R. Burgin - Islands of the Damned

We had showers and a laundry and electric lights. The screened-in battalion mess hall had a concrete floor and rows of tables where we could play cards or just sit around in the evening. But most of us old-timers just went back to our tents, or wandered from tent to tent, looking for old buddies who were in different outfits. We found that many of them had not come back.

Some of the guys complained about the chow not being all that great. But if a Marine isn’t complaining, he isn’t happy. No, it wasn’t Mom’s home cooking. But it was good enough. And there was plenty of it. We weren’t short. We had fresh meat, Coca-Cola and two cans of watery beer a week.

For those just off Peleliu who had spent so much time bitching about everything the first time around, Pavuvu looked pretty good by now. At least nobody was shooting at us.

We didn’t do much of anything for the first ten days or so. They just let us alone to rest and regain our strength, and to mourn for those we’d lost. Then they started us to work, and that helped. Not to forget, but to put everything behind you, to move on. Gradually they picked up the pace and the training got harder. Our platoon now had three mortars and new guns were issued to replace those that had worn out.

While we had been at sea, the First Division was assigned a new commander. Major General Pedro del Valle replaced General Rupertus. General del Valle was a spit-and-polish man, and soon he was putting us through inspections and reviews and close-order drill on the resurfaced parade ground. Like I said, the Marines always knew which buttons to push.

We found our replacements from the States lounging around the tents. The First Division had about forty-five hundred new men to absorb, and we set to work immediately teaching them what we knew. We had now become the division’s “old men.” The Guadalcanal vets got ready for rotation back home. One night late in November Johnny Marmet came into my tent and sat on the cot.

“You know your promotion to sergeant is in the works,” he said.

“Yeah, I knew that,” I said. “Thanks for recommending me.”

That’s when he told me that Captain Haldane had been about to write me up for a Silver Star.

We said our good-byes, and he left. I would miss Johnny. He was one of the best.

Since it looked like I would be replacing him, I set about reorganizing the mortars. I needed a couple ammo carriers. I’d met some of the new replacements and found out that two of them were from Texas—T. L. Hudson and Clyde Cummings. I went down to the end of the company street to the sergeant in charge and told him I wanted both men for my platoon.

“Oh, you do, do you?” he said. “Just why in the hell do you want those particular two?”

“Well, in the first place they’re Texans,” I said. “In the second place, both are good, strong young men. I need two good ammunition carriers and they can do the job. And I want them in my platoon.”

He laughed. “Yeah, go on and take them.”

They were good men, and I put them to good use.

Florence’s letters caught up with me, and I was writing her whenever I got time, two or three times a week. I couldn’t say much. Our mail was censored. We couldn’t write anything about where we were or where we’d been or what we were doing. Just, Hello, I miss you terribly, I love you, I hope to see you soon, Good-bye.

I wrote Florence that if I had my pick of babies, I would like a little girl. She said she told her mother that she planned to have a dozen boys. I kept having dreams that we were married already, living in a little house back in Texas. I longed to wake up and find her in my arms. My letters were short, two or three pages. I could never think of anything to say. Hers were long, six pages and more, and full of news from Australia. She sent me newspapers. One day a fruitcake arrived. I took a piece down to Jim Burke, and when I got back to my tent the rest of the guys had cleaned out every crumb. I told them the next time Florence sent a cake they wouldn’t even know about it.

Our battalion had organized a volleyball team and a basketball team, and I wanted to play on both, but they usually had games at the same time. So volleyball won out. We also played baseball and we had boxing matches. The evening before Thanksgiving they showed a movie. Afterward I just sat there for half an hour listening to records, and then I went back to my tent. Some nights on Pavuvu were just beautiful, with a huge moon hanging over the sea. I would have enjoyed them if only I had Florence there to share them.

President Roosevelt had proclaimed November 23, 1944, a day of national thanksgiving. I gave thanks I was still alive to think about my loved ones even if I couldn’t be with them. “I am a very happy yet a lonesome boy,” I wrote to Florence. We had six boxing matches during the day, then turkey with all the trimmings. Afterward there was an amateur talent show, another movie, and cold drinks.

We didn’t know it yet, but the week before Thanksgiving the Army’s Eighty-first Division Wildcats had wrapped things up on Peleliu. Colonel Kunio Nakagawa, the Japanese commander, radioed his headquarters on Babelthuap that it was “all over.” All he had left in the Pocket was 120 men and most of them were wounded. He and his aide burned the ceremonial colors and, as we knew they’d do all along, committed ritual suicide.

So we could take pride in a job well done.

I guess I had something else to be thankful for. Legs, the lieutenant who had given me so much trouble for so long, had been transferred. Our new mortar section leader was Lieutenant Robert Mackenzie, a blond New England college kid fresh out of Officer Candidates School. We called him Scotty.

In With the Old Breed , Gene Sledge was pretty hard on Scotty, but I didn’t share his hard feelings. Scotty and I were good friends then and we stayed good friends right up until he died in 2003.

Sledge was right about one thing, though. Scotty certainly came to Pavuvu with a gung ho attitude. Right away he made it plain that he was one tough Marine. The first time the Japs hit, he assured us, he’d charge them with a KA-BAR clenched in his teeth and a .45 clutched in his hand. He was going to do this and he was going to do that. It was comical to us—some of us had already faced the Japs. We knew better.

I think in the beginning Scotty actually believed it himself. We tried to set him straight, but he wasn’t listening. Guys like him grew up in a hurry. He’d come right out of OCS into the combat area. He hadn’t been around veterans. The only thing in his mind was what he had seen in the movies. It was just the rookie in him talking. I thought he was green as a gourd.

Still, I liked him. Later on I’d get so mad at him sometimes I’d want to kill him. Then thirty minutes later he’d have me laughing about something so hard I’d forgotten all about it. But he did pull some dumb things.

Late in December after my sergeant’s commission came through, they started calling some of us up to interview us for field commissions. Those chosen would be made second lieutenants. I’d been interviewed for Officer Candidates School on New Britain, but I had not attended college and that was the end of that. Now my chance for promotion came again.

After lunch I put on fresh khakis and went down to headquarters, where they were holding interviews. There were four of us, myself, Hank Boyes and Ted Hendricks from K Company, and a guy I didn’t know from L Company.

A first lieutenant met me and ushered me inside. There was a long table with three or four officers from captain on up sitting along either side. I wasn’t nervous. If they wanted to make me an officer, that was fine. But I wasn’t seeking it. They made me feel at ease and asked me to sit at the head of the table.