With the Old Breed_ At Peleliu and Okinawa - E. B. Sledge [58]
George Sarrett, a Gloucester veteran, was in the gun pit with me, and we tried to cheer each other up. In low tones he talked of his boyhood in Texas and about Gloucester.
Word came that Haney was crawling along checking positions.
“What's the password?” whispered Haney as he crawled up to us. George and I both whispered the password. “Good,” said Haney. “You guys be on the alert, you hear?”
“OK, Haney,” we said. He crawled over to the CP where I assumed he settled down.
“I guess he'll be still for a while now,” I said.
“Hope the hell you're right,” answered George.
Well, I wasn't, because in less than an hour Haney made the rounds again.
“What's the password?” he whispered as he poked his head up to the edge of our hole.
We told him. “Good,” he said. “You guys check your weapons. Got a round in the chamber?” he asked each of us.
We answered yes. “OK, stand by with that mortar. If the Nips come through this swamp at high port with fixed bayonets, you'll need to fire HE and flares as fast as you can.” He crawled off.
“Wish that Asiatic old boy would settle down. He makes me nervous. He acts like we are a bunch of green boots,” my companion growled. George was a cool-headed, self-possessed veteran, and he spoke my sentiments. Haney was making me jittery, too.
Weary hours dragged on. We strained our eyes and ears in the dripping blackness for indications of enemy movement. We heard the usual jungle sounds caused by animals. A splash, as something fell into the water, made my heart pound and caused every muscle to tighten. Haney's inspection tours got worse. He obviously was getting more nervous with each hour.
“I wish to hell Hillbilly would grab him by the stackin’ swivel and anchor him in the CP,” George mumbled.
The luminous dial of my wristwatch showed the time was after midnight. In the CP a low voice sounded, “Oh, ah, oh” and trailed off, only to repeat the sound louder.
“What's that?” I asked George anxiously.
“Sounds like some guy havin’ a nightmare,” he replied nervously. “They sure as hell better shut him up before every Nip in this damned swamp knows our position.” We heard someone moving and thrashing around in the CP.
“Knock it off,” several men whispered near us.
“Quiet that man down!” Hillbilly ordered in a stern low voice.
“Help! help! Oh God, help me!” shouted the wild voice. The poor Marine had cracked up completely. The stress of combat had finally shattered his mind. They were trying to calm him down, but he kept thrashing around. In a firm voice filled with compassion, Hillbilly was trying to reassure the man that he was going to be all right. The effort failed. Our comrade's tragically tortured mind had slipped over the brink. He screamed more loudly. Someone pinioned the man's arms to his sides, and he screamed to the Doberman pinscher, “Help me, dog; the Japs have got me! The Japs have got me and they're gonna throw me in the ocean.” I heard the sickening crunch of a fist against a jaw as someone tried to knock the man unconscious. It didn't faze him. He fought like a wildcat, yelling and screaming at the top of his voice.
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.
“Christ a'mighty, what a pity,” said a Marine in a neighboring foxhole.
“You said that right, but if the goddamn Nips don't know we're here, after all that yellin’, they'll never know,” his buddy said.
A tense silence settled over the patrol. The horror of the whole affair stimulated Haney to check our positions frequently. He acted like some hyperactive demon and cautioned us endlessly to be on the alert.
When welcome dawn finally