“Hey, shitbird, Mace! The DI wants his room cleaned, shitbird!”
Mama named us all shitbird. Even when we got off the train at Parris Island, the new recruits who had arrived thirty minutes prior called out, “Hey, look at them shitbirds from Yemassee!”
The tiny whistle-stop before you get to Parris Island is a place called Yemassee, South Carolina. Everybody goes through Yemassee to get to the marines, so we’re all a bunch of shitbirds from Yemassee. Brothers all.
Strange. Nobody ever mentions the Japanese here.
*
I’m nineteen.
They built these pisspot wartime towns on Coca-Cola and swing beats—got a dime, and you’ll get yourself a draft of suds—newly minted marines, on leave from Camp Lejeune, hands in pockets, nicotine, laughter, beads of sweat beneath our overseas caps, our piss-cutters, our cunt-caps, our shoes glossed up to a mirrored shine, Kinston, Sugar Hill, Jacksonville, and Raleigh, North Carolina, thumb a ride, take a leak behind the bar, “Boogie Woogie” by Tommy Dorsey and “Two O’Clock Jump” by Harry James—it’s got you swingin’—eyeballs on the scout for bright red lipstick, painted on stocking seams, floral fragrances or a little vanilla extract behind the ear, no dice, No Coloreds Allowed—find a buddy who’s won some change in a crap game and he’s the best pal you’ve ever had.
They built these crap-ass wartime towns on Ca-ching and the peckers of a half-million one-striped teenagers, whoresmiths all—but only in their own minds.
It’s six in the morning, and brother there’s a line to get in!
“Did ya get the wood yet?”
She asks me if I’ve got “the wood.”
“Pistol Packin’ Mama” by Al Dexter and His Troopers, huh? Alright, I’ll buy that.
She’s asking me if I’m ready, is what she’s saying.
After a wait in line, we saunter into a cathouse in Sugar Hill as if we really know what we’re doing, but these baby-faced marines—me, all of us!—we don’t know the business. The idea of a thing versus the genuine article has about as many similarities as the lightbulb does to the lightning bug. This joint just glows with sleaze.
Four or five hookers recline on couches and chairs in the sitting room, affecting provocative poses that almost fool you into thinking these dames are high class. That doesn’t matter, though. We want the illusion, not the secret behind the trick. We’re nineteen years old, and we’re here to claim the rites of any passage that’ll wear the sheen off of our red-cherry kid stuff. Besides, we joined the marines to see the world, and these broads look as if they’ve been around it enough times to chart a map on a bathroom stall.
The lights are dim—hiding the rouge in our cheeks, from timidity, from shyness, the warmth of lust going straight to our heads, as excitement swims in chemical reactions, making the very walls sweat out a fever.
I pick out a big job and follow her to a room, never looking back at my pals. As it turns out, the road less traveled has been traveled a lot more than a youngster might imagine. In fact, it’s a threadbare carpet that leads to a whore’s station, complete with a bed in the center of the room, a nightstand, a smoky lamp, and not much else.
“Okay,” she says. “You get ready and I’ll be right back.” Except that when she comes back, I’m still standing in the exact same spot she left me.
“You—” she begins, then stops, looking at me as if I’m the dumbest kid on the planet. “Did ya get the wood yet?” She sighs.
I stammer around a little bit, telling her something that doesn’t make sense to either of us. Exasperated, she simply carries on—a real pro—and gets the wood up, afterward throwing a towel down on the bed and climbing atop it.
“Alright. Come on, boy. Let’s go.” As if the war might end any second, and with it her chances of turning a buck into bullion.
So I did, and so she did.
I was only nineteen.
*
Pavuvu Island, Russell Island Chain, August 25, 1944.
I am twenty.
“So ya see … that’s what I’m tryin’ to tell ya, George! Ya did that whole thing on Guadalcanal, right? Where was God then, huh? I mean, what good did God do for all those saps who got hit, wearin’ their crosses and Stars of Abraham around their necks? Nothin’! I’m tellin’ ya, buddy! Not a fuckin’ thing!”
“Yeah, sure, Larry,” George said, shaking his head, “but I’m tellin’ you—there was something out there, that’s all, and it damn sure wasn’t just the Japs. You get out there, and the shit starts comin’ in on ya…” George paused. “Pal, you don’t know that feeling. You’re not alone out there, is all I’m sayin’.”
PFC Larry Mahan grinned at me and then looked back to George. “Ya know what that’s called, George? That’s called your imagination. Hell, everyone from Queens got one of those, don’t they, Mace?”
I took a drag off my cigarette. “Sure. Imagine that.” I watched the smoke drift out of my mouth, floating skyward, illuminated only by the weak light emitted by gasoline lamps in the open tents lining the company street. Otherwise, it was dark.
It was late. The company street was almost void of marines. Most of them had already returned to their tents for the night. Asleep or awake, it didn’t matter—the next morning we would board the LSTs (Landing Ship, Tank) on our way to a yet-to-be-named island, to wage war against the Japanese.
As it turned out, that unknown island was Peleliu.
Larry laughed. “You bet! You’ve got to have an imagination if you’re from Queens, otherwise you’d think you’re too poor to know any better!”
That got a chuckle out of us.
Larry Mahan, from Dobbs Ferry, New York, lived only forty minutes away from where George McNevin and I grew up in Queens. He had a daddy who was some sort of big shot in the navy.
Larry was a character—a real comedian, with his impressions of Cagney and Bogart. He was a good-looking kid, intelligent, and even though everyone knew Larry was sacrilegious, you couldn’t help liking the guy.
Then there was George McNevin. It was George who recommended I choose the Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) as my weapon, as it suited a left-handed rifleman better than an M-1 rifle, and it was knowing George before the war that added some comfort to Pavuvu. In such a strange place as Pavuvu every marine drew inspiration from anything that reminded him of home.
Back in Queens, George lived on 121st Street and Hawtree Creek Road, close to Sutter Avenue and the abandoned soap factory, where we’d hold impromptu boxing matches, back when we were kids. Only three hundred yards away from my home.
George and I didn’t pal around much, but we both attended John Adams High School, where George ran track and I played baseball. Sometimes we would share the walk home, just shooting the breeze, before going our separate ways. That was the extent of knowing George McNevin back in the States.
While on a work detail I saw a marine whom I thought I recognized, walking with a plank on his shoulder. As he got closer, I said, “George? George McNevin?” He stopped and put the plank down. “Yeah, I’ll be damned!” Smiling, we shook hands, greeting each other. It had been a long time. George had served on Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester, yet he was exactly my age.
“So,” I said, pointing to the plank he had laid down. “Keeping busy, I see?”
George laughed. “Oh, that? Nah, that’s just a prop. I’ve been carryin’ that friggin’ thing around all day, so they won’t gripe at me for doin’ nothin’.”
Now, four months later, on the eve of our departure for Peleliu, the jokes had all dried up. Even Larry’s wit had rolled up inside of him, among the dust clots and artifacts lost in time.
We simply stood there in the company street, quietly, looking at each other in a matter-of-fact manner—knowing that we were headed toward the same destination, only that we were moving in different directions to get there: me in K Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines (K/3/5); Larry with L Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines (L/3/5); and George with E Company, 2nd Battalion, 1st Marin
es (E/2/1). Combat was no longer a matter of if, but now only a matter of when.
“Well, gang,” I said, “I guess this is it.”
“Yeah,” George said under his breath.
More silence.
I didn’t know what to do. Times like those tend to grow awkward and slow, if you don’t act on what you really want to do. The moment fades as if it never existed. So I did the only thing I could think of. Since we were roughly standing in a circle, I simply stuck my arm out and thrust it into the center of the group, with the back of my hand facing upward.
Larry caught on first, and then George, placing their hands on top of mine, one atop the other.
We had words. I don’t recall who said them. It could have been any one of us, or it could have been a combination of the three. However, what was said—what was expressed beyond words—really meant something … if only for that moment alone.
“We’re gonna get through this, guys. So let’s all meet again when this is over and done with, huh?”
We all said yes. Yes was a belief that even Larry couldn’t refute. We would do as we said.
“Until we meet again, fellas.” Larry smiled and gave us a wink.
The only thing is, that was the last time I ever saw Larry Mahan.
I suppose dying is just another way of saying good-bye.
2
A BUNCH OF CANNIBALS
“GO GET ’EM, MARINES!”
Way above me, looking up from the inside of our amtrac toward the bow of the LST, a group of cheering sailors stands at the railing with big grins on their faces, towels around their necks, and mugs of coffee in their hands. “Give ’em hell, you guys!”
Oh Christ, I reflect. I think I joined the wrong friggin’ outfit!
I steal a fast peek over the side of the tractor. Peleliu is a three-alarm fire. It’s a real funeral pyre. You can’t even see an island for all of the plumes. We’re actually going into that friggin’ place! For the first time it really hits me.
The smoke, the flames, the roasting sky …
There’s just no way to take all of this in. No damn way.
The battlewagons spew blue-orange flames from hundreds of 14-inch guns—a constant blast of air-sucking power. Shimmering shock waves. Raw energy speeds its projectiles toward Peleliu, turning the distant island into clabbered smoke. Hellcats and Corsairs part the air, moving sound, in groups of threes and fours, every which direction—coming in, going out, dropping their bombs, the blue sky above us, a sense of small vertigo, circling and circling; amtracs make whirlpools, Higgins boats skim by with little colored flags: red, green, blue, yellow—roughly eighteen of us, stuffed in a floating coffin. They even managed to squeeze a 37 mm fieldpiece into our crate. The amtrac driver gives a hand signal, gears shift, about to go in—!
September 15, 1944. Peleliu. D-day.
To my right and left are navy ships of all sizes and shapes: cruisers, destroyers, minesweepers, LCIs, dozens of other amtracs packed full of marines. The ocean around our amtrac comes all the way to the top of its hull, seeming as if the water will pour right in and sink us to the bottom. Instead, a white foam of seawater sloughs off the green painted steel sides, churning the blue water into traces of aqua, as our amtrac treads the sea.
As if I’m fanning the pages of a book with my thumb, my emotions, and my thoughts flip by quickly, separate, one right after the other: worry wonder helpless … scared stressed shocked …
I shade my eyes; sun flares dapple the marines in front of me—their necks, their packs, their mottled brown and tan helmet covers. We’re sandwiched in, holding on, jammed right up to the prow of our tractor. I know every one of them. The marines in the front of the tractor will be the last ones out.
I’m close to the rear of the boat, so I’ll be the first on the beach.
Right behind me, Sergeant Jim McEnery, the first marine by the exit ramp, cradles his shotgun, protecting it from the saltwater. Each time he grits his teeth the muscles in his jaws tighten and loosen, tighten and loosen. He’s lost in his own thoughts. In fact, we all are. Dazed distressed amazed brave miserable …
The rest of my fire team is here, too. (A group of Hellcats fly over, cracking the air, sounding like a string of firecrackers popping in their wake.) There’s Corporal Richard Van Trump, my fire team leader, PFC Donald Schwantz, our scout, and then PFC Charlie Allmann, my assistant BAR man. We’re the 3rd Fire Team, in the 3rd Squad, 3rd Platoon, K Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines. How they picked us to be the first ones to hit Peleliu is anybody’s guess.
The invasion of Peleliu is only the latest in a series of amphibious assaults—a chain of island-hopping maneuvers, designed to strangle the breath from Japan, one island at a time.
While we were stationed on the island of Pavuvu they passed around photos of previous amphibious assaults on Guadalcanal, Tarawa, and Saipan—all having the same things in common: Marines in open amtracs or Higgins boats leaving the safety of the navy’s anchorage, circling around in groups, synchronizing the assault waves, and then heading in.
I look out to my left, and other amtracs pull parallel to us. The only thing is, they’re too far behind us to suit me. Leaning in toward Allmann, I yell, nervous, “Somebody oughta talk to that driver! We’re too far ahead!” I doubt Charlie hears me; the motors of the amtracs are simply too loud—too loud for us to be going so slow.
A small swell of seawater splashes in and wets my boondockers.
At any rate, what’s the rush? We’re the first wave going in, so we’re probably dead anyway.
The air warbles once more and makes a swishing sound high above. Salvos from the battlewagons crack the sky.
In fact, the preinvasion bombardment of Peleliu has been going on for three days now.
Curious marines, we always want to see what’s going on. Just this morning, for instance, right after we awoke, a group of us stood at the port side of LST 661 watching the rounds go out, wondering how there could possibly be any Japanese left on the island after such a shellacking—or even if the island would still be there by the time we arrived. The answer came soon enough, when a Hellcat flying in took a glancing hit from some type of Nip gun, sending the plane on a beeline straight for the island, crashing into her somewhere beyond the smoke.
“Hey, did you guys see that?”
“Oh, man, did I! Never had a chance!”
That killed whatever excitement or curiosity we had—our bravado tucking its tail between its legs and swimming back to the States. There were live Nips on that island, and they had a lot more firepower hanging over their mantel than Grandpa had in his old blunderbuss.
A marine has to wonder what kind of chance he has, hitting the beach, running up to a Nip’s rifle muzzle, and sticking his head straight down the barrel. I’m sure there are better ideas. We don’t know what will happen when we get in there. Imagination is a crafty creature. Perception becomes reality.
My feelings are beyond fear. It’s an otherworldly sensation: I know I could be killed at any second, yet my limited life experience makes it impossible to conceptualize being alive at one moment, and then in the next instant, poof!—gone!
Simply stated, nonexistence grinds against the awareness of all that I know. The boom of the cannons, the vibration of the amtrac, the marine’s pack in front of me bumping into my chest, the roar of the fighter planes, the smell of the ocean and the lead paint in the tractor, the heat of the sun, the weight of my equipment, the sweat in my armpits, the heft of my BAR, the herringbone of my jacket, the beat of my heart, the cloudless blue sky … the eagle, the anchor, and the globe in my eye …
fear thrill courage fright …
In just a few minutes I’ll be on Orange Beach 2.
D-day minus 15 minutes. 8:17 A.M.
My God, how the hell did I get myself into a jam like this?
The mind takes a tumble as memories flutter back to just a few months ago, in early May 1944, when I arrived with the 43rd Replacement Battalion on Pavuvu, the ho
me of the 1st Marine Division in the Pacific Theater of Operation. None of us had a clue, back then, about the shit we’d wade into on Peleliu—except for maybe PFC Larry Mahan.
“So this is Pa-voo-voo?” Mahan sneered, gazing around as we descended the gangplank from the SS Mormachawk onto Pavuvu’s sands. “Looks more like doo doo, to me!” Larry laughed.
Pavuvu wasn’t necessarily an eyesore, but it definitely didn’t give the impression that it was an island resort, either. In fact, if you took any division camp back in the States, with its rows upon rows of tents, its bustle of activity, myriad work parties, marines moving to and fro, and sundry military vehicles, and dumped it splat in the middle of an undeveloped island, with its files of coconut trees—as straight as a die—its sandy roads, and off in the distance some of the wildest junglelike vegetation you had ever seen … then that was Pavuvu.
Originally designated to be a rest camp for the veterans of Guadalcanal and Cape Gloucester, Pavuvu turned out to be just another work party (a giant one, at that!), in the attempt to make the place hospitable for twenty thousand marines. Nothing doing. It appeared as if it would take more like twenty thousand years to get the place squared away, what with the constant ebb and flow of green marines coming in and old hands rotating out.
It’s been said that God created the world in seven days.
On the eighth day he could’ve done us all a favor by sinking Pavuvu to the bottom of the sea.
It wasn’t lost on us, either, that Pavuvu was only one thousand miles from Australia. Even new members of the 1st Marine Division knew that our division had saved Australia’s collective ass by fending off the Nips on Guadalcanal; so, naturally, we believed the good-neighbor policy should have been extended to us as well. Or maybe the local gentry of Australia thought it was a little too much to ask, seeing that the Guadalcanal marines, who took Australia by storm, left half the local women “brokenhearted” before they set off for Cape Gloucester. That’s saying it politely.
Battleground Pacific Page 3
