the company, but it turned out to be good duty. During the long and dusty truck ride to the Motobu Peninsula, we rode past some areas we had fought through. By then we could barely recognize them—they were transformed with roads, tent camps, and supply dumps. The number of service troops and the amount of equipment