In the unforgiving Pacific islands, where every inch is hard-won, I’ve come to know these soldiers in some way. They are similar to the men I got to know in Europe, and yet, like the war itself in the Pacific, they are different. In Europe they have mud, and snow, and Krauts. Here there are biting flies, the jungle, and Japs.
Maybe it comes down to the atmosphere. In the thick of the Pacific jungles, where the air hangs heavy with humidity and the soundtrack of war is unrelenting, the soul of the American fighting man shines with an indomitable spirit.
The men of the 77th Infantry Division are the epitome of grit and gallantry, pushing onward through dense foliage and fortified enemy positions. Every step forward is a battle won, every breath a testament to their determination. The sights here are far from the comforts of home — a world away from Main Street, USA — but the brotherhood formed in these crucibles is stronger than steel.
The nights are long, the days unforgiving, but through it all, the spirit of America marches on. Too often it must march through thick jungles or up the steep slope of a hillside covered by a Japanese machine gun. Sometimes the sun beats down, and five minutes later there’s a terrific downpour that soaks everyone to the bone. The boys just pick themselves up and move on. In this theater of war, our boys are writing history with courage and resilience that will echo through the annals of time.
Yesterday I watched as Sergeant James Toll from Missouri shared a brief, rare laugh with Private Eddie Ramirez from New York over a makeshift game of cards. I describe the card game as “makeshift” because the deck was cobbled together from two or three different decks. There was an extra ace, or maybe one was missing — it wasn’t really clear, and no one much cared. The card game was simply to pass the time.
“Who’s winning?” I asked, sticking my nose in.
“Anybody who’s not dead, that’s who,” Private Ramirez said.
It turned out that they were playing for bullets, not money. The pot kept growing until there was quite a pile of shiny brass cartridges.
Finally, Ramirez seemed to have turned out that missing ace and won the pot, but he was reluctant to rake it all in.
“Better keep some of those bullets, fellas,” he said. “No telling when you might need ’em.”
Shots sounded nearby. Reluctantly, the men picked up their rifles and returned fire at the Japanese hiding in the bushes. Then they went back to their card game as if nothing had happened.
It’s moments like these, in the heart of chaos, that remind us all of the simple joys and the camaraderie that fuels these men.
The other day I came across a group of tough customers. They called themselves Patrol Easy, and they were snipers who counted a few Filipino fighters among their number. Sniper warfare is a constant here in the Pacific, with the enemy popping out from holes in the ground or clinging to treetops in order to take a few shots at the advancing troops.
Patrol Easy can usually be found at the front of this advance, dealing with the snipers so that the army can continue gaining ground. They also conduct reconnaissance to see what tricks the Japanese have up their sleeves.
These snipers are commanded by a grizzled veteran of Guadalcanal and Guam and now the Philippines named Lieutenant William Steele, a one-eyed officer who carries a shotgun rather than a rifle.
I asked the lieutenant what the best approach was for dealing with these Japanese marksmen.
“Shoot first if you can,” he advised. “And if you can’t shoot first, then you’d better shoot better than the Jap just did. You’re alive because he missed. You’d better not. You won’t get another chance.”
That’s the thing about the advice here, which every soldier takes to heart, whether he’s playing cards or hunting snipers, You won’t get another chance.
It’s a reminder that in the Pacific war, no matter what you’re doing, going from one moment to the next is nothing to take for granted.
