Return to Guadalcanal
While in our nice camp on Guadalcanal in 1944 we noticed
that there was a bundle of white crosses in our quartermaster tent and
wondered about it because all burials in wartime are done by a special
unit, Graves Registration.
We made jokes about having our own mortician in our
Sergeant Jim McCauley, the QM sergeant. In fact he fit the bill perfectly
in appearance with his tall, lean body with hollow cheeks and pale blue
eyes. The ideal small town undertaker sent over from 'central casting'
to play the part.
His smile had a sinister slant and his voice always
subdued as appropriate in a 'viewing room' with purple drapes and soft
organ music.
We were preparing to go invade Okinawa and anticipating a very rough
reception there so we usually avoided the subject while talking about
our chief interest, females-girls-women-whatever.
Returning from noon chow one day I was sauntering along
picking Spam from my teeth with a broken match stick when I passed the
quartermaster tent.
McCauley stepped out abruptly and blocked my path putting
his hand on my chest to stop me. Without a word he somberly took out
a small tape and began to measure me, first across the chest and then
from head to toe.
I said "Mac, what the hell are you doing?"
He stood back with his melancholy expression and said,
"I'm measuring for your pine box, you're gonna' get 'it' this time!"
Our stock reply to this disparaging remark was always
the same, "Yeah, I'll be around to piss on your grave buddy!"
One of the many problems confronting the poorly equipped
Marines on Guadalcanal was the feeble communication systems available
at that time. Hand held 'walky-talky' radios were very limited in range
and often the operators had to rely on relaying messages via larger
radios between action fronts and command positions farther back.
Later they utilized radio jeeps with big powerful radios that could
follow closer to the action as needed. Telephone lines were always strung
out along the ground but were subject to breaks by shell fire, vehicular
traffic as well as foot traffic.
Usually they reverted to the ancient method of communication
by utilizing the dependable human runner as in the saga of Marathon
and its messenger.
The Marine headquarters units always had its 'message
center' to be responsible for all communications by whatever means.
This unit supplied runners to supplement other devices used when all
else failed.
The crucial situation on Guadalcanal in 1942 required
the use of all methods available for communications between front line
fighting and rear elements giving support by gunfire as well as command
decisions.
One such messenger in our battalion was an exceptionally
bright young man, Corporal Bill Lourim who spent much time and effort
running back and forth as needed. As the situation became very critical
with massed Japanese formations pressing forth toward Henderson Field
Bill had beaten a muddy path to and from the points of front and rear.
His hectic day ended with him collapsing on a canvas
stretcher inches above the mud to try to sleep near the forward command
post and rain forced him to cover himself with his pancho.
During the nights fighting several dead Marines were
brought back to the CP and there stretchers placed beside Bill in a
neat row.
At the first light of dawn a soggy group of men from
Graves Registration came up the slippery trail to retrieve the nights
fatalities.
Lifting the dead weight and struggling back down the
trail they were shocked when a 'corpse' jumped off his stretcher saying,
"What the hells going on?"
No one actually said "He is risen!" But laughed
as Bill walked back dragging his wet pancho behind.
I am very proud to be an American! Especially when
I see how some of this planets people act and live. We are not a nation
of unsanitary litterbugs with no regard to the environment. We try,
at least, to respect the world around us and do not allow open sewers
to drain down our streets, as many orientals do. We make an effort to
control all waste, in the air and on the ground.
Those of us in the Marine Corps boot camps in the
forties were indoctrinated in the fastidiousness of person and surroundings.
We were drilled in the dictum of 'spit and polish' expected of all who
wear the uniform.
Most of us were smokers and were taught to be neat
about this foul habit. We never 'tossed a butt'! On the parade ground
or on a ten mile hike we were allowed 'five minute breaks' and cigarettes
were permitted. When called up from rest we didn't dare flip the 'butt'
away to contaminate the scene. We stuffed the hot ember out in soil,
tore the remaining paper open and tapped out the bits of tobacco. Then
rolled the paper into a tiny ball and flipped it into the wind.
Wherever we were, even out in the wilderness on a
long hike we left no trace of possibly forty men having smoked there.
There were probably reasons other than neatness such as grass fire control,
but neatness was foremost.
In the remote isolated islands of the Pacific we considered
our surroundings just like any other place. When we struck camp wherever
we were we never left a trace of our presence other than two neatly
lettered signs indicating where we had buried our latrine and our trash.
We often grumbled about this business of being so
strict about it all and one day we saw why it had to be done.
While we were encamped beside the grass airstrip on
Cape Glouster our neighbors across the field were members of an allied
military unit who had not been in a Marine boot camp! They built a conglomeration
of shacks, shanties and tent structures with material at hand. Cardboard,
plywood, canvas, palm fronds and whatever.
When they boarded ships and departed they left a 'city
dump' behind with all the skeletal frames of their shacks amid blowing
piles of paper, trash, cans, bottles, whatever.
We walked over to see it and were ashamed for them,
leaving such a messy eyesore behind even in this miserable place. As
we broke camp there to move out we were extra careful to not leave a
trace of our presence other than our sanitary signs.
After our wonderful year on Guadalcanal, discounting
the not so wonderful weeks on Peleliu, it was time for us to move on
out of the south Pacific into northern latitudes far away from this
delightful camp. It had to be dismantled completely and Colonel Hyatt
ordered the battalion to set up a temporary bivouac about a half mile
away on a hill overlooking the sea.
Work details were sent back to dismantle all the structures
and carry the material away to proper storage dumps.
Part 1 | Part 2 |
Part 3 | Part 4 |
Part 5 | Part 6 |
Part 7 | Part 8 | Part
9 | Part 10
