Marine Vignettes #77
I DIDN'T RAISE MY BOY TO BE A SOLDIER:
Excerpts from Grandpa’s Memoirs
By Bill Monks
August 1, 1999
(#77)
Each Morning on the way to James Madison, H.S., Brooklyn N.Y., Pep and
I would pass the Draft Board on Madison Pl. & Quentin Rd. We would see
either a friend or a relative hanging out in front, waiting to be
processed. It was like a giant drain sucking all the young men out of
the neighborhood. When we graduated in Jan of 44, we were still
seventeen, and too young for the draft. We worked in A & S Dept. store
for about 3 months as stock boys. When I got my draft notice, we both
quit without giving notice. We knew nothing about notice. We got one
heck of a lecture by a somber old gentleman, wearing a black suit, in
the personnel office. He spoke to us about the ethics of the business
world and our responsibility to our employer. That the proper thing to
be done would be to provide the firm with the normal two weeks notice.
What we were doing was not just done. It certainly made a lot of sense.
We hung our heads while we listened and felt very guilty, then we
quit. Pep got his "Greetings" (draft notice) shortly thereafter. We
had our 18th birthdays two weeks apart. Two months later the Government
gave us the choice of service, Pep chose the Navy and I went to Parris
Island.
Parris Island, S.C. was Boot Camp for all Marines east of the
Mississippi. I was to find out about forty years later that I had spent
the hottest summer in the history of South Carolina learning how to
obey an order, and stay in back of the guy in front of me.
Crossing over the bridge to Parris Island (P.I.) was a one-way trip.
When we arrived we were greeted by a very large muscular gentleman
called Corp. Stone; he was to be our Drill Instructor (D.I.). He
had us form into four ranks of 15. We were a group of 60, made up of a
majority of 18 yr. olds; the rest of us were from 25 to 32. The Gov.
was scraping the barrel, as far as ages available for the draft. I
could tell immediately D.I. Stone was not impressed with the clay that
he was to mold into Marines. He stood there glaring at us with a face
that would make a lemon blanch. He did not snuggle up to us, he hated
us. He vilified us, using all sorts of profanity, displaying a very
limited vocabulary. He randomly picks an individual from the ranks and
destroys him with demeaning comments about his mother, father and the
girl back home. This guy was really sick. He seemed to be barely
containing an urge to do us bodily harm. His harangue boiled down to,
that despite this pile of garbage that was unloaded on him, he was
going to turn it into a platoon of Marines. He told us to forget about
Mom, he was going to be our Mother and we were to be in his care from
June 2 till Aug 15th. I later realized that he had either lied to us,
or he had one hell of a tough Mother. I also noticed the poor man had a
hearing problem. He would stand with his nose almost touching mine and
inform me that he couldn't hear me, forcing me to shout into his face.
I had no problem hearing him. His memory was shot too, couldn't
remember names, called everybody "Boy"! It was my first encounter with
a real live son of a bitch.
From my first moment on P.I. I was totally immersed in a training
program that used my every breath for the good of the Corps. What ever
they were doing to us, they had it down to a science. The main idea in
the training was to destroy all self esteem, kill the individual. All
the Corps wanted was raw meat. Life was to be found only in the group.
We were to exist only as a cell in the body. A lobotomy was thrown in
with the hair cut, all free will was removed. A mental gang rape in
reverse, was part of the training program. The group would think as
one, and of only one thing, OBEY, QUESTION. The only saving grace
was that we were in it together. We bonded like a herd of musk oxen.
The experience was so irrational. It was like punishing a man before he
committed the crime. It was the stick without the carrot. It was hard
for us to fathom why they were so cruel.
Each morning after they would pair the Boots (us) off in order to box
each other. The match would not be over until there was a display of
blood. The D.I. would always attempt to match two buddies. Those
matches were unholy. I thought the system definitely called for some
constructive criticism, but on second thought I realized I might be
putting the Drill Instructor's foot in my mouth. I felt sorry for the
old guys, men between the ages of 25 & 32, that was a tough age to be
made over. My age at least left me more pliable, not yet set in the
ways of human behavior. The Drill Instructor assumed no responsibility
for the end product, he really didn't give a damn how you could ever
fit back into civilian life. His job was to get you back home in one
piece. All I knew, was that each day I was losing something, part of
me was dying each day. It was as if I was bleeding "me.”
I wondered how anybody could live in South Carolina while enduring
that horrible heat. Everyday in the sun it was well over a hundred
degrees, I kid you not. I did not realize until years later, when by a
strange quirk of faith, I saw South Carolina's weather statistics. I
cracked up when I saw that June, July and August of l944 was the
hottest summer S.C. ever had. I remember how I would watch the uniform
of Bill Farrell, the guy in front of me, turn from a light green to
black as we marched, and the beads of sweat drop off his ears.. We
popped salt tablets like peanuts. The D.I. had a thing about keeping
in step and rank while we threw our rifles from one shoulder to the
other. We would practice this close order drill for hours, on a field
of deep loose sand. God it was hot. He would march beside us constantly
repeating "Reep, Reep, Reep". I could never figure out what he was
trying to tell us. Joel Kershoff was the first man to collapse, down
he went into white hot sand. . He was a big fat soft guy from Brooklyn.
I don't think Joel ever exercised in his life. As we marched over
him, naturally we went out of step to avoid stepping on him. After we
passed over him, the D.I. gave the order to the rear march. Back we
went, every man in step. As we approached our fallen comrade, lying
where he fell, we were told that there was a possibility of stepping on
him, or over him depending where your foot fell, but you kept in STEP
and in RANK. The D.I.,said, "The man who missed a step or broke rank to
avoid the prostate form, will take his place, and we will walk over
you.”. The D.I. always had a thing about keeping in step, I guess it
looked pretty. As we marched over him , we managed not to step on him.
He joined us back in the barracks, the sand had clung to the sweat on
his face. He looked as if had been stepped on.
Joel was definitely a D.I.'s nightmare. Joel was an overweight, misfit,
a real blob. Even though he was in sad shape and made a lousy
appearance, Joel had guts. Life on Parris Island was a chore for all of
us, but for Joel the physical training was hell. His special cross was
made of fat. Most of Joel made it through P.I., but he did leave about
forty pounds down there. No doubt his mind was busted when we
graduated, but he looked great. His family must have been shocked when
he came home on Boot leave and saw the end product of P.I. They
probably never believed his tale of woe, he could hardly believe it.
So many guys were collapsing that an order came down, if the temp.
went over 95 we were not to go on the drill field. The D.I.'s scoffed
and we continued drilling in the sand between the barracks. I'm
talking about 130 in the sun, look it up, July,Aug., l944, Parris
Island. Before dawn we would fall in at attention at the foot of our
sacks. Guys would collapse like trees falling, never bending their
knees, you would hear this sickening slap, as if a board fell. You
would always hesitate falling out for sick call. There was always the
chance they would put you in the hospital and you would lose your
platoon, which meant additional time on the Island.
I remember one night helping a buddy, John Cook, over to the head
(bathroom) to soak huge blisters he had on his feet. While we were
there we made the mistake of asking a Marine, who was stepping out of
the shower, for the time. I called him Joe, for lack of a name, big
mistake, he turned out to be a nude D.I. He made us stand at attention
and said he would be back. My buddy and I spent most of the rest of the
night standing at attention. We finally worked up enough courage to
take off back to our barracks. I never did get the gentleman's name.
Constant fatigue was always a problem, not near enough sleep time. I
remember standing exhausted in front of our D.I. while I attended one
of his many lectures. God I was tired. He was built like Arnold
Swartzeneger, with the head of a gorilla. I was deathly afraid of
him. I guess you would describe him as a poor mixer and antisocial. He
must have came from a broken family. While he talked I was having
serious trouble keeping my upper lid from touching my bottom lid. The
behemoth's gaze froze on me and I knew there was something horrible
about to happen. My eye lids were lead. He was kind enough to notice
my unintentional faux pas, as I went off to sleep on my feet. He had a
remedy for my unpardonable behavior--he grabbed me by the collar, with
these huge hands and shook my eyeballs. I was suddenly wide awake, my
eyelids felt like feathers. I was now able to give him my complete
attention. It was obvious that he had a medical background. A Johns
Hopkins man no doubt, had specialized in narcolepsy. It was a lasting
cure; to this day, I sleep with one eye open.
Whenever we screwed up we would have the bucket drill. We really
didn't have to screw up. Our two D.I.s would come back to the barracks
in the middle of the night, after being well bombed and yell "BUCKET
DRILL,” "HIT THE DECK." Upon hearing that dreaded order you would
leave a coma like sleep and leap from your sack, and place yourself at
rigid attention in your skivvies (underwear), at the foot of your
metal, double decker sack. Before taking this position, you would place
your heavy cast-iron wash bucket over your head. Immediately next to
you is the man you share the double decker with. Our heads, in the
buckets, are about six inches from the metal bar along the foot of
your top sack. The D.I.s walking with the silence of cats, would
proceed down the long aisle between the two rows of bucketed
Marines, at attention, at the foot of their sacks. A D.I would slam
each bucket into the metal bar that was at the foot of the top sack.
You would try to anticipate your bell being rung, by trying to spot
the toes of his shoes as he stood in front of you, giving you time to
brace and cringe. Now the bucket drill begins, picture l5 double
deck sacks on each side of the aisle with two bucket heads standing
at the foot of each sack. On the word "GO" the first man crawls on
the floor under the first double decker, he then proceeds to climb
over the top of the second double decker and then under the bottom of
the third, etc. At his heels there are 59 other guys following the
same course. Naturally the buckets remain on our heads during the
whole drill. It always was hilarious, the buckets were filled with
cries of pain and laughter. It wasn't all that bad, it was the only
privacy we ever had.
One Sunday afternoon one of our D.I.'s was attempting to walk on his
hands during a break in the training. To show up the D.I., like a real
smart ass, I walk down the few steps that led out of the barracks on
my hands. He pretends not to notice. That night he showed how much
he appreciated my agility. That night, about 1 o'clock, The night
guard woke me from my coma and informed me that I had just been
ordered to the D.I.'s quarters, which was a separate room at the end
of the barracks. I knocked on the door and reported my presence to
the Drill Instructors. They readily granted me access and then
proceeded to bounce me from one wall to another. It was like a game
of catch, only they were too drunk to catch. They eventually opened
the door and threw me out. They never said a word. They didn't have
to.
A great deal of time at P.I. was spent developing a bond with your
new found friend the M1 rifle. It was a great weapon and a loyal
friend. If you treated your friend right he would never let you down
.A grueling exercise called snapping in was used to train you in all
the varied firing positions, which were never to be used in combat,
outside of the prone position. I pulled every muscle in my body
before I pulled a trigger. I did enjoy firing my weapon. At the
Rifle Range you would not only learn to fire your weapon with
expertise., but you also had to spend time on butt detail.. This
entailed standing in a trench as the firing line placed shots in the
target several feet above your head. After the firing ceased you
lowered the target, which you would slide down on a frame.
Down in the butts the activity is fast moving. Targets must be
disked, marked and pasted up carefully and quickly. You would
immediately place markers in the bullet holes, to indicate the hits.
You would also hold up marker poles to give the score. All this was
not to difficult under normal circumstance, but my friend Corp,
Stone, while sitting on a bench in back of me, amused himself, by
prodding me in the back with a marker pole, as I work the target.
Maybe I should have offered to teach him to walk on his hands. I
think we were still at the Range, it was on a Sunday about the last
week of training, a Boot sneaked off to the PX to buy a 1/2 gallon of
Ice Cream. The D.I. caught him and tied the container on top of his
head, up side down. It was high noon an another blazing hot day. The
platoon was called out, to form up at attention in front of the
barracks. We were forced to watch as the poor soul stood suffering
the melt down. He stood in front of the platoon until the ice cream
had melted all over him and he was covered with sand flies. In the
beginning we thought it was amusing. I wonder, if he ever got home, if
anybody ever asked him what the low point of his life was. It's
strange how whenever Marines meet it's never the campaigns, but P.I.,
that always becomes the center of the conversation. Laughter always
manages to drown out the wild tales of horror. It always turns into a
game of "Can you top this". Everybody believed they had the
toughest D.I.'s. And for some strange reason we were proud of them.
(Stockholm Syndrome). I hold the D.I.s in high esteem. A fine body
of men who did a damn good job. They deserve as much credit for
Marine victories as any front line outfit.
On our last day, my personal nemesis, Corp Stone, gave us a story
about there was nothing personal in his tortuous behavior, that it was
all done to save our lives. I am sure his statement had a ring of
truth to it, but it did make you pause and think, just how much you
valued your life. I see the truth to Machiavelli's crack about power
tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely. There is
always that small element that does not warrant power over other
men. When I look back at P.I., I get this strange feeling of
pleasure. I guess that Frenchman felt the same way, after he had
walked over Niagara Falls on a cable, pushing his wife in a wheel
barrel. If you want to live a hundred years, spend l0 weeks on
Parris Island. There are two things you cannot adequately convey to
another,.. P.I. and pain, thank God.
After combat training in New River, NC we boarded a troop train for
San Diego (A tragic comedy on wheels). We didn't have enough food on
board for the troops. One time the train paused and little black
children gathered at the side of the track. We threw money out the
window and asked them to buy us some chow. I can't remember if we
ever got the food before the train moved on.. We stopped in a
small town in the middle of Texas for l5 minutes of calisthenics,
followed by a ten minute break. We were so hungry, during the break
we stripped the only grocery store in town. We bought everything that
was eatable. In minutes the shelves were bare, and the locust were
gone. Imagine the memory we must have left with that grocer. The
train pulled out and left about twenty Marines running down the
track. When they caught up with us in San Diego they were thrown
into the brig for 5 days on piss & punk (bread & water). Once,
while we were rolling, a bum stepped into our car He must have been
traveling between cars or on the roof, Gad was he filthy. I couldn't
believe he was human. We withdrew from him as if he was a beast. We
fed him and he disappeared out of the car.
I shipped out of San Diego on the Dutch East Indian freighter,
Bloemfontein, on the Marine Corps birthday 10 November l944.The ship
was never equipped to carry troops. Crew made up of little black
guys, from the Island of Java. As we proceeded further and further
south, the heat and overcrowded conditions became unbearable. We
tried to escape the heat below, by sleeping on the hatch covers. In
the moonlight you could watch the rats jump from one body to another.
There were only four things you could do on board to pass the
time, read, play cards, shoot dice, or get on the chow line. After
we were out a couple of weeks, the guy in the next sack, a card
shark, we called Mr. Lucky, asked me to keep an eye on him, while he
slept. He not only had everybody's money, but also had their
watches. What ever he was doing, he was good at it. He must have
noticed that I slept with one eye open. Mr Lucky had narrowed down the
entertainment to reading and the chow line. I remember sitting on the
floor in the head cutting cards for ten dollars a cut with Frank
Morganstern. Neither one of us had any money. We had extended each
other an endless line of credit. Neither one of us won any money,
but we did lose a lot of time, which was the name of the game.
The smell of fuel oil was memorable. Your uniform took on all the
attributes of a greasy, grimy canvas hatch cover. The only water
available to wash with was sea water. Our soap and the sea water
didn't mix. The suds in your hair would turn to gum. Sometimes we
would attach our dirty clothes to a line and throw it over the side,
hoping the motion of the wake would remove the dirt.. I remember how
we would crack up when a Marine would forget he had his clothes over
the side and leave it overnight. When he would heave the line in,
there would just be a bundle of rags.
Taken off ship in Hawaii for a three hour beer party. Three thousand
Marines, charge cases of beer stacked on picnic tables in an open
field. Those who were fleet of foot grabbed as many cases they could
lift and kept on running, disappearing into the boondocks . It was a
case of the quick and the sober. It was hilarious, the mother of all
hide and seek games. It was the first time I drank that much beer, I
got sick as that old dog, part of me is still in Hawaii.
On to Eniwetok, land of palm trees, without palms. The shell fire
from the Navy prior to a previous invasion had denuded all the trees
The island looked like a hair brush. Convoy bombed off Saipan.
Confined below deck during bombing, all hatches battened, felt
trapped. It was the last bombing of Saipan. Land on Guam, thirty
days out of San Diego, (now the bum looked well dressed). If there
was ever a ship that deserved a toast it was the Bloemfontein, "
BOTTOM UP". I join Charlie Co.. Live in a tent that has been
pitched over fox holes. Five old salts in tent, nice guys, when they
look at me I feel 5 years old. They think I have my Boot hair cut. I
let a buddy cut my hair aboard ship with a little scissors from a
sewing kit. I look like I have the mange.
First night on guard at perimeter, I hear wild pigs eating garbage.
I think we are about to be overrun. P.I. pays off, I managed to
subdue the urge to spray the area. First week in Charlie I report
to sickbay, Doc. informs me I have Mu Mu ( elephantiasis , a disease
that caused a severe swelling of the legs and scrotum) and that I
can expect big things, tells me I'm going home. This is deduced from
infection in the groin. Old salts in my tent get hysterical when I
tell them. It seems the Div. picked up the disease during the
Bougainville campaign. A lot of guys were showing up with it, but
there was no way I could have it. Doctor seems disappointed when I
tell him, I just arrived from the States. Infection disappears, no
need for wheel barrel to carry scrotum. Beragata Showered in
the rain, (the only fresh water) the trick was to get the soap off
before it stopped. Led to a lot of humorous scenes. What do you do
when your standing in the middle of the Co. street, stark naked,
covered with soap and God shuts off the shower. Later we put out empty
fuel drums at edge of tent to catch rain water to wash in. Helmet
great wash basin. Drinking water in Lister bags, (Large canvas bag,
holds about 30 gallons, water mixed with heavy dose of Iodine), it
had four spigots, usually set up at center of camp. Each day before
we would go out on patrol we would stop at the bag and fill our
canteens. Put bullion cubes in my canteen to kill taste of iodine. It
was a strange mix, iodine tasted better. At our meals we drank coffee
or concentrated lemon juice mixed with water. We called the
concentrated lemon juice, battery acid. Naturally without
refrigeration, it was always warm. It was so caustic that what ever
was left after the meal the cooks would use to scour the pots. Back
in the states I think they call it Vivid.
My squad gives me a unique initiation ceremony. While out on patrol
we take a break at a particular spot on the trail, and I'm sent out as
outpost. I'm placed in a small clearing, down trail and told to stay
alert and warn them if I hear anything. I immediately sit on a
fallen log and relax. After being there a short time I realize I am
not alone. Flush up against the back of the log I am sitting on, is
what we would call in those days, a " Nip" (Jap). I first notice
his feet out of the corner of my eye, he is lying on his back. I jump
up and whirl around to look at his face, only to realize he had been
decapitated. It's obvious by the condition of the body, that he
has been dead for some time. After the initial shock I find it more
interesting than frightening. When I return to the squad I mention
the corpse to them, nobody seems interested. Later I realize they
must have been watching me make the discovery, and I kind of let
them down. To me he is the enemy, I feel nothing for him. The system
worked.
Heat & rain, most of the time it didn't bother me. One of the main
reasons I joined the Corps, was to make sure I escaped the hated cold,
not realizing I was heading for the Parris Island oven.
Charlie Co, great bunch, still paling out with old buddy from New
River, Sam Morgal. Sam was a good friend, he came from D.C.,a real
character, great sense of humor. He was much older than I, about
thirty two. All Sam ever wanted was a beer and a deck of cards and
my money to lose. He was a great beer drinker and a great card
player, but he had trouble doing both at the same time. The guys in
the tent are Howard Clifton ,Bill Rosnick, Walter Clausen, Jimmy
Gaskins, John Aiello, and Sam Morgal. We all came from different
States, but we had one thing in common, that bound us together. We
were all suffering and we hated being there. Thank God we all went
a little crazy.
I remember one night we got into our sacks neglecting to turn off
the light, (Taps had sounded but our light was still burning
brightly.) Each guy refused to get up. Each time the guard would
pass our tent he would yell lights out. No body would move. About
eleven o'clock, out of no where the Officer of The Day lands in the
middle of our tent floor, screaming attention. Nobody is awake, we
all lie there with our eyes bolted closed. We know the first guy who
shows life is going to get nailed. Finally he shakes Sam. Sam
pretends that he is Lazarus coming forth from the sleep of death.
Sam has us all killing our selves holding back the laughter. Finally
we all get up like we are following Sam out of the tomb. The
Lieutenant is mad as hell but we swear to him that the whole thing
was just an oversight. I remember the day we chipped in and bought
a two tube radio for $ 125 bucks, big money in those days. The next
day we went off to chow and our prize radio went elsewhere. I
remember Jimmy Gaskins would wake up some mornings saying he heard
the whistle of the train that passed on the other side of the corn
field back home. Where I live now, 50 years later, I too hear a train
whistle at night, and my thoughts go back to Jimmy.
Patrols (eyes & ears used to the maximum), mosquitos had a field day,
afraid to take your hands off weapon to brush them off your face.
Thirteen men moving in complete silence, ghostlike. Walking the
point (lead man on patrol, first man to draw fire) was like having
cancer, "why me?" While at point, the silence always tempting you to
turn around to make sure you weren't alone. A sustained feeling of
terror and yet the eager tenseness of a football kickoff. Point man
upsets beehive, discipline disintegrates, everybody takes off, very
embarrassingly funny. We would try to guess about how long it would
take us to actually sweep Guam of Japs, not taking prisoners didn't
help. They were still coming out 25 years later. For years after the
war I would occasionally spot an article in the N.Y. Times, how 3 or
4 of our little brown brothers emerged from the boondocks on Guam.
They played war for keeps. They were as tough as they come, a worthy
opponent, they could not accept defeat. Jungle ( Adapted to
tropical habitat, couldn't believe I ever walked on a sidewalk.)
Time takes a holiday, clock stops moving. I can't get used to the
necklaces that two machine gunners are wearing. (Marines wearing
necklaces made up of the gold teeth, that are being taken out of the
mouths of the dead "Nips"). I realized now that the boy next door
had the potential to be a hell of a nut. Some of us were
(anthropologically speaking) were climbing back up into the trees.
I find that the top soil of civilization is very thin. We needed Mom
watching us, more than her apple pie. We actually developed a sort of
new language to express our inner turmoil. Sex was rampart, every
noun was having intercourse. I mean every word used was preceded by
the verb. It was the only way to vent our deep frustration. We all
used it, so it must have worked.
Living in a tent with other men taught me an awful lot about love and
forgiveness. What I remember most was that who ever moved into our
tent, no matter what kind of personality, we would eventually
understand his faults and love him. We had no problem empathizing
with a tentmate, we all had the same pain inside of us. We were
closer than brothers. A costly bonding, a unique sharing never to
be matched in my life time. (Not ever being in prison.) It has been
many years but I still have a picture of my squad over my desk. We
each have a beer in our hand, and a great smile on our face. I think
we were all pretty shot. I never saw another picture that displayed
more joy. Sometimes you wonder if it ever happened. It has taken me
fifty years to say "It was worth it." When I came back after
the war I listened to my friends tell these wild stories about the
English, French and German and Italian girls. We were sitting at a
round table at our local Pub, each guy would top the previous
seduction. When it came my turn I couldn't think of how to top them,
so I decided to tell the truth. "The only woman I ever met or
spoke too, was behind a counter in the Marvin House, a PX on Guam.
She was about fifty. I'll never forget what I said to her. I turned
on the old charm."Can I please have a Coke?" You know you can tell
when a woman is about to lose control, it was obvious she was
smitten. I took the coke from her milk white hand. I looked deep into
her eyes, as I said "Thank you,” and walked back into the night.
There was no doubt in my mind that she would have been my slave, but
I had a war to win. I hope she has forgotten me."
It gets to the point, at night when a mosquito came under the net I
won't interrupt his dinner. There was no malaria on the Island and
it's hot as hell, so we sleep naked, we couldn't care less about
mosquitos. Our feet were covered with the creeping crawling crud.
Our toes look like they are rotting off. Every week the corpsman
tries a new dip. My toes have been painted every color of the
rainbow. Soon as I hit the States an immediate cure takes place.
Huge toads all over Guam. No matter where you were in the boondocks,
there would be a toad. The constant spraying of DDT killed the food
chain that the toad depended on, hastening his demise. A good
spraying would turn our green dungarees black, I still can remember
the evil smell of it. Spray planes came over often, while we were
out on patrol, we should have been issued umbrellas. " We have met
the enemy and they are us." I heard years later that the toads
were replaced by giant snails. The latest news is that tree snakes
have killed the snails and decimated all the bird life by destroying
their eggs.
It's my nineteenth birthday, I'm out on patrol. Tonight I'll
celebrate by sleeping in a swamp, in the rain. I'll sleep on my back
to prevent drowning. Now it's morning, I'm wet, cold, hungry. We
look at each other, and crack up laughing. We are all soaked to the
skin, our uniforms are black with water, our hands are wrinkled from
resting in water all night. Why am I laughing? Tom Morgan, a past
member of a Florida chain gang, has broke down and is crying. Tom
was much older than the rest of us and we thought of him as our rock.
There is a time to cry, and that was the time. Of course nobody
noticed or mentioned that Tom had had it.
It is strange how
nobody ever seems to catch a cold, despite the hours spend in the
rain, soaking wet. I had painful asthma attacks from the time I was
nine till I joined the Corps. From the day I left home till the
present day I never have another attack. My Mother thought that the
service was going to be the death of me. Outside of a few minor
scratches I enjoyed marvelous health. I do remember one time when I
was in the hospital, there was a Marine in a sack opposite mine who
was suspended in mid air by ropes. He told me that shortly after he
came back from the Iwo campaign, he was on the top of his tank
scrubbing it down with gasoline, when a passing Marine flipped a
cigarette butt at the tank. He joked with me, saying he was facing
a court marshall when he got out for using gasoline to clean the
tank. I don't think he made it out. Most of his skin was gone, which
left the poor guy looking like a lobster. The pain had to be
unbearable. He was what the word cool was all about. Even though he
was flat out he looked real tall to me, man at his best.
I
actually had a bullet land in my lap while sitting in a hole on a
combat firing range. It had ricocheted off a tree, hit my helmet then
the side of the hole then into my lap. I nonchalantly placed it in my
breast pocket and brought it home. I always think of it as my
greatest catch. Served as runner, poor sense of direction. I was
never lost, always knew where I was, but where the hell was Baker
Co. Luck was my North Star. I missed the talent that Phil used, to
guide us out of the cattails, down at the old Mill, back home.
We all take a physical prior to Iwo campaign. Doctor tells me I have
a heart murmur. I thought I had a ticket home, and it wasn't going to
be on my toe. The Doc. just told me not to run around too much when
I got to Iwo. We both cracked up laughing. The whole 3rd
Reg.is moving out. My outfit is to board the APA Frederick Funston.
We are strung out for miles in full combat gear, preparing to embark.
As I reach the top of a rise, I can see the five thousand long snake
winding its way along the coral road the Seabees (Navy Construction
Battalion) built, were heading for the beach. I wonder how many guys
are walking their last mile. Thank God eighteen year olds don't die.
It's a long haul to the ship, and I remember how a case of stolen
pears relieved the squads thirst on the march. It was extremely hot
and everything we owned was on our back or in our seabag. We would
stick our Kaybars (jungle knife) into a can and suck the juice and
throw the can away with the pears. I realized my James Madison H.S.
ring was missing, and it was going to remain somewhere up in the
hills, where we had broken camp. That ring belonged to a 17 year old
who was as missing as the ring.
After several days at sea, we enter the area called the Volcano
Chain. In the morning mist, we notice strange land masses called
stacks, jutting out of the water. It was as if we were approaching
the castle of Dr. Frankenstein. Arrive at Iwo Jima early morning,
rest of Div. has already disembarked. The panoramic view of Iwo
Jima was awesome. It was a piece of nothing, covered with volcanic
ash. It lacked any growth and was spotted with sulphur wells. The
initial landing had been made and the black beaches were covered with
wreckage. It appeared as if a huge ammo dump had exploded destroying
all theÔ equipment that we had placed ashore. The beach looked like
absolute chaos. It was immediately obvious that the Japs had the
catbird seat on Mt. Suribachi, on the southern tip. Our little brown
brothers could drop mortars on anything, on anybody, anywhere. It
was the Queen of positions. The beachhead was continually being
pounded. One year later I stood on top of Surabachi, and the sight
made me sick. It made shooting fish in a barrel look hard. We
intended to put 60 thousand men ashore on an Island that was 2 X 4
miles, 1/3 the size of Manhattan. It was being defended by 25 thousand
Japs ( Longstreet odds).This does not leave too much standing room
when you realize how much equipment had to be brought ashore. In
spite of our Gung Ho, 3rd Div. Commander, the overall Campaign
Commander (Now sitting at the right hand of) would not authorize the
landing of our 3rd Mar. Regiment. The other three Regiments. in our
Div., the 9th Mar., 21st Mar. & 12th Mar. were in action ashore. Our
Div. was taking tremendous losses but the need was more for equipment
than troops. There was just so much beach room. We were to be
designated Floating Reserve. We continuously circled the Island. It
was ringside, watching men die by the thousands. The only thing that
occasionally obstructed our view was the smoke of battle. There was
a mantle of smoke that hung a couple hundred feet over the island.
We were surprisingly very close in. I guess if they needed us in a
hurry we could be on the beach in no time. We could see the tanks
get bogged down and knocked out. The tanks were having a tough time
operating in the volcanic ash, but they were doing a great job
rescuing guys who were pinned down. Field glasses were being
continually passed. It didn't get much darker during the night.
Flares and shell fire were constant. The noise of the exploding
shells was continuous, no let up. The big wagons were further out to
sea firing their huge shells over us. They do sound like freight
trains. The carrier planes were dive bombing. We immediately took
wounded aboard. They cleared all cabins for them. The story has it
that the ship's Captain's son came aboard for dinner. He was a
Marine Capt serving with the 4th Marine Div on the island. They say he
was a stand up guy, who gave us a brief talk on what was going on. It
was an odd happening, his Dad sailing around Iwo while his son
fought. He went back on shore after dinner. The next evening his
father had his son's body brought back on board. He wanted to bury
him at sea. The wounded wanted to know why we were not relieving
them. They said the JapÔ mortars were killing them, there was no
cover. If you stood in one place long enough you were bound to get
hit. They said the Japs were firing huge mortar shells that the
Marines had dubbed "flying seabags". Every move was being watched
from Suribachi. We had a tremendous feeling of guilt and
helplessness. To this day I still have a sense of guilt. Some wanted
to go ashore, I prayed to God we wouldn't, I had suddenly found
religion. The best Marine is l8 or l9 and a hell of an optimist. Of
course there is always the thinking man, who didn't win too many
marble games. The wounded told us the garbage men were taking the
worse losses. Those are the fellows who carry the flame throwers.
They were priority targets for the Japs because of what they
carried. It did not pay to stay close to them. Prior to the campaign
I had the unlucky experience of having my lungs seared by a flame
thrower from a tank. It was during a practice run at a pillbox, we
were out of sight of each other, in high grass. I could hear it
moving but I couldn't place it. I just didn't want to be mashed. I
never thought it was carrying a " Zippo", (Cigarette lighter, slang
for flame thrower). For one brief moment the air was burning hot and
my lungs were on fire. What a miserable way to go. Luckily there was
no lasting damage. If you want the same sensation, put your head over
the gas flame in your kitchen and take a deep breath. I might have
stumbled across the cure for asthma. Ask your Doctor first. One
day they call my platoon to fall in on the deck. They are asking for
garbage men. No one budged. We are being asked to make an
independent decision, to use our free will, not used since our
lobotomy. There is no order involved, direct or indirect, if we are
ordered over the side, we would go as one man. This was crazy, I was
no longer part of the group. For one brief moment I'm Bill Monks
again. I stand alone on the deck. It's catch 22, it going to be
either physical or spiritual death. This wasn't what P.I. was about.
I know if any of the guys from the tent put their hand up, the
whole tent was going to be in big trouble. We took our musk©ox's
stance and closed ranks, no one volunteered. Deep in my heart I knew
there wasn't a coward among us, yet we were cursed to sail on that
Flying Dutchman for the rest of our lives, forever circling that damn
island, questioning our courage. Talk about a guilt trip. "Yes Son, I
saw the flag go up on Suribachi. I watched".
Everyone knew the campaign was going to be settled on Suribachi. He
who holds the high ground wins the battle. It was Marye's Heights at
Fredericksburg, Cemetery Ridge at Gettysburg and it was going to Mt.
Suribachi at Iwo Jima. We had a huge plaster mock up of the Island
on deck, and that Mountain looked ominous. We hit that Mt. with
everything that we had. All the heavy stuff off shore, are carrier
based planes, constantly bombed and strafed. All the Marine
artillery on the Island was concentrating on it, determined to give
cover to the Marines who were going to attempt the ascent. I think it
was the 28th Mar Reg. who initially sent the first platoon of 40 men
up. The Fifth Div. had the misfortune to have it in its zone. Some
of the guys watched through glasses as the patrol wound there way
up. The climb itself was mysteriously easy, I don't think they took
any losses going up. Finally a cheer went up all over the ship when
we saw our flag flying in the breeze. Every horn, whistle and bell
rang out aboard the ships surrounding the Island. The man in the very
center of the arena, is the man who carries the colors. A country's
flag represents more than a cause in battle. It's the ultimate
wager, life itself, with the odds against you. No man walks taller
than when he is carrying his flag into a roaring hell. I could never
stomach a flag sewed on a shoulder or pinned to a lapel. God how I
admire and pray for those thousands of Civil War color bearers S & N
who served as point,(most exposed position to fire), and died leading
their outfits. Of the 40 men who went up only 4 were not killed
or wounded by the end of the campaign. The blood poured out on Iwo
Jima was to rank with the baths of Antietam and Gettysburg. On Iwo
Jima, every man was at point. The overall campaign cost was one in
three killed or wounded. Who can comprehend the magnificence of man?
I'll always regret not being ordered over the side. I had no idea
that moment would live in history, and a year from that moment I
would be standing on that very spot. I was one of six Marines they
brought back (randomly picked) for a memorial ceremony. There were a
couple thousand service men stationed on Iwo, a year later, but no
Marines. We stood at the 3rd Div. cemetery and gazed at the sea of
crosses. Unforgettable, a good part of our outfit was lying there,
no doubt the best. The Chaplain had asked for two altar boys, but we
embarrassingly declined. We had no idea what to do. We fired the
volley and walked among the crosses. To the victor had gone the
marker. They read 18,18,20,19,21,18,19,19,20, each man a color
bearer, forever young. I spotted old friends from the 21st Mar.
whom IÔ knew from, P.I., New River and Guam, Jack Rhett, Bill Egan and
Ed Stanton. The 21st was camped across the road from us at Guam.
There's a saying in the Corps, "If you want to meet a real Marine
you will have to dig for him." I don't think the families really
understood what they did, when they brought all the bodies back, 10
years later. Most of my friends had crossed the line, and would have
preferred staying with their brothers, strange but I believe it's
true. They had bonded forever. Our worthy opponents, lay in a
barren field nearby, covered over by a bulldozer, marked Enemy
Cemetery #1. Both forces shared a common epitaph. "Iwo Jima, where
uncommon valor was a common virtue." There was nothing to do that
night, so we got smashed. It was the worst drunk of my life, I knew
I had no right to be there. My buddy and I were crawling on our
hands and knees down the black slanted beach, into the water. We had
no idea where we were going. The Marine with me was a blond crew cut
guy, named Fritz from the 9th. He was one of two survivors of his
platoon, after they had crossed one of the Jap Air Strips. I
remember when I got him back to his sack late that night, instead of
passing out, he laughed for an hour. It was like an insulin
overdose. All the sailors in the barracks were objecting to the
noise. I don't think he heard them, he was in another world. Up
on Chichi Jima,( 150 miles N. of Iwo) in the Bonins, Fritz always had
a imaginary dog chasing him. He did it so well that you could hear
the dog bark. They had a term for his condition "Asiatic"(no longer
sane). It was a great try for a Section 8. (Psychologically unfit to
serve). A sad case of the walking wounded, I hope eventually he got
help. Back on Guam, Apr. of 45 we immediately went on another
sweep of the island, letting our little brown brothers know we were
back, and that the game of hide and seek could once more commence.
By August we were ready for the big one. Word was out, we were going
to hit Kyushu, the southern island of the mainland of Japan, in Sept.
They had the 3rd Reg. set up to pay its dues. We were going to be
the point Reg., there were no optimists. We were going into a meat
grinder. I return from a problem (Dry run drill) and ready to
collapse on my sack in my tent only to find my brother Dick sitting
on it. I didn't know that he was in the Pacific, he had just
arrived. It turns out his Seabee outfit is stationed up on Saipan
(Island north of us) and he has hitched a ride down to Guam for a
short visit. I tried for a 72 hour pass, to stay with him in aÔ
Seabee outfit, but I was frozen, too close to Kyushu time, we were
ready to go... Dick and I still had a good time, the words had to
take a vow of celibacy, (Remove that nasty verb). Back home, we
wouldn't even say "damn" in the house.
My school chum, Pep,
was my next visitor. He just walked into my tent one day. I thought
he was in the Atlantic. We celebrated the dropping of the Bomb
together. We thought at the time it was the thing to do. We had no
idea of its horror, to us it meant life. He was a radio operator in
the Navy. Pep had just missed a berth on the Indianapolis, the
Cruiser that went down I think between the Tinian and the Phil. The
Indianapolis had brought the bomb over. Pep and I had gone through
grammar, and high school together. We were later to attend college
together and keep our relationship going for close to sixty years.
Pep still is a ball of fire and I see him regularly to this day . The
odd thing was that Pep and I were sitting on the grass on a football
field lacing on our cleats, preparing to play, when we heard of Pearl
Harbor. !!!!Some guy suddenly burst into the tent " Hey did you hear
the radio" " They just dropped one hell of a bomb, and a Jap city
disappeared." IN A COUPLE OF DAYS IT WAS OVER!!!!! We were numb! We
couldn't believe it! Going HOME !!! Pep and I are sharing the
close of the war. I could not believe Pep was in my tent. Naturally
I looked like hell when we met I had just came in out of the field.
He looked clean as a whistle and couldn't stop laughing at the sight
of me. He had managed, while attending radio school, to stay in the
states for quite a while. Upon the war ending the Corps was
faced with a hell of a strange problem. There are not enough ships to