With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [28]
“You're a Southerner, aren't you?” he asked. I told him I was from Alabama. He wanted to know all about my family, home, and education. As we talked the gloom seemed to disappear, and I felt warm inside. Finally he told me it wouldn't rain forever, and we could get dry soon. He moved along the column talking to other men as he had to me. His sincere interest in each of us as a human being helped to dispel the feeling that we were just animals training to fight.
Acclaimed by superiors and subordinates alike for his leadership abilities, Captain Haldane was the finest and most popular officer I ever knew. All of the Marines in Company K shared my feelings. Called the “skipper,” he had a strong face full of character, a large, prominent jaw, and the kindest eyes I ever saw. No matter how often he shaved or how hard he tried, he always had a five o'clock shadow. He was so large that the combat pack on his back reminded me of the bulge of his wallet, while mine covered me from neck to waist.
Although he insisted on strict discipline, the captain was a quiet man who gave orders without shouting. He had a rare combination of intelligence, courage, self-confidence, and compassion that commanded our respect and admiration. We were thankful that Ack Ack was our skipper, felt more secure in it, and felt sorry for other companies not so fortunate. While some officers on Pavuvu thought it necessary to strut or order us around to impress us with their status, Haldane quietly told us what to do. We loved him for it and did the best job we knew how.
Our level of training rose in August and so did the intensity of “chicken” discipline. We suffered through an increasing number of weapons and equipment inspections, work parties, and petty cleanup details around the camp. The step-up in harassment, coupled with the constant discomforts and harsh living conditions of Pavuvu, drove us all into a state of intense exasperation and disgust with our existence before we embarked for Peleliu.
“I used to think the lieutenant was a pretty good joe, but damned if I ain't about decided he ain't nothin’ but a hoss's ass,” grumbled one Marine.
“You said that right, ole buddy,” came back another.
“Hell, he ain't the only one that's gone crazy over insisting that everything be just so, and then bawlin’ us out if it ain't. The gunny's mean as hell, and nothin’ suits him anymore,” responded yet another man.
“Don't let it get you down, boys. It's just part of the USMC plan for keeping the troops in fighting shape,” calmly remarked a philosophical old salt of prewar service.
“What the hell you talking about?” snapped an irritated listener.
“Well, it's this way,” answered the philosopher. “If they get us mad enough, they figure we'll take it out on the Nips when we hit this beach coming up. I saw it happen before Guadalcanal and Gloucester. They don't pull this kind of stuff on rear-echelon boys. They want us to be mean, mad, and malicious. That's straight dope, I'm telling you. I've seen it happen every time before we go on a campaign.”
“Sounds logical. You may be right. But what's malicious?” someone said.
“Forget it, you nitwit,” the philosopher growled.
“Right or not, I'm sure tired of Pavuvu,” I said.
“That's the plan, Sledgehammer. Get you fed up with Pavuvu, or wherever the hell you happen to be, and you'll be hot to go anywhere else even if the Nips are there waiting for you,” the philosopher said.
We fell silent, thinking about that and finally concluded he was right. Many of the more thoughtful men I knew shared his view.
I griped as loudly as anyone about our living conditions and discipline. In retrospect, however, I doubt seriously whether I could have coped with the psychological and physical shock and stress encountered on Peleliu and Okinawa had it been otherwise. The Japanese fought to win. It was a savage, brutal, inhumane, exhausting, and dirty business. Our commanders knew that if we were to win and survive, we must be trained realistically for it whether we liked it or not.*
* The U.S. Marine Corps still uses Ka-Bar's fine