With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [33]
“Well,” said one man, “that scuttlebutt we heard during maneuvers on Guadalcanal about how this blitz gonna be rough but fast must be true if the division CG says so.”
“San Antone,” muttered a Texan. “Imagine, only four, maybe three days for a battle star. Hell, I can put up with anything for no longer than that.”
He reflected the feelings of most of us, and we were encouraged by the commanding general's announcement confirming the oft-repeated “rough but fast” rumors we had been hearing.* We kept trying to convince ourselves that the CG knew what he was talking about. We all dreaded a long, protracted campaign that would drag on beyond endurance like Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester. Our morale was excellent, and we were trained for anything no matter how rough. But we prayed that we could get it over with in a hurry.
We sat on our sacks, cleaned our weapons, packed our combat packs, and squared away our gear. Throughout history, combat troops of various armies have carried packs weighing many pounds into action; but we traveled light, carrying only absolute necessities—the way fast-moving Confederate infantry did during the Civil War.
My combat pack contained a folded poncho, one pair of socks, a couple of boxes of K rations, salt tablets, extra carbine ammo (twenty rounds), two hand grenades, a fountain pen, a small bottle of ink, writing paper in a waterproof wrapper, a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, some photos of my folks along with some letters (in a waterproof wrapper), and a dungaree cap.
My other equipment and clothing were a steel helmet covered with camouflaged-cloth covering, heavy green dungaree jacket with a Marine emblem and USMC dyed above it on the left breast pocket, trousers of the same material, an old toothbrush for cleaning my carbine, thin cotton socks, ankle-high boondockers, and light tan canvas leggings (into which I tucked my trouser legs). Because of the heat, I wore no Skivvy drawers or shirt. Like many men, I fastened a bronze Marine emblem to one collar for good luck.
Attached to my web pistol belt, I carried a pouch containing a combat dressing, two canteens, a pouch with two fifteen-round carbine magazines—clips, we called them, and a fine brass compass in a waterproof case. My kabar hung in its leather sheath on my right side. Hooked over the belt by its spoon (handle), I carried a grenade. I also had a heavy-bladed knife similar to a meat cleaver that my dad had sent me; I used this to chop through the wire braces wrapped around the stout crates of 60mm mortar shells.
On the stock of my carbine I fastened an ammo pouch with two extra clips. I carried no bayonet, because the model carbine I had lacked a bayonet lug. Onto the outside of my pack, I hooked my entrenching tool in its canvas cover. (The tool proved useless on Peleliu, because of the hard coral.)
All officers and men dressed much the same. The main differences among us were in the type of web belt worn and the individual weapon carried.
We tried to appear unconcerned and talked about anything but the war. Some wrote last latters.
“What are you going to do after the war, Sledgehammer?” asked a buddy sitting across from me. He was an extremely intelligent and intellectually active young man.
“I don't know, Oswalt. What are you planning to do?”
“I want to be a brain surgeon. The human brain is an incredible thing; it fascinates me,” he replied.
But he didn't survive Peleliu to realize his ambition.
Slowly the conversations trailed off, and the men hit the sack. It was hard to sleep that night. I thought of home, my parents, my friends—and whether I would do my duty, be wounded and disabled, or be killed. I concluded that it was impossible for me to be killed, because God loved me. Then I told myself that God loved us all and that many would die or be ruined physically or mentally or both by the next morning and in the days following. My heart pounded, and I broke out in a cold sweat. Finally, I called myself a damned coward and eventually