{"product_id":"with-the-old-breed-isbn-9780891411192","title":"With the Old Breed","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • “Of all the books about the ground war in the Pacific, [this] is the closest to a masterpiece.”—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Review of Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Eugene Sledge became more than a legend with his memoir, \u003ci\u003eWith the Old Breed\u003c\/i\u003e. He became a chronicler, a historian, a storyteller who turns the extremes of the war in the Pacific—the terror, the camaraderie, the banal and the extraordinary—into terms we mortals can grasp.”—Tom Hanks\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn \u003ci\u003eThe Wall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Victor Davis Hanson named \u003ci\u003eWith the Old Breed\u003c\/i\u003e one of the top five books on epic twentieth-century battles after its original publication in 1981. Studs Terkel interviewed the author for his definitive oral history, \u003ci\u003eThe Good War\u003c\/i\u003e. Now E. B. Sledge’s acclaimed first-person account of fighting at Peleliu and Okinawa returns to thrill, edify, and inspire a new generation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn Alabama boy steeped in American history and enamored of such heroes as George Washington and Daniel Boone, Eugene B. Sledge became part of the war’s famous 1st Marine Division—3rd Battalion, 5th Marines. Even after intense training, he was shocked to be thrown into the battle of Peleliu, where “the world was a nightmare of flashes, explosions, and snapping bullets.” By the time Sledge hit the hell of Okinawa, he was a combat vet, still filled with fear but no longer with panic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBased on notes Sledge secretly kept in a copy of the New Testament, \u003ci\u003eWith the Old Breed\u003c\/i\u003e captures with utter simplicity and searing honesty the experience of a soldier in the fierce Pacific Theater. Here is what saved, threatened, and changed his life. Here, too, is the story of how he learned to hate and kill—and came to love—his fellow man.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“In all the literature on the Second World War, there is not a more honest, realistic or moving memoir than Eugene Sledge’s. This is the real deal, the real war: unvarnished, brutal, without a shred of sentimentality or false patriotism, a profound primer on what it actually was like to be in that war. It is a classic that will outlive all the armchair generals’ safe accounts of—not the ‘good war’—but the worst war ever.”—Ken Burns\u003c\/b\u003e“Eugene Sledge became more than a legend with his memoir, \u003ci\u003eWith The Old Breed\u003c\/i\u003e. He became a chronicler, a historian, a storyteller who turns the extremes of the war in the Pacific—the terror, the camaraderie, the banal and the extraordinary—into terms we mortals can grasp.”—Tom Hanks\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “In all the literature on the Second World War, there is not a more honest, realistic or moving memoir than Eugene Sledge’s. This is the real deal, the real war: unvarnished, brutal, without a shred of sentimentality or false patriotism, a profound primer on what it actually was like to be in that war. It is a classic that will outlive all the armchair generals’ safe accounts of—not the ‘good war’—but the worst war ever.”—Ken Burns\u003cb\u003eE. B. “Sledgehammer” Sledge\u003c\/b\u003e was born and grew up in Mobile, Alabama. In late 1942 he enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps. After basic training, he was sent to the Pacific Theater where he fought at Peleliu and Okinawa, two of the fiercest battles of World War II. Following the Japanese surrender, Sledge served in China as part of the occupation force. Upon his return home, he obtained a PhD in biology and joined the faculty of Alabama College (later the University of Montevallo), where he taught until retirement. Sledge initially wrote about his war experiences to explain them to his family, but he was persuaded by his wife to seek publication. Sledge died on March 3, 2001.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaking of a Marine\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI enlisted in the Marine Corps on 3 December 1942 at Marion, Alabama. At the time I was a freshman at Marion\u003cbr\u003eMilitary Institute. My parents and brother Edward had urged\u003cbr\u003eme to stay in college as long as possible in order to qualify for\u003cbr\u003ea commission in some technical branch of the U.S. Army.\u003cbr\u003eBut, prompted by a deep feeling of uneasiness that the war\u003cbr\u003emight end before I could get overseas into combat, I wanted\u003cbr\u003eto enlist in the Marine Corps as soon as possible. Ed, a\u003cbr\u003eCitadel graduate and a second lieutenant in the army, suggested\u003cbr\u003elife would be more beautiful for me as an officer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother and Father were mildly distraught at the thought of\u003cbr\u003eme in the Marines as an enlisted man–that is, “cannon fodder.”\u003cbr\u003eSo when a Marine recruiting team came to Marion Institute,\u003cbr\u003eI compromised and signed up for one of the Corps’ new\u003cbr\u003eofficer training programs. It was called V-12.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe recruiting sergeant wore dress blue trousers, a khaki\u003cbr\u003eshirt, necktie, and white barracks hat. His shoes had a shine\u003cbr\u003ethe likes of which I’d never seen. He asked me lots of questions\u003cbr\u003eand filled out numerous official papers. When he asked,\u003cbr\u003e“Any scars, birthmarks, or other unusual features?” I described\u003cbr\u003ean inch-long scar on my right knee. I asked why such\u003cbr\u003ea question. He replied, “So they can identify you on some Pacific\u003cbr\u003ebeach after the Japs blast off your dog tags.” This was\u003cbr\u003emy introduction to the stark realism that characterized the\u003cbr\u003eMarine Corps I later came to know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe college year ended the last week of May 1943. I had\u003cbr\u003ethe month of June at home in Mobile before I had to report 1\u003cbr\u003eJuly for duty at Georgia Tech in Atlanta.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI enjoyed the train trip from Mobile to Atlanta because the\u003cbr\u003etrain had a steam engine. The smoke smelled good, and the\u003cbr\u003ewhistle added a plaintive note reminiscent of an unhurried\u003cbr\u003elife. The porters were impressed and most solicitous when I\u003cbr\u003etold them, with no little pride, that I was on my way to becoming\u003cbr\u003ea Marine. My official Marine Corps meal ticket got me a\u003cbr\u003elarge, delicious shrimp salad in the dining car and the admiring\u003cbr\u003eglances of the steward in attendance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn my arrival in Atlanta, a taxi deposited me at Georgia\u003cbr\u003eTech, where the 180-man Marine detachment lived in Harrison\u003cbr\u003eDormitory. Recruits were scheduled to attend classes\u003cbr\u003eyear round (in my case, about two years), graduate, and then\u003cbr\u003ego to the Marine base at Quantico, Virginia, for officers’\u003cbr\u003etraining.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Marine regular, Capt. Donald Payzant, was in charge.\u003cbr\u003eHe had served with the 1st Marine Division on Guadalcanal.\u003cbr\u003eSeeming to glory in his duty and his job as our commander,\u003cbr\u003ehe loved the Corps and was salty and full of swagger. Looking\u003cbr\u003eback, I realize now that he had survived the meat grinder\u003cbr\u003eof combat and was simply glad to be in one piece with the\u003cbr\u003egood fortune of being stationed at a peaceful college campus.\u003cbr\u003eLife at Georgia Tech was easy and comfortable. In short,\u003cbr\u003ewe didn’t know there was a war going on. Most of the college\u003cbr\u003ecourses were dull and uninspiring. Many of the professors\u003cbr\u003eopenly resented our presence. It was all but impossible to\u003cbr\u003econcentrate on academics. Most of us felt we had joined the\u003cbr\u003eMarines to fight, but here we were college boys again. The\u003cbr\u003esituation was more than many of us could stand. At the end of\u003cbr\u003ethe first semester, ninety of us–half of the detachment–\u003cbr\u003eflunked out of school so we could go into the Corps as enlisted\u003cbr\u003emen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the navy officer in charge of academic affairs called\u003cbr\u003eme in to question me about my poor academic performance, I\u003cbr\u003etold him I hadn’t joined the Marine Corps to sit out the war in\u003cbr\u003ecollege. He was sympathetic to the point of being fatherly\u003cbr\u003eand said he would feel the same way if he were in my place.\u003cbr\u003eCaptain Payzant gave the ninety of us a pep talk in front of\u003cbr\u003ethe dormitory the morning we were to board the train for boot\u003cbr\u003ecamp at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, California.\u003cbr\u003eHe told us we were the best men and the best Marines in\u003cbr\u003ethe detachment. He said he admired our spirit for wanting to\u003cbr\u003eget into the war. I think he was sincere.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter the pep talk, buses took us to the railway station. We\u003cbr\u003esang and cheered the whole way. We were on our way to war\u003cbr\u003eat last. If we had only known what lay ahead of us!\u003cbr\u003eApproximately two and a half years later, I came back\u003cbr\u003ethrough the Atlanta railway station on my way home. Shortly\u003cbr\u003eafter I stepped off the car for a stroll, a young army infantryman\u003cbr\u003ewalked up to me and shook hands. He said he had noticed\u003cbr\u003emy 1st Marine Division patch and the campaign ribbons\u003cbr\u003eon my chest and wondered if I had fought at Peleliu. When I\u003cbr\u003esaid I had, he told me he just wanted to express his undying\u003cbr\u003eadmiration for men of the 1st Marine Division.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had fought with the 81st Infantry Division (Wildcats),\u003cbr\u003ewhich had come in to help us at Peleliu.* He was a machine\u003cbr\u003egunner, had been hit by Japanese fire on Bloody Nose Ridge,\u003cbr\u003eand was abandoned by his army comrades. He knew he\u003cbr\u003ewould either die of his wounds or be cut up by the Japanese\u003cbr\u003ewhen darkness fell. Risking their lives, some Marines had\u003cbr\u003emoved in and carried him to safety. The soldier said he was so\u003cbr\u003eimpressed by the bravery, efficiency, and esprit of the\u003cbr\u003eMarines he saw on Peleliu that he swore to thank every veteran\u003cbr\u003eof the 1st Marine Division he ever ran across.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe “Dago people”–as those of us bound for San Diego\u003cbr\u003ewere called–boarded a troop train in a big railroad terminal\u003cbr\u003ein Atlanta. Everyone was in high spirits, as though we were\u003cbr\u003eheaded for a picnic instead of boot camp–and a war. The trip\u003cbr\u003eacross the country took several days and was uneventful but\u003cbr\u003einteresting. Most of us had never been west, and we enjoyed\u003cbr\u003ethe scenery. The monotony of the trip was broken with card\u003cbr\u003egames, playing jokes on each other, and waving, yelling, and\u003cbr\u003ewhistling at any and all women visible. We ate some meals in\u003cbr\u003edining cars on the train; but at certain places the train pulled\u003cbr\u003eonto a siding, and we ate in the restaurant in the railroad terminal.\u003cbr\u003eNearly all of the rail traffic we passed was military. We saw\u003cbr\u003elong trains composed almost entirely of flatcars loaded with\u003cbr\u003etanks, halftracks, artillery pieces, trucks, and other military\u003cbr\u003eequipment. Many troop trains passed us going both ways.\u003cbr\u003eMost of them carried army troops. This rail traffic impressed\u003cbr\u003eon us the enormousness of the nation’s war effort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*Together with the 1st Marine Division, the U.S. Army’s 81st Infantry Division\u003cbr\u003ecomprised the III Amphibious Corps commanded by Maj. Gen. Roy S.\u003cbr\u003eGeiger, USMC. For the Palau operation, the 1st Marine Division assaulted\u003cbr\u003ePeleliu on 15 September 1944 while the 81st Division took Angaur Island\u003cbr\u003eand provided a regiment as corps reserve. The 81st Division relieved the 1st\u003cbr\u003eMarine Division on Peleliu on 20 October and secured the island on 27 November.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe arrived in San Diego early one morning. Collecting our\u003cbr\u003egear, we fell into ranks outside our cars as a first sergeant\u003cbr\u003ecame along and told the NCOs on our train which buses to get\u003cbr\u003eus aboard. This first sergeant looked old to us teenagers. Like\u003cbr\u003eourselves, he was dressed in a green wool Marine uniform,\u003cbr\u003ebut he had campaign ribbons on his chest. He also wore the\u003cbr\u003egreen French \u003ci\u003efourragère \u003c\/i\u003eon his left shoulder. (Later, as a\u003cbr\u003emember of the 5th Marine Regiment, I would wear the\u003cbr\u003ebraided cord around my left arm with pride.) But this man\u003cbr\u003esported, in addition, two single loops outside his arm. That\u003cbr\u003emeant he had served with a regiment (either the 5th or 6th\u003cbr\u003eMarines) that had received the award from France for distinguished\u003cbr\u003ecombat service in World War I.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sergeant made a few brief remarks to us about the\u003cbr\u003etough training we faced. He seemed friendly and compassionate,\u003cbr\u003ealmost fatherly. His manner threw us into a false\u003cbr\u003esense of well-being and left us totally unprepared for the\u003cbr\u003eshock that awaited us when we got off those buses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fall out, and board your assigned buses!” ordered the first\u003cbr\u003esergeant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All right, you people. Get aboard them buses!” the NCOs\u003cbr\u003eyelled. They seemed to have become more authoritarian as\u003cbr\u003ewe approached San Diego.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a ride of only a few miles, the buses rolled to a stop in\u003cbr\u003ethe big Marine Corps Recruit Depot–boot camp. As I\u003cbr\u003elooked anxiously out the window, I saw many platoons of recruits\u003cbr\u003emarching along the streets. Each drill instructor (DI)\u003cbr\u003ebellowed his highly individual cadence. The recruits looked\u003cbr\u003eas rigid as sardines in a can. I grew nervous at seeing how\u003cbr\u003eserious–or rather, scared–they seemed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All right, you people, off them damned buses!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe scrambled out, lined up with men from the other buses,\u003cbr\u003eand were counted off into groups of about sixty. Several\u003cbr\u003etrucks rolled by carrying work parties of men still in boot\u003cbr\u003ecamp or who had finished recently. All looked at us with\u003cbr\u003eknowing grins and jeered, “You’ll be sorreee.” This was the\u003cbr\u003estandard, unofficial greeting extended to all recruits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShortly after we debused, a corporal walked over to my\u003cbr\u003egroup. He yelled, “Patoon, teehut. Right hace, forwart huah.\u003cbr\u003eDouble time, huah.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe ran us up and down the streets for what seemed hours\u003cbr\u003eand finally to a double line of huts that would house us for a\u003cbr\u003etime. We were breathless. He didn’t even seem to be breathing\u003cbr\u003ehard.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Patoon halt, right hace!” He put his hands on his hips and\u003cbr\u003elooked us over contemptuously. “You people are stupid,” he\u003cbr\u003ebellowed. From then on he tried to prove it every moment of\u003cbr\u003eevery day. “My name is Corporal Doherty. I’m your drill instructor.\u003cbr\u003eThis is Platoon 984. If any of you idiots think you\u003cbr\u003edon’t need to follow my orders, just step right out here and I’ll\u003cbr\u003ebeat your ass right now. Your soul may belong to Jesus, but\u003cbr\u003eyour ass belongs to the Marines. You people are \u003ci\u003erecruits.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eYou’ re \u003ci\u003enot \u003c\/i\u003eMarines. You may not have what it takes to be\u003cbr\u003eMarines.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one dared move, hardly even to breathe. We were all\u003cbr\u003ehumbled, because there was no doubt the DI meant exactly\u003cbr\u003ewhat he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCorporal Doherty wasn’t a large man by any standard. He\u003cbr\u003estood about five feet ten inches, probably weighed around\u003cbr\u003e160 pounds, and was muscular with a protruding chest and\u003cbr\u003eflat stomach. He had thin lips, a ruddy complexion, and was\u003cbr\u003eprobably as Irish as his name. From his accent I judged him to\u003cbr\u003ebe a New Englander, maybe from Boston. His eyes were the\u003cbr\u003ecoldest, meanest green I ever saw. He glared at us like a wolf\u003cbr\u003ewhose first and foremost desire was to tear us limb from limb.\u003cbr\u003eHe gave me the impression that the only reason he didn’t do\u003cbr\u003eso was that the Marine Corps wanted to use us for cannon\u003cbr\u003efodder to absorb Japanese bullets and shrapnel so genuine\u003cbr\u003eMarines could be spared to capture Japanese positions.\u003cbr\u003eThat Corporal Doherty was tough and hard as nails none of\u003cbr\u003eus ever doubted. Most Marines recall how loudly their DIs\u003cbr\u003eyelled at them, but Doherty didn’t yell very loudly. Instead he\u003cbr\u003eshouted in an icy, menacing manner that sent cold chills\u003cbr\u003ethrough us. We believed that if he didn’t scare us to death, the\u003cbr\u003eJaps couldn’t kill us. He was always immaculate, and his uniform\u003cbr\u003efitted him as if the finest tailor had made it for him. His\u003cbr\u003eposture was erect, and his bearing reflected military precision.\u003cbr\u003eThe public pictures a DI wearing sergeant stripes. Doherty\u003cbr\u003ecommanded our respect and put such fear into us that he\u003cbr\u003ecouldn’t have been more effective if he had had the six stripes\u003cbr\u003eof a first sergeant instead of the two of a corporal. One fact\u003cbr\u003eemerged immediately with stark clarity: this man would be\u003cbr\u003ethe master of our fates in the weeks to come.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDoherty rarely drilled us on the main parade ground, but\u003cbr\u003emarched or double-timed us to an area near the beach of San\u003cbr\u003eDiego Bay. There the deep, soft sand made walking exhausting,\u003cbr\u003ejust what he wanted. For hours on end, for days on end,\u003cbr\u003ewe drilled back and forth across the soft sand. My legs ached\u003cbr\u003eterribly for the first few days, as did those of everyone else in\u003cbr\u003ethe platoon. I found that when I concentrated on a fold of the\u003cbr\u003ecollar or cap of the man in front of me or tried to count the\u003cbr\u003eships in the bay, my muscles didn’t ache as badly. To drop out\u003cbr\u003eof ranks because of tired legs was unthinkable. The standard\u003cbr\u003eremedy for such shirking was to “double-time in place to get\u003cbr\u003ethe legs in shape”–before being humiliated and berated in\u003cbr\u003efront of the whole platoon by the DI. I preferred the pain to\u003cbr\u003ethe remedy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore heading back to the hut area at the end of each drill\u003cbr\u003esession, Doherty would halt us, ask a man for his rifle, and\u003cbr\u003etell us he would demonstrate the proper technique for holding\u003cbr\u003ethe rifle while creeping and crawling. First, though, he would\u003cbr\u003eplace the butt of the rifle on the sand, release the weapon, and\u003cbr\u003elet it drop, saying that anyone who did that would have a\u003cbr\u003emiserable day of it. With so many men in the platoon, it was\u003cbr\u003euncanny how often he asked to use my rifle in this demonstration. Then, after demonstrating how to cradle the rifle, he ordered\u003cbr\u003eus to creep and crawl. Naturally, the men in front\u003cbr\u003ekicked sand onto the rifle of the one behind him. With this\u003cbr\u003eand several other techniques, the DI made it necessary for us\u003cbr\u003eto clean our rifles several times each day. But we learned\u003cbr\u003equickly and well an old Marine Corps truism, “The rifle is a\u003cbr\u003eMarine’s best friend.” We always treated it as just that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDuring the first few days, Doherty once asked one of the\u003cbr\u003erecruits a question about his rifle. In answering, the hapless\u003cbr\u003erecruit referred to his rifle as “my gun.” The DI muttered\u003cbr\u003esome instructions to him, and the recruit blushed. He began\u003cbr\u003etrotting up and down in front of the huts holding his rifle in\u003cbr\u003eone hand and his penis in the other, chanting, “This is my rifle,”\u003cbr\u003eas he held up his M1, “and this is my gun,” as he moved\u003cbr\u003ehis other arm. “This is for Japs,” he again held aloft his M1;\u003cbr\u003e“and this is for fun,” he held up his other arm. Needless to say,\u003cbr\u003enone of us ever again used the word “gun” unless referring to\u003cbr\u003ea shotgun, mortar, artillery piece, or naval gun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA typical day in boot camp began with reveille at 0400\u003cbr\u003ehours. We tumbled out of our sacks in the chilly dark and hurried\u003cbr\u003ethrough shaves, dressing, and chow. The grueling day\u003cbr\u003eended with taps at 2200. At any time between taps and\u003cbr\u003ereveille, however, the DI might break us out for rifle inspection,\u003cbr\u003eclose-order drill, or for a run around the parade ground\u003cbr\u003eor over the sand by the bay. This seemingly cruel and senseless\u003cbr\u003eharassment stood me in good stead later when I found\u003cbr\u003ethat war allowed sleep to no man, particularly the infantryman.\u003cbr\u003eCombat guaranteed sleep of the permanent type only.\u003cbr\u003eWe moved to two or three different hut areas during the\u003cbr\u003efirst few weeks, each time on a moment’s notice. The order\u003cbr\u003ewas “Platoon 984, fall out on the double with rifles, full individual\u003cbr\u003eequipment, and seabags with all gear properly stowed,\u003cbr\u003eand prepare to move out in ten minutes.” A mad scramble\u003cbr\u003ewould follow as men gathered up and packed their equipment.\u003cbr\u003eEach man had one or two close buddies who pitched in\u003cbr\u003eto help each other don packs and hoist heavy seabags onto\u003cbr\u003esagging shoulders. Several men from each hut would stay behind\u003cbr\u003eto clean up the huts and surrounding area as the other\u003cbr\u003emen of the platoon struggled under their heavy loads to the\u003cbr\u003enew hut area.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUpon arrival at the new area, the platoon halted, received\u003cbr\u003ehut assignments, fell out, and stowed gear. Just as we got into\u003cbr\u003ethe huts we would get orders to fall in for drill with rifles,\u003cbr\u003ecartridge belts, and bayonets. The sense of urgency and\u003cbr\u003ehurry never abated. Our DI was ingenious in finding ways to\u003cbr\u003eharass us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of the hut areas we were in was across a high fence\u003cbr\u003efrom an aircraft factory where big B-24 Liberator bombers\u003cbr\u003ewere made. There was an airstrip, too, and the big fourengine\u003cbr\u003eplanes came and went low over the tops of the huts.\u003cbr\u003eOnce one belly-landed, going through the fence near our\u003cbr\u003ehuts. No one was hurt, but several of us ran down to see the\u003cbr\u003ecrash. When we got back to our area, Corporal Doherty delivered\u003cbr\u003eone of his finest orations on the subject of recruits never\u003cbr\u003eleaving their assigned area without the permission of their\u003cbr\u003eDI. We were all impressed, particularly with the tremendous\u003cbr\u003enumber of push-ups and other exercises we performed instead\u003cbr\u003eof going to noon chow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDuring close-order drill, the short men had the toughest\u003cbr\u003etime staying in step. Every platoon had its “feather\u003cbr\u003emerchants”–short men struggling along with giant strides at\u003cbr\u003ethe tail end of the formation. At five feet nine inches, I was\u003cbr\u003eabout two-thirds of the way back from the front guide of Platoon\u003cbr\u003e984. One day while returning from the bayonet course, I\u003cbr\u003egot out of step and couldn’t pick up the cadence. Corporal\u003cbr\u003eDoherty marched along beside me. In his icy tone, he said,\u003cbr\u003e“Boy, if you don’t get in step and stay in step, I’m gonna kick\u003cbr\u003eyou so hard in the behind that they’re gonna have to take both\u003cbr\u003eof us to sick bay. It’ll take a major operation to get my foot\u003cbr\u003eouta your ass.” With those inspiring words ringing in my ears,\u003cbr\u003eI picked up the cadence and never ever lost it again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe weather became quite chilly, particularly at night. I\u003cbr\u003ehad to cover up with blankets and overcoat. Many of us slept\u003cbr\u003ein dungaree trousers and sweat shirts in addition to our\u003cbr\u003eSkivvies. When reveille sounded well before daylight, we\u003cbr\u003eonly had to pull on our boondockers [field shoes] before\u003cbr\u003efalling in for roll call.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach morning after roll call, we ran in the foggy darkness\u003cbr\u003eto a large asphalt parade ground for rifle calisthenics. Atop a\u003cbr\u003ewooden platform, a muscular physical training instructor led\u003cbr\u003eseveral platoons in a long series of tiring exercises. A publicaddress\u003cbr\u003esystem played a scratchy recording of “Three O’-\u003cbr\u003eClock in the Morning.” We were supposed to keep time with\u003cbr\u003ethe music. The monotony was broken only by frequent whispered\u003cbr\u003ecurses and insults directed at our enthusiastic instructor,\u003cbr\u003eand by the too frequent appearance of various DIs who\u003cbr\u003estalked the extended ranks making sure all hands exercised\u003cbr\u003evigorously. Not only did the exercises harden our bodies, but\u003cbr\u003eour hearing became superkeen from listening for the DIs as\u003cbr\u003ewe skipped a beat or two for a moment of rest in the inky\u003cbr\u003edarkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the time, we didn’t realize or appreciate the fact that the\u003cbr\u003ediscipline we were learning in responding to orders under\u003cbr\u003estress often would mean the difference later in combat–\u003cbr\u003ebetween success or failure, even living or dying. The ear\u003cbr\u003etraining also proved to be an unscheduled dividend when\u003cbr\u003eJapanese infiltrators slipped around at night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShortly we received word that we were going to move out\u003cbr\u003eto the rifle range. We greeted the announcement enthusiastically.\u003cbr\u003eRumor had it that we would receive the traditional\u003cbr\u003ebroad-brimmed campaign hats. But the supply ran out when\u003cbr\u003eour turn came. We felt envious and cheated every time we\u003cbr\u003esaw those salty-looking “Smokey Bear” hats on the range.\u003cbr\u003eEarly on the first morning at the rifle range, we began what\u003cbr\u003ewas probably the most thorough and the most effective rifle\u003cbr\u003emarksmanship training given to any troops of any nation during\u003cbr\u003eWorld War II. We were divided into two-man teams the\u003cbr\u003efirst week for dry firing, or “snapping-in.” We concentrated\u003cbr\u003eon proper sight setting, trigger squeeze, calling of shots, use\u003cbr\u003eof the leather sling as a shooting aid, and other fundamentals.\u003cbr\u003eIt soon became obvious why we all received thick pads to\u003cbr\u003ebe sewn onto the elbows and right shoulders of our dungaree\u003cbr\u003ejackets: during this snapping-in, each man and his buddy\u003cbr\u003epracticed together, one in the proper position (standing,\u003cbr\u003ekneeling, sitting, or prone) and squeezing the trigger, and the\u003cbr\u003eother pushing back the rifle bolt lever with the heel of his\u003cbr\u003ehand, padded by an empty cloth bandolier wrapped around\u003cbr\u003ethe palm. This procedure cocked the rifle and simulated recoil.\u003cbr\u003eThe DIs and rifle coaches checked every man continuously.\u003cbr\u003eEverything had to be just so. Our arms became sore\u003cbr\u003efrom being contorted into various positions and having the\u003cbr\u003eleather sling straining our joints and biting into our muscles.\u003cbr\u003eMost of us had problems perfecting the sitting position\u003cbr\u003e(which I never saw used in combat). But the coach helped\u003cbr\u003eeveryone the way he did me–simply by plopping his weight\u003cbr\u003eon my shoulders until I was able to “assume the correct position.”\u003cbr\u003eThose familiar with firearms quickly forgot what they\u003cbr\u003eknew and learned the Marine Corps’way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSecond only to accuracy was safety. Its principles were\u003cbr\u003epounded into us mercilessly. “\u003ci\u003eKeep \u003c\/i\u003ethe piece pointed toward\u003cbr\u003ethe target. \u003ci\u003eNever \u003c\/i\u003epoint a rifle at anything you don’t intend to\u003cbr\u003eshoot. \u003ci\u003eCheck \u003c\/i\u003eyour rifle \u003ci\u003eeach \u003c\/i\u003etime you pick it up to be sure it\u003cbr\u003eisn’t loaded. Many \u003ci\u003eaccidents \u003c\/i\u003ehave occurred with ‘unloaded’\u003cbr\u003erifles.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe went onto the firing line and received live ammunition\u003cbr\u003ethe next week. At first, the sound of rifles firing was disconcerting.\u003cbr\u003eBut not for long. Our snapping-in had been so thorough,\u003cbr\u003ewe went through our paces automatically. We fired at\u003cbr\u003eround black bull’s-eye targets from 100, 300, and 500 yards.\u003cbr\u003eOther platoons worked the “butts.”* When the range officer\u003cbr\u003eordered, “Ready on the right, ready on the left, all ready on\u003cbr\u003ethe firing line, commence firing,” I felt as though the rifle was\u003cbr\u003epart of me and vice versa. My concentration was complete.\u003cbr\u003eDiscipline was ever present, but the harassment that had\u003cbr\u003ebeen our daily diet gave way to deadly serious, businesslike\u003cbr\u003einstruction in marksmanship. Punishment for infractions of\u003cbr\u003ethe rules came swiftly and severely, however. One man next\u003cbr\u003eto me turned around slightly to speak to a buddy after “cease\u003cbr\u003efiring” was given; the action caused his rifle muzzle to angle away from the targets. The sharp-eyed captain in charge of the range rushed up from behind and booted the man in the rear so hard that he fell flat on his face. The captain then\u003cbr\u003ejerked him up off the deck and bawled him out loudly and thoroughly. We got his message.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*“Butts” refers to the impact area on a rifle range. It consists of the targets\u003cbr\u003emounted on a vertical track system above a sheltered dugout, usually made\u003cbr\u003eof concrete, in which other shooters operate, mark, and score the targets for\u003cbr\u003ethose on the firing line.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePlatoon 984 took its turn in the butts. As we sat safely in\u003cbr\u003ethe dugouts and waited for each series of firing to be completed,\u003cbr\u003eI had somber thoughts about the crack and snap of\u003cbr\u003ebullets passing overhead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eQualification day dawned clearly and brightly. We were apprehensive,\u003cbr\u003ehaving been told that anyone who didn’t shoot\u003cbr\u003ehigh enough to qualify as “marksman” wouldn’t go overseas.\u003cbr\u003eWhen the final scores were totaled, I was disappointed. I fell\u003cbr\u003eshort of “expert rifleman” by only two points. However, I\u003cbr\u003eproudly wore the Maltese Cross—shaped sharpshooter’s\u003cbr\u003ebadge. And I didn’t neglect to point out to my Yankee buddies\u003cbr\u003ethat most of the high shooters in our platoon were Southern\u003cbr\u003eboys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFeeling like old salts, we returned to the recruit depot for\u003cbr\u003ethe final phases of recruit training. The DIs didn’t treat us as\u003cbr\u003eveterans, though; harassment picked up quickly to its previous\u003cbr\u003eintensity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy the end of eight grueling weeks, it had become apparent\u003cbr\u003ethat Corporal Doherty and the other DIs had done their\u003cbr\u003ejobs well. We were hard physically, had developed endurance,\u003cbr\u003eand had learned our lessons. Perhaps more important,\u003cbr\u003ewe were tough mentally. One of our assistant drill\u003cbr\u003einstructors even allowed himself to mumble that we might\u003cbr\u003ebecome Marines after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, late in the afternoon of 24 December 1943, we fell\u003cbr\u003ein without rifles and cartridge belts. Dressed in service\u003cbr\u003egreens, each man received three bronze Marine Corps globeand-\u003cbr\u003eanchor emblems, which we put into our pockets. We\u003cbr\u003emarched to an amphitheater where we sat with several other\u003cbr\u003eplatoons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was our graduation from boot camp. A short, affablelooking\u003cbr\u003emajor standing on the stage said, “Men, you have\u003cbr\u003esuccessfully completed your recruit training and are now\u003cbr\u003eUnited States Marines. Put on your Marine Corps emblems\u003cbr\u003eand wear them with pride. You have a great and proud tradition\u003cbr\u003eto uphold. You are members of the world’s finest fighting\u003cbr\u003eoutfit, so be worthy of it.” We took out our emblems and put\u003cbr\u003eone on each lapel of our green wool coats and one on the left\u003cbr\u003eside of the overseas caps. The major told several dirty jokes.\u003cbr\u003eEveryone laughed and whistled. Then he said, “Good luck,\u003cbr\u003emen.” That was the first time we had been addressed as men\u003cbr\u003eduring our entire time in boot camp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore dawn the next day, Platoon 984 assembled in front\u003cbr\u003eof the huts for the last time. We shouldered our seabags, slung\u003cbr\u003eour rifles, and struggled down to a warehouse where a line of\u003cbr\u003etrucks was parked. Corporal Doherty told us that each man\u003cbr\u003ewas to report to the designated truck as his name and destination\u003cbr\u003ewas called out. The few men selected to train as specialists\u003cbr\u003e(radar technicians, aircraft mechanics, etc.) were to turn\u003cbr\u003ein their rifles, bayonets, and cartridge belts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the men moved out of ranks, there were quiet remarks\u003cbr\u003eof, “So long, see you, take it easy.” We knew that many\u003cbr\u003efriendships were ending right there. Doherty called out, “Eugene\u003cbr\u003eB. Sledge, 534559, full individual equipment and M1 rifle,\u003cbr\u003einfantry, Camp Elliott.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost of us were designated for infantry, and we went to\u003cbr\u003eCamp Elliott or to Camp Pendleton.* As we helped each\u003cbr\u003eother aboard the trucks, it never occurred to us why so many\u003cbr\u003ewere being assigned to infantry. We were destined to take the\u003cbr\u003eplaces of the ever mounting numbers of casualties in the rifle\u003cbr\u003eor line companies in the Pacific. We were fated to fight the\u003cbr\u003ewar first hand. We were cannon fodder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter all assignments had been made, the trucks rolled out,\u003cbr\u003eand I looked at Doherty watching us leave. I disliked him, but\u003cbr\u003eI respected him. He had made us Marines, and I wondered\u003cbr\u003ewhat he thought as we rolled by.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e*Camp Elliott was a small installation located on the northern outskirts of\u003cbr\u003eSan Diego. It has been used rarely since World War II. Thirty-five miles north\u003cbr\u003eof San Diego lies Camp Joseph H. Pendleton. Home today of the 1st Marine\u003cbr\u003eDivision, it is the Marine Corps’ major west coast amphibious base.#1 New York Times bestseller; See E. B. Sledge's story in the HBO miniseries The Pacific","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299926298853,"sku":"NP9780891411192","price":32.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780891411192.jpg?v=1767744438","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/with-the-old-breed-isbn-9780891411192","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}